LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA alifornia Atonal PR 4441 563 1901 ISS CARMAN .ICHARD HOVEY WELCOME A ME, WERE COMRA AND THEY 'ill BUT I COULE DSIDE DWELLING, ES LOW AND WIDE, TO THE VILLAGE, IE STEP INSIDE. EER THEY GAVE r NG AND STRONG; E /AIT FOR SUPPER, AY SO LONG. LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA BY BLISS CARMAN A Winter Holiday. $0.75 Ballads of Lost Haven. 1.25 Behind the Arras. 1.25 By the Aurelian Wall. 1.25 Low Tide on Grand Pre". 1.25 The Vengeance of Noel Brassard. Net i.oo BY RICHARD HOVEY Along the Trail. $1-50 Launcelot and Guenevere : A Poem in Dramas. I. The Quest of Merlin. 1.25 II. The Marriage of Guenevere. 1.50 III. The Birth of Galahad. 1.50 IV. Taliesin. i.oo V. The Holy Graal (Jin preparation). 1.50 Each volume sold separately. BY BLISS CARMAN & RICHARD HOVEY Songs of Vagabondia. $1-00 More Songs from Vagabondia. i.oo Last Songs from Vagabondia. i.oo SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY : BOSTON LAST SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA / BLISS CARMAN RICHARTJ HOVEY DESIGNS BY TOM B METEYARD BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY M DCCCC I Copyright, /poo, by SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) Entered at Stationers' Hall CONTENTS AT THE CROSSROADS R. H. I " AT LAST, O DEATH ! " R. H. 2 MAY AND JUNE B. C. 3 PHILIP SAVAGE B. C. 4 NON OMNIS MORIAR B. C. 8 DAY AND NIGHT R. H. IO THE BATTLE OF MANILA R. H. 1 6 THE CITY IN THE SEA B. C. l8 THE LANTERNS OF ST. EULALIE B. C. 21 HOLIDAY B. C. 22 MARIGOLDS B. C. 23 A PRELUDE B. C. 23 THE NORTHERN MUSE B. C. 26 THE TIME AND THE PLACE B. C. , 26 UNDER THE ROWANS B. C. 27 THE GIRL IN THE POSTER B. C. 28 ON THE STAIRS B. C. 3! THE DESERTED INN B. C. 32 THE OPEN DOOR R. H. 35 JAPANESE LOVE SONG R. H. 35 "HOW SHOULD LOVE KNOW?" R. H. 36 UNFORESEEN R. H. 36 CHILD'S SONG R. H. 37 HARMONICS R. H. 37 ORNITHOLOGY R. H. 38 TO AN IRIS B. C. 40 BERRIS YARE B. C. 43 A MODERN ECLOGUE B. C. 47 FROM THE CLIFF R. H. 49 SEA SONNETS R. H. 49 AT A SUMMER RESORT R. H. 5! NEW YORK R. H. 5! A GROTESQUE R. H. 52 WHEN THE PRIEST LEFT R. H. 53 THE GIFT OF ART R. H. 54 V TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY R. H. TO RUDYARD KIPLING R. H. ROMANY SIGNS B. C. THE MAN WITH THE TORTOISE B. C. THE SCEPTICS B. C. A THANKSGIVING B. C. A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE B. C. A SPRING FEELING B. C. HER VALENTINE R. H. IN PHILISTIA B. C. PEACE R. H. A LYRIC R. H. THE LOST COMRADE B. C. TEN COMMANDMENTS R. H. QUATRAINS R. H. THE ADVENTURERS R. H. and 1 70 72 74 75 77 78 78 AT THE CROSSROADS YOU to the left and I to the right, For the ways of men must sever And it well may be for a day and a night, And it well may be forever. But whether we meet or whether we part (For our ways are past our knowing), A pledge from the heart to its fellow heart On the ways we all are going ! Here 's luck ! For we know not where we are going. We have striven fair in love and war, But the wheel was always weighted ; We have lost the prize that we struggled for, We have won the prize that was fated. We have met our loss with a smile and a song, And our gains with a wink and a whistle, For, whether we 're right or whether we 're wrong, There 's a rose for every thistle. Here 's luck And a drop to wet your whistle ! Whether we win or whether we lose With the hands that life is dealing, It is not we nor the ways we choose % But the fall of the cards that's sealing. There 's a fate in love and a fate in fight, And the best of us all go under And whether we 're wrong or whether we 're right, We win, sometimes, to our wonder. Here 's luck That we may not yet go under ! I At the With a steady swing and an open brow r We have tramped the ways together, But we 're clasping hands at the crossroads now In the Fiend's own night for weather ; And whether we bleed or whether we smile In the leagues that lie before us, The ways of life are many a mile And the dark of Fate is o'er us. Here 's luck ! And a cheer for the dark before us ! You to the left and I to the right, For the ways of men must sever, And it well may be for a day and a night, And it well may be forever ! But whether we live or whether we die (For the end is past our knowing), Here 's two frank hearts and the open sky, Be a fair or an ill wind blowing ! Here 's luck ! In the teeth of all winds blowing. "AT LAST, O DEATH " A FRAGMENT A T last, O death ! ./xNot with the sick-room fever and weary heart And slow subsidence of diminished breath But strong and free With the great tumult of the living sea. Behold, I have loved. And though I wept for the long sundering, I did not fear thee, Death, nor then nor now. I girded up my loins and sought my kind, And did a man's work in a world of men, 2 And looked upon my work and called it good. Now come, then, in the shape I love the best. Death In the salt, sturdy wrestling of the sea, I give thee welcome. MAY AND JUNE I MAY comes, day comes, One who was away comes ; . All the earth is glad again, Kind and fair to me. May comes, day comes, One who was away comes ; Set his place at hearth and board As they used to be. May comes, day comes, One who was away comes; Higher are the hills of home, Bluer is the sea. II June comes, and the moon comes Out of the curving sea, Like a frail golden bubble, To hang in the lilac tree. June comes, and a croon comes Up from the old gray sea, But not the longed-for footstep And the voice at the door for me. 3 PHILIP SAVAGE T^IELDS by Massachusetts Bay, r Where is he who yesterday Called you Home, and loved to go Where the cherry spreads her snow, Through the purple misty woods Of your soft spring solitudes, Listening for the first fine gush Of his fellow, the shy thrush Hearkening some diviner tone Than our ears have ever known ? Woodland-musing by the hour When the locust comes in flower, He would watch by hill and swamp Every sign of her green pomp Where your matchless June once more Leads her pageant up the shore. Slopes of bayberry and fern, While you wait for his return, Can it be that he would test Some far region of the West, Tracking some great river course To its undiscovered source ? 4 Or an idler would he be In the Islands of the Sea? Can it be that he is gone, Like so many a roving one, The dread Arctic to explore, Never to be heard of more Or with those who sail away Every year from Gloucester Bay For the Banks, and do not come When the fishing fleets come home ? Stony uplands where the quail Whistles by the pasture rail, Where is one to whom you lent Of your wise serene content, Minstrel of your pagan psalm With an Emersonian calm ? Open fields along the sea, 'T was your sweet sincerity Made him what his fellows knew, Sober, gentle, sane and true. Whippoorwill and oriole, He had your untarnished soul ; 5 Philip He your steadfast brother was, Savage Low , y fie l d . bird Q f the grasSt Shores of Massachusetts Bay, Teach us only in our day Half as well your face to love And your loving kindness prove. Now the wind he loved so well Makes the dune grass rock and swell, And the marshy acres run White with charlock in the sun, Should he not be here to see All your brave felicity ! Through these orchards green and dim, Whose old calm was good to him, / Let the tiny yellow birds Still repeat their shining words, While across our senses steal Hints of things no words reveal. Let the air he used to know From the iris meadows blow, At evening through the open door With the cool scents of the shore, 6 While across our spirits sweep Philip Sea-turns from a vaster deep. Savage Sunlit fields, how gently now Your white daisies nod and bow, Where the soft wind and the sun Grieve not for a mortal one ! Only the old sea the more Seems to whisper and deplore, Murmuring like a childless crone With her sorrow left alone The eternal human cry To the heedless passer by. Marshes, while your channels fill And the June birds have their will, While the elms along your edge Wave above the rusty sedge, And the bobolinks day long Ply their juggleries of song, While the sailing ships go by To their ports below the sky, Still the old Thalassian blue Bounds this lovely world for you, 7 Philip And the lost horizon lies p ast y 0ur won( j er or surmise. Fields by Massachusetts Bay, When your questioner shall say, " Where is he who should have been Poet of your lovely mien, And your soul's interpreter? " Answer, every larch and fir, " He was here, but he is gone. Some high purpose not his own Summoned his unwasted powers From our common woods and flowers. All too soon from our abode Back he wended to the road, Rich in love, if not in fame. Philip Savage was his name." NON OMNIS MORIAR IN MEMORY OF GLEESON WHITE 'HIS paragraph cannot be true ; For such a man could not have died. Death is so lonely, hard and cold, Not gentleness personified. T! What manner was it in the man NonO That makes the story seem untrue ? Death is for fighters, rakes, and kings ; Malice nor greed he never knew. He never seemed to strive to live ; His spirit was too sure for strife, Too glad, unquerulous and fair, To take the sordid tinge of life. The pompous folly of the world Could never touch that radiant mien ; He moved unstained among the crowd, Loyal, courageous, and serene. No bargainer for wealth nor fame Nor place, his was a better part, The simple love of all his kind, And lifelong fervour in his art. It must have been his charity, That tender human heart of his, That rare unfailing kindliness, Could make his death seem so amiss. In London where he lived and toiled, I saw him smile across the throng, The unembittered smile of those Whose sweetness triumphs over wrong. With that unvexed Chaucerian mood, That zest unsevered from repose, He is as wise as Omar now, Or any Master of the Rose. 9 NonOmnis And here in the November dusk There comes an echo, faint and far, Of that gay, valiant, careless voice That cried, Nan omnis moriar I Behind the mask of lore and creed There dwells an instinct, strong and blind, Refuting sorrow, bidding grief Be something better than resigned. There is a part of me that knows, Beneath incertitude and fear, I shall not perish when I pass Beyond mortality's frontier; But greatly having joyed and grieved, Greatly content, shall hear the sigh Of the strange wind across the lone Bright lands of taciturnity. In patience therefore I await My friend's unchanged benign regard, Some April when I too shall be Spilt water from a broken shard. DAY AND NIGHT (Read at the Sixty-sixth Annual Convention of the Psi Upsilon Fraternity, at Cornell University, 1899.) FAIR college of the quiet inland lake And beautiful fair name that like a bell Rings out its clear sheer call of joy, Cornell ! Its call of high undaunted dares that take ro The hearts of men with fervours for thy sake Day and And for thy sake with sudden hopes that swell, tg * Hail first to thee, with praise for thy bold youth, Thy fearless challenge in the ranks of truth, Thy forward footing into the unknown ! The new in knowledge that is old in being Wrenched from the dark and morninged for our seeing This is the legend on thy banners blown. Mightier the foes yet that are still to smite, And fiercer yet the fields we still must fight, But thou, a David of the sunrise cause, In the first dawn of the defiant day, Startled the mumbling hosts that bar the way Thou, a young Spartan of the days to be, Made the vast hordes of Persian darkness pause And bade our band think of Thermopylae. Day yes, the day for thee ! but all we men Are twofold, having need of day and night. Day for the mind, the ardour of the fight, Night for the soul and silence. So again To thee I turn, O one of many stars That make the loyal heaven glorious But dear among the innumerable to us, Psi Upsilon, and resting from the scars Of day, the brunt of battle, lift thy song, " Now for the joys of night ! " they sing it still In the old chapters where we had our fill Of fun and fellowship and frank good will, I and my fellows, when we too were young. " Soft as a dream of beauty " hark, again ! Here's to his right good health who sang that strain ! II Day and Come with me into the night Night rj^e i n ti ma te embracing night! The night is still; And we may walk from hill to hill Silent, with but the murmur of our souls, As through the woods the murmur of the night. Ah, take your heaven of undying light, Of glare of gold and glint of aureoles ! I think God keeps for us somewhere A place of cool dusks and caressing air, Where all the greens and yellows dream of blue And all the rainbow hints itself in hue But never speaks outright, Never unveils The unmistakable red or violet, But lets all colour die to a perfume. Is it the flapping of sails And the lurch of a jibing boom Where a boat comes round, below, on the lake, to set Off shore again ? How clear, Like the league-distant hills that seem so near In the thin air of Colorado, rise The voices of the merry-making crew Over the waters, songs of love that strew The silence with the roses of surmise ! Hark! There is no sound beneath the sky But sails that flap and oars that feather And the low water whispering by In the Jttne weather. My love and /, My love and /, My love and I together ! The starlight lies upon the lake Like dreams of vanished days and -viewless Earth never shall recall awake, The dim lost Thules ! My love and I, My love and I, My love and I together / The soft wind stirs among the firs, The great stars wait above and seek not; The night is full of ministers For souls that speak not. My love and I, My love and I, My love and I together ! I wonder whether you and I Are real, love / wonder whether! I only know that, live or die, We dream together. My love and I, My love and I, My love and I together ! Far, so far The song dies on the waters like a star That founders in the surges of the dawn. Ah, the great Night ! The far phantasmal Night ! The delicate dim aisles and domes of dream ! Loosed from the mind, set free From thought and memory, The soul goes naked into the vast stream 13 Day and Of musing spirit like a careless Faun, Night rj,j ie gou j jj eg na j cec j to t h e summer night. Night of the clasped hands of comrades ! Night of the kiss Of lovers trembling at love's mysteries ! Night of desire ! Night of the gaslight-necklaced city ! Night Of revel and laughter and delight ! Night of the starlit Sea ! Night of the waves shot with strange witch-fire ! Night of sleep ! Night of dream ! Night of the lonely soul under the stars ! But ever the self put away With the day, And the soul soaring, glorying into the night ! Night ! The masked mysterious Night ! The infinite unriddled beautiful Witch ! The Sibyl of the universal Doom ! This is the joy of man's spirit When peace falls, Unknown, undivined, inexplicable, Over the face of the world. Oh, praise for the glory of battle the Day and its strife ! And praise for the sweat and the struggle, the turmoil of life ! But the work is not wrought for the working, increase for increase ; 14 We toil for the rest that comes after, we battle Day and for peace. Let us take up our work every man, meet our fate with a cheer But the best is the clasped hands of comrades, when nightfall is near, The best is the rest and the friendship, the calm of the soul When the stars are in heaven and the runner lies down at the goal. Let us take up our work as a nation, the work of the day, . Clasp hands with our brothers of England and who shall say nay ? And who shall say nay to our navies the ships of us, sons of the Sea ? And who shall say nay to our Empires, to the Law that we set for the free ? But the best is the bond that 's between us, the bond of the brothers in blood, The bond of the men who keep silence, as the night when it falls on the flood, As the night when it falls on the vastness, the splendour and lone of the wave, The bond of the English forever, the bond of the free and the brave ! And at last when the bugles are silent or call but to rouse A cheer for the" memory of crowned and victori- ous brows, When the drums beat no more to the battle and, smitten in one, The hearts of the nations uplift but one song to the sun, IS Day and When, the Law once made good for all peoples by stress of the sword, The spent world shall rest from its wrestling, clasp hands in accord, Then, best of all bests, in the silence that falls on man's soul, We shall feel we are comrades and brothers from tropic to pole. All men by the pledge of their manhood made one in the will To achieve for all men as their fellows each conquest o'er ill, No glory or beauty or music or triumph or mirth If it be not made good for the least of the sons of the earth, And the bond of all bonds shall be manhood, the right of all rights The right to the hearts of our fellows, to the love that requites All the strain and the pain and the fag, all the wrench of the day, When the stars shine at last in the heavens and Night has its way. THE BATTLE OF MANILA A FRAGMENT Cavite on the bay 'T was the Spanish squadron lay ; And the red dawn was creeping O'er the city that lay sleeping To the east, like a bride, in the May. There was peace at Manila, In the May morn at Manila, 16 When ho, the Spanish admiral The Battle Awoke to find our line of Manila Had passed by gray Corregidor, Had laughed at shoal and mine, And flung to the sky its banners With " Remember " for a sign ! With the ships of Spain before In the shelter of the shore, And the forts on the right, They drew forward to the fight, And the first was the gallant Commodore ; In the bay of Manila, In the doomed bay of Manila With succour half the world away, No port beneath that sky, With nothing but their ships and guns And Yankee pluck to try, They had left retreat behind them, They had come to win or die ! For we spoke at Manila, We said it at Manila, Oh be ve brave, or be ye strong, Ye build your ships in vain ; The children of the sea queen's brood Will not give up the main ; We hold the sea against the world As we held it against Spain. Be warned by Manila, Take warning by Manila, Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land. Ye may hold the land in fee ; 17 The Battle But go not down to the sea in ships of Manila fj . ee . For England and America Will keep and hold the sea ! O THE CITY IN THE SEA CE of old there stood a fabled city By the Breton sea, Towered and belled and flagged and wreathed and pennoned For the pomp of Yuletide revelry'; All its folk, adventurous, sea-daring, Gay as gay could be. And at night when window, torch, and bonfire Lighted'up the sky, Down the wind came galleon and pinnace, Steered for that red lantern, riding high ; Every brown hand hard upon the tiller, Shoreward every eye. Well I see that hardy Breton sailor With the bearded lip, How he laughed out, holding his black racer WTO-re the travelling sea-hills climb and slip, Chased by storm and lighted on to haven, Ship by homing ship. Every sail came in, like deep-sea rovers Who have heard afar Wild and splendid hyperborean rumours 18 Of a respite made to feud and war, The City in Making port where sea-wreck and disaster the Sea Should not vex them more. What of Ys ? Where was it when gray morning Gloomed o'er Brittany ? Smothered out in elemental fury, Wrecked and whelmed in the engulfing sea, To become the name of a sea-story In lost legendry. In my heart there is a sunken city, Wonderful as Ys. All day long I hear the mellow tolling Of its sweet-sad lonely bells of peace, Rocked by tides that wash through all its portals Without let or cease. Pale and fitful as the wan auroras Are its nights and days ; In from nowhere flush the drafty sea-turns By forgotten and neglected ways ; Through the entries and the doors of being That faint music strays; Tolling back the wandered and the way-worn From far alien lands ; Tolling back the gipsy child of beauty With mysterious and soft commands ; Tolling back the spirit that within me Hears and understands. Then some May night, with a scent of lilacs In the magic air, 19 The City in Through the moonlight and the mad spring '*"* weather, (Old love's fervour and new love's despair), I go down to my familiar city, Roaming court and square. Of a sudden at a well-known corner, In the densest throng, Unexpected at the very moment As an April robin's gush of song, Some one smiles ; and there 's the perfect com- rade I have missed so long. Then, at just the touch of hand on shoulder Bidding grief be gone, I forget the loneliness of travel For the while the parted ways are one, Know the meaning of the world's great gladness Underneath the sun. That 's the story of my sounding sea-bells, Chiming all night long, The eternal cadence of sea-sorrow For Man's lot and immemorial wrong, The lost strain that haunts this human dwelling With a ghost of song. Nay, but is there any lost sea-city Buried in the main, Where we shall go down in days hereafter, Having said good-bye to grief and pain, Joy and love at last made one with beauty, Glad and free again ? 20 You believe not? Hark, there comes the tolling The City in Of my bells once more, That far-heard and faint fantastic music From my city by the perilous shore, Sounding the imperious allegiance I shall not deplore. THE LANTERNS OF ST. EULALIE IN the October afternoon Orange and purple and maroon, Goes quiet Autumn, lamp in hand, About the apple-coloured land, To light in every apple-tree The Lanterns of St. Eulalie. They glimmer in the orchard shade Like fiery opals set in jade, Crimson and russet and raw gold, Yellow and green and scarlet old. And O when I am far away By foaming reel or azure bay, In crowded street or hot lagoon, Or under the strange austral moon, When the homesickness comes on me For the great Marshes by the sea, 21 The Lan- The running dikes, the brimming tide, And the dark firs on Fund y side > In dream once more I shall behold, Like signal lights, those globes of gold Hung out in every apple-tree The Lanterns of St. Eulalie. HOLIDAY WHAT is this joy to-day, Hope, reparation, reprieve ? Out of the sweltering city, Out of the blaring streets And narrow houses of men, The seaboard express for the North Forges, and settles for flight Into the great blue summer, The wide, sweet, opulent noon. Farewell despondency, fear, Ambition, and pitiless greed, And sordid unlovely regrets ! And thou, frail spirit in me, My journey-fellow these years, Behold, thy brothers the elms, And thy sisters the daisies, are here. Thou, too, shalt grow and be glad, Companioned of innocence now, In the long hours of joy. ' How will it be that day, Holiday When the dark train is ready, And the inexorable gong Sounds on the platform of Time MARIGOLDS r ~T*H E marigolds are nodding ; A I wonder what they know. Go, listen very gently ; You may persuade them so. Go, be their little brother, As humble as the grass, And lean upon the hill-wind, And watch the shadows pass. Put off the pride of knowledge, Put by the fear of pain ; You may be counted worthy To live with them again. Be Darwin in your patience, Be Chaucer in your love ; They may relent and tell you What they are thinking of. PRELUDE HPHIS is the sound of the Word _L From the waters of sleep, The rain-soft voice that was heard 23 A Prelude On the face of the deep, When the fog was drawn back like a veil, and the sentinel tides Were given their thresholds to keep. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Go far ! " And the silvery sea-folk heard, Where their weed tents are, From the long slow lift of the blue through the Carib keys, To the thresh on Sable bar. This is the Word that went by, Over sun-land and swale, The long Aprilian cry, Clear, joyous, and hale, When the summons went forth to the wild shy broods of the air, To bid them once more to the trail. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Be swift ! " And the fluttering sky-folk heard, And the warm dark thrift Of the nomad blood revived, and they gathered for flight, By column and pair and drift. This is the sound of the Word From bud-sheath and blade, When the reeds and the grasses conferred, And a gold beam was laid At the taciturn doors of the forest, where tarried the Sun, For a sign they should not be dismayed. 24 The South Wind said, " Come forth," A Prelude And the West Wind said, " Be glad ! " The abiding wood-folk heard, In their new green clad, Sanguine, mist-silver, and rose, while the sap in their veins Welled up as of old all unsad. This is the Word that flew Over snow-marsh and glen, When the frost-bound slumberers knew, In tree-trunk and den, Their bidding had come, they questioned not whence nor why, They reckoned not whither nor when. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Be wise ! " The wintering ground-folk heard, Put the dark from their eyes, Put the sloth from sinew and thew, to wander and, dare, Forever the old surmise ! This is the Word that came To the spirit of Man, And shook his soul like a flame In the breath of a fan, Till it burned as a light in his eyes, as a colour that grew And prospered under the tan. The South Wind said, " Come forth," And the West Wind said, " Be free ! " 25 A Prelude Then he rose and put on the new garb, And knew he should be The master of knowledge and joy, though sprung from the tribes Of the earth and the air and the sea. THE NORTHERN MUSE ' I "HE Northern Muse looked up JL Into the ancient tree, Where hang the seven olives, And twine the roses three. I heard, like the eternal Susurrus of the sea, Her Scire quod sciendum Da mihi, Domine ! THE TIME AND THE PLACE " ~\ TEVER the time and the place 1 \IAnd the loved one all together ! Ah, Browning, that does to tell ! But I have an eagle feather Hid in my waistcoat too. Yes, once in the wild June weather, In God's own North befell The joy not time shall undo Nor the storm of years efface. 26 Ah, master Browning, you hear ? The Time If ever the time and the place ' With aught of thy mood concur, Far off in my golden year, The solstice of my prime, Youth done, age not begun, The moment that soul is ripe For the little touch of rhyme, Then hearken ! If there but stir One breath of the Spirit of earth Through me his frail reed-pipe, (As the hermit-thrush Rehearses the scene when the joy of the world had birth, So sure, so fine, Disturbing the hush,) You shall hearken, and hear Take rapture and sense and form in one perfect line A golden lyric of Her ! UNDER THE ROWANS I SAW a little river Running beside a wall, And over it hung scarlet The berried rowans tall. Beside it for a moment The summer-time delayed; And cooler fell the sunlight Through centuries of shade. 27 Under the And there was laughing Bronwen A-wading to the knee. While still the foolish water Went racing to the sea. I whistled, " Love, come over ! " She was too wild to fear The wildness of the forest, The ruin of the year. And when the stars above us Hung in the rowans high, It was the little river That made our lullaby. Indoors, to-night, and fire-dreams ! And where I wander, far Within a shining country That needs no calendar, There is a little river Running beside a wall, And over it hang scarlet The berried rowans tall. THE GIRL IN THE POSTER FOR A DESIGN BY ETHEL REED WITH her head in the golden lilies, She reads and is never done. Why her girlish face so still is, I know not under the sun. 28 She is the soul of a woman, The Girl in Knowing whatever befalls ; ttu Poster And I a lonely human. Dwelling within her walls. She is the fair immortal Daughter of truth and art ; And I, at her lowly portal, May fare and be glad and depart. In a region forever vernal, She keeps her lilied state, My beautiful calm eternal Mysteriarch of fate. In a volume great and golden, Would better beseem a sage, Her downcast look is holden ; But I cannot see the page. Picture, or printed column, Or records, or cipherings, From the drooping lids so solemn I guess at marvellous things. Is it a rune she ponders, Word from an outer clime, Where the spirit quests and wanders Through long sidereal time ? Would she trammel her heart, or cumber Her mind with our mortal needs ? Do the shadows quake and slumber On the book wherein she reads ? 29 The Girl in \ know not. I know her being the Poster j g ; m p u ] se an< J mooc j to mine, Till I voyage, without foreseeing For a lost horizon line. For her the spacious morrow ; But the humble day for me, In the little house of sorrow By the unbefriending sea. Her hair is a raven glory ; Her chin is pointed and small ; What is the wonderful story Keeps her forever in thrall ? Her mouth is little and childly ; Her brow is innocent broad ; Meekly she reads and mildly, Woula neither condemn nor applaud. Would that I too, a-reading, Might half of her wisdom find, In the gold flowers there unheeding, - The calm of an open mind ! Day long, as I keep the homely Round of my chambers here, Her beauty is modest and comely, Her presence living and near. Till it seems I must recover A day in the ilex grove, Where I was a destined lover, And she was destined for love. 30 I remember the woods we strayed in, The Girl in And the mountain paths we trod, When she was a Doric maiden, And I was a young Greek god. And I have the haunting fancy, The moment my back, is turned, By some Eastern necromancy Only the artists have learned. Two great grave eyes are lifted To follow me round the room, And a sudden breath has shifted A leaf in the Book of Doom. ON THE STAIRS *ROM glory up to glory On the great stairs of time, I track the ghostly whisper That bids a mortal climb. I pass the gorgeous threshold Of many an open door, Where, luring and illusive, The pageant gleams once more. Up the Potomac Valley I see the April come ; Here it is May in Paris ; Here is my Ardise home ; On the These are the ScStuate marshes ; stairs This is a Norman town; These are the dikes of Grand Pre" ; Ah, tell no more, Renown! I pass the open portals, Irresolute and fond, Desert the masque of beauty For Beauty's self beyond. For down the echoing stairway Of being, I have heard The faint immortal secret Shut in a mortal word, The tawny velvet accent Of Lilith, as she came Into the great blue garden And breathed her lover's name. THE DESERTED INN CAME to a deserted inn, .Standing apart, alone; A place where human joy had been, And only winds made moan. L I entered by the spacious hall, With not a soul to see ; The echo of my own footfall Was ghostly there to me. 32 I came upon a sudden door, The Which gave me no reply ; The more I questioned it, the more A questioner was I. I lingered by the mouldy stair, And by the dusty sill ; And when my faint heart said, " Beware ! " The silence said, " Be still ! " From room to room I caught the stir Of garments vanishing, The stillness trying to demur, When one has ceased to sing. Like shadows of the clouds which make The loneliness of noon, The thing I could not overtake Was but an instant gone. 'T was summer when I reached the inn ; The apples were in bloom ; Before I left, the snow drove in, The frost was like a doom. At last I came upon the book Where visitors of yore Had writ their names, ere joy forsook The House of Rest-no-more. Poor fellow-travellers, beset With hungers not of earth ! Did you, too, tarry here in debt For things of perished worth ? 33 Did something lure you like a strain Only to freeze your blood again With jeers when you had passed ? Did visions of a fairer thing Than God has ever made Fleet through your doorways in the spring, And would not be delayed r Did beauty in a half-made song, A smile of mystery, Departing, leave you here to long For what could never be, And thenceforth you were friends of peace, Acquainted with unrest, Whom no perfection could release From the unworldly quest? I heard a sound of women's tears, More desolate than the sea, Sigh through the chambers of the years Unto eternity. And then beyond the fathom of sense I knew, as the dead know, My lost ideal had journeyed thence Unnumbered years ago. And from that dwelling of the night, With the gray dusk astir, I waited for the first gold light To let me forth to Her. 34 THE OPEN DOOR LOVE me, love me not, What is that to me ? I have not forgot When we two were three. She who loved us twain Well enough to die, Can we love again While her ghost stands by ? Love me, love me not, I can love no more, For the empty cot And the open door. JAPANESE LOVE-SONG HOW you start away ! As a flame starts from a gust. Flame-heart o' the dust ! Sudden startle of dismay ! Swift triumph in distrust ! Flash and tremble of escape, Fierce with desire ! Rippled water shot with fire Wary of the rape Of the eyes that sire ! Radiant no-and-yes ! Deer-flight and panther-thirst ! Blest and accurst ! Sword-splendour past the guess Of Heaven's best and Hell's worst ! 35 Japanese So you sprang up from yourself, L ^* Burnt to supremacies, Star-demoned by a kiss Night turned fire-elf, Wonder and all amiss ! HOW SHOULD LOVE KNOW?" HOW should Love know The face of sorrow ? Love is so young a thing ! Roses that blow To-day, lie to-morrow Faded and withering. UNFORESEEN WHY did I kiss you, sweet ? Nor you nor I can say. You might have said some commonplace, I might have turned away. No thought was in our hearts Of what we were to be. Fate sent a madness on our souls And swept us out to sea. Fate, between breath and breath, Has made the world anew, And the bare skies of yesterday Are all aflame with you. 36 CHILD'S SONG, But just across the furthest hill I kno-w the fairies live. PLEASE, sir, take me in your carriage And ride me home ! You see, I 've been to find the fairies And I 'm tired as I can be. I crossed the meadow and the brook And climbed Rapalye's hill, But when I reached the top of it There was another still. HARMONICS " HPRUTH is not a creed, J_ For it does not need Ever an apology. Truth is not an ology ; 'T is not part, but all. Priests and savans shall Never solve the mystic Problem. The artistic Mind alone of all can tell What is Truth. " Poet, thou art wisest ; Dogmas thou despisest Science little prizest. Tell us, for thou knowest well, What is Truth." Spake the seekers to an holy Bard, who answered, mild and lowly This, all this, was in the olden Days when Saturn's reign was golden 37 Harmonics shall I read the riddle Tell you what is Truth ? Truth is not the first Not the last or middle ; 'T is the beautiful And symmetric whole, Embracing best and worst, Embracing age and youth. " All the universe Is one mighty song, Wherein every star Chants out loud and strong Each set note and word It must aye rehearse. Though the parts may jar, The whole is as one chord." ORNITHOLOGY QWEETHEART, do you see up yonder vj through the leaves The elm tree interweaves, How that cock-sparrow chases his brown mate? Look, where she perches now Upon the bough And turns her head to see if he pursue her, Half frightened, half elate To have so bold and beautiful a wooer. See, he alights beside her. How his wings Quiver with amorous passionings ! How voluble their chattering courtship is ! Soon will he know Love's joys in overflow, Love's extreme ecstasies. 38 No, off She flies ! Ornithology Just as she seemed about to be subdued To his impetuous desire ! How angrily he scolds, with wicked eyes Following her flight, and turns his tiny ire Against the innocent tree and pecks the wood ! While she ah, the coquette ! Lurks yonder in the cleft where the great tree Breaks into boughs, and peeps about to see If he is coming yet. She 's in for a game of lovers' hide-and-seek, And longs to have him find the hiding-place, Although she feigns concealment, so to pique His passion to a chase. In vain he will not look For all her sweet allurements. Out she whisks Demurely from her nook, As if she did not see and were not seen, And perks herself and frisks Her delicate tail as a lady flirts her Ian, And now slips back again to her retreat And waits for one hushed moment in serene Unfluttered expectation that the plan Have issue sweet. What, will he not come yet ? See how she glances at him unawares, Tosses her head and gives herself high airs In such a pretty pet. Cruel ! he turns away, ' Affecting unconcern. All those endearing wiles are wrought in vain. Alas, unlucky flirt ! too late you learn That long delays will make the eagerest lover 39 Ornithology Aweary of pursuing. Nay, Too late you fly half way to him again. You will not so recover The passion that you played with. Off he flies And now is lost in the thick shade Of lilac bushes further down the glade. Another mistress charms his amorous eyes. Have a care, sweetheart, or as he some day I too will fly away. TO AN IRIS nnHOU art a golden iris _L Under a purple wall, Whereon the burning sunlight And greening shadows fall. What Summer night's enchantment Took up the garden mould, And with the falling star-dust Refined it to such gold ? What wonder of white magic Bidding thy soul aspire, Filled that luxurious body With languor and with fire ? Wert thou not once a beauty In Persia or Japan, For whom, by toiling seaway Or dusty caravan, Of old some lordly lover Brought countless treasure home Of gems and silk and attar, To pleasure thee therefrom ? 40 Pale amber from the Baltic, To an Soft rugs of Indian ply, Stuffs from the looms of Bagdad Stained with the Tyrian dye. Were thy hands bright with henna, Thy lashes black with kohl, Thy voice like silver water Out of an earthen bowl ? Or was thy only tent-cloth The blue Astartean night, Thy soul to beauty given, Thy body to delight ? Wert thou not well desired, And- was not life a boon, When Tanis held in Sidon Her Mysteries of the Moon ? There in her groves of ilex The nightingales made ring With the mad lyric chorus Of youth and love and Spring, Wert thou not glad to worship With some blond Paphian boy, Illumined by new knowledge And intimate with joy ? And did not the Allmother Smile in the hushed dim light, Hearing thy stifled laughter Disturb her holy rite ? 41 To an iris Ah, well thou must have served her In wise and gracious ways, With more than vestal fervour, A loved one all thy days ! And dost thou, then, revisit Our borders at her will, Child of the sultry rapture, Waif of the Orient still ? Because thy love was fearless And fond and strong and free, Art thou not her last witness To our apostasy ? Just at the height of summer, The joy-days of the year, She bids, for our reproval, Thy radiance appear. Oh, Iris, let thy spirit Enkindle our gross clay, Bring back the lost earth-passion For beauty to our day ! To-night, when down the marshes The lilac half-lights fade, And on the rosy shore-line No earthly spell is laid, I would be thy new lover, With the dark life renewed By our great mother Tanis And thy solicitude. 42 Feel slowly change this vesture To nn Iris Of mortal flesh and bone, Transformed by her soft witch-work To one more like thine own. Become but as the rain-wind (Who am but dust indeed), To slake thy velvet ardour And soothe thy darling need. To dream and waken with thee Under the night's blue sail, As the wild odours freshen, Till the white stars grow pale. BERRIS YARE A LEGEND OF THE BRIER ROSE Once in the fairy tale sweet Rose Brier Climbed to the bent of her hearf s desire. Poor Rose Brier, as I 've heard tell, Never came back with her folk to dwell. This is the legend of sweet Brier Rose Out of a country that nobody knows. Dear Brier Rose could never aspire, Yet came at length to her heart's desire. SINGLE-HEART Brier Rose, gipsy desire Eyes of the Hush-hound and crispy dark hair, Lyric of summer dawn, dew-drench and fire, Wilding and gentle and shy Berris Yare ! Bide with me, Brier Rose, here for an hour. See the red sun, like a great royal rose, Flung down the gray for the winter's king flower, While Marden sleeps in his mantle of snows. 43 Bern's Yare Far-wandered Brier Rose, how came we here, Alien, ease-loving, alone in this North ? White winter, laid at the heart of the year, Heeds us not, needs us not, leads us not forth. Long ago, Brier Rose, loved we not thus? Was it when Alaric marched against Rome ? Others might win the world ; leave love for us ! Dost thou remember the Visigoth home ? Think again, Summer-heart. Canst not recall When thou wert Brier Rose gladsome and fair? How I remember thee, shapely and tall, Far away, long ago thee, Berris Yare ! Sword-play for Brier Rose, war song and march ; Throstle for joy bade the waking world sing ; Morning waved banners out bold from the larch ; When we went down on the legions in spring. Bracelets for Brier Rose, wrought Roman gold; Tribute and trophy poured plenty as sand ; Frost on the flower-garth, rime on the wold ; When we came triumphing back through the land. How thy cheek, Brier Rose, signalled aflame ; How the song rang of the foemen downborne ; How the brown eyes kindled up as we came Through the bowed ranks of the gleaming red corn! Then the long days when the harvest was done ; Hand in hand, hill and dale, thou and I there, Dreaming of far-off new isles of the sun, Never a dream of this day, Berris Yare ! 44 Fairy-tale, home-royal red of the rose, Berris Yare Wilding and well-a-day sweet of the brier ! Here in the gray world engirdled with snows, Watch the slow sun set the hilltops afire ! What if, my Brier Rose, love were just this : One gracious core of the whirled starry dust, Round which the swinging motes, never amiss, Traverse the infinite dark as they must. All the earth else a mere seed-plot of clay, Fruitless and flowerless, mixed garden mould, Awaiting the gardener, inert, to obey When the first sunbeam bids, "Blossoms, unfold ! " Then the whole host of them, gold daffodils ; Poppies so well of red dreamland aware ; Michaelmas daisies smoke blue on the hills ; None like my Brier Rose, my Berris Yare. Acres of apple-bloom, maids at the door ; Wind-hands of summer with heart-strings to pull; Fruit to the harvesting, men to the war ; Come winter speedily, love's year is full. Cherry-mouth Brier Rose, washed in the dew, Kiss me again before daylight be done, Once for the old love and twice for the new, Thrice for the dearest love under the sun ! 45 Berris Yare Gold heart of sundowns and summers forgot ! Treasure of solitude, simple and wild ! God in our poem missed rhyme by a jot ; Life never yet with poor love reconciled. Wert thou not Brier Rose once on a time ? Attar of memory, chivalry's dare ! Love 's the lost echo of flute-notes at prime, Wondrous, far wandering. Hark, Berris Yare ! Only the leaves of the oaks brown and sere, Garrulous wiseacre, doting old leaves, Go whisper others your cumber-world fear, Kill-joy foreboding that croaks and deceives! Heed them not, Brier Rose. Hearken again ! Nothing ? No breath of the music to be? Ah ! but I hear the low footfall of rain, April's clan Joy making in from the sea. April. Think, Brier Rose ! how the earth's heart, Brook rapture, bird rapture, riot of rills, Stirs with old dreams that rend slumber apart ! Then the long twilight dim-blue on the hills. Hills that will talk to me when thou art gone, That old solicitude, calming despair, Sweet as the sundown, austere as the dawn, " Love that lost Brier Rose, found Berris Yare." 46 April. Then, Brier Rose, some silent eve, Berris Yare While the dusk hears the hill-rivers give tongue, In the first swamp-robin I shall perceive One golden strain that, when being was young, Kin to the world-cry and kith to the stars, Pierced human sorrows such ages ago. Leisurely fluting in gold, broken bars Comes the rehearsal, serenely and slow, Prelude, re-prelude ; and then the full throat, Mellowly, mellowly stops mid-stream Wearily, wearily. What may denote Such incompleteness ? Can love be the theme ? Brother of Brier Rose, flute-master mine (Then will this heart-ache out cry to him there), Thou with the secret in that flute of thine, Where is my dream-fellow, lost Berris Yare ? A MODERN ECLOGUE SHE ;F you were ferryman at Charon's ford, And I came down the bank and called to you, Waved you my hand and asked to come aboard, And threw you kisses there, what would you do ? I Would there be such a crowd of other girls, Pleading and pale and lonely as the sea, You 'd growl in your old beard, and shake your curls, And say there was no room for little me ? 47 A Modern Would you remember each of them in turn ? Put all your faded fancies in the bow, And all the rest before you in the stern, And row them out with panic on your brow ? If I came down and offered you my fare And more beside, could you refuse me there? HE If I were ferryman in Charon's place, And ran that crazy scow with perilous skill, I should be so worn out with keeping trace Of gibbering ghosts and bidding them sit still, If you should come with daisies in your hands, Strewing their petals on the sombre stream, " He will come," and " He won't come," down the lands Of pallid reverie and ghostly dream, I would let every clamouring shape stand there, And give its shadowy lungs free vent in vain, While you with earthly roses in your hair, And I grown young at sight of you again, Went down the stream once more at half-past seven To find some brand-new continent of heaven. Hi FROM THE CLIFF [ERE on this ledge, the broad plain stretched below, The calm hills smiling in immortal mirth, The blue sky whitening as it nears the earth, Afar where all the summits are aglow, I feel a mighty wind upon me blow Like God's breath kindling in my soul a birth Of turbulent music struggling to break girth. I pass with Dante through eternal woe, Quiver with Sappho's passion at my heart, See Pindar's chariots flashing past the goal, Triumph o'er splendours of unutterable light And know supremely this, O God, Thou art, Feeling in all this tumult of my soul Grand kinship with the glory of Thy might. SEA SONNETS I |UT with the tide afar, afar, afar, 'Where will the wide dark take us, you and me The darkness and the tempest and the sea? How long we waited where the tall ships are, Disconsolate and safe within the bar ! Ocean forever calling us, but we God, how we stifled there, nor dared be free With a sharp knife and night and the wild dare ! But now, the hawser cut, adrift, away Mad with escape, what care we to what doom 49 Sea Sonnets The bitter night may bear us ? Lost, alone, In a vague world of roaring surge astray, Out with the tide and into the unknown, Compassed about with rapture and the gloom ! We two, waifs, wide-eyed and without fear, With the dark swirl of life about our prow, The hollow, heedless swash of year on year That bears us on and recks not where nor how ! Our skiff is but a feather on the foam, No mighty galleon strong to meet the storm An open boat God's gift to us for home, And but each other's arms to keep us warm ! What port for us to make ? Our only star To steer by is the star of missing sails, Our only haven where the kelpies are Yet, you great merchantmen with freighted bales, Rebel and lost and aimless as we go, We keep a joy your pride can never know. in Moon of my midlight ! Moon of the dark sea, Where like a petrel's ghost my sloop is driven ! Behold, about me and under and over me, The darkness and the waters and the heaven Huge, shapeless monsters as of worlds in birth, Dragons of Fate, that hold me not in scope Bar up my way with fierce, indifferent mirth, And fall in giant frolic on my hope. So Their next mad rush may whelm me in the wave, Sea Sonnets The dreaded horror of the sightless deep Only thy love, like moonlight, pours to save My soul from the despairs that lunge and leap. Moon of my night, though hell and death assail, The tremble of thy light is on my sail. AT A SUMMER RESORT TMISS you so by day, your look, your walk, JLThe rustle of your draperies on the stair, Our Leyden-jar-fuls of electric talk, The sense of you about me everywhere. The people bore me in the boarding-house, I hardly can accord them yes or no j The beauty of the valleys can arouse No such elation as a year ago. But when the last dull guest has gone to bed And only crickets keep me company, In the mesmeric night when truth is said When you, dear loveliness with drooping eye, Demurely enter through the unreal wall, And I forget you went away at all. NEW YORK HHHE low line of the walls that lie outspread J. Miles on long miles, the fog and smoke and slime, The wharves and ships with flags of every clime, The domes and steeples rising overhead ! Si New York It is not these. Rather it is the tread Of the million heavy feet that keep sad time To heavy thoughts, the want that mothers crime, The weary toiling for a bitter bread, The perishing of poets for renown, The shriek of shame from the concealing waves. Ah, me ! how many heart-beats day by day Go to make up the life of the vast town ! O myriad dead in unremembered graves ! O torrent of the living down Broadway ! A GROTESQUE OUR Gothic minds have gargoyle fancies. Odd, That there will come a day when you and I Shall not be you and I, that we shall lie, N We two, in the damp earth-mould, above each clod A drunken headstone in the neglected sod, Thereon the phrase, Hie Jacet, worn awry, And then our virtues, bah ! and piety Perhaps some cheeky reference to God ! And haply after many a century Some spectacled old man shall drive the birds A moment from their song in the lonely spot And make a copy of the quaint old words They will then be quaint and old and all for what? To fill a gap in a genealogy. 52 WHEN THE PRIEST LEFT WHAT did he say? To seek love otherwhere Nor bind the soul to clay ? It may be so I cannot tell But I know that life is fair, And love's bold clarion in the air Outdins his little vesper-bell. Love God ? Can I touch God with both my hands ? Can I breathe in his hair and brush his cheek He is too far to seek. If nowhere else be love, who understands What thing it is? This love is but a name that wise men speak. God hath no lips to kiss. Let God be ; surely, if he will, At the end of days, He can win love as well as praise. Why must we spill The human love out at his feet ? Let be this talk of good and ill ! Though God be God, art thou not fair and sweet ? Open the window ; let the air Blow in on us. It is enough to find you fair, To touch with fingers timorous Your sunlit hair, To turn my body to a prayer, And kiss you thus. 53 I THE GIFT OF ART A FRAGMENT DREAMED that a child was born ; and at his birth The Angel of the Word stood by the hearth And spake to her that bare him : " Look without ! Behold the beauty of the Day, the shout Of colour to glad colour, rocks and trees And sun and sea and wind and sky ! All these Are God's expression, art-work of his hand, Which men must love ere they may understand, By which alone he speaks till they have grace To hear his voice and look upon his face. For first and last of all things in the heart Of God as man the glory is of art. What gift could God bestow or man beseech, Save spirit unto spirit uttered speech ? Wisdom were not, for God himself could find No way to reach the unresponsive mind, Sweet Love were dead, and all the crowded skies A loneliness and not a Paradise. Teach the child language, mother. ..." TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THOUGH aiblins some deserve as highly O' that braw winsome lass an' wily Wha gi'es a kiss to bardies slyly An' sets 'em liltin', I ken there 's nane can equal Riley To 'scape her jiltin'. How comes it, man, ye ken sae well The Muse's tricks ? Hae ye a spell 54 To keep her sae a' to yoursel', To James An' fu' in Fame's e'e? Fame ? let that hizzie gae to hell ! Here 's to you, Jamesie ! TO RUDYARD KIPLING WHAT need have you of praising? Could I find Some lonely poet no one praises yet, Him rather would I choose, that he might know A fellow-craftsman knew him, marked him, loved. But you the whole world praises you. What need Have you of any speech I have to give ? Yet for the craft's sake I must give you praise ; And for the craft's sake you will pardon me. But I would rather meet you face to face And talk of other and indifferent things, And say no word of all that I would say, Praise and thanksgiving for your splendid song, Praise and the pride of the empires of the Blood But leave you, silent, as we English do And you would know and you would un- derstand. ROMANY SIGNS On the publication of " Patrins" by Louise Imogen Guiney. "F I should wander out some afternoon [About the end of May or early June, And at a crossroads in the hills discover A spray of apple or a sprig of clover, 55 r Romany Set for a sign to tell who went that way, Which road he took and how he fared that day, " Ho, ho," I 'cL whistle, "here's a gipsy token, As plain as if the very word were spoken." Then down I turn, hot foot, and off I trudge Hard on his trail, while sceptics mutter, "Fudge!" They know the way, these travel-wise Egyptians, And I enough to follow their inscriptions. So, bless you ! in a mile or two at most, I 've overtaken, almost passed, my host Camped in the finest grove in all the county And bidding me to supper on his bounty. There's nothing like a bit of open sky To give a touch of poetry to pie ; And here 's a poem (call it Sphinx in Myrtle) Would make an alderman forget his turtle. Now, there 's a Romany in Auburndale, Wild as a faun and sound as cakes and ale, One of the tribe of Stevenson and Borrow, Who live to-day and let alone to-morrow. (God keeps a few still living in the sun, The man who wrote The Seven Seas, for one, And Island Stoddard, just to prove the folly Of smug repose and pious melancholy.) So when I see her signal in the hedge, (I mean her new book on the counter's edge,) "Ho, ho," say I, "that Guiney's broken loose again, Cut a new quill and put her craft to use again." 56 Enough for me ! I 'm off. And, fellows all, Romany Who could resist the Auburndalean call To go a-foraging ? That 's what the spring 's for, What bards have wits and bumblebees have wings for. I '11 warrant here 's a road to Arcady With goodly cheer and merry company, Skirting the pleasant foot-hills of Philosophy, Far from the quaggy marshes of Theosophy. O for the trail, wherever it may lead, From small credulity to larger creed, Till we behold this world without detraction As God did seven times with satisfaction ! THE MAN WITH THE TORTOISE TO W. M. F. SUCH curious things the mind bids stay, Of the thousand and one that pass it by ! The morning we walked through Paris in May, If you remember as well as I, There happened a nothing an incident One of those trifles that flit half seen, Save where the spirit sits intent, Furtive and shy at her window screen. The servants' gossip of eye and ear May surge and hum at her door in spring Of the pageant of beauty drawing near, But she she is watching a stranger thing! 57 The Man The myriad rabble of fact and form Mav gleam till the senses dance with glee ; But calm, unmoved as the very norm And centre of being, muses she ; Indifferent to loveliness, line or hue, Till a chance bird-wing or a slant sun-ray May fall as prompt as an actor's cue, And there is her part. So it was that day. We had turned from your door in the rue Vignon, The third on the left from the Madelaine. . . . Forget it ? There 's no forgetting when one Is come at length to his Castle in Spain. For you were the friend I had loved of old, And pictured so often in Paris here, And promised myself some day to hold Unaltered and safe and sound, no fear. For our mistress Nature is great and wise, And the love of her is eternity ; But there comes a day when a man must rise And go where the heart in him longs to be. So the sea was crossed, and the hour was come; It was hand on shoulder with us once more. There was speech enough though the lips were dumb, When I stood at last at your modest door. Your breakfast of capon and Burgundy, Our talk of Harvard and Norton's fame, And your friend the Druse, with cigars laid by Your gift from the Baroness What 's-her-name. 58 Then into the street of the Capucines The in the blaze of the Paris sun we strolled; Tort Once more at touch of your blithe light mien I knew how a springflower breaks the mould. Through the gay May weather when life was good, Idly we sauntered from block to block, Till round a corner appeared, and stood, A fellow in workman's cap and smock, Basket on arm and whistling low To something held in the rough right hand. A tortoise ! Yes, and the creature, so, Grown tame at the music's soft command, Emboldened to peep from the safe snug shell, Had pushed up its head to the whistler's face, The least of wild things under the spell Of the last and humblest of Orpheus' race. A fragment from some Greek Idyllist, The plain good look of the bolder text, Preserving for us the colour and gist Of a simple age and a life unvexed. Did the beast recall how the syrinx blew When his father Pan first notched a reed ? Was it some familiar note he knew In the workman's whistle that made him heed ? Did there wake remembrance dim and large Of the drench and glamour, the mist and gleam, Of a morning once by the shining marge And murmurous run of a Dorian stream ? 59 The Man Or was it only the reedy plash *TortoiL ^f a Norman river, sunny and small, Where a sound of wind in the scarlet ash, Blown high, blown low, once held him thrall ? Was there nought but the sweet luxurious thrill Of the senses, strung to rhythm and time ? No shadow of soul, to remember and fill The shell that day with a joy sublime? So still, as for very life he feared To lose one note of the wild sweet strain. Ah, mortal, blow till thy breath has cleared Ages of dust from a haunted brain ! And often I think, as the days go by, Of our whistling man and the small mute friend He had charmed. And a scrap of legendry Has always given the thought a trend. An Indian myth (you will pardon its worth !) Says a tortoise, firm in his arching shell, Upbears the creature that bears the earth ; But what holds the tortoise none can tell. The tortoise, I venture, may symbolise The husk of being, the outward world, The substance of beauty, each form and guise Where the lurking mind is ensheathed, en- curled. And suppose at the lip of the shell there stood A mortal bent on the strange and new, Trying each cadence wild and rude, Till the magic melody he blew ! 60 What glimpse to that cunning dweller in clay The M Might not the old tortoise Earth afford Of her very self, some morning in May, Emerged for once to the perfect chord ! THE SCEPTICS TT was the little leaves beside the road. Said Grass, "What is that sound So dismally profound, That detonates and desolates the air ? " " That is St. Peter's bell," Said rain-wise Pimpernel; " He is music to the godly, Though to us he sounds so oddly, And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer." Then something very like a groan Escaped the naughty little leaves. Said Grass, " And whither track These creatures all in black, So woebegone and penitent and meek?" " They 're mortals bound for church," Said the little Silver Birch ; " They hope to get to heaven And have their sins forgiven, If they talk to God about it once a week." And something very like a smile Ran through the naughty little leaves. 61 The Sceptics Said Grass, " What is that noise That startles and destroys Our blessed summer brooding when we 're tired?" " That 's folk a-praising God," Said the tough old cynic Clod ; " They do it every Sunday, They '11 be all right on Monday ; It 's just a little habit they Ve acquired." And laughter spread among the little leaves. THANKSGIVING I THANK thee, Earth, for water good, The sea's great bath of buoyant green Or the cold mountain torrent's flood, That I may keep this body clean. I thank thee more for goodly wine, That wise as Omar I may be, Or Horace when he went to dine With Lydia or with Lalage. STACCATO TO O LE LUPE OLE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find : In The Bookman for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I Ve lost my mind. 62 They have reproduced a window, Doxey's A staccato window, ( I dare say g Le Lupe In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day,) As " A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay." There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I Ve seen before. Well, here 's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am. Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb. I was never out of Boston ; all that I can say is, " Damn ! " Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark, With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark, When I soloed on The Chap-Book, and you answered with The Lark ! Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing? "Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring. Publishers may dread extinction not with such fads on the string. 63 A staccato "There is always sale for something, and de- *O Le Lute mand for what is new. These young men who are so restless, and have nothing else to do, Like to think there is ' a movement,' just to keep themselves in view. " There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name. People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame ; And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game." But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve, Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve, In he comes with his " Decadence ! " like a fly in my preserve. I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now, Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow, All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your " Purple Cow." But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard, To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard, Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard. 64 I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his A staccato back is turned, % Le L " Ink and paper, dead and done with ; Doxey spent what Doxey earned ; Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned ! " How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse ! How he '11 wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse ; Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse ! Don't I know how he will pose it ; patronize our larger time ; " Poor old Browning ; little Kipling ; what at- tempts they made to rhyme ! " Just let me have half an hour with that nincom- poop sublime ! I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear ; When he least expects my presence, I '11 be mumbling in his ear, " O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here. "Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you nevef have been told Of the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap- Books that we sold ? Where are all our first editions? " I feel damp and full of mould. 65 A SPRING FEELING I THINK it must be spring. I feel All broken up and thawed. I 'm sick of everybody's " wheel ; " I 'm sick of being jawed. I am too winter-killed to live, Cold-sour through and through. Heavenly Barber, come and give My soul a dry shampoo ! 1 'm sick of all these nincompoops, Who weep through yards of verse, And all these sonneteering dupes Who whine and froth and curse. I 'm sick of seeing my own name Tagged to some paltry line, While this old corpus without shame Sits down to meat and wine. I 'm sick of all these Yellow Books, And all these Bodley Heads; I 'm sick of all these freaks and spooks And frights in double leads. When good Napoleon's publisher Was dangled from a limb, He should have had an editor On either side of him. I 'm sick of all this taking on Under a foreign name ; For when you call it decadent, It 's rotten just the same. 66 I 'm sick of all this puling trash A Spring And namby-pamby rot, A Pegasus you have to thrash To make him even trot! An Age-end Art ! I would not give, For all their plotless plays, One round Flagstaffian adjective Or one Miltonic phrase. I 'm sick of all this poppycock In bilious green and blue; I 'm tired to death of taking stock Of everything that 's " New." New Art, New Movements, and New Schools, All maimed and blind and halt ! And all the fads of the New Fools Who cannot earn their salt. I 'm sick of the New Woman, too. Good Lord, she 's worst of all. Her rights, her sphere, her point of view, And all that folderol ! She makes me wish I were the snake Inside of Eden's wall, To give the tree another shake, And see another fall. I 'm very much of Byron's mind ; I like sufficiency ; But just the common garden kind Is good enough for me. 67 A spring \ want to find a warm beech wood, hng And lie down, and keep still ; And swear a little ; and feel good ; Then loaf on up the hill, And let the Spring house-clean my brain, Where all this stuff is crammed ; And let my heart grow sweet again ; And let the Age be damned. HER VALENTINE WHAT, send her a valentine ? Never ! I see you don't know who " she " is. I should ruin my chances forever ; My hopes would collapse with a fizz. I can't see why she scents such disaster When I take heart to venture a word ; I 've no dream of becoming her master, I 've no notion of being her lord. All I want is to just be her lover ! She 's the most up-to-date of her sex, And there 's such a multitude of her, No wonder they call her complex. She 's a bachelor, even when married, She 's a vagabond, even when housed ; And if ever her citadel 's carried Her suspicions must not be aroused. 68 She 's erratic, impulsive and human, Her And she blunders, as goddesses can ; Valentin* But if she's what they call the New Woman, Then fd like to be the New Man. I 'm glad she makes books and paints pictures, And typewrites and hoes her own row, And it 's quite beyond reach of conjectures How much further she 's going to go. When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer Of a seat and hangs on to a strap ; I admire her so much, I could offer To let her ride up on my Jap. Let her undo the stays of the ages, That have cramped and confined her so long ! Let her burst through the frail candy cages That fooled her to think they were strong ! She may enter life 's wide vagabondage, She may do without flutter or frill, She may take off the chains of her bondage, And anything else that she will. She may take me off, for example, And she probably does when I 'm gone. I 'm aware the occasion is ample ; That 's why I so often take on. I 'm so glad she can win her own dollars And know all the freedom it brings. I love her in shirt-waists and collars, I love her in dress-reform things. 69 I love her in bicycle skirtlings jr s p ec j a iiy w hen there 's a breeze I love her in crinklings and quirklings And anything else that you please. I dote on her even in bloomers If Parisian enough in their style In fact, she may choose her costumers, Wherever her fancy beguile. She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle, She may argue, hold office or vote, She may engineer turret or trestle, And build a few ships that will float. She may lecture (all lectures but curtain) Make money, and naturally spend, If I let her have her way, I 'm certain She '11 let me have mine in the end ! IN PHILISTIA all the places on the map, 'Some queer and others queerer, Arcadia is dear to me, Philistia is dearer. O! There dwell the few who never knew The pangs of heavenly hunger, As fresh and fair and fond and frail As when the world was younger. 70 If there is any sweeter sound Than bobolinks or thrushes, It is the frou-frou of their silks The roll of their barouches. I love them even when they 're good, As well as when they 're sinners When they are sad and worldly wise And when they are beginners. (I say I do ; of course the fact, For better or for worse, is, My unerratic life denies My too erotic verses.) I dote upon their waywardness, Their foibles and their follies. If there 's a madder pate than Di's, Perhaps it may be Dolly's. They have no " problems " to discuss, No " theories " to discover ; They are not " new " ; and I I am Their very grateful lover. I care not if their minds confuse Alastor with Aladdin ; And Cimabue is far less To them than Chimmie Fadden. They never heard of William Blake, Nor saw a Botticelli ; Yet one is, " Yours till death, Louise," And one, " Your loving Nelly." 71 in Phuistia They never tease me for my views, Nor tax me with my grammar ; Nor test me on the latest news, Until I have to stammer. They never talk about their " moods," They never know they have them ; The world is good enough for them, And that is why I love them. They never puzzle me with Greek, Nor drive me mad with Ibsen ; Yet over forms as fair as Eve's They wear the gowns of Gibson. PEACE 'T^HERE is peace, you say. I believe you. _L Peace ? Ay, we know it well Not the peace of the smile of God, but the peace of the leer of Hell, Peace, that the rich may fatten and barter their souls for gain, Peace, that the hungry may slay and rob the corpse of the slain, Peace, that the heart of the people may rot with a vile gangrene. What though the men are bloodless ! What 's a man to a machine ? Here you come with your Economics. If ever the Devil designed A science, 'twas yours, I doubt not, a study to Hell's own mind, 72 Merciless, soulless, sordid, the science of selfish Pt greed, Blind to the light of wisdom, and deaf to the voice of need. And you prate of the wealth of nations, as if it were bought and sold ! The wealth of nations is men, not silk and cotton and gold. How will you measure in money the cost of knowledge and Art ? Is honour valued in bank-notes ? Can you pay for a broken heart ? Can you reckon the worth of a poem by a stand- ard of meat and drink ? Can you buy with gold and silver a heart too great to shrink? Tell me, how many dollars will pay for the life- blood shed From the veins of the true and valiant who feared not and are dead ? Battle is fearful I grant it. The fields are burnt bare with its breath, Death and the wrongs of women that cry out louder than death, The grime and the trampled faces and the shrieking of shells in the air, White lips of victims that pray and there comes no help for their prayer, And Famine that follows the armies, and Crime that skulks in their rear, These are fearful alike to the soldiers that strike and the cravens that fear. 73 Peace But there 's yet one woe far worse than war with its griefs and graves To sink to a nation of cowards, sycophants, thieves and slaves, There is one thing for man or nation more within man's control And worse than the death of the body, and that is the death of the soul. But the sins of the city are silent and her ruin is wrought by stealth And the sores that fester are cloaked and her rottenness masks as health. True Peace is a holy thing the peace God gives to his own, Heart's peace, though the body move where the thickest shot is thrown, Deeps of peace forever unplumbed by a mortal eye But the peace of the world is the Devil's, a mockery and a lie, Better city arrayed against city and hamlet with hamlet at strife, So valour outvalue lucre and honour be more than life. LYRIC From the French of Maurice Maeterlinck. AND if some day he come back, What should he be told ? Tell him he was waited for, Till my heart was cold. 74 And if he ask me yet again, A L y ric Not recognizing me ? Speak him fair and sisterly ; His heart breaks, maybe. And if he ask me where you are, What shall I reply? Give him my golden ring, And make no reply. And if he ask me why the hall Is left desolate? Show him the unlit lamp And the open gate. And if he should ask me, then, How you fell asleep ? Tell him that I smiled, for fear Lest he should weep. N ! THE LOST COMRADE TOW who will tell me aright I The way my lost companion went in the night ? My vanished comrade who passed from the roofs of men, And will not come again. I have wandered up and down Through all the streets of this bright and busy town, Yet no one has seen a trace of him since the day He silently went away. 75 * have haunted the wharves and the slips, And talked with foreigners from the incoming ships ; But when I questioned them closely about my friend, They seemed not to comprehend. From men of book-learning, too, I have sought knowledge, confident that they knew ; But when I inquired simply about my chum, They glanced at me and were dumb. I have entered your churches of stone, And heard discourse about God and the throng round his throne ; But the preacher knew nothing at all, when I broke in with, " Where ? " And the people could only stare. Ah, no, you may read and read, Pile modern heresy upon ancient creed ! But for all your study you know no more than I, Under the open sky. So 't is, Back to the Inn ! for me, Where my great friend and I were happy and free. And I will remember his beautiful words and his ways, For the rest of my days. How eager he was for truth, Yet never scorned the good things of his youth, The soul of gentleness and the soul of love ! I shall be wise enough. 76 TEN COMMANDMENTS // is right: I. LOVE TO love everybody a little and some people a great deal. n. FAITH To trust the God who made us is good and will not forget us. III. OBEDIENCE To obey those who have the right to hold them- selves responsible for us. IV. HOPE To look on the bright side of things and keep a good heart up. V. COURAGE To dare do whatever we think we ought to do. VI. CHEERFULNESS To express our good, happy feelings, not the others. VII. PRUDENCE To use our intelligence to avoid trouble. // is wrong : VIII To hate or hurt any one, except for a greater good; to be mean and selfish ; to be unjust. IX To tell lies, except when people ask what they have no right to know. x To do anything dirty, or ugly, or intemperate. 77 QUATRAINS I IFE as it is ! Accept it; it is thine ! /The God that gave it, gave it for thy good. The God that made it had not been divine Could he have set thee poison for thy food. u II Abstain not ; Life and Love, like night and day, Offer themselves to us on their own terms, Not ours. Accept their bounty while ye may, Before we be accepted by the worms. in We rail at Time and Chance, and break our hearts To make the glory of to-day endure. Is the sun dead because the day departs? And are the suns of Life and Love less sure ? IV Fear not the menace of the bye-and-bye. To-day is ours; to-morrow Fate must give. Stretch out your hands and eat, although ye die! Better to die than never once to live. THE ADVENTURERS WE are adventurers who come Before the merchants and the priests ; Our only legacy from home, A wisdom older than the East's. 78 Soldiers of Fortune, we unfurl The banners of a forlorn hope, Leaving the city smoke to curl O'er dingy roofs where puppets mope. We are the Ishmaelites of earth Who at the crossroads beat the drum ; None guess our lineage nor our birth, The flag we serve nor whence we come. We claim a Sire that no man knows, The Emperor of Nights and Days, Who saith to Caesar, " Go," he goes, To Alexander, " Stay," he stays. Out of a greater town than Tyre, We march to conquer and control The golden hill-lands of Desire, The Nicaraguas of the soul. We have cast in our lot with Truth ; We will not flinch nor stay the hand, Till on the last skyline of youth We look down on his fair new land. We put from port without a fear, For Freedom on this Spanish Main; And the great wind that bore us here Will drive our galleys home again. If not, we can lie down and die, Content to perish with our peers, So one more rood we gained thereby For Love's Dominion through the years. 79 THIS BOOK WAS PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAM- BRIDGE, DURING THE AUTUMN OF 1900 900Z4-1388 SEP 3 J998 NOTHING I BROl BUT THE GARB ( SUITED FOR PLI BEFITTING A R HING I BROl THE TRAVE1 THAT, WHI .EDS MUST r r-LORD 3 1970 00076 58 A 000 686 053 T)THE HOUSE DY AND TAN, i OR WEAR, G MAN. TO THE INN CLOAK I WORE; ME AWAY, THE DOOR. r -m