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Cornell University Library 
 PS 2869.S1575L9 
 
 Lyrics and sonnets / 
 
 3 1924 022 180 180 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022180180 
 
lyeics and Sonnets 
 
Copyright 1894, 
 Sm 
 
 By Habey B^^ Smith. 
 
 «- 
 
The number of copies of this book 
 is two hundred. 
 
E tjeSicate t\)z5t faeraes to tlje mentorg of 
 mg BtgtEt, 
 
 @n;tr«l3e Sglmeg Stnttlj. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LYRICS AND SONNETS. 
 
 PASS 
 
 The Spikit of Autumn 1 
 
 Omen and Memory 4 
 
 A Poet 8 
 
 The Ckescent in Twilight 9 
 
 A Theme (from the Third ' Leonore ' Overture) .... 10 
 
 Meteors 12 
 
 Shakspeare 13 
 
 The Journey 14 
 
 A Rose in Early Morning 17 
 
 Art Pantheism 18 
 
 The Moonlight Sonata (Beethoven, Opus 27) ... 20 
 
 Two Destinies 22 
 
 Hope 24 
 
 To a Loved One in Absence 26 
 
 Genius ... 29 
 
 Reader and Poet 30 
 
 Noontide and Eventide 31 
 
 After One Year 32 
 
 zi. 
 
PAGE 
 
 Irony 35 
 
 Omniscience 36 
 
 Sanctuary . 38 
 
 Evolution 39 
 
 The Poet's Guerdon 40 
 
 The Lamp of the Sage 41 
 
 Immutability .... 42 
 
 Remorbe 44 
 
 By the Ocean 46 
 
 Telepathy 46 
 
 Unbelief 47 
 
 The Fortunate Ones 48 
 
 The Two Angels 60 
 
 Nirvana 52 
 
 Dead Selves . • 63 
 
 Penumbra 64 
 
 Two Counsellors . . • 55 
 
 The Long Night 56 
 
 Progress 59 
 
 Nocturne 61 
 
 EGYPTIAN SONNETS. 
 
 Enchanted Sleep 63 
 
 Cleopatra 64 
 
 'The Life Inimitable' 65 
 
 The Proof 66 
 
 xii. 
 
FAaE 
 
 Perished Gods ... 67 
 
 Sesostris 68 
 
 Anchiu 69 
 
 ■Binary Souis 70 
 
 A Vision op Power 71 
 
 RHYMES IN MANY MOODS. 
 
 The Rose Jar 73 
 
 To Mt Old Pipe (If I Had One) 76 
 
 Ye Wilde Birdb Love 78 
 
 A Ballade of an Old Spinet 80 
 
 Isolation 82 
 
 Enemies 84 
 
 Love, the Warrior 86 
 
 A Mausoleum 90 
 
 Fame and Love 92 
 
 Niagara 94 
 
 A Wish for Her 98 
 
 A Theist's Prayer 100 
 
 The Mask 103 
 
 Bubbles 104 
 
 How It Happens ... 106 
 
 In the Garden 108 
 
 Reputation 110 
 
 Two Ways of Love 112 
 
 Qui Vitia Odit Homines Odit 114 
 
 ziii. 
 
PAOE 
 
 Two Singers 117 
 
 A Fugitive Thought 118 
 
 A New Litany 120 
 
 Unreconciled 123 
 
 Hesperus 124 
 
 Counsel . 125 
 
 BOOKISH BALLADS. 
 
 A Ballade of Books Well Bound 127 
 
 A Book-Lover's Vision 129 
 
 The Nameless Portrait 132 
 
 On an Autograph Letter of Thomas Moore's . . 134 
 
 A Ballade of Old Montaigne 136 
 
 An Enemy op Books 138 
 
 Books for the Baby 140 
 
 Editio Princeps 142 
 
 'Extra Illustrating' 144 
 
 A Premonition 146 
 
LYRICS AND SONNETS. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF A UTUMN. 
 
 'Tis not alone the sighs of crisping leaves 
 Merged with the drone of a belated bee ; 
 
 'T is not the rush of swallows from the eaves, 
 But less of music, more of mystery, 
 
 The whirr and flutter of invisible wings, 
 
 A murmur of the doom of happy things, 
 As the spirit of Autumn passes. 
 
 What are the breezes whispering to the willows. 
 
 That the glossed leaves upstart and turn so pale ? 
 Why on the undulating little billows 
 
 Of pool and lake do wan white lilies sail 
 Far as they may to seek the sheltering South ? 
 
 Here in his secret boskage, fern-begirt, 
 Pan takes the reed-pipe from his pursed mouth 
 
 And listens, head inclined and eyes alert. 
 As the spirit of Autumn passes. 
 
Out on the blue lake floats the tawny hair 
 
 Of rosy water-nymphs whose shoulders white 
 And ivory arms gleam tremulously where 
 
 They beat the waves in laughing southward flight. 
 The leaf-crowned faun couched on the looping vine 
 
 Feeleth the presage, crusheth grape to grape, 
 Maketh a plenteous store of Morphean wine 
 
 Haply to drug the death he cannot 'scape. 
 And drinketh deep his score of tulip glasses, 
 When the spirit of Autumn passes. 
 
 E'en at the portals of their Winter homes. 
 
 Gnarled hollow oaks, the Dryads pause and peer. 
 Slight finger on sweet lip. Some evil comes ! 
 
 The rustling of the Orphic wings they hear 
 
 And shudder in communicable fear. 
 The air is bitter to the warm young flesh, 
 
 Wherefore each frees her locks of shimmering gold 
 Which falling the lithe limbs enrobe, enmesh, 
 
 A shining silken garment fold in fold. 
 In a damp covert at the forest's core 
 
 Where many moist and motley fallen leaves 
 Have made a tessellate mosaic floor, 
 
 A hermit elf his coming exile grieves. 
 When lilies fade and ring the Summer's knell. 
 
 He bideth only for a favoring gale, 
 
Then fares forth in his gallant walnut shell, 
 A crimson oak-leaf hoisted for a sail. 
 
 See ! in the sombre air, in fugitive haste. 
 
 The caravans of wild ducks zigzag fly. 
 It is as if an old man's fingers traced 
 
 Strange angled letters on the distant sky, 
 The flowers' epitaph in dull grey stone ; 
 
 Their elegy a dove mourns floating by. 
 One that hath heard its wounded mate bemoan 
 
 And hath returned alone with love to die — 
 When the spirit of Autumn passes. 
 
 The happy maiden whom we knew as Summer 
 
 Ceases her song ; she faints at the chill breath 
 That floats before the withering new-comer 
 
 Whose message unto beauty is of death. 
 She cannot die. To her red lips she holds 
 
 The last white poppies, yields unto their spell, 
 Falls on her last fall'n rose-leaves, calmly folds 
 
 Slim hands on gentle bosom and sleeps well. 
 Secure in hope to hear the Springtide chime 
 And waken lovelier in God's own time. 
 
OMEN AND MEMORY. 
 
 A HUSH has fallen after the storm, 
 The storm that frightened the Summer day ; 
 The air is cool that was dry and warm, 
 Its coolness bathes my brow as a balm ; 
 A hush has fallen, and Nature is calm ; 
 Her myriad voices have died away ; 
 Their ghost is silence. 
 
 The big drops' shower 
 Has drenched the heart of each languorous flower. 
 'T is the tempest's shimmering afterglow 
 And there in the West there begins to show 
 A lake of blue where the cloud hills tower, 
 Where the sun its radiance tries to shed 
 Now the dark shade of the storm has fled. 
 To the leaden fringe 
 Is given a tinge 
 Of gold and white 
 By the struggling light. 
 
The drowning eaves 
 
 And the pendant leaves 
 
 Still drip with the restless, rhythmic flow 
 
 Of belated drops. In their moist, soft bed 
 
 The wind-tossed rose-leaves are lying low. 
 
 While the pansy faces a vigil keep 
 
 Where the poppy drowns in its deathly sleep 
 
 And the tremulous lily droops its head. 
 
 (OA, I remember the day, the hour. 
 
 As if it were yesterday instead 
 
 Of over a weary year ago.) 
 
 A hush has fallen. The air is stirred, 
 
 As silence is by a whispered word. 
 
 By the crooning voice of a desolate bird. 
 
 There, where the shade of the leaves is deep, 
 
 She lulls her longing with song to sleep. 
 
 Into my dreaming the wild notes beat ; 
 
 (^It had sung, meseemed, ere the song I heard,) 
 
 A strange sad bird with its delicate, sweet 
 
 Low cry like a sob that it doth repeat 
 
 In three-toned cadence. 
 
 What is its message ? 
 Is it a prayer for itself, or a presage 
 The hidden Sibyl would give to me 
 From its Delphian bower in the darkened tree ? 
 
Doth it give thanks for deliverance 
 
 For the home preserved though tempest-tossed ? 
 
 Hath its voice warning for me perchance, 
 
 Or doth there bide in yon shadow groved 
 
 A death-stilled soul that was all it loved, 
 
 A comrade soul that it mourneth lost, 
 
 A sighing soul that hath missed its way? 
 
 ( Oh, the throb of the bird-voice still I hear 
 
 In my heart, as if it were yesterday; 
 
 And yet — ah me! — it was yester-year ! ) 
 
 Well I remember the world of thought 
 Born of the voice that so plaintively 
 Mourned for the tears that were to be. 
 Now in a breath I remember me 
 My mind with o'erpowering dread was fraught. 
 For a shade there passed ; though it passed unseen, 
 I could feel it near 
 And it bade me fear 
 For a sorrow to be that now hath been. 
 Yea, it seemed to summon away the one 
 Who watched beside me and silently 
 Heard the mysterious voice with me. 
 'T was she who was bidden, she who has done 
 With groping and striving to understand 
 The secrets held in the master-hand. 
 6 
 
As a zephyr comes from a placid sea, 
 
 The prophetess spake : ' Be a spirit with me 
 
 And enter the gates of eternity.' 
 
 It was yesterday as it seems to me, 
 
 And yet — and yet it was yester-year ! 
 
 Then 1 felt but half of the mystery 
 
 Of the ghostly music that wakened fear 
 
 Of all that is now so bitter and clear, 
 
 Whispering : ' Shadows there hover to grieve thee. 
 
 Life and Love together shall leave thee; 
 
 She the most dear, in her youth's fair noon 
 
 Shall leave thee for evermore, soon, ah, soon ! ' 
 
 So hath it been, and the prophet bird 
 
 That my haunted soul with its music stirred 
 
 Still sings in the echoes that memories form 
 
 When a hush has fallen after a storm 
 
 And the sun half shines through the clouds that lower 
 
 When the tremulous lily droops its head 
 
 And the leaves weep rain-drops heavy and slow. 
 
 (^Ah, I remember the day, the hour. 
 
 As if it were yesterday instead 
 
 Of over a weary year ago.') 
 
A POET. 
 
 Out of the heart of the rose 
 Come perfumed subtleties 
 And delicate mysteries 
 Till the charmed senses doze 
 In a dream that bears them afar, afar 
 Where mind is a paradise, earth a star. 
 
 Why at the heart of the rose 
 Dwelleth the worm that eats 
 Into the odorous sweets 
 Where the crimson deepest glows ? 
 Oh, sneer of Fate that the world can win 
 Beauty born of a great soul's sin ! 
 
THE CRESCENT IN TWILIGHT. 
 
 What dost thou sailing on an unknown sea ? 
 
 Canst thou not bide until he conies to thee, 
 
 Thy lover Night, silent and dusky browed, 
 
 Who soon will fold thee in his arms of cloud ? 
 
 Thy smile is faint ; thy face is lily-pale. 
 
 Art weary waiting for his boat to sail 
 
 Out from the glowing harbor of the West, 
 
 Over the ocean of the earth and air 
 
 To meet thee in thy bower in the East ? 
 
 Or art thou loth to fall upon his breast 
 
 And dream an hour of rapturous stillness there, 
 
 While all the captive stars by him released 
 
 Peer through the darkness, mocking at thy sighs ? 
 
 Dost dread their myriad little twinkling eyes 
 
 That seem to sparkle with an elfin glee ? 
 
 They laugh at lovers all and must at thee, 
 
 For they are jealous, envying thy light 
 
 That wins more love than they from amorous Night 
 
A THEME. 
 
 {From the Third ^Leonore ' Overture.) 
 
 In a tempestuous epic half revealed 
 
 This plaintive verse of music whispereth 
 As 't were of death to life, of life to death, 
 
 A wild flower blooming on a battle-fi§ld. 
 
 I keep in thought the evenings that are gone, 
 
 When through weak hands on one weak instrument 
 We learned a part of the great seer's intent 
 
 And dreamed the rest, nor heard the world press on. 
 
 The surge and storm of life it seemed to lull ; 
 It wrought its spell on our twin sympathies 
 And brought the tears that fall for memories, 
 
 'T was so serenely, strangely beautiful. 
 
 10 
 
Now oft as I recall this melody 
 So like a soft epitome of sighs, 
 The dew of sorrow's night is in mine eyes, 
 
 But not as once when thou wert here with me ; 
 
 For then tears came from deeps unknown to me, 
 ^olian thrills born of art's loveliness, 
 Despair and hope, vague passions numberless 
 
 Where pain lives now ; for now I weep for thee. 
 
 11 
 
METEORS. 
 
 Never was a star so bright 
 
 As that one of long ago 
 
 In its graceful arc of flight 
 
 Like the sweep of scimitars. 
 There is many a flower of light 
 In Night's dusky hair, I know, 
 But the best for me is gone ; 
 
 For 1 never see the stars 
 Without thinking of that one 
 Long ago. 
 
 Never eyes were fair to me 
 
 As the eyes mine fell before 
 Through the dream and melody 
 
 Of a single Summer day. 
 Beauty lives on land and sea, 
 Lives in love and art and lore ; 
 But the best has fled afar. 
 
 Shone and passed upon its way ; 
 I shall look upon my star 
 Nevermore. 
 
 12 
 
SHAKSPEABE. 
 
 O SOUL of mine, thou farest in strange ways 
 On thy mind-journey ; meadows sunlit bright 
 Thou traversest where variant flow'rs delight 
 
 And lure aside ; in grey mysterious haze 
 
 Thou wand'rest phantom-led thro' many a maze ; 
 Thou bravest rivers rolling with swift might, 
 Lingerest on little hills of graceful height ; 
 
 In stately woods thou dreamest happy days, 
 
 Until a lonely mountain-top is won, 
 
 Font of the streams and mother of the vales, 
 
 Whose verdant slope all Elfland plays upon, 
 
 On whose fair brow Truth's star faints not nor pales, 
 
 Whence in the noontide eagles seek the sun. 
 Where in the moonlight sob the nightingales. 
 
 13 
 
TEE JOURNEY. 
 
 'Is THAT the gate of Heaven ? ' she said, 
 
 As the angel bearing her through the dark 
 Leaned to catch the song of the lark 
 From the nether side of the clouds aglow 
 With the white dawn blessing the earth below ; 
 
 ' Is that the gate of Heaven ? ' she said ; 
 And the calm-eyed seraph bowed his head. 
 
 ' What is the music I hear ? ' said she ; 
 ' What are the voices afar, afar 
 Beyond the gleaming of yonder star. 
 Chanting celestial chorus ? Hark ! 
 It blends with the song of the pilgrim lark 
 That singeth the world's farewell to me '; 
 And the angel answered her tenderly : 
 
 ' Those are the voices that guide my flight 
 
 Lest I lose my way where the faint stars burn ; 
 They give me welcome when I return 
 With a new-born spirit upon my breast. 
 Seeking the harbor of peace and rest. 
 
 14 
 
I list for the song when I take my flight 
 With a soul that is given to me in the night.' 
 
 ' So many voices, alas ! ' said she ; 
 
 ' So many voices, yet none I know ; 
 For I from a home was the first to go, 
 Save the soul of a little child that died 
 Before I dwelt at my mother's side : 
 So many voices and none to be 
 A voice of welcoming love to me ! ' 
 
 ' The soul of the little child that died,' 
 The angel answered, ' awaits for thee 
 And will call thee sister, and thou shalt see 
 In his eyes the mirror of eyes that weep 
 On earth for thee, as a watch they keep 
 For a sign from thee that must be denied. 
 Though thou standest close to thy mother's side.' 
 
 ' Oh, may I not speak in the voice of old,' 
 She asked the angel, ' one word to tell 
 To darkened hearts that the soul doth dwell 
 In a holy place, in a happy place 
 Where memory liveth, and face to face 
 At last we meet, as our dear faith told ? ' 
 ' No ear shall hear and no eye behold,' 
 
 16 
 
The seraph said. ' See ! the suns grow pale 
 
 In the light of lights that is drawing near ; 
 
 And how shall the eyes of mortal peer 
 
 In the radiance of our immortality ? 
 
 'Tis our God's great law that it shall not be ; 
 Though the human voice through the ages wail, 
 'Tis our God's great law none shall lift the veil.' 
 
 ' God gives man visions,' she said, ' that flow 
 
 With the tide of truth from this holy place ; 
 
 And in these visions, by His kind grace, 
 
 I will speak hopefully spirit-wise ; 
 
 I will lay my hands upon weeping eyes ; 
 I will give my dear hearts that ask in woe 
 An answer, silent ; yet they shall know.' 
 
 Now the chant rose high like the close of war 
 
 With a hymn of peace ; from the earth rose dawn 
 Adown in faint azure the lark sang on : 
 ' Adieu, sweet spirit ; my song will tell 
 To those that mourn thee thy last farewell ' ; 
 So the lark's voice echoed still and far 
 As the sunrise banished the morning star. 
 
 16 
 
A ROSE IN EARLY MORNING. 
 
 Sad little white rose that but yestermorn 
 
 Into this odorous garden world wert born, 
 
 I think that, when the night came, thou didst weep 
 
 A.S a lone child that sobs itself to sleep. 
 
 No lulling bird-voice came from air or tree ; 
 
 The pale moon seemed the sunlight's ghost to be, 
 
 And ho^, the dark was strange, so strange to thee ' 
 
 But, timorous child-blossom, night is gone ; 
 Thy radiant mother wakens thee at dawn. 
 The tender mother of thy sister flowers' 
 And thy sweet life and this sad life of ours. 
 See, with glad eyes at thee, her babe, she peers 
 Through leafy curtains, smiling at thy fears. 
 And she will kiss away thy dewy tears. 
 
 17 
 
ABT PANTHEISM. 
 
 Eee Phidias wrought 
 His dreaming thought 
 In marble to abide, 
 Within the sombre mountain side 
 The statue had been sleeping ; 
 And he was sent to dwell on earth, 
 To give the hidden beauty birth ; 
 He but revealed 
 The form concealed 
 That Nature had been keeping. 
 
 The poet's heart 
 Is Nature's art. 
 And it is she who gives 
 Each thought to him, each thought that lives 
 
 Within the world for ages. 
 Yes, he is born, he lives his span 
 To clothe the thought in words for man. 
 Nature doth hold 
 The book of gold ; 
 The poet turns the pages. 
 
 18 
 
The reeds by the river 
 Are singing ever 
 A song men hear not yet, 
 That the sighing breeze can ne'er forget 
 
 As it floats like a wandering spirit ; 
 But one there shall be born to seize 
 The soul in these breathing mysteries ; 
 He shall be heard 
 Like a strange, wild bird. 
 And the song — then all will hear it. 
 
 19 
 
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA. 
 
 (Beetkoverij Opus 27.) 
 
 I HEAR and dream. I hear slow, murmurous waves 
 
 Sighing as they caress a lonely shore ; 
 
 And, while I listen, to mine eyes there comes 
 
 A vision of illimitable sea. 
 
 Then rises far away a shining disk 
 
 That grows into the splendid Summer moon. 
 
 She makes her path of glory on the deep. 
 
 And in the track of shimmering liquid gold 
 
 There glides a phantom boat wherein, meseems, 
 
 A new-born spirit lieth and is ta'en 
 
 By singing seraphs to a land of light. 
 
 (And all the while I hear the sobbing waves 
 
 In melancholy cadence lap the shore.) 
 
 The passing soul lies on an angel's breast. 
 One with a calm face looketh from the prow 
 As searching for the harbor-lights of Heaven. 
 The rest sing to the world the soul's farewell. 
 I hear the chorus of that ministrant band 
 20 
 
As it were one clear voice. Serene and slow 
 The hymn of peace, of wondrous calm, of hope, 
 Rising and falling, throbbing on the air 
 As were the wind its wavering messenger. 
 (And still the waves sighing unto the shore.) 
 
 The boat drifts into darkness on its way. 
 The seraphs vanish and their chant is done. 
 The stillness lulls the waves to sleep. The moon 
 Seems its own ghost in cerements of cloud. 
 Then of a voice that seemeth almost silence 
 Is born a silence that is like a voice. 
 
 21 
 
*" TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Puke and white as a swan's stray feather 
 Blown from the lake to the verging heather, 
 Two lily chalices grew together ; 
 
 Fit flowers for the Virgin's diadem, 
 Two sisters fair on a mother stem ; 
 And the sun had kisses for both of them. 
 
 Laved by the same warm showers they grew. 
 Glistening at dawn with the shining dew, 
 And their pale, pure glory the moonlight knew. 
 
 Taught were the twain by the whispering trees. 
 Lulled to sleep by the song of the bees. 
 Wakened by kisses of matin's breeze. 
 
 On a morn when the Easter sunshine poured, 
 A maiden there came, and her hands were stored 
 With bloom for the altar of Christ the Lord. 
 
' Which of the twain shall be mine ? ' said she, 
 ' Which of the lilies my gift shall be 
 For the altar of Him who died for me ? ' 
 
 The nearer she took, with her young heart light ; 
 On the Lord Christ's altar it lay that night 
 And there it died, and its soul was white. 
 
 The waning sun of the long day shone 
 
 Where the two had been, but there was but one, 
 
 One pallid lily that trembled alone. 
 
 Night fell and the king of the storm rode past. 
 Then the lonely lily lashed by the blast. 
 Shattered and stained, to the earth was cast. 
 
 So the wind of destiny hurrieth by : 
 This flower on the altar of Christ may lie, 
 The next may fall in the dust and die. 
 
 23 
 
HOPE. 
 
 O FEAE thou Dot while thou canst weep 
 
 Before the beautiful in art ; 
 For some pure sentinel doth keep 
 His vigil in thy heart. 
 
 Despair thou not while clouds that drift 
 
 In golden sunlight have the power 
 Thy weak and errant soul to lift 
 To rest and calm an hour. 
 
 If quiet evening's first-born star, 
 
 That through the amber twilight peers, 
 Doth waft unto thee from afar 
 
 The songs of happy spheres ; 
 
 Or if the purple mountain peaks, 
 By rosy shafts of sunset riven, 
 Call yearning out of thee that seeks 
 Some vision vague of heaven, 
 
 24 
 
O then, though thou hast wandered much, 
 Peace, truth, and beauty may be thine ; 
 Thy heart still answers to the touch 
 Of hands that are divine. 
 
 God's mercy will no judgment roll 
 
 On him whom tears and dreams can bless ; 
 And there is hope for any soul 
 That worships loveliness. 
 
 25 
 
TO A LOVED ONE IN ABSENCE. 
 
 I LOVE thee, love thee as thou, art ; 
 And, whatsoe'er may be enscrolled, 
 The ill in fire, the good in gold, 
 Upon the whiteness of thy heart. 
 Know this : we cannot dwell apart. 
 
 Those innocent and lovely eyes 
 
 Proclaim thee pure. Be ever so, 
 As thou in perilous paths dost go ; 
 Oh, keep that look wherein there lies 
 The chaste soul come from Paradise. 
 
 If thou dost change ; if purity 
 
 That shineth in thy beauty's bloom 
 Give place to passions that consume ; 
 Should thy young soul to darkness flee, 
 Change so : I will not change to thee. 
 
 26 
 
Days grow to years. Soon shall I keep 
 My watch with those sad sentinels 
 Whose music is of passing-bells, 
 Who ever watch yet seem to sleep 
 Amid the dark, within the deep. 
 
 This hand that writes, these eyes that see 
 Naught gladdening as thy gentle face, 
 These arms that oft in fond embrace 
 Have held thee, soon no more shall be 
 Than silence, dust, and mystery. 
 
 Yet shall there something live of mine ; 
 For if there be or be not Heaven, 
 Yet in us all there is a leaven, 
 
 A flame ethereal and divine ; 
 
 In me it is thy love and mine. 
 
 Yea, this shall live, shall grow not old. 
 This essence all impalpable. 
 To work in other minds its spell, 
 When thy true heart at last is cold. 
 And mine is earth amid the mold. 
 
 27 
 
Spirit of Love, whate'er thou art, 
 Thou dost endure though ages^ roll 
 Oblivion on each human soul ; 
 And while thou livest naught shall part 
 Weak man from the Eternal Heart. 
 
 28 
 
GENIUS. 
 
 Within the soul of genius is a flame 
 
 Like that which bums a martyr for the right, 
 Which with its power for torment doth ignite 
 
 A torch that leads from Error and old Shame, 
 
 The fiery signal of a deathless name. 
 
 So, while tongued fires with mortal pangs are curled. 
 About a mighty-hearted one of earth. 
 He is consumed ; but the same pyre gives birth 
 To a flame-banner that can ne'er be furled, 
 A light that kills one darkness in the world. 
 
 29 
 
READER AND POET. 
 
 I KEAD the poet's book in dusk of mind ; 
 
 I saw his words and knew his name was great ; 
 I sought each meaning out, but could not find 
 
 One thought that with my sympathy could mate. 
 
 In stillness afterward I read again, 
 
 In altered mood ; each thought rose clear and free 
 And, gentle as loved hand to brow of pain, 
 
 The poet whispered solace unto me. 
 
 Ah, Life and Death are mystic poets, too ; 
 
 Obscure to errant eyes their complex scroU, 
 Sweet, as to thirsting flowers the matin dew, 
 
 To those who read clear-eyed and pure of soul. 
 
 Oh, to be one of those who can disperse 
 
 Strange shadows that conceal the stars in night, 
 
 Who hear the heart-beat of the universe, 
 
 Dream mighty dreams and read the book aright. 
 
 30 
 
NOONTIDE AND EVENTIDE. 
 
 Who judges Nature by her day alone, 
 
 Her day of golden noon, of radiant dawn. 
 Of emerald glitter upon trees and lawn, 
 
 Of afternoon's calm, slumberous monotone ? 
 Nay, we must wait until the night comes on. 
 
 And see the stray stars shine out one by one ; 
 
 We must behold the setting of the sun, 
 The afterglow when his last ray is gone. 
 
 Who hath not felt night's brooding sympathy 
 Looks upon Nature as a stranger guest. 
 
 Her all we cannot know until we see 
 
 The moonlight time that cometh when we rest. 
 
 So judge not life by its preluding part : 
 
 Let us be patient, let us wait, my heart. 
 
 31 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 
 
 Better art thou asleep 
 Where blossom-scented breezes breathe around 
 Thy quiet bed within the hallowed ground. 
 Is it so much, this symphony of life, 
 Whose chords are sin and sorrowing and strife, 
 Heard by faint hearts that too long vigil keep ? 
 
 Better art thou asleep. 
 
 Sweeter it is to dream 
 Of faces loved, of dear days dead and past, 
 Of outstretched hands that thine shall hold at last. 
 When thou hast led us to the holy place 
 Where new-born spirits meet thee face to face, 
 Where good things are and no things only seem ; 
 
 Sweeter it is to dream. 
 
 33 
 
Happier thou at peace, 
 Dwelling in that calm solitude where we 
 Deep in our weary souls so long to be, 
 Where silence lives, save that the wild birds sing 
 Farewell to Summer, greeting to the Spring, 
 Where care comes not and rest has no surcease ; 
 
 Happier thou at peace. \ 
 
 Dear, dost thou only sleep, 
 Or doth there come into thy tranquil rest 
 A dream of those who ever loved thee best ? 
 Dost know the grief we carry as a cross, 
 The ever-present burden of thy loss ? 
 An angel's tears for loved ones dost thou weep, 
 
 Or dost thou only sleep ? 
 
 Better were I asleep 
 Where moss is tender and where violets spring 
 Than thus to be awake to suffering, 
 Dwelling where thou hast been and art no more. 
 Thy name, beloved, I whisper o'er and o'er. 
 And my soul cries to thee out of the deep — 
 
 Better were I asleep ! 
 
 33 
 
Let it be soon — my prayer — 
 That I, her spirit for my gentle guide, 
 May be made worthy with her to abide ; 
 By Grief, high priest of life, absolved and shriven, 
 May I look in those dear, pure eyes in Heaven. 
 Help me, O well beloved, to meet thee there ; 
 
 Let it be soon — my prayer. 
 
 34 
 
IRONY. 
 
 So PASSING strange are the decrees of Fate. 
 'T is hard to think she is the minister 
 
 Of a transcendent power supremely great ; 
 She seems a giant witch who loves to err, 
 A fury that no prayers for justice stir. 
 
 The smug-faced wretch who slays his man by stealth 
 Lives out a long life with contented mind, 
 
 Eats, drinks, is merry, fuU of gold and health ; 
 
 Keats leaves scarce half his treasure to mankind ; 
 Beethoven is made deaf, and Milton blind. 
 
OMNISCIENCE. 
 
 There was a time — oh, dare we call it time ? — 
 When earth was not, when yonder glowing sun, 
 That is of fiery companies but one. 
 
 Awaited darkly the command sublime. 
 
 No sphere in millions yet was given its place ; 
 
 No stars were born of the eternal thought ; 
 
 'T was ere the birth of worlds, and there was naught 
 But darkness, silence, and stupendous space. 
 
 Then on the stillness fell a whispered word : 
 And in the darkness shone a shaft of light ; 
 The new-born suns each to its post took flight ; 
 
 The darkness saw itself, the silence heard. 
 
 36 
 
Yea, each sun messenger upon its way 
 
 Strewed stars along the path, or lightly hurled 
 Round drops of fire, each cooling to a world. 
 
 Or little moons whose radiance lived a day. 
 
 And the AU-wise was conscious even then 
 (Can there be limit to the mind divine?} 
 That this poor, atomic, shadowy self of mine 
 
 Would live, strive, wonder, doubt, and hold this pen 
 
 37 
 
SANCTUARY. 
 
 As WHEN a panting fugitive pursued 
 
 (Whether by justice following misdeeds, 
 Or wanton hate whereon man's nature feeds) 
 
 Enters a sacred shrine that is endued 
 
 With grace to save him from a vengeful brood, 
 And fainting falls, and tells repentant beads 
 In prayer to the mild power that intercedes 
 
 To still the strife and soothe the suppliant's mood ; 
 
 So I, from hunting cares that never cease. 
 Fly to thy temple, wise and lovely Art ; 
 
 Thou givest all thy calm and blest release, 
 And biddest no weak votary depart. 
 
 O thou whose silent service bringeth peace. 
 On thy pure altar let me lay my heart. 
 
EVOLUTION. 
 
 When I survey the dim tempestuous years 
 That, half illumined, gloried in faint light, 
 I think how very meet for that far night 
 
 Of pale stars each dark creed and deed appears. 
 
 Then man lay prisoned in a cell of fears, 
 And slowly dug a secret way to flight ; 
 A way that has become a pathway bright 
 
 With blossoms born of martyrs' blood and tears. 
 
 Thus, in the building of man's mind, I see 
 Grrand Luther was grim Torquemada's heir. 
 
 The papal Borgia a necessity ; 
 
 Intolerance banned that Freedom's sons might dare. 
 
 Had no wrongs spoken, Wyclif had been dumb ; 
 
 Without preluding dark, no day can come. 
 
 39 
 
THE POET'S GUERDON. 
 
 To MEET thine eyes in sympathy inferred, 
 And learn from thee some evanescent word 
 
 Has reached thy heart and aided thee to say 
 ' It may be best ': oh, sweeter this reward 
 Than perishable laurel might afford 
 
 Or living name when he has gone away. 
 
 If in his well-praised verses, that possess 
 In his clear eyes no worth save earnestness, 
 
 There is one thought that, when thy heart is sore 
 Gives thee a passing comfort, making less 
 E'en for a fleeting moment thy distress. 
 
 He is content with this, he asks no more. 
 
 ¥) 
 
THE LAMP OF THE SAGE. 
 
 Moon of the midnigbt of man's mind, 
 
 Guide and illumine till the dawn 
 When a new race shall rise to find 
 
 The mists of darkness gone. 
 Yet seek not thou to shine by day 
 
 When Truth's broad radiance is unfurled ; 
 'T is not for thee to take away 
 
 The sunlight of the world. 
 
 When, in the night, grey ghost and wraith 
 
 The starlit path of hope conceal. 
 The way of pure and simple faith, 
 
 O honest lamp, reveal. 
 But when the morn-breeze has begun 
 
 The clouds of creeds to lift and sever, 
 Vie not with the undying sun, 
 This truth : that God and man are one, 
 
 And great souls live forever. 
 
 41 
 
IMMUTABILITY. 
 
 Deab one, thou canst not change. Thy purity 
 
 Is an immortal flower that fadeth not. 
 
 Eternity of silence or of song, 
 
 Eternity of glory or the dark, 
 
 It matters not ; there can no change come there. 
 
 Beauty and innocence and joyous youth, 
 These were thy heritage. Thou didst not wait 
 To suffer, to grow weary on the way. 
 Whate'er the mystery, thou canst not know, 
 As thou didst never know, one night of tears. 
 
 While we must sit and see the shadows come. 
 Must live, must suffer, see ourselves grow old, 
 And those who yet have innocence to keep 
 Must lose it, must behold their faces grow 
 From God's own image to its mockery. 
 
 42 
 
Ah ! is it not so with the best of us ? 
 Do not the blest find in each journeying day 
 The deeds that are as rust unto the heart, 
 The thoughts that are as moth unto the mind? 
 Change, saddest change for us, but not for thee. 
 
 If there is balm for sorrow, it is this : 
 Translated in thy radiant purity. 
 Stranger thou wert to sin as unto tears. 
 And thou shalt be so through eternity. 
 O best beloved, there is no change for thee. 
 
 43 
 
REMORSE. 
 
 I SOUGHT to hide my recreant soul away 
 In a dark place. Unto myself I said : 
 ' Let youthful blood leap on ; my soul is dead, 
 
 Killed by despair. Let come to me what may, 
 
 Eyes shall laugh love to eyes and songs be gay ! 
 Wine shall be cool to lips and lips be red ! 
 From chilling, wasting thought I would be led 
 
 By Pleasure's glovring lamp far, far astray.' 
 
 Then as the poppy holds its slumberous sway 
 
 O'er senses steeped, the world's heart lived in me 
 
 Till, roused as from a dream at dawn of day 
 By a cold breath that fanned me icily, 
 
 I saw a phantom in the morning grey 
 
 That moaned : ' I am thy soul, lost, lost to thee.' 
 
 44 
 
BY THE OCEAN. 
 
 Sometimes the children by the sea 
 Grow weary of their sunlit play, 
 Pause, rest, and gaze half wistfully 
 Afar to the horizon where 
 The azure sea meets azure air ; 
 And, ' It is beautiful,' they say ; 
 ' But what is it that 's over there ? ' 
 
 Wind-tossed and leaden grows the sea, 
 
 The shore wreck-strewn, the heavens grey. 
 Like little weary children we 
 
 Cease playing by the ocean where 
 We ponder, hope, and dream fore'er ; 
 ' 'T is vast and wonderful,' we say ; 
 ' But oh ! what waiteth over there ? ' 
 
 45 
 
TELEPATHY. 
 
 That veiled unfathomable look of thine, 
 Of thine, O sibyl of the midnight eyes, 
 What doth it mask ? All vainly I surmise 
 
 Long after, when thy glance has clung to mine 
 One moment eloquent of sad good-byes 
 
 And sentient with a sympathy divine. 
 
 What hidden pearl, what buried treasure lies 
 
 'Neath this calm, passionless sea, where ever shine 
 
 The sun-rays of soft laughter, or the beams 
 Of moonlight shimmering thro' a cloud of dreams ? 
 Thy deep eyes read my secret heart, then range 
 Far wandering from the wistful interchange ; 
 Yet 't is enough : the swift cloud-passing seems 
 
 To make souls friends that ne'er should have been 
 strange. 
 
UNBELIEF. 
 
 Cease, weakling soul, thy mockery at Doubt, 
 The clear-eyed child to Faith and Reason born, 
 
 Whose whispered word puts lingering mists to rout 
 And brings the light of man's diviner morn. 
 
 One mind directeth all. The self-same power 
 
 That sowed the stars and formed the rainbow's prism 
 
 That poised the sun and bids the buds to flower. 
 Made the first heart that lived in scepticism. 
 
 'T was Doubt that solved the riddles of the past, 
 Slew Error's faiths red-handed and uncouth. 
 
 This will perfect the souls of men at last: 
 
 Men must be doubters ere they see the truth. 
 
 47 
 
THE FORTUNATE ONES. 
 
 Aee not the dead God's favorites after all ? 
 
 Is death the goal ? At least they are at rest 
 
 Whom the great mother lulls upon her breast 
 To sleep in silence. Not for them the brawl 
 
 And tumult that are life's when life is best ; 
 
 For where is living one, however blest, 
 Into whose chalice bitter drops ne'er fall ? 
 
 If the sad echo of an anguished cry 
 
 That ever haunts the minds that darkly grope 
 Speaks truth, — if man clings to a shadowy hope, 
 
 His Maker's likeness only born to die, — 
 
 Still are the dead God's favorites, mocked no more 
 By a poor faith we cling to and adore 
 
 Like helpless slaves of chance. At rest they lie. 
 
 But oh ! if truth is in that voice that cheers 
 
 The heart that mourns : 'Rise up ! rejoice, poor heart ! 
 Thy lost one thou shalt meet where none shall part. 
 
 4a 
 
An angel lives in the supernal spheres ' ; 
 
 Then, then the dead a blessed vigil keep ; 
 
 Their tender arms are 'round us while we weep, 
 And theirs the boon of pity's gentle tears. 
 
 So grieve not for the dead. Thy sighs are deep. 
 And from thy soul comes many a passionate moan 
 Let them be for thyself who art alone ; 
 
 They are at rest or at thy side can weep. 
 So dread not death, whate'er is its release, 
 Silence or radiance, joy or blessed peace. 
 
 Immortal gladness or eternal sleep. 
 
 49 
 
THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 Two unseen angels poised in air, 
 
 Two spirits looked with pitying eyes 
 Upon the world and the despair 
 Of hearts that break each moment there, 
 And heard th' incessant sound of sighs. 
 
 One spirit was a seraph born, 
 
 One of the host to whom are given 
 
 God's missions ; but upon that morn 
 
 The other angel first had worn 
 
 Her starry radiant robe of Heaven. 
 
 The elder looked on misery 
 
 With the sad, voiceless calm of one 
 That thought : ' Who questions the decree 
 Of God that suffering must be 
 
 Man's lot until his life is done ? ' 
 
 50 
 
The angel from the burdened race 
 
 Translated, mourned : ' Could I forget ! 
 Could I mine earthly steps retrace ! ' 
 The tears were wet upon her face 
 
 And in her shielding palms were wet. 
 
 The elder, with reproachful eyes. 
 
 Quoth, looking on her sister's tears : 
 ' Thou art of us in Paradise ; 
 For thee no human sorrows rise, 
 No alien sins, no mortal fears.' 
 
 ' I dwelt with these within the deep,' 
 Bemoaned the newly blessed one. 
 
 ' Ah, God ! why did my pity sleep ? 
 Oh, let me weep ! Oh, let me weep 
 For all the good I might have done I ' 
 
 m 
 
NIRVANA. 
 
 What better boon for man may be 
 Than Lethe's cup held forth by thee, 
 
 Oblivion, Oblivion? 
 The day is long ; the night is best ; 
 The poppy's lulling draught is blest 
 That giveth us, not dreams, but rest. 
 
 Let veiled truth abide unguessed, 
 The while I slumber on thy breast. 
 
 Oblivion, Oblivion ; 
 Slumber for by-gone sorrow's sake 
 Where gentle hearts nor bleed nor break ; 
 And ah ! I will not long to wake. 
 
 At set of sun, be mine the balm 
 Of sempiternal midnight calm, 
 
 Oblivion, Oblivion. 
 Absorb me, O thou vital flame, 
 Thou god that weareth nature's name. 
 Wherein we merge and whence we came. 
 
 62 
 
DEAD SELVES. 
 
 Could we but look in secret cabinets 
 
 Of souls of those we envy and think blest, 
 
 What would we find sequestered ? Vain regrets 
 In every one, lost hopes and dull unrest, 
 
 Illusions of young love faded and sere 
 
 As rose-leaves in the evening of the year. 
 
 Each heart contains its silent sepulchre 
 
 Where buried selves resurgent live once more. 
 
 Wakened by faces, voices, notes that were 
 
 In by-gone music ; wrecks cast on- the shore 
 
 Of a dim past. Do such ghosts never start 
 
 Forth from the mausoleum of thy heart ? 
 
 Nay then ! Confess thou not ; thou art not bound ; 
 
 Wear still thy mask complacent and serene. 
 These spectres rise to all and hover 'round, 
 
 Though only by ourselves are ever seen. 
 Ah ! happy he who, till their final doom. 
 Can keep these dark shades still within their tomb. 
 
 53 
 
PENUMBRA. 
 
 There shall be watching beside my bed 
 And waiting friends in the rooms below ; 
 
 With whispering breath 
 
 They will speak of death, 
 While the clock's swift pendulum to and fro 
 Shall count the atoms of life that go. 
 
 Then shall I feel ray chords of life, 
 Like the weak, tense strings of an old violin, 
 Stretch 'neath the hand of the player. Death, 
 Till they seem as fine and thin 
 As the veriest cobweb. One by one, 
 I shall feel each snap as the turned keys press, 
 Till the last poor string. 
 Like a ghostly thing, 
 Fades into nothingness. 
 
 I shall hear my last breath come and go, 
 
 And then, when the feeble spark is fled, 
 For an awful moment shall lie and know 
 That I am dead. 
 
 5i 
 
TWO COUNSELLORS. 
 
 I HEARD a voice that echoed through the ages 
 
 And spake unto me from a thousand pages : 
 ' If thou dost not as well as did the best, 
 
 Keep silent, for the world needs naught of thee. 
 There are enough whose works are all unblest ; 
 
 There is enough of mediocrity.' 
 
 I heard another voice within my heart 
 
 That said : ' Though past the time of glorious art 
 Though the old world has thought for years of years. 
 
 There still are thoughts unuttered, unexpressed. 
 There still are songs unsung, new hopes and fears, 
 
 New arts, new men and motives. Do thy best.' 
 
 55 
 
THE LONG NIGHT. 
 
 Who will watch thee, little mound, 
 When a few more years are done 
 And I go with them to rest 
 In the silence that is best ? 
 Grave of my beloved one, 
 When that I mine own have found, 
 Who will watch thee, little mound ? 
 
 Who will love thee, little grave ? 
 Thou must be as others are. 
 
 Hearts low in the dust lie here. 
 Unloved, alone, unwept, and drear, 
 Forgotten as a fallen star. 
 Only from some dark sobbing wave 
 The clouds shall bring their tears to lave 
 Thy withered lilies, little grave. 
 
 56 
 
Airs that hover over thee, 
 
 Little mound, are strangely sweet ; 
 Strangely sweet the odors shed 
 By the blossoms 'round thy bed 
 Blossoms for a maiden meet ; 
 But, alas ! how will it be 
 When I lie at rest by thee ? 
 
 After years that are a day 
 
 In the swiftness of their flight. 
 None among us will there be 
 Who will live remembering thee 
 And thy beauty. Into night 
 We who mourn must take our way 
 When the twilight cometh grey. 
 After years that are a day. 
 
 Silent cities of the dead 
 
 Grow as old as hearts of men ; 
 Flowers sanctified that bloom 
 In the sunshine on a tomb 
 Have their little day, and then 
 All their grace and glory fled, 
 They are dead amid the dead. 
 
 37 
 
Ah, God ! how miserably lost 
 
 The loveliest must be ; for naught 
 After a little space there lives 
 (Save the poor words the grave-stone gives 
 To heedless eyes and careless thought) 
 Of pure and blest or passion-tost. 
 A few brief hours of bloom and frost, 
 And where are those who loved the lost ? 
 
 Even our sorrows seeming long 
 
 Must pass, as grains of sand must fall 
 Beneath the infinite calm sea 
 Of ages and eternity. 
 We are faint shadows on a wall ; 
 We look our last on love and wrong, 
 Then fade as doth a silenced song. 
 
 58 
 
FBOGBESS. 
 
 A SAVAGE stood upon an Orient shore 
 
 And looked with dazzled eyes upon the sun. 
 
 A spirit whispered : ' 'T is thy god ! Adore ! ' 
 He fell and prayed. . . Religions were beg^n. 
 
 A nobler spirit led the faith away ; 
 
 And fear to fear and myth to myth succeeded, 
 As man grew more of mind and less of clay, 
 
 As more of reason, less of dread was needed. 
 
 Sun-gods and star-gods passed, shapes brass and stone 
 And gods to wear or carry in the hand ; 
 
 Passed those grim gods appeased by blood alone, 
 And Jove's Olympian, earth-haunting band. 
 
 New spirits breathed to every race and clime : 
 ' Make to yourselves such tyrants as ye please ' ; 
 
 59 
 
And sternest despot o£ them all, old Time, 
 Bade men rise higher than their deities ; 
 
 rill in the march, at this momentous pause, 
 Man trembles at the mighty mystery ; 
 
 Yet, feeling that there is a Primal Cause, 
 With fainting hope, prays to Infinity. 
 
 60 
 
NOCTURNE. 
 
 Midnight black, and the clock on the wall 
 
 Its kneU has finished ringing ; 
 Dead leaves rustle crisp as they fall ; 
 
 The wind a dirge is singing ; 
 It drives the scurrying leaves in rout, 
 
 It snaps the dry twigs rotten ; 
 When — hark ! a pitiful voice without 
 
 That wails : ' I am forgotten ! ' 
 
 Forgotten ? Not while these eyes have sight ; 
 
 Believe it not nor fear it ; 
 So back, turn back to thy home of light : 
 
 Moan not, dear haunting spirit. 
 
 61 
 
EGYPTIAN SONNETS. 
 
 ENCHANTED SLEEP. 
 
 As a fanatic Brahmin devotee 
 
 To gazing on one object gives his years, 
 Till all the sentient being disappears 
 
 And nothing save incarnate thought is he, — 
 
 A scarce imprisoned soul in ecstasy, 
 
 One who has stupefied all hopes and fears. 
 Is lost to passions, dead to smiles and tears. 
 
 Whose life a shadowy vision seems to be : 
 
 So in my fancy, Egypt, 't is with thee ; 
 
 Like to thy Sphinx with enigmatic smile, 
 
 Thou art enrapt with looking on the NUe, 
 Thy god, thy mother, and thy mystery ; 
 
 For thou hast gazed on that strange sacred stream 
 
 Until thy life is an eternal dream. 
 
CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Where from the burning blue of Afric skies 
 The golden iris of the sun's eye blazes, 
 The Sphinx upon her realm of silence gazes 
 
 With shattered sneer that mocks the centuries. 
 
 Around those vast, mysterious cones arise. 
 Grim Karnak's tottering majestic mazes. 
 And Luxor's tombs that speak in marble praises 
 
 Of nameless kings and mummied dynasties. 
 
 The gods lie cold in Time's necropolis, 
 
 Thoth, Ra, and Hathor, lords of dread control ; 
 Faint names they are upon the ages' scroll ; 
 But thou, whose fatal eyes were an abyss 
 Where hearts and states fell, apotheosis 
 
 Of mortal love, thou art dead Egypt's soul. 
 
 64 
 
■THE LIFE INIMITABLE.' 
 
 Here, where these carven walls shut out the din 
 And conflict of the world, here let us lie 
 In languorous aftermath of ecstasy. 
 
 While rhythmic chant and reckless dance begin. 
 
 Oh, we have lost a world our love to win ! 
 
 Then let no thought of days that are gone by, 
 No fear of coming night, bid pleasure fly, 
 
 Nor tempt the cast of Time's poised javelin. 
 
 There is a conjuration in thy kiss 
 
 That bans the haunting shapes of memory. 
 My soul in tranced metamorphosis 
 
 Can forget all save thee, forget and sigh : 
 Live on, love on ! there is no world but this ! 
 
 And here we can forget that we must die. 
 
 65 
 
THE PROOF. 
 
 ' Deink to eternal love, my Antony, 
 
 This one sweet cup ; my lips have touched its rim 
 And blest the red and foaming wine for him 
 
 Who is my king. 'Tis at thy lips. But see — 
 
 Dear gods ! how near ! Beseech thee, give it me I 
 Slave, take thou this ; thy queen hath kissed the brim.' 
 (He drinks, and moaning falls, his every limb 
 
 Convulsed, and writhes till kind death sets him free.) 
 
 ' See now, beloved, how unjust thou art. 
 
 Thou hast full often feared the draught I gave ; 
 But Cleopatra hath too gentle heart 
 
 To poison any creature — but a slave. 
 Allay thy haunting doubts ; death shall not part 
 
 Thy soul and mine ; for us one laureled grave.' 
 
PERISHED GODS. 
 
 The phantoms of a legion deities 
 
 Are floating in thy hot and heavy air, 
 
 O sombre laud ; they haunt thy temples bare 
 
 Where once faint suppliants fell with trembling knees 
 
 They rise in Nilus' vapors, and the breeze 
 At even whispers softly the despair 
 Of powers dethroned whose spirits hover there, — 
 
 Osiris, Ammon, Set, and Herakles. 
 
 These gods are banished. But did they not live 
 When their poor faithful bowed to them of old ? 
 
 And had they not vicarious right to give 
 
 The blessings by the Mightiest controlled ? 
 
 Is it not part of the progressive scheme 
 
 Each age of fitting deities shall dream ? 
 
 67 
 
SESOSTEIS. 
 
 For eighty days thy slaves and vassals wrought,* 
 Making thy tomb a lasting monument 
 To give thy virtues hieroglyphed descent 
 
 To unborn races. Cunning workmen, taught 
 
 By art forgotten, oils and ointments brought, 
 Wherewith to baffle Nature's wise intent 
 That thou shouldst with thy native dust be blent. 
 
 Then thy sarcophagus thy kinsmen sought 
 
 To make a house of comfort, lacking naught 
 To be a pleasant dreaming-place for thee ; 
 
 And after ceremonious mummeries fraught 
 
 With pomp, they laid thee there, old king, that we 
 
 In land undreamed of in thy wildest thought. 
 May look on thy poor ruin for a fee. 
 
 * Eighty days were given to preparing the mummy of an Egyptian king. 
 68 
 
ANCHIU* 
 
 These palaces and many-columned halls 
 
 Are naught but taverns built along the way, 
 Wherein worn travelers tarry for a day, 
 
 To journey onward when Osiris calls. 
 
 Oh, stronger let us build the mighty walls 
 
 In which those gone from death to living may 
 Abide and dream in shadows cool and grey, 
 
 After the god of silence disenthralls. 
 
 These dwell with us, not in earth's dark eclipse. 
 But here where we can kiss the waxen lips 
 
 And whisper confidences, being sure 
 That they can kiss again and understand. 
 Life's mansions are ye, tombs of this our land ! 
 
 Embalmed spirits, ye alone endure ! 
 
 *The ancient Egyptians considered the houses of the living as inns, and the 
 tombs of the dead as eternal habitations. The sarcophagus was called ' the lord of 
 life,* and dead persons * the living ones * (* Auchiu '). 
 
BINARY SOULS* 
 
 To EVEET one the creed of Isis granted 
 
 Two souls : one pure, that, when the creature ceased. 
 Was the deserted body's guardian priest ; 
 
 The better self, pure prototype, it haunted 
 
 The tomb where lay the corse, and was not daunted 
 By beast or vulture, till the moment when 
 The dead arose to claim his souls again. 
 
 The other spirit fled afar enchanted, 
 
 A bird, a moth ; to it the part assigned 
 To do some little kindness of its own, 
 That might for the departed's sins atone, 
 
 So favor with Osiris he might find. 
 
 Old sombre fancy, thou hast passed away, 
 Yet thou hast grains of truth for us to-day. 
 
 ^Ka and Ba were the names of the two soula that, according to Egyptian myth 
 ology, inhabited every human body. 
 
 TO 
 
A VISION OF POWER. 
 
 Phaeaoh lies tossing on his terrace bed, 
 
 Waiting for news, his heart a quaking thing. 
 
 See ! Messengers ! Two Ethiops, who bring 
 Swift tidings. To the presence they are led. 
 ' Speak ! Tell your news ! ' ' Thy son, great lord, is dead.' 
 
 Frowningly for his bright sword gropes the king ; 
 
 Twice hissingly the royal blade doth swing, 
 And in its own blood rolls each severed head. 
 
 Then back upon his couch the king is prone, 
 
 With hungry eyes, pressed lips, and wrinkled brow ; 
 
 The powers of life and death he calls his own, — 
 Yet only over slaves ? Death mocks him now. 
 
 Is in revolt. He mutters 'neath his breath : 
 
 ' Some way must be to kill this traitor Death.' 
 
 11 
 
HHYMES IN MANY MOODS. 
 
 THE ROSE JAB. 
 
 Into this Dresden china crypt 
 
 She lets a single blossom fall, 
 When through the last dance she has tripped 
 
 And come home weary from the ball. 
 The jar is very nearly filled 
 With roses that their hour have thrilled 
 
 Upon her breast so fair, so fair, 
 Or trembled in her hair. 
 
 Dead,' dead, or dying, here they lie. 
 Each with unwritten epitaph, — 
 
 Some flowers given with a sigh. 
 
 Some that she took with happy laugh. 
 
 73 
 
Here, like the victims of her eyes, 
 They may condole and sympathize ; 
 Rivals, perchance, in life were they, 
 But friends now cast away. 
 
 The leaves of some as dust are dry, 
 While some to wilt have just begun ; 
 
 And it is thus they typify 
 
 Each loving heart that gave her one. 
 
 Within her memory's rose jar, so 
 
 The loves of half a year ago 
 
 Lie darkly, as these roses must, 
 And crumble into dust. 
 
 Here are the fading souvenirs 
 
 Of those whom once I envied greatly. 
 Of those who once roused doubts and fears 
 
 That have not come to baunt me lately ; 
 For now I am the cavalier 
 Who sends most buds to prison here, — 
 
 My roses are the very last. 
 And they are withering fast. 
 
 74 
 
Each sad flower lying here in gloom 
 
 Dies with one memory to bless, 
 Yields up its soul of sweet perfume 
 Sighing for one lost happiness : 
 ' I nestled on her snowy breast ; 
 Her lips my petals have caressed ; 
 I lay in her white hand ungloved ; 
 I die — I lived — I loved.' 
 
 Ah ! could such memories be mine 
 When my heart dies, as die it must, 
 
 When my poor roses intertwine 
 
 Their leaves with others in the dust, ■ 
 
 Could I that mortal moment bless 
 
 With ghosts of hours of happiness, 
 The glory of my life were proved 
 I would have lived — have loved. 
 
 75 
 
TO MY OLD FIFE. 
 
 (IF I BAD ONE.) 
 
 Companion of full many a night of toil 
 
 Hast thou been, dusky friend, 
 When in the lamp the slowly waning oil 
 
 Burned dimly, to its end. 
 My old black pipe, that brought me long ago 
 
 Sage counsel and good cheer, 
 Is 't time to say ' Good bye,' old friend ? Not so, 
 
 I trust, for many a year. 
 (Jn some siich terms my pipe I might invoke ; 
 
 But pipes I do not smohe.') 
 
 When reading some loved book at close of day, 
 
 I dwell in fancy's realm, 
 My mind, an airy boat, doth sail away. 
 
 And thou art at the helm. 
 Perchance it is Dumas with hair-breadth 'scape. 
 
 Or Dickens' mirth and tears ; 
 
 76 
 
Each figure in thy curling smoke takes shape 
 
 And soaring disappears. 
 ( These things might he if I smoked pipes, I wot ; 
 
 However, I do not.) 
 
 Old pipe, 'tis true thou hast seen better days ; 
 
 Thou 'rt shabby and much worn ; 
 Thou art malodorous. My lady says 
 
 Thou art not to be borne. 
 And yet 'tis true that thou hast served me well 
 
 Despite thy gruesome mien. 
 No one, save I, thy master, e'er can tell 
 
 How faithful thou hast been. 
 ( One little thing this sentiment debars — 
 
 I ordy smoke cigars.) 
 
 When at thy smoke-wreaths steadfastly I gaze, 
 
 And seem to think of naught, 
 My mind doth drift to dear and distant days. 
 
 While thought gives rise to thought. 
 Till comes a face, a face like a young rose. 
 
 That visions e'er invoke. 
 Where is that fair face now ? Alas ! who knows ? 
 
 Confound that wretched smoke ! 
 (I might see smoky pictures of this type, — 
 
 Sut then, I have no pipe.) 
 
 77 
 
YH WILDE BIBBS LOVE. 
 
 An thou doste bide a live-long Somer daye 
 To lure a wilde birde to an emptie cage, 
 'T is all in vaine ; 't is utterlie in vaine. 
 Thy cage mote be of golde y-gliteringe gaye, 
 
 Ye syngynge pilgrym's bryghte eyen to engage ; 
 Yet he approacheth but to flye agayn. 
 
 An thou hast minde by paclaunce, toyle, and skyll 
 To capture love to fyll an emptie herte, 
 'T is all in vaine, aye, utterlie in vaine. 
 The herte mote be of golde whych thou shalt fyll 
 With truth and vertue. Vaine is all thine arte ; 
 Love shal pass bye and goe hys wayes agayn. 
 
 But gin thy casemente openeth some daye 
 Unto ye fragraunce of softe Somer aire. 
 
 Who wits what songe-birde whych hath lost its 
 neste 
 
 78 
 
Shal peer in curouslie, for shelter praye ; 
 
 Seekynge thy welcome, eravynge for thy care, 
 With mochel thanks for this new place of reste ? 
 
 Open thy lattice. An there 's love for thee, 
 'T wil be its destyne to enter there, 
 
 Aske welcome with a tymide trustynge eye. 
 Gin thou doste wearie and wolde sette it free, 
 
 Seek notte to drive it hence, but to bryghte aire 
 Throwe wide thy casemente, and ye birde wil flye. 
 
 79 
 
A BALLADE OF AN OLD SPINET. 
 
 Within a garret nook it stands, 
 
 Discovered by no sunlight ray ; 
 O'er yellow keys and rusted strands 
 
 The spiders weave a mantle gray ; 
 
 Yet youth and beauty, I dare say. 
 Have loved its music ; to and fro 
 
 Lithe, snowy fingers loved to stray 
 O'er this old spinet, years ago. 
 
 At dead of night, while unseen hands 
 
 Their long-forgotten skill display, 
 Bewigged and patched and powdered bands 
 
 A spectral contra-dance essay ; 
 
 Or treading in a stately way 
 Through minuets, they curtsey low. 
 
 As in the Georgian youthful day 
 Of this old spinet, years ago. 
 
 80 
 
It knew pavanes and sarabands, 
 
 Gluck's tranquil tunes and LuUi's gay, 
 The florid airs of Southern lands, 
 
 Of Arne and Purcell many a lay. 
 
 Some poor despairing genius may 
 Have made it sharer of his woe, 
 
 And bowed his weary head to pray 
 O'er this old spinet, years ago. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Old friend, thou 'rt dear in thy decay 
 To me, ay dear ; for thou wert so 
 
 To those, long dust, who used to play 
 On thee, old spinet, years ago. 
 
 81 
 
ISOLATION. 
 
 Far away, so far, so far. 
 
 Like rays from the most distant star 
 
 That shines for man, for me thou art, 
 
 beloved of my heart. 
 
 If but leagues of tossing sea 
 Kept asunder thee and me, 
 
 1 could find my way to thee ; 
 But far more us twain divides 
 
 Than deadly deeps and treacherous tides. 
 The wind-swept, pale November moon 
 Shall look on roses born of June, 
 And May shall trip with footsteps fleet 
 To cast her buds at Winter's feet, 
 Ere thou and I can ever meet. 
 
 There are dungeons that we build, 
 With our self-made tortures filled. 
 Deeper than the cells wherein 
 Died victims of dark Ezzelin ; 
 
 82 
 
Where self-prisoned captives brood 
 
 In mind-devouring solitude — 
 
 Solitude that lives in crowds 
 
 As wounded warriors 'neath the clouds. 
 
 I dwell here in such an one ; 
 
 Dwell with many, yet alone. 
 
 Through my prison bars I see 
 Where thou art at peace and free ; 
 Through my prison bars I hear 
 Thy dear voice, sweet, low, and clear. 
 As distant chimes fall on the ear. 
 
ENEMIES. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas just his should have been the hand 
 That struck me down ; he had been patient long, 
 And knew not my repentance of the wrong, 
 When he despatched me to this spirit-land 
 And wore upon his brow Cain's crimson brand. 
 
 Now in this realm of light, mine enemy 
 
 With calm gaze meeteth mine ; yea, in this place 
 Of souls redeemed we two are face to face 
 And have not all forgotten. What does he 
 Here where he said that I could never be ? 
 
 One who for long hath dwelt here looks on me. 
 
 And this new spirit's and mine own thought reads. 
 With gentle pitying eyes, then intercedes : 
 ' Marvel not thou on aught that fchou dost see. 
 What canst thou know of infinite charity ? 
 
 84 
 
' What know'st thou of this man for good or ill, 
 Of clouds of circumstance, of deepest trial. 
 Of suffering, forgiveness, self-denial, 
 Of lurking faith temptation strove to kill. 
 Of noble aims lost by enfeebled will ? 
 
 ' What didst thou know of this heart's subtleties ? 
 
 Nay, more, what didst thou know e'en of thine own ? 
 
 One is who knoweth all, and One alone ; 
 And man, who weighs and judges all he sees, 
 Solves not his own mind and its mysteries. 
 
 ' The saints have erred. The truest tears e'er wept 
 Rise to the eyes of those who see their sin ; 
 And if a little spark of good dwells in 
 
 A poor dark soul, shall not that spark be kept ? 
 
 What ! Think ye to the deep it shall be swept ? 
 
 ' I tell ye nay, my brothers who begin 
 
 Your seraph life. No soul has e'er had birth 
 To be an unmixed good upon the earth ; 
 So is there none, no human soul, wherein 
 He who reads all aright finds only sin.' 
 
 ?5 
 
LOVE, THE WABRIOB. 
 
 Love, in panoply of pride, 
 Tossed his crown of curls aside, 
 Eose, and thus his foes defied : 
 
 ' Where is one who will not yield 
 To my glance, the sword I wield ? 
 Sighs shall serve me as a shield. 
 
 ' My fair standard is my brow, 
 Truth and trust there shining now ; 
 And my war-song is a vow. 
 
 ' I 've a promise for a spear, 
 I 've a love-song for a cheer, 
 And my armor is a tear. 
 
 86 
 
' If these weapons go amiss, 
 Enemies I slay in bliss 
 With my coup-de-grace, a kiss. 
 
 ' Hatred dared my power to brave ; 
 But I faced the haughty knave, 
 Vanquished him, and then forgave. 
 
 ' Faithlessness my might denied 
 And my courage sorely tried ; 
 Faithlessness grew faint and died. 
 
 • Doubt once filled my heart with dread ; 
 Eyes met eyes, the traitor fled ; 
 Soul faced soul, and Doubt was dead. 
 
 ' Anger sought to do me ill, 
 Felt my sword his wild heart thrill. 
 Saw my armor, and was still. 
 
 ' Jealousy, enraged, drew near ; 
 But my standard and n^y spear 
 Bade the craven disappear. 
 
 87 
 
' Mighty Death and I have met ; 
 I have triumphed, feeling yet 
 Stronger for a sweet regret. 
 
 ' But a foe of power immense 
 Comes, 'gainst whom is no defense, 
 Leaden-eyed Indifference. 
 
 ' He, with dull, insensate stare. 
 With no heart to feel or care, 
 Heeds nor steel nor standard fair ; 
 
 ' Scorns and spurns my shield of sighs. 
 And the sword within mine eyes ; 
 In the dust my standard lies. 
 
 ' He can neither feel nor fear ; 
 For a smile he hath a sneer, 
 And a taunt for every tear. 
 
 ' If perchance my weapon be 
 Vov/s of loyalty, then he 
 Grows by my fidelity. 
 
' Blows that hopefully I aim 
 Give him glory, give me shame : 
 Flame like mine must fight with flame. 
 
 ' 'Gainst a foe that 's dead and cold, 
 What are weapons manifold ? 
 What is all the power I hold ? ' 
 
A MAUSOLEUM. 
 
 It is a crypt, this cabinet ; 
 
 A love-affair is buried here ; 
 Its requiem a faint regret, 
 
 And scented letters for a bier ; 
 Its wreaths dead roses interlaced 
 
 With memories of ball and fete, 
 While for a headstone I have placed 
 
 A portrait in a paper-weight. 
 
 Here lie, as ashes in an urn, 
 
 A verse or two I learned to quote. 
 The notes I had no heart to burn. 
 
 Our letters (what a lot we wrote ! ) 
 A silken tress of sunny strands, 
 
 A ribbon that I used to prize, 
 Her gloves (she had such tiny hands ! ) 
 
 A miniature with deep dark eyes. 
 
 90 
 
'Tis with a smile I view to-day 
 
 The relics in this cabinet. 
 When love is dead and laid away, 
 
 It is so easy to forget ! 
 The verses quite have left my mind ; 
 
 Her rose, her glove, her pictured eyes, 
 Her letters, are to dust consigned ; 
 
 Their fitting epitaph, ' Here — lies.' 
 
 91 
 
FAME AND LOVE. 
 
 Into the glass of a shadowed lake 
 A little pebble is idly tost ; 
 Out of the waters bubbling hollow 
 The ripples rise and follow — follow, 
 Each another's pathway threading, 
 Circles rising and circles spreading — 
 Spreading till all are vanished and lost. 
 And unto the shadowy waters seem 
 As to waking mind the forgotten dream. 
 
 So is it when a great man dies : 
 
 The ripples form and follow — follow 
 
 Out of the waters bubbling hollow, 
 
 Follow and fade as they arise ; 
 
 Then the lake again is calm, is stilled. 
 
 As naught its surface smooth had thrilled. 
 
 92 
 
But oh ! not thus when a loved one goes 
 From a saddened world to a long repose. 
 Who that hath loved can ever forget ? 
 Who hath not found in a long regret 
 The only solace for dear ones gone 
 Beyond the gates of dawn ? 
 
 Can I forget thee ? Oh, never, never, 
 
 Till my dying sight 
 
 Looks on endless night, 
 And the soul's last link to the earth doth sever 
 And the world's last music mine ears have heard ; 
 For fame is a thought and an empty word. 
 But love lives on forever, forever. 
 
 93 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 Eee man was made for labor, dreams, and death. 
 
 In Earth's faint dawn, while land and deep were homes 
 
 For dragons. Titans smote thy bonds of rock 
 
 And gave thee liberty. The mind of man. 
 
 Finite in operation, scarce can think 
 
 Upon the countless ages thou hast swept 
 
 In slow, calm splendor. Where thy sunlit arc 
 
 Of green and snow-white foam an emblem lives 
 
 Of serene might, before our exile race 
 
 Took from its heirs this continent new-found, 
 
 The red man stood, and in his simple heart 
 
 Wondered at thee, Great Spirit. He, poor waif. 
 
 Groping in darkness, knew as much as we 
 
 Of all thy purpose, origin, and plan. 
 
 What voices can we hear that he heard not ? 
 
 What comfort have we more than he received ? 
 
 Like us, he could but send his voyaging soul 
 
 Upon a sea of dreams all harborless. 
 
 And without shore save rude awakening. 
 
Like us, he gazed upon the shining fields, 
 The shattered rocky steeps, the whirling tides, 
 And far, far up, the placid gliding stream 
 Singing its song upon its way to doom ; 
 Then could but turn his dark face to the sky 
 To mark the hawk poised in the cloudless blue, 
 And think that one Great Father wrought all things 
 
 Mine eyes look out on thee till thou dost fade, 
 And thoughts born of the grandeur of the sight 
 Outlive it, — thoughts that leave the unquiet earth 
 And soar as some wild bird that floats aloft 
 Knowing not whither. Yet of what avail ? 
 There is no answering voice that did not speak 
 To savage man a thousand years ago ; 
 No voice but that soft, mystic one that breathes 
 To waken yearning, hope, and sad unrest. 
 
 Nothing is altered in thee, save that man, 
 
 With busy brain and coin-clutching hand. 
 
 Hath ravaged Nature that his towns may live. 
 
 So, where the birds sang and the woods were green. 
 
 Are haunts where much hate dwells with little love. 
 
 Now the ear quakes at the discordant notes 
 
 Of many hundred idle industries 
 
 95 
 
Whereby each man seeks out his little more 
 That gives his weaker brother less or naught. 
 A time will be when thou, imperious giant, 
 Shalt be a captive yoked to the dull ox 
 Of human greed ; like Israel's Hercules, 
 'Bound to the shaft and lashed to turn the mill 
 That golden grain may be a heavier gold. 
 E'en now thy deep-toned melancholy voice 
 Is almost silenced by the warring sounds 
 Born of the toil of man : the hammer strokes, 
 The sullen furnace roar, the whirr of wheels, 
 The hiss of steam, the clangor of the forge. 
 The chorus of a thousand dissonant throats 
 That frightens Nature to her distant hills. 
 
 Still are there moments when the clamors cease, 
 
 When even man has had his fill of toil. 
 
 Of noise and heat, and blind, habitual strife ; 
 
 Moments when silence, like a spirit, breathes 
 
 Through the soul's midnight storm. Amid such calms 
 
 The heavy languor of thy music comes 
 
 Solemnly from thee, foaming avalanche. 
 
 Gleaming beneath the glowing Summer moon 
 
 In silvery emerald prisms ; while the stars 
 
 Look into those same deeps wherein they shone 
 
 When first they sang together. From afar 
 
 96 
 
Comes the rich, mellow cadence of thy voice, 
 Monarch of waters ; conscience-whispers heard 
 Through the first stillness ; then, as grows the calm 
 Richer and fuller, as an organ's notes 
 Leading a chorus in broad harmonies. 
 
 So speaks the voice of God. Where toil is rife. 
 And strife is mad with the sad poor for bread, 
 Or wilder with the rich to starve the poor. 
 Between the hammer-strokes there sometimes fall 
 Moments of peace and silence ; then we hear. 
 Soothing the mind with soft and lulling song. 
 The solemn voice that murmurs : God must live. 
 Since Nature is His living miracle. 
 Let thought uprise unto the ultimate stars, 
 Or fall into the petals of a flower ; 
 Yea, dwell upon Niagara's mightiness, 
 Or marvel at an insect's mechanism, 
 The mind must end in wonder and belief. 
 
 97 
 
A WISH FOB HEB. 
 
 Sin' I am not for thee, lassie, 
 
 Sin' I am not for thee. 
 Why, here 's a health to that braw swain 
 Wha soon will tak thee for his ain ; 
 A health wi' three times three, lassie, 
 
 Sin' thou art not for me. 
 
 Oh, grant he he a leal laddie, 
 
 Wi' merry glentin' een ; 
 
 As callant and as canty knight 
 
 As ever was in armor dight 
 
 To bow before the queen, lassie. 
 
 So unco' brave his mien. 
 
 Grant he be grat and Strang, lassie, 
 
 Wi' shoulders grand to see, 
 Wi' not o'er mickle or sma' gowld. 
 
Wi' store o' luve he 's never tauld 
 To ony ane but thee, lassie, 
 Sin' thou art not for me. 
 
 Oh, grant he hae the laugh that 's gay 
 
 To show the hairt that 's pure, 
 And grant he hae a weel-stored mind 
 Where thou chief treasure shalt be shrined 
 On throne that maun endure, lassie. 
 Though all the world allure. 
 
 I dinna hope that I am a' 
 
 I wish thy lad to be ; 
 But gin I mauna e'er reveal 
 How sair I lo'e thee and how weel, 
 Sin' thou art fancy-free, lassie. 
 
 This lad I wish for thee. 
 
 Wi' sic a lad to cheer, lassie, 
 
 Thy life shall blithesome be; 
 As ye grow aulder day by day. 
 Oh, may he keep rough winds awa'. 
 Fear God, and hold thee dear, lassie. 
 Sin' thou art not for me. 
 
A TEEISTS PRAYER. 
 
 God of omnipotence, our race is thine, 
 
 Yet sin and doubt their spells upon us weave. 
 Shall we thus perish, when thou couldst retrieve 
 
 From death and chaos by a word divine ? 
 
 Looking upon a world where all men grieve, 
 We struggle in the dark who would believe, 
 
 And Thou couldst make us seraphs by a sign. 
 
 Is it Thy will that all men are at strife ? 
 
 Is pain Thy pleasure ? Is a tortured mind 
 Better than one wherein is peace enshrined, — 
 
 A body frail where agony is rife 
 
 Nobler than grand perfection ? Didst create, 
 O God, our scorn of conscience, love of hate? 
 
 Is sorrow sweeter food than joy for life ? 
 
 100 
 
Thy gifts the searching mind, the heart wherein 
 Is born deep love for those for whom we pray. 
 Reason that, when Thou f ailest us, doth say : 
 
 ' Our faith is dead in us.' It doth begin 
 To die in millions in this thoughtful day. 
 Whose is the hand that leadeth it away ? 
 
 Who wields the lash that scourges us to sin ? 
 
 And prayer ! Oh, is it well a soul doth cry 
 Wildly to Thee a little life to give 
 Unto the babe just bidden by Thee to live, 
 
 That it may suffer, then in darkness lie ? 
 And is it well that, praying by her bed, 
 A mother looks to see her young child dead, 
 
 To find a loved and trusted Power deny ? 
 
 I speak of my hard heart. Thou, Lord, dost know 
 That I have prayed through nights of long despair 
 For the young life that most made my. life fair. 
 
 And cried to Thee : ' All-Mighty, let me go ! 
 My life for hers, O God ! My darling spare ! ' 
 Who win may see the answer to my prayer. 
 
 Where a new grave is heaped with drifted snow. 
 
 101 
 
One sign, and open would the barriers be 
 
 That keep us from Thee. Children of Thy love, 
 With eyes serene lifted to Thee above, 
 
 We all were ransomed ; Doubt and Guilt would flee 
 Then were there peace in death and joy in birth 
 Till the last men look on their frozen earth 
 
 And cry : ' Eternal, take us home to Thee ! ' 
 
 X02 
 
THE MASK. 
 
 With lightest laugh she held the mask of silk 
 
 Aside, discovering a radiant face 
 
 That seemed as 't were the sweetest trysting-place 
 Of roses pink and lilies white as milk. 
 
 Her honest eyes were tender, frank, and good ; 
 Truth smiled upon her lips, and in that smile 
 One might forget that falsity and guile 
 
 Were ever in the world and womanhood. 
 
 But I, who know her well, must say and sigh : 
 ' Put on the mask ; it tells far more of you 
 Than the fair face that doth proclaim you true ; 
 If it saith naught, at least it doth not lie.' 
 
 X03 
 
BUBBLES. 
 
 Like globes of fine Venetian glass, 
 Around his curly head they pass 
 
 And float where'er he makes them ; 
 Like crystal worlds, at his command 
 They soar until their course is spanned, 
 Or else young Jack puts out his hand 
 
 And in a moment breaks them. 
 
 Now while I watch him at the game, 
 I think we all do much the same 
 
 And make no better showing. 
 
 Ambition, love, and hope, and pride, 
 Fame, fortune, — many things beside, ■ 
 Are bubbles most of us have tried, 
 
 And found they burst in growing. 
 
 104 
 
We cast some idly on the air, 
 
 While others win our watchful care — 
 
 Right zealously we tend them ; 
 
 These soonest burst, the glittering band ; 
 The few that longer flights withstand 
 We touch with an impatient hand, 
 
 And once for all we end them. 
 
 Jack never throws a thought away 
 On bubbles fashioned yesterday, 
 
 But dotes on those he 's viewing. 
 'T is so with us ; we do not cling 
 To bubbles that in air we fling, 
 But those we 're making to us bring 
 
 The pleasure of pursuing. 
 
 Now little Jack, with child's delight. 
 Laughs blithely as his spheres take flight ; 
 
 No vanished ones perplex him. 
 I pray that, as he older grows, 
 The bigger bubbles that he blows 
 May be as radiant as those, 
 
 And, if they break, not vex him. 
 
 105 
 
HOW IT HAPPENS. 
 
 One day, while yet the gods of Greece were young, 
 Gay Cupid, playing in a meadow free, 
 
 Met with a sad mishap : his hand was stung 
 Severely by an inconsiderate bee. 
 
 Though Cupid with divinity was girt. 
 He was but mortal to the sting of bee, 
 
 And — like all little boys when they are hurt - 
 Ran to his mother, weeping bitterly. * 
 
 Like mortal mothers, Venus soothed the lad 
 And stilled the clamor of her wailing son; 
 
 Said : ' Let me see. Oh, not so very bad ! ' 
 
 Then looked around to see what could be done. 
 
 * The plot of the tragedy thus far is adapted from Herrick. 
 106 
 
She comforted, and o'er his troubles laughed ; 
 
 An arrow in his quiver then she found 
 And lanced the swollen finger with the shaft 
 
 Which drew the poison from the little wound. 
 
 When thus relieved, the boy his arrow took 
 Regardless of the venom on the dart. 
 
 And straightway sought some shady sheltered nook 
 From whence to send that arrow to a heart. 
 
 Ere this, 't is said that love was naught but joy ; 
 
 Arrows had pierced, yet youth had sought to win 
 them; 
 But since that accident to Venus' boy 
 
 Love's wounds have just a touch of poison in them. 
 
 107 
 
IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 I LINGER in the garden where the sunbeams kiss the 
 flowers. 
 
 Where blossoms bathe in sunshine in the golden mid- 
 day hours. 
 
 Adown the slope my lady comes, as fair as dawn in 
 Spring ; 
 
 The roses blush to welcome her and chimes of lilies ring. 
 
 No lily in the garden with her hand's pure whiteness 
 
 vies ; 
 The purple pansies pale beside the splendor of her eyes. 
 She knows and loves the flowers all, and smiles on every 
 
 one, 
 But most upon the marigold a-nodding in the sun. 
 
 The daisies and the daffodils within the meadow there 
 Look longingly afar to her, and sigh in faint despair : 
 
 108 
 
So small are they, so far away, their love they must 
 
 deplore, 
 And yet for very hopelessness they love her all the more. 
 
 Their plight is mine ; for proud my lady is, as proud 
 
 as fair ; 
 So poor am I. I ask her name the flower she most 
 
 loves there. 
 She answers not. Her longing eyes look thoughtfully 
 
 astray ; 
 But ' Marry gold ; ay, marry gold ' is what they seem 
 
 to say. 
 
 109 
 
REPUTATION. 
 
 I CHANCE to glance, in a public place 
 
 On a graven face ; 
 A player's face in a kingly guise, 
 
 With impassioned eyes ; 
 A man who has conquered the world's cold heart 
 
 By his ardent art. 
 But, passing by, has some idle churl 
 
 Had a mind to hurl 
 Mud from the street. On the noble face 
 
 It has left its trace. 
 For years the good man has wrought and fought 
 
 With his will and thought. 
 For his art's high sake, with a steady aim ; 
 
 And now this his fame : 
 To possess a face that is known of men. 
 
 At which now and then 
 The louts and laggards of sluggish blood 
 
 May impel their mud I 
 
 WO 
 
A man must labor with zeal, we know, 
 
 To be honored so 
 That every grovelling, worthless thing 
 
 May enjoy his fling. 
 
 Why toil and moil while the sands run down, 
 
 That each sot and clown 
 May have a target at which to smite 
 
 In his jealous spite? 
 Now, if the picture had not been there 
 
 In the public square, 
 Had it been kept for the friendly view 
 
 Of a loving few. 
 Wanton hands would have thrown instead 
 
 At another's trad. 
 
 m 
 
TWO WAYS OF LOVE. 
 
 Love, look aloft in Summer's sunlit sky, 
 
 Where float two skylarks languidly along ; 
 Above the world they drift all dreamily. 
 
 And sing of love, and no man knows their song. 
 Men hear the music falling through the air. 
 
 But nothing know of all the song imparts ; 
 Men say, ' The birds sing,' and feel not nor care 
 
 What voiceless depths are in the singers' hearts. 
 So fly the skylarks ; far, far out of reach 
 
 Of the dull earth, alone, communingly ; 
 They live but in the love of each for each : 
 
 Friend of my soul, such is my love for thee. 
 
 See where a suppliant bows low in prayer 
 Before the marble semblance of a saint. 
 
 The Virgin with kind eyes, sweet lips, so fair, 
 So passion free, so free from earthly taint. 
 
 113 
 
The cross seems heavy, — so far off the crown ; 
 
 He lifts his eyes to heaven hopelessly ; 
 He suffers, and her pitying eyes look down, 
 
 Her look bestows a Benedicite. 
 He gives to her his heart, — she gives him rest ; 
 
 Yea, she must aid him, though unconsciously 
 It be to her ; and he will call her blest : 
 
 My own pure saint, such is my love for thee. 
 
 113 
 
QUI VITIA ODIT HOMINES OBIT* 
 
 Not till men's natures rise above 
 
 The pit where they themselves have hurled, 
 Will there be reign of truth and love, 
 
 Will there be justice in the world. 
 
 I envy him whose grace imparts 
 
 To his kind eyes the power to scan, 
 
 In all this waste of arid hearts, 
 A little love of man for man. 
 
 How few e'er meet a hand that helps 
 An eager soul that fights for fame ? 
 
 There are a thousand snarling whelps 
 To each man worthy of his name ; 
 
 * * He who hates vices hates mankind.' This maxim of Thraseas was transcribed 
 by Goethe in his note-book. ' It was,' says Lewes, ' just the sort of passage to cap- 
 tivate him.' 
 
 114 
 
A thousand minds by envy curst 
 For every one by conscience blest ; 
 
 A thousand thieves who do their worst 
 'Gainst every man who strives his best. 
 
 The truth breathes hard ; deceit is rife ; 
 
 Slander is high among the arts ; 
 The heat that warms weak lies to life 
 
 Is poison hot from hating hearts. 
 
 Believe this : 't is a world of hate, 
 
 Of malice or indifference. 
 Men's only rulers throned in state 
 
 Are gold and copper, pounds and pence. 
 
 Is it not true ? Alas ! we must 
 
 Confess it. Look upon your mates, 
 
 And count the loves that you can trust : 
 Strive not to count the legion hates. 
 
 Seek not, O rare and soaring soul, 
 
 In the world's praise your good aloue ; 
 
 Find joys the world cannot control 
 In isolation with your own, — 
 
 116 
 
Your own who to your heart are bound, 
 Your kin and friends, a loyal group ; 
 
 In rest, in thought, in art, are found 
 The simple joys that cannot dupe. 
 
 Let me a few true dear ones claim, 
 A hearth-side where content is born ; 
 
 And let those quarry wealth and fame 
 Who love hate, hypocrites, and scorn. 
 
 116 
 
TWO SINGUBS. 
 
 Of all perfervid passions dominant 
 
 In natures where the blood is Cyprus wine 
 And all the glowing soul incarnadine, 
 
 One is the tawny sensuous ministrant ; 
 
 And one hath gifts wherewith she may enchant 
 
 Strange spirits that in sad hearts make their shrine 
 Notes like the spray of fountains crystalline 
 
 Or sunbeams through dusk foliage scintillant. 
 
 This tenebrous, untimely thought anew : — 
 Such glory, lived in many a by-gone age. 
 
 Gave to the world its best, and passed unseen ; 
 A corner in the memory of a few. 
 
 The casual record of an obscure page : 
 
 Then aU this beauty as it ne'er had been. 
 
 117 
 
A FUGITIVE THOUGHT. 
 
 Came to the portal of my mind a thought, 
 And entered in, and bore my soul a-dream 
 To starry spheres, as on a drifting cloud ; 
 But the world's spirit, with its turmoil fraught, 
 
 Pursued, and I looked back. The luminous gleam 
 Fled, and I only heard earth's voices loud. 
 
 O clamorous voices, ye have driven hence 
 
 One sunbeam of the heart. 'T is fled away ; 
 And still not for all time, perchance. At last 
 It may return, return I know not whence, 
 In some sweet silence, on some lonely day. 
 Come like a mystic echo from the past. 
 
 118 
 
Perchance my vanished guest will keep its way, 
 A disembodied soul among the spheres, 
 To enter in a heart that is to be. 
 Begging some poet of a distant day 
 
 For life in words ; ay, this may be in years 
 
 When I have done with thought and thought 
 with me. 
 
 119 
 
A NEW LITANY. 
 
 LoED, I mind me of thy blessings as I lay me down at 
 
 night, 
 And my heart is not forgetful of Thy bounty and Thy 
 
 might ; 
 But my spirit, all grown weary with the weight of 
 
 heavy blows, 
 Trembles like a beaten captain in his tent begirt with 
 
 foes. 
 
 Lord, when Thou didst take the light from me and 
 
 smite me with Thy hand, 
 I cried : ' Come fate's dire flood and fire, for all I may 
 
 withstand ; 
 For there is no darkness deeper ; no more bitter cup I 
 
 dread: 
 What is sweet and what is bitter to the lips that are 
 
 as dead ? 
 
 120 
 
' Oh, there is a thirst so burning even tears are drops 
 
 to slake ; 
 And the heart that once is broken, never, never more 
 
 can break. 
 What is light and what is darkness to the eyes that 
 
 cannot see ? ' 
 Now I fear, I fear for loves and blessings biding still 
 
 with me. 
 
 Shadows seem to wait beside me, and I send my prayer 
 
 above 
 That the dear ones that are left me may be mine to 
 
 keep and love. 
 Yet the day will go, the night will come, and I shall be 
 
 alone: 
 God of mercy, canst Thou turn a broken heart into a 
 
 stone ? 
 
 Ah, to some Thou givest patience, and a sweet, celestial 
 calm; 
 
 And Thou givest hope that cometh as a benison and 
 balm; 
 
 But the tempest rises 'round me ; I can feel its shud- 
 dering breath. 
 
 And its thunders mutter terror and its lightnings write 
 of death. 
 
 121 
 
Hast Thou mercy for a wanderer who has wavered in 
 Thy ways? 
 
 Then, O Mightiest, give pity to a suppliant who prays, 
 
 Not for happiness or peace, but for a pride and strength 
 of steel. 
 
 For a soul that 's dead to tenderness, a heart that can- 
 not feel. 
 
 122 
 
UNRECONCILED. 
 
 I TRY to think sometimes that all is well ; 
 
 That Death is Life's calm sister, whose cold kiss. 
 
 To lips of maidenhood comes not amiss. 
 We drink of Hope's white poppies, and their speU 
 Lulls us to happy dreams ; each vesper bell 
 
 TeUeth a morrow's promises of bliss ; 
 
 But ah ! we cannot burst the chrysalis — 
 Poor moths imprisoned in the Present's shell 1 
 
 I try to say ' 'T is well '; but, O my sweet, 
 If thou wert here, with me to stand between 
 
 Thy heart and fate, with me to guide thy feet 
 In sunlit ways, thy life might be serene. 
 
 Bearing thy share of sorrow, I were blest ; 
 
 And thus I cannot think what is is best. 
 
 123 
 
HESPEBU8. 
 
 Now, as a maid looks from her rose-twined casement 
 To greet her lover on a morn in June, 
 The Evening Star draws twilight's veil aside. 
 And through the western dusk peers timorously 
 To look upon her love, the crescent Moon. 
 
 124 
 
COUNSEL. 
 
 There 's none who lives can teach me Sorrow's ways, 
 For I have walked in them ; I know the maze 
 
 Of sombre paths where cypress branches wave ; 
 I know the darkest places, spectre-haunted ; 
 I know the tragedy of hopes all daunted 
 
 By the deep mystery that shrouds a grave. 
 
 I say to you who sit at Sorrow's gate 
 And seek within, beyond, to penetrate : 
 
 Let creeds and doubts and subtleties alone : 
 A spirit sentinel, with sword of flame. 
 Puts mortal hope and finite thought to shame ; 
 
 We only know that nothing can be known. 
 
 12S 
 
BOOKISH BALLADS. 
 
 A BALLADE OF BOOKS WELL BOUND. 
 
 Fkom tattered volumes, old and sere, 
 
 Some friends I have evolve delight ; 
 The shabbiest the most prized appear 
 
 By antiquarians erudite. 
 
 These think me a Philistine wight 
 For choosing bindings of the best ; 
 
 Yet to my taste I have a right, — 
 I like to see my friends well drest. 
 
 I love the antique and the queer, 
 
 The curious, quaint, and recondite ; 
 
 I own the spell of Elzevir, 
 
 The charm of pages Aldine hight ; 
 
 127 
 
Yet why should age and dirt invite ? 
 Their beauty is not manifest ; 
 
 Let modern art put them to flight, — 
 I like to see my friends well drest. 
 
 Eve and Le Gascon are too dear ; 
 
 I cannot have them — would I might ! 
 But Bedford, Michel, and Riviere 
 
 Have wrought me leathern marvels bright. 
 
 The armor of the bravest knight 
 Should shine the brightest on his breast. 
 
 No moth, no rust, my books shall blight, — 
 I like to see my friends well drest. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Friend, wouldst thou fain in sorry plight 
 Behold a loved and honored guest ? 
 
 In goodly garb I 'd have him dight, — 
 I like to see my friends well drest. 
 
 138 
 
A BOOK-LOVEB'S VISION. 
 
 The Moslems have their paradise 
 Where time 'mid sensuous pleasure flies, 
 Where houris with refulgent eyes 
 
 Contribute to enjoyment ; 
 While some expect a place of rest 
 Where harps are played by spirits blest, 
 And vocal music of the best 
 
 Provides the main employment. 
 
 But I 've a sort of heaven in mind 
 That 's of a very different kind. 
 The which some day I hope to find, 
 
 If I of sin am wary ; 
 I dream of an eternal place 
 Whose walls, as far as eye can trace. 
 Are one vast marvelous book-case, 
 
 One endless grand library. 
 
 129 
 
Where'er the spirit's eyes may roam 
 They '11 fall upon some wondrous tome 
 Which in this bargain-hunting home 
 
 No one has read a word of ; 
 Each book will be a treasure rare, 
 A perfect copy, tall and fair ; 
 Each day I '11 find some volume there 
 
 That no one ever heard of. 
 
 A silence there will reign profound, 
 While rival spirits prowl around 
 And chuckle over what they 've found ; 
 There all must vain small-talk shun. 
 Oh, in that happy land will be 
 All books that I have yearned to see ; 
 Expensive here, but there as free 
 As sermons sold at auction. 
 
 I '11 find within those pearly gates 
 An endless store of prints and plates 
 And autographs — each one relates 
 
 Some facts quite unexpected. 
 If wives are there, they 'U never scold ; 
 We '11 never think on sordid gold. 
 Because no volume can be sold 
 
 Of treasures there collected. 
 
 130 
 
Then this one joy will all outstrip : 
 
 A blessed sense of ownership, 
 
 To have which, in this earthly trip. 
 
 Book-worshippers are zealous. 
 No sort of favor will be shown 
 To those who to that land have flown ; 
 Each saint will fancy all his own, 
 
 And think the rest are jealous. 
 
 131 
 
THE NAMELESS PORTRAIT. 
 
 Speak, O beauteous mezzotint ! 
 Drop a kindly casual hint 
 Who you are. Untitled print, 
 
 Tell me, what 's your name ? 
 In a dingy book-shop I 
 Bought you, scarcely knowing why. 
 Only fascinated by 
 
 Your fair face, young dame. 
 
 Judging from your garb and mien, 
 (Both proclaim the tragic queen) 
 You upon the stage were seen. 
 
 Playing roles sublime. 
 'T is my guess you triumphed in 
 Company with Clive and Quin ; 
 Or did you your laurels win 
 
 In the Kembles' time ? 
 
 132 
 
You 're uot Peggy Woffington, 
 Oldfield, Barry ; you are none 
 Of the bright lights, — with each one 
 
 I 'm acquaint by sight. 
 Did you play your queenly part, 
 Masking by your smiling art 
 Sorrow, care, an aching heart, 
 
 In the glaring light ? 
 
 From your lips were wont to flow 
 Lines of Dryden, Otway, Kowe? 
 Now those worthies' plays I know 
 
 Would not ' draw ' a bit. 
 Sat those bards with eyes all moist 
 As their tender thoughts you voiced, 
 And their tragedies rejoiced 
 
 Dwellers in the pit. 
 
 Of your triumphs, of your sighs. 
 Silver voice and glowing eyes. 
 There 's no record, — mere surmisn 
 
 From this print alone. 
 As I cannot tell your name, 
 I will put you in a frame ; 
 Under it describe you, dame, — 
 ' Actress, name unknown.' 
 
 133 
 
ON AN AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF 
 THOMAS MOORE'S. 
 
 ' I plainly perceive that the long hope of my life is brought to a 
 crisis at last ; and that I have nothing for it now but inky fingers 
 and Parnassus.' 
 
 So, Tom, you found when laurels came, 
 
 Their vaunted value was misleading ; 
 You found the boasted scroll of Fame 
 
 Dull and uninteresting reading. 
 It seems to us yours was a cup 
 
 Such as we crave that Fame may pass us ; 
 Yet what is fame ? You sum it up 
 
 As ' inky fingers and Parnassus.' 
 
 You thought, when you had scaled the cliff. 
 
 As scenery, 'twas ineffective. 
 Well, heights are more imposing if 
 
 We view them in far-off perspective ; 
 
 134 
 
So where 's the use of climbing when 
 A thousand obstacles harass us ? 
 
 Now you, Tom, neared the summit ; then 
 'Twas 'inky fingers and Parnassus.' 
 
 Alas, poor ghost, whose dead hand penned 
 
 The page I hold a dear possession, 
 I keep as counsel of a friend 
 
 The secret told in this confession. 
 Well may you smile at us, Tom Moore, 
 
 As childreti, fools, or madmen class us. 
 Who waste our lives but to secure 
 
 Mere ' inky fingers and Parnassus.' 
 
 1^ 
 
A BALLADE OF OLD MONTAIGNE. 
 
 Ip-life seems but a dull affair, 
 
 Which one must bear with complaisance, 
 And worse for me, as I declare. 
 
 Than others in the world's expanse, 
 
 A friend have I who lived in France 
 In good King Henry's glorious reign ; 
 
 So, when I 'm sad or cross perchance, 
 I read a chapter of Montaigne. 
 
 At evening, by the firelight's glare. 
 If Ennui comes with weary glance, 
 
 If Indolence is in the air. 
 
 And devils blue on me advance — 
 (Such fancies lead us all a dance), 
 
 Then comfort I can e'er obtain 
 
 From Michael's wisdom or romance : 
 
 I read a chapter of Montaigne. 
 
 136 
 
If I imagine that I e*er 
 
 Am treated worse by Fate and Chance 
 Than others who the journey share, 
 
 My self-esteem his words enhance ; 
 
 His page the thought gives furtherance 
 That we are all alike in main. 
 
 For truth, not artful elegance, 
 I read a chapter of Montaigne. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Friend, if Dame Fortune looks askance. 
 If strife for fame or love seems vain. 
 
 Pray try my plan ; a cure it grants : 
 I read a chapter of Montaigne. 
 
 187 
 
AN ENEMY OF BOOKS. 
 
 (.Keaii' ' Lamia, Itabella,' etc., 1820.) 
 
 I HOLD the volume reverently, 
 For that its pages keep for me 
 Beauty and grace and melody 
 
 And tender thoughts and true. 
 Speaks from each page a voice long stilled, 
 Whose music many a soul has thriUed ; 
 But — what is this ? A worm has drilled 
 
 The leaves all through and through. 
 
 Now, out upon thee ! vandal thing. 
 That sorrow to my mind can bring 
 By this unique embroidering 
 
 Of margins pierced and frayed. 
 If everything, or small or great. 
 Ingenious Nature did create 
 For some wise purpose, prithee state 
 
 For what good thou wert made. 
 
 138 
 
Most curiously I marvel on 
 
 The fact that thou, strange guest, art gone ; 
 
 And, but for mischief thou hast done, 
 
 No man would think of thee. 
 And e'en o'er thy malignant sign 
 I cannot seriously repine ; 
 Thou hast not harmed a single line 
 
 The volume has for me. 
 
 So in my poet's distant day 
 Did envious critic-worms essay 
 To mutilate in wanton way 
 
 This well-beloved book. 
 They left their little work of spite, 
 That gave their little minds delight : 
 Then to oblivion's darkest night 
 
 Their little natures took. 
 
BOOKS FOR THE BABY. 
 
 It is our baby's birthday — number two ; 
 And Uncle Frank, good bibliomaniac soul, 
 Hath brought the child some comfortable gifts 
 To solace it withal. 
 
 Behold them here : 
 A B,abelais, old French, in antique calf, 
 Un expurgate, and stored with merry plates ; 
 A ponderous folio Burton, too, is there ; 
 And Chaucer's tales in bold black-letter told - 
 (Delectable for infants aged two ! ) 
 Here is a scarce Napoleonic tract. 
 Embellished with cartoons by Gilray's hand ! 
 This dumpy Virgil, small, compact, and neat, 
 Must be a true-begotten Elzevir. 
 Yon is a specimen of Franklin's press ; 
 Whilst here are sundry novelists and bards, 
 All first editions and superbly bound. 
 
 140 
 
It doth beseem that these are most inapt 
 For infants who have but a brace of years ; 
 But, mark ye now, how artful is the mind 
 Of this our uncle. Faith, he hath a wife, 
 One passing sharp of tongue, and who doth hold 
 That money is not made for books alone. 
 ' He spends o'ermuch for books.' This is her cry 
 When he arriveth home, his pockets filled 
 With musty tomes. 
 
 ' Economy,' she prates. 
 (Economy, to book-lovers, in sooth ! ) 
 So giveth he our baby boy these books. 
 As 't were in trust, that he may often call, 
 And, poring o'er them, chuckle in his glee. 
 Knowing them in reality his own. 
 
 Thus he avoids a chiding ; yet enjoys 
 
 These gifts which bless the giver more, far more 
 
 Than him, the small receiver of the same. 
 
 141 
 
EDI.TIO PBINGEPS. 
 
 This little book that we behold 
 
 Is far from comely to the view ; 
 It seems so old, so very old, 
 
 One almost thinks 't was never new ; 
 Yet proudly does the bibliopole 
 
 Hold forth the same for exhibition, 
 And all its shabby charms extol, — 
 
 Because it is a first edition. 
 
 It is a duodecimo. 
 
 And far too portly for its height ; 
 Its looks proclaim each deadly foe 
 
 A book can have has done its spite. 
 Time, grime, and bookworms, mice, rough hands. 
 
 Have worked at it in competition ; 
 Yet admiration it commands, — 
 
 Because it is a first edition. 
 
 142 
 
Its edges all are closely trimmed, 
 
 Its leaves are of a yellow tint, 
 While any reader's eyes are dimmed. 
 
 Who probes its microscopic print. 
 Then why do fusty bibliophiles 
 
 To own it show such wild ambition, 
 And bargain with their cunning wiles ? — 
 
 Because it is a first edition. 
 
 'T is minus half its title-page ; 
 
 Its portrait too is gone ; no doubt 
 Some fiend, in vandal sport or rage. 
 
 Has torn a dozen pages out ; 
 Yet bibliomaniacs praise the tome. 
 
 Would think it such an acquisition 
 If they could buy and take it home, — 
 
 Because it is a first edition. 
 
 The contents of this work are found 
 
 In new editions lately dated, 
 Uncut, gilt tops, good type, well bound, 
 
 And admirably illustrated. 
 But connoisseurs give these no heed ; 
 
 To own such things they 've no ambition ; 
 For, though they 're good enough to read. 
 
 They ate not like a first edition. 
 
 143 
 
'EXTRA illustrating: 
 
 Among the books I have is one 
 
 That teases, tantalizes, taunts me ; 
 
 Yea, like a demon or a dun, 
 
 That solitary volume haunts me. 
 
 It glowers upon me from the shelf, . 
 
 And on my leisure time encroaches ; 
 Like some malignant little elf. 
 
 It fills my mind with its reproaches. 
 
 Wherever I may turn my eyes, 
 
 tJpon that tome they seem to linger ; 
 
 I fancy that it moans and sighs, 
 
 And points at me a scornful finger. 
 
 It seems to say : ' I spoke you fair ; 
 
 Yet how, oh, how have you repaid me ? 
 
 144 
 
You once esteemed me passing rare ; 
 
 And yet behold what you have made me ! 
 
 ' Despoiled, I cannot hide my shame ; 
 'T will be proclaimed to future ages, 
 When some book-loving squire or dame 
 Turns angrily my ravaged pages. 
 
 ' That book of yours has vast increase 
 
 Of plates and prints, of your collating ; 
 Yet you must steal my frontispiece 
 
 Because you 're " extra illustrating ! " ' 
 
 It haunts me like relentless fate ; 
 
 Its jeers and sneers I cannot smother, — 
 This book from which I tore a plate 
 
 To ' extra illustrate ' another. 
 
 145 
 
A PBEMONITION. 
 
 I HAVE a dream, a haunting one : 
 When I with all my books have done, 
 And go where books are few or none, 
 
 Methinks I see the doom 
 Of precious volumes that I prize ; 
 All will be borne, I realize. 
 To be the prey of vulture eyes 
 
 In some vile auction-room. 
 
 I see the eager wretches stand. 
 With penciled catalogues in hand ; 
 A sordid and dispraising band. 
 
 To criticism prone. 
 Each harpy with the rest contends ; 
 See how he paws and mauls and rends, 
 As he assaults my good old friends 
 
 And marks them for his own. 
 
 146 
 
I see the careless auctioneer 
 
 In lofty chair of state appear, 
 
 And say, in accents sharp and clear : 
 
 ' We '11 now begin the sale.' 
 ' Lot one ! ' — My ^sop, old and rare — 
 How much it cost I '11 not declare ; 
 And o'er the price it will bring there 
 I draw a sombre veil. 
 
 My beauteous Shelleys to some old 
 Curmudgeon doubtless wUl be sold 
 In slavery ; and vulgar gold 
 
 Will take my quarto plays. 
 My specimens of comic art, 
 Black-letter idols of my heart, 
 ' Vicar ' and ' Walton,' we must part ; 
 
 Your paths lie various ways. 
 
 My friends will be there too, to gloat ; 
 My Dickens' ' firsts ' Jones used to note 
 When on my shelves they seemed remote, — 
 
 They '11 be in Jones's clutch. 
 To Brown my dear Charles Lambs will go ; 
 While Green, at price absurdly low, 
 WiU nab that old Boccaccio 
 
 Of which he thought so much. 
 
 147 
 
So will they run through all my store, 
 
 Companions that I most adore, 
 
 That with their charms of wit and lore 
 
 Have smoothed my journey's way ; 
 Each with its recollections fraught 
 Of saving that it might be bought, 
 Of happy moments by it brought 
 
 Unto a distant day. 
 
 1 've summoned some from o'er the sea, 
 And waited for them patiently ; 
 Oh, well do I recall the glee 
 
 Of moments when they came. 
 And some were spoil from shabby shops 
 Wherein no wealthy buyer stops ; 
 A few, alas ! were auction crops, 
 
 I must confess with shame. 
 
 Each book that in my cases dwells 
 To me its own dear story tells. 
 Which by the auctioneer who sells 
 
 Will be regarded not ; 
 Type, paper, margins, incident, 
 AfEection, leather, sentiment. 
 Will in one entity be blent, 
 
 And simply be a ' lot.' 
 
 148 
 
O baby lad, couldst understand 
 The forms of promise and command, 
 We 'd baffle the marauding band 
 
 Whose shadow o'er me looms. 
 ' Papa's best books ' you like, I know ; 
 Would I could make you love them so 
 That, when they 're yours, they should not go 
 
 To musty auction rooms ! 
 
 149 
 
BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
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