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 1909 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
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THE WHITE BEES 
 
BT THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The House of Rimmon. Net 
 
 jgi.oo. 
 
 Music, and Other Poems. Net 
 
 ^i.oo. 
 
 The Toiling of Felix, and Other 
 Poems, i^i-oo. 
 
 The Builders, and Other Poems. 
 
HE WHITE 
 BEES M M 
 AND OTHER 
 POEAVS^BY 
 
 @® HENRY 
 VAN DYKE« 
 
 Charles Scribner^ Sons 
 NewYork:>\C>lIX. 
 
 
Copyright, 1909, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 Published November, 1909 
 
 
 V 
 
 ©GI,A251307 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 THE WHITE BEES 3 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE 15 
 
 SONGS FOR AMERICA 
 
 Sea-Gulls of Manhattan 23 
 
 Urbs Coronata 25 
 
 America 27 
 
 Doors of Daring 28 
 
 A Home Song 29 
 
 A Noon Song 30 
 
 An American in Europe 32 
 
 The Ancestral Dwellings 34 
 
 Francis Makemie 37 
 
 National Monuments 38 
 
 IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
 Mother Earth 41 
 
 Milton : Three Sonnets 43 
 
 Wordsworth 46 
 
 Keats 47 
 
 Shelley 48 
 
 Robert Browning 49 
 
 Longfellow 50 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 54 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman 57 
 
Page 
 LYRICS, DRAMATIC AND PERSONAL 
 
 Late Spring 6i 
 
 Nepenthe 65 
 
 Hesper 67 
 
 Arrival 68 
 
 Departure 7° 
 
 The Black Birds 71 
 
 Without Disguise 74 
 
 Gratitude 75 
 
 Master of Music 77 
 
 Stars and the Soul 79 
 
 To Julia Marlowe 81 
 
 Pan Learns Music 82 
 
 "Undine" 83 
 
 Love in a Look 84 
 
 My April Lady 85 
 
 A Lover's Envy 87 
 
 The Hermit Thrush 88 
 
 Fire-Fly City 89 
 
 The Gentle Traveller 91 
 
 Sicily, December, 1908 92 
 
 The Window 93 
 
 Twilight in the Alps 95 
 
 Jeanne D'Arc 9^ 
 
 Hudson's Last Voyage 98 
 
 VI 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
THE WHITE BEES 
 I 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 T ONG ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest 
 of the shepherds, 
 Saying, " I will make you keeper of my bees." 
 Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey ; 
 golden, too, the music. 
 Where the honey-makers hummed among the 
 trees. 
 
 Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered 
 in the orchard, 
 Careless and contented, indolent and free; 
 Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, 
 till the fated moment 
 When across his pathway came Eurydice. 
 
 Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him ; 
 drove him wild with longing. 
 For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like 
 face; 
 Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, 
 over mead and mountain. 
 On through field and forest, in a breathless 
 race. 
 
But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; 
 like a dream she vanished; 
 Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead ; 
 Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his 
 garden empty, 
 All the hives deserted, all the music fled. 
 
 Mournfully bewailing, — " ah, my honey-makers, 
 where have you departed?" — 
 Far and wide he sought them, over sea and 
 shore ; 
 Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, 
 brought them home in triumph, — 
 Joys that once escape us fly for evermore. 
 
 Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy 
 
 whiteness, dwell the Honey-makers, 
 
 In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: 
 
 And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, 
 
 gathering mystic harvest, — 
 
 So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees. 
 
II 
 
 THE SWARMING OF THE BEES 
 I 
 
 ■yy/HO can tell the hiding of the white bees' 
 nest? 
 Who can trace the guiding of their swift home 
 flight? 
 Far would be his riding on a life-long quest : 
 Surely ere it ended would his beard grow 
 white. 
 
 Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, 
 
 Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, 
 May you hear the humming of the white bee's 
 wing 
 Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells 
 call. 
 
 Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky. 
 Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all 
 freeze, 
 Then above the gardens where the dead flowers 
 lie. 
 Swarm the merry millions of the wild white 
 bees. 
 
II 
 
 Out of the high-built airy hive. 
 Deep in the clouds that veil the sun. 
 Look how the first of the swarm arrive; 
 Timidly venturing, one by one, 
 Down through the tranquil air. 
 Wavering here and there, 
 Large, and lazy in flight, — 
 Caught by a lift of the breeze. 
 Tangled among the naked trees, — 
 Dropping then, without a sound. 
 Feather-white, feather-light, 
 To their rest on the ground. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Thus the swarming is begun. 
 Count the leaders, every one 
 Perfect as a perfect star 
 Till the slow descent is done. 
 Look beyond them, see how far 
 Down the vistas dim and grey, 
 Multitudes are on the way. 
 Now a sudden brightness 
 Dawns within the sombre day. 
 Over fields of whiteness; 
 And the sky is swiftly alive 
 With the flutter and the flight 
 Of the shimmering bees, that pour 
 From the hidden door of the hive 
 Till you can count no more. 
 
IV 
 
 Now on the branches of hemlock and pine 
 
 Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, 
 
 Bending them low ; and the trellised vine 
 
 And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line 
 
 Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. 
 
 Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, 
 
 Softly, softly, covering all. 
 Over the grave of the summer hours 
 
 Spreading a silver pall. 
 Now they are building the broad roof ledge, 
 Into a cornice smooth and fair. 
 Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge. 
 Into the sweep of a marble stair. 
 Wonderful workers, swift and dumb. 
 Numberless myriads, still they come, 
 Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! 
 Where is their queen? Who is their master? 
 The gardens are faded, the fields are frore, — 
 How will they fare in a world so bleak? 
 Where is the hidden honey they seek? 
 What is the sweetness they toil to store 
 In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? 
 
 Forgetfutness and 3. dream I 
 
But now the fretful wind awakes; 
 I hear him girding at the trees; 
 He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes 
 The quiet clusters of the bees 
 To powdery drift; 
 
 He tosses them away. 
 
 He drives them like spray; 
 He makes them veer and shift 
 
 Around his blustering path. 
 
 In clouds blindly whirling. 
 
 In rings madly swirling. 
 
 Full of crazy wrath. 
 So furious and fast they fly 
 They blur the earth and blot the sky 
 
 In wild, white mirk. 
 They fill the air with frozen wings 
 And tiny, angry, icy stings ; 
 They blind the eyes, and choke the breath. 
 They dance a maddening dance of death 
 
 Around their work, 
 Sweeping the cover from the hill. 
 Heaping the hollows deeper still. 
 Effacing every line and mark. 
 And swarming, storming in the dark 
 
 Through the long night; 
 Until, at dawn, the wind lies down. 
 
 Weary of fight. 
 The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, 
 Passes the open gates of light; 
 And the white bees are lost in flight. 
 
VI 
 
 Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, 
 
 Bright with a pure surprise! 
 The day begins with joy, and all past ill, 
 
 Buried in white oblivion, lies 
 Beneath the snowdrifts under crystal skies. 
 New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, 
 Flow in the sunrise beam, — 
 The gladness of Apollo when he sees. 
 Upon the bosom of the wintry year, 
 The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, 
 
 Forget fulness and a. dream I 
 
Ill 
 
 LEGEND 
 
 T ISTEN, my beloved, while the silver morning, 
 like a tranquil vision. 
 Fills the world around us and our hearts with 
 peace ; 
 Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is 
 the ending — 
 Listen while I tell you how he found release. 
 
 Many months he wandered far away in sadness, 
 
 desolately thinking 
 
 Only of the vanished joys he could not find ; 
 
 Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed 
 
 him from the burden 
 
 Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind. 
 
 Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty 
 of the changing seasons. 
 In the world-wide regions where his journey 
 lay; 
 Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed 
 beside him, stars that shone to guide him, — 
 Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way! 
 
 to 
 
Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him 
 welcome, listened while he taught them 
 Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: 
 How to train the vines and make the olives fruit- 
 ful ; hov/ to guard the sheepf olds ; 
 How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned. 
 
 Friendliness and blessing followed in his foot- 
 steps; richer were the harvests, 
 Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; 
 Little children loved him, and he left behind him, 
 in the hour of parting. 
 Memories of kindness and a god-like name. 
 
 So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, 
 patient in his seeking. 
 Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; 
 Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, 
 far from human dwelling. 
 Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest. 
 
 Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, 
 fluttered soft around him, 
 Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and 
 deep. 
 This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, 
 then a troubled journey, 
 Joy and pain of seeking, — and at last we sleep! 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 I 
 
 HTHE other night I had a dream, most clear 
 
 And comforting, complete 
 In every line, a crystal sphere. 
 And full of intimate and secret cheer. 
 Therefore I will repeat 
 That vision, dearest heart, to you. 
 As of a thing not feigned, but very true, 
 Yes, true as ever in my life befell ; 
 And you, perhaps, can tell 
 Whether my dream was really sad or sweet. 
 
 15 
 
II 
 
 The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street 
 
 I knew so well, long, long ago ; 
 
 And on the pillared porch where Marguerite 
 
 Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. 
 
 But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, 
 
 Most gaily wise. 
 
 Most innocently loved, — 
 
 She of the blue-grey eyes 
 
 That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth, — 
 
 From that familiar dwelling, where she moved 
 
 Like mirth incarnate in the years before, 
 
 Had gone into the hidden house of Death. 
 
 I thought the garden wore 
 
 White mourning for her blessed innocence, 
 
 And the syringa's breath 
 
 Came from the corner by the fence, 
 
 Where she had made her rustic seat. 
 
 With fragrance passionate, intense. 
 
 As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. 
 
 My heart was heavy with a sense 
 
 Of something good forever gone. I sought 
 
 Vainly for some consoling thought. 
 
 Some comfortable word that I could say 
 
 To the sad father, whom I visited again 
 
 For the first time since she had gone away. 
 
 The bell rang shrill and lonely, — then 
 
 The door was opened, and I sent my name 
 
 To him, — but ah ! 't was Marguerite who came ! 
 
 i6 
 
There in the dear old dusky room she stood 
 
 Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, 
 
 In tender mocking mood. 
 
 " You did not ask for me," she said, 
 
 " And so I will not let you take my hand ; 
 
 " But I must hear what secret talk you planned 
 
 " With father. Come, my friend, be good, 
 
 " And tell me your affairs of state : 
 
 " Why you have stayed away and made me wait 
 
 " So long. Sit down beside me here, — 
 
 " And, do you know, it seemed a year 
 
 " Since we have talked together, — why so late? " 
 
 Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy 
 
 I hardly dared to show, 
 
 And stammering like a boy, 
 
 I took the place she showed me at her side; 
 
 And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide 
 
 Through the still night. 
 
 While she with influence light 
 
 Controlled it, as the moon the flood. 
 
 She knew where I had been, what I had done. 
 
 What work was planned, and what begun ; 
 
 My troubles, failures, fears she understood. 
 
 And touched them with a heart so kind. 
 
 That every care was melted from my mind. 
 
 17 
 
And every hope grew bright, 
 
 And life seemed moving on to happy ends. 
 
 (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he 
 
 That said a woman cannot be 
 
 The very best of friends?) 
 
 Then there were memories of old times. 
 
 Recalled with many a gentle jest; 
 
 And at the last she brought the book of rhymes 
 
 We made together, trying to translate 
 
 The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). 
 
 " Now come," she said, 
 
 " To-night we will collaborate 
 
 " Again ; I '11 put you to the test. 
 
 " Here 's one I never found the way to do, — 
 
 " The simplest are the hardest ones, you know, — 
 
 " I give this song to you." 
 
 And then she read: 
 
 Mein kind, <w(r <waren Kinder, 
 
 Z<wei Kinder, jung und froh* 
 
 ^ ^ yf: ^ v^ ^ T^ 
 
 But all the while a silent question stirred 
 
 Within me, though I dared not speak the word: 
 
 " Is it herself, and is she truly here, 
 
 " And was I dreaming when I heard 
 
 " That she was dead last year? 
 
 "Or was it true, and is she but a shade 
 
 " Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, 
 
 " Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade 
 
 " When her sweet ghostly part is played 
 
 " And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day? " 
 
 i8 
 
But while my heart was troubled by this fear 
 
 So deeply that I could not speak it out, 
 
 Lest all my happiness should disappear, 
 
 I thought me of a cunning way 
 
 To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. 
 
 " Will you not give me now your hand, 
 
 " Dear Marguerite," I asked, " to touch and hold, 
 
 " That by this token I may understand 
 
 " You are the same true friend you were of old? " 
 
 She answered with a smile so bright and calm 
 
 It seemed as if I saw new stars arise 
 
 In the deep heaven of her eyes; 
 
 And smiling so, she laid her palm 
 
 In mine. Dear God, it was not cold 
 
 But warm with vital heat! 
 
 " You live ! " I cried, " you live, dear Marguerite ! " 
 
 Then I awoke; but strangely comforted, 
 
 Although I knew again that she was dead. 
 
 19 
 
Ill 
 
 Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or 
 
 sad? 
 Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, 
 Present reward of all my heart's desire. 
 Watching with me beside the winter fire. 
 Interpret now this vision that I had. 
 But while you read the meaning, let me keep 
 The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm 
 Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake 
 The corners of the house, — and oh! my heart 
 
 would break 
 Unless both dreaming and awake 
 My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, 
 
 warm! 
 
 20 
 
SONGS FOR AMERICA 
 
SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN 
 
 f^HILDREN of the elemental mother, 
 
 Born upon some lonely island shore 
 Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, 
 
 Where the crested billows plunge and roar; 
 Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers. 
 
 Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, 
 In the far-off solitary places 
 
 I have seen you floating wild and free! 
 
 Here the high-built cities rise around you; 
 
 Here the cliffs that tower east and west, 
 Honeycombed with human habitations. 
 
 Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: 
 Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; 
 
 Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, 
 Restless, up and down the watery highway. 
 
 While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom. 
 
 23 
 
Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, 
 
 Clank and clamor of the vast machine 
 Human hands have built for human bondage — 
 
 Yet amid it all you float serene; 
 Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly 
 
 Down to glean your harvest from the wave; 
 In your heritage of air and water. 
 
 You have kept the freedom Nature gave. 
 
 Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan 
 
 Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey ; 
 Even so you fluttered, followed, floated. 
 
 Round the Half-cMoon creeping up the bay; 
 Even so your voices creaked and chattered. 
 
 Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips. 
 While your black and beady eyes were glistening 
 
 Round the sullen British prison-ships. 
 
 Children of the elemental mother. 
 
 Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, 
 From the crowded boats that cross the ferries 
 
 Many a longing heart goes out to you. 
 Though the cities climb and close around us. 
 
 Something tells us that our souls are free. 
 While the sea-gulls fly above the harbor. 
 
 While the river flows to meet the sea! 
 
 24 
 
URBS CORONATA 
 
 (Song for the City College of New York) 
 
 Q YOUNGEST of the giant brood 
 
 Of cities far-renowned; 
 In wealth and power thou hast passed 
 
 Thy rivals at a bound; 
 And now thou art a queen, New York ; 
 
 And how wilt thou be crowned? 
 
 "Weave me no palace-wreath of pride," 
 
 The royal city said; 
 " Nor forge an iron fortress-wall 
 
 To frown upon my head; 
 But let me wear a diadem 
 
 Of Wisdom's towers instead." 
 
 And so upon her island height 
 She worked her will forsooth, 
 
 She set upon her rocky brow 
 A citadel of Truth, 
 
 A house of Light, a home of Thought, 
 A shrine of noble Youth. 
 
 25 
 
Stand here, ye City College towers, 
 And look both up and down; 
 
 Remember all who wrought for you 
 Within the toiling town; 
 
 Remember all they thought for you, 
 
 And all the hopes they brought for you, 
 And he the City's Crown. 
 
 26 
 
AMERICA 
 
 T LOVE thine inland seas. 
 Thy groves of giant trees, 
 Thy rolling plains; 
 
 Thy rivers' mighty sweep. 
 
 Thy mystic canyons deep, 
 
 Thy mountains wild and steep. 
 All thy domains; 
 
 Thy silver Eastern strands, 
 Thy Golden Gate that stands 
 
 Wide to the West ; 
 Thy flowery Southland fair. 
 Thy sweet and crystal air, — 
 O land beyond compare. 
 
 Thee I love best! 
 
 Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906. 
 
 27 
 
DOORS OF DARING 
 
 T^HE mountains that enfold the vale 
 
 With walls of granite, steep and high, 
 Invite the fearless foot to scale 
 Their stairway toward the sky. 
 
 The restless, deep, dividing sea 
 
 That flows and foams from shore to shore. 
 Calls to its sunburned chivalry, 
 
 " Push out, set sail, explore ! " 
 
 And all the bars at which we fret. 
 That seem to prison and control. 
 
 Are but the doors of daring, set 
 Ajar before the soul. 
 
 Say not, " Too poor," but freely give ; 
 
 Sigh not, " Too weak," but boldly try. 
 You never can begin to live 
 
 Until you dare to die. 
 
 28 
 
A HOME SONG 
 
 T READ within a poet's book 
 ■■■ A word that starred the page: 
 " Stone walls do not a prison make, 
 Nor iron bars a cage ! " 
 
 Yes, that is true; and something more 
 You '11 find, where'er you roam, 
 
 That marble floors and gilded walls 
 Can never make a home. 
 
 But every house where Love abides, 
 
 And Friendship is a guest, 
 Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: 
 
 For there the heart can rest. 
 
 29 
 
A NOON SONG 
 
 npHERE are songs for the morning and songs 
 for the night. 
 For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon ; 
 But who will give praise to the fulness of light, 
 And sing us a song of the glory of noon? 
 Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon, 
 
 The noon with golden crest; 
 When the sky burns, and the sun turns 
 With his face to the way of the west! 
 
 How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength ; 
 
 How slowly he crept as the morning wore by ; 
 
 Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length 
 
 To the height of his throne in the blue summer 
 
 sky. 
 
 Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil, 
 
 The toil that may not rest. 
 Till the sun looks down from his journey's 
 crown. 
 To the wonderful way of the west! 
 
 30 
 
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, 
 
 The wings of the wind in the forest are furled ; 
 The river runs softly, the birds are all still, 
 And the workers are resting all over the world. 
 Oh, the good hour, and the kind hour. 
 
 The hour that calms the breast! 
 Little inn half-way on the road of the day, 
 Where it follows the turn to the west! 
 
 There 's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade. 
 
 The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune ; 
 The talk of a friend, and the kiss of a maid. 
 To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. 
 Oh, the deep noon, and the full noon, 
 
 Of all the day the best! 
 When the sky bums, and the sun turns 
 To his home by the way of the west ! 
 
 31 
 
AN AMERICAJSr IN EUROPE 
 
 tnpIS fine to see the Old World, and travel up 
 
 and down 
 Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 
 To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of 
 
 the kings, — 
 But now I think I Ve had enough of antiquated 
 
 things. 
 
 So it ^s home again, and home agam America for 
 
 me I 
 My heart is turning home again, and there I long to 
 
 be^ 
 In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean 
 
 barSf 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full 
 
 of stars* 
 
 Oh, London is a man's town, there 's power in 
 
 the air; 
 And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in 
 
 her hair; 
 And it 's sweet to dream in Venice, and it 's great 
 
 to study Rome; 
 But when it comes to living there is no place like 
 
 home. 
 
 32 
 
I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions 
 
 drilled; 
 I like the gardens o£ Versailles with flashing 
 
 fountains filled; 
 But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble 
 
 for a day 
 In the friendly western woodland where Nature 
 
 has her way! 
 
 I know that Europe 's wonderful, yet something 
 
 seems to lack: 
 The Past is too much with her, and the people 
 
 looking back. 
 But the glory of the Present is to make the 
 
 Future free, — 
 We love our land for what she is and what she 
 
 is to be. 
 
 Oh, ti ^s home again, and home again, America for 
 
 me! 
 I ^ani a ship that ^s mfestward hound to plough the 
 
 rolling sea. 
 To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the 
 
 ocean bars. 
 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full 
 
 of stars. 
 
 33 
 
THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS 
 
 "TJEAR to my heart are the ancestral dwellings 
 
 of America, 
 Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of 
 
 royal splendour; 
 These are the homes that were built by the brave 
 
 beginners of a nation, 
 They are simple enough to be great, and full of 
 
 a friendly dignity. 
 
 I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New 
 England valleys, 
 
 Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather- 
 ing over them: 
 
 Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old- 
 fashioned flowers, 
 
 A fan-light above the door, and little square panes 
 in the windows. 
 
 The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and 
 hickory ready for winter, 
 
 The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with 
 household relics, — 
 
 All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of 
 self-reliance. 
 
 34 
 
I love the look of the shingled houses that front 
 
 the ocean; 
 Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides 
 
 are weather-beaten; 
 Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full 
 
 of patience and courage. 
 They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is 
 
 something indomitable about them: 
 Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand 
 
 undaunted, 
 While the thin blue line of smoke from the 
 
 square-built chimney rises. 
 Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth 
 
 and a cradle. 
 
 I love the stately southern mansions with their 
 
 tall white columns. 
 They look through avenues of trees, over fields 
 
 where the cotton is growing; 
 I can see the flutter of white frocks along their 
 
 shady porches, 
 Music and laughter float from the windows, the 
 
 yards are full of hounds and horses. 
 They have all ridden away, yet the houses have 
 
 not forgotten, 
 They are proud of their name and place, and 
 
 their doors are always open. 
 For the thing they remember best is the pride 
 
 of their ancient hospitality. 
 
 35 
 
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil 
 
 Quaker dwellings, 
 With their demure brick faces and immaculate 
 
 white-stone doorsteps ; 
 And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their 
 
 high stoops and iron railings, 
 (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the 
 
 morning sunlight) ; 
 And the solid houses of the descendants of the 
 
 Puritans, 
 Fronting the street with their narrow doors and 
 
 dormer-windows ; 
 And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions 
 
 of Charleston, 
 Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses 
 
 and magnolias. 
 
 Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my 
 
 eyes they are beautiful; 
 For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts 
 
 that have made the nation; 
 The glory and strength of America came from 
 
 her ancestral dwellings. 
 
 36 
 
FRANCIS MAKEMIE 
 
 (Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708) 
 
 T^O thee, plain hero of a rugged race, 
 
 We bring the meed of praise too long delayed ! 
 Thy fearless word and faithful work have made 
 For God*s Republic firmer path and place 
 In this New World: thou hast proclaimed the 
 grace 
 And power of Christ in many a forest glade, 
 Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid 
 Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face. 
 
 Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee, 
 Makemie, and to labour such as thine. 
 For all that makes America the shrine 
 
 Of faith untrammeled and of conscience free? 
 
 Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod 
 
 Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God! 
 
 37 
 
NATIONAL MONUMENTS 
 
 ^OUNT not the cost of honour to the dead! 
 The tribute that a mighty nation pays 
 To those who loved her well in former days 
 Means more than gratitude for glories fled; 
 For every noble man that she hath bred, 
 
 Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise, 
 Immortalized by art's immortal praise. 
 To lead our sons as he our fathers led. 
 
 These monuments of manhood strong and high 
 Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep 
 
 Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify 
 The heart of youth with valour wise and deep ; 
 
 They build eternal bulwarks, and command 
 
 Eternal strength to guard our native land. 
 
 38 
 
IN PRAISE OF POETS 
 
MOTHER EARTH 
 
 TUTOTHER of all the high-strung poets and 
 singers departed, 
 
 Mother of all the grass that weaves over their 
 graves the glory of the field, 
 
 Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep- 
 bosomed, patient, impassive. 
 
 Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor- 
 rows! 
 
 Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth 
 below thy breast, 
 
 Issued in some strange way, thou lying motion- 
 less, voiceless, 
 
 All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, 
 yearning. 
 
 Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth 
 returning. 
 
 Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time 
 
 to these measures. 
 Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, 
 
 irresistibly 
 Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, 
 
 down 
 Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in 
 
 the sand. 
 
 41 
 
But the souls o£ the singers have entered into 
 
 the songs that revealed them, — 
 Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and 
 
 grief and love and longing: 
 Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they 
 
 echo above thee: 
 Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those 
 
 that love thee? 
 
 Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by 
 some old enchantment 
 
 Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech- 
 less. 
 
 Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy 
 Lord and Lover 
 
 Working within thee awakened the man-child to 
 breathe thy secret. 
 
 All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow- 
 ing waters 
 
 Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of 
 the spirit; 
 
 Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and 
 meadow and ocean, 
 
 Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and 
 emotion. 
 
 42 
 
MmroN 
 
 T OVER of beauty, walking on the height 
 Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; 
 Born to behold the visions that belong 
 To those who dwell in melody and light; 
 Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright! 
 What drew thee down to join the Roundhead 
 
 throng 
 Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong. 
 Fighting for freedom in a world half night? 
 
 Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou, 
 Above all beauty bright, all music clear: 
 
 To thee she bared her bosom and her brow, 
 Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear. 
 
 And bound thee to her with a double vow, — 
 Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier! 
 
 43 
 
II 
 
 The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned 
 Her singing robes to battle on the plain, 
 Was won, O poet, and was lost again; 
 
 And lost the labour of thy lonely mind 
 
 On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find 
 To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? 
 What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain 
 
 And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind? 
 
 Like organ-music comes the deep reply: 
 
 "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be 
 won. 
 
 For God hath given to mine inward eye 
 Vision of England soaring to the sun. 
 
 And granted me great peace before I die, 
 In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done." 
 
 44 
 
Ill 
 
 O bend again above thine organ-board, 
 Thou bHnd old poet longing for repose! 
 Thy Master claims thy service not with those 
 
 Who only stand and wait for his reward. 
 
 He pours the heavenly gift of song restored 
 Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close 
 A noble life, with poetry that flows 
 
 In mighty music of the major chord. 
 
 Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic 
 strain, 
 
 Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace, 
 To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain 
 
 The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place. 
 And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, 
 
 The loftiest poet of the Saxon race! 
 
 45 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 TT^ORDSWORTH, thy music like a river rolls 
 Among the mountains, and thy song is fed 
 By living springs far up the watershed; 
 No whirling flood nor parching drought controls 
 The crystal current: even on the shoals 
 
 It murmurs clear and sweet ; and when its bed 
 Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread, 
 Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls. 
 
 But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress 
 Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground 
 Beneath black thoughts that wither and de- 
 stroy. 
 Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness 
 
 Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found 
 The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy. 
 
 46 
 
KEATS 
 
 'T'HE melancholy gift Aurora gained 
 ■*• From Jove, that her sad lover should not 
 see 
 The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, 
 My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop 
 
 stained 
 Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained, — 
 Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! 
 And then, — a shadow fell on Italy : 
 Thy star went down before its brightness waned. 
 
 Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed : 
 Never to feel the pain of growing old, 
 
 Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, 
 But with the ardent lips that music kissed 
 
 To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew 
 cold, 
 Become the Poet of Immortal Youth. 
 
 47 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 I^ NIGHT-ERRANT of the Never-ending 
 ■*^ Quest, 
 
 And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; 
 
 For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre 
 To some unearthly music, and possessed 
 With painful passionate longing to invest 
 
 The golden dream of Love's immortal fire 
 
 In mortal robes of beautiful attire, 
 And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast! 
 
 What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave 
 Should claim thee and the leaping flame con- 
 sume 
 Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach? 
 Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave. 
 
 And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume. 
 Thy wild song ring in ocean's yearning 
 speech ! 
 
 48 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 LJOW blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
 In winding graveyard pathways under- 
 ground, 
 For Browning's lineage! What if men have 
 found 
 Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll 
 Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
 Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
 Through all the world, — the poets laurel- 
 crowned 
 With wreaths from which the autumn takes no 
 toll. 
 
 The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: 
 The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire. 
 The golden globe of Shakespeare's human 
 
 stage. 
 The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, 
 The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, 
 The tragic mask of wise Euripides. 
 
 49 
 
LONGFELLOW 
 
 TN a great land, a new land, a land full of labour 
 
 and riches and confusion. 
 Where there were many running to and fro, and 
 
 shouting, and striving together, 
 In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, 
 
 I heard the voice of one singing. 
 
 "What are you doing there, O man, singing 
 
 quietly amid all this tumult? 
 This is the time for new inventions, mighty 
 
 shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet." 
 But he answered, " I am only shepherding my 
 
 sheep with music." 
 
 So he went along his chosen way, keeping his 
 
 little flock around him; 
 And he paused to listen, now and then, beside 
 
 the antique fountains. 
 Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed 
 
 with musically falling waters; 
 
 SO 
 
Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, 
 and heard the cling-clang of the anvils; 
 
 Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, 
 that showered their chimes upon him; 
 
 Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink- 
 ing in the long roar of the billows; 
 
 Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship- 
 yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets; 
 
 Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting 
 his thoughts flow with the whispering river; 
 
 He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made 
 them young again with his singing. 
 
 Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, 
 
 and pierced the heart of his dearest! 
 Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered 
 
 • the mystical temple of sorrow: 
 Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he 
 came out he was singing. 
 
 51 
 
And I saw the faces of men and women and 
 children silently turning toward him; 
 
 The youth setting out on the journey of life, and 
 the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone ; 
 
 The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the 
 happy mother rocking her cradle; 
 
 The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey- 
 minded scholar in his book-room; 
 
 The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine ; and 
 the hunter in the forest; 
 
 And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the 
 wilderness of the city; 
 
 Many human faces, full of care and longing, were 
 
 drawn irresistibly toward him. 
 By the charm of something known to every heart, 
 
 yet very strange and lovely. 
 And at the sound of that singing wonderfully 
 
 all their faces were lightened. 
 
 52 
 
"Why do you listen, O you people, to this old 
 
 and world- worn music? 
 This is not for you, in the splendour of a new 
 
 age, in the democratic triumph! 
 Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the 
 
 brazen trumpets of your poets." 
 
 But the people made no answer, following in 
 
 their hearts the simpler music: 
 For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing 
 
 could be better worth the hearing 
 Than the melodies which brought sweet order 
 
 into life's confusion. 
 
 So the shepherd sang his way along, until he 
 
 came unto a mountain: 
 And I know not surely whether it was called 
 
 Parnassus, 
 But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard 
 
 the voice of one singing. 
 
 53 
 
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 I 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES 
 
 ■pJEAR Aldrich, now November's mellow days 
 
 Have brought another Festa. round to you. 
 You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise 
 
 From friends the fleeting years have bound to 
 you. 
 
 Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad 
 Boy, 
 
 Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, 
 And many more, to wish you birthday joy, 
 
 And sunny hours, and sky caerulean! 
 
 Your children all, they hurry to your den, 
 With wreaths of honour they have won for 
 you. 
 
 To merry-make your threescore years and ten. 
 You, old? Why, life has just begun for you! 
 
 54 
 
There 's many a reader whom your silver songs 
 And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. 
 
 What though the newer writers come in throngs? 
 You 're sure to keep your charm of only-ness. 
 
 You do your work with careful, loving touch, — 
 An artist to the very core of you, — 
 
 You know the magic spell of " not-too-much " : 
 We read, — and wish that there was more of 
 you. 
 
 And more there is : for while we love your books 
 Because their subtle skill is part of you; 
 
 We love you better, for our friendship looks 
 Behind them to the human heart of you. 
 November 24, igo6. 
 
 55 
 
II 
 
 MEMORIAL SONNET 
 
 'T'HIS is the house where little Aldrich read 
 The early pages of Life's wonder-book: 
 With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook 
 
 He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread 
 
 Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red: 
 Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took 
 His happy way, with searching, dreamful look 
 
 Among the deeper things more simply said. 
 
 Then, came his turn to write : and still the flame 
 Of Fancy played through all the tales he told. 
 And still he won the laurelled poet's fame 
 With simple words wrought into rhymes of 
 gold. 
 Look, here 's the face to which this house is 
 frame, — 
 A man too wise to let his heart grow old! 
 
 (Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, 
 June II, 1908.) 
 
 S6 
 
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 /^H, quick to feel the lightest touch 
 
 Of beauty or of truth, 
 Rich in the thoughtfulness of age, 
 
 The hopefulness of youth. 
 The courage of the gentle heart, 
 
 The wisdom of the pure. 
 The strength of finely tempered souls 
 
 To labour and endure! 
 
 The blue of springtime in your eyes 
 
 Was never quenched by pain; 
 And winter brought your head the crown 
 
 Of snow without a stain. 
 The poet's mind, the prince's heart, 
 
 You kept until the end. 
 Nor ever faltered in your work. 
 
 Nor ever failed a friend. 
 
 57 
 
You followed, through the quest of life, 
 
 The light that shines above 
 The tumult and the toil of men, 
 
 And shows us what to love. 
 Right loyal to the best you knew. 
 
 Reality or dream. 
 You ran the race, you fought the fight, 
 
 A follower of the Gleam. 
 
 We lay upon your well-earned grave 
 
 The wreath of asphodel. 
 We speak above your peaceful face 
 
 The tender word Fare%eU! 
 For well you fare, in God's good care, 
 
 Somewhere within the blue. 
 And know, to-day, your dearest dreams 
 
 Are true, — and true, — and true ! 
 
 (Read at the funeral of Mr. Stedman, January 21, igo8.) 
 
 58 
 
LYRICS 
 
 DRAMATIC 
 AND PERSONAL 
 
LATE SPRING 
 
 AH, who will tell me, in these leaden days, 
 
 Why the sweet Spring delays, 
 And where she hides, — the dear desire 
 
 Of every heart that longs 
 For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire 
 Of maple-buds along the misty hills, 
 And that immortal call which fills 
 
 The waiting wood with songs? 
 The snow-drops came so long ago. 
 
 It seemed that Spring was near ! 
 
 But then returned the snow 
 With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere> 
 
 And sullen clouds drooped low 
 To veil the sadness of a hope deferred : 
 Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain 
 
 Beat on the window-pane. 
 Through which I watched the solitary bird 
 That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed, 
 With rumpled feathers, down the wind again. 
 
 Oh, were the seeds all lost 
 When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb? 
 
 I searched their haunts in vain 
 
 6i 
 
For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white, 
 And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight. 
 Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom. 
 The woods were bare : and every night the frost 
 To all my longings spoke a silent nay, 
 And told me Spring was far and far away. 
 Even the robins were too cold to sing, 
 Except a broken and discouraged note, — 
 Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat 
 Music has put her triple finger-print. 
 Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint, — 
 " Wait, wait, wait ! oh, wait a while for Spring ! " 
 
 II 
 
 But now. Carina, what divine amends 
 
 For all delay! What sweetness treasured up, 
 
 What wine of joy that blends 
 A hundred flavours in a single cup. 
 
 Is poured into this perfect day! 
 For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers, 
 
 That lingered on their way. 
 Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May, 
 And mingled with the bloom of later hours, — 
 Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue 
 And white, and iris richly gleaming through 
 The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze 
 Of butter-cups and daisies in the field. 
 Filling the air with praise, 
 
 62 
 
As if a silver chime of bells had pealed ! 
 
 The frozen songs within the breast 
 Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods, 
 
 Melt into rippling floods 
 
 Of gladness unrepressed. 
 Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark, 
 Warbler and wren and vireo, 
 Confuse their music; for the living spark 
 Of Love has touched the fuel of desire, 
 And every heart leaps up in singing fire. 
 
 It seems as if the land 
 Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress, 
 
 Trembling with tenderness, 
 
 While all the woods expand. 
 In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green, 
 To veil the joys too sacred to be seen. 
 
 63 
 
Ill 
 Come, put your hand in mine, 
 True love, long sought and found at last. 
 And lead me deep into the Spring divine 
 
 That makes amends for all the wintry past. 
 For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss 
 
 Arrive with you; 
 And in the lingering pressure of your kiss 
 
 My dreams come true; 
 And in the promise of your generous eyes 
 
 I read the mystic sign 
 
 Of joy more perfect made 
 
 Because so long delayed. 
 And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise. 
 Ah, think not early love alone is strong ; 
 He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait ; 
 Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long, 
 You 're doubly dear because you come so late. 
 
 64 
 
NEPENTHE 
 
 YES, it was like you to forget, 
 
 And cancel in the welcome of your smile 
 
 My deep arrears of debt, 
 
 And with the putting forth of both your hands 
 
 To sweep away the bars my folly set 
 
 Between us — bitter thoughts, and harsh de- 
 mands. 
 
 And reckless deeds that seemed untrue 
 
 To love, when all the while 
 
 My heart was aching through and through 
 
 For you, sweet heart, and only you. 
 
 Yet, as I turned to come to you again, 
 
 I thought there must be many a mile 
 
 Of sorrowful reproach to cross, 
 
 And many an hour of mutual pain 
 
 To bear, until I could make plain 
 
 That all my pride was but the fear of loss. 
 
 And all my doubt the shadow of despair 
 
 To win a heart so innocent and fair; 
 
 And even that which looked most ill 
 
 Was but the fever-fret and effort vain 
 
 To dull the thirst which you alone could still. 
 
 65 
 
But as I turned the desert miles were crossed, 
 
 And when I came the weary hours were sped ! 
 
 For there you stood beside the open door, 
 
 Glad, gracious, smiling as before. 
 
 And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread 
 
 Restored me to the Eden I had lost. 
 
 Never a word of cold reproof. 
 
 No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse 
 
 The culprit whom they hold aloof, — 
 
 Ah, 't is not thus that other women use 
 
 The power they have won! 
 
 For there is none like you, beloved, — none 
 
 Secure enough to do what you have done. 
 
 Where did you learn this heavenly art, — 
 
 You sweetest and most wise of all that live, — • 
 
 With silent welcome to impart 
 
 Assurance of the royal heart 
 
 That never questions where it would forgive? 
 
 None but a queen could pardon me like this ! 
 
 My sovereign lady, let me lay 
 
 Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss 
 
 Of penitence, then close the fingers up. 
 
 Thus — thus! Now give the cup 
 
 Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth. 
 
 And come — the garden blooms with bliss, 
 
 The wind is in the south. 
 
 The rose of love with dew is wet — 
 
 Dear, it was like you to forget! 
 
 66 
 
HESPER 
 
 "LJER eyes are like the evening air, 
 
 Her voice is like a rose, 
 Her lips are like a lovely song, 
 
 That ripples as it flows, 
 And she herself is sweeter than 
 
 The sweetest thing she knows. 
 
 A slender, haunting, twilight form 
 
 Of wonder and surprise. 
 She seemed a fairy or a child, 
 
 Till, deep within her eyes, 
 I saw the homeward-leading star 
 
 Of womanhood arise. 
 
 67 
 
ARRIVAL 
 
 A CROSS a thousand miles of sea, a hundred 
 
 leagues of land, 
 Along a path I had not traced and could not 
 
 understand, 
 I travelled fast and far for this, — to take thee 
 
 by the hand. 
 
 A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would 
 
 bend his knee, 
 A mariner without a dream of what his port 
 
 would be. 
 So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to 
 
 thee. 
 
 O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary 
 
 place, 
 O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea 
 
 race. 
 The quiet room adorned with flowers where first 
 
 I saw thy face! 
 
 68 
 
Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths 
 
 of foam! 
 The Power that made me wander far at last has 
 
 brought me home 
 To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more 
 
 will roam. 
 
 69 
 
DEPARTURE 
 
 /^H, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, 
 
 And why is the garden so gay? 
 Do you know that my days of delight are done, 
 
 Do you know I am going away? 
 If you covered your face with a cloud, I 'd dream 
 
 You were sorry for me in my pain. 
 And the heads of the flowers all bowed would 
 seem 
 To be weeping with me in the rain. 
 
 But why is your head so low, sweet heart. 
 
 And why are your eyes overcast? 
 Are they clouded because you know we must part. 
 
 Do you think this embrace is our last? 
 Then kiss me again, and again, and again, 
 
 Look up as you bid me good-bye ! 
 For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear. 
 
 And your smile is the sun in my sky. 
 
 70 
 
THE BLACK BIRDS 
 
 /^NCE, only once, I saw it clear, — 
 
 That Eden every human heart has dreamed 
 A hundred times, but always far away ! 
 Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, 
 Through the still atmosphere 
 Of that enchanted day. 
 To lie wide open to my weary feet : 
 A little land of love and joy and rest, 
 With meadows of soft green, 
 Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet 
 With delicate breath of violets unseen, — 
 And, tranquil 'mid the bloom 
 As if it waited for a coming guest, 
 A little house of peace and joy and love 
 Was nested like a snow-white dove 
 
 From the rough mountain where I stood, 
 
 Homesick for happiness, 
 
 Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood 
 
 To cross, and then the long distress 
 
 Of solitude would be forever past, — 
 
 I should be home at last. 
 
 But not too soon! oh, let me linger here 
 
 And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow. 
 
 On all this loveliness, so near. 
 
 And mine to-morrow! 
 
 71 
 
Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, 
 
 A dark bird flew. 
 
 Silent, with sable wings. 
 
 Close in his wake another came, •*- 
 
 Fragments of midnight floating through 
 
 The sunset flame, — 
 
 Another and another, weaving rings 
 
 Of blackness on the primrose sky, — 
 
 Another, and another, look, a score, 
 
 A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily 
 
 From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, — 
 
 They boiled into the lucid air 
 
 Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair! 
 
 And more, and more, and ever more. 
 
 The numberless, ill-omened brood. 
 
 Flapping their ragged plumes. 
 
 Possessed the landscape and the evening light 
 
 With menaces and glooms. 
 
 Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o*er the place 
 
 Where once I saw the little house so white 
 
 Amid the flowers, covering every trace 
 
 Of beauty from my troubled sight, — 
 
 And suddenly it was night! 
 
 72 
 
II 
 
 At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; 
 
 And while the morning made 
 
 A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, 
 
 I saw the sable birds on every limb, 
 
 Clinging together closely in the shade. 
 
 And croaking placidly their surly hymn. 
 
 But, oh, the little land of peace and love 
 
 That those night-loving wings had poised 
 
 above, • — 
 Where was it gone? 
 Lost, lost forevermore! 
 Only a cottage, dull and gray, 
 In the cold light of dawn. 
 With iron bars across the door: 
 Only a garden where the withering heads 
 Of flowers, presaging decay, 
 Hung over barren beds: 
 Only a desolate field that lay 
 Untilled beneath the desolate day, — 
 Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these ! 
 So, wondering, I passed along my way, 
 With anger in my heart, too deep for words. 
 Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees. 
 And the black magic of the croaking birds. 
 
 73 
 
WITHOUT DISGUISE 
 
 TF I have erred in showing all my heart, 
 And lost your favour by a lack of pride ; 
 If standing like a beggar at your side 
 With naked feet, I have forgot the art 
 Of those who bargain well in passion's mart, 
 And win the thing they want by what they 
 
 hide; 
 Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, 
 Be mine the lover's and the loser's part. 
 
 The sin, if sin it was, I do repent. 
 
 And take the penance on myself alone; 
 
 Yet after I have borne the punishment, 
 I shall not fear to stand before the throne 
 
 Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: 
 
 " At least I have not lied to her nor Thee ! " 
 
 74 
 
GRATITUDE 
 
 "■r\0 you give thanks for this? — or that?" 
 No, God be thanked 
 
 I am not grateful 
 In that cold, calculating way, with blessing 
 ranked 
 As one, two, three, and four, — that would be 
 hateful. 
 
 I only know that every day brings good above 
 
 My poor deserving; 
 I only feel that, in the road of Life, true Love 
 Is leading me along and never swerving. 
 
 Whatever gifts and mercies in my lot may fall, 
 
 I would not measure 
 As worth a certain price in praise, or great or 
 small ; 
 But take and use them all with simple pleasure. 
 
 75 
 
For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless 
 
 The Hand that feeds us; 
 And when we tread the road of Life in cheer- 
 fulness, 
 Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads 
 us. 
 
 76 
 
MASTER OF MUSIC 
 
 (In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905) 
 
 ^"ZX-ORY of architect, glory of painter, and sculp- 
 tor, and bard, 
 Living forever in temple and picture and statue 
 and song, — 
 Look how the world with the lights that they lit 
 is illumined and starred, 
 Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps 
 of their art bum long ! 
 
 Where is the Master of Music, and how has he 
 
 vanished away? 
 Where is the work that he wrought with his 
 
 wonderful art in the air? 
 Gone, — it is gone like the glow on the cloud 
 
 at the close of the day! 
 The Master has finished his work, and the glory 
 
 of music is — where? 
 
 77 
 
Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of 
 musical sound 
 Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the 
 prophet of old: 
 Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has 
 dropped to the ground, 
 Silent and dark are the shores where the mar- 
 vellous harmonies rolled! 
 
 Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by 
 that life-giving sea; 
 Deeper and purer forever the tides of their 
 being will roll. 
 Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have 
 listened to thee, — 
 The glory of music endures in the depths of 
 the human soul. 
 
 78 
 
STARS AND THE SOUL 
 
 (To Charles A. Young, Astronomer) 
 
 " nr'WO things," the wise man said, *' fill me 
 
 with awe: 
 The starry heavens and the moral law." 
 Nay, add another wonder to thy roll, — 
 The living marvel of the human soul! 
 
 Born in the dust and cradled in the dark, 
 
 It feels the fire of an immortal spark. 
 
 And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes. 
 
 The splendid secret of the unconscious skies. 
 
 For God thought Light before He spoke the word ; 
 The darkness understood not, though it heard: 
 But man looks up to where the planets swim. 
 And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him. 
 
 What knows the star that guides the sailor's way, 
 Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray. 
 Of toil and passion, danger and distress. 
 Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness? 
 
 79 
 
But human hearts that suffer good and ill, 
 And hold to virtue with a loyal will, 
 Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife 
 With star-surpassing victories of life. 
 
 So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies, 
 Devout astronomer, most humbly wise, 
 For lessons brighter than the stars can give. 
 And inward light that helps us all to live. 
 
 The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crown 
 The star-discoverer's name with high renown ; 
 Accept the flower of love we lay with these 
 For influence sweeter than the Pleiades! 
 
 80 
 
TO JULIA MARLOWE 
 
 (Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn) 
 
 T ONG had I loved this " Attic shape," the brede 
 
 Of marble maidens round this urn divine: 
 But when your golden voice began to read, 
 The empty urn was filled with Chian wine. 
 
 Si 
 
PAN LEARNS MUSIC 
 
 T IMBER-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the 
 
 rock, 
 Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock? 
 What are you making here? " Listen," said 
 
 Pan,— 
 " Out of a river-reed music for man ! " 
 
 82 
 
^^ UNDINE^ 
 
 ■^ When I was but a dreaming boy, 
 This fairy tale of love and woe 
 
 Entranced my heart with tearful joy; 
 And while with white Undine I wept, 
 
 Your spirit, — ah, how strange it seems. 
 Was cradled in some star, and slept, 
 
 Unconscious of her coming dreams. 
 
 83 
 
LOVE IN A LOOK 
 
 T ET me but feel thy look's embrace, 
 
 Transparent, pure, and warm. 
 And I '11 not ask to touch thy face, 
 
 Or fold thee with mine arm. 
 For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, 
 
 Arrayed in candid bliss. 
 And draws me to her with a charm 
 
 More close than any kiss. 
 
 A loving-cup of golden wine. 
 
 Songs of a silver brook, 
 And fragrant breaths of eglantine. 
 
 Are mingled in thy look. 
 More fair they are than any star, 
 
 Thy topaz eyes divine — 
 And deep within their trysting-nook 
 
 Thy spirit blends with mine. 
 
 84 
 
MY APRIL LADY 
 
 "VJ^HEN down the stair at morning 
 
 The sunbeams round her float. 
 Sweet rivulets of laughter 
 
 Are bubbling in her throat; 
 The gladness of her greeting 
 
 Is gold without alloy; 
 And in the morning sunlight 
 
 I think her name is Joy. 
 
 When in the evening twilight 
 
 The quiet book-room lies, 
 We read the sad old ballads. 
 
 While from her hidden eyes 
 The tears are falling, falling, 
 
 That give her heart relief; 
 And in the evening twilight, 
 
 I think her name is Grief. 
 
 8s 
 
My little April lady, 
 
 Of sunshine and of showers, 
 She weaves the old spring magic. 
 
 And breaks my heart in flowers! 
 But when her moods are ended, 
 
 She nestles like a dove ; 
 Then, by the pain and rapture, 
 
 I know her name is Love. 
 
 86 
 
A LOVER'S ENVY 
 
 T ENVY every flower that blows 
 
 Along the meadow where she goes, 
 And every bird that sings to her, 
 And every breeze that brings to her 
 The fragrance of the rose. 
 
 I envy every poet's rhyme 
 That moves her heart at eventime, 
 And every tree that v/eavs for her 
 Its brightest bloom, and bears for her 
 The fruitage of its prime. 
 
 I envy every Southern night 
 
 That paves her path with moonbeams white, 
 And silvers all the leaves for her. 
 And in their shadow weaves for her 
 A dream of dear delight. 
 
 I envy none whose love requires 
 Of her a gift, a task that tires : 
 
 I only long to live to her, 
 
 I only ask to give to her 
 All that her heart desires. 
 
 87 
 
THE HERMIT THRUSH 
 
 Q WONDERFUL! How liquid clear 
 
 The molten gold of that ethereal tone, 
 Floating and falling through the wood alone, 
 A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear! 
 O holy, holy, holy I HyaUne, 
 Long light to<w light, glory of eventide I 
 Love far away, far up, — up, — love divine I 
 Little lovef too, for ever, ever near. 
 Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine. 
 In the leafy dark <where you hide. 
 You are mine, — mine, — mine I 
 
 Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me 
 The hidden virtue of that melody, 
 The rapture and the purity of love, 
 The heavenly joy that can not find the word? 
 Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, 
 Come very near to me, and do not move, — 
 Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew 
 The cool, green cup of air with harmony, 
 And we will drink the wine of love with you. 
 
 88 
 
FIRE-FLY CITY 
 
 T IKE a long arrow through the dark the train 
 is darting, 
 Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of 
 love's delight: 
 Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of 
 parting, 
 I lift the narrow window-shade and look out 
 on the night. 
 
 Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flow- 
 ing. 
 Forest and field and hill are gliding backward 
 still athwart my dream; 
 Till in that country strange, and ever stranger 
 growing, 
 A magic city full of lights begins to glow and 
 gleam. 
 
 Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit 
 in millions; 
 Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold 
 across the green; 
 Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pa- 
 vilions, — 
 Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what 
 these wonders mean? 
 
Why do they beckon me, and what have they to 
 show me? 
 Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the 
 feasters meet, kisses and wine: 
 Many to laugh with me, but never one to know 
 me: 
 A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat 
 with mine! 
 
 Look how the glittering lines are wavering and 
 lifting, — 
 Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision 
 bright: and, passing fair, 
 Over the meadow-grass and through the forest 
 drifting, 
 The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty 
 air! 
 
 Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is 
 turning : 
 Sleep in your quiet room, v/hile through the 
 midnight gloom my train is whirled. 
 Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is 
 burning^ — 
 The only never failing light in all the phantom 
 world. 
 
 90 
 
THE GENTLE TRAVELLER 
 
 '''T'HROUGH many a land your journey ran, 
 And showed the best the world can boast: 
 Now tell me, traveller, if you can, 
 The place that pleased you most." 
 
 She laid her hands upon my breast. 
 And murmured gently in my ear, 
 
 " The place I loved and liked the best 
 Was in your arms, my dear ! " 
 
 91 
 
SICILY, DECEMBER, J908 
 
 r\ GARDEN isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, — 
 Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays. 
 Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm 
 rays 
 That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange- 
 tree, — 
 What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee? 
 Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days, 
 She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays 
 Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! 
 
 Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers. 
 And man the plaything of unconscious fate? 
 Not so, my troubled heart ! God reigns above 
 And man is greatest in his darkest hours : 
 Walking amid the cities desolate. 
 The Son of God appears in human love. 
 
 Tertius and Henry van Dyke, January, 1909. 
 
 92 
 
THE WINDOW 
 
 A LL night long, by a distant beil, 
 
 The passing hours were notched 
 On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell, 
 
 And the spark of life I watched 
 In her face was glowing or fading, — who could 
 tell? — 
 And the open window of the room, 
 
 With a flare of yellow light, 
 Was peering out into the gloom. 
 Like an eye that searched the night. 
 
 Oh, what do yoa see in the darkt Utile window, and 
 
 <Tvhy do you fear ? 
 ** I see thai the garden is croTvded 'with creeping forms 
 
 of fear: 
 Little <white ghosts in the locust-tree, that <zua've in the 
 
 night-^ind^s breath, 
 And lorn) in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of 
 
 death.'' 
 
 93 
 
Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird 
 
 Told of the passing away 
 Of the dark, — and my darling may have heard ; 
 
 For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray 
 Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word, 
 Till the splendor born in the east outburned 
 The yellow lamplight, pale and thin. 
 
 And the open window slowly turned 
 To the eye of the morning, looking in. 
 
 Ohf 'what do you see in the room, Uttte m^mdow, thai 
 
 makes you so bright ? 
 ** I see thai a child is asleep on her pillo^w^ soft and 
 
 'white. 
 With the rose of life on her lips, and the breath of life 
 
 in her breast, 
 And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes 
 
 her rest/^ 
 
 Neuilly, June, 1909. 
 
 94 
 
TWILIGHT IN THE ALPS 
 
 T LOVE the hour that comes, with dusky hair 
 And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells 
 To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells 
 Go chiming after her across the fair 
 And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare 
 
 Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells, 
 And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells 
 Of peace are woven through the purple air. 
 
 Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems 
 To walk before the dark by falling rills. 
 
 And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams ; 
 She opens all the doors of night, and fills 
 
 With moving bells the music of my dreams, 
 That wander far among the sleeping hills. 
 
 Gstaad, August, igog. 
 
 95 
 
JEANNE D'ARC 
 
 'TTHE land was broken in despair, 
 
 The princes quarrelled in the dark, 
 When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air 
 Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare, 
 Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc. 
 
 O virgin breast with lilies white, 
 
 O sun-burned hand that bore the lance, 
 You taught the prayer that helps men to unite, 
 You brought the courage equal to the fight, 
 You gave a heart to France! 
 
 Your king was crowned, your country free, 
 
 At Rheims you had your soul's desire: 
 And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy, 
 The black-robed judges gave your victory 
 The martyr's crown of fire. 
 
 96 
 
And now again the times are ill, 
 
 And doubtful leaders miss the mark; 
 The people lack the single faith and will 
 To make them one, — your country needs you 
 still, — 
 
 Come back again, Jeanne d*Arc! 
 
 O woman-star, arise once more 
 
 And shine to bid your land advance: 
 The old heroic trust in God restore. 
 Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore, 
 And give a heart to France ! 
 
 Paris, July, 1909. 
 
 97 
 
HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE 
 
 June 22, 1611 
 THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY 
 
 /^NE sail in sight upon the lonely sea 
 
 And only one, God knows! For never ship 
 But mine broke through the icy gates that guard 
 These waters, greater grown than any since 
 We left the shores of England. We were first, 
 My men, to battle in between the bergs 
 And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine ; 
 I name it! and that flying sail is mine! 
 And there, hull-down below that flying sail. 
 The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine ! 
 My ship Discoverie ! 
 
 The sullen dogs 
 Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched 
 Their food and bit the hand that nourished them. 
 Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, 
 I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, 
 And paid your debts, and kept you in my house. 
 And brought you here to make a man of you I 
 You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, 
 Toothless and tremulous, how many times 
 
 ,98 
 
Have I employed you as a master's mate 
 
 To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett, 
 
 You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, 
 
 You knew the plot and silently agreed, 
 
 Salving your conscience with a pious lie ! 
 
 Yes, all of you — hounds, rebels, thieves ! Bring 
 
 back 
 My ship I 
 
 Too late, — I rave, — they cannot hear 
 My voice : and if they heard, a drunken laugh 
 Would be their answer; for their minds have 
 
 caught 
 The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve. 
 That looks like courage but is only fear. 
 They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and 
 
 drown, — 
 Or blunder home to England and be hanged. 
 Their skeletons will rattle in the chains 
 Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs, 
 While passing mariners look up and say : 
 " Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men 
 " Who left their captain in the frozen North ! " 
 
 O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained 
 Plans of the v/ise and actions of the brave 
 Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards? 
 
 99 
 
Look, — there she goes, — her topsails in the sun 
 Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop 
 Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go 
 Clean out of mind ! We '11 think of braver things ! 
 Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, 
 You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west. 
 You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose 
 Freely to share our little shallop's fate. 
 Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship, — 
 Too good an English seaman to desert 
 These crippled comrades, — try to make them rest 
 More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, 
 My little shipmate, come and lean your head 
 Against your father's knee. Do you recall 
 That April mom in Ethelburga's church. 
 Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled 
 To take the sacrament with all our men. 
 Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks 
 On our first voyage? It was then I vowed 
 My sailor-soul and years to search the sea 
 Until we foimd the water-path that leads 
 From Europe into Asia. 
 
 I believe 
 That God has poured the ocean round His world, 
 Not to divide, but to unite the lands. 
 
 lOO 
 
And all the English captains that have dared 
 In little ships to plough uncharted waves, — 
 Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, 
 Raleigh and Gilbert, — all the other names, — 
 Are written in the chivalry of God 
 As men who served His purpose. I would claim 
 A place among that knighthood of the sea; 
 And I have earned it, though my quest should 
 
 fail! 
 For, mark me well, the honour of our life 
 Derives from this : to have a certain aim 
 Before us always, which our will must seek 
 Amid the peril of uncertain w^ays. 
 Then, though we miss the goal, our search is 
 
 crowned 
 With courage, and we find along our path 
 A rich reward of unexpected things. 
 Press towards the aim : take fortune as it fares ! 
 
 I know not why, but something in my heart 
 Has always whispered, "Westward seek your 
 
 goal!" 
 Three times they sent me east, but still I turned 
 The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes 
 Of ruttling ice along the Groneland coast, 
 
 lOI 
 
And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland, 
 And past the rocky capes and wooded bays 
 Where Gosnold sailed, — like one who feels his 
 
 way 
 With outstretched hand across a darkened 
 
 room, — 
 I groped among the inlets and the isles, 
 To find the passage to the Land of Spice. 
 I have not found it yet, — but I have found 
 Things worth the finding ! 
 
 Son, have you forgot 
 Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, 
 When first we sent our little ship Half- Moon, — 
 The flag of Holland floating at her peak, — 
 Across a sandy bar, and sounded in 
 Among the channels, to a goodly bay 
 Where all the navies of the world could ride? 
 A fertile island that the redmen called 
 Manhattan, lay above the bay : the land 
 Around was bountiful and friendly fair. 
 But never land v/as fair enough to hold 
 The seaman from the calling of the sea. 
 And so we bore to westward of the isle, 
 Along a mighty inlet, where the tide 
 Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood 
 That seemed to come from far away, — perhaps 
 From some mysterious gulf of jTartary? 
 
 I02 
 
Inland we held our course; by palisades 
 Of naked rock where giants might have built 
 Their fortress; and by rolling hills adorned 
 With forests rich in timber for great ships ; 
 Through narrows where the mountains shut us in 
 With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the 
 
 stream ; 
 And then through open reaches where the banks 
 Sloped to the water gently, with their fields 
 Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun. 
 Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, 
 Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat 
 Upstream to find, — what I already knew, — 
 We travelled on a river, not a strait. 
 
 But what a river! God has never poured 
 
 A stream more royal through a land more rich. 
 
 Even now I see it flowing in my dream, 
 
 While coming ages people it with men 
 
 Of manhood equal to the river's pride. 
 
 I see the wigwams of the redmen changed 
 
 To ample houses, and the tiny plots 
 
 Of maize and green tobacco broadened out 
 
 To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and 
 
 dale 
 The many-coloured mantle of their crops; 
 
 103 
 
I see the terraced vineyard on the slope 
 Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine ; 
 And cattle feeding where the red deer roam; 
 And wild-bees gathered into busy hives, 
 To store the silver comb with golden sweet; 
 And all the promised land begins to flow 
 With milk and honey. Stately manors rise 
 Along the banks, and castles top the hills. 
 And little villages grow populous with trade. 
 Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine, — 
 The thread that links a hundred towns and 
 
 towers ! 
 And looking deeper in my dream, I see 
 A mighty city covering the isle 
 They call Manhattan, equal in her state 
 To all the older capitals of earth, — 
 The gateway city of a golden world, — 
 A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, 
 And swarming with a host of busy men. 
 While to her open door across the bay 
 The ships of all the nations flock like doves. 
 My name will be remembered there, for men 
 Will say, " This river and this isle were found 
 By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek 
 The Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde." 
 
 104 
 
Yes ! yes ! I sought it then, I seek it still, — 
 My great adventure and my guiding star! 
 For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done ; 
 We hold by hope as long as life endures! 
 Somewhere among these floating fields of ice, 
 Somewhere along this westward widening bay, 
 Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night. 
 The channel opens to the Orient, — 
 I know it, — and some day a little ship 
 Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through ! 
 And why not ours, — to-morrow, — who can tell? 
 The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart! 
 These are the longest days of all the year; 
 The world is round and God is everywhere. 
 And while our shallop floats we still can steer. 
 So point her up, John King, nor'west by north. 
 We 11 keep the honour of a certain aim 
 Amid the peril of uncertain ways. 
 And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God. 
 
 Oberhofen, July, 1909. 
 
 ToS 
 
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