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diff --git a/old/65564-0.txt b/old/65564-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b2d7e42..0000000 --- a/old/65564-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7339 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Spider-webs in Verse, by Charles -William Wallace - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Spider-webs in Verse - A Collection of Lyrics for Leisure Moments Spun at Idle Hours - -Author: Charles William Wallace - -Release Date: June 8, 2021 [eBook #65564] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE *** - - - - - - - [Illustration] - - - - - SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE - - - A COLLECTION OF - LYRICS FOR LEISURE MOMENTS - SPUN AT IDLE HOURS - - - BY - CHARLES WILLIAM WALLACE - PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND LITERATURE - WESTERN NORMAL COLLEGE - - - “The spider’s touch--how exquisitely fine!” - --_Pope._ - - - LINCOLN, NEB.: - STATE JOURNAL COMPANY, PRINTERS. - 1892. - - - - - COPYRIGHT 1892 - BY - C. W. WALLACE - - - - - TO - - JUDGE T. D. WALLACE - - AND - - MRS. OLIVE WALLACE. - - -MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER: - -No word, no act, no consecrated gift of mine, how great or slight -soever it may be, can ever repay the beneficence and love of you to -whom I owe life and whatever of prosperity has been granted me. - -As my eyes glance in retrospect along the fading perspective of years -and lose themselves in the dim days of the cradle, and thence to the -present look forwards to the distant peaks of hope that rise above -unknown mists and shadows and horizons, I hear the counseling words -of a father, and feel the ever-present touch of a mother’s hand, as -both guide me with love into the dim unknown of life. Though I pass -onwards with a father’s “God-speed,” and a mother’s lingering embrace -and loving kiss, and leave you both fondly looking after me, still your -presence in my memory is ever a guiding reality that even now directs -this good right hand of mine to inscribe these dedicatory words of -filial affection. - -If in the days agone I ever seemed unheeding of that counsel of -a father, and unmindful of that dearest love of a cherished and -cherishing mother, I can but say that both that counsel and that love -reach through those moulding and shaping years of my life and take hold -on my heart with a firmness and a gentleness that nothing else of all -the years can boast. - -It is but right and just, therefore, that in these your later days -I should likewise be your guide and your stay in so far as my hand -may let;--that I should reach out my strong young arm and steady the -tottering years that throng around you. - -Withal, if I can afford you even one slight pleasure, it is my heart’s -desire so to do. It is, therefore, with somewhat more than filial love -that I dedicate this little volume to you, my Father and my Mother, -both together my counselor and guide, still mercifully spared to your -children; and in doing so, I can but express the hope that your years -may yet be many and happy; that the iris struck by a New Sun from the -crystals of the whitened and whitening wintry years may be as full of -beauty and joy as were the early spring blossoms of love and hope that -you pressed to your bosoms in youth. - - Your Son, - CHARLES. - - - - - BY THE WAY. - - -As the presentation of these collected verses in their present printed -form has been induced largely by the request of many of my former -college students and by the importunities of my most intimate friends, -and as this volume has consequently been prepared chiefly for their -pleasure, it is hoped that those into whose hands the book may fall -are already so well acquainted with the author that the selections -themselves need no formal introduction to make them agreeable company -and engaging companions. - -In justice, I should here say that this collection contains only a -few out of the vast number of good, bad, and indifferent pieces of -verse that I have been making at odd hours of a busy life, ever since -my boyhood, for my own pastime, pleasure, and literary and linguistic -improvement, with no thought nor distant dream of ever permitting them -thus to invade the domains of the sovereign public. - -That the little book that thus modestly goes forth will attain either -a large circulation or great popularity I neither expect, nor attempt -to bring about; but that men and women with hearts that love and souls -that look above may find much quiet pleasure and satisfaction in the -following pages I do sincerely hope. - -It is neither my desire nor befitting to my work to lay claim to -any degree of excellence in the verses herein presented. Quite to -the contrary, I see and regret many defects which I can now neither -remove nor repair. But, however defective they may be in form or in -spirit, I have ever thought that little else than the interpretation -of the relations of the human soul to life, here and hereafter, and -the presentation of the good, the beautiful, and the true of the human -heart is worthy of serious effort. - -As a consequence, most of these pieces are dual in meaning--one, in -plain view, the reality; the other, less distinct, the finer ideality, -the reflection, or mirrored image of the first. - -It is this second, this finer and often, at first, obscure meaning -that, in my judgment, is the essential--the preserving salt--of any -poem. Certainly if not this meaning but the apparent one, the one on -the surface, is the basis of judgment on these poems, they will fall -far below the estimate accorded that poetry which is deemed worthy of -existence. - -I wish here to return my thanks for the hearty reception accorded the -few selections of the prospectus, and to express the hope that the -completed volume will equal whatever expectations the recipients of the -prospectus may have. - -Also, I cannot pass without noting the fact that a large share of the -first edition of this volume was engaged nearly six months before it -went to press, even before I had determined what productions I should -use, and that, too, upon the mere announcement that the publication was -contemplated for the present summer. - -I wish, therefore, thus publicly to thank those who have given this -substantial earnest of their appreciation. - -Any opinion or criticism, favorable or unfavorable, or any suggestion -or correction on thought, arrangement, typography, or other point, that -the reader may see fit to express, is not only invited and encouraged, -but will be most gratefully received and carefully considered. - -One word more. If a selection will not bear a second reading, or a -third, a fourth, or a fiftieth reading; if it does not grow better and -better at each reading; if it does not lift the soul to a higher plane, -a nobler aim, a purer life, and a grander view; if at each successive -reading something does not come out of it and enter the heart, and -then pass back into the poem again, and thus again and again, each -beautifying and ennobling the other, like a sunset halo among the -clouds and the liquid, translucent image thereof in the mirroring lake, -then it is no true poem, and should be cast aside. - -The only proof of the excellence of a poem is that it makes the heart -larger and the soul nobler for having read it, and that at each -successive reading both the poem and the reader grow better and better. - -Believing, as I do, that poetry is nothing less than the interpretation -of the Divine in the human heart (whether in the mood of tears or of -laughter), I can but hope, in entrusting these “children of the brain” -to the care of others, that in the heart of each little waif some good -may be found, some song may be heard, some beauty be revealed, some -experience be verified. - - C. W. W. - -LINCOLN, 22 June, 1892. - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - Barefoot After the Cows, 6 - - Beautiful May, 62 - - Borrowing Brains, 52 - - Boy Bards, 178 - - Browning, 116 - - Buzz, 141 - - - Choral of Sunset, A, 1 - - Chorus, 110 - - Close Attachment, A, 126 - - Come to the Shadows, 12 - - Common Lot, The, 17 - - - Dead Man’s Life, The, 124 - - Death--Life, 135 - - Death-Howl, The, 131 - - Deep unto Deep (Double Threnody), 65 - - Demoniac, The, 128 - - Deploration, A, 122 - - Down to the Candy-man’s Shop, 10 - - Dreamy April Evening in the Woods, A, 109 - - - Echo Song, 18 - - - “False Womankind,” 32 - - Family of the Ephemera, 36 - - Father Time, 148 - - Freedom’s Battle Song, 142 - - - Gift and Giver, 8 - - Good-Night, My Love, 71 - - Good-Night (Song), 68 - - Gravity--Life, 134 - - Greatest Thing on Earth, The,-- - - I. From Sun to Sun, 178 - - II. What the Striving? 179 - - III. The World is Too Much Ours, 180 - - IV. Hand and Heart, 181 - - V. Courting the Crowd, 182 - - VI. Immortal and God-given, 183 - - VII. Asking Hearts, 184 - - VIII. The Crowning Glory, 186 - - - Hal a-Huntin’, 144 - - Halloween, 51 - - Happy Days of Yore, 156 - - Haunted House, The, 20 - - Hot?--Well, Rather! 135 - - Human Heart, The, 28 - - Humpty Dumpty Idiotic Chap, A, 66 - - - If So, Peace Till Next New Year, 46 - - I Love You, Kate, 123 - - In the Angels’ Keep, 58 - - I’se Seen a Light in de Sky, 34 - - I Wonder, 44 - - - Just as Usual, 121 - - - Life, 52 - - Life’s Lost Skiff, 125 - - Life’s Philosophy, 120 - - Life to Love (A Triolet), 11 - - Lonely! 33 - - Lone Wayside Wild-Rose, The, 59 - - Lover’s Complaint, The, 140 - - Lurlei, The, 111 - - - Madrigal, 117 - - Memories of the Past, 156 - - Mince Pie, 14 - - Mist-Wing, 15 - - Modern Tragedy Averted, A, 25 - - ’Mong the Mountains of the Soul, 143 - - Mortal, A, 105 - - My Defeat, 46 - - - Nightmare, The, 30 - - - Old Benoni Tree, The, 2 - - On Kingsley’s “Farewell,” 150 - - On Plucking a Crocus, 133 - - Our Alma Mater, 147 - - - Part of the New England Lament, etc., 150 - - Pity the Poor, 124 - - Poet’s Prayer, The, 2 - - Press of Penury, The, 50 - - - Rex Fugit, 118 - - - Shut In, 40 - - Shut Your Eyes and Go to Sleep, 115 - - Sickle of Flowers, The, 118 - - Sleep (Sonnet), 55 - - Slumber Rhapsody, A, 5 - - Song of the Stars, 42 - - Song on the Sea, 56 - - Sonnets of Life, 23 - - Sorto’ Played-Out Ol’ Bouquet, A, 9 - - Soul of My Soul, 13 - - Sweetest of All, The, 138 - - - Tears and Laughter, 14 - - There’s a Laugh, 47 - - This Touch of an Angel’s Hand, 119 - - Thought, 58 - - Through Reverent Eyes, 71 - - Thus Life’s Tale, 149 - - To a Wild-Rose Bouquet, 55 - - To Fancy, 69 - - To Miss ----, 114 - - To Morpheus, 108 - - To Sleep, 49 - - To Thee Above, 109 - - Tough Mutton, Perhaps, 114 - - Transformation, The,--A Psychological Mystery, 151 - - Twenty, 61 - - - Ups and Downs, 2 - - Useless? 105 - - - Washington, 142 - - Weather Fiend, The, 129 - - What is Poetry? 76 - - Wheel and Shuttle, 49 - - White-Enthroned Above Me, 59 - - Whither? 147 - - Who Knows? 131 - - Woodland Lay, 57 - - Words and Thoughts, 117 - - Write from the Heart, 146 - - - Year Ago, A, 137 - - - - - SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE. - - - - - A CHORAL OF SUNSET. - - - I’ve a notion the clouds at sunset - Sing chorals in the sky - As they let down their billowy tresses - And kiss - The sun - “Good-bye!” - - And the music comes in at the portals - That Heaven has left in the heart, - As the shine gets into the flower - Where the leaves - Have slipped - Apart. - - - - - THE POET’S PRAYER. - - - Sweet Zephyr from celestial isles - That all the earth with joy beguiles, - I would that thou wouldst blow to me, - And blow to me thy purest breathing song; - I would that thou wouldst come to me - And tell to me whate’er is right and wrong; - I would that thou wouldst lay thy hand - And rest thy hand upon my throbbing brow, - And that the words thou giv’st to me - And tak’st from me would be received as thou. - - - - - UPS AND DOWNS. - - - The world is like a coach and four, - And men as there you find ’em: - For some must ride and some must drive - And some hang on behind ’em. - - Or like the farmer’s ’tater cart,-- - The best on top to brag on: - For some must rise and some must fall - Like ’taters in the wagon. - - - - - THE OLD BENONI TREE. - - - Brother Grant, do you remember - Days and years we spent together - Thro’ the summer’s shiny weather - Till apples dropped in late September? - Nurtured where the warm suns shine in, - We were dreamers then, my brother, - As we lisped to one another, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Guess you haven’t forgotten that yet, - Have you? I can shut my eyes and - See the old tree where we sat yet,-- - Hear the rhythm of that thing rise and - Fall like echoes of the distant brine in - Some fair shell; and like it clinging - To the past, my heart keeps singing, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - I’ll be plagued if I can tell yet - What that hitching nonsense jingle - Meant, can you? I can smell yet, - Tho’, the blossoms;--hear the lingle - Of the bells of lolling kine in - Slaughter’s grove;--see the pink of - Fruit above us when I think of - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - I can taste those old Benoni - Apples yet--(fall apples--mellow - As the winds that kissed the bony - Branches into blossom; yellow-- - Butter-yellow--and as fine in - Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were)-- - For our burdensomest cares were, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Ah, my boy, you haven’t forgotten - How with wooden men we pounded - Them when green till almost rotten - Just to get the juice out? Sounded - Mighty tempting with that wine in - There just squushing for the skin to - Burst and let us both fall into - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming - Rascals we were then, my laddie!-- - Knock off apples just half-dreaming - Ripeness, stain the stems that had a - Fresh look with some dirt--divine in - Innocence!--then run to mother, - Each one chuckling to the other, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Tell her then we’d found them lying - On the ground (we had, too!) asking - If we might not have them, trying - Every childish art, nor masking - Mouths just watering to dine in - Glory on them. When we’d got our - “Yes!” all earth I’m certain, caught our - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Oh the days and days together - In the lazy days of childhood - Through the shade and shiny weather - Of the Long Agone’s deep wildwood - When we clad our men of pine in - Every phase of human action, - Sang to them the old “attraction,” - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een”! - - Through my hazing, half-closed lashes - As I watch the steady blazing - Of my fangled oil-stove, plashes - Of that olden rhythm come lazing - From the lethy mists, and shine in - Irised splendors where the tilting - Timid Robin still is lilting, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - Oh the golden old Benonis - With a heart as rich and yellow - As the moon, no apple known is - Half so high or half so mellow, - For they’ve drunk the sun’s whole shine in - And preserved our boyhood’s story - With it’s olden, golden glory, - “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” - - - - - A SLUMBER RHAPSODY. - - - Sleep, sleep, sleep and rest, sleep and rest, - The wind is in the west - And night is on the deep,-- - Sleep and rest, rest and sleep, - Sleep, sleep. - - Dream, dream, dream and sleep, dream and sleep, - The stars their vigils keep - And skies with glories gleam. - Dream and sleep, sleep and dream, - Dream, dream. - - Sleep, rest, dream and rest, sleep and dream, - The morning sun will beam - And cares thy day infest,-- - Rest and sleep, sleep and rest, - Rest, rest. - - - - - BAREFOOT AFTER THE COWS. - - - I am plodding down the little lane again - With my trousers rolled above my sunburnt knees; - And I whistle with the mocking-bird and wren - As they chatter in the hedging willow-trees. - And my foot as light and nimble as the airy wings they wear - Trips along the little lane again to-day; - And my bare feet catch the tinkle thro’ the silent summer air - Of the jingle-langle-ingle far away.-- - Klangle-ling ke-langle, - Klingle-lang ke-lingle - Dingle-lingle-langle down the dell; - Jingle-langle lingle, - Langle-lingle r-r-angle, - Ringle-langle-lingle of the bell. - - From the lane across the prairie o’er the hill - Down a winding little path the cows have made, - In my thought to-night I’m going, going still,-- - For the sinking Sun is lengthening its Shade! - And I find them in the hollows--the hollows of the dell - And I find the drowsy cattle in the dell, - By the ringle-rangle-jingle,--the jangle of the bell, - By the ringle and the jangle of the bell.-- - Klang-ke-link ge-lingle, - Jangle-ling ke-langle, - Klink ke-langle-lingle down the dell; - Klangle-link ke-langle, - K-link ke-lank ke-lingle, - Lingle-link ke-langle of the bell. - - As the cows across the prairie homeward wind - O’er the hill and toward the broadened sinking sun, - Steals a silence o’er the wooded vale behind - Where their shadows, lengthened, darken into one. - And I whistle back the echoes,--the echoes left behind, - That are wand’ring in the tangles of the dell; - And in answer to the message--the message that I wind, - Call the echoes of the klangle of the bell:-- - Langle-langle lingle, - Lingle-langle lingle, - Lingle-lingle-langle down the dell; - D-r-r-ingle-langle-langle, - R-r-angle-ringle-langle, - Langle-lingle-r-r-angle of the bell. - - At the lighting of the Candles of the Night - When my tangled locks have found the pillow’s rest, - I can hear the langle-lingle, soft and light, - Like the cradle-rocking lulling of the blest. - And upon the ear of Fancy--of Fancy born of Sleep, - Comes the klangle from a distant dreamy Dell; - For the angels lull me dreaming--dreaming in their keep, - To the klingle-langle-lingle of the bell.-- - Kling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, - Klangle-lingle-langle, - Langle-lingle-lingle from the dell; - Kling-ge-ling-ge-langle, - Ling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, - Lingle-lingle-langle of the bell. - - - - - GIFT AND GIVER. - - -Not what we give, but what we share.--_Lowell._ - -Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.--_Shakespeare._ - - Not the binding of this book - Nor its leaves with marble edge; - But the poet’s heart and soul - In each thought upon the page - Makes the book of worth, - Lifts us from the earth, - From the common sod - Nearer unto God. - - Not the gold that’s in the gift - Nor the sense of doing duty; - But the giver in the gold - With a heart that’s full of beauty - Makes the gift of worth, - Lifts us from the earth, - From the common sod - Nearer unto God. - - - - - A SORTO’ PLAYED-OUT OL’ BOUQUET. - - - They’re withered--sorto’ withered now, - They’ve got a musty smell; - So I must shet the book up tight - An’ set an’ wait a spell. - - They’re withered--sorto’ withered now, - They’ve lost their red an’ green, - An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up - With crinkled buds atween. - - They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell - That almost makes me sick, - For they ’mind me o’ the days in June - We got ’m ’long the crick. - - They wan’t no style about them tho’, - Like city flowers is-- - They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose - That God set out fer His. - - I stuck ’em in this Good Ol’ Book - Long ’fore they drooped an’ died, - An’ here each day they’ve smiled at me - When I have only cried. - - I touch ’em--an’ I touch her hand - That put ’em here in mine! - I see ’em--an’ I see her lips - More temptin’er ’an wine. - - ’T’s a sorto’ played-out ol’ bouquet, - Ol’-fashion’ roses too; - But then it’s beautif’ler to me - Than fresher ones to you. - - Jist let me look agin--’y jing! - I see her smile there yet! - Somehow it sorto’ all comes back, - An’ I see her smile there yet. - - They’re withered--sorto’ withered now, - They’ve got a musty smell; - So I must shet the book up tight - An’ set an’ wait a spell. - - - - - DOWN TO THE CANDY-MAN’S SHOP. - - - Here we go hippety-hop, - All for a stick of candy - Down to the candy-man’s shop-- - Tell you what he’s a dandy. - - All for a stick of candy - Hippety-hop we go. - Tell you what he’s a dandy - Givin’ us candy you know. - - Hippety-hop we go, - Head-over-heels in our hurry. - Givin’ us candy you know - Sets us all in a flurry. - - Head-over-heels in our hurry - Into the candy-man’s shop; - Sets us all in a flurry - Goin’ it hippety-hop. - - Into the candy-man’s shop - Everybody just tumbles, - Goin’ it hippety-hop, - ’Cause, you see, _he_ never grumbles. - - Everybody just tumbles - Makin’ the candy-man grin, - ’Cause, you see, _he_ never grumbles, - No matter how we come in. - - Makin’ the candy-man grin, - Here we are crowdin’ and pushin’; - No matter how we come in - He knows the wush we’re a-wushin’. - - * * * * * - - _Return._ - - L-l-lp! but that’s better’n ma’s jelly, - Down to the candy-man’s shop! - Hang to my hand now, Nellie,-- - Here we go hippety-hop. - - - - - LIFE TO LOVE. - - _A Triolet._ - - - It is life just to love - With a heart’s true devotion: - ’Tis the great law Above. - It is life just to love,-- - For the soul just to move - With a sweet, wild emotion. - It is life just to love - With a heart’s true devotion. - - - - - COME TO THE SHADOWS. - - _A Pantoum._ - - - Come to the shadows of eve - Falling like mantles around us; - Come where the winds ever weave - Songs in the tree-webs around us. - - Falling like mantles around us - Sweet chime the vespers of love; - Songs in the tree-webs around us - Waft from some Idean grove. - - Sweet chime the vespers of love - Borne by the zephyrs of even; - Waft from some Idean grove - Lydian measures of heaven. - - Borne by the zephyrs of even - Love in his quiver bears - Lydian measures of heaven, - Softest of musical airs. - - Love in his quiver bears - Aye when the star-flowers blossom - Softest of musical airs, - Night folding Day to his bosom. - - Aye when the star-flowers blossom - Love sings the sweetest of themes; - Night folding day to his bosom - Lies down to rapturous dreams. - - Love sings the sweetest of themes - Bidding my heart that yet never - Lies down to rapturous dreams - Fold thine own close to mine ever. - - * * * * * - - Out ’mid the dew-loved flowers - Come where the winds ever weave - Love in the web of the hours, - Come to the shadows of eve. - - - - - SOUL OF MY SOUL. - - - Out on the river that rolleth forever, - Floweth forever and moaneth for aye, - Floateth a sorrow that never shall borrow - Peace to release it from me to the sea. - - Sorrow that ever my sad heart’s quiver, - Sheathing alone this one arrow of woe, - Binds as the billow that never shall pillow - Crest on the breast of the moaning flow. - - O Stygian water, of heart-breakings fraughter, - Far more aburdened of mournful commotion - Than night is of stillness or Hell is of fellness, - Knoll thou and toll my ocean devotion! - - Dash thy dread roll ’gainst my turbulent soul, - Strike till its tones shall thy moanings control, - Bearing emotion as deep as the ocean - Unto the one who is soul of my soul!-- - - Unto the maiden whom angels of Aidenn, - Wandering over the strand of the blest, - Enviously stole from the heart of my soul, - Bore to thy shore and prest to thy breast. - - Let not thy plashing and turbulent dashing - Grate on the ear of my radiant Love; - Kiss her bright tresses with fondest caresses - Controlling thy rolling with love from above. - - Her fair form enfold on thy bosom cold, - Rowing her soft with thy Lethean oar; - Whisper, oh whisper, as winds of the wold - Unto the one whom they bore to thy shore. - - Farewell, fair Minevr! soft over the river - Unto thy rest shall the waves gently roll, - Where never forever death-rivers dissever - Heart from fond heart, or thy soul from my soul. - - - - - MINCE PIE. - - - Tell me not in great big _numbers_ - Facts can never _lie_; - For no fact in muddled slumbers - _Lies_ so heavy as mince pie. - - - - - TEARS AND LAUGHTER. - - - Tears are often liveries stolen - From the equipage of grief; - Nor in Anger’s red eyes swollen - Do they e’er disguise the thief. - - Tears are often pettish, Darling, - Like the foamy fretting run; - Like the foam they sparkle, Darling, - At the kisses of the sun. - - Tears, true tears, are sad and lonely - Like the ocean’s music bars; - Like the music, vanish only - With the cycles of the stars. - - Tears are often pent-up gladness, - Like the clouds that hold the bow; - Like the clouds they use their sadness - That their joys may better show. - - Tears may often be imploring - Like the waves that kiss the skies; - Like the waves, for’er adoring, - They reflect their loved one’s eyes. - - Tears? They are but kin to laughter, - Wedded as the night and day; - Like the day and night, each after - Each prepares the other’s way. - - - - - MIST-WING. - - - Oh my heart was light and airy - Like the mist-wing of the fairy - That I loved; - And I sang with song enchanting, - For the angel I was wanting - Dwelt above. - - And I fain had clasped the maiden - In her mist-winged robes of Aidenn - With my love; - But my eyes were blind with gleamings, - And my hands, bound fast by dreamings, - Would not move. - - Then my heart, with horror filling, - Mid-leap froze with awful chilling - Like to death; - For upon her mist-wings thrilling - Did a demon blow his chilling, - Blasting breath. - - Where my Mist-Wing fair was ferried - There my hope and heart lie buried, - Turned to stone; - There the dreams of bygones cheery - Drone a dreary, ceaseless, weary - Monotone. - - Where my fairy floats forever - O’er the ripples of the river, - Bound in sleep, - There my fondest fancies follow - And with haunting features hollow - Vigils keep. - - From a star a light is streaming - In her golden tresses gleaming - Fair as Hope; - Fade the phantoms faster, faster, - From the Morning-star, life’s vaster - Horoscope. - - She is waking, waking, waking, - And my soul and body breaking - Swift apart. - Joy! my spirit soon shall hold her - And forever more enfold her, - Heart to heart. - - - - - THE COMMON LOT. - - _Choriambic._ - - - Sweet bird, sitting so sad singing your song there on the limb - alone, - Why make all the sad world sympathize with every mournful tone? - - Ah yes! weep then, my dear, over the loss of the dear one you love: - All hearts weep with you, dear, weep for some heart lured to the - land above. - - Yet not even the deep river of tears rolls from the heart the - stone; - No, naught save the white-robed Angel of Hope born of the soul - alone. - - O dove! mourning alone, croon to the moon over the one you love; - O soul! Hope is thine own, throned in the white dome of thy home - above! - - - - - ECHO SONG. - - - Echo, be not heartless, I implore you, - Listen to my woe; - And I’ll evermore, as now, adore you - (Tho’ that augurs that I sometimes bore you) - For I fain would know - What’s to be done. - --“Be done!” - - Oh but, sir, I must beseech, entreat you - That you hear me through.-- - If a rare and radiant maid should meet you - And with smiles and wiles and pranks should greet you, - Pray, what’s one to do - When one sees her? - “Seize her!” - - But I’m not quite well enough acquainted - With her, don’t you see? - Echo, when her lily face is painted - (On my soul), and at my heart she’s _feinted_, - And I’m blind as she, - How can I seize her? - “See, sir.” - - But alas! the laws of Love prohibit - That his subjects see; - And besides, explicitly inhibit - Other sight than blindness to exhibit. - What then? I can ne - “See,” nor “seize her.” - “Cease, sir.” - - But, friend Echo (for you are most truly - Friend and counselor), - Love’s commands must all be followed duly - (Tho’ himself most blind and most unruly); - Hence I can’t “see,” sir, - “Cease,” nor “seize her.” - “Cæsar!” - - Yes, that’s what I’ve been ejaculating, - But it’s idle breath. - Now, if this consuming passionating - Doesn’t stop its wild peregrinating - It’ll be my death. - Must I let it? - “Let it!” - - Friend should answer friend more seriously - Nor play upon _grave_ words. - She’s affected quite as amorously - As who wakens you thus clamorously - With love’s scattered sherds, - Seeking surcease-- - “Sir, cease!” - - Nay, I _will not_ cease till satisfaction - Is obtained from you. - Tell me what to do in this distraction - And I’ll vary from it not a fraction.-- - Truth is, there are two-- - Ann and Mary. - “Marry!” - - Tell me, Echo, O sweet Echo, tell me, - Oh and truly tell - What sweet thralling charm should most impel me - That no other wight may quite excel me - When I choose my belle - For matrimony-- - “Money.” - - Tell me then without equivocation - If you value health, - Swear it by the hills, your habitation, - Whence you issue like an exhalation,-- - Which one has the wealth? - Truly answer-- - “Ann, sir.” - - Thanks to thee, sweet Echo, Love’s pathfinder! - We shall never part. - Forthwith I will hie me forth and find her - And the wealthiest jingling love-songs wind her - Till I win her heart - _And_ earn her _mine_.-- - “_Ann!_--dern her _mine_!” - - [This last he hears in after years.] - - - - - THE HAUNTED HOUSE. - - - Hope and Love have gone away - Closing every window-blind, - Locking every door behind, - Bearing off the key. - - Tenantless the musty house - Throws on passers-by its gloom; - Nor in any haunted room - Dares a living mouse. - - Old and mouldy there it stands - All mysterious and lone - With its mosses overgrown-- - Ruin’s myriad hands. - - Useless grow the choking weeds - While the winding eglantine - And the morning-glory vine - Scatter wild their seeds. - - Times there are when winds, hard pressed, - Gibber at the ghosts within, - Hollow-voiced with staring grin, - Uninvited guests. - - Rumor, waking night and day, - Sees strange sights through window-panes, - Hears weird sounds of clanking chains - Sounding far away. - - Rumor tells that Hope and Love - Walk the ghosts of murdered selves - When the midnight hour twelves: - Empty rooms they rove. - - But malicious town-folk say - Hope and Love are not away - But art hiding day by day: - Murderers are they! - - But alas! I would ’twere so!-- - Would that Hope and Love each might, - Might return e’en tho’ at night, - Tho’ at morn they go! - - For Despair and Hate hide there, - Quiet thro’ the daytime quite, - Ghosting sights and sounds by night, - Demons of the air. - - Counterfeiters both are they, - Coining only after night, - Minting metal ghostly white, - Holding revelry. - - Aye, ’tis haunted! Hate is wed, - Wedded to his mate Despair, - And they hold high revels there: - Hope and Love are dead! - - Good my friends, remove the pile, - Ere it fall to foul decay; - Hope and Love have gone away, - Ruin feeds the while. - - Hope and Love have gone away, - Closing door and closing blind, - Leaving Ruin lone behind, - Bearing off the key. - - - - - SONNETS OF LIFE. - - - I. - - A brilliant battle Darkness fought with Light, - A brilliant battle all the living day; - The Sun, awearied in the deadly fray, - Sank vanquished ’neath his armored foeman’s might, - But flung his arms far up the black’ning height, - From the quiver of the planets joyously - Drew forth his arrows, star-tipped, feathery, - And pierced the iron-plated breast of Night - With ten thousand starry-spangled blades of fire. - Night, wounded by the arrows of the Sun, - Poured out ten thousand streams of living blood - That dripped from every fire-tipped arrow dire - Down in the sorrowing sea; and the wounds each one - And the arrows all lay skyed in the doming flood. - - - II. - - Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height - Along the ground of heaven; all bleeding lay - Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day, - Exulting with a demon’s own delight. - Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might, - Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray, - From the shining quiver of Divinity - Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God’s own light, - And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red, - With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold. - Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread - Sank vanquished Night with all the damned dead! - And ever over Darkness, ages old, - Triumphant ruleth Light,--the great Godhead! - - - SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE. - -On submitting this poem to critics, I find that various ideas are -gleaned. Some take it as a literal description of night and day, or -light and darkness! Others think that it celebrates the victory of -truth over error, right over wrong, virtue over vice, or possibly the -triumph of learning over ignorance, or civilization over barbarism. -This is not so surprising; for I confess it does, indeed, admit -various interpretations. Some say that in its obscurity, though in -nothing else, it somewhat resembles the work of some great poet. -The only consolation that I can squeeze out of all these various -opinions is that obscurity and occultness synchronously attend upon -and are concomitant with both iconographic delineations and symbolical -phraseology. ’Tis _said_ ’tis so,--and so ’tis sad! - -“Sing a song o’ six-pence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty -black-birds baked in a pie,” etc., is comparatively meaningless, tho’ -pleasing, unless we know what is symbolized. The “pie” is the _day_, -the “four and twenty black-birds” are the twenty-four _hours_ of the -_day_, etc., etc. The symbols thus completed give a new beauty to that -old jingle. In fact, it was that identical jingle with its symbols that -suggested _Sonnets of Life_. - -As the title and staring Carlylean capitals throughout suggest, I -intended this poem to be a sort of _Analogue of Life_. In consequence -of all the foregoing, and for the delectation of those who care to read -the piece a second time, I have subjoined these - - - _Symbols and Notes._ - - I. - - _Darkness_,--death. - _Light_,--life (on earth). - _day_,--one’s duration of life. - _Sun_,--one’s life. - _black’ning height_,--hour of death. - _quiver of the planets_,--thoughts, desires, longings, hopes. - _arrows_,--faith in the future. - _iron-plated breast of Night_,--gloom of one’s death. - _streams of living blood_,--hope others receive from the - Christian’s death. - _dire_,--i. e., _dire_ only to Darkness. - _sorrowing sea_,--sorrowing friends. - _skyed in the doming flood_,--acts, deeds, words, hopes, etc., - of the dead, reflected in - humanity and especially in the - hearts of friends. - - - II. - - _Reviving Sun_,--soul, on morning of resurrection. - _eastern gray_,--dawning of the morning of the resurrection - day. - _mail of Night_,--sleep of death. - _Last sonnet_ closes all life on earth, triumphs over death, - and brings the resurrection day. - _Last two lines_ begin and indefinitely extend the Life - Eternal. - -This may aid somewhat. Too close an interpretation cannot be permitted -in any poem: ’twould make some of the most exquisite poetic thought of -literature ridiculous and nonsensical. The true poetic nature never -needs more in the interpretation of any poem than the title and the -naked poem itself to _suggest_ thoughts and images infinitely more -beautiful than explanation can possibly make them. - - - - - A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED. - - - HE (_in despondency_). - - Heartless! heartless! Oh, - I know! - Tho’ your heart forget me - And my own be turned to stone; - Tho’ no day may let me - Claim my loved one as my own, - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true! - - - SHE (_faithfully_). - - Heartless?--heartless!--So? - Ah no! - Tho’ long years divide us - With the burdened stream of care; - Tho’ the waves deride us - With a still unanswered prayer, - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - HE (_joyously_). - - Then not heartless?! No! - No, no! - If I’ve wronged you, Dearest, - ’Tis because I’m mad for love; - ’Tis that you are nearest - When my thoughts in madness move. - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - SHE (_flippantly_). - - Then not heartless? No! - Not so! - Tho’ you gave the treasure - Of your very life to me, - I thus at my pleasure - Give it back to you, you see!-- - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - HE (_bitterly and sadly_). - - Heartless! heartless! Oh - ’Tis so! - All the world is dreary: - Stars and love have ceased to shine; - Oh the weary, weary - Night that endlessly is mine!-- - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - SHE (_tauntingly_). - - Ha! I’m heartless, tho’? - No, no! - I was only funning - And I didn’t mean it once;-- - Never thought of running - Into love, you great big dunce.-- - ’Course, my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true! - - - HE (_in despair_). - - Heartless! heartless! Flow, - My woe! - Oh this life is bitter!-- - Poison, river, rope, or gun-- - Any death is fitter - Than two hearts thus dead in one.-- - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - _She_ (_in fear, imploringly_). - - No! not heartless! No! - No, no! - I am true as ever;-- - Oh _don’t_ take your precious life - And I’ll be forever - Your own darling little wife.-- - Still my heart is true - To you, - Still is true, - Still is true. - - - - - THE HUMAN HEART. - - - _Birth._ - - Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter: - The heart has forgotten its tears; - For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter-- - God is revolving the years. - - - _Joy on Account of Birth._ - - With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and burning, - Sipping the heart’s night dew; - Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are returning-- - God is letting them through. - - - _Sorrow on Account of Death._ - - With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging - Deep in the heart’s confines: - A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging-- - God is working the mines! - - - _Soul Passes Beyond._ - - In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are clinking - A wealth of music untold: - For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sinking-- - God has coined His gold! - - - _L’Envoy._ - - Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow,-- - The heart holds the songs of the spheres; - For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow-- - God is speeding the years. - - - - - THE NIGHTMARE. - - - In the depths of my ink bottle, - With a fiery gleaming throttle - Stood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day; - And the murky ink was lighted - With a fiendish fire that blighted - Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay. - - And my pen, from Love’s own quiver, - Wrought of gold, began to shiver - With a fearful quaking terror born of death - As I touched the hellish-lighted - Surface of the Ink that frighted - Pluto’s self and stole Persephone’s sweet breath. - - Hour after fearful hour - Stood that blasting, fiendish power - In whose grasp my golden pen was ground to dust. - Oh, the wasting, endless season - Chilling heart and killing reason - As the gloating demon glutted full his lust! - - “Golden Pen that Love had given, - Wrought of gold from my heart riven, - Thus my palsied, broken heart must bury thee - In the fiendish ink, made blacker - By the demon’s fiery lacquer - On the surface of its dark uncertainty.” - - Then a shadow came before me - And a loathing sickness o’er me - As the demon sank below and out of sight; - For I saw a stream of gold - That the demon could not hold - To the bottom of the darkness drip its light. - - Then I knew that never, never - Would Love’s gold-illumined quiver - Bind again the shaft the demon could not hold; - For I saw a radiance shining - ’Round the place, and angels twining - Strange and all-eternal Beauty of the gold! - - Darkness reigned then, deep, unlighted, - Silence sitting near, half-frighted - By the demon’s disappointed distant wail - And far-off mingled angel voices - Tuned to music that rejoices - In the glory of a love that cannot fail. - - * * * * * - - Morning?--Thank God that all our seeing - And our seeming is not being! - Dear wife, let your warm cheek still against mine lie - While your loving arms and kisses - Doubly tell what loving bliss is.-- - Warning:--Before you go to bed, don’t eat mince pie! - - - - - “FALSE WOMANKIND!” - - ON READING A SLUR THAT WAS MADE ON HER BY THE LACK-LOVE GAY, OF QUEEN - ANNE’S DAY. - - - “False womankind, false womankind!” - Thus wails and rails a many a blind - And foolish heart, too long confined - Where light and love have never shined. - E’en sweetest Shakespeare’s pen, embrined - With biting bitterness of mind, - “As false as woman’s love,” has whined. - --Unkind the cut, the heart unkind. - - “False womankind, false womankind!”-- - I hurl the lie back from my mind - To those who thus a wreath have twined - Of roseless thorns to crown and bind - A sister’s crown, or mother’s kind - And sainted brow;--or twine and wind - It, thorns and all, round heart and mind - Of sweetheart-wife in love enshrined. - - False, false the charge and false the mind - That ever says “False womankind!” - For the pæan ages wind - Unto me this truth they find - In the heart of humankind, - In the human heart enshrined:-- - “None so false and none so blind - As whose loveless pens have lined - - “What the heart has undermined, - ‘False womankind, false womankind!’ - None so true as _her_ we find: - None so pure of heart and mind, - None so sweet and so refined, - None so great and good and kind, - None so in the heart enshrined - As womankind, as womankind!” - - - - - LONELY! - - TO ---- (LONG AGO DEAD.) - - - I am lonelier, lonelier, Dear, to-day - Than ever I’ve been before: - And the restless old ocean, foam-fretted alway, - Moans only of days of yore. - - But somehow my heart is so sad in life’s whirl, - And my life is so shut in its shell, - Tho’ it heal every wound o’er with purest of pearl - Of naught but the sea will it tell. - - Oh, lonely and lorn as the bittern’s boom, - I haunt every solitude known, - Only to find from the wide world’s room - A nameless something has flown. - - I know not the reason, and fear nor I care; - I only know I am lonelier, Dear, - As over the well-wonted moorland I fare, - Than ever the death-wept tear. - - How lonely, Dear! how long the time!-- - But I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it for thee, - That at last I may join in the glad-voiced chime - Far out on the crystal sea. - - - - - I’SE SEEN A LIGHT IN DE SKY. - - (A PLANTATION MELODY.) - - - Oh I’se gittin’ ol’ an’ grizzled, - An’ I haint got long to stay; - My head hab got to noddin’ - An’ I haint right well noway. - Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, - An’ doan’ you chillun cry; - Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you - Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - - - _Chorus._ - - Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, - Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - Oh I,-- - Oh I’se seen-- - I’se seen a light,-- - I’se seen a light in de sky! - Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, - An’ doan’ you chillun cry! - Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you - Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - - Oh dat light am a-gittin’ brightah, - An’ de cloud am a-comin’ nigh,-- - Oh I know hits de angels comin’ - Fer to carry me home on high. - Oh dese eyes dey’ll nebber see you,-- - Hoh my chillun doan’ you cry!-- - Twell dey wake in de happy mawnin, - Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - - - _Chorus._ - - Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, - Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - Oh I,-- - Oh I’se seen-- - I’se seen a light,-- - I’se seen a light in de sky! - Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, - An’ doan’ you chillun cry! - Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you - Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! - - Oh good-bye to de ol’ plantation, - De mawnin’ am growin’ gray!-- - Oh good-bye, an’ stop yo’ weepin’,-- - De mawnin’ am breakin’ Day! - Oh yes! in de heaben dat’s comin’ - I’ll meet you by-an’-by!-- - Hoh yes! in de happy mawnin’, - Caze you’ll see de Light in de sky! - - - _Chorus._ - - Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high! - Oh yes! caze you’ll see de Light in de sky! - Oh I,-- - Oh I’se seen-- - I’se seen a light,-- - I’se seen a light in de sky! - Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, - But I’ll meet you by-an’-by! - Oh I know I’se gwine to meet you, - Caze I’se seen a light in de sky. - - - - - FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA. - - (To be read in connection with the following poem, “Shut In.”) - - -Somewhere, sometime, I know not when or where, I have heard a strangely -beautiful and beautifully strange and altogether wonderful story--a -story of a pygmy people. - -In the long, long ago that has slipped into the lethal tide of the flow -of Time where even the years have forgotten the rolling chime that -they used to sing to the shore of a heavenly clime (and where poets -don’t ever, nor ever, nor ever rhyme), whence even Tradition, asleep, -forgets to climb, so long ago that I don’t know but that the time still -antedates all dates, there lived the Family of the Ephemera. - -As the sun came up in the morning, the race came into existence. -During the night, a toad-stool of wonderful dimensions had sprung up, -and beneath this over-shadowing phenomenon, built by the genii of -darkness, the first glint of the new day’s sun kissed the first born of -a new race--the Adam and Eve of the Family called Ephemera. - -As the sun arose, and ere, e’en years ere it showed its lower disk, -the family increased most startingly. The whole of their known world -was peopled. They developed the resources of their vast little land. -They cultivated the soil. They delved in the mines for gold. They -carried on commerce with their widely scattered selves. They built -homes and cities. Their cities were magnificent, their houses built of -exquisitely carved and polished stone quarried from a grain of sand. -Each window was made of the filmy iridescence of a single sunbeam, and -curtained with richly embroidered tapestries woven from threads of the -delicate shadow cast by a single ray of spectral purple. Their tables -were filled with all the rich and dainty micros of the land. Withal, -they were a happy, though barbarous people. - -The sun arose. Men of the present generation had already grown -gray-headed, while myriads of their posterity were just starting on -their paths. Generation after generation had already come and gone, -each leaving the wealth of its history, its experience, its scientific -researches, its learning to the inheritants of the next. - -Centuries to them came and went, governments grew old, decayed, and -passed into tradition, while others sprang up in their places;--for to -this strange and fast-living people, our moments were days, our seconds -were months, our minutes were years, our hours were centuries, and our -days were ages untold that lap the two ends of time into one unbroken -eternity. - -The sun was mid-forenoon. The Family of the Ephemera had grown old -and wise. They pointed with vaunting pride to their intelligence and -prosperity, to their grand achievements reaching down the long, -fretted colonnades of history and vanishing in the dim perspective of -tradition’s mystery. They looked upon all around, beneath, and above -them, and rejoiced that all was for them. Their wise philosophers -pointed to the sun and said, “All for us!” They told and taught how -that great sun had always remained in its present place; for even in -the memory of the oldest inhabitants no one had ever known the sun to -be in other place than now. Nay, even history knew it not. They said, -however, that there was a tradition, but not authenticated by history -nor by later scientific investigation, that the sun long, long æons ago -had occupied a position nearer the horizon. They showed how and why -all things were made for them; how the great toad-stool, towering an -immeasurable distance above them, had been placed on earth for them, -and them alone, and philosophized how it was impossible for another -to exist in the universe. They rejoiced that their little world was -created, and endowed with all its richest blessings, for none other -than them. They were a happy people, and prosperous. Their want of -wisdom made them more happy and more prosperous. - -Centuries came and went. The sun stood in the zenith. So stood the -race of Ephemera. Wiser philosophers than those of the mid-forenoon -of their existence still pointed toward the great red sun, and said, -“It was always _there_; it was made for _us_!” Crowns crumbled. New -nations arose as from chaos, flourished, and died. Others took their -places. Schools had always been tolerated. They were now fostered. They -pointed their telescopes toward the mighty fret-work of the toad-stool -above them, and computed the number of huge radial beams that supported -its broad outer rim. The students of the universities and colleges -delved deep into the lore of their ancestral nations. They studied -history; they read their poets; they reasoned and computed with their -mathematicians; they looked down into the earth and up into the heavens -with their philosophers, and, withdrawing to their own narrow cells, -they said, “All for us, all for us!” - -The sun passed the zenith, declining to the west. The race declined! -Still, philosophers said, pointing to the sun, “’Twas alway thus; ’twas -made for us!” - -They said Time was for them, and them alone. They could not conceive -another similar or a different people. With prophecy, they looked into -the future. They claimed that, also: for a hope and a faith, placed -in their hearts at their creation, had grown and strengthened, that -they should all meet again in another world, a brighter and a better -world, all for them, all for them. The gods, with whom they peopled all -things, watched over and guarded them, and them alone. - -The sun sank low. The lower limb touched the horizon. With the going -down of the sun, the race decayed in its old age. As the last ray of -sun passed over the land of the Ephemera, only two of this strange -Family, wandering hand in hand, old and lone, turned their eyes to the -waning light of the west, and sank to rest as the ray shot up and out -into the unfathomed sky beyond, and glinted its gold on the clinking -stars, the beautiful golden gates of the sable and iron-bound night! - -Thus passed away the Family of the Ephemera. Strange, strange story! -A race wrapped up in themselves, never dreaming that there might be -innumerable other realms like their little own; that there might be -peoples on peoples beyond their ken in worlds unknown as superior to -them as the gods of Olympus were superior to the Romans. - -A strange, strange story!--for we are looking through an inverted -microscope, the large end at the eye, and the small end turned upon -Time, Events, and the Human race! - - - - - SHUT IN. - - - I. - - Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, - Where the convex surface of every eye, - Even unto the night of the day we shall die in, - Still perfectly fits in the concave sky! - - - II. - - I wonder sometimes if the star-illusions - We see at first glance in the infinite sky, - Are not the suggestions, the far-intrusions, - Of systems on systems beyond the eye. - - I wonder if ever the thought may confound them - Who inhabit a silvery orb of mist, - Seeing myriads of silvery others around them, - That myriads on myriads more may exist. - - Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal - That burns with the pent-up fire of suns - Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal - Is burning in myriads of similar ones? - - Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam, - As each in its course like a planet whirls, - Ever know they are bathed in the light of but _one_ beam - From the sun of but _one_ mighty system of worlds? - - - III. - - Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, - And the infinite bounds of his hopes and desires! - Even unto the night of the day he shall die in - Aspiring and falling he still aspires. - - But I know in my heart that in worlds elysian - The convex surface of every eye, - With a perfected soul and an infinite vision, - Will range o’er a perfected, infinite sky. - - - IV. - - For I dreamed a dream, in the midnight quiet, - Of a golden day in a happy time; - And my thoughts leaped up at the dream-god’s fiat - And sang in my heart this golden chime:-- - - O rise thou my soul, look beyond thy dark prison, - The warder is shifting the mortal bars; - An infinite sun in the east has arisen, - There’s an infinite system beyond the stars. - - - - - SONG OF THE STARS. - - - I dreamed one night when the golden stars, - Like an eastern maid o’er her soft kanoon, - Leaned out of their skyey bowers above - And sang in sweet measures an olden tune. - - I dreamed the sweetest of dreams that night;-- - And the portals of heaven seemed opening wide - As the music grew sweeter and nearer each note - And rose and fell like the swell of the tide. - - Ah the beautiful, beautiful stars of that night, - And the beautiful music they left in my heart - Shall brighten and brighten forever and aye - And never forever my soul shall depart. - - At the soft dream-touch of the finger-tips - On the harps of air by the heavenly throng, - The deep silence merged into soft music-waves, - And I heard in my heart this beautiful song:-- - - Dream, dream, - Youth and maiden, - Beam, beam, - Stars love-laden.-- - We are the beautiful portals of love, - Beautiful, beautiful portals above - Whence all the glories of heaven shine: - Turn your eyes, turn, turn, turn your eyes, - Turn them to the happy skies - And drink with them sweet love divine. - - Dream, dream, - Youth and maiden, - Beam, beam, - Stars love-laden.-- - Youth, in the depths of thy soul do thou pray, - Pray for thy guidance in Love’s lighted way, - Kneeling at radiant Love’s holy shrine: - Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, - Turn them to the happy skies - And drink with them sweet love divine. - - Dream, dream, - Youth and maiden, - Beam, beam, - Stars love-laden.-- - Maiden, still not the sweet throbs of thy heart,-- - Throbs _his_ caresses and words sweetly start,-- - When he is hoping and longing for thine: - Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, - Turn them to the happy skies - And drink with them sweet love divine. - - Dream, dream, - Youth and maiden, - Beam, beam, - Stars love-laden.-- - Youth, seek the heart of the one at thy side - And into thy sky shall a bright vision glide,-- - A star that shall ever for thee alone shine: - Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, - Turn them to the happy skies - And drink with them sweet love divine. - - I woke from the dream at the tide of the morn, - And beheld the sweet vision that filled my dreams.-- - That vision, My Star, thro’ a long, happy life - Is guiding my steps with its golden beams. - - No longer, no longer a vision or dream, - I clasp My Sweet Love to my heart all my own;-- - But still I can hear the sweet music that fell - From the stars that night on our hearts alone. - - - - - I WONDER. - - - I wonder sometimes if ever - The music God has sent - Will get into my heart and stay there - As I think he surely meant. - - Can the voice of Laughter enter - The form where Death has been?-- - Whence the spirit of Love has departed, - Can Music’s charms come in? - - There’s an ache in my heart that daily - Goes out in earnest quest - Of the spirit of Love that has left me - In the sadness of unrest. - - Oh, I wonder sometimes if ever - That spirit of Love will return, - And rekindle my heart’s dead ashes,-- - Inspirit the dust of the urn. - - I fear that the spirit would enter - The ashes in ghostly quest, - And set but the bones into motion, - The ghost of Love at the best. - - Are the rivers, I wonder, ever - Brought back by the clouds from the sea - To flow in the same old channels - Over the dregs and debris? - - The love of my heart has departed-- - The river has run to the sea;-- - And I wonder sometimes if its waters - Will ever come back to me. - - Lo, there in my heart’s dead channels - Lie the stagnant pools of Time; - And I see the debris at the bottom, - The dregs and the rotting slime. - - I wonder if ever the rivers, - The rivers that run to the sea, - Flow just as sweet on returning - Over the dregs and debris? - - Somehow, a thought in my spirit - Comes up from the stagnant fen - That the music of Heaven shall never - Be heard in its waters again! - - Yet I wonder each day as I wander - Along where the stream used to be - If the waters won’t sometime come back there - And dredge out the dregs and debris. - - It may be! ’Tis a long time coming,-- - Too long, I fear,--too long!-- - For Love’s River must sing its music - In hearts that have never gone wrong. - - Oh, will the Waters returning, - Borne by the Clouds from the Sea, - Run just as sweetly as ever - Over the Dregs and Debris? - - - - - IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR. - - (A DIRGE.) - - - The New Year!--hark! the bell!--oh it - Is at last here! - A solemn hush! The world sits still - With breath abated as the poet - Of the New Year - Takes an anti-bilious pill! - - - - - MY DEFEAT. - - _Sweeter than any sung - My songs that found no tongue._ - WHITTIER: _My Triumph_. - - - In the universe swept by the eyes of my soul, - Swim a myriad luminous stars and suns; - And swift through my brains burning æther they roll - Like the infinite trains of the heavenly ones. - - In my dreams I outstretch my vain arms with delight - For the forms of the angels that sing round my bed; - But alas! for the chorus of seraphs take flight - And beckon me whither but angels may tread. - - And I muse with my heart when my mind sits a-dream - While vibrations of light from the heavenly cars - Fleet swift thro’ the arms of my soul in bright gleam, - And leave me upreaching for aye tow’rd the stars. - - - - - THERE’S A LAUGH. - - - There’s the laugh of the fiend that shrivels the heart, - That burns out the eyes from their sockets of fire, - That crackles the skin and parches the breath - And bellows and shrieks with demoniac ire. - - There’s the laugh of the hobgoblin, demon of night, - That frightens the children to silence their sobs, - That rings in their ears to the end of life, - And at night in their hearts like the death-watch throbs. - - There’s the wild, screeching laugh from the madman’s lips - When his eyes wildly start from his reechy brain, - That haunts us, tho’ try to forget as we will, - And pierces the heart with a dagger of pain. - - There’s the unearthly laugh and the sickening leer - Of the idiot--wretched Unfortunate! dead - Before born, the live sepulchre of unknown crimes, - The tomb of the lives generations have led! - - There’s the blasting, blistering, withering laugh - That blights e’en the heart wherein it is born, - That bubbles and sputters and hisses and spits - As it falls from the scorching lips of scorn. - - There’s a strange, weird laugh, even tho’ from a child, - That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper’s thick breath, - That startles the shivering silence with awe - And dies in the throat like the rattle of death. - - There’s a laugh, like the wind’s cracked whistle, that creaks - And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age; - And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad, - For we know what the ominous sounds presage. - - There’s the free, wild laugh that bounds as the deer-- - As free as the leap of the hart and as wild-- - ’Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul, - The sweet, wild laugh of an innocent child. - - There’s the laugh that I love, the balm of tired hearts, - That quiets the fluttering temples of care; - ’Tis the soft, soothing laugh from the sweet lips of Love, - And it falls like a blessing that answers prayer. - - There’s the sweetest of laughs full of music divine - That gladdens the heart and the throbbing brain; - I would give--oh what would I not, were it mine, - But to hear the sweet laugh of my mother again. - - - - - TO SLEEP. - - - Soft on thy breast - Where the soul in oblivious quiet may dream - While it sweeps up to heaven on a star-born beam, - There would I rest, - So peacefully rest, - Oh rest, - Rest!-- - Asleep on thy breast, - Asweep to the blest - In a dream - On the gleam - Of a star - In the cradle-rocked billows of azure afar. - - - - - WHEEL AND SHUTTLE. - - _Spin: God will send thee flax._--PROVERB. - - [Although differing slightly from his literal experience, - nevertheless to the boy, long ago grown to manhood, who used - to cling to his mother’s dress, and fretfully toddle back and - forth as she patiently sent the big wheel whirring and then - ran backwards with her lengthening thread, then forwards, and - so on, hour after hour, spinning threads for the home-loom, - this poem, with its application to life, has in it the - pleasing scent of the roses of recollection, intoxicating even - to sadness.] - - - “Spin, spin!” - The warp is in - And the shuttle never slacks: - Let thy fingers never rest, - Heed the weaver’s stern behest, - “Spin, spin!” - While the woof is weaving in, - God will send thee flax. - - “Spin, spin!” - The wheels begin, - And the distaff never lacks: - Let thy spindle’s endless thrum - Fill the shuttles as they hum - “Spin, spin!” - While the woof is weaving in, - God will send thee flax. - - “Spin, spin!”-- - Thy fingers thin - Let the carded threads relax! - Lo! the wheel is standing dumb, - For the loom has ceased its grum - “Spin, spin!”-- - Aye, the woof is woven in, - God has sent thee flax! - - - - - THE PRESS OF PENURY. - - - Out of the Press of Penury - The choicest wines have flowed - To rouse a nation’s blood - To statesmanship or poesy. - - (Nor less to hearts the poet’s cause - Than statesman’s counseling:-- - If but a people sing, - I care not who shall make the laws.) - - With every cycling sun that slips - Through all its winding turns, - Some Lincoln or some Burns - Still lifts his spirit to our lips. - - - - - HALLOWEEN. - - AN INVITATION SENT TO A LADY, OCT. 31. - - - I wad na gang alane to-night - An’ leave alane a lassie - Where pixies, elves, an’ goblins fight - An’ drink their bogie tassie. - - Sae come wi’ me an’ gang awa’ - Where oufe nor spook nor bogle - Hae ought o’ ill or guid to do - But flichter, blink, an’ ogle. - - Oh we’ll be merry like the lave - Tho’ Halloween be eerie, - An’ crack an’ jauk an’ giddy ’have - Wi’ Mrs. C---- till weary. - - - - - LIFE. - - _What is life?--’Tis a delicate shell - Thrown up by Eternity’s flow - On Time’s bank of quicksand to dwel. - And a moment its loveliness show. - Gone back to the elements grand - Is the billow that cast it ashore: - See! another is washing the strand, - And the beautiful shell is no more!_ - --_D. A._ - - - What is life?--’Tis the billow of bells - That the sea of eternity bears; - And in rapturous music it swells - As it kisses the sands of the years. - But the ripples are breaking in foam,-- - And the billow has ceased to be! - List! the billow, gone back to its home, - Is tolling down deep in the sea! - - - - - BORROWING BRAINS. - - - “Lend me your brains, lend me your brains,” - Screeched a highwayman goblin ’way down in his throat - As deep as he ever could dig up a note. - And his whole gang creaked and hoarsely screaked - Like a hinge that was rusty, and constantly shrieked - “Lend us your brains, lend us your brains,” - As they seized my mare’s head at the bit by the reins - - And a long-haired loon with a razory spoon - Clipped open my scalp just over my crown, - And the skull the same place, running crosswise and down; - And they hinged the two pieces with screechy brass bands - Where they singed off my hair by the touch of their hands: - And oh the pains, the pains, the pains, - When they flapped down the cover just back o’ my brains. - - My mother came by with a heart-rending cry, - And a wretch popped his eyes from the crown of his hat - As he squealed, “You’ll never again do that!” - And he sharpened his spoon on the sole of his shoon, - Did the long-beard lout by the liquidy moon; - And he severed her brain and her heart in twain - While the rest held me there in my helpless pain. - - And the long-beard loons with their long-eared spoons - Stood up on the top of my topless crown - And then leaped to the depths of the hollow turned down. - Oh they teetered and twinged on the part that was hinged, - And they shrieked with delight till the very air cringed - As they sang in their glee how smart they would be - When they got all my brains in their noddles, you see. - - And they reached their long spoons, the reechy old loons, - ’Way into the cavity made in my head, - And scraped, and scraped till they thought I was dead. - Oh the pains, the pains, the terrible pains - When they spooned from my skull every speck of my brains, - Then with spoons for their pries dragged both of my eyes - Through that hole in my head of such terrible size. - - Oh they thought they would be such poets, you see, - And such wonderful, marvelous scholars, you know, - When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow! - But my--oh--oh! what fools they were though! - For poets, you know, are like underdone dough-- - And oh--my--oh! what fools they were though - When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow! - - But they crammed every grain, their ill-gotten gain, - Clear down in the pokes of their pocket-like ears, - And turned over my eyes to their sages and seers. - But they soon rued they had the brains I had had - For they drove every one of them stark staring mad; - For the goblins, you see, went crazy, like me, - As mad as a March hare ever could be. - - To my greatest surprise they brought back my eyes - And put them both back as they always had been. - Since _Thought_ made them crazy, as each one had seen, - They restored me my brains with the greatest of _pains_, - And handed me back my mare’s bridle-reins; - Then away and up through the atmosphere flew - And left me as sound and as solid as new! - - And there _was_ no loon with a goblin spoon, - And there never has been and never will be. - Whether or not this happened to me, - It needn’t at all happen this way to all: - But whatever you do, or whatever befall, - _Un-less the gob-lins get your night-mare’s reins, - Don’t ev-er nor ev-er go lend-ing your brains!_ - - - - - SLEEP. - - - Dear Nurse that foldeth weary Nature to - Thy heart, and from tired eyes shutteth out the light, - E’en as a mother at the fall of night - Doth take her child upon her lap to undo - The snarls and tangles of the day, and woo - Away the sun-bred ills, and balm the sight - With visions of another world all bright, - Dear soothing healing Sleep! ’tis thee I sue. - Come, fold your arms about my Sweetheart-Wife; - Balm up her eyes that stare at staring Night; - Seal down her lids with sweet, refreshing gleams, - Or visions, rather, of the happy life - We’ve planned together; and leave her not till the light - Of morn, with me, shall kiss her from her dreams. - - - - - TO A WILD-ROSE BOUQUET. - - - Wild roses down the lane - Sweet Laeda gave in June, - To glad me - And to sad me, - Like shine and mingled rain - Atween the clouds aboon. - - - - - SONG ON THE SEA. - - - Merrily, merrily over the wave - We’ll laugh and we’ll sing as we’re bounding along, - Merrily, merrily, joyous and brave - We’ll echo the music of waves in our song:-- - Roll, roll, break, break, - Over the merrily musical waves, - Roll, roll, wake, wake - All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. - - Rocking and rolling the sea is our home - And joyous we shout from our billow-rocked boat; - Cleaving the breakers white-feathered with foam - We’ll set the sweet echoes of ocean afloat:-- - Roll, roll, break, break, - Over the merrily musical waves, - Roll, roll, wake, - All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. - - Merrily, merrily out of their caves - We’ll call the glad echoes sweet laughing along; - Merrily, merrily out on the waves - We’ll mingle the musical sea with our song:-- - Roll, roll, break, break, - Over the merrily musical waves, - Roll, roll, wake, wake - All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. - - - - - WOODLAND LAY. - - - Oh come to the woodland where joys reign supreme, - Where the zephyr’s soft kiss lightly touches the brow, - And the sun gently drops thro’ the leaves in a dream - And sleeps in the shade of the wide-spreading bough. - - Let the world plod along with its stern, solemn face, - With its brow deeply wrinkled with thought and with care; - Let the pleasures of life to-day’s business replace - While we list to the charm of its wild, joyous air. - - The murm’ring of brooks, the singing of birds, - The whisper of winds and the leaves soft reply, - The bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds, - The breathing of nature from earth to the sky-- - - All combine to make music with cadence as sweet - To the ear of the mortal, as the music of spheres, - Gentle wooed from the harp at Infinity’s feet - And as softly let fall on angelical ears. - - Like the soft flakes of snow as they fall on the deep, - The rhythmical notes adown tremblingly go - On the listening air, and as silently sleep - In the ocean of joys, where they melt as the snow. - - - - - IN THE ANGELS’ KEEP. - - - Let me not look on the dear, dead face, - I would not remember her so; - For her eyes are closed, and her hands are still, - And her lips can’t speak, you know! - - Let me remember her just as she lived, - And just as I’ll meet her above-- - With eyes that could talk and a touch that could soothe, - And a heart that was full of love. - - Let me remember her not as one dead, - But as one that has fallen asleep; - She will wake in the morning, I know, at my call, - Awake in the angels’ keep! - - - - - THOUGHT. - - _Thought alone is eternal._--YOUNG. - - - ’Tis the whisp’ring of angels, the brush of their wings; - ’Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay - To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings - And flings out its notes on life’s billowed bay. - - ’Tis the touch of Christ’s hand that upraiseth the dead; - ’Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of man;-- - The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed - And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran. - - Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave; - But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope, - It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave - And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope. - - - - - WHITE-ENTHRONED ABOVE ME. - - (ON A SMALL WHITE-ROSE BOUQUET PRESENTED BY A LADY AND PLACED - IN PALGRAVE’S “GOLDEN TREASURY,” OPPOSITE “THE SLEEPING - BEAUTY.”) - - - White roses, sweet white roses - Fair Leda smiles atween, - No soul your lily-light encloses - So pure as hers, I ween. - - Here lie and dream, sweet, pure white roses - That blessed the heart of June, - And ope the budding love that closes - Around her soul aboon. - - - - - THE LONE WAYSIDE WILD ROSE. - - - I passed along a wilding lane - Where weeds and straying flowers grew, - Where clover-blooming meadows threw - Sweet love upon the winds in vain. - - Lonely by the wayside wild - Where the earth all trodden lay, - There peeped a wild rose, one bright day, - And stretched its palms like a pleading child. - - Day after day, day after day - It drank of love from heaven and earth - And lifted itself from a timid birth - To a beautiful soul in sweet array. - - It breathed from out of its opening soul - The breath that heaven has given the rose, - The sweetest by far that mortal knows, - And drank sweet love from the night’s dew-bowl. - - The tint of the fleecy clouds of morn - Came out of the flushing tide of its heart, - And lay on its cheek with artless art-- - The fairest blush that ever was born. - - ’Twas when the rose was full in bloom - I passed along that wilding lane - When love upon the winds was vain, - The desert air its deathless tomb. - - I loved the flower and said, “Alas! - ’Tis sad to know such love must die, - Such sweetness with the mould must lie, - Such beauty into death must pass!” - - I plucked the flower from off its stem - And said, “Sweet Flower! Life were Death - Without thy beauty and thy breath-- - The heart must wither else for them.” - - I plucked the flower--blest wild rose!-- - I set it blooming in my heart, - And said, “Should my sweet rose depart - To-day--the night its dear life close, - - “The love it leaves shall ever live, - Shall ever grow, and bloom and bloom, - Shall go with me thro’ Death’s dark gloom, - And hope of glad reunion give.” - - The flower, blooming, lived and grew;-- - That sweet wild rose is blooming still; - Its beauties every corner fill - That life and love and heart e’er knew. - - And should my fond heart ever break, - That sweet wild rose would never die;-- - ’Twould spring from the mould where it might lie - And the fairest bloom immortal take! - - - - - TWENTY. - - - May the twenties yet triple, - And then add their half, - Still preserving the ripple - And ring of your laugh. - - And may every bright twinkle - That falls from your eye - Serve to smooth out each wrinkle, - The track of a sigh. - - When the twenties shall twinkle - And ten more shall run, - I hope every cute wink’ll - Still shine out with fun. - - Oh the triple of twenty - Plus none less than ten! - May you be the same dainty - Sweet girly-girl then! - - - - - BEAUTIFUL MAY. - - - Oh ’tis May, - Beautiful May, - Month of beautiful May, - Beautiful month of May. - - Wild flowers blooming, - Grasses growing, - Wild brooks flowing, - Pheasants booming-- - Oh ’tis May, - Beautiful May - Lovelier far than month of June, - Beautiful May! - And every day - Is putting the strings of life in tune. - - May-buds peep - At robins chattering - To their mates - And those asleep, - Always flattering - With nodding pates - And promises free - The farmer asnooze - That they will keep - From others the news - That cherries are in the tree. - - The playful dawn - Is after the moon, - And the moon is running away. - Oh the stars like sheep are all running away - After the moon, - Away from the dawn, - Away from the dawn of the month of May, - Away, away, away. - - With skip and play - They dance away - After the dizzy moon - That pales with the pallor of fright so soon - At the brightening sight, - Affright of the light - Of the morn of a lovelier month than June, - So soon, soon, soon. - - Oh sweet May, - Beautiful May - Thus brightens her face each day, - And lets the light of her tresses stray - Into each part - Of the earth’s dark heart - Where flashes like lashes from diamonds play - --Astray each day at play. - - The light from her eyes - In the spring’s emprise - Sinks deep in the soul of the sands; - And with glittering, flying hands - Every one - Of the sands doth run - And lift into life the clod from its bonds - That climbs to a soul like man’s. - - She breathes on the air, - And the sweet winds wear - Her blooms in their billowy hair, - And pour out their perfumes and nectars rare - Distilled in the cup - That the goddesses sup - For the beautiful dutiful May so fair, - So rare and fairy fair. - - She drinks of the stream, - And the glad waters gleam - With delight as they leap to her lips. - She creeps up the mountains and merrily sips - Of the fountains that spring - From the snows as they string - Up their bows for a shot at the lower rock-crypts - Where the sun like the dew-drop drips. - - She skims to the plain - And frightens the train - That the winter has left on guard. - She whistles her bird-notes soft and hard - And calls from retreat - The bickering feet - Of the green that the winter in prison has barred, - --Sweet, te-weet, wheat. - - - - - DEEP UNTO DEEP. - - A DOUBLE THRENODY. - - - Oh the bounding of the billows of the sea - Rolls the rhythm of their music unto me; - And a footstep that has fallen on the lea - Seems to echo from the boundless, soundless deep. - But the breaking of the billows--the billows as they leap, - Makes the silence of my sorrow with them weep; - While the echoes of the grottoes--the grottoes wildly start, - Ever throbbing to the music of my heart;-- - Throbbing to the threnode, - Rocking to the rhythm, - Moaning to the music of my heart,-- - Threnode throbbing ever, - Rhythm rocking ever, - Music moaning ever in my heart. - - Oh my Love is on the billows of the sea, - Sending messages along the waves to me; - And the ever-singing shells along the lea - With my longing heart a constant chorus keep. - But the breaking of the message--the message from the deep, - Makes the silence of my sorrow inly weep; - While the moaning shells intoning, intoning griefs impart - Ever sobbing to the silence of my heart;-- - Sobbing to the silence, - Intoning to the moaning, - Breaking to the breaking of my heart,-- - Silent sobbing ever, - Grief intoning ever, - Breaking, breaking ever in my heart. - - - - - A HUMPTY-DUMPTY IDIOTIC CHAP. - - - There was once a little humpty-dumpty idiotic chap, - Who had both a mug an’ muzzle most remarkable to see. - An’ he couldn’t do a solitary thing but grin an’ gap, - But he done that simply awful an’ he done it constantly. - His tater head was sorto’ meller like a punkin over-ripe - An’ his yaller face was puckered like a lemon with the gripe; - An’ his front teeth like stalites--or what you call ’em--always gave - To the cavity behind them the appearance of a cave,-- - Jist forever an’ forever from life’s earliest beginnin’ - Simply nachelly a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin an’ a-grinnin’. - - Well, you see, _he_ couldn’t help it, couldn’t help it not a bit, - ’Cause for some peculiar reason he was born jist that-a-way. - An’ if Nater marks a feller he had better jist submit, - ’Cause she wants that mark for somepm, an’ she’s goin to have it - stay. - Caint no doctor make a rose-bud of a busted-thistle mouth, - Nor he caint turn north a foot that’s got to growin’ sorto’ south. - Spect this chap inside him knowed it wa’n’t no earthly kind o’ use - To be squeezin’ on a lemon that didn’t have a bit o’ juice; - --Maybe ’lowed his ugly mug ’ould be a doin’ less of sinnin’ - If he’d leave it jist a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’. - - ’Course he didn’t reason on it, cause he didn’t have no sense; - But I kindo’ sorto’ reckon that he done like others do-- - Jist set down up where he’d clum on top o’ Nater’s ol worm-fence - An’ let the sun bile down onto him an’ soak him clean plum thro’ - an’ thro’ - While with busy boom an’ buzz the plunder’n’ bug an’ bumble-bee - Went a-nosin’ thro’ the clover where the rosy-posies be. - An’ with one eye squinted up an’ t’other squinted down plum shet, - Up on top the fence, I spect, twixt brute an’ human there he set, - An’ jist let the whirly-gigy world whirl off its spindle spinnin’ - While he joyed hisself a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’. - - _Hope_ he _did_ enjoy hisself, ’cause he didn’t have enough - Sense to know what trouble was,--he was a idiotic chap. - An’ he couldn’t tell to save him if a voice was soft or gruff - For he couldn’t _talk_, nor _hear_, nor--_nothin’_ only grin - an’ gap. - An’ his eyes that kept a winkin an’ a squintin up an’ down - Never let the glorious sunlight paint no picter in his crown. - Plum stone deef an’ dumb an’ blind--a hunch-backed idiot at that! - Oh ’t’ould ’most-a broke your heart, as mine, to see him sittin’ - flat - On the floor in sich an awful fix as he was dyin’ in an’ - Rockin back an’ forth, a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’. - - - - - GOOD-NIGHT. - - A SONG OF THE CLOSE OF LIFE. - - - _Infant._ - - Good-night, good-night!--the brightest day must fall, - The sweetest joys, alas! must fade the sight; - Sad Night shall weep her silent tears o’er all-- - Good-night, good-night, sweet babe, good-night. - - - _Child._ - - The day has kissed thy happy heart to sleep - And left thy lips apart in sweet delight; - But oh the Night, I know, must slowly creep-- - Good-night, good-night, my child, good-night. - - - _Youth._ - - Good-night, good-night!--thy care and day is done. - The stars thy camp, the Deity thy light, - Thy soldier hand and heart at rest sleep on,-- - Good-night, good-night, my boy, good-night! - - - _Man._ - - Or griefs or joys thy lot, the past be past!-- - The star of hope is on the mountain height, - For sun and life must sleep and rise at last,-- - Good-night, good-night, worn heart, good-night. - - - _All._ - - Good-night, Sad Heart, to Light and Darkness born! - The sun is sunk--but Stars and Hope are bright;-- - And all that sleep at night will wake at Morn!-- - Good-night, good-night, Dear Heart, good-night! - - - - - TO FANCY. - - - Light and gay - Flight away - Over the rolling sea, - Night and day - Bright my fay - Bringing sweet music to me. - - Deep in the sea - Leap with glee - Braiding the mermaiden’s hair; - Leap the sea, - Sweep to me, - Bearing her kisses rare. - - O my fay, - Row away - Out in a nautilus shell, - Glowingly, - Flowingly, - Its rhythmical story to tell. - - Greet the morn - Fleetly borne - Over the foam of the sea, - Meet the morn, - Sweet return - Bringing its beauties to me. - - Lie and dream - By the beam - Thrown from the rolling moon, - Lie and dream - Night its gleam - Asleep in some deep lagoon. - - Far enskyed - Star-like ride - Down in the doming deep, - Where the wide - Bar and tide - Croon to the moon asleep. - - - - - GOOD-NIGHT, MY LOVE. - - - Good-night, good-night! - Thy dreams to-night, - Thy dreams, thy silent dreams, - Be sweet as love, as chaste as light, - Thy dreams be sweet and deep. - - Oh dream, my Love, - And sleep, my Love, - While star-laced moon-light beams - Above so bright with love and light, - Good-night, good-night, my Love. - - - - - THROUGH REVERENT EYES. - - - To-night I saw her. Strange indeed - My faint heart should thus fail me;--strange - That after such transporting love - In me three days should work such change. - - Not more than three?--Nay, barely three; - And yet, within that raptured time - I’ve lived, it seems, a century - Of hope in Love’s own blissful clime. - - ’Tis strange, this love of mine, so strange; - So strange I fear sometimes I do - Not love, but only dream I love, - And sleep the mid-life watches through. - - How many, many is the time - I’ve looked upon some face, some form, - And felt the sudden thrill of some - Fair hand awake the passion-storm! - - But only momentary; and then - That old, old longing for the real - And soul-enlighted face of her - Whose image is my heart’s ideal. - - Ah yes! to-night as I sit and write - Sweet visions come before my eyes. - Sweet visions only! and like lights - Along the shore they fall and rise. - - Who are they? Friends of my happy days, - The friends of my childhood, boyhood, youth, - And later age. Yet none there are, - I fear, I ever loved in truth. - - I’ve often wondered what love is. - I’ve heard men speak of it,--ah yes! - I’ve heard fair women, too! but what - It is, I wonder did they guess? - - I’ve read of love; I’ve thought of love; - I’ve read and thought that in that hour - When love should truly come to one, - ’Twould come an all-possessing power; - - ’Twould smite upon the chord of self, - And break the faulty string in twain; - ’Twould touch a more melodious chord - And wake a glad, harmonious strain. - - And so I wonder what love is; - And if I ever knew before - A few short, happy days ago - How love can rise, and sing, and soar. - - Too sacred for my heart to hold, - To me a woman is divine-- - As far above me as the stars - That I adore because they shine. - - I can but stand and gaze above, - I can but worship and adore, - Nor dream that I could reach her height-- - I could but drag her down; no more. - - Yet other men have loved. Must I, - Must I alone throughout the night - Stand gazing at a star that shines - For me alone upon the mountain height? - - Ah yes! I fear me that all night - I’ll watch the silent waning star - Adoring and revering till - It sinks behind some rugged scar. - - I fear I do not love; I hold - The fairer sex too high, I fear; - And bowed with awe and humbleness, - Instead of loving I revere. - - Among the noisy human crowd, - I stand as stands the silent stone; - And like it, too, I dumbly pray - To whom I love, and inly moan. - - And thus it is my reverence brings - Me woe. As silent as the tomb, - My heart bowed down with sacred awe - Still wanders thro’ Love’s trackless dome. - - Men call me cold. Alas! could they - But feel the half, the tenth I feel, - Could they but look thro’ reverent eyes, - They might my sealed heart unseal. - - Too deep the mighty river flows; - Too deep the silent waters are; - I catch the image, not the form, - Embrace the vision, not the star. - - Can heart of man pluck down a star - And wear it on his breast? or dip - Its gleam from out the soundless sea - And press it to his loving lip? - - No more, no more indeed can I, - No more can I pluck down the love - That like an angel day and night - Still wanders through the dome above. - - Oh could I ask a woman’s love? - I could not, would not drag her down! - I could not gratify a thought - So selfish--wed her to a clown! - - No! no! my only hope must be - To rise above this selfish self; - To grow more pure in heart and hope, - To lose myself in her sweet self. - - To-night, I say, I saw her; her - Who wakes in me such thoughts as these; - I felt her hand as I sometimes feel - An angel’s hand in the dreamy breeze. - - She seemed far off--so far away! - And yet, I knew and saw her near: - I touched her hand; I heard her voice, - And oh the music thrilled my ear. - - When here alone within my room, - I feel most brave; but when before - The one I love, my heart grows faint, - I can but silently adore. - - I talk to her? Ah yes, sweet hours! - Tho’ every act and word I know - Must say my heart is full of love, - I dare not, can not tell her so. - - Some day, perhaps,--some bright, sweet day!-- - My tongue may tell her as my song - The struggle of my striving soul - To rise to her above the throng. - - Great God, lift up my failing soul, - And purify this heart of mine. - Oh lead me through the realms of love - With that unfailing hand of Thine. - - I ask nor wealth, nor fame, nor power; - I ask a pure and loving heart - That I may join that heart to hers - Forever nevermore to part. - - And oh then peace, peace, the peace of love - For that old, old longing; and the real - And soul-enlighted face of her, - The image of my heart’s ideal. - - - - - WHAT IS POETRY? - - -Proper conception and appreciation of the poetic, whether in objects -of nature or in the mirror of words reflecting the human heart, -presupposes a delicate and divinely wrought nature tuned to the touch -of the Maker’s hand. Only such a beauty-loving soul finds responsive -a chord to the soul of beauty that dwells in the bodying words of -poetry. The finer the soul, the finer the music. To possess this -light-receiving and radiant Divinity is to possess at once both the -highest attainment of human culture and aspiration and the greatest -gift of God. It is thus at the same time both a growing seed and the -seed’s growth. That is, the poetic soul is both a gift divine and -a cultivation of it consecrated to the Divine Giver. Or, in other -words, the poet is both born and made. _Poeta nascitur non fit_--the -poet is born, not made--is true in this sense and in no other; for -the feelings, the gifts of the poet, are the gifts of every human -soul in greater or less degree. Else the proverb is not true, and we -must say, _Poeta nascitur et fit_; which would, no doubt, be equally -misunderstood. But _Poeta nascitur non fit_ is true; and if, instead of -being translated literally, it is rendered in an explanatory way, it -means simply:--“The poet possesses the same faculties that others do; -but the poetic faculty in him at birth is more highly developed than -it is in others, and is consequently susceptible of a higher degree of -cultivation. If the poetic faculty is naturally slight or insignificant -at birth, no amount of cultivating and polishing can create, or make, -a poet of its possessor.” This is the ancient meaning, and the only -sensible meaning, the meaning accepted by all who understand the -subject. - -To see it from a different angle. The true poet has both genius -and talent--or rather, genius has the poet and compels the poet to -have talent. Genius is the divine gift; talent is the cultivation. -Genius--poetic genius--, the highest harmonious union of the feelings, -is the part of the poet that is born; talent, the ability to reveal -that genius, is the part that is cultivated, or made. Genius is power; -talent is skill. The man of poetic genius cannot help writing; the man -of poetic talent can help it, but won’t. That’s the main difference. - -If you can’t help writing, nine chances out of nine you are a poet, -and are unconscious of your great power from the simple fact that it -is natural to you. If you can help writing, don’t write; for you are -evidently no poet, though you may have talent, and may believe (very -likely will) from the unnaturalness of it that you are great. - -The genius which forces the poet to write is the same genius that is -ever reaching out of the poem and beckoning us upwards. Thus much for -the present as to what constitutes the poet. - -Now as to poetry. Though we cannot hope to arrive at the seat of its -mysterious fountain of inspiration and bind its hidden springs of -immortality, we shall nevertheless, in earnest search, by upward, -honest, toilsome flight, at least behold the beauty-embodying mountain -heights whence its rivers of eternal glory flow, and whither the soul -must ever soar to drink of its purest living waters;--waters that -purify mortality and reflect Divinity, and make the soul bathed in -them and drunken of them better know its own vastness, grandeur, and -divinity. - -Until the soul by this upward flight shall have beheld itself thus -divinely reflected in the immortal streams of poetry, it can never feel -and know its own vastness, its infinitude. Likewise, until it shall -have bathed in and drunk of these mighty purifying waters of goodness, -truth, and beauty, the soul can never know the divinity and immortality -of poetry. Thus, if the soul know not the one, it cannot know the -other; the two knowledges are reciprocal. - -It may be said æsthetically and as nearly scientifically as it can well -be said, that poetry is naturally rhythmical and metrical imaginative -language interpreting the Divine in the human heart. This defines at -once, as nearly as can well be defined in a single sentence, the Form -(or mechanism), the Spirit, and the Mission of poetry. - -Form we can define and anatomize, just as we can define and anatomize -the human body. The spirit of poetry we cannot define and anatomize, -just as we cannot define and anatomize the human soul. Form alone -cannot constitute a poem, just as body alone cannot constitute a man. -Spirit alone may constitute poetry (in the abstract) though not a -concrete poem, just as the soul alone may constitute life though not a -living man. Just as both body and soul are necessary to constitute a -man, so also both form and spirit are necessary to constitute any of -his visible art-creations, as a poem. - - - FORM. - -The requisites of form are rhythm and metre. The accidents of form are -rhyme (consonance), assonance, stanza, alliteration, onomatopœia, etc., -etc. - -Rhythm has to do with the kind of feet in a line, while metre has to do -with the number of feet in a line. Rhythm corresponds with the regular -rise and fall of the waves of the sea, each wave-length being counted -a poetic foot. Metre corresponds with the swell of the sea, composed -of several successive waves. Thus metre is, after all, a kind of -rhythm,--the larger ebb and flow of rhythm. - -The accidents of form, such as rhyme, stanza, alliteration, etc., -we find worthily and advantageously used in much true poetry, -as well as worthlessly used in the tawdry puppet-shows of mere -mechanicians;--those persons who, having nothing to say, yet attempting -to say something, mistake rhyme for sense, a tickling jingle for -meaning, their desire to create for the creative power. They do not -rightly read nor well heed the trite epigrammatic precept, “When you -have nothing to say, say it.” - -But these accidents of form, I say, are sometimes material aids to the -thought; indeed, always are when used not for their own sakes but for -the meaning’s sake. Notwithstanding this fact, many of our greatest -poems, such as Paradise Lost and others on the epic order, as well as -many not epic, lack these accidents either wholly or in part. - -On the other hand, rhythm and metre are found in all poetic forms, and -are the only two elements of the form of poetry that are thus found. -Hence, rhythm and metre are not only essentials but they are the only -essentials of form, and constitute the complete body in which the -spirit of poetry naturally and inevitably clothes itself. They are, -therefore, just as necessary to poetry in its concrete or visible forms -as the spirit is. - -But since rhythm and metre are thus essential to a poem, it is the -common custom to call anything poetry that has this external appearance -of the poetic. - -This is a misapplication of terms. There is so much trash masquerading -in the poetic garb that this misapplication inevitably throws ridicule -upon true poetry. - -Rhythm, when carried to excess and when used not for the meaning’s -sake, the feeling’s sake, but for the rhythm’s sake alone, becomes -simply jingle; quite invariably a rhyming jingle at that. - -Metre, in company with rhythm and rhyme, is often diverted from its -true purpose and used solely to jiggle some fact or some epigram into -the memory, as illustrated by “Thirty days,” etc., and by all other -didactic metrical arrangements, as mentioned farther on. - -But rhymes and jingles and metrical arrangements are not poetry. They -are simply members of the form, the dancing legs and arms of the -body, sometimes possessed of life with an indwelling guiding spirit, -and sometimes whittled out of wood and set in motion by an inspiring -string. These senseless puppets, or jumping-jacks, sometimes, indeed -often, tickle the mob by their lively antics; but the great final -judgment of humanity relegates them to the rubbish-heap and forgets -their ephemeral and unlovely existence. - -It is, I say, a misnomer to dignify such by the name of poetry. The -proper name is verse. Whatever is rhythmical and metrical, whether it -has any of the accidents of form or not, is verse. Hence, all poetry is -verse, but not all verse is poetry. Indeed, not one ten-thousandth part -of verse is poetry; for the requisite of verse is simply form,--the -body into which the spirit must enter ere it becomes poetry. To -illustrate,-- - - “Thirty days hath September, - April, June, and November,” etc., - -has the form of poetry without the slightest touch of the poetic -spirit; thus constituting verse, simple and pure. It requires no -penetration to perceive that it is not poetry, though I doubt not that -nine hundred ninety-nine out of every thousand have called that stanza -in the usual loose way “a verse of poetry.” - -But it is not only not poetry, but it is also not a verse, though it is -_verse_; for a verse is but one line of the poetic form, while _verse_ -is the form itself. It is not poetry because it has merely form without -spirit. As well call the dead body a man (which indeed we sometimes do -in the same loose way) as call such by the name of poetry. - -But the body of a man without the soul is a dead man; that is, not a -man at all. So also the body of one of his visible art-creations, as of -poetry, without the spirit, is dead art, a dead poem;--no poem at all. - -Is it not so? Only look at our thousands of dailies, weeklies, -monthlies, quarterlies, and whatnotlies, where millions of these -poetry-bodies lie buried, smelling too much of mortality; then turn to -the time-glorified tomes of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Homer, -Virgil, and their eternal co-endurers for a breath of heaven. Let this -be the final answer. - -Rhythm, it may be said (taking it beyond the realms of concrete -poetry), is the music of Nature. It is Nature’s natural expression, if -I may so speak. All her motions are rhythmical, have ripples and waves; -even at rest her forms lie in the rhythmic order. - -Wherever billows beat the crags, or ripples kiss the sands; wherever -winds go soughing through the pines, or zephyrs toss a curl; wherever -snows may drive to drifts, or wheat-fields billow green and gold; -wherever drifting clouds, or dreaming skies, or bordering trees are -hung dependent on the smooth lake’s waters; wherever birds may sing, -or flowers bloom, or rivers run; wherever thunders wake, or hills and -valleys sleep;--there is rhythm, there is music, there is Nature’s -perfect harmony. - -Nor is it different in man, Nature’s crown triumphant. In throes of -pain or woe’s distress; in joys that iris happy tears; in sorrow’s -mournful cadences; in laughter’s lilting melody; in peace and -bounteous plenty, or in war and woeful famine; in love or hate, or -life or death;--through all of man’s existence, there again is rhythm, -Passion’s only melody, the music of the soul. - -True, in the calms of life, although ’tis there, we little feel this -rhythm,--this adjusting process by which man inevitably seeks to put -the heart in tune while here for higher harmonies hereafter. But when -the soul’s deep feeling is aroused, then listen to its rhythmic ebb and -flow like gently wimpling waters or like the surging beat, beat, beat -upon the sands. - -Hear the lonesome cadences of sorrow crying up to heaven; listen to -the joyousness that tinkles through the melody of laughter; hark the -sharp, quick, fierce beat in the surge of righteous anger; hear the -tender, mellow music from the soothing lips of Love,--divine, immortal -Love--and dream of other worlds and better things as you listen thus -transported. - -When these passions of the soul would express themselves in words, -the words, too, fashioned by the spirit that enters them, must -inevitably move in rhythm, and, in the greater wave-lengths, fit -themselves to metre. This feeling, or passion, that enters rhythmic -words--that unswervingly seeks rhythm as the only form in which it -can express itself--is the spirit of poetry. Thus it is that poetry -comes about; thus it is that poetry is spontaneous and not the result -of long meditation; thus it is that poetry is the natural outlet of -highly-wrought or great feeling. - - - SPIRIT. - -As in man, so in all art of man, the soul within fashions the body -without. True beauty is soul-beauty; that beauty that is in the heart -and is felt by the heart, without which there can be no physical beauty. - -Whatever in the world is beautiful, is beautiful just in proportion -to the beauty of the soul that sees it. Thus if we would find beauty, -we must first have it. The white-flecked blue of the skies of June; -the wren or peewee pouring fourth its perfume-drunken melodies from -among the apple-blossoms; the stretch of plain or towering height -of mountain; the scenes of hill or valley, wood or meadow, lake or -river; the Apollo Belvedere; the great Transfiguration; Paradise -Lost;--nature’s various forms and reproductions--have no beauty to -the heart whose cavities are empty. But to the full soul, the soul of -beauty, they are perpetual springs of life, where Divinity is ever -mirrored forth; for the soul gives what it gets, and gets what it -gives, and the getting is proportioned to the giving. Give, and we get; -keep, and we lose. - -But what is it in an Apollo, a Transfiguration, a Paradise Lost that -feeds this soul-hunger; that possesses this beauty?--The marble of the -Apollo? Hard by lies the rough, unchiseled Parian marble; but it has -no beauty.--The painted canvas of the Transfiguration? Sitting before -it, there are yearly hundreds of canvases and brushes and paints and -paintings; but they lack the beauty.--The words, the rhythm, the metre, -the music of Paradise Lost? Millions of productions, from musty tomes -in the British Museum to the upper left-hand corner of the “patent -inside” of a newspaper, have all these; but no beauty. - -What then? That same indefinable something which in man we call -the soul, and in art, the spirit; that which the admiring soul -instinctively feels and recognizes. - -Had the sculptor never touched his chisel to the marble, nor the -painter his brush to the canvas, nor the poet his pen to the paper, -that same spirit, yet not bodied, would have existed within his own -soul, but never would have been beheld by others. To be seen by other -eyes, it must needs take on a visible body, a concrete form, in which -it shall dwell. - -Thus all forms of Nature and all forms of Art, whatsoever, are the -mere bodying expressions of the spirit that inhabits them. Form is -necessary, but only as a medium through which the spirit may reveal -itself visibly. - -The intuitive and unconscious recognition of this principle, that the -soul within fashions the body it inhabits,--the grandest principle of -all God’s great laws, the foundation of them all, illimitable as the -immortal Giver--is the door-way through which he who thus recognizes -must inevitably enter Nature and Art to enjoy the full communion of the -soul within, and to interpret the beauties of that soul’s divinity to -us. - -He who thus enters is possessed of genius. In other words, he has a -great soul and lives close to Nature’s heart. We of lesser genius, -or of less loving souls (for a great soul is one that loves greatly) -commune with the indwelling spirit less freely. If we approach Nature -or Art consciously and try to unlock some side-door by the key of the -intellect, we shall probably find only cast-off garments; nay, many of -us may find that the door will not open and we must content ourselves -with a peep through the key-hole. Indeed, do not the multitude behold -the elegant structures of Nature and Art wonderingly for but a moment, -without even so much as attempting the key-hole, and then plod on, -unconscious that there is an indwelling soul that has thus fashioned -its earthly home? - -This same great foundation-principle of Nature is likewise the -fundamental law of poetry and of all other art. For art, at best, is -nature wrought by man. What else can it be? It is fashioned by simply -a lesser Divinity, the soul of man, consequently less perfectly, and -follows the same law. Or better yet, art is nature wrought through the -instrumentality of man by the great Divinity that works in him. Art -is simply a name used to designate a specific manifestation or kind -of nature;--that kind that comes through man, and has, not life, but -spirit; not life, but the picture, the show, the mirrored image of -life: a sort of record of the soul, and a lamp for its future guidance. - -He who, by means of rhythmic words inspirited, can paint this picture, -represent this show, mirror this image of life, historicize this -record of the soul, light this lamp and hold it above the heads of the -trampling ages for the guidance of humanity, is the great poet. - -Just in proportion to the greatness of such a soul will be the spirit -that imbues his creations. It cannot create a new form unless it first -implants some germ from its own spiritual self. Not only must there -be the spirit as the prime essential of poetry, the soul within that -fashions the rhythmical and metrical form it inhabits, but that spirit -must partake of that divinity that is in every human heart;--that -divine flower, deep-rooted in the soil of God, sometimes blossoming to -an angel-image, sometimes painting the glories of heaven on its petals, -sometimes breathing its deepest-drawn perfumes up from its muse-beloved -blooms to the throne above. - -Would the soul create a statue, it must see “an angel in that marble” -ere it give the angel form; would it paint a picture, it must behold -within itself the transfiguration ere it live transfigured on the -canvas; would it write a poem, it must be a paradise of eternal love -and beauty ere it breathe immortal glory into words. - -It is this soul within that comes out of the maker of the statue, -the maker of the picture, the maker of the melody, the maker of the -poem, and enters his creations, that distinguishes true art from mere -mechanism of art. - -It is this same soul within that renders the artist, not a chiseler of -stone, a painter of canvas, a placer of notes, a rhymer of words, but a -maker, a creator, in his own lesser realm of nature. - -It is this same intangible soul, just within yet just beyond the touch -of our finger-tips as we reach out farther and farther into the dim -unknown, this same indefinable spirit of beauty, shining through the -form that it inhabits, permeating it inscrutably, that somehow passes -out of the poem into the heart of the admirer, then slips out of his -heart into the poem again, and so on and on, again and again, ever -lifting the admiring soul as the poem itself is lifted higher still and -ever higher. - - - MISSION. - -This practical age, “this nineteenth century with its knife and glass,” -ever botanizing and anatomizing, analyzing and scrutinizing in every -possible way, is constantly asking, “What is it good for?”; “Of what -use is it?” And whatever the knife and glass cannot explain to the -fact-loving intellect; whatever the age cannot thus analyze and convert -into ready cash or daily bread, it is wont to relegate to the Lethean -Limbo of Uselessness.--As if the mind of man were constituted of -intellect, pocket, and stomach, and whatever did not go to the filling -of these were useless. - -It is well and just and right, indeed, that any age should thus -inquire, especially as to material things, so long as it does not dwarf -other faculties by giving all sustenance to one. To ask concerning -poetry, “What is it good for?”, “Of what use is it?”, is simply to ask -in a different form, “What is the soul good for?”; “Of what use is a -God!” There is nothing in God’s universe that does not have utility. - -But to examine specifically and logically, and thus to discover -somewhat of the mission, the utility of poetry. - -In order to do this, we must naturally refer to the human mind, since -thence poetry is brought forth and there it is perceived. - -There are three great divisions of the mind; namely, Intellect, -Sensibilities, or Feelings, and Will. - -The intellect is that power of the mind by which we think and know. The -sensibilities, or feelings, constitute that power of the mind by which -we feel. The will is that power of the mind by which we resolve to do -or not to do. These explanations are sufficient for our present purpose. - -Therefore, whatever furnishes food for the intellect, the knowing-power -of the mind, must be of the nature of knowledge, didactic. Whatever -ministers to the feelings must waken emotion. Whatever gives action to -the will must rouse resolution. - -All literature is for the mind. But since there are three departments -of the mind, and since literature is produced by and for the mind, -there must naturally be three divisions of literature that each -mental power may receive sustenance. That is, there should be that -literature for the intellect in which knowledge predominates. For -the sensibilities, there should be that literature in which feeling, -emotion, is the primary and essential element. For the will, there -should be that literature that has for its chief end the rousing of -resolution. - -On examination of the literary products of the world, we find that -this philosophy is sustained. For the intellect, we have treatises (as -on the sciences, mathematics, etc.), histories, biographies, novels, -romances, essays, etc., etc. The primary object of these is to furnish -knowledge; to satisfy the intellect. They are in the highest sense -didactic, although, of course, just as the literature for each faculty -does, they incidentally furnish some food for the other powers. - -This intellective literature is the kind that is most largely -cultivated at the present. In fact, it is cultivated almost to the -exclusion of the other two. - -For the will, we have sermons, lectures, orations, speeches, addresses, -harangues, etc.; a class of literature that is small when compared with -the preceding. These two departments of the mind monopolize the whole -domain of prose. - -That other department of literature, in which feeling is the dominating -and pervading principle, must, by its very nature, act upon that same -power of the mind that produced it; namely, the sensibilities. - -Poetry is the literature of feeling, and consequently finds its -province here. It is the mission of poetry, therefore, as suggested -by the latter part of the definition, to minister to the feelings, to -interpret the Divine in the human heart. It is this that all writers on -the subject and that all poets mean when they say it is the mission of -poetry to give pleasure. - -But what shall be the limit of that word “pleasure”? Herein lies the -chief cause of great differences of opinion, especially with those who -hold that there is such a thing as didactic poetry. Or rather, what -is the true meaning of “pleasure” as thus used? The very essence of -pleasure, as opposed to pain, is that it gratify some emotion and set -it at perfect rest. - -What emotions when gratified are at perfect rest? The answer at once -forces itself upon us, only the better emotions. That poetry does -minister to and satisfy the higher and nobler feelings, and that what -does not do this is not poetry, even the meanest heart that it touches -fully knows. - -The attempted gratification of hate, or of any desire whatsoever to -give pain to any one, as illustrated in Pope’s _Dunciad_, Dryden’s -_Absalom and Achitophel_, Butler’s _Hudibras_, Byron’s _English Bards -and Scotch Reviewers_, and all such, never sets the mind of the writer -at rest, nor gives enjoyment to the reader. Indeed, who now ever reads -these, the world’s greatest illustrations of witty bitterness and -venom, couched in verse and unjustifiably designated as poetry? - -These are accounted “great works.” But who, let me ask, ever reads any -of these “great works,” or ever heard of them, except in some text on -Literature? Or, having read them, who loves them, or their authors for -having written them? None. No, not one. - -On the other hand, who has not read some of the noblest works of -Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Tennyson, Longfellow, Bryant, Lowell, -Whittier, Holmes? And who does not feel nobler for having read, and who -does not hold these authors shrined in his heart of hearts for having -written? Is not this proof enough that it is the mission of poetry to -minister only to the higher emotions? - -After all, hate is merely the negative of love; simply the absence of -the better emotion, a void, an ache, a pain. All attempts to gratify -it only make it stronger--or rather drive the better emotion farther -away--as illustrated by the cases of Pope, Dryden, Byron, and their -fellows in revenge and bitterness wherever we find them. No one ever -felt better or nobler or happier for gratifying a hate, for doing -a bad deed, or for giving pain to a fellow-mortal’s feelings. The -ever-accusing conscience, if he but listen, will never permit him to -say in his heart that such gratification has given him pleasure. - -If, then, it is the mission of poetry to give pleasure, no matter -whether its interpretation of the Divine in the human heart be by tears -or by laughter, its ministration necessarily must be to the immortal -part of man. - -In the light of all this, therefore, without further argument, it is -clear and conclusive that all verse that is sarcastic, satiric, etc., -such as that of Swift, Butler, Pope, Gay, Prior, and their hosts, is -not poetry. - -But what of the didactic? Whatever has the primary object of teaching -delivers its treasures to the keeping of the intellect. If, therefore, -verse aims primarily to teach, but ministers to the sensibilities only -incidentally, it is not true poetry. Poetry does not teach nor preach -nor argue nor discuss. Those are the provinces of prose. Poems and -roses must not teach; they must bloom. Their breath delights us, their -suggestions, their reflections of a Divinity that is above them, lifts -us--God knows why! The cry of pain, the romping laugh of children at -play, the pathos of death, the touch of the hand or the lips of the -one we love needs no argument to fill the heart with uncontrollable -emotion. These are the sweetest of the poet’s themes, and he has but -to reveal them without argument as they are experienced in the heart. -Argument kills them. Just in proportion to the didactic character of -verse the path of poetry is departed from, and the realm of prose -invaded. You cannot find a solitary purely didactic piece of verse the -meaning of which could not be better expressed in prose. Not so with -true poetry. That cannot be expressed in any other way. - -The most illustrious types of the didactic are to be found in the -“Artificial School,” at the head of which stands Pope. When we cut out -the satiric and the sarcastic and all ill-feeling verse, as we see we -must, and then the didactic, as we are forced by reason and logic to -do, how much real poetry do we have left in this “School” so well named -“Artificial”? How much is there left that makes the heart feel larger, -nobler, better, and gives it new fountains of life? Only a rare gem -now and then in the form of a single felicitous line or happily wedded -couplet. Then, when we cut this same kind of verse out of the whole -literature of the world, and also that other kind, already spoken of at -length, in which there is merely spiritless poetic form as its chief -element, how much real poetry and how many real poets does the world -possess? Comparatively, only a few poets, the world’s great, and a few -of their works--those that have already stood the test of time and that -still stand the only true test of good literature, that it inspires the -heart with noble feelings and lofty purposes--can be placed in the list. - -But enough on the kinds of verse. - -Another question concerning pleasure arising from poetry presents -itself. “Violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph -die.” The poetic, by its very nature, is violent. Consequently, the -mind cannot long imbibe its intoxicating draughts. A little at a -time is exhilarating and invigorating; but an over-dose deadens the -sensibilities, and often creates a serious dislike for the poetic and a -consequent unconscious restlessness of longing for the satisfaction of -the higher emotions that prose can never furnish. - -The mind cannot long endure extreme exertion, just as the body cannot. -Poetry requires extreme exertion of the sensibilities, consequently -its duration should be short that its full delight and pleasure may be -enjoyed. Since this is so, every poem, by the very nature of the mind, -must be brief. Who would live in a conservatory of roses where their -sweet scent, most delightful at first breath, soon becomes sickening? -Or who would hold even one of those odorous blooms to the nose for -long? Who, on the other hand, does not delight in an occasional sip of -the scent of a bursting rose-bud? And who does not find new delight at -each successive draught, and regret that the petals that breathe this -odor for us, alas! must fade and fall? - -I believe most profoundly with Poe that, from the standpoint of the -mind that produces and the mind that perceives and enjoys it, there is -no such thing as a long poem. I shall go farther, and say, not only -that a poem must be short, but that it must be lyrical. This gets us -back to nature. Historically the first literature of every nation is -poetry, and that poetry is invariably lyrical; indeed, even inevitably -so. In every nation, we find it is many centuries before these lyrics -of the nation are gathered up and finally strung on the thread of -narrative, thus making the Epic. From the lyric, all imaginable forms -have been brought forth by ingenious poets of later day. The bard -of simple days lived, not close to nature’s intellect, but close to -nature’s heart. Burns was the best poet of modern days, because he did -the same; consequently, he is always lyrical when he is natural. - -Shall we then say that the Æneid, the Odyssey, the Iliad, the -Canterbury Tales, the Faery Queen, or Paradise Lost is each one poem? -Viewed as I have just remarked, and that (in its relation to the mind) -is the only true way to view a poem, none of these is a single poem. -Each is made up of a number of poems--gems strung on the thread of a -common subject;--roses in a common conservatory. - -Indeed, the whole of Homer is simply a collection of a great number -of short poems--lyrics, indeed, they were--sung by many authors for -centuries, and finally gathered up and pieced together to form books -and volumes. Each one of the Canterbury Tales contains many poems, -strung together to form one necklace of jewels. - -I ask any one to sit down and read any of these great and wonderful -works continuously one day, as he might prose, and comprehend what he -is reading. Not even one book of Paradise Lost can be _read_ (in the -true sense of that word) at a single sitting. There are too many poems -in it, and the consequent demands upon the mind are too great for that. -Possibly this very fact had somewhat to do with calling forth the -unjust remark from Waller concerning that great epic, “If its length be -not considered as a merit it hath no other.” - -Since a poem must be brief, naturally, and for the same cause, it -should be read judiciously and at intervals, if it is to be appreciated -and enjoyed, just as the rose must be smelled only occasionally. We -cannot read poetry as we can prose; it won’t let us. By their very -natures they demand a different manner of reading. One can read prose -continuously, hour after hour, without seriously wearying the mind, -for the simple reason that, in prose, thought is not condensed, but -is spread through a long series of sentences. Moreover, the thought -is not, as a rule, simply suggested, but is fully expressed, leaving -the mind in a comparative state of passive receptivity, with but -little active labor to perform in order to comprehend the meaning. -On the other hand, poetry always expresses thought in condensed form -and suggests many fold more than it expresses. Consequently, a single -stanza or even a single line may sometimes require as much attention -for the full comprehension of its meaning and suggestion, as a whole -page of ordinary prose. - -We must plant the poem in the heart and give it time to grow, as we -plant the flower-seeds in the soil. Finally, as the growing flower -bursts into bloom, so must the poem blossom from the heart into its -full perfection and beauty. - -Fully to appreciate that flower’s beauty, it must not be dissected and -analyzed by glass and scalpel. Did Burns go botanizing the daisy? Need -we then go botanizing these flowers and blossoms of the soul of man? He -who does it tries to force the intellect to do what the emotive nature, -the beauty-loving part of man, alone can do. There is an intellectual -delight in botanizing and in picking to pieces and analyzing the -gathered specimens, but it is not that sweet, soul-inspiring pleasure -born of the love of the beautiful that the heart alone can feel. He who -botanizes the beautiful can never know in his head the supreme pleasure -that he who loves the simple daisy too well to turn it under the sod -feels in his heart. - -Poetry is indeed immortal and divine. It is the breath of heaven in -the nostrils of man, the divinity of the human soul, the heart in full -flower and bloom. To an honest, earnest, sincere soul, it is the wonder -of the age, as it has ever been the wonder of all ages, that “men -endowed with highest gifts, the vision and the faculty divine,” being -divinely appointed as poet-priest of the Almighty, should pander to the -prurient taste of a so-called practical public;--that they should sell -the divinity within them for a strip of royal purple; for a salve to an -itching palm;--that they should barter immortality for a glitter-jingle. - -But how shall this consummate artist not fall into the corruptions -that beset him and his art divine? Here are the driveling jinglers, -verse-makers, poetasters all about him, with their rattling, -rollicking, banging tin-panery, loudly applauded by a rough-and-ready -guffawing public; a “practical” public that loudly clamors for _sense_, -_fact_,--and then drops another penny into the chapeaux of these -venders of cheap jewelry for more of their applauded cheap sentiment -and glittering platitudes, and jingling chains and necklaces, and -rings, and things, whose brightness wears off in their mental pockets -before the wife or sweetheart is gladdened by a glimpse of its -“practical” glitter! - -The great, true poet, he who alone is interpreter of the immortal in -the mortal, the invisible in the visible by means of words, never asks -how to avoid these corruptions. He does it. He despises, hates, abhors -them. He does it, too, by obeying that Divinity within him. Obedient -to that call, he walks majestically through this motley crowd;--aye, -through this sometimes maudlin, jeering crowd that throw stones at him -and mentally would crucify him!--and sets some stream of Beauty and -Glory flowing through the hearts of men, forever to wash away these -corruptions and stagnations of the human soul. Aye, truly! he asks not -how, but teaches us how. Was it not so with those old Divine Writers, -our highest type of poets, whose inspirations make the one Immortal -Book? So shall it ever be. ’Tis the Divine Law. - -Such a poet, interpreting nature and mirroring Divinity, and thus -idealizing life that the seeing, aspiring soul may attain nearer its -illimitable possibilities, we call an original poet, a genius. He is -never a “popular” poet, as that term is used, but he is quite generally -unpopular. Popular in the sense of time-enduring he is by that same -Divine Law that brings him into existence. His soul will inevitably -have some greatness in common with other great souls. These will rescue -him and commend him to an increasing posterity; and so on and on, -touching more and more souls, and thus seeming to grow ever better and -better, though in reality he remains ever unchanged, while the souls he -touches are the ones that ever strive to his greater height, and draw -up numbers with them. - -Thus does he whom an unappreciating, small-souled mob would have -crucified, become immortal through the reciprocal divinity that is -in himself and in the heart of humanity. Thus does, thus must, this -poet-genius create--call into activity--the taste that must make him -time-enduring. This is the penalty of genius and greatness--to suffer, -and then triumphantly to endure forever in the hearts of men. Who would -he were not a genius? Who would he were? In proof of all this, witness -Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, not to speak of all the greatest Great. - -I love that unswerving poetic genius who, in the face of taunts and -revilings and sneers, still is obedient to that sublime divinity within -him; who, conscious of his own soul’s illimitable vastness, must -inevitably write for that soul’s satisfaction, and thus write, not for -the present generation, but for posterity; and who, when he “wraps -the drapery of his couch about him,” having obeyed the divine voice -within him even to his latest breath, finally triumphs over all sneers -and taunts and jeers, triumphs even over death, and, though dead, -triumphantly lives in immortal words that still speak to us more and -more divinely through the trumpet-soul of the more and more divine ages. - -Such a poet, I say, must create the taste that will make him -time-enduring. In other words, this true poet, this genius (else he -were no genius at all), must see some relation of soul to soul not -ordinarily seen, and never at all seen in exactly the same way, and -so express that relation in words that humanity can but recognize it -from the very fact of its commonness, its universality. Such a poet -never follows public opinion, in the narrow sense of the opinion of a -transitory present; but through great trials and suffering and much -enduring generally, he leads it, or creates it rather, and develops it -into that broader, truer public opinion,--humanity’s opinion; the only -opinion, I should say, that is equal to that of a great soul. - -The great never follow, but ever lead. They never pander to a perverted -public taste, but follow their own convictions; and thus following the -guiding power within them, they lead others in the same path. Thus -drawn onwards and upwards by that link which binds man unto God, and -thus leading humanity aright, they instinctively obey the teachings of -Him, the Master, who “came not to be ministered unto, but to minister”; -for they follow in His footsteps by upward leading and by thus greatly -and divinely serving mankind. - -In a general way, I may say of poets that there are two classes:--the -introspective, or those whose souls, ever standing in the presence of -the Divinity within them, hear the calls of other souls and the mighty -voice of God; and hearing, obey;--the extrospective, or those whose -souls, not less divine, but less conscious, perhaps, of that Divinity, -unconsciously perceive the manifold relations in external nature, and -through the universal spirit of nature none the less distinctly hear -that same Almighty Voice. We shall hardly find a poet in whom one -of these characteristics exists to the exclusion of the other; but -we shall find that in many cases one characteristic or the other is -dominant. For example, Browning is one of our best representatives -of the introspective, and Wordsworth of the extrospective; while -Shakespeare is the highest type of the perfect union of the two. Both -classes obey the same voice, and though ministering through different -sources, have the same mission to perform, the uplifting and purifying -of the human soul. - -Indeed, whatever does not have this mission is not true poetry. It is -often said that that literature is best which has stood the test of -time. Not so, if by that is meant simply that the literature shall -have lived long; for both good and bad live. The true test is that it -betters man’s estate, and ennobles his heart. If a poem inspires the -heart with nobler feelings and greater love, then it is a good poem. -This is the crucial, the only true test. - -There is no act of the human mind that is not controlled by the -feelings. When this is comprehended and when, at the same time, it -is perceived to what an extent poetry ministers to the feelings, the -utility of poetry will be better appreciated. Poetry thus ministering -to the controlling forces of life, is a guide and corrective of life; -a guide in that it is “a representation of life” (as Alfred Austin has -it), the experiences of the hearts of men; a corrective in that it is -“a criticism of life” (as Matthew Arnold says), an idealization that, -by uplifting, corrects the heart that else would droop. Austin thinks -his idea opposes Arnold’s. It does not. Each simply looks at one side; -each takes a different angle. Both are correct so far as they go. For -poetry is the heart’s history. It is also the ever present attempt, in -the light of that guiding lamp, to the making of a better history. - -This, indeed, makes it philosophy. For what else does philosophy do? -The poet is ever a philosopher. Is not poetry philosophy teaching by -experience? It does not teach by precept, it is not didactic; that -is the province of prose; but it mirrors the human heart and reveals -its experiences. Nine hundred ninety-nine people shape their lives -by experience where one shapes his by rule and thumb. One rose of -experience with its warning thorns has more of humanity and guidance -in it than all the tangle-woods of teaching. The hand must follow the -heart. If the heart be right the hand can never go wrong. - -He who would be an immortal poet must have a great and sympathizing -heart; a heart that laughs and weeps, and most of all, a heart that -loves. Were I asked the one essential of the poet, that essential -which includes all minor requisites, I should answer, Love. “A Poet -without Love,” says Carlyle, “were a physical and a metaphysical -impossibility.” It is the dominating element of all great poets. What -poet is greater, or what one has loved more deeply than Burns? - -Love often reveals itself in sorrow and in humor. Though the poet need -not be a humorist, must not be at all times, as the term is used, it -is nevertheless essential that he have a lively appreciation of the -ludicrous, lest he fall into grave errors of thought and expression. -But the humor must not be the all-pervading element of his poetry; it -should be simply a check, a guide, or sometimes a spur. A keen sense -of humor should be to him the lash that whips thought out of its -self-constituted morbid glooms, in which it appears ridiculous, into -a lively harmony with things as they really are to the hearts of men. -It were, indeed, a nice question to determine how far the grave or -the humorous should enter poetic composition to the exclusion of the -other. Certainly the most felicitous poetry is not all rain nor all -shine, but the iris of Ulloa struck out of the depths of tears by the -happy, hopeful shine of laughter. - -But if the poet laugh, he must also love; for he laughs because he -loves. This is the divine law. The man who hates never laughs; he may -mock. Well may we ponder that. Indeed, tears and laughter, sometimes -blended, are but forms of love. If laughter is music, certainly love, -that divine gift in the human heart, love of the good, the beautiful, -and the true, love of home, of country, of mankind, of God, or of -a beautiful image of God, the one who is the heart’s ideal, divine -immortal love, is perfect harmony. If the poet’s theme is of the good, -the beautiful, and the true, so must his love be. If these dwell not in -his heart, he shall search the world and the ages through and not find -them; and if love dwell not there with them, his themes shall never -touch our hearts. - -But the poet, to be appreciated, is not the only one that must possess -these qualities. It is the beauty and the love in the soul of him who -is touched by the statue, the painting, the melody, the poem, that -makes it beautiful to him. It is thus that we help the poet make the -poem. Love makes poets of us all. - -With our hearts thus tuned to the touch of the Maker’s hand, we may -often hold sweet communion with our poet-friends whose love still -reaches out to us through the mists of ages and beckons us to the -Valhalla of the happy. We may stand alone in the stern, inquisitorial -presence of self under the eye of Almighty God, and think thoughts our -tongues can never tell. - -Strolling arm in arm with good Dan Chaucer as - - “... fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright - That all the orient laugheth of the light,” - -we may meet and join company with immortal Shakespeare, where - - “... the morn, in russet mantle clad, - Walks o’er the dew of yond high eastern hill”; - -and then with them both we may pass down the slope to the sea-shore -where we clasp hands with Laureate Tennyson and, as we listen to the -_break, break, break_ upon the sands, say in our hearts with him, - - “And I would that my tongue could utter - The thoughts that arise in me.” - -With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and rise to the greatest -heights, and stand with him at last in a Paradise regained. With Dryden -we may shout from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song to -the battling brave below, - - “If the world be worth thy winning, - Think, oh think it worth enjoying”; - -and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled valleys of the soul -of Gray, - - “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” - -With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest good of which we -are capable, we may often question, - - “What, my soul, was thy errand here?” - -Listening to the Preacher Kingsley, we may learn to - - “Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; - And so, make life and death and that vast forever - One grand, sweet song.” - -In our sadder moods we may, with Cowper, look across the dark, -Cimmerian tide and recall the face and the kiss and the touch of a -mother gone. In our gayer hours, with Burns we may gather sweet field -flowers and garland them in love; and, whether in field or shop or -kirk, learn somewhat - - “To see oursels as others see us.” - -With Wordsworth, receiving those faint intimations of immortality from -recollections of early childhood, we may realize - - “That there has passed away a glory from the earth.” - -With Lowell we may feel that - - “Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, - We Sinais climb and know it not.” - -If in the pursuit of life we shall have been drawn onwards by that -divine link called conscience; if we shall have heeded the advice to -the Divinity within us, - - “... To thine own self be true; - And it must follow as the night the day - Thou canst not then be false to any man”; - -if within us daily we shall have said with dear old Dr. Oliver Wendell -Holmes, - - “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, - As the swift seasons roll! - Leave thy low-vaulted past! - 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”; - -if we shall have done all this, I say, and followed God: then, when at -last with white-haired Bryant each of us - - “lies down to pleasant dreams,” - -the Sun shall go down with a golden halo of glory; Beauty, eternal -Beauty, wedded to immortal Love, shall reign forever in the heart; - - “And the night shall be filled with music; - And the cares that infest the day - Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, - And as silently steal away.” - - - - - USELESS? - - - Flowers are poetry; poetry, flowers: - Each is a clod of earth in bloom. - Useful? Aye, to the heart!--to illume - The rain-drop drip from the wing of the hours. - - Both are the love of the great dear God - Set in the sod of the new child-earth, - Set in the heart at the earth-child’s birth, - Soul of the clay, and bloom of the clod. - - Flowers and poetry--blossoms of Love - Sweetest and purest the heart can know, - Breathing their perfumes up from below, - Lifting us back to the God above. - - - - - A MORTAL. - - - Do the goddesses, I wonder, - Ever come to mortal earth, - Ever throw a wild enchantment - Round the heart of mortal birth? - - Does the goddess Venus wander - Ever from her realms above, - Liveried in the rarest raiment - Stolen from the courts of Love? - - Are _her_ eyes of witching azure, - Curtained o’er with rosy light; - And a golden sunset halo - Round a smiling brow of white? - - Oh I wonder if the roses - Ever blush upon _her_ cheeks - When the scented kiss of morning - For the rarest flower seeks. - - Ah, ye purest gems of ocean, - Set in ruby rays serene, - Does your light fall down in worship - When those pearl-dight lips are seen? - - Aye, I wonder if the heavens - And the flowers of the earth, - As they smile upon each other, - Have the hundredth of her worth? - - Do the ripples of the zephyr, - Or the waves to music wed - Have the poetry of motion - That attends her airy tread? - - Do the Orphic orbs of æther, - With a lyric hand divine, - Draw the wandering planets round them - As her words this heart of mine? - - Surely, surely not a goddess, - ’Tis a mortal I have seen; - Never goddess wore such features, - Never goddess such of mien. - - She’s the rarest of the fairest, - She’s the light of every eye; - She’s the smile of earth and ocean - And the glory of the sky. - - Hers the lid with golden lashes - Raised above the Morning’s eye; - Hers the smile of wave and flower - Caught from out the blushing sky. - - Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset, - And her eyes the stars of night; - Opening dawn, her lips half parted, - Laced with gleams of iv’ry light. - - Lydian music in her being - An enchanted spirit dwells, - Caught from out the hands of angels, - Hands that swing the hallowed bells. - - Love--the purest love of heaven-- - Had its birth upon her lips;-- - E’en the flowers toss her kisses - From their tiny finger-tips. - - Oh the winds enfold the mountains - And the seas draw down the stars; - Still they sigh and murmur ever, - “Never love so pure as hers.” - - And the notes forever rising - To the planetary seas - Echo back in spheric music, - “Never mortals loved as these.” - - * * * * * - - Heart to heart I clasped my Darling, - Drew her down from angel hands, - With my head in God’s own presence, - And my feet upon the sands.-- - - Drew her to me from the angels, - As the silent summer night - Sweetest scent of all the roses - To its loving bosom might. - - Day by day her sister angels - Sing to me her rarest worth; - For she’s drawing me toward heaven - As I drew her down to earth. - - - - - TO MORPHEUS. - - - Like the star - That afar - Throws its silver-wrought beams - As it peacefully dreams - On the cradle-swung crest - Of the billows of blue, - Oh on thy breast - So let me rest, - Oh rest, - Rest, - Till the kiss of the morning dew. - - - - - A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS. - - - Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see,-- - The vocal air, the blooming clod; - But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me, - So farther earth, so nearer God. - - - - - TO THEE ABOVE. - - - Up from the gray of earth, - Over the hills of blue, - Out in the purpling west, - I come, my love, to you. - - Oh not in the busy marts - Nor yet in the crowded throng; - No, not ’neath the parlor lights - Does my heart forget its song. - - But bound by the fetters there, - I cannot choose but stay; - Like a restive steed bound fast, - I fret the hours away. - - ’Tis only when alone - I find my soul at rest; - ’Tis then I rise to thee - Amid the purpling west. - - And sitting thus this eve - Atop my house’s tower, - I send my soul in love - To dwell with thee this hour. - - Oh ever thus I stand, - A crag ’mid noisy crowds,-- - My feet upon the sands, - My head amid the clouds. - - My heart to all is cold - Save but to thee, Sweet Heart! - For Death my requiem tolled - When thou and I didst part. - - I know nor rest nor peace, - I find nor life nor love - Save but the silent hour - I fly to thee above. - - - - - CHORUS. - - (By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads.) - - - Tripping away, - Blithesome and gay, - Light as the ether above, - Breathing our words - Sweet as the birds, - Sing we the power of love. - - Love in its power - Bindeth the flower - Unto the common clod, - Lifting the low - Out of its woe - Up to the bosom of God. - - Love in its might - Bindeth the light - Unto the shadow of day, - Flushing the clouds - Whitened like shrouds - Red with the last dying ray. - - Love in its dream - Bindeth the stream - Unto the channels of earth, - Lifting the trees - Kissed by the breeze - Into a purer birth. - - Heart unto heart - Never to part - Joining the gentle and strong, - Love’s dreaming lyre - Lifts ever higher - Finding responsive a song. - - Every one, - Happy or lone, - Deep in the hills of the soul - Sometime shall find - Horn that shall wind - Echoes that endless shall roll. - - - - - THE LURLEI. - - - Only a moment! The Lurlei staid - Only a moment with me: - “Only a moment! I’ll sell,” I said, - “Only a moment to thee.” - - Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay - Only a moment of time, - Selling the flowers of the valley gray, - Buying the mountain-top’s rime. - - Only a moment! The Lurlei smiled; - “Sell me thy birth-right,” she saith. - Oh, and I sold it, innocent child, - Buying the pottage of death! - - “’Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear.” - She layeth her hand on my head. - I cannot choose but heed as I hear; - She giveth me lust in its stead. - - “Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time, - I shall reward thee right well.” - She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb, - She hath me under her spell. - - “Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health, - Fair is thy long brown hair; - Here I give premature age for thy wealth, - Here the pure snows thou must wear.” - - “Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth.” - She holdeth my will at command; - She bendeth my form in age without ruth, - Placeth a staff in my hand. - - “Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years; - I kiss thee a withering curse: - Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of tears, - Tears of eternal remorse.” - - “Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone, - Something to quiet my soul.” - Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone, - Clouds of remorse from me roll. - - “Purity hath not a place in the heart - Reft of all conscience,” Lurlei: - Legions of Pleasures around me upstart, - Licentiousness pointing the way. - - “Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:” - She placeth a curse in mine eye; - “Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end:” - She speareth my soul with the lie. - - “The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:” - Night, sable-robed, _doth_ upstart; - “Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:” - Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart. - - Only a moment I bartered with her, - Only a moment of time, - Selling the good, the true, and the pure, - Buying the glitter of crime! - - I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure, - That moment _has_ lengthened to years: - I sold her my soul for bliss without measure, - I bought all Eternity’s tears! - - - _L’Envoy._ - - The Lurlei sits on the mountain’s top, - Combing her golden hair; - Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop - Who pass down the river there. - - - - - TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS. - - - We are having atrocious _tough wether_, - (To hear the _sheep-tenders_ tell it) - But they are responsible for it - If that is the way they spell it. - - - - - TO MISS ----. - - - Upon that radiant brow of thine - May love and truth forever shine, - Like stars that light the welkin dome - And tint the billowy ocean’s foam. - - Upon life’s desert, wild and broad, - Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road - Which leads us on to heaven above - Where all is joy and peace and love. - - Around thy soul so pure and white - May Heaven shed celestial light, - Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er, - And waft thee to its golden shore. - - [Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper - that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my - table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of - the willows.] - - - - - SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP. - - A KYRIELLE. - - - Dear, your heart is tired to-night, - And the waning watches creep; - All too soon the morn will come,-- - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - While the stars in heaven dream - And the angels vigils keep, - Lay your head upon my arm, - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - Yes, I know that fevered care - Trembles on your troubled lip; - Dreams of love will heal the heart,-- - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - Let your heart forget to pain, - And your eyes forget to weep; - Dream of home, and hope, and love, - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - Heavy drags the wounded hour - Over Sorrow’s restless deep, - Heaving up the tide of tears,-- - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - Oh the heaving, stifling sigh - Through the night its pain will keep - For the pillow waking prest,-- - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - With a touch like woman’s own, - Touch of Love’s own finger-tip, - I will smooth your throbbing brow,-- - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - Gently I will soothe your heart - And still your restless pulse’s leap; - Lay your head upon my arm, - Shut your eyes and go to sleep. - - - - - BROWNING. - - (BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.) - - - Browning may be a right smart of a poet, - Some thinks him so; - But if he is he’s not anxious to show it, - ’R else _I_ don’t _know_. - - Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em - With lots of soul; - Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em - Jist fill you full. - - I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles - His honey in straw, - An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles - In styles all raw. - - Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”: - The sum an’ gross; - Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,--Stop frownin’! - Take ’nother dose! - - My advice, you say?--Let Browning go pipin’ - In an ivy leaf; - Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’, - This life’s too brief. - - - - - MADRIGAL. - - - Darling, here within this lyric, - Free from other mortal sight, - Free from aught but dearest day-dreams, - Hidden in the song I write, - Sits a happy, happy lover - In a heaven of the bliss - Born, in Love’s deep-breathing silence, - Of the rapturous sweet kiss. - Silently he clasps his radiant - Blooming bride with loving arms, - Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums - (Rung by Cupid and the angels) - Of sweet Passion’s inward storms - As her arms, so soft, climb upwards - And entwine themselves enwrapt, - Round about his neck in rarest - Angel-love e’er being kept. - --Darling, if you know the dear girl - That I think thus ever on, - I can hope you’ll find this poem - Ever shrines you as my own. - - - - - WORDS AND THOUGHTS. - - - Words are vases - Shaped to thought - Culled in places - Blossom-fraught; - - Thoughts are laces - Finely wrought - From the graces - Bloom has caught:-- - - In sherds - Our words - We break as we do vases; - In shreds - The threads - Of thought we tear as laces. - - - - - REX FUGIT. - - - “_Rex fugit_,--The king flees.”--Thus read - A dignified, tall Latin student. - “Try ‘has,’” the usually prudent - Professor said. - - He rose with confidence and ease; - But the whole class roared with laughter - When he read a moment after, - “_The king has fleas_.” - - - - - THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS. - - - The last sad rites of death performed, - The sickle lies upon the grave; - The sickle made of blooming flowers - That the ruthless reaper clave. - - Withered lie the flowers gathered, - Rusts the sickle on the ground; - Dead the blossoms now decaying,-- - And the form within the mound! - - Oh the flowers of the sickle - And the blooms upon its blade - Are decaying daily, daily-- - Sweetest flowers soonest fade! - - Oh the sickle is death’s emblem - And the flowers on it, rust!-- - Emblem of the end of mortals, - Earth to earth, and dust to dust! - - [Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old - envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a - sickle of flowers.] - - - - - THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND. - - - Happiness is the realization of longings,-- - Of hope and fond desire,-- - That enter the heart like angel-throngings - Bearing celestial fire. - - Like the peace that follows a benediction - Is the painless rest it gives, - Lething forever the heart’s affliction - In the endless joy it leaves. - - ’Tis the acme of life and the end of living, - This touch of an angel’s hand, - And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving - Of the Priest of the Better Land. - - - - - LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY. - - AN ALLEGORY. - - - How builds this budding flower, my child? - “It lies all wrapped in icy snows - Until the Suns of Spring have smiled - And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.” - - * * * * * - - How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree? - “Year by year it adds a round - And reaches up by slow degree, - Keeping firm foot on the ground.” - - The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine? - “By the tree’s support it lifts its head - And round the tree its arms doth twine; - Thus the two in love are wed.” - - The two, aged sire and dame, how they? - “The tree protects the tender vine, - The vine in turn binds firm the tree: - The two are one in shade and shine.” - - * * * * * - - What of the plant, O man, the plant? - “Adream in life’s fair sleep it lies - Until the Autumn Suns aslant - Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies!” - - - - - JUST AS USUAL. - - - The sun rose bright at morn, - The sun sank sad at night; - The moon’s faint golden horn - Waxed fair with mellow light. - - All night around the fold - The polar bears kept prowl; - Their shining eyes gleamed cold - And danced to the wind’s mad howl. - - Clear blew the shepherd’s horn, - Fair flushed the eastern main; - The bears slunk back: ’twas morn, - The sun arose again! - - Sweet Love rose bright at Morn, - Sad Love went down at Night; - Fair Hope’s faint golden horn - Waxed sweet with mellow light. - - All night around my mind - My jealous fears kept prowl; - Cold blew the willing wind - That chilled my very soul. - - Clear wound Dan Cupid’s horn, - As sweet as rapture’s pain; - My fears slunk back: ’twas morn, - And Love arose again! - - - - - A DEPLORATION. - - We do often think ourselves not worth.--_Anonymous._ - - - Cold is the night, and my heart is cold, - Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old; - Chill like the hill - At the mountain’s foot, - Still as the rill - That lies frozen and mute. - - White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow, - Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below: - So seems the snow - That my heart doth enfold, - Tho’ down below - Lie the rocks and the mould. - - Deep in the hill neath the binding cold - Never yet found may be veins of gold. - And of the sand - And the quartz in my heart - Hand has not panned, - Maybe gold is a part. - - Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream - Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream; - So neath the floe - Of my heart’s frozen stream - Slowly I know - Drifts the gold of love’s dream. - - - - - I LOVE YOU, KATE. - - - Dreaming rapturously, - Dearest Kate, - Full elate - I seek your side to-night. - Long, weary hours I wait - Each day, - Each day, - To see the glorious light - Of your face,-- - To me, earth’s rarest boon, - That makes my night - A summer’s day, - The summer’s day - A bright and vernal noon, - The noon eternity. - Oh, sitting beauteously - Upon Love’s throne aboon - With sceptered sway - O’er all my way, - Still of my night - Make one eternal sun - To shine thro’ space - With life and love and light - For aye - And aye; - Nor longer bid me wait, - But say me “yes” to-night; - Because, by fate - I love you, Kate!-- - Oh will you marry me! - - [In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from - last, and so on.] - - - - - THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE. - - (_That is, practically dead._) - - - Day after day have I secretly prayed - From the morn thro’ noon till night - That my life might discover some port in the west - Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light. - - Eve after eve as the sun has gone down, - With my eyes still turned to the west - I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound - For even its restful unrest. - - Night after night in my bed full awake - I have dreamed myself weeping alone - In a silence as deep as the stars of the night - O’er a corse that I knew was my own. - - Morn after morn have I risen from bed - With the fear and the hope of its truth, - Only to find that the death of the Dead - Is bought at the dream-god’s booth. - - - - - PITY THE POOR. - - - I pity the poor for I myself am poor, - Though I wear starched cuffs and collars; - But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more, - For they’ve neither _sense_ nor dollars. - - I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch - With a wealth of only money; - The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech - Smacks only of bumble-bee honey. - - I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart - As they joust thro’ the world with each other; - But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart - With no love for a human brother. - - - - - LIFE’S LOST SKIFF. - - WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN. - - - _Prelude._ - - Green as emerald is Michigan; - And the waves, - Like ghosts from hungry graves, - Are tossing up my infant boat amain, - And kissing wild - The orphan ocean-child, - The rarest that has ever been, - The fairest that was ever seen. - - - _Morning._ - - Up drives the great red sun aslant, - The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly; - A score of sails the sun’s rays paint - Upon the burning western sky. - - - _Noon._ - - How silently and slow they steer! - Are the waves as wild out there the day, - And do the ships careen and veer - As she that drives so fast away? - - - _Night._ - - Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep, - The sun creeps up the glooming tower; - The sea-birds scream in winged sleep, - The ghostly billows wail the hour! - - - _Finale._ - - Green as emerald is Michigan; - And the waves, - Like ghosts in yawning graves, - Are tossing o’er my infant boat again, - Embracing wild - The orphan ocean-child, - The rarest that has ever been, - The fairest that was ever seen! - - - - - A CLOSE ATTACHMENT. - - STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO. - - - I have swept the airy heavens, - I have skimmed the rivers o’er; - I have slept upon the cloud-wing, - I have entered heaven’s door. - But in my peregrinations - Thro’ this world of ups and downs, - None have loved and none have sought me, - None have offered aught but frowns. - - I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop - On its heaven-mission sent; - I have danced upon the rainbow - Where its colors fairest blent. - I have laughed and skipped and frolicked, - I have hummed my sweetest songs; - But I’ve never found the attachment - That I think to me belongs. - - Ah, the world’s appreciation - Of my endless wealth and worth - Is a desiccated desert, - Is a sterile, arid dearth! - I’m the fairest of my fellows, - And the most affectionate; - Hence the world’s indifference to me - On my mighty soul doth grate. - - I have kissed the blushing maiden, - I have lullabied to babies; - I have feasted on the features - Of a million lords and ladies. - ’Tis the lover’s same old story-- - Disappointment everywhere! - None have loved--except to hate me, - None have hated--save to spare! - - Now at length my weary pinions, - Out of reach of mortal kind, - Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets, - And their first attachment find, - And I cannot choose but stay here - Where I’ll always stay to hum, - For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,-- - I am stuck on chewing gum! - - I am sleepy now, and happy, - Let profane hands not disturb; - Let none mar my wildest dreamings, - Nor ecstatic tumblings curb. - Since ’twas not in life permitted - That his blood I s-i-p, - May mankind write: - - +--------------+ - | AMOS QUITO! | - | LET HIM EVER | - | R.-I.-P. | - +--------------+ - - - - - THE DEMONIAC. - - - Great God! and must I, must I live, - And can I never die, - I whom the press of sorrow’s hand - Hurled headlong from the sky? - - How long, O Lord, must I thus wait, - How long in blasting blight, - Each idle day imploring death, - And dreaming death each night? - - Each hour I fill some heart with woe, - And blast some heart with mine! - To me ’tis living death to know - My heart stills poisoned wine! - - Ten million, million deaths I live - Each wasting, poisoned hour; - For, whom I love my presence damns-- - I blight each blooming flower. - - Oh that the grinning skeleton - This faithless flesh doth hold - Might lay its lying mantle off - To dream on downs of mould! - - The leaf must fade, the sun must set, - The sweetest day must die; - But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,-- - And so, and so must I! - - Oh days to me are lengthened years, - The years like ages creep; - I’ve tossed ten million centuries - On life’s unfathomed deep! - - I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot - In slime upon that sea, - And slimy things find birth therein - To live in death, like me. - - I find no peace, I know no rest, - My very self I fly;-- - Unfit to love, unfit to live, - And far less fit to die! - - - - - THE WEATHER FIEND. - - - Of the weather - Ask us whether - We enjoy it thus and thus; - If it suits us, - What it boots us, - If it matters much to us. - - When it’s raining, - Come complaining - That “it’s muddy out today.” - It will please us - And will ease us - Of the thing we’d like to say. - - When a blizzard - Like a lizard - Wriggles up and down your spine, - Don’t be fool-like, - Just keep cool, like - All green “pickles” on the vine. - - If it’s cold out, - Don’t be sold out - When you tell somebody so - If he says he - ’S melting as he - Gently mops his frigid brow. - - If it’s snowing, - With a knowing - Wink within your “weather eye” - It is sound to - Say, “We’re bound to - Have some sleighing by and by.” - - If we _shiver_ - When your clever - Tongue remarks “_it’s hot as ’ile_,” - It’s because of - Those old _saws_ of - Weather that you always _file_. - - We can stand it-- - Yes, demand it, - That you be a weather bore, - For we never - Heard such clever - _Originality_ before. - - - - - WHO KNOWS! - - - Ah me!-- - O’er the wide - Deep I glide - Where flows - For me - Either waters ’mid the plashes - Of the lacing star-light lashes, - Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes - With their booming cannon-crashes-- - Who knows! - Ah me! - - In the wide - River’s tide - Still flows - For me - Either waters bearing bubbles - From the waves that pelt the pebbles, - Or a muddy sea of troubles - With its melancholy trebles-- - Who knows! - Ah me, - Ah me! - - - - - THE DEATH-HOWL. - - - I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl, - That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul. - - And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm, - Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!-- - - Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that - Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat. - - But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong, - For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song. - - --Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die - to-night-- - And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light! - - Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity - Where the light and song are leading--come! oh come and go with me! - - Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight! - Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white! - - The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,--and I’m dying now - to-night!-- - Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet - good-night! - - - - - ON PLUCKING A CROCUS. - - - Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring, - Awake, with others sleeping, - How have I wrecked thy new-born life - And set thy parent weeping! - - See! sad her weeping eyes upturning, - Adrip with love for thee, - And arms outstretched implore thy slayer - That thou’lt returnéd be. - - Alas! in vain her tears must flow, - Her palms implore the youth - Who pluckéd thee from out her heart - And set in his such ruth. - - I cannot give thee back--I would - I might! I’d send thee thither; - It grieveth me to see her weep, - To know that thou shalt wither. - - My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked, - For thou not yet hadst won it, - How much I took, how little gave-- - I would I had not done it. - - Lift up thy drooping head again-- - I would the word would do it!-- - Make me not weep for plucking thee; - Thou know’st how much I rue it. - - Thy pure and purple-tinted petals, - Thy open lily-lips, - Thy olden-golden anthered stamens - Thy saffron pistil-tips!-- - - Would I could here embalm them all - And wrap in verses meet - So that thou’dst be, when years should roll, - To others just as sweet! - - - _Envoy._ - - ’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet, - The world shall greet thy song-- - Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul - To die amidst the throng. - - And thus, O plucker of the crocus, - Shall Death come unto thee-- - Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart, - Shall thy embalmer be. - - So may’st thou live and do and be - That Death, with riches rife, - Shall be thy welcome harbinger,-- - The crocus of thy life. - - - - - GRAVITY--LIFE! - - (After Browning--several miles after.) - - - Gravity--what? - Attraction we call it, - Yet mind cannot thrall it-- - Where is it not? - Life of world-stuff--truly it is! - --Life then of man?--His, and not his! - ’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man; - ’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span. - Matter, man! Gravity, life! - --Each fits to each; with the other at strife. - Life? It is--what? - Who can explain it? - Mind cannot chain it-- - God! how ’tis wrought! - - - - - DEATH--LIFE. - - - Sadly o’er the moor I fare, - Lonely, lonely all the day; - Life nor leaf nor song is there; - Barren, barren all the way. - - Sun and spring and hope are bright, - Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there; - Life will wake with love and light, - Joyous, joyous everywhere. - - - - - HOT?--WELL, RATHER! - - - The sun come peekin’ crost the hills - With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face - That broadened to a grin from ear - To ear,--a most perdigeous space! - - Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides - An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might - To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be - Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night. - - ’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore - ’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found - “Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot” - Before the minute-hand’s tenth round. - - At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet - No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two; - All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”-- - “The hottest day I ever knew!” - - Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed - Full two foot--ears pupo’tional; - An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe - Like when you shuck it in the fall. - - The steeples on the churches all - Was drawed to more’n three times their height, - An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire - That melted off like wax ’fore night. - - The weather-boardin’ all warped off - An’ shingles rolled in little tubes; - Big saw-logs doubled up in bows, - An’ water crystallized in cubes. - - The hoops of barrels tumbled off - An’ wagon-tires follered suit; - The forests growed so awful fast - They all was pulled up by the root. - - Men melted in the harvest-field - An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff, - A-sizzlin’ in a way that made - Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh! - - In one big city, folks all died - But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off - His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones - (But it killed him;--caught cold, and died of a cough). - - I can’t begin to tell how hot - It was--it can’t be even guessed. - It’s still so all-infernal hot - I can’t begin to try to rest. - - - - - A YEAR AGO. - - - A year ago - I held the fondest hopes - That ever touched the fondest heart, - Nor dreamed that I should ever part - From all that fancy opes, - A year ago. - - A year ago!-- - Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!-- - A flower bloomed beneath my sill - And by its soft, enchanting smell - I lost all count of time - A year ago. - - A year ago - I slept a bed of peace - Beneath the stars of summer skies - While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes - That this should never cease-- - A year ago! - - A year ago - My morning-glory vine, - Soft whispering with the wings of bees, - Foretold that whisperings like these - Should endlessly be mine-- - A year ago! - - A year ago - The sun light-kissed the moon, - Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung, - And mingled Life and Love and Song - Rode near their highest noon-- - A year ago. - - A year ago!-- - Then, then each sister vine - Upon a brother sweetly leaned: - Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned - When Love had made you mine - A year ago. - - A year ago - ’Twas Love from sun to sun: - To-day I fold you to my heart - And know that nought but death can part - The love and life begun - A year ago. - - - - - THE SWEETEST OF ALL. - - - There are tears of pity and tears of woe, - And tears half of rapture and pain will fall; - And tears for excess of joy must flow, - But the tears of love are the sweetest of all. - - There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife, - And the sorrow that knows no recall; - The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life, - But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all. - - Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain - And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall - May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain, - But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all. - - There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild, - The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall; - The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child, - But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all. - - There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer - And smiles that gladden wherever they fall; - There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear, - But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all. - - There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips, - The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall; - There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips, - But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all. - - There are songs that sing in a minor key, - And songs that the listening heart appall; - There are songs that sing like the constant sea, - But the songs of love are the sweetest of all. - - - - - THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT. - - - Sorrows live and pleasures dee, - Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! - And I’ll wear the willow-tree, - Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low. - - For I loved a bonnie lass, - Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! - Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas! - Willow-willow, whither did she go? - - Here upon this willow-tree, - Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! - I will hang my harp, and dee, - Willow-willow, will she ever know? - - On my heart I’ll place my hand - Willy-willy-waly wailing so! - On my head a green garland, - Willow-willow weeping sleeping so! - - Then farewell, my bride and breath, - Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh! - Still I love you, tho’ my death, - Willow-willow wailing--will she know! - - [The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken - love--which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same - thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his - harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter - desperation--hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be - revenged on his false sweetheart by making her _sorry_!--; - also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the - hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to - die, somewhat _à la_ Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to - do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s - getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing - many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers, - is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of - these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad - style of his day.] - - - - - BUZZ. - - - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - In my ear the sound is drumming, - On my heart-chords ever strumming, - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - - Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion? - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - Comes the sound from days of childhood - Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - Youth has planted in profusion. - - Thro’ the tangles wildly growing - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - Crieth Hope, my lost companion, - Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon, - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - With the sap of manhood flowing. - - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - Aged now I listen gladly - To the echoes that so sadly - “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” - - - - - WASHINGTON. - - _22 Feb._ - - - Great Washington! Dear father of the land - Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who - Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe - In war; admired of every nation and - Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand - Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’ - The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue, - Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!-- - For thee this day is made the nation’s day; - For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn, - And spangled blue of night are all unfurled, - Are all the emblems of our love for thee, - To liberty and home God’s greatest boon, - O noblest, grandest, best of all the world! - - - - - FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG. - - CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM. - - - We think the thoughts our fathers thought, - And sing the same old songs; - We fight the battles they have fought, - And right the same old wrongs. - - - CHORUS. - - Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave, - Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free, - O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave, - O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty. - - We breath, the air our fathers breathed, - Inspiring freedom still; - Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed, - And strike with dauntless will. - - --_Chorus._ - - Behold the same old sun above, - The same old spangled dome - Forever shining out in love - On Freedom’s happy home. - - --_Chorus._ - - We’ll guard the home our fathers won - And fight the latest foe; - We’ll stand by every loyal gun - Where Freedom’s streamers flow. - - --_Chorus._ - - Beneath the stripes of red and white - And starry spangled blue, - Protected by the God of Right - We’ll fight the battle through. - - --_Chorus._ - - We’ll bid defiance to the world - And make the welkin ring, - With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled - And God above, our King. - - --_Chorus._ - - - - - ’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL. - - My grief lies all within.--_Shakspere, Rich. II._ - - - Tell me not that tears are sorrow, - Tell me not that grief must flow - Like sad drops of rain descending, - Or like streams in valleys low. - - Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber, - In the heart that’s dumb with grief - There is eloquence, and mournful, - That doth shame all tear-relief. - - From the heart of silent sorrow, - Clouds of woe can never rise, - And dissolve themselves with raining - To congeal in weeping eyes. - - Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning, - And the soul may burst with grief; - Nought of weeping nor of moaning, - Nought of tears can give relief. - - Deep among the soul’s great mountains, - Silent as the night doth come, - Clouds of grief may soft be raining, - Shrouding every hill in gloom. - - Oh, along the channeled valleys, - Sad as Charon’s river’s roll, - Streams of grief may deep be flowing - ’Mong the mountains of the soul. - - - - - HAL A-HUNTIN’. - - - Onct we went a-huntin’, - Pa ’n’ me, we did, - ’N’ _I_ went ’long an’ tookt ol’ - Rover.--’N’ we did - Have ist the mostest fun!-- - ’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun. - - Rove ist _skeert_ the rabbits - Outen the grass, - ’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em - When they runned pas’. - My landy! how they run! - Wushed _I’d_ a had a gun! - - Pa ist shooted at ’em, - _Hard_, but couldn’t - Kill ’em, ’cause when _he’d_ shoot, - The _gun_--_w’y_--_wouldn’t_. - ’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun - A-huntin’ wif _sich_ a gun. - - My! but didn’t them rabbits - Go a scootin’!-- - ’N’ Rover after’m, ist a- - Skallyhootin’! - ’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done” - (When he comed home) “_wif his gun!_” - - ’N’en the hired man ist - Laft an’ shook’n’ - When he’d skun ’em all, he - Said, a-lookin’ - Solemn-like (in fun), - “What a _dog-gone_ gun.” - - ’N’en when Ma she fried ’em - ’N’ we was a-eatin’ - Of ’em up, Ma said ’at - It was beatin’ - How that dog could run!-- - Guess he’s the goodest gun! - - ’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’ - He scowled at me - _Awful_, ’n’ said, “You little - Young rascal, see - Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft - To tell for?” ’N’en they laft! - - Wusht Pa’d take me wif him - Huntin’ again; - But he says ’at I’m too - Awful green-- - Rabbits might eat me! I - Guess not! Wonder why? - - - - - WRITE FROM THE HEART. - - - Write from the heart straight outwards - When divinely the feelings glow, - Write for the soul’s satisfaction, - And you’ll fashion the best outward show. - - Write as the June rose blossoms, - Always straight from the inside out - Slowly unfolding its petals - From the ports of its Power’s redoubt. - - Then from the sweet breathing petals, - That I swear seem almost human to me, - Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals - In the drunkenest ecstasy. - - So let your heart in your poem - Breathe its song like a living rose, - Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes - As from soul unto soul it goes. - - Write from the heart straight outwards, - Caring not for the glitter and show;-- - Write as the showers from heaven, - Nor forget how the sweet roses blow. - - - - - WHITHER? - - - Whither this Highway, Child? - “To the Field of Flowers,--to the Flowers wild.” - - Whither this Highway, Youth? - “Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.” - - Whither this Highway, Man? - “Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.” - - Whither this Highway, Sire? - “To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!” - - Whither, oh whither, Tomb?-- - But voiceless it points to the azure dome. - - - - - OUR ALMA MATER. - - - Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west! - Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way - Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay - And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest - In strength’ning us would never let thee rest, - E’en in thy trials as in prosperity! - ’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity - - To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test. - And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old, - Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye - In broader fields to live and grow, from west - To east the lengthened shout is roll’d, - “’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee, - To us, of all the world the dearest, best!” - - - - - FATHER TIME. - - - I am the father of the river, - Of the sea, and of the mountain; - Of the sunlight that doth quiver - In the rainbow of the fountain. - - I have raised up men and nations, - I have builded homes and cities; - I have given all their stations, - Him who scorns and him who pities. - - I have forged the tears and sorrows - Of a Russia, broken-hearted, - Into chains of sad to-morrows - That but death of kings has parted. - - I have woven joy and laughter, - Fairest of life’s flowers, - Into garlands that hereafter - Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers. - - Oh the sorrows and the pleasures - Of the world in faultless rhyme - Blend the music of their measures - With the step of Father Time. - - - - - THUS LIFE’S TALE. - - - I. - - Away out yonder on the great horizon - Sail, sail away; - Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen, - Sail, sail, nor stay. - - - II. - - Away in the westward where the sun is dipping - Gold, gold from the sea, - Gold of a glorious El Dorado-- - Sail, sail to-day. - - - III. - - See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed: - Sail swift that way. - Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened, - Sail, sail nor stay. - - - IV. - - The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis: - See, see my sail! - See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!-- - Thus, thus life’s tale! - - - _Finale._ - - The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping: - Sailed, sailed away; - Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen, - Mourned, mourned the clay. - - - - - PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT. - - ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891. - - - Sitting Bull and the other Sioux - Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux, - And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!-- - Till one day they shot him thrioux - And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,-- - Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux! - --_Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux._ - - - - - ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.” - - - Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain; - Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng - Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain - Of moral song. - - Oh listen to the music of the river - Along the channeled valleys of his soul - As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever - Their FAREWELL roll:-- - - “Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; - Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long, - And so make life, and death, and that vast forever - One grand, sweet song.” - - - - - THE TRANSFORMATION. - - A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY. - - -I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which -we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us -all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind. - -I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night, -with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting -through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a -lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds, -as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in -my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of -pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously -mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to -permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between -my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable -sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and -fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling -that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, -surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned, -that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that -this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from -experience that there is a pleasure without a pain. - -For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was -going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness, -I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and -the weird sound was not so easily solved. - -I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been -dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the -dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like? -However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or -whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the -feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had -securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring. -Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the -second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was -this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked -out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed -with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among -the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, -the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I -knew I could not possibly be asleep. - -Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and -stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself -of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from -somewhere--everywhere, it seemed. - -Suddenly--most wonderful to tell!--I saw the very faintest streak of -light creep up the farther wall of my room. - -All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full -minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer. - -The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen, -moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention. -What could it be!--A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that -was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It -reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost -imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it -got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it -be! - -I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you -should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would -do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, -too, had I said many a time,--I would investigate whatever was strange, -doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your -feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a -thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I -did,--lie there fascinated. - -Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and -instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was -that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that -mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time -clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when -I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand -seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some -supernatural power. It was something more than a light,--it was a film, -a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and -rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop -from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and -started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it -seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of -whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious -of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on -my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and -partly by this influence upon me. - -I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried -“murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was -under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to -martial music of the dead. - -I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest -inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by -which I was led. - -When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then -for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power -over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to -it, but never at any time another just like it. - -As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly -that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of -blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was -horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What -I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was -nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!--a supernatural -spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever -before or since seen. - -As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and -forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions -imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so -very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first -look awkward. - -Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat -smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread -of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its -appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of -spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were -only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present, -but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but -present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was -really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there -moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as -proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move; -as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless -controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each -other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their -shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every -motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each -spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his -thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions. - -What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed, -it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and -clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in -perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The -room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under -the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I -glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and--wonderful to -relate!--as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the -page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my -own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, _Happy -Days of Yore!_ - -Could it be possible?--was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read -and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style -of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been -in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could -there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were -to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a -galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could -make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God -alone knows! - -Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the -other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by -the hand of my old chum, were the words, _Memories of the Past_. Here -was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly -have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that -of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend. - -_Happy Days of Yore_,--_Memories of the Past_. How was I to solve -the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended -meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why -this mysterious writing? - -As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird -sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so -preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I -fell into this meditation. - -It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing, -or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled -myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that--mystery -of mysteries!--the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music -came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his -golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in -illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.-- - - Oh those happy days of yore - Will come back to me no more! - Ah no more, no more for aye!-- - They have fled with time away, - And my heart is sad and lone - As I dream forevermore, - With a heaving sigh and groan, - Of those happy days of yore. - -Most wonderful!--wonderful not in the words so much, for they were -simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming -to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored -poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven -by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light. - -As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second -and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and -I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with -these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.-- - - Oh how sweet those days of boyhood, - Oh how dear those happy hours - When I rambled through the forests - ’Mong the birds and trees and flowers! - Life lay smiling all before me, - No regrets, no cares behind; - All the earth seemed bright with beauty, - Life was freedom unconfined. - I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight - Scattered wide its golden beams, - Thinking not that I should ever - Miss its light or prize its gleams. - -Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the -similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more -remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s -action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one -really was present; the other existing in another place, and only -_psychologically_ present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that -follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I -have ever met--except one!--nor have I ever yet found sage or savant -able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as -they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and -finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh, -and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it. - -My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I -turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.-- - - Oh those days of sweetest thought! - Oh those days with rapture fraught! - Had I known when but a child - What great blessings round me smiled, - With a wild, exulting leap - I’d have struck on wisdom’s door; - Piled up knowledge heap on heap - In those happy days of yore. - -Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral -inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters, -that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving -should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to -listen to the other richer and deeper melody.-- - - Ah, those days are gone forever; - Time has wafted them away; - Happiness now seems a phantom - Of a joyous yesterday. - If I could but live them over, - All those careless, happy hours, - Start again in life’s fair morning - O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers, - Not a moment would be wasted - Chasing bubbles in the air-- - I would seek the pearls of knowledge, - And the gems of wisdom wear. - -Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties, -and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the -same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for -both wrote (I can’t help saying they _wrote_) as rapidly as slow music -goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider -had already begun the third stanza.-- - - Could I live again those days - That I spent in idle plays - And could know of learning’s worth, - I’d not waste my time in mirth;-- - I would climb the hill of fame - And on wisdom’s wings would soar - Till I caught the beacon flame - In those happy days of yore. - -I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had -completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet -of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed -that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was -accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even -to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as -they were completed. And now from the second I heard.-- - - Had I known of wisdom’s power - In those days with pleasure fraught, - From the mines of truth and beauty - Golden trophies I’d have brought. - All the lore of bygone ages - From my books I would have learned; - O’er the bards I would have pondered - Tho’ my lamp till morning burned; - All the broad empire of Nature - With its wealth of laws divine - Should have shown to me the beauty - Of Omnipotent design. - -While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of -my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that -direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the -heart-felt words.-- - - Oh, my heart grows weak and faint, - And it sighs in sad complaint - As it dreams its dreams of woe - Of the silent long ago. - And a pain is at my heart, - Not alone for wisdom’s lore, - For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart - In those happy days of yore. - -What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the -second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit -in these similar words.-- - - I’d have read that revelation - Traced by our Creator’s hand - Over all our glorious planet, - In the sky and sea and land. - High and bright the lamp of knowledge - Shone for all who’d seek its light; - Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it - In the glare of pleasures bright! - Oft upon the dreary mountain - Have my weary footsteps strayed:-- - But ’tis not for wisdom only - That my vain regrets are made. - -So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called -up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into -expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words. -Ah yes! to the first, listen!-- - - _She_ was like a radiant rose - That with sweetness overflows. - Her bright eyes were darkest blue - And her hair a golden hue. - She was lovely as the day, - And within her breast she bore - Heart as light and bright and gay - As those happy days of yore. - -Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.-- - - In those days of idle dreaming, - Ere life’s toils I’d entered in, - Fancy framed for me an image - Of the one I’d woo and win. - It was in an idle romance - My ideal played a part; - But that image, framed in fancy, - Soon was graven on my heart, - And I said, “That maiden only - Of my ideal’s charms complete - Shall have power to lead me captive - And to bring me to her feet.” - -Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart, -the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they -should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of -harmony? - -Once more!--To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.-- - - We were playmates, she and I, - In that happy time gone by: - Oft we’d walk the meadows over - Hunting for the four-leaved clover - As we’d seen the lovers do; - We the woods would oft explore - Where the fragrant flowers grew - In those happy days of yore. - -And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above -the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the -peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still -sad notes.-- - - Time passed on and boyish fancies - Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced; - Gay companions were around me,-- - Every pleasure we embraced. - And among those friends and schoolmates, - There was one surpassing fair: - Light her heart and light her footstep, - Blue her eyes and gold her hair. - Then her pure and gentle spirit - Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.-- - Ah, such divine gifts of beauty - Seldom are to mortals given. - -The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How -much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too -much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of -anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully--thus -psychologically though not supernaturally--revealed to me in beauty by -ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the -other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and -music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into -characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the -illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no -one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should -present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him, -as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is. - -Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first -had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the -other.-- - - Oft when twilight slowly crept - Over hill and vale that slept, - We would wander side by side - In the golden eventide - By the school-house on the hill - Where so oft we’d been before, - Or beside the water-mill - In those happy days of yore. - - Oh those days,--sweet, happy days! - Ever round my mind there plays - Fitful Fancy’s dear delight, - Bringing back the time so bright - When we wandered hand in hand - To the little country store, - And the mystic future planned - In those happy days of yore. - - New years came as old ones went; - Childhood’s years at last were spent; - We from friends to lovers grew - And nor pain nor sorrow knew. - Oh how fondly did I dream - Folding close my fond Lenore - As we sailed adown life’s stream - In those happy days of yore! - -Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the -top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read -and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this -master-melody:-- - - When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam - Shedding gladness o’er the lea; - When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing - Of enchanting melody. - Oft when daily tasks were over, - She and I together strolled - From the hamlet to the seaside - Where the restless billows rolled. - Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering - Treasures from the shifting sand - As each ebbing tide receding - Left its wonders on the strand. - - Long we’d watch the stately vessels - Riding proudly o’er the foam, - Some for distant countries steering, - Some returning--bound for home. - Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor - Where our little sail-boat lay, - And while skimming o’er the waters - Laugh and sing the hours away. - Then at twilight, when all nature - Save the sea was hushed and still, - We would turn our footsteps homeward - To the hamlet on the hill. - -So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but -listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page; -for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken. - - And that image framed in boyhood - Of the one I’d woo and win, - Ah, my ideal!--I had found her - In my darling Evylyn. - But the dim, uncertain future!-- - Oh that we could raise the veil - And by gazing down the valley - Know what fortune would prevail; - Whether joy or blinding sorrow, - Gladness or unending woe, - Should forever be our portion - While we linger here below. - - Two short summers I had known her, - Years that seemed like one bright day; - But at last the spell was broken, - And my gladness fled away: - Duty called me from that hamlet - Where youth’s happy days were spent - Out into the great, free, wide world, - And with brightest hopes I went. - Ah, that parting by the seaside - One bright evening in the spring - By the dear old friendly ocean-- - There I gave the engagement ring. - -Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music, -and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first -harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the -billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of -the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.-- - - In the bright and merry spring, - Then I gave the engagement ring; - And in sweet and holy bliss - Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss. - Heart and hope and thought were one - As we walked as heretofore - Where the brooklet used to run - In those happy days of yore. - - But the future none can tell - And, or weal or woe, ’tis well; - For, if it were otherwise, - When the mystic veil should rise - And reveal what is to come, - Happiness would be no more;-- - Hearts would call to hearts but dumb - In those happy days of yore. - - Could we gaze on life’s emprise, - Frozen tears would dim our eyes; - Rippling laughs on lips would freeze - As the future’s death-cold breeze - Chilled the life of loving hearts; - Happy days would come no more, - And we’d sigh with fitful starts - For those happy days of yore. - -Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout -the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and -beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But -only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony -to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more -delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.-- - - In a distant western city - Far away from that loved spot, - I began the strife in earnest, - Not complaining of my lot; - For in two years from our parting - I’d return and claim my own. - So I worked and dreamed and waited, - Cheered by that one thought alone. - Fortune smiled on my endeavors, - And each week a message brought - From that one beside the seashore - Who was ever in my thought. - - But at last the darkness gathered,-- - Clouds as dark as Ethiop’s land. - One dark day there came a letter - Written by a stranger’s hand. - Evylyn, it said, was drooping, - Drooping, fading very fast; - Though she would admit no danger, - Her short life would soon be past. - Many months, the message stated, - She had faded day by day; - Yet to me each cherished letter - Had been cheerful, bright, and gay. - -I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders--or poets and -musicians, rather, in spider form--that I pitied them deeply, -and--shall I say?--loved them. The first melodist continued more -mournfully, and to slower, sad, and muffled music.-- - - All the spring and summer long - Did I list the seraph-song. - But when autumn came around - With a sighing, mournful sound, - My sweet blossom faded fast; - And my radiant, fond Lenore - Yielded to the chilling blast - In those autumn days of yore! - - As the flowers fade and die - ’Neath the cold and cloudless sky, - So my Darling drooped and died! - And my dear intended bride - With a long and last farewell - Crossed the silent waters o’er - While we tolled her funeral knell - In those parting days of yore! - - In the deepest dearth of night - When the starry dome was bright, - Came the angels round her bed; - And they numbered with the dead - My angelic, radiant Love - Whom the seraphs named Lenore, - Wafting here away above,-- - Saddest, saddest days of yore! - -I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness -of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget -the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed -my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the -afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the -threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue -dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.-- - - With an aching heart I started - For her home beside the sea, - Once again to see my Darling - Ere Death snatched his prize from me. - But a cruel fate hung o’er me; - Ere I reached that eastern home, - Her angelic soul was wafted - Far beyond the starlit dome. - Through the distant shining portals, - Breathing of eternal love, - Passed my Evylyn, my treasure, - To the brighter world above. - -Surely, surely, I thought, these breathers of harmony cannot be ugly -spiders. They are too human--or shall I say too divine?--for that. I -had been so absorbed in the two songs that, strange perhaps to say, -though I think not, I had scarcely noticed the spiders themselves nor -their illuminated web-woven words. I felt now that the songs were -nearly ended; and through tear-dimmed eyes, I looked once more at the -page on my desk. How strangely brighter the light seemed to be, yet so -softer! - -Could it be possible! Wasn’t this, after all, some dream?--I dashed the -tears from my eyes with my left hand.--No, I was wide awake. No doubt -about that. There, too, that light from the words was even brighter -than when it was seen through my tears. - -Surely, surely, these were not spiders; but spirits, rather, in this -disguise. As this thought flew through my brain, I removed the fifth -finished page of manuscript, when lo! I almost screamed for mercy that -no more revelations be made to me. For the spider glided to the top of -the new page, and as he did so, I saw and marveled how much smaller -he had grown, as if he had spun his whole body away in his glowing -web. But still stranger transformation: All about him, like a spirit -embodying the body, was a dim halo of light, such as a star often forms -of the mists, that doubtless had been forming from the first although -I had not noticed it, having been too absorbed in the songs themselves. - -As I looked steadily, transfixed by this new revelation, I saw that -haloing light, as true as I live, shape itself in a half human form; -and like a light-enhaloed star moving across the scroll of the Almighty -in spheric music set to angel words, this transformed being of light -trembled across the page before me and trailed these gold-enlighted -words through the solemn rhythm of the olden melody.-- - - By the babbling little brook, - In a quiet, shaded nook, - Sleeps my loved and lost one now. - Over pallid lip and brow - Grow the scented flowers wild - Bright as when I wandered o’er - This same spot when but a child - In those happy days of yore. - - Many years have come and gone - Since that face I’ve looked upon; - Many weary paths I’ve trod - Since we laid her ’neath the sod. - Still I wander, sad and lone; - Still my heart is grieved and sore, - For she sleeps beneath the stone - Since those happy days of yore. - -Thoughts of the dead always affect me beyond expression. The thought -of the death of this darling girl, glorious in her own true heart, I -can but feel, and glorified even more by the unfailing constancy and -eternal love of him who, grown old and gray, still keeps her ever in -his heart, so affected me that my own heart seemed almost broken. -I could endure no more, and turned away. But as I did so,--O sweet -angels of mercy! was there no escape?--there the other heaven-gifted -musician, spirit-embodied, halo-enshrouded like the first, met my eyes, -and I was forced against my will to listen to the most plaintive, most -pathetic melody that had yet grieved my heart.-- - - In a grave down by the seashore, - She was laid by loving hands - Where old ocean sings a requiem - Evermore upon the sands. - There the summer tide is flowing - As I stand upon the shore, - And it calls up sacred mem’ries - Of the happy times of yore. - Fragments of a wreck are drifting - On the surface of a wave-- - Emblem of my hopes and prospects, - Wrecked, and lying in her grave. - - Many weary years have vanished, - Years of wand’ring, sad and lone, - Since that pure angelic spirit - Joined the seraphs round the throne. - O’er her grave beside the ocean, - Lovingly the stars still shine, - While the tide’s wild song of gladness - Seems to bear her voice divine. - Oft in dreams I see my lost one, - Hear her voice as soft and low - As a strain of far-off music;-- - But the dawn brings back my woe. - -Bowed with unutterable grief,--grief that was so severe that it choked -back every tear into my heart,--I buried my head in my arms to shut -out both sight and sound, and wept as tearless grief alone can weep. -The angel-images of the two that had gone Home, forever to await -the happier marriage in eternal union there, I saw looking down -compassionately, while the two mourners left behind were constantly -reaching upwards toward those loved ones beyond their ken in the dim -unknown, and sometimes almost touching the finger-tips of the hands -unseen! Yes; and the music! I heard it over, and over, and over again, -sometimes near, sometimes far, always sweet and tremulous, sometimes -sounding in my ear, sometimes dying away and echoing back from the -dome of that Home above. - -When again my fevered eyes looked upon the page, I wondered if it could -be that these embodiments of both verse and music could be changing -so rapidly, or if the change had been going on constantly without my -notice. Both transformed--I know not now what to call them--had now -become so small that I could scarcely distinguish their bodies through -the spirit-like halo. And that halo every moment grew more and more -human--no, not human; but, though an embodying spirit, it grew more and -more like a disembodied human soul. Less and less visible became the -body of each, more and more like a human soul became the halo of each -as the first wove itself away into the final web.-- - - Oh, my heart is sad and lone - And it sighs with heaving groan - As it dreams its dreams of woe - Of the silent long ago. - But I’ve reached the river’s brink; - Soon I’ll dip the golden oar, - And beneath the waves will sink - All those happy days of yore. - - Soon I’ll greet my bright Lenore - Where we’ll meet to part no more; - Soon I’ll reach the golden sands - Where I’ll clasp her angel hands; - Soon I’ll kiss her seraph brow - On that bright angelic shore, - Where I’ll dream no more, as now, - Of those happy days of yore. - -The two spirits, thus transforming, were passing away, slipping, -slipping away from me back into the mysteriousness whence they came, I -felt, as both moved across the page to dirge-like yet a kind of happy -and hope-inspiring music. The music of each was so blended with that of -the other that I could scarcely distinguish the words of the two as the -second soul-dreamer mused through the melody.-- - - Lost! ah lost!--But not forever: - I have reached the golden strand; - Soon beyond the crystal ocean - We will wander hand in hand; - Soon across the deep, dark waters - I will go to claim my own - From among the shining angels, - Where she waits for me alone. - We will part no more forever - Underneath that heavenly dome; - Love and joy shall reign together - In that bright eternal home. - -But look--look!--there, there just before you. See! see it struggling -to rise away. Oh, what wonderful transformation can this be! - -As both neared the close, their bodies grew imperceptible, the -web-woven words more and more brightly illuminated, and the haloing -spirit larger, and larger, more and more distinct, yet more and more -attenuated, until--no, no! it--but yes! I must believe it, must believe -my eyes!--each took on the form of an angel! As the last word of each -was woven, simultaneously, and as the low, faint, plaintive echoes of -the music went trembling through the blue distance that still trembles -in unison with the hearts of millions, the two _meistersingers_, -perfect in angel form with a rarer beauty than I ever saw before, the -rarest beauty I ever expect to see, shone radiantly in the night for a -moment, like a glory struck out of darkness by a beam from heaven, and -vanished like that glory passing out of darkness into heaven again. -With my eyes following these disembodied embodiments of Beauty, and my -palms out-reaching toward them, thus I sat until, when their passing -glory at the same time closed the portals through which they vanished -and gave the keys to memory, my nerves relaxed, the intense mingled -pain and rapture, which had never ceased, seemed to snap my very -heart-chords, and consciousness slid like lead into the lethean flow of -the river of oblivion. - -How long I sat there, drowned in unrefreshing forgetfulness allied -to sleep, I have no recollection, and no possible means of knowing. -When again I opened my eyes, the morning was far spent. There was a -dull pain in my head, but the circumstances I have just related were -all so vivid that the whole scene instantly flashed across my mind. I -thought surely it must be a dream. Could it be? I was sitting in my -night-dress. I got up from my chair and went to my bed-room. There was -my bed, just as I had left it when I rose to follow the strange spirit -that controlled me. I went to the wall where I had seen the spider. -True enough, there was the thread, but no longer illuminated, just -where I had seen it. I put my hand to my forehead as one often does in -wondering. When I removed it, there, clinging to my forefinger, was -the web that had clung to my forehead. No, I had not been asleep and -dreamed all this; that was plain enough. I returned to my chair. There -on my desk, as I involuntarily glanced at the well-remembered spot, I -saw a still more remarkable confirmation of my having been awake; for -there lay the whole poem that I had seen woven by the first spirit, as -perfect in every way as if it had been written by human hand. But the -characters were no longer illuminated. They had burnt into the paper, -and were as black as my own ink. They were all made out, too, in my -own style of handwriting, though I declare and affirm to all the world -that never before this occurrence had I written one line of poetry. -Perhaps it would have been better for me and for you if I had stopped -with this--palmed it off as my own on account of the similarity of -handwriting; and if I had never trifled with the tricks of the muses -thereafter. - -I looked on my desk for the other poem, but alas! it could not be -found; for, as I have said before, it was only _psychologically_ -present to me, while it was _really_ present to some one else. In a -few days I had the most remarkable confirmation of this--even more -remarkable than what I have related in the preceding. - -By the very next mail (I was teaching in the country and got my mail -but once a week, on Saturday) I received a letter from my old chum, -dated May 8, 1885. As I opened it, behold! that identical poem that I -had in my mind seen wrought by the second spirit of beauty fell on my -table. In a letter of sixteen quarto pages, he told one substantially -the same experience of himself with two spirit-singers--one of them -present, the other psychologically present, each unconscious of the -other, yet each influencing the other in some indefinable way--as I -have here related. - -In speaking of the vanishing of the two spirit-forms, he wrote:-- - -“I firmly believe those two spirits were none other than the -angel-forms of the two maidens the poems celebrate; that they have -woven their spirits of beauty into these two embodiments of verse that -we mortals may be the better for it; and that, when they vanished, they -entered these two poems, where they still abide.” - -Strange, but this is the same thought that I had had, and still do -have. I most sincerely believe it is the only correct conclusion, -though I cannot solve the mysteries that are connected with it. Indeed, -it would be sacrilege to attempt it. - -I still have these original manuscripts that were thus mysteriously -wrought. They are lying here on the desk before me as I write; and as -I glance across this page at them, the whole scene of that memorable -night, more vivid, far, far more vivid than my pen has delineated it -for you, comes flashing across my brain. In this quick, bright light -of memory, reason marshals the long line of causes that produced this -psychological phenomenon; I follow the approaching lines with my -mind’s eye, until I am lost in the dim distance of their vanishing -perspective, then return, follow again, only to lose myself in the same -unfathomable mystery, and so again and again. Though I know some of -the causes that produced it, I cannot reach the hidden ones. I could -almost fancy still that I had dreamed all this did not these original -manuscripts before me constantly remind me of the reality of what I -have here set down. They are free for the inspection of all who wish -to verify the facts I have related. - -I challenge the world to produce two such similar poems, good, bad, or -indifferent, written under such remarkable circumstances. - -The events I have here recorded are the events of my boyhood, or early -manhood, rather, faithfully told. I have long hesitated to publish them -for fear that there might be a few in these days of fiction who would -doubt their reality. But what makes them a hundredfold more wonderful -to me is the truth of all their seemingly impossible facts. - -My friend, you think this a strange, strange story, I know. Indeed, -I think so too; far more strange to me than to you, for I have felt -the truth of it and you have only read it. As true as these two poems -exist, the circumstances under which they were written are far, far -more strange to me than I can possibly make the story; far, far more -strange to me than the weirdest, most wonderful story pen can write. - -I have therefore published this account of an incident of my life -that it may please some with the strange facts that they will take -for mere fancy; that it may waken some to the knowledge that in our -most rational moments we are by no means independent, our minds are -by no means our own, but are influenced by circumstances, by the -psychological action of the minds of our most intimate friends, and -by the spiritual power within us and at the same time above us; that -it may teach others that out of the most despised creatures of God’s -making and care, the Soul of Beauty may come and wed itself to Use by -weaving its life into an angel-image of Love that shall dwell in the -human heart forever. - - - - - BOY BARDS. - - TO E. L. H. - - - Together we thought, - Together we wrought; - And ever and ever - The golden days were fraught - With the light and life of Time - That dripped like dews - From the heart of our Muse - Between the buds of rhyme. - - Oh never, no never - Such rainbow colors were caught - From the dripping clouds in pain-- - So sweet distraught - With the iris wrought - Of the mingled shine and rain. - - Oh never, no never - Such scent in the summer was caught - From the morning-glory’s bloom - Where the humming-bird - Has gently stirred - The leaves by the open room. - - - - - THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH. - - - I. - - FROM SUN TO SUN. - - From sun to sun - Till life is done - We still aspire, - Still have some wish not gratified; - - With every breath-- - E’en unto death-- - We still reach higher, - Our hearts are still unsatisfied. - - - II. - - WHAT THE STRIVING? - - What means this striving, - This toil, this endless labor, - This bargaining with our neighbor, - This too fast living, - This wishing, this longing, - This constant thronging - Of thoughts of--what? - Gods! I know not!-- - What means it all, - Philosopher, - This rise and fall, - This hope and fear, - This constant changing station - Of every man and nation, - Or rich - Or poor, - With koh-i-noor - Or bacon flitch, - Still envying some other, - Still striving ’gainst some brother - And justling - And hustling - And rushing - And pushing - - As by a mighty cyclone hurled - Headlong midway the narrow world, - And as it were - Made all too small - For half to gyrate in, - Or even half begin-- - What means it all, - Philosopher? - The rich, the poor, - The high, the low, - The good, the bad, - (And who can tell?) - Keep bickering - And dickering - And chaffering - On everything - They buy and sell - For more and more - Of earth, as though - Gone staring mad. - - Whether the cause - Be unequal laws - Of God, or man, or neither one, or both, - Activity o’ermatching tardy sloth, - Some must rise and some must fall - In the strife of all for all. - - - III. - - THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH OURS. - - That there should be unjust division - Of wealth and life and station - Needs, calm, deliberate decision - Of every man and nation. - - The world is too much ours, - And we too much of it. - The times are out of joint; - The heart is out of tune, - And needs the Master’s hand. - Like churlish curs we stand - And guard our little own, - And watch Death’s finger point - To Woes, while Pleasures sit - And glass the glossing hours. - - Like demons, too, we rave - Because our neighbors have - One jot or tittle more than we; - And curse ourselves as slaves - Dumb driven to our graves - Fast bound from light of liberty. - - The remedy lies not in force, - Nor in the frenzy of the hour - Engendered by the unreasoning mob. - ’Tis in a nobler, gentler course - Of a higher, nobler power - New-born at every true heart-throb. - - - IV. - - HAND AND HEART. - - No vain philosophy, - That flows from ailing springs of earth - Can cure the cankered ills of mortal clay. - No, naught save that eternal fountain’s spray - That gives the heart immortal birth - Can heal humanity. - - In every heart at birth - That fountain bubbles up - To purify this earth - With life and love and hope. - - But in the hearts of all, - Ere life is scarce begun, - Some clay of earth must fall - To dim the mirrored sun. - - True, all (’tis law) must labor; - But with the hand alone? - And that against a neighbor, - His heart our stepping stone? - - Nay, with the hand and heart, the rather; - For each who climbs above - Must reach the door of Him our Father - On stepping-stones of love. - - - V. - - COURTING THE CROWD. - - Our wrongs we make that make us wrong: - We court the crowd; we tickle the public ear; - The crowd laughs, and we laugh with it always; we’re - Mere puppets dandled by the throng. - - We jingle our laughter,-- - The world follows after - As if it were money; - We bow in our sorrow,-- - The world bids “good-morrow,” - Hey-nonny hey-nonny. - - We praise and we flatter,-- - The world with a clatter - Comes after the honey; - We ask when we’re needy,-- - The world is too greedy, - Hey-nonny hey-nonny. - - We’re loved while we’re living - If always we’re giving - The world something funny; - But dead, there’s erected, - A stone,--then neglected, - Hey-nonny hey-nonny. - - So, so! the world is all a cheat - And yet we worship at its feet. - Deceived by dross of gold and gloss of art, - We too much court the hand and not the heart. - - - VI. - - IMMORTAL AND GOD-GIVEN. - - Sowing and reaping, - Glutting our greed, - Getting and keeping, - What do we need? - - World ever spinning, - World never slack, - World ever winning, - What does it lack? - - --What? - What not?-- - --The greatest thing on earth, - The greatest, too, in heaven above, - The greatest good of greatest worth, - Immortal and God-given,-- - Love! - - Love that bids no stricken soul depart - With honeyed, sweet “good-morrow”; - Love that binds and balms the wounded heart - And sorrows, too, with sorrow. - - Love that loves in field or shop or kirk, - Unselfish and ungreedy; - Love that teaches toilless hands to work, - And leaves no mortal needy. - - Love that ne’er forgets a heart that sleeps, - Nor leaves its tomb neglected; - Love that laughs and weeps and ever keeps - The throne of Love erected. - - - VII. - - ASKING HEARTS. - - This pushing, - This driving, - This rushing, - This too fast living - Is an endless striving - Resulting from unsatisfied desire: - No peace, no rest, - An endless quest, - Forever reaching up for something higher,-- - For the world is good by nature, - And though debased, still looks above. - (The heathen even hopes beyond this earth.) - Stamped in every line and feature, - There is the image still of Love, - Sweet Love, fast-graven in the heart at birth. - - Our lives-long our asking hearts keep fretting: - We beat the tangles of the world’s wide wild-wood, - Remorsefully and endlessly regretting - The loss of that sweet innocence of childhood. - - The world is like us.--We are it! - Time-long the noisy nations of the earth - Have searched, and only found regret - At the loss of Love the child-world had at birth. - - And so, we strive, and strive,--we know not why. - And not attaining what the heart would have, - We set the hand to work; we sweat and slave; - Allured by lights around earth’s narrow zone - That, followed, fly, we follow on and on; - For fame and wealth and power we barter away - Our lives; we would be gods: but mortal clay - Still clings about our feet, still drags us down, - And fetters us to earth without a crown. - And so, still unattaining all through life, - We follow still the bootless, mortal strife, - And laugh, and weep, and flatter, and fret, and--die!-- - Die still unsatisfied, - Some wish not gratified! - - - VIII. - - THE CROWNING GLORY. - - Labor night and day - Howsoe’er we may - And toil - And moil - With ceaseless sweating, - Forever fretting, - Still coping - In endless strife - And hoping - An easier life, - Yet with it all - Result must fall - Far short of aspiration. - - ’Tis the great Law of laws, - Nor far to seek the cause; - For in our heart of hearts we know - The Law of Life must needs be so - That man may climb - Through changing time - Above this clod - Of mouldy mortal earth - Back unto God, - His home of love at birth, - And find in endless life - Above - The crown of all our strife - Is Love, - --The crown of all creation. - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -1. 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