. .. .. ... „_ ,... . ...... .., LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I^p. w^Jijrig$ If a— . Shelf V\&5_jf*> UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/holidayidlesseotOOwest "O'er the wave, through long watery alleys of trees, Under thick-hanging mosses soft-swung by the breeze." -Frontispiece. —Page 140. Holiday Idlesse, And Other Poems. By JAMES H. WEST. NEW EDITION, ENLARGED AND ILLUSTRATED ' ! 13 1832, BOSTON : A. WILLIAMS & CO., Publishers, @Ib Comer bookstore. 1882. T5^ I 5« Copyright, 1882, By JAMES H. WEST. f DEDICATION. c ^o her whose sympathetic heart Hath been my stay ; Whose gentle hand hath guided me In all my way ; Whose teachings in my childhood's hour.: Were love alone ; Whose arms of counsel, now in youth, Are round me thrown ; To her whose bright example is My guiding star; Whose love and faith are firmer than The hills afar; Whose presence hovers o'er me like Some holy dove ; To her these little songs -are given, In grateful love. NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1880. [All of the verses here printed, with one or two excep- tions, have before been in type. Some of them have been copied extensively, — at times coming back to me from far wanderings. They have oftentimes made me warm friends, and this at least I have, as a reward for the hours devoted to them. They all have been written at random moments, in the intervals of busy youthful years. I ask not, however, on this account, favor for them : they are printed for what they are worth. Their reception in the past leads me to be- lieve them not unworthy their present form.] NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. The very cordial reception extended to the first edition of these poems, published nearly two years ago, has led to this second issue, the present edition being much enlarged. The current volume contains almost all of the shorter poems for which the author desires to be held responsible. Such others of his verses as are fugitives in the land, wandering about in the columns of local newspapers, nameless and un- accredited, he hardly regrets to disown : although it is true that whenever he meets them, altered in dress very often, and changed in feature still as his children he would fain take them in his arms. It may be only just to himself to say that many of the pieces here printed were written when the author was not twenty years old, the remainder having appeared during the four or five years since intervening. Next preceding the Table of Contents are printed five lines, — "The Poet's Forethought," — which were prefixed to the vol- ume of 1880. Following the Epilogue, " Finished," at the close of the present edition, will be found ten companion lines, — "The Poet's Afterthought," — inspired by the warmth of the reception accorded to the first volume, and first printed with "Kalligo," on the original publication of that poem in 1881. To his friends, near and far, the author would extend his cordial greeting, and his thanks for their continued kindly en- couragements. And for himself, in publishing this little volume anew, he desires no happier return than the fuller fruition of his aspiration as contained in the closing lines of his Proem and of his Epilogue. J. H. W. College Hill, Mass., 1882. LINES. THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT. I took within my hand The clay and potter's wheel : Who knows ? ... the model I have planned To marble may anneal, — Or crumble into sand. ►<- CONTENTS. Dedication, iii Note to the Edition of 1880, iv Note to the Present Edition, v Lines, — "The Poet's Forethought," . . vi Prelude. Sonnet, ...... x Proem, ....... xi Holiday Idlesse, . . . . . -13 Man: A Phantasy? 16 Sunset — from College Hill, . . . -19 "Whither, ye Stately Ships!" ... 23 "A Breath from the Fields," . . .26 Sweetest Songs are never Sung, . . 28 Beacon-Lights. Sonnet, . . . . . 31 The Yachtsman's Pennant, ... 32 Pentecost, ....... 33 Concord River, . . . . . . 37 The murmuring City and the answering Ocean, 41 "A Dear little Bird," .... 43 My Dragon-Fly, ...... 44 A Face, and a Race, .... 48 College Hill — after long Absence, . . 49 Old Timothy John,— "Potatoes," . . 52 "I feel that I Know Her," . . . .57 (vii) I J n j U 1 L 1 V i 4 Clcw^/i. PAGE. Little Boy Harry, ..... . 60 To my Friends across the Mystic, . 62 Medford. Bells, . 64 "To-day the Winds of March are Wild," 66 Daffodils — Inscribed to T. W. L., . 67 The Bells of Como, .... 72 Mother and Son, ..... . 96 The Loved Ones who have Left us, 106 An Answer, ...... 112 Gone, ...... 116 A Cane from Gethsemane, . . 118 Kalligo, ...... 123 Meteors, ...... • i43 Sweet-Brier Roses, .... i45 Moonlight on College Hill, . . 150 Body and Spirit, .... iS4 Mystic River, ..... • 156 Bodily Weariness, .... 160 The Violet, 162 "I dreamed last Night I was a Boy," 165 Rhobe, ....... 169 Proem. "The Key-note of the Soul," 169 Part First, . . 170 Song. "When young Hearts love," 171 Interlude. "Ministering Spirits," • 179 Part Second, . 186 Intermediate Note, .... • 194 Part Third, 196 J • r % ir i L -►■« Contents. PAGE. Three Fragments from an unfinished Allegory, 220 I. Walnut Hill, 220 II. Heart of Youth, .... 222 III. "By Passion Ballasted," . . 225 The Schoolmaster's Dream, . . . .231 Wentworth Brooks Robbins. In Memoriam, 235 "If I were a Stream on a Mountain," . . 239 Death of my Friend, .... 241 "I fain would Bow before the Lord," . . 242 Words and Deeds, ..... 244 The Sorrowing Wind, ...... 244 Drifting, 245 Early Fragment — 1870, .... 248 Epilogue — "Finished." Sonnet, . . 249 Lines, — "The Poet's Afterthought," . . 250 JVotes, ...... . 251 ILLUSTRATIONS. "O'er the wave, through long watery alleys of trees, Under thick-hanging mosses soft-swung by the breeze." — Frontispiece. "Full many a placid hour Beside thy edge I've strayed, And many a sylvan bower Has Fancy there displayed." —Page 38. "The hut, like the owner, was tottering fast." — Page 126. PRELUDE. O friends of mine ! whose kindly words have led Unto the gathering of these wayside flowers, — These wilding blossoms of my happier hours ! As one who, walking in a garden bed, Turns wearily from poppies fiery red, Wanders from where the flaming peony towers, Passes the odorous pinks, the kalmia bowers, And through the gateway strolls, that he may tread The quiet forest-path, and feel the kiss Of cooling breezes, and behold alone The modest violet's blue, and clover mild, — So you, ye say, would wander! But the bliss The bliss ye seek! Dreaming fair seed were sown, What if ye here find weeds, — weeds only, — tangled, wild ! PROEM. O, strange are the songs that the wild birds sing, And weird the refrain when the zephyrs of Spring First rustle through branches new burdened with green ; O, quaint is the forest's dim silence and shade, And wild the loud Ocean's entombed cannonade 'Neath perilous cliffs and mad gorges between : But stranger and quainter, more weird and more wild, Are the Songs which the listening Bards have be- guiled, In mystical cadences sung in their ear ! For them chant the birds a more marvelous strain, For them beats the tempest a wilder refrain, Than others than they are enabled to hear ! Thus down through the ages come mystical rhymes, Which Minstrels have rung on their harps betimes, Enchanting men's lives with their symphonies sweet ; (xi) 4* Proem. Thus down through the Future shall Troubadours sing, And sweet Serenaders their melodies bring, Till earth be with marvelous anthems replete. Perchance the weird Minstrel may soon be forgot ; His birth and his grave be remembered not, Nor aught but his Muse keep his memory green : But vernal forever, till centuries die, Shall ring out his Songs to the verberant sky, Like musical chimes from a belfry unseen ! Nor mine may it be to attain to a niche In temples whose walls the more favored en- rich, — Whose songs, though as fervent, are feeble to theirs : But happy indeed were my heart and my pen, Perchance if some brief benediction to men My verse might contain in its lines unawares ! *H-4* Holiday Idlesse, AND OTHER POEMS. HOLIDAY IDLESSE. College Hill, Mid-Summer, 1879. I sit beside my window here, And dream away the day. The air is calm, the sky is clear, — And yonder, down the Bay, Along the silvery rim of light That marks the Ocean's edge, Fair far-off slanting wings of white Sail slow beyond the ledge; — (13) 14 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. Beyond the ledge of towering rocks That mark the heights of Lynn ; — Beyond to where the Equinox Shall howl with awful din. O stay at home, ye stately ships ! O stay at home as I ! Nor sail to meet but sure eclipse Beneath an angry sky ! The wandering thought, the impatient heart, The discontented soul, At best can know of life but part, And not the rounded whole. But ah! ye cannot stay! — e'en now Your sails are seaward set : E'en now above your burdened bow The fluttering sea-gulls fret. And soon I too must hence away, To skirt uncharted shores ! Already in my ears the spray Of ocean conflict roars. ^ — i Holiday Idlesse. 15 'T is well ! 't is well, ye stately ships ! Ye were not made for calm ! Your keels were laid to bear to lips That hunger, Eastern balm. 'Tis well no port of listless peace Enshields your slothful sail : The ship that gains the Golden Fleece Must dare the Euxine gale. 'Tis well, O heart, no life of ease Before thee opens fair ! That perfect life would fail to please Which breathed but softer air. 'Tis not when zephyrs kindly blow, And calmly, sweetly steal ; When waters musically flow, And laugh along the keel ; 'Tis in the dashing of life's wave, And in the sudden shock ; 'T is when the soul, though stout and brave, Is ground as on the rock, %> 1 6 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. That life's objective port is neared, Its noblest courses run, And souls of men the straightest steered To lands beyond the sun. MAN. A Phantasy ? He does not think- — he does not know A wave is breaking on the shore ; A wave surcharged with richest ore, And tinged with deepest golden glow. He heeds it not — he does not know: It scatters pearls athwart his path; It bathes as in a purple bath The boundaries where his feet must go. ► «- ^ »n Man. — A Phantasy f 17 He heeds it not — he passes by It breaks, it bursts upon the strand , Its wealth is squandered on the sand , Its pearls in shattered fragments fly. 11. He does not know — he does not guess A flower is blossoming at his feet ; A flower is offering incense sweet — - And fading in the wilderness. He heeds it not — he passes on: Its purple petals droop and die ; Its wealth is wasted on the sky ; It might have bloomed by Helicon. He does not know — he does not dream: A star is gleaming in the sky ; A star that passeth swiftly by! A star that flames alone for him. Holiday Idlesse, Etc. He sees nor feels its cheering light: It glows and gleams indeed, to-day ;- To-morrow, deepening into gray, Shall find it vanished in the Night. IV. He does not dream- — he does not think: A fountain gushes at his hand ; Its wealth he does not understand : He looks nor moves, nor stoops to drink. He does not think — he does not know : A song is trembling through the air; A bird is warbling anthems rare, And murmuring lyrics sweet and low. He hears nor heeds — he passes on* And wings are raised — a birdling flies ; The trembling cadence fails and dies : The anthem and the bird are gone. Sunset. 1 9 He does not know — he does not dream A wave, a flower, a star, a song, A fountain — all to him belong, And all exist alone for him. SUNSET. From College Hill, overlooking the Mystic. The day is done : The imperial Sun Is sinking, now his course is run, Behind the hills of Arlington. Through purple mist I view the tryst The sunbeams keep with the clouds they kissed While descending the vale of amethyst. ► «*■ 20 Holiday Idles se, Etc. Through amber haze I view the blaze Forth-streaming in red level rays Over hill-side paths and forest ways. As Moses' rod, Through Moses' God, Was lifted where the Israelites trod, Ere yet through the waves they rode dry shod, — So the Sun's last blaze, These Autumn days, Its rod of lurid enchantment lays Where the Mystic's crimson current plays ! And as Moses' word The Red Sea heard, So here, since its waves the sunset blurred, The hurrying current has not stirred ! A shadowy line Across the brine Is flung from the bank where a giant pine Beside the river doth low incline. ► -#- ► «*- Sunset. 2 This, — this, in my dream, The place doth seem Where the God of the Jews, by Arabia's stream, The Egyptian bondsmen did redeem ! The Sun sinks low : Weird breezes blow ; And over the river, or fast or slow, Gaunt hurrying shadows come and go. 'Tis the host — the host That did lately boast Of the power of God and the Holy Ghost ! — Now shivering here on the Red-Sea coast ! But the Sun goes down, — And the shadows brown Grow black and ominous under the frown Of mists that fall in the waves and drown. These, — these are the ranks That on Nilus' banks Afflicted the Jews without respite or thanks ! Ev'n now how the slave-drivers' harness clanks!- K* 22 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. For a sullen roar, As of chains on a floor, Comes up from where pebbles roll o'er and o'er, As the ripples rush sobbing against the shore. But a wind sweeps down, Like Jehovah's frown ! And the billows go hurrying tow'rds the town, — And Pharaoh's hosts in the whirlpool drown ! And now in the sky, Serene and high, Floats the shield of Omnipotence tranquilly ; And the "pillar of fire by night " is nigh ! — O heart! like the Jews, To be led ye choose From a land where Doubts and Fears abuse, To a land where Faith all Fear subdues ! The prizes are mean That intervene : Be sundered ! divided ! O vapory screen ! And give us to walk unscathed between. * "Whither, ye stately Ships/' 1 23 "WHITHER, YE STATELY SHIPS!" From Winthrop Head. Whither, ye stately Ships, In grandeur do ye ride? — Oh ! do ye never tremble, dreading dire eclipse, As silently ye glide Athwart the Ocean's lips ? Far o'er the widening seas Ye sail to beauteous lands, — Alike, 'mid Behring's ice and Sunda's odorous ease, Obedient to the hands Which bend you to the breeze. Proudly your course ye take Where ne'er before went keel ; Or follow in the track where thirsty myriads slake The intense Desire they feel For far-off loved-ones' sake ! 24 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. Gibraltar's frowning rocks May shadow you in gloom ; But when ye have outridden the vengeful Equinox, Ye find deep harbor-room Where ne'er come tempest-shocks. Outward indeed, ye fly, And farthest oceans trace ; But if ye once shall gain the sought Sicilian sky, Homeward ye then may race In gladdest ecstasy ! Never a cargo bear Of shame or crime, O ships ! Better that whirlwind rend, or treacherous waves insnare, Than that Contagion's lips Should taint your Heaven-free air! But far as oceans stretch, Or Austral 's islands rise, Wing ye Love's message to the wild despairing- wretch ■* "Whither, ye stately Ships /" 25 Who, fainting, seeks the Prize He finds not lest ye fetch ! Scorched amid Central Zone, Crushed by Antarctic ice, Ever, O stately ships ! your nobler birthright own, Nor plunge, a sacrifice, With but a gurgling groan ! Back ! bring our sons safe back ! — - Our brothers, lovers, friends ! We had not let them sail with you your venturous track, But that our faith extends Beyond a drifting wrack ! Never betray, O ships, The trust reposed in ye ! But firm as Boatman builds, and stanch as he equips, Sail ye an Argosy That meets nor dreads eclipse ! H 26 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. "A BREATH FROM THE FIELDS." [To * * * =K, who sent me a box of spring blossoms, with these words : " Taking my usual walk after tea, last evening, I came to a place dotted with violets. Beginning to gather them, I thought of you in your city home. Deeming that a breath from the fields would brighten that home a little, I take the liberty to send you a few."] "A breath from the fields!" Ah me ! Could I paint the vision I see ! For under the spell of these flowers The avenue, busy and hot, And the office, and work, are forgot ; And these granite and marble towers Quick vanish away, and quick The whole desert of fiery brick. "A breath from the fields ! ". . . . All day My spirit has languished to stray From the City of Turmoil. And now. On the magical carpet of Thought, ► ■«- "A Breath from the Fields.'" 27 On the pinions these blossoms have brought, I am wandering where the bough Of the elm with the maple blends, And the song of the robin ascends ! "A breath from the fields ! " The sweets Of a myriad marguerites Are flooding with incense the air ! And a dream my heart besets As I gaze on the violets — A dream and a splendor rare — Of a brook where the blood-root drinks, And the laughter of bobolinks. " A breath from the fields ! " I catch A view of the leafy thatch That waves on the meadow's marge. I roam in the shadows of trees Like those in Hesperides ! And I pluck from the branches the large White beautiful apple-sprays, Till the pain in my heart allays. 28 Holiday Idles se, Etc. "A breath from the fields !"...„. Thank God For the friend who kneeled on the sod To gather such glory for me ! The blossoms will fade ; but depart Will they never from out of my heart. There, forever, their beauty will be, Like the blossoms that gladden the eyes Of the dwellers in Paradise. Boston, May u, 1SS1. SWEETEST SONGS ARE NEVER SUNG. The sweetest songs are never sung, — So the Poets say. The tenderest chords are never strung ; The merriest bells are never rung. < : >%4 Sweetest Songs are never Sung. 29 Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! Let the Poets have their way ! Let them have their way ! — All that sighing Minstrels sing can never me dismay. I can hear sweet bells go pealing — -pealing joy- ously to-day! I can hear their silvery pealing — hear their merry roundelay ! 11. The fairest pearls are never found, — So Professors say. The cheeriest trumpets never sound ; The jauntiest vessels go aground. Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! Let Professors have their way! Let them have their way ! — All that dull Professors dream can never me dismay ! H — ' — 30 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. I can see stanch ships go sailing — sailing ever proudly by ! I can see tall masts and rigging outlined grandly against the sky ! The saintliest prayer is never said, — So the Preachers say. The daintiest board is never spread ; The loveliest maid is never wed. Well-a-day ! Well-a-day ! Let the preachers have their way ! Let them have their way ! — All that dullard Parsons dream can never me dismay ! I myself perchance know somewhat of the lights along the shore : — I myself am soon to wed that loveliest maiden they deplore ! Beacon- Lights. 31 BEACON-LIGHTS. SONNET. The brilliant beacon-lights that bound the shore Guide safe the storm-tossed mariner to port : What matter, green or gold, or tall or short? What matter, shown from rock, or bluff, or tower ? He questions not their color, size, or power, But heeds their warning with his every thought : He heeds their warning, and the ship is brought To home and harbor in a happy hour. — Along the headlands of Life's turbulent sea Aye gleam undimmed the guiding lights of Love ! What matter, Jew, Greek, Christian, if the Light Be followed faithfully? — It then shall be A Guiding Light indeed, to Ports above : A pillar of cloud by day, of fire by night. i 32 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. THE YACHTSMAN'S PENNANT. Mournful I stand on the solitary shore, And feel the misty sea-fogs drifting in. — Above the wind-swept islands, o'er and o'er, The darkling clouds of atmospheric gloom From sight the vistas of the sea entomb, And curtain off the scene as though it had not been. But suddenly, amid the thickening fog, — In yonder spot where deepest lies the gloom, And sea and air hold closest dialogue, — The drifting density a moment parts, And swift to earth heaven's gleaming sunshine darts, Revealing where the top-masts of a yachtsman loom. Proudly her pennant to the breeze unfolds, And bids my eye to read the inscription there. >U ■ »L Pentecost. 33 I look : and in the characters it holds There gleams the bright emblazoned title, Hope ! Methinks I here may trace the horoscope Of life ! and gladsome Faith doth banish my de- spair. PENTECOST. "Wohlauf! es ruft der Sonnenschein Hinaus in Gottes freie Welt ! " — Tieck : Znversicht. " Pentecost, which brings The Spring." — Longfellow. O sluggish slumberer, awake ! — The sunlight calls thee ! Earth's sullen clods beneath thee quake ; The promised buds of Springtide break ; The green sedge quivers by the lake. No longer Winter's gloom appalls thee ; — But out where birds and blossoms wake, God's sunlight calls thee ! 3 34 Holiday Jd/esse, Etc. The bobolink beside the brook Sings, never weary ; The sobbing pine, so long forsook, Is loud with caw of crow and rook ; And where the snow-hung elder shook, And sighed through all the Winter dreary, The robins, as in ^Esop's Book, Chant loud and cheery. Within the woodland green and wild, The fern is springing ; And near the maiden-hair so mild, And golden mosses high up-piled, The violet, Nature's favorite child, Its fragrance on the air is flinging. — How often hath its breath beguiled My heart to singing ! O weary soul ! beset by toil From dawn till gloaming ! — Like Bunyan's Pilgrim, flee the broil ! Forsake the city's ceaseless moil ; I Pentecost. 35 Come out, and tread the tender soil Of Beulah, where no footstep, roaming, Fails of the priceless wine and oil Of Nature's foaming! Pale students ! poring over books And musty Latin ! — Shakespeare read sermons in the brooks ! Through far Ionian seas and nooks Old Homer, godlike in his looks, Roved singing of earth's robe of satin ! And Virgil's shepherds timed their crooks To Nature's matin ! O aching feet ! enforced to tread Hot urban places! — That fain would wander, fain would wed The velvet of some mossy bed ! Ye sometime, as the Prophet said, Shall rove the wide Eternal spaces ! — ■ Rove sometime with the happy dead, In heavenly places ! +H b ^ — 2,6 Holiday Idles se, Etc. O sorrowing heart! — for her, for her, Who left thee weeping ! Canst thou not deem this wondrous stir Of Springtide leaf and gossamer A mild angelic minister? — This wakefulness, where all was sleeping, Is it not Heaven's own messenger To stay thy weeping ? Shall not the clouds that roll afar On Life's horizon, Flee too, like Winter's broken bar ? And in their stead a glittering star Arise, that y£ons shall not mar? This is the hope our heart relies on; And such shall be ! when rolls ajar Heaven's fair horizon ! *§•-•:••§> Concord River. 37 CONCORD RIVER. My soul to-day, O River, wandering seaward, Is with thee ! From out the gray Of Memory — hurrying leeward — Radiantly, As in a dream Of friends dead or at a distance, I behold Thy fair, faint gleam ; And for thy glad existence, — Gay with gold As where there waits Eternal sunrise Yonder At the gates Of sapphire, — I A grateful prayer do ponder, Tremblingly. 38 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. O strange, O mystic stream ! — • Slow winding to the sea : Oft in my nightly dream Thy vision comes to me ! Within my slumber I behold thy placid wave, And look with joy on thy majestic sweep ; And with the answering smile I crave . Thou smilest in my sleep ! Oft in my light-keeled boat, Thy tremulous wave afloat, Thy bosom me hath borne, Thy strength my weakness known, Till wearying care, and scorn, And every fear, were flown ; Until, with spell most magical, Thou in my bosom quelled All phantoms tragical, And pain and doubt dispelled, As when a cloud upon thy breast removes, And down the sun shines on the sea it loves. Full many a placid hour Beside thy edge I've strayed, " Full many a placid hour Beside thy edge I've strayed, And many a sylvan bower Has Fancy there displayed." — Rage 38. Concord River. 39 And many a sylvan bower Has Fancy there displayed. Below thy historic Battle-Bridge thou coursest through a plain, There "'mid thy wide lone meadow-lands to turn and turn again : But in thy narrower, wooded course, where trees thy waves o'erhang, And where the verdure thickly lies as where the Sirens sang, — Here many a leafy, shady dell My feet of yore have found. Nor deemed ye had a parallel The wide earth round. Full oft beside thy vernal banks, What time might come Spring's jocund charioteer, Have I been mute observer of the thanks With which ye knew earth's natal glories near; — Rippling in gratitude when ye should learn Had come the blushing violet and fern ! Plashing thy emerald edge With joyous dew, 40 Holiday fdlesse, Etc. Ye kissed with welcome pledge Earth's offerings new. And I have seen thy greeting to the stars. As one by one they flecked thy unruffled floor — • Venus, and red-browed Mars, And countless myriads more, Gleaming amid the eternal height, The golden diadems of Night. And when unto her full might grow The round red harvest moon, The one above and one below Made midnight like to noon : For mirrored wondrously within thy tide, Graved by a Hand unseen thy bosom o'er, Stood every fleck amid heaven's arches wide, And every shade and shadow of the shore : Each crooked twig, each fluttering leaf, was there, As truly represented as in air : And scarce the line the wave and land between, So perfect was the juncture, could by eye be seen. Amid the verdant foliage at thy side, Unknown to all the world but thee and me, City and Ocean. 41 A countless classic host have lived and died, And linger now not e'en in memory. My books indeed have taught Of many a classic scene and holy age ; Yet to my soul with wisdom full as fraught Has been thy Springtime foliage ! For I have looked through thee as through a portal, And met the wondrous gaze of the Immortal ! THE MURMURING CITY AND THE ANSWERING OCEAN. Leaving the busy, brawling bustle, Leaving the heedless haste and hustle Of the never-silent city, Alone I sought the precincts peaceful of the roll- ing ocean, — - Rolling, rolling, never ceasing. 42 Holiday Idles se % Etc. Beating for me within the city, Beating with throbs of tender pity Was there scarce a single bosom ; But continuous and tender were the throbbings of the ocean, — Throbbing, throbbing, never ceasing. Tremblingly, "'Tis the heart of Nature," Said I, " answering to the stature Of the longing in my bosom For the highest, holiest manhood — for the noblest truest manhood ! — 'Tis the tremulous heart of Nature." Truly, my soul! — but more: — the rather, 'T was the tremulous heart of the Father ! 'T was the sympathy of the Highest, — Of the Highest, Holiest, Truest, — of the Creator to the creature, In his aspirations Heavenward ! .877. H > "A Dear little Birdy 43 "A DEAR LITTLE BIRD." A dear little bird, on a little low tree, Sat swinging and balancing merrily. " O dear little bird, ere away you shall fly, Pray sing me your sweet little song!" said I. With silvery voice, from his brave little throat, The bird made glad melodv, note upon note. " O dear little innocent birdie ! " I cried, " I fain would invite you in faith to my side ! " Right instantly down, from the little low tree, The bird in all trustfulness flew to my knee. " O dear little bird, with thy coronet red> Still nearer, and rest in my bosom!" I said. *■ 44 Holiday fdlesse, Etc. Close up to my heart flew the dear little bird, — ■ Nor ever once since from my presence has stirred. O Truth! like the bird, from the midst of Life's tree, Come fly to my heart and dwell likewise with me ! 1877. MY DRAGON-FLY. [One day during the Summer there flew in at my open window in Boston a huge dragon-fly. Without the slightest hesitation my winged visitant perched himself, very familiarly, upon my writing-table; and with quivering wings — four great gauzy webs of wings — sat for a moment silently though with glistening eye gazing steadfastly into my face. What had called the tiny messenger from the sweet fields and rippling water- courses of his native haunts, to the dust and aridity of city life, I could not determine. However, as he flew in at my window, I had just opened and was then reading a fraternal letter from a dear friend, dated at his summer-home at Vineyard Haven (Island of Martha's Vineyard), in which letter he play- Sonata of the Dragon -Fly. 45 fully wished himself a humming-bird, a butterfly, or some other insect-angel, in order that he might fly to my office for an hour and "whisper in my ear" the delights of his rural and sea-side home ! The coincidence of my friend's wish and the strange presence with me of the dragon-fly at the moment, amused me. And the above will sufficiently account for the supposititious scene of the Sonata with which my tiny visitant, during his brief stay, was pleased to favor me ; for the following lines, although printed under my name, were in reality "whispered in my ear" by the dragon-fly, during his not unwelcome presence upon my writing-table that summer afternoon. When the sweet little soloist had finished, he again took wing, vanishing as he had come. I called after him, for I fain would have had him stay; but he did not answer. I have often wished him back; but as yet, he has not come.] SONATA OF THE DRAGON-FLY. I come, I come, from distant shores; — From where the wide Atlantic roars Around my island home ; Where pebbly strands unbroken lie, Ringed round with spray-cloud mystery, Ringed round with silvery foam ! I come from where the trembling pine Chants chorus to the heaving brine, Chants sonnets to the sea ; 4 6 Holiday Idles se, Etc. From where the myriad-leaved elm. On brink of wide Neptunian realm, Breathes soulful melody. I come from meadowy retreats, Where violets and marguerites The livelong day repose ; Where jauntily the golden-rod And tufted stalks of asters nod, Mingled with sweet-brier rose. I come from where the rippling brook Flows free through many a sylvan nook, Then leaps into the sun ; Where ferns and grasses guard the brink Where butterflies descend to drink, Their glad life just begun. I come from where the oriole's nest Hangs hidden beyond the eager quest Of hawk or schoolboy hand ; From where the yellow-bird's golden hue Flits by with a flash across the blue Of the high arch overspanned. Sonata of the Dragon-Fly. 47 I come from where at eventide The stars in majestic beauty glide, Outvying Arabia's days ; Where nightly the fire-fly's delicate lamp Gleams bright on the background cold and damp Of the furry, tasselled maize. I come from where no thirst of man Encircles the earth with rule and span, Or measures the soul with a gauge : From where the rustic may worship God, And fear no threatening beck or nod In childhood, youth, or age. I come, I come, from distant shores ; — From where the wide Atlantic roars Around my island home ; Where pebbly strands unbroken lie, Ringed round with spray-cloud mystery, Ringed round with silvery foam ! Holiday Idlesse, Etc A FACE, AND A RACE.* I once in a dream ran a race From College-Hill halls to Cremona. I once fell in love with a face, And dreamed it a love for the owner. The pathway was pleasant and green : I dreamed it would never grow dreary. The face, like a beautiful scene, Illumined my heart when aweary. But the road became wet — as by craft! With mud and with water it stained me. I told her my love — and she laughed! Nor cared she a whit how it pained me. I awaked from my dreaming, alas ! And never arrived at Cremona. And the beautiful face — let it pass! Let it fade from my heart, like the owner ! 'From an unprinted college romance. ■f •: College Hill. 49 COLLEGE HILL. [Written after long Absence.] One thought to-day, and one alone, Has filled th' horizon of my mind : And fairer sunbeam never shone On eyes that long had wandered blind. My heart to-day, with happy thrill, Has been with thee, O College Hill ! With thee, with thee, O College Hill! The thunder of far Alpine Hills, The storm-cloud of the Southern Seas, The murmur of Spain's murmuring rills, — Of these I've dreamed — nor dreamed of ease. But happiest thoughts my bosom fill Whene'er I turn, O College Hill, To thee, to thee, O College Hill! 4 ** 5° Holiday Idlesse, Etc. The room grows wide wherein I sit : These narrow, city walls expand : I see again thy robin flit, I see thy lawns on every hand, — As green, as vocal, as the rill That danced adown the sacred hill Of Helicon, O College Hill! I see thy rising slopes, — thy halls; — O Mother-Earth ! thou'rt greener there ! And gentler be the rain that falls, And sweeter, balmier be the air. Forever, and forever still, Upon thy breast, O College Hill! On thy loved breast, O College Hill! Again I seem to see thy trees, — Thy silver-maple, mountain-ash ; And dearer to my heart are these Than Eastern vine or calabash ! ~>< College Hill. 51 I would not part with these, to till By fair Euphrates, College Hill ! Or Gihon's edge, O College Hill! Again I see, — more blest than all, — Full many a dear, remembered face ; Again I hear the laugh, the call, The cheer that rang from place to place,— The laugh and cheer that echo still About thy halls, O College Hill, Could I but hear, O College Hill! Again, in thought, I grasp the hand Of comrades north and southward gone; — I follow them ! and in the land Of Danube, Rhine and Amazon Again I feel the electric thrill I knew on thee, O College Hill, When hand clasped hand On College Hill! 52 Holiday Idles se, Etc. O sacred slopes ! where first my heart With wider hope for man was fired ! Be ne'er forgot, though years depart, The Hope Eternal there inspired ! And, dying, could my body fill A grave on thee, O College Hill, I'd die content, O College Hill! OLD TIMOTHY JOHN, AND HIS FRE- QUENT REFRAIN, " POTATOES ! OH, POTATOES ! " A CHARACTER SKETCH. Not all the heroes of the earth Have gained their victory with the sword Not every child of noble birth Hath borne the escutcheon of a lord. Old Timothy John. 53 Full oft, perchance, by crumbling tomb, By darkling waters' whirling flow, May star-eyed asters beauteous bloom, And fragrant-everlasting grow ! Old Timothy John was a marvelous man, And always a happy one, too, as he ran In the rear of his load of potatoes. "Six dollars, and health, and a hand-cart! " said he ; "Oh, who in the city can wealthier be! — 'Potatoes ! Oh, Potatoes ! ' " The hush of the morning was stirred by his voice, And ever till evening he offered a choice Of several kinds of potatoes. "I warrant them sound as a drum !" cried John, Though this was a hollow comparison ! — "■Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes!" Nor ever a wife or a child had he ; Poor fellow ! no weight ever lay on his knee But a bushel or so of potatoes. 54 Holiday Idles se, Etc. His cart was his wife, and his child, and his friend ; "To a family-carriage," said he, "I pretend! — 'Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes!'" Full certainly Tim was a marvelous man, And quite a philosopher, too, as he ran In the rear of his load of potatoes. "A pox o' your logic!" cried moralist John: "Men soon would decease if they didn't live on — Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes J '" "An' talk o' your ' Nature ' and ' Physics' ! " said Tim, While staring his audience looked at him And then at his load of potatoes. "Ho, ho ! " he said, shoving his cart in the pause, "Isn't here an effect that's ahead o' the cause? — 'Potatoes ! Oh, Potatoes ! ' " Not much of a Christian, perhaps, was Tim ; But often his measure ran over the brim As he sold to the poor their potatoes. "Don't mind the odd sixpence," he also would say, If he saw they were really ill able to pay. "Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes!" * Old Timothy jfohn. 55 The boys loved his coming ; and often they cried, "Oh, please ! dear old Tim! " — -so he gave them a ride On the top of his load of potatoes. The girls loved his coming; — and one, I know, Once threw him a kiss ! though he called it "a blow ! " "Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes/" Not much of a scholar, perhaps, was he ; Though seldom he passed in an "X" for a " V" As he paid for a load of potatoes. "Oh, where is your grammar 1 '" cried Timothy John : "Two tens and a cypher don't make twenty-one! — 'Potatoes ! Oh, Potatoes ." " No loud politician was honest old Tim ; Yet no one could purchase a vote of him Though they bought his whole load of potatoes. "I vote for the man I think most of," said he, "And he wouldn't offer a bribe to me! — 'Potatoes/ Oh, Potatoes/'" "My choice is the man," cried Timothy John, " Who'll help push the world's great hand-cart on ! — And none of your 'small potatoes.' 56 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. The man who could purchase my vote when he would, Would purchase my liberty, too, if he could ! — 'Potatoes/ Oh, Potatoes!'" Full certainly Tim was a marvelous man, And always a happy one, too, as he ran In the rear of his load of potatoes. He sang from a heart overflowing and free, And never mistrusted Futurity he. — "Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes!" But Timothy John, a few harvests ago, Was noticed as steering unwontedly slow With his cargo of new potatoes. "In the Spring," he would say, "I shall go under ground ; — The biggest potato the hemisphere round ! ' Potatoes ! Oh, Potatoes ! ' " God grant that if Tim has indeed since found The Garden where fruits are supposed to abound, — Though never, perhaps, potatoes, — God grant that his voice may be heard on high In loftier strains than his own old cry, — "Potatoes! Oh, Potatoes!" "I feel that I know Her." 57 "I FEEL THAT I KNOW HER." I feel that I know her — we smile as we meet; We pass every day in the very same street, — She hurrying on — heaven only knows where, And I in pursuit of ambitions of air. But who she may be, or the place of her home, Or why through the city forced daily to roam, Or married or single, a maiden or mother, I'm sure I don't know, any more than another. Her eyes are a tender and beautiful blue ; Her hair is the glossiest, goldenest hue ; Her cheeks are as red as the roses in blow, — And her heart is the garden, I feel, where they grow. We never have spoken — we smile and go by; No greeting we utter — except with the eye: Thank God she is modest, retiring, and true ! — And I am as modest and innocent too. ►H- ►K >U 58 Holiday fd/esse, Etc. Full often I wonder her name and her station ; I've known from the first she is foreign by na- tion. Her language — ah me! would that language were mine ! — The land of her birth is the land of the Rhine. O Germany ! land of sweet music and song ! My feet for thy vine-covered terraces long ! With her for a guide through thy sun-purpled air, How gladly my heart would go wandering there ! Some castle enthroned in thy hills there must be, That shelter would furnish for her and for me ! Some crag overhanging some vine-embowered vale, Where beauty might bloom, and where love would not fail ! Ah me ! such a spot it were pleasant to see ; And pleasanter far in its secret to be ! But flee — flee ! ye castles, and day-dreams so fair ! 'Tis true ye are castles — but castles in air. *" "I feel that I know Her." 59 To-morrow I'll meet her again ; and her smile Will lighten life's roadway for many a mile. That face in my dream, were life's journeying done, Would lumine the pathway that leads to the sun ! Ah well! and that day — it will come at the last. Our eyes will be dull, and our smiles will have passed. And never, perhaps, will our voices be heard, Nor ever our souls by those accents be stirred. Perchance in the streets that are nigh to the Throne, Where the heart will have voice, though the tongue be unknown, We each will discern who the other may be, — I better know her, and she better know me. *!••:••§> 6o Holiday Idlesse, Etc. LITTLE BOY HARRY. Thou brave little fellow, so lightsome and free, cease, for a moment, thy frolicsome play ; little boy Harry! come close to my knee! — Come nearer, and listen to what I shall say. 1 think of thee often, as last I beheld thee ; 1 love to remember thine earnest -young face, — So tender and winsome, as often I held thee, Rejoiced at beholding thy manifest grace. So noble and earnest thy constant expression, So grandly embodied within thee was Truth, I gladly would sacrifice every possession To know that my life was as pure as thy youth! * And when I remember "of such as" my Harry "Is made up the kingdom of Heaven" above, No cause have I longer to grieve that I tarry ; — Already I reign in that kingdom of Love ! Little Boy Harry. 61 O dear little fellow ! a blessing be on thee ! God grant thy whole life may be holy as now ! And when the great Future with laurels shall crown thee, I pray they may rest on as noble a brow ! Before thee the Future is slowly appearing ; — Though years must elapse ere thy manhood be nigh : O little boy Harry! ne'er doubting nor fearing, Press faithfully on, till life's goal thou descry. But laugh and be merry while youth thou retainest ! For childhood's glad pleasures will shortly be gone : The sterner refrain of thy life yet remainest, And strength will be needed for conflicts anon. Before thee the Future as yet is unfolding ; But trials and triumphs will one day be past : O little boy Harry! thy footsteps upholding, May heaven and its angels enfold thee at last ! 1876. H* 62 Holiday Idles se, Etc. TO MY FRIENDS ACROSS THE MYSTIC. Three friends I have, beyond the widening river Which separates my city home from theirs : Wavelets at times roar loudly, But still my boat steers proudly ; And oft when Evening's flambeaux on the hurrying current quiver, I follow where yon faintly flickering Polar radi- ance flares. Downward the Dipper, on my passage frowning, May strive at times to bar my onward way : Yet, with glad illumination, Still the brilliant constellation Beckons onward to the city the wide southern hill- slope crowning, — ■ Yonder strangely silent city that lies nestling by the Bay. To my Friends across the Mystic. 63 Fierce February tides may swash in sadness, And hurrying ice-floats surge to meet the sea : But ice is but liquid solid, And its texture aught but stolid When my sturdy keel, urged onward by prospective warmth and gladness, Crashes boldly towards the beacon on the distant snow-clad lea ! Or, perchance, — -when newly flower-decked, fern- decked, moss-decked, Yonder uplands turn in Springtime to the sun, And across the Mystic's flurry Still with flashing oars I hurry, — Vernal zephyrs from the highlands of old Powder- horn and Prospect Whisper softly of the Summer in my own heart just begun ! O my friends! — faithful friends! — whose frequent kindness I perchance may never half or tenth repay : 64 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. Gladly I this thought do render Of Regard full true and tender, — Lest that Gratitude with warning voice accuse my soul of blindness, And I fail on Friendship's altar slightest offering to display! Boston, 1S7S. MEDFORD BELLS. Collegk Hill, Early Autumn, 1S79. Loud on the murky mid-day air The Medford bells are ringing. Bold is the verberant rhyme they blare, Dull is the threnody wild they dare, Doubts to my glad heart bringing. -►f Medford Bells. 65 Dun are the meadows! — in the sky Thick clouds of leaves are whirling ! Sturdiest friendships swiftly fly ; yEons and ages are passing by, Depths into darkness hurling! Calm on the candent evening air The Medford bells are ringing. Mild is the musical chime they bear, Gladly their sibilant song I share, Peace to my sad heart bringing. Ah! of what matter browning fields! What matter flowers that wither ! Brighter-far blossoms Wisdom yields ; Stronger-far sceptre Virtue wields; — Come ! let us wander thither ! 5 66 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. "TO-DAY THE WINDS OF MARCH ARE WILD." [Winthrop, March 27, 1881.] To-day the winds of March are wild. The swallows huddle 'neath the shore; Their wings are still — they cannot fly. But yonder, whirled about the sky, The gulls are circling, o'er and o'er. The gull is Ocean's passive child. The winds of Fate adversely blow. My friends and fellows do not sing ; They sing but when the waves are calm. I look not always for the palm, I take what laurels Fate may bring. With cypress crowned sometimes I go. Daffodils. 67 DAFFODILS, Inscribkii to 'J' — — W- Within the winding woodland aisles Which stately crown our Stoneham hills, A myriad wilding daffodils Bloom gladly where the sunbeam smiles. How they in such unwonted earth Found home and blossomed, none may know But buds of a more beauteous glow, Ne'er, out of poet's brain, had birth. Anigh their vernal, mossy bed, The pine stands whispering to the spruce ; The striped squirrel — gay recluse! — Swings in the branches overhead. -H« 68 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. Around their prize the wondering bees, To such soft sweetness all unused, Buzzingly gather till infused With honey of Hesperides ! Thither the Naiads also come ; Thither the fairies fly in haste : Never more humble courtiers graced A Beauty's court in Christendom. Even the lady-ferns and sedges, Turning in sweet surprise to greet The beauty nestling at their feet, Give the pale strangers welcome pledges. Thither I, too, my steps retrace, Seeking the inspiration there ; Meeting within that charmed air A benediction face to face. Wearily, wearily my feet Were wandering 'mid the fern-clad hills ►H- Daffodils. 69 What if for me the daffodils Had ne'er unveiled their faces sweet! I drew anigh them as the gloom Of evening clad the hills with gray, And all the darkness of my way Grew glorious with their early bloom. () friend! — my friend, though ne'er thy voice To me a syllable hath said ! Forgive if I unbidden tread Where thou hast called me to rejoice. A down the Campus merrily, — Myself unseen, — I saw thee go ! — Saw the exuberant overflow Of the young life embound in thee. The glow thy vermeil cheek which fired ; The music of thy merry laugh ; — ►J< , , , 70 Holiday fdlesse, Etc. Nor sordid gold had given half The benediction these inspired ! Around thee breathed the morning air ; The grass was springing at thy feet ; A robin from his green retreat Chanted for thee a cheery prayer. The sighing pine for thee would sing ! The murmuring breeze for thee be calm! — Deem it not strange a lowly psalm / humbly to thy altar bring ! Wearily, wearily my feet Were wandering in the Valley of Doubt : Thou spake! — in chaos Light gleamed out! Darkness thenceforth was obsolete. I drew anigh thee as the gloom Of Sorrow clad Life's hills with gray, And all the darkness of my way Grew glorious with thy early bloom. 4 Daffodils. 7 1 What if it had been missed by me? — The vision of thy fair young face ! What if my bonds thy buoyant grace Had ne'er unbound and set me free ! To me henceforth, through life, as now, Sacred the spot where thou didst stand ! Sacred the pressure of thy hand Invisible upon my brow! Sacred the spot where thou didst stand ! — Thither the angels frequent fly, Angels like those that met the eye Of Jacob in a foreign land. Thither I, too, my steps retrace, Seeking the inspiration there ; Meeting within that charmed air A benediction face to face. ili.kck Hii.i., May, 1.S79. — Tuftom ■+» -4 72 Holiday Jdlesse, Etc. THE BELLS OF COMO. [Read before the Zetagathean Society* of Tufts College Divinity School, at its Seventh Literary Anniversary, May 26, 1881.] 'Zetagathean Society," — 'I'he Soriety seeking Good. In Italy beyond the sea, — Dim, mediaeval Italy, — When she, whose ancient power and pride Had been for centuries thrown aside, Was slowly waking from her sleep ; And with the inspiration deep And ardor of a second birth, Among the nations of the earth Was taking precedence and place; — When all the Caesar-line was dust, And nothing but decay and rust Remained of the Imperial race ; -►« The Bells of Como. 73. And a new line of kings had come, Immortal throughout Christendom, — Dante and Michael Angelo, And Petrarch and Boccaccio; — When she, so long the nations' scoff, Had risen and flung her languor off, And, waking, had betrayed her skill In marble, and her power to thrill And captivate with harmony A waiting, rapt humanity ; — In Italy beyond the sea. Dim, early modern Italy, Was born one day a little child, — A little weakling ! as if he, For whom was meant a destinv Amazing, luring, mocking, wild, Blissful at times, at times severe, — ■ Humble, exalted, mild, austere, — Had been by Nature sent to be Even in birth an epitome Of all the dread, magnificent, Vain-glorious accomplishment Of his own native monarchy. g. 74 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. He was a marvel of a child, His mother thought — the neighbors knew; For often, as he lay, he smiled ; And closing his clear eyes of blue, Would bend his ear as if he caught Some echo of angelic thought, — The murmur of rhythmic melody, A strain of heavenly harmony. When out of babyhood he passed, And grew in stature, — and at last Had come to boyhood, — all his art, Untried, imperfect, yet in part Revealing what was in his heart, Was raptly exercised to bring From brass, from iron, from everything That answered with melodious ring When he should touch it, such a tone As always, when he was alone, Seemed ringing in the air around, — The song stiH present, and the sound, Which once, when he a baby lay, The angels sang to him each day. The Bells of Como. 75 And as he labored still, apart, And leaned to listen, — and on wings Of eager wishes would ascend Where yonder anthems seemed to blend, Echoing without hush or end, — His mother wondered at these things, And pondered them within her heart. " What is it, Michael ? " she one day Entreated, — " Tell me your desire ! Your eyes are radiant with a fire Like that on Como when the sun Is setting and the day is done. What is it! tell it me, I pray!" But Michael only turned away. He had no words, no heart, to say, Unto his mother even, as yet, The longing that was in his soul — The wish not yet in his control. But as he turned, his eyes were wet ! For even then there seemed to rise The ever-swelling harmony, The far-off angel melody, Filling: the blue ethereal skies "V * 7« Holiday fdlesse, Etc. With sweetest notes, as if to wound His spirit with ideal sound. Swiftly the months and seasons ran, — The youth still musing, — till one day. With something of a wild dismay, He woke and found himself a man. His thought, his toil, his frequent prayer, Had brought no laurel to his side ; His soul was still unsatisfied, His chimes were still but in the air. His chimes ! For it was Michael's aim, In manhood as in youth the same, — His one endeavor, — to create So marvelous a chime of bells, So fair and void of parallels, That they the soul would captivate, And a delighted world would own The music of their silver tone. "Some brotherhood of friars," said he, "Some convent here in Italy, Will gladly purchase them of me ! ►H- •>< H+ The Bells of Como. 77 Through all the world their fame will flow, And pilgrims here will come and go ; And honor will be mine, and I Will build me here a cottage fair, And on the morn and evening air, Ascending hither, fleeing there, Will hear their music till I die." No jangling chimes like those that rung Throughout the vale where Como lay, When knelt the brotherhood to pray, Would Michael make ! but on the day When first his silvery bells were swung, The monks and friars should all confess- Not sins alone and idleness — But that their prayers before had known No inspiration like the tone That echoed from the belfry-throne Where Michael's chimes had gained access ! Surpassed their music should not be By any flute of Arcady, Or any Hebrew timbrel old, Or any fabled Harp of Gold, Or any violin whose fame 78 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. Had given to its maker's name A lustre more than marvelous, — A halo such as still adheres To him who wrote upon his work A name which through the deathless years In Music's memory will lurk, — "Antonio Stradivarius." For years, in secret, Michael strove, Untiring, in a little grove, Casting and tuning still, anew, The metal cups from which he drew His hope of honor, wealth, and fame. Alike to him were praise and blame, Coming from those who nothing knew Of his intention or his aim. Baffled a myriad times, again Untiringly he toiled • and when With fleeing years his faith grew dim, Again the angels came to him. And so he strove — nor strove in vain : For in the end his patient pain Accomplished all his heart's desire. U _►■ The Bells of Como. 79 He labored with his soul on fire ; And catching from the angels' song The melody he missed so long, He tuned in ecstasy sublime The clanging bells to perfect chime ; Until they rang a silver tone, The echo of the angels' own. A week now hardly passed away, When on the artist, pleased and proud, There called with offer rich and rare A neighboring friar of orders gray ; Who, having blest himself, and bowed, And laid his hand on Michael's hair, "I come, my brother," — so he spake, — "For this your masterpiece to make With earnest prayer the prior's request. We offer you a price, and take, With eager thankfulness confessed, And many a benediction rich, The wondrous metal marvels, which, By holy Mother Mary blest, Aided by tireless prayer and thought, The cunning of your hands has wrought." 4. ►<- 8o Holiday fdlesse, Etc. This the beginning was. The rest, Just as he long had dreamed it all, Now came to Michael, with such speed That in a month his cottage wall, — Carrara covered, tiled and tall, — Had risen on the margin wide Of beautiful blue Como's side ; And he from toil and want was freed ! At morning now, at noon and night, In rapture at his cottage door, Sheltered from summer heat and light By clustering vine and sycamore, Entranced did Michael daily sit, Intently waiting the joyful peal, The anthem glad and glorious, Which from the convent on the height That rose his homestead opposite Announced the inmates' hour to kneel- Betrayed, with sudden and loud appeal, Of pious intent their overplus- — Or sounded the holy Angelus. Diviner melody than these The Bells of Como. 81 No chimes in all the world could ring ; To all who harkened, heavenly ease, And pardon, such as angels sing When mortals fall upon their knees, Their notes seraphic seemed to bring. To Michael's thought the blest retreat Of Eden had no music higher. Not fabled Orpheus' golden lyre Had ever sounded half so sweet. And if at favored Michael's feet Nor rock nor forest bowed and sang, His soul was often glorified With a triumphant, joyful pride Which Orpheus never knew or dreamed : For when at morn or eventide His chimes their silver music rang, To him — ah! then to him it seemed The waiting angels circled low, And caught and raised the echo high, And flung it over hill and glen ; And when the anthem ceased to flow, Upbore it with them to the sky, And closed it with a sweet Amen. 6 82 Holiday /(//esse, Etc. But now throughout the peaceful vale, Along the placid lakelet's marge, The storm of war, its iron hail, The beat of angry foreign flail, The clash of feudal spear and targe, Came suddenly and awfully. As when, from out a summer sky, Where flakes of fairest amber hue Against a ground of gold and blue All day have floated gorgeously, There leaps a sudden awful flash, The lightning's angry augury ; And with a quick, tumultuous crash The thunder follows, and the pale Blue zenith thickens with the charge Of cloudy cohorts ; and the large And sturdy oak, — which hitherto, Whatever stormy tempest blew, Had towered unsmitten, — when the hail And whirlwind and the furious blow Have ceased, lies shattered, rootless, low, All lifeless ; so throughout the vale Of Como, and through all the land, The Bells of Como. 83 There came the storm of war ; and so, When turmoil met its overthrow, And the red, desolating brand Had fallen from the invading hand, And Michael again reached his home From fighting in the ranks of Rome, No stone above another stood Where once his hard-earned habitude Had reared its modest tower and dome. The grove, where he for years had toiled, The torch had ruthlessly despoiled. And more calamitous than all, Gone was the monkish brotherhood ! And erst where cell and cloister stood, And prayer reechoed, wall to wall, — Now wrapped in winding-sheet and pall, The convent in a ruined heap Of ashes lay upon the steep. And Michael's bells ! his masterpiece ! His peerless, his unrivaled bells, Whose chimes were never more to cease ! The mocking mob of infidels Had stolen them away, and left Their maker mournful and bereft. I 84 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. The light was taken from his eyes ; The gate was shut on Paradise. ''Alas!" he murmured. "Woe is me! My cup, for all futurity, Is filled with misery to the brim ! " What now indeed remained for him ! His home, his family, his health For labor, and his little wealth, These all were gone! — And even the sound That once had echoed in the air, Luring him upward from the ground With melody beyond compare, — Sounding from heavenly citadels, — This too had vanished with his bells. Or so it seemed to him at first. For afterwards, as he one day Was kneeling on the ground to pray, — ■ The ruined ground, where he of yore Had sat beside his cottage door ! — Upon his ear a sudden burst Of the old melody on high Rang rapturously. And from the sky ► «- The Bells of Coma. 85 A voice angelic, clear and loud, Came searchingly. " No more delay ! Up, Michael ! up ! " it seemed to say ; "Why stand ye here, with forehead bowed And footsteps- idle ? Follow on ! Somewhere your bells their joyful tone Are ringing even now ! Be gone ! Seek them afar, and claim your own ! " So Michael rose ! nor stayed an hour. New hope was in his heart ; and power To journey, did the need require, From the blue skies and silver seas Of his own Temperate Italy, To where the Tropic's flaming sky Unrolled its canopy of fire, Or where the desolate Arctic breeze Blew cold above the mountains drear Of the waste northern hemisphere. So seized he in that selfsame hour His cloak and staff and shallow purse, Intent in every hall and tower, And every hamlet, to rehearse 86 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. The history of his stolen bells — The fair and void of parallels ! Steadfast he wandered here and there, Seeking his darlings everywhere. And not alone in Italy, Beneath his native skies of blue, But where the Jura mountains threw Their shadows on Geneva's sea. Not up and down the Alps alone, And through and through the Appennine, But where the Danube and the Rhine Upreared their convent-towers of stone. Who knew but here perchance his bells Rang out in grief their stolen tone ! "Who knows," he cried, "but here there dwells A respite for my grief and pain, And here my ears, so weary grown, Shall ring with harmony again ! " But when he heard the clang and roar That echoed up and down the slopes, Sounding from many a convent-shrine, Vanished again were all his hopes. ►H- The Bells of Co?no. 87 "Alack!*' he sighed, "they are not mine!" His bells revealed their secret lore In heavenly harmony ! but these, What ear could deem their notes divine, Or call their anthems melodies ! The seasons went, and came ; and went, And came again : and still his way, Across and through the continent, Untiringly, day after day, Michael pursued, through cold and heat. Ten, — twenty, — thirty years his feet Onward unceasingly were bent! Far to the East his steps were turned, — To where, on priest-fed altars, burned Unfading fire ; and to the shrine Of Bethlehem in Palestine. Even through India and Cathay His search unfaltering he made. No distance could his zeal evade. His chimes seemed never far away : On mountain, o'er the desert sand, On lake, on river, on the land, i 88 Holiday Idles se, Etc. Ever they sounded loud and clear, Ringing triumphant in his ear. His form was bent, his beard was gray, His wrinkled face was bronzed and burned But as a traveler in the night, Groping, and waiting for the light, Yet walking still, — so Michael turned, And waited for the coming dav. It was in Greece, at last, that news Arrived to Michael of his bells — Amid the towers and citadels Of Athens, where, to pray and muse, And stray an hour, and lean upon The ruins of the Parthenon, Had come at length his weary feet. A traveler here he met, replete With stories wonderful, who said : "Somewhere in yonder Western Seas I heard their marvelous melodies ! " But where, he could not say; — for dead, Now, in his memory, the ground Where he had listened to their sound. The Bells of Como. But Michael had at least a cue ; And hurrying to Italy, His way he purposed to pursue Along the borders of the sea, Through all the countries of the West, And there, God willing, end his quest. In a few days his feet had come To buried Herculaneum ; And when he saw the mountain's brim, Piercing the cloud-rack over him, — Gazing as with defiant air Upon the wasted cities there, — On Michael's burning heart the tears Fell thick and fast for wasted years ; As on Vesuvius' burning height The rain fell hissing in the night. Then north, to the unblest estate Where ancient Rome sat desolate, — ■ Discrowned, like Lear, by daughters she Had pampered in prosperity. And there in Rome, at last ! he heard 4- 90 Holiday fd/esse, Etc. The story he so long had sought. He met a mariner, who brought The grateful, long-expected word, That yonder on the sun-lit shore Of Erin there were silver bells, So fair and void of parallels, That he who heard would fain implore That he might hear them evermore. A month went by. A little bark Was moored on Shannon's placid tide. A boat was pushing from her side ; And o'er the silver wave the dark Fantastic turret of St. Mary's lay, Far-shadowed by the dropping day. Kneeling within the little boat, His streaming eyes upon the tower, Was Michael ! — Happy, happy hour ! "O bells! " he cried, — "one marvelous note! Long have I toiled and sought for thee ! Ring out ! ring out, and welcome me ! Ring at the setting of the sun ! Ring ! and my pilgrimage is done ! " ■+■«« The Bells of Cotno. 91 The answer came ! A silvery shower Burst from the old cathedral tower ! A smile illumed the wanderer's face : His heart sang inward jubilee. The bells were his ! and time nor place Had marred or dulled their melody. But Michael ! When the rowers sought To take in theirs his withered hand, And rouse him, as they neared the land, They did his guardian-angels wrong! His soul the seraph-hosts had caught, And borne it upward with the song ! The melody was Michael's knell — The anthem was his passing-bell! And now, my brothers ! at whose word Of cordial welcome and command I come again a little while To greet you and to take your hand, H 92 Holiday fd/esse, Etc. And meet your well-remembere-d smile, And read to you> in simple phrase. In memory of other days, This verse of mine! — Your kindly word To come to you I gladly heard ; Though deeming I had little right The place or power to emulate Of those who on a loftier height, Beholding more seraphic light, Have power the heart to captivate. The silvery phrase which Sidney knew, The golden light which Milton drew With cunning hand across his verse, My pen indeed may not rehearse, Nor in its highest ecstasy Attain the sweet simplicity Of Bryant's or of Wordsworth's art : But pondering as best I might A song to touch the thinking heart, And questioning what land, what date, What freak of Fortune or of Fate, What winter gloom or summer light I best might open to your sight, ■*n — >] The Bells of Como. 93 O brothers, I have brought you this ! And though indeed the gleam you miss Which other hand had made more bright, To you this Legend Beautiful, Of patience under painful rule, Of innocence as white as wool, Of eager wandering to regain Surcease of weariness of brain, And finding only death and pain,— To you this legend I relate, To you this tale I dedicate. Ye are the Seekers after Good ! On earth ye have no habitude. Your lives ye dedicate in youth To painful, long, unending search, — And in the portals of the Church Seek Knowledge and Eternal Truth ! To-day, of Truth perchance the prize Ye think ye hold before your eyes. Through care, and toil, and anxious thought, The melody ye long have sought Seems ringing in the sun-lit air ; i 94 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. And ye are confident, forsooth, And "Thus and so," ye say, "is Truth!" What shall I say to you? — Beware? Clasp not with fervor to your soul A dream so flattering ? so unreal ? I would not mock your glad appeal ! Far rather would my hand unroll, If such were possible, a scroll On which were written, "Yea! your search Has led you to the one true church ! Your dream — it is indeed The Truth, And ye are conquerors ev'n in youth ! " Alas ! we know not where it lies ! It is not ours with seraph's eyes To pierce God's hidden destinies ! We seek, we knock, we vainly call, Like Pilate in the council-hall. And still the Christ no answer makes ! — And still the rabble comes, and takes, And carries him without the wall ! The Bells of Como. 95 What then ? Shall we forbear our toil ? Blow out our lamp ? neglect the oil ? Repose on some Calypso-beach, Or to the hall of Circe flee? Heaven lies not far beyond our reach : We almost hear its melody. A messenger has shown the way ; We heed, we follow on To Know. But only when, like Michael, we Are met by angels, and the glow • And glamour of the life below Is merged in the refulgent ray And beauty of the Heavenly Day, Will the sweet Truth we long have sought Unto our waiting; souls be brought. *H-4> e>H- ►+« — — >I« 96 Holiday Id/esse, Etc. MOTHER AND SON. In the heart of a city of wealth untold, In the heart of a city with wealth grown cold, A Woman, with weary heart and brain, Bowed trembling beneath a load of pain. The firelight danced on her darkened wall : But it danced in figures tragical. A beam from the Occident sun shone in : But it gleamed with the flash of a javelin. The man she had loved, — whose home had been hers, — Was lying to-day 'mid the sepulchres ! With eager embrace, in her desolate grief, The babe at her breast gave a glad relief: ►* Mother and Son. 97 "Oh wait, my soul!" On her startled sight A gleam from the Future flashed clear and bright. " Oh wait ! till my boy perchance shall grow To realize what he so soon must know : " He then in my heart shall fill the void Left desolate by hopes destroyed ! " — The years swept past ; and with turbulent tread : Yet Hope still lingered, nor Faith grew dead. The mother, with earnest heart and smile, Toiled alway, and sang at her toil the while. Earnest she labored from week to week ; And hardly she kept the bloom in her cheek. The race was long, the burden was hard ; But onward she struggled, nor sought reward. Her bright little boy, now five years old, Was growing in graces manifold. 7 98 Holiday Idlesse, Etc. If his body was little, his heart was big ; And his thought could go light over many a league. He oft at her side her labor condoled, And listened to many a tale she told. The light of her love in her eye shone clear ; For her heart was a fountain of love and cheer : And a prayer for her darling, with every word, Went up to a Throne where prayer is heard. With a smile and a tear the eye of the boy Oft flashed on his mother an answer of joy. His quivering lip in expectancy lay; — For the end of each story himself could say : A kiss and embrace, a caress and a smile, And rapture in perfect fruition the while! His eyes wore a look that a limner might give To a Babe in a Manger — contemplative,