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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 RICHARD WATSON GILDER, 
 
 Author of "The New Day. " 
 
 1? 
 
 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. 
 
 1878. 
 
 fK 
 
In 
 
 Copyright, 1878, by 
 Richard Watson Gilder. 
 
 Press of 
 Francis Hart & Co. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Ode. 
 
 " I am the Spirit of the Morning Sea " g 
 
 A Song of Early Summer 14 
 
 A Midsummer Song 16 
 
 " On the Wild Rose Tree " 18 
 
 A Song of Early Autumn 19 
 
 The Poet's Protest 21 
 
 Wanted, a Theme 22 
 
 " A Word said in the Dark " 23 
 
 The Sonnet 24 
 
 Longfellow's " Book of Sonnets " 25 
 
 essipoff 26 
 
 To Modjeska 27 
 
 The Drama : 28 
 
 Decoration Day 31 
 
 " The Evening Star " 33 
 
 Morning and Night 34 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 A Woman's Thought 35 
 
 " Reform " 37 
 
 For an Album 39 
 
 Cost 41 
 
 The Homestead 42 
 
 The White and the Red Rose 44 
 
 Keats 47 
 
 " Call Me not Dead " 48 
 
 A Thought .49 
 
 Cradle Song 50 
 
 " Beyond the Branches of the Pine" 51 
 
 Love and Death. 
 
 I. "Now who can take from us what we have known "-52 
 II. "We know not where they tarry who have died "..53 
 
 " Back from the Darkness to the Light Again " 54 
 
 " When Love Dawned " 55 
 
 The Poet's Fame 56 
 
 The Poet and His Master 63 
 
ODE. 
 
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 ODE. 
 
 I AM the spirit of the morning sea; 
 I am the awakening and the glad surprise; 
 I fill the skies 
 
 With laughter and with light. 
 Not tears, but jollity 
 
 At birth of day brim the strong man-c?iild's eyes. 
 Behold the white 
 
 Wide three-fold beams that from the hidden sun 
 Rise swift and far, — 
 One where Orion keeps 
 His armed watch, and one 
 That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps ; 
 The third blots out the firm-fixed Northern Star. 
 
lo ODE. 
 
 I am the wind that shakes the glittering wave, 
 Hurries the snowy spume along the shore 
 And dies at last in some far-murmuring cave. 
 My voice thou hearest in the breaker's roar — 
 That sound which never failed since time began 
 And first around the world the shining tumult ran. 
 
 I light the sea and wake the sleeping land. 
 
 My footsteps on the hills make music, and my hand 
 
 Plays like a harper's on the wind-swept pines. 
 
 With the wind and the day 
 I follow round the world — away! away! 
 Wide over lake and plain my sunlight shines, 
 And every wave and every blade of grass 
 Doth know me as I pass. 
 
 And me the western-sloping mountains know, and me 
 The far-off, golden sea. 
 
 O sea, whereon the passing sun doth lie ! — 
 O man, who watchest by that golden sea ! 
 
ODE. 1 1 
 
 Weep not, — Oh weep not thou, but Hft thme eye 
 And see me glorious in the sunset sky ! 
 
 III. 
 
 I love not the night 
 Save when the stars are bright. 
 Or when the moon 
 
 Fills the white air with silence like a tune. 
 Yea, even the night is mine 
 When Northern Lights outshine, 
 And the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine ; — 
 Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black sky lowers, 
 When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore 
 in starry showers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I am the laughter of the new-born child 
 On whose soft-breathing sleep an angel smiled. 
 And I all sweet first things that are : 
 First songs of birds, not perfect as at last — 
 Broken and incomplete — 
 But sweet, oh, sweet ! 
 
12 ODE. 
 
 And I the first faint glimmer of a star 
 
 To the wrecked ship, that tells the storm is past; 
 
 The first keen smells and stirrings of the Spring ; 
 
 First snow-flakes, and first May-flowers after snow; 
 
 The silver glow 
 
 Of the new moon's ethereal ring ; 
 
 The song the morning stars together made. 
 
 And the first kiss of lovers under the first June shade. 
 
 V. 
 
 My sword is quick, my arm is strong to smite 
 In the dread joy and fury of the fight. 
 I am with those who win, not those who fly; 
 With those who live I am, not those who die. 
 
 Who die? Nay — nay — that word 
 Where I am is unheard ; 
 
 For I am the spirit of youth that can not change, 
 Nor cease, nor suffer woe; 
 
 And I am the spirit of beauty that doth range 
 Through natural forms and motions, and each show 
 Of outward loveliness. With me have birth 
 
ODE. 
 
 13 
 
 All gentleness and joy in all the earth. 
 Raphael knew me, and showed the world my face ; 
 Me Homer knew, and all the singing race, — 
 For I am the spirit of light, and life, and mirth. 
 
14 A SONG OF EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 A SONG OF EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 Not yet the orchard lifted 
 Its cloudy bloom to the sky, 
 
 Nor through the dim twilight drifted 
 The whip-poor-will's low cry; 
 
 The gray rock had not made 
 Of the vine its glistening kirtle; 
 The purple bells of the myrtle 
 
 Shook not in the locust shade. 
 
 Ere, awake in the darkling night 
 Is heard in the chimney-hollow 
 The boom and whir of the swallow 
 
 And the twitter that follows the flight; 
 
 Before the foamy whitening 
 Of the water below the mill ; 
 
 Ere yet the summer lightning 
 
 Shone red at the edcre of the hill — 
 
A SONG OF EARLY SUMMER. 15 
 
 In the time of sun and showers, 
 
 Of skies half-black, half-clear ; 
 'Twixt melting snows and flowers; 
 
 At the poise of the flying year; 
 
 When woods flushed pink and yellow 
 
 In dreams of leafy June ; 
 And days were keen or mellow 
 
 Like tones in a changing tune — 
 
 Before the birds had broken 
 
 Forth in their song divine, 
 Oh ! then the word was spoken 
 
 That made my darhng mine. 
 
1 6 A MIDSUMMER SONG. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER SONG. 
 
 Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before 
 
 the day. 
 And Jamie 's after robins, and the man is making 
 
 hay. 
 And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that 
 
 minds the mill. 
 While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with 
 
 a will, 
 
 "Polly! — Polly! — The cows are in the corn! 
 Oh, Where's Polly?" 
 
 From all the misty morning air there comes a sum- 
 mer sound, — 
 A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees and 
 
 ground. 
 The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill 
 
 and coo. 
 And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo : 
 "Polly! — Polly! — The cows are in the corn! 
 Oh, Where's Polly?" 
 
A MIDSUMMER SONG. 17 
 
 Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz 
 
 and boom, 
 And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms 
 
 bloom. 
 Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, 
 And down at the edge of the hollow a red and 
 thorny rose. 
 
 But Polly! — Polly! — The cows are in the com! 
 Oh, where 's Polly ? 
 
 How strange at such a time of day the mill should 
 
 stop its clatter! 
 The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what 's 
 
 the matter. 
 Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on 
 
 the hill. 
 While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that 
 
 minds the mill. 
 
 But Polly! — Polly! — The cows are in the corn! 
 Oh, where 's Polly ? 
 
"ON THE WILD ROSE TREE." 
 
 "ON THE WILD ROSE TREE." 
 
 On the wild rose tree 
 Many buds there be, 
 Yet each sunny hour 
 Hath but one perfect flower. 
 
 Thou who wouldst be wise 
 Open wide thine eyes, — 
 In each sunny hour 
 Pluck the one perfect flower ! 
 
A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN. 19 
 
 A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN. 
 
 When late in summer the streams run yellow, 
 Burst the bridges and spread into bays; 
 
 When berries are black and peaches are mellow, 
 And hills are hidden by rainy haze ; 
 
 When the golden-rod is golden still, 
 
 But the heart of the sun-flower is darker and sadder ; 
 When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, 
 
 And slides o'er the path the striped adder. 
 
 When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket, 
 Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf; 
 
 When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the 
 cricket — 
 Grasshoppers' rasp, and rustle of sheaf. 
 
 When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle, 
 And brown is the grass where the mowers have 
 mown; 
 
 When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle. 
 And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone. 
 
20 A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN. 
 
 When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle, 
 And shadows are deep in the heat of noon ; 
 
 When the air is white with the down o' the thistle, 
 And the sky is red with the harvest moon ; 
 
 O then be chary, young Robert and Mary, 
 No time let slip, not a moment wait ! 
 
 If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning. 
 And they who would wed must be done with 
 their mooning. 
 Let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle, 
 And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate ! 
 
 Hi 'l|!|ji 
 
 
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THE POET'S PROTEST. 
 
 THE POET'S PROTEST. 
 
 O MAN with your rule and measure, 
 
 Your tests and analyses! 
 You may take your empty pleasure, 
 
 May kill the pine, if you please; 
 You may count the rings and the seasons, 
 
 May hold the sap to the sun. 
 You may guess at the ways and the reasons 
 
 Till your little day is done. 
 
 But for me the golden crest 
 
 That shakes in the wind and launches 
 Its spear toward the reddening West! 
 
 For me the bough and the breeze, 
 The sap unseen, and the glint 
 
 Of hght on the dew-wet branches, — 
 The hiding shadows, the hint 
 
 Of the soul of mysteries. 
 
2 2 WANTED, A THEME. 
 
 You may sound the sources of life, 
 
 And prate of its aim and scope; 
 You may search with your chilly knife 
 
 Through the broken heart of hope. 
 But for me the love-sweet breath, 
 
 And the warm, white bosom heaving, 
 And never a thought of death, 
 
 And only the bliss of living. 
 
 " Give me a theme," the little poet cried, 
 
 " And I will do my part." 
 " 'T is not a theme you need," the world replied ; 
 
 " You need a heart." 
 
"A WORD SAID IN THE DARK." 23 
 
 "A WORD SAID IN THE DARK." 
 
 A WORD said in the dark 
 And hands pressed, for a token ; 
 
 " Now, little maiden, mark 
 The word that you have spoken; 
 Be not your promise broken ! " 
 
 His lips upon her cheek 
 Felt tears among their kisses; 
 
 " O pardon I bespeak 
 If for my doubting this is ! 
 Now all my doubting ceases." 
 
24 THE SONNET. 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 (in answer to a question.) 
 
 What is a sonnet ? 'T is the pearly shell 
 
 That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea ; 
 
 A precious jewel carved most curiously ; 
 
 It is a little picture painted well. 
 What is a sonnet ? 'T is the tear that fell 
 
 From a great poet's hidden ecstasy ; 
 
 A two-edged sword, a star, a song — ah me! 
 
 Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell. 
 This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath; 
 
 The solemn organ whereon Milton played, 
 
 And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls : 
 A sea this is — beware who ventureth ! 
 
 For like a fjord the narrow floor is laid 
 
 Deep as mid-ocean to the sheer mountain walls. 
 
LONGFELLOW'S ''BOOK OF SONNETS:' 25 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S "BOOK OF SONNETS." 
 
 Last Sunday evening as I wandered down 
 The central highway of this swarming place, 
 I felt a pleasant stillness — not a trace 
 Of Saturday's wild turmoil in the town : 
 
 Then as a gentle breeze just stirs a gown, 
 Yet almost motionless, or as the face 
 Of silence smiles, I heard the chimes of " Grace " 
 Sound murmuring through the autumn evening's 
 brown. 
 
 To-day, again, I passed along Broadway 
 In the fierce tumult and mid-noise of noon, 
 While under my feet the solid pavement shook; 
 
 When lo ! it seemed that bells began to play 
 Upon a Sabbath eve a silver tune, — 
 For as I walked I read the poet's book. 
 
26 ESSIPOFF. 
 
 ESSIPOFF. 
 
 What is her playing like ? 
 
 I ask — while dreaming here under her music's power. 
 'T is like the leaves of the dark passion-flower 
 Which grows on a strong vine whose roots, oh deep 
 
 they sink, 
 Deep in the ground, that flower 's pure life to drink. 
 
 II. 
 
 What is her playing like ? 
 
 'T is like a bird 
 
 Who, singing in a wild wood, never knows 
 
 That its lone melody is heard 
 
 By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy woes. 
 
TO MODJESKA. 27 
 
 TO MODJESKA. 
 
 There are four sisters known to mortals well, 
 Whose names are Joy and Sorrow, Death and Love : 
 This last it was who did my footsteps move 
 To where the other deep-eyed sisters dwell. 
 
 To-night, or ere yon painted curtain fell, 
 
 These, one by one, before my eyes did rove 
 Through the brave mimic world that Shakspere wove. 
 Lady ! thy art, thy passion were the spell 
 
 That held me, and still holds ; for thou dost show, 
 With those most high each in his sovereign art, — 
 Shakspere supreme, Beethoven and Angelo, — 
 
 Great art and passion are one. Thine too the part 
 To prove, that still for him the laurels grow 
 Who reaches through the mind to pluck the heart. 
 
28 THE DRAMA. 
 
 THE DRAMA. 
 
 (FROM THE POLISH.) 
 
 I SAT in the crowded theater. The first notes of the 
 orchestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony 
 burst forth ; then ceased. 
 
 The conductor, secretly pleased with the loud 
 applause, waited a moment, then played again ; but as 
 he struck upon his desk for the third time, the bell 
 sounded, the just-beginning tones of the wind-instru- 
 ments and the violins hushed suddenly, and the curtain 
 was rolled to the ceiling. 
 
 Then appeared to me a wonderful vision, which still 
 clings to my mind, and shall not soon be forgotten by 
 me. 
 
 For know that I am one who loves all things beauti- 
 ful. Did you find the figure of a man lying solitary 
 upon the wind-fashioned hills of sand, watching the 
 large sun rise from the ocean ? That was I. 
 
THE DRAMA. 29 
 
 It was I who, lonely, walked at evening through the 
 woods of autumn, beholding the sun's level light strike 
 through the unfallen red and yellow leaves ; 
 
 Whose heart trembled when he saw the fire that 
 rapidly consumed the dead leaves lying upon the hill- 
 side, and spread a robe of black that throbbed with 
 crimson jewels under the wind of the rushing flame. 
 
 Know, also, that the august forms wrought in marble 
 by the ancient sculptors have power upon me ; also the 
 imaginative works of the incomparable painters ; and 
 that the voices of the early poets are modern and 
 familiar to me. 
 
 What vision was it, then, that I beheld ; what art was 
 it that made my heart tremble and filled me with joy 
 that was like pain ? 
 
 Was it the art of the poet ; was it of a truth poetry 
 made visible in human attitudes and motions and many 
 changing tones ? 
 
 Was it the art of the painter — which Raphael knew 
 so well when he created those most gracious shapes 
 that yet live on the walls of the Vatican ? 
 
 Or Avas it the severe and marvelous art of the sculp- 
 
3° THE DRAMA. 
 
 tor, in which antique Phidias excelled, and which 
 Michael Angelo indued with new and mighty power? 
 
 Or, haply, it was that enchanting myth, made real 
 before our eyes, — of the insensate marble warmed to 
 life beneath the passionate gaze of the sculptor ! 
 
 No, no ; it was not this miracle, of which the bards 
 have so often sung ; nor was it the art of the poet, nor 
 of the painter, nor of the musician (though often I 
 thought of music), nor of the sculptor. It was none of 
 these that moved my heart, and the hearts of all who 
 beheld, — 
 
 It was the ancient and noble art of the drama, — the 
 oldest of all the arts, because the most natural, that one 
 which is indeed informed of all the others, — and she 
 who was the mistress of it was none other than the 
 divine Modjeska. 
 
DECORATION DAY. 31 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 She saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, 
 
 The flags that proudly waved, the bands, the bugles 
 
 calling ; 
 She saw the tattered banners falling 
 About the broken staffs, as one by one 
 The remnant of the mighty army passed ; 
 And at the last 
 Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done. 
 
 II. 
 
 She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet 
 
 As the long line swept round the crowded square ; 
 
 She heard the incessant hum 
 
 That filled the warm and blossom-scented air, — • 
 
 The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, 
 
32 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 The happy laugh, the cheer. — Oh glorious and meet 
 To honor thus the dead, 
 Who chose the better part 
 And for their country bled ! 
 
 — The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street, 
 Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart — 
 While far away 
 
 His grave was decked with flowers by strangers' 
 hands to-day. 
 
 New-York, May 30, 1877. 
 
'THE EVENING STAR." IZ 
 
 "THE EVENING STAR." 
 
 The evening star trembles and hides from him 
 Who fain would hold it with imperious stare ; 
 Yet, to the averted eye, lo ! unaware 
 It shines serene, no longer shy and dim. 
 
 Oh, slow and sweet, its chalice to the brim 
 
 Fills the leaf-shadowed grape with rich and rare 
 Cool sunshine, caught from the white circling air ! 
 Home from his journey to the round world's rim — 
 
 Through lonely lands, through cloudy seas and vext — 
 At last the Holy Grail met Launfal's sight. 
 So when my friend lost him who was her next 
 
 Of soul, — life of her life, — all day the fight 
 
 Raged with a dumb and pitiless God. Perplexed 
 She slept. Heaven sent its comfort in the night. 
 
34 MORNING AND NIGHT. 
 
 MORNING AND NIGHT. 
 
 The mountain that the morn doth kiss 
 Glad greets its shining neighbor : 
 
 Lord ! heed the homage of our bhss, — 
 The incense of our labor. 
 
 Now the long shadows eastward creep, 
 
 The golden sun is setting : 
 Take, Lord ! the worship of our sleep, — 
 
 The praise of our forgetting. 
 
A WOAIAN'S THOUGH!'. 35 
 
 A WOMAN'S THOUGHT. 
 
 I AM a woman — therefore I may not 
 
 Call to him, cry to him, 
 
 Fly to him, 
 
 Bid him delay not ! 
 
 And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet 
 
 Still as a stone, — 
 
 All silent and cold. 
 
 If my heart riot — 
 
 Crush and defy it ! 
 
 Should I grow bold — 
 
 Say one dear thing to him. 
 
 All my life fling to him, 
 
 Cling to him — 
 
 What to atone 
 
 Is enough for my sinning ! 
 
36 A WOMAN'S THOUGHT. 
 
 This were the cost to me, 
 This were my winning — 
 That he were lost to me. 
 
 Not as a lover 
 
 At last if he part from me, 
 
 Tearing my heart from me, — 
 
 Hurt beyond cure, — 
 
 Calm and demure 
 
 Then must I hold me, — 
 
 In myself fold me, — 
 
 Lest he discover; 
 
 Showing no sign to him 
 
 By look of mine to him 
 
 What he has been to me, — 
 
 How my heart yearns to him, 
 
 Follows him, turns to him. 
 
 Prays him to love me. 
 
 Pity me, lean to me, 
 Thou God above me ! 
 
'REFORM:' 37 
 
 "REFORM." 
 
 Oh, how shall I help to right the world that is 
 
 going wrong ! 
 And what can I do to hurry the promised time of 
 
 peace ! 
 The day of work is short and the night of sleep is 
 
 long; 
 And whether to pray or preach, or whether to sing 
 
 a song, 
 To plow in my neighbor's field, or to seek the golden 
 
 fleece, 
 Or to sit with my hands in my lap, and wish that 
 
 sin would cease ! 
 
 II. 
 
 I think, sometimes, it were best just to let the Lord 
 
 alone ; 
 I am sure some people forget He was here before 
 
 they came ; 
 
38 "REFORM." 
 
 Though they say it is all for His glory, 't is a good 
 
 deal more for their own, 
 That they peddle their petty schemes, and blate and 
 
 babble and groan. 
 I sometimes think it were best, and I were little to 
 
 blame, 
 Should I sit with my hands in my lap, in my face 
 
 a crimson shame. 
 
FOR AN ALBUM. 39 
 
 FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 (TO BE READ ONE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER.) 
 
 A century's summer breezes shook 
 The maple shadows on the grass 
 
 Since she who owned this ancient book 
 From the green world to heaven did pass. 
 
 Beside a northern lake she grew, 
 A wild-flower on its craggy walls ; 
 
 Her eyes were mingled gray and blue, 
 Like waves where summer sunlight falls. 
 
 Cheerful her hours from morn to close 
 Of day, no work nor prayer forgot : 
 
 Yet who of woman born but knows 
 The sorrows of our mortal lot ! 
 
 And she too suffered, though the wound 
 Was hidden from the general gaze. 
 
4° FOR AN ALBUM. 
 
 And most from those who thus had found 
 An added burden to their days. 
 
 She had no special grace, nor art; 
 
 Her riches not in banks were kept : 
 Her treasure was a gentle heart, 
 
 Her skill to comfort those who wept. 
 
 Not without foes her days were passed, 
 For quick her burning scorn was fanned. 
 
 Her friends were many — least and last, 
 A poet from a distant land. 
 
COST. 41 
 
 COST. 
 
 Because Heaven's cost is Hell, and perfect joy 
 Hurts as hurts sorrow; and because we win 
 No boon of grace without the cost of sin, 
 Or suffering born of sin; because the alloy 
 
 Of blood but makes the bliss of victory brighter ; 
 Because true worth hath its sure proof herein — 
 That it should be reproached, and called akin 
 To evil things — black making white the whiter : 
 
 Because no cost seems great near this — that He 
 Should pay the ransom wherewith we were priced; 
 And none could name a mightier infamy 
 
 Than that a God was spit upon — enticed 
 
 By those he came to save, to the damned tree — 
 Therefore I know that Christ indeed is Christ. 
 
42 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Here stays the house, here stay the self-same places, 
 Here the white lilacs and the buttonwoods ; 
 Here are the pine-groves, there the river-floods, 
 And there the threading brook that interlaces 
 Green meadow-bank with meadow-bank the same. 
 The melancholy nightly chorus came 
 Long, long ago from the same pool, and yonder 
 Stark poplars lift in the same twilight air 
 Their ancient shadows : nearer still, and fonder, 
 Tlie black-heart cherry-tree's gaunt branches bare 
 Rasp on the same old window where I ponder. 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 43 
 
 And we, the only living, only pass ; 
 
 We come and go, whither and whence we know not : 
 
 From birth to bound the same house keeps, alas ! 
 
 New Uves as gently as the old ; there show not 
 
 Among the haunts that each had thought his own 
 
 The changes parting brings to human faces. 
 
 The black-heart there, that heard my earliest moan. 
 
 And yet shall hear my last, like all these places 
 
 I love so well, unloving lives from child 
 
 To child; from morning joy to evening sorrow — 
 
 Untouched by joy, by anguish undefiled : 
 
 All one the generations gone, and new; 
 
 All one dark yesterday and bright to-morrow; 
 
 To the old trees insensate sympathy 
 
 All one the morning and the evening dew, — 
 
 My long-forgotten ancestor and I. 
 
44 THE WHITE AND THE RED ROSE. 
 
 THE WHITE AND THE RED ROSE. 
 
 In Heaven's happy bowers 
 There blossom two flowers, 
 One with fiery glow 
 And one as Avhite as snow; 
 While lo! before them stands, 
 With pale and trembling hands, 
 A spirit who must choose 
 One, and one refuse. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, tell me of these floAvers 
 
 That bloom in heavenly bowers. 
 
 One with fiery glow. 
 
 And one as white as snow ! 
 
 And tell me who is this 
 
 In Heaven's holy bliss 
 
 Who treml)les and cries 
 
 Like a mortal that dies ! 
 
THE WHITE AND THE RED ROSE. 45 
 
 These blossoms two 
 Wet with heavenly dew — 
 The Gentle Heart is one, 
 And one is Beauty's own; 
 And the spirit here that stands 
 With pale and trembling hands — 
 Before to-morrow's morn 
 Will be a child new-born, 
 Will be a mortal maiden 
 With earthly sorrows laden; 
 But of these shining flowers 
 That bloom in heavenly bowers, 
 To-day she still may choose 
 One, and one refuse. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Will she pluck the crimson flower 
 And win Beauty's dower ? 
 Will she choose the better part 
 
46 THE WHITE AND THE RED ROSE. 
 
 And gain the Gentle Heart ? 
 Awhile she weeping waits 
 Within those pearly gates — 
 Alas ! the mortal maiden 
 With earthly sorrow laden : 
 Her tears afresh they start, 
 She has chosen the Gentle Heart. 
 
 V. 
 
 And now the spirit goes, 
 
 In her breast the snow-white rose. 
 
 When hark ! a voice that calls 
 
 Within the garden walls : 
 
 " Thou didst choose the better part, 
 
 Thou hast won the Gentle Heart — 
 
 Lo, now to thee is given 
 
 The red rose of Heaven." 
 
KEA TS. 47 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 Touch not with dark regret his perfect fame, 
 Sighing, " Had he but lived he had done so ; " 
 Or, " Were his heart not eaten out with woe 
 John Keats had won a prouder, mightier name ! " 
 
 Take him for what he was and did — nor blame 
 Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know 
 Souls such as his escape no mortal blow — 
 No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame ! 
 
 "Whose name was writ in water!" What large laughter 
 Among the immortals when that word was brought! 
 Then when his fiery spirit rose flaming after 
 
 High toward the topmost heaven of heavens up-caught ! 
 "All hail! our younger brother!" Shakespeare said. 
 And Dante nodded his imperial head. 
 
48 '■'CALL ME NOT DEAD: 
 
 "CALL ME NOT DEAD." 
 
 Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone 
 Into the company of the ever hving 
 High and most glorious poets ! Let thanksgiving 
 Rather be made. Say — "He at last hath won 
 
 Release and rest, converse supreme and wise, 
 Music and song and light of immortal faces : 
 To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places. 
 He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. 
 
 To-morrow (who can say) Shakespeare may pass, — 
 And our lost friend just catch one syllable 
 Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well, — 
 
 Or Milton, — or Dante, looking on the grass 
 Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still 
 To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill." 
 
A rHOUGHT. 49 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 Once, looking from a window on a land 
 
 That lay in silence underneath the sun : 
 
 A land of broad, green meadows, through which poured 
 
 Two rivers, slowly widening to the sea, — 
 
 Thus, as I looked, I know not how or whence. 
 
 Was borne into my unexpectant soul 
 
 That thought, late learned by anxious-witted man. 
 
 The infinite patience of the Eternal Mind. 
 
50 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 In the embers shining bright 
 A garden grows for thy deUght, 
 With roses yellow, red, and white. 
 
 But, O my child, beware, beware! 
 Touch not the roses growing there, 
 For every rose a thorn doth bear. 
 
''BEYOND THE BRANCHES OF THE PINE:' 51 
 
 "BEYOND THE BRANCHES OF THE PINE." 
 
 Beyond the branches of the pine 
 The golden sun no more doth shine, 
 
 But still the solemn after-glow 
 Floods the deep heavens with light divine. 
 
 The night-wind stirs the corn-field near — 
 The gray moon turns to silver clear, 
 
 And one by one the glimmering stars 
 In the blue dome of heaven appear. 
 
 Now do the mighty hosts of light 
 Across the darkness take their flight, — 
 
 They rise above the eastern hill 
 And silent journey through the night. 
 
 And there beneath the starry zone 
 In the deep, narrow grave, alone. 
 
 Rests all that mortal was of her, 
 The purest spirit I have known. 
 
52 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 Now who can take from us what we have known — 
 We that have looked into each other's eyes ? 
 Though sudden night should blacken all the skies, 
 The day is ours, and what the day has shown. 
 
 What we have seen and been, hath not this grown 
 Part of our very selves ? We, made love-wise, 
 What power shall slay our living memories, 
 And who shall take from us what is our own ? 
 
 So, when a shade of the last parting fell. 
 
 This thought gave peace, as he deep comfort hath 
 Who, thirsting, drinks cool waters from a well. 
 
 But soon I felt more near the fatal breath 
 Of the body bodiless, the invisible 
 Maker of visible woe, — I looked on Death. 
 
LOVE AND DEATH. 53 
 
 II. 
 
 We know not where they tarry who have died ; 
 The gate wherein they entered is made fast : 
 No hving mortal hath seen one who passed 
 Hither, from out that darkness deep and wide. 
 
 We lean on Faith ; and some less wise have cried, 
 " Behold the butterfly, the seed that 's cast ! " 
 Vain hopes that fall like flowers before the blast ! 
 What man can look on Death unterrified ? 
 
 None, none, save those who love ! They are a part 
 Of all that lives beneath the summer sky ; 
 With the world's living soul their souls are one : 
 
 Nor shall they in vast nature be undone 
 
 And lost in the general life. Each separate heart 
 Shall live, and find its own, and never die. 
 
54 ''BACK FROM THE DARKNESS TO THE 
 LIGHT AGAIN." 
 
 "BACK FROM THE DARKNESS TO THE 
 LIGHT AGAIN." 
 
 "Back from the darkness to the Hght again!" — 
 Not from the darkness, Love, for hadst thou Iain 
 Within the shadowy portal of the tomb, 
 Thy light had warmed the darkness into bloom. 
 
WHEN LOVE DA WNED. " 55 
 
 "WHEN LOVE DAWNED." 
 
 When love dawned on that world which is my mind, 
 Then did the outer world wherein I went 
 Suffer a sudden strange transfigurement — 
 It was as if new sight were given the blind. 
 
 Then where the shore to the wide sea inclined 
 I watched with new eyes the new sun's ascent : 
 My heart was stirred within me as I leant 
 And listened to a voice in every wind. 
 
 O purple sea ! O joy beyond control ! 
 
 O land of love and youth ! O happy throng ! 
 Were ye then real, or did ye only seem ? 
 
 Dear is that morning twilight of the soul, — 
 The mystery, and the waking voice of song, — 
 For now I know it was not all a dream. 
 
56 THE POET'S FAME. 
 
 THE POET'S FAME. 
 
 Many the songs of power the poet wrought 
 To shake the hearts of men. Yea, he had caught 
 The inarticulate and murmuring sound 
 That comes at midnight from the darkened ground 
 When the earth sleeps ; for this he framed a word 
 Of human speech, and hearts were strangely stirred 
 That listened. And for him the evening dew 
 Fell with a sound of music, and the blue 
 Of the deep, starry sky he had the art 
 To put in language that did seem a part 
 Of the great scope and progeny of nature. 
 In woods, or waves, or winds, there was no creature 
 Mysterious to him. He was too wise 
 Either to fear, or follow, or despise 
 Whom men call Science, — for he knew full well 
 What she had told, or still might live to tell. 
 Was known to him before her very birth : 
 
THE POET'S FAME. 57 
 
 Yea, that there was no secret of the earth, 
 Nor of the waters under, nor the skies, 
 That had been hidden from the poet's eyes ; 
 By him there was no ocean unexplored, 
 Nor any savage coast that had not roared 
 Its music in his ears. 
 
 He loved the town, — 
 Not less he loved the ever-deepening brown 
 Of summer twilights on the enchanted hills; 
 Where he might listen to the starts and thrills 
 Of birds that sang and rustled in the trees, 
 Or watch the footsteps of the wandering breeze 
 And the birds' shadows as they fluttered by 
 Or slowly wheeled across the unclouded sky. 
 
 All these were written on the poet's soul, — 
 But he knew, too, the utmost distant goal 
 Of the human mind. His fiery thought did run 
 To Time's beginnings, ere yon central sun 
 Had warmed to life the swarming broods of men. 
 In waking dreams, his many-visioned ken 
 Clutched the large, final destiny of things. 
 
 8 
 
58 THE POET'S FAME. 
 
 He heard the starry music, and the wings 
 Of beings unfelt by others thrilled the air 
 About him. Yet the loud and angry blare 
 Of tempests found an echo in his verse, 
 And it was here that lovers did rehearse 
 The ditties they would sing when, not too soon, 
 Came the warm night, — shadows, and stars, and moon. 
 Who heard his songs were filled with noble rage, 
 And wars took fire from his prophetic page : 
 Most righteous wars, wherein, 'midst blood and tears, 
 The world rushed onward through a thousand years. 
 Nathless, he made the gentle sounds of peace 
 Heroic, — bade the nation's anger cease ! 
 Bitter his songs of grief for those who fell — 
 And for all this the people loved him well. 
 
 They loved him well, and therefore, on a day. 
 They said, with one accord : " Behold how gray 
 Our poet's head hath grown ! Ere 't is too late 
 Come, let us crown him in our Hall of State : 
 Let the bells ring, give to the winds his praise, 
 And urge his fame to other lands and days ! " 
 
THE POET'S EAME. 59 
 
 So was it done, and deep his joy dierein. 
 But passing home at night, from out the din 
 Of the loud Hall, the poet, unaware, 
 Moved through a lonely and dim-lighted square — 
 There was the smell of lilacs in the air 
 And then the sudden singing of a bird, 
 Startled by his slow tread. What memory stirred 
 Within his brain he told not. Yet this night — 
 Still lingering when the eastern heavens were bright — 
 He wove a song of such immortal art 
 That there is not in all the world one heart — 
 One human heart unmoved by it. Long ! long ! 
 The laurel-crown has failed, but not that song 
 Born of the night and sorrow; and where he lies 
 At rest beneath the ever-shifting skies. 
 Age after age, from far-off lands they come. 
 Not without flowers, to seek the poet's tomb. 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER. 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER. 
 
 ONE day the poet's harp lay on the ground, 
 Though from it rose a strange and trembhnj 
 sound 
 What time the wind swept over with a moan, 
 Or, now and then, a faint and tinkhng tone, 
 When a dead leaf fell shuddering from a tree 
 And shook the silent wares all tremulously ; 
 And near it, solemn-eyed and woe-begone. 
 The poet sat : he did not weep or groan. 
 
 Then one drew nigh him who was robed in white : 
 It was the poet's master ; he had given 
 To him that harp, once in a happy night 
 
64 THE POET AXD HIS MASTER. 
 
 When every silver star that shone in heaven 
 
 Made music ne'er before was heard by mortal wight. 
 
 And thus the master spoke : 
 
 " Why is thy voice 
 Silent, O poet ? Why upon the grass 
 Lies thy still, harp ? The fitful breezes pass 
 And touch the wires, but the skilled player's hand 
 Moves not upon them. Poet, — wake! Rejoice, 
 Sing and arouse the melancholy land." 
 
 " Master, forbear. 1 may not sing to-day : 
 My nearest friend, the brother of my heart, 
 This day is stricken with sorrow, he must part 
 From her who loves him. Can I sing, and play 
 Upon the joyous harp, and mock his woe?" 
 
 "Alas, and hast thou then so soon forgot 
 
 The bond that with thy gift of song did go — 
 
 Severe as fate, fixed and unchangeable ? 
 
 Dost thou not know this is the poet's lot ! 
 
 'Mid sounds of war — in halcyon times of peace — 
 
 To strike the ringing wire and not to cease : 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER. 65 
 
 In hours of general happiness to swell 
 The common joy ; and when the people cry 
 With piteous voice loud to the pitiless sky, 
 'T is his to frame the universal prayer, 
 And breathe the balm of song upon the accursed 
 air?" 
 
 "But 'tis not, O my master, that I borrow 
 The robe of grief to deck my brother's sorrow, — 
 Mine eyes have seen beyond the veil of youth; 
 I know what Life is, have caught sight of Truth ; 
 My heart is dead within me ; a thick pall 
 Darkens the mid-day sun." 
 
 "And dost thou call 
 This sorrow ? Call this knowledge ? O thou blind 
 And ignorant ! Know, then, thou yet shalt find, 
 Ere thy full days are numbered 'neath the sun. 
 Thou, in thy shallow youth, hadst but begun 
 To guess what knowledge is, what grief may be, 
 And all the infinite sum of human misery ; 
 Shalt find for each rich drop of perfect good 
 Thou payest, at last, a threefold price in blood ; 
 9 
 
66 THE POET AND IJIS MASTER. 
 
 What is most noble in thee — every thought 
 Highest and best — crushed, spat upon, and brought 
 To an open shame ; thy natural ignorance 
 Counted thy crime; the world all ruled by chance, 
 Save that the good most suffer; but above 
 These ills another, — cruel, monstrous, worse 
 Than all before, — thy pure and passionate love 
 Shall bring the old, immitigable curse." 
 
 "And thou who tell'st me this, dost bid me sing?" 
 
 " I bid thee sing, even though I have not told 
 All the deep flood of anguish shall be rolled 
 Across thy breast. Nor, Poet, shalt thou bring 
 From out those depths thy grief! Tell to the wind 
 Thy private woes, but not to human ear. 
 Save in the shape of comfort for thy kind. 
 But never hush thy song, dare not to cease 
 While life is thine. Haply, 'mid those who hear, 
 Thy music to one soul shall murmur peace, 
 Though for thyself it hath no power to cheer. 
 
THE POET AND HIS MASTER. 
 
 67 
 
 " Then shall thy still unbroken spirit grow 
 Strong in its suffering and more tender-wise ; 
 And as the drenched and thunder-shaken skies 
 Pass into golden sunset — thou shalt know 
 An end of calm, when evening breezes blow ; 
 And looking on thy life with vision fine 
 Shalt see the shadow of a hand divine." 
 
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