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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7325-h.zip b/7325-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6ac176 --- /dev/null +++ b/7325-h.zip diff --git a/7325-h/7325-h.htm b/7325-h/7325-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5590e30 --- /dev/null +++ b/7325-h/7325-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6254 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=us-ascii"> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dreams and Days, + by George Parsons Lathrop. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + * { font-family: Times;} + P { text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 14pt; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } + HR { width: 33%; } + --> + </style> + </head> + + + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Dreams and Days: Poems, by George Parsons Lathrop + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Dreams and Days: Poems + +Author: George Parsons Lathrop + +Posting Date: November 7, 2012 [EBook #7325] +Release Date: January, 2005 +First Posted: April 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders +Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + <h1> + DREAMS AND DAYS + </h1> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <center> + <b>POEMS<br> + BY<br> + GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP<br> + <br> + <br> + <br> + To ROSL</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + CONTENTS + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + <a href="#I.1">STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN!</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.2">"O JAY!"</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.3">THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.4">"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES"</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.5">JESSAMINE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.6">THE BOBOLINK</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.7">SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.8">FIRST GLANCE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.9">BRIDE BROOK</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.10">MAY-ROSE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.11">THE SINGING WIRE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.12">THE HEART OF A SONG</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.13">SOUTH-WIND</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.14">THE LOVER'S YEAR</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.15">NEW WORLDS</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.16">NIGHT IN NEW YORK</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.17">THE SONG-SPARROW</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#I.18">I LOVED YOU, ONCE——<br></a> + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + <a href="#II.1">THE BRIDE OF WAR</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.2">A RUNE OF THE RAIN</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.3">BREAKERS</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.4">BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.5">THE CHILD-YEAR</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.6">CHRISTENING</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.7">THANKSGIVING TURKEY</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#II.8">BEFORE THE SNOW</a> + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + <a href="#III.1">YOUTH TO THE POET</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.2">THE SWORD DHAM</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.3">"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.4">CHARITY</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.5">HELEN AT THE LOOM</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.6">THE CASKET OF OPALS</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#III.7">LOVE THAT LIVES</a> + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + <a href="#IV.1">BLUEBIRD'S GREETING</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.2">THE VOICE OF THE VOID</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.3">"O WHOLESOME DEATH"</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.4">INCANTATION</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.5">FAMINE AND HARVEST</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.6">THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.7">THE FLOWN SOUL</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.8">SUNSET AND SHORE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.9">THE PHOEBE-BIRD</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.10">A STRONG CITY</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#IV.11">THREE DOVES</a> + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + <a href="#V.1">ARISE, AMERICAN!</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.2">THE NAME OF WASHINGTON</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.3">GRANT'S DIRGE.</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.4">BATTLE DAYS</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.5">KEENAN'S CHARGE</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.6">MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND</a> + </p> + <p> + <a href="#V.7">GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE</a> + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + <a href="#notes">NOTES</a> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN! + </h3> + <p> + Strike hands, young men!<br> + We know not when<br> + Death or disaster comes,<br> + Mightier than battle-drums<br> + To summon us away.<br> + Death bids us say farewell<br> + To all we love, nor stay<br> + For tears;—and who can tell<br> + How soon misfortune's hand<br> + May smite us where we stand,<br> + Dragging us down, aloof,<br> + Under the swift world's hoof? + </p> + <p> + Strike hands for faith, and power<br> + To gladden the passing hour;<br> + To wield the sword, or raise a song;—<br> + To press the grape; or crush out wrong.<br> + And strengthen right.<br> + Give me the man of sturdy palm<br> + And vigorous brain;<br> + Hearty, companionable, sane,<br> + 'Mid all commotions calm,<br> + Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;—<br> + Give me the man<br> + Whose impulses aspire,<br> + And all his features seem to say, "I can!" + </p> + <p> + Strike hands, young men!<br> + 'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,<br> + And keep the Nation great.<br> + With act and speech and pen<br> + 'Tis yours to spread<br> + The morning-red<br> + That ushers in a grander day:<br> + To scatter prejudice that blinds,<br> + And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;<br> + To overthrow bland tyrannies<br> + That cheat the people, and with slow disease<br> + Change the Republic to a mockery.<br> + Your words can teach that liberty<br> + Means more than just to cry "We're free"<br> + While bending to some new-found yoke.<br> + So shall each unjust bond be broke,<br> + Each toiler gain his meet reward,<br> + And life sound forth a truer chord. + </p> + <p> + Ah, if we so have striven,<br> + And mutually the grasp have given<br> + Of brotherhood,<br> + To work each other and the whole race good;<br> + What matter if the dream<br> + Come only partly true,<br> + And all the things accomplished seem<br> + Feeble and few?<br> + At least, when summer's flame burns low<br> + And on our heads the drifting snow<br> + Settles and stays,<br> + We shall rejoice that in our earlier days<br> + We boldly then<br> + Struck hands, young men! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "O JAY!" + </h3> + <p> + O jay—<br> + Blue-jay!<br> + What are you trying to say?<br> + I remember, in the spring<br> + You pretended you could sing;<br> + But your voice is now still queerer,<br> + And as yet you've come no nearer<br> + To a song.<br> + In fact, to sum the matter,<br> + I never heard a flatter<br> + Failure than your doleful clatter.<br> + Don't you think it's wrong?<br> + It was sweet to hear your note,<br> + I'll not deny,<br> + When April set pale clouds afloat<br> + O'er the blue tides of sky,<br> + And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums<br> + You, in your white and azure coat,<br> + A herald proud, came forth to cry,<br> + "The royal summer comes!" + </p> + <p> + But now that autumn's here,<br> + And the leaves curl up in sheer<br> + Disgust,<br> + And the cold rains fringe the pine,<br> + You really must<br> + Stop that supercilious whine—-<br> + Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic<br> + Angry critic. + </p> + <p> + You don't fulfill your early promise:<br> + You're not the smartest<br> + Kind of artist,<br> + Any more than poor Blind Tom is.<br> + Yet somehow, still,<br> + There's meaning in your screaming bill.<br> + What <i>are</i> you trying to say? + </p> + <p> + Sometimes your piping is delicious,<br> + And then again it's simply vicious;<br> + Though on the whole the varying jangle<br> + Weaves round me an entrancing tangle<br> + Of memories grave or joyous:<br> + Things to weep or laugh at;<br> + Love that lived at a hint, or<br> + Days so sweet, they'd cloy us;<br> + Nights I have spent with friends;—<br> + Glistening groves of winter,<br> + And the sound of vanished feet<br> + That walked by the ripening wheat;<br> + With other things.... Not the half that<br> + Your cry familiar blends<br> + Can I name, for it is mostly<br> + Very ghostly;—<br> + Such mixed-up things your voice recalls,<br> + With its peculiar quirks and falls. + </p> + <p> + Possibly, then, your meaning, plain,<br> + Is that your harsh and broken strain<br> + Tallies best with a world of pain. + </p> + <p> + Well, I'll admit<br> + There's merit in a voice that's truthful:<br> + Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful,<br> + But querulously fit.<br> + And if we cannot sing, we'll say<br> + Something to the purpose, jay! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + </h3> + <p> + "Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "Follow your fathomless flight!<br> + Into the dreams of space<br> + Carry the joy of my face.<br> + Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "Tell me the tale of your flight." + </p> + <p> + As the mandate rang<br> + The heavens through,<br> + Quick the ray sprang:<br> + Unheard it flew,<br> + Sped by the touch of an unseen spur.<br> + It crumbled the dusk of the deep<br> + That folds the worlds in sleep,<br> + And shot through night with noiseless stir. + </p> + <p> + Then came the day;<br> + And all that swift array<br> + Of diamond-sparkles died.<br> + And lo! the far star cried:<br> + "My light has lost its way!"<br> + Ages on ages passed:<br> + The light returned, at last. + </p> + <p> + "What have you seen,<br> + What have you heard—<br> + O ray serene,<br> + O flame-winged bird<br> + I loosed on endless air?<br> + Why do you look so faint and white?"—<br> + Said the star to its light. + </p> + <p> + "O star," said the tremulous ray,<br> + "Grief and struggle I found.<br> + Horror impeded my way.<br> + Many a star and sun<br> + I passed and touched, on my round.<br> + Many a life undone<br> + I lit with a tender gleam:<br> + I shone in the lover's eyes,<br> + And soothed the maiden's dream.<br> + But alas for the stifling mist of lies!<br> + Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field<br> + Where my glance was mixed with blood!<br> + And woe for the hearts by hate congealed,<br> + And the crime that rolls like a flood!<br> + Too vast is the world for me;<br> + Too vast for the sparkling dew<br> + Of a force like yours to renew.<br> + Hopeless the world's immensity!<br> + The suns go on without end:<br> + The universe holds no friend:<br> + And so I come back to you." + </p> + <p> + "Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "You have not told me aright.<br> + This you have taught: I am one<br> + In a million of million others—<br> + Stars, or planets, or men;—<br> + And all of these are my brothers.<br> + Carry that message, and then<br> + My guerdon of praise you have won!<br> + Say that I serve in my place:<br> + Say I will hide my own face<br> + Ere the sorrows of others I shun.<br> + So, then, my trust you'll requite.<br> + Go!"—said the star to its light. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + </h3> + <p> + The sunshine of thine eyes,<br> + (O still, celestial beam!)<br> + Whatever it touches it fills<br> + With the life of its lambent gleam. + </p> + <p> + The sunshine of thine eyes,<br> + O let it fall on me!<br> + Though I be but a mote of the air,<br> + I could turn to gold for thee! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + JESSAMINE + </h3> + <p> + Here stands the great tree still, with broad bent head;<br> + Its wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread<br> + With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves<br> + Strange garlands, now, amongst the darkening leaves.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine<br> + Walked with her lover long ago; and in<br> + The leaf-dimmed light he questioned, and she spoke;<br> + Then on them both, supreme, love's radiance broke.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone<br> + Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown,<br> + Gathering from each alike a perfect white,<br> + Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + For this her sweetness Walt, her lover, sought<br> + To win her; wooed her here, his heart o'er fraught<br> + With fragrance of her being; and gained his plea.<br> + So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree."<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Yet dreams of conquering greater prize for her<br> + Roused his wild spirit with a glittering spur.<br> + Eager for wealth, far, far from home he sailed;<br> + And life paused;—while she watched joy vanish, + veiled.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Ah, better at the elm-tree's sunbrowned feet<br> + If he had been content to let life fleet<br> + Its wonted way!—lord of his little farm,<br> + In zest of joys or cares unmixed with harm.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + For, as against a snarling sea one steers,<br> + He battled vainly with the surging years;<br> + While ever Jessamine must watch and pine,<br> + Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Then silence fell; and all the neighbors said<br> + That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead:<br> + Unmoved in constancy, her tryst she kept,<br> + Each night beneath the tree, ere sorrow slept.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + So, circling years went by, till in her face<br> + Slow melancholy wrought a mingled grace,<br> + Of early joy with suffering's hard alloy—<br> + Refined and rare, no doom could e'er destroy.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine<br> + Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win<br> + The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused<br> + On love that so could live, with love refused.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + And none could hope for her. But she had grown<br> + Too high in love, for hope. She bloomed alone,<br> + Aloft in proud devotion; and secure<br> + Against despair; so sweet her faith, so sure.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Her wandering lover knew not well her soul.<br> + Discouraged, on disaster's changing shoal<br> + Stranding, he waited; starved on selfish pride,<br> + Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + But, bitterly repenting of his sin,<br> + Deeper at last he learned to look within<br> + Sweet Jessamine's true heart—when the past, dead,<br> + Mocked him with wasted years forever fled.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Late, late, oh late, beneath the tree stood two;<br> + In trembling joy, and wondering "Is it true?"—<br> + Two that were each like some strange, misty wraith:<br> + Yet each on each gazed with a living faith.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell:<br> + Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell.<br> + Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed,<br> + Beneath it many a year has she lain dead.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Here stands the great tree, still. But age has crept<br> + Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept<br> + The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might<br> + The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite!<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in + the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE BOBOLINK + </h3> + <p> + How sweetly sang the bobolink,<br> + When thou, my love, wast nigh!<br> + His liquid music from the brink<br> + Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink,<br> + Far in the blue-domed sky. + </p> + <p> + How sadly sings the bobolink!<br> + No more my love is nigh:<br> + Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink<br> + Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,—<br> + Once more before I die! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + </h3> + <p> + The sea goes up; the sky comes down.<br> + Oh, can you spy the ancient town,—<br> + The granite hills so green and gray,<br> + That rib the land behind the bay?<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!<br> + Fair winds, boys: send her home!<br> + + O ye ho! + </p> + <p> + Three years? Is it so long that we<br> + Have lived upon the lonely sea?<br> + Oh, often I thought we'd see the town,<br> + When the sea went up, and the sky came down.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Even the winter winds would rouse<br> + A memory of my father's house;<br> + For round his windows and his door<br> + They made the same deep, mouthless roar.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + And when the summer's breezes beat,<br> + Methought I saw the sunny street<br> + Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand<br> + She gazed far out, far out from land.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed<br> + That I was with her. Then it seemed<br> + A single stride the ocean wide<br> + Had bridged, and brought me to her side.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + But though so near we're drawing, now,<br> + 'T is farther off—I know not how.<br> + We sail and sail: we see no home.<br> + Would that we into port were come!<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + At night, the same stars o'er the mast:<br> + The mast sways round—however fast<br> + We fly—still sways and swings around<br> + One scanty circle's starry bound.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Ah, many a month those stars have shone,<br> + And many a golden morn has flown,<br> + Since that so solemn, happy morn,<br> + When, I away, my babe was born.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + And, though so near we're drawing, now,<br> + 'T is farther off—I know not how:—<br> + I would not aught amiss had come<br> + To babe or mother there, at home!<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + 'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush<br> + The seas, beneath. I hear the crush<br> + Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow.<br> + Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Patience, my mates! Though not this eve<br> + We cast our anchor, yet believe,<br> + If but the wind holds, short the run:<br> + We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!<br> + Fair winds, boys: send her home!<br> + O ye ho! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + FIRST GLANCE + </h3> + <p> + A budding mouth and warm blue eyes;<br> + A laughing face; and laughing hair,—<br> + So ruddy was its rise<br> + From off that forehead fair; + </p> + <p> + Frank fervor in whate'er she said,<br> + And a shy grace when she was still;<br> + A bright, elastic tread;<br> + Enthusiastic will; + </p> + <p> + These wrought the magic of a maid<br> + As sweet and sad as the sun in spring;—<br> + Joyous, yet half-afraid<br> + Her joyousness to sing. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.9"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BRIDE BROOK + </h3> + <p> + Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand,<br> + And blindly over us there blows<br> + A swarm of years that fill the land,<br> + Then fade, and are as fallen snows. + </p> + <p> + Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast;<br> + Or are they years, that come between,—<br> + When, peering back into the past,<br> + I search the legendary scene? + </p> + <p> + Nay. Marshaled down the open coast,<br> + Fearless of that low rampart's frown,<br> + The winter's white-winged, footless host<br> + Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town. + </p> + <p> + And when the settlers wake they stare<br> + On woods half-buried, white and green,<br> + A smothered world, an empty air:<br> + Never had such deep drifts been seen! + </p> + <p> + But "Snow lies light upon my heart!<br> + An thou," said merry Jonathan Rudd,<br> + "Wilt wed me, winter shall depart,<br> + And love like spring for us shall bud." + </p> + <p> + "Nay, how," said Mary, "may that be?<br> + No minister nor magistrate<br> + Is here, to join us solemnly;<br> + And snow-banks bar us, every gate." + </p> + <p> + "Winthrop at Pequot Harbor lies,"<br> + He laughed. And with the morrow's sun<br> + He faced the deputy's dark eyes:<br> + "How soon, sir, may the rite be done?" + </p> + <p> + "At Saybrook? There the power's not mine,"<br> + Said he. "But at the brook we'll meet,<br> + That ripples down the boundary line;<br> + There you may wed, and Heaven shall see't." + </p> + <p> + Forth went, next day, the bridal train<br> + Through vistas dreamy with gray light.<br> + The waiting woods, the open plain,<br> + Arrayed in consecrated white, + </p> + <p> + Received and ushered them, along.<br> + The very beasts before them fled,<br> + Charmed by the spell of inward song<br> + These lovers' hearts around them spread. + </p> + <p> + Four men with netted foot-gear shod<br> + Bore the maid's carrying-chair aloft;<br> + She swayed above, as roses nod<br> + On the lithe stem their bloom-weight soft. + </p> + <p> + At last beside the brook they stood,<br> + With Winthrop and his followers;<br> + The maid in flake-embroidered hood,<br> + The magistrate well cloaked in furs, + </p> + <p> + That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath<br> + Of ample, throat-encircling ruff<br> + As white as some wind-gathered wreath<br> + Of snow quilled into plait and puff. + </p> + <p> + A few grave words, a question asked;<br> + Eyelids that with the answer fell<br> + Like falling petals;—form that tasked<br> + Brief time;—and so was wrought the spell! + </p> + <p> + Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said,<br> + "Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb<br> + The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped<br> + These lovers on their way. But, come, + </p> + <p> + "Henceforth forever be thou known<br> + By memory of this day's fair bride:<br> + So shall thy slender music's moan<br> + Sweeter into the ocean glide!" + </p> + <p> + Then laughed they all, and sudden beams<br> + Of sunshine quivered through the sky.<br> + Below the ice, the unheard stream's<br> + Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy; + </p> + <p> + And lo, a visionary blush<br> + Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild;<br> + And in her rapt and wintry hush<br> + The lonely face of Nature smiled. + </p> + <p> + Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite<br> + Is all that tender vision now;<br> + And, like lost snow-flakes in the night,<br> + Mute are the lovers as their vow. + </p> + <p> + And O thou little, careless brook,<br> + Hast thou thy tender trust forgot?<br> + Her modest memory forsook,<br> + Whose name, known once, thou utterest not? + </p> + <p> + Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy;<br> + In willow bough or alder bush<br> + Birds sing, o'er golden filigree<br> + Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush; + </p> + <p> + But none can tell us of that name<br> + More than the "Mary." Men still say<br> + "Bride Brook" in honor of her fame;<br> + But all the rest has passed away. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.10"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + MAY-ROSE + </h3> + <center> + <b>[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20]</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + On this day to life she came—<br> + May-Rose, my May-Rose!<br> + With scented breeze, with flowered flame,<br> + She touched the earth and took her name<br> + + Of May, Rose. + </p> + <p> + Here, to-day, she grows and flowers—<br> + May-Rose, my May-Rose.<br> + All my life with light she dowers,<br> + And colors all the coming hours<br> + + With May, Rose! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.11"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SINGING WIRE + </h3> + <p> + Ethereal, faint that music rang,<br> + As, with the bosom of the breeze,<br> + It rose and fell and murmuring + sang<br> + Aeolian harmonies! + </p> + <p> + I turned; again the mournful chords,<br> + In random rhythm lightly flung<br> + From off the wire, came shaped in + words;<br> + And thus meseemed, they + sung: + </p> + <p> + "I, messenger of many fates,<br> + Strung to the tones of woe or weal,<br> + Fine nerve that thrills and + palpitates<br> + With all men know or + feel,— + </p> + <p> + "Is it so strange that I should wail?<br> + Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,<br> + When in the pine-top wakes the + gale<br> + That breathes of coming + rain. + </p> + <p> + "There is a spirit in the post;<br> + It, too, was once a murmuring tree;<br> + Its withered, sad, imprisoned + ghost<br> + Echoes my melody. + </p> + <p> + "Come close, and lay your listening ear<br> + Against the bare and branchless wood.<br> + Can you not hear it crooning + clear,<br> + As though it + understood?" + </p> + <p> + I listened to the branchless pole<br> + That held aloft the singing wire;<br> + I heard its muffled music roll,<br> + And stirred with sweet + desire: + </p> + <p> + "O wire more soft than seasoned lute,<br> + Hast thou no sunlit word for me?<br> + Though long to me so coyly mute,<br> + Her heart may speak + through thee!" + </p> + <p> + I listened, but it was in vain.<br> + At first, the wind's old wayward will<br> + Drew forth the tearless, sad + refrain.<br> + That ceased; and all was + still. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly some kindling shock<br> + Struck flashing through the wire: a bird,<br> + Poised on it, screamed and flew; the + flock<br> + Rose with him; wheeled + and whirred. + </p> + <p> + Then to my soul there came this sense:<br> + "Her heart has answered unto thine;<br> + She comes, to-night. Go, speed thee + hence:<br> + Meet her; no more + repine!" + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the fancy was far-fetched;<br> + And yet, perhaps, it hinted true.<br> + Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was + stretched<br> + In mine, that gave + me—you! + </p> + <p> + And so more dear to me has grown<br> + Than rarest tones swept from the lyre,<br> + The minor movement of that moan<br> + In yonder singing wire. + </p> + <p> + Nor care I for the will of states,<br> + Or aught beside, that smites that string,<br> + Since then so close it knit our + fates,<br> + What time the bird took + wing! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.12"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE HEART OF A SONG + </h3> + <p> + Dear love, let this my song fly to you:<br> + Perchance forget it came from me.<br> + It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;<br> + But in your breast lie quietly. + </p> + <p> + Only beware, when once it tarries<br> + I cannot coax it from you, then.<br> + This little song my whole heart carries,<br> + And ne'er will bear it back again. + </p> + <p> + For if its silent passion grieve you,<br> + My heart would then too heavy grow;—<br> + And it can never, never leave you,<br> + If joy of yours must with it go! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.13"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SOUTH-WIND + </h3> + <p> + Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease<br> + (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is + made!)<br> + Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately + stayed<br> + 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these<br> + Loth blushes faint and maidenly:—rich breeze,<br> + Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade<br> + Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid<br> + The power to build or blight the fruit of trees,<br> + The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. + </p> + <p> + Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,<br> + Both measureless, but either counted gain<br> + Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow<br> + Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.<br> + Tears are the gems of joy and misery. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.14"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE LOVER'S YEAR + </h3> + <p> + Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve,<br> + My summer and my winter, spring and fall;<br> + For Nature left on thee a touch of all<br> + The moods that come to gladden or to grieve<br> + The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve<br> + From lagging sameness. So do these forestall<br> + In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall<br> + Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. + </p> + <p> + Scenes that I love to me always remain<br> + Beautiful, whether under summer sun<br> + Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain.<br> + So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet + one:<br> + Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see<br> + Thy constant change is changeful constancy. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.15"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + NEW WORLDS + </h3> + <p> + With my beloved I lingered late one night.<br> + At last the hour when I must leave her came:<br> + But, as I turned, a fear I could not name<br> + Possessed me that the long sweet evening might<br> + Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight<br> + Should perish. What if death, ere dawn, should + claim<br> + One of us? What, though living, not the same<br> + Each should appear to each in morning-light? + </p> + <p> + Changed did I find her, truly, the next day:<br> + Ne'er could I see her as of old again.<br> + That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away,<br> + And let her beauty pour through every vein<br> + Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover<br> + With each new morn a new world may discover. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.16"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + NIGHT IN NEW YORK + </h3> + <p> + Haunted by unknown feet—<br> + Ways of the midnight hour!<br> + Strangely you murmur below me,<br> + Strange is your half-silent power.<br> + Places of life and of death,<br> + Numbered and named as streets,<br> + What, through your channels of stone,<br> + Is the tide that unweariedly beats?<br> + A whisper, a sigh-laden breath,<br> + Is all that I hear of its flowing.<br> + Footsteps of stranger and foe—<br> + Footsteps of friends, could we meet—<br> + Alike to me in my sorrow;<br> + Alike to a life left alone.<br> + Yet swift as my heart they throb,<br> + They fall thick as tears on the stone:<br> + My spirit perchance may borrow<br> + New strength from their eager tone. + </p> + <p> + Still ever that slip and slide<br> + Of the feet that shuffle or glide,<br> + And linger or haste through the populous waste<br> + Of the shadowy, dim-lit square!<br> + And I know not, from the sound,<br> + As I sit and ponder within,<br> + The goal to which those steps are bound,—<br> + On hest of mercy, or hest of sin,<br> + Or joy's short-measured round;<br> + Yet a meaning deep they bear<br> + In their vaguely muffled din. + </p> + <p> + Roar of the multitude,<br> + Chafe of the million-crowd,<br> + To this you are all subdued<br> + In the murmurous, sad night-air!<br> + Yet whether you thunder aloud,<br> + Or hush your tone to a prayer,<br> + You chant amain through the modern maze<br> + The only epic of our days. + </p> + <p> + Still as death are the places of life;<br> + The city seems crumbled and gone,<br> + Sunk 'mid invisible deeps—<br> + The city so lately rife<br> + With the stir of brain and brawn.<br> + Haply it only sleeps;<br> + But what if indeed it were dead,<br> + And another earth should arise<br> + To greet the gray of the dawn?<br> + Faint then our epic would wail<br> + To those who should come in our stead.<br> + But what if that earth were ours?<br> + What if, with holier eyes,<br> + We should meet the new hope, and not fail? + </p> + <p> + Weary, the night grows pale:<br> + With a blush as of opening flowers<br> + Dimly the east shines red.<br> + Can it be that the morn shall fulfil<br> + My dream, and refashion our clay<br> + As the poet may fashion his rhyme?<br> + Hark to that mingled scream<br> + Rising from workshop and mill—<br> + Hailing some marvelous sight;<br> + Mighty breath of the hours,<br> + Poured through the trumpets of steam;<br> + Awful tornado of time,<br> + Blowing us whither it will! + </p> + <p> + God has breathed in the nostrils of night,<br> + And behold, it is day! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.17"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SONG-SPARROW + </h3> + <p> + Glimmers gray the leafless thicket<br> + Close beside my garden gate,<br> + Where, so light, from post to picket<br> + Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate;<br> + Who, with meekly folded wing,<br> + Comes to sun himself and sing. + </p> + <p> + It was there, perhaps, last year,<br> + That his little house he built;<br> + For he seems to perk and peer,<br> + And to twitter, too, and tilt<br> + The bare branches in between,<br> + With a fond, familiar mien. + </p> + <p> + Once, I know, there was a nest,<br> + Held there by the sideward thrust<br> + Of those twigs that touch his breast;<br> + Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust<br> + Caught it, over-full of + snow,—<br> + Bent the bush,—and stole it + so. + </p> + <p> + Thus our highest holds are lost,<br> + In the ruthless winter's wind,<br> + When, with swift-dismantling frost,<br> + The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd<br> + Of their leafage, grow too cold<br> + For frail hopes of summer's mold. + </p> + <p> + But if we, with spring-days mellow,<br> + Wake to woeful wrecks of change,<br> + And the sparrow's ritornello<br> + Scaling still its old sweet range;<br> + Can we do a better thing<br> + Than, with him, still build and + sing? + </p> + <p> + Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed<br> + Thought in me beyond all telling;<br> + Shootest through me sunlight, seed,<br> + And fruitful blessing, with that welling<br> + Ripple of ecstatic rest<br> + Gurgling ever from thy breast! + </p> + <p> + And thy breezy carol spurs<br> + Vital motion in my blood,<br> + Such as in the sap-wood stirs,<br> + Swells and shapes the pointed bud<br> + Of the lilac; and besets<br> + The hollow thick with violets. + </p> + <p> + Yet I know not any charm<br> + That can make the fleeting time<br> + Of thy sylvan, faint alarm<br> + Suit itself to human rhyme:<br> + And my yearning rhythmic word<br> + Does thee grievous wrong, blithe + bird. + </p> + <p> + So, however thou hast wrought<br> + This wild joy on heart and brain,<br> + It is better left untaught.<br> + Take thou up the song again:<br> + There is nothing sad afloat<br> + On the tide that swells thy throat! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.18"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + I LOVED YOU, ONCE— + </h3> + <p> + And did you think my heart<br> + Could keep its love unchanging,<br> + Fresh as the buds that start<br> + In spring, nor know estranging?<br> + Listen! The buds depart:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + 'T is not the early love;<br> + With day and night it alters,<br> + And onward still must move<br> + Like earth, that never falters<br> + For storm or star above.<br> + I loved you once; but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + With gifts in those glad days<br> + How eagerly I sought you!<br> + Youth, shining hope, and praise:<br> + These were the gifts I brought you.<br> + In this world little stays:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + A child with glorious eyes<br> + Here in our arms half sleeping—<br> + So passion wakeful lies;<br> + Then grows to manhood, keeping<br> + Its wistful, young surprise:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + When age's pinching air<br> + Strips summer's rich possession,<br> + And leaves the branches bare,<br> + My secret in confession<br> + Still thus with you I'll share:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE BRIDE OF WAR + </h3> + <center> + <b>(ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775)</b> + </center> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + The trumpet, with a giant sound,<br> + Its harsh war-summons wildly sings;<br> + And, bursting forth like mountain-springs,<br> + Poured from the hillside camping-ground,<br> + Each swift battalion shouting flings<br> + Its force in line; where you may see<br> + The men, broad-shouldered, heavily<br> + Sway to the swing of the march; their heads<br> + Dark like the stones in river-beds. + </p> + <p> + Lightly the autumn breezes<br> + Play with the shining dust-cloud<br> + Rising to the sunset rays<br> + From feet of the moving column.<br> + Soft, as you listen, comes<br> + The echo of iterant drums,<br> + Brought by the breezes light<br> + From the files that follow the road.<br> + A moment their guns have glowed<br> + Sun-smitten: then out of sight<br> + They suddenly sink,<br> + Like men who touch a new grave's brink! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + So it was the march began,<br> + The march of Morgan's + riflemen,<br> + Who like iron held the van<br> + In unhappy Arnold's plan<br> + To win Wolfe's daring + fame again.<br> + With them, by her husband's + side,<br> + Jemima Warner, nobly + free,<br> + Moved more fair than when, a + bride,<br> + One year since, she + strove to hide<br> + The blush it was a joy to see. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + O distant, terrible forests of Maine,<br> + With huge trees numberless as the rain<br> + That falls on your lonely lakes!<br> + (It falls and sings through the years, but wakes<br> + No answering echo of joy or pain.) + </p> + <p> + Your tangled wilderness was tracked<br> + With struggle and sorrow and vengeful act<br> + 'Gainst Puritan, pagan, and priest.<br> + Where wolf and panther and serpent ceased,<br> + Man added the horrors your dark maze lacked. + </p> + <p> + The land was scarred with deeds not good,<br> + Like the fretting of worms on withered wood.<br> + What if its venomous spell<br> + Breathed into Arnold a prompting of Hell,<br> + With slow empoisoning force indued? + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + As through that dreary realm he went,<br> + Followed a shape of dark portent:—<br> + Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain<br> + To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr,<br> + Moved loyal-seeming in the train,<br> + Led by the arch-conspirator.<br> + And craven Enos closed the rear,<br> + Whose honor's flame died out in fear.<br> + Not sooner does the dry bough burn<br> + And into fruitless ashes turn,<br> + Than he with whispered, false command<br> + Drew back the hundreds in his hand;<br> + Fled like a shade; and all forsook. + </p> + <p> + Wherever Arnold bent his look,<br> + Danger and doubt around him hung;<br> + And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung<br> + Black omens in his track, as though<br> + The fingers of a future woe<br> + Already clutched his life, to wring<br> + Some expiation for the thing<br> + That he was yet to do. A chill<br> + Struck helpless many a steadfast will<br> + Within the ranks; the very air<br> + Rang with a thunder-toned despair:<br> + The hills seemed wandering to and fro,<br> + Like lost guides blinded by the snow. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Yet faithful still 'mid woe and doubt<br> + One woman's loyal heart—whose pain<br> + Filled it with pure celestial light—<br> + Shone starry-constant like the North,<br> + Or that still radiance beaming forth<br> + From sacred lights in some lone fane.<br> + But he whose ring Jemima wore,<br> + By want and weariness all unstrung,<br> + Though strong and honest of heart and young,<br> + Shrank at the blast that pierced so frore—<br> + Like a huge, invisible bird of prey<br> + Furious launched from Labrador<br> + And the granite cliffs of Saguenay! + </p> + <p> + Along the bleak Dead River's banks<br> + They forced amain their frozen way;<br> + But ever from the thinning ranks<br> + Shapes of ice would reel and fall,<br> + Human shapes, whose dying prayer<br> + Floated, a mute white mist, in air;<br> + The crowding snow their pall. + </p> + <p> + Spectre-like Famine drew near;<br> + Her doom-word hummed in his ear:<br> + Ah, weak were woman's hands to reach<br> + And save him from the hellish charms<br> + And wizard motion of those arms!<br> + Yet only noble womanhood<br> + The wife her dauntless part could teach:<br> + She shared with him the last dry food<br> + And thronged with hopefulness her speech,<br> + As when hard by her home the flood<br> + Of rushing Conestoga fills<br> + Its depth afresh from springtide rills! + </p> + <p> + All, all in vain!<br> + For far behind the invading rout<br> + These two were left alone;<br> + And in the waste their wildest shout<br> + Seemed but a smothered groan.<br> + Like sheeted wanderers from the grave<br> + They moved, and yet seemed not to stir,<br> + As icy gorge and sere-leaf'd grove<br> + Of withered oak and shrouded fir<br> + Were passed, and onward still they strove;<br> + While the loud wind's artillery clave<br> + The air, and furious sleety rain<br> + Swung like a sword above the plain! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + They crossed the hills; they came to where<br> + Through an arid gloom the river Chaudiere<br> + Fled like a Maenad with outstreaming hair;<br> + And there the soldier sank, and died.<br> + Death-dumb he fell; yet ere life sped,<br> + Child-like on her knee he laid his head.<br> + She strove to pray; but all words fled<br> + Save those their love had sanctified. + </p> + <p> + And then her voice rose waveringly<br> + To the notes of a mother's lullaby;<br> + But her song was only "Ah, must thou die?"<br> + And to her his eyes death-still replied. + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + Dead leaves and stricken boughs<br> + She heaped o'er the fallen form—<br> + Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm<br> + Him from his rest should rouse;<br> + But first, with solemn vows,<br> + Took rifle, pouch, and horn,<br> + And the belt that he had worn.<br> + Then, onward pressing fast<br> + Through the forest rude and vast,<br> + Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd,<br> + Many bitter days she marched<br> + With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain;<br> + One thought always throbbing through her brain:<br> + "They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'—<br> + They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'" + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + Now the wilderness is passed;<br> + Now the first hut reached, at last. + </p> + <p> + Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail,<br> + Come forth and greet the bride of war!<br> + From cabin and rough settlement<br> + They come to speed her on her way—<br> + Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale<br> + With pity never felt before;<br> + Children that cluster at the door;<br> + Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent<br> + To help, or bid her longer stay.<br> + But through them all she passes on,<br> + Strangely martial, fair and wan;<br> + Nor waits to listen to their cheers<br> + That sound so faintly in her ears.<br> + For now all scenes around her shift,<br> + Like those before a racer's eyes<br> + When, foremost sped and madly swift,<br> + Quick stretching toward the goal he flies,<br> + Yet feels his strength wane with his breath,<br> + And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,— + </p> + <p> + Till, like the flashing of a lamp,<br> + Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,—<br> + The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam<br> + Of steel,—where, crouched, the army waits,<br> + Ere long, beyond the midnight stream,<br> + To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates. + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + Then to the leader she was brought,<br> + And spoke her simply loyal thought.<br> + If, 'mid the shame of after-days,<br> + The man who wronged his country's trust<br> + (Yet now in worth outweighed all praise)<br> + Remembered what this woman wrought,<br> + It should have bowed him to the dust!<br> + "Humbly my soldier-husband tried<br> + To do his part. He served,—and died.<br> + But honor did not die. His name<br> + And honor—bringing both, I came;<br> + And this his rifle, here, to show,<br> + While far away the tired heart sleeps,<br> + To-day his faith with you he keeps!" + </p> + <p> + Proudly the war bride, ending so,<br> + Sank breathless in the dumb white snow. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + A RUNE OF THE RAIN + </h3> + <p> + O many-toned rain!<br> + O myriad sweet voices of the rain!<br> + How welcome is its delicate overture<br> + At evening, when the moist and glowing west<br> + Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. + </p> + <p> + At first it would allure<br> + The earth to kinder mood,<br> + With dainty flattering<br> + Of soft, sweet pattering:<br> + Faintly now you hear the tramp<br> + Of the fine drops, falling damp<br> + On the dry, sun-seasoned ground<br> + And the thirsty leaves, resound.<br> + But anon, imbued<br> + With a sudden, bounding access<br> + Of passion, it relaxes<br> + All timider persuasion.<br> + And, with nor pretext nor occasion,<br> + Its wooing redoubles;<br> + And pounds the ground, and bubbles<br> + In sputtering spray,<br> + Flinging itself in a fury<br> + Of flashing white away;<br> + Till the dusty road,<br> + Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed;<br> + And the grass, and the wide-hung trees,<br> + The vines, the flowers in their beds,—<br> + The virid corn that to the breeze<br> + Rustles along the garden-rows,—<br> + Visibly lift their heads,<br> + And, as the quick shower wilder grows,<br> + Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. + </p> + <p> + Then, the slow and pleasant murmur<br> + Of its subsiding,<br> + As the pulse of the storm beats firmer,<br> + And the steady rain<br> + Drops into a cadenced chiding!<br> + Deep-breathing rain,<br> + The sad and ghostly noise<br> + Wherewith thou dost complain—-<br> + Thy plaintive, spiritual voice,<br> + Heard thus at close of day<br> + Through vaults of twilight gray—<br> + Vexes me with sweet pain;<br> + And still my soul is fain<br> + To know the secret of that yearning<br> + Which in thine utterance I hear returning.<br> + Hush, oh hush!<br> + Break not the dreamy rush<br> + Of the rain:<br> + Touch not the marring doubt<br> + Words bring to the certainty<br> + Of its soft refrain;<br> + But let the flying fringes flout<br> + Their drops against the pane,<br> + And the gurgling throat of the water-spout<br> + Groan in the eaves amain. + </p> + <p> + The earth is wedded to the shower;<br> + Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + O many-toned rain!<br> + It hath caught the strain<br> + Of a wilder tune,<br> + Ere the same night's noon,<br> + When dreams and sleep forsake me,<br> + And sudden dread doth wake me,<br> + To hear the booming drums of heaven beat<br> + The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud,<br> + With an echoing loud,<br> + Bursts asunder<br> + At the sudden resurrection of the thunder;<br> + And the fountains of the air,<br> + Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere,<br> + To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + O myriad sweet voices of the rain!<br> + When the airy war doth wane,<br> + And the storm to the east hath flown,<br> + Cloaked close in the whirling wind,<br> + There's a voice still left behind<br> + In each heavy-hearted tree,<br> + Charged with tearful memory<br> + Of the vanished rain:<br> + From their leafy lashes wet<br> + Drip the dews of fresh regret<br> + For the lover that's gone!<br> + All else is still;<br> + Yet the stars are listening,<br> + And low o'er the wooded hill<br> + Hangs, upon listless wing<br> + Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud,<br> + Watching, like a bird of evil<br> + That knows nor mercy nor reprieval,<br> + The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + But soon, returning duly,<br> + Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely.<br> + To her vision pure and cold<br> + The night's wild tale is told<br> + On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool,<br> + The garden mold turned dark and cool,<br> + And the meadows' trampled acres.<br> + But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers!<br> + For now the moanings bitter,<br> + Left by the rain, make harmony<br> + With the swallow's matin-twitter,<br> + And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree.<br> + The infant morning breathes sweet breath,<br> + And with it is blent<br> + The wistful, wild, moist scent<br> + Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth:<br> + And behold!<br> + The last reluctant drop of the storm,<br> + Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm<br> + And turned to gold;<br> + For in its veins doth run<br> + The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BREAKERS + </h3> + <p> + Far out at sea there has been a storm,<br> + And still, as they roll their liquid acres,<br> + High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.<br> + The air is laden, moist, and warm<br> + With the dying tempest's breath;<br> + And, as I walk the lonely strand<br> + With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned<br> + By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers,<br> + Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling,<br> + Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling—<br> + Watch, and muse, and vainly listen<br> + To the inarticulate mumbling<br> + Of the hoary-headed deep;<br> + For who may tell me what it saith,<br> + Muttering, moaning as in sleep? + </p> + <p> + Slowly and heavily<br> + Comes in the sea,<br> + With memories of storm o'erfreighted,<br> + With heaving heart and breath abated,<br> + Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow,<br> + And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow. + </p> + <p> + Slowly and heavily<br> + Grows the green water-mound;<br> + But drawing ever nigher,<br> + Towering ever higher,<br> + Swollen with an inward rage<br> + Naught but ruin can assuage,<br> + Swift, now, without sound,<br> + Creeps stealthily<br> + Up to the shore—<br> + Creeps, creeps and undulates;<br> + As one dissimulates<br> + Till, swayed by hateful frenzy,<br> + Through passion grown immense, he<br> + Bursts forth hostilely;<br> + And rising, a smooth billow—<br> + Its swelling, sunlit dome<br> + Thinned to a tumid ledge<br> + With keen, curved edge<br> + Like the scornful curl<br> + Of lips that snarl—<br> + O'ertops itself and breaks<br> + Into a raving foam;<br> + So springs upon the shore<br> + With a hungry roar;<br> + Its first fierce anger slakes<br> + On the stony shallow;<br> + And runs up on the land,<br> + Licking the smooth, hard sand,<br> + Relentless, cold, yet wroth;<br> + And dies in savage froth. + </p> + <p> + Then with its backward swirl<br> + The sands and the stones, how they whirl!<br> + O, fiercely doth it draw<br> + Them to its chasm'd maw,<br> + And against it in vain<br> + They linger and strain;<br> + And as they slip away<br> + Into the seething gray<br> + Fill all the thunderous air<br> + With the horror of their despair,<br> + And their wild terror wreak<br> + In one hoarse, wailing shriek. + </p> + <p> + But scarce is this done,<br> + When another one<br> + Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun,<br> + And sucks away the shore<br> + As that did before:<br> + And another shall smother it o'er. + </p> + <p> + Then there's a lull—a half-hush;<br> + And forward the little waves rush,<br> + Toppling and hurrying,<br> + Each other worrying,<br> + And in their haste<br> + Run to waste. + </p> + <p> + Yet again is heard the trample<br> + Of the surges high and ample:<br> + Their dreadful meeting—<br> + The wild and sudden breaking—<br> + The dinting, and battering, and beating,<br> + And swift forsaking. + </p> + <p> + And ever they burst and boom,<br> + A numberless host;<br> + Like heralds of doom<br> + To the trembling coast;<br> + And ever the tangled spray<br> + Is tossed from the fierce affray,<br> + And, as with spectral arms<br> + That taunt and beckon and mock,<br> + And scatter vague alarms,<br> + Clasps and unclasps the rock;<br> + Listlessly over it wanders;<br> + Moodily, madly maunders,<br> + And hissingly falls<br> + From the glistening walls. + </p> + <p> + So all day along the shore<br> + Shout the breakers, green and hoar,<br> + Weaving out their weird tune;<br> + Till at night the full moon<br> + Weds the dark with that ring<br> + Of gold that you see her fling<br> + On the misty air.<br> + Then homeward slow returning<br> + To slumbers deep I fare,<br> + Filled with an infinite yearning,<br> + With thoughts that rise and fall<br> + To the sound of the sea's hollow call,<br> + Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach<br> + Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach,<br> + To scatter a spray on my dreams;<br> + Till the slow and measured rote<br> + Brings a drowsy ease<br> + To my spirit, and seems<br> + To set it soothingly afloat<br> + On broad and buoyant seas<br> + Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge<br> + Of the melancholy surge. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + </h3> + <p> + "Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to + say.<br> + Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day,<br> + If you'd been here. Now,—he's gone away.<br> + Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use<br> + If you'd called here earlier. His excuse<br> + Always was, whenever folks would ask him<br> + Where he hailed from, an' <i>would</i> tease an' task + him;—<br> + What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know." + </p> + <p> + That was truth. He came here long ago;<br> + But, before that, he'd been born somewhere:<br> + The conundrum started first, right there.<br> + Little shaver—afore he knew his name<br> + Or the place from whereabouts he came—<br> + On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him.<br> + Killed the old folks! But this cus'—they brought + him<br> + Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows.<br> + So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows:<br> + They was merciful;—treated him real good;<br> + Brought him up to man's age well's they could.<br> + Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad,<br> + For all they used him so, went to the bad:<br> + Leastways left the red men, that he knew,<br> + 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;—<br> + Goldarned white folks that he never saw.<br> + Queerest thing was—though he loved a squaw,<br> + 'T was on her account he planned escape;<br> + Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape<br> + With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while;<br> + Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile,<br> + Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well,<br> + <i>I</i> ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell. + </p> + <p> + Bocanegra—Spanish term—I've + heard<br> + Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird,<br> + Known as Bocanegra, gave his life<br> + Most for others. First, he saved his wife;<br> + Her I spoke of;—nothin' but a squaw.<br> + You might wonder by what sort of law<br> + He, a white man born, should come to love her.<br> + But 't was somehow so: he <i>did</i> discover<br> + Beauty in her, of the holding kind.<br> + Some men love the light, an' some the shade.<br> + Round that little Indian girl there played<br> + Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark<br> + Under trees; yet now an' then a spark,<br> + Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes,<br> + Made you think of summer-midnight skies.<br> + She was faithful, too, like midnight stars.<br> + As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars<br> + Made by wounds he suffered for her sake,<br> + You'd have called <i>him</i> true, and no mistake. + </p> + <p> + Growin' up a man, he scarcely met<br> + Other white folks; an' his heart was set<br> + On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait.<br> + You must never be my wedded mate<br> + Till we reach the white man's country. There,<br> + Everything that's done is fair and square."<br> + Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt,<br> + Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout<br> + Some safe track. He told her: "You go first.<br> + All my joy goes with you:—that's the worst!<br> + But <i>I</i> wait, to guard or hide the trail." + </p> + <p> + Indians caught him; an' they gave + him—hail;<br> + Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding;<br> + Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding.<br> + "Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood!<br> + Either that, or grind you into mud;<br> + Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see<br> + Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be?<br> + Tell us where she's hid." + </p> + <p> + + "I'll show the way,"<br> + Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day,<br> + Till they come straight out beside the brink<br> + Of a precipice that seems to sink<br> + Into everlasting gulfs below.<br> + "Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow."<br> + Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap,<br> + Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;—<br> + Jumped out into space beyond the edge,<br> + While the Apaches cowered along the ledge.<br> + Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff!<br> + Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough.<br> + Indians called him a dead antelope;<br> + But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope<br> + Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush.<br> + <i>Their</i> hand was beat hollow: <i>he</i> held a flush. + </p> + <p> + Day and night he limped or crawled along:<br> + Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song<br> + (So he told me, once) that gave him hope.<br> + Every time he saw a shadow grope<br> + Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud,<br> + Something touched his heart that made him proud:<br> + Seemed to him he saw her dusky face<br> + Watching over him, from place to place.<br> + Every time the dry leaves rustled near,<br> + Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!" + </p> + <p> + So at last he found her:—they were + married.<br> + But, from those days on, he always carried<br> + Marks of madness; actually—yes!—<br> + Trusted the good faith of these U. S. + </p> + <p> + Indian hate an' deviltry he braved;<br> + 'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved.<br> + Just for that, his name should be engraved.<br> + But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads<br> + Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads. + </p> + <p> + All the while, his wife—tho' half + despised<br> + By the frontier folks that civilized<br> + An' converted her—served by his side,<br> + Helping faithfully, until she died.<br> + Left alone, he lay awake o' nights,<br> + Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites.<br> + Then he thought of her, and Indian people;<br> + Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple,<br> + Just how Christian our great nation's been<br> + Toward those native tribes so full of sin.<br> + When he counted all the wrongs we've done<br> + To the wild men of the setting sun,<br> + Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair.<br> + When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there.<br> + U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots,<br> + But at last it closed accounts with shots.<br> + Mouth was black, perhaps;—but <i>he</i> was white.<br> + Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite:<br> + Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show<br> + 'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow. + </p> + <p> + Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side:<br> + Honestly for years an' years he tried<br> + Getting justice for the Indians. He,<br> + Risking life an' limb for you an' me;—<br> + He, the man who proved his good intent<br> + By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant<br> + He would die for us,—turned round an' said:<br> + "White men have been saved. Now, save the red!"<br> + But it didn't pan out. No one would hark.<br> + "Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark,"<br> + Said our folks. And—no, he wa'n't resigned,<br> + But concluded he had missed his find. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Where</i> is Blackmouth?" That I can't + decide.<br> + Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve;<br> + But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve.<br> + Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride:<br> + Gave his life for others, far 's he could,<br> + Hoping it would do 'em some small good.<br> + Didn't seem to be much use. An' so—<br> + Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow,<br> + Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say.<br> + Looks as though he had quit work, to stay.<br> + Bullet in the breast.—His <i>body</i> 's there;<br> + But poor Blackmouth's gone—I don't know where! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CHILD YEAR + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + "Dying of hunger and sorrow:<br> + I die for my youth I fear!"<br> + Murmured the midnight-haunting<br> + Voice of the stricken Year. + </p> + <p> + There like a child it perished<br> + In the stormy thoroughfare:<br> + The snow with cruel whiteness<br> + Had aged its flowing hair. + </p> + <p> + Ah, little Year so fruitful,<br> + Ah, child that brought us bliss,<br> + Must we so early lose you—<br> + Our dear hopes end in this? + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + "Too young am I, too tender,<br> + To bear earth's avalanche<br> + Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope,<br> + And makes my heart's-blood blanch. + </p> + <p> + "Tell him who soon shall follow<br> + Where my tired feet have bled,<br> + He must be older, shrewder,<br> + Hard, cold, and selfish-bred— + </p> + <p> + "Or else like me be trampled<br> + Under the harsh world's heel.<br> + 'Tis weakness to be youthful;<br> + 'Tis death to love and feel." + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Then saw I how the New Year<br> + Came like a scheming man,<br> + With icy eyes, his forehead<br> + Wrinkled by care and plan + </p> + <p> + For trade and rule and profit.<br> + To him the fading child<br> + Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!"<br> + But died even while it smiled. + </p> + <p> + Down bent the harsh new-comer<br> + To lift with loving arm<br> + The wanderer mute and fallen;<br> + And lo! his eyes were warm; + </p> + <p> + All changed he grew; the wrinkles<br> + Vanished: he, too, looked young—<br> + As if that lost child's spirit<br> + Into his breast had sprung. + </p> + <p> + So are those lives not wasted,<br> + Too frail to bear the fray.<br> + So Years may die, yet leave us<br> + Young hearts in a world grown gray. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + CHRISTENING + </h3> + <p> + To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,—<br> + Where soft lights rippled and the shadows + tarried<br> + Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,—<br> + Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; + </p> + <p> + White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower;<br> + White as the daisies that adorned the + chancel;<br> + Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower,<br> + Offered to God as her most precious hansel. + </p> + <p> + Then ceased the music, and the little one<br> + Was silent, with the multitude assembled<br> + Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son<br> + He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and + trembled. + </p> + <p> + But she, the child, knew not the solemn words,<br> + And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing,<br> + As helpless as the cry of frightened birds<br> + Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. + </p> + <p> + How much the same, I thought, with older folk!<br> + The blessing falls: we call it tribulation,<br> + And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke,<br> + Even at the moment of our consecration. + </p> + <p> + Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form<br> + Of dream or doctrine,—or of + unbelieving,—<br> + A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm<br> + Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; + </p> + <p> + A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite<br> + Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest + meaning<br> + Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light<br> + Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. + </p> + <p> + Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends<br> + This weakling cry of children in our + churches<br> + With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends<br> + To Him who hearts of men and children searches; + </p> + <p> + Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again,<br> + Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested,<br> + Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain:<br> + And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance + rested. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THANKSGIVING TURKEY + </h3> + <p> + Valleys lay in sunny vapor,<br> + And a radiance mild was shed<br> + From each tree that like a taper<br> + At a feast stood. Then we said,<br> + "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread,<br> + Of good + Thanksgiving turkey." + </p> + <p> + And already still November<br> + Drapes her snowy table here.<br> + Fetch a log, then; coax the ember;<br> + Fill your hearts with old-time cheer;<br> + Heaven be thanked for one more year,<br> + And our + Thanksgiving turkey! + </p> + <p> + Welcome, brothers—all our party<br> + Gathered in the homestead old!<br> + Shake the snow off and with hearty<br> + Hand-shakes drive away the cold;<br> + Else your plate you'll hardly hold<br> + Of good + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + When the skies are sad and murky,<br> + 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet<br> + Round this homely roast of turkey—<br> + Pilgrims, pausing just to greet,<br> + Then, with earnest grace, to eat<br> + A new + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + And the merry feast is freighted<br> + With its meanings true and deep.<br> + Those we've loved and those we've hated,<br> + All, to-day, the rite will keep,<br> + All, to-day, their dishes heap<br> + With plump + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + But how many hearts must tingle<br> + Now with mournful memories!<br> + In the festal wine shall mingle<br> + Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes<br> + That look beyond the board where lies<br> + Our plain + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + See around us, drawing nearer,<br> + Those faint yearning shapes of air—<br> + Friends than whom earth holds none dearer!<br> + No—alas! they are not there:<br> + Have they, then, forgot to share<br> + Our good + Thanksgiving turkey? + </p> + <p> + Some have gone away and tarried<br> + Strangely long by some strange wave;<br> + Some have turned to foes; we carried<br> + Some unto the pine-girt grave:<br> + They 'll come no more so joyous-brave<br> + To take + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + Nay, repine not. Let our laughter<br> + Leap like firelight up again.<br> + Soon we touch the wide Hereafter,<br> + Snow-field yet untrod of men:<br> + Shall we meet once more—and + when?—<br> + To eat + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BEFORE THE SNOW + </h3> + <p> + Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare<br> + Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves,<br> + Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.<br> + Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. + </p> + <p> + Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,<br> + Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately + shed,<br> + My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,<br> + By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. + </p> + <p> + Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago<br> + The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the + grain!<br> + How soon death settles on us, and the snow<br> + Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! + </p> + <p> + Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood<br> + Of that which makes moods dear,—some shoot + of spring<br> + Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood<br> + We walked in,—memory's rare environing. + </p> + <p> + And, though they die, the seasons only take<br> + A ruined substance. All that's best remains<br> + In the essential vision that can make<br> + One light for life, love, death, their joys, + their pains. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + YOUTH TO THE POET + </h3> + <center> + <b>(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth,<br> + Affinity between two forms of truth!—<br> + As if the dawn and sunset watched each other,<br> + Like and unlike as children of one mother<br> + And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes<br> + Of young men see the prophecy arise<br> + Of what their lives shall be when all is told;<br> + And, in the far-off glow of years called old,<br> + Those other eyes look back to catch a trace<br> + Of what was once their own unshadowed grace.<br> + But here in our dear poet both are blended—<br> + Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;—<br> + Even as his song the willowy scent of spring<br> + Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing,<br> + And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun,<br> + In strains that ever delicately run;<br> + So musical and wise, page after page,<br> + The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage.<br> + The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers,<br> + And day-break glory haunts his evening hours.<br> + Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral:<br> + That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel,<br> + Which—smiling not, but trembling at the + touch—<br> + Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much. + </p> + <p> + EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SWORD DHAM + </h3> + <p> + "How shall we honor the man who creates?"<br> + Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet + Antar;—<br> + "Who unto the truth flings open our gates,<br> + Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a + star;<br> + Or forges with craft of his finger and brain<br> + Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain;<br> + Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall<br> + wander forever undying? + </p> + <p> + "See! His reward is in envies and hates;<br> + In lips that deny, or in stabs that may + kill."<br> + "Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits<br> + Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill,<br> + Sure that no utmost devotion can fail,<br> + Offered to <i>you</i>, nor unfriended assail<br> + The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose<br> + fame is undying!" + </p> + <p> + "Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar,<br> + It is I who would serve you! I know, by the + soul<br> + Of the poet within you, no envy can bar<br> + The stream of your gratitude,—once let it + roll.<br> + Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew,<br> + <i>I</i> caught, and wrought in this sword-blade + for you;—<br> + Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or<br> + depart from undying." + </p> + <p> + Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift + rain,—Gratitude's<br> + glittering drops,—as he threw<br> + One shining arm round the smith, like a chain.<br> + Closer the man to his bosom he drew;<br> + Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt."<br> + "Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet:<br> + "I knew the sword Dham would unite me with<br> + you in an honor undying." + </p> + <p> + "So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will<br> + Silently over the sword's edge played.<br> + —"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, + still:<br> + Who is the smiter, shall smite with this + blade?"<br> + Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke.<br> + "<i>I</i> am the smiter!" Antar cried. One + stroke<br> + Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave<br> + him remembrance undying. + </p> + <p> + "Seek now who may, no search will avail:<br> + No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"<br> + Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail:<br> + "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend + alone<br> + Able to honor the man who creates.<br> + I slew him—<i>I</i>, who am poet! O + fates,<br> + Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall<br> + make them undying!" + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + </h3> + <p> + Before the golden gate she stands,<br> + With drooping head, with idle hands<br> + Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight<br> + Of unseen woe. Too late, too late!<br> + Those carved and fretted,<br> + Starred, resetted<br> + Panels shall not open ever<br> + To her who seeks the perfect mate. + </p> + <p> + Only the tearless enter there:<br> + Only the soul that, like a prayer,<br> + No bolt can stay, no wall may bar,<br> + Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.<br> + No door of cedar,<br> + Alas, shall lead her<br> + Unto the stream that shows forever<br> + Love's face like some reflected star! + </p> + <p> + They say that golden barrier hides<br> + A realm where deathless spring abides;<br> + Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats<br> + Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes—<br> + 'Mid dewy alleys<br> + That gird the palace,<br> + And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver—<br> + A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes. + </p> + <p> + The sultan lord knew not her name;<br> + But to the door that fair shape came:<br> + The hour had struck, the way was right,<br> + Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light.<br> + But ah, whose error<br> + Has brought this terror?<br> + Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor?<br> + The gate swings to: her hope takes flight. + </p> + <p> + The harp, the song, the nightingales<br> + She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails<br> + Without, to sound of feast within,<br> + While here she stands, shut out by sin.<br> + And be that revel<br> + Of angel or devil,<br> + She longs to sit beside the giver,<br> + That she at last her prize may win. + </p> + <p> + Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet;<br> + Frozen she stands, she lingers yet;<br> + But through the garden's gladness steals<br> + A whisper that each heart congeals—<br> + A moan of grieving<br> + Beyond relieving,<br> + Which makes the proudest of them shiver.<br> + And suddenly the sultan kneels! + </p> + <p> + The lamp was quenched; he found her dead,<br> + When dawn had turned the threshold red.<br> + Her face was calm and sad as fate:<br> + His sin, not hers, made her too late.<br> + Some + think, unbidden<br> + She + brought him, hidden,<br> + A truer bliss that came back never<br> + To him, unblest, who closed the gate. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + CHARITY + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands<br> + Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.<br> + No fatal hurt of foe she fears,—<br> + Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + 'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door:<br> + Like air she enters, where none dared before.<br> + Even to the rich she can forgive<br> + Their regal selfishness,—and let them live! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + HELEN AT THE LOOM + </h3> + <p> + Helen, in her silent room,<br> + Weaves upon the upright loom;<br> + Weaves a mantle rich and dark,<br> + Purpled over, deep. But mark<br> + How she scatters o'er the wool<br> + Woven shapes, till it is full<br> + Of men that struggle close, complex;<br> + Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks<br> + Arching high; spear, shield, and all<br> + The panoply that doth recall<br> + Mighty war; such war as e'en<br> + For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.<br> + Purple is the groundwork: good!<br> + All the field is stained with blood—<br> + Blood poured out for Helen's sake;<br> + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)<br> + But the shapes of men that pass<br> + Are as ghosts within a glass,<br> + Woven with whiteness of the swan,<br> + Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan<br> + From the garment's purple fold<br> + Where Troy's tale is twined and told.<br> + Well may Helen, as with tender<br> + Touch of rosy fingers slender<br> + She doth knit the story in<br> + Of Troy's sorrow and her sin,<br> + Feel sharp filaments of pain<br> + Reeled off with the well-spun skein,<br> + And faint blood-stains on her hands<br> + From the shifting, sanguine strands. + </p> + <p> + Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:<br> + What has been must be to-morrow;<br> + Meekly to her fate she bows.<br> + Heavenly beauties still will rouse<br> + Strife and savagery in men:<br> + Shall the lucid heavens, then,<br> + Lose their high serenity,<br> + Sorrowing over what must be?<br> + If she taketh to her shame,<br> + Lo, they give her not the blame,—<br> + Priam's wisest counselors,<br> + Aged men, not loving wars.<br> + When she goes forth, clad in white,<br> + Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,<br> + With her fair hair, amber-hued<br> + As vapor by the moon imbued<br> + With burning brown, that round her clings,<br> + See, she sudden silence brings<br> + On the gloomy whisperers<br> + Who would make the wrong all hers.<br> + So, Helen, in thy silent room,<br> + Labor at the storied loom;<br> + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)<br> + Let thy aching sorrow make<br> + Something strangely beautiful<br> + Of this fabric; since the wool<br> + Comes so tinted from the Fates,<br> + Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.<br> + Thou shalt work with subtle force<br> + All thy deep shade of remorse<br> + In the texture of the weft,<br> + That no stain on thee be left;—<br> + Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief,<br> + Grief and wrong, to soft relief.<br> + Speed the garment! It may chance,<br> + Long hereafter, meet the glance,<br> + Of Oenone; when her lord,<br> + Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd<br> + Ida, at his last sad end,<br> + Seeking her, his early friend,<br> + Who alone can cure his ill,<br> + Of all who love him, if she will.<br> + It were fitting she should see<br> + In that hour thine artistry,<br> + And her husband's speechless corse<br> + In the garment of remorse! + </p> + <p> + But take heed that in thy work<br> + Naught unbeautiful may lurk.<br> + Ah, how little signifies<br> + Unto thee what fortunes rise,<br> + What others fall! Thou still shall rule,<br> + Still shalt twirl the colored spool.<br> + Though thy yearning woman's eyes<br> + Burn with glorious agonies,<br> + Pitying the waste and woe,<br> + And the heroes falling low<br> + In the war around thee, here,<br> + Yet the least, quick-trembling tear<br> + 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be<br> + Than life, to friend or enemy. + </p> + <p> + There are people on the earth<br> + Doomed with doom of too great worth.<br> + Look on Helen not with hate,<br> + Therefore, but compassionate.<br> + If she suffer not too much,<br> + Seldom does she feel the touch<br> + Of that fresh, auroral joy<br> + Lighter spirits may decoy<br> + To their pure and sunny lives.<br> + Heavy honey 'tis she hives.<br> + To her sweet but burdened soul<br> + All that here she may control—<br> + What of bitter memories,<br> + What of coming fate's surmise,<br> + Paris' passion, distant din<br> + Of the war now drifting in<br> + To her quiet—idle seems;<br> + Idle as the lazy gleams<br> + Of some stilly water's reach,<br> + Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach<br> + A heavy arch; and, looking through,<br> + Far away the doubtful blue<br> + Glimmers, on a drowsy day,<br> + Crowded with the sun's rich gray;—<br> + As she stands within her room,<br> + Weaving, weaving at the loom. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CASKET OF OPALS + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea<br> + Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery,<br> + Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed.<br> + Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent<br> + In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent<br> + Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows,<br> + And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed;<br> + All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there.<br> + I think a tide of feeling through them flows<br> + With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,—<br> + Some soul once human,—wandering, in the snare<br> + Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed<br> + In misty crystal here to lie entombed. + </p> + <p> + And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep<br> + The ardors and the moods and all the pain<br> + That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave<br> + These opals to the woman whom he loved;<br> + And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain,<br> + The rays of thought that through his spirit moved<br> + Leap out from these mysterious forms again. + </p> + <p> + The colors of the jewels laugh and weep<br> + As with his very voice. In them the wave<br> + Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep,<br> + Bore him to misery or else made him blest<br> + Still surges in melodious, wild unrest.<br> + So when each gem in place I touch and take,<br> + It murmurs what he thought or what he spake. + </p> + <h4> + FIRST OPAL + </h4> + <p> + My heart is like an opal<br> + Made to lie upon your breast<br> + In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er<br> + By endless joy's unrest. + </p> + <p> + And forever it shall haunt you<br> + With its mystic, changing ray:<br> + Its light shall live when we lie dead,<br> + With hearts at the heart of day! + </p> + <h4> + SECOND OPAL + </h4> + <p> + If, from a careless hold,<br> + One gem of these should fall,<br> + No power of art or gold<br> + Its wholeness could recall:<br> + The lustrous wonder dies<br> + In gleams of irised rain,<br> + As light fades out from the eyes<br> + When a soul is crushed by pain.<br> + Take heed that from your hold<br> + My love you do not cast:<br> + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold—<br> + That day would be its last. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <h4> + THIRD OPAL + </h4> + <p> + <i>He won her love; and so this opal sings<br> + With all its tints in maze, that seem to quake<br> + And leap in light, as if its heart would break:</i> + </p> + <p> + Gleam of the sea,<br> + Translucent air,<br> + Where every leaf alive with glee<br> + Glows in the sun without shadow of grief—<br> + You speak of spring,<br> + When earth takes wing<br> + And sunlight, sunlight is everywhere!<br> + Radiant life,<br> + Face so fair—<br> + Crowned with the gracious glory of wife—<br> + Your glance lights all this happy day,<br> + Your tender glow<br> + And murmurs low<br> + Make miracle, miracle, everywhere. + </p> + <p> + Earth takes wing<br> + With birds—do I care<br> + Whether of sorrow or joy they sing?<br> + No; for they make not my life nor destroy!<br> + My soul awakes<br> + At a smile that breaks<br> + In sun; and sunlight is everywhere! + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + <i>Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness;<br> + As if he doubted whether he could bless<br> + Her wayward spirit, through each fickle hour,<br> + With love's serenity of flawless power,<br> + Or she remain a vision, as when first<br> + She came to soothe his fancy all athirst.</i> + </p> + <h4> + FOURTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + We were alone: the perfumed night,<br> + Moonlighted, like a flower<br> + Grew round us and exhaled delight<br> + To bless that one sweet hour. + </p> + <p> + You stood where, 'mid the white and gold,<br> + The rose-fire through the gloom<br> + Touched hair and cheek and garment's fold<br> + With soft, ethereal bloom. + </p> + <p> + And when the vision seemed to swerve,<br> + 'T was but the flickering shine<br> + That gave new grace, a lovelier curve,<br> + To every dream-like line. + </p> + <p> + O perfect vision! Form and face<br> + Of womanhood complete!<br> + O rare ideal to embrace<br> + And hold, from head to feet! + </p> + <p> + Could I so hold you ever—could<br> + Your eye still catch the glow<br> + Of mine—it were an endless good:<br> + Together we should grow + </p> + <p> + One perfect picture of our love!...<br> + Alas, the embers old<br> + Fell, and the moonlight fell, above—<br> + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + <i>What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say?<br> + What tragedy of petty care and sorrow?<br> + Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay,<br> + Then those will know who live and love + tomorrow.<br> + But here at least is what this opal said,<br> + The fifth in number: and the next two bore<br> + My fancy toward that dim world of the dead,<br> + Where waiting spirits muse the past life + o'er:</i> + </p> + <h4> + FIFTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + I dreamed my kisses on your hair<br> + Turned into roses. Circling bloom<br> + Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there.<br> + "O Love," I cried, "forever<br> + Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted<br> + By my heart's deep honey-breath!"<br> + But even as I bending looked, I saw<br> + The roses were not; and, instead, there lay<br> + Pale, feathered flakes and scentless<br> + Ashes upon your hair! + </p> + <h4> + SIXTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + The love I gave, the love I gave,<br> + Wherewith I sought to win you—<br> + Ah, long and close to you it clave<br> + With life and soul and sinew!<br> + My gentleness with scorn you cursed:<br> + You knew not what I gave.<br> + The strongest man may die of thirst:<br> + My love is in its grave! + </p> + <h4> + SEVENTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + You say these jewels were accurst—<br> + With evil omen fraught.<br> + You should have known it from the first!<br> + This was the truth they taught: + </p> + <p> + No treasured thing in heaven or earth<br> + Holds potency more weird<br> + Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth<br> + With wavering flames insphered. + </p> + <p> + And when from me the gems you took,<br> + On that strange April day,<br> + My nature, too, I gave, that shook<br> + With passion's fateful play. + </p> + <p> + The mingled fate my love should give<br> + In these mute emblems shone,<br> + That more intensely burn and live—<br> + While I am turned to stone. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + <i>Listen now to what is said<br> + By the eighth opal, flashing red<br> + And pale, by turns, with every breath—<br> + The voice of the lover after death.</i> + </p> + <h4> + EIGHTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + I did not know before<br> + That we dead could rise and walk;<br> + That our voices, as of yore,<br> + Would blend in gentle talk. + </p> + <p> + I did not know her eyes<br> + Would so haunt mine after death,<br> + Or that she could hear my sighs,<br> + Low as the harp-string's breath. + </p> + <p> + But, ah, last night we met!<br> + From our stilly trance we rose,<br> + Thrilled with all the old regret—<br> + The grieving that God knows. + </p> + <p> + She asked: "Am I forgiven?"—<br> + "And dost thou forgive?" I said,<br> + Ah! how long for joy we'd striven!<br> + But now our hearts were dead. + </p> + <p> + Alas, for the lips I kissed<br> + And the sweet hope, long ago!<br> + On her grave chill hangs the mist;<br> + On mine, white lies the snow. + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + <i>Hearkening still, I hear this strain<br> + From the ninth opal's varied vein:</i> + </p> + <h4> + NINTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + In the mountains of Mexico,<br> + Where the barren volcanoes throw<br> + Their fierce peaks high to the sky,<br> + With the strength of a tawny brute<br> + That sees heaven but to defy,<br> + And the soft, white hand of the snow<br> + Touches and makes them mute,— + </p> + <p> + Firm in the clasp of the ground<br> + The opal is found.<br> + By the struggle of frost and fire<br> + Created, yet caught in a spell<br> + From which only human desire<br> + Can free it, what passion profound<br> + In its dim, sweet bosom may dwell! + </p> + <p> + So was it with us, I think,<br> + Whose souls were formed on the brink<br> + Of a crater, where rain and flame<br> + Had mingled and crystallized.<br> + One venturous day Love came;<br> + Found us; and bound with a link<br> + Of gold the jewels he prized. + </p> + <p> + The agonies old of the earth,<br> + Its plenitude and its dearth,<br> + The torrents of flame and of tears,<br> + All these in our souls were inborn.<br> + And we must endure through the years<br> + The glory and burden of birth<br> + That filled us with fire of the morn. + </p> + <p> + Let the diamond lie in its mine;<br> + Let ruby and topaz shine;<br> + The beryl sleep, and the emerald keep<br> + Its sunned-leaf green! We know<br> + The joy of sufferings deep<br> + That blend with a love divine,<br> + And the hidden warmth of the snow! + </p> + <h4> + TENTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + Colors that tremble and perish,<br> + Atoms that follow the law,<br> + You mirror the truth which we cherish,<br> + You mirror the spirit we saw.<br> + Glow of the daybreak tender,<br> + Flushed with an opaline gleam,<br> + And passionate sunset-splendor—<br> + Ye both but embody a dream.<br> + Visions of cloud-hidden glory<br> + Breaking from sources of light<br> + Mimic the mist of life's story.<br> + Mingled of scarlet and white.<br> + Sunset-clouds iridescent,<br> + Opals, and mists of the day,<br> + Are thrilled alike with the crescent<br> + Delight of a deathless ray<br> + Shot through the hesitant trouble<br> + Of particles floating in space,<br> + And touching each wandering bubble<br> + With tints of a rainbowed grace.<br> + So through the veil of emotion<br> + Trembles the light of the truth;<br> + And so may the light of devotion<br> + Glorify life—age and youth.<br> + Sufferings,—pangs that seem cruel,—<br> + These are but atoms adrift:<br> + The light streams through, and a jewel<br> + Is formed for us, Heaven's own gift! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + LOVE THAT LIVES + </h3> + <p> + Dear face—bright, glinting hair;<br> + Dear life, whose heart is mine—<br> + The thought of you is prayer,<br> + The love of you divine. + </p> + <p> + In starlight, or in rain;<br> + In the sunset's shrouded glow;<br> + Ever, with joy or pain,<br> + To you my quick thoughts go + </p> + <p> + Like winds or clouds, that fleet<br> + Across the hungry space<br> + Between, and find you, sweet,<br> + Where life again wins grace. + </p> + <p> + Now, as in that once young<br> + Year that so softly drew<br> + My heart to where it clung,<br> + I long for, gladden in you. + </p> + <p> + And when in the silent hours<br> + I whisper your sacred name,<br> + Like an altar-fire it showers<br> + My blood with fragrant flame! + </p> + <p> + Perished is all that grieves;<br> + And lo, our old-new joys<br> + Are gathered as in sheaves,<br> + Held in love's equipoise. + </p> + <p> + Ours is the love that lives;<br> + Its springtime blossoms blow<br> + 'Mid the fruit that autumn gives,<br> + And its life outlasts the snow. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + </h3> + <p> + Over the mossy walls,<br> + Above the slumbering fields<br> + Where yet the ground no fruitage yields,<br> + Save as the sunlight falls<br> + In dreams of harvest-yellow,<br> + What voice remembered calls,—<br> + So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow? + </p> + <p> + A darting, azure-feathered arrow<br> + From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet<br> + The bluebird, springing light and narrow,<br> + Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet: + </p> + <p> + "Out of the South I wing,<br> + Blown on the breath of Spring:<br> + The little faltering song<br> + That in my beak I bring<br> + Some maiden shall catch and sing,<br> + Filling it with the longing<br> + And the blithe, unfettered thronging<br> + Of her spirit's blossoming. + </p> + <p> + "Warbling along<br> + In the sunny weather,<br> + Float, my notes,<br> + Through the sunny motes,<br> + Falling light as a feather!<br> + Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land<br> + 'Mid hovering insects' hums;<br> + Fall into the sower's hand:<br> + Then, when his harvest comes,<br> + The seed and the song shall have flowered together. + </p> + <p> + "From the Coosa and Altamaha,<br> + With a thought of the dim blue Gulf;<br> + From the Roanoke and Kanawha;<br> + From the musical Southern rivers,<br> + O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf<br> + Lies slain and buried in flowers;<br> + I come to your chill, sad hours<br> + And the woods where the sunlight shivers.<br> + I come like an echo: 'Awake!'<br> + I answer the sky and the lake<br> + And the clear, cool color that quivers<br> + In all your azure rills.<br> + I come to your wan, bleak hills<br> + For a greeting that rises dearer,<br> + To homely hearts draws me nearer<br> + Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. + </p> + <p> + "I will charm away your sorrow,<br> + For I sing of the dewy morrow:<br> + My melody sways like the branches<br> + My light feet set astir:<br> + I bring to the old, as I hover,<br> + The days and the joys that were,<br> + And hope to the waiting lover!<br> + Then, take my note and sing,<br> + Filling it with the longing<br> + And the blithe, unfettered thronging<br> + Of your spirit's blossoming!" + </p> + <p> + Not long that music lingers:<br> + Like the breath of forgotten singers<br> + It flies,—or like the March-cloud's shadow<br> + That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow<br> + Not long! And yet thy fleeting,<br> + Thy tender, flute-toned greeting,<br> + O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains<br> + The purest chord in all the year's refrains. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE VOICE OF THE VOID + </h3> + <p> + I warn, like the one drop of rain<br> + On your face, ere the storm;<br> + Or tremble in whispered refrain<br> + With your blood, beating warm.<br> + I am the presence that ever<br> + Baffles your touch's endeavor,—<br> + Gone like the glimmer of dust<br> + Dispersed by a gust.<br> + I am the absence that taunts you,<br> + The fancy that haunts you;<br> + The ever unsatisfied guess<br> + That, questioning emptiness,<br> + Wins a sigh for reply.<br> + Nay; nothing am I,<br> + But the flight of a breath—<br> + For I am Death! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "O WHOLESOME DEATH" + </h3> + <p> + O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car<br> + Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way<br> + Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad + array,<br> + My deeds in long procession go, that are<br> + As mourners of the man they helped to mar.<br> + I see it all in dreams, such as waylay<br> + The wandering fancy when the solid day<br> + Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star,<br> + Aloft there, with its steady point of light<br> + Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in + sleep.<br> + Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flight<br> + Above my grave, still let my spirit keep<br> + Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse,<br> + 'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + INCANTATION + </h3> + <p> + When the leaves, by thousands thinned,<br> + A thousand times have whirled in the wind,<br> + And the moon, with hollow cheek,<br> + Staring from her hollow height,<br> + Consolation seems to seek<br> + From the dim, reechoing night;<br> + And the fog-streaks dead and white<br> + Lie like ghosts of lost delight<br> + O'er highest earth and lowest sky;<br> + Then, Autumn, work thy witchery! + </p> + <p> + Strew the ground with poppy-seeds,<br> + And let my bed be hung with weeds,<br> + Growing gaunt and rank and tall,<br> + Drooping o'er me like a pall.<br> + Send thy stealthy, white-eyed mist<br> + Across my brow to turn and twist<br> + Fold on fold, and leave me blind<br> + To all save visions in the mind.<br> + Then, in the depth of rain-fed streams<br> + I shall slumber, and in dreams<br> + Slide through some long glen that burns<br> + With a crust of blood-red ferns<br> + And brown-withered wings of brake<br> + Like a burning lava-lake;—<br> + So, urged to fearful, faster flow<br> + By the awful gasp, "Hahk! hahk!" of the crow,<br> + Shall pass by many a haunted rood<br> + Of the nutty, odorous wood;<br> + Or, where the hemlocks lean and loom,<br> + Shall fill my heart with bitter gloom;<br> + Till, lured by light, reflected cloud,<br> + I burst aloft my watery shroud,<br> + And upward through the ether sail<br> + Far above the shrill wind's wail;—<br> + But, falling thence, my soul involve<br> + With the dust dead flowers dissolve;<br> + And, gliding out at last to sea,<br> + Lulled to a long tranquillity,<br> + The perfect poise of seasons keep<br> + With the tides that rest at neap.<br> + So must be fulfilled the rite<br> + That giveth me the dead year's might;<br> + And at dawn I shall arise<br> + A spirit, though with human eyes,<br> + A human form and human face;<br> + And where'er I go or stay,<br> + There the summer's perished grace<br> + Shall be with me, night and day. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + FAMINE AND HARVEST + </h3> + <center> + <b>[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622]</b> + </center> + <p> + The strong and the tender,<br> + The young and the old,<br> + Unto Death we must render;—<br> + Our silver, our gold. + </p> + <p> + To break their long sleeping<br> + No voice may avail:<br> + They hear not our weeping—<br> + Our famished love's wail. + </p> + <p> + Yea, those whom we cherish<br> + Depart, day by day.<br> + Soon we, too, shall perish<br> + And crumble to clay. + </p> + <p> + And the vine and the berry<br> + Above us will bloom;<br> + The wind shall make merry<br> + While we lie in gloom. + </p> + <p> + Fear not! Though thou starvest,<br> + Provision is made:<br> + God gathers His harvest<br> + When our hopes fade! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + </h3> + <p> + Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,<br> + How in the soft June days forever done<br> + You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;<br> + And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,—<br> + "Put me 'way up—'way, 'way up in blue sky"? + </p> + <p> + I laughed and said I could not;—set you down,<br> + Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown<br> + Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.<br> + Another Father now, more strong than I,<br> + Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE FLOWN SOUL + </h3> + <center> + <b>(FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP)<br> + FEBRUARY 6, 1881</b> + </center> + <p> + Come not again! I dwell with you<br> + Above the realm of frost and dew,<br> + Of pain and fire, and growth to death.<br> + I dwell with you where never breath<br> + Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows<br> + From life to life, even as a rose<br> + Unseen pours sweetness through each vein<br> + And from the air distills again.<br> + You are my rose unseen; we live<br> + Where each to other joy may give<br> + In ways untold, by means unknown<br> + And secret as the magnet-stone. + </p> + <p> + For which of us, indeed, is dead?<br> + No more I lean to kiss your head—<br> + The gold-red hair so thick upon it;<br> + Joy feels no more the touch that won it<br> + When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm<br> + In tenderness so childish, calm,<br> + Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm<br> + Is strong, and still my blood runs warm.<br> + I still can work, and think and weep.<br> + But all this show of life I keep<br> + Is but the shadow of your shine,<br> + Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; + </p> + <p> + Therefore, you are not dead, nor I + </p> + <p> + Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy.<br> + Among the stars your feet are set;<br> + Your little feet are dancing yet<br> + Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth.<br> + So swift, so slight are death and birth! + </p> + <p> + Come not again, dear child. If thou<br> + By any chance couldst break that vow<br> + Of silence at thy last hour made;<br> + If to this grim life unafraid<br> + Thou couldst return, and melt the frost<br> + Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost;<br> + Still would I whisper—since so fair<br> + This silent comradeship we share—<br> + Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain<br> + Of tears: "Come not, come not again!" + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SUNSET AND SHORE + </h3> + <p> + Birds that like vanishing visions go winging,<br> + White, white in the flame of the sunset's + burning,<br> + Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging,<br> + Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, + unreturning! + </p> + <p> + Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing<br> + Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must + perish;<br> + Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly + blowing;—<br> + Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we + cherish. + </p> + <p> + Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest;<br> + Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo + replying;<br> + Spirits may leave us that clung to us nearest:—<br> + Love, love, only love dwells with us undying! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.9"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE PHOEBE-BIRD + </h3> + <center> + <b>(A REPLY)</b> + </center> + <p> + Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird.<br> + Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard:<br> + I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow<br> + Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow<br> + Strength from the other, making one more brave<br> + And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. + </p> + <p> + But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens:<br> + One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence.<br> + Our voices vary with the changing seasons<br> + Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons.<br> + Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered,<br> + If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered.<br> + We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain,<br> + Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane,<br> + With love and hate, or good and evil—all,<br> + At separate times, in separate accents call;<br> + Yet 't is the same heart-throb within the breast<br> + That gives an impulse to our worst and best.<br> + I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended,<br> + The Listener finds them in one music blended. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.10"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + A STRONG CITY + </h3> + <p> + For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt + hide<br> + them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men. + </p> + <p> + Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from + the<br> + contradiction of tongues. + </p> + <p> + Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His + wonderful<br> + mercy to me in a fortified city.—<i>Psalm xxx.</i> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + Beauty and splendor were on every hand:<br> + Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes,<br> + Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes<br> + That smote the air with blackness, and devoured<br> + The life of light, and choked the smiling world<br> + Till it grew livid with a sudden age—<br> + The death of hope. + </p> + <p> + + O squandered happiness;<br> + Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower!<br> + The sky was holy, but the earth was not. + </p> + <p> + Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since + wretchedness<br> + Of soul and body, for the mass of men,<br> + Made them like dead leaves in an idle drift<br> + Around the plough of progress as it drove<br> + Sharp through the glebe of modern days, to plant<br> + A civilized world. Ay; civilized—but not Christian! + </p> + <p> + Civilization is a clarion voice<br> + Crying in the wilderness; a prophet-word<br> + Still unfulfilled. And lo, along the ways<br> + Crowded with nations, there arose a strife;<br> + Disturbance of men; tongues contradicting tongues;<br> + Madness of noise, that scattered multitudes;<br> + A trample of blind feet, beneath whose tread<br> + Truth's bloom shrank withered; while incessant mouths<br> + Howled "Progress! Change!"—as though all moods of + change<br> + Were fiats of truth eternal. + </p> + <p> + + 'Mid the din<br> + Two pilgrims, faring forward, saw the light<br> + In a strong city, fortified, and moved<br> + Patiently thither. "All your steps are vain,"<br> + Cried scoffers. "There is mercy in the world;<br> + But chiefly mercy of man to man. For we<br> + Are good. We help our fellows, when we can.<br> + Our charity is enormous. Look at these<br> + Long rolls of rich subscriptions. We are good.<br> + 'T is true, God's mercy plays a part in things;<br> + But most is left to us; and we judge well.<br> + Stay with us in the field of endless war!<br> + Here only is health. Yon city fortified<br> + You dream of—why, its ramparts are as dust.<br> + It gives no safety. One assaulting sweep<br> + Of our huge cohorts would annul its power—<br> + Crush it in atoms; make it meaningless." + </p> + <p> + The pilgrims listened; but onward still they moved.<br> + They passed the gates; they stood upon a hill<br> + Enclosed, but in that strong enclosure free!<br> + Though earth opposed, they held the key to heaven.<br> + On came the turbulent multitude in war,<br> + Dashing against the city's walls; and swept<br> + Through all the streets, and robbed and burned and + killed.<br> + The walls were strong; the gates were always open.<br> + And so the invader rioted, and was proud.<br> + But sudden, in seeming triumph, the enemy host<br> + Was stricken with death; and still the city stayed.<br> + Skyward the souls of its defenders rose,<br> + Returning soon in mist intangible<br> + That flashed with radiance of half-hidden swords;<br> + And those who still assaulted—though they crept<br> + Into the inmost vantage-points, with craft—<br> + Fell, blasted namelessly by this veiled flash,<br> + Even as they shouted out, "The place is ours!" + </p> + <p> + So those two pilgrims dwelt there, fortified<br> + In that strong city men had thought so frail.<br> + They died, and lived again. Fiercest attack<br> + Was as a perfumed breeze to them, which drew<br> + Their souls still closer unto God. And there<br> + Beauty and splendor bloomed untouched. The stars<br> + Spoke to them, bidding them be of good cheer,<br> + Though hostile hordes rushed over them in blood.<br> + And still the prayers of all that people rose<br> + As incense mingled with music of their hearts.<br> + For Christ was with them: angels were their aid.<br> + What though the enemy used their open gates?<br> + The children of the citadel conquered all<br> + Their conquerors, smiting them with the pure light<br> + That shone in that strong city fortified. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.11"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THREE DOVES + </h3> + <p> + Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free;<br> + At eve they circled back to me.<br> + The first was Faith; the second, Hope;<br> + The third—the whitest—Charity. + </p> + <p> + Above the plunging surge's play<br> + Dream-like they hovered, day by day.<br> + At last they turned, and bore to me<br> + Green signs of peace thro' nightfall gray. + </p> + <p> + No shore forlorn, no loveliest land<br> + Their gentle eyes had left unscanned,<br> + 'Mid hues of twilight-heliotrope<br> + Or daybreak fires by heaven-breath fanned. + </p> + <p> + Quick visions of celestial grace,—<br> + Hither they waft, from earth's broad space,<br> + Kind thoughts for all humanity.<br> + They shine with radiance from God's face. + </p> + <p> + Ah, since my heart they choose for home,<br> + Why loose them,—forth again to roam?<br> + Yet look: they rise! with loftier scope<br> + They wheel in flight toward heaven's pure dome. + </p> + <p> + Fly, messengers that find no rest<br> + Save in such toil as makes man blest!<br> + Your home is God's immensity:<br> + We hold you but at his behest. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + ARISE, AMERICAN! + </h3> + <p> + The soul of a nation awaking,—<br> + High visions of daybreak,—I saw;<br> + A people renewed; the forsaking<br> + Of sin, and the worship + of law. + </p> + <p> + Sing, pine-tree; shout, to the hoarser<br> + Response of the jubilant sea!<br> + Rush, river, foam-flecked like a + courser;<br> + Warn all who are honest + and free! + </p> + <p> + Our birth-star beckons to trial<br> + The faith of the far-fled years,<br> + Ere scorn was our share, and + denial,<br> + Or laughter for + patriots' tears. + </p> + <p> + And Faith shall come forth the finer,<br> + From trampled thickets of fire,<br> + And the orient open diviner<br> + Before her, the heaven + rise higher. + </p> + <p> + O deep, sweet eyes, but severer<br> + Than steel! See you yet, where he comes—<br> + Our hero? Bend your glance nearer;<br> + Speak, Faith! For, as wakening drums, + </p> + <p> + Your voice shall set his blood stirring;<br> + His heart shall grow strong like the main<br> + When the rowelled winds are spurring,<br> + And the broad tides landward strain. + </p> + <p> + O hero, art thou among us?<br> + O helper, hidest thou, still?<br> + Why hast thou no anthem sung us,<br> + Why workest thou not our will? + </p> + <p> + For a smirk of the face, or a favor,<br> + Still shelters the cheat where he crawls;<br> + And the truth we began with needs braver<br> + Upholders, and loftier walls. + </p> + <p> + Too long has the land's soul slumbered<br> + In wearying dreams of gain,<br> + With prosperous falsity cumbered<br> + And dulled with bribes, as a bane. + </p> + <p> + Yes, cunning is civilized evil,<br> + And crafty the gold-baited snare;<br> + But virtue, in fiery upheaval,<br> + May cast fine device to + the air. + </p> + <p> + Bring us the simple and stalwart<br> + Purpose of earlier days.<br> + Come! Far better than all + were't—<br> + Our precepts, our pride, + and our lays— + </p> + <p> + That the people in spirit should tremble<br> + With heed of the God-given Word;<br> + That we cease from our boast, nor + dissemble,<br> + But follow where truth's + voice is heard. + </p> + <p> + Come to us, mountain-dweller,<br> + Leader, wherever thou art;<br> + Skilled from thy cradle, a + queller<br> + Of serpents, and sound + to the heart! + </p> + <p> + Modest and mighty and tender;<br> + Man of an iron mold;<br> + Honest, fine-grained, our + defender;—<br> + American-souled! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + </h3> + <center> + <b>[Read before the Sons of the Revolution, New-York, + February 22, 1887]</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + Sons of the youth and the truth of the nation,<br> + Ye that are met to remember the man<br> + Whose valor gave birth to a people's salvation,<br> + Honor him now; set his name in the van.<br> + A nobleness to try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington. + </p> + <p> + Calmly his face shall look down through the ages—<br> + Sweet yet severe with a spirit of warning;<br> + Charged with the wisdom of saints and of sages;<br> + Quick with the light of a life-giving + morning.<br> + A majesty to try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + Though faction may rack us, or party divide us,<br> + And bitterness break the gold links of our + story,<br> + Our father and leader is ever beside us.<br> + Live, and forgive! But forget not the glory<br> + Of him whose height we try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + Still in his eyes shall be mirrored our fleeting<br> + Days, with the image of days long ended;<br> + Still shall those eyes give, immortally, greeting<br> + Unto the souls from his spirit descended.<br> + His grandeur we will try for,<br> + His name we 'll live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + GRANT'S DIRGE + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral + march?<br> + And what shall be the music of his dirge?<br> + No single voice may chant the Nation's + grief,<br> + No formal strain can give its woe relief.<br> + The pent-up anguish of the loyal wife,<br> + The sobs of those who, nearest in this life,<br> + Still hold him closely in the life + beyond;—<br> + These first, with threnody of memories fond.<br> + But look! Forth press a myriad mourners thronging,<br> + With hearts that throb in sorrow's + exaltation,<br> + Moved by a strange, impassioned, hopeless longing<br> + To serve him with their love's last + ministration.<br> + Make way! Make way, from wave-bound verge to + verge<br> + Of all our land, that this great multitude<br> + With lamentation proud albeit subdued,<br> + Deep murmuring like the ocean's mighty surge,<br> + May pass beneath the heavens' triumphal arch! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + What is the sound we hear?<br> + Never the fall of a tear;<br> + For grief repressed<br> + In every breast<br> + More honors the man we revere.<br> + Rising from East and West,<br> + There echoes afar or near—<br> + From the cool, sad North and the burning South—<br> + A sound long since grown dear,<br> + When brave ranks faced the cannon's mouth<br> + And died for a faith austere:<br> + The tread of marching men,<br> + A steady tramp of feet<br> + That never flinched nor faltered when<br> + The drums of duty beat.<br> + With sable hats whose shade<br> + Falls from the cord of gold<br> + On every time-worn face;<br> + With tattered flags, in black enrolled,<br> + Beneath whose folds they warred of old;<br> + Forward, firmly arrayed,<br> + With a sombre, martial grace;<br> + So the Grand Army moves<br> + Commanded by the dead,<br> + Following him whose name it loves,<br> + Whose voice in life its footsteps led. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Those that in the combat perished,—<br> + Hostile shapes and forms of friends,—<br> + Those we hated, those we cherished,<br> + Meet the pageant where it ends.<br> + Flash of steel and tears forgiving<br> + Blend in splendor. Hark, the knell!<br> + Comrades ghostly join the living—<br> + Dreaming, chanting: "All is well."<br> + They receive the General sleeping,<br> + Him of spirit pure and large:<br> + Him they draw into their keeping<br> + Evermore, in faithful charge. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + Pass on, O steps, with your dead, sad note!<br> + For a people's homage is in the sound;<br> + And the even tread, in measured rote,<br> + As a leader is laid beneath the ground,<br> + Rumors the hum of a pilgrim + train<br> + That shall trample the earth as + tramples the rain,<br> + Seeking the door of the hero's + tomb,<br> + Seeking him where he lies low in the + gloom,<br> + Paying him tribute of worker and + mage,<br> + Through age on age! + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Tall pine-tree on McGregor's height,<br> + How didst thou grow to such a lofty bearing,<br> + For song of bird or beat of breeze uncaring,<br> + There where thy shadow touched the dying brow?<br> + Were all thy sinewy fibres shaped aright?<br> + Was there no flaw? With what mysterious daring<br> + Didst thou put forth each murmuring, odorous bough<br> + And trust it to the frail support of air?<br> + We only know that thou art now supreme:<br> + We know not how thou grewest so tall and fair.<br> + So from the unnoticed, humble earth arose<br> + The sturdy man whom we, bewailing, deem<br> + Worthy the wondrous name fame's far voice blows.<br> + And lo! his ancient foes<br> + Rise up to praise the plan<br> + Of modest grandeur, loyal trust,<br> + And generous power from man to man,<br> + That lifted him above the formless dust.<br> + O heart by kindliness betrayed,<br> + O noble spirit snared and strayed—<br> + Unmatched, upright thou standest still<br> + As that firm pine-tree rooted on the hill! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + No paragon was he,<br> + But moulded in the rough<br> + With every fault and scar<br> + Ingrained, and plain for all to see:<br> + Even as the rocks and mountains are,<br> + Common perhaps, yet wrought of such true stuff<br> + That common nature in his essence grew<br> + To something which till then it never knew;<br> + Ay, common as a vast, refreshing wind<br> + That sweeps the continent, or as some star<br> + Which, 'mid a million, shines out well-defined:<br> + With honest soul on duty bent,<br> + A servant-soldier, President;<br> + Meekest when crowned with victory,<br> + And greatest in adversity! + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + A silent man whom, strangely, fate<br> + Made doubly silent ere he died,<br> + His speechless spirit rules us still;<br> + And that deep spell of influence mute,<br> + The majesty of dauntless will<br> + That wielded hosts and saved the State,<br> + Seems through the mist our spirits yet to thrill.<br> + His heart is with us! From the root<br> + Of toil and pain and brave endurance<br> + Has sprung at last the perfect fruit,<br> + The treasure of a rich assurance<br> + That men who nobly work and live<br> + A greater gift than life may give;<br> + Yielding a promise for all time,<br> + Which other men of newer date<br> + Surely redeem in deeds sublime.<br> + Forerunner of a valiant race,<br> + His voiceless spirit still reminds us<br> + Of ever-waiting, silent duty:<br> + The bond of faith wherewith he binds us<br> + Shall hold us ready hour by hour<br> + To serve the sacred, guiding power<br> + Whene'er it calls, where'er it finds us,<br> + With loyalty that, like a folded flower,<br> + Blooms at a touch in proud, full-circled beauty. + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + Like swelling river waves that strain,<br> + Onward the people crowd<br> + In serried, billowing train.<br> + And those so slow to yield,<br> + On many a hard fought field,<br> + Muster together<br> + Like a dark cloud<br> + In summer weather,<br> + Whose threatening thunders suddenly are stilled,—<br> + And all the world is filled<br> + With smiling rest. Victory to him was pain,<br> + Till he had won his enemies by love;<br> + Had leashed the eagle and unloosed the dove;<br> + Setting on war's red roll the argent seal of peace.<br> + So here they form their solid ranks again,<br> + But in no mood of hatred or disdain.<br> + They say: "Thou who art fallen at last,<br> + Beleaguered stealthily, o'ercome by death,<br> + Thy conqueror now shall be magnanimous<br> + Even as thou wast to us.<br> + But not for thee can we blot out the past:<br> + We would not, if we might, forget thy last<br> + Great act of war, that with a gentle hand<br> + Brought back our hearts unto the mighty mother,<br> + For whose defence and honor armed we stand.<br> + We hail thee brother,<br> + And so salute thy name with holy breath!" + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + Land of the hurricane!<br> + Land of the avalanche!<br> + Land of tempest and rain;<br> + Of the Southern sun and of frozen peaks;<br> + Stretching from main to main;—<br> + Land of the cypress-glooms;<br> + Land of devouring looms;<br> + Land of the forest and ranch;—<br> + Hush every sound to-day<br> + Save the burden of swarms that assemble<br> + Their reverence dear to pay<br> + Unto him who saved us all!<br> + Ye masses that mourn with bended head,<br> + Beneath whose feet the ground doth tremble<br> + With weight of woe and a sacred dread—<br> + Lift up the pall<br> + That to us shall remain as a warrior's banner!<br> + Gaze once more on the fast closed eyes;<br> + Mark once the mouth that never speaks;<br> + Think of the man and his quiet manner:<br> + Weep if you will; then go your way;<br> + But remember his face as it looks to the skies,<br> + And the dumb appeal wherewith it seeks<br> + To lead us on, as one should say, "Arise—<br> + Go forth to meet your country's noblest day!" + </p> + <h4> + X + </h4> + <p> + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march?<br> + And what shall be the music of his dirge?<br> + Let generations sing, as they emerge<br> + And pass beneath the heavens' trumphal arch! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BATTLE DAYS + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Veteran memories rally to muster<br> + Here at the call of the old battle days:<br> + Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster:<br> + All the wild whirl of the fight's broken + maze:<br> + Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre,<br> + Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the + shell,<br> + With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor,<br> + And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel + yell.<br> + Stern was our task in the field where the reaping<br> + Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men + low:<br> + Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping:<br> + Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and + flow.<br> + Swift came the silence—our enemy hiding<br> + Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:<br> + Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;<br> + Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their + flight!<br> + Hard and incessant the danger and trial,<br> + Laid on our squadrons, that gladly bore all,<br> + Scorning to meet with delay or denial<br> + The summons that rang in the battle-days' call! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + Wild days that woke to glory or despair,<br> + And smote the coward soul with sudden shame,<br> + But unto those whose hearts were bold to dare<br> + All things for honor brought eternal + fame:—<br> + Lost days, undying + days!<br> + With undiminished + rays<br> + Here now on us look + down,<br> + Illumining our crown<br> + Of leaves memorial, wet with tender dew<br> + For those who nobly died<br> + In fierce self-sacrifice of service true,<br> + Rapt in pure fire of life-disdaining pride;<br> + Men of this soil, who stood<br> + Firm for their country's good,<br> + From night to night, from sun to sun,<br> + Till o'er the living and the slain<br> + A woful dawn that streamed with rain<br> + Wept for their victory dearly won. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Days of the future, prophetic days,—<br> + Silence engulfs the roar of war;<br> + Yet, through all coming years, repeat the praise<br> + Of those leal comrades brave, who come no + more!<br> + And when our voices cease,<br> + Long, long renew the chant, the anthem + proud,<br> + Which, echoing clear and loud<br> + Through templed aisles of peace,<br> + Like blended tumults of a joyous chime,<br> + Shall tell their valor to a later time.<br> + Shine on this field; and in the eyes of men<br> + Rekindle, if the need shall come again,<br> + That answering light that springs<br> + In beaconing splendor from the soul, and brings<br> + Promise of faith well kept and deed sublime! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + KEENAN'S CHARGE + </h3> + <center> + <b>[CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863]</b> + </center> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + The sun had set;<br> + The leaves with dew were wet:<br> + Down fell a bloody dusk<br> + On the woods, that second of May,<br> + Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,<br> + Tore through, with angry tusk. + </p> + <p> + "They've trapped us, boys!"—<br> + Rose from our flank a voice.<br> + With a rush of steel and smoke<br> + On came the rebels straight,<br> + Eager as love and wild as hate;<br> + And our line reeled and broke; + </p> + <p> + Broke and fled.<br> + No one stayed—but the dead!<br> + With curses, shrieks, and cries,<br> + Horses and wagons and men<br> + Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,<br> + And above us the fading skies. + </p> + <p> + There's one hope, still—<br> + Those batteries parked on the hill!<br> + "Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar)<br> + "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire<br> + Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire<br> + A bugle rings "Trot"—and no more. + </p> + <p> + The horses plunged,<br> + The cannon lurched and lunged,<br> + To join the hopeless rout.<br> + But suddenly rode a form<br> + Calmly in front of the human storm,<br> + With a stern, commanding shout: + </p> + <p> + "Align those guns!"<br> + (We knew it was Pleasonton's.)<br> + The cannoneers bent to obey,<br> + And worked with a will at his word:<br> + And the black guns moved as if <i>they</i> had heard.<br> + But ah, the dread delay! + </p> + <p> + "To wait is crime;<br> + O God, for ten minutes' time!"<br> + The General looked around.<br> + There Keenan sat, like a stone,<br> + With his three hundred horse alone,<br> + Less shaken than the ground. + </p> + <p> + "Major, your men?"<br> + "Are soldiers, General." "Then,<br> + Charge, Major! Do your best:<br> + Hold the enemy back, at all cost,<br> + Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.<br> + You die to save the rest!" + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,<br> + Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes<br> + For an instant—clear, and cool, and still;<br> + Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." + </p> + <p> + "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.<br> + Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,<br> + Rose joyously, with a willing breath—-<br> + Rose like a greeting hail to death. + </p> + <p> + Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;<br> + Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd;<br> + Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,<br> + In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;<br> + And above in the air, with an instinct true,<br> + Like a bird of war their pennon flew. + </p> + <p> + With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,<br> + And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,<br> + And strong brown faces bravely pale<br> + For fear their proud attempt shall fail,<br> + Three hundred Pennsylvanians close<br> + On twice ten thousand gallant foes. + </p> + <p> + Line after line the troopers came<br> + To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame;<br> + Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell;<br> + Nor came one back his wounds to tell.<br> + And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall,<br> + In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall,<br> + While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung<br> + 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. + </p> + <p> + Line after line, aye, whole platoons,<br> + Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons<br> + By the maddened horses were onward borne<br> + And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;<br> + As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. + </p> + <p> + So they rode, till there were no more to ride. + </p> + <p> + But over them, lying there shattered and mute,<br> + What deep echo rolls?—'T is a death-salute,<br> + From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved<br> + Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! + </p> + <p> + Over them now—year following year—<br> + Over their graves the pine-cones fall,<br> + And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;<br> + But they stir not again: they raise no cheer:<br> + They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,<br> + Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.<br> + The rush of their charge is resounding still<br> + That saved the army at Chancellorsville. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + </h3> + <p> + "There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle<br> + had shuddered and faded away,<br> + Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only<br> + ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—<br> + "Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where<br> + the enemy's sharpshooters stood.<br> + Lord, how they picked off our men, from the<br> + treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!<br> + But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent<br> + them something as good.<br> + Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell<br> + me how many we killed.<br> + Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance<br> + was duly fulfilled." + </p> + <p> + Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the<br> + corn-field—scarred and forlorn,<br> + Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the<br> + shot that had plowed it in scorn;<br> + Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight<br> + of his comrades crushed at a blow,<br> + Flung in broken shapes on the ground like<br> + ruined memorials of woe:<br> + These were the men whom at daybreak he knew,<br> + but never again could know.<br> + Thence to the ridge, where roots outthrust, and<br> + twisted branches of trees<br> + Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their<br> + prey to seize. + </p> + <p> + "What's your report?"—and the grim colonel<br> + smiled when the orderly came back at last.<br> + Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were<br> + punished." And strange his face, aghast.<br> + "Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—<br> + laid out in line of parade.<br> + Brave fellows, colonel, to stay as they did! But<br> + one I 'most wish had n't stayed.<br> + Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack;<br> + and then at the end he prayed—<br> + Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped;<br> + and the dull, dead fingers yet held<br> + This little letter—his wife's—from the + knapsack.<br> + A pity those woods were shelled!" + </p> + <p> + Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes<br> + as his officer scanned<br> + Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about<br> + 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"<br> + Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier,<br> + had gone from his bride to the strife;<br> + Never they met again, but she had written him,<br> + telling of that new life,<br> + Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer<br> + and closer to him as his wife.<br> + Laying her baby's hand down on the letter,<br> + around it she traced a rude line;<br> + "If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you<br> + must kiss this outline of mine." + </p> + <p> + There was the shape of the hand on the page,<br> + with the small, chubby fingers outspread.<br> + "Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the<br> + words on the little palm said.<br> + Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for<br> + the vengeance so blindly fulfilled;<br> + Never again woke the old battle-glow when the<br> + bullets their death-note shrilled.<br> + Long ago ended the struggle, in union of<br> + brotherhood happily stilled;<br> + Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and<br> + token of love's command,<br> + See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy<br> + Virginia's hand! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Victors, living, with laureled brow,<br> + And you that sleep beneath the + sward!<br> + Your song was poured from cannon throats:<br> + It rang in deep-tongued bugle-notes:<br> + Your triumph came; you won your crown,<br> + The grandeur of a world's renown.<br> + But, in our + later lays,<br> + Full + freighted with your praise,<br> + Fair memory harbors those whose lives, laid down<br> + In gallant faith and + generous heat,<br> + Gained only + sharp defeat.<br> + All are at peace, who once so fiercely warred:<br> + Brother and brother, now, we chant a common chord. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + For, if we say God + wills,<br> + Shall we then idly deny + Him<br> + Care of each host in the + fight?<br> + His thunder was here in + the hills<br> + When the guns were loud + in July;<br> + And the flash of the + musketry's light<br> + Was sped by a ray from + God's eye.<br> + In its good and its evil + the scheme<br> + Was framed with + omnipotent hand,<br> + Though the battle of men + was a dream<br> + That they could but half + understand.<br> + Can the purpose of God + pass by him?<br> + Nay; it was sure, and + was wrought<br> + Under inscrutable + powers:<br> + Bravely the two armies + fought<br> + And left the land, that was greater than they, still theirs + and ours! + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Lucid, pure, and calm and blameless<br> + Dawned on Gettysburg the day<br> + That should make the spot, once fameless,<br> + Known to nations far away.<br> + Birds were caroling, and farmers<br> + Gladdened o'er their garnered hay,<br> + When the clank of gathering armors<br> + Broke the morning's peaceful sway;<br> + And the living lines of foemen<br> + Drawn o'er pasture, brook, and hill,<br> + Formed in figures weird of omen<br> + That should work with mystic will<br> + Measures of a direful magic—<br> + Shattering, maiming—and should fill<br> + Glades and gorges with a tragic<br> + Madness of desire to kill.<br> + Skirmishers flung lightly forward<br> + Moved like scythemen skilled to sweep<br> + Westward o'er the field and nor'ward,<br> + Death's first harvest there to reap.<br> + You would say the soft, white smoke-puffs<br> + Were but languid clouds asleep,<br> + Here on meadows, there on oak-bluffs,<br> + Fallen foam of Heaven's blue deep.<br> + Yet that blossom-white outbreaking<br> + Smoke wove soon a martyr's shroud.<br> + Reynolds fell, with soul unquaking,<br> + Ardent-eyed and open-browed:<br> + Noble men in humbler raiment<br> + Fell where shot their graves had plowed,<br> + Dying not for paltry payment:<br> + Proud of home, of honor proud. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + Mute Seminary there,<br> + Filled once with resonant hymn and prayer,<br> + How your meek walls and windows shuddered then!<br> + Though Doubleday stemmed the + flood,<br> + McPherson's Wood and Willoughby's Run<br> + Saw ere the set of + sun<br> + The light of the gospel of + blood.<br> + And, on the morrow again,<br> + Loud the unholy psalm of battle<br> + Burst from the tortured Devil's + Den,<br> + In cries of men and musketry rattle<br> + Mixed with the helpless bellow of cattle<br> + Torn by artillery, down in the + glen;<br> + While, hurtling through + the branches<br> + Of the orchard by the + road,<br> + Where Sickles and Birney were walled with + steel,<br> + Shot fiery + avalanches<br> + That shivered hope and made the sturdiest + reel.<br> + Yet peach-bloom bright as April saw<br> + Blushed there anew, in blood that + flowed<br> + O'er faces white with death-dealt awe;<br> + And ruddy flowers of warfare grew,<br> + Though withering winds as of the desert blew,<br> + Far at the right while Ewell and Early,<br> + Plunging at Slocum and Wadsworth and + Greene,<br> + Thundered in onslaught consummate and surly;<br> + Till trembling nightfall crept + between<br> + And whispered of rest from the heat of the whelming + strife.<br> + But unto those forsaken + of life<br> + What has the night to + say?<br> + Silent beneath the moony sky,<br> + Crushed in a costly dew they lie:<br> + Deaf to plaint or paean, they:—<br> + Freed from Earth's dull tyranny. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Wordless the night-wind, funereal plumes of the tree-tops + swaying—<br> + Writhing and nodding anon at the beck of the + unseen breeze!<br> + Yet its voice ever a murmur resumes, as of multitudes + praying:<br> + Liturgies lost in a moan like the mourning of + far-away seas.<br> + May then those spirits, set free, a celestial council + obeying,<br> + Move in this rustling whisper here thro' the + dark, shaken trees?—<br> + Souls that are voices alone to us, now, yet linger, + returning<br> + Thrilled with a sweet reconcilement and fervid + with speechless desire?<br> + Sundered in warfare, immortal they meet now with wonder and + yearning,<br> + Dwelling together united, a rapt, invisible + choir:<br> + Hearken! They wail for the living, whose passion of battle, + yet burning,<br> + Sears and enfolds them in coils, and consumes, like a serpent + of fire! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + Men of New Hampshire, Pennsylvanians,<br> + Maine men, firm as the rock's rough ledge!<br> + Swift Mississippians, lithe Carolinians<br> + Bursting over the battle's edge!<br> + Bold Indiana men; gallant Virginians;<br> + Jersey and Georgia legions clashing;—<br> + Pick of Connecticut; quick Vermonters;<br> + Louisianians, madly dashing;—<br> + And, swooping still to fresh encounters,<br> + New-York myriads, whirlwind-led!—<br> + All your furious forces, meeting,<br> + Torn, entangled, and shifting place,<br> + Blend like wings of eagles beating<br> + Airy abysses, in angry embrace.<br> + Here in the midmost struggle combining—<br> + Flags immingled and weapons crossed—<br> + Still in union your States troop shining:<br> + Never a star from the lustre is lost! + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + Once more the sun deploys his rays:<br> + Third in the trilogy of battle-days<br> + The awful Friday comes:<br> + A day of dread,<br> + That should have moved with slow, averted head<br> + And muffled feet,<br> + Knowing what streams of pure blood shed,<br> + What broken hearts and wounded lives must meet<br> + Its pitiless tread.<br> + At dawn, like monster mastiffs baying,<br> + Federal cannon, with a din affraying,<br> + Roused the old Stonewall brigade,<br> + That, eagerly and undismayed,<br> + Charged amain, to be repelled<br> + After four hours' bitter fighting,<br> + Forth and back, with bayonets biting;<br> + Where in after years, the wood—<br> + Flayed and bullet-riddled—stood<br> + A presence ghostly, grim and stark,<br> + With trees all withered, wasted, gray,<br> + The place of combat night and day<br> + Like marshaled skeletons to mark.<br> + Anon, a lull: the troops are spelled.<br> + No sound of guns or drums<br> + Disturbs the air.<br> + Only the insect-chorus faintly hums,<br> + Chirping around the patient, sleepless dead<br> + Scattered, or fallen in heaps all wildly spread;<br> + Forgotten fragments left in hurried flight;<br> + Forms that, a few hours since, were human + creatures,<br> + Now blasted of their features,<br> + Or stamped with blank despair;<br> + Or with dumb faces smiling as for gladness,<br> + Though stricken by utter blight<br> + Of motionless, inert, and hopeless sadness.<br> + Fear you the naked horrors of a war?<br> + Then cherish peace, and take up arms no more.<br> + For, if you fight, you must<br> + Behold your brothers' dust<br> + Unpityingly ground down<br> + And mixed with blood and powder,<br> + To write the annals of renown<br> + That make a nation prouder! + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + All is quiet till one o'clock;<br> + Then the hundred and fifty guns,<br> + Metal loaded with metal in tons,<br> + Massed by Lee, send out their shock.<br> + And, with a movement + magnificent,<br> + Pickett, the golden-haired + leader,<br> + Thousands and thousands flings onward, as if he sent<br> + Merely a meek interceder.<br> + Steadily sure his division advances,<br> + Gay as the light on its weapons that dances.<br> + Agonized screams of the shell<br> + The doom that it carries + foretell:<br> + Rifle-balls whistle, like sea-birds singing;<br> + Limbs are severed, and souls set winging;<br> + Yet Pickett's warriors never + waver.<br> + Show me in all the world anything braver<br> + Than the bold sweep of his fearless + battalions,<br> + Three half-miles over ground + unsheltered<br> + Up to the cannon, where regiments + weltered<br> + Prone in the batteries' blast that raked<br> + Swaths of men and, flame-tongued, drank<br> + Their blood with eager thirst unslaked.<br> + Armistead, Kemper, and Pettigrew<br> + Rush on the Union men, rank against rank,<br> + Planting their battle-flags high on the + crest.<br> + Pause not the soldiers, nor dream they of + rest,<br> + Till they fall with their enemy's guns at the + breast<br> + And the shriek in their ears of the wounded artillery + stallions.<br> + So Pickett charged, a man + indued<br> + With knightly power to lead a multitude<br> + And bring to fame the scarred surviving few. + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + In vain the mighty endeavor;<br> + In vain the immortal valor;<br> + In vain the insurgent life outpoured!<br> + Faltered the column, spent with shot and + sword;<br> + Its bright hope blanched with sudden pallor;<br> + While Hancock's trefoil bloomed in triple fame.<br> + He chose the field; he saved the second day;<br> + And, honoring here his glorious name,<br> + Again his phalanx held victorious sway.<br> + Meade's line stood firm, and volley on volley roared<br> + Triumphant Union, soon to be restored,<br> + Strong to defy all foes and fears forever.<br> + The Ridge was wreathed with angry fire<br> + As flames rise round a martyr's stake;<br> + For many a hero on that pyre<br> + Was offered for our dear land's sake,<br> + What time in heaven the gray clouds flew<br> + To mingle with the deathless blue;<br> + While here, below, the blue and gray<br> + Melted minglingly away,<br> + Mirroring heaven, to make another day.<br> + And we, who are Americans, we pray<br> + The splendor of strength that + Gettysburg knew<br> + May light the long generations with glorious ray,<br> + And keep us undyingly true! + </p> + <h4> + X + </h4> + <p> + Dear are the dead we weep for;<br> + Dear are the strong hearts + broken!<br> + Proudly their memory we keep for<br> + Our help and hope; a token<br> + Of sacred thought too deep for<br> + Words that leave it unspoken.<br> + All that we know of fairest,<br> + All that we have of meetest,<br> + Here we lay down for the rarest<br> + Doers whose souls rose fleetest<br> + And in their homes of air rest,<br> + Ranked with the truest and + sweetest.<br> + Days, with fiery-hearted, bold advances;<br> + Nights in dim and shadowy, swift retreat;<br> + Rains that rush with bright, embattled lances;<br> + Thunder, booming round your stirless + feet;—<br> + Winds that set the orchard with sweet fancies<br> + All abloom, or ripple the ripening wheat;<br> + Moonlight, starlight, on your mute graves falling;<br> + Dew, distilled as tears unbidden + flow;—<br> + Dust of drought in drifts and layers crawling;<br> + Lulling dreams of softly whispering + snow;<br> + Happy birds, from leafy coverts calling;—<br> + These go on, yet none of these you + know:<br> + Hearing not our human + voices<br> + Speaking to you all in + vain,<br> + Nor the psalm of a land + that rejoices,<br> + Ringing from churches and cities and foundries a mighty + refrain!<br> + But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that + blow<br> + When tempests are striving and lightnings of heaven are + spent,<br> + With one + consent<br> + Make unto + them<br> + Who died for us eternal requiem. + </p> + <h4> + XI + </h4> + <p> + Lovely to look on, O South,<br> + No longer stately-scornful<br> + But beautiful still in pride,<br> + Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride!<br> + Garmented soft in + white,<br> + Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender!<br> + You stand before us with your gently mournful<br> + Memory-haunted eyes and flower-like mouth,<br> + Where clinging thoughts—as bees + a-cluster<br> + Murmur through the leafy gloom,<br> + Musical in monotone—<br> + Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre<br> + As of glowing gold-gray light<br> + Shines upon the orient bloom,<br> + Sweet with orange-blossoms, + thrown<br> + Round the jasmine-starred, deep night<br> + Crowning with dark hair your brow.<br> + Ruthless, once, we came to slay,<br> + And you met us then with hate.<br> + Rough was the wooing of war: we won you,<br> + Won you at last, though late!<br> + Dear South, to-day,<br> + As our country's altar made us<br> + One forever, so we vow<br> + Unto yours our love to render:<br> + Strength with strength we here endow,<br> + And we make your honor ours.<br> + Happiness and hope shall sun you:<br> + All the wiles that half betrayed us<br> + Vanish from us like spent showers. + </p> + <h4> + XII + </h4> + <p> + Two hostile bullets in mid-air<br> + Together shocked,<br> + And swift were locked<br> + Forever in a firm embrace.<br> + Then let us men have so much grace<br> + To take the bullets' place,<br> + And learn that we are held<br> + By laws that weld<br> + Our hearts together!<br> + As once we battled hand to hand,<br> + So hand in hand to-day we stand,<br> + Sworn to each other,<br> + Brother and brother,<br> + In storm and mist, or calm, translucent weather:<br> + And Gettysburg's guns, with their death-giving roar,<br> + Echoed from ocean to ocean, shall pour<br> + Quickening life to the nation's core;<br> + Filling our minds again<br> + With the spirit of those who wrought in the<br> + Field of the Flower of + Men! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="notes"><!--Marker--></a> + <h2> + NOTES + </h2> + <p> + [1] <a href="#I.9"><i>Bride Brook</i></a>.—The colony + of New London (now part of Connecticut) was founded by John + Winthrop, Jr., under the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. One + of the boundary lines was a stream flowing into Long Island + Sound, between the present city of New London and the + Connecticut River. In the snowy winter of 1646, Jonathan + Rudd, who dwelt in the settlement of Saybrook Fort, at the + mouth of the Connecticut, sent for Winthrop to celebrate a + marriage between himself and a certain "Mary" of Saybrook, + whose last name has been lost. Winthrop performed the + ceremony on the frozen surface of the streamlet, the farthest + limit of his magistracy; and thereupon bestowed the name + "Bride Brook," which it still bears. + </p> + <p> + [2] <a href="#II.1"><i>The Bride of War</i></a>.—Jemima + Warner, a Pennsylvania woman, was the wife of one of Morgan's + riflemen. She marched with the expedition; and, when her + husband perished of cold and exhaustion, she took his rifle + and equipments and herself carried them to Quebec, where she + delivered them to Arnold as a token of her husband's + sacrifice, and proof that he was not a deserter. + </p> + <p> + Colonel Enos of Connecticut abandoned the column while it was + struggling through the Dead River region, with his whole + force, the rear-guard, numbering eight hundred men. But for + this defection Arnold might have triumphed in his assault on + Quebec. It is a curious circumstance that, with this traitor + at the rear, and with Benedict Arnold at its head, the little + army also counted in its ranks Aaron Burr, whose treason was + to ripen after the war ended. + </p> + <p> + [3] <a href="#III.2"><i>The Sword Dham</i></a>.—Antar, + the Bedouin poet-hero, was chief of the tribe of Ghaylib. + </p> + <p> + [4] <a href="#V.2"><i>The Name of + Washington</i></a>.—Read before the Sons of the + Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887, and adopted as the + poem of the Society. + </p> + <p> + [5] <a href="#V.6"><i>Marthy Virginia's + Hand</i></a>.—This was an actual incident in the + experience of the late Colonel (formerly Captain) Albert J. + Munroe. of the Third Rhode Island Artillery, a gallant + officer, gentle and brave as well in peace as in war. + </p> + <p> + [6] <a href="#V.7"><i>Gettysburg: A Battle + Ode</i></a>.—Written for the Society of the Army of the + Potomac, and read at its re-union with Confederate survivors + on the field of Gettysburg, July 3, 1888, the Twenty-Fifth + Anniversary of the Battle. + </p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Dreams and Days: Poems, by George Parsons Lathrop + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 7325-h.htm or 7325-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/2/7325/ + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders +Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 + + +Title: Dreams and Days: Poems + +Author: George Parsons Lathrop + +Posting Date: November 7, 2012 [EBook #7325] +Release Date: January, 2005 +First Posted: April 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders +Team. + + + + + + + + + + + +DREAMS AND DAYS + +POEMS + + +BY + +GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP + + + + +To ROSL + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I + + +STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN! + +"O JAY!" + +THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + +"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + +JESSAMINE + +THE BOBOLINK + +SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + +FIRST GLANCE + +BRIDE BROOK + +MAY-ROSE + +THE SINGING WIRE + +THE HEART OF A SONG + +SOUTH-WIND + +THE LOVER'S YEAR + +NEW WORLDS + +NIGHT IN NEW YORK + +THE SONG-SPARROW + +I LOVED YOU, ONCE---- + + +II + + +THE BRIDE OF WAR + +A RUNE OF THE RAIN + +BREAKERS + +BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + +THE CHILD-YEAR + +CHRISTENING + +THANKSGIVING TURKEY + +BEFORE THE SNOW + + +III + + +YOUTH TO THE POET + +THE SWORD DHAM + +"AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + +CHARITY + +HELEN AT THE LOOM + +THE CASKET OF OPALS + +LOVE THAT LIVES + + +IV + + +BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + +THE VOICE OF THE VOID + +"O WHOLESOME DEATH" + +INCANTATION + +FAMINE AND HARVEST + +THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + +THE FLOWN SOUL + +SUNSET AND SHORE + +THE PHOEBE-BIRD + +A STRONG CITY + +THREE DOVES + + +V + + +ARISE, AMERICAN! + +THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + +GRANT'S DIRGE. + +BATTLE DAYS + +KEENAN'S CHARGE + +MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + +GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + + +NOTES + + + + + + STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN! + + + Strike hands, young men! + We know not when + Death or disaster comes, + Mightier than battle-drums + To summon us away. + Death bids us say farewell + To all we love, nor stay + For tears;--and who can tell + How soon misfortune's hand + May smite us where we stand, + Dragging us down, aloof, + Under the swift world's hoof? + + Strike hands for faith, and power + To gladden the passing hour; + To wield the sword, or raise a song;-- + To press the grape; or crush out wrong. + And strengthen right. + Give me the man of sturdy palm + And vigorous brain; + Hearty, companionable, sane, + 'Mid all commotions calm, + Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;-- + Give me the man + Whose impulses aspire, + And all his features seem to say, "I can!" + + Strike hands, young men! + 'Tis yours to help rebuild the State, + And keep the Nation great. + With act and speech and pen + 'Tis yours to spread + The morning-red + That ushers in a grander day: + To scatter prejudice that blinds, + And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds; + To overthrow bland tyrannies + That cheat the people, and with slow disease + Change the Republic to a mockery. + Your words can teach that liberty + Means more than just to cry "We're free" + While bending to some new-found yoke. + So shall each unjust bond be broke, + Each toiler gain his meet reward, + And life sound forth a truer chord. + + Ah, if we so have striven, + And mutually the grasp have given + Of brotherhood, + To work each other and the whole race good; + What matter if the dream + Come only partly true, + And all the things accomplished seem + Feeble and few? + At least, when summer's flame burns low + And on our heads the drifting snow + Settles and stays, + We shall rejoice that in our earlier days + We boldly then + Struck hands, young men! + + + + + + + "O JAY!" + + + O jay-- + Blue-jay! + What are you trying to say? + I remember, in the spring + You pretended you could sing; + But your voice is now still queerer, + And as yet you've come no nearer + To a song. + In fact, to sum the matter, + I never heard a flatter + Failure than your doleful clatter. + Don't you think it's wrong? + It was sweet to hear your note, + I'll not deny, + When April set pale clouds afloat + O'er the blue tides of sky, + And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums + You, in your white and azure coat, + A herald proud, came forth to cry, + "The royal summer comes!" + + But now that autumn's here, + And the leaves curl up in sheer + Disgust, + And the cold rains fringe the pine, + You really must + Stop that supercilious whine--- + Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic + Angry critic. + + You don't fulfill your early promise: + You're not the smartest + Kind of artist, + Any more than poor Blind Tom is. + Yet somehow, still, + There's meaning in your screaming bill. + What _are_ you trying to say? + + Sometimes your piping is delicious, + And then again it's simply vicious; + Though on the whole the varying jangle + Weaves round me an entrancing tangle + Of memories grave or joyous: + Things to weep or laugh at; + Love that lived at a hint, or + Days so sweet, they'd cloy us; + Nights I have spent with friends;-- + Glistening groves of winter, + And the sound of vanished feet + That walked by the ripening wheat; + With other things.... Not the half that + Your cry familiar blends + Can I name, for it is mostly + Very ghostly;-- + Such mixed-up things your voice recalls, + With its peculiar quirks and falls. + + Possibly, then, your meaning, plain, + Is that your harsh and broken strain + Tallies best with a world of pain. + + Well, I'll admit + There's merit in a voice that's truthful: + Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful, + But querulously fit. + And if we cannot sing, we'll say + Something to the purpose, jay! + + + + + + + THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + + + "Go," said the star to its light: + "Follow your fathomless flight! + Into the dreams of space + Carry the joy of my face. + Go," said the star to its light: + "Tell me the tale of your flight." + + As the mandate rang + The heavens through, + Quick the ray sprang: + Unheard it flew, + Sped by the touch of an unseen spur. + It crumbled the dusk of the deep + That folds the worlds in sleep, + And shot through night with noiseless stir. + + Then came the day; + And all that swift array + Of diamond-sparkles died. + And lo! the far star cried: + "My light has lost its way!" + Ages on ages passed: + The light returned, at last. + + "What have you seen, + What have you heard-- + O ray serene, + O flame-winged bird + I loosed on endless air? + Why do you look so faint and white?"-- + Said the star to its light. + + "O star," said the tremulous ray, + "Grief and struggle I found. + Horror impeded my way. + Many a star and sun + I passed and touched, on my round. + Many a life undone + I lit with a tender gleam: + I shone in the lover's eyes, + And soothed the maiden's dream. + But alas for the stifling mist of lies! + Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field + Where my glance was mixed with blood! + And woe for the hearts by hate congealed, + And the crime that rolls like a flood! + Too vast is the world for me; + Too vast for the sparkling dew + Of a force like yours to renew. + Hopeless the world's immensity! + The suns go on without end: + The universe holds no friend: + And so I come back to you." + + "Go," said the star to its light: + "You have not told me aright. + This you have taught: I am one + In a million of million others-- + Stars, or planets, or men;-- + And all of these are my brothers. + Carry that message, and then + My guerdon of praise you have won! + Say that I serve in my place: + Say I will hide my own face + Ere the sorrows of others I shun. + So, then, my trust you'll requite. + Go!"--said the star to its light. + + + + + + + "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + + + The sunshine of thine eyes, + (O still, celestial beam!) + Whatever it touches it fills + With the life of its lambent gleam. + + The sunshine of thine eyes, + O let it fall on me! + Though I be but a mote of the air, + I could turn to gold for thee! + + + + + + + JESSAMINE + + + Here stands the great tree still, with broad bent head; + Its wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread + With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves + Strange garlands, now, amongst the darkening leaves. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine + Walked with her lover long ago; and in + The leaf-dimmed light he questioned, and she spoke; + Then on them both, supreme, love's radiance broke. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone + Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown, + Gathering from each alike a perfect white, + Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + + For this her sweetness Walt, her lover, sought + To win her; wooed her here, his heart o'er fraught + With fragrance of her being; and gained his plea. + So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree." + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Yet dreams of conquering greater prize for her + Roused his wild spirit with a glittering spur. + Eager for wealth, far, far from home he sailed; + And life paused;--while she watched joy vanish, veiled. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Ah, better at the elm-tree's sunbrowned feet + If he had been content to let life fleet + Its wonted way!--lord of his little farm, + In zest of joys or cares unmixed with harm. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + For, as against a snarling sea one steers, + He battled vainly with the surging years; + While ever Jessamine must watch and pine, + Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Then silence fell; and all the neighbors said + That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead: + Unmoved in constancy, her tryst she kept, + Each night beneath the tree, ere sorrow slept. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + So, circling years went by, till in her face + Slow melancholy wrought a mingled grace, + Of early joy with suffering's hard alloy-- + Refined and rare, no doom could e'er destroy. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine + Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win + The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused + On love that so could live, with love refused. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + And none could hope for her. But she had grown + Too high in love, for hope. She bloomed alone, + Aloft in proud devotion; and secure + Against despair; so sweet her faith, so sure. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Her wandering lover knew not well her soul. + Discouraged, on disaster's changing shoal + Stranding, he waited; starved on selfish pride, + Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + But, bitterly repenting of his sin, + Deeper at last he learned to look within + Sweet Jessamine's true heart--when the past, dead, + Mocked him with wasted years forever fled. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Late, late, oh late, beneath the tree stood two; + In trembling joy, and wondering "Is it true?"-- + Two that were each like some strange, misty wraith: + Yet each on each gazed with a living faith. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell: + Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell. + Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed, + Beneath it many a year has she lain dead. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + Here stands the great tree, still. But age has crept + Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept + The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might + The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + + + + + + THE BOBOLINK + + + How sweetly sang the bobolink, + When thou, my love, wast nigh! + His liquid music from the brink + Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, + Far in the blue-domed sky. + + How sadly sings the bobolink! + No more my love is nigh: + Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink + Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,-- + Once more before I die! + + + + + + + SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + + + The sea goes up; the sky comes down. + Oh, can you spy the ancient town,-- + The granite hills so green and gray, + That rib the land behind the bay? + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + Three years? Is it so long that we + Have lived upon the lonely sea? + Oh, often I thought we'd see the town, + When the sea went up, and the sky came down. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + Even the winter winds would rouse + A memory of my father's house; + For round his windows and his door + They made the same deep, mouthless roar. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + And when the summer's breezes beat, + Methought I saw the sunny street + Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand + She gazed far out, far out from land. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed + That I was with her. Then it seemed + A single stride the ocean wide + Had bridged, and brought me to her side. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + But though so near we're drawing, now, + 'T is farther off--I know not how. + We sail and sail: we see no home. + Would that we into port were come! + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + At night, the same stars o'er the mast: + The mast sways round--however fast + We fly--still sways and swings around + One scanty circle's starry bound. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + Ah, many a month those stars have shone, + And many a golden morn has flown, + Since that so solemn, happy morn, + When, I away, my babe was born. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + And, though so near we're drawing, now, + 'T is farther off--I know not how:-- + I would not aught amiss had come + To babe or mother there, at home! + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + 'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush + The seas, beneath. I hear the crush + Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. + Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + + Patience, my mates! Though not this eve + We cast our anchor, yet believe, + If but the wind holds, short the run: + We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + + + + + + FIRST GLANCE + + + A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; + A laughing face; and laughing hair,-- + So ruddy was its rise + From off that forehead fair; + + Frank fervor in whate'er she said, + And a shy grace when she was still; + A bright, elastic tread; + Enthusiastic will; + + These wrought the magic of a maid + As sweet and sad as the sun in spring;-- + Joyous, yet half-afraid + Her joyousness to sing. + + + + + + + BRIDE BROOK + + + Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand, + And blindly over us there blows + A swarm of years that fill the land, + Then fade, and are as fallen snows. + + Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast; + Or are they years, that come between,-- + When, peering back into the past, + I search the legendary scene? + + Nay. Marshaled down the open coast, + Fearless of that low rampart's frown, + The winter's white-winged, footless host + Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town. + + And when the settlers wake they stare + On woods half-buried, white and green, + A smothered world, an empty air: + Never had such deep drifts been seen! + + But "Snow lies light upon my heart! + An thou," said merry Jonathan Rudd, + "Wilt wed me, winter shall depart, + And love like spring for us shall bud." + + "Nay, how," said Mary, "may that be? + No minister nor magistrate + Is here, to join us solemnly; + And snow-banks bar us, every gate." + + "Winthrop at Pequot Harbor lies," + He laughed. And with the morrow's sun + He faced the deputy's dark eyes: + "How soon, sir, may the rite be done?" + + "At Saybrook? There the power's not mine," + Said he. "But at the brook we'll meet, + That ripples down the boundary line; + There you may wed, and Heaven shall see't." + + Forth went, next day, the bridal train + Through vistas dreamy with gray light. + The waiting woods, the open plain, + Arrayed in consecrated white, + + Received and ushered them, along. + The very beasts before them fled, + Charmed by the spell of inward song + These lovers' hearts around them spread. + + Four men with netted foot-gear shod + Bore the maid's carrying-chair aloft; + She swayed above, as roses nod + On the lithe stem their bloom-weight soft. + + At last beside the brook they stood, + With Winthrop and his followers; + The maid in flake-embroidered hood, + The magistrate well cloaked in furs, + + That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath + Of ample, throat-encircling ruff + As white as some wind-gathered wreath + Of snow quilled into plait and puff. + + A few grave words, a question asked; + Eyelids that with the answer fell + Like falling petals;--form that tasked + Brief time;--and so was wrought the spell! + + Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said, + "Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb + The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped + These lovers on their way. But, come, + + "Henceforth forever be thou known + By memory of this day's fair bride: + So shall thy slender music's moan + Sweeter into the ocean glide!" + + Then laughed they all, and sudden beams + Of sunshine quivered through the sky. + Below the ice, the unheard stream's + Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy; + + And lo, a visionary blush + Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild; + And in her rapt and wintry hush + The lonely face of Nature smiled. + + Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite + Is all that tender vision now; + And, like lost snow-flakes in the night, + Mute are the lovers as their vow. + + And O thou little, careless brook, + Hast thou thy tender trust forgot? + Her modest memory forsook, + Whose name, known once, thou utterest not? + + Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy; + In willow bough or alder bush + Birds sing, o'er golden filigree + Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush; + + But none can tell us of that name + More than the "Mary." Men still say + "Bride Brook" in honor of her fame; + But all the rest has passed away. + + + + + + + MAY-ROSE + + [FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20] + + + On this day to life she came-- + May-Rose, my May-Rose! + With scented breeze, with flowered flame, + She touched the earth and took her name + Of May, Rose. + + Here, to-day, she grows and flowers-- + May-Rose, my May-Rose. + All my life with light she dowers, + And colors all the coming hours + With May, Rose! + + + + + + + THE SINGING WIRE + + + Ethereal, faint that music rang, + As, with the bosom of the breeze, + It rose and fell and murmuring sang + Aeolian harmonies! + + I turned; again the mournful chords, + In random rhythm lightly flung + From off the wire, came shaped in words; + And thus meseemed, they sung: + + "I, messenger of many fates, + Strung to the tones of woe or weal, + Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates + With all men know or feel,-- + + "Is it so strange that I should wail? + Leave me my tearless, sad refrain, + When in the pine-top wakes the gale + That breathes of coming rain. + + "There is a spirit in the post; + It, too, was once a murmuring tree; + Its withered, sad, imprisoned ghost + Echoes my melody. + + "Come close, and lay your listening ear + Against the bare and branchless wood. + Can you not hear it crooning clear, + As though it understood?" + + I listened to the branchless pole + That held aloft the singing wire; + I heard its muffled music roll, + And stirred with sweet desire: + + "O wire more soft than seasoned lute, + Hast thou no sunlit word for me? + Though long to me so coyly mute, + Her heart may speak through thee!" + + I listened, but it was in vain. + At first, the wind's old wayward will + Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain. + That ceased; and all was still. + + But suddenly some kindling shock + Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, + Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock + Rose with him; wheeled and whirred. + + Then to my soul there came this sense: + "Her heart has answered unto thine; + She comes, to-night. Go, speed thee hence: + Meet her; no more repine!" + + Perhaps the fancy was far-fetched; + And yet, perhaps, it hinted true. + Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched + In mine, that gave me--you! + + And so more dear to me has grown + Than rarest tones swept from the lyre, + The minor movement of that moan + In yonder singing wire. + + Nor care I for the will of states, + Or aught beside, that smites that string, + Since then so close it knit our fates, + What time the bird took wing! + + + + + + + THE HEART OF A SONG + + + Dear love, let this my song fly to you: + Perchance forget it came from me. + It shall not vex you, shall not woo you; + But in your breast lie quietly. + + Only beware, when once it tarries + I cannot coax it from you, then. + This little song my whole heart carries, + And ne'er will bear it back again. + + For if its silent passion grieve you, + My heart would then too heavy grow;-- + And it can never, never leave you, + If joy of yours must with it go! + + + + + + + SOUTH-WIND + + + Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease + (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) + Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed + 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these + Loth blushes faint and maidenly:--rich breeze, + Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade + Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid + The power to build or blight the fruit of trees, + The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. + + Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, + Both measureless, but either counted gain + Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow + Like tides upon us of the self-same sea. + Tears are the gems of joy and misery. + + + + + + + THE LOVER'S YEAR + + + Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, + My summer and my winter, spring and fall; + For Nature left on thee a touch of all + The moods that come to gladden or to grieve + The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve + From lagging sameness. So do these forestall + In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall + Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. + + Scenes that I love to me always remain + Beautiful, whether under summer sun + Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. + So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet one: + Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see + Thy constant change is changeful constancy. + + + + + + + NEW WORLDS + + + With my beloved I lingered late one night. + At last the hour when I must leave her came: + But, as I turned, a fear I could not name + Possessed me that the long sweet evening might + Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight + Should perish. What if death, ere dawn, should claim + One of us? What, though living, not the same + Each should appear to each in morning-light? + + Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: + Ne'er could I see her as of old again. + That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away, + And let her beauty pour through every vein + Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover + With each new morn a new world may discover. + + + + + + + NIGHT IN NEW YORK + + + Haunted by unknown feet-- + Ways of the midnight hour! + Strangely you murmur below me, + Strange is your half-silent power. + Places of life and of death, + Numbered and named as streets, + What, through your channels of stone, + Is the tide that unweariedly beats? + A whisper, a sigh-laden breath, + Is all that I hear of its flowing. + Footsteps of stranger and foe-- + Footsteps of friends, could we meet-- + Alike to me in my sorrow; + Alike to a life left alone. + Yet swift as my heart they throb, + They fall thick as tears on the stone: + My spirit perchance may borrow + New strength from their eager tone. + + Still ever that slip and slide + Of the feet that shuffle or glide, + And linger or haste through the populous waste + Of the shadowy, dim-lit square! + And I know not, from the sound, + As I sit and ponder within, + The goal to which those steps are bound,-- + On hest of mercy, or hest of sin, + Or joy's short-measured round; + Yet a meaning deep they bear + In their vaguely muffled din. + + Roar of the multitude, + Chafe of the million-crowd, + To this you are all subdued + In the murmurous, sad night-air! + Yet whether you thunder aloud, + Or hush your tone to a prayer, + You chant amain through the modern maze + The only epic of our days. + + Still as death are the places of life; + The city seems crumbled and gone, + Sunk 'mid invisible deeps-- + The city so lately rife + With the stir of brain and brawn. + Haply it only sleeps; + But what if indeed it were dead, + And another earth should arise + To greet the gray of the dawn? + Faint then our epic would wail + To those who should come in our stead. + But what if that earth were ours? + What if, with holier eyes, + We should meet the new hope, and not fail? + + Weary, the night grows pale: + With a blush as of opening flowers + Dimly the east shines red. + Can it be that the morn shall fulfil + My dream, and refashion our clay + As the poet may fashion his rhyme? + Hark to that mingled scream + Rising from workshop and mill-- + Hailing some marvelous sight; + Mighty breath of the hours, + Poured through the trumpets of steam; + Awful tornado of time, + Blowing us whither it will! + + God has breathed in the nostrils of night, + And behold, it is day! + + + + + + + THE SONG-SPARROW + + + Glimmers gray the leafless thicket + Close beside my garden gate, + Where, so light, from post to picket + Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; + Who, with meekly folded wing, + Comes to sun himself and sing. + + It was there, perhaps, last year, + That his little house he built; + For he seems to perk and peer, + And to twitter, too, and tilt + The bare branches in between, + With a fond, familiar mien. + + Once, I know, there was a nest, + Held there by the sideward thrust + Of those twigs that touch his breast; + Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust + Caught it, over-full of snow,-- + Bent the bush,--and stole it so. + + Thus our highest holds are lost, + In the ruthless winter's wind, + When, with swift-dismantling frost, + The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd + Of their leafage, grow too cold + For frail hopes of summer's mold. + + But if we, with spring-days mellow, + Wake to woeful wrecks of change, + And the sparrow's ritornello + Scaling still its old sweet range; + Can we do a better thing + Than, with him, still build and sing? + + Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed + Thought in me beyond all telling; + Shootest through me sunlight, seed, + And fruitful blessing, with that welling + Ripple of ecstatic rest + Gurgling ever from thy breast! + + And thy breezy carol spurs + Vital motion in my blood, + Such as in the sap-wood stirs, + Swells and shapes the pointed bud + Of the lilac; and besets + The hollow thick with violets. + + Yet I know not any charm + That can make the fleeting time + Of thy sylvan, faint alarm + Suit itself to human rhyme: + And my yearning rhythmic word + Does thee grievous wrong, blithe bird. + + So, however thou hast wrought + This wild joy on heart and brain, + It is better left untaught. + Take thou up the song again: + There is nothing sad afloat + On the tide that swells thy throat! + + + + + + + I LOVED YOU, ONCE-- + + + And did you think my heart + Could keep its love unchanging, + Fresh as the buds that start + In spring, nor know estranging? + Listen! The buds depart: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + 'T is not the early love; + With day and night it alters, + And onward still must move + Like earth, that never falters + For storm or star above. + I loved you once; but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + With gifts in those glad days + How eagerly I sought you! + Youth, shining hope, and praise: + These were the gifts I brought you. + In this world little stays: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + A child with glorious eyes + Here in our arms half sleeping-- + So passion wakeful lies; + Then grows to manhood, keeping + Its wistful, young surprise: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + When age's pinching air + Strips summer's rich possession, + And leaves the branches bare, + My secret in confession + Still thus with you I'll share: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + + + + + + + + II + + + + + + + + + THE BRIDE OF WAR + + (ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775) + + + I + + The trumpet, with a giant sound, + Its harsh war-summons wildly sings; + And, bursting forth like mountain-springs, + Poured from the hillside camping-ground, + Each swift battalion shouting flings + Its force in line; where you may see + The men, broad-shouldered, heavily + Sway to the swing of the march; their heads + Dark like the stones in river-beds. + + Lightly the autumn breezes + Play with the shining dust-cloud + Rising to the sunset rays + From feet of the moving column. + Soft, as you listen, comes + The echo of iterant drums, + Brought by the breezes light + From the files that follow the road. + A moment their guns have glowed + Sun-smitten: then out of sight + They suddenly sink, + Like men who touch a new grave's brink! + + II + + So it was the march began, + The march of Morgan's riflemen, + Who like iron held the van + In unhappy Arnold's plan + To win Wolfe's daring fame again. + With them, by her husband's side, + Jemima Warner, nobly free, + Moved more fair than when, a bride, + One year since, she strove to hide + The blush it was a joy to see. + + III + + O distant, terrible forests of Maine, + With huge trees numberless as the rain + That falls on your lonely lakes! + (It falls and sings through the years, but wakes + No answering echo of joy or pain.) + + Your tangled wilderness was tracked + With struggle and sorrow and vengeful act + 'Gainst Puritan, pagan, and priest. + Where wolf and panther and serpent ceased, + Man added the horrors your dark maze lacked. + + The land was scarred with deeds not good, + Like the fretting of worms on withered wood. + What if its venomous spell + Breathed into Arnold a prompting of Hell, + With slow empoisoning force indued? + + IV + + As through that dreary realm he went, + Followed a shape of dark portent:-- + Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain + To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr, + Moved loyal-seeming in the train, + Led by the arch-conspirator. + And craven Enos closed the rear, + Whose honor's flame died out in fear. + Not sooner does the dry bough burn + And into fruitless ashes turn, + Than he with whispered, false command + Drew back the hundreds in his hand; + Fled like a shade; and all forsook. + + Wherever Arnold bent his look, + Danger and doubt around him hung; + And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung + Black omens in his track, as though + The fingers of a future woe + Already clutched his life, to wring + Some expiation for the thing + That he was yet to do. A chill + Struck helpless many a steadfast will + Within the ranks; the very air + Rang with a thunder-toned despair: + The hills seemed wandering to and fro, + Like lost guides blinded by the snow. + + V + + Yet faithful still 'mid woe and doubt + One woman's loyal heart--whose pain + Filled it with pure celestial light-- + Shone starry-constant like the North, + Or that still radiance beaming forth + From sacred lights in some lone fane. + But he whose ring Jemima wore, + By want and weariness all unstrung, + Though strong and honest of heart and young, + Shrank at the blast that pierced so frore-- + Like a huge, invisible bird of prey + Furious launched from Labrador + And the granite cliffs of Saguenay! + + Along the bleak Dead River's banks + They forced amain their frozen way; + But ever from the thinning ranks + Shapes of ice would reel and fall, + Human shapes, whose dying prayer + Floated, a mute white mist, in air; + The crowding snow their pall. + + Spectre-like Famine drew near; + Her doom-word hummed in his ear: + Ah, weak were woman's hands to reach + And save him from the hellish charms + And wizard motion of those arms! + Yet only noble womanhood + The wife her dauntless part could teach: + She shared with him the last dry food + And thronged with hopefulness her speech, + As when hard by her home the flood + Of rushing Conestoga fills + Its depth afresh from springtide rills! + + All, all in vain! + For far behind the invading rout + These two were left alone; + And in the waste their wildest shout + Seemed but a smothered groan. + Like sheeted wanderers from the grave + They moved, and yet seemed not to stir, + As icy gorge and sere-leaf'd grove + Of withered oak and shrouded fir + Were passed, and onward still they strove; + While the loud wind's artillery clave + The air, and furious sleety rain + Swung like a sword above the plain! + + VI + + They crossed the hills; they came to where + Through an arid gloom the river Chaudiere + Fled like a Maenad with outstreaming hair; + And there the soldier sank, and died. + Death-dumb he fell; yet ere life sped, + Child-like on her knee he laid his head. + She strove to pray; but all words fled + Save those their love had sanctified. + + And then her voice rose waveringly + To the notes of a mother's lullaby; + But her song was only "Ah, must thou die?" + And to her his eyes death-still replied. + + VII + + Dead leaves and stricken boughs + She heaped o'er the fallen form-- + Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm + Him from his rest should rouse; + But first, with solemn vows, + Took rifle, pouch, and horn, + And the belt that he had worn. + Then, onward pressing fast + Through the forest rude and vast, + Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd, + Many bitter days she marched + With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain; + One thought always throbbing through her brain: + "They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'-- + They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'" + + VIII + + Now the wilderness is passed; + Now the first hut reached, at last. + + Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail, + Come forth and greet the bride of war! + From cabin and rough settlement + They come to speed her on her way-- + Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale + With pity never felt before; + Children that cluster at the door; + Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent + To help, or bid her longer stay. + But through them all she passes on, + Strangely martial, fair and wan; + Nor waits to listen to their cheers + That sound so faintly in her ears. + For now all scenes around her shift, + Like those before a racer's eyes + When, foremost sped and madly swift, + Quick stretching toward the goal he flies, + Yet feels his strength wane with his breath, + And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,-- + + Till, like the flashing of a lamp, + Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,-- + The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam + Of steel,--where, crouched, the army waits, + Ere long, beyond the midnight stream, + To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates. + + IX + + Then to the leader she was brought, + And spoke her simply loyal thought. + If, 'mid the shame of after-days, + The man who wronged his country's trust + (Yet now in worth outweighed all praise) + Remembered what this woman wrought, + It should have bowed him to the dust! + "Humbly my soldier-husband tried + To do his part. He served,--and died. + But honor did not die. His name + And honor--bringing both, I came; + And this his rifle, here, to show, + While far away the tired heart sleeps, + To-day his faith with you he keeps!" + + Proudly the war bride, ending so, + Sank breathless in the dumb white snow. + + + + + + + A RUNE OF THE RAIN + + + O many-toned rain! + O myriad sweet voices of the rain! + How welcome is its delicate overture + At evening, when the moist and glowing west + Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. + + At first it would allure + The earth to kinder mood, + With dainty flattering + Of soft, sweet pattering: + Faintly now you hear the tramp + Of the fine drops, falling damp + On the dry, sun-seasoned ground + And the thirsty leaves, resound. + But anon, imbued + With a sudden, bounding access + Of passion, it relaxes + All timider persuasion. + And, with nor pretext nor occasion, + Its wooing redoubles; + And pounds the ground, and bubbles + In sputtering spray, + Flinging itself in a fury + Of flashing white away; + Till the dusty road, + Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; + And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, + The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- + The virid corn that to the breeze + Rustles along the garden-rows,-- + Visibly lift their heads, + And, as the quick shower wilder grows, + Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. + + Then, the slow and pleasant murmur + Of its subsiding, + As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, + And the steady rain + Drops into a cadenced chiding! + Deep-breathing rain, + The sad and ghostly noise + Wherewith thou dost complain--- + Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, + Heard thus at close of day + Through vaults of twilight gray-- + Vexes me with sweet pain; + And still my soul is fain + To know the secret of that yearning + Which in thine utterance I hear returning. + Hush, oh hush! + Break not the dreamy rush + Of the rain: + Touch not the marring doubt + Words bring to the certainty + Of its soft refrain; + But let the flying fringes flout + Their drops against the pane, + And the gurgling throat of the water-spout + Groan in the eaves amain. + + The earth is wedded to the shower; + Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour! + + II + + O many-toned rain! + It hath caught the strain + Of a wilder tune, + Ere the same night's noon, + When dreams and sleep forsake me, + And sudden dread doth wake me, + To hear the booming drums of heaven beat + The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, + With an echoing loud, + Bursts asunder + At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; + And the fountains of the air, + Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere, + To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. + + III + + O myriad sweet voices of the rain! + When the airy war doth wane, + And the storm to the east hath flown, + Cloaked close in the whirling wind, + There's a voice still left behind + In each heavy-hearted tree, + Charged with tearful memory + Of the vanished rain: + From their leafy lashes wet + Drip the dews of fresh regret + For the lover that's gone! + All else is still; + Yet the stars are listening, + And low o'er the wooded hill + Hangs, upon listless wing + Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, + Watching, like a bird of evil + That knows nor mercy nor reprieval, + The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. + + IV + + But soon, returning duly, + Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely. + To her vision pure and cold + The night's wild tale is told + On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, + The garden mold turned dark and cool, + And the meadows' trampled acres. + But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers! + For now the moanings bitter, + Left by the rain, make harmony + With the swallow's matin-twitter, + And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree. + The infant morning breathes sweet breath, + And with it is blent + The wistful, wild, moist scent + Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: + And behold! + The last reluctant drop of the storm, + Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm + And turned to gold; + For in its veins doth run + The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! + + + + + + + BREAKERS + + + Far out at sea there has been a storm, + And still, as they roll their liquid acres, + High-heaped the billows lower and glisten. + The air is laden, moist, and warm + With the dying tempest's breath; + And, as I walk the lonely strand + With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned + By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers, + Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling, + Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling-- + Watch, and muse, and vainly listen + To the inarticulate mumbling + Of the hoary-headed deep; + For who may tell me what it saith, + Muttering, moaning as in sleep? + + Slowly and heavily + Comes in the sea, + With memories of storm o'erfreighted, + With heaving heart and breath abated, + Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow, + And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow. + + Slowly and heavily + Grows the green water-mound; + But drawing ever nigher, + Towering ever higher, + Swollen with an inward rage + Naught but ruin can assuage, + Swift, now, without sound, + Creeps stealthily + Up to the shore-- + Creeps, creeps and undulates; + As one dissimulates + Till, swayed by hateful frenzy, + Through passion grown immense, he + Bursts forth hostilely; + And rising, a smooth billow-- + Its swelling, sunlit dome + Thinned to a tumid ledge + With keen, curved edge + Like the scornful curl + Of lips that snarl-- + O'ertops itself and breaks + Into a raving foam; + So springs upon the shore + With a hungry roar; + Its first fierce anger slakes + On the stony shallow; + And runs up on the land, + Licking the smooth, hard sand, + Relentless, cold, yet wroth; + And dies in savage froth. + + Then with its backward swirl + The sands and the stones, how they whirl! + O, fiercely doth it draw + Them to its chasm'd maw, + And against it in vain + They linger and strain; + And as they slip away + Into the seething gray + Fill all the thunderous air + With the horror of their despair, + And their wild terror wreak + In one hoarse, wailing shriek. + + But scarce is this done, + When another one + Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun, + And sucks away the shore + As that did before: + And another shall smother it o'er. + + Then there's a lull--a half-hush; + And forward the little waves rush, + Toppling and hurrying, + Each other worrying, + And in their haste + Run to waste. + + Yet again is heard the trample + Of the surges high and ample: + Their dreadful meeting-- + The wild and sudden breaking-- + The dinting, and battering, and beating, + And swift forsaking. + + And ever they burst and boom, + A numberless host; + Like heralds of doom + To the trembling coast; + And ever the tangled spray + Is tossed from the fierce affray, + And, as with spectral arms + That taunt and beckon and mock, + And scatter vague alarms, + Clasps and unclasps the rock; + Listlessly over it wanders; + Moodily, madly maunders, + And hissingly falls + From the glistening walls. + + So all day along the shore + Shout the breakers, green and hoar, + Weaving out their weird tune; + Till at night the full moon + Weds the dark with that ring + Of gold that you see her fling + On the misty air. + Then homeward slow returning + To slumbers deep I fare, + Filled with an infinite yearning, + With thoughts that rise and fall + To the sound of the sea's hollow call, + Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach + Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach, + To scatter a spray on my dreams; + Till the slow and measured rote + Brings a drowsy ease + To my spirit, and seems + To set it soothingly afloat + On broad and buoyant seas + Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge + Of the melancholy surge. + + + + + + + BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + + "Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say. + Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, + If you'd been here. Now,--he's gone away. + Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use + If you'd called here earlier. His excuse + Always was, whenever folks would ask him + Where he hailed from, an' _would_ tease an' task him;-- + What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know." + + That was truth. He came here long ago; + But, before that, he'd been born somewhere: + The conundrum started first, right there. + Little shaver--afore he knew his name + Or the place from whereabouts he came-- + On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him. + Killed the old folks! But this cus'--they brought him + Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows. + So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows: + They was merciful;--treated him real good; + Brought him up to man's age well's they could. + Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad, + For all they used him so, went to the bad: + Leastways left the red men, that he knew, + 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;-- + Goldarned white folks that he never saw. + Queerest thing was--though he loved a squaw, + 'T was on her account he planned escape; + Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape + With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while; + Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile, + Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well, + _I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell. + + Bocanegra--Spanish term--I've heard + Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird, + Known as Bocanegra, gave his life + Most for others. First, he saved his wife; + Her I spoke of;--nothin' but a squaw. + You might wonder by what sort of law + He, a white man born, should come to love her. + But 't was somehow so: he _did_ discover + Beauty in her, of the holding kind. + Some men love the light, an' some the shade. + Round that little Indian girl there played + Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark + Under trees; yet now an' then a spark, + Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes, + Made you think of summer-midnight skies. + She was faithful, too, like midnight stars. + As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars + Made by wounds he suffered for her sake, + You'd have called _him_ true, and no mistake. + + Growin' up a man, he scarcely met + Other white folks; an' his heart was set + On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait. + You must never be my wedded mate + Till we reach the white man's country. There, + Everything that's done is fair and square." + Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt, + Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout + Some safe track. He told her: "You go first. + All my joy goes with you:--that's the worst! + But _I_ wait, to guard or hide the trail." + + Indians caught him; an' they gave him--hail; + Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding; + Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding. + "Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood! + Either that, or grind you into mud; + Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see + Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be? + Tell us where she's hid." + + "I'll show the way," + Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day, + Till they come straight out beside the brink + Of a precipice that seems to sink + Into everlasting gulfs below. + "Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow." + Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap, + Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;-- + Jumped out into space beyond the edge, + While the Apaches cowered along the ledge. + Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff! + Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough. + Indians called him a dead antelope; + But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope + Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush. + _Their_ hand was beat hollow: _he_ held a flush. + + Day and night he limped or crawled along: + Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song + (So he told me, once) that gave him hope. + Every time he saw a shadow grope + Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud, + Something touched his heart that made him proud: + Seemed to him he saw her dusky face + Watching over him, from place to place. + Every time the dry leaves rustled near, + Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!" + + So at last he found her:--they were married. + But, from those days on, he always carried + Marks of madness; actually--yes!-- + Trusted the good faith of these U. S. + + Indian hate an' deviltry he braved; + 'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved. + Just for that, his name should be engraved. + But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads + Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads. + + All the while, his wife--tho' half despised + By the frontier folks that civilized + An' converted her--served by his side, + Helping faithfully, until she died. + Left alone, he lay awake o' nights, + Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites. + Then he thought of her, and Indian people; + Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple, + Just how Christian our great nation's been + Toward those native tribes so full of sin. + When he counted all the wrongs we've done + To the wild men of the setting sun, + Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair. + When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there. + U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots, + But at last it closed accounts with shots. + Mouth was black, perhaps;--but _he_ was white. + Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite: + Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show + 'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow. + + Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side: + Honestly for years an' years he tried + Getting justice for the Indians. He, + Risking life an' limb for you an' me;-- + He, the man who proved his good intent + By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant + He would die for us,--turned round an' said: + "White men have been saved. Now, save the red!" + But it didn't pan out. No one would hark. + "Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark," + Said our folks. And--no, he wa'n't resigned, + But concluded he had missed his find. + + "_Where_ is Blackmouth?" That I can't decide. + Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve; + But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve. + Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride: + Gave his life for others, far 's he could, + Hoping it would do 'em some small good. + Didn't seem to be much use. An' so-- + Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow, + Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say. + Looks as though he had quit work, to stay. + Bullet in the breast.--His _body_ 's there; + But poor Blackmouth's gone--I don't know where! + + + + + + + THE CHILD YEAR + + I + + "Dying of hunger and sorrow: + I die for my youth I fear!" + Murmured the midnight-haunting + Voice of the stricken Year. + + There like a child it perished + In the stormy thoroughfare: + The snow with cruel whiteness + Had aged its flowing hair. + + Ah, little Year so fruitful, + Ah, child that brought us bliss, + Must we so early lose you-- + Our dear hopes end in this? + + II + + "Too young am I, too tender, + To bear earth's avalanche + Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope, + And makes my heart's-blood blanch. + + "Tell him who soon shall follow + Where my tired feet have bled, + He must be older, shrewder, + Hard, cold, and selfish-bred-- + + "Or else like me be trampled + Under the harsh world's heel. + 'Tis weakness to be youthful; + 'Tis death to love and feel." + + III + + Then saw I how the New Year + Came like a scheming man, + With icy eyes, his forehead + Wrinkled by care and plan + + For trade and rule and profit. + To him the fading child + Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!" + But died even while it smiled. + + Down bent the harsh new-comer + To lift with loving arm + The wanderer mute and fallen; + And lo! his eyes were warm; + + All changed he grew; the wrinkles + Vanished: he, too, looked young-- + As if that lost child's spirit + Into his breast had sprung. + + So are those lives not wasted, + Too frail to bear the fray. + So Years may die, yet leave us + Young hearts in a world grown gray. + + + + + + + CHRISTENING + + + To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,-- + Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried + Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,-- + Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; + + White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; + White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; + Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, + Offered to God as her most precious hansel. + + Then ceased the music, and the little one + Was silent, with the multitude assembled + Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son + He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled. + + But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, + And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, + As helpless as the cry of frightened birds + Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. + + How much the same, I thought, with older folk! + The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, + And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, + Even at the moment of our consecration. + + Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form + Of dream or doctrine,--or of unbelieving,-- + A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm + Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; + + A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite + Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning + Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light + Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. + + Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends + This weakling cry of children in our churches + With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends + To Him who hearts of men and children searches; + + Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, + Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, + Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: + And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested. + + + + + + + THANKSGIVING TURKEY + + + Valleys lay in sunny vapor, + And a radiance mild was shed + From each tree that like a taper + At a feast stood. Then we said, + "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, + Of good Thanksgiving turkey." + + And already still November + Drapes her snowy table here. + Fetch a log, then; coax the ember; + Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; + Heaven be thanked for one more year, + And our Thanksgiving turkey! + + Welcome, brothers--all our party + Gathered in the homestead old! + Shake the snow off and with hearty + Hand-shakes drive away the cold; + Else your plate you'll hardly hold + Of good Thanksgiving turkey. + + When the skies are sad and murky, + 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet + Round this homely roast of turkey-- + Pilgrims, pausing just to greet, + Then, with earnest grace, to eat + A new Thanksgiving turkey. + + And the merry feast is freighted + With its meanings true and deep. + Those we've loved and those we've hated, + All, to-day, the rite will keep, + All, to-day, their dishes heap + With plump Thanksgiving turkey. + + But how many hearts must tingle + Now with mournful memories! + In the festal wine shall mingle + Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes + That look beyond the board where lies + Our plain Thanksgiving turkey. + + See around us, drawing nearer, + Those faint yearning shapes of air-- + Friends than whom earth holds none dearer! + No--alas! they are not there: + Have they, then, forgot to share + Our good Thanksgiving turkey? + + Some have gone away and tarried + Strangely long by some strange wave; + Some have turned to foes; we carried + Some unto the pine-girt grave: + They 'll come no more so joyous-brave + To take Thanksgiving turkey. + + Nay, repine not. Let our laughter + Leap like firelight up again. + Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, + Snow-field yet untrod of men: + Shall we meet once more--and when?-- + To eat Thanksgiving turkey. + + + + + + + BEFORE THE SNOW + + + Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare + Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, + Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air. + Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. + + Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, + Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, + My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, + By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. + + Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago + The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain! + How soon death settles on us, and the snow + Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! + + Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood + Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring + Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood + We walked in,--memory's rare environing. + + And, though they die, the seasons only take + A ruined substance. All that's best remains + In the essential vision that can make + One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains. + + + + + + + + + III + + + + + + + + + YOUTH TO THE POET + + (TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES) + + + Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth, + Affinity between two forms of truth!-- + As if the dawn and sunset watched each other, + Like and unlike as children of one mother + And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes + Of young men see the prophecy arise + Of what their lives shall be when all is told; + And, in the far-off glow of years called old, + Those other eyes look back to catch a trace + Of what was once their own unshadowed grace. + But here in our dear poet both are blended-- + Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;-- + Even as his song the willowy scent of spring + Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing, + And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun, + In strains that ever delicately run; + So musical and wise, page after page, + The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage. + The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers, + And day-break glory haunts his evening hours. + Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral: + That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel, + Which--smiling not, but trembling at the touch-- + Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much. + + EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879. + + + + + + + THE SWORD DHAM + + + "How shall we honor the man who creates?" + Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar;-- + "Who unto the truth flings open our gates, + Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a star; + Or forges with craft of his finger and brain + Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain; + Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall + wander forever undying? + + "See! His reward is in envies and hates; + In lips that deny, or in stabs that may kill." + "Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits + Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill, + Sure that no utmost devotion can fail, + Offered to _you_, nor unfriended assail + The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose + fame is undying!" + + "Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar, + It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soul + Of the poet within you, no envy can bar + The stream of your gratitude,--once let it roll. + Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew, + _I_ caught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;-- + Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or + depart from undying." + + Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Gratitude's + glittering drops,--as he threw + One shining arm round the smith, like a chain. + Closer the man to his bosom he drew; + Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt." + "Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet: + "I knew the sword Dham would unite me with + you in an honor undying." + + "So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will + Silently over the sword's edge played. + --"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still: + Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?" + Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke. + "_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke + Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave + him remembrance undying. + + "Seek now who may, no search will avail: + No man the mate of this weapon shall own!" + Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail: + "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone + Able to honor the man who creates. + I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates, + Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall + make them undying!" + + + + + + + "AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + + Before the golden gate she stands, + With drooping head, with idle hands + Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight + Of unseen woe. Too late, too late! + Those carved and fretted, + Starred, resetted + Panels shall not open ever + To her who seeks the perfect mate. + + Only the tearless enter there: + Only the soul that, like a prayer, + No bolt can stay, no wall may bar, + Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar. + No door of cedar, + Alas, shall lead her + Unto the stream that shows forever + Love's face like some reflected star! + + They say that golden barrier hides + A realm where deathless spring abides; + Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats + Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes-- + 'Mid dewy alleys + That gird the palace, + And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver-- + A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes. + + The sultan lord knew not her name; + But to the door that fair shape came: + The hour had struck, the way was right, + Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light. + But ah, whose error + Has brought this terror? + Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor? + The gate swings to: her hope takes flight. + + The harp, the song, the nightingales + She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails + Without, to sound of feast within, + While here she stands, shut out by sin. + And be that revel + Of angel or devil, + She longs to sit beside the giver, + That she at last her prize may win. + + Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet; + Frozen she stands, she lingers yet; + But through the garden's gladness steals + A whisper that each heart congeals-- + A moan of grieving + Beyond relieving, + Which makes the proudest of them shiver. + And suddenly the sultan kneels! + + The lamp was quenched; he found her dead, + When dawn had turned the threshold red. + Her face was calm and sad as fate: + His sin, not hers, made her too late. + Some think, unbidden + She brought him, hidden, + A truer bliss that came back never + To him, unblest, who closed the gate. + + + + + + + CHARITY + + + I + + Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands + Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands. + No fatal hurt of foe she fears,-- + Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears. + + + II + + 'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door: + Like air she enters, where none dared before. + Even to the rich she can forgive + Their regal selfishness,--and let them live! + + + + + + + HELEN AT THE LOOM + + + Helen, in her silent room, + Weaves upon the upright loom; + Weaves a mantle rich and dark, + Purpled over, deep. But mark + How she scatters o'er the wool + Woven shapes, till it is full + Of men that struggle close, complex; + Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks + Arching high; spear, shield, and all + The panoply that doth recall + Mighty war; such war as e'en + For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. + Purple is the groundwork: good! + All the field is stained with blood-- + Blood poured out for Helen's sake; + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) + But the shapes of men that pass + Are as ghosts within a glass, + Woven with whiteness of the swan, + Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan + From the garment's purple fold + Where Troy's tale is twined and told. + Well may Helen, as with tender + Touch of rosy fingers slender + She doth knit the story in + Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, + Feel sharp filaments of pain + Reeled off with the well-spun skein, + And faint blood-stains on her hands + From the shifting, sanguine strands. + + Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: + What has been must be to-morrow; + Meekly to her fate she bows. + Heavenly beauties still will rouse + Strife and savagery in men: + Shall the lucid heavens, then, + Lose their high serenity, + Sorrowing over what must be? + If she taketh to her shame, + Lo, they give her not the blame,-- + Priam's wisest counselors, + Aged men, not loving wars. + When she goes forth, clad in white, + Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, + With her fair hair, amber-hued + As vapor by the moon imbued + With burning brown, that round her clings, + See, she sudden silence brings + On the gloomy whisperers + Who would make the wrong all hers. + So, Helen, in thy silent room, + Labor at the storied loom; + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) + Let thy aching sorrow make + Something strangely beautiful + Of this fabric; since the wool + Comes so tinted from the Fates, + Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. + Thou shalt work with subtle force + All thy deep shade of remorse + In the texture of the weft, + That no stain on thee be left;-- + Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, + Grief and wrong, to soft relief. + Speed the garment! It may chance, + Long hereafter, meet the glance, + Of Oenone; when her lord, + Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd + Ida, at his last sad end, + Seeking her, his early friend, + Who alone can cure his ill, + Of all who love him, if she will. + It were fitting she should see + In that hour thine artistry, + And her husband's speechless corse + In the garment of remorse! + + But take heed that in thy work + Naught unbeautiful may lurk. + Ah, how little signifies + Unto thee what fortunes rise, + What others fall! Thou still shall rule, + Still shalt twirl the colored spool. + Though thy yearning woman's eyes + Burn with glorious agonies, + Pitying the waste and woe, + And the heroes falling low + In the war around thee, here, + Yet the least, quick-trembling tear + 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be + Than life, to friend or enemy. + + There are people on the earth + Doomed with doom of too great worth. + Look on Helen not with hate, + Therefore, but compassionate. + If she suffer not too much, + Seldom does she feel the touch + Of that fresh, auroral joy + Lighter spirits may decoy + To their pure and sunny lives. + Heavy honey 'tis she hives. + To her sweet but burdened soul + All that here she may control-- + What of bitter memories, + What of coming fate's surmise, + Paris' passion, distant din + Of the war now drifting in + To her quiet--idle seems; + Idle as the lazy gleams + Of some stilly water's reach, + Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach + A heavy arch; and, looking through, + Far away the doubtful blue + Glimmers, on a drowsy day, + Crowded with the sun's rich gray;-- + As she stands within her room, + Weaving, weaving at the loom. + + + + + + + THE CASKET OF OPALS + + + I + + Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea + Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery, + Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed. + Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent + In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent + Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows, + And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed; + All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there. + I think a tide of feeling through them flows + With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,-- + Some soul once human,--wandering, in the snare + Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed + In misty crystal here to lie entombed. + + And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep + The ardors and the moods and all the pain + That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave + These opals to the woman whom he loved; + And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain, + The rays of thought that through his spirit moved + Leap out from these mysterious forms again. + + The colors of the jewels laugh and weep + As with his very voice. In them the wave + Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep, + Bore him to misery or else made him blest + Still surges in melodious, wild unrest. + So when each gem in place I touch and take, + It murmurs what he thought or what he spake. + + + FIRST OPAL + + My heart is like an opal + Made to lie upon your breast + In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er + By endless joy's unrest. + + And forever it shall haunt you + With its mystic, changing ray: + Its light shall live when we lie dead, + With hearts at the heart of day! + + + SECOND OPAL + + If, from a careless hold, + One gem of these should fall, + No power of art or gold + Its wholeness could recall: + The lustrous wonder dies + In gleams of irised rain, + As light fades out from the eyes + When a soul is crushed by pain. + Take heed that from your hold + My love you do not cast: + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold-- + That day would be its last. + + + II + + + THIRD OPAL + + _He won her love; and so this opal sings + With all its tints in maze, that seem to quake + And leap in light, as if its heart would break:_ + + Gleam of the sea, + Translucent air, + Where every leaf alive with glee + Glows in the sun without shadow of grief-- + You speak of spring, + When earth takes wing + And sunlight, sunlight is everywhere! + Radiant life, + Face so fair-- + Crowned with the gracious glory of wife-- + Your glance lights all this happy day, + Your tender glow + And murmurs low + Make miracle, miracle, everywhere. + + Earth takes wing + With birds--do I care + Whether of sorrow or joy they sing? + No; for they make not my life nor destroy! + My soul awakes + At a smile that breaks + In sun; and sunlight is everywhere! + + + III + + _Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness; + As if he doubted whether he could bless + Her wayward spirit, through each fickle hour, + With love's serenity of flawless power, + Or she remain a vision, as when first + She came to soothe his fancy all athirst._ + + + FOURTH OPAL + + We were alone: the perfumed night, + Moonlighted, like a flower + Grew round us and exhaled delight + To bless that one sweet hour. + + You stood where, 'mid the white and gold, + The rose-fire through the gloom + Touched hair and cheek and garment's fold + With soft, ethereal bloom. + + And when the vision seemed to swerve, + 'T was but the flickering shine + That gave new grace, a lovelier curve, + To every dream-like line. + + O perfect vision! Form and face + Of womanhood complete! + O rare ideal to embrace + And hold, from head to feet! + + Could I so hold you ever--could + Your eye still catch the glow + Of mine--it were an endless good: + Together we should grow + + One perfect picture of our love!... + Alas, the embers old + Fell, and the moonlight fell, above-- + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold. + + + IV + + _What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say? + What tragedy of petty care and sorrow? + Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay, + Then those will know who live and love tomorrow. + But here at least is what this opal said, + The fifth in number: and the next two bore + My fancy toward that dim world of the dead, + Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er_: + + + FIFTH OPAL + + I dreamed my kisses on your hair + Turned into roses. Circling bloom + Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there. + "O Love," I cried, "forever + Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted + By my heart's deep honey-breath!" + But even as I bending looked, I saw + The roses were not; and, instead, there lay + Pale, feathered flakes and scentless + Ashes upon your hair! + + + SIXTH OPAL + + The love I gave, the love I gave, + Wherewith I sought to win you-- + Ah, long and close to you it clave + With life and soul and sinew! + My gentleness with scorn you cursed: + You knew not what I gave. + The strongest man may die of thirst: + My love is in its grave! + + + SEVENTH OPAL + + You say these jewels were accurst-- + With evil omen fraught. + You should have known it from the first! + This was the truth they taught: + + No treasured thing in heaven or earth + Holds potency more weird + Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth + With wavering flames insphered. + + And when from me the gems you took, + On that strange April day, + My nature, too, I gave, that shook + With passion's fateful play. + + The mingled fate my love should give + In these mute emblems shone, + That more intensely burn and live-- + While I am turned to stone. + + + V + + _Listen now to what is said + By the eighth opal, flashing red + And pale, by turns, with every breath-- + The voice of the lover after death._ + + + EIGHTH OPAL + + I did not know before + That we dead could rise and walk; + That our voices, as of yore, + Would blend in gentle talk. + + I did not know her eyes + Would so haunt mine after death, + Or that she could hear my sighs, + Low as the harp-string's breath. + + But, ah, last night we met! + From our stilly trance we rose, + Thrilled with all the old regret-- + The grieving that God knows. + + She asked: "Am I forgiven?"-- + "And dost thou forgive?" I said, + Ah! how long for joy we'd striven! + But now our hearts were dead. + + Alas, for the lips I kissed + And the sweet hope, long ago! + On her grave chill hangs the mist; + On mine, white lies the snow. + + + VI + + _Hearkening still, I hear this strain + From the ninth opal's varied vein:_ + + + NINTH OPAL + + In the mountains of Mexico, + Where the barren volcanoes throw + Their fierce peaks high to the sky, + With the strength of a tawny brute + That sees heaven but to defy, + And the soft, white hand of the snow + Touches and makes them mute,-- + + Firm in the clasp of the ground + The opal is found. + By the struggle of frost and fire + Created, yet caught in a spell + From which only human desire + Can free it, what passion profound + In its dim, sweet bosom may dwell! + + So was it with us, I think, + Whose souls were formed on the brink + Of a crater, where rain and flame + Had mingled and crystallized. + One venturous day Love came; + Found us; and bound with a link + Of gold the jewels he prized. + + The agonies old of the earth, + Its plenitude and its dearth, + The torrents of flame and of tears, + All these in our souls were inborn. + And we must endure through the years + The glory and burden of birth + That filled us with fire of the morn. + + Let the diamond lie in its mine; + Let ruby and topaz shine; + The beryl sleep, and the emerald keep + Its sunned-leaf green! We know + The joy of sufferings deep + That blend with a love divine, + And the hidden warmth of the snow! + + + TENTH OPAL + + Colors that tremble and perish, + Atoms that follow the law, + You mirror the truth which we cherish, + You mirror the spirit we saw. + Glow of the daybreak tender, + Flushed with an opaline gleam, + And passionate sunset-splendor-- + Ye both but embody a dream. + Visions of cloud-hidden glory + Breaking from sources of light + Mimic the mist of life's story. + Mingled of scarlet and white. + Sunset-clouds iridescent, + Opals, and mists of the day, + Are thrilled alike with the crescent + Delight of a deathless ray + Shot through the hesitant trouble + Of particles floating in space, + And touching each wandering bubble + With tints of a rainbowed grace. + So through the veil of emotion + Trembles the light of the truth; + And so may the light of devotion + Glorify life--age and youth. + Sufferings,--pangs that seem cruel,-- + These are but atoms adrift: + The light streams through, and a jewel + Is formed for us, Heaven's own gift! + + + + + + + LOVE THAT LIVES + + + Dear face--bright, glinting hair; + Dear life, whose heart is mine-- + The thought of you is prayer, + The love of you divine. + + In starlight, or in rain; + In the sunset's shrouded glow; + Ever, with joy or pain, + To you my quick thoughts go + + Like winds or clouds, that fleet + Across the hungry space + Between, and find you, sweet, + Where life again wins grace. + + Now, as in that once young + Year that so softly drew + My heart to where it clung, + I long for, gladden in you. + + And when in the silent hours + I whisper your sacred name, + Like an altar-fire it showers + My blood with fragrant flame! + + Perished is all that grieves; + And lo, our old-new joys + Are gathered as in sheaves, + Held in love's equipoise. + + Ours is the love that lives; + Its springtime blossoms blow + 'Mid the fruit that autumn gives, + And its life outlasts the snow. + + + + + + + + + IV + + + + + + + + + BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + + + Over the mossy walls, + Above the slumbering fields + Where yet the ground no fruitage yields, + Save as the sunlight falls + In dreams of harvest-yellow, + What voice remembered calls,-- + So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow? + + A darting, azure-feathered arrow + From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet + The bluebird, springing light and narrow, + Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet: + + "Out of the South I wing, + Blown on the breath of Spring: + The little faltering song + That in my beak I bring + Some maiden shall catch and sing, + Filling it with the longing + And the blithe, unfettered thronging + Of her spirit's blossoming. + + "Warbling along + In the sunny weather, + Float, my notes, + Through the sunny motes, + Falling light as a feather! + Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land + 'Mid hovering insects' hums; + Fall into the sower's hand: + Then, when his harvest comes, + The seed and the song shall have flowered together. + + "From the Coosa and Altamaha, + With a thought of the dim blue Gulf; + From the Roanoke and Kanawha; + From the musical Southern rivers, + O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf + Lies slain and buried in flowers; + I come to your chill, sad hours + And the woods where the sunlight shivers. + I come like an echo: 'Awake!' + I answer the sky and the lake + And the clear, cool color that quivers + In all your azure rills. + I come to your wan, bleak hills + For a greeting that rises dearer, + To homely hearts draws me nearer + Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. + + "I will charm away your sorrow, + For I sing of the dewy morrow: + My melody sways like the branches + My light feet set astir: + I bring to the old, as I hover, + The days and the joys that were, + And hope to the waiting lover! + Then, take my note and sing, + Filling it with the longing + And the blithe, unfettered thronging + Of your spirit's blossoming!" + + Not long that music lingers: + Like the breath of forgotten singers + It flies,--or like the March-cloud's shadow + That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow + Not long! And yet thy fleeting, + Thy tender, flute-toned greeting, + O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains + The purest chord in all the year's refrains. + + + + + + + THE VOICE OF THE VOID + + + I warn, like the one drop of rain + On your face, ere the storm; + Or tremble in whispered refrain + With your blood, beating warm. + I am the presence that ever + Baffles your touch's endeavor,-- + Gone like the glimmer of dust + Dispersed by a gust. + I am the absence that taunts you, + The fancy that haunts you; + The ever unsatisfied guess + That, questioning emptiness, + Wins a sigh for reply. + Nay; nothing am I, + But the flight of a breath-- + For I am Death! + + + + + + + "O WHOLESOME DEATH" + + + O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car + Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way + Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array, + My deeds in long procession go, that are + As mourners of the man they helped to mar. + I see it all in dreams, such as waylay + The wandering fancy when the solid day + Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star, + Aloft there, with its steady point of light + Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep. + Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flight + Above my grave, still let my spirit keep + Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse, + 'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse! + + + + + + + INCANTATION + + + When the leaves, by thousands thinned, + A thousand times have whirled in the wind, + And the moon, with hollow cheek, + Staring from her hollow height, + Consolation seems to seek + From the dim, reechoing night; + And the fog-streaks dead and white + Lie like ghosts of lost delight + O'er highest earth and lowest sky; + Then, Autumn, work thy witchery! + + Strew the ground with poppy-seeds, + And let my bed be hung with weeds, + Growing gaunt and rank and tall, + Drooping o'er me like a pall. + Send thy stealthy, white-eyed mist + Across my brow to turn and twist + Fold on fold, and leave me blind + To all save visions in the mind. + Then, in the depth of rain-fed streams + I shall slumber, and in dreams + Slide through some long glen that burns + With a crust of blood-red ferns + And brown-withered wings of brake + Like a burning lava-lake;-- + So, urged to fearful, faster flow + By the awful gasp, "Hahk! hahk!" of the crow, + Shall pass by many a haunted rood + Of the nutty, odorous wood; + Or, where the hemlocks lean and loom, + Shall fill my heart with bitter gloom; + Till, lured by light, reflected cloud, + I burst aloft my watery shroud, + And upward through the ether sail + Far above the shrill wind's wail;-- + But, falling thence, my soul involve + With the dust dead flowers dissolve; + And, gliding out at last to sea, + Lulled to a long tranquillity, + The perfect poise of seasons keep + With the tides that rest at neap. + So must be fulfilled the rite + That giveth me the dead year's might; + And at dawn I shall arise + A spirit, though with human eyes, + A human form and human face; + And where'er I go or stay, + There the summer's perished grace + Shall be with me, night and day. + + + + + + + FAMINE AND HARVEST + + [PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622] + + + The strong and the tender, + The young and the old, + Unto Death we must render;-- + Our silver, our gold. + + To break their long sleeping + No voice may avail: + They hear not our weeping-- + Our famished love's wail. + + Yea, those whom we cherish + Depart, day by day. + Soon we, too, shall perish + And crumble to clay. + + And the vine and the berry + Above us will bloom; + The wind shall make merry + While we lie in gloom. + + Fear not! Though thou starvest, + Provision is made: + God gathers His harvest + When our hopes fade! + + + + + + + THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + + + Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, + How in the soft June days forever done + You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; + And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,-- + "Put me 'way up--'way, 'way up in blue sky"? + + I laughed and said I could not;--set you down, + Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown + Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by. + Another Father now, more strong than I, + Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. + + + + + + + THE FLOWN SOUL + + (FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP) + + FEBRUARY 6, 1881 + + + Come not again! I dwell with you + Above the realm of frost and dew, + Of pain and fire, and growth to death. + I dwell with you where never breath + Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows + From life to life, even as a rose + Unseen pours sweetness through each vein + And from the air distills again. + You are my rose unseen; we live + Where each to other joy may give + In ways untold, by means unknown + And secret as the magnet-stone. + + For which of us, indeed, is dead? + No more I lean to kiss your head-- + The gold-red hair so thick upon it; + Joy feels no more the touch that won it + When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm + In tenderness so childish, calm, + Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm + Is strong, and still my blood runs warm. + I still can work, and think and weep. + But all this show of life I keep + Is but the shadow of your shine, + Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; + Therefore, you are not dead, nor I + Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy. + Among the stars your feet are set; + Your little feet are dancing yet + Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth. + So swift, so slight are death and birth! + + Come not again, dear child. If thou + By any chance couldst break that vow + Of silence at thy last hour made; + If to this grim life unafraid + Thou couldst return, and melt the frost + Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost; + Still would I whisper--since so fair + This silent comradeship we share-- + Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain + Of tears: "Come not, come not again!" + + + + + + + SUNSET AND SHORE + + + Birds that like vanishing visions go winging, + White, white in the flame of the sunset's burning, + Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging, + Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, unreturning! + + Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing + Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must perish; + Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly blowing;-- + Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we cherish. + + Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest; + Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo replying; + Spirits may leave us that clung to us nearest:-- + Love, love, only love dwells with us undying! + + + + + + + THE PHOEBE-BIRD + + (A REPLY) + + + Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird. + Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard: + I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow + Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow + Strength from the other, making one more brave + And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. + + But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens: + One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence. + Our voices vary with the changing seasons + Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons. + Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered, + If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered. + We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain, + Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane, + With love and hate, or good and evil--all, + At separate times, in separate accents call; + Yet 't is the same heart-throb within the breast + That gives an impulse to our worst and best. + I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended, + The Listener finds them in one music blended. + + + + + + + A STRONG CITY + + + For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt hide + them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men. + + Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from the + contradiction of tongues. + + Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His wonderful + mercy to me in a fortified city.--_Psalm xxx._ + + + Beauty and splendor were on every hand: + Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes, + Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes + That smote the air with blackness, and devoured + The life of light, and choked the smiling world + Till it grew livid with a sudden age-- + The death of hope. + + O squandered happiness; + Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower! + The sky was holy, but the earth was not. + + Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since wretchedness + Of soul and body, for the mass of men, + Made them like dead leaves in an idle drift + Around the plough of progress as it drove + Sharp through the glebe of modern days, to plant + A civilized world. Ay; civilized--but not Christian! + + Civilization is a clarion voice + Crying in the wilderness; a prophet-word + Still unfulfilled. And lo, along the ways + Crowded with nations, there arose a strife; + Disturbance of men; tongues contradicting tongues; + Madness of noise, that scattered multitudes; + A trample of blind feet, beneath whose tread + Truth's bloom shrank withered; while incessant mouths + Howled "Progress! Change!"--as though all moods of change + Were fiats of truth eternal. + + 'Mid the din + Two pilgrims, faring forward, saw the light + In a strong city, fortified, and moved + Patiently thither. "All your steps are vain," + Cried scoffers. "There is mercy in the world; + But chiefly mercy of man to man. For we + Are good. We help our fellows, when we can. + Our charity is enormous. Look at these + Long rolls of rich subscriptions. We are good. + 'T is true, God's mercy plays a part in things; + But most is left to us; and we judge well. + Stay with us in the field of endless war! + Here only is health. Yon city fortified + You dream of--why, its ramparts are as dust. + It gives no safety. One assaulting sweep + Of our huge cohorts would annul its power-- + Crush it in atoms; make it meaningless." + + The pilgrims listened; but onward still they moved. + They passed the gates; they stood upon a hill + Enclosed, but in that strong enclosure free! + Though earth opposed, they held the key to heaven. + On came the turbulent multitude in war, + Dashing against the city's walls; and swept + Through all the streets, and robbed and burned and killed. + The walls were strong; the gates were always open. + And so the invader rioted, and was proud. + But sudden, in seeming triumph, the enemy host + Was stricken with death; and still the city stayed. + Skyward the souls of its defenders rose, + Returning soon in mist intangible + That flashed with radiance of half-hidden swords; + And those who still assaulted--though they crept + Into the inmost vantage-points, with craft-- + Fell, blasted namelessly by this veiled flash, + Even as they shouted out, "The place is ours!" + + So those two pilgrims dwelt there, fortified + In that strong city men had thought so frail. + They died, and lived again. Fiercest attack + Was as a perfumed breeze to them, which drew + Their souls still closer unto God. And there + Beauty and splendor bloomed untouched. The stars + Spoke to them, bidding them be of good cheer, + Though hostile hordes rushed over them in blood. + And still the prayers of all that people rose + As incense mingled with music of their hearts. + For Christ was with them: angels were their aid. + What though the enemy used their open gates? + The children of the citadel conquered all + Their conquerors, smiting them with the pure light + That shone in that strong city fortified. + + + + + + + THREE DOVES + + + Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free; + At eve they circled back to me. + The first was Faith; the second, Hope; + The third--the whitest--Charity. + + Above the plunging surge's play + Dream-like they hovered, day by day. + At last they turned, and bore to me + Green signs of peace thro' nightfall gray. + + No shore forlorn, no loveliest land + Their gentle eyes had left unscanned, + 'Mid hues of twilight-heliotrope + Or daybreak fires by heaven-breath fanned. + + Quick visions of celestial grace,-- + Hither they waft, from earth's broad space, + Kind thoughts for all humanity. + They shine with radiance from God's face. + + Ah, since my heart they choose for home, + Why loose them,--forth again to roam? + Yet look: they rise! with loftier scope + They wheel in flight toward heaven's pure dome. + + Fly, messengers that find no rest + Save in such toil as makes man blest! + Your home is God's immensity: + We hold you but at his behest. + + + + + + + + + V + + + + + + + + + ARISE, AMERICAN! + + + The soul of a nation awaking,-- + High visions of daybreak,--I saw; + A people renewed; the forsaking + Of sin, and the worship of law. + + Sing, pine-tree; shout, to the hoarser + Response of the jubilant sea! + Rush, river, foam-flecked like a courser; + Warn all who are honest and free! + + Our birth-star beckons to trial + The faith of the far-fled years, + Ere scorn was our share, and denial, + Or laughter for patriots' tears. + + And Faith shall come forth the finer, + From trampled thickets of fire, + And the orient open diviner + Before her, the heaven rise higher. + + O deep, sweet eyes, but severer + Than steel! See you yet, where he comes-- + Our hero? Bend your glance nearer; + Speak, Faith! For, as wakening drums, + + Your voice shall set his blood stirring; + His heart shall grow strong like the main + When the rowelled winds are spurring, + And the broad tides landward strain. + + O hero, art thou among us? + O helper, hidest thou, still? + Why hast thou no anthem sung us, + Why workest thou not our will? + + + For a smirk of the face, or a favor, + Still shelters the cheat where he crawls; + And the truth we began with needs braver + Upholders, and loftier walls. + + Too long has the land's soul slumbered + In wearying dreams of gain, + With prosperous falsity cumbered + And dulled with bribes, as a bane. + + Yes, cunning is civilized evil, + And crafty the gold-baited snare; + But virtue, in fiery upheaval, + May cast fine device to the air. + + Bring us the simple and stalwart + Purpose of earlier days. + Come! Far better than all were't-- + Our precepts, our pride, and our lays-- + + That the people in spirit should tremble + With heed of the God-given Word; + That we cease from our boast, nor dissemble, + But follow where truth's voice is heard. + + Come to us, mountain-dweller, + Leader, wherever thou art; + Skilled from thy cradle, a queller + Of serpents, and sound to the heart! + + Modest and mighty and tender; + Man of an iron mold; + Honest, fine-grained, our defender;-- + American-souled! + + + + + + + THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + + [Read before the Sons of the Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887] + + + Sons of the youth and the truth of the nation, + Ye that are met to remember the man + Whose valor gave birth to a people's salvation, + Honor him now; set his name in the van. + A nobleness to try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington. + + Calmly his face shall look down through the ages-- + Sweet yet severe with a spirit of warning; + Charged with the wisdom of saints and of sages; + Quick with the light of a life-giving morning. + A majesty to try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + + Though faction may rack us, or party divide us, + And bitterness break the gold links of our story, + Our father and leader is ever beside us. + Live, and forgive! But forget not the glory + Of him whose height we try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + + Still in his eyes shall be mirrored our fleeting + Days, with the image of days long ended; + Still shall those eyes give, immortally, greeting + Unto the souls from his spirit descended. + His grandeur we will try for, + His name we 'll live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + + + + + + + GRANT'S DIRGE + + + I + + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march? + And what shall be the music of his dirge? + No single voice may chant the Nation's grief, + No formal strain can give its woe relief. + The pent-up anguish of the loyal wife, + The sobs of those who, nearest in this life, + Still hold him closely in the life beyond;-- + These first, with threnody of memories fond. + But look! Forth press a myriad mourners thronging, + With hearts that throb in sorrow's exaltation, + Moved by a strange, impassioned, hopeless longing + To serve him with their love's last ministration. + Make way! Make way, from wave-bound verge to verge + Of all our land, that this great multitude + With lamentation proud albeit subdued, + Deep murmuring like the ocean's mighty surge, + May pass beneath the heavens' triumphal arch! + + + II + + What is the sound we hear? + Never the fall of a tear; + For grief repressed + In every breast + More honors the man we revere. + Rising from East and West, + There echoes afar or near-- + From the cool, sad North and the burning South-- + A sound long since grown dear, + When brave ranks faced the cannon's mouth + And died for a faith austere: + The tread of marching men, + A steady tramp of feet + That never flinched nor faltered when + The drums of duty beat. + With sable hats whose shade + Falls from the cord of gold + On every time-worn face; + With tattered flags, in black enrolled, + Beneath whose folds they warred of old; + Forward, firmly arrayed, + With a sombre, martial grace; + So the Grand Army moves + Commanded by the dead, + Following him whose name it loves, + Whose voice in life its footsteps led. + + + III + + Those that in the combat perished,-- + Hostile shapes and forms of friends,-- + Those we hated, those we cherished, + Meet the pageant where it ends. + Flash of steel and tears forgiving + Blend in splendor. Hark, the knell! + Comrades ghostly join the living-- + Dreaming, chanting: "All is well." + They receive the General sleeping, + Him of spirit pure and large: + Him they draw into their keeping + Evermore, in faithful charge. + + + IV + + Pass on, O steps, with your dead, sad note! + For a people's homage is in the sound; + And the even tread, in measured rote, + As a leader is laid beneath the ground, + Rumors the hum of a pilgrim train + That shall trample the earth as tramples the rain, + Seeking the door of the hero's tomb, + Seeking him where he lies low in the gloom, + Paying him tribute of worker and mage, + Through age on age! + + + V + + Tall pine-tree on McGregor's height, + How didst thou grow to such a lofty bearing, + For song of bird or beat of breeze uncaring, + There where thy shadow touched the dying brow? + Were all thy sinewy fibres shaped aright? + Was there no flaw? With what mysterious daring + Didst thou put forth each murmuring, odorous bough + And trust it to the frail support of air? + We only know that thou art now supreme: + We know not how thou grewest so tall and fair. + So from the unnoticed, humble earth arose + The sturdy man whom we, bewailing, deem + Worthy the wondrous name fame's far voice blows. + And lo! his ancient foes + Rise up to praise the plan + Of modest grandeur, loyal trust, + And generous power from man to man, + That lifted him above the formless dust. + O heart by kindliness betrayed, + O noble spirit snared and strayed-- + Unmatched, upright thou standest still + As that firm pine-tree rooted on the hill! + + + VI + + No paragon was he, + But moulded in the rough + With every fault and scar + Ingrained, and plain for all to see: + Even as the rocks and mountains are, + Common perhaps, yet wrought of such true stuff + That common nature in his essence grew + To something which till then it never knew; + Ay, common as a vast, refreshing wind + That sweeps the continent, or as some star + Which, 'mid a million, shines out well-defined: + With honest soul on duty bent, + A servant-soldier, President; + Meekest when crowned with victory, + And greatest in adversity! + + + VII + + A silent man whom, strangely, fate + Made doubly silent ere he died, + His speechless spirit rules us still; + And that deep spell of influence mute, + The majesty of dauntless will + That wielded hosts and saved the State, + Seems through the mist our spirits yet to thrill. + His heart is with us! From the root + Of toil and pain and brave endurance + Has sprung at last the perfect fruit, + The treasure of a rich assurance + That men who nobly work and live + A greater gift than life may give; + Yielding a promise for all time, + Which other men of newer date + Surely redeem in deeds sublime. + Forerunner of a valiant race, + His voiceless spirit still reminds us + Of ever-waiting, silent duty: + The bond of faith wherewith he binds us + Shall hold us ready hour by hour + To serve the sacred, guiding power + Whene'er it calls, where'er it finds us, + With loyalty that, like a folded flower, + Blooms at a touch in proud, full-circled beauty. + + + VIII + + Like swelling river waves that strain, + Onward the people crowd + In serried, billowing train. + And those so slow to yield, + On many a hard fought field, + Muster together + Like a dark cloud + In summer weather, + Whose threatening thunders suddenly are stilled,-- + And all the world is filled + With smiling rest. Victory to him was pain, + Till he had won his enemies by love; + Had leashed the eagle and unloosed the dove; + Setting on war's red roll the argent seal of peace. + So here they form their solid ranks again, + But in no mood of hatred or disdain. + They say: "Thou who art fallen at last, + Beleaguered stealthily, o'ercome by death, + Thy conqueror now shall be magnanimous + Even as thou wast to us. + But not for thee can we blot out the past: + We would not, if we might, forget thy last + Great act of war, that with a gentle hand + Brought back our hearts unto the mighty mother, + For whose defence and honor armed we stand. + We hail thee brother, + And so salute thy name with holy breath!" + + + IX + + Land of the hurricane! + Land of the avalanche! + Land of tempest and rain; + Of the Southern sun and of frozen peaks; + Stretching from main to main;-- + Land of the cypress-glooms; + Land of devouring looms; + Land of the forest and ranch;-- + Hush every sound to-day + Save the burden of swarms that assemble + Their reverence dear to pay + Unto him who saved us all! + Ye masses that mourn with bended head, + Beneath whose feet the ground doth tremble + With weight of woe and a sacred dread-- + Lift up the pall + That to us shall remain as a warrior's banner! + Gaze once more on the fast closed eyes; + Mark once the mouth that never speaks; + Think of the man and his quiet manner: + Weep if you will; then go your way; + But remember his face as it looks to the skies, + And the dumb appeal wherewith it seeks + To lead us on, as one should say, "Arise-- + Go forth to meet your country's noblest day!" + + + X + + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march? + And what shall be the music of his dirge? + Let generations sing, as they emerge + And pass beneath the heavens' trumphal arch! + + + + + + + BATTLE DAYS + + + I + + Veteran memories rally to muster + Here at the call of the old battle days: + Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster: + All the wild whirl of the fight's broken maze: + Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre, + Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the shell, + With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor, + And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel yell. + Stern was our task in the field where the reaping + Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men low: + Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping: + Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and flow. + Swift came the silence--our enemy hiding + Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night: + Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding; + Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their flight! + Hard and incessant the danger and trial, + Laid on our squadrons, that gladly bore all, + Scorning to meet with delay or denial + The summons that rang in the battle-days' call! + + + II + + Wild days that woke to glory or despair, + And smote the coward soul with sudden shame, + But unto those whose hearts were bold to dare + All things for honor brought eternal fame:-- + Lost days, undying days! + With undiminished rays + Here now on us look down, + Illumining our crown + Of leaves memorial, wet with tender dew + For those who nobly died + In fierce self-sacrifice of service true, + Rapt in pure fire of life-disdaining pride; + Men of this soil, who stood + Firm for their country's good, + From night to night, from sun to sun, + Till o'er the living and the slain + A woful dawn that streamed with rain + Wept for their victory dearly won. + + + III + + Days of the future, prophetic days,-- + Silence engulfs the roar of war; + Yet, through all coming years, repeat the praise + Of those leal comrades brave, who come no more! + And when our voices cease, + Long, long renew the chant, the anthem proud, + Which, echoing clear and loud + Through templed aisles of peace, + Like blended tumults of a joyous chime, + Shall tell their valor to a later time. + Shine on this field; and in the eyes of men + Rekindle, if the need shall come again, + That answering light that springs + In beaconing splendor from the soul, and brings + Promise of faith well kept and deed sublime! + + + + + + + KEENAN'S CHARGE + + [CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863] + + I + + The sun had set; + The leaves with dew were wet: + Down fell a bloody dusk + On the woods, that second of May, + Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, + Tore through, with angry tusk. + + "They've trapped us, boys!"-- + Rose from our flank a voice. + With a rush of steel and smoke + On came the rebels straight, + Eager as love and wild as hate; + And our line reeled and broke; + + Broke and fled. + No one stayed--but the dead! + With curses, shrieks, and cries, + Horses and wagons and men + Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, + And above us the fading skies. + + There's one hope, still-- + Those batteries parked on the hill! + "Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar) + "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire + Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire + A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more. + + The horses plunged, + The cannon lurched and lunged, + To join the hopeless rout. + But suddenly rode a form + Calmly in front of the human storm, + With a stern, commanding shout: + + "Align those guns!" + (We knew it was Pleasonton's.) + The cannoneers bent to obey, + And worked with a will at his word: + And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard. + But ah, the dread delay! + + "To wait is crime; + O God, for ten minutes' time!" + The General looked around. + There Keenan sat, like a stone, + With his three hundred horse alone, + Less shaken than the ground. + + "Major, your men?" + "Are soldiers, General." "Then, + Charge, Major! Do your best: + Hold the enemy back, at all cost, + Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. + You die to save the rest!" + + + II + + By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, + Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes + For an instant--clear, and cool, and still; + Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." + + "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. + Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, + Rose joyously, with a willing breath--- + Rose like a greeting hail to death. + + Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; + Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd; + Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, + In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; + And above in the air, with an instinct true, + Like a bird of war their pennon flew. + + With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, + And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, + And strong brown faces bravely pale + For fear their proud attempt shall fail, + Three hundred Pennsylvanians close + On twice ten thousand gallant foes. + + Line after line the troopers came + To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame; + Rode in and sabred and shot--and fell; + Nor came one back his wounds to tell. + And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall, + In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall, + While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung + 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. + + Line after line, aye, whole platoons, + Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons + By the maddened horses were onward borne + And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; + As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. + + So they rode, till there were no more to ride. + + But over them, lying there shattered and mute, + What deep echo rolls?--'T is a death-salute, + From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved + Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! + + Over them now--year following year-- + Over their graves the pine-cones fall, + And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; + But they stir not again: they raise no cheer: + They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, + Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. + The rush of their charge is resounding still + That saved the army at Chancellorsville. + + + + + + + MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + + + "There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle + had shuddered and faded away, + Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only + ashes and blood-sprinkled clay-- + "Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where + the enemy's sharpshooters stood. + Lord, how they picked off our men, from the + treacherous vantage-ground of the wood! + But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent + them something as good. + Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell + me how many we killed. + Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance + was duly fulfilled." + + Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the + corn-field--scarred and forlorn, + Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the + shot that had plowed it in scorn; + Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight + of his comrades crushed at a blow, + Flung in broken shapes on the ground like + ruined memorials of woe: + These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, + but never again could know. + Thence to the ridge, where roots outthrust, and + twisted branches of trees + Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their + prey to seize. + + "What's your report?"--and the grim colonel + smiled when the orderly came back at last. + Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were + punished." And strange his face, aghast. + "Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty-- + laid out in line of parade. + Brave fellows, colonel, to stay as they did! But + one I 'most wish had n't stayed. + Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; + and then at the end he prayed-- + Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; + and the dull, dead fingers yet held + This little letter--his wife's--from the knapsack. + A pity those woods were shelled!" + + Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes + as his officer scanned + Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about + 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?" + Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, + had gone from his bride to the strife; + Never they met again, but she had written him, + telling of that new life, + Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer + and closer to him as his wife. + Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, + around it she traced a rude line; + "If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you + must kiss this outline of mine." + + There was the shape of the hand on the page, + with the small, chubby fingers outspread. + "Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"--so the + words on the little palm said. + Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for + the vengeance so blindly fulfilled; + Never again woke the old battle-glow when the + bullets their death-note shrilled. + Long ago ended the struggle, in union of + brotherhood happily stilled; + Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and + token of love's command, + See! there is lifted the hand of a baby--Marthy + Virginia's hand! + + + + + + + GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + + + I + + Victors, living, with laureled brow, + And you that sleep beneath the sward! + Your song was poured from cannon throats: + It rang in deep-tongued bugle-notes: + Your triumph came; you won your crown, + The grandeur of a world's renown. + But, in our later lays, + Full freighted with your praise, + Fair memory harbors those whose lives, laid down + In gallant faith and generous heat, + Gained only sharp defeat. + All are at peace, who once so fiercely warred: + Brother and brother, now, we chant a common chord. + + + II + + For, if we say God wills, + Shall we then idly deny Him + Care of each host in the fight? + His thunder was here in the hills + When the guns were loud in July; + And the flash of the musketry's light + Was sped by a ray from God's eye. + In its good and its evil the scheme + Was framed with omnipotent hand, + Though the battle of men was a dream + That they could but half understand. + Can the purpose of God pass by him? + Nay; it was sure, and was wrought + Under inscrutable powers: + Bravely the two armies fought + And left the land, that was greater than they, still theirs and ours! + + + III + + Lucid, pure, and calm and blameless + Dawned on Gettysburg the day + That should make the spot, once fameless, + Known to nations far away. + Birds were caroling, and farmers + Gladdened o'er their garnered hay, + When the clank of gathering armors + Broke the morning's peaceful sway; + And the living lines of foemen + Drawn o'er pasture, brook, and hill, + Formed in figures weird of omen + That should work with mystic will + Measures of a direful magic-- + Shattering, maiming--and should fill + Glades and gorges with a tragic + Madness of desire to kill. + Skirmishers flung lightly forward + Moved like scythemen skilled to sweep + Westward o'er the field and nor'ward, + Death's first harvest there to reap. + You would say the soft, white smoke-puffs + Were but languid clouds asleep, + Here on meadows, there on oak-bluffs, + Fallen foam of Heaven's blue deep. + Yet that blossom-white outbreaking + Smoke wove soon a martyr's shroud. + Reynolds fell, with soul unquaking, + Ardent-eyed and open-browed: + Noble men in humbler raiment + Fell where shot their graves had plowed, + Dying not for paltry payment: + Proud of home, of honor proud. + + + IV + + Mute Seminary there, + Filled once with resonant hymn and prayer, + How your meek walls and windows shuddered then! + Though Doubleday stemmed the flood, + McPherson's Wood and Willoughby's Run + Saw ere the set of sun + The light of the gospel of blood. + And, on the morrow again, + Loud the unholy psalm of battle + Burst from the tortured Devil's Den, + In cries of men and musketry rattle + Mixed with the helpless bellow of cattle + Torn by artillery, down in the glen; + While, hurtling through the branches + Of the orchard by the road, + Where Sickles and Birney were walled with steel, + Shot fiery avalanches + That shivered hope and made the sturdiest reel. + Yet peach-bloom bright as April saw + Blushed there anew, in blood that flowed + O'er faces white with death-dealt awe; + And ruddy flowers of warfare grew, + Though withering winds as of the desert blew, + Far at the right while Ewell and Early, + Plunging at Slocum and Wadsworth and Greene, + Thundered in onslaught consummate and surly; + Till trembling nightfall crept between + And whispered of rest from the heat of the whelming strife. + But unto those forsaken of life + What has the night to say? + Silent beneath the moony sky, + Crushed in a costly dew they lie: + Deaf to plaint or paean, they:-- + Freed from Earth's dull tyranny. + + + V + + Wordless the night-wind, funereal plumes of the tree-tops swaying-- + Writhing and nodding anon at the beck of the unseen breeze! + Yet its voice ever a murmur resumes, as of multitudes praying: + Liturgies lost in a moan like the mourning of far-away seas. + May then those spirits, set free, a celestial council obeying, + Move in this rustling whisper here thro' the dark, shaken trees?-- + Souls that are voices alone to us, now, yet linger, returning + Thrilled with a sweet reconcilement and fervid with speechless desire? + Sundered in warfare, immortal they meet now with wonder and yearning, + Dwelling together united, a rapt, invisible choir: + Hearken! They wail for the living, whose passion of battle, yet burning, + Sears and enfolds them in coils, and consumes, like a serpent of fire! + + + VI + + Men of New Hampshire, Pennsylvanians, + Maine men, firm as the rock's rough ledge! + Swift Mississippians, lithe Carolinians + Bursting over the battle's edge! + Bold Indiana men; gallant Virginians; + Jersey and Georgia legions clashing;-- + Pick of Connecticut; quick Vermonters; + Louisianians, madly dashing;-- + And, swooping still to fresh encounters, + New-York myriads, whirlwind-led!-- + All your furious forces, meeting, + Torn, entangled, and shifting place, + Blend like wings of eagles beating + Airy abysses, in angry embrace. + Here in the midmost struggle combining-- + Flags immingled and weapons crossed-- + Still in union your States troop shining: + Never a star from the lustre is lost! + + + VII + + Once more the sun deploys his rays: + Third in the trilogy of battle-days + The awful Friday comes: + A day of dread, + That should have moved with slow, averted head + And muffled feet, + Knowing what streams of pure blood shed, + What broken hearts and wounded lives must meet + Its pitiless tread. + At dawn, like monster mastiffs baying, + Federal cannon, with a din affraying, + Roused the old Stonewall brigade, + That, eagerly and undismayed, + Charged amain, to be repelled + After four hours' bitter fighting, + Forth and back, with bayonets biting; + Where in after years, the wood-- + Flayed and bullet-riddled--stood + A presence ghostly, grim and stark, + With trees all withered, wasted, gray, + The place of combat night and day + Like marshaled skeletons to mark. + Anon, a lull: the troops are spelled. + No sound of guns or drums + Disturbs the air. + Only the insect-chorus faintly hums, + Chirping around the patient, sleepless dead + Scattered, or fallen in heaps all wildly spread; + Forgotten fragments left in hurried flight; + Forms that, a few hours since, were human creatures, + Now blasted of their features, + Or stamped with blank despair; + Or with dumb faces smiling as for gladness, + Though stricken by utter blight + Of motionless, inert, and hopeless sadness. + Fear you the naked horrors of a war? + Then cherish peace, and take up arms no more. + For, if you fight, you must + Behold your brothers' dust + Unpityingly ground down + And mixed with blood and powder, + To write the annals of renown + That make a nation prouder! + + + VIII + + All is quiet till one o'clock; + Then the hundred and fifty guns, + Metal loaded with metal in tons, + Massed by Lee, send out their shock. + And, with a movement magnificent, + Pickett, the golden-haired leader, + Thousands and thousands flings onward, as if he sent + Merely a meek interceder. + Steadily sure his division advances, + Gay as the light on its weapons that dances. + Agonized screams of the shell + The doom that it carries foretell: + Rifle-balls whistle, like sea-birds singing; + Limbs are severed, and souls set winging; + Yet Pickett's warriors never waver. + Show me in all the world anything braver + Than the bold sweep of his fearless battalions, + Three half-miles over ground unsheltered + Up to the cannon, where regiments weltered + Prone in the batteries' blast that raked + Swaths of men and, flame-tongued, drank + Their blood with eager thirst unslaked. + Armistead, Kemper, and Pettigrew + Rush on the Union men, rank against rank, + Planting their battle-flags high on the crest. + Pause not the soldiers, nor dream they of rest, + Till they fall with their enemy's guns at the breast + And the shriek in their ears of the wounded artillery stallions. + So Pickett charged, a man indued + With knightly power to lead a multitude + And bring to fame the scarred surviving few. + + + IX + + In vain the mighty endeavor; + In vain the immortal valor; + In vain the insurgent life outpoured! + Faltered the column, spent with shot and sword; + Its bright hope blanched with sudden pallor; + While Hancock's trefoil bloomed in triple fame. + He chose the field; he saved the second day; + And, honoring here his glorious name, + Again his phalanx held victorious sway. + Meade's line stood firm, and volley on volley roared + Triumphant Union, soon to be restored, + Strong to defy all foes and fears forever. + The Ridge was wreathed with angry fire + As flames rise round a martyr's stake; + For many a hero on that pyre + Was offered for our dear land's sake, + What time in heaven the gray clouds flew + To mingle with the deathless blue; + While here, below, the blue and gray + Melted minglingly away, + Mirroring heaven, to make another day. + And we, who are Americans, we pray + The splendor of strength that Gettysburg knew + May light the long generations with glorious ray, + And keep us undyingly true! + + + X + + Dear are the dead we weep for; + Dear are the strong hearts broken! + Proudly their memory we keep for + Our help and hope; a token + Of sacred thought too deep for + Words that leave it unspoken. + All that we know of fairest, + All that we have of meetest, + Here we lay down for the rarest + Doers whose souls rose fleetest + And in their homes of air rest, + Ranked with the truest and sweetest. + Days, with fiery-hearted, bold advances; + Nights in dim and shadowy, swift retreat; + Rains that rush with bright, embattled lances; + Thunder, booming round your stirless feet;-- + Winds that set the orchard with sweet fancies + All abloom, or ripple the ripening wheat; + Moonlight, starlight, on your mute graves falling; + Dew, distilled as tears unbidden flow;-- + Dust of drought in drifts and layers crawling; + Lulling dreams of softly whispering snow; + Happy birds, from leafy coverts calling;-- + These go on, yet none of these you know: + Hearing not our human voices + Speaking to you all in vain, + Nor the psalm of a land that rejoices, + Ringing from churches and cities and foundries a mighty refrain! + But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that blow + When tempests are striving and lightnings of heaven are spent, + With one consent + Make unto them + Who died for us eternal requiem. + + + XI + + Lovely to look on, O South, + No longer stately-scornful + But beautiful still in pride, + Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride! + Garmented soft in white, + Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender! + You stand before us with your gently mournful + Memory-haunted eyes and flower-like mouth, + Where clinging thoughts--as bees a-cluster + Murmur through the leafy gloom, + Musical in monotone-- + Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre + As of glowing gold-gray light + Shines upon the orient bloom, + Sweet with orange-blossoms, thrown + Round the jasmine-starred, deep night + Crowning with dark hair your brow. + Ruthless, once, we came to slay, + And you met us then with hate. + Rough was the wooing of war: we won you, + Won you at last, though late! + Dear South, to-day, + As our country's altar made us + One forever, so we vow + Unto yours our love to render: + Strength with strength we here endow, + And we make your honor ours. + Happiness and hope shall sun you: + All the wiles that half betrayed us + Vanish from us like spent showers. + + + XII + + Two hostile bullets in mid-air + Together shocked, + And swift were locked + Forever in a firm embrace. + Then let us men have so much grace + To take the bullets' place, + And learn that we are held + By laws that weld + Our hearts together! + As once we battled hand to hand, + So hand in hand to-day we stand, + Sworn to each other, + Brother and brother, + In storm and mist, or calm, translucent weather: + And Gettysburg's guns, with their death-giving roar, + Echoed from ocean to ocean, shall pour + Quickening life to the nation's core; + Filling our minds again + With the spirit of those who wrought in the + Field of the Flower of Men! + + + + + + + +NOTES + + +[1] _Bride Brook_.--The colony of New London (now part of +Connecticut) was founded by John Winthrop, Jr., under the jurisdiction +of Massachusetts. One of the boundary lines was a stream flowing into +Long Island Sound, between the present city of New London and the +Connecticut River. In the snowy winter of 1646, Jonathan Rudd, who dwelt +in the settlement of Saybrook Fort, at the mouth of the Connecticut, +sent for Winthrop to celebrate a marriage between himself and a certain +"Mary" of Saybrook, whose last name has been lost. Winthrop performed +the ceremony on the frozen surface of the streamlet, the farthest limit +of his magistracy; and thereupon bestowed the name "Bride Brook," which +it still bears. + +[2] _The Bride of War_.--Jemima Warner, a Pennsylvania woman, was the +wife of one of Morgan's riflemen. She marched with the expedition; and, +when her husband perished of cold and exhaustion, she took his rifle and +equipments and herself carried them to Quebec, where she delivered them +to Arnold as a token of her husband's sacrifice, and proof that he was +not a deserter. + +Colonel Enos of Connecticut abandoned the column while it was struggling +through the Dead River region, with his whole force, the rear-guard, +numbering eight hundred men. But for this defection Arnold might have +triumphed in his assault on Quebec. It is a curious circumstance that, +with this traitor at the rear, and with Benedict Arnold at its head, the +little army also counted in its ranks Aaron Burr, whose treason was to +ripen after the war ended. + +[3] _The Sword Dham_.--Antar, the Bedouin poet-hero, was chief of the +tribe of Ghaylib. + +[4] _The Name of Washington_.--Read before the Sons of the +Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887, and adopted as the poem of the +Society. + +[5] _Marthy Virginia's Hand_.--This was an actual incident in the +experience of the late Colonel (formerly Captain) Albert J. Munroe. of +the Third Rhode Island Artillery, a gallant officer, gentle and brave as +well in peace as in war. + +[6] _Gettysburg: A Battle Ode_.--Written for the Society of the Army +of the Potomac, and read at its re-union with Confederate survivors on +the field of Gettysburg, July 3, 1888, the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of +the Battle. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Dreams and Days: Poems, by George Parsons Lathrop + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 7325.txt or 7325.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/2/7325/ + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders +Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Dreams and Days: Poems + +Author: George Parsons Lathrop + +Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7325] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on April 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team. + + + + + +DREAMS AND DAYS + +POEMS + + +BY + +GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP + + + + +To ROSL + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I + + +STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN! + +"O JAY!" + +THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + +"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + +JESSAMINE + +THE BOBOLINK + +SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + +FIRST GLANCE + +BRIDE BROOK + +MAY-ROSE + +THE SINGING WIRE + +THE HEART OF A SONG + +SOUTH-WIND + +THE LOVER'S YEAR + +NEW WORLDS + +NIGHT IN NEW YORK + +THE SONG-SPARROW + +I LOVED YOU, ONCE---- + + +II + + +THE BRIDE OF WAR + +A RUNE OF THE RAIN + +BREAKERS + +BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + +THE CHILD-YEAR + +CHRISTENING + +THANKSGIVING TURKEY + +BEFORE THE SNOW + + +III + + +YOUTH TO THE POET + +THE SWORD DHAM + +"AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + +CHARITY + +HELEN AT THE LOOM + +THE CASKET OF OPALS + +LOVE THAT LIVES + + +IV + + +BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + +THE VOICE OF THE VOID + +"O WHOLESOME DEATH" + +INCANTATION + +FAMINE AND HARVEST + +THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + +THE FLOWN SOUL + +SUNSET AND SHORE + +THE PHOEBE-BIRD + +A STRONG CITY + +THREE DOVES + + +V + + +ARISE, AMERICAN! + +THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + +GRANT'S DIRGE. + +BATTLE DAYS + +KEENAN'S CHARGE + +MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + +GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + + +NOTES + + + + + +STRIKE HANDS, YOUNG MEN! + + + Strike hands, young men! +We know not when +Death or disaster comes, +Mightier than battle-drums +To summon us away. +Death bids us say farewell +To all we love, nor stay +For tears;--and who can tell +How soon misfortune's hand +May smite us where we stand, +Dragging us down, aloof, +Under the swift world's hoof? + + Strike hands for faith, and power +To gladden the passing hour; +To wield the sword, or raise a song;-- +To press the grape; or crush out wrong. +And strengthen right. +Give me the man of sturdy palm +And vigorous brain; +Hearty, companionable, sane, +'Mid all commotions calm, +Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;-- +Give me the man +Whose impulses aspire, +And all his features seem to say, "I can!" + +Strike hands, young men! +'Tis yours to help rebuild the State, +And keep the Nation great. +With act and speech and pen +'Tis yours to spread +The morning-red +That ushers in a grander day: +To scatter prejudice that blinds, +And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds; +To overthrow bland tyrannies +That cheat the people, and with slow disease +Change the Republic to a mockery. +Your words can teach that liberty +Means more than just to cry "We're free" +While bending to some new-found yoke. +So shall each unjust bond be broke, +Each toiler gain his meet reward, +And life sound forth a truer chord. + + Ah, if we so have striven, +And mutually the grasp have given +Of brotherhood, +To work each other and the whole race good; +What matter if the dream +Come only partly true, +And all the things accomplished seem +Feeble and few? +At least, when summer's flame burns low +And on our heads the drifting snow +Settles and stays, +We shall rejoice that in our earlier days +We boldly then +Struck hands, young men! + + + + + + +"O JAY!" + + +O jay-- +Blue-jay! +What are you trying to say? +I remember, in the spring +You pretended you could sing; +But your voice is now still queerer, +And as yet you've come no nearer +To a song. +In fact, to sum the matter, +I never heard a flatter +Failure than your doleful clatter. +Don't you think it's wrong? +It was sweet to hear your note, +I'll not deny, +When April set pale clouds afloat +O'er the blue tides of sky, +And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums +You, in your white and azure coat, +A herald proud, came forth to cry, +"The royal summer comes!" + + But now that autumn's here, +And the leaves curl up in sheer +Disgust, +And the cold rains fringe the pine, +You really must +Stop that supercilious whine--- +Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic +Angry critic. + + You don't fulfill your early promise: +You're not the smartest +Kind of artist, +Any more than poor Blind Tom is. +Yet somehow, still, +There's meaning in your screaming bill. +What _are_ you trying to say? + + Sometimes your piping is delicious, +And then again it's simply vicious; +Though on the whole the varying jangle +Weaves round me an entrancing tangle +Of memories grave or joyous: +Things to weep or laugh at; +Love that lived at a hint, or +Days so sweet, they'd cloy us; +Nights I have spent with friends;-- +Glistening groves of winter, +And the sound of vanished feet +That walked by the ripening wheat; +With other things.... Not the half that +Your cry familiar blends +Can I name, for it is mostly +Very ghostly;-- +Such mixed-up things your voice recalls, +With its peculiar quirks and falls. + + Possibly, then, your meaning, plain, +Is that your harsh and broken strain +Tallies best with a world of pain. + + Well, I'll admit +There's merit in a voice that's truthful: +Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful, +But querulously fit. +And if we cannot sing, we'll say +Something to the purpose, jay! + + + + + + +THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + + +"Go," said the star to its light: +"Follow your fathomless flight! + Into the dreams of space + Carry the joy of my face. +Go," said the star to its light: +"Tell me the tale of your flight." + +As the mandate rang + The heavens through, +Quick the ray sprang: + Unheard it flew, +Sped by the touch of an unseen spur. + It crumbled the dusk of the deep + That folds the worlds in sleep, +And shot through night with noiseless stir. + +Then came the day; +And all that swift array +Of diamond-sparkles died. +And lo! the far star cried: +"My light has lost its way!" + Ages on ages passed: + The light returned, at last. + +"What have you seen, + What have you heard-- +O ray serene, + O flame-winged bird +I loosed on endless air? +Why do you look so faint and white?"-- +Said the star to its light. + +"O star," said the tremulous ray, +"Grief and struggle I found. +Horror impeded my way. +Many a star and sun +I passed and touched, on my round. +Many a life undone +I lit with a tender gleam: +I shone in the lover's eyes, +And soothed the maiden's dream. +But alas for the stifling mist of lies! +Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field +Where my glance was mixed with blood! +And woe for the hearts by hate congealed, +And the crime that rolls like a flood! +Too vast is the world for me; +Too vast for the sparkling dew +Of a force like yours to renew. +Hopeless the world's immensity! +The suns go on without end: +The universe holds no friend: +And so I come back to you." + +"Go," said the star to its light: +"You have not told me aright. +This you have taught: I am one +In a million of million others-- +Stars, or planets, or men;-- +And all of these are my brothers. +Carry that message, and then +My guerdon of praise you have won! +Say that I serve in my place: +Say I will hide my own face +Ere the sorrows of others I shun. +So, then, my trust you'll requite. +Go!"--said the star to its light. + + + + + + +"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + + +The sunshine of thine eyes, +(O still, celestial beam!) +Whatever it touches it fills + With the life of its lambent gleam. + +The sunshine of thine eyes, +O let it fall on me! +Though I be but a mote of the air, +I could turn to gold for thee! + + + + + + +JESSAMINE + + +Here stands the great tree still, with broad bent head; +Its wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread +With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves +Strange garlands, now, amongst the darkening leaves. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + +Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine +Walked with her lover long ago; and in +The leaf-dimmed light he questioned, and she spoke; +Then on them both, supreme, love's radiance broke. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + +Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone +Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown, +Gathering from each alike a perfect white, +Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm_. + +For this her sweetness Walt, her lover, sought +To win her; wooed her here, his heart o'er fraught +With fragrance of her being; and gained his plea. +So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree." + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Yet dreams of conquering greater prize for her +Roused his wild spirit with a glittering spur. +Eager for wealth, far, far from home he sailed; +And life paused;--while she watched joy vanish, veiled. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Ah, better at the elm-tree's sunbrowned feet +If he had been content to let life fleet +Its wonted way!--lord of his little farm, +In zest of joys or cares unmixed with harm. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +For, as against a snarling sea one steers, +He battled vainly with the surging years; +While ever Jessamine must watch and pine, +Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Then silence fell; and all the neighbors said +That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead: +Unmoved in constancy, her tryst she kept, +Each night beneath the tree, ere sorrow slept. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +So, circling years went by, till in her face +Slow melancholy wrought a mingled grace, +Of early joy with suffering's hard alloy-- +Refined and rare, no doom could e'er destroy. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine +Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win +The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused +On love that so could live, with love refused. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +And none could hope for her. But she had grown +Too high in love, for hope. She bloomed alone, +Aloft in proud devotion; and secure +Against despair; so sweet her faith, so sure. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Her wandering lover knew not well her soul. +Discouraged, on disaster's changing shoal +Stranding, he waited; starved on selfish pride, +Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +But, bitterly repenting of his sin, +Deeper at last he learned to look within +Sweet Jessamine's true heart--when the past, dead, +Mocked him with wasted years forever fled. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Late, late, oh late, beneath the tree stood two; +In trembling joy, and wondering "Is it true?"-- +Two that were each like some strange, misty wraith: +Yet each on each gazed with a living faith. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell: +Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell. +Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed, +Beneath it many a year has she lain dead. + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + +Here stands the great tree, still. But age has crept +Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept +The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might +The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite! + _And the moon hangs low in the elm._ + + + + + + +THE BOBOLINK + + +How sweetly sang the bobolink, + When thou, my love, wast nigh! +His liquid music from the brink +Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink, + Far in the blue-domed sky. + +How sadly sings the bobolink! + No more my love is nigh: +Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink +Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,-- + Once more before I die! + + + + + + +SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + + +The sea goes up; the sky comes down. +Oh, can you spy the ancient town,-- +The granite hills so green and gray, +That rib the land behind the bay? + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + +Three years? Is it so long that we +Have lived upon the lonely sea? +Oh, often I thought we'd see the town, +When the sea went up, and the sky came down. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +Even the winter winds would rouse +A memory of my father's house; +For round his windows and his door +They made the same deep, mouthless roar. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +And when the summer's breezes beat, +Methought I saw the sunny street +Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand +She gazed far out, far out from land. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed +That I was with her. Then it seemed +A single stride the ocean wide +Had bridged, and brought me to her side. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +But though so near we're drawing, now, +'T is farther off--I know not how. +We sail and sail: we see no home. +Would that we into port were come! + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +At night, the same stars o'er the mast: +The mast sways round--however fast +We fly--still sways and swings around +One scanty circle's starry bound. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +Ah, many a month those stars have shone, +And many a golden morn has flown, +Since that so solemn, happy morn, +When, I away, my babe was born. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +And, though so near we're drawing, now, +'T is farther off--I know not how:-- +I would not aught amiss had come +To babe or mother there, at home! + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush +The seas, beneath. I hear the crush +Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. +Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + +Patience, my mates! Though not this eve +We cast our anchor, yet believe, +If but the wind holds, short the run: +We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + Fair winds, boys: send her home! + O ye ho! + + + + + + +FIRST GLANCE + + +A budding mouth and warm blue eyes; +A laughing face; and laughing hair,-- + So ruddy was its rise + From off that forehead fair; + +Frank fervor in whate'er she said, +And a shy grace when she was still; + A bright, elastic tread; + Enthusiastic will; + +These wrought the magic of a maid +As sweet and sad as the sun in spring;-- + Joyous, yet half-afraid + Her joyousness to sing. + + + + + + +BRIDE BROOK + + +Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand, + And blindly over us there blows +A swarm of years that fill the land, + Then fade, and are as fallen snows. + +Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast; + Or are they years, that come between,-- +When, peering back into the past, + I search the legendary scene? + +Nay. Marshaled down the open coast, + Fearless of that low rampart's frown, +The winter's white-winged, footless host + Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town. + +And when the settlers wake they stare + On woods half-buried, white and green, +A smothered world, an empty air: + Never had such deep drifts been seen! + +But "Snow lies light upon my heart! + An thou," said merry Jonathan Rudd, +"Wilt wed me, winter shall depart, + And love like spring for us shall bud." + +"Nay, how," said Mary, "may that be? + No minister nor magistrate +Is here, to join us solemnly; + And snow-banks bar us, every gate." + +"Winthrop at Pequot Harbor lies," + He laughed. And with the morrow's sun +He faced the deputy's dark eyes: + "How soon, sir, may the rite be done?" + +"At Saybrook? There the power's not mine," + Said he. "But at the brook we'll meet, +That ripples down the boundary line; + There you may wed, and Heaven shall see't." + +Forth went, next day, the bridal train + Through vistas dreamy with gray light. +The waiting woods, the open plain, + Arrayed in consecrated white, + +Received and ushered them, along. + The very beasts before them fled, +Charmed by the spell of inward song + These lovers' hearts around them spread. + +Four men with netted foot-gear shod + Bore the maid's carrying-chair aloft; +She swayed above, as roses nod + On the lithe stem their bloom-weight soft. + +At last beside the brook they stood, + With Winthrop and his followers; +The maid in flake-embroidered hood, + The magistrate well cloaked in furs, + +That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath + Of ample, throat-encircling ruff +As white as some wind-gathered wreath + Of snow quilled into plait and puff. + +A few grave words, a question asked; + Eyelids that with the answer fell +Like falling petals;--form that tasked + Brief time;--and so was wrought the spell! + +Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said, + "Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb +The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped + These lovers on their way. But, come, + +"Henceforth forever be thou known + By memory of this day's fair bride: +So shall thy slender music's moan + Sweeter into the ocean glide!" + +Then laughed they all, and sudden beams + Of sunshine quivered through the sky. +Below the ice, the unheard stream's + Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy; + +And lo, a visionary blush + Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild; +And in her rapt and wintry hush + The lonely face of Nature smiled. + +Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite + Is all that tender vision now; +And, like lost snow-flakes in the night, + Mute are the lovers as their vow. + +And O thou little, careless brook, + Hast thou thy tender trust forgot? +Her modest memory forsook, + Whose name, known once, thou utterest not? + +Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy; + In willow bough or alder bush +Birds sing, o'er golden filigree + Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush; + +But none can tell us of that name + More than the "Mary." Men still say +"Bride Brook" in honor of her fame; + But all the rest has passed away. + + + + + + +MAY-ROSE + +[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20] + + +On this day to life she came-- + May-Rose, my May-Rose! +With scented breeze, with flowered flame, +She touched the earth and took her name + Of May, Rose. + +Here, to-day, she grows and flowers-- + May-Rose, my May-Rose. +All my life with light she dowers, +And colors all the coming hours + With May, Rose! + + + + + + +THE SINGING WIRE + + +Ethereal, faint that music rang, + As, with the bosom of the breeze, + It rose and fell and murmuring sang + Aeolian harmonies! + +I turned; again the mournful chords, + In random rhythm lightly flung + From off the wire, came shaped in words; + And thus meseemed, they sung: + +"I, messenger of many fates, + Strung to the tones of woe or weal, + Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates + With all men know or feel,-- + +"Is it so strange that I should wail? + Leave me my tearless, sad refrain, + When in the pine-top wakes the gale + That breathes of coming rain. + +"There is a spirit in the post; + It, too, was once a murmuring tree; + Its withered, sad, imprisoned ghost + Echoes my melody. + +"Come close, and lay your listening ear + Against the bare and branchless wood. + Can you not hear it crooning clear, + As though it understood?" + +I listened to the branchless pole + That held aloft the singing wire; + I heard its muffled music roll, + And stirred with sweet desire: + +"O wire more soft than seasoned lute, + Hast thou no sunlit word for me? + Though long to me so coyly mute, + Her heart may speak through thee!" + +I listened, but it was in vain. + At first, the wind's old wayward will + Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain. + That ceased; and all was still. + +But suddenly some kindling shock + Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, + Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock + Rose with him; wheeled and whirred. + +Then to my soul there came this sense: + "Her heart has answered unto thine; + She comes, to-night. Go, speed thee hence: + Meet her; no more repine!" + +Perhaps the fancy was far-fetched; + And yet, perhaps, it hinted true. + Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched + In mine, that gave me--you! + +And so more dear to me has grown + Than rarest tones swept from the lyre, + The minor movement of that moan + In yonder singing wire. + +Nor care I for the will of states, + Or aught beside, that smites that string, + Since then so close it knit our fates, + What time the bird took wing! + + + + + + +THE HEART OF A SONG + + +Dear love, let this my song fly to you: + Perchance forget it came from me. +It shall not vex you, shall not woo you; + But in your breast lie quietly. + +Only beware, when once it tarries + I cannot coax it from you, then. +This little song my whole heart carries, + And ne'er will bear it back again. + +For if its silent passion grieve you, + My heart would then too heavy grow;-- +And it can never, never leave you, + If joy of yours must with it go! + + + + + + +SOUTH-WIND + + +Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease + (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) + Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed +'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these +Loth blushes faint and maidenly:--rich breeze, + Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade + Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid +The power to build or blight the fruit of trees, +The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. + +Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, + Both measureless, but either counted gain +Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow + Like tides upon us of the self-same sea. + Tears are the gems of joy and misery. + + + + + + +THE LOVER'S YEAR + + +Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, + My summer and my winter, spring and fall; + For Nature left on thee a touch of all +The moods that come to gladden or to grieve + The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve + From lagging sameness. So do these forestall + In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall +Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. + +Scenes that I love to me always remain + Beautiful, whether under summer sun +Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. + So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet one: +Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see +Thy constant change is changeful constancy. + + + + + + +NEW WORLDS + + +With my beloved I lingered late one night. + At last the hour when I must leave her came: + But, as I turned, a fear I could not name +Possessed me that the long sweet evening might +Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight + Should perish. What if death, ere dawn, should claim + One of us? What, though living, not the same +Each should appear to each in morning-light? + +Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: + Ne'er could I see her as of old again. +That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away, + And let her beauty pour through every vein +Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover +With each new morn a new world may discover. + + + + + + +NIGHT IN NEW YORK + + +Haunted by unknown feet-- +Ways of the midnight hour! +Strangely you murmur below me, +Strange is your half-silent power. +Places of life and of death, +Numbered and named as streets, +What, through your channels of stone, +Is the tide that unweariedly beats? +A whisper, a sigh-laden breath, +Is all that I hear of its flowing. +Footsteps of stranger and foe-- +Footsteps of friends, could we meet-- +Alike to me in my sorrow; +Alike to a life left alone. +Yet swift as my heart they throb, +They fall thick as tears on the stone: +My spirit perchance may borrow +New strength from their eager tone. + + Still ever that slip and slide +Of the feet that shuffle or glide, +And linger or haste through the populous waste +Of the shadowy, dim-lit square! +And I know not, from the sound, +As I sit and ponder within, +The goal to which those steps are bound,-- +On hest of mercy, or hest of sin, +Or joy's short-measured round; +Yet a meaning deep they bear +In their vaguely muffled din. + +Roar of the multitude, +Chafe of the million-crowd, +To this you are all subdued +In the murmurous, sad night-air! +Yet whether you thunder aloud, +Or hush your tone to a prayer, +You chant amain through the modern maze +The only epic of our days. + + Still as death are the places of life; +The city seems crumbled and gone, +Sunk 'mid invisible deeps-- +The city so lately rife +With the stir of brain and brawn. +Haply it only sleeps; +But what if indeed it were dead, +And another earth should arise +To greet the gray of the dawn? +Faint then our epic would wail +To those who should come in our stead. +But what if that earth were ours? +What if, with holier eyes, +We should meet the new hope, and not fail? + + Weary, the night grows pale: +With a blush as of opening flowers +Dimly the east shines red. +Can it be that the morn shall fulfil +My dream, and refashion our clay +As the poet may fashion his rhyme? +Hark to that mingled scream +Rising from workshop and mill-- +Hailing some marvelous sight; +Mighty breath of the hours, +Poured through the trumpets of steam; +Awful tornado of time, +Blowing us whither it will! + +God has breathed in the nostrils of night, +And behold, it is day! + + + + + + +THE SONG-SPARROW + + +Glimmers gray the leafless thicket + Close beside my garden gate, +Where, so light, from post to picket + Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; + Who, with meekly folded wing, + Comes to sun himself and sing. + +It was there, perhaps, last year, + That his little house he built; +For he seems to perk and peer, + And to twitter, too, and tilt + The bare branches in between, + With a fond, familiar mien. + +Once, I know, there was a nest, + Held there by the sideward thrust +Of those twigs that touch his breast; + Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust + Caught it, over-full of snow,-- + Bent the bush,--and stole it so. + +Thus our highest holds are lost, + In the ruthless winter's wind, +When, with swift-dismantling frost, + The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd + Of their leafage, grow too cold + For frail hopes of summer's mold. + +But if we, with spring-days mellow, + Wake to woeful wrecks of change, +And the sparrow's ritornello + Scaling still its old sweet range; + Can we do a better thing + Than, with him, still build and sing? + +Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed + Thought in me beyond all telling; +Shootest through me sunlight, seed, + And fruitful blessing, with that welling + Ripple of ecstatic rest + Gurgling ever from thy breast! + +And thy breezy carol spurs + Vital motion in my blood, +Such as in the sap-wood stirs, + Swells and shapes the pointed bud + Of the lilac; and besets + The hollow thick with violets. + +Yet I know not any charm + That can make the fleeting time +Of thy sylvan, faint alarm + Suit itself to human rhyme: + And my yearning rhythmic word + Does thee grievous wrong, blithe bird. + +So, however thou hast wrought + This wild joy on heart and brain, +It is better left untaught. + Take thou up the song again: + There is nothing sad afloat + On the tide that swells thy throat! + + + + + + +I LOVED YOU, ONCE-- + + +And did you think my heart + Could keep its love unchanging, +Fresh as the buds that start + In spring, nor know estranging? +Listen! The buds depart: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + +'T is not the early love; + With day and night it alters, +And onward still must move + Like earth, that never falters +For storm or star above. + I loved you once; but now-- + I love you more than ever. + +With gifts in those glad days + How eagerly I sought you! +Youth, shining hope, and praise: + These were the gifts I brought you. +In this world little stays: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + +A child with glorious eyes + Here in our arms half sleeping-- +So passion wakeful lies; + Then grows to manhood, keeping +Its wistful, young surprise: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + +When age's pinching air + Strips summer's rich possession, +And leaves the branches bare, + My secret in confession +Still thus with you I'll share: + I loved you once, but now-- + I love you more than ever. + + + + + + + + +II + + + + + + + + +THE BRIDE OF WAR + +(ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775) + + +I + +The trumpet, with a giant sound, + Its harsh war-summons wildly sings; + And, bursting forth like mountain-springs, +Poured from the hillside camping-ground, + Each swift battalion shouting flings +Its force in line; where you may see +The men, broad-shouldered, heavily +Sway to the swing of the march; their heads +Dark like the stones in river-beds. + + Lightly the autumn breezes + Play with the shining dust-cloud + Rising to the sunset rays + From feet of the moving column. + Soft, as you listen, comes + The echo of iterant drums, + Brought by the breezes light + From the files that follow the road. + A moment their guns have glowed + Sun-smitten: then out of sight + They suddenly sink, + Like men who touch a new grave's brink! + +II + + So it was the march began, + The march of Morgan's riflemen, + Who like iron held the van + In unhappy Arnold's plan + To win Wolfe's daring fame again. + With them, by her husband's side, + Jemima Warner, nobly free, + Moved more fair than when, a bride, + One year since, she strove to hide + The blush it was a joy to see. + +III + +O distant, terrible forests of Maine, + With huge trees numberless as the rain +That falls on your lonely lakes! +(It falls and sings through the years, but wakes + No answering echo of joy or pain.) + +Your tangled wilderness was tracked + With struggle and sorrow and vengeful act +'Gainst Puritan, pagan, and priest. +Where wolf and panther and serpent ceased, + Man added the horrors your dark maze lacked. + +The land was scarred with deeds not good, + Like the fretting of worms on withered wood. +What if its venomous spell +Breathed into Arnold a prompting of Hell, + With slow empoisoning force indued? + +IV + +As through that dreary realm he went, + Followed a shape of dark portent:-- +Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain + To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr, +Moved loyal-seeming in the train, + Led by the arch-conspirator. +And craven Enos closed the rear, +Whose honor's flame died out in fear. +Not sooner does the dry bough burn +And into fruitless ashes turn, +Than he with whispered, false command +Drew back the hundreds in his hand; +Fled like a shade; and all forsook. + +Wherever Arnold bent his look, +Danger and doubt around him hung; +And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung +Black omens in his track, as though +The fingers of a future woe +Already clutched his life, to wring +Some expiation for the thing +That he was yet to do. A chill +Struck helpless many a steadfast will +Within the ranks; the very air +Rang with a thunder-toned despair: +The hills seemed wandering to and fro, +Like lost guides blinded by the snow. + +V + +Yet faithful still 'mid woe and doubt + One woman's loyal heart--whose pain +Filled it with pure celestial light-- +Shone starry-constant like the North, + Or that still radiance beaming forth + From sacred lights in some lone fane. +But he whose ring Jemima wore, +By want and weariness all unstrung, +Though strong and honest of heart and young, +Shrank at the blast that pierced so frore-- +Like a huge, invisible bird of prey +Furious launched from Labrador +And the granite cliffs of Saguenay! + +Along the bleak Dead River's banks +They forced amain their frozen way; +But ever from the thinning ranks +Shapes of ice would reel and fall, +Human shapes, whose dying prayer +Floated, a mute white mist, in air; +The crowding snow their pall. + +Spectre-like Famine drew near; +Her doom-word hummed in his ear: +Ah, weak were woman's hands to reach +And save him from the hellish charms +And wizard motion of those arms! +Yet only noble womanhood +The wife her dauntless part could teach: +She shared with him the last dry food +And thronged with hopefulness her speech, +As when hard by her home the flood +Of rushing Conestoga fills +Its depth afresh from springtide rills! + +All, all in vain! +For far behind the invading rout + These two were left alone; +And in the waste their wildest shout + Seemed but a smothered groan. +Like sheeted wanderers from the grave +They moved, and yet seemed not to stir, +As icy gorge and sere-leaf'd grove +Of withered oak and shrouded fir +Were passed, and onward still they strove; +While the loud wind's artillery clave +The air, and furious sleety rain +Swung like a sword above the plain! + +VI + +They crossed the hills; they came to where +Through an arid gloom the river Chaudiere +Fled like a Maenad with outstreaming hair; +And there the soldier sank, and died. +Death-dumb he fell; yet ere life sped, +Child-like on her knee he laid his head. +She strove to pray; but all words fled +Save those their love had sanctified. + +And then her voice rose waveringly +To the notes of a mother's lullaby; +But her song was only "Ah, must thou die?" +And to her his eyes death-still replied. + +VII + +Dead leaves and stricken boughs +She heaped o'er the fallen form-- +Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm +Him from his rest should rouse; +But first, with solemn vows, +Took rifle, pouch, and horn, +And the belt that he had worn. +Then, onward pressing fast +Through the forest rude and vast, +Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd, +Many bitter days she marched +With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain; +One thought always throbbing through her brain: +"They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'-- +They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'" + +VIII + +Now the wilderness is passed; +Now the first hut reached, at last. + +Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail, +Come forth and greet the bride of war! +From cabin and rough settlement +They come to speed her on her way-- +Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale +With pity never felt before; +Children that cluster at the door; +Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent +To help, or bid her longer stay. +But through them all she passes on, +Strangely martial, fair and wan; +Nor waits to listen to their cheers +That sound so faintly in her ears. +For now all scenes around her shift, +Like those before a racer's eyes +When, foremost sped and madly swift, +Quick stretching toward the goal he flies, +Yet feels his strength wane with his breath, +And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,-- + +Till, like the flashing of a lamp, +Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,-- +The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam +Of steel,--where, crouched, the army waits, +Ere long, beyond the midnight stream, +To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates. + +IX + +Then to the leader she was brought, +And spoke her simply loyal thought. +If, 'mid the shame of after-days, +The man who wronged his country's trust +(Yet now in worth outweighed all praise) +Remembered what this woman wrought, +It should have bowed him to the dust! +"Humbly my soldier-husband tried +To do his part. He served,--and died. +But honor did not die. His name +And honor--bringing both, I came; +And this his rifle, here, to show, +While far away the tired heart sleeps, +To-day his faith with you he keeps!" + +Proudly the war bride, ending so, +Sank breathless in the dumb white snow. + + + + + + +A RUNE OF THE RAIN + + + O many-toned rain! +O myriad sweet voices of the rain! +How welcome is its delicate overture +At evening, when the moist and glowing west +Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. + + At first it would allure +The earth to kinder mood, +With dainty flattering +Of soft, sweet pattering: +Faintly now you hear the tramp +Of the fine drops, falling damp +On the dry, sun-seasoned ground +And the thirsty leaves, resound. +But anon, imbued +With a sudden, bounding access +Of passion, it relaxes +All timider persuasion. +And, with nor pretext nor occasion, +Its wooing redoubles; +And pounds the ground, and bubbles +In sputtering spray, +Flinging itself in a fury +Of flashing white away; +Till the dusty road, +Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; +And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, +The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- +The virid corn that to the breeze +Rustles along the garden-rows,-- +Visibly lift their heads, +And, as the quick shower wilder grows, +Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. + + Then, the slow and pleasant murmur +Of its subsiding, +As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, +And the steady rain +Drops into a cadenced chiding! +Deep-breathing rain, +The sad and ghostly noise +Wherewith thou dost complain--- +Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, +Heard thus at close of day +Through vaults of twilight gray-- +Vexes me with sweet pain; +And still my soul is fain +To know the secret of that yearning +Which in thine utterance I hear returning. +Hush, oh hush! +Break not the dreamy rush +Of the rain: +Touch not the marring doubt +Words bring to the certainty +Of its soft refrain; +But let the flying fringes flout +Their drops against the pane, +And the gurgling throat of the water-spout +Groan in the eaves amain. + +The earth is wedded to the shower; +Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour! + +II + +O many-toned rain! +It hath caught the strain +Of a wilder tune, +Ere the same night's noon, +When dreams and sleep forsake me, +And sudden dread doth wake me, +To hear the booming drums of heaven beat +The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, +With an echoing loud, +Bursts asunder +At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; +And the fountains of the air, +Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere, +To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. + +III + + O myriad sweet voices of the rain! +When the airy war doth wane, +And the storm to the east hath flown, +Cloaked close in the whirling wind, +There's a voice still left behind +In each heavy-hearted tree, +Charged with tearful memory +Of the vanished rain: +From their leafy lashes wet +Drip the dews of fresh regret +For the lover that's gone! +All else is still; +Yet the stars are listening, +And low o'er the wooded hill +Hangs, upon listless wing +Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, +Watching, like a bird of evil +That knows nor mercy nor reprieval, +The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. + +IV + + But soon, returning duly, +Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely. +To her vision pure and cold +The night's wild tale is told +On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, +The garden mold turned dark and cool, +And the meadows' trampled acres. +But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers! +For now the moanings bitter, +Left by the rain, make harmony +With the swallow's matin-twitter, +And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree. +The infant morning breathes sweet breath, +And with it is blent +The wistful, wild, moist scent +Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: +And behold! +The last reluctant drop of the storm, +Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm +And turned to gold; +For in its veins doth run +The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! + + + + + + +BREAKERS + + + Far out at sea there has been a storm, +And still, as they roll their liquid acres, +High-heaped the billows lower and glisten. +The air is laden, moist, and warm +With the dying tempest's breath; +And, as I walk the lonely strand +With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned +By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers, +Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling, +Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling-- +Watch, and muse, and vainly listen +To the inarticulate mumbling +Of the hoary-headed deep; +For who may tell me what it saith, +Muttering, moaning as in sleep? + + Slowly and heavily +Comes in the sea, +With memories of storm o'erfreighted, +With heaving heart and breath abated, +Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow, +And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow. + + Slowly and heavily +Grows the green water-mound; +But drawing ever nigher, +Towering ever higher, +Swollen with an inward rage +Naught but ruin can assuage, +Swift, now, without sound, +Creeps stealthily +Up to the shore-- +Creeps, creeps and undulates; +As one dissimulates +Till, swayed by hateful frenzy, +Through passion grown immense, he +Bursts forth hostilely; +And rising, a smooth billow-- +Its swelling, sunlit dome +Thinned to a tumid ledge +With keen, curved edge +Like the scornful curl +Of lips that snarl-- +O'ertops itself and breaks +Into a raving foam; +So springs upon the shore +With a hungry roar; +Its first fierce anger slakes +On the stony shallow; +And runs up on the land, +Licking the smooth, hard sand, +Relentless, cold, yet wroth; +And dies in savage froth. + + Then with its backward swirl +The sands and the stones, how they whirl! +O, fiercely doth it draw +Them to its chasm'd maw, +And against it in vain +They linger and strain; +And as they slip away +Into the seething gray +Fill all the thunderous air +With the horror of their despair, +And their wild terror wreak +In one hoarse, wailing shriek. + + But scarce is this done, +When another one +Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun, +And sucks away the shore +As that did before: +And another shall smother it o'er. + + Then there's a lull--a half-hush; +And forward the little waves rush, +Toppling and hurrying, +Each other worrying, +And in their haste +Run to waste. + + Yet again is heard the trample +Of the surges high and ample: +Their dreadful meeting-- +The wild and sudden breaking-- +The dinting, and battering, and beating, +And swift forsaking. + + And ever they burst and boom, +A numberless host; +Like heralds of doom +To the trembling coast; +And ever the tangled spray +Is tossed from the fierce affray, +And, as with spectral arms +That taunt and beckon and mock, +And scatter vague alarms, +Clasps and unclasps the rock; +Listlessly over it wanders; +Moodily, madly maunders, +And hissingly falls +From the glistening walls. + + So all day along the shore +Shout the breakers, green and hoar, +Weaving out their weird tune; +Till at night the full moon +Weds the dark with that ring +Of gold that you see her fling +On the misty air. +Then homeward slow returning +To slumbers deep I fare, +Filled with an infinite yearning, +With thoughts that rise and fall +To the sound of the sea's hollow call, +Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach +Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach, +To scatter a spray on my dreams; +Till the slow and measured rote +Brings a drowsy ease +To my spirit, and seems +To set it soothingly afloat +On broad and buoyant seas +Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge +Of the melancholy surge. + + + + + + +BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + + "Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say. +Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, +If you'd been here. Now,--he's gone away. +Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use +If you'd called here earlier. His excuse +Always was, whenever folks would ask him +Where he hailed from, an' _would_ tease an' task him;-- +What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know." + + That was truth. He came here long ago; +But, before that, he'd been born somewhere: +The conundrum started first, right there. +Little shaver--afore he knew his name +Or the place from whereabouts he came-- +On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him. +Killed the old folks! But this cus'--they brought him +Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows. +So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows: +They was merciful;--treated him real good; +Brought him up to man's age well's they could. +Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad, +For all they used him so, went to the bad: +Leastways left the red men, that he knew, +'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;-- +Goldarned white folks that he never saw. +Queerest thing was--though he loved a squaw, +'T was on her account he planned escape; +Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape +With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while; +Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile, +Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well, +_I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell. + + Bocanegra--Spanish term--I've heard +Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird, +Known as Bocanegra, gave his life +Most for others. First, he saved his wife; +Her I spoke of;--nothin' but a squaw. +You might wonder by what sort of law +He, a white man born, should come to love her. +But 't was somehow so: he _did_ discover +Beauty in her, of the holding kind. +Some men love the light, an' some the shade. +Round that little Indian girl there played +Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark +Under trees; yet now an' then a spark, +Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes, +Made you think of summer-midnight skies. +She was faithful, too, like midnight stars. +As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars +Made by wounds he suffered for her sake, +You'd have called _him_ true, and no mistake. + + Growin' up a man, he scarcely met +Other white folks; an' his heart was set +On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait. +You must never be my wedded mate +Till we reach the white man's country. There, +Everything that's done is fair and square." +Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt, +Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout +Some safe track. He told her: "You go first. +All my joy goes with you:--that's the worst! +But _I_ wait, to guard or hide the trail." + + Indians caught him; an' they gave him--hail; +Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding; +Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding. +"Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood! +Either that, or grind you into mud; +Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see +Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be? +Tell us where she's hid." + + "I'll show the way," +Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day, +Till they come straight out beside the brink +Of a precipice that seems to sink +Into everlasting gulfs below. +"Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow." +Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap, +Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;-- +Jumped out into space beyond the edge, +While the Apaches cowered along the ledge. +Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff! +Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough. +Indians called him a dead antelope; +But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope +Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush. +_Their_ hand was beat hollow: _he_ held a flush. + + Day and night he limped or crawled along: +Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song +(So he told me, once) that gave him hope. +Every time he saw a shadow grope +Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud, +Something touched his heart that made him proud: +Seemed to him he saw her dusky face +Watching over him, from place to place. +Every time the dry leaves rustled near, +Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!" + + So at last he found her:--they were married. +But, from those days on, he always carried +Marks of madness; actually--yes!-- +Trusted the good faith of these U. S. + + Indian hate an' deviltry he braved; +'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved. +Just for that, his name should be engraved. +But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads +Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads. + + All the while, his wife--tho' half despised +By the frontier folks that civilized +An' converted her--served by his side, +Helping faithfully, until she died. +Left alone, he lay awake o' nights, +Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites. +Then he thought of her, and Indian people; +Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple, +Just how Christian our great nation's been +Toward those native tribes so full of sin. +When he counted all the wrongs we've done +To the wild men of the setting sun, +Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair. +When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there. +U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots, +But at last it closed accounts with shots. +Mouth was black, perhaps;--but _he_ was white. +Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite: +Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show +'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow. + + Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side: +Honestly for years an' years he tried +Getting justice for the Indians. He, +Risking life an' limb for you an' me;-- +He, the man who proved his good intent +By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant +He would die for us,--turned round an' said: +"White men have been saved. Now, save the red!" +But it didn't pan out. No one would hark. +"Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark," +Said our folks. And--no, he wa'n't resigned, +But concluded he had missed his find. + + "_Where_ is Blackmouth?" That I can't decide. +Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve; +But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve. +Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride: +Gave his life for others, far 's he could, +Hoping it would do 'em some small good. +Didn't seem to be much use. An' so-- +Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow, +Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say. +Looks as though he had quit work, to stay. +Bullet in the breast.--His _body_ 's there; +But poor Blackmouth's gone--I don't know where! + + + + + + +THE CHILD YEAR + +I + +"Dying of hunger and sorrow: + I die for my youth I fear!" +Murmured the midnight-haunting + Voice of the stricken Year. + +There like a child it perished + In the stormy thoroughfare: +The snow with cruel whiteness + Had aged its flowing hair. + +Ah, little Year so fruitful, + Ah, child that brought us bliss, +Must we so early lose you-- + Our dear hopes end in this? + +II + +"Too young am I, too tender, + To bear earth's avalanche +Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope, + And makes my heart's-blood blanch. + +"Tell him who soon shall follow + Where my tired feet have bled, +He must be older, shrewder, + Hard, cold, and selfish-bred-- + +"Or else like me be trampled + Under the harsh world's heel. + 'Tis weakness to be youthful; + 'Tis death to love and feel." + +III + +Then saw I how the New Year + Came like a scheming man, +With icy eyes, his forehead + Wrinkled by care and plan + +For trade and rule and profit. + To him the fading child +Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!" + But died even while it smiled. + +Down bent the harsh new-comer + To lift with loving arm +The wanderer mute and fallen; + And lo! his eyes were warm; + +All changed he grew; the wrinkles + Vanished: he, too, looked young-- +As if that lost child's spirit + Into his breast had sprung. + +So are those lives not wasted, + Too frail to bear the fray. +So Years may die, yet leave us + Young hearts in a world grown gray. + + + + + + +CHRISTENING + + +To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,-- + Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried +Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,-- + Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; + +White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; + White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; +Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, + Offered to God as her most precious hansel. + +Then ceased the music, and the little one + Was silent, with the multitude assembled +Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son + He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled. + +But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, + And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, +As helpless as the cry of frightened birds + Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. + +How much the same, I thought, with older folk! + The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, +And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, + Even at the moment of our consecration. + +Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form + Of dream or doctrine,--or of unbelieving,-- +A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm + Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; + +A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite + Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning +Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light + Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. + +Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends + This weakling cry of children in our churches +With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends + To Him who hearts of men and children searches; + +Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, + Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, +Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: + And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested. + + + + + + +THANKSGIVING TURKEY + + +Valleys lay in sunny vapor, + And a radiance mild was shed +From each tree that like a taper + At a feast stood. Then we said, + "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, + Of good Thanksgiving turkey." + +And already still November + Drapes her snowy table here. +Fetch a log, then; coax the ember; + Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; + Heaven be thanked for one more year, + And our Thanksgiving turkey! + +Welcome, brothers--all our party + Gathered in the homestead old! +Shake the snow off and with hearty + Hand-shakes drive away the cold; + Else your plate you'll hardly hold + Of good Thanksgiving turkey. + +When the skies are sad and murky, + 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet +Round this homely roast of turkey-- + Pilgrims, pausing just to greet, + Then, with earnest grace, to eat + A new Thanksgiving turkey. + +And the merry feast is freighted + With its meanings true and deep. +Those we've loved and those we've hated, + All, to-day, the rite will keep, + All, to-day, their dishes heap + With plump Thanksgiving turkey. + +But how many hearts must tingle + Now with mournful memories! +In the festal wine shall mingle + Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes + That look beyond the board where lies + Our plain Thanksgiving turkey. + +See around us, drawing nearer, + Those faint yearning shapes of air-- +Friends than whom earth holds none dearer! + No--alas! they are not there: + Have they, then, forgot to share + Our good Thanksgiving turkey? + +Some have gone away and tarried + Strangely long by some strange wave; +Some have turned to foes; we carried + Some unto the pine-girt grave: + They 'll come no more so joyous-brave + To take Thanksgiving turkey. + +Nay, repine not. Let our laughter + Leap like firelight up again. +Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, + Snow-field yet untrod of men: + Shall we meet once more--and when?-- + To eat Thanksgiving turkey. + + + + + + +BEFORE THE SNOW + + +Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare + Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, +Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air. + Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. + +Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, + Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, +My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, + By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. + +Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago + The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain! +How soon death settles on us, and the snow + Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! + +Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood + Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring +Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood + We walked in,--memory's rare environing. + +And, though they die, the seasons only take + A ruined substance. All that's best remains +In the essential vision that can make + One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains. + + + + + + + + +III + + + + + + + + +YOUTH TO THE POET + +(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES) + + +Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth, +Affinity between two forms of truth!-- +As if the dawn and sunset watched each other, +Like and unlike as children of one mother +And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes +Of young men see the prophecy arise +Of what their lives shall be when all is told; +And, in the far-off glow of years called old, +Those other eyes look back to catch a trace +Of what was once their own unshadowed grace. +But here in our dear poet both are blended-- +Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;-- +Even as his song the willowy scent of spring +Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing, +And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun, +In strains that ever delicately run; +So musical and wise, page after page, +The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage. +The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers, +And day-break glory haunts his evening hours. +Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral: +That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel, +Which--smiling not, but trembling at the touch-- +Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much. + +EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879. + + + + + + +THE SWORD DHAM + + +"How shall we honor the man who creates?" + Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar;-- +"Who unto the truth flings open our gates, + Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a star; +Or forges with craft of his finger and brain + Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain; +Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall + wander forever undying? + +"See! His reward is in envies and hates; + In lips that deny, or in stabs that may kill." +"Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits + Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill, +Sure that no utmost devotion can fail, + Offered to _you_, nor unfriended assail +The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose + fame is undying!" + +"Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar, + It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soul +Of the poet within you, no envy can bar + The stream of your gratitude,--once let it roll. +Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew, + _I_ caught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;-- +Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or + depart from undying." + +Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Gratitude's + glittering drops,--as he threw +One shining arm round the smith, like a chain. + Closer the man to his bosom he drew; +Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt." + "Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet: +"I knew the sword Dham would unite me with + you in an honor undying." + +"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will + Silently over the sword's edge played. +--"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still: + Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?" +Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke. + "_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke +Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave + him remembrance undying. + +"Seek now who may, no search will avail: + No man the mate of this weapon shall own!" +Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail: + "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone +Able to honor the man who creates. + I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates, +Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall + make them undying!" + + + + + + +"AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + +Before the golden gate she stands, +With drooping head, with idle hands +Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight +Of unseen woe. Too late, too late! + Those carved and fretted, + Starred, resetted +Panels shall not open ever +To her who seeks the perfect mate. + +Only the tearless enter there: +Only the soul that, like a prayer, +No bolt can stay, no wall may bar, +Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar. + No door of cedar, + Alas, shall lead her +Unto the stream that shows forever +Love's face like some reflected star! + +They say that golden barrier hides +A realm where deathless spring abides; +Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats +Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes-- + 'Mid dewy alleys + That gird the palace, +And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver-- +A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes. + +The sultan lord knew not her name; +But to the door that fair shape came: +The hour had struck, the way was right, +Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light. + But ah, whose error + Has brought this terror? +Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor? +The gate swings to: her hope takes flight. + +The harp, the song, the nightingales +She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails +Without, to sound of feast within, +While here she stands, shut out by sin. + And be that revel + Of angel or devil, +She longs to sit beside the giver, +That she at last her prize may win. + +Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet; +Frozen she stands, she lingers yet; +But through the garden's gladness steals +A whisper that each heart congeals-- + A moan of grieving + Beyond relieving, +Which makes the proudest of them shiver. +And suddenly the sultan kneels! + +The lamp was quenched; he found her dead, +When dawn had turned the threshold red. + Her face was calm and sad as fate: + His sin, not hers, made her too late. + Some think, unbidden + She brought him, hidden, + A truer bliss that came back never + To him, unblest, who closed the gate. + + + + + + +CHARITY + + +I + + Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands +Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands. + No fatal hurt of foe she fears,-- +Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears. + + +II + + 'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door: +Like air she enters, where none dared before. + Even to the rich she can forgive +Their regal selfishness,--and let them live! + + + + + + +HELEN AT THE LOOM + + + Helen, in her silent room, +Weaves upon the upright loom; +Weaves a mantle rich and dark, +Purpled over, deep. But mark +How she scatters o'er the wool +Woven shapes, till it is full +Of men that struggle close, complex; +Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks +Arching high; spear, shield, and all +The panoply that doth recall +Mighty war; such war as e'en +For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. +Purple is the groundwork: good! +All the field is stained with blood-- +Blood poured out for Helen's sake; +(Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) +But the shapes of men that pass +Are as ghosts within a glass, +Woven with whiteness of the swan, +Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan +From the garment's purple fold +Where Troy's tale is twined and told. +Well may Helen, as with tender +Touch of rosy fingers slender +She doth knit the story in +Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, +Feel sharp filaments of pain +Reeled off with the well-spun skein, +And faint blood-stains on her hands +From the shifting, sanguine strands. + + Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: +What has been must be to-morrow; +Meekly to her fate she bows. +Heavenly beauties still will rouse +Strife and savagery in men: +Shall the lucid heavens, then, +Lose their high serenity, +Sorrowing over what must be? +If she taketh to her shame, +Lo, they give her not the blame,-- +Priam's wisest counselors, +Aged men, not loving wars. +When she goes forth, clad in white, +Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, +With her fair hair, amber-hued +As vapor by the moon imbued +With burning brown, that round her clings, +See, she sudden silence brings +On the gloomy whisperers +Who would make the wrong all hers. +So, Helen, in thy silent room, +Labor at the storied loom; +(Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) +Let thy aching sorrow make +Something strangely beautiful +Of this fabric; since the wool +Comes so tinted from the Fates, +Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. +Thou shalt work with subtle force +All thy deep shade of remorse +In the texture of the weft, +That no stain on thee be left;-- +Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, +Grief and wrong, to soft relief. +Speed the garment! It may chance, +Long hereafter, meet the glance, +Of Oenone; when her lord, +Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd +Ida, at his last sad end, +Seeking her, his early friend, +Who alone can cure his ill, +Of all who love him, if she will. +It were fitting she should see +In that hour thine artistry, +And her husband's speechless corse +In the garment of remorse! + + But take heed that in thy work +Naught unbeautiful may lurk. +Ah, how little signifies +Unto thee what fortunes rise, +What others fall! Thou still shall rule, +Still shalt twirl the colored spool. +Though thy yearning woman's eyes +Burn with glorious agonies, +Pitying the waste and woe, +And the heroes falling low +In the war around thee, here, +Yet the least, quick-trembling tear +'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be +Than life, to friend or enemy. + + There are people on the earth +Doomed with doom of too great worth. +Look on Helen not with hate, +Therefore, but compassionate. +If she suffer not too much, +Seldom does she feel the touch +Of that fresh, auroral joy +Lighter spirits may decoy +To their pure and sunny lives. +Heavy honey 'tis she hives. +To her sweet but burdened soul +All that here she may control-- +What of bitter memories, +What of coming fate's surmise, +Paris' passion, distant din +Of the war now drifting in +To her quiet--idle seems; +Idle as the lazy gleams +Of some stilly water's reach, +Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach +A heavy arch; and, looking through, +Far away the doubtful blue +Glimmers, on a drowsy day, +Crowded with the sun's rich gray;-- +As she stands within her room, +Weaving, weaving at the loom. + + + + + + +THE CASKET OF OPALS + + +I + +Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea +Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery, +Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed. +Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent +In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent +Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows, +And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed; +All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there. +I think a tide of feeling through them flows +With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,-- +Some soul once human,--wandering, in the snare +Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed +In misty crystal here to lie entombed. + +And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep +The ardors and the moods and all the pain +That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave +These opals to the woman whom he loved; +And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain, +The rays of thought that through his spirit moved +Leap out from these mysterious forms again. + +The colors of the jewels laugh and weep +As with his very voice. In them the wave +Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep, +Bore him to misery or else made him blest +Still surges in melodious, wild unrest. +So when each gem in place I touch and take, +It murmurs what he thought or what he spake. + + +FIRST OPAL + + My heart is like an opal + Made to lie upon your breast + In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er + By endless joy's unrest. + + And forever it shall haunt you + With its mystic, changing ray: + Its light shall live when we lie dead, + With hearts at the heart of day! + + +SECOND OPAL + + If, from a careless hold, + One gem of these should fall, + No power of art or gold + Its wholeness could recall: + The lustrous wonder dies + In gleams of irised rain, + As light fades out from the eyes + When a soul is crushed by pain. + Take heed that from your hold + My love you do not cast: + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold-- + That day would be its last. + + +II + + +THIRD OPAL + +_He won her love; and so this opal sings +With all its tints in maze, that seem to quake +And leap in light, as if its heart would break:_ + +Gleam of the sea, +Translucent air, +Where every leaf alive with glee +Glows in the sun without shadow of grief-- +You speak of spring, +When earth takes wing +And sunlight, sunlight is everywhere! +Radiant life, +Face so fair-- +Crowned with the gracious glory of wife-- +Your glance lights all this happy day, +Your tender glow +And murmurs low +Make miracle, miracle, everywhere. + +Earth takes wing +With birds--do I care +Whether of sorrow or joy they sing? +No; for they make not my life nor destroy! +My soul awakes +At a smile that breaks +In sun; and sunlight is everywhere! + + +III + +_Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness; +As if he doubted whether he could bless +Her wayward spirit, through each fickle hour, +With love's serenity of flawless power, +Or she remain a vision, as when first +She came to soothe his fancy all athirst._ + + +FOURTH OPAL + +We were alone: the perfumed night, + Moonlighted, like a flower +Grew round us and exhaled delight + To bless that one sweet hour. + +You stood where, 'mid the white and gold, + The rose-fire through the gloom +Touched hair and cheek and garment's fold + With soft, ethereal bloom. + +And when the vision seemed to swerve, + 'T was but the flickering shine +That gave new grace, a lovelier curve, + To every dream-like line. + +O perfect vision! Form and face + Of womanhood complete! +O rare ideal to embrace + And hold, from head to feet! + +Could I so hold you ever--could + Your eye still catch the glow +Of mine--it were an endless good: + Together we should grow + +One perfect picture of our love!... + Alas, the embers old +Fell, and the moonlight fell, above-- + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold. + + +IV + +_What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say? + What tragedy of petty care and sorrow? +Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay, + Then those will know who live and love tomorrow. +But here at least is what this opal said, + The fifth in number: and the next two bore +My fancy toward that dim world of the dead, + Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er_: + + +FIFTH OPAL + +I dreamed my kisses on your hair +Turned into roses. Circling bloom +Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there. +"O Love," I cried, "forever +Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted +By my heart's deep honey-breath!" +But even as I bending looked, I saw +The roses were not; and, instead, there lay +Pale, feathered flakes and scentless +Ashes upon your hair! + + +SIXTH OPAL + +The love I gave, the love I gave, + Wherewith I sought to win you-- +Ah, long and close to you it clave + With life and soul and sinew! +My gentleness with scorn you cursed: + You knew not what I gave. +The strongest man may die of thirst: + My love is in its grave! + + +SEVENTH OPAL + +You say these jewels were accurst-- + With evil omen fraught. +You should have known it from the first! + This was the truth they taught: + +No treasured thing in heaven or earth + Holds potency more weird +Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth + With wavering flames insphered. + +And when from me the gems you took, + On that strange April day, +My nature, too, I gave, that shook + With passion's fateful play. + +The mingled fate my love should give + In these mute emblems shone, +That more intensely burn and live-- + While I am turned to stone. + + +V + +_Listen now to what is said +By the eighth opal, flashing red +And pale, by turns, with every breath-- +The voice of the lover after death._ + + +EIGHTH OPAL + +I did not know before + That we dead could rise and walk; +That our voices, as of yore, + Would blend in gentle talk. + +I did not know her eyes + Would so haunt mine after death, +Or that she could hear my sighs, + Low as the harp-string's breath. + +But, ah, last night we met! + From our stilly trance we rose, +Thrilled with all the old regret-- + The grieving that God knows. + +She asked: "Am I forgiven?"-- + "And dost thou forgive?" I said, +Ah! how long for joy we'd striven! + But now our hearts were dead. + +Alas, for the lips I kissed + And the sweet hope, long ago! +On her grave chill hangs the mist; + On mine, white lies the snow. + + +VI + +_Hearkening still, I hear this strain +From the ninth opal's varied vein:_ + + +NINTH OPAL + +In the mountains of Mexico, +Where the barren volcanoes throw +Their fierce peaks high to the sky, +With the strength of a tawny brute +That sees heaven but to defy, +And the soft, white hand of the snow +Touches and makes them mute,-- + +Firm in the clasp of the ground +The opal is found. +By the struggle of frost and fire +Created, yet caught in a spell +From which only human desire +Can free it, what passion profound +In its dim, sweet bosom may dwell! + +So was it with us, I think, +Whose souls were formed on the brink +Of a crater, where rain and flame +Had mingled and crystallized. +One venturous day Love came; +Found us; and bound with a link +Of gold the jewels he prized. + +The agonies old of the earth, +Its plenitude and its dearth, +The torrents of flame and of tears, +All these in our souls were inborn. +And we must endure through the years +The glory and burden of birth +That filled us with fire of the morn. + +Let the diamond lie in its mine; +Let ruby and topaz shine; +The beryl sleep, and the emerald keep +Its sunned-leaf green! We know +The joy of sufferings deep +That blend with a love divine, +And the hidden warmth of the snow! + + +TENTH OPAL + +Colors that tremble and perish, + Atoms that follow the law, +You mirror the truth which we cherish, + You mirror the spirit we saw. +Glow of the daybreak tender, + Flushed with an opaline gleam, +And passionate sunset-splendor-- + Ye both but embody a dream. +Visions of cloud-hidden glory + Breaking from sources of light +Mimic the mist of life's story. + Mingled of scarlet and white. +Sunset-clouds iridescent, + Opals, and mists of the day, +Are thrilled alike with the crescent + Delight of a deathless ray +Shot through the hesitant trouble + Of particles floating in space, +And touching each wandering bubble + With tints of a rainbowed grace. +So through the veil of emotion + Trembles the light of the truth; +And so may the light of devotion + Glorify life--age and youth. +Sufferings,--pangs that seem cruel,-- + These are but atoms adrift: +The light streams through, and a jewel + Is formed for us, Heaven's own gift! + + + + + + +LOVE THAT LIVES + + +Dear face--bright, glinting hair; + Dear life, whose heart is mine-- +The thought of you is prayer, + The love of you divine. + +In starlight, or in rain; + In the sunset's shrouded glow; +Ever, with joy or pain, + To you my quick thoughts go + +Like winds or clouds, that fleet + Across the hungry space +Between, and find you, sweet, + Where life again wins grace. + +Now, as in that once young + Year that so softly drew +My heart to where it clung, + I long for, gladden in you. + +And when in the silent hours + I whisper your sacred name, +Like an altar-fire it showers + My blood with fragrant flame! + +Perished is all that grieves; + And lo, our old-new joys +Are gathered as in sheaves, + Held in love's equipoise. + +Ours is the love that lives; + Its springtime blossoms blow +'Mid the fruit that autumn gives, + And its life outlasts the snow. + + + + + + + + +IV + + + + + + + + +BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + + +Over the mossy walls, +Above the slumbering fields +Where yet the ground no fruitage yields, +Save as the sunlight falls +In dreams of harvest-yellow, +What voice remembered calls,-- +So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow? + +A darting, azure-feathered arrow +From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet +The bluebird, springing light and narrow, +Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet: + +"Out of the South I wing, +Blown on the breath of Spring: +The little faltering song +That in my beak I bring +Some maiden shall catch and sing, +Filling it with the longing +And the blithe, unfettered thronging +Of her spirit's blossoming. + +"Warbling along +In the sunny weather, +Float, my notes, +Through the sunny motes, +Falling light as a feather! +Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land +'Mid hovering insects' hums; +Fall into the sower's hand: +Then, when his harvest comes, +The seed and the song shall have flowered together. + +"From the Coosa and Altamaha, +With a thought of the dim blue Gulf; +From the Roanoke and Kanawha; +From the musical Southern rivers, +O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf +Lies slain and buried in flowers; +I come to your chill, sad hours +And the woods where the sunlight shivers. +I come like an echo: 'Awake!' +I answer the sky and the lake +And the clear, cool color that quivers +In all your azure rills. +I come to your wan, bleak hills +For a greeting that rises dearer, +To homely hearts draws me nearer +Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. + +"I will charm away your sorrow, +For I sing of the dewy morrow: +My melody sways like the branches +My light feet set astir: +I bring to the old, as I hover, +The days and the joys that were, +And hope to the waiting lover! +Then, take my note and sing, +Filling it with the longing +And the blithe, unfettered thronging +Of your spirit's blossoming!" + +Not long that music lingers: +Like the breath of forgotten singers +It flies,--or like the March-cloud's shadow +That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow +Not long! And yet thy fleeting, +Thy tender, flute-toned greeting, +O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains +The purest chord in all the year's refrains. + + + + + + +THE VOICE OF THE VOID + + +I warn, like the one drop of rain +On your face, ere the storm; +Or tremble in whispered refrain + With your blood, beating warm. +I am the presence that ever +Baffles your touch's endeavor,-- +Gone like the glimmer of dust + Dispersed by a gust. +I am the absence that taunts you, +The fancy that haunts you; +The ever unsatisfied guess +That, questioning emptiness, +Wins a sigh for reply. + Nay; nothing am I, + But the flight of a breath-- + For I am Death! + + + + + + +"O WHOLESOME DEATH" + + +O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car + Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way + Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad array, +My deeds in long procession go, that are +As mourners of the man they helped to mar. + I see it all in dreams, such as waylay + The wandering fancy when the solid day +Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star, +Aloft there, with its steady point of light + Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep. +Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flight + Above my grave, still let my spirit keep +Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse, +'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse! + + + + + + +INCANTATION + + + When the leaves, by thousands thinned, +A thousand times have whirled in the wind, +And the moon, with hollow cheek, +Staring from her hollow height, +Consolation seems to seek +From the dim, reechoing night; +And the fog-streaks dead and white +Lie like ghosts of lost delight +O'er highest earth and lowest sky; +Then, Autumn, work thy witchery! + + Strew the ground with poppy-seeds, +And let my bed be hung with weeds, +Growing gaunt and rank and tall, +Drooping o'er me like a pall. +Send thy stealthy, white-eyed mist +Across my brow to turn and twist +Fold on fold, and leave me blind +To all save visions in the mind. +Then, in the depth of rain-fed streams +I shall slumber, and in dreams +Slide through some long glen that burns +With a crust of blood-red ferns +And brown-withered wings of brake +Like a burning lava-lake;-- +So, urged to fearful, faster flow +By the awful gasp, "Hahk! hahk!" of the crow, +Shall pass by many a haunted rood +Of the nutty, odorous wood; +Or, where the hemlocks lean and loom, +Shall fill my heart with bitter gloom; +Till, lured by light, reflected cloud, +I burst aloft my watery shroud, +And upward through the ether sail +Far above the shrill wind's wail;-- +But, falling thence, my soul involve +With the dust dead flowers dissolve; +And, gliding out at last to sea, +Lulled to a long tranquillity, +The perfect poise of seasons keep +With the tides that rest at neap. +So must be fulfilled the rite +That giveth me the dead year's might; +And at dawn I shall arise +A spirit, though with human eyes, +A human form and human face; +And where'er I go or stay, +There the summer's perished grace +Shall be with me, night and day. + + + + + + +FAMINE AND HARVEST + +[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622] + + +The strong and the tender, + The young and the old, +Unto Death we must render;-- + Our silver, our gold. + +To break their long sleeping + No voice may avail: +They hear not our weeping-- + Our famished love's wail. + +Yea, those whom we cherish + Depart, day by day. +Soon we, too, shall perish + And crumble to clay. + +And the vine and the berry + Above us will bloom; +The wind shall make merry + While we lie in gloom. + +Fear not! Though thou starvest, + Provision is made: +God gathers His harvest + When our hopes fade! + + + + + + +THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + + +Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, +How in the soft June days forever done +You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; +And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,-- +"Put me 'way up--'way, 'way up in blue sky"? + +I laughed and said I could not;--set you down, +Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown +Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by. +Another Father now, more strong than I, +Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. + + + + + + +THE FLOWN SOUL + +(FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP) + +FEBRUARY 6, 1881 + + +Come not again! I dwell with you +Above the realm of frost and dew, +Of pain and fire, and growth to death. +I dwell with you where never breath +Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows +From life to life, even as a rose +Unseen pours sweetness through each vein +And from the air distills again. +You are my rose unseen; we live +Where each to other joy may give +In ways untold, by means unknown +And secret as the magnet-stone. + +For which of us, indeed, is dead? +No more I lean to kiss your head-- +The gold-red hair so thick upon it; +Joy feels no more the touch that won it +When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm +In tenderness so childish, calm, +Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm +Is strong, and still my blood runs warm. +I still can work, and think and weep. +But all this show of life I keep +Is but the shadow of your shine, +Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; +Therefore, you are not dead, nor I +Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy. +Among the stars your feet are set; +Your little feet are dancing yet +Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth. +So swift, so slight are death and birth! + +Come not again, dear child. If thou +By any chance couldst break that vow +Of silence at thy last hour made; +If to this grim life unafraid +Thou couldst return, and melt the frost +Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost; +Still would I whisper--since so fair +This silent comradeship we share-- +Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain +Of tears: "Come not, come not again!" + + + + + + +SUNSET AND SHORE + + +Birds that like vanishing visions go winging, + White, white in the flame of the sunset's burning, +Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging, + Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, unreturning! + +Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing + Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must perish; +Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly blowing;-- + Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we cherish. + +Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest; + Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo replying; +Spirits may leave us that clung to us nearest:-- + Love, love, only love dwells with us undying! + + + + + + +THE PHOEBE-BIRD + +(A REPLY) + + +Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird. +Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard: +I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow +Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow +Strength from the other, making one more brave +And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. + +But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens: +One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence. +Our voices vary with the changing seasons +Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons. +Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered, +If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered. +We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain, +Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane, +With love and hate, or good and evil--all, +At separate times, in separate accents call; +Yet 't is the same heart-throb within the breast +That gives an impulse to our worst and best. +I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended, +The Listener finds them in one music blended. + + + + + + +A STRONG CITY + + + For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt hide +them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men. + + Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from the +contradiction of tongues. + + Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His wonderful +mercy to me in a fortified city.--_Psalm xxx._ + + + Beauty and splendor were on every hand: +Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes, +Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes +That smote the air with blackness, and devoured +The life of light, and choked the smiling world +Till it grew livid with a sudden age-- +The death of hope. + + O squandered happiness; +Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower! +The sky was holy, but the earth was not. + + Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since wretchedness +Of soul and body, for the mass of men, +Made them like dead leaves in an idle drift +Around the plough of progress as it drove +Sharp through the glebe of modern days, to plant +A civilized world. Ay; civilized--but not Christian! + + Civilization is a clarion voice +Crying in the wilderness; a prophet-word +Still unfulfilled. And lo, along the ways +Crowded with nations, there arose a strife; +Disturbance of men; tongues contradicting tongues; +Madness of noise, that scattered multitudes; +A trample of blind feet, beneath whose tread +Truth's bloom shrank withered; while incessant mouths +Howled "Progress! Change!"--as though all moods of change +Were fiats of truth eternal. + + 'Mid the din +Two pilgrims, faring forward, saw the light +In a strong city, fortified, and moved +Patiently thither. "All your steps are vain," +Cried scoffers. "There is mercy in the world; +But chiefly mercy of man to man. For we +Are good. We help our fellows, when we can. +Our charity is enormous. Look at these +Long rolls of rich subscriptions. We are good. +'T is true, God's mercy plays a part in things; +But most is left to us; and we judge well. +Stay with us in the field of endless war! +Here only is health. Yon city fortified +You dream of--why, its ramparts are as dust. +It gives no safety. One assaulting sweep +Of our huge cohorts would annul its power-- +Crush it in atoms; make it meaningless." + +The pilgrims listened; but onward still they moved. +They passed the gates; they stood upon a hill +Enclosed, but in that strong enclosure free! +Though earth opposed, they held the key to heaven. +On came the turbulent multitude in war, +Dashing against the city's walls; and swept +Through all the streets, and robbed and burned and killed. +The walls were strong; the gates were always open. +And so the invader rioted, and was proud. +But sudden, in seeming triumph, the enemy host +Was stricken with death; and still the city stayed. +Skyward the souls of its defenders rose, +Returning soon in mist intangible +That flashed with radiance of half-hidden swords; +And those who still assaulted--though they crept +Into the inmost vantage-points, with craft-- +Fell, blasted namelessly by this veiled flash, +Even as they shouted out, "The place is ours!" + + So those two pilgrims dwelt there, fortified +In that strong city men had thought so frail. +They died, and lived again. Fiercest attack +Was as a perfumed breeze to them, which drew +Their souls still closer unto God. And there +Beauty and splendor bloomed untouched. The stars +Spoke to them, bidding them be of good cheer, +Though hostile hordes rushed over them in blood. +And still the prayers of all that people rose +As incense mingled with music of their hearts. +For Christ was with them: angels were their aid. +What though the enemy used their open gates? +The children of the citadel conquered all +Their conquerors, smiting them with the pure light +That shone in that strong city fortified. + + + + + + +THREE DOVES + + +Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free; +At eve they circled back to me. +The first was Faith; the second, Hope; +The third--the whitest--Charity. + +Above the plunging surge's play +Dream-like they hovered, day by day. +At last they turned, and bore to me +Green signs of peace thro' nightfall gray. + +No shore forlorn, no loveliest land +Their gentle eyes had left unscanned, +'Mid hues of twilight-heliotrope +Or daybreak fires by heaven-breath fanned. + +Quick visions of celestial grace,-- +Hither they waft, from earth's broad space, +Kind thoughts for all humanity. +They shine with radiance from God's face. + +Ah, since my heart they choose for home, +Why loose them,--forth again to roam? +Yet look: they rise! with loftier scope +They wheel in flight toward heaven's pure dome. + +Fly, messengers that find no rest +Save in such toil as makes man blest! +Your home is God's immensity: +We hold you but at his behest. + + + + + + + + +V + + + + + + + + +ARISE, AMERICAN! + + +The soul of a nation awaking,-- + High visions of daybreak,--I saw; + A people renewed; the forsaking + Of sin, and the worship of law. + +Sing, pine-tree; shout, to the hoarser + Response of the jubilant sea! + Rush, river, foam-flecked like a courser; + Warn all who are honest and free! + +Our birth-star beckons to trial + The faith of the far-fled years, + Ere scorn was our share, and denial, + Or laughter for patriots' tears. + +And Faith shall come forth the finer, + From trampled thickets of fire, + And the orient open diviner + Before her, the heaven rise higher. + +O deep, sweet eyes, but severer + Than steel! See you yet, where he comes-- + Our hero? Bend your glance nearer; + Speak, Faith! For, as wakening drums, + +Your voice shall set his blood stirring; + His heart shall grow strong like the main + When the rowelled winds are spurring, + And the broad tides landward strain. + +O hero, art thou among us? + O helper, hidest thou, still? + Why hast thou no anthem sung us, + Why workest thou not our will? + + +For a smirk of the face, or a favor, + Still shelters the cheat where he crawls; + And the truth we began with needs braver + Upholders, and loftier walls. + +Too long has the land's soul slumbered + In wearying dreams of gain, + With prosperous falsity cumbered + And dulled with bribes, as a bane. + +Yes, cunning is civilized evil, + And crafty the gold-baited snare; + But virtue, in fiery upheaval, + May cast fine device to the air. + +Bring us the simple and stalwart + Purpose of earlier days. + Come! Far better than all were't-- + Our precepts, our pride, and our lays-- + +That the people in spirit should tremble + With heed of the God-given Word; + That we cease from our boast, nor dissemble, + But follow where truth's voice is heard. + +Come to us, mountain-dweller, + Leader, wherever thou art; + Skilled from thy cradle, a queller + Of serpents, and sound to the heart! + +Modest and mighty and tender; + Man of an iron mold; + Honest, fine-grained, our defender;-- + American-souled! + + + + + + +THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + +[Read before the Sons of the Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887] + + +Sons of the youth and the truth of the nation, + Ye that are met to remember the man +Whose valor gave birth to a people's salvation, + Honor him now; set his name in the van. + A nobleness to try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington. + +Calmly his face shall look down through the ages-- + Sweet yet severe with a spirit of warning; +Charged with the wisdom of saints and of sages; + Quick with the light of a life-giving morning. + A majesty to try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + +Though faction may rack us, or party divide us, + And bitterness break the gold links of our story, +Our father and leader is ever beside us. + Live, and forgive! But forget not the glory + Of him whose height we try for, + A name to live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + +Still in his eyes shall be mirrored our fleeting + Days, with the image of days long ended; +Still shall those eyes give, immortally, greeting + Unto the souls from his spirit descended. + His grandeur we will try for, + His name we 'll live and die for-- + The name of Washington! + + + + + + +GRANT'S DIRGE + + +I + + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march? + And what shall be the music of his dirge? + No single voice may chant the Nation's grief, + No formal strain can give its woe relief. + The pent-up anguish of the loyal wife, + The sobs of those who, nearest in this life, + Still hold him closely in the life beyond;-- + These first, with threnody of memories fond. +But look! Forth press a myriad mourners thronging, + With hearts that throb in sorrow's exaltation, +Moved by a strange, impassioned, hopeless longing + To serve him with their love's last ministration. + Make way! Make way, from wave-bound verge to verge + Of all our land, that this great multitude + With lamentation proud albeit subdued, +Deep murmuring like the ocean's mighty surge, +May pass beneath the heavens' triumphal arch! + + +II + + What is the sound we hear? +Never the fall of a tear; +For grief repressed +In every breast +More honors the man we revere. +Rising from East and West, +There echoes afar or near-- +From the cool, sad North and the burning South-- +A sound long since grown dear, +When brave ranks faced the cannon's mouth +And died for a faith austere: +The tread of marching men, +A steady tramp of feet +That never flinched nor faltered when +The drums of duty beat. +With sable hats whose shade +Falls from the cord of gold +On every time-worn face; +With tattered flags, in black enrolled, +Beneath whose folds they warred of old; +Forward, firmly arrayed, +With a sombre, martial grace; +So the Grand Army moves +Commanded by the dead, +Following him whose name it loves, +Whose voice in life its footsteps led. + + +III + +Those that in the combat perished,-- + Hostile shapes and forms of friends,-- +Those we hated, those we cherished, + Meet the pageant where it ends. +Flash of steel and tears forgiving + Blend in splendor. Hark, the knell! +Comrades ghostly join the living-- + Dreaming, chanting: "All is well." +They receive the General sleeping, + Him of spirit pure and large: +Him they draw into their keeping + Evermore, in faithful charge. + + +IV + +Pass on, O steps, with your dead, sad note! + For a people's homage is in the sound; +And the even tread, in measured rote, + As a leader is laid beneath the ground, + Rumors the hum of a pilgrim train + That shall trample the earth as tramples the rain, + Seeking the door of the hero's tomb, + Seeking him where he lies low in the gloom, + Paying him tribute of worker and mage, + Through age on age! + + +V + + Tall pine-tree on McGregor's height, +How didst thou grow to such a lofty bearing, +For song of bird or beat of breeze uncaring, +There where thy shadow touched the dying brow? +Were all thy sinewy fibres shaped aright? +Was there no flaw? With what mysterious daring +Didst thou put forth each murmuring, odorous bough +And trust it to the frail support of air? +We only know that thou art now supreme: +We know not how thou grewest so tall and fair. +So from the unnoticed, humble earth arose +The sturdy man whom we, bewailing, deem +Worthy the wondrous name fame's far voice blows. +And lo! his ancient foes +Rise up to praise the plan +Of modest grandeur, loyal trust, +And generous power from man to man, +That lifted him above the formless dust. +O heart by kindliness betrayed, +O noble spirit snared and strayed-- +Unmatched, upright thou standest still +As that firm pine-tree rooted on the hill! + + +VI + + No paragon was he, +But moulded in the rough +With every fault and scar +Ingrained, and plain for all to see: +Even as the rocks and mountains are, +Common perhaps, yet wrought of such true stuff +That common nature in his essence grew +To something which till then it never knew; +Ay, common as a vast, refreshing wind +That sweeps the continent, or as some star +Which, 'mid a million, shines out well-defined: +With honest soul on duty bent, +A servant-soldier, President; +Meekest when crowned with victory, +And greatest in adversity! + + +VII + + A silent man whom, strangely, fate +Made doubly silent ere he died, +His speechless spirit rules us still; +And that deep spell of influence mute, +The majesty of dauntless will +That wielded hosts and saved the State, +Seems through the mist our spirits yet to thrill. +His heart is with us! From the root +Of toil and pain and brave endurance +Has sprung at last the perfect fruit, +The treasure of a rich assurance +That men who nobly work and live +A greater gift than life may give; +Yielding a promise for all time, +Which other men of newer date +Surely redeem in deeds sublime. +Forerunner of a valiant race, +His voiceless spirit still reminds us +Of ever-waiting, silent duty: +The bond of faith wherewith he binds us +Shall hold us ready hour by hour +To serve the sacred, guiding power +Whene'er it calls, where'er it finds us, +With loyalty that, like a folded flower, +Blooms at a touch in proud, full-circled beauty. + + +VIII + + Like swelling river waves that strain, +Onward the people crowd +In serried, billowing train. +And those so slow to yield, +On many a hard fought field, +Muster together +Like a dark cloud +In summer weather, +Whose threatening thunders suddenly are stilled,-- +And all the world is filled +With smiling rest. Victory to him was pain, +Till he had won his enemies by love; +Had leashed the eagle and unloosed the dove; +Setting on war's red roll the argent seal of peace. +So here they form their solid ranks again, +But in no mood of hatred or disdain. +They say: "Thou who art fallen at last, +Beleaguered stealthily, o'ercome by death, +Thy conqueror now shall be magnanimous +Even as thou wast to us. +But not for thee can we blot out the past: +We would not, if we might, forget thy last +Great act of war, that with a gentle hand +Brought back our hearts unto the mighty mother, +For whose defence and honor armed we stand. +We hail thee brother, +And so salute thy name with holy breath!" + + +IX + + Land of the hurricane! +Land of the avalanche! +Land of tempest and rain; +Of the Southern sun and of frozen peaks; +Stretching from main to main;-- +Land of the cypress-glooms; +Land of devouring looms; +Land of the forest and ranch;-- +Hush every sound to-day +Save the burden of swarms that assemble +Their reverence dear to pay +Unto him who saved us all! +Ye masses that mourn with bended head, +Beneath whose feet the ground doth tremble +With weight of woe and a sacred dread-- +Lift up the pall +That to us shall remain as a warrior's banner! +Gaze once more on the fast closed eyes; +Mark once the mouth that never speaks; +Think of the man and his quiet manner: +Weep if you will; then go your way; +But remember his face as it looks to the skies, +And the dumb appeal wherewith it seeks +To lead us on, as one should say, "Arise-- +Go forth to meet your country's noblest day!" + + +X + +Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march? + And what shall be the music of his dirge? + Let generations sing, as they emerge +And pass beneath the heavens' trumphal arch! + + + + + + +BATTLE DAYS + + +I + +Veteran memories rally to muster + Here at the call of the old battle days: +Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster: + All the wild whirl of the fight's broken maze: +Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre, + Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the shell, +With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor, + And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel yell. +Stern was our task in the field where the reaping + Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men low: +Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping: + Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and flow. +Swift came the silence--our enemy hiding + Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night: +Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding; + Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their flight! +Hard and incessant the danger and trial, + Laid on our squadrons, that gladly bore all, +Scorning to meet with delay or denial + The summons that rang in the battle-days' call! + + +II + +Wild days that woke to glory or despair, + And smote the coward soul with sudden shame, +But unto those whose hearts were bold to dare + All things for honor brought eternal fame:-- + Lost days, undying days! + With undiminished rays + Here now on us look down, + Illumining our crown +Of leaves memorial, wet with tender dew + For those who nobly died +In fierce self-sacrifice of service true, + Rapt in pure fire of life-disdaining pride; +Men of this soil, who stood + Firm for their country's good, +From night to night, from sun to sun, + Till o'er the living and the slain +A woful dawn that streamed with rain + Wept for their victory dearly won. + + +III + +Days of the future, prophetic days,-- + Silence engulfs the roar of war; +Yet, through all coming years, repeat the praise + Of those leal comrades brave, who come no more! +And when our voices cease, + Long, long renew the chant, the anthem proud, +Which, echoing clear and loud + Through templed aisles of peace, +Like blended tumults of a joyous chime, +Shall tell their valor to a later time. +Shine on this field; and in the eyes of men +Rekindle, if the need shall come again, +That answering light that springs +In beaconing splendor from the soul, and brings +Promise of faith well kept and deed sublime! + + + + + + +KEENAN'S CHARGE + +[CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863] + +I + +The sun had set; +The leaves with dew were wet: +Down fell a bloody dusk +On the woods, that second of May, +Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, +Tore through, with angry tusk. + +"They've trapped us, boys!"-- +Rose from our flank a voice. +With a rush of steel and smoke +On came the rebels straight, +Eager as love and wild as hate; +And our line reeled and broke; + +Broke and fled. +No one stayed--but the dead! +With curses, shrieks, and cries, +Horses and wagons and men +Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, +And above us the fading skies. + +There's one hope, still-- +Those batteries parked on the hill! +"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar) +"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire +Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire +A bugle rings "Trot"--and no more. + +The horses plunged, +The cannon lurched and lunged, +To join the hopeless rout. +But suddenly rode a form +Calmly in front of the human storm, +With a stern, commanding shout: + +"Align those guns!" +(We knew it was Pleasonton's.) +The cannoneers bent to obey, +And worked with a will at his word: +And the black guns moved as if _they_ had heard. +But ah, the dread delay! + +"To wait is crime; +O God, for ten minutes' time!" +The General looked around. +There Keenan sat, like a stone, +With his three hundred horse alone, +Less shaken than the ground. + +"Major, your men?" +"Are soldiers, General." "Then, +Charge, Major! Do your best: +Hold the enemy back, at all cost, +Till my guns are placed;--else the army is lost. +You die to save the rest!" + + +II + +By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, +Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes +For an instant--clear, and cool, and still; +Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." + +"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank. +Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, +Rose joyously, with a willing breath--- +Rose like a greeting hail to death. + +Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; +Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd; +Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, +In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; +And above in the air, with an instinct true, +Like a bird of war their pennon flew. + +With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, +And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, +And strong brown faces bravely pale +For fear their proud attempt shall fail, +Three hundred Pennsylvanians close +On twice ten thousand gallant foes. + +Line after line the troopers came +To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame; +Rode in and sabred and shot--and fell; +Nor came one back his wounds to tell. +And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall, +In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall, +While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung +'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. + +Line after line, aye, whole platoons, +Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons +By the maddened horses were onward borne +And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn; +As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. + +So they rode, till there were no more to ride. + +But over them, lying there shattered and mute, +What deep echo rolls?--'T is a death-salute, +From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved +Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! + +Over them now--year following year-- +Over their graves the pine-cones fall, +And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call; +But they stir not again: they raise no cheer: +They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, +Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. +The rush of their charge is resounding still +That saved the army at Chancellorsville. + + + + + + +MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + + +"There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle + had shuddered and faded away, +Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only + ashes and blood-sprinkled clay-- +"Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where + the enemy's sharpshooters stood. +Lord, how they picked off our men, from the + treacherous vantage-ground of the wood! +But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent + them something as good. +Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell + me how many we killed. +Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance + was duly fulfilled." + +Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the + corn-field--scarred and forlorn, +Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the + shot that had plowed it in scorn; +Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight + of his comrades crushed at a blow, +Flung in broken shapes on the ground like + ruined memorials of woe: +These were the men whom at daybreak he knew, + but never again could know. +Thence to the ridge, where roots outthrust, and + twisted branches of trees +Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their + prey to seize. + +"What's your report?"--and the grim colonel + smiled when the orderly came back at last. +Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were + punished." And strange his face, aghast. +"Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty-- + laid out in line of parade. +Brave fellows, colonel, to stay as they did! But + one I 'most wish had n't stayed. +Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack; + and then at the end he prayed-- +Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped; + and the dull, dead fingers yet held +This little letter--his wife's--from the knapsack. + A pity those woods were shelled!" + +Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes + as his officer scanned +Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about + 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?" +Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier, + had gone from his bride to the strife; +Never they met again, but she had written him, + telling of that new life, +Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer + and closer to him as his wife. +Laying her baby's hand down on the letter, + around it she traced a rude line; +"If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you + must kiss this outline of mine." + +There was the shape of the hand on the page, + with the small, chubby fingers outspread. +"Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"--so the + words on the little palm said. +Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for + the vengeance so blindly fulfilled; +Never again woke the old battle-glow when the + bullets their death-note shrilled. +Long ago ended the struggle, in union of + brotherhood happily stilled; +Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and + token of love's command, +See! there is lifted the hand of a baby--Marthy + Virginia's hand! + + + + + + +GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + + +I + + Victors, living, with laureled brow, + And you that sleep beneath the sward! + Your song was poured from cannon throats: + It rang in deep-tongued bugle-notes: + Your triumph came; you won your crown, + The grandeur of a world's renown. + But, in our later lays, + Full freighted with your praise, +Fair memory harbors those whose lives, laid down + In gallant faith and generous heat, + Gained only sharp defeat. +All are at peace, who once so fiercely warred: +Brother and brother, now, we chant a common chord. + + +II + + For, if we say God wills, + Shall we then idly deny Him + Care of each host in the fight? + His thunder was here in the hills + When the guns were loud in July; + And the flash of the musketry's light + Was sped by a ray from God's eye. + In its good and its evil the scheme + Was framed with omnipotent hand, + Though the battle of men was a dream + That they could but half understand. + Can the purpose of God pass by him? + Nay; it was sure, and was wrought + Under inscrutable powers: + Bravely the two armies fought +And left the land, that was greater than they, still theirs and ours! + + +III + +Lucid, pure, and calm and blameless + Dawned on Gettysburg the day +That should make the spot, once fameless, + Known to nations far away. +Birds were caroling, and farmers + Gladdened o'er their garnered hay, +When the clank of gathering armors + Broke the morning's peaceful sway; +And the living lines of foemen + Drawn o'er pasture, brook, and hill, +Formed in figures weird of omen + That should work with mystic will +Measures of a direful magic-- + Shattering, maiming--and should fill +Glades and gorges with a tragic + Madness of desire to kill. +Skirmishers flung lightly forward + Moved like scythemen skilled to sweep +Westward o'er the field and nor'ward, + Death's first harvest there to reap. +You would say the soft, white smoke-puffs + Were but languid clouds asleep, +Here on meadows, there on oak-bluffs, + Fallen foam of Heaven's blue deep. +Yet that blossom-white outbreaking + Smoke wove soon a martyr's shroud. +Reynolds fell, with soul unquaking, + Ardent-eyed and open-browed: +Noble men in humbler raiment + Fell where shot their graves had plowed, +Dying not for paltry payment: + Proud of home, of honor proud. + + +IV + + Mute Seminary there, +Filled once with resonant hymn and prayer, +How your meek walls and windows shuddered then! + Though Doubleday stemmed the flood, + McPherson's Wood and Willoughby's Run + Saw ere the set of sun + The light of the gospel of blood. + And, on the morrow again, + Loud the unholy psalm of battle + Burst from the tortured Devil's Den, + In cries of men and musketry rattle + Mixed with the helpless bellow of cattle + Torn by artillery, down in the glen; + While, hurtling through the branches + Of the orchard by the road, + Where Sickles and Birney were walled with steel, + Shot fiery avalanches + That shivered hope and made the sturdiest reel. + Yet peach-bloom bright as April saw + Blushed there anew, in blood that flowed + O'er faces white with death-dealt awe; + And ruddy flowers of warfare grew, +Though withering winds as of the desert blew, + Far at the right while Ewell and Early, + Plunging at Slocum and Wadsworth and Greene, + Thundered in onslaught consummate and surly; + Till trembling nightfall crept between +And whispered of rest from the heat of the whelming strife. + But unto those forsaken of life + What has the night to say? + Silent beneath the moony sky, + Crushed in a costly dew they lie: + Deaf to plaint or paean, they:-- + Freed from Earth's dull tyranny. + + +V + +Wordless the night-wind, funereal plumes of the tree-tops swaying-- + Writhing and nodding anon at the beck of the unseen breeze! +Yet its voice ever a murmur resumes, as of multitudes praying: + Liturgies lost in a moan like the mourning of far-away seas. +May then those spirits, set free, a celestial council obeying, + Move in this rustling whisper here thro' the dark, shaken trees?-- +Souls that are voices alone to us, now, yet linger, returning + Thrilled with a sweet reconcilement and fervid with speechless desire? +Sundered in warfare, immortal they meet now with wonder and yearning, + Dwelling together united, a rapt, invisible choir: +Hearken! They wail for the living, whose passion of battle, yet burning, +Sears and enfolds them in coils, and consumes, like a serpent of fire! + + +VI + +Men of New Hampshire, Pennsylvanians, + Maine men, firm as the rock's rough ledge! +Swift Mississippians, lithe Carolinians + Bursting over the battle's edge! +Bold Indiana men; gallant Virginians; + Jersey and Georgia legions clashing;-- +Pick of Connecticut; quick Vermonters; + Louisianians, madly dashing;-- +And, swooping still to fresh encounters, + New-York myriads, whirlwind-led!-- +All your furious forces, meeting, + Torn, entangled, and shifting place, +Blend like wings of eagles beating + Airy abysses, in angry embrace. +Here in the midmost struggle combining-- + Flags immingled and weapons crossed-- +Still in union your States troop shining: + Never a star from the lustre is lost! + + +VII + +Once more the sun deploys his rays: +Third in the trilogy of battle-days + The awful Friday comes: + A day of dread, +That should have moved with slow, averted head + And muffled feet, +Knowing what streams of pure blood shed, +What broken hearts and wounded lives must meet + Its pitiless tread. +At dawn, like monster mastiffs baying, +Federal cannon, with a din affraying, +Roused the old Stonewall brigade, +That, eagerly and undismayed, +Charged amain, to be repelled + After four hours' bitter fighting, + Forth and back, with bayonets biting; +Where in after years, the wood-- +Flayed and bullet-riddled--stood +A presence ghostly, grim and stark, + With trees all withered, wasted, gray, + The place of combat night and day +Like marshaled skeletons to mark. +Anon, a lull: the troops are spelled. + No sound of guns or drums + Disturbs the air. +Only the insect-chorus faintly hums, + Chirping around the patient, sleepless dead +Scattered, or fallen in heaps all wildly spread; +Forgotten fragments left in hurried flight; + Forms that, a few hours since, were human creatures, + Now blasted of their features, + Or stamped with blank despair; +Or with dumb faces smiling as for gladness, + Though stricken by utter blight +Of motionless, inert, and hopeless sadness. +Fear you the naked horrors of a war? +Then cherish peace, and take up arms no more. + For, if you fight, you must + Behold your brothers' dust + Unpityingly ground down + And mixed with blood and powder, + To write the annals of renown + That make a nation prouder! + + +VIII + + All is quiet till one o'clock; + Then the hundred and fifty guns, + Metal loaded with metal in tons, + Massed by Lee, send out their shock. + And, with a movement magnificent, + Pickett, the golden-haired leader, +Thousands and thousands flings onward, as if he sent + Merely a meek interceder. + Steadily sure his division advances, + Gay as the light on its weapons that dances. + Agonized screams of the shell + The doom that it carries foretell: + Rifle-balls whistle, like sea-birds singing; + Limbs are severed, and souls set winging; + Yet Pickett's warriors never waver. + Show me in all the world anything braver + Than the bold sweep of his fearless battalions, + Three half-miles over ground unsheltered + Up to the cannon, where regiments weltered + Prone in the batteries' blast that raked + Swaths of men and, flame-tongued, drank + Their blood with eager thirst unslaked. + Armistead, Kemper, and Pettigrew + Rush on the Union men, rank against rank, + Planting their battle-flags high on the crest. + Pause not the soldiers, nor dream they of rest, + Till they fall with their enemy's guns at the breast +And the shriek in their ears of the wounded artillery stallions. + So Pickett charged, a man indued + With knightly power to lead a multitude + And bring to fame the scarred surviving few. + + +IX + + In vain the mighty endeavor; + In vain the immortal valor; + In vain the insurgent life outpoured! + Faltered the column, spent with shot and sword; + Its bright hope blanched with sudden pallor; +While Hancock's trefoil bloomed in triple fame. +He chose the field; he saved the second day; + And, honoring here his glorious name, +Again his phalanx held victorious sway. +Meade's line stood firm, and volley on volley roared +Triumphant Union, soon to be restored, +Strong to defy all foes and fears forever. + The Ridge was wreathed with angry fire + As flames rise round a martyr's stake; +For many a hero on that pyre + Was offered for our dear land's sake, + What time in heaven the gray clouds flew + To mingle with the deathless blue; + While here, below, the blue and gray + Melted minglingly away, +Mirroring heaven, to make another day. + And we, who are Americans, we pray + The splendor of strength that Gettysburg knew +May light the long generations with glorious ray, + And keep us undyingly true! + + +X + + Dear are the dead we weep for; + Dear are the strong hearts broken! + Proudly their memory we keep for + Our help and hope; a token + Of sacred thought too deep for + Words that leave it unspoken. + All that we know of fairest, + All that we have of meetest, + Here we lay down for the rarest + Doers whose souls rose fleetest + And in their homes of air rest, + Ranked with the truest and sweetest. +Days, with fiery-hearted, bold advances; + Nights in dim and shadowy, swift retreat; +Rains that rush with bright, embattled lances; + Thunder, booming round your stirless feet;-- +Winds that set the orchard with sweet fancies + All abloom, or ripple the ripening wheat; +Moonlight, starlight, on your mute graves falling; + Dew, distilled as tears unbidden flow;-- +Dust of drought in drifts and layers crawling; + Lulling dreams of softly whispering snow; +Happy birds, from leafy coverts calling;-- + These go on, yet none of these you know: + Hearing not our human voices + Speaking to you all in vain, + Nor the psalm of a land that rejoices, +Ringing from churches and cities and foundries a mighty refrain! +But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that blow +When tempests are striving and lightnings of heaven are spent, + With one consent + Make unto them + Who died for us eternal requiem. + + +XI + + Lovely to look on, O South, + No longer stately-scornful + But beautiful still in pride, +Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride! + Garmented soft in white, +Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender! +You stand before us with your gently mournful +Memory-haunted eyes and flower-like mouth, + Where clinging thoughts--as bees a-cluster + Murmur through the leafy gloom, + Musical in monotone-- + Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre + As of glowing gold-gray light + Shines upon the orient bloom, + Sweet with orange-blossoms, thrown + Round the jasmine-starred, deep night + Crowning with dark hair your brow. + Ruthless, once, we came to slay, + And you met us then with hate. + Rough was the wooing of war: we won you, + Won you at last, though late! + Dear South, to-day, + As our country's altar made us + One forever, so we vow + Unto yours our love to render: + Strength with strength we here endow, + And we make your honor ours. +Happiness and hope shall sun you: +All the wiles that half betrayed us + Vanish from us like spent showers. + + +XII + +Two hostile bullets in mid-air + Together shocked, + And swift were locked +Forever in a firm embrace. +Then let us men have so much grace + To take the bullets' place, + And learn that we are held + By laws that weld + Our hearts together! +As once we battled hand to hand, + So hand in hand to-day we stand, + Sworn to each other, + Brother and brother, +In storm and mist, or calm, translucent weather: +And Gettysburg's guns, with their death-giving roar, +Echoed from ocean to ocean, shall pour + Quickening life to the nation's core; + Filling our minds again + With the spirit of those who wrought in the + Field of the Flower of Men! + + + + + + + + +NOTES + + +[1] _Bride Brook_.--The colony of New London (now part of +Connecticut) was founded by John Winthrop, Jr., under the jurisdiction +of Massachusetts. One of the boundary lines was a stream flowing into +Long Island Sound, between the present city of New London and the +Connecticut River. In the snowy winter of 1646, Jonathan Rudd, who dwelt +in the settlement of Saybrook Fort, at the mouth of the Connecticut, +sent for Winthrop to celebrate a marriage between himself and a certain +"Mary" of Saybrook, whose last name has been lost. Winthrop performed +the ceremony on the frozen surface of the streamlet, the farthest limit +of his magistracy; and thereupon bestowed the name "Bride Brook," which +it still bears. + +[2] _The Bride of War_.--Jemima Warner, a Pennsylvania woman, was the +wife of one of Morgan's riflemen. She marched with the expedition; and, +when her husband perished of cold and exhaustion, she took his rifle and +equipments and herself carried them to Quebec, where she delivered them +to Arnold as a token of her husband's sacrifice, and proof that he was +not a deserter. + +Colonel Enos of Connecticut abandoned the column while it was struggling +through the Dead River region, with his whole force, the rear-guard, +numbering eight hundred men. But for this defection Arnold might have +triumphed in his assault on Quebec. It is a curious circumstance that, +with this traitor at the rear, and with Benedict Arnold at its head, the +little army also counted in its ranks Aaron Burr, whose treason was to +ripen after the war ended. + +[3] _The Sword Dham_.--Antar, the Bedouin poet-hero, was chief of the +tribe of Ghaylib. + +[4] _The Name of Washington_.--Read before the Sons of the +Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887, and adopted as the poem of the +Society. + +[5] _Marthy Virginia's Hand_.--This was an actual incident in the +experience of the late Colonel (formerly Captain) Albert J. Munroe. of +the Third Rhode Island Artillery, a gallant officer, gentle and brave as +well in peace as in war. + +[6] _Gettysburg: A Battle Ode_.--Written for the Society of the Army +of the Potomac, and read at its re-union with Confederate survivors on +the field of Gettysburg, July 3, 1888, the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of +the Battle. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Dreams and Days: Poems, by George Parsons Lathrop + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + +This file should be named drmda10.txt or drmda10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, drmda11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, drmda10a.txt + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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+ </p> + <p> + Strike hands for faith, and power<br> + To gladden the passing hour;<br> + To wield the sword, or raise a song;—<br> + To press the grape; or crush out wrong.<br> + And strengthen right.<br> + Give me the man of sturdy palm<br> + And vigorous brain;<br> + Hearty, companionable, sane,<br> + 'Mid all commotions calm,<br> + Yet filled with quick, enthusiastic fire;—<br> + Give me the man<br> + Whose impulses aspire,<br> + And all his features seem to say, "I can!" + </p> + <p> + Strike hands, young men!<br> + 'Tis yours to help rebuild the State,<br> + And keep the Nation great.<br> + With act and speech and pen<br> + 'Tis yours to spread<br> + The morning-red<br> + That ushers in a grander day:<br> + To scatter prejudice that blinds,<br> + And hail fresh thoughts in noble minds;<br> + To overthrow bland tyrannies<br> + That cheat the people, and with slow disease<br> + Change the Republic to a mockery.<br> + Your words can teach that liberty<br> + Means more than just to cry "We're free"<br> + While bending to some new-found yoke.<br> + So shall each unjust bond be broke,<br> + Each toiler gain his meet reward,<br> + And life sound forth a truer chord. + </p> + <p> + Ah, if we so have striven,<br> + And mutually the grasp have given<br> + Of brotherhood,<br> + To work each other and the whole race good;<br> + What matter if the dream<br> + Come only partly true,<br> + And all the things accomplished seem<br> + Feeble and few?<br> + At least, when summer's flame burns low<br> + And on our heads the drifting snow<br> + Settles and stays,<br> + We shall rejoice that in our earlier days<br> + We boldly then<br> + Struck hands, young men! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "O JAY!" + </h3> + <p> + O jay—<br> + Blue-jay!<br> + What are you trying to say?<br> + I remember, in the spring<br> + You pretended you could sing;<br> + But your voice is now still queerer,<br> + And as yet you've come no nearer<br> + To a song.<br> + In fact, to sum the matter,<br> + I never heard a flatter<br> + Failure than your doleful clatter.<br> + Don't you think it's wrong?<br> + It was sweet to hear your note,<br> + I'll not deny,<br> + When April set pale clouds afloat<br> + O'er the blue tides of sky,<br> + And 'mid the wind's triumphant drums<br> + You, in your white and azure coat,<br> + A herald proud, came forth to cry,<br> + "The royal summer comes!" + </p> + <p> + But now that autumn's here,<br> + And the leaves curl up in sheer<br> + Disgust,<br> + And the cold rains fringe the pine,<br> + You really must<br> + Stop that supercilious whine—-<br> + Or you'll be shot, by some mephitic<br> + Angry critic. + </p> + <p> + You don't fulfill your early promise:<br> + You're not the smartest<br> + Kind of artist,<br> + Any more than poor Blind Tom is.<br> + Yet somehow, still,<br> + There's meaning in your screaming bill.<br> + What <i>are</i> you trying to say? + </p> + <p> + Sometimes your piping is delicious,<br> + And then again it's simply vicious;<br> + Though on the whole the varying jangle<br> + Weaves round me an entrancing tangle<br> + Of memories grave or joyous:<br> + Things to weep or laugh at;<br> + Love that lived at a hint, or<br> + Days so sweet, they'd cloy us;<br> + Nights I have spent with friends;—<br> + Glistening groves of winter,<br> + And the sound of vanished feet<br> + That walked by the ripening wheat;<br> + With other things.... Not the half that<br> + Your cry familiar blends<br> + Can I name, for it is mostly<br> + Very ghostly;—<br> + Such mixed-up things your voice recalls,<br> + With its peculiar quirks and falls. + </p> + <p> + Possibly, then, your meaning, plain,<br> + Is that your harsh and broken strain<br> + Tallies best with a world of pain. + </p> + <p> + Well, I'll admit<br> + There's merit in a voice that's truthful:<br> + Yours is not honey-sweet nor youthful,<br> + But querulously fit.<br> + And if we cannot sing, we'll say<br> + Something to the purpose, jay! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE STAR TO ITS LIGHT + </h3> + <p> + "Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "Follow your fathomless flight!<br> + Into the dreams of space<br> + Carry the joy of my face.<br> + Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "Tell me the tale of your flight." + </p> + <p> + As the mandate rang<br> + The heavens through,<br> + Quick the ray sprang:<br> + Unheard it flew,<br> + Sped by the touch of an unseen spur.<br> + It crumbled the dusk of the deep<br> + That folds the worlds in sleep,<br> + And shot through night with noiseless stir. + </p> + <p> + Then came the day;<br> + And all that swift array<br> + Of diamond-sparkles died.<br> + And lo! the far star cried:<br> + "My light has lost its way!"<br> + Ages on ages passed:<br> + The light returned, at last. + </p> + <p> + "What have you seen,<br> + What have you heard—<br> + O ray serene,<br> + O flame-winged bird<br> + I loosed on endless air?<br> + Why do you look so faint and white?"—<br> + Said the star to its light. + </p> + <p> + "O star," said the tremulous ray,<br> + "Grief and struggle I found.<br> + Horror impeded my way.<br> + Many a star and sun<br> + I passed and touched, on my round.<br> + Many a life undone<br> + I lit with a tender gleam:<br> + I shone in the lover's eyes,<br> + And soothed the maiden's dream.<br> + But alas for the stifling mist of lies!<br> + Alas, for the wrath of the battle-field<br> + Where my glance was mixed with blood!<br> + And woe for the hearts by hate congealed,<br> + And the crime that rolls like a flood!<br> + Too vast is the world for me;<br> + Too vast for the sparkling dew<br> + Of a force like yours to renew.<br> + Hopeless the world's immensity!<br> + The suns go on without end:<br> + The universe holds no friend:<br> + And so I come back to you." + </p> + <p> + "Go," said the star to its light:<br> + "You have not told me aright.<br> + This you have taught: I am one<br> + In a million of million others—<br> + Stars, or planets, or men;—<br> + And all of these are my brothers.<br> + Carry that message, and then<br> + My guerdon of praise you have won!<br> + Say that I serve in my place:<br> + Say I will hide my own face<br> + Ere the sorrows of others I shun.<br> + So, then, my trust you'll requite.<br> + Go!"—said the star to its light. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES" + </h3> + <p> + The sunshine of thine eyes,<br> + (O still, celestial beam!)<br> + Whatever it touches it fills<br> + With the life of its lambent gleam. + </p> + <p> + The sunshine of thine eyes,<br> + O let it fall on me!<br> + Though I be but a mote of the air,<br> + I could turn to gold for thee! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + JESSAMINE + </h3> + <p> + Here stands the great tree still, with broad bent head;<br> + Its wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread<br> + With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves<br> + Strange garlands, now, amongst the darkening leaves.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine<br> + Walked with her lover long ago; and in<br> + The leaf-dimmed light he questioned, and she spoke;<br> + Then on them both, supreme, love's radiance broke.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone<br> + Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown,<br> + Gathering from each alike a perfect white,<br> + Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the elm</i>. + </p> + <p> + For this her sweetness Walt, her lover, sought<br> + To win her; wooed her here, his heart o'er fraught<br> + With fragrance of her being; and gained his plea.<br> + So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree."<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Yet dreams of conquering greater prize for her<br> + Roused his wild spirit with a glittering spur.<br> + Eager for wealth, far, far from home he sailed;<br> + And life paused;—while she watched joy vanish, + veiled.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Ah, better at the elm-tree's sunbrowned feet<br> + If he had been content to let life fleet<br> + Its wonted way!—lord of his little farm,<br> + In zest of joys or cares unmixed with harm.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + For, as against a snarling sea one steers,<br> + He battled vainly with the surging years;<br> + While ever Jessamine must watch and pine,<br> + Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Then silence fell; and all the neighbors said<br> + That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead:<br> + Unmoved in constancy, her tryst she kept,<br> + Each night beneath the tree, ere sorrow slept.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + So, circling years went by, till in her face<br> + Slow melancholy wrought a mingled grace,<br> + Of early joy with suffering's hard alloy—<br> + Refined and rare, no doom could e'er destroy.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine<br> + Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win<br> + The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused<br> + On love that so could live, with love refused.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + And none could hope for her. But she had grown<br> + Too high in love, for hope. She bloomed alone,<br> + Aloft in proud devotion; and secure<br> + Against despair; so sweet her faith, so sure.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Her wandering lover knew not well her soul.<br> + Discouraged, on disaster's changing shoal<br> + Stranding, he waited; starved on selfish pride,<br> + Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + But, bitterly repenting of his sin,<br> + Deeper at last he learned to look within<br> + Sweet Jessamine's true heart—when the past, dead,<br> + Mocked him with wasted years forever fled.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Late, late, oh late, beneath the tree stood two;<br> + In trembling joy, and wondering "Is it true?"—<br> + Two that were each like some strange, misty wraith:<br> + Yet each on each gazed with a living faith.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs + low in the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell:<br> + Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell.<br> + Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed,<br> + Beneath it many a year has she lain dead.<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in the + elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + Here stands the great tree, still. But age has crept<br> + Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept<br> + The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might<br> + The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite!<br> + <i>And the moon hangs low in + the elm.</i> + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE BOBOLINK + </h3> + <p> + How sweetly sang the bobolink,<br> + When thou, my love, wast nigh!<br> + His liquid music from the brink<br> + Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink,<br> + Far in the blue-domed sky. + </p> + <p> + How sadly sings the bobolink!<br> + No more my love is nigh:<br> + Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink<br> + Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,—<br> + Once more before I die! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SAILOR'S SONG, RETURNING + </h3> + <p> + The sea goes up; the sky comes down.<br> + Oh, can you spy the ancient town,—<br> + The granite hills so green and gray,<br> + That rib the land behind the bay?<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!<br> + Fair winds, boys: send her home!<br> + + O ye ho! + </p> + <p> + Three years? Is it so long that we<br> + Have lived upon the lonely sea?<br> + Oh, often I thought we'd see the town,<br> + When the sea went up, and the sky came down.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Even the winter winds would rouse<br> + A memory of my father's house;<br> + For round his windows and his door<br> + They made the same deep, mouthless roar.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + And when the summer's breezes beat,<br> + Methought I saw the sunny street<br> + Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand<br> + She gazed far out, far out from land.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed<br> + That I was with her. Then it seemed<br> + A single stride the ocean wide<br> + Had bridged, and brought me to her side.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + But though so near we're drawing, now,<br> + 'T is farther off—I know not how.<br> + We sail and sail: we see no home.<br> + Would that we into port were come!<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + At night, the same stars o'er the mast:<br> + The mast sways round—however fast<br> + We fly—still sways and swings around<br> + One scanty circle's starry bound.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Ah, many a month those stars have shone,<br> + And many a golden morn has flown,<br> + Since that so solemn, happy morn,<br> + When, I away, my babe was born.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + And, though so near we're drawing, now,<br> + 'T is farther off—I know not how:—<br> + I would not aught amiss had come<br> + To babe or mother there, at home!<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + 'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush<br> + The seas, beneath. I hear the crush<br> + Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow.<br> + Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings! + </p> + <p> + Patience, my mates! Though not this eve<br> + We cast our anchor, yet believe,<br> + If but the wind holds, short the run:<br> + We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun.<br> + O ye ho, boys. Spread her wings!<br> + Fair winds, boys: send her home!<br> + O ye ho! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + FIRST GLANCE + </h3> + <p> + A budding mouth and warm blue eyes;<br> + A laughing face; and laughing hair,—<br> + So ruddy was its rise<br> + From off that forehead fair; + </p> + <p> + Frank fervor in whate'er she said,<br> + And a shy grace when she was still;<br> + A bright, elastic tread;<br> + Enthusiastic will; + </p> + <p> + These wrought the magic of a maid<br> + As sweet and sad as the sun in spring;—<br> + Joyous, yet half-afraid<br> + Her joyousness to sing. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.9"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BRIDE BROOK + </h3> + <p> + Wide as the sky Time spreads his hand,<br> + And blindly over us there blows<br> + A swarm of years that fill the land,<br> + Then fade, and are as fallen snows. + </p> + <p> + Behold, the flakes rush thick and fast;<br> + Or are they years, that come between,—<br> + When, peering back into the past,<br> + I search the legendary scene? + </p> + <p> + Nay. Marshaled down the open coast,<br> + Fearless of that low rampart's frown,<br> + The winter's white-winged, footless host<br> + Beleaguers ancient Saybrook town. + </p> + <p> + And when the settlers wake they stare<br> + On woods half-buried, white and green,<br> + A smothered world, an empty air:<br> + Never had such deep drifts been seen! + </p> + <p> + But "Snow lies light upon my heart!<br> + An thou," said merry Jonathan Rudd,<br> + "Wilt wed me, winter shall depart,<br> + And love like spring for us shall bud." + </p> + <p> + "Nay, how," said Mary, "may that be?<br> + No minister nor magistrate<br> + Is here, to join us solemnly;<br> + And snow-banks bar us, every gate." + </p> + <p> + "Winthrop at Pequot Harbor lies,"<br> + He laughed. And with the morrow's sun<br> + He faced the deputy's dark eyes:<br> + "How soon, sir, may the rite be done?" + </p> + <p> + "At Saybrook? There the power's not mine,"<br> + Said he. "But at the brook we'll meet,<br> + That ripples down the boundary line;<br> + There you may wed, and Heaven shall see't." + </p> + <p> + Forth went, next day, the bridal train<br> + Through vistas dreamy with gray light.<br> + The waiting woods, the open plain,<br> + Arrayed in consecrated white, + </p> + <p> + Received and ushered them, along.<br> + The very beasts before them fled,<br> + Charmed by the spell of inward song<br> + These lovers' hearts around them spread. + </p> + <p> + Four men with netted foot-gear shod<br> + Bore the maid's carrying-chair aloft;<br> + She swayed above, as roses nod<br> + On the lithe stem their bloom-weight soft. + </p> + <p> + At last beside the brook they stood,<br> + With Winthrop and his followers;<br> + The maid in flake-embroidered hood,<br> + The magistrate well cloaked in furs, + </p> + <p> + That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath<br> + Of ample, throat-encircling ruff<br> + As white as some wind-gathered wreath<br> + Of snow quilled into plait and puff. + </p> + <p> + A few grave words, a question asked;<br> + Eyelids that with the answer fell<br> + Like falling petals;—form that tasked<br> + Brief time;—and so was wrought the spell! + </p> + <p> + Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said,<br> + "Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb<br> + The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped<br> + These lovers on their way. But, come, + </p> + <p> + "Henceforth forever be thou known<br> + By memory of this day's fair bride:<br> + So shall thy slender music's moan<br> + Sweeter into the ocean glide!" + </p> + <p> + Then laughed they all, and sudden beams<br> + Of sunshine quivered through the sky.<br> + Below the ice, the unheard stream's<br> + Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy; + </p> + <p> + And lo, a visionary blush<br> + Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild;<br> + And in her rapt and wintry hush<br> + The lonely face of Nature smiled. + </p> + <p> + Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite<br> + Is all that tender vision now;<br> + And, like lost snow-flakes in the night,<br> + Mute are the lovers as their vow. + </p> + <p> + And O thou little, careless brook,<br> + Hast thou thy tender trust forgot?<br> + Her modest memory forsook,<br> + Whose name, known once, thou utterest not? + </p> + <p> + Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy;<br> + In willow bough or alder bush<br> + Birds sing, o'er golden filigree<br> + Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush; + </p> + <p> + But none can tell us of that name<br> + More than the "Mary." Men still say<br> + "Bride Brook" in honor of her fame;<br> + But all the rest has passed away. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.10"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + MAY-ROSE + </h3> + <center> + <b>[FOR A BIRTHDAY: MAY 20]</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + On this day to life she came—<br> + May-Rose, my May-Rose!<br> + With scented breeze, with flowered flame,<br> + She touched the earth and took her name<br> + + Of May, Rose. + </p> + <p> + Here, to-day, she grows and flowers—<br> + May-Rose, my May-Rose.<br> + All my life with light she dowers,<br> + And colors all the coming hours<br> + + With May, Rose! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.11"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SINGING WIRE + </h3> + <p> + Ethereal, faint that music rang,<br> + As, with the bosom of the breeze,<br> + It rose and fell and murmuring + sang<br> + Aeolian harmonies! + </p> + <p> + I turned; again the mournful chords,<br> + In random rhythm lightly flung<br> + From off the wire, came shaped in + words;<br> + And thus meseemed, they + sung: + </p> + <p> + "I, messenger of many fates,<br> + Strung to the tones of woe or weal,<br> + Fine nerve that thrills and + palpitates<br> + With all men know or + feel,— + </p> + <p> + "Is it so strange that I should wail?<br> + Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,<br> + When in the pine-top wakes the + gale<br> + That breathes of coming + rain. + </p> + <p> + "There is a spirit in the post;<br> + It, too, was once a murmuring tree;<br> + Its withered, sad, imprisoned + ghost<br> + Echoes my melody. + </p> + <p> + "Come close, and lay your listening ear<br> + Against the bare and branchless wood.<br> + Can you not hear it crooning + clear,<br> + As though it + understood?" + </p> + <p> + I listened to the branchless pole<br> + That held aloft the singing wire;<br> + I heard its muffled music roll,<br> + And stirred with sweet + desire: + </p> + <p> + "O wire more soft than seasoned lute,<br> + Hast thou no sunlit word for me?<br> + Though long to me so coyly mute,<br> + Her heart may speak + through thee!" + </p> + <p> + I listened, but it was in vain.<br> + At first, the wind's old wayward will<br> + Drew forth the tearless, sad + refrain.<br> + That ceased; and all was + still. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly some kindling shock<br> + Struck flashing through the wire: a bird,<br> + Poised on it, screamed and flew; the + flock<br> + Rose with him; wheeled + and whirred. + </p> + <p> + Then to my soul there came this sense:<br> + "Her heart has answered unto thine;<br> + She comes, to-night. Go, speed thee + hence:<br> + Meet her; no more + repine!" + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the fancy was far-fetched;<br> + And yet, perhaps, it hinted true.<br> + Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was + stretched<br> + In mine, that gave + me—you! + </p> + <p> + And so more dear to me has grown<br> + Than rarest tones swept from the lyre,<br> + The minor movement of that moan<br> + In yonder singing wire. + </p> + <p> + Nor care I for the will of states,<br> + Or aught beside, that smites that string,<br> + Since then so close it knit our + fates,<br> + What time the bird took + wing! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.12"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE HEART OF A SONG + </h3> + <p> + Dear love, let this my song fly to you:<br> + Perchance forget it came from me.<br> + It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;<br> + But in your breast lie quietly. + </p> + <p> + Only beware, when once it tarries<br> + I cannot coax it from you, then.<br> + This little song my whole heart carries,<br> + And ne'er will bear it back again. + </p> + <p> + For if its silent passion grieve you,<br> + My heart would then too heavy grow;—<br> + And it can never, never leave you,<br> + If joy of yours must with it go! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.13"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SOUTH-WIND + </h3> + <p> + Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease<br> + (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is + made!)<br> + Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately + stayed<br> + 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these<br> + Loth blushes faint and maidenly:—rich breeze,<br> + Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade<br> + Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid<br> + The power to build or blight the fruit of trees,<br> + The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain. + </p> + <p> + Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe,<br> + Both measureless, but either counted gain<br> + Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow<br> + Like tides upon us of the self-same sea.<br> + Tears are the gems of joy and misery. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.14"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE LOVER'S YEAR + </h3> + <p> + Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve,<br> + My summer and my winter, spring and fall;<br> + For Nature left on thee a touch of all<br> + The moods that come to gladden or to grieve<br> + The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve<br> + From lagging sameness. So do these forestall<br> + In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall<br> + Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave. + </p> + <p> + Scenes that I love to me always remain<br> + Beautiful, whether under summer sun<br> + Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain.<br> + So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet + one:<br> + Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see<br> + Thy constant change is changeful constancy. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.15"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + NEW WORLDS + </h3> + <p> + With my beloved I lingered late one night.<br> + At last the hour when I must leave her came:<br> + But, as I turned, a fear I could not name<br> + Possessed me that the long sweet evening might<br> + Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight<br> + Should perish. What if death, ere dawn, should + claim<br> + One of us? What, though living, not the same<br> + Each should appear to each in morning-light? + </p> + <p> + Changed did I find her, truly, the next day:<br> + Ne'er could I see her as of old again.<br> + That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away,<br> + And let her beauty pour through every vein<br> + Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover<br> + With each new morn a new world may discover. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.16"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + NIGHT IN NEW YORK + </h3> + <p> + Haunted by unknown feet—<br> + Ways of the midnight hour!<br> + Strangely you murmur below me,<br> + Strange is your half-silent power.<br> + Places of life and of death,<br> + Numbered and named as streets,<br> + What, through your channels of stone,<br> + Is the tide that unweariedly beats?<br> + A whisper, a sigh-laden breath,<br> + Is all that I hear of its flowing.<br> + Footsteps of stranger and foe—<br> + Footsteps of friends, could we meet—<br> + Alike to me in my sorrow;<br> + Alike to a life left alone.<br> + Yet swift as my heart they throb,<br> + They fall thick as tears on the stone:<br> + My spirit perchance may borrow<br> + New strength from their eager tone. + </p> + <p> + Still ever that slip and slide<br> + Of the feet that shuffle or glide,<br> + And linger or haste through the populous waste<br> + Of the shadowy, dim-lit square!<br> + And I know not, from the sound,<br> + As I sit and ponder within,<br> + The goal to which those steps are bound,—<br> + On hest of mercy, or hest of sin,<br> + Or joy's short-measured round;<br> + Yet a meaning deep they bear<br> + In their vaguely muffled din. + </p> + <p> + Roar of the multitude,<br> + Chafe of the million-crowd,<br> + To this you are all subdued<br> + In the murmurous, sad night-air!<br> + Yet whether you thunder aloud,<br> + Or hush your tone to a prayer,<br> + You chant amain through the modern maze<br> + The only epic of our days. + </p> + <p> + Still as death are the places of life;<br> + The city seems crumbled and gone,<br> + Sunk 'mid invisible deeps—<br> + The city so lately rife<br> + With the stir of brain and brawn.<br> + Haply it only sleeps;<br> + But what if indeed it were dead,<br> + And another earth should arise<br> + To greet the gray of the dawn?<br> + Faint then our epic would wail<br> + To those who should come in our stead.<br> + But what if that earth were ours?<br> + What if, with holier eyes,<br> + We should meet the new hope, and not fail? + </p> + <p> + Weary, the night grows pale:<br> + With a blush as of opening flowers<br> + Dimly the east shines red.<br> + Can it be that the morn shall fulfil<br> + My dream, and refashion our clay<br> + As the poet may fashion his rhyme?<br> + Hark to that mingled scream<br> + Rising from workshop and mill—<br> + Hailing some marvelous sight;<br> + Mighty breath of the hours,<br> + Poured through the trumpets of steam;<br> + Awful tornado of time,<br> + Blowing us whither it will! + </p> + <p> + God has breathed in the nostrils of night,<br> + And behold, it is day! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.17"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SONG-SPARROW + </h3> + <p> + Glimmers gray the leafless thicket<br> + Close beside my garden gate,<br> + Where, so light, from post to picket<br> + Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate;<br> + Who, with meekly folded wing,<br> + Comes to sun himself and sing. + </p> + <p> + It was there, perhaps, last year,<br> + That his little house he built;<br> + For he seems to perk and peer,<br> + And to twitter, too, and tilt<br> + The bare branches in between,<br> + With a fond, familiar mien. + </p> + <p> + Once, I know, there was a nest,<br> + Held there by the sideward thrust<br> + Of those twigs that touch his breast;<br> + Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust<br> + Caught it, over-full of + snow,—<br> + Bent the bush,—and stole it + so. + </p> + <p> + Thus our highest holds are lost,<br> + In the ruthless winter's wind,<br> + When, with swift-dismantling frost,<br> + The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd<br> + Of their leafage, grow too cold<br> + For frail hopes of summer's mold. + </p> + <p> + But if we, with spring-days mellow,<br> + Wake to woeful wrecks of change,<br> + And the sparrow's ritornello<br> + Scaling still its old sweet range;<br> + Can we do a better thing<br> + Than, with him, still build and + sing? + </p> + <p> + Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed<br> + Thought in me beyond all telling;<br> + Shootest through me sunlight, seed,<br> + And fruitful blessing, with that welling<br> + Ripple of ecstatic rest<br> + Gurgling ever from thy breast! + </p> + <p> + And thy breezy carol spurs<br> + Vital motion in my blood,<br> + Such as in the sap-wood stirs,<br> + Swells and shapes the pointed bud<br> + Of the lilac; and besets<br> + The hollow thick with violets. + </p> + <p> + Yet I know not any charm<br> + That can make the fleeting time<br> + Of thy sylvan, faint alarm<br> + Suit itself to human rhyme:<br> + And my yearning rhythmic word<br> + Does thee grievous wrong, blithe + bird. + </p> + <p> + So, however thou hast wrought<br> + This wild joy on heart and brain,<br> + It is better left untaught.<br> + Take thou up the song again:<br> + There is nothing sad afloat<br> + On the tide that swells thy throat! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="I.18"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + I LOVED YOU, ONCE— + </h3> + <p> + And did you think my heart<br> + Could keep its love unchanging,<br> + Fresh as the buds that start<br> + In spring, nor know estranging?<br> + Listen! The buds depart:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + 'T is not the early love;<br> + With day and night it alters,<br> + And onward still must move<br> + Like earth, that never falters<br> + For storm or star above.<br> + I loved you once; but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + With gifts in those glad days<br> + How eagerly I sought you!<br> + Youth, shining hope, and praise:<br> + These were the gifts I brought you.<br> + In this world little stays:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + A child with glorious eyes<br> + Here in our arms half sleeping—<br> + So passion wakeful lies;<br> + Then grows to manhood, keeping<br> + Its wistful, young surprise:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + When age's pinching air<br> + Strips summer's rich possession,<br> + And leaves the branches bare,<br> + My secret in confession<br> + Still thus with you I'll share:<br> + I loved you once, but now—<br> + I love you more than ever. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE BRIDE OF WAR + </h3> + <center> + <b>(ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775)</b> + </center> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + The trumpet, with a giant sound,<br> + Its harsh war-summons wildly sings;<br> + And, bursting forth like mountain-springs,<br> + Poured from the hillside camping-ground,<br> + Each swift battalion shouting flings<br> + Its force in line; where you may see<br> + The men, broad-shouldered, heavily<br> + Sway to the swing of the march; their heads<br> + Dark like the stones in river-beds. + </p> + <p> + Lightly the autumn breezes<br> + Play with the shining dust-cloud<br> + Rising to the sunset rays<br> + From feet of the moving column.<br> + Soft, as you listen, comes<br> + The echo of iterant drums,<br> + Brought by the breezes light<br> + From the files that follow the road.<br> + A moment their guns have glowed<br> + Sun-smitten: then out of sight<br> + They suddenly sink,<br> + Like men who touch a new grave's brink! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + So it was the march began,<br> + The march of Morgan's + riflemen,<br> + Who like iron held the van<br> + In unhappy Arnold's plan<br> + To win Wolfe's daring + fame again.<br> + With them, by her husband's + side,<br> + Jemima Warner, nobly + free,<br> + Moved more fair than when, a + bride,<br> + One year since, she + strove to hide<br> + The blush it was a joy to see. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + O distant, terrible forests of Maine,<br> + With huge trees numberless as the rain<br> + That falls on your lonely lakes!<br> + (It falls and sings through the years, but wakes<br> + No answering echo of joy or pain.) + </p> + <p> + Your tangled wilderness was tracked<br> + With struggle and sorrow and vengeful act<br> + 'Gainst Puritan, pagan, and priest.<br> + Where wolf and panther and serpent ceased,<br> + Man added the horrors your dark maze lacked. + </p> + <p> + The land was scarred with deeds not good,<br> + Like the fretting of worms on withered wood.<br> + What if its venomous spell<br> + Breathed into Arnold a prompting of Hell,<br> + With slow empoisoning force indued? + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + As through that dreary realm he went,<br> + Followed a shape of dark portent:—<br> + Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain<br> + To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr,<br> + Moved loyal-seeming in the train,<br> + Led by the arch-conspirator.<br> + And craven Enos closed the rear,<br> + Whose honor's flame died out in fear.<br> + Not sooner does the dry bough burn<br> + And into fruitless ashes turn,<br> + Than he with whispered, false command<br> + Drew back the hundreds in his hand;<br> + Fled like a shade; and all forsook. + </p> + <p> + Wherever Arnold bent his look,<br> + Danger and doubt around him hung;<br> + And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung<br> + Black omens in his track, as though<br> + The fingers of a future woe<br> + Already clutched his life, to wring<br> + Some expiation for the thing<br> + That he was yet to do. A chill<br> + Struck helpless many a steadfast will<br> + Within the ranks; the very air<br> + Rang with a thunder-toned despair:<br> + The hills seemed wandering to and fro,<br> + Like lost guides blinded by the snow. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Yet faithful still 'mid woe and doubt<br> + One woman's loyal heart—whose pain<br> + Filled it with pure celestial light—<br> + Shone starry-constant like the North,<br> + Or that still radiance beaming forth<br> + From sacred lights in some lone fane.<br> + But he whose ring Jemima wore,<br> + By want and weariness all unstrung,<br> + Though strong and honest of heart and young,<br> + Shrank at the blast that pierced so frore—<br> + Like a huge, invisible bird of prey<br> + Furious launched from Labrador<br> + And the granite cliffs of Saguenay! + </p> + <p> + Along the bleak Dead River's banks<br> + They forced amain their frozen way;<br> + But ever from the thinning ranks<br> + Shapes of ice would reel and fall,<br> + Human shapes, whose dying prayer<br> + Floated, a mute white mist, in air;<br> + The crowding snow their pall. + </p> + <p> + Spectre-like Famine drew near;<br> + Her doom-word hummed in his ear:<br> + Ah, weak were woman's hands to reach<br> + And save him from the hellish charms<br> + And wizard motion of those arms!<br> + Yet only noble womanhood<br> + The wife her dauntless part could teach:<br> + She shared with him the last dry food<br> + And thronged with hopefulness her speech,<br> + As when hard by her home the flood<br> + Of rushing Conestoga fills<br> + Its depth afresh from springtide rills! + </p> + <p> + All, all in vain!<br> + For far behind the invading rout<br> + These two were left alone;<br> + And in the waste their wildest shout<br> + Seemed but a smothered groan.<br> + Like sheeted wanderers from the grave<br> + They moved, and yet seemed not to stir,<br> + As icy gorge and sere-leaf'd grove<br> + Of withered oak and shrouded fir<br> + Were passed, and onward still they strove;<br> + While the loud wind's artillery clave<br> + The air, and furious sleety rain<br> + Swung like a sword above the plain! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + They crossed the hills; they came to where<br> + Through an arid gloom the river Chaudiere<br> + Fled like a Maenad with outstreaming hair;<br> + And there the soldier sank, and died.<br> + Death-dumb he fell; yet ere life sped,<br> + Child-like on her knee he laid his head.<br> + She strove to pray; but all words fled<br> + Save those their love had sanctified. + </p> + <p> + And then her voice rose waveringly<br> + To the notes of a mother's lullaby;<br> + But her song was only "Ah, must thou die?"<br> + And to her his eyes death-still replied. + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + Dead leaves and stricken boughs<br> + She heaped o'er the fallen form—<br> + Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm<br> + Him from his rest should rouse;<br> + But first, with solemn vows,<br> + Took rifle, pouch, and horn,<br> + And the belt that he had worn.<br> + Then, onward pressing fast<br> + Through the forest rude and vast,<br> + Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd,<br> + Many bitter days she marched<br> + With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain;<br> + One thought always throbbing through her brain:<br> + "They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'—<br> + They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'" + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + Now the wilderness is passed;<br> + Now the first hut reached, at last. + </p> + <p> + Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail,<br> + Come forth and greet the bride of war!<br> + From cabin and rough settlement<br> + They come to speed her on her way—<br> + Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale<br> + With pity never felt before;<br> + Children that cluster at the door;<br> + Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent<br> + To help, or bid her longer stay.<br> + But through them all she passes on,<br> + Strangely martial, fair and wan;<br> + Nor waits to listen to their cheers<br> + That sound so faintly in her ears.<br> + For now all scenes around her shift,<br> + Like those before a racer's eyes<br> + When, foremost sped and madly swift,<br> + Quick stretching toward the goal he flies,<br> + Yet feels his strength wane with his breath,<br> + And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,— + </p> + <p> + Till, like the flashing of a lamp,<br> + Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,—<br> + The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam<br> + Of steel,—where, crouched, the army waits,<br> + Ere long, beyond the midnight stream,<br> + To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates. + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + Then to the leader she was brought,<br> + And spoke her simply loyal thought.<br> + If, 'mid the shame of after-days,<br> + The man who wronged his country's trust<br> + (Yet now in worth outweighed all praise)<br> + Remembered what this woman wrought,<br> + It should have bowed him to the dust!<br> + "Humbly my soldier-husband tried<br> + To do his part. He served,—and died.<br> + But honor did not die. His name<br> + And honor—bringing both, I came;<br> + And this his rifle, here, to show,<br> + While far away the tired heart sleeps,<br> + To-day his faith with you he keeps!" + </p> + <p> + Proudly the war bride, ending so,<br> + Sank breathless in the dumb white snow. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + A RUNE OF THE RAIN + </h3> + <p> + O many-toned rain!<br> + O myriad sweet voices of the rain!<br> + How welcome is its delicate overture<br> + At evening, when the moist and glowing west<br> + Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest. + </p> + <p> + At first it would allure<br> + The earth to kinder mood,<br> + With dainty flattering<br> + Of soft, sweet pattering:<br> + Faintly now you hear the tramp<br> + Of the fine drops, falling damp<br> + On the dry, sun-seasoned ground<br> + And the thirsty leaves, resound.<br> + But anon, imbued<br> + With a sudden, bounding access<br> + Of passion, it relaxes<br> + All timider persuasion.<br> + And, with nor pretext nor occasion,<br> + Its wooing redoubles;<br> + And pounds the ground, and bubbles<br> + In sputtering spray,<br> + Flinging itself in a fury<br> + Of flashing white away;<br> + Till the dusty road,<br> + Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed;<br> + And the grass, and the wide-hung trees,<br> + The vines, the flowers in their beds,—<br> + The virid corn that to the breeze<br> + Rustles along the garden-rows,—<br> + Visibly lift their heads,<br> + And, as the quick shower wilder grows,<br> + Upleap with answering kisses to the rain. + </p> + <p> + Then, the slow and pleasant murmur<br> + Of its subsiding,<br> + As the pulse of the storm beats firmer,<br> + And the steady rain<br> + Drops into a cadenced chiding!<br> + Deep-breathing rain,<br> + The sad and ghostly noise<br> + Wherewith thou dost complain—-<br> + Thy plaintive, spiritual voice,<br> + Heard thus at close of day<br> + Through vaults of twilight gray—<br> + Vexes me with sweet pain;<br> + And still my soul is fain<br> + To know the secret of that yearning<br> + Which in thine utterance I hear returning.<br> + Hush, oh hush!<br> + Break not the dreamy rush<br> + Of the rain:<br> + Touch not the marring doubt<br> + Words bring to the certainty<br> + Of its soft refrain;<br> + But let the flying fringes flout<br> + Their drops against the pane,<br> + And the gurgling throat of the water-spout<br> + Groan in the eaves amain. + </p> + <p> + The earth is wedded to the shower;<br> + Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + O many-toned rain!<br> + It hath caught the strain<br> + Of a wilder tune,<br> + Ere the same night's noon,<br> + When dreams and sleep forsake me,<br> + And sudden dread doth wake me,<br> + To hear the booming drums of heaven beat<br> + The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud,<br> + With an echoing loud,<br> + Bursts asunder<br> + At the sudden resurrection of the thunder;<br> + And the fountains of the air,<br> + Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere,<br> + To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + O myriad sweet voices of the rain!<br> + When the airy war doth wane,<br> + And the storm to the east hath flown,<br> + Cloaked close in the whirling wind,<br> + There's a voice still left behind<br> + In each heavy-hearted tree,<br> + Charged with tearful memory<br> + Of the vanished rain:<br> + From their leafy lashes wet<br> + Drip the dews of fresh regret<br> + For the lover that's gone!<br> + All else is still;<br> + Yet the stars are listening,<br> + And low o'er the wooded hill<br> + Hangs, upon listless wing<br> + Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud,<br> + Watching, like a bird of evil<br> + That knows nor mercy nor reprieval,<br> + The slow and silent death of the pallid moon. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + But soon, returning duly,<br> + Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely.<br> + To her vision pure and cold<br> + The night's wild tale is told<br> + On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool,<br> + The garden mold turned dark and cool,<br> + And the meadows' trampled acres.<br> + But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers!<br> + For now the moanings bitter,<br> + Left by the rain, make harmony<br> + With the swallow's matin-twitter,<br> + And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree.<br> + The infant morning breathes sweet breath,<br> + And with it is blent<br> + The wistful, wild, moist scent<br> + Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth:<br> + And behold!<br> + The last reluctant drop of the storm,<br> + Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm<br> + And turned to gold;<br> + For in its veins doth run<br> + The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BREAKERS + </h3> + <p> + Far out at sea there has been a storm,<br> + And still, as they roll their liquid acres,<br> + High-heaped the billows lower and glisten.<br> + The air is laden, moist, and warm<br> + With the dying tempest's breath;<br> + And, as I walk the lonely strand<br> + With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned<br> + By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers,<br> + Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling,<br> + Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling—<br> + Watch, and muse, and vainly listen<br> + To the inarticulate mumbling<br> + Of the hoary-headed deep;<br> + For who may tell me what it saith,<br> + Muttering, moaning as in sleep? + </p> + <p> + Slowly and heavily<br> + Comes in the sea,<br> + With memories of storm o'erfreighted,<br> + With heaving heart and breath abated,<br> + Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow,<br> + And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow. + </p> + <p> + Slowly and heavily<br> + Grows the green water-mound;<br> + But drawing ever nigher,<br> + Towering ever higher,<br> + Swollen with an inward rage<br> + Naught but ruin can assuage,<br> + Swift, now, without sound,<br> + Creeps stealthily<br> + Up to the shore—<br> + Creeps, creeps and undulates;<br> + As one dissimulates<br> + Till, swayed by hateful frenzy,<br> + Through passion grown immense, he<br> + Bursts forth hostilely;<br> + And rising, a smooth billow—<br> + Its swelling, sunlit dome<br> + Thinned to a tumid ledge<br> + With keen, curved edge<br> + Like the scornful curl<br> + Of lips that snarl—<br> + O'ertops itself and breaks<br> + Into a raving foam;<br> + So springs upon the shore<br> + With a hungry roar;<br> + Its first fierce anger slakes<br> + On the stony shallow;<br> + And runs up on the land,<br> + Licking the smooth, hard sand,<br> + Relentless, cold, yet wroth;<br> + And dies in savage froth. + </p> + <p> + Then with its backward swirl<br> + The sands and the stones, how they whirl!<br> + O, fiercely doth it draw<br> + Them to its chasm'd maw,<br> + And against it in vain<br> + They linger and strain;<br> + And as they slip away<br> + Into the seething gray<br> + Fill all the thunderous air<br> + With the horror of their despair,<br> + And their wild terror wreak<br> + In one hoarse, wailing shriek. + </p> + <p> + But scarce is this done,<br> + When another one<br> + Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun,<br> + And sucks away the shore<br> + As that did before:<br> + And another shall smother it o'er. + </p> + <p> + Then there's a lull—a half-hush;<br> + And forward the little waves rush,<br> + Toppling and hurrying,<br> + Each other worrying,<br> + And in their haste<br> + Run to waste. + </p> + <p> + Yet again is heard the trample<br> + Of the surges high and ample:<br> + Their dreadful meeting—<br> + The wild and sudden breaking—<br> + The dinting, and battering, and beating,<br> + And swift forsaking. + </p> + <p> + And ever they burst and boom,<br> + A numberless host;<br> + Like heralds of doom<br> + To the trembling coast;<br> + And ever the tangled spray<br> + Is tossed from the fierce affray,<br> + And, as with spectral arms<br> + That taunt and beckon and mock,<br> + And scatter vague alarms,<br> + Clasps and unclasps the rock;<br> + Listlessly over it wanders;<br> + Moodily, madly maunders,<br> + And hissingly falls<br> + From the glistening walls. + </p> + <p> + So all day along the shore<br> + Shout the breakers, green and hoar,<br> + Weaving out their weird tune;<br> + Till at night the full moon<br> + Weds the dark with that ring<br> + Of gold that you see her fling<br> + On the misty air.<br> + Then homeward slow returning<br> + To slumbers deep I fare,<br> + Filled with an infinite yearning,<br> + With thoughts that rise and fall<br> + To the sound of the sea's hollow call,<br> + Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach<br> + Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach,<br> + To scatter a spray on my dreams;<br> + Till the slow and measured rote<br> + Brings a drowsy ease<br> + To my spirit, and seems<br> + To set it soothingly afloat<br> + On broad and buoyant seas<br> + Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge<br> + Of the melancholy surge. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO + </h3> + <p> + "Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to + say.<br> + Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day,<br> + If you'd been here. Now,—he's gone away.<br> + Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use<br> + If you'd called here earlier. His excuse<br> + Always was, whenever folks would ask him<br> + Where he hailed from, an' <i>would</i> tease an' task + him;—<br> + What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know." + </p> + <p> + That was truth. He came here long ago;<br> + But, before that, he'd been born somewhere:<br> + The conundrum started first, right there.<br> + Little shaver—afore he knew his name<br> + Or the place from whereabouts he came—<br> + On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him.<br> + Killed the old folks! But this cus'—they brought + him<br> + Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows.<br> + So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows:<br> + They was merciful;—treated him real good;<br> + Brought him up to man's age well's they could.<br> + Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad,<br> + For all they used him so, went to the bad:<br> + Leastways left the red men, that he knew,<br> + 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;—<br> + Goldarned white folks that he never saw.<br> + Queerest thing was—though he loved a squaw,<br> + 'T was on her account he planned escape;<br> + Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape<br> + With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while;<br> + Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile,<br> + Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well,<br> + <i>I</i> ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell. + </p> + <p> + Bocanegra—Spanish term—I've + heard<br> + Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird,<br> + Known as Bocanegra, gave his life<br> + Most for others. First, he saved his wife;<br> + Her I spoke of;—nothin' but a squaw.<br> + You might wonder by what sort of law<br> + He, a white man born, should come to love her.<br> + But 't was somehow so: he <i>did</i> discover<br> + Beauty in her, of the holding kind.<br> + Some men love the light, an' some the shade.<br> + Round that little Indian girl there played<br> + Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark<br> + Under trees; yet now an' then a spark,<br> + Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes,<br> + Made you think of summer-midnight skies.<br> + She was faithful, too, like midnight stars.<br> + As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars<br> + Made by wounds he suffered for her sake,<br> + You'd have called <i>him</i> true, and no mistake. + </p> + <p> + Growin' up a man, he scarcely met<br> + Other white folks; an' his heart was set<br> + On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait.<br> + You must never be my wedded mate<br> + Till we reach the white man's country. There,<br> + Everything that's done is fair and square."<br> + Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt,<br> + Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout<br> + Some safe track. He told her: "You go first.<br> + All my joy goes with you:—that's the worst!<br> + But <i>I</i> wait, to guard or hide the trail." + </p> + <p> + Indians caught him; an' they gave + him—hail;<br> + Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding;<br> + Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding.<br> + "Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood!<br> + Either that, or grind you into mud;<br> + Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see<br> + Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be?<br> + Tell us where she's hid." + </p> + <p> + + "I'll show the way,"<br> + Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day,<br> + Till they come straight out beside the brink<br> + Of a precipice that seems to sink<br> + Into everlasting gulfs below.<br> + "Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow."<br> + Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap,<br> + Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;—<br> + Jumped out into space beyond the edge,<br> + While the Apaches cowered along the ledge.<br> + Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff!<br> + Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough.<br> + Indians called him a dead antelope;<br> + But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope<br> + Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush.<br> + <i>Their</i> hand was beat hollow: <i>he</i> held a flush. + </p> + <p> + Day and night he limped or crawled along:<br> + Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song<br> + (So he told me, once) that gave him hope.<br> + Every time he saw a shadow grope<br> + Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud,<br> + Something touched his heart that made him proud:<br> + Seemed to him he saw her dusky face<br> + Watching over him, from place to place.<br> + Every time the dry leaves rustled near,<br> + Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!" + </p> + <p> + So at last he found her:—they were + married.<br> + But, from those days on, he always carried<br> + Marks of madness; actually—yes!—<br> + Trusted the good faith of these U. S. + </p> + <p> + Indian hate an' deviltry he braved;<br> + 'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved.<br> + Just for that, his name should be engraved.<br> + But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads<br> + Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads. + </p> + <p> + All the while, his wife—tho' half + despised<br> + By the frontier folks that civilized<br> + An' converted her—served by his side,<br> + Helping faithfully, until she died.<br> + Left alone, he lay awake o' nights,<br> + Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites.<br> + Then he thought of her, and Indian people;<br> + Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple,<br> + Just how Christian our great nation's been<br> + Toward those native tribes so full of sin.<br> + When he counted all the wrongs we've done<br> + To the wild men of the setting sun,<br> + Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair.<br> + When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there.<br> + U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots,<br> + But at last it closed accounts with shots.<br> + Mouth was black, perhaps;—but <i>he</i> was white.<br> + Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite:<br> + Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show<br> + 'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow. + </p> + <p> + Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side:<br> + Honestly for years an' years he tried<br> + Getting justice for the Indians. He,<br> + Risking life an' limb for you an' me;—<br> + He, the man who proved his good intent<br> + By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant<br> + He would die for us,—turned round an' said:<br> + "White men have been saved. Now, save the red!"<br> + But it didn't pan out. No one would hark.<br> + "Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark,"<br> + Said our folks. And—no, he wa'n't resigned,<br> + But concluded he had missed his find. + </p> + <p> + "<i>Where</i> is Blackmouth?" That I can't + decide.<br> + Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve;<br> + But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve.<br> + Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride:<br> + Gave his life for others, far 's he could,<br> + Hoping it would do 'em some small good.<br> + Didn't seem to be much use. An' so—<br> + Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow,<br> + Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say.<br> + Looks as though he had quit work, to stay.<br> + Bullet in the breast.—His <i>body</i> 's there;<br> + But poor Blackmouth's gone—I don't know where! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CHILD YEAR + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + "Dying of hunger and sorrow:<br> + I die for my youth I fear!"<br> + Murmured the midnight-haunting<br> + Voice of the stricken Year. + </p> + <p> + There like a child it perished<br> + In the stormy thoroughfare:<br> + The snow with cruel whiteness<br> + Had aged its flowing hair. + </p> + <p> + Ah, little Year so fruitful,<br> + Ah, child that brought us bliss,<br> + Must we so early lose you—<br> + Our dear hopes end in this? + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + "Too young am I, too tender,<br> + To bear earth's avalanche<br> + Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope,<br> + And makes my heart's-blood blanch. + </p> + <p> + "Tell him who soon shall follow<br> + Where my tired feet have bled,<br> + He must be older, shrewder,<br> + Hard, cold, and selfish-bred— + </p> + <p> + "Or else like me be trampled<br> + Under the harsh world's heel.<br> + 'Tis weakness to be youthful;<br> + 'Tis death to love and feel." + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Then saw I how the New Year<br> + Came like a scheming man,<br> + With icy eyes, his forehead<br> + Wrinkled by care and plan + </p> + <p> + For trade and rule and profit.<br> + To him the fading child<br> + Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!"<br> + But died even while it smiled. + </p> + <p> + Down bent the harsh new-comer<br> + To lift with loving arm<br> + The wanderer mute and fallen;<br> + And lo! his eyes were warm; + </p> + <p> + All changed he grew; the wrinkles<br> + Vanished: he, too, looked young—<br> + As if that lost child's spirit<br> + Into his breast had sprung. + </p> + <p> + So are those lives not wasted,<br> + Too frail to bear the fray.<br> + So Years may die, yet leave us<br> + Young hearts in a world grown gray. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + CHRISTENING + </h3> + <p> + To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,—<br> + Where soft lights rippled and the shadows + tarried<br> + Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,—<br> + Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; + </p> + <p> + White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower;<br> + White as the daisies that adorned the + chancel;<br> + Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower,<br> + Offered to God as her most precious hansel. + </p> + <p> + Then ceased the music, and the little one<br> + Was silent, with the multitude assembled<br> + Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son<br> + He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and + trembled. + </p> + <p> + But she, the child, knew not the solemn words,<br> + And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing,<br> + As helpless as the cry of frightened birds<br> + Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. + </p> + <p> + How much the same, I thought, with older folk!<br> + The blessing falls: we call it tribulation,<br> + And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke,<br> + Even at the moment of our consecration. + </p> + <p> + Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form<br> + Of dream or doctrine,—or of + unbelieving,—<br> + A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm<br> + Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; + </p> + <p> + A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite<br> + Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest + meaning<br> + Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light<br> + Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. + </p> + <p> + Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends<br> + This weakling cry of children in our + churches<br> + With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends<br> + To Him who hearts of men and children searches; + </p> + <p> + Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again,<br> + Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested,<br> + Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain:<br> + And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance + rested. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THANKSGIVING TURKEY + </h3> + <p> + Valleys lay in sunny vapor,<br> + And a radiance mild was shed<br> + From each tree that like a taper<br> + At a feast stood. Then we said,<br> + "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread,<br> + Of good + Thanksgiving turkey." + </p> + <p> + And already still November<br> + Drapes her snowy table here.<br> + Fetch a log, then; coax the ember;<br> + Fill your hearts with old-time cheer;<br> + Heaven be thanked for one more year,<br> + And our + Thanksgiving turkey! + </p> + <p> + Welcome, brothers—all our party<br> + Gathered in the homestead old!<br> + Shake the snow off and with hearty<br> + Hand-shakes drive away the cold;<br> + Else your plate you'll hardly hold<br> + Of good + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + When the skies are sad and murky,<br> + 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet<br> + Round this homely roast of turkey—<br> + Pilgrims, pausing just to greet,<br> + Then, with earnest grace, to eat<br> + A new + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + And the merry feast is freighted<br> + With its meanings true and deep.<br> + Those we've loved and those we've hated,<br> + All, to-day, the rite will keep,<br> + All, to-day, their dishes heap<br> + With plump + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + But how many hearts must tingle<br> + Now with mournful memories!<br> + In the festal wine shall mingle<br> + Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes<br> + That look beyond the board where lies<br> + Our plain + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + See around us, drawing nearer,<br> + Those faint yearning shapes of air—<br> + Friends than whom earth holds none dearer!<br> + No—alas! they are not there:<br> + Have they, then, forgot to share<br> + Our good + Thanksgiving turkey? + </p> + <p> + Some have gone away and tarried<br> + Strangely long by some strange wave;<br> + Some have turned to foes; we carried<br> + Some unto the pine-girt grave:<br> + They 'll come no more so joyous-brave<br> + To take + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + Nay, repine not. Let our laughter<br> + Leap like firelight up again.<br> + Soon we touch the wide Hereafter,<br> + Snow-field yet untrod of men:<br> + Shall we meet once more—and + when?—<br> + To eat + Thanksgiving turkey. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="II.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BEFORE THE SNOW + </h3> + <p> + Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare<br> + Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves,<br> + Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.<br> + Flutter away from the old forest's eaves. + </p> + <p> + Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,<br> + Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately + shed,<br> + My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,<br> + By thronging fancies wild and wistful led. + </p> + <p> + Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago<br> + The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the + grain!<br> + How soon death settles on us, and the snow<br> + Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain! + </p> + <p> + Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood<br> + Of that which makes moods dear,—some shoot + of spring<br> + Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood<br> + We walked in,—memory's rare environing. + </p> + <p> + And, though they die, the seasons only take<br> + A ruined substance. All that's best remains<br> + In the essential vision that can make<br> + One light for life, love, death, their joys, + their pains. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + YOUTH TO THE POET + </h3> + <center> + <b>(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth,<br> + Affinity between two forms of truth!—<br> + As if the dawn and sunset watched each other,<br> + Like and unlike as children of one mother<br> + And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes<br> + Of young men see the prophecy arise<br> + Of what their lives shall be when all is told;<br> + And, in the far-off glow of years called old,<br> + Those other eyes look back to catch a trace<br> + Of what was once their own unshadowed grace.<br> + But here in our dear poet both are blended—<br> + Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;—<br> + Even as his song the willowy scent of spring<br> + Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing,<br> + And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun,<br> + In strains that ever delicately run;<br> + So musical and wise, page after page,<br> + The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage.<br> + The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers,<br> + And day-break glory haunts his evening hours.<br> + Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral:<br> + That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel,<br> + Which—smiling not, but trembling at the + touch—<br> + Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much. + </p> + <p> + EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE SWORD DHAM + </h3> + <p> + "How shall we honor the man who creates?"<br> + Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet + Antar;—<br> + "Who unto the truth flings open our gates,<br> + Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a + star;<br> + Or forges with craft of his finger and brain<br> + Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain;<br> + Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall<br> + wander forever undying? + </p> + <p> + "See! His reward is in envies and hates;<br> + In lips that deny, or in stabs that may + kill."<br> + "Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits<br> + Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill,<br> + Sure that no utmost devotion can fail,<br> + Offered to <i>you</i>, nor unfriended assail<br> + The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose<br> + fame is undying!" + </p> + <p> + "Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar,<br> + It is I who would serve you! I know, by the + soul<br> + Of the poet within you, no envy can bar<br> + The stream of your gratitude,—once let it + roll.<br> + Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew,<br> + <i>I</i> caught, and wrought in this sword-blade + for you;—<br> + Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or<br> + depart from undying." + </p> + <p> + Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift + rain,—Gratitude's<br> + glittering drops,—as he threw<br> + One shining arm round the smith, like a chain.<br> + Closer the man to his bosom he drew;<br> + Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt."<br> + "Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet:<br> + "I knew the sword Dham would unite me with<br> + you in an honor undying." + </p> + <p> + "So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will<br> + Silently over the sword's edge played.<br> + —"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, + still:<br> + Who is the smiter, shall smite with this + blade?"<br> + Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke.<br> + "<i>I</i> am the smiter!" Antar cried. One + stroke<br> + Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave<br> + him remembrance undying. + </p> + <p> + "Seek now who may, no search will avail:<br> + No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"<br> + Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail:<br> + "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend + alone<br> + Able to honor the man who creates.<br> + I slew him—<i>I</i>, who am poet! O + fates,<br> + Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall<br> + make them undying!" + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "AT THE GOLDEN GATE" + </h3> + <p> + Before the golden gate she stands,<br> + With drooping head, with idle hands<br> + Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight<br> + Of unseen woe. Too late, too late!<br> + Those carved and fretted,<br> + Starred, resetted<br> + Panels shall not open ever<br> + To her who seeks the perfect mate. + </p> + <p> + Only the tearless enter there:<br> + Only the soul that, like a prayer,<br> + No bolt can stay, no wall may bar,<br> + Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.<br> + No door of cedar,<br> + Alas, shall lead her<br> + Unto the stream that shows forever<br> + Love's face like some reflected star! + </p> + <p> + They say that golden barrier hides<br> + A realm where deathless spring abides;<br> + Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats<br> + Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes—<br> + 'Mid dewy alleys<br> + That gird the palace,<br> + And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver—<br> + A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes. + </p> + <p> + The sultan lord knew not her name;<br> + But to the door that fair shape came:<br> + The hour had struck, the way was right,<br> + Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light.<br> + But ah, whose error<br> + Has brought this terror?<br> + Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor?<br> + The gate swings to: her hope takes flight. + </p> + <p> + The harp, the song, the nightingales<br> + She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails<br> + Without, to sound of feast within,<br> + While here she stands, shut out by sin.<br> + And be that revel<br> + Of angel or devil,<br> + She longs to sit beside the giver,<br> + That she at last her prize may win. + </p> + <p> + Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet;<br> + Frozen she stands, she lingers yet;<br> + But through the garden's gladness steals<br> + A whisper that each heart congeals—<br> + A moan of grieving<br> + Beyond relieving,<br> + Which makes the proudest of them shiver.<br> + And suddenly the sultan kneels! + </p> + <p> + The lamp was quenched; he found her dead,<br> + When dawn had turned the threshold red.<br> + Her face was calm and sad as fate:<br> + His sin, not hers, made her too late.<br> + Some + think, unbidden<br> + She + brought him, hidden,<br> + A truer bliss that came back never<br> + To him, unblest, who closed the gate. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + CHARITY + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands<br> + Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.<br> + No fatal hurt of foe she fears,—<br> + Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + 'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door:<br> + Like air she enters, where none dared before.<br> + Even to the rich she can forgive<br> + Their regal selfishness,—and let them live! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + HELEN AT THE LOOM + </h3> + <p> + Helen, in her silent room,<br> + Weaves upon the upright loom;<br> + Weaves a mantle rich and dark,<br> + Purpled over, deep. But mark<br> + How she scatters o'er the wool<br> + Woven shapes, till it is full<br> + Of men that struggle close, complex;<br> + Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks<br> + Arching high; spear, shield, and all<br> + The panoply that doth recall<br> + Mighty war; such war as e'en<br> + For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.<br> + Purple is the groundwork: good!<br> + All the field is stained with blood—<br> + Blood poured out for Helen's sake;<br> + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)<br> + But the shapes of men that pass<br> + Are as ghosts within a glass,<br> + Woven with whiteness of the swan,<br> + Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan<br> + From the garment's purple fold<br> + Where Troy's tale is twined and told.<br> + Well may Helen, as with tender<br> + Touch of rosy fingers slender<br> + She doth knit the story in<br> + Of Troy's sorrow and her sin,<br> + Feel sharp filaments of pain<br> + Reeled off with the well-spun skein,<br> + And faint blood-stains on her hands<br> + From the shifting, sanguine strands. + </p> + <p> + Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:<br> + What has been must be to-morrow;<br> + Meekly to her fate she bows.<br> + Heavenly beauties still will rouse<br> + Strife and savagery in men:<br> + Shall the lucid heavens, then,<br> + Lose their high serenity,<br> + Sorrowing over what must be?<br> + If she taketh to her shame,<br> + Lo, they give her not the blame,—<br> + Priam's wisest counselors,<br> + Aged men, not loving wars.<br> + When she goes forth, clad in white,<br> + Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,<br> + With her fair hair, amber-hued<br> + As vapor by the moon imbued<br> + With burning brown, that round her clings,<br> + See, she sudden silence brings<br> + On the gloomy whisperers<br> + Who would make the wrong all hers.<br> + So, Helen, in thy silent room,<br> + Labor at the storied loom;<br> + (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)<br> + Let thy aching sorrow make<br> + Something strangely beautiful<br> + Of this fabric; since the wool<br> + Comes so tinted from the Fates,<br> + Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.<br> + Thou shalt work with subtle force<br> + All thy deep shade of remorse<br> + In the texture of the weft,<br> + That no stain on thee be left;—<br> + Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief,<br> + Grief and wrong, to soft relief.<br> + Speed the garment! It may chance,<br> + Long hereafter, meet the glance,<br> + Of Oenone; when her lord,<br> + Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd<br> + Ida, at his last sad end,<br> + Seeking her, his early friend,<br> + Who alone can cure his ill,<br> + Of all who love him, if she will.<br> + It were fitting she should see<br> + In that hour thine artistry,<br> + And her husband's speechless corse<br> + In the garment of remorse! + </p> + <p> + But take heed that in thy work<br> + Naught unbeautiful may lurk.<br> + Ah, how little signifies<br> + Unto thee what fortunes rise,<br> + What others fall! Thou still shall rule,<br> + Still shalt twirl the colored spool.<br> + Though thy yearning woman's eyes<br> + Burn with glorious agonies,<br> + Pitying the waste and woe,<br> + And the heroes falling low<br> + In the war around thee, here,<br> + Yet the least, quick-trembling tear<br> + 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be<br> + Than life, to friend or enemy. + </p> + <p> + There are people on the earth<br> + Doomed with doom of too great worth.<br> + Look on Helen not with hate,<br> + Therefore, but compassionate.<br> + If she suffer not too much,<br> + Seldom does she feel the touch<br> + Of that fresh, auroral joy<br> + Lighter spirits may decoy<br> + To their pure and sunny lives.<br> + Heavy honey 'tis she hives.<br> + To her sweet but burdened soul<br> + All that here she may control—<br> + What of bitter memories,<br> + What of coming fate's surmise,<br> + Paris' passion, distant din<br> + Of the war now drifting in<br> + To her quiet—idle seems;<br> + Idle as the lazy gleams<br> + Of some stilly water's reach,<br> + Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach<br> + A heavy arch; and, looking through,<br> + Far away the doubtful blue<br> + Glimmers, on a drowsy day,<br> + Crowded with the sun's rich gray;—<br> + As she stands within her room,<br> + Weaving, weaving at the loom. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CASKET OF OPALS + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea<br> + Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery,<br> + Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed.<br> + Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent<br> + In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent<br> + Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows,<br> + And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed;<br> + All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there.<br> + I think a tide of feeling through them flows<br> + With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,—<br> + Some soul once human,—wandering, in the snare<br> + Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed<br> + In misty crystal here to lie entombed. + </p> + <p> + And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep<br> + The ardors and the moods and all the pain<br> + That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave<br> + These opals to the woman whom he loved;<br> + And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain,<br> + The rays of thought that through his spirit moved<br> + Leap out from these mysterious forms again. + </p> + <p> + The colors of the jewels laugh and weep<br> + As with his very voice. In them the wave<br> + Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep,<br> + Bore him to misery or else made him blest<br> + Still surges in melodious, wild unrest.<br> + So when each gem in place I touch and take,<br> + It murmurs what he thought or what he spake. + </p> + <h4> + FIRST OPAL + </h4> + <p> + My heart is like an opal<br> + Made to lie upon your breast<br> + In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er<br> + By endless joy's unrest. + </p> + <p> + And forever it shall haunt you<br> + With its mystic, changing ray:<br> + Its light shall live when we lie dead,<br> + With hearts at the heart of day! + </p> + <h4> + SECOND OPAL + </h4> + <p> + If, from a careless hold,<br> + One gem of these should fall,<br> + No power of art or gold<br> + Its wholeness could recall:<br> + The lustrous wonder dies<br> + In gleams of irised rain,<br> + As light fades out from the eyes<br> + When a soul is crushed by pain.<br> + Take heed that from your hold<br> + My love you do not cast:<br> + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold—<br> + That day would be its last. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <h4> + THIRD OPAL + </h4> + <p> + <i>He won her love; and so this opal sings<br> + With all its tints in maze, that seem to quake<br> + And leap in light, as if its heart would break:</i> + </p> + <p> + Gleam of the sea,<br> + Translucent air,<br> + Where every leaf alive with glee<br> + Glows in the sun without shadow of grief—<br> + You speak of spring,<br> + When earth takes wing<br> + And sunlight, sunlight is everywhere!<br> + Radiant life,<br> + Face so fair—<br> + Crowned with the gracious glory of wife—<br> + Your glance lights all this happy day,<br> + Your tender glow<br> + And murmurs low<br> + Make miracle, miracle, everywhere. + </p> + <p> + Earth takes wing<br> + With birds—do I care<br> + Whether of sorrow or joy they sing?<br> + No; for they make not my life nor destroy!<br> + My soul awakes<br> + At a smile that breaks<br> + In sun; and sunlight is everywhere! + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + <i>Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness;<br> + As if he doubted whether he could bless<br> + Her wayward spirit, through each fickle hour,<br> + With love's serenity of flawless power,<br> + Or she remain a vision, as when first<br> + She came to soothe his fancy all athirst.</i> + </p> + <h4> + FOURTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + We were alone: the perfumed night,<br> + Moonlighted, like a flower<br> + Grew round us and exhaled delight<br> + To bless that one sweet hour. + </p> + <p> + You stood where, 'mid the white and gold,<br> + The rose-fire through the gloom<br> + Touched hair and cheek and garment's fold<br> + With soft, ethereal bloom. + </p> + <p> + And when the vision seemed to swerve,<br> + 'T was but the flickering shine<br> + That gave new grace, a lovelier curve,<br> + To every dream-like line. + </p> + <p> + O perfect vision! Form and face<br> + Of womanhood complete!<br> + O rare ideal to embrace<br> + And hold, from head to feet! + </p> + <p> + Could I so hold you ever—could<br> + Your eye still catch the glow<br> + Of mine—it were an endless good:<br> + Together we should grow + </p> + <p> + One perfect picture of our love!...<br> + Alas, the embers old<br> + Fell, and the moonlight fell, above—<br> + Dim, shattered, vapor-cold. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + <i>What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say?<br> + What tragedy of petty care and sorrow?<br> + Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay,<br> + Then those will know who live and love + tomorrow.<br> + But here at least is what this opal said,<br> + The fifth in number: and the next two bore<br> + My fancy toward that dim world of the dead,<br> + Where waiting spirits muse the past life + o'er:</i> + </p> + <h4> + FIFTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + I dreamed my kisses on your hair<br> + Turned into roses. Circling bloom<br> + Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there.<br> + "O Love," I cried, "forever<br> + Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted<br> + By my heart's deep honey-breath!"<br> + But even as I bending looked, I saw<br> + The roses were not; and, instead, there lay<br> + Pale, feathered flakes and scentless<br> + Ashes upon your hair! + </p> + <h4> + SIXTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + The love I gave, the love I gave,<br> + Wherewith I sought to win you—<br> + Ah, long and close to you it clave<br> + With life and soul and sinew!<br> + My gentleness with scorn you cursed:<br> + You knew not what I gave.<br> + The strongest man may die of thirst:<br> + My love is in its grave! + </p> + <h4> + SEVENTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + You say these jewels were accurst—<br> + With evil omen fraught.<br> + You should have known it from the first!<br> + This was the truth they taught: + </p> + <p> + No treasured thing in heaven or earth<br> + Holds potency more weird<br> + Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth<br> + With wavering flames insphered. + </p> + <p> + And when from me the gems you took,<br> + On that strange April day,<br> + My nature, too, I gave, that shook<br> + With passion's fateful play. + </p> + <p> + The mingled fate my love should give<br> + In these mute emblems shone,<br> + That more intensely burn and live—<br> + While I am turned to stone. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + <i>Listen now to what is said<br> + By the eighth opal, flashing red<br> + And pale, by turns, with every breath—<br> + The voice of the lover after death.</i> + </p> + <h4> + EIGHTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + I did not know before<br> + That we dead could rise and walk;<br> + That our voices, as of yore,<br> + Would blend in gentle talk. + </p> + <p> + I did not know her eyes<br> + Would so haunt mine after death,<br> + Or that she could hear my sighs,<br> + Low as the harp-string's breath. + </p> + <p> + But, ah, last night we met!<br> + From our stilly trance we rose,<br> + Thrilled with all the old regret—<br> + The grieving that God knows. + </p> + <p> + She asked: "Am I forgiven?"—<br> + "And dost thou forgive?" I said,<br> + Ah! how long for joy we'd striven!<br> + But now our hearts were dead. + </p> + <p> + Alas, for the lips I kissed<br> + And the sweet hope, long ago!<br> + On her grave chill hangs the mist;<br> + On mine, white lies the snow. + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + <i>Hearkening still, I hear this strain<br> + From the ninth opal's varied vein:</i> + </p> + <h4> + NINTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + In the mountains of Mexico,<br> + Where the barren volcanoes throw<br> + Their fierce peaks high to the sky,<br> + With the strength of a tawny brute<br> + That sees heaven but to defy,<br> + And the soft, white hand of the snow<br> + Touches and makes them mute,— + </p> + <p> + Firm in the clasp of the ground<br> + The opal is found.<br> + By the struggle of frost and fire<br> + Created, yet caught in a spell<br> + From which only human desire<br> + Can free it, what passion profound<br> + In its dim, sweet bosom may dwell! + </p> + <p> + So was it with us, I think,<br> + Whose souls were formed on the brink<br> + Of a crater, where rain and flame<br> + Had mingled and crystallized.<br> + One venturous day Love came;<br> + Found us; and bound with a link<br> + Of gold the jewels he prized. + </p> + <p> + The agonies old of the earth,<br> + Its plenitude and its dearth,<br> + The torrents of flame and of tears,<br> + All these in our souls were inborn.<br> + And we must endure through the years<br> + The glory and burden of birth<br> + That filled us with fire of the morn. + </p> + <p> + Let the diamond lie in its mine;<br> + Let ruby and topaz shine;<br> + The beryl sleep, and the emerald keep<br> + Its sunned-leaf green! We know<br> + The joy of sufferings deep<br> + That blend with a love divine,<br> + And the hidden warmth of the snow! + </p> + <h4> + TENTH OPAL + </h4> + <p> + Colors that tremble and perish,<br> + Atoms that follow the law,<br> + You mirror the truth which we cherish,<br> + You mirror the spirit we saw.<br> + Glow of the daybreak tender,<br> + Flushed with an opaline gleam,<br> + And passionate sunset-splendor—<br> + Ye both but embody a dream.<br> + Visions of cloud-hidden glory<br> + Breaking from sources of light<br> + Mimic the mist of life's story.<br> + Mingled of scarlet and white.<br> + Sunset-clouds iridescent,<br> + Opals, and mists of the day,<br> + Are thrilled alike with the crescent<br> + Delight of a deathless ray<br> + Shot through the hesitant trouble<br> + Of particles floating in space,<br> + And touching each wandering bubble<br> + With tints of a rainbowed grace.<br> + So through the veil of emotion<br> + Trembles the light of the truth;<br> + And so may the light of devotion<br> + Glorify life—age and youth.<br> + Sufferings,—pangs that seem cruel,—<br> + These are but atoms adrift:<br> + The light streams through, and a jewel<br> + Is formed for us, Heaven's own gift! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="III.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + LOVE THAT LIVES + </h3> + <p> + Dear face—bright, glinting hair;<br> + Dear life, whose heart is mine—<br> + The thought of you is prayer,<br> + The love of you divine. + </p> + <p> + In starlight, or in rain;<br> + In the sunset's shrouded glow;<br> + Ever, with joy or pain,<br> + To you my quick thoughts go + </p> + <p> + Like winds or clouds, that fleet<br> + Across the hungry space<br> + Between, and find you, sweet,<br> + Where life again wins grace. + </p> + <p> + Now, as in that once young<br> + Year that so softly drew<br> + My heart to where it clung,<br> + I long for, gladden in you. + </p> + <p> + And when in the silent hours<br> + I whisper your sacred name,<br> + Like an altar-fire it showers<br> + My blood with fragrant flame! + </p> + <p> + Perished is all that grieves;<br> + And lo, our old-new joys<br> + Are gathered as in sheaves,<br> + Held in love's equipoise. + </p> + <p> + Ours is the love that lives;<br> + Its springtime blossoms blow<br> + 'Mid the fruit that autumn gives,<br> + And its life outlasts the snow. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BLUEBIRD'S GREETING + </h3> + <p> + Over the mossy walls,<br> + Above the slumbering fields<br> + Where yet the ground no fruitage yields,<br> + Save as the sunlight falls<br> + In dreams of harvest-yellow,<br> + What voice remembered calls,—<br> + So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow? + </p> + <p> + A darting, azure-feathered arrow<br> + From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet<br> + The bluebird, springing light and narrow,<br> + Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet: + </p> + <p> + "Out of the South I wing,<br> + Blown on the breath of Spring:<br> + The little faltering song<br> + That in my beak I bring<br> + Some maiden shall catch and sing,<br> + Filling it with the longing<br> + And the blithe, unfettered thronging<br> + Of her spirit's blossoming. + </p> + <p> + "Warbling along<br> + In the sunny weather,<br> + Float, my notes,<br> + Through the sunny motes,<br> + Falling light as a feather!<br> + Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land<br> + 'Mid hovering insects' hums;<br> + Fall into the sower's hand:<br> + Then, when his harvest comes,<br> + The seed and the song shall have flowered together. + </p> + <p> + "From the Coosa and Altamaha,<br> + With a thought of the dim blue Gulf;<br> + From the Roanoke and Kanawha;<br> + From the musical Southern rivers,<br> + O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf<br> + Lies slain and buried in flowers;<br> + I come to your chill, sad hours<br> + And the woods where the sunlight shivers.<br> + I come like an echo: 'Awake!'<br> + I answer the sky and the lake<br> + And the clear, cool color that quivers<br> + In all your azure rills.<br> + I come to your wan, bleak hills<br> + For a greeting that rises dearer,<br> + To homely hearts draws me nearer<br> + Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. + </p> + <p> + "I will charm away your sorrow,<br> + For I sing of the dewy morrow:<br> + My melody sways like the branches<br> + My light feet set astir:<br> + I bring to the old, as I hover,<br> + The days and the joys that were,<br> + And hope to the waiting lover!<br> + Then, take my note and sing,<br> + Filling it with the longing<br> + And the blithe, unfettered thronging<br> + Of your spirit's blossoming!" + </p> + <p> + Not long that music lingers:<br> + Like the breath of forgotten singers<br> + It flies,—or like the March-cloud's shadow<br> + That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow<br> + Not long! And yet thy fleeting,<br> + Thy tender, flute-toned greeting,<br> + O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains<br> + The purest chord in all the year's refrains. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE VOICE OF THE VOID + </h3> + <p> + I warn, like the one drop of rain<br> + On your face, ere the storm;<br> + Or tremble in whispered refrain<br> + With your blood, beating warm.<br> + I am the presence that ever<br> + Baffles your touch's endeavor,—<br> + Gone like the glimmer of dust<br> + Dispersed by a gust.<br> + I am the absence that taunts you,<br> + The fancy that haunts you;<br> + The ever unsatisfied guess<br> + That, questioning emptiness,<br> + Wins a sigh for reply.<br> + Nay; nothing am I,<br> + But the flight of a breath—<br> + For I am Death! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + "O WHOLESOME DEATH" + </h3> + <p> + O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-car<br> + Looms ever dimly on the lengthening way<br> + Of life; while, lengthening still, in sad + array,<br> + My deeds in long procession go, that are<br> + As mourners of the man they helped to mar.<br> + I see it all in dreams, such as waylay<br> + The wandering fancy when the solid day<br> + Has fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star,<br> + Aloft there, with its steady point of light<br> + Mastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in + sleep.<br> + Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flight<br> + Above my grave, still let my spirit keep<br> + Sometimes its vigil of divine remorse,<br> + 'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + INCANTATION + </h3> + <p> + When the leaves, by thousands thinned,<br> + A thousand times have whirled in the wind,<br> + And the moon, with hollow cheek,<br> + Staring from her hollow height,<br> + Consolation seems to seek<br> + From the dim, reechoing night;<br> + And the fog-streaks dead and white<br> + Lie like ghosts of lost delight<br> + O'er highest earth and lowest sky;<br> + Then, Autumn, work thy witchery! + </p> + <p> + Strew the ground with poppy-seeds,<br> + And let my bed be hung with weeds,<br> + Growing gaunt and rank and tall,<br> + Drooping o'er me like a pall.<br> + Send thy stealthy, white-eyed mist<br> + Across my brow to turn and twist<br> + Fold on fold, and leave me blind<br> + To all save visions in the mind.<br> + Then, in the depth of rain-fed streams<br> + I shall slumber, and in dreams<br> + Slide through some long glen that burns<br> + With a crust of blood-red ferns<br> + And brown-withered wings of brake<br> + Like a burning lava-lake;—<br> + So, urged to fearful, faster flow<br> + By the awful gasp, "Hahk! hahk!" of the crow,<br> + Shall pass by many a haunted rood<br> + Of the nutty, odorous wood;<br> + Or, where the hemlocks lean and loom,<br> + Shall fill my heart with bitter gloom;<br> + Till, lured by light, reflected cloud,<br> + I burst aloft my watery shroud,<br> + And upward through the ether sail<br> + Far above the shrill wind's wail;—<br> + But, falling thence, my soul involve<br> + With the dust dead flowers dissolve;<br> + And, gliding out at last to sea,<br> + Lulled to a long tranquillity,<br> + The perfect poise of seasons keep<br> + With the tides that rest at neap.<br> + So must be fulfilled the rite<br> + That giveth me the dead year's might;<br> + And at dawn I shall arise<br> + A spirit, though with human eyes,<br> + A human form and human face;<br> + And where'er I go or stay,<br> + There the summer's perished grace<br> + Shall be with me, night and day. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + FAMINE AND HARVEST + </h3> + <center> + <b>[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622]</b> + </center> + <p> + The strong and the tender,<br> + The young and the old,<br> + Unto Death we must render;—<br> + Our silver, our gold. + </p> + <p> + To break their long sleeping<br> + No voice may avail:<br> + They hear not our weeping—<br> + Our famished love's wail. + </p> + <p> + Yea, those whom we cherish<br> + Depart, day by day.<br> + Soon we, too, shall perish<br> + And crumble to clay. + </p> + <p> + And the vine and the berry<br> + Above us will bloom;<br> + The wind shall make merry<br> + While we lie in gloom. + </p> + <p> + Fear not! Though thou starvest,<br> + Provision is made:<br> + God gathers His harvest<br> + When our hopes fade! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED + </h3> + <p> + Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,<br> + How in the soft June days forever done<br> + You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;<br> + And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,—<br> + "Put me 'way up—'way, 'way up in blue sky"? + </p> + <p> + I laughed and said I could not;—set you down,<br> + Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown<br> + Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.<br> + Another Father now, more strong than I,<br> + Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE FLOWN SOUL + </h3> + <center> + <b>(FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP)<br> + FEBRUARY 6, 1881</b> + </center> + <p> + Come not again! I dwell with you<br> + Above the realm of frost and dew,<br> + Of pain and fire, and growth to death.<br> + I dwell with you where never breath<br> + Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows<br> + From life to life, even as a rose<br> + Unseen pours sweetness through each vein<br> + And from the air distills again.<br> + You are my rose unseen; we live<br> + Where each to other joy may give<br> + In ways untold, by means unknown<br> + And secret as the magnet-stone. + </p> + <p> + For which of us, indeed, is dead?<br> + No more I lean to kiss your head—<br> + The gold-red hair so thick upon it;<br> + Joy feels no more the touch that won it<br> + When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm<br> + In tenderness so childish, calm,<br> + Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm<br> + Is strong, and still my blood runs warm.<br> + I still can work, and think and weep.<br> + But all this show of life I keep<br> + Is but the shadow of your shine,<br> + Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine; + </p> + <p> + Therefore, you are not dead, nor I + </p> + <p> + Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy.<br> + Among the stars your feet are set;<br> + Your little feet are dancing yet<br> + Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth.<br> + So swift, so slight are death and birth! + </p> + <p> + Come not again, dear child. If thou<br> + By any chance couldst break that vow<br> + Of silence at thy last hour made;<br> + If to this grim life unafraid<br> + Thou couldst return, and melt the frost<br> + Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost;<br> + Still would I whisper—since so fair<br> + This silent comradeship we share—<br> + Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain<br> + Of tears: "Come not, come not again!" + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.8"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + SUNSET AND SHORE + </h3> + <p> + Birds that like vanishing visions go winging,<br> + White, white in the flame of the sunset's + burning,<br> + Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging,<br> + Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, + unreturning! + </p> + <p> + Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing<br> + Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must + perish;<br> + Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly + blowing;—<br> + Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we + cherish. + </p> + <p> + Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest;<br> + Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo + replying;<br> + Spirits may leave us that clung to us nearest:—<br> + Love, love, only love dwells with us undying! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.9"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE PHOEBE-BIRD + </h3> + <center> + <b>(A REPLY)</b> + </center> + <p> + Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird.<br> + Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard:<br> + I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow<br> + Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow<br> + Strength from the other, making one more brave<br> + And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. + </p> + <p> + But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens:<br> + One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence.<br> + Our voices vary with the changing seasons<br> + Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons.<br> + Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered,<br> + If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered.<br> + We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain,<br> + Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane,<br> + With love and hate, or good and evil—all,<br> + At separate times, in separate accents call;<br> + Yet 't is the same heart-throb within the breast<br> + That gives an impulse to our worst and best.<br> + I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended,<br> + The Listener finds them in one music blended. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.10"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + A STRONG CITY + </h3> + <p> + For them that hope in Thee.... Thou shalt + hide<br> + them in the secret of Thy face, from the disturbance of men. + </p> + <p> + Thou shalt protect them in Thy tabernacle from + the<br> + contradiction of tongues. + </p> + <p> + Blessed be the Lord, for He hath shewn His + wonderful<br> + mercy to me in a fortified city.—<i>Psalm xxx.</i> + </p> + <hr> + <p> + Beauty and splendor were on every hand:<br> + Yet strangely crawled dark shadows down the lanes,<br> + Twisting across the fields, like dragon-shapes<br> + That smote the air with blackness, and devoured<br> + The life of light, and choked the smiling world<br> + Till it grew livid with a sudden age—<br> + The death of hope. + </p> + <p> + + O squandered happiness;<br> + Vain dust of misery powdering life's fresh flower!<br> + The sky was holy, but the earth was not. + </p> + <p> + Men ruled, but ruled in vain; since + wretchedness<br> + Of soul and body, for the mass of men,<br> + Made them like dead leaves in an idle drift<br> + Around the plough of progress as it drove<br> + Sharp through the glebe of modern days, to plant<br> + A civilized world. Ay; civilized—but not Christian! + </p> + <p> + Civilization is a clarion voice<br> + Crying in the wilderness; a prophet-word<br> + Still unfulfilled. And lo, along the ways<br> + Crowded with nations, there arose a strife;<br> + Disturbance of men; tongues contradicting tongues;<br> + Madness of noise, that scattered multitudes;<br> + A trample of blind feet, beneath whose tread<br> + Truth's bloom shrank withered; while incessant mouths<br> + Howled "Progress! Change!"—as though all moods of + change<br> + Were fiats of truth eternal. + </p> + <p> + + 'Mid the din<br> + Two pilgrims, faring forward, saw the light<br> + In a strong city, fortified, and moved<br> + Patiently thither. "All your steps are vain,"<br> + Cried scoffers. "There is mercy in the world;<br> + But chiefly mercy of man to man. For we<br> + Are good. We help our fellows, when we can.<br> + Our charity is enormous. Look at these<br> + Long rolls of rich subscriptions. We are good.<br> + 'T is true, God's mercy plays a part in things;<br> + But most is left to us; and we judge well.<br> + Stay with us in the field of endless war!<br> + Here only is health. Yon city fortified<br> + You dream of—why, its ramparts are as dust.<br> + It gives no safety. One assaulting sweep<br> + Of our huge cohorts would annul its power—<br> + Crush it in atoms; make it meaningless." + </p> + <p> + The pilgrims listened; but onward still they moved.<br> + They passed the gates; they stood upon a hill<br> + Enclosed, but in that strong enclosure free!<br> + Though earth opposed, they held the key to heaven.<br> + On came the turbulent multitude in war,<br> + Dashing against the city's walls; and swept<br> + Through all the streets, and robbed and burned and + killed.<br> + The walls were strong; the gates were always open.<br> + And so the invader rioted, and was proud.<br> + But sudden, in seeming triumph, the enemy host<br> + Was stricken with death; and still the city stayed.<br> + Skyward the souls of its defenders rose,<br> + Returning soon in mist intangible<br> + That flashed with radiance of half-hidden swords;<br> + And those who still assaulted—though they crept<br> + Into the inmost vantage-points, with craft—<br> + Fell, blasted namelessly by this veiled flash,<br> + Even as they shouted out, "The place is ours!" + </p> + <p> + So those two pilgrims dwelt there, fortified<br> + In that strong city men had thought so frail.<br> + They died, and lived again. Fiercest attack<br> + Was as a perfumed breeze to them, which drew<br> + Their souls still closer unto God. And there<br> + Beauty and splendor bloomed untouched. The stars<br> + Spoke to them, bidding them be of good cheer,<br> + Though hostile hordes rushed over them in blood.<br> + And still the prayers of all that people rose<br> + As incense mingled with music of their hearts.<br> + For Christ was with them: angels were their aid.<br> + What though the enemy used their open gates?<br> + The children of the citadel conquered all<br> + Their conquerors, smiting them with the pure light<br> + That shone in that strong city fortified. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="IV.11"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THREE DOVES + </h3> + <p> + Seaward, at morn, my doves flew free;<br> + At eve they circled back to me.<br> + The first was Faith; the second, Hope;<br> + The third—the whitest—Charity. + </p> + <p> + Above the plunging surge's play<br> + Dream-like they hovered, day by day.<br> + At last they turned, and bore to me<br> + Green signs of peace thro' nightfall gray. + </p> + <p> + No shore forlorn, no loveliest land<br> + Their gentle eyes had left unscanned,<br> + 'Mid hues of twilight-heliotrope<br> + Or daybreak fires by heaven-breath fanned. + </p> + <p> + Quick visions of celestial grace,—<br> + Hither they waft, from earth's broad space,<br> + Kind thoughts for all humanity.<br> + They shine with radiance from God's face. + </p> + <p> + Ah, since my heart they choose for home,<br> + Why loose them,—forth again to roam?<br> + Yet look: they rise! with loftier scope<br> + They wheel in flight toward heaven's pure dome. + </p> + <p> + Fly, messengers that find no rest<br> + Save in such toil as makes man blest!<br> + Your home is God's immensity:<br> + We hold you but at his behest. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.1"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + ARISE, AMERICAN! + </h3> + <p> + The soul of a nation awaking,—<br> + High visions of daybreak,—I saw;<br> + A people renewed; the forsaking<br> + Of sin, and the worship + of law. + </p> + <p> + Sing, pine-tree; shout, to the hoarser<br> + Response of the jubilant sea!<br> + Rush, river, foam-flecked like a + courser;<br> + Warn all who are honest + and free! + </p> + <p> + Our birth-star beckons to trial<br> + The faith of the far-fled years,<br> + Ere scorn was our share, and + denial,<br> + Or laughter for + patriots' tears. + </p> + <p> + And Faith shall come forth the finer,<br> + From trampled thickets of fire,<br> + And the orient open diviner<br> + Before her, the heaven + rise higher. + </p> + <p> + O deep, sweet eyes, but severer<br> + Than steel! See you yet, where he comes—<br> + Our hero? Bend your glance nearer;<br> + Speak, Faith! For, as wakening drums, + </p> + <p> + Your voice shall set his blood stirring;<br> + His heart shall grow strong like the main<br> + When the rowelled winds are spurring,<br> + And the broad tides landward strain. + </p> + <p> + O hero, art thou among us?<br> + O helper, hidest thou, still?<br> + Why hast thou no anthem sung us,<br> + Why workest thou not our will? + </p> + <p> + For a smirk of the face, or a favor,<br> + Still shelters the cheat where he crawls;<br> + And the truth we began with needs braver<br> + Upholders, and loftier walls. + </p> + <p> + Too long has the land's soul slumbered<br> + In wearying dreams of gain,<br> + With prosperous falsity cumbered<br> + And dulled with bribes, as a bane. + </p> + <p> + Yes, cunning is civilized evil,<br> + And crafty the gold-baited snare;<br> + But virtue, in fiery upheaval,<br> + May cast fine device to + the air. + </p> + <p> + Bring us the simple and stalwart<br> + Purpose of earlier days.<br> + Come! Far better than all + were't—<br> + Our precepts, our pride, + and our lays— + </p> + <p> + That the people in spirit should tremble<br> + With heed of the God-given Word;<br> + That we cease from our boast, nor + dissemble,<br> + But follow where truth's + voice is heard. + </p> + <p> + Come to us, mountain-dweller,<br> + Leader, wherever thou art;<br> + Skilled from thy cradle, a + queller<br> + Of serpents, and sound + to the heart! + </p> + <p> + Modest and mighty and tender;<br> + Man of an iron mold;<br> + Honest, fine-grained, our + defender;—<br> + American-souled! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.2"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + THE NAME OF WASHINGTON + </h3> + <center> + <b>[Read before the Sons of the Revolution, New-York, + February 22, 1887]</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + Sons of the youth and the truth of the nation,<br> + Ye that are met to remember the man<br> + Whose valor gave birth to a people's salvation,<br> + Honor him now; set his name in the van.<br> + A nobleness to try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington. + </p> + <p> + Calmly his face shall look down through the ages—<br> + Sweet yet severe with a spirit of warning;<br> + Charged with the wisdom of saints and of sages;<br> + Quick with the light of a life-giving + morning.<br> + A majesty to try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + Though faction may rack us, or party divide us,<br> + And bitterness break the gold links of our + story,<br> + Our father and leader is ever beside us.<br> + Live, and forgive! But forget not the glory<br> + Of him whose height we try for,<br> + A name to live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + Still in his eyes shall be mirrored our fleeting<br> + Days, with the image of days long ended;<br> + Still shall those eyes give, immortally, greeting<br> + Unto the souls from his spirit descended.<br> + His grandeur we will try for,<br> + His name we 'll live and die + for—<br> + The name of Washington! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.3"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + GRANT'S DIRGE + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral + march?<br> + And what shall be the music of his dirge?<br> + No single voice may chant the Nation's + grief,<br> + No formal strain can give its woe relief.<br> + The pent-up anguish of the loyal wife,<br> + The sobs of those who, nearest in this life,<br> + Still hold him closely in the life + beyond;—<br> + These first, with threnody of memories fond.<br> + But look! Forth press a myriad mourners thronging,<br> + With hearts that throb in sorrow's + exaltation,<br> + Moved by a strange, impassioned, hopeless longing<br> + To serve him with their love's last + ministration.<br> + Make way! Make way, from wave-bound verge to + verge<br> + Of all our land, that this great multitude<br> + With lamentation proud albeit subdued,<br> + Deep murmuring like the ocean's mighty surge,<br> + May pass beneath the heavens' triumphal arch! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + What is the sound we hear?<br> + Never the fall of a tear;<br> + For grief repressed<br> + In every breast<br> + More honors the man we revere.<br> + Rising from East and West,<br> + There echoes afar or near—<br> + From the cool, sad North and the burning South—<br> + A sound long since grown dear,<br> + When brave ranks faced the cannon's mouth<br> + And died for a faith austere:<br> + The tread of marching men,<br> + A steady tramp of feet<br> + That never flinched nor faltered when<br> + The drums of duty beat.<br> + With sable hats whose shade<br> + Falls from the cord of gold<br> + On every time-worn face;<br> + With tattered flags, in black enrolled,<br> + Beneath whose folds they warred of old;<br> + Forward, firmly arrayed,<br> + With a sombre, martial grace;<br> + So the Grand Army moves<br> + Commanded by the dead,<br> + Following him whose name it loves,<br> + Whose voice in life its footsteps led. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Those that in the combat perished,—<br> + Hostile shapes and forms of friends,—<br> + Those we hated, those we cherished,<br> + Meet the pageant where it ends.<br> + Flash of steel and tears forgiving<br> + Blend in splendor. Hark, the knell!<br> + Comrades ghostly join the living—<br> + Dreaming, chanting: "All is well."<br> + They receive the General sleeping,<br> + Him of spirit pure and large:<br> + Him they draw into their keeping<br> + Evermore, in faithful charge. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + Pass on, O steps, with your dead, sad note!<br> + For a people's homage is in the sound;<br> + And the even tread, in measured rote,<br> + As a leader is laid beneath the ground,<br> + Rumors the hum of a pilgrim + train<br> + That shall trample the earth as + tramples the rain,<br> + Seeking the door of the hero's + tomb,<br> + Seeking him where he lies low in the + gloom,<br> + Paying him tribute of worker and + mage,<br> + Through age on age! + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Tall pine-tree on McGregor's height,<br> + How didst thou grow to such a lofty bearing,<br> + For song of bird or beat of breeze uncaring,<br> + There where thy shadow touched the dying brow?<br> + Were all thy sinewy fibres shaped aright?<br> + Was there no flaw? With what mysterious daring<br> + Didst thou put forth each murmuring, odorous bough<br> + And trust it to the frail support of air?<br> + We only know that thou art now supreme:<br> + We know not how thou grewest so tall and fair.<br> + So from the unnoticed, humble earth arose<br> + The sturdy man whom we, bewailing, deem<br> + Worthy the wondrous name fame's far voice blows.<br> + And lo! his ancient foes<br> + Rise up to praise the plan<br> + Of modest grandeur, loyal trust,<br> + And generous power from man to man,<br> + That lifted him above the formless dust.<br> + O heart by kindliness betrayed,<br> + O noble spirit snared and strayed—<br> + Unmatched, upright thou standest still<br> + As that firm pine-tree rooted on the hill! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + No paragon was he,<br> + But moulded in the rough<br> + With every fault and scar<br> + Ingrained, and plain for all to see:<br> + Even as the rocks and mountains are,<br> + Common perhaps, yet wrought of such true stuff<br> + That common nature in his essence grew<br> + To something which till then it never knew;<br> + Ay, common as a vast, refreshing wind<br> + That sweeps the continent, or as some star<br> + Which, 'mid a million, shines out well-defined:<br> + With honest soul on duty bent,<br> + A servant-soldier, President;<br> + Meekest when crowned with victory,<br> + And greatest in adversity! + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + A silent man whom, strangely, fate<br> + Made doubly silent ere he died,<br> + His speechless spirit rules us still;<br> + And that deep spell of influence mute,<br> + The majesty of dauntless will<br> + That wielded hosts and saved the State,<br> + Seems through the mist our spirits yet to thrill.<br> + His heart is with us! From the root<br> + Of toil and pain and brave endurance<br> + Has sprung at last the perfect fruit,<br> + The treasure of a rich assurance<br> + That men who nobly work and live<br> + A greater gift than life may give;<br> + Yielding a promise for all time,<br> + Which other men of newer date<br> + Surely redeem in deeds sublime.<br> + Forerunner of a valiant race,<br> + His voiceless spirit still reminds us<br> + Of ever-waiting, silent duty:<br> + The bond of faith wherewith he binds us<br> + Shall hold us ready hour by hour<br> + To serve the sacred, guiding power<br> + Whene'er it calls, where'er it finds us,<br> + With loyalty that, like a folded flower,<br> + Blooms at a touch in proud, full-circled beauty. + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + Like swelling river waves that strain,<br> + Onward the people crowd<br> + In serried, billowing train.<br> + And those so slow to yield,<br> + On many a hard fought field,<br> + Muster together<br> + Like a dark cloud<br> + In summer weather,<br> + Whose threatening thunders suddenly are stilled,—<br> + And all the world is filled<br> + With smiling rest. Victory to him was pain,<br> + Till he had won his enemies by love;<br> + Had leashed the eagle and unloosed the dove;<br> + Setting on war's red roll the argent seal of peace.<br> + So here they form their solid ranks again,<br> + But in no mood of hatred or disdain.<br> + They say: "Thou who art fallen at last,<br> + Beleaguered stealthily, o'ercome by death,<br> + Thy conqueror now shall be magnanimous<br> + Even as thou wast to us.<br> + But not for thee can we blot out the past:<br> + We would not, if we might, forget thy last<br> + Great act of war, that with a gentle hand<br> + Brought back our hearts unto the mighty mother,<br> + For whose defence and honor armed we stand.<br> + We hail thee brother,<br> + And so salute thy name with holy breath!" + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + Land of the hurricane!<br> + Land of the avalanche!<br> + Land of tempest and rain;<br> + Of the Southern sun and of frozen peaks;<br> + Stretching from main to main;—<br> + Land of the cypress-glooms;<br> + Land of devouring looms;<br> + Land of the forest and ranch;—<br> + Hush every sound to-day<br> + Save the burden of swarms that assemble<br> + Their reverence dear to pay<br> + Unto him who saved us all!<br> + Ye masses that mourn with bended head,<br> + Beneath whose feet the ground doth tremble<br> + With weight of woe and a sacred dread—<br> + Lift up the pall<br> + That to us shall remain as a warrior's banner!<br> + Gaze once more on the fast closed eyes;<br> + Mark once the mouth that never speaks;<br> + Think of the man and his quiet manner:<br> + Weep if you will; then go your way;<br> + But remember his face as it looks to the skies,<br> + And the dumb appeal wherewith it seeks<br> + To lead us on, as one should say, "Arise—<br> + Go forth to meet your country's noblest day!" + </p> + <h4> + X + </h4> + <p> + Ah, who shall sound the hero's funeral march?<br> + And what shall be the music of his dirge?<br> + Let generations sing, as they emerge<br> + And pass beneath the heavens' trumphal arch! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.4"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + BATTLE DAYS + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Veteran memories rally to muster<br> + Here at the call of the old battle days:<br> + Cavalry clatter and cannon's hoarse bluster:<br> + All the wild whirl of the fight's broken + maze:<br> + Clangor of bugle and flashing of sabre,<br> + Smoke-stifled flags and the howl of the + shell,<br> + With earth for a rest place and death for a neighbor,<br> + And dreams of a charge and the deep rebel + yell.<br> + Stern was our task in the field where the reaping<br> + Spared the ripe harvest, but laid our men + low:<br> + Grim was the sorrow that held us from weeping:<br> + Awful the rush of the strife's ebb and + flow.<br> + Swift came the silence—our enemy hiding<br> + Sudden retreat in the cloud-muffled night:<br> + Swift as a hawk-pounce our hill-and-dale riding;<br> + Hundreds on hundreds we caught in their + flight!<br> + Hard and incessant the danger and trial,<br> + Laid on our squadrons, that gladly bore all,<br> + Scorning to meet with delay or denial<br> + The summons that rang in the battle-days' call! + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + Wild days that woke to glory or despair,<br> + And smote the coward soul with sudden shame,<br> + But unto those whose hearts were bold to dare<br> + All things for honor brought eternal + fame:—<br> + Lost days, undying + days!<br> + With undiminished + rays<br> + Here now on us look + down,<br> + Illumining our crown<br> + Of leaves memorial, wet with tender dew<br> + For those who nobly died<br> + In fierce self-sacrifice of service true,<br> + Rapt in pure fire of life-disdaining pride;<br> + Men of this soil, who stood<br> + Firm for their country's good,<br> + From night to night, from sun to sun,<br> + Till o'er the living and the slain<br> + A woful dawn that streamed with rain<br> + Wept for their victory dearly won. + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Days of the future, prophetic days,—<br> + Silence engulfs the roar of war;<br> + Yet, through all coming years, repeat the praise<br> + Of those leal comrades brave, who come no + more!<br> + And when our voices cease,<br> + Long, long renew the chant, the anthem + proud,<br> + Which, echoing clear and loud<br> + Through templed aisles of peace,<br> + Like blended tumults of a joyous chime,<br> + Shall tell their valor to a later time.<br> + Shine on this field; and in the eyes of men<br> + Rekindle, if the need shall come again,<br> + That answering light that springs<br> + In beaconing splendor from the soul, and brings<br> + Promise of faith well kept and deed sublime! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.5"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + KEENAN'S CHARGE + </h3> + <center> + <b>[CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863]</b> + </center> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + The sun had set;<br> + The leaves with dew were wet:<br> + Down fell a bloody dusk<br> + On the woods, that second of May,<br> + Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,<br> + Tore through, with angry tusk. + </p> + <p> + "They've trapped us, boys!"—<br> + Rose from our flank a voice.<br> + With a rush of steel and smoke<br> + On came the rebels straight,<br> + Eager as love and wild as hate;<br> + And our line reeled and broke; + </p> + <p> + Broke and fled.<br> + No one stayed—but the dead!<br> + With curses, shrieks, and cries,<br> + Horses and wagons and men<br> + Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,<br> + And above us the fading skies. + </p> + <p> + There's one hope, still—<br> + Those batteries parked on the hill!<br> + "Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar)<br> + "Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire<br> + Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire<br> + A bugle rings "Trot"—and no more. + </p> + <p> + The horses plunged,<br> + The cannon lurched and lunged,<br> + To join the hopeless rout.<br> + But suddenly rode a form<br> + Calmly in front of the human storm,<br> + With a stern, commanding shout: + </p> + <p> + "Align those guns!"<br> + (We knew it was Pleasonton's.)<br> + The cannoneers bent to obey,<br> + And worked with a will at his word:<br> + And the black guns moved as if <i>they</i> had heard.<br> + But ah, the dread delay! + </p> + <p> + "To wait is crime;<br> + O God, for ten minutes' time!"<br> + The General looked around.<br> + There Keenan sat, like a stone,<br> + With his three hundred horse alone,<br> + Less shaken than the ground. + </p> + <p> + "Major, your men?"<br> + "Are soldiers, General." "Then,<br> + Charge, Major! Do your best:<br> + Hold the enemy back, at all cost,<br> + Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.<br> + You die to save the rest!" + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,<br> + Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton's eyes<br> + For an instant—clear, and cool, and still;<br> + Then, with a smile, he said: "I will." + </p> + <p> + "Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.<br> + Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,<br> + Rose joyously, with a willing breath—-<br> + Rose like a greeting hail to death. + </p> + <p> + Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;<br> + Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd;<br> + Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,<br> + In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;<br> + And above in the air, with an instinct true,<br> + Like a bird of war their pennon flew. + </p> + <p> + With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,<br> + And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,<br> + And strong brown faces bravely pale<br> + For fear their proud attempt shall fail,<br> + Three hundred Pennsylvanians close<br> + On twice ten thousand gallant foes. + </p> + <p> + Line after line the troopers came<br> + To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame;<br> + Rode in and sabred and shot—and fell;<br> + Nor came one back his wounds to tell.<br> + And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall,<br> + In the gloom like a martyr awaiting his fall,<br> + While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung<br> + 'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. + </p> + <p> + Line after line, aye, whole platoons,<br> + Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons<br> + By the maddened horses were onward borne<br> + And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;<br> + As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. + </p> + <p> + So they rode, till there were no more to ride. + </p> + <p> + But over them, lying there shattered and mute,<br> + What deep echo rolls?—'T is a death-salute,<br> + From the cannon in place; for heroes, you braved<br> + Your fate not in vain: the army was saved! + </p> + <p> + Over them now—year following year—<br> + Over their graves the pine-cones fall,<br> + And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;<br> + But they stir not again: they raise no cheer:<br> + They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,<br> + Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.<br> + The rush of their charge is resounding still<br> + That saved the army at Chancellorsville. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.6"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + MARTHY VIRGINIA'S HAND + </h3> + <p> + "There, on the left!" said the colonel: the battle<br> + had shuddered and faded away,<br> + Wraith of a fiery enchantment that left only<br> + ashes and blood-sprinkled clay—<br> + "Ride to the left and examine that ridge, where<br> + the enemy's sharpshooters stood.<br> + Lord, how they picked off our men, from the<br> + treacherous vantage-ground of the wood!<br> + But for their bullets, I'll bet, my batteries sent<br> + them something as good.<br> + Go and explore, and report to me then, and tell<br> + me how many we killed.<br> + Never a wink shall I sleep till I know our vengeance<br> + was duly fulfilled." + </p> + <p> + Fiercely the orderly rode down the slope of the<br> + corn-field—scarred and forlorn,<br> + Rutted by violent wheels, and scathed by the<br> + shot that had plowed it in scorn;<br> + Fiercely, and burning with wrath for the sight<br> + of his comrades crushed at a blow,<br> + Flung in broken shapes on the ground like<br> + ruined memorials of woe:<br> + These were the men whom at daybreak he knew,<br> + but never again could know.<br> + Thence to the ridge, where roots outthrust, and<br> + twisted branches of trees<br> + Clutched the hill like clawing lions, firm their<br> + prey to seize. + </p> + <p> + "What's your report?"—and the grim colonel<br> + smiled when the orderly came back at last.<br> + Strangely the soldier paused: "Well, they were<br> + punished." And strange his face, aghast.<br> + "Yes, our fire told on them; knocked over fifty—<br> + laid out in line of parade.<br> + Brave fellows, colonel, to stay as they did! But<br> + one I 'most wish had n't stayed.<br> + Mortally wounded, he'd torn off his knapsack;<br> + and then at the end he prayed—<br> + Easy to see, by his hands that were clasped;<br> + and the dull, dead fingers yet held<br> + This little letter—his wife's—from the + knapsack.<br> + A pity those woods were shelled!" + </p> + <p> + Silent the orderly, watching with tears in his eyes<br> + as his officer scanned<br> + Four short pages of writing. "What's this, about<br> + 'Marthy Virginia's hand'?"<br> + Swift from his honeymoon he, the dead soldier,<br> + had gone from his bride to the strife;<br> + Never they met again, but she had written him,<br> + telling of that new life,<br> + Born in the daughter, that bound her still closer<br> + and closer to him as his wife.<br> + Laying her baby's hand down on the letter,<br> + around it she traced a rude line;<br> + "If you would kiss the baby," she wrote, "you<br> + must kiss this outline of mine." + </p> + <p> + There was the shape of the hand on the page,<br> + with the small, chubby fingers outspread.<br> + "Marthy Virginia's hand, for her pa,"—so the<br> + words on the little palm said.<br> + Never a wink slept the colonel that night, for<br> + the vengeance so blindly fulfilled;<br> + Never again woke the old battle-glow when the<br> + bullets their death-note shrilled.<br> + Long ago ended the struggle, in union of<br> + brotherhood happily stilled;<br> + Yet from that field of Antietam, in warning and<br> + token of love's command,<br> + See! there is lifted the hand of a baby—Marthy<br> + Virginia's hand! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="V.7"><!--Marker--></a> + <h3> + GETTYSBURG: A BATTLE ODE + </h3> + <h4> + I + </h4> + <p> + Victors, living, with laureled brow,<br> + And you that sleep beneath the + sward!<br> + Your song was poured from cannon throats:<br> + It rang in deep-tongued bugle-notes:<br> + Your triumph came; you won your crown,<br> + The grandeur of a world's renown.<br> + But, in our + later lays,<br> + Full + freighted with your praise,<br> + Fair memory harbors those whose lives, laid down<br> + In gallant faith and + generous heat,<br> + Gained only + sharp defeat.<br> + All are at peace, who once so fiercely warred:<br> + Brother and brother, now, we chant a common chord. + </p> + <h4> + II + </h4> + <p> + For, if we say God + wills,<br> + Shall we then idly deny + Him<br> + Care of each host in the + fight?<br> + His thunder was here in + the hills<br> + When the guns were loud + in July;<br> + And the flash of the + musketry's light<br> + Was sped by a ray from + God's eye.<br> + In its good and its evil + the scheme<br> + Was framed with + omnipotent hand,<br> + Though the battle of men + was a dream<br> + That they could but half + understand.<br> + Can the purpose of God + pass by him?<br> + Nay; it was sure, and + was wrought<br> + Under inscrutable + powers:<br> + Bravely the two armies + fought<br> + And left the land, that was greater than they, still theirs + and ours! + </p> + <h4> + III + </h4> + <p> + Lucid, pure, and calm and blameless<br> + Dawned on Gettysburg the day<br> + That should make the spot, once fameless,<br> + Known to nations far away.<br> + Birds were caroling, and farmers<br> + Gladdened o'er their garnered hay,<br> + When the clank of gathering armors<br> + Broke the morning's peaceful sway;<br> + And the living lines of foemen<br> + Drawn o'er pasture, brook, and hill,<br> + Formed in figures weird of omen<br> + That should work with mystic will<br> + Measures of a direful magic—<br> + Shattering, maiming—and should fill<br> + Glades and gorges with a tragic<br> + Madness of desire to kill.<br> + Skirmishers flung lightly forward<br> + Moved like scythemen skilled to sweep<br> + Westward o'er the field and nor'ward,<br> + Death's first harvest there to reap.<br> + You would say the soft, white smoke-puffs<br> + Were but languid clouds asleep,<br> + Here on meadows, there on oak-bluffs,<br> + Fallen foam of Heaven's blue deep.<br> + Yet that blossom-white outbreaking<br> + Smoke wove soon a martyr's shroud.<br> + Reynolds fell, with soul unquaking,<br> + Ardent-eyed and open-browed:<br> + Noble men in humbler raiment<br> + Fell where shot their graves had plowed,<br> + Dying not for paltry payment:<br> + Proud of home, of honor proud. + </p> + <h4> + IV + </h4> + <p> + Mute Seminary there,<br> + Filled once with resonant hymn and prayer,<br> + How your meek walls and windows shuddered then!<br> + Though Doubleday stemmed the + flood,<br> + McPherson's Wood and Willoughby's Run<br> + Saw ere the set of + sun<br> + The light of the gospel of + blood.<br> + And, on the morrow again,<br> + Loud the unholy psalm of battle<br> + Burst from the tortured Devil's + Den,<br> + In cries of men and musketry rattle<br> + Mixed with the helpless bellow of cattle<br> + Torn by artillery, down in the + glen;<br> + While, hurtling through + the branches<br> + Of the orchard by the + road,<br> + Where Sickles and Birney were walled with + steel,<br> + Shot fiery + avalanches<br> + That shivered hope and made the sturdiest + reel.<br> + Yet peach-bloom bright as April saw<br> + Blushed there anew, in blood that + flowed<br> + O'er faces white with death-dealt awe;<br> + And ruddy flowers of warfare grew,<br> + Though withering winds as of the desert blew,<br> + Far at the right while Ewell and Early,<br> + Plunging at Slocum and Wadsworth and + Greene,<br> + Thundered in onslaught consummate and surly;<br> + Till trembling nightfall crept + between<br> + And whispered of rest from the heat of the whelming + strife.<br> + But unto those forsaken + of life<br> + What has the night to + say?<br> + Silent beneath the moony sky,<br> + Crushed in a costly dew they lie:<br> + Deaf to plaint or paean, they:—<br> + Freed from Earth's dull tyranny. + </p> + <h4> + V + </h4> + <p> + Wordless the night-wind, funereal plumes of the tree-tops + swaying—<br> + Writhing and nodding anon at the beck of the + unseen breeze!<br> + Yet its voice ever a murmur resumes, as of multitudes + praying:<br> + Liturgies lost in a moan like the mourning of + far-away seas.<br> + May then those spirits, set free, a celestial council + obeying,<br> + Move in this rustling whisper here thro' the + dark, shaken trees?—<br> + Souls that are voices alone to us, now, yet linger, + returning<br> + Thrilled with a sweet reconcilement and fervid + with speechless desire?<br> + Sundered in warfare, immortal they meet now with wonder and + yearning,<br> + Dwelling together united, a rapt, invisible + choir:<br> + Hearken! They wail for the living, whose passion of battle, + yet burning,<br> + Sears and enfolds them in coils, and consumes, like a serpent + of fire! + </p> + <h4> + VI + </h4> + <p> + Men of New Hampshire, Pennsylvanians,<br> + Maine men, firm as the rock's rough ledge!<br> + Swift Mississippians, lithe Carolinians<br> + Bursting over the battle's edge!<br> + Bold Indiana men; gallant Virginians;<br> + Jersey and Georgia legions clashing;—<br> + Pick of Connecticut; quick Vermonters;<br> + Louisianians, madly dashing;—<br> + And, swooping still to fresh encounters,<br> + New-York myriads, whirlwind-led!—<br> + All your furious forces, meeting,<br> + Torn, entangled, and shifting place,<br> + Blend like wings of eagles beating<br> + Airy abysses, in angry embrace.<br> + Here in the midmost struggle combining—<br> + Flags immingled and weapons crossed—<br> + Still in union your States troop shining:<br> + Never a star from the lustre is lost! + </p> + <h4> + VII + </h4> + <p> + Once more the sun deploys his rays:<br> + Third in the trilogy of battle-days<br> + The awful Friday comes:<br> + A day of dread,<br> + That should have moved with slow, averted head<br> + And muffled feet,<br> + Knowing what streams of pure blood shed,<br> + What broken hearts and wounded lives must meet<br> + Its pitiless tread.<br> + At dawn, like monster mastiffs baying,<br> + Federal cannon, with a din affraying,<br> + Roused the old Stonewall brigade,<br> + That, eagerly and undismayed,<br> + Charged amain, to be repelled<br> + After four hours' bitter fighting,<br> + Forth and back, with bayonets biting;<br> + Where in after years, the wood—<br> + Flayed and bullet-riddled—stood<br> + A presence ghostly, grim and stark,<br> + With trees all withered, wasted, gray,<br> + The place of combat night and day<br> + Like marshaled skeletons to mark.<br> + Anon, a lull: the troops are spelled.<br> + No sound of guns or drums<br> + Disturbs the air.<br> + Only the insect-chorus faintly hums,<br> + Chirping around the patient, sleepless dead<br> + Scattered, or fallen in heaps all wildly spread;<br> + Forgotten fragments left in hurried flight;<br> + Forms that, a few hours since, were human + creatures,<br> + Now blasted of their features,<br> + Or stamped with blank despair;<br> + Or with dumb faces smiling as for gladness,<br> + Though stricken by utter blight<br> + Of motionless, inert, and hopeless sadness.<br> + Fear you the naked horrors of a war?<br> + Then cherish peace, and take up arms no more.<br> + For, if you fight, you must<br> + Behold your brothers' dust<br> + Unpityingly ground down<br> + And mixed with blood and powder,<br> + To write the annals of renown<br> + That make a nation prouder! + </p> + <h4> + VIII + </h4> + <p> + All is quiet till one o'clock;<br> + Then the hundred and fifty guns,<br> + Metal loaded with metal in tons,<br> + Massed by Lee, send out their shock.<br> + And, with a movement + magnificent,<br> + Pickett, the golden-haired + leader,<br> + Thousands and thousands flings onward, as if he sent<br> + Merely a meek interceder.<br> + Steadily sure his division advances,<br> + Gay as the light on its weapons that dances.<br> + Agonized screams of the shell<br> + The doom that it carries + foretell:<br> + Rifle-balls whistle, like sea-birds singing;<br> + Limbs are severed, and souls set winging;<br> + Yet Pickett's warriors never + waver.<br> + Show me in all the world anything braver<br> + Than the bold sweep of his fearless + battalions,<br> + Three half-miles over ground + unsheltered<br> + Up to the cannon, where regiments + weltered<br> + Prone in the batteries' blast that raked<br> + Swaths of men and, flame-tongued, drank<br> + Their blood with eager thirst unslaked.<br> + Armistead, Kemper, and Pettigrew<br> + Rush on the Union men, rank against rank,<br> + Planting their battle-flags high on the + crest.<br> + Pause not the soldiers, nor dream they of + rest,<br> + Till they fall with their enemy's guns at the + breast<br> + And the shriek in their ears of the wounded artillery + stallions.<br> + So Pickett charged, a man + indued<br> + With knightly power to lead a multitude<br> + And bring to fame the scarred surviving few. + </p> + <h4> + IX + </h4> + <p> + In vain the mighty endeavor;<br> + In vain the immortal valor;<br> + In vain the insurgent life outpoured!<br> + Faltered the column, spent with shot and + sword;<br> + Its bright hope blanched with sudden pallor;<br> + While Hancock's trefoil bloomed in triple fame.<br> + He chose the field; he saved the second day;<br> + And, honoring here his glorious name,<br> + Again his phalanx held victorious sway.<br> + Meade's line stood firm, and volley on volley roared<br> + Triumphant Union, soon to be restored,<br> + Strong to defy all foes and fears forever.<br> + The Ridge was wreathed with angry fire<br> + As flames rise round a martyr's stake;<br> + For many a hero on that pyre<br> + Was offered for our dear land's sake,<br> + What time in heaven the gray clouds flew<br> + To mingle with the deathless blue;<br> + While here, below, the blue and gray<br> + Melted minglingly away,<br> + Mirroring heaven, to make another day.<br> + And we, who are Americans, we pray<br> + The splendor of strength that + Gettysburg knew<br> + May light the long generations with glorious ray,<br> + And keep us undyingly true! + </p> + <h4> + X + </h4> + <p> + Dear are the dead we weep for;<br> + Dear are the strong hearts + broken!<br> + Proudly their memory we keep for<br> + Our help and hope; a token<br> + Of sacred thought too deep for<br> + Words that leave it unspoken.<br> + All that we know of fairest,<br> + All that we have of meetest,<br> + Here we lay down for the rarest<br> + Doers whose souls rose fleetest<br> + And in their homes of air rest,<br> + Ranked with the truest and + sweetest.<br> + Days, with fiery-hearted, bold advances;<br> + Nights in dim and shadowy, swift retreat;<br> + Rains that rush with bright, embattled lances;<br> + Thunder, booming round your stirless + feet;—<br> + Winds that set the orchard with sweet fancies<br> + All abloom, or ripple the ripening wheat;<br> + Moonlight, starlight, on your mute graves falling;<br> + Dew, distilled as tears unbidden + flow;—<br> + Dust of drought in drifts and layers crawling;<br> + Lulling dreams of softly whispering + snow;<br> + Happy birds, from leafy coverts calling;—<br> + These go on, yet none of these you + know:<br> + Hearing not our human + voices<br> + Speaking to you all in + vain,<br> + Nor the psalm of a land + that rejoices,<br> + Ringing from churches and cities and foundries a mighty + refrain!<br> + But we, and the sun and the birds, and the breezes that + blow<br> + When tempests are striving and lightnings of heaven are + spent,<br> + With one + consent<br> + Make unto + them<br> + Who died for us eternal requiem. + </p> + <h4> + XI + </h4> + <p> + Lovely to look on, O South,<br> + No longer stately-scornful<br> + But beautiful still in pride,<br> + Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride!<br> + Garmented soft in + white,<br> + Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender!<br> + You stand before us with your gently mournful<br> + Memory-haunted eyes and flower-like mouth,<br> + Where clinging thoughts—as bees + a-cluster<br> + Murmur through the leafy gloom,<br> + Musical in monotone—<br> + Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre<br> + As of glowing gold-gray light<br> + Shines upon the orient bloom,<br> + Sweet with orange-blossoms, + thrown<br> + Round the jasmine-starred, deep night<br> + Crowning with dark hair your brow.<br> + Ruthless, once, we came to slay,<br> + And you met us then with hate.<br> + Rough was the wooing of war: we won you,<br> + Won you at last, though late!<br> + Dear South, to-day,<br> + As our country's altar made us<br> + One forever, so we vow<br> + Unto yours our love to render:<br> + Strength with strength we here endow,<br> + And we make your honor ours.<br> + Happiness and hope shall sun you:<br> + All the wiles that half betrayed us<br> + Vanish from us like spent showers. + </p> + <h4> + XII + </h4> + <p> + Two hostile bullets in mid-air<br> + Together shocked,<br> + And swift were locked<br> + Forever in a firm embrace.<br> + Then let us men have so much grace<br> + To take the bullets' place,<br> + And learn that we are held<br> + By laws that weld<br> + Our hearts together!<br> + As once we battled hand to hand,<br> + So hand in hand to-day we stand,<br> + Sworn to each other,<br> + Brother and brother,<br> + In storm and mist, or calm, translucent weather:<br> + And Gettysburg's guns, with their death-giving roar,<br> + Echoed from ocean to ocean, shall pour<br> + Quickening life to the nation's core;<br> + Filling our minds again<br> + With the spirit of those who wrought in the<br> + Field of the Flower of + Men! + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="notes"><!--Marker--></a> + <h2> + NOTES + </h2> + <p> + [1] <a href="#I.9"><i>Bride Brook</i></a>.—The colony + of New London (now part of Connecticut) was founded by John + Winthrop, Jr., under the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. One + of the boundary lines was a stream flowing into Long Island + Sound, between the present city of New London and the + Connecticut River. In the snowy winter of 1646, Jonathan + Rudd, who dwelt in the settlement of Saybrook Fort, at the + mouth of the Connecticut, sent for Winthrop to celebrate a + marriage between himself and a certain "Mary" of Saybrook, + whose last name has been lost. Winthrop performed the + ceremony on the frozen surface of the streamlet, the farthest + limit of his magistracy; and thereupon bestowed the name + "Bride Brook," which it still bears. + </p> + <p> + [2] <a href="#II.1"><i>The Bride of War</i></a>.—Jemima + Warner, a Pennsylvania woman, was the wife of one of Morgan's + riflemen. She marched with the expedition; and, when her + husband perished of cold and exhaustion, she took his rifle + and equipments and herself carried them to Quebec, where she + delivered them to Arnold as a token of her husband's + sacrifice, and proof that he was not a deserter. + </p> + <p> + Colonel Enos of Connecticut abandoned the column while it was + struggling through the Dead River region, with his whole + force, the rear-guard, numbering eight hundred men. But for + this defection Arnold might have triumphed in his assault on + Quebec. It is a curious circumstance that, with this traitor + at the rear, and with Benedict Arnold at its head, the little + army also counted in its ranks Aaron Burr, whose treason was + to ripen after the war ended. + </p> + <p> + [3] <a href="#III.2"><i>The Sword Dham</i></a>.—Antar, + the Bedouin poet-hero, was chief of the tribe of Ghaylib. + </p> + <p> + [4] <a href="#V.2"><i>The Name of + Washington</i></a>.—Read before the Sons of the + Revolution, New-York, February 22, 1887, and adopted as the + poem of the Society. + </p> + <p> + [5] <a href="#V.6"><i>Marthy Virginia's + Hand</i></a>.—This was an actual incident in the + experience of the late Colonel (formerly Captain) Albert J. + Munroe. of the Third Rhode Island Artillery, a gallant + officer, gentle and brave as well in peace as in war. + </p> + <p> + [6] <a href="#V.7"><i>Gettysburg: A Battle + Ode</i></a>.—Written for the Society of the Army of the + Potomac, and read at its re-union with Confederate survivors + on the field of Gettysburg, July 3, 1888, the Twenty-Fifth + Anniversary of the Battle. + </p> + +<pre> + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Dreams and Days: Poems, by George Parsons Lathrop + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DREAMS AND DAYS: POEMS *** + +This file should be named drmda10h.txt or drmda10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, drmda11h.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, drmda10ah.txt + +Produced by David Garcia, Eric Eldred, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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