PS 3537 14 W3 EmEBH mm SmBww ^ ^ "*' /1 *\^ °^ *° w ° A ^ •'* -tfT ►T> ^Vs. . w/ f?» \\r a i x* *>* vv IPV ** v \ ••fev* C^ * o N o ° « ^ * • /■ n ^ * ^^n%* 'Kt> * ! The Arcadian Library I The Watchers of the Hearth THE WATCHERS OF THE HEART H BENJAMIN S LEDD The Arcadian Library Boston : THE GORHAM PRESS RICHARD G. BADGER, Manager, 1902 D , ) . Copyright, 1901 By Benjamin Sledd All rights reserved 1 $-!>* 3 1 Thf lis'rary of congress, Two Cot^ss Received C©PV^OHT ENTRY J CLASS d,XX& N %% & eif- COFY B. L *r Ws 3 a- y^e Oorham Press, Bostop, To the memory of M AEG ARET whose life, beautiful as it was brief, has inspired what is best in this book. Contents To Sappho 9 The Quest 12 The Truants 13 The Passing of June 16 Our Lady of the Angels 17 Innominata 18 Intercession 23 Among the Laurel 24 In June 25 Love Knoweth no Season 25 The South-Sea Watch 28 To Otter Pass 29 The First Quarrel 31 The Builders 32 My Better Angel 34 Decadence 35 The Martyr's Thorn 36 Decadence-Renascence 42 My Silent Guest 44 Death-Bells 45 Over my Mother's Grave 46 The Watchers of the Hearth 47 The Death of Balder 49 Lear 50 The Children 51 At Dawn 52 The Maiden's Song 53 By the Sea 54 The Wraith of Roanoke 57 The Vision of the Milk-White Doe 58 Worship 59 The Toiler's Plea 60 October 61 At Twilight 62 On Looking Into an Old Tomb 63 The Legend of the Valley 64 Confession 68 Ver Tenebrosum 69 To the Evening Star 70 Isaac - 71 Two Brothers 74 The Broken Prayer 83 "As Some Lone Drudge" 84 To Sappho. I Might each but claim of Time's unfeel- ing hand Some treasure reft of man so long ago That fancy's utmost can but dimly show The glory of the gifts we would de- mand, — What gift were mine? — In that far Lesbian land To pluck from some forgotten tomb a scroll Writ with those songs of woe and pas- sion, — whole, In characters of Sappho's own sweet hand. Or yet to lie one hour upon the shore, While far off come and go the long- prored ships, And watch that hand divine flash o'er the lyre, And hear the numbers flow from her wild lips, — To drink of her dark, regal eyes the fire, And, passing, feel no meaner rapture more. 9 II '/ yearn and seek. Thou, in whose broken lines and chance- spared word (The envy of Apollo didst thou earn?) The fires of Aphrodite quenchless burn, And accents of the Muse herself are heard — Thy hands, what gift of mortals could they seek? For what poor earthly boon thy bosom yearn ? Or was all wisdom lent thee but to learn How sad thy woman's fate, thy heart how weak? Was love thy quest? Alas, how slight a thing The one, one kiss we crave: and wanting this Makes dust and ashes of all other bliss. Yet love attained had been a deeper woe, For gift of song was given thee but to sing Of all the yearning life alone may know. 10 Ill Love was it? Yet I would nat have it so, — That being, meant for loftiest heights, as thine, And soul all perfect else, should once decline On common ways where heart-sick mor- tals go. The light of dark, full eyes, the lip's warm glow, Could these vain, passing charms, bring thee to pine, When nightly from yon steep kindling divine, Apollo woos with harp-calls wild and low ? "I yearn and seek." — Lapped in the glad, free main And fresh young age, 'twas still thy fateful part To feel all we have known of fruitless strife, — The weight of incommunicable pain, And passionate longings of the poet-heart For some far good, some life beyond all life. U The Quest I sought it summer-long, and sought in vain, — A presence foiling still the senses' hold; As Pan too ardent for the nymph of old Clasped but the reeds chiding in mournful strain. A voice it seemed, heard by the moon- lit main, A secret left by midnight woods half told, A vision glimpsed athwart the sunset's gold, Or fancied in the footsteps of the rain. And would the autumn too leave me unblest ? As in a lonely glen at eve I lay, Watching the wind and flying leaves at play, Beside me, lo, the being of my quest! Strange lips a moment to my own she prest, Murmuring, "Follow still!" and passed away. 12 The Truants "Carry me back to old Virginia," — so I heard the maiden play, And there came a low voice calling, like a mother's, far away: Calling to me out of childhood, and the golden long ago, From the mountains, from the river, and the fields that well I know. And I lose myself in dreaming how it all has been to-day, With the autumn sunlight falling on a farmstead lone and gray. Purple hills and hazy valleys; and the mellow silence round Broken by the tardy chestnut pattering shyly to the ground; Far, faint tinkle of the herd-bells, stealthy whistling of the quails, And the droning of the threshers to the falling of the flails. Yonder at the highway's parting, where the guide-post lifts lame hands, — 13 With the wildwood crowding round it, still the old brown schoolhouse stands. There a little boy is sitting, and his reader idly falls, While he marks the evening sunlight slowly creeping up the walls. Will it never reach that nail- scratch ?— "School dismissed!" the Master calls. Oh, the stamping and the shouting, whispered partings, loud good- byes! And two little rebels plotting right be- neath the Master's eyes. II Loitering go they, lad and lassie, by the lonely forest sides, Where her latest, sweetest offerings Autumn for her children hides. And the richness of the treasures gleaned from many a secret nook, Undiscovered but for wisdom never learned from lore of book! 14 What, the twilight come already? And how strange it all has grown! Hear the waking owlets hooting, and the pinetrees how they moan! And the withered leaves like spirits down the darkening path are blown. Ever looked the moon so large? and moonlight shapes so white and long? And the forest's formless shadows round the truants how they throng! But the wide old pasture-gateway takes them in its sheltering folds, And the tearful little maiden in his arms her true knight holds. Oh the lips that give and ask not if it be to give in vain, And the hearts that love and think not — only to be loved again! Hand in hand across the moonlight — but the maiden ceased to play, And they fade, the dear dream-children, in this alien twilight's gray. 15 The Passing of June The trees in noontide sleep are still; But twinkling leaf or struggling blade, With noiseless start of life may thrill The tender dream of sun and shade. Is it a glimpse of soft blue skies, Or shy, sweet glance of bluer eyes From leafy covert watching me? Is it a pure white cloud at rest, Or gleam of whiter arms and breast Which through the opening boughs I see? What subtle breathings o'er me steal! Too low to hear, too soft to feel, And rousing something kin to fear, Which tells some hidden presence near. The startled leaves awake aghast, And with hushed whisperings reveal Some deity of air has passed. 16 "Our Lady of the Angels" (Picture by W. Bouguereau) Clasping her babe, with downcast eyes she stands, — Not aught divine, save perfect woman- hood; As if she heard nor wholly understood The gratulations of the cherub bands That round her lift adoring infant hands, — Only the mortal mother's pensive mood, Who knows the burden of her arms is good, Yet hearing in her heart strange, sad commands. Not hers, — that sterner northern faith is mine, But oftentimes God seems so far away, So cold, so pitiless those heights divine, My frail, sad mortal being feels the need Of mortal lips with him to intercede: And "Mary, mother!" in my heart I pray. 17 Innomin at a Do you remember now the autumn day When at the stile we silent took fare- well ?— For in our hearts was that no words could tell. Long time we stood, and watched the twilight gray Wrapping the land, hill after hill, awa,y, And close and closer round the shadows fell, As if some power enmeshed us in its spell, And still the saving word we might not say. Then with one look at your mute, hope- less face, — For passion in such parting must not be, — Without one kiss, — our separate ways we went. Would you not call me back? your heart relent? I turned and looked once more — only to see The cold white m6onrays, ghostlike, in your place. 18 II You are another's now, and yet I know Sometimes that life of yours more strange will seem Than is to one, startled from midnight dream, The well known room, lit with the moon's weird glow. One step out of life's daily round but go, And glimpse again the old, long vanished gleam, And let your feelings through their barriers stream — How false, how alien grows the painted show! Your fate is this? Woe's me; it is mine own With burning lips I tell. And still must be, — Past strength to bear, save for the hope alone That time remorseful soon may bring the day When I need keep no more this mockery, But rise and put the masker's things away. 19 Ill Had we but lived in those brave days agone, Ere custom with her faded maxims came, When all the heart could win the hand might claim, And law unto itself was life alone, — When love and beauty could almost atone For anger of the gods, and woe, and shame, — For Greece deflowered, and Ilion past in flame — Though never love so fatal as our own, Still had we loved! And we had lived our life, Unvexed with little rules of right and wrong And babblings vain of high and low de- gree,— The prize to him who wins in glorious strife; The perfect crown of manhood to be strong, Of womanhood, to love and to be free! 20 IV Helen, in those sweet maiden years, they say, Unshadowed yet by evil days to come, Of doubly broken vows, and ravished home, To him, her shepherd lad, would steal away, To love as youth and maiden only may. Then, girt with warring hosts, from Ilion's steep, Spite of the goddess' hest, across the deep Her thoughts would turn to that far, deathless day When maid and woman in her being met. And I who loved with love so pure and true, Your virgin lips I might not dare pro- fane, — It grows a memory and a sweet regret That youth and love were given to us in vain And raptured heart to heart we never knew! 21 I wonder how with you the years go by: Is all your being lowered to the needs Of him who on your worth and beauty feeds, As beasts among the lilies pasturing lie? Ah, no ; a soul for such a fate too high, — A fruitful presence that forever breeds A sense of hopefulness, and goodly deeds : The low, sweet voice, the calm, command- ing eye! And, lo, I see you to a matron grown, With many a child your patient knees around, And hands that weary not for all who claim Your ministry, in love's or duty's name; Yet keeping still, only to memory known, Deep in your heart, one spot of sacred ground. 22 Interce s sio n To-night, methought, across the moon- light's play Upon my wall, a shadowy hand was thrust, And past my lattice, like a wandering gust Of ghostly wind, that wailing dies away, Came a low voice. "A year/' it seemed to say, "And earth shall hold in her mysteri- ous trust Thy little all of silent, sightless dust, Waiting — some far-off, prophet-promised day!" And while I listened, awed but undis- mayed, Half joyed to give life's long, hard conflict o'er, Came sound of little feet upon my floor, And touch of soft, warm cheeks pressed to my own. And through the gloom, with burning heart I prayed, "Spare me, ye powers, till my brood be flown!" 23 Among the Laurel No seasons come to this green solitude, Nor any change with all the varying year; Life passing into Death so gently here That Death is only Life once more re- newed. Nor even the crisp brown leaves around me strewed That semblance of eternity can mar, — Mine own weird shadow world, un- known and far, Whose spirit-guarded bournes, with foot- ing rude, Never may time profane. — And sweet to lie Under these boughs on long, still summer days, And, while the hours with noiseless feet go by, To watch with drowsy, unsuspected gaze And learn of Life a thousand secret ways, And mysteries undreamed, of earth and sky. 24 In June Over the summer lands, The blossoming clouds float by, — Pure lilies flung from angel hands On the broad blue deep of the sky: Or caught on the mountain strands In restless heaps they lie. Love Knoweth No Season There are beauty and cheer in winter's gloom To the heart that love makes glad; But vain are summer's breath and bloom To the heart that love makes sad. 25 / The Sout h-S e a Watch "The horror of a night watch on the beach!" — Letter from The Philippines. Is this the end of his dreams? — pacing this lonely shore, With the strange, dark land behind, and the unknown sea before; And the land so still in its sorrow, and the sea so loud in its grief, The myriad moan of the sands, and the long, deep roar of the reef: And somewhere far in the darkness, for ever high over it all, — Like the voice of one forsaken, — the buoy's lone, wailing call. Is this the end of his dreams? — the longings of the boy For the pomp of drum and cannon, and battle's fiery joy: To strike one blow for the right, for a people long oppressed, And to lie, if need be, at last, with the flag upon his breast. 26 For the battle is not with men, but a foe of mightier hand, — The unshorn strength of the sun, and the riotous life of the land ; Where nature, knowing no master, fore- goes her kindly way, And a sense of the hopeless struggle is stronger by night than by day; For unknown, and larger and closer, the stars burn overhead, And the moon, out of dark waters break- ing, is grown a thing of dread. And, lo, across the moonlight the phan- tom caravels go, Bearing the white man's lust, and the long, long years of woe, — The years of rapine and slaughter, the patient land has known, Till the hands that have sown the whirl- wind must reap of the seed they have sown. And all around in the darkness, voices lament and weep, — The mighty shades of heroes swarming up from their unknown sleep 27 In the gloom of the primal forest, in the vasty holds of the deep, — The dauntless spirits who followed those quests of glory and gain, Lighting in blood-stained splendour the deathless name of Spain. But the midnight vision passes, and the sea breaks forth in its grief, — The myriad moan of the sands and the long, deep roar of the reef, And somewhere far in the darkness, forever high over it all, — Like the voice of one forsaken, — the buoy's lone, wailing call. 28 To Otter Pass Dear comrade of my solitude, I knew and loved thy every mood, — Whether morning's tender glow Hung on thy pines; or brooding, slow, Over thee shadowless noon would go; Or through thy purple depths afar Quivered evening's first, faint star. rri -ough thee with shy, sweet loitering Into our valley came the spring ; And somewhere in thy windings lay The mystery of night and day. There, spying on the ways of earth, I watched the clouds in mute, swift birth ; And found, when all the vales were still, The winds at play from hill to hill; Or heard by some lone cavern's gloom Night's handmaids at their fateful loom. Oft through thy beckoning portal sent, Into the unknown, fancy went; And by thy haunted rocks and streams, Wandered the beings of my dreams, — 29 Wild, tameless phantoms waiting still Some raptured hour's compelling will! Fair spot, in memories still renewed, Companion of my solitude, Now while I watch the twilight fall, I hear thy far-off voices call. 30 The First Quarrel See, love, another day is nearly done: Yet, ere we bid once more the sun fare- well, Come close and let me clasp thy little hand, And kiss thy lips and clouded forehead smooth. — So long the day has been without thy love ! Dost not remember, dear, how, long ago, Bewildered wanderers in an unknown world, We came to where the slender forest path In two uncertain ways did turn aside; And long in tearful, clamorous doubt we stood, Then parting, each went on the way deemed right ? But soon, lost from the other's sight, each paused And loudly called; and back we ran, — embraced, And then went on together, right or wrong. — So, dear, together let us always go, Content with love, even though the way be wrong. 31 The Builders I heard the voice of Liberty Cry to a people young and free: "Build ye a dwelling-place for me!" The rich brought gifts that rarely shone ; The poor gave naught but common stone. And the temple grew; and the years stole by Till the people murmured,"We build and die!" But, lo, the work at last is done, — Though sons have ended what sires begun, — And splendor on splendor afar is rolled From walls and pillars crowned with gold; And sparkling spires and towers proud Prick through the breast of the wonder- ing cloud. 32 II But in the night a sad voice came, "Oh builders, woe for your work of shame ! "For with those gifts the rich have brought, Much sin and wrong into all is wrought. "And your gilded towers are gilded in vain, For the tears of my people their bright- ness stain. "And my image aloft, which should beacon the land, Was wrung from many a starving hand!" — And when the fateful morrow shone, Only abode the walls of stone. 33 My Better Angel Beings unseen upon us mortals wait. I wake at night and find them gathered there, Watching my sleep, — some gentle- miened and fair; Some formless, sexless, terrible as fate. Some change and pass: but two in changeless state Round me forever move, ill-mated pair; Nor either's hands may grant the gifts they bear, Each foiling each, fruitless in love, and hate. One seems all hope; the other, doubts and fears; This, darkly veiled, mysterious as the night; That other, white enrobed, with brow of light: Yet gazing backward o'er the long, long years, The twain in transformation strange I see, And know not which my better angel be. 34 Decadence They weary us, — those mighty bards of old Who sang alcne of war and fateful wrong, Their accents for our tired lives too strong, Which all the voices of the past must hold. And Ilion's woe, divinest tale e'er told, Can win us not; nor Milton's seraph song: And even he, lord of the buskined throng, Speaks in a language harsh and over- bold. Better in time's still, pensive noon to lie Mid the sweet grass, on lonely pasture slopes — Some lowly poet's new-discovered rhymes, A far white hamlet, with its faint-heard chimes, Murmur of youth and maiden loitering by, And all our little world of dreams and hopes. 35 The Martyr's Thorn You see it there upon the plain below, — Leafless and grim and gray, though it is June: With one dark rent made by the light- ning's thrust. Yet life it has, and widens year by year, Eating the green away. Such tales men tell! Some hold it sprung of blood shed in the days When man and beast strove, while the people gazed; And one dying amid the shouts had prayed His blood might be a curse unto the land; And other tales, — all meaningless to him, My sire, who pastured where none other dared. And when first waked to life, I sprawled and rolled Among the ewes and lambs, — my mother dead; 36 While yet inconscious of my father's face, The Thorns, stretching their vast gray coils along, Forever seemed to watch me where I lay. Motionless, silent, would they stand day- long, But when night fell, and from the dark- ling hills The winds came down, moaning across the plains, The Thorns would rouse with hissings hoarse and deep, Like monstrous breathings of a dragon brood. Then grown in years and strength, the care was mine To guard the flock from straying by the Thorns, Which spared not even the bird that sought to build Among their boughs. — I watched an eagle once Laden with prey and flying heavily past, 37 Sink, vainly striking with his mighty wings Against those fatal toils. And when a lamb Unwitting strayed anear, it came not back; And sad it was to hear the helpless flock Answer with piteous bleat the victim's cries. For none dared rescue what the Thorns would claim. But he, my fearless sire, in youth's mad years, Had wrested once an eanling from their hold, And for it, ever bore on arm and hand The livid marks, as of an eagle's clutch. A quaint black lamb best of the flock I loved ; At first, for being cast off by its dam, Then for the very care it made, with ways That marked it for a victim of the Thorns, For daily would it seek the rich sweet grass 38 Growing beneath to lure the Thorn's their prey. And once I plucked it with my crook away, When on its throat a bough had fixed its fangs. The shepherds bade me leave it to its fate, Nor rouse the vengeance of those demon powers Which bided, watching from the strange dark boughs. One summer eve^ a storm was coming on j And everywhere was the wild din of bells And whimpering lambs and calling mother-ewes, And mid it all, my little nursling gone. The folding done, heedless of breaking storm, And gathering gloom, and warning voice of sire, I hastened towards the spot, and saw the lamb Cropping at ease within a young bird's flight 39 Of the dread boughs, and deaf to all my calls. With wary steps, though fearless, I drew near, And catching up the culprit, turned to flee, When from its hiding place a thorn- branch rose Clutching my feet, and cast me to the ground. I flung the lamb aside, and strove to rise, Yet lay as in a dream, and felt the thing Wrapping about me with its snaky folds, And heard a hideous hissing overhead, As on from end to end the thorns awoke, With horrid writhing of their ravenous arms. Then broke the storm in one vast torrent of light, — One peal, like shoutings of the hosts of heaven ; 40 And still I lay and seemed to dream wild dreams, Of beings moving round me clothed in white, And voices speaking in a tongue un- known, All mixing in vague tumult — and I knew no more. They found me lying senseless but un- scathed, There where the storm's fierce stroke had rent the Thorns. — What of the lamb? We never saw it more. 41 Decadence — Renascence We see the beginning of England's de- cadence. — Paris Journal. Let us not dream, her work shall come to naught, Whose hands have made the desert place to bloom, And quickened into light the jungle's gloom, And peace and order to confusion taught. It may be she at times has blindly wrought, Not fearing in her wrath to earn the doom That warns us in some despot nation's tomb; Or seemed at point to fail from all she sought. And yet, has she once stayed her hands to know What blessing to her toil the years would send? Or taken thought save in her strength to sow? — 42 And this one glory let old England keep, Though craven hands should of her harvest reap, — Her best she gave, howe'er might fall the end. II And who are they wouM have thee over- thrown, And for soaie chance-sent hour of vantage wait, Like wolves that watch afar the sheepfold gate ? — First he, that tyrant of the wintry throne, Untrusting, trustless, inscrutable, alone, Guarding an heritage of senseless hate. And she, that fair, false land, bound to a fate Hopeless as his of old^ who rolled the stone. These are thy foes. — Remembering all thou art, Eemembering the past, how canst thou fail? 43 Only have done with thought of peace and gain, And babblings of the dreamers, fond and vain; And thy stern hour of trial shall but avail To rouse once more thy great, heroic heart. My Silent Guest In the lone night she comes And clasps her hand in mine; We speak not: silence has A language more divine. Day with its weary strife, Night with its gloom, forgot: Soul and soul are wandering Where day and night come not. 44 Deat h-B ells I hear it often now, — a phantom strain, Corning I know not whence, of tolHng bell; Like those whereof the old-world legends tell, Heard from dead cities lost amid the main. To-day, across the silent years of pain, With meaning new and sweet their voices swell : And all that was, and might have been, seems well, And good it were to live and strive again. Are they, as gossips teach ns in their lore, The spirit message of some passing soul ? — What matter now to me? who can but know Down the dim, unreturning way I go, And hear, above that far, funereal toll, Moaning of waters on life's farthest shore. 45 Over My Mother's Grave We have left you alone, oh mother, — nor love could help or save, — Alone with the storm and the night, and the darker night of the grave. Must it be? That faithful heart must we yield to darkness and dust? — 'Tis God's and nature's law; and God, men say, is just. What are law and justice to me? Can they for death atone? Or reason's voice, oh mother, make an- swer for your own? Dark, dark, — and your soul like a flow- er turned ever to the light: All's darkness without, — what hope of a morn to that other night? Oh the silence, which wind and rain make deeper and more deep! I have watched till dumb, blind fear at my heart begins to creep. 46 The Watchers of the Hearth Beside my hearthstone watching late, I mark the quivering words of fate Which over the dying embers run. Oh fearful heart, what may they mean ? — "That thou thy dearest wish hast won And gained what thou hast never known, A something thou canst call thy own: A love thou shalt not need to woo, Or question whether false or true: A tender life which thou canst shape To all thy nobler self had been." But, lo, the embers fall agape: The wavering, flame-wrought words are fled With half their meaning still unread. And all my soul is hushed in dread, To see beyond the threshold wait, Like wolves before the sheepf old gate, A thousand lurking shapes of sin To claim the new-born life within: And round its bed a shadowy throng, — Like those grim gossips which of old With woven pace and fateful song, Their revels at each childbirth held. 47 Too well I know each, mated pair Of boding spirits gathered there: Wan Sorrow leaning hard on Care, And Shame that clutched the skirts of Fame, And One there was that bore no name. A dreary voice the silence broke, And slowly, darkly Sorrow spoke: "May not the Mother have her own? — Whatever in thee is divine, Whatever of beauty thou hast known, Or rapture felt, is it not mine? And mine this little life of thine ! " Then spoke the spirit without name : "The evil angel of thy race, This latest-born I wholly claim, And nought may save from my em- brace." "Oh God,, is there no help?" I cried. "Is all to my sweet babe refused Save that harsh way my feet have used?" — 48 A sad voice murmured at my side: "This being then to me confide!" I turned and, lo, the Shining One, Whose work is ne'er in gladness done, But gladly through that grim array, Still following to the gates of day, I saw him bear my babe away. The Death of Balder The sun went down to-night A quivering heart, Pierced to its core of light With a rayless, rugged dart Flung from the Titan hands Of a shape which stands Darkening all the summer lands. 49 Lear "Thou liast her a France: let her be thine" . . Lear, Thy madman's fateful words no further say, And destiny's recording finger stay! Thy woeful wish that now, unmeant, must tear Thy heart with anguish, lo, such fruit shall bear, Even that unfeeling Hand holds in dis- may. Cast not the flower of thy heart away: To thy "begone," for answer may we hear Break from thy withered lips, "Thou'lt come no more!" And so fate hourly hears, and with stern hand Records, some wish in fatal moment made, Some curse on those for whom we should have prayed. In vain would we recall, in vain deplore What fixed and sure as God's own law shall stand. 50 The Children No more of work ! Yet ere I seek iny bed, Noiseless into the children's room I go, With its four little couches all a-row, And bend a moment over each dear head. Those soft; round arms upon the pillow spread, These dreaming lips babbling more than we know, One tearful, smothered sigh of baby woe — Fond words of chiding, would they were unsaid! And while on each moist brow a kiss I lay, With tremulous rapture grown almost to pain, Close at my side I hear a whispered name: — Our long-lost babe, who with the dawning came, And in the midnight went from us again. And with bowed head, one good-night more I say. 51 At Dawn A single star has paused on high, Lone wanderer from the fold of night, Lost in the troubled light Where dark and dawn dispute the sky. And so in weary doubt I pause, Lost in a world of jarring laws, — Still failing of some primal cause, And hearing still within my breast A voice that whispers: "All is best! What though thy faltering vision fail To spell one letter of the tale Written upon night's mystic veil? — A little, and 'twill be withdrawn From the clear, tranquil face of dawn." 52 The Maiden's Song Awhile I lingered by the way, To hear a little maid at play Singing with broken tone and word A sweet old song that she had heard, — Broken the words^ the music more, And as she sang it o'er and o'er, Something there was — unheard — ex- pressed Youth's first dim longings and unrest. And did I dream I heard the maid Who singing by life's wayside played, — A woman now, — sing o'er and o'er The sweet old song she sang before? But now with added tone and word, And something more than these I heard. 53 By the Sea Bewildered 'mong the endless dunes, We came at last upon the sea, — Two wanderers, little May and I, And inland born were we. Only the changeless hills we knew, The lone, still woods, the pastured meads, And streams which seemed but made to serve Our daily human needs. In this dread presence awed we stood, Its mightiness untrameled, nude; With one far sail which did but hint The meaning of that solitude. So strange it was, beyond all dreams: Yet was it something I had known, — The wonder of the primal child Restored unto his own. 'Twas more than life renewed, — I felt The weight of ages from me fall, And heard from immemorial years Ancestral voices call. 54 II We drew in solitude apart. And far along the seashore went, — The child at play, and I on dreams Of all I knew not what, intent. And found a nook, — we loved to think, — Where never yet came human thing: Known but to sea and sun and wind And shadow of the seabird's wing. And while I lay and heard wild songs Slow gathering in the surge's beat, Among the sand-hills, in and out, Wandered the busy little feet. To-day, mid inland scenes once more, How passing strange that such might be, — For quiet fields the long gray beach And boundless turmoil of the sea. And dream-like grows all else beside One song heard in the surge's beat, And one lone nook amid the waste Guarding the print of little feet. 55 Ill To-morrow must we bravely go Back to the old calm life once more, And lose what was so newly won, Our heritage of sea and shore. How far off seems that other life, How cheap its joys, straitened its ways, As from the beach we turn to go, And linger still and seaward gaze. A moment hangs the broad red sun, Then sinks; and eastward gleams a star; And twilight comes, with glimpse of wings Ghostlike on glooming skies afar. Freshen the winds, and one wild din Of swirling shapes grows all below, And half in fear the little maid Whispers beside me, "Let us go!" 56 The Wkaith of Roanoke Like a mist of the sea at morn it comes, Gliding among the fisher-homes, — The vision of a woman fair; And every eve beholds her there Above the topmost dune, With fluttering robe and streaming hair, Seaward gazing in dumb despair, Like one who begs of the waves a boon. Lone ghost of the daring few who came And, passing, left but a tree-carved name And the mystery of Croatan: And out of our country's dawning years I hear the weeping of woman's tears: With a woman's eyes I dimly scan, Day after day the far blue verge, And pray of the loud unpitying surge, And every wind of heaven, to urge The sails that alone can succor her fate, — The wigwam dark and the savage mate, The love more cruel than crudest hate, — Still burns on her cheek that fierce hot breath, — And the shame too bitter to hide in death. 57 The Vision of the Milk-white Doe The hunter by his lonely fire Wakens in sweet, unknown desire, To watch by the dim, delusive light What seems a woman in raiment white, Among the forest shadows go: — Lingering it goes, and backward turns, Like some sad spirit that vainly yearns To break the bonds of its voiceless woe; But the light flares up from the dying brands, And gazing out of the darkness stands Only a milk-white doe. A moment he marks her large dark eyes Gazing in mournful human wise, Then falters and sinks the faithless light. Again the gleam as of raiment white, The woods are stirred with a footfall slight ; And like the dawn-wind wandering by, The presence fades with a deep drawn sigh, As breaks a far-heard, phantom sound Of galloping steed and baying hound — Then only the silence and the night. 58 Worship Was never day of God so calm and fair! Yet listening, underneath the breath- less still, I hear the mighty forest-heart athrill, And murmurings as of worship every- where. Nor even the weary, chiding voice of care Shall mar the silent blessing of the morn, — Borne over sad gray fields of garnered corn, From wrangling village bells which call to prayer. Deeper, oh sheltering trees, let me yet go; And while ye fling the leaves of sum- mer dead, So like a whispered blessing, round my head, And childlike on earth's patient breast I lean, Teach me the secret of your calm to know, And all this restless, aching heart can mean. The Toiler's Plea At last the day is done! Oh, life is a useless, cruel thing When day unto day so little may bring, Almost I hate the light and the sun, — When To-morrow is but To-day lived o'er, With one day's cares and sorrows more. I murmur not that I needs must toil, Though I measure each moment by a stroke, Yet even the patient beast will recoil Before the senseless, galling yoke. And I, must I tamely bear To-day and its ills For the promise To-morrow never ful- fills? Day after day, To go the fruitless, fate-bound way Which sorely yesterday I came, — Unending yet forever the same: Where wander shadows grim and gaunt, And if I pause, from out their haunt Start, Fury-like, the hounds of Want, 60 OCTOBEE Once more they come, the blest October days, Bringing their holy calm and rest com- plete, And hour-long dreaming, with the sun's warm rays Like gentle hands, clasping the weary feet. And gentler now are all our human ways, With nature's harshest tones grown low and sweet,- And dreamlike lost amid the far blue haze The eye tells not where earth and heaven meet. No more to-day for alien gifts I pray: Enough it is the while to live and love: To sit amid my peopled solitude, And listening to my little ones at play, (As bending o'er her nestlings broods the dove, ) Over the measure of my bliss to brood. 61 At Twilight Yon sullen-fronted cloud has grown To twilight steeps that I have known, Yet with a wonder all their own: And where in azure vales they end Radiant Msenad throngs ascend, And — is it truth or fancy vain? — There comes a far-off mystic strain; Such strains as now no more are heard, Guessed at in the song of bird Or whispering of moonlit trees, With something sweeter still than these: World-old rapture, world-old woe, As when Pentheus long ago Heard in Cithaeron's valleys dim The young god's new, diviner hymn. A moment's pause, of breathless hush — What wings unseen around me brush! — And, lo, the Maenad throngs are fled, And up the darkling sky instead Glides a mute shape in hooded gray, With face turned from the earth away — Lone spirit of the day that's dead. 62 On Looking into an Old Tomb Is this the end? Is all the story told Sternly in these gaunt, iron-guarded jaws ? That needless warn the living here to pause Nor further seek death's mysteries to unfold. Within, the sunlight wanders dim and cold, — Nature herself foiled by those elder laws; And darkness rises up and closer draws Her veil of dread about the helpless mould. Better deep hidden in the breast of earth, From life's rude gaze and day's unfeel- ing light,— Dust unto dust returning not in vain, Though lost, forgotten, in that primal night; , For earth, mute mother of this life of pain, May hold the secret of another birth. 63 The Legend of the Valley Into this valley long ago, — but lost are time and name, — An old man and a maid with the falling twilight came; Down Otter's mystic heights, that bring the light of morn, Where the old moons fail and pass, and first the stars are born. Come from the wondrous race men told of, far away? Or children of the stars wandered to earth were they ? — With the heathen folk they dwelt, and taught them of their lore, Till the Master's praise was hymned where the war-chant pealed before. When the first settlers came to Arnold's Valley, among the Blue Ridge mountains, they found it uninhabited by the Indians; and a shadow of the story here told lingered about the place. 64 No more the tortured victim, the bale- fire's lurid light; And earth once dark with slaughter, with harvest now is white. But still upon the hill-top loomed one grim altar-stone, And from his place one faithful priest waited and watched — alone. The moons they wax and wither, the years they pass away, And on the valley and its folk there fell an evil day. From the coming of the spring-time till fall-time came again, The sun poured from a pitiless sky with never a drop of rain; And the old man and the maiden prayed to their God in vain. The fields lay dead, the woods loomed leafless on the hill, And where the brooks were loud before, now all is sad and still, And slinking through the valley, the river flowed — a rill. 65 Then roused in savage hearts the beast which long had slept, And round the hapless pair in nearer circles crept; And when the Hunter's Moon full on the Valley shone, Again the bale-fire gleamed on the fatal altar-stone, And to the angry gods went up the vic- tims' moan. And, lo, the gods have answered their erring people's cry: Round Otter's sacred head the gathering storm- shapes fly; Afar the winds are heard and darkened is the sky. And a sound like many waters sweeps up the steep hillside, The stones are rent asunder, the flames are scattered wide, And storm and flame their vengeance take for the gentle pair that died. 66 And when the Britons came, bringing the newer day, Silent, untenanted, the lovely valley lay. But still down Otter's heights, at lonely eventide, The old man and the maiden come, to bless the country-side, Or linger by the unblest spot where not in vain they died. 67 CONFES SION Nay, once I loved, or thought I did; And love's ideal deified, — Wait, dear, and hear before you chide, — But drew at last the veil aside To find beneath a mortal hid, — To feel, when from her, reason's scorn Of feelings all of passion born: Nor could I claim her wholly mine, Nor all of self to her resign. Her face, I own, was fair and sweet, And yet there wanted just a touch — A little something — still so much, It left the picture incomplete. But, dearest, all is perfect here. No more does love with doubt divide My heart, nor reason passion chide, For passion now is glorified With angel-light, when thou art near. It shames thee, love, to call thee fair: Hands, bosom, lips, eyes, forehead, hair, So fitly made, so perfect are, No wish could alter save to mar. My love, I claim thee wholly mine, Yet all of self to thee resign. 68 To the Evening Stae Oh Evening Star, I hail thy slender light That eastward kindles ere the west grows dim; Nor gladlier does the homesick wanderer Hail thee to-night on far-off, unknown seas. A year has passed since I beheld thee first, When in my weary midnight watching thou Didst greet me with thy hopeful, cheer- ing glance: Each night a little earlier wouldst thou come, As if to lend my failing strength thy aid. A year — brief time, but all my life is changed ; Whilst thou dost ever surely westward go, And evening after evening finds thee still Higher and higher up the eastern sky; And yet the way is steep, the west how far! 69 Veb Tenebeosum The winds are warm, and everywhere The springs of life are waking, But last year's leaves are withered still, Though violets through them are breaking. No sense of its bloom the clinging vine To the sapless stake can bring; And what to me of good can come With the glad new life of spring ? In vain along my forest ways The flowers wait for me ; I cannot find a bud of hope Or blossom of memory. Your sweetest songs, O mating birds, In vain to me you sing; My dark, cold life no answer gives To the messages you bring. 70 Isaac "Wood fur marster; TcinHin" wood" — Negro Melody. Where the pine-woods in the twilight murmur sadly of the past, Singing goes he, with the fagots o'er his bended shoulder cast, — Poor old Isaac, of a vanished time and order, best and last. And his song is of the master, many a year now in his grave', Loved as brother loveth brother, — worthy master, worthy slave. "Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood!" — oh, the memory of the days Blessed with more than ease and plenty, freer hearts and gentler ways. Once again 'tis Christmas morning, and I watch with sleepless eyes Where the phantom of the Yule log 'mid its ashes glimmering lies. 71 Isaac's horn, without, is sounding day- break summons unto all, — Mansion, cabin, byre and sheepfold, waken to the mellow call. And 'tis Isaac's noiseless shadow starts the pine-knots into flame; To the trundle-bed then stealing, whispers low each sleeper's name, Loving forfeit of the children, who but Isaac first to claim? And he tells of many a secret Santa Claus alone should know, — Mysteries that will not wait the morn- ing's tardy light to show. And the treasures without number fash- ioned by the dear old hand — Childhood's inmost, sweetest longings, who so well could understand? Christ, who so loved little children, bless him in that better land J For no more the aged figure comes at sunset down the way: Yonder stands his empty cabin slowly yielding to decay. 72 Weeds and creepers now are struggling where we played before the door, And the rabbit hides her litter there be- neath the sunken floor. Trees are springing where the pathway to the master's mansion led, And the feet which trooped along it, all are vanished, some are dead. "Wood fur marster; kin'lin' wood!" — comes the old remembered strain; Hush! 'tis Isaac softly singing by his cabin door again! — Only swallows in the twilight round the chimney twittering go, Mournful token of the hearthstone cold and tenantless below. In the old forsaken garden, sleeps the master, sleeps the slave: And the pines to-night are sighing o'er each unremembered grave. 73 Two Brothers Mountains on mountain shouldering crowd around To gaze down on the scene they guard so well, — The valley with its fields and woods and streams, And long red highway clasping the green hills, And one staid meetinghouse whose mottled face Peers down the windy knoll where foot- paths join From many a farmstead hidden among its trees. In yonder quaint-eaved house, — its vir- gin white Cast long ago aside for sober gray, — The brothers lived, Edward and Francis Hale. The valley's gentle life they made their own, — . 74 Of pastures fragrant with the clover's bloom, And orchards where the bees droned all day long; Of many a brook rolling from unknown springs, And lone, deep woods whose mysteries they loved; With later years bringing the summer's task No graver than to meet with flock and herd On dewy upland fields, the sun's first beams, Or follow evening's well known shadows home. And when with autumn's fulness, school- time came, Edward each morning tarried by the road, While Francis hastened down the leafy lane To meet their only playmate, Alice Day — The little maid who comes with light- some treau 75 That hardly stirs the withered leaves be- neath, Her cheeks aglow and tameless locks afloat And eyes brighter than dew-wet vio- lets, — A mimic thunder-cloud of woman-kind, Bearing the lightning glance and stormy word, Caresses soft as touch of summer rain, And kisses fragrant as the breath of May. Two faithful knights attend the little queen, — One bears her tiny basket, one her books, While each from bulging pockets loyally Pours out his daily hoarded offerings. And on they go, with sight of smoking brook, And wintry shape crouching by stone and bush, And keen sweet smell of frost on withered leaves, — All wakening in their hearts a nameless joy- 76 II Alas, when from the gentle, happy pair Youth fell away, and Francis' heart awoke To wild, blind longings in his narrow life. A love of solitude it was at first, And day-long dreamings of he knew not what, — A low, sweet whispering of another life, Far-off and strange, beyond the sunlit hills. And louder grew the voice in the still night, Till from a restless couch the lad would rise Like one remembering duty which the day Can bring nor strength to do nor will to shun. Each day, he dimly yearned, would bring a change, — Something to rouse new hope, or even fear. Some unexpected ill had welcome been. L.ofC. 77 Gone were the simple joys of other days,— The clean, fresh smell of new-turned earth at morn, Far fragrance of the cornfields after rain, And sight of eager-crowding flock and herd Fearlessly feeding from the hand they loved. And much he read,, but from the little store Of treasured books ofttimes he turned away As from his daily dole the sick man turns And loathes the food, and hand that proffers it. Companionship he shunned, — most, that he loved. The faithful brother, even the one maid, No more had power to win him from those thoughts Stealing youth's freshness from his brow and cheek. 78 And Edward cherished secretly at heart Resentment toward the gentle, blameless one Whose love, he thought, had saddened Francis' life, While she, her simple wiles all put to proof, And waiting for the word which never came, Grew cold, if youth and maiden chanced to meet. And much he loved to roam the upland wilds And trace to parent spring the headlong stream, Or scale exultantly the loftiest peak, And with a mighty rush of feeling see The nearer, wider heavens over him bend, And spread below, a fairer, unknown world ; Then late returning, find his home grown strange, And faces as of strangers round the hearth. 79 / But autumn brought a change. A learned man Knowing the longings of the younger heart, Stooped down and reached a kindly, sav- ing hand. — To-day the old life ends, the new begins : Yet ere he passes from his lowly home Does Francis visit each beloved spot Which but a day has made so dear again. On yonder hill's blue top, the brothers part: One last long look behind, and he is gone, While Edward watches the slow-lessen- ing form, Till lost to tear-dimmed eyes among the hills, And turns and finds the valley desolate As, home returning from the new-made grave, The childless mother finds the vacant room. 80 Ill A lone man sits amid high walls of books ; The pen is dropped, his head bent on his breast. A wandering cry out of the busy street, The happy sounds of little ones at play, Have filled his heart with sudden, bliss- ful tears, And brought such visions of forgotten years As fancy loves to paint on evening clouds, — A quaint old house, sending above its trees Long wreaths of smoke, while far and near are sounds From fields and farmyard telling day is done; And lingering at the stile, maiden and youth Who feign to watch the far-off sunset hills— A phantom hand across the glory steals, And all is twilight's gray reality. The brother sits beside his cheery hearth, 81 Hearing the cricket's high, unvaried mirth, And earnest talk of child and mother near, — For wife and babes are there, — but wife nor child May hush the sigh breathed for his buried life. A fair-haired, blue-eyed boy steals to his side And claims a goodnight kiss. The father stoops And blindly kisses twice the fresh young lips — For one who long ago was all as dear. And she! who waits for one that never comes, Making her springtime of a withered rose; Whose patient bosom tremulously beats To hear the sudden knock, the stranger's voice, Or flutters with dim hope when from the way She sees the unknown traveller turn aside. 82 The Broken Prayer. "So tired!" All day have gone the restless feet Lured on by wonders of the new- waked earth, The teeming May time's miracles of birth, — Till weariness at last is bliss complete. The lambs along the pasture slopes yet fleet, And mating birds are gossiping on bough, And fireflies kindle by the stream; but now "So tired, so tired!" the drowsy lips re- peat. What if the evening prayer be left half said! As by the mother's knee, o'er folded hands Silently droops the little golden head. I lift the sleeping form with jealous care, And guarding in my heart the broken prayer, I know that One has heard and understands. 83 "As Some L o ne Drudge." As some lone drudge that hoards his mites of gold, Rising at night to count them o'er and o'er, Will check his joy and thrust them by once more, Fearful lest evil eyes his wealth behold; So, when warm baby arms my neck en- fold, And fair young heads on breast and knee are prest, I feign to think myself poor and un- blest, Lest those dread, watchful powers, en- vious and cold, The secret jewels of my heart should know. And when at night I wake and seem to hear, Somewhere the hush of noiseless feet that go In stealthy search, like footfalls of the blind, — I whisper to my heart all dumb with fear, "What if thy treasures even now they find?" 84 X>eo U &Ql DEC 10 1901 1 COPY DEL TO CAT. 01V. DEC. 11 1901 DEC. 12 J 901 %107 ***** ■•■ • •■' . . * * A <* ** „o o"o