J,^M' The Dream Beautiful And Other Poems The Dream Beautiful And Other Poems Sy Charles Hamilton Musgrove Louisville John P. Morton and Company 1898 ^1 s 14381 Copyrighted iSgS, By Charles Hamilton Muss[rozc WOGCPlfJ^RPCElVED- 2nd COPV, 1893. T)edication. To E. Sometimes amid the weary jar and toil Of bitter, barren hours that come and go Like aimless ghosts of days I used to know, I feel about my heart the strangling coil Of dumb despair, and read the certain foil Of Fate, misnamed of faith the " Better-so " ; Then with mine own hand I would crush and throw Hopes, deeds, and soul amid the wreck and spoil. Did I not have thee near me, oh, my Love, And feel that by the magic of thy hand Something were builded for my heart above The toys with which we strew life's shifting sand, — Did I not lean upon thy soul, and trust Thy love to build anew where time has turned to dust. Index. A Ballad of the Dead 31 A Broken Shrine 54 A Memory 40 An Autumn Retrospect 48 April 37 A Soul's Image 27 Autumn Days 55 A Voice from Silence 38 Beauty 56 Cain, or Christ ? 25 Dream Beautiful 9 Echoes from Bohemia 44 Egoism 41 Fairy Tales 51 Foils 49 I Gave my Love to Thee 50 Mysteries 35 One Who Came from Sea 28 Phantoms 53 Pompeii 34 The Message of the Lilies 33 The Sorrow of Attainment 45 ToJ. T. C 52 To Omar Khayyam 26 Unsatisfied 47 The Drea^n Beautiful. T/ie T)ream beautiful It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — Turn wheresoe'er I may By night or day. The things which I have seen I now can see no more. — IVordsivorth . I H, me ! If I only could win And wed to my harp's rude measure Those thrillings of nameless pleasure That once were my childhood's treasure When Nature and Soul were akin ; — Ah, could I win and wed them to my strain, The sweetest songs of life were sung again. Ah, me ! If I only could know A thrill of that olden feeling Through my soul's dull fibres stealing That I felt when a child as kneeling At God's feet, long ago, — If but one chord of that lost harmony Were yet mine own, how blest the earth would be. 9 The Dream Beautiful. But the skies are never so blue As they were in the days of faerie ; And the world is never so merry, And songs are never so cheery, And hearts are never so true ; The glamour of my far child-world now seems Like a dead face we sometimes see in dreams. No more in the groves austere Where tuffets of wild flowers sprinkle Their odorous dews, and the twinkle Of sunbeams is caught in the wrinkle Of pools so cool and so clear, — No more in them the gnomes and sylvans play As once I saw them in an olden day. And so I never can win. Or wed to my harp's rude measure Those thrillings of nameless pleasure That once were my childhood's treasure When Nature and Soul were akin ; Gone are the genii and their happy spell. And hushed the voices that I loved so well. II With Spring's fresh dawn how hope leaps on, - How bounds the heart away ! Beneath the snow the wild flowers grow To crown the vernal day. Tlie Dream Beaut if til. Some alchemy no man can see Thrills at the waiting heart Of leafless woods, and, lo ! the buds To life by millions stait. Through flowering groves the robin loves His early mate to seek, And all day long his merry song Their happiness doth speak. From Nature's loom come tuft and bloom, Love sings the while she weaves, And skies of blue look laughing through Her roof of shimmering leaves. With Spring's fresh smile what charms beguile The heart from care away, — No grief, no blot, no sin, no doubt, But all the world at play. Ill Illusion is our youthful shrine — The child -world that we all have trod Is nearer to the throne of God Than any realm of thine or mine. The perfect peace, the simple trust, The boundless love of life's young day. Are treasures we have laid away Untarnished by the moth and rust. The Dream Beautiful. The things we saw, the dreams we dreamed, — A soul untouched by worldly stain, — Though they shall never be again, Yet we have known them, all they seemed. O cheating time ! O lying years ! The heart of childish faith you wring, The mockery of love you bring. The lessons that you teach with tears, — What is the burden of it all ? What is the good, and what the gain ? And being wise, what doth remain Except life's bitter lees and gall ? IV Never doth rose in garden blow. Or breathe the infectious mortal air Until its ripened petals glow With beauty, but its heart laid bare Will show the worm that gnaweth there. Its outward blush no hint betrays Of its heart's canker ; only when Rude Autumn's jealous finger lays Its guarded secret bare, we ken The death that in its life hath been. The Dream Bea2itif2il. And so the heart that knows the world Knows most of sorrow. Like the rose It hath the worm, Infection, curled Dark at its bitter core whence grows The silent blight that no man knows. It may be vice, or lust of gold, Or sorrow for the hopes that fail, Or love that weeps, — but still we hold Hearts saddened with the serpent's trail Though years are long and hearts are frail. What is the cost of the years we live ? 'Tis the faith that our hearts surrender, The passing away of a splendor — The giving of all we can give. What is the boon of the years we live ? 'Tis ever the world-old story, — A bauble to catch at, — a glory To hold like wine in a sieve. What is the meed of the life we lead ? Hands that are bare with their winning. Hearts that are sad with their sinning. The quake of a storm-bent reed. The Dream Beaut if ul . What is the meed of the hfe we lead ? A sigh for the things ideal, A tear for the grief that is real. A cry that no man will heed I VI Oh. days of gold I Oh, land of song ! Oh, world of genii and of dreams ! How vague and sad the Ught that gleams About thy haunted woods and streams — Thou hast been gone so long, so long. Oh, land of song ! Oh, days of gold I What wealth of childish fairj* store, Wtat treasures rich of mythic lore Are buried in thy Nevermore — Tales that shall never be re-told. There is a song that haunts me yet. A simple theme, a simple strain, — I may not hear it sung again. It may be that I hope in vain — No matter ; I will not forget. It is a song that came with spring. With Uf e"s young morning — at a time When earths old discord turns to rhyme. \\Tien fairy beUs are all a -chime. And each heart hath a song to sing. 14 The Dream Beautiful. Oh, land c5f dreams ! Oh, days of gold ! I give you back the song you sung — The Song of Love when life was young. Take it and let it rest among My other treasures that you hold. VII The dreams that used to be — Our faith in them is deep although we know They have been shipwrecked in the Long Ago And never can return. And yet we stand Hopeful and patient on time's lonely strand Scanning with eager eyes the unpitying sea That holds in its cold depths the dreams that used to be. The dreams that used to be — The riches of our souls that we have sent On those frail barks to some fair continent On Love's map marked alone — ah, what's the gain ? Our treasure-ships lie deep beneath the main, Their precious cargoes wasted ; and yet we Are loth to call them lost, — the dreams that used to be. VIII Where are those shores my soul beheld when morn Broke o'er the waters, — lands where fruitful May Pours constant bloom, and spicy sea-winds play Round purple peaks that temples rich adorn ? The Dream B eautiful. Have they departed and left me forlorn ? Ah, 't is the same old story of the day — The dawn that builds, the night that takes away, The death at eve to dreams with morning born ! So I am left as one at eventide Watching a fading rainbow, half in dream. Seeing its painted tissues gleam by gleam Fade out and go forever. Thus beside The rainbow of a promise that hath lied, I sit and sadly watch its dying beam. Knowing full well that it can never seem Again what once I held it in my pride. IX In Summer's light how care takes flight. The hours how swift they move, And all the earth is made for mirth. And every day for love. The galaxy of flower and tree. Of bee and singing bird. Makes song to start from every heart, And joy in every word. Youth asks no more to crown its store Of bliss than just this boon : The sky's bright face, the wholesome grace Of one fair day of June. l6 The Dream Beautifttl. Gaunt Care may scowl beneath her cowl, And bite her lip to see How all in vain she pipes her strain At Summer's jubilee. The days how bright, the hours how light, When Summer calls her train Of happy loves in fairy groves, And we are young again. X To sit and hold the shards of faith Whence life's most precious wine hath drained To earth, and left all ruby -stained A clot of dust our feet beneath, — To watch the fruitless tares that spring Therefrom, by faith's blood nourished. To know how bitter is the bread The Hearing harvest-time shall bring, — Is this the ending of our dream — Is this the promised land of hope To which we steered with sail and rope. Mast, spar and pennant all a-gleam ? And can we only see afar Vague, ghost-like, wrapped in dying glow, The shadow-land we used to know Pale as the fading morning star ? 17 The Dreafn B eautiful. XI Oh, brave De Leon, not alone Goest thou to seek the fabled spring Of youth eternal ; every one Who lives to hear life's vespers ring, Longs, in the twilight of his age, To join thy golden pilgrimage. De Leon, not alone with thee Shall rest the folly ; still we cling To thine old legend, — scour the sea And land to find thy wondrous spring Whose sparkling waters shall restore The sacred days of youth once more. XII Great Babylon, symbolic name. Thou altar where we bleed and die, — I see thy light upon the sky. The blood-red glory of thy shame ! Mother of harlots, cursed thou, From age to age, from life to death, I feel thy intoxicating breath — I feel thy kiss upon my brow ! Great Babylon, thou glittering mart Of tinsel joys, and lusts, and woes, — Whoever looks upon thee, goes Thereafter with a sorrowing heart ! i8 The Dream Beautiful. I see tHy light upon the sky ; — I read the story of thy shame, — The human moths of nameless name That throng about thee but to die ! I hear a cry on every hand, It fills the world from pole to pole. They shout me : " Man hath sold his soul, And Mammon rules through all the land ! " Great Babylon, what woe is thine. When clothed in majesty and flame The Son of God shall come to claim The vintage of thy blasted vine ! XIII How beautiful thy world, O God, But Man's how dark and full of woe ! How different from our lost abode — The dim child-world of long ago. Nature still wears her natal dress. Still blooms in primal loveliness. Our evil steps, wherever trod. Mar not one vestige of her glow ; Her radiant face is still the same — To man belong the blight and shame. How beautiful thy world, O God, But Man's how dark and full of woe ! Man wields with pride his little rod Of power, smiling at the blow 19 The Dream Beautiful. His impious hand to Nature gives, — Nature who soothes him while he Uves And makes at last to deck the clod That holds him, her bright flowers to grow. Her radiant face is still the same, — To man belong the blight and shame. XIV 'Mid blazing lands fair Autumn stands And hears the last faint trills Of Summer's song that lingers long Among the lazy hills. Her eyes are bright, her hair bedight With aster's starry gold ; Her winged hues their spell diffuse To brighten glen and wold. The dream-like glow above, below. Around and everywhere. Broods like the calm that follows psalm. Expectant of the prayer. The sumach's spire of crimson fire Burns redder day by day ; On upland sod the golden rod Blanches its life away. The Dream Beatttiftil. Anon the frost ; red leaves are tost By winds that taste of chill, And Autumn's smile dies out the while She bows to Winter's will. XV Some days are childhood's days — days sanctified By an immortal Presence that stood near Our naked souls and told us not to fear, And ever held a loving hand to guide. Some days are poet's days — days that God sends Only for love and music and sweet dreams ; Days wherein life's old haunting discord seems A perfect note and in perfection ends. Some days are Memory's days — when with white brow Through the old garden of her dreams she goes, And breathes one kiss upon the Past's dead rose, And half forgets the barren fields of Now. Some days are Sorrow's days, when strange with peace She stills her heart and listens to a song That never groweth old or over long, And drops one silent tear God only sees. XVI What give the years in return For the glory they take away ? For the bloom of our life's young day Have we only the ashes and urn ? The Dream Beautiful. Where is Romance the fair That in youth we loved so well, — Enchantress whose golden spell Was the charm of the earth and air ? Oh, Fancy ! no more shall seem The light of thy smile as of old ; On my heart is the world's dull mold. In my sight the mote and the beam. All now is a closed up book, And sealed with a mighty seal ; Its spell I have ceased to feel, And my heart to long to look. XVII Oh, soul of Song that grows not old, That changes not with place or time. But keeps the music of its rhyme For hearts that worldly grief makes cold, — I turn from all that is estranged In man's dominion, — turn to thee, Sweet songstress, and rejoice to see, That thou remainest still unchanged ! For thou art one at least who speaks Fraught with a wisdom yet untold, A language beautiful, but old, — So old that no man ever seeks The Dream Beautiful, To know or preach it if he be Not one of Nature's ministers; — A creed wherein no mortal errs, And every human heart is free. All things the stars with limpid eyes Dream, looking downward through the night, The faith that keeps the wild flowers bright, The love that thrills and purifies The wild bird's song, the golden tryst Between the twilight and the dawn, The hope that helps the tired hours on. And beckons through the doubtful mist. All these are thine, oh, soul of Song, And go not with the flying years. But near the fountain of our tears Abideth comforting and strong ; And one who ne'er to God hath prayed May fitly worship at thy shrine. For thou art but the mask divine God wears at the World's masquerade, XVIII With Winter's chill how bleak and still, The earth how cold and gray ! No songs to sing, no flowers to bring The grave of Yesterday, as The Dream Beautiful. The woods are bare, the gloomy air Hangs like a chilling breath ; On hills of brown the grim skies frown — It is a time for death. 'Neath moldering heaps of dead leaves sleeps The primrose of last year ; The robin's throat recalls no note Of airs we used to hear. The Spring's young wiles, the Summer's smiles, The Autumn's pomp and glow. With all their bloom have made their tomb Beneath the Winter's snow. Oh, worse than death this blighted faith In all we loved of old ; — The dying gleam of youth's bright dream, The dust that once was gold ! L'Envoi. I might have known that it would pass away ; Others before me said that it would go. And called me fool ; and yet I loved it so I dared not think it only for a day. But now the dream is done, — the enchanting spell Is gone forever. Poor as miser hands. And rich as wreckage on the sea's cold sands - Such is my heart as now I say '< Farewell " ! 24 Cain, or Christ? Cain, or Christ} (Written on Easter Sunday, 189S.) I THWART the blazing ramparts of the day The white-robed hosts of Peace come hand in hand, While palms and lilies strew the joyous way, And Christ, the risen King, smiles o'er the land. II Behind the sullen fortress of the night Cain's armed legions wait with feverish breath, While high above them, lost to mortal sight. Hover the black and steadfast wings of Death. 25 To Omar Khayyam. O ^o Omar Khayyam* MAR, when I have stilled my spirit's fire To heed the yearning music of your lyre, I wonder if beyond the mystic veil You found the region of the Heart's Desire. I wonder if the faith you kept is best, If after all those hearts are happiest Who crown life's little day with feast and song, Then go contented to their dreamless rest. But howsoe'er it be no sage has told. And, ah, the weary world is growing old A-waiting for the lightning flash of Truth To pierce the heavy clouds about it rolled. Without the City of Ideals are they Who tread the wine-press of Unrest for aye. And, oh, the many furlongs that their tears Have flowed, and still are flowing day by day ! I sometimes stoop above the rose's bed And gaze into its heart so richly red. And wonder where can Omar be the while His garden blooms so bravely round his head ; And then remember how so long, so long. The dust of earth has stopped his tuneful tongue. And think how sweet must be his sleep beneath The everlasting laurels of a song. 26 A Soul's Image. A Soul's Image* LL praised the artist's picture. She had wrought Through years of patience to embody there The deep voice of her soul ; life's earnest care Was in the work, the dominant trace of thought That tends to one fixed goal and falters not. The world gazed on the image of a fair Frail girl, her clasped hands lifted as in prayer, Mute eyes that seemed to have missed the love they sought On earth and turned to Heaven ; on her breast A broken lily hung which seemed a part Of all the wasted longing and unrest That stirred the soul beneath it. It was art All said, — but one who knew the artist best. Knew that it did but type her broken heart. One Who Came From Sea. T One Who Came From Sea. HEY tell me now that she is fallen asleep, Dimmed the soft eyes that cheered me o'er the deep, Hushed the dear voice whose sound Not ocean-nymph or siren coral-crowned Can e'er repeat, and passionless that breast That was the haven of my hope's last quest. I am one come from sea, One who had hoped to find a haven here, Of peace and rest 'gainst winds and tides austere. But now hath no port but eternity. I am one come fi"om sea. The long, long cruise is o'er, The heart-sick vigil, waiting for the shore That held the seemliest prize of all for me Is past ; My hour is come at last. I might have heard it in the dreary rain, And surely the refrain Of every wind that blew Was burdened with it, too. I might have seen her white soul like a stain Of mist upon the sky As she passed by. 28 One Who Came Frojn Sea. I might have learned it from our star whose beams Filled those dear waking dreams When I would wait the lonely watches through Thinking, oh, love, of you ! But, Father of all, thou knowest we are blind. And Time is more than kind. Why should she die ? And what more need of her hath God than I ? Heaven still were heaven had she been spared awhile, But what is left to me without her smile ? Have I been falsely told ? And was there never any fairy gold ? Whence then her beauteous hair ? And were the purple pansies of her eyes Just mortal dyes ? I feel that they are blooming still somewhere. Despite my heavy meed of worldly lies. I am one come from sea — One. who had hoped to find a haven here. But now hath no port but eternity. How bleak it seems and strange — So empty and unreal I almost dare To hope the sorcery that wrought this change Will yet restore Her to me as before. 29 One Who Came From Sea. Vain dreams, delusions all ! I know that she is far beyond my call. Have I not seen the hedge-rose flowering o'er Her little mound, and clusters of the small Sweet, pensive violets ? Who sees such and forgets ? And they shall bloom About her, make a censer of her tomb. And waft sweet incense to the summer skies. Go with the season, and return with spring. But, oh, what time or season e'er can bring The recompense of love that never dies ? I will go back to sea — Back to the bitter revel and unrest That is a part Of the same doom that blights the mortal breast, And unto which I give my restless heart. Welcome once more the tempest and the brine, For even such is now this life of mine ! A Ballad of the Dead.