>^ ^0* .••.♦. "^o. .»r ..".•> "^^ ,0^ ..il-'- 
 
 

 
 
THE CITY, AND OTHER POEMS 
 
By the same writer — 
 
 THE SIGN OF THE HARP 
 
 OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 
 Lettered and illuminated by Margarethb Hkisser 
 
 WESTWIND SONGS 
 
 For the privilege of republication in this volume 
 acknowledgment is due Mr. Edmund D. Brooks, 
 owner of the copyrights for " Octaves in an Oxford 
 Garden " and several of the sonnets. 
 
THE CITY 
 
 A Poem-Drama 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd, 
 1905 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
3^05 
 
 ^~ WRY at •'''«WaF!!£3S 
 Two aoyies rseuwwwj 
 
 OCT. to 
 
 
 !<? 
 
 Copyright, 1903, 1903, 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1905. 
 
 J. 8. Gushing & Co. — Berwick «Ss Smith Co, 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
^ CONTENTS 
 
 [^ PAGE 
 
 ^ The City '^^^ 
 
 I. Dawn ^ 
 
 tn II. Morning '^ 
 
 U^' III. Afternoon 40 
 
 IV. Evening "7 
 
 Octaves in an Oxford Garden 85 
 
 Wadham ^7 
 
 Nature's Calmness ...•••• 9^ 
 
 Lost Inheritance ^^' .92 
 
 Vicissitude 93 
 
 Old Song and a River 93 
 
 The Same Sky 94 
 
 Constancy 95 
 
 Ford Madox Brown's "Christ washing the Feet of 
 
 Peter" 95 
 
 The Absence 9^ 
 
 St. Paul's 97 
 
 Dust of Eden 9^ 
 
 Restoration 9° 
 
 Roman Glassware preserved in the Ashmolean . . 99 
 
 Life's Usurpation 99 
 
 Traces 
 
 The One Flower ^°° 
 
 Separation ^°^ 
 
 V 
 
Contents 
 
 vi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sonnets 105 
 
 Life's Tavern 107 
 
 Sultan's Bread 108 
 
 Failures . 109 
 
 " And women must weep " . . . . . .110 
 
 Golden Rod . . . . . . . .111 
 
 October 112 
 
 With a Copy of the Mona Lisa 113 
 
 The Rezzonico Palace 114 
 
 "Ex Libris" 115 
 
 Mothers and Sisters 116 
 
 After reading " The Golden Treasury " in Green Park 1 1 7 
 To George Crabbe . . . . . . .118 
 
 Thought of Stevenson . . . . . .119 
 
 Bonington (1801-1828) 120 
 
 Benjamin-Constant's Portrait of Queen Victoria . . 121 
 
 Orpah 122 
 
 A Motive out of Lohengrin 123 
 
 The Mystery of Beauty 1 24 
 
 Consummation . . . . . . . .126 
 
 Washington's Birthday 127 
 
 Arlington 128 
 
 The Sequoia, " William McKinley " . . . .129 
 
 Wheat Elevators 130 
 
 The Coal Breaker 131 
 
 The Statue of Liberty 132 
 
 Note 133 
 
THE CITY 
 
 "for he looked for a city which 
 hath foundations, whose builder 
 and maker is god" 
 
|Bet0onfif 
 
 UCHOMO, surnamed Abgar, King of Edessa in Mesopotamia. 
 
 Cleonis, an Athenian woman, his Queen. 
 
 Ananias, a Chamberlain. 
 
 Agamede. 
 
 Stilbe. 
 
 A Physician. 
 
 Belarion. 
 
 Body Slave to Abgar. 
 
 A Messenger. 
 
 Slave-Boy. 
 
 Women, companions and attendants of the Queen. 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 The scene throughout is an enclosed garden of planes and pome- 
 granates some distance outside Edessa. The river Daisun, with 
 occasional sails, and a winding military road, are seen at intervals 
 in the rolling fields beyond the garden walls. Against the horizon 
 in the left background arise the walls and towers of a Greco- 
 Parthian city. In the middle background there is a massive gate, 
 closed and barred ; its hinge posts are termini carven with Janus 
 heads. In the right foreground the portico of a sutnmer palace in 
 the Doric style projects into the scene through a wealth of oleanders. 
 The centre is occupied by a marble dais surmounted by a long semi- 
 circular Greek settle of stone, and banked with luxuriant flowers. 
 Near this, a sun-dial. 
 
 The time is in the sixteenth year of the reign of the Roman 
 Emperor Tiberius, late in the spring. 
 
 The action covers a period of one day from dawn to dark. 
 
Dawn 
 
 I 
 
 I. DAWN 
 
 A group of the Queen^s women attired in -flowing 
 white pepli, one hearing a lyre, some sitting, some lean- 
 ing against pillars of the portico. Soft music. They 
 sing to a slow measure. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Of old it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of his 
 
 sire — 
 Reluctant, impelled by the god's unescapable fire — 
 To choose for his doom or to perish at home of disease 
 Or be slain of his foes, among men, where Troy surges 
 
 down to the seas. 
 
 Polyides, the soothsayer, spake it, inflamed by the god. 
 Of his son whom the fates singled out did he bruit it 
 
 abroad ; 
 And Euchenor went down to the ships with his armour 
 
 and men 
 And straightway, grown dim on the gulf, passed the 
 
 isles he passed never again. 
 
The City 
 
 2 
 
 Why weep ye, O women of Corinth? The doom ye 
 
 have heard 
 Is it strange to your ears that ye make it so mournful a 
 
 word? 
 Is he who so fair in your eyes to his manhood 
 
 upgrew 
 Alone in his doom of pale death — are of mortals the 
 
 beaten so few? 
 
 O weep not, companions and lovers! Turn back to 
 
 your joys : 
 The defeat was not his which he chose, nor the victory 
 
 Troy's. 
 Him a conqueror, beauteous in youth, o'er the flood his 
 
 fleet brought, 
 And the swift spear of Paris that slew completed the 
 
 conquest he sought. 
 
 Not the falling proclaims the defeat, but the place of 
 
 the fall; 
 And the fate that decrees and the god that impels 
 
 through it all 
 
Dawn 
 3 
 
 Regard not blind mortals' divisions of slayer and slain, 
 But invisible glories dispense wide over the war-gleam- 
 ing plain. [Enter Agamede in the portico. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Go, gentle sisters, and sweet rest be yours. 
 Ere noon comes hither Abgar's embassy 
 From the great Healer in Jerusalem. 
 Get what repose ye may, for Ananias 
 Hath sent his courier to our waiting Queen 
 Begging some converse here with her, and we 
 Doubtless shall then be needed. 
 
 Stilbe {stepping from amongst the women) 
 
 Abgar sleeps? 
 Agamede 
 
 Like a tired boy. Cleonis also rests, 
 
 And the old doctor in his ante-room. 
 
 The Queen commands me thank her faithful ones 
 
 Who all night long this slumber have implored 
 
 For Abgar's couch with luUing of their song. 
 
The City 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 Is this the morning? I began to think 
 
 That, like Persephone, we, too, perchance 
 
 Might have transgressed in this half-yearlong night, 
 
 Green pomegranates being irresistible 
 
 And the only cheer the dark earth offered us. 
 
 Pluto provided ripe ones for his guest. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Yonder the city's waking. Eunoe, 
 
 Straight to thy bed. Dear child, thy blossom head 
 
 Hangs heavy as the dewiest poppy ! Thou, 
 
 Erigone, whose lyre hath brought the morn, 
 
 And Httle Nyseis of the silver voice. 
 
 Speed now while slumber broods above these halls 
 
 And even Abgar sleeps. 
 
 Thee, Stilbe, yet 
 Would I detain a space. Some things there are 
 Befitting us alone as nearest her 
 And tenderest in her love to weigh together 
 Of our Cleonis. [Exeunt Women, except Stilbe. 
 
Dawn 
 5 
 
 Stilbe {coldly) 
 
 You, being cousin to her, 
 Have preference in her intimacy. Much, 
 Therefore, I'm honoured by your interview. 
 Pray, madam, first, whose song was that we sang 
 The last ere you dismissed us? 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Abgar's song; 
 Thou knowest he made it in the garden here. 
 
 Stilbe 
 I had forgot Cleonis sings but love. 
 
 Agamede 
 Yea, and a love the dream of which men die for ! 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 And the Hfe of which, I see, they sicken of. 
 The fighter for me, and songs of sounding war ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 
The City 
 
 6 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Glaucon, my husband, died to save his king; 
 
 Yonder, amid the blossoms, lies entombed 
 
 Our little child, our Httle Charmides. 
 
 O gods ! take not away my joy in her, 
 
 This fair- faced creature I had learnt to love! 
 
 Stilbe, thou hast seemed like a fresher self 
 
 To me a widow and bereft of youth 
 
 In whom so many hopes have been consumed. 
 
 My little sister left in Argolis 
 
 Must now be tall as thou, a woman grown. 
 
 [Confronting her.] 
 Tell me, loved Stilbe, what hath stung thy heart 
 That, since our summons, thy sweet lips so oft 
 Speak bitterly? 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 Stale sweetness oft turns bitter. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Thou art so fair ! Yet many a winged thrust 
 At our sad, gentle Queen I hear of thee. 
 
Dawn 
 
 7 
 
 Oh, hadst thou earlier from Edessa come 
 
 To stand beside her through this Hngering grief 
 
 Thou, too, wouldst curb the quick scorn of the world ! 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 Thrice o'er these marbled pools the moon hath filled 
 
 Since Uchomo she lured to dwell off here 
 
 While Ananias trudges to Judasa 
 
 For GaHlean charms. The very pause 
 
 She claps upon our city gaiety 
 
 Cries out against her. With the king fled hither 
 
 The town is hke a tomb dead-garlanded. 
 
 I, who this selfsame week was to have wed, 
 
 Am like to die a virgin, being called — 
 
 The maidens decked, as one might almost say, 
 
 And the libation poised above the altar — 
 
 Called with new relays to attend her spouse 
 
 And sing these dull songs to him evermore. 
 
 B clarion, too, our nuptial rites delayed. 
 
 Grows angry in his speech. 
 
The City 
 
 8 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Then thou hast speech 
 With him? 'Tis of Belarion I would warn thee 
 As one who hates the Queen and would rejoice 
 To see the end of this long dynasty. 
 How gains he access to thee, and for what ? 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 He is a man of promise. Heard you not 
 What the oracle declared? 
 
 Agamede {ajter a pause) 
 
 Who is this woman ? 
 Not she who suckled at the same fond breast, 
 SiciHan Praxinoe's, with her 
 She rails on now — bred up in watchful care 
 Her foster-sister in Athenian halls ! 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 Milk is not blood; and even blood will chill 
 Before a thwarted love — such love as mine ! 
 
Dawn 
 9 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Such love as thine? Why, girl, thou'rt mad! Dost 
 
 dream 
 That ever love hath sprung from such a soul? 
 
 [Stilbe laughs scornfully. 
 Ah! The old tale — that thou wast courted first 
 When Uchomo to Athens came. Why, that 
 Belongs among the old forgotten things. 
 
 Stilbe (starting away) 
 
 Oh, some remember still. Yea, even yet 
 
 This royal pair among the oleanders 
 
 Shall well remember ! [Agamede follows her. 
 
 Do not follow me. 
 I, too, have biddings. Follow not, I say ! 
 I'll cry and start Edessa's dreamer up 
 Where he lies dozing in her arms ! I'll shriek ! 
 
 Agamede (in a low voice as they move into the 
 trees) 
 
 Poor, blighted flower! What thou revealest me 
 
The City 
 
 lO 
 
 Confirms injurious whispers round thy name 
 Of poisonous growths about thee, poisoning thee. 
 I will know all. I will not leave thy side 
 Till the last shred thou dost confess to me. 
 
 [Exeunt among the trees. 
 
Morning 
 II 
 
 II. MORNING 
 
 Four hours later. 
 
 The Physician is discovered near the sun-dial, ner- 
 vously pacing a short distance to and jro. 
 
 Enter Ananias with attendants, from the gate which is 
 swung open jor him by guards. 
 
 Physician (starting towards him) 
 At last! Thrice welcome home, Lord Ananias! 
 
 Ananias 
 
 I greet thee. Pray, call not Cleonis yet; 
 
 My courier told me of her weariness. 
 
 Sit here. How hath the King done in mine absence? 
 [He hands the Physician to a place on the 
 settle and remains standing. During the 
 following he paces slowly and firmly to and 
 jro bejore the dais, pausing occasionally 
 with military abruptness. 
 
The City 
 
 12 
 
 Physician 
 
 I scarce had hoped myself to have the honour 
 Of your advices. The Asklepiad 
 Came not along? 
 
 Ananias 
 
 How doth my lord the King ? 
 He hath not rashly left this heahng place? 
 Be brief. How is his fever, sir? 
 
 Physician 
 
 My lord, 
 Last night I deemed his fever slower, stole 
 Forth for an hour to offer up to Paion 
 Such rites as the old, pious world pronounced 
 For his disease, and left him soothed in sleep — 
 Or so he seemed — the Attic women singing 
 Hygeia's hymn, with paeans to the god; 
 And she, Cleonis, by his couch. — Ah, sir. 
 She hath not left his side this many a week, 
 But they together wander all the day 
 
Morning 
 
 About these gardens or within the palace; 
 And nights she lays her down beside his bed 
 Upon her ready pallet, not content 
 To let sweet slumber steal her cares away 
 Till first she see him peaceful. Like a child 
 Is she for the mild beauty of her love. 
 
 Ananias 
 I ask for news. Pray, sir, how is the King? 
 
 Physician 
 
 I left him with a sleeper's pulse, moist-hpped; 
 The low lamp softly shining, at his head 
 His faithful Karamanian, on his breast 
 The Queen's light hand that gently rose and fell 
 With his deep breaths, and all the medicines 
 Of my prognosis ranged conveniently ; — 
 For, though I follow Erasistratos, 
 That learned doctor at Seleukos' court, 
 Our art's chief glory, in him I love less 
 
The City 
 
 What Hippokrates and the school of Kos 
 Instilled, and rather take his slant to Knidos : 
 Each humour of the four three changes hath, 
 And each degree of change hath its own drugs. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Great Zeus ! I had not guessed that so profound 
 My question was ! 
 
 Physician 
 
 In due course. Chamberlain. 
 I, anxious, on returning through the halls 
 Hearing clear voices from the royal chamber, 
 Sped thither. — One brief hour away, so long 
 As might suffice to lay fresh myrrh and vervain, 
 From Epidaurus which Cleonis hath 
 For heahng rituals, on Apollo's shrine. — 
 Found him, despite all previous reproofs. 
 Risen from rest and pacing round his floor 
 Dressed as for journeys, girded with his blade. 
 The Queen, who calmlier looked, sat meekly by, 
 
Morning 
 IS 
 
 And I did overhear much feverish talk 
 
 Of dreams and sloth, and work and war ; and, last, 
 
 I made it clear he sudden had resolved 
 
 No longer here within this wholesome house 
 
 To tarry, but so soon as you, my lord. 
 
 Your grateful presence should again bestow 
 
 Upon this troubled realm, he would return 
 
 With all the court unto Edessa. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Well, 
 
 What more heardst thou a- listening? 
 
 Physician 
 
 Only what 
 
 One may while in surprise held hesitant. 
 
 He spoke of these two months awaiting you 
 
 And this Jerusalem thaumaturgus whom 
 
 Strangely he sets much hope on ; but in chief 
 
 He did reproach himself for idling here 
 
 For, ''whom the gods will bow must face the gods 
 
 With a self yet unbowed," quoth he; "Both selves 
 
The City 
 
 x6 
 
 Of me are rotting here. What malady 
 
 Save sloth consumes both soul and body too?" 
 
 Ananias 
 
 'Twas wisely listened, and remembered well. 
 
 Passing the rest, let us arrive at length 
 
 To where thou vanquishedst surprise. What then? 
 
 Physician 
 
 I then, with my sick-room authority, 
 Drew back the arras and appeared to them, 
 Placed soporific leaves upon the brasier, 
 Besought Cleonis leave us for her chamber, 
 And proffered Abgar a composing draught. 
 
 What think you? Rather than accept my skill 
 And the soft dulling ministries of drugs 
 That bring the body rest, he spurns my hand. 
 And rising violently on his bed 
 Commands Cleonis stay and me depart! 
 
Morning 
 17 
 
 I wavered 'twixt two judgments ; but I saw 
 Such glance of anger under his dark brow 
 I turned and left him in his weakness. Since 
 All which I have been deep distraught to know 
 How him I serve, and, I do swear you, love, 
 I may best bring to reason. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 'Twill be hard. 
 Exasperation is an angry wound 
 Thy surgery but inflames, Asklepios. 
 Keep thou remote from him: there's means for thee. 
 
 Physician 
 
 Thank you, my lord ! I am rejoiced to find 
 Your first so Hke my last deHberation ! 
 It will be best to leave him for a space, 
 Perhaps until he send for me; and yet 
 I love him and I would not seem displeased. 
 
The City 
 
 i8 
 
 Voice of a Guard 
 None pass without the royal sign ! 
 
 Voice oj a Messenger 
 
 Behold it. 
 [Enter Messenger, in haste. Bows and presents 
 despatches to Ananias. 
 
 Messenger 
 
 These from the prefect Mithradates — beg 
 Instant reply. 
 
 Ananias (Reads. Takes stylus and tablet from girdle 
 and writes hurriedly) 
 
 To Mithradates this. 
 
 [Exit Messenger. 
 Here's service for you if you love our lord: 
 Read over this despatch and make it yours ; 
 
 [Writes. He gives the Physician the Mes- 
 senger's despatch. 
 
Morning 
 19 
 
 Then to the city post, seek out these men, 
 Both veterans in the service of this house 
 And scarred in old campaigns against its foes. 
 Speak with them privily. Antigonus 
 Will summon guards, and John the Magistrate 
 Suppress the public brawl with sterner force 
 Than this seal's lack would warrant him. 
 
 \He seals with a ring two packets j and gives 
 them to the Physician. 
 
 Physician 
 
 This hour 
 
 Doth Abgar with Cleonis haunt this spot. 
 
 You'll meet him here, my lord; 'tis better so. 
 
 His humour is more genial in the air 
 
 For taking news of ill. Commend my love 
 
 With an apology to Abgar who, 
 
 Knowing the pressure, will condone mine absence. 
 
 One thing: Tell him not all at once; but first 
 
 Only as darkening probabilities 
 
 Assert them, then — 
 
The City 
 
 20 
 
 Ananias 
 
 'Tis sixteen stadia thither, 
 And thou must seek Antigonus by noon. 
 Pray, get to horse at once. 
 
 The Queen approaches; 
 She must not know the matter of our speech. 
 
 Physician 
 I go. \ExU. 
 
 [Enter Cleonis from the portico. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Friend ! 
 
 Ananias (kneeling) 
 Lo, I am returned, dear Queen. 
 
 Cleonis {raising him, smiling sadly) 
 What weary journeys we have all been taking ! 
 
 Ananias 
 I would all had such welcome at the end. 
 
Morning 
 
 21 
 
 Cleonis {seating herself upon the dais) 
 
 These many weeks hath Abgar longed for you 
 With a deep, earnest longing of the soul. 
 A brief dull slumber torn from fever's rage 
 Now binds him ; for his nights are tedious. 
 You have been informed as much but now? 
 
 Ananias 
 
 As much, 
 But with more rhetoric. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 The poor old leech 
 Is very learned, but his ministries 
 Have not availed. I look with perfect hope 
 Toward the arrival of the Healer. So 
 Tell me of him, and of your travel, all, 
 And Uchomo shall straightway learn from me. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 "All" is summed up in this: the thought of him 
 Whose body's rest I'd give my Hfe to win. 
 
The City 
 
 22 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Your absence lent us pause to measure you : 
 
 Your putting by of prejudice, your pure, 
 
 Yea, sacrificial friendship. Oft whole days 
 
 As he hath paced these prisoning gardens round, 
 
 Subduing his proud soul within a frame 
 
 Inadequate, that he might bear the long 
 
 And well-nigh insupportable delay 
 
 Of the great Healer's answer, then of you, 
 
 Of your long, tireless vigilance, your strong 
 
 Mid-manhood's quiet, unprotesting love. 
 
 To me he spake. And once he said, "Of such 
 
 I'll build my state when I am whole again; 
 
 Or, lacking others like him, base all there!" 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Only the usual grace my service bears 
 Of an hereditary loyalty 
 To worth unusual. I served Bar-Abgar; 
 My father, his. I am a soldier, plain, 
 
Morning 
 23 
 
 And not much given to visions; yet sometimes 
 For Uchomo there's bred in my regard 
 A sudden tenderness for that he dreams, 
 Moving along some higher plane than ours, 
 And seeks to found our city in his dreams. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 And never will our dull world learn that dreams 
 
 Are all that fact hath ever issued from. 
 
 But yet you have not spoken of the Healer. 
 
 I had dared half-beheve that he would come 
 
 Prepared to make our palace his abode 
 
 As ran our invitation sent by you. 
 
 Much did this thought alleviate his pain 
 
 While Abgar yearned for that strong being's touch. 
 
 Delay suits not his temper, and I fear 
 
 The issue. — He but follows you ? His train 
 
 Could not accommodate them to your haste? 
 
 [A pause. She speaks with growing anxiety. 
 How long must we await him? 
 
The City 
 
 24 
 
 Ananias 
 
 O Cleonis, 
 
 Forgive that I ne'er learned the courtier's phrase 
 
 To sweeten bitter news ! Your heart is strong, 
 
 Made so in many troubles early borne. 
 
 Cleonis {smothering her fear) 
 
 Only as it must seem for Uchomo. 
 I am too weak a woman to bear well 
 A loved one's pain. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 His pain so much is thine 
 That 'twill be bravely borne, dear Queen. Know, 
 
 then, 
 The Hebrew prophet, called the Nazarene, 
 Declined Edessa's princely offer. 
 
 Cleonis (leaning forward in excitement) 
 
 Ah, 
 Avert such woe, Athena Paionia ! 
 
Morning 
 
 Ananias {approaching her as he speaks^ and seating 
 himself at the opposite end oj the dais) 
 
 This is the hardest part of all my mission. 
 Compared to this, those stony Syrian hills 
 Are smoother than the broad Palmyran road. 
 
 I know not of what power that Healer worked, 
 Nor if he wrought at all the cures they tell, 
 Having seen his face but once. He had a look 
 Most kind. I thought of Uchomo's fair brow. 
 And of the steady light of his deep eyes 
 When he discourses of his ideal city. 
 
 Cleonis (meditatively) 
 They say he, too, hath powerful enemies. 
 
 Ananias 
 From whom the court of Abgar promised refuge. 
 
 Jerusalem swarmed. From up and down the kingdom 
 
 Thronged the barbarians for their sacrifice. 
 
 It seems their god hath rites that once each year 
 
The City 
 
 26 
 
 In the mid-spring exact their celebrations; 
 
 And I must hit it at the very time 
 
 When all their hostels choke, and every hole 
 
 Teems with their tribesmen gaunt from hill and plain. 
 
 It was most fortunate I had of you 
 
 The letter to the lady Berenis. 
 
 She, as Tiberius' niece, holds high estate 
 
 Amongst the Romans of Jerusalem. 
 
 As for the servants of our retinue, 
 
 They needs must fare ill, like the pilgrims. Me 
 
 She of her generous hospitaHty 
 
 Most courteously those days did entertain 
 
 In honour of the Osrhoenic House 
 
 Whose latest prince by fair repute she loves 
 
 For his just laws and life. 
 
 From her I heard 
 Much of this preaching carpenter who builds 
 Such wondrous edifice of charity 
 Amongst those fierce uncharitable Jews, 
 And something of his marvellous cures, on which 
 I pressed much question while within her gates. 
 
Morning 
 27 
 
 Berenis, having friends among his school, 
 
 Herself a half-disciple, unrevealed 
 
 For reasons politic, obtained me one 
 
 Philip, a humble Galilean, who 
 
 Through the packed alleys entered where he taught 
 
 And learned an hour when we more privately 
 
 Together might converse. I sought him then, 
 
 This Phihp guiding me, in Bethany, 
 
 A hamlet up an ohve-sprinkled hill 
 
 Just out the eastern walls. There found we him 
 
 Surrounded by the trees and some few friends. 
 
 The village gentry whose loved guest he was. 
 
 [Beckons to an attendant and takes a parchment 
 scroll jrom a casket in the attendants hand. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Tell me of his appearance. What said he? 
 
 Ananias 
 He had prepared this scroll and gave it me 
 
The City 
 
 28 
 
 With courteous words, yet, as I after thought, 
 Most singularly free from deference 
 For one who ranks with artisans. His look 
 Betrayed no satisfaction with our suit; 
 Yet he did emanate a grave respect 
 Which seemed habitual, much as Stoics use, 
 Yet kinder; and his bearing had more grace 
 Than any Jew's I ever saw before. 
 
 As for his words, I own I scarce recall them, 
 
 And have been wondering ever since that I, 
 
 Bred at a court and tutored to brave deeds. 
 
 Should be so sudden silenced. For I stood 
 
 Obedient to unknown authorities 
 
 Which spake in eye and tone and every move, 
 
 In that his first mild answer of refusal. 
 
 He seemed to have foreknowledge of our case; 
 
 Mayhap the Gahlean gave him news 
 
 Of our perplexity and long delay 
 
 In matters urgent to the city's welfare 
 
 Which I had hinted of to Berenis. 
 
Morning 
 29 
 
 He looked on me with such compassionate gaze 
 I had an impulse to renew my plea; 
 But he, as if he read my inmost mind, 
 Bade me tell Abgar to contemplate this 
 
 [Indicating the scroll. 
 And shortly all should be made clear to him. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Are you he who would yield his hfe to win 
 
 Peace for his tortured master's body ? Shame ! 
 
 Oh, had I gone I would have so besought him. 
 
 And stormed him with the passion of my prayers, 
 
 That he had never dared refuse me ! Love, 
 
 Love 'twas you lacked to burn your words in him ! 
 
 Had you loved Abgar even as duty bids. 
 
 Even as your father loved Bar- Abgar when 
 
 He made the pilgrimage to Epidaurus 
 
 And slept upon the slain goat's skin, and begged 
 
 Asklepios' image for his master's hfe, 
 
 And so prevailed ; — oh, had you loved one half 
 
 As yonder Karamanian slave who stands 
 
The City 
 
 All night on guard at Abgar's weary head ; — 
 
 Or even one little, little part as I 
 
 Who, a poor helpless girl, can only stroke 
 
 The feverish temples, hold the throbbing wrist — 
 
 Oh, you had begged with tears, and he had come 
 
 And healed the hidden canker of our lives ! 
 
 Ananias {arising) 
 
 My love counts not its duties; nor, I think, 
 Is love summed up in all its victories : 
 'Tis larger, and includes defeat. In this 
 All I could do I did, since there was power 
 Would dumb the boldest suitor. Written here 
 Is his deliberate determination. 
 
 Cleonis {arising. Her fingers are strained together) 
 
 I'll go myself and grovel on my knees ! 
 He who hath made the leper whole, hath caused 
 The bhnded eyes to flood with heaven's light, 
 And, O ye gods ! they say restored the dead — 
 
Morning 
 31 
 
 Him shall I travel to by night and day, 
 
 And, having found, shall warm so v^ith my tears 
 
 That his indifference shall melt away 
 
 Like April ice upon Hymettus. Oh ! 
 
 [She sinks, weeping, to the seat. 
 
 Ananias {gently) 
 
 Cleonis, I have twice thy years. I know 
 Both love from hate, and duty from indifference. 
 'Twas only love for Abgar took me hence 
 In perilous times; and it was not indifference 
 Detained the man : a thing to ponder on. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Show me the way to him, I do command you ! 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Your journey to him would be all in vain, 
 Your prayers and tears in vain, unless, as some 
 
The City 
 
 He lived among believe, he was a god 
 Who may be sought by sorrow anywhere. 
 
 Cleonis 
 What mean you ? 
 
 Ananias 
 He is dead. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 So are the gods, then ! 
 Say on. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Even as I tarried the last day 
 At the kind house of Berenis, we heard 
 He was condemned to death. My mission done, 
 I bade my horsemen make all ready, spurred 
 Out of the city, and with haste departed. 
 
 Cleonis 
 What, waited not to search the matter out ! 
 Subsequent haste might well have bought you hours 
 To learn this master's fate ! How then, say you 
 
Morning 
 33 
 
 They killed him? On what charge proved they his 
 
 guilt? 
 
 Ananias 
 
 That I know not. It seemed a common clamour 
 For blood — not blood of guilt, but innocence. 
 Their god must have, it seems, a human victim 
 Along with the twice seven-score thousand lambs 
 They slay at each of these strange feasts of theirs. 
 
 Cleonis 
 What time stayed you within their savage city? 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Three days. My interview was Wednesday. On 
 
 The Friday as I left the lady's gate 
 
 She with her household gave us company 
 
 Unto the open highway, and there called 
 
 Afresh on us the favour of the gods 
 
 To cheer our long return. 
 
 Just down the street 
 We, not ten paces from the friendly door, 
 
The City 
 
 34 
 
 Beheld a noisy rabble that so pressed 
 
 The narrowing way, we reined our steeds aside 
 
 To wait its passage. 'Twas a dreadful sight: 
 
 A criminal condemned by Roman law 
 
 To drag the wretched beam he was to die on, 
 
 As is the usage towards the baser sort 
 
 Who should not stain the honourable sword, 
 
 Surrounded by a hateful mob kept off 
 
 By the centurions of the procurator. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 What poor, doomed wretch was he ? — Oh, 'twas not 
 
 — not ... 
 
 Ananias 
 
 As they drew nearer, from my horse I saw him. 
 
 And it was he; but that I only learned 
 
 By the loud banter of the bullying crowd. 
 
 He had transgressed some law those Hebrews have, 
 
 And went to pay for it upon the cross. 
 
 As the way widened past the high-walled house 
 
 Of Berenis, the throng thinned, and I saw 
 
 Plainer the moving figure of the man 
 
Morning 
 35 
 
 And the huge beam laid on him. Suddenly 
 From the great gate I saw a form dart forth 
 Straight towards him, pause and seem to have some 
 
 speech 
 With the condemned, as, by old privilege, 
 Sometimes the pious ladies do with those 
 Who tread the shameful road. Her speech was brief. 
 She turned, and, as I saw 'twas Berenis, 
 Towards me she came, and her eyes, wet with tears. 
 Smiled sadly, and she said these final words: 
 
 ''Such shame a mighty purpose led him to, 
 Yet he shrinks not, but steadfast to this end 
 Inevitable hath he come his way. 
 A woman of my house was healed of him 
 By kissing once the border of his garment. 
 Take your King this, and say that as he dragged 
 His cruel but chosen cross to his own doom 
 Some comfort in its cooHng web he found, 
 And left a blessing in its pungent folds." 
 
 [He takes a small square oj linen from his bosom. 
 
The City 
 
 A keenly odorous linen from her hand 
 
 I laid within my bosom next the scroll. 
 
 And so we said farewell, and I spurred on, 
 
 The hoarse mob's laughter down the blazing street 
 
 Making us glad to quit the fearful city. 
 
 [He gives the linen into the hand 0} Cleonis. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Oh, let them never leave their quiet hills, 
 These prophets that dream well for all the world ! 
 Let them remain in mountains far from man 
 Where nothing fiercer than the lion roams, 
 Communing with the kindly elements — 
 The earth that is their mother, and the winds 
 That are such spirits' brothers, and the fire 
 Of splendid storms that like their words breaks forth, 
 And waters that flow out like their great love ! 
 They are of other worlds and strangers here: 
 Let them remain in mountains — or in gardens ! 
 
 Ananias 
 Ay, but we need such in this world of men. 
 
Morning 
 37 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Ye need them as the tiger needeth blood ! 
 Come, show me one great soul that taught you good 
 Whom your wild world would have; one bold emprise 
 Without Protesilaus at the prow? 
 
 The Carthaginians exiled Hannibal; 
 The Romans, Scipio; Cicero they stabbed; 
 Athens gave Socrates the poison cup 
 Because she feared his truth; Jerusalem 
 Doth crucify him who would make her whole. 
 
 O Ananias, this thy tale for me 
 
 Brings ominous forebodings. Pray, beseech 
 
 With all your long-used freedom that the King 
 
 Go not yet to the city. I have heard 
 
 Slight rumours of a restless populace 
 
 That, like caged eagles, fight the hand would free, 
 
 And look suspiciously on Uchomo. 
 
 Is it not true that gathering troubles brood 
 
 Within the city? 
 
The City 
 
 38 
 
 Ananias 
 Yes. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 I felt it. Now 
 Give me the whole truth. I've the heart for it. 
 
 Ananias {handing her the Messenger's despatch) 
 
 This word but now despatched to me tells all. 
 
 [A pause. She reads. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 'Tis all my fears condensed into a Hne. 
 
 Now must your prayers with mine urge him remain. 
 
 Towards evening, at the old accustomed hour, 
 
 Here meet us and conclude your narrative 
 
 Which I will give to Uchomo complete 
 
 Up to the Healer's shameful death; and that 
 
 Will I in silence leave till custom dull 
 
 The lesser sadness. 
 
 Are the guards informed? 
 Is all precaution taken? 
 
Morning 
 39 
 
 Ananias 
 
 All is ready; 
 But I go now to double-warn his watch 
 Against the morrow. Be not anxious. We 
 Who long have served this house will prove our love. 
 
 [ExiL 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Bear with me, Ananias. My heart aches. 
 
The City 
 
 40 
 
 III. AFTERNOON 
 
 Eight hours later. 
 
 The full court is assembled, with Abgar, Cleonis, An- 
 anias, and Attendants. Afterwards, Agamede. 
 
 Abgar is seated at the end of the stone settle nearest the 
 portico. His right arm rests on the hack of the seat, 
 its hand supporting his head. His gaze is fixed upon 
 the distant city, so as to leave discernible only the left 
 side of his face. His soldierly short black hair and 
 strong profile are accentuated by the eager forward 
 thrusting of the neck. A flowing white chlamys is 
 thrown aside from his left shoulder, revealing a 
 severe military dress. The free hand rests upon 
 and clasps the hilt of a sword suspended at the hip. 
 
 Cleonis sits full front, a little removed from Abgar, on 
 the settle, her hands folded before her, and her head 
 resting somewhat wearily against the high back of 
 the seat. Her garment is a peplus of azure wool. 
 
 Ananias sits below her on the steps at her right, his gaze 
 directed to Abgar. His attitude, that of interrupted 
 
Afternoon 
 
 narration^ presents the right side oj his face and jorm 
 profiled against the oleander leaves. A scroll lies 
 open in his hands. 
 
 The Slave-boy stands in waiting at some distance on the 
 ground to the lejt oj Abgar, immediately behind 
 whom stands his great Body Slave. 
 
 In the middle background, grouped in the foliage, stand 
 the Queen^s women in jresh garments oj various 
 bright colours. 
 
 Armed guards are stationed in the extreme background. 
 
 The sojt light oj advancing dusk fills the garden, but the 
 undulating plain seen through the trees, and the 
 white walls oj the city, are sufjused with rich sun- 
 light. 
 
 Music oj lyres. The women are singing. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 ^gina's foam is high and wild 
 Where Pan immortal sits enisled; 
 But thou and I with flying oar 
 Seek Psyttaleia's sacred shore. 
 
The City 
 
 42 
 
 The City of the Violet Crown 
 Well knows that rocky island's frown; 
 But thou and I together learned 
 What fires upon her altars burned. 
 
 Oh, many a sail goes gleaming there 
 Bound for some olive-garden fair; 
 But thou and I made fast to her 
 And found her cypress loveUer. 
 
 The shrines of Aphrodite lift 
 Their smoke in every village- rift ; 
 But thou and I remote from man 
 Propitiate the woodland Pan. 
 
 [As the song ends, Cleonis waves dismissal 
 to the women. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 More music while I think. Some martial air. 
 There's one of Alexander's men. Sing that. 
 
Afternoon 
 43 
 
 Cleonis {speaking over-shoulder to the women) 
 
 That song of Arbela. 
 
 {To herselj.) 
 Unsoothing sound ! 
 
 Chorus 
 
 I see the Macedonian's foes 
 Where Zab, the fatal river, flows; 
 A milHon, chariot and horse, 
 And spearmen of the Persian's force 
 
 Orontes and the Euxine gave, 
 The Oxus and the Caspian wave; 
 Jaxartes, Kashgar, Indus, far 
 Swell the bright rushing tide of war ! 
 
 I see the Persian innermost 
 Of all his vast assembled host. 
 Around him in protecting groups 
 Legions of mercenary troops: 
 
The City 
 
 44 
 
 Melophori, and Mardian bows, 
 Albanians, Carians interpose, 
 With Indian elephants, between 
 The monarch and his foe unseen. 
 
 A score and five the nations are 
 Preceded by the scythed car. 
 And Cappadocia's cavalry 
 For numbers like the waving sea. 
 
 Who comes upon them? O'er the plain 
 The Macedonian sweeps amain ! 
 I see his phalanx solid-speared. . . • 
 
 Abgar {arising suddenly) 
 
 'Tis thus a world's won ! Alexander led 
 But two-score thousand men, but them he led ! 
 Ha, how the many- captained Persians ran 
 Before that godhke youth ! 
 
 \He unsheathes his sword and diagrams on the 
 ground. 
 
 Darius' centre, 
 
Afternoon 
 45 
 
 Bared of the Bactrian cohorts at his left 
 
 Who would outflank the slantwise charging right 
 
 Of Macedon, exposed both front and side 
 
 To Alexander's horse and spearmen. Here 
 
 Plunged in that son of PhiHp, whose assault 
 
 Filled the great King with terror, so he fled 
 
 Treading his crumbled empire in the dust. 
 
 \He drops to his seat, taking jormer position. 
 Yet Alexander and Darius both 
 Are dead. And what avail the conqueror 
 Issus and Arbela? — Do they comfort him 
 Down there among the shades ? What victory 
 Won Alexander that his naked soul 
 May deck him with where dwelleth Socrates? 
 
 [A pause. He turns, quietly, addressing Ananias. 
 Conclude the Hebrew's letter, Ananias. 
 
 Ananias (reading) 
 
 "As to the part of your epistle which 
 Concerns my going hence to visit you, 
 Know that I have a mission to fulfil 
 
The City 
 
 46 
 
 In mine own city, and must here remain 
 Till all its ends be satisfied. Yet you 
 Of your infirmity shall know full cure, 
 And those most dear to you have peace. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 "Farewell." 
 
 See, he doth promise healing ! Reads not more 
 On any margin, or betwixt the lines. 
 To indicate how such a joy may be? 
 
 Ananias 
 Nay, I have now read every word to you. 
 
 Cleonis (bending forward) 
 
 Hand me the letter. 
 
 [Ananias arises, and gives her the scroll. 
 Why, these very fines 
 We did pass over Hghtly, they seem charged 
 With hidden meaning. [She reads, thoughtfully. 
 
 ^'Abgar, forasmuch 
 
Afternoon 
 47 
 
 As ye believed on me whom ye knew not, 
 Shall happiness be yours. For it is wrote 
 Concerning me that they should not beheve 
 Who have beheld, that those who dwell afar 
 And see not might have faith and hfe abundant." 
 
 See you not something there, O Abgar? 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Much. 
 
 Did I not ask for music, hearing that? 
 
 I shall be healed ! The ebbing springs of life 
 
 Will flow again as full they flowed of yore ! 
 
 My city, O my city ! thou shalt know 
 
 Again the joyous tread of other days. 
 
 When all thy booths and palaces and shrines 
 
 With multitudes of helpless, longing folk 
 
 First knew me theirs to build, protect, and love ! 
 
 I have not yet resolved the Healer's words 
 Into clear meaning; but their crystal soon 
 In the still cup of contemplation may 
 
The City 
 
 Give up its precious drug to heal our cares. 
 What said he of it, Ananias? ''Shortly 
 Should all be clear that's written in this scroll"? 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Those are the words, my lord, in giving me 
 His answer spake the Nazarene. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Consider. 
 I offered him my realm's protection; peace; 
 A sanctuary of philosophy; 
 
 And a disciple not without an arm. \A pause. 
 
 Now, more than ever, do I long to see him; 
 What won my reverence now provokes my love. 
 His city hates him. Oh, that he were here ! 
 
 \He springs to his jeet, and paces up and down 
 the dais. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 I think, my lord, he weighed all this, so firm 
 
Afternoon 
 49 
 
 His speech revealed him, as if all debate 
 
 He, silent, had passed through at once forever. 
 
 Abgar {eagerly) 
 
 How well thou hast divined this sort of soul ! 
 Planted upon his rock, he sees all else 
 As drift and wreckage of the stormy seas 
 That surge around him, yet can touch him not. 
 
 There is but one decision for such man, 
 And, after that, concession, compromise, 
 Expediency — these enter not at all 
 Into the fabric of his meditation. 
 To such death is not. For untainted is 
 The source of life, and solid is the rock. 
 To those who go down in the trough upon 
 Their own poor broken spar, that rock is hid 
 With him upon it, and they call him dead. 
 I will send other embassies to him — 
 Not importuning him, but to have words 
 To ponder on. Or, maybe, go myself, 
 
 £ 
 
The City 
 
 50 
 
 For I already feel renewed within 
 
 By the great soul of him who hath opposed me. 
 
 Cleonis (approaching Abgar, and laying her hands 
 in his) 
 
 Uchomo, hast thou all the love for me 
 That thou didst woo me with those perfect days 
 Amid the cloves and laurels where the sea 
 Flung its white arms among ^Egina's isles? 
 Still the old love that bore me in our barque 
 Far on those sunlit waters where but faint 
 The cry of men, and even the gleam of sails, 
 Came to us in our niche among the hills? 
 
 Yes, yes, I know ! I ask to be assured 
 By the old light rekindled in thine eyes. 
 
 O Uchomo, the constancy of love 
 
 Hath not performed its service until pain 
 
 Doth weld both hearts inseparably. 
 
 Not all 
 At once to-day did I repeat to thee 
 Of what our Ananias hath brought back. 
 
Afternoon 
 
 Abgar 
 I felt that more would come in love's own time. 
 
 Cleonis {taking the linen jrom her bosom) 
 
 This brought he back to thee with him. It bears 
 The dying benediction of the Man. 
 
 She who bestows it, lady Berenis, 
 Invoked his heahng power upon its folds. 
 
 Abgar 
 His city slew him? 
 
 Cleonis 
 Took away his Hfe! 
 
 Abgar (receiving the linen) 
 
 Not that ! For he shall live forever here, 
 
 And in the bosoms of philosophers. 
 
 Such hfe shall grow and blossom, and bear fruit — 
 
 Yea, here in mine own city shall it grow ! 
 
 [A pause. He turns suddenly^ with outspread 
 arms, and uplifted head. 
 
The City 
 
 52 
 
 I feel it now ! All through these withered veins 
 I feel it bound and glow ! O hfe, Hfe, Hfe ! 
 
 \He clasps Cleonis in his arms. 
 
 [Voices at the gate. Enter jrom thence Aga- 
 MEDE, exhausted. Her long, white gar- 
 ment of the morning is stained and 
 disarranged, and her grey hair is loose. 
 She walks uncertainly towards the dais. 
 
 [Cleonis, in surprise, runs and supports her 
 in her embrace. 
 
 Agamede {breathless) 
 Yet not for this — this even — deem friendship vain, 
 And sister a Hght name ! — Vow that to me ! 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Sweet sister Agamede ! 
 
 Abgar {to Slave-boy) 
 Fetch her wine. 
 [Boy brings wine, of which Agamede partakes. 
 {Lifting his hands to her) 
 
Afternoon 
 53 
 
 Be sure of us, dear Agamede ! All 
 Assembled here are bound to thee by love 
 And thy long, tender years of care for us. 
 The world is full of beauty, strength, and love ! 
 
 [Cleonis leads Agamede to a seat, and sits 
 beside her comfortingly. A pause, 
 
 Agamede {to Cleonis) 
 
 What words and looks are these from Uchomo? 
 
 Oh, was it all a frightful dream that I 
 
 Since dawn this day have fought with Nemesis? 
 
 Cleonis 
 That was thy dream, dear one. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Some dream this was. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Thou splendid youth ! What god hath wrought on thee 
 Whilst I was dreaming? Came he hither, then, 
 That GaHlean Healer long desired? 
 
The City 
 
 54 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Thou seest me healed by him. We dream no more. 
 
 Agamede {passing a hand over her eyes) 
 
 Oh, but I dreamt not ! 
 
 {Reluctantly) 
 
 Abgar, of thy house 
 One hath turned traitor and conspired with those 
 Who long have wished thee ill. More, too, I find, 
 O King: lords Umbar and Athmantides 
 Have been beset by the wild populace 
 And are imprisoned by them in the Tower. 
 
 Abgar 
 How learn you this? 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Fresh from those scenes I come. 
 
 Cleonis and Abgar 
 What ! From the city thou ? 
 
Afternoon 
 55 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 What stains are these? 
 What woe hath overtaken thee? 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Spare not. 
 
 A great peace dwells in this abode. Not thou, 
 O wife of Glaucon, canst bring anguish here, 
 Nor bow our hearts with any woe but thine ; 
 On which, if aught there be, the kingdom shall 
 Be spent for remedies. Speak slowly all. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 It is my woe, mine own famihar woe 
 As I had learned it in forgotten ages. 
 Two kinds of woe which I had known before 
 Shall never seem so old a woe as this; 
 And there is ransom from all other kinds. 
 When we go back into the earth ; but this, 
 Once known, shall be a terror in the soul 
 And in Elysium even cloud it o'er 
 With memories that Lethe cannot quell ! 
 
The City 
 
 56 
 
 Ananias 
 'Twere well to speak directly of this matter. 
 
 Agamede {to Abgar) 
 
 Forgive, O Abgar, first, that how and why 
 
 I came into the city, or with whom, 
 
 I now conceal. Let it suffice that one 
 
 I followed fleeing thither who confessed, 
 
 In part because I persecuted so. 
 
 In part that, sure of their complete design, 
 
 The traitors fear not now if it be known. 
 
 What I found in the city first I tell: 
 
 Of all your officers of pubHc works 
 
 Who build and broaden, cleanse and sweep away. 
 
 These twain have most incurred the rabble's wrath, 
 
 The stewards Umbar and Athmantides ; 
 
 Because their duties — as chief overseers 
 
 Of the new sewers — do seem sacrilege 
 
 In that the city's soil so deep is dug 
 
 That antique gods of stone, once worshipped there 
 
Afternoon 
 57 
 
 By the old Syrian fathers of the folk, 
 
 Have been disturbed in their forgotten slumbers. 
 
 And certain who oppose themselves to all 
 
 The strange reforms that are pushed forward so 
 
 Have used this pretext of indignant gods 
 
 To stir the people and arrest the works. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 How comes it DeHus lets the mob prevail? 
 Where is Belarion that such passion rules? 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Belarion 'tis — I choke to say his name ! — 
 Who stirs them to revenge. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Athmantides 
 And Umbar have their sovereign's instant care. 
 My chariot and guard within an hour 
 Shall bear me to Edessa. 
 
 {To Slave-boy) 
 
 Hasten, boy; 
 
The City 
 
 58 
 
 Bid Moschus have the new Arabians combed, 
 And all prepared for travel in the hour. 
 
 [Exit Slave- BOY. 
 What ! is it thus, my city, whom these dreams 
 Have glorified with perfectness? And ye, 
 O people of my ceaseless watch and care. 
 Could ye not be content a httle while 
 Till my poor body was made sound for you? 
 
 Cleonis {in pain) 
 Uchomo, I forbid thee leave our sight ! 
 
 Ananias 
 Nay, Abgar, go not ! 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Thou wilt straight undo 
 All the slow betterment of these long weeks. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 My word commands, being given authority. 
 The seal I bear persuades with eloquence. 
 
Afternoon 
 59 
 
 Abgar (sitting. He looks towards the city) 
 
 I am the King. From my deliberation, 
 Revolved in silence when the world's asleep, 
 I am not easy moved by hate or love, 
 Nor do I rise by impulse to bold deeds; 
 But it hath ever been my studious care 
 So ripened for emergency to be 
 That through my meditations naught can fall 
 I may not welcome with the fittest deed. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Yet go not ! Oh, thou knowest not ! 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Our tongues 
 Till now were justified in secrecy. 
 
 I must inform you, Abgar, that a band 
 
 Of impious men who fear nor god nor man 
 
 Plot for your Hfe. A treble guard is placed 
 
 Around these walls lest any of their spies 
 
 Steal to you unperceived; while yonder now 
 
 Within the city trusty officers 
 
The City 
 
 60 
 
 Under the Prefect Mithradates' eye 
 Take evidence to blot out that perfidy. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 For days hath nested 'twixt these garden walls 
 
 A withered and implacable Erinys 
 
 Ready to give the signal for assault. 
 
 It wanted only Ananias' presence 
 
 To ripen it, and they intend this night 
 
 With all the force B clarion can assemble 
 
 To make attack. 'Tis no mere mutiny. 
 
 Beginning such, the poison hath been spread 
 
 Till now a revolution threatens all. 
 
 This flew I back to tell the sentinels 
 
 And Ananias' guard which paces here. 
 
 Cleonis {as though suddenly enlightened) 
 Where is Stilbe? 
 
 Agamede {shrinking) 
 
 There is no Stilbe more. 
 
Afternoon 
 6i 
 
 Abgar {placing one hand out upon the heads oj the two 
 women, who have drawn together, and with the 
 other inviting Ananias up to a seat beside him) 
 
 Peace, peace ! They have but once to see their King 
 Strong as of old, and riding with his guard ! 
 
 (To a Slave) 
 Ho, Imbros, run to Moschus and make speed 
 With preparations for departure. Standards, 
 Torches and all the trappings of the mews 
 Provide my escort. See all busy. Thou, 
 
 (To his Body Slave) 
 Gyges, make ready the new armour — that 
 Tiberius had forged and sent to me 
 From Capri. — They will cheer the casque of gold. 
 
 [Exit Slaves. 
 You, faithful friends, and thou, Cleonis, hearken. 
 
 [During the following, the scene gradually dark- 
 ens till the garden is left entirely in the dusk. 
 Then a few stars shine through the trees, and 
 the moon begins to rise. 
 
The City 
 
 62 
 
 Last night, to complement two wondrous dreams 
 Had on the two preceding nights, there came 
 A third, most vivid, and most wonderful. 
 
 In the first vision like to this I dreamed: 
 
 I stood upon a height. Spread out below. 
 
 Dark, silent, shapeless, a vast city — dead — 
 
 Where in far ages of this furrowed world 
 
 Strong men and women took their taste of Hfe. 
 
 All now was desolation absolute; 
 
 And through that wreck of fortress, mart and fane, 
 
 And fallen mausoleum crowded o'er 
 
 With characters for evermore unread. 
 
 Only the wind's soft hands went up and down 
 
 Scattering the obliterative sands. 
 
 I, led in trance by shapes invisible, 
 
 Approached a temple's splendid architrave 
 
 Half sunk in sod betwixt its columns' bases, 
 
 And there by sudden divination read 
 
 The deep-cut legend of that awful gate: 
 
 APPEASE WITH SACRIFICE THE UNKNOWN POWERS. 
 
Afternoon 
 
 Between the roofless, tottering pillars there 
 
 A countless flock had fed the holocaust — 
 
 Numberless innocents drenched the steaming altars, 
 
 Outpouring their propitiative blood. 
 
 And prayers and tears and cringings of a world 
 
 Through them did seek the appeasing way — in 
 
 vain. 
 And the black night came down upon my dream. 
 
 Next night I found me in a twiht place 
 
 Wherein the same compelHng, gentle hands 
 
 Held me. And from mine eminence I saw 
 
 A newer city build ed on Hke dust — 
 
 A trodden sand that could afford to wait. 
 
 Streets hummed, and multitudes on multitudes 
 
 Along their river-quays, in highways broad, 
 
 Or up their Httle ramifying lanes. 
 
 Unceasing plied their single life away. 
 
 They toiled, or played, or fought, or sued the gods. 
 
 Absorbed each in his own peculiar lust. 
 
 As if there were no morrow watching them ; 
 
The City 
 
 64 
 
 Yet each was happier in the morrow- dream 
 Than ever in all achieved yesterdays. 
 
 I was so high above them as to see 
 
 Their httle deeds and mean anxieties, 
 
 Wholly, as one surveys a mound of ants 
 
 At their laborious atom industries. 
 
 Above them spread the splendid heavens filled 
 
 With palpitating sunlight; all around, 
 
 The sources inexhaustible of hfe, 
 
 And plenitudes of peace. But there they swarmed. 
 
 Striving — some bravely ; offering — some in truth ; 
 
 But all with inward thought and eyes on earth. 
 
 And so I saw them grow, and grieve, and die. 
 
 And as I looked, I saw a man who long 
 
 In upward meditation on his roof 
 
 Sat all alone, communing with his soul. 
 
 And he arose, and presently went down, 
 
 Down in the long black streets among his kind. 
 
 And there with patience taught them steadfastly. 
 
Afternoon 
 65 
 
 But, for the restless souls he made in them, 
 
 They turned and slew him and went on their ways. 
 
 And a great fog crept up and covered all. 
 
 Again the third time I was Hfted up. 
 
 A mighty, hving, beautiful walled town, 
 
 A-wave with trees, lay shining on the plain. 
 
 And underneath her walls a river gHded 
 
 Safe bearing her full many a peaceful sail. 
 
 And there Hved folk who all day worked and sang, 
 
 And folk that to and fro sped silently; 
 
 And here and there some sat apart and thought. 
 
 From all whom throbbed a joy in unison 
 
 With the warm earth and her enfolding heavens; 
 
 Through all, the strong, perpetual streams of Hfe 
 
 That through the universe unceasing flow. 
 
 And this dream ended not with cloud or mist. 
 
 But slow receded in its radiance 
 
 Till it grew small as towers and sails and stream 
 
 That whiten yonder to the rising moon. 
 
 And as it went I heard a voice that said: 
 
The City 
 
 66 
 
 "Thou, Abgar, art the King of cities three: 
 The Past, the Present, and the Yet-to- Come. 
 Out of the Past the Present by slow pain 
 And undiscerning upward agonies ; 
 Out of the Present, by as many throes, 
 The city of Celestial Harmony." 
 
 Then faded all, and I awoke and saw 
 Through the wide window of my prison here 
 My city gleaming on its tree-plumed levels, 
 And waiting in its troubled sleep — for me ! 
 
 Fear not for me : I go unto the city. 
 
 [Cleonis clings to Abgar's neck. He^ erecty 
 the left arm holding Cleonis, the right 
 pointing to the city which is now full in 
 the light of the risen moon. 
 
 [The distant noise of preparation for depar- 
 ture fills the garden with sound. 
 
Evening 
 67 
 
 IV. EVENING 
 
 An hour later. 
 
 The only light is that oj the moon, which enfilades the 
 little open spaces among the leaves and along the 
 ground, and shines full over the open country beyond 
 the garden. 
 
 The garden is empty oj people. There are sounds oj 
 stamping hoojs, shouted orders, hurried jootsteps, 
 within the palace and beyond the wall. In the 
 pauses oj these sounds jar in the distance jrom the 
 direction oj the city come indistinct murmurs like 
 human cries. Presently a jaint bugle- call thrice re- 
 peated. The sounds decrease. 
 
 Agamede and Cleonis in the shadow oj the portico, 
 Agamede stands with arms stretched out towards 
 the oleanders, and is sojtly singing. 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Grow, grow, thou little tree, 
 His body at the roots of thee; 
 
The City 
 
 68 
 
 Since last year's loveliness in death 
 The Uving beauty nourisheth. 
 
 Bloom, bloom, thou Httle tree, 
 Thy roots around the heart of me; 
 Thou canst not blow too white and fair 
 From all the sweetness hidden there. 
 
 Die, die, thou little tree, 
 And be as all sweet things must be; 
 Deep where thy petals drift I, too, 
 Would rest the changing seasons through. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Let us sit here and wait for Uchomo. 
 
 \They sit on the steps oj the portico. 
 These last strange quiet moments spent with thee 
 Have wrought some change in me, I know not what. 
 Whereas I was half-girl, this day of storm, 
 O woman of sorrow, hath made me calm as thou; 
 Hath shown me heights and deeps, and swallowed up 
 All fear of death or Hfe. We are secure. 
 
Evening 
 69 
 
 Agamede 
 
 Not in an hour was wrought this change in thee. 
 Thyself hast wrought it day by day in toil 
 For what thou lovest, forgetting what thou art. 
 These final moments show thyself to thee. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Thou hast known all these things for many years. 
 
 [Enter Abgar, armed, wearing his golden hel- 
 met. 
 
 [He bends over Cleonis, who arises and joins 
 him. They descend to the garden. 
 
 [Agamede remains on the steps a moment, her 
 hands extended as in blessing towards the 
 receding pair, then steals into the palace. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Dost thou, love, feel a strange, new sense of peace? 
 
 To me it is as if another air 
 
 Had suddenly enveloped our sad earth. 
 
The City 
 
 70 
 
 Cleonis 
 The atmosphere of oceans tranquillized. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Wherein our barque doth move on steadily 
 As by some other force than chance of winds. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 In the old days when far we searched the seas 
 In our Hght-skimming pinnace, thou and I, 
 Sometimes it bended in and out the isles 
 And no wind seemed to have the care of it. 
 Then thought I, Hke a fooHsh, dreaming girl, 
 That beautiful, strong hands beneath us bore 
 Our barque of love. 
 
 We have lived inland long. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 To me there is no inland, having thee ! 
 Our love's a golden sea set thick with green 
 And aromatic islands whose shores know 
 
Evening 
 71 
 
 Such wreckage only as bright, tide-plucked flowers 
 That grow, unguessed, too deep for touch of storm. 
 
 Come to our garden-seat. The moment nears 
 When we must for a little while be parted. 
 
 [They ?nounf the dais and sit. 
 
 [A pause, during which the murmur jrom the 
 city is renewed. 
 He said that shortly all should be made clear. 
 I think his words grow plainer to me, yet . . . 
 Is there no other way our world will learn ? 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Only through abnegation's sacrifice; 
 
 Only renouncement, that shall raise dead hearts. 
 
 None may believe who have beheld, because 
 
 This mortal vision makes them blind of soul. 
 
 Men may not see with soul and body both: 
 
 This now I see who was till now one bhnd. 
 
 And under the charm of fear. The man spake well. 
 
The City 
 
 72 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Not distance, nor yet death, shall separate 
 The souls of those whose vision is made clear. 
 Lo, he abideth with us evermore 
 Who would not come to us the way of flesh, 
 And in the spirit makes us whole. 
 
 That mind 
 Hath turned my course of longing utterly: 
 I longed for healing only of this flesh 
 That I might serve my state — asked not for more ; 
 Yet how in his refusal he transcends 
 My widest prayer ! 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 *' Of your infirmity 
 Shall you know yet full cure; and those have peace 
 Who are most dear to you." 
 
 That peace is here. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 O love, I never saw thee till this hour 
 
Evening 
 73 
 
 So beautiful ! How all the world is changed ! 
 Let us grow old together in this way. 
 
 Cleonis 
 Always together, well or ill betide: 
 Promise me this, O love — till death's own hour ! 
 
 Abgar 
 Yea ! For no ill can ever meet us so ! 
 
 [Sound oj the chariot at the gate. 
 
 Cleonis 
 I have thy promise. Listen, at yon gate 
 Moschus is standing with the chariot. 
 I go with thee ! Oh, never, never apart ! 
 
 Abgar 
 I will return to thee to-morrow, love. 
 Stay me not thus; the numbered moments fly. 
 Knowest thou not I am made strong for this? 
 
 Cleonis (clinging to him) 
 But thou hast said ill cannot meet us so. 
 Together, always, even to the hour of death 1 
 
The City 
 
 74 
 
 Abgar 
 
 Yea, that I know ! Come, then. Not all earth's power 
 Shall snatch us twain asunder. To the city 1 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 It is the promise: Peace and Hfe abundant. 
 
 [They descend to the ground, and are inter- 
 rupted in their exit by the Body Slave, 
 who enters, running, jrom the palace. 
 
 Slave 
 
 Flee, flee ! Armed bands of thrice our guard's full 
 
 strength 
 Ride here ! 
 
 [He runs centre, mounting the dais and shading 
 his eyes towards the city. 
 I see their helmets on the plain. 
 O King, your chariot quick ! and southward turn : 
 Thapsacus is our ancient ally. Flee ! 
 That friendly city may be reached in safety. 
 One of her trading craft lies on the river 
 
Evening 
 75 
 
 Waiting for dawn to slip her anchorage. 
 Moschus and I will bear you with the Queen 
 Swift charioting thither. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 To Thapsacus, 
 To the old, noble town where Xenophon 
 With the Ten Thousand crossed Euphrates* flood, 
 I, fleeing at night away from foes unseen? 
 
 [He mounts the dais, his arm still encircling 
 Cleonis. They look towards the city. 
 Return thou to thy duty at the postern, 
 And fortify thy heart with the calm night. 
 The guards without are ready; we within 
 Are confident and undisturbed. [Exit Slave. 
 
 Cleonis 
 
 Look, love, 
 
 How beautiful ! Along that road of gold 
 
 Which in and out among the new-sown fields 
 
 Mocks with its shining course the winding river, 
 
The City 
 
 76 
 
 They sparkle like heroic panoplies, 
 
 With helmet, shield, and spear beneath the moon. 
 
 Abgar 
 
 It is, indeed, most beautiful and strange. 
 
 \They stand some moments in silence^ facing 
 the city and the open country^ and watch- 
 ing the advance of the troops. Again 
 the sullen murmur of the city. Twice or 
 thrice Cleonis lifts her hand to the scene 
 and turns her head half round to Abgar. 
 \The sound of galloping hoofs grows near. 
 The horses at the gate paw and neigh. 
 There are movements among the guard, 
 and within the palace. 
 [A red light flares from one end of the city. 
 O city ! many a time and oft have I 
 Preserved thy peace through toil and bitter pain, 
 Turning away the foeman from thy gates ! 
 Oh, I have loved with yearnings infinite 
 Even as a father pitieth his child I 
 
Evening 
 77 
 
 But what can save thee from thyself? Not love. 
 
 What needest thou? What wilt thou of me more? 
 
 My hfe? Can that avail thee in the end? 
 
 If mortal vision make thee blind of soul 
 
 Can death — can that appease, and bring thee sight ? 
 
 [There is an onset at the gate. 
 
 [Enter women from the left, flying into the palace. 
 
 First Woman 
 Flee, flee! 
 
 Second Woman 
 There's murder at the gate ! 
 
 Third Woman 
 
 Oh, flee ! 
 
 [The gate hursts open, hut is still dej ended. 
 
 The flighting is along the wall. 
 
 [Enter Ananias jrom the gate, wounded, 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Where's Uchomo? Where's Cleonis? Where's my 
 King? 
 
The City 
 
 78 
 
 We cannot hold them ofF. They beat us down 
 Like sudden whirlwinds. Oh, I think I die. 
 
 [Cleonis tears a strip from her robe; theUy 
 as if by a jortunate recollection, plucks 
 the square of linen from the bosom of 
 Abgar, and binds it over the wound with 
 the strip. 
 Oh, cowardly to yield thee up a day 
 From my long watchful care ! Oh, base to turn, 
 When needed most, even at thy own command ! 
 
 Abgar (supporting him tenderly) 
 
 Dear friend, thou art the other side the loom. 
 Thou canst not see what wondrous web is wrought 
 By this bhnd weaver Fate ! All's well with us. 
 
 Ananias 
 
 Two months — two months away from thee ! Indeed 
 There was delay — the mountain roads were rough. 
 But — pray, forgive me — this I spake not of : 
 I made not haste sufficient. 
 
Evening 
 79 
 
 Thanks, dear Queen. 
 Your touch is like my Chloe's. 
 
 This, see thou — 
 It was among the hills of Lebanon 
 We met the robbers — on our homeward journey. 
 I had a wound of them. And even now 
 It breaks afresh — before Belarion's blade. 
 Oh . . . oh . . . forgive me, Queen, I brought not 
 
 back . . . 
 Brought not . . . the Healer. ... All I could ... I 
 did. 
 
 \He jails J dying, into the arms of Abgar, who 
 lays him gently upon the dais at his jeet 
 [The conflict ends suddenly. 
 
 Voice oj Stilbe 
 
 The gate ! The gate ! Edessa shall be free ! 
 
 [Belarion bursts through the gate with soldiers, 
 in the midst oj whom, home alojt on the 
 shoulders oj slaves, enter Stilbe clothed 
 in white and gold, and^ hearing garlands. 
 
The City 
 
 80 
 
 Stilbe 
 
 Hear Ares ! Spilth of Persian vintages, 
 And splendid altar-garlands, laurel and rose ! 
 Thighs of a thousand bulls, great Artemis ! 
 
 \In passing, flings a garland to Abgar. 
 Thy roses I return thus, Uchomo ! 
 
 [She is home laughing across the garden. 
 Ha, but once more Edessa shall be gay ! 
 Yet will I give command that every Spring 
 One night my women shall remember thee, 
 O Queen, with love-songs in the garden here. 
 
 [Exit into the palace. 
 
 [The soldiers oj Belarion fill the scene. Some 
 with torches pass into the palace, as 
 though to take possession. In the midst 
 oj them, enter the Physician, in terror. 
 
 Physician 
 
 Drive me not thus, I say. 'Tis ill respect 
 To one of my position. {Catching sight oj Abgar.) 
 
 O dear King ! 
 
\ Evening 
 
 8i 
 
 Speak not reproachfully that I did fail 
 
 To notify Antigonus and John. 
 
 I met an ancient actor on the road 
 
 Who read a trilogy of ^schylus ; 
 
 And ''Prove thyself the Paion of this dread," 
 
 So ran the line, on which I, pondering, came. . . . 
 
 A Soldier {urging him on) 
 
 Come, thou old prattler, show us to the treasure. 
 
 [Exeunt^ into the palace. 
 
 Belarion 
 
 The hour's come round. Here, brave guards of 
 
 Edessa ! 
 Looks he too frail to fight and live like us. 
 He there of the bright eye and crimson cheek? 
 'Tis fine Hfe in a garden with a woman ! 
 His creatures in the city can pull down 
 And build up as he bids them, spite of all 
 The rites and usages of gods and men ! 
 
 Behold the man. What shall we do with him? 
 
The City 
 
 82 
 
 Soldiers 
 Kill him! 
 
 Belarion 
 
 Ay, kill him ! But not instantly. 
 Let him, and her who styles herself our Queen — 
 The Greek wench there — let them acquit them- 
 selves. 
 What wordj King? 
 
 [In advancing, he stumbles over the dead body 
 oj Ananias. 
 
 Ah, the old dog's hcked his last ! 
 
 Abgar 
 
 No word have I for thee to pluck at, thou 
 
 Who murderest beauty, truth, and all fair things ! 
 
 No word have I ; but o 'er that faithful man 
 
 Who gave his Hfe to cure his King's unrest, 
 
 Have I a more than word for thee. That's death ! 
 
 [He steps jorward quickly, unsheathing his 
 blade, and strikes Belarion a mortal blow, 
 
 [Belarion jails , groaning. 
 
Evening 
 
 Belarion 
 
 Up there, ye cowards ! See my vengeance full ! 
 
 \He dies. 
 
 [Abgar, defended at the rear by the stone settle, 
 protects himself and Cleonis during an 
 attack of the soldiers, who fall hack as if in 
 awe of his commanding front. 
 
 [During the pause Agamede, in silence, forces 
 her way through the ranks, and joins 
 Cleonis and Abgar on the dais. 
 
 Cleonis {pointing to the body of Ananias) 
 
 "And those most dear to you have peace." 
 
 Thy blade ! 
 [Abgar hesitates, then yields her his unsheathed 
 sword. She lightly steps downward and 
 lays it upon the body of Ananias, then 
 returns to Abgar, and they stand defence- 
 less j facing the soldiers. 
 
The City 
 
 Abgar (half turning towards the city^ from which the 
 red flame breaks ajresh and irradiates his helmet 
 oj gold) 
 
 Together, love, we go unto the city ! 
 
OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 
 
87 
 
 OCTAVES IN AN OXFORD GARDEN 
 
 I 
 
 The day is like a sabbath in a swoon. Wadham 
 
 Slow in September's blue go fair cloud-things 
 Poising aslant upon their charmed wings, 
 
 Stilled to the last faint backward smiles of June. 
 
 Softly I tread, and with repentant shoon, 
 Half fearfully in sweet imaginings. 
 Where broods, like courtyard of departed kings, 
 
 The old Quadrangle paved with afternoon. 
 
 II 
 
 No footfall sounds within the empty hall; 
 
 No echoes people corridor and stair; 
 
 The sunHght slumbers on the silent square, 
 Forgetful of slow shadows by the wall. 
 Yon is the passage where low lights do fall 
 
 And linger longest (I have watched them there) 
 
 Beyond which you will find a spot most fair, 
 A comfortable and a holy spot withal. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 ni 
 
 There dwells the very soul of quietness, 
 Seclusion's spirit deep within the green, 
 Secure from fame as some unsung demesne 
 
 In far Ionian hills. There waits to bless, 
 
 With her all-heahng, mother- soft caress. 
 The Sympathy of Trees, that friend unseen. 
 Soother of moods, on whom all hearts do lean 
 
 Sooner or later, and their cares confess. 
 
 IV 
 
 As one whose road winds upward turns his face 
 Unto the valleys where he late hath stood. 
 Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood 
 
 On many a beauty of the distant place. 
 
 So I in this cool garden pause a space, 
 Reviewing many things in many a mood, 
 Accumulating friends in soHtude 
 
 From the assembly of my thoughts and days. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 89 
 
 As here among the well- remembering boughs 
 Where every leaf is tongue to ancient breath, 
 Speech of the yesteryears forgathereth, 
 
 And all the winds are long-fulfilled vows — 
 
 So from of old those ringing names arouse 
 A whispering in the foHate shades of death 
 Where History her golden rosary saith, 
 
 Glowing, the light of Memory on her brows. 
 
 VI 
 
 What hath she uttered that should make me dread — 
 That brown-robed Abbess with her beads soft-told 
 Who hath her seat upon the fragrant mould 
 
 And sees the ghding Centuries perfected? 
 
 Naught. Only good things saying, she, with head 
 Bowed to her task submissively, doth fold 
 An era by for every bead of gold, 
 
 And smileth on the glory of the Dead. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 90 
 
 VII 
 
 Here did Wren make himself a student home 
 
 Or e'er he made a name that England loves. 
 
 I wonder, as he watched yon chapel doves 
 If he did have some foresight of that dome 
 On Lud's old Hill where now their coveys come, 
 
 With them that bear his name, in lofty coves. 
 
 I wonder if this straying shadow moves 
 Adown the wall as then he saw it roam. 
 
 vin 
 
 Blake hither brought his book — to con the sky, 
 Commanding squadrons of the upper seas 
 That streamed, impatient of Time's slow degrees, 
 
 Their pennoned fleets of phantasy on high. 
 
 O wing-shod Time, that we should bid thee fly ! 
 Five hundred years good Bishop Wykeham's trees 
 Down there at New have known such lads as these, 
 
 And they are patient still and standing by. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 91 
 
 IX 
 
 All things seem ordered sweetly in the Nature^ s 
 
 calm, Calmness 
 
 Full measure of the even-marching years. 
 
 This elm I love hath never fought with fears 
 And sickening heartbreak ; but the steady psalm 
 Of one who trusts not vainly issues from 
 
 His quiet depth — such psalm as lifts and cheers 
 
 Each tiny stalk or tender blade that rears 
 A nostril to the breeze-bestowM balm. 
 
 Primrose, and Phlox, and Clytie (as I call 
 The lady Sunflower, never to forget 
 The faithful nymph she was — ah, yes, is yet !), 
 
 These sway unto its heartsome rise-and-fall 
 
 With ivies undulating up the wall; 
 And thought, to inarticulate rhythm set, 
 Joins harmony, while far the World's vain fret 
 
 And discord dreamwise vanish from it all. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 92 
 
 XI 
 
 Soon will sweet Primrose be a faded crone, 
 Yet seeks she now nor flattery nor fame; 
 And Phlox upon the morrow lays no claim 
 
 When her shed bloom shall be around her blown. 
 
 This Beech, 'neath whom their many kindred shone 
 As fair, hath ne'er heard any wish a name, 
 And even he hath reckoned it no shame 
 
 To live in silence and to pass unknown. 
 
 XII 
 
 This is my lost inheritance. I look Lost 
 
 With brotherUest affections yearning Inheritance 
 
 forth 
 To the flower-bearing sod. Oh, what is worth 
 
 The strange estate of flesh I strangely took? 
 
 In the soft soil the garden breezes shook 
 
 From the wall chink but now, there's measure of earth 
 To match my body's dust when its re-birth 
 
 To sod restores old functions I forsook. 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 93 
 
 XIII 
 
 Strange that a sod for just a thrill or Vicissitude 
 
 two 
 
 Should ever be seduced into the round 
 
 Of change wherein its present state is found 
 In this my form ! forsake its quiet, true 
 And fruitfullest retirement to go through 
 
 The heat, the strain, the languor, and the wound ! 
 
 Forget soft rain to hear the stormier sound, 
 Exchange for burning tears its peaceful dew ! 
 
 XIV 
 
 It was the lip of murmuring Thames Old Song 
 
 along ^^^ ^ ^^'^^^ 
 
 When new lights sought the wood all strangely fair, 
 
 Such quiet hghts as saints transfigured wear 
 In minster windows crept the glades among. 
 And far as from some hazy hill, yet strong, 
 
 Methought an upland shepherd piped it there, 
 
 Rousing a silvern echo in her lair: 
 ^^ Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song" 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 94 
 
 XV 
 
 My Spenser lay the dewy grass upon, 
 His pages shone before me as I read — 
 Like the gold daisies gleaming round his bed 
 
 His lantern verses upward to me shone. 
 
 End never yet his song's rich note hath known; 
 ''Sweet Thames" runs softly by his burthen sped, 
 And shall, while hymns are sung and prayers are said, 
 
 Low chanting his glad Prothalamion. 
 
 XVI 
 
 I NEVER thought until one night i' the The Same 
 
 dark ^^y 
 
 When one I love was on the labouring seas, 
 
 How constantly the stars' white companies 
 Stand watch o'er all — yea, when horizons stark 
 Are swept of every other sign and mark 
 
 So it were utmost desert but for these. 
 
 (And then, I think, my spirit found its knees 
 And asked them to guide well my dear one's barque.) 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 95 
 
 XVII 
 
 It is the same sky over sea and land : Constancy 
 
 The same pure stars attend great London 
 
 town 
 That tremble where the Channel thunders down; 
 
 'Tis we that vary, running on the strand. 
 
 Life bounds no fresher from the eternal hand 
 Here in the Wadham branches than out yon 
 Where blurs the dusty highway wide and wan : 
 
 Good is within all, having all things planned. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 There is a picture — you have seen Ford Madox 
 .. r, . Brown'' s "Christ 
 
 washing the 
 The Master at unwilUng Peter's p^^i qj p^ter " 
 
 feet 
 Ennobhng evermore and making sweet 
 Each humble service wrought with mind aloft. 
 Such mystic splendour shines serene and soft 
 
 ('Twas dreamt out through long years and made com- 
 plete 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 96 
 
 From visions ripe) that, turning thence, we greet 
 A new world, where dull conscious self is dofift. 
 
 XIX 
 
 He who this limned is gone. They treasure The 
 g^jjj Absence 
 
 The wooden wafer once he loved to hold 
 
 Which (can we question?) now his hand is mould 
 Yearns ever for his touch of tender skill. 
 This ochre, longs it not to meet his will 
 
 About the head of Jesus aureoled? 
 
 And that sad patch of umber some shght fold 
 Of Peter's garment would so gladly fill ! 
 
 XX 
 
 Even so our fancies' colours, keen of yore. 
 When one we love lays by this earth- constraint, 
 Upon our palettes do wax dull and faint, 
 
 Fulfilling not commissions first they bore. 
 
 For he is gone, and never holy lore 
 Nor shining nimbus of transfigured saint 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 97 
 
 May anywhere the fragment ochre paint; 
 And the rich umber waits for evermore. 
 
 XXI 
 
 One time from that grey close I did St, PauVs 
 
 emerge 
 
 Wherethrough I had been toiHng, and to me, 
 
 Like some benignant rock above the sea, 
 St. Paul's great brow above the mist and surge 
 Loomed kindly, and methought did kindly urge 
 
 All men up to it, till there came to be 
 
 A hush on hearts, a deep tranquillity 
 Of healing virtue, round the minster's verge. 
 
 XXII 
 
 Thus Friendship. As a sacred citadel 
 Above the hurrying crowd of men it towers; 
 There in or sun or frost, or shine or showers, 
 
 Invites to worship with no beating bell. 
 
 This world's a city, and it loves full well 
 The mid-street sanctuary that is ours 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 Whither to steal away renewing powers 
 Whose sources only at that Altar dwell. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Some dust of Eden eddies round us yet. Bust 0] 
 
 Some clay o' the Garden, clinging in t.aen 
 
 the breast, 
 
 Down near the heart yet bides unmanifest. 
 Last eve in gardens strange to me I let 
 The path lead far; and, lo, my vision met 
 
 Old, forfeit hopes. I, as on homeward quest, 
 
 By recognizing trees was bidden rest. 
 And pitying leaves looked down and sighed, "Forget." 
 
 XXIV 
 
 To one tired heart I said : If it be true Restoration 
 That, in the sad much- winding of your 
 
 ways. 
 Your thread is broken out of other days, 
 And you know not what joy is lost to you, 
 I pray you, turn aside awhile and through 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 99 
 
 This quiet garden think on some old place 
 Dear to the child you were, and that loved face 
 That once in many a labyrinth was your clew. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Fair crystal cups are dug from earth's Roman Glass- 
 
 , , ^ ware pre- 
 
 «1^ ^^^^^' served in the 
 
 Shattered but lovely; for, at price Ashmolean 
 
 of all 
 
 Their shameful exile from the banquet-hall. 
 They have been bargaining beauties from the dust. 
 So, dig my Ufe but deep enough, you must 
 
 Find broken friendships round its inner wall — 
 Which once my careless hand let shp and fall — 
 Brave with faint memories, rich in rainbow-rust. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Tell them, sweet evening breeze poised Lije's 
 
 , Usurpation 
 
 here, no less 
 
 I love their memory whom thou goest to greet 
 
 Out there at heaven's gate, but that I meet 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 lOO 
 
 Less oft the idle thoughts of old distress. 
 
 Tell them the thought of them still lives to bless, 
 But since I learned how much, despite defeat. 
 My life demands that I shall make complete, 
 
 I must yield up my cherished loneHness. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Something of sorrow am I not denied, — Traces 
 
 Share of the earth's old, universal pain 
 I own, — though but as hillsides own the rain. 
 
 Or soHd sands the long wave's stroking side. 
 
 Still, though no rains upon the steep may bide, 
 And harmlessly the sea- floods rise and wane, 
 The downward torrent-traces do remain. 
 
 And sands bear record of the sedulous tide. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Before an inn hearth's tale-begetting flame. The One 
 Or sooth, or fable, yielded of the store Flower 
 A white old man from perilous country bore, 
 
 I heard of a strange tree without a name 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 lOI 
 
 Whose shade the brinks of fuming gulfs did claim 
 And the precipitous torrents of that shore. 
 Beauteous and straight it was, and uniflore 
 
 With purest bud that e'er to blossom came. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 As those great petals burst asunder there 
 A wondrous fragrance on the breeze was fanned, 
 Solace unique of that unfriendly land 
 
 Wafted remote along the treasuring air. 
 
 But then, the old man said with trembhng care, 
 A Httle raising his blue, withered hand, 
 "The flower droops straightway ere it doth expand, 
 
 And never another bloom that tree may bear." 
 
 XXX 
 
 Oh, sometimes, in the years since then, I too 
 Through dangerous and deserted lands have wended, 
 And many a stark and chasmy steep descended 
 
 Which crumbHng cataracts shed their vapour through. 
 
 But where such lone, mysterious blossom grew 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 
 I02 
 
 I have not sought to learn, by one more splendid 
 Along the dimmest verges close attended — 
 The all-enfolding, deathless love of you ! 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Early at eve on Onchan Head, because Separation 
 
 The crimson lustre was upon the bay. 
 
 And much bright melody began to sway 
 Upward from gay pavihons, and there was 
 None there to speak with in the music's pause, 
 
 I sickened of the glory and turned away. 
 
 Oh, that red sun had sealed a perfect day 
 Had I but heard your low, sweet laugh's applause ! 
 
 XXXII 
 
 He is no lover of the sea who loses 
 Sound of her voices, inland wandering. 
 Still should her old melodious mystery spring 
 
 Around him, wend he wheresoe'er he chooses; 
 
 And so within me rhythmic Hfe refuses 
 
Octaves in an Oxford Garden 
 103 
 
 By any other pulse than yours to swing, 
 Far from your friendship's ocean though I sing 
 Where the hills tire and the rough pathway bruises. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 A great nelumbo heavy on the breast 
 
 Of heaven's tranquil lake must be the moon 
 Above this garden in the still night's noon 
 
 Bending the gold of her refulgent crest. 
 
 Thus to the surface of these days of rest 
 Through all my absent idlesse, late and soon, 
 The thought of you doth blossom and the boon 
 
 Of the dear face that waits me down the West. 
 
SONNETS 
 
Sonnets 
 
 107 
 SONNETS 
 
 LIFE'S TAVERN 
 
 Night-refuge, set aloft this travelled hill, 
 
 Tis deemed by many a lodger but an inn; 
 Others look round them better and scarce fill 
 
 Their first cup ere its mystery doth begin, 
 And they are led by some divine desire 
 
 Where, midmost of an inner room, there bends 
 Clear flame on golden altar, to which fire 
 
 A v^ide-eyed vestal changelessly attends. 
 And most, so led, have joy to serve that light 
 
 And with the jealous priestess vigil keep; 
 But woe to any wearying neophyte. 
 
 And woe to him who serves with eyes of sleep: 
 To such is she more bitter than to those 
 On whom, unlit, her doors forever close ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 1 08 
 
 SULTAN'S BREAD 
 
 Remote behind the Sultan's palace wall 
 That silent rises out of teeming Fez, 
 A foreign guest, who oft broke bread there, says 
 
 One day at food a morsel was let fall; 
 
 And Abd-ul, keen of eye, did gently call 
 
 Devout slaves to restore the sUghted shred — 
 So prized in his religion is mere bread 
 
 To the great lord of that imperial hall. 
 
 Up to the table of this Hfe we sit, 
 With sultan some, and some with tribesman placed. 
 The fare is wheat or barley on our plate, 
 
 And as we break the brittle loaf of it 
 
 'Tis well to think what fragments we do waste 
 Which our companions may deem consecrate. 
 
Sonnets 
 109 
 
 FAILURES 
 
 They bear no laurels on their sunless brows, 
 
 Nor aught within their pale hands as they go; 
 
 They look as men accustomed to the slow 
 And level onward course 'neath drooping boughs. 
 Who may these be no trumpet doth arouse, 
 
 These of the dark processionals of woe, 
 
 Unpraised, unblamed, but whom sad Acheron's flow 
 Monotonously lulls to leaden drowse? 
 These are the Failures. Clutched by circumstance. 
 
 They were — say not too weak ! — too ready prey 
 To their own fear, whose fixM gorgon glance 
 
 Made them as stone for aught of great essay ; — 
 Or else they nodded when their Master-Chance 
 
 Wound his one signal, and went on his way. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 no 
 
 ''AND WOMEN MUST WEEP" 
 
 I HEARD a woman sobbing in the night 
 Against a casement high. And, as she cried, 
 Our heartless world's deliberate homicide, 
 Our tragic badinage, our mortal slight 
 Of primal claims, and the remorseless plight 
 Of the poor I faced there, rigid, open-eyed. 
 Across the unechoing street in silence died 
 Her weary moaning: Whether in her sight 
 Some star appeared to soothe her present pain 
 With memories sweet, or quiet sleep's strong hand 
 Blunted her keen- edged woe, or other fear 
 Came smothering down too close for sob or tear, 
 I could not guess ; — some Fate may understand 
 That spins unseen her endless umber skein. 
 
Sonnets 
 III 
 
 GOLDEN ROD 
 
 Doubtless 'twas here we walked but yesterday, 
 Seeing not any beauty save the green 
 Of meadows, or, where slipt the brook between, 
 
 A ribbon of blue and silver; yet the way 
 
 Is strange: in golden paths I seem astray. 
 Do you remember, comrade, to have seen 
 Aught forward in these meadows that should mean 
 
 A culmination in such fair display? 
 
 We noticed not the humble stalks amid 
 The many roadside grasses ; but, it seems, 
 They were preparing this ! And, when their dreams 
 
 Were ripe for doing, they could no more be hid 
 Than golden thoughts that bloom to action when 
 Their hearts make heroes out of common men. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 112 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The maples their old sumptuous hues resume 
 Around the woodland pool's bright glass, and strong 
 The year's blue incense and recession- song 
 
 Sweep over me their music and perfume. 
 
 Dear Earth, that I reproached thee in my gloom 
 I would forget, as thou forgott'st; I long 
 To make redress for such a fihal wrong 
 
 And praise thee now for all thy ruddy bloom ! 
 
 So fond a mother to be used so ill ! 
 Yet this poor heart of mine hath ever been 
 Prey to its own unwarranted alarms — 
 
 Shall fret, and beg forgiveness so, until 
 Thou fold my thankless body warmly in, 
 And draw me back into thy loving arms. 
 
Sonnets 
 "3 
 
 WITH A COPY OF THE MONA LISA 
 
 'Tis said of Mona Lisa, that those years 
 She gave us that we might behold her face 
 In all its indefinable rare grace, 
 
 As on the immortal canvas it appears, — 
 
 'Tis said those were from trouble, and from tears, 
 Exempted years ; and that, all through the place 
 Where Leonardo painted her, the days 
 
 Found ever scents that charm, and sound that cheers. 
 
 Dear one, no Leonardo paints thy smile; 
 Few flowers, and Httle music, oft there be 
 To charm away the world's anxiety; 
 
 Yet, oh, thy patient face hath all the while 
 A more mysterious lovehness than stirs 
 The heart of him who hath seen only hers ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 114 
 
 THE REZZONICO PALACE 
 
 ("i4 Roberto Brownings morto in questo palazzo ") 
 
 Low stars and moonlight beauty disavow 
 
 That death has ever known her; but around 
 
 Her melancholy portals only sound 
 Of waters makes her music ; and the brow 
 Of stately wall records the legend how 
 
 "Died in this palace" a poet Love once crowned. 
 
 Here the cold Angel that strong harp unbound: 
 How chill and silent seem her chambers now ! 
 O World, if ever moon should wander here 
 
 Where builds my heart its palace for your song, 
 
 And find such tablet in the outer wall, 
 The poet dead, the chambers still and drear, 
 
 Let not its hollow beauty win the throng 
 
 To reverence, but let it perish all ! 
 
Sonnets 
 "S 
 
 "EX LIBRIS'* 
 
 In an old book at even as I read 
 
 Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, 
 
 I crossed a tale of how, in other age, 
 At Arqua, with his books around him, sped 
 The word to Petrarch; and with noble head 
 
 Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage 
 
 To Silence paid his wilhng seigniorage. 
 And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!" 
 Thus timely from old comradeships would I 
 
 To Silence also rise. Let there be night. 
 Stillness, and only these staid watchers by. 
 
 And no light shine save my low study light — 
 Lest of his kind intent some human cry 
 
 Interpret not the Messenger aright. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 ii6 
 
 MOTHERS AND SISTERS 
 
 Mothers and sisters, whom no sacrifice 
 
 Dismays, nor whom your long, laborious hours 
 Do anywise appall, ye are the powers 
 
 By whom the swift are girded for the prize 
 
 They reach in the light of your beHeving eyes. 
 Ye are the hidden oil the shrine devours — 
 Soil of the garden whence the great rose flowers — 
 
 The silent force that bids a star arise. 
 
 Ye ask of men nor honour, nor regret, 
 Nor memory, save one's whose love is all. 
 
 Renouncement ? Living daily the divine ! 
 
 Effacement? Still the world your names shall call: 
 
 Monica was the mother of Augustine ; 
 
 Pascal had JacqueHne — Renan, Henriette ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 AFTER READING "THE GOLDEN TREAS- 
 URY" IN GREEN PARK 
 
 Off Piccadilly with its pavement cries, 
 
 Its maddening monotone of wheel and hoof, 
 Here in Green Park primeval summer lies, 
 
 How near, how yearning, yet how far aloof ! 
 O city, symbol of a world that still 
 
 Heedless of beauty under heaven rolls ; 
 And thou, bhthe meadow all with larks a-thrill 
 
 Like poetry, that pasture of great souls — 
 Ye twain so sundered shall forever dwell, 
 
 A tumult and a blessing side by side: 
 Here, as to toil-worn Argo once befell 
 
 A singing island on a thundering tide, 
 Where men might stretch them out in glad release. 
 We too, much- wandering, hail this hour of peace ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 ii8 
 
 TO GEORGE CRABBE 
 
 Dusk falls, and through the deepening silence where 
 
 Red afterglows yon ashen roof do paint 
 Whose dormer children's tapers gild so fair, 
 
 Far vesper chimes disperse their music faint. 
 Beneath an ancient arch the river turns 
 
 Full of his inexpressive melody: 
 With tenderest longing my whole being yearns 
 
 To set his old, imprisoned story free ! 
 Unto this gloaming world, thou. Spirit sweet, 
 
 With me art come; thou art of village things 
 A low-voiced, love- enfolding paraclete 
 
 Who soothest all their sleepy murmurings, 
 And lurest from river, chime, and thatchen stead 
 Tales of the inarticulate, and the dead. 
 
Sonnets 
 119 
 
 THOUGHT OF STEVENSON 
 
 High and alone I stood on Calton Hill 
 Above the scene that was so dear to him 
 Whose exile dreams of it made exile dim. 
 
 October wooed the folded valleys till 
 
 In mist they blurred, even as our eyes upfill 
 Under a too sweet memory; spires did swim, 
 And gables rust-red, on the grey sea's brim — 
 
 But on these heights the air was soft and still. 
 
 Yet not all still : an aHen breeze will turn 
 Here as from bournes in aromatic seas, 
 
 As round old shrines a new-freed soul might yearn 
 With incense of rich earthly reveries. 
 
 Vanish the isles: Mist, exile, searching pain, 
 
 But the brave soul is free, is home again ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 1 20 
 
 BONINGTON (1801-1828) 
 
 Who mourns his life was brief? He who forgets 
 
 Work is the master's measure, and not years ! 
 There on his sands that trailed their Norman nets, 
 
 Far from the fluctuant city's joys and fears, 
 Or in the long Louvre's golden-glorious streets, 
 
 Prodigious in accomphshment he dwelled: 
 A Chatterton of fancies, colour's Keats, 
 
 Swift visitant, by other worlds compelled ! 
 Much beauty had this boy to leave on earth; 
 
 Grieve not, for he did leave it, hurrying hence 
 To some more radiant art, some starred rebirth 
 
 Where Truth most needed his soul's eloquence. 
 And where he toils those stately minds among 
 Who dare glance backward smihng, and with song. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 121 
 
 BENJAMIN-CONSTANT'S PORTRAIT OF 
 QUEEN VICTORIA 
 
 Apart, with centuries which she doth illume, 
 The sunset on her face, around her throne 
 Tapestried legends and heraldic stone, 
 Silent she sits within that gorgeous gloom. 
 Eyes narrowed in far retrospect assume 
 Sorrows of empire. Not her dream alone 
 Occident glories. Orients homage-prone. 
 But more and more of Lucknow and Khartum. 
 Along the past with heavy-lidded eyes 
 
 She looks as one who knows the vision well, 
 A quiet woman whom stately powers compel 
 To splendour, and to silent sacrifice — 
 For in the clare-obscure of her deep years 
 What counter of gains hath likewise told her tears? 
 
Sonnets 
 
 122 
 
 ORPAH 
 
 My heart is with thee, Orpah ! Meekly thou 
 Out of the tender chronicle dost wend 
 Back, lonely, unto Moab. Wordless friend, 
 
 By those great tears, and that averted brow, 
 
 (If anywhere thy loving spirit now 
 My backward-turning heart's long cry attend !) 
 I swear to thee soul-homage to the end. 
 
 And speed thee my allegiance in one vow: 
 
 ''Silently I from out Love's chronicle 
 Will wend alone: of me is Httle need. 
 Silently will I go, and leave her this 
 
 Sweet other friend, whose passion words can tell." 
 — O Orpah, know that thou art blest indeed. 
 For thou couldst weep — thou hadst Naomi's kiss ! 
 
Sonnets 
 123 
 
 A MOTIVE OUT OF LOHENGRIN 
 
 Unearthly beauty of soft light persuadeth 
 This castle which to shadows did belong; 
 And through its farthest vaults sweet mellow song 
 
 The silence of my wintry halls upbraideth; 
 
 Gently as saffron dawn that smiHng fadeth 
 The sable, yielding hours, these search along; 
 And with them, souls of roses dead — faint throng 
 
 Of odours of old years that all-pervadeth. 
 
 Lady, this thing I speak not — do not fear it. 
 'Twere more than friendship, yet no better name 
 Dares my most grateful heart's allegiance claim 
 
 Lest this, as I do think, be brother-spirit 
 
 To him, swan-brought to Brabant's castled shore, 
 Who, named aloud, was lost for evermore. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 124 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF BEAUTY 
 
 For whom is Beauty? Where no eyes attend 
 As richly goes the day; and every dawn 
 Reddens along green rivers whereupon 
 
 None ever gaze. Think, could earth see an end 
 
 Of all the twiHght lovers whose thoughts blend 
 With scents of garden blooms they call their own, 
 Would not as close the yellowest rose outblown 
 
 Be, after them, the unmurmurous evening's friend? 
 
 Then wherefore Beauty, if in mortal eye 
 
 That loves them stars no challenge read to shine, 
 
 And all the wonder of a sunset sky 
 
 Wax not more wondrous for such smile as thine? 
 
 Why, pray, if not for Love which cannot die — 
 This old earth- loving Love of thine and mine ! 
 
Sonnets 
 125 
 
 II 
 
 When we two from our Summer hills have passed, 
 
 And Autumn burns beneath thy praise no more, 
 
 Nor any Winter's raving at our door 
 Shuts each within the other's heart more fast; 
 Neither Spring's roses learn what Hps thou hast — 
 
 Oh, then this thing called Beauty to its core 
 
 Our wedded souls shall penetrate before 
 One thought unto Eternity is cast ! 
 Then shall we know the violet's pretext ; learn 
 
 More definite a promise of the rose, 
 And its fulfilment; when the maples turn, 
 
 Be part of all the glory among those; 
 Or help the May with her uncoihng fern, 
 
 And breathe the trillium open where it grows ! 
 
Sonnets 
 
 126 
 
 CONSUMMATION 
 
 As the clear fountain sparkles on the hill 
 
 In some flowered basin, at a cool, sweet height, 
 Yet comes from we guess not what galleried night, 
 
 Devious, untraced, and altogether ill, — 
 
 So doth my love from other days distil. 
 
 Through channels occult groping up to hght, 
 Deeming all labours past as thrice requite 
 
 If once thou stoop thy hollowed hand to fill. 
 
 Clear eyes that bend upon my love thou hast, 
 And I would have them cloudless of dismay : 
 
 I thank the chastenings of that cryptic past 
 
 Where those soiled waters crept their stains away, — 
 
 Those slandered days, whose riddle, now, at last, 
 Grows plain before this fair and final day. 
 
Sonnets 
 127 
 
 WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 
 {The first celebration in the new century) 
 
 Earth, that hast countless aeons of swift days 
 
 Spun from thy poles — and Uke a mote been swirled 
 Fleet years about thy Master Orb — and hurled 
 
 With all thy starry fellows into space, 
 
 Silent and irresistible on the face 
 
 Of heavens, and of heavens' heavens unfurled — 
 And yet remainest our remembering world, 
 
 Our kindly home, and our famihar place, — 
 
 Thou dost not fail, sweet, immemorial Earth, 
 To number o'er thy sons that were thy kings; 
 Chants royal raisest thou among the rings 
 
 Celestial of old stars for their great worth 
 
 Whose birth was not as is our common birth, 
 But was foreplanned with elemental things. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 128 
 
 ARLINGTON 
 
 No tap of drum, nor sound of any horn, 
 
 Shall call them now from this unbattled height; 
 No more the picket dreads the traitor night. 
 
 Nor would the marcher tired delay the morn. 
 
 Fell some upon the field with victory torn 
 
 From weakening grasp; and some before the fight, 
 Doomed by slow fevers or the stray shot's spite; 
 
 And some old wounds through quiet years have worn. 
 
 And all are folded now so peacefully 
 Within her breast whose glory was their dream — 
 From her own bloody fields, from isles extreme, 
 
 From the long tumult of the land and sea — 
 Where Hes the steel Potomac's jewelled stream 
 Like the surrendered sword of Memory. 
 
Sonnets 
 129 
 
 THE SEQUOIA, ''WILLIAM McKINLEY" 
 
 {Christened October 21, 1901, Mariposa County , Cali- 
 fornia) 
 
 He who in dying blessed the peaceful trees 
 That lulled the slow grief of the lapsing year 
 Towards tranquil death, is best remembered here. 
 
 He leaves a name that shall make holier these 
 
 Huge temple pillars where the organing breeze, 
 Always at requiem, fills the atmosphere, 
 And does to their eternal roof uprear 
 
 Perpetual music of great memories. 
 
 Men raised rich temples in the days antique 
 To serve memorial unto virtues wan 
 Beside his. Him no rites shall celebrate 
 
 Gold-bought, ephemeral as their altar-reek — 
 But, while time is, he here in solemn state 
 Shall hold fit place in Nature's pantheon. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 130 
 
 WHEAT ELEVATORS 
 {Minnesota) 
 
 Castles, or Titans' houses, or huge fanes 
 Of ancient gods that yet compel men's fear — 
 What powers, what pomps, do these betoken here 
 
 Looming aloft upon the plough- seamed plains? 
 
 Souls of ripe seasons and spirits of sweet rains 
 Flock hither; and the sinewy, yellow year 
 Heaps their high chambers with Pactohan gear 
 
 More precious than those golden Lydian grains. 
 
 Nor fortresses, nor demi-gods' abodes. 
 These are upraised to well- feared deities 
 Whose power is iron, and whose splendid sway 
 
 Is undisputed now as when great Rhodes, 
 
 And Tyre, and Carthage, flourished serving these, 
 Or Joseph stored Egyptian corn away. 
 
Sonnets 
 131 
 
 THE COAL BREAKER 
 
 {Pennsylvania) 
 
 This is the house where, up from ages gone, 
 Huge forests, root and leaf and bough and bole, 
 With every bend of breeze and tempest-roll 
 
 Preserved in crystal from earth's distant dawn, 
 
 Again to Hght laboriously are drawn. 
 
 No continent's tumultuous throes control 
 
 Their phalanx more : they are black seams of coal 
 
 And are upheaved by human will and brawn. 
 
 But see, here in this ogre's castle weaves 
 A magic power to make those forests glad 
 And charm away their thousand ages' sleep, 
 
 For more than all the beauty once they had 
 Returns, with song of bird and rush of leaves. 
 In the bright waving hearth- fire calm and deep. 
 
Sonnets 
 
 132 
 
 THE STATUE OF LIBERTY 
 
 {New York Harbour, A. D. 2goo) 
 
 Here once, the records show, a land whose pride 
 Abode in Freedom's watchword ! And once here 
 The port of traffic for a hemisphere, 
 
 With great gold-pihng cities at her side ! 
 
 Tradition says, superbly once did bide 
 
 Their sculptured goddess on an island near. 
 With hospitable smile and torch kept clear 
 
 For all wild hordes that sought her o'er the tide.^ 
 
 'Twas centuries ago. But this is true : 
 Late the fond tyrant who misrules our land, 
 Bidding his serfs dig deep in marshes old. 
 
 Trembled, not knowing wherefore, as they drew 
 From out this swampy bed of ancient mould 
 A shattered torch held in a mighty hand. 
 
Note 
 133 
 
 NOTE 
 
 Eusebius Pamphili, the fourth-century church historian, cites 
 the public archives of the City of Edessa as authority for the 
 story of Abgar's appeal to Jesus. He relates that Ananias was 
 sent to Jerusalem with the following letter : — 
 
 " Abgarus, King of Edessa, to Jesus the good saviour, who 
 appears at Jerusalem, greeting. 
 
 "I have been informed concerning you and your cures, 
 which are performed without the use of medicines and herbs. 
 For it is reported that you cause the blind to see, the lame 
 to walk, do both cleanse lepers, and cast out unclean spirits 
 and devils, and restore them to health, who have been long 
 diseased, and raisest up the dead ; all which when I heard, I 
 was persuaded of one of these two, namely, either that you 
 are God himself descended from heaven, who do these 
 things, or the son of God. 
 
 " On this account therefore I have wrote to you, earnestly 
 to desire you would take the trouble of a journey hither, and 
 cure a certain disease which I am under. For I hear the 
 Jews ridicule you, and intend you mischief. My city is 
 indeed small, but neat, and large enough for us both." 
 
Note 
 
 134 
 
 A paraphrase of the reply of Jesus occurs in the drama in this 
 volume. The promise of cure at the end of this reply is more 
 definite as recorded by Eusebius ; but since the subsequent fate 
 of the king is obscure, no detailed tradition is violated in the 
 present working out of the story. 
 
 There is also a tradition that the napkin of Veronica (or Bere- 
 nice) came into the possession of Abgar, it having thence gone 
 through many hands to its present resting-place at Rome. In 
 the drama advantage has been taken of this legend to work out 
 the fulfilment of the healer's promise. To complete the harmony 
 of the story, it only needs to assume the identity of Ananias and 
 his retinue with the " Greeks " alluded to in the twelfth chapter 
 of John's Gospel : — 
 
 " And there were certain Greeks among them that came 
 up to worship at the feast. The same came therefore to 
 Philip, which was of Bethsaida of Galilee, and desired him 
 saying, ' Sir, we would see Jesus.' 
 
 "Philip cometh and telleth Andrew, and again Andrew 
 and Philip tell Jesus. And Jesus answered them, saying : — 
 " ' The hour is come that the son of man should be glori- 
 fied. Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat 
 fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone ; but if it die it 
 bringeth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall lose 
 it ; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto 
 life eternal.'" 
 
 W 18 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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 WERT 
 
 BOOKBINDING 
 
 Crantville, Pa 
 NovDec 1988 
 
 
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