UC-NRLF 553 THE HILLS OF SONG HILLS OF SONG BY Clinton Scollard BOSTON COPELAND AND DAY MDCCCXCV COPYRIGHT BY COPELAND AND DAY 1895 LO ! I HAVE FARED AND FARED AGAIN FAR UP AND DOWN THE WAYS OF MEN, AND FOUND NO PATH I STRAYED ALONG At HAPPY AS THE HILLS OF SONG. 271494 TABLE OF CONTENTS Taillefer the Trourere Page i The Blue Arras 4 Sunrise on the Alps 7 My May 9 The Seekert 10 The Walk n The Fairies Pool 1 3 Sea-fog 14 Tfe Old Desire 15 The Comrades 16 On the Edge of the Wood* 17 The Old Gate-keeper 1 8 By the Stream at Sunset 19 The Mariner s Grave ai The Dormant Strain i The By-path ai The Sexton 4 The Violet Bank 5 The Crickets by Lake Huron 6 Wild Plum 7 A Bell *S IN ITALIA The Shepherd of the Liro 33 Memories of Como J4 Nuova Luna 3$ The Phantom Gondolier 37 A Venetian Sunset 39 On a Copy of Theocritus 40 The Falling of the Burrs 4 A Florentine Garden 43 The Bells of Fossombrone 45 Ex ORIENTE Al Mamoun ri Dawn in the Desert 53 Karoon, the Pilgrim 54 Hassan s Tomb 56 The Rose of Fayum 57 The Dervish s Prayer 58 At the Funeral of Abdallah 59 The Vengeance of Kafur 6 1 The Arab s Horse 64 In a Bazaar 66 Christmas at Marsaba 68 From an Eastern Oriel 74 MADRIGALS Vive la Bagatelle 79 The Sweet o the Year 80 A Cavalier s Valentine 81 With Some White Hyacinths in Winter 83 Ingle Song 84 Be Ye in Love with April-tide 85 A Spring Glee 86 Roses of June 87 Strawberries 87 A Summer Song 88 Wild Thyme 89 The Even-Song 90 A Perfect Day 91 The Bowers of Paradise 91 Holly Song 91 TAILLEFER THE TROUVERE THEY sailed in their long gray galleys, they tossed on the narrow sea, Till dim in the mists of morning were the shores of Normandy. They were sixty thousand warriors, with never a fear at heart; They were knights and squires and yeomen, adept in the soldier s art; They were knights and squires and yeomen, whose school was the press of men, Whose alphabet was their armor, whose sword was their only pen; And none of the bold war-farcrs, though the flower of the land was there, Bared braver brow to the south wind than Tail- lefer the Trouverc. No laugh like his at the banquet, no hand like his on the lute, No voice like his in the courtyard to banter the brawlers mute; And never from lip of a jester did a blither quip take wing, And never on caitiff s cuirass did t nobler brand outring. But song was the soul of his living; aye! song was the breath of his life; He had taken song to brother, he had taken song to wife. THE HILLS OF SONG In the tide-pulse of the ocean, in the wild wind- pulse of air, There was more than mortal music to Taillefer the Trouvere. They have harried the coast of Sussex, they have harried the coast of Kent; They have trod the soil of the Saxon, and come to his peaked tent, To the fortressed hill of Senlac, that out of a marsh uprears, Where the golden Wcssex dragon is hedged by the gleam of spears. They have girt them tight for the onset, they have leaped in line for the fray; What manner of man shall lead them, shall show them the victor s way ? To be first to fall on a foeman what manner of man shall dare ? Neither valorous knight nor bowman, but Tail lefer the Trouvere. In front of the foremost footman he spurs with a clarion cry, And raises the song of Roland to the apse of the glowing sky. A moment the autumn s glory is a joy to the singer s sight, And the war-lay soars the stronger, like a falcon, up the height; TAILLEFER THE TROUVERE Then springs there a Saxon hus-carl, with thews like the forest oak, And, whirling a brand of battle, he launches a titan stroke; A sudden and awful shadow, a blot on the azure glare, And dawn in a world unbordcred for Taillefcr the Trouvere. Shall song overspan the ages for the Duke men name the Great, Who founded the walls of empire on the ruins of a state ? Nay! not unto him our greeting across the flood of the years, With the countless slain ensanguined, and bitter with mourners tears; But unto the soul of the singer, to him of the fearless heart, Shall our hail-cry strengthen starward o er the seas that have no chart; For song was the love of his lifetime, and he met death s chill eclipse On the verge of the fight at Senlac with a song upon his lips. THE HILLS OF SONG THE BLUE ARRAS V I X WAS the night of a bitter frost JL In the vale of the Bishop s Praise, And the face of the moon was lost In the white of a spectral haze. The voice of the wind was whist Where the Hall hung over the lake; But the logs on the fire-dogs hissed Like a serpent roused in a brake. Rich were the walls of the room With the trophies of wealth and fame; But the Bishop cowered in the gloom Aback from the searching flame. Never an eye he cast On all that the years had won; But he shrunk from the sight, aghast At a deed that was like to be done. Though it stung his touch like a thorn, At a tiny scrip clutched he That read, " Come thou at the morn, Or I die on the gallows-tree! " THE BLUE ARRAS And the sign that was set thereto Was his only brother s sign. The sputtering flame burned blue, And the deer-hound gave a whine. But still did the Bishop brood As the moments sped amain, And his o erwrought outer mood Showed the battle within his brain. " Tarry ! " the Tempter cried; " Why save what has little worth ? Twcrc better that such should bide Under five warm feet of earth ! When rancor and strife are rife, Forsooth, twere a foolish thing To rescue the worthless life Of t rebel against the King ! " His leagues of land shall be thine From the plain to the eagle-perch, And brighter thy name shall shine On the brow of the Mother Church. Then, born of an old desire, The Bishop saw, as he sat, Take form in the core of the fire The red of a cardinal s hat. THE HILLS OF SONG So he said to his soul, T is done ! " And it seemed, for a breathing space, That the Tempter s words had won, By the look on the Bishop s face. But sudden the flame shot up Till it set the room ashine Like the bowl of a crystal cup Aflood with the gold of wine. And the hangings, one and all, The marvel of Artois skill, Wavered upon the wall Like boughs when the wind hath will. Wrought on a blue as bland As the softest sky of spring, At the Bishop s own command, There was many a sacred thing. All of the saints most fair Who had fought for the faith and bled, From Jesus, the Christ, were there, With a halo about the head. And lo ! as the Bishop gazed, With the firelight still at flood, Each raptured face grew hazed With a blurring mist of blood. SUNRISE ON THE ALPS But rvery eye was clear And burned like a living coal, While the wrathful rays pierced sheer To the depths of the Bishop s soul ; And each thin lip seemed to frame A word that stabbed like a blade ; For he thought it the hated name Of him who the Christ betrayed. Froze in his throat the prayer So glib on his tongue before, And down from his carven chair Slipped the Bishop upon the floor ; Groveled, abashed, abased, Shorn of each shred of pride ; And he lay there, downward-faced, Till the glowing firelight died. But when, with their clear " God-speed/ Rang the bells to the day new-born, Astride of his swiftest steed Rode the Bishop to meet the morn. SUNRISE ON THE ALPS HARK ! how the wakened echoes ring ! The blaring of the Alpine horn From peak to peak goes quavering 7 THE HILLS OF SONG Through all the slumbering isles of morn. The first faint line of sunrise fire Along the cloudy east is drawn, And one by one the stars expire As rings the anthem-peal of dawn. Come forth! and taste the winy air While yet the dews are opal-bright ; Come forth! and speed with thankful prayer The shadow of the wings of night ; Come forth! and watch the unsullied snows. Range after lofty range, expand ; Come forth! and see the morning s rose Burst o er the Bernese Oberland. Swift-smitten by a transient ray, A lordly pinnacle of ice Becomes, in some mysterious way, A giant spray of edelweiss ; And on the horizon s utmost bound From peak to cloud one may espy, Round rising over rainbow round, A Jacob s-ladder scale the sky. The west has felt a flush of flame That sets its forest heart astir, And breathes the radiant morning s name In symphonies of pine and fir. The lower mists are backward rolled, And, as the crowning splendors burn, MY MAY They kindle into lambent gold The blue enamel of Lucerne. Now every heaven-aspiring height, From mountain pole to mountain pole, Reveals to the enraptured sight Its evanescent aureole. The scars the breast of nature wore Are thrown in such divine eclipse, The soul of man is dumb before The dawn s supreme apocalypse. MY MAY HARK to the joyful sound ! to the revel of rills ! The buds have leaped into leaf on a thousand hills ; The only snow is the snow of the orchard spray ; She comcth across the land, my May, my May ! There springcth a fire at the root of growing things ; There stirreth desire at the heart that awakes and sings ; The breast of the blue is shot with a brighter ray ; She cometh across the land, my May, my May ! THE HILLS OF SONG She cometh with kindling eyes and with morning smiles, O er the sapphire-shining seas from the golden isles ; Her breath is that of the jasmine bloom and the bay ; She cometh across the land, my May, my May ! She quickencth drowsing hope by her calm caress ; She bringeth us heart-content for a balm to bless ; O, to lure her feet awhile from the June-ward way ! She cometh across the land, my May, my May ! But enough ! She cometh. Rejoice, my soul, rejoice ! Join, O my voice, with the universal voice, To hail the dream-delight of her dream-brief stay ! She cometh across the land, my May, my May ! THE SEEKERS FRIEND, I pray thee, who be they That do roam adown the day With such lorn and lifeless stride, Wan of face and weary-eyed ? Ho ! ye wanderers pinched and pale, 10 THE SEEKERS On what long unbeaten trail Go ye ? on what unknown quest ? Thus tbt bapltss ones confessed, " Seek we east, and seek we west, For the sacred chrism of rest. " Hold," the curious questioner said, " For a space thy toilsome tread : Haply nearer than ye dream Is the balm ye so esteem ! " Then upon him full they turned Eyes in whose dull embers burned Longing, as a sleepless guest. "Ab! " they sighed, then were we blest, Seeking east, and seeking west, For the sacred chrism of rest." I," the questioner said, " will guide To the boon so sanctified ; Follow me, and ye shall see Where the haunts of heart s-case be ! " Wotted then the seekers well *T was the angel Azrael, And they bowed at his behest. "Aye ! " they answered, it is best ! Seeking east, and seeking west, We have found the chrism of rest." il THE HILLS OF SONG THE WALK I WOULD go forth among the hills The green, crest-climbing lane along, For now the cup that morning fills Is brimmed with light and song. And I would hail as " comrade mine " Each soul soe er that seeks and sees The overtures of One divine In dawn s antiphonies. Up shall we mount until we find The pinnacle of prospect won, And see the sinuous stream unwind Its silver in the sun. Our spirits, purified of haste, By dews of freedom cleansed of care, Shall laugh, and leap anew, to taste The largess of the air. The wide outreachings of our sight Yon purple ridges shall not bind, But only some Andean height Horizoning the mind. THE FAIRIES POOL By radiant apotheosis To Eden earth shall seem re-born : So shall we find the chrism of bliss Upon the hills of morn. THE FAIRIES POOL OVERHEAD, the maple branches mingle, Sigh and sough in breezes ever cool ; Underneath, where dips the darkling dingle, Lies that liquid glass, the fairies pool. Rare the ray that lights its brooding beryl Sunshine, moonshine, or the starshine pale ; And its dusky depths seem paved with peril To the wanderer in that lonely vale. There s a legend that the white leaves whisper - Poplar, birch, and aspen, softly blown That from spring till autumn airs grow crisper Water fairies hold it for their own. Such a brood as in our dreams beguile us, Visions of dead Arcady re-born, Kin to that bewitching shape that Hylas Followed down to death one golden morn. Fain were I to let the legend linger, No: to dagger its frail life with fact, THE HILLS OF SONG Though the real lift a scornful finger, Cry " Romance is but a barren tract ! Should the singer turn his back on beauty ? May there not be meaning in a myth ? Is it now the poet s highest duty But to aim at pungency and pith ? Shall we clip the mounting wings of fancy, And imagination rein by rule ? Nay ! I hail the olden necromancy ! This, wood-mirror is the fairies pool. SEA-FOG OUT of the sensuous sunlands of the south On wings of gold a lustrous spirit came, The smile of summer lingering round her mouth, Her languorous eyes noon-fervent as with flame. Out from the pallid aisleways of the pole A somber spirit sped adown the sea ; Snow-raimented as is the shrived soul, Wan-browed and weird and spectre-like was he. Somewhere upon the landless void these twain, In that dim, dateless aeon of the dead, Met as they moved above the mighty main, Loved with immortal rapture, and were wed. THE OLD DESIRE From this strange union was one daughter born, A lithe, elusive creature, evermore Blinding the stars, bewildering the morn, And winging like a wraith from shore to shore. With the soft, white persuasion of her lips More to be feared than all the sirens she ; Snared by her spells, how many stately ships Will sail no more the blue paths of the sea ! THE OLD DESIRE THERE kindles within my breast Ever the old desire, When wavers along the west The maple s beacon-fire. It *s oh ! to be out on the hills Over the dead, dull plain, To hear the autumn rills Echo the far refrain ; To pluck the milkweed s down From its prison within the pod, And mint the gold for a crown From the ore of the golden-rod ; To taste the oil of the nut That is racy ripe at the core, THE HILLS OF SONG And the tang in the flag root shut By the singing rillet s shore ; To drain from the bounteous cruse The purple wine of" delight, To dream the feet of the Muse Arc twinkling along the height ; To gather all gracious gain In sight, in scent, and in song, Against the ruin of rain, And the winter white and long. I see it along the west, The maple s beacon-fire, And there kindles within my breast Ever the old desire. THE COMRADES ALONG the highways of the year, The only paths that have no end, Two comrades, tried and true and dear, Go hand in hand as friend with friend. Indifferent are they if the dawn Withholds its crimson, or the noon, Behind a veil of grey withdrawn, Denies its amber for a boon. 16 ON THE EDGE OF THE WOODS The rain may scurry up the glade, And blur the sunset s brilliant book, Their faces in the twilight shade Will ever wear the rainbow look. All life to them is light and large With summit prospects, if they stray By sere December s rimy marge, Or by the bloomy shores of May. From dales of doubt and peaks of care No woe-winds blow with chill annoy ; They walk in earth s diviner air, These comrades leal, Content and Joy. ON THE EDGE OF THE WOODS MIDWAY between the glare and gloom In this cool twilight let us lie ; Around, a fringe of golden bloom, Above, an arch of leafy sky, And breezes blowing blandly by. List to the wood-choir s swelling praise ! The hermit-thrush is chorister : Down all the deep and dusky ways The choral melodies concur With soft profundos from the fir. THE HILLS OF SONG If, where the sunlight dints the shade With amber dimples, some astray Four-footed thing our view invade, Although it perk and whisk away, No discord jars the rhythmic day. Here all is harmony, and here Care, garment-like, is cast aside ; Ours is the vision of the seer ; And, since our dearest dreams abide, The yearning soul is satisfied. THE OLD GATE-KEEPER AS you turned from the town, and the valley forsook, Lured onward and up by the brawl of a brook, There broke on the sight such a tiny abode, The gate-house that stood at the bend in the road. Long, long to the hill with its sheltering breast It had cuddled as close as a bird to its nest ; And never came night but its window-panes glowed With a welcome flung out at the bend in the road. The quaintest of mortals had lodging therein, With the dream of a dimple asleep in his chin; And a bow like a prince which he fondly bestowed When he flung wide the gate at the bend in the road. 18 BY THE STREAM AT SUNSET Though his stock was askew and his wig was awry, The laugh and the lustre that leaped from his eye Told his heart held the love of his kind for its code, The odd little man at the bend in the road. He would brood by the hour o er his one window- box, With its old-fashioned blossoms, sweet-william and phlox, Yet the cloud always fled, and the mirth ever flowed, When a wanderer paused at the bend in the road. His life had its story, twas whispered, and woe Had crushed the fair flower of his hopes at a blow ; And yet to the last he made light of his load, The brave little man at the bend in the road. Now he sleeps his last sleep, though in memory still I sec his bent figure lean over the sill ; And gone is the gate- house, his cheery abode, While the grass waves its green at the bend in the road. BY THE STREAM AT SUNSET I HAVE come, O, I have come The thronged hot highways from, And found me a bowery nook 19 THE HILLS OF SONG By a tranquil-breasted brook, Where there *s not a voice to mourn That the day is nigh out-worn. I can filch the gold of rest From the embers in the west, And can spin my dreams as fine As the wild cucumber vine With its snowy fluff of flower ; I can fashion thews of power From the oak tree, rooted stanch, And my hope-boats I can launch With the bubbles that drift and swirl Where the brown sands shade to pearl. I can make my purpose gleam Like the bronze stems in mid-stream ; My fancies I can shape Like the tendrils of the grape ; I can harbor thoughts as fair As the white spirae there, That lifts not a look of scorn To its big rough neighbor thorn. Tis hence, O, hence I have come The thronged hot highways from, That the healing power may work Through the lethargy and murk Of the mind, and there inspire The old chords of desire, The pure desire that leads To the goal of lofty deeds. 20 THE MARINER S GRAVE THE MARINER S GRAVE BENEATH the grim old beacon tower They made his last straight bed, The gray and grizzled slope below, And ocean wide outspread. There might he see the ships slip in And out across the bar, And down the night the warning light Fling its recurrent star. There might he hear the harping wind Rctune its ancient strain, And that sublime musician, sea, Intone its joy and pain. There might his sleep be long and deep, From time and tide withdrawn ; Above, the sea-gull s silvery wing Until the last red dawn. THE DORMANT STRAIN SOMETIMES there stirs a dormant strain Of woodland blood within my vein, And scorn of custom and of art Lays heavy hold upon my heart. 21 THE HILLS OF SONG The garden, with its ordered rows, To me no line of beauty shows ; I long for nature unconfined, Unmanacled, as is the wind. Then plunge I deep in dales where rills Come hurrying downward from the hills, Where briar and berry intertwine, And pungent odors breathes the pine ; Where banks are velveted with moss, And wild-grape tendrils climb and cross From bough to bough, and mandrake fruit Is plenty by the beech tree s root. You, in the city hived and shut, Here is the kernel of life s nut ! To feel the savage in you stir, To know yourself a wanderer In haunts where wilding things have birth, To taste the freshness of the earth, Its balm, its myrrh, for once to scan The virile primal joys of man. THE BY-PATH T TP through the whispering grove it winds, \^_J And on through woodland cloisters fair, Where, hid in hollows deep, one finds The shy and slender maiden-hair. THE BY-PATH On this side hazel copses reach ; On that, long shadowy aisles unroll, Propt by the granite of the beech And the white birch s marble bole. Hither, when spring was in the bud, I saw two laughing lovers stray ; June leaped within his nimble blood, And in her eyes there brooded May. To them the world was sweet with song, And myths were care and gray regret ; Tncy plucked, the while they strolled along, The morn-empurpled violet. Once more I saw the lovers pass, Grown tender and less mirthful now ; The breeze sang " summer " through the grass, And summer " through the full-leaved bough. I wandered through the wood again When autumn spread her crimson spell, But saw them not, for o er the plain Out pealed their silvern wedding-bell. And after those Clysian days No more they trod the pleasant path, But wended down life s wider ways To gather love s full aftermath. THE HILLS OF SONG And yet whene er I seek the place I feel their living presence there ; Still, still abide her bloom and grace, And lingers still his rapturous air. The seasons turn from green to sere, And petty cares and discords move, But one spot keeps through all the year A perpetuity of love. THE SEXTON I WANDERED lone within a churchyard old, Amid the lichened tombs, whereon were traced, In fading characters, the names of those Who erst were busy upon earthly ways. The summer wind among the sycamores Breathed solemn requiem. On the gray church walls One spreading spray of ivy heralded The crimson sunsets of autumnal eves. Across the sward, threading a sinuous way Between the sunken mounds, the sexton came Slowly, with shambling gait, his knees ashake. His grizzled beard hung like a fringe of rime Upon his ashen cheeks ; his wrinkled brow Was like a parchment written on by Time. Near me he paused, and, growing garrulous With memories of past years, when those around Were animate, his creaking tongue ran on. 24 THE VIOLET BANK And ever told he some loud tale of mirth, And ever, with a weird, uncanny sound, His hollow laugh fell from his shrunken lips. So long had he kept company with Death, Brothered with speechless dust, and held for home The house of Silence and the field of Sleep, He seemed " the grim destroyer s " caricature, Death strayed abroad to prate with ghastly mirth Of those his hand had clutched. But when he passed To where a flower bloomed o er a vine-wreathed grave, A tiny mound, his quavering voice was hushed. Down a deep furrow coursed the sudden tear ; "My all!" he said. His words were like a moan At evenfall in gray November boughs. Sad memories had made him once more man. THE VIOLET BANK ABOVE, a hoary hemlock flings Dense shade, and near, the bland day long, The river-hasting brooklet sings In silvery undersong. The airs that blow have pleasant hints Of mints and woody balsams pure ; On bough and bole and turf are tints That change and blend and lure. 25 THE HILLS OF SONG And here, mosaicked in the moss Blue as deep lakes in high noon s glow, When not a ripple breathes across The tender violets grow. And here I love to set for Time A snare, to stay his feet that fly ; To fetter him with bonds of rhyme As he glides fleetly by. Then to my eager lips I press The fruit Contentment s golden core ; The whole world, free from storm and stress, Is Arcady once more. THE CRICKETS BY LAKE HURON ALL through the afternoon, without reprieve, We marked the moaning of the inland main, And then those cheery minstrels of the eve Resumed their jocund strain. They flung it down the piny corridors, And through the cedar arches clear and far ; Wide Huron heard it, and her dusky shores, And heaven, star by star. 26 WILD PLUM And, like a mother s hush-song to her child, It slowly softened as the night grew deep, Until by happy dreams we were beguiled Upon the breast of sleep. WILD PLUM OVERHEAD is the hum Of the wind in the gloom Of the sentinel pines ; And below the wild plum, Where the slanting sun shines, Shows its snowy white bloom, Flings its subtle perfume On the breeze To the bees. How they hover around, Tiny bandits and bold, Making thefts honey-sweet With a murmurous sound ! And the psyches they meet, Little atoms of gold, Join the frolic, and hold Jubilee Round the tree. Where is Mab ? where is Puck ? Is that Ariel sings From the crest of yon bough 7 THE HILLS OF SONG That no mortal should pluck ? O but list to it now ! Revellings, rapturings ; Then a glimmer of wings And away Like a ray. How the bloom and the balm And the bee and the bird, In the depth of the wood, To the heart bring a calm, To the spirit seem good, More than music or word ! Every fibre is stirred By the hum, And the plum ! A BELL HAD I the power To cast a bell that should from some grand tower, At the first Christmas hour, Outring, And fling A jubilant message wide, The forged metals should be thus allied ; No iron Pride, 28 A BELL But soft Humility, and rich-veined Hope Cleft from a sunny slope ; And there should be White Charity, And silvery Love, that knows not Doubt nor Fear, To make the peal more clear ; And then to firmly fix the fine alloy, There should be Joy ! 29 IN ITALIA THE SHEPHERD OF THE LIRO A DOWN the Alpine vale our way we wended Toward fair Italia, wrapt in rosy haze ; And ever, when we thought the path had ended, New vistas opened to our wondering gaze. Dark rocks lay strewn by ancient avalanches Where chestnuts clustered in a burry bovver, And often, o er the autumn-ambered branches, A slender campanile thrust its tower. The eyes we looked into were deep and dusky, Alive with laughter, yet with hints of pain ; The onward-luring air was warm and musky, Blown over Como from the Lombard plain. And still alert for beauties unbeholden, Rounding a rock-ledge rearing bare and steep, We saw, where stood a crumbling archway olden, An aged shepherd followed by his sheep. His cloak hung crosswise from his stooping shoulder, While in his hand he held a sturdy crook ; His flock fast crowded over mound and bowlder, Nor did he guide them by a word or look. And through the arch in happy-hearted frolic We watched them press behind him one by one, 33 THE HILLS OF SONG Until our new Virgilian bucolic Vanished as swiftly as the vanished sun. Then violet shades crept down the winding valley And hid the path our shepherd strayed along ; We heard the peasants, on their homeward rally, Stirring the silence with a vintage song. Erelong another roadway did we follow Far into dreamland ; there did we behold The aged one, in some leaf-sheltered hollow, Leading his flock benignly to the fold. MEMORIES OF COMO TRIUMPHANT Autumn sweeps from shore to shore, And works swift magic with her wand of fire ; She fills the hollows of the hills once more With amethyst, and like a golden lyre The woodlands gleam, and quiver and suspire. I listen, and the low harmonic sound Quickens the happy past within my brain ; My spirit crosses with an ardent bound The severing ocean, and I float again On Como s tranquil breast that bears no stain. Now buoyantly from vineyard-terraced heights Arc borne the soft and artless vintage airs ; 34 NUOVA LUNA Blent odors lend their attar-sweet delights, And by the lake s marge, on the water-stairs, I see the laughing lovers stand in pairs. I view Vtrenna s milky-white cascade, And bright Bcllaggio nestling neath a crown Of laurel-woven, ilex-darkened shade ; I mark o er Lenno, looking grandly down, The pilgrim-haunted church of old renown. Aye ! and the mountains that uplift the soul Above the gross and earthly I behold ; And ail the mighty shapes that mass and roll Through evanescent cloudland uncontrolled, And sunset skies miraculous with gold. Dear to the heart are memories like these Of beauties seen upon some vanished day, That, like the carven figures of a frieze In marble wrought, although the years decay, From fair perfection do not fade away. NUOVA LUNA " Bltia mf tbi trumfil in tkt nrw mttn." PSALMS. THE Wind has fashioned him a harp to sound, Of cypress boughs, attuned to melody ; The sister wavelets wake the shores around With the sweet echo of their minstrelsy ; Then give the lyre to me. 35 THE HILLS OF SONG For yonder, o er the mountains clearly shining, Companioned by one star, And riven by one violet cloud-bar, The new moon silvers in pale symmetry, And song shall greet her ere her dim declining. Like spectral opals in the emerald gloom, The frequent lights at far Tremezzo glow, While titanesque the black peak-summits loom Along the sky-line in a rugged row. The waves are strange below, Wan, wavering beams on tiny ripples glinting, Save where dense shadows fall Sheer from still wood or overtopping wall ; There has begun night s unrecorded show That takes no glamour from the new moon s tint ing. Soon will the mild and crescent-curving horn, A sparkling arc in darkling depths of air, Swell to a golden globe, and then, at morn, Gleam like a ghost, in impotent despair That once her face was fair. So rise, my song, before such change come o er her! Youth is the meetest time For laughter, love, and ear-entrancing rhyme ; Still youth s smooth brow doth beauty s garland wear, The moon is young, and we would fain adore her. 36 THE PHANTOM GONDOLIER Elsewhere our choric ecstasy were less, For inspiration would not lift our strain, But here we grasp such perfect loveliness The full flood tide of bliss is almost pain To the enthralled brain, And fancy spurns the earth for loftier soaring. Tis here, and only here, Yon cold and uninhabitable sphere Warms the dull blood until it leaps amain, And spurs the heart to passion s true outpouring. Strive not to solve the riddle, wherefore, why, The moonlight quickens here diviner things Than under other arches of wide sky, Dulled with the dusk s sepulchral shadowings ! Enough if it but brings The rare uplifting, the supreme elation ; O er Crocione s crest, Its mirrored twin on Como s tranquil breast, The new moon like an argent censer swings, And song upsoars to voice our adoration. THE PHANTOM GONDOLIER IN Venice of the Doge s times, When Carnival was constant king, When gallant nobles coupled rhymes And did their own gay minstrcling, 37 THE HILLS OF SONG There lived a gondolier whose grace Was like a charm we dream to see In some remote, ethereal place, In some celestial Italy. His oar had life ; it swayed, it swept ; It dipped as dips the bird in air. Upon his olive face there slept A sunny look that made it fair. And what a wondrous voice he had ! When on the air its notes were borne, The happy heard and grew more glad, And Sorrow s self forgot to mourn. Rare bliss was his one little hour ; A lovely princess deigned to throw A rosebud from her latticed bower At twilight as he passed below. And with the flower she flashed a smile That was to him a ray of light Swift shot from some angelic isle Adown the drowning dusk of night. Impassioned songs to her he sung When starry splendors filled the sky, Till Scandal stirred its venom tongue, And fired a lover s jealousy. A ruthless arbiter of fate, The vengeful noble lingered near, And at the palace postern gate He slew the daring gondolier. 38 A VENETIAN SUNSET And since that midnight hour of dread, In lawless mediaeval days, A spectral gondola has sped Adown the winding water-ways ; A graceful phantom plies the oar, And hurries on as if in fear ; A bodeful terror runs before Where hastes the ghostly gondolier. Beheld but for a fleeting breath, Then suddenly the wraith is gone With one swift shudder, as when death Steals in across the chill of dawn. Who sees this phantom form may know That murder walks again abroad, And that another face of woe Is staring dumbly up to God. A VENETIAN SUNSET ON the bright bosom of the broad lagoon Rocked by the tide we lay, And watched the fading of the afternoon In golden calm away. The water caught the fair faint hues of rose, Then flamed to ruby fire That touched and lingered on the marble snows Of wall and dome and spire. 39 THE HILLS OF SONG A graceful bark, with saffron sails outflung, Swept toward the ancient mart, And poised a moment like a bird, and hung Full in the sunset* s heart. A dull gun boomed, and, as the echo ceased, O er the low dunes afar, Lambent and large from out the darkened east, Leaped night s first star. ON A COPY OF THEOCRITUS {Venice, 1493) THEOCRITUS, we love thy song, Where thyme is sweet and meads are sunny ; Where shepherd swains and maidens throng, And bees Hyblean hoard their honey. Since ancient Syracusan days It year by year has grown the sweeter ; For year by year life s opening ways Run more in prose and less in meter. And than this quarto, vellum-clad, You could not wish a rarer setting ; Beholding, you must still be glad, If you behold without forgetting. 40 ON A COPY OF THEOCRITUS Manutius was the Printer s name (A publisher was then unheard of!) A fellow of some worthy fame, If history we take the word of. Think when its pages first were cut, And eager eyes above them hovered, Our proudest dwelling was a hut America was just discovered ! Then Venice was indeed a queen, And taught the tawny Turk to fear her ; Now has she lost her royal mien, And yet we could not hold her dearer. Betwixt these covers there is bound A charm that needeth no completion ; A golden atmosphere is found At once Sicilian and Venetian. So, while our plausive song we raise, And hail the bard whose name is famous, Let us for once divide the bays, And to the Printer cry: La u damus ! THE HILLS OF SONG THE FALLING OF THE BURRS WHEN russet-robed Autumn reigns around, A tender chord within my memory stirs, Hearing soft music on the leaf-strewn ground, The rhythmic falling of the chestnut burrs. To me it means blue-skied, unfettered hours On Tuscan slopes above the figs and vines ; Below, red roofs and dazzling domes and towers, Beyond, in violet haze, the Apennines. The cypresses in solemn conclave stand, Mourning the past with weird monotony ; A golden serpent, severing the land, Writhes Arno by toward Pisa and the sea. The lizards bask, as indolent as I, In spaces where the unshattered sunbeams fall ; A tardy vintager goes stumbling by, Lilting a ditty, gaily bacchanal. Such is the idyl peaceful, dreamful, fair Its only sober spot the somber firs, Conjured by Autumn from the drowsy air With the down-dropping of the chestnut burrs. A FLORENTINE GARDEN A FLORENTINE GARDEN HOW many summer suns have shone Upon this gem of garden closes, With all its jars of celadon, And til its wealth of Tuscan roses, On tablet or on page no hand With cunning letters has recorded ; Yet he who seeks this dreamy land Will find his wanderings rewarded. Here citrons lean above the wall, And figs grow purple in September, Here luscious-ripe the red plums fall Each bursting globe a ruddy ember ; And here, inscribed upon a scat, With lichens gray, nicked, stained, and stony, Twined in a love-knot, will he meet A " Paula " and a " Giorgionc." Who were they ? That we may not know : Enough that neath the empyrean They lived and loved, long, long ago, In days of splendor Medicean. No doubt they saw the hours creep round The silver disc of yonder dial, And ncath the pleached laurels found A shelter safe from all espial. 43 THE HILLS OF SONG In still word-pauses, fondly sweet A silence known to fools and sages Perchance he graved upon the seat Their names, that have defied the ages ; Traced with his dagger, jewel-bright, The characters we yet discover ; Then pledged himself her valiant knight, And swore himself her faithful lover. Perchance upon his speech she hung With rapt regard, the radiant creature, And answered with impassioned tongue, Love limned on every flawless feature ! Mayhap they planned the future out, As young troth-plighted people will do ; Of course he satisfied each doubt, As castle-building suitors still do. And were they wed with smiles and tears, Here where all mortals toil and grope so ? And did they have full meed of years, And pass to peaceful graves ? We hope so ! And if, in some celestial sphere, Unto their angel eyes should this come, May they on two now loving here Breathe down a tender " Pax vobiscum ! " 44 THE BELLS OF FOSSOMBRONE THE BELLS OF FOSSOMBRONE UP the highlands, steep and stony, To the valley-wending throng, Rang the bells of Fossombronc Silvery eve and matin song. Rang they proud and rang they peerless, Rang they with ecstatic thrill ; And their music cheered the cheerless, Aye ! t is said it healed the ill. Then the Lord of Fano vaunted, " Great arc we, and shall the dells By rough mountain toilers haunted With their chimes outpeal our bells ? " So upon a morning moany, When the heavens were a-lower, Stormed they into Fossombrone, Haled the bells from out the tower. When the Easter dawns," they boasted, " We will ring our triumph wide! " And that night they blithely toasted Fano s power and Fano s pride. Pissed the year s young pilgrim daughters - Days both jubilant and lorn 45 THE HILLS OF SONG Till o er Adria s waste of waters, Rose-like, flowered the Easter morn. While the harbor shimmered steely, And the bloom of morning grew, Toward the stately campanile Strode the ringers, two by two. Soared a shout of acclamation Up as if some Titan spoke, And with murmurous exultation Waited each the triumph stroke. Gnarled muscles swelled with tension As the ringers strained and bowed ; Then a wave of apprehension Swept upon the gathered crowd ; For they saw the bells wide-swinging, Mouths agape as though to peal, Yet they heard no sound down-ringing From the yawning throats of steel. Cried one loudly, " We should rue us For the tale this Easter tells ! Hath not Jesus spoken to us In the silence of these bells ? " Back with them to Fossombrone ! " Swiftly back their prize they bore, 46 THE BELLS OF FOSSOMBRONE And beneath the highlands stony Found the bells their voice once more. And the men of Fano, chided By the melody renewed, Clasped the hands of those derided, Buried deep the olden feud. Seaward from the mountain valley, Heralding the happier times, Rang through grove and olive alley Fossombronc s peerless chimes. 47 EX ORIENTE AL MAMOUN BAGDAD S palms looked tall in the tide Of Tigris, tawny and swift and wide ; Bagdad s minarets gleamed and glowed In the sun that burned in its blue abode ; Bagdad s life made rumble and jar In booth and highway and bright bazaar ; Bagdad s monarch lolled in the dusk Of the citron shade, mid the scent of musk. And around him sat the makers of rhyme, Come from many a distant clime ; For song by him was held as a boon, Al Mamoun, The son of the great Haroun. From lands of cold and lands of the sun He hearkened the poets, one by one, Giving a portion of praise to each, And a guerdon of gold with his pearls of speech ; Spreading a luscious banquet there In the languid, richly-perfumed air ; Plucking from luxury s laden stem The royal wealth of its fruit for them ; Bidding the soul of the grape be brought To kindle the bosom to happy thought ; Speeding the amber afternoon, Al Mamoun, The son of the great Haroun. THE HILLS OF SONG And on through the starlit purple hours The sound of song was heard in the bowers; The zither and lute would blend and blur And tangle with notes of the dulcimer ; And above and over and through it all Would soar and swell, or would fail and fall With the dreamful lull of the dying word, An ecstasy voiced from the throat of a bird. So, leashed by the love of song, would he, Praising the poets and poesy, Linger till night had neared its noon, Al Mamoun, The son of the great Haroun. With crumbling mosque and with toppling tomb Have vanished Bagdad s beauty and bloom, While a far, faint breath on the lips of fame Is all we know of the monarch s name. But rather to him than his mightier sire O er gulfs of time shall the song aspire ; For song to the lover of song is due, Though centuries darken with rust, and strew With mosses, the marble above his head. And so, in the land of the happy dead, May song still stir with its blissful boon Al Mamoun, The son of the great Haroun. DAWN IN THE DESERT DAWN IN THE DESERT WHEN the first opal presage of the morn Quickened ihc east, the good Mcrwan arose. And by his open tent door knelt and prayed. Now in that pilgrim caravan was one Whose heart was heavy with dumb doubts, whose eyes Drew little balm from slumber. Up and down Night long he paced the avenues of sand Twixt tent and tent, and heard the jackals snarl, The camels moan for water. This one came On Merwan praying, and to him outcried (The tortured spirit bursting its scaled fount As doth the brook on Damavend in spring), " How knowest thou that any Allah is ? " Swift from the sand did Merwan lift his face, Flung toward the cast an arm of knotted bronze, And said, as upward shot a shaft of gold, " Dost need a torch to show to tbec the dawn f " Then prayed again. When on the desert s rim In sudden, awful splendor stood the sun, Through all that caravan there was no knee But bowed to Allah. 53 THE HILLS OF SONG KAROON, THE PILGRIM NOON in Aleppo. For a little space The babel died within the market-place, And down the long bazaar the tread of feet Knew soft caesuras in its rhythmic beat. Above mosaicked courts and house roofs dun Kept fiery sovereignty the Syrian sun ; Without the town, where brown the hill line* rose, The breeze scarce stirred the green pistachios, And in the river garden slumbering Were fount and bird and silvern zither string. Karoon, the pilgrim, dozing by the door Of Khan Wezir that threw cool shadow o er The nigh deserted highway, heard the din Of hot Levantines quarreling within, Roused, brushed the swarming flies, and set to lip A few poor dates from out his scanty scrip, Then grasped his staff and sought the distant star Of light that glimmered through the dim bazaar. The nets that hung o er many an entrance there Proclaimed the midday hour of rest and prayer ; But barter was not tongue-tied while the Greek Or Syrian Christian of his wares could speak. Though ne er in worldly ways had Karoon thrived, Thought s hoarded honey in his brain was hived ; 54 KAROON, THE PILGRIM As rtdiant roses spring from darksome mold, Af seeming barren sands yield grains of gold, As priceless pearls drop from the ragged shell, From Karoon s lips a wealth of wisdom fell. Past tiny stalls where gums and spices blent To cloy the air with fumes of heavy scent, Past wide divans, where, mid his curios, The tarbooshed Moslem stole a brief repose, Past slinking curs that scavengcred the street, Went Karoon, musing, through the noontide heat. Raising his eyes, as branched the roofed way, He srw one brooding o er a rare display Of blue Bokharas, yellow Daghestans, The choicest store of many caravans ; Hullal, the rich, men called him. Karoon stayed His wandering steps, and man and wealth surveyed. Deeply the merchant s face, despite his hoard, With discomentment s arabesques was scored. He met the pilgrim s eye with gaze unsure, But cried to him, " What wouldst thou, O most poor?" Hold ! " answered Karoon with unbended brow, " Call him not poor who richer is than thou." Aha ! " laughed Hullal, and "aha ! " again, " What monstrous fantasy beclouds thy brain ?" Calmly stood Karoon till the laughter died, Then with the prophet tongue of truth replied, No empty mirage has my brain begot ; Mint is contentment, and tbott bait it not." 55 THE HILLS OF SONG Lightly he turned, and faded in the maze Now thronged with men from Allah s house of praise, While Hullal, sitting silent and apart, Brooded and brooded with a heavy heart. HASSAN S TOMB IN Hassan s heart there burned a lust for gold ; And growing overbold With that consuming fire That swept his soul as desert winds a lyre, And wakened hot vibrations, in the cold And silence-sealed hours, When in the sky the stars like golden flowers Broke bud and bloomed, with stealthy foot he crept, While all the palace slept, To that vast vault, the kingdom s treasury, Whereof, as trusted prince, he bore the key. Then shone a Presence in a dream, and spoke ; And the Sultan awoke, And girt himself, as though He would go forth to battle with the foe. And sandalled softly, so no footfall broke Upon the midnight chill, Through corridors and chambers dim and still He glided like a spirit, till he came Where, false to faith and fame, 56 THE ROSE OF FAYUM Stood Hassan, gloating with a greedy smile O er wealth that lay in many a gleaming pile. The recreant stooped, with evil joy elate, When, like avenging fate, With eyes where fiery scorn And lightnings of reproach alike were born, The Sultan towered without the treasure gate. Before the prince could stir, Closed with a clang the massive barrier ; And, ere availing hand was on it laid, Or plea for pardon made, The tempter key that oped the door of doom Had turned to bar the door of Hassan s tomb. THE ROSE OF FAYUM COULD I pluck from the gardens of old The fairest of rlowers to behold, And fashion a wreath for the shrine Of the Muses, the deathless, divine, A garland I d weave from the bloom Of the redolent rose of Fay Cm. Still the hills with their sun-smitten crest Tower barren and bold to the west, Still slumbers the Lake of the Horns Ncath the glory of luminous morns ; Still is attarcd the glow and the gloom By the redolent rose of Fayum. 57 THE HILLS OF SONG Arsinoe s temples are prone, And scarce is there stone above stone Of the palace whose grandeur and girth Was one of the wonders of earth ; But in triumph o er time and the tomb Springs the redolent rose of Fayum. The rose of to-day is a shoot, Like the song, of a glorious root. Side by side, till the ages shall close, Go the love of the lute and the rose ; And my song I enlink with the bloom Of the redolent rose of Fayum. THE DERVISH S PRAYER THE tyrant Yusef, crime and passion stained, Upon the throne of gracious Haroun reigned. Day after day, through busy Bagdad ran Dark rumor ripples, how this ruthless man Goaded invention, so that he might see, With every sunrise, some new agony. Fear brooded o er the city ; then there came Adown the breeze the murmur of a name, And smiles again lit lip and eye, as though The sun had pierced the midnight clouds of woe. The blessed dervish, he whose feet had traced The path to Mecca o er the weary waste 58 AT THE FUNERAL OF ABDALLAH Devout each year for years a rounded score, Wts seen to pass along the streets once more. His prayers will save," the happy people cried, For ear to him hath Allah ne er denied." Scarce had the echo of their triumph slept, When on their hope base Yuscf s minions swept, And bore him swift to be the tyrant s sport Where high he sat, amid his cringing court. Slave," said the monarch, with a brutal stare, " Lift me to Allah straight a goodly prayer, Since it is noised through Bagdad broad that he Will grant whatever may be asked by thee." Thrice bowed the dervish Mecca-ward, the while Around the throng ran changing sneer and smile ; Then rang his voice, as piercing as a fife Above the clangorous din of battle strife, "I pray tbct, Allah, take tbou fluff s lift!" A form fell forward, writhing on the stone ; No more a tyrant ruled on Haroun s throne. AT THE FUNERAL OF ABDALLAH AT the funeral of Abdallah There were master mourners ten, And they groaned and cried " Inshallah," And they groaned and cried again. 59 THE HILLS OF SONG They beat their palms with wailing Ere ever the round moon rose, And loud, when her light was paling, Did the house-tops hear their woes. As they swayed, about their faces Their locks were tossed and blown, And the wide night s windy spaces Made answer, moan for moan. O, the sounds that soared to Allah At the funeral of Abdallab ! And not till the East gave token Of the bursting flower of dawn, Was the lamentation broken By the mourners weak and wan. Yet still did the sob of sorrow From the attared bower arise, And the lorn day seemed to borrow From the night its brood of sighs. Then the spiced feast was eaten, And the solemn word was said, And the doleful drum was beaten For the journey of the dead. O, the sounds that deafened Allah At the funeral of Abdallab ! 60 THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR FROM fair Damascus, as the day grew lite, Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas gate Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard Vic with the lute the twilight-wakened bird. But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet The lovely lines of gold and violet, A guerdon left by the departing sun To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon. Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed, And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade Seemed but the presage of his doom to be, Death, and the triumph of his enemy. " One slain by tlander" cried he, with a laugh, Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead ! " Outrang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night s first blossom in the sky. And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid. Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait 61 THE HILLS OF SONG With tender greetings, and the lights within Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been. Fair Hope, who daily poured into his ear Her rainbow promises, gave way to Fear, Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan, With bitter tears, before the gateway prone. Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve, When lo ! a sudden hand touched Kafur s sleeve, And then a voice cried, echoing his name, " Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame ! " Upsprang the prostrate man, and while he stood Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood, He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight ; Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur s night. "Allah is just," he said. . . . Then burning ire With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire ; And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late, Delirious with delight he hugged his hate. "Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn ? This night mine enemy shall know my scorn." The stars looked down in wonder overhead, As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped. The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief, Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf; Into the bird s song pleading notes had crept, The happy fountains in the gardens wept, 62 THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR And e en the river, with its restless roll, Seemed calling " Pity " unto Kafur s soul. " Allah," he cried, " O chasten thou my heart ; Move me to mercy, and a nobler part ! " Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace Softened the rigid outlines of his face, Nor paused he till he struck, as ne er before, A ringing summons on his foeman s door. His mantle half across his features thrown, He won the spacious inner court unknown, Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe, Sipping his sherbet cool with Hcrmon snow ; Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate Upon him, wrathful and infuriate, Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel A judge s sentence and a jailer s steel. " Hark ye ! " cried Kafur, at this burst of rage Holding aloft a rolled parchment page ; Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof; Thine is the danger, sec ! I hold the proof. Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour Has passed, and lay before his eyes thi scrip, Silence would seal forcvermorc thy lip. Aye ! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee, And beg thy life of me, thine enemy, Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death. I will not breathe suspicion s lightest breath 63 THE HILLS OF SONG Against thy vaunted fame : and even though Before all men thou st sworn thyself my foe. And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me Thy utmost power of mortal injury, In spite of this, should I be first to die And win the bowers of the blest on high, Beside the golden gate of paradise Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes, Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin, If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in. Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet ! how sweet ! For then would Kafur s vengeance be complete." THE ARAB S HORSE IN the heart of the wild Hauran The Druse and the Arab met, And man against maddened man In a frenzied fight was set. Then the Druses star grew bright, And the star of the Arabs pale, And was drowned in the battle s night Like a tempest-drowned sail. From the fatal circle free Broke one on his loyal steed ; The chief of the Arabs he, His horse of the Nedjid breed. 64 THE ARAB S HORSE A laugh that swelled to a i r\ , A shake of the bridle rein, And lo ! as a swift doth fly He skimmed o er the pathless plain. Like hawks on the quarry s track Did the Druses race behind, While the fugitive shouted back His defiance down the wind. And ever away he drew, And ever and ever away, Though the foiled pursuers flew Like the buck ere he turn at bay. Then, " Stay thee ! " the foremost cried, May Allah strike me a corse If a shadow of harm betide One who rides such a noble horse. ** Again in the wild Hauran Have the Druse and the Arab met ; Forgotten the blood that ran As the desert s sons forget. They have kissed the face of the steed, They have bathed its feet and flanks ; For his crowning gift to his children s need They have given Allah thanks. THE HILLS OF SONG IN A BAZAAR WITHOUT, the ways in sunlight swim, But here the day is dusk and dim ; Without, discordant cries resound, But here cool quietude is found. Wrapt in this scented twilight lie Treasures that charm the alien eye ; Rugs, soft as sleep to weary lids ; Rings, ancient as the pyramids, With sacred scarabs set therein ; Blades, scintillant and curved and thin ; Long ink-horns, carved with scroll and swirl ; Divans, inwrought with mother-pearl, And many another precious thing To stir the mind s imagining. Thou mayest buy, and yet beware The merchant with his luring snare, Who, while his bland words promise well, Is, like the sphinx, inscrutable. Let not thine eyes betray desire, Lest he should note their eager fire ; Have caution warder of thy lip, Lest through the gate thy wish should slip ; Strive, if may be, to match his mood Who mid his treasures seems to brood Indifferent, and calm of brow, If not a coin his palm endow ; 66 IN A BAZAAR But know a cunning must be met That plummet never sounded yet. Should fabric from a Bagdad loom For thee make radiant the gloom, And conjure swift a vision fair, Its gloss above the gold-brown hair Of one whose face illumes the day In happy home-land far away, Lead thou to it with fine device. And curious questioning of price On broidery and jewelled blade, On bits of amber and of jade ; Then, if thy suit thou subtly press. The silken prize thou may st possess, And, in the halcyon future, bring To love an Orient offering. 67 THE HILLS OF SONG CHRISTMAS AT MARSABA* The monks CONSTANTINE and PAUL meet upon the monastery terrace above the gorge of the Brook Kedron. /CONSTANTINE V>A merry Christmas, brother, though, for sooth. Were we elsewhere the day were merrier. PAUL- Merry s a word my weary heart knows not. CONSTANTINE Bethink you then of dinner a fat kid Well stuffed, and herbs from Artas gardens brought, And rice deep-isled in juice of apricots, A Christmas feast for any Bishop fit, Say you not so ? PAUL Aye ! truly, though you mock me. CONSTANTINE Nay, by Saint Sabas, in good faith I spake. When we arc better friends you will not doubt The true and trusty lip of Constantine. Came you last night ? * Martaba \ Greek monastery in the wilderness of Judc a overlook ing the rocky gorge of the Kedron. It takes it* name from a cele brated anchorite, Sabas, who lived in the fifth century. Refractory monks are sometime* confined here. 68 CHRISTMAS AT MARSABA P AUL At middle vesper hour. The crazy bell that hangs from yon low dome Shook its cracked sides and clamored an alarm, While eager pilgrims at the outer gate Shouted till Kedron s rocks gave answer back. Methinks your knees were scarce so chaste in prayer That such unwonted tumult moved you not. CoNSTAKTINE Brother, our prayers here arc not empty breath. PAUL ! know Marsaba. CONSTANTINE [rfJ / <//] And good cause, mayhap . . . The noisy pilgrims were your comrades, then The men who wended Jordan-ward at dawn, Singing their slow way through the wilderness ? Went not your heart forth with them on their way ? Alas ! the cruel manacles of fate Close hold you here. Mine eyes have told my brain That lonely Pctra, or the wildest spot On Sinai s slopes, or in hot Araby, Hath greater charm for you than these gray walls. PAUL Your eyes arc keen, yet no more keen than mine 69 THE HILLS OF SONG That counsel me our dear desires arc twin ; And now your brow makes sign affirmative. CONSTANTINE Dost not the lifted brow mean " nay " in Greece ? PAUL- How knew you, brother, that Greece fathered me ? CONSTANTINE Aha ! t is so, then ! Faith, that paunch of yours, So like the casks your dim wine-cellars hold, As much as said you were no Syrian. Soft soft a jest ! but, in all earnestness, Ere six months pass, you ll gird your loins like mine. PAUL I have no stomach for such prophecy. CONSTANTINE Most bravely answered ! But rest here awhile Upon this wide, smooth seat, and let me hear Why you have come to grim Marsaba s walls. PAUL Will you, in turn, if I do thus confide, Relate the wherefore of your coming, too ? CONSTANTINE Aye ! you shall hear. PAUL My brief and broken tale I pray you, hold it not beyond belief! 70 CHRISTMAS AT MARSABA Is this. In youth I took the holy vows, And after years of ministration, deep In the wild quiet of Thessalian dales, I came to dwell ncath that white-hearted mount Whose crest looks down on level Marathon. A lovely spot ! The silvery poplars weave In early spring a breezy web of shade A boon in summer hours and nigh, a fount Fills night and day with dulcet melody. One autumn eve, not many months agone, I wandered forth along a winding way That led me mountain-ward, and near the path I saw a youth, footsore and faint and wan From arduous climbing, who besought my aid. When I had propped his steps and found him food, Into the murky night he needs must plunge, Despite my proffered hospitality. Till dawn the wind made wail, and in my dreams Red landscapes reeled, and wraiths with blood shot eyes Mocked merciless. Then broke the pallid day, And soon around the monastery gates There rose a clamor. In the heat of haste I joined the press of peasants. Following one To where the roadway elbowed, stark in death My hapless youthful guest before me lay. Then dizzy fear gripped sudden at my heart, 71 THE HILLS OF SONG For by his side, encrimsoned with his blood, I saw the knotted staff I late had lost. Slow wore the days, while black suspicion grew, Till from the church s head a mandate came That damned with banishment my innocence. Thus was I made the butt of circumstance Who ne er had raised a life-destroying hand Against the meanest thing God set on earth. CONSTANTINE A woful tale, if e er I hearkened one. PAUL A true one, too, by all men reverence ! Believe you not ? That flitting smile of scorn Breeds angry doubt in my impatient breast. Do not deride me, lest endurance fail ! CONSTANTINE I can but think how good Saint Sabas beast, The lion that he met in yonder cave, And lived with long, had made a meal of you. PAUL Methinks at last I see you as you are The sneering knave beneath the monk s white gown. Now, hearken me ! if you do think I Ml brook Your fleering insults, you do greatly err. CONSTANTINE One s food for mirth in these Judean wilds Is sadly small. You prove a tempting bit. PAUL By Olivet, and by the Holy Cross, 72 CHRISTMAS AT MARSABA That jeering tongue of yours shall feel a vise, And cease its mocking. [Springs upon him.] Never hand of man Closed round a clammier, baser throat than this. CONSTANTINE Gentle my brother, loose your heavy clutch That I may beg forgiveness. Saints ! I choke ; You force a jest too far. PAUL A jest, indeed ! CONSTANTINE [mutters] How slight a feint deludes the easy fool ! A sudden hate grows hot within my heart ; Let me but press him toward the rail of stone, One grip at his soft hands, a push, and then PAUL What mean you, wretch ? My God, be merciful ! [Falls.] CONSTANTINE When had the jackals such a Christmas feast As this to-day, since paynim Persian hordes Dyed Kcdron s craggy bed with tides of blood ? By chance, to-morrow I will see his bones As they lie white along the rocks below Should no one mark ere then and point them out With horrified amazement. Martyrdom In yonder hillside cave claims many a skull ; There his shall rest. He should be satisfied To find a place among such worthy men. 73 THE HILLS OF SONG There will be mass, and many candles burned, And uves said. [A bell sounds.] But, hark ! / must to prayers ! FROM AN EASTERN ORIEL WITH longing that is almost pain I eastward turn my face again, And see the mounting morning glow Cast beckoning beams across the snow. The walls of circumstance are high, And duty s gyves forbid me fly ; But neither wall nor gyve can bind The Orient journeys of my mind. I close my eyes, and lo ! the lote Not lighter lies than does my boat Upon the languid waters born Where Kilimandjaro cleaves the morn. I mount a strange craft, bridle-manned, And sail across a sea of sand, Along whose rim, by fierce light frayed, The mirage-palm trees form and fade. In fragrant citron gardens green, A dusky, dreamful Damascene, I while luxurious hours away O er sherbet and a nargileh. I watch the rose of sunset pale Above the downcast shrines of Baal, 74 FROM AN EASTERN ORIEL And mirk forth-flower night s earliest star Where Lebanon s hoar cedars are. Then fate may fence me round, and fact My clear horizon-line contract ; Howe er this be, I 11 not repine If memory s magic key be mine To turn, while ways without are frore, And open swing the golden door. 75 MADRIGALS VIVE LA BAGATELLE ("$/// / Cheerful Creed."} A BUMPER to the jolly Dean Who, in " Augustan " times, Made merriment for fat and lean In jocund prose and rhymes ! Ah, but he drove a pranksome quill ! With quips he wove a spell ; His creed he cried it with a will W "rivt la bagatelle!" Oh, there were reckless jesters then ! And when a man was hit, He quick returned the stroke again With trenchant blade of wit. *T was parry, thrust, and counter-thrust That round the board befell ; They quaffed the wine and crunched the cruit Wkll"S3p*4 bagatelle!" How rang the genial laugh of Gay At Pope s defiant ire ! How Parncll s sallies brought in play The rapier wit of Prior ! And how o er all the banter s shift The laughter s fall and swell Uplcapcd the great guffaw of Swift, With "Vivi U bagatelle!" 79 THE HILLS OF SONG O moralist, frown not so dark, Purse not thy lip severe ; Twill warm the heart if ye but hark The mirth of " yester year." To-day we wear too grave a face ; We slave, we buy and sell ; Forget awhile mad Mammon s race ID "five la bagatelle!" THE SWEET O THE YEAR {A Song for Any Season.) ONCE I heard a piper playing Notes that blissful ardors fanned ; All the world had gone a- May ing Up and down the flowery land. " Tell me," said I, "piper merry, Why you blow such tuneful cheer ! Far and near, by ford and ferry, Is it now the sweet o the year ? " Gracious answer was my guerdon, And his ditty bore this burden : Crimson cberry, holly berry, rod-of-gold, or jonquil- spear ! Love -time ! Love -time ! Then / "the sweet o the When the meads were ripe for mowing, Underneath the ancient stars 80 THE SWEET O THE YEAR Stood a songful shepherd, sowing Night with music s rapture-bars. Singer," cried I, buoyant-hearted, Bounteous harvest draweth near, But has joy from sorrow parted, Is it now the sweet o* the year ? " Still his voice rang, upward soaring With its rhythmical outpouring : Crimson (berry, holly berry, rod-of-gold, or jonquil- spear / Love-time! Love-time! Tben s " the sweet o tbt year.- V\ hen the linden leaves were yellow, From the orchard welled a strain Where a lilting lad with mellow Apples piled the waiting wain. Eagerly I hailed him, thinking Aye " on answering " aye " to hear, " Why such jocund rhymes art linking ? Is it now the sweet o the year ? " Straight into a chorus broke he, And in mounting measure spoke he : Crimson ckerry, bolly berry, rod-of-gold, or jonquil- spear ! Love-time ! Love-time ! Tben y s"tbe sweet tbt year." When the hills were silver-iided, And the skies were steely cold, 81 THE HILLS OF SONG Chance my wandering footsteps guided To a forest gray and old. There a lusty-voiced woodman Swung his axe, and carolled clear ; " Ho ! " I called, " my gay, my good man, Is it now the sweet o* the year ? " Came his rapturous replying, Rising, falling, swelling, dying : Crimson cherry, holly berry, rod-of-gold, or jonquil- spear ! Love-time! Love-time! Then */ " the sweet o* the year- A CAVALIER S VALENTINE (1644} THE sky was like a mountain mere. The lilac buds were brown, What time a war-worn cavalier Rode into Taunton-town. He sighed and shook his head forlorn ; " A sorry lot is mine," He said, "who have this merry morn Pale Want for Valentine." His eyes, like heather-bells at dawn, Were blue and brave and bold ; Against his cheeks, now wan and drawn, His love-locks tossed their gold. 82 WITH SOME WHITE HYACINTHS And as he rode, beyond a will With ivy overrun, His glance upon a maid did fall, A-scwing in the sun. As sweet was she as wilding thyme, A boon, a bliss, a grace : It made the heart blood beat in rhyme To look upon her face. He bowed him low in courtesy, To her deep marvelling ; "Fair Mistress Puritan," said he, " It is a forward spring." As when the sea-shell flush of morn Throws night in rose eclipse, So sunshine smiles, that instant born. Brought brightness to her lips ; Her voice was modest, yet, forsooth, It had a roguish ring ; You % sir, of all should know that truth - It is a forward spring ! WITH SOME WHITE HYACINTHS IN WINTER O to my sweet for me, flowers, and repeat Tor me All that my heart would cry out o er the waste to her. 83 THE HILLS OF SONG Pause in the valley not ; on the hill dally not ; Winged with my love and my longing, oh, haste to her ! Ring your white bells for her ! (not any knells for her ! ) Chimes that are fragrant and rich in their rarity. Bid her be leal to me, loyal as steel to me ; Bid her have faith in me ; bid her have charity ! INGLE SONG OVERHEAD the gray clouds go. And the air is thick with snow ; In the bitter icy blur Spectrally the trees confer ; And the sad wind seems to cry, To a wild and woful tune, Sobbing down the shrouded sky, " O for joy again, and June ! " Heart beloved, have no fear ! Thine and mine is June-day cheer : For, though moans the sullen storm t Love shall keep our ingle warm. Now the shivering twilight brings Raven night, with brooding wings ; Not a single star of hope Flowers on heaven s gloomy slope ; BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE And adown the wailing blast, To the same wild, woful tune, Still that sobbing cry is cast " O for joy again, and June ! Yet, beloved , shrink not thus ! All the year is June for us, Staff, though moans tbe sullen storm, Love still keeps our ingle warm. BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE BE ye in love with April-tide ? P faith, in love am I ! For now t is sun, and now t is shower, And now t is frost, and now t is flower. And now t is Laura laughing-eyed, And now t is Laura shy. Ye doubtful days, O slower glide ! Still smile and frown, O sky ! Some beauty unforeseen I trace In every change of Laura s face ; Be ye in love with April-tide ? P faith, in love am I ! THE HILLS OF SONG A SPRING GLEE THE rathe hepatica has spread A carpet for the feet of spring ; The blithe wake-robin lifts its head, The violet is bourgeoning. And through the bud-brown forest bowers Trips one whose face t is joy to sec ; Her presence, more than all the flowers, Brings spring to me. Then it /, O my heart, be light ! And it s, O my lip, be gay ! In Sy/via j eyes is April, And in her smile is May. In clearings shows the mandrake shoot, The cowslips hide the marsh s mire ; The blue-flag quickens at the root, And brier stems are flushed with fire. All nature feels the vernal thrill, And bids the thraldom broken be, But love it is whose tender will Brings spring to me. Then it s, O my heart, be light! And it /, O my lip, be gay ! In Sylvia* s eyes is April, And in her smile is May. 86 ROSES OF JUNE ROSES OF JUNE TWINE not for me those crimson queens of bloom That make Damascus gardens a delight ; Wreathe not the royal blossoms that perfume The stir-bright spaces of Egyptian night ; Nor yet the Italian roie that garlanded The brow of Petrarch s Laura ; nor the flowers That warred in merry England white and red Till Joy s head drooped and Sorrow knelled the hours. But pluck from yonder hedgerow in the field As pure as sweet, as delicate as fair The dearest boon the days of June-time yield, The pale wild rose that Sylvia loves to wear. STRAWBERRIES AGAIN the year is at the prime With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon ; Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time Foots to a gamesome tune. So, ho ! my lads, an* if you will But follow underneath the hill, It s strawberries ! strawberries ! You shall feast, and have your fill. THE HILLS OF SONG The elder clusters promise wine Where dips the path along the lane ; The early lowing of the kine Floats in a far refrain ; You will forget to dream indeed Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed In strawberries ! strawberries ! That wait for us in Martin s mead. Then haste, before the sun be high, And, haply, catch the morning star ; For, ere the cups of dew be dry, The berries sweetest are. And if, perchance, a rustic lass In merriment a-milking pass, It s strawberries ! strawberries ! On her lips as in the grass. A SUMMER SONG AH ! whither, sweet one, art thou fled My heart of May ? In vain pursuing I am led A weary way. The brook is dry ; its silver throat Rills song no more ; And not a linnet lifts a note Along the shore. 88 WILD THYME Wilt thou return ? I ask the night, I ask the morn. The doubt that wounds the old delight Is like a thorn. Oh, come ! I lean my eager ear For laughter s ring ; Bring back the love-light cool and clear Bring back my Spring ! WILD THYME RING, ring, my rhyme, The praises of wild thyme ! Wild thyme that grows Beside the green hedgerows, Or on gray wall With scent ambrosial. Above the meres Where every fern-slope hears The echoes mock, And shout from rock to rock, In nook and chink It shows its modest pink. Whence did it win The fragrance lurking in Its tiny heart ? Not such hath any mart 89 THE HILLS OF SONG In Occident, Or attared Orient. Her worshipper, Wild thyme I bring to her ; Upon her breast It shall know perfect rest. To love thus fate Bids it be consecrate ! THE EVEN-SONG NOW the west is warm, and now Plaintive is the bird on bough ; Now the primrose shyly opes, Watching for its sister stars, And the flocks adown the slopes Loiter toward the pasture bars. Now that thickening shadows throng, This shall be our even-song : Unto youth, with night above, Welcome are the wings of love ; Unto age, when shades grow deep, Welcome are the wings of sleep* Now the brooding ear receives Little laughters from the leaves ; Now the breeze is like a breath Over seas from shores of spice, 90 A PERFECT DAY And the heart within us saith, We ire nigh to paradise." Now that discord were a wrong, This shall be our even-song : Unto age, when sbadcs grow deep, Welcome are tbe wings of deep ; Unto youth, with night above, Welcome are tbe wings of love. A PERFECT DAY BLAND air, and leagues of immemorial blue ; No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold ; A revel of rich color, hue on hue, From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold. A vagueness in the undulant hill-line. The flutter of a bird s south-soaring wing, ^tolian harmonics in groves of pine, And glad brook-laughter like the mirth of spring. A sense of gracious calm afar and near, And yet a something wanting, one fine ray For consummation. Love, were you but here, Then were the day indeed a perfect day. THE HILLS OF SONG THE BOWERS OF PARADISE O TRAVELER, who hast wandered far Neath southern sun and northern star, Say where the fairest regions arc ! Friend, underneath whatever skies Love looks in love-returning eyes. There are the bowers of paradise. HOLLY SONG CARE is but a broken bubble, Trill the carol, troll the catch ; Sooth, we Ml cry, " A truce to trouble ! " Mirth and mistletoe shall match. Happy folly! we* II be jolly ! Who d be melancholy now f With a "Hey, the holly! Ho, the boll)!" Polly bangs the holly bough. Laughter lurking in the eye, sir, Pleasure foots it frisk and free. He who frowns or looks awry, sir, Faith, a witless wight is he ! HOLLY SONG Merry folly ! what a volley Greets the banging of the With a Hey, the holly! Ho, te holly /" Who V be melancholy now ? 93 THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS BOOK CONSISTS OP FIVE HUNDRED COPIES WITH FIFTY ADDITIONAL COPIES ON HAND-MADE PAPER PRINTED DURING NOVEMBER 189$ BY THE EVERETT PRESS BOSTON.