NEW YORK F,REDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER MDCCCLXXXVIII AM COPYRIGHT, I888, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER. TO MY FATHER. CONTENTS. FROM OVER SEAS. PAGE Sidney Godolphin...... At the Grave of Keats..... The Banquet of Sir Reginald. VENETIAN BAS-RELIEFS. From the Campanile The Feeding of the Doves Achille....... On the Grand Canal The Doge's Well..... Artist and Friar...... In the Boboli Gardens At Certosa...... Maggiore....... The Maid of the Trevi Fountain. The Catacombs...... Paestum........ The Sentinel of Lucerne... I 4 7 12 14 I6 25 27 29 3I 33 Fiesole 35 37 39 4r 42 44 CONTENTS. PAGE 46 49 52 54 56 57 rschwyl. The Sword 49 In~ngla* *. I n E ngland.. A Yachting Song. Ghosts In the EASTE F srom_ HeWan.*...59 Moonlight in the Orient Ascalon. The Grotto of Pan... Baalbec...... Princess Badoura.... A Bit of Marble From Pentelicus.... The Moenads Orpheus The Crucifix...... A Twilight Piece... THE SEASONS ROUND. Carmen Hiemis... An April Song... vi 59 6I 63 65 67 70 72 75 76, 78 80 82 102 log II3 CONTENTS. PAGE II5 II7 120 I22 .123 I25 127 A May Carol.. A June Harmony. A Midsummer Harbinger As August Comes... As Wanes the Year in Autumn-tide In Late November.. Beside the Ingle. SONNETS AND QUATRAINS. From the Castle Terrace. Paris Revisited. First Sight of Rome The Bay of Naples. A Damascus Picture Summer Noon.. A Pearl... The Statue. The Mendicant Wheat The Actor..................................141 Icicles..... Milkweed......... Diamonds..... VYU I3I I32 I33 134 J35 136 I37 I38 I39 I40 I41 I41 141 I42 I42 The Actor Marble. CONTENTS. HOME SONGS. PAGE 145 147 148 I50 153 156 I57 159 i6o i6i 162 i64 i66 169 170 The Rocky Mountains Moonrise at Monterey. A Serenade. The Prodigals. Our Saint' In Solitude... The Bric-a-Brac Shop Harebells... An African Lily. A Rose....... A Winter Twilight. Mellona.... In the Park. Nightfall.... A Dream of Peace. vlll SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. THEY rode from the camp at morn With clash of sword and spur, The birds were loud in the thorn, The sky was an azure blur. A gallant show they made That warm noon-tide of the year, Led on by a dashing blade, By the poet-cavalier. They laughed through the leafy lanes, The long lanes of Dartmoor; And they sang their soldier strains, Pledged "death " to the Roundhead boor; Then they came at the middle day To a hamlet quaint and brown Where the hated troopers lay, And they cheered for the King and crown. t, SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. They fought in the fervid heat, Fought fearlessly and well, But low at the foeman's feet Their valorous leader fell. Full on his fair young face The blinding sun beat down; In the morn of his manly grace He died for the King and crown. 0 the pitiless blow, The vengance-thrust of strife, That blotted the golden glow From the sky of his glad, brave life! The glorious promise gone; Night with its grim black frown! Never again the dawn, And all for the King and crown. Hidden his sad fate now In the sealed book of the years; Few are the heads that bow, Or the-eyes that brim with tears, SIDNEY GODOLPIIH.~. Reading'twixt blots and stains From a musty tome that saith How he rode through the Dartmoor lanes To his woeful, dauntless death. But I, in the summer's prime, From that lovely leafy land Look back to the olden time And the leal and loyal band. I see them dash along, I hear them charge and cheer, And my heart goes out in a song To the poet-cavalier. 3 AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS. WT WAS in the heart of purple vintage-time, 'TAThe mellow season that he loved so well, I wandered out at early vesper-chime. Rome had cast off the summer's torrid spell, And in the air MPoved a kind coolness, from the mountains blown, Across the billowy zone The wide Campagna makes around the throne Where sits the city, still supremely fair. Through longand winding ways at last I came To memory-sacred, sadly-hallowed ground, And there my yearning eyes beheld his name. There was a haunting, tender silence round, Save for the cries Of happy blind boys in a field at play, More innocently gay Than many an one who looks upon the day With never clouded, all-discerning eyes. A4 T THE GRAVE OF KEATS. A rose hedge bloomed along a sheltering wall; And dying wafts of summer, soft exhaled, Were borne from petals, trembling to the fall. Then, while the great sun's glorv slowly failed, And softly stirred In sound articulate each cypress tree, I thought, 0 ecstacy, If from yon sombre bough-top, wild and free, Could drop the nightingale's clear word on word! In vain, in vain! The birds, if there, were mute, As if somehow their gentle spirits knew Those lips so silent'neath the sod's fine root Once sang their praise that rings remote lands through. A laurel's leaves, As green as is his fame, above the mould That doth his dust enfold, Gave him the crown, that, after life is cold, The world with tardy hand so often weaves. Ah, grave of graves! what pathos round it clings! To this sad bourne from coming age to age, 5 6 4A T THE GRAVE OF KEA TS. While the tired earth endures its sufferings, Will wandering feet make worship's pilgrimage! Thou, hoary Rome, In bosoming him hast higher glory won, Although for Pantheon Thou gav'st him naught, save that wherein the sun Beams morn by morn, an everlasting dome. Before I turned I plucked a laurel spray For fond remembrance-token. Night unfurled Her spectral wings, and vague and vast and gray Grew the great void above the restless world. But bright afar, Ere yet were friendly portals open thrown, From out the dim unknown, Athwart my heaven-uplifted vision shone Adown a luminous path, one splendid star! THE BANQUET OF SIR REGINALD. IGHT on the walls of the castle, and night in the streets of the town Night in the aisles of the forest, and night on the wastes of the down; Night with the clamor of winds and the heaven's most ominous frown. Never a gleam of a star in a sky that is boding and black, Never a beam from the moon sailing slow up her silvery track, Never a break in the gloom of the leaden and dolorous wrack. Rain in thin wreaths that are tossed by the blast as it fitfully blows, Rain such as steadily falls at tLhe flight of the last winter snows, Rain in wild torrents that madden the peacefullest streamlet that flows. 8 TIHE BANQUET OF SIR REGINALD. Lights in the court of the castle,-behold, in the feast ing hall, light! Flashes of flame on the armor so brilliantly burnished and bright, Laughter and jest on the lip,-for Sir Reginald ban quets to-night. Reginald, bold in the tourney, the first and the last in the field; Reginald, mighty of arm, and the cleaver of helmet and shield; Reginald, last of the line of the crest blazoned, "Never to yield." Merry the hearts of the guests, for the wine has flowed freely around; Drunk are the healths of the maidens that nature with beauty has crowned. " tark ye!" cries Reginald, rising; and lo! not a breath at the sound. THE BANQUET OF SIR REGINALD. Flushed is his face with the fruity red vintage so freely outpoured; Forth from its sheath at his side leaps the glittering blade of his sword; Loudly it rings as he dashes it down on the banqueting board. "Men call me scoffer," he sneers, " and my deeds by the priests are abhorred. Why should I rail at their Christ, who taught living in loving accord? Down on your knees where ye are; we will have the last feast of the Lord!" Pallid the face of each guest as he kneels at the blas phemous sign. Bearing a trencher of bread and a flagon o'erbrimming with wine, Sneering, Sir Reginald passeth along down the suppli ant line. 10 THE BANQUET OF SIR REGINALD. Waver the lights in the hall, and a sound smites the hush of the air, Awful with rushing of pinions unseen in the glimmer and glare, While through the night pierce the shrieks of a soul in the hell of despair. Trencher and flagon are dashed to the floor, and Sir Reginald reels; Loud from his agonized lips through the halls of the castle there peals That which the terrified heart of a coward and craven reveals. Forward he falls with an outcry that dies to a pitiful moan; Tremble the walls of the castle, and quiver the turrets of stone, Swaying like trees in the grasp of a hurricane shaken and blown. THE BANQUET OF SIR REGINALD. Forth through the torrents that pour as the floods at the equinox fall, Haunted to madness by omens of dread that their spirits appall, Rush in their terror the banqueters, fleeing the doom stricken hall. Night on the wastes of the down, and the tempest's tumultuous breath Voicing the horror abroad with the tongue of the whirl wind that saith, "Death in the courts of the castle, grim silence and darkness and death!" 1 1 i. FROM THE CAMPANILE. B ATHED in the glow of golden morning light, And shining with the sheen of varied dyes A domed marvel to the dazzled sight, Venice beneath me lies. The Doge's massive palace walls I see I see St. Mark's in orient glory shine; And on its front in antique symmetry The steeds of Constantine. Mute slaves of Time, the sledge-armed giants keep Their sombre ward where straight the Bell-Tower springs; And o'er the Piazzetta's sunny sweep The Lion lifts its wings. FROM THE CAM3IPANILE. The soft lights change upon lagoons afar From deepest blue to gray and emerald pale; And veering lazily by bank and bar, Strange-pinioned vessels sail. Is it a dream,-a mirage of the brain That some fantastic Merlin-spell has wrought, A vision that dissolves and forms again With all the speed of thought? No! nothing fades; still floods the lustrous light, Still wide expands the arch of peerless skies, And still, a marvel to the dazzled sight, Venice beneath me lies. ~3 THE FEEDING OF THE DOVES. W ITH heat was the air aswoon, Not the ghost of a breeze was astir, When a great bell clamored noon, And there came the flutter and whir Of doves sailing softly down To the square in Venice-town. That kindly hour they knew By the deep, reiterant sound; And fearlessly down they flew, And gathered in gladness round Where a generous hand they spied That scattered the kernels wide. Then beamingly out of the throng Ran a fair little maiden, gay; Her laugh was a whole sweet song, Her look was a loving ray. THE FEEDING OF THE DOVES. There was corn in her palm outspread, And a white dove lit and fed. What a perfect scene of peace! In Venice peace: no more The Austrian's insolent ease By the Adriatic's shore; But peace where the blue skies be, Over an Italy free! 3 I ACHILLE. (Scene-A hospital in Venice. Achille and a priest. Achille speaks.) CHILLE am I called. I dwell alone Upon a sinuous street that blindly ends Behind the Redentore. High above The grass-grown pavement of the silent square I have my humble lodgment. I am known To few who in that squalid quarter house, But honest-hearted merchants that anigh The holy Frari ply their meagre trade Can give me good repute. My gondola Once shot along Venetian water-ways As fleetly as the swiftest, and no hand Than mine was defter with the long lithe oar. But that is past. "Haste," said you? A CHIL L E. With mine eyes I seemed to catch that word upon your lips, That word and others, so that now I know My little lamp of life will sooa die out And darkness close about me. Note you not How speech eludes my hearing? Mine own voice Sounds faint, like far off murmur of the waves At night upon the Lido. Nearer;-stoop! I would not have you miss one lightest word Lest missing one, your absolution fail. How happily together she and I Dwelt with our laughing, roguish, winsome boy Whose added summers not yet numbered four I That was before her cruel father came, He who had tarried long at Padua As Ecelino's servile underling. In that glad time the days with laggard feet Dragged ever by, till I could get me home, And feel my fair boy's arms about my neck, And echo back her smile with kindred joy. Oft in the quiet of the summer eves 17 A CHILL E. Below some stately, massive palace stair, While I touched lightly the guitar's sweet strings, Would she uplift her voice, divinely clear, And spell the night with rapturous melodies. And oft have princely ladies overleaned From balconies silk-screened, soft-praising her, And oft have nobles from the palace doors Tossed out a shining disc of orient gold, And bid her buy some bauble. This was ere Her cruel father came to bide with us. Ah! dark the weeks from that dark hour, until There came a day, the darkest of them all. After the mocking profile of his face First cast upon our wall its evil shade She never seemed the same. Night following night I saw her lessening welcome; faint the smile That met my warmth of greeting. I, dull fool, Deemed some slight ailment vexed her; till one eve, Incoming early at the darkness' verge, I heard her father pour within her ear The subtle poison of a lying tale; 18 ACHILL'9 How I was basely false; spent idle days With some soft paramour; (for then it chanced The sun of fortune shone not down on me, And I brought little home for hungry mouths.) Mad with surprise, stirred by his words so base To desperate action, I confronted him; Then took all caution wings, for when the hound, Seeing my fury, whimpered cringingly That he but heard these things low-noised about, Did not believe them, was but asking her Could she believe them, I cast back the lie Into his wicked face, and bade him go And darken ne'er again a door of mine, Lest in my anger I should throttle him And silence evermore his slanderous tongue. So crept he out, not answering me a word. And she? What said she? Naught. She made no sign While I was speaking, and when I had done Only looked at me with her large calm eyes In mute reproach that was more hard to bear A4 CHILL E. -Ig A CHILL E. Than all her father's calumnies. The thought That ire had made me not quite just to him, That some malignant knave with malice fine From pure unblushing wickedness had stilled This lie, perchance, into the old man's brain, Brought keen regret to harrow me. "Forgive," I cried repentantly, "forgive me, Love, I'll bring him back and crave his pardon here." With that I went. I sought him near and far In stifling haunts he frequented by night, But found him not. "He will come back," I said, Communing with myself, "the morrow morn; Or should he not, more easy then my search. Mayhap e'en now he has returned to beg My patience with him." Thus I, homeward-bent, Dreamed blindly of forgiveness mutual. Now had the night come down,-a dull damp night, And all the myrmidons of darkness drew 20 A CHILL E. Their mantles o'er the city. Ambushed fear Leaped sudden out and seemed to strangle me, When, looking upward, at the accustomed pane I saw no loving taper. No thick film Be-dimmed my eyes, for, beaconing through the dark, Patiently burned a clear flame opposite. I stumbled onward as a tired man goes Unguided up a stony slope by night, And found-black emptiness! The only voice That answer gave to my beseeching cries Was mocking echo. 0 those pitiless hours, Those anguished hours until the midnight stormed The windless silence from an unseen tower! What awful doubts in grim procession stalked Throughout my mind, slaying each new-born hope! What dismal fancies rose and grew and grasped My strained imagination, till my brain Reeled to the verge of madness! Would she come? I prayed,-I cried in frenzy unto God, Upbraiding him. I cursed. Then midnight struck. 21 A,4 CHILLE. The long-reiterant and solemn sound Aroused again my dazed intelligence, And as the last stroke dolorously died I sought the outer world's unlighted gloom. Swift fell the rain. The chill reviving air Was grateful to me. On my fevered brow I let the cool drops fall. Clear grew my thoughts, And from the night once more I inward turned. At last sleep came, a phantom-haunted sleep. I wakened suddenly. A sullen morn Looked through the casement, and I heard a voice, His voice, her father's voice. Ah! how I sprang Upright with joy, but when I saw his face I felt joy sicken to a pale despair, Then die, and quickly nascent in its stead Came those dire twins, black anger and revenge. Yet had I held these tigers under curb, Had not vile venom from his serpent tongue My wounded bosom poisoned. How he laughed, And boasted loudly in my very face That he had lured her from me. To what end 22 ACHILLE. 23 This most unnatural deed had been wrought out He gave not forth, nor yet divulged he why Toward me he harbored hatred. Did he think I had no feeling that he tarried thus And trifled with my heart-strings? He had learned All craft, all crimes, all subtle wickedness From Ecelino while at Padua; Yet when I gave that furious panther-spring, My hot hands itching for his skinny throat, Of what availed his wiles? I strangled him And cast him from me like a vermin rat. And then What said you? Trial? Murder? nay! Venice has haunts that tell no troublous tales, And who was there to miss him? She? Ah! God, Was this thy ever-sure, just meting-out Of punishment, that on the next day morn Below the tide-stained steps that lead adown A CHILL E. 23 24 ACHILLE. From the Salute's holy, hallowed doors The cruel water should give up its dead? They found her there, and in her arms our boy, Our dark-haired boy. How very cold it grows! The doctors say this woeful hurt of mine Is slow in healing. Night has come so soon, I fear Give me your hand! 'Tis brighter now, And yet methinks'tis growing dark again. Dear Christ, have mercy on my soul! (The Priest) Amen! A CHIL L E. 24 ON THE GRAND CANAL. N IGHT had put out the day's refulgent eye; I saw a gondolier go gliding by, And cried at him the clear Venetian cry. He heard and paused and deftly put to shore With skillful movement of his long slim oar That seemed to touch the tide and turn,-no more. The rippling waves made music in mine ear; The Campanile tall gave answer clear From where it lifted skyward like a spear. No cloud above us drew its curtain gray; A silver girdle gleamed the milky-way; " Behold the glory," seemed each star to say. On toward the city's silent heart we wound; Far voices singing sent a dreamy sound O'er darkling water lapping low around. ONV THE GRAND CANAL. In silent, gloomy grandeur overhead Towered massive records of a glory dead, Great walls from which the glow of life had fled. I could but dream how from each door of old, Proud nobles, clad in scarlet and in gold, Sailed gaily down the flood that seaward rolled. And now a stranger and a wanderer, I, From that broad land beneath the western sky Sailed as they sailed, but passed in wonder by; And thought, when I beheld above me span The grand Rialto's arch of perfect plan, " How glorious yet brief the life of man!" Here stands his work as firm as on the day The first foot o'er it found a lightsome way, But ah! the hands that wrought it, where are they? !26 THE DOGE'S WELL. T HIS happy tale Venetian legends tell, That he who to the city would return Must drop a coin within the Doge's Well. What time lagoons beneath mid-morning burn, I sought the great Piazza, still and wide, Where Time's grim giants sound their mandate stern I braved the southern sunlight's glowing tide, Till in the shady palace court alone I leaned upon the broad well's bronzen side. Then cast I in a tiny metal zone, And watched it cut the clear lymph, till it lay A promise to the hand that erst had thrown. I flashed a parting glance and took my way Back through the lone Piazza. How it all Comes to my mind once more,-that last bright day! THE DOGE'S WELL. Around me now the leaves of autumn fall; I mark the sullen reaches of the main Against the eastern sky, a dull, blank wall. Shall I not see thy smiling face again, 0 well-beloved Venice?-Who can tell? A thrill of doubt leaps through my heart like pain. Has it no power, that legendary spell? Will it not one day bid my steps return, The coin I cast within the Doge's Well? -28 ARTIST AND FRIAR. HOULD you in Florence wander where The Past has hoarded riches rare, Paintings, within whose perfect lines The kindling touch of genius shines, Statues, throughout whose marble limbs A seeming life-blood leaps and swims,Among the names recounted long With honor in enduring song, One will be heard where'er you go, The Master's,-Michael Angelo. And you will hear another name Blown by the trumpet-blast of fame Through Christian lands. No halls of art Bespeak the throbbings of his heart, But streets are vocal, and the square That heard his final martyr-prayer. 4 R TIST AND FRIAR. A rosary his fingers told, The cap he wore in cloisters old, Some blazoned books, are all they show Of noble Fra Girolamo. Both long have slumbered in the clay Yet both are living on to-day. Time hath no bondage of control O'er emanations of the soul. The years have shown how well they wrought, Preserving still their priceless thought. One fashioned forms most fair to see, The other worked intangibly. The Artist stands as first confessed, And yet the Friar wrought the best! 3o IN THE BOBOLI GARDENS. W HERE statued Plenty lifts on high Her bearded wheat-spears in the air, I saw the blue Italian sky Look down on Florence full and fair. A transient touch of autumn's gold Made bright the leaves of many a twig, And on far slopes that upward rolled The purple deepened on the fig. Around the flooding sunlight lay; Below a gossip fountain played; Above, across the brilliant day, The statue threw a line of shade. Along the pathways all was still, No troublous sound to break the charm; 3IN THE BOBOLI GARDENAS. And halcyon quiet reigned until There came two lovers arm in arm. The olive flushed upon his cheek In listening to her low replies; I caught, whene'er she turned to speak, The starlight of the Tuscan skies. And ere they wandered from my sight My fancy wove a wayward spell; He was her true, faith-plighted knight, And she his lady, honored well. A miracle these lovers wrought Soft-whispering of their hopes and fears, For through my brain had flashed a thought That blotted out six hundred years. AT CERTOSA. V INE-GIRT the monastery stands Upon its Tuscan height; The monks with pale uplifted hands Make prayer a long delight. In spotless flowing robes they pass, Perform their simple deeds, Returning evermore to mass And holy rosary beads. As tranquilly the days slip by As do the beads they tell;The morning bird-song in the sky, The vesper's tolling bell. Naught know they of the world's keen stress, The conflict seething round; Hedged closely in their calm recess They catch nor sight nor sound. A T CER TOSA. Yields it the highest good to thus From mankind dwell apart? Can noblest thoughts and generous Find pathway to the heart? The cowl and cassock forth should fare; Let earth's broad ways be trod The deed and not the day-long prayer Finds surest flight to God. 34 FIESOLE. AY not that Arno's vale is fair, And Florence fair and good to see Until from far Fiesole You view them, bright through cloudless air. What skies are like Italian skies? Where do the olive and the vine With larger wealth of fruitage shine Than here, beneath the ravished eyes? Love you not Arno's tawny gold, Feel you not somehow near akin To Florence, with her woe and sin And all the deeds she wrought of old? How great her gifts! her open heart Has yielded much to bless mankind, And in her bosom still we find A precious treasure-houseof art. FIESOLE. And thou, Fiesole, and thou, O'er all her glory leaning down, With thy serene monastic crown And morning on thine ancient brow, Thou art her guardian, smiling sweet Upon her, as upon a child A mother fond has ever smiled, Her child at play about her feet. Keep watchful ward above her still With prescience of the vast To be! Look down the years, Fiesole, From off thy spirit-haunted hill! 36 MAGGIORE. RIEND, rest awhile upon thy glistening oars, And let us drift and dream Of naught beyond these mountain-bordered shores That in the sunlight gleam. Away, all memory of life's storm and stress, All thought of days to be! Hail, holy calm and sweet forgetfulness, Beloved Italy! In tiny sapphire ripples round us break The wavelets, one by one, Upon the bosom of the fairest lake That sees the shining sun. Italian breezes, languorous and low, Around us steal and sigh; From peak to peak, suffused with amber glow, Spans the Italian sky. MA GGIORE. If paradise there be on earthly shores, Here is its heavenly gleam. Then, friend, rest idly on thy dripping oars, And let us drift and dream. 38 THE MAID OF THE TREVI FOUNTAIN. L ITTLE maid by the fountain there, You with the eyes cast down, And the cheek of crimsoned brown, And the unbound raven hair, And the languorous Roman air; What do you do all day? Do you wistfully stand and stand With that little dusky hand Outstretched in a pleading way For the travelers' soldi,-say? If I go to the basin's brink O'erlooked by the Neptune old, (As the legend bids, I'm told;) Should I come again, do you think, If I did but dip and drink? 40 THE -MAID OF THE TREVI FOUNTAIN. Should I come and see you here, Just a trifle grown may be, But still as fair and free And blithe as you now appear, This wintry time of the year? You look, but you do not speak; Strange, such a spell you flung, I forgot my alien tongue MIust sound in your ears like " Greek," Sweet one with the tinged cheek. No, I will go my way, Nor quaff from the fountain-head, Lest coming I find you fled, And darken the whole bright day With thoughts that are grim and gray. Better to dream you fair By the Trevi fountain still, To dream of you free from ill, You with your tangled hair, And your languorous Roman air. TIHE CATACOMBS. N eddying speck the swallow flies, The morn is full of fragrant breath, Yet, dark and dank beneath, there lies A charnel-house of death. Spring comes, and straightway at her smiles The wide Campagna bursts in bloom; But naught again to life beguiles The grave's black hecatomb. And yet the fairest flowers have birth In mould and darkness and decay; And here the faith that rings the earth Flowered into endless day. PAESTUM. A CROSS the sea from Sybaris they came, Oaring their galleys with long sweep and slow, Those daring Greeks who gave the place a name Two thousand shadowy, fateful years ago. Here reared they walls and stately dwellings; here To gods Olympian builded many a shrine; Lived, loved and worshipped calmly by the clear And beauteous inland ocean's azure brine. Life held its sweets for them as now for us; — One great unswerving law controlleth all. They changed glad songs and triumphs glorious For solemn chant and gloomy funeral pall. Thus did they pass,-and others came and passed; Fierce rapine languished, then fell grim decay, Till all the splendor had been overcast Save the grand temples standing here to-day. 6 PAESTUM. I Despoiled their altars, ravaged are their shrines, The lizard and the snake alone glide by; Yet nobly mute they face the Apennines, And still the old Greek grandeur typify. In their Ionic majesty one finds The truest tokens that the past can show,What aspirations high moved mortal minds Two thousand shadowy, fateful years ago. 43 THE SENTINEL OF LUCERNE. ILATUS, on thy rugged brow p I watch the glancing sunlight play; It brightens every pine-tree bough, And goldens all thy sombre gray. Along thy lower slopes of green The gabled, red-roofed chalets stand, Where thou, majestic in thy mien, Art monarch of this mountain land. In placid breadth of glory lies Lucerne beneath thy beetling height As sapphire as the clear June skies That arch above it, broad and bright. And when no shrouding mist-wreath veils Thy kingly peaks, thou see'st below, Like birds, fleet boats with snowy sails Across the dimpling waters go. THE SENTINEL OF LUCERNE. O thou that lookest down in scorn On lesser mounts that round thee gleam, To me thou seem'st this perfect morn Like hallowed heights of which we dream; Where, in the shadowy days of eld, Those holy men, the prophets, trod, And in the awesome silence held Communion with the voice of God. 45 THE MONK OF RAPPERSCHWYL. E climbed the hill at Rapperschwyl, Up the steep steps of time-worn stone, And rested where, in clouded air, The castle, towered and turreted, With clinging ivy overgrown, Looked on the town beneath it spread, And on the lake by breezes blown. In hooded gown of russet brown A monk with grizzled beard passed by And those who played beneath the shade Of leafy boughs that trembled near, With clap of palms and merry cry And childish laughter, low and clear, Around him flocked as he drew nigh. THE MONK OF RAPPERSCHWYL. 4 We saw the bright and genial light In eyes of more than worldly ken; We saw, the while, a kindly smile That wavered round his bearded mouth, With such swift radiance, as when A sunbeam glimmers from the south, And suddenly is gone again. He paused to greet the faces sweet Upraised to his with eagerness; And as a bird above was heard In gush of song, he softly laid On shock and curl and braided tress Of happy boy and mirthful maid, His blameless hands as though to bless. And we who viewed the merry brood, And marked the old monk's tender mien Felt something in our breasts akin To broader sympathies uprise His simple act, his brow serene 47 48 THE MONK OF RAPPERSCHIVI-L. Drove gloom from out the leaden skies, And brightened all the sombre scene. As down the hill at Rapperschwyl Where frowned the castle, quaint and gray, In hushed content we slowly went While dreamily the day declined, We bore no transient good away, But high and holy thoughts enshrined With the sweet memory of the day. THE SWORD. IST to the song of a sword that hangs on high in the hall [wall Of a bastioned border castle that bristles its great gray Where a turbulent mountain stream leaps down with a madly-iterant brawl. Long and bright is the brand, and it shines as it shone of old When a ray through the western oriel strikes athwart its inlaid gold; And a single diamond lustres keen below where the hand laid hold. They tell of a magical forge where the glistering blade was wrought; That a wizard tipped its point to pierce with the sting of a venomed thought; And how the knight who flashed it first with the swarthy Paynim fought. THE SWORD. They tell of the oath he swore on the Hill of Calvary, Ere he homeward turned his bronzed face o'er the long waste leagues of sea, That none should bear that sacred steel unless for the Christ it be. MAany the hands,'tis said, that brandished it broad afar; And ever it glowed in the battle's front as the conflict's splendent star; [bar. As mighty to turn the onset's tide as the swift Excali But there came a morn when one rode out'gainst a Christian foe, And they bore him home at the day's dark death by the awful sword laid low; An arm unseen had poised the blade in its deep, heart cleaving blow. And never again was it borne to the fight,-no, never again; For naught could purge from its tarnished tip the mark of the sanguine stain; [slain. And still a fear withholds the hand lest another soul be 50 THE S'HIORD. 5t Such is the song of the sword that hangs on high in the hall Of a bastioned border castle that bristles its great gray wall Where a turbulent mountain stream leaps down with a madly-iterant brawl. IN ENGLAND. To-mo row for the States, -for me England and yesterday. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. WIELDER of the wizard pen, Your loyal love I read For highland moor and lowland fen, For Thamis and for Tweed. Your floods and fields are fair to see; Here is your home and hearth. And true your great heart could but be To what is mother earth. As you felt there an alien, I An alien here must feel; Though kindly is the English sky And English friends are leal. IN ENGLAND. Yours is the love-glow in the breast For England's lakes and leas, But mine for our " morn-mounting" West Beyond the wide wild seas. 53 A YACHTING SONG. EEN is the clear free air, Sharp with a salty tang Far o'er the waters blown, Blown on the winds that fly; Up with the topsail there! Gray have the shore-lines grown, Dim where the mountains sprang Bold, as we turned toward Skye. Never a flaw in the breeze, A fair and favoring gale, Never a guy-rope wrong, Never a sheet awry! Over the summer seas, Gay as a lover's song, Merrily on we sail Up to the straits of Skye. A YACHTING SONG. There is the land at last, Looming aloft afar; Nearer and still more near, See how the shore slips by! Inlet and point are past; Friends, we will harbor here. Meadow and slope and scar,Cheer for the isle of Skye! Let them prate of their joy, Footing firm on the earth, O they may prate who will, Ours is the joy, say I! Bliss of the buoyant boy, Tremble and throb and thrill,Sound of the wild sea's mirth Loud on the strand of Skye. 55; GHOSTS. VER a sea that shone like glass Softly we sailed away, And the white clouds lay in a heavy mass On the breast of rising day. We saw loom out of the mist Hills that were vaguely high, That faded in gray and in amethyst Into the morning sky. They seemed so wierd and vast, (Wraiths of an awful woe,) They are ghosts, we thought, of the lands of the past That the sea gulfed long ago. IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. T HE morning light in ever-growing glory Sifts through the wondrous windows brightly down, And clothes the saints of sacred life and story Each with a lustrous golden robe and crown. It streams o'er shadowy aisles; on stately column It plays with shifting gleams; it pierces where In shrined nooks, with faces worn and solemn, Poor penitents are lifting hands in prayer. There is no sound of song or organ swelling, No low intoning, and no censer swayed; And yet the silence in that temple dwelling Seems grander than the noblest anthem played. 58 IN THIE CA THEDRAL A T COLOGNE. Each arch is eloquent with holy meaning; A sermon breathes from every carven scroll; Each senseless block becomes a field for gleaning Some seed of truth worth sowing in the soul. Here, with the glorious rays of sunlight pouring O'er all in fulgent floods of heavenly birth, Like some swift bird far into ether soaring, The heart transcends the grosser things of earth. FROM HELOUAN. HEN day had run its sultry span, And shadows long the camels traced, I saw the sun from Helouan Sink red behind the Libyan waste. One dahabeyeh sail aslant Above the nearer palms rose high; The pyramids, like adamant Triangles, cut the western sky. The amethyst dusk veileu palm and pile And sail of Nubia-faring barge And o'er the windings of the Nile The orient moon rose round and large. Then, while its light lay on the land, I thought, as winds sighed like the lute, Of Ramses prostrate in the sand, And Memnon's lips forever mute. .FROM HELOUAN. The past seemed like a scroll outspread; I viewed it all, yet could not see, Howe'er with unsealed eyes I read, Its wierd, oppressive mystery. The low lute-toned south-wind fell; I caught the desert's parching breath O'er all lay vast, inscrutable, The calm solemnity of death. A KAFFEYEH. HERE Tigris sees the orange bloom 'Twas wrought upon a Bagdad loom; Then some devout and pious hand To Mecca bore it o'er the sand, That it might catch the healing grace Which breathes about the sacred place, Beholding mosque and minaret Above Mohammed's birthplace set. Thence was it borne, and dearly sold For discs of dull Egyptian gold. In Nile-laved Cairo did it stay Until one fair mid-winter day, When its bright colors chanced to please A Christian, wandering over seas, Who brought it back with him; and now It feels the snow of Paula's brow, ,4 A KAFFE IYEH. Or by cool western winds is blown When round her shapely shoulders thrown. And unto her by it is lent The glamour of the Orient; Till every time I mark her stir I think of attared rose and myrrh, Or sapphire-cinlctured skies that dream O'er dusky Egypt's sacred stream; And in her eyes I seem to see An East that shines for none but me. 62 MOONLIGHT IN THE ORIENT. T HE moon we see through palm-trees shine, Is it the selfsame moon they know WVhere now beyond the angry brine New England's hills are white with snow? Benignly evening's breezes blow, Bats blunder blackly by, but there Keen winds go blaring to and fro, And few may breast the baffling air. WVe heard the clear muezzin-call Float from a distant airy height, Where, with its lines of tapering wall, A minaret ascends the night; Now in the flood of falling light Those silent summits seem to sway; Will they not vanish from the sight Ere dawns another arid day? 64 MOONLIGHT IV THE ORIEVT. Ah! no; albeit the crescent now Bears not the glory that it knew When over Saladin's swart brow E1 Islam's conquering banners flew; Not yet the cross may rule the blue That spans l e sand-s ept Memphian plain, And many moons will wax anew Before there comes the final wane Yet it will come. That lucent arc, Swung far in sapphire air, shall see Its counterpart grow dim and dark, LI,ost in the broad futurity. But no less fair its beams will be Here in the summer's endless glow, Or where, ere winter's legions flee, New England's hills are white with snow. ASCALON. PON the semi-sphered town We from its ruined walls looked down; Beyond us whitened leagues of sea, Around us glowed anemone And golden bloom and blossoms wan At Ascalon. Great wind-borne drifts of sand lay deep On highways sunk in centuried sleep; And where the sand ceased, over all Thick brambles lorded, rankly tall, While dazzlingly the sunlight shone O'er Ascalon. It was a peaceful scene, but we Recalled, and nowise dreamily, The day when Richard Lion-heart Here played his valiant-handed part, And led the battle on and on At Ascalon. 63 ASCA L ON. We saw the crescent and the cross Above the surging squadrons toss; The swords and scimetars flash bright Round helm and turban met in fight. Where are they now?-All, all are gone From Ascalon! Unless, perchance, when clear around The moon illumes each brambled mound, They marshall forth and charge again, Those warriors in a ghostly train, And struggle till the verging dawn At Ascalon Howe'er this be, by day-time all Is calm about the gateless wall; Soon nature too will sink in sleep Before the sand's annulling sweep. A name,-no more will linger on Of Ascalon. THE GROTTO OF PAN. N EAR where marshy Merom lies Jordan has its crystal rise; From a grot's deep heart it springs With eternal murmurings. Pampas grass is feathery tall Where it falls with rhythmic fall; Tiny poplars silver nigh Where it dimples coolly by; Constant summer never flees,'Tis the haunt of bird and breeze Fruit and flower inll endless round Render it enchanted ground. Compassed soft by rainbow hues, Fed by Hermon's generous dews, Frowned upon by mountains bare, Fair it seems, forever fair. THE GROTTO OF PA.4. Long ago the Romans came, Gave the spot a sacred name, Hearing melody conveyed In the sound the waters made Such as oft they'd heard before On the Anio's olived shore; Deeming it was Pan whose tongue On the air such music flung. Here, anear the mountain's base, In the scarred cliff's lichened face, Cut they shrines you still may see To the goat-hoof deity. Here at morning would they bring Some pure flower-thank-offering; Here at evening would they lay Reeds whereon the god might play. Heaped above their bones behold Centuries of dust and mould Unto him they held divine Now is reared no marble shrine. 68 THE GROTT7O OF PA N. Truth has been revealed to us; — Life seems more felicitous. Yet sometimes we backward set Faces shadowed by regret, MIourning that shag-bearded Pan Never fluted, never ran Through the bloomy dingle sweet With swift lift of cloven feet. And the pagan in us still Leaps to life with buoyant will, And we cry with joyous cry, Dreaming the lost god slips by. 69 BAALBEC. ITII wasting day the violent tempest dies, And slowly all the dense-banked clouds that hang Above the high horizon's mountain line Throw off their gloomy hues; the hidden sun With lavish alchemy inweaves a web Of delicate damask and of glowing gold And casts upon them. Hoary Lebanon, With its unbosomed snow, grows palely rose, And those majestic temples, where the gods Of antique days had sacrificial shrines, Bulk their maimed walls and columns grandly vast Against the sovereign glory of the west. Had such a sunset happed in olden time, How all the sacred city's prosperous folk Forth would have flocked, and ta'en the holy way That led them templeward, and while the light B,4AALB'C. Dimmed o'er the virgin whiteness of stern peaks, Have bowed themselves in worship! How the priests, Setting calm faces toward the sinking orb, Throwing sweet spices on undying fires, Would have upraised their chant! Now swallows swerve In twittering flight above marred architraves, Slim poplars whiten, and young mulberries Give silken promise. In the squalid streets Where slothful Arabs doze in dirt-walled shade, The lean curs snarl, or sleep, or snap at flies. Swift comes the dusk, prophetic of the stars, And then the stars with their inviolate arc Of peaceful beams, and Night o'er Baalbec Draws her enfolding silence like a veil 7r PRINCESS RADOURA. N IGIIT is regent of the sky; All is still in Ispahan. On the veined pomegranate-leaves That the fragrant breezes fan Floods of silver moonlight lie; Plaintively the bulbul grieves, And the tinkling fountains fluow In the garden-close below; She, above on her divan By the casement's open bars, Gazes out upon the stars, HIappy Princess Badoura. To the slave girl standing near Wistfully and low she speaks, Looking still into the night; Persian roses dye her cheeks, And against her olive ear Shines a pure pearl, snowy white. I'RI.VNCESS BA DO URA. Round her, like a filmy veil, Falls her burnoose, azure pale; And a gleaming golden spear, Like a ray of sunlight fair, Shimmers in her raven hair, Lovely Princess Badoura. At her feet there falls a rose; 'Tis the longed-for trysting-hour! Stooping with an eager air Tenderly she clasps the flower, Kisses it the while she goes Swiftly down the winding stair; There her exiled lover waits Till he sees the postern gates Slowly, silently unclose, And before him stand, divine In the moonlight hyaline, Smiling Princess Badoura. Oh, the joy that fills her heart Once again to hear his voice, Once again to feel his kiss! 73_ PRI4NCESS BADOURA. All the birds that see rejoice, Singing with melodious art, "Ne'er before was love like this!" What is now the world to herNoble, princely flatterer, Playing each his petty part? Here beneath the gemmed skies, Here is bliss and paradise! Trustful Princess Badoura. Hearken! on her startled ear Falls a low and boding sound Is it but the winds that blow? Is it but the kennelled hound? Through her bosom thrills a fear As the silent moments go. Suddenly a scimetar Flashes like a falling star, And upon the grassy ground,With the love-light in his eyes Fading fast,-her lover lies, Woeful Princess Badoura. 74 A BIT OF MARBLE. T HIS bit of polished marble-this Was found where Athens proudly rears Its temple-crowned Acropolis So hoar with years. In antique time some sculptor's hand, Deft-turning, carved it fine and small, A part of base, or column grand, Or capital. Pentelicus' white heart it knew Before the chisel fashioned it; Long ere so fair of form it grew, And delicate. Regarding it, I mind me so A song should be, with ardor wrought,Cut in the firm Pentelic snow Of lofty thought. FROM PENTELICUS. T HIE wind came blaring up the mountain gorges; We heard it where we stood, Like mad bacchantes at their frantic orgies Within some lonely wood. IYrom a grim cairn we northward set our faces; Below us, far away Stretched Marathon's wide plain with grain-sown spaces, And its blue sickle bay. How in our hearts, beholding it before us, Did olden memories rise Of those brave Greeks who charged with full-voiced chorus Of Attic battle cries; FROM PENTELICUS. Of Persian hosts in wildering disorder, And mangled heaps of slain, Of crimson stains that made a ghastly border To fields of trampled grain! And then there passed before our eyes the vision Of that swift youth who fled To Athens at the conflict's stern decision, Gasped "victory," and fell dead. Olympus, proud, pyramidal and peerless, Clear in the distance rose;We felt that he, the sacrificial, fearless, Had kissed its deathless snows. 77 THE MZENADS. F ROM the woodland gnarled and gray, Where the leafage dims the day, With a clash of cymbals loud, Through the grasses, zephyr-bowed, Where the slumberous poppies burn, Raising each a fiery urn, Comes a throng with frantic air, Following fast a fleeing hare. Wild the gleam that lights their eyes, Strange the clamor of their cries; Ivy binds their glistening brows, Twined with sprays from myrtle boughs. Each a slender spear upholds; Leopard skins, in tawny folds, Partly hide and partly show Limbs as white as winter snow. THE MNA DS. One restrains with leathern rein Sinewy, sleek-limbed panthers twain; One waves high, with motions lithe, Mottled snakes that hiss and writhe; And another bears along Wine to cheer the masking throng, Brewed by Bacchus in a still High upon Hymettus hill. Woe to him who meets this band Faring through the forest land! Earth shall know his face no more; Like that hapless youth of yore In the sweet Arcadian days, Deep in sunless beechen ways Lifeless he shall lie, and cold, Trampled out of mortal mould. 79 ORPHEUS. I. ARING forth and forward fleetly, Shepherd, o'er the daisied wold, Piping long and piping sweetly On the reed your fingers hold, Many an echoing answer will you Hear from off the hills to still you, Hear to rapture and to thrill you, Straying from your wattled fold. Rustling leaves will calm to listen, Shrilling winds will hush to hear, Startled eyes will turn and glisten Of the thicket-thridding deer. [Vell-a-day! Seek-in vain your sure divining! Mourn-in vain your tearfulpinitng! Orpheus zoillftee a07)'. ORPHEUS. II. None have played whose fingers fleeter O'er the mellow pan-pipes ran, None have lyred a music sweeter Than his airs AEolian. Though they haunt us from the May-time Through the fragrant hours of hay-time At the purple marge of daytime, Grasp the strains we never can. Follow, ever footing faster, Yet the cadence still eludes; Both are wraiths, the reed and master, From the Stygian solitudes. Well-a-day! Seek-in vain your emiply calling! Mourn-in vain your tear drops falling! Orpheuvs willflee away. HI THE CRUCIFIX. y O U know Siena?-how fair a crown On the fruitful Tuscan hills she shines? How her streets go clambering up and down, And how her walls, that are topped by towers, Look out over slopes of verdant vines And lemon groves and mulberry bowers And olive orchards billowing far To where the crests of the Apennines Proud and purple and lordly are? The glamour and glory of olden years Is the royal robe that enfolds her now; Like a mourning maiden with clouded brow She grieves and grieves, yet she has no tears For her splendors dead, but she silent waits While the peasants plod through her unbarred gates, Waits in her sadness and matchless pride For a time to comne, for a day new-born, THE CRUCIFIAX. When her state shall again be glorified By the magical gold of a risen morn. The flooding amber of autumn-time On the Tuscan hills lay rich and bright, As I passed through the gate where all may see, "Siena opens her heart to thee;" And the sound of a mellow noon-day chime Was borne from a steeple's slender height. Calm was the scene as I strode along Up the winding via, and dreamy-eyed Were the folk who loitered by, as though Life lapsed for them like a slumberous song, Or a peaceful river's placid tide That quickens not in its seaward flow. The great white oxen with large wide eyes Looked upon mne in wondering wise, They seemed to know as I past them sped That mine was an alien's rapid tread. I had left the present far behind, A languor lurked in the brooding air; Spectral voices spoke from the wind, 83 THE CR UCIFIX. And I could but fancy, as up and down I strayed through the streets of the lonely town, That ghostly presences everywhere Peopled the silence, and went and came,Cavalier and portly dame, Haughty belles and perfumed beaus,All the pageant and pomp the same As when Siena held her state With those in Italy proudly great, Leal to her friends and harsh to her foes. At last, such a whimsical guide was chance, My steps were led through a narrow way Where the frowning walls shut out the day; And pausing a moment, I cast a glance Back at the great cathedral square, And the campanile towering tall, A marble miracle wrought of old, Limned on the clear sky's blue and gold, Stately, straight and symmetrical. Then, as I turned from the spot to fare, I saw in an antique window there, 84 THE CRUCIFIX. 'Mid bronze and steel of the ancient days, (Casques and blades and bits of mail,) A quaint scrolled silver crucifix hang; And while I stood with marvelling gaze Bent on the holy symbol, one Whose face was wrinkled and drawn and pale, Out from a low dark doorway sprang; He bowed with the gleam of a kindly eye And a smile that was good to look upon; "' Would Signor enter, would Signor buy?" I stooped and followed; he gently took, With reverence grave and a sacred sign, The crucifix off from its tiny hook. Carven characters strange and fine Ilid in the scroll-work fair I saw Mystical, beauteous, void of flaw, The crucifix lay in my palm outheld, A heritage rich from the times of eld,That had pressed sweet lips ice-cold in the clay, That had called the light to dark eyes long dim, That had heard soft prayers at the edge of day, 8,5 THE CRUCIFIX. 'Neath the olive's shade, by the fountain's rim, Or high in a latticed chamber, hung With tapestry that swayed and swung In the wind that paused on its minstrel way And a tuneful gust through the casement flung. " Would Signor buy?" again did I hear The questioning voice that was low yet clear; The dark deep eyes were upraised to mine. " Too much for a bauble? Ah, Signor, see!" And he took the crucifix tenderly, Held it before me, and lightly pressed A finger slim on its gleaming crest; Then out from the cross like a sudden line Of jeweled light, leaped a slender blade, About whose quivering tip there played Such hues as the ravished sight sees shine When a bow of promise flings its arc From cloud to cloud as the tempest dies, And a jubilant burst of song the lark Once more unbreasts to the grateful skies. 86 THE CRUCIFIX. The old man smiled in a calm, grave way As in startled wonderment I outcried; "Would Signor care for a space to bide And hear the story? " I heard him say. I answered eagerly; then, straightway, Two chairs he brought and a table small, And delicate fragile glasses twain; And down from a cupboard high in the wall, Dusty, and marred with scar and stain, He drew a flagon crooked and tall; And while I hearkened as in a spell, With his brightening eyes fixed fast on mine, This is the tale I heard him tell 'Twixt sips of the golden Asti wine. * * * * * * * * In the days of feud, in the days of power, In the days of Guelph and Ghibbeline, When hate in the heart like an evil flower Took root and flourished, and choked the green Soft shoots of love in that garden fair, No senator noble among all 87 THE CRUCIFIX. Who met in the spacious council-hall Had wiser words or a grander air Than the Count Nerucci. The luckless fate That had robbed "my lord" of his gentle wife, Had given the light of his lonely life, A beautiful daughter, sweet and good, Who had bloomed into peerless womanhood. Stern with others, the Count for her tIad naught but kindness, and speech that hung Soft word-caresses upon his tongue. And never a wooing worshipper, (Though many ardent and fond there were,) Of those who sued for her hand and heart, Wxith much of feeling but more of art, Was half so lover-like as he. Perchance on the living one he tried To shower more love, in the memory Of his cold neglect of the one who died. Bianca,-such was the name she bore,Was as skilled as the noblest maid of the time; She could win the lute to a tinkling chime, 88 THE CRUCIFIX. Or thread the dance on the marble floor; Not one in all Siena than she Had a defter hand for tapestry She charmed each guest at her father's board By her winsome loveliness and grace; A something breathed from her pure young face, Looked from her eyes, shone from her brow, Leaped from her lips as they shaped for a smile, A fearless innocence free from wile That made the veriest outcast bow; And every soul who had seen adored Her beauty for many a Tuscan mile. On all the youths who a-wooing came Bianca smiled, but on each the same, A frank sweet smile that seemed to say, Ere a word of love had been spoken, "nay." Yet had she dreams as all maidens do; But no one came with the form or voice Of the valiant one she had dreamed her choice; And her father laughed as the number grew Of those who would with his daughter wed. 89 THE CRE UCIFIX. "Thou lovest thy father," he ever said, "Too well to fly to a suitor's arms." So the calm days sped, and Bianca's charms Drew ever more to her virgin shrine. One fair springtime when the lusty vine Along the valleys and up the hills Its tender emerald had unfurled, In the heart of the golden afternoon Came Bianca forth from her bower; A bird with welcome of runs and trills Above in a dizzying spiral whirled, The buoyant breeze set the boughs in tune, And the chaliced tulips flamed in flower. The palace garden reached adown A terraced slope to the massive wall That girt the triple hills of the town. Here to an arbor cool and small Did the fair Bianca love to come, And list to the fountain's drowsy fall, A bird's low twittering, or the hum Of the honey-sated bacchanal. 90 THE CR UCIIHY.. And here would she bring her silvery lute To touch its strings were the garden mute, And charm therefrom some jubilant strain Lest the brooding silence seem like pain. She swept the chords, and the music sweet In fullest cadence throbbed and thrilled; And soon, from a neighboring green retreat, To the strain with its ripple and rhythmic beat, There rose a voice, and a glad love song Was borne to her ear, till her heart was filled With a strange great joy. Now soft, now strong, Outrang the tones as her fingers ran O'er the quivering strings, nor died away Till in blushing marvel she ceased to play. That night when the stars in a golden span Athwart the sky threw their lucent gleams, She heard that voice in her happy dreams. Though the sweet Bianca knew too well That beyond the wall, with its pleached green Was the garden-close of a Florentine, And though oft she had heard her father tell a} THE CR UCIFIJ. How his hate of Florence ne'er would die, Yet on the morrow she fain would go, Ere the warm and westering sun sunk low, And holding her lute in a trembling hand Where the arbor screened from the peering sky, Play the same clear strain she had played before, And smile in joy when she heard once more The pure strong voice and the buoyant song; So day by day did the hours wax long Till the one hour came when she might stand In the shielding arbor's cool recess. Soon the hope of a larger happiness Had birth in her heart; and as first her ear Had longed for the sound of that voice to rise, So now did she cast her yearning eyes Toward the barrier-wall, though half in fear. At last one day at the wane of light, When, loath to leave, she had lingered late, With a sudden agile and airy bound The singer vaulted the wall's gray height. hIn fair Siena, or sister state, Where'er might a wanderer chance to go, 9g TIHE CR UCIFI.Y. Could no braver, handsomer youth be found Than the minstrel-soldier Georgio. They met as lovers; they spoke as though Their love was a thing that the years had known, And not a flower that had burst and blown Into instant bloom with its warmth and glow. Fond and deep were the vows they breathed And their new-learned names on each other's lips Were ever with soft endearments wreathed Till words in kisses had found eclipse. And thus they parted, and thus they met Each blissful day ere the sun had set. So much did the maiden dwell alone, Ruling the house as the moment willed, So full was the mind of her father filled With his statecraft schemes, that a month had flown Since the first and fateful sunset hour When the lovers met in the garden-bower. Oft did Bianca's heart make moan That the blameless Georgio was kin 93 THE CR UCIIF7Y. To the father-hated race, that he Was a soldier leal to the Medici, In the eyes of her sire a most deadly sin. She listened not when he would entreat He might lay their cause at her father's feet, But wavered ever'twixt smile and sigh, And swiftly thus did the days slip by. Ah! those hours of love,-what a paradise Each found in the other's brimming eyes! Then a word, a smile, a look, a kiss, Would fill their hearts with a perfect bliss. How young they were, and how fondly they Dreamed never a night would dim their day, But all would fall by a kindly chance Like the happy end of a fair romance, And they would be wed ere the tiny fig On the autumn boughs grew ripe and big, Or lips by the juice of the grape were stained, Or the red round moon of the harvest waned. Alas, for the visions their eyes had known!One vesper-time when in tender tone 94 THE CR UCIFIX. To the charmed Bianca Giorgio rea A passionate love song of his own, Without there sounded the rapid tread Of nearing feet, and aside were thrown The screening vines, and white with wrath, Before the door in the narrow path Stood the Count Nerucci. In vain they plead, In vain were the maiden's tears; in vain Did the eager lover strive to gain From the ireful father a listening ear. But the sire with a tense-strung voice and clear To his daughter only spoke, and she, Shrinking a moment, pale with fear At his awful look, as the stricken flee From a dreaded scourge or an evil ban, I'oward the palace doorway swiftly ran. Then the Count turned fierce on the kneeling man With a hissing vengeance-curse, and he, Leaping back from the steel ere the stroke could fall, Sprang out from the arbor and scaled the wall, Lest his hand, uplifted in enmity. Bring death and sorrow to whelm them all. 95 THE CRUCIFIX. Never again did Bianca know The bliss of love, or the overflow Of joy and peace that her heart had known In the calm sweet days that were fleet to go. Shut from the world in her bower alone, Her ceaseless longing became like pain. The hours were links of an endless chain That bound her closer and closer, till It seemed to her that her throbbing brain Would reel to frenzy. Her mind would fill With vain wild thoughts of flight, and one Went alway with her wherever she fled. But keen eyes watched at the set of sun, And keen eyes watched when the night was done, And though never a warning word was said, She grew to feel that the very wall Hid hireling hands that would reach at call, And drag her back, if she dared to tread Beyond the bounds of the long dim hall Where she walked at morn and at evenfall. A loving father she knew no more; He never smiled, and his visage wore 96 THE CR UCIFIAY. A dark, stern look as he daily came And went, and she never heard her name Slip through his lips as in time of yore. And once when she prayed he would tell her when She might be free in the air again, He cried, as his face grew pale and set, "When he is dead, and when you forget!" And so, as a tender flower will fade And waste away in the sterile shade If neither the kindly sun nor shower Prolong the span of its fragile hour, She drooped, ere ever the reaper's blade Had garnered the harvest's golden dower. Tears for Siena. Her fairest lay White and still in her marble bed Through chancel windows the full-orbed day Flung rainbow beams ere the mass was said. Mourn for Bianca. The rich and poor Loved the maid who was sweet and pure; And into the vast cathedral aisles A throng of the high and the low had come, And under the pillar's massive piles THiE CR UCIFIX. They looked and listened with anguish dumb. The solemn chanting fell and rose In waves of sound to its mournful close; Then the long procession formed, and passed From the portals dim, and wended down With a silent, measured step and slow, And following blindly among the last, His face half hid by his monk's black gown, WVas the grief-embittered Giorgio. Erelong a gathering rumor ran Through Siena streets that the Count was ill; Remorse had broken the iron will, And many a void day faint and wan He lay at the very door of death; But autumn came with its quickening breath, And stirred the sluggish tide in his veins, And a feeble flush on his pallid brow Answered the flush on the woodland bough; T he air grew fresh with the healing rains, Renewal that nature alone can give, And'twas noised abroad that the Count would live. 93 THE CRUCIFIX. "Send for a priest," one morn he cried To the serving-man by his couch's side; " I have conquered death in this hateful strife, And would give my thanks to the Lord for life!" So a man went forth, and it happed near by In a monk's long robe, and with downcast eye, Walked one who seemed of a holy mien, And who, when called, in a voice serene Bade the servant lead, and with shaded face Followed close behind at a rapid pace. They passed the doorway and scaled the stair They threaded a corridor high and dim; There were rustling sounds in the hangings there, And the priest's white fingers long and slim A silver crucifix clutched, as on They hurried, till out of the haunted gloom In swung the noiseless door of a room Where the moted morning sunlight shone. The monk, with his dark hood backward thrown, Uplifted his face to the sudden glow,A young face saddened with lines of woe; The servant turned, but he did not know 99 *..::-:..1 THE CR UCIF[X. That the man he had left with the Count alone Was the hated lover Giorgio. Never again did they see that face In camp or court or in festal place When he went from the palace no one knew, And whither, there never was found a clue. But at Florence, in after time,'twas told How a monk who dwelt in a convent old That on Vallombrosa's vale looks down, Would sweetly sing in the cloisters brown Sad songs through the tender twilight glow, And his name was the Fra Biancino. And the Count? -I,ong, long through the vaulted hall Did the servants wait for his voice to fall; They hearkened in vain for a word or cry, But they heard no sound as the hours dragged by. So at last in fear did the bravest go And tap at the door and listen in dread; A stir in the tapestry overhead Made them tremble and quail and start; Then they sprang and opened the door, and lo! 100 ' *':-'1. TFIE CR UCIFIY. On the sanguined couch the Count lay dead, With a dagger-crucifix in his heart. * * * * * * * * The palsied hand of the man who told This sad strange tale of the years of old, Tipped the flagon and poured the wine; We quaffed; then he took the proffered gold And the deadly crucifix was mine. I sought the tortuous streets again,The square where the ancient palaces stand, Looming desolate, dark and grand; Life was dead, and the grass upsprung In the ways that hurrying feet once trod. Black clouds had gathered in sombre train, The thunder menaced with angry tongue, And the lightning brandished its livid rod, All Siena seemed to mourn; The trees by passionate sobs were torn; A sound of wailing came from the wind, And I could but think of the long ago,Of fair Bianca the maid who pined, And the minstrel-soldier Giorgio. IOI A TWILIGHT PIECE. I STRAYED from the bower of the roses as the dusk of the day drew on, From the purple palm-tree closes where the crimson cactus shone; Along the sycamore alley and up through the town I strode, Nor paused where the gay groups dally at curves of the wide white road. And I came to a pathway climbing through an olive orchard gray, As the last faint bells were chiming in a chapel far away. Only the stir of the lizard in the long sparse grass I heard, And the wind, like an unseen wizard, with its mystical whispered word. A TWILIGHT PIECE. But at last I broke from the glooming of boughs, and the darkling place, And beheld tall warders looming o'er a wide and lonely space;Old cypress trees intoning a chant that was wierd and low, And as sad as the ghostly moaning from the lips of the Long-ago. Here many a time at the margin of day, ere the bats grew brave, Had I seen the low sun sink large in the dip of the western wave; Seen the hues of the magical painter flush half oi the sky's broad zone, And then grow fainter and fainter till the flowers of the night were blown. Enwrapt by the drowsy quiet, I sank on the turf, and long I yearned for the rhythmic riot of the night-bird's soar ing song; A song that should pulse and thrill me, and tides of the heart unbar, 103 4A TWILIGHT PIECE. A song that should surge and fill me with thoughts of a clime afar; For I felt the passionate sadness of the mourner who may not weep, Anda turned to the bird's wild gladness as the weary turn toward sleep. Then it came, ah! it came with a rushing and ripple of notes that poured Like a mountain rillet gushing from a rock-fount, pebble-floored; And I soared with the song's swift soaring, and I fled with the song's swift flow, From that land of the sun's adoring to a land of storm and snow; From the home of the rose and laurel, from the olive slopes and the vines, To hills where the mad winds quarrel in the supple tops of pines. And I said, "enough of the languor, enough of the dreamful ease, With never a sound of anger from the slumberous sapphire seas! 1o4 A TWILIGI[T PIECE. Give me the din of the battle of turbulent life once more,The clangor, the stress, the rattle, on the new world's strenuous shore; The hearts I love and that love me, and the frank, free, trustful eyes, And the blue of the skies above me, the blue of my own dear skies!" A moment the strains waxed stronger, then died;-no, it might not be; I knew I must linger longer by the strange sweet southern sea; Linger and con from the stories of those who had left lifers ways, Linger and glean from the glories of the hallowed and haloed days. But a moment more I tarried till the sovran moon rose up, And the land and the heaven were married by the wine from its gold-bright cup; Then I swiftly downward wended, and was glad once more to be o05 A TWILIGHT PIECE. Where the laughter clear ascended by the shore of the siren sea. Ah! the lone heart, backward turning, though fair be the skies that dome, Must sometimes feel a yearning for the happy hills of home. io6 THE SEASONS ROUND. CARMEN HIEMIS. A TYRANT rules the land! With icy hordes invincible he came, From far boreal realms that bear no name, And on our fields let loose his ravening band. In vain the struggle'gainst such frenzied foes; Before the imperious onset of the snows, Our sovereign's army fled in wild dismay. Now, looking forth, we see,Reft of their robes and royal livery,Long captive lines in dismal disarray. Through night and day above the tapering firs, The cruel monarch's blatant trumpeters Their shrill reveillZes blow; Leaps the sharp sound Up the wide arch to heights without a bound, Along the hills and through the vales below. CARMEN HIEMIS. Where'er the eye May sweep beneath the cloud-embattled sky, In vestiture immaculate the meadows lie. Earth's leaping crystal veins, That furrowed far the harvest-goldened plains WVhile leafy banners tossed, Are manacled by pallid-fingered Frost. And we who trod Not long aforetime on the yielding sod Of woodland slopes that gleamed with golden-rod, Draining large life from multitudinous things,The lymph of flower-lipped springs, The lithe vines' spiralings,Now gather round the friendly-flaming fire, As the slow hours expire. And yet, if joy be with us, what care we For all of Winter's ruthless savagery, Forgetful not, the while The masked heavens glimpse no flashing smile, Of a whole-souled, wide-handed charity! Have we not song for cheer, :..o CARMEN HIEMIS. And tune-enchanted strings to trance the ear? And may we not retreat To some deep window-seat, And hold communion, through clear-lettered page, With hallowed saint and sage Of high-browed Learning's every age? May we not glide Down the melodious tide Wherefrom of old there sprung Celestial Poesy of the silver tongue, And, though the low skies frown, forever find Unnumbered Italys in the cloudless mind? Ah! well we know This riotous ruler that we hold our foe, Erelong, in impotence of swift overthrow, Will northward lead his horde Along the stern sea-board To wan demesnes of frozen field and floe. With what a generous hand The conqueror will lavish on the land The emerald largess of his empery 1.1 CA RM~EN HIr IS. That fronts the surges of the Southern sea! The charmed winds will bear their fragrant freight The rills, rejuvenate, Will voice the grateful gladness of the earth; And everywhere, Throughout the halcyon spaces of clear air, Will choral harmonies have joyful birth. Will not this zone of music be to us A guerdon bounteous For all the silent grayness of dead hours? Then mourn thou not, for soon, faint-hearted one, Through the soft pattering of mild vernal showers Will gleam the gladdening sun, And thou shalt know, As if from far creation's source should roll, The ecstasy of life's sweet overflow, And a divine uplifting of the soul. 112 AN APRIL SONG. pERCHED upon a maple bough, Sang a wren, "'Tis April now! And the while he tuned his trills, Leaped the rills, Flushed the hills, And a hint of coming glory gleamed upon the moun tain's brow. Down beside the reedy mere Piped a blackbird, "April's here!" And the water murmured low In its flow, " Soon will blow Lovely golden-petaled lilies for the blushing maiden Year. " ! -, AN APRIL SONG. Sweetly from the woodland's heart With his ever-joyous art, "April's come," a robin cried; "March has died; Winds that sighed, Mourning, moaning round the gables, play a merry lover's part." On an elm-tree branch asway, Caroled forth a joyous jay; Clear from his exuberant throat Note on note Seemed to float,"Joy in sun and joy in shower,-April ushers in the May!" 1-4 A MAY CAROL. AY,-and the spray of the apple Glows in the orchard aisles; May,-and the gay hues dapple Meads with their rolling miles. Bright is the light downpouring, Clear is the heaven and calm; High through the sky go soaring Birds from the land of balm. Up from the cup of morning Redolent perfumes rise, Where, with its fair adorning, Dewv the garden lies. Sweet is the beat of singing Brooks in their seaward flight; Far is the starlight flinging Gleams through the hush of night. A MAY CAROL. Bud,-and the blood is hastened; Bloom,-and the heart grows gay; Leaf,-and the grief that chastened Dies at the dawn of May. Ix6 A JUNE HARMONY. A BIRD in the boughs sang "June," And "June," hummed a bee In a bacchic glee As he tumbled over and over, Drunk with the honeydew; Then the woods took up the tune And the rippling runnels too, The tune of the bird that sang in the tree And the bee that buzzed in the clover. And "June," cried the leaves in time, Till crickets at night With a wild delight Sang "June" to the moon downbeaming, "June" to the moon and stars; A JUNE HARMONY. And the grasses seemed to chime With the music's mellow bars, While butterflies danced with airy flight In the sunlight amber-gleaming. And the flowers were glad that swayed In the breeze whose tune Was forever "June"; The rose and the regal lily, The humble blooms of the mead, The fragile ferns in the glade, The quivering rush and reed, All joyed in the azure afternoon And the morn and the evening stilly. And the song in every heart Found echo, and rang While the green hills sang With a throb and thrill of pleasure; Alike the old and the young, Ix8 A JUNE HARMONY. As they felt their pulses start, To their musical mirth gave tongue, Till from vale and hill the chorus sprang In a swelling, merrying measure. 0 joy to be out in June 'Neath the cloudless blue In the dawn and dew 'Mid the ruddy buds of clover, To be out, alert and free! For life is a precious boon With the world in harmony, When June wakes love in the heart anew, And the cup of bliss brims over. lig A MIDSUMMER HIIARBINGER. W HAT time, this very morn, Untiring chanticleer had loudly blown Twice, or yet thrice, his wakening matin horn, Arousing, did I hear A sharp, continuous, lone, Persistent rasping, as of tense-drawn strings A moment grating on my sleep-dulled ear; Then did it seem to grow To sound of doubtful cadence, quavering low, And die away in broken murmurings. Herald of heated hours, Shrill harbinger of lifeless breezes borne From lands where bloom the heavy-chaliced flowers, We gladly bid thee hail; For June's wind-scattered buds we will not mourn. A MIDSUMAIER HARBINGER. What though the rose is withered at the core, [fail, What though the limpid fountains thirst and What though, in heaven's mid-height, The dog-star burns its lambent fires by night, And the clear vernal songs are heard no more! The poppy flames for us; On daylight's verge the full-toned whippoorwill Makes purple twilight-time harmonious. The fruit boughs ruddier grow; The yawning granary mows that are to fill Gladden with rich increase from harvesting; Our hearts have joy in summer's overflow, For though seed-time be fair, Diviner far unto the hands that share The affluent season of the garnering. 121 AS AUGUST COMES. I N dull monotony of heat The hazy hills and lowlands lie, And billow till they blend and meet With lurid amplitudes of sky. The locust's shrilly fife-note cleaves The fervid air, a knife of sound, As August comes with poppy leaves Around his swarthy temples bound. AS WANES THE YEAR IN AUTUMN-TIDE. S wanes the year in Autumn-tide, With flaunting pageantry and pride, The bannered woodlands far unfold Their bounty of ungathered gold. The milkweed sends its silken sails Adown the tide of gentle gales, Presaging snow-flakes that will fall When skies o'erlean,-a dull gray wall, And frail leaf-shallops wander wide, As wanes the year in Autumn-tide. The hue that gleams upon the vine Foretells the sparkle of the wine; The sumach's beacon, crimson-bright, Doth harbinger the hearthstone's light; The weaver-spiders deftly fling 124 AS [VANES THE ]-EAR ILV A UTU5IN-TIDE. Their looms on boughs that sough and swing; There is a sound of singing flight From noon of day till noon of night; And hours like rainbowed bubbles glide, As wanes the year in Autumn-tide. Re-nascent with the winds that came And touched the crocus into flame, Supreme through Summer's splendid day, Now Nature ripens to decay; And yet, within my heart I find No vain desires, no longings blind; With steadfastness I turn my eyes To what in Winter darkness lies; And harboring hope, the days I bide, As wanes the year in Autumn-tide. IN LATE NOVEMBER. I WALKED afield one morn in late November, The sun was hidden and the air was chill; And not a sumach showed a glowing ember Along the windy summit of the hill; No lordly linden showered its gold above the swollen rill. I listened long to catch a bird-note falling From out the sombre spaces of the sky, And only heard a grim rook hoarsely calling As toward the woodland he went wheeling by; The sere marsh rushes seemed to breathe an echo to my sigh. When last I strayed this self-same pathway over How every breeze was palpitant with song! The grass I trod was white with foamy clover, And bees went darting by, a burdened throng; Now all was drear and desolate the whole wide vale along. IN LATE NOVEMBER. Where is the promise of the re-awaking? I thought, as one that o'er d(lead joyance grieves, Some lingering springtide symbol sweetly making A link between the reaped and unsown sheaves; When lo, a violet still in bloom amid the withered leaves! 126 BESIDE THE INGLE E who by the genial fire Watch the windy hours expire, Hlearing down the chimney whine Blasts that toss the stanchest pine, Seeing wan and dreary lie Barren fields beneath the sky, Such a guerdon have that we Care not what without may be. That an icy spell is flung O'er the rillet's tuneful tongue; That the snows engird and fret Banks where bloomed the violet; That no leaf may front the sun Save the wizened ghost of one, All,-like visions fade and flee From the paths of memory. BESIDE THE INGLE. Song has made the ingle fair; Song has warmed the wintry air;Shakespeare's well-spring, draught divine, Milton's deep, sonorous line, Scott's pure fountain welling up, Keats to brim the wondrous cup;All the drops since time began Of the dews Parnassian! 128 SONNETS AND QUATRAINS. 1, FROM THE CASTLE TERRACE. (tteidelberg.) HERE courtly knights and maidens long ago, In the soft light of fading afternoon, Heard the sweet cadence of some minstrel's tune Float up the walls from garden-paths below, We sit to-day and watch the dying glow Of sunrays bright on summer lands aswoon, And hold the silence as a golden boon, And do not heed how gliding moments flow. The Neckar winds from out the wooded hills, Silvers the valley, laves the quaint town's quays, And wanders westward in a gleaming line; Far-following the sinuous path it fills, Through undulating, unreaped harvest-seas, Upon our vision dawns the storied Rhine. PARIS REVISITED. GAIN the pleasure-seeking throng I see, Again a voyager on the buoyant tide, Adown the brilliant boulevards I glide Where all is light and mirth and vanity. Laughter upleaps as does a bird set free, Darts down the air and sounds on every side; The Present is the godhead glorified, And small the holden heed of time to be. Strife seems a stranger here. The air breathes balm Unclouded, domes the sky in peaceful blue O'er pleasure's night-increasing carnival; And yet one tragic touch would change it all, Would kindle passion's baleful fires anew, And show the tiger sleeping'neath the cahln. THE FIRST SIGHT OF ROME. I SAW across the wide Campagna rise The dome that crowns St. Peters, and I knew At last were eager, youthful dreams come true, And bright above me beamed the Roman skies. There flowed the Tiber, there before my eyes, Eternal hill on hill in fair full view The city lay, and as I nearer drew, "Roma! Roma! "-I heard the olden cries. HIow through my brain, when, clashing on my ear, These shrill shouts fell, scenes strangely stirring ran! I saw triumphal columns marching home, The Colosseum crowded, tier o'er tier, The gladiatorial combat, man to man, And all the splendor that once gloried Rome. THE BAY OF NAPLES. E RE yet I viewed thee, fair things had I said Of thy expanse, O sapphire-shining bay; But having seen, alas! what shall I say? Marking thy beauty seems my cunning fled. In purple shrouded, Capri lifts her head Upon the pale horizon far away; And now that night is hand in hand with day From grim Vesuvius' cone the cloud has fled. That ominous disc of light above thee shows Thou hast a shadow, darksome as is death, Glooming above thy fairness evermore; And when it may, no lore-wise prophet knows, With visitation of its fatal breath, Lay desolate all thy lovely curve of shore. A DAMASCUS PICTURE. D IM day-wane at Damascus. White afar Hermon uplifts a glistening crown of snow; In long ungainly lines the camels go From weary windings of low-roofed bazar. The brow of Anti-Lebanon stands a bar Of gloomy black against the western glow; Cool Barada leaps by with restless flow, And coming night reveals her first clear star. Hark!-faintly from yon tapering minaret Sounds the muezzin's oft-repeated call That bids the turbaned faithful come to prayer; Turn south toward Mecca. There, slim, slant-wise set, And trembling to inevitable fall, A palm-tree rears its withered bulk in air. - -1 SUMMER NOON. T IIE air is full of soothing sounds. The bee Within the waxen lily's honeyed cells, In monotone of mellow measure tells His yet unsated joyance; drowsily The swallows spill their liquid melody As down the sky they drop, and faintly swells The tremulous tinkle of the far sheep bells, WVhile wind-harps sigh in every crowned tree. Beneath the beechen shade the reapers lie, Upon their lips a merry harvest tune; Knee-deep within a neighboring stream, the kine Stand blinking idly in the clear sunshine; And like a dream of olden Arcady Seems the sweet languor of the summer noon. A PEARL. OUND as the roc's egg of the Arab tale, And flawless white as was that fabled sphere, I see it shine below my lady's ear, This prize-plucked bauble from an ocean vale. auas it where round Ceylon the swift ships sail, A daring diver clove, without a fear, Palm-shaded waves through fathoms emerald clear, And brought it forth'mid strenuous shout and hail? Methinks from some far eastern isle it came, Because it giveth to her tranquil face An orient languor and a slumberous grace; But where, O where, in lands without a name, Near what soft cheek's pure-glowing altar flame Could it have found so fair a resting place? THE STATUE. S perfect in their symmetry as thine, 0 inarticulate marble lips, were those My love once raised to mine, yet tinged with rose And freighted with a redolence divine. Her poise of head was queenly; fair and fine Her alabaster arms that shamed the snows; Her gracious bearing had thy pure repose, And stately was she as the forest pine. Knowledge sat throned upon her regal brow, Round which her tresses rippled, bright as gold; Sweet as a songbird's on a budding bough The liquid voice that from her lips outrolled; But lo! there came an awful change, and now Thou, in thine icy hush, art not more cold! THE MENDICANT. LIKE some way-weary mendicant came I Unto the court where Love holds potent reign, And there in desolation I was fain Before the gateway to lie down and die. But one came forth who heard my mournful cry, Nor mocked nor spurned me with a cold disdain, But cheered me, saying: "Do not nurse thy pain; Be brave and bid the ghosts of dead days fly! " Then I arose and cast the Past aside, And felt within my breast a gladness great, Meeting the glorious eyes that beamed above; And all the future time was glorified, For I, who was a beggar at the gate, Became a dweller in the court of Love. WHEAT. B EHOLD a billowy sea of golden spears That to and fro in every breeze that blows Tosses its amber waves, and proudly shows Bright scarlet poppies when the warm wind veers. hearken, and lo! there falls upon the ears A song as mellow as the one that rose From Boaz' fields at daytime's drowsy close And thrilled his heart in those dim Hebrew years. And the swart mower, leaning on his scythe To catch the swelling music, clear and blithe, Thinks, as his eyes with love-light brim and glow, That she who sings, the while the bright beams fade, Is far diviner than the lovely maid Who gleaned in fields Judean long ago. THE ACTOR. Night after night a mimic death he died, While sympathetic thousands wept and sighed; But when at last he came in truth to die, No teardrop fell from any mourner's eye, MARBLE. A blank unshapely mass but yesterday, As void of beauty as a clod of clay; Behold, a miracle!-for now it seems A form to haunt the midnight of our dreams. ICICLES. These are the weapons that the sword-smith, Cold, Ilas forged to make the ranks of Winter bold; But when the Sun his shimmering lances throws, Hlow are they shivered by the silent blows! 42 MILKWEED.-DIA MONDS. MILKWEED. We see upon this wild November air White, downy couriers wing their eager way; Upon what hasty errandry they fare, And whither, who can say? DIAMONDS. About her neck they gleam in lustre bright, Like stars that glisten on the zone of Night: Yet more than Afric's flawless gems I prize Soft Pity's jewels in her loving eyes. HOME SONGS. THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. THERE is a land where effluent sunshine falls On the white splendor of sheer mountain walls, From whose pale peaks and many-caverned passes The hollow voice of iterant echo calls. Aloft it towers above the pathless plains; Within its bounds grim desolation reigns, Save where upspring the hardy flowers and grasses In narrow clefts when wrathful winter wanes. Eternal snows upon its bosom lie; It holds communion with the unfathomed sky Through circling years of unrecorded changes, While mighty nations spring to life, and die. Beneath its crags uplifting, dome on dome, The everlasting glaciers have their home; The storm-undaunted eagle boldly ranges Round loftiest peaks by human feet unclomb. 146 THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. It has for warders ranks of regal pines That skirt its borders in majestic lines, Their lances ever in the keen air tossing At earliest morn, or when the day declines. Impetuous streams are born, where, winding miles Deep in its dark and dangerous defiles, No gleaming rays of golden sunlight crossing, Brighten the dim, sepulchral, rocky aisles. Nature reveals her deepest, grandest moods Within its vast unpeopled solitudes; And when the purple night's gray mists are drifting, A sense of the Divine above it broods. And he who treads this lofty land alone, Will feel, while clouds are round him rent and blown, Standing amid the dumb crags, skyward lifting, A little nearer God's celestial throne. MOONRISE AT MONTEREY. A LL through the sultry evening hours The fluctuant tide's soft swell was heard, And to the cadence sang a bird Amid the bright acacia flowers. A bat zigzagged across the night, And in the dark the spiders spun Their webs, that would, at rise of sun, Be little silvery paths of flight. Clear notes of song dropped down the air, Well-rounded, perfect pearls of sound; A star sprang eastward, and was drowned In outer ether, none knew where. Then, as o'er Latmian leas of yore She rose to greet Endymion, Full-orbed and fair the moon outshone Above the wide Pacific shore. A SERENADE. LUMBER has stilled the note In the thrush's tender throat; But "chirp" the cricket sings, And the moth's dark wings Flutter along the night, Through the pale starlight. Soft may thine eyelids meet; Sleep on, 0 sweet! Never a stir'mid the stars Of the jasmine at the bars Of her casement, looking away Toward the unborn day. Mount, and an entrance win, Steal in, my song, steal in! Soft may thine eyelids nmeet; Sleep on, 0 sweet! A SERENA DE. Steal in, but breathe not above The lowest whisper of love; Hover around her there In that holy air; Glide into her dreams, and be A memory of me. Soft nlicv thline ey)elids meet; Steep on, 0 sweet! x49 THE PRODIGALS. (He.) L (5ITERERS, why do ye sit Where the bees about ye flit TIhrough the sunlight-goldened hours In the clover's crimson bowers? Drowsing in the zephyrs bland, Lifting ne'er a toiling hand, Hearing little notes and trills That the thrush's throat o'erspills, Happy all the day ye seem, Half awake and half in dream (They.) Lying in the leaning grass Where the lyring crickets pass, Honey-burdened argosies Drifting o'er us down the breeze, THE PRODIGALS. Ours it is to never know Any harbinger of woe, Any pain that harrieth, Any haunting fear of death, But to joy in all around,Lustrous light and soothing sound. (He.) Prithee, how doth it befall That ye are so prodigal Of the precious sands of time, Slipping by in silver chime? Feel ye not some shame to ne'er Any task or burden bear? In the shifting shade and sun Is there nothing to be won, That ye still should listless lie Underneath the arching sky? (They.) Naught we feel of shame, and naught Shall there be by any wrought Ist YTHE PIV'ODIGA; LS. Who have tasted of the bliss Of a charmed life like this. We have drained the nectar-cup That the poppy holdeth up, We have drunk the potent draught That the lotus-eaters quaffed; Careless we whate'er befalls, Happy-hearted prodigals! x52 OUR SAINT. T HE one I sing was born and bred Ere proud Queen Fashion's whims had led A single maid to vex her head O'er pug or poodle; Her form was lithe, her face was fair, Her laugh was blithe and debonair, Her voice was sweet,-her favorite air WVas "Yankee Doodle." She used to play an old spinet, The same is in existence yet Amid the dust and cobwebs set Iligh in our garret; And oft she spun from dawn till gloom In some quaint, low, be-gabled room; She loved the fabric of her loom, Nor scorned to wear it. 0 UR SAINT. In stately minuet or reel, With large-bowed slippers, high of heel, Hers was the step that roused the zeal In hearts of gallants; Folk high and lowly both to please, To make bright mots and repartees, To bake, to brew,-she numbered these Among her talents. Whene'er she passed in quilted gown Along the highways of the town, Small wonder that the swains bowed down In admiration; And when a handsome stranger bore The fair one from her father's door, Why marvel that the jealous swore From sheer vexation? A day more gay was seldom seen Than her bright wedding-day, I ween; And she,-she bore herself a queen In look and motion. 154 OUR SA IN T. And when, with him she loved, she led The wedding-dance, more light her tread Than any barque that ever sped O'er wave of ocean. The broidered bodice that she wore While footing it along the floor Has lain for fifty years and more In some dark chest hid; And he whose arm around it stole, Sought while yet young the starry goal, A grief which she has, patient soul, Long in her breast hid. Her eyes are dim, her voice is faint, And yet she never makes complaint; One more serene and like a saint I have to yet see Than she who in the corner sits And dozes, while she knits and knits Her little nephew's socks and mitts, My great-aunt Betsy. 155 IN SOLITUDE. OMETIMES at lonely dead of night Weird sounds assail the ear, And in our hearts is cold affright To think a ghost is near. Why should we feel swift through us thrill A sense of awe and dread? It is the living work us ill, And not the peaceful dead! THE BRIC-A-BRAC SHOP. T stands within an alley nigh Where Trade's swift tide goes rolling by; No sudden sunbeam finds its way Across the threshold, dusky gray, But peaceful twilight ever reigns Behind its dim and dusty panes. Few are the hands that ope its door; Few are the feet that tread its floor; Yet prying folk will sometimes dare The narrow, dark-walled thoroughfare, And pause before the sign that shows That here are "Coins and Curios." Within the long, low, crowded room A cheery face makes bright the gloom; Keen eyes that have a friendly glow O'er spectacles with silver bow; A BRIC-A-BRA4 C SHOP. A mellow voice, whose gracious phrase Suggests the courtly olden days. His wig is always most precise; His coat and collar always nice; His parchment volumes, quaint and thin, Are not more yellow than his skin. He seems,'mid tapestry and delf, A bit of bric-a-brac himself. In drawer and under carven lid The choicest treasures he has hid; Curved blades that bear some mystic sign, And glass that gleams like amber wine. But, ah, it is his air and face That lend a glamour to the place! Yet from his faltering step we know That he ere long must surely go, That we shall see, as ne'er before, Some crape upon the dingy door, And that no kindly voice will cry "Good-morrow" to the passers-by. x58 HAREBELLS. N the morning breeze to the eager bees You ring out an elfin chimne, And all day long, while the birds make song, The spears of the grass keep time. You ring and you ring till the crickets sing, And the pale little stars out-flower; Till the beetles boom through the purple gloom Of the odorous twilight hour. Though your music clear I never may hear, Yet I know it is sweeter far Than the mellow flute or the silvery lute, Or the strains of the viol are. For that tender blue, your delicate hue, Was the gift of the arching sky, And the chimes you ring are the echoing Of the anthems sung on high. AN AFRICAN LILY. Ia- Or HILE without in riotous din I The voice of the storm-wind swells, You proudly uplift within Your beautiful scarlet bells. And the snow-girt landscape fades Like a dream from my eyes away, Till I see palm-sheltered glades 'Neath the glow of an Afric day. And there by a languid stream, Uncut by the keel of boat, I seem to behold you gleam With a snake twined round your throat, Still the vision will not fee With its spell of baleful power;What awful memory Is yours, 0 beauteous flower? A ROSE. OSE, by fair fingers torn From off thy thorny stem, How canst thou droop and mourn Since so caressed by them? Better one blissful hour That opes eternity, Than length of life for dower And fail her face to see. Although'tis thine to die, How happy wilt thou rest! Thy requiem her sigh, Thy tomb her peaceful breast. A WINTER TWILIGHT. T HE silent snowflakes glance and gleam Adown the chilly Northern air; The West has thrown its dying beam Athwart the forest gray and bare. And now a gradual dimness veils The wintry landscape near and far, And while the windy daylight pales Out-glimmers clear a single star. Lulled by the sound of tinkling strings Where nimble fingers weave their spell, I quite forget the North that stings Without the cozy oriel. And on the wings of music borne, Aglow with floods of gold, I see The blue of skies that rarely mourn Arch o'er the slopes of Italy. 4 [VINTER TTVILIGTI'. The melody seems wafted down From laurelled heights where roses blow, That shimmer like an emerald crown Above embowered Bellaggio. A molten sapphire Como lies, And opal sails across it skim; Green stair on stair the mountains rise, And cut the calm horizon's rim. All dims as dies the rapturing strain; Once more the deepening dusk I see; Then strike the silent chords again, That I may dream of Italy! 163 MELLONA. TELL me, thou that watchest o'er Gatherers of golden honey Through the tranquil days and sunny, Days that now we see no more, WVhere have fled those toilers belted WVith refulgent bands of amber? Leafless are the vines that clamber Where they revel held of yore. Filched the rare ambrosia melted In the honeysuckle bells; Drained the nectar from the cells Of the zenith-looking lily; While the winds through wan and chilly flours around us rage and roar. They have robbed the year of sweetness, Leaving us its ashen core; 1Have they followed thee with fleetness OFELL OLA. Holding still their wealth in store? In our visions we behold,While the stinging storm-shafts hurtle O'er the buried beds of myrtle,All thy honey's liquid gold, Drained from asphodels of old Where Arcadian fountains spurtle. Cruel, cruel, thus to flaunt us Through the chill of wintry night! Cruel, cruel, thus to haunt us With sweet visions of delight! Come, we pray thee, come and bring Back thy troop, and sky-fields sunny; We would quaff the year's fresh honey From the chalice of the Spring I I65 IN THE PARK. ITTING within a grassy, tree-girt park, I heard a mocking bird whose glad songs mark The hours from radiant dawn to purple dark. The air was sweet with fragrance, blossom-born; Nature was joyous as the east at morn, And blushed from peach-tree bough and leafy thorn. Like tall, slim maidens in an emerald wood, Amid the grasses stately tulips stood, With here a damask, there an amber hood. A fountain plashed and murmured low near by, Athwart whose jets shone rays as bright of dye As those that span a tempest-clearing sky. IN THE PARK. Light-footed children danced in shade and sun, Lithe-limbed as fawns that through dim coverts run At crimson dawning when the night is done. It was a pleasant spot to dream away The hours that hasted toward the dusk of day, To dream of seasons gone,-where, none may say. There came a vision to my drowsy brain; I thought my buoyant footsteps trod again A boundless waste of Arizonian plain. I saw pine-crested mountains grandly rise To clasp the quivering blue of cloudless skies, As if ambitious of some high emprise. I heard the tinkling of a burro's bell Sound through the gulches, green with chapparal, Far borne on winds that softly rose and fell. Along the plaza of a Mexic town I wandered'twixt bare walls sun-lit and brown, A modern cavalier without renown. I67 I-~V THE PARKt. The strange scene vanished: soft the fountain played; The children frolicked in the sun and shade; A willow bowed its head as though it prayed. Amid the beauties of that tranquil day, What subtle hint was given, who shall say, Of flights unburdened by this cloak of clay? .68 NIGHTFALL. T HE fading rays of daylight slant Across the flower-set garden way, The robins in the maples chant The requiem of day. A single star within the west Upon the breast of evening lies, While like a spectre of unrest The scarred moon mounts the skies. And by a casement wide apart Through which the night wind wandereth, A watcher ponders in his heart The mystery of death. A DREAM OF PEACE. I. I HEARD a clear voice clarion, " War is o'er," And joyful tongues replied, " Want is no more!" WVas it in dreamland, or that border-land Between the realms of sleep and consciousness? Now that wide-waking I walk forth abroad, I hear heart-piercing prayers mount up to God, That in his pity he may bend and bless The needy many in their sore distress That he may hold to them a helping hand Lest in their weakness and their woe they fall; And with the prayers I hear the mingled call Of awful curses rise beside the way; "There is no God, there is no God," they say. "Would a just Lord allow us all our lives In misery to t'oil and struggle here? To swarm together in low human hives? A4 D~EAMr OF PEA CE. To huddle close as does the stolid brute, No brightening ray of joy dark year on year, No pleasant plucking of life's golden fruit, But dreary plodding from sad sun to sun Until our wretched span of days is done? " II. Whereler I pass upleaps the bitter cry, And the land hears it and the o'erleaning sky. Ah! is it not an antique burden borne Along dim vistas of unnumbered years; Had it not birth within the outraged breast Of those afflicted, goaded and oppressed When earth was young among her sister spheres, Not hoar with ruin such as Rome uprears? There must be ever those who weep and mourn For the lost looks of dear death-slumbering eyes, But must there ever sound these piteous cries, These curses that affright the timid air? Where is the respite from the old despair Now that the time of tyrants is no more? (Or rules there still a despot hand afar x71 A DREAAM OF PEACE. Where swollen Neva frets an ice-bound shore, And pallid exiles in bleak Asia pine Because they bowed not to the great White Czar?) Will man ne'er build a universal shrine To pure-souled Peace in any coming age, \Then cruel Wiar and Want no longer rage? III. Alas! for Peace while daily to and fro The deadly-armed, alert battalions go, In those old lands whose fields the soldier's blood Has riched for harvest with its crimson tide; What Peace is there where men may leap at call To bristling Battle's devastating brawl, Save in a name for scoffers to deride? Not ours to see the altars sanctified! Again must flow the sacrificial flood, Again must Carnage strike a clangorous peal, Again must ring and flash the burnished steel, And hearths and homes and hearts be desolate! Not till the demons Avarice and Hate Are held within a tighter leash than now, x72 A DREAM! OF PEA CE. Not until Freedom has a wider scope Will white Peace-shrines be wreathed with olive-bough, Nor spectral Want that strides in wake of War Be driven from the last land's furthest slope. Love, Love will be the bloodless conqueror If e'er the dreamed-of, blissful reign have birth, Harmonious heaven on a strifeless earth. IV. Shall we then let Hope's helpful beacon die, Albeit we hear the curses and the cry Of hunger rise around us, and well know That unborn daisies on sun-ambered hills Must redden with irreparable stain? If Faith abides, some high immortal gain Will shine through clouds that shroud the sorest ills; But it is Hope, enduring Hope that fills And stirs the breast with the divinest glow. Slow are the secret alchemies that bring The lily to its flowerful perfecting. May not the gradual change of Nature's plan Unfold the process of the change of man? I73 A DREAM OF PEACE. Naught is achieved by one stupendous bound; The bud, the flower, the fruit, each has its time! Some distant day may not the clarion sound That clamored out of dreamland, "War is o'er,"' Till mountains skyward lift the song sublime, And seas repeat it loud from shore to shore? Hope, burning brightly o'er the Future's gate, Bids us a little longer, "Watch and wait! " x74