UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES f CALIFORNIA LOS AKGELES LIBRARY ILitrrature THE LITTLE BOOK OF AMERICAN POETS 1787-1900 EDITED BY JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE Editor of The Little Book of Modern Verse HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO DALLAS SAN FRANCISCO ijc Ribcrsibc $)rcG& (Cambridge COPYRIGHT, 1915, 1917, BY JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSB ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE D . S . A PREFACE The Little Book of American Poets is designed as a com- panion volume to The Little Book of Modern Verse, the former covering the nineteenth century as the latter covers the twentieth. Each volume is complete hi itself, but together they form a compendium of Ameri- can poetry from the period of Philip Freneau to the present. It is not the scheme of the volume to make a de- tailed survey of American verse, since Stedman and others have done this in collections which still remain authoritative, but rather to garner those poems which time has winnowed from the mass, to present in com- pact form some of the finer and more enduring things in our poetic literature. It must be remembered that the technique of poetry changes and that work excellent, even supreme, in its own period, may not meet the standard of ours. Such a standard, however, should not be applied to it. Any art must be judged as the expression of its time, by its value as interpreting the age which produced it. Form changes less, perhaps, from period to period, than the vision, the spirit of the age. The poet of to-day is con- cerned with themes unknown to the poet of yesterday. The subject-matter of poetry has, indeed, undergone so radical a change that it will be interesting to note the diversity in content of The Little Book of American Poets and The Little Book of Modern Verse. To represent the nineteenth century more ade- PREFACE quately, several poets included in the former collec- tion, whose work has fallen almost equally within the two periods, are repeated in this volume. The selec- tions, however, are distinct. Preference in space in this collection has naturally been given to those not included in the other, and if the representation of any contemporary poet seem inadequate, it will be found that his work is much more fully presented in The Little Book of Modern Verse. JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE. August, 1915. CONTENTS PHILIP FRENEAU (1752-1832) Song of Thyrsis 3 The Indian Burying-Ground 3 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE (1795-1820) The American Flag 5 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL (1795-1836) Elegiac 7 FITZ- GREENE HALLECK (1790-1867) On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake . , . 8 JOHN PIERPONT (1785-1866) My Child 9 RICHARD HENRY DANA (1787-1879) The Little Beach-Bird 12 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (1794-1878) To a Waterfowl 13 Thanatopsis 14 The Death of the Flowers 17 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY (1802-1828) A Health 19 Song 20 RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882) Days 21 Bacchus 21 The Problem 24 Brahma 26 Terminus 27 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN (1806-1884) Monterey 3 CONTENTS HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) Divina Commedia 29 Giotto's Tower 30 My Lost Youth 30 The Fire of Driftwood 34 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS (1806-1867) Unseen Spirits 36 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892) The Eternal Goodness 37 My Playmate 40 The Barefoot Boy 43 Ichabod 46 EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) Israfel 47 The Valley of Unrest 49 To One in Paradise 50 To Helen : V 51 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN (1803-1878) To Edgar Allan Poe 52 JOHN HENRY BONER (1845-1903) Poe's Cottage at Fordham 52 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894) The Chambered Nautilus 54 The Last Leaf 56 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH (1813-1892) Gnosis 58 JAMES ALDRICH (1810-1856) A Death-Bed 59 JONES VERY (1813-1880) Yourself 59 The Idler 60 HENRY DAVID THOREAU (1817-1862) My Prayer 60 Inspiration 61 Smoke 62 CONTENTS AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT (1799-1888) Thoreau (& LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (1832-1888) Thoreau's Flute 63 WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1818-1901) Tears in Spring 64 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (1819-1891) She Came and Went 66 My Love 66 Commemoration Ode 68 Auspex 82 MARIA WHITE LOWELL (1821-1853) Song .''.' 82 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND (1819-1881) Gradatim 81 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY (1819-1895) Praxiteles and Phryne 86 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS (1819-1892) On a Bust of Dante 87 Dirge 89 THEODORE O'HARA (1820-1867) The Bivouac of the Dead 91 GEORGE HENRY BOKER (1823-1890) Dirge for a Soldier 94 JULIA WARD HOWE (1819-1910) The Battle-Hymn of the Republic .... 95 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ (1822-1872) The Brave at Home 96 Drifting 97 The Closing Scene 100 WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892) The Last Invocation 103 Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking . . . .104 Death Carol (From " When Lilacs Last in the Door- yard Bloomed") 112 xii CONTENTS Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun 113 A Noiseless, Patient Spider 116 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (1823- 1911) The Snowing of the Pines 116 The Trumpeter 117 ALICE CARY (1820-1871) The Blackbird 117 LUCY LARCOM (1824-1893) A Strip of Blue 118 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL (1820-1872) The Burial of the Dane 121 CHARLES GODFREY LELAND (1824-1903) The Two Friends 123 BAYARD TAYLOR (1825-1878) Tyre 124 Song 126 Bedouin Song 127 JULIA C. R. DORR (1825-1912) To a Late Comer 128 JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN (1824-1888) "Thalatta! Thalatta!" 129 PHCEBE CARY (1824-1871) Nearer Home 129 Alas! 130 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-1892) Ebb and Flow 131 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD (1825-1903) The Plight of Youth 132 Birds 132 ELIZABETH STODDARD (1823-1902) Mercedes 133 FRANCIS MILES FINCH (1827-1907) The Blue and the Gray . 134 CONTENTS HENRY TIMROD (1829-1867) At Magnolia Cemetery 136 Spring 137 Quatorzain 138 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (1829-1900) Bokra 139 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE (1827-1916) Midwinter 140 S. WEIR MITCHELL (1829-1914) Evening . ..,., 141 Of One who Seemed to have Failed . . . .142 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE (1831-1886) In Harbor. 143 A Little While I Fain would Linger Yet . . . 145 EMILY DICKINSON (1830-1886) Parting 146 Choice 146 Suspense 147 Peace . . " i ! 147 Chartless 147 ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (1832-1911) My Deariing 148 Sea-Birds 149 HELEN HUNT JACKSON (1831-1885) Coronation 149 Spinning 151 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN (1833-1908) Mors Benefica 152 Falstaff's Song 153 Proven gal Lovers ........ 154 ANNIE FIELDS (1834-1915) Theocritus 156 RICHARD REALF (1834-1878) Indirection 157 NORA PERRY (1832-1896) Some Day of Days 158 CONTENTS SIDNEY HENRY MORSE (1833- ) Sundered 159 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON (1835-1908) HicJacet 160 The Last Good-Bye 161 HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD (1835-1921) Ballad 162 CELIA THAXTER (1835-1894) The Sandpiper 162 JOHN JAMES PIATT (1835-1917) Ireland 163 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1836-1907) Memory 164 Palabras Carinosas 165 Song from the Persian 165 The Flight of the Goddess 166 Enamored Architect of Airy Rhyme . . . .168 SARAH M. B. PIATT (1836- ) After Wings 169 WILLIAM WINTER (1836-1917) Refuge 169 The Rubicon . 170 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS (1837-1920) If 171 What Shall it Profit ?. . . . . . . . 171 JOHN HAY (1838-1905) The Stirrup-Cup 172 JAMES RYDER RANDALL (1839-1908) My Maryland 172 ETHEL LYNN BEERS (1827-1879) The Picket-Guard 175 FRANCIS BRET HARTE (1839-1902) Relieving Guard 177 Dickens in Camp 177 To a Sea-Bird , . 179 CONTENTS EDNA DEAN PROCTOR (1838-1923) TakeHeart .; fob, , ' .. JOHN WHITE CHADWICK (1840-1904) The Making of Man ........ 180 JOAQUIN MILLER (1841-1913) 181 Sea-Blown , . 181 Columbus , . 182 The Yukon . . . f.. , v . . . . 183 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL (1841-1887) Opportunity . 186 The Fool's Prayer ^* ;; . . . . 180 Life . 188 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD (1843-1909) A Rhyme of Life . . . 188 JAMES HERBERT MORSE (1841- ) The Power of Beauty ..> . -i . .' C . 189 MARY THACHER HIGGINSON (1844- ) Inheritance . . 190 SIDNEY LANIER (1842-1881) Evening Song .... ;: . ; , : ^ ' 191 A Ballad of Trees and the Master . . . .191 The Stirrup-Cup .': L r j ; 192 JOHN BURROUGHS (1837-1921) Waiting 193 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (1844-1890) What is Good . . . >V , ^ . . . .194 At Best 194 A White Rose . .... 1 . . . .195 RICHARD WATSON GILDER (1844-1909) The Woods that Bring the Sunset Near . . .195 Song> .196 I Count My Time by Times that I Meet Thee . 196 After-Song 197 CONTENTS MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE (1840-1907) In Exile 197 The Dawning o' the Year 198 MAURICE THOMPSON (1844-1901) A Prelude 200 EDGAR FAWCETT (1847-1904) To an Oriole 201 Fireflies 202 JOHN B. TABB (1845-1909) Evolution 203 To Shelley 203 ARTHUR SHERBURNE HARDY (1847- ) Iter Supreraum 203 WILL THOMPSON (1848- ) The High Tide at Gettysburg 204 EMMA LAZARUS (1846-1887) On the Proposal to Erect a Monument in England to Lord Byron . 207 Venus of the Louvre 208 . JOHN VANCE CHENEY (1848-1922) One 209 Days that Come and Go 209 WALTER LEARNED (1847-1915) In Explanation 210 INA COOLBRITH Fruitionless 210 When the Grass shall Cover Me 211 ARLO BATES (1850-1918) The Pool of Sleep 212 EUGENE FIELD (1850-1895) Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . . . . . .213 Little Boy Blue 214 GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD (1849- ) To a Hurt Child 215 CONTENTS FLORENCE EARLE COATES (1850- ) The House of Pain 216 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP (1851-1898) The Sunshine of Thine Eyes 217 HENRY VAN DYKE (1852- ) The Wind of Sorrow ........ 217 The Veery 218 EDWIN MARKHAM (1852- ) Joy of the Morning 219 A Look into the Gulf 220 Lion and Lioness 220 ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON (1853- ) Browning at Asolo 221 Love and Italy . . .'.".. . . .222 ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON Her Picture . .' ,' ,' . , . '. . .223 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1853-1910) When She Comes Home . 224 Bereaved 225 The Old Man and Jim 225 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK (1854- ) The Captain's Feather 228 GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY (1855- ) The Daisies 229 Divine Awe 230 HENRY CUYLER BUNNER (1855-189G) Strong as Death 230 LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE (1856- ) Wise 231 In Time of Grief . 232 CHARLES HENRY LUDERS (1858-1891) The Four Winds . . 232 EDITH M. THOMAS (1854- ) The Old Soul 23? Evoe: . .235 CONTENTS ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855-1919) Sonnet 237 ^Interlude 237 The World's Need 238 WILLIAM HERBERT CARRUTH (1859- ) Each in his Own Tongue 238 JOHN JAMES INGALLS (1833-1900) Opportunity 239 WALTER MALONE (1866-1915) Opportunity 240 JAMES B. KEN YON (1858- ) The Racers 241 The Cricket 241 ADA FOSTER MURRAY Prevision 243 DANSKF DANDRIDGE (1858- ) > The Spirit of the Fall 244 FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN (1860-1916) Dies Ultima 244 ^- On a Greek Vase 245 CLINTON SCOLLARD (1860- ) If Only the Dreams Abide 246 Khamsin 247 HAMLIN GARLAND (1860- ) Do You Fear the Wind? 249 In the Grass 249 RICHARD BURTON (1859- ) The City 250 "^-The Human Touch 251 SOPHIE JEWETT (1861-1909) ^-Thus Far 251 ^^In the Dark 252 FRANK L. STANTON (1857- ) A Little W?y , 252 CONTENTS SUSAN MARK SPALDING ^Fate .. ., 253 ELLA HIGGINSON Beggars 253 ANNE REEVE ALDRICH (1866-1892) A Little Parable 254 Love's Change 255 VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD Care. 255 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY (1861-1920) Beati Mortui 256 Sanctuary 257 BLISS CARMAN (1861- ) The Juggler . . V .; 258 The Gravedigger . . i( . ,. ..... .260 HELEN GRAY CONE (1859- ) A Chant of Love for England ..... 264 RICHARD HOVEY (1864-1900) The Kavanagh . 263 At the Crossroads - * . -265 GEORGE SANTAYANA (1863- ) On the Death of a Metaphysician .... 267 MADISON CAWEIN (1865-1914) Ka Klux 267 The Rain-Crow 268 ERNEST McGAFFEY (1861- ) I Fear No Power a Woman Wields . . . .270 CHARLES BUXTON GOING (1863- ) To Arcady 270 The East Wind 271 HARRIET MONROE (1860- ) Love Song 272 A Farewell 272 The Shadow-Child 273 GERTRUDE HALL (1863- ) ^ One Distant April 274 CONTENTS RICHARD LE GALLIENNE (1866- ) Flos Aevorum 275 What of the Darkness ? 277 vPHILIP HENRY SAVAGE (1868-1899) ^^Infinity 277 WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY (1869-1910) Pandora Song 278 "Of Wounds and Sore Defeat" 279 On a Soldier Fallen in the Philippines . . .280 GUY WETMORE CARRYL (1873-1904) When the Great Gray Ships Come In . . . .281 PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR (1872-1906) Lullaby 283 Compensation 285 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 287 INDEX OF TITLES 295 INDEX OF AUTHORS . 303 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS THANKS are due the following publishers, and indi- vidual owners of copyright, for their kind permission to include selections from the volumes enumerated below : Messrs. D. Appleton & Co.: Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant; Poems by Fitz-Greene Halleck; "Songs of the Soil," by Frank L. Stanton. Richard Badger: "The Guest at the Gate," by Edith M. Thomas. The Bobbs-MerrillCo.: Selections from the Biographical Edi- tion of The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Messrs. Thomas Y. Crowell Co.: Collected Poems of Sophie Jewett. Messrs. W. B. Conkey Co.: Selections from "Poems of Prob- lems" and "Picked Poems," by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. The Century Co.: Collected Poems of S. Weir Mitchell; Col- lected Poems of Robert Underwood Johnson; "Poe's Cot- tage at Fordham," by John Henry Boner; "High Tide at Gettysburg," by Will H. Thompson ; " Care," by Virginia Woodward Cloud. Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co.: "Lyrics of the Hearthside" and "Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow," by Paul Laurence Dunbar. Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co.: "The Man With the Hoe, and Other Poems" and "The Shoes of Happiness," by Edwin Markham. Messrs. Duffield & Co.: Poems by George Santayana. Messrs. Funk and Wagnalls Co. : Collected Poems of Richard Realf. Messrs. Harper & Bros.: "Stops of Various Quills," by Wil- liam Dean Howells; Poems by George William Curtis; "Flower o' the Grass," by Ada Foster Murray; "Star- Glow and Song," by Charles Buxton Going. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Co.: Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich; Arlo Bates; Mary Elizabeth Blake; John Bur- roughs; Alice and Phoebe Gary; John White Chadwiclr Ina Coolbrith; Florence Earle Coates; John Vance Cheney Helen Gray Cone; Christopher Pearse Cranch; RalpL Waldo Emerson; Annie Fields; Edgar Fawcett; Richard Watson Gilder; Louise Imogen Guiney; Oliver Wendell Holmes; Bret Harte; Thomas Wentworth Higginson; Mary Thacher Higginson; John Hay; Ellen Mackay Hutchin- son; Julia Ward Howe; Lucy Larcom; Emma Lazarus; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; James Russell Lowell; Maria White Lowell; William Vaughn Moody; Thomas William Parsons; Edna Dean Proctor; Nora Perry; Lizette Wood worth Reese; Clinton Scollard; Frank Dempster Sherman; Edward Rowland Sill; Harriet Prescott Spof- ford; Edmund Clarence Stedman; Elizabeth Stoddard; William Wetmore Story; Bayard Taylor; Celia Thaxter; Edith M. Thomas; Maurice Thompson; Henry D. Tho- reau; John Townsend Trowbridge; Jones Very; John Greenleaf Whittier. Messrs. B. F. Johnson Co. : Collected Poems of Henry Timrod. The John Lane Co.: "The Lonely Dancer" and "English Poems," by Richard Le Gallienne. Messrs. J. B. Lippincott Co.: Poems hv Thomas Buchanan Read and George Henry Boker. Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. : Poems by Sarah M. B. Piatt. Messrs. Little, Brown & Co. : Collected Poems of Helen Hunt Jackson; Poems, First, Second, and Third Series, by Emily Dickinson; Collected Poems of Louise Chandler Moulton; " The Wings of Icarus," by Susan Marr Spalding; " In the Harbor of Hope," by Mary Elizabeth Blake; "Sonnets and Canzonets," by Amos Bronson Alcott; Poems by William Ellery Channing. Messrs. Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co.: "Dumb in June" and "Lyrics of Brotherhood," by Richard Burton; Poems by Paul Hamilton Hayne. The Macmillan Co.: Poems by Madison Cawein; Collected Poems of George Edward Woodberry; "You and I," by Harriet Monroe; "When the Birds Go North Again," by Ella Higgiuscn. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xxiii John R. Murphy, literary executor of John Boyle O'Reilly "Selected Poems of John Boyle O'Reilly," published b; P. J. Kenedy & Sons. Miss Ella Malone, literary executor of Walter Malone, for tltt use of the lyric "Opportunity." Messrs. Moffat, Yard & Co.: Collected Poems of William Winter. Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons: "Summer Haven Songs," by James Herbert Morse; "Mimosa Leaves," by Grace Denio Litchfield; "Joy, and Other Poems," by Danske Dandridge; "Each in His Own Tongue," by Herbert Carruth; "When the Great Gray Ships Come In," by Guy Wetmore Carryl. Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons: "Beyond the Sunset," by Julia C. R. Dorr; Collected Poems of Sidney Lanier; Col- lected Poems of Eugene Field; "Dreams and Days," by George Parsons Lathrop; Poems by Henry van Dyke; Collected Poems of Henry Cuyler Bunner; Poetical Works of J. G. Holland; Collected Poems of Richard Henry Stod- dard; "The Dead Nymph," by Charles Henry Luders; "Songs About Life, Love, and Death," by Anne Reeve Aldrich; "Iter Supremum," by Arthur Sherburne Hardy; "Poems of Gun and Rod," by Ernest McGaffey. Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co.: "Songs From Vagabondia," by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey; Poems by John B. Tabb; "Ballads of Lost Haven" and "Behind the Arras," by Bliss Carman; First Poems by Philip Henry Savage. Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Co.: Selections from the work of Samuel Minturn Peck and of Walter Learned. Messrs. Whitaker & Ray-Wiggin Co.: Complete Poems of Joaquin Miller. The selections from Walt Whitman are taken, by permission of the publisher, Mitchell Kennerley, from the authorized edition of "Complete Leaves of Grass." I take this opportunity also of thanking Mr. Thomas S. Jones, Jr., for generous and valuable aid in the preparation of the manuscript of " The Little Book of American Poets." THE TEST I hung my verses in the wind, Time and tide their faults may find. All were winnowed through and through, Five lines lasted sound and true; Five were smelted in a pot Than the South more fierce and hot; These the siroc could not melt, Fire their fiercer flaming felt, And the meaning was more white Than July's meridian light. Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, Nor time unmake what poets know. Have you eyes to find the five Which five hundred did survive? HALFII WALOO EMEHSON SONG OF THYRSIS THE turtle on yon withered bough, That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now Such changes all await! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she's willing to be blest And takes her lover to her nest. If nature has decreed it so With all above, and all below, Let us like them forget our woe, And not be killed with sorrow. If I should quit your arms to-night And chance to die before 't was light, I would advise you and you might Love again to-morrow. Philip FreneaUc THE INDIAN BTJRYING-GROUND IN spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead Points out the soul's eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands; The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast. PHILIP FRENEAU His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul, Activity, that wants no rest. His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the old ideas gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, No fraud upon the dead commit, Observe the swelling turf, and say, They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played. There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair), And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers there. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews r In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer a shade! THE AMERICAN FLAG And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here. Philip Freneau. THE AMERICAN FLAG i WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand, The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning-lances driven WTien strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven Child of the sun ! to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on: Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn Where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance; And when the cannon-mou things loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, ELEGIAC And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? Joseph Rodman Drake. ELEGIAC G, IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending ! Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye, Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending, Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away! O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly re- poses Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he tri- umphs above. 8 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished ; Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile; There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for- ever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, val- iant, and free. O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish, Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear! Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear. James Gates Percival. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. MY CHILD Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth; And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine: It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I 've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. Fitz-Greene HaUeck MY CHILD 1 CANNOT make him dead ! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study-chair; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes he is not there! 10 JOHN PIERPONT I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair: And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! MY CHILD 11 When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I *m with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though he is not there I Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used tc wear' The grave that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there! He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there T* Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! John Pierpont 12 RICHARD HENRY DANA THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail, What doth it bring to me? Thou call 'st along the sand, and haunt 'st the surge Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery the Word. Of thousands, thou, both sepulcher and pall, Old Ocean! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring TO A WATERFOWL IS Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana. TO A WATERFOWL WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong/ As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek 'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. 14 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart; Go forth, under the open sky, and list THANATOPSIS 15 To Nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, The powerful of the earth the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all 16 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men The youth in life 's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 17 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William CuUen Bryant. THE DEATH OP THE FLOWERS THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- hood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold No- vember rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 18 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- mer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from up- land, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers, whose fra- grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: A HEALTH Yet not unmeet was it that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant. A HEALTH I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody. Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears EDWARD COATE PINKNEY The image of themselves by turns, The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. Edward Coate Pinkney. SONG WE break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory. BACCHUS 21 But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers And airy gems, thy words. Edward Coate Pinkney. DAYS DAUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them alL I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. Ralph Waldo Emerson. BACCHUS BRING me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching througl Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffered no savor of the earth to 'scape. RALPH WALDO EMERSON Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root, Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus; And turns the woe of Night, By its own craft, to a more rich delight. We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine; Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mold of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught assimilated, May float at pleasure through all natures; The bird-language rightly spell, And that which roses say so well. Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun, Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls. Water and bread, Food which needs no transmuting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, Wine which is already man, Food which teach and reason can. BACCHUS 28 Wine which Music is, Music and wine are one, That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Kings unborn shall walk with me, And the poor grass shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man. Quickened so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock. I thank the joyful juice For all I know; Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow. Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; Retrieve the loss of me and mine! Vine for vine be antidote, And the grape requite the lote! Haste to cure the old despair; Reason in Nature's lotus drenched, The memory of ages quenched; Give them again to shine; Let wine repair what this undid; And where the infection slid, A dazzling memory revive; Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 4 RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE PROBLEM I LIKE a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles: Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? THE PROBLEM 25 Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For, out of Thought's interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them placet Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. 6 RALPH WALDO EMERSON One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise, The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be. Ralph Waldo Emerson. BRAHMA IF the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. TERMINUS 27 The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good ! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. Ralph Waldo Emerson. TERMINUS IT is time to be old, To take in sail : The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said: "No more! No farther shoot Thy broad ambitious branches, and thy root. Fancy departs: no more invent; Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot; A little while Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, 38 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN Who, when they gave thee breath, Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once, The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb, Amid the Gladiators, halt and numb." As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed." Ralph Waldo Emerson. MONTEREY WE were not many we who stood Before the iron sleet that day Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he then could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. DIVINA COMMEDIA 29 And on still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest, Than not have been at Monterey? Charles Fenno Hoffman, DIVINA COMMEDIA OFT have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an indistinguishable roar. 50 LONGFELLOW So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. Henry Wadsworih Longfellow GIOTTO'S TOWER How many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint, Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint, And are in their completeness incomplete ! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, A vision, a delight, and a desire, The builder's perfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone, But wanting still the glory of the spire. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow MY LOST YOUTH OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me*. MY LOST YOUTH SI And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees. And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all iny boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts," I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea- tides tossing free; .\nd Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.* I remember the bulwarks by the shore, &.nd the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: 82 LONGFELLOW "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts," I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 1 can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: **A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." MY LOST YOUTH 33 There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak. And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.*' Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'* And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' r Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 34 LONGFELLOW THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD WE sat within the farmhouse old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Jr say it in too great excess. THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD 35 The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows rattling in their frames 9 The ocean roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The driftwood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS UNSEEN SPIRITS THE shadows lay along Broadway, 'T was near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair, For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail : 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn r And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray, THE ETERNAL GOODNESS 37 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way! But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway! Nathaniel Parker Wittis. THE ETERNAL GOODNESS FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear. 1 trace your lines of argument; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong. But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds: Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads. Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man. I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod; I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God. 38 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Ye praise His justice; even such His pitying love I deem; Ye seek a king; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam. Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss; I hear our Lord's beatitudes And prayer upon the cross. More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know: Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the merit show. I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim. I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin. Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings: I know that God is good ! Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see, But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me. THE ETERNAL GOODNESS The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above, I know not of His hate, I know His goodness and His love. I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right. I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong. I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies. And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain, The bruised reed He will not break. But strengthen and sustain. No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love. And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore. 40 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care. O brothers! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray, Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way. And thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee! John Greenleaf Whittier. MY PLAYMATE THE pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet, The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. MY PLAYMATE 41 She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine; What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine? She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns, But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown, No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. The wild grapes wait us by the brook, The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make sweet The woods of Foliymill. The lilies blossom in the pond, The bird builds in the tree, The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill The slow song of the sea. 42 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER I wonder if she thinks of them, And how the old time seems, * If ever the pines of Ramoth wood Are sounding in her dreams. I see her face, I hear her voice, Does she remember mine? And what to her is now the boy Who fed her father's kine? What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers? O playmate in the golden time! Our mossy seat is green, Its fringing violets blossom yet, The old trees o'er it lean. The winds so sweet with birch and fern A sweeter memory blow, And there in spring the veeries sing A song of long ago. And still the pines of Ramoth wood Are moaning like the sea, The moaning of the sea of change Between myself and thee! John Greenlectf Whittles THE BAREFOOT BOY 48 THE BAREFOOT BOY BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons. And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty gracej From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules 9 Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place. Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; 44 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the Treshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, - Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, THE BAREFOOT BOY 45 Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, 46 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy! John Greenleaf Whittier. ICHABOD So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore! Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age> Falls back in night. Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! ISRAFEL 47 Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naugh? Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame! John Greenleaf Whittbr. ISRAFEL IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell " Whose heart-strings are a lute ' None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, 48 EDGAR ALLAN POE And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven) Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty -= Where Love's a grown-up god Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! THE VALLEY OF UNREST 40 The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. Edgar Allan Pot THE VALLEY OF UNREST ONCE it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. 50 EDGAR ALLAN FOE Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides ! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave : from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep : from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. Edgar Attan Pee. TO ONE IN PARADISE THOU wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast ! TO HELEN 51 A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!" but o'er the Past (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast! For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! "No more no more no more * (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. Edgar Allan Po* TO HELEN HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. 52 JOHN HENRY BONER Lo! in yon brilliant window -niche How statue-like I see thee stand ! The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land ! Edgar Allan Poe. TO EDGAR ALLAN POE IF thy sad heart, pining for human love, In its earth solitude grew dark with fear, Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should prove Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere Wherein thy spirit wandered, if the flowers That pressed around thy feet, seemed but to bloom In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours, When all who loved had left thee to thy doom, Oh, yet believe that in that hollow vale Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail To lift its burden of remorseful pain, My soul shall meet thee, and its Heaven forego Till God's great love, on both, one hope, one Heaven bestow. Sarah Helen Whitman. POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM HERE lived the soul enchanted By melody of song; Here dwelt the spirit haunted By a demoniac throng; POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM 53 Here sang the lips elated; Here grief and death were sated; Here loved and here unmated Was he, so frail, so strong. Here wintry winds and cheerless The dying firelight blew, While he whose song was peerless Dreamed the drear midnight through., And from dull embers chilling Crept shadows darkly filling The silent place, and thrilling His fancy as they grew. Here with brows bared to heaven. In starry night he stood, With the lost star of seven Feeling sad brotherhood. Here in the sobbing showers Of dark autumnal hours He heard suspected powers Shriek through the stormy wood. From visions of Apollo And of Astarte's bliss, He gazed into the hollow And hopeless vale of Dis, And though earth were surrounded By heaven, it still was mounded With graves. His soul had sounded The dolorous abyss. Poor, mad, but not defiant, He touched at heaven and hell. 54 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Fate found a rare soul pliant And wrung her changes well. Alternately his lyre, Stranded with strings of fire, Led earth's most happy choir, Or flashed with Israfel. No singer of old story Luting accustomed lays, No harper for new glory, No mendicant for praise, He struck high chords and splendid, Wherein were finely blended Tones that unfinished ended With his unfinished days. Here through this lonely portal, Made sacred by his name. Unheralded immortal The mortal went and came. And fate that then denied him, And envy that decried him, And malice that belied him, Here cenotaphed his fame, John Henry Boner, THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 55 And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold ,sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old n } more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low- vaulted past! 56 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE LAST LEAF I SAW him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, THE LAST LEAF 57 And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmama has said, Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago, That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow; But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree, In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. Oliver Wendell Holmes* 8 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH GNOSIS THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, YOURSELF Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. Christopher Pearse Cranch A DEATH-BED HER suffering ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away, In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all his state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through Glory's morning gate And walked in Paradise. James Aldrich YOURSELF T is to yourself I speak; you cannot know Him whom I call in speaking such a one, For you beneath the earth lie buried low, Which he, alone, as living walks upon. You may at times have heard him speak to you, And oftep wished perchance that you were he; 60 JONES VERY And I must ever wish that it were true, For then you could hold fellowship with me: But now you hear us talk as strangers, met Above the room wherein you lie abed ; A word perhaps loud spoken you may get, Or hear our feet when heavily they tread; But he who speaks, or he who 's spoken to, Must both remain as strangers still to you. Jones Very* THE IDLER I IDLE stand that I may find employ, Such as my Master when He comes will give; I cannot find in mine own work my joy, But wait, although in waiting I must live; My body shall not turn which way it will, But stand till I the appointed road can find, And journeying so his messages fulfil, And do at every step the work designed. Enough for me, still day by day to wait Till Thou who formest me findest me too a task, A cripple lying at the rich man's gate, Content for the few crumbs I get to ask, A laborer but in heart, while bound my hands Hang idly down still waiting thy commands. Jones Very. MY PRAYER G*IEAI God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf Than that I may not disappoint myself; That, in my action I may soar as high As I can now discern with this clear eye a INSPIRATION 61 And next in value, which thy kindness lends, That I may greatly disappoint my friends, Howe'er they think or hope that it may be, They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me. That my weak hand may equal my firm faith, And my life practise more than my tongue saith; That my low conduct may not show, Nor my relenting lines, That I thy purpose did not know, Or overrated thy designs. Henry David Thoreau* INSPIRATION IF with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source. But if with bended neck I grope Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope, More anxious to keep back than forward it, Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse forever wear, Time cannot bend the line which God has write I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before; 62 HENRY DAVID THOREAU I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore Now chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life; Of manhood's strength it is the flower, *T is peace's end, and war's beginning strife. It comes in summer's broadest noon, By a gray wall, or some chance place, Unseasoning time, insulting June, And vexing day with its presuming face. I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want hath bought, Which wooed me young, and wooes me old, And to this evening hath me brought. Henry David Thoreau. SMOKE LIGHT- WINGED Smoke ! Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and messenger of ,flawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. . Henry David Thorcaii* THOREAU'S FLUTE 63 THOREAU WHO nearer Nature's life would truly come Must nearest come to him of whom I speak; He all kinds knew, the vocal and the dumb; Masterful in genius was he, and unique, Patient, sagacious, tender, frolicsome. This Concord Pan would oft his whistle take, And forth from wood and fen, field, hill, and lake, Trooping around him in their several guise, The shy inhabitants their haunts forsake: Then he, like ^Esop, man would satirize, Hold up the image wild to clearest view Of undiscerning manhood's puzzled eyes, And mocking say, "Loi mirrors here for you: Be true as these, if ye would be more wise." Amos Bronson Alcott, THOREAU'S FLUTE WE, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river; Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him : The Genius of the wood is lost." Then from the flute, untouched by hands, There came a low, harmonious breath: "For such as he there is no death; His life the eternal life commands; 64 WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING Above man's aims his nature rose: The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent, And turned to poetry Life's prose. "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine, To him grew human or divine, Fit mates for this large-hearted child. Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. "To him no vain regrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend ! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen, Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: Seek not for him, he is with thee." Louisa May Alcoti. TEARS IN SPRING (LAMENT FOR THOREAU) THE swallow is flying over, But he will not come to me; He flits, my daring rover, From land to land, from sea to sea; Where hot Bermuda's reef Its barrier lifts to fortify the shore, TEARS IN SPRING 65 Above the surf's wild roar He darts as swiftly o'er, But he who heard his cry of spring Hears that no more, heeds not his wing. How bright the skies that dally Along day's cheerful arch, And paint the sunset valley! How redly buds the larch! Blackbirds are singing, Clear hylas ringing, Over the meadow the frogs proclaim The coming of Spring to boy and dame, But not to me, Northee! And golden crowfoot's shining near, Spring everywhere that shoots 't is clear s A wail in the wind is all I hear; A voice of woe for a lover's loss, A motto for a travelling cross, And yet it is mean to mourn for thee, In the form of bird or blossom or bee. Cold are the sods of the valley to-day Where thou art sleeping, That took thee back to thy native clay; Cold, if above thee the grass is peeping And the patient sunlight creeping, While the bluebird sits on the locust-bough Whose shadow is painted across thy brow, And carols his welcome so sad and sweet To the Spring that comes and kisses his feet. William Elhry Charming^ 66 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SHE CAME AND WENT As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred; I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven; I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps; I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. James Russell Lowell. MY LOVE Nor as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. M\ LOVE 67 Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise: For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings. And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is : God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true 68 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman : one in whom The springtime of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems following its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like nuiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. James Russell Lowell. COMMEMORATION ODE i WEAK-winged is song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Whither the brave deed climbs for light: We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse, Our trivial song to honor those who come With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum, COMMEMORATION ODE And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire, Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire: Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, A gracious memory to buoy up and save From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave Of the unventurous throng. To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back Her wisest Scholars, those who understood The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, And offered their fresh lives to make it good: No lore of Greece or Rome, No science peddling with the names of things, Or reading stars to find inglorious fates, Can lift our life with wings Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits And lengthen out our dates With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates^ Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all! Not such the trumpet-call Of thy diviner mood, That could thy sons entice From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest Of those half-virtues which the world calls best, Into War's tumult rude; But rather far that stern device The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood In the dim, unventured wood, The VERITAS that lurks beneath The letter's unprolific sheath, Life of whate'er makes life worth living, 70 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving. Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fieetness Of her divine completeness: Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her. Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. IV Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides Into the silent hollow of the past; What is there that abides COMMEMORATION ODE 71 To make the next age better for the last? Is earth too poor to give us Something to live for here that shall outlive us? Some more substantial boon Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon? The little that we see From doubt is never free; The little that we do Is but half-nobly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss, Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires. After our little hour of strut and rave, With all our pasteboard passions and desires, Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave. But stay ! no age was e'er degenerate, Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, For in our likeness still we shape our fate. Ah, there is something here Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer, Something that gives our feeble light A high immunity from Night, Something that leaps life's narrow bars To claim its birthright with the hosts of heaven; A seed of sunshine that can leaven Our earthly dullness with the beams of stars, And glorify our clay With light from fountains elder than the Day; 72 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL A conscience more divine than we, A gladness fed with secret tears, A vexing, forward-reaching sense Of some more noble permanence; A light across the sea, Which haunts the soul and will not let it be, Still beaconing from the heights of undegenerate years. Whither leads the path To ampler fates that leads? Not down through flowery meads, To reap an aftermath Of youth's vainglorious weeds, But up the steep, amid the wrath And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, Where the world's best hope and stay By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds. Peace hath her not ignoble wreath, Ere yet the sharp, decisive word Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword Dreams in its easeful sheath; But some day the live coal behind the thought, Whether from Baal's stone obscene, Or from the shrine serene Of God's pure altar brought, Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, And, helpless in the fiery passion caught, Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men : Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed COMMEMORATION ODE 73 Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, And cries reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, The victim of thy genius, not its mate!" Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, God's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs. Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, Whom late the Nation he had led, With ashes on her head, Wept with the passion of an angry grief: Forgive me, if from present things I turn To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote: For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw, 74 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL And, choosing sweet clay from the breast Of the unexhausted West, With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. How beautiful to see Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead; One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will ; That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A sea-mark now, now lost in vapor's blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Peer Could Nature's equal scheme deface And thwart her genial will; Here was a type of the true elder race, Ind one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory COMMEMORATION ODE 75 Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes; These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Our children shall behold his fame, The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, New birth of our new soil, the first American. Long as man's hope insatiate can discern Or only guess some more inspiring goal Outside of Self, enduring as the pole, Along whose course the flying axles burn Of spirits bravely-pitched, earth's manlier brood; Long as below we cannot find The meed that stills the inexorable mind; So long this faith to some ideal Good, Under whatever mortal names it masks, Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks, Feeling its challenged pulses leap, While others skulk in subterfuges cheap, And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks, Shall win man's praise and woman's love, Shall be a wisdom that we set above 76 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL All other skills and gifts to culture dear, A virtue round whose forehead we inwreathe Laurels that with a living passion breathe When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear. What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, And seal these hours the noblest of our year, Save that our brothers found this better way? We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk; But 't was they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best; Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, And will not please the ear: I sweep them for a paean, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away, in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain: Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not. Say not so! 'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, But the high faith that failed not by the way; COMMEMORATION ODE 77 Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; No bar of endless night exiles the brave; And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! For never shall their aureoled presence lack: I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show; We find in our dull road their shining track; In every nobler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration; They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation! But is there hope to save Even this ethereal essence from the grave? What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song? Before my musing eye The mighty ones of old sweep by, Disvoiced now and insubstantial things, As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, And many races, nameless long ago, To darkness driven by that imperious gust Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow: O visionary world, condition strange, Where naught abiding is but only Change, 78 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Where the deep-bolted stars themselves still shift and range! Shall we to more continuance make pretence? Renown builds tombs; a life-estate is Wit; And, bit by bit, The cunning years steal all from us but woe; Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow. But, when we vanish hence, Shall they lie forceless in the dark below, Save to make green their little length of sods, Or deepen pansies for a year or two, Who now to us are shining-sweet as gods? Was dying all they had the skill to do? That were not fruitless : but the Soul resents Such short-lived service, as if blind events Ruled without her, or earth could so endure; She claims a more divine investiture Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents; Whate'er she touches doth her nature share; Her inspiration haunts the ennobled air, Gives eyes to mountains blind, Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, And her clear trump sings succor everywhere By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; For soul inherits all that soul could dare: Yea, Manhood hath a wider span And larger privilege of life than man. The single deed, the private sacrifice, So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears, Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years; But that high privilege that makes all men peers, That leap of heart whereby a people rise COMMEMORATION ODE 79 Up to a noble anger's height, And, flamed on by tne Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright, That swift validity in noble veins, Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact base But wraps its chosen with angelic might, These are imperishable gains, Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, These hold great futures in their lusty reins And certify to earth a new imperial race. Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Our lines to a plebeian race? Roundhead and Cavalier! Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron in 't To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl Down from some victor in a border-brawl! How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets! 80 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Not in anger, not in pride, Pure from passion's mixture rude Ever to base earth allied, But with far-heard gratitude, Still with heart and voice renewed, 'fo heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave. Lift the heart and lift the head! Lofty be its mood and grave, Not without a martial ring, Not without a prouder tread And a peal of exultation: Little right has he to sing Through whose heart in such an hour Beats no march of conscious power, Sweeps no tumult of elation! 'T is no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, But the pith and marrow of a Nation Drawing force from all her men, Highest, humblest, weakest, all, For her time of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower, Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. Come back, then, noble pride, for 't is her doweri How could poet ever tower, If his passions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? COMMEMORATION ODE 81 Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, a-dance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: "Be proud ! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful shore. No challenge sends she to the elder world, That looked askance and hated ; a light scorn Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn ^)f nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace; 82 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Bow down in prayer and praise! No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow. O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, Among the Nations bright beyond compare? What were our lives without thee? What all our lives to save thee? We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare! James Russell Lowell AUSPEX MY heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow. Had they been swallows only, Without the passion stronger That skyward longs and sings, Woe 's me, I shall be lonely SONG 83 When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings! A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song. James Russell LowelL SONG O BIRD, thou dartest to the sun, When morning beams first spring, And I, like thee, would swiftly run; As sweetly would I sing. Thy burning heart doth draw thee up Unto the source of fire; Thou drinkest from its glowing cup And quenchest thy desire. dew, thou droppest soft below, And pearl est all the ground- Yet, when the morning comes, I know Thou never canst be found. 1 would like thine had been my birth; Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep the night through on the earth To waken in the sky. O clouds, ye little tender sheep, Pastured in fields of blue, 84 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND While moon and stars your fold can keep And gently shepherd you, Let me, too, follow in the train That flocks across the night, Or lingers on the open plain With new-shorn fleeces white. singing winds, that wander far, Yet always seem at home, And freely play 'twixt star and star Along the bending dome, 1 often listen to your song, Yet never hear you say One word of all the happy worlds That sing so far away. For they are free, ye all are free, And bird, and dew, and light, Can dart upon the azure sea And leave me to my night; Oh, would like theirs had been my birth, Then I, without a sigh, Might sleep this night through on the earth To waken in the sky. Maria White Lowell GRADATIM HEAVEN is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round. GRADATIM 85 I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by the things that are under feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy day. W T iugs for the angels, but feet for men! We may borrow the wings to find the way We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray ; But our feet must rise, or we fall again. Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, A.nd the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round. Josiah Gilbert Holland. 96 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE A THOUSAND silent years ago, The twilight faint and pale Was drawing o'er the sunset glo\f Its soft and shadowy veil; When from his work the Sculptor stayed His hand, and, turned to one Who stood beside him, half in shade, Said, with a sigh, "'T is done. "Thus much is saved from chance and change, That waits for me and thee; Thus much how little ! from the range Of Death and Destiny. "Phryne, thy human lips shall pale, Thy rounded limbs decay, Nor love nor prayers can aught avail To bid thy beauty stay; "But there thy smile for centuries On marble lips shall live, For Art can grant what Love denies, And fix the fugitive. "Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust; When this quick brain and hand that made, And thou and I are dust! "When all our hopes and fears are dead, And both our hearts are cold, ON A BUST OF DANTE 87 And love is like a tune that's played, And life a tale that's told, ^This senseless stone, so coldly fair, That love nor life can warm, The same enchanting look shall wear, , The same enchanting form. "Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; Its beauty age shall spare The bitterness of vanished joy, The wearing waste of care. "And there upon that silent face Shall unborn ages see Perennial youth, perennial grace, And sealed serenity. "And strangers, when we steep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved, 'So smiled upon Praxiteles The Phryne whom he loved!'" William Wetmore Story. ON A BUST OF DANTE SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song : There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abide Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside. 88 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was but a fight; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame? The lips as Cumae's cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request. Peace dwells not here this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine DIRGE 89 When hell he peopled with his foes, Dread scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time. O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou; That poor, old exile, sad and lone, Is Latium's other Virgil now. Before his name the nations bow; His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. Thomaq William Parsons, DIRGE FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE ROOM for a soldier! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it. 90 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches, Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches: Make his mound with sunshine on it, Where the bee will dine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the rain will rain upon it. Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it. Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften : He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin. Make his mound with sunshine on it, Plant the lordly pine upon it, Where the moon may stream upon it, And memory shall dream upon it. "Captain or Colonel," whatever invocation Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station, On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of & mighty nation! Long as the sun doth shine upon it Shall glow the goodly pine upon it, THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 91 Long as the stars do gleam upon it Shall memory come to dream upon it. Thomas William Parsons* THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dieam alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. 92 THEODORE O'HARA The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past ; Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that* day Was "Victory or Death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew. Such odds his strength could bide. T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land. The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 93 And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the dark and bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulcher. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; 94 GEORGE HENRY BOKER Nor shall your story be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. Theodore 0'Hara e DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER CLOSE his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! W r hat cares he? he cannot knows Lay him low! BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 95 Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low ! Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by : God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow ! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low ! George Henry Boker. THE BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- cling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps: 96 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flar- ing lamps; His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judg- ment-seat: Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across th<" sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me : As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Julia Ward Howe. THE BRAVE AT HOME THE maid who binds her warrior's sash With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, DRIFTING 9? Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e'er bedewed the field of glory. The wife who girds her husband's sword, Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er Was poured upon the field of battle I The mother who conceals her grieic While to her breast her son she presses. Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on Freedom's field of honor! Thomas Buchanan Read, DRIFTING MY soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swings round the purple peaks remote: ' 98 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals. At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. DRIFTING The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keeL Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, O'erveiled with vines She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. 100 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one. Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip ! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew! No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise ! Thomas Buchanan Head. THE CLOSING SCENE WITHIN his sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills On the dull thunder of alternate flails. THE CLOSING SCENE 101 All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low* As in a dream the distant woodmai . hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. .he embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumbrous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's com- plaint, And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind like a censer swung ^Vhere sang the noisy masons of the eaves, The busy swallows, circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast. Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, 102 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ To warn the reaper of the rosy east, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch; Amid all this, the center of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous trad. Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known Sorrow, he had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, Re-gave the sword* to rust upon the waJJ. THE LAST INVOCATION 108 Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed; Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. Thomas Buchanan Read. THE LAST INVOCATION AT the last, tenderly, From the walls of the powerful, fortressed house, From the clasp of the knitted locks from the keep of the well -closed doors, Let me be wafted. Let me glide noiselessly forth; With the key of softness unlock the locks with a whisper Set ope the doors, O Soul! Tenderly! be not impatient! (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! Strong is your hold, O love.) Walt Whitman. 104 WALT WHITMAN OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY ROCKING OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle. Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wandered alone, bare- headed, barefoot, Down from the showered halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twist ^ ing as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist, From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease, From the myriad thence-aroused words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any. From such as now they start the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing. Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, t, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and here- after, Taking all hints to use them, hut swiftly leaping be yond them, A reminiscence sing. OUT OF THE CRADLE 105 Once Paumanok, When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this seashore in some briers, Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great sun! While we bask, we two together. Two together! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home. Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together. Till of a sudden, Maybe killed, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, Vor returned that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appeared again. And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, 106 WALT WHITMAN Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he bird, The solitary guest from Alabama. Blow! blow! blow! Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore; I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me. Yes, when the stars glistened, All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. He called on his mate, He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know. Yes, my brother, I know, The rest might not, but I have treasured every note, For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding. Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listened long and long. Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, Following you, my brother. Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes tlie wave behind, OUT OF THE CRADLE 107 And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon, it rose late, It is lagging 01 think it is heavy with love, with love. madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love, with love. night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers? What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves, Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love. Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? it is the shape, the shape of my mate! moon, do not keep her from me any longer. Land! land! land! Whichever way I turn, 0, I think you could give me my mate back again if you only would, For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. 108 WALT WHITMAN throat! trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth, Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. Shake out carols! Solitary here, the night's carols! Carols of lonesome love! death's carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea! reckless despairing carols! But soft! sink low! Soft! let me just murmur, And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea, For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint, I must be still, be still to listen, But not altogether still, for then she might not come im- mediately to me. Hither, my love! Here I am! here! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you, This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. Do not be decoyed elseivhere: That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice, That is the fluttering, the flutteiing of the spray, Those are the shadows of leaves. darkness! in vain! I am very sick and sorrowful. OUT OF THE CRADLE 109 brown halo in the sky near tlw moon, drooping upon the sea! troubled reflection in the sea! throat! throbbing heart! And I singing uselessly! uselessly all the night. past! happy life! songs of joy! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my mate no more, no more with me! We two together no more. The aria sinking, All else continuing, the stars shining, The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling, The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, droop- ing, the face of the sea almost touching, The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying, To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing, To the outsetting bard. 110 WALT WHITMAN Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me? For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake, And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die. O you singers solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me, O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease per- petuating you, Never more shall I escape, never more the reverbera- tions, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there in the night, By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there aroused, the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me. O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here som where) O if I am to have so much, let me have more! A word then, (for I will conquer it) The word final, superior to all, Subtle, sent up what is it? I listen; OUT OF THE CRADLE 111 Are you whispering it, and have been all the time v you sea- waves? Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? Whereto answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, Whispered me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, Lisped to me the low and delicious word death, And again death, death, death, death, Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my aroused child's heart, But edging near as privately for me, rustling at my feet, Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over, Death, death, death, death, death. Which I do not forget, But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach, With the thousand responsive songs at random, My own songs awaked from that hour, And with them the key, the word up from the waves, The word of the sweetest song and all songs, That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, (Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside) The sea whispered me. Walt Whitman 112 WALT WHITMAN DEATH CAROL (From " When Lilacs Last in the Door- Yard Bloomed ") COME, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death. Praised be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curi- ous; And for love, sweet love But praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death. Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest wel- come? Then I chant it for thee I glorify thee above all; I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong deliveress! When it is so when thou hast taken them, I joy- ously sing the dead, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee adorn- ments and f eastings for thee; And the sights of the open landscape, and the high- spread sky, are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN 113 The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know; A.nd the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! Over the rising and sinking waves over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide; Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death! Walt Whitman. GIVE ME THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN GIVE me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full- dazzling, Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows, Give me an arbor, give me the trellised grape, Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content, Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars, Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed, Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman of whom I should never tire, Give me a perfect child, give me, away aside from the noise of the world, a rural domestic life, 114 WALT WHITMAN Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by my- self, for my own ears only, Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities! These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and racked by the war-strife) These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city Day upon day and year upon year, O city, walking your streets, Where you hold me enchained a certain time refusing to give me up, Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul, you give me forever faces; (O I see what I ought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.) Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn- fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum; Give me faces and streets give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes give me women give me comrades and lovers by the thousand ! Let me see new ones every day let me hold new ones by the hand every day ! THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN 115 Give me such shows give me the streets of Man- hattan ! Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching give me the sound of the trumpets and drums! (The soldiers in companies or regiments some start- ing away flushed and reckless, Some, their time up, returning with thinned ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;) Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships! O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied ! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer ! The crowded excursion for me! The torchlight procession! The dense brigade bound for the war, with high-piled military wagons following; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, pas- sions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded), Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus ! \lanhattan faces and eyes forever for me. Walt Whitman. 116 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER A NOISELESS, patient spider, I marked, where, on a little promontory, it stood isolated ; Marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; Ever unreeling them ever tirelessly speeding them. And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres, to connect them ; Till the bridge you will need, be formed till the ductile anchor hold; Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. Walt Whitman. THE SNOWING OF THE PINES SOFTER than silence, stiller than still air Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves. The forest floor its annual boon receives That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair. Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear. Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way; High up, the crows are gathering for the night; THE BLACKBIRD 117 The delicate needles fill the air; the jay Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight; They fall and fall, till at November's close The snow-flakes drop as lightly snows on snows. Thomas Wentworth Higginson. THE TRUMPETER I BLEW, I blew, the trumpet loudly sounding; I blew, I blew, the heart within me bounding; The world was fresh and fair, yet dark with wrong, And men stood forth to conquer at the song I blew! I blew! I blew! The field is won, the minstrels loud are crying, And all the world is peace, and I am dying. Yet this forgotten life was not in vain; Enough if I alone recall the strain, I blew! I blew! I blew! Thomas Wentworth Higginson. THE BLACKBIRD ONE on another against the wall Pile up the books, I am done with them all! I shall be wise, if I ever am wise, Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes. One day of the woods and their balmy light, One hour on the top of a breezy hill, There in the sassafras all out of sight The blackbird is splitting his slender bill For the ease of his heart! 118 LUCY LARCOM Do you think if he said I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back And the two little spots of gold over his eyes, Or like to this shy little creature that flies So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings About her small throat, all alive when she sings With a glitter of shivering green, for the rest, Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast Half rose and half fawn, Or like this one so proud, That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud, With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head, And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings, Do you think, if he said, "I'm ashamed to be black!*' That he could have shaken the sassafras tree As he does with the song he was born to? Not he ! Alice Gary. A STRIP OF BLUE I DO not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine, The orchard and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me tithes divine, Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity, A little strip of sea. A STRIP OF BLUE 119 Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze, To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew, My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue. Sometimes they seem like living shapes, The people of the sky, Guests in white raiment coming down From heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh. So white, so light, so spirit-like, From violet mists they bloom! The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom, Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room. The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn till night; We miss the warm, caressing shore, Its brooding shade and light. A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told. 120 LUCY LARCOM The fringes of eternity, God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for and hold. The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones, Sapphire and amethyst Washed from celestial basement walls, By suns unsetting kist. Out through the utmost gates of space, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift, Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift. Here sit I, as a little child; The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before. Thy universe, O God, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad when is oped unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of Thee. Lucy Larcom. THE BURIAL OF THE DANE 121 THE BURIAL OF THE DANE BLUE gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead ! It is but a Danish sailor. Rugged of front and form; A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm. His name, and the strand he hailed from We know, and there's nothing more! But perhaps his mother is v/aiting In the lonely Island of Fohr. Still, as he lay there dying, Reason drifting awreck, *"T is my watch," he would mutter, "I must go upon deck!" Aye, on deck, by the foremast! But watch and lookout are done; The Union Jack laid o'er him, How quiet he lies in the sun! Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft; Let the roll of the ocean Cradle our giant craft; Gather around the grating, Carry your messmate aft! 122 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer ! Let every foot be quiet, Every head be bare The soft trade-wind is lifting A hundred locks of hair. Our captain reads the service, (A little spray on his cheeks) The grand old words of burial, And the trust a true heart seeks: "We therefore commit his body To the deep " and, as he speaks, Launched from the weather railing, Swift as the eye can mark, The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark ! A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas coffin; But, silence to doubt and dole: There 's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor aweary soul. Free the fettered engine, Speed the tireless shaft, Loose to'gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft! THE TWO FRIENDS 123 Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead Every man to his duty, We have buried our dead ! Henry Howard. BrovmeU. THE TWO FRIENDS I HAVE two friends two glorious friends two better could not be, And every night when midnight tolls they meet to laugh with me. The first was shot by Carlist thieves ten years ago in Spain. The second drowned near Alicante while I alive remain. I love to see their dim white forms come floating through the night, And grieve to see them fade away in early morning light. The first with gnomes in the Under Land is leading a lordly life, The second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful water-wife. And since I have friends in the Earth and Sea with a few, I trust, on high, 'T is a matter of small account to me the way that I may die. 124 BAYARD TAYLOR For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing on the triple tree, Or die in my bed, as a Christian should, is all the same to me. Charles Godfrey Leland. TYRE THE wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire; The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre, Beats on the fallen columns and round the headland roars, Arid hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores, And calls with hungry clamor, that speaks its long desire : "Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?" Within her cunning harbor, choked with invading sand, No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every land, And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have blown, Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o'er- thrown; And from the reef the pharos no longer flings its fire, To beacon home from Tarshish the lordly ships of Tyre. Where is thy rod of empire, once mighty on the waves, Thou that thyself exalted, till Kings became thy slaves? TYRE 125 Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will obeyed, Whose favor made them joyful, whose anger sore afraid, Who laid 'st thy deep foundations, and thought them strong and sure, And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye en- dure? Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely mart? The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian art; The silken goats of Kedar; Sabsea's spicy store; The tributes of the islands thy squadrons homeward bore, When in thy gates triumphant they entered from the sea With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery? Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish! the glory is laid waste: There is no habitation; the mansions are defaced. No mariners of Sidon unfurl your mighty sails; No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow in Shenir's vales And Bashan's oaks that boasted a thousand years of sun, Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon. Rise, thou forgotten harlot! take up thy harp and sing: Call the rebellious islands to own their ancient king: 126 BAYARD TAYLOR Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with thy hair un- bound, Sit on the piles of ruins, thou throneless and dis- crowned ! There mix thy voice of wailing with the thunders of the sea, And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered be! Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still la- ments The pomp and power departed, the lost magnifi- cence: The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder now; The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled brow, And evermore the surges chant forth their vain de- sire: "Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?" Bayard Taylor. SONG DAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes! I cannot bear their fire; Nor will I touch with sacrifice Those altars of desire. For they are flames that shun the day, And their unholy light Is fed from natures gone astray In passion and in night. BEDOUIN SONG 127 The stars of Beauty and of Sin, They burn amid the dark, Like beacons that to ruin win The fascinated bark. Then veil their glow, lest I forswear The hopes thou canst not crown, And in the black waves of thy hair My struggling manhood drown! Bayard Taylor. BEDOUIN SONG FROM the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold/ Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die 128 JULIA C. R. DORR Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold! My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book Unfold! Bayard Taylor. TO A LATE COMER WHY didst thou come into my life so late? If it were morning I could welcome thee With glad all-hails, and bid each hour to be The willing servitor of thine estate, Lading thy brave ships with Time's richest freight; If it were noonday I might hope to see On some fair height thy banners floating free, And hear the acclaiming voices call thee great! But it is nightfall and the stars are out; Far in the west the crescent moon hangs low, And near at hand the lurking shadows wait; NEARER HOME 129 Darkness and silence gather Tound about, Lethe's black stream is near its overflow, Ah, friend, dear friend, why didst thou come so late? Julia C. R. Dorr. "THALATTA! THALATTA!" CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND I STAND upon the summit of my years; Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife, The wandering and the desert; vast, afar, Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea! The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings, By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace. Palter no question of the dim Beyond; Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest, Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, A widening heaven, a current without care. Eternity! Deliverance, Promise, Course! Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore. Joseph Brownlee Brown. NEARER HOME ONE sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before; Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; 130 PHCEBE GARY Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea; Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown. But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night> Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light. Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism. Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think; Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith! Phoebe Gary. ALAS! SINCE, if you stood by my side to-day, Only our hands could meet, What matter that half the weary world Lies between our feet; EBB AND FLOW 131 That I am here by the lonesome sea, You by the pleasant Rhine? Our hearts were just as far apart If I held your hand in mine! Therefore, with never a backward glance, I leave the past behind; And standing here by the sea alone, I give it to the wind. I give it to the cruel wind And I have no word to say; Yet, alas ! to be as we have been, And to be as we are to-day! Phoebe Gary. EBB AND FLOW I WALKED beside the evening sea, And dreamed a dream that could not be; The waves that plunged along the shore Said only "Dreamer, dream no more!" But still the legions charged the beach; Loud rang their battle-cry, like speech; But changed was the imperial strain: It murmured "Dreamer, dream again!" I homeward turned from out the gloom, That sound I beard not in my room; But suddenly a sound that stirred Within my very breast, I heard. 132 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD It was my heart, that like a sea Within my breast beat ceaselessly: But like the waves along the shore, It said "Dream on!" and "Dream no more!" George William Curtis, THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain: We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. Richard Henry Stoddard^ BIRDS BIRDS are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird. MERCEDES 133 So with thoughts my brain is peopled, And they sing there all day long : But they will not fold their pinions In the little cage of Song ! Richard Henry Stoddard. MERCEDES UNDER a sultry, yellow sky, On the yellow sand I lie; The crinkled vapors smite my brain, I smoulder in a fiery pain. Above the crags the condor flies; He knows where the red gold lies, He knows where the diamonds shine; If I knew, would she be mine? Mercedes in her hammock swings; In her court a palm-tree flings Its slender shadow on the ground, The fountain falls with silver sound. Her lips are like this cactus cup; With my hand I crush it up; I tear its flaming leaves apart; Would that I could tear her heart! Last night a man was at her gate; In the hedge I lay in wait; I saw Mercedes meet him there, By the fireflies in her hair. 134 FRANCIS MILES FINCH I waited till the break of day, Then I rose and stole away; But left my dagger in the gate; Now she knows her lover's fate! Elizabeth Stoddard. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY BY the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day : Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day: Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day: THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 135 Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day: Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field cf grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day: Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done. In the storms of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day: Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray, No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red: IS6 HENRY TIMROD They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day : Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray. Francis Miles Finch. AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause. In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone! Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. Small tributes! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned! Henry Timrod, SPRING 137 SPRING SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee. And there 's a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. And yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, 138 HENRY TIMROD Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may note amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrops tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth.' Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!" Henry Timrod. QUATORZAIN MOST men know love but as a part of life; They hide it in some corner of the breast, Even from themselves; and only when they rest BOOKRA 139 In the brief pauses of that daily strife, Wherewith the world might else be not so rife, They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy) And hold it up to sister, child, or wife. Ah me! why may not love and life be one? Why walk we thus alone, when by our side, Love, like a visible god, might be our guide? How would the marts grow noble! and the street, Worn like a dungeon-floor by weary feet, Seem then a golden court- way of the Sun! Henry Timrod. BOOKRA As I lay asleep in Italy. Shelley. ONE night I lay asleep in Africa, In a closed garden by the city gate; A desert horseman, furious and late, Came wildly thundering at the massive bar, "Open in Allah's name! Wake, Mustapha! Slain is the Sultan, treason, war, and hate Rage from Fez to Tetuan! Open straight." The watchman heard as thunder from afar: "Go to! In peace this city lies asleep; To all-knowing Allah 't is no news you bring;" Then turned in slumber still his watch to keep. At once a nightingale began to sing, In oriental calm the garden lay, Panic and war postponed another day. Charles Dudley Warner. 140 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE MIDWINTER The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, wrapt and pale., Silently drops a silvery vale; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin. But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings. I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plurn and peach. On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden- walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves. The hooded beehive, small and low. Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid. EVENING 141 All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A muffled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And clustering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine. The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands. Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts as soft and white As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity. John Townsend Trowbridge* EVENING I KNOW the night is near at hand. The mists lie low on hill and bay, The autumn sheaves are dewless, dry; But I have had the day. S. WEIR MITCHELL Yes, I have had, dear Lord, the day; When at Thy call I have the night, Brief be the twilight as I pass From light to dark, from dark to light. S. Weir Mitchell. OF ONE WHO SEEMED TO HAVE FAILED DEATH 's but one more to-morrow. Thou art gray With many a death of many a yesterday. O yearning heart that lacked the athlete's force And, stumbling, fell upon the beaten course, And looked, and saw with ever glazing eyes Some lower soul that seemed to win the prize! Lo, Death, the just, who comes to all alike, Life's sorry scales of right anew shall strike. Forth, through the night, on unknown shores to win The peace of God unstirred by sense of sin! There love without desire shall, like a mist At evening precious to the opening flower, Possess thy soul in ownership, and kissed By viewless lips, whose touch shall be a dower Of genius and of winged serenity, Thou shalt abide in realms of poesy. There soul hath touch of soul, and there the great Cast wide to welcome thee joy's golden gate. Freeborn to untold thoughts that age on age Caressed sweet singers in their sacred sleep, Thy soul shall enter on its heritage Of God's unuttered wisdom. Thou shalt sweep With hand assured the ringing lyre of life, Till the fierce anguish of its bitter strife, IN HARBOR 143 Its pain, death, discord, sorrow, and despair, Break into rhythmic music. Thou shalt share The prophet- joy that kept forever glad God's poet-souls when all a world was sad. Enter and live! Thou hast not lived before; We were but soul-cast shadows. Ah, no more The heart shall bear the burdens of the brain; Now shall the strong heart think, nor think in vain. In the dear company of peace, and those Who bore for man life's utmost agony, Thy soul shall climb to cliffs of still repose, And see before thee lie Time's mystery, And that which is God's time, Eternity; Whence, sweeping over thee, dim myriad things The awful centuries yet to be, in hosts That stir the vast of heaven with formless wings, Shall cast for thee their shrouds and, like to ghosts, Unriddle all the past, till, awed and still, Tuy soul the secret hath of good and ill. S. Weir Mitchell IN HARBOR L THINK it is over, over, I think it is over at last; Voices of foeman and lover, The sweet and the bitter, have passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outblown its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing to seaward While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, 144 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE And behold! like the welcoming quiver. Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last! I feel it is over, over, For the winds and the waters surcease; Ah, few were the days of the rover That smiled in the beauty of peace! And distant and dim was the omen That hinted redress or release: From the ravage of life, and its riot, What marvel I yearn for the quiet Which bides in the harbor at last, For the lights with their welcoming quiver, That throb through the sanctified river, Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last? I know it is over, over, I know it is over at last! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, For the stress of the voyage has passed: Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing to seaward, While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, And behold! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last ! Paul Hamilton Hayne. I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET 145 A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET A LITTLE while (my life is almost set!) I fain would pause along the downward way, Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, While, Sweet, our eyes with tender tears are wet: A little hour I fain would linger yet. A little while I fain would linger yet, All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet. A little while I fain would linger hero: Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here. A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part"!) So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast. A little while, when light and twilight meet, Behind, our broken years; before, the deep Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep, A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet, ^ little while, when night and twilight meet. 146 EMILY DICKINSON A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars? Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here. Paul Hamilton Hayne. PARTING MY life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell : Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell. Emily Dicldnson. CHOICE OF all the souls that stand create I have elected one, When sense from spirit files away And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand; When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay! EmUy Dickinsont CHARTLESS 147 SUSPENSE ELYSIUM is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity or doom. What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door. Emily Dickinson. PEACE I MANY times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie. Emily Dickinson, CHARTLESS I NEVER saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. 143 ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given. Emily Dickinson. MY DEARLING MY Dearling ! thus, in days long fled, In spite of creed and court and queen, King Henry wrote to Anne Boleyn, The dearest pet name ever said, And dearly purchased, too, I ween! Poor child! she played a losing game: She won a heart, so Henry said, But ah, the price she gave instead ! Men's hearts, at best, are but a name: She paid for Henry's with her head ! You count men's hearts as something worth? Not I: were I a maid unwed, I 'd rather have my own fair head Than all the lovers on the earth, Than all the hearts that ever bled! **My Dearling!" with a love most true, Having no fear of creed or queen, I breathe that name my prayers between; But it shall never bring to you The hapless fate of Anue Boleyn! Elizabeth Akers Allen. CORONATION 149 SEA-BIRDS O LONESOME sea-gull, floating far Over the ocean's icy waste, Aimless and wide thy wanderings are, Forever vainly seeking rest: Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? 'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky, Cleaving the keen air with thy breast, Thou sailest slowly, solemnly; No fetter on thy wing is pressed : Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? O restless, homeless human soul, Following for aye thy nameless quest, The gulls float, and the billows roll; Thou watchest still, and questionest: Where is thy mate, and where thy nest? Elizabeth Akers CORONATION AT the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one. Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings." 150 HELEN HUNT JACKSON The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand, Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand. "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?* 1 The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king." Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. "O man, thou must have known," he said "A greater king than I." Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know wher Before His throne I stand?" The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. "This is his presence now.' 1 At the king's gate the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one. "Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know. SPINNING 151 On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead. Helen Hunt Jackson. SPINNING LIKE a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask. I do not know the use or name Of that I spin: I only know that some one came, And laid within My hand the thread, and said, " Since you Are blind, but one thing you can do." Sometimes the threads so rough and fast And tangled fly, I know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fall; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind. I know not why, but I am sure That tint and place, In some great fabric to endure Past time and race, 152 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN My threads will have; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accurst. I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From one short word Said over me when I was young, So young, I heard It, knowing not that God's name signed My brow, and sealed me His, though blind. But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not. The bond divine I never doubt. I know He set me here, and still, And glad, and blind, I wait His will; But listen, listen, day by day, To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread, And bring God's message in the sun, "Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." Helen Hunt Jackson. MORS BENEFICA GIVE me to die unwitting of the day, And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear: Not swathed and couched until the lines appear Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay, But as that old man eloquent made way FALSTAFF'S SONG From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear; Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear The victory, one glorious moment stay. Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain, No ministrant beside to w r ard and weep, Hand upon helm I would my quittance gain In some wild turmoil of the waters deep, And sink content into a dreamless sleep (Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main. Edmund Clarence Stedman. FALSTAFF'S SONG WHERE'S he that died o' Wednesday? What place on earth hath he? A tailor's yard beneath, I wot, Where worms approaching be; For the wight that died o' Wednesday, Just laid the light below, Is dead as the varlet turned to clay A score of years ago. Where's he that died o' Sabba' day? Good Lord, I'd not be he! The best of days is foul enough From this world's fare to flee; And the saint that died o' Sabba' day, With his grave turf yet to grow, Is dead as the sinner brought to pray A hundred years ago. Where's he that died o' yesterday? What better chance hath he 154 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN To clink the can and toss the pot When this night's junkets be? For the lad that died o' yesterday Is just as dead ho ! ho ! As the whoreson knave men laid away A thousand years ago. Edmund Clarence Stedman. PROVENCAL LOVERS AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE WITHIN the garden of Beaucaire He met her by a secret stair, The night was centuries ago. Said Aucassin, "My love, my pet, These old confessors vex me so! They threaten all the pains of hell Unless I give you up, ma belle" ; Said Aucassin to Nicolette. "Now, who should there in Heaven be To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie? To reach that spot I little care ! There all the droning priests are met; All the old cripples, too, are there That unto shrines and altars cling To filch the Peter-pence we bring"; Said Aucassin to Nicolette. "There are the barefoot monks and friars With gowns well tattered by the briars, The saints who lift their eyes and whine: I like them not a starveling set! PROVENCAL LOVERS 155 Who'd care with folk like these to dine? The other road 't were just as well That you and I should take, ma belle!" Said Aucassin to Nicolette. "To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights Whose deeds the land will not forget, The captains of a hundred fighU, The men of valor and degree: We'll join that gallant company," Said Aucassin to Nicolette. " There, too, are jousts and joyance rare, And beauteous ladies debonair, The pretty dames, the pretty brides, Who with their wedded lords coquet And have a friend or two besides, And all in gold and trappings gay, With furs, and crests in vair and gray," Said Aucassin to Nicolette. "Sweet players on the cithern strings, And they who roam the world like kings, Are gathered there, so blithe and free! Pardie! I'd join them now, my pet, If you went also, ma douce mie! The joys of heaven I 'd forego To have you with me there below," Said Aucassin to Nicolette. Edmund Clarence Stedman. 156 ANNIE FIELDS THEOCRITUS AY! Unto thee belong The pipe and song, Theocritus, Loved by the satyr and the faun! To thee the olive and the vine, To thee the Mediterranean pine, And the soft lapping sea! Thine, Bacchus, Thine, the blood-red revels, Thine, the bearded goat! Soft valleys unto thee, And Aphrodite's shrine, And maidens veiled in falling robes of lawn! But unto us, to us, The stalwart glories of the North; Ours is the sounding main, And ours the voices uttering forth By midnight round these cliffs a mighty strain; A tale of viewless islands in the deep Washed by the waves' white fire; Of mariners rocked asleep, In the great cradle, far from Grecian ire Of Neptune and his train; To us, to us, The dark-leaved shadow and the shining birch, The flight of gold through hollow woodlands driven, Soft dying of the year with many a sigh, These, all, to us are given ! And eyes that eager evermore shall search The hidden seed, and searching find again INDIRECTION 157 Unfading blossoms of a fadeless spring; These, these, to us! The sacred youth and maid, Coy and half afraid; The sorrowful earthly pall, Winter and wintry rain, And autumn's gathered grain, With whispering music in their fall; These unto us! And unto thee, Theocritus, To thee, The 'immortal childhood of the world, The laughing waters of an inland sea, And beckoning signal of a sail unfurled; Annie Fields INDIRECTION FAIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that pre- cedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out- mastered the meter. Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him, Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him. 158 NORA PERRY Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the sculptor is bidden; Under the joy that is felt, lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed, is the glory that crowns the revealing. Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine, Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine. Richard Real/, SOME DAY OF DAYS SOME day, some day of days, threading the street With idle, heedless pace, Unlocking for such grace I shall behold your face! Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet. SUNDERED 159 Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May, Or winter's icy chill Touch whitely vale and hill. What matter? I shall thrill Through every vein with summer on that day. Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, And for a moment there I shall stand fresh and fair, And drop the garment care; Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack, I shut my eyes now, thinking how 't will be How face to face each soul Will slip its long control, Forget the dismal dole Of dreary Fate's dark, separating sea; And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greet* ing, The past with all its fears, Its silences and tears, Its lonely, yearning years, Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting. Nvra Perr& SUNDERED I CHALLENGE not the oracle That drove you from my board: I bow before the dark decree That scatters as I hoard. 100 LOUISE CHANDLER MOUITON Ye vanished like the sailing ships That ride far out at sea : I murmur, as your farewell dies, And your forms float from me. Ah! ties are sundered in this hour; No tide of fortune rare Shall bring me hearts I owned before, And my love's loss repair. When voyagers make a foreign port, And leave their precious prize, Returning home, they bear for freight A bartered merchandise. Alas! when ye come back to me, And come not as of yore, But with your alien wealth and peace, Can we be lovers more? I gave you up to go your ways, O you whom I adored! Love hath no ties but Destiny Shall cut them with a sword. Sidney Henry Morse* HIC JACET So Love is dead that has been quick so long! Close, then, his eyes, and bear him to his rest, With eglantine and myrtle on his breast, fVnd leave him there, their pleasant scents among: THE LAST GOOD-BYE 161 And chant a sweet and melancholy song About the charms whereof he was possessed, And how of all things he was loveliest, And to compare with aught were him to wrong. Leave him beneath the still and solemn stars, That gather and look down from their far place With their long calm our brief woes to deride, Until the Sun the Morning's gate unbars And mocks, in turn, our sorrows with his face; And yet, had Love been Love, he had not died. Louise Chandler Moulton. THE LAST GOOD-BYE How shall we know it is the last good-bye? The skies will not be darkened in that hour, No sudden blight will fall on leaf or flower, No single bird will hush its careless cry, And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears In your dear eyes will answer to my fears; But there will come no voice of prophecy, No voice to whisper, "Now, and not again, Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer, For all the wild, unmitigated pain Of those who, parting, clasp hands with despair." "Who knows?" We say, but doubt and fear remain. Would any choose to part thus unaware? Louise Chandler Moulton. 162 CELIA THAXTER BALLAD IN the summer even, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies, Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And come, I sang, my true love, Come hasten home to me! But the sea, it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon; And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And wait ! cried the night and wind and storm, Wait, till I come to thee! Harriet Prescott Spofford. THE SANDPIPER ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; IRELAND 163 Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye: Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? Celia Thaxter. IRELAND A GREAT, still Shape, alone, She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand. And sees her children, one by one, depart: Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!) Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo; She comforts her fierce heart, 164 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH As wailing some, and some gay-singing go, With the far vision of that Greater Land Deep in the Atlantic skies, St. Brandan's Paradise! Another Woman there, Mighty and wondrous fair, Stands on her shore-rock : one uplifted hand Holds a quick-piercing light That keeps long sea-ways bright; She beckons with the other, saying "Come, O landless, shelterless, Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress: Come hither, finding home! Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free, By winds of blessing blown, Whose golden corn -blades shake from sea to Fields without walls that all the people own!" John James Piatt MEMORY MY mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of king.?, And yet recalls the very hour 'T was noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. SONG FROM THE PERSIAN 165 PALABRAS CARINOSAS GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night To such a host of peerless things ! Good-night unto the slender hand All queenly with its weight of rings; Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, Good-night unto the perfect mouth, And all the sweetness nestled there The snowy hand detains me, then I'll have to say good-night again! But there will come a time, my love, When, if I read our stars aright, I shall not linger by this porch With my farewells. Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blushed yourself to death To own so much a year ago What, both these snowy hands! ah, then I '11 have to say good-night again ! Thomas Bailey Aldricfu SONG FROM THE PERSIAN AH, sad are they who know not love, But, far from passion's tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, beyond The silvery coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch 166 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH The dear warm mouth of those they love Waiting, wasting, suffering much. But clear as amber, fine as musk, Is life to those who, pilgrim-wise, Move hand in hand from dawn to dusk, Each morning nearer Paradise. Ah, not for them shall angels pray! They stand in everlasting light, They walk in Allah's smile by day, And slumber in his heart by night. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. THE FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS A MAN should live in a garret aloof, And have few friends, and go poorly clad, With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof, To keep the Goddess constant and glad. Of old, when I walked on a rugged way, And gave much work for but little bread, The Goddess dwelt with me night and day, Sat at my table, haunted my bed. The narrow, mean attic, I see it now! Its window o'erlooking the city's tiles, The sunset's fires, and the clouds of snow, And the river wandering miles and miles. Just one picture hung in the room, The saddest story that Art can tell THE FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS 167 Dante and Virgil in lurid gloom Watching the Lovers float through Hell. Wretched enough was I sometimes, Pinched, and harassed with vain desires; But thicker than clover sprung the rhymes As I dwelt like a sparrow among the spires. Midnight filled my slumbers with song; Music haunted my dreams by day. Now I listen and wait and long, But the Delphian airs have died away. I wonder and wonder how it befell : Suddenly I had friends in crowds; I bade the house-tops a long farewell ; " Good-bye," I cried, "to the stars and clouds! "But thou, rare soul, thou hast dwelt with me, Spirit of Poesy! thou divine Breath of the morning, thou shalt be, Goddess! for ever and ever mine." And the woman I loved was now my bride, And the house I wanted was my own; I turned to the Goddess satisfied But the Goddess had somehow flown. Flown, and I fear she will never return; I am much too sleek and happy for her, Whose lovers must hunger and waste and burn, Ere the beautiful heathen heart will stir. 163 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH I call but she does not stoop to my cry; I wait but she lingers, and ah ! so long ! It was not so in the years gone by, When she touched my lips with chrism of song. I swear I will get me a garret again, And adore, like a Parsee, the sunset's fires, And lure the Goddess, by vigil and pain, Up with the sparrows among the spires. For a man should live in a garret aloof, And have few friends, and go poorly clad, With an old hat stopping the chink in the roof, To keep the Goddess constant and glad. Thomas Bailey Aldrich- ENAMORED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME ENAMORED architect of airy rhyme, Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says: Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways, Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; But most beware of those who come to praise. O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: Then, if at last the airy structure fall, Dissolve, and vanish take thyself no shame. They fail, and they alone, who have not striven. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. REFUGE 169 AFTER WINGS THIS was your butterfly, you see, His fine wings made him vain: The caterpillars crawl, but he Passed them in rich disdain. My pretty boy says, "Let him be Only a worm again!" O child, when things have learned to wear Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair: Think of the creeping pain Which even a butterfly must bear To be a worm again ! Sarah M. B. Piati REFUGE SET your face to the sea, fond lover, Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe : Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you prest Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest! Set your face to the stars, fond lover, Calm, and silent, and bright, and true! They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, 170 WILLIAM WINTER And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament. Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision Look to heaven, and find it there! William Winter. THE RUBICON ONE other bitter drop to drink, And then no more ! One little pause upon the brink, And then go o'er! One sigh and then the lib 'rant morn Of perfect day, When my free spirit, newly born, Will soar away ! One pang and I shall rend the thrall Where grief abides, And generous Death will show me all That now he hides; And, lucid in that second birth, I shall discern What all the sages of the earth Have died to learn. WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? 171 One motion and the stream is crossed, So dark, so deep! And I shall triumph, or be lost In endless sleep. Then, onward ! Whatso'er my fate, I shall not care! Nor Sin nor Sorrow, Love nor Hate, Can touch me there. William Winter. IF YES, death is at the bottom of the cup, And every one that lives must drink it up; And yet between the sparkle at the top And the black lees where lurks that bitter drop, There swims enough good liquor, Heaven knows, To ease our hearts of all their other woes. The bubbles rise in sunshine at the brim; That drop below is very far and dim; The quick fumes spread, and shape us such bright dreams That in the glad delirium it seems As though by some deft sleight, if so we willed, That drop untasted might be somehow spilled. William Dean Howetts. WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? IF I lay waste and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my faith Possessed itself serenely safe from death; If I deny the things past finding out; 172 JAMES RYDER RANDALL Or if I orphan my own soul of One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in power and grace, What do I gain by that I have undone? William Dean Howells. THE STIRRUP-CUP MY short and happy day is done, The long and dreary night comes on, And at my door the pale horse stands To carry me to unknown lands. His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sound dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof And joys of life so soft and warm. Tender and warm the joys of life, Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife, So sweet to kiss, so fair to view, So sweet to kiss, so fair to view: The night comes down, the lights burn blue; And at my door the pale horse stands To bear me forth to unknown lands. John Hay, MY MARYLAND THE despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland ! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland ! MY MARYLAND 173 Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland! Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland ! My Mother State, to thee I kneel, Maryland ! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland ! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland ! Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland ! Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day, Maryland ! Come with thy panoplied array, Maryland ! With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, With Watson's blood at Monterey, With fearless Lowe and dashing May, Maryland, my Maryland! Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, Maryland ! 174 JAMES RYDER RANDALL Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland ! She meets her sisters on the plain, "Sic semper I " 't is the proud refrain That baffles minions back amain, Maryland ! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland! Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland ! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland ! Come to thine own heroic throng Stalking with Liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland ! I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland ! For thou wast ever bravely meek, Maryland ! But lo! there surges forth a shriek, From hill to hill, from creek to creek, Potomac calls to Chesapeake, Maryland, my Maryland! Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland ! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland ! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, THE PICKET-GUARD Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland! I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland ! The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland ! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum! She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll come! Maryland, my Maryland! James Ryder Randall, THE PICKET-GUARD November, 1861 14 ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'T is nothing : a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping, 176 ETHEL LYNN BEERS While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep For their mother may Heaven defend her! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree; The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle . . . ? Ha! Mary, good-bye!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night; No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead The picket 's off duty forever. Ethel Lynn Beers. DICKENS IN CAMP 177 RELIEVING GUARD CAME the relief. "What, sentry, ho! How passed the night through thy long waking?" "Cold, cheerless, dark, as may befit The hour before the dawn is breaking." "No sight? no sound?" "No; nothing save The plover from the marshes calling, And in yon western sky, about An hour ago, a star was falling." "A star? there's nothing strange in that." "No, nothing; but, above the thicket, Somehow it seemed to me that God Somewhere had just relieved a picket." Bret Harte. DICKENS IN CAMP ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure s To hear the tale an^w. 178 BRET HARTE And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell." Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, for the reader Was youngest of them all, But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall; The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes overtaken As by some spell divine Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell? Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. TO A SEA-BIRD 179 And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly This spray of Western pine! Bret Harte. TO A SEA-BIRD SAUNTERING hither on listless wings, Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that sings, The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, - Give me to keep thy company. Little thou hast, old friend, that's new; Storms and wrecks are old things to thee; Sick am I of these changes, too; Little to care for, little to rue, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. All of thy wanderings, far and near, Bring thee at last to shore and me; All of my journeyings end them here: This our tether must be our cheer, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we: Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest, I on the shore, and thou on the sea. Bret Harte. 180 JOHN WHITE CHADWICK TAKE HEART ALL day the stormy wind has blown From off the dark and rainy sea; No bird has past the window flown, The only song has been the moan The wind made in the willow-tree. This is the summer's burial-time: She died when dropped the earliest leaves; And, cold upon her rosy prime, Fell direful autumn's frosty rime; Yet I am not as one that grieves, For well I know o'er sunny seas The bluebird waits for April skies; And at the roots of forest trees The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease, The violets hide their azure eyes. O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown, Beside some golden summer's bier, Take heart! Thy birds are only flown, Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown, To greet thee in the immortal year! Edna Dean Proctor. THE MAKING OF MAN As the insect from the rock Takes the color of its wing; As the boulder from the shock Of the ocean's rhythmic swing SEA-BLOWN 181 Makes itself a perfect form, Learns a calmer front to raise; As the shell, enamelled warm With the prism's mystic rays, Praises wind and wave that make All its chambers fair and strong; As the mighty poets take Grief and pain to build their song: Even so for every soul, Whatsoe'er its lot may be, Building, as the heavens roll, Something large and strong and free, Things that hurt and things that mar Shape the man for perfect praise; Shock and strain and ruin are Friendlier than the smiling days. John White Ckadurick. BYRON IN men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I do not dare to draw a line Between the two, where God has not. Joaquin Miller. SEA-BLOWN Ah! there be souls none understand; Like clouds, they cannot touch the land. Unanchored ships, they blow and blow, Sail to and fro, and then go down 182 JOAQUIN MILLER In unknown seas that none shall know p Without one ripple of renown. Call these not fools, the test of worth Is not the hold you have of earth. Ay, there be gentlest souls sea-blown That know not any harbor known. Now it may be the reason is, They touch on fairer shores than this. Joaquin Miller, COLUMBUS BEHIND him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo ! the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" "Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" "My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail onl sail on! sail on! and on!'" They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said, THE YUKON 18? "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say" He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights ! And then a speck A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" Joaquin MMer. THE YUKON THE moon resumed all heaven now, She shepherded the stars below Along her wide, white steeps of snow, Nor stooped nor rested, where or how. 184 JOAQUIN MILLER She bared her full white breast, she dared The sun e'er show his face again. She seemed to know no change, she kept Carousal constantly, nor slept, Nor turned aside a breath, nor spared The fearful meaning, the mad pain, The weary eyes, the poor dazed brain, That came at last to feel, to see The dread, dead touch of lunacy. How loud the silence! Oh, how loud! How more than beautiful the shroud Of dead Light in the moon-mad north When great torch-tipping stars stand forth Above the black, slow-moving pall As at some fearful funeral ! The moon blares as mad trumpets blare To marshaled warriors long and loud ; The cobalt blue knows not a cloud, But oh, beware that moon, beware Her ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad stare! Beware white silence more than white! Beware the five-horned starry run*; Beware the groaning gorge below; Beware the wide, white world of snow, Where trees hang white as hooded nun No thing not white, not one, not one! But most beware that mad white moon. All day, all day, all night, all night Nay> nay, not yet or night or day. THE YUKON 185 Just whiteness, whiteness, ghastly white, Made doubly white by that mad moon And strange stars jangled out of tune! At last, he saw, or seemed to see, Above, beyond, another world. Far up the ice-hung path there curled A red-veined cloud, a canopy That topt the fearful ice-built peak That seemed to prop the very porch Of God's house; then, as if a torch Burned fierce, there flushed a fiery streak, A flush, a blush, on heaven's cheek ! The dogs sat down, men sat the sled And watched the flush, the blush of red. The little wooly dogs, they knew, Yet scarce knew what they were about. They thrust their noses up and out, They drank the Light, what else to do? Their little feet, so worn, so true, Could scarce keep quiet for delight. They knew, they knew, how much they knev\ The mighty breaking up of night! Their bright eyes sparkled with such joy That they at last should see loved Light! The tandem sudden broke all rule; Swung back, each leaping like a boy Let loose from some dark, ugly school Leaped up and tried to lick his hand Stood up as happy children stand. How tenderly God's finger set His crimson flower on that height 186 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL Above the battered walls of night! A little space it flourished yet, And then His angel, His first-born, Burst through, as on that primal morn! Joaquin Miller. OPPORTUNITY THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's bannei Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel That blue blade that the king's son bears, but this Blunt thing ! " he snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. Edward Rowland Sill* THE FOOL'S PRAYER THE royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" THE FOOL'S PRAYER 187 The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the Monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! "No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin : but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! " 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say Who knows how grandly it had rung! "Our faults no tenderness should ask. The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 188 CHARLES WARREN STODDARD "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!" Edward Rowland Sill. LIFE FORENOON and afternoon and night, Forenoon, And afternoon, and night, Forenoon, and what I The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life : make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won. Edward Rowland Sill. A RHYME OF LIFE IF life be as a flame that death doth kill, Burn, little candle, lit for me, With a pure flame, that I may rightly see To word my song, and utterly God's plan fulfil. If life be as a flower that blooms and dies, Forbid the cunning frost that slays With Judas kiss, and trusting love betrays; Forever may my song of praise Untainted rise. THE POWER OF BEAUTY 7.89 If life be as a voyage, foul or fair, Oh, bid me not my banners furl For adverse gale, or wave in angry whirl, Till I have found the gates of pearl, And anchored there. Charles Warren Stoddard. THE POWER OF BEAUTY THOU needst not weave nor spin, Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in, Nor, forth a-field at morn, At eve bring home the corn, Nor on a winter's night Make blaze the fagots bright. So lithe and delicate So slender is thy state, So pale and pure thy face, So deer-like in their grace Thy limbs, that all do vie To take and charm the eye. Thus, toiling where thou 'rt not Is but the common lot: Three men mayhap alone By strength may move a stone* But, toiling near to thee, One man may work as three. If thou but bend a smile To fall on him the while, MARY THACHER HIGGINSON Or if one tender glance, Though coy and shot askance, His eye discover, then One man may work as ten. Men commonly but ask, "When shall I end my task?" But seeing thee come in, 'T is, "When may I begin?" Such power doth beauty bring To take from toil its sting. If then thou'lt do but this Fling o'er the work a bliss From thy mere presence none Shall think thou'st nothing done; Thou needst not weave nor spin, Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in. James Herbert Morse. INHERITANCE WE wondered why he always turned aside When mirth and gladness filled the brimmin Who else so fit as he for pleasure's ways? Men thought him frozen by a selfish pride; But that his voice was music none denied, Or that his smile was like the sun's warm rays. One day upon the sands he spoke in praise Of swimmers who were buffeting the tide: "The swelling waves of life they dare to meet. I may not plunge where others safely go, TREES AND THE MASTER 191 Unbidden longings in my pulses beat." O blind and thoughtless world ! you little know That ever round this hero's steadfast feet Surges and tugs the dreaded undertow. Mary Thacher Higginson. EVENING SONG LOOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer, we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'T is done, Love, Jay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart. Never our lips, our hands. Sidney Lanier. A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER INTO the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. 192 SIDNEY LANIER But the olives they were not blind to Him; The little gray leaves were kind to Him; The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'T was on a tree they slew Him last, When out of the woods He came. Sidney Lanier. THE STIRRUP-CUP DEATH, thou'rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care, Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity. David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight. Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'T is thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I '11 drink it down right smilingly. Sidney Lanier. WAITING 193 WAITING SERENE, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For, lo ! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face. Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it hath sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep mj own away from me. John Burroughs 194. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY WHAT IS GOOD "What is the real good?" I asked in musing mood. Order, said the law court; Knowledge, said the school; Truth, said the wise man; Pleasure, said the fool; Love, said a maiden; Beauty, said the page; Freedom, said the dreamer; Home, said the sage; Fame, said the soldier; Equity, the seer; Spake my heart full sadly, "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard: "Each heart holds the secret; Kindness is the word." John Boyle O'Reilly AT BEST THE faithful helm commands the keel, From port to port fair breezes blow; But the ship must sail the convex sea, Nor may she straighter go. So, man to man; in fair accord, On thought and will the winds may wait; THE WOODS AND SUNSET 195 But the world will bend the passing word, Though its shortest course be straight. From soul to soul the shortest line At best will bended be: The ship that holds the straightest course Still sails the convex sea. John Boyle 0'Reitty< A WHITE ROSE THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rose bud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips. John Boyle O'Reitty. THE WOODS THAT BRING THE SUNSET NEAR THE wind from out the west is blowing; The homeward-wandering cows are lowing; Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear - The woods that bring the sunset near. When o'er wide seas the sun declines, Far off its fading glory shines, Far off, sublime, and full of fear, The pine-woods bring the sunset near. 19G RICHARD WATSON GILDER This house that looks to east, to west, This, dear one, is our home, our rest; Yonder the stormy sea, and here The woods that bring the sunset near. Richard Watson Gilder. SONGS [i] NOT from the whole wide world I chose thee Sweetheart, light of the land and the sea! The wide, wide world could not inclose thee, For thou art the whole wide world to me. [n ] Years have flown since I knew thee first, And I know thee as water is known of thirst; Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night. Richard Watson Gilder. I COUNT MY TIME BY TIMES THAT I MEET THEE I COUNT my time by times that I meet thee; These are my yesterdays, my morrows, noons, And nights; these my old moons and my new moons, Slow fly the hours, or fast the hours do flee, If thou art far from or art near to me; If thou art far, the bird tunes are no tunes; If thou art near, the wintry days are Junes Darkness is light, and sorrow cannot be. Thou art my dream come true, and thou my dream; IN EXILE 1Q7 The air I breathe, the world wherein I dwell; My journey's end thou art, and thou the way; Thou art what I would be, yet only seem; Thou art my heaven and thou art my hell ; Thou art my ever-living judgment-day. Richard Watson Gilder. AFTER-SONG THROUGH love to light! O, wonderful the way That leads from darkness to the perfect day! From darkness and from sorrow of the night To morning that comes singing o'er the sea. Through love to light ! Through light, O God, to Thee, Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light! Richard Watson Gilder. IN EXILE THE green is on the grass and the blue is in the sky, And the soft, wet winds of April hurry by; The earth laughs loud to the waves upon the shore, But I 'm sad for the land I shall never see more. And often in the night time and often in the day I know by the tears that my heart is far away; I know by the tears that my heart is longing sore For the fair lost land I shall never see more. Peace is here and plenty, O the glad relief! With laughing of the children between my soul and grief; Sorrow is behind us and happy days before, But God be with the land I shall never see more! 198 MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE And deep shame upon me that any one should hear! The black cloud is gone of the hunger and the fear, The black care that sat like a wolf beside the door In the far, far land I shall never see more. Ever Blessed Savior! be not wroth with me! For all Thy gifts and mercies, praise and glory be; But the shadow 's in my eyes for the little one I bore, Who 's asleep in the land I shall never see more. Mary Elizabeth Blake. THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR ALL ye who love the springtime and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear, Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawning o' the year! For where in all the earth is there any joy like this, When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss, While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats, Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes; And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden sunset glow Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below; THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR 199 And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen, And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green ! For 'tis green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray, And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day; Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall, And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all. There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet; Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow, And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below. And it's there the earth is merry, like a young thing newly made Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in the glade, Babbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds piled, Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a child. But the green, green, green, O 'tis that is blithe and fair! In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome as the air, 200 MAURICE THOMPSON Lying warm above the bog, floating brave on crag and glen, Thrusting forty banners high where another land has ten. Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and heavy grief, And thus with soft caress would give solace and relief; Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her from the cold, And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with emeralds and gold. So ye who love the springtime, and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the year! Mary Elizabeth Blake. A PRELUDE SPIRIT that moves the sap in spring, When lusty male birds fight and sing, Inform my words, and make my lines As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines. Let mine be the freshening power Of rain on grass, of dew on flower; The fertilizing song be mine, Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine. TO AN ORIOLE 301 Let some procreant truth exhale From me, before my forces fail; Or, ere the ecstatic impulse go, Let all my buds to blossoms blow. If quick, sound seed be wanting where The virgin soil feels sun and air, And longs to fill a higher state, There let my meanings germinate. Let not my strength be spilled for naught, But, in some fresher vessel caught, Be blended into sweeter forms, And fraught with purer aims and charms. Let bloom-dust of my life be blown To quicken hearts that flower alone; Around my knees let scions rise With heavenward-pointing destinies. And when I fall, like some old tree, And subtile change makes mould of me, There let earth show a fertile line Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine! Maurice Thompson TO AN ORIOLE How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly In tropic splendor through our Northern sky? At some glad moment was it nature's choice To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice? 202 EDGAR FAWCETT Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, In some forgotten garden, ages back, Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, Desire unspeakably to be a bird? Edgar Fawcett. FIREFLIES I SAW, one sultry night above a swamp, The darkness throbbing with their golden pomp ! And long my dazzled sight did they entrance With the weird chaos of their dizzy dance! Quicker than yellow leaves, when gales despoil, Quivered the brilliance of their mute turmoil, Within whose light was intricately blent Perpetual rise, perpetual descent. As though their scintillant flickerings had met In the vague meshes of some airy net! And now mysteriously I seemed to guess, While watching their tumultuous loveliness, What fervor of deep passion strangely thrives In the warm richness of these tropic lives, Whose wings can never tremble but they shbw These hearts of living fire that beat below! Edgar Fawcett, ITER SUPREMUM EVOLUTION OUT of the dusk a shadow, Then, a spark; Out of the cloud a silence, Then, a lark; Out of the heart a rapture, Then, a pain ; Out of the dead, cold ashes, Life again. John B . TO SHELLEY AT Shelley's birth, The Lark, dawn-spirit, with an anthem loud Rose from the dusky earth To tell it to the Cloud, That, like a flower night-folded in the gloom, Burst into morning bloom. At Shelley's death, The Sea, that deemed him an immortal, saw A god's extinguished breath, And landward, as in awe, Upbore him to the altar whence he came, And the rekindling flame. j okn B ITER SUPREMUM OH, what a night for a soul to go! The wind a hawk, and the fields in snow; No screening cover of leaves in the wood, Nor a star abroad the way to show. 204 WILL THOMPSON Do they part in peace, soul with its clay? Tenant and landlord, what do they say? Was it sigh of sorrow or of release I heard just now as the face turned gray? What if, aghast on the shoreless main Of Eternity, it sought again The shelter and rest of the isle of Time, And knocked at the door of its house of pain! On the tavern hearth the embers glow, The laugh is deep, and the flagons low; But without, the wind and the trackless sky, And night at the gates where a soul would go. Arthur Sherburne Hardy* THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG A CLOUD possessed the hollow field, The gathering battle's smoky shield. Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, And from the heights the thunder pealed. Then at the brief command of Lee Moved out that matchless infantry, With Pickett leading grandly down, To rush against the roaring crown Of those dread heights of destiny. Far heard above the angry guns A cry across the tumult runs, The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG 205 And Chickamauga's solitudes, The fierce South cheering on her sons! Ah, how the withering tempest blew Against the front of Pettigrew! A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed Like that infernal flame that fringed The British squares at Waterloo! A thousand fell where Kemper led; A thousand died where Garnett bled: In blinding flame and strangling smoke The remnant through the batteries broke And crossed the works with Armistead. "Once more in Glory's van with me!" Virginia cried to Tennessee; "We two together, come what may, Shall stand upon these works to-day!" (The reddest day in history.) Brave Tennessee! In reckless way Virginia heard her comrade say : " Close round this rent and riddled rag!" What time she set her battle-flag Amid the guns of Doubleday. But who shall break the guards that wait Before the awful face of Fate? The tattered standards of the South Were shriveled at th 3 cannon's mouth, And all her hopes were desolate. 206 WILL THOMPSON In vain the Tennesseean set His breast against the bayonet! In vain Virginia charged and raged, A tigress in her wrath uncaged, Till all the hill was red and wet! Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost Receding through the battle-cloud, And heard across the tempest loud The death-cry of a nation lost! The brave went down ! Without disgrace They leaped to Ruin's red embrace. They only heard Fame's thunders wake, And saw the dazzling sun-burst break In smiles on Glory's bloody face! They fell, who lifted up a hand And bade the sun in heaven to stand! They smote and fell, who set the bars Against the progress of the stars, And stayed the march of Motherland! They stood, who saw the future come On through the fight's delirium ! They smote and stood, who held the hope Of nations on that slippery slope Amid the cheers of Christendom. God lives! He forged the iron will That clutched and held that trembling hill. MONUMENT TO LORD BYRON 207 God lives and reigns! He built and lent The heights for Freedom's battlement Where floats her flag in triumph still! Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. A mighty mother turns in tears The pages of her battle years, Lamenting all her fallen sons! WiU Thompson ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND TO LORD BYRON THE grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green Above the spent heart, the Olympian head, The hands crost idly, the shut eyes unseen, Unseeing, the locked lips whose song hath fled; Yet mystic-lived, like some rich, tropic flower, His fame puts forth fresh blossoms hour by hour; Wide spread the laden branches dropping dew On the low, laurelled brow misunderstood, That bent not, neither bowed, until subdued By the last foe who crowned while he o'erthrew. Fair was the Easter Sabbath morn when first Men heard he had not wakened to its light: The end had come, and time had done its worst, For the black cloud had fallen of endless night. Then in the town, as Greek accosted Greek, 'T was not the wonted festal words to speak, 208 EMMA LAZARUS "Christ is arisen," but "Our chief is gone," With such wan aspect and grief-smitten head As when the awful cry of "Pan is dead!" Filled echoing hill and valley with its moan. " I am more fit for death than the world deems," So spake he as life's light was growing dim, And turned to sleep as unto soothing dreams. What terrors could its darkness hold for him, Familiar with all anguish, but with fear Still unacquainted? On his martial bier They laid a sword, a helmet, and a crown Meed of the warrior, but not these among His voiceless lyre, whose silent chords unstrung Shall wait how long? for touches like his own. An alien country mourned him as her son, And hailed him hero: his sole, fitting tomb Were Theseus' temple or the Parthenon, Fondly she deemed. His brethren bare him home, Their exiled glory, past the guarded gate Where England's Abbey shelters England's great. Afar he rests whose very name hath shed New lustre on her with the song he sings. So Shakespeare rests who scorned to lie with kings, Sleeping at peace midst the unhonored dead. Emma Lazarus. VENUS OF THE LOUVRE DOWN the long hall she glistens like a star, The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. DAYS THAT COME AND GO 909 When first the enthralled enchantress from afar Dazzled mine eyes, I saw her not alone, Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne, As when she guided once her dove-drawn car, But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. Here Heine wept ! Here still he weeps anew, Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain. Emma Lazarus. ONE ONE whitest lily, reddest rose, None other such the summer knows; Of bird or brook one perfect tune, And sung is all the sweet of June. Once come and gone, the one dear face, Forever empty is its place; But one far voice the lover hears, Calling across the waste of years. John Vance Cheney, DAYS THAT COME AND GO DAYS that come and go, It is not worth the while; Only one dawn I know, The morning of her smile. 210 INA COOLBRITH Nights that come and go, In vain your shadow lies; Only love's dusk I know, The evening of her eyes. John Vance Cheney IN EXPLANATION HER lips were so near That what else could I do? You '11 be angry, I fear. But her lips were so near Well, I can't make it clear, Or explain it to you. But her lips were so near That what else could I do? Walter Learned, FRUITIONLESS AH, little flower, upspringing, 'azure-eyed, The meadow-brook beside, Dropping delicious balms Into the tender palms Of lover-winds, that woo with light caress, In still contentedness, Living and blooming thy brief summer-day: So, wiser far than I, That only dream and sigh, And, sighing, dream my listless life away. Ah! sweetheart birds, a-building your wee house In the broad-leaved boughs, OBLIVION 211 Pausing with merry trill To praise each other's skill, And nod your pretty heads with pretty pride; Serenely satisfied To trill and twitter love's sweet roundelay: So, happier than I, That, lonely, dream and sigh, And, sighing, dream my lonely life away. Brown-bodied bees, that scent with nostrils fine The odorous blossom-wine, Sipping, with heads half thrust Into the pollen dust Of rose and hyacinth and daffodil, To hive, in amber cell, A honey feasting for the winter-day: So, better far than I, Self-wrapt, that dream and sigh, And sighing, dream my useless life away. Ina Coolbrith. WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME WHEN the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying, When not any wind that blows, Summer-blooms nor winter-snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was,*' When the grass grows over me. ARLO BATES When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom, While I laugh, or weep, cr sing, Nevermore, for anything, You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders in my cause, That shall speak me as I was When the grass grows over me. When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved, in my sorrow Very patient, I can wait, Knowing that, or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan: "Alas! Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was" When the grass grows over me! Ina Coolbritk* THE POOL OF SLEEP I DRAGGED my body to the pool of sleep, Longing to drink; but ere my throbbing lip From the cool flood one Dives-drop might sip, The wave sank fluctuant to some unknown deep. With aching eyes that could not even weep, I saw the dark, deluding water slip, Slow eddying, down; the weeds and mosses drip With maddening waste. I watched the sweet tide creep A little higher, but to fall more fast. Fevered and wounded in the strife of men WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 213 I burned with anguish, till, endurance past, The fount crept upward; sank, and rose again, Swelled slowly, slowly, slowly, till at last My seared lips met the soothing wave, and ^ en Arlo Bates. WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. , "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. " We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we/' Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 214 EUGENE FIELD All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam, Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home : 'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Eugene Field. LITTLE BOY BLUE THE little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. TO A HURT CHILD 215 Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair; And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys; And, as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue Oh! the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true! Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. Eugene Field. TO A HURT CHILD WHAT, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I; Cut to the heart; Though I may neither moan nor cry, To ease the smart. Where was it, Love? Just here! So wide Upon your cheek! 216 FLORENCE EARLE COATES Oh happy pain that needs no pride, And may dare speak. Lay here your pretty head. One touch Will heal its worst, While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, Go all unnursed. There, Sweet. Run back now to your play, Forget your woes. v I too was sorely hurt this day, But no one knows. Grace Denio Litchfield. THE HOUSE OF PAIN UNTO the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair, The bravest who an entrance gain Reluctant linger there, For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to cheer the sight, And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the light. Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of beauty blow, Like Christmas-roses, which attain Perfection 'mid the snow, Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest shad- ows melt, And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of wings is felt. THE WIND OF SORROW 217 Ah, me! the Prison House of Pain! what lessons there are bought ! Lessons of a sublimer strain Than any elsewhere taught, Amid its loneliness and bloom, grave meanings grow more clear, For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so strange- ly near! Florence Earle Coates. THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES THE sunshine of thine eyes, (O still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills With the life of its lambent gleam. The sunshine of thine eyes, let it' fall on me! Though I be but a mote of the air, 1 could turn to gold for thee! George Parsons Lathrop. THE WIND OF SORROW THE fire of love was burning, yet so low That in the dark we scarce could see its rays, And in the light of perfect-placid days Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow. Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze : In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways We missed the radiant heat of long ago. 218 HENRY VAN DYKE Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears, That drove us trembling to each other's arms Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears, Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame. Henry van Dyke. THE VEERY THE moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love de- ploring. So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; I longed to hear a simpler strain, the wood-notes of the veery. The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; I only know one song more sweet, the vespers of the veery. Tn English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: JOY OF THE MORNING 219 The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is sing- ing; New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery. Henry tan Dyke, JOY OF THE MORNING I HEAR you, little bird, Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood : 'Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word: I'd tell it, too, if I could. Oft when the white still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I've felt it like a glory in my heart, (The world's mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Nor such a listener. Edwin Markham. 220 EDWIN MARKHAM A LOOK INTO THE GULF I LOOKED one night, and there Semiramis, With all her mourning doves about her head, Sat rocking on an ancient road of Hell, Withered and eyeless, chanting to the moon Snatches of song they sang to her of old Upon the lighted roofs of Nineveh. And then her voice rang out with rattling laugh; "The bugles! they are crying back again Bugles that broke the nights of Babylon, And then went crying on through Nineveh. Stand back, ye trembling messengers of ill ! Women, let go my hair: I am the Queen, A whirlwind and a blaze of swords to quell Insurgent cities. Let the iron tread Of armies shake the earth. Look, lofty towers: Assyria goes by upon the wind!" And so she babbles by the ancient road, While cities turned to dust upon the Earth Rise through her whirling brain to live again Babbles all night, and when her voice is dead Her weary lips beat on without a sound. Edwin Markham. LION AND LIONESS ONE night we were together, you and I, And had unsown Assyria for a lair, Before the walls of Babylon rose in air. Low languid hills were heaped along the sky. And white bones marked the wells of alkali. BROWNING AT ASOLO 221 When suddenly down the lion-path a sound . . . The wild man-odor . . . then a crouch, a bound, And the frail Thing fell quivering with a cry! Your yellow eyes burned beautiful with light: The dead man lay there quieted and white: I roared my triumph over the desert wide, Then stretched out, glad of the sands and satis- fied; And through the long, star-stilled Assyrian night, I felt your body breathing by my side. Edwin Markham. BROWNING AT ASOLO THIS is the loggia Browning loved, High on the flank of the friendly town; These are the hills that his keen eye roved, The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. There to the West what a range of blue! The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves! O tranquil scene! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lore be- tween? See ! yonder 's his Venice the valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others: the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. 222 ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Yesterday he was part of it all Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment how oft did he! To the bells from Fontalto's distant tower Leading the evening in ... ah, me! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poet's heart should miss This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss And dream of Asolo ever again? "Part of it yesterday," we moan? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. W T hat most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone, But the love of the warm heart lingers here. Robert Underwood Johnson. LOVE AND ITALY THEY halted at the terrace wall; Below, the towered city lay; The valley in the moonlight's thrall Was silent in a swoon of Mav. HER PICTURE 223 As hand to hand spake one soft word Beneath the friendly ilex-tree, They knew not, of the flame that stirred, What part was Love, what Italy. They knew what makes the moon more bright Where Beatrice and Juliet are, The sweeter perfume in the night, The lovelier starlight in the star; And more that glowing hour did prove Beneath the sheltering ilex-tree, That Italy transfigures Love As Love transfigures Italy. Robert Underwood Johnson. HER PICTURE AUTUMN was cold in Plymouth town; The wind ran round the shore, Now softly passing up and down, Now wild and fierce and fleet, Wavering overhead, Moaning in the narrow street As one beside the dead. The leaves of wrinkled gold and brown Fluttered here and there, But not quite heedless where; For as in hood and sad-hued gown The Rose of Plymouth took the air, They whirled, and whirled, and fell to rest Upon her gentle breast, Then on the happy earth her foot had pressed. 224 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Autumn is wild in Plymouth town, Barren and bleak and cold, And still the dead leaves flutter down As the years grow old. And still forever gravely fair Beneath their fitful whirl, New England's sweetest girl, Rose Standish, takes the air. Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. WHEN SHE COMES HOME 1 WHEN she comes home again ! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence : and the perfume of her dress : The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight soulsight, even for a space; And tears yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace. James Whitcomb Riley. 1 Prom the Biographical Edition of The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. THE OLD MAN AND JIM 225 BEREAVED l LET me come in where you sit weeping, aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of. The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss. Such arms such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you? Fain would I be of service say some thing, Between the tears, that would be comforting, But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die. James Whitcomb Riley< THE OLD MAN AND JIM 1 OLD man never had much to say 'Ceptin' to Jim, And Jim was the wildest boy he had, And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! Never heerd him speak but once Er twice in my life, and first time was When the army broke out, and Jim he went, The old man backin' him, fer three months; And all 'at I heerd the old man say Was, jes' as we turned to start away, 1 From the Biographical Edition of Tfie Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Companyc 226 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f ! " 'Feared like he was more satisfied Jes' lookin' at Jim And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? 'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him! And over and over I mind the day The old man come and stood round in the way While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim; And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say, "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!" Never was nothin' about the farm Disting'ished Jim; Neighbors all ust to wonder why The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad, 'At he had led, with a bullet clean Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, The old man wound up a letter to him 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said, "Tell Jim Good-bye: And take keer of hisse'f !" Jim come home jes' long enough To take the whim 'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! THE OLD MAN AND JIM 227 Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. And the old man give him a colt he 'd raised, And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week er so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade; 'Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the old man say, "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f !" Tuk the papers, the old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim, Fully believin' he'd make his mark Some way jes' wrapped up in him! And many a time the word 'ud come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum At Petersburg, fer instunce, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way And socked it home to the boys in gray, As they skooted fer timber, and on and on Jim a lieutenant, and one arm gone, And the old man's words in his mind all day, "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!" Think of a private, now, perhaps, We'll say like Jim, 'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps And the old man jes' wrapped up in him! Think of him with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 228 SAMUEL MINTURN PECK A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the old man,* bendin' over him The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At had n't leaked fer years and years, As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His Father's, the old voice in his ears, "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f !" James Whitcomb Riley. THE CAPTAIN'S FEATHER THE dew is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And the captain's waving feather Proclaims the hour is nigh When some upon their horses Shall through the battle ride, And some with bleeding corses Must on the heather bide. The dust is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And about the captain's feather The bolts of battle fly; But hark, what sudden wonder Breaks forth upon the gloom? It is the cannon's thunder It is the voice of doom! The blood is on the heather, The night is in the sky, THE DAISIES And the gallant captain's feather Shall wave no more on high; The grave and holy brother To God is saying Mass, But who shall tell his mother, And who shall tell his lass? Samuel Minturn Peck. THE DAISIES ONCE I came to Siena, Traveling waywardly; I sought not church nor palace; I did not care to see. In the little park at Siena, Her famous ways untrod, I laid me down in the springtime Upon the daisied sod. New, but not unfamiliar, Of my boyhood seemed the scene - The hillsides of Judaea, And Turner's pines between; And tenderly the rugged, Volcanic rock-lands bare, Warm in the April weather, Slept in the melting air. 'T was April in the valleys; 'T was April in the sky; And from the tufted locusts The sweet scent wandered by; But strange to me the sunshine, And strange the growing grass; 230 HENRY CUYLER BUNNER To the branch that cannot blossom How cold doth April pass ! As lovers, when love is over, Remembering seem men dead, Down on the warm bright daisies, Earth's lover, I laid my head; And whence or why I know not, At the touch my eyes were dim, And I knew that these were the daisies That Keats felt grow o'er him. George Edward Woodberry. DIVINE AWE To tremble, when I touch her hands, With awe that no man understands; To feel soft reverence arise When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes; To see her beauty grow and shine When most I feel this awe divine, Whate'er befall me, this is mine; And where about the room she moves, My spirit follows her, and loves. George Edward Woodberry, STRONG AS DEATH O DEATH, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow. WISE 231 Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land; But with that sweet and subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent) ; And with her quick and tender touch. With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there. And turn upon my dying bed. And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death. Henry Cuylev Bunney, WISE AN apple orchard smells like wine; A succory flower is blue; Until Grief touched these eyes of mine, Such things I never knew. And now indeed I know so plain Why one would like to cry When sprouts are full of April rain Such lonely folk go by! 232 CHARLES HENRY LUDERS So wise, so wise that my tears fall Each breaking of the dawn; That I do long to tell you all But you are dead and gone. Lizette Woodworth Reese IN TIME OF GRIEF DARK, thinned, beside the wall of stone, The box dripped in the air; Its odor through my house was blown Into the chamber there. Remote and yet distinct the scent, The sole thing of the kind, As though one spoke a word half meant That left a sting behind. I knew not Grief would go from me And naught of it be plain, Except how keen the box can be After a fall of rain. Lizette Woodworth Reese. THE FOUR WINDS WIND of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love. THE OLD SOUL 233 Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, W T ind of the gold and crimson sunset lands Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens, And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest. Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love. But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose! Over magnolia blooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies. Charles Henry Liiders THE OLD SOUL " Not in entire forgetfulness." THE Old Soul came from far, Beyond the unlit bound; There had gone out a star, And a great world was drowned, 234 EDITH M. THOMAS Since birth and death and birth Were hers, upon the earth. For she had robed anew Time and time out of mind; And, as the sphere of dew Unshapes into the wind, Her raiment oft had cast Into the wasting past. There was no dizzying height She had not sometime trod, No dungeon known of night But she had felt its rod; The saint, assoiled from sin The saint's arch-foe had been! At cruel feasts she sate, Where heartless mirth ran high; Through famine's portal strait Had fled with wailful cry; All human fates had proved, And those from man removed. Yea, she had worn the guise Of creatures lashed and spurned - Even of those whose eyes May not on heaven be turned; No house too dark or base To be her tarrying-place ! The Old Soul came from far; And, all lives having known, EVOE' 235 She nowhere touched a bar, But all was as her own: And this could none forget, Who once her look had met! The Old Soul came from far, Moving through days and ways That are not and that are! She turned on all her gaze Illumed, deceived illumed; Yet still the road resumed. The Old Soul came from far, And toward the far she drew. "Turn home, mine avatar!" That voice, long lost, she knew; She heard, she turned was free No more to dream, but Be! Edith M. Thomas. EVOE! B Many are the wand bearers, few are the true bacchanals." MANY are the wand-bearers; Their windy shouts I hear, Along the hillside vineyard, And where the wine runs clear; They show the vine-leaf chaplet, The ivy-wreathen spear. But the god, the true lacchus, He does not hold them dear. Many are the wand-bearers, And bravely are they clad; 236 EDITH M. THOMAS Yes, they have all the tokens His early lovers had. They sing the master-passions, Themselves unsad, unglad; And the god, the true lacchus He knows they are not mad! Many are the wand-bearers; The fawn-skin bright they wear; There are among them maenads That rave with unbound hair. They toss the harmless firebrand It spends itself in air: And the god, the true lacchus, He smiles and does not care. Many are the wand-bearers, And who (ye ask) am I? One who was born in madness, "Evoe"! my first cry Who dares, before your spear-points, To challenge and defy; And the god, the true lacchus, go keep me till I die! Many are the wand-bearers. I bear with me no sign; Yet I was mad, was drunken, Ere yet I tasted wine; Nor bleeding grape can slacken The thirst wherewith I pine; And the god, the true lacchus, Hears now this song of mine. Edith M. Thomas. INTERLUDE 237 SONNET METHINKS ofttimes my heart is like some bee That goes forth through the summer days and sings, And gathers honey from all growing things In garden plot, or on the clover lea. When the long afternoon grows late, and she Would seek her hive, she cannot lift her wings, So heavily the too sweet burden clings, From which she would not, and yet would, fly free. So with my full fond heart; for when it tries To lift itself to peace-crowned heights, above The common way where countless feet have trod, Lo! then this burden of dear human ties, This growing weight of precious earthly love, Bends down the spirit that would soar to God. Ella Wheeler Wikox. INTERLUDE THE days grow shorter, the nights grow longer, The headstones thicken along the way; And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger For those who walk with us, day by day. The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower, The courage is lesser to do and dare; And the tide of joy in the heart runs lower And seldom covers the reefs of care. But all true things in the world seem truer, And the better things of the earth seem best; 238 WILLIAM HERBERT CARRUTH And friends are dearer as friends are fewer, And love is all as our sun dips west. Then let us clasp hands as we walk together, And let us speak softly, in love's sweet tone. For no man knows, on the morrow, whether We two pass by, or but one alone. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. THE WORLD'S NEED So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind Is all the sad world needs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE A FIRE-MIST and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jelly-fish and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod, Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high, OPPORTUNITY And all over upland and lowland The charm of the goldenrod, Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in, Come from the mystic ocean Whose rim no foot has trod, Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood, Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod, Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. William Herbert Carruth. OPPORTUNITY MASTER of human destinies am I! Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.. Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and passing by Hovel and mart and palace soon or late I knock, unbidden, once at every gate! If sleeping, wake if feasting, rise before 240 WALTER MALONE I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach everj state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more! John James Ingalls. OPPORTUNITY THEY do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away ! Weep not for golden ages on the wane ! Each night I burn the records of the day At sunrise every soul is born again! Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? Then turn from blotted archives of the past And find the future's pages white as snow. Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; THE CRICKET 241 My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come. Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep But yet might rise and be again a man! Walter M alone. THE RACERS TIME at my elbow plucks me sore; Yet I '11 not slack my pace to hear The one sad word which, o'er and o'er, He whispers in my ear. Upon my hair he dusts his rime; I shake my head full laughingly, For howsoever fleet be Time, He shall not outstrip me. James B. Kenyan* THE CRICKET PIPER of the fields and woods And the fragrant solitudes, When the trees are stripped of leaves, And the choked brook sobs and grieves; When the golden-rod alone Feigns the summer hath not flown; Then while evening airs grow chill, And the flocks upon the hill 242 JAMES B. KENYON Huddle in the waning light, Thou, ere falls the frosty night, To the kine that homeward pass Pipest 'mid the stiffening grass. Dark may dawn the winter days, Where thou art the summer stays; Though the ruffian north winds roar, Lash the roof and smite the door, Thou from hearths secure and warm Laughest at the brewing storm, And thy merry minstrelsy Sets the frozen fancy free. Dost thou dream, O piper brave, That from his sea-haunted grave He who praised thy song of yore Hath come back to hear once more, Through high noons, thy strident strain Borne o'er Enna's saffron plain? Long, long since the nectared hoard That the yellow bees have stored In the turf above thy head Hath, by many a passing tread O'er the chamber of his sleep, In the dust been trampled deep. From his lentisk couch of rest, In his shaggy goat-skin vest, f He shall rise no more to hear, With the poet's raptured ear, O'er the thymy pastures swell Morning sounds he loved so well. Other skies are over us, And afar Theocritus Slumbers deep, O piper small, PREVISION MS And he will not heed at all Though be struck thy shrillest notes; Yet a voice like thine still floats O'er him where thy shy kin be 'Mid the dews of Sicily. James B. Kenyan. PREVISION On, days of beauty standing veiled apart, With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air, In this rich Indian summer of the heart Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear. The long brown fields no longer drear and dull Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours, Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful, More spiritlike than even summer's flowers. But yesterday the world was stricken bare, Left old and dead in gray, enshrouding gloom; To-day what vivid wonder of the air Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom? Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death, A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth, An exhalation of creative breath Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth. In her wide Pantheon her temple place Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting, We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace, Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring. Ada Foster Murray. MA FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN THE SPIRIT OF THE FALL COME, on thy swaying feet, Wild Spirit of the Fall! With wind-blown skirts, loose hair of russet-brown, Crowned with bright berries of the bittersweet. Trip a light measure with the hurrying leaf, Straining thy few late roses to thy breast, With laughter over-gay, sweet eyes drooped down, That none may guess thy grief. Dare not to pause for rest Lest the slow tears should gather to their fall. But when the cold moon rises o'er the hill, The last numb crickets cease, and all is still, Face down thou liest on the frosty ground Strewed with thy fortune's wreck, alas, thine all There, on a winter dawn, thy corse I found, Lone Spirit of the Fall. Danske Dandridge. DIES ULTIMA WHITE in her woven shroud, Silent she lies, Deaf to the trumpets loud Blown through the skies; Never a sound can mar Her slumber long: She is a faded star, A finished song! ON A GREEK VASE 245 Over her hangs the sun, A golden glow; Round her the planets run, She does not know; For neither gloom nor gleam Can reach her sight: She is a broken dream, A dead delight! No voice can waken her Again to sing; She never more will stir To feel the spring; Through the dim ether hurled Till Time shall tire, She is a wasted world, A frozen fire! Frank Dempster Sherman. ON A GREEK VASE DIVINELY shapen cup, thy lip Unto me seemeth thus to speak: "Behold in me the workmanship, The grace and cunning of a Greek! "Long ages since he mixed the clay, Whose sense of symmetry was such. The labor of a single day Immortal grew beneath his touch. "For dreaming while his fingers went Around this slender neck of mine, 246 CLINTON SCOLLARD The form of her he loved was blent With every matchless curve and line. "Her loveliness to me he gave Who gave unto herself his heart, That love and beauty from the grave Might rise and live again in art." And hearing from thy lips this tale Of love and skill, of art and grace, Thou seem 'st to me no more the frail Memento of an older race: But in thy form divinely wrought And figured o'er with fret and scroll, I dream, by happy chance was caught, And dwelleth now, that maiden's soul. Frank Dempster Sherman. IF ONLY THE DREAMS ABIDE IF the things of earth must pass Like the dews upon the grass, Like the mists that break and run At the forward sweep of the sun, I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. Nay, I would not be shorn Of gold from the mines of morn! I would not be bereft Of the last blue flower in the cleft, Of the haze that haunts the hills, Or the moon that the midnight fills! KHAMSIN 247 Still would I know the grace Upon love's uplifted face, And the slow, sweet joy-dawn there Under the dusk of her hair. I pray thee, spare me, Fate, The woeful, wearying weight Of a heart that feels no pain At the sob of the Autumn rain, And takes no breath of glee From the organ-surge of the sea, Of a mind where memory broods Over songless solitudes! I shall be satisfied If only the dreams abide. Clinton ScoUard. KHAMSIN OH, the wind from the desert blew in! Khamsin, The wind from the desert, blew in! It blew from the heart of the fiery south, From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth, And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth; The wind from the desert blew in ! It blasted the buds on the almond bough, And shriveled the fruit on the orange tree; The wizened dervish breathed no vow So weary and parched was he. The lean muezzin could not cry; The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky; 248 CLINTON SCOLLARD The hot sun shone like a copper disk, And prone in the shade of an obelisk The water-carrier sank with a sigh, -^ For limp and dry was his water-skin; And the wind from the desert blew in. The camel crouched by the crumbling wall, And, oh, the pitiful moan it made ! The minarets, taper and slim and tall, Reeled and swam in the brazen light; And prayers went up by day and night, But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed. The river writhed in its slimy bed, Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin, The wind from the desert, blew in ! Into the cool of the mosque it crept, Where the poor sought rest at the prophet's shrine; Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, And men grew haggard with revel of wine. The tiny fledglings died in the nest; The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast. Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread From a tremulous whisper faint and vague, Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread. The plague I ike plague I the plague I Oh, the wind, Khamsin, The scourge from the desert, blew in ! Clinton Scdlard. IN THE GRASS 249 DO YOU FEAR THE WIND? Do you fear the force of the wind, The slash of the rain? Go face them and fight them, Be savage again. Go hungry and cold like the wolf, Go wade like the crane: The palms of your hands will thicken, The skin of your cheek will tan, You '11 grow ragged and weary and swarthy, But you'll walk like a man! Hamlin Garland. IN THE GRASS O TO lie in long grasses ! O to dream of the plain! Where the west wind sings as it passes A weird and unceasing refrain; Where the rank grass wallows and tosses, And the plains' ring dazzles the eye; Where hardly a silver cloud bosses The flashing steel arch of the sky. To watch the gay gulls as they flutter Like snowflakes and fall down the sky, To swoop in the deeps of the hollows, Where the crow's-foot tosses awry, And gnats in the lee of the thickets Are swirling like waltzers in glee To the harsh, shrill creak of the crickets, And the song of the lark and the bee. 250 RICHARD BURTON O far-off plains of my west land! O lands of winds and the free, Swift deer my mist-clad plain ! From my bed in the heart of the forest, From the clasp and the girdle of pain, Your light through my darkness passes; To your meadows in dreaming I fly To plunge in the deeps of your grasses, To bask in the light of your sky ! Hamlin Garland. THE CITY THEY do neither plight nor wed In the city of the dead, In the city where they sleep away the hours; But they lie, while o'er them range Winter-blight and summer change, And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers. No, they neither wed nor plight, And the day is like the night, Fer their vision is of other kind than ours. They do neither sing nor sigh, In that burgh of by and by Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long; But they rest within their bed, Leaving all their thoughts unsaid, Deeming silence better far than sob or song. No, they neither sigh nor sing, Though the robin be a-wing, Though the leaves of autumn march a million strong. THUS FAR 251 There is only rest and peace In the City of Surcease From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun, And the wings of the swift years Beat but gently o'er the biers, Making music to the sleepers every one. There is only peace and rest; But to them it seemeth best, For they lie at ease and know that life is done. Richard Burton. THE HUMAN TOUCH HIGH thoughts and noble in all lands Help me; my soul is fed by such. But ah, the touch of lips and hands, The human touch! Warm, vital, close, life's symbols dear, These need I most, and now, and here. Richard Burton. THUS FAR BECAUSE my life has lain so close to thine, Because our hearts have kept a common beat, Because thine eyes turned towards me frank and sweet Reveal sometimes thine untold thoughts to mine, Think not that I, by curious design, Or over-step of too impetuous feet, Could desecrate thy soul's supreme retreat, Could disregard its quivering barrier-line. 252 FRANK L. STANTON Only a simple Levite, I, who stand On the world's side of the most holy place, Till, as the new day glorifies the east, One come to lift the veil with reverent hand And enter with thy soul's soul face to face, He whom thy God shall call to be high priest. Sophie Jewett. IN THE DARK LORD, since the strongest human hands I know Reach through my darkness, will not let me go, Hold me as if most dear when fallen most low; Since, even now, when my spent courage lies Stricken beneath disastrous, quivering skies, I learn the tenderness of human eyes; Surely, though night unthinkable impend, Where human hands nor human eyes befriend, Thou wilt avail me in the lonely end. Sophie Jewett. A LITTLE WAY A LITTLE way to walk with you, my own Only a little way, Then one of us must weep and walk alone Until God's day. A little way! It is so sweet to live Together, that I know Life would not have one withered rose to give If one of us should go. BEGGARS 253 And if these lips should ever learn to smile, With thy heart far from mine, 'T would be for joy that in a little while They would be kissed by thine ! Frank L. Stanton t FATE Two shall be born the whole wide world apart; And speak in different tongues, and have no thought Each of the other's being, and no heed; And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death, And all unconsciously shape every act And bend each wandering step to this one end, That, one day, out of darkness, they shall meet And read life's meaning in each other's eyes. And two shall walk some narrow way of life So nearly side by side, that should one turn Ever so little space to left or right They needs must stand acknowledged face to face. And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet, With groping hands that never clasp, and lips Calling in vain to ears that never hear, They seek each other all their weary days And die unsatisfied and this is Fate! Susan Marr Spotting BEGGARS CHILD with the hungry eyes, The pallid mouth and brow, And the lifted, asking hands, I am more starved than thou. 254 ANNE REEVE ALDRICH I beg not on the street; But where the sinner stands, In secret place, I beg Of God, with outstretched hands. As thou hast asked of me, Raising thy downcast head, So have I asked of Him, So, trembling, have I plead. Take this and go thy way; Thy hunger shall soon cease. Thou prayest but for bread, And I, alas! for peace. Ella Higginson, A LITTLE PARABLE I MADE the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life's steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. If I had guessed if I had dreamed Its weight was meant for me, I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary! Anne Reeve Aldrich, CARE 255 LOVE'S CHANGE I WENT to dig a grave for Love, But the earth was so stiff and cold That, though I strove through the bitter night, I could not break the mould. And I said: "Must he lie in my house in state, And stay in his wonted place? Must I have him with me another day, With that awful change in his face?" Anne Reeve Aldrich. CARE ALL in the leafy darkness, when sleep had passed me by, I knew the surging of the sea Though never wave were nigh. All in the leafy darkness, unbroken by a star, There came the clamorous call of day, While yet the day was far. All in the leafy darkness, woven with hushes deep, I heard the vulture wings of Fear Above me tireless sweep; The sea of Doubt, the dread of day, upon me surged and swept All in the leafy darkness, And while the whole world slept. Virginia WJodward Cloud, g56 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY BEATI MORTUI BLESSED the Dead in Spirit, our brave dead Not passed, but perfected: Who tower up to mystical full bloom From self, as from a known alchemic tomb; Who out of wrong Run forth with laughter and a broken thong; Who win from pain their strange and flawless grant Of peace anticipant; Who cerements lately wore of sin, but now, Unbound from foot to brow, Gleam in and out of cities, beautiful As sun-born colours of a forest pool Where Autumn sees The splash of walnuts from her thinning trees. Though wondered-at of some, yea, feared almost As any chantry ghost, How sight of these, in hermitage or mart, Makes glad a wistful heart! For life's apologetics read most true In spirits risen anew, Like larks in air To whom flat earth is all a heavenward stair, And who from yonder parapet Scorn every mortal fret, And rain their sweet bewildering staves Upon our furrow of fresh-delved graves. If thus to have trod and left the wormy way Makes men so wondrous gay, So stripped and free and potently alive, Who would not his infirmity survive, SANCTUARY 257 And bathe in victory, and come to be As blithe as ye, Saints of the ended wars? Ah, greeting give; Turn not away, too fugitive: But hastening towards us, hallow the foul street^ And sit with us at meat, And of your courtesy, on us unwise Fix oft those purer eyes, Till in ourselves who love them dwell The same sure light ineffable: Till they who walk with us in after years Forgetting time and tears (As we with you), shall sing all day instead: "How blessed are the Dead!" Louise Imogen Guiney. SANCTUARY HIGH above hate I dwell: O storms! farewell. Though at my sill your daggered thunders play Lawless and loud to-morrow as to-day, To me they sound more small Than a young fay's footfall : Soft and far-sunken, forty fathoms low In Long Ago, And winnowed into silence on that wind Which takes wars, like a dust, and leaves but love behind. Hither Felicity Doth climb to me, And bank me in with turf and marjoram Such as bees lip, or the new-weaned lamb; 258 BLISS CARMAN With golden barberry-wreath, And bluets thick beneath; One grosbeak, too, mid apple-buds a guest With bud-red breast, Is singing, singing! All the hells that rage Float less than April fog below our hermitage. Louise Imogen Guiney. THE JUGGLER LOOK how he throws them up and up, The beautiful golden balls ! They hang aloft in the purple air, And there never is one that falls. He sends them hot from his steady hand, He teaches them all their curves; And whether the reach be little or long, There never is one that swerves. Some, like the tiny red one there, He never lets go far; And some he has sent to the roof of the tent, To swim without a jar. So white and still they seem to hang, You wonder if he forgot To reckon the time of their return And measure their golden lot. Can it be that, hurried or tired out, The hand of the juggler shook? O never you fear, his eye is clear, He knows them all like a book. THE JUGGLER And they will home to his hand at last, For he pulls them by a cord Finer than silk and strong as fate, That is just the bid of his word. Was there ever such a sight in the world? Like a wonderful winding skein, The way he tangles them up together And ravels them out again! He has so many moving now, You can hardly believe your eyes; And yet they say he can handle twice The number when he tries. You take your choice and give me mine, I know the one for me, It's that great bluish one low down Like a ship's light out at sea. It has not moved for a minute or more. The marvel that it can keep As if it had been set there to spin For a thousand years asleep ! If I could have him at the inn Ail by myself some night, Inquire his country, and where in the world He came by that cunning sleight! Where do you guess he learned the trick To hold us gaping here, Till our minds in the spell of his maze almost Have forgotten the time of year? 260 BLISS CARMAN One never could have the least idea. Yet why be disposed to twit A fellow who does such wonderful things With the merest lack of wit? Likely enough, when the show is done And the balls all back in his hand, He'll tell us why he is smiling so, And we shall understand. Bliss Carman, THE GRAVEDIGGER OH, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he '11 save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore, Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore. Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday. He followed the ships of England far, As the ships of long ago; THE GRAVEDIGGER 261 And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow. Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the sexton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down. But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide. Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly rote of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world. He learned it once in his father's house, Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue. Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in. And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons and they come. 262 HELEN GRAY CONE Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last. Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he '11 save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore, Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore. Bliss Carman. A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND A SONG of hate is a song of Hell; Some there be that sing it well. Let them sing it loud and long, We lift our hearts in a loftier song: We lift our hearts to Heaven above, Singing the glory of her we love, < England ! Glory of thought and glory of deed, Glory of Hampton and Runnymede; Glory of ships that sought far goals, Glory of swords and glory of souls! Glory of songs mounting as birds, Glory immortal of magical words; Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson, Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott; THE KAVANAGH Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney, Glory transcendent that perishes not, Hers is the story, hers be the glory, England ! Shatter her beauteous breast ye may; The spirit of England none can slay! Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul's, Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls? Pry the stone from the chancel floor, Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more? Where is the giant shot that kills Wordsworth walking the old green hills? Trample the red rose on the ground, Keats is Beauty while earth spins round! Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, Cast her ashes into the sea, She shall escape, she shall aspire, She shall arise to make men free: She shall arise in a sacred scorn, Lighting the lives that are yet unborn; Spirit supernal, Splendor eternal, England I Helen Gray Cone. THE KAVANAGH A STONE jug and a pewter mug, And a table set for three! A jug and a mug at every place, And a biscuit or two with Brie! 264 RICHARD HOVEY Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And a cheese like crusted foam! The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home! We three and the barley-bree! And a health to the one away, Who drifts down careless Italy, God's wanderer and estray! For friends are more than Arno's store Of garnered charm, and he Were blither with us here the night Than Titian bids him be. Throw ope the window to the stars, And let the warm night in! Who knows what revelry in Mars May rhyme with rouse akin? Fill up and drain the loving cup And leave no drop to waste! The moon looks in to see what's up Begad, she'd like a taste! What odds if Leinster's kingly roll Be now an idle thing? The world is his who takes his toll, A vagrant or a king. What though the crown be melted down, And the heir a gypsy roam? The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home! AT THE CROSSROADS 65 We three and the barley-bree! And the moonlight on the floor! Who were a man to do with less? What emperor has more? Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And three stout hearts to drain A slanter to the truth in the heart of youth And the joy of the love of men. Richard Hovey. 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! 266 RICHARD HOVEY 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 ! With a steady swing and an open brow 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. Richard Hovey. KU KLUX 267 ON THE DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN UNHAPPY dreamer, who outwinged in flight The pleasant region of the things I love, And soared beyond the sunshine, and above The golden cornfields and the dear and bright Warmth of the hearth, blasphemer of de- light, Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove, That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove, The empty horror of abysmal night? Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon! I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death, As, in your numbed spirit's fatal swoon, You cried you were a god, or were to be; I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea. George Santayana. KU KLUX WE have sent him seeds of the melon's core, And nailed a warning upon his door : By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more. Down in the hollow, mid crib and stack, The roof of his low-porched house looms black; Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack. Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! And for a word too much men oft have died. 268 MADISON CAWEIN The clouds blow heavy toward the moon. The edge of the storm will reach it soon. The killdee cries and the lonesome loon. The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare Than the lightning makes with its angled flare, When the Ku Klux verdict is given there. In the pause of the thunder rolling low, A rifle's answer who shall know From the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow? Only the signature, written grim At the end of the message brought to him A hempen rope and a twisted limb. So arm and mount! and mask and ride! The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! For a word too much oft men have died. Madison Cawein. THE RAIN-CROW CAN freckled August, drowsing warm and blonde Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead, In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound, O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather' d seed Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond, That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses, Through which the dragonfly forever passes Like splintered diamond. THE RAIN-CROW 269 Drouth weights the trees, and from the farmhouse eaves The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day, Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves Limp with the heat a league of rutty way Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves. Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain, In thirsty heaven or on burning plain, That thy keen eye perceives? But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true. For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting, When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue, Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring And flash and rumble! lavishing dark dew On corn and forestland, that, streaming wet, Their hilly backs against the downpour set, Like giants vague in view. The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower, Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art; The bumble-bee, within the last half-hour, Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart; W T hile in the barnyard, under shed and cart, Brood-hens have housed. But I, who scorned thy power, Barometer of birds, like August there, .Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair, Like some drenched truant, cower. Madison Cawein, 270 CHARLES BUXTON GOING I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS I FEAR no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields, With comradeship alone of gun, Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun. For aye the heart's most poignant pain Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, And rush of winds through branches bare With something still to do and dare, The lonely watch beside the shore, The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, And paths of virgin sky to scan Untrod, and so uncursed by man. Gramercy, for thy haunting face, Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields. Ernest McGaffey, TO ARCADY ACROSS the hills of Arcady Into the Land of Song Ah, dear, if you will go with me The way will not be long. It does not lie through solitudes Of wind-blown woods or sea; THE EAST WIND 271 Dear, no ! the city's weariest moods May scarce veil Arcady. 'Tis in no unfamiliar land Lit by some distant star; See ! Arcady is where you stand, And song is where you are. Then go but hand in hand with me No road can lead us wrong; Here are the hills of Arcady This is the Land of Song. Charles Buxton Going THE EAST WIND GRAY-COWLED wind of the east! Grimly you chant your psalter, The sea your wild high-priest And the seething rocks your altar On which, in fierce confusion While sad stars hide their eyes, You fling your dread profusion Of human sacrifice. And then, by hill and prairie As one who strives for rest, As seeking sanctuary, Unhailed, unloved, unblest, You still cry on, entraining Your clouds of spectral hosts Shivering and complaining, Eerie wind of the ghosts! Charles Buxton Going. 272 HARRIET MONROE LOVE SONG I LOVE my life, but not too well To give it to thee like a flower, So it may pleasure thee to dwell Deep in its perfume but an hour., I love my life, but not too well. I love my life, but not too well To sing it note by note away, So to thy soul the song may tell The beauty of the desolate day. I love my life, but not too well. I love my life, but not too well To cast it like a cloak on thine, Against the storms that sound and swell Between thy lonely heart and mine. I love my life, but not too well. Harriet Monroe* A FAREWELL GOOD-BYE! no, do not grieve that it is over, The perfect hour; That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover, Flits from the flower. Grieve not it is the law. Love will be flying Yes, love and all. Glad was the living blessed be the dying. Let the leaves fall. Harriet Monroe, THE SHADOW-CHILD 273 THE SHADOW-CHILD Why do the wheels go whirring round,, Mother, mother ? Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever ? Yes, fiery giants underground, Daughter, little daughter, Forever turn the wheels around, And rumble-grumble ever. Why do I pick the threads all day, Mother, mother ? While sunshine children are at play ? And must I work forever? Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day, Daughter, little daughter, Your hands must pick the threads away, And feel the sunshine never. Why do the birds sing in the sun, Mother, mother? If all day long I run and run, Run with the wheels forever ? The birds may sing till day is done, Daughter, little daughter, But with the wheels your feet must run Run with the wheels forever. Why do I feel so tired each night, Mother, mother? The wheels are always buzzing bright; Do they grow sleepy never ? 274 GERTRUDE HALL Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, Daughter, little daughter, The big wheels grind us in their might, And they will grind forever. And is the white thread never spun, Mother, mother ? And is the white cloth never done. For you and me done never ? Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun, Daughter, little daughter, When we lie down out in the sun, And work no more forever. And when will come that happy day, Mother, mother ? Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play Out in the sun forever ? Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day, Daughter, little daughter, Where green grass grows and roses gay, There in the sun forever. Harriet Monroe, ONE DISTANT APRIL AH, worshipped one, ah, faithful Spring, Again you come, again you bring That flock of flowers from the fold Where warm it slept while we were cold. What shall we say to one so dear Who keeps her promise every year? FLOS AEVORUM 275 Ah, hear me promise, and as true As you to us am I to you : Ne'er shall you come and as a child Sit in the market piping mild, With dance suggestion in your glance, And I not dance, and I not dance! But you the same will always be, While ninety springs will alter me; Yet truly as you come and play, So truly will I dance, I say. There is a strange thing to be seen One distant April pink and green: Before a young child piping sweet An old child dancing with spent feet. Gertrude Hall FLOS AEVORUM You must mean more than just this hour, You perfect thing so subtly fair, Simple and complex as a flower, Wrought with such planetary care; How patient the eternal power That wove the marvel of your hair. How long the sunlight and the sea Wove and re-wove this rippling gold To rhythms of eternity; And many a flashing thing grew old, Waiting this miracle to be; And painted marvels manifold. 276 RICHARD LE GALLIENNE Still with his work unsatisfied, Eager each new effect to try, The solemn artist cast aside Rainbow and shell and butterfly, As some stern blacksmith scatters wide The sparks that from his anvil fly. How many shells, whorl within whorl, Litter the marges of the sphere With rack of unregarded pearl, To shape that little thing, your ear: Creation, just to make one girl, Hath travailed with exceeding fear. The moonlight of forgotten seas Dwells in your eyes, and on your tongue The honey of a million bees, And all the sorrows of all song : You are the ending of all these, The world grew old to make you young. All time hath traveled to this rose; To the strange making of this face Came agonies of fires and snows; And Death and April, nights and days Unnumbered, unimagined throes, Find in this flower their meeting place. Strange artist, to my aching thought Give answer: all the patient power That to this perfect ending wrought, Shall it mean nothing but an hour? Say not that it is all for nought Time brings Eternity a flower. Richard Le Gallienne. INFINITY 277 WHAT OF THE DARKNESS? WHAT of the Darkness? Is it very fair? Are there great calms? And find we silence there? Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow With some strange peace our faces never know, W 7 ith some strange faith our faces never dare, Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there? Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap? Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? Day shows us not such comfort anywhere Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there? Out of the Day's deceiving light we call Day that shows man so great, and God so small, That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass O is the Darkness too a lying glass! Or undistracted, do you find truth there? What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? Richard Le Gallienne, INFINITY I DARE not think that thou art by, to stand And face omnipotence so near at hand ! When I consider thee, how must I shrink: How must I say, I do not understand, I dare not think! I cannot stand before the thought of thee, Infinite Fullness of Eternity! 278 WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY So close that all the outlines of the land Are lost, in the inflowing of thy sea I cannot stand. I think of thee, and as the crystal bowl Is broken, and the waters of the soul Go down to death within the crystal sea, I faint and fail when (thou, the perfect whole) I think of thee. Philip Henry Savage. PANDORA SONG I STOOD within the heart of God ; It seemed a place that I had known: (I was blood-sister to the clod, Blood-brother to the stone.) I found my love and labor there, My house, my raiment, meat and wine, My ancient rage, my old despair, Yea, all things that were mine. I saw the spring and summer pass, The trees grow bare, and winter come; All was the same as once it was Upon my hills at home. Then suddenly in my own heart I felt God walk and gaze about; He spoke; his words seemed held apart With gladness and with doubt. "OF WOUNDS AND SORE DEFEAT" 279 "Here is my meat and wine," He said, "My love, my toil, my ancient care; Here is my cloak, my book, my bed, And here my old despair. " Here are my seasons : winter, spring, Summer the same, and autumn spills The fruits I look for; everything As on my heavenly hills." William Vaughn Moody. "OF WOUNDS AND SORE DEFEAT" OF wounds and sore defeat I made my battle stay; Winged sandals for my feet I wove of my delay; Of weariness and fear, I made my shouting spear; Of loss, and doubt, and dread, And swift oncoming doom I made a helmet for my head And a floating plume. From the shutting mist of death, From the failure of the breath, I made a battle-horn to blow Across the vales of overthrow. O hearken, love, the battle-horn! The triumph clear, the silver scorn! O hearken where the echoes bring, Down the gray disastrous morn, Laughter and rallying ! William Vaughn Moody. 280 WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES STREETS of the roaring town, Hush for him, hush, be still ! He comes, who was stricken down Doing the word of our will. Hush! Let him have his state, Give him his soldier's crown. The grists of trade can wait Their grinding at the mill, But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown; Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone. . Toll! Let the great bells toll Till the clashing air is dim. Did we wrong this parted soul? We will make it up to him. Toll ! Let him never guess What work we set him to. Laurel, laurel, yes; He did what we bade him do. Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart 's-blood. A flag for the soldier's bier Who dies that his land may live; WHEN THE GRAY SHIPS COME IN 281 O, banners, banners here, That he doubt not nor misgive! That he heed not from the tomb The evil days draw near When the nation, robed in gloom, With its faithless past shall strive. Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark, Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark. William Vaughn Moody. WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN (New York Harbor, August 20, 1898) To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er map- less miles of sea, On winds and tides the gospel rides that the further- most isles are free, And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill, Breaker and beach cry each to each, " 'T is the Mother who calls! Be still!" Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm, Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm, Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam, Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home! 282 GUY WETMORE CARRYL And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars! Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannon- ade, Peace at last ! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace." Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go, How, when the stirring summons smote on her chil- dren's ear, South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered, "Here!" For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong, Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then on the decks they trod, Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God ! LULLABY 288 Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free, To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost enda of sea, To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait, To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait: But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home, And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam, And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win! Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in ! Guy Wetmore CarryL LULLABY BEDTIME'S come fu' little boys, Po' little lamb, Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po' little lamb. You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'? Yes, you tole me dat befo', Don' you fool me, chile, no mo', Po' little lamb. You been bad de livelong day, Po' little lamb. Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, Po' little lamb. 284 PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR My, but you's a-runnin' wiP, Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile; Mam' gwine whup you atter while, Po' little lamb. Come hyeah ! you mos' tiahed to def , Po' little lamb. Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref, Po' little lamb. See dem han's now sich a sight! Would you evah b'lieve dey's white? Stan' still twell I wash 'em right, Po' little lamb. Jes' cain't hoP yo' haid up straight, Po' little lamb. Had n't oughter played so late, Po' little lamb. Mammy do' know whut she'd do, , Ef de chillun's all lak you; You 's a caution now f u' true, Po' little lamb. ,^ '% Lay yo' haid down in my lap, Po' little lamb. Y' ought to have a right good slap, Po' little lamb. You been runnin' roun' a heap. Shet dem eyes an' don' you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po' little lamb. Paul Laurence Dunbar, COMPENSATION 285 COMPENSATION BECAUSE I had loved so deeply, Because I had loved so long, God in his great compassion Gave me the gift of song. Because I have loved so vainly, And sung with such faltering breath, The Master, in infinite mercy, Offers the boon of Death. Paul Laurence Dunbar. INDEX OF FIRST LINES A cloud possessed the hollow field 204 A Fire-Mist and a planet 238 A great, still Shape, alone 163 A little way to walk with you, my own 252 A little while (my life is almost set!) 145 A man should live in a garret aloof 166 A noiseless, patient spider 116 A song of hate is a song of Hell 262 A stone jug and a pewter mug 263 A thousand silent years ago 86 Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 177 Across -the hills of Arcady 270 Across the narrow beach we flit 165 Ah, little flower, upspringing, azure-eyed 210 Ah! sad are they who know not love 160 Ah! there be souls none understand 18) Ah! worshipped one, ah, faithful Spring 274 All day the stormy wind has blown 180 All in the leafy darkness, when sleep had passed me by 255 "All quiet along the Potomac," they say 175 All ye who love the springtime and who but loves it well 198 An apple orchard smells like wine 231 As a twig trembles, which a bird 66 As the insect from the rock 180 At Shelley's birth 203 At the king's gate the subtle noon 149 At the last, tenderly 103 Autumn was cold in Plymouth town 223 Ay! Unto thee belong 156 Because I had loved so deeply 285 Because my life has lain so close to thine 251 Bedtime's come fu' little boys 283 288 INDEX OF FIRST LINES Behind him lay the gray Azores 182 Birds are singing round my window 132 Blessed the Dead in Spirit, our brave dead 256 Blessings on thee, little man 43 Blue gulf all around us 121 Bring me wine, but wine which never grew 21 By the flow of the inland river 134 Came the relief. "What, sentry, ho!" 177 Can freckled August, drowsing warm and blond . . . 268 Child with the hungry eyes 253 Close his eyes; his work is done! 94 Come, lovely and soothing Death 112 Come, on thy swaying feet 244 Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone 232 Daughter of Egypt, veil thine eyes! 126 Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days 21 Days that come and go 209 Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare v 192 Death 's but one more to-morrow. Thou art gray .... 142 Divinely shapen cup, thy lip 245 Do you fear the force of the wind 249 Down the long hall she glistens like a star 208 Enamored architect of airy rhyme 168 Elysium is as far as to 147 Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer 157 Forenoon and afternoon and night, Forenoon 188 From the Desert I come to thee 127 Give me the splendid sileat sun with all his beams full- dazzling 113 Give me to die unwitting of the day 152 Good-bye, no, do not grieve that it is over 272 Gray-cowled wind of the east! 271 Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf 60 Gre^n be the turf above thee 8 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 289 Heaven is not reached at a single bound 84 Helen, thy beauty is to ine 51 Her lips were so near 210 Her suffering ended with the day 59 Here lived the soul enchanted 52 High above hate I dwell 257 High thoughts and noble in all lands 251 How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly 201 How many lives, made beautiful and sweet 30 How shall we know it is the last good-bye? 161 I blew, I blew, the trumpet loudly sounding 117 I cannot make him dead! * 9 I challenge not the oracle 159 I count my time by times that I meet thee 196 I dare not think that thou art by, to stand 277 I do not own an inch of land 118 I dragged my body to the pool of sleep 212 ^ fear no power a woman wields 270 i fill this cup to one made up 19 I have two friends, two glorious friends, two better could not be 123 I hear you, little bird 219 I idle stand that I may find employ 60 I know the night is near at hand 141 I like a church, I like a cowl 24 looked one night, and there Semiramis 220 love my life, but not too well 272 made the cross myself, whose weight 254 many times thought peace had come 147 never saw a moor 147 saw huii once before 56 I saw, one sultry night above a swamp 202 I stand upon the summit of my years 129 I stood within the heart of God 278 I think it is over, over 143 I walked beside the evening sea 131 I went to dig a grave for Love 255 If I lay waste and wither up with doubt 171 If life be as a flame that death doth kill 188 if the red slayer think he slays 26 290 INDEX OF FIRST LINES If the things of earth must pass 246 If thy sad heart, pining for human love 52 If with light head erect I sing 61 In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 47 In men whom men condemn as ill 181 In spite of all the learned have said 3 In the summer even 162 Into the woods my Master went 191 It is time to be old 27 Let me come in where you sit weeping, aye 225 Light-winged Smoke ! Icarian bird 62 Like a blind spinner in the sun 151 Look how he throws them up and up 258 Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands 191 Lord, since the strongest human hands I know 252 Many are the wand-bearers 235 Master of human destinies am 1 239 Methinks of ttimes my heart is like some bee 237 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord 95 Most men know love but as a part of life 138 My Dearling! thus, in days long fled 148 My heart, I cannot still it 82 My life closed twice before its close 146 My mind lets go a thousand things, 164 My short and happy day is done 172 My soul to-day 97 Not as all other women are 66 Not from the whole wide world I chose thee 196 O bird, thou dartest to the sun 83 O Death, when thou shalt come to me 230 O friends ! with whom my feet have trod 37 O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending! 7 O lonesome sea-gull, floating far 149 O to lie in long grasses! 249 Of all the souls that stand create 146 Of wounds and sore defeat 279 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 291 Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 29 Often I think of the beautiful town 30 Oh, days of beauty standing veiled apart 243 Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old 260 Oh, the wind from the desert blew in! 247 Oh, what a night for a soul to go! 203 Old man never had much to say 225 Once I came to Siena 229 Once it smiled a silent dell 49 One night I lay asleep in Africa 139 One night we were together, you and 1 220 One on another against the wall 117 One other bitter drop to drink 170 One sweetly solemn thought 129 One whitest lily, reddest rose 209 Out of the cradle endlessly rocking 104 Out of the dusk a shadow 203 Piper of the fields and woods 241 Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover 89 Sauntering hither on listless wings 179 See, from this counterfeit of him 87 Serene, I fold my hands and wait 193 Set your face to the sea, fond lover 169 Since, if you stood by my side to-day 130 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 136 So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn 46 So Love is dead, that has been quick so long! 160 So many gods, so many creeds 238 Softer than silence, stiller than still air 160 Some day, some day of days, threading the street. . . . 158 Spirit that moves the sap in spring 200 Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 137 Streets of the roaring town 280 'T is to yourself I speak; you cannot know 59 The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer 237 The despot's heel is on thy shore 172 The dew is on the heather 228 292 INDEX OF FIRST LINES The faithful helm commands the keel 194 The fire of love was burning, yet so low 217 The grass of fifty Aprils hath waved green 207 The green is on the grass and the blue is in the sky. . . 197 The little toy dog is covered with dust 214 The maid who binds her warrior's sash 90 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 17 The moon resumed all heaven now 183 The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring 218 The muffled drums' sad roll has beat 91 The Old Soul came from far 233 The pines were dark on Ramoth hill 40 The red rose whispers of passion 195 The royal feast was done; the King 18G The shadows lay along Broadway 36 The speckled sky is dim with snow 140 The sunshine of thine eyes 217 The swallow is flying over 64 The turtle on yon withered bough 3 The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire 124 The wind from out the west is blowing 195 There are gams for all our losses 132 They do me wrong who say I come no more 240 They do neither plight nor wed 250 They halted at the terrace wall 222 This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream 186 This is the loggia Browning loved 221 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 54 This was your butterfly, you see 169 Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea 12 Thou needst not weave nor spin 189 Thou wast that all to me, love 50 Thought is deeper than all speech 58 Through love to light! Oh wonderful the way 197 Time at my elbow plucks me sore 241 To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er map- less miles of sea 281 To him who in the love of nature holds 14 To tremble, when I touch her hands 230 Two shall be born the whole wide world apart 253 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 293 Under a sultry, yellow sky 133 Unhappy dreamer, who outwinged in flight 267 Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair. . 216 We break the glass, whose sacred wine 20 We have sent him seeds of the melon's core 267 We sat within the farmhouse old 34 We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead," 63 We were not many, we who stood 28 We wondered why he always turned aside 190 Weak-winged is song 68 What, are you hurt, Sweet? So am 1 215 What is the real good? 194 What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? 277 When Freedom from her mountain height 5 When she comes home again! a thousand ways 224 When the grass shall cover me 211 Where 's he that died o' Wednesday? 153 White in her woven shroud 244 Whither, midst falling dew 13 Who nearer Nature's life would truly come 63 Why didst thou come into my life so late 128 Why do the wheels go whirring round 273 Wind of the North 232 Within his sober realm of leafless trees 100 Within the garden of Beaucaire 154 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 213 Yes, death is at the bottom of the cup 171 You must mean more than just this hour 275 You to the left and I to the right 265 INDEX OF TITLES A Little While I fain would Linger Yet Hayne 145 After-Song Gilder 197 After Wings Sarah M. B. Piatt 169 Alas! Phcebe Gary 130 American Flag, The Drake 5 Arcady, To Going 270 At Best O'Reilly 194 At Magnolia Cemetery Timrod 136 At the Crossroads Hovey 265 Auspex Lowell 82 Bacchus Emerson 21 Ballad Harriet Prescott Spo/ord 162 Ballad of Trees and the Master, A Lanier 191 Barefoot Boy, The Whittier 43 Battle-Hymn of the Republic, The. . . Julia Ward Howe 95 Beati Mortui Louise Imogen Guiney 256 Bedouin Song Taylor 127 Beggars Etta Higginson 253 Bereaved Riley 225 Birds R. H. Stoddard 132 Bivouac of the Dead, The O'Hara 91 Blackbird, The Alice Gary 117 Blue and the Gray, The Finch 134 Bookra Warner 139 3rahma Emerson 26 Brave at Home, The Read 96 Browning at Asolo Johnson 221 Burial of the Dane, The Brownett 121 Bust of Dante, On a Parsons 87 Byron Miller 181 Byron, Lord, On the Proposal to erect a Monument in England to Emma Lazarus 207 Captain's Feather, The Peck 228 290 INDEX OF TITLES Care Virginia Woodward Cloud 255 Chambered Nautilus, The Holmes 54 Chant of Love for England, A Helen Gray Cone 262 Chartless Emily Dickinson 14 r / Choice Emily Dickinson 14( City, The Burton 25v Closing Scene, The Read IOC Columbus Miller 182 Commemoration Ode Lowell 68 Compensation Dunbar 285 Coronation Helen Hunt Jackson 149 Cricket, The Kenyan 241 Daisies, The Woodberry 229 Dante, On a Bust of Parsons 87 Dawning o' the Year, The Mary Elizabeth Blake 198 Days Emerson 21 Days that Come and Go Cheney 209 Death-Bed, A James Aldrich 59 Death Carol Walt Whitman 112 Death of a Metaphysician, On the Santayana 267 Death of the Flowers, The Bryant 17 Dickens in Camp Harte 177 Dies Ultima Sherman 244 Dirge for a Soldier Boker 94 Dirge for One who fell in Battle Parsons 89 Divina Commedia Longfellow 29 Divine Awe Woodberry 230 Do you fear the Wind? Garland 249 Drake, Joseph Rodman, On the Death of Halleck 8 Drifting Read 97 Each in his own Tongue Carruth 238 East Wind, The Going 271 Ebb and Flow Curtis 131 Elegiac Percival 7 Enamored Architect of Airy Rhyme T. B, Aldrich 168 Eternal Goodness, The Whittier 37 Evening Mitchell 141 Evening Song Lanier 191 Evoe ! Edith M. Thomas 235 Evolution.. ..Tabb 203 INDEX OF TITLES 297 Falstaff's Song Stedman 153 Farewell, A Harriet Monroe 272 Fate Susan Marr Spotting 253 Fire of Driftwood, The Longfellow 34 Fireflies Fawcett 202 Flight of the Goddess, The T. B. Aldrich 166 Flight of Youth, The R. H . Stoddard 132 Flos Aevorum Le Gallienne 275 Fool's Prayer, The Sill 186 Four Winds, The Luders 232 Fruitionless Ina Coolbrith 210 Giotto's Tower Longfellow 30 Give me the Splendid Silent Sun Walt Whitman 113 Gnosis Crunch 58 Gradatim Holland 84 Gravedigger, The Carman 260 Health, A Pinkney 19 Helen, To Poe 51 Her Picture Ellen Mackay Hutchinson 223 Hie Jacet Louise Chandler Moulton 160 High Tide at Gettysburg, The W. Thompson 204 House of Paul, The Florence Earle Coates 216 Human Touch, The Burton 251 Hurt Child, To a Grace Denio Litchfield 215 I count my Tune by Times that I meet thee Gilder 196 I fear no Power a Woman wields McGaffey 270 Ichabod Whittier 46 Idler, The Jones Very 60 If Howells 171 f only the Dreams Abide Scollard 246 In Exile Mary Elizabeth Blake 197 In Explanation Learned 210 In Harbor Hayne 143 In the Dark Sophie Jewett 252 In the Grass Garland 249 In Time of Grief Lizette Woodworth Reese 232 Indian Burying-Ground, The Freneau 3 Indirection Realf 157 INDEX OF TITLES Infinity Saiage 277 Inheritance Mary Thacher Higginson 190 Inspiration Thoreau 61 Interlude Ella Wheeler Wilcox 237 Ireland J.J. Piatt 16; Israfel Poe 4', Iter Supremum Hardy 203 Joy of the Morning Markham 219 Juggler, The Carman 258 Kavanagh, The Hovey 263 Khamsin Scollard 247 Ku Klux Cawein 267 Last Good-bye, The Louise Chandler Moulton 161 Last Invocation, The Walt Whitman 103 Last Leaf, The Holmes 56 Late Comer, To a Julia C. R. Dorr 128 Life Sill 188 Lion and Lioness Markham 220 Little Beach Bird, The Dana 12 Little Boy Blue Field 214 Little Parable, A Anne Reeve Aldrich 254 Little Way, A Stanton 252 Look into the Gulf, A Markham 22C Love and Italy Johnson 222 Love Song Harriet Monroe 272 Love's Change Anne Reeve Aldrich 255 Lullaby Dunbar 283 Magnolia Cemetery, At Timrod 136 Making of Man, The Chadicick 180 Memory T. B. Aldrich 164 Mercedes Elizabeth Stoddard 133 Midwinter Trowbridge 140 Monterey Hoffman 28 Mors Benefica Stedman 152 My Child Pierpont 9 My Dearling Elizabeth Akers Allen 148 My Lost Youth Longfellow 30 INDEX OF TITLES 299 My Love Lowell 66 My Maryland Randall 172 My Playmate Whittier 40 My Prayer Thoreau 60 Nearer Home Phoebe Gary 129 Noiseless, Patient Spider, A Walt Whitman 116 Of One who Seemed to have Failed Mitchell 142 "Of Wounds and Sore Defeat" Moody 279 Old Man and Jim, The Riley 225 Old Soul, The Edith M. Thomas 233 On a Bust of Dante Parsons 87 On a Greek Vase Sherman 245 On a Soldier fallen in the Philippines Moody 280 On the Death of a Metaphysician Santayana 267 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake Halleck 8 On the Proposal to erect a Monument in England to Lord Byron Emma Lazarus 207 One Cheney 209 One Distant April Gertrude Hall 274 One in Paradise, To Poe 50 One who Seemed to have Failed, Of Mitchell 142 Opportunity Ingalls 239 Opportunity Malone 240 Opportunity Sill 186 Oriole, To an Fawcett 201 Out of the Cradle endlessly Rocking. . . Walt Whitman 104 Palabras Carifiosas T. B. Aldrich 165 Pandora Song Moody 278 Parting Emily Dickinson 146 Peace Emily Dickinson 147 Picket-Guard, The Ethel Lynn Beers 175 Playmate, My Whittier 40 Poe, Edgar Allan, To Sarah Helen Whitman 52 Poe's Cottage at Fordham Boner 52 Pool of Sleep, The Bates 212 Power of Beauty, The J. H. Morse 189 Praxiteles and Phryne Story 80 Prayer, My Thoreau 60 300 INDEX OF TITLES Prelude, A Maurice Thompson 200 Prevision Ada Foster Murray 243 Problem, The Emerson 24 Proven gal Lovers Stedman 154 Quatorzain Timrod 138 Racers, The Kenyan 241 Rain-Crow, The Cawein 268 Refuge Winter 169 Relieving Guard Harte 177 Rhyme of Life, A C. W. Stoddard 188 Rubicon, The Winter 170 Sanctuary Louise Imogen Guiney 257 Sandpiper, The Celia Thaxter 162 Sea-Bird, To a Harie 179 Sea-Birds Elizabeth Akers Allen 149 Sea-blown Miller 181 Shadow-Child, The Harriet Monroe 273 She Came and Went Lowell 66 Shelley, To Tabb 203 Smoke Thoreau 62 Snowing of the Pines, The T. W. Higginson 116 Soldier fallen in the Philippines, On a Moody 280 Some Day of Days Nora Perry 158 Songs Gilder 196 Song Maria White Lowell 83 Song Pinkney 20 Song Taylor 126 Song from the Persian T. B. Aldrich 165 Song of Thyrsis Freneau 3 Sonnet Ella Wheeler Wilcox 237 Spinning Helen Hunt Jackson 151 Spirit of the Fall, The Danske Dandridge 244 Spring Timrod 137 Stirrup-Cup, The Hay 172 Stirrup-Cup, The Lanier 192 Strip of Blue, A Lucy Larcom 118 Strong as Death Bunner 230 Sundered. .; . . .S. II. Morse 159 INDEX OF TITLES 301 Sunshine of thine Eyes, The Lathrop 217 Suspense Emily Dickinson 147 Take Heart Edna Dean Proctor 180 Tears in Spring William Ellery Channing 64 Terminus Emerson 27 "Thalatta! Thalatta!" J. B. Brown 129 Thanatopsis Bryant 14 Theocritus Annie Fields 156 Thoreau A. B. Alcott 63 Thoreau's Flute Louise M. Alcott 63 Thus Far Sophie Jewett 251 To a Hurt Child Grace Denio Litchfield 215 ToaLate Comer Julia C. R. Dorr 128 To a Sea-Bird Harie 179 To a Waterfowl Bryant 13 To an Oriole Fawcett 201 To Arcady Going 270 To Edgar Allan Poe Sarah Helen Whitman 52 To Helen Poe 51 To One in Paradise Poe 50 To Shelley Tabb 203 Trumpeter, The T. W. Higginson 117 Two Friends, The Leland 123 Tyre Taylor 124 Unseen Spirits Willis 36 Valley of Unrest, The Poe 49 Veery, The Van Dyke 218 Venus of the Louvre Emma Lazarus 208 Waiting Burroughs 193 Waterfowl, To a Bryant 13 What is Good O'Reilly 194 iVhat of the Darkness? Le Gallienne 277 What shall it Profit? Howells 171 When Lilacs Last hi the Dooryard Bloomed Walt Whitman 112 Wlien She Comes Home Riley 224 When the Grass shall Cover Me Ina Coolbrith 211 302 INDEX OF TITLES When the Great Gray Ships come in Carryl 281 White Rose, A O'Reitti/ 195 W r ind of Sorrow, The Van Dyke 217 Wise Lizette Woodworth Reese 231 Woods that bring the Sunset Near, The Gilder 195 World's Need, The Ella Wheeler Wilcox 238 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Field 213 Yourself Jones Very 59 Yukon, The Miller 18 INDEX OF AUTHORS ALCOTT, AMOS BRONSON 63 ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY 63 ALDRICH, ANNE REEVE 254, 255 ALDRICH, JAMES 59 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 164, 165, 166, 168 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS 148, 149 BATES, ARLO 212 BEERS, ETHEL LYNN 175 BLAKE, MARY ELIZABETH 197, 198 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY 94 BONER, JOHN HENRY 52 BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE 129 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD 121 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 13, 14, 17 BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER 230 BURROUGHS, JOHN 193 BURTON, RICHARD 250, 251 CARMAN, BLISS 258, 260 CARRUTH, WILLIAM HERBERT 238 CARRYL, GUY WETMORE 281 GARY, ALICE 117 GARY, PHOEBE 129, 130 CAWEIN, MADISON 267, 268 CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE 180 CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY 64 CHENEY, JOHN VANCE 209 CLOUD, VIRGINIA WOODWARD 255 COATES, FLORENCE EARLE 216 CONE, HELEN GRAY 262 COOLBRITH, INA 210, 211 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE 58 CURTIS, GEORGE W T ILLIAM 131 304 INDEX OF AUTHORS DANA, RICHARD HENRY 12 DANDRIDGE, DANSKE 244 DICKINSON, EMILY 14-6, 147 DORR, JULIA C. R 128 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN 5 DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE 283, 285 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 21, 24, 26, 27 FAWCETT, EDGAR 201, 202 FIELD, EUGENE 213, 214 FIELDS, ANNIE 156 FINCH, FRANCIS MILES 134 FRENEAU, PHILIP 3 GARLAND, HAMLIN 249 GILDER, RICHARD WATSON 195, 196, 197 GOING, CHARLES BUXTON 270, 271 GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN 256, 257 HALL, GERTRUDE 274 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE 8 HARDY, ARTHUR SHERBURNE 203 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET 177, 179 HAY, JOHN 172 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON 143, 145 HIGGINSON, ELLA 253 HIGGINSON, MARY THACHER 190 HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH 116, 117 HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO 28 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT 84 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 54, 56 HOVEY, RICHARD 263, 265 HOWE, JULIA WARD 95 HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN 171 HUTCHINSON, ELLEN MACKAY 223 INGALLS, JOHN JAMES 239 JACKSON, HELEN HUNT 149, 151 JEWETT, SOPHIE 251, 252 JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD 221, 222 INDEX OF AUTHORS 305 KENYON, JAMES B 241 LANIER, SIDNEY 191, 192 LARCOM, LUCY 118 LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS 217 LAZARUS, EMMA 207, 208 LEARNED, WALTER 210 LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD 275, 277 LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY 123 LITCHFIELD, GRACE DENIO 215 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH 29, 30, 34 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL 66, 68, 82 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE 83 LUDERS, CHARLES HENRY '. 232 MALONE, WALTER 240 MARKHAM, EDWIN 219, 220 MCGAFFEY, ERNEST 270 MILLER, JOAQUIN 181, 182, 183 MITCHELL, S. WEIR 141, 142 MONROE, HARRIET 272, 273 MOODY, WILLIAM VAUGHN 278, 279, 28C MORSE, JAMES HERBERT 189 MORSE, SIDNEY HENRY 159 MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER 160, 161 MURRAY, ADA FOSTER 243 O'HARA, THEODORE 91 O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE 194, 195 PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM 87, 89 PECK, SAMUEL MINTURN 228 PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES 7 PERRY, NORA 158 PIATT, JOHN JAMES 163 PIATT, SARAH M. B 169 PIERPONT, JOHN 9 PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE 19, 20 POE, EDGAR ALLAN 47, 49, 50, 51 PHOCTOR, EDNA DEAN 180 306 INDEX OF AUTHORS RANDALL, JAMES RYDER 172 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN 96, 97, 100 REALF, RICHARD 157 REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH 231, 232 RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB 224, 225 SANTA YANA, GEORGE 267 SAVAGE, PHILIP HENRY 277 SCOLLARD, CLINTON 246, 247 SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND 180, 188 SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER 244, 245 SPALDING, SUSAN MARR 253 SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT 162 STANTON, FRANK L 252 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE 152, 153, 151 STODDARD, CHARLES WARREN 188 STODDARD, ELIZABETH 133 STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY 132 STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE 86 TABB, JOHN BANNISTER , . , . . 203 TAYLOR, BAYARD 124, 136, 127 THAXTER, CELIA 162 THOMAS, EDITH M 233, 235 THOMPSON, MAURICE 200 THOMPSON, WILL H 204 THOREAU, HENRY DAVID 60, 61, 62 TIMROD, HENRY 136, 137, 138 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND 140 VAN DYKE, HENRY 217, 218 VERY, JONES 59, 60 WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY 139 WHITMAN, SARAH HELEN 52 WHITMAN, WALT 103, 104, 112, 113, 116 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 37, 40, 43, 46 WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER 237, 238 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER 36 WINTER, WILLIAM 169, 170 WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD 229, 230 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ALCOTT, AMOS BRONSON. Born in Wolcott, Connecticut, 1799; died in Boston, 1888. Dean of the Concord School of Philosophy and intimately identified with the Transcenden- tal movement and its promoters, Amos Bronson Alcott holds an interesting and picturesque place in American literary history. His published work alone would scarcely keep alive his name, consisting chiefly, as it does, of short essays, and expanded notes of his famous "Conversations," together with some poems of indifferent merit; but as a philosopher, a teacher, a liberator of thought, and the friend and spirit- ual colleague of Emerson, he is a distinct, even unique, figure in the little group of Uluminati known as the "Transcen- dentalists." ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY. Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, 1832; died in Boston, 1888. As the daughter of the Concord philosopher, Louisa May Alcott spent her youth in association with her father's friends, Emerson, Thoreau, William Ellery Channing, Margaret Fuller, and others who made the period memorable. Fortunately, however, for the family of the philosopher, her talents ran in a more practical channel, and after trying her hand at many occupations, she found her true gift in writing stories for the young. Her work in this field still maintains its supremacy, particularly "Little Women," which has become a classic of child literature. ALDRICH, ANNE REEVE. Born in New York City, 1866; died there, 1892. Miss Aldrich was the grand-niece of the poet, James Aldrich, and possessed a lyric gift just coming to its full expression when her untimely death occurred. Her two volumes of verse are, "The Rose of Flame" (1889) and "Songs About Love, Life, and Death." ALDRICH, JAMES. Born in Mattituck, Long Island, 1810; died in New York City, 1856. Mr. Aldrich founded, in 1840, the "Literary Gazette," in which most of his poems appeared. No volume of his poems was issued during his life, but his daughter, Mrs. Ely, published in 1884 a small collection for private circulation. ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. Born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836; died in Boston, March 19, 1-307. There seems a certain incongruity in the fact that Thomas Bailey Aldrich, fastidious and exquisite artist, should have spent his early years in New York City journal- 308 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ism and that his first recognition, at the age of seventeen, should have come from N. P. Willis, through whose favor he became a regular contributor to "The Mirror "and "Home Journal." New York City journalism at that period, how- ever, commanded the services of a little group of elect spirits, rarely so conjoined, among whom Bayard Taylor, the Stoddards, Fitz- James O'Brien, William Winter, and Edmund Clarence Stedman held chief place. Stedman bears testimony to the charm and good-fellowship of Aldrich, who "added the zest and wit of his brilliant companionship to the gatherings of the bright young writers cheerily strug- gling for subsistence and reputation in that unfriendly time." His period of journalistic work in New York City, which extended over several years, was followed by a similar period in Boston where he edited the "Atlantic Monthly" from 1881 to 1890. While Aldrich has not deeply influenced American poetry, he has left a body of work of great beauty. He was always the artist and his briefest lyric has the touch of finality. In the short story he had a gift scarcely less dis- tinguished, and he also wrote several plays, of which "Mer- cedes" was produced in Boston in 1893 and "Judith of Bethulia" in New York City in 1904. As Aldrich's entire poetical work has been brought together in a definitive edi- tion, it is unnecessary to list the separate volumes. ALJ.GN, ELIZABETH . AKERS. Born Elizabeth Ann Chase, in Strong, Maine, 1832. She is popularly known as the au- thor of "llock Me to Sleep, Mother," although the author- ship of the poem was long in doubt owing to the fact that Mrs. Allen began writing under the pseudonym of "Florence Percy" and afterwards changed to her own name, making some confusion in regard to her work. BATES, ARLO. Born in East Machias, Maine, 1850. Graduated at Bowdoin College. Served for a period as editor of the "Boston Sunday Courier," but left journalism to be- come Professor of English in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He has published several volumes of verse. BEERS, ETHELINDA ("Ethel Lynn Beers"). Born in Go- shen, New York, 1827; died at Orange, New Jersey, 1879. Her well-known poem, "The Picket Guard," which appeared in "Harper's Weekly" in 1861, was afterwards changed in its title to "All Quiet Along the Potomac," and her volume of poems issued in 1879 came out under this name. BLAKE, MARY ELIZABETH. Born in Dungarven, Ireland, 1840; died in Boston, 1907. Mrs. Blake's parents emigrated to America when she was but six years old and most of her life was spent in Boston. "In the Harbor of Hope" (1901) is one of her finest volumes. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 309 BOKEI*, GEORGE HENRY. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsyl- vania, October 6, 1823; died there, January 2, 1890. Boker was known chiefly as a dramatist and diplomat, although he published several collections of lyric verse. His poetic dramas, "Calaynos" and "Francesca di Rimini," were both popular stage successes. In lyric verse his best powers were called out by the Civil War and several of his poems became widely familiar. He entered the diplomatic service and was successively Minister to Turkey and to Russia. He is closely associated in his literary life with Bayard Taylor and Richard Henry Stoddard. BONER, JOHN HENRY. Born in Salem, North Carolina, 1845; died in Washington, D.C., 1903. Mr. Boner spent his early youth in journalism in Salem and Asheville, North Carolina, leaving this work to become Chief Clerk of the North Carolina House of Representatives. Later he entered the civil service at Washington, where he remained until 1887, when he returned to journalism, being connected with the "Literary Digest" and other periodicals. In his last years he reentered bureau work in Washington. His volume of poems, "Whispering Pines," was published in 1883. BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, 1824; died in Brooklyn, New York, 1888. Grad- uated at Dartmouth College. Became identified with the cult of Transcendentalism in its later phases, and contri- buted frequently to the "Atlantic Monthly." He is chiefly known for the fine sonnet contained in this collection. BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. Born in Providence, Rhode Island, February 6, 1820; died in Hartford, Connecticut, 1872. His early years were spent in the practice of the law which he abandoned for literature, and at the outset of the Civil War a poem of his upon Farragut having attracted that commander's attention, Brownell was appointed as acting ensign on board the " Hartford." He witnessed the battle of Mobile Bay and at the close of the war accompanied Farra- gut upon his European cruise. BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. Born in Cummington, Massa- chusetts, November 3, 1794; died in New York City, June 12, 1878. Although his final fame will rest upon a few poems written in his early youth, the dignity, even majesty, of much of Bryant's work and its fineness of execution place it among the nobler forces of American literature. The precocious de- velopment of Bryant's poetic faculty has seldom been paral- leled. At thirteen he published a poem on the "Progress of Knowledge" and followed this, at fourteen, with a philippic of a political nature entitled "The Embargo." While thess poems had no value beyond the moment, they served as 310 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES technical preparation for "Thanatopsis," written three years later when Bryant was but seventeen. There is perhaps a connection between the mature thought and grave beauty of the poem and the fact that Bryant's early youth held much disappointment and frustration. His father had little sym- pathy with his poetic aims and often severely criticized his early attempts at verse. He was disappointed also in obtain- ing a college education, and, after a year at Williams, was compelled to leave and take up the study of the law. He was admitted to the bar in 1815 and practiced his profession in New England cities for the next ten years. A few months after "Thanatopsis" was published in the "North American Review," appeared in the same magazine the exquisite "Hymn to a Waterfowl." The two finest expressions of his genius were, therefore, the product of his early youth. The second and longer period of Bryant's life began in 1825 when he abandoned the law and went to New York City to try his fate in literature. He soon became connected with the " Eve- ning Post" as associate editor, and in 1828 succeeded to the editorship which he held for the remaining fifty years of his life. Under his influence the "Post" became a power both in the literary and political life of America and Bryant was more and more absorbed in its fortunes and less able to de- tach himself from public interests to the more intimate ones which form the inspiration of poetry. He continued to pub- lish volumes of verse, but the early books contain all that is important of his work. He came to be looked upon in his venerable and beautiful age as the embodiment of all that is fine and worthy, and earned the distinction of being called " the first citizen of the Republic." BUNNER, HENRY CUTLER. Born in Oswego, New York, August 3, 1855; died in Nutiey, New Jersey, May 11, 1896. Mr. Bunner was for many years the editor of "Puck," and wrote much in lighter vein, but had a lyric gift of a higher order as his charming and delicate " Arcady " shows. He was always the artist and approached every theme with a sure touch. His volumes of verse, "Airs from Arcady and Else- where" and "Rowan," were combined and edited by his friend Brander Matthews in 1896. BURROUGHS, JOHN. Born in Roxbury, New York, April 3, 1837. The foremost naturalist of America, Mr. Bur- roughs is also one of the foremost men of letters and has the distinction of having been one of the first to recognize and proclaim the genius of Walt Whitman. As a naturalist Mr. Burroughs has long maintained supremacy in his field, and the many volumes which record his observations are valuable not only for the accuracy of their information, but for the BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 311 philosophy deduced from a lifelong association with nature. In poetry he is chiefly known for the lyric "Waiting," writ- ten in his youth, although he has also written sympatheti- cally of bird life and other phases of nature. BURTON, RICHARD. Born in Hartford, Connecticut, March 14, 1859. Educated at Trinity College and Johns Hopkins University. He entered journalism and became literary editor of the "Hartford Courant" and later of the Lothrop Publishing Company. In 1900 he became the head of the English Department of the University of Minnesota which position he still holds. Dr. Burton has published many volumes of poetry and several critical works upon the drama. Among the former one may cite as most representative "Dumb in June" (1895); "Lyrics of Brotherhood" (1899); and "Poems of Earth's Meaning" (1917). CARMAN, BLISS. Although so long a resident of the United States that he belongs among our poets, Bliss Car- man was born at Fredericton, New Brunswick, April 15, 1861. He was educated at the University of New Bruns- wick, at Harvard, and at Edinburgh. Like most poets Mr. Carman served his period in journalism, being office editor of the "Independent" from 1890 to 1892 and editor of "The Chap Book" in 1894. He has, however, given almost his sole allegiance to poetry and has published many books, chiefly of nature, interspersed with volumes dealing with myth or mysticism. His first volume, "Low Tide on Grand Pre," revealed at the outset his remarkable lyric gift and his sensi- tive feeling for nature. In collaboration with Richard Hovey he did the well-known "Vagabondia Books," which intro- duced a new note into American poetry, and appearing, as they did, in the nineties, formed a wholesome contrast to some of the work then emanating from the "Decadent School" in England. Among the finest of Mr. Carman's volumes, aside from his work with Richard Hovey, are "Behind the Arras, A Bix)k of the Unseen" (1895); "Ballads of Lost Haven" (1897); "By the Aurelian Wall, and Other Elegies" (1899); "The Green Book of the Bards" (1898); "Pipes of Pan" (1902); "Sappho: One Hundred Lyrics" (1903). CARRUTH, WILLIAM HERBERT. Born in Osawatomie, Kan- sas, April 5, 1859. Educated at the University of Kansas and at Harvard. He became a teacher of English at his alma mater, the University of Kansas, but in 1913 accepted the position of Professor of Comparative Literature and head of the English Department at Leland Stanford University, in California, where he remains. His poem, "Each in His Own Tongue," which forms the title of his volume of verse, is widely known. 312 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES CARRYL, GUY WETMORE. Born in New York City, 1873; died there, 1904. Educated at Columbia University, Mr. Carryl served in several journalistic capacities before he be- came the Paris representative of Harper & Brothers. Author >f "Fables for the Frivolous" (1898). A volume of his poems yas published by his family after his death. GARY, ALICE. Born in the Miami Valley, Ohio, 1820; died in New York City in 1871 . "Poems by Alice and Phcebe Gary" appeared in 1850 and had in their day a wide vogue. Soon after their publication the sisters came to New York where their weekly receptions became gathering places for the writers of the time. Alice Gary was the more prolific writer, but her work has not endured, nor, indeed, has that of Phoebe with the exception of her poem, "Nearer Home," which has become one of the classic hymns of our literature. GARY, PHCEBE. Born near Cincinnati in 1824; died in New York City in 1871. She was the author of "Poems and Parodies" and "Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love." CAWEIN, MADISON. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, March 23, 1865; died there, December 7, 1915. Educated in the public schools of his native city. He began writing very early and published his first book of verse, " Blooms of the Berry," when but twenty- two years of age. From that time until his death in 1915 he published many volumes of poetry inspired chiefly by the theme of nature. "Complete Poetical Works" (5 volumes, 1907); "New Poems" (London, 1909); "Poems," a selection from the " Complete Works " (1911), contain his finest verse. Mr. Cawein was distinctly the creator of his own field. From the publication of his first little volume, "Blooms of the Berry," he had made himself the intimate, almost the mystic, comrade of nature. Beauty was his religion and he spent his life learning the ways and moods of nature and declaring them in poetry rich in imagina- tion. He had the naturalist's eagerness for truth and the accuracy of his observation gives to his work a background that adds greatly to its value. CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE. Born in Marblehead, Massa- chusetts, 1840; died in Brooklyn, New York. 1904. Mr. Chadwick was a graduate of the Harvard Divinity School and for many years pastor of the Liberal Second Unitarian Society of Brooklyn. CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY. Born in Boston, 1818; died in Concord, Massachusetts, 1901. A nephew of the eminent divine, for whom he was named, W'illiam Ellery Channing, after graduation at Harvard and a short period of journalistic work in New York City, settled at Concord where he was in intimate touch with Thoreau, Emerson, and BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 313 Alcott. His wife was a sister of Margaret Fuller. Charming did some excellent poetry, although he was one of the group that fell under the ban of Poe. CHENEY, JOHN VANCE. Born in Groveland, New York, December 2-), 1848. Educated at Temple Hill Academy in Geneseo, New York. After a short period of teaching and of practicing law, he became the librarian of the Free Public Library of San Francisco and held this position from 1887 to 1894 when he accepted a similar one at the Newberry Library of Chicago, where he remained until 1899. Since that date he has resided in California where he devotes his time to literary work. CLOUD, VIRGINIA WOODWARD. Born in Baltimore, Mary- land, 186-. Educated at private schools. Miss Cloud is literary editor of the "Baltimore News," and is a writer of stories, criticism, and poetry. COATES, FLORENCE EARLE. Born in Philadelphia, Penn- sylvania, 185-. Educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris, and at Brussels. Mrs. Coates's work is always dis- tinguished by fineness of execution and elevation of mood. "Poems," Collected Edition, in two volumes (1916), con- tains all of her representative verse. CONE, HELEN GRAY. Born in New York City, March 8, 1859. Graduated at the Normal College of New York City in 1876. Miss Cone has been Professor of English Literature at her alma mater since 189*). She is a poet of strongly indi- vidual gifts and has given to our literature an admirable body of verse. COOLBRITH, INA DONNA. Born near Springfield, Illinois, 1 84-, although most of her life has been spent in California where she had as intimate friends Bret Harte, Joaquin Mil- ler, and others who made memorable the literary history of that State. At the Panama Exposition, held in 1915, Miss Coolbrith was the recipient of many honors from the State of California. Her volumes are, "A Perfect Day, and Other Poems," and "Songs from the Golden Gate " CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. Born in Alexandria, Vir- ginia, 1813; died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1892. After a short period devoted to the Unitarian ministry during which he was identified with the "Transcendentalists," he left the ministry to devote himself to painting and spent several years in study abroad. His work in painting was varied by the writing of poetry of which he left several vol- umes. CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM. Born in Providence, Rhode Island, February 24, 1842; died in Staten Island, New York, August 31, 1892. One of the youngest of the idealists who 314 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES joined the Brook Farm Community and participated in the picturesque life of that period, George William Curtis re- mained throughout his life an idealist, but of a more practical sort. He was identified with many movements for social re- form, was an accomplished public speaker, and a man of great charm of personality. He wrote little verse, but his prose is suffused with poetry. His fame rests chiefly upon the "Potiphar Papers" and "Prue and I." DANA, RICHARD HENRY. Born in Cambridge, Massa- chusetts, August 5, 1787; died in Boston, February 2, 1879. One of the foremost men of letters of his day, Richard Henry Dana had also an important public career. He was involved in the "Student's Rebellion" of 1807 at Harvard and left college without graduation, but entered at once upon the study of the law and after admission to the bar became ac- tive in politics and was sent to the Massachusetts Legislature. Literature became more attractive to him, however, than public affairs and he left the law to become one of the editors of the "North American Review." He was a critic of fine discrimination and was one of the first in America to appre- ciate Wordsworth. DANDRIDGE, DANSKE. Born in Copenhagen, Denmark, 186-. Author of "Joy and Other Poems" (1888); "Rose Brake" (1890). DICKINSON, EMILY. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, 1830; died there, 1886. Purely original and authentic, the genius of Emily Dickinson is distinct from that of any other lyric poet of America. The sparse, epigrammatic phrase, and the fact that the briefest lyric exists but to embody some bit of philosophy, combine to give unique distinction to all that Emily Dickinson wrote. Her life was spent in great seclusion in her native town of Amherst and few knew that she h:d written poetry. In 1862 she so far overcame her resei ye as to write to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, enclosing four poems for criticism. Colonel Higginson was not slow to see that a poet of no common order had appealed to him and a correspondence was established which resulted in a few of the poems being printed during her lifetime and in the post- humous volume, " Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by two of her Friends, Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd" (1890). A second series was edited by the same friends and a third, "The Single Hound," by her niece, Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi. DORR, JULIA C. R. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, 1825; died in Rutland, Vermont, 1913. A woman of great cultivation and charm, Mrs. Dorr was also a poet of no in- considerable gift. Her long life spanned a period of great BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 315 events in America, in which she bore a part, and her work reflects the fi ne quality of her nature. Her " Complete Poems " were brought out in 1892, but were followed in 1909 by a col- lection called "Beyond the Sunset." DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. Born in New York City, August 17, 1795; died there September 21, 1820. The short life of Joseph Rodman Drake has a romantic interest, not only for the charm of his personality and his association with Fitz-Greene Halleck who enshrined his memory in an im- perishable lyric, but because of the valor with which he met the doom that overtook him. Dying at twenty-five, after four years' struggle with tuberculosis, Drake's bright spirit asserted itself to the last and the series of witty poems which appeared in the "Evening Post" under the title of "The Croakers," pleasantly satirizing local celebrities and events, were written when his illness was already far advanced. Part of these were in collaboration with Halleck. Drake's long poem, "The Culprit Fay," with its charming fancy, was written as a refutation of the charge that American rivers have no romantic associations. Drake's early boyhood was a struggle with poverty, but he managed to secure an education and fitted himself to be a physician. In the out- ward aspects of his life the analogy with Keats is striking. Drake's poems, containing his patriotic classic, "The Ameri- can Flag," were published in 1836 by his daughter under the title of "The Culprit Fay, and Other Poems." DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE. Born, in Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died in 1906. Of African blood, Paul Laurence Dunbar did very significant and important work in revealing the negro life and character. He was a natural lyrist and his poems have tenderness, humor, and pathos, as well as racial charm. Dunbar spent a short time in newspaper work and was then given a position in the Library of Congress, which allowed him more leisure for his art. His best collections are " Lyrics of Lowly Life" (1896), and "Lyrics of the Hearthside" (1899). EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Born in Boston, May 25, 1803; died in Concord, Massachusetts, April 27, 1882. Descended from generations of ministers, and with the Puritan tradi- tions strong within him, Emerson belonged to what Holmes termed the "Brahmin caste" of New England. He was but a child when his father died, and his boyhood was passed under conditions which necessitated more or less of self- denial. At Harvard, where he entered when but thirteen, he earned his lodgings by holding the post of "President's Freshman" an official messenger boy. Later he served as a waiter at the College Commons, thus demonstrating at the 316 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES outset his practical qualities. After graduation he taught in a private school conducted by his brother, in Boston, com- bining this work with studying for the ministry, to which he was ordained in 1829. The same year he married Miss Ellen Tucker, who lived but a short time. Several of his early lyrics addressed to his wife, or in memory of her, show the beauty of her character and personality. Not long after his wife's death Emerson resigned his pastorate of the Second Church in Boston and also, because of his broadening views, withdrew from the ministry as an active vocation. He fre- quently preached in the succeeding years, but would never accept a call to a permanent pastorate. The lecture platform became his pulpit, one from which his luminous spirit shed its far-reaching influence for nearly fifty years. After resign- ing his ministry, Emerson went abroad and met many of the great writers of the time. In Florence he visited Landor, in his villa on the olive slopes below Fiesole. In London he met Coleridge, still enchanting his disciples. He journeyed into the Lake Country and visited Wordsworth, who recited his poems to him, pacing back and forth in the garden at Rydal Mount; but most important of all, he met Carlyle, with whom he formed a lifelong friendship and one of mutual helpfulness. The correspondence of Emerson and Carlyle, extending over a long period, is indispensable to the fullest understanding of each. After returning from abroad, Emer- son settled at Concord and soon after married Miss Lidian Jackson. Here, with Thoreau, Channing, Alcott, and others as his neighbors, he began the productive period of his life. He had published no books up to this time, but in the follow- ing year appeared "Nature," not widely acclaimed, but recognized at once by the discerning. This was followed by "The American Scholar," an address delivered at Harvard, containing a plea for intellectual independence and freedom from European domination. Lowell, still a student at Har- vard, records the excitement attending the event "What crowded and breathless aisles, what windows clustering with eager heads, what enthusiasm of approval, what grim silence of dissent!" From this period volumes of essays followed each other at intervals of three or four years. They cover every phase of human conduct, every expression of the intel- lectual and spiritual life, and place Emerson among the great thinkers and seers of the world. It would be impossible in a brief sketch to take up particular phases of Emerson's phi- losophy, but perhaps the two greatest and most typical essays are "Self-Reliance" and "The Over-Soul," and as one may measure a complete circle from a segment of it, one may, from these two essays alone, gain a deep insight into the phi' BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 317 losophy of Emerson. His entire work, including the several volumes of essays, the two longer books, "Representative Men" and "English Traits," and his poetry, forms an edi- tion of eleven volumes. While it may seem disproportionate that only one of these is poetry, so completely does it contain the essence of Emerson's thought, and with such crystalliza- tion, such finality, is it presented, that it would not be ex- treme to predict that this one volume may outlast the ten of prose. The "Threnody," written after the death of his little son, is a poem of great feeling and beauty, but for the true, the typical, flavor of Emerson, one must turn to the more epigrammatic work, to that which packs into a few lines something of eternal import. FAWCETT, EDGAR. Born in New York City, May 26, 1847; died in London, 1904. Educated at Columbia University. Mr. Fawcett gave his entire time to literature, producing many novels and several volumes of poetry. For some years prior to his death, he resided in London. FIELD, EUGENE. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 3, 1850; died in Chicago, Illinois, November 4, 1895. Field received his early education at Amherst and later at Williams and Knox Colleges and the University of Missouri. He started his public life as a journalist, working upon papers in St. Louis, St. Joseph, Kansas City, and Denver until he be- came associated with the "Chicago Daily News," where he remained until his death. Before going to Chicago he had done chiefly light and humorous work, but after forming a permanent connection with the "Daily News" he turned his attention to poetry and prose of a higher quality. In 1889 he published "A Little Book of Western Verse," which not only established him firmly as a poet, but contained many songs of child life which are among the choicest in English literature. His fame will continue to rest largely upon this book, although it was supplemented by several others almost equally fine. FIELDS, ANNIE. Born in Boston, 1834; died there, 1915. Mrs. Fields was the wife of James T. Fields, of the famous publishing house under whose imprint appeared the early work of Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes, and other New England poets. From her intimate association with this group, Mrs. Fields did some delightful volumes of reminiscence and biography, notably "Authors and Friends" (1896) and personal studies of W T hittier, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and James T. Fields. Her books of verse are " Under the Olives" (1880) and "The Singing Shepherd" (1895). FINCH, FRANCIS MILES. Born in Ithaca, New York, 1S.J7; died, 1907. Although Francis Miles Finch graduated from 318 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Yale University in 1849 as the poet of las class, he quickly became absorbed in the practice of the law in his native city of Ithaca, where he remained until 1881 when he was elected to the New York Court of Appeals. In 1892 he became dean of the Law School of Cornell University. His early promise as a poet was fulfilled only in "The Blue and The Gray" which was published in the "Atlantic Monthly" in 1867 and has become one of the classics of the Civil War. FRENEAU, PHILIP. Born in New York City, 1752; died near Monmouth, New Jersey, 1832. The earliest of our poets to display a lyric gift capable of sustained exercise, Philip Freneau left a body of poetic work important for its formative influence upon his immediate successors and notable in itself, when considered from the period which produced it. Freneau's work was chiefly done prior to the Romantic Movement in England, before lyric poetry had re- ceived the great impetus and liberation which came with that movement and before poetic form had been released from its classic restraints. There was no poetic school in America, no master to emulate, no atmosphere to stimulate a young poet. Freneau was a pioneer, and one is surprised at the fresh note which still gives a modern touch to some of his lyrics. His personal life was active and adventurous and spanned the great period of the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and other events of moment in our history. For several years Freneau followed the sea, making voyages to the West In- dies and other ports, often in command of merchant vessels. In 1780 his ship was captured and all on board were taken prisoners. Freneau has recorded the adventure in a poem of four cantos, "The British Prison Ship." After leaving sea life Freneau became a journalist. GARLAND, HAMLIN, born in West Salem, Wisconsin, 1860. Mr. Garland is chiefly known as a novelist, although he has written some stirring poetry of the great West. His early youth was spent in teaching in Illinois and in Boston at the School of Oratory, but during this period he was also en- gaged in literary work which he has pursued exclusively since that date. His volume of poems, "Prairie Soiigs," was pub- lished in 1893. GILDER, RICHARD WATSON, born in Bordentown, New Jersey, February 8, 1844; died in New York City, 1909. Mr. Gilder was one of the great editors of America, having been connected with the "Century Magazine" (formerly "Scrib- ner's Monthly") from its founding in 1870 until his death about forty years later. He was associate editor during the in- cumbency of J. G. Holland, but at his death, in 1881, became editor-in-chief. When very young, during the Confederate BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 319 invasion of Pennsylvania, he served in Landis's Philadelphia Battery, and had also a short period of studying law before he entered journalism. In his later years Mr. Gilder was ac- tive in many social reforms and never permitted literature to detach him from life. As a poet his work has a fine, if some- times austere, quality. In the lyric, however, he was free and spontaneous and his best work is in a group of his songs. GOING, CHARLES BUXTON. Born in Westchester, New York, 18G3. Educated at Columbia University. Mr. Going is a poet who combines scientific and literary pursuits, being editor of the "Engineering Magazine" of New York. His volumes of poetry are, "Summer Fallow" (1892); "Star- Glow and Song" (1909). GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN. Born in Boston, January 7, 1861. Educated in the private schools of Boston and the Sacred Heart Convent in Providence. Her father, Patrick Guiney, was a brigadier-general in the Civil War and Miss Gainey's work was much influenced by this background of association. The symbolism of her poetry is frequently drawn from battle or from knight-errantry, as in "The Wild Ride," "The Kings," "The Vigil-at-Arms," "The Knight Errant," "Memorial Day," etc. Valor, transmuted to a spiritual qual- ity, may, indeed, be said to be the keynote of Miss Guiney 's work. Add to this a mystical element, best illustrated in her poem, "Beati Mortui," a Celtic note, shown so exquisitely in her "Irish Peasant Song," and one has the more obvious characteristics of poetry that, whatever its theme, is always distinguished and individual. "Happy Ending" (190J) contains what she wishes to preserve of her work. HALL, GERTRUDE. Born in Boston, 186-. Educated in Italy. Of recent years Miss Hall has devoted herself almost entirely to fiction and to French translation, having made an excellent rendering of the work of Paul Verlaine and of Rostand's "Cyrano ds Bergerac" and " Chantecler." Her own poetry includes "Verses" (1890); "Allegretto" (1894); and "The Age of Fairy Gold" (1899). HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. Born in Guildford, Connecticut, July 8, 1790; died there, November, 1867. Halleck is in- separably identified with Joseph Rodman Drake with whom he collaborated in the satirical "Croaker" papers, and whose memory he celebrated in a lyric which is Halleck' s own best warrant to fame. Unlike his friend Drake, whose short life was spent in literary associations, Halleck was in business pursuits or in clerical work during the greater part of his life. At twenty-one, he came to New York City and entered the banking house of John Jacob Astor, who, at his death, pen- sioned Halleck and made it possible for him to retire to his 320 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES native Guildford and spend his last years in the enjoyment of much that had been denied him in youth. His creative period, however, was chiefly over and the work which per- petuates his name was done either in the years of his asso- ciation with Drake or soon after. "Marco Bozarris," best known to the people, was first printed by Bryant in the " New York Review." HARDY, ARTHUR SHERBURNE. Born in Andover, Massa- chusetts, August 13, 1847. Educated at West Point and graduated in 1868 with the rank of second lieutenant. He remained in the army but a short time, however, and became a teacher, holding successively the positions of Professor of Civil Engineering at Iowa College and of Mathematics at Dartmouth. Later he entered the diplomatic service and was in turn Minister to Persia and to Greece. He is the author of "Francesca di Rimini," a poem (1878), and of several novels. HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. Born in Albany, New York, Au- gust 25, 1839; died in Camberley, England, May 6, 1902. The life of Bret Harte spanned the picturesque period of the building-up of the great West, particularly of California in the years immediately succeeding the rush to the gold fields. Harte was still a lad when he went to California and though he had himself received but a common-school education, he began life in California as a teacher, leaving this occupation for mining, printing, carrying express, or whatever work he cculd obtain, until he formed an editorial connection with the "Golden Era" of San Francisco. This gave him the oppor- tunity to develop and exercise his original talent and his stories, sketches, and poems soon began to attract attention. He edited in turn " The Calif ornian." a weekly paper in which his "Condensed Novels" were published and "The Over- land Monthly," whose second number was distinguished by "The Luck of Roaring Carnp." During the four years in which he was connected with the "Overland Monthly" much of his most characteristic work, including the humorous poem, "Plain Talk from Truthful James," appeared in its pages. From this period the course of his life changed com- pletely. He removed to the Atlantic Coast and in 1878 was . appointed United States Consul to Crefeld, Germany. Two years later he was transferred to the consulate at Glasgow, Scotland, where he remained five years and upon his retire- ment took up a permanent residence in England. Most of the work upon which his fame rests was done prior to his entry into the diplomatic service. The pioneer life of the West lives in his stories and poems with their sharply delineated types, their racy humor, their sentiment and pathos. His stories and poems are now collected into complete editions. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 321 HAY, JOHN. Born in Salem, Indiana, October 8, 1838; died in Newbury, New Hampshire, July 1, 1905. One of the greatest diplomats and statesmen in the last half of the nine- teenth century, John Hay was also a cultivated man of let- ters and a poet of a native, though limited, vein. Educated at Brown University and admitted to the bar in 1861, he obeyed the call of public events and after serving, not only as secretary to Lincoln, but as his adjutant and aide-de-camp, v/ent to the front and won successive ranks, to that of col- onel. After a period in minor diplomatic service at Paris, Vienna, and Madrid, he returned to America and became as- sociated with the editorial staff of the " New York Tribune," to which he contributed from time to time his " Pike County Ballads." He reentered public service and was Assistant Secretary of State under President Hayes. It was not, how- ever, until 1897, when he was sent as Ambassador to Great Britain, that his high qualities as a diplomat were given their full opportunity. He was recalled to enter President McKin- ley's Cabinet in 1898, as Secretary of State, where his wide experience was valuable during the Spanish-American War. He was retained in this high office by President Roosevelt and occupied it at the time of his death. HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, January 1, 1830; died in Grovetown, Georgia, July 6, 1886. The early youth of Paul Hamilton Hayne was spent, like that of many poets, in journalism, although he was edu- cated for a lawyer. At the outbreak of the Civil War, he en- tered the Confederate army and became a colonel. Broken in health by service in the war and his home having been destroyed, he moved to "Copse Hill" in the pine barrens near Augusta, Georgia, where he lived until his death. Hayne long held the honor of being the foremost Southern poet and was widely known and loved. HIGGINSON, ELLA. Born in Council Grove, Kansas, 186-. Mrs. Higginson is the author of several volumes of stories and poems. "When the Birds Go North Again" is perhaps her best-known book of verse. HIGGINSON, MARY THACHER. Born in Machias, Maine, 1844. Married in 1879 to Colonel Thomas Wentworth Hig- ginson, author of " Seashore and Prairie, Stories and Sketches " (1876), and, in collaboration with Colonel Higginson, "Such as They Are," a book of poems (1893). HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 22, 1823; died there, 1911. Minis- ter, reformer, soldier, historian, critic, and poet. Colonel Hig- ginson touched life at many points, both in action and con- templation. He maintained always the happy balance between BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES these phases of experience and neither permitted the lure of scholarship and literature to draw him from life nor the de- mands of life to rob him of his sanctuary in the arts. The ripeness of culture, the enrichment of great friendships, the association with historic events, gave to his genial age a particular mellowness and beauty. His youth was similar to that of Emerson. He graduated at Harvard, became a teacher, and entered the liberal ministry. Here, however, the parallel ends, since Colonel Higginson's life in the next few years was actively spent in the anti-slavery agitation. In the Civil War, after the Emancipation Proclamation, he was colonel of the first colored regiment of the Federal army and served in the South Carolina and Florida campaigns. After the war he retired to Cambridge where his later years were spent in writing and lecturing. HOFFMAN, CHARLES FENNO. Born in New York City, 1806; died in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, 1884. The life of Charles Fenno Hoffman was spent in active journalism in which he held many important positions. He was educated at Columbia and practiced law for a short time in New York City. He suffered a mental breakdown, in 1849, and was obliged to spend the rest of his life in retirement. He lives chiefly by the stirring ballad, "Monterey." HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. Born in Belchertown, Massa- chusetts, July 24, 1819; died in New York City, October 12, 1881. J. G. Holland, as he was commonly called, was widely read in his own day, particularly his narrative poems, "Bit- ter Sweet," "Katrina," and "The Mistress of the Manse," which satisfied the combined taste for poetry and fiction. He has perhaps a more enduring monument in the " Century Magazine" (founded by him as "Scribner's Monthly") which he edited until his death. He was educated in medicine and was a practicing physician until he left this field in 1849 to become associated with the "Springfield Republican" where he remained on the editorial staff until I860. The "Republican" printed "Timothy Titcomb's Letters" which won instant popularity. "Garnered Sheaves," Holland's collected poems, were published in 1873. HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Born in Cambridge, Massa- chusetts, August 29, 1809; died in Boston, October 7, 1894. The remarkable vitality and versatility of Dr. Holmes en- abled him through a long life to pursue a scientific and an artistic profession side by side and to distinguish himself equally in both. Educated at Andover and at Harvard, his first study was of the law which he abandoned for medicine. He became known as one of the investigating minds of the medical profession and held successively the chair of Anat- BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 323 omy and Physiology at Dartmouth College and at Harvard University, retaining the latter for nearly forty years. One cannot define Dr. Holmes, however, in terms of cold science. He was the scholar, the wit, the litterateur, the urbane and exquisite gentleman, in short, the unique product of New England culture when it still possessed a distinctive flavor. It is certain that Dr. Holmes will live through the tradition of his personality quite as long as through his work, or it may be more just to say that the reflection of his personality in his work gives to it a human charm that constitutes a great part of its literary value. So much of his work was written for occasion, so much of it was frankly ephemeral, that it needs much sifting before one comes to the little group of poems that carry their warrant of perpetuity. In prose, the genial and rich spirit of Holmes was at its best in "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." These essays, published in the "Atlantic Monthly" in its early years, were followed by the less successful series of "The Professor at the Breakfast Ta- ble" and "The Poet at the Breakfast Table." Between the last two series appeared the novels, negligible in a final ap- praisal of his work, but popular in their own day, of "Elsie Venner" and "The Guardian Angel." HOVEY, RICHARD. Born in Normal, Illinois, May 4, 1861; died February 24, 1900. He received his early education at Dartmouth College, which he afterward celebrated in several of his best-known poems. In collaboration with Bliss Car- man he did the well-known " Vagajbondia Books" "Songs from Vagabondia" (1894); "More Songs from Vagabondia" (1895) "Last Songs from Vagabondia" (1900) books whose freshness and charm immediately won them a place in public favor that time has not lessened. Aside from his work with Mr. Carman and his lyric collection, "Along the Trail" (1898), Hovey did a remarkable group of poetic dramas built upon the Arthurian legsnd and issued separately under the titles, "The Quest of Merlin: A Masque," "The Marriage of Guenevere: A Tragedy," "The Birth of Galahad: A Roman- tic Drama," "Taliesin: A Masque." These were but part of the dramas projected in the cycle and a fragment of the next to be issued, "The Holy Grail," was published, with explanatory notes of the whole series, in 1907. The dramas stand for a dramatic achievement of a high order, and con- tain poetry of great beauty, reaching at times, in the lyric masque of "Taliesin," an almost consummate expression. Richard Hovey was, indeed, both in lyric and dramatic work, a poet of rare endowment and his early death was a distinct loss to American letters. HOWE, JULIA WARD. Born in New York City, May 27, 324 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ;819; died in Boston, 1910. With the exception of her one great poem, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," Julia Ward Howe will be remembered rather as a constructive reformer than as a poet. From the time of her marriage, in 1843, to Dr. Samuel G. Howe, of Boston, she was actively identified with all great public movements of her time. "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" was written in 1861 when Mrs. Howe, in company with the Secretary of War, visited the military camps near Washington. When the review was over, the soldiers thronged about the camp singing "John Brown's Body." Mrs. Howe, as she afterward related, was greatly stirred by the incident, but impressed by the inade- quacy of the words to so fine a martial air. That night she awakened with tbe first stanza of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" complete in her mind and before morning the en- tire poem had taken shape. HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. Born in Martin's Ferry, Ohio, March 1, 1837.. Mr. Howells has long been the acknowledged master of American fiction and the creator in America of what may be termed the naturalistic movement in this art. His early life followed the line of development of many an ambitious boy. His father was an editor at Hamilton, Ohio, and it was as a typesetter on his father's paper that Howells did his first work. After serving a general journalistic ap- prenticeship, at the age of twenty-one he became one of the editors of the Columbus, Ohio, "State Journal." Two years later, with the Ohio poet, John Piatt, he made his first in- cursion into verse with "Poems of Two Friends." The dip- lomatic service next called him and from 1861 to 1865 he served as United States Consul to Venice. These delightful years, whose record is preserved in "Venetian Days" and "Italian Journeys," were sources of enrichment for Mr. Howells's future work. After returning to America he be- came editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," a position which he filled for ten years. In poetry Mr. Howells has published little, but in fiction he has been a voluminous writer and sev- eral of his novels, such as "The Rise of Silas Lapham," "Annie Kilburn," and "A Hazard of New Fortunes," have become classics. HUTCHINSON, ELLEN MACKAY (MRS. ROYAL CORTISSOZ) Born in Caledonia, New York, Mrs. Cortissoz was for many years connected with the "New York Tribune." She has written little of late, but in the eighties and early nineties her work was among the choicest of the period and her lyrics and ballads of colonial life were particularly charming. INGALLS, JOHN JAMES. Born in Middleton, Massachu- setts, 1833; died in 1900. Mr. Ingalls was a well-known law- BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 325 yer and journalist, but became active in politics and served for many years in the United States Senate. He is remem- bered for the sonnet, "Opportunity." JACK-SON, HELEN HUNT. Born Helen Maria Fiske, in Am- her.?t, Massachusetts, October 18, 1831; died August 12, 1335. Married in early youth to Captain Edward Hunt, of the United States Army, she became interested in the prob- lem -of the Indian, and in 1881, after the death of her hus- band and her marriage to William S. Jackson, of Colorado Springs, she published the stirring arraignment, "A Century of Dishonor." This brought her the appointment to examine the condition of the Mission Indians of California, a position whose literary fruit was the beautiful story of "Ramona." In poetry Mrs. Jackson published, under her initials, "H. H.," a volume in 1870 and "Sonnets and Lyrics" in 1876. JEWETT, SOPHIE. Born in Moravia, New York, 1861; died, 1909. Miss Jewett was Associate Professor of English Literature at Wellesley College. She had a lyric gift of great delicacy and her early death was a loss to American poetry, Her collected work was issued after her death. JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD. Born in Washington, D.C., January 12, 1853. Mr. Johnson was identified for many years with the "Century Magazine" as associate edi- tor and, upon the death of Richard Watson Gilder, succeeded to the editorship, which he held for several years. He was actively identified also with the movement to secure inter- national copyright and was decorated by the French and the Italian Governments for his service in this work. His col- lected poems were published in 1902, and an enlarged edition in 1903. KENYON, JAMES B. Born in Frankfort, New York, 1858. Mr. Kenyon was formerly in the Methodist Episcopal minis- try, but has spent his recent years in writing. LANIER, SIDNEY. Born in Macon, Georgia, February 3, 18i2; died in Lynn, North Carolina, September 7, 1881. Sidney Lanier was one of those fine spirits who come among us now and then to reaffirm the beautiful and then pass, leav- ing a quickened sense of the value of living. From the outset Lanier was impelled by his enthusiasms and at eighteen enlisted in the Confederate army and served until nearly the end of the war, when he was taken prisoner while trying to run a blockade. Five months of captivity at Point Lookout no doubt sowed the seeds of the tubercular affection which developed and caused his early death. After his release from the army he taught in Alabama, and studied and prac- ticed law with his father in his native city of Macon, but pursuits of this kind could not long hold one like Lanier 323 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES whose passion was altogether for the arts. Fortunately he was a trained musician and upon abandoning the law, be- came first flute in the Peabody Symphony Concerts of Balti- more, where he spent the last few years of his life. Lanier's theories of music and poetry attracted wide attention and he was appointed to a lectureship in Johns Hopkins Univer- sity where he delivered a series of talks, afterwards pub- lished in the volume "The Science of English Verse." This has long been an authoritative book in its field. As a poet Lan- ier first won wide recognition by his poem "Corn,' pub- lished in " Lippincott's Magazine," but "The Marshes of Glynn" is the finest and most sustained work from his pen and best illustrates the individuality of his technique. He has left also a group of lyrics of enduring beauty. LARCOM, LUCY. Born in Beverly, Massachusetts, 1826; died in Boston, 1893. Lucy Larcom attracted the attention of Whittier by contributions to the paper he was then editing, and it was largely through Whittier' s encouragement that she became known as a poet. Her early youth was spent working in the mills at Lowell, but from 1866 to 1874 she was assistant editor of "Our Young Folks." She published several volumes of verse, collected into a complete edition in 1885. LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS. Born in Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, August 25, 1851 ; died in New York City, April 19, 1898. Mr. Lathrop was educated in New York and at Dres- den, Germany. In 1871 he married Rose Hawthorne, daugh- ter of Nathaniel Hawthorne. He was assistant editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," 1875-77, and filled other editorial posi- tions. His volumes of poetry include "Rose and Rooftree" (1875); and "Dreams and Days" (1892). He also wrote several novels and "A Study of Hawthorne" (1876). LAZARUS, EMMA. Born in New York City, 1849; died there, 1887. Emma Lazarus, born of Portuguese- Jewish an- cestry, is chiefly identified with the work which she did for her own race, although her poetic talents, finely individual and marked by a certain classical austerity, were expressed in many beautiful poems upon other themes. The persecu- tion of the Jews in Russia inspired her drama, "The Dance to Death." A complete collection of her poetical work was published, with a memoir, the year after her death. LEARNED, WALTER. Born in New London, Connecticui 1S47. Author of " Between Times" (1889) ; "Ten Tales fron. Coppee," translations (1890); editor of "A Treasury of Amer- ican Verse" (1898). LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. Born in Liverpool, England, January 20, 1866. He was already a well-known poet, novel- BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 327 ist, and critic when he took up his residence in the United States. In each of these fields Mr. Le Gallienne has achieved conspicuous success and it would be difficult to say what phase of his literary work should take precedence. In poetry, with which we are chiefly concerned, he has given us several vol- umes distinguished by that delicacy and sensitive feeling foi beauty which characterize all of his work. Of these the best- known are: "English Poems," "New Poems," and "The Lonely Dancer." In addition to these volumes, Mr. Le Gallienne has made an admirable paraphrase of the "Rubai- yat" of Omar Khayyam and of a group of odes from the "Divan" of Hafiz. LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY. Born in Philadelphia, Penn- sylvania August 15, 1824- ; died in Florence, Italy, March 20, 1903. Chiefly known as the author of "Hans Breitmann's Ballads," Charles Godfrey Leland had not only a rich vein of humor, but was a scholar of wide cultivation and actively identified with movements to further the knowledge of the arts on the part of the people. He was educated at Prince- ton and supplemented his work there with study at German and French universities. In his early youth he practiced law, but literary work drew him into other channels, and in 1869 he took up his residence in London and gave himself chiefly to the study of folk-lore. LITCHFIELD, GRACE DENIO. Born in New York City, 1849. Spent most of her youth in Europe. A complete edi- tion of her poems was published in 1913. LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807; died in Cambridge, Massachu- setts, March 24, 1882. Regarded during his lifetime, both in England and America, as our foremost poet, Longfellow is still read more commonly by the people than any of his con- temporaries. One could easily name qualities in which each of the others excelled him. The philosophy of Emerson, the humor of Lowell, the magic of Poe, all were qualities out- side the genius of Longfellow; yet this genius expressed itself within its own field with no less of personality. His poems do not startle by magic of phrase, but they are beautiful as the common light is beautiful, and shine by something of the same purity and transparency. Longfellow was, indeed, an un- failing artist and the technical ease and faultless taste of his work render it a pleasure to read even after one has exhausted Its content. In the sonnet he had supreme mastery and "The Divina Commedia," "Giotto's Tower," "Nature," and other poems in this form will survive the inevitable win- nowing of his verse. Longfellow's narrative gift, native and spontaneous as it was, will scarcely influence the final wppre* BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ciation of his work, yet his narratives have value as historical pictures and "Hiawatha," artistically in a class apart from the others, will remain as an idyl of Indian life. In personal- ity Longfellow embodied the ideal of the poet, the scholar, and the gentleman. Educated at Bowdoin College, where he had as classmates Nathaniel Hawthorne and Franklin Pierce, he showed a particular aptitude for modern lan- guages and after his graduation spent four years in France, Spain, Italy, and Germany. After his return he occupied the chair of Modern Languages at Bowdoin, resigning after six years to fill the same position at Harvard. This chair was held by Longfellow for nearly twenty years, when he re- signed to give himself entirely to literary work. In his early youth Longfellow married Miss Mary Potter, of Portland, who died four years later at Rotterdam. Some years after, he married Miss Frances Appleton, with whom he had several children and lived a life of ideal companionship, until her tragic death which occurred in 1861 at their home, the beautiful old Craigie House in Cambridge. Mrs. Longfellow was burned to death while melting wax to seal a letter. This event greatly saddened the closing years of the poet, but perhaps it added to the benign and beautiful spirit which distinguished him. During one of his late visits to England the degree of LL.D. was conferred upon him by Cambridge University and that of D.C.L. by Oxford. He was greatly beloved and admired in England and his bust was placed in Westminster Abbey. Aside from his own work in poetry, Longfellow did an admirable translation of Dante's "Divine Comedy" and made many translations from Spanish, French, and other tongues. LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. Born in Cambridge, Massa- chusetts, February 22, 1819; died there, August 12, 1891. More closely in touch with the life of his own day than any of his poet contemporaries and with a wider range of sym- pathy with public affairs, Lowell was at the same time pre- eminently the scholar and man of letters, happily combining the creative, critical, and social qualities of his nature. He began writing when very young and published his first book, "A Year's Life," in 1841, the year after leaving the Harvarr Law School. Other books of verse followed at comparatively short intervals, but none made for Lowell a wide recognition until he published the "Biglow Papers" in which his racy vein of humor and satire found full vent. The first series, directed against the Mexican War, began to appear in 1846; the second series, published in the sixties, pertained to the Civil War. Both were typically American and gained a wide audience. In 1855 Lowell succeeded Longfellow as Professor BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 329 of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres at Harvard Uni- versity. During the same period he spent several years as editor of the "Atlantic Monthly" and later as one of the edi- tors of the "North American Review," in which much of his finest critical work appeared. Volumes of poetry and criti- cism, succeeding each other rapidly, gave proof of the fecun- dity of Lowell's mind and the rich storehouse from which he drew. "Fireside Travels" (1864); "Among My Books" (1870); "My Study Windows" (1871); and "Among My Books, Second Series," alternated with volumes of verse. A neAv outlet for the versatile talents of Lowell now presented itself and he was sent as United States Minister to Spain, a post which he filled so ably that in three years he was trans- ferred to the Court of St. James in London. Here his culture, his charm of personality, and his public gifts combined to ren- der his service among the most distinguished in the history of American diplomacy. After his return to America he lived quietly at "Elmwood," his beautiful home in Cam- bridge, but did not cease to take an interest in public affairs, always approached from the broadest standpoint. Lowell was in the true sense a citizen of the world and the noblest qualities met in him. The fervor of the "Commemoration Ode" reveals his spirit. In poetry his moods were various. He alone among the New England poets possessed humor, whimsicality, and the gift of kindly satire. His work in these moods, however, should not obscure that in others, and some beautiful lyrics remain among his permanent offerings. LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. Born in Watertown, Massachu- setts, 1821; died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1853. Married in 1844 to James Russell Lowell, upon whose early work she has left a marked influence, Mrs. Lowell, by her keen and active mind and charming personality, drew about her a large circle of friends. Edward Everett Hale in his literary reminiscences has written delightfully of her. A pri- vately printed edition of her poems was issued in 1853. LUDERS, CHARLES HENRY. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsyl- vania, 1858; died there, 1891. The early death of Charles Henry Liiders was greatly to be regretted, as his verse, pub- lished under the title of "The Dead Nymph and Other Poems," in the year following his death, proved what a fine gift was lost to the world. MALONE, WALTER. Born in De Soto County, Mississippi, 1836; died in Memphis, Tennessee, 1915. While his epic, "De Soto," is a well-sustained work, it is by the brief lyric, "Opportunity," that V>'altor Malonc will live in the public heart. Mr. Malone was educated at the University of Mis- sissippi, and took up the practice of the law in Memphis, 330 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Tennessee. He had risen to the position of judge, an office which he had held for several years prior to his death. MARKHAM, EDWIN. Born in Oregon City, Oregon, April 23, 1852. Removed at an early age to California, where his childhood was spent upon a ranch in herding sheep and rid- ing the ranges after the cattle. During his boyhood he at- tended school but three months in the year, but later studied at San Jose Normal School and the University of California. After leaving the University, Mr. Markham became a teacher in California and was principal and superintendent of several schools until 1899, when he sprang suddenly into fame by the publication in the "San Francisco Examiner" of his poem "The Man With the Hoe." This poem, crystalliz- ing as it did the spirit of the time, and emphasizing one's obligation to Society, became the impulse of the whole social movement in poetry, a movement which largely prevailed during the early years of the twentieth century. After the great success of "The Man With the Hoe," Mr. Markham removed from California to New York City, where he has since been engaged in literary work. McGAFFEY, ERNEST. Born in London, Ohio, 1861. For several years a resident of Chicago, where he practiced law, Mr. McGaffey varied his legal occupation with the writing of poetry. He is the author of "Poems of Gun and Rod" (1892) and "Poems" (1895). MILLER, JOAQUIN (CINCINNATUS HEINE). Born in Wa- bash District, Indiana, November 10, 1841; died at "The Heights," above San Francisco, California, 1913. The pic- turesque career of Joaquin Miller surpasses any romance that came from his hand. When a lad he tramped from his home in Oregon to the Sacramento Valley where gold fields were being opened and did whatever he could turn his hand to about the camps. He lived familiarly with the Indians and passed through many adventures in returning to his home in Oregon. Here he studied law, which he practiced for some time in Canyon City, and became a judge of Grant County. In 1870 he went to London with the manuscript of "Songs of the Sierras." Here he met Browning, Arnold, and other poets of the period and created a sensation in conventional London by his romantic personality. After his return to America he spent some time in journalistic work in Washing- ton, D.C., but left it for California where he established himself in a beautiful home on "The Heights" above the Golden Gate. Save for occasional excursions, such as his trip to the Klondike, his remaining years were spent at this home. Joaquin Miller had great power to invoke the wild and majestic aspects of nature, and while he was often the BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 331 victim of his facility, at his best he was a poet of rare gifts and unexcelled in his field as the interpreter of Western life and landscape. MITCHELL, SILAS WEIR. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsyl- vania, February 15, 1820; died there, 1914. S. Weir MitcheL had been for many years a well-known physician before he turned to literature. Several volumes of fiction came from his pen before he attracted attention by the publication of his admirable historical novel, " Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker." His first collection of verse, "The Hill of Stones, and Other Poems," was not published until 1882 and he never became a prolific writer of poetry. He followed tradition closely, but his work, in its careful execution, had the virtue of its quali- ties and several of his poems have a classical fineness. MONROE, HARRIET. Born in Chicago, Illinois, 186-. Educated at the Visitation Academy, Georgetown, D.C., Miss Monroe was chosen to write the "Columbian Ode" for the dedication of the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Of recent years she has edited " Poetry," a periodi- cal devoted exclusively to the publication of verse. This was the first of the small magazines, afterwards so numerous, that grew out of the twentieth-century revival of poetry in America. Miss Monroe is the author of " You and 1 " (1914), and co-editor with Alice Corbin Henderson, of "The New Poetry," an anthology (1917). MOODY, W'ILLIAM VAUGHN. Born in Spencer, Indiana, July 8, 1869; died in Colorado Springs, October 17, 1910. Moody was educated at Harvard and in 1895 became Assis- tant Professor of English in the University of Chicago, where he remained until 1903. His period of teaching, however, was relieved by several trips abroad, on one of which he visited Greece and re-read the entire body of Greek tragedy with the background of the scenes which produced it. The Greek influence, dominant in his work, reached its finest expression in "The Fire-Bringer," a poetic drama of great beauty and philosophical depth. This drama is one of a tril- ogy of which it is the first member, the second being "The Masque of Judgment," and the third, "The Death of Eve." The last was in process of writing at Moody's death and but fragments of it have been published. This trilogy would alone be sufficient to place Moody among the major poets had he not left a body of lyric poetry of equal distinction. MORSE, JAMES HERBERT. Born in Hubbardstown, Massa- chusetts, 1841. Educated at Harvard. Founder of the Morse and Roberts Collegiate School in New York City. Author of "Summer Haven Songs" (1886). MORSE, SIDNEY HENRY. Born in Rochester, New York, 332 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES October 3, 1833. While still in his boyhood Mr. Morse was obliged to leave school to learn the stone-cutter's trade, but love of study spurred him to supplement his scant schooling by wide reading, and when, at twenty vears of age, he made the acquaintance of the celebrated Unitarian clergyman, Moncure D. Conway, he was inspired to prepare himself also for the Unitarian ministry. He became the pastor of a Uni- tarian church at Haverhill, Massachusetts, but left this some time later to edit and publish "The Radical," a liberal Unitarian organ. Mr. Morse had also artistic ability and did some notable work in sculpture, a bust of Emerson in the Second Church of Boston and of Dr. Channing in Arlington Street Church, are among his best-known pieces. MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER. Born in Pomfret, Connecti- cut, 1835; died in Boston, August 10, 1908. Educated at a seminary in Troy, New York, and married at an early age to William Moulton, a publisher of Boston, Louise Chandler Moulton by the charm of her personality and her poetic gifts established for herself an important place in the social and literary life of her time. Her home in Boston was the gather- ing-place of elect spirits in literature and the arts, and a pageant of American poets, from the early New England group to those who were to create the twentieth-century renaissance, had passed through her doors. In England Mrs. Moulton had no less intimate touch with the writers of her period and numbered among her friends Browning, Arnold, the Rossettis, Swinburne, and other great Victorian poets. She was also the close friend of the blind poet, Philip Bourke Marston, whose literary executor she became. Mrs. Moul- ton's sonnets are models of this form, which she handled with the utmost ease and beauty. Her complete work in poetry was issued soon after her death, with an introduction by her life-long friend, Harriet Prescott SpofFord. MURRAY, ADA FOSTER (MRS. HENRY MILLS ALDEN). Born in Virginia in 1856. Married Kenton C. Murray. Again married, several years after his death, to Henry Mills Alden, editor of "Harper's Magazine," to which she was a contribu- tor. Mrs. Alden's first verses, written during her girlhood, were accepted by William Cullen Bryant, then editor of the "New York Evening Post." Although she has contributed to the leading magazines, she has published but one collection of poetry, "Flower O' the Grass" (1910). O'HARA, THEODORE. Born in Danville, Kentucky, 1820; died in Guerryton, Alabama, 1867. Theodore O'Hara was distinctly the soldier poet, having served in the Mexican War and in the Confederate army during the Civil War. His fame rests upon the noble poem, "The Bivouac of the Dead," BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 333 written as a memorial to the KentucHans who fell at Buena Vista. O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE. Born in Dowth Castle, County Meath, Ireland, June 28, 1844; died in Hull, Massachusetts, August 10, 1890. The career of John Boyle O'Reilly was more romantic than fiction and had in it all the essentials of drama. His early youth in Ireland was closely bound up with the fortunes of that always-distracted country. He entered journalism at Drogheda, a town near his birthplace, and threw the influence of his fiery pen into the cause of Irish revolt. The Fenian Society sent him to England as an agent, but he was speedily arrested and condemned to death, a sentence which was at the last moment commuted to penal servitude in Australia. After enduring this for a year he escaped in a boat and was picked up by an American whaling vessel and finally landed at Philadelphia. This was in 1869 when O'Reilly was but twenty-five years old. From this time to his death, which occurred in the prime of his powers, he was a great force in the movement for justice to Ireland and through the "Boston Pilot," which he edited for many years, he championed not only all liberal movements for his native, but also for his adopted, country. He was greatly beloved for his winning personality and his fervid Irish tem- perament, and at his death a shvtue by Daniel Chester French was erected to him in Boston PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM. Born in Boston, August 18, 1819; died in Scituate, Massachusetts, September 3, 1892. Thomas William Parsons was an admirable classical scholar and a student and translator of Dante. His fame as a poet rests largely upon his splendid "Lines on a Bust of Dante," although he did much other verse of a high order. Educated at the Boston Latin School and at home, he went in early youth to Italy and there, during several years cf study, made a metrical translation of the first ten cantos of the " Inferno." PECK, SAMUEL MINTURN. Born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 1854. Graduated at the University of Alabama and took a medical course in New York City. He returned to his native town and varied the practice of medicine with farming and literature chiefly in lighter vein. PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES. Born in Berlin, Connecticut, September 15, 1795; died in Hazel Green, Wisconsin, May 2, 1856. After graduation at Yale University, James Gates Percival became a physician, and practiced in Charleston and in the United States recruiting service, but left this profession for the study of geology and prepared valuable reports on the geological formations of Connecticut and Wisconsin. His complete work in poetry was published in 1859. 334 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES PERRY, NORA. Born in Dudley, Massachusetts, 188-; died there, 1896. Nora Perry is best known for her poem, "After the Ball," although "The Love Knot" and other verses quite as popular in their day still find their way into anthologies. These poems, however, with their mid-Victor- ian sentimentality, do not represent Miss Perry at her best and we have chosen a lyric of a finer quality. PIATT, JOHN JAMES. Born in James Mill, now Milton, Indiana, March 1, 1835; died in Ohio, 1917. Mr. Piatt, who was a close friend of W. D. Howells, published in company with him his first volume of verse, "Poems of Two Friends." This book is now sought by collectors as being the first work of each of these poets. Mr. Piatt's life was largely passed in public service. He was in the Treasury Department at Wash- ington during the Civil War; librarian of the House of Rep- resentatives for several years following, and United States Consul to Cork, from 1882 to 1894. Many of his poems were in?phed by life in Ireland. He married Sarah Morgan Bryan, of Kentucky, also a poet, and throughout their lives they were voluminous writers, publishing volumes of verse together as well as many separate collections. PIATT, SARAH MORGAN BRYAN. Born in Lexington, Ken- tucky, 1836. Mrs. Piatt's work was widely read in its own period and a few charming lyrics will keep it alive. PIERPONT, JOHN. Born in Litchfield, Connecticut, 1785; died in Medford, Connecticut, 1866. Pierpont was one of the earliest of our poets, his birth antedating that of Bryant. Most of his life was spent in the Unitarian ministry, although he had passed through a period of teaching and practicing law. He was one of the earliest abolitionists and resigned his charge at Hollis Street Church, Boston, as early as 1845 be- causes of being in advance of his congregation on this and other public questions. At the outbreak of the Civil W T ar, although already seventy-six years old, he volunteered as an army chaplain, but was transferred, owing to his feeble health, to the Treasury Department where he served until his death in 1866. PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE. Born in London, England, 1802; died in Baltimore, Maryland, 1828. A distinct and beautiful poetic gift was quenched in the early death of Ed- ward Coate Pinkney, whose slender volume of "Poems,' published in 1825, bespoke the birthright of pong. Pinkney was the son of the American Minister to Great Britain, Wil- liam Pinkney, and at the age of fouiteen entered the United States Navy, resigning eight years later. For the remaining four years of his life he studied and practiced law at Balti- more, but delicate health made him unable to cope with the BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 335 needs of his profession and his early passing from life was saddened by a sense of frustration. POE, EDGAR ALLAN. Born in Boston, January 19, 1809; died in Baltimore, Maryland, October 7, 1849. Most magi- cal and creative of our American poets, Poe was also the only one whose personal life was filled with romance and tragedy. The lives of his New England contemporaries seemed to be presided over by some benign spirit, but that of Poe, almost from the outset, was troubled and painful. His parents were actors, both of whom died during his early infancy and Poe was adopted by Mr. John Allan, a wealthy tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia. While still a child he was taken to England and was placed for five years in a school near Lon- don. After returning, in 1820, he spent the years before he entered the University of Virginia in other schools at Rich- mond and distinguished himself in athletics and writing verses as well as in his scholarship. At the university also his work was satisfactory; but lacking, from his still extreme youth, the self-discipline to resist the temptations of college life, he fell into the use of stimulants which worked disas- trously for his future. His foster-father refused to honor his debts, took him from the university and put him to work in his own counting-room at Richmond. This was not at all to Poe's mind and he soon ran away, to Boston, enlisting in the regular army under the alias of "Edgar Perry." One is re- minded of a similar escapade in the life of Coleridge, who ran away from college and enlisted in the English dragoons. But whereas Coleridge was discovered in a few months, Poe re- mained nearly two years and performed his work as a soldier so well that he was made sergeant-major. This record no doubt influenced Mr. Allan to place him as a cadet at West Point, a step which would probably have proved advisable had it not been that the youthful cadet had already been touched with the divine madness of poetry and had issued "Tamerlane and Other Poems," and even his second book, "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems," before he en- tered West Point. What wonder, then, that he grew restless under the regime that left him little time to follow his grow- ing genius! What wonder also that Mr. Allan grew weary of Poe's vacillation and refused him the release that he wished! Poe, however, was not to be detained by such bonds and promptly brought about his own dismissal. Mr. Allan now declared himself free of all responsibility for his adopted son and from this time, when Poe was twenty-two years old, the fateful pei iod of his career began. Before leaving West Point a group of his student friends had by their subscriptions made possible the publication of another volume of his poems, 336 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES but Poe could expect no financial return from this little book and with only his talents as capital he went to Baltimore. Here he lodged with his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, and made what he could by articles, poems, and stories, until his work at- tracted the attention of the editor of the "Southern Literary Messenger" with which Poe formed a connection. It was while lodging with his aunt that he became deeply attached to his child cousin, Virginia Clemm, a girl of delicate beauty, and before she had reached her fourteenth year, they were married. Unfortunately Poe remained but a short time longer with the " Messenger" and after a season in New York City, where he brought out the "Narrative of Arthur Gor- don Pym," he shifted to Philadelphia, contributing critical articles and stories to many publications. The irregularity of his habits made it difficult for him to retain editorial posi- tions, although he held several, notably that of associate editor of Burton's "Gentleman's Magazine" of New York City. His stories won popular success before his poems. As a critic, too, he was becoming widely known, and while he made some bitter attacks upon his contemporaries which afterwards reacted upon him, his criticism was penetrating and brilliant and certain dicta of his concerning poetry have become a touchstone for the judgment of that art. Poe's own poetic fame in a popular sense came with the publica- tion of "The Raven and Other Poems" in 1845. "The Ra- ven" could not fail of instantaneous appeal and Poe found his name in all mouths. This did not, however, solve the financial problem which he had continually to face. In 1846 the family moved to Fordham, then several miles outside the city limits, and here, in the small cottage now owned by an association and kept as a memorial of Poe, the severest trial of his life began. His young wife Virginia, for whom Poe had an almost worshipful attachment, was already far advanced in consumption and died in the following year. One of his friends, writing of the family after Poe's own death says, "His love for his wife was a sort of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty, which he felt was fading before his eyes." After the death of Virginia, Poe made ineffectual attempts to found a magazine and to secure some stability of life. What is less understandable, he soon turned for con- solation to other women and became engaged to Sarah Helen Whitman, a poet of Providence, Rhode Island, to whom he wrote two of his most beautiful poems. Mrs. Whitman broke the engagement, owing to Poe's habits, but always retained an affection for the poet. The following year Poe paid a visit to his early home, Richmond, where his fame opened all doors to him and where he regained a degree of hopefulness BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 337 and cheer. He lectured with success and seemed in a fair way to rehabilitate both his fortunes and habits. Starting North again, he reached Baltimore, where he had been but a few days when he was found in a helpless condition and taken to a hospital where he died after four days of illness. While Poe's weakness for intoxicants was often his undoing, it is certain, in the light of more recent investigation into his life that this weakness has been exaggerated. He had long pe- riods of complete abstinence from stimulants and it was rather from the excitability of his temperament than the amount of his indulgence that he was undone. The smallest amount of wine, taken in a social gathering, was sufficient to create havoc with Poe, whereas many who indulged much more freely escaped criticism. Editors who employed him testified to his faithfulness to his work over considerable periods of time. Poe's frailty was exaggerated and used as a weapon against him by many who had suffered from his caustic criticism. Time is giving a clearer understanding of the spirit of the man. Poe had unique genius, both in poetry and fiction; his short stories are masterpieces of construction and romantic imagination. His poetry is to the last degree haunting and magical. Poe's influence upon French poets has been great and to him the early masters of the Sym- bolist School acknowledged their debt. PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. Born in Henniker, New Hamp- shire, 1838. Miss Proctor has lived chiefly in South Fram- ingham, Massachusetts, though spending much time abroad. Author of "Poems" (1866); "A Russian Journey" (1872); "The Song of the Ancient People" (1892); "The Glory of Toil" (1916). RANDALL, JAMES RYDER. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, 1839; died, 1908. James Ryder Randall was a well-known journalist, having been connected with several important Southern papers. He was for some time editor-in-chief of the Augusta, Georgia, " Constitution," and later formed a con- nection with the "Baltimore American." As a poet he is known chiefly for his stirring battle-hymn, "Maryland, My Maryland," one of the finest poems of the Civil War. READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. Born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, March 12, 1822; died in New York City, May 11, 1872. Read was a portrait-painter as well as a poet, hav ing studied in Rome and, after his return to America, fol- lowed the practice of his art in various cities. His stirring poem, "Sheridan's Ride," is known to every schoolboy in America, but the poems quoted in this collection represent him more adequately. REALF, RICHARD. Born in Framfield, Sussex, England^ BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 1834; died, by his own hand, in Oakland, California, 1878. The tragedy of the death of Richard Realf was infinitely sad, coming, as it did, after a life of activity in so many noble causes. In his youth he had the privilege of association with many English writers, among them the poet Rogers, Miss Mitford, and Harriet Martineau. He also became a favorite with Lady Byron who made him a steward on one of hei estates. He emigrated to America and went to Kansas, but returning to New York became an assistant at the Five Points House of Industry. This was during the agitation which preceded the outbreak of the Civil War, and Realf, who ac- tively seconded the plans of John Brown, went to Europe to give lectures upon the anti-slavery movement. When the war finally came, he enlisted in the Union Army and was commended for gallantry at Chickamauga and else- where. His poems were gathered and published, with a sym- pathetic memoir, by his friend Colonel Richard J. Hinton, in 1899. REESE, LIZETTE WOODWORTH. Born in Baltimore, Mary- land, January 9, 1856. Educated in the schools of that city. She has been for many years a teacher of English in West High School of Baltimore. Her volumes of verse are: "A Branch of May" (1887); "A Handful of Lavender" (1891); "A Quiet Road" (1896); "A Wayside Lute" (1909). Miss Reese has a lyric gift unique in its strict Saxon simplicity. Her work has an early, Old-World flavor, a quaintness, a magic of phrase that renders it wholly individual. RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB. Born in Greenfield, Indiana, in June, 1853; died in Indianapolis, July, 1916. He occupied a field unique in American literature and probably no poet came as near to the heart of the people. Popularly known as "The Hoosier Poet," because his verse was largely written in the dialect of the common people of his native State of Indiana, he was yet a poet of the truest gifts, and many of his dialect poems bid fair to become classic. Mr. Riley did not confine himself, however, to the use of dialect, but wrote some exquisite poetry in other fields. Unlike many poets, he lived to see himself not only the most beloved and honored citizen of his native State, which annually celebrates "Riley Day," but the most widely known and beloved poet of his period in America. The Biographical Edition of his complete works (1913) contains all of the earlier volumes. SANTAYANA, GEORGE E. Born in Madrid, Spain, Decem- ber 16, 1863. He was for several years Professor of Philos- ophy at Harvard University, and has written important works in this field, particularly "The Sense of Beauty," 1896, and "Interpretations of Poetry and Religion," 1900. His work BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 339 in poetry has been largely in the sonnet form, of which he has a classic mastery. His volumes of verse are: "Sonnets and Other Poems" (1894); "Lucifer "(1899); "The Hermit of Carmel" (1901); "Collected Sonnets" (1910). SAVAGE, PHILIP HENRY. Born in North Brookfield, Mas- sachusetts, 1868; died, 1899. Philip Henry Savage, son of ;he Reverend Minot J. Savage, was one of the little group of poets at Harvard which included George Cabot Lodge, Trumbull Stickney, and William Vaughn Moody, all of whom died while still in youth. While less endowed with poetic genius than some of the others, Savage had distinct gifts and a fine idealism which pervaded his work. His early death was met heroically and some of his best poems were written in its imminence. He published '*First Poems and Fragments" (1895) and "Poems" (1898). SCOLLARD, CLINTON. Born in Clinton, New York, Sep- tember 18, 1860. Graduated at Hamilton College in 1881. He afterwards studied at Harvard L 7 niversity and at Cam- bridge, England. He was Professor of English Literature at Hamilton College, 1888-96. Mr. Scollard has been a volu- minous writer, but his more important books are: "The Hills of Song" (1895); "The Lutes of Morn" (1901); "Lyrics of the Dawn" (1902); "The Lyric Bough" (1904); "Chords of the Zither" (1910); "Sprays of Shamrock" (1914); "Poems," a selection from his complete work (1914); "Italy in Arms" (1915); "The Vale of Shadows" (1915); "Ballads, Patriotic and Romantic" (1916). SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. Born in Windsor, Connecticut, 1841; died in Cleveland, Ohio, 1887. Edward Rowland Sill was a poet of rare gifts and his death, when scarcely in middle life, cut short a richly maturing talent. Most of his life was spent in teaching. After his graduation at Yale, in 1861, he was first connected with a school at Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, but for several years prior to his death was Professor of Eng- lish Literature at the University of California. His complete poems have been collected and also a complete edition of hi? prose work. SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER. Born in Peekskill, Xe\v York, May 6, 1860; died September 19, 1916. He took the degree of Ph.B. from Columbia University in 1884, and was Professor of Graphics in Columbia School of Architecture from 1904 until his death. He was the author of " Madrigals and Catches" (1887); "Lyrics for a Lute" (1890); "Little Folk Lyrics" (1892) ; " Lyrics of Joy " (1904) ; and " A South- ern Flight" (with Clinton Scollard), (1906). SPALDING, SUSAN MARR. Born in Bath, Maine, 18 . Mrs. Spalding is best known by her lyric, "Fate," although 340 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES she has written other excellent poems contained in her col- lection, "The Wings of Icarus" (1892). SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRFSCOTT. Born in Calais, Maine, 1835. Mrs. Spofford has been known since her early youth as one of our finest short-story writers, and several sustained novels have also come from her pen. It is unnecessary here to list her volumes of fiction, but she is the author of "The Marquis of Carabas," poems (1882); "Ballads About Au- thors" (1887); and "In Titian's Garden, and Other Poems" (1897). STANTON, FRANK L. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, 1857. Mr. Stanton has been connected for many years with the staff of the "Atlanta Constitution" where his lyrics appear daily and have made for themselves a secure place in the hearts of a multitude of Southern readers. They have also reached a wide audience through his volumes "Songs of the Soil" (1894); "Comes One With a Song" (1899); "Songs From Dixie Land" (1900); and "Up From Georgia" (1902). STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE. Born in Hartford, Con- necticut, October 8, 1833; died in New York City, January 18, 1908. Mr. Stedman was for many years the foremost critic of America and exerted a great influence upon our poetry through his sympathetic interpretations and the far- reaching inspiration of his personal relations with poets. The activity of Mr. Stedman's life and the variety of his in- terests rebuke those who are content with a half expression of their talents. Stedman's youth was like that of many ambitious boys: he graduated at Yale, having taken first prize for a poem on "Westminster Abbey," and plunged into journalism, editing papers in small towns in New England. Emboldened to try his luck in New York City, he secured a place with Horace Greeley on the "Tribune" where "Osa- watomie Brown" and other early poems were published. In 1860 he joined the staff of the "New York World," re- maining as war correspondent until 1863. Here an entirely new phase was introduced into his life and one seemingly antagonistic to literature. He aided in the construction and financial affairs of the first Pacific Railway and so was led into Wall Street, where he remained as an active member of the Stock Exchange for nearly forty years. Mr. Stedman has himself said that he entered Wall Street as a door to means and leisure to prosecute his literary work, a task in which he was assiduous to the hour of his death. Volumes of his own verse alternated with critical studies of English and Ameri- can poets, and lectures at Johns Hopkins University, Colum- bia University, and other academic centers. He received the degree of L.H.D. from Columbia and of LL.D. from Yale. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 341 In addition to his poems, Mr. Stedman was the author of "Victorian Poets," a volume of criticism (1875); "Poets of America," covering a similar field in our literature (1885); "The Nature and Elements of Poetry" (1892); and was editor of "A Victorian Anthology" (1895) and "An Ameri- can Anthology" (1900). STODDARD, CHARLES WARREN. Born in Rochester, New York, 1843, died 1909. Mr. Stoddard was a wide traveler, visiting many countries and writing his impressions both ia prose and verse. When a lad he attracted the attention of Bret Harte who edited his first book of verse. When not traveling or living in the Hawaiian Islands, his time was spent chiefly in California, varied by a period of teaching lit- erature at Notre Dame College, South Bend, Indiana, and at the Catholic University of Washington, D. C. STODDARD, ELIZABETH, Born in Mattapoisett, Massa- chusetts, May 6, 1823; died in New York City, August 1, 1902. Mrs. Stoddard was the wife of Richard Henry Stod- dard, the poet, and their home in New York was for many years a center for the literary life of the city. Mrs. Stoddard was a frequent contributor of poetry to the magazines and wrote several novels. Her complete poems were issued in 1895. STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. Born in Hingham, Massa- chusetts, July 2, 1825; died in New York City, May 12, 1903. The life of Richard Henry Stoddard is particularly interest- ing from the fact that, although he became one of the fore- most men of letters of his time, he was almost wholly self- educated and spent much of his early youth working in an iron foundry. During this time, however, he was eagerly reading and studying the great writers, particularly the poets, and beginning to try his own skill at verse. Just at this juncture he gained the friendship of Bayard Taylor, who en- couraged and stimulated him and published his first verses in the "Union Magazine" which Taylor was temporarily edit- ing. Stoddard now turned his attention entirely to writing and became a contributor to the "Knickerbocker" and other magazines. His collection of poetry, issued in 1852, brought him recognition and the friendship of Thomas Buchanan Read and other poets of the day. More important, however, was the friendship which he formed with Hawthorne, whom he visited at Concord and who was instrumental in securing for Stoddard a position in the New York Custom House which he held for seventeen years. This work, however, left him leisure for writing and from 1860 to 1870 he was literary editor of the " New York World." After leaving the Custom House, he accepted a position with the " New York Mail and S42 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Express" as literary editor and retained it for over twenty years. In his age Stoddard was a venerable figure in New York City life and was the recipient of many honors. His work in poetry was collected into a definitive edition after his death. His fame rests chiefly upon a little group of lyrics, of which "The Flight of Youth," one of his early poems, seems likely to hold the most secure place. STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE. Born in Salem, Massachu- setts, February 12, 1819; died in Vallambrosa, Italy, October 7, 1895. Mr. Story spent the creative part of his life in Italy achieving fame as a sculptor, writing poetry much read in its day, and exquisite studies of Italian life and art, such as "Roba di Roma," one of the finest books upon the Eternal City. He lived for ye<.rs in the old Barberini Palace, one of the most celebrated in Rome, and led an enviable life with art and poetry and friendships. This career, however, nearly miscarried, as his youth was spent in the law, an occupation which he may be said to have inherited from his father, Jus- tice Joseph Story, of the United States Supreme Court. That he recognized his true gift before it was too late is a matter for gratitude. One of Mr. Story's finest pieces of sculpture is the tomb of his wife in the Protestant Cemetery at Rome, where he now lies beside her, only a few yards from the grave of Shelley. TABB, JOHN BANNISTER. Born in Amelia County, Vir- finia, 1845; died, 1909. Father Tabb, a priest and teacher in t. Charles College, Maryland, was, in poetry, a carver ot cameos. His work is almost wholly in very brief lyrics wrought with infinite pains. He is the lapidary of verse anvl his gemlike work is cold and shining. Nevertheless, it is artistically distinguished and unique. Prior to taking orders in the Church, Father Tabb served as captain's mate on a blockade-runner in the Civil War. He was the author of 'Poems" (1894) and "Lyrics" (1897). TAYLOR, BAYARD. Born in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, January 11, 1825; died in Berlin, Germany, December 19, 1878. The career of Bayard Taylor was a constantly shifting romance, comparable only to a kaleidoscope in which every turn brings out a design. From his earliest boyhood in a little Quaker town, he was imbued with two ambitions to travel and to be a poet; neither of which, from obvious circum- stances, seemed at all probable. But Life, which is always in league with the dreamer, brought both to pass. He began at seven years of age to write poetry and at sixteen published his first verses. At nineteen he brought out his first book, "Xi- men, or the Battle of the Sierra Morena." In this year the second desire of his life urged him to make trial of himself BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 343 and he went abroad, traveling about Europe on foot for nearly two years, with his only luggage a knapsack and a scanty supply of script. From this trip, however, came "Views Afoot," almost the pioneer travel book of America, and immediately the poet-wanderer found the fates smiJing upon him. Soon after his return he became head of the liter- ary department of the "New York Tribune," but no office could hold so restless a spirit and at the outbreak of the gold- fever in California in '49, he joined the seekers, bringing back, not gold, but the story of its pursuit, in "Eldorado." He married Miss Mary Agnew, a childhood friend, who was in- curably ill and who lived but two months following the mar- riage. This grief sent the poet to Europe again and on into the East, the land which had been to him the dream within the dream. Here his poetic gift came suddenly into flower, and nearly all of his finest lyrics from this period relate to the East to which he made many subsequent trips. In 1856 he again visited Europe and was warmly received by scholars and writers, particularly in Germany, where he married a daughter of the astronomer, Professor Hansen. Returning to America, he established the beautiful home, " Cedarcroft," in his native Pennsylvania village, and in such intervals as were spent in its retirement, produced poetry, novels, essays, books of travel, and translations. To literature and travel he added diplomacy, and was sent as secretary to the Ameri- can legation in Russia and as United States Minister to Ger- many, a position which he eagerly accepted in the hope that it would give him leisure to write a "Life" of Goethe, which he had long had in mind. This ambition, however, was not to be fulfilled, as he was stricken with illness not long after his arrival at Berlin and died there in a few weeks. THAXTER, CELIA. Born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 1830; died at Appledore Island, New Hampshire, June 29, 1891. The life of Celia Thaxter has a romantic charm from the fact that it was largely spent upon the Isles of Shoals, where her father was keeper of the lighthouse, and many of her poems were written out of this environment. She mar- ried Levi Lincoln Thaxter, but continued to live for the greater part of the time upon the islands. She was an artist ss well as a poet and illustrated many of her own books. THOMAS, EDITH M. Born in Chatham, Ohio, August 12, 1854. Educated at the Normal Institute of Geneva, Ohio. Almost from the outset of her work, Edith Thomas has been one of the finest lyric poets of her period. Her early work was largely influenced by Greek literature and she has written many lyrics of classical beauty. Her recent work, however, is more intimate and personal, the emotional reaction to her 344 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES own experience. Her work, indeed, is almost wholly sub- jective and altogether of a rare and subtle quality. Since 1888 Miss Thomas has made her home in New York Citv, where she is attached to the staff of "Harper's Magazine?' Her best-known volumes are: "The Inverted Torch" (1890); "A Winter Swallow" (1896); "The Dancers" (1903); "The Guest at the Gate" (1909); and "The Flower From the Ashes" (1915). THOMPSON, MAURICE. Born in Fairfield, Indiana, Septem- ber 9, 1844; died in Crawfordsville, Indiana, February 15, 1901. Thompson served in his early youth in the Confeder- ate army and later studied and practiced law in Indiana. These activities were varied by the writing of poetry and criticism, and in 1890 he became one of the staff of the " New York Independent," where his critical work attracted wide attention. THOMPSON, WILL H. Born in Calhoun, Georgia, 1848. A brother to Maurice Thompson and closely associated with him in all activities and pleasures. Like his brother he served in the Confederate army and after the war established him- self in a law partnership with his brother at Crawfordsville, Indiana. When literature drew Maurice away from the law, Will Thompson removed to Seattle, Washington, where he carried on the practice of his profession. He is well known as a public speaker and is active in social reforms. He is the author of "High Tide at Gettysburg," one of the finest poems of the Civil War. THOREAU, HENRY DAVID. Born in Concord, Massachu- setts, July 12, 1817; died there May 6, 1862. Thoreau was the most thorough nonconformist in American literature. His entire life was one of intellectual independence and per- sonal isolation. He did only so much work as sufficed to maintain him, and this in the most desultory fashion, turn- ing from teaching to pencil-making, from pencil-making to farming, from farming to lecturing, as might suit the im- mediate necessity, but never relaxing in the mental activities which constituted his real life. He was not at all troubled about being considered eccentric and indeed seemed to court this reputation. Although educated at Harvard and widely read, he sought the most primitive social conditions and lived for several years in the little hut on W T alden Pond, built with his own hands on property owned by Emerson. De- spite his personal eccentricities, Thoreau was one of the great spirits of his time, perhaps of all time. His poetry is of little moment in the sum of his achievement. It was as a natural- ist and philosopher that his genius found its expression, and it is characteristic of him that most of his work was not pub- BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 345 lished during his lifetime, but was afterwards rescued from a diary of thirty volumes begun in his student days at Harvard and continued until his death. His "Works" and "Familiar Letters" (1894) contain the many books compiled from the diaries together with those published during his lifetime. TIMROD, HENRY. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, 1829; died in Columbia, South Carolina, 1867. Henry Tim- rod was one of the most gifted of the Southern poets, but like his friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne, suffered to such a degree from the devastation wrought by the war that his gifts had no opportunity to develop as they would have done undar more favorable circumstances. He was the son of a book- binder, who was himself something of a poet. At the out- break of the Civil War, he became a correspondent of the "Charleston Mercury" and later assistant editor of the "South Carolinian" of Columbia. Sherman's troops so devastated this region that Timrod's home in Columbia was broken up, and the death of a favorite child having still further saddened him, he was unable to regain a hold upon life. After a struggle of two or three years with poverty and illness, he died while still at the best promise of his art. His poems, which were originally printed in 1869, were neces- sarily neglected owing to the public mind being focused upon the approaching war, but his friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne, rescued them and in 1873 published them with a fitting and sympathetic memoir. TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. Born in Ogden, New York, September 18, 1827; died in Arlington, Massachu- setts, 1915. Mr. Trowbridge was known chiefly as a writer i'or boys, having published a great number of stories in this field. He was the son of a farmer and spent his early youth on the farm, having only the education of the common schools supplemented by a term at a classical academy. Nevertheless, Mr. Trowbridge was a man of wide cultivation, having read and studied throughout his life. He had many close friendships with the New England writers and his auto- biography, "My Own Story," published in the "Atlantic Monthly," to which he was one of the first contributors, is full of charm and interest. His best-known poem is "The Vaga- bonds," although he has done other work of a finer if less popular quality. His poems may now be obtained in a com- plete edition. VAN DYKE, HENRY. Born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, 1852. Educated at Princeton University, Princeton Theo- logical Seminary, and Berlin University. Dr. Van Dyke spent his earlier years in the ministry, but left it to become Professor of English Literature at Princeton University, 346 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES \vhere he remained for many years. He has been a volumi- nous writer in the field of theology, criticism, fiction, and poetry. Several of his volumes have attained a wide circula- tion, notably "Little Rivers," "Fisherman's Luck," "The Blue Flower," "The Story of the Other Wise Man," etc. In criticism he has written authoritatively upon Tennyson and other poets. "Collected Poems" (1911) include several vol- umes previously issued. Dr. Van Dyke was appointed Minister to The Hague in 1913, retaining the position until 1917 when he resigned to resume literary work. He was an excellent diplomat and rendered valuable service to his coun- try during the first three years of the European War. VERY, JONES. Born in Salem, Massachusetts, August 22, 1813; died there, May, 1880. His father was a sea captain and the son went with him upon many voyages. He was educated at Harvard and taught Greek there for a short time after his graduation. He belonged to the Transcendental- ist group of writers and was a close friend of Emerson and Channing, and of James Freeman Clarke, who edited the complete posthumous edition of his work. WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY. Born in Plainfield, Massa- chusetts, September 12, 1829; died in Hartford, Connecticut, October 20, 1900. Charles Dudley Warner was chiefly known as an editor, an essayist, and a writer upon social topics. He was editor-in-chief of the "Warner Library of the World's Best Literature." He wrote but little poetry, but occasion- ally did an admirable bit of verse such as the sonnet included in this collection. WHITMAN, SARAH HELEN. Born in Providence, Rhode Is- land, 1803; died there, 1879. She is chiefly known for her asso- ciation with Edgar Allan Poe, to whom she was betrothed in 1848. The engagement with Poe was broken, owing to the irregularity of the poet's habits, but Mrs. Whitman remained his admirer and in 1860 published a monograph in his de- fense, entitled "Edgar Allan Poe and His Critics." Many of her poems also relate to Poe, and recently the poet's letters to her were published with an interesting account of the association. WHITMAN, WALT. Born in West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819; died in Camden, New Jersey, March 26, 1892. It is impossible in a brief space to do justice to the influence of Walt Whitman upon the development of poetry since his period, or to show the successive stages by which his work overcame prejudice and antagonism before this influence could become effective. Whitman has been a great revolu- tionary force, not only in our own poetry, but in that of other countries. The modern "Free Verse" movement is largely BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 347 the radiation of Whitman who opposed to conventional form his freely flowing rhythms. He may be said, indeed, to have released technique, which had become bound in artificial forms, and left it free to reshape in a more flexible manner. There are always revolutions in art, but Whitman was a world revolutionist, not only liberating form, but opposing to the whole movement of "Romanticism," which had per- sisted through the nineteenth century, the movement of De- mocracy and the social consciousness of life. In outward circumstances Whitman's life was not eventful. He was born on a little farm in the interior of Long Island and the family removed when Walt was a child to Brooklyn, where he was educated in the public schools and learned the printer's trade. A brief period of teaching followed, succeeded by a longer period of printing, editing, and miscellaneous writing. There was nothing to indicate from his early writing, which was purely conventional and without distinction, that a revolutionist in art was soon to flash upon the world, but Whitman was experimenting with the new form and in 1855 he startled America with "Leaves of Grass," which provoked at the outset a storm of protest, from its frank treatment of sex. Enlarged editions appeared in 1856 and in 1861 and Whit- man began to gather a few followers. In the early months of the war he went to Washington and began his three years' service as a visitor and voluntary nurse in the war hospitals, where his assiduous work for the wounded broke down his own health. "Drum-Taps," among the most beautiful of his poems, records this experience. He secured a position in the In- terior Department, but was dismissed from it by the Secretary, who could not grasp the point of view of "Leaves of Grass." This called forth the celebrated defense of Whitman by W. D. O'Connor, wherein the sobriquet of "the good gray poet" originated. The attorney-general's office proved more hospit- able and Whitman was given a position there which he retained until 1873 when a stroke of paralysis made it necessary for him to retire to his brother's home in Camden, New Jersey. After a time he secured a little house of his own, on Mickle Street, where he lived out his remaining years, increasingly honored and recognized. He is buried in Harleigh Cemetery, Camden, in a tomb which he himself designed. WHITTIER, JOHN GREEXLEAF. Born in East Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 1807; died in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire, September 7, 1892. Whittier, one of the best beloved of our poets, belonged particularly to the people and came more directly from them than did his great New England contemporaries. Born of Quaker parentage in hum- ble surroundings, he had little schooling and few books, but 348 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES read these to advantage and particularly the Bible \vhich left a deep influence upon his work. He had not yet ven- tured to offer his wares to publishers, when his sister, having faith in his efforts, sent one of his poems to the "Newbury port Free Press," then edited by William Lloyd Garrisor Not only did Garrison print the poem, but took the youn^ author into his own family that he might attend the Haver- hill Academy. The tuition for the winter's schooling was paid for by Whittier from money earned in making slippers. After leaving the Academy Whittier began to contribute to the press and soon made for himself a sufficiently im- portant place that he edited successively the "American Manufacturer" of Boston, the "Haverhill Gazette," and "The New England Weekly Review" of Hartford, Connecti- cut. As early as 1833 he became identified with the anti- slavery cause and published at his own expense the pamph- let, "Justice and Expediency," one of the important pioneer documents of the abolition movement. From this period until the cause was won, Whittier did not cease to work toward its realization. Poems full of fiery enthusiasm for jus- tice were constantly appearing in the papers with which he was connected, but these have died with the crisis which inspired them and Whittier himself did not regard them as having permanent value. Whittier served for a short time in the Massachusetts Legislature and closed his public work in 1840, after a three years' editorship of the "Pennsylvania Freeman." He was still but thirty-three years old, but deli- cate health compelled him to forego active life and he retired to Amesbury, Massachusetts. The remainder of his long life was spent either at Amesbury or Danvers, and the former home is now kept by the Whittier Association as a memorial of the poet. Retirement from public life by no means af- fected Whittier's productivity, but gave him leisure for his real work and over thirty books came from his hand in the half century of life still remaining to him. He excelled in ballad and narrative, as "Maud Muller," "Skipper Irecon's Ride," etc., attest; but his finest legacy to poetry is in two widely diverse moods, "The Eternal Goodness," written from his exquisite and beautiful faith, and "Ichabod," writ- ten after the apparent repudiation by Daniel Webster of the principles of abolition. In " Snowbound " he has given us not only a picture of winter unsurpassed in its faithfulness, but an idyl of New England rural life. Time has already sifted Whittier's offering but leaves a group of poems sure of thei/ place in American literature and dear to the hearts of the people. Wi LCOX, ELLA WIIEELER. Born in Johnstown Center, BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Wisconsin, 185-. Educated at the University of Wisconsin. Married in 1884 to Robert M. Wilcox of Meriden, Connecti- cut. Mrs. Wilcox has for many years enjoyed a wide popu- larity with the people and there are few homes in America where her work is not known. She has been writing from earliest youth and has published a great many volumes of which the best known are "Poems of Passion," " Abelard and Helolse," "Poems of Progress," "Poems of Power," and "Poems of Problems." WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. Born in Portland, Maine, 1806; died at "Idlewild," near Newburgh, New York, 1867. N. P. Willis was in his day a great influence in the journalistic world, several influential periodicals having been founded and edited by him. He inherited his journalistic talents, his father having founded "The Youth's Companion" and the "Boston Recorder," to both of which his son contributed verses and sketches. After graduation at Yale, where he won a prize for the best poem, Willis founded "The American Monthly Magazine," afterward called "The Mirror." Later he established "The Corsair," to which Thackeray contrib- uted. His last journalistic venture was in company with G. P.Morris with whom he founded "The Home Journal," of which he was associate editor until his death. WINTER, WILLIAM. Born in Gloucester, Massachusetts, 1836; died in New York City, June 30, 1917. Mr. Winter was through most of his long life, a dramatic critic, although he started public life as a lawyer. The lure of literature, how- ever, was too strong for him and in 1859 he came to New York and cast in his lot with a struggling little band of writers who afterward became the prominent men of letters of their day. After a period of work for the "Saturday Press" and other papers, he became the dramatic critic of the "New York Tribune," a position which he continued to hold for forty years. He had a particular passion for Shakespearean drama and numbered among his close friends all the great Shakes- pearean actors of his day. Mr. Winter has been a volumi- nous writer both in dramatic criticism and poetry, varying these occupations with charming books of English travel and brief personal studies of his friends. The Jeffersons, Henry Irving, Mary Anderson, Edwin Booth, and others have been among the subjects of his delightful memoirs. His poetry is now in a complete edition. WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD. Born at Beverly, Massa- chusetts, May 12, 1855. Graduated from Harvard Univer- sity in 1877. The degree of Litt.D. was conferred on him by Amherst College in 1905, and by Harvard University in 1911, and the decree of LL.D. by Western Reserve Uni- 350 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES versity in 1907. He was Professor of English at the Uni- versity of Nebraska, 1877-78; also 1880-82, and was Pro- fessor of Comparative Literature at Columbia University 1891-1904. Professor Woodberry is one of the ablest critics and biographers in American literature as well as one of the finest poets. Among his best-known volumes of criticism are: "Studies in Letters and Life," "The Heart of Man," "Makers of Literature," "The Torch," "The Appreciation of Literature," and "The Inspiration of Poetry." In biog- raphy he has done admirable studies of Poe, Hawthorne, Shelley, Swinburne, Emerson, etc. ; and in poetry he has pub- lished many volumes, of which the most representative are: "The North Shore Watch" (1890); "Wild Eden" (1900); "Poems" (1903); " The Kingdom of All Souls" (1912); "The Flight" (1914); and "Ideal Passion" (1917). UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 1 4 2002 II III I I 1 1 II I II II III I I I I 1 1 I II 3 1158 00779 98$ PS 586 R51 -FORNU LOS ANGELES LIBRARY