Class 
 
 BookJLiSL&S 
 
 CDEffilGILT DEPCSIT. 
 
CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN WILLIAM SCHOLL 
 
 MDCCCCXVI 
 
 ARTS AND LETTERS 
 
 917 FOREST AVE.. ANN ARBOR. MICH. 
 
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 «*<& 
 
 ,^x* 
 
 COPYRIGHT, I916, BY J. W. SCHOLI, 
 
 OTHER WORKS 
 
 The Light-Bearer oe Liberty 
 
 Social Tragedies 
 
 An Ode to the Russian People 
 
 Hesper-Phosphor 
 
 THE ANN ARBOR PRESS 
 PRINTERS 
 
 >r 
 
 / 
 
 OEC 22 1916 
 
 GI.A453212 
 
Of This Book Two Hundred and Fifty Copies have been 
 printed. The first One Hundred, with Frontispiece Por- 
 trait, are numbered and autographed by the author. This 
 Volume is No 
 
 University of Michigan, 1916. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 
 A Hymn to the Sun 7 
 
 Napoleon at Aix 
 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 Love's Triumph 
 
 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 The Ringee Dance 
 
 
 
 
 
 49 
 
 The Long Road 
 
 
 
 
 
 52 
 
 The Ideae 
 
 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 The Smith's Song 
 
 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 Lost Love's Return 
 
 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 In the Desert 
 
 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 The Dragon-Fey 
 
 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 Invitation 
 
 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 White Waste of Snow 
 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 The Perfect Rose 
 
 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 My Cat-Bird 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 66 
 
 On Mountain Heights 
 
 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 One Soee Star Fixed 
 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 When Lucia Came 
 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 Leaves Are We 
 
 
 
 
 
 70 
 
 Fra Eebertus 
 
 
 
 
 
 7i 
 
 My Shrine 
 
 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 Zephyr and Myrtee 
 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 A Memory 
 
 
 
 
 
 74 
 
When Dawn is afire the Day-god waits 
 On the rim of the east for the opening gates 
 To give his champing steeds the reins 
 And chase up the steep cerulean plains, 
 Spilling his chariot's golden freights. 
 
 To hold his image each dew-drop strains 
 And dies of the glory its heart contains, 
 Burst with a splendor that devastates 
 When Dawn is afire. 
 
 Bird-throats are shaken in woodsey lanes, 
 Rose-buds are swelling with keen birth pains, 
 
 Stirred at his nod to blood red fates. 
 
 I too must sing till his spell abates, 
 For his golden wine is in my veins 
 
 When Dawn is afire. 
 
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8 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 O glorious God, 
 
 Far-darting All-Seer, 
 
 Smite with thy rod, 
 
 With thy golden spear, 
 
 Land and sea, 
 
 Forest and lea, 
 
 And wake young Pan 
 
 From night's drowsy ban 
 
 To love and its making — 
 
 A glorious awaking! 
 
 Smite the darkling stream, 
 
 Whose clear pools steam, 
 
 Till they glint and gleam 
 
 And the shadow slips 
 
 And slinks away 
 
 Before the full-orbed day ! 
 
 Smite bosk}'- glen 
 
 And checkered grove. 
 
 And prick again 
 
 The nested choirs 
 
 To new desires 
 
 And shake their throats 
 
 With happy notes 
 
 Of jubilant love! 
 
 And smite my lips 
 
 To outsing the birds, 
 
 That fair fit words 
 
 In wedded throngs 
 
 Rush into songs 
 
 In life's high honor, 
 
 To life's great Donor, 
 
 To thee, the Immortal, 
 
 At thy golden portal 
 
 In the cloudy rocks, 
 
 To thee and the nod 
 
 Of thy roseate locks, 
 
 O glorious God! 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 
 
 Thou great All-Giver, 
 
 All-Holder and Sustainer, 
 
 Prayer and gift disdainer, 
 
 Who givest and withholdest, 
 
 And with equal eye beholdest 
 
 All glories pass — 
 
 Blade of grass 
 
 And cassocked priest, 
 
 Greatest and least — 
 
 O radiant Archer, 
 
 From out thy quiver 
 
 Thou takest the bolts of living light 
 
 And hurlest them into the night 
 
 And infinite void, 
 
 Where worlds o'erjoyed 
 
 Lay bare their hearts 
 
 To catch the impregning darts 
 
 In a golden shower 
 
 Of mystic power 
 
 To stir them to mirth 
 
 And riotous laughter 
 
 Of a wondrous birth 
 
 To be hereafter, 
 
 To glad thee, Prodigal God, 
 
 With multitudinous avatars, 
 
 Thee, Bounteous Marcher 
 
 On ways untrod 
 
 Among the stars. 
 
io CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Bathed in thy flood 
 
 The lush fields lie. 
 
 Purple as blood 
 
 Is the glory-barred sky. 
 
 And the swell of jubilant life, 
 
 And the roar of mighty strife, 
 
 Sweeps like a tide 
 
 Onrushing, wide, 
 
 Resistless, round 
 
 Earth's dawnlit bound, 
 
 As thou peerest over 
 
 Her dewy brim 
 
 And chasest featly 
 
 Night's fugitive rim 
 
 That dodges fleetly 
 
 In frighted grace 
 
 And runs to cover 
 
 Behind the girdling hills, 
 
 Afraid of thy face 
 
 And thy dispersing rod, 
 
 O radiant God. 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN " 
 
 Thy bounty hurled 
 
 Upon our world 
 
 So fills and spills 
 
 The cup of our feast 
 
 From thy ambrosial East 
 
 At thy immortal nod, 
 
 O Prodigal God, 
 
 We quite forget — 
 
 Our lips with thy abundance wet — 
 
 With thy wine and bread 
 
 A myriad hungering 
 
 Worlds might be fed. 
 
 And thou art no mongering 
 
 Niggard Lord 
 
 That spares his hoard, 
 
 But hurlest from thy treasure 
 
 Without measure 
 
 Gifts that beggar 
 
 The wildest fancy of seer or poet, 
 
 Hoards that stagger 
 
 The soul that would show it, 
 
 But thou art o'erjoyed, 
 
 Abounder, to bestow it, 
 
 Hurlest it broadcast into the void 
 
 Of thy ambient sphere 
 
 Incessant, 
 
 Afar, anear, 
 
 Ever crescent, 
 
 Without return, 
 
 To quicken or burn 
 
 Where they chance to fall 
 
 Prodigal, 
 
 Abounding alike to all. 
 
 Forgive if thy pensioners 
 
 Ephemeral 
 
is CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Sometimes forget, 
 
 The feast that's set 
 
 Is but one crumb of thy royal feast 
 
 Dropped down at the gates of thy purple East 
 
 For the waiting lazar, Earth, 
 
 That our riotous mirth 
 
 Is but one note in the vast concourse 
 
 Of hallelujahs flung 
 
 To thee, the Ever Young, 
 
 The Birth-Bringer 
 
 And Mirth-Bringer, 
 
 Ambrosial Singer, 
 
 Choragus of the morning-stars 
 
 Whose song no discord mars. 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 13 
 
 O is it blindness 
 
 From too long gazing 
 
 On thy blazing 
 
 Orient state? 
 
 Or overweening pride. 
 
 Thou glory-eyed 
 
 Far-darting All-Seer, 
 
 When mortals raise 
 
 Sweet hymns to praise 
 
 Thy partial kindness 
 
 And thee, that goest 
 
 Thy lofty way 
 
 And scarcely knowest 
 
 That they live? 
 
 Dost even hear 
 
 Faintly our exultant cry 
 
 In thy purple-fiooded sky? 
 
 And yet forgive 
 
 Our erring clay, 
 
 If, wrapped in thy perfect day, 
 
 Our little seems so great, 
 
 Our penury so Croesus-like, 
 
 We cannot fear 
 
 Thy hand will strike 
 
 Our lips with hunger 
 
 Or our flesh with cold — 
 
 If our lips grow bold 
 
 With the riddles of Fate, 
 
 And we call thee younger 
 
 Brother of man, 
 
 Sumpter and slave 
 
 In eternal ban, 
 
 That bringeth seed-time and harvest unending 
 
 To glad us wending 
 
 From the womb to the grave! 
 
14 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Thou stirrest the daughters of Ocean to blow 
 
 Their breath to the sky 
 
 And build the clouds that go 
 
 Like galleons drifting by 
 
 With bellying sails, 
 
 Freighted with Neptunean gifts. 
 
 Thou smitest the hills 
 
 Till they quiver and burn, 
 
 And out of their rifts, 
 
 From hidden caverns and nestling dales, 
 
 The wind-wraiths yearn 
 
 And rush and leap 
 
 To the lazy floating argosies 
 
 Of the skyey deep, 
 
 And clutch and hurl them wide 
 
 With scudding keels 
 
 And wrecked and helpless pilot wheels 
 
 In the mad tumultuous dance 
 
 Of the Stormwind's bride, 
 
 Till the far-off mountain peaks 
 
 Gore hulk and sail 
 
 And the far-fetched cargo spills 
 
 In torrents of rain 
 
 Through the driving gale, 
 
 And the brown-parched plain 
 
 With the spoil of plundered seas 
 
 Sweetly reeks 
 
 And is green again. 
 
 Thou whilest 
 
 And smilest, 
 
 Bright God of Day, 
 
 On thy lofty way 
 
 Among the stars, 
 
 And deep in the earth 
 
 Glad things conceive 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 15 
 
 And swell and heave 
 
 And yearn to burst their icy bars, 
 
 And leap to birth 
 
 And thy welcoming kiss 
 
 Of ethereal fire, 
 
 Empyreal Sire. 
 
 The warm mould stirs 
 
 With a secret bliss, 
 
 And brambles and burs, 
 
 Grasses and flowers, 
 
 Teasel and roses, 
 
 All equal children of thy wanton hours 
 
 With lavish Flora, 
 
 Peep from the sod 
 
 And turn to their radiant God 
 
 With eager faces, 
 
 As if to adore a 
 
 Danae glory, 
 
 And climb and clamber 
 
 And jostle and riot 
 
 In garden closes 
 
 And meadows quiet, 
 
 In highways 
 
 And byways, 
 
 And wild waste places, 
 
 Eager to catch the amber 
 
 Light of thy smile, 
 
 Eager to sip 
 
 With redolent lip 
 
 The honeyed nectar 
 
 Thou spillest the while 
 
 From thy lavish beaker, 
 
 Far-coursing Beauty-Seeker, 
 
 Form-Perfecter, 
 
 Lover, Reveler, prodigal 
 
 God of earth's gay carnival. 
 
16 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 The oak swells his girth 
 
 And spreads his crown, 
 
 The beech feels the stirth 
 
 In his bosom brown 
 
 And laughs and claps his hands, 
 
 The chestnut tugs at the rocks and sands 
 
 For tighter anchorage 
 
 To wrestle with storms that rage 
 
 On his rugged slopes, 
 
 The pine broods lone 
 
 In his lofty zone 
 
 And moans a dirge 
 
 Through his beard of snow 
 
 To the vales below, 
 
 The wild vine gropes 
 
 On oak and elm 
 
 To sun her clusters on the topmost bough 
 
 And bask in the heat 
 
 Of thy cloudless realm, 
 
 And hoard the sweet 
 
 Inspiring wine 
 
 Thou only thou, 
 
 The Giver Divine, 
 
 Givest for meat to bird and bee, 
 
 Thy tireless choirsmen in forest and lea. 
 
 Down by the stream 
 
 In the valley broad 
 
 The willows dream, 
 
 And to worship awed 
 
 The sycamores bend to the mirrored gleam 
 
 Of thy image insufferable. 
 
 On shelf and knoll 
 
 The orchards blow 
 
 And toss their roseate snow 
 
 In lusty handfuls to the wind, 
 
A HYMN TO THB SUN 17 
 
 And the golden bees 
 
 In tireless gleaning 
 
 From bowl to bowl, 
 
 Drone prophecies 
 
 But half divined 
 
 Of pippin and greening 
 
 For Autumn's table. 
 
 On rolling plains 
 
 The golden grains 
 
 Flung wide by Ceres' happy hand 
 
 Feel the lure of the summer sky 
 
 And climb to watch thee loitering by 
 
 At noontide over the quivering land 
 
 And stretch their palms 
 
 For a precious alms 
 
 Of thy lavish gold 
 
 To clasp and enfold 
 
 And cherish and mould 
 
 And dream of and love 
 
 'Neath the azure dome 
 
 Till they yield it again a hundredfold 
 
 In Autumn's harvest-home. 
 
18 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Ah, what are we, 
 
 Bright God, to thee 
 
 On thy trackless way 
 
 Amid the stars, 
 
 That these, thy myriad avatars, 
 
 With the fresh new day 
 
 Are laid at our feet 
 
 To pick and choose, 
 
 Scorn or abuse, 
 
 As seemeth meet 
 
 To our proud will? 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 19 
 
 Or hath pride betrayed us, 
 
 And thou hast made us 
 
 To perfect these? 
 
 As plundering bees 
 
 Perfect the orchid's flower, 
 
 Perfect the garden's dower, 
 
 Setting fair fruit on vine and tree 
 
 For the song-birds' summer hostelry? 
 
 They too may dream 
 
 The good supreme 
 
 Is a nectar cup 
 
 For them to sup, 
 
 Blundering, honey-drunken, 
 
 Overswonken 
 
 Dreamers sunken 
 
 And glorified 
 
 In their futile pride. 
 
 They too may deem 
 
 In their mad dream 
 
 This maze of life beneath the moon 
 
 A dull old riddle till they have guessed it, 
 
 Sucked its meaning and expressed it, 
 
 Boomed it and hummed it 
 
 In a summer noon, 
 
 And divinely summed it 
 
 In a drowsy tune. 
 
20 CHILDREN OP THB SUN 
 
 Ah well ! 
 
 Let them swell 
 
 In their bright brief hour! 
 
 The end is still 
 
 Dust — that may live again 
 
 In rose or pippin or golden grain 
 
 At thy quickening power. 
 
 And if, perchance, we seem to thee 
 
 But some less perfect flower, 
 
 Or less melodious bee. 
 
 Some vagrant unanchored tree, 
 
 Or unburnished tuneless bird, — 
 
 Wait 
 
 At thy purple gate, 
 
 For soon or late 
 
 Some subtle change 
 
 May lift us to the nobler range ! 
 
 Or hast thou a rod to measure all, 
 
 Both great and small, 
 
 And knowest the soul's tyrannic call, 
 
 The proud imperial dream, 
 
 The godlike word 
 
 Our lips have hurled 
 
 Around the world? 
 
 These too thy gifts 
 
 That break through rifts 
 
 Of cloud and clod, 
 
 These too the deathless gleam 
 
 Of thy ambrosial light, 
 
 Disperser of Night? 
 
 And we the nearest 
 
 Latest and dearest 
 
 Children of thy nod, 
 
 Most glorious God? 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 21 
 
 The little pools 
 
 That lie in schools 
 
 On plashy fallows 
 
 And drenched meads 
 
 When a shower recedes, 
 
 And seem as deep 
 
 As the vaulted sky 
 
 With the cloud-wrack scudding by — 
 
 Shall these thy secret keep, 
 
 And dream they comprehend 
 
 Thy far beginning and thy dreaded end, 
 
 Because they hold thy image bright 
 
 In their murky shallows? 
 
 Or hath thy more ethereal light 
 
 To our more perfect inner sight 
 
 Unveiled a loftier vision, 
 
 And wrought a grander dream 
 
 Of thy life elysian? 
 
 O Light Supreme, 
 
 Truth Revealer, 
 
 Heart and lip Unsealer, 
 
 Touch my presuming lips 
 
 With thy inspiring wine 
 
 To sing without eclipse 
 
 Thy life divine, 
 
 In very truth, 
 
 From thy far radiant youth! 
 
32 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Behold, 
 
 Thou art old, 
 
 From everlasting! 
 
 Whence thou comest, whither goest, 
 
 Thou alone, Immortal, knowest, 
 
 But when thou wert young 
 
 And lone among 
 
 Far radiant neighbors, 
 
 Thy arduous play 
 
 Was catching comets by the mane 
 
 And tethering them in the starry plain 
 
 Of thy domain, 
 
 Thy sterner labors 
 
 The shaping and casting 
 
 Of virgin spheres 
 
 To girdle thee with tendance. 
 
 On a golden day, 
 
 When thy hand had skill 
 
 To work thy will, 
 
 And Luck, the oldest of gods, was merry, 
 
 A fair new world 
 
 Was deftly hurled 
 
 And tossed and twirled 
 
 With a mighty sweep 
 
 In a lucky curve 
 
 Round and round thee in the vasty deep, 
 
 Never to tarry 
 
 And never to swerve 
 
 From her glad dependence 
 
 On thee, Ambrosial Sire, 
 
 And thy sustaining fire — 
 
 Earth, thy favorite child, 
 
 On whom thou hast smiled 
 
 Well pleased to see 
 
 Her beauty and her revelry. 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 23 
 
 But a giant demon, 
 
 Enamored of her beauty, 
 
 Pursued her as a wanton booty 
 
 With bold voluptuous eyes, 
 
 Entranced, enraptured, 
 
 And swore to make her his leman 
 
 And lawful prize, 
 
 Lurked in her path unseen 
 
 Till she came like an orient queen 
 
 Clad in a veil of mist 
 
 That glowed like amethyst 
 
 About her chaste 
 
 New innocence, 
 
 Then leaped and captured 
 
 Between his outstretched palms 
 
 The hapless fugitive. 
 
 And so embraced 
 
 And bore her hence, 
 
 Shuddering, withering, shrinking, 
 
 Weeping and ever thinking 
 
 Of radiance lost, 
 
 But helpless in the mighty clutch 
 
 Of the demon Frost. 
 
 And she had died 
 
 As the demon's bride, 
 
 At his icy touch, 
 
 Hadst thou not pitied the qualms 
 
 Of her mortal grief 
 
 And brought relief 
 
 And bade her live, 
 
 Engirdling her with a magic zone 
 
 Of frost-defying light 
 
 To shield her in her lone 
 
 Immortal struggle with the giant's might. 
 
24 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 
 
 Stormcloud-Render, 
 
 God of the lambent skies, 
 
 Arbiter and moulder 
 
 Of destinies, 
 
 Lord of stout hearts 
 
 And winged feet 
 
 That fly to meet 
 
 The imbattled host, 
 
 Upon thy shoulder 
 
 Girt with light 
 
 Hangs the quiver 
 
 Filled with darts 
 
 To conquer and deliver, 
 
 Great Agonist, 
 
 In the unequal list 
 
 Against the mailed pretender 
 
 To the vacant throne 
 
 Of ancient Cold, 
 
 The eldest born of Primal Night 
 
 That reigned on Chaos' frozen coast. 
 
 Gird on thy armor, 
 
 Stand forth to save 
 
 The beautiful slave, 
 
 And none shall harm her! 
 
 Her heart still beats, 
 
 And sometimes a shudder 
 
 Startles the children on her breast, 
 
 And topples their tiny magnificence, — 
 
 Their royal seats 
 
 And domes of pleasure, 
 
 Temple and palace, 
 
 Mart and spence, 
 
 In ruin utter. 
 
 Sometimes a mutter 
 
 Alarms their leisure 
 
A HYMN TO THB SUN 25 
 
 And dooms their jest 
 
 When the ruddy chalice 
 
 Is at their lips 
 
 And their soul nepenthe sips. 
 
 But for the rest, 
 
 Tn the giant's icy arms she lies 
 
 And slowly dies, 
 
 A pallid queen 
 
 With anguish mien, 
 
 While the slow cold creeps 
 
 Through her fair frail form 
 
 And seeks the life-blood her 
 
 Heart keeps warm 
 
 In its deeps. 
 
26 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Fierce Lord of Light, 
 
 Be swift to smite, 
 
 For the crafty demon dies not 
 
 And 'fore thy onset flies not, 
 
 But loth to yield 
 
 The foughten field, 
 
 A cunning Parthian, departs 
 
 The widening zone 
 
 Of flashing gold 
 
 Till, having lured thee in his hold 
 
 Of boreal cold, 
 
 With sudden charge 
 
 He hurls thick blinding mists 
 
 Before thy face 
 
 And hews thy lessening targe 
 
 And splinters thy crashing darts 
 
 And drives thee pace by pace 
 
 Across the gleaming lists 
 
 Back to the round 
 
 Of thy uttermost bound. 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 27 
 
 Losing, winning, 
 
 Winning, losing, 
 
 In the never ending strife — 
 
 We who know not thy beginning, 
 
 Watching, wondering, 
 
 Idly musing, 
 
 Deeply pondering 
 
 On thy bright ambrosial life, 
 
 Question what shall be the end? 
 
 Whither doth the conflict tend? 
 
 Shalt thou wither, shalt thou flourish, 
 
 Conquer in the fight, or perish, 
 
 Victor or the victim be? 
 
 We know not, is it toil or play 
 
 To hold dull Death and Doom at bay, 
 
 We know not, is it choice or need 
 
 That lends thy flying foot its speed, 
 
 Or hast thou reasons 
 
 For thy caprice, 
 
 Good Shepherd of Seasons? 
 
 No answer cometh out of thy East, 
 
 No oracle from bird or beast, 
 
 To set at peace 
 
 Our loftiest doubts and questionings. 
 
 We feel and see, 
 
 All cometh from thee 
 
 In a haunting mystery, 
 
 And a low voice sings 
 
 From the heart of things : 
 
 "Be of good cheer, 
 
 Ye are dear 
 
 Children of the Living Light, 
 
 Well-pleasing in his sight. 
 
 The glad All-Giver 
 
 Shall deliver 
 
 You from death 
 
28 CHILDREN OF THB SUN 
 
 Though all else perisheth!'* 
 
 And we plant our foot 
 
 On the lush green sod, 
 
 And without shame 
 
 In thy great name, 
 
 Ambrosial God, 
 
 Possess the earth 
 
 And her garnered fruit 
 
 By right of birth 
 
 From thee, divine 
 
 Founder of our royal line, — 
 
 And all the while 
 
 In thy lofty way, 
 
 Our strength and stay, 
 
 Thou smilest thv inscrutable smile. 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 29 
 
 Or dost thou hear 
 
 From some far sphere 
 
 A nobler hymn 
 
 And sweeter praise 
 
 Than seraphim 
 
 Ecstatic raise, 
 
 And our glad songs 
 
 In vibrant throngs 
 
 Are wholly drowned 
 
 In that sweet sound? 
 
 Or seest thou the adoring face 
 
 Of prophets of ethereal race 
 
 On belted Mars ? 
 
 Or tired of futile wars, 
 
 Disheartened by the losing battle, 
 
 Counting when the conflict's done 
 
 The little spoil th}' hand has won — 
 
 Three handbreadths deep beneath the sod, 
 
 A few brief fathoms in the sea, 
 
 As much of thy ethereal air 
 
 As an eagle's pinions will upbear — 
 
 A little crust and scurf of life 
 
 Kept only by unending strife, 
 
 Too paltry kingdom for a god 
 
 Like thee — 
 
 Thou yearnest for some newborn world 
 
 Unformed and void, 
 
 To start some new aeonic year 
 
 And perfect in its long career 
 
 Life unalloyed, 
 
 Pleasure uncloyed. 
 
 Beauty fresh as the pearled 
 
 Shy-hearted rose? 
 
 And when thy yearning eyes 
 
 Behold that, paradise 
 
 Elect of thv desire 
 
30 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 
 
 Swinging through starry skies, 
 
 Waiting the seed of thy fire 
 
 And the godlike race, 
 
 Wilt thou turn away thy face 
 
 And thy benign 
 
 Bright effluence? 
 
 Thy smile divine? 
 
 And with stern look 
 
 And pitiless nod, 
 
 Slowly close 
 
 The golden book 
 
 Of our finished years? 
 
 And despite our tears 
 
 And blank despair, 
 
 Despite wild pra3'er 
 
 And witless prattle, 
 
 Go calmly hence 
 
 And leave us to our barren doom, 
 
 The cold and gloom 
 
 Of a splendid tomb 
 
 Of dead magnificence, 
 
 Inscrutable God? 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 3* 
 
 Ineffable Glory 
 
 Flooding the portal 
 
 Of the voiceless East, 
 
 Had st thou some far 
 
 And bright beginning, 
 
 Ambrosial star, 
 
 With never a throe 
 
 And never a wail, 
 
 But perfect among 
 
 Coequals yonng, 
 
 Full summed in power 
 
 From that glad hour, 
 
 Flashing a sudden dawn 
 
 The darkling worlds upon, 
 
 And luring and winning 
 
 Life from the clod, 
 
 Far-darting God? 
 
 Or art thou mortal? 
 
 Dost thou mutation know? 
 
 Wilt thou grow pale? 
 
 Wilt thou, too, shorn of light 
 
 And reft of manhood's might, 
 
 Like us, grow hoary, 
 
 And with, palsy shaking 
 
 And thy great heart breaking 
 
 To be released, 
 
 Go tottering on thy way 
 
 In deepening gloom 
 
 Among the wailing stars, 
 
 Thy radiant mates 
 
 Whose hand unbars 
 
 The unreluctant gates 
 
 Of ancient Doom 
 
 For thee, Bright God of Day, 
 
 Thy course half run, 
 
 Thy task half done, 
 
 And orphaned worlds forsaken 
 
 By pitying death o'ertaken? 
 
32 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Whence comes the golden shower 
 
 Of mystic power 
 
 That swells the bud 
 
 And stirs the blood 
 
 And sets the June clay simmering, 
 
 And night's sown fireflies glimmering, 
 
 And gay birds winging 
 
 And madly singing 
 
 Their happy loves 
 
 In the checkered groves? 
 
 O is it some golden legacy 
 
 Of far Chronidean dynasty 
 
 Uphoarded 'neath some dreadful spell 
 
 When the old gods fell 
 
 And yielded their throne 
 
 To thee alone, 
 
 Lord of treasures unending 
 
 That wax with spending? 
 
 Forgive if our unfaith 
 
 Forefeel some sudden scathe, 
 
 And measure thy career 
 
 With the rod of mortal fear, 
 
 And hearken our despair 
 
 And anguished prayer! 
 
A HYMN TO THB SUN 33 
 
 O Spendthrift God, 
 
 With feet unshod 
 
 We come before thee 
 
 And implore thee, 
 
 Heed our warning! 
 
 Restrain thy lavish giving, 
 
 Thy reckless, riotous living, 
 
 Improvident Lord ! 
 
 Surely thy hoard 
 
 Is well-night spent! 
 
 Or art thou coining thy heart of gold 
 
 To fling it broadcast into the cold, 
 
 Our wisdom scorning? 
 
 Canst thou not see 
 
 The end of all thy revelry — 
 
 Bankrupt, disgraced 
 
 Pariah chased 
 
 From gate to gate 
 
 By every starry mate 
 
 Unmindful of thy fallen state? 
 
 And we thy helpless progeny 
 
 Must share thy wandering beggary, 
 
 And hungering die 
 
 Beneath a sunless sky! 
 
34 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Or art thou sent 
 
 On ways untrod 
 
 By some high god 
 
 Whose will is Doom? 
 
 And though thou care 
 
 To heed our prayer, 
 
 Thou art not free, 
 
 No more a god than we? 
 
 Thy path lies through the gloom, 
 
 And why thou goest 
 
 Thou scarcely knowest? 
 
 Nor yet for whom? 
 
 And whither thy journey tends 
 
 Athwart black spaces 
 
 Of ancient night, 
 
 Thou knowest less? 
 
 Or to what races 
 
 Thy welcome light 
 
 The Doom-God sends? 
 
 And all thy fabled wisdom ends 
 
 Like ours in a troubled guess? 
 
A HYMN TO THE SUN 35 
 
 Thou kissest the tears 
 
 From the eyes of flowers 
 
 That open their hearts 
 
 To thy golden darts 
 
 In the matin hours, 
 
 O God of light 
 
 And of happy wings. 
 
 Lord of all bright 
 
 Instinctive things 
 
 That pluck the day 
 
 When it's ripe for play, 
 
 Blot out our fears, 
 
 That we may see 
 
 Naught else but thee. 
 
 With thy dispersing rod, 
 
 Resplendent God, 
 
 Dispel the mists that creep 
 
 Over the soul's calm deep. 
 
 With thy ambrosial light 
 
 Shame thou our mortal night. 
 
 Transpierce our wayward dreams 
 
 With thy far-darting beams. 
 
 Smite our close-lidded eyes to see 
 
 Thy golden gift's sole sovranty. 
 
 Illume our hearts 
 
 With thy fierce darts 
 
 And chase the shadow of death 
 
 And doubt's cold wraith, 
 
 Confirm our faith 
 
 To know and see 
 
 In very truth that we, 
 
 Adoring thee, 
 
 Or ere the day is done, 
 
 Before our course is run, 
 
 Shall have fulfilled 
 
 The end the Doom-Gods willed. 
 
36 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 O great Lord Sun, 
 
 That bringest in this hour 
 
 From out thy dun 
 
 Nocturnal bower 
 
 This fresh new day 
 
 With winged chance freighted, 
 
 Though sternly fated 
 
 To pass away 
 
 Irrevocably swift, 
 
 We take thy spacious gift 
 
 As it is given. 
 
 Lord of the riven 
 
 Eastern sky, 
 
 Unseemly pride 
 
 Chastened and purified 
 
 By thy baptism of fire, 
 
 And all forbidden questionings, 
 
 Like homing birds with weary wings, 
 
 Sinking to rest, 
 
 In tune 
 
 With June 
 
 And transient things 
 
 In life's high quest, 
 
 Great God of our Desire, 
 
 With unaverted eye 
 
 Let us adore 
 
 Thee evermore ! 
 
NAPOLBON AT AIX 37 
 
 NAPOLEON AT AIX 
 
 Wait here, my Marshalls, — follow not within 
 
 The august precincts of his Chapel Tomb. 
 
 This hour is mine. 
 
 ***** * * 
 
 They are my tools, no more, 
 Wherewith I build my empire or contrive 
 A scandal at the Court. What need they know 
 In this vast business of our Phoenix France 
 More than the pawn when he is deftly moved 
 To take a queen or mate a king? They do 
 My errands, and their destinies grow big 
 With honors. Save for me their heads had ne'er 
 Emerged above the seething bloody scum 
 Of sightless anarchy. 
 
 This Charles the Great 
 Communes but with his peers. No fitting Third 
 Can share this hour, unless that mighty Spirit 
 Whose star yet blazes in mid heaven descend 
 And flash the glory of Imperial Rome 
 About us. What a consulship this world 
 Had bent to, had Fate dared in one sole age 
 Engender such Triumvirate. Old Earth 
 Is cramped, and fragile is the race of men : 
 Fate cast a thousand years between our cradles 
 To keep her course unhindered. 
 
 I am France, 
 And here lies France entombed. O Brother Prince, 
 Be not the awful dust thou art to such 
 As deem thee dead, but come in panoply 
 Of burnished steel that clanks about thy shoulders 
 That bear untamed the whole embattled world, 
 
38 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 And make the pavement ring with lusty tread 
 And dangling blade, and look with those dread eyes 
 From under brows that rise sheer like a castle 
 Upon a cliff's edge, Genius of Olden France, 
 And bring the glory back that filled the world 
 And rang through ten far centuries, and I 
 Will greet thee, bringing our regenerate France, 
 And beg a royal boon. 
 
 Thou hast a crown, 
 And I am crownless ! 
 
 Lo, I go a journey, 
 A long one, full of dread, for he who goes 
 From doubt to resolution travels far, 
 From nadir to full zenith. 
 
 ******* 
 
 How it gleams 
 And flashes radiance, blinding, luring, mocking! 
 Caesar refused it — thrice! — when proffered him 
 Upon the feast of Lupercal ! — He feared 
 The people ! — Craven moment dearly paid 
 At foot of Pompey's statue ! — 
 
 Well I know 
 That fear's temptation. Should I ride the streets 
 Of Paris on the morrow, down the lanes 
 Of loyal citizens whose joyous shouts 
 Stun the far welkin, and should part my vestment 
 And show one purple line, the sullen mob 
 Could count the horses' footfalls on the pavement 
 In the dead silence; not a cap would fly 
 Into the stagnant air. I know these Frenchmen. 
 
 First Consul — by decree! — They deem me naught 
 But their own Hand, their Eye, their Heart and Will, 
 And by that fiction hangs their fealty. 
 A name can break it. 
 
NAPOLEON AT AIX 39 
 
 How it gleams and glows, 
 The Beautiful, the Fatal ! How it sits 
 Upon his brow ! Its rays play round his head, 
 Illuming ruddy cheek and snow-white beard. 
 He speaks not — Yet his eyes play with dread Doom. 
 Do they foresee, foreread in Time's Arcana 
 Impending incarnations? What if he 
 Should speak — and say: Adopted Son, kneel down, 
 Receive my crown and wear it worthily! 
 Should I refuse, as Caesar? 
 
 There it gleams, 
 Weaving divinity about his brows, 
 Compelling mute submission. 'Twere a meed 
 To dare damnation for! — Yet not dishonor! — 
 A great King takes his crown — no gift, but rapine — 
 Erect, not kneeling, worlds in awe consenting 
 To conscious empery. O I am weary 
 Of truckling to a mob qi pigmies ! — Faugh ! 
 
 How tall! Full head and shoulders overtopping 
 
 The commons. I was once the Little Corporal. 
 
 A scurvy trick of Fate — my soul as lofty 
 
 Looks him full level in the eye — to clip 
 
 My stature so. Were he to toss his robe 
 
 About my shoulders, it would sweep the pavement 
 
 Like a queen's train, and round the Courts of Europe 
 
 An universal gibe would run, and then 
 
 Buffoons might win the Garter for a jest, 
 
 Ladies would titter from behind their fans, 
 
 And waiting-maids forget love-rendezvous, 
 
 Or break Court etiquette, unchid, for very laughter, — 
 
 As if some half a cubit more of worms'-meat 
 
 Beneath the ermine made him more a king! 
 
 The Will, the Might and Skill to make a realm 
 
 And reign — these make a King. And I have made 
 
 My realm and reigned, as well as mighty Charles. 
 
4o CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 First Consul ! — gift or sufferance — a stigma, 
 Save that with infinite finesse and craft 
 I drew all rights and powers to myself 
 And set my heel upon the Senate. Fools ! 
 To bear a yoke, yet tremble at its name : 
 For I am France. 
 
 Most sad, inscrutable, 
 Yet godlike! Such a countenance of pain 
 And glory, lit by thousand tongues of light 
 That leap and play about his moveless brow 
 As if to start him into life and tell 
 By moved lip and flushing cheek and lit 
 Deep liquid eye some secret of the world 
 That lies beneath. I too at need can be 
 Inscrutable as Death and Doom. No faction 
 Can read my will and so misuse it. Prince 
 Most enviable, thou hadst no need to make 
 Thy face a mask to cover secret dreams, 
 As I in this new age of licence named 
 The Dawn of Freedom. 
 
 Subtle must he be 
 Who rules these French. Some old Republican 
 Must fall to win the Bourbon, and the last 
 Fair scion of the old regime must sigh 
 His soul out in a prison yard at dawn 
 Mid sullen crash of musketry to appease 
 The incensed Republican, and I across them 
 Move two steps nearer an Imperial Throne. 
 The art of governing is simple else : 
 Corrupt this one with office, that with gold, 
 Buy this one with an Order, flatter that 
 With public praise, imprison this bold wretch 
 And pardon that, inspire the poet's song 
 With gold and laurels, loose the orators' 
 Sweet adulation, censor stage and press, 
 
NAPOLEON AT AIX 41 
 
 And fool the mad fanatic with pretense, 
 And if the madder factions still must rage, 
 Hatch out some heinous plot in London town 
 To breed assassins 'gainst the Glory of France, 
 Or scent some mighty league of crowns and mitres 
 To turn her dial back — send out the news 
 Concoct of truth and lies — the Monitcur 
 Will print it — Scold a British Lord at Court — 
 'Twill please the chauvinist ! O I am weary 
 Of all this despicable meanness ! 
 
 Where 
 Is that divinity doth hedge a King? 
 I have no crown. There lies the subtle charm, 
 The Talisman that sets him far aloof 
 In that fine air where factions hush their clamor 
 And baseness stands abashed, all hearts are tuned 
 To perfect loyalty and unbought service. 
 All arts and crafts there band together like 
 A mighty orchestra, each plays his part 
 In grand symphonic order, loving more 
 The perfect music than his own small part. 
 
 I too would lead my people, and so smite 
 The startled ears of Europe with the wild 
 Sweet symphony of France — a perfect piece — 
 All discords melting into harmony 
 And closing with a flourish of sweet sound 
 Deathlessly memorable. 
 
4« CHILDREN OF THB SUN 
 
 But the Courts 
 Of Europe fear it, lest the noble strain 
 Stir echoes far beyond the Rhine and Channel. 
 Consul! A decade — ay, perchance for life! — 
 Dictator, if the Senate choose— What boots? 
 They bide their time, and wait for fickle Fate 
 To plunge me from this pinnacle, or Death, 
 The unconquered Agonist. There shines my Star 
 Ascendant. Let them wait! 
 
 Seductive Marvel 
 That so transfigurest Imperial Charles 
 And so begodst him in the eyes of mortals, 
 Art thou that mystic power, or but a symbol 
 Of that which subtler is and mightier — 
 Legitimacy ? 
 
 That must make me pause. 
 My father was a Tuscan gentleman, 
 My mother a mean Corsican, and all 
 My vasty will, my vision, my ambition, 
 The kingliest in me come alone from her, 
 Her unspoiled blood, her undegenerate soul. 
 I come from the Primeval, the Primordial — 
 A shaft sent random, or a bolt of Doom 
 Shot to its mark? — and better far the first 
 Of virile dynasty than sapless last 
 Of senile race decadent, dead, a corpse 
 Embalmed in odorous Legitimacy. 
 
 Then let them gibe and sneer, write epigrams, 
 And play at shuttle-cock with 'parvenu', 
 'Usurper', till they split. There shines my Star 
 Ascendant. Let them sneer. 
 
 Great Charles could count 
 His noble forebears — royal, ducal — on 
 The fingers of his sword-hand. 
 
NAPOLEON AT AIX 43 
 
 I will found 
 My dynasty, though Europe hurl her legions 
 Upon my sword. I will repel her hordes 
 As Charles hurled back the Saracen, and make 
 My dreaded name a rampart round my realm, 
 And dictate peace, and reign, acclaimed of all 
 Keeper of Europe's peace. 
 
 ******* 
 
 How mad a dream 
 To haunt the pillow of a sterile bed! — 
 * * * Josephine ! 
 
 I do remember well 
 The day she came to thank me for the sword 
 Of Beauharnais I gave her son. Such grace, 
 Such wondrous charm of manner, such fair speech, 
 Such beauty — all that Nature and high Art 
 Could make her — perfect woman. I knew not 
 Love's passion till that hour. I wooed — and won her 
 Like a great victory — And when she came 
 From Paris to Marengo, such a light 
 Filled all the camp that war grew instant glory, 
 Like olden tournaments, and France's marshalls 
 Grew knightly — marvels wrought they emulous 
 To win her smile, as from an empress' lips. 
 I find no spot in her — save one — she's barren. 
 Why must she bear a brace of Beauharnais 
 And not one Buonaparte? 
 
 Should I sue 
 To break the bonds — the Senate complaisant, 
 The Pope grown pliable — 'twould raise a storm 
 Of such wide fury in Camp and Court, must sweep 
 My dream of empery to vasty ruin. 
 
44 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Speak, August Shade, if counsel may yet pass 
 
 Those calm sealed lips. The chrism of Death was poured 
 
 Upon thy brow, the sword fell from thy hand, 
 
 The scepter passed. Couldst thou unmoved behold 
 
 The mighty handiwork of glorious years — 
 
 Thine — parted, ravined, spent, smirched, and despoiled, 
 
 Quite blotted out, as if it ne'er had been? 
 
 Old Europe dreams — and waits. 
 
 I am still young. 
 My Star rides in a happy House. I go 
 To Notre Dame. My Josephine shall wear 
 An Empress' crown. What more can woman ask? 
 And when my throne is firm — she shall retire — 
 France clamors for an heir. 
 
 The proudest Court, 
 Our old inveterate enemy, shall lend 
 His royalest to scent our nascent line 
 With that old feudal musk, Legitimacy. 
 Then let them gibe and sneer. 
 
 Lo, how it gleams, 
 The Caesars' emblem, radiant, luring, speaking, 
 With mystic message pleading — Here I kneel, 
 
 mighty Charles. Make me thy son and heir. 
 
 1 take the crown of France from thy dead hands 
 And wear it — royally. No other power 
 Henceforth shall bend my knee. 
 
 I go a journey — 
 A dread one — rude and lone — For he who goes 
 From doubt to resolution treads the path 
 Of Doom and Glory. 
 
 Farewell, mighty Prince! 
 A new Age dawns. My will is Arbiter. 
 Tomorrow I. am Emperor of the French. 
 Mv sword shall carve a name deathless forever. 
 
LOVB'S TRIUMPH 45 
 
 LOVE'S TRIUMPH. 
 
 Set Tracrav yvvcuKa, k.t.\. 
 Herod. Bk. I, 199 
 
 Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
 Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 
 
 Feels Astarte's tropic sunshine 
 
 Burning at the heart of things, 
 
 Feels it in the passionate riot 
 Of her breast's imaginings. 
 
 Vashti-Hauna, dawned-cheeked princess, 
 Knows her woman's hour is come, 
 
 As a lotus bud at bursting 
 
 Half forefeels the perfect sum 
 
 Of her sun-dreams and moon-yearnings, 
 Half foreknows it — and is dumb. 
 
 Vashti-Hauna looks to eastward 
 From her tower in Nineveh, 
 
 Looks and sighs — she knows the custom 
 And the gifts that maidens lay 
 
 On the altars of Mylitta — 
 
 Knows the price her votaries pay — 
 
 Gazes eastward on the temple 
 
 Where the passionate throngs resort, 
 Then upon her swelling bosom 
 
 And her young limbs' queenly port, 
 Praying for Astarte's favor, 
 
 Triumph in her Temple Court. 
 
46 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 ii 
 
 Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
 Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 
 
 Doffs her scented silken bravery, 
 
 Veils and gems and golden rings, 
 
 Dons the meanest menial raiment 
 
 That her poorest bond-slave brings; 
 
 Stains her limbs and neck and bosom 
 Like a sun-kissed shepherdess's, 
 
 With her deft hand draws the carven 
 Ivory that holds her tresses, 
 
 Slips unmarked amid the motley 
 
 Throng that down the highwaj' presses. 
 
 iii 
 Haughty Shemir, Aram's daughter, 
 
 Princess of the House of Shu, 
 Rolls in pompous covered carriage 
 
 Aisles of frighted pilgrims through, 
 Scorning even to share the sunshine 
 
 With that motley Syrian crew. 
 
 Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
 Rides beside her carriage door: 
 
 "Room ! Make room for mighty Shemir 
 Whom the sun and stars adore! 
 
 Never hath such queenly beauty 
 
 Trod yon Temple Court before !" 
 
 Crack the eunuch drivers' lashes, 
 Rear the horses mad with pain, 
 
 Rear and plunge — The dusty pilgrims 
 Terror-stricken seek the plain — ; 
 
 Vashti-Hauna sole undaunted 
 
 Turns with look of deep disdain, 
 
LOVB'S TRIUMPH 47 
 
 Rises to her queenliest stature, 
 
 Lifts to heaven her empty hands, 
 
 Flinging Khazakhan defiance 
 
 With her spirit's mute commands, 
 
 Horse and rider quail before her — 
 Mighty Shemir's carriage stands. 
 
 IV 
 
 Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
 Daughter of Asshur, King of Kings, 
 
 Bows her royal head in silence, 
 But her heart within her sings 
 
 As she treads the Temple highway 
 Light as if her feet had wings. 
 
 Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
 Dumb with admiration stares 
 
 At the mute Astarte vision 
 
 As she toward the Temple fares : 
 
 "Is it Beltis come to warn me 
 
 Of the haughty Shemir's snares?" 
 
 In the Temple Court the pilgrims 
 Sit in long and braveried rows : 
 
 Khazakhan, the Prince of Shelar, 
 Down their aisles of beauty goes, 
 
 Peering under veil and head-dress 
 For the wondrous eye he knows. 
 
48 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Haughty Shemir leaves he sitting, 
 Rank and wealth he passes by; 
 
 Love that scorns all outward splendor, 
 Worshiping it knows not why, 
 
 Guides him to her place of biding. 
 He with sudden joyous cry 
 
 Tosses in her lap the obol : 
 
 "Follow in JVlylitta's name!" 
 
 Vashti-Hauna, dawn-cheeked princess, 
 Rises, neck and cheek aflame, 
 
 Stands triumphant: "Gracious Beltis, 
 Take the gift thy altars claim !" 
 
THE RINGEL DANCE 49 
 
 THE RINGEL DANCE. 
 
 Valley steaming, 
 
 Hillside teeming, 
 
 Summer skips and smiles askance at 
 
 Hand-clasped Hours that ringel-dance it 
 
 Through the fields in mazy transit. 
 
 Wheeling and fleeting, 
 
 Merrily greeting 
 
 Brawling fall and reedy shallow, 
 
 Tangled copse and weedy fallow. 
 
 And ever behind them a stridulous tune 
 Sends a chill through the heart of June : — 
 I need not look for the grim gaunt Fiddler, 
 I know he is coming, the weird old Riddler, 
 Ey his rune ! 
 
 Roses blooming, 
 
 Bumbles booming, 
 
 Dipping, sipping in the swinging 
 
 Sunlit cups, a moment clinging, 
 
 Touch and away with reckless winging, 
 
 Humming snatches 
 
 Of drunken catches 
 
 Overheard on the daisied hill, 
 
 To the lily's nunnery white and still. 
 
 And ever behind them the self-same tune 
 
 Startles the drowsy ear of noon : — 
 
 I know whose head o'er the viol is stooping. 
 For rose-leaves fall and the lily is drooping 
 
 All too soon ! 
 
50 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Sunny maiden 
 
 Flower laden 
 
 Trips the meads in summer fettle, 
 
 Plucking the daisy's wizard petal 
 
 Life's uncertain doom to settle : 
 
 "Loves me, not, loves me ! 
 
 O what behooves me 
 
 Say to him, do for him, day-time or night, 
 
 My hero, my king, my joy, and my light!" 
 
 And ever behind her a maddening tune 
 Floats o'er the daisied meads of June : — 
 I need not look who swings the bow so, 
 For I know the grinning old Virtuoso 
 By his rune ! 
 
 Coy lips cleaving, 
 
 Bosoms heaving, 
 
 Fancy plotting Love's devices 
 
 Fit for orient paradises 
 
 Hidden deep in an isle of spices, 
 
 Soft eyes yearning, 
 
 Passions burning, 
 
 Soul concentered in a kiss 
 
 Demons envy and angels miss. 
 
 And ever behind them a grisly rune — 
 A terror stalking in Love's full noon : — 
 
 For 'Carpe diem' is the Fiddler's motto 
 And a scythe-clang sounds in each sharp 
 staccato 
 Of his tune ! 
 
THB RINGBL DANCE 51 
 
 Sweet-tongued singer, 
 
 Beauty bringer, 
 
 Poet of the woodland's chatter, 
 
 Ear attuned to the distant patter 
 
 Of dancing feet of nymph and satyr, 
 
 Eye enraptured, 
 
 Senses captured 
 
 By the pomp of Earth, the splendor 
 
 Of the spirits that attend her. 
 
 And ever behind him the same weird tune 
 So near — O the glory and gladness of June ! — 
 
 His skull is crowned with the victor's laurel — 
 But not for the poet — I know the moral 
 Of his rune ! 
 
52 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 THE LONG ROAD. 
 
 There's a long long road lying white in memory's light 
 And it's traveled but by phantoms of a wistful long 
 ago. 
 I can see them trooping trooping, and I love the eerie 
 sight, 
 And I march keeping step with the kindly ghosts I 
 know. 
 
 It comes from out the woodlands and it runs into the 
 hills 
 Straight and white o'er hill and hollow with the 
 green on either hand, 
 And I follow follow follow, till my heart with sunshine 
 fills 
 At the crunch of happy footsteps in that fair lost 
 land. 
 
 And I haste to overtake her in her jaunty cap and plaid 
 Till she turns to meet my greeting with a frank and 
 hearty smile 
 And a flush of rosy welcome that makes the morning 
 glad 
 As we trudge the miles together to the school-house 
 stile. 
 
 Now we reach the stately elm-tree with its lofty grape- 
 vine swing 
 Where we braved the teacher's ferule and the far- 
 off warning bell 
 Just to try the strange sensation of two birds upon the 
 wing 
 As they fly in mated cycles under love's strong spell. 
 
THE LONG ROAD 53 
 
 There too lies the grassy clearing in the woodland where 
 we played 
 Drop the kerchief, and her red lips with a dawning 
 passion swelled 
 As another caught and kissed her, and my heart a tu- 
 mult made 
 That my own hard-won success and blushing guer- 
 don hardly quelled. 
 
 Here the broad marsh fringed with blue-flags, cat-tails 
 and sweet calamus 
 Where we teased the nesting black-birds and the 
 lily-striding frogs, 
 And with pebbles shied among them with a cunning 
 perilous 
 Made the stolid Parsee turtles slide from off their 
 sunny logs. 
 
 Now we pause beneath the bur-oak with its gnarled and 
 spreading form 
 That so kindly tented o'er us on one far ambrosial 
 night 
 When the singing- school was over and she clung so 
 close and warm 
 That we loved to linger sheltered from the full 
 moon's light. 
 
 Hard before us lies the hollow where the rail-fence 
 piled snow billows 
 White and fluffy, and we dared the Storm-king's 
 elemental powers — 
 Like a pair of sleepy children flung ourselves on Win- 
 ter's pillows, 
 And with intertwined initials marked the virgin 
 bed as ours. 
 
54 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 Not a foot of that white road-way but is radiant with 
 her presence, 
 Yet if I should clasp the phantom as Ixion's cloud- 
 bride thin, 
 All the madness would o'erwhelm me of the end of 
 earthly pleasance — 
 I whose acres lay in Cloud-land lacked the heart 
 to woo and win. 
 
 the long long road lying clear in memory's light 
 
 That is traveled but by phantoms of the long long 
 ago! 
 
 1 can see them trooping trooping, and I love the friend- 
 
 ly sight, 
 So I march keeping step with the kindly ghosts I 
 know. 
 
THE IDEAL 55 
 
 THE IDEAL. 
 
 I had a dream. 
 
 "The empty darkness burst to bloom 
 
 Like a vast hushed lily-bud, all white and glorious, 
 
 And smote my soul with ever-widening spheres of per- 
 fume, 
 
 And flooded her surprised sense with wave on wave of 
 serene light. 
 
 The lily's heart disclosed a virgin form, 
 
 All pure as snow, of loveliest mien, 
 
 Such as the artist-lover's soul 
 
 Dreams in supreme moments of creative power, 
 
 As if the chisel had for once attained 
 
 The master miracle, a perfect piece. 
 
 Her eyes beamed on me, 
 
 With sweetest invitation, half concealed. 
 
 Her lips grew red and full 
 
 As if her spirit waited there 
 
 To rush in rapturous kisses on the brow 
 
 Of her elected lord. 
 
 The hot hunger of my soul o'erpowered me. 
 
 With passionate arms, and heart loud-beating in exces- 
 sive joy, 
 
 As once Pygmalion when he gazed entranced 
 
 On his own marble dream made flesh through love, 
 
 I clasped her, held her, one ecstatic moment, 
 
 And covered her white breasts with kisses. 
 
 The glad tears burst from their unwonted springs 
 
 All uncontrolled and fell upon her. 
 
 A subtle tremor went through all her frame. 
 
 And then with her white hand she caught the pearling 
 drops 
 
 And drank them, sighing. 
 
56 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 She touched my brow and spake: 
 
 "Lo ! I have sealed thee mine, beloved !" 
 
 And v/hen I looked into her eyes, 
 They vanished like fair sister stars 
 Withdrawn to inaccessible deeps of night, 
 And stood fixed in imperishable beauty. 
 Her white form slipped from my embrace 
 And I awoke with choking sobs. 
 
 Since when all the world is grown less fair. 
 
 I see her glide athwart all earthly -forms, 
 
 That straightway pale and wither, 
 
 Their radiance by her splendor dimmed. 
 
 And thus I wander through the vacant years 
 
 A joyless soul, (and yet not asking joy,) 
 
 Nor smile, nor weep, 
 
 Until I find her, clasp her, 
 
 Though I must pass the ninefold barred and mystic 
 
 gates 
 To win her. 
 
THE SMITH'S SONG 57 
 
 THE SMITH'S SONG. 
 
 I hammer my Will into stubborn steel. 
 
 A god in me chooses the form. 
 When the white-hot metal's rebellion I feel 
 Hot passions into my right arm steal 
 And make the reverberant anvil peal 
 While sparks like crinkled lightnings reel 
 In a storm : 
 For whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 
 
 I hammer my Will till the steel is cold. 
 
 Sometimes I call it a share. 
 The world that lay naked for eons untold, 
 My will shall deck it with wind-blown gold 
 Of harvests sixty and hundred fold. 
 Go ! Furrows of brown through the virgin mould 
 
 Uptear ! 
 Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 
 
 I hammer my Will from sun till sun. 
 
 Sometimes I call it a hook. 
 I send it abroad when the forging is done 
 To trim wild Edens whose vineyards run 
 Too rank for a world where perfection is spun, 
 For my will no Chaos from Order won 
 Can brook. 
 Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 
 
58 CHILDREN OF THB SUN 
 
 I hammer my Will week in, week out. 
 
 Sometimes I call it a shoe. 
 My steed fares forth with his rider stout 
 To carry God's message the world about: 
 "One Love, one Law, one Dream, one Doubt, 
 And one Salvation for gentle and lout: 
 Be true!" 
 Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 
 
 I hammer my Will from birth till death. 
 
 Sometimes I call it a sword. 
 Rest bright and keen in a ready sheath 
 Till the maddened foeman's insolent breath 
 Shall sully our world with a threat of scath, 
 Then leap and flash like the awful wraith 
 Of the Lord ! 
 Whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will ! 
 
 I hammer my Will into stubborn steel. 
 
 A god in me chooses the form. 
 I forge on my stithy the commonweal. 
 My arm and my word are its sign and seal. 
 And whenever the metal's rebellion I feel 
 My sledge makes the verberant anvil peal 
 Like a storm! 
 For whatever I fashion with might and skill, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Cling, clang, 
 Is ever my will, my will, my will! 
 
LOST LOVE'S RETURN 59 
 
 LOST LOVE'S RETURN. 
 
 My hearth-fire burnetii dim and low, 
 
 The fine air groweth chill, 
 A darkness climbeth along the walls 
 And thin shapes flit through the twilight halls 
 
 Incessant to and fro. 
 I feel them sweep like an icy breath, 
 They whisk my cheeks with a touch of death, 
 
 And my heart, it standeth still. 
 
 My heart, it standeth a moment still, 
 
 Then leapeth sudden and wild : 
 "O is it my fair lost Love ye bear? 
 O stay your flitting, ye shapes of air, 
 
 And yield her to my will, 
 For I fain would win her to my desire, 
 Though her lips were ice to my lips of fire, 
 
 And her star eyes coldly smiled!" 
 
 My heart, it leapeth and will not cease. 
 
 The shapes, they crowd around: 
 "O we are the dreams that came to thee 
 When June was abloom and the heart was free, 
 
 And the soul was well-at-ease, 
 What time we were all too chaste and cold 
 For a purple-blooded youth to hold 
 
 In love's embraces bound !" 
 
60 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 My heart, it quaketh and will not rest, 
 
 My head, it bendeth low : 
 "O we flit and flit till dawn is alit, 
 And on cheeks where death's chaste lily-buds sit 
 
 We breathe our wooing hest. 
 For the hand she clasped was the hand of a boy 
 That crushed the blown lily in eager joy 
 
 To possess her fragrant snow." 
 
 My heart, it trembleth and can not hold, 
 
 My head, it sinketh still : 
 "O stay your flitting, ye shapes of air, 
 I know ye are fair, too white and fair, 
 
 For arms of mortal mould ! — 
 But I fain would clasp you and hold you now, 
 Though your kisses were cold on my fevered brow 
 
 And your wan breasts icy chill !" 
 
 O stand, my heart, be forever still, 
 
 And leap no longer wild : 
 "O we are the spirits that tended of yore 
 Thy fair lost Love whom we now restore 
 
 And yield to thy chastened will. 
 No more we flit till dawn is alit, 
 But with folded wings a garland we'll knit 
 
 At the feet of the reconciled !" 
 
IN THB DBSBRT 61 
 
 IN THE DESERT. 
 
 Three vultures wheel in slant-winged flight 
 
 Above the desert's tawny stretches 
 And wind down narrowing stairs of light. 
 
 Beneath them like three guilty wretches 
 
 Three shadows whisk across the sand, 
 And each its lessening cycle etches. 
 
 The goal the ominous obscene band 
 
 Still shuns, or seems to shun, while seeking, 
 Lies helpless in that pitiless land. 
 
 Sand-choked beyond articulate speaking 
 
 He follows mute with questioning eyes 
 Those fearful gyres, those pinions reeking. 
 
 Panting in horror vain convulsive cries 
 He raves a maniac prayer for succor — 
 
 Wards off the loathesome bulk and dies — 
 Such sepulture hath Sheik Ibn Becar! 
 
62 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 THE DRAGON-FLY. 
 
 Fanning with iridescent wing 
 The dank airs of the reedy marsh, 
 Darting in disport, elfin thing, 
 Among the water-grasses harsh, 
 Now clinging to some sedge's stem, 
 Now floating double in the breeze, 
 Thou art at times a living gem, 
 At times a queen of sylphides. 
 Innocent, beauteous, luckless sprite. 
 Gorgeous daemon as brief as bright ! 
 
 Had luckier fates thy birth-place set 
 
 With snow-drop or with violet, 
 
 With wild-rose or with fleur-de-lis, 
 
 How happy were such lot for thee ! 
 
 Painters would try thy gauzy wing, 
 
 Poets essay thy grace to sing 
 
 And wonder with half despairing sigh 
 
 Plow lily and rose and world and sky 
 
 Are mirrored in thy wide-orbed eye, 
 
 And seers would dream of harmonies 
 
 Fixed at the birth of eternities 
 
 And babble of mighty wisdom still 
 
 That planned thy sphere with prescient skill. 
 
 What wondrous change a birth-place makes ! 
 Each soul some fatal color takes 
 From what it touches at its source. 
 Thou sylphid beauty of the fen 
 Art shunned and spurned by bearded men, 
 And tender children deem thee worse — 
 Confederate of an old world-curse, 
 A feeder of loathesome slimy snakes. 
 With clubs and stones, imbruted crew, 
 Thy fragile grace they swift pursue, 
 Striving to quench in reedy slime 
 Too transient Beauty before its time. 
 
INVITATION 63 
 
 INVITATION. 
 
 I have no gold but the sunset's gold, 
 
 No silver but storm-cloud's lining; 
 I have no lands that are bought and sold, 
 
 Nor castles of man's designing. 
 
 But I have estates sky-rimmed and broad 
 Where the breath of song is blowing, 
 
 Whose wealth by love's own guileless fraud 
 Is doubled at each bestowing. 
 
 My wool is the fleece of vernal cloud, 
 
 My silk the gossamer sailing, 
 My purple the autumn twilight shroud 
 
 When the happy day-light's failing. 
 
 What lieth in reach of ear and eye 
 
 Or Argonaut fancy's tasking, 
 From the heart of the earth to the dome of the sky, 
 
 Is mine for the simple asking. 
 
 So come, my Friend, for an hour, for a day, 
 
 For a life-time's happy straying, 
 And arm in arm we'll wander away 
 
 In love's perennial Maying. 
 
64 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 WHITE WASTE OF SNOW. 
 
 White waste of snow, gray waste of years, 
 
 I said and sighed, thus sadly linking 
 The winter's glory with foolish tears. 
 
 So much of beauty, to my thinking, 
 
 And warmth lay buried under both, 
 In death's white stupor mutely sinking. 
 
 Earth spring and life's spring, virgin growth, 
 
 Snow-drop and innocence, love and the roses, 
 To see them perish my soul is loth. 
 
 I know that under the snow reposes 
 A death that is not wholly dead, 
 But, couched and curtained, merely dozes 
 
 And dreams of waking all purple and red 
 
 To play with sunbeam and warm rains plashing 
 And laugh at the sky where the winds are fed : 
 
 But under the waste of years so ashen 
 
 What dream is a-dreaming of dawns to be? 
 
 Will the world-old rhythm in some new fashion 
 Bring back the spring and the bud to me? 
 
THE PERFECT ROSE 65 
 
 THE PERFECT ROSE. 
 
 Ah me ! Who knows where the perfect rose 
 From mortals hidden in beauty blows? 
 
 In far off gardens of Gulistan? 
 
 In Sharon's valley? Or neath the ban 
 Of mage Laurin's Tyrolean close? 
 
 Or fresh as when the world began 
 And modest creatures fled from Pan, 
 
 Just under my window it shyly glows? 
 Ah me! Who knows? 
 
 Or an airy nothing, a shadowy plan — 
 
 A dream-flower burst from the heart of man 
 
 To seal with beauty life's thorny prose? 
 
 Then wherefore yearn for impalpable shows 
 And scorn Reality's blushing clan? 
 
 Ah me! Who knows? 
 
66 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 MY CAT-BIRD. 
 
 My cat-bird sings — for June is here — 
 From sweet syringa and spice-bush clear 
 Her notes are shaken out again 
 In showers of most melodious rain. 
 I pause to bend a thirsty ear. 
 
 Sweet witchery born of joy, not pain, 
 Whole orchestra packed in a single strain — 
 The oriole's gay, but without a peer 
 My cat-bird sings. 
 
 I peer through the spice-bush leaves in vain 
 For a glimpse of her stage dress gray and plain, 
 And her throat a-quiver, but I can hear 
 Her soul expanding in a sphere 
 Of ecstasy, when thus amain 
 
 My cat-bird sings. 
 
ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS 67 
 
 ON MOUNTAIN HEIGHTS. 
 
 On mountain heights the air is keen, 
 The sun shines cold, there is no screen 
 
 Of warm gray clouds that valleys know. 
 
 The eye, forsaking fields below, 
 Expatiates in a lordlier scene. 
 
 The heart beats bolder mid the snow, 
 The breath comes fuller as we go, 
 
 The soul expands and grows serene 
 
 On mountain heights. 
 
 When wearied with the sordid woe 
 
 Of bootless errands to and fro 
 
 Mid murk and men in valleys green, 
 Look up where eagles sit and preen 
 
 Their wings for flashing in the glow 
 
 On mountain heights. 
 
68 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 ONE SOLE STAR FIXED. 
 
 One sole star fixed while thousands turn 
 
 Like cherubim that gaze and burn 
 
 In heaven's mighty chariot wheel 
 Whose vasty spokes harmonic reel 
 
 Down slopes that seers can scarce discern. 
 
 I too the cosmic cyclone feel — 
 Pomp of mad dreams, storms that conceal, 
 Where'er I turn, howe'er I yearn, 
 
 One sole star fixed. 
 
 The days whirl by, and scorn appeal, 
 
 As if to hint, or half reveal, 
 
 Some vast return of more concern 
 
 Than a World's ashes in Time's huge urn, 
 
 But never a vision clear to heal — 
 
 One sole star fixed. 
 
WHEN LUCIA CAME 69 
 
 WHEN LUCIA CAME. 
 
 Was it a dream when Lucia's spirit came 
 Breaking that blind transparency — whose name 
 Nor bard nor seer has skill to sing or say — 
 That walled me in from her who went her way 
 And left me wondering at Love's futile claim? 
 
 Upon my couch in some deep trance I lay 
 When burst upon me that candescent ray: 
 
 Could mortal tongue the idle question frame : 
 Was it a dream? 
 
 Too clear for sleep's remembering, clear as day 
 The lips' touch, hands' clasp, eyes that love betray 
 
 In love's reproof: "Is oft-sworn faith so lame? 
 
 So unexpected? Farewell!" In my shame 
 Love flowered to madness, yet she would not stay. 
 Was it a dream? 
 
7o CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 LEAVES ARE WE. 
 
 Leaves are we that sit in the sun 
 
 Where the wonder and glory of summer are spun. 
 Guests for a time of centennial trees 
 We dance with the gay young courtier breeze 
 
 While the Merlin days pass one by one. 
 
 The days, O the days ! What gifts are these ! 
 Purple and scarlet and gold ! Who sees 
 Their subtle magic till sere and dun 
 Leaves are we ? 
 
 Flown are the birds and numb are the bees, 
 
 And we huddle in drifts round the gnarled knees 
 
 Of unpitying hosts. Our course is done ; 
 
 But their girth is ampler, their branches run 
 Nearer the sky, for our golden ease — 
 
 Ah, leaves are we ! 
 
FRA BLBBRTUS' "BSSAY ON SILENCE" 71 
 
 FRA ELBERTUS' "ESSAY ON SILENCE." 
 
 O gentle Book whose letter never dims 
 
 The spirit's message ! Wise old Fra and kindly 
 To help the weary soul that gropes so blindly 
 
 In mazy book-marts ! Here his genius skims 
 
 Wit's golden cream, his cunning deftly trims 
 
 A flawless, fadeless garland, where combined lie 
 All perfect meanings since the world designedly 
 
 Made books — and critics damned them trunk and limbs. 
 
 Most perfect Book, rare bible of our age, 
 Pocket companion, friend, adviser, host, 
 My Little Tourney on Bohemia's coast 
 
 Is sweetened daily by thy sphinxlike page. 
 
 'Silence is golden !' Yet who dreamed of old 
 That she could turn white paper into gold? 
 
72 CHILDREN OF THE SUN 
 
 MY SHRINE. 
 
 Some fare to distant Mecca, some to Rome, 
 
 Yet others to some nearer lowlier shrine 
 
 More oft revisited nor less divine 
 Than prophet's haunt or vicar's lofty dome. 
 Each finds' a god there and his heart's true home ; 
 
 But mine is lowliest of all — a line 
 
 Of tumbling rail-fence clambered o'er with vine 
 Embowered in dog-rose. Thither oft I roam. 
 
 And still I find my goddess waiting there 
 As when long long ago one golden day 
 I met my first Love there at dawn of May. 
 
 I plucked two roses for her raven hair 
 
 And crowned her May Queen. Still on cheeks of 
 
 snow 
 I see that brace of lovelier roses blow. 
 
ZEPHYR AND MYRTLE 73 
 
 ZEPHYR AND MYRTLE. 
 
 Young Zephyr tiptoed in the long grave-grass 
 To whisper Lady Myrtle on the ground : 
 "Why keep the vigil on this sunken mound? 
 
 Come out and play where happy creatures pass !" 
 
 But mild-eyed Myrtle answered soft : "Alas ! 
 Of loving footfalls I have heard no sound 
 For endless summers. Swiftly round and round 
 
 Days dance with days like jocund lad and lass. 
 
 And still, sweet Zephyr, you're my only guest. 
 Come, part the grasses, sit a while and rest 
 
 Here on this toppled head-stone green and rotten. 
 Fickle as wind is man, as April brittle ! 
 Spell out the words — 'twill sober you a little — 
 
 That loving hands carved: 'Gone, but not forgot- 
 ten'." 
 
74 CHILDREN OP THE SUN 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 A white house stands upon a way-side hill, 
 Tall pine-trees guard it in a double row; 
 Their branches droop beneath the weight of snow, 
 
 And moon-cast shadows lurk there midnight-still. 
 
 The envious winter wind blows crisp and chill 
 And swings the yard-gate sharply to and fro : 
 "Whose are the dainty foot-prints there?" I know — 
 
 The old gate knows — and feels his dull wood thrill. 
 
 The winds of many winters blow and blow 
 
 To drift those dainty tell-tales deftly over; 
 
 The suns of many summers glow and glow 
 
 To melt those runes of happy maid and lover; 
 
 But mocking still the jealous seasons' spite 
 
 They lie there glorified in endless light. 
 
Across the sea I send my freighted craft. 
 Hope springs before her like a plumed shaft 
 
 From Love's bow hurtled. On the wave-washed beach 
 
 I watch the lovely hazard, and beseech 
 Gray Ocean's daughters spare my winged raft. 
 
 Ye gods above, below, I vow to each 
 Meet gifts, if through yon billows' threatening breach 
 My love-sped, hope-led ship ye safely waft 
 Across the sea. 
 
 What hecatombs, what temples roofed — O teach 
 Me, Wind and Wave, to be your anger's leech! — 
 
 Ye trumpeting west winds follow her abaft. 
 
 Poseidon, spare her from your pronged haft! 
 I hold my breath till she the haven reach 
 Across the sea!