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diff --git a/old/55052-0.txt b/old/55052-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 85ddfe6..0000000 --- a/old/55052-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2185 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bramble Brae, by Robert Bridges - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Bramble Brae - -Author: Robert Bridges - -Release Date: July 5, 2017 [EBook #55052] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAMBLE BRAE *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - BOOKS IN PROSE BY - - ROBERT BRIDGES - - (DROCH) - - - OVERHEARD IN ARCADY - - Dialogues about Howells, James, Aldrich, Stockton, Davis, Crawford, - Kipling, Meredith, Stevenson, Barrie. Illustrated, _Fourth - Edition_, $1.25. - - - SUPPRESSED CHAPTERS, AND OTHER BOOKISHNESS - - CONTENTS: Suppressed Chapters--Arcadian Letters--Novels that - Everybody Read--The Literary Partition of Scotland--Friends in - Arcady--Arcadian Opinions. _Third Edition_, $1.25. - - - - - Bramble Brae - - - - - Bramble Brae - - By - Robert Bridges - (_Droch_) - - New York - Charles Scribner’s Sons - 1902 - - Copyright, 1902, by - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - - _Published March, 1902_ - - THE DE VINNE PRESS - - - - - To my Father - - - You called the old farm Bramble Brae, - And loved it till your hair was gray - And footsteps faltered while you trod - The sloping upland bright with sod. - It blossomed in your quiet life - With gowans from the Neuk of Fife; - And while you walked the waving wheat - You dreamed of heather and the peat. - You’ve gane awa! My spirit yearns - To hear you read the songs of Burns; - The melody I’ve faintly caught - Is just the lesson that you taught. - If any hear your gentle voice - In verse of mine, then I’ll rejoice - And sing along my stumbling way, - “He’s home again in Bramble Brae!” - - - - -CONTENTS - - -BETWEEN TWO WORLDS - - PAGE - -THE UNILLUMINED VERGE 1 - -FROM ONE LONG DEAD 4 - -FATHER TO MOTHER 6 - -THE CHILD TO THE FATHER 8 - -A PRAYER OF OLD AGE 10 - -THE RHONE GLACIER--SUNSET 14 - -JAMES MCCOSH 17 - -LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE (_Plantin_) 18 - -THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD (_Translation_) 19 - -R. L. S. 20 - -MCGIFFEN 22 - -AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE 25 - -NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER 27 - -FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA 29 - - -BRAMBLE BRAE - -A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND 33 - -THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON 34 - -ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING 36 - -UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING 38 - -A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE 40 - -TO CHLOE 42 - -TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR 43 - -CAPRICE 44 - -RETROSPECT 46 - -IN THE CROWD 47 - -REMEMBRANCE 48 - -OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER 49 - -OVER THE FERRY 50 - -BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER 52 - - -WITH FLOWERS - -ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER 57 - -THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS 59 - -A SONG 61 - -WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 63 - -DIANA’S VALENTINE 65 - -WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES 67 - - -WRITTEN IN BOOKS - -IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK 71 - -IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS” 73 - -IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE” 74 - -IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS 75 - -IN “THE KING’S LYRICS” 76 - -THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA 77 - -IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING 79 - -FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S 80 - -IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE” 81 - -A CHRISTMAS GREETING 82 - -IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS” 83 - -IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES” 84 - -IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY” 85 - -A VALENTINE 86 - -IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!” 87 - -THE BOOK SPEAKS 88 - -IN HERFORD’S VERSES 89 - -IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS 90 - -IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS 91 - -IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE--A PLAY” 92 - -TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. 94 - -TO MY MOTHER 96 - -A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY 97 - -ENVOY 99 - - - - - BETWEEN TWO WORLDS - - On the dark decline of the unillumined - verge between the two worlds. - _George Meredith._ - - - - - THE UNILLUMINED VERGE - - TO A FRIEND DYING - - - They tell you that Death’s at the turn of the road, - That under the shade of a cypress you’ll find him, - And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad - Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him. - - I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, - And we’ll talk of the way we have come through the valley; - Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, - And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley. - - You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave-- - “Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! - Yet it’s joyful to live, and it’s hard to be brave - When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going.” - - We are almost there--our last walk on this height-- - I must bid you good-by at that cross on the mountain. - See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light - Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain! - - And it shines in your face and illumines your soul; - We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; - You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, - While I must return to my oar and the rowing. - - We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend; - I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning - Just over the ridge within reach of the end - Of your arduous toil--the beginning of learning. - - You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, - “Au revoir!” and “good night!” while the twilight is creeping - Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? - Yes, I hear your faint voice: “This is rest, and like sleeping!” - - - - - FROM ONE LONG DEAD - - - What! _You_ here in the moonlight and thinking of me? - Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest? - But you wept when I told you I longed to be free, - And you mourned for a while when they laid me at rest. - - I’ve been dead all these years! and to-night in your heart - There’s a stir of emotion, a vision that slips-- - It’s _my_ face in the moonlight that gives you a start, - It’s my name that in joy rushes up to your lips! - - Yes, I’m young, oh, so young, and so little I know! - A mere child that is learning to walk and to run; - While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and fro - I am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun. - - I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise, - But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife; - I am humbled, and then there’s an impulse to rise, - And a voice whispers, “Onward and win! This is Life!” - - And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height, - That inspires me and thrills me,--each day a new birth,-- - Is the Force that to Chaos said, “Let there be Light!” - And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on Earth. - - It is Love! and you know it and feel it, my Soul! - For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars. - And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal, - And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars! - - - - - FATHER TO MOTHER - - - This is our child, Dear--flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone; - Here is the end of our youth, and now we begin to atone. - Now we do feel what their love was--those who have reared us and taught; - Now do we know of the treasures that neither are sold nor bought. - Here is the joy of the Race--joy that must grow out of pain; - Here is the last of our Self--now we are links in the chain. - Body of yours and mine no more is the measure of grief-- - All that _he_ suffers is ours--and increased while we cry for relief; - Yea, for our boy, our Beloved, we’ll yearn through the beckoning years-- - Toil for him, laugh with him, struggle, and pour out the - fountain of tears! - - - - - THE CHILD TO THE FATHER - - - Father, it’s your love that safely guides me, - Always it’s around me, night and day; - It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me: - Yet, father, there’s a shadow in my way. - - All the day, my father, I am playing - Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart-- - But often just at night when I am praying - I feel this awful hunger in my heart. - - Father, there is something--it has missed me; - I’ve felt it through my little days and years; - And even when you petted me and kissed me - I’ve cried myself to sleep with burning tears. - - To-day I saw a child and mother walking; - I caught a gentle shining in her eye, - And music in her voice when she was talking-- - Oh, father, is it _that_ that makes me cry? - - Oh, never can I put my arms around her, - Or never cuddle closer in the night; - Mother, oh, my mother! I’ve not found her-- - I look for her and cry from dark to light! - - - - - A PRAYER OF OLD AGE - - - O Lord, I am so used to all the byways - Throughout Thy devious world, - The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highways - Where saints are safely whirled! - And there are crooked ways, forbidden pleasures, - That lured me with their spell; - But there I lingered not, and found no treasures-- - Though in the mire I fell. - - And now I’m old and worn, and, scarcely seeing - The beauties of Thy work, - I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeing - Through valleys in the murk; - Yet I can feel my way--my mem’ry guides me; - I bear the yoke and smile. - I’m used to life, and nothing wounds or chides me; - Lord, let me live awhile! - - And then, dear Lord, I still can feel the thrilling - Of Nature in the Spring-- - The uplift of Thy hills, the song-birds trilling, - The lyric joy they bring. - I’m not too old to see the regal beauty - Of moon and stars and sun; - Nature can still reveal to me my duty - Till my long task is done. - - O Lord, to me the pageant is entrancing-- - The march of States and Kings! - I keenly watch the human race advancing - And see Man master Things: - From him who read the secret of the thunder - And made the lightning kind, - Down to this marvel--all the growing wonder - Of force controlled by Mind. - - And this dear land of ours, the freeman’s Nation! - Lord, let me live and see - Fulfilment of our fathers’ aspiration, - When each man’s really free! - When all the strength and skill that move the mountains, - And pile up riches great, - Shall sweeten patriotism at its fountains - And purify the State! - - But there are closer ties than these that bind me - And make me long to stay - And linger in the dusk where Death may find me - On Thine own chosen day; - There’s one who walks beside me in the gloaming - And holds my faltering hand-- - Without her guidance I can make no homing - In any distant land. - - Some day when we are tired, like children playing, - And wearied drop our toys-- - When all the work and burden of our staying - Has mingled with our joys-- - With those we love around--our eyelids drooping, - Too spent with toil to weep-- - Like some kind nurse o’er drowsy children stooping, - Lord, take us home to sleep! - - - - - THE RHONE GLACIER--SUNSET - - - Like the uncounted years of God it rolls - From out the sky. The light of heaven shines - Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part - Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue - Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths, - This little world is lost. The sparkling sun - Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts - Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one - Who looks to heaven to find her lover’s face. - Silent, serene, implacable it stands-- - A mighty symbol of the Force that moved - Across the surface of the youthful earth - And scored the continents with valleys deep, - As children write upon the yielding sand. - Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs-- - Countless ages back to that bleak time - When frightful monsters played upon the hills-- - Always the same, yet moving slowly onward, - In heaven its head, its feet upon the world. - The Rhone that trickles from the glacier’s edge-- - Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit - And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade-- - Is but the lash with which the giant plays - And spins the tops that swarm with struggling men. - “What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?”-- - This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want, - This tragic comedy we call our life! - - Across the meadows as the evening falls - A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears - Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb; - The children hear the father’s kindly voice - And run to greet and cheer his late return, - While from his humble cottage gleams a light. - - The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold-- - The door springs open to a welcome cry, - And all at last are safe within the Home. - - In cold and awful majesty it stands - Against the darkening sky,--Force without warmth, - Strength without passion. - But at the touch - Of homely human ways its terrors flee - And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love. - - - - - JAMES McCOSH - - 1811-1894 - - - Young to the end through sympathy with youth, - Gray man of learning--champion of truth! - Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind, - He felt his kinship with all humankind, - And never feared to trace development - Of high from low--assured and full content - That man paid homage to the Mind above, - Uplifted by the “Royal Law of Love.” - - The laws of nature that he loved to trace - Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face; - The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls - Will miss his presence, and the stately halls - His trumpet-voice; while in their joys - Sorrow will shadow those he called “my boys”! - - - - - LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE - -(Copie d’un sonnet composé par Plantin au XVIe siècle.) - - - Avoir une maiſon commode, propre & belle, - Un jardin tapiſſé d’eſpaliers odorans, - Des fruits, d’excellent vin, peu de train, peu d’enfans, - Poſſeder ſeul, ſans bruit, une femme fidéle. - N’avoir dettes, amour, ni procés, ni querelle, - Ni de partage à faire avecque ſes parens, - Se contenter de peu, n’eſpérer rien des Grands, - Régler tous ſes deſſeins sur un juſte modéle. - - Vivre avecque franchiſe & ſans ambition, - S’adonner ſans ſcrupule à la dévotion, - Domter ſes paſſions, les rendre obéiſſantes. - Conſerver l’eſprit libre, & le jugement fort, - Dire ſon Chapelet en cultivant ſes entes, - C’eſt attendre chez ſoi bien doucement la mort. - - - - - THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD - - FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTIN - - - To have a home, convenient for thy life, - With fragrant fruit-walls in a garden fine, - Some children, some retainers, and rare wine; - To live serenely with thy faithful wife; - To have no debts, nor quarrels, nor legal strife, - Nor separation from dear kin of thine; - Expecting nothing from the Great, to shine - With modest light and just, where greed is rife. - - To live with freedom, yet to be devout, - Ruling thy well-curbed passions--and without - Ambition’s scourge to thwart thy regnant will; - Truly to worship God with ardent breath - Among His shrubs and trees on plain and hill-- - Thus pleasantly shalt thou at home wait Death. - - - - - R. L. S. - - - “_Where hath fleeting Beauty led? - To the doorway of the dead._” - All the way you followed her - Tripping through the palms and fir; - All the way around you flew - Splendid spirits from the blue-- - Dreams and visions lightly caught - In the meshes of your thought. - What a glorious retinue - Made that arduous chase with you! - Half the world stood still to see - Song and Fancy follow free - At the waving of your wand-- - While the echoing hills respond - To your voice. - - And now the race - Ends with your averted face; - At full effort you have sped - Through that doorway of the dead-- - But the hills and woods remain - Peopled from your teeming brain! - All that stately company - Linger where their eyes may see - Beauty fling the laurel o’er, - At the closing of the door! - - From _Suppressed Chapters_. - - - - - McGIFFEN - - THE HERO COMING HOME - - His body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy, - and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania. - - _Associated Press._ - - - I lent him to my country, - And he wore the Navy blue; - I bade him do his duty, - And he said he would be true. - - It’s home they say you’re coming-- - And it’s home you came to me - When you wore your first blue jacket - At the old Academy. - And the neighbors said, “How handsome! - What a sailor he will be!” - But I only drew him closer - In my coddling mother’s joy, - And said, “Well, what’s a sailor? - He’s my brave boy!” - - And then they told the story - Of his courage in the fight-- - How he ruled a heathen war-ship - And fought it with his might. - - It’s home he wrote his mother - When the smoke had cleared away: - “I can _see_--so don’t you worry-- - Though I’m riddled by the fray.” - And the neighbors said, “How glorious! - What a Hero is your son! - The world is all a-talking - Of the battle that he won!” - I said, “Well, what’s a Hero? - He’s my brave son!” - - And now to me he’s coming, - And he wears a Captain’s bars; - It’s a foreign nation’s uniform, - But wrapped in Stripes and Stars. - - It’s home at last you’re coming, - And it’s home at last to me. - You’re a hero and immortal, - And you fought to make men free. - But your heart is cold within you - And your dear eyes cannot see! - They say, “Be strong, O mother; - Proud laurels crown his head!” - Alas, what’s left of glory? - My boy, my boy is dead! - - - - - AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE - - - To live a hero, then to stand - In bronze serene above the city’s throng; - Hero at sea, and now on land - Revered by thousands as they rush along; - - If these were all the gifts of fame-- - To be a shade amid alert reality, - And win a statue and a name-- - How cold and cheerless immortality! - - But when the sun shines in the Square, - And multitudes are swarming in the street, - Children are always gathered there, - Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet. - - And in the crisis of the game-- - With boyish grit and ardor it is played-- - You’ll hear some youngster call his name: - “The Admiral--he never was afraid!” - - And so the hero daily lives, - And boys grow braver as the Man they see! - The inspiration that he gives - Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free! - - - - - NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER - - TO A CONVALESCENT - - - Crawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted, - Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier; - Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted, - Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear! - - Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered-- - Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near; - All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wondered - How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer! - - Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted-- - Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier; - On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn--undaunted! - “Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer! - - - - - FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA - - (W. F. STOUTENBURGH) - - - His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind; - No one among us but did call him friend; - Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mind - Together in him did with fitness blend: - And now he is no more! - - We blindly murmur at the bitter Fate - That summoned him in other lands to roam; - And when upon him Sickness wrought its hate - Half round the world, it brought him almost home, - To die when near our shore. - - We blindly murmur--but we only know - Calm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps; - While we are groping in the mists below, - Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps-- - Forever--evermore. - - - - - BRAMBLE BRAE - - - - - A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND - - - Huge and alert, irascible yet strong, - We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong. - One time we pour out millions to be free, - Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea! - One time we strike the shackles from the slaves, - And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves. - Often we rudely break restraining bars, - And confidently reach out toward the stars. - - Yet under all there flows a hidden stream - Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream - Of Washington and Franklin, men of old - Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. - This is the Land we love, our heritage, - Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage - And full of promise--destined to be great. - Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State! - - - - - THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON - - FROM THE TRAIN - - - There they are! above the green trees shining-- - Old towers that top the castles of our dreams, - Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining-- - A painted glory on the window gleams. - - But, oh, the messages to travellers weary - They signal through the ether in the dark! - The years are long, the path is steep and dreary, - But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood--hark! - - The note is faint--but ghosts are gayly trooping - From ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees. - Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping-- - Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze! - - They’re gone in dusk,--the towers and dreams are faded,-- - But something lingers of eternal Youth; - We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded; - We pledge anew to friends and love and truth! - - - - - ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING - - TOLD BY A GUIDE--1899[1] - - - Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trail - From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road, - And wagons from Cooke City and the mail - Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load? - - A handy bunch of men are round the stove - At Yancey’s--hunters back from Jackson’s Hole, - And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove - Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl. - - And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there, - Can tell a hunting yarn or two--beside, - He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear - And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.” - - But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag; - He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said: - “I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag, - For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head. - - “That man won’t slosh around in politics - And waste his time a-killing little game; - He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks, - And when he picks a head he hits the same.” - - Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport, - And free to back his knowledge up with lead; - And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort - To run the State, because he “picks a head.” - - [1] Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of - game-hunters and Indian-fighters. - - Roosevelt’s _The Wilderness Hunter_. - - - - - - - UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING - - (1899) - - Take up the White Man’s burden! - Have done with childish days. - R. K. - - - Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling, - For showing us the way - To buckle down to business - And end our “childish day.” - We know we’re young and frisky - And haven’t too much sense-- - At least, not in the measure - We’ll have a few years hence. - - Now, this same “White Man’s burden” - You’re asking us to tote - Is not so unfamiliar - As you’re inclined to note. - We freed three million negroes, - Their babies and their wives; - It cost a billion dollars - And near a million lives! - - And while we were a-fighting - In all those “thankless years” - We did not get much helping-- - Well, not from English “peers.” - And so--with best intentions-- - We’re not exactly wild - To free the Filipino, - “Half devil and half child.” - - Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling; - Though not disposed to groan - About the “White Man’s burden,” - We’ve troubles of our own; - Enough to keep us busy - When English friends inquire, - “Why don’t you use your talons? - _There are chestnuts in the fire!_” - - - - - A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE - - - In this time of joy and cheer - When we greet the buoyant year, - Now, old friends, we cherish you, - Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view-- - Kindly fancy, happy thought, - Visions from the fairies caught, - Rhyme and story, song and play, - Fantasy for holiday-- - All the treasures of your mind - Spent to make the world more kind. - - While we grope in dark and fog, - Flounder onward through the bog, - You, serene upon the height, - Gambol in the cheery light-- - Toss your laughter from the steep, - Bringing hope to those who weep. - What fair visions brightly gleam - Through cloud-rifts! Your dearest dream - Clothed in beauty on the peak, - Waiting for the Muse to speak. - - Here’s our wish at New Year’s time, - Faint-expressed in halting rhyme: - For the men who dream and write - Make the future clear and bright; - Thaw the cynic from their heart-- - Love and faith are highest Art. - Let them picture with their pen - Not our _manners_ but our _men_. - Bless them all at New Year’s tide! - May their skill and fame abide! - And all women--charming, bright-- - Grant that they may never write! - - - - - TO CHLOE - - FOR A MENDED GLOVE - - - Fair Chloe looked upon the old torn glove, - Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers, - And lo! the rent was closed--as if for love - Sweet healing follows where her touch but lingers. - - If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes, - And all the hearts despairingly defended, - Were healed so soon--we’d straightway realize - That love and life are good as new when mended. - - - - - TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR - - - Sweet Elf, you’ll pipe a merry tune, - Make days and months all gladness; - The clear, bright note you sound in June - Will cheer December’s sadness. - - You’ll never pout on rainy days, - Nor when it’s cold will shiver, - But sit serene and sing your lays. - May Old Time bless the giver! - - - - - CAPRICE - - - Love laughed awhile, - And ridiculed my daring - To rashly crave a smile - From her, heart-whole, uncaring. - Oh, how Love laughed! - - Love angry grew - And spoiled her pretty features; - I was--she vowed it true-- - The most despised of creatures. - Oh, how Love frowned! - - Love dropped a tear, - Her anger with it falling; - I felt her blue eyes clear, - My heart and hopes enthralling. - Oh, how Love cried! - - Her tears Love dried, - And then she looked up sweetly; - No more her glance defied-- - I pressed my suit discreetly. - Love kissed me then! - - - - - RETROSPECT - - - At evening, when the breeze dies down, - And regal Nature doffs her crown, - When brown-limbed pines, like minarets, - Fringe all the hills, and tired day frets - To rest awhile--ah, then, I know, - Into a shadowed room you go, - And softly touch the organ keys; - While pale stars blink amid the trees - You sing a peaceful vesper hymn - That rises from your full heart’s brim; - Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears-- - You wander through remembered years; - From gay to grave your fancies fly, - And end the journey with the cry: - _My heart played truant from my will! - I loved him then--I love him still._ - - - - - IN THE CROWD - - - A pair of brown eyes--no matter where, - In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare-- - Call up the image of your face to me. - All others vanish, only you I see; - Above the din of trade your voice I hear, - And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear, - That fades into a smile away: - Thus are you with me everywhere and every day. - - - - - REMEMBRANCE - - - No, not despair of ever quite forgetting - The happy romance of those dreamy years, - The painful weariness of vain regretting - Through all life’s varied way of love and tear - Not this the gladness of my heart represses, - With shadow tinges still each sunny thought - The fancy that with poignant touch distresses - Is that by thee I am perhaps forgot! - - - - - OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER - - - Embrasured guns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping, - Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf; - Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keeping - Above the mimic battle of the surf. - - And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended-- - Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes; - The wiles by which your heart was well defended - Embrasured there look love on summer skies. - - - - - OVER THE FERRY - - ONOMATOPOETIC - - - Clang! Ting-a-ling! - Then a scream of the whistle. - Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob! - Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant; - And the swift paddles fling, - Like the down of a thistle, - White foam from their blades, while the waters defiant - Groan under their merciless tread; and the throb - Of the heart grows exultingly faster; - Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her-- - Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder-- - The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harder - While nearing the wharves of the City of Vanity - To roll from its shoulders the load of humanity. - And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing, - The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailing - And tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie, - Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie. - And what he will say she is anticipating-- - Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating; - And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing. - There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing! - While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing. - But the song of the wheels is, “I love him--I love him!” - Then the pilot above - Signals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!” - And the slowing wheels sing, - “Oh, my love--love--love!” - Clang! - - - - - BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER - - - And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae, - And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray; - The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown, - Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the light - And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown. - Along the lane the quail are running in fright - At sound of guns on the upland--the cautious dogs - Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men - Watch for the whir of wings; the hickory logs - Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen - The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough; - In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels cough - And chatter and screech--chasing each other from limb - To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees. - And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him - Glows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze. - Down in the valley the ancient village rests, - Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street; - High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crests - Are carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet, - Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth; - For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad, - And sometimes rich in the wealth of truth - That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad. - For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl - Except for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine, - Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearl - She seeks is love, and only love is the wine - That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes - But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day - That love and his lady are proof against all surprise-- - So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away. - - * * * * * - - Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there; - Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees; - Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care-- - The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze. - Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill-- - Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled; - Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill, - Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead. - Years has he wandered over the land and sea; - Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved; - Always that vision haunted his fancy free-- - The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved. - Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep, - Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom; - Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deep - Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb. - - - - - WITH FLOWERS - - - - - ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER - - - Far from its native moorland - Or crest of “wine-red” hill, - At sight or scent of heather - The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. - Though crushed its purple blossoms, - Its tender stems turned brown, - It brings romantic Highlands - Into prosaic town. - The clans are on the border, - The chiefs are in the fray; - We’re keen upon their footsteps - With Walter Scott to-day. - Peat smoke from lowland cottage - Floats curling up, and turns - Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones - And melodies of Burns. - And last our fancy lingers - With fond regret and vain - Where sleeps our Tusitala - Beneath the tropic rain-- - Far from the purple heather - Or gleaming rowan bough, - Alone on mountain summit, - “Our hearts remember how.” - - St. Andrew’s Day. - - - - - THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS - - TO A FAIR WOMAN - - - I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life - Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife; - The sky above and all around is blue, - And from this haven now I come to you. - - Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright - That other flowers do not live so bright? - That in dark forests and by noisy streams - The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams? - - While we are merry in this fireside glow - My humble cousin shivers in the snow; - And yet a cricket whispered once to me - That _I_ the captive was--my cousin, free! - - Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true; - I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view - Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees, - With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze. - - The dream is over--I have lived my day - Nourished in sun with other violets gay; - And now I’m borne afar to Paradise, - To find my haven in your gentle eyes. - - If I may touch your lips I’ll die content - Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent - In woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade, - Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade! - - Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass; - What! _You too captive in a house of glass?_ - - - - - A SONG - - WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY - - - _What the Rose thought:_ - Oh, to be one-and-twenty! - But I am a rose that must bloom for a day; - My life is like color and perfume in May; - To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair, - And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair. - Oh, to be one-and-twenty! - - _What She sang, exultingly:_ - Oh, to be one-and-twenty! - To feel that the glorious days of my youth - Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth-- - That all joyful things in my bright future gleam, - And I am to _live_ them and find out my dream. - Oh, to be one-and-twenty! - - _What He wrote, sadly:_ - Oh, to be one-and-twenty! - To dream that the great world is still all my own, - And cherish again the ideals that have flown; - To follow them, hiding with cunning and art, - And find them all sleeping within her warm heart, - Her heart that is one-and-twenty! - - - - - WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID - - - Here are roses, red and white, - Each to speak what I would write; - For, when in your quiet room - You may smell their sweet perfume, - I shall whisper through these flowers - Fancy’s thoughts for evening hours. - Then, when in the crowded street - You and I may chance to meet, - I’ll discover in your eyes - What you’ve half expressed in sighs; - For if in your dusky hair - One red rose you deign to wear - I shall say, “I know that she - Wears it for her love of me.” - But if on your gentle breast - One white rose may dare to rest, - Then in rapture I’ll declare, - “That’s my heart a-resting there.” - But if neither red nor white - May your hair or gown bedight, - Still with confidence I’ll say, - “That is lovely woman’s way-- - What of life is largest part - Hides she deepest in her heart!” - - - - - DIANA’S VALENTINE - - WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS - - - _Good Saint Valentine, I pray, - While around this town you stray, - You will keep your eyes alert - For a maid who loves to flirt._ - - If among the hurrying crowd-- - Beauties fair and beauties proud-- - You should see one like a queen, - Eyes of blue, with golden sheen - In her hair that’s flecked with brown, - And a grace about her gown, - _That’s Diana!_ - - Catch her eye - As she’s gayly tripping by; - Say you know a sorry wight, - Slow of speech and slow to write, - Who would tell her through these flowers - That her eyes are bright as stars - In the blue; that her speech - Haunts his mem’ry (out of reach - Like their perfume faint but fine); - That her laugh is like rare wine. - As you leave her touch her lips; - Say that men are like old ships, - Easy towed, but hard to steer; - Then just whisper in her ear, - “Lovers change, but friends are true - Like these violets.” Then, “Adieu.” - - _This, Saint Valentine, I pray, - On the morning of that day - When you keep your eyes alert - For all maids who love to flirt._ - - ARCADY, February fourteenth. - - - - - WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES - - - If I were not a speechless flower - I’d like to talk with you an hour - And whisper many pretty things - That thinking of your birthday brings. - - (For flowers can dream of happiness - While you their velvet petals press!) - But I can’t talk--I know a man - Who often vainly thinks he can, - - And what he wanted me to do - Was simply to look fair to you - And wish you joy--and then surprise - The gentle look in your dear eyes. - - - - - WRITTEN IN BOOKS - - - - - IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK - - - Dear old worldling gone astray, - You would rather sing than pray; - While you wore the preacher’s gown - How you longed for London Town! - When your head ached, then, alack! - You, repentant, gave up sack; - Old and worn you ruthlessly - Bade farewell to poesy; - Full, you never cared for food, - Sated, you were always good. - Julia’s beauties you rehearse, - Sing her charms in wanton verse, - But to make poor Julia thine - Not one pleasure you’d resign. - Flattering, you tried to please; - Generous, you loved your ease! - Dear old Herrick, you’re a Man - Built upon the human plan; - To the world your fame belongs - For the beauty of your songs-- - Glorious poet--not a saint-- - Lyric splendor without taint! - - - - - IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS” - - - The Sonnets--bound by Rivière - And newly illustrated! - As though the words that Shakespeare wrote - By outward dress are rated! - - The soul--the fine, immortal part - That lives without the binding, - Is something from the poet’s heart; - ’Tis here--and worth the finding. - - - - - IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE” - - - In this book a woman wrote her heart-- - Etching there the image of a Man. - Faithful woman! But the years depart, - And love is dust, and life a broken span! - - - - - IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS - - - Here is a forest tangle-- - Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees, - All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle, - With creaking branches swaying in the breeze. - But if you care to listen, - Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird, - Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten, - And over all the sweetest music ever heard. - - - - - IN “THE KING’S LYRICS” - - - Behold “The Lyrics of the King”! - As though a crown on those who sing - Could make their music sweeter! - To-day we’ll choose the better part-- - The gentle music of the heart - That masters rhyme and metre. - - - - - THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA - - TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - - - Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race! - Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face. - He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles, - Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles-- - Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud. - Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud; - But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin-- - To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin. - The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves - to the death-- - Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath! - Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race! - Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face! - - From _Overheard in Arcady_. - - - - - IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING - - - “Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said-- - “Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!” - “Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes; - This is the World, and not Paradise. - Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!” - - From _Overheard in Arcady_. - - - - - FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S - - AFTER KIPLING - - - He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint, - And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t! - - - - - IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE” - - - The foolish story of a man and maid - Who loved each other but were dire afraid - To follow where their true hearts surely led - And, risking all things, bravely to be wed. - - What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart? - The universal solvent is the heart! - - - - - A CHRISTMAS GREETING - - - Good luck, good cheer, throughout the year! - A bright fire on the hearthstone burning; - A gleam of rose at evening’s close - When, wearied, you are homeward turning! - By ingle-nook a soothing book-- - A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle; - A bit of rhyme at Christmas-time - To wish you fortune at your wassail! - - - - - IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS” - -(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING) - - - In all your Calendar of Sports - Why, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel? - Were you, then, never out of sorts - Until you felt the vibrant steel - Skim over miles of level track? - For youth, with all its hope and cheer, - When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back-- - And it is Summer all the year! - - - - - IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES” - - - The City’s roar is rising from the street; - The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife; - They plod and push, and elbow as they meet, - And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.” - - For us the fireside hearth is all aglow, - And those we love make up the life we know. - - - - - IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY” - - - The year is old, the way is far; - I catch your image like a star - That’s mirrored in a crystal brook; - For love of you I send a book! - - - - - A VALENTINE - - - Though all the streams are white with frost - And all the fields with snow, - Though earth its greenery has lost, - And biting gales do blow-- - Still I’ll recall the summer hours, - The blue skies and the vine-- - The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers - To greet my Valentine! - - - - - IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!” - -(BY CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS AND S. D. S., JR.) - - - “Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!” - The nimble game has broken cover - And skims the valley to and fro; - By cooling brooks it seems to hover, - Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!” - The huntsmen cry from brake to loch; - The chase grows ardent--“View Hallo!” - From quiet shelter echoes, _Droch_. - - - - - THE BOOK SPEAKS - - TO EUGENE FIELD - - - I’m keeping jolly comp’ny - In a room that’s full of books; - I’m cheek by jowl with Horace - And a lot of ancient crooks. - But the boys I like to play with, - When the boss takes off his coat, - Are the wild and woolly heroes - From Casey’s tabble-dote. - And when the lamp is lighted - And cosey hours ensue, - I talk with All-Aloney - And the little Boy in Blue. - But when the man that owns the books - Throws one kind glance at _me_ - I sing just like the Dinkey - In the Amfelula Tree. - - - - - IN HERFORD’S VERSES - - - To weep with those who weep is human; - We give our praises to the man of grit, - And honor with our trust the true man; - Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit! - - - - - IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS - - - You may turn these pages over, - Looking for the priceless pearl; - You may search from back to cover - For the finest Gibson girl. - You can save yourself the trouble-- - It’s no earthly use to look: - The charming girl who takes the medal - Is a-holding of the book. - - - - - IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS - - - A maker of smooth verse and facile rhymes, - And lover of quaint legends from old times; - A joyous singer in New England bleak-- - Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek. - - - - - IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE--A PLAY” - - TO J. M. - - - We met her first in Arcady, - Where visions fair are apt to be, - Roaming beneath the arching trees-- - Her laughter cheering up the breeze; - Sometimes as gay as _Colinette_, - Then fond and sad as _Juliet_. - And when we’d had enough of anguish - She’d make us laugh as _Lydia Languish_. - No mask or mood was twice the same-- - Yet one fair face behind each name. - As that bright vixen of the mind, - The fascinating _Rosalīnd_-- - As _Imogen_ or _Viola_, - Or, best of all, sweet _Barbara_-- - Always the same alluring grace - And wit that sparkles in her face! - The road to Arcady is far - And sometimes lonely for a star-- - But all the phantoms of the air - And poets’ dreams that wander there - Would miss the welcome we extend, - Not to her Art--just to a friend! - - - - - TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. - - - Here is the story-- - I haven’t half told it; - The fun and the glory, - A volume can’t hold it. - But this is a spray, - Withered leaves and pressed flowers, - From a faded bouquet - That was plucked in gay hours, - Within sound of the waves - Of the gentle Pacific, - Where Nature enslaves - And the days beatific - Are sandalled with gold - And wear gems on their fingers. - All the tale is not told - Which slow Fancy weaves, - But a faint odor lingers - About these dry leaves - That may bring recollection - Of prairie and loch - With a hint of affection - From - Yours ever, - DROCH. - - Dedication of _The Monterey Wedding_. - - - - - TO MY MOTHER - - - Long years you’ve kept the door ajar - To greet me, coming from afar; - Long years in my accustomed place - I’ve read my welcome in your face, - And felt the sunlight of your love - Drive back the years and gently move - The telltale shadow ’round to youth. - You’ve found the very spring, in truth, - That baffles time--the kindling joy - That keeps me in your heart a boy. - And now I send an unknown guest - To bide with you and snugly rest - Beside the old home’s ingle-nook.-- - For love of me you’ll love my book. - - Dedication of _Overheard in Arcady_. - - - - - A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY - - - My lady’s room is full of books - And easy-chairs and curtained nooks, - And dainty tea-things on a table, - And poetry, and tale, and fable, - And on the hearth a crackling fire - That welcome gives, and when you tire - Of pleasant talk you still may find - A tempting pasture where the mind - May browse awhile, and read the pages - Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages. - - And here I come to ask a place - Among these worthies, face to face! - To be allowed on some low shelf - To rest and dream, and pride myself - On being in such company-- - To watch fair women drinking tea; - And if, perchance, on some lone day, - The gentle mistress looks my way - And softly says, “Now I shall see - What’s going on in Arcady!” - Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book - At which my lady deigns to look. - - - - - ENVOY - - THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK - - - The sun is warm upon the ridges now; - The way was rough and steep; - I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy bough - And watch my grazing sheep. - The smoke is rising from the valley there, - The hum of wheels and trade; - The stress of life is in the whirling air - While I pipe in the shade. - Where work is fierce amid the striving throng - And music’s voice is mute, - Some one may catch the echo of a song-- - The faint note of a lute. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bramble Brae, by Robert Bridges - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAMBLE BRAE *** - -***** This file should be named 55052-0.txt or 55052-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/0/5/55052/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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