:'il.^-^!;:t^.;'!':':::':';;'^.''# :l:.■•:';■^l■^;'vi•;•,^:.•;■l.:^^.!!■!lla iiliiipiilifl m ,;iiiiisiiSffij;iigii:liii;issiiil!!iaiii Class _L :^ 36^1.7 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr COPYRIGHT, 1911, W. H. WOODS PRINTED BY THE LORD BALTIMORE PRESS BALTIMORE, MD. ©CI,A2a7t;S8 )u.i k 5 Preface V With the courteous permission of the several owners » of the copyrights, here gladly acknowledged, the author * has gathered in this little volume verse which originally appeared in Scrihner, The Atlantic Monthly, The Century, Harper's Magazine, St. Nicholas, The Youth's Companion, The Independent, The Sunday School Times, and other periodicals. To this is added other work, some of it perhaps of equal importance, which has not hitherto appeared in print ; and the whole represents the author's avocation during the later years of a long pastorate. It has been a pleasure to write these lines. '* Art for Art's Sake," and verse for verse's sake, may be a weary way apart, it is true, but each has its own reward. And if through these broken and not always transparent windows, the reader may gain some right vision of the author's world, the author shall dwell content. W. H. W. 212 North Carey Street, Baltimore. TO THE LONG-SUFFERING, BUT STILL TOO KINDLY CRITICS IN MY OWN HOME Contents Abbot Boniface 32 Accompanist, The 129 Aleutian 15 Anesthetic, The 116 Angel of The Passion, The. 141 An Old-fashioned Sport. ... 150 An Old Man's Prayer 142 Anteroom, The 9 Apollo's Song 56 " Arise, Let us go hence " 155 At Emmaus 56 At The Grave of Poe 40 Backgrounds . . .- 58 Bedtime 123 Behind The Scenes 43 Bellringers, The 26 Bethel-on-the-Hill 58 Bluegrass 39 Children's Praise 153 Children's Prayer, The. ... 137 Conjurer, The 98 Dandelion, The 71 Discovery, The 124 Dominion 149 Dream of Gods, A 99 Dreamer, The 61 Dream-wreck 128 Emmaus Guest, The 155 End of The Road, The ... ^57 Fall of The Oak, The 29 Foreknown 8 Frogs in April, The 72 Grandmother's Hair 34 Great Heart's Heaven 42 Headache Day 80 Healer, The 139 His Hidden One 155 Homesick 62 House of Broken Swords. . . 20 How They Grow 68 In Old Jerusalem 142 In San Na-zaro 30 In That Land 140 In The Colorado Canon ... 52 In The New Congressional Library 67 In The Passage 45 In Trinity Churchyard . . 91 Jackson's Monument in Johanan 147 June Apples 122 King's Friend, The 112 Laddie's Fishing 97 Last Homing, The 90 Lightship, The 88 Like Zaccheus 118 Lilies' Hymn, The 87 Mercury 109 Midnight Train, The .... 5 MoTORMAN, The 74 Night Flowers 117 Old Porch, The 24 Old School House, The ... 86 On an Old Violin 12 On Tantramar 93 Pan O'Dreams 14 Path to The Spring, The 48 Pilate 117 Pine Tree in Town, The . . 135 Poets' Land 64 Prayer of Pan, The 18 Puritan 68 Quest, The 108 Red-winged Starling, The. 79 River Road, The 76 Road Builder, The 22 Road of Dreams, The 114 Saw Mill, The 82 Second Sight, The 154 Seer, The 7 Shepherd's Voice, The .... 136 Sighing in the Pines, The 144 Song of The Grass, The . . 54 Song of the Mauser Bul- let, The 53 St. Stephen's Vision 157 Stream That Came to Town, The 44 Stoker 46 Sycamores u Test, The 147 Three Trails, The 26 To A Young Hospital Nurse 49 Track- Walker, The 51 Tree of Love, The i?j Tybee's Bell 84 Unaware 35 Village Street, The 95 Voyagers 60 Waiting World, The ijS When Amy Went 70 When The Bees Swarm . . 105 When The Door Opens . . 78 Wicket Gate, The 151 Worker and His Work, The 120 The Midnight Train It rolls up out of dreams — Sometimes it wakes me in Himal'yan snow, Sometimes in Kandahar I hear it blow, As round the mountain gleams The Cyclops headlight, and I catch the roar Cushioned with distance till it sounds no more Than snow-fed April streams. But quickly moves anear And now, still hissing, at the station stands This nightmare monster out of dragon lands; Then on my waiting ear Bells ring; and dim-lit squares, uncoiling slow, Like dragon scales, across the orchard go And past the hillside clear. So nigh the coaches glide That sometimes at the window where I wait I catch swift glimpses of their silken state — The gay world in its pride I see go by ; anon, a hectic face Fleeing the plague ; and oft in youthful grace The bridegroom and the bride. They're faring south, they say. To those bright regions where the only snows Are pink and golden, and surnamed The Rose ; Joys, half a year away From these bleak hills and skies of wintry gloom, For yon blest pilgrims shall wear summer bloom When once more night is day. THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The townsfolk round me spread Stir in their sleep, and say, " She's late, to-night. — Awake, ye sleepers ! When was ever sight Or sound like this that sped. This roaring earthquake through the darkness hurled! Not Phaethon's coursers so might shake the world When first the dawn they led. Nay, nor so dread to view The fiery car that swept the Tishbite home ; Triumphs acclaimed in Babylon and Rome Did punier pomp endue. And vanished gods, around the Trojan gate Ramping of old, in far less godlike state Their mimic axles drew. But Oh! to go like this When we too change our planets ! Not with moan Nor yet to start in silence and alone. But parting-pangs to miss, And crowned and charioted, th' abyss to win. And thus on all worlds waiting, thunder in, And taste the conqueror's bliss ! 'Tis gone. Like August streams Dwindling, in distance dies the less'ning roar ; The sparks are dead ; the red rear lights no more Send back their warning gleams. Far down in Kandahar the whistles blow, And now I lose them in Himal'yan snow — The train rolls on in dreams. THE SEER The Seer " Courage ! " he whispered through his stiffening lips. " I scent the flood, I see the beckoning tips Of wind-blown palms." They cried, "O phantom-curst, Mock not thy brethren when they die of thirst." " Cool, cool, the crisping wave ! " His dying moan Was still but this. They left him there alone, And groping hopeless through the wastes around, The wind-blown palm-trees by the waters found. " Alas ! " they cried then, " While we drink our fill. Our seer died thirsting." '* Nay, the desert still Bounds us," one said, " And but this trampled stream Our lips have drunk: his, of his crystal dream." THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Foreknown " O thou that comest past the stars, And past the utmost bound that bars Us from unguessed infinity, What hast thou seen along the road, What marvels vast thy pathway strewed, The long, long path to Calvary ? " / saw the sower down his hrozvn fields striding, Fling wide the fruitful grain, I sazv the foxes in the old tombs hiding By white towns veiled in rain." " But this we that are men may see — Did no great Voices speak with thee A journeying to Jerusalem? Thou that hast walked with Life and Death In lands forbid to mortal breath, What secrets were unloosed of them?" / heard the games the children's feet were ivinging There in your markets met, I heard the price two tiny birds were bringing — That I remember yet." " Nay, Lord, but show some wonder done, Now, or in times ere time begun, That flashes worth Thy Deity; Light with a look a new-made world, Or stay the swift hours onward whirled. Till we forget Gethsemane." / kneiv, I knezv, ere Eden's rose zvas blozving, Prick of the twisted thorn — The nails, the darkness, and the zvarm blood ilozving, I knezv — and I zv2iS born." THE ANTEROOM The Anteroom The door behind us closed, Silent as sunset; for no alien sound May break the stillness of that peace profound Where, round the hall disposed, The mothers lay; and some with hands outspread. And some with warm arms round a childish head, 'Neath shadowy arches dozed. They lay down worn and old. As Time had left them; but the while they slept A silent change across their faces crept, Like young day's rose of gold On the gray cheeks of night, and slumbers sooth All the old glories of their vanished youth Restored them manifold. No shrined saints were they. But meekly ranged them with that womanhood On earth too weary to be greatly good, And toiling on alway, Their chiefest heaven, their hopes of being blest. Grew but to this — that God would grant them rest— And now at rest they lay. The lofty roof was dim, If roof there was; for wisps and shapes of things With wind-blown hair and clouds of moving wings High overhead did swim When I looked up, and sometimes childlike eyes Looked down upon me, grave, and strangely wise, Under a halo's rim. 10 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Three pictured windows showed Morning, and eve, and moonlit midnight high, Each storied true, but each a dying sky — And where the softest glowed, That saffron window named, " The Star of Even," A stairway clomb ; they said it clomb to heaven, And once was angels' road. Fireflies lit up the gloom, And drowsy winds went waving to and fro A thousand roses now about to blow, And in the dusky room — Or room or garden — round each sleeper's bed Dream-faces shone, and golden visions spread, Woven in Slumber's loom. And yet not wholly still Was that still place, nor always wrapped in sleep Those quiet shapes ; their folded trances deep They loosed and left at will ; Sometimes a child laughed ; once a bell struck one, And a voice cried, "The night is just begun. Sleep on — your dreams fulfil.'' So one by one they win At last to heaven ; for evermore there went Through the vast room a thrill, a wonderment — • I heard a song begin, Remote, unspeakable ; a door swung wide, And some glad mother waking, glorified, Arose and entered in. SYCAMORES ii Sycamores They love no crowded forest dark, They dimb no mountains high, But ranged along the pleasant vale Where shining waters lie, Their brown coats curling open show A silvery undergleam, Like the white limbs of laughing boys Half ready for the stream. What if they yield no harvests sweet, Nor massive timbers sound, And all their summer leafage casts But scanty shade around ; Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance, Their young leaves laugh in tune. And there's no lad in all the land Knows better when 'tis June. They come from groves of Arcady, Or some lost Land of Mirth, That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed May not possess the earth, And though they neither toil nor spin, Nor fruitful duties pay, They also serve, mayhap, who help The world keep holiday. 12 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS On an Old Violin Men say Stradivari made it. Here's the faded name — And that Paganini played it, At his topmost fame. But an unguessed chisel shaped it. Unseen fingers moved the bow ; Magic not in mortal hands, Powers, no human skill commands. Life and love and sorrow blended In this worn shell long ago. For this gem of joiner's art Was of old a pine-tree's heart, Harkening, hoarding wild-wood music In a living treasury — Yon deep chords our senses shaking Like some mighty harp-strings breaking (Now 'tis Sarasate's bow), Are not art, but memory — So makes moan a falling tree. Long it lay in castle wall, Roofing feast and funeral. Looking down on smoking torches, Griefs that chill, and love that scorches. Peace and turmoil, sleep and strife ; Shouts of men, and maidens' laughter. Song, and sighs that tremble after, These the dusky roof-tree heard. Listening at the doors of life. ON AN OLD VIOLIN 13 One red night the castle fell, And the charred beam came to dwell In a peasant's cabin lowly, Builded in the chimney-breast ; Watched and heard the mother slowly Croon a tired child to rest ; Pondered long on simple arts Known alone to loving hearts. Till that day the master spied it, Plucked it forth and shaved it thin, Smoothed it, shaped it, stringed and tried it. And, behold ! the violin. 'Twas not Stradivari made it. No, nor Paganini played it. All alone ; 'tis these, I ween. Living, learning, loving, serving, Make a man or violin. 14 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Pan O'Dreams " What dost thou here where the shivering reeds Lean over the dark marsh streams, O piper a-piping thy haunting tunes That dwindle and die on the dim lagoons In the waning autumn's gleams ? " And the piper said under his flying hair, " I set me my nets for dreams." " But do the dreams fly on the open marsh By daylight? And these thy snares, Where are they?" He lifted his stately head And his lean brown fingers fluttering spread And played ; and the by-gone airs Blew out of a summer of long ago And lands where a lost love fares Till June came back o'er the whispering reeds And pranked them in emerald plumes — (Oh, the sky was blue and the day was long!) And the bubbling notes of the starling's song Rang over the elder-blooms. And the dark marsh waters in ripples ran Far down in the grassy glooms. Then he softlier blew, and the low winds woke That whimper about the sills And the doors, when the wintry day is done. And the warmth and joy are gone with the sun, Gone down behind lonely hills — When a hush falls over the children's glee At dusk in the desolate hills. ALEUTIAN And never a lane nor a laughing brook By memory's meadows lay, But the cunning notes found a track to it, And my gladdening heart won back to it By the piper's path that day, For his are the keys of the world that is And worlds that are worlds away. And under the tunes came a tingling joy That ran in my veins like wine — " O piper, thy nets are most strange," I cried, " And their meshes of golden memories tied, But the things you snare are mine." " My pipes are the heart of the world," he said, " And dreams that are mine are thine." Aleutian Mists are his heavens. His moon behind a veil, Unseen, her silvern circle slowly fills ; How fair in twilight pale Are shy young stars down vistas in the hills He knows not, nor the golden pomps of June, When high o'erhead by shimmering bastions hoary The sun in tranquil glory Goes westering down some star-deep, blue lagoon; But spindrift clouds his island outlines blur, And long rains round him purr. And ceaseless fogs, of Asian sea winds borne, Swirl in, till night and noon Are writ in one dull Arctic character. Alike of shadow and of shining shorn. i6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Our tumult of the street, Trample of feet, Harsh roaring wheels and throbbing bells and cries. To that swart islander were strangest dream — Save when the tempest flies, No mightier voices rise Than barking seal-herds, or the sea-bird's scream. All round his isles ; and tales of tower and dome Seem but a shipwrecked stranger's rude romancing To him whose vagrant home Is a light kayak mid the whitecaps dancing In wild seas west of Nome. For him no ripe fields rustle. Waiting the fruitful bustle Of harvest-scenes, nor autumn orchards bending Beneath their painted burdens, perfume lending To every passing air — 'Tis his to reap the unsown waters wide. To strike the salmon swift in swinging sea, Silent as foam across the foam to glide Among the basking seals before they flee ; And if no garden fair Allure his care. No bit of heavenly blue in blossoms molden, Nor roses red nor golden Gladden his path, yet sometimes round the year A great hand sweeps the curtains from his skies. And spired auroras dazzling up the sphere Foreshow him Paradise. ALEUTIAN 17 No race behind him lies, Rooted in memories, No shining deeds with such rare art rehearsed That men are nigh forgetting The jewel in the setting — His lonely soul is versed In one scant tongue ; a few rough shards of speech Serve all his need; but when beneath the moon That still sets sidewise down the frozen beach, In the dim hut he hears his wife's low croon. His first-born's gurgling laugh, well knows he then That song, that laughter, speaks all tongues of men. What if to him the storied past is dumb. Or, finding speech, but stirs a troubled doubting? Can Caesar's ashes warm the fingers numb? What helps Achilles" shouting. Or hinders. Helen's pouting, Far by Scamander and the doomed wall. To him whose spear-long barque of lightest leather 'Mid ghostly icebergs towering Andes-tall, Must Arctic tempests weather? Nay, 'tis not Art alone, Nor sad-eyed centuries of weary lore. Nor rugged northern zone. With hard-earned harvests wrung from watery floor, Makes men or mars ; in Heaven's eternal plan 'Tis living only makes a man a man. The Prayer of Pan "But I, I have no soul ! " — The voice arose, Man's tone, but with an intake spent and slow And shuddering, like a child's ; while twilight gray Between the dawn and day, when old men die, Wrapped the wet woods, and made the ruined shrine And that goat-footed shape that huddled there Shadowy as dreams. And startled night-folk shy With poised foot and doubting senses heard The prayer of Pan. "Wilt thou not let me be, '^y \j Thou harrier of Olympus? All are gone, ■/J^ A Gone and forgot, who once kept court with Jove, '^ ^ '' ' Save only me, and me thou foUowest hard. I know thee, who thou art, and whom thou madest Thy messenger ; for once in Jericho In the fig-orchards hid, unseen I saw, (Unseen of men, but naked still to thee,) Saw Him whose name thou wilt not let me speak, Stoop down and take from woman-arms a babe, And knew him mother of all motherhood, By what dread names so e'er in other worlds They throne him. But for me, he will not look On me. I have no soul," He paused, and still The drear autumnal rain forgot to drip, And winds of daybreak, on which passing souls Go winging hence, were dumb : they had not known Till now what wailing meant. "Why must I die," Again the pleading-voice — "who am not man. And yet not all a beast, but, beast or man, Wholly thy creature's creature, and not thine? I have not fought against thee, but of old Believed and trembled; 3'ea, thou pitiful To all but me, be judge if poor old Pan, Goat-hoofed, goat-hearted, piping in the wood His silly tunes, e'er set himself for ill To aught of thine? And yet thou bidd'st me now Die, and be done. Be done ! No more to see How silently the earth puts on the day, And witli what conscious majesty the stars Into their kingdom come; to hear no more Converse of growing leaves, and winds at play, And silvery-laughing streams; nor aye at dusk When dewy breezes o'er the copses sigh, To scent the flowers of night. To die, to cease, And mid quick Nature's teeming turmoil, lie Mere earth, a clot of trampled ooze ! Alas, Would I had been thy beast, thy sparrow small, The happy, worthless thing that, falling, knows Its Maker by, and watching. Kind art thou, Yea, kind to all thine own ; but I am Pan, The beast, outcast, unowned, and dying." Then A sudden wind arose, and ceased : a sound, A sense of some great footstep coming, shook The bristling wood : all earth was ear : ev'n stones Listened by curdling brooks, and 'neath the hills The dawn itself stood waiting. He who prayed Had now an unseen audience. "Lo, I go. As Jove went and his compeers," thus the voice, Now but a whisper low; "y^t, ere I pass. One boon I crave, who have not asked before Or gift or grace : — Thou unforgetting God, Forget who calls thee now, and smiling down. Think me a man, thy foolish, erring man, Who, childlike, oft hath brought his bruised heart. And cried thee, 'Oh ! and Oh, my Father ! ' Yea, As such an one appraise me; yet not now Send help or pity, but for once, ay, once. Give me to praise. Lend me a human soul, And teach me hallelujahs ! " Was it heard. Who knows? But sweet, Oh. That pagan prayer? sweet. The charmed air that now, not sound alone, But ripest harvests of each single sense Thrilled on the ear. Moonlight was there, and dew, The violet's fragrance, and the thrush's hymn, Grace of the fawn, and touches silken-soft As moving shadows' kisses, married all In that one throbbing psalm. Yea, and white dreams That lonely haunt Himalayan peaks remote Of Manhood, things too high, too faint, too far. For spoken prayer or praising, in that strain Poured forth their worship, till the dreary wood Seemed Eden ere the first star-songs of dawn Lapsed into silence. Thrice the music soared And sank. And last, again that sobbing breath, "My Father, Oh, my Father ! " broke and ceased. And day's red lances pierced the silent shrine. 20 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The House of Broken Swords On one side marshes met the snarling sea, And on the other three gaunt mountain peaks Shot up 'mid screaming eagles ; and between, Beetling above an inky tarn, upclomb That hostelry. Cloud-high it loomed, and dark As Amazonian forests. Far overhead Its shadowy roof, sometimes but spindrift dim, Sometimes was heaven, with lucent twilight skies Besprent with stars ; and round each echoing hall From carven ambrys quaint, old storied arms Blazoned the walls. There on Goliath's blade Goliath's blood still rusted ; there sea-born Excalibur flaunted his wizard hilt. And Soldan's yataghan and Richard's brand Hung with the baton that in Caesar's grasp Dispeopled nations. But the loftiest nave In that strange house was hung with broken swords. Whereof the chiefest three had shields beneath Scrolled each with shining names. One shield was hi; Who long time humbled Rome, and one, blood-red, Recalled the Corsican ; and last, a shield Now wet with old men's tears, proclaimed the chief Whose ramparts linger 'mid Virginian pines. Untenanted the place, to casual eyes. And silent ; but anon began afar Onset of armed feet, and thunders rolled, THE HOUSE OF BROKEN SWORDS 21 (Thunders or battle), and a hand unseen Lifted a veil ; and Lo ! a marching host Swept through the aisles, while on amazed ears Sea-like uprose the Prayer of Beaten Men. We are the fallen, who with helpless faces Hid in the dust, in stiffening ruin lay, Felt the hoofs beat, and heard the rattling traces As o'er ns drove the chariots of the fray. We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin, And with our last glance glimpsed the victor's glory For which we died, but dying might not win. We were but men. Always our eyes were holden. We could not read the dark that walled us round, Nor deem our futile plans with thine enfolden — We fought, not knoiving God zvas on the ground. Give us our own; and though in realms eternal The potsherd and the pot, belike, are one. Make our old world to know that with supernal Pozuers zve are matched, and by the stars o'erthrozvn. Aye, grant our cars to hear the foolish praising Of men — old voices of our lost home-land. Or else, the gateways of this dim world raising, Give us our swords again, and hold thy hand." Thus prayed they; and no spoken answer fell, But whoso watched, saw the dark roof again Flash into sudden heaven aglow with stars That aimed their light straight as the glance of God, On those three shields beneath the broken swords. 22 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Road Builder Nature to him had lent In meek abandonment Her Titan powers, and loosed her wonted laws ; His clock-timed lightnings clove the lonely hills Close on the echoes of his clinking drills, And when the mountain's breast His mimic earthquakes ploughed, in wondrous pause One leap below the crest, He fixed in stable rest The granite avalanche ; and there his ringing Steel ribands wind, and mile-long cargoes ride, And little children singing Go by, where once young eagles yellow-eyed Screamed from their eyries clinging He seemed to us the Spirit of To-day Exultingly incarnate; even his play Sat on him tense as sunlight on a sword ; No soft Delilah-dream With white arms clinging clogged his soul's endeavor, Nor for vain worlds that seem, But worlds that are, we thought his strength was poured As if the Now and Here meant all Forever. Not his the backward glance of sad-eyed seer, But front of pioneer, Head up, eyes kindling, face to face with life. And high heart leaping with the joy of strife — Poets for song, and priests for prayers and creeds, But to us watching here, Song, prayers, and life, love, all he wrought in deeds. THE ROAD BUILDER 23 I ! But blind, blind hearts still are we at the best! We had not guessed i What thoughts far-ranging hived in that keen brain ; Sometimes a little wonder, J We hid, our praises under, Sometimes his whirling words smote us in vain. And to his shining look Turned we bewildered by the thing he spoke — " John was a Voice," he laughed once, " I, a hand Cast up the King's highway across the land, Or ere He comes again." " Nay, man, What King? " we cried him. " All for gold Your labors manifold ; The fields, the mines, to mart. The world to fetch and carry — this your part." And smiling still, above his figured chart He bent him as of old. i But that wild night he died, Watching his couch beside, Faint and afar we heard a sudden rolling j Of giant wheels, and great bells booming, tolling, < Till the air trembled, and the solid ground; It grew, it thundered past, \ Whelming all senses in the sense of sound, I And, hushing wonder to an awe profound, j Away in distance and to silence drew ; i And faint and far across horizons vast ■ A long, low whistle blew. And our road builder, when j That mighty passing ceased, had ceased from men. \ Earth-man we thought him once, with chain and rod — That night, that way, a prophet went to God. 24 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Old Porch We did not ask in those old days If it looked east or west, To our young eyes the landscape there Of all the world was best ; The steps led out to hills of home, Known fields and meadows low With childhood's morning glory lit — What more was there to know? The little wild things loved it, too, The pewee and the wren — The squirrel from the oak near by Would frolic there, and when Our laughing Patty's harmless broom Had chased him to his limb, He'd sit and scold at her as if The porch belonged to him. The slim, unpainted pillars gray. The roof where mosses met, The wabbly banisters, the bench, The battered croquet-set, I see them all, and all embowered When June was at its height, With rose-bloom thick as clustered stars Some keen December night. THE OLD PORCH 25 There father's home-made chair all day Its waiting arms outspread, But might not clasp that sturdy shape Till daylight's tasks were sped. Then in the dusk came mother's voice And Patty's low replies — The honeysuckle's breath around. The young moon in the skies. And if at times our glances caught A glimpse of marble pale Against the drooping cedars dark Beyond the garden's rail. It brought no aching thoughts of those Who there in quiet lay. For even our vanished ones we felt Were still not far away. They say the place is haunted now. But if the tale were true If Heaven would but a single hour Of those old times renew, Not all the gain nor ease nor power That cheats a world of men Could keep me ; on my knees I'd go To that old porch again. 26 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Three Trails They all led out of my Vale of Youth, A white path over the hill, A whispering stream, and a spire of smoke In the windless dawning chill. The white road led to the Towers of Gain, The river, to Far Romance, But the way of the smoke was lost, I thought, In the void of heaven's expanse. Now I am back from the Towers of Gain, And little I brought away — My river is long gone dry; but here In the windless twilight gray Is the heavenward trail of old; and soon With my pilgrim-staff in hand, I go, a pillar of smoke my guide, To look for the Promised Land. The Bellringers " Ye shall mind him well," was the voice they heard "With a hidden and skilled upholding; Ye shall strike your tunes to a haunting word In his ears, till the deeps of life are stirred. And the marvel of his unfolding Soul in your sight shall be precious to see ; Now, hasten ; and rich shall your service be." THE BELLRINGERS 27 Irland and Hilph and Gzvernalo, These zvere the three that were sent — Irland zvas grave and strong and slow. But Hilph ever dancing went — One had a hell of crystal sheen, And one had a hell of gold, And one had a lily-hell, all green. With a strange name round it scrolled. And they came to a sad-eyed silent man With a surgeon's wonderful fingers For the scalpel keen and the curved trepan — But his dreams were dead ere his fame began, Though the memory in him lingers Of the pulse and lift of the poet's heart God asked, and he gave, for the healer's art, Irland would strike a sound of war That rolled with a stirring tone Like drum-heats, sometimes heard afar By the haunted man alone; Sometimes it came at the tahle grim Where his needful task zvas done. And mazed his so\il, and thrilled in him In tumult of triumphs won. The fame of his art blew over the land, But anon came a whisper stealing Of stranger things than the skill of his hand — ■ Men said he would pause and listening stand In the midst of perilous dealing, And under his touch, in their gropings dim, The sick folk babbled of heavenly hymn. 28 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Not half might careless mortals dream Of the mirth Hilph's music told, But far on high the living stream When it hears that bell of gold, hs rippling zvaters backzfard rears As if it zvoiild climb the hill. And never a praying seraph hears And keeps at his praying still. But the wonder grew, and the whispered speech At his back, under bent hands hiding — What then? Could his fingers but heahng reach, Or the help that a sick child's eyes beseech, Little cared he for men's deriding; And while the world pitied a great man mad. He wrought and he listened' and grew more glad— Till on a time when Gwernalo With his lily-bell of green ' Gan slowly szving it to and fro With a ringing cry between, And that strange zvord around it scrolled Leaped into a living flame. And earth no more the man might hold When the heavens called his new name. THE FALL OF THE OAK 20 The Fall of the Oak With front majestic o'er his fellows lifted, Three hundred years he watched the dawn come in. Turn its long lances on the night-mists drifted, And slope by slope the world to daylight win. The gaunt gray figure at his vitals striking Seems but an infant to the ancient tree Whose youth looked down on grandsons of the Viking And rough newcomers from an unknown sea. He saw Winonah's wigwams careless cluster Where now the corn-shocks camp in ordered files. And heard low thunders of the bisons' muster Where clouds of sheep now fleck the fertile miles. Much, much has passed him down the ages ranging. Old names of men, old towns and states and wars— The fields, the ways, the very earth went changing— He only stood— he and the steadfast stars. And now, alas ! low, low behind him wheeling Sinks the red sun he shall not see go down, And his own crest, in strangest ruin reeling. Droops not the slowlier for its long renown. The woods look on in silent grief attending. The winds no mourning make around his stem- Too weak their wailing for a giant's ending— The oak's own downfall is his requiem, And now begins; his great heart-strings are breaking; His branches tremble ; now his mighty head He stoops, and then, the hillside round him shaking. With whirlwind roar falls crashing prone and dead. 30 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS And watched afar by many a frowning column The woodman homeward moves while shadows run, And leaves behind him in the twilight solemn Three hundred years of life and work undone. In San Na-zaro In San Na-zaro's gardens The nightingales are still — They know a sweeter voice than theirs Is passing from the hill. And the white rose and the crimson Their heads are bending low — For roses lie on Lucia's breast, And Lucia does not know — ■ Pale roses, all too lightly clasped In hands as cold as snow. In San Na-zaro's cloisters, By one dim altar-light. The gray-haired monks are met to judge Their youngest anchorite ; For Hugo knelt in open hall When passing-prayers were read, And kissed with white and shaking lips The still face of the dead — " The love I might not give to Life I give to Death," he said. IN SAN NA-ZARO 31 The monks of San Na-zaro Their doom have spoken now — They cannot know when breaking hearts Assoil a broken vow, But in the funeral chamber Amid the dim-lit gloom The pale buds laid on Lucia's breast Unfold in perfect bloom, And that calm smile the dying lips Had lost, the dead resume. And in Na-zaro's gardens Now when the night is dim, Young Hugo comes, and nightingales Have songs alone for him, And the white rose and the crimson All down their bending rows Lean close to touch his clasped hands And whisper, as he goes, " Thy kiss hath waked a heart in heaven ; She knows now ; Lucia knows." 32 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Abbot Boniface Wrinkled, ascetic, and grim. With little of fault or whim. And little of sunny and human mould Where the seeds of liking might find a hold — Such was Father Boniface, The abbot of rich old Allonby Chase, And nigh fourscore years old. From a life spent in the thick Of feud with the heretick. Or in ruling with strong hand small and great Inside or in sight of the abbey gate, He came at the last to die. And, meek enough now, in chapel m,ust lie In pomp he used to hate. In heaven they gave him a guide. Who, shining there at his side, Said, " Now to the great ones first shall we seek. Here are Fathers Syrian, Spanish, Greek, And Fathers, of course, of Rome ; And some from the uttermost kingdoms come. And strange, unchurchly clique." The peace on the abbot's face xA.t this was lessened a space, But he said no word, and the angel tall Lead on till they came to a garden wall — The towers of the place were seven. And it lay on the sunset side of heaven Where twilight glories fall. ABBOT BONIFACE 33 'Twas a fair place and a wide, And garnished on every side With riot of bloom, and the birds and the bees Kept tune to the tinkle of streams at ease. And many a gurgling shout From the dimpled crew in the grass rang out High on the listening breeze. Then hard by the opien gate The abbot cried aloud, " Wait, I pray thee, O angel, and quickly tell What bright ones are these? " And he said, " Here dwell The souls of the children small Who died in the wreck of their fathers' fall. Too young to know they fell." " Yon lad at play by the brook Was Korah's son : when they took White Ashkelon's towers, and the people slew, Like doves, all the little souls this way flew ; The child of the Canaanite Has a welcome here in the high God's sight As warm as has the Jew." " Sayest thou ! They are orphans, then," Said Boniface; and again, "May an old man enter? And childless too?" And then at the answer, eagerly drew Nigh an Amalekite maid Of three, who alone by a rose-tree played. And letting the rose leaves through 34 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Pink fingers, watching his face, She laughed with a baby grace, And held out her arms. And the guide went on To the great — if great ones he sought — alone. But Boniface in the thick Of the heathen seed and the heretick Found heaven and heartsease won. Grandmother's Hair It has not the glory of red, red gold, Nor the glimmer of ebon tresses, And she wears it now in as plain a fold As the kerchiefs of Quaker dresses. But I wonder still, as I mark it there In the glow of the lamps illuming, If the earth has another flower as fair As the head of an old saint blooming. They say it was brown when the years were young, With a ripple of sunlight braided, And the shimm'ring coils on her shoulders hung- But the sunlight long ago faded, And slowly the moonlight came in its place, Till the gray and the dark locks twining, Grew into a silvery sign of grace In the gleam of the white hairs shining. There are maidens yet 'neath the old roof-tree — There are Aileen, Anna, and Gary, And naught do they lack that a maid must be That's dainty and modest and merry. And still there's a tinkle of soft guitars On the porches when shadows darken, And a whispered plea 'neath the music's bars For an ear that will bend to hearken. UNAWARE 35 And grandmother smiles at the broken tune- Do they think she does not remember? There are tints of the dawn that died in June In the sunsets of chill December, And not with the day is the moon made new, But she grows with the growing even, And the best of our morning dreams come true In the twilight that's nearest heaven. And so she sits there in the lamplight clear With a smile for the children's greeting, And she dreams at times of the parting near, And again, of the coming meeting. But we, as we gaze on the lustrous hair, Read the truth in its marvel hoary. And know that the blessed may sometimes wear. Ere they leave us, their crowns of glory. Unaware " Children, tell me who was she Dancing with you on the lea? That bright maid of mien beguiling, Sometimes sad and sometimes smiling, But with witching sweetness wiling All your hearts away — • Was it elfin maid, or human. Princess fay, or budding woman, Led your games to-day ? " Then again I heard her laughter. And the children dancing after Said not yea or nay. 36 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS " Who was with you, lovers twain, Yonder in the moonlit lane? Young she seemed and maiden-slender. Yet might Psyche nothing mend her Phantom grace, nor Venus lend her Aught of beauty new — Once I watched her bend and whisper- Did she in that speaking lisp her Name and fame to you ? " " Nay," the lovers said in wonder, " None was in the rose-lane yonder. None beside us two." " Mother, in whose brooding eyes Shine low lights of Paradise, When the sunset skies of amber Paint the west, and in the chamber Sleepy-head at last would clamber Up the waiting knee. Round ye both her white arms twining Standeth one in raiment shining, Wondrous fair to see — Can this be the Mary-mother?" Soft she answered, " Here's no other But my child and me." " Soldier, in thy stern delight Headlong charging down the fight. Who is she above you gliding Like an ancient goddess guiding Heroes forth, and still dividing With them triumphs won? THE END OF THE ROAD 2,7 Not more brave was Trojan Hector, i Not more proud the Trojan's victor, I Far by Ilion." j " Vex me not with phantom woman," i Cried the soldier, " Lo, the foeman , Wavers ! Ride, ride on ! " Seeking still and still distraught, To the sage my quest I brought, " Tell me, father, what this haunting Vision is, this changing, taunting, Woman shape, the world enchanting. Yet that none confess ; Is it trick of necromancy. Or some bright mirage of fancy. Gilding men's distress?" Something far beyond him eyeing, " That," the wise man answered sighing, '■ That is Happiness." The End of the Road There was never a voice proclaimed the place, There was never a guard around it, ! Just a corner turned in the Lane of Life, j And, ere I could marvel, I found it — A wicket-gate in a moldering wall With a wild vine over it springing. And a cowled shape on the low stone seat By the wicket sitting and singing. Swart men of Arahy, Pilgrim and Paladin, i Join in the goodly array — Knights of Plantagenct, horsemen of Saladin — , All the world erozuding the ivay." 38 THE ANTEROOM AN D OTHER POEMS In wonder I turned, and over the road I had trodden, a mist was stooping, And in it was thunder of viewless hoofs, Tumultuous myriads, trooping To that one portal : The ways of the world From afar and anear came to it, And the gatekeeper sang as, one by one, He ushered the travellers through it. " Hither rode Laimcelot, parted from Guinever — Princes and Beggarmen bold — Some like a Charlemagne, riding in miniver, Some in their gaberdines old." Then opened the gate, and lilies I saw In the cool grass, nodding and waving, A murmur of bees was borne on the breeze, A tinkle of rivulets laving Velvety banks where the riders reclined Asleep in the untroubled weather — The beggar and king, the sage and the knave, And the mother and child, together. "Light, light, ye gentlemen, cease from your wandering, Won is the ultimate quest. Sages from counseling, fools from your maundering, Rest ye well. Silence is best." But when I would enter, that keeper gray With a skeleton finger stayed me. " Not yet," he whispered — His finger was cold, And the look of his eye affrayed me — " 'Twas Fancy untimely showed thee the Gate, (She only the Future may borrow), Go, now; the feet of the galloping Hours Shall brinsf thee again — and to-morrow." BLUE GRASS 30 | Rest ye now soberly, striving is done for you. Finished the Chase and Flight — If ye were winners or losers is one for yon. Rode ye for Wrong or for Right." Blue Grass Not for men to reap or sow, It's as wild and wide as snow — Red men found it here untended With its seed-stalks all up-ended Lance-like, countless, plumed and splendid ; And that fairy soldier-show Still it keeps in sunny dingle Where the elm tree stands up single Sentry down the old fence-row — Still it holds its mimic muster Where the oak tree cronies cluster, And the sunlight winks down on it when the limbs swing to and fro. Nature's homespun this, for wear Changeless round the changing year ; Other vesture has she rarer, Roses for a day are fairer. Autumn woods awhile may share her Favor, yet is naught so dear As this tufted velvet sprangled. Knee-deep, crisply sweet, and spangled Thick with flawless dewdrops clear ; Drifting wintry snows may hide it. Drouth and parching winds betide it, But it keeps its dewy freshness though the world around is sere. 40 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Blue they call it, but it's green, Touched with palest silver sheen — All things love it; sleek herds grazing. Red-wings o'er it anthems raising, Most of all, some fond eye gazing That has long in exile been. Even the steep it mantles, showing Subtler curves than waters flowing Down some giant ledge unseen, And from many a desert dreary Homesick hearts and eyes aweary Turn, as schoolboys turn to water, to the blue grass cool and clean. At the Grave of Poe Was there no green valley by Auber's tarn Or slope in the woods of Weir, No sepulchre dim in the cypress glade Where long ago lost Ulalume was laid, Awaiting her lover's bier — That they buried a prince of Poet's Land In a street-side graveyard drear — Was all that was left him of Poet's Land But a shrunken grass-plot sere? 'Tis there in the noon men quivering feel The shattering car-wheel sound, And there in the night upon tense-strung ears The scintillant arc-light's glistering spears AT THE GRAVE OF POE 4T Hiss into the darkness round, And never is peace till the pitying snows Heal over the aching ground — Till the sooth and silence of night-long snows Lie deep on the echoing ground. Do ye well, O People, to rate him dim In the firmaments of home, When over wide oceans he shines on high An unsetting star of the Western sky. Far up in the purple dome That glows with the " glory that once was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome ? " Nay, your city is old and wide and fair. And many a column tall And figures of bronze with a laurelled name Shows the pledges proud ye have given to Fame, But the proudest of them all Is the square gray stone with its carven harp That stands by the old church wall — Is the name and face and the carven harp By the old Westminster wall. 42 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Greatheart's Heaven Said Sir Greatheart to his Angel, " I can dig and cleave and hew, Build my navies, cities, kingdoms, as I will ; Yon dominion lost in Eden now is well-nigh won anew. And I hold the earth and sea my vassals still." " Yet thou whisp'rest me of heaven, with its music and its peace — What have these to do with men at clanging noon? Let the psalms be for the weary, for the beaten, battles cease, But for me thy summons cometh over soon." " With my works I praise my Maker, ships and bridges are my song, And for harps, a thousand thousand engines' beat, As I hang mine iron highways in the clouds the cliffs along. Or let in on bison-ranges seas of wheat." " Aye, and give me but To-morrow, and I'll shout back from the pole. One to-morrow, and I'll flaunt me high in air Till the eagle lags below me, and the thunder-wheels that roll Now but ruin, through the skies my ships shall bear." *' But what's left to venture yonder, in that finished world and fine, What's to win that still may challenge courage stern? Do they take their manhood with them who this leaping life resign? Heaven? Yes; but not at noon we thither turn." BEHIND THE SCENES 43 And the Angel said, " At bed-time pleads the child among his blocks, 'Wait a bit: I build a castle, tall and strong! ' Thou bridge-builder, whom the spider 'mid his flying cables mocks, Think not thy heaven is only rest and song." '' It is writ God's servants serve him, there as here. The morning star Waits a ruler who shall be of Adam's kind, And when Emmanuel rideth forth to Armageddon's war, Mightier powers than earth can muster march behind." Fear thou not. If doing please thee, there are deeds beyond the sun, High adventures that shall long outlast his light, And this truth shall settle in thee, ere thy heaven is well begun, That up there, and here, and always, Right is Might." Behind the Scenes "Begin now; the curtain is gone up," he said— 'Twas the old drama, Life. In their places Ranged angels above me and devils below. And between them the comforting faces Of men — In cloud armies, the quick and the dead Leaning forth with eyes gleaming to mind me. And I saw, and saw not, as one in a dream. And again rose a whisper behind me, 44 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS " Now, why dost thou linger ? " But I in amaze Cried aloud to the cloud-faces shining, " Where's God ? " And quick answer came, " Back there behind, With the book, all thy life for thee lining."' The Stream that Came to Town It was born far off in a shimmering pool, It was cradled in emerald meadows, And never a stain on its waters grew In all the green tangle it gurgled through, But the dapple of innocent shadows — Of a .bird or willow-bough, up in the blue, Or the cattle that came through the morning dew. And the slow-footed plow-teams, two by two. To drink — with their drinking shadows. Now its fetid waters flow Fat and slow. All its hanks a grimy wall, All its skies a smoky pall. Gone its sparkle, song, and all, Vanished long ago. It had not a thing of its own to hide, And the pools in the whispering rushes. The muskrats' door with their bubbles embossed, And ripples would tell it, if Reynard crossed To a frolic at dusk in the bushes — And the shyest of wood-spells, softlier tossed On the wimpling flood than a leaf in a frost, Was babbled in moonlit hushes. IN THE PASSAGE 45 Who knozvs what dark secrets drozvn In these brown Waves that loll from bank to batik. Wallowing in a jellied tank, 'Neath the windozvs, rank on rank, Dead eyes staring down? It felt the quick thrill of the life around — There was home-land, and every child growing In all the green valley, it knew by name. And never a step on the foot-bridge came, But the waters guessed where it was going, With a good-will as careless of outside fame As the morning stars are of the sluggard's blame, Or spring is, of war-news blowing. Not these strange scenes it desired, Not this huddled landscape spired — Country-born and crystal-pure, Dozvnzvard drawn by dread allure, Here it lies — a squalid sewer, In its ozvn filth mired. In the Passage " Mark you his look," they said, " How rapt, how fond ! Fair on him, still at sea, Foregleams the haven where he longs to be." Yet though aright they read His dying eyes, 'twas he alone that saw The wind-swept curtains down a silent flaw Slant toward the candle's head. 46 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS And when his lips grown chill Half-shaped a whisper strange, they said, " He greets Celestial escorts now, and welcome meets This side the shining Hill " ; And he the while, far off along a lane Of dreams, went whistling home the cows again By meadows dusk and still. They thought in that hushed room Almost they heard the heavenly voices call As at the last he listened toward the wall ; But outside, in the bloom Of passing summer, in his passing ear The cricket-choir sang vespers quaint and clear. And early piped him home. Stoker In the darkness under the world, His roof is the coal-dust cloud o'erhead, And dust is the floor beneath him spread, And the mole in garden sod Knows more of the sweet daylight than he Who swings his shovel in bunker three, Or tugs at the furnace rod. Down deeper than engine purrs and swings, On the grimy under side of things. He leaps when the bugles blow And great guns thunder in sudden fight; And then, pent there in the choking night, Shifts the coal heaps to and fro. STOKER 47 He hath visions of deeds 'twere good to do— Of a man's part cleanly played clean through Aloft in the open sun — But his to sweat by the furnace door, And reel at last to the reeling floor When his captain's fight is won. Other dreams come to him yet more dear — Of God's wide sky, and a sea glass-clear, And a salt wind, cool, cool, cool ! To him of the pit a breath divine That his shrivelled soul drinks in like wine. In a dream-draught rich and full. Small is his meed if the old flag win, And if it lose— then a louder din, A rent in the iron wall, And Death swirls in through the jagged gate, And the stoker finds in the hold his fate And coffin and grave and all. God keep thee, shipmate ; and some good day May He from heaven's bridge stoop and say, " O man by the doors of hell, Come up ! For the stifling toil is past. And the good ship rides in port at last ; All's over and all is well ; Come up to the deck of the world ! " THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Path to the Spring The stepping-stones led out. An ancient line well-worn in years of yore, And winding onward from the old yard door, Each stone with grass about, Like a gray isle in silent seas of green, Passed the quaint summer-house, the chosen scene Of rest from romp and rout. And old, slow-flowing tales uncankered yet by doubt. Then came the swinging gate, Opening on meadows dim, horizon wide To our young eyes, where on the further side Did hills more wondrous wait Than e'er kissed heaven in Arcady. Alack ! The path turned there, and now no other track In these gray days and late Finds the lost lands of old the sky-line of our fate. A big hackberry spread High o'er the path, still to one loyal mind And memory keen, lone monarch of his kind ; And then, with creeping dread To childish hearts, the cavern in the hill, Lair of we knew not what, gaped on us still, As oft with hurrying tread And fearful backward look along the path we sped. TO A YOUNG HOSPITAL NURSE 49 To tumble round the turn, And lo ! the spring. Then while Aunt Lucy, bent Above her wash-tubs, scolding welcome lent. Slim Chloe left her churn, And smiling wide, to young lips round the pool The brown gourd tilted dripping, pure, and cool- Such draft not Hebe's urn Could yield, nor Dian's thirst so innocently burn. But far, and far apart We've journeyed since. Some walk the streets of gold. And some, still further from the paths of old. Plod on with patient heart; All things they see in one vast circle bound. And life, mayhap, shall some time circle round. Somewhere some new dawn dart New day, new life, and they down some new spring-path start. To a Young Hospital Nurse What witcher}^ is here? — You with the happy eyes, and fawn's footfall That frolics still, forgetful, down the hall— - Did unkind fortune drear Lure you to this grim house of helplessness? Or you your May-bloom prentice to distress, O morning vision dear? 50 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS One altar, one alone. May claim such sacrifice ; if Duty call. Obey — that still small Voice leads stars, and all — But not Golconda's zone, Nor all Fame trumpets of, or Fancy paints, Can buy lost youth — that dream the wistful saints Remember on the throne. Here is no filial care That love or kinship owes : not even a friend Lifts you his weary eyes as now you bend — You whose rebellious hair. New-coiled above the white nape, woman-wise, Back into girlhood's floating tresses flies At even a touch of air. Is there no older hand, No heart long tutored of its own dull grief. To soothe another's woes, and win relief? O child, the Promised Land You tread unknowing, all too soon is gone — Twilight comes twice, but once — but once ! — the dawn Reddens Youth's golden strand. Then seize the budding chance While shimmering spider-wheels still wear the dew, And joy's a-leap, and all the world is new; 'Tis Heaven makes young Romance Life's blossom-time, and never drouth nor frost Falls on the flowers but means some harvest lost — Go, little maid, go dance ! THE TRACK-WALKER 51 The Track-Walker With head bent low and shoulders stooped, And slow, home-keeping eye Fixed on the rails, a silent shape, The track-walker goes by. A five-mile strip of grimy stones, Edged with an iron band. Is all his world. June snows that drift In daisies o'er the land He heeds not, nor red autumn flakes That rustle down the air — Rail, bolt, and bar to keep in place — This is his only care. He quits his task three steps before The rocking train shoots past, Then stoops, while still the pebbles whirl, To make a loose bolt fast. The ruin hid in sudden flood. Slow rust and silent frost 'Tis his to fend ; and men ride by In cushioned ease, at cost Of his long march and lonely watch. Nor give a backward thought To the bent shape and plodding feet Whose toil their safety bought. Morn is to him a sentry beat To thread through sun and rain. His noon a place to turn and start Back into night again. 52 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS A ceaseless traveller all his days, New lands he ne'er may roam — In yonder orchard is his house, Here 'twixt the rails, his home. Unmourned, unmissed, he dies to find (The last lone miles all trod) That whoso walks a railway track Aright — has walked with God. In the Colorado Canon Altair is white, and Betelguese is gold, Men say, and vast ! though but to sage's eye ; But this red gulf that gapes to either sky Would whelm half heaven ; and down these slopes, of old God digged his sunsets, and still on their bold Ramparts, waste-heaps of night and morning lie. Purpled and pearled and tinct in every dye With which Auroras mock at Artie cold. Potter ! Who shapest thus with glory's hand The desert clay, thou kindlest in my heart Wild dreams — too thrilling sweet aught else to be ! — I, whom thou gavest to feel, to understand, And be, in some far fashion, what thou art — I too am clay — what wilt thou make of me? THE MAUSER BULLETS SONG 53 The Mauser Bullet's Song Ghost of dead winds am I, A sigh, a wailing. Wraith of a lullaby In sultry noons through Cuban jungles blown Where the swart Spaniard fiercely holds his own— I am the trailing Whisper that moans o'er Modder's reefs of sand When Cronje's troopers make their dauntless stand, All unavailing. Out of the dark of trees Far away lying, Swifter than homing bees Come I, last minstrel of the foughten field, With magic song, of meaning unrevealed. New joys implying: Sirens of old lured sailors o'er the main. And siren I along Tugela's plain Whistle the dying. Mine is a spell ye own — Though far behind you With childish days have flown The low-toned sanctities of cradle-tune, In me again old vesper voices croon, Old echoes mind you Of vanished lips that soothed your fears away — Soldier, whose lips the last " good night ! " shall say When I shall find you? 54 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Who knows? Thin, thin, and keen As a star's chanting, Thrid I the battle scene — Mayhap, a canticle of heavenly breath. Mayhap, forerunner of soft-footed Death, That whispers, panting, Of new worlds waiting with a welcome dear, But in the message hides a touch of fear. Forever haunting. The Song of the Grass {In the Soldiers' Cemetery at Arlington) Ye are many, ye are mighty, and j^our feet they trample hard — Ye have trod the mountains under, and the sea. The sea ye, too, have conquered, but within this quiet yard It is I, the grass, am master; hark to me. Ye have torn me in your marches, scarred me deep with hoof and heel, And my dewy sward have rolled in dust and blood. When amid the cannon-thunder e'en the forest seemed to reel, And your battle shook the hillside where ye stood. Were ye victors? 'Twas not Carthage won by Trasimene's lake, Nor the Britons 'mid the wheat at Waterloo, For my creeping, crowding legions from them both the field did take. As I took the heights at Gettysburgh from you. THE SONG OF THE GRASS 55 But I hate the battle fury as I hate the crawling sea. With its wrinkled swinging tides that cannot cease ; Sweeter far to me the woodland where the dappled shadows be, Or the graveyard with its lilies and its peace. Nay, I will be done with mocking. O my masters, naught am I But the clinging lowly grass about your feet. Growing green and cool around you, tired eyes to satisfy. And weaving, when all's done, your winding-sheet. Sleep ye well ! Men bring you roses, but they wither in the sun — • Bring them in the May with music and a sound, As of old, of timed footsteps ; but when all the pomp is done. In the stillness 'tis my small roots wrap you round, Fold you close, and so will keep you till Potomac shall run dry. And the stars go out like camp fires in the skies. Till the shivering sea shall perish, and the huddling mountains fly. And the judgment bugle blowing bids you rise. 56 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS At Emmaus They did not know Him as they walked, Their eyes were holden while they talked, But when at home He brake the bread, " It is the Lord ! " they quickly said. Wouldst thou know Christ? Make Him thy guest- His heart-stone manner shows Him best. Apollo's Song (See also in "A Dream of Gods") Not on the earth he stood, but lifted up High on a changeful cloud, now tinct with dawn, Now gray as starless night on dreaming snows. And if the cloud turned, or the god alone Turned in his song, I know not, but methought All the world-throng beheld him face to face. Low breathed the deep beginning. None might say Where Silence dipped her coasts in Song's sweet seas, Or when we launched thereon. At once afloat We found us, and to float on that full tide Was bliss unknown. Nay, if Elysium lay Beyond such seas, the great souls thither bound Would loiter school-boy like along the way. All senses now were swallowed up in one, All thought, all feeling, aye, the soul itself Sat in the ear; as when some city's throng Stall, hall, and home, and market-place forsake And joyful crowd the gates to crown their king, APOLLO'S SONG 57 Crowned in their hearts already. If the spell Lay on us for an hour, or hour of years, None knew ; but all too soon the tuneful flood Caressed us homeward, and our spirits touched Once more the gray coasts of Reality. So sang the god and ceased — or would have ceased But for a passionate cry, born of a heart Insatiate. " Lo, thy songs" (so rang the cry) " Be all of heaven. Sing us, O God, the songs Of men." An instant then Apollo paused, Laid down his lyre, his lissom fingers clasped Behind him, and, a simple-hearted youth Supreme in beauty, lifted up his voice Again. He sang of Youth and June ; green fields And dancing feet and velvet orchard floors Pink with perfumed snows ; of bees and birds And the shy tinkle of too-happy brooks Wimpling among the roses. Then young Love Moved through the music, and with him first came The troubled note that, like the sombre lines In imaged light, runs through all mortal joy. Not this the sounding chant Olympus knew. Nor a god singing; earthly bliss and grief Mixed in these chords, an aching bliss, a grief Dearer than half our joys. All human life Flowed through the melody, and evermore Echoing sighs ; until at last the god Leaving the palpable, in haunting strains Too keen, too thrilling sweet for homesick hearts To exile doomed, 'gan breathe of unsung hopes And deep, unutterable dreams that are 58 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The soul's blind fumbling at the breast of Fate Here in Time's darkness. Then with sound of tears Like the night rain in desolate Autumn woods A broken cry went up, " Forbear, O God, Forbear, lest thou shouldest slay us with thy song." Backgrounds "The play, the play's the thing!" Lord Hamlet, no. The peopled and illimitable night Hath mightier ghosts than Denmark's, and the light That limns the upturned face of Romeo Paints half a world of faces in its glow ; Arden hath untold lovers hid from sight To Rosalind, and many a willing sprite Unknown, unsummoned, waits on Prospero. What else is watching in the dark behind? Who knows when legions, angel, ghost, or djinn. Shall break from out the backgrounds vast that bind Our cramped horizon, and o'errun the scene. Or God himself crash on us mummers blind. And play be done, and life, life, life, begin ! Bethel-on-the-Hill The naked walls no arches know. No rich mosaic's pride. But only time-stained moss without. And light unstained inside ; No marble niches high o'erhead Lift haloed saints to view. But watch you well yon face ; for here The saints sit in the pew. BETHEL-ON-THE-HILL 59 The men of old who chose the spot Where these gray gables rise, Had little thought what changes here Would snare their children's eyes. Yon outward sweep of vale and mount Of old no glances drew — The forest then possessed the land, And hid the world from view. But now like some rich tapestry The summer slopes are spread, Broidered in rustling green and gold And looped with silver thread That twinkles 'twixt the willow trees, And hums a Sunday tune. And Bob White, three wheat fields away, Helps praise the Lord for June. Were there no windows toward the west, 'Twere easier here to pray, For look ! See yonder fleet of clouds Sail grandly up this way. They move like ships in ports of home. Beyond all fear of harm. While far below their shadows glide As big as half a farm. " I lift mine eyes," the people sing — • Amen ! I do ; and straight New wonders on the mountain grow, A towering cliff, a gate, Of carven snow — -mayhap of pearl! Alas ! in other evens I've seen it fade, or I might dream That gleaming gate was heaven's. 6o THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS What if these walls no arches know, No pictured windows wide, But only God's June world without, And praying saints inside? To this old hill, from altars thronged And loneliest desert track, The hearts that once have worshipped here With fondest thoughts look back. The world has many a road to God — No lands where lost men roam Lie so remote, so desolate, But that there's some way home ; Yet some bright coasts on highways lie. As free, as plain as day. And Bethel stands by such a road, And far, far on the way. Voyagers I bade two friends of mine farewell to-day. One sailed at noon; and while the shores around Echoed reverberant with mingled sound, Voices and bells and iron-throated bray Of enginery, the great ship moved away. And less'ning outward, passed our vision's bound. Then while her trail yet stained the skies, I found A chamber where a wan-faced pilgrim lay. Bound home. No voices stirred the tranquil air ; In silence loosed he from this alien sod, And, smiling backward, forth alone did fare. Yea, while we watched, Death's waiting decks had trod, Sighed twice, and, ere we knew him gone, was there- So near is Heaven, so short the road to God. THE DREAMER 6i The Dreamer i " Come down ! " we cried to him. " Leave off thy lonely ', Watch on the mountain height ; ] Belike the foeman comes, and wilt thou only : Be missing from the fight?" ' ■i J No word he answered, yet we knew when ended \ The long day's doubtful war We had not won had' he left undefended His lone outpost afar. ' " Come down ! " we cried again. " Our streams are failing. What dost thou 'mid the stones On the bare hillside? Hear the children wailing! \ With thirst the whole earth groans." , i " Drink, then ! " he laughed to us, and rested glowing 1 Beside his well-used tools, I And down the rocks unprisoned fountains flowing J Sang into sudden pools. j J Light, light of heart we deemed him, and" a stranger \ To great, soul-shaping cares, j Grief schooled him vainly, and he fronted danger ■ With songs instead of prayers. He was not one of us. His rapt eyes, shining i Like moonlight veiled in showers, Had the seer's vision, outward far divining Horizons beyond ours. 62 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS We heard the waves break, he, small waters welling In darkness 'neath the sod, And what to us was but the night-wind swelling He called the voice of God. And oft when Sorrow sighed, or we in watches Of Fear's long night our wrongs Told in the dark, he 'wildered us with snatches Of strange and haunting songs, Our souls enthralling with a potence under The music's ebb and flow, Like far-blown echoes of the trumpet-thunder That stormed walled Jericho. But now a silence falls, and we awaken — Dim is our dawn, and late ! The prophet-voice we thought a reed wind-shaken Hath passed within the gate. And our dull hearts now read aright the story Our dreamer always knew — Life's best is dreaming best, and heaven's own glory, Man's dreams and God's come true. Homesick Like mushrooms huddled close, the roofs Lean o'er the narrow street. Where loose-clad, swarthy throngs go by With click of sandaled feet; A bullock cart here scrapes the wall. And there a palanquin Goes bobbing by with lacquered sides That hide a mandarin. HOMESICK 6z All day I've jostled 'mid the crowd, All day mine ears have heard Babble of trade and mirth and hate, And not one homelike word — They look, they laugh, like humankind- Here, too. are night and day, Labor and love and life and joy — But home's a world away I What useless wares the pedlers cry. What uncouth dainties rare I see, and nameless, painted fruits No other clime may share ; But oh ! A winesap, rich and ripe, From far Virginian trees — What like it ever grew by all These alien Eastern seas ? The winds of unknown odors breathe — Strange craft are on the stream; I turn a wistful, doubting eye Even on the ruddy gleam The sunset wastes on dusky junks And slant, outlandish sails — Is this the gold the dying day Pours on my native vales ? O ye who strain with leaping heart Along the outward track, God speed'! But deeper, keener joy Is his who turns him back ! What sun soe'er may shine aljove. What stars or cast or west, The last low lights that guide us home Outdazzle all the rest. 64 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Poets' Land If it lie east of day, Or west of utmost Hesper, who may know? No buttressed highways past its borders go, Nor smoke, nor foam-wakes trailing seaward, show In any wind or weather. How men come thither, Nor sorcerer's red-writ chart enchanted hints the way. But if its viewless portals No foot may find, nor courage win the gate, And for unguided mortals Its phantom festivals inviolate Fall on a timeless date. Still is there solace^ — winged Fancy hath Her olden power, and keeps the magic key — Lo ! at her touch, an open door, a path, And straight 'tis Arcady ! Ancient its empery, and many a name. Itself a song, resounds its varied fame In countless tongues of old worlds and the new — Eden. Elysium, and Hesperides, Tatarian Xanadu, And isled Atlantis in her sundown seas : And other names than these It claims, and classic zones Murmuring of caves with Sibyl-voices ringing And pensive Vestals at dim altars singing Portents, in tones Half-syllabled, fantastical as dreams, — And Delphic groves whose haunted branches swinging Twinkle the noonday's beams. POETS' LAND 65 There Lady Cristabel, Watched of all lovers, thrids the midnight wood With keen, delicious pricklings in the blood That elfin perils spell : Childe Roland to his tower In Poets' Land, comes at the destined hour, And pilgrims thither, deep in bosky vale Pausing, with eyes that glisten, To Sorrow's Vespers listen. As in the glade young Keats's nightingale Anigh wakes angels' envy : wars are not. And all old ills forgot In Avalon, And there King Arthur mourns nor queen nor throne, Nor his Round Table gone, Nor far-blown joustings once at castled Camelot ; But happy Tempests still on Prosper's isle Maroon the Race of Man, Wondering and doubting which may best beguile Men's cares — Miranda's beauty, Ariel's wile. Or moon-calf Caliban. These regions builded High Lords of Song: even as the first World-maker With his sole word, the world Fashioned and lit, that may no more betake her To rayless Chaos, nor, unbid, forsake her Star-candled circle whirled. So, what God's will did, 66 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Poets essay; with song empeople space, And star infinity with brain-born Things That bulk and move majestical as kings, Till earthlier kings give place, And Fancy's heirs alone immortal bide : Yea, many a prince Is throned and gone and nigh forgotten, since The world crowned Hamlet; and what griefs beside, In all the storied tide Of royal woes in past or passing years, Seem to us half so deep as maundering old King Lear's? Not all for Poets' Land, Nor for the mighty Shapes and Shades that dwell Far down its charmed gardens, flows the song: Chieflier to those belong The glory, who have framed with Music's spell These ageless regions, and their hero band : . For when did honey-tongued Aeneas bleed. Or what with Dido plead, Other than Vergil bade? And Abdiel, Aye, and the greatest of great angels, each Speaks but Miltonian speech, As Dante's art unlocks or Heaven or Hell ; And though each puppet crowned In Shakspere's pageantry, straightway discloses A royal mood, and wears his dignity Kingly as any he Of antique ancestry and reign renowned. Yet one great hand disposes Caesar and knave and clown, coffin and throne — And Shakspere rules alone. IN THE NEW CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY 67 O Earth, O little Earth! Unnoticed atomy 'mid giant stars, Gather to thee thy voice, Yea, bid thy whirlwinds muster, and rejoice Till th}^ far-rolling mirth Beats thunderous music on Time's outmost bars ; Hide not thy head for any suns that be, For Heaven hath shared with thee Its princeling, Man, sprung of the common sod, Yet instinct with the skies! Whose poet's eyes, Dim with the anguish of all mortal years. And poet's heart that aches with griefs and fears. Celestial enterprise Invites and dares, till paths th' Eternal trod. His heir, in wilful wise Childlike and Godlike, tries — Stumbling, but following, following his great Father, God. In the New Congressional Library He trod the Hall of Captains ; o'er him high Were shining names ; the Macedonian bold, Rome's mightiest, mightier he of Carthage old. And later lights new-risen in War's wild sky Dazzled upon him. Long with wistful eye The soldier sought a name nowhere enrolled On those bright walls ; but after, in the cold Capitol wandering, came by chance anigh 68 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS A western window — there Potomac lay Rimmed with Virginian hills, and in the sun Far off, a pillared mansion ; then the gray, Worn warrior straight uncovered, and his one Unwounded arm went up the old, old way For his lost Captain — Lee of Arlington. The Puritan Of soul severe and mien austere and sour. In blunt disdain, he leaves to fops and girls Life's gentler arts, misranked with scents and curls But when some doom-bell booms the fateful hour, Strides to the front, untaught to budge or cower. And Hampden's speech in Freedom's onset whirls, While Cromwell's arm a throne to ruin hurls And guides a realm unkinged with kingly power. And hark yon voice ! Milton, ye say, and blind ? Then let the loneliest Lords of Song give place. And hail, whom all lords hail. The Puritan — Stern tribe that throne the right above the kind. And, building altars to Jehovah's face In new worlds wide, rebuilt the name of Man. " How They Grow " Mark well yon slender stalk of green Just springing forth the clods between While April airs are chilly ; With filmy leaflets closely curled. It looks a tiny banner furled. But soon will be a lily. " HO W THE Y GROW " 69 A sparrow's weight would bend it low, A little flood would overflow, A little frost would' kill it; And e'en when grown it reaches up And lifts to heaven a heavenly cup, A little dew would fill it. Yet all the power that Newton saw Bind in one vast and equal law Pebble and planet glowing Cannot, when Spring is come, keep hid The lily 'neath its coverlid. Nor stay its buds from blowing. It knows no labor but to bloom — ■ God's darling need no cares assume, No tribute pay but beauty; It cannot but live in the light, And still to keep its garments white Is nature more than duty. What if to-morrow it must die? Is there no Easter in the sky To earth's dead blossoms given? Yon world would forfeit half its bliss If what is sweetest here in this Brief springtime had no heaven. " Much more, O ye of little faith ! "— (This is the word the Master saith) " Much more to you His will is ! " — Nay, but it were enough for me Could I, O Master ! only be To Thee as are thy lilies. 570 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS When Amy Went When Amy went to London, I mind me still the bells, The shouts and cries, and tearful eyes, Swift feet, and short farewells Around us 'neath the station roof With long trains rolling slow — When Amy went to London One little year ago. There were a dozen coaches — They say there was an earl Went lolling down to London town With our shy Devon girl ; It was the fairest time o' year, When maids and roses blow — And Amy went to London Li June a year ago. She's gone again from Devon — But hushed were all the bells. No shouting throng nor clanging gong Broke on our last farewells; A single sound was in the room, A weeping long and low — When winsome Amy left us At dawn a week ago. THE DANDELION 71 And still it's June with roses Abloom, and still the world Rolls up and down to London town On clanging journeys whirled; But that last silent parting Has left us endless woe — And Amy went to heaven A long, long time ago. The Dandelion Unnamed among the garden walls. Unknown in Beauty's bower, It blooms, and cares not which it be, Bright weed or homely flower ; Yet brave as any red-cross knight, And modest as a lass is. It might be Jeanne d'Arc of buds. Or Galahad of grasses. The rose for it no envy knows. The lily feels no pity; Unminded in the meadows green. Undaunted in the city, It blazes in the skirts of Spring With grass-blades round it twining. As if a sun-beam should take root And bloom instead of shining. 72 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS And when its little day is done, On rounded column slender. Triumphant rises in its place A silvery, silken splendor, A wondrous, wavering, winged thing. Free the free winds to fly on — It is the flower's immortal part, Soul of the dandelion. The Frogs in April Not for the world's delight In the wet April night Ye lift your litanies, O tuneless choir, To one high note and shrill Piping your own wild will, From your dark lodgings in the moss and mire. No poet-voices praise The ringing notes ye raise ; Nay, Chanticleer himself doth sweetlier sound His farmyard trumpet clear When first the dawn is near. And gaping milkmaids make their morning round. Yet never golden bell Did gladder tidings tell On the still night-air o'er a moon-lit town Than is the tale ye bring, O prophets of the spring, Chirping of April 'mid the meadows brown. THE FROGS IN APRIL 72, Your artless anthems range Along the stops of change — "The snows are gone," ye pipe, "and blue-birds come. Time's at the dewy turn When dandelions burn. And in yon bare boughs soon the bees will hum." Pipe, then, your vernal theme, Pipe on, though fond eyes gleam 'Mid your keen chorals through a mist of tears, For with your notes come back Old things we love, but lack, And dear dead faces out of vanished years. Aye, but to hear ye hymn Once more in meadows dim, God's saints mayhap, shall cease from heavenly mirth, And listen on the wall With longing looks let fall. And sighing. say, " 'Tis spring on our old earth.'' 74 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Motorman Swathed to the eyes, with armored hands That may not lose their hold On the steel reins that guide his car, For all the stinging cold, 'Mid griding wheels and trampling feet And harsh gongs clanging near, On his own road unswerving drives Our modern charioteer. The nameless he of old who drove Afield with Diomed, Or side by side with Caesar's self Some Roman Triumph led, No stouter heart nor manlier task Could boast, than he must own With whom the busy world today Goes riding up and down. Not his in wastes of rolling foam To choose his vagrant way, Nor yet to thunder through the land Still westward day by day. But in his glass pen, six by three. To thread one narrow street Through day and night and months and years, And then — the trip repeat. THE MOTORMAN 75 He turns the crank and starts, and stops, And starts, the whole day long — But let those hands that turn alway Once turn that handle wrong, And heaped-up ruin clogs the street, And mayhap careless men Who rode but now close at his back Will never ride again. He sees the smiling folk that throng The play-house portals wide, Or old' Saint x\ndrews' ivied porch, And passes by — outside; And rattling down the creaking rails, He stamps his aching feet. And in his weary soul half hopes His heaven may have no street. Ride on, O man unnamed, unknown ! No hero deeds design; Still heed the gong, and ceaseless watch All down the crowded line. Till One who marks the humble worth, Unsung, unnoticed here, Shall say, " The Lord hath need of thee, Run in, O charioteer ! " 76 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The River Road 'Twas the road we went to school Down a pathway dim and cool Winding with the winding waters through the land of Long Ago, And though far my feet may stray From the regions where it lay, Still I see its bosky mazes, and I hear the waters flow. Sometimes, in our childish view, That green road was river, too ; In our fancy we could hear it ripple down a stony hill. And the curves that sidled round Some great tree trunk on the ground Were to us the pools and eddies where the stream lay deep and still. There were beeches gray and old. Carved with sprawling letters bold — There the dogwood bush in blossom seemed a maid in bridal plumes, And the gossip winds that sighed Through the tangled thickets wide Breathed of pawpaws up the hollows, or the wild grape's scented blooms. On that road no trumpets blared While a prince to crowning fared With the plumed and spangled pageantry of kingdoms in his train, But the rain-crow's troubled note There in August noons would float. As we watched the trampling legions of the silver-footed rain. THE RIVER ROAD 77 Woodfolk, too, in gray and brown, That dim way went up and down ; There the raccoon on the fence-rails ambled off at our halloo. Foxes barked in moonlit night, And the young hares in our sight Played at hide-and-seek with shadows in the twilight and the dew. Some good day I'm going back Up that unforgotten track ; I shall come, or they will bring me, round the bend at set of sun — There's a gate will let me through. As of old it used to do. And the river road will bring me home when all my travel's done. 78 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS When the Door Opens Sometimes it's early, early — Or ever the farmhouse lires Send up their incense pearly In wavering morning spires, When the sheep in nooks of the meadows Are lying still, And the old wheel dreams in the shadows Behind the mill, Then in the hush of the dawning, in the silvery mists and the dew, God opens the door a little way, and little feet go through. Sometimes it's when the wonder, The hush and the dews have fled. And noontide life pants under The glare of the noon o'erhead, When the plowman's furrows are creeping Over the land, Or rises the whir of the reaping On every hand — Or ever the swath is finished, or the long brown furrow is run, The unseen door swings open wide, and the strong man's work is done. THE RED WINGED STARLING 79 Sometimes when the lamps of heaven And the homeher lights of earth Burn dim in the lonely even, On high, or heside the hearth, When the children go, and the cheery- Good nights are said, And naught's hy the lire but a weary And bowing head — Then opens the door where all roads end, or run they east or west. And child and man and a child again go in and are at rest. The Red Winged Starling He haunts no forest dim — Hedgerows are not for him, Nor upland wolds that hear the plovers call. But where dank meadows dream Ribboned with many a stream, 'Mid swinging grasses swings his grass-built hall. Tall elders o'er it spread Their clusters wide, wincred. Of berries small, and water-lilies rest Their chins upon their leaves To watch him as he weaves The slender blades that stay his rocking nest. The muskrats' highways go Beneath his portico; His brooding dame may still her chamber keep. And mark with quiet eye The marsh-hen's chicks go by. Or field-mice dance in grassy jungles deep, 6 8o THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS What if wild things are told Of redwing bands of old? Little we heed the far-ofif, plaintive tale When in his ecstasy His epaulets and he Flash their June roundelays along the vale. For that far-fluted tune Through the ripe afternoon Has in it hauntings of a wondrous sooth, And with diviner powers Than builded Ilion's towers Rebuilds the kingdoms of long-vanished youth. Headache Day Oh, for the Orient archways, The curtained tents of Shem, Or even the Eskimo dugouts, With tunnels down to them — Oh. for a home with Robin — Redbreast, or Hood — on floors Of forests dim where ne'er is heard The crash of swinging doors ! Here on this burning pillow, Where lacing wrinkles feel. Beneath a throbbing, helpless head. Like fretwork of hot steel, Where one thin shaft of sunlight Pierces the darkness dim, And shows me how, if I but move, The sick walls reel and swim. HEADACHE DAY 8t I've learned my lesson duly, I know each different clang With which the down-stairs doors go shut — Each brings a different pang. Now, listen! Hear those footsteps? That's little Joe once more Darting across the sitting-room — Boom ! That's the back hall door ! I dreamt a dream this morning — The Oregon, outside My window cruising, as I thought, Let loose a full broadside ; Groaning I woke, and quickly Knew what my dreaming meant — That boy was steaming through the house And firing as he went. It helps me not to murmur. Or clench my hands in pain — Who would have little folks go out And not come in again? — And yet how vain the war talk Of ship and twelve-inch gun. To him who lives where doors will slam — And has an eight years' son ! Oh, for the storied stillness Of white Alhambran halls, A bamboo lodge in quaint Japan With wattled screens for walls — Oh, for a quiet dwelling On any earthly shores Where men no more have headache days, Or houses have no doors ! 82 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Sawmill No huge, dim wheels in silent majesty Like a world turning, No massive walls, no chimneys in the sky Smoking and burning, Only a rough shed in the lonely wood, An engine creaking, And yon fanged terror through the solitude All day long shrieking — That's the sawmill, whirling, shearing, In its flashing anger tearing Gnarled old trunks apart ; Woodland annals, oaken, tender. Scrolled in long-grown circles slender All these nameless years, must render Now their inmost heart. Balsamic odors rise along the air — A sweet-gum mellow Bleeds on the saw, and breathes a perfume rare The oak, his fellow In like misfortune, not such kindness shows. Though the steel wheeling- Through his warm heart, a little warmer grows With kindred feeling. Sodden heaps of sawdust cumber, Leaning piles of rawest lumber Zigzag o'er the ground; Still the blade goes shaping, swording Into use the woodland's hoarding. Girder, scantling, beam and boarding. Four-square, straight and sound. THE SAWMILL 83 What dreams were done when these great hearts were still ! Winds that would wrestle With the lone pine all night on yonder hill. Some outland vessel Feigned to his hopes, himself her tallest mast, Dragon-wings wearing. And driving onward down strange waters, past Wild isles of daring. Dream is done and voyage over. Here lies low the would-be rover In the trampled yard; All his waves are waste-heaps dusty, All his ship, the log-car rusty, And from his wild islands must he Evermore be barred. Not all is lost : these trunks down loftier aisles Shall reassemble. Where the old sunlight on them richlier smiles, And pipes that tremble With wild-wood memories, haunted stops shall blow Till bees are humming High in the treetops, and white clusters grow, And June is coming. But the sunset whistle's blowing, And yon fateful wheel is slowing, Slowing — slowing — still. Come away; let Silence mend her Raveled woof, and Darkness lend her Healing here, till Dian bend her Young bow o'er the hill. THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Tybee's Bell The curtained moon far down a lane Of cloudy walls uneven Gleamed like a transom light above A dark side door in heaven As in we swung on Tybee Bar, A faint swell with us bringing, And heard the one slow, dreaming stroke Of Tybee buoy bell ringing. 'Twas our own wake that rang the bell- Not now a clanging warning, But sweet as village chimes across Blown June and Sabbath morning, And yet the sadness of the sea. The dark, the wan mists rolling, Stole on our hearts, in that one note Along the twilight tolling. We thought all angry coasts were by — Grim Hatteras was behind us, And naught in Tybee's tawny floods Found we of ill to mind us. What ailed the bell? Did ancient use So well its message master That even the babble of its dreams Could only ring disaster? Ah, not alone for pilgrim ships That tone of haunting sorrow, But for bright things that might not be. And hopes that had no morrow — TYBEE'S BELL To ring some golden triumph in, Some foolish joy to heighten, Or, chiming calm as passing prayers, Some mortal grief to lighten. That was the dream of Tybee's bell. Alas ! In thousand steeples Its fellows clang of life, love, joy. High o'er the shouting peoples, But this lone voice, chained in the flood In rising tides or falling. Knows but the leper cry, " Sheer off ! Sheer off ! Pass by me ! " calling. O faithful friend, when, with the seas, Has passed thine ancient guarding, Somewhere may thy best dreams denied Come true ; and thy rewarding Be, far within some happy coasts, Across the stormless weather. Foremost of all, to catch good news. And ring wide heaven together. 86 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Old School House Over the crumbling walls A wild vine wanders, Under the roof all day A brown owl ponders, Rabbits at twilight pla}^ Among the grasses Inside the playground — once For lads and lasses. Yet 'tis a school house still, Though now new teachers Set here the daily tasks For shy wood-creatures; Here chipmunks sit erect To say their graces, Or wash with velvet paws Brown velvet faces. Over the door the wren Her four eggs hiding, Soon all her crumbs will be By four dividing. Squirrels, too, have their sums, For all their gadding — ■ Shellbarks and chinkapins And acorns adding. THE LILIES' HYMN 8; Where once the window was Long legged spiders Work out geometry Without dividers, And sparrows in the dust (When they're not fighting) Do rows of tracks they call Spencerian writing. Here, too, the holidays Through the long daytime, Come, as they came to us, Recess and play-time, And the old ruin rings From floor to rafter With the gay quips of birds The bunnies' laughter. The Lilies' Hymn Midnight and Spring and Sharon in its glory Lay round me musing in the starlight dim, And wrapped' in mem'ries of the Old, Old Story, I slept ; and dreaming, heard the Lilies' Hymn. Is it not ours to bask in sheltered spaces Down sunlit borders by the garden wall, Nor feel like night-dews on our lifted faces The tinkling fountain's wind-blown waters fall. For us the fields where truant streamlets wander. Our straggling cohorts know nor rank nor file; We envy not the great stars wheeling yonder, A word made them : God made us with a smile. THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Wild lilies we, by men unmarked, untend'ed, In careless clusters set 'mid grasses blithe, The oxen's hoofbeats tread us down unfended, Nor can our sweetness stay to-morrow's scythe. Yet are we blest above the queenliest roses — Today to grow ; tomorrow, all unvexed, To fade; then when this little lifetime closes To bloom immortal in the Master's text. The Light-Ship She lies far out along the bar, A ghost by day, by night a star That sways and swings and dips ; Though chained, she knows no anchored ease- Though tides are full and fresh the breeze, She rides, but may not sail the seas, This sentinel of ships : Hers but to watch by ruin's lair, And lift her warning light in air. Her sides are oak of triple strength. Her mast a pine-tree's sturdy length, Unhelped of boom or spar The lantern bears, her only sail ; Yet naked thus she dares the gale. With plunging prow and buried rail, Or breasts the breakers' war — An amazon of courage high Who may not fight and will not fly. THE LIGHT-SHIP 89 Her sister ships their wings have spread, Perhaps by dark Magellan's head Or on Ionian seas ; Dim Greenland's isles of ice they knew, They sailed Hawaii's waters blue. And Aden's shallows loitered through. Along the dying breeze ; And she, in calms when cables slack, May drift five fathoms out — and back. Not hers in glassy bays to seem A dream-bark mirrored in a dream. Nor hers the joy to feel Her black hull on and onward whirled. The rush of winds, the waves upcurled High o'er her bows, as round the world She sweeps on bounding keel. While ocean 'neath her laughs and swings. And ropes are songs and sails are wings. And yet no bulk of senseless stone Is she, on some stern cliff alone — A ship's heart in her beats ; She thrills to every tide that turns. Her naked mast for canvas yearns, And each proud timber in her spurns The chain that still defeats Her forward plunge, and holds her slave Whose will is tameless as the wave. 90 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS She will not always fettered ride — Some night at turning of the tide, When God's great winds are out, A lightning bolt her bonds will rive. And she, unchained, alert, alive, Will on her one mad voyage drive. And, 'mid the mighty rout. While heaven and earth commingled roar, Pass — to be seen of men no more. The Last Homing " Good-night ! " the pitying sun Spake in his glory, " O man, thy day is done, And done thy story; I on thy native hills A while did mind thee — Good-bye : to-morrow noon I shall not find thee." "Good-night!" the answer quickly came, "and if thou wilt, good-bye, Who knows if when I come again I'll need thee in the sky?" " Farewell ! " the waters cried, Mournfully flowing, " Farewell ! " the night-wind sighed, Restlessly blowing. " We that have lovers been Part at the portal — Pass, as thy fellows pass. Adieu, O mortal." IN TRINITY CHURCHYARD qt Said he, " Be done with dirges now : go learn the whirl- wind's song, For ye shall shout it when I come, nor deem the waiting long." * " O Master, kind and true " — So grasses twining Down in the moss and dew Whispered repining — " Bitter the day will be And sore the wonder When our thick-crowding feet Shall tread thee under ! " " Grow green and sweet, O friends," he cried, " and some- time where ye wave, I'll come 'mid shining troops and say, " this green spot was my grave." In Trinity Churchyard In the churchyard at Trinity They know 'tis night Not by the lessening industry And changing light. But when men's footsteps somewhat faintlier sound In the long stillnesses low in the ground Rises a silvery tinkle Of tiny springs that sprinkle Their darkling music ; and the sleepers know 'Tis night in Trinity. 92 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS In the churchyard at Trinity When spring is near, Not by the tender greenery The low graves wear, And hyacinths in pink and purple bloom And bees and birds and sunlight and perfume — But by the white roots hidden That wrap them round unbidden With clinging tendrils soft, the sleepers know 'Tis spring in Trinity. Little they care in Trinity If in the street (Where trade's mad tides unceasingly Commingling meet) Swift fortune smiles, or riches that might dower Golconda's princess vanish in an hour — Whose name is fastest fading Whose mosses most are shading On the old gravestones — these the questions great For men of Trinity. They have not heard in Trinity How the town grows, Nor of that mountain majesty Its sky-line shows ; Low in the grass they lie, and have no care If the world deem their city foul or fair — Not men nor ships nor money They prize, but those few sunny Hours that are daily theirs : in this agree All men of Trinity. ON TANTRAMAR 93 The gentlefolk at Trinity Inside the fence, Still keep their ancient dignity And consequence ; They know not how a man might fitlier fare Than— when he's buried— to be buried there, And 'mid congenial neighbors Rest from his earthly labors In that green island set in stormy seas, The yard at Trinity. On Tantramar We showed him all the city's pride. Our streets and towers and harbors wide, Yet not for these his woodsman's eyes Gleamed once with wonder or surprise ; He looked our latest marvels through And heard more tongues than Babel knew Unmoved; his homesick thoughts afar Still roamed the shores of Tantramar. But on the dusky bay by chance Our Northman cast an upward glance, And lo ! across the fading blue A silent wild-fowl phalanx drew. And as he marked with face alight Their ordered wheeling down the night, " They came," we heard him sighing say, " From Tantramar but yesterday ! " 94 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS "On Tantramar " (and now his words Ranged freely as his vanished birds), " Like night-clouds driving in from sea, The wild-fowl gather countlessly ; Their myriads paint the marshes brown. Their wings outroar your clanging town. For days ; and then 'twixt sun and sun The call conies, and their hosts are gone." " On Tantramar the marshes spread, Once in the sunset ruby red. Now daily wear a dimmer tone ; The ice-rim round the pools has grown, And soon, where now the ripples play, The fox's foot shall careless stray, And hares their moonlit revels keep On snow-piled Tantramar asleep." " Then, then we heap the hearthstone high, As kin and clansmen gather nigh, Good cheer, good friends, and kindly word Enliven then the festal board. Or else far over wood and lake Our snow-shoe bands their outing take. And song and laughter tingle far Across the fens of Tantramar." We listened ; and our clanging ways Grew tame, when thus we heard him praise The wilds, for us uncharted yet, Wherein his eager youth was set ; For though we boast of storied art, 'Tis nature's touch still rules the heart. And a bird's flight may help unbar Our path to some lost Tantramar. THE VILLAGE STREET 95 The Village Street j People say the street was run , Long before a house was done — j With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Ere the vesper stars did twinkle, ; Or the night-dews 'gan to sprinkle , Thirsty grasses sweet, ' Upward from the velvet meadows. Homeward through the growing shadows, j Came the cattle's feet, 1 And the path where they would wander, Winding here and wheeling yonder— 1 That is now the street. > That was years ago, they say, ! But it runs the same today — i By the clanging smithy sweeping, j Past the gray church-pillars creeping, I Widening like a white pool sleeping ( Round the hitching poles, \ Where the sun-burned farmers dicker, And old Bess and Dapple whicker 1 To their truant foals — j Thence it passes downward swerving j Toward the whisp'ring willows curving Where the river rolls. Changes come but slowly here — I One may see, this very year, As of old, a grandame riding, ( To the stile her sorrel guiding, j In her level basket hiding j 7 96 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Homely golden store, And her newly starched sun-bonnet Has a small blue-figure on it As had those of yore ; Quaint is she, but wholly human, Like a sweet, old-fashioned woman Back in 'fifty-four. More than careless eye may meet Visits in this quiet street — Here are dreams in open daytime, Visions out of vanished play-time, Youth and joy and budding May-time, We had fancied done : Yonder shouting Barefoot lusty Paddling down the roadway dusty Little thinks of one Far away, who drops his trouble, And, in dreams, the Barefoot's double, Shares his foolish fun. Aye, a-many ghosts go down This dim street of Haunted Town — Hearts that far afield were roaming Hither turn them in the gloaming. Like the white-winged pigeons homing. Now no more to stray, And if longing could unravel Knitted life, and pilgrims travel Paths of Yesterday, We too o'er our faded meadows, Homeward through the lonely shadows. Glad would wend our way. LADDIE'S FISHING 97 Laddie's Fishing The oriole whistles his nesting song, The bees as they fondle the clover Keep humming, " It's June, June ! " all day long To the same note over and over. The listening w^inds lift the chorus high Till the corn-blades rustle and quiver, And a bit of a tune the lad's lips try As he hies away to the river. The bees they are humming, "It's June, June, June!" And 7vhat is there more to be luishing When Youth and the year together chime noon And Laddie is going a-fishingf He casts him his line in the glassy pool At the foot of the gnarled old willow And sitting there, dreams he is done with school — He's a hunter, or ploughs the billow ; But a sliver of bark comes floating by, And, not now of his fishing thinking. He feigns it a ship, and the pebbles fly Till he has the enemy sinking. The bees they keep humming, ''It's June, it's June!" And what is there left to be ztnshing When Youth and the year are chiming high noon, And Laddie is busy a-fishingf 98 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS A locust is singing in yonder vine — No ! It is the reel that is whirring ! And something is tugging hard at the line That would set even old blood stirring. Ah ! There he leaps upward in silvery curve ! He's a big one — hold hard and steady ! As he falls back, let the line sidewise swerve, And reel in — but always be ready ! The zi-'orld all around him is June, glad June And what can there he to be wishing, When the reel zuhirrs out its jubilant tune And Laddie is zvild zvith the fishing f But over the meadows a clear voice calls, It's Nannie, her turkey-broods cooping, And out of the west as the twilight falls, The nighthawks come screaming and swooping. Reel up, my lad, it is time to be done ; And anon in the wayside grasses. The gossipping rabbits like shadows run As the fisherman whistling passes. Oh, Youth and Summer are over too soon, And somezuhat is left to be wishing — But fair in the young night shines a new moon, And Laddie is home from the fishing. The Conjurer Dim lies the dawn along the dozing pools That break in ripples round his silent feet As to and fro, with lore not learned in schools He sways his wand and makes the spell complete. A DREAM OF GODS 99 Then at his bidding from their watery lair Bright spirits rise, in glistening mail arrayed, Plough the clear stream, or flashing wheel in air Or downward plunge, by that mute spell betrayed. Rebellious they; but in tense circles wide The quivering rod works out the master's will Till, one by one, each mail-clad sprite beside The conjurer floats, subdued, but fluttering still. " What have you caught ? " at eve the children cry. The conjurer's shining eyes foreshew the truth; " June have I caught," he laughs, " new world, new sky, And, for these tingling hours, mine own lost youth." A Dream of Gods " Choose ye whom 3^e will serve," I heard a cry. And lo ! I stood within a circling slope Himalaya-high, whereon assembled stood The earth's unnumbered nations. Race with Ract And People joined with People, still they spread, Thick as wheat-ears on Manitoban plains. Or mimic hosts that leap when volleying skies Assail the sea. The eye no respite found, No grateful interval; but far and near The changeless scene withheld its wonted charm Of wood and field and river. Nature now Produced but Man, and all the visible world Was faces. loo THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Then appeared in midmost view A walled arena, and I heard, or dreamed I heard, a voice proclaim that men were come To choose their gods : whereat a darkness slew The white mid-noon, and sudden silence reigned To break at last in thunder. Thrice it crashed From cloudless skies ; the dark to twilight wanned ; Vast shadows gloomed, and whisperings came and went, And all hearts were as his who gasping counts The sick eternities of dread between Quick coming shocks of earthquake. But whoso Shook off his terrors, was aware of One That in the arena drove on wheels of fire. And broad noonday returned, and mortal eyes Looked deity i' the face. Who this might be. Mars, Thor, or Shiva, or that greater name Before whose shrine the Carthaginian lad Swore the. deep oath that nigh unthroned Rome, I knew not; but all warrior hearts to him Welcome and worship gave in battle-shouts That shook the mountains. After, each in turn Unfellowed from his sky, or East or West, And sole in the arena, came the gods. Came Jove and his Olympians, bibled all In Homer's page ; next, dreaming Shapes of Ind, And that dark Pair the black-capped Persians chant Where Behistun its triple record keeps, Ormuzd and Ahriman ; red Moloch came, And Baal great, his overthrow forgot. On Carmel, and the priests Elijah slew; Then Dagon flashed his fish-scales ; last drew near A DREAM OF GODS Strange cat-faced Things by ancient Egypt shrined Where that wise husbandman, the brooding Nile, Sows a drowned land with life. They came not now Manlike to strive, each against each. Not so Immortals vie. They but themselves outdid. Not one the other ; with uplifted hand Made night, or led the astonished day from noon Back to his vanished dew ; bade the moon turn The face she hides, and stars untimely rise ; Dragged comets backward by their blazing hair Across the skies ; called up the unborn years And sowed young souls like snowflakes ; Time and Death And Fate together yoked, and drove them tame As Venus' doves ; showed themselves lords supreme Of wind, wave, harvests, famine, fevers, wars, Men, manners, kingdoms. All they did, the gods Alone may utter. Yet one deed divine Would I rehearse. I heard Apollo sing. Not on the earth he stood, but lifted up High on a changeful cloud, now tinct with dawn, Now gray as starless night on dreaming snows. And if the cloud turned, or the god alone Turned in his song, I know not, but methought All the world-throng beheld him face to face. Low breathed the deep beginning. None might say Where Silence dipped her coasts in Song's sweet seas, Or when we launched thereon. At once afloat We found us, and to float on that full tide Was bliss unknown. Nay, if Elysium lay 102 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Beyond such seas, the great souls thither bound Would loiter like schoolboys along the way. All senses now were swallowed up in one, All thought, all feeling, aye, the soul itself Sat in the ear ; as when some city's throng Stall, hall, and home, and market-place forsake And crowd the minster gates to crown their king. Crowned in their hearts already. If the spell Lay on us, for an hour, or hour of years, None knew; but all too soon the tuneful flood Caressed us homeward, and our spirits touched Once more the gray coasts of Reality. So the god sang and ceased or would have ceased But for a passionate cry, born of a heart Insatiate. " Lo, thy songs" (so rang the cry) " Be all of heaven. Sing us, O God, the songs Of men." An instant then Apollo paused. Laid down his lyre, his lissom fingers clasped Behind him, and, a simple-hearted youth. Supreme in beauty, lifted up his voice Again. He sang of Youth and June ; green fields And dancing feet and velvet orchard floors Pink with perfumed snows ; of bees and birds And the shy tinkle of too-happy brooks Wimpling among the roses. Then young Love Moved through the music, and with him first came The troubled note that, like the sombre lines In imaged light, runs through all mortal joy. A DREAM OF GODS 103 Not this the sounding chant Olympus knew, Nor a god singing ; earthly bliss and grief Mixed in these chords, an aching bliss, a grief Dearer than half our joys. All human life Flowed through the melody, and evermore Echoing sighs ; until at last the god Leaving the palpable, in haunting strains Too keen, too thrilling sweet for homesick hearts To exile doomed, 'gan breathe of unsung hopes And deep unutterable dreams that are The soul's blind fumbling at the breast of Fate Here in Time's darkness. Then with sound of tears. Like the night rain in desolate Autumn woods, A broken cry went up, " Forbear, O God, Forbear, lest thou shouldst slay us with thy song ! " And all that day the old gods came and went, Hailed each by his own nations, until all Had passed ; yet with expectant faces still The World was waiting, and mine own heart stirred, I knew not why, until afar I saw Among the people One who long unknown Had moved among them. He alone nor glance Nor word gave the arena. Not the gods Claimed him, nor their great deeds, but mortal men. Dagon, the fish-god, high on gilded wheels Departing, while the whirlwind shouts behind Proclaimed him lord of many an ancient race, Met face to face the Stranger, headlong fell And was not. Yet when once the throng unleashed Brake o'er the barriers, and warm human flesh Muffled the horses' hoofstrokes and the whirr I04 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Of chariot wheels, than this meek Presence bent Low o'er the huddled heaps and touched and straight Remade them men. Few were the words he spake And low, but all as dear in listening ears As fountains rippling through a parched dream. None named his name, nor worshipped ; yet, as when The day-king tops the mountain, here and there A lonely pinnacle shines back at him While all else is in shadow, so the souls High on Life's sky-line kindled one by one When this King rose upon them. Blessings deep Alone went after him, as to and fro Healing, uplifting, comforting he passed. And flashing silently down face by face The knowledge of him dawned to open day. Thereat a whisper passed among the throng, And at the sound, the Stranger, strange no more. Uprising slowly with a sleeping child Hushed in His arms, looked on the folk. Somewhat, Or mist or veil it seemed, still hung between His face and ours, and none had vision clear. What port, what brow, what eyes were His, awaits Our knowledge yonder, where good dreams come true ; But this I know — who saw that face forgot That phantom crew of godless gods, and all Their phantom deeds ; forgot the palpitant sea Of Humankind around him; yea, himself Forgot, and God was all in all. At last A voice, of myriad myriad tongues conjoined In one great utterance of assembled Man, Worshipping rose. WHEN THE BEES SWARM 105 " Yet, yet a little while " | (So swelled the prayer) "be patient with us still. j We have had gods before, but none like Thee, j So worn and marred and scarred yet all divine. . ^ What are these wounded hands so passing soft Upon our wounded hearts, these tears that dim The Godhead in Thine eyes ? Canst Thou be He ' Whom once we slew? Ho, Pilate, Caiaphas, j Stand forth, and judge once more what Man is this! j Needs not ! We know Thee now : Thy name is Love ! | Now is Thy kingdom come, O Brother. Friend, , ] And God o'er all, blessed forevermore ! " And with that worship in mine ears, I woke, 1 And sought the window ; night was well-nigh gone From street and square below ; a carven Pan, | Cowering among his shadows, stiffened fast j To senseless bronze ; and shining high in heaven A sunlit cross proclaimed our King — and day. When the Bees Swarm White-armed Jenny's at the table Singing soft and low, . Busy with her Sunday ruffles | Crisp and white as snow, ' Humming mother's quaint and homely ^ Song of long ago. " Polly, put the kettle on, j Polly, put the kettle on, ] Polly, put the kettle on, We'll all take tea." I io6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS In the dooryard dandelions Strew their careless bloom, Lilac plumes and cherry blossom Mingle their perfume, All the world is May, and Sorrow Only hath no room. Singeth still the dainty maid, Singeth lonely, unafraid, Of the part that Polly played When all took tea. But there comes another humming. Buzzing, on the breeze, Startled Jenny in the doorway Glancing through the trees, Covers up her white arms, crying, " Mercy ! It's the bees ! " Now it's get the kettle out, Jenny, bang the pans about, Jenny, ring the bell and shout, When May bees swarm. Father's busy with the planting, Mother's on the hill Looking for a nesting turkey, Jenny with a will Calls for help, and calling, struggles Single-handed still. Jenny, get the pail and cup, Jenny, fling the water up, Fling and ring and never stop, When May bees swarm. WHEN THE BEES SWARM 107 Now again she tries the kettle, Now the mimic shower — Will they never settle? She has Held them half an hour, If her aching arms may witness, And she's losing power. Courage, Jenny ! Wizards say That a swarm like this in May Well is worth a ton of hay, So ring your bell. Here, at last, is father, saying, " Bravo ! that will do ; They are settling on the plum-tree ; Well, I'll see it through, Run away now to your mother ; What? They stung you, too? Run, you little paragon. Mother, put a poultice on. While I bend the branches down. And hive these bees.'' io8 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Quest. " If Love hath power to heal men of their woes, " (I prayed to Love's queen flower), " It is the dewdrop in thy heart, O Rose ; Now let me taste its power." My Lady Rose bent low her beauteous head, I heard this whisper break, " Love heals no hurt," she sighed the while she said- " Save that Love's self did make." Then to the Laurel I, " If wreathed Fame Of thy proud leaves distils The wondrous nard that ancient seers proclaim, Wilt thou not ease mine ills ? " Answered the leaves, " Were that thou pray'st upon In Fame's wide kingdoms found. King Arthur had not gone to Avalon To cure him of his wound.'" " Teach me thy sorcery, thou drowsy bloom," (I prayed the Poppy red), " Let me, who cannot flee, forget my doom, On thy dark balsams fed." Breath of the flowers across my senses stole, A hushed voice murmured, " So Men drown To-day, but on To-morrow roll Immeasurable woe." MERCURY 109 Remained the Vine ; and I with Bacchus' train LolHng in wanton ease, Heard Omar babbling in vinolent strain Melodious blasphemies, But found no help ; nor dared I, like him, prone Along the wine-stained sod, Assume the judge, and for the sins mine own Hands wrought, forgive my God ! But in the last black gateway toward despair Methought one took my hand And led' me up a barren hillside where One tree looked o'er the land. " O Seeker for the balm of Ygdrasil," He said, " Behold the tree ! " I looked ; then trembling scanned that barren hil And lo ! 'twas Calvary ! Mercury He speeds no more on winged heel No wand with serpents twining He bears, nor wears his antique cap Of brazen metal shining. The purse he bore has grown a pouch As time his fortune betters, And he who was Jove's messenger Is now our Man of Letters. no THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS His fellow-gods were rustics all, And loved the wood and mountain, He long ago moved into town ; No leafy, lonely fountain Claims him to-day, nor woodland shrine Where Prayer looks up to Pity, For Mercury's in business now, With office in the city. In formal cap and coat of gray, With portly pouch of leather He walks the streets in summer glow And wildest winter weather. I hear him passing, though he leaves Nor paper nor epistle — Men knew him once by staff and shoon- I know him by his whistle. He brings no word from Jupiter, (Of heaven, or of Olympus), And still will he in news of Mars And Mistress Venus skimp us ; But human griefs and joys and fears In daily round he carries. And hearts are few that beat at ease If long his footsteps tarries. He leaves a note for sweetheart Nell, For me the news from China, With Kaiser Wilhelm's latest feat, (A poem on "The Mina"), The haughty sheet for which Quill writes, And that for which Penn sketches, With bills and dues and billets-doux All these our Gray-coat fetches. JACKSON'S MONUMENT Though strange to us his vanished gods, ' | Majores et Minores, ' Their ancient envoy turned to man ' Right welcome at the door is ; ' Then health to him ! And may his " beat" Both gain and pleasure bring him, With other bards in later times ; And worthier verse to sing him. \ { Jackson's Monument O laughing Shenandoah, in whose name Thy waters whisper, and thou cloud-capped wall, Gray Massanutten, who would lightly call Ye aught beside, must bear a lasting blame ; Yet I, remembering whose sudden fame Grew where your ripples sing, your shadows fall, And grows forever, grandest far of all Your Valley's harvest, would that change proclaim ; Yea, in his name this mount should rear its head. The while along its base with silvery gleam The river writes in lines of all men read His wars immortal. And the world should deem This just memorial to the deathless dead. That Stonewall Mountain stands by Jackson's Stream. Note. — Massanutten Mountain stretches for forty miles through the Shenandoah Valley, the scene of Jackson's most brilliant campaign, and is washed on both sides by the twin forks of the Shenandoah. 8 112 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The King's Friend King Solomon was old — The cares of his kingdom weighed on him. The sins of his children preyed on him. And his new queen's fancies played on him, When Solomon was old — Grown old and sick and sad. But on a day it fell That the sick king roused him suddenly And said to his servants, " Put on me My crown and my royal robes ; and see That all the heralds tell The king holds court to-day." Then feet ran to and fro. And in the palace was wild dismay, But none might the royal word gainsay — They put on him all his rich array, And, wond'ring, watched him go Up to his ivory throne. He sat him down, and straight The old light dawned in the old eyes dim, The old flush glowed in the old face grim And strength and beauty awhile to him Returned. He spake elate " Bring to me my best friend." THE KING'S FRIEND 113 " Let the king's will be done ! " They said, but with starts and stares between, Till a courtier whispered, " Tell the queen ; Mayhap she knoweth what this may mean." Smiling, the queen said, " Run, Bring my lord word I come." She came with maidens fair, Whose beauty to hers was leaf to rose, Or lashes to eyes on which they close, Or drifting foam to the drifted snows ; But the king smiling there. Waved the bright band aside. They brought his children then. And many a bearded princeling tall And wide-eyed wondering damsel small Came thronging into the royal hall, Only to pass again — Their sire would none of them. Some hero then they sought ; They hunted for wise men through the town, For poets, counsellors, up and down. And only to meet the king's slow frown ; Until at last distraught They stood with folded hands. Then Solomon uprose And stood on the last stair, eager eyed, " Give place, for the king's friend comes ! '' he cried All turned ; on the great hall's further side, Untouched, the doors unclose. And with a shivering wind 114 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS A shadowy figure came, (Some after swore no figure was there — Some spake of his moonlit eyes, his hair — And some dreamed long of his kingly air) — And a thin wisp of flame Flashed from the king to him. So on the the marble cold " 'Neath the ivory throne — the story saith — The weary monarch resigned his breath To his last and longed for friend, King Death For Solomon was old — Grown old and sick and sad. The Road of Dreams 'Tis no dim woodland way With floor of grass broidered with fringed pools Of filtered sunlight, where dame partridge schools Her brood at dusk o' day, Nor orchard path, o'er which in odorous bower The oriole blooms, a winged and singing flower. New blown in new blown May. It is no clanging street Due east and west unwandering, bare and straight Down 'twixt the housetops as the path of Fate, Where is cold Mammon's seat, And staring changeless as a blind man's eyes The endless windows row on row arise Above the hurrying feet. THE ROAD OF DREAMS 115 ] \ \ Yet doth the dream road he Ahke in field and town ; twin bands of steel On bedded logs, down which on clanking wheel The long freight trains go by, By day and night, and travelers grand and strange And visions bright this grimy pathway range, To a discerning eye. What, think you, passes now, Just giant sawlogs? Nay! I see a tall Pine tree that tiptoe on Tacoma's wall A thousand years his brow Lifted cloud-high, to watch through devious miles The ever changing, swift, far flashing smiles That Puget's waves endow. Yon dull heaps are not coal. But leaf and flower and frond — poor smothered things Mummied and buried, like old Eg>^pt's kings. When earth from pole to pole Was ceaseless summer : these great blocks of stone Are templed Karnak, or walled -Babylon, As past me now they roll. And more than new-reaped grain These dusky vans bring by ; I see the surge Of billowy wheatfields rippling toward the verge Of wide horizons ; plain Comes a keen whirr of harvest wheels; and kind Nature in new lands far brings back to mind The Age of Gold again. ii6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS These gossip airs that tell What summer fruits are passing, tell not all — They bring, unknown, a garden with its wall And orange trees that spell Summer and Southland ; and the vanished face That blessed my garden wears the old, old grace My childhood loved so welll So at the open door Musing, I watch the dream-world rolling by, Old scenes, and faces dead that cannot die — And, all my wanderings o'er, Rest by the roadside ; or, if I must roam, Make but short journeys, travel still at home. And mine own soul explore. The Anesthetic In clinging napkins, softly cool. They lap me, cheek and brow. " Breathe easily," a pleasant voice Says in mine ear. And now Blown odors from Oblivion's isles Salute my sense ; and I. En route, but lingeringly alive, Am wondering, as I fly. How near — that — chartless coast may be- The brink — the plunging-place — NIGHT FLOWERS T17 And while I wonder, lo ! my wife Bends down with shining face. "All's over, hours ago!" she cries. Amen ! With courage new I rise. I know what death is now, And resurrection, too. Night Flowers As weary travelers in a train That stops they know not where, Catch sometimes through the windows borne Along the still night air, A breath so sweet, their tired hearts, Reviving 'neath its power. Know well that hidden somewhere near The wild grape vine's in flower, So, oft a sudden sweetness here Breathes through our pilgrim gloom. And we too know that somewhere near, God hath a soul in bloom. Pilate Still on the judgment-seat he sits In his dark place apart. One sound forever in his ears, One anguish at his heart. ii8 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS He hears no gnashings of the pit, No groans of long despair, But tones of kindly living men That rise as calm as prayer. He hears, and hears till time shall end, The ransomed Nations tell Of One whom Pontius Pilate slew — And that is Pilate's hell. Like Zaccheus " Say, hold up a minute ! O, stranger, wait ! " He called, and came down the hill From the cabin crouched in the edge of the pines, As the traveler's horse stood still. "Be you-uns a preacher?" Jes' so! "That's good. Then you-uns can tell me true — Is they any sycamore trees in heaven ? " The parson stared, but the blue Eyes bent on his own like a levelled gun Were dark with a haunting pain. And he answered, wondering, " That, my friend, Is a thing not yet made plain. But why must you know ? " 'Tain't me, it's the boy Must know, " said the mountaineer. " He's been mighty po'ly a long spell now. And 'pears like he's bound to hear LIKE ZACCHEUS iig " 'Bout them sycamores. Could you-uns light down And set by him for a while? I'd sho'ly be thankful." Though yet his home Was distant many a mile, The preacher alighted and climbed the hill And came to the cabin door ; The face of a dwarfed and crippled lad Looked up from the earthen floor, A face that had numbered no more of years Than would perfect Youth's brief span. But had known more pain than is often made The lot of a long-lived man. And a piping voice that was weak and thin Soon was pouring out the tale : — "Where 'd I get it? Out o' the book. Look, Pap, On the shelf there, by the pail." The bible shook in his wasted hands — "He was little and -short, like me, Old Zaccheus was, and it says he went off And dumb up a sycamore tree For to see Him pass ; and thinks I to myself. That's the very trick ! As shore As ever I come where my Lord goes by, I'll find me a sycamore, If so be they is any ; for I know ' It'll be a monst'us crowd. With them angels a-marchin' down the street, And the harps all playin' loud, 120 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS And I'm 'feared, onless they's some trees up there That's limby and low and free, That my Lord'll come smilin' and shinin' by, And I'll — have — no — chance — to — see." ********* The preacher tried thrice ere the words would come, (They were old words, grand and good). And he lingered long by the pallet low, And when through the darkening wood He rode, the monarchs that over him towered. Pine, maple, and hickory, He passed unheeding, and under his breath Said, *' The svcamore for me." The Worker And His Work " Not only for Angels," the angel said, " And Mortals — for us and for you, God paints the plumes on the wings of the moth And the splendor that flashes through When sunset opens the gates of the west — Now hearken. A long-ago day In heaven was festival set ; for a star, New-made and star-cycles away. Its first rich harvest of glory had sent To lay at the foot of the throne ; But the triumph tarried ; the songs were mute. For the Lord from his place was gone. THE WORKER AND HIS WORK We found him at last in the world of Man, In a hidden and lonely vale. Where a woodman's cabin stood by a lake And the end of a grassy trail. The woodman was sleeping. A great red moon Came over the shadowy hill, And wondering gazed on another moon And her stars in the waters still, As the moon has done since the first night fell ; And there in the whispering wood God looked on his handiwork while men slept, And again he declared it good. And not till those bright twin visions had passed, And the light on the lake was thin, Did the waiting throng in the courts above Hear the word from the throne, 'Begin.' "Not only for Angels," the angels said, " And Mortals — for us and for you ; His also the beauty of heaven and earth Who made it and loveth it too." 122 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS June Apples The tree grew close to the orchard wall In a June of the Long Ago, (I could show 3^ou yet where the pathway ran Through the clover a-bloom below), And jewel-red 'twixt the laughing leaves Where the clustering apples rare ; We knew they were ripe by the tell-tale breath Of the breeze that had kissed them there. How oft, at the young day's first caress On our eyes, we have leaped from bed, And with swift feet dashing the dews aside, Down the devious path have sped To gather the windfall under the tree ! Oh, the years as they hurrying pass Bring me never again that dear delight Of the apples there in the grass. Is it because there were shouts that day That are long ago silent grown, And other feet ran with mine in the road I must henceforth travel alone? Were the apples as sweet as now I dream ? Or is this the usury bold That we ever of hoarding Memory claim For the joys we lent her of old? BEDTIME 123 Who knows? I only know that the zest That was in them of sun and showers — The piquant freshness of Youth and the dawn, And the sweetness of Life's first flowers. Is gone ! Though still by the orchard wall They redden, with clover below, June apples ripen but once in a life : And I had mine summers ago. Bedtime The Father stopped moulding a star, And looked down to men — "It is bedtime; put up your toys," He said ; and again Was busy star-building. But straight The children 'gan fret And murmur. The Statesman, aggrieved, Prayed, "Must I, just yet?" The Soldier was pleading, " Oh, wait Till after this fight ! " And the Poet, shaking his hair, Cried, " I hate the night ! " And the Lord God answered them not Nor yea nor yet nay Till his new world, finished and lit, Rolled forth and away. 124 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Then he bent him above them. Their heads Were heavy and low, And they knew not when their Hmp palms Let the playthings go. But deep was the smile in his eyes And gentle the hands That lifted them close to his breast And loosened the bands That are flesh, and folded away Their mortality, Though they whimpered a little still, Not knowing 'twas he. And he laid them down in a place Close under his eye, There to slumber the long night through, With him watching by. And out of the dream I had dreamed This comfort there grew — At bedtime Our Father in Heaven Is our Mother too. The Discovery Bend low, my soul, and listen, listen long! Move's in the ztnnd than shouting, or mere song. More than earth knows, or sea, or watching sky. With day and night goes by. THE DISCOVERY 125 I heard a viewless echo down the wood j Say low, " Good, good ! " I As once with eager feet \ I passed my tryst to meet, j And mark arbutus part her leafy covers j For me the earliest come of all her lovers. I Like quests of old had taught me where to look, , And by the piquance of her breath around. ^ Along a singing brook, j In a warm bight the dainty fair I found ; I But while I bent above her, I Down the dark coverts of the lonely wood 1 I heard departing echo saying over \ That low, " good, good " ; I And that my flower had still an earlier lover, ] I understood. I Once on the mountain side i Hid in the rocks, I watched the whirlwind rise • Along the wave. The moon in heaven died, I And stars shone lustreless as dead men's eyes Behind a sudden veil Of mist, that grew a pall, i And then a solid wall Driving before the gale ; It swirled, it moaned, and, bellowing fury, broke As hell itself were whelping: wind and wave Commingled till it seemed the wind did smoke 'Gainst jagged cliffs, and howling waters drave High up in air; while over all the storm ^ Came a great shout, i As in the midmost rout Somewhat passed by me like an awful form. 126 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Clouds were his robes, his chariot, clouds his hair, White beyond all compare. With not a least lock waving Despite the raving Tornadoes round ; and lightnings at his feet Writhed fawning; but his face I might not mee<^ — Still unto mortal eye Jehovah must be but a God gone by. But O my heart, my heart, unsteadily and low Beating, and breaking slow — The way behind zvas long, before, is lonely Thou thinkest, and thou only Unfriended onward to the goal must go — • Have comfort; waits thee at the turn designed One who of old had mind To walk zvith Man in Eden's even glow. And once in northern wild Slowly I loosed mine arm beneath the head Of my dead guide, and seemly laid each limb, And closed with fingers mild Those Indian eyes that never I saw dim Till now; and passed outside The lonely camp. Naught but the snow-fields spread Around me there, and' night and silence wide ; But high o'erhead, Lily and lavender and gold and red, Aurora flamed, as if Heaven-town were burning, THE DISCOVERY 127 1 And all its jewelled walls, j Gardens and bowers, i Porches and palace-halls And shadowy towers, | Were, not to ashes, but some new Heaven, turning; J And all the sky shook like a shimmering curtain j T • 1 i In some swart emir s tent, j As high and higher j Those streamers vast, now single, and now blent | In sinuous shapes uncertain, \ And many a changing but still awful spire, j Lorded the firmament. j And hark! Was that a cry, J Outlying thunders, or far people shouting? I Who knows? But listening in a startled doubting, I heard afar, anigh, j A deep-drawn, quivering, all-pervading sigh. ' Seek him, ye saints, still round your altars pale, Or in hushed closets dim; I search, in budding praise, the vernal vale The sky, the whirlwind's rim — Climb, an ye may, O Men, the heights of Duty His own feet once in meekest patience trod. But I entranced, at some shrine of Beauty His ozi'n hand shaped, Lo! I too, iind my God. 9 128 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Dream Wreck My Love and I went sailing High on the heavenly main — My Love, to seek new isles of joy, And I, to lose or gain. A hope, a dream, so thrilling-sweet 'Twas nigh akin to pain — That sometimes waked and sometimes slept, But always waked again. Earth was a map beneath us — And heaven stooped dear and nigh, " Now is our kingdom come ! " My Love Exulted, " Now we fly ; "Yon glory-cloud just gone," she cried " Maybe, is God gone by." " Or some bright earthly dream," I said, " Come true, here in the sky." It was not mine ; for gently She sighed, and shook her head. And ere my stammering tale was done, I knew my hope was dead — The brightest dream I had on earth, In heaven was finished. And o'er the misty mountains. And back along the seas. And o'er the pillared smoke that clomb From green clumps that were trees Our wide wings brought us home again To earth's uncertain ease. THE ACCOMPANIST 129 And of that wondrous journey, These things alone remain— For her, a glory-cloud gone by, For me an endless pain For all Love's argosies that day Wrecked on the heavenly main— For hopes and dreams that waked and slept, But ne'er will wake again. The Accompanist Seven times her welcome thunders, roar on roar, Like Fundy's mightiest storm-tides, till the hall Itself is tempest-shaken. Still I wait. Never again, since that night when her wrath Imperial blazed against me, dare I sound The keys too soon. But now the tumult dies; And turning with a well-earned touch, that owns No more a peer than does yon deathless voice, I strike the prelude. Round and full and slow The liquid bell-notes, perfect each, and all Consummate, muster. Then she sings. Pearls gleam Like moonlight in her midnight hair, and three White roses on her white breast rise and fall All but unknown; for that which trances sense Is her sole self, rich in her double dower Of Beauty and of Song. Mine own ears turn Not once away, nor would though Israfel I30 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS. Stood choiring by ; for through th' enchanted doors Her magic opens, dreams she has not known Drift by, and other voices than the sea She sings, commingle with her song. " All the rivers come to me — Some by temples hoary, holy, Some through dosing deserts dim. Some by white peaks melancholy Watching on the wide world's rim — Gliding, gleaming, some in glee. Some in sorrow silently, Seek the sea." How still, How rapt, these leaning faces ! — to the eye. All eyes, but eyes that seem to listen too. For one sense may as little drink this sound As one poor window let all daylight in — And still along the song my shaded notes Unnoticed run. She knows no hand but mine Can weave, and weaving, subtly hide the web Her voice emblazons into cloth-of-gold ; Aye, well she knows I own, I seek, no art But ministers to hers. No hope, no dream Is mine, no beckoning call of far, bright things With half-heard promise of some waiting crown — Dear God ! Why should all, all, be hers, and mine No kindly word— not even the poor acclaim Of perfect aid to her supremacy ! THE ACCOMPANIST 131 For, look you, this mad throng that on their feet In tumult shout her name to heaven again. In all their praise, have not one thought of me, " That shy, poor thing, who plays ! " as once by chance P heard them pitying name me. Yet was I Born in the purple, and Ambition's heir, And when Fate dragged me down, far, far along The road to crowning — Hark, again she sings — " Stranger pilgrims yet there he Come to me — Waking joys that zuould be sleeping, Sleeping grief that's nigh to wake, Love and Fame and Terror creeping In me rest and refuge take, Aye, whatever stars may he, And the day, go dozvn in me — " Croons the sea. I thought this heart of mine had done with pain. As broken lyres with throbbing; but this song Thrills me afresh. The dark-eyed lad I knew — Knew to the least up-curling of the long Eyelashes o'er his smiling — comes to me From unplumbed darkness of an ocean grave. Five years of life — of pain, their double term — Have schooled me since he parted, grieved and wroth 132 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Because she yonder (whom a thousand eyes Worshipped that night, as mounting thousands now), I fancied looked a thought too kindly on My lad, my lad alone ! I lost him so — The sea-mists mazed him. and Newfoundland gulfs, Ambushed in that blind twilight, roared him down ; And I crept back to life from listless weeks Of waiting at Death's doors, bereft alike Of love and power. Music's dead kings no more In my swift-moving fingers lived and reigned ; One thing alone still could' I compass large. At long thereafter, when my life came back — Could lend mine art, with passing skill, to lift And thrill the singer — This one thing I do, By grief made keeper of the time and tune Of others' triumphs, till there's no more sea. "All that is, and is to he, Somezvhere, sometime, comes to me — Somezi/here also all my rolling World of wastes as moons shall zvane, Sometime God's doom-bell go tolling Me into the void again — What am I, and what are ye, Mortals all, but Vanity." Sighs the sea — "Mirth and dust and vanity," Moans the sea. THE TREE OF LOVE 133 The Tree of Love " Thou hast news ! " They gathered round him ere his wings were wholly folden, Ben-Azel, angel of God's trees, and all the garden throng, Newly come from earth with tidings of a thing, till now withholden, So sweet to tell, his listeners' lips unconscious curved for song. His face was like a lamp alight. " It is not lost forever !" He cried aloud. " But yester-eve, I walked among the trees Of the garden, Man's old Eden, all along the parted river — It is not lost, but hidden till God's hand the curtain frees. But a new tree's come to Eden, though no wind may lisp the wonder — The ripples on the Hiddekel in silence by it glide, And the happy pools of Gihon hold their breath the lilies under, To keep its mirrored image sleeping on the sleeping tide. 134 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS " By the long-forsaken pathway Adam trod at cool of even, It stands, as wrapped in wintry dreams among the glowing flowers. And — it's whispered — there at dusk again the Visitor from Heaven Awaits his old companion down the lonely walks and bowers. " It's a marvel new in Eden in its story and its seeming — It bore a priceless harvest once, and now is sere and stark ; But it's budding; and all Paradise is leaning forth and streaming In slender tendrils toward it in the day and in the dark. " Little red flowers called hosannas thick around its foot are springing, And eyes no eyes may quite discern watch it from hill and glen. And though Pishon brings but hints of it, his cliffs break into singing. And hills far down in Havilah reverberate ' Amen ! ' " There's a rumor it was earth-born — on a low hill by a garden — That this was once the midmost tree in dread Golgotha's gloom — Heaven send it ! Then some destined day shall Eden's angel-warden Cry out, * O Man, come back, come home ! The Tree of Love's in bloom ! ' " THE EMMAUS GUEST US The Emmaus Guest Pillowed at twilight on the window-seat, She took shy invoice of the passers-by, Appraising mien and gesture : bearing high And air complacent, won of her but fleet, Half- wistful glance ; but when with lingering feet, And shadowy face, some wayfarer drew nigh. On him she turned a timid, asking eye, Hoping, though doubting still, a friend to greet. Then to me, softly, " It's a play, " she said— "/ make believe the zvondrous Emmaus Guest In the red twilight may pass by this way." Ah, happy one! Here is her empty bed, Her crutch, forever idle, though the rest. To me, is tears. Her Guest came yesterday. The Pine Tree In Town Of old his outlook swept the mountain-side To either gate of day. Orion rose And set before him, and the wind that knows All things, would tattle in his branches wide Arabian tales; he watched young eagles glide On moveless wing, and heard at twilight's close The lone wolf howl, or thunder-tongued echoes Of some tree's downfall on the night's noontide. And now, stripped to the quick, his only view What one dull street may hold of earth and sky. He lifts the wires, while round him pant and growl Labor and Greed— but hears, all tumults through. Far o'er remembered lakes, the loon's wild cry. Or from the hillside dark, the hooting owl. 136 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Shepherd's Voice {Hymn from A Forthcoming Children's Day Serviced Solo Night on the mountain-side, Fear on the wold, Dangers unseen are near, Ills manifold Compass the shadowy way Whereon I wend ; God of the wanderer. Chorus Thy comfort send. Hear ye, O hear the heavenly whisper falling Far out where lost one's roam, Shepherd Immanuel through the dark is calling. "' / am the Way: come home!" Deeper the darkness grows, While on my soul Douhts, like a wintry sea, Drearily roll ; O for some mighty word. Proven, not guessed, Some tried foundation stone. Where Faith might rest ! Calm as the night-snows, windless woodlands wreathing. Sweet as lost songs of Youth, The Word Divine o'er all our douhts is breathing, ''Believe mc: I am Truth!" Now must I lay me down — Done all my prayers, Ended alike my hopes Sorrows and cares ; THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER 137 Harmless and helpless both i Foeman and friend — Lo, at the open door Death — and the end ! 1 " Nay, though one die," saith Christ — O promise golden ! | " Yet shall he live again; j He that is mine shall not of Death he holden ( I am the Life!" Amen! Amen! The Children's Prayer j The time, O Lord, is long gone by, j The place is far away, That saw thee once on little heads Thy hands in blessing lay. Hast thou no blessings more to give? Can this thy mercy bar. That some may hear thy loving call i Too late, in lands too far? Nay, not Jiidean hills alone. Nor Sharon's plains are thine; The whole wide world of human need, To thee, is Palestine. I For us, for all, thy pangs of old. For us to-day thy scar?. And room will be in Jesus' arms While heaven has room for stars. i Then take us, Lord. We know not all j Thy blessings on us mean, ^ We only know that heads like ours j Must have somewhere to lean. i 138 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Make us to feel the eternal arms That fold us to thy breast, And, like the little ones we are. We'll leave thee all the rest. The Waiting World What see ye, O ye mountains strong, That lift your heads on high. And in the dark and in the dawn, Look out across the sky? " The dark and dawn they come and go, But we look out alway To see if yet begins to break The Lord's Redemption Day." Ye little brooks, why hurry so? The roses, as ye pass. Can scarce their bending faces see In such a shaking glass. A sigh along the ripples ran. I heard the bubbles' song, " We haste to greet the coming King — How long, O Lord, how long?" Ye winds that wander to and fro. And gossip east and west. What is't ye whisper in the leaves That will not let them rest? The winds made answer low and strange- " We bid them ready be To clap their hands all round the world, When men His sign shall see." THE HEALER 139 The plodding ox before the plough, The huddled sheep in stall — The patient slaves or prey of Man, — Like answer made for all. All groaning, wait the day, the prince, That Man's redemption bring; But when the tale was told to men. They said, "What day? What king?" The Healer Because the Lord hath bruised thee, thou hast balm For others' wounds, and writ deep in thy palm Wearest the signet of that pain and power; For what thine eyes did once at Bethany Sorrow's wan sisterhood still turns to thee. And Grief's long storm falls to a soothing shower. Because thou wast forsaken on the tree Thou knowest to comfort them that desolate be When they are dying; and since thyself hast trod Death's vale unshepherded, the Roman spear Thine only rod and staff, thou wilt be near When we go lonely to keep tryst with God. W.-i^M^^lt^ ^■'t, ■ 140 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS In That Land There is singing sweet, and gladness, In that land ; There is never note of sadness. In that land, But the sweetest of the anthems chanted on the glassy sea. Is the song of homing pilgrims who were some time such as we ; Men and maids and little children, now forevermore to be In the glory of the golden land There is freedom from old sorrow, In that land, And they care not for to-morrow. In that land ; Nay, to-day's enough and over, murmur they with hearts that swell With the joys too big for keeping, yet too strangely sweet to tell. Though they poured their souls in music with the voice of Israfel, In the glory of the golden land. There are heroes of old story, In that land, And they bring their pomp and glory. In that land ; They that here were meek and lowly, share with them each shining hall. And there's never one a weakling, shamed or pitied, 'mid them all ; Never one the Lord Almighty doth not son or daughter call. In the glory of the golden land. THE ANGEL OF THE PASSION 141 Peace is flowing like a river, In that land ; Toil and care are gone forever, In that land, And they lie at ease, and wonder at their half-forgotten fears, For a hand that here was wounded, there shall wipe away their tears, And the King's first look of welcome lights their souls a thousand years. In the glory of the golden land. The Angel of the Passion Angel of angels, haloed in his hair. Musing he stands while heaven around him rings. His shadowy eyes alone, like woodland springs, Flashing their hallelujahs. Low and rare His speech ; nor work, nor fellow hath he there ; Nor 'mid that company of seraphs, kings. And potentates, is there another brings A greater glory. Yet is this his share Of heaven — to wander mindful where the trees Their shadows loose along th' immortal sod ; To hear ONE crying; Kedron on the breeze Murmuring; and coming feet in armor shod Clank from the hill-side ; then to feel 'mid these His breast once more upbear his dying God. 142 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS An Old Man's Prayer We do not ask that blessing, Lord, Thou dost on babes bestow, The innocence thou lovest in them We lost long years ago. If but the Young thy face may seek, The Good thy kindness sue, Our hopes are vanished all, for we Are old and sinful too. Too old to claim thy favor here. Too bad to hope for heaven, One boon alone of thee we crave — It is — to be forgiven. Thou hast thine own hairs white as wool, Ancient of Days art thou ! Great God, to whom shall old men go ? Be thou our helper now. In Old Jerusalem ("Like unto children, sitting in the market place." Matt. 11:17.) "Ho, Reuben, Anna, Benjamin!" Rings out the eager call, " Haste to the empty market-place. Come, playmates, one and all ; The trade is done, the merchants gone. Let each small man and maid Run hither now to share the fun." — Who watches in the shade? IN OLD JERUSALEM H3 "What shall we play? A marriage feast? Good! Little Ruth is bride, And Reuben shall the bridegroom be, Sit down there side by side. While we join hands, and, piping shrill, The wedding dance begin. Sing now ! "—The Listener by the wall Smiles at the merry din. " In dizzy whirl, with laugh and shout. This way and that we swing. And quick feet patter in and out, And blithe our voices ring ; Long life we wish the happy pair. Fond hearts and fortunes due "— Look at yon careworn Watcher now ! His eyes are dancing too. "But, Nathan, why do you stand still? You will not dance, you say? Well, if we play a funeral Goes slowly down the way. With you chief mourner by the bier To knock your breast and groan— Then will you play?"— The stranger's eyes With kindling pity shown. 10 144 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS He waits to hear the lad's reply, And soon, with patient feet, Goes on his way; and darkness falls. And silent grows the street ; But in the amber of his speech, For all the coming years, The Master sets the children's play That now he sees and hears. Like children." Are we? Lord, then turn This way thy shining feet That go no more to Calvary ; Look on while we repeat This older, sadder game of life With strong men's hopes and fears ; Smile on our joys, and when we weep, O Master, wipe our tears. The Sighing in the Pines Under the pillared stems I laid me doivn, Wind-music high o'erhead Under me, brozvn Pine-needles piled; and while The twilight gleam Lingered along the hills, I dreamt this dream. THE SIGHING IN THE PINES 145 The pine tree cried to God, (When Time was new) " The apple tree bears fruit And blossoms too. " And even the crooked vine By Eden's wall Its purple clusters fills Against the fall. " But never sound of bees My summer owns ; Ripe Autumn brings me naught But rattling cones. " Weary am I to bear These green harp-strings, Weary to hear the songs The gay wind sings " Among these slender boughs Thou madest a lute — Take back thy songs, O Lord, And give me fruit." * * * * Lo ! on yon hill outside Jerusalem, With Heaven and Earth at gaze, Uprears a stem, 146 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS A felled and riven trunk, Sapless and stark. And ONE uplifted there, Dies in the dark. The pine tree hath its prayer — For gain or loss — This was the fruit it bore — HIM on his cross. And nevermore, though winds Still frolic be, Are the old songs of mirth Heard in that tree; But through its quivering leaves, Too late made wise. One sound unceasing swells, A sound of sighs. THE TEST 147 The Test How shall we know our Lord when first we wake In heaven? If in the drear Aegean isle An angel's glory could e'en John beguile To misplaced worship, may not we mistake Michael for Christ, and so, untimely, break Our box ©f ointment? Strange to us the smile Immanuel wears, nor have we e'er, the while Our hearts burned in us, listened when He spake As He did once at Emmaus. We know Nor Him nor angels, and in His own lands He doth not alway crowned and Godlike go. But moves — just Jesus! — 'mid His eager bands Of old companions ; yet this sign shall show Our king and Heaven's — He still hath wounded hands. Johanan " Hence now, ye little ones, Naomi, Dan, And Samuel, go play there by the wall Where fig-leaves whisper and the fountain leaps To pour cool kisses round your twinkling feet. Hath He not blessed you? Get you gone, I say. But Thou, O Mighty, hear me." " Speak. I hear." " Thou dost but waste Thy blessing upon these, O Nazarene. Why wilt Thou feast the full, Or light Thy lamp at noonday? Mark them there, Their songs, their laughter! Nay, what greater thing Could the great God give to these happy ones Than that they have, being babes? But come Thou hence, 148 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS I'll show Thee men old, withered, hard of heart, And wicked, even as I ; men not more like Their childhood than the sad Salt Sea is like Its youth, the Jordan. On them desolate, Turn the mild pity of Thy tranquil eyes. And make them know the marvel of Thy voice Who have no mother hands to lead them here, Nor yet are fit to come." " Yea, friend, who will May come," the answer fell. " And thou, oppressed With others' ills, what wilt thou for thine own ? " Doubt, hope, and wonder held Johanan dumb Till on his ears once more the children's glee Tinkled, as when all Hermon's rills a-chime Sing summer. Then he cried, " Make me, O Lord, As one of these." Instant on that white head Bowed low, were laid the gentle hands foredoomed To nail-prints, and the voice that made the world Whispered above him and he stood up changed. Alway thereafter 'mid the childish throng An old man moved, simple and glad of heart And innocent as they. Malice and pride Dropped from him as old leaves from wakening pines At touch of spring. Men mocked at him, and some In secret envied ; he, in sweet content Went on his simple way till one still eve They found him sitting by the fountain wall With small Naomi nestling in his arms. And both asleep ; she pillowed on his breast. And he on God's. DOMINION 149 Dominion When mine own senses all Shall governed be, Walled like a river, like A river free : When these swift thoughts no more Like blown leaves fly. But ordered range, as wild-fowl Cleave the sky : When on the will enthroned The passions wait, Meek as the homing kine At pasture gate : Mine then shall be no pride, No glorying. But all my powers reclaimed I'll straightway bring Praying to Him who owns The tribute due "I am thy slave. Lord, give Me work to do." 150 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS An Old Fashioned Sport When chestnut trees are beaten bare. And hickory leaves turn yellow — When dropping papaws fill the air With perfume rich and mellow, We boys steal off in early night While whimpering screech-owls shiver, And by the pine-knot's flickering light, Go gigging down the river. Our blazing prow in crystal swims ; We hear a wind-blown tinkle Of hidden rills, and through the limbs Stars peep, and home lights twinkle On distant hills; and there below Where restless reeds are swaying, A silent circle widens slow — The muskrat's door betraying. Alert I lean along the bow With slender gig held ready. While Ben now poles the boat, and now Stands still, and holds her steady. The fallen leaves in squadrons pass. Each leaf its shadow throwing. Till which are shadows, which are bass, Is often past our knowing. THE WICKET GATE 151 The townsman rigged with rod and reel, When summer suns are burning, With angler's art here fills his creel. Our rustic methods spurning. But each to each his own delights — No keener sport we're wishing Than here in soft September nights To try our Indian fishing. And oft again, in wintry dreams, Our boyish fancies straying. Glide backward down the darkling streams Where memory's torch is playing; Again the steel is aimed true. And down young nerves a-quiver Tingles afresh the thrill they knew When gigging on the river. The Wicket Gate I wait no ghostly steed That strong men, armed and soldierly, must ride Out a-past Rigel to life's yonder side — Let him who will, with speed And sweat and fury think to gallop in Upon God's peace, and so his heaven to win I like another rede. T52 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS No stirrup-cup for me. Perched on yon pawing courser ; but, if so A dying man may choose, I'll gentlier go ; I'll look right leisurely All round the study; if it's wintry weather. Take tongs, and once more coax the logs together, And pile up two or three Well-worn old books that lie Open there on the table; then I'll call My household in, and take dear leave of all, Short speech, but lingering eye Giving to each ; and last with footstep slow Leaning on Him who came for me, I'll go. But when I first descry Somewhat beside His face — "Is this the way?" I'll ask in swift surprise, " Your way," He'll answer me, with shining eyes. For Lo ! we do but pace Mine own green lane that past the garden goes, And were 't but summer, still I'd smell the rose, We've come such little space. And my heaven will begin, I think, a little past the garden wall — There'll be a wicket gate, not rich nor tall. And until then, unseen ; That shall I find; and silent or with singing, For good or ill, by that low wicket swinging. My guide will bring me in. CHILDREN'S PRAISE 153 Children's Praise All the young world praiseth thee — Breezes born in shaded spaces, Lisping rills in lonely places, Nestlings at their matin graces, Rustling leaves in elfin glee — In their music. Lord, praise thee. All the bright world praiseth thee — Lilies pale and stars that twinkle. Diamond dews that roses sprinkle, Crystal waves that flash and tinkle, Rainbow arch on shining sea — In their beauty. Lord, praise thee. Yet they know not what they do — Sun and song come with the season. Song and sun are all their reason, Not to shine and sing were treason. And to time and season true. They but pay their tribute due. Hear, Lord, what the children sing — All the wordless music rarest, All the voiceless beauty fairest. All the wide earth's richest, dearest, Blended in our songs we bring In our praise to thee, O king. 154 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS The Second Sight New waked to meet the judgment scene, He stood before the throne Amid unnumbered humankind, And thought he stood alone. A scroll was thrust into his hands. Close-writ, and long and long. " 'Tis thus," they cried, " thy record runs, This hast thou done of wrong." He little heeds : like new-roused child, The sleep yet in his eyes. On one bright Face he gazes still With still renewed surprise. " Stand forth ! " he hears. " What plea hast thou To stay the avenging rod ? " " This only," wondering still he cries, "Behold the Lamb of God." A light, a rapture, thrills the scene ; A silence falls; and then In deeps star-deep beyond the stars Rolls echoing, " Amen ! " And, like a great wind heard by night. Far breathes the word, " Forgiven : And that I gave thee Him on earth Now give Him thee in Heaven." HIS HIDDEN ONE His Hidden One i j Ere the grass conquered him and trod him under, The nested sparrows mocked his homeless head : ^ To-day his palace fair, heaven's newest wonder, Lifts its white dome with glory garnished. He had not dreamed here with the great to seat him; ^ In lowly paths remote he meekly trod ; Yet ranged seraphs stood uncrowned to greet him, j What time he heard the clear " well done," of God. ' ( Pent for long years was he in fleshly prison, I His weary soul wore deep the dungeon scar, But now to fair far heights right royal risen, | The angels hail him lord of the morning star. i " Arise, Let Us Go Hence " Out of the upper chamber, After the feast is done, Out of the blessed circle With Judas only gone, Out of the growing comfort The Master's word bestows. Out of the peace where all doubts cease And all strife silent grows — " Arise, let us go hence." IS6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Over the murmuring Kedron, Into the garden's gloom, Into a foreseen anguish, Unto a foretold doom, Unto the kiss of traitors, The faithlessness of friends, Into the hour of the tempter's power. When Hell with Heaven contends — "Arise, let us go hence." Ever the warning soundeth Through all the ages, clear As a harsh bell's jangling clamor Breaks on a dreaming ear. Or as the cry of terror Which no wild winds can drown When a vessel shocks on the sunken rocks And men to death go down — " Arise, let us go hence." O sharp, O sudden summons ! But soft ! What does he say ? " Let us go hence ? " Yea, Master, If Thou but lead the way. The straitest, sternest pathway That ever mortal trod Shall welcome be since we go with Thee In a road that leads to God — " Arise, let us go hence." ST. STEPHEN'S VISION 157 St. Stephen's Vision So Stephen spoke. Then leaped their startled rage Like the coiled viper when the passing heel That crushes it is raised. They hated him As blasted pines hate lightning. But the while Their hissing fury rose, the patient saint, Already angel-faced, was given to see What angels only may : the opening heavens Flashed on him awestruck, and he saw the King. High on His throne He stood new risen, attent, August ; His station such that heaven expects New marvels great. His vesture droops away In refluent curves of wind-carved snow ; His hair Of curled light blows wide. Forward He leans With outstretched hand, as if in act to greet Some equal Majesty who comes to-day Into his kingdom ; and His eyes meanwhile Orbing such Godlike welcome, as, being turned On chaos, life and light and love would spring In ruin's womb responsive, or but glanced On devil deepest damned, would draw him up And straight remake him angel. Him beheld Stephen, first martyr. What thereafter lay He little heeded. 'Mid that after rain Whose every drop was death, he, mute and still, Was like a cradled child that tranced lies Still wrapt in rosy dreams, altho' loud War Rages around, and momently the walls Crash into ruin. 158 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS Caught to highest heaven, Long time he gazes on that face divine With speechless love, the while God's domed halls Reverberate with welcome : then kneels down And prays high God to make him man again And martyr, if through death's dark doors once more That vision he may see. ♦Tint^ ♦ OCT 26 19tf One copy del. to Cat. Div. ort n '^"^ iiiH(iiSi!nliHSti!3lS!$Si!ytiiJHiiHi!itei.iteB!iS!8^ !t•^:!,•'•:.i)!;i!iJi;l