2.539
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 SAPPHO 
 
 OTHER 
 
 50NGS. ra
 
 f- y

 
 SAPPHO 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER SONGS 
 
 BY 
 
 L B. PEMBERTON. 
 
 " We think that ns civilization advances, poetry 
 almost necessarily declines. In an enlightened 
 age there will be much intelligence, much science, 
 much philosophy, etc., etc., but little poetry." 
 
 ^-Macaulav~~Esaay on Milton, 
 
 "The poetical mood and accomplishment are apt 
 to be looked upon in modern society as an impert 
 inence or a weakness." 
 
 ^-Century Mygatitte, March, ^Wy, 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALI 
 
 ALL, RIGHTS RESERVED,
 
 PS 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1895, 
 
 BY 
 
 L. B. PEMBERTON, 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CAL. 
 
 TIMES-MIRROR 
 
 PRINTING AND BINDING 
 
 HOUSE. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 533236
 
 " Peruse it well for in the same may lurke, 
 More obscure matter in a deeper sence, 
 To set the best and learned wits on worke, 
 Then hath as yet in manv ages since, 
 Within so small a little volume beene 
 Or on the sudden can be found or seene." 
 
 Thos. Peyton in " The Glasse of Time."
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 SAPPPO A MASQUE 11 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 SONG TO THE SEQUOIA GIGANTEA 60 
 
 SONG TO THE PLOWBOT 62 
 
 QUIVERA 68 
 
 ON FINDING A ROSEBUD COVERED WITH SNOW .... 65 
 
 To FLORENCE 66 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE 71 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM COMIC OPERAS 
 
 THE LAND OF COCKAIGNE 68 
 
 IF SOME UNFEELING CRUEL FATE 68 
 
 THE ROSE 69 
 
 SONG OF THE FENCING MASTER 70 
 
 BEDOUIN LOVE SONG . 71
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Sappho, so her biographers say, flourished about the year 
 610 B. C., and was a native of Lesbos, an island in the Aegean 
 Sea. 
 
 Whether her famous leap from the Leucadian rock in con 
 sequence of the neglect and disdain of her lover, Phaon be true 
 or, as her later commentators would have us believe, a cleverly 
 designed fiction, the fact, nevertheless, remains that she was 
 matchless in her art, and her name and works will be ever in 
 timately associated with the most perfect and finished produc 
 tions of the poetic mind. For, of all persons who have ever 
 lived, loved, sang and suffered, she seems to stand forth as 
 the representative and highest embodiment of the spirit and 
 genius of poetry being, in fact, even in h<u" own day, often 
 designated as the "Tenth Muse." 
 
 At any rate, the story of her tragic fate naturally suggests 
 the similar condition to which the cause of poetry has been 
 reduced in these modern times, when the whilom "Heavenly 
 Muse" is considered as an antiquated myth a mistress some 
 what passe and her devotees are looked upon as guilty of 
 Impertinence, or suffering from weakness. 
 
 If it were, indeed, true that the genius of poetry had been 
 forced to succumb to the advance of civilization, it would cer 
 tainly argue very poorly for our boasted, modern civilization 
 that it must drive out all that is beautiful and ethereal in life
 
 and nature, and leave for our contemplation only the gross 
 and material. 
 
 The keen eye of prophecy has often discovered the fact be 
 fore that 
 
 "the count 
 
 Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll 
 Is folded by the muses." 
 
 "The sun of poesy is set," and such like sinister declara 
 tions; but it has generally happened that even then the prosy 
 elements of the times were combining like the darkened cage- 
 to develop the embryo songster. 
 
 Thus has it been in the past, and sad were; it if our advance- 
 ing civilization should make the future any more; unfruitful 
 of genius than the past. 
 
 Whether or not the muse of poetry shall reassert herself 
 in the future, with her fomer power and beauty, the lamentable 
 fact remains, that she is now believed to have fled like Justice 
 and the other heathen deities from the earth and in this wo 
 nKMirn her loss. 
 
 It might be well to add that the foregoing lines are not 
 meant for an apology, but merely serve to introduce the follow 
 ing verses, which are intended for an original composition 
 although an occasional fragment from Sappho's poems will be 
 found here and there, and especially in "Sappho's song at the 
 Feast of Hipparchus," where nearly all the minor fragments 
 are woven together in one connected piece and which are now, 
 with a certain feeling of indifference, launched forth on a sea 
 as cold, unfathomable and uncertain, perhaps, as that one on 
 which the divine Sappho desperately threw herself more than 
 twenty-five centuries ago.
 
 VALE! 
 
 Go, little Book, upon thy way, 
 I grieve thou canst not with me stay, 
 Or that thou must so soon away. 
 Thy many faults I must confess 
 I know them all, nor wish them less; 
 For when we love we love weakness, 
 So parents, in their first-born, see- 
 Though all their faults there mirrored be 
 A piece of faultless progeny. 
 
 Go, little Book, the first I've sent 
 To seek the great World's compliment. 
 Forgive me: 'tis with good intent, 
 And many a pang of anxious heart 
 I send thee to the World's great mart 
 To let thee find out what thou art. 
 Go, then, upon thy way farewell! 
 Boldly thou hast some word to tell; 
 Humbly thou canst not say it well; 
 And, if a friend thou canst not find, 
 Return: here, in my arms confined, 
 Thou'lt find "An Asylum from the Blind!"
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Poet- 
 It seems now'days, there is no use 
 To try to court the "hea,venly Muse." 
 Among mankind she has, of late, 
 Lost something of her former state; 
 So many scribblers now make suit, 
 She's fallen into ill-repute. 
 
 Friend 
 
 Then throw aside your useless quill 
 The world, of wish-wash has its fill. 
 Those ancient "fads," having had 1 their day, 
 Should be content to pass away. 
 
 Poet 
 
 Once field and river, flower and tree 
 Hold each its own divinity: 
 Unseen celestials everywhere 
 Soothed the brow of daily care, 
 And pleasing fictions -say how wise! 
 Made man mingle with Deities. 
 
 Friend 
 
 But now a wondrous change has crossed 
 The spirit of this mighty world.
 
 13 
 
 Poet 
 
 The outgrown idols of the past- 
 Playthings of infancy are hurled, 
 Like some chaste statue from its base, 
 Into the dust. 
 
 Friend- 
 Yes, a new race 
 
 Inhabits this great earth, whose eyes 
 See through those old-time phantasies 
 
 Poet- 
 Resolves the planets, reads the skies, 
 And robs earth of its Deities. 
 
 Friend 
 
 This is the age of facts. 
 
 Poet- 
 No more 
 
 Nereids sport along the shore; 
 Dim Dryads dwell in leafy trees, 
 Nor 'mong the hills fleet Oreads run. 
 
 No more Poseidon rules the Seas; 
 Nor Helios holds the fiery Sun. 
 Upon the hills of Thessaly 
 The clouds still mingle with the sky; 
 But, as the Seasons stand and wait,
 
 1 4 
 
 They open not those fleecy gates 
 To let earth-worn Celestials by. 
 Great Zeus, Phoebus, Athene, 
 Aphrodite, Eos, Selene 
 From this majestic world have fled. 
 
 Friend- 
 Gone from the earth 
 
 Poet- 
 Ay, banished! 
 
 And all the light that with them shone; 
 Yet not for unthroned gods alone 
 We mourn they are immortal still, 
 With all their wondrous history. 
 We mourn that on this earth no hill 
 Is now devoted to the Muses' will: 
 Of all the brooks that feed the sea 
 Not one can boast a deity. 
 Not so much for dead Endymion 
 We sigh, nor enamored Selene, 
 As disenchanted Helicon 
 For the lost waves of Hippocrene! 
 We mourn that this great world should think 
 Because those heathen gods have fled 
 That Poesie has now no brink 
 Where thirsting souls may come and drink- 
 No sacred ground for man to tread!
 
 15 
 
 Friend 
 
 Indeed, the torch of Science bright 
 Has lighted up this earth of ours, 
 And frightened with its flaming light 
 Laughing fays from moonlit bowers; 
 Genii and gnomes from golden caves; 
 Mermaids and sirens from the waves. 
 Now in its livid light we see 
 The haunted hills of Thessaly 
 Shorn of their fair divinity- 
 All silent, tenantless, and bare! 
 
 Poet 
 
 Your words, alas! are all too true 
 Our craft is left with naught to do. 
 
 Friend 
 
 Then let the argument end here 
 
 Poet 
 
 And I have worshiped at a shrine 
 Dishonored when I thought divine. 
 
 Nymph, Goddess, whatsoever thou wert 
 That once inspired the poet's heart! 
 Spirit of song! thy former haunt 
 Where wood-vines creep and wild flowers flaunt 
 Their modest beauty to the breeze
 
 1 6 
 
 And thick-leaved, languor.breathing trees 
 Make coverts cool and musical; 
 Where rills glide by with rhythmic fall, 
 And azure skies o'erarch them all 
 Such spots the pensive eye in vain 
 May search and hope to find again 
 The glorious splendor of thy reign. 
 Gone, gone art thou, and with thee ah 
 That is of earth ethereal!
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Fair maid, who, in those favored Isles, 
 Where heaven bends o'er with endless smiles, 
 Inspired the strain sweet Sappho sung; 
 If still the Lesbian hills among. 
 Forgive my folly, if I strive 
 Thy melting numbers to revive; 
 In this far land of wild and wood, 
 Where never Nymph nor Naiad stood: 
 In this stern age, when men would scorn 
 A Dryad's wail or Triton's horn; 
 When Virtue, Justice, Beauty, Love, 
 Mind itself, but mere sensations prove: 
 When "Nothing" rules o'er Nature dead, 
 And life is made a strife for bread; 
 In such a land, and such a time, 
 'T may folly seem perchance, 'tis crime 
 To think of sentiment and rhyme, 
 Or ask they heaven-tuned voice to hear- 
 Still, sing! and to my idle ear 
 'Twill be like songs the master hears, 
 But cannot sound for other ears; 
 Or like the form the sculptor sees.
 
 i 8 
 
 But from his chisel ever flees. 
 
 'Twill be like fragrance from the rose, 
 
 When Earth is wrapped in chilly snows; 
 
 Or like the lily in the green 
 
 'Tis beauty still, though still unseen. 
 
 Sweet be the strain, such as of yore 
 
 Resounded on fair Lesbos' shore!
 
 SAPPHO, 
 i. 
 
 Come now, divine shell, become vocal for me. 1 ' 
 Sappho-- Fragment 45. 
 
 How deep, and clear, and soft and blue 
 The cloudless sky shuts in our view 
 A veil of velvet to the eye 
 That screens earth from infinity! 
 With twinkling look the dimpled sea 
 Bears home a far-fetched melody: 
 The laughing waves, with upturned faces, 
 Come dancing in like lovely Graces: 
 The odorous wind that o'er me flies 
 Bears more than fragrance to the skies, 
 And all things e'en this form of mine 
 Seems fraught with something more divine. 
 
 The earth, the air, the sky, the sea 
 All breathe of love and harmony: 
 They murmur of that one sweet chime 
 That echoes on thro' endless time- 
 To whose melodious tones above 
 The stars in solemn concord move, 
 And faintly to whose whisperings sweet 
 The human heart, at times, doth beat
 
 20 
 
 E'en trees and rocks make melody- 
 Then hand my trembling harp to me, 
 When such celestial sounds distil 
 And sweet delights all sense o'ercome: 
 When singing creatures all creation fill, 
 Why should the heart of man be still, 
 Why should his lips alone be dumb? 
 
 O L/esbos! Island of the fair! 
 Thy sea serene, thy cloudless sky 
 Soft-beaming sun, ambrosial air 
 That bears voluptuous murmurs by 
 These move my rapturous soul to fly 
 Above the earth, beyond the sky! 
 In scenes like this who could deny 
 Thy heaven-born charms, sweet Poesy? 
 
 In heaven, 'tis said, 
 
 Almighty Jove, 
 
 With bended head, 
 
 Lists to the) strains of lova 
 
 Apollo tunes his 1 trembling lyre; 
 
 The Muses' transcendent strains ascend. 
 
 In rainbow-hued attire 
 
 Fair Hebe pours 
 
 Her copious showers; 
 The listening gods engrossed attend.
 
 21 
 
 Might not this Isle more nearly seem 
 The paradise of which we dream? 
 Might we not feel in some degree 
 The raptures of a deity? 
 Blest as Immortals are not we 
 Have we not Love and Harmony? 
 
 "Now Love masters my limbs, and shakes me, fatal creature, 
 bitter-sweet." Sappho Fragment 40. 
 
 Love! e'en at the word 
 
 All other sounds are hushed, unheard. 
 
 Love, thy very name 
 
 Kindles anew the quenchless flame. 
 
 My bosom rages, burns again 
 
 As when across the waving plain 
 
 The flames are blown thro' ripened grain. 
 
 O, Love! long have these lips of mine 
 Essayed to sing thy joys divine; 
 
 But all in vain! 
 
 For when Love's soft, warm breath I feel 
 Upon my cheak and forehead steal. 
 My soul doth melt and melting flow. 
 
 O, joy! Oh, ptiin! 
 
 Oh, bitter-sweet! 
 
 Weaver of fictions neat! 
 Words are but winds that idly blow 
 They cannot tell the joy I know!
 
 22 
 
 ii. 
 
 "Far sweeter of tone than harp, more golden than gold"- 
 Sappho, Fragment 122, 123. 
 
 The waves that wanton o'er the beach 
 Have each a wondrous, silvery speech; 
 The wind that spreads his spicy wings 
 Sings as he flies and flying sings; 
 The rills that trickle to the sea 
 Glide to a rhythmic melody, 
 And e'en the stars that brightly shine 
 Sweetly sing in strains sublime. 
 
 The waves, the wind, the stars, the sea 
 These all are Nature's poesy. 
 With hushed wind and voiceless wave 
 This earth would seem a silent grave! 
 E'en Love would lose one half her charms 
 If Poesy were taken from her arms. 
 
 If Love's sweet muse did not portray 
 The joy, the bliss, the pain, the woe, 
 The heaven that only lovers know 
 How dreary life would pass away! 
 No tender thought, nor soothing verse, 
 No pleasing sonnet to rehearse- 
 How long would seem each weary day!
 
 PART II. 
 
 SAPPHO AND HER GIRL-FRIENDS. 
 
 'I yearn and seek." Sappho, Fragment 25. 
 
 Song of Erinna. 
 
 My heart it is a harp 
 
 That moves with every wind. 
 A word, a thought, a sigh 
 
 An answer therei will find. 
 
 How many a human harp 
 On earth is never tuned; 
 
 But e'er to passion wild 
 And endless discord doomed. 
 
 How many a harp, alas! 
 Gives one sad, ceaseless moan; 
 No higher, softer strain- 
 Life's dreary monotone! 
 
 How oft of nought they tell 
 But wrongs, oppression sore,
 
 24 
 
 Or 'neath affliction's hand 
 They snap to sound no more. 
 
 No more? Or can it be 
 In happy scenes somewhere 
 
 These inharmonious hearts 
 A rapture yet will share? 
 
 But oh, how blest is he 
 
 Whose! soul is harmony. 
 Who e'en on earth can catch 
 Heaven's far-off symphony. 
 
 Nearest the gods above, 
 
 Blest of all men is he, 
 Whose soul can echo forth 
 
 The "Eternal Melody." 
 
 O, sisters; dear, proud must he feel 
 Who sees the world before him kneel; 
 Whole nations raise their humble prayer- 
 A smile, a fav'ring glance to share; 
 Yet, could I choose, and Fate would give, 
 Far humbler were the life I'd live. 
 I'd rather lie in mossy nook, 
 Where shadows play o'er rippling brook, 
 And let my yearning spirit drink 
 Immortal draughts from heaven's brink.
 
 25 
 
 Or, lying thus in traneed mood, 
 Be lulled by sounds that thro' the wood. 
 From meadows green and throbbing deep 
 Soothe one to dreams and heavenly sleep. 
 The soul then, dreaming that 'tis free, 
 Bounds upward thro' infinity, 
 Seeking again with joy to be 
 Absorbed into Deity. 
 
 Oh! could I catch but one sweet chime 
 That echoes soft thro' endless time- 
 Nature and Creation's rhyme! 
 Oh! could I strike but once the note 
 Of those dim melodies remote 
 So softly sung, so seldom heard; 
 But which the heart hath ever stirred 
 J ar happier than the monarch I; 
 My work would live, tho' his should die! 
 
 Song of Anactoria. 
 
 ' This lot may I win, golden-crowned Aphrodite." 
 Sappho, Fragment o. 
 
 O sister, thou may'&t long 
 To sing the deathless song. 
 And win, perchance, immortal praise: 
 Men may in camp and field
 
 26 jiapplto. 
 
 Seek death with sword and shield 
 To wear awhile the coraq'rors' bays. 
 
 Let those who wish engage 
 
 In toils, and warfare wage, 
 Or court for aye Fame's empty charms. 
 
 Let me remembered be 
 
 Not by posterity; 
 But close within my loved one's arms, 
 
 There let me lay me down 
 
 Unknowing and unknown! 
 
 " This will I now sing deftly to please my girl-friends." 
 Sappho, Fragment u. 
 
 Erinna 
 
 But Sappho, guardian-mother dear, 
 Say why so sad dost thou appear? 
 Your loving girl-friends all entreat 
 To hear once more thy accents sweet. 
 Oh! breathe again that magic spell 
 That comes but from thy lips and shell. 
 
 Anactoria 
 
 Our idle songs, Sappho, forgive, 
 If such thine ear doth vex and grieve. 
 We all with words and looks beseech 
 The favor of thy silvery speech. 
 We hang upon thy lips and drink 
 Like bees upon the clover pink.
 
 27 
 
 Sappho 
 
 Alas! sweet maids, I cannot sing; 
 My thoughts, disturbed, are wandering. 
 But could aught on this earth incline 
 My thoughts to flow in rhythmic line; 
 If power of music in me. were, 
 At sight of things so pure and fair 
 Thy rosy arms and love-lit eyes. 
 Thy thousand winning witcheries 
 My soul naught else could do, 
 But pour its fullness forth to you; 
 Blest by such love as thou dost bring; 
 Poor were the soul that could not sing. 
 
 Timesi are when e'en the dullest ear 
 Celestial quiring sweet can hear. 
 Moments when the ignoblest soul 
 Soars high beyond the earth's control. 
 
 Some time in every life, I ween, 
 The poorest soul, however mean, 
 As pure, as holy rapture feels 
 As e'er thro' Sappho's bosom steals. 
 For once they catch the glorious strain 
 Of life and love and being. 
 
 Again, 
 
 The loftiest soul that ever furled 
 Its pinions o'er this abject world 
 To whom, thus sporting in the skies,
 
 28 
 
 Mankind gaze with unfeigned surprise 
 At times no more could soar and sing 
 Than could the mountains upward spring. 
 Drunk with sweets, like butterflies; 
 Folding its wings, it sits and sighs. 
 
 Anactoria 
 
 Alas! has some keen sorrow clipped 
 Thy spirit's pinions? Hast thou sipped 
 Of some sweet-sick'ning poison-dew, 
 And loath'st the sun and heavens blue? 
 
 SappJio 
 
 Ah, no, 'twas but an idle dream 
 A whim of sleep; but still doth seem 
 More like reality to me 
 Than what I feel and know and see. 
 
 Methought I sat one summer eve 
 Where climbing vines o'er branches weave; 
 Close by a mossed, pellucid pool, 
 Where fragrant shade made covert cool; 
 And. wearied with the day's repose, 
 Had sunk into a restless doze 
 A sort of conscious sleep; when soon 
 I saw the rising, full-orbed moon 
 Spread o'er the earth her golden gleam. 
 Near by a music-murmuring stream 
 Between its perfumed banks meandered,
 
 29 
 
 Till dimly o'er steep rocks it fled 
 Into the sea. 
 
 Here seemed to stand 
 Some fav'ring Genius, from whose hand, 
 In rich profusion, fell sweet peace 
 And health and loveliness; increase 
 Of joys from day to day, and still 
 Some new delight showered o>t my will. 
 
 It was the land it seemed to me 
 Of Love and Youth and Harmony. 
 At once the moon, with lurid glare, 
 Rolled swift thro' black'ning clouds; the air 
 Was filled with mutt' rings deep and loud, 
 And shrieks and groans; the forests bowed 
 Before the gale, or, breaking, fell. 
 Each sight new terror seemed to tell : 
 The stream that gentle music made. 
 Now raging rushed thro' wood and glade, 
 And plunged headlong into the sea, 
 Whose billows roared in fiendish glee. 
 With thunder sound the breakers tail 
 Did beat the cliffs which crumbling fall 
 Piecemeal. 
 
 Primeval wilderness 
 It was: a savage world unblessed 
 By all that gives us peace and rest 
 And happiness! 
 
 I shudd'ring turned, 
 When lo! some sleight of dreams unlearned,
 
 30 
 
 The scene had quickly changed. Again 
 'Twas peace and joy and beauty. In vain 
 The billows raised their roar; a strain 
 Of more prevailing sweetness swelled 
 From rock and nook and grassy field; 
 And there, beside the deep-voiced sea, 
 A youth sat, leaning pensively 
 Upon his harp, and fingering 
 An unthought tune. His face would bring 
 Shame to the ruddy cheeks of Phoebus, 
 Or of Dawn. The laggard wind thus 
 Sad as the sighing Atys tree- 
 Bore his complaining song to me: 
 
 "To the Charming Nymph, Poesie. v 
 (i) 
 
 O gen'rous world! wherefore despise 
 Those strains that warble from the skies 
 
 On earth to dwell ? 
 Why do ye hold in high contempt 
 Those very dreams ye once have dreamt; 
 
 But coula not tell? 
 
 (2) 
 
 There is no heart that doth not warm 
 At Beauty's chaste and virtuous form ; 
 Where'er 't may be.
 
 3 i 
 
 Then wherefore blindly thus refuse 
 And treat with scorn the charming Muse 
 Of Poesie? 
 
 Oh! nymph so fair is found nowhere 
 
 
 
 But on the stars in midnight air 
 
 That beam so bright! 
 Whoe'er could view that form unmoved, 
 Or see those loving eyes unloved- 
 Must have no sight! 
 
 (4) 
 
 Her form so graceful, tall and slender. 
 E'en Paradise in all its splendor 
 
 Could not surpass, 
 Her face is fair as lilies are 
 When off'ring up their evening prayer, 
 
 'Mid dewy grass! 
 
 (5) 
 
 Her eyes divine like planets shine, 
 And light with cheerful rays benign 
 
 Man's bitter lot! 
 
 Yet mild, her modest, queenly gaze, 
 As e'er the day-star's steadiest rays 
 
 She changes not! 
 
 (e; 
 
 No fairer foot nor nymph, nor fay, 
 From forest flowers e'er brushed away
 
 32 
 
 The morning dew. 
 
 Yet not in form lies all her charm; 
 For like the sun, thro' clouds and storm, 
 
 Her soul shines through! 
 
 (7) 
 
 Then why. O world, withhold your praise- 
 From her whose brows are wreathed with bays 
 
 Time ne'er can blight: 
 For nymph so fair is found nowhere, 
 But on the stars in midnight air, 
 
 That beam so bright! 
 
 Thus was his song which scarce was done, 
 
 Till all the sea its roar begun, 
 
 And Earth its turmoil to repeat, 
 
 A loud wave shook his high-poised seat, 
 
 Which, tott'ring, fell, and far did throw 
 
 Him headlong in the deep below. 
 
 I jumped; methought 'twas I that sunk 
 
 Beneath the waves. I shrieked and drunk 
 
 With such ai sick'ning thought and sight 
 
 I woke, to find 'twas dead of night, 
 
 And tossing on my bed I lay 
 
 With troubled thought till break of day. 
 
 But, waking, still I heard waves crash, 
 And still before my eyes would flash
 
 33 
 
 The dreadful scene. The sea would close 
 Quickly above him and impose 
 A sort of curioiis spell whereby 
 His words and looks were instantly 
 Obscured and blotted out. Then I 
 Would fall, and in my fall, it seemed, 
 That all I . sang or hoped or dreamed 
 Were swallowed by the restless wave. 
 This was it seemed the yawning grave 
 The future had in store for me 
 The oblivious fate of Poesie! 
 
 This, maids, is why I cannot sing. 
 My Muse sits mourning folds her wing. 
 Oh! may the time be far removed, 
 When all we've sighed for, all we've loved. 
 When all we've lived for, all we've sought, 
 Shall sink uncared-for from man's thought, 
 And Earth, with all it might attain, 
 Plunge into barbarous night again!
 
 PART III. 
 
 SAPPHO AT THE FEAST OF HIPPARCHUS. 
 
 "(? muse of the golden throne, raise that strain which the reverend 
 elder of Teas used to sing so sweetly." Sappho, fragment 26. 
 
 Hipparclius 
 
 Now, poets, let the heavenly . strain ascend 
 Our minds to lighten and from cares unbend. 
 
 Now, first, Alcaeus let they skill divine 
 With lofty words suire noble theme combine: 
 
 Then sage Anacreon, forever young, 
 
 Let gladdened hearts sip from they honeyed tongue. 
 
 Sing, next, sweet Sappho wonder of all time! 
 Whose every word is sweetness all sojblime. 
 
 And, last, Erinna, let us, wond'ring, know 
 What thoughts in thy young breast doth glow. 
 
 Song of Alcaeus. 
 
 At thy command, O Prince renowned, 
 Full many flattering strains resound
 
 35 
 
 Where'er the good assembled are, 
 They breathe thy name with every prayer; 
 When mighty men in conclave meet, 
 Thy words and deeds they oft repeat; 
 The peasants on their homeward road, 
 The air with profuse blessings load; 
 The very slaves toil as they &ing, 
 Blessing the day that made thee King. 
 
 Thy empire, on its mountain seat, 
 
 The sea lies suppliant at its feet. 
 
 Yet, when yon proud Sea's waves were young, 
 
 When first these hills swelled from its breast 
 
 And mankind to their green slopes clung, 
 
 Like young birds clam'ring in their nest 
 
 Where was thy glory then, O Greece? 
 
 Where was thy crown and laurel brow? 
 
 Or let the minstrel's numbers cease, 
 
 And where would they be even now? 
 
 Hush the rude songs the barda have sung, 
 Or let the minstrel's harp be now unstrung, 
 This glorious realm, lord of the Sea! 
 A wild unheard-of waste would be. 
 
 But lest my words convince not thee, 
 I'll sing at thy request.
 
 36 jiapplxcu 
 
 The Birth 
 
 Of the Fair Muses, and Their Worth. 
 
 "Twas ages past 
 
 When Ocean's waves were young, 
 And Earth was wild as new worlds are. 
 With turmoils vast, 
 And elemental war. 
 
 Ere man brought forth for toil and care 
 From rough, hard rocks and pebbles sprung 
 Ere breath of music moved the air; 
 But mutt'rings thick and angry cries 
 The forests filled and chafed the skies. 
 
 'Twas then. 
 
 In that old time, 
 
 When mighty Titan hosts combine- 
 In battle 'gainst the King of heaven 
 
 And strive to climb 
 Olympus' battlements: unfurl 
 
 Their rebel banners there: defy 
 The power of Zeus, and hurl 
 
 Him from his throne on high. 
 
 But hear! 
 
 With thunder sounds. 
 The Earth rebounds 
 
 The Titans come 
 To break o'er heaven's wall.
 
 37 
 
 In vain! Again outdone. 
 The giants groan 
 
 Grimly the monsters fall, and disappear 
 Whelmed and o'erthrown! 
 
 The long conflict is ended, 
 The huge Titans distended 
 Deep in Tartarus. 
 Now on Olympus 
 See the great Zeus, 
 Victorious 
 
 Stand. 
 Glorious 
 His triumph was greatest 
 
 Of masteries grand 
 Over rebellion and scorn, 
 Tho' Time shall her latest 
 
 Page wait to adorn; 
 But why the bowed head. 
 That look of joy fled, 
 And sighsi drawn heavy and long? 
 Hushed asre the throng, 
 In wonder and fear, 
 Zeus's sadness' they fear. 
 
 "Our joy isi incomplete; 
 Silence is equal to defeat 
 Tho' victory some joy has lent, 
 The soul to gladness must give: vent.
 
 38 
 
 The voice of joy 
 
 Is song alone. 
 Earth's dull alloy 
 
 Melts in its silver tone. 
 So let there be Maidens Nine, 
 Whose duty it shall be to sing of things divine!' 
 
 Oh. hear! 
 How sweet and clear 
 
 Their rising strain 
 Salutes the ear! 
 
 But higher, sweeter still they sing, 
 Until such ravishment they bring 
 
 Their full refrain 
 With such delight doth fall, 
 It doth the gods themselves enthrall. 
 
 Higher, higher still their notes, until 
 Their spell the heavens and earth doth fill! 
 
 Now, see the stars glisten. 
 
 While the worlds listen. 
 And the moon in heaven stands still! 
 
 See the wide ocean. 
 
 Cease its wild motion. 
 And the little streams stop on the hill!
 
 39 
 
 Now all the woods wild. 
 
 With songsters are filled, 
 Who, in chorus, try to engage. 
 
 Now the winds whisper 
 
 To the leaf, as they kiss her. 
 
 And the brook wanders by. 
 
 With a musical sigh, 
 And old Ocean swells with the rage. 
 
 The waves and the leaves, 
 Such melody weaves 
 O'er the rock and the stream. 
 That one nearly would deem 
 
 Them human: 
 Till the Earth doth seem 
 
 Like a beautiful woman. 
 Seen in a dream. 
 
 How sweet those strains in heaven fell 
 The gods alone in heaven can tell! 
 
 No mortal ear. 
 
 Such ravishment may safely share 
 No tongue on earth its bliss declare! 
 
 Then, rapture, cease, 
 My soul release. 
 Dr captive keep forever! 
 The pleasing chains
 
 40 
 
 Of thy sweet strains, 
 Do not too rudely sever; 
 But, if my farewell I must taxe. 
 Oh! let my senses softly wake. 
 
 Song of Anacreon. 
 
 How Love Languished Until Beauty was Born. 
 
 Forlorn the restless God of Love, 
 From his ambrosial bowersi above. 
 To Cypria's rose-hued island strayed. 
 Slowly he came, and long delayed, 
 As on his mind some sorrow weighed: 
 
 "Tho' other hearts 'tis mine to fill. 
 With blissful Love's electric thrill. 
 Why should not I some rapture know, 
 And in my own breast feel the glow? 
 Poor mortals, by my art, less wise, 
 See angels in each other's eyes; 
 While I, the god, with all my power, 
 See nothing I can all adore!" 
 
 Thus, sighing, on the sward he lay, 
 And to his bitter grief gave way. 
 The King of Heaven, attentive, heard 
 The litle Conqueror's piteous words
 
 4 T 
 
 Smiling, his mournful plaint to hear, 
 Yet sought he some relief to bear. 
 
 Meanwhile, across the heaving sea, 
 
 The god lay gazing vacantly. 
 
 When lo! from out the twinkling deep, 
 
 Behold. Incarnate Beauty leap! 
 
 "Joy! Joy!" the glad god cries; 
 
 "No more I'll seek the sober skies; 
 
 For Beauty to the earth has come. 
 
 And earth, henceforth, shall be my home!" 
 
 (1) 
 
 The stars, in their turn, about the fair moon. 
 Now veil their bright eyes as she, at her noon, 
 With lustrous splendor, full-orbed, doth illume 
 
 All the earth with silver. 
 From clear, stilly skies, thro' tall apple-trees, 
 Cool murmurs around us the star-born breeze; 
 While softly exhales from quivering leaves 
 
 The sweet dews of slumber. 
 
 (2) 
 
 The wiles of the dark-eyed daughter of Night 
 Enwraps the charmed world subdued with delight;
 
 42 
 
 With bright and hopeful eyes, Phoebus of Light, 
 
 We invoke thy favor! 
 
 Then down from thy throne gold-broidered, O Queen, 
 Great Goddess of Beauty, deathless, serene, 
 Make haste, and mixed with delight, let us drain 
 
 The nectar's sweet savor. 
 
 And since gods disdain the brow that's ungraced 
 While he, who appears with sweet flowers chaste 
 And fair, the foremost of all is e'er placed 
 
 With choicest blessing 
 
 Around our foreheads fair maidens shall twill, 
 With soft and fair hands, cool wreaths of the dill, 
 And lilies inwove with sweet asphodel 
 
 And roses refreshing. 
 
 Now let the heavenly strain aspire 
 Such as. O Muse, the Teian sire. 
 From his divinely-tuned lyre 
 
 Has waked forever. 
 And ye, pure Graces, rosy-armed, 
 Haste ye with all your thousand charms 
 Meek eyes, fair cheeks and voices warm- 
 Aid my endeavor!
 
 43 
 
 (5) 
 
 Mild-eyed Selene, thrice prolong 
 Thy stay with fair Endymion; 
 For joys so sweet are ne'er too long, 
 
 Nor known too often! 
 Too soon beside Cocytus' stream, 
 We'll wander nameless as our dreams, 
 Or sit and weep so tear-besteamed. 
 
 Our souls will soften. 
 
 (6) 
 
 Nay! heart of mine, grieve not again; 
 For those who weep must weep in vain. 
 And most of all the mournful strain 
 
 Befits not thee: 
 
 For deep within this world's great heart, 
 Thou hast, I think, a goodly part, 
 And years will smile, as they depart, 
 
 Upon thy mem'ry. 
 
 (7) 
 
 At least, 'tis joy I ne'er can tell, 
 Beside the Muses' deep, clear well. 
 To sit, and from their sweet-voiced shell 
 
 Drink inspiration. 
 
 'Tis then I feel the fervor treasure- 
 Till every feeling is a pleasure- 
 Till, soul-entranced. I cannot measure 
 
 Mind's animation,
 
 44 j^apptxcr* 
 
 (8) 
 
 O Aphrodite, golden crowned, 
 
 Immortal Queen, star-throned, renowned, 
 
 Weaver of wiles, of ways profound, 
 
 Hear me, I pray! 
 
 Me, whom thou'st often heard afar. 
 And, yoking up thy silvery car, 
 Came floating thro' the soft mid-air 
 
 Without delay. 
 
 (9) 
 
 Down from thy father'si house of gold. 
 Cleaving thin clouds thy chariot rolled, 
 Till at my door the birds thou told 
 
 To go their way. 
 O Blessed One, in thy high home, 
 As thou, to me, wast wont to> come 
 And stay, now let me to thee run 
 
 And with thee stay! 
 
 (10) 
 
 Goddess of Beauty, thou dost know 
 At first thou taught'st my heart to glow; 
 Till now within my breast doth grow 
 
 A subtler flame! 
 
 Then grant I may be known with thee 
 Thy ally to posterity! 
 That with thy praise may sometimes be 
 
 Mingled my name!
 
 45 
 
 (ID 
 
 Indeed, 'tis just that we who* plot 
 And plant the seeds of deathless thought, 
 Should reap some harvest for our lot- 
 Some memory: 
 
 For death is but calamity 
 Such the immortal God's decree: 
 Had it been good and fair, surely. 
 They, too, would die. 
 
 (12) 
 
 Then pardon us our idle folly 
 Poor we! soul-sick with melancholy 
 If for the laurel and the holly 
 
 Our brows yearn ever. 
 Let him contemn our ways who will, 
 And of contempt take ample fill; 
 "Twill soon be o'er, and he will still 
 
 Lie dead forever. 
 
 (13) 
 
 Nor will there any metn'ry be 
 
 Of him on earth hereafter; for he 
 
 Has gathered not from th' immortal tree 
 
 The roses of Pieria. 
 E'en in the house of Hades dread. 
 Obscurely shall his footsteps tread, 
 And, flirting 'mong the shadowy dead, 
 
 Drag out existence dreary-
 
 46 
 
 Song of Erinna. 
 
 I have drank of the fount, 
 
 Where the Naiades dwell, 
 And my soul it doth mount 
 
 And heavenward swell. 
 
 Like the tremulous waves of that well. 
 
 I have drank of the fount where the Naiades dwell, 
 
 And the wealth of my joy I am longing to tell. 
 
 I cannot yet sing as Alcaeus has sung; 
 
 Nor in notes such as roll from Sappho's sweet tongue, 
 
 But I somehow have drank from the Muses' deep spring 
 
 And, tho' dumb. I still would endeavor to sing. 
 
 'Tis a fount that's been drank of for many a year: 
 But its waves are as sweet as ever they were. 
 The heart is as deep, and love just as strong. 
 Then why can we not its numbers prolong? 
 There's more in the heart than has ever been told, 
 And its throbs seem to tell us 'twill never be cold. 
 
 Then, come, ye but late devotees of the Muse. 
 And bathe your young brows with Aonian dews! 
 Let us never despair, never tarry, nor tire, 
 'Till we've kindled anew the heavenly fire, 
 Fear not the great Past, with its glories remote- 
 Know the lyre has lost not one single note!
 
 47 
 
 The Past is grand, overwhelming, sublime, 
 
 With the glorious conquests of man over Time; 
 
 Still the Present is more than the Past has e'er been; 
 
 For it holds all the Past with its labors could win. 
 
 And the Future is grander by far than them all; 
 
 For in it shall man rise or most gloriously fall. 
 
 Oh! why should the Muse of Humanity die? 
 
 Her numbers grow stronger, brighter and high. 
 
 She feeds and sings from humanity's breath, 
 
 And her heart will- throb with it till humanity's death; 
 
 Then, mourning, away to some wilderness scene. 
 
 She'll return once again to her earliest thepae. 
 
 Then drink of the fount. 
 
 Where the Naiades dwell, 
 And let your soul mount 
 
 And heavenward swell. 
 
 Like the tremulous waves of that well.
 
 PART IV. 
 SAPPHO'S MUSINGS. 
 
 ''Break not my spirit with anguish and distress., O Queen." - 
 Sappho, Part of Fragment I. 
 
 Is this the land where roses bloom, 
 And myrtle green and ivy grows; 
 
 Where olives hang in leafy gloom, 
 And perfume-breathing zephyr blows? 
 
 Is this my native, once-loved Isle. 
 
 And this, the silvery Sea. 
 That lulled me with its song and smile 
 
 To slumber in my infancy? 
 
 Are these the skies of sable stole 
 That once bent fondly over me; 
 
 And these the scenes that fired my soul, 
 And taught my harp its harmony? 
 
 Is this the harp, now breathless, still, 
 Whose voice charmed Earth's remotest shores ? 
 
 Am I "the Fair," "the Miracle," 
 "The Muse that all the world adores?"
 
 49 
 
 Alas! discordant now the strain 
 I fondly hoped could more than please. 
 
 My voice for verses yearns in vain 
 They move alone from minds at ease. 
 
 How oft I've sat within this grot, 
 And sang in happier days gone by. 
 
 When e'en the winds would whisper not 
 The waves would hush to harmony. 
 
 And he, the youth whom I adore, 
 For whose sweet sake I tuned my lyre, 
 
 Who sat entranced in dayst of yore, 
 And fanned with praise the gentle fire 
 
 Oh! where are now those honeyed words, 
 Those winning: smiles, embraces dear? 
 
 Must I be now unpraised, unheard- 
 No loving words, nor list'ning ear? 
 
 Say, why must I deserted die, 
 In shame and anguish and despair? 
 
 Can I but sing of peace and joy 
 But feel the thorns these roses bear? 
 
 Thou Star that bringest all to rest; 
 
 The cattle from the day's alarms, 
 The young birds to their shelt'ring nest, 
 
 The lover to his loved one's arms.
 
 50 
 
 To me, alas! what dost thou bring? 
 
 Delightful privilege! to sit, 
 Beside the Muses' troubled spring, 
 
 And let my tears flow into it. 
 
 Song to Phaon. 
 
 O Phaon. 'mid thy dazzling joys, 
 Hark! and hear a sadder voice. 
 Leave awhile thy painted toys; 
 From the wildering round of pleasure, 
 Come, trip with me one little measure. 
 Leave awhile; 
 
 Thy dear delights. 
 Come and smile 
 On me to-night. 
 
 Me, who gave thee Song's bequest; 
 Me, who in thy youthful breast 
 First infused Love's sweet unrest; 
 Who taught thy simple heart to know 
 That Beauty is a heavenly show- 
 And shineth bright 
 
 In mortal eyes, 
 To show the light 
 Of Paradise.
 
 51 
 
 Phaon, beauteous one, return! 
 
 In teaching thy young heart to yearn 
 My own hath learned to madly burn. 
 
 1 taught thee all thoui dost enjoy, 
 And shall I now prove but annoy? 
 
 Thou art my care. 
 
 With thee I stay, 
 In dreams as fair 
 
 As beauteous day. 
 
 Oh! let me but thy smiling see. 
 I ask thee not to yearn for me; 
 But only let me burn for thee, 
 And ever at thy side to raise 
 To thee my undespised praise: 
 To sit but near 
 
 And sing the while. 
 That thou mayst hear 
 And on me smile. 
 
 Thou grace and glory of thy age! 
 Cease thy erring pilgrimage. 
 Let toys no more thy time engage 
 A great heart lives and throbs for thee; 
 Then cease thy heartless coquetry, 
 Or soon will die 
 
 Those darling joys, 
 Thou prizest so high 
 In thy dear toys.
 
 52 
 
 Once I was thy delightful prey- 
 Sicilian damsels now hold sway. 
 Oh! where will next thy footsteps stray? 
 Where some new fancy may be found 
 Will praises of thy voice resound? 
 Matrons of Nisa. 
 
 Sicilians fair, 
 Send back. I pray, 
 This wanderer! 
 
 Song. 
 
 " Lesbian Damsel, Fare-thee-well." 
 
 Much as my heart doth yearn for thee, 
 
 And bitter tears bedim mine eye; 
 "Tiis not that thoui art gone from me 
 But that thou wentest silently. 
 At least there could as well 
 From those fair lips have fell: 
 "Lesbian damsel. 
 Fare-thee-well !" 
 
 Could I have had one last embrace, 
 Or ling'ring looked into thy eye, 
 
 'Twere joy, at least, from thy dear face 
 To read tho' sad my destiny.
 
 53 
 
 To still my troubled breast 
 
 Thou mightst have said at least: 
 
 "Lesbian damsel. 
 
 Fare- thee- well!" 
 
 My life has dwindled to a sigh, 
 
 And better 'twere it had an end. 
 God knows 'tis hard enough to die; 
 But. oh! to die without a friend! 
 And yet how sweet were death 
 If thou couldst o'er me breathe: 
 "Lesbian damsel. 
 Fare- thee- well !"
 
 PART V. 
 
 ON THE CLIFFS OF LUCATE. 
 
 ' For they whom I benefit injure me most." 
 Sappho, Fragment 12. 
 
 Slowly the sun sinks in the sea, 
 
 And length'ning shadows gloomily 
 
 Creep o'er the world and me. 
 
 Sadly the moon climbs up the sky, 
 With mournful look and silently 
 It speaks no note of joy. 
 
 Sweetly from every vale and tree 
 The nightingale pours out her glee 
 'Tis sweet to all but me. 
 
 Merrily, as the waves are free. 
 The sailor's song rings o'er the sea- 
 Merry to all but me. 
 
 Softly the rills flow; but the sea 
 
 Devours at last their melody 
 
 And thus 'twill be with me.
 
 55 
 
 The jZLean Sea. 
 
 I stand upon thy stony brink, 
 And look into thy waves, O Sea. 
 
 Which stretching deep and far doth seem 
 To compass 1 all the world and me. 
 
 I see thy circumambient waves, 
 With restless sweep surge to and fro; 
 
 While echoing thro' my aching soul 
 A sadness deep doth likewise flow. 
 
 For vague and dim there doth appear 
 Before me now that dreadful hour. 
 
 When all terrestrial things shall lie 
 Submerged by thy all-levelling power. 
 
 Mountains and empires, monarchs, thrones. 
 
 Glories of art, Egypt, Greece. Rome, 
 Temples of gods ay! everything 
 
 Shall lie dissolved in Ocean's foam. 
 
 Oblivious Sea, upon thy brink 
 I pause in wonder most profound. 
 
 A suppliant with harp unstrung, 
 And laurelled brow with cypress bound. 
 
 What salted offering is there, 
 Libation sweet or sacrifice;
 
 56 
 
 What precious incense may I bring 
 To thee that thou wilt not despise? 
 
 Is there no price at which to buy 
 Release from Death's oblivious thrall? 
 
 Is there no haven where one may 
 Escape the common fate of all? 
 
 Hymn to Apollo. 
 
 Phoebus of Light, Immortal Youth, 
 Splendor-robed, from thy throne of Truth 
 And Beauty, laurel-crowned, in sooth, 
 
 Oh! hear my prayer. 
 If, with thy iris-mantled maidens three, 
 Thou flpod'st the halls of heaven with harmony; 
 Or with thy flaming charioteer dost flee 
 
 Thro' soft mid-air: 
 
 Incline to me thine ear, I pray! 
 To me, thy life-long votary. 
 Long has my gaze been far away 
 
 To see thy light. 
 
 Joy it has been to my sad, eager eyes 
 To see thy glory beaming thro' the skies. 
 And love for thy fair day and sweet sunrise 
 
 Has brought this night
 
 57 
 
 Thy light that so elates my mind 
 Inspires my soul to it mankind. 
 With dull, thick eyes are either blind 
 
 Prom choice or birth. 
 Indeed, this day-recurring appetite 
 It sates not; nor low, sensual delight 
 Provokes nor gratifies hence, in their sight 
 
 "Tig nothing worth. 
 
 Yet to my thirsting soul 'tis drink. 
 Sweet as is slumber wheu't doth sink 
 On eyelids tired, when they wink, 
 
 Seeking repose. 
 
 Thus has a mighty gulf between us grown: 
 Their eyes look not into my eyes as one 
 Would who sees there no 'fault he would disown; 
 
 But like one's foes. 
 
 O thou, who in the heavens hast thy home. 
 How joyful Eairth is to behold thee come, 
 Wreathing thy smiles, enlivening hope in one, 
 
 With thy warm breath; 
 But when thy last beam fades away 
 Hope leaves us joyless: with thy ray, 
 Then cold and gloomy Night holds sway, 
 
 And whispers death. 
 
 Where cool Libethra's waves retreat. 
 The nightingale sings sadly sweet. 
 Is that the fate we all must meet, 
 Father of Song?
 
 58 
 
 If I thy heaven-tuned ear have ever wronged, 
 With some false note of harmony prolonged. 
 Or praised myself when praise to thee belonged, 
 Forgive the wrong. 
 
 A stranger in my native land 
 Outcast, despised one yet, whose hand 
 Has increased all of Greece that's grand 
 
 And most enduring 
 
 Stories a\nd themes of everlasting worth; 
 Immortal flowers that spring above the dearth 
 And bloom the light and glory of the earth 
 
 Ever alluring. 
 
 O thou, who, seated by the Delphian hearth 
 The unmoving centet of revolving earth- 
 Doth read of what the future shall give birth, 
 
 Hear thoui my cry! 
 
 Grant that ere Death my song o'erpowers, 
 This hope may sweeten those sad hours:^ 
 "Tliy light that lights this world of ours 
 
 Shall never die!" 
 
 Here in the gloom I stand alone: 
 
 My words like hollow sounds have grown: 
 
 My mourning Muse, filled with the moan, 
 
 Longs for repose. 
 
 Dim as the dying echoes from my throat, 
 My form shall soon on yon dark billows float. 
 Blest were I would the careless world but note 
 
 And mend my woes.
 
 59 
 
 Epilogue. 
 
 Ages ago from stern I>eucadia's rock, 
 
 The Lesbian Muse neglected, and the mock 
 
 Of fritt'ring worldly minds did madly throw 
 
 Herself into Aegea's waves below. 
 
 Thus was the warmest flame that ever thrilled 
 
 The human frame; the highest art; the most 
 
 Divine and perfect harmony once stilled, 
 
 And from, this earth of ours forever lost. 
 
 Now has this busy, wise-grown world again 
 
 Declajred the poet's labors are in vain. 
 
 Once more the frenzied strain the artless song, 
 
 "Hs claimed by men 'tis useless to prolong; 
 
 And carefully, in deep Oblivion's sea, 
 
 A grave have they prepared quite tenderly 
 
 Where thou, poor, childish Muse of Poesie* 
 
 May, henceforth, lie in sweet obscurity. 
 
 Farewell, fair Muse! altho ? unworthy be 
 The halting strains of niy poor minstrelsy; 
 We mourn thy loss, as one who filled with grief 
 Must mourning sigh, and sighing find relief. 
 We weep as those who hear the cold earth fall 
 Upon a loved one's coffin-lid, like rain. 
 But still, like them, a hope o'ershadows all 
 We hope that sometime yet thou'llt rise again.
 
 SONG TO THE SEQUOIA GIGANTEA. 
 
 Prize poem read before the Unity Club of Los Angeles at the 
 Poet's Contest, November 29th, 1893. 
 
 Is there no limit to thy upward course. 
 
 No bounds to thy temerity, 
 
 Thou massive, heaven-aspiring tree? 
 
 What awful deity stood at thy birth 
 
 And cast thy horoscope? What mighty force 
 
 Impelled theef first, firm-rooted in the earth, 
 
 To forge up thro' the white clouds' billowy sea 
 
 Until thou seeim'st at last to touch the sky. 
 
 And pierce with green its azure canopy? 
 
 How far hast thou determined yet to spread 
 Thy branches: how high rear thy lofty head 
 Above the stable earth thou standest on: 
 But in thy proud growth seemest still to scorn? 
 Wouldst thou the battlements of heaven o'er-scan 
 And make a Babel-tower of thy huge form? 
 
 Gigantic tree, great monarch of the wood, 
 Eternal evergreen, the unsubdued, 
 What mockery of human hopes and fears, 
 Ambition's struggles, sorrow, pain and tears! 
 Stupendous sarcasm on the fate of man 
 His flitting life, small ways and sickly plan! 
 
 How little dost thou heed the waste of time, 
 The war of elements, swift lightning's flash, 
 Slow, sure decay, or lev'ling earth-quake's crash! 
 The scorching sun-rays of a tropic clime,
 
 6 1 
 
 Force of strong winds, friction of rain, 
 And all that follow in destruction's train- 
 All have conspired to bring about thy fall; 
 But yet art thou above beyond them all! 
 
 Proud as an eagle's flight thro' empyrean; 
 
 Straight and true as an archer's arrow keen; 
 
 Erect as set by some huge plummet lice; 
 
 Firm set and old as Egypt's pyramid 
 
 Huge obelisk of everlasting green! 
 
 What message hast thou from the world divine 
 
 What mighty secrets in thy bosom hid? 
 
 Here at thy foot, in adoration meek, 
 
 I humbly- bow, and in my weakness feel 
 
 There is a sublime something thou could'st speak 
 
 Which simple words of mine cannot reveal. 
 
 I hear a deep-toned, mystic murmuring; 
 
 It moves afar-off and high-up among 
 
 Thy softly-rustling leaves. Whence has it sprung? 
 
 What new decree to mortals wouldst thou bring? 
 
 Solemn, sublime, thy everlasting song, 
 
 Thou ancient oracle whose frenzied tones 
 
 On winds of prophecy are borne along: 
 
 No wailing cry of long-borne wrongs: no groans 
 
 Of falling dynasties: no bleaching bones 
 
 Strewing the blood-soaked battleground of kings; 
 
 No dark idolatry, nor fetich stones. 
 
 Here does no poisoned blood- taint from the past, 
 
 Nor former rude traditions hold thee fast; 
 
 Thou hast a voice that breathes of better things- 
 
 The hope and key-note of humanity! 
 
 Dim-rustling in thy branches are the wings 
 Of destiny prophetic murmurings
 
 62 f^iscetlaneotis. 
 
 Of grander themes and triumphs yet to be; 
 For thou dost seem to me, 
 Gigantic tree, to be the image and 
 The emblem of the land 
 Tha.t nourished thee! 
 
 SONG TO THE PLOWBOY. 
 
 A song to the sturdy plowboy, 
 
 A song to his unsung worth! 
 He turns the sod, and sows the seed, 
 And tills the crops that nations feed!. 
 
 His father is king; by right of birth, 
 
 He. too, is king of all the earth. 
 Proud emperor's thrones the plowman 
 
 They cost him weary years. 
 The spoils of war his trophies are 
 
 They cost him blood and tears. 
 
 I love the ragged plowboy. 
 
 I love his manly worth! 
 He feeds the rich, and clothes the great; 
 He owns the land, and rules the state. 
 
 By virtue rare, and right of birth, 
 
 We, hail him; king of all the earth. 
 He bears the work that millions shirk, 
 
 He fears no mortal's frown. 
 With laurel bough, then wreathe his brow 
 
 A king should wear a crown! 
 
 A song to the humble plowboy, 
 With brawny arms so swarth! 
 True, unpretentious nobleman, 
 The world may mock thee, Censure scan,
 
 63 
 
 And in thy ways find cause for mirth; 
 
 But Honor still deplores thy dearth 
 And loud would raise her notes of praise 
 
 To blazon thy fair name: 
 Whose hands disdain a guilty stain, 
 
 Whose thoughts dream not of fame. 
 
 I love the merry plowboy 
 
 A biessing on his birth! 
 He cheers with song his lowly hearth, 
 And whistles Care from off the earth. 
 
 At home, abroad, in peace or strife, 
 
 He leads the same brave, honest life. 
 Long life and joy to the poor plowboy, 
 
 As he whistles o'er the farm. 
 He grows our wealth; the world itself 
 
 He moves with his brown arm. 
 
 QUIVERA. 
 
 Steep are the heights! where glory leads; 
 
 Weary the path that leads to fame. 
 The hero toils; the warrior bleeds; 
 
 The martyr dies to save a name! 
 
 Who weave the broidered stole of song- 
 Trimmed o'er with tinkling chains of rhyme 
 
 Must move Thought's massive beam along, 
 And sound with care each separate chime. 
 
 Fame is not all an upward flight, . 
 A giddy, reeling, glorious dream; 
 
 But toil consuming mind and might- 
 Lights up, with life, the meteor-gleam.
 
 64 
 
 Whoe'er would change man's common doom, 
 A something more than man must be; 
 
 Who. mocking fate, time and the tomb, 
 In Death o'ercomes mortality. 
 
 The names that Clio loves to keep 
 Are those whom Fate seems most to foil. 
 While others laugh, these few must weep: 
 While others sleep, they still must toil. 
 
 Such are the truths I learned from thee 
 
 Thou star-eyed child of destiny! 
 Whoever on life's stormy sea 
 
 Hast kept thy gaze fixed on the sky. 
 
 Born to subdue, War's dread alarm 
 Was o'er thy lonely cradle blown; 
 
 Reared in the tempest and the storm, 
 How lusty are thy sinews grown! 
 
 In infancy, like Hercules. 
 
 When men shrank back with fright, 
 Two monster serpents didst thou seize 
 
 And bravely strangle with thy might. 
 
 With one hand broke the fetters wide 
 That held the slave from freedom's goal: 
 
 And with the other threw aside 
 The grinding shackles from the soul. 
 
 Then o'er thy generous prairies ran 
 
 This low, but glorious decree: 
 "The body and the soul of man 
 
 Within my borders shall be free!" 
 
 No fabled cities towering high; 
 Nor streets wide-paved with pearl and gold;
 
 65 
 
 No glittering treasures met the eye 
 Of those old-time explorers bold: 
 
 But now. in this maturer age, 
 Thy lap a wealth of plenty holds: 
 
 To man thou'st left a heritage 
 Worth more than all their pearls and gold. 
 
 ON FINDING A ROSEBUD COVERED WITH 
 SNOW. 
 
 In this lone spot I did not think 
 
 To find a flower so fair 
 With robe of green and lips of pink 
 Whose tender beauty now must shrink, 
 
 And lose its fragrance rare. 
 
 Here 'mid the hind'ring weeds and stone, 
 
 Thou luulst thy lowly birth. 
 When wintry winds kept dismal moan, 
 Thou pushed thy way, unseen, unknown, 
 
 Up thro' the cheerless earth. 
 
 Till now, alas! ere thy full bloom, 
 
 Stern fate has cut thee down. 
 Soft winds shall sigh above thy tomb. 
 And gentle dews weep o'er thy doom 
 
 From yonder skies that frown. 
 
 But thy sweet lips shall ne'er unfold; 
 
 Thy beauty reach its prime. 
 Thou ne'er wilt bless this hillside cold, 
 Nor cheer the wayside wand'rer old 
 
 With hint of things divine.
 
 66 
 
 Sad is thy fate, poor rosebud sweet, 
 
 By frosts unkindly chilled! 
 Fair promise of a life complete, 
 Fond hopes and plans, ambitions fleet! 
 
 Lie broken now and stilled. 
 
 What holy purpose passion pure 
 
 Did thy fair form enclose? 
 Wha.t dreams of life and love's rapture? 
 What thoughts induced thy look demure, 
 
 Thou sweet and lovely roise? 
 
 Sad is thy lot, and sad to me 
 The thoughts thou dost recall 
 
 Of one who, young and fair, like thee, 
 
 In sweet and virgin purity, 
 Did thus untimely fall. 
 
 O gushing tears, fill not my eyes; 
 
 And, throbbing heart, keep still! 
 Beneath some other, sunnier skies, 
 My tender flowers both shall rise. 
 
 Where frosts shall never kill. 
 
 TO FLORENCE. 
 
 Let baser souls besiege the bowl, 
 
 And drain its madd'ning joy: 
 No dreams of wine can equal mine, 
 
 No power on earth destroy. 
 Let Hindoo brew his arrack &tew 
 
 On Ceylon's sunny isle: 
 Let Serian seek his opiate reek 
 
 To drown the world awhile;
 
 67 
 
 Let bards of yore drain hellebore. 
 And vaunt their sacred ground; 
 
 E'en Celestials sup their nectared cup 
 Tho' Hebe herself hand it round. 
 
 One look of thine's worth all their wine 
 All care it doth beguile, 
 
 And joy supreme conies like a dream, 
 When thou dost kindly smile. 
 
 The form I see is reality- 
 No phantom of the bowl: 
 
 That very flame inhabits thy framo 
 That kindled the stars of old. 
 
 Thy look of love would marble move- 
 It turns the Earth to Heaven! 
 
 Liet bards of yore their potions pour, 
 And founts to them be given; 
 
 No Pierian spring I ask to sing 
 Thy charm more than suffices. 
 
 At sie-ht of thee my soul leaps free, 
 And up to Heaven rises.
 
 SELECTIONS FROM COMIC OPERAS. 
 
 "The Land of Cockaigne" 
 
 There's a magical Isle in these mystical seas, 
 Where the mythical people do as they please. 
 Oh! a wonderful land is this land so fine 
 
 With its days so quiet, 
 
 Its nights full of riot, 
 Its delicate ease and its "charmed moonshine." 
 
 With no care nor hurry. 
 
 With nothing to N worry 
 Oh! there is the spot for me and for you; 
 For there in that land there is nothing to do! 
 
 There's a mysterious king in that magical Isle, 
 Whose reign is a spring of perpetual ..smile. 
 Oh! a wonderful king is the king so fine; 
 
 For. wherever he goes, 
 
 By magic there grows* 
 A pageant so gorgeously rich and sublime! 
 
 And once every year, 
 
 This king comes here 
 
 With a pageant that nothing on earth can outshine 
 And no bounds can the mirth of the people confine. 
 
 If Some Unfeeling Cruel Fate. 
 
 If some unfeeling, cruel Fate 
 Us, unforeseen, should separate, 
 And you afar be forced to roam;
 
 69 
 
 Though other friends you there may find 
 Oh! promise me you'll bear in mind 
 The happy days we here have known. 
 My heart for thee 
 
 Shall ever yearn: 
 Oh ! promise me 
 You will return! 
 
 While in some distant place you dwell. 
 To love new friendships may impel 
 
 And thrill your heart as ne'er before. 
 Somewhere, perchance, your eye may meet 
 Some form more fair, some face more sweet; 
 But never one who'll love thee more. 
 My heart for thee 
 Shall ever yearn. 
 Oh! promise me 
 You will return! 
 
 The Rose. 
 
 What is there fairer, rarer than the rose, 
 When first its flushing:, blushing beauty shows, 
 As its tinted, timid leaves unfold 
 Tender hues of crimson, pink or gold? 
 
 If within your heart there grows 
 
 A feeling you would fain disclose 
 Yet prattling words not wish to speak 
 
 A rose may be your messenger. 
 A skillful tnrow. 
 A gentle blow 
 Upon your loved one's cheek, 
 
 Softly, surely, will your cause declare.
 
 70 j&elettinns. 
 
 Theire is no fairer, rarer, finer way 
 For a maid her passion to disclose 
 
 Than the gentle blow Love's tender play! 
 Of a perfumed, lovely rose. 
 
 This against your loved one's cheek 
 
 More than words than volumes speak. 
 
 Song of the Fencing Master. 
 
 I wield, I wield a deadly blade 
 The art of fencing is my trade. 
 I teach men how to thrust and parry, 
 Of dangerous risks to be quite chary. 
 I teach them how to cut and slash, 
 Broad swords to whack or rapier flash. 
 I wield. I wield a deadly blader 
 The art of fencing isi my trade. 
 Whick whack click clack ! 
 Like a flash, we cut and slash, 
 Light bright too swift for sight, 
 Our blades so keen before thee gleam. 
 
 But swifter, keener than my blade, 
 Flash the eyes of one fair maid. 
 Sharper, surer is the wit- 
 All, indeed, must yield to it. 
 The arms of war I do defy; 
 From no mortal foe I fly; 
 But this, I own's, beyond my skill 
 I cannot fly, I cannot kill! 
 
 Whick whack click clack ! 
 
 Our blades so keen before thee gleam. 
 
 Light bright snd is my plight! 
 
 This maiden's might upsets me quite.
 
 flections. 71 
 
 Bedouin Love Song. 
 
 Breath of my body! light of my eyes! 
 Unless I'm mistaken you are a prize. 
 How I existed ere I loved thee, 
 Is matter of deep conjecture to me; 
 Whether I lived on flesh or on fruit, 
 What thou canst provide hereafter will suit 
 Here in thy arms forever I'll lie, 
 If thou canst so live siurely, I shall not die, 
 O loveliest dream, say how soon 
 
 Will you bind up my poor heart's scars? 
 Tell me how much more of this tune 
 Mu&t I measure my love in bars? 
 O breath of my life, 
 Now, come, be my wife; 
 For thou art my sun and my moon- 
 To say nothing about the stars! 
 
 Farewell to the Muse. 
 
 Thou power that has ruled me thro' youth, 
 'Tis time thy dominion should cease: 
 
 Tho' undrained are tho fountains of Truth, 
 This "deep drinking," I feel, must decrease. 
 
 Although there aire things I would utter, 
 And thoughts, p'raps too sweet, to be said; 
 
 Just now it's a question of butter, 
 And the miserable problem of bread. 
 
 O Muse! thy short stay has been sweet, 
 Thy voice, I assure you, most dear; 
 
 But while I've been scanning thy feet, 
 I have lost my own standing, I fear. 
 
 Tho' few are the songs I have sung; 
 
 Tho' seldom my efforts were blest 
 There's water just now on my tongue 
 
 And an aching void under my vest.
 
 72 
 
 Oh! gladly I'd stay with thee still, 
 And hug thee, sweet phantom, forever; 
 
 But the landlord will come with his bill, 
 And it's sloppy to move in this weather. 
 
 The minstrels of the air do not sing 
 When storms and misfortune hang over 
 
 If they'd half my troubles on the string, 
 They'd conclude they're a long ways from clover. 
 
 My lyre has 1 been only a toy, 
 
 I scarcely have yet learned a chord; 
 But I'll just hand it down to my boy, 
 
 And go out and cut wood in the yard. 
 
 If Fortune shall favor, I'll see thee again. 
 
 And sing with thee worthier lays; 
 But now moves me a different strain 
 
 The mortgage that soon we must raise. 
 
 There's been ever a vague, sweet something, 
 
 I've la/bored in vain to express: 
 But this won't paint the house in the spring; 
 
 Nor buy our new baby a dress. 
 
 I have watched for the floodtime of feeling, 
 And the fancies oft borne in its flow: 
 
 But the truth's just now over me stealing 
 That the coal in the bin's getting low. 
 
 So. away! reams of paper and quill; 
 
 Away, with your lyrics and sonnet! 
 Henceforth, 'twill require all my skill 
 
 To provide for the corning spring bonnet. 
 
 I'm too old to be "courting," they say, 
 So, farewell! my sweet spirit of yore: 
 
 But, remember, should you pass by this way, 
 The latch-string hangs out side on our door.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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