)e:ms ClassZ-pSIQgl Book -A^T^ CoBTightN''_ COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. PERDITA AND OTHER POEMS BY ,. CHARLES J. BAYNE COLE BOOK COMPANY A T L A N T A : : GEORGIA 1 9 5 Copyright, 1905, by Cole Book Company. l.li-;KAHYof :'^)l«OK£SS] (wii Oopies Hocayou StP JL8 iyo5 COPY B. Press of Foote & Davies Co., Atlanta, Ga. Contents Page Perdita I Trovato 1 1 Wed 13 Unfulfilled l6 Vivien 1 8 A Fantasy 20 Dead Fadette 23 Hygeia of the Wards 25 Towards the Deep 27 Artiste 29 Be Thou "Kathleen" 31 Her Frown 33 "There Are Other Eyes in Spain" 34 A Song of Lost Loves 36 A Dirge 38 Val d'Arno ' 40 Venetian Memories 41 The Scorn of the Sky 43 rage Twin But Twain 45 Afloat 47 The Feast of Fools 49 The Nun 51 "Thou Shalt Not Walk Alone" 53 A Woeful Ballad of After Days 54 Our Ways 57 lltulertones 58 Measures 60 "When I Kissed Your Tears Away" 61 Love's Afterwhile 63 Her Heart 65 Entombed 66 After the Strife 67 A Sonp; and a Sigh 69 La Belle Concierjuc 70 "Make Her Thus Fair" 72 "String: Me the Strands" 73 Carpe Diem 74 "We Love Again" 76 Love at Noon 77 "Therefore I Call You Mine" 79 The Charm Eternal 81 The Autumn Gale 83 On Neho 85 In Tenebris 87 The Groom's Toast 88 Christopher Marlowe 90 Resurrection 91 Towards Sodom 92 " 'Twixt Longing and Alarm" 93 The Alps 94 "Rest Here, My Pilgrim Heart" 96 Margery Blair 98 Repentance 99 To Angelica, In the Canaries 100 Crucita 102 Cuba 103 Restored 105 Leo XITT i()^> "My Sea" 108 Once More i 10 "Spring Is Winter's Warning" 112 In Silence i 13 The (lolden Wedding 114 ^riie Platonists I 16 Discontent 117 Sarah In Town i 18 Her Married Name 120 "These Dog-Eared Books" 122 My Ships 124 Bas Bleu t2'5 Page Song of the July Fly 127 "She Whom I Loved Is Dead" 129 The Parson 13^ The Pettifogger 141 Acknowledgment. For the privilege of reproducing those poems in the present col- lection which have previously appeared in various periodicals, the thanks of the author are extended to the respective editors of The Atlantic, The Century, The Bookman, The Cosmopolitan, The Independent, Harper's Bazar, Puck, fVomans Home Companion, Leslie's Monthly Magazine, New Idea Woman's Magazine, and The New Orleans Times-Democrat. Perdita As JOCUND June laughs down the year, And poises, pensive, on her wing To catch the perfumed atmosphere Left by the funeral flowers of Spring, Her spirit sobered to deplore That something lovely is no more; So, with ingenuous joy he sees The feathering fern, the reddening rose, Takes tribute from the free-born breeze And thrills with evening's varying glows, Until from joy's own wild excess His heart recalls its one distress. For Spring is but a mocker now, And wears her livery of green Like laurels on starved genius' brow. Or lilies 'round a libertine. The flowering almond is her wand. But only spectres will respond. When last she rose, swift charioteer. And at her morning gate unreined The triple skylarks of the year To sweep through cloud-drifts unrestrained, He watched her with a soul as light As her own arch and airy flight. For then within his heart there dwelt A Spring as green as now 'tis gray. With fond affinity he felt The warmth of every cunning ray Which limned on leaf and wave and cloud The face so loved — and disallowed. But all is changed ! As some fair child Which gives the bride a name more blest, But with a fondness over-wild Is stifled on its mother's breast. Thus over-cherished Hope has died. And Love sits sobbing at its side. How changed indeed ! No longer floats From nature's morning minstrelsy The awakening hymn, but measured notes From leaf-luxuriant vine and tree Seem blending in the sad refrain That Hope can never live again. Be ye of those who feel? — whose eyes. By passion purged, can pierce the scroll Where old delirium underlies That o'er-writ palimpsest, the soul? — Can peer through glamour into gloom — Through kindly roses to the tomb ? 2 Be ye of those whose broader range Of mind and soul has sadly taught That change can never quite estrange, Nor wisdom bind rebellious thought? — That social cities are but grown From those who dare not be alone? For only those do I rehearse His tale of tenderness and tears. To meaner minds the throbbing verse Were but a jingle for their jeers. This is his miserere, wrung From heart-strings too intensely strung. For his were feelings finely wrought, And his were passions dark and deep. Though they had found the calm they sought. Like waves which war themselves asleep: Whate'er the wrecks below, his breast Had been, though rudely, rocked to rest. How sweet that period of repose! He saw the world with other eyes ; Watched every softer charm unclose. And asked his heart, with strange surprise, How could it vex itself a-sea When coves and calms like this might be. But ah ! just o'er his hillside home A storm-blown curlew came one day. Its white wings flecked blue heaven like foam, And filled the air with ocean's spray. Old instincts quickened ; the drowsy lea Waked to the shout: "The sea! the sea!" The ardor of forgotten years Swept back, and so intensified That earlier fancies seemed but seers, And this the love they prophesied. The sacred book seemed now unsealed Which youth's Apocal3^pse revealed. She rose before his ravished eyes Like some far landscape, calm and fair, Disclosed against the midnight skies By lightning's unexpected glare. With pulseless heart he stood and gazed, At once enraptured and amazed. She seemed the very self of grace Made manifest in womanhood ; The type of some intended race Withdrawn because the world was rude; A soul which stooped to pose in clay For some ideal swept away. The stately rhythm with which she stepped, Where'er her footsteps led, was such As if unconsciously she kept Responsive time to every touch Of rustling folds which first expressed Their rapture o'er the form caressed. Her voice ? Perhaps Prometheus, freed, Had filched it from the heaven of sound, Or Pan bequeathed his mellow reed To speak a languaj2;e more profound. It was a mortal note to chords Which immortality affords. A Parian chalice was her cheek, Through which the warm blood blushed like wine; And could some lordly lips bespeak One draught so rich from Autumn's vine, The heart it cheered would gladly pour Red drop for drop to purchase more. The depth of her expressive eyes Seemed meant to shame the pride of speech. Her smiles made wisdom seem less wise For all it could not hope to teach. Her breast, in its own strength secure, 1 hough earthly warm, was heavenly pure. The night beheld her darker hair, The brighter gems which there she wore, Then snuffed its stars with angry air And crimsoned into day once more. She was the all of love distilled. The heart's forefancied dream fulfilled. And when they two stood face to face 'Twas not as strangers, but with eyes Which seemed endeavoring to retrace, With vague misgivings and surprise, Features once held supremely dear, But lost in some remoter sphere. For them no slow and courtly arts, But conscious kinship, more intense For all the years their yearning hearts Had felt the lone and subtle sense Of some perfecting part denied. Which fate, in pity, now supplied. Ah! happier pair than they who sowed Young earth with thorns! their love so pure Was sin against man's flippant code, And, lashed by hands which failed to lure. These left the world behind, and felt That it was Eden where they dwelt. An Eden ? Yes, but even here. In this new garden where the soul Heard not the voice of God with fear, A deadlier than the serpent stole. And they who walked with hearts elate Yet glimpsed the skulking form of Fate. They read the portent well, and knew The cup which held the evening's wine Must hold the morning's tears ; that through Their thatch the stars must shortly shine. "But this," they said, "is love's own day, So be to-morrow what it may. " Their passion but intensified That they so soon must meet no more, As currents which would calmly glide, If smooth their bed and broad their shore, But dash with swift, impetuous shocks Between the channel's narrowing rocks. The focused frenzy of their bliss, In those brief, wind-winged days, outburned Linked years where each complacent kiss With lazy dalliance is returned ; 'Twas as the attar drop, which yields The perfume of imprisoned fields. And worthy was the ground where sprang Their fresh Tilphossa of delight; The birds, how soulfully they sang! How deeply shone the stars of night! There sympathy became a scene, And feeling clothed itself in green. The columned mansion where she dwelt With towering oaks was sentried 'round — A grove where Druids might have knelt And deemed their ancient rites refound. Cool walks which wound through tangled flowers Led shy love to inviting bowers. Through twining boughs their love-bright eyes Caught here and there a glimpse of heaven, As though the blue but faithless skies To hope a taunting sign had given, And night had lent each shimmering star To make the spirit sigh, "How far!" Beyond, a meadow, mild and green, Declined reluctantly away. As loath to leave the favored scene Where her light steps were wont to stray, Melting in graceful lines until Its grief became a tearful rill. Beside the purling stream grew wild A myriad flowers to cheer its flow, And there the droning bees beguiled Despairing hearts to steep their woe. All, all conspired to feed the fires Which brightlier burn as hope expires. Each day the lovers and the dawn Kept triple tryst, with face aglow That night's dark arras was withdrawn; Then heart met heart with mingling flow As in his warm, exulting arms He clasped her rich and rounded charms. They wandered through all solitudes Of sun and shade — to both allied By introspection's varying moods — Affection bidding them abide Where sportive sunbeams scampered down To tinge the teeming fields with brown; 8 And then, the undertrend of doom, Recalling all they soon must bear, tJntil the woodland's sober gloom More fitly harbored their despair. Through all, the strings so deeply mute Declared how sweet liad been the lute. With large-eyed look, the native speech Of tenderness too deeply wrought For weakling words to ever reach. They shared each changing swell of thought, Or mused upon the westering sun Until the hope-like day was done. Then when the welcome night came down. And perfumes filled the freshening air, She kissed his troubled brow of brown. Shook out the curtains of her hair And wooed him, on her warm, white breast. With heaving lullabies, to rest. At last it came — the parting hour — The hour of passion and of pain, To sear and sanctify the bower Where bliss could never bloom again. Their mad hearts throbbed, their dim eyes filled With dews which sorrow's night distilled. One wild embrace, as like to crush What life their crushed-out hope had left, A stifled sob, a tenser hush — 'Twas done. — They took the tangled weft False Fancy wove and made a shroud For Peace. — Then morning and the crowd. They who behold them say they smile; 'Tis but a parting of the lips Which with their feelings reconcile As idle seaweed unto ships. 'Tis but the phosphorescence shed Above the mute and moldering dead. They who behold them say the rose Upon their cheeks is still a-blush. Alas ! the world too rarely knows The healthy from the hectic flush. They laugh, but 'tis a maniac mirth Which in distracted hearts has birth. But if ye be of those whose range Of mind and soul has sadly taught That change can never quite estrange Nor wisdom bind rebellious thought, Ye know why all the warmth of May Still leaves the lichened grave-stone gray. lO Trovato Is IT but the idle fancy Of a mocking necromancy That together, leaf and blossom, by the Indus once we grew, And that Hafiz came, or Omar, To imprison the aroma In some half-remembered measure which has rhythmed me to you ? Is it false or is it real That, in ages more ideal, I was song and you were Sappho; you were sunbeam, I the dew? For I long have felt the burgeon Of a passion, vague and virgin, Which you quicken to remembrance of a former life we knew. Were you stream when I was willow? Was I shell when you were billow? For your voice has ever echoed through the hushes of my heart; And it seems, as I behold you, That the very air foretold you By the fragrance which, in welcome, all the budding boughs Impart. But at last I stand beside you, And the fate which long denied you Yields, in recompense, a dearer incarnation than my dream. What I sought to what you are, Love, Was as twilight to the star, Love, As the languor is to summer, as the murmur to the stream. And since age on age has perished But to bring the soul I cherished. Wherein thought and feeling, blended, are as petal and perfume, Let us linger here forever. Where the pride of all endeavor Is a fervor which to passion is as glamour unto gloom. Yet, if Fate reserves its malice But to break the lifted chalice, Let me mingle with the elements, where once I was a part; Then, on some supernal morning Which your beauty is adorning. As a dewdrop in a lily, I may nestle in your heart. 12 Wed The lights of yesternight are out, And their extinguished ray Has left a deeper gloom to flout The scene which once was gay. The wine-sprent board, the shattered f Bespeak the cheer of vanished hours. The kiss is cold upon the lips Which swore a treacherous troth; The honeyed cup's deceptive sips Are now a tasteless froth. The tripping measures now are mute: The worm is feeding on the fruit. But in our lives a lonelier waste And darker night succeed ; The flowering hope that hour effaced Is now a withered weed. The cup which held our votive wine, Alas ! lies shattered at the shrine. They who have never seen the light Are but one-half so blind As those whose overdazzled sight 13 Has left its gloom behind. The heart whose feelings once were fond Alone is tensioned to despond. The glittering round of pledge and jest Needs must have wrung tiiy soul, When Memory, that unbidden guest, Pushed by, untouched, his bowl. And with his sad, reproachful gaze Called back the truth of other days. For, though thy heart feel vaguely void, Uncrushed lies many a seed. And love will linger undestroyed — Just bruised enough to bleed ; The dreams thus temporized to rest Will scorn a burial so unblest. Within that warm and roseate room 'Tis well that all shone bright. For, shamed to see thee thus assume The meaning veil of white, The moon's once soft, approving rays Were shadowed in a deepening haze. Ah ! yes, 'tis well, for that one hour Of splendor and of pride Must weigh against the crushing power Of years unsanctified. The vows which gave our love the lie Have wrought a tether, not a tie. And when his lips shall claim their right, And when his arms shall twine The form which glowed, that parting night, Responsively to mine, Beware lest he, poor fool, should know Wherefore thy bosom trembles so. Beware lest sleep should lead thee back To some familiar scene Where love has left its truant track, And former fields are green ; For thou must " murder sleep," lest he. Unsleeping, hear, and murder thee. When infant cheeks shall press thine own, And wake one hallowed flame, How poorly will that love atone For all he could not claim! Yet warmlier nurse thine Alpen-rose Because it flowered amid the snows. Down with the pandering creeds which hold Affection's holier law Subaltern to the bonds which gold And ritual rote may draw! Down with the mockers who declare The incense purer than the prayer! I liold a higher creed, which scorns The tinsel ties of lust ; Which neither wealth nor power suborns — A scale forever just. Belshazzar, too, with heathen fume Steeped Judah's vessels. Read thy doom! Unfulfilled My soul is silent now ; The voice of f:;rief is weak ; But such as Sinai's hurninp; brow Once heard, it yet shall speak. What then the Prophet saw Was those convulsive throes When nature first ^ave birth to law, And love's dominion rose. But when it speaks again — This Sinai of my soul — In wrath at love and law's disdain Its thunder-bursts shall roll. My grief shall find a tongue, — Not in my brooding breast, But in thine own, by conscience stimg, My wrongs shall be confessed. Responsive passions prove 'llie (lodhood of the heart; Alliance is the law of love — And yet we dwell apart. i6 Sea-trothed the rivers roll ; The ring-doves coo to mate ; Then can it be that soul from soul Should part — and call it Fate? You bade me ^o — I go ; Nor envy him the kiss Thy cold and loveless lips bestow- In mockery of bliss. Be his the Judas brand, Though 'tis thyself thus sold ; The jeweled Jura of thy hand Will glitter, though so cold. Be mine, through coming years, The memory of that hour The dearer diamonds of thy tears Confessed affection's power. Be his the loveless tie; Though tieless, love was mine. The watered lees may liquefy, But never can be wine. 17 Vivien When twittering swallows sweep the skies, And deep-wood doves are cooing ; When every breeze from flowered leas Is drowsy with the drone of bees And sweets of sunny brewing, The happy-hearted say, " How fair ! " " 'Tis May-time ! " sing the mated ; But Vivien, Vivien, luster-eyed. My Vivien, long denied, 'Tis yours to bring the breath of spring For which my soul has waited. When sunset sobers into gloom. And gloom to moonlight mellows ; When Hesper pales, and nightingales From leafy knolls and lonely vales Are calling to their fellows. The overwearied sigh, " Repose ! " With dreams their sorrows lighten ; But Vivien, Vivien, hazel-haired, My Vivien, long despaired, 'Tis yours alone, with touch and tone. My night to calm and brighten. t8 When Memory, from her loom of light, Wove out her fairest fancies. Where hope could trace that tender grace Which, God-like, quickens form and face. And, mortal-like, entrances, "How constant to ideals," I mused, "Are mind's inconstant creatures!" But Vivien, Vivien, heaven-exiled. My Vivien, earth-beguiled, I could not guess that each impress But wore thy destined features. When Spring is in the crimpled leaf. And moonlight melts to morning — When Memory veins with somber grains The beauty of her woven skeins, And hope is half a warning, Grief, on her tear-drop rosary, Tells off the mocking hours ; But if, my Vivien, love unfold Its petaled heart of gold, The brown old earth shall bud with mirth And life shall laugh with flowers. 19 A Fantasy On a time, when I was yet her halting claimant, And debated what we may not understand, I beheld her, as she stood in scarlet raiment — A lily in her hand. She had come as if she vaguely thought of veiling Half the splendor of her beauty in the gloom Which had gathered while the ember light was failing Within a lonely room. How the darkly rich apparel softly folded All her sinuous young form in its embrace ! But the lily, in a hand divinely molded, Leaned lightly to her face. Even whiter than the lily were her eye-lids, Yet her eyes were dark as passion, when upturned, As if underneath those wavering and shy lids A tropic ardor burned — Burned the fervor of all sleeping, mad desires — All the languor of a luscious Asian June, When the earth is faint with Summer's ripening fires And seems awhile to swoon. Down her forehead rolled, in elemental wildness, Trailinf]; cloud-racks from the tempest of her hair, Undemeath which, like a moon-rift, shone in mildness A brow-line pearly fair. Thus she came, and thus she spake — in words unuttered Spake with budding lips that blossomed not in speech: "Look upon me! I am fair! The bird has fluttered, And rests within your reach. "Look upon me! I am fair! and in my raiment You have seen the outward symbol of my soul ; All the passion that is pulsing for a claimant Will leap to your control! "But upon my breast I hold this fragile lily; You shall crush it in the fervent first embrace ; Then whatever else go well with us or illy, Its petals die apace." In the twilight room I left her with her lily, But the vexing vision sought me in my dream. God ! which is it, when the night is wan and stilly — Things are, or only seem? Once again she stood before me ; but a vesture Of white samite floated 'round her like a cloud; Utter passiveness of feature, form, and gesture All passion disavowed. Not a zephyr of the tempest now was stirring Where her raven hair was braided on her brow; Not a hint of hidden mystery was blurring The eyes upon me now. But the lily, late imperiled as a warder Between her and my rapturous embrace — It had vanished ; and a poppy, red with ardor, Was flaming in its place. 22 Dead Fadette Ah, me, but the mold is damp and cold. And close is the dwelling place Which the faithful few who saw me through Have assigned in Pere la Chaise! And the wavy hair, which was all too fair, Uncurls down over my face. Does the restless tide of the world outside Roll by with the old-time swell? Do the lights still blaze in the gay cafes. And the mirth run 'round as well As if there were yet no dead Fadette? Is it bright on Sa'n' Michel? It seems that I hear small grass roots near, As they break through the crusted loam; Can it be so long since I left the throng Where the midnight beakers foam, As the chansons rise to the waking skies From beneath the Pantheon's dome? I know not the hours this long night devours! Has the butterfly burst his cell? Do the gardens glow with the blooms that blow 23 In the beds I knew so well ? Or the cold rains beat on the glistening street? — Is it bright on Sa'n' Michel? Poor, pretty Fadette ! Her cheeks are wet, But not with the April tears, Ever ready to rise in her bright, blue eyes, In the volatile by-gone years! Have they all forgot that her eyes shine not, And her form no more appears? Ho, Ganj^mede, there, with mincing air. Some wine, of the rich Moselle! Rape the dustiest bins! — Friends, here's to our sins! And the sins of our friends as well! Now a hearty " Toujours vive la joie, vive I'amour !' Make it bright on Sa'n' Michel! Ah, no ! I but dream, for the lights that gleam Are those that the grave damps shed; Nevermore can wine send a thrill divine Through the veins whose warmth has fled. In a last embrace, here in Pere la Chaise, Poor, pretty Fadette is dead! And this is the wage which saint and sage So futilely still foretell For the sun-bright soul which defies control. Laughing rosily on to dwell Where the feverish race leads to Pere la Chaise From the lights of Sa'n' Michel. 24 Hygeia of the Wards When the shapes which pain paints dark on the brain Scowl back from the casement square — When the gargoyles peer with a bleary leer, And the black bats float through the air, My warder with the soft, cool hands, As you sit serenely by. With a look that understands, How brightly real is your eye I When Caliban sprawls on the crawling walls, Enwreathed with a garland of girls, And the sea-weed, pied with eyes that have died, Sweeps by on the tide of their curls. My watcher with the calm, fair face. Making ever my care your care, There breathes a wholesome grace From the waves of your nut-brown hair. When into the ear which needs must hear, With iterant, iterant fall, All the long night through doth still pursue The fantasy's whispered call, Hygeia of the footfall soft, Who comes, and the wards rejoice. Hale winds from the wood and croft Are stirred by your morning voice. 25 When the treacherous edge of the beetling ledge Crumbles off, and the senses swim, As the winds sweep by with a shriek and cry From the depths that are cold and dim, As you sit at the cot-side there, With a finger-touch firm and sure, I am snatched from the eddying air To the footing that is broad and secure. When the days of peace shall bring release. And the grotesque walls are bare, One trace of pain I shall yet retain Of the coverlid land of care; And ever when the torn feet bleed, In what land soever they fare, IVIy heart shall turn in its need To the hands that healed me there. 26 Towards the Deep Let the lilies flaunt their graces, Since the golden hearts which bide In the folded buds' embraces Will adorn a richer tide. Statelier swans will sweep the lake When the cygnets quit the brake Where the Undines lave their faces, Unespied. More melodious Junes are sleeping In the lingering linnet's throat. And a richer dawn is peeping Where the sunset aureoles float; When the plaintive minor dies All the grand crescendos rise, Deeper rapture onward sweeping, Note by note. And, as Sulla's rebel minion Vaunted more the rising sun, Love may turn on listless pinion When the zenith well is won. Spelled by some diviner glow Which affection yet may know. Since through even hearts Hercynian Danubes run. 27 Hence I wait till, through the hushes Which thy latent passions keep, Like some rosy dream that blushes On the russet bough of sleep, Love shall leap and greet my own With an ardor yet unknown. As the deep-born river rushes Towards the deep. 28 Artiste When April pipes her pastoral note, And all the daisies dance, You catch the fairy festival And fix the green expanse ; When Memory pipes the Graces down In their elusive guise, They all assume Your shape and bloom, And dartle with your eyes. When Summer drowses into dreams, And, dreaming, laughs in flowers, You hold the riches of her prime Against the brigand hours ; WTien Fancy, steeped in slumber, yields Some echoes of your voice. Beyond the spell Those echoes dwell. And bid me still rejoice. When Autumn, from her russet locks, Shakes dapples brown and bright, You garner shadows into sheaves And bind them with the light ; When Fortune, from her checkered store, 29 Dispenses joy and care, Through you I find A hope to bind The gleanings of despair. When through old Winter's tattered cowl His snowy tonsure peers, The glory 'round his dying brow You give to future years. So, when life's withered joys reveal The cheerless waste below, Your vanished face Bequeaths its grace Through Memory's golden glow. 30 Be Thou "Kathleen" Angkls enough Heaven holds in its glory, Far ofF, unseen: Come, sweeten earth and make life a new story; — Be thou "Kathleen!" Though many mansions rise Radiant in Paradise, Though happy flowers blow Where the cool waters flow, Be thou "Kathleen!" Not in the fictional fashion of fairy-land, Not as a queen. Not, baladora-like, treading a saraband, — Come as "Kathleen," Angel, queen, fay thou art, Yet to this clay thou art Dearer when nearer, and I by your side may stand ; Be thou "Kathleen!" Leave to more shallow hearts moods that are airier; Wear in thy mien Gentle assurance that never a barrier Barrcth Kathleen. Then shall my heart, aflame With that enkindling name, Say, " Thou, my best employ. And thou, my dearest joy. Be thou Kathleen!" Time will not stay, — alas! see how the winged years Pass as the sheen Glints o'er the meadow-lands where wave the ripened ears- Be thou "Kathleen!" Into these seeing eyes — Where now the tears arise — Soon dusty death must be Blown from Life's arid lea ; Be thou "Kathleen!" 32 Her Frown There is magic in the music when the fountains of her mirth Into h'quid waves of laughter ripple down ; And her eyes a deeper rapture In their dreamy moments capture, But I cherish most her features archly gathered in a frown. In the masquerade of faces desolation wears a smile, While the gravest in demeanor is the clown ; But I know that in revealing Every transient thought and feeling She is nearest when her forehead sweetly furrows with a frown. In her eyes there gleams a splendor which no shadows can subdue, Like the glint upon the waving fields of brown ; As the glowing embers mingle With the ashes on the ingle. Glows her soul among the thoughts which gravely wait upon her frown. All the shifting lights and shadows which her April eyes assume Wear a charm of which this aspect is the crown ; And if she could guess the ardor Of my thoughts as I regard her, How I wonder would her features coldly gather in a frown ! 33 "There Are Other Eyes in Spain" There are other eyes in Spain, — Dark and dazzling eyes, Crucita, Rosebud lips which wait the rain Like the harvest for Demeter. Do not distance with disdain: There are other eyes in Spain. Thou art fashioned in a mold Of the most sj^mmetric graces ; Thy brown beauty is extolled As alone the fairest face is. But how foolish to be vain ! There are other ej'es in Spain. There is music in the tone Of thy syllables, and silence. With a sweetness all its own, Compensates for words' exilence. But in pride be this thy strain : There are other eyes in Spain. I have loved thee; yea, perhaps There is still a tender feeling; 34 But beware the cold relapse Of a long neglected kneeling. Love will spread its wings again: There are other eyes in Spain. 35 A Song of Lost Loves Trinita, Crucita, Anita — Through the gathering mist of the years, With the infinite graces of dimpled, brown faces, How roguishly each of you peers! Have I not said, "Get thee behind me!" And long since forgotten the roll — Trinita, Crucita, Anita — Of the liquids which captured my soul? Trinita, Crucita, Anita — Why, the day of our passion is dead. My thoughts must not waver from themes that are graver Than busied my idle young head. Yet there, like a trio of Dryads Half hid in a trellis, you smile — Trinita, Crucita, Anita — With lips that were made to beguile. Now, know you not, truant Trinita — Soft sylph whose delight is to lave Where the warm Caribbean sings ever a paean Of praise as j^ou mount on the wave — That time has brought Marys and Sarahs, And many more home-like in sound 36 Than Trinita, Crucita, Anita, However the liquids abound? And know you not, cruel Crucita — Who quickened my heart to a flame, Like some sulphurous crater beneath the equator In far Ecuador, whence you came. That the years on their wings have brought healing — Spelled Helen, perchance, who is fair, Trinita, Crucita, Anita, With not a dark strand in her hair? And you so much earlier and sweeter That your name I enmask in my rhymes; You know that love varies, though toward the Canaries I once worshiped, vespers and primes. No more of that wreathing with roses Those glossy black ringlets, for thine, (With those of Trinita, Crucita!), Have sprinkled the silver in mine. Trinita, Crucita, Anita ! Even now I grow weak in my will; Were all of you Circes whose kisses were curses I know I should welcome you still ; For under those languorous lashes. And in every dimple's soft mold — Trinita, Crucita, Anita — The dreams of my youth I behold. 37 A Dirge Old^ old, old as the records of birth Is thy story, O Death! Cold, cold, cold as when, first-born of earth, Abel tasted thy breath! Yet solace has never a psalm And Gilead never a balm All thy sorrows to calm. Fold, fold, fold o'er her tenantless breast Snowy vestments, O Tomb! Tolled, tolled, tolled be the bells for the rest Of her soul in its bloom! Lo ! all the processional years. As they file down the highway of tears, Bring her voice to our ears. Flown, flown, flown on the wing of the Spring, From the portal of June! Blown, blown, blown ere the Summer could bring The year's dial to noon! And with her a glory has fled As if the sear roses had said, " Let us die; she is dead!" 38 Moan, moan, moan with the Winter's unrest, Wind of sea and of shore! Lone, lone, lone we who loved her the best, And can now but deplore! No lonelier lieth she there Where dust, fashioned ever so fair. Unto dust must repair! Old, old, old as the records of birth Is thy story, O Death ! Cold, cold, cold as when, first-born of earth, Abel tasted thy breath! And yet when the night-shadows creep. With a newness of anguish we weep For her spirit asleep! 39 Val d'Arno As lake-boats seek their twilight coves, And flocks their foUi at night, I languish for the grots and groves Where still each Nymph and Naiad roves Who taught my youth delight. How wild the wind-swept waste of furze! How shrill the killdee's call! Yet there I know how warmly stirs The breeze among the gossamers Which fleck the tuff^d wall. The far peaks don their caps of snow For winter's long repose, But, browning on the slopes below, The tangled olives nod, and glow The crimson coquelicots. Sweet Arno! As the light of shrines On some lone wayside gleams. So from the circling Apennines The memory of thy valley shines, The beacon of my dreams. 40 Venetian Memories (In a Volume of "Gondola Days.") Once more I hear the {gondolier As throuf^h the windinji alleys, With speedinji; oar and vvarninfz; clear He lightly veers and sallies; Once more the pif:;eons preen and coo In sunny square and tower, While far Friuli, faintly blue, Sleeps out the sultry hour. The brif2;ht lagoon reflects the moon Where crimpling waves are breaking; Night, with the voice and breath of June, In joyous swell is waking; The (larkened dials half forget 1\) sermonize on pleasure. Where '^fime is but a canzonet. And Life treads out the measure. I found her fair when wandering there. Hut, summoned by these pages. The Venice which with thee I share My deeper love engages ; 41 "Pis not the spt'Il of l)ofi;c aiul I)iiilc Willi wliicli she now ciitraiucs, Hut (Ii.it, vvitli soul to soul iillicd, \Vc (r.uc her old roniMrucs. 42 The Scorn of the Sky lil.KAK, all! bleak were tlu- lull and the liratlu-r; Cheerless and chill was the sky; Wintry the hearts and wintry the weather — Fitly has fallen the die. Fair, ah! fair were the June blossoms blushing; Green }2;rew the tall, tassel ed corn, When, with thy soft cheek blanchin^j; and flushln^i;, Heart from its twin heart was torn. Ne'er, ah! ne'er was the sim su( h a sultan; Ne'er was the earth such a bride; Ne'er did the Naiads of blown blooms exult on JJreast of so brijijht-briinined a tide. Such, ah! such was the scene when we severed. Mow, shall we meet, wondered 1, When, having vainly endured and endeavored. Love can not hope, can not die? How, ah! how will the skies bend above us? — Sun-lit or storm-lashed the day ? Warm as our dof)m-dole(I last kiss as lovers? Cold as the part we must play? — 43 Cold, ah! cold, and not solely in seeming: Drear are the hearts that must wear, Like a pent pink where glaciers are }2;leaming, Love in the thrall of despair. Now, ah ! now we have met ; it is over ! Both read the scorn of the sky. Fast fell the snow where once bloomed the clover; Wanly the clouds drifted by. Bleak, ah! bleak were the hill and the heather; Cheerless and chill, thou and L Wintry the hearts and wintry the weather, Fitly has Fate cast the die. 44 Twin But Twain Shall I be there, Where bridal tapers brightly flare, And mocking music fills the air, A cypress leaf to lurk beneath The whiteness of the orange wreath? Shall I stand by. While life's last hope you crucify, And teach my lips a smiling lie, Bleeding, though bland, while labored wit But ill conceals the counterfeit? Shall I whose eyes. Beneath those same resplendent skies. Once warmed the love you now despise, Pledge thee at Cana when their brine Must be the water for my wine? Ah! no, not there, For it would seem to my despair That when they gem your raven hair And clothe thee like the saintly dead, A sadder ritual should be read. 45 And such to me That hour, indeed, shall ever be, Until, in sweet eternity. The souls which fate made twin but twain Shall meet and minp;le once apain. 46 Afloat Ah ! could we ever drift and dream In these cool coverts of repose, The world, like yonder restless stream Which vainly sparkles as it flows. Would leave beneath thy sweet control The calmed Propontis of my soul. Rich as the splendor of a day Bequeathed to one memorial star. Soft as the mirrored lifj;hts which play At eveninjj; through each melting bar, This silvery isle in wastes of green Receives its long expected queen. The listless prow, the idle oar, The courtly waves which dance to thee. The reeds which line the circling shore, And, as the petals hide the bee, Enfold us in their fond embrace — All but reflect thy varied gra(;e. But birds forget their morning note. The jasmines shed their cups of gold ; And, like some gorgeous cloud afloat, 47 Thou, too, wilt pass and, unconsoled, Leave to the languor of despair The scenes thy presence made so fair. Still, if in this enchanted sphere No longer we may drift and dream, 'Tis ours at least to wake and steer, 'Tis ours to leave the restless stream, And twine from roses of to-day A garland for some happier May. 48 The Feast of Fools This is the Feast of Fools, Heart of my heart's desire; Wisdom abates her rules — Motley the sole attire; Hence in my hardihood come I to pray, Be mine to-day. Year round, my cap and bells Nod in your courtly train, While that my soul rebels Under your light disdain ; Yet on this Feast of Fools one dares to say, Be mine to-day. Well may you laugh it down; Never such folly since Titania clasped a clown As her white bosom's prince; — Wherefore this Feast of Fools bids you say, "Yea, "Take me to-day." Hautboy and dulcimer Strike up a frolic air; Ermine and miniver 49 Join in the merry fair; This is the Feast of Fools; — therefore you may Be mine to-day. Sages in sober gray Teach us to borrow Prudence from yesterday Against to-morrow. Folly shall flout the schools ; shame on delay ! Be mine to-day. 50 The Nun 'Tis not for you, my lady fair, To fold your dimpled hands, To darker hood your raven hair, And on your lily brow to wear The Sister's whiter bands. The eyes which mock those cloister cloths And glitter through the gloom Too brightly tempt us mortal moths For one whose virgin soul betroths The convent for a groom. Let those retire who quit mankind To measure scorn for scorn ; The weak of heart or strong of mind. Who there may take their wounds to bind, Or guard against the thorn. But you? — ah! no, my lady fair. The Maker's marks are plain ; Such charms could never bring despair, The crimson currents coursing there Are not for cold disdain. But if you needs must take the veil, And henceforth dwell apart, Come where the Credo and the Hail Are loyal love's own tender tale. And cloister in my heart. 52 "Thou Shalt Not Walk Alon( Thou shalt not walk alone! The shadows p;ather and the weird winds moan, The ghoul, Grief, grinneth on the graven stone; Wild is the way, but lone it shall not be If I may share thy pilgrimage with thee. As from a mystic scroll Which love and sympathy alone unroll, I read the secrets of thy sorrowing soul, And with responsive sorrow take thy hand To lead thee o'er the baleful borderland. I know the torturer's tongue In spiteful rage has racked thee, and has wrung The blood of suffering from the heart which stung Presumption with defiance, yet the scar Will but attest how firm thy virtues are. Be cheered, if I may cheer, For thou, the dearest, shalt be doubly dear; World-wounded spirit, make thy haven here. Deep as the love thou wakenest in my breast Shall be my rapture and thy perfect rest. 53 A Woeful Ballad of After Days Well, I find you fair as ever, Golden Hair, And, despite my best endeavor To beware. Comes a soft and subtle feeling Of — you know — all through me stealing, As in days when I was kneeling At — ^your chair. Time has touched you rather lightly, It appears ; (Little wonder that so knightly Passed the years!) Though the pink Cordelian jewel Bears a witness somewhat cruel That the end of bib and gruel Swiftly nears. Turn the light a little higher, If you please ; Is that matronly attire Meant to tease? With your curls in sober braiding. Aren't you merely masquerading, 54 The illusion deftly aiding With your keys? No? Ah, well! I will remember— If I must; Though 'tis hard to see the ember Turn to dust — Hard to see you standing by me While familiar lips deny me, And your very eyes defy me — With their trust. Still, we showed the sun a warmer Zodiac, Should he wish to quit his former Beaten track; My remembrance of the bliss is, Those were not the frigid kisses Of the water colored misses On a plaque. Why, we taught Dan Cupid fashions In his trade; And we showed him finer passions. Ready made. So you can not greatly blame me That the old emotions claim me. When the charms that overcame me Will not fade. Yet it's idle to invoke the Youth we praise; 55 It has vanished — with the polk, the Polonaise ! I will pitch a tent in Edom, Take your letters out and read 'em- And reflect how sweet is freedom, All my days. S6 Our Ways Though my way lead through the lone wood, And thy way lead o'er the hills, I feel and I swear That we both but fare To the tryst which a long love wills. For after the gloom of the forest, And after the gleam on the crest, It can not but be That for thee and for me Comes the land which we both love best. I strive not to reason or reckon — To parallel paths that divide. But, threading the maze Of the tortuous ways, We shall yet journey side by side. "Good night," let it be, till "Good morrow:" In love and in faith I shall wait. The veil on thy brow And the syllabled vow Can not alter the purpose of Fate. 57 Undertones How strange, how stranjj;e that you, the tender-hearted, Should teach me scorn of very tenderness. And send the soul which loved you, stunned and thwarted, Back where the worldinjzis press! What is the vaunted comradeship of feeling. And what the sweet community of mind. Since you, being you, to all my warm appealing, No answering thrill can find ? In the calm night, when silence was unbroken. Save by the influent voices of the spheres. Have we not caught them, and, with thoughts unspoken. Shared them through spirit ears? All august mysteries of life eternal — The muffled thunder of a falling leaf. The star-light flashes from the gates supernal, With heaven in faint relief — Have we not listened through the quiet hours. With hearts accordant to each undertone. And marked with mutual eyes the symboled powers Revealed to us alone? 58 And is there no endearment left to bind us? Must I in you, as in the leaf and star, But glimpse a heaven, sent only to remind us That heaven is yet afar? No more calm nights, no more of feelings tender, Since heaven is far and tenderness is pain; What unto me is rendered let me render, And seek the world again. 59 Measures Must I at last in slow, f!;rave measure }i;rect thee? In low, calm cadences, with dying fall, 'Round whom the rippling lyrics, fain to meet thee, So loved to break and brawl? Must we who walked such sunny ways together — Shared the soul-whispers of the lake and wood, Set separate paths across a rain-drenched heather, And dare an unknown flood? Time is not change; ah! Time is but a garden Where neighboring buds are nearest when they blow- Where tender tendrils which the seasons harden, Cling closer as they grow. Space is not distance; giving thought for thought, Love, In the tense hushes, under sun and star, A code and cable we have slowly wrought. Love, Which makes no near and far. So if in slow, grave measures I must greet thee, Then in diminuendos of despair Expires the fairest hope which rose to meet me When life was very fair, 60 "When I Kissed Your Tears Away" Night, but silver-veiled the valley; Night, but splendor on the hill; While below us musically Broke the ripples of the rill. Witching nature's soft beguiling Made the night a mellow day ; — All the world, beside, was smiling When I kissed your tears away. Heart to heart, in tumult beating. Told their parting tale too well, Like some wind-swept strings repeating Dirges for their shattered shell. Love bemoaned its ill-starred capture, And the lips which must unsay, Trembled with a bitter rapture When I kissed your tears away. Love-locked arms, with frenzied passion. Strained farewell, yet yearned to stay; Over twinned cheeks, anguish ashen. Pitying ringlets stole astray. Eyes, like misty temple tapers, When the incense clouds their ray, 6i Shone through sighs whose melting vapors, Turned to tears, I kissed away. Hoodwinked hope, poor fettered falcon! Fretted for that genial sky Where no Alps nor horean Balkan Breathed their chilling influence nigh. Or, with yet a manlier daring, Longed this anxious heart to say, "Storms may come, but, undespairing. Love shall kiss your tears away." But alas! for fate and feeling. And alas! for those who part: Time can bring no power of healing, Absence no remedial art. Yet awhile the husk and lentil And the exile's sunless day. Until, lily-lipped, but gentle. Death shall kiss our tears away. 62 Love's Afterwhile I MAY not rule the despot stars Which pigmy every towen'np; hope, Nor scorn t!ic tyrant fate which bars My soul within its narrow scope, But o'er life's troubled Galilee I still may steer to peace and thee. I may not strike the minstrel strings Which echo into far renown, Nor find the feigned Bahaman springs Through guardian verdure gurgling down But wherefore music when you speak? What spring beyond your eyes to seek? And here my ranging heart shall rear Its utmost pillars of desire: Unreasoning pride and brooding fear Are lost in love's refining fire ; And if their sweetness now be o'er, Life's misstrung chords shall jar no more. Through all those drear, distracting hours, My Memnon heart still turned to thee; 63 And there, though night still darkly lowers, Its orient gaze shall ever be, Until, in love's sweet afterwhile. Its voice shall greet thy morning smile. 64 Her Heart TAKri aw;iy the flowirif^ R'd'^ons That exhilarate no more; f\jr within her fervent eyes All the summer sunlij^ht lies That the garnered f^rape could store. 'I'ake away the lute, the laughter That once made the heart rejoice; For, like streams upon the pehhles, Breaking into trembling trebles, Is the music of her voice. 'I'ake away the richest roses That the gardens ever grew; For her coyly curling lips Too transcendcntly eclipse All their grace of curve and hue. Take away the gleams of glory. Whose allurements but impart Gloom to this despairing spirit Which would sooner, far, inherit Her sweet, sympathetic heart. 65 Entombed As the great who, dying glorious, In their temple-tombs repose, And, with death in vain victorious. Sleep where master hands, laborious, Have created marble woes ; — Sleep where softened sunbeams dally Down the tessellated aisles: Where the mass as musically Floats as streams down Tempe's valley, And all blended beauty smiles; So with her, in whom designing Nature built its noblest shrine — Hair of gold's severest fining, Eyes of light's most lucent shining, Form most fashioned for divine, — There the heart, intense and tender. Doomed to perish through its pride, Sepultured amidst the splendor Which united graces lend her, Rests with her for whom it died. 66 After the Strife Have I not fought at Ephesus? What did the Tarsan know Of passions wilder than the beasts He strove with long ago? Some I have slain in manly wise, And some but wounded were, And one remains, with cougar strength Behind the cougar's purr. This master passion holds at bay What power of will there be, For love is love through all estates, And mine still turns to thee. Go bid the lustre of thine eyes Retire in cold eclipse; Go bid the wasting years efface The crimson from thy lips. They work the old familiar spell. And feed the lingering flames Which now have burned too long to yield To jugglery of names, 67 Can he who loved the perfect bud Forget the perfect rose, Because, perchance, some later stalk Beside its beauty grows? I, too, have fought at Ephesus, But what availed the sword? To one imperious power I yield, And own that Love is lord. 68 A Song and A Sigh The course of my love is a son^r and a sigh ; In the bi-seasoned year of my heart, The holly scarce waits for the crocus to die, And the kiss fades away with a smart. The course of my love is a song and a sigh: The blight soon succeeds to the bloom ; The lips that are rosiest, readiest lie, And the glow is a promise of gloom. I have loved her — ah, well ! — but be tranquil ; 'tis I : My lute, when its strings are unstrung. Must hang where the breezes that softly breathe by Make the same chords to sigh that have sung. 69 La Belle Concierge Shk lived by glassy Lenian, Where Chillon's jjables rise, And all the stars in lake and sky Were dim beside her eyes. Her dark hair bound my heart in — Her brown hand took my fees; But welcome, jaunty janitress, Who kept tile castle keys! The snowy Alpine mountains Breathed health upon her cheek, While in her voice the far-off note Oi yodels seemed to speak ; And w hen the storied vaults there Maile all my blood to freeze, She warmed it back — the Switzer maid Who kept the castle keys. Her form was yoiuifj; and slender; How could it be so hard To loose the chain which held me there As fast as Bonnivard ? Were there not fjaily jiowncd belles Among the Genevcse 70 Whose hands were softer than the hands '^I'hat kept the castle keys? As o'er those haunted chambers Her j^racious look she cast, She seemed h'ke Chillon's chatelaine Returning; from the past ; And yet I know that proud dame Had not the power to please Like that arch child who filled her place, And kept the castle keys. I wonder if the roses Still clamber on the wall! — I know a faded rose that rests In more than jealous thrall. She tip-toed, for the best bud. Of course, was hard to seize — Thought she that in some after year Id need her castle keys? Ah, well, for glassy Leman, And Chillon's gabled pile! Perhaps no witching warder lights Those donjons with a smile; But you, my kerchiefed Swit/er, In lands beyond the seas. Have hjcked your image in my heart — And thrown away the keys! 71 'Make Her Thus Fair'' Softly insidious, Grecian in 12; race, Such as skilled Phidias Wr()uj2;ht the fastidious — Such is her face. Fihuy habiliments Priestesses wear, Fine in its filaments, Dark as mad elements — Such is her hair. Li}j;ht semi-quavers, Or{i;ans' deep roll, Blent to enslave us — Where none can save us — Such is her soul. Nature, thy master-mold This is, I swear; And when at last T hold Love in a faster fold. Make her thus fair. 72 '^String Me the Strands'' String me the strands of her soft, hazel hair, Tuned to the key of her hiu}2;hter; Give me some fairy-like, Ariel air For the \'\\r.Ut breezes to waft her. Rhyme is too rude for such {2;races as her's, Rhythm too strained for her freedom — She the exquisite whose li;i;ht treadinji; stirs Flowers in life's herbless Edom. Spread like the after-^Iow chronics of the skies, Give me her childish cheek's blushes, Mixed with the tints of her autumn brown eyes, With her arched brows for my brushes. She is too artless for art to portray ; Gems with their own dust are burnished; Umber and ochre her charms to display From her own charms must be furnished. Then I shall ask not the sketchman his skill. Fret not with lords of the lyre ; One nectared kiss which her child lips distill Genius enough will inspire. 73 Carpe Diem Said the butter-cup bud to the swallow, "Why should I my petals unfold — My delicate petals of gold? For the blight of the winter must follow, And, strewn down the desolate hollow, My beauty must wither and mold !" And the rollicking swallow, replying, As sunward he circled to fling The light from his rapturous wing, Twittered, "What though a thousand are lying WTiere this happy year must be dying. To-day, O to-day. Love, is Spring!" Though the years are grief-laden behind us. And, like a dark caravan, nears The file of unpromising years, Let us twine from the roses assigned us In respite, a garland to bind us With strength for the season of tears. You have flouted the dreamy seclusion — The uplands made sweet with the corn. And meadows all dewy at morn, 74 Where our love was so free from intrusion And, caught in the world's quick confusion, You shine, still a queen, but forlorn. And you know now the tender compassion With which every elfin-eyed bower In tremulous woe watched the hour When, obedient to fortune and fashion, Your soul should be fed with a ration, And starved for the breath of a flower! But around us again are the roses. As rich as the memories they bring; (Ah, how their ripe petal-mouths cling!) Come! the vesper-dim trellis encloses; To-morrow as fortune disposes! To-day, O, to-day. Love, is Spring! 75 "We Love Again' I HAVE wooed in solemn-wise, I have wooed in song; I have wooed, in every mood. Full half a year too long. I have won — not even a smile, Softened from disdain! — Loved, to learn alone to burn Through passion into pain. I can now take leave of thee. Barren, yes, but blest ; Not till spent do souls consent To quit their rainbow quest. I, indeed, have vainly loved. Yet not loved in vain ; Balked desires but feed the fires With which we love again. 76 Love At Noon Though they wrote it in their blazonry In knightly days of yore, Though they wove it in the texture Of the gaudy scarfs they wore, Loving you, I am persuaded That they merely masqueraded, And that mortals never really loved before. Though the sombre boughs have blossomed, And the lark, on lighter wing, Has exulted in the glory Which successive Aprils bring. Since all days alike were gloomy Till at last they brought you to me. Surely this alone can boast the charm of Spring. Let me own that phantom fancies May have held a fleeting sway, Still the pallor of the morning Only heralded the day When affection, warm and tender. Came with full meridian splendor. And your radiance chased the shadowy doubts away. 77 Now with new and richer rapture All my quickened being thrills; Comes a purpose such as beauty Like thine own alone instills; Backward swing inviting portals Whence, like music of immortals, Swells a prelude which your presence but fulfills. Shall I come into the kingdom, After all this wear>' way? Have the seasons made December But a rugged guide to May? No? Then here's a smile for sorrow! Yes? Then never merrier morrow Was so sweetened with the chastening of delay. 78 ^'Therefore I Call You Mine" Why should I call you fair? The shy leaves lisp it to the listening air, The wide world spells it in your waving hair, The kindred Graces greet you everywhere; What folly to define the charms you wear! Why should I call you fair? Why should I call you kind ? To every fault are j^ou not sweetly blind ? Have you not met me with a soul inclined To share the deep community of mind. Where Psyche can alone her Eros find ? Why should I call you kind ? Why should I call you wise? Can all the schools teach wisdom like your eyes? Have all the sophists such a creed as lies In the calm depths where softly fall and rise The wavering feelings I so dearly prize? Why should I call you wise? Why should I call you mine? Why should the tendrils of our hearts entwine? 79 Hecause I knew you as a soul divine, Sucii as no mortal tenements confine, When I and all the world's first joy were thine; Therefore I call you mine! 80 The Charm Eternal Full well I loved the ripened lips, And quickened with a winy j2;low To fold thy pulsing finfi;er-tips, And watch thy blushes come and go, l^hy near, sweet breath, in laufj;hter low, Exhaling myrrh and honey-drips. Even now the rumor that thy soul Its happy haven finds at last Revives those Lydian gales that stole Across the desert of the past, And j'et no lingering look I cast. As one who missed and mourns his goal. I find thee in the Autumn field. Entangled with the garnered grain ; I hear thee where the warblers yield Their hearts to some remembered strain; In hedges fragrant of the rain Thy wispy presence is revealed. This dear pervasion of thy charms With an immortal youth is dowered ; How quickly, in enfolding arms, 8i Thy mortal bloom had been deflowered ! Now all thy years are rosy-houred, And death has lost its old alarms. 82 The Autumn Gale Up here where the p;hiciers fi;lint and fi;lare, And the liorean bhnst bestirs — Beyond the line where the hemh)cks strive In hardihood with the firs; Where the snow-peaks steal toward the bleak, <^ray skies, And the lin}j;erin}2; tvvilip;hts fail, I p;ather my strength for the first fell swoop — In the wrath of the Autumn i!;ale. The ermine stores his last scant food, And the wiu'te bear grows more hold ; The foot of man long since has fled From the drowsy stealth of the cold; So here in the caves I hide my steeds And husband flail on flail. For the day when my cavalcade shall ride On the wings of the Autumn gale. The aurora paints on the spaceless vault. With her vast and dazzling light. The varying rainbow dyes which cheer My world through the half year's night; And under her beams I dance with glee At thought of the woe and wail 83 When I come with the might of a thousand gods In the van of the Autumn gale. The stallions stamp in their stalls of snow And toss their milk-white manes, And the gods I rule even now rebel That I still withhold the reins; But the day draws near when the drills shall cease And the gods don icy mail — When, off at the bugle-note of the blast. Shall come the Autumn gale. And the puny roofs of the temperate zone Shall crush like a plover's shell ; The oaks shall break at my finger's touch — The seas grow a churning hell ; For this is the sport of the great north gods, Who even in sport prevail ; A day for the pranks of our frozen home, Then off with the Autumn gale! 84 On Nebo WiiRfi there no dawn, Wlien shadows flee, and wakinj^ birds are glad, — When all the curtains of the east, withdrawn. But inoclc the iieart, which then grows doubly sad, Perhaps — perhaps, regret might slumber on. Ah, would there were no dawn! Were there no noon, When sunny Nature drains the cup of dreams, And dove-cotes murmur where the pigeons croon, Till mid-day melts love's fast-imprisoned streams, A cold content might bring its tardy boon. Ah, would there were no noon ! Were there no night, When fire-side faces share the welcome glow. And twining fingers throb with warm delight. Till drowsy crickets say the lights are low, I'his lone, lone hearth might seem less vainly bright. Ah, would there were no night! Dawn, noon and night. Heart of my heart! through all the days and years I'hose childhood charms still haunt my aching sight, 85 Which now sees clearly, though alas! thn)u}!;h tears, Since I must rest on Nebo's cheerless hei}!;ht. Heart of my heart, good-night! 86 In 1 cncbris II li who watilu'd tlioc with h)vt', when the days were iiiuhxidcd, And tlic I lustcrinij; lilacs hmtr;lu*d vvclcoiiu' to Spriiii«;, Turns, faithful — aye, fondlier, when life is enshrouded, And sends tliee a throh from his heart's every string. Ah, well do 1 know that tiie alter cniotions Are wild as the Pale Horse that paused at the door! But the voice that stilled (lalilee's restless connnotions Can calm the sad hearts that are made to deplore. Feel yet, if you can, in the soul's dark Deceinhers, That one, oft beside you, walks still at your side — 'I'hat when the soft shadow-shapes creep o'er the endnTS In spirit, once more at the hearth I abide. How |)oor is the |)en when it tims seeks to soften 'I'he woe in the wake where the Reaper went by! And yet the storm never swept o'er us so often Hut what we were ^lad at the thou|:;ht of the sky. 'Jhou^h nutie be a sorrow, alas! beyond curing!; — 'I'he pain of a partinjj; where Hope had to die — I pray that thine own may be ma«Ie unendurinj!; liy the wine and the oil that are poured from on hi^i;h. S7 The Groom's Toast This is a briny breath of days Whose sea-born song is sung ; A wind-fall from the fragrant ways Where roUic roses sprung — Where opiate bees And lyric leas Gave every joy a tongue. This is a crocus of the spring, Whose odor could but die; A pinion moulted from the wing Which flecks our careless sky — A vagrant dream To fit their theme Who preach and prophesy. Yet tenderer tendrils now entwine; The lily shames the rose ; Beyond the wayward eglantine The sturdy ilex grows; The cooler wine Which snows refine Still sparkles as it flows. So let this be a briny breath From seas we yet shall sail; This wind-fall fragrance whispereth Of yet a spicier gale ; More sweetly still The daffodil Shall deck the calmer vale. 89 Christopher Marlowe Poor Kit ! Have these mad masquers quite forgot The dark alembic of thy mighty mind, Wherein our mimic world was first refined, And fused to shapes as tragic as thy lot? Evangel, crying in the wilderness. Whose coming made the way of Shakespeare straight, Not even the master's self, serenely great, Can make the splendor of thy genius less. How like thee are the children of thy brain! — Timour, the lame, and Faustus, sold to sin ; Yet, thinking on the young creator, slain — Thy journey ended at a wayside inn. We mourn and bless thee who, at life's high noon, Lay dead at Deptford on a night in June. 90 Resurrection That power which on the moss-grown trunk Brings beauty from decay, And, when the evening sun hath sunk. Adorns the dying day; That God who animates the dust And resurrects the rose. Will surely recompense my trust — Immortalize my woes. Then shudder not, O soul of mine! To peer into the gloom, Since knowledge of that truth divine Illuminates the tomb. Towards Sodom You point me to her pallid cheek, The step which once was stronger, The eyes which now but feebly speak; Then bid me love no longer. I know she lacks the rounded grace With which she once was dowered, More wan for each poor lingering trace Which care has not deflowered. I know she brewed the poisonous draught With which she now is wasted, And might have thriven had she quaffed The cup returned untasted. But ah! how dear those former scenes; As their lost light I weep her; So marvel not that Memory gleans Where Love has been the reaper. Though fate has left its withering track. Though still the tempest lowers. The exiled heart turns fondly back Towards Sodom's blackened towers. 92 <*Twixt Longing and Alarm" The light-lipped waves, with shy desire, A moment dare to kiss thee, And then with timorous haste retire, For fear that it amiss be. Until, 'twixt longing and alarm. Their breast is tortured into calm. Could I but make their fate my own. The feelings which involve me Might well and willingly atone, Or conscience quite absolve me, And though the conflict mortal be. How sweet to perish thus for thee! 93 The Alps At last, as when some self-deluded seer Half-credits his own prophecies and waits Fulfillment's ripening hour with hope and fear, I come to greet the mountains at whose gates. Sealed since creation's immemorial year, The Carthagenian laughed, and at the dates Of their own dateless ages, pensive, gaze, And guess the record of departed days. Towering like Time into the spacious breast Of that Eternity whose type ye are, Can we behold thee and yet not attest, Howe'er inclined we be with faith to war. That He whose plastic hand can thus invest Thee with a might and majesty so far Beyond us, must, in his essentials, be All grace and grandeur's full epitome? What mortal pigmy from thy vasty base Can gaze at thine embattled brows and say That he, poor pimple on Creation's face. Can reason a creative God away ? Who can behold thee in the soft embrace Of mother-clouds, whose bosom, day by day, 94 Nurses thee into fruitage, and deny To man a fostering influence from on high? The avalanche is but thy sportive jest; The lightnings are the twinklings of thine eye; Unmarked the boulder thunders from thy crest, And unregarded sweeps the tempest by; Vain man can mine but can not mar thy breast; The cataracts are thy tears, their roar thy sigh: Ye are the peaks, untrammelled and untrod ; Ye are the mountain master-works of God ! 95 <