PS 3027 
 .F3 
 1893 
 Copy 1 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 Shelf.. :.... 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
4Sj> t&e game 8tttj)ar. 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S MASQUE, and Other Poems. 
 
 Limited Edition, printed from type. i6mo, gilt 
 
 top, $1.50. 
 THE ROUND YEAR. Prose Papers. i6mo,gilt 
 
 top, $1.25. 
 LYRICS AND SONNETS. i6mo, gilt top, $1.25. 
 THE INVERTED TORCH. Poems. i6mo,$ioo. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Publishers, 
 Boston and New York. 
 
FAIR SHADOW LAND 
 
 V 
 
 EDITH M. THOMAS 
 
 ** Partem aliquant, venti, divum referatis, ad aures " 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 (£foe fttoetgi&e $te0£, Cambridge 
 
 1893 
 
 7^r/ / 
 
75 30*7 
 
 <f3 
 
 f* 
 
 Copyright, 1893, 
 By EDITH M. THOMAS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
TO DR. S. R. ELLIOTT 
 
FAIR SHADOW LAND. 
 
 Fair Shadow Land that beckoning gleams 
 Beyond the twofold gate of dreams, 
 Whence glide a murmuring wizard crew ! 
 Some were but false I deemed most true. 
 And some were true I counted vain ; 
 Some fled the day, and some remain. 
 Fond dreamer, whosoe'er thou be, 
 Have not thy dreams been such to thee ? 
 
 Yet, true or false, they are the friends 
 Fair Shadow Land in pity lends — 
 For dreams are charms to sheathe the steel 
 Of all we here too keenly feel ! 
 At the white gate the visions crowd, 
 Crying, with voices sweet, not loud, 
 " Lo ! thy deliverance is at hand — 
 We bring it from Fair Shadow Land ! " 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE WINDS 3 
 
 THE REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND ... 5 
 THE TORCHES OF THE DAWN ..... 7 
 THEFTS OF THE MORNING ...... 7 
 
 DEAD LOW TIDE 
 IT SO CHANCED 
 
 SOLSTICE 9 
 
 10 
 
 , 12 
 
 (they said) ........ 13 
 
 a world of roses 15 
 
 the betrayal of the rose 17 
 
 the domino 17 
 
 rain and fair weather 19 
 
 the barrier ........ 20 
 
 AUGURY . . 22 
 
 AGAINST CHAMPIONS ...... 22 
 
 LOSSES 23 
 
 A PARABLE OF HARVEST ..... 24 
 
 MENS SANA 25 
 
 FINALITIES • 27 
 
 A FAR CRY TO HEAVEN 28 
 
 A FIRE OPAL 29 
 
 SILVER AND GOLD ....... 30 
 
 IN ONE'S AGE TO ONE'S YOUTH . . ..."... 31 
 
 THE SHADOW-SELF . 33 
 
 A CHANT OF THE FOUGHT FIELD .... 34 
 
 THE RIVAL OF HEART's-EASE 35 
 
 ON THE EVE OF SLEEP 36 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 THE ARABIAN BIRD 38 
 
 DREAMS 39 
 
 EXPIATION ......... 40 
 
 LETHE . 42 
 
 FRAGMENT 42 
 
 JUSTICE AND MERCY 43 
 
 BROADWAY ......... 44 
 
 A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH ... 46 
 
 THE PRISONER OF THE STANSINO .... 49 
 
 ARRIA 53 
 
 ATYS 55 
 
 II. SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 SOUTHFOLD : A PARABLE OF LITTLE STRANGERS 63 
 
 CHILD AND POET 66 
 
 DEW-BELLS 68 
 
 THE NATURALIST 71 
 
 SIGNS OF THE SEASON 75 
 
 TAMBERLIK TO THE BIRDS 77 
 
 SAID THE WREN TO THE THRUSH .... 78 
 
 CROSSING THE BAY 79 
 
 PETITS NAUFRAGES 80 
 
 HALF SIGHT AND WHOLE SIGHT .... 82 
 
 THE FRINGED GENTIAN ...... 83 
 
 THE CLOSED GENTIAN 84 
 
 A SEASIDE ROSE 84 
 
 THE WOOD-PEWEE 85 
 
 WHY DID YE SO ? 86 
 
 CYBELE AND HER CHILDREN 87 
 
 LUCINA 89 
 
 III. LA MUSE S'AMUSE 
 
 GRAND PLANS 93 
 
 THE WISE AND THE FOOLISH SHEPHERD . . 94 
 
 SPENSERIAN STANZAS . 96 
 
 A BARD TO HIS M^CENAS 97 
 
 WORLD-WIDE FAME 97 
 
CONTENTS ix 
 
 ANAXAGORAS 98 
 
 VANITY 98 
 
 TRAVELING FOR HEALTH ..... 98 
 
 THE RURAL MUSE 99 
 
 A STYLE OF HIS OWN 99 
 
 THE SILENT PARTNER 99 
 
 A LUCUBRATION 99 
 
 PATIENCE CEASED TO BE A VIRTUE .... 100 
 
 MISTAKEN MAGNANIMITY 100 
 
 A COUNTER 100 
 
 THE SOCIAL TIGRESS 101 
 
 COOPERATION 101 
 
 A BIRD FROM THE CAGE ...... 101 
 
 URBS IN RURE 101 
 
 A VIOLET IN NOVEMBER 102 
 
 A POET 102 
 
 THE STAR LN THE STREAM 102 
 
 THE SOUL IN THE BODY 103 
 
 INSOMNIA 103 
 
 THE FLOWER OF DREAMS 103 
 
 BETWEEN TWO 103 
 
 DE MORTUIS . 104 
 
 AN AUTOGRAPH 104 
 
 DISTINCTION . . . ■ 104 
 
 A RHYME OF LIFE 104 
 
 THE DERELICT 105 
 
 OPINION 105 
 
 NODDING CRITICS 105 
 
 IV. SONNETS AND EPILOGUE 
 
 THE WINE OF LUSITANIA 109 
 
 PASADA MANANA . . 109 
 
 THE BITTER-SWEET OF SPRING .... 110 
 
 DEEP-SEA SPRINGS 113 
 
 TIME H4 
 
 MIST 115 
 
 THE ROOF-TREE 116 
 
 THE GARDEN ON THE PANE 116 
 
x CONTENTS 
 
 ANTEROS ^ 
 
 IN MEMORY. L. T. L 119 
 
 AUTUMN AND THE AFTERGLOW .... 120 
 
 A LONE SOUL SPEAKS I 22 
 
 TO THOSE COMING 
 
 SURSUM CORDA 
 
 I SHALL REMEMBER 
 
 123 
 
 126 
 129 
 
I 
 
 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
FAIR SHADOW LAND 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE WINDS 
 
 A legend of the winds. Euroclydon, 
 
 That driveth from the bitter Thracian shore, 
 Brings this : " What deeds the sea and I have 
 done, 
 This passing night, will make men murmur 
 sore; 
 The deep, that hath already goodly store 
 
 Of jewels and wrought gold and coined gold, 
 Hath gathered through his sunken secret door 
 A largess richer by a thousand-fold, — 
 Great perished lives- — and this is all that 
 shall be told." 
 
 A legend of the winds. The herald West, 
 
 That haileth from the sea beyond the straits, 
 Brings this : " Long, long and vexed hath been 
 their quest 
 Who seek the lands before the sunset gates ; 
 But peace shall soon betide those tossed ship- 
 mates. 
 A glad green shore the morning light will show, 
 
4 IN DIVERS TONES- 
 
 And sacred trees shall yield them oil and dates. 
 There waving meads men neither reap nor sow ; 
 There amaranth and asphodel together blow." 
 
 A legend of the winds. Septentrio keen 
 
 (That bloweth through the sky a phantom fire ; 
 Whose plumes are lances felt, though all unseen) 
 Brings this : " Three weavers have the gods in 
 hire 
 To weave you well the garb of your desire. 
 
 With days and powers and all delights are fed 
 
 Their distaffs feeding still the swift wheel's gyre ; 
 
 On the land's verge they sit and draw the 
 
 thread — 
 On the white shore where none is living, none 
 is dead!" 
 
 A legend of the winds. The idle South 
 
 (That singeth old, remembered songs most dear, 
 As who within a dream lifts to his mouth 
 
 A mellow reed, and yet no sound doth hear) 
 Brings this : " All through the bounteous golden 
 year 
 Are flowers and fruit together on the boughs : 
 Song hath a pleasant tentage there, anear 
 
 A deep, sweet stream, where many come with 
 
 vows, 
 And all are crowned with cooling green upon 
 their brows." 
 
THE REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND 5 
 
 THE REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND 
 
 *' Vex not thou the poet's mind." 
 
 Vex not that impassioned soul 
 Whereupon all issues roll, 
 Fraught with joy or fraught with woe, 
 That our common lot may know. 
 Nay, but as thou canst, assuage 
 The burden of his heritage ; 
 For there live within his breast 
 Memory, foresight, all unrest, 
 Whether pain or pleasure hold 
 The heart's recesses manifold. 
 Sooner torrent from the steep 
 Midway shall be charmed asleep 
 Than his spirit's mobile tide 
 In a flawless calm abide. 
 Sooner shall the fires be dead, 
 In the earth's dark centre bred, 
 Than his deep and glowing heart 
 With its constant fervor part. 
 Sooner shall the whisper light 
 Die from off the poplar's height, 
 When the air is still below, 
 Than his soul no quickening know 
 From the winds that breathe abroad, 
 Mute save to this child of God. 
 
IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 More than its own joy and pain 
 
 Shall this heart of hearts constrain, 
 
 For as chords unstruck respond 
 
 With mysterious tremblings fond, 
 
 When their fellow chords are swept, 
 
 So it is with Heaven*s adept. 
 
 Loved and lover if he meet, 
 
 Quick as theirs his pulses beat ; 
 
 And the mourner, treading slow, 
 
 Uncompanioned shall not go ; 
 
 Yet forever youth and mirth 
 
 Claim him nearest kin on earth. 
 
 No indifferent hour betides 
 
 Him with whom all Life divides. 
 
 Vex him not, and he will be 
 
 Voice unto thy mystery. 
 
 When thy thought thou canst not name, 
 
 He will tell from whence it came. 
 
 Things most sweet and fugitive 
 
 Will to him their errand give ; 
 
 Morning dreams that smile through tears, 
 
 Sunset rays from sunken years, 
 
 And the morrow's haunting call — 
 
 He can name these each and all. 
 
 Bring thy loves, thy sorrows bring, 
 
 These he shall divinely sing ; 
 
 But thy hates thou shalt withhold, 
 
 Lest those strings of magian gold 
 
 With the stress of anger break, 
 
 Or but muted chords awake I 
 
THEFTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 THE TORCHES OF THE DAWN 
 
 Beneath the rough, black verge where ledgy 
 isle 
 And serried wave and fragment cloud are 
 hurled, 
 Swift through the underworld — 
 Lo where the torchmen of the Dawn defile ! 
 
 Unseen they march beneath the rough, black 
 verge, 
 Unseen, save from the torches which they bear, 
 Smoke and a crimson flare, 
 Wind-blown one way, show where their course 
 they urge ! 
 
 THEFTS OF THE MORNING 
 
 Bind us the Morning, mother of the stars 
 And of the winds that usher in the day ! 
 Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars, 
 A netted snare before her footsteps lay ; 
 Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown, 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 With her have passed all things we held most 
 
 dear, 
 Most subtly guarded from her amorous stealth ; 
 
8 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 We nothing gathered, toiling year by year, 
 But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth ; 
 Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her 
 
 throne : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 Where are they gone, who round our myrtles 
 
 played, 
 Or bent the vines' rich fruitage to our hands, 
 Or breathed deep song from out the laurels' 
 
 shade ? 
 She drew them to her ; who can slack the bands ? 
 What lure she used, what toils, was never known : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 Enough that for her sake Orion died, 
 Slain by the silver Archer of the sky — 
 That Ilion's prince amid her splendors wide 
 Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die ; 
 Enough ! but hark ! our captive loves make 
 
 moan : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 We have beheld them whom we lost of old, 
 Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed. 
 A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold, 
 Through some high oriel window wreathed with 
 
 cloud, 
 Or on the wind before her they are blown : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
SOLSTICE 9 
 
 They do her service at the noiseless looms 
 That weave the misty vesture of the hills ; 
 Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and 
 
 blooms, 
 Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and 
 
 thrills ; 
 Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 Yea, cry her Thief! from where the light doth 
 
 break 
 To where it merges in the western deep ! 
 If aught of ours she, startled, should forsake, 
 Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep. 
 But stay not ; still pursue her, falsely flown : 
 Bind us the Morning, and restore our own ! 
 
 SOLSTICE 
 
 Ix the month of June, when the world is green, 
 When the dew beads thick on the clover spray, 
 And the noons are rife with the scent of hay, 
 And the brook hides under a willow screen ,* 
 When the rose is queen, in Love's demesne, 
 Then, the time is too sweet and too light to 
 
 stay: 
 Whatever the sun and the dial say, 
 
 This is the shortest day ! 
 
10 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 In the month of December, when, naked and 
 
 keen, 
 The treetops thrust at the snow-cloud gray, 
 And frozen tears fill the lids of day ; 
 When only the thorn of the rose is seen, 
 Then, in heavy teen, each breath between, 
 We sigh, " Would the winter were well away ! " 
 Whatever the sun and the dial say, 
 
 This is the longest day ! 
 
 DEAD LOW TIDE 
 
 It is dead low tide, and the wasted sea beats far ; 
 Up from the caves of the underworld slowly 
 
 climb 
 Night and her shadows unconquered from eld- 
 est time ! 
 The cry of the sea-bird is hushed on the glimmer- 
 ing bar, 
 And the beach, with its strewing of dulse, is 
 lonely and wide : 
 It is dead low tide. 
 
 The rocks are divulged, that hidden and cruel lie, 
 
 Under the waves in wait, as the beast in its lair ! 
 
 Huge and harmless they shoulder the dusk 
 
 night air ; 
 
 A lighthouse gleams — they are charmed by its 
 
 sorcerous eye ! 
 
DEAD LOW TIDE 11 
 
 The rocks are uncovered, and many a wreck 
 beside : 
 
 It is dead low tide. 
 
 Not now shall the willing keel slip down to the 
 sea, 
 Not now shall the home-desiring bark come 
 
 home ; 
 The rocking surge is a dream, and the flying 
 foam, 
 And the sails that over the windy billows roam — 
 A dream ! for the sea is gone, and the wind has 
 died : 
 
 It is dead low tide. 
 
 There is rest from motion, from toil;, yet it is 
 not rest ! 
 The sounds of the land and the sea-sounds 
 
 falter and cease ; 
 The wave is at peace with the shore ; yet it 
 is not peace ! 
 As the soldier at truce, as the pilgrim detained 
 
 on his quest, 
 Baffled and silent, yet watchful, all things abide 
 The turn of the tide. 
 
 I too abide. To the spirit within responds 
 The baffled yet watchful spirit of all things 
 without. 
 
12 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 " Shall I rest forever, beleaguered by sloth and 
 doubt ? " 
 " Not so ; thou shalt rise and break the en- 
 chanted bonds, 
 And the limit that mocked thee with laughter 
 shalt override 
 
 At turn of the tide ! " 
 
 Still higher the Night ascends, and star upon star 
 Arises by low -lying isle, and by headland 
 
 steep, 
 And fathoms with silver light the slumbering 
 
 deep 
 
 Hark ! was it a lapsing ripple along the bar ? 
 Hark ! was it the wind that awoke, remembered, 
 and sighed ? 
 
 Is it turn of the tide ? 
 
 IT SO CHANCED 
 
 It so chanced 
 On that leaden-hearted day, 
 Rugged winter leagues away, 
 As he thought of her there came 
 On the waste a sunny flame 
 Where within the frost-mote danced, 
 While an echo rang her name. 
 
 It so chanced. 
 
(THEY SAID) 13 
 
 It so chanced 
 On that evening bleak and hard, 
 Martial-couched on frozen sward, 
 As he thought of her there crept 
 Music down the blast, that kept 
 All his senses dream-entranced, 
 While, from ambush watched, he slept. 
 
 It so chanced. 
 
 It so chanced 
 In that twilight winged with ill, 
 When his pierced heart stood still, 
 As he dreamed of her, he passed ! 
 Then, from out the circling Vast, 
 With a smile his love advanced — 
 I, to meet thee, have sped fast ! " 
 
 It so chanced. 
 
 (THEY SAID) 
 
 Because thy prayer hath never fed 
 Dark Ate with the food she craves ; 
 Because thou dost not hate (they said), 
 Nor joy to step on foemen's graves ; 
 Because thou canst not hate, as we, 
 How poor a creature thou must be, 
 Thy veins as pale as ours are red ! 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
14 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Because by thee no snare was spread 
 To baffle Love — if Love should stray, 
 Because thou dost not watch (they said), 
 To strictly compass Love each way : 
 Because thou dost not watch, as we, 
 Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee, 
 To strew with thorns a restless bed — 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 Because thy feet were not misled 
 To jocund ground, yet all infirm, 
 Because thou art not fond (they said), 
 Nor dost exact thine heyday term : 
 Because thou art not fond, as we, 
 How dull a creature thou must be, 
 Thy pulse how slow — yet shrewd thy head ! 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 Because thou hast not roved to wed 
 With those to Love averse or strange, 
 Because thou hast not roved (they said), 
 Nor ever studied artful change : 
 Because thou hast not roved, as we, 
 Love paid no ransom rich for thee, 
 Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped. 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 Ay, so ! because thou thought'st to tread 
 Love's ways, and all his bidding do, 
 Because thou hast not tired (they said), 
 Nor ever wert to Love untrue : 
 
A WORLD OF ROSES " 15 
 
 Because thou hast not tired, as we, 
 How tedious must thy service be ; 
 Love with thy zeal is surfeited ! 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 Because thou hast not wanton shed 
 On every hand thy heritage, 
 Because thou art not flush (they said), 
 But hast regard to meagre Age : 
 Because thou art not flush, as we, 
 How strait thy cautious soul must be, 
 How well thy thrift stands thee in stead ! 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 And therefore, look thou not for bread — 
 For wine and bread from Love's deep store, 
 Because thou hast no need (they said) ; 
 But us he '11 feast forevermore ! 
 Because thou hast no need, as we, 
 Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see 
 How with Love's bounty we are fed ! 
 Go to ! Love loves thee not (they said). 
 
 A WOELD OF ROSES 
 
 She had a world of roses 
 For half a wondrous day. 
 
 It was the thorny season, 
 The summer far away. 
 
16 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 From space unknown they rallied, 
 By rhythmic charm compelled ; 
 
 Their faces pale or crimson 
 Close to her own they held. 
 
 She laughed amid her rose-guard, - 
 
 It was a merry rout, 
 That mocked the thorny season, 
 
 And shut its white face out. 
 
 Each rose its heart did open, 
 All tropic-rich and sweet ; 
 
 Each rose-heart, kind and courtly, 
 With her own heart did beat. 
 
 Untouched by time or canker, 
 They fled, and left no trace. 
 
 And then the thorny season 
 Thrust in its blanched face. 
 
 Had she not wiselier chosen 
 For every day one rose, 
 
 Instead of this brief revel 
 
 From Elfland's garden-close ? 
 
 Howe'er it be I know not ; 
 This only will she say, 
 " I had my world of roses 
 
 For half a wondrous day ! " 
 
TEE DOMINO " 17 
 
 THE BETRAYAL OF THE ROSE 
 
 A white rose had a sorrow — 
 
 And a strange sorrow ! 
 For her sisters they had none, 
 As they all sat around her 
 
 Each on her feudal throne. 
 A strange sorrow 
 For one with no to-morrow, 
 No yesterday, to call her own, 
 But only to-day. 
 
 A white rose had a sorrow — 
 
 And a sweet sorrow ! 
 She had locked it in her breast 
 Save that one outer petal, 
 Less guarded than the rest 
 
 (Oh, fond sorrow !), 
 From the red rose did borrow 
 Blushes, and the truth confessed 
 In the red rose's way ! 
 
 THE DOMINO 
 
 I met a pilgrim clothed in hodden gray ; 
 E'er any greeting word I found to say, 
 He cried in accents masterful and stern, 
 " My name Indifference, I pray you learn, 
 
18 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Nor bar the way when I am passing by." 
 "You look like Love," quoth I. 
 
 I met a lording in a purple cloak 
 Most bravely garnished ; yet like churl he spoke, 
 And bade me heed he came of courtly strain, 
 Somewhile called Pride, and otherwhile Disdain, 
 Whose favor none might hope to beg or buy. 
 " You look like Love," quoth I. 
 
 I met a wight arrayed in martial red, 
 And on his shield a heart shaft-bitten bled. 
 " I Anger am, I bear both sword and fire ; 
 At my approach all men affrayed retire. 
 They forfeit life, who will not turn and fly ! " 
 " You look like Love," quoth I. 
 
 I met a damsel, drooping-eyed and sad, 
 
 And like a holy sister she was clad. 
 
 Some cordial from a slender flask she poured, 
 
 And smiled, and bade me drink ; — 't was Pity's 
 
 hoard, 
 To succor wounded ones that else must die. 
 " You look like Love," quoth I. 
 
 I met a fugitive distraught, undone, 
 Who sometimes stayed for dread, and some- 
 times run. 
 Though lord of all that sweetest bards have sung, 
 Not one poor word supplied his halting tongue, 
 
RAIN AND FAIR WEATHER 19 
 
 But all his soul he lavished in a sigh. 
 " So, you are Love ! " quoth I. 
 
 RAIN AND FAIR WEATHER 
 
 Maiden, of old to old Hesperia came 
 
 A Grecian youth, revolving in his thought 
 
 The purport of the Voice at Delphi heard : 
 
 " Lay thou thy city's walls where thou shalt see 
 
 Rain and Fair Weather in the selfsame spot." 
 
 It was upon the ridge Tarentum laves 
 
 He paused and marveled at this pleasing sight : 
 
 A damsel in the loveliness of morn, 
 
 But over the sweet heaven of her face 
 
 Some lonely sorrow had compelled the veil 
 
 That April's fingers are most deft to weave, 
 
 Wronging the landscape and the skies of Spring 
 
 Only to lure and make us love them more. 
 
 Then said that youth (of no untutored heart, 
 
 In far Achaia blest with parting tears 
 
 And misty lovelight in regretting eyes) — 
 
 Then said that youth, " Here shall my city be ; 
 
 For here I saw Fair Weather wed with Rain, 
 
 And Iris, of their happy union born." 
 
 Thence rose Crotona's walls, — there stand to-day. 
 
 Maiden, thus far 't is either truth or fable ; 
 
 For the long lapsing Ages senile grow, 
 
 And babble idly of the World's wise youth — 
 
20 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Thus far 't is truth or fable, as thou wilt ; 
 But this I speak is truth, upon whose pulse 
 Pressing the finger, all its sacred speech 
 Leaps clear in this live moment ! wherefore I, 
 O Beauty, lay the walls of glorious hope 
 Upon this omen of thy dear dismay, — 
 Thy tranquil being shaken with quick tears, 
 And thou not so much hiding them, in sooth, 
 As thou dost struggle to keep back the ray 
 That shines beyond and through their crystal 
 
 bar! 
 Be this warm love for me ! Is it not so ? 
 Silent, thou lendest hope ; I build thereon ; 
 And building, first will I inclose a shrine, 
 To hold in ever-blessed memory 
 This moment of thy blended tears and smiles. 
 
 THE BARRIER 
 
 The gate stood wide, and wide the door, 
 As on a thousand nights before, 
 And in their wonted threshold tryst 
 The lamplight and the moonlight kissed. 
 The room its welcoming graces wore, 
 As on a thousand nights before ; 
 The soul of all that mansion bright 
 Sent out a voice into the night, 
 As on a thousand nights before. 
 
THE BARRIER 21 
 
 What 's this ? Across the open door 
 
 Some viewless threads, so silken fine, 
 
 Do challenge every pass of mine ; 
 
 So silken fine, so airy light, 
 
 Yet stanch with cruel magic might ! 
 
 There is no Arab cimeter 
 
 Can part such threads of gossamer, 
 
 Nor any storm can rend adrift, 
 
 Nor fire devour with tongues most swift. 
 
 Such silken courses stronger are 
 Than bolt on bolt, or forged bar, 
 More fell than lance of hedging guard, 
 Than dragon or the couchant pard ; 
 For these at length a conqueror know, 
 Or opiate draught or steely blow ; 
 Grown tired of leaguer and delay, 
 Love can by might put these away, 
 But Love no cunning weapon hath 
 To cleave the gossamer's viewless path. 
 
 Wide open stands the gate — the door, 
 As on a thousand nights before ; 
 Yet I therethrough may pass no more, 
 As on a thousand nights before ! 
 
22 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 AUGURY 
 
 A horseshoe nailed, for luck, upon a mast : 
 That mast, wave-bleached, upon the shore was 
 
 cast! 
 I saw, and thence no fetich I revered, 
 But safe, through tempest, to my haven steered. 
 
 II 
 
 The place with rose and myrtle was o'ergrown, 
 Yet Feud and Sorrow held it for their own. 
 A garden then I sowed without one fear, — 
 Sowed fennel, yet lived griefless all the year. 
 
 in 
 
 Brave lines, long life, did my friend's hand dis- 
 play. 
 Not so mine own ; yet mine is quick to-day. 
 Once more in his I read Fate's idle jest, 
 Then fold it down forever on his breast. 
 
 AGAINST CHAMPIONS 
 
 Nay ! Champions had I many, and unsought : 
 Valiant, and ignorant why they fought, they 
 
 fought ! 
 Each did in turn become my rooted foe ; 
 Each found a vital mark, each dealt a blow ! 
 
LOSSES ' 23 
 
 Quick tears they dropped for me — those springs 
 
 congealed, 
 Never a later summer's touch unsealed ; 
 Each balmed, at first my wounds — but long ago 
 Each found a vital mark, and dealt a blow ! 
 
 So do not thou! Stand far and stanch, my 
 
 hope — 
 Far from dark strife, while with my foes I cope ; 
 Shine as a star, the tossing seas above — 
 But come not as a champion — thou, my love ! 
 
 LOSSES 
 
 Speed had not served, strength had not flowed 
 
 amain, 
 Heart had not braced me, for this journey's strain, 
 Had I foreseen what losses must be met ; 
 But drooping losel was I never yet ! 
 
 So rich in losses through long years I 've grown, 
 So rich in losses (and so proud, I own) 
 Myself I pity not, but only such 
 As have not had, nor therefore lost, so much. 
 
 Behind me ever grew a hungry Vast 
 Which travelers fear to face, but call the Past ; 
 So much it won from me I can but choose 
 To exult that I 've so little left to lose. 
 
24 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 When that shall go, as fain it is to go 
 (Like some full sail when winds of voyage blow), 
 At this late nick of time to murmur sore 
 "Were idle, since so much I 've lost before ! 
 
 So much I 've lost, lost out of hand — ah, yes ! 
 But were that all, my fortune I could bless ; 
 For whensoever aught has slipped away, 
 Some dearer thing has gone to find the stray ; 
 
 And then, to find the finder loth or slow, 
 Yet dearer thing my wistful heart let go, 
 With hope like his whose glancing arrow gave 
 The clue to Pari-banou's palace-cave. 
 
 Perchance one loss the more, regains the whole, 
 Lost loves and faith and young delight of soul : 
 I 'm losing — what ? ah, Life, join thou the quest ; 
 It may be, to be lost, is not unblest ! 
 
 A PARABLE OF HARVEST 
 
 What hast thou in thy garner, husbandman ? 
 
 Good grain and fair. 
 Then what are these black seeds full ill to scan ? 
 
 Cockle and tare. 
 
 But tell me, thou toil-bent husbandman, 
 How came they there ? 
 
MENS SANA " 25 
 
 They would not rise before the winnowing fan, 
 Despite my care. 
 
 But how did spring the cockle, husbandman, 
 
 And how the tare, 
 Thy goodly land to plague ? Beneath a ban, 
 
 I sowed them there. 
 
 Declare whence came the seed, old husbandman, 
 
 With truth declare ! 
 The grain my fathers had not skill to fan, 
 
 Such fruit doth bear. 
 
 MENS SANA 
 
 In the hoary wine-cave's mirk 
 
 Genii of the vintage lurk, — 
 
 Potent genii shrewd and merry : 
 
 Burgundy and laughing Sherry, 
 
 Sweet Tokay and Muscatel, 
 
 That of flowers do taste and smell 
 
 (Fit to pledge with Ariel) ; 
 
 Cloying Port and blithe Champagne, 
 
 Greekish wines and wines of Spain, — 
 
 Jovial all, and all unsteady ! 
 
 Subtle liqueurs strange and heady, — 
 
 Curacoa and Anisette, 
 
 And Absinthe wooing to forget. 
 
 These besiege you as you fare 
 
26 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Groping from the upper air ; 
 
 Tap nor spigot do they ask 
 
 To set them free from hooped cask. 
 
 If you be an anchorite, 
 
 They will take your brain by sleight, 
 
 Enter with the breath you draw, 
 
 And each pore will be a flaw 
 
 To let in the vinous rout. 
 
 But if there you drink a bout, 
 
 While the winking candle-ray 
 
 Lights the wine upon its way, 
 
 And the ancient cellarer prates 
 
 Mellowly of names and dates, — 
 
 Of holitides when Bacchus bled, 
 
 Of revels and of revelers fled, — 
 
 If a pledge or two you quaff, 
 
 At these genii you may laugh, 
 
 For their cunning in your veins 
 
 Makes you proof to all their trains. 
 
 Prince, my counsel scan and muse ; 
 In this life of glimmering clues, 
 Where the wisest ofttimes slip, 
 Fare you not with unwet lip. 
 Drink you must the potion rife 
 Of the olden vintage Life ; 
 So shall you be more exempt, 
 When the juggling genii tempt, 
 Than the pale recluse whose cell 
 Harbors many a traitor fell. 
 
FINALITIES - 27 
 
 Caution shall more peril meet 
 Than ardor borne on glowing feet. 
 Fiery spirit safe shall tent 
 Its own deathless element, 
 And the poet, mad from birth, 
 Is the sanest soul on earth ! 
 
 FINALITIES 
 
 Gold can be but gold alone, 
 Midas' touch it cannot own ; 
 For the lightning there 's no scath, 
 For the fire no flaming bath. 
 Canst thou clarify the light, 
 Or in darkness merge the night ? 
 Add perfection to the sphere, 
 Fullness to the rounded year ? 
 Chiefdom to the sea declare, 
 Freedom to the ranging air ? 
 
 There is beauty past the power 
 Of the earth or skies to dower ; 
 There is joy no ministrants 
 Can by fondest skill enhance ; 
 There is pain too keen to feel 
 Wounding point of driven steel. 
 "Who can siege the souls that dwell 
 In Sleep's meshy citadel ? 
 Who to Love's estate can add 
 More than Love hath ever had, 
 
28 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Or from one Great Vast withhold 
 What drew thither from of old, — 
 Stint the hunger-bitten rage 
 That devours from age to age ? 
 
 A FAR CRY TO HEAVEN 
 
 What ! dost thou pray that the outgone tide be 
 rolled back on the strand, 
 
 The flame be rekindled that mounted away from 
 the smouldering brand, 
 
 The past-summer harvest flow golden through 
 stubble-lands naked and sere, 
 
 The winter-gray woods upgather and quicken the 
 leaves of last year ? — 
 
 Thy prayers are as clouds in a drouth ; regard- 
 less, unfruitful, they roll ; 
 
 For this, that thou prayest vain things, 't is a far 
 cry to Heaven, my soul, — 
 Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 
 
 Thou dreamest the word shall return, shot arrow- 
 like into the air, 
 
 The wound in the breast where it lodged be 
 balmed and closed for thy prayer, 
 
 The ear of the dead be unsealed, till thou whis- 
 per a boon once denied, 
 
 The white hour of life be restored, that passed 
 thee unprized, undescried ! — 
 
A FIRE OPAL / 29 
 
 Thy prayers are as runners that faint, that fail, 
 
 within sight of the goal, 
 For this, that thou prayest fond things, 't is a far 
 
 cry to Heaven, my soul, — 
 Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 
 
 And cravest thou fondly the quivering sands shall 
 
 be firm to thy feet, 
 The brackish pool of the waste to thy lips be 
 
 made wholesome and sweet ? 
 And cravest thou subtly the bane thou desirest, be 
 
 wrought to thy good, 
 As forth from a poisonous flower a bee conveyeth 
 
 safe food ? 
 For this, that thou prayest ill things, thy prayers 
 
 are an anger-rent scroll ; 
 The chamber of audit is closed, — 't is a far cry 
 
 to Heaven, my soul, — 
 Oh, a far cry to Heaven ! 
 
 A FIRE OPAL 
 
 Iris dwells in thee and throws 
 Rays of leaf-green and of rose, 
 Limpid amber courseth through 
 Violet glooms of fading hue. 
 
 Opal, well surnamed of fire, 
 If some stranger should inquire 
 
30 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Whence thy swift caprices came, — 
 Morn-mist closing evening-flame, — 
 Do thou kindling answer bring, 
 Many-passioned lambent thing ! 
 Say, with cosmic throe was born 
 All thy life of love and scorn, 
 Yet not chance but deathless law 
 Bred thy beauty from a flaw. 
 Speak thou, too, with perfect art, 
 For wild Genius' burning heart, 
 Whose perfection springs, like thine, 
 From some touch of scath divine. 
 
 SILVER AND GOLD 
 
 Farewell, my little sweetheart, 
 
 Now fare you well and free ; 
 I claim from you no promise, 
 
 You claim no vows from me. 
 The reason why ? — the reason 
 
 Right well we can uphold — 
 I have too much of silver, 
 
 And you 've too much of gold ! 
 
 A puzzle, this, to worldlings, 
 Whose love to lucre flies, 
 
 Who think that gold to silver 
 Should count as mutual prize ! 
 
 But I 'm not avaricious, 
 
 And you 're not sordid-souled ; 
 
IN ONE'S AGE TO ONE'S' YOUTH 31 
 
 I have too much of silver, 
 
 And you 've too much of gold. 
 
 Upon our heads the reason 
 
 Too plainly can be seen : 
 I am the Winter's bond-slave, 
 
 You are the Summer's queen ; 
 Too few the years you number, 
 
 Too many I have told ; 
 I have too much of silver, 
 
 And you 've too much of gold. 
 
 You have the rose for token, 
 
 I have dry leaf and rime ; 
 I have the sobbing vesper, 
 
 You, morning bells at chime. 
 I would that I were younger, 
 
 (Yet you grew never old) — 
 Would I had less of silver, 
 
 But you no less of gold ! 
 
 IN ONE'S AGE TO ONE'S YOUTH 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 I know what thou didst fret to know — 
 Knowledge thou couldst not lure to thee, 
 
 Whatever bribe thou wouldst bestow. 
 That knowledge but a waymark plants 
 Along the road of ignorance. 
 
32 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 I am enlarged where thou wert bound, 
 Though vaunting still that thou wast free, 
 
 And lord of thine own pleasure crowned. 
 True freedom heeds a hidden stress, 
 Whereby desire to range grows less. 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 Unmoved I meet thy fear of old, 
 Where thou, but masked with bravery, 
 
 Didst ever charge thyself, Be bold ! 
 True courage owns a dread extreme — 
 Led blind through the blind battle's scheme ! 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 I love, I serve with proffered veins, 
 Where thou demandest praise thy fee, 
 
 And grateful solace for thy pains. 
 True love and service do but win 
 That I may more exceed therein. 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 My soul to wrath 'gainst wrong is used, 
 Where thy rash combat utterly 
 
 The doer and the deed confused. 
 Right wrath the deed stabs soon or late, 
 The doer spares, his deed to hate. 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 Unproud I move, and yet unbowed, 
 
THE SHADOW-SELF 33 
 
 Where thou wast fed with vanity, 
 
 Thy chief est pride — thou wast not proud ! 
 True lowliness forgets its state, 
 And equal trains with small or great. 
 
 Listen, thou child I used to be ! 
 
 I am what thy dream-wandering sense 
 Did shape, and thy fresh will decree, 
 
 Yet all with subtle difference : 
 Where heaven's arc did seem to end, 
 Still on and on fair fields extend. 
 
 Yet listen, child I used to be ! 
 
 Nothing of thine I dare despise, 
 Nor passion, deed, nor fantasy ; 
 
 For lo ! the soul's far years shall rise 
 And with unripeness charge this hour 
 Would boast o'er thine its riper power. 
 
 THE SHADOW-SELF 
 
 At morning-tide the traveler westward bound 
 Before him sees a lengthened shadow run ; 
 
 At noon it shrinks beneath him on the ground ; 
 Unmarked, it rearward moves at set of sun. 
 
 A juggling shadow-self the youth pursues, 
 And questions with a fond and curious mind ; 
 
 This shade the man in prime subdues, 
 In mellow age has cast it far behind. 
 
34 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 A CHANT OF THE FOUGHT FIELD 
 
 Nunc dimittis. 
 
 As one who under evening skies 
 Upon a fought field stricken lies 
 (Unknown for stains of blood and grime) 
 Is fain the mortal shaft to draw 
 And let life issue through the flaw, 
 Even so am I, and even so, 
 Unhand me, Time, and let me go — 
 Unhand me, Time ! 
 
 Upon his clogged and languid sense 
 Vague cries are borne — he heeds not whence, 
 Nor if they utter cheer sublime, 
 Or fill the air with craven moan ; 
 His spirit's fire is all unblown ; 
 Even so is mine — so faint, so low ; 
 Unhand me, Time, and let me go — 
 Unhand me, Time ! 
 
 For heaven-truth my sword I drew, 
 With anger keen I did pursue 
 Not the frail worker but the crime 
 He framed in glooming ignorance. 
 Now let who may lift sword and lance, 
 Or let the rust upon them grow ! 
 Unhand me, Time, and let me go — 
 Unhand me, Time ! 
 
THE RIVAL OF HEARTS-EASE 35 
 
 Or well or ill if I have wrought, 
 My deed was mated with my thought, 
 As bell with bell in tuneful chime. 
 All things that fall to man's dear lot 
 I did receive, and faltered not ; 
 Quick come the last ! and even so, 
 Unhand me, Time, and let me go — 
 Unhand me, Time ! 
 
 A dream it was ! All that hath been 
 Now lapseth like some passioned scene 
 Played by a well-deceiving mime, 
 Who most of all himself deceives, 
 And, waking up, regretless leaves. 
 I reach for substance past the show — 
 Unhand me, Time, and let me go — 
 Unhand me, Time ! 
 
 THE RIVAL OF HEARTS-EASE 
 
 I dreamed you lay along the river-bank, 
 And I above you, yet unknown to you, 
 
 Began to pluck the wood-flowers, rank on rank, 
 All delicate with dew. 
 
 And all were white save one with rosy stain, 
 That nodded toward me in the gentle breeze ; 
 
 In dreamland it was called Heart' s-Pleasant-Pain, 
 The rival of Heart's-Ease. 
 
36 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 With these I softly crept along the bank, 
 
 And thought to shed them one by one on 
 you — 
 
 But you were gone ! Down in dismay I sank ; 
 My flowers away I threw. 
 
 Away I threw them all save only one ; 
 
 'T is here — the blossom with the rosy stain ; 
 And wondrous well, though hidden from the sun, 
 
 It thrives — Heart's-Pleasant-Pain ! 
 
 ON THE EVE OF SLEEP 
 
 What is softer than two snowflakes meeting 
 
 In a windless fall of snow ? 
 What is lighter than a down-ball sinking 
 
 On a still stream's polished flow ? 
 Smoother than the liquid circle spreading 
 
 From the swallow's touch-and-go ? — 
 Oh, softer, lighter, smoother, is the first approach 
 
 of Sleep ! 
 (Yet guard us in that moment, lest thy boon we 
 may not keep !) 
 
 What is stiller than two blossoms kissing 
 
 Charily with petal-tips ? 
 Sweeter than the dewdrop that their kissing 
 
 Doth unsphere — and down it slips ? 
 What is dimmer than the night-moth groping 
 
 For the lily's nectared lips ? — 
 
ON THE EVE OF SLEEP 37 
 
 Oh, stiller, sweeter, dimmer, is the first approach 
 
 of Sleep ! 
 (Yet guard us in that moment, lest thy boon we 
 
 may not keep !) 
 
 What is subtler than the clues that tighten 
 Round the dancing midge's wings ? 
 
 Shyer than the bird its nest concealing, 
 As aloof it flits and sings ? 
 
 Closer than the poppy-leaf-lined chamber 
 Where the lone bee's cradle swings ? — 
 
 Oh, subtler, shyer, closer, is the first approach of 
 Sleep ! 
 
 (Yet guard us in that moment ere we reach thy 
 safest deep !) 
 
 What is stranger than the moonlight mingling 
 
 With the red fire of the west ? 
 Wilder than an Amazonian forest 
 
 Where no foot the mould hath pressed ? 
 Dearer than the heart's most secret brooding 
 
 On the face it loveth best ? — 
 Oh, stranger, wilder, dearer, is the first approach 
 
 of Sleep ! 
 (Oh, guard us in that moment, lest we waver back 
 and weep !) 
 
38 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 THE ARABIAN BIRD 
 
 "Where hast thou been in the dreams of the 
 night, 
 
 Thou, my delight ? " 
 " Over the seas and over the sands 
 
 To the Ancient of Lands ! " 
 " What hast thou seen that thy lips are so pale ? 
 
 Tell me thy tale." 
 " Nothing I saw but a bird in a palm — 
 
 All the air was calm." 
 
 " Rare is a bird in a desert tree ; 
 
 Did it sing for thee ? " 
 
 " Yes, but the song thou couldst not hear 
 
 With thine untaught ear. 
 
 Under the tree my spirit stood, 
 
 Fed on sweet food ! 
 Measureless joy in the warbled note 
 Of that soft, smooth throat : 
 A thousand may hear — to each unknown 
 For each listens alone ! " 
 " Thou hast been where a mortal may not go — 
 
 By thine eyes I know ! " 
 " Fear me not, though I stir not the air, 
 And my footsteps spare 
 The weakest blade of the sleeping grass, 
 
 As I lightly pass — 
 For I died, I died at the turn of the night, 
 I, thy delight!" 
 
DREAMS , 39 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 As I came through the Valley Sleep 
 (Upon each side a frowning steep), 
 A dream my weighted steps o'ertook : 
 " I am the Fear thou wouldst not brook 
 Through all the hours of light, 
 But thrust my face from sight, 
 My whisper from thine ear ; 
 Now close on thee I wait, — 
 
 Thy secret Fear, — 
 And I foreshadow fate ! " 
 
 As I came through the Valley Sleep, 
 Where singing waters hidden creep. 
 A dream arose and kissed my brow : 
 " I am the Heart's Desire, whom thou 
 Wouldst lift no voice to greet, 
 Nor own me conquering-sweet, 
 A mounting cordial fire ; 
 I am thy bosom-mate, — 
 
 Deep Heart's Desire, — 
 And I foreshadow fate ! " 
 
 Whoso comes through the Valley Sleep, 
 Whether he wake to laugh or weep, 
 Meets with no herald from afar, 
 No warning gleam of natal star ; 
 But, in her regal place, 
 
40 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 And with no masking face, 
 Unhood winked and unbought, 
 Most pure, inviolate, 
 
 The lord of thought, — 
 The Soul foreshadows fate ! 
 
 EXPIATION 
 
 Thou repentest, and thy tears 
 Flow for those misfeatured years 
 That, with old reproach and taunt, 
 Thine amended footsteps haunt. 
 But thou mayest not, in sooth, 
 Placate thine aggrieved Youth. 
 
 Thou repentest, and wouldst heap, 
 From thy bin and coffer deep, 
 Store upon their nakedness 
 Whom thou spurnedst all pitiless. 
 But thou mayest not find peace 
 In late doles of thine increase. 
 
 Thou repentest, and wouldst yield 
 All the trophies of the field 
 Where a great heart vailed to thee 
 That thy fame upreared might be. 
 But thou mayest not rebuild 
 What thy lustier growth has killed, 
 
EXPIATION / 41 
 
 Thou repentest, and thy breast 
 Heaves for one that (well at rest) 
 Once thy crossed or wanton will 
 Could with cruel tremor fill. 
 But thou mayest not confer 
 Aught upon that slumberer. 
 
 Thou repentest ! — dost thou deem 
 Heaven is lent unto thy scheme 
 That thou mayest now undo 
 What thy writhing heartstrings rue, 
 And, with dealings sooth and kind, 
 Of their aim thy Furies blind ? 
 
 Thou repentest, and wouldst press 
 Forward to a sweet redress. 
 Ay ; but if a God prefer 
 In thy wakened breast should stir 
 Grief to keep thy purpose pure, 
 What for thee but to endure ? 
 
 Thou repentest ! Well, repent ! 
 Urge naught else, but be content 
 That the callous chord did break, 
 That thy heart at length could ache. 
 Ache ! thou heart long proof to pain, 
 Though thy prayer no God constrain. 
 
42 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 LETHE 
 
 Remembrance followed him into the skies. 
 
 They met. Awhile mute Sorrow held him 
 thrall. 
 Then broke he forth in spirit words and sighs : 
 
 " Great was my sin ! but at my contrite call 
 Came pardon and the hope of Paradise ; 
 
 If this be Heaven, thy blessing on me fall ! " 
 She looked. Peace filled her unremembering 
 eyes; 
 
 She knew him not — she had forgotten all. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 Dextrous the arts that Cruelty commands. 
 There is a fierce-eyed hunter of the crag, 
 Who, marking from on high his feathered prey, 
 Descending in an unseen spiral slow, 
 Strikes talons through the helpless quarry's wings, 
 And steers them onward in unerring flight, 
 But sheathes his own, and rests in silent air 
 Till borne to that rough cliff and shaggy nest, 
 Where waits with clamors shrill an hungering 
 
 brood, 
 Fed savage with the warm bright drops that ooze 
 From many a pierced throat of sweetest song ! 
 
JUSTICE AND MERCY 43 
 
 Dextrous the arts that Cruelty commands. 
 Thy hand upon my hand driveth the steel 
 To the deep place of life ; yet should my heart 
 Forefeel the blow, and through its smotherings 
 
 cry, 
 
 " By thee, by thee am I dislodged, unhoused, 
 And sent abroad upon the wintry air ! " 
 Then wouldst thou answer from a subtle soul, 
 " Nay, see ! 't is thou thyself — thus — giv'st the 
 blow!" 
 
 JUSTICE AND MERCY 
 
 A whstd that had wandered all winter through 
 In at the casement with purport blew : 
 " Place not in human tribunals thy trust 
 Till Justice be merciful, Mercy be just." 
 
 The householder rose and muffled with care 
 The crack which admitted that free-lancing air, 
 Lest its song should offend the Twain at his 
 
 hearth — 
 Guests of a night, and aliens by birth ! 
 
 Needless such care, for the one all serene 
 Still rubbed his soft hands, the whitest e'er seen, 
 The other pored over the Book of the Law : 
 So, unmarked passed the voice at the casement's 
 flaw. 
 
44 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 But the Wind of the Spirit, invincibly clear, 
 The burden resumed in the householder's ear 
 " Place not in human tribunals thy trust 
 Till Justice be merciful, Mercy be just ! " 
 
 BROADWAY 
 
 Between these frowning granite steeps 
 
 The human river onward sweeps ; 
 
 And here it moves with torrent force, 
 
 And there it slacks its heady course : 
 
 But what controls its variant flow 
 
 A keener wit than mine must show, 
 
 Who cast myself upon the tide, 
 
 And merging with its current glide, — 
 
 A drop, an atom, of the whole 
 
 Of its great bulk and wandering soul. 
 
 O curbless river, savage stream, 
 Thou art my wilderness extreme, 
 Where I may move as free, as lone, 
 As in the waste with wood o'ergrown, 
 And broodings of as brave a strain 
 May here unchallenged entertain, 
 Whether meridian light display 
 The swift routine of current day, 
 Or jet electric, diamond-clear, 
 Convoke a world of glamour here. 
 
BROADWAY ' 45 
 
 Yet when of solitude I tire, 
 Speak comradeship to my desire, 
 
 most companionable tide, 
 Where all to all are firm allied, 
 
 And each hath countenance from the rest, 
 Although the tie be unconf essed ! 
 
 II 
 
 1 muse upon this river's brink ; 
 I listen long ; I strive to think 
 What cry goes forth, of many blent, 
 And by that cry what thing is meant, — 
 What simple legend of old fate 
 
 Man's voice, here inarticulate, 
 
 From out this dim and strange uproar 
 
 Still heaves upon the skyey shore ! 
 
 Amid this swift, phantasmal stream 
 Sometimes I move as in a dream ; 
 Then wondrous quiet, for a space, 
 The clanging tumult will displace ; 
 And toil's hard gride and pleasure's hum 
 No longer to my ear may come : 
 A pantomimic, haunted throng 
 Fareth in silence deep and strong, 
 And seems in summoned haste to urge, 
 Half prescient, towards a destined verge ! 
 
 The river flows, — unwasting flows ; 
 Nor less nor more its volume grows, 
 
46 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 From source to sea still onward rolled, 
 As days are shed and years are told ; 
 And yet, so mutable its wave, 
 That no man twice therein may lave, 
 But, ere he can return again, 
 Himself shall subtle change sustain ; 
 Since more and more each life must be 
 Tide-troubled by the drawing sea. 
 
 A CHRISTOPHER OF THE 
 SHENANDOAH 
 
 ISLAND FORD, SNICKER'S GAP, JULY 18, 
 
 1864 
 
 TOLD BY THE ORDERLY 
 
 Mute he sat in the saddle — mute 'midst our full 
 
 acclaim, 
 As three times over we gave to the mountain 
 
 echo his name. 
 Then, " But I could n't do less ! " in a murmur 
 
 remonstrant came. 
 
 This was the deed his spirit set and his hand 
 
 would not shun, 
 When the vale of the Shenandoah had lost the 
 
 glow of the sun, 
 
A CHRISTOPHER OF THE SHENANDOAH 47 
 
 And the evening cloud and the battle smoke were 
 blending in one. 
 
 Retreating and ever retreating, the bank of the 
 
 river we gained, 
 Hope of the field was none, and choice but of 
 
 flight remained, 
 When there at the brink of the ford his horse he 
 
 suddenly reined. 
 
 For his vigilant eye had marked where, close by 
 
 the oozy marge, 
 Half-parted its moorings, there lay a battered 
 
 and oarless barge. 
 " Quick ! gather the wounded in ! " and the flying 
 
 stayed at his charge. 
 
 They gathered the wounded in whence they fell 
 
 by the river-bank, 
 Lapped on the gleaming sand, or aswoon, 'mid 
 
 the rushes dank ; 
 And they crowded the barge till its sides low 
 
 down in the water sank. 
 
 The river was wide, was deep, and heady the 
 
 current flowed, 
 A burdened and oarless craft ! — straight into 
 
 the stream he rode 
 By the side of the barge, and drew it along with 
 
 its moaning load. 
 
48 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 A moaning and ghastly load — the wounded — 
 the dying — the dead ! 
 
 For ever upon their traces followed the whistling 
 lead, 
 
 Our bravest the mark, yet unscathed and un- 
 daunted, he pushed ahead. 
 
 Alone ? Save for one that from love of his 
 
 leader or soldierly pride 
 (Hearing his call for aid, and seeing that none 
 
 replied), 
 Plunged and swam by the crazy craft on the 
 
 other side. 
 
 But Heaven ! what weary toil ! for the river is 
 
 wide, is deep ; 
 The current is swift, and the bank on the further 
 
 side is steep. 
 'T is reached at last, and a hundred of ours to 
 
 the rescue leap. 
 
 Oh, they cheered as he rose from the stream and 
 the water-drops flowed away ! 
 
 " But I could n't do less ! " in the silence that fol- 
 lowed we heard him say ; 
 
 Then the wounded cheered, and the swooning 
 awoke in the barge where they lay. 
 
 And I ? — Ah, well, I swam by the barge on the 
 other side ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF THE ST-ANSINO 49 
 
 But an orderly goes wherever his leader chooses 
 
 to ride. 
 Come life or come death I could n't do less than 
 
 follow his guide. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF THE STANSINO 
 
 The Stansino was a small cavern imbedded in solid 
 masonry. In the centre revolved a machine which, if the 
 cramped prisoner chanced to fall upon it, carried him un- 
 der and dropped him into a vault beneath, swarming with 
 rats. This inhuman invention was a feature of the Met- 
 ternich tyranny in Italy. 
 
 Yes, still bloom our Tuscan meadows, 
 
 Smiles the azure overspread ; 
 Fresh winds slake the thirst of Summer, 
 
 Nightly dews are ceaseless shed. 
 Vine and fig-tree heed their season, 
 
 Yielding still their rich increase ; 
 And the olive drops her burden, 
 
 All her sleek leaves whispering peace. 
 God of griefless, smiling Nature, 
 
 God of blessing and of ban, 
 Wherefore let thine other creatures 
 
 Mock thy erown creation, man ? 
 Oh, the olive's fruit should wither, 
 
 Blight consume the merry grape, 
 And a subtle fire glide snakelike, 
 
 Till the tortured earth should gape ! 
 
50 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 And the noontide should be darkened, 
 
 And the air with tongues be thick ; 
 Cursing, all, the name of Austria 
 
 And the name of Metternich ! 
 Ay, the Tuscan knows to curse them, 
 
 Curses from the earth's green plain, 
 Curses in yon smiling heaven, 
 
 (Void man's voice returns again!) 
 Curses from the earth's deep bosom, 
 
 Where forgotten lips draw breath ! 
 Ah, if death-in-life Thou sufE'rest, 
 
 Make such curses life-in-death ; 
 So the grave-pit and Stansino, 
 
 Plainly heard where fail the quick. 
 Shall consummate terror fasten 
 
 On the soul of Metternich ! 
 
 II 
 
 In our Virgil's fabled Orcus 
 
 Runs a wheel with ceaseless gyre, 
 Bearing round the wretch Ixion 
 
 Clinging to its fervid tire. 
 In the grim Stansino's centre 
 
 Runs a wheel with ceaseless gyre, 
 Dipping to a nether cavern 
 
 And a depth of gloom more dire. 
 Cramped upon the narrow ledging, 
 
 One misstep your fate must seal ; 
 Thus you read the modern version 
 
 Of Ixion and the wheel. 
 
THE PRISONER OF THE &TANSINO 51 
 
 Only our so gracious Minos 
 
 (Mark !) commutes the wretch's woe, 
 Drops him from the giddy torture 
 
 To a furtive swarm below ! 
 Hunger's keen-eyed gnawing vassals 
 
 Straightway fall to their repast ! 
 Presto ! Where, now, is Ixion ? 
 
 May his soul find peace at last ! 
 
 in 
 
 He who died but yester-morning 
 
 Buried lay, like clod to clod, 
 For a decade and a lustrum, 
 
 While our feet above him trod : 
 Vain to guess how life persisted 
 
 On a pittance-crust and drink — 
 How a coign was found for slumber 
 
 On the vorticed cavern's brink — 
 If more slow to waste, life's current 
 
 Through his veins lymphatic crept ; 
 Or if Heaven for this preserved him, 
 
 To inflame our wrath, that slept ! 
 Fifteen years of dawns unnoted — 
 
 Fifteen years of night on night ; 
 Buried, yet not slain of darkness, 
 
 But of God's dear, common light, 
 If ye trust our word, who saw him 
 
 As he came from underground ! 
 Magistrate and priest and soldier 
 
 Were of those who stood around, 
 
52 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Nor were wanting doubters, urging 
 
 None within that pit could live ; 
 Wanting not were women bringing 
 
 Food and wine restorative ; 
 Piteous, tearful, no more doubting 
 
 Than the three who stood at dawn 
 On the mount of holy burial, 
 
 Ere they knew the Sleeper gone. 
 
 IV 
 
 Ah, the sun on yester-morning 
 
 Seemed a sentient glow to shed, 
 To atone for man's late justice, 
 
 And restore the living dead. 
 Backward slides the heavy panel, 
 
 Slow, as loth to yield its prize, 
 Sullen gapes a square of darkness, 
 
 Faced by gloomless morning skies. 
 Faint, as out of depths unfathomed, 
 
 Comes a voice, not sigh nor moan, 
 More like caverned wind's repining 
 
 Than like human sorrow's tone ! 
 Up they draw him, darkling, drooping - 
 
 Shade of man, uncouth, aghast ! 
 In an instant he has broken 
 
 From the arms about him cast ; 
 With a shriek leaps forward, sunward, 
 
 Back he drops upon the ground ; . . 
 Touch and listen, listen closely ; 
 
 Neither pulse nor breath is found. 
 
ARRIA 53 
 
 Like a deadly bolt, the sunlight 
 
 Burst his heart ; so all believe. 
 God ! were Austria's sun as potent, 
 
 One black heart 't would straightway cleave ! 
 
 ARRIA 
 
 " P^ttjs, my master sends death, but thereto ad- 
 
 deth this grace, — 
 Choose thou the hour and the hand that shall 
 
 drive the steel to its place." 
 Thus spake a Dacian slave, noiseless retiring 
 
 apace. 
 Blanched were the lips of Arria. 
 
 Anon their rich color returned in a threefold re- 
 surgent wave. 
 
 " Death must thou have, O my dearest, yet not 
 by the hand of a slave ! 
 
 Lordly give back to the gods the lordly gift that 
 they gave ! " 
 Smiled the red lips of Arria. 
 
 (Mark ! not the starveling of life, not the scorner, 
 
 is freest from fear ; 
 Hearts richest in love are foremost to rush on 
 
 the foeman's spear ; 
 And the keen accolade that maketh immortal 
 
 falls sacred and dear 
 As the kiss from the li£>s of Arria.) 
 
54 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 And yet mused the knight ; for who would not 
 
 stay, though but for a span, 
 Ere he pass to the untried gods, this life in the 
 
 known frame of man ? 
 So strong through his veins the impact of years 
 
 to be canceled yet ran, — 
 And so sweet were the lips of Arria ! 
 
 " Now death or craven delaying ! " clear rang her 
 
 silvery note. 
 " Thou wouldst not falter in choice, thou, ever to 
 
 honor devote ! " 
 As throbs the soft breast of a startled dove, so 
 
 throbbed her soft throat, 
 Yet firm the red lips of Arria. 
 
 "With the dower of her beauty upon her she stood 
 
 in his wavering sight ; 
 A true Roman wife, he beheld her, the peer of a 
 
 true Roman knight. 
 " Hast thou lost the old way, O my lord, dost 
 
 thou need one to set thee aright ? " 
 Still smiled the red lips of Arria. 
 
 And, smiling, she laid her warm hand on the 
 
 steel true-tempered and cold. 
 " This were the way ! " (She has driven the 
 
 point through her tunic's white fold !) 
 " This is the way, — none other ; but, Psetus, it 
 
 hurts not — behold ! " — 
 And hushed were the lips of Arria. 
 
ATYS 55 
 
 Oh, horror ! oh, pity ! oh, love ! But now is no 
 
 moment to weep ; 
 Let the bright death, from her heart to his own, 
 
 importunate leap ; 
 Ay, for it hurts not when life flitteth forth from 
 
 its cabinet deep, — 
 Forth to the soul of Arria ! 
 
 One touch of her consecrate lips, one instant 
 
 above her he stands ; 
 In the next he hath caught the life-drinking 
 
 blade in his two firm hands. 
 He hath tried the old way, — the old way that 
 
 ever mocked tyrannous bands, — 
 Now forth to the soul of Arria ! 
 
 ATYS 
 
 Sweet are the sheltered, nestling vales and 
 
 plains the toil of man has crowned ; 
 I love them all, but more I love the lands that 
 
 know not tilth nor bound — 
 Waste hills, the lordless hills eterne, and winds 
 
 of heaven on heavenward ground ! 
 Friendly the broad, embracing arms of Sylvan's 
 
 oak at midday hot, 
 The chestnut-groves with dropping mast, the 
 
 fruited orchard's lawny plot ; 
 But these too long delay my feet ; I leave them, 
 
 and regret them not : 
 
56 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 I heed the Mighty Mother's call, far up the 
 shaggy mountain-side ; 
 With her let me abide, 
 And listen to divine 
 Deep breathings from the mystic trees of dark- 
 ling, reminiscent pine. 
 
 Great Rhea goes with soft-foot steeds ; their eyes 
 are quenchless, sparkling flame ; 
 
 The hot wilds bore and bred them fierce, yet do 
 they pace subdued and tame ; 
 
 No lash, no rein, controls their strength ; she 
 curbs them calling them by name. 
 
 Great Rhea goes as she was wont (yet now by 
 mortal eyes unseen), 
 
 A crown of turrets on her head, her gaze un- 
 fathomed, searching-keen. 
 
 Her gloomy heralds hasten on, to rouse the for- 
 est high and green ; 
 
 But when she gains the summit dark, no more 
 they urge the shrilling strife 
 Of cymbal and of fife ; 
 She hushes them by signs — 
 
 Hark ! Atys sighing in his sleep, amid the mel- 
 ancholy pines 1 
 
 He slumbers in some fragrant eell, smooth-rocked 
 
 between the earth and sky. 
 Delicious Summer danced and sung, Winter with 
 
 griding tread swept by ; 
 
ATYS 57 
 
 These could not rouse him, yet a dream has 
 power to make him start and sigh ! 
 
 Remembers he how heaven could woo when 
 heaven an earthly love would gain, 
 
 How goddess' smiles were golden days and god- 
 dess' tears were mists and rain, 
 
 When Rhea, with large-gifting hands, would 
 share with him her wide domain ? 
 
 Nay ! he but sees Pessinus' flower, by stolen 
 paths through kindly glooms ; 
 For him her fine lip blooms, 
 Her eye with love-light shines — 
 
 Hark ! Atys singing in his sleep, amid the dim, 
 melodious pines ! 
 
 He, dreaming, sings the maiden's praise — ah, 
 
 sorrow ! soon he sings no more ! 
 The goddess to the bridal came ; in each dread 
 
 hand a scourge she bore ; 
 She struck with fear the marriage-guests, and 
 
 smote his brain with madness sore. 
 His tender love he spurned, he fled ; up rough, 
 
 untrodden steeps he fled ; 
 The mountain-berry was his food, the thinning 
 
 turf his nightly bed ; 
 And airily he wove of leaves a crown for his un- 
 
 pitied head. 
 The searcher craftily he shunned ; yet were his 
 
 footprints crimson-traced 
 Along the bitter waste 
 
58 IN DIVERS TONES 
 
 Of flints and thorny spines — 
 Hark ! Atys moaning in his sleep, amid the 
 many-wintered pines ! 
 
 The rough-girt, unimpassioned trees their soften- 
 ing hearts did then unveil, 
 
 And close the frenzied wanderer round ; thence- 
 forward never did they fail, 
 
 Responsive to his tranced thought, to breathe the 
 mournful, moving tale. 
 
 And therefore when we mortals come among 
 these chanters sombre-tressed, 
 
 Our mastered spirits flow with theirs, and are by 
 surging moods oppressed : 
 
 We hope, exult — we madden, brood — and now 
 are sorrowfully blest ; 
 
 No murmur from his cumbered heart but wakes 
 in ours a fellow-strain ; 
 Our own most secret pain 
 The solemn wood divines — 
 
 Hark! Atys sobbing in his sleep, amid the 
 piteous, rocking pines ! 
 
 The Mighty Mother bows her down ; she answers 
 
 him, deep sob for sob ; 
 She lays her hand upon his heart ; she feels, she 
 
 hails, its strengthening throb ! 
 But from his lips what words are these, that thus 
 
 her cheek of color rob ? 
 
ATYS 59 
 
 She turns her face, withdraws her hand ; the 
 
 seals of sleep she will not break. 
 Undying youth, immortal dream, for love a for- 
 
 tressed mansion make ; 
 Were slumber loosed, the dream remains ; then, 
 
 wherefore should she bid him wake ? 
 Mighty Mother, come away, since not to thee, 
 
 in power arrayed, 
 
 But to the Phrygian maid, 
 His soul, released, inclines — 
 Leave Atys murmuring in his sleep, amid the 
 
 old, dark-memoried pines ! 
 
II 
 
 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
SOUTHFOLD 
 
 A PARABLE OF LITTLE STRANGERS 
 
 Southfold ? only this I know : 
 
 When you 've passed a world of snow, 
 
 And one last great ridge is crossed, 
 
 Then farewell to snow and frost ! 
 
 On a sadden spring 's begun ! 
 
 Steady shines the loving sun 
 
 On the fields that southward run, 
 
 On the walls and broad low roof 
 
 That need not be winter-proof, 
 
 'For the winter keeps aloof ; 
 
 Or, if any drift of snow 
 
 From the great white ridge should blow, 
 
 It but makes a tinkling rill 
 
 Falling, falling, falling still 
 
 From the eaves, while all around 
 
 Greener grows the sunny ground. 
 
 I have heard a traveler say, 
 Thither every tender stray, 
 Every silly straggler, goes. 
 Yet the way it never knows 
 (By some kind enchantment toled) 
 
64 SOUTH FOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 To the happy fields and fold. 
 There the lambs are that were born 
 On a January morn, 
 And the birds that fledged so late 
 None would pity them and wait 
 Till their wings would bear them right 
 On the long, long autumn flight. 
 There the wood-bees are whose home 
 With its store of honeycomb 
 By the chopper was laid low ; 
 Houseless, they were forced to go 
 Out upon the wintry air ! 
 And the willow-moth is there, 
 That mistook the time of year, 
 Waking in December drear, 
 When the cutting winds were keen. 
 There the apple-tree is seen, 
 That each autumn dreams of May, 
 And throws out a blooming spray ; 
 And the violet that peeps forth 
 To be frowned on by the North. 
 
 These and many more beside 
 In that blessed place abide ; 
 But the sweetest creature there 
 (So the traveler did declare) 
 Is the child that knows no love 
 Save the Father's from above. 
 Thither long ago he came, 
 Lost, and knowing not his name ; 
 
SOUTEFOLD 65 
 
 There were teardrops to be kissed 
 From the eyes whose light none missed ; 
 Now he has himself forgot 
 All the sorrow in his lot. 
 
 There the time is early May — 
 
 And the time is morning day. 
 
 There the late bird tries its wings, 
 
 And its young song blithely sings ; 
 
 And the winter lambs are glad, 
 
 Rosy-tinged in new wool clad. 
 
 And the wood-bees' murmuring seems 
 
 Like the music heard in dreams ; 
 
 And the willow-moth is fanned 
 
 Up and down the flowery land, 
 
 While the apple-tree holds all 
 
 Her fair flowers (which never fall), 
 
 And the violet need not fear 
 
 Though it bloom the whole round year ; 
 
 And the child that knows no love 
 
 Save the Father's from above, 
 
 Has a heart of love to give 
 
 All that in the fold do live — 
 
 All that like himself were lost 
 
 Till the great white ridge was crossed. 
 
 Little Song, thyself a stray, 
 
 Join the troop that, night and day, 
 
 Unobserved do thither go — 
 
66 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 'T is the only home thou It know ! 
 There in mellow trills and laughters, 
 Haunt the scented pine-wood rafters 
 And the broad low roof that cover 
 Little strangers the world over. 
 
 CHILD AND POET 
 
 Oh, the child a poet is ! 
 Poet's pleasures too are his ; 
 Would he had the art to tell 
 What he sees and hears so well, — 
 How the hills so love the sky- 
 In its tender haze they lie ; 
 How the sky so loves the streams, 
 Every pool has heavenly dreams. 
 He can guess what says the breeze, 
 Sighing, singing, through the trees ; 
 What the sunbeam, what the rain, 
 Or the smoke's slow-mounting train ; 
 All the meaning of the birds, 
 Which they will not put in words ; 
 And the tree-toad's mystic trill 
 Heard from far at evening still ; 
 And the beckoning ways and looks 
 Of the flowers in dewy nooks — 
 Yes ! and of the dewdrops fine, 
 In the early morning-shine ! 
 
CHILD AND \POET 67 
 
 He has friends where ye have none ; 
 Fellows in a rush or stone ; 
 Palace-royal in the clouds, 
 Sunset barge with sails and shrouds. 
 Oh, the child a poet is, 
 Though unskilled in harmonies ; 
 Would he had the art to tell 
 What he hears and sees so well, 
 Ere his senses, grown less keen, 
 Say they have not heard nor seen. 
 (Let him not too quickly lose 
 These rare pleasures, gracious Muse.) 
 
 II 
 
 Now, the poet is a child, 
 
 Whom the years have not beguiled 
 
 To forget the magic lore 
 
 That is childhood's careless store. 
 
 Oh, the poet is a child ! 
 
 And he loves the new and wild ; 
 
 But the old to him is new, 
 
 And what seems but tame to you 
 
 He with kind delight can see 
 
 Laugh in its sweet liberty ! 
 
 He is foiled and cheated never, — 
 
 Poet's truth is truth forever ! 
 
 Though his song you may not heed, 
 Though his rhyme you will not read, 
 Song and rhyme true records hold 
 
68 SOUTEFOLD AND TEE FLOCK 
 
 Of your morning age of gold. 
 What you saw in that fair time, 
 Wild, or lovely, or sublime 
 In the mountains, groves, or streams, 
 Clear upon his vision gleams. 
 What you heard of strange report 
 Throughout Nature's fields and court, 
 Told of man or dreamt of God, 
 Still he hears spread all abroad. 
 If you do not see and hear, 
 'T is for time-worn eye and ear : 
 Child and poet shall not sever — 
 And their truth is truth forever ! 
 
 DEW-BELLS 
 
 Once on a summer morning 
 In Elfland I awoke, 
 When, all without a warning, 
 Sweet tongues the silence broke ; 
 Sweet tongues of tiniest bells, 
 Fine tongues of crystal sound, 
 Rang all the fields around, 
 And tinkled down the dells — 
 Merry bells, 
 Faery bells ! 
 They tinkled down the dells ! 
 
DEW-BELLS 69 
 
 A long time I lay quiet, 
 
 To hear the frolic peal 
 
 Some great event reveal — 
 
 A muster, or a riot, 
 
 Or royal pixy wedding ! 
 
 I heard a light foot treading 
 
 The measures of a reel : 
 
 It was a giddy elf ; 
 
 I asked what bells were ringing. 
 
 He laughed : " Why, look yourself, 
 
 And see the dew-bells swinging ! 
 
 Dew-bells, 
 
 True bells, 
 
 Glad bells, 
 
 Mad bells — 
 Green bell-ropes all are swinging ! " 
 
 Quoth I : " My friend, you fable 
 About this joyous Babel ; 
 I 've heard, indeed, of bluebells, 
 But dew-bells — 
 
 They 're new bells ! 
 My little friend, you fable ! " 
 
 Then up my head I lifted : 
 The grasses young and tender, 
 On points of lances slender, 
 Bore each a drop that shifted 
 To take the morning splendor ; 
 Clear drops, 
 
70 SOUTH FOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 Like teardrops 
 (Or like lost diamond eardrops), 
 Did lightly clash together 
 In the soft zephyr weather, 
 And ring a tuneful change. 
 By little hands unseen 
 Were swayed the bell-ropes green ; 
 But it was passing strange 
 No liquid bell was shivered, 
 Though each one danced and quivered ; 
 
 Brave bells, 
 
 Suave bells, 
 Oh, how they danced and quivered ! 
 
 u 
 
 When on a summer morning 
 I watch the wondrous grass, 
 I hear wise people scorning ; 
 They whisper as they pass : 
 " Poor youth ! his wits are flown ; 
 He babbles things unknown, 
 He talks of chimes one hears 
 Among the grassy spears ! " 
 
 Ah me ! have I grown deaf 
 Since I through Elfland strayed ? 
 I see, with smiling grief, 
 The crystal dew-bells swinging 
 In sunshine and in shade, 
 But cannot hear them ringing — 
 
THE NAfURALIST 71 
 
 Dew-bells, 
 
 True bells ! 
 Joy-bells, 
 
 Coy bells ! 
 I cannot hear them ringing ! 
 
 THE NATURALIST 
 
 He bides at home, and treasures all 
 That to his homely lot doth fall. 
 
 He says, to journey hence 
 
 Were, mere improvidence, 
 For winds of thought have sown his field, 
 And he must wait the priceless yield. 
 
 His own loved arbor-vine 
 
 Provides Provencal wine. 
 His hemlocks chant the selfsame runes 
 That, under wild Norwegian moons, 
 
 The saga-singing firs 
 
 To Night and Fame rehearse. 
 His oak-trees drop no other mast 
 Than that Dodona's oaks did cast. 
 
 The crab-fruits of the waste 
 
 To him more flavorous taste 
 Than apples of Hesperides ; 
 And in broad-waving filices 
 
 His fancy-lighted eyes 
 
 Mark lesser palms arise. 
 
72 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 He keeps no garden richly ranked 
 With strangers in bright livery pranked, 
 But takes delight to greet 
 Blue speedwell at his feet, 
 And mints that yield the bee its food, 
 And slender sorrel of the wood, 
 And chickweed in the grass 
 (His ready weather-glass), 
 And primrose, slumbering all the day, 
 At eve to meet the moonlight fay ! 
 The flag flower is his France 
 And dream of old romance ; 
 While everlasting whitely nods 
 Above these nibbled pasture sods, 
 Why scale the Alpine ice 
 To pluck the edelweiss ? 
 
 He says, he must not go from home, 
 Who keeps an inn for those who roam : 
 Many a warbler gay 
 Stops on its northward way ; 
 The swallows that proclaim his spring 
 From far Bermudas tidings bring. 
 He finds the pewee's nest, 
 With ruffled lichens drest, 
 The field lark's under grassy eaves ; 
 And one he takes, and three he leaves, 
 Of cherished eggs that lie 
 Concealed in covert sly ; 
 
THE NATURALIST 73 
 
 He is too shrewd for birds' decoy. 
 He also knows what tasks employ 
 
 The solitary bee — 
 
 The rose-leaf privacy 
 Of chambers sealed and profound, 
 "With velvet curtains hung around — 
 
 The nectar coined to keep 
 
 The larva weak from sleep. 
 He stoops to look on myrmidons 
 Arrayed in shining jet or bronze — 
 
 A small world's civil feud, 
 
 A field with carnage strewed, 
 And victors trampling down the slain 
 Upon the noiseless battle-plain ! 
 
 No creature can evade 
 
 The snares that he has laid 
 To learn its secret haunts and thrift. 
 The timorous hare is not so swift, 
 
 Nor tortoise is so slow, 
 
 Nor fox such craft can show, 
 But wit and patience, never spent, 
 Outspeed, outstay, and circumvent ; 
 
 And what least guides can show 
 
 He follows fain to know. 
 
 He says he dares not disesteem 
 Or savant's lore or poet's dream. 
 
 The flood from heaven's urn 
 
 He sees in mist return, 
 And, in a globed drop of dew, 
 
74 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 The round world tremble into view. 
 
 The flowers of frost and snow, 
 
 That in night stillness blow, 
 And lucid grain and glinting spar 
 That in the marl imprisoned are, 
 
 Observe relation fine, 
 
 In order crystalline. 
 
 To him yon field of billowing grain 
 Spreads broad and free as pampas plain, 
 
 And neighboring hills are high, 
 
 In his ennobling eye. 
 He will not yield that Helicon 
 And Castaly more limpid run 
 
 Than streams that take their rise 
 
 Anear his native skies ; 
 In every clear unfailing spring 
 He hears the nymph Egeria sing. 
 
 She to a prince of old 
 
 Did laws and arts unfold ; 
 Still Numa comes, and still she reads 
 Humanities in woods and meads. 
 
 The morning has a voice 
 
 That makes his heart rejoice ; 
 The noon pours amber-drink for him, 
 And fills his goblet to the brim ; 
 
 The owlet-light doth lend 
 
 The countenance of a friend, 
 And he with hooded evening holds 
 Strange trysts by murmuring fields and 
 wolds. 
 
SIGNS OF TEE SEASON 75 
 
 No season but is kind, — 
 
 Best fitted to his mind ; 
 So, none shall hear him wish away 
 The pinching winter bare and gray ; 
 
 Nor will he chide the sky, 
 
 If it be wet or dry : 
 The grain is lodged ! he will not fret ; 
 He holds rich Nature in his debt, 
 
 The balance to maintain, 
 
 Adjusting loss with gain. 
 He bides at home and treasures all 
 That to his homely lot doth fall : 
 
 Each twelvemonth to this seer 
 
 Completes a Wondrous Year. 
 
 SIGNS OF THE SEASON 
 
 I broke a spray of willow by the brook, 
 When out, a jet of sprightly talk it shook : 
 " Ho ! ho ! I '11 kiss with blossoms silver-sleek 
 That sun-and-wind-browned cheek ! " 
 
 I found an oakling and plucked off his cap, 
 When up he sprung from his old nurse's lap : 
 " Good-morrow and good-morrow, friend, to you ; 
 I 'm for the sky — adieu ! " 
 
 I peered into so many smiling eyes ; 
 
 They met my own with glances blithe and wise : 
 
76 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 " You need not look o'erhead — we violets show 
 A little heaven below ! " 
 
 I stood beside a shallow meadow pool, 
 I watched the fairy-shrimps — a twinkling school : 
 " We children of the sun and moistened clod 
 Come at Spring's beck and nod ! " 
 
 I saw a muskrat high floods could not drown, 
 Now smoothly swimming through the water 
 
 brown : 
 " I '11 build me summer galleries cool and dank 
 Beneath the grassy bank ! " 
 
 I turned the turf, when out an earthworm rolled 
 Uplifting some loose grains of mellowing mould : 
 " I must make haste to stir and break the soil, 
 To help good farmers' toil ! " 
 
 I saw a spider stretch her gossamer ropes ; 
 She told me of her secret plans and hopes : 
 " I catch the midge, and tangle in my clues 
 Sunbeams and rainbow hues ! " 
 
 I heard a honey-bee that, hovering low 
 Above the grass, sang songs of long ago : 
 " New year, new flowers, new sweets, new joys — 
 and yet 
 The old I '11 not forget ! " 
 
TAMBERLJK TO THE BIRDS 77 
 
 I started wide awake, and looked about ; 
 I heard a flicker from his watch-tower shout — 
 And "quick-quick, quick -quick, quick-quick, 
 quick-quick — quick / " 
 His rousing notes fell thick ! 
 
 TAMBERLIK TO THE BIRDS 
 
 [A personal friend of Tamberlik, the famous tenor, 
 sends to a London newspaper the following- story of an 
 incident which happened at Madrid, where the artist lived 
 for twelve or thirteen years : " One morning* we were 
 walking through the bird -market, when suddenly he 
 drew a bank-note for a thousand francs from his pocket, 
 bought up all the little creatures, opened the cages, and 
 shouted laughingly as the birds flew up into the air, ' Go 
 and be free, my brothers ! ' " — New York Evening Post.] 
 
 Cage-door is open — hark ! 
 
 Sparrow, and thrush, and linnet, 
 Starling, nightingale, lark — 
 
 Gray, or golden, or sable — 
 Out, like a shaft to the mark ! 
 
 Cage-door is open — fly ! 
 
 Whistler, twitterer, warbler, 
 And you that but sob or cry, 
 
 You, the slumber-smooth ringdove, 
 Out, to the sun and the sky ! 
 
 Cage-door is open — free ! 
 You by the grassy meadow, 
 
78 SO UTU FOLD AND the flock 
 
 And you in the thicket or tree ! 
 
 You in the fold of the valley, 
 
 And you by the boundless sea ! 
 
 Cage-door is open — sing ! 
 
 Pure gladness ! fly southward, fly northward, 
 Each one in your turn carry spring, 
 
 Faithful, unbribed, undelaying, 
 Alike to peasant and king. 
 
 Cage door is open — sing ! 
 
 Sing this : " 'T was our own brother freed us, 
 But ah, 't is a wondrous sad thing ; 
 
 For pity and love he freed us, 
 Yet himself hath a cage-fast wing ! " 
 
 Cage-door is open — nay, 
 
 Be free, and forget, O my brothers, 
 Him who released you this day, 
 
 For his soul will sing in its prison, 
 In the birds' and the poet's way ! 
 
 SAID THE WREN TO THE THRUSH 
 
 " They say," said the wren to the thrush — " and 
 I know, for I build at their eaves — 
 
 They say, every song that we sing, on the wing 
 or hid in the leaves, 
 Is sung for their pleasure — 
 
 And you know 't is for Love and ourselves that 
 we sing ! " 
 
CROSSING THE BAT 79 
 
 " Did they say," said the thrush to the wren, — 
 " I 'm out of their circle, I own, — 
 
 Did they say that the songs they sing are not for 
 themselves alone, 
 But to give us pleasure ? " 
 
 " Why, no," said the wren, " they said no such 
 thing!" 
 
 CEOSSING THE BAY 
 
 Crossing the Bay, 
 I watched the swift gulls incessant at toil or at 
 
 play: 
 And the many were gray, as the wave ere it 
 breaks is gray, 
 
 But the one was white 
 As the wave at full height, 
 When it blanches and breaks in a passion of 
 vehement light. 
 
 The many were gray, 
 The one was white. — 
 A shot o'er the Bay, 
 And a cry from the gray : 
 " We hear, and we fear something follows to work 
 us despite ! " 
 
 Mounting in flight 
 
 From the kiss of the spray, 
 
 Made answer the white : 
 
80 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 " O comrades, while me ye have with you let 
 nothing dismay ; 
 
 Ye are many — and gray, 
 I am one — and white ! 
 While me ye have with you let nothing your 
 courage affray ! " 
 
 A shot o'er the Bay, — 
 And down dropped the white ; 
 And the white of the spray where he fell for an 
 instant blushed bright. 
 Crossing the Bay, 
 This I beheld, and fashioned a rhyme of the way : 
 For men, as for birds, Fate's mark is the white, 
 not the gray ! 
 
 PETITS NAUFRAGES 
 
 I saw a little shallop 
 
 That lately came to grief, 
 
 Midway a slender river, 
 Upon a pebble reef ; 
 
 The water-weed lapped round it 
 With many an oozy leaf. 
 
 But what is that to you or me ? 
 
 Such little shipwrecks aye must be. 
 
 I saw two shattered pinions 
 With rainbow colors pied, 
 
PETI\TS NAUFRAGES 81 
 
 That once had carried Psyche 
 
 In beauty and in pride ; 
 The summer dust befouled them, 
 
 Nor yet would kindly hide. 
 But what is that to you or me ? 
 Such petty ruin aye must be. 
 
 I saw a mother wood-dove, 
 Her gray breast dabbled red, 
 
 And, above the evening whisper 
 Of old boughs overhead, 
 
 I heard the cry of nestlings 
 That waited to be fed. 
 
 But what is that to you or me ? 
 
 Such petty sorrow aye must be. 
 
 To high estates pertaineth 
 
 The majesty of woe ; 
 Yet see how lightsome creatures, 
 
 That Heaven hath humbled so, 
 The selfsame way of ruin 
 
 With selfsame paces go ! 
 But what were these to you or me, 
 Save that a fellow-fate we see ? 
 
 The keel of puny venture, 
 
 The summer's tenderling, — 
 The butterfly, the wood-dove 
 
 With death-arrested wing, 
 
82 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 All bid us, as they vanish, 
 
 Their Linus-song to sing. 
 But what were these to you or me 
 Save that with them we soon shall be ? 
 
 HALF SIGHT AND WHOLE SIGHT 
 
 This flower of the lilied field — do I see it com- 
 pletely ? 
 Over its wonder-face mine eye runneth fleetly, 
 
 One moment proclaiming it mine — 
 
 Color and texture and line. 
 
 Ah, but already something it is, hath escaped me ; 
 Ah, but my conquest is not as the free fancy 
 shaped me ! 
 
 Humbly my vaunt I recall ; 
 
 I but see that I see not all. 
 
 And now as I gaze, sight's possession grows 
 
 fainter and fainter. 
 Am I solely thwarted? Nay, nor savant nor 
 painter 
 All this perfection can see, 
 But only in kind and degree. 
 
 Each purblind alone, whole sight requires the 
 whole human, 
 
THE FRINGED GENTIAN 83 
 
 The eye of the child and the graybeard, of man 
 and of woman. 
 Poet divine, can it be 
 Full vision concentres in thee ? 
 
 Thou beholdest, indeed, some mystical intimate 
 
 beckoning 
 Out of the flower's honeyed heart, that passeth 
 our reckoning. 
 Yet when hast thou seen, or shalt see, 
 With the eye of yon hovering bee ? 
 
 THE FEINGED GENTIAN 
 
 Once, to the Angel of Birds far up in the rip- 
 pling air, 
 
 From low on the sun-loved earth the Angel of 
 Flowers breathed a prayer : 
 
 "Four plumes from the bluebird's wing — and 
 I '11 make me something rare ! " 
 
 Four plumes from the bluebird's wing, as fast to 
 
 the South he flew ! 
 The Angel of Flowers caught them up as they 
 
 fell in the autumn dew, 
 And shaped with a twirl of her fingers this spire 
 
 of feathery blue. 
 
84 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 THE CLOSED GENTIAN 
 
 What shall I say of thee, 
 Flower all elusive, guarding alike from the rain 
 and the sun 
 The mystical heart of thyself — 
 What shall I say of thee ? 
 Hast thou some foe thou wouldst shun ? 
 Art thou a shrine — the saint of the shrine — the 
 pale pilgrim seeker? 
 Or else to the bee and bold elf 
 
 Knowing the way of thee, 
 Art thou a chamber for feasting and revel, and 
 do they purvey of thee 
 Honey, and wine in a beaker ? 
 
 A SEASIDE EOSE 
 
 I took a flush toll 
 
 From the roses that wave on the knoll ; 
 I spared not the roses that follow 
 The stream that greens the warm hollow ; 
 But I plucked back my hand 
 From the Beauty that blooms in the bitter white 
 sand. 
 And my worship was great 
 (As my wonder was great) 
 Hearing her rose-lips bland 
 Proclaim : 
 
THE WOOD-PEWEE 85 
 
 " ' Love-in-the- Waste ' is my name ! 
 Subservient Hate 
 Feeds mine estate, 
 Bows to my God-lighted flame ! 
 Here am I set 
 Thine heart and thine hope to abet — 
 * Love-in-the- Waste ' is my name ! " 
 
 THE WOOD-PEWEE 
 
 " Peer ! peer ! peer ! " 
 
 Far and aloof, 
 A night of pines beneath; 
 
 And through their crannied roof — 
 Keen as a sword from its sheath — 
 Lo, the lone-lingering morning star ! 
 
 Aloof and afar, 
 From undiscovered dim, green perch, 
 Comes a long note of search, — 
 
 Voice of mystery, 
 
 Voice of warning, 
 Crossed with the mere shadow of fear, 
 
 " Peer ! peer ! peer ! " 
 
 It comes to the ear 
 
 Of the dell-cradled Morning. 
 
 On her fair hand she props 
 Her curl-clustered head 
 
 Whence the unlighted drops 
 
86 SOUTHFOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 Of night-dew one by one are shed. 
 Still far and near — 
 " Peer ! peer ! peer ! " 
 
 She listens warily — 
 
 Falls dreaming for a moment's space, 
 Then riseth, and, stepping airily, 
 
 Taketh her way apace, — 
 White-footed, wonder-eyed, balm-breathing Morn- 
 ing! 
 While aloft, from dim green perch, 
 
 Fainter grows 
 
 To its tremulous close 
 That long note of search, — 
 
 Voice of mystery, 
 
 Voice of warning, 
 Crossed with the mere shadow of fear, — 
 
 " Peer ! peer ! peer ! " 
 
 WHY DID YE SO? 
 
 These found a voice who never spake before, 
 In Shadow Land these witness evermore ! — 
 " I was the moth, flower-like upon the wind, 
 Your wrinkled savant in his charnel pinned. 
 Why did ye so ? " 
 
 " I was the fledgling that, of mine own will, 
 Did keep fast-closed my soft and tender bill 
 
CYBELE J.ND HER CHILDREN 87 
 
 To food your cruel kindness did prepare ; 
 Famished, I died — for mother-love and care. 
 Why did ye so ? " 
 
 " I was Llewellyn's dog, that anger smote 
 When my rash master saw on breast and throat 
 The lean wolf's blood, the while in safety slept 
 The cradle-child my faithful love had kept. 
 Why did ye so ? " 
 
 " I was the snow-white ranger of the snow. 1 
 The Arctic traveler met me. Blow for blow 
 I fought ; my cub upon my back fought, too, 
 Till crimson all the snow around us grew. 
 Why did ye so ? " 
 
 " I was Harpado from Xarama's bank ; 
 My life the sands in gay Granada drank " — 
 " And I the steed Harpado's horn did gore ! " 
 In Shadow Land these witness evermore. 
 Why did ye so ? 
 
 CYBELE AND HER CHILDREN 
 
 The Mother has eternal youth, 
 Yet in the fading of the year, 
 
 For sake of what must fade, in ruth 
 She wears a crown of oak leaves sear. 
 1 Narrated by Dr. Kane. 
 
88 SOUTH FOLD AND THE FLOCK 
 
 By whistling woods, by naked rocks, 
 That long have lost the summer's heat, 
 
 She calls the wild unfolded flocks, 
 
 And points them to their shelter meet. 
 
 In her deep bosom sink they all : 
 The hunter and the prey are there ; 
 
 No ravin-cry, no hunger-call ; 
 
 These do not fear, and those forbear. 
 
 The winding serpent watches not ; 
 
 Unwatched, the field-mouse trembles not 
 Weak hyla, quiet in his grot, 
 
 So rests, nor changes line or spot. 
 
 For food the Mother gives them sleep ; 
 
 Against the cold she gives them sleep ; 
 To cheat their foes she gives them sleep, — 
 
 For safety gives them death-like sleep. 
 
 The Mother has eternal youth, 
 
 And therefrom, in the wakening year, 
 
 Their life revives ; and they, in sooth, 
 Forget their mystic bondage drear ! 
 
LUCINA 89 
 
 LUCINA 
 
 Thine are the buds within the woody spray- 
 That reddens toward the spring and lengthening 
 
 day; 
 Thine subtly, from the patient toiling root, 
 To draw sweet currents to the topmost shoot. — 
 Smite thou with solar shaft, 
 Rock on iEolian draft, 
 Buffet with down-poured floods, — 
 Feed strong thy tenderlings, the unblown buds ! 
 
 Thine are the germs that when the year died 
 
 down 
 Hid them below the year's despoiled crown ; 
 Thine to release to them the vital store 
 That garnered lies at the white f rostless core. — 
 
 Dislodge the cumbering mould, 
 
 Shower them with Titan's gold, 
 
 In sylvan glades, in meads ; 
 They are thy little wards, the striving seeds. 
 
 And thine the yet unplumed, unsinging hope 
 Of singing ones that by a sun-warm slope, 
 Or hollow where the brake is first unfurled, 
 Hover, and brood the centre of a world. — 
 
 Be their mute hope thy care, 
 
 Soon on the dew-fresh air 
 
 Faint hunger-cries be heard, — 
 Thou quickener of the nighted, shell-bound bird ! 
 
90 SOUTHFOLD AND TEE FLOCK 
 
 Thine, thine all life until the birth-hour fall, 
 And nascent being waken at thy call ! 
 Then fleest thou, inconstant, having won 
 For each the world-embathing air and sun. 
 
 Not stayed by gift or vow, — 
 
 A soft half-memory thou, 
 
 A waning aureole 
 From the bright mist that wrapped the stranger 
 soul ! 
 
 Thou — is it thou that to the early year 
 Lendest a glory fugitive and dear, 
 A passion to its chill, dim-colored flowers, 
 A restless vigil to its murmuring hours ? 
 
 O chary ministrant 
 
 Of dreams revisitant, 
 
 When vernal winds arise 
 Breathing vague cheer from other earth and 
 skies ! 
 
 As the pent leaf and song-bird wait for thee 
 To dart the orient beam that sets them free, 
 We wait some tremulous forerunning glow, 
 Signal of life supremer than we know. — 
 In-shining Morn and Spring, 
 To fields Elysian bring 
 And crown with being's whole, — 
 Thou Daybreak of the worn night-traveling soul ! 
 
Ill 
 
 LA MUSE S'AMUSE 
 
GRAND PLANS 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM BERANGER 
 
 A subject for heroic verse I 've found ; 
 Ere ten years pass this work the world shall see : 
 Yes, then my brows with epic laurel bound, 
 My royal claim shall well established be. 
 
 My subject lends itself to tragic forms ; 
 On strong and rapid wing my flight I hold ; 
 My piece is greeted with applausive storms, 
 And I am showered with honors, glory, gold. . 
 
 On tragedy must patient labor wait ; 
 The ode remains, — therein my theme I '11 cast ; 
 The ode, with incense rich, can make one's state 
 Like that of kings, or even gods, at last. 
 
 The ode requires a stately surge and swell ; 
 The song will better suit my theme ; ah, then 
 Sleep, Pindar, Homer, iEschylus, sleep well ! 
 I dream an eagle — and I wake a wren ! 
 
 What great design but slips and ebbs away ? 
 So many a genius fails through impulse lost. 
 'T is thus with all : who only songs essay 
 Shall but achieve a quatrain, at the most. 
 
94 LA MUSE & AMUSE 
 
 THE WISE AND THE FOOLISH 
 SHEPHERD 
 
 There was a waggish shepherd lad of old, 
 
 Who found it dull, no doubt, to watch a fold, 
 
 And practice on the Pan-pipe innocent, 
 
 So sought and found a new divertisement, 
 
 To wit : whenever travelers passed him by, 
 
 " Wolf ! wolf ! Jove help me ! " was his plaintive 
 
 cry. 
 So many times this little game he tried, 
 At length 't was known to all the countryside ; 
 And when, in autumn weather, keen and cool, 
 The gray contractor came and took his wool, 
 (And eke his mutton, and himself as well !) 
 They thought his " Wolf " cry still the same old 
 
 sell. 
 
 So runs our precious fable, but the truth 
 Is as I tell it now : That gamesome youth 
 Continued still to sell, and ne'er was sold, 
 But, full of honors and of love, grew old. 
 Whene'er he made a hue and cry, all ran, 
 Both gentlefolk and peasants, to a man. 
 
 'T is true the ferine foe they never saw, 
 But certain marks left by his savage paw, 
 
THE WISE AND THE FOOLISH SHEPHERD 95 
 
 Which tenderly they salved, whilst God they 
 
 praised 
 Their shepherd true had not been slain, though 
 
 badly grazed ! 
 
 ii 
 
 Another shepherd wight there was, alas ! 
 As silly as the sheep that nipped the grass ; 
 For he, in days of safety and content, 
 Did practice well the Pan-pipe innocent ; 
 And other times, when danger he surmised, 
 Kept faithful watch, so not to be surprised. 
 The grizzly mountaineer oft prowled about ; 
 The shepherd stood his ground, but raised no 
 
 shout, 
 Till, on a day the wolf grew fell and fierce, 
 One cry the shepherd uttered, fit to pierce 
 Whatever ear to human anguish keen, 
 Whatever heart that pitiful had been. 
 
 The truth proceeds to say (no fable this), 
 No passer-by deemed aught had chanced amiss, 
 But one to other spake, " That shepherd boy 
 Thinks he befools us with his cheap decoy ! " 
 'T is true, when half a twelvemonth had rolled 
 
 And Pan-pipe melody, and bleating cry 
 
 Of sheep no more were heard, but blanching 
 
 bones 
 Were seen amid the upland turf and stones, 
 
96 LA MUSE & AMUSE 
 
 The question rose, "Was there not once, up 
 
 yonder, 
 A silly soul that used with flock and pipe to 
 
 wander ? " 
 
 SPENSERIAN STANZAS 
 (not in the faerie queene) 
 
 Scene — A Wilderness on a remote border of the realm 
 swayed by the Faerie Queene. 
 
 There, as the royall beast in slomber lay, 
 His yellow mane all in the sunne dispred, 
 I lightly smote him with my launcegay ; 
 Whereat he sluggishly upreared his hed, 
 As one that had on dainty meates bene fed 
 Ere he in Morpheus webby toiles was caught. 
 Though erst I had bene sore disquieted, 
 His gentle mien great corage in me wrought, 
 And, " Lyon, where is Una ? " thus I him 
 besought. 
 
 Then gan that mightie beast to quake and quayle, 
 To make his voice full pittifull and small, 
 To start, to stop, as loath to tell the tale : 
 " Fay re Una is — but death must come to all, 
 Or in the thatched hut or loftie hall ! 
 Here wandring, farre from peace and safeties 
 port, 
 
WORLD-WIDE FAME 97 
 
 Despite my care a thousand ills might fall ; 
 Wherefore, to save her from all scath and tort, 
 Paynim, I steeled my hart — I ate her up, in 
 short ! " 
 
 A BARD TO HIS MAECENAS 
 
 (ODE XX. BOOK n. HORACE) 
 
 " Oh, not on spent or feeble wing 
 Up through the liquid air I spring, 
 Leave earth, and malice blind, 
 And critics far behind ! 
 
 " Superior I, — then do not fear 
 Such worth shall die, Maecenas dear ; 
 The Styx's dingy flow 
 I shall not undergo ; 
 
 " For bristling quills and plumes I feel 
 Upon my arms and shoulders steal ; 
 And now, my wings I loose, 
 I soar, — a very goose." 
 
 WORLD-WIDE FAME 
 
 Voices of genii through the wide air ran 
 (Who knoweth, if in pity or in mirth ?) — 
 
 " See what vainglory marks the ways of man ! 
 This had some honor in his native earth ; 
 
98 LA MUSE S'AMUSE 
 
 But not the nearest planet knew his name, 
 And few of us can tell from whence he came — 
 Yet the nude soul still boasts of world-wide fame ! 
 
 ANAXAGORAS 
 
 When shallow hearts reproached the pilgrim 
 
 wise, 
 "Wanderer, why dost not thou thy country prize ?" 
 He raised to Heaven his tranquil, smiling eyes, — 
 " I do," he answered ; " there my country lies ! " 
 
 VANITY 
 
 How brave it is, in all its splendor drest ! 
 How poor, when of its lordly gear divest ! 
 So Juno's bird, if his gay plumage fall, 
 In abject grief hides under hedge or wall. 
 
 TRAVELING FOR HEALTH 
 
 In quest of health, I roved the world around. 
 
 A mile from home a healing spring I found. 
 
 " Here 's health — but mark ! " (the naiad smiled 
 
 advice) 
 "Each day, on foot, you here must journey 
 
 thrice ! " 
 
QUATRAINS 
 
 i 
 
 THE RURAL MUSE 
 
 "When" down he sits to cultivate the muse 
 Some vine or tree unpruned iuvites outside ; 
 
 Outside his study demon hard pursues, 
 
 And through the window pen and parchment 
 chide ! 
 
 A STYLE OF HIS OWN 
 
 Scribleritjs reads no writings (save his own), 
 For fear his style should lose its vigorous tone, — 
 Which gravely some approve, while others smile, 
 Well-pleased to learn Scriblerius has a style. 
 
 THE SILENT PARTNER 
 
 He had no thoughts, no winged words had I ; 
 
 To conquer all defects we did combine : 
 He fledged my thoughts — now round the world 
 they fly, 
 
 But ah, the flock is counted his, not mine ! 
 
 A LUCUBRATION 
 
 He held a firefly to the page, and read 
 Ten lines of Homer by the light it shed. 
 
100 LA MUSE S' AM USE 
 
 Released, it went upon its shining way 
 A wiser firefly ? Ah ! let sages say 
 
 PATIENCE CEASED TO BE A VIRTUE 
 
 Long, long, and sweetly he had borne each load, 
 At last some slight increase drove in the goad ; 
 Then cried they all whose burdens bent him 
 
 low, 
 " 'Tis strange, 't is sad, that trifles fret him so ! " 
 
 MISTAKEN MAGNANIMITY 
 
 The storm of words was past, the air was cleared, 
 When " I forgive you ! " thus he volunteered. 
 " If any one forgives," she said, " 't is I / " — 
 The storm returned, and murky grew the sky. 
 
 A COUNTER 
 
 So knavishly they played the game of hearts, 
 
 She counted him a victim to her arts, 
 
 He thought her snared. So, pleased both went 
 
 their way ; 
 And yet, forsooth, old strategists were they ! 
 
QUATRAINS 101 
 
 THE SOCIAL TIGRESS 
 
 Beside her lair and winding paths are seen 
 Full many slain, and many more a-mort. 
 
 And is our jungle beauty's zest so keen ? 
 
 Ah yes ! yet not from hunger, but from sport. 
 
 COOPERATION 
 
 To cancel wrong it ever was required 
 
 The wrong should be forgiven, and forgot : 
 
 Ah, see, how well have thou and I conspired, 
 Since I forgive, and thou rememberest not ! 
 
 A BIRD FROM THE CAGE 
 
 I guess thou art a roving cage-bird — thou, 
 With thy lame flights between low bough and 
 
 bough, 
 And with thine anxious peerings there and here — 
 As though betwixt the wires thou still didst peer ! 
 
 URBS IN RURE 
 
 What suit makes he to Nature ? Let him pass. 
 She is to him but a wild outland lass ; 
 
102 LA MUSE 8' AMUSE 
 
 She wearies him (would he his heart confess), 
 For he discerns not her true loveliness. 
 
 A VIOLET IN NOVEMBER 
 
 Shine in, low sun, upon this southward spot ; 
 Here let the sateless black-frost pasture not ; 
 So May's lost child, freed from all season harms, 
 Shall dream she nestles in her mother's arms. 
 
 A POET 
 
 Better for thee if in Time's jocund spring 
 Thou hadst been born — but cease thou not to 
 
 sing ; 
 For song and dream, poor soul, are all thou 
 
 hast 
 To safeguard thee on glooming Autumn cast ! 
 
 THE STAR IN THE STREAM 
 
 See, down the bank, a broken fiery gleam — 
 Antares drowned within our meadow stream ! 
 But now, lift up thy wonder-loving eye — 
 Lo, still Antares burns in southern sky ! 
 
QUATRAINS 103 
 
 THE SOUL IN THE BODY 
 
 What if the Soul her real life elsewhere holds, 
 Her faint reflex Time's darkling stream enfolds, 
 And thou and I, though seeming dwellers here, 
 Live somewhere yonder in the starlit sphere ? 
 
 INSOMNIA 
 
 A house of sleepers — I, alone unblest, 
 Am yet awake and empty vigil keep. 
 
 When these, who spend life's day with me, find 
 rest, 
 Oh, let me not he last to fall asleep ! 
 
 THE FLOWER OF DREAMS 
 
 What flower was that I plucked in sleep last 
 
 night ? 
 Not this world's lily, violet, or rose ; 
 The Flower of Dreams greets not the upper light : 
 In under-fields, with asphodel, it blows. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO 
 
 Poor Love loved two whom anger did inflame. 
 Each sought Love's aid. But when at last, all 
 loth, 
 
104 LA MUSE 8' AMUSE 
 
 Importuned Love an armed champion came, 
 These two, now friends — Love took the stripes 
 of both! 
 
 DE MORTUIS 
 
 They read upon a tomb in Samarcand, 
 If I were living, none were glad thereof. 
 
 This legend two alone can understand, — 
 Who loves no more — who is forgot by love. 
 
 AN AUTOGRAPH 
 
 He wrote upon the sand his autograph ; 
 A little wave erased it with a laugh. 
 
 DISTINCTION 
 
 When past Oblivion's pale the throng upstarts, 
 Seek we the shade and a few quiet hearts. 
 
 A RHYME OF LIFE 
 
 Dost think it was for nothing that " to-morrow " 
 The Muse from oldest time has linked with 
 
 sorrow 
 
 "? 
 
COUPLETS 105 
 
 / 
 
 THE DERELICT 
 
 He drifts along as his lost Genius becks, 
 
 A wreck of Fate, and fated source of wrecks. 
 
 OPINION 
 
 Lsr gulf — or pool — their fathom-line they sink, 
 And still they strive to think what they do think. 
 
 NODDING CRITICS 
 
 You saw good Homer nod ? But I saw you ; 
 Asleep you were ! (Some say that I slept, too.) 
 
IV 
 
 SONNETS AND EPILOGUE 
 
THE WINE OF LUSITANIA 
 
 TO S. R. E. 
 
 Oh, who would storm with foolish half-fledged 
 
 wings 
 The Heaven of Song, and in one morning spend 
 His lease of flight and music, and descend 
 To be henceforth with dumb, unbuoyant things, — 
 The scourge proud rashness from Apollo brings ! 
 Let me be mute an age, and take for friend 
 Strong Life — so may I offer at the end 
 One strain dew-freshened from Pierian springs, 
 That shall not other be than as the wine 
 Swart Lusitania for her kings doth shed : 
 Its clusters, hoarding up the rich sunshine, 
 Know not the groaning press nor peon's tread, 
 But, full ripe globe on globe, their sweets re- 
 sign 
 In slow distillment, slender, but divine ! 
 
 PASADA MANANA 
 
 Now I discern a day unrisen yet — 
 
 As they who dwell in valleys may behold 
 
110 SONNETS 
 
 The sun's bright feet on crag and parapet 
 Ere he o'erlays the lowland streams with gold ! 
 Now I discern the summers that shall be, 
 The flowers beneath the winter-chastened turf, 
 The leaves still furled within the hoary tree, 
 The birds that sport in southern sun and surf ! 
 What voices break from out the after-times ! 
 I hear them (I that soon am senseless clod) : 
 What stirs in busy marts, what morning chimes 
 In cities of new men and shrines of God ! 
 And yet these all shall pass, shall fall, in turn : 
 A morrow past to-morrow I discern ! 
 
 THE BITTEK-SWEET OF SPRING 
 
 Now is the tender moment of the year 
 When bards of Hellas feigned the sweet return 
 Of Ceres' daughter from the Night's sojourn. 
 Feigned ? Nay, she comes apace — she now is 
 
 here, 
 Soft-sobbing, while her mother's arms ensphere ; 
 Soft-laughing, childlike striving to relearn 
 Familiar words forgot in Orcus stern, — 
 While with her, sobs and laughs her mother 
 
 dear. 
 Hence for us also doth the season weave 
 A subtile weft of heartache and fine joy : 
 
TEE BITTER-SWEET OF SPRING HI 
 
 We walk in gladness, yet some fond annoy 
 From unlaid sorrow to our steps will cleave ; 
 But when we, single-hearted, turn to grieve, 
 Lo ! some new beauty springs with quick decoy ! 
 
 With pain of joy doth vernal nature thrill, 
 
 And takes its mood, sad-memoried, soothed, or 
 
 wild, 
 From ever-changing moods of Ceres' child : 
 Her groping thought, — the mists that valleys fill ; 
 Her kindling life, — the glow upon the hill 
 In mid-days when the quivering air is mild ; 
 Her wistful glance, — when golden suns have 
 
 smiled 
 Good-night on green fields stretching lone and 
 
 still. 
 Anemone and cress rain-swept and blurred, 
 Stirrings and sighings of the grass-blade frail, 
 Carols that wake among bare boughs, and fail, 
 
 The tree-toad's twilight cry, ere comes the bird : 
 
 Tokens of her thou hast both seen and heard, 
 And canst thou longer doubt the old Greek tale ! 
 
 in 
 Thou knowest not I love thee — no, not yet, 
 More than the plains in heavy darkness drowned 
 Forecast that cheerful Day will flow around, 
 And to the ancient Night his limit set. 
 
112 SONNETS 
 
 Thou knowest not thou hast me in thy debt, 
 More than this pallid winter-guarded ground 
 Forecasts the shower from April cloud unbound, 
 The drinking grass-blade and the violet. 
 Thou knowest not I love thee ! Yet no less 
 Than as the Day and Springtide hither tend 
 Do I with unperceived motion bend 
 My gradual steps toward thee; nor canst thou 
 
 guess 
 How I, for all delaying, will but bless 
 Thy life with richer service in the end. 
 
 IV 
 
 Deep in the heart of savage Winter lies, 
 Untracked and fair, a realm of halcyon dreams. 
 Limpid and free run on the talking streams ; 
 With bloomy drift the stooping tree replies. 
 Ofttimes a wood-sprite in a thrush's guise 
 Eludes all search, though near its rapture seems ; 
 And morning meadows, where the dew yet 
 
 gleams, 
 Look heavenward, vivid with a thousand eyes. 
 Last night Sleep bore me to this charm-wrapt 
 
 place, 
 Where thou (supreme in joy and peace alway) 
 Wast gathering cool white florets born of May. 
 Of these one dazzled with so strange a grace 
 That I besought thee tell its name and race. 
 Thou smiling saidst, " It is the Eye of Day." 
 
DEEP-SEA SPRINGS 113 
 
 Bright days are with us, lengthened and serene. 
 The clods grow mellow, and the forest hath 
 Its budding pleasures ; yet of Winter's scath 
 Some drear memorials here and there are seen. 
 For, though the wind no more breathes frosty- 
 keen, 
 It often floats the old leaves in our path, 
 Or sighs along some unreaped aftermath, 
 
 To mind us of the rigor that hath been. 
 
 O thou my Joy, Spring of my Wondrous Year ! 
 
 Forgive, if in thy presence aught of grief 
 
 Eemain from that dead time ere thou wast here. 
 
 Now, surely, such gainsaying shall be brief ; 
 
 For thou wilt set my feet where flower and leaf 
 
 And soft new sward blot out the stubble sere. 
 
 DEEP-SEA SPRINGS 
 
 Thou readest how in lands of tropic heat, 
 When lake and river fail and thirst is sore, 
 The parched dweller by the burning shore 
 Dives, while the sultry tides above him meet, 
 And fills a leathern sack from waters sweet 
 That, voiceless and unseen forevermore, 
 Unblending with the brackish current pour 
 From some remote spring-gladdened mountain- 
 seat. 
 
114 SONNETS 
 
 Thou readest too my heart ? In fate allied 
 To that poor diver of the salt-sea waste ; 
 Finding all else but leaves a bitter taste, 
 Recourse it hath not, in the whole world wide, 
 O Love ! save where, deep, silent, and untraced, 
 The freshening waters flow beneath the world's 
 faint tide. 
 
 TIME 
 
 Time is no rushing torrent, dark and hoarse, 
 As thou hast heard from bards and sages old ; 
 Sit here with me (wouldst thou the truth be- 
 hold), 
 And watch the current hour run out its course. 
 See how without uproar or sullen force 
 Glides this slim shadowy rill of atom gold, 
 Which, when the last slow guileful grain is told, 
 Forever is returned unto its source ! 
 This is Time's stream, by whose repeated fall 
 Unnumbered fond ones, since the world was 
 
 new, 
 Loitered as we, unwarned of doom the while ; 
 Wouldst think so slender stream could cover all ? 
 But as we speak, some eddy draws us, too — 
 Meseems dim grow thine eyes and dim thy smile ! 
 
MIS? Hi 
 
 MIST 
 
 Go, search the vasty reaches of the Mist, 
 O Fancy ! Haply to thy favored eyes 
 Green valleys may unbosom, hills may rise, 
 Where only plains have been. — Go lightly, hist ! 
 Lurk yonder where the King of Elves keeps 
 
 tryst, 
 In soft rose-gardens where the dew ne'er dries ; 
 Find out who listens to his fluttering sighs, 
 Whose wayward lovely lips are deftly 
 
 kissed! . . . 
 Now, more adventurous courses thou shalt beat : 
 This path shall bring thee where the Wilis lead 
 Their vacant dance with ever wilder speed ; 
 And this shall bring thee to that dim retreat 
 Where sit the Fates, and measures dark repeat, 
 While they the driven wheel and spindle heed. 
 
 ii 
 
 Unto a secret charge in nature list : 
 
 Oh, not of Evening, bowed on votive pyre, 
 
 And not of Morn, who with an urn of fire 
 
 Paceth the hills, a blessed votarist, 
 
 And laveth them with molten amethyst, — 
 
 Oh, not of Evening nor of Morn inquire 
 
 Where throbs the heart of passion and desire, 
 
 But seek it in the white enchanted Mist, 
 
116 SONNETS 
 
 Most like some human heart that would suppress 
 Its long-time trouble, yet the blanched cheek, 
 The veiled eye, the lips too tremulous weak 
 To ease the loaden spirit of its stress, 
 Shall the supreme of passion show not less 
 Than if that eye glanced fire, those lips should 
 
 ! 
 
 THE ROOF-TREE 
 
 Now, would that I might speak by breezy leaves, 
 Or words from human lips thou couldst divine ! 
 For if I knew thy speech, or thou knew mine, 
 I 'd tell thee, guardian of my roof and eaves, 
 What influence from thee my life receives, 
 When wave in green those sinewy arms of thine, 
 When stripped thou standest at the Shearer's sign, 
 Or when the stealthy night-frost's chisel cleaves. 
 Thy wordless counsel makes me glad and strong : 
 Thou showest, howe'er wild the winters be, 
 That they can do a rooted power no wrong ; 
 And thou in summer's pleasance teachest me 
 To make my heart the covert for a throng 
 Of singing-birds, — as thou dost, joyous Tree ! 
 
 THE GARDEN ON THE PANE 
 
 Where is another garden like to this, 
 So rank, so fine, so hardy, yet so fleeting, 
 
ANTE ROB 117 
 
 Where all delights of every zone are meeting ? 
 
 For here the palm-tree of the oasis, 
 
 The heaven-pointing fir thou shalt not miss, 
 
 Or fruited arbor-vine and orchard sweeting, 
 
 Or bees to make white honey for thine eating, 
 
 Or Psyche fluttering from the chrysalis ! 
 
 Ay, where is there a garden like to this ? 
 
 Here tenderest blooms look up when storms are 
 
 beating, 
 And lift their lips to take the East's bluff 
 
 greeting ; 
 Nor ever droops the bee, though sleet may hiss. 
 Here comes no grief, save from the Sun's fond 
 
 And from the amorous South -wind's tearful 
 cheating. 
 
 ANTEROS 
 
 My love, thou madest me to love thee first. 
 Then thought of thee and thine approach was 
 
 dear 
 And cordial as the wind that winnows clear 
 The orient verge, in sad sea-vapors mersed, 
 Ere Guido's vision on the dark world burst. 
 Thy presence was the Morning, far and near 
 With rainbow glamour lighting every tear 
 The flower uplifts to slake the sunbeam's thirst. 
 
118 SONNETS 
 
 My love, my love, thou makest me to fear ! 
 And now my soul, like some low intervale 
 Where the cold damps of night a mist exhale, 
 Before thee lies, blind all its paths and drear. 
 And wilt thou more ? — despise this drooping 
 
 cheer, 
 When thou it is hast caused my heart to fail ! 
 
 ii 
 
 Thou makest me to fear, — to move in dread, 
 As one who skirts a wood where every branch 
 Conceals an archer swift and fain to launch 
 A noiseless hest to join the unnumbered dead. 
 Ah, see ! Thou hast thy mordant heart so fed 
 With bitter doubt of mine that, if I blanch 
 At fancy I could prove to thee unstanch, 
 Thou deemest me by guilt disquieted ! 
 Thou mad'st me love, and mightst have bid me 
 
 show 
 With open vein how quick, how warm, how red, 
 The currents leap at Life's leal fountain-head. 
 Thou mak'st me fear, and therein wrongest so 
 Thyself and Love, thou needs must have me foe 
 Till thou thy dark ally, Distrust, have sped. 
 
 hi 
 
 If still thou love, thou knowest, — thou alone ! 
 But if thy purpose bindeth thee to dwell 
 Intrenched within a winter citadel, 
 Whence frost and brume and flawing storm are 
 blown, 
 
IN MEMORY 119 
 
 Lo ! mine ally I bring from near Love's throne, — 
 His foster-brother whose great heart doth swell 
 At wrongs done Love ; whose instant arm doth 
 
 fell 
 All pridef ul doubt in brooding darkness grown ! 
 Thus sieged, it may be that thou wilt dispel 
 The unnative clouds, and, morning-bright, emerge : 
 But if thou wilt not, I no longer urge 
 Thy laggard dawn ; but, bidding thee farewell, 
 I follow Love heard as a wave-swung bell 
 When light is gone and wildly runs the surge. 
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 L. T. L. 
 
 Think not of that wild tempest of the brain 
 That, bearing early darkness on its wing, 
 Shut down on her ere life's mid-journeying : 
 Madness to her clear soul was not germane, 
 But came from far, as to Italia's plain 
 Those blasts that out of arid Barca spring, 
 And for a season dearth and faintness bring, 
 But gone, the Land wears her old smile again. 
 No, no ; think not of her, thus scourged and cum- 
 bered, 
 But as ye oft beheld her long ago, 
 Roaming through fields as fair as Italy's own 
 
120 SONNETS 
 
 (And dearer loved) — a flower 'mid flowers un- 
 numbered, 
 
 Or where smooth waves of June-grass round her 
 flow, 
 
 In sunshine space, happy though all alone. 
 
 II 
 Once a sweet lady of a Southern race 
 Rode scathless through a northern wild where 
 
 dwelt 
 A remnant of uncouth and savage Celt. 
 At sight of her so fearless lovely face, 
 Unbent was many a knitted brow and base ; . 
 Some made the symbol of the cross, some knelt, 
 For every rugged heart a memory felt 
 Of the Mild Mother in her pictured grace. 
 So wert thou in this world, spirit all rare I 
 A soft bright passer through a way too rude, 
 Filling all eyes with thine unconscious share 
 Of a Supernal Beauty still pursued, 
 Still drawing us, until we greet it where, 
 Full-orbed, it shines in heavenly plenitude. 
 
 AUTUMN AND THE AFTERGLOW 
 
 When the far woods a misty veil assume 
 
 (The sun being gone), and stand in solemn hush, 
 
 To the pale heavens comes a heightened bloom ; 
 
AUTUMN AND THE AFTERGLOW 121 
 
 Slowly it gathers — an ethereal flush, 
 Blending the summer rose, the oriole's breast, 
 Wine, fruit, and leafage touched to various 
 
 flame, 
 The candle-light of home far seen and blest, 
 And flower-like, gem-like splendors without name. 
 This is the reminiscent Afterglow, 
 Day's riches told upon the bourn of Night : 
 So I, Life's pilgrim, ere from hence I go, 
 Resigning the sweet heritage of light, 
 Would view in the soul's west the pageant train 
 Of what hath been, but shall not be again. 
 
 ii 
 
 As dies the Day so dies the blessed Year, 
 Through dreamful languishment and mystic 
 
 trance, 
 With murmur-voiced adieu, and wistful glance 
 Still deepening as the shadow draws more near. 
 What is it wanders with the thistle's sphere, 
 Or darts before the gossamer's shimmering lance, 
 Or mingles with the lost leaves' elfin dance, 
 Or, birdlike, flutes along the upland sere ? 
 The host of those departing ! Yet, a while 
 They linger, and, with sweet remembering, 
 Catch back the tender prattle of the Spring, 
 The full heart-throb of Summer and her smile. 
 Good-by, fond Day, good-by, regretful Year ! 
 Ye go — the Night and Winter tarry here ! 
 
122 SONNETS 
 
 III 
 
 Sometimes in the late Year will come a day 
 Careless that Winter-ward the season turns : 
 Large dew replaces frost, the bees yet stray, 
 And, softened by the mist, the rare leaf burns 
 Pale rose, and tender green, and amber, too — 
 As though the time of bursting buds were near ! 
 The breath of Spring is on the lingering dew, 
 Yet ever runs abroad a whisper sere. 
 So to the spirit's lot it may befall — 
 Some dream of Youth deceives — brief while 
 
 deceives ! 
 My God ! From me the Spring is farther gone 
 Than in this hour the migrant bird whose call 
 Through alien lands sounds sweetly at dark dawn, 
 While silence deepens round our vacant eaves. 
 
 A LONE SOUL SPEAKS 
 
 There is no tree of yonder greenwood band 
 But hath a comrade, than the rest more near, 
 To whom it utters all the wind's wild cheer, 
 Communing through blithe leaves, with touches 
 
 bland. 
 Flower leans on flower, as its soft leaves expand, 
 And every spear of grass some neighbor spear 
 Saluteth, mingling glistening tear with tear, 
 When zephyr and the dew refresh the land. 
 
TO THOSE COMING/ 123 
 
 So claims the human spirit one more near 
 To whom it shows its counsels brave or weak ; 
 If none be near, then will the full heart call 
 Impassioned, on the common heart of all ; 
 And when, thus burdened, a Lone Soul shall 
 
 speak, 
 The world, — the world at large, will lend an ear ! 
 
 TO THOSE COMING 
 
 Who are ye far coming, unseen and unheard, 
 
 yet all-potent your sway — 
 Less than a shadow, yet throwing your shadow 
 
 far back on our way ? 
 For whose eyes are the life-tinted canvas, the 
 
 bronze and the marble bust, 
 When alike the portrayed and portrayer are 
 
 gone to be dust of the dust ? 
 For whom is the toil of the sage sweeping heaven 
 
 and earth in his glance ? 
 For whom is the verse of the bard, be it love, be 
 
 it war that he chants ? 
 For whom is all Art save the song that fleets on 
 
 the wave of the air, 
 And the speech of the player that feigneth all 
 
 things between hope and despair ? 
 To whom (wherever ye turn) shall our suppliant 
 
 hands be upcast, 
 With proffer supine of the trophies and triumphs 
 
 all time has amassed ? 
 
124 EPILOGUE 
 
 Who are ye that never have known us, and yet 
 
 shall our story record, 
 That have heard not accused nor accuser — and 
 
 yet shall bestow the award ! 
 Who are ye whose breath we entreat, when our 
 
 own shall be forfeit and fled, 
 To speak as we speak of the silent who dwell in 
 
 the realms of the Dead ? 
 Declare, are ye Gods, or the favored of Gods, 
 
 that we wait your decree, 
 Are ye nearer the wondrous Beginning, — more 
 
 skilled in its secret than we, 
 Or nearer the End of the race, through the infi- 
 nite tract of the years — 
 Are ye other than we, whose food and whose 
 
 drink are seasoned with tears ? 
 
 No ! not for you will I live but my own, who 
 
 dwell in To-day ! 
 Their joy shall be mine and their grief, I will 
 
 hang on the word they shall say ; 
 Dearer their accents germane than the alien 
 
 echoes ye wake ; 
 Least service for them shall be sweeter than 
 
 kingdoms subdued for your sake ! 
 I am even as one of a crew on an isle of the sea 
 
 cast away, 
 Whose springs and wild fruits unnumbered their 
 
 thirst and their hunger allay ; 
 Where the wave from the east bears the rose of 
 
 the morn to the sands at their feet, 
 
TO THOSE COMING ' 125 
 
 And at noon in the sylvan crown of the isle they 
 
 are sheltered from heat ; 
 Thence down through the meadows unsown, 
 
 where are none to reap or to bind, 
 They pass in the afternoon, plucking the flowers 
 
 of the sun and the wind, 
 And come where the wave from the west breaks 
 
 the evening star on the sands. 
 So they live, nor repine that they may not set 
 
 sail and behold other lands ; 
 And as one of their number might trace, as a pas- 
 time or summer-day task, 
 A legend — a song — of that isle, and, sealing 
 
 the scroll in a flask, 
 Might send it adrift on the waves and reck not 
 
 what fate was in store — 
 If it come where men read or sink in the sands 
 
 of a barbarous shore ; 
 So a record, perchance, will I trace, and cast it 
 
 abroad on the tide. 
 If it never shall reach you, content with mine 
 
 own in To-day I abide ; 
 If it come by the wandering flood to your hands, 
 
 and ye read it aright, 
 Ye shall pity not us who are gone, but shall envy 
 
 our full delight, 
 And chide the great deep that has risen and 
 
 hidden forever from view 
 The beautiful isle that received and sheltered 
 
 our castaway crew. 
 
126 EPILOGUE 
 
 SURSUM CORDA 
 
 Up and rejoice, and know thou hast matter for 
 revel, my heart ! 
 
 Up and rejoice, not heeding if drawn or undrawn 
 be the dart 
 
 Last winged by the Archer whose quiver is full 
 for sweeter than thou, 
 
 That yet will sing out of the dust when the ulti- 
 mate arrow shall bow. 
 
 Sing thou ! for now thou mayst sing, though 
 
 slender thy note were, and harsh ; 
 Sing as but once sings the swan borne down the 
 
 loved stream of his marsh ! 
 In this thou hast matter for revel, — that, sick 
 
 and undone as thou wast 
 (Thy wit and thy will in curious mazes frustrate 
 
 and lost), 
 Emerged art thou now, neither darkling, nor 
 
 blinded by fullness of light ; 
 Struck through are the fetters of law by a 
 
 Freedom unseen, in the height. 
 
 Now thou couldst laugh, nor thy laughter with 
 sinister burden be fraught ; 
 
 Now thou couldst weep where once were the eye- 
 strings tensioned with drought ; 
 
 Now thou couldst bless and God-speed, without 
 bitterness bred in thine heart, 
 
SURSUM CORD A ' 127 
 
 Loves, that, outworn and time-wasted, were fain 
 
 from thy lodge to depart : 
 Though dulled by their passing, thy faith, like a 
 
 flower upfolded by night, 
 New kindness should quicken again, as a flower 
 
 feels the touch of new light. 
 Ay, now thou couldst love, undefeated, with ar- 
 dor instinct from pure Love, — 
 Warmed from a sun in the heavens that knows 
 
 not beneath nor above, 
 Nor distance its patience to weary, nor substance 
 
 unpierced by its ray. 
 Though world-shadows utter abroad the figment 
 
 of night and of day ! 
 So should not error and evil enchain thee a 
 
 mourner for aye ; 
 Now couldst thou pity, and smile, where once but 
 
 the scourge thou wouldst lay ; 
 Now to thyself couldst show mercy, and up from 
 
 all penance arise, 
 Knowing there runneth abroad a chastening flame 
 
 from the skies. 
 
 Doubt not thou hast matter for revel, for once 
 
 thou wouldst cage thee in steel, 
 And, wounded, wouldst seek out the balm and 
 
 the cordial cunning to heal ; 
 But now thou hast knowledge more sovran, more 
 
 kind, than leech-craft can wield : 
 Never Design sent thee forth to be safe from the 
 
 scath of the field, 
 
128 EPILOGUE 
 
 But bade thee stand bare in the midst, and offer 
 
 free way to all scath 
 Piercing thee inly — so only might Song have an 
 
 outgoing path. 
 And now thou couldst sing — not as once, in one 
 
 voice, an iterant strain, 
 But sounding all measures organic, unstinted of 
 
 pleasure or pain ! 
 Thou fearest no more, avoidest no more a fiat 
 
 decreed, 
 Nor hopest thou fearingly, reaching forth impo- 
 tent hands for thy meed. 
 Now thou couldst love — couldst sing — holding 
 
 measureless cheer in thy gift, 
 For such as ungirded and baffled sit down 'mid 
 
 Time's wreckage and drift. 
 
 But now 't is not thine to bestow, to abide, or be 
 
 known in thy place ; 
 Withdraweth the voice into silence, dissolveth the 
 
 form and the face. 
 Death — Life thou discernest ! Enlarged as thou 
 
 art, thy ground thou must shift ! 
 Love over-liveth. Throb thou forth quickly. 
 
 Heart, be uplift ! 
 
/ SHALL REMEMBER 129 
 
 I SHALL REMEMBER 
 
 In the dim meadows flecked with asphodel 
 
 I shall remember ! 
 
 I shall not quaff 
 The waters of the immemorial well, 
 That darkly laugh, throwing oblivious spell. 
 The cup of memory I shall bear, shall drain 
 
 Again — again — again — 
 
 Down to the draff ! 
 
 I shall remember. 
 
 II 
 
 I shall not drink the waters of that well ; 
 
 I shall remember ! 
 
 Far from all mirth 
 I will make glad, make mad, the souls that dwell 
 In pale content obscure ; for I will tell 
 It is the Earth, once theirs they blindly seek 
 
 In search too weak, too weak, — 
 
 It is the Earth ! 
 
 I shall remember. 
 
 in 
 
 In the dim meadows flecked with asphodel 
 
 I shall remember ! 
 
 Fadeless it blows. 
 All sweetest blooms with Earth and Change do 
 dwell, 
 
130 EPILOGUE 
 
 And in their greeting mingle a farewell, — 
 More dear because they droop, they fade, they 
 
 The rose of love, alas ! 
 The rose, the rose 
 I shall remember. 
 
 IV 
 
 I shall not drink the waters of that well ; 
 
 I shall remember, 
 
 And weary not 
 Crying, " Ye shadowy dancers in the dell, 
 And ye whose shadowy arms do but compel 
 A shadowy foe, — this is not mirth, not strife ! 
 
 This is not life, not life ! 
 
 Have ye forgot ? " 
 
 I shall remember. 
 
 JSecot&or 
 
■4S5ARY OF CONGRESq 
 
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