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THE SEA WIND A Book of Verse BY WILLIAM COLBURN HUSTED BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1915 COPYKIGHT, 1915 Sherman, French & Company DEC 17 1915 CU4I6936 CONTENTS PAGE The Summons 1 The Highway 3 Gossamer Slippers 4 The April Woods 5 The Wondrous Story 6 From the Brooklyn Bridge 10 A Pastoral 11 Prophecies 13 At Every Man's Door 14 Memorial Day 16 A Birthday Greeting 17 General Antonio Maceo 19 In the Saddle 20 Rosalind 23 The Forest of Arden 24 Will You Come with Me, My Lass ... 25 The Sea Wind 27 " O'er Moor and Fen, O'er Crag and Tor- rent " 28 An Old Portrait 29 To A Bride 33 At Vailima 34 November 35 The Song of the Birds 37 Hymn 38 George Du Maurier 40 Cupid 41 No Answer 44 The Traveler 45 PAGE The First Thought 47 The Lawyer 48 The Physician 50 The Island 53 The Stream 54 The End of the Year 57 THE SEA WIND THE SUMMONS There's a blue in the sky and a breath in the air From the gardens of Hesperus blowing, The hounds of the Spring are awake and aware That Winter's pale presence is going, For gone are the forces that held them at bay, And gone are the frost-ridden hours ; Old earth is aroused to the rapture today And is breathing and breaking in flowers. The robins are flinging their fountains of song. In cadences rising and falling, And out in the orchard a riotous throng Their jubilant chorus are calling; One burden is warbled by each feathered throat. One song in an ecstasy gushes ; The bluebirds began it with clear leading note. And gave it to robins and thrushes. The foot of the prophet has trodden the hills. And daffodils spring as he passes. He whispers release to the listening rills That tremble and thrill in the grasses. He touches the trees to their sheathings of green, A silent and visible token, And over the earth where his going is seen. The reign of the Winter is broken. [1] Disciples of Nature, the summons are heard. The impulse is clearly before us, For breaking of blossom and carol of bird Belong to an infinite chorus. And in this glad waking we too have a part. The drift of the song and its beauty Shall quicken the courage and speak to the heart Its message of hope and of duty. [2J THE HIGHWAY The mind a highway is. A constant throng Of travelers we call thoughts pursue their way In varying processions, day by day, Weaving the moods that unto each belong. Some march to music resolute and strong, Enkindled by the coming of the fray; While others follow, wrapped in sober gray Like weary pilgrims, chanting a low song; Some wear the prophet robes and utter bright And joyous messages as they hasten past, Interpreting life's dim and sacred need ; While stealing through the cover of the night, A horde of evil fancies gather fast, Like leagued assassins plotting some foul deed. [3] GOSSAMER SLIPPERS In gossamer slippers light and fleet, Pattered upon the grasses their feet. The mimic music arose and fell The livelong night through the leafy dell. The violin shrill was the cricket's croon, The bumble-bee was the big bassoon, As light and blithe as the summer air, They tripped their tricksy measures there. No watchers had they but the clumsy gnomes. Strayed away from their earthy homes. And a countless host of sylvan things With drowsy eyes and long, gray wings. But none invaded their mystic ground. And none disputed the fairies' bound, As filled with wine of honey and dew. They danced and feasted the whole night through. Bright were the toasts that were lifted up In the depth of the tiny acorn cup. Light and glad was each elfin soul. Quaffing the strength of the wassail bowl. A runner has come from the courts of the East To hasten the end of the dance and feast. The legions of Light are on Night's dark shore, And gossamer slippers are seen no more. [4] THE APRIL WOODS Like a great orchestra, attuned and strong, Just waiting for the signal to begin. When flute and 'cello, harp and violin. Shall break together into raptured song On some high theme where Youth and Hope be- long. And Doubt and Sorrow dare not enter in, — For Life is lord, and destined still to win The mighty vantage over Death and Wrong, — So seem the woods to me this April day. As late I loiter in the tranquil light. And mark the deep tone-color yet unseen. Soon every tufted sprig and tasselled spray Will break in beauty on my gladdened sight In one great shimmering symphony of green. [5] THE WONDROUS STORY Long years ago, — so runs the wondrous story, — In Bethlehem town one clear and shining morn When Roman strength had dimmed Judea's glory, A little Child was bom. Peace ruled the world; hushed was the noise of battle Throughout the borders of the dreaming earth, When in the straw among the crowding cattle This Baby had His birth: There was no room ; the Mother was not able To find a shelter, to her sad surprise. And so it chanced that in a lowly stable He opened His sweet eyes. Without the village, on the hill-slopes keeping Their quiet guard beside their flocks that night, A band of shepherds, vigilant, unsleeping. Beheld a wondrous sight. For clear above them, like a curtain lifted. The parted skies revealed a radiant throng [6] Of angels praising God, from whom there drifted That first dear Christmas song. " Be not afraid," they said, " there is no dan- ger; Good tidings of great joy to you we bring, For unto you this hour in Bethlehem's manger Is born your promised King. ^ " Go, — seek the Saviour in His lowly station ; His glorious reign on earth shall never cease. For on this day to you and every nation We bear good-will and peace." But when the shining heralds had departed, The wondering shepherds through the morn- ing mild Back to the village hastened happy-hearted, Seeking the new-born Child. And when amid the hay and straw they found Him Beside His Mother in that narrow stall. In simple love and faith they knelt around Him And owned Him Lord of all. Then from the East, with earnest, swarthy faces. Three princely strangers journeyed from afar [7] Across the mountains, through the desert places, Led by a glorious star. Like a bright messenger of hope it sped them, A guide and escort on their steadfast way, Until beside the manger-bed it led them. In which the young Child lay. Then filled with love and eager to adore Him, Before the Babe their treasure they unfold; And in their lowly worship spread before Him Myrrh, frankincense, and gold. But at these stately strangers Mary won- dered, — Their costly presents, and the homage done ; The while with mother-love she dreamed and pondered Above her little Son. The centuries pass, — and lo \ that ancient story Still holds its meaning wonderful and bright. As once again we catch the far-off glory Of that first Christmas night. And still for us that angel choir is singing In heavenly melodies that shall never cease, To all the weary and the way-worn bringing Its pledge of love and peace. [8] And still for us that beauteous star is glowing With its soft lustre in those Eastern skies, To those who seek the Saviour plainly showing The stable where He lies. And if we hasten to that royal manger, As did the others on their raptured quest. We find the little Child, though not a stranger, Upon the Mother's breast. [9] FROM THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE City of homes, thy tall and stately spires Are pencilled clear against the evening skies, Bidding the laggard thought take wing and rise Above the drift of doubt and vague desires. Serene and bright as thine own household fires. Glow the rich memories while the daylight dies, — Thy zeal for truth, thine ardent charities, And love of social cheer that never tires. Although for thee the selfish thirst of power And lust of gain have wrought their sovereign will, And yoked thy strength to ends beyond thy choice, The past shall bloom like some bright, tropic flower, And from the mist of years there echoes still The mighty throb of Boanerges' voice. [10] A PASTORAL When the broad and sombre shadows Lie along the sloping meadows, Turn the cattle sleek and ready From the pastures where they roam; Urged by no unkind insistence From the softly fading distance, Hear their hoof-treads slow and steady In the twilight coming home. Jangle, jangle sounds the wrangle Of the bells through field and tangle. Ever sinking, ever swelling. In a soft incessant chime, — Growing ever clear and clearer As the herd is coming nearer. With their merry clangor telling The return of milking time. By the margin of the river Where the reeds and rushes quiver, And the wild-fowl in the sedges, Watch the slipping of the tide, All the cattle, straightway turning With a swift, instinctive yearning. Lean their dry lips to the edges Close along the water side. [11] Like a veil the dusk is falling, And the drowsy chorus calling. Stars are springing in the ample Acres of the upper dome; Nothing now the silence breaking But the sounds of night awaking, And the dull and steady trample Of the cattle coming home. [12] PROPHECIES The bitter north wind sweeps this wintry day In restless haste along the empty street, The while with shielded sight I press my way Against the cutting sleet, But with a sudden j oy my spirit thrills, For in the florist's window there appear The golden faces of the daffodils To say that Spring is near. [13] AT EVERY MAN'S DOOR It may be when the skies are grey, before the light is strong ; It may be when the fretted day has worn to even-song ; It may be when the midnoon light is on the hun- dred hills Or the vast cavern of the night in lonely silence fiUs; And whether from the west or east, Or from the northern shore, Fortune standeth once at least At every man's door. Away upon the tossing sea her argosies are rolled, And rich and rare their freightage be of treasure and of gold. The happy mariners who stand and tend each swelhng sail Discern afar the waiting land which they are bound to hail. But whether from the west or east, Or from the southern shore. Fortune standeth once at least At every man's door. [14] Her hands are filled with gracious gifts for those who toil in vain; The burden of despair she lifts from prisoners of pain ; A high resolve and sturdy heart she brings to those who wait, So fling your portals far apart and greet her at the gate, For surely from the east or west Or from a central shore. Fortune stands when it is best At every man's door. [15] MEMORIAL DAY In fancy still we see those brave lads marching Against the dark intrigue, the leaden rain, Beyond the Southern hills, across the parching And stripped plantations of that proud do- main, — Still moving on; the blue sky over-arching. Filled with the echoes of their battle strain. And now they lie beneath the long lush grasses In that strange semblance of a dreamless sleep. The slanting sunlight blesses as it passes, And night by night the stars their watches keep. The mournful winds still breathe their burial masses, Keyed to the ocean's music low and deep. [16] A BIRTHDAY GREETING To Mrs. William R. Williams on her seventy-ninth birthday, December 3d, 1896. Sometimes a sunset at a long day's end Its choicest wealth of color will withhold, But as the shadows of the night descend Reveals its rose and amethyst and gold. Sometimes a garden growth seems wholly lost To watchful sight through summer sun and shower, But at the coming of the early frost It breaks at length in rare and perfect flower. Sometimes a noble symphony has shown Its mighty range in wondrous measures cast. But saves its special strength, its deepest tone. Its sweetest strain of music, till the last. And so a human life is sometimes led, As one by one the long slow years increase. On weary feet the lowly paths to tread And reach at length a Beulah-land of peace. May it be yours to treasure and to hold This tranquil time as care and strength al- low; To feel, like those at Cana's feast of old. That you have kept the best wine until now. [17] And may the Guest of that high, festal hour Be ever with you through your whole life long, To work His miracle in breaking flower. In sunset light, in strain of noble song. And when for you and us some far-oif year The change shall come, devoid of fear and sting, Like a bright sentry may its form appear To open wide the gateway of the King. [18] GENERAL ANTONIO MACEO Like some brave hero of the long ago We mourn his passing, for his cause was just. His country's freedom was a holy trust, And for its sake he faced a deadly foe. His heart aflame with liberty's warm glow. In valiant faith he trod the battle dust. He met the Spanish hate, its savage lust, Until the dastards brought his strong life low. Fear not, O patriot! like the Southern Cross That sheds its lustre from the tropic skies. Thy memory shines till time itself shall cease ; Nor yet in vain shall be thy country's loss, For Cuba, free, untrammeled, shall arise. And gain at last her long bright dream of peace. [19] IN THE SADDLE Oh what in the world has the freshness and flavor Of utter release from the matter-of-course As bidding farewell unto spirits that waver And having a seat on the back of a horse. To feel underneath one the spring of the leather, And yield to the motion so steady and strong, To drink in the wine of the ripe golden weather, And gaily and fearlessly gallop along. Down in the meadow a bobolink passes. Brushing the clover with quick-flashing wings ; Leaving his nest snugly hid in the grasses. Sudden and sweet is the carol he sings. Up in the treetop a robin has caught it ; He flutes and he warbles his answering song. Straight to our senses the breezes have brought it, It rings in our ears as we gallop along. What is the joy that is just running over From Nature's full spirit in perfume and sound. That is felt in the bird song and smelt in the clover. And echoes and rings from the hoof-beaten ground ? [20] The horses are stirred by the zest of the canter And need not the tingling of whip-lash or thong ; As though at the wand of some guiding en- chanter They strongly and steadily gallop along. Nature is full of her manifold voices, — All that a countless creation can yield Numberless echoes of sweet country noises Blown from the forest and blown from the field. Forward ! — like warriors hast'ning to battle. Hear how the hoof-beats sound, — steady and strong ! Starting the herds of the low-browsing cattle A moment in fear as we gallop along. Now on the hillside and now in the valley And now in the woodland our courses we find. In the long gallop our better thoughts rally And scatter the doubt and the dread of the mind. Now for a moment our fancies are idle. And now we are singing a gay dashing song, As lightly we bend to the bit and the bridle. And strongly and steadily gallop along. [21] For what in the world has the freshness and flavor Of utter release from the matter-of-course As bidding farewell unto spirits that waver And having a seat on the back of a horse. [22] ROSALIND She stands at Shakespeare's window blithe and fair, With dimpled cheeks and blue, bewitching eyes. About her like a veil the sunlight lies ; It shimmers through the meshes of her hair. No weight hath she of weariness or care, For light as wings her buoyant spirits rise. To probe the strength of Love in brave dis- guise. And make a very mockery of Despair. To her rapt mood the Arden thought is borne, — The brush of forest boughs, the birds' clear note. The trickling of the brooks through weed and cress, The silver summons of the hunter's horn That calls and calls again from some remote. Dim covert of the leafy wilderness. [23] THE FOREST OF ARDEN What drowsy murmurs fill the ancient place! Along the aisles what dreamy pleasaunce lies ! Like sudden ghosts old memories arise At every turn, and meet us face to face. Here Rosalind wrought her witcheries of grace, And wore the manhood in such valiant guise ; Here sad Orlando drew his heavy sighs, And roamed the wood with sad and thoughtful pace. Here Mirth and Frolic played at masquerade. And sparkling jests like javelins were hurled, And Love laughed on through every change of mood, While shy wood-creatures saw with eyes afraid The gay caprices of the outer world In the deep silence of their solitude. [24] WILL YOU COME WITH ME, MY LASS When the presence of Spring is spoken To the sense of the quickened earth, And every hint and token Proclaims the great green birth, When the birds are busily nesting And life is strong in the grass, When the world is weary of resting Will you come with me, my lass? When Summer is swathed in roses And sweet with the flush of June, When the whole wide land reposes Asleep to a drowsy tune. When the sunshine is brightly streaming And the breezes pause as they pass. When the world is lost in dreaming Will you come with me, my lass? When the globe of the grape is drooping And Autumn is drunk with wine, When the red and the russet are grouping Their thoughts upon tree and vine. When the golden rod and the aster Sway lightly amid the grass. And the sands of the year run faster. Will you come with me, my lass ? [25] When the wealth that the earth inherits Is squandered in fierce delight, And legions of mocking spirits Laugh on through the Winter's night, When streams have strengthened their ranges With barriers clear as glass. Through all the year's sweet changes Will you come with me, my lass? [26] THE SEA WIND As when the sea wind, freshening from the coast, Blows in upon the hot and arid plain. Bringing to weary souls that need it most The rimy flavor of the great, salt main. And turns their tired plaint to tuneful praise, So does the tonic of some strong, pure thought Strike in upon our dull and barren moods. With all the vigor of suggestion fraught. It lifts our souls to nobler altitudes. Beyond the dusty level of our days. [27] « O'ER MOOR AND FEN, O'ER CRAG AND TORRENT" When twilight shadows deepen into night Beneath the sky, And all unknown before my doubting sight The dark moors lie. Across the lonely leagues I trust Thy will; As Thou hast led me, Thou wilt lead me still. When trackless fens stretch desolate and dim On every side. Now shrunken wastes, now flooded to the brim By bubbling tide. Upon the spongy soil there is no need Of ceaseless dread, for Thou wilt surely lead. When heavy crags hang treacherous and steep Above my head, And I am sore perplexed what hold to keep. What way to tread. Along the rocky verge I walk at will. Calm in the courage that Thou leadest still. And when the torrent in its whelming wrath Breaks fierce and wild, And filled with sudden fear I miss the path. Like a lost child. Above the flood the steadfast stars I heed. And find assurance that Thou still dost lead. [28] AN OLD PORTRAIT A WHILE ago, one idle afternoon, When thought was sad and life was out of tune, When something harsh had crept into the song. Where only truly love and joy belong, Upon a canvas, clothed in serious mood, I saw the face of Lady Hermentrude. A sudden sense of tender feeling came From out the portrait in that antique frame, A world of hidden passions seemed to rise Within the glances of those lovely eyes. That dark and deep, their dreamy beauty caught. Like evening shadows thrown in wells of thought. The eager lips were half apart to speak. And rich the damask in her curving cheek. The old traditions of a lofty race Were all reflected in the perfect face. And in the full throat's open loveliness Above the bodice of her velvet dress. V As fell that garment brightly, fold on fold. In heavy masses from her belt of gold. Its deep and crimson lustre seemed to shine With all the passion of imprisoned wine; It robed her fully with its ample grace, A perfect setting for a perfect face. [29] Sweet is the story that the centuries tell; It has no mellow chime of wedding bell, — No breath of orange bloom, no bridal veil Have any entrance in that dim old tale, But in their sober stead we only find The strong allegiance of a loyal mind. She lived unwedded on her wide estates, With many tenants round her castle-gates ; Bright and enchanted were the passing hours Among her music and her books and flowers ; Her halls were thronged with guests that went and came. And paid their homage to a proud old name. Time ran in golden grooves, — her broad domain Was rich in bending corn and waving grain. The summer yielded many a thousand fold, And large results her careful records told; Her people feasted in good faith and cheer, As plenty came and crowned the growing year. A single cloud upon a summer sky Foretokens often that a storm is nigh; Its simple presence leads the sudden train Of whirling wind and swift descending rain; So to the quiet of this happy band There came a stranger from a distant land. The Famine came, — a grim and dismal guest, — And carried terror into every breast ; [30] The roses withered on the garden walks, The corn was shattered in its tasselled stalks, The harvest rotted in the moldy ground. And fruitless toil the anxious reapers found. But presently a blacker shadow fell To darken faith and try the people well, A deadlier sorrow spread on every side, — By scores and scores the little children died. For Fever followed with its tainted breath. And worked its mission hand in hand with Death. Still deadlier grew the scourge; a very curse Seemed launched and settled on the universe. The men were stricken in their strength and pride ; A reign of terror filled the countryside. Until at last the mothers and the wives In dull despair laid down their troubled lives. Moved by an impulse sprung from love divine. With wheat and bread and flasks of ruddy wine And little dainties from her own small store. Brought out in peril from some distant shore. Among her people desolate and rude. With heart of faith came Lady Hermentrude. She left the safety of her castle-wall, Through gates of stone she heard her people call; [31] She saw the death and anguish in the land, And to its rescue brought her little hand. Life seemed to rally at the gentle press Of her soft touch, bestowed in kindliness. She gave up all for love, — for love of them Who knelt in dust to kiss her garment's hem. With heavy stress she wrought and wrestled long. And turned the voice of mourning into song. The grief to gladness, till the scourge was past. And then in love she gave her life at last. No sculptor's chisel ever chanced to trace The royal purpose in her lovely face ; In starry strains no poet ever told The shining virtue of that deed of gold; In this old-fashioned portrait lies alone The grace and beauty lost to song and stone. [32] TO A BRIDE Upon this bright, auspicious day These roses I would send In fragrant language to convey The greetings of a friend. May sunny fortune smile on you In long, enchanted hours. And may the way your whole life through Be scattered thick with flowers. [33] AT VAILIMA Across blue waters under sunset skies, 'Mid fronded verdure beautiful and bright, Alone, unguarded, on that mountain height. His lance at rest, our true knight-errant lies. Bravely he faced those sombre mysteries That drew around him in his constant fight. Nor guessed their secret till the golden light Flashed their full meaning on his closing eyes. O Mother Nature, fold him to thy breast As one outwearied in the stress of years, And lull him with thy music wild and deep. But let no alien thing assail his rest; Nought but the dropping of thine own warm tears To break the stillness of his perfect sleep. [34] NOVEMBER The trees of the forest stand naked and tall In the silent and frosty air; With beckoning fingers their gaunt limbs call Our spirits to fasting and prayer. And straight from the mood of the woodland is caught The trace of the truth austere, That this is the time for sober thought, The Puritan month of the year. The mind moves on in the well-worn track. — A pilgrim with scrip and staff And steadfast face, for it turns not back Nor yields to a look or laugh; And the year bears off what the year has taught In its message of hope and fear. For this is the time for sober thought. The Puritan month of the year. But love remembers ; with vision bright And her meanings manifold, She comes once more with her kindling light To the hearth-stones dark and cold. The torch of truth in her hand is brought To be hailed with festal cheer. Though this is the time for sober thought, The Puritan month of the year. [35] She whispers low that the doubt and pain And the seeming death will pass ; That hope and joy will return again With the leaves and the greening grass ; That the same dear flowers shall again be sought, And the singing birds appear, Though this is the time for sober thought. The Puritan month of the year. [36] THE SONG OF THE BIRDS When the spring buds fresh and vernal Burst in beauty all around In their loveliness supernal, When the violets are found, Ever reigneth God eternal. When the buttercups and daisies Herald in the summertide. And the early morning hazes Over verdant fields preside, Loudly do we chant His praises. When the earth with regal splendor. Clothed in ruby-tinted leaves Summons Nature to attend her, 'Mid the garnering of sheaves Heart devotions do we render. And when Winter's snowy tresses Shake their white down in the air, Covering with soft caresses All the landscape bleak and bare, Still the universe He blesses. [37] HYMN Written for the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the First Church of Lincoln, Massachusetts, August, 1898. The Church of God with living power Her ancient watch is keeping, Her strength renewed from hour to hour. Her sentries never sleeping. Founded upon a Rock She meets the storm and shock, And gives from age to age Our choicest heritage, — Her truth and her tradition. The ways we tread our fathers trod, Their standards move before us; They worshipped here the selfsame God, They joined the selfsame chorus. The light they sought of old In fullness they behold. Through peril and through loss They conquered by the Cross And faith in their Redeemer. The hordes of sin are pressing hard. Our secret force assailing; They strive to move us from our guard. But it is unavailing. [38] From strength to strength we go, Victorious o'er the foe. We win because we must; Our triumph and our trust Are in the God of battles. And so, through all the coming years, We have the surety ever; Nor craven doubts, nor tyrant fears, From us His love can sever. Eternal and secure His promises endure; And guarded by His grace, We seek the heavenly place, — The life that is immortal. [39] GEORGE DU MAURIER As Bordermen who mourn their fallen chief Stand mute and still beside the sombre bier, Grieving that Life should spend its sunny cheer In deeds too quickly done, in days too brief, — So we, amid the freshness of our grief, Dwell long and deeply on this memory dear; The artist's strength, the manliness sincere. The woman's tenderness, the child's belief. And we have faith that somewhere in the choice And starry spaces it shall be our part To cherish still the presence as of old. To hear the music of the kindly voice. And feel the pulsing of the poet heart. Telling the stories that are yet untold. [40] CUPID There is an urchin on the earth Who wanders between the poles. He comes of high, immortal birth, And plays his pranks in endless mirth On all unwary souls. On dancing feet he roams among The folk of every land. Across his back his bow is hung, And many arrows yet unflung By his unerring hand. He enters the world in tricksy guise. He frolics in masquerade. Wherever are set his laughing eyes. His fleet and feathered arrow flies, His vigilant charge is made. His aim is sure and the darts go deep. With " Love-lies-bleeding " tipped. He knows what potent charms to keep. And gathers the herb when mortals sleep And memory's leash is slipped. In all the affairs of the gray, old world He plays his frisky part. In every hour his dart is hurled. With swift and fearless freedom whirled At many a human heart. [41] For all who scorn such trifling things And turn to other fields, Will hear the whir of his elfin wings, And feel the pricks of the poisoned stings The dainty tyrant wields. To those who fear his artful plot. He comes in hodden gray ; They let him in, for they know him not, And once within the captured spot. He has his whim and way. And they who meet with an iron will His sly and constant thrust, By eager wings are followed still; He grinds them all in the same old mill ; — They yield, because they must. He spreads his snares for mortal feet With deft and dainty care. He leads them on with whispers sweet. And once within there is no retreat; They are firmly fastened there. They strive to break the silken skein His nimble skill has wound; They use their strength with might and main. But find the labor all in vain, — They are completely bound. [43] He uses then his hoarded spite, When wits are all adrift, He flies about to left and right, And sends at last a sudden flight Of arrows keen and swift. In pleasant paths their lines are cast. Deny it, ye who can. The saucy mentor holds them fast. And gives to each his wage at last. The bliss of a married man. A moment, then, in mimic spite. The mocking spirit leans; He chuckles low at their luckless plight, Then spreads his wings in new delight. And flies to other scenes. [43] NO ANSWER Grant's tomb at the return of the ships from the Spanish War, September, 1899. Did the warrior stir in his startled sleep When the heavy cannon-roar Awoke the echoes loud and deep On the river's wooded shore? Did the mighty voice of the watching land Recall for a moment's space The iron force to the nerveless hand, The flush to the pallid face? The ships are back in their war paint grim; They join in their long salute ; But have no answering hail from him, For the bearded lips are mute. The ships are back from their holy quest ; They pass in the middle stream. But bring no thrill to the hero's breast^ No grandeur to his dream. The voices call, but he will not wake. No thunder long and deep, Nor any noise of earth can break The magic of that sleep. [44] THE TRAVELER He can tell of Europe's wondrous things, Of crowns and palaces and kings, And all the regal happenings. In glowing language he can paint The mighty abbeys old and quaint, The graves of hero and of saint; Westminster, with its holy glooms And silences, and peopled tombs, A kingly host in kingly rooms ; Fair Melrose with the ancient stone Owl-tenanted and ivy-grown. And over all the moonlight thrown. The waiting ear he can entrance With all the legends and romance Of Germany and sunny France. And in his language you divine. As sparkling as its native wine. The far-off rushing of the Rhine. Each memory one by one appears To shine amid the hopes and fears That haunt the long, succeeding years. [45] Within those years will surely be A time of toil and threnody And then the time of high degree. For coronation comes at last, And when the clouds are overpast He wonders it has come so fast. He half-regrets the gathered gold, In thinking of the days of old, The happy days " that have been told." [46] THE FIRST THOUGHT I OFTEN wonder what was Christ's first thought When He arose upon that Easter mom, The folds of clinging death forever torn, The work of strong redemption fully wrought. Within the rapture was some memory caught Of the humanity that He had borne, — That lowly life of heavy sorrow worn. And the transcendent sacrifice it brought? Or did His loosened thought an instant rise In swift transition to the heavenly land. Amid the alleluias and the praise. To have impressed on His illumined eyes The royal heritage at God's right hand That stands in strength beyond the end of days. [47] THE LAWYER We hear the whisper of a name Secure in an enduring fame That passing days reveal, The name of one who plays his part With steady aim and sturdy heart For the broad common weal. He holds in strict and sacred awe The silent majesty of Law On its eternal throne, And with his high, entrusted power In many a stern and crucial hour He makes its message known. Sometimes his strong and trenchant words Will shiver like Damascus swords. And turn their edges keen, And then again his satined speech Will fall within an easy reach, Illumined and serene. He feels the virtue of his cause That moves without an instant pause To its appointed goal, And pregnant with its vital need, It spends its largess in its speed Beneath his wise control. [48] He hears the silver measures chime Amid the discords of the time In clarion tones and strong, And quickened by their bright appeal, He puts his shoulder to the wheel In league against the wrong. Within the temple Wisdom rears Is writ by the recording years The honor of his name. While Justice throws from her high seat The laurel wreath that makes complete His triumph and his fame. [49] THE PHYSICIAN Mankind is forfeit of his trust ; He reads through tears the sentence just Pronounced upon him, " Dust to dust " ; For penalty he loses peace. But still the vast, controlling Cause That knows the curse of broken laws Will sometimes in His vengeance pause And send instead a swift release. Life is a school wherein we learn The kindling creeds at every turn That meet us with their meanings stern And press the truths we will not heed. We wanton with our little power. We pluck the bright, forbidden flower And bring at last the evil hour To reap the growth of scattered seed. The magic of that Hand divine That turned the water into wine And gave the never failing sign Of calm dominion over death. In lesser form is with us still To war with all encroaching ill, Nor shall it yield its power until The evil passes like a breath. But greater than the gain of gold. Or transient fame that hundreds hold, [50] And sweeter than the knowledge told In silver strains of prose and verse, Are the reflections that must steal Into the thoughts of those who feel, And have the power to help and heal, A fragment of earth's heavy curse. With earnest faith they probe within The dark results of Care and Sin, — Those allied foes that strive to win The trusted charge of nature's wealth. They come with swift and skillful aid Whene'er the dread assault is made, And by their hands of healing laid. Renew the treasuries of health. They know the chambers of the brain Are thronged with prisoners of pain That have for years in darkness lain. To rise at last in open strife. The healing strength has ample charm To quell the rumors of alarm And break the brunt of mortal harm That wars against a human life. And nobler gain have they at last. When life is lived and toil is past. Than any horoscope can cast Upon the fleet, fulfilling years, — A final gain, supreme and sure, [61] That follows those who help and cure, A gain that shall in strength endure Beyond the clashing of the spheres. [52] THE ISLAND An island sits in the sea, By fragrant breezes fanned. The waves in boisterous revelry Roll up the white, wide sand. And sea-birds scream along the shore A shrill reply to the ocean's roar. The isle is the Poet's soul, Where the wind of fancy plays. And the waves that ceaselessly roll Are the voices of Love and Praise, The noise of the sea-birds loud and long. The mocking cries of an alien throng. [63] THE STREAM Out in the dreary, storm-beaten East the cold, wet sky is raining; The long, gray lances of lashing rain fall fast on shore and sea; There is only heard the whir of bird and the cattle's low complaining. And the rivers' voice as they roll and re- joice in wildest revelry. They feel at length their fullest strength and break the bonds that bound them; They hasten and push with an onward rush to the lap of the dripping land ; They reach and keep in widening sweep the shrinking things around them. And hold them all in mighty thrall and des- perate command. The trees are low, as the waters flow, and come within their grasping; They leave their world and are wildly hurled to scenes of storm and strife. The rooted earth where they had birth is shorn of their close clasping. To be left content with the scar and rent and and wreck of a former life. [54] I There is a stream, — it can only dream in the midst of the rushing noises ; The banks are high, and it holds the sky in ever-constant sight. It can feel afar the thrill and jar of the mighty river voices But the restless heart can have no part in that scene of wild delight. It will never reach the silver beach where surges toss and thunder; It will never break from the sombre lake and join the gladdened throng; It will never find what is left behind the beau- tiful world of wonder, And steal its way some happy day with its own enchanted song. It just receives the withered leaves that fall in Autumn's turning. And lets them sink from the silent brink to the quiet depth below. It holds within, like a secret sin, that dumb and eager yearning To have surprise with its own glad eyes, to learn what the rivers know. [55] Others will tell of sounding swell and wide out- flashing riot; Others will land on the shining sand, and gain the promised rest; The lonely stream can only dream in solitude and quiet, And stifle deep into lasting sleep the aching in its breast. Out in the dreary, storm-beaten East the cold, wet sky is raining ; The heavy lances of lashing rain fall fast on shore and sea; There is only heard the whir of bird and the cattle's low complaining, And the rivers' voice as they roll and rejoice in wildest revelry. [56] THE END OF THE YEAR The light grows dim ; the fire bums low ; Without upon the crusted snow I hear the merry revelers go With glad all-hails and shouts of glee ;- But in my chamber dim and deep, Where heavy trailing shadows creep, My stern and patient watch I keep. Alone with faithful memory. [57]