DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2020 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/poemsOOrayh POEMS BY H. CORDELIA RAY THE GRAFTON PRESS NEW YORK MCMX Copyright, 1910 By H. CORDELIA RAY ft 2 e,sP To My Dear Sister FLORENCE, and to the memory of a household made beautiful by the presence of those loved ones zcho have entered the Life Immortal, these poems are affectionately dedicated. CONTENTS A Rosary of Fancies PAGE The Sculptor’s Vision. 6 Fancy and Imagination. 7 Repose. 9 The Mist Maiden.10 May’s Invocation.11 The Poet’s Ideal.12 The Perfect Orchestra.13 Wood Carols.16 A Dream of Elfland.17 Dawn’s Carol.18 On the Picture of A Child.18 A Dream Within A Song.20 Song.21 A Picture.21 Sunset Picture.22 An Idyl of Spring.23 A Group of Musings.24 In a Nook Called Fairyland.25 1 On the Concord River.25 Cloud Fantasy.26 Invocation to the Muse.27 The Vision of Eve.28 Ode on the Twentieth Century.30 Meditations The Hour’s Glory.36 Reverie.36 v PAGE God’s Ways, Not Our Ways.38 Nature’s Minor Chords.40 At Nature’s Shrine.40 Cloud Song.40 My Easter Dove.41 Questioning.42 Hidden Essence.43 A Fragment.43 Star Song.44 Easter Carol.45 An Ideal.4$ The Hermit and the Soul.47 Compensation.47 A Vision of Moonlight.48 Sea Cadences.50 A Thought on Lake Ontario.51 Sky Picture.52 Hymn to the Thousand Islands.53 On the Rapids of the St. Lawrence.53 Voices of the Rain.54 Our Task. Echo Reverie.56 Lines Written on a Farewell View of the Franconia Mountain at Twilight.57 The Coming of Spring.57 Failure.58 The Triple Benison.60 Verses to My Heart’s Sister.61 Among the Berkshire Hills.63 Evening Prayer.65 Retrospection.65' At Christmas-Tide. 66 Broken Heart.67 Prayer.69 Shadow and Sunshine.70 Soul Incense.71 vi Sonnets PAGE To My Mother.74 Life.74 Aspiration.75 Incompleteness.75 Self-Mastery.76 Niobe.76 The Two Musicians.77 The Poet’s Ministrants.77 Milton.78 Shakespeare.78 Raphael.79 Beethoven.79 The Tireless Sculptor.80 The Soul’s Courts . 80 Limitations.81 The Venus of Milo.81 The Quest of the Ideal.82 An Ocean Musing.82 Emerson.83 To Laura.83 Champions Of Freedom To My Father.86 William Lloyd Garrison.86 Wendell Phillips.87 Charles Sumner.87 Robert G. Shaw.88 Toussaint L’Ouverture.88 Baeeads and Other Poems Rhyme of the Antique Forest.90 Musidora’s Vision.102 Echo’s Complaint.108 vii PAGE Antigone and CEdipus.110 Anita and Giovanni.112 Listening Njdia.115 Mignon.117 The Fisherman’s Story.118 Snow Song.120 Pastoral.122 Idyl.123 The Enchanted Shell.125 Chateaux En Espagne.126 The Fading Skiff.127 The Maid of Ehrenthal.128 Mildred’s Doves.129 Little Fa} r ’s Thanksgiving.130 Chansons D’Amour The Dawn of Love.131 The Siren Bird.134 Reunited .135 Love’s Vista.136 My Spirit’s Complement.137 Recompensed?.137 The Messengers.138 O Restless Heart, Be Still!.139 Boat Song.140 Cuckoo Song.140 Quatrains At Sunset.144 Life’s Boundary.144 Charity.144 Awakening.144 Lost Opportunities.144 Ambition.145 Full Vision.145 vin PAGE After the Storm.145 At the Cascade.145 Nature’s Uplifting.145 Instability.146 The Afterglow.146 The Procession Of The Seasons January.148 February.148 March.148 April .149 May.149 June.149 July.149 August.150 September.150 October.150 November.150 December.151 The Seer, The Singer, and The Sage Dante.154 Longfellow.155 A Thought At Walden.157 Heroic Echoes Quebec.160 In Memoriam, Frederick Douglass.161 Greeting to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe on Her Eighty-Fifth Birthday.164 In Memorian, Paul Laurence Dunbar . . . .166 Lincoln.167 IX A ROSARY OF FANCIES The Sctjlptob’s Vision A sculptor musing sat one eve, When crimson clouds began to weave Their sunset drapery in the sky; Cold was his studio and bare, But golden sunbeams lingered there, And robins caroling flew by. A vision on his dreaming broke; With parted lips and eyes that spoke, A statue stood of beauty rare, And chiseled with such exquisite care, It seemed no mortal hand had share In what was like embodied prayer. The sculptor woke to find his dream Of loveliness was but a gleam Of what the future might unfold; And then resolved to labor late, Until his work his dream could mate, And daily carved with joy untold. But sometimes sorrow mingled there, For naught he fashioned could compare With that chaste form which ev’ry night, Would come to give him impulse new, To bid him seek the pure, the true, And lead him to a clearer light. Nor wrought the sculptor all in vain; The statue grew despite his pain, In curves of beauty, strength and grace 6 And so he loved his magic art, His very soul seemed to impart A something human to the face. Yet was the vision fairer still; Its subtle presence seemed to fill The space before his troubled gaze. It beckoned him to heights unknown, And charmed him like the undertone That floats through many olden lays. And on he toiled from hour to hour, Exerting all his skill and pow’r, With fondest love and trust and prayer But as the work in beauty grew. Strange longing haunted him anew: For lo! his ideal was more fair. As in his strife, is it not thus That we are baffled, all of us, In seeking clearer, truer light? Then let us, like the sculptor, still Pursue our toil with deathless will, Advancing toward a glorious height. And when our ideal grows more fair, More earnest should be all our care To carve with added grace and skill; And then the task that we pursue, Will serve to give us impulse new, Our souls with calm content to fill. Fancy and Imagination Golden mists o’er Cloudland wreathing Arabesques of shining sheen, Sunny airs of violets breathing, 7 Lure weird Fancy, Cloudland’s queen. Lo! she hastens, flower-encircled, Dainty, pensive, winsome fay, Her fair brow all rose-empurpled, While around flutes pour soft lay. There is she,—Imagination! Gazing upward in her dreams; Rapt, intent on meditation, Sculpturesque, yet thrilled, she seems. Planets lure her in their spaces, Stars strew gold dust on her path; She has looked them in their faces, And a hint divine she hath. Rare pellucid hues of dawning, Iris tints of summer skies, Streak fair Fancy’s couch; glad Morning Bids her ope her lovely eyes. Wind-songs quaint Eolus showers Round her home of golden mist; Sweet she sings them in her bowers, And the Silence harks, I wist. All the pomp of constellations W r akes Imagination’s gaze; World apart in meditations, Sits she living wondrous days. She can hear the chiming measures Of the stars with stately tread, The celestial strains she treasures, Rev’rently she bow r s her head. Tired heart! when life is dreary, And the years drag slowly on, Summon airy Fancy, weary Is she never, hear her song! 8 Soul unresting, tossed with sorrow! Just one strain of harmony From Imagination borrow, Calmest joy she’ll yield to thee. Repose On every height there lies repose. — Goethe. An angel with a voice like summer show’rs, Or woodbird melodies in tranquil hours, Brought me one day a wondrous, radiant rose Called in those happy isles but this: Repose. Its fragrance was the balm of early flow’rs. Fresh with the magic of the Spring’s new pow’rs; Its petals quivered with a soothing trill, Like the soft murmur of a mountain rill. Its hues were exquisite as dawning skies When the first splendor greets the watcher’s eyes, Or as the sea-shell seen through silver spray, Or as the last bright tint of fading day. The angel said: “ Not now may this thine be, I only came to offer it to thee; Not as a gift but as a hard-earned meed, I give it to all those who feel its need.” One moment fast I held it, and a light Like to an aureole, gleamed golden-white O’er all around; while blended echoes clear, Stealing in unison, fell on my ear. “ How may I gain this priceless flow’r? ” I cried. The angel in a flute-like voice replied, “ Neither by works nor penance, prayer nor pain, Canst thou this rare celestial flower gain. 9 “ But when love of mankind and duty flow In one all-perfect song, one golden glow, When purest echoes soar from purest aims. Then will I come once more to heed thy claims.” The angel vanished on a sunlit cloud, But still his words were speaking to me loud. I bowed my head, resolved to claim the rose Called in those happy isles but this: Repose. The Mist Maiden Is it an idle fantasy, That in the twilight’s violet gloom, When waves are singing out at sea, And shadows fill the room,— The mist assumes before my gaze, A human form of exquisite grace, And by the melancholy haze, Is veiled a peerless face?— A maiden loved when life was new, Her soul was trust, her eyes a prayer; She faded quite. Can it be true I see her in the air? Her eyes are crystals, dropping tears, Her hair reflects the silver moon; Will ecstasy or sudden fears Conquer my heart more soon? She stands in statuesque repose, A chiseled vision, calm and fair; She smiles: my full heart overflows, The maid dissolves in air. 10 May’s Invocation After a Tardy Spring With her buskins tipped with dew, Came a fair, enchanting fay, Tiptoeing the forest through; Who was it but smiling May? Wide she waved her sylph-like arms, As with Dian’s grace she ran, Laden with a thousand charms. Then to urge her plea began: Lilies, lilies! come, wake up! Ring your dainty, perfumed bells. Hasten ! yellow buttercup! Rouse! throw off Dame Winter’s spells. Sweet-faced pansies, ivake from dreams! Raise your melancholy eyes. They are veiled too long, it seems; ’Tis no time for reveries. Come shy violets, and ye, Bonnie daisies! why so late? Look! the sunbeams kiss the lea, Do not longer drowse and wait! Ay! the Sunshine is my knight Who has lavished all his gold For you laggards. What a plight That ye grasp not wealth untold! Now she stayed her speech to shed Fom her curved horn nectar rare, On each willing, waiting head; Then resumed her wistful prayer. 11 Swallows, robins, orioles! Tender thrush of liquid lay, Why not here? the breeze-harp rolls Far, inspiring tones to-day. Bobolink, O tarry not! See! the twigs are edged with green; In the meadow there’s a spot Dear unto thy heart, I ween. Doves from out your downy nest, Coo, O coo a matin soft; Just a hint of life’s unrest Echoes through your music oft. Lark! I languish for thy note; Where in hiding may’st thou be? With thy silver-cadenced throat Lead the Springtime’s minstrelsy. Flow’rets, flow’rets, warblers, haste! April came with languid call; Not a moment can ye waste! Wake ye! wake ye! wake ye all! The Poet’s Ideae “ Spirit! what art thou erecting On the heights of contemplation, Where the vistas blue and shadowy, Fade in airy clouds away? At the fane of meditation Art thou bowed to-day? ” “ Lo! I climbed in floating ether When the first tints of the dawning, O’er the pale stars chaste in grandeur, 12 Shed a stream of liquid light; In the azure calm of morning Gleamed a vision bright. “ Twas air-fashioned: faint, dissolving, Seemed its statuesque proportions, Yet imperious and majestic Were its gestures and its mien; And all beauty seemed distortions To this,—fairest ever seen. “ Round its head a circlet shaping, Wove a cloud its golden tissues, Where these words were writ in splendor: ‘Ideal Beauty is my name; I from life draw finest issues, Wouldst thou do the same? ’ “ Poised aloft on heights serenest, There she stands,—that radiant vision. At the fane of meditation, Wouldst thou know, O questioner? Lo! I bow in calm decision. Yield my thoughts to her. “ ’Mid the vistas blue and shadowy, ’Mid the ether iris-tinted, I erect Ideal Perfection, And then worship at her shrine; To the poet she has hinted Sense of things divine.” The Perfect Orchestra Up to those heights where angels rest, Where dreams and yearnings unexpressed Mount like the mist of day, 13 Ascends a solemn symphony Soft gliding through the ethereal sea, From mortal realms away. Men moved by ecstasy or pain, Conscious of all life ne’er can gain Or rapt in visions fleet, Musicians are: but through the hush Of harmonies transcendent, rush Hints of the incomplete. On instruments unlike they play; Some wake the lute with gentle lay, Some touch the viol’s string, While others with unconscious art, From the sad organ’s deep-toned heart Accents all soothing bring. The noble thoughts, the earnest prayers Of ev’ry one that meekly bears The tangled skein of life, Each holy prompting unto good, Great aspirations oft withstood, Yet cherished ’mid the strife,— And truth that, like the lily’s bowl, Glistens with dew within the soul And balmy fragrance show’rs, Hopes that have made earth seem so glad, Loves irresistible though sad, Like brilliant thorn-clad flow’rs,— These are the chords that beat and throb Through the dream-quiet, like a sob Tremulous with complaint. As slow they flutter toward the goal, Rare coils of mystery unroll Melodies pure and quaint. 14 Unheard this strange, imploring psalm, Save by some pensive seer, who calm Leans on his dripping oar; Safe-anchored on an island far, Where life’s unrest, its fev’rish jar Can trouble nevermore. To him in peaceful waves it comes, Soft as the silver river hums The silence to beguile. From contemplation of the stars Just peeping through the sunset bars, He turns to list a while. But angels on those heights sublime Where naught save unison can climb, Bend eager, loving ears; Glad in mankind such good to see, For there the music soareth free, Piercing the spangled spheres. Responding to this asking song, This mystic music heard so long, They lend their sympathy, Which through the concord softly floats, Like to a flute’s clear, trilling notes Heard on the moonlit sea. The orchestra more perfect made, The strains mount up where streets inlaid With rare mosaic wind; One cadence still is missing there, The sweet Eolian’s trembling prayer No soul on earth could find. Ascending near the radiant throne, Sorrow pervades the music’s tone, 15 Sorrow ne’er heard before; Its quiver stirs the asphodels And roses, where the streamlet wells, Encircling all the shore. God, who alone translates our pain, Listens and gives unto the strain His benediction calm; And quickly that mysterious boon, Like an Eolian’s wind-played tune, Makes perfect all the psalm. Wood Carols When woods are odorous at eve With violet perfume, and are fair With leafy vistas stretching far, Tinged by the golden air, The mirrored clouds come down to catch The warbling of a thousand streams; And music weird like chords confused, Heard in unquiet dreams,— Floats through the arches from the clear Wind-harps astir among the trees, While in lone depths the nightingale Trills soothing melodies. Doves tenderly the prelude coo To plaintive anthems yet unsung, And leaves respond with dreamy sway, That late all passive hung. Waves of tremolo sweetness make The warm air palpitate with sound, 16 Until the woods are quivering With music all around. Each note enfolding one more soft —■> Of some enchanting whole a part— Wakes the unuttered harmonies Of ev’ry restless heart. When undertones of strange unrest Within us moan like babes in pain, Come nightingale of silver song, And trill thy sweetest strain. When thought lies gently on the soul Like dew impearled upon a rose, Come tender doves of cadence rare, And lull us to repose. A Dream op Elfland Sweet elfin music comes to me, Across a glen embowered deep, In rugged green. What fantasy Did give it voice—like dreams in sleep— Through fluted winds? An airy flood Of cadences, dainty and soft As rose leaves flutt’ring to the sod, Enfolds the sense and feelings oft. Through what air-woven lyres blow The winsome elves? Chords interlaced In sweetest rhythm lull me so, Surely Titania must have graced That weird rehearsal. Did they sup On drowsy poppy flowers, ere They sent vibrations o’er the strings,— A breath of music, passing rare? 17 The elves, they strike such witching strains They lull sad Sorrow fast asleep; What heart is torn, what soul complains, While they each sense in music steep! Unwind your sylvan symphonies, Ye weird musicians, breeze-like play, Until your dulcet harmonies Waft us to magic isles away. Dawn’s Carol Fair Mom unbars her gates of gold; Night’s shadows lie, a thousand fold, Upon the hills, the purple mist By pure Aurora’s radiance kissed, Becomes a dream of color: now Uplift the heart and bare the brow. Such moments for us seem to weave Hope’s loveliest tissues; we perceive The soul’s illumination, caught From some fair mood of Nature fraught With harmony of sight and sound, In majesty diffused around. On the Picture of a Child Sweet child amid the apple boughs, How tenderly life looks on thee! And Mother Nature brings her gifts, Yes, e’en the loveliest that may be, To tempt thy innocent regard. How blue the heavens smile above! How crimson is the rose’s depth! How beaming is the glance of love, 18 Resting on thee, thou sportive fay; Thou learnst new lessons ’mid the leaves; All golden-lettered is the page The flitting sunbeam deftly weaves. Do fairies hang their glow-worm lamps To light thy path adown the dell? And does the lily in the vale, To thee ring soft her magic bell? The violet, and what brings she To scatter o’er thy charmed way? Delicious perfume; and the lark Prolongs his note to cheer thy day. There is a radiance in thine eyes That well disarms all vague unrest; Thou hast few yearnings undefined, Thy childish griefs are soon confessed. Prayer in thy soul is simple trust, And love is all thy life, sweet child! The woodbird’s song is not more free, His artless lays more undefiled Than thine. Thy sunny countenance Is naught save gladness, yet we know The thoughtful years come on apace; After Spring’s green, the Winter’s snow. And for thee, tender one, we ask That when the hours of trial near, As come they must, undaunted thou Wilt dare to meet them without fear. And that the dew within thy soul, Of innocence and rev’rent love, 19 May be as fresh as now, until Thou wear’st a crown of light above. A Dbeam Within a Song The schooners with their pale green lights Glance up and down the river; I clasp my hand in Memory’s own And hush my heart’s sad quiver. Glad twilight birds chirp overhead, And soft their gray wings flutter; We pluck rare purple grapes, sweet friend, And loving words we utter. Wan statues stare in gardens fair, Proud in their cold beseeching; I stretch my hands to grasp a prize, Too far off" for the reaching. The thrush sits lonely on a spray Hard by a pure white flower; I hear a strain, oh deadly sweet, Float, swan-like, through the bower. The breeze has sped on noiseless wing, The river’s restless growing, The singer greets us on this bank, With music round him flowing. The trees with red leaves garlanded, The river’s banks are shading; I call the singer, but alas! He, phantom-like, is fading. 20 One silver star has crowned the eve, Closed are the drowsy flowers; I clasp my hand in Memory’s own, And leave these fatal bowers. Song O sweet, sad, singing river, Why dost thou chime forever In answer to my weary heart’s unrest? Wilt thou not be confiding, Or is thy music hiding Some sorrow that can never be confessed? O melancholy river, Why do thy young leaves quiver So plaintively along thy silent shore? Are they some bird lamenting, That for a while consenting To warble to them, now far off would soar? 0 sweet, sad, singing river, My heart cannot dissever Itself from tender hopes that round it cling. O lily-crowned river, Love, though discrowned forever, Wears lilies the enchanted Past will bring. A Picture Her ringlets glistened like the gold of morn, And framed an oval outline statue fair, Save where a shell-blush lingered for awhile, Sending its ripples to the wavy hair. Upon her features grace had shed its charm, 21 And in her smile sweetness to naught gave way; ’Twas like a streak of sunshine thrown across The motionless repose of early day. No sorrow rested on the calm, pure brow, But thought held undisputed empire there. Eyes like the dusky blue of evening skies, Gazed in a dream or in a quiet prayer; And through her aspect something noble shone, That proved the soul to charity had grown. Sunset Picture The Sun-god was reclining on a couch of rosy shells, And in the foamy waters Nereids tinkled silver bells, That lent the soft air sweetness, like an echoed seraph song, Floating with snowflake hush the aisles of Paradise along. The Sun-god wove bright flowers, gold and purple in their hue, And to the smiling Nereids tenderly the blossoms threw; The sapphire seas were shadowy, like an eye with dreamy thought, Where all the soul’s mute rapture, a prisoned' star, is caught. The billows’ rainbow splendor, like a strange, enchant¬ ing dream, In fading, softened slowly to a trembling pearly gleam; And soon the wondrous Sun-God, and the Nereids and the sea Had vanished; one gray-tinted cloud alone remained to me. 22 An Idyl of Spring The air, the dream-inspiring air Is floating, flutt’ring all around; Delicious waves of pent-up sound Gush forth like some long cherished prayer. The woodlands gleam With many a stream, The skies are blue, A promise new. Wake heart! Hope hastens with the Spring! Aerial pinions waft her near; A fairy palace crystal clear, Round w'hich the rosy sunbeams cling, Cannot compare With castles fair, She builds at morn By clouds upborne. In greenest vales the lily wakes, The violets in the breezes share, And oh! the strange, enchanting air Through pipes fantastic music makes. And we so free, By reverie Are caught in chains Of exquisite pains. O treach’rous, dream-inspiring air! Yet wherefore mar the joy it brings? Do we complain when the bird sings, Because his song dies on the air? Like mist our dreams Vanish, it seems, But they were sweet, Although so fleet. 23 A Group of Musings I Sunrise Thought Aurora gazed from out her shell-pink bower, And down the aisles of light sent a fair Hour With roses in her dainty hands, and hark! A lark’s sweet trill disarms the twilight dark. II Noonday Thought The tranquil waters slept ’neath Nature’s smile, Watched by the sunlit skies, as, free from guile, The tender infant sleeps, while o’er its bed The mother, yearning dreamer, bends her head. Ill Sunset Thought The crescent moon with silver sheen aglow, Was set in the far skies, a chiseled bow; And in the western courts, what riot rare Of magic hues and tints beyond compare! IV Starlight Thought Vistas between the shadowy pines were bright With scintillating stars, and all the night Was claimed by Reverie; rapt ’neath her spell, Thoughts come to us whose charm no tongue can tell. 24 On A Nook Called Fairyland Is’t here the fairies haunt the place, And o’er the green with witching grace Trip to the merry roundelay? Is’t here the shepherd pipes his note Where fair the water lilies float, And plaintively the pine trees sway? This is a vale of dreams : anigh, In dreamy cadence flutt’ring by, Soft woodland murmurs grow apace. The clouds so pure, drift there on high, Repose seems gazing from the sky With wistful beauty in her face. Yes, this is fairyland! but where May be the sportive elves who share This sylvan solitude? To-day No footstep lingers on the green, The quiet song of waves, I ween, Echoes no more the roundelay. Life is not spent in Fairyland ; The Spirit that this beauty planned, Gave each a duty to fulfill. We may, light-hearted, like the fay, Sing gladsome songs from day to day, If we fail not to do His will. On the Concord River Under the hemlocks Fancy came And took me in her tender arms; She sang her sweetest, calmest lays, And wrapped my spirit soft in balms. 25 Her chaste aerial form was clad In shining vestments, and her tread 1 Was still as snowflake music; e’en The lily did not bow her head. Her eyes with misty splendor gleamed, Shining like fountains in the sun; She comes,—a breath of music sweet, To tune my life to unison. Beneath the hemlocks folded close In Fancy’s tender arms, I lie, And drifting, dream enchanted dreams, While soft the river murmurs by. Cloud Fantasy I floated on a cloud one day, An amber cloud, whose rhythmic sway Held all my senses in a dream. I saw the trembling vesper stars Clinging and peeping through the bars Of purple-gold and pearly gleam. ’Mid silver spaces caught in air, Floating upon the cloudlets fair, While swinging were the rhythmic cars, Soft rapture did my senses greet, A music tremulously sweet,— The harmony beyond the stars. Suspended in the ether there, My spirit uttered voiceless prayer To the great Being of the Light. As darkness came star-vistas oped, My soul that erst in shadows groped, Rose tranquilly from height to height. 26 Invocation to the Muse Take it not back! the priceless gift! The joy that all my heart would thrill,— Creation’s ecstasy in forms Which a mysterious soul did fill. Has Fancy drained her silver rills, And hushed her tuneful birds the while? Imagination stayed her flight, Poised on near hills to wait the smile, That bids her, with the arrow’s speed, Dart past the clouds in ether far, Nor pause, till faint with ecstasy, She chants, lured by some chanting star? Where is the strange, celestial lyre O’er which my willing soul would play? Give back once more, the golden lyre, I would be thine alone to-day! Comes not the incense from the fire Upon thine altar lit, O Muse? There lies the votive offering, Wilt thou the sacrifice refuse? I bring this mom the liquid dew, Caught from Aurora, as she flung Her benison of dainty light O’er skies where shad’wy curtains hung. I bring the music caught from hearts,— Strange minor chords, sad yet so sweet, Which pain has seared with ceaseless clasp, And gladness with a clasp so fleet. 27 I bring the music caught from souls Aflame with hope and deepest love, And kissed by Life with throbbing lips Into the peace of calmest dove. Is not the offering complete, With complement of joy and pain? Transformed into a stream of light, It floats,—a harmony again. I raise my eyes imploringly, Come, holy Rapture, as before! I kneel in supplication mute, Oh! be the gift but mine, once more! * * * *• * ’Tis mine! ’tis mine! the altar glows! The lyre quivers, touched by thee, O Muse benignant! Low I bow, Wrapped in a veil of mystery. Before thy fane on sacred hills, My daily orison I’ll pour; I have thy promise, gracious Muse, Mine is the gift forevermore! The Vision of Eve When from the gates of Paradise fair Eve Turned her reluctant steps with saddest mien A sense prophetic stayed her blinding tears, And thus she yearning cried, her sobs between: “ Could I but see adown the coming days! Yet, though I may not win that boon, alas! One question haunts me with resistless charm, What will my daughters be when aeons pass? 28 She bowed her head, then as with rev’rence spoke “ A hope has seized my spirit, e’en though late It cometh. Ay! and will my fault be less By what they may achieve of good or great? Are all my cherished longings to be vain? I cannot know what grander purpose lies Beyond the misty verge that bounds my view.” She ceased, with supplication in her eyes. Again we see the Mother of mankind, Yet not discrowned and mournful as of yore; From amethystine battlements she leans, Wide-eyed with wonder and admiring awe. Far past the planets, past the swinging stars, Past worlds on worlds that spin in ether there, Her glances wander to the circling earth, Lying below swathed by the purpling air. Lo! what is it she sees? Forms like to hers, When erst she paced fair Eden’s flow’ry courts; But on each brow there sits a something new, A something mystical. Is it the thoughts’ Deep impress which the centuries have left? The seal of alternating joy and woe, Of care and grief, anon of hope and love, Marked by the ages as they come and go? And ever on and on the glances rove Of our first mother. Now the marble yields In Eve-like contours ’neath the skillful touch Of one; another well the sceptre wields; And one self-poised, regnant in dignity, In philosophic councils holds the sway. Upon the battlefield, one kneels to stanch The crimson life-blood as it ebbs away. 29 And thus the dreamer spoke: “ Are these my kin, And has the world so grown since those sweet days In glorious Paradise when Time was young? Are these my daughters who with sweeping gaze, Can scan the sheeny Heavens for a sign Of God’s deep wisdom writ upon the skies? Are these indeed my children, all my own? What strange, enchanting visions meet my eyes? ” She hears the rhythmic strains of one who caught The Muse’s most majestic melodies; The lofty heights, the shining altitudes Her latest children climb, with pride she sees. “ Ah! my prophetic hopes were not in vain,” Cried Mother Eve with eager eyes aglow; “Yet could I dream of this when Time began? The deeds my daughters dare I could not know.” She paused, and soon her rapt soliloquy Died like a zephyr o’er a leafy lawn; She gazed once more from jeweled battlements Far down the firmament, e’en as the Dawn Blushed in the east; and when the magic hues Began in mimic warfare to engage, Throughout the spheres a chiming measure thrilled,— The vibrant music of the newer age! ODE ON THE TWENTIETH CENTURY (A Dream-Prophecy.) What seer is this, Who gazing calm athwart the deep Where pent-up storms and thunders sleep, Nothing can miss? 30 O’er sweeping with his falcon glance vast tracks, Chaotic, dim, mysterious. What lacks His prescience brooding o’er a cycle new? What vaster view Saw ever seer of eld wrapped in a trance? What pageant more majestic to enhance His spirit’s yearning mood? To distant caves The mighty ocean laves, To airy grottoes, where the lightning wakes, His searching glance is sent. Serene, absorbed, attent, He meditates; Forcasting what may be in days unborn— Days that with sunrise freshness all impearled, With wings unfurled, Pause to alight upon a waiting world. “ What may they bring us, Seer? Unto thy vision clear Is all revealed? What of those mystic spheres Th’ unfathomable years So close have sealed? What cult is taught in Venus? Shall we know Whether there come and go Fair mortals on that soil unknown, To manly stature grown? Are hearth-fires kindled on that planet-isle, And o’er the sacred pile Does incense rise to some Divinity? Look closer, Seer, and see! ” O the wonder of the vision! 0 the marvel of the sight! 31 What shores and streams Elysian! What scenes with splendor dight! The seer is rapt: enkindled His brooding glance has grown; Then solemn made he answer, With myst’ry in his tone. “ I grope: the scales are yet Upon my asking eyes; Forebodings of surprise My spirit seize; then let Naught rude disturb my consecrated mood. ***** “ ’Tis come! ’tis come! the vision grows apace! The scales have fall’n, and behold! I trace Wonders sublime; The scroll of Time With deeper mysteries will be o’er-writ. “ The world is spanned by bridges Builded of rainbow rays; O’er foam and wat’ry ridges, They glitter, glitter to the moon. They’ll lead the foot full soon To dwellings past the Pleiads, To Cassiope’s bright seat. A thought! and lo, we gaze Amid a planet’s haze. Could motion be more fleet? “ And harken! Down the chiming spheres To list’ning ears, An anthem comes from Jupiter’s vast plain— A matchless strain. “A message from a star! Harness the winged car 32 With other steeds than any seen before. Why heed our lagging pow’rs? Star-wisdom will be ours; E’en in a flash of thought Intelligence be brought, Undreamed of lore. “ I see a hall of weird magnificence, All studded o’er with scintillating gems Of rarest lustre; ’tis a temple whence Flows wisdom like a river; nothing stems The rushing of its richly freighted waves. Lo! ’tis on Saturn’s isles where stately stands That gleaming hall, and countless student bands Are flocking thither in air-chariots brought To learn the subtlest thought Of star and planet lore, All unrevealed before. “ Wisdom from worlds erstwhile beyond our ken. Stupendous! marvelous ! what deeds of men Evoke this guerdon? Lo! the Deity Makes man to praise His boundless majesty. These works beyond compare His signet bear. “ And all the alchemy of Earth’s vast depths, Magic in coruscating jewels hid, Secrets but vaguely hinted by the winds, Marvels beneath the Ocean’s wavy lid, Have yielded to man’s craving; myst’ries sealed Since sun and moon and stars from Chaos wheeled, Are now revealed. “ I cease to gaze. I cannot struggle more With mighty sights and sounds that winged come 33 From space illimitable, and my eyes Grow misty ’neath th’ effulgence. I am dumb. I cannot fathom what so near me lies— Wonders unseen, unheard, unknown before.” The curtain falls again, the quest is o’er. 34 MEDITATIONS The Hour’s Glory (Suggested by Emerson’s Essay, “Works and Days.”) Each hour has some glory all its own, Some silver lull of streams unheard before, Some glimpses rare of Nature’s loveliness, Some song with sweetness newer than of yore. Each hour waiting spirits, Peace and Hope, Stand near us if we wave them not away; Each hour questions haunt us, bearing balm Imprisoned in the potent yea or nay. Each hour is a Sibyl, weird and strange, Of eye prophetic and of backward glance; Each is a restless bird checked in its flight, A whisper that will nevermore entrance. Each hour souls may catch celestial pasans Of subtle meaning, stealing from afar; As when through shad’wy deeps of purple skies, In voiceless harmony star follows star. Each hour may gain beauty from the Past, And with the Future’s coming glory gleam; But in the light of this, all radiance fades: Each hour is a Truth and not a Dream. Reverie The brook glides on to the river, The river glides to the sea; Each seeks for a broader channel, For broader channels, we. 36 If we throw the tiniest pebble From the fringed, sylvan shore. The river in widening circles Flows onward,—so calm before. The zephyr softly trembles The glist’ning waves along; The gentle drip of the rain drops Makes sweeter their quiet song. Word-pebbles flung by the heedless, Will ripple the calmest life; But the kindly hints of friendship, Like zephyrs, soothe the strife. And the priceless tears that only From sympathy can flow, Like raindrops, cool the fever Of the troubled waves below. The brook glides on to the river, The river glides to the sea; Each seeks for a broader channel, For something more yearn we. For a fuller, deeper knowledge Of the mystery life enfolds, That puzzles as does the process By which the sculptor moulds. The child to the skies’ rose-tracery Lifts often his earnest eyes, Now, lit with a sense of its beauty, And now, with a vague surprise. So erst gazed we on these marvels, Nor thought of the Master-hand That colors the delicate moonbeams, And seashells among the sand. 37 So we, still like little children, Have read not one-half the scroll, Have learned not one-half the lesson Life gives to the thoughtful soul. Oh! when will all joy be perfect? Oh! when will all thought be free? Why question? We glide like the river, Toward a vast, vast sea. The brook glides on to the river, The river glides to the sea; Our yearnings will blend with the chorus Of God’s ocean, Eternity! God’s Ways, Not Oxjr Ways Men choose a crystal goblet filled with wine, That thirst and sense of beauty in all haste May be indulged; but soon the wine is spilled Or proves unpleasant to the sated taste; The crystal chasteness of the goblet slow Grows dimmer, and thus beauty is a loss; And man full weary, to the wayside flings That wealth of pleasure which has turned to dross, Close hugs a wooden bowl—no substitute For grace and radiance—and with pleading eyes, Begs his Creator humbly to send down One drop of water from the plenteous skies; God grants the boon, man drinks and is content. Most men refuse to tread on this or that, In their attempts to climb where angels are; Some fain would walk on roses, some on down, Some reach on waves of light the nearest star; 38 But from the devious modes that they devise, One has adjusted been to ev’ry need; The fiat born of Wisdom goeth forth, And man must reck not that his feet will bleed; Nor dare to say in lofty arrogance, “ Walk thou in that path, I will -walk in this For he who would attain where angels bathe Their willing souls in affluence of bliss, Must climb on Patience' ladder up to God. Nature’s Minor Chords The stirring of a feathery cloud May wake a thought of richest worth, The dew upon the lily’s rim To deepest reverie give birth. Half glimpses caught in idle hours Of shifting lights upon a stream, Some sudden glory in the skies May give the soul a magic dream. The scent of wood-glades when glad Spring Is penciling the dainty leaves, Like subtlest music, round the heart A web of strange enchantment weaves. The robin’s carol to the dawn Soothes like the answer to a prayer; The cushat’s melancholy plaint May change our mood quite to despair. In Nature’s wondrous orchestra. The quiver of a single strain Will poise a thought, and give the soul Most exquisite repose or pain. 39 At Nature’s Shrine Sweet Nature, give me holy dreams, Caress thy child once more! Thy holiest cadence softly chant As thou didst oft of yore. Amid these mountains silence-sealed, Beneath this tender sky, Soothed by thy harmony divine, Forever would I lie. Now creeps the mist,—a violet veil, Above the sacred hills; The rainbow shimmers in the east, Low coo the sparkling rills. My soul so soothed beneath thy touch, O Nature, chaste and calm, Would bow before these solemn fanes, And pour its grateful psalm. These mountains veiled in mystery, These skies with meaning fraught, Rest in the hollow of His hand, Whose tones Creation caught. As the strange music of the shell Tells of the mighty sea, So these all to our rev’rent souls, Great Father, speak of Thee! Cloud Song O snowflake clouds, O feath’ry clouds, Sailing through deeps of sky, Look through the boughs, the apple boughs, Come to the earth more nigh. 40 Bring me a rift of sunshine gold, To circle round mj brow; In breezy robes I fain would drift To some blest island now. Catch me the dew from those fair hills Where ye are wont to rest; Bring me the rose from Summer skies, When Day dreams in the west. Gather the rainbow’s mingled hues,— A blush of purity; Give me the sparkle of the waves Of the mysterious sea. O snowflake clouds, O feath’ry clouds, Sailing through deeps of sky, Can ye not bring a hint of song And drop it from on high? Some tender song the seraphs sing, So soothing, I could dream That the sweet light of Paradise On my life-path did gleam. My Easter Dove There came a dove, an Easter dove, W 7 hen morning stars grew dim; It fluttered round my lattice bars, To chant a matin hymn. It brought a lily in its beak, Aglow with dewy sheen; I caught the strain, the incense breathed, And uttered praise between. 41 It brought a shrine of holy thoughts To calm my soul that day; I caught the meaning of the note, Why did it fly away? Come peaceful dove, sweet Easter dove! Above earth’s storm and strife, Sing of the joy of Easter-tide, Of light and hope and life. Questioning Can life’s best consciousness of joy Quite charm the soul without alloy? Or will its hidden depths be stirred All unawares, by some chance word, To deep regret or nameless pain, With fev’rish yearning in its train? Av! as the shadows fleck the grass When through his courts the Sun doth pass, So in the measure Life must dole To th’ insatiate, asking soul, Shade gives to bloom its best relief, Joy comes the sweeter after grief. Each struggle toward a clearer light, Each noble impulse unto right Makes struggle easy, effort grand; Lo! when we seize with eager hand The regal rose and meet the thorn, We heed not though our flesh be torn. For life’s best joy may not all be Intense delight though e’er so free 42 From hint of sorrow, but the calm That soothes the spirit, like a psalm Of benediction floating by, In strains serenest caught on high. Hidden Essence Some gold lies veiled behind each evening cloud. Some beauty hides in every quiet stream, Some love entwines its tendrils round each soul, With all the rare devotion of a dream. Some rose looks forth from ev’ry curled bud, Some note drifts warbling to the last one’s need, Some song thrills deeply ev’ry woodbird’s heart, Some dew-soft incense haloes each true deed. Some azure-winged Hope with starry gaze, Floats viewless near, when joy begins to wane; Some lustrous tint through each tear-prism gleams, Some peace reposes ’neath each torturing pain. A Fragment Our fancies are but joys all unexprest, The rhythm of a carol strange and sweet. Who would resign his yearning for the best The arts severe can yield? all incomplete As is the airy fabric of our dream, Yet bask we in its rose-encolored gleam. Take from our life its palpitating hope, Rob it of those mysterious undertones, That like the chanting angels, fondly grope Toward harmonies celestial, stifle moans 43 That, uttered in our longing, half reveal The soul’s deep struggles and far more conceal,— And what is left us? What avails the lute When the sweet player’s fingers all are cold? So would it be with us if Hope were mute, No longer with her magic to unfold Our dreams’ aerial splendor and transform Their misty shadows to a radiance warm. Then let us, ever watching rev’rently, Quaff the pure incense of the morning star, Heed the impassioned skylark’s reverie, Soaring and singing in the ether far; And bathe our life each hour in beauty new, By guarding fresh the soul’s impearled dew. Stab, Song O sailing stars! Through pearly bars Of fleecy cloudlets fair, With liquid gleam, Ye drift,—a dream Of beauty in the air. Ye sailing stars! Bright silver cars, Moving with rhythmic pace, Can spirits rare Float through the air, With more majestic grace? O stars so calm! Were life a psahn Attuned to harmony, 44 On wings of light, To some blest height As calm, our souls would flee. Easter Carol Lilies swinging censers fair, In the dreamy Spring-tide air, Purer seem your bells this morn: Roses on the dewy lawn, Tinted with the hues of dawn, Ye are sweeter: flow’rets say, Why are ye so rare to-day? Oh why, oh why! Robin, tender robin, say, Why art thou so glad to-day? Never has thy note to me Borne beneath its melody, Such inspiring mystery. Warbling robin, softly say, Why art thou so glad to-day? Oh why, oh why! Silver-throated lark, reply! Far off in the azure sky, Wherefore does that song of thine, Soaring in a strain divine, Strangely thrill this soul of mine? Fluting lark, reply, reply! Is’t to bear my soul on high? On high, on high! Questioner! the birds reply, Christ ascends to-day on high. From the sadness and the gloom, From the shadows of the tomb. 45 For His glory sweeter bloom Rose and lily; this is why Strains divine thrill through the sky, ’Tis why, ’tis why! Pure as is the lily’s bowl, List’ner! ever be thy soul! Fragrant as the rose thy life, Kindliness o’ercoming strife; Jesus’ vict’ry gives new life. Then uplift thy drooping brow, Join in Nature’s gladness now! Sing now, sing now! Yes! the Easter-tide is fair, Strains triumphant flood the air; So bright garlands we entwine For the Son of God Divine. Then rejoice, O soul of mine! With the chanting birds and flow’rs, Consecrate these blessed hours, Rejoice! rejoice! An Ideal An evanescent hue whose pearly gleam Transfigures all it glows upon, a dream Of forms aerial, chiseled so fair That angel fingers must have fingered there. A scent as of celestial roses blown From consecrated meadows, many a tone Sublime in ecstasy and rev’rent hush, An exaltation that no wrong can crush. 46 A hint of harmonies in life’s strange psalm, A sense of Heaven’s completeness, all its calm; A shining goal suffused with radiant light,— Such the Ideal that lures from height to height. The Hermit and the Soul The hermit in his cave beside the sea, In mood contemplative, the mystery,— Ay, all the wondrous meaning fain would trace Of swinging stars sphered in unfathomed space. The soul in life’s dim cave beside the sea, Is pond’ring likewise all the mystery, The solemn something that the years unfold, A riddle never new, yet never old. Ah! musing hermit, wake from out thy dreams! See ’mid the stars refulgent, one that streams With sheen sublime; the shepherds, ages gone, Saw it illume the plain one frosty mom. Ah! restless soul, immortal dow’r is thine! Christ came to earth, the Son of God Divine, To solve the myst’ry: therefore cease thy strife, Light from the cross leads on to endless life. Compensation How the majestic stellar lights of Heav’n Gliding in rhythm through the aisles of space, Shed cheering radiance on the waiting earth, When all day long the Sun has hid his face. 47 How glowed! the painter’s soul with rapture mute, When after weary toil and vague unrest, The Head Divine upon his vision broke, And rare contentment closed a loving quest. Men who dare mighty deeds with dauntless will, Oft meet defeat, not glorious victory; But the uplifting souls to undreamed heights, May not of poorest laurels worthy be. There is a heroism bom of pain, Whose recompense in noble impulse lies; And sometimes tears that e’en from grief did flow, Are changed to joy-drops in pathetic eyes. From out the din of mighty orchestras, The sweetest, purest tones are oft evolved; So from the discord of our restless lives, May come sweet harmony when all is solved. A Vision of Moonlight O silver splendor, marvelous! Transfigured is the rare blue sky, Where cloudlets crowned with amber mist, Glide to a whispered music by. What seem they, circling round the spheres, Swans that majestically sway? Or weird white ships far out at sea, With lamps hung up to light the way? Or are they rather, like the bright, Fantastic wreaths of feathery spray, Revealing gleams of ringlets gold, Tossed by the mermaids in their play? 48 A pearly shimmer lies within The rose’s petals folded up; Shy lilies peep through river-reeds, With liquid sweetness in their cup. A fleecy, opal-tinted veil Hangs on the waters sleeping calm; Fountains of rainbow sheen fling high Their cadence mellowed to a psalm. As hope upspringing in the breast Irradiates the human face, E’en so the moonlight’s mystic glow Sheds o’er all things unwonted grace. The soul is nobler for great thoughts, The heart is richer for love’s boon, The flowers are brighter for the dew, The sky is rarer for the moon. O solemn silence! do the leaves Stop rustling to enjoy the scene? Do waves, all tremulous with sound, Pause to adore, their hymns between? O tranquil moonlight! as some strains Suggest a master-spirit’s song, Thy beauty pure, impalpable, Must to celestial spheres belong. O glory royal, marvelous! Thou may’st perhaps the shadow be Of glory all-surpassing, that Streams from God’s throne eternally. 49 Sea Cadences Many are thy tones, O Ocean, Filling us with strange emotion As we hear the murmurs wild; In their weird and solemn power, Thou dost send them ev’ry hour To thy yearning, list’ning child. Like a voice subdued and tragic, Many of thy songs bring magic, Others to us hoarsely call; Some are sweet and fraught with gladness, Some have strains akin to sadness, Yet we prize and love them all. In the heart nigh crushed with sorrow, Dreading the unknown to-morrow, Wishing past the drear to-day, In the soul its burden bearing While the lip a smile is wearing, They have waked an answering lay. Thou hast psalms of glad thanksgiving, Choral anthems for the living, Dirges for the silent throng; For the beautiful who, lying Where the mermaids low are sighing, Nevermore shall join thy song. There is freedom in thy dashing As thy waves the rocks are lashing, Singing loud their mad refrain; Of unrest the chords are telling, And from many a soul’s depth welling, Comes an echo to the strain. 50 Like some lone heart’s plaintive throbbing, Leap the billows, wildly sobbing, Flinging to the pulseless air,— Now, a cadence hushed and calming, Now, a peal fierce and alarming, Now a wail of deep despair. As the sad mysterious surges Chant their melancholy dirges, In a whisper ne’er repressed, So within the realm of feeling, Hopes and longings softly stealing. Moan forever unexpressed. When thy sweetly chiming chorus Throws its fascination o’er us, We would fain translate it all; But in vain is e’en our trying, For thy notes are never-dying, And they baffle as they fall. Soft thy hymns of awed devotion Float on waves of ceaseless motion, To the throne of God above. Many are thy tones, O Ocean, Filling us with strange emotion, Tuning souls to praise and love. A Thought on Lake Ontario The lucent lake was lit with sheen, Shining the crested waves between, And through the purpling air The young birds trilled their lightsome lays, To join the hymn of Nature’s praise, And earth was passing fair. 51 The summer sky was liquid blue, The lake’s deep gleam, a sapphire hue Of gem-like radiance rare; It seemed a quiet dream of rest, The billows on its mighty breast Swayed in accordant prayer. I deem Apollo ne’er had seen More wondrous depths of glist’ning sheen, Than thine, O dreamy lake! Nor has his lyre swept the deep, Wherein more magic shadows sleep, Than those thy ripples wake. No Triton in the rosy dawn, Blew sweeter music on his horn, Than thy soft melody; No Nereid seeking ocean caves, Blew lighter foam across the waves Of the impassioned sea. When glist’ning in the sunset-rose Thy tinted waves suggest repose, All troubled yearnings cease; When life is discord and unrest, We come to seek upon thy breast, A hint of perfect peace. Sky Picture Through pearly deeps of sky, cloud-mountains rose Amid the haze, a land of tinted snows; A dream of beauty where the palest gold And rarest azure did their bloom unfold. It was a vision fair, set in the air, Where form and color kissed through violet mist. 52 Hymn to the Thousand Islands 0 islets green, Nature’s immortal gems, Ye smile—a thought of God—-rare diadems Framed in majestic waters! Here and there Ye sparkle, tiny emeralds, from the air Dropped by chaste >angel fingers in the deep. Were ye, when first Creation woke from sleep, An anthem sung at sunrise to the Light, Like Memnon’s statue at the dazzling sight? Dotting the placid waters, marvels ye, A masterpiece of sculptured scenery! Ye are a fragment of the mighty plan, Linking in rhythm divine Nature and man. Ye are a cadence of perpetual praise To Him who guards the soul through endless days. On the Rapids of the St. Lawrence The gurgling waters foam and play, And whirl and dash the live-long day In jets of spray. They roll and dance, and laugh and sing, They are forever on the wing, A restless thing! What tale of pathos do they tell, As onward they tumultuous swell,— Is it a knell, A lay of love, or joy or woe, Enacted in the Ions aso? We cannot know! The emerald waters rage and boil, And madly whirl in wild turmoil, Unending toil 53 Is theirs: they hint of strange unrest, The foamy waves upon their breast Seem sore distrest. They leap and toss their mad caps high, They rave and plunge and sadly sigh; Yet to the sky Their weird antiphonies ascend, And with celestial anthems blend, As up they wend. Voices of the Rain Hear the dreary, dreary rain, Beating ’gainst the window pane! Causing little ones to shiver, Causing aged forms to wither, Murm’ring through the dying ember, Making fireless homes more somber. O the dreary, dreary rain! Hear the cheerful, cheerful rain, Laughing through the golden grain! Waking cowslips in the meadow Which the stately oaks o’ershadow; Fanning soft the fainting flowers That have drooped their heads for hours. O the cheerful, cheerful rain! Hear the tearful, tearful rain Sobbing o’er the battle-plain! Where the warrior fought in glory, Where death closed life’s tangled story. Teardrops kiss his matted tresses, Tears, instead of love’s caresses. 0 the tearful, tearful rain! 54 Hear the music of the rain, In the brook and stormy main! On the roof it softly patters, Tones concordant far it scatters. Children tucked away to slumber, Hear its notes and count their number. Pretty music of the rain! Hear the solemn, solemn rain. Moaning o’er the burial plain! Chanting low a dirge, and sighing For the loved so missed in dying. When above them flowers are paling, Hear its sad, monot’nous wailing. O the solemn, solemn rain! Oue Task If we could know the mystery Hid in the skylark’s wondrous song, If we could hear the dulcet psalms The sheeny stars have sung so long,— We yet must turn to other sounds, To human voices oft in pain; To dissonance which should be tuned To truest harmony again. We cannot know, O fluting lark. What lent thy song its ecstasy; We yearn, in meditative mood, To fathom all the mystery Of Nature’s tireless orchestra. Ay! but that joy we can forego, For there is need of list’ning ears Where other voices charm us. So, 55 With vision clear and purpose pure, Humanity’s broad scheme we’ll trace; A wrong to right, a sob to hush, To see a brother in each face That lifts itself toward God’s blue dome In suppliant hope,—thus life expands To sweet fruition, till the waves Of Time are lulled on golden sands. Echo Reverie (At Echo Lake, White Mountains.) Along the lake the bugle rings, And hark! what harmony of sound Breaks through the mountains: silv’ry clear The chorus is diffused around. It multiplies from cliff to cliff, A weird antiphony, so sweet The magic tones, the heart throbs high, Entranced with unison complete. Ay, listen! now it steals again: From peak to peak the music rings, Wave upon wave; until the soul Thrilled and subdued, in rapture sings. One echo wakes, it dies away; Soft, softer, hushed, till in a dream Of ecstasy divine we muse, Floating adown the peaceful stream. O holy echo! sweet and clear, Thou tell’st of the Creator’s hand That swung the singing planets there In distant orbits, when were planned 56 These mountains: thou dost but repeat Some fragment of the harmony The morning stars together sang; O wondrous, echoing mystery! Lines Written on a Farewell View of the Fran¬ conia Mountains At Twilight Blue mists surround the mountains now, In shadowy splendor slowly fades Their perfect outline; each pure brow Is bathed in mystery; the shades Of pensive twilight gather round, The timid stars forbear awhile To lift their misty curtain; sound Thy lyre, O soul! ’neath Nature’s smile. The Coming of Spring The buds from winter’s frost-work lift Their dainty heads; a golden rift Of sunshine from the misty space Of Cloudland comes apace. And we are sealed in dreams to-day. Look! fair Spring beckons! wherefore stay? Deep in the forest’s mystery, Strange visions we would see. The young bird twitters on his nest; His tender notes so long represt, Soar to the ether, clear and calm, A pure, exultant psalm. 57 The youth charmed! by the whisp’ring leaves, Tells life’s sweet secret ’neath the eaves, And finds more fair than sunset skies The Springtime in her eyes. What colors deck the woodland shade! What airy pencilings! the glade Is rich with lily-bells whose glow Seems borrowed from the snow. She comes fair Spring, with rhythmic pace! Say, have you looked her in the face? Her glance is ecstasy, her smile All sorrow can beguile. In reveries almost divine, What visions bright before us shine! Lo! erst we yearned: we see fulfilled The fantasies we willed. She comes our chant of praise to hear, Sweet, airy Spring, and lingers near; Without her dreams, her nameless hope, How sadly would we grope! We raise our heads, our hearts elate Meanwhile, and fit to toy with fate. How can life’s changes e’er distress While clasped in Spring’s caress. Failure What is failure? When the maiden Pensive, reading from the page, Breathes the crushed roseleaf’s fragrance And far more than counsel sage 58 Does its subtle odor woo her On to happy fields of light, Where love’s tremulous requirements All are reconciled quite,— Has the sweet rose missed its mission, With its petals rudely torn? Nay! its perfume brought a vision, Fairer than the fairest morn, To the dreaming maiden: therefore Grieve not rose, thy doom was best; Murmur not to carry to her, After tumult, hints of rest. What is failure? When the poet Hears his verses harshly scorned, Can he yet forget the rapture, That upon his spirit dawned,— As the cadences so holy Lulled his senses in a trance, And aerial fingers dainty Swept his lyre? Ay, perchance He but loves the strains the better— Tender nurslings from the skies— And although no ruth awaits him, Newer glory fills his eyes. What is failure? Ah! we know not! ’Tis but an indiff’rent thing; Sometimes to unrest an impulse, Sometimes angels on the wing. 59 Calling us to finer raptures, Chanting for us nobler strains, From the world’s dissatisfaction Gleaning for us priceless gains. The Triple Benison Come to guard us, come to bless us, Holy, mystic sisters three! On our bowed heads pour a chrism, Daughters of the Deity. Crown us with your triple chaplet, Roses red and lilies fair, Dark green leaves entwined around them, Fragrant with May’s tender air. We are waitings—suppliants needy— For your beauteous three-fold gift, That to heights of calm completeness Our beseeching souls can lift. How can we without your favor Make of life what it should be? Come then, guard 1 us, aid and bless us, Daughters of the Deity. Be our souls as pure and stainless, Blending all the perfect hues, Sacred Faith, as is the color We shall ever for thee choose. Be our paths as green with verdure, Yearning Hope, as thine must be; And our lives as flushed with radiance, As thine, O blessed Charity! 60 Verses to My Heart’s-Sister We’ve traveled long together, O sister of my heart, Since first as little children All buoyant, we did start Upon Life’s checkered pathway, Nor dreamed of aught save joy; But ah! To-day can tell us Naught is without alloy. Rememb’rest thou the gambols Of those sweet, early days, When siren Fancy showed us Our dreams through golden haze? Ah, well thou dost remember The mirth we then did share, The sports, the tasks, the music, The all-embracing prayer. Somehow my own sweet sister, Our heart-strings early twined; Some rare bond of affection Of tastes and aims combined. Made us, e’en in our Springtime, Soul-sisters fond and leal; And how that love has strengthened The years can well reveal. We’ve seen our loved ones vanish Far from our yearning gaze, Into the peace of Heaven. O those sad, saddest days, When we two clung together. So lonely and forlorn, With our crushed hearts all quiv’ring, All bruised, and scarred and torn. 61 So nearer clung we, sister, And loved each other more; The tendrils of our natures Twined closer than before. We could speak to no other Of those sweet, holy things, So tender yet so nameless, Which soiTow often brings. The troubles that have thickened Around our daily path, We’ve borne together, sister, And oft when courage hath Grown feeble, and the future Was dark with naught of cheer, Could one have faced the conflict Without the other near? And sister, dear Heart’s-Sister, When all the mystery Of this strange life is ended In Immortality, We’ll love each other dearly As now we do, and more; For sacred things in Heaven Grow richer than before. And shall not those sweet loved ones Missed here so long! so long! Join with us in the music Of an all-perfect song? We feel a gladder cadence Will thrill their rapt’rous strain, When we are with them, sister, All, ne’er to part again ! 62 So now as here we linger, May ours be happy days! O generous-hearted sister, In all Life’s winding ways May we have joy together! And this I fondly pray,— God bless thee, dear Heart’s-Sister! Forever and for aye! Among the Berkshire Hills The hills in emerald robes of richest dye, Decked e’en most regally, slope to the sky In daintiest curves and many a lakelet calm Sleeps in the vale below, while like a psalm The silv’ry waters murmur; all around Majestic silence reigns, save when the sound Of some fair warbler stirs the air with song, Sweet as if they to Heav’n’s isles did belong. Yea, in eternal grandeur stand the hills Wrapped oft in misty veils of blue; the rills Trickle in motion musical, meanwhile The landscape shimmers golden ’neath the smile Of Nature in her kindest mood; she seems Benignant to these peaceful slopes; rich gleams Of sunshine flicker o’er them, shadows chase In shapes fantastic and with rarest grace, The light across these mountains; far and near, Like to a silver ribbon winding clear, The Housatonic mirrors back the skies, And through the quiet meadows gently hies To join the music of the solemn band, Played by the sea. Touched by th’ enchanted wand Of magic beauty lies fair Stockbridge Bowl,— A lake whose calm brings rest within the soul. 63 There Nature comes to us with ev’ry phase Of loveliness, and charms away our days, Until refreshed the wearied spirit grows, Lulled to unwonted harmony nor knows It aught of restlessness amid such peace; Unrest and care have there a swift release: Nature has vesture of a thousand hues,— Skies sapphire blue, bright waters, pearly dews; Her panorama changes with the hours. ’Twas mom: above the hills shell-tinted flow’rs Were strewn along the pathway of the sun, Just peeping o’er the slopes, his race begun. ’Twas noon: the leaves were dancing in the breeze; Clouds clad in sheeny tissues, kissed the trees, Crowning the summits, while to the glad gaze Stretched out a rare perspective dim with haze. And o’er the hills one fair cloud calmly slept, Fair as an angel dreaming; blue mists crept In sinuous curves above the stately heights, Which gleamed resplendent in the shifting lights. ’Twas sunset when a charm the earth enshrouds; A setting exquisite of tinted clouds Illumined changing scenes of mount and glade; And all the majesty of light and shade Bewildered with its beauty, while afar Looked o’er the heights one silver vesper star. And soon the moonlight touched the hills with sheen, Bathed them in mystery which Night’s chaste queen Dispels around her. Thus the vision grows, And the enchanted gleams that Nature throws O’er mountain, valley, grove and laughing rills, We see in regal beauty ’mid these hills. Through colonnades of pines the vistas green Invite the gaze to linger, while between The shadows slant, and through the golden air Each scene dissolves into one still more fair. All this calm loveliness can but enthrall. 64 We dream amid these solitudes, and all Th’ unuttered praise of many a soul ascends In thanks to Him who here such glory sends. Evening Peayee Father of Love! We leave our souls with Thee! Oh! may Thy Holy Spirit to us be A peaceful Dove! Now when day’s strife And bitterness are o’er, Oh! in our hearts all bruised gently pour The dew of life. So as the rose— Though fading on the stem— Awakes to blush when morning’s lustrous gem Upon it glows ;— May we awake, Soothed by Thy priceless balm, To chant with grateful hearts our morning psalm, And blessings take. Or let it be, That where the palm trees rise, And crystal streams flow, we uplift our eyes To Thee!—to Thee! Reteospection What do the long years bring us, The weary, restless years? Hopes, dreams unrealized, yet balm To stay the bitt’rest tears. 65 Some gold tint in the prism, Some kind words softly said, Some hint of love most tender E’en when glad joy has fled. Not grief perchance, nor sorrow, And yet a vague unrest Will mingle with our musings, A pang all unexpressed. The minstrel’s song though gladsome, Enfolds a minor strain; Each throbbing joy brings with it Inevitable pain. For through the cleansing fires Our shrinking souls must go, Ere we the wholesome lesson Of life can really know. Then let us be undaunted, Leaving to God the end, Rememb’ring, more than sparrows, We find in Christ, a friend. At Christmas-tide Gleamed a resplendent star Over the hillsides far, While shepherds watched by night On the peaceful height. Softly the gold-light fell Over the vale and dell, While angels warbled clear “ Lo! the Christ-child’s here! ” 66 Wise men brought there with them, Sweet Child of Bethlehem, Rare gifts to offer Thee, For Thou mad’st them free. “ Peace! ” list the magic word Now through the ages heard; “ Good-will! ” it echoes still With the olden thrill. Sweet Child in mercy sent, Jesus, grant us content. Evermore may we be Near to truth and Thee! Broken Heart Ah blow! thou art the last, the last! Grief cannot harm me any more. I’m weary now that hope is past, My heart is broken at the core, Ay, at the core. Then call me henceforth, Broken Heart It is the name most meet for woe. Since I can ne’er with Sorrow part, I care no other name to know. Ah! call me so. I never thought my life would be All poisoned by a fatal dart, But now no joy can rescue me. Yes! call me ever Broken Heart, Sad Broken Heart. 67 Jesus says, “Broken Heart be mine; I’ll take thee, shattered as thou art. Come rest upon my Love Divine, Come weary, weary Broken Heart, Never to part. “ The world has wounded, Heaven will not; Life sore has pricked thee, Broken Heart, Her page is dark with many a blot. Alas! thy bitt’rest tears will start, Poor Broken Heart! “ Then come, O wherefore wouldst thou wait? Carry thy cross and follow on. I am thy portion, early, late; Haste Broken Heart, this very morn, This happy mom. “ Sweet peace I give thee, Broken Heart, ’Twill be a cure for ev’ry woe. None e’er has loved thee, Broken Heart, As I have loved thee long ago, Ah no! ah no! “Does earth still weave her subtle charm? Oh! will thou not with Sorrow part For soothing, everlasting balm? Do I suffice thee, Broken Heart? Speak, Broken Heart! ” “ Yes, Jesus, Thou art all I need, I’ll gladly rise and follow Thee. Life sore has pricked me, made me bleed, But now Thy child I am to be, Yes! Thine to be.” 68 Ay, dearest child, my blood for thee Will heal thy heart’s poor broken core My blood that floweth full and free, Will in thy soul rich blessings pour, Forevermore! Then hold my hand, dear Healed Heart! I’ll lead thee to thy home and then We never, nevermore shall part.” “ O Jesus, hear my soul’s Amen, Amen, Amen! ” Prayer O Christ, who in Gethsemane Didst all alone in anguish pray, “ Father, if it be possible, Let this cup, Father, pass away,”— O holy Christ, who rose serene, Sublime in victory to cry, “Not as I will, but as Thou wilt!” Let us in faith on Thee rely. Did not the stars in far off space, Upon their silver axes pause To hear those words? Was not the air Calmed by the myst’ry and its cause? O Christ, veiled in Humanity! O Victor over deepest woe! When we, like Thee, endure the pain, Let us, like Thee, submission know. 69 Grant us a vict’ry like to Thine, O’er all the storms that rage within. Teach us, O Christ, we humbly pray. The trust that fain would conquer sin. And when life’s discords all are hushed, Blended in perfect harmony, Call us, 0 pitying Son of God, Take us, 0 blessed Christ, to Thee! Shadow and Sunshine Poor heart, unsatisfied! Poor soul, trying and tried! Trying to reach the goal, And tried art thou, O soul, In all thy ways. Seeking where’er it be, Something to solace thee; Choosing whatever part, Unfilled art thou, 0 heart, Through length of days. Wherefore these shadows sent? Wherefore these hours of Lent? Wherefore the rugged rock, The fire, the stumbling block, The vale of tears? Earth’s gilded pleasures lure; Canst share them and endure True to thy nobler self, Soul, with thy mine of wealth, For many years? 70 Listen! discouraged heart, Loath with thj pain to part; Hear, O sad, tearful soul, Seeking the radiant goal, Christ’s holy plea. “ Thy strength e’en weakness is ; Perfect in Me thou liv’st. I am the Way, the Truth, Come without further proof, Come unto Me! ” Rest thou shalt find and peace, And joys that never cease; Light o’er the mountain comes, Voices from distant homes Echo the song. When most despondent ye. Louder the voice shall be; Bliss-crowned the radiant goal Sought by thee, sorrowing soul, So long, so long! Soun Incense As round the rose’s heart the golden threads Of summer sunshine gently wind themselves, And deeper, richer grows the native tinge, More beauteous in its kindling loveliness, So round the human heart unconsciously The tendrils gold of love entwine themselves, And make it sweeter, richer, holier far Than ’twas before; and as on deep’ning blooms The gaze of man delights to rest awhile, So on the heart lit by love’s radiant glow, The angels look with glance serene and pure. 71 As unseen dews descend and softly rest, Like to a jewel, upon each green spray, And leave it sparkling with unwonted sheen, E’en so the unseen dews of sweet content And holy consecration, crystal beads, Of many a lowly soul the shadows dim Illume, and like the balmy breath of mom, Make it resplendent with the changing gleam, Of priceless jewels,—stars within the soul. As lightly dripping rain the fragrance woos, Alike of blossoms waking to the sun And blooms mature, that through the silent grove, Their fresh bath o’er—rock in the cooling breeze And make it redolent with fragrance rare, So deeds in silence done and kind words said, The influence of a pure and holy life Shed on each pathway their aroma rare. As birds uplift their gorgeous-tinted wings, Rich as the purple flush of autumn days, And seek the mellow climes of orange bow’rs Ere uncongenial gales their plumage beat, So from the harsh, forbidding sons of men Whose ears are not attuned to catch her song, The child with spirit sensitive and rapt, Turns lovingly to those whose sympathy, Like chords responsive, catch the sweet refrain, And send it throbbing back, a silver link, Uniting kindred souls in union blest. 72 SONNETS To My Mother (January 1, 1891) Sweet Mother! rare in gifts of tenderness! Thou who didst nurse my child-life into bloom, And for each native grace made ample room To blossom in love’s light,—how can we bless The Power that gave thee to us! In the stress Of life’s great conflict, what could e’er illume Its mystic shadows and its deepest gloom, Like smiles and loving words from thee! No less Than widest sunshine is thy sympathy. O precious Heart! so rich in sacrifice, And—boon beyond compare—supremest love, May Heaven’s choicest blessings rest on thee, Rarer than jewels of the costliest price! And Peace brood o’er thy path like calmest dove Life Life! Ay, what is it? E’en a moment spun From cycles of eternity. And yet, What wrestling ’mid the fever and the fret Of tangled purposes and hopes undone! What affluence of love! What vict’ries won In agonies of silence, ere trust met A manifold fulfillment, and the wet, Beseeching eyes saw splendors past the sun! What struggle in the web of circumstance, And yearning in the winged music! All, 74 One restless strife from fetters to be free; Till, gathered to eternity’s expanse, Is that brief moment at the Father’s call; Life! Ay, at best, ’tis but a mystery! Aspibation We climb the slopes of life with throbbing heart, And eager pulse, like children toward a star. Sweet siren music cometh from afar, To lure us on meanwhile. Responsive start The nightingales to richer song than Art Can ever teach. No passing shadows mar Awhile the dewy skies; no inner jar Of conflict bids us with our quest to part. We see adown the distance, rainbow-arched, What melting aisles of liquid light and bloom! We hasten, tremulous, with lips all parched, And eyes wide-stretched, nor dream of coming gloom. Enough that something heid almost divine Within us ever stirs. Can we repine? Incompleteness What soul hath struck its need of melody, From life’s strange instrument whereon it plays?. Are the aspiring strains of weary days E’er gathered in their full intensity, Swelling a psalm incomparable, free To utter all their yearning? Nay! the lays Moan on inadequately, for the ways Of God in shaping souls we may not see. ’Mid baffled hopes we cry out in our need, And wrestle in the shadows, wond’ring when Such dissonance can e’er be sweet, and how. 75 But soon the watching Father will have freed Our earthly ears to catch the music: then The chrism of perfect peace shall bathe each brow. Self-Mastery To catch the spirit in its wayward flight Through mazes manifold, what task supreme! For when to floods has grown the quiet stream, Much human skill must aid its rage to fight; And when wild winds invade the solemn night, Seems not man’s vaunted power but a dream? And still more futile, ay, we e’en must deem This quest to tame the soul, and guide aright Its restless wanderings,—to lure it back To shoals of calm. Full many a moan and sigh Attend the strife; till, effort merged in prayer, Oft uttered, clung to—-when of strength the lack Seems direst—brings the answer to our cry: A gift from Him who lifts our ev’ry care. Niobe O Mother-heart! when fast the arrows flew, Like blinding lightning, smiting as they fell, One after one, one after one, what knell Could fitly voice thy anguish! Sorrow grew To throes intensest, when thy sad soul knew Thy youngest, too, must go. Was it not well, Avengers wroth, just one to spare? Ay, tell The ages of soul-struggle sterner? Through The flinty stone, O image of despair, Sad Niobe, thy maddened grief did flow 76 In bitt’rest tears, when all thy wailing prayer Was so denied. Alas! what weight of woe Is prisoned in thy melancholy eyes! What mother-love beneath the Stoic lies! The Two Musicians Love plays a lute, and Thought an organ grand. These tones are stately, those a restless strain, Seeming by cadenced joy to measure pain, And capture Fancy by the soft airs fanned. Thought sends his pagans thrilling through the land The worshipers that bow before his fane Find rest in contemplation, spirit-gain In sweetest harmonies. Yon rapturous band, Kneeling to catch the music of the lute, Have yearning in their eyes, yet something there That baffles all our reas’ning; is it peace, Or only glances with beseeching mute? Sometimes it deepens into holy prayer. Enchanted Love! thy music never cease! The Poet’s Ministrants The smiling Dawn, with diadem of dew, Brings sunrise odors to perfume his shrine; Blithe Zephyr fans him; and soft moonbeams twine An aureole to crown him, of a hue, Surpassing fair. The stately stars renew Majestic measures, that he may incline His soul unto their sweetness; whispers fine From spirit-nymphs allure him; not a few The gifts chaste Fancy and her sisters bring. Rare is the lyre the Muses for him wrought, A different meaning thrills in ev’ry string, 77 With ev’ry changing mood of life so fraught. Invoked by him, when such the strains that flow, How can the poet e’er his song forego! Milton O poet gifted with the sight divine! To thee ’twas given Eden’s groves to pace With that first pair, in whom the human race Their kinship claim: and angels did incline— Great Michael, holy Gabriel—to twine Their heavenly logic, through which thou couldst trace The rich outpourings of celestial grace Mingled with argument, around the shrine Where thou didst linger, vision-rapt, intent To catch the sacred mystery of Heaven. Nor was thy longing vain: a soul resolved To ponder truth supreme to thee was lent; For thy not sightless eyes the veil was riv’n, Redemption’s problem unto thee well solved. Shakespeare We wonder what the horoscope did show When Shakespeare came to earth. Were planets there, Grouped in unique arrangement? Unaware His age of aught so marvelous, when lo! He speaks! men listen! what of joy or woe Is not revealed! love, hatred, carking care, All quiv’ring ’neath his magic touch. The air Is thick with beauteous elves, a dainty row, Anon, with droning witches, and e’en now Stalks gloomy Hamlet, bent on vengeance dread. One after one they come, smiling or scarred, Wrought by that mind prismatic to which bow 78 All lesser minds. They by thee would be fed, Poet incomparable! Avon’s Bard! Raphael Great Painter! to thy soul aglow with thought, Celestial forms their glory did reveal. Not unrewarded wast thou left to kneel At Beauty’s sacred altar; not for naught Thy gift of consecration hadst thou brought. We see thee pensive, radiant, and there steal Soft shadows, mystic lights; th’ angelic seal Is on thy dreamy brow; thy soul hath caught The essence of the harmony it craved. Behold the Mother and the Child Divine! What rapt repose! what majesty serene! Thy spirit tuned to contemplation, laved In founts of light. For thee we would entwine The asphodel bright with celestial sheen. Beethoven O great tone-master! low thy massive head Droops, heavy with the thoughts that fain would weave Themselves in interlacing chords, that leave Sublimest music. Inspiration sped On dainty pinions to thy natal bed, And warbling notes did all the silence cleave As for a benediction; well believe The votaries that hie where thou hast led, In thy supreme endowment. Who as well Can wake the Orphic echoes? Thou dost muse, And harmony, the sweetest, is evolved. In grave sonatas rich with surging swell, In matchless symphonies—but thou couldst choose— 1 The mystery of music thou hast solved. 79 The Tireless Sculptor E’en as the sculptor chisels patiently The marble’s jagged edges, day by day, Striving to smooth all blemishes away, Till—when from ev’ry flaw the stone is free, And naught save perfect contours does he see— Embodied harmony and beauty may Atone for all the weary hours’ delay,— So Life, the sculptor, moulds unceasingly The soul of man. How often in recoil The spirit shrinks, nor can through prescience know Of coming grace and majesty. ’Tis willed The scars should deeper be, until the toil And chiseling are adequate; when lo! God’s all-unfathomed plan is quite fulfilled. The Soul’s Courts Within the soul’s courts is a temple fair, And garnished with immortal bloom of light Than em’rald star-sheen fairer. To the sight It rises, dazzling as some vision rare, That haunts the artist, ere it fades in air. There sits Reserve, a maid of sober mien, Guarding the sacred portals. All unseen Th’ angelic ministrants that linger where She holds control. Within, a little space, There kneels sweet Reverie with calmest eyes; And Love all crowned with dewy asphodels, Through green isles wanders in unconscious grace, His face all luminous with glad surprise, While from his lips transcendent music wells. 80 Limitations The subtlest strain a great musician weaves, Cannot attain in rhythmic harmony To music in his soul. May it not be Celestial lyres send hints to him? He grieves That half the sweetness of the song, he leaves Unheard in the transition. Thus do we Yearn to translate the wondrous majesty Of some rare mood, when the rapt soul receives A vision exquisite. Yet who can match The sunset’s iridescent hues? Who sing The skylark’s ecstasy so seraph-fine? We struggle vainly, still we fain would catch Such rifts amid life’s shadows, for they bring Glimpses ineffable of things divine. The Venus of Melo O peerless marble marvel! what of grace, Or matchless symmetry is not enshrined In thy rare contours! Could we hope to find The regal dignity of that fair face In aught less beautiful? We would retrace, At sight of thee, our willing steps where wind The paths great Homer trod. Within whose mind Wast thou a dream, O Goddess? Nearer pace Brave Hector, reckless Paris, as we gaze; Then stately temples, fluted colonnades Rise in their sculptured beauty. Yes! ’tis Greece, With all the splendor of her lordliest days, That comes to haunt us: ere the glory fades Let Fancy bid the rapture never cease. 81 The Quest of the Ideal Fair Hope with lucent light in her glad eyes, Fleet as Diana, through the meadow speeds; Nor dewy rose nor asphodel she heeds, For lo! unwonted radiance in the skies Bids her not pause. The silv’ry shimmer lies ’Mid blooming vistas, whence the pathway leads To heights aerial. The glow recedes As panting Hope toils on, while awed surprise Fills her sweet glances; will the vision fade Ere she can reach it? Nay, ’tis lovelier far, Barer perspectives open to her gaze; Then hasten on, expectantly, glad maid! The splendor still will tremble there afar; Yet count this quest the holiest of thy days. An Ocean Musing Far, far out lie the white sails all at rest; Like spectral arms they seem to touch and cling Unto the wide horizon. Not a iving Of truant bird glides down the purpling west; No breeze dares to intrude, e’en on a quest To fan a lover’s brow; the waves to sing Have quite forgotten till the deep shall fling A bow across its vibrant chords. Then, lest One moment of the sea’s repose we lose, Nor furnish Fancy with a thousand themes Of unimagined sweetness, let us gaze On this serenity, for as we muse, Lo! all is restless motion: life’s best dreams Give changing moods to even halcyon days. 82 Emekson On shining heights where Thought with stately tread, Leads on her willing votaries to fanes Of holy inspiration, and Truth deigns The radiance of her presence rare to shed, In solemn consecration thou wast led, Spirit serene; and on the dewy plains, Where Solitude in chastest grandeur reigns, Thy musings e’en most daintily were fed. Round thee winds played the choicest symphony, And vistas of celestial beauty gleamed Along thy pathway: so we weeping, say—• Though here with us thou may’st no longer be— “.He now has climbed the mount of which he dreamed, Into the splendors of Immortal Day.” To Laura In Mem’ry’s fairest court a shrine is set, Round which the fragrance of a sweet life clings,— The essence of such rare and holy things As Love alone can sanctify. The fret And turmoil of the world avail not yet To quench the sweetness; for an angel’s wings Are ever hov’ring near, and longing brings A vision loved that makes the eyelids wet. Dear sister, in those realms of radiant light Where thou hast grown to know a richer lore Than that of earth, sometimes rememb’rest thou The hours of our companionship so bright With joyance? Ay, but we shall meet once more, And at God’s throne in praise together bow. 83 CHAMPIONS OF FREEDOM To My Father A leaf from Freedom’s golden chaplet fair, We bring to thee, dear father! Near her shrine None came with holier purpose, nor was thine Alone the soul’s mute sanction; every prayer Thy captive brother uttered found a share In thy wide sympathy; to every sign That told the bondman’s need thou didst incline. No thought of guerdon hadst thou but to bear A loving part in Freedom’s strife. To see Sad lives illumined, fetters rent in twain, Tears dried in eyes that wept for length of days— Ah! was not that a recompense for thee? And now where all life’s mystery is plain, Divine approval is thy sweetest praise. William Lloyd Garrison Written for the Occasion of the Garrison Centenary, December 10, 1905 Some names there are that win the best applause Of noble souls; then whose shall more than thine All honored be? Thou heardst the Voice Divine Tell thee to gird thyself in Freedom’s cause, And cam’st in life’s first bloom. No laggard laws Could quench thy zeal until no slave should pine In galling chains, caged in the free sunshine. Till all the shackles fell, thou wouldst not pause. So to thee who hast climbed heroic heights, And led the way to where chaste Justice reigns, 86 An anthem,—tears and gratitude and praise, Its swelling chords,—uprises and invites A nation e’en to join the jubilant strains, Which celebrate thy consecrated days. Wendell Phillips A knight of “silver tongue” and stately grace, Dowered with th’ immortal gift of fearlessness, Whose falcon glance bent to detect distress, Perceived a brother in each human face, And deemed the lowliest worthy of a place In the world’s honors,—such was he. T’ impress Men’s minds with lofty purpose seemed success To this great soul; and to uplift a race From depths of sorrow compensation vast, For much life leaves unrecompensed. The seal Of heroism on his brow more fair Than leafiest laurel was. Deeds that outlast The warrior’s victories his days reveal, And unto him we render rev’rence rare. Charles Sumner Thine was a brain of Nature’s finest mould, Great Sumner! and thy spirit-poise as rare. Bom—not to idly dream but nobly dare— With all the mind’s vast forces well controlled, Thou, like Olympian Jove, didst wisely hold Stern empire over justice. Thine the care, That right should rule, and wrong, however fair In outward seeming, should be shunned. Untold The influence of thy magnanimity. Alert in action, sage in counsel thou, A statesman truly, not alone in name, Thy regnant soul spurned ev’ry false decree. 87 Honor was graven on thy shield, and now We fain would honor thee with loud acclaim. Robert G. Shaw When War’s red banners trailed along the sky, And many a manly heart grew all aflame With patriotic love and purest aim, There rose a noble soul who dared to die, If only Right could win. He heard the cry Of struggling bondmen and he quickly came, Leaving the haunts where Learning tenders fame Unto her honored sons; for it was ay A loftier cause that lured him on to death. Brave men who saw their brothers held in chains, Beneath his standard battled ardently. O friend! O hero! thou who yielded breath That others might share Freedom’s priceless gains, In rev’rent love we guard thy memory. Toussaint L’Ouverture To those fair isles where crimson sunsets bum, We send a backward glance to gaze on thee, Brave Toussaint! thou wast surely bom to be A hero; thy proud spirit could but spurn Each outrage on thy race. Couldst thou unlearn The lessons taught by instinct? Nay! and we Who share the zeal that would make all men free, Must e’en with pride unto thy life-work turn. Soul-dignity was thine and purest aim; And ah! how sad that thou wast left to mourn In chains ’neath alien skies. On him, shame! shame That mighty conqueror who dared to claim The right to bind thee. Him we heap with scorn, And noble patriot! guard with love thy name. 88 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS Rhyme of the Antique Forest In the antique forest dreary, Where the thrushes never weary, Sang when Dawn with touch uncertain Streaked with gold night’s sable curtain, Sang until the owlet muttered At the faintest notes they uttered, In the antique forest lonely, Dwelt a pensive maiden only. Was she maid, or sprite, or fairy, Nature fashioned her so airy? Wide her tresses, amber-tinted As if sunbeams through them glinted. Reveries were calmly brooding In her e} r es and not intruding, And her smile for very sweetness Seemed to supplement completeness. Had enchantment’s wand waved o’er her That the world lay strange before her? Larks that cleave the ether singing, Bore with song her musings winging Toward the far unknown: would never Stately knight or warrior seyer Chains that bound one pure as sunrise, Exquisite as perfect moonrise? Rills within the forest glimmered, Golden-green the leafage shimmered; Grottoes dim with mossy ceiling, Seemed some Dryad-haunt revealing. 90 ’Mid the tangled fretwork drifted Hints of azure, zephyrs lifted Fragrance from the strange wood flowers, Dreaming in their sylvan bowers. Lilies fair as snowflakes falling, Roses Eastern climes recalling, Buds whose liquid fire seemed vying With the sun when day’s a-dying, Blossoms diamond-tipped and creamy In their heart’s depth, all swmng dreamy, ’Mid the forest trees emplanted Where the light through mazes slanted. Lofty, foliage-embowered. Stood the castle; fountains showered High in air their glist’ning brightness, Where the deer for very lightness Leaped with noiseless footstep, staying Oft to list to echoes straying Through the court, as void of dwelling Stray weird spirits sorrow telling. Years agone these courts resounded With the voice of glee, hearts bounded To the tones of love, eyes brightened Under music’s spell, mirth lightened Ev’ry wasting care; yet sorrow Lurks behind each joy, to-morrow Oft belies to-day, and gladness Seems projected into sadness. One fair eve the Countess Una Gazing on the sky where Luna Dipped her silver horns, saw stealing Through the woods a form revealing 91 Myst’ry in its pace; ay, nearer Came a page and beckoned; clearer Grew the light, and something told her He had brought grief to enfold her. At his words she tottered shrieking; And full soon home bore they reeking In his heart’s blood, one who never Quailed in battle now forever Hushed in death. Sir Hubert, bravest Of his kinsmen, yet the gravest, Save with his bride-wife, when tender Were the acts his love did render. Soon there came despair to banish A sweet babe, and grief did vanish ’Neath the mother-love enkindled E’en to rapture; sorrow dwindled To a holy mem’ry. Fairer Grew the child and ever rarer Her angelic smile, beseeching Cherub mates beyond her reaching. Yet while still her footsteps tender Tottered round the hearth, to render Joy unto the mother, slowly Neared Death’s angel and a holy Peace came with the parting blessing Una gave her babe; refreshing Were the promises from Heaven That to those who seek are given. Sweeter grew the child, yet sadness Seemed her comrade more than gladness. Called Bianca, all the fairness Of the name betokened rareness 92 Of her spirit’s chasteness, dovelike Was her aspect and most lovelike All her speech to those around her, While a something weird enwound her. In the shad’wj halls the maiden Wandered lonely, ever laden With her fresh soul’s mystic dreaming. Lore the still stars in their gleaming, Taught her, and the rushing river, Violets young and dew, the quiver Of the wind-harps ’mid the branches, And the sunset’s golden lances. And a gentle monk came teaching Wisdom found in books, yet reaching More the line of contemplation Than aught active; meditation On the sweep of moon-rays caught him Fancy-bound, and life had brought him Inward visions ; so his guiding Made her dream-life more abiding. As the years sped on, revealing All her spirit’s worth, came stealing Something of that nameless longing To a maiden’s life belonging, When the air seems palpitating With Love’s tender message; mating Birds sing matins soft and tender; All to Love the heart would render. ’Twas the magic sunset hour; In the West a golden dower Of rare filmy light was burning; Radiant was the earth. Returning 93 From a ramble came the maiden To her dream-nook. With sleep laden Fell her drowsy lids, while thrushes Sang amid the river rushes. In the woods a knight was straying, Lost in musing. Sunlight playing O’er a mossy path invited Him to linger. Birds alighted Near him with their choicest chanting; Sunbeams, like lit pearls, were slanting O’er the water’s wavy billows, While the breeze sang in the willows. Then the knight approached the bower Where the maiden, like a flower. Lay a-dreaming; there he started At the vision; ne’er faint-hearted Was he, but the thought came leaping As he gazed upon her sleeping, Was she maid, or sprite, or fairy, Nature fashioned her so airy? Rose-encolored, oval-moulded Was her profile; eyelids folded O’er her eyes hid deepest meaning From the knight above her leaning. Then she raised them very slowly, In their sapphire depths some holy Thought slept; was she supplicating Spirits for her mandate waiting? Thus they met, the maid descending From her dream-nook; and the blending Of their thoughts became a prelude To Love’s symphony. Each fair mood 94 - Of the one e’en was reflected In the other, till perfected Was their intercourse, revealing Depths of rare and tender feeling. And their days passed by in gladness With no note of aught of sadness In their life-song. So one morning When the dainty hues of dawning Streaked the skies, they went a-straying Through the meadows, where were playing Wind-lyres through the trees, and dancing Sunbeams o’er the lake were glancing. Came a stately lady riding On a palfrey, near the gliding Waters of the stream. She started When the two she saw, departed Swiftly with a brow of ire, And to brave the raging fire In her breast, the reins firm tight’ning, Sent the maid a glance like lightning. Then Bianca, pale and trembling. Yet spoke joyous words, dissembling Thus her fear; for on the morrow Must the knight speed forth, and sorrow At the parting made those hours Sacred ones. Of choicest flowers He a garland wove, the fairest One to crown with buds the rarest. Months had sped. Sir Guy was eager To return, but battle’s rigor Held him, and the maid grown weary At his absence, to the dreary 95 Forest went one breezy morning; There, without a sign of warning, Came the stately lady, sweeping Wide her flowing skirts and leaping To a height of wrath and madness, When she saw the maid; the sadness Of her aspect no compassion Waking in one so by passion Swayed. In harshest tones she uttered Cruel words: “ O be not fluttered, Maiden. Is Sir Guy departed? Go he must, the craven-hearted. “ I his wife am, lady fairest. Though thy face be of the rarest, Me he wedded, to me plighted Perfect troth. Now wronged and slighted, Come I all his sin revealing, Sin that will not bear concealing. All the tender love he gave thee, From his treach’ry cannot save thee.” ’Neath the maiden’s dreamy lashes Something gleamed like lightning flashes In her sapphire eyes; then slowly Lifting them, so pure and holy, To the lady’s gaze, all keenly Piercing hers, she with a queenly Mien arose, plaintively saying, “ Naught is left us twain but praying.” In her soul where sorrow mingling With despair sent the blood tingling Through her veins, arose a vision Of the love that made Elysian 96 All the future; and the yearning Of her heart, the sudden turning Of life’s roseate page, made sadness Something e’en akin to madness. Then the false one swiftly glided Through the woods. He she derided, Dreamed not that the maid he cherished, Felt ’twere best her love had perished Ere it burst to sweetest blooming. Now as day grew near to nooning, In a boat to seek the friar Went she, while the weird wind-lyre Sent its plaint across the billow. Bowed with sorrow as the willow Bends in tempests, long she uttered Wails of grief. Her gold hair fluttered O’er the boat’s edge. In the gloaming Rose the convent, sea birds roaming Flung their wild lament to greet her. But the monk ne’er came to meet her. For the boat was fiercely driven On the rocks, its sides all riven By the lashing. And the maiden With a heart so sorrow-laden, What of her? Weak, wan and bleeding, On a crag she lay, sore needing Much that loving hands can render,— Ministrations sweet and tender. Soon a fisherman espied her, And he gently knelt beside her. Lifting carefully his burden With no thought of aught of guerdon, 97 To his hut he sped; the morrow Saw her eased somewhat of sorrow. Ay, her humble friends found gladness In their task to soothe her sadness. One rare day when ah the thrushes Sang, and ’mid the river rushes Lilies raised their lovely faces, While anon in shady places Silence held her reign, the maiden With her soul so sorrow-laden, Sought a fav’rite leafy bower, Jess’mine-twined, with many a flower Decked, and when the sunbeams sprinkled Sprays of dainty lig’ht, while wrinkled Were the waves the winds were kissing, Mute she sat there, love’s tones missing; While her heart was sorely } r eaming For a lost joy and returning To a past with rapture gleaming, Sweet and fairer than all dreaming. Wrapped in melancholy’s mazes, Who is it that long time gazes At her winsome beauty, heeding Naught save that rare face, and needing But a glance to send him kneeling At her feet, his love revealing? Just a breath, and something told her He was waiting to enfold her. In his arms where all of sadness Quickly died, a little gladness Soothed her, and the list’ning lover Heard the tale that sought to cover 98 All his life with shame. Then nearer Drew he to him one the dearer For her pain. Now all her longing Found its balm in love’s new dawning. For he told her Blanche the scornfuL, Was his cousin, and the mournful Tale rehearsed of parents planning Their betrothal, only fanning Him to discontent and leaving In her heart a scar; e’en weaving Round her life a spell of madness, While his pulses leaped to gladness When he freedom found. The father Seeing his distress, would rather Break the bond, and so they parted, He and Blanche the haughty-hearted. Then Bianca at the story Felt her soul grow calm. The glory Of the magic sunset hour Threw a halo o’er her bower. Ring-doves cooed with matchless quiver In their love-notes; swift the river Sped, its silv’ry cadence chanting, While the liquid sunbeams slanting Down the mountain’s chiseled ridges, Made the dells aflame, the edges Of the lucent lake enkindled. In this peace all sorrow dwindled Into nothingness. Together With the thought that naught could sever Now their lives united, gladly Spoke the happy lovers; sadly 99 Had the past been spent, now sweetest Music in their souls rang; fleetest Were Time’s footsteps and the hours Idyls fair as fairest flowers. Soon a boat the lovers entered; Toward the castle where were centred All their early joys, fast speeding Went they, all the wrath unheeding Of the low’ring sky, till pealing Burst the thunder, and the reeling Of their boat awoke a shiver In their breasts as raged the river. And the wind howled loud and scattered Far the rigging, and the tattered Masts hung round them. Then the maiden, Erst so worn and sorrow-laden, And rent with emotions, slowly Drooped and in her soul a holy Calmness followed Love’s fruition. So, in accents of submission, Told she to Sir Guy that never Could their lives be joined, yet ever Would he know that earth’s affection Rarest grew in Heaven’s perfection. Then the lover, tossed with sorrow At her words, seemed but to borrow Strength to brave the tempest’s power. So e’en at the sunset hour Touched they land and lo! the mutt’ring Of the tempest ceased and flutt’ring Cloudlets edged with rosy fringes, As the Sun oped golden hinges, 100 To step in to rest, sailed lightly O’er the sky, and glowing brightly In the East the colors seven Gloriously linked, seemed Heaven There to bring; the rainbow’s fairness Glowed with such celestial rareness. In this splendor did the maiden To her lover so grief-laden, Bid a fond farewell; yet never Would their spirits seem to sever. Then in anguish and despairing At his blasted hopes, but wearing On his brow a calm reflected From her dying peace, selected He a spot strewn with rare flowers Where she soon must lie, and hours Long as at a shrine he’d tarry, And his burdened heart could carry There its grief for that sweet maiden Whom he wept for, sorrow-laden. In the antique forest dreary, Where the thrushes never weary, Sang when Dawn with touch uncertain Streaked with gold night’s sable curtain, Sang until the owlets muttered At the faintest notes they uttered, In the antique forest lonely, Slept the pensive maiden only. After years of battle gladly, Though sore wounded, -where so sadly He had sorrowed, came he dying, And e’en on the loved grave lying, 101 Yielded he his life. Thus never Were they parted and as ever, In the antique forest dreary, Sang the thrushes never weary. Now within the forest lonely, Rest the knight and maiden only. Musidoua’s Vision Fair Musidora starry-eyed, With blue-black tresses floating wide, And cheeks like tinted shells beside,— Was seated in her tower one night, Above the hills whose purple light Merged in the moonlight’s golden-white. Her garments girdle-clasped, flowed round By zephyrs stirred with leafy sound, An amethyst her forehead crowned. Afar surged the eternal sea, Nigh, doves cooed in the bloss’ming tree, And shadows crossed the gloomy lea. But neither billows crested white, Nor blossoms fairest to the sight, Could 1 woo her soul from thought that night. She lingered at her telescope, While through far worlds her mind did grope, With something of unuttered hope. The searching glass the stars had brought In answer to her earnest thought, And fast the tiny thread she caught,— 102 Whose labyrinthine mazes lead Through paths of splendor, rare indeed To those who all their myst’ries heed. She gazed and mused and gazed again Calm science yielded richest gain, But could not soothe her nameless pain. Then with a gesture of despair, She clasped' her slender hands so fair, And raised 1 her eyes as if in prayer. How came the lady in the tower, On gloomy leas, at such an hour, When rarest beauty was her dower? Her father was a knight so bold H is deeds of prowess ne’er were told; And all uncounted was his gold. A picture in her father’s hall, Gazing with pensive smile, was all Her sainted mother to recall. She loved Sir Roderic the brave, And tender was the love he gave, Knight great of heart, of aspect grave. But one sad morn, in conflict dire, When war was venting all its ire, Slain were the lover and the sire. She wrung her hands, fair Musidore, She fastened up her bower door, And vowed she’d see the world no more. 103 She bound her blue-black tresses back, And nursed her soul, hungry for lack Of love and bruised on sorrow’s rack. But sorrow nursed becomes despair; So yielding all her heart in prayer, She craved of life some little care. And one calm dawn when larks began With song, celestial heights to fan, She left the busy haunts of man. Up in a tower to scan the skies, And woo weird Nature’s sage replies, She went to* hush despairing sighs. And on the night when science wise Failed to appease her restless cries, Sweet dreams slid through her hazel eyes. A vision met her eager gaze: A palace gem-set, through the haze Of clustered star and planet rays, Gleamed rose-resplendent, in the air; Fairer than could with greatest care Rise to the architect’s fond prayer. There, shone illumined pillars veined With crystal tracery, and stained With blood-red hues round which were trained Rare purple buds and amaranths pure, So fragrant, gods they would allure A life with mortals to endure. 104 - The dome upon these pillars lay,— The constellated Milky Way, Where bright-eyed stars ’mid snowstorms play. The palace carpet was of flowers, Fairer than e’er in Naiad’s bowers Were spread to woo the dancing Hours. A fountain silver waters flung; Through greenest foliage rose-bells hung A-trembling where the zephyrs sung. From arch to arch air-curtains slid, The pure blue iris shyly hid Pale regal aster blooms amid. Through the calm silence of the place Soft music stole with soothing grace; Transfigured seemed the list’ner’s face. On high with all the myst’ry blent, Eolian harps their sweetness lent, And through the palace such strains sent Celestial symphonies they seemed; And Musidora fondly dreamed Her angel mother on her beamed. Three marble columns interlaced With porphyry, the entrance faced, On which these words were finely traced: On the first column simply, “ Sad,” “ Because,” the second only had, “ Alone,” was all the third did add. 105 Mused Musidora: “ What is this ? Methinks it were the deepest bliss, Apart from love’s sweet smile and kiss,— “To dwell within these fairy halls, Where fountains echo to our calls, And rarest landscapes deck the walls. “ But who comes here ? I seem to see A mortal: do my senses flee, Or is she really like to me?” A lady clad in spotless white, With eyes like stars some frosty night, And hair disheveled, rose to sight. Where did she come from? Like a sprite From fair fount rising, jeweled bright With sunbeams, there she did alight. She oped her chiseled lips to speak, Her countenance all shining meek, Yet sad as one whom Grief might seek. She said: “ O stranger sweet of face, And moving with majestic grace, How cam’st thou in this saddest place?” Then Musidora: “ Know I not How in this strange, enchanting spot I came, but would it were my lot “ Within these halls to spend my days, Soothed by the fountain’s silv’ry lays, And utt’ring naught save hymns of praise.” 106 Then said the sad one: “Dwell with, me, Though mine the palace that you see, Alone I cannot happy be. “ Saw’st thou the columns at the gate? Those words I utter early, late; Alas! They speak my tragic fate. “ Come, come and love me, Lady fair, I will requite thee with fond care, And for thee shall be all my prayer.” They clasped each other hand in hand; Each would the other understand, Her name would know, her native land. Heart throbbed to heart as soft they kissed. Silence was in that place, I wist; The fountain even seemed to list. The vision fled as morning broke, And at the matin bell’s faint stroke, Glad Musidora slowly woke. Up to the radiant, calm air, She raised her eyes in holy prayer, In thanks that life was still so fair. And then the dreamer earnest-eyed, Threw back her tresses, wand’ring wide, Clasped close her hands and nobly cried: “ Selfish I long have been and blind, My duty I can only find In love and suff’ring with mankind.” 107 Echo’s Complaint O rare Narcissus ! sunny-haired! O mild-eyed youth of godlike mien! O thou that sittest by fair streams, And in their trembling, silv’ry sheen Thy lovely countenance dost view, Turn but once more thy magic gaze On one who utters sad complaint, One who will love thee many days. ’Mid sylvan haunts I dwelt of yore, Where morning mists shone wondrously, And fountains flung their diadems Of liquid rainbows. Unto me Each day was gladness; grottoes cool With trickling rills and murm’rous leaves, Lured me to seek their spacious shades; But not for these my spirit grieves. When Dawn in rose-decked chariot strewed Pale gold down. Twilight’s violet aisles, I first beheld thee: ah! how fair! I trembled ’neath thy radiant smiles. Thou pensive, glidedst through the groves, While I, unthought of, with the breeze In lightness vying,—followed near. Did not some spell thy spirit seize? I sighed: naught save the wanton wind Returned my plaint. Thou, peerless youth, Back tossed thy amber tresses; glad Thou sangst, for me thou hadst no ruth. Day threw gold arrows o’er the plain, And glist’ning grew each vine-clad height; Stars robed in silver tissues, paced To solemn music, welcoming Night,— 108 Ere my sad soul could utter low To thee its grief. Rememb’rest thou That evening? All the lawns were bright With lum’nous splendor; o’er the brow Of yon fair mount, the stately moon Looked caljn-eyed on the sleeping world; In dim glades rare asters lay On ^assy banks, all dew-impearled. V On high Olympus mighty gods Held carnival with matchless song. Yea, earth was jubilant, yet I, Apart from all the festive throng, Told to thine ear my soul’s complaint. Thou didst not heed my spirit’s moan; Then pity now, O peerless one! Oh! leave me not unloved and lone. Gaze not within the sunlit stream So ling’ringly, there but to see What in my soul is mirrored: may Not eyes of love thy mirror be? Come, rare Narcissus! deign to smile On Echo, nymph in sore distress, Who ever, shadow-like, will go With thee, till thou shalt love confess. ’Tis said I’m fair and love for thee Will make me fairer, ay, as fair As glorious Aphrodite, come And let me kiss thy sunny hair, Thy marble brow; ay, let me kiss Thy dewy lips, thy peerless eyes. One clasp from thee, one long love-clasp Will change to joy-notes all my sighs. 109 Thus wailed sad Echo: but to all Her lamentation naught replied Unmoved Narcissus; and the nymph, Sweet Echo, thus in love sore tried, Was seen no more; but on the breeze Her voice was heard, her voice alone Was left,—an answ’ring cade e there, Love thrilling still its ling’i 3 g tone. Antigone and CEdipus Slow wand’ring came the sightless sire and she, Great-souled Antigone, the Grecian maid. Leading with pace majestic his sad steps, On whose bowed head grim Destiny had laid A hand relentless ; oft the summer breeze Raised the gold tresses from her veined cheek, As with a dainty touch, so much she seemed A being marvelous, regal, yet meek. Thus spake sad CEdipus: “ Ah! whither now, O daughter of an aged sire blind, Afar from Thebes’ pure, crested colonnades, Shall we, sad exiles, rest and welcome find? Who will look on us with a pitying eye? But unto me sweet resignation’s balm Suff’ring and courage bring; yet moments come When naught restores my spirit’s wonted calm. “ 0 rare dim vales and glitt’ring sunlit crags! O vine-clad hills soft with the flush of dawn! O silver cataract dancing to the sea, And shad’wy pines and silent dewy lawn! I ne’er can see you more. Alas! alas! But whither go we? Speak! O daughter fair; Thou must indeed be sight unto thy sire. Does here a temple consecrate the air?” 110 “My father! grieve not for our distant land.” Thus made Antigone reply: “ I see Amid the forest’s music-echoing aisles, A spot of peace and blest repose for thee. In solemn loftiness the towers rear Their stately pinnacles; my eyes behold The he y laurel decked in festive robes, The olive pale, waving in sunset-gold. “ In the green leafage, tender nightingales Are chanting dulcet harmonies meanwhile, In the clear river’s liquid radiance The early stars, of sheen resplendent, smile. It is a sacred spot; here we may shun Dangers that threaten, and in sweet content Ere we need wander more, a few short days May in these hallowed shades be calmly spent. “ My father! sorrow not because of Fate! Perchance the gods may kindly deign to look With glance benignant on our mournful doom. Together thou and I, can we not brook Th’ assaults of stem-browed Destiny? May not The fatal mesh contain some golden thread, Ere it be spun complete with all of woe? Father! my father! raise thy drooping head! ” “ Immortal asphodels ne’er crowned a brow More queenlike than is thine, my peerless child, Calm-browed Antigone! ah woe! sad fate! ” Then spake Antigone with aspect mild : “My father! cease thy sadness! wherefore grieve? Oh! let us dream that from the azure sky, The gods gaze on us with a pitying glance. Oh! let us hope a little ere we die! ” 111 Anita and Giovanni Through the dusky purple glimmer Of a twilight sky, Clear uprose the fountain’s shimmer, Jets of spray flashed high. In the gardens zephyrs only Fanned the myrtle leaves, Through the hush of meadows lonely, Sighed the golden sheaves. In the vineyards grapes were purpling ’Mid the foliage green, Mountains dim stood up encircling Dreamy vales between. On a bank with flowers laden, By the Arno’s tide, Sat a cavalier and maiden Musing, side by side. He was strong-limbed, but false-hearted, Lithe and willowy she; Naught save truth could have imparted Her expression free From a shadow of dissembling, Yet Love ruled her gaze, And her veiled eyes mused, resembling Star-gleams through the haze. Unsuspicious was the lover That the maid knew well Of the wrong his smiles would cover: So he begged her tell Why she sat mute in the gloaming, Heeding not his words; Why her very glance seemed roaming With the restless birds. 112 Ay, the lover’s looks were tender, Well he could disguise; Yet there gleamed a tragic splendor In the maiden’s eyes. “ Giovanni, thou deceivest,” Calmly said she then; “ If in women thou believest, I believe not men! ” Slow she raised her long dark lashes, Showing weird brown eyes, Where a glance like lightning flashes, Vied with calm surprise. And her gaze, than words far keener, Pierced her lover through. “ Canst thou love the fair Hermina, And Anita too? “ Shall I tell thee of thy wooing, O false lover mine? How thou cam’st in rapture suing, And my heart was thine? Shall I tell thee how I shivered When I heard the same Tender words to which I’d quivered, Breathed to her I name? “ ’Twas the sunset hour and slowly Strolled we through the meadows fair, While the vesper bell so holy, Poured its pleading on the air. O’er the waves the cadence trembled, And the sky was golden-red, And our loving words resembled Lispings of the birds o’erhead. 113 “ Ling’ring in the citron bower, Thou didst clasp my hand in thine, Placing in my hair a flower, And ‘ Carissima, be mine, Fori love thee only, only! ’— Soft thou murmur’dst in my ear, And my heart, before so lonely, Gave its all without a fear. “ Last eve, ’mid the grape leaves sitting, Plunged in tender reveries, Gazed I on the moonbeams flitting— Tinted crystals—o’er the seas. Sad the nightingale was singing, And I caught his pensive mood, Melancholy music bringing Charms that cannot be withstood. “ Sudden heard I voices quiver, Were they in the air or nigh? Something made me pale and shiver, Something told me thou wert by. Did no pitying spirit warn thee? Hope ofttimes our fear belies; Yet the nightingale gazed on me With compassion in his eyes. “ Thou didst clasp her hand, false lover, Place a flower in her hair; O’er her thou didst fondly hover, And I gasped in wild despair. ‘Fair Hermina, thy sweet glances, All my soul with rapture fill; None like thee,’—thou saidst—‘entrances, Love me, bid my fears be still!’ 114 “ That was all. I heard no longer, And I hungered for love’s sake; Yea! mj love grew fiercer, stronger, And I knew my heart would break Unless peace came wdth the dawning; So, resolved to break the chain, I cast love away, grasped scorning; Scorn can conquer deepest pain.” Then the lady paused: the lover Blanching, called her name. “ Sweet Anita, do not cover My best love with shame; For I knew not what I uttered In the grove, yestreen. Love me, love me,” low he muttered, “ Try me, noble queen ! ” “ Cease! false cavalier, thy weeping! Love has changed to scorn; That heart is not worth the keeping, Would to two belong. If the lady’s eyes are sweeter, Go! thy suit renew! Who would win the proud Anita Can no other woo ! ” Listening Nydia Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavored to regain them. . . . Again and again she returned to the spot where they had been divided—to find her companions gone.—•“ Last Days of Pompeii.” 115 Breathless she stood, her graceful head bent low. And dainty fingers round her chiseled ear; The cherished staff held tenderly as erst, When knew the tender heart nor grief nor fear. A startled dove she seemed amid the gloom And wrath of Nature wakened from soft dreams; Yet her imploring soul’s reflection shone Like the rare moonlight over summer streams. The ashes seemed to leave her fragile form Unharmed, despite the fierce volcanic show’rs; She listened in an agony of doubt, Fair Nydia, lately twining fairest flow’rs. Her sightless eyes seemed praying, lightly veiled By quivering silken lashes wet with tears; The mystic soul that leaps o’er bounds had made The child a woman, bowed ’neath weight of years. Aglow with hope, with love-light luminous, Her features shone pure in the fitful gleams That broke o’er column, arch and fleeing slave, O’er speechless gladiator and blue streams. Expectancy’s embodied model she, The potent force of gesture all suppressed; But in her motionless, intent repose, The soul’s arrested pleading was confessed. The mountain lava-washed, raised menacing Its peaks majestic toward the brooding sky; And unappeased, the earth groaned piteously, While multitudes aghast, fled cowering by. But still pale Nydia stood amid the wreck, In sculptured attitude: the broken lights Shed magic radiance o’er her, and she gleamed Like a chaste vision caught on starlit nights. 116 Blind Nydia! proud Pompeii’s flower-nymph! Child of rare intuitions, hidden sight! Was it the moaning of the far off sea, Or yearning love that chose thy path aright? But though for thee, alas! none listeneth, Type of devotion! thou immortal art! Clad in renunciation’s purest robes, Enshrined with love in each devoted heart! Mignon What art thou, Mignon, child of mystery? A woodbird e’en in galling fetters caught? Dwelling apart in charmed reverie, Crushed by the weight of undeveloped thought, Thou seem’st some weird, sad spirit of the Past, Guarding a secret life cannot unfold; Yet was thy soul’s calm rapture lily-pure, Thy heart’s fond treasures bright as rarest gold. Dim pictures of soft skies and orange groves, Of marble statues with their pitying gaze, Lured thee to musing; while the cloudlets built An airy path for thee amid the haze. Sweet are thy songs of longing; thou didst dream Of sunny isles where no rude questioner Shall need to ask of man or woman more,* And no unrest thy weary soul shall stir. What depths of sorrow in thy dreamy life, Around which Mem’ry wove a subtle chain; Thy ev’ry gesture, ev’ry glance expressed Intensity of yearning deep with pain, Yet lit by Hope’s illuminating smile; Faith hov’ring over tliee, thou phantom bright, * Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib.— Goethe’s “ Wilhelm Meister.” 117 Shed gleams along thy tragic path, until Thy spirit’s wings unfolded in the Light. The Fisherman’s Story - , Draw a little closer, comrades! For I promised you should know How I found my little Alice, In the storm so long ago. Hear the wind? ’tis but an echo Of the fury of that hour; Nature seemed in mood defiant, Proving well her utmost power. Loud the tempest roared and muttered, High the breakers dashed that night; Stiff and stark against the heavens Stood the cliffs so marble white. Many a storm I’ve weathered, comrades, But a something strangely sad Seemed to seize upon my spirits,— Feelings I had never had. In my window burned a rush-light, And the curtains were half drawn, While I gazed upon the billows, Thinking of my lot forlorn, Of my Jennie in the churchyard, And our only boy, our pride, Sleeping far beneath the surges, Ever since that Christmas-tide. Oh! the wind that moaned that midnight! Never fiercer tempest raged As I strode into the darkness, Feeling like a bird long caged; 118 And the thought of human beings Tossed perchance, upon the sands, Helped me climb the rocky ledges, Made me clench my wrinkled hands. Sudden as I turned the headland There I saw what I had dreamed; For the black hull of a vessel, By the breakers sorely seamed, Lay still heaving: all was over. Bodies whence the life had fled, Strewed the wet rocks. I, the living, Stood alone amid the dead. While I scanned the ruin closely, With my torch-light lifted high. Something glistened through the shadows Like a star dropped from the sky. ’Twas a babe’s eyes, large and lustrous, And as if in holy prayer, She with look of strange beseeching, Gazed through her dead mother’s hair. Tenderly I raised the wee one Breathing there amidst the dead; How the wind shrieked through the cordage How the tempest raged o’er-head! Tenderly I bore her homeward To the fisher’s dreary cot; Like a star her presence’ radiance Much has cheered my lonety lot. Now draw closer, faithful comrades! When I viewed the mother’s face, Who was it but little Mary, Flaxen-haired and full of grace; 119 Mary, favorite of the village— And I loved her somewhat too— But she loved a foreign soldier, And her life-work now was through. So I brought the little Alice To my hearth so poor and lone; Now she’s left me for another, For a fireside of her own. Happiness attend her, comrades! For my strength is getting low, And I would not grudge the pleasure She may with another know. Now draw closer still, my comrades! Hear the tempest raging high! Though the stars are veiled in darkness, They are steadfast in the sky. So, although our days are dreary, Let us take what joy we may! With the courage of a hero, Let us live our little day! Snow Song From the sombre clouds fell snow On the meadows far below, On the river late so calm, When the waves had hushed their psalm. Through the softly falling snow Something fluttered to and fro, Gold light shimmered through the snow; And a murmur filled the air. Was it melody or prayer P Like resplendent shooting stars Radiance gleamed through snow-flake bars 120 Through the silence of the night, Said the trav’ler on the height, “What can be that vision rare?” ’Twas a maid with golden hair, Singing in the frosty air, Ay,—ia carol faint and low,— Through the softly falling snow. Glad the shepherd piped at home, And the hunter feared to roam, For the waves had hushed their psalms Folded in the ice king’s arms. But the echoes brought a strain To the ear against the pane, As the maid sang this refrain: “ Life hath joy and life hath woe!”— Through the softly falling snow. Plaintively the weird notes fell With a sorrow in their swell; Tenderly the soft voice rose, Speaking pain and yet repose. Said the knight with hasty feet, “ What can be that music sweet, Quickening the warm heart’s beat?” “ Life hath joy and life hath woe!”— Through the softly falling snow. Thicker fell the snowflakes white, Wilder grew the stormy night; Louder, stronger came the strain, Deeper with its sense of pain. And the golden radiance still Shimmered ’neath the ice-bound hill, As she sang with deathless will: “ Life hath love: ah ! be it so ! ”— Through the softly falling suoav. 121 As the swan’s most perfect lay Tells it may not longer stay, So those flute-like notes seemed lent By some seraph earthward sent. Yet once more the calm voice rose, Faint, but sweet with rare repose, And the strain did not quite close. “ Life hath love,” was all to flow Through the softly falling snow. Pastoral Annette came through the meadows Where daffodils did blow; A bonnie maid, a winsome maid, With hat all drooping low O’er eyes of wistful candor; Did ever timid' swain Look in their depths, their liquid depths, And hope for peace again? ’Twas sunset on the meadows, And down the leafy lane, With tinkling, tinkling, mellow bells That made a soft refrain, The drowsy cows passed homeward; While in the orchard green. The robins trilled their gayest songs, All earth was glad, I ween. A youth came through the meadows, The squire’s son was he; He saw the maiden’s rosy blush, And thought none fair as she. “ Which way, 0 sweetest damsel, Go I to yonder town?” 122 Quoth he: She archly showed the path, With hat all drooping down. Beneath the broad brim gazed he Into her shining eyes, Then with true grace said: “ Thanks, dear maid.” And when the sunset skies Grew dimmer, rode he forward, Saying with gentle pain, “ Ah! what a bonnie, comely maid, I’ll ride that way again.” Annette came through the meadows, No unaccustomed thing; And yet, and yet, what new, new song Was it her heart did sing? Was she the selfsame maiden? Nay! not the one of yore, For in that heart a siren note Will ring forevermore. IDYL Sunrise Down in the dell, A rose-gleam fell From azure aisles of space; There with light tread A maiden sped, Sweet yearning in her face. Amid the sheen, The lark, I ween, Trilled love-lays to his mate; The maiden sang, Her joy-notes rang; “ He cometh, so I wait.” 123 Noontide Upon the grass, Soft! let her pass! Bend back, je purple flow’rs! With fawn-like grace, Hope in her face, She nears those sylvan bow’rs,— Where sunbeams glide This fair noontide, And tint each bending bough, And many a fold Of purest gold, Enwreathes her marble brow. Yes! he is there! The amber air Grows soft with love-notes, while Such perfect peace It ne’er should cease, Illumes her eyes and smile. Sunset In western skies Rare radiance lies Aslant from jeweled seas. The nightingale Tells not a tale More tender to the breeze Than he to her; No thought could stir The calm within her soul. When life’s a dream, Does it not seem That love can all control? 124 Midnight The gem-like stars Through fleecy bars Send down their ambient light; ’Tis Splendor’s reign, Before her fane, Each suppliant kneels to-night. The tryst is o’er, Yet what a store Of love the maid doth hold. The gift is fair As moon-kissed air, And bright as burnished gold. The Enchanted Sheee Fair, fragile Una, golden-haired, With melancholy, dark gray eyes, Sits on a rock by laughing waves, Gazing into the radiant skies; And holding to her ear a shell, A rosy shell of wondrous form; Quite plaintively to her it coos Marvelous lays of sea and storm. It whispers of a fairy home With coral halls and pearly floors, Where mermaids clad in glist’ning gold Guard smilingly the jeweled doors. She listens and her weird gray eyes Grow weirder in their pensive gaze. The sea birds toss her tangled curls, The skiff lights glimmer through the haze. 125 O strange sea-singer! what has lent Such fascination to thy spell? Is some celestial guardian Prisoned within thee, tiny shell? The maid sits rapt until the stars In myriad shining clusters gleam; “ Enchanted Una,” she is called By boatmen gliding down the stream. The tempest beats the restless seas, The wind blows loud, fierce frown the skies; Sweet, sylph-like Una clasps the shell, Peace brooding in her quiet eyes. The wind blows wilder, darkness comes, The rock is bare, night birds soar far; Thick clouds scud o’er the gloomy heav’ns Unvisited by any star. Where is quaint Una? On some isle, Dreaming ’mid music, may she be? Or does she listen to the shell In coral halls within the sea? The boatmen say, on stormy nights They see rare Una with the shell, Sitting in pensive attitude. Is it a vision? Who can tell? Chateaux en Espagne Ethel in her crimson row boat, Floats amid the river reeds; Dreaming dreams of nameless longing, Little she the gloaming heeds. 126 Castles grand and rare in beauty Rise on pinnacles of air; Knights on royal steeds salute her, And she listens to their prayer. One with winning speech draws near her, May not brook a long delay; So she bows her head in answer, For she cannot say him nay. Bows her head,—ah, yes! fair Ethel! Now thy golden locks are caught In the pliant river rushes, And the knight whose pleading sought Thee to capture, is a phantom. Where the castles in the air? Faded in the misty gloaming, With the love that thine would share. Hasten home! sweet fairy Ethel, To the cottage in the lane; Surely when the years have vanished, Knight and love will come again. The Fading Skiff The moon hung low ’mid clouds enshrined, The waves caught in its sheen, Dashed up the rugged cliffs; the sky Wore a mysterious mien. I watched a skiff, a fragile skiff, From out my window’s height, Whose shad’wy gliding seemed attuned To that enchanted night. 127 He did not know that I was there To soothe my soul’s unrest; I watched the flutter of the sails, Far down the starry west, And felt my heart in unison Keep flutt’ring with its pain; Yet why uplift my dreary plaint, Does the sweet moon complain? He went to meet her in the town, Grand Sybil, proud and fair. He did not know that he had left— Beside his raven hair— Strange yearnings in a maiden’s heart,— A fisher maiden she. But ah! alas! he could not know, To sail away from me. He said my eyes were sapphires rare, He called my hair bright gold; Then left me with this aching pain, And the great world so cold. Yet why complain? Is it not best To have Love’s gracious boon E’en for awhile? I cannot tell: What think’st thou, silver moon? The Maid of Ehrenthal Fair nights beneath the mellow moon, Foul nights when Nature’s wildest tune The tempest howled on high, A maiden sat in wan despair, Veiled in her shining golden hair, And this her piteous cry: 128 “Ye nettles gray, spring up, ah! quick! My head’s aflame, my soul is sick; My love awaits the bridal morn, It cannot come till ye be grown; Of your sharp strands the robe to spin, Ere I my only love can win. “ A bridal robe fine spun for me, And then a shroud; whose can it be? ’Neath these green mounds my parents sleep, From their hearts’ dost your roots must creep. So said the cruel master: woe! That I must e’en be wedded so! ” From out the gloomy mine at night. Weird spirits came, and ere the light Played verdant on the hill, Behold the nettles, robe and shroud. By dwarf hands spun, with craft endowed Such missions to fulfill. She wears the robe, the master proud, Pale in death’s sleep, lies in the shroud By hands uncanny plied. No longer now in wan despair, But roses in her shining hair, She smiles, a joyous bride. Mildred’s Doves The moan of doves in immemorial elms.— Tennyson’s “ Princess.” Fair Mildred wide her lattice threw, And beckoned tenderly: “ Come, glad wood doves, come, pretty doves, And coo a while to me! 129 Come nestle fondly in my arms, As hopes do in my breast, That list’ning to your cadence sweet May lull my fears to rest.” The doves from out the branches flew, And nestled round the maid; She whisp’ring low her lover’s name, Gazed wistful down the glade. The postman halted at the gate, Pale Mildred’s heart beat high; “Why comes he here instead of Ralph? O Sorrow, pass me by! ” He quick unto the lattice sped, She read, then cried aloud: “ Alas! my Ralph beneath the waves, With seaweed for a shroud! It cannot be! it may not be! Depart! ye cruel dreams! Depart ye doves, sad, moaning doves! Your song a mock’ry seems!” The orange moon rose in the east, The flow’rs swayed in the breeze; Unconsciously yet mournfully, The doves cooed in the trees. She wrung her hands imploringly, “ Ah! woe is me! I seem To be unwaking; cease, sad doves! He lives ! ’tis but a dream! *’ Little Fay’s Thanksgiving The squire sat alone beside the board, So lavish with its sumptuous fare that day, With costly glass, and shining silver decked ; But naught could banish gloomy thought away 130 From his deep musing. ’TVas Thanksgiving, yes Yet could he offer thanks with no one near To join in grateful praises? Why to-day Was he so utterly devoid of cheer? What were the words the preacher said that morn Words that so smote upon his weary heart? “ Lo i as ye’ve done it to the least of these. Ye’ve done it unto me.” Had he a part In that sweet homily? Then why alone Sat he to-day beside his sumptuous board? Were there no poor to feed, no famished ones, To catch some crumbs from his abundant hoard? And as he sadly mused a vision seemed To lure him backward, for his Mattie came,— His only daughter who had wed with one, In whom his poverty was counted shame Unto the squire, and he cast her off, His child, his only child, and then she died; And now, yea! all his gold he’d freely give To have her back—so humble was his pride. The squire woke and raised his weary head; There stood the table with its dainties piled. But hark! he hears the patter of a foot: A low, soft tread as of a little child. Yes! gazing at him with wide, wistful eyes, He saw a tiny girl of winsome face—■ Clasping her rosy fingers round a shawl-- Whose ev’ry attitude spoke childish grace. “ My wee one, who art thou ? ” the squire said: “I’m little Fay and live with grandpa there Down by the big elm tree,” the child replied, Smiling and throwing back her tangled hair. 131 “ Grandpa is blind and pretty baskets weaves While I sing to him,” prattled little Fay; “ But grandpa’s sick and all the bread is gone, And so I’ve come, for ’tis Thanksgiving Day. “ And Sallie Wynne, the girl who lives next door, Says ev’ry one must have a feast to-day; A great big turkey and some pies and cakes; And so I’ve come—you’re very rich, they say— And you must send my grandpa, O, a lot Of goodies, and he’ll eat and cry and say, ‘ Oh! what a happy grandpa I must be,’ And then he’ll end: ‘God bless thee, little Fay!’” She ceased a moment and the squire rubbed His moistened eyes, and kissed the trustful child; And though the snow a fleecy curtain hung About the windows and the wind shrieked wild, He sent a bounteous store to that drear home; For was it not that unto such as she— The little ones—we should do loving deeds ? And a changed man from that glad day was he. “ Grandpa, I’ve brought your dinner, O come quick! ” Cried little Fay who from a carriage stepped ; And then the blind man rose with happy heart From the low pallet where he long had slept. Oh! what a feast they had, grandpa and she; It was indeed a glad Thanksgiving Day! And as he raised his sightless eyes to Heartn In thanks, he cried: “ God bless thee, little Fay!” 132 CHANSONS D’AMOUR The Dawn of Love Within my . casement came one night The fairy Moon, so pure and white. Around my brow a coronet Of shining silver quaintly set With rainbow gems, she there did place; But when I turned my wistful face, Lo! she had vanished, and my gaze Saw naught save shadows ’mid the haze. I felt a throb within my heart, In which sad sorrow had no part; Within my soul a yearning grew, So sweet it thrilled me through and through. A flute’s soft warble echoed nigh, As if an angel fluttered by; And on my lips there fell a kiss ;— Speak! fairy Moon, interpret this! The Siren Bird A little bird, a tender bird. Flew singing ’neath my eaves; Its note was one that in the soul Unrest and yearning leaves. ’Twas not the bluebird on the branch, ’Twas not the lark on high, Sending delicious melody From deeps of pearly sky. 134 ’Twas not the robin to his mate, Piercing the matin air, ’Twas not the dove in shady wood, Pouring mysterious prayer. What are thou, art thou, wee, wee bird Bathed in ecstatic song? Those burnished plumes, that siren strain Must to strange realms belong. ’Twas Love came singing ’neath my eaves, My heart’s eaves, tenderly; And this the burthen of his song: “ Sweet, may I dwell with thee? ” O mystic bird, come home to me! Here dwell and muse and sing; Lull me forever with that strain, Fold me beneath thy wing! Reunited Sang a maiden in a meadow, O so lonely though so fair; And her plaintive carol fluttered Like a psalm along the air. Soon a youth came gaily tripping, Full of fawn-like, airy grace; And he heard the maiden singing, And he looked in her sweet face. In her lovely face so mournful, Where her star-eyes gleamed with tears, And he said: “Fair maid, take comfort! For I’ve loved thee many years. 135 “ Oft thou earnest like a vision, Flinging wide thy golden hair, While thine eyes, so sweet, so holy, Seemed to make for me a prayer. “ Long I’ve sought thee in the meadow, List’ning ever for thy song; Thou art she, that radiant vision, To each other we belong.” Light he tripped along the mountains, With the maiden by the hand; And I heard her joyous carol Echoing through the summer land. Love’s Vista Love oped a vista rare with stars That overshone a dewy height; Glad-Heart enwrapt in dreams, saw naught Save radiance and bloom and light. The fairest dove sang in the boughs The sweetest songs that e’er were heard; Glad-Heart strayed reckless down the glades, Lured strangely by the cooing bird. Yes! strangely lured, till suddenly The dove did moan and wail, and lo! The stars went out in darkness: all Was bitterness and gloom and woe. Ah! haste, Glad-Heart, go back, go back! The vistas are not bloomy now; Veiled is the dewy height: henceforth Unto the tempest bare thy brow. 136 Yet sweet, sweet dove, when life is drear, Come chant again that dreamy lay; O tender Love, send shining stars To light her soul, once more, some day. My Spirit’s Complement Thy life hath touched the edges of my life, All glistening and moist with sunlit dew. They touched, they paused,—then drifted wide apart, Each gleaming with a rare prismatic hue. ’Twas but a touch! the edges of a life Alone encolored with the rose, yet lo! Each fibre started into strange unrest, And then was stilled, lulled to a rhythmic flow. Perchance our spirits clasp on some fair isle, Bright with the sheen of reveries divine; Or list’ning to such strains as chant the stars, In purest harmonj- their tendrils twine. God grant our souls may meet in Paradise, After the mystery of life’s sweet pain; And find the strange prismatic hues of earth Transmuted to the spotless light again. Recompensed? She roamed the meadows long in hope That in some sunny dingle fair, She’d meet her youth with golden hair, Giving to her some little care; Alas! unloved she seemed to grope. He was not there, in vain her prayer. 137 One mom she saw him; ’gainst her will Her waiting heart did faster beat; And yet he came not her to greet, Nor did his eyes her sad eyes meet. “ O wayward heart! ” she said, “ be still It is not he! it cannot be! “ Ah! welladay! my dream is o’er. I must the bitter truth believe; Why still my soul with hopes deceive? ’Twas he! and yet the more I grieve I love him better than before. Ah! if he knew, he’d love me too.” The Messengers Sat a damsel on the hillside In the fading afternoon, When the Summer flung her roses In the grassy lap of June; Came three elves and danced around her, Blithesome, sprightly creatures they, Like the birds that soar above us, Or glad children at their play. Said the first one: “Damsel, follow! With us to the forest hie; Lisping streams will bid thee welcome, As they mirror back the sky. Sad-eyed doves will coo a greeting As they flutter ’mid the leaves.” Said the damsel: “ Nay, I cannot, For my tender mother grieves.” Said the second: “Damsel, hear me! We have there a home for thee, 138 Where we’ve built fair jess’mine bowers Through the sunny greenery. We will dance at early morning, And sing quiet lays at eve.” Said the damsel: “Nay, entreat not, For my mother much would grieve.” Said the third one: “ Damsel, Damsel! Love is waiting for thee there, With a wreath of shining moonbeams Twined about his flowing hair. He has taught soft flutes to quiver With the music of his heart. Little Damsel, charming Damsel, Wilt not come and do thy part? ” Then the damsel rose and followed To the dreamy forest glade, And a tranquil, rippling cadence Was the only sound she made. Had the lisping streams enticed her? Were the jess’mine bowers so fair? Or was it a mystic heart-call That is potent everywhere? O Restless Heart, Be Still! O restless heart, be still! ’Tis thine by peaceful founts to rove; Why comes the cruel archer Love To shoot with reckless will? Peace! restless heart, be still! Calm, restless heart, so calm, Thou ling’redst dreamily to wait Where sang the ringdove to his mate, A quiet, holy psalm. Calm, restless heart, so calm! 139 Now, restless heart, ’tis done! No longer under starry skies Thou’lt stray with yearning in thine eyes; And yet, poor fluttered one, Is comfort ’neath the sun ? Nay! nay! but sure ’twere best That Love should fold thee ’neath his wing, And to thy soul sweet snatches sing; Yet it must be confessed It is not surely rest! Boat Song O rocking boat, rocking boat poised on the wave, Sway gently, sway gently; the bird to his nest Is speeding, while Day with the airiest tread, Approaches the wond’rous rose-courts of the West. O rocking boat, rocking boat cradled ’mid foam, Glide swiftly, glide swiftly, for there on the shore, In dreams ’neath the trysting tree, murm’ring my name Is she whom my heart will enshrine evermore. O rocking boat, rocking boat, low swings the moon, The stars kiss the billows, I may not delay; Draw nearer, draw nearer, I see the trees stir; We’re moored and my darling is mine, mine for aye! Cuckoo Song Cuckoo, glad cuckoo, Oh! where wilt thou rest to-night? Cuckoo, fly southward and find a new nest to-night. Birds that are roaming Far ’mid the gloaming, Hie to their leafy home 140 When they have ceased to roam. But where is thine, Ay, and where mine? Hesperus, silver star, glow in the West to-night! Restless I wander and cannot find rest to-night. Golden thou gleamest, And ever seemest Like eye of seraph fair, Lone in the radiant air. Fair evening Queen, What may it mean? There’s a sweet singing bird comes to my breast to-night, Fluttering strangely, builds there a nest to-night. Cuckoo, hast sent him, And swift wings lent him? Hesperus, sunset star! Comes he from thee afar? Love is his name, Me shall he claim? 141 QUATRAINS At Sunset Into his rosy chamber stepped the Sun, Fair Venus lit her vestal lamp of gold; A magic stillness did the earth enfold, The coming Night a newer grace had won. Life’s Boundary Life is a glass wherein we dimly see Foreshadowings of our devious plans and ways Life is a glass. Lo! ’tis Eternity That bounds the dim perspective of our days. Charity I saw a maiden, fairest of the fair, With every grace bedight beyond compare. Said I, “What doest thou, pray, tell to me!” “ I see the good in others,” answered she. Awakening The faint-flushed buds awake within the cup Of myriad folded roses yet to be; Ere Life can drink its utmost sweetness up, Love flutters, wakens, O how sweet to see! Lost Opportunities When it is past—the golden moment—gone! How we do rend ourselves, undone, forlorn! The jewel left a moment in our hands, We search, yet find it not o’er widest lands. 144 Ambition What is ambition? ’tis unrest, defeat! A goad, a spur, a quick’ning the heart’s beat A fevered pulse, a grasp at shadows fleet, A beck’ning vision, fair, illusive, sweet! Full Vision But look a trial down from some far height, And ’twill diminish to a speck in air. Half-vision irks and frets. Let on the light! The demon vanishes before a prayer. After the Storm Sol took his nightcap off and gazed Through cloudy curtains. At the sight The mists fled scared to windy haunts; And lo! the earth was filled with light. At the Cascade The waters rippled, gleamed and fell; Sweet Jessie tripped adown the dell. She heard his voice, their fond lips met; The rocks with silver spray w T ere wet. Nature’s Uplifting The soul that’s fed on Nature is content To lift itself in all-adoring love Unto the Father who such glories sent,— A shadow of the fairer joys above. 145 Instability What we to-day prize and most fondly cherish, To-morrow scarce may claim a moment’s reckoning. Yet why adjust the cause? Let doubt all perish. Can argument withstand the spirit’s beck’ning? The Afterglow The rose and gold and violet Were fairest when the sun had set; So when life’s noblest battle’s won, Peace comes at setting of the sun. 146 THE PROCESSION OF THE SEASONS January To herald in another year, With rhythmic note the snowflakes fall Silently from their crystal courts, To answer Winter’s call. Wake, mortal! Time is winged anew! Call Love and Hope and Faith to fill The chambers of thy soul to-day; Life hath its blessings still! February The icicles upon the pane Are busy architects; they leave What temples and what chiseled forms Of leaf and flower. Then believe That though the woods be brown and bare, And sunbeams peep through cloudy veils, Though tempests howl through leaden skies, The Springtime never fails! March Robin! Robin! call the Springtime! March is halting on his way; Hear the gusts. What! snowflakes falling! Look not for the grass to-day. Ay, the wind will frisk and play, And we cannot say it nay. 148 April She trips across the meadows, The weird, capricious elf! The buds unfold their perfumed cups For love of her sweet self; And silver-throated birds begin to tune their lyres, While wind-harps lend their strains to Nature’s magic choirs. May Sweet, winsome May, coy, pensive fay, Comes garlanded with lily-bells, And apple blooms shed incense through the bow’r, To be her dow’r; While through the leafy dells A wondrous concert swells To welcome May, the dainty fay. June Roses, roses, roses, Creamy, fragrant, dewy! See the rainbow shower! Was there e’er so sweet a flower? I’m the rose-nymph, June they call me. Sunset’s blush is not more fair Than the gift of bloom so rare, Mortal, that I bring to thee! July Sunshine and shadow play amid the trees In bosky groves, while from the vivid sky The sun’s gold arrows fleck the fields at noon, Where weary cattle to their slumber hie. 149 How sweet the music of the purling rill, Trickling adown the grassy hill! While dreamy fancies come to give repose When the first star of evening glows. August Haste to the mighty ocean, List to the lapsing waves; With what a strange commotion They seek their coral caves. From heat and turmoil let us oft return, The ocean’s solemn majesty to learn. September With what a gentle sound The autumn leaves drop to the ground; With many-colored dyes, They greet our watching eyes. Rosy and russet, how they fall! Throwing o’er earth a leafy pall. October The mellow moon hangs golden in the sky, The vintage song is over, far and nigh A richer beauty Nature weareth now, And silently, in reverence we bow Before the forest altars, offering praise To Him who sweetness gives to all our days. November The leaves are sere, The woods are drear, 150 The breeze that erst so merrily did play, Naught giveth save a melancholy lay; Yet life’s great lessons do not fail E’en in November’s gale. December List! list! the sleigh bells peal across the snow The frost’s sharp arrows touch the earth and lo! How diamond-bright the stars do scintillate When Night hath lit her lamps to Heaven’s gate. To the dim forest’s cloistered arches go, And seek the holly and the mistletoe; For soon the bells of Christmas-tide will ring To hail the Heavenly King! 151 THE SEER, THE SINGER AND THE SAGE Dante Hare medieval Spirit! brooding Seer! Grand, lonely Poet! scaling heights divine, And lifting from grave mysteries the veil, Through the dim centuries thou speakest still In tones of thunder; and subdued by awe We listen, for thy intuitions fine, Thv insight keen discovered motives hid, Aind aim close wound in aim thou couldst perceive, Unwinding minor aims in which ’twas wrapt. Knit with the very fibres of thy soul, Thy country’s weal a cherished charge became; And Destiny stem frowning o’er the land, Upheaved thy feelings and inflamed thy speech. Indignant at the wrongs that Florence bore, Florence, thy well-beloved, thy hallowed home, With stem denunciation thou didst wage Against the law’s lax mandates bloody war, And all unawed, rebuked the false decrees Of kings, of conquerors, popes and cardinals, The pure “ white flower ” waving in thy hand. Thy thought self-poised, self-centered, dragged thy soul Into what depths of grief and deepest pain! But to posterity thou didst bequeathe— Despite the scathing of the contest fierce— Thy reveries’ illuminated page. The groans of spirits plunged in woe’s abyss, The sweet repentance of the wistful souls Climbing in patience Purgatory’s steep, Called thee to muse on life’s strange mystery. Before thy vision what fair vistas stretched, 154 Empurpled with the glow of Paradise! Thou heardst in dreams the harmonies sublime Of martyr glorified and rapturous saint. And she, Beatrice the celestial one, Who woke thy heart’s best love and sweetest joy, Alone was meet to guide thy willing steps From planet to fixed star, and onward still, Above the splendor of the luminous stars, Where blessed souls their orisons uplift, And isles supernal bloom with amaranth fair, Up to the Empyrean’s crystal courts, Where Majesty Divine enthrones itself. And soon the Perfect Vision met thy gaze, The mystic Trinity all solved by light. Three colors, three reflections in the one, Christ was revealed—the Human, the Divine! God’s plan for our redemption clear to thee! And now, O lonely Spirit, brooding Seer! So long in conflict, weary with unrest, Within the beatific realms above, Bathed in that Light Ineffable thou dwell’st, O yearning Soul, at last, at last in peace! Longfellow The “ Psalm of Life ” for thee is o’er, O bard serenest! on the shore Of shad’wy Time, we see complete Thy life so rounded, fair and sweet. Thy tender thoughts, thy soothing rhyme, Like sweet bells ringing, e’er will chime With much of hope and joy and need, For thou couldst soothe and cheer indeed. Like pictures in some stately hall, Hung where the loving gaze of all 155 May seek contentment, thy true verse May to each one some truth rehearse. Who now can climb the Alpine height, Nor see clear in the gleaming light, The word that mystic banner bore, That potent word,—“ Excelsior ? ” When dainty moonlight veils the stars, We see framed in its “golden bars,” “ Endymion and Dian ” fair, While Love floats radiant through the air. Shall we not oft at midnight hour When silence reigns with mystic pow’r, Hear loud “ the old clock on the stairs,” Its requiem mingling with our prayers? When fierce the tempest roars o’erhead And e’en the mariner knows dread, Behold the little maiden fair, The seaweed clinging to her hair! Evangeline and Gabriel! When woman’s constancy we tell, Her name in brightest hues shall shine, Who made devotion so divine. And Minnehaha! we can see A scene of grace and witchery When her we call; and then the grief And pathos of her warrior chief. When round the hearth some vacant chair Is all the answer to our prayer, We hear thee say, “ Death is transition ” But leading to the “ life elysian.” 156 When “ day is done ” and misty shades Are deep’ning all the solemn glades, And sadness comes, who well as thou, Can rest and cheer and calm us now? We fain—the “architects of Fate”— Would wisely build; though naught of great May be the end of all our care, We still will hope and nobly dare. So runs our life with thine, sweet friend, And now when all thy soul-songs blend With Heaven’s music, shall not we Still sweeter rev’rence give to thee? A Thought at Walden (After visiting the site of Thoreau's Hut) O sylvan priest of Nature! rightly thou Didst read her lessons; on thy solemn brow Was left the dew of morning, and thine eyes Saw deepest meaning in the changing skies. Thine ear attuned to catch her subtlest sound, Heard quaintest music trilling from the ground. The robin warbling on the leafy spray, The lark upsoaring to salute the day, Were more than simple warblers unto thee, And e’en the tinest insect on the lea. Nature, thy mother, taught thy spirit fine The essence of her cadences divine; And earth being to thee naught save joy and praise, Made of thy living rare and wondrous days. 157 HEROIC ECHOES Quebec O antique city on St. Lawrence shore, A relic, e’en a page of ancient lore Thou art! Thy granite fortress tow’ring high, Stretching its massive bulwarks toward the sky, Tells of the march of war when nations proud Proclaimed the force of arms in accents loud,— The mighty cannon’s boom; and valor rose, While fearless armies ranged themselves as foes. Here met two noble souls,—two chieftains brave, Cast in heroic mould. Stem Fortune gave To one,—the victor’s meed; to each, a grave! Renowned Champlain first gave these rocky heights A name. Of yore full oft on starlight nights The Indian war-whoop echoed round these plains, And smote the desert shores with sad refrains. Thy limpid waters, fair St. Lawrence, bore Unchecked the rude canoe. Forevermore In song and story will the red man be A part of thy broad stream. Time unto thee Will add fresh lustre as the ages roll, And from life’s warfare many a thoughtful soul Hither repair, as to a pilgrim’s goal. Yet why a pilgrim’s goal? Was it not here That valiant armies met, and ev’ry fear Was lulled in hope of conquest? Was’t not here On sunlit plains Wolfe’s gallant troops drew near And marched to vict’ry ere the morning broke? Yes! e’en on Abraham’s plains when courage woke, 160 The great commander closed his eyes in death; But as he yielded up life’s fitful breath, And to proud England’s isles the honor gave, He claimed the poet’s lines,—this soldier brave: “ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” A stately column here attests his worth, And e’en the hero to whom France gave birth, Despite he fell, shorn of the conqueror’s wreath, Not without glorious deeds within the sheath Placed he his sword. His honored ashes lie Where soft the vesper hymn goes echoing by, Within the quiet convent’s pious shade. Such are the heroes that thy glory made, O antique city by St. Lawrence shore! And long as round thee mighty waters roar, Thou wilt remain,—a page of ancient lore! In Memorial (Frederick Douglass') One whose majestic presence ever here, Was as an inspiration held so dear, Will greet us nevermore upon the earth. The funeral bells have rung; there was no dearth Of sorrow as the solemn cortege passed; But ours; is a grief that will outlast The civic splendor. Say, among all men, Who was this hero that they buried then, With saddest plaint and sorrow-stricken face? Ay! ’twas a princely leader of his race! And for a leader well equipped was he; Nature had given him most regally E’en of her choicest gifts. What matter then That he in chains was held, what matter when He could uplift himself to noblest heights. 161 E’en with his native greatness, neither slights Nor wrongs could harm him; and a solemn wrath Burned in his soul. He well saw duty’s path; His days heroic purposes did know, And could he then his chosen work forego? Bora to a fate most wretched, most forlorn! A slave! alas! of benefits all shorn Upon his entrance into life, what lot More destitute of hope! Yet e’en that blot Could not suffice to dim the glowing page He leaves to History; for he could wage Against oppression’s deadliest blows a war That knew no ending, until nevermore Should any man be called a bondman. Ay! Such was a conflict for which one could die! Panting for freedom early, he did dare To throw aside his shackles, for the air Of slavery is poison unto men Moulded as Douglass was; they suffer, then Manhood asserts itself; they are too brave, Such souls as his, to die content a slave. So being free, one path alone he trod, To bring to liberty—sweet boon from God— His deeply injured race; his tireless zeal Was consecrated to the bondman’s weal. He thought of children sobbing round the knees Of hopeless mothers, where the summer breeze Blew o’er the dank savannas. What of woe In their sad story that he did not know! He was a valiant leader in a cause Than none less noble, though the nation’s laws Did seem to spurn it; and his matchless speech To Britain’s sea-girt island shores did reach. Our Cicero, and yet our warrior knight, Striving to show mankind might is not right! 162 He saw the slave uplifted from the dust, A freeman! Loyal to the sacred trust He gave himself in youth, with voice and pen, He had been to the end. And now again The grandest efforts of that brain and heart In ev’ry human sorrow bore a part. His regnant intellect, his dignity, Did make him honored among all to be; And public trusts his country gladly gave Unto this princely leader, bom a slave! Shall the race falter in its courage now That the great chief is fallen? Shall it bow Tamely to aught of injury? Ah, nay! For daring souls are needed e’en to-day. Let his example be a shining light, Leading through duty’s paths to some far height Of undreamed victory. All honored be The silv’ry head of him we no more see! Children unborn will venerate his name, And History keep spotless his fair fame. The Romans wove bright leafy crowns for those Who saved a life in battle with their foes; And shall not we as rare a chaplet weave To that great master-soul for whom we grieve? Yea! Since not always on the battle-field Are the best vict’ries won; for they who yield Themselves to conquer in a losing cause, Because ’tis right in God’s eternal laws, Do noblest battle; therefore fitly we Upon their brows a victor’s crown would see. Yes! our great chief has fallen as might fall Some veteran warrior, answering the call Of duty. With the old serenity, His heart still strung with tender sympathy, 163 He passed beyond our ken; he’ll come no more To give us stately greeting as of yore. We cannot fail to miss him. When we stand In sudden helplessness, as through the land Rings echo of some •wrong he could not brook, Then vainly for our leader will we look. But courage! no great influence can die. While he is doing grander work on high, Shall not his deeds an inspiration be To us left in life’s struggle? May not we Do aught to emulate him whom we mourn? We are a people now, no more forlorn And hopeless. We must gather courage then, Rememb’ring that he stood man among men. So let us give, now he has journeyed hence, To our great chieftain’s memory, reverence! Greeting To Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, on her Eighty-fifth Birthday We greet thee now upon this festal morn, O Friend of Freedom! thou who in those days When human rights were scorned and Justice slept, Though loud the bondman cried, didst dare to raise Thy voice to aid the lowly. Many a soul Was roused to nobler thinking, many a heart Impelled to braver doing by thy words, And in the contest fitted to bear part. We read, and lo! a vision rises there. Who is’t comes here? A hero crowned with bay? Ah, no! a slave in chains, of meekest mien, Treading with patient step a thorny way. 164 ’Tis Uncle Tom, sad Uncle Tom! He turns, He backward points, and what do we descry? Unnumbered hosts in shackles, bleeding, tom, To w T hom it were a blessing but to die. Anon the vision passes! and we see Another host,—a smiling, happy band. The chains are tom away, and chants of praise Vibrate along the mountains, through the land. Such was the boon that thou didst help to give, O noble woman! and as years fleet by, Does not the thought of ransomed Uncle Toms Moisten with tears of thankfulness thine eye? For surely naught can e’er avail to check A blessed influence: it still will live While the majestic stars in solemn rhythm Wheel in their mighty orbits. What could give Such impulse unto Justice as the scenes On thy pathetic pages? Who could learn The story of that rare, heroic life, And not with deepest indignation burn? The nation’s shame was lifted by the force Of words like thine, far more than by decrees Of lordliest statesmen in their councils grave. And when war’s din had ceased, and on the breeze The silv’ry cadence of fair Freedom’s chimes Rang out in joyful measures, was the peal Not sweeter for the work that thou hadst done? Whose worth the coming years will still reveal. So may thy birthday be all bright with bloom Of happy thoughts, and from the stirring past May sweetest mem’ries come of those brave deeds For Freedom ventured. Lo! time speedeth fast, 165 And loved ones haste again with greeting glad. And as around they flock their gifts to lay Before thy feet, our dearest prayer is this: God’s peace be thine upon thy natal day! In Memoeiam Paul Latjkence Dunbae The Muse of Poetry came down one day, And brought with willing hands a rare, sweet gift ; She lingered near the cradle of a child, Who first unto the sun his eyes did lift. She touched his lips with true Olympian fire, And at her bidding Fancies hastened there, To flutter lovingly around the one So favored by the Muse’s gentle care. Who was this child? The offspring of a race That erst had toiled ’neath slavery’s galling chains. And soon he woke to utterance and sang In sweetly cadenced and in stirring strains, Of simple joys, and yearnings, and regrets; Anon to loftier themes he turned his pen; For so in tender, sympathetic mood He caught the follies and the griefs of men. His tones were various: we list, and lo! “ Malindy Sings,” and as the echoes die, The keynote changes and another strain Of solemn majesty goes floating by; And sometimes in the beauty and the grace Of an impassioned, melancholy lay, We seem to hear the surge, and swell, and moan Of soft orchestral music far away. 166 Paul Dunbar dead! His genius cannot die! It lives in songs that thrill, and glow, and soar; Their pathos and their joy will fill our hearts, And charm and satisfy e’en as of yore. So when we would lament our poet gone, With sorrow that his lyre is resting now, Let us remember, with the fondest pride, That Fame’s immortal wreath has crowned his brow. Lincoln Centenary, February 12, 1909. We lift the curtain of the past to-day, And chase the mists and stains of years away, Once more, O martyred chief, to gaze on thee, The worth and purpose of thy life to see. ’ Twas thine, not worlds to conquer, but men’s hearts, To change to balm the sting of slavery’s darts, In lowly charity thy joy to find, And open “ gates of mercy on mankind.” Long will they come, the freed, with grateful gift, From whose sad path the shadows thou didst lift. The years have rolled their changeful seasons round, Since its most tragic close thy life-work found. Yet through the vistas of the vanished days We see thee still, responsive to our gaze, As ever to thy country’s solemn needs. Not regal coronets, but princely deeds Were thy chaste diadem; of truer worth Thy modest virtues than the gems of earth. Stanch, honest, fervent in the purest cause, Truth was thy guide; her mandates were thy laws. Rare heroism, spirit-purity, The storied Spartan’s stem simplicity, 167 Such moral strength as gleams like burnished gold Amid the doubt of men of weaker mould, Were thine. Called in thy country’s sorest hour When brother knew not brother—mad for power— To guide the helm through bloody deeps of war, While distant nations gazed in anxious awe, Unflinching in the task, thou didst fulfill Thy mighty mission with a deathless will. Bom to a destiny the most sublime, Thou wert, O Lincoln! in the march of time, God bade thee pause and bid the oppressed go free— Most glorious boon giv’n to humanity. While slavery ruled the land, what deeds were done! What tragedies enacted ’neath the sun! Her page is blurred with records of defeat, Of lives heroic lived in silence, meet For the world’s praise; of woe, despair and tears, The speechless agony of weary years. Thou utteredst the word, and Freedom fair Rang her sweet bells on the clear winter air; She waved her magic wand, and lo! from far A long procession came. With many a scar Their brows were wrinkled, in the bitter strife, Full many had said their sad farewell to life. But on they hastened, free, their shackles gone; The aged, young,—e’en infancy was borne To offer unto thee loud paeans of praise,— Their happy tribute after saddest days. A race set free! The deed brought joy and light! It bade calm Justice from her sacred height, When faith and hope and courage slowly waned, Unfurl the stars and stripes, at last unstained! The nations rolled acclaim from sea to sea, And Heaven’s vault rang with Freedom’s harmony. 168 The angels ’mid the amaranths must have hushed Their chanted cadences, as upward rushed The hymn sublime: and as the echoes pealed, God’s ceaseless benison the action sealed. Exalted patriot! illustrious chief! Thy life’s immortal work compels belief. To-day in radiance thy virtues shine, And how can we a fitting garland twine? Thy crown most glorious is a ransomed race! High on our country’s scroll we fondly trace, In lines of fadeless light that softly blend, Emancipator, hero, martyr, friend! While Freedom may her holy sceptre claim, The world shall echo with Our Lincoln’s name. 169 RESTORED BY MARKING 8c REPAIR STAFF DATE: /-lo\J ,1 98? r 9 R263P 31S428