ms(m PAijviER Class 3i.aux Book , Aa7Cfe Co[p§htN°_ l31\ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE COUNTRY BY THE SEA A BOOK OF VERSE BY HENRY ROBINSON PALMER PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND BROWN ALUMNI MAGAZINE COMPANY 1911 .V'^'V vV Copyright, 1911 BY THE Brown Alumni Magazine Company PRINTED BY E. A. JOHNSON & COMPANY PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND €-CI.A2S9951 i To 1 MY WIFE ACKNOWLEDGMENT Acknowledgment is herewith made to the newspapers in which many of the pieces of verse in this volume originally appeared, among them the Springfield Republican, Hartford CouranU New York Tribune, New York Sun and Provi- dence Journal Special acknowledgment is due to the following publications for permission to reprint the pieces noted— Life: "Beauty's Sis- ters " and " Love and Hate ; " the Sunday School Times: "In Defeat," "No Country That is Strange" and "The Silversmith of Van;" the Independent: "The Armies of the Grass;" and the Century Magazine : " The Deed." CONTENTS The Gracious Year In Praise of March 9 Spring's Paradox 11 The Brook of Spring 12 To the Evening Star 13 By the Brook 14 April Twenty-third at Stratford 17 The HiUtop by the Sea 18 Golden May 19 The Ocean of the Sky 21 The Shipwrecked Butterfly 23 The Crimson Rose 24 In the Still Pool 26 Clematis 27 In Memory 28 The Cosmos in Late October 29 The Armies of the Grass 30 When the Sun Comes Out 33 Dusk in Winter Woods 34 Sunset in February 34 Other Verses Coronation Day 37 In Memory of Corot 40 In Defeat 42 The Road 43 Silence 44 Sacrifice 46 Identity 47 The Deed .48 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus 49 A Song for College Hill 52 The Racers 53 Dreyfus 55 Kipling's Getting Better 57 Parted 59 Arthur Sullivan 60 The Violin 61 In Old Volterra 63 Russia in the South 66 The Drum 69 The Girls of College Hill 70 Beauty's Sisters 72 Leo XIII 73 John Hay 76 Two Views of War 77 When the Circus Comes to Town 78 The Hills of Pain 79 Archaeology 80 The Campus Tower 81 The Earth and I 82 Then and Now in Port Arthur 83 Alexis Nikolevitch 86 No Country that is Strange 87 Steadfast and True 88 Alchemy ... 89 The Ghost 90 The Silversmith of Van 90 The Voice 91 The New America 92 Love and Hate 94 Youth and Night 95 THE GRACIOUS YEAR IN PRAISE OF MARCH Around the twilight's crackHng blaze We spoke the circling seasons' praise ; And one extolled the reign of snows, And one the time of jacqueminots. But yet a third, of freakish mind. To gusty March w^as much inclined. Quoth he, " It is a month of cheer. The breath and freshener of the year. It whispers to the wintrj^ brain. And bids its thought grow green again. It beats upon the sleepy blood. And stirs the sluggish pulse to flood. The rosy school girl's tangled tress It tosses with a blithe caress ; The sturdy lad at strenuous play Is kindred to the vocal day. " I like to see the branches bent Before the Unseen Element, The war-lord of the frosty North Who sends his gallant squadrons forth. All da}' they plough the troubled sky, With snowy topsails straining high ; All night their steady way they fare Across the ocean of the air. " Deep in the wood the wind is still ; It tiptoes down the yellow hill ; It flings its raucous lute away To hear the valle}' minstrel play — The harper brook, whose lively tune Is no pale prophecy of June : Naught of impatience for the spring Is echoed from its sounding string ; ' Sufficient to each perfect daj' Be its own joy,' it seems to say. Who asks of budding April aught On whom the leafless boughs have wrought, The golden twigs, the amber grass. The purple of the forest-pass } " And so he paused whose freakish mind To gust>' March was much inclined. An advocate of no pretence Who pleased us with his eloquence. 10 We liked his cheerful judgment well, And silence at the hearthstone fell, While round the house the tempest roared And down the glowing chimney poured. SPRING'S PARADOX This is the paradox of spring : Rhapsody touched with suffering; Longing— and recollection's sting ; Influence of the gracious sun ; Living and loving new begun — Dry leaves a-swirling, dead and dun ; Carol and fantasy that float From many a feather-tufted throat ; Rapture — and passion's minor note ; Gray days and golden, sheen and rain ; Grieving and gladness, comrades twain ; Triumph that shares its heart with pain. 11 THE BROOK OF SPRING Hark, the brook of spring That foams around the bend ! Melody and sunlight With its crystal blend. Across the beaten stones Its flashing breakers pour A fantas}' of ocean Upon a mimic shore. Where the willow swings Above the quiet pool, Tiptoe run the currents, Sinuous and cool. Cresses edge the way. Yellow cowslips shine Like a feast of lanterns Strung in golden line. Soon the sounding brook In sober mood will flow, Falt'ring through the meadow. Doubtful and slow. Still its deeps will stir. And still its shallows sing. 12 But grass to grass shall whisper : Oh, the brook of spring! TO THE EVENING STAR Venus, I saw thee riding high In the cloudless afternoon. The golden sun was in the sky. And the yellow crescent moon ; A luminous trio, thou and they. That sailed the sapphire seas of day. When deep beyond the darkening hill The sun had floated far. Still in the blazing azure, still Thou wert my beauty star, A sovereign on a dusky throne That needed no foundation stone. And all that through thy shimmering seas Their lighted journeys sailed, Planets and lanterned Pleiades, Before thy splendor paled, Though round their prows a glory fell As of the gentle asphodel. 13 On the primeval roofs of Rome Thy deathless brilliance poured, Kindled the Babylonish dome And touched the prophet's gourd; Above all buried joy and shame Is set thine undiminished flame. Star of the evening, queen of night. When lies in dust our dead desire. When sense and soul have taken flight. Flash forth thy faithful fire ! Still keep thy trysting in the West With those who love the loveliest. BY THE BROOK I KNOW a sheltered brook Where the wild bird sings. Where the graycoat thrush In the gray tree swings ; And the color of the bough Hides the color of his wings. 14 Where the drab branch breaks Into shining- yellow spraj^ The black-winged bird Takes his happy April way. With his crimson-feather shield Flashing bright across the day. The bubbles of the brook With the laughing current glide ; They circle in the dance, They sparkle in their pride, Though scarce beyond a breath Can the foamy band abide. At anchor in the sun By the venerable oak Hangs the tiny fleet Of the insect folk, Lifted on a wave That never foamed or broke. And the brook sweeps down On its spring-enchanted way, And dreams in its joy Of a morrow like to-day. Or in a vision sees The broad and splendid bay. 15 Little can it know Of the deep salt tide, Where the breakers beat And the tall ships ride, And the fog steals in Like a veiled and snowy bride. And I say to myself As I tarry by the stream, Oh, why should we fret ? Oh, why should we dream ? Let us rest by the brook, Where the still woods gleam ! Is the gale's caress Like the zephyr's kiss ? Has the turbulent sea Some satisfying bliss. Some lovelier repose Within its bright abyss ? Nay, linger, fellow brook, Where the wild bird sings, Where the gray coat thrush In the gray tree swings — There is nothing else like this In the great scheme of things. 16 APRIL TWENTY-THIRD AT STRATFORD To this green world the soul of Shakespeare woke, When the thrush whistled on the snowy spray ; When the warm wind to April Avon spoke And sent her dancing down her blossomed way. The kindly face of Nature flushed and smiled Over the birthday of this little child. Still buds the spray above the flashing stream, As in that lustrous April long ago ; Still flows his music, still his measures gleam. Limpid as Avon and as white as snow — The scented snow that bourgeons on the bough And pours its perfume through his meadows now. Stratford y April 23, 1902 17 THE HILLTOP BY THE SEA When I hear the sound of the sluggard feet That travel the hot and dusty street, My light-wing thought steals off to be With the creeping sap in the greenwood tree. I shut my eyes to the city sights And dream of a hilltop of delights, Where the saxifrage and the violet In the shining sea-fog flutter wet. No stately garden plat is mine. Where captive beauty nods in line. But I know a field that chance has sown, And I call its splendors all my own. Here in the midst of stone and brick, My springtide country soul is sick — Sick for the budding greenwood tree And the mist- white hilltop by the sea. 18 GOLDEN MAY There was never a witching road, my lass. Like the witching road of May ; And naught in the year is lovelier Than the gold along its way, Where the yellow willows flutter. And the yellow barberries sway. Now is the golden age renewed To shimmering copse and field. The burnished brook wears a golden look. For the sun is a blazing shield. And the twain are Loved and Lover, In dew and flame revealed. We'll put the town behind us, lass. And follow the winding way. We'll laugh at the dusty path and gusty. Sport for the north wind's play. There's wine in the zephyr's chalice ; There's health in the breeze of May. It flushes your rounded cheek, my lass. And tangles your golden hair. 19 Your golden braid and the deeper shade That's only a trace less fair- Like the memory of a rapture, Or a shadow upon the air. There are none to say us nay, my lass, Since our two hearts are one. We'll own no rule of creed or school, No despot under the sun. But fare our pleasant journey Till the pleasant day is done. On his ultimate bough the redbreast sits. Enamored of the sky. List, ah list, to the rhapsodist Who sings he knows not why. Yet we may share his gladness. My own true love and L There was never a witching road, my lass. Like the witching road of May, Where green and gold the woods unfold And cowslips star the day. Then ho ! for the road together — God keep us one alway ! 20 THE OCEAN OF THE SKY In the ocean of the sky The cloudy tides go by, Impetuous fare and ceaseless bear Their precious freight on eddying air, Perfume and purple dye. By earth's green banks they sweep, As still and soft as sleep. But ocean's tide is not so wide As the ethereal streams that glide In the vast upper deep. Their quiet currents flow Where the high forests blow, They gather the wine of tree and vine. The scent of grape, the breath of pine, And scatter it as they go. Frail argosies they float That waft the quivering note, The echoing trill of greenwood hill. The unconscious art, the untaught skill. Of many a feathered throat. 21 When the great red sun is spent, They follow the track he went ; They pillage and bar his cloudy car And fling as gift to the Evening Star The gems of the Occident. She sits like a queen on high As the sunset tides go by, And round her throne like jewels strown The luminous hues of night are blown In the ocean of the sky. God sets the tides of the sea ; In His gracious hand they be ; And twice a day they stir the bay With the smell of salt and the flash of spray, And twdce to the ocean flee. And I like to think He keeps The key of the greater deeps, And everywhere spreads out His care. And covers the ocean of the air With the love that never sleeps. 22 THE SHIPWRECKED BUTTERFLY As through the sunny fields I went, There fell upon my careless gaze A small unlucky butterfly, Imprisoned in a spider's maze. So tight his folded wings were held Within his captor's silver thread, So still his fragile body lay, I thought the ethereal creature dead. Yet, when I tore away the web. And set the tiny captive free, He stirred and fluttered from my touch, And steered his course across the lea. Glad in his unforeseen release. His hot breast throbbed, I cannot doubt. And blessed, perhaps, the timely hand That burst his jail and let him out. I thank the chance that led my path Where hung the shipwrecked butterfly. And drew him from his silken reef. Back to the billows of the sky. I smile to picture him afloat, Where swallow flits and cricket chants. 23 Wisest and happiest of all The meadow's small inhabitants. THE CRIMSON ROSE CRIMSON rose, you share The bloom of sunset skies, And all the odorous East Within your petals lies. About your fair domain Hangs beauty's tender spell : The workman years have wrought Unweariedly and well. 1 marvel much to think That in a world of woe A spirit so serene Should dare to bud and blow ; Should clamber unafraid, Forgetful of decay, Invoke the sunny air And dream its doubts away. 24 Deep and glad in the dark The rose tree winds and dings ; Glad and high it lifts Its pink ethereal wings. In stalk and twig there runs A passion to be free ; Of earth it is, and yet Of earth it dare not be. The dull of sight may sigh, The faint of heart may weep, But simplest blossoms still Their sturdy faith will keep. A prophecy of joy In leaf and tendril flows, And all that love can wish Is pictured in the rose. 25 IN THE STILL POOL In the still pool reflected lay Sunshine and shadow, leaf and grass, All the soft glory of the day. As in a glass. Like a fair nether world they were. Mirrored in nature's dreamy mood ; Never a zephyr came to stir The unruffled wood. In the unmoving shallows rose Pillars of snowy cloud on high. Lofty and beautiful as those In the blue sky. In the still pool we gazed and found Earth in its luminous arra}^ Yet more than earth, for heav'n had crowned The bright display. So to the shallows of the soul God may His highest thought impart And with the joy of Heav'n console The quiet heart. 26 CLEMATIS Thp:re is no sweeter scent than this Of autumn's snowy clematis, The fragrance of a trembling flower That broods upon the dusky hour. I cherish still one dismal day When fog had wreathed the sapphire bay, And on the dripping silence fell The clamor of the harbor bell ; When, hurr>dng homeward through the damp, I dreamed upon the evening lamp. The cheerful tale, the golden rhyme. That mark the quiet winter time. Then from its feathery^ precipice There swept the smell of clematis, A tossing, odorous tide that wrought A gentle wonder in my thought : As on the spirit's twilight gloom Some flowering mood may break and bloom And to the mind's interior sight Pour out its color and its light. 27 So down the darkening street there went A rolling sea of grateful scent, And Summer, all in garlands dressed, Was borne upon the foamy crest. IN MEMORY In radiant beauty clad. The day and the evening shine ; The sun and the clustered stars Foretoken a world divine. But Oh, for the clasp of a cherished hand That once I took in mine ! There's calm on the upland path. Where the crow flies dark and shrill ; There's peace in the narrow^ cove. Where the tide runs deep and still. But Oh, for the light of the tender eyes That make mine own to fill ! I wander the fragrant road That winds by the sounding sea, And the surf's majestic song Is promise and pledge to me. But Oh, the unwitting, happy past. And the lonely years to be ! 28 THE COSMOS IN LATE OCTOBER Within the russet garden The gay pink cosmos waves, A roseate survival Above a thousand graves. The summer's host have perished Amid their grassy tombs, But, bright above the ruin, The cosmos bends and blooms. The hedge is bleak about it. The trees are brown and bare, Yet still the cosmos flutters Upon the bitter air. And June with all its graces Of rosy twig and spray Ne'er fashioned lovelier flowers Than these that blow to-day. From out the North to-morrow The frosty winds may frown Upon the russet garden And fling the cosmos down. But this one day it triumphs Above the drifted leaves, A joy that has its sources Beyond a world that grieves. 29 THE ARMIES OF THE GRASS The armies of the grass Their countless troopers mass Where thickets gleam beside the stream And cheery morning's struggling beam Lights up the dark morass. Their tufted banners float Where the marsh minstrel's throat. To rapture lent and all intent On the far-flushing Orient, Pours forth its bugle note. They muster, rank and file. Along the wooded aisle. And hold their still, mysterious drill W^ithin the shadow of the hill For many a flowered mile. Their blithe musicians come. With drone of bagpipe some. And some from sedge and meadow-edge. The fifing cricket from the hedge, The partridge with his drum. At fall of quiet dusk On fluttering blade and husk. When redolent and fragrant scent 30 upon the brooding gloom is spent By clematis and musk, They light their steady lamps In phosphorescent damps, While to and fro with friendly glow The airy lantern-bearers go To guard the sleeping camps. When Autumn blows her horn Amid the shrivelled com, And sumac-flame has put to shame The hues that with the Summer came. They gather unforlorn In gold and russet dressed, They crowd the stormy crest, And laugh to hear from far and near The scarlet-coated trumpeter Rally her sturdiest. In dark and cold they grope To hold the snowy slope. And down the line by burdened pine. Through tangled underwood and vine. Is sped the watchword : " Hope ! " Their simple courage clings To innumerable springs. 31 And, wasted not but fresh and hot, Life unforgetting, unforgot, In the deep heart of things. I like to think that though All we as grass must grow, To have our day, our little play, To fight our fight as best we may, Unfaltering we go. Man fashions as of brass His Doctrine and his Mass, But blooming meads are better creeds. And we can trust the Lord who leads The armies of the grass. 32 WHEN THE SUN COMES OUT When the sun comes out After weary days of snow, He sweeps across the meadow And sets it all aglow. He laughs at crafty Winter, He storms her white redoubt. ' Tis : Fly, ye cloudy army ! When the sun comes out. He flashes through the garden. Where droops the burdened branch. He lights his thousand candles Above the avalanche. Then : Wake ye drowsy hedges. That dream of warmth and dew ! The world has seen a vision And blossoms forth anew. When the sun comes out On the ice-encompassed shore. Where the black ducks scatter And the white gulls soar, ' Tis : Dance, ye merry billows ! Ye lusty breakers, shout ! Oh, the magic of the ocean When the sun comes out ! 33 DUSK IN WINTER WOODS Brown pool and shadow black, Scarlet gleam o'er winter's wrack, Lighted bush and mirrored tree, Dusky sense of mystery, Branches woven on the West, Oak in ragged russet dressed. Pallid birch and purple snow. Grasses flaming in the glow, Rosy cloud that blows aloft And moon of silver shining soft. SUNSET IN FEBRUARY Ali. day the sullen clouds had hung Above the breathless marsh and lea. And round the sombre shore had swung The sluggish currents of the sea ; But, just before the sun went down. Across the wave his glory came. And set its signet on the town And touched the windows with its flame. 34 Then rose the slumbrous northern breeze And down the shadowed valley rang, And past the amethystine trees With lusty ardor swept and sang. He dashed beyond the yellow sand, And called the harbor tides to play, And raced the billows, hand in hand. And capped their shining locks with spray. ' Twas thus in league the wind and sun Redecked the winter afternoon. Lit up the leafless boughs of dun. And taught the reeds a sturdy tune. The ocean moved in shimmering blue That late was lying all forlorn, And pallid houses took the hue That marks the harvest of the corn. And we who by the waters stood And watched the vessels swerving slow. And saw, beyond the violet wood. The hillside patches of the snow. Wished not for summer's store of green. Her mellow light or chanting bird. For who could look on such a scene Unthralled, unhappy or unstirred ! 35 OTHER VERSES CORONATION DAY August 9, 1902 Beneath blue August's circling skies the kingly pageant flows With flashes of the emerald and color of the rose ; With many a lad in pride of plaid And many a trooper khaki-clad To hail the pallid sovereign as through the town he goes. Around him stretches Britain's strength, before him march his men, The stealthy-footed jungle-folk, the farmers of the fen; The dusk of hair from Ind are there. And Auckland's azure-eyed and fair Who in their southern seas have reared the British Isles again. 37 For him the ribboned bagpipes drone, the thrilling bugles play, For him the ivied belfries chime, the solemn pulpits pray ; And East and West have sent their best With flushing cheek and swelling breast To laud the king and emperor on this consummate day. Yet not alone for him the shout that sounds along the street. Nor yet the eye's spontaneous dew, the heart's impulsive beat ; For joy of race and pomp of place Light up the Anglo-Saxon face, And aw^e of empire stirs the soul with surgings strong and sweet. Here is the centuries' handiwork, the task of time and fate : For this the embattled ages wrought, imperious and elate. The strident years of blood and tears Ring sharp and loud in England's cheers ; And unforgiving grief is there and unforgetting hate. 38 What miracle of tide and sun is this amazing hour When Athabasc and Ethiop are met by London Tower ; When Dover gleams on Kashmian streams And starry-eyed Tasmania dreams Of Avon's storied loveliness and Kentish hedge and bower ! By mighty chance or mightier Law the crimson flag has flown Above the murky continents and marked them for its own, And tribes that wept and states that slept To ways of love and light have crept And built their alien hearths anew around the English throne. 39 IN MEMORY OF COROT Swift steals the Spring across the lea, With dancing feet and laughing song ; Her locks by breezes tossed— and see ! She leads a milk-white lamb along. Above her buds the golden tree, Beneath, the starry cowslips throng. And with the redwing's melody Mingles the sunshine strong. Now here amid this lively show Of kindling branch and conscious flower. We think of him whose springtides glow In many a canvas brook and bower ; Who bade the silvery hedges blow Beyond their brief appointed hour : Green Nature's prophet-priest, Corot, Lover of sun and shower. The dreams that come to us with Spring, The fears, the hopes, that round us press. The blissful, tearful wakening, The thoughts that scourge the soul they bless — These, these, were his, though scarce their sting His dryad-haunted woods confess, Where lark may soar and linnet sing Beyond our weariness. 40 He brought to lake and lane a heart Unaged, unspoiled and undefiled, And blended with his wonder-art The vision of the little child : A spectacle from sin apart, A kingdom innocent and mild, Where yet the April pulse must start. Falter and flutter wild. Round him at four-score still the field Fashioned its sparkling spell of gray, And to his death-bed stood revealed The ancient wonder of the May. From rosy skies* the viols pealed Where feathery minstrels came to play. Oh ! that the gods to us might yield So fair a dying day. * Shortly before he died, Corot had the window opened, gazed at the sky and said with a feeble voice : " When the Spring comes, I will paint a beautiful picture ; I see a sky full of roses.' 41 IN DEFEAT We watched him in the chilHng time When plan and purpose went amiss, And guessed, despite the conflict's grime, The burning of the traitor's kiss. We knew that underneath his calm The tide of feeling rose and fell. For he had dreamed upon the palm. And liked the thought of triumph well. But here by cruel souls beset, And there by coward hearts betrayed. Beleaguered sore, resisting yet. He saw his cherished vision fade. Around him in his time of gloom There stood the slend'rest guard of friends, A handful in a hollow room That knew not how to make amends. We watched his mobile features while The tears were in our tragic eyes, And glimpsed about his lips a smile. As if he had achieved the prize. 42 The bitter prayer of hate he spurned, The plea of grief he put aside, And to the gentlest duties turned. And simplest labors sanctified. There was no rancor in his breast ; It pulsed to music soft and sweet ; And we beheld, who loved him best, His godlike triumph in defeat. THE ROAD The hated road leads straight ahead For torn and blistered feet to tread, A hostile stretch of glare and dust Through which we plod because we must. Where are the starlike bloom and spray That wreathed the road of yesterday, The tow'ring wood whose leafy braid Touched the hot earth with gracious shade. The tender rose that seemed to hold All hearts within its heart of gold ? These with the day of joy are gone. And still the bare road beckons on. 43 The bare road ! Harsh and gray it gleams To bid us from our Land of Dreams — The land of green and amethyst That borders on the road we missed. Yet here beside the moorland pool The wind of dusk blows deep and cool. And where the sunset hues are spent Breathes the white blossom of content. *' O bitter road ! " at morn we said, And strove along uncomforted. " O blessed road ! " at eve we say, And kneel beside the hated way. SILENCE " Silence— eldest of things." — Charles Lamb Silence, the first-born of the night And daughter of the abyss. Was cradled in the boundless skies. The black immensities. And never a creature near her stirred. There was no sound of wind or bird Down Heav'n's dark precipice. 44 Through the long time she brooded there She found no mate, no friend, Till the brave light came stealing by To make her sweet amend : Gentle and calm as she, and far Trailing the splendor of the star With her still self to blend. But when there flocked a noisy troop Along her cloistered ways — The sturd}^ gust, the sullen sea, The man-enkindled blaze — The earth's impetuous round she fled, In stately solitude to thread The blue unmeasured maze. And there she waits from age to age, While we, a hostile crew. Fashion our little destinies And speed our dramas through. Forgetful of her sure return When sun and star no longer burn, And love is ashes too. 45 SACRIFICE Whether it be the slow device of God, Patient and fertile in the human breast ; Whether it be the virtue of the clod, Strangely self-willed and nobly self -expressed ; Out of our graceless origins there springs. Fair as the pool-born flower, unselfishness. Out of the avaricious scheme of things, Out of the universal greed and press. Rises, above each small, ungenerous aim. Rises, beyond all covetous desire. Godlike a motive hot and fierce as flame. Godlike a longing keen and white as fire — Glad self-denial, passion pure of blame. Touched with the transport of the heav'nly choir. Is it the ageless miracle of God, Wreathing us in His own unselfish guise ? Is it the untaught purpose of the clod. Shaping a bright, mysterious surprise, Glow of the dust, mere travail of the sod, Out of a selfish chaos, sacrifice ? 1910 46 IDENTITY Since in these pulses runs the untired blood Of countless generations dead and gone — A hundred of the savage Age of Stone, A hundred of the storied British wood ; The blood that beat before the fabulous Flood, And poured itself for many a creed and throne, I scarce can call myself my very own. Yet thou, beneath the stars, O Soul, that stood. Amazed with strange and futile thoughts like these, No less art compound of unnumbered souls That dreamed awhile on other lands and seas. And pondered vainly on the wheeling poles. Ah, who art thou, the hapless child of chance. Or still Thyself through every circumstance ? 1910 47 THE DEED Here stands the deed in beauty dressed, The stately act that men delight to sing, The loveliest and the lowliest, The unselfish heart's impetuous offering, The gift it fain inconsequent would fling (Nor praise itself nor count the cost nor falter) On dut>^'s sacrificial altar. So swift it glows upon our wond'ring gaze. It seems chance-destinied and new, Child of the moment's whim and hue ; But 't is the daughter of the uncounted days, The offspring of innumerable deeds, Small self-obscurements vowed to quiet hours. So the long generations of the w eeds Presage the perfect beauty of the flowers. 48 MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS AUGUSTUS * Here rests upon its snowy stone, As if to breathe the summer's gust, A figure by a hand unknown, That mingles with the Roman dust— A form that from its marble height Our paltry human lot disdains. For through the centuries' bloom and blight Its unbewildered bronze remains. It stands, a kingly work of art, As by the Tiber long ago It spoke to Donatello's heart. And tutored great Verrocchio ; A mighty shape that prophesied A new Augustus who should mould By Hudson's broader-flowing tide Grave Sherman and his horse of gold. It brings its tranquil mood to-day To cure the restless modern mind. " Be calm," Aurelius seems to say, " Be just, be simple and be kind." * Read at the unveiling of the equestrian statue of Marcus Aureliu; on Lincoln Field. Brown University, June 1, 1908 49 And here let those that grieve for power No longer on their strivings brood, But find their childhood's better hour Perchance remembered and renewed. From dreams that fever and enthrall, From greed of gain, from crass displa}^ From fickle Glory's fretful call. The Stoic tempts the world away ; As when above the troubled street. Where party's futile voices float. We hear, serenely near and sweet. The unvexed oriole's treetop note. Around his throne the emperor saw His armies surge like troubled seas. They bore the tables of the law To the white-foaming Hebrides. From Thebes to York they flashed their might. But he, the master of his soul, Wrought out beneath the starry night The larger law of self-control. Here in a land beyond his ken. Where Roman eagles never flew. We raise his lifelike form again. And sound his pagan praise anew ; 50 For still his quiet lips may preach Of transient passion's foolish quest, And still his healing thought may reach The envious and untranquil breast. Yet will his Roman creed suffice ? Are we by narrow nature bound ? Is there no Heav'n-derived device To free us from the thorny ground ? Our hearts cry out against a fate That makes us brother to the clod, Or bids us merge our high estate In the vague semblance of a god. Here struggles alien sign with sign — A laurel wreath, a briar crown ; Here sits the Pagan Antonine — Here rise the faith-built walls of Brown. His was the creed of night and myth, A moonlight glow on rock and tree ; His eyes forswore the dawn wherewith Our sight translates the land and sea. Teach us, O Pagan, day by day. Beyond the campus press and noise. Through shining hours and hours of gray, The equal mind, the starlight poise. 51 But grant us, Heav'n, a strength above The Stoic courage of despair, And let us lean upon the Love That guards and keeps us everywhere. A SONG FOR COLLEGE HILL O MOTHER dear, Brunonia, With love we turn to thee. Where'er we roam, our hearth and home Within thy gates we see. There starry-eyed Ambition wove Her bright and golden dream. And Fellowship, with heart and lip. Set all the world a-gleam. This earth has many a pleasant spot And many a castle fair, Where rivers run through shade and sun. And mountains lift in air ; Yet oft we think of college years. And oft remember still The song and shout that thronged about Brunonia's leaf>' hill. 52 When time has changed the raven hair And russet lock to gray, Affection yet will not forget That green and winding way. Oh, let us still our laurels wreathe For Alma Mater's crown ; While life shall last for her stand fast, And bless the name of Brown. THE RACERS In a shifty wind and splashing sea The great white racers dipped to lee, And over the line careened away. Like sea-birds in the breakers' spray. In every sailor's peering face Flushed high the excitement of the race, And tightened sheet and burdened pole Sang of the glory of the goal. The towering craft sped sleek and trig. Fore-and-aft and square-of-rig, The Sunbeam and the Fleur de Lys, And all their gallant company. 53 They cut the tide as cuts a knife, And moved like creatures glad of life, Like gulls that steer their arrowy path To mingle with the tempest's wrath. Over the ocean's foggy swell Their answering bosoms rose and fell. And every planked and iron form Seemed kindred to the god of storm. Like ghosts they passed the outpost light, And down the horizon dipped from sight. Let Fortune guard them as they sail. And back them with a western gale ! And here's a health to all the tars That toss beneath the flickering stars, While we within the peace of home Dream of the flashing of the foam. May, 1905 54 DREYFUS Not in the cloudy mountain top, Majestic and alone, Truth lifts her fateful sceptre up And rears her awful throne : But in the crowded market-place And in the prison-pen — Her judgment-seat is on the street And in the haunts of men. She hales the mighty to her bar. She bids the low arise. For craft and power are all in vain To blind her piercing eyes. Before her calm and serious gaze The haughty take affright ; Their lust and lore and golden store Are ashes in her sight. She watched them mass their frowning troops. And fling their banners high ; She saw them brand the innocent, And cast him out to die. They stripped the buttons from his coat, They marched him round to view. And ruthless broke with ringing stroke His sword and spirit too. 55 And only she of all the throng That watched his sore disgrace Let fall a pitying tear to match The anguish of his face. From loneliness to loneliness His barren pathway led, And none may know the stifled woe That shook the prisoner's bed. The love of God, divinely great, Is yet divinely small. It notes the eagle in his flight. The sparrow in his fall. Away from those who wrong the weak It turns its patient face, But bears relief to bitter grief In the far desert-place. It swept across the tropic sea ; It sought the captive out ; It cheered him on his lonely strand. And compassed him about. And Truth, who works her miracles To taunt the might of men. Rebuked the foes that round him rose And bore him home again. 56 Shall earthly pomp and earthly plot. Or yet the assassin's wrath, Avail to check imperial Truth Or turn her from her path ? Through all the army's tented fields Her silent couriers run, And soon or late, as sure as fate, God's justice will be done ! Septembers, 1899 KIPLING'S GETTING BETTER The cheerful news is spread around. From mouth to mouth it hurries ; It threads the hurly-burly street. And down the alley scurries : Disease has yielded up its own. And loosed its icy fetter — In other words, the doctors say That Kipling's getting better. No crown is set upon his head. Nor yet imperial eagle ; 57 He's neither King nor President, But still his sway is regal. It binds the rich man and the poor, The prosperous and the debtor, And every mother's son is glad That Kipling's getting better. I know a curly-headed boy Who never reads the papers. His mind is filled with Jungle Books And various childish capers. To-day he struggled with the news. Each stubborn word and letter. " Oh, aren't 3 ou very glad," said he. That Kipling's getting better ? " Ah, well, the King upon his throne Is set above the fewest ; The rule that rules the loving heart Is after all the truest. And many a dreaming maid is stirred. And serious money-getter. To hear the doctors say at last That Kipling's getting better. March 3, 1899 58 PARTED Side by side we sit, and still, Since your last light-uttered word. Far beyond the sunset hill, Swifter than the flight of bird, My untrammelled thought has flown. Flashing o'er a continent, Taking kingdoms for its own ; Like a hooded penitent Tarried at a wayside shrine ; Read upon an iron gate : " Thou art thine and I am mine ; " Marvelled at this curious fate. Heart to heart, and face to face, Vowed for better or for worse. We are parted by a space Ample as the universe. Adequate to bring to naught All the vows that e'er were heard : Where has been your vagrant thought Since your last light-uttered word ? 1911 59 ARTHUR SULLIVAN Singer of songs and master of the keys, He lies with quiet lips and folded hands ; Never again to gather harmonies From dreamy shores and unadventured lands. Never again to list the ethereal throng Who touch their strings in music's loftier sphere ; Never to fit the splendor of their song To the crude longing of the common ear. For him the lowlier wove their fragrant bays, Prophet and bard of what is sweet and good. He drew them with the magic of his lays ; They flushed and smiled because they understood. Often and long his agile fancy wrought Out of sheer 303^ fantastic melodies, Linking its airy music to the thought Of one whose name we like to speak with his. Kin to the tenderer cadence of his song. Tears in his voice there were and touch of pain. He sang, a plaintive minstrel, to the throng ; They flushed and sighed and understood again. 60 In other mood he touched a nobler theme, Duty and purpose and the World Afar, And with his sounding anthem made it seem We knew or guessed what God and spirit are. Singer of songs and master of the keys, He lies with quiet lips and folded hands. 'Perchance his soul, across the eternal seas, Swells to new melody and understands. November 22, 1900 THE VIOLIN Within the shadowed church I sit. Where candles slim and white are lit. And twilight sheds its softened glow Upon the windows' tinted show. As in the gray abandoned woods The January silence broods. So broods a winter silence here. By sculptured wall and fluted pier. 61 Till on the all-pervasive dark The organ thunders low ; and hark ! Above the pedals' ponderous din, The treble of a violin. Oh ! marvel of the maker's skill That manifests his golden will, And 'neath the dusky arches sings Accordant with the world of wings. Oh ! spirit of the larger air That spurns the maelstrom thoroughfare^ The barren aim, the trivial wish. That dwarf us and impoverish. Too long the mind's adventurous fleet May dare the whirlpool of the street ; Too long the soul may brave the stress Of life's ignoble littleness. But here, where twilight droops and dies. The land of Great Contentment lies. And by the candles' yellow fire I reach the coast of Heart's Desire. 1911 62 IN OLD VOLTERRA In purple-peaked Volterra The old Etruscans dwelt ; They slaved and sold for yellow gold, And in their temples knelt. They had their joys and sorrows, As we have ours toda3% But who they were or whence they came The wisest cannot say. They loved their windy hilltop, Where ardent shines the sun ; They loved the steep where white and deep The tangled torrents run ; But long ago they vanished, Like dew before the day. Or like the momentary wave That flashes into spray. To prove their mighty prowess. Their giant walls arise The thickness of a goodly house Against the Italian skies. Crude were their creaking engines. Of childlike genius born. And yet these mighty battlements Still laugh our strength to scorn. 63 They were a race of potters, And hammerers of brass, And fashioners of golden cups That glow like polished glass. Their handiwork survives them : In chambered tombs it lies ; But only for a later race. That looks through alien eyes. We scan their old inscriptions, But find our labor vain. On each secretive slab we trace A meagre word or twain. Still like an antique mummy The ancient record stands, A barren silence on its lips And mystery in its hands. They raised their proud battalions To guard their aerie home ; Their reckless flags swept down the crags To plague the pow'r of Rome. Their swarth impassioned navies Like frenzied eagles fought ; But only on their foemen's scrolls We read the deeds they wrought. 64 In purple-peaked Volterra, Where creed has followed creed, The chiselled stone smiles down upon The She- Wolf and her breed. From these — the Roman victors — The veiled and elder age, Elusive and inscrutable. Withholds its laurelled page. Along the breezy highways The gay Italians meet, And jest and chaff and cheerful laugh Ring up and down the street ; But when at quiet midnight The magic moonlight showers, A ghostly band pours through the land And takes Etruria's towers. 65 RUSSIA IN THE SOUTH Russia, the mysterious, the purposeful, the brave, Sits within her northern gates and hears the tropic wave : Listens to the joyous sea that beats upon the strand Beyond Mahomet's fluted domes in crumbling Samarkand. Listens to it laugh and sing and sees its billows shine About the haughty quarterdecks of England's battle line. Crafty and insinuate, along the steppe she trails, Down the dark deliberate stream and where the mountain pales. The shining summit beckons her and w^ell she knows the way. As midnight knows the flush of dawn, as Volga knows the bay. Calm and keen she hurries on across the swampy mead. And Persian ports infest the dreams of her swarth Baltic breed. 66 Up the steep her path she picks and through the pass she steals ; The sunny winds of India about her face she feels. Tiflis the murmurous speaks to her and Babel- throated Kars, And all the subtle tribes that throng their odorous bazaars. Free and lawless once they were, but never free again Will be these new-made Muscovites of three-score tongues and ten. And still she hears the purple sea as through the plain she sweeps, Amid the millet and the maize, where deathless Oxus creeps. The cotton whitens at her feet, like Neva's thrall- ing snows. And round the battered walls of Merv cling honeyed musk and rose. Yet not for rose or musk she stays, nor lure of heart and lips, Since Persian gulf and Arab sea are calling for her ships. 67 Then spy her, warriors, as she goes to seek the summer's tide. She is incarnate Vigilance and Will personified. She knows the end that crowns her work, and, be it soon or late. She has the faith to persevere and yet the wit to wait. She crouches at the boundary, she slips along the line. And "Courage!" is her shibboleth, and "Stealth" her countersign. Ah, who shall bind the prisoned seed that struggles to the sky. Or stay the fated chrysalis that bears the butterfly } And who of those who watch her go at last shall say her nay. Since none shall rein the bounding surf or check the coming day } Aye, India for England then, for us the islands far, But Destiny, the portioner, holds Persia for the Czar. 68 THE DRUM APRIL Hark the drum, the eager drum, Calling through the city street ! Shall our loyal hearts be dumb ? No, they echo to its beat, For it bids the sluggard come. Stirs the unreadiest feet. JULY Hark the drum, the sobbing drum. Where the tropic branches meet ! Softest couch in Christendom Is the soldier's winding sheet. Here shall rest and silence come, Rest and silence sweet. AUGUST Hark the drum, the exultant drum, Laughing, crying, bittersweet ! Grief and glory are the sum Of our phantom days and fleet. Home the victor w arriors come— Oh, the winding sheet ! 1898 69 THE GIRLS OF COLLEGE HILL A Sentimental Ballad of Commencement Day In solemn double file The grave alumni go, Descending still the shaded hill With serious step and slow, The morning breezes swell The old commencement tune That turns the heart with gentlest art To many a distant June. The freshmen in their pride March first behind the band ; Thus fate forsooth to lucky youth Inclines with generous hand. But grudge them not their joy, For June again will come — They'll be the rear some other year And hardly hear the drum. A plaintive sight are we, A picture-book of Man, With first the gladsome undergrads., A blithe and beardless clan. 70 And as we march along, Alas, the unwelcome truth : Increasing age with every page And fewer signs of youth. But if relentless Time, The tyrant with the glass, Has been unkind to those behind They'll have to let it pass. Behold, perennial youth We see before us still- Forever fair and free from care. The girls of College Hill. Their braids were brown the day We led the marching file. And many a flash beneath a lash Lit up a friendly smile. Now we are gray, perhaps, And get no kindly sign. But they look sweet along the street To every man in line. And when we come again, A little graver grown. Old graduates with hairless pates 71 And daughters of our own, May they be there to greet Our solemn progress still, With cheeks of rose untouched by woes, The girls of College Hill ! BEAUTY'S SISTERS Mystery is Beauty's sister- Follows fast where Beauty wanders. Who that sees her can resist her. As with dusky eyes she ponders ? Chin in hand, she sits half smiling, Thrilling, teasing and beguiling. Beauty hath a sad-eyed sister, Tender-visaged Melancholy. 'Neath the moonlight seek and tryst her- She will teach you all is folly : Like a sick and broken spirit. Barred from joy but fluttering near it. 72 LEO XIII Leo is dead. The holy, the august, Lays his frail body in the common dust. Let us not mourn the spirit bright and fair That mingles fearless with its native air. So perishes the scholar and the seer ; So fades the tasselled corn within the ear. To ripe fruition speeds the soul of man, And flees as it has fled since time began. Whither ? we know not. Whence ? we cannot say. We are but creatures of a passionate day. And, high or low, to this still end we come, Where the dim eye is closed, the voice is dumb. Leo the stately in his snowy shroud Hears not the sobbing clamor of the crowd. Pallid his hands are folded on his breast ; On his w an face the eternal shadows rest. God's earthly vicar, yet when all is said, Like the obscurest peasant he lies dead. To his pathetic heights he rose with pain, Only to sink into the dust again. 73 Sorry the world if this ^^'ere all it meant : A day of work, with joy and trouble blent, Respite at eve, or else an hour to weep, And then the unconscious recompense of sleep ! Was this sharp soul, this fascinating mind, One with the form it seems to leave behind ? Shall we to earth commit the vital spark That never held communion with the dark ? Better the faith that builds its airy tower Above the sights and senses of the hour, And needs no line or plummet to decide That Heav'n lies round about us, far and wide. Better the hope, unbound by reason*s rules, That flouts the sordid dictum of the schools. Rejects the test of laboratory art And finds a higher reason in the heart. Leo is dead. The saintly, the profound, Goes to his dreamless pallet in the ground, But shall his lightning wit, his lustrous mirth. Be buried in the confines of the earth ? 74 These of the spirit were, and spirit scorns The grave that has no resurrection morns, Eludes the solemn requiem and dirge, And floats where scarce the murmured masses surge. Late in the quiet Vatican there lay A frame outworn of parched and crumbling clay, A dwelling place decrepit and decayed Where yet the tenant spirit moved and played. Its ninety years of wracking task and thought Mocked at the devastation they had wrought. Yet, wreathed with ruin, still there flashed and smiled The kingly spirit, undisturbed and mild. Render to earth, since render it we must, The melancholy tribute of the dust, But yield to God the spirit pure and clean. That has no kinship with the low and mean. July 2 U 1903 75 JOHN HAY At peace he lies, with love and honors crowned. For whom we grieve that never saw his face ; The knightliest figure in the whole world round : His thought was kindness and his word was grace. To lust of power he never lent his hand, Nor kept the old tradition of intrigue ; In new esteem he girt us, land with land. And set the unkindred in a kindred league. Others there are for whom our pulsing praise To wider bounds in broadening circles goes : For them the pomp, the echoing shout, the bays ; For him the tenderer tribute of the rose. Call him not cold in whom the poet-heart Burned like a beacon on the tossing sea ; Who touched the harp-string with a natural art And the true passion of high minstrelsy. His note was strong as his must be who stands Happy upon the mountain's silent peak. Sees the warm life that floods the river strands. And feels its answering flush within his cheek. 76 Sorrow he knew and disappointment's blight, The world awry, ambition lured astray, Yet clasped the hour's illusor}' delight. And dwelt with truth and beaut}^ day by day. Lay him to rest where pines may sing their song Above the ashes of their brother bard. Where the unfaded stars, through evenings long, His grave of starry memories shall guard. July U 1905 TWO VIEWS OF WAR Stirring drums in a sunny street. Bonny flags in the azure sky. Luring melody, tramping feet. And hope in many an eye. Death in a still and shadowed room, A wasted boyish face at rest, A sunbeam quivering in the gloom. And woe in a woman's breast. 1898 77 WHEN THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN When the circus comes to town, In its man3^-hued array, With its Beauty and its Clown— With its Sorrowful and Gay — Then a long-forgotten dream For the hour renews its sway. And we catch the distant gleam Of a magic holiday. Though the jaunt>^ flags are frayed, Yet they flutter, fold on fold. And the shabby cavalcade Still is brave with red and gold. If the Beauty's bloom be paint. Must we scorn her charm, or scold ? Every subterfuge and feint Shall be sacred as of old. Let the Disenchanted fuss At the antics of the Clown ; He shall still be dear to us In his quaint old cap and gown. Hail ! the Sorrowful and Gay. Hail ! the lady in her crown. May we greet them manj^ a day, When the circus comes to town ! 78 THE HILLS OF PAIN Are they for us, the barren hills that rise Above the woodlands and the budding grain, These purple heights that fix our startled eyes, The hills of pain ? Here glooms gaunt Nebo, trod of him whose feet Might never press the olive valley's strand. How harsh to him its sullen slope ; how sweet The Promised Land ! Here frowns the steep where He, the Low and Meek, With earth's imperious pageantry was tried. Here the upleaping pulse, the pallid cheek. Are sanctified. And here uplifts, outside a city's wall. For holy Grief or hateful Scorn to see. Of all sad hills the saddest hill of all. With crosses three. These are the hills where anger sinks to sleep. Where passion in the dreamless air is dipped. And skies are rent, and deep is torn from deep. And souls are stripped. 79 All we whose feet by flowered paths are led Some day shall face the tempest and the rain. Oh, may we then with quiet courage tread The hills of pain ! ARCHEOLOGY The crumbled city stifles in the sand ; Its turrets with the shifting dust are blent. Gone is the pride of every monument ; Gone is the spicy bloom of Samarkand. A hush is on the devastated land. Thebes from her ruins beckons drowsy Ghent ; Rome steals along the road that Athens went. Yet ne'er in vain was raised the builder's hand ; Never in vain the sculptor shaped his cast : The kind earth gives us back again the art That thrilled the ancient idler in the mart ; And the new city shall forever fold Close to its heart the vision of the Past, The undying joy and splendor of the Old. 80 THE CAMPUS TOWER Erected in memory of Carrie Mathilde Brown by her husband, Paul Bajnotti Here by Brunonia's storied halls, And 'mid the singing boughs of trees, Love builds with Art these lifted walls In pledge of deathless memories ; And day by day as youth shall pass Lusty and ardent on its way. This shadow on the quiet grass. This sunny shaft of red and gray, Shall tell the tale of dusk and dawn, The swift completion of the hour That dims the brilliance of the lawn And steals the beauty of the tower. Yet oft to him of careless mind, Who ceases from his game or book. Some peering spirit, undefined. From brick and stone shall seem to look. And he shall own the moment's mood, And in his eyes shall burn the fires That high and gracious womanhood Through the uncounted days inspires. 81 THE EARTH AND I Into the airy wilderness The outcast Earth was flung, A lonely and m^ sterious thing In boundless silence hung, A vagrant in the starry plain When Time himself was young. Whither she flees she cannot tell Or whence her course may be. Is she the daughter of the gods And safe in their decree, Or but a hapless wanderer Upon a shoreless sea ? No time for questions vain as these Or futile doubts has she : Her busy thought is with the grass And the green-budding tree. To live and love is all she needs For her philosophy. To her primeval impulse true. She plants her seed and reaps ; Her emerald harvest decks the fields And crowns the mountain-steeps. And over all the race of men Her watch and ward she keeps. 82 So too my isolate pathway lies Where silent skies impend ; The unblazoned firmament enfolds The marvellous way I wend ; Daylight and darkness have no word Of origin or end. Yet from the exile Sphere I take, To guide my fleeting hour, The will to pattern after her Within my little power, And, holding steadfast to the sun, Bring forth some leaf or flower. THEN AND NOW IN PORT ARTHUR There was laughter in the houses, there was music in the street ; There was jesting on the parapets and feasting in the fleet ; There was riot in the vodka-shop and reeling up the hill. And an artificial loveliness that leaned upon the sill. 83 And 'twas : " Far from home And a truce to sorrow. The puppet play will last to-day — The Devil take to-morrow ! " There was graft in golden uniform and jobbery in rags; There was unreflecting carnival beneath the yel- low flags ; There was betting at the races, there was poverty and theft, And a morn that rose serenely on the little that was left. So 'tw^as : " Far from home But we'll beg or borrow, For none to-day is bound to pay — The Devil take to-morrow ! " There was studious bravado, there was simulated glee ; There was masquerading envy that was plain enough to see ; There w^as shame disguised as swagger, there was surface-smiling grief, And a reckless lust of pleasure that was half be- yond belief. 84 And 'nvas : " Far from home And from friends afar." Oh ! The strange array of sad and gay, And menace of the morrow. There is silence in the houses, there is slaughter in the street. And the forts look dow n disconsolate upon the shattered fleet ; There is stench along the gutter where the carrion has lain. And the women of the painted cheek are pale amid the slain. And 'tis : " Far from home In the haunt of sorrow. Where victor-race and alien-face Will fly their flags to-morrow." 1905 85 ALEXIS NIKOLEVITCH There is a little lad that lies Upon a broidered bed, Unconscious of the glad surprise That dances in his people's eyes, The trumpet-praise that peals and dies, The banners glowing in the skies — The whispered flag of red. He does not heed the leaping cheer. The cannon's lusty boom. The prophet screed he cannot hear. The shout of joy, the sob of fear. The pledge, the mass, the prayer, the jeer Reach not his autocratic ear. Within his darkened room. He cares not for the lordl}- guise Of monarchs born and bred. He know s no whit of pomp or prize. The stifling hope, the dark surmise. The love that guards, the hate that spies, The soldier agon}' that cries Amid the soldier dead. 86 For him shall Fortune year by year Strow tares amid the bloom, Leaven his laughter with a tear, And on his light-heart fancy sear The shroud and immemorial bier — Yet he, a drowsy infant, here Dreams naught of life or doom. 1904 NO COUNTRY THAT IS STRANGE When I am vexed with presage of the day Whereon I must go out into the dark, On death's immense adventure to embark. And leave behind the beacons of the bay, I turn to watch my little son at play. Who lately to this wonder- world hath come And made himself familiarly at home. Nor dreams he is expatriate or astray. From what green earth he journeys, who shall say ? What star, what void, what far experience ? Yet here within this scheme of time and sense He takes untaught his glad and natural way. So know I that in all God's sweep and range My soul shall find no country that is strange. 87 STEADFAST AND TRUE In Memory of Nathan Babcock He bore his part, performed the allotted task, Steadfast and true, serene and confident. He never thought to hesitate or ask Where led the strait and narrow way he went. For praise or privilege he did not care : He served his fellows and he sought the truth. Age laid its finger on his brow and hair, But left him still the valorous heart of youth : A heart for battle, though the fight he fought Won him no victor's fragrant wreath of bay. For the high cause he cherished most he wrought,. And, hoping much, flung ease and sloth away. He kept the faith, through struggle and through pains. Steadfast and confident, serene and true. Less what he did than what he was remains To us who loved him better than he knew. June U 1902 88 ALCHEMY All time is June to me, Each day is blue and gold ; The robin sings in his greenwood tree^ Jubilant as of old, For true as true is she Whom gods and angels bless. And all the world is changed for me. Because she whispered " yes." Because she whispered " yes " In that still summer night, I've fellowshipped with happiness And journeyed with delight. Her cheek was all aglow. Her tender eye was wet. Her voice was tremulous and low — I seem to hear it yet. What mystery is this. What alchemy untold } A simple word, a fleeting kiss. Have turned the world to gold. Nor you nor I can tell. The wise may only guess, But this I know, that all is well, Because she whispered " yes." 89 THE GHOST Within the human face is wrought The trace of passion and of thought, The creed of self, the dream of gain, Or love's self-sacrificing pain. And we who see in others' eyes The buried Past in living guise Forget the ghost of seasons flown That peers relentless from our own. THE SILVERSMITH OF VAN Before his forge the silversmith is bent ; One hand upon the bellows gently plays ; The leathern zephyr stirs the scarlet blaze ; His eye is on the crucible intent. For in its brazen orifice is pent A shining storm of metal that delays To give him back his unimpatient gaze Reflected in its fiery element. But yet a moment, and its cr> stal glow Reveals his master brow, his victor smile — 90 The Great Refiner leans above His metal so ; With flame and tempest troubles it awhile, Content if from the melting-pot below His image he may patiently beguile. THE VOICE Like love in squalor, gold in common stone Or virtue in the dust, sometimes we find A gloried voice, of heart-persuasive tone. Linked strangely with a dark and shallow mind ; As if the Master Player had but blown His ardor through a channel dull and blind. That has no understanding of its own With which to read His purpose glad and kind. It speaks His glowing pleasure on the air. His faithful watch. His marvellous intent. And He who plays and he who listens share The joy denied the sounding instrument. Shall it, like reed and trumpet, never learn The high impassioned thoughts that through it burn ? 91 THE NEW AMERICA Verses for the exercises in old St. Paul's Church, Wickford, R. I., June 15, 1907, in honor of the Colonial dead of the Great Swamp Fight, 1675 Two hundred years of sun and shower Have touched this sacred frame of oak ; Two hundred years of fleeting flower Have sung the hardy English folk For whom our telltale bronze we place In token of our common race, In token of the Saxon blood That beats in lively breasts to-day, And round the oceans' varied flood Still sets its undiminished sway : The noblest of the noble strains Still strives, still conquers and still reigns. Yet peace to them, the luckless braves. Of swarthy and impassive face, Whose tangled and unhonored graves No tablets mark, no garlands grace ! The freemen of the swampy maze Are worthy of the white man's praise. 92 Beneath the grasses and the snows The trooper and his foe are spent ; Above them blooms the friendly rose, Where stood their rival cot and tent. They lie in placid sleep the same, Nor need we fix their hostile fame. But we shall need their crafty power. And kindness more than theirs beside, To rule in this perplexing hour The pleasant land for w hich they died ; To save it in the day of stress For its own highest usefulness. No more the Saxon tills the soil For which his fathers' blood was spent; The alien's back is bowled wdth toil Along the country road they went ; The plodding Pole, the patient Jew, Have won the ancient realm anew. And where the chy's thousands meet. The Turk, the Arab, make their home. And, planted in the humblest street. Rise New Fayal and Little Rome ; And scarce the English tongue they speak Where Hun greets Hun and Greek meets Greek. 93 An ampler blend of grave and gay Must tinge our new and wider thought; Some light Italian naivete, Some magic by the Indus wrought ; For here the unprovincial sun Finds all the nations merged in one. LOVE AND HATE When Love has turned to Hate, He takes a valiant air ; He stalks among the high and great, He frowns upon his fair. His soul is fierce and hot. His brow is stern and cold — Ah ! Hate is proud, Though in its shroud Lies the old passion disavowed. When Love that once was Hate Has turned to Love once more. He's but a suppliant at the gate, A beggar at the door ; A cringing thing, and poor. That late with passion flamed— Ah ! Love that dies Will never rise With the old gladness in his eyes. 94 YOUTH AND NIGHT When Nature at the close of day Presents her thrilling mystery play, And sets her stage in tragic hues Wherewith the ghostly houses fuse ; When here and there, like earthly stars. The friendly lamps fling yellow bars. Mere trifling paths of golden light That lead to nowhere in the night ; When on the faithful harbor's breast Are borne the colors of the West, And past the reef at Napatree The moon lies silver on the sea ; When, o'er the clustered hilltops, Sound, Subdued and sweet, goes tiptoe round, Persuaded by the hour to croon Her gay tumultuous song of noon- Then shall a lusty youth and fleet. Who raced and shouted down the street, Forsake his comrades of the day And, dusk-enchanted, steal away. 95 In some mysterious shape and dim The starry eve shall speak to him, And hold him, pensive cheek in hand. To dream upon the darkened land ; To feel, beyond the day's delight, The full-orbed glory of the night. The magic of the lavish bloom That breathes upon the quiet gloom — The lilac by the garden wall That blows about his face its thrall. And when his playmates whistle by, Unheedful of the splendid sky. Unmindful of the brotherhood Of youth and night and whispering wood. Then he amid the misty grass Shall shrink aside to let them pass. And if he lives till he is old. The summer night for him shall hold The subtle charm that round him clung In lilac time, when he was young. 96 JUN 21 191^ One copy del. to Cat. Div. )VH ^?.\ ^9fr LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 378 026 8 #1