LIBRARY OF CONGRES& Shelf 'iC^A 7 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. ARIEL AND CALIBAN WITH OTHER POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH ^ ^^^^^^^^^p g^^fe^EI^S i^sfp^te KS ffiffipMfePS w l aiin in iiiiii inn in nil ' i BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 1887 \\ Copyright, 1886, Br CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCIL All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. CONTENTS. ♦ PAGE Akiel and Caliban 1 Lionel and Lucille 21 San Borondon 33 The Old Year 39 The Centennial Year 44 After the Centennial 50 A Night-Picture 52 A Child-Savior 55 An Old Umbrella .58 To Ione 61 After-Life 64 Prince Yousuf and the Alcayde. A Moorish Ballad . 67 Rosamond 72 A Question 74 My Studio 76 Talent and Gendjs 78 Venice 80 The Two Dreams 83 At the Grave of Keats 84 Broken Wings 80 Sea-Pictures 88 Ars Longa, Vita Brevis 90 Love's Voyage .92 Survival of the Fittest 95 IV CONTENTS. A Word to Philosophers The Coal-Fire Two Views op It Old and Young . .. . . .97 101 105 106 The Victories of Peace 107 Summer Dawn 108 The Old Apple-Woman. A Broadway Lyric . . . Ill The Weather-Prophet 114 Omar Khayyam 118 Longfellow . . . 121 Ralph Waldo Emerson 123 Frederick Henry Hedge. On his SOth Birthday . . 127 So Far. so Near 130 Sonnets. To E. P. C. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 Seven Wonders of the World. XL The Printing-Press 142 XII. The Ocean Steamer 143 XIII. The Locomotive 144 XIV. The Telegraph and Telephone . . . 145 XV. The Photograph 146 XVI. The Spectroscope 147 XVII. The Microphone 148 XVIII. The Fireside 149 CONTENTS. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. XL. XLI. XLII. XLIII. XLIV. XLV. XL VI. XLVII. XL VIII. XLIX. L. LI. The Lady's Sonnet. Twilight . . . 150 The Lover's Sonnet. Midnight . . . 151 The Pines and the Sea . . . .152 Pennyroyal 153 Beethoven's Fifth Symphony . . . 154 1. The Seceders 155 2. " 156 1. In a Library 157 2. " 158 Past Sorrows 159 1. Life and Death 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 1G0 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 To John Greenleaf Whittier To Oliver Wendell Holmes Bayard Taylor 170 John Weiss 171 George Ripley 172 To G. W. C. . London Veiled Memories . 1. Tennyson 2.- " . To G. W. C. Gladstone 1. To J. R. L. . 2. 1. The Human Flower 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 vi CONTENTS. LII. 2. The Human Flower 183 LIII. August 184 LIV. Idle Hours 185 LV. 1. Music and Poetry ..... 186 LVI. 2. " 187 LVII. To Sleep 188 Ormuzd and Ahriman. A Cantata .... 189 A Poet's Soliloquy 230 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 1 I. Before Prospero's cell. Moonlight. Ariel. So — Prospero is gone — and I am free — Free, free at last. His latest charge have I Performed with duteous care ; have sent the breeze To blow behind the ship whose rounded sails Now bear him homeward ; and I am alone. Yet I, who pined for freedom — I, who served This lordly mind, not of my own free choice, Though somewhat out of gratitude, — for he By his strong sorcery did release me once From durance horrible, — now, since the touch 1 To forestall suspicion of my having borrowed even any sugges- tion of the idea on which this poem is founded from M. Kenan' s ' ' Caliban ' ' —r. though this has a totally different conception from my theme — I may say that I had written the greater part of my poem long before I had heard of or seen the brilliant and auda- cious satire of that distinguished French author. * ARIEL AND CALIBAN. And sympathy of human souls have warmed My cold electric blood, and I have known How sweet it were to love and be beloved Within the circle of the elements Whose soulless life is death to human hearts, — I, here alone, now grieve to be alone, No longer linked with mortal loves and cares. For as I flit about the ocean caves, Or thread the mazes of the whispering pines, Or in the flower-bells dream long sunny days, Or run upon the crested waves, or flash At no one's bidding, but in wild caprice, A trailing meteor or a thunderbolt, — Or sing along the breeze that hath no sense Or soul of hearing, melodies I framed For Prospero and his child, — I have no will To work as once, when serving earned this boon Of liberty, long sought, now tame and cheap. For what to me are all these air-fed sprites I marshalled, by his potent art constrained ? Their bloodless cold companionship can give No joy to me, now half estranged from them. There 's Caliban, 't is true — a human beast — Uncouth enough to laugh at — not so vile Perhaps as he appears — rather misshaped And thwarted in his growth. And yet he seems In this fair Isle, where noble souls have lived, Like a dull worm that trails its slime along ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 3 The full heart of a rose ; and now at last Free from the foot of Prospero, all the more Slave to himself, crawls feeding where he lists. Enter Catjban in the distance. Lo, here he creeps, and looks as if he meant To enter his old master's cell. But no ! I '11 enter first, and there assume the voice Of Prospero. He some sport at least shall yield. Ah, sometimes I must be a merry sprite, If only to beguile these lonesome hours. [Vanishes into the cell. Cauban. So — so — the island 's mine now. I may make My dwelling where I choose. Methinks this cell Might serve ; though somewhat I suspect Its walls are steeped in magic. And besides, Too well my bones remember how that lord Let fly his spirits at me. How he cramped My limbs ! The devil-fish o'ertake his ship ! He 's far away — and I can curse him now, And no more aches shall follow. As for him, Yon drunken fellow — and his mate — good Lord, How I was fooled to gulp his bragging lies ! The man in. the moon, forsooth ! And yet he bore Brave liquor, though it set my wits agog. Would there were more of it. Well, I '11 make my bed 4 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. E'en here, where Prosper slept. King of the isle — King Caliban ! But I 've no subjects yet, Save beasts of the wood, and even over them I lack those strong old charms of Sycorax. [Enters the cell. Ariel (within). Halt there ! What man art thou ? Slave — Caliban ! Caliban. Ah, ah ! 'T is Prospero back again — Ah me ! Ariel. How dar'st thou here intrude upon my rest ? Caliban. Nay now — I cannot tell — I thought thee gone — I saw thee go. Ariel. Think'st thou I cannot leap Across the seas ? Think'st thou I cannot ride Upon the wind ? Know'st thou not Prosper's might ? Caliban. Do not torment me ! Alas, alas, I thought His book and staff were buried — he at sea ! Ah, here 's a coil — here 's slavery again. I '11 run, before the cramp gets to my legs. [Exit. ARIEL AND CALIBAN. Ariel (advancing). Good riddance ! He '11 not venture here again. This grot is sacred to remembered forms 'T were base ingratitude could I forget. Their names make fragrant all the place. They fill The void of life within me more and more, And draw me closer to all human-kind. Much have ye taught me. Thou, O Prospero, Whom all too grudgingly I served, dost seem Now not a master, but a gracious friend. And she — Miranda, peerless in her bloom Of maidenhood — had I but human been, What tenderer germs — but no — too late, too late Those virtues, graces — this proud intellect That made a sport of magic, and renounced The sceptre of Wonderland as though it were The bauble of a child. Too late I see The topmost glory of the Duke, who shone Grandest abjuring supernatural gifts — Most godlike in forgiving his base foes. (Pauses in deep thought. ) There is no life worth living but that life I missed, the sympathetic interchange Of mind with mind and heart with heart. This world Of air and fire and water, where I dwell, Is but a realm of phantasms — spectral flames Like the pale streamers of the frozen North ; 6 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. Is less than half of life — motion without Life's warm reality — a trance, a dream. Nay, even this slave — this son of Sycorax Hath something human in him. Might I now But find some passage to his heart, but breathe Into his sluggish brain some finer breath, But lift him to companionship of thought — 'T were worth the trial. At least I '11 follow him And wind about him with an airy song. He 's fond of music, for whene'er I sing He listens open-mouthed. He 's not so bad But some ethereal trap may snare him yet. (Sings.) I, a spirit of the air, Now may wander anywhere All about the enchanted Isle. But no more the master's smile Greets me as his door I pass ; I shall hear no more, alas ! Hear no more the magic word Of the seer who was my lord — Nevermore ! Nevermore my flying feet Bring him music strange and sweet, Run for him upon the wind, While the cloven air behind Meets with roar and thunder-crack ARIEL AND CALIBAN. In the lightning of my track — Nevermore ! Enter Caliban, listening. Caliban. This might be one of them. Full oft I hear Their music in the ah'. And yet he lies, And is a devil of Prospero's, for he hints That Prosper 's gone : and yet I heard his voice. And yet that voice might be a mimicry. Good Moon, assist me. Tell me, friendly Moon, Is Prospero gone ? Tell me, good Man i' the Moon, He will not pinch me again. Ariel. Nay, doubt not, friend. He 's gone. Caliban. Now Setebos preserve my bones ! What voice art thou ? For nothing can I see But stars, and moonlight twinklings in the woods, And black broad shadows of the trembling trees, And here and there a fluttering zigzag bat. Ariel. I hover in the moonbeam overhead. Caliban. I think I 've heard thee sing and talk before. Did Prosper leave thee here to govern us, 8 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. And sing us into pitfalls with thy lies And lying songs ? And yet how sweet thou singest ! Come, show thyself — I think thou 'rt not a fiend. Ariel. I '11 show myself anon. But do not fear. Prosper is gone. A lonely spirit am I Seeking companionship. I 'd talk with thee. Caliban Good — an' thou talkest sense, and wilt not bite Or hunt me — nor dost bid me bring thee logs. Ariel. I have no need of fuel, nor of food Nor dwelling, nay, not even of bodily shape. Yet I can take a shape if so I choose. Caliban. Then prythee do. I fain would see thee, friend. I like it not, this talking to the air. Ariel. I '11 humor thee if I can be thy friend. "What shape shall I assume ? Caliban. "Why, any shape But Prospero's — and I '11 shake thee by the hand, ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 9 And swear thou art as merry a fellow as e'er I have sat cracking nuts with — in my dreams — For wide awake I ne'er encountered such. Nay, this seems like a dream. Perchance it is — And I asleep, and babbling in my sleep — And Prospero still lord of all the Isle. Ariel. Nay, all is real. I tell thee he has gone. Follow me now to yonder cave, where laps The sleepy sea upon the pebbled shore, Smoothing the flickering wrinkles of the moon, Who steeps her golden column in the brine. There will I meet thee in a human garb. Caliban. Where'er you please, so I but see your face. You are no Jack-o'-lantern, I believe. I know thee not, but something tells me true That I may trust thee. Sing then. I will follow. [Exeunt, Ariel singing. Sonq. Follow, follow, Down the deep hollow — Down to the moonlit waves, Down where the ocean caves The full tides swallow. Follow, follow ! 10 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. From the curse, from the blight, From the thraldom of night, From the dark to the light, From the slave to the man We will lift Caliban. Farewell, Hecate ! Rise, Apollo ! Follow, follow, follow ! II. In a cave by the sea. Caliban, and Ariel as a forester, seated. Caliban. So then it seems thou 'rt one of these who served This wizard lord — and he a duke disguised — One of his tricksy spirits. I like not this. Why did'st thou serve him ? Ariel. He delivered me From torture by his magic. I was bound By gratitude as well as by his spells To wait upon him. Oft unwillingly I served him. But at last I loved him well ; Knew his soul's greatness, honored what he prized, Which yet was but his minister — his art ; Felt in my airy veins a blood-warm beat, ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 11 Till through them double color seemed to run, Like moonlight mingled with the rosy dawn. Caliban. If he was noble, why did he enslave me ? I never did him wrong, till he by force Took from me this mine island — pent me up In a vile prison — made me toil and drudge All day, and when I lagged, beset me sore With pinches and with terrors of his art. Ariel. Thou nam'st not all he did. Was he not kind ? Taught thee to speak and reason — treated thee, At worst, as he would treat a faithful dog, (For little more thou wast at first,) till thou Did'st bite the hand that stroked and fed thee, yea, And would' st have wrought dishonor on his child. Caliban. I know not. I was never taught to curb My passions, and I lived a lonely life. I wronged him ? Yet my punishment was hard. I might have served him, yet not been a slave. It turned all love to hate to be his slave. He did not treat me as he treated thee. Ariel. I was his servant too. But I perceived There was a nearer tie 'twixt him and me, 12 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. For which I learned to love him. Let that pass. What now behooves thee is to summon up Thy human heart long styed in ignorance And fear and hate ; and since thou calTst thyself Lord of this island, learn to be a lord In nobler style, and with a human love Of all things good. 'T were little gain for thee To have thy freedom, if thou 'rt still enslaved To baser powers within thee. What thou hadst Ere Prospero came, is thine to enjoy and own. But own thyself — the man within the beast ; For man thou art, and of the same stuff framed As his who owned thee — and better than it seemed Thou wert, perchance, to one whose will enslaved All human and all elemental power His magic could enforce, to overpay For a few brief years the dukedom he had lost. Learn now to prize thy freedom in a field Where thou may'st work for good and not for harm. Curse not, but bless. If I do chance to talk Above thy head, I '11 dwarf my thought to thine ; Or meet thee again when thou upon my words Hast pondered. . . . Now, by Apollo's shaft, I think The moon-calf is asleep ! I '11 vanish then. [Exit Akeel. ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 13 III. Sunrise. Caliban (waking). What, is he gone ! Or is it another dream ? It is my fate, I think, still to be duped With visions and with shows. Perhaps now he Was the man in the moon — Perhaps we '11 meet again. He may have said the truth. And yet, somehow, I dropped asleep as when I hear the wind Sing in the pines, or listen to the fall Of streams in drowsy summer afternoons. I do begin to love this spirit — albeit , He spoke in praise of Prosper. Prosper ? — well — It may be that I knew him not — who knows ? I am glad he has sailed away though. Setebos ! What — sunrise ! Did I sleep so long ? In faith I know it, for I 'm hungry. I will dig Some mussels from the sand, and pick some fruits. I 'm not a cub, it seems — said he not so ? — But made for better things ; no slave — a man Fit to be talked with, and not called vile names — Made of the same stuff with that Prospero — Ah ha ! good stuff, do you see ? — the very same — Only a little soiled. We '11 see — we '11 see. 14 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. (Ariel sings in the distance. ) The golden sun the clouds hath kissed And fires the hilltops grim and old. And down the valley melts the mist And turns the earth to gold. The lordly soul is lord of all. The heart that loves its human-kind, Where'er its warming sunbeams fall, Leaves night and death behind. Caliban. Fine sprite, I hear you : think I love you too. I '11 follow you — though what you said to me Is hard to understand. I '11 hear you talk Again ; but first of all must eat and drink. Made of the same stuff with that Prospero ? No beast — no slave ! well — this is something new. IV. A pine grove by the sea. Ariel as a forester. Ariel. Free, free at last ! Yet bound by a chain whose links Are the heart's memories. Free to roam unchecked, Untasked. Free as these glancing dancing waves, This summer wind. But by an inward need ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 15 Of action, and by late-born sympathies With human life, bound not the less to serve ; — Though for the present I must waste my art Upon this son of Sycorax. Yet I have seen A kindlier sight flash in his brutish eyes, And in his harsh voice heard a tenderer tone. I think he almost loves me. But alas, What room for human fellowship, what hope To evolve the obstructed and distorted germ Of manhood here, in idle solitude Haunted by soulless elves and sprites — a land By human hearts and human intellects Untenanted ? Around us Nature smiles In indolent repose — too beautiful, Too soft — a land of dull lethargic ease, Steeped in the oblivion of the sleepy South. (Pauses in thought.) I know another island — where the North Blows with a fresher wind ; — where pulses bound Electric to assured results of thought. Its fertile plains, its rocky coasts and hills Are peopled with a vigorous race. Its ports, Forests of masts ; its fields by labor tilled ; Its growing towns and cities from afar Flash in the morning of a crystal sky, And stud its "winding streams like jewels strung On silver threads : — a people brave and strong, Yet peaceful, and advancing in all arts, 16 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. Science and culture, by wise freedom nursed. Oft in my master's errands flying north I have seen it far across the wrinkling waves, Facing the sunrise like a golden cloud, And heard the humming of its alien marts. And thither we might sail — I and this slave That was — not long a slave when he has known Contact with men of a superior mould In bonds of law and human brotherhood. Caliban {who has been approaching unperceived) . Good brother Ariel, you are lost in thought. I know 't is about something wise and good. Come — don't be glum. A penny for your thoughts. Ariel. How like you this fair island, Caliban ? Caliban. Oh, well enough — not having known a better. And yet 't is lonely here — a prison still, Although our jailer 's gone. And I would fain See some new faces — not Italian dukes Or jesters — I have had enough of them — But like your own, whene'er you let yourself Be seen, and condescend to talk with me. ARIEL AND CALIBAN. 17 Akiel. What think you of a voyage from this shore To another island ? — better far than this, I needs must think ; a place where men have built Great cities, tilled broad fields, and sail huge ships — A home for you and me more fit than this ; For I 'm becoming human very fast, While you will need ere long some earthlier friend. Caliban. Well — on the whole I 'm tired of this dull life, And don't object to see some other lands : But how do you propose to sail away Without a ship ? Akiel. We '11 see. Trust me for that. One task the more my magic shall achieve. We '11 build a boat. Your toil shall not be great. Yet your old task you must resume awhile, And bring me a few logs. Caliban. Most willingly For you, good Ariel. But for Prospero — Thank Heaven, I 've carried my last load for him ! (They retire, talking together.) 18 ARIEL AND CALIBAN. V. Sunset. Ariel and Caliban in a sail-boat are leaving the island. Ariel sings. I have built me a magical ship ; Its sails of the air were wrought. From the land of symbol and dream we slip To the land of deed and thought : To a clime where the north and south Have mingled their noble seed ; And the glance of the eye and the word of the mouth Are one with the honest deed. We sail, away, away ! To a land where the brain of man Works magic as strange as this ; And the heart of the future builds a plan As deep as the soul's abyss. We need not the tide nor the gale. Nor the sun nor the moon with their beams, For our boat has a magical rudder and sail That were wrought in the island of dreams. Away, away, away! L> ENVOI. 19 ( Voices, echoing from the island. ) In the island of dreams we stay. We echo your parting lay. Speed on by night and day ! Speed on ! away, away ! (Caliban sleeps. ) Akiel. Sleep on ! We leave the past. The night enshrouds The enchanted isle. And wake thou when the sun Shines on another clime — and shines in thee With the new light which thou hast never seen. L'ENVOI. Pardon, great Poet, should I seem to mar One mystery of thy supernatural tale ; Or with unreverent eye to scan the star Whose splendor makes his satellites so pale ! If in my play and privacy of thought, Led by thy light, I lingered for a while Amid the scenes thy master-hand had wrought, And, hovering over thy deserted isle, Dared to invoke thy sprites without command To come unmarshalled by thy mystic wand — If on the margin of thy immortal page I scrawled a sketch unfit to grace thy stage, 'T was but the joy of dwelling there with thee Near that enchanted sea. 20 L'ENVOI. T was but the wondering question of a child, To know what may have chanced beyond the wild Fantastic dream, from which too soon he woke To common daylight and life's weary yoke. Pardon I crave once more, O mighty seer! I bow before thee here With reverent love and awe, And say — « I only sported with his thought, While in its golden meshes gladlv caught, I dreamed and fancied. He awoke and saw ' » LIONEL AND LUCILLE. i. In the beautiful Castleton Island a mansion of lordly style, Embowered in gardens and lawns, looks over the glim- mering bay. In the light of a morning in summer, with stately beauty and pride, Its turrets and glittering roof flash down from the hills like a star. There, pillowed in woods, it blinks on the dusty village below ; And ere it settles itself to its rest in the ambered dusk, Its windows blaze from afar in the gold of the setting sun. There in a curtained alcove facing a lawn to the south, Lucille one morning in early spring was sitting alone. Now in a novel she read, and now at her broidery stitched ; And now, throwing both aside, at her piano warbled and triUed. 22 LIONEL AND LUCILLE. Then on a balcony leaning, she wished that the weeks would pass, For she with her mother to Europe was going. Her father had died And left her an heiress ; and lovers like moths came fluttering round, Dazzled with visions of gold, and half believing them love, — All but one, who was poor, and loved her, but not for her wealth. Three months had Lionel known her — but never had told her his love. How could he ask her to wed him, the scholar who drudged for his bread ? Even were his offers accepted, (and little his chances, he thought,) What would they say in the city ? " He has picked up a fortune, it seems : A shrewd lucky fellow I" So proudly he kept his fond thoughts to himself. Seldom he saw her alone. In a circle of fashion she moved. Whenever he called, there were carriages waiting, with liveries fine — Visitors going and coming, with shallow and gossiping talk. Those who knew him would surely have said, " 'T is strange he should love LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 23 A girl of such frivolous tastes." But such are the ways of the heart — Ever a riddle too deep for the crude common-sense of the world. To-day no visitors came, and Lucille was deep in her book — (A tale of romantic affection far back in the Orient days) — When a ring at the door was heard, and — Lionel stood in the hall. He had heard she was going to Europe. He would n't yet bid her good-bye, For he hoped he might see her again ere fate put an ocean between. Something more earnest than usual she felt was in Lionel's face ; Something more tender and deep in the tones of his tremulous voice, Though half hidden in jest too grave and intense for a smile. She, brimming o'er with her poets, and fresh from her bath of romance, Clothed the season, and him, and herself, in an opaline light. Softer her tones, and her words less tinged with fashion and form, Cordially lighted like birds on the ground of his intimate thoughts. 24 LIONEL AND LUCILLE. And as he left her, to stroll on the hills of the beautiful island, Hope with her roseate colors enveloped the earth and the sky. 'T was one of those April days when the lingering Winter stands Waving his breezy scarfs from the north for a last good- bye ; When the delicate wind-flowers peep from the matting and moss of the woods, And the blue Hepatica lurks in the shadowy dells of the fern ; When the beautiful nun, the Arbutus, down in her clois- ters brown, Creeps through her corridors damp in the dead old leaves of the past, Whispering with fragrant breath to the bold things dan- cing above : " Tell me, has Winter gone ? May I peep — just peep, at the world ? " — When the spaces of sky are bluer, with white clouds hurrying fast, Blurring the sun for a moment, then letting him flash on the fields, While the shadows are miles in breadth, and travel as swift as the wind Over the sparkling cities afar and the roughening bay ; — LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 25 When the pine-groves sigh and sing as the wind sweeps under and through The cheerful gloom of their spicy shade ; and the wil- lows lithe Bend and wave with the tender green of their trailing boughs ; — When the furry catkins drop from the silvery poplar tree ; When the bare, gray bushes are tipped with the light of their new-born leaves, And the petted hyacinths sprout and curl their parasite lips Under the sunlit, sheltering sides of the palace walls, And seem to scoff at the violets hidden deep in the grass, And the common, yellow face of the dandelion's star, As it peeps like a poor man's child through the rails of the garden fence. Then, as Lionel entered the crowd and the city again, Lighter his labors appeared in his office, wall-shadowed and dusk. Dreams of the island and woods swept over his figures and books : Visions of love in a cottage, with fashion and splendor forgotten. Changeable April had shown but its sunniest side to his heart. Once more, — twice, to the island he went : and Lionel hoped 26 UONEL AND LUCILLE. A tenderer feeling for him had dawned in the heart of Lucille. Ever with friendlier greeting she met him : for she in her mind Had dressed up a hero of fiction; and Lionel -could it be he ? Was not his name of itself a romance? Then his face and his form, Voice and manners and culture, were just what her hero's should be. So with the glamour of life unreal she saw him; and yet — Was it love? She thought so, perhaps. At least she would dream out her dream : This was a real live novel -and worth reading through, was it not ? n. One day, when the bushes were white in the lanes, and the bees were astir In the blooms of the apple-trees, and the green woods ringing with birds, Lionel asked Lucille to walk with him over the heights Looking far down on the Narrows and out on the dim blue sea. So through the forest they strolled. They stopped here and there for a flower, Then sat to rest on a rock.' An oak-tree over their heads LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 27 Stretched abroad its flickering lights and shadows. The birds Sang in the woodlands around them. The spot seemed made for romance. And Lionel drew from his pocket a book that had lately- appeared, A volume of lovers' verse by a poet over the seas, And read aloud from its pages. Lucille sat twisting a wreath, Laurel and white -thorn blossoms that half dropped away as she twined them ; — Paused now and then to listen ; and as he was closing the book, Laid a wild flower between the leaves to remember the place — And playfully placed her wreath on his head, as if he were the poet. Silent and musing they sat, as they turned to look at the sea, Watching the smoke of the steamers and white sails skimming afar. And Lionel said, "Ah, soon you too will be steaming away Down the blue Narrows ; and I — shall miss you — more than you know." " Why should you miss me ? " she said. " So seldom you visit our house." " Had I but followed my wishes ; — but you like the lady appeared, 28 LIONEL AND LUCILLE. Shut in the circle of Comus. How hard to enter your ring ! " " What should prevent you from coming ? How often I ■ wished you would come ! Nobody calls that I care for : our island is growing so dull." "Yes — and you long for a change — and so you are going to Europe. There in a whirl of delights, with fashion and wealth at command, Soon you '11 forget your poor island, and all the admirers you knew." " No " — she whispered — " not all " — and blushed, with her head turned away, Looked down and murmured : " You think I am wedded to fashion and wealth : Yet often I long for the simpler manners the poets have sung, The grand old days when souls were prized for their natural worth. You think I can rise to no feelings and thoughts of a serious life — Can value no mind and no heart but — such as you meet at our house. I care not for such — I fancied you knew me far better than that." "Lucille" — he never had called her Lucille, but the name came unbidden ; LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 29 " Lucille, could you love a poor toiler who dared not to offer his heart And his hand — and in silence had loved you, and wished you were poor for his sake, So fortunes were equal ? " And she, still floating in rosy romance, Murmured, " I could," with a look that melted the walls of reserve And mingled two souls into one. Then, turning away from the sea, The sea that so soon must divide them, they pledged to each other their troth. And Lionel saw not the fates that were frowning afar o'er the waves ; For the world wore the color of dreams, as homeward they wended their way. Bright were the meetings that followed — and yet with a shadowy touch On Lionel's hopes, as if in the changeable April days He still were roaming the hills, and still looked over the bay Where cloud and sunshine were flying, with doubtful promise of spring. Lucille had a reason, it seemed, to keep their betrothal untold. The day was so near of their parting. She feared what her mother might say. 30 LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 'T were best they should part but as friends. They would write to each other the same — And they would be true to each other — and all would be clear before long. And Lionel yielded, and pondered. And so they parted at last. in. The summer had hardly begun when a letter from Eng- land came, Full of the voyage and landing — but little of what he had hoped. Too light, too glancing it seemed for a first love-letter from one Far over the sea, who had said he should ever be first in her thoughts. Bright and witty it fluttered from topic to topic — but never Paused with a tremulous wing to dwell on the love she had left. Something there was in its tone that said " I am happy without you : " Something too little regretful — too full of her glittering life. And as one gathers a beautiful flower ne'er gathered be- fore, Hoping a fragrance he misses, and yet half imagines he finds — LIONEL AND LUCILLE. 31 Wooing the depths of its color too rich for no perfume to match — So seemed her letter to him, as he read the lines over and over. Yet when Lionel answered, he breathed not a word of the thought, Shading the glowing disc of his love with distant surmise. " Soon," he said, " will the novelty cease of this foreign excitement. Then she will think sometimes of me as the sun goes down Over the western waves — and tenderer tones will flow, And mingle with warmer words in her letters from over the sea." Yet when another letter came, it brought her no nearer, Less of herself, and more of the colors that tinted her life. And Lionel wrote with passionate words : " Only tell me, Lucille, Tell me you love me — but one brief line — and I will not complain." Restless, troubled, one day he passed her house on the island ; Shut to the sun and the breeze, it blinked on the village below. Over the balcony leaned a purple Wisteria vine, (Blooming, but not in its season, as oft 't is their habit to do,) Trailing its ladylike flounces from window and carved balustrade, 32 LIONEL AND LUCILLE. And dropping its blossoms as brief as love. And Lione muttered : " She too over that balcony leaned one day as I passed — Leaned like a flowery vine ; and smiled as I passed be low, And waved me an airy kiss, with a pose of her beau- tiful form. Can love that promised so truly be frail as these clus- ters of June ? " Month after month now passed. Though he wrote as fondly as ever, Brief were her answers, and longer between — till they finally ceased. A year from the day when they parted, a letter from Paris arrived, Short and constrained. It said : "I fear I have made you unhappy. We have read too much of the poets. Our troth was a thing of romance. My mother forbids it, it seems. There are reasons 't were painful to tell. I 'm sure you would find me unfitted — and I am not worth your regretting. Adieu — and be happy. Lucille." Next month in the papers he saw She had married a Count — some Pole with an unpro- nounceable name. SAN BORONDON. Saint Brandan, a Scotch abbot, long ago Sailed southward with a swarm of , monks, to sow The seeds of true religion — nothing else — Among the tribes of naked infidels. And venturing far in unknown seas, he found An island, which became monastic ground. So runs the legend. Little else was known Of him we Spaniards call San Borondon. Some said he was a sorcerer, some a priest ; None truly knew. But this is clear at least, That there was seen to appear and disappear An island in the west, for many a year, That bore his name : but no discoverer yet His feet upon that shore had ever set. At TenerifYe and Palma I was one Who saw that island of San Borondon. A hundred of us stood upon the shore, And saw it as it oft was seen before. The morn was clear ; and westward from the bay It glimmered on the horizon far away. 34 SAN BORONDON. We watched the fog at sunrise upward curl And float above that land of rose and pearl ; And sometimes saw behind a purple peak The sun go down. And some said, " We will seek Westward, until we touch the fairy coast, Or prove it only some drowned island's ghost " — But after many days returned to swear The vision vanished in the pale blue air. Yet still from off the fair Canary beach Lay the strange land that none could ever reach. Then others sailed and searched : and some of these Returned no more across the treacherous seas ; And no one knew their fate. Until at last We hailed a caravel with shattered mast Toiling to harbor. Half her sails were gone. " Ho, mariners, what news of Borondon ? " We shouted — but no answering voice replied ; No sailors on her gangway we descried ; Her shrouds looked ghostly thin, her ropes w r ere dim As spiders' webs athwart a tree's dead limb ; And still as death she drifted up the bay, A battered hulk grown dumb and old and gray. At length she touched the strand, and out there crept A haggard man, who feebly toward us stepped, And answered slowly, while we brought him food And wine. He sitting on a stone, we stood An eager crowd around him, while we sought What news he from San Borondon had brought. SAN BORONDON. 35 With eyes that seemed to gaze beyond the space Of sea and sky — with strange averted face, And voice as when some muttering undertone Of wind is heard, when sitting all alone On wintry nights, we see the moon grow pale With hurrying mists — he thus began his tale. " We saw the island as we sailed away. It glimmered on the horizon half that day. But while our caravel still westward steered, Amazed we stood — the isle had disappeared. At night there came a storm. The lightning flashed From north to south. The frightful thunder crashed. Under bare poles we scudded through the dark, Till morning gleamed upon our drifting bark — The red-eyed morn 'neath beetling brows of cloud, — And the wind changed. Then some one cried aloud, * Land — at the westward ! ' And with one accord All took contagion of that haunting word * San Borondon.' The island seemed to lie Three leagues away against a strip of sky That on the horizon opened like a crack Of yellow light beneath the vault of black ; Then, as with hearts elate, we nearer sailed, The clouds dispersed, the sun arose unveiled. The wind had almost lulled ; the waves grew calm. We neared the isle, we saw the groves of palm, The rugged cliffs, the streamlet's silver thread 36 SAN BORONDON. Dropped from the misty mountains overhead ; The shadow-haunted gorges damp and deep ; The flowery meadows in their dewy sleep ; The waving grass along the winding rills ; And, inland far, long slopes of wooded hills. And all the sea was calm for many a mile About the shores of that enchanted isle. Our sails half -filled flapped idly on the mast ; And all the morning and the noon had passed Before we touched the shore. Then on the sand We stepped and took possession of the land For Spain. No signs of life we heard or saw. But suddenly we stopped with fear and awe ; For on the beach were giant footsteps seen, And upward tracked into the forests green, Then lost. But there, with wondering eyes we found A cross nailed to a tree — and on the ground Stones ranged in mystic order — and the trace Of fire once kindled in that lonely place. As though some sorcerer's sabbath on this ground A place for its unholy rites had found. And so, in vague perplexity and doubt, Until the sun had set, we roamed about. And some into the forest far had strayed, While others watched the ship at anchor laid. When through the woods there rang a distant bell. We crossed our breasts, and on our knees we fell. Ave Maria — 't was the hour of prayer. SAN BORONDON 37 A consecrated stillness filled the air. No heathen land was this ; no wizard's spell The clear sweet ringing of that holy bell. Scarce had we spoken, when we heard a blast Come rushing from the mountains, fierce and fast Down a ravine with hoarse and hollow roar ; And sudden darkness fell upon the shore. ' The ship — the ship ! See how she strains her rope — All, all aboard — cast off ! we may not hope To save her on these rocks. Away, away ! ' Then as we leapt aboard in tossing spray, Still fiercer blew the wind, and hurled us far Into the night without a moon or star. And from the deck the sea swept all the crew. And I alone was left, to bring to you This tale. When morning came, the isle was gone — The unhallowed land you call San Borondon ; A land of sorcery and of wicked spells, Of hills and groves profane and demon dells. Good friends, beware ! Seek not the accursed shore, For they who touch its sands return no more, Save by a miracle, as I have done — Praised be Madonna and her blessed Son ! " Such was his story. But when morning came, There lay that smiling island, just the same. And still they sail to find the enchanted shore That guards a fearful mystery evermore. 38 SAN BORONDON. A thousand years may pass away — but none Shall know the secret of San Borondon. And so, perchance, a thousand years may roll, And none shall solve the enigma of the soul — That baffling island in the unknown sea Whose boundless deep we name Eternity. THE OLD YEAR. good Old Year ! this night 's your last. And must you go ? With you I 've passed Some days that bear revision. For these I 'd thank you, ere you make Your journey to the Stygian lake, Or to the fields Elysian. Long have you been our household guest ; To keep you we have tried our best. You must not stay, you tell us, Not even to introduce your heir, Who comes so fresh and debonnair He needs must make you jealous. 1 heard your footsteps overhead To-night — and to myself I said He 's packing his portmanteau. His book and staff like Prospero's He has buried, where nobody knows, And finished his last canto. 40 THE OLD YEAR. Your well-known hat and cloak still look The same upon their entry hook, And seem as if they grew here. But they, ah me ! will soon be gone, And we be sitting here alone To welcome in the New Year. The boots so oft put out at night Will vanish ere to-morrow's light Across the east is burning. When morning comes, full well I know They '11 leave no footprints in the snow Of going or returning. At twelve o'clock to-night Queen Mab Will take you in her spectral cab To catch the downward fast train. Some of us will sit up with you, And drink a parting cup with you, While I indite this last strain. G good old wise frost-headed Year, You Ve brought us health and strength and cheer, Though sometimes care and sorrow. Each morn you gave us newer hope That reached beyond the cloudy scope Of our unseen to-morrow. THE OLD YEAR. 41 We knew you when you were, forsooth, No better than a stranger youth — A fast youth, some one muttered, When thinking how the days you gave On ghostly horses to their grave Have galloped, flown and fluttered. But what is time, by moon and stars Checked off in monthly calendars, To fairy kings like you here ? What are the centuries that span The inch-wide spaces ruled by man ? Or what are Old and New Year ? You go to join the million years, The great veiled deep that never clears Before our mortal seeing : The shrouded death, the evolving life, The growth, the mystery, the strife Of elemental being. We see in your abstracted eye The clouded flame of prophecy, Of time the immortal scorning — And yet the sympathetic smile That says, " I fain would stay awhile To bid your rhymes good-morning." 42 THE OLD YEAR. Ah ! no more rhymes for you and me, Old Year, shall we together see, — Yes, we to-night must sever. Good-bye, old Number Seventy-five ! It 's nearly time you took your drive Into the dark forever. The train that stops for you will let A stranger out we never met, To take your place and station. With greetings glad and shouts of joy They '11 welcome him — while you, old boy, Depart with no .ovation. Besides, he has a higher claim Than you — a grand ancestral name That sets the bells a-ringing. The great Centennial Year is he. The nation's noisy jubilee Young Seventy-six is bringing. I hear the puffing of his steam. I hear his locomotive scream Across the hills and meadows. One parting glass — the last — the last ! Ten minutes more, and you '11 have passed Into the realm of shadows. THE OLD YEAR. 43 Five minutes yet ? But talk must end. On with your cloak and cap, old friend ! Too long we have been prating. Your blessing now ! We 11 think of you. Ah, there 's the clock ! Adieu — adieu ! I see your cab is waiting. December 31, 1875. THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. A hundred years — and she had sat, a queen Sheltering her children, opening wide her gates To all the inflowing tribes of earth. At first Storms raged around her ; but her stumbling feet Were planted firm upon the eternal rock. Her young majestic head with sunny curls And features tense with hope and prophecy Now rose above the clouds of war. She gazed Wistful yet calm into the coming years, And grew in strength and wisdom : and afar Across the sea the nations of the world Beheld, and muttered from their ancient halls, " Who is this stranger, young, unskilled and bold, This Amazonian regent of the wilds We spurned, and only sought when exile doomed — Whose sons are marshalling the land and sea, The winds, the electric currents and the light, To do her bidding ? Who this Titan queen Whose face is flushed with sunrise, and whose hands Reach forth to welcome all our swarms disowned, Cast forth upon her shores, and turn their blight To bloom and culture — e'en their crime to good ? " THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. 45 Then some beheld her with derisive sneers, Judgments derived from rules of use outworn, And stale conventional comparison ; With fear and envy some — others with awe And vague hope of ideal rights of man, — Green harvests now, but swelling into grain For future time. And still the years rolled on. Tremors of battlefields thrilled through her limbs, Once, twice, and thrice — the last, alas ! like shocks Of agonizing pain ; for round her feet Her own — her children grappled in the fields Of blood and cannon-shot and fire and smoke — One recreant multitude for slavery's crown, And one for freedom and the common cause That gave the country birth, and pledged the States To unbroken union based on equal rights. But justice triumphed, and the stricken land Regained her poise hard-won. Still rolled the years, Till now she rounds her circling century ; And Peace and Plenty smile upon her fields That stretch from sea to sea. Then she arose And spake unto the States that clustered round, Her children all, war's yawning gulf o'erbridged, North, south, and east and west, her children still ; And to the ancestral realms across the seas : — " This year I celebrate my birth. For me, 46 THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. One of the Titan race of latest days, A race Saturnian fables knew not of, When giants grew, but hearts and minds were dwarfed And cramped by precedents of brutal force That stormed Olympus, so must needs be crushed — For me a hundred years are as one year To you, and this centennial year a day. Therefore 't is meet that we invite the world To bring its various treasures to our shores, And blend with us, through symbols and results Of art and grand achievement, in the creed Of human brotherhood. And may this year Be as the seal and pledge of race with race Forever — one with all, and all with one ! " Then in a chosen spot, where the first vows Of Liberty were plighted, we beheld A wonder-work, as though some Geni snared By incantation wrought the people's will. For stately palaces arose and gleamed Amid the trees ; and on the distant sea Came argosies full-laden with a wealth, Not such as Cortez from the plundered realms Of Montezuma bore, blood-steeped and wrapped In crime, back to voracious Spain — but brought With friendly rivalry from every clime ; From shops and looms of quiet industry And rare inventive art ; more wonderful THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. 47 Than crude barbaric days could ever dream. There, heaped*profusely through those spacious halls, The treasures of the abounding century Were ranged in order. Thither, as to a shore, The crowding timerwaves of a hundred years — Silent as streams of air — had pulsed and flowed And broke in surges, not of yeasty foam, Kesultless thought, and aimless bubble-dreams, But products of the busy world-wide Mind. From European and from Asian lands, From tropic heats and Arctic solitudes, From towns of traffic and from western wilds, From sunless mines and clear, high-windowed halls Of skill and industry, and lonely rooms Where artists and inventors dreamed and toiled, Pledged to some dear thought-burden of a life : — From schools and laboratories closely bent On nature's inmost secrets, and where swift Discovery trod upon discovery's heels, In silent unforeseen audacity Of masterly conception and result. Here Europe lavished all her modern wealth Of apt contrivance, imitative skill, And costly comfort. There remote Japan With strange and fascinating styles of art Took fancy captive ; and the Orient lands, Whose more familiar forms we knew, set forth Their porcelain wonders and their bronzes quaint, 48 THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. Their ivory lace-work and their brilliant silks. And there, from end to end of one vast space Throbbed the blind force whose swift gigantic arm A thousand glistening iron slaves obeyed, By science taught to serve the age's need. And day by day the thronging multitudes, Flowing and ebbing like a tide, swept by, And up and down through halls and corridors Feasting their eyes in endless holiday. Through long, far-reaching vistas all compact Of use and beauty. Proud she well may be. Once cast on rocks and cradled in the winds, She now commands, our Titan mother queen ; While thus the flattering world crowds round her feet, One half to see the gifts the other half Has laid before her — and we celebrate Her first proud century's close with worthy signs Of universal brotherhood and peace. Then ring, ye bells ! and let the organs blow And swell the choral hymn of praise and joy. And let the grand orchestral symphonies Resound through park and palace ; while afar The flying thunders of the steam bring in And out the thousands who in joyous groups Make blithe centennial festival and cheer. And as the autumn days move calmly on, THE CENTENNIAL YEAR. 49 And from the trees the red and yellow leaves Drop to the earth — let not the lesson fall Unheeded. With fraternal grasp we have met Through all these summer and autumnal months. Henceforth may peace and unity prevail O'er all the land. America demands No pledge less true for her Centennial Year. October, 1876. AFTER THE CENTENNIAL. (a hope.) Before our eyes a pageant rolled Whose banners every land unfurled ; And as it passed, its splendors told The art and glory of the world. The nations of the earth have stood With face to face and hand in hand, And sworn to common brotherhood The sundered souls of every land. And while America is pledged To light her Pharos towers for all, While her broad mantle, starred and edged With truth, o'er high and low shall fall ; And while the electric nerves still belt The State and Continent in one, — The discords of the past shall melt Like ice beneath the summer sun. AFTER THE CENTENNIAL. 51 O land of hope ! thy future years Are shrouded from our mortal sight ; But thou canst turn the century's fears To heralds of a cloudless light ! The sacred torch our fathers lit No wild misrule can ever quench ; Still in our midst wise judges sit, Whom party passion cannot blench. From soul to soul, from hand to hand Thy sons have passed that torch along, Whose flame by Wisdom's breath is fanned, Whose staff is held by runners strong. O Spirit of immortal truth, Thy power alone that circles all Can feed the fire as in its youth — Can hold the runners lest they fall ! February 2, 1877. A NIGHT-PICTURE. A groan from a dim-lit upper room — A stealthy step on the stairs in the gloom — A hurried glance to left, to right In the court below — then out in the night There creeps a man through an alley dim, Till lost in the crowd. Let us follow him. The night is black as he hurries along ; The streets are filled with a jostling throng ; The sidewalks soak in the misty rain. He dares not look behind again — For every stranger eye he caught Was sure to know his inmost thought. The darkened casements looking down From tall grim houses seemed to frown. The globes in the druggists' windows shone Like fiery eyes on him alone, And dashed great spots of bloody red On the wet pavements as he fled. And as he passed the gas-lamps tall, He saw his lengthening shadow fall A NIGHT-PICTURE. 53 Before his feet, till it grew and grew To a giant self of a darker hue. But turning down some lampless street He left behind the trampling feet, And on through wind and rain he strode, Where far along on the miry road The unwindowed shanties darkening stood — A beggarly and outlawed brood, 'Mid half -hewn rocks and piles of dirt — The ragged fringe of the city's skirt. Then on, still on through the starless night, Shrinking from every distant light, Starting at every roadside bush, Or swollen stream in its turbid rush — On, still on, till he gained the wood In whose rank depths his dwelling stood. Then over his head the billows of wind Rocked and roared before and behind ; And all of a sudden the clouds let out Their pale white moon-shafts all about A dreary patch where the trees were dead, By a rocky swamp and a ruined shed ; And a path through the tangled woods appeared Between two oaks where the briers were cleared. And under the gloom he reaches at last His door — creeps in and locks it fast ; Then strikes a match and lights a lamp, And draws from his pocket heavy and damp 54 A NIGHT-PICTURE. A wallet of leather thick and brown. Then at a table sitting down, To count the — Hark, what noise was that ! A rattling shutter ? A rasping rat Under the floor ? He turns to the door, And sees that his windows are all secure. Then kindles a fire, and dries his clothes, And eats and drinks, and tries to doze. But down the chimney loud and fast Like distant cannon roars the blast, And on the wind come cries and calls And voices of awful waterfalls, And winding horns and ringing bells, And smothered sobs and groans and yells. And though he turns into his bed And wraps his blanket around his head, Sleep will not come, or only sleep That slides him down on an unknown deep, From which he starts — and then it seemed He had not done the deed, but dreamed. Ah, would it were a dream, the wild Wet night, and he once more a child ! On a flying train, in the dawning day And the fragrant morn, he is far away. But secret eyes have pierced the night, And lightning words outstripped his flight. And far in the north* where none could know, The law's long arm has reached its foe. A CHILD-SAVIOR. (a true story.) She stood beside the iron road, A little child of ten years old. She heard two meeting thunders rolled From north and south, that plainly showed Danger too fearful to be told. Nearer, still nearer, rumbling on, One train approached with crashing speed. What could she do ? Who would give heed To her — a child, who stood alone And voiceless as a roadside weed ? A feeble cry she raised, and stood Across the track, — and then untied Her little apron from her side, And waved it swiftly as she could — If only she might be espied ! 56 A CHILD-SAVIOR. If only on the hissing back Of that huge monster nearing fast The engineer his eye might cast On her there on the curving track, And heed her signal ere he passed ! - She stands with shout and warning beck ; On comes the train with thundering roar. The fireman sees — he looks once more — He sees a little waving speck, And slackening, slower moves and slower. " Hi — little girl ! what 's alt this row ? " " Another train ! — my ears it stuns ! It rounds the curve like rattling guns ! Back — back ! — for I must signal now The other." And away she runs. So by this little maiden's hand Were hundreds saved from fearful lot. But when with awe they spoke of what They had escaped, and made demand About the child, they found her not. For she had vanished through the wood. None guessed her dwelling-place or name, Nor by what wondrous chance she came ; While home she ran in blithesome mood, Nor knew she had done a deed of fame. A CHILD-SAVIOR. 57 But in the old times they would have said It was an angel had stood there — The hood above her golden hair A nimbus glowing round a head With supernatural radiance fair. The small white apron that she waved Across the dangerous iron track To warn the rushing engines back, Might have been wings, whose flashing saved Five hundred souls from mortal wrack. November, 1882. AN OLD UMBRELLA. An old umbrella in the hall, Battered and baggy, quaint and queer ; By all the rains of many a year Bent, stained, and faded — that is all. Warped, broken, twisted by the blast Of twenty winters, till at last, Like some poor close-reefed schooner cast, All water-logged, with half a mast, Upon the rocks — it finds a nook Of shelter on an entry hook : — Old battered craft — how came you here ? Ah, could it speak, 't would tell of one — Old Simon Dowles, who now is gone — Gone where the weary are at rest ; Of one who locked within its breast His private sorrows o'er his lot, And in his humble work forgot That he was but a toiling bark Upon the billows in the dark, While the brave newer ships swept by AN OLD UMBRELLA. 59 Sailing beneath a prosperous sky, And winged with opportunities Fate had denied to hands like his. A plain, old-fashioned wight was he As these sport-loving days could see ; He in his youth had loved and lost His loyal true-love. Ever since His lonely life was flecked and crossed By sorrow's nameless shadow-tints. Yet never a murmur from his lips Told of his darkened soul's eclipse. I often think I still can hear His voice so blithe, his tones of cheer, As, dropping in to say " good-day," He gossiped in his old man's way. And yet we laughed when he had gone. We youngsters could n't understand — No matter if it rained or shone, He held the umbrella in his hand. Or if he set it in the hall, Where other shedders of the rain Stood dripping up against the wall, His was too shabby and too plain To tempt exchange. All passed it by, Though showers of rain were pouring down And all the gutters of the town Were torrents in the darkening sky. 60 AN OLD UMBRELLA. He never left it once behind Save the last time he crossed our door. Oblivious shadows o'er his mind Presaged his failing strength. Before The morning he had passed away In peaceful sleep from night to day. And here the old brown umbrella still In its old corner stays to fill The place, as best it may, of him Who on this wild and wintry night Is surely with the saints of light — For whom my eyes grow moist and dim While I this simple rhyme indite. TO IONE. All day within me, sweet and clear The song you sang is ringing. At night in my half-dreaming ear I hear you singing, singing. Ere thought takes up its homespun thread When early morn is breaking, Sweet snatches hover round my bed And cheer me when awaking. The sunrise brings the melody I only half remember, And summer seems to smile for me, Although it is December. Through drifting snow, through dropping rain, Through gusts of wind, it haunts me. The tantalizing old refrain Perplexes, yet enchants me. 62 TO TONE. The mystic chords that bore along Your voice so calmly splendid, In glimmering fragments with the song Are joined and vaguely blended. I touch my instrument and grope Along the keys' confusion, And dally with the chords in hopes To catch the sweet illusion. In vain of that consummate hour I court the full completeness, The perfume of the hidden flower, The perfect bloom and sweetness. Of strains that were too rich to last A baffled memory lingers. The theme, the air, the chords have passed ; They mock my voice and fingers. They steal away as sunset fires Lose one by one their flashes, And cheat the eye with smouldering pyres And banks of gray cloud-ashes. And yet I know the old alloy That dims and disentrances The golden visions and the joy Of hope's resplendent fancies TO TONE. 63 Can never touch that festal hour In soul and sense recorded, Though scattered rose leaves from your bower Alone my search rewarded. The unconnected strains alone Survive to bring you nearer, As when our queen of song and tone Made vassals of each hearer. Yet through the night and through the day The notes and chords are ringing. Their echo will not pass away — I hear you singing — singing. AFTER-LIFE. O boon and curse in one — this ceaseless need Of looking still behind us and before ! Gift to the soul of eyes that cannot read Life's open book of cabalistic lore ; — Eyes that discern a light and joy divine Twinkling beyond the twilight clouds afar, Yet know not if it be the countersign Of moods and thoughts, or some eternal star. What taunt of destiny still stimulates Yet baffles all desire, or wise or fond, To pierce the veil ne'er lifted by the fates Between the life that ends and life beyond ? We sit before the doors of death, and dream That when they ope to let our brothers in, We catch, before they close, some flitting gleam Of glory where their after-lives begin. AFTER-LIFE. 65 And with the light a transient burst of song Comes from within the gates that shut again Upon our dead. Then we, the proud, the strong, Sit crushed and lonely in our wordless pain. Weeping, we knock against the bars, and call, " Speak — speak, O love, for we are left alone ! " We hear our voices echo against the wall, And dream it is a spirit's answering tone. " Come back, or answer us ! " In vain we cry. Naught is so near as death, so far away As life beyond. They only know who die : And we who live can only guess and pray. If 't were indeed a voice not born within — Some sure authentic sign from unknown realms — Some note that heart and reason both could win — Some carol like yon oriole in the elms ; Though but a vague and broken music caught, Heard in the darkness, and then heard no more — Sinking in sudden silence — while in thought We piece the strains outside the muffled door That leads into the light and perfect joy Of the full concert — then 't were bliss indeed No present griefs could darken or destroy ; Somewhere life's mystery we should learn to read. 66 AFTER-LIFE. Somewhere we then might drop the ripened seed Of life, to grow again beyond the sky — Nor deem the human soul a withering weed Born but to bloom a summer time and die. PRINCE YOUSUF AND THE ALCAYDE. A MOORISH BALLAD. In Grenada reigned Mohammed, Sixth who bore the name was he ; But the rightful king, Prince Yousuf, Pined in long captivity : Yousuf, brother to Mohammed. Him the king had seized and sent Prisoner to a Moorish castle, Where ten years his life was spent. Ill and feeble, now the usurper Felt his death was hastening on, And would fain bequeath his kingdom And his title to his son. Calling then a trusty servant, He to him a letter gave — " Take my fleetest horse, and hasten, If my life you wish to save. 68 PRINCE YOUSUF AND THE ALCAYDE. " Hie thee to the brave Alcayde Of my castle by the sea ; To his hands give thou this letter, And his physician bring to me." Then in haste his servant mounted, And for many a league he rode, Till he reached the court and castle Where the captive prince abode. There sat Yousuf and the Alcayde In the castle, playing chess. " What is this ? " the keeper muttered. " Some bad tidings, as I guess." Pale he grew, and sat and trembled, While his eye the letter scanned ; And his voice was choked and speechless, As he dropped it from his hand. " Now what ails thee ? " cried Prince Yousuf. " Doth the king demand my head ? " " Read it ! " gasps the good Alcayde. " Ah, my lord — would I were dead ! " Yousuf read : u When this shall reach you, Slay my brother, and his head PRINCE YOUSUF AND THE ALCAYDE. 69 Straightway by the bearer send me ; So I may be sure he 's dead." " So " — cried Yousuf . " This I looked for. Now let us play out our game. I was losing — you were winning When this ugly message came." All confused, the poor Alcayde Played his knights and bishops wrong ; And the prince his moves corrected. So in silence sat they long. In his mind Prince Yousuf pondered, " Why this hasty message send, If my kind and thoughtful brother Were not hastening to his end ? " Surely he is ill or dying. And if I must lose my head, My young nephew will succeed him O'er Grenada in my stead. " Though my keeper still is friendly, I must gain some hours' delay. He is poor : the king may bribe him. He may change ere close of day." 70 PRINCE YOUSUF AND THE ALCAYDE. Then aloud — " Come, good Alcayde — One more game before I die. And be sure you make no blunders — I may beat you yet. I '11 try." In his lonely life the keeper Dearly loved his game of chess ; Therefore needs he little urging, Though sad thoughts his soul oppress. For an hour or two they battled, And the Alcayde gained amain ; For the prince with restless glances Gazed beyond the window-pane. Still the chess-board lay between them ; And the Alcayde played his best ; Took no note of gliding hours, Till the sunset fired the west. Yet he gained not, for Prince Yousuf With a sudden checkmate sprang Unforeseen — and that same moment — Hark — was that a bugle rang ? Through the western windows gazing Far across the dusty plain, PRINCE YOUSUF AND THE ALCAYDE. 71 Yousuf saw the flash of lances — And the bugle rang again. And two knights appeared advancing Like two eagles on the wing. Allah Akbar ! From Grenada Faces flushed with joy they bring. The king is dead ! Long live King Yousuf ! Long lost lord — our rightful king ! ROSAMOND. In the fragrant bright June morning, Rosamond, the queen of girls, Down the marble doorsteps loiters, radiant with her sunny curls ; O'er the green sward through the garden passes to the river's brink — Throws away an old bouquet, and wonders if 't will float or sink. Then returning through the garden, round and round the lawn she goes, Singing, as she cuts fresh roses, she herself her world's fair rose ; In her dainty morning-robe and straw hat shading half her face — Picturesque in form and feature, lovely in her youth and grace ; In her hand a little dagger, sharp and glittering in the sun, Rifling hearts of thorny bushes, cutting roses one by one, Pink and white and blood-red crimson — some in bud and some full-blown, ROSAMOND. 73 There through lawn and grove and garden sings she to herself alone ; Softly sings in broken snatches some old song of Spain or France, As she holds her roses off at full arm's length, with sidelong glance, Shifting groups of forms and colors ; for a painter's eye hath she, And all beauty pleaseth her, so artist-like and fancy-free. Now she enters her boudoir and sets her roses in a vase. There for seven days and nights their bloom and fra- grance fill the place. When the petals droop and fade, she '11 bear them to the river's brink ; Singing, throw them on the waves, and wonder if they '11 float or sink. Will she bear away to-night a bunch of lovers' rose- hearts, pray ? Set them in her vase a week — then throw them with her flowers away ? A QUESTION. Ah, who can tell which guide were best To truth long sought, but unattained — The early faith, or late unrest ? What age has earned, or boyhood gained ? When down life's vista as we gaze, Where vanished youth's remembered gleam, The radiance of the unconscious days The dream that knew not 't was a dream — The time ere yet the shades of doubt Before our steps crept lengthening on, And morn and noon spread all about Their warm and fragrant benison Was this a vision of the mind That comes but once and disappears ? And can our riper wisdom find A clearer path in after years ? A QUESTION. 75 The lore of philosophic age, The legendary creed of youth — Say which should trace upon life's page The book-mark of the surest truth ? Ah, question not. The unconscious life That leaps to its spontaneous deed Alone can harmonize the strife Between the impulse and the deed. Through dark and light — through change on change The planet-soul is pledged to move, Steeped all along its spinning range In sunshine born of thought and love. MY STUDIO. I LOVE it, yet I hardly can tell why — My studio with its window to the sky, Far up above the noises of the street, The rumbling carts, the ceaseless tramp of feet ; A privacy secure from idle crowds, And public only to the flying clouds. No shadowed corners round about me hide. Clear-lighted stand its walls on every side, Each sketch and picture showing at its best. A room for cheery work that needs no rest. Only too short these days of autumn seem, Where labor is but joy and peace supreme ; Where fields and woods, towns, skies, and winding rills Still haunt the memory as the canvas fills. And while the painter plies his earnest task, He seems as in some vision-land to bask ; And all that fed his eye and fired his soul When in the golden summer days he stole Their forms and colors, now lived o'er again, Runs like a strain of music through his brain. MY STUDIO. 77 O joyous tasks of art ! without your spell Life were a dull and dreary cloister-cell, All nature darkened and all beauty dim. But ye fill up its chalice to the brim With draughts as sweet as ever yet, I ween, Flowed in the poets' sparkling Hippocrene. TALENT AND GENIUS. i. On the high road travelling steady, Sure, alert, and ever ready, Prompt to seize all fit occasion, Courting power and wealth and station ; One clear aim before' him keeping With a vigilance unsleeping ; Prizing most the ephemeral flower Blooming for a brilliant hour ; With self-conscious action moving ; Well known truths intent on proving ; Radiant in his day and season With the world's reflected reason ; Noting times, effects, and causes, Phaon wins the crowd's applauses. ii. Wing'd like an eagle o'er mountains and meadows, Lit by their splendors or hid by their shadows; Borne by a power supernal, resistless ; Dreaming through trances abstracted and listless ; TALENT AND GENIUS. 79 Swooping capricious to faults and to errors, Redeemed by a virtue unconscious of terrors ; Linking with ease his result and endeavor ; Opening through chaos fresh pathways forever ; Gilding the world with his thoughts and his fancies • Scornful of fashions and heedless of chances ; Yet in obscurity living and dying — Hylas, a voice in the wilderness crying, Only is heard when no hand can restore him, Only is known when the grave closes o'er him. VENICE. While the skies of this northern November Scowl down with a darkening menace, I wonder if you still remember That marvellous summer in Venice. When the mornings by clouds unencumbered Smiled on in unchanging persistence On the broad bright laguna that slumbered Afar in the magical distance. And the mirror of waters reflected The sails in their gay plumage grouping Like tropical birds that erected Their wings, or sat drowsily drooping. How by moonlight our gondola gliding Through gleams and through shadows of wonder, With its sharp flashing beak flew dividing The waves slipping silently under. VENICE. 81 Then almost too full seemed the chalice Of new brimming life and of beauty, As we floated by Riva and palace, Dogana and stately Salute — Through deep-mouthed canals overshaded By balconies gray, quaint and olden, Where ruins of centuries faded Stood stripped of their azure and golden. Do you call back the days when before us The masters of art shone revealing Their marvels of color — and o'er us Glowed grand on the rich massy ceiling In the halls of the doges, where trembled The state in its turbulent fever, And purple-robed senates assembled In days that are shadows forever ? You remember the yellow light tipping The domes when the sunset was dying ; The crowds on the quays, and the shipping ; The pennons and flags that were flying ; — Saint Mark's with its mellow-toned glory, The splendor and gloom of its riches ; 82 VENICE. The columns Byzantine and hoary ; The arches, the gold-crusted niches ; And the days when the sunshine invited The painters abroad, until mooring Their bark in the shadow, delighted They wrought at their labors alluring ; The pictures receding in stretches Of amber and opal around us — The joy of our mornings of sketches — The spell of achievement that bound us ? Ah, never I busy my brushes With scenes of that radiant weather, But through me the memory rushes When we were in Venice together. Fair Venice, the pearl-shell of cities ! Though poor the oblations we bring her The pictures, the songs and the ditties — Ah, still we must paint her and sing her ! A vision of beauty long vanished, A dream that is joy to remember, A solace that cannot be banished By all the chill blasts of November ! THE TWO DREAMS. I met one in the Land of Sleep Who seemed a friend long known and true. I woke. That friend I could not keep — For him I never knew. Yet there was one in life's young morn Loved me, I thought, as I loved him. Slow from that trance I waked forlorn, To find his love grown dim. He by whose side in dreams I ranged, Unknown by name, my friend still seems ; While he I knew so well has changed. So both were only dreams. AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS. TO G. W. C. Long, long ago, in the sweet Roman spring Through the bright morning air we slowly strolled, And in the blue heaven heard the skylarks sing Above the ruins old — Beyond the Forum's crumbling grass-grown piles, Through high-walled lanes o'erhung with blossoms white That opened on the far Campagna's miles Of verdure and of light ; Till by the grave of Keats we stood, and found A rose some loyal hand had planted there. Making more sacred still that hallowed ground, And that enchanted air. A single rose, whose fading petals drooped, And seemed to wait for us to gather them. So, kneeling on the humble mound, we stooped And plucked it from its stem. AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS. 85 One rose, and nothing more. We shared its leaves Between us, as we shared the thoughts of one Called from the fields before his unripe sheaves Could feel the harvest sun. That rose's fragrance is forever fled For us, dear friend — but not the poet's lay. He is the rose — deathless among the dead — Whose perfume lives to-day. BROKEN WINGS. Gray-headed poets, whom the full years bless With life and health and chance still multiplied To hold your forward course — fame and success Close at your side ; Who easier won your bays because the fields Lacked reapers ; — time has been your helper long. Rich are the crops your busy tillage yields Your arms still strong. Honor to you, your talent and your truth. As ye have soared and sung, still may ye sing ! Yet we remember some who fell in youth With broken wing. Names nigh forgotten now, by time erased, Or else placarded o'er by those long known, Had fate permitted, might they not have blazed Beside your own ? Ah yes, due fame for all who have achieved ; And yet a thought for those who died too young — BROKEN WINGS. 87 Their green fruit dropped — their visions half con- ceived — Their lays unsung ! A tribute song for them ! Reach forth, renowned And honored ones, from your green sunny glades, And grasp their spirit-hands — the bards uncrowned Amid the shades. Not those whom glory follows to a bier Enshrined in marble, decked with costly flowers. The loud world speaks their praise from year to year. They need not ours. But for the dead whose promise failed through death, The great who might have been — whose early bloom Dropping like roses in the north-wind's breath, Found but a tomb. Yet it may be, in some bright land, unchecked . By fate — some fair Elysian field unknown, Their brows by brighter laurel wreaths are decked — Their seat a throne ; While spirits of the illustrious dead, the seers, Prophets and poets of the olden days Mingle, perchance, with theirs, as with their peers, Immortal lays. SEA PICTURES. MORXIXG. The morning sun has pierced the mist, And beach and cliff and ocean kissed. Blue as the lapis-lazuli The sea reflects the azure sky. In the salt healthy breeze I stand Upon the solid floor of sand. Along the untrodden shore are seen Fresh tufts of weed maroon and green, And ruffled kelp and stranded sticks And shells and stones and sea-moss mix. The low black rocks, forever wet, Lie tangled in their pulpy net. The shy sand-pipers fly and light — And swallows circle out of sight. Out where the sky the horizon meets Glide glimmering sails in scattered fleets. Old Ocean smiles as though amid His leagues of brine no treachery hid. And safe upon the sandy marge, By stranded boat and floating barge, ££4 PICTURES. 89 Gay children leap and laugh and run, Browned by the salt air and the sun. II. EVENING. Now thickening twilight presses down Upon the harbor and the town, And all around a misty pall Of dull gray cloud hangs over all. The huddling fishing-sloops he safe, While far away the breakers chafe. And now the landsman's straining eye Mingles the gray sea with the sky.- Far out upon the darkening deep The white ghosts of the ocean leap. Boone Island's light, a lonely star, Is flashing o'er the waves afar. Up the broad beach the sea rolls in In never-ending foam and din ; And all along the craggy shore Resounds one long continuous roar. We turn away, and hail each gleam Where lamps from cottage windows stream. For sad and solemn is the moan Of ocean when the day has flown, And, borne on dusky wings, the night Wraps in a shroud the dying light. ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS. I stakted on a lonely road. A few companions with me went. Some fell behind, some forward strode, But all on one high purpose bent : To live for Nature, finding truth In beauty, and the shrines of art ; To consecrate our joyous youth To aims outside the common mart. The way was steep, though pleasure crowned Our toil with every step we took. The morning air was spiced around From many a pine and cedar nook. I turned aside and lingered long To pluck a rose, to hear a bird, To muse, while listening to the song Of brooks through leafy coverts heard ; To live in thoughts that brought no fame Or guerdon from the thoughtless crowd ; ARS LONG A, VITA BREVIS. 91 To toil for ends that could not claim The world's applauses coarse and loud ; Then onward pressed. But far before I saw my comrades on the heights. They no divided homage bore To Beauty's myriad sounds and sights. In blithe self-confidence they wrought. Some strove for fame and fame's reward. They pleased the public's facile thought ; Then paused and stretched them on the sward. And still though oft I bind my sheaf In fields my comrades have not known ; Though Art is long and life is brief, And youth has now forever flown, I would not lose the raptures sweet, Nor scorn the toil of earlier years ; Still would I climb with eager feet, Though towering height on height appears — And up the mountain road I see A younger throng with voices loud, Who side by side press on with me, Till I am lost amid the crowd. LOVE'S VOYAGE. As once I sat upon the shore There came to me a fairy boat, A bark I never saw before, Whose coming I had failed to note, Wrapped in my studies conning rules of life by rote. The stern was fashioned like a heart ; The curving sides like Cupid's bow. And from the mast, which like a dart Was winged above and barbed below, A pennon like an airy stream of blood did flow. Upon the prow on either side Was carved a snowy Paphian dove. Between, reflected in the tide An arching swan's neck rose above The deck o'erspread with broidered tapestries of love. Against the mast the idle sail Flapped like a lace-edged valentine. It seemed a canvas all too frail, LOVE'S VOYAGE. 93 Should winds arouse the sleeping brine. A toy the boat appeared, for sport in weather fine. And so I stepped, in idle mood, Aboard the bark — when suddenly A breeze sprang up : and while I stood Uncertain, thinking I was free To make retreat, the vessel bore me out to sea. Silent and swift away from land It cut the waves. No pilot steered. No voice of captain gave command. Yet to and fro it tacked and veered. All day it flew. At eve a distant land appeared. An island in the restless seas, With rosy cliffs, and gold and green Of dappled fields, and tropic trees, With trailing vines and flowers between, Across the purple waves through amber skies was seen. And music floating from afar I heard, of voice and instrument As the sun sank, and star by star Throbbed in the living firmament ; And all kind fates seemed pledged to cheer me as I went. 94 LOVE'S VOYAGE. Till in a deep and shadowy bay The little argosy, self-furled, Self-anchored, in the silenee lay, And landed me upon a world By other stars and moons endiamonded, impearled. A region to my student's nooks Unknown — where first I learned to see That love is never conned from books, Nor passion taught by fantasy — But in the living, beating heart alone can be. For on that shore a maiden stood, Who smiled with sympathetic glance, And when I pressed her hand, and wooed, Turned not her truthful eyes askance, And proved my voyage was no idle sport of chance. Ah, from this island if I veer Into the seas of worldly strife, Give me the bark that brought me here, Where now the tried and faithful wife Year after year renews the lover's lease of life. SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST. " Naught but the fittest lives," I hear Ring on the northern breeze of thought : " To Nature's heart the strong are dear, The weak must pass unloved, unsought." And yet in undertones a voice Is heard that says, " O child of earth, Your mind's best work, your heart's best choice Shall stand with God for what they are worth.' Time's buildings are not all of stone. With frailest fibres Nature spins Her living webs from zone to zone, And what is lost she daily wins. I fain would think, amid the strife Between realities and forms, Slight gifts may claim perennial life 'Mid slow'decay and sudden storms. This tuft of silver hairs I loose From open windows to the breeze, 96 SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST. Some bird of spring perchance may use To build her nest in yonder trees. These pictures painted with an art Surpassed by younger sight and skill, May pass into some friendly heart, Some room with Nature's smiles may fill. These leaves of light and earnest rhyme Dropped on the windy world, though long Neglected now, some future time May weave into its nest of song. A WORD TO PHILOSOPHERS. Cold philosophers, so apt With your formulas exacting, In your problems so enwrapt, And your theories distracting ; Webs of metaphysic doubt On your wheels forever spinning, Turning Nature inside out From its end to its beginning ; Drawing forth from matter raw Protoplasmic threads, to fashion What Creation never saw — Mind apart from faith or passion ; Faculties that know no wants But a logical position — Intellectual cormorants Fed on facts of pure cognition ; — Like Arachne's is your task, By Minerva's wisdom baffled. 98 A WORD TO PHILOSOPHERS. Defter weavers we must ask ; Tissues less obscurely ravelled. Larger vision you must find Ere your evolution-plummets Sound the abysses of the mind, Or your measure reach its summits. Not from matter crude and coarse Comes tins delicate creation. Twinned with it a finer force Rules it to its destination. All beliefs, affections, deeds Feed its depths as streams a river, Every purpose holds the seeds Of a fruit that grows forever. Souls outsoar your schoolmen's wit, In a loftier heaven wheeling. Lights ideal o'er them flit. Every thought is wing'd with feeling. Conscience born of heavenly light Mingles with their lofty yearning ; Phantasy and humor bright Cheer their toilsome path of learning. A WORD TO PHILOSOPHERS. 99 Poesy with dreamy eyes Lures them into fairy splendor, Music's magic harmonies Thrill with touches deep and tender. Love, that shapes their mental moods, Offers now its warm oblations, Now the heart's dark solitudes Glow with solemn adorations. Vain your biologic strife, Your asserting, your denying ; Ygdrasil the Tree of Life Flouts your narrow classifying. Every living leaf and bud On its mighty branches growing, Palpitates with will and blood Past primordial foreknowing. Your dissecting-knives can show Less than half these wondrous natures, In these beating hearts there glow Flames that scorch your nomenclatures, — Lights that make your axioms fine Fade like stars when day is breaking ; — Splendors, hopes, and powers divine, New born with each day's awaking. 100 A WORD TO PHILOSOPHERS. Raise your scientific lore, Grant us larger definitions ; Souls are surely something more Than mere bundles of cognitions. Take the sum — the mighty whole — Man, this sovereign Protean creature, Follow the all-embracing soul, If you can, through form and feature. Whence it came in vain you guess, Where it goes you cannot measure, And its depths are fathomless ; And exhaustless flows its treasure. And its essence holds the world In abeyance and solution, For the gods themselves are furled In its mystic involution. THE COAL-FIRE. 1. Come, we '11 light the parlor fire ; Winter sets in sharp and rough. Wood is dear, but coal 's provided, For three months, I think, enough. Bring one hod of Lackawanna, One of Sidney's softer kind, Mix them well — clap on the blower, Let the grate outroar the wind. 2. See — they are coming — the guests I expected, Not a man's party, o'er punch and cigars ; Sexes must blend in the friends I've selected, Moonlight must mellow the glittering stars. Soon will it kindle, the blithe conversation, Spirits to spirits responsively fit ; Men with their logic and grave moderation, Women with sentiment, gossip and wit. 3. Now the softly flaming Sidney Mixes with the anthracite ; 102 THE COAL-FIRE. Quickens all its slow-paced ardor With a fluttering glow and light ; While their heat and radiance blended Flash in gleams of red and blue, Filling all the room with sunshine, Gaily sparkling up the flue. 4. Lonely was Adam till Eve came to cheer him — Came to commingle her warmth with his light. Man is a fossil till woman comes near him, A rose on his brier — a moon to his night. Then when the tenderer feminine color Rims the hard stalk with its delicate gleams, All his best life growing sweeter and fuller Wakes in the glow of those holier beams. 5. Hard and soft in cordial union Now have fused, like molten wax. Each a temper gives and borrows — Each the half the other lacks. Should they lose their flames and smoulder With a dull and sullen light, Stir them up — the sparking Sidney Soon will start the anthracite. THE COAL-FIRE. 103 6. What — have my guests then exhausted their topics ? Why is this lull in the murmur of tongues ? Where is that breath from the flowery tropics ? Lead to the piano our empress of songs ! Music shall stir us to harmonies hidden, Flooding to rapture like beakers of wine. Stories shall move us to laughter unbidden ; Laughter like music is something divine. 7. Ah, 't is midnight ! Are you going ? Parties will break up so soon. Count not hours so swiftly flowing, Heed not the high wintry moon. One more song before we sever, And the cinders turn to white ; One old story, good as ever ! No ? Too late ? Ah, well — good night ! 8. Now they have gone with the pale dying embers. Here in my parlor, still cosy and warm With the glow of the hearth, how my fancy remem- bers Each guest of the evening — each talent and charm ; — 104 THE COAL-FIRE. The slow-burning fervors of masculine reason, The swift-glancing flame of the feminine heart ; — And I vow that no fire shall be lit at this season, But coal of each sex shall contribute its part. TWO VIEWS OF IT. Before the daybreak, in the murky night My chanticleer, half dreaming, sees the light Stream from my window on his perch below, And taking it for dawn he needs must crow. Wakeful and sad I shut my book, and smile To think my lonely vigil should beguile The silly fowl. Alas, I find no ray Within my lamp or heart, of dawning day. OLD AND YOUNG. 1. They soon grow old who grope for gold In marts where all is bought and sold ; Who live for self, and on some shelf In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf Cankered and crusted o'er with mould. For them their youth itself is old. 2. They ne'er grow old who gather gold Where spring awakes and flowers unfold ; Where suns arise in joyous skies, And fill the soul within their eyes. For them the immortal bards have sung, For them old age itself is young. THE VICTORIES OF PEACE. 1. Gone is the tempest that clouded The land with its dark desolation. Out from the pall that enshrouded Leaps the new strength of the nation. 2. Never again shall the cannon Roar with their terrible voicing, Save where the free flag and pennon Wave o'er a country rejoicing. 3. Boast not when musketry rattles O'er corpses of landsmen and seamen. Gains that are greater than battles Come with the ballots of freemen. 4. Praise ye the peace that engenders Trust in a people enlightened ; Honor to valiant defenders, Hope for the days that have brightened. SUMMER DAWN. Some summer mornings — when you've taken tea Too late the night before — perhaps you'll see, If at some Berkshire farmhouse far away You chance to wake while yet the sky is gray, A glory, to your landscape-painter men Unknown, yet worthy of a poet's pen. Look from your window. Long gray banks of cloud The fields, the hills, the distant view enshroud. Faint stars still glimmer in the heavens above. Below dim shapes of fog o'er stream and grove Hang wreathing, shifting in the sluggish breeze. Are yonder shadows mist, or mist-clad trees ? For what is cloud and what is land no eye (Sleepy at least like yours) can yet descry. And now the rushing streams, by day unheard, You hear, and now the twitter of a bird, And now another, till at last the hills And woods are all alive with fugues and trills. The sheep begin to bleat, the cows to low ; Three hoarse, young roosters try their best to crow, SUMMER DAWN. 109 Responding to some thirsty, quacking duck, Or hen who folds her chicks with motherly cluck. Now morning spreads apace. The stars are drowned. Trees loom above the fog ; and all around The landscape is transfigured in the light Of pearly skies. Westward the wings of Night Are folded as she steals unseen away. Now in the far northeast an amber gray Gleams under bars of long dark-pencilled cloud. The crows above the woods are cawing loud. Brighter and brighter up the dewy slope The coming sunrise floods the lands with hope. The clouds from north to south begin to blush. Old Graylock answers with a rosy flush. One mountain peak looms up with crimsoned sides ; A moment more, and in the mist it hides. And now the valleys catch the sun below, And elms and barn-roofs redden in the glow. O for a pencil rapid as the light To paint the glories bursting on the sight ! Making the plain New England landscape seem The unfamiliar scenery of a dream. For this might be in Arcady — my rhyme Some Eastern shepherd's of the olden time. Here might I pipe with Tityrus in the grove ; Here to fair Amaryllis whisper love ; 110 SUMMER DA WN. Here the wild woodland haunts of Dryads seek — But what is that ! The locomotive's shriek Calls me from Dreamland and the Arcadian dawn. The sun is up. The mystery is gone. Another book of poesy the West Has opened. Let the bards of old go rest. THE OLD APPLE-WOMAN. A BROADWAY LYRIC. She sits by the side of a turbulent stream That rushes and rolls forever Up and down like a weary dream In the trance of a burning fever. Up and down through the long Broadway It flows with its tiresome paces — Down and up through the noisy day, A river of feet and of faces. Seldom a drop of that river's spray Touches her withered features ; Yet still she sits there day by day In the throng of her fellow-creatures. Apples and cakes and candy to sell, Daily before her lying. The ragged newsboys know her well — The rich never think of buying. 112 THE OLD APPLE-WOMAN. Year in, year out, in her dingy shawl The wand and the rain she weathers, Patient and mute at her little stall ; But few are the coppers she gathers. Still eddies the crowd intent on gain. Each for himself is striving With selfish heart and seething brain — An endless hurry and driving. The loud carts rattle in thunder and dust ; Gay Fashion sweeps by in its coaches. With a vacant stare she mumbles her crust, She is past complaints and reproaches. Still new faces and still new feet — The same yet changing forever ; They jostle along through the weary street, The waves of the human river. Withered and dry like a leafless bush That clings to the bank of a torrent, Year in, year out, in the whirl and the rush, She sit3, of the city's current. The shrubs of the garden will blossom again Though far from the flowing river ; But the spring returns to her in vain — Its bloom has nothing to give her. THE OLD APPLE-WOMAN. 113 Yet in her heart there buds the hope Of a Father's love and pity ; For her the clouded skies shall ope, And the gates of a heavenly city. THE WEATHER-PROPHET. A FABLE. " What can the matter be with the thermometer ? Is it the sun or the moon or the comet, or Something broke loose in the old earth's pedometer ? " Thus in his study a weather philosopher Mused — every minute more puzzled and cross over. Wind-charts and notes he proceeded to toss over. " Up in this tower, this breezy and barren height, One should be cool as an elderly Sharonite. Something is wrong with the scales of my Fahrenheit. 'T was but this morning the wind blowing northerly Roughened the tops of the ocean waves frothily ; Now it has shifted, and seems to be southerly " — (These are not rhymes — I am fully aware of it. But the hot weather — for he had the care of it — Fully excused him, and I have no share of it.) Time to this sage was so precious that never he Ate at regular hour ; forever he Seemed to be lost in a weather-wise reverie. THE WEATHER-PROPHET. 115 So a small kitchen the town-folks did make for him Right underneath, where a servant could bake for him, Boil for him, cook up a chop or a steak for him, So that he need n't be starving while measuring Rain-storms and calms that the heavens were treasuring. 'T was a bright thought which they took a great pleas- ure in ; For 't was the weather that made the great theme for them. This was their day-talk and this their night's dream for them. Here was the man who could skim the sky's cream for them ; Thousands of miles away see a cloud-macula — Tell what was coming in language oracular — - Translate his science in common vernacular. Quite independent of housekeeping syndicates He could pronounce what the weather-glass indicates Long ere old Boreas had opened his windy gates. Knew all the signs from the Crab to Aquarius, Shifting or permanent — single or various ; Bright signs that gladden us, dark signs that weary us, Versed in the trade-winds and currents could spy a way How a storm-centre in Texas or Iowa Might prove a cyclone or peaceably die away. Skilled in all secrets of meteorology. Clear in his mind as that H I should follow G. If he made blunders he made no apology. 116 THE WEATHER-PROPHET. He was the boldest of Old Probabilities ; Scorned all assistance and short-hand facilities. Ah, what a thing to have genius and skill it is ! Pity if he should be forced to take off his eye ; Leave for a dinner his notes to a novice eye ! Food was a trifle for one who could prophesy. So like the prophet of old when the city he Left for the woods, and the ravens had pity, he Found himself served by a black-coat committee. Now while engrossed in his figures, not dreaming it, Bridget below in the kitchen was steaming it ; Making the building so hot that ice-cream in it Melted like butter. Her stove and the range in it Cooking his dinner — though this may seem strange in it — Was the sole reason the air had a change in it. Over his figures his brow getting rigid, he Kept at his task, never thinking of Bridgety — Growing each minute more fussy and fidgety. Up through the speaking-tube rushed the hot air on him, Bringing the steam of the boiler to bear on him. So with a mystified sort of despair on him Soon he proceeded to write and to scratch away, And by his telegraph sent a despatch away — (Never before was Old Prob so infatue) Saying — " It seems by my Aeroscopical Great heats with thunder will soon be the topic all — THE WEATHER-PROPHET. 117 Weather, in short, most decidedly tropical. Can it be sun-spots ? Volcanic impurities Caused by a meteor bursting ? I 'm sure it is Something abnormal — but very obscure it is ! Possibly something may ail my thermometer ; Possibly 't is the effect of the comet, or Something broke loose in the old Earth's pedometer." MORAL. Prophets are struck now and then with insanity. Ever since Adam man's measureless vanity Thinks his own mood is the mind of humanity. OMAR KHAYYAM. Reading in Omar till the thoughts that burned Upon his pages seemed to be inurned Within me in a silent fire, my pen By instinct to his flowing metre turned. Vine-crowned free-thinker of thy Persian clime — Brave bard whose daring thought and mystic rhyme Through English filter trickles down to us Out of the lost springs of an olden time — . Baffled by life's enigmas, like the crowd Who strove before and since to see the cloud Lift from the mountain pinnacles of faith — We honor still the doubts thou hast avowed, And fain would round the half-truth of thy dream ; And fain let in — if so we might — a beam Of purer light through windows of the soul, Dividing things that are from things that seem. OMAR KHAYYAM. 119 True, true, brave poet, in thy cloud involved, The riddle of the world stood all unsolved ; And we who boast our broader views still grope Too oft like thee, though centuries have revolved. Yet this we know. Thy symbol of the jar Suits not our western manhood, left to mar Or make, in part, the clay 't is moulded of : And the soul's freedom is its fateful star. Not like thy ball thrown from the player's hand Inert and passive on a yielding strand ; Or if a ball, the rock whence it rebounds Proves that e'en this some license may command. But though thy mind, which measured Jove and Mars, Lay fettered from the Unseen by bolts and bars Of circumstance, one truth thy spirit saw, The mystery spanning life and earth and stars. Dervish and threatening dogma were thy foes. The question though unanswered still arose ; And through the revel and the wine-cups still The honest thought, " Who knows, but One — who knows ? " And as I read again each fervent line That smiles through sighs, and drips with fragrant wine ; 120 OMAR KHAYYAM. And Vedder's thoughtful muse has graced the verse With added jewels from the artist's mine — I read a larger meaning in the sage, A modern comment on a far-off age ; And take the truth, and leave the error out That casts its light stain on the Asian page. LONGFELLOW. Across the sea the swift sad message darts And beats with sudden pang against our hearts. Under the elm-trees in his homestead old The Laureate of our land lies dead and cold ; Wept by the love of friends, and crowned with fame ; Revered by youth and age, his well-known name Caught in fast-circling whispers, sad and low, In streets where noisy crowds move too and fro — " Can it be true that he is dead — is dead ? " Life seemed to love that noble, silvery head, And youth still lingered in the kindly eyes Now closed, alas, to all beneath the skies ! No more across the fields by Charles's stream Those eyes shall see their well-loved landscape gleam. No more the treasured books upon his shelves Suggest the visions rarer than themselves. No frienda around his hospitable fire Hear the last touches of his graceful lyre. The coming spring will flush with purple bloom His lilacs, and waft in their sweet perfume ; 122 LONGFELLOW. His roses unregarded drop away ; Unheard the oriole's warble through the day ; Unmarked the bees' low hum from flower to flower, The dial's shade, the sunshine and the shower. Yet from the garden of his thoughts and deeds Still will his poems fly like winged seeds. And far and wide, through city, plain and hill, Borne to a thousand firesides, bloom and fill The people's hearts, and touch to issues fine Of aspiration human and divine. Paris, March 28, 1882. KALPH WALDO EMERSON. Out of the cloud that dimmed his sunset light, Into the unknown firmament withdrawn Beyond the mists and shadows of the night, We mourn the friend and teacher who has gone. As in the days of old when Plato freed The Athenian youths into a heavenlier sphere, Long will the age with reverence hear and heed The sweet deep music of our poet-seer. For to his eye all objects and events Spoke a symbolic language ; and his mind Pierced with the poet's vision through the dense Dull surface to the larger truth behind. And yet no solitary mystic trained To spin a metaphysic web was he ; But open-eyed to all that life contained, And the broad earth, of living harmony. Nature adopted him from boyhood's hour. The pines, the elms, the willows knew him well. 124 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. The lonely streams where blushed the cardinal-flower, And where the shy Rhodora's petals fell. And well his mother's lore he loved and learned ; His master-hand her crudest stuff refined. All that she gave he back to her returned Woven with figures of the shaping mind. It seemed as if the hill-tops where he met The sunrise still the livery put on Of nobler days, and never could forget The Syrian splendors of the poet's dawn. And books to him unfolded all their store ; What soul was in them he had eyes to see. And past and present turned up golden ore, Transmuted by his mind's fine alchemy. He drew his circles of so wide a sweep That they encompassed every sect and creed. Beneath the thought which seemed to others deep His swifter spirit dived with brilliant speed. His keen, clear intuition knit the threads Of truths disjoined in one symmetric whole ; And barren wayside weeds and scattered shreds Of facts found mystic meanings in his soul. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 125 He dared to ope the windows to the breeze Of Nature, when sectarians shuddering frowned, While through the close air of their cloistered ease The leaves of creeds fell fluttering to the ground ; Yet lived to see harsh theologians change From blind mistrust to love the truth he taught ; And shallow wits grow dumb beneath his range Of brilliant apothegm and daring thought. Choice words and images like Shakspeare's best Dropped from his lips and waited on his pen. His voice in tuneful eloquence expressed The manliest minds of Plutarch's noblest men. For him our Western world its keen, dry lore Recorded with a stenographic hand, While the far Orient climes for tribute bore The scriptures old of many a pagan land. He saw the Soul whose breath all being breathes ; — The Life that glows in atoms and in suns ; The Law that binds ; the Beauty that enwreathes ; The Ideal that all mortal wit outruns. Yet close to earth and common duties bound, Pledged to all true and gracious tasks he stood. His presence made a sunshine all around, His daily life a bond of brotherhood. 126 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. He needed not to worship at a shrine Purer than private hours might well approve. His missal was illumed with thoughts divine, His rosary strung with kindly deeds of love. Yet love and justice were at one with him ; And on the base oppressor's brow the stain And brand were laid, not in derision grim, But sad and fateful as the mark of Cain. Thus, true as needle to the polar star, He espoused the righteous cause, rebuked the wrong, And flashed chivalric 'gainst a nation's bar Of precedent, though fixed and sanctioned long. Poet and sage ! thy lofty muse demands An insight deeper than the times attain. Across the stagnant pools and drifting sands Of thought I see thee like a sacred fane Rise sunlit in the broad expanse of time ; And young and old shall greet from far thy light, And pilgrims turn from many an old-world clime To hail thy star-like dome of stainless white. The wise will know thee, and the good will love. The age to come will feel thy impress given In all that lifts the race a step above Itself, and stamps it with the seal of heaven. FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE, D.D. on his 80th birthday, dec. 12, 1885. What lapse or accident of time Can dull that soul's sonorous chime Which owns the priceless heritage — Youth's summer warmth in wintry age ? The gods can grant no rarer boon Than heart with mind in genial tune, Through a long life's vicissitudes Unjarred by chances and by moods ; A soul elastic and unworn Whose eve retains the smile of morn ; And all the poesy of youth Is wedded to the soul of truth. So have I seen the Alpine glow On hoary pinnacles of snow, While many a younger wilderness Of woods beneath lay colorless And darkling in the twilight sky, Touched by no sunset alchemy. 128 FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE, D. D. For some there are whose youth is old Long ere their youthful blood grows cold ; And some in age so young that time, Deceived, still sees them in their prime. No form or face that prophesied A strength to after years denied — No spirit lost in aims that seem The cloud-land of a worldly dream — No head discrowned — no incomplete And slackened course to-day we greet In him whose fourscore years have spanned The gulfs of fact and wonder-land ; — Who brought the seeds of Europe's lore To fertilize our western shore ; — By pastoral care, by voice and pen Toiling to serve his fellow-men ; Who early stood in freedom's van, And with forecasting eye outran The cloudy creeds that long obscured The light to later days assured. What claim of youth by word or deed Can e'er dislodge or supersede The royal right to place and fame Earned by long years of earnest aim, Of learning deep, of vision wide, Of wisdom to fit speech allied ; FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE, D. D. 129 While all along their downward trend Youth's earlier lights his steps attend ? Still in the gloaming of his day Lingers the glow that mocks decay. Friend, poet, scholar, teacher, sage ! Unshadowed by the mists of age, Long may the generous faith and thought, The lights from the ideal caught, That guided and inspired his youth, Shine clearer toward the perfect truth. And like some minster tower whose grand Melodious bells ring o'er the land, His voice be heard when daylight fails Across the darkened hills and vales ; And ere night's pall be o'er him cast, His mellowest music be his last. SO FAR, SO NEAR. Thou, so far, we grope to grasp thee — Thou, so near, we cannot clasp thee — Thou, so wise, our prayers grow heedless — Thou, so loving, they are needless ! In each human soul thou shinest. Human-best is thy divinest. In each deed of love thou warmest ; Evil into good transformest. Soul of all, and moving centre Of each moment's life we enter. Breath of breathing — light of gladness — Infinite antidote of sadness ; — All-preserving ether flowing Through the worlds, yet past our knowing. Never past our trust and loving, Nor from thine our life removing. Still creating, still inspiring, Never of thy creatures tiring. Artist of thy solar spaces, And thy humble human faces ; Mighty glooms and splendors voicing ; SO FAR, SO NEAR. 131 In thy plastic work rejoicing ; Through benignant law connecting Best with best — and all perfecting, Though all human races claim thee, Thought and language fail to name thee, Mortal lips be dumb before thee, Silence only may adore thee ! • SONNETS. TO E. P. C. I. 1. The Summer goes, with all its birds and flowers ; The Autumn passes with its solemn sky ; The Winter comes again — yet you and I Know not the old companionship once ours. The twilight mist between us hangs and lowers ; Your face I see not — voice I cannot hear. No letter tells me you in thought are near. The west-wind blows and sweeps away the showers, But from the west no whisper comes of you. Friends press around you in your distant home — (Your distant home I never yet have seen,) And old familiar greetings still renew ; While I with fancy's eyes alone can come And peep unnoted there behind your screen. SONNETS, 133 IL 2. Parted by time and space for many a year, Yet ever longing, hoping for a day When, heart to heart, the happy weeks shall stay Their flight for us, and all our sky be clear As in our boyhood's spring — my brother dear, You and I bide our time. The buds of May Shall blossom yet for us. What though the gray Of dusky Autumn eventide be near, And silver locks and beards have changed us so From what we were — you still to me are young, And I to you. The fireside of our loves Shall be our summer, bright as in the glow Of youth, when we, two blithe Arcadians, sung And fluted in those old Virginia groves. 134 SONNETS. III. 3. Ah, happy time ! when music bound in one Two kindred souls that ne'er were out of tune : When in the porch, beneath the summer moon, Our supper o'er, our school-boy lessons done, While other lads were at some boisterous fun, We trilled our Tara's Hall or Bonnie Doon : Or in some fire-lit wintry afternoon, Our flutes, you first, I second, bravely won Their winding path through many a tough duet ; Nor cared for plaudits louder than the praise Mother or sisters, in those simple days, Well pleased, bestowed : ah, sweeter than we met In after-life, from critics pledged to raise Art's standard high as dome or minaret. SONNETS. 135 IV. 4. Friend, dear as Memory's joys ! of life that 's past A part, and part of better life to come, If life to come there be, in some dear home Beyond the rigid clouds that overcast Our sundered lives — all that is mine thou hast ; — All thoughts, all sympathies ; — though far I roam From you — by mountains, streams, or ocean's foam Divided long — yet ever, first and last, Our love knows no division. In my soul And yours, we twin-born spirits of one blood, Still, as of old, are one. No sea can roll Between its league-long melancholy flood, No separate interests, loves, or pressing cares Disturb the mutual trust our being shares. 136 SONNETS. V. 5. All loves have frailer roots than loves that start From one ancestral blood. The friends we find In youth pass on before us, or behind Are dropped, or on diverging paths depart, While branches from one trunk still own one heart, And bud and bear from one maternal mind. Sister and brother need no vows to bind Their pre-ordained alliance, nor the art Of lovers plotting through a thousand fears Lest love, of passion born, should fade or change ; Nor dread the undermining drip of years ; Nor stand on forms that other souls estrange. Such love is ours, and theirs who bear our name, Born in the honored home from which we came. SONNETS. 137 VI. 6. Ah, many a time our memory slips aside And leaves the round of present cares and joys, To live again the time when we were boys ; To call our parents back with love and pride ; To see again the dear ones who have died ; To dream once more amid the household toys, The sports, the jests, the masquerades, the noise, The blaze and sparkle of the wood fireside ; The books, the drawings, and the merry press Around the blithe tea-board ; the evenings long ; Rattling backgammon and still, solemn chess ; And best of all when instrument and song Bore us to visionary lands and streams, And crowned our nights with coronals of dreams. 138 SONNETS. vn. 7. Those times are gone, that circle thinned away, And we who live, now scattered far and wide, Each in our separate centres fixed abide, Round which new interests now revolve and play In separate loves and duties day by day. Yet, by the records of old loves allied, We clasp each other's hands beneath the tide Of time, and cling together as we may. Even so beneath the sea the throbbing wires That bind the sundered continents in one, In space-annihilating pulses thrill With swift-winged words and purpose and desires. Our earlier visions haunt our memories still, And age grows young in friendship's quickening sun. SONNETS. 139 VIII. 8. You were not born to hide such gifts as yours 'Neath dreary law-books, nor amid the dust And dry routine of desks to sit and rust Where clerks plod through their tasks on office-floors. Let duller laborers drudge through daily chores, And do what fate for them makes fit and just. You bravely do your work because you must ; And when released, your genius sings and soars. Such humor from your pen hath ever run In pictures or in letters all unforced, As Hogarth, Lamb, or Dickens might have done ; Finer than many a noted wit, who, horsed Upon the people's favor, waves his blade Like Harlequin, and makes his jests his trade. 140 SONNETS. IX. 9. I needs must praise the natural gifts of one Who praises not himself, nor seeks for praise ; Too unambitious for these emulous days, When each small talent seeks the public sun, And victors' wreaths are worn before they are won. So true to conscience that he oft betrays Himself, o'ervaluing standards others raise, Or underrating what himself has done. Who might have risen in letters or in art ; But faithful to the work he early chose, To that he gave his time, if not his heart. Whose genuine self begins when labors close — When with his friends, or books, or pen, apart, His cheerful sunset light far round him glows. SONNETS. 141 X. 10. Forgive — that thus the trumpet I have blown You never sounded — never cared to hear. The world, I know, can give no smile or tear To those whose story it has never known. But must the poet tune his lyre alone To themes of passionate hope or love or fear, — Or thoughts of loftier flight, yet shun the clear Affection of two brothers' hearts at one ? If gallant sonneteers may sing the light And radiant demoiselles of olden time — If in their melodies they may not slight The fleeting passion of their youthful prime, The old true loves from boyhood ever bright Are surely worth the tribute of a rhyme. 142 SONNETS. SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD. XI. THE PRINTING-PRESS. In boyhood's days we read with keen delight How young Aladdin rubbed his lamp and raised The towering Djin whose form his soul amazed, Yet who was pledged to serve him day and night. But Gutenberg evoked a giant sprite Of vaster power, when Europe stood and gazed To see him rub his types with ink. Then blazed Across the lands a glorious shape of light, Who stripped the cowl from priests, the crown from kings, And hand in hand with Faith and Science wrought To free the struggling spirit's limed wings, And guard the ancestral throne of sovereign Thought. The world was dumb. Then first it found its tongue And spake — and heaven and earth in answer rung. SONNETS. H3 XII. THE OCEAN STEAMER. With streaming pennons, scorning sail and oar, "With steady tramp and swift revolving wheel, And even pulse from throbbing heart of steel, She plies her arrowy course from shore to shore. In vain the siren calms her steps allure ; In vain the billows thunder on her keel ; Her giant form may toss and rock and reel And shiver in the wintry tempest's roar ; The calms and storms alike her pride can spurn. True to the day she keeps her appointed time. Long leagues of ocean vanish at her stern — She drinks the air, and tastes another clime, "Where men their former wonder fast unlearn, Which hailed her coming as a thing sublime. 144 SONNETS, XIII. THE LOCOMOTIVE. Whirling along its living freight, it came, Hot, panting, fierce, yet docile to command — The roaring monster, blazing through the land Athwart the night, with- crest of smoke and flame ; Like those weird bulls Medea learned to tame By sorcery, yoked to plough the Colchian strand In forced obedience under Jason's hand. Yet modern skill outstripped this antique fame, When o'er our plains and through the rocky bar Of hills it pushed its ever-lengthening line Of iron roads, with gain far more divine Than when the daring Argonauts from far Came for the golden fleece, which like a star Hung clouded in the dragon-guarded shrine. SONNETS. 145 XTV. THE TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE. Fleeter than time, across the Continent, Through unsunned ocean depths, from beach to beach, Around the rolling globe Thought's couriers reach. The new-tuned earth like some vast instrument Tingles from zone to zone ; for Art has lent New nerves, new pulse, new motion — all to each, And each to all, in swift electric speech Bound by a force unwearied and unspent. Now lone Katahdin talks with Caucasus ; The Arctic ice-fields with the sultry South, The sun-bathed palm thrills to the pine-tree's call. We for all realms were made, and they for us. For all there is a soul, an ear, a mouth ; And Time and Space are naught. The mind is all. 146 SONNETS. XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH. Phcebus Apollo, from Olympus driven, Lived with Admetus, tending herds and flocks And strolling o'er the pastures and the rocks He found his life much duller than in Heaven. For he had left his bow, his songs, his lyre, His divinations and his healing skill, And as a serf obeyed his master's will. One day a new thought waked an old desire. He took to painting, with his colors seven, The sheep, the cows, the faces of the swains, All shapes and hues in forests and on plains. These old sun-pictures all are lost, or given Away among the gods. Man owns but half The Sun-god's secret — in the Photograph. SONNETS. 147 XVI. THE SPECTROSCOPE. All honor to that keen Promethean soul Who caught the prismic hues of Jove and Mars, And from the glances of the daedal stars, And from the fiery sun, the secret stole That all are parts of one primeval Whole, — One substance beaming through Creation's bars Consent and peace, amid the chemic wars Of gases and of atoms. Yonder roll The planets ; yonder, baffling human thought, Suns, systems, all whose burning hearts are wooed To one confession — so hath Science caught Those eye-beams frank, whose speech cannot delude, How of one stuff our mortal earth is wrought With stars in their divine infinitude. 148 SONNETS. XVII. THE MICROPHONE. The small enlarged, the distant nearer brought To sight, made marvels in a denser age. But Science turns with every year a page In the enchanted volume of her thought. The wizard's wand no longer now is sought. Yet with a cunning toy the Archimage May hear from Rome Vesuvius' thunders rage, And earthquake mutterings underground are caught, Alike with trivial sounds. Would there might rise Some spiritual seer, some prophet wise, Whose tactile vision would avert the woes Born of conflicting forces in the state ; — Some listener to the deep volcanic throes Below the surface — ere we cry, " Too late ! " SONNETS. 149 XVIII. THE FIRESIDE. With what a live intelligence the flame Glows and leaps up in spires of flickering red, And turns the coal just now so dull and dead To a companion — not like those who came To weary me with iteration tame Of idle talk in shallow fancies bred. From dreary moods the cheerful fire has led My thoughts, which now their manlier strength reclaim. And like some frozen thing that feels the sun Through solitudes of winter penetrate, The frolic currents through my senses run ; While fluttering whispers soft and intimate Out of the ruddy firelight of the grate Make talk, love, music, poetry in one. 150 SONNETS. XIX THE LADY'S SONNET. TWILIGHT. I know not why I chose to seem so cold At parting from you ; for since you are gone I see you still — I hear each word, each tone ; And what I hid from you I wish were told. I, who was proud and shy, seem now too bold To write these lines — and yet must write to own I would unsay my words, now I 'm alone. From my dark window out upon the wold I look. 'Twas through yon pathway to the west I watched you going, while the sunset light Went with you — and a shadow seemed to fall Upon my heart. And now I cannot rest Till I have written ; for I said, " To-night I '11 send your answer." Now I 've told you all. SONNETS. 151 XX. THE LOVER'S SONNET. MIDNIGHT. I waited through the night, while summer blew The breath of roses through my darkened room. The whispering breeze just stirred the leafy gloom Beyond the window. On the lawn the dew Lay glistening in the starlight. No one knew I did not sleep, but waited here my doom Or victory. I saw the light-house loom Across the bay. The silence grew and grew, And hour by hour kept pace with my suspense. Each rustling noise, each passing footstep seemed The coming messenger I hoped yet feared. At last a knock — a throb — a pause intense — Your letter came. I read as if I dreamed. Almost too great to bear my bliss appeared ! 152 SONNETS. XXI. THE PINES AND THE SEA. Beyond the low marsh-meadows and the beach, Seen through the hoary trunks of windy pines, The long blue level of the ocean shines. The distant surf, with hoarse, complaining speech, Out from its sandy barrier seems to reach ; And while the sun behind the woods declines, The moaning sea with sighing boughs combines, And waves and pines make answer, each to each. O melancholy soul, whom far and near, In life, faith, hope, the same sad undertone Pursues from thought to thought ! thou needs must hear An old refrain, too much, too long thine own : 'T is thy mortality infects thine ear ; The mournful strain was in thyself alone. SONNETS. 153 XXII. PENNYROYAL. Heavy with cares no winnowing hand could sift, Wrapt in a sadness never to be told, As o'er the fields and through the woods I strolled, Following with restless footstep but the drift Of the still August morn, so I might shift The scenery of my thoughts, and gild their old Monotonous fringes with a light less cold, I found the aromatic herb, whose swift And sweet associations bore me away To boyhood, when beneath an oak like this I culled the fragrant leaves. Crude childhood's bliss Was in the scent ; but brighter smiled the day For memories no cold shade could overcast — Safe 'mid the unblighted treasures of the past. 154 SONNETS, XXIII. beethoven's fifth symphony. The mind's deep history here in tones is wrought, The faith, the struggles of the aspiring soul, The confidence of youth, the chill control Of manhood's doubts by- stern experience taught ; Alternate moods of bold and timorous thought, Sunshine and shadow — cloud and aureole ; The failing foothold as the shining goal Appears, and truth so long, so fondly sought Is blurred and dimmed. Again and yet again The exulting march resounds. We must win now ! Slowly the doubts dissolve in clearer air. Bolder and grander the triumphal strain Ascends. Heaven's light is glancing on the brow, And turns to boundless hope the old despair. SONNETS. 155 XXIV. THE SECEDERS. 1. Far from the pure Castalian fount our feet Have strayed away where daily we unlearn How Truth is one with Beauty. For we turn No more to hear the strains we sprang to greet When we were young, and love and life were sweet Before the world had taught us how to earn Its baser wealth, and from our doors to spurn The Muse like some poor vagabond and cheat. For we are young, and did not see the baits That in the distance lured us down the roads Where Toil and Care and Doubt, those lurking fates, Subdued our pliant backs to alien loads ; Till long since deadened to the Poet's tones, They fall on us as rain on logs and stones. 156 SONNETS. XXV. 2. Yet what were love, and what were toil and thought, And what were life, bereft of Poesy ? "Who lingers in a garden where the bee By no rich beds of fragrant flowers is caught — A homely vegetable patch where naught Is prized but for some table-caterer's fee, And Nature pledged to market-ministry ? To me another lore was early taught ; And rather would I lose the dear delights Of eye and ear, than wilfully forego The power that can transfigure sounds and sights, Can steep the world in symbols, and bestow The free admittance to all depths and heights, And make dull earth a heaven of thought below. SONNETS. 157 XXVI. IN A LIBRARY. 1. In my friend's library I sit alone, Hemmed in by books. The dead and living there, Shrined in a thousand volumes rich and rare, Tower in lono- rows, with names to me unknown. A dim half-curtained light o'er all is thrown. A shadowed Dante looks with stony stare Out from his dusky niche. The very air Seems hushed before some intellectual throne. What ranks of grand philosophers, what choice And gay romancers, what historians sage, What wits, what poets, on those crowded shelves ! All dumb forever, till the mind gives voice To each dead letter of each senseless page, And adds a soul they own not of themselves. 158 SONNETS. XXVII. 2. A miracle — that man should learn to fill These little vessels with his boundless soul ; Should through these arbitrary signs control The world, and scatter broadcast at his will His unseen thought, in endless transcript still Fast multiplied o'er lands from pole to pole By magic art ; and, as the ages roll, Still fresh as streamlets from the Muses' hill. Yet in these alcoves tranced, the lords of thought Stand bound as by enchantment — signs or words Have none to break the silence. None but they Their mute proud lips unlock, who here have brought The key. Them as their masters they obey. For them they talk and sing like uncaged birds. SONNETS. 159 XXVIII. PAST SORROWS. As tangled driftwood barring up a stream Against our struggling oars when hope is high To reach some fair green island we descry Lying beyond us in the morning's gleam, And shimmering like a landscape in a dream — Yet waiting patiently the logs float by, And all our course lies open to the eye — So sorrows come and go. What though they seem A blight whose touch might turn a young head gray, Joy dawns again. Hope beckons us before. The tide that pressed against us breaks our bars ; The visionary islands smile once more. Life, with its rest by night, its work by day, Forgets the old griefs, and heals their deepest scars. 160 SONNETS. XXIX. LIFE AND DEATH. 1. O solemn portal, veiled in mist and cloud, Where all who have lived throng in, an endless line, Forbid to tell by backward look or sign What destiny awaits the advancing crowd ; Bourne crossed but once with no return allowed ; Dumb, spectral gate, terrestrial yet divine, Beyond whose arch all powers and fates combine, Pledged to divulge no secrets of the shroud. Close, close behind we step, and strive to catch Some whisper in the dark, some glimmering light ; Through circling whirls of thought intent to snatch A drifting hope — a faith that grows to sight ; And yet assured, whatever may befall, That must be somehow best that comes to all. SONNETS. 161 XXX. 2. Or endless sleep 't will be, — and that is rest, Freedom forever from life's weary cares — Or else a life beyond the climbing stairs And dizzy pinnacles of thought expressed In symbols such as in our mortal breast Are framed by time and space ; — life that upbears The soul by a law untried amid these snares Of sense that make it a too willing guest. So sleep or waking were a boon divine. Yet why this inextinguishable thirst, This hope, this faith that to existence cling ? Nay e'en the poor dark chrysalis some fine Ethereal creature prisons, till it burst Into the unknown air on golden wing. 162 SONNETS. XXXI. 3. If death be final, what is life, with all Its lavish promises, its thwarted aims, Its lost ideals, its dishonored claims, Its uncompleted growth ? . A prison wall, Whose heartless stones but echo back our call ; An epitaph recording but our names ; A puppet-stage where joys and griefs and shames Furnish a demon jester's carnival ; A plan without a purpose or a form ; A roofless temple ; an unfinished tale. And men like madrepores through calm and storm Toil, die to build a branch of fossil frail, And add from all their dreams, thoughts, acts, belief, A few more inches to a coral-reef. SONNETS. 163 XXXII. 4. If at one door stands life to cheat our trust, And at another, death, to mock because We thought life's promise good ; if all that was And is and should be ends in fume and dust — Then let us live for joy alone — the rust Of ease encase our minds — the grander laws Of souls be set aside. Let no man pause To weigh between his virtue and his lust. From first to last life baffles all our hopes Of aught but present bliss. Death waits to mock Our haste to indorse a visionary bond. Let pleasure dance us down earth's sunny slopes, And crown our heads with roses, ere the shock Of thunder falls. There is no life beyond ? 164 SONNETS. XXXIII. 5. Yet in all facts of sense life stands revealed ; And from a thousand symbols hope may take Its charter to escape the Stygian lake, And find existence in an ampler field. The streams by winter's icy breath congealed Flow when the voices of the spring awake. The electric current lives when tempests break The wires. The chemic energies unsealed By sudden change, in other forms survive. The senses cheat us where the mind corrects Their partial verdict. More than all, the heart The heart cold science counts not, is alive — Of the undivided soul that vital part Her microscopic eye in vain dissects. SONNETS. 165 XXXIV. 6. So, heralded by Reason, Faith may tread The darkened vale, the dolorous paths of night, In the great thought secure that life and light Flow from the Soul of all, who, with the dead As with the living, is the fountain-head. And though our loved and lost are snatched from sight, Some unseen power will guide them in their flight, And to some unknown home their steps are led. Yet has no seer, by sacred visions fired, Disclosed their state to those they leave behind ; No holy prophet, saint or sage inspired — ■ Save in the magic lantern of the mind — Seen in ecstatic trance those realms desired : And all the oracles are dumb and blind. 166 SONNETS. XXXV. 7. The wish behind the thought is the soul's star Of faith, and out of earth we build our heaven. Life to each unschooled child of time has given A fairy wand with which he thinks to unbar The dark gate to a region vast and far, Where all is gained at length for which he has striven- All loss requited — all offences shriven — All toil o'erpassed — effaced each battle-scar. But ah ! what heaven of rest could countervail The ever widening thought — the endless stress Of action whereinto the heart is born ? What sphere so blessed it could overbless With sweets the soul, when all such gifts must fail, If from its chosen work that soul were torn ? SONNETS. 167 XXXVI. 8. Not for a rapture unalloyed I ask. Not for a recompense for all I miss. A banquet of the gods in heavenly bliss, A realm in whose warm sunshine I may bask, Life without discipline or earnest task Could ill repay the unfinished work of this. Nay - — e'en to clasp some long-lost Beatrice In bowers of paradise — the mortal mask Dropped from her face now glorified and bright. But I would fain take up what here I left All crude and incomplete ; would toil and strive To regain the power of which I am bereft By slow decay and death, with fuller light To aid the larger life that may survive. 168 SONNETS XXXVII. TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTTER. Unbidden to the feast where friends have brought, To greet thy seventy years, their wreaths of rhyme, For that thy form erect such weight of time Should bear, was never present to my thought, — Whittier, I bring my offering, though unsought. Thou, first of all our bards, hast rung the chime Of souls, whose zeal denounced a nation's crime. Thy fire, intense yet soft, from heaven was caught. Thou too the dear neglected chords hast wooed Of plain New England life, and earned a fame From whose wide light thy modest nature shrinks. Long shall the land revere and love thy name ; Long find among thy songs the golden links That bind the world in peace and brotherhood. December 5, 1877. SONNETS. 169 XXXVIII. TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. MT. 70. A fountain in our green New England hills Sent forth a brook, whose music, as I stood To listen, laughed and sang through field and wood With mingled melodies of joyous rills. Now, following where they led, a river fills Its channel with a wide calm shining flood Still murmuring on its banks with changeful mood. So, Poet, sound thy " stops of various quills," Where waves of song, wit, wisdom charm our ears As in thy youth, and thoughts and smiles by turns Are ours, grave, gay, or tender. Time forgets To freeze thy deepening stream. The stealthy years But bribe the Muse to bring thee amulets That guard the soul whose fire of youth still burns. November, 1879. 170 SONNETS. XXXIX. BAYARD TAYLOE. Can one so strong in hope, so rich in bloom That promised fruit of nobler worth than all He yet had given, drop thus with sudden fall ? The busy brain no more its work resume ? Can death for lif e so versatile find room ? Still must we fancy thou canst hear our call Across the sea — with no dividing wall More dense than space to interpose its doom. Ah then — farewell, young-hearted genial friend ! Farewell, true poet, who didst grow and build From thought to thought still upward and still new. Farewell, unsullied toiler in a guild Where some defile their hands, and where so few With aims as pure strive faithful to the end. 1879. SONNETS. 171 XL. JOHN WEISS. The summer comes again, yet nothing brings Of him but memories of that clear-lit eye, That voice, that presence that can never die. Fame o'er his dust no public trumpet rings. No bard beside his grave his genius sings. Yet he was one of that brave company, The apostles of the race — the champion high Of faith by reason guarded from the slings Of dull sectarians and of atheist foes. In him the scholar, teacher, prophet, wit And genial friend were blended in one strain. From his electric intellect arose Auroral lights in which the past was lit, And iEschylus and Shakspeare lived again. 172 SONNETS. XLI. GEORGE RIPLEY. Warm, generous and young in heart and brain, A wise, ripe scholar of the antique mould, Had he but chosen he might have enrolled His name among philosophers who gain Renown, and lead an academic train. But unambitious in a humbler fold — Humbler yet wider — he the current told Of others' thoughts and works in graceful strain. So from his watch-tower calm the public mind He charmed and wisely led. Still young in age, And still in fireside talk the cordial friend, He read between the lines upon life's page The deeper meaning those alone can find Whose souls toward truth and not its semblance, tend. SONNETS. 173 XLII. TO G. W. C. AUGUST 1, 1846. The day so long remembered comes again. The years have vanished. On the vessel's deck We stand and wave adieux, until a speck Our bark appears to friends whose eyes would fain Follow our voyage o'er the unknown main. Shadows of sails and masts and rigging fleck The sunlit ship. The captain's call and beck Hurry the cheery sailors as they strain The windy sheets ; while we in careless mood Gaze on the silver clouds and azure sea, Filled with old ocean's novel solitude, And dream of that new life of Italy, The golden fleece for which we sailed away, Whose splendor freshens this memorial day. August!, 1881. 174 SONNETS. XLIII. LONDON. Black in the midnight lies the City vast. Its dim horizon from my window high I see shut in beneath a misty sky Red with the light a million lamp-fires cast Up from the humming streets. And now at last With lessening roar the weary wheels go by. At last in sleep all discords swoon and die. Now wakes the solemn visionary Past, Peopled with spirits of the mighty dead Whose names are London's glory and her shame ■ Seers, poets, heroes, martyrs — deathless lives Long blazoned in the chronicles of fame. The inglorious Present veils its dwarfish head. England's ideal life alone survives ! SONNETS. 175 XLIV. VEILED MEMORIES. Of love that was, of friendship in the days Of youth long gone, yet oft remembered still, And seen like distant landscapes from a hill, Clothed in a garment of aerial haze, . What need to sing ? Yet real is each phase Of life ; and Time, that brings all good and ill Of this our mortal lot, can never spill One drop of that full cup he fills and weighs. Ah, faces veiled that start from out the past ! Ah, spectral images once swift and warm ! Ye are but hidden by perspectives vast. To-day o'ermasters all. And yet each form Of life and thought, forgotten or aloof, Is woven through the soul's strange warp and woof. 176 SONNETS. XLV. TENNYSON. 1. His brows were circled by a wreath of bays, The symbol of the bard's well-earned renown — Upon his head more regal than the crown Of kings. For he by his immortal lays Is King among the poets of these days. And far and wide where'er our mother-tongue Is known, his winged lines are read and sung In crowded cities and in green by-ways. What could his country give that he had not ? Fame, wealth, loye's best companionship he had. And, blown across the seas, no lonely spot Of our far West but felt the effluence glad Borne to our hearts as from ethereal fire In the rich music of his English lyre. SONNETS. 177 XLVI. 2. How grand he would have stood, had he declined The needless coronet he donned, as though Its gilt could heighten his proud aureole's glow. But downward he has stepped, a seat to find — Not with the lords of that imperial kind Whose simple manhood, fed by love and truth, Found far from monarchs' courts perennial youth In the ideal gardens of the mind ; — But in a throng of blank nobilities In outward fellowship of lip and eye — Of empty forms and hollow courtesies ; Thou art become as one of us — they cry. Another shape than thine must now be worn. Son of the morning — how thy beams are shorn ! 178 SONNETS. XLVII. TO G. W. C. Still shines our August day, as calm, as bright As when, long years ago, we sailed away Down the blue Narrows and the widening bay Into the wrinkling ocean's flashing light ; And the whole universe of sound and sight Repeats the radiance of that festal day. But for the inward eye no power can stay The fleeting splendor of our youth's delight. Still shines our August day, — but not for me The old enchantment, — when, by care and sorrow Untried, the hopeful heart was ever free To greet the morn as herald of like morrow. Yet shine, fair day ! And let my soul from thee Hope, faith, and strength for life's dim future borrow. August 1, 1884. SONNETS. 179 XLVIII. GLADSTONE. For Peace, and all that follows in her path — Nor slighting honor and his country's* fame, He stood unmoved, and dared to face the blame Of party-spirit and its turbid wrath. He saw in vision the dread aftermath, Should war once kindle its world-circling flame Through Asian tribes that bear the British name. Time few such crises for a people hath, And few such leaders. Calmly he pursued A course at which the feebler spirits sneered, The bolder fumed with clamor loud and rude. And while the world still doubted, hoped, and feared, This chief a bloodless victory hath won — Britannia's wisest, best, and bravest son. June, 1885. 180 SONNETS. XLIX. J. R. L. (on his homeward voyage.) 1. Back from old England, in whose courts he stood Foremost to knit by act and word the band Between the daughter and the mother-land In all by either prized of truth and good, We welcome to a fellowship renewed His country's friend and ours. The master-hand That held the pen and lyre could still command Affairs of state, controlling league and feud. So, helped, not hindered, may his later strains Flow deeppr, richer, though by sorrow toned ; And life by losses grow as once by gains ; And age hold fast the best that youth has owned. But ah, hurt not with touch too heavy, Time, The light-winged wisdom of his gayer rhyme. SONNETS. 181 L. 2. O SHIP that bears him to his native shore, Beneath whose keel the seething ocean heaves, Bring safe our poet with his garnered sheaves Of Life's ripe autumn poesy and lore I Though round the old homestead where we met of yore In the unsaddened days the southwind grieves Through his green elms, and all their summer leaves Seem whispering of the scenes that come no more, Yet may the years that brought him honors due Where Europe's best and wisest learned his worth, Yield hope and strength to reach horizons new In the broad Western land that gave him birth ; Nor bar his vision to a sunlit view Beyond the enshrouding mysteries of earth. June 13, 1885. 182 SONNETS. LI. THE HUMAN FLOWER. 1. In the old void of unrecorded time, In long, slow aeons of the voiceless past, A seed from out the weltering fire-mist cast Took root — a struggling plant that from its prime Through rudiments uncouth, through rock and slime, Grew, changing form and issue — and clinging fast, Stretched its aspiring tendrils — till at last Shaped like a spirit it began to climb Beyond its rugged stem with leaf and bud Still burgeoning to greet the sunlit air That clothed its regal top with love and power, And compassed it as with a heavenly flood — Until it burst in bloom beyond compare, The world's consummate, peerless human flower. SONNETS. 183 LIL 2. Shall that bright flower the countless ages toiled And travailed to bring forth — shall that rare rose, Whose bloom and fragrance earth and heaven unclose Their treasuries to enrich, by death be foiled ? Its matchless splendor trampled down and spoiled ? Shall that Celestial Love — who watched its throes Through centuries of long struggles and of woes, And freed it from the old Serpent round it coiled ; Who tended it, and reared its glorious head Above the brambles and the poisonous marsh, And shielded it when zones were cased in ice — Leave it to perish when the summons harsh Of death is rung, — or, ere its leaves are shed, Transplant it to his realm of Paradise ? 184 SONNETS. LIIL AUGUST. Far off among the fields and meadow rills The August noon bends o'er a world of green. In the blue sky the white clouds pause, and lean To paint broad shadows on the wooded hills And upland farms. A brooding silenee fills The languid hours. ,No living forms are seen Save birds and insects. Here and there, between The broad boughs and the grass, the locust trills Unseen his long-drawn, slumberous monotone. The sparrow and the lonely phcebe-bird, Now near, now far, across the fields are heard ; And close beside me here that Spanish drone, The dancing grasshopper, whom no trouble frets, In the hot sunshine snaps his castanets. SONNETS. 185 LIV. IDLE HOURS. Ye idle hours of summer, not in vain, To one by Nature's beauty fed, ye pass — Though sending through the mental camera glass No philosophic lesson to the brain, But only pictures fair of shaded lane, Of dappled cows knee-deep in meadow grass ; Bright hill-tops with their sloping forest mass, Or barn-roofs glimmering gray across the plain. Earth, air, and water, and the sacred skies Have something still to tell, not less, I ween, Than famous books the learned sages prize, Weighted with thought abstract and logic keen, Where Concord pores with metaphysic eyes O'er vasty deeps of the unknown and unseen. 186 SONNETS. LV. MUSIC AND POETKY. 1. Sing, poets, as ye list, of fields, of flowers, Of changing seasons with their brilliant round Of keen delights, or themes still more profound — Where soul through sense transmutes this world of ours. There is a life intense beyond your powers Of utterance, which the ear alone has found In the aerial fields of rhythmic sound — The inviolate pathways and air-woven bowers Built by entwining melodies and chords. Ah, could I find some correspondent sign Matching such wondrous art with fitting words ! But vain the task. Within his hallowed shrine Apollo veils his face. No muse records In human speech such mysteries divine. SONNETS. 187 LVI. 2. Yet words though weak are all that poets own Wherewith their muse translates that kindred muse Of Harmony, whose subtle forms and hues Float in the unlanguaged poesy of Tone. And so no true-souled artist stands .alone ; But all are brothers, though one hand may use A magic wand the others must refuse, And painters need no sculptor's Parian stone. If Art is long, yet is her province wide. While all for truth and beauty live and dare, One sacred temple covers all her sons. Music and Poesy stand side by side. Through every member one blood-current runs : One aim, one work, one destiny they share. 188 SONNETS. LVII. TO SLEEP. Come, Sleep — Oblivion's sire ! Come, blessed Sleep ! Thy shadowy sheltering wings above me spread. Fold to thy balmy breast my weary head. Shut close behind the gates of sense, and steep All sad remembrance in thy Lethe deep. But come not as thou comest to the bed Of the tired laborer sleeping like the dead In dull and dreamless trance. But let me keep The visionary paths of fantasy Down through the mystic mazes of a land Transfigured by thy wonder-working spell. So lead me, gentle Sleep, with guiding hand, That when I wake from dreams, I still may be Wooed back to tread thy fields of asphodel. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 1 A CANTATA. Oh, that I could sinne once see ! We paint the devil foul, yet he Hath some good in him, all agTee. Sinne is flat opposite to the Almighty, seeing" It wants the good of virtue, and of being. But God more care of us hath had. If apparitions make us sad, By sight of sinne we should grow mad. Yet as in sleep we see foul death and live, So devils are our sinnes in prospective. George Herbert. 1 1 have here revised and enlarged a poem published some years ago entitled *' Satan." The reader of the original text will find many important changes and additions in this its present shape — filling out and completing its rather sketch-like form. The new title too, I hope, is more appropriate to the subject than the old one. 190 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. THE OVERTURE. Had I, instead of unsonorous words, The skill that moves in rapturous melodies, And modulations of entrancing chords Through mystic mazes of all harmonies — The bounding pulses of an overture Whose grand orchestral movement might allure The listener's soul through chaos and through night, And seeming dissonance to concord and to light — I might allow some harsh Titanic strains To wrestle with Apollo and with Jove ; And let the war-cries on barbaric plains Clash through the chords of wisdom and of love. For still the harmonies should sing and soar Above the discord and the battle's roar ; E'en as the evolving art and course of time, Amid the wrecks in wild confusion hurled, Move with impartial rhythm and cosmic rhyme Along the eternal order of the world. Then would I bid my lyric band express In music the old earth's long toil and stress : How the dumb iron centuries have foretold The coming of the future age of gold : How, ere the morning stars together sang, Divine completeness out of chaos sprang ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 191 Through shapeless germs of lower forms that climb By slow vast seons of a dateless time : Till, through the impulse of the primal plan They reach their flowering in the soul of man.. All swift-contending fugues — all wild escapes Of passion — long-drawn wail and sudden blast — Weird, winding serpent-chords, their writhing shapes Shot through with arrowy melodies that fast Pursue them, or that fall and lose themselves In changing forms, as in some land of elves ; The shadows and the lights Of joyous mornings, and of sorrowing. nights — Strange tones of crude half-truth — the good within The mysteries of evil and of sin, Should weave the prelude of a symphony Whose music voiced the world's vast harmony ; And only to the ears Of spirits listening from serener spheres Of thought, the differing tones should blend and twine Into the semblance of a work divine ; Where, not in strife but peace, should meet What single were but incomplete. I would unloose the soul beneath the wings Of every instrument ; I would enlist the deep-complaining strings Of doubt and discontent ; 192 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. The low sad mutterings and entangled tunes Of viols and bassoons ; — . Shy horns with diffident tones — ■ The insolent trombones — The reedy notes From mellow throats Of oboe and of clarionet — Their pure and pastoral singing met By clash of bacchanal cymbals, and a rout Of tipsy satyrs dancing all about : — Carols of love and hope checked by the blare Of trumpet-cries of anger and despair : — All differing mingling voices of the deep — All startling blasts, all airs that lull to sleep ; The mountain cataract that whirls and spins And bursts in spray asunder : — Swift pattering rains of flutes and violins, — The tymbal's muffled thunder : JEolian breathings wild and soft, Notes that sink or soar aloft — Soar or sink with harp-strings pulsing under : — Ravishing melodies that stream Through chords entrancing as a dream Out of a realm of wonder. Or else, from off the full and large-leaved score Into the willing instruments I 'd pour A noise of battle in the air unseen ; Of ghostly squadrons sending tremors strange ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 193 Of trouble and disastrous change From beyond their cloudy screen ; Low rumbling thunders — drops of bloody rain — Earthquake and storm — presentiment of pain — Strange sobbings in the air Hushed by degrees in fading semitones And softened sighs and moans, As when a mother by the cradle stills At night her weeping child, ere morn peeps o'er the hills, And all the world again is bright and fair. While, with receding feet, Far off is heard the beat Of mournful marches of the muffled drums ; And nearer now and nearer, Sweeter still and clearer, The bird-like flute-notes leap into the air, While the great human-heavenly music comes Emerging from the dark with bursts of song And hope and victory delayed too long. So should my music fill its perfect round With dewy sunrise, and with peace profound. Ah, what are all the discords of all time But stumbling steps of one persistent life That struggles up through mists to heights sublime, Foref elt through all creation's lingering strife : — The deathless motion of one undertone, Whose deep vibrations thrill from God to God alone ! 194 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. PART I. Daybreak. Chorus of Planetary Spirits. Ye interstellar spaces, serene and still and clear, Above, below, around 1 Ye gray unmeasured breadths of ether, — sphere on sphere ! We listen, but no sound Rings from your depths profound. But ever along and all across the morning bars Fast-flashing meteors run — The trailing wrecks of fierce and fiery-bearded stars, Scattered and lost and won Back to their parent sun. Through rifts of bronzing clouds the tides of morning glow And swell and mount apace. We watch and wait if haply we at last may know Some record we may trace Upon the orbs of space. Above, below, around we track our planets' flight ; Their paths and destinies Are intertwined with ours. Remote or near, their light ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 195 Or darkness to our eyes A mystic picture lies. First Spirit. Close to the morn a small and sparkling star-world dances, Bathed in the flaming mist ; Flashing and quivering like a million moving lances Of gold and amethyst By slanting sunrise kissed. A fairy realm of rapid and unimpeded sprites, That fly and leap and dart ; All fierce and tropic fervors, all swift and warm delights Bound and flash and start In every fiery heart. Second Spirit. Deep in the dawn floats up a star of dewy fire — So pure it seems new-born ; As though the soul of morn Were pulsing through its heart in dim, divine desire Of poesy and love ; — the star of morn and eve — Whose crystal sphere is shining With joys beyond divining — Passion that never tortures, and hopes that ne'er deceive. Third Spirit. There swims the pale, green Earth, half drowned and thunder-rifted, 196 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Steeped in a sea of rain. Above the watery waste Of God's primeval flood, all other land effaced — One peak alone uplifted. The baffled lightnings play around its crags and chasms ; So far away they flash, I hear no thunder-spasms. But now the scowling clouds are drifting from its spaces, And leave it to the wind and coming day's embraces. Fourth Spirit. Beyond, a planet rolls with darkly lurid sides, Flooded and seamed and stained by drenching Stygian tides ; Deep gorges, up whose black and slimy slopes there peep All monstrous Saurian growths that run or fly or creep ; And, in and out the holes and caverns clogged with mud, Crawl through their giant ferns to suck each other's blood. I see them battling there in fog and oozy water, Symbols of savage lust, deformity, and slaughter. Fifth Spirit I see an orb above that spins with rapid motion, Vaster and vaster growing — Belted with sulphurous clouds ; and through the rents an ocean Boiling and plunging up on a crust of fiery shore. And now I hear far off the elemental roar, And the red fire-winds blowing : A low, dull, steady moan a million miles away, ORMUZD AND AHR1MAN. 197 Of whirling hurricanes that rage all night, all day. No life of man or beast, were life engendered there, Could bide those flaming winds, that white metallic glare. Sixth Spikit. But yonder, studded round with lamps of moonlight tender, And arched from pole to pole with rings of rainbow splendor, A world rolls far apart ; as though in haughty scorning Of all the alien light of his diminished morning. Seventh and Eighth Spirits. Cold, cold and dark — and farther still We dimly see the icy spheres Like spectre worlds, who yet fulfil, Through slow dull centuries of years, Their circuit round the distant sun who winds them at his will. Chokus. Round and round one central orb The wheeling planets move, And some reflect and some absorb The floods of light and love. The rolling globe of molten stones, The spinning watery waste, 198 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. The forests whirled through tropic zones By circling moons embraced — We watch their elemental strife ; We wait, that we may see Some record of their inner life, Where all is mystery. A pause. The Spirits approach the Earth. The Sun rises over the Continent of Asia. Second Spirit. Look, brothers, look ! The quivering sunrise tinges Our nearest orb of Earth. The forest fringes Redden with joy ; and all about the sun, That gilds the boundless east, the cloud-banks dun Flame into gold ; and with a crimson kiss Wake the green world to beauty and to bliss. See how she glows with sweet responsive smile ! Hark, how the waves of air lap round her ! As though she were some green, embowered isle, And the fond ocean had just found her, In Time's primeval morn of unrecorded calms Hidden away with all her lilies and her palms ; And flattering at her feet, had smoothed his angry mane, And moving round her kissed her o'er and o'er again. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 199 Third Spirit. And now, behold, our wings are rapid as our thought ; And nearer yet have brought Our feet, until we hover above the Asian lands Beyond the desert sands. There, girt about by mountain peaks that cleave the skies, A blooming valley lies : A pathway, sloping down from visionary heights Through shades and dappled lights, Lost in a garden wilderness of tropic trees And flowers and birds and bees. Far off I smell the rose, the amaranth, the spice, The breath of Paradise. Far off I hear the singing through hidden groves and vales Of Eden's nightingales ; And, sliding down through pines and moss and rocky walls, The murmuring waterfalls. And lo, two radiant forms that seem akin to us, Walk, calm and beauteous, Crowned with the light of thought and mutual love, whose blisses Are sealed with rapturous kisses. Ah, beautiful green Earth ! ah, happy, happy pair ! Can there be aught so fair, brothers, in yon vast unpeopled worlds afar, As these bright beings are ! 200 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Chorus of Spirits. The stars in the heavens are singing Response to the wonderful story ; Joy, joy to the race that is springing To cover the earth with its glory ! The race that enfolds in its bosom A birthright divine and immortal ; As the fruit is enwrapped in the blossom, As the garden is hid by the portal ! Distant Voices. {A change to a minor key.) Sin and weakness, misery and pain, Cloud their sunlit birth ; And the sons of Heaven alone remain Gods unmixed with earth. Light and darkness are the twins of fate ; Undivided they, Through all realms that bear a mortal date, Hold alternate sway. Through the universe the lords of life Never at peace can be. Good and evil in a ceaseless strife Fight for victory. ORMUZD AND AERIMAN. 201 Third Spirit. I hear in the spaces below A discord of voices that flow- In muttering tones through the air. But where are they hidden — where ? There are trailings of gloom through the spaces, And far-darting cones that eclipse The splendor of planets whose faces Are dimmed by their darkening traces, And frozen by alien lips ; And the dream of a swift-coming change Foretokens a destiny strange. And what is yon Shadow that creeps On the marge of her crystalline deeps ? On the field and the river and grove, On the borders of hope and of rest ; On the Eden of wedlock and love ; On the labor contentment hath blessed ? That crawls like a serpent of mist Through the vales and the gardens of peace, With a blight upon all it hath kissed, And a shade that shall never decrease? That maddens the wings of desire, And saddens the ardors of joy — Winged like a phantom of fire — Armed like a fiend to destroy ! 202 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Second Spirit. Before me there flitted a vision — A vision of dawn and Creation, Of faith and of doubt and division, Of mystical fruit and temptation : A garden of lilies and roses, Ah, sweeter than dreams ever fashioned ; Hopes in whose splendor reposes A love that was pure and impassioned. But alas for the sons and the daughters Of man, in the morning of nations ! Alas for their rivers of waters ! Alas for their fruitless oblations ! The curse and the blight and the sentence Have fallen too swift for repentance. I see it, I feel it — O brother ! It shadows one half of their garden. O Earth ! O improvident Mother ! Where left'st thou thy angel, thy warden ? Is it theirs, or the guilt of another ? Must they die without hope of a pardon ? What is it they suffer, O brother, In the red, rosy light of their garden ? The Spirits. Ye Angels — ye heavenly Powers Whose wisdom is higher than ours — From the blight, from the terror defend them Help, help ! In their Eden befriend them. ORMUZD AND AERIMAN. 203 The Angel Raphael. Beyond the imagined limits of such space As ye can guess, I passed, yet heard your cry. For ye are brother spirits. And I come, Swifter than light, to shield you from the dread Of earth-born shadows, and the ghostly folds Of seeming evil curtaining round your worlds. •Yet can I bring no amulet to guard One peaceful breast from sorrow ; for yourselves Are girt about, as I, by that divine, Exhaustless Love, whose pledge your souls contain. The Spirits. Ah, not for ourselves — but our brothers We plead, in their dawn overglooming, For the death is not theirs, but anothers. Help, help ! from the doom that is coming ; For they stand all alone and unguided ; No Past with its lesson upholds them ; Their life from their race is divided ; A childhood unconscious enfolds them. Is it sin — is it death that has shrouded Their souls, or a taint in their nature ? Is there hope for a future unclouded ? Tell — tell us — angelical teacher ! 204 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Raphael. Yon earth, which claimed your closer vigilance, And seems so near to you in time and space, Is far away. Your present is its past. To spirits, worlds and aeons are condensed Into a moment's feeling or a thought. While ye were singing as ye watched those orbs, They grew and grew from incandescent globes Girdled with thunder, wreathed with sulphurous steam Or from the slime where rude gigantic forms Of crocodile or bat plunged through the dense And flowerless wilds of cane, or flapped like dreams Of darkness through the foul mephitic air. These shapes gave way to forests, rocks, and seas, And shapely forms of beast and bird and man — The last result of wonder-working Time — Man — the tall crowning flower and fruit of all — And the vast complex tissues he hath wrought Of life and laws and government and arts. All this ye knew not ; tranced in choral song, Your music was the oblivion of all time. The Spirits. Have we not seen the approaching doom of Earth? Raphael. The vision ye have had of joy and doom Flashing and glooming o'er two little lives, GRMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 205 Is truth half-typed in legend, such as fed The people of the ancient days, distilled From crude primordial growths of time, when sin Saw the fierce flaming sword of conscience shake Its terror through the groves of Paradise, Grasped by Jehovah's red right hand in wrath. The Spirits. Was it a dream ? We saw that red right hand, Raphael. The events and thoughts that passed in olden time Dawn on your senses with the beams of light That left long, long ago those distant worlds, And flash from out the past like present truths. It was a poet's dream ye saw. It held A truth. 'Tis yours to unfold the mythic form, And guess the meaning of the ancient tale. The Spirits. We mark thy words ; we know that thou art wise And good ; and yet we hover in a mist Of doubt. Help us ! Our sight is weak and dim. Raphael. Know then that men and Angels can conceive Through symbols only, the eternal truths. Through all creation streams this dual ray — 206 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. The marriage of the spirit with the form — The correspondence of the universe With souls through sense ; and that the deepest thought And firmest faith are nurtured and sustained By the great visible universe of time And space — the alphabet whose mystic forms Present all inner lessons to the soul — And thus the unseen by the seen is known. Yea, even the blank and sterile voids that span The dead unpalpitating space 'twixt star And star, shall speak, as light hath spoken once. And hark ! Even now the unfathomable deeps Begin to stir. I hear a far off sound Of shuddering wings, beyond the hurrying clouds, Beyond the stars — now nearer, nearer still ! Distant Voices. {Confusedly, in a minor key.) Behind us shines the Light of lights. We are the Shadows, we the nights, That blot the pure expanse of time. And yet we weave the destined rhyme Of creatures with the Increate — Of God and man, free will and fate ; The warp and woof of heavens and hells ; The noiseless round of death and birth ; The eternal protoplasmic spells Binding the sons of God to earth ; — ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 207 The ceaseless web of mystery That has been, and shall ever be. The Spirits. Far off we seem to hear a chorus strange, Rising and falling through the gathering gloom. And now the congregated clouds appear To take the semblance of a Shape, that bends This way — as when a whirling ocean-spout Drinks, as it moves along, the light of heaven. Raphael. Spirit — if Spirit or Presence Thou art, or the gloom of a symbol — Approach, if thou canst, to interpret Thy name and thy work and thy essence. (A pause.) Behold, the Shadow spreads and towers apace, Like a dense cloud that rolls along the sea Landward, then shrouds the winding shore, the fields, The network of the gray autumnal woods, And the low cottage roofs of upland farms ; What seemed a vapor with a ragged fringe Changes to wings, that sweep from north to south. And round about the mass whose cloudy dome Should be a head, I see the lambent flames Of distant lightnings play. And now a voice 208 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Of winds and waves and crumbling thunder tones Commingled, muttering unintelligible things, Approaches us. The air grows strangely chill And nebulous. Daylight hath backward stepped. The morning sun is blotted with eclipse. Chorus of the Spirits. Like the pale stricken leaves of the Autumn When Winter swoops downward to whirl them Afar from the nooks of the woodlands, And up through the clouds of the twilight, We shudder ! We hear a wind roaring And booming below in the darkness ; A voice whose low thunder is mingled With waves of the sibilant ocean. The clouds that were pearly and golden Are steeped in a blackening crimson. The spell of a magical presence Is nearing us out of the darkness. What is it ? No shape we distinguish — No voice — but a sound that is muffled, Muffled and stifled in thunder. We are troubled. Oh, help us, strong Angel ! A Form gathers out of the darkness, Awful and dim and abysmal ! Raphael. Fear not the gloomy Phantasm. Speak to him. If he will answer, ye may learn of him ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 209 What human books of dead theology- Have seldom taught, or poets, though they sang Of Eden and the primal curse of man. The Spirits. Spirit, or phantom — darkening earth and sky, And creeping through the soul in grim despair — What art thou ? Speak ! whose shadow darkens thus ' The eye of morn ? Satan. I am not what I seem. The Spirits. Art thou that fallen Angel who seduced From their allegiance the bright hosts of heaven And men, and reignest now the lord of doom ? Satan. I am not what I seem to finite minds ; — No fallen Angel — for I never fell, Though priest and poet feign me exiled and doomed ; But ever was and ever shall be thus — Nor worse nor better than the Eternal planned. I am the Retribution, not the Curse. I am the' shadow and reverse of God ; The type of mixed and interrupted good ; The clod of sense without whose earthly base You spirit-flowers can never grow and bloom. 210 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. The Spirits. We dread to ask — what need have we of thee ? Satan. I am that stern necessity of fate — Creation's temperament — the mass and mould Of circumstance, through which eternal law Works in its own mysterious way its will. The Spirits. Art thou not Evil — Sin abstract and pure ? Satan. There were no shadows till the worlds were made ; No evil and no sin till finite souls, Imperfect thence, conditioned in free-will, Took form, projected by eternal law Through co-existent realms of time and space. The Spirits. Thy words are dark. We dimly catch their sense. Satan. Naught evil, though it were the Prince of evil, Hath being in itself. For God alone Existeth in Himself, and Good, which lives As sunshine lives, born of the Parent Sun. I am the finite shadow of that Sun, ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 211 Opposite, not opposing, only seen Upon the nether side. The Spirits. Art happy then ? Satan. Nor happy I nor wretched. I but do My work, as finite fate and law prescribe. The Spirits. Didst thou not tempt the woman and the man Of Eden, and beguile them to their doom ? Satan. No personal will am I, no influence bad Or good. I symbolize the wild and deep And unregenerated wastes of life, Dark with transmitted tendencies of race And blind mischance ; all crude mistakes of will — Proclivity unbalanced by due weight Of favoring circumstance ; all passion blown By wandering winds ; all surplusage of force Piled up for use, but slipping from its base Of law and order ; all undisciplined And ignorant mutiny against the wise Restraint of rules by centuries old indorsed, And proved the best so long it needs no proof ; — All quality o'erstrained until it cracks — 212 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Yet but a surface crack ; the Eternal Eye Sees underneath the soul's sphere, as above, And knows the deep foundations of the world Will not be jarred or loosened by the stress Of sun and wind and rain upon the crust Of upper soil. Nay, let the earthquake split The mountains into steep and splintered chasms — Down deeper than the shock the adamant Of ages stands, symbol no less divine Of the eternal Law than heaven above. The Spirits. Shall we then doubt the sacred books — the faith That Satan was of old the foe of God ? Satan. Nations have planned their demons as they planned Their gods. Say, rather, God and Satan mixed, — A hybrid of perplexed theology, — Stood at the centre of the universe .; Ormuzd and Ahriman, in ceaseless war — A double spirit through whose nerves and veins Throbbed the vast pulses of his feverish moods Of blight and benediction. Did the Jew Or Pagan, save the few of finer mould, Own an unchanging God, or one self-willed, Who, like themselves, was moved to wrath, revenge And jealousy, to petty strifes and bars Of sect and clan — the reflex of their thought ? OZMUZD AND AHR1MAN. 213 The Spirits. What if it were revealed to holy men, By faith, that God had formed a spirit vast Who fell, rebelled, tempted the race to death? Whether a foe who rode upon the wind, Or one within, leagued with some sweet, strong drift Of natural desire, tainted yet sweet ? Satan. Alas, did ever human eyes transcend And pierce beyond the hemisphere of tints That overarched their thought and hope, yet seemed A heaven of truth ? As man is so his God. So too his spirit of evil. Evil fixed He saw, eternal and abstract, whose tree Thrust down its grappling tap-roots in the heart, And poisoned where it grew ; its blighting shade By no sweet wandering winds of heaven caressed, No raindrops from the pitiless clouds. No birds Of song and summer in its branches built Their little nests of love. No hermit sought The shivering rustle of its chilly shade. Accursed of God it stood — accursed and drear It stood apart — a thing by God and man Hated or pitied as a pestilence O'er-passing cure. So hate not me. For I Am but the picture mortal eyes behold Shadowing the dread results of broken laws 214 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Designed by eternal wisdom for the good Of man, though typed as Darkness, Pain, and Fire. The Spirits. Must not the eternal Justice punish man And spirits — now and in the great To-Be ? What sinner can escape his burning wrath ? Satan. The soul of man is man's own heaven or hell. God's love and justice will no curse on men Or spirits, who condemn themselves, and hide Their faces in the murky fogs of sense And lawless passion, and the hate and feud Born of all dense inwoven ignorance. Man loves or fears the shadow of himself. God shines behind him. Let him turn and see. [Vanishes slowly. The Spirits. Yet stay — speak, speak once more ! Tell us what fate Awaits the human race — now on this earth Teeming with life — and in the great Hereafter ! Raphael. The phantom-lips are dumb : nor could they answer. The book of fate is known to One alone. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 215 The Spirits. And thou — thou, sovereign Angel, knowest not ? Raphael. He alone knows whose being contains the all. Cease questioning. Have faith. Love reigns supreme. PART II. A Chorus of Human Spirits in the Mist. Far in the shuddering spaces of the North We live. We saw a Shape Of terror rise and spread and issue forth ; And we would fain escape The anger of his frown. We know him not, Nor whether it be he Who claims our homage, for the shadows blot The sun we may not see. We lift our prayers on heavy wings to one Who dwells beyond the sun ; Whose lightnings are decrees of life or doom ; Whose laws are veiled in gloom. Thick clouds and darkness are about thy throne Where thou dost reign alone. And we amid the mists and shadows grope, With faint bewildered hope. 216 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. We fear thy awful judgments, and thy curse Upon thy Universe. For -we are told it is a fearful thing, O thou Almighty King, To fall into thy hands. O spare the rod — Thou art a jealous God ! O save us by the blood of him who died, That sin might not divide Our guilty souls from heaven and Christ and Thee. And yet we dread to see Thy face. How can the trembling fugitive Behold thy face and live ! Voice behind the Mist. Fear not, for ye shall live if ye receive The life divine, obedient to the law Of truth and good. So shall there be no frown Upon his face who wills the good of all. Choir of Angels in the Distance. God who made the tempest's winged terror And the smile of morn, Who art bringing truth from sin and error, Love from hate and scorn ; Lo, thy presence glows through all thy creatures, Passion-stained or fair ; ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN, 217 Saint and sinner bear the selfsame features Thy bright angels wear. Human frailty all alike inherit, Yet our souls are free. Giver of all good, it is no merit That we turn to thee. Thou alone art pure in thy perfection. We thy children shine But as our soiled garments take reflection From thy light divine. Thou art reaching forth thine arms forever, Struggling souls to free. Leading man by every good endeavor Back to heaven and thee ! Chorus of Planetary Spirits. The presence that awed us and chilled us Dissolves in the dews of the morning. The darkness has vanished around us, And shrunk to the shadows that color The cloud flakes of gold and of purple : So vanish the thoughts that obscured us, The doubt and the dread of the evil That stained the starred robe of Creation. And we hear but one music pervading 218 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. The planets and suns that are shining The spirits that pine in the darkness Or float in the joy of the morning. Semichoeus I. Have we wronged thee, O monarch of shadows ? Have we named thee the Demon of spirits ? We know that the good and the evil Each mortal and angel inherits The evil and good that are twisted As fibres of brass and of gold — To the All-seeing Eye have a meaning We know not — too vast to be told ; But the wise and the merciful Father, Though they stray in the desert and wold, Will lift up his lambs to his bosom, And gather them into his fold. Semichoeus II. Yet the guilt and the crime that have triumphed, Though shining in purple and gold, Shall bring their own sure retribution, As the prophets of ages have told. For Justice is sure in the order That rules through the heavens of old. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 219 Voice of a Prophet. Aye, though no tyrant's stern decree enforce The law, yet Justice still must hold its course ; Sure as the power that draws the falling stone, Sure as the electric thrill from zone to zone, The ocean's tides, the round of day and night, The burning tropic sun, the winter's blight — So follows, though long years have hid the seed, The fatal fruitage of the evil deed. Voice of a Philosopher. Yet not, we must believe, Like man's infirm opinion And incomplete tribunals God's larger judgments stand. He sees the Past and Present ; He knows the strong temptations ; The nets where lie entangled The creatures of his hand. He knows the deep enigmas No mortal mind has solved. The armed and banded legions, That bind earth's captives down, Hold no divine commission To pass the final sentence. Heaven holds its perfect balance, And smiles above their frown. 220 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Song of Hopeful Spirits. 1. Praise, praise ye the prophets, the sages Who lived and who died for the ages ; The grand and magnificent dreamers ; The heroes, the mighty redeemers ; The martyrs, reformers and leaders ; The voices of mystical Vedas ; The bibles of races long shrouded Who left us their wisdom unclouded ; The truth that is old as their mountains, But fresh as the rills from their fountains. 2. And praise ye the poets whose pages Give solace and joy to the ages ; Who have seen in their marvellous trances Of thought and of rhythmical fancies, The manhood of Man in all errors ; The triumph of hope over terrors ; The great human heart ever pleading Its kindred divine, though misleading, Fate held it aloof from the heaven That to spirits untempted was given. Chorus. The creeds of the past that have bound us, With visions of terror around us ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 221 Like dungeons of stone that have crumbled, Beneath us lie shattered and humbled. The tyranny mitred and crested, Flattered and crowned and detested ; The blindness that trod upon Science ; The bigotry Ignorance cherished ; The armed and the sainted alliance Of conscience and hate — they have perished, Have melted like mists in the splendor Of life and of beauty supernal — Of love ever watchful and tender, Of law ever one and eternal. Song of a Wise Spirit. The light of central suns o'erflows The unknown bounds of time and space. The shadows are but passing shows And clouds upon Creation's face. From out the chaos and the slime, From out the whirling winds of fire, From years of ignorance and crime, From centuries of wild desire, The shaping laws of truth and love Shall lift the savage from the clod ; Shall till the field and gild the grove With homes of man and domes of God. And Love and Science, side by side, With starry lamps of heavenly flame, 222 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Shall light the darkness far and wide ; The wandering outcast shall reclaim ; Shall bury in forgotten graves Blind Superstition's tyrant brood ; Shall break the fetters of the slaves ; Shall bind the world in brotherhood ; Shall hurl all despots from the throne, And lift the saviors of the race ; And law and liberty alone From sea to sea the lands embrace. Hymn of a Devout Spirit. The time shall come when men no more Shall deem the sin that taints the earth A demon-spell — a monstrous birth — A curse forever to endure ; — Shall see that from one common root • Must spring the better and the worse ; And seek to cure, before they curse, The tree that drops its wormy fruit. For God must love, though man should hate The vine whose mildew blights its grapes ; Shall he not clothe with fairer shapes The lives deformed by earthly fate ? O praise him not that on a throne Of glory unapproached he sits, ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 223 For deem a slavish fear befits The child a father calls his own. But praise him that in every thrill Of life his breath is in our lungs, And moves our hearts and tunes our tongues, Howe'er rebellious to his will. Praise him that all alike drink in A portion of the life divine, A light whose struggling soul-beams shine Through all the blinding mists of sin. For sooner shall the embracing day, The air that folds us in its arms, The morning sun that cheers and warms, Hold back their service, and decay, Ere God, who wraps the Universe With love, shall let the souls he made Fall from his omnipresent aid O'ershadowed by a human curse. Song of an Evolutionist. 1. All in its turn is good And suited to its time ; Fire-mist and cosmic flood, 224 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Ice, rock, and ocean slime ; Savage and Druid stern, Faith typed in legends wild. The mills of God still turn ; Order is Discord's child. Ever from worse to better Breaks Nature through her fetter — The spirit through the letter. One vast divine endeavor, One purpose still pursued — Upward and onward ever — All in its turn is good. 2. Up from the centre striving Through countless change on change, Through shapes uncouth and strange The weakest doomed to perish The strongest still surviving ; Purpose divine in all. Whether they rise or fall Pledged to maintain and cherish Types higher still and higher, To struggle and aspire. One vast divine endeavor Upward and onward ever — Through fish and bird and beast — Power that hath never ceased ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 225 Through darkness and through light — Through ape and troglodyte, Till best with best unite ; Through melancholy wastes Of unknown time and space — A power that never hastes, And never slackens pace Until the human face, Until the human form Beautiful, and swift and warm, Awaits the crowning hour, And blooms — a spirit-flower — Upward and onward ever One primal plan pursued. All in its turn is good. Song of an Old Poet. I sang of Eden and Creation's morn ; Of fiend and angel, triumph and despair. I caught the world's old music in the air — The strains that from a people's creed were born. I soared with seraphs, walked with lords of doom ; Basked, in the sun and groped in utter dark. I lit the olden legends with a spark Whose radiance but revealed eternal gloom. I stood enveloped in a cloud o'ercharged With thunder ; and the blind mad bolts that flew 226 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Were heaven's decrees. They spared alone the few Whose hearts by grace supernal were enlarged. Upon imagination's star-lit wings I flew beyond the steadfast earth's supports, And stood within Jehovah's shining courts, And heard what seemed the murmur of the springs, The streams of living and eternal youth. Was it a dream ? Hath God another Word Than that between the Cherubim we heard When Israel served the Lord with zeal and truth ? Are those but earthborn shadows that we saw Thronging the spaces of the heavens and hells ? Is there a newer prophet-voice that tells The trumpet-tidings of a grander law ? The lurid words above the fatal door — The door itself — the circles of despair Are fast dissolving in serener air. They were but dreams. They can return no more. No more the vengeance of a demon-god ; No more the lost souls whirling in black drifts Of endless pain. The wind of morning lifts The fog where once our groping footsteps trod. ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. 227 I looked, and lo ! the Abyss was all ablaze With light of heaven, and not abysmal fire ; And fain would tune to other chords my lyre ; And fain would sing the alternate nights and days — The days and nights that are the wings of Time ; The love that melts away the eternal chains ; The judgments only of remedial pains ; The hidden innocence in guilt and crime. The sunlight on the illumined tracts of earth Sprang from the darkness, pale and undiscerned. And the great creeds the world hath slowly learned Are truths evolved from forms of ruder birth. The tides of life, divine and human, swell And flood the desert shore, the stagnant pool. And sage and poet know, where God hath rule There is no cloud in heaven — no doom in hell. Full Chorus of the Planetary Spirits. 1. Hear ye, brothers, the voices around that are swelling in chorus ? Nearer and sweeter they rise and fall through the nebulous light : 228 ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN. Voices of sages and prophets — while under our footsteps and o'er us Roll in their orbits the worlds whose circles we tracked through the night. 2. Melting away in the morning, we follow their pathways no longer, Knowing the hand that has guided will bear them forever along ; Bear them forever, and shape them to destinies fairer and stronger Than when the joyous archangels hailed their creation with song. 3. Not with a light that is waning — not with the curse of a dooming, They shall accomplish their cycles through ages of fire and of cloud : Ever from their chaos to order unfolding, progressing, and blooming, Till with the wisdom and beauty of ages on ages endowed. 4. Out of the regions of discord, out of the kingdoms of evil, ORMUZD AND AHRIMAN 229 God in the races to come shall abolish the reign of despair. Who shall confront his decrees with the phantoms of demon and devil ? Who shall unhallow the joy of his light and the health of his air ? 5. Lo ! on the day-star itself there are spots that, coming and going, Send through the spaces mysterious thrillings like omens of blight. And the great planets afar are convulsed, as when winter comes blowing Over the shuddering oceans and islands of tropical light. 6. Shadows are shadows ; and all that is made is illumined and shaded, — Bound by the laws of its being — heaven and earth in its breath. He who hath made us will lift us, though stained and deformed and degraded — Lift us and love us, though drowned in the surges of darkness and death. A POET'S SOLILOQUY. On a time — not of old — When a poet had sent out his soul and no welcome had found Where the heart of the nation in prose stood fettered and bound • In fold upon fold — He called back his soul who had pined for an answer afloat ; And thus in the silence of night and the pride of his spirit he wrote. Come back, poet-thought ! For they honor thee not in thy vesture of verse and of song. Come back — thou hast hovered about in the market too long. In vain thou hast sought To stem the strong current that flows from the Philistine lands. Thou hast failed to deliver the message the practical public demands. A POET'S SOLILOQUY. 231 Come back to the heights Of thy vision — thy love — thy Parnassus of beauty and truth, From the valleys below where the labor of age and of youth Has no need of thy lights ; For science has marshalled the way with a lamp of its own. Till they woo thee with wakening love thou must follow thy pathway alone. We have striven, have toiled, * Have pressed with the foremost to sing to the men of our time The thought that was deepest, the lay that was lightest in rhyme. We are baffled and foiled. The crowd hurries on intent upon traffic and pay ; They have ears, but they hear not. What chance to be heard has the poet to-day ? So we turn from the crowd, And we sing as we please, like the thrush far away in the woods. They may listen or not, as they choose, to our fancies and moods Chanted low — chanted loud, 232 a POETS SOLILOQUY. In the sunshine and storm — 'mid the hearts that are tender or hard. What need of applause from the world, when Art is its own reward ? 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