LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ®]^Ii. - ®npi|rig?^t :f 0. 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
A CAVERN FOR A 
 HERMITAGE 
 
 CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK 
 
 OF PRINCETON, IND. 
 
 NEW YORK ' 
 
 JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 
 
 1889 
 
CopjTight, 1889, 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARENCE A. BUSKIRK. 
 
0, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade ! 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Ah, what shall I he at fifty 
 Should Nature keep me alive, 
 If I find the world so bitter 
 When I am but twenty five ? 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
A CAVERN FOE A 
 HERMITAGE. 
 
 Argument. — One who has been driven into 
 the edges of misanthropy, retires to a wilder- 
 ness; where, from day to day, he puts his 
 ruminations into verse. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SUFFER, heart and brain, 
 
 In weariness and pain ; 
 
 My soul fiiints, and I tire 
 
 Of all the sordid strife. 
 
 Day after day, in which I waste my life — 
 
 Toilinji" for nothing- higher 
 
 Than that vile gold, for want of wdiich the 
 
 poor 
 Must give to carking cares 
 Youtli, manhood, and gray hairs, 
 To scare the wolves of famine froui the 
 
 door. 
 5 
 
6 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 I've sought the sylvan solitudes, 
 
 "Where, far apart from all the noise of men. 
 
 Amid romantic woods 
 
 Streams wander through soft sunlight and 
 
 sweet gloom, 
 Down the green hill and through the rocky- 
 glen ; 
 And where the fair flowers bloom, 
 And happy birds sing to the capering 
 
 leaves 
 A song that never tires and never grieves. 
 And there, (as in the days 
 Of careless boyhood,) I will sit and gaze 
 Around in idle freedom, with my head 
 Against the trunk of some gnarled oak 
 
 wide-spread ; 
 And tliere I'll hear the birds exalt their 
 
 mirth 
 In music born alike of heaven and earth, 
 While graceful shadows in their hammocks 
 
 swing, 
 Like gentle woodnymphs, where the wild 
 
 flpw^ers spring : 
 And there I'll watch the clouds 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 7 
 
 Drifting in stately crowds, 
 
 Like stately ships with banners streaming 
 
 high, 
 Across the trackless ocean of the sky ; 
 And blissful castles shall my fancies build 
 In those blue fields by mortal plows un- 
 
 tilled ; 
 While on the wave-like music of the birds 
 Shall drift my dreams too fair for mortal 
 
 words : 
 And thus shall I forget 
 The present with its Gorgons of regret, 
 Its Satyr-like ambitions and despairs, 
 And all its Vulcan brood of limping cares I 
 
 II. 
 
 Dwellers beside the gutters never know 
 How beautiful the world in which we 
 
 dwell. 
 The wondrous flowers that deck the grassy 
 
 ground ; 
 The happy streamlets murmuring to their 
 
 banks ; 
 
8 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 The songs of birds like Ariels in disguise ; 
 The blooming valleys and the stately hills ; 
 The skies above us, with their azure space 
 Cloud-winged by day and starry-eyed by 
 
 night ; 
 The dwellers by the gutters know not 
 
 these 
 As they are viewed in peaceful solitude. 
 The Dollar's mighty disk hides sun and 
 
 moon : 
 The gem that glitters like a demon's eye, 
 While penury pines unheeded close at 
 
 hand, 
 Feasts eyes that never heed a forest rose. 
 The fierce excitements of the menial street, 
 The vicious chatter of the gilded hall. 
 The mean ambitions of the day and night, 
 These dull the taste for field and wood 
 
 and sky, 
 Until the dwellers by the gutters sink 
 In nobleness of motive and desire — 
 Their lives a fretful fever and low farce. 
 
 But dwarfed become the daily ills that vex, 
 The insect cares that pester and perplex, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Seen under the perspective of the stars 
 When Delphic night the infinite unbars. 
 
 III. 
 
 At last I've found a Hermitage, 
 From all the hives of men apart, 
 Deep in this trackless solitude. 
 How oft a poor, down-trodden heart, 
 Writhing and bleeding and despairing 
 Beneath the cruel feet of fate, 
 For some such refuge dreams and longs, 
 Away from guile and greed and hate ! 
 
 A man among his fellow-men 
 Oft finds himself by wolves beset, 
 Whose hungry eyes torment his soul, 
 Whose teeth are with his life-blood wet : 
 At last he wearies of the strife, 
 And hates the vile, voracious herd ; 
 He flees to Nature's outstretched arms, 
 And hears her voice in brook and bird. 
 
10 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 
 True, men are born with social needs, 
 Gregarious both in blood and brain ; 
 True, solitude with all its joy 
 Brings likewise bitterness and pain ; 
 Yet to adjust the jostled scales 
 When rudely struck aside by wrong, 
 Is oft beyond a generous soul, 
 Such frauds and falsehoods round it throng. 
 
 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 From all the hives of men apart — 
 What fitter place where peace may reign, 
 And patience fortify the heart ? 
 Ambition, Envy, Greed and Hate, 
 They perish in the solitude ; 
 Their roots that midst the gutters thrive. 
 Can never there intrude. 
 
 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 From all the hives of men apart. 
 There trees and birds calm counsels give. 
 And grass and flowers pi-otcct the heart : 
 There wolves may howl or bears may 
 growl, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 1 1 
 
 But men, at least, are far away ; 
 There Peace, a miglity Inca, rules, 
 And Spaniards hold no sway ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 One time, when traversing a solitude 
 
 Of rugged mountains and primeval groves, 
 
 I found this lonely Cavern. With awed 
 
 torch 
 I pierced the darkness of colossal halls 
 Ribbed firm with granite, and adorned 
 
 with gems 
 Which shone with all their marvels as I 
 
 passed. 
 As 'twere some Genii's palace grand and 
 
 vast. 
 My feet had followed the romantic tune 
 Of a blithe brooklet, half an afternoon, 
 When underneath a hill its crystal wave 
 Vanished, and showed the entrance to a 
 
 cave ; 
 Where, afterwards, I heard it pour along 
 Througli mighty chambers witli its gentle 
 
 sons. 
 
12 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Here shall my patient toil prepare a den 
 Among the beasts, and far removed from 
 
 men : 
 And thus a refuge ' twill become for one 
 Who seeks the babble of the world to 
 
 shun, 
 To hide in solitude the cruel smarts 
 False foes and falser friends oft deal to 
 
 faithful hearts. 
 
 V. 
 
 A NEAR my Cavern is a lovely lawn, 
 An arrow's flight in breadth, whereon the 
 
 trees 
 Have never made intrusion. There I'll 
 
 delve, 
 Until the husbandry of patient days 
 Evokes a smiling scene of fruits and 
 
 flowers. 
 Watching, from day to day and week to 
 
 week, 
 The miracles of vegetable growth, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage 1 3 
 
 And the sweet things which Nature's 
 
 magic brusli 
 Paints on the emerald earth above all art, 
 I'll feel, mayhap, the balmy hand of peace 
 Once more caress my soul as in my youth. 
 Tired and bruised souls, seeking the wilder- 
 ness, 
 (If moulded in a strong and generous 
 
 shape,) 
 From under the winking lashes of the stars, 
 From brawling cataracts and singing birds, 
 From timid ivy and majestic oak, 
 From sailing cloud and sudden thunderbolt, 
 From all the sights and sounds of night 
 
 and day, 
 Learn to adore the beauty of tlie earth. 
 And all the radiant majesty of space ; 
 Learn that we errant mortals tread a globe 
 Worthy of adoration, and worthy, there- 
 fore. 
 To furnish all our lives with peace and 
 
 joy; 
 
 Learn to behold with patient charity 
 The pitiful passions of our sprawling race, 
 
14 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 
 Which else inflame our hatreds and 
 
 despairs ; 
 Learn to forget the swarms of insect cares 
 And stinging hopes and teasing vanities, 
 (Those parasites of spiritual disease,) 
 Which in the fetid atmosphere of towns 
 Once buzzed about me like winged masto- 
 dons. 
 
 Here may I stay the remnant of my life, 
 Far from the world with all its noise and 
 
 strife. 
 Gayly to climb the mountain solitudes, 
 To hunt the bounding deer through track- 
 less woods, 
 To angle in the joyous brooklets where 
 They dash in waterfalls through valleys 
 
 fair; 
 Thus may I find the buoyancy of liealth 
 Endowing me beyond all India's wealth — 
 For men of healthful blood are happy 
 
 men. 
 While oft a palace is a sick man's wretched 
 den. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 15 
 
 The woful catalogue of maladies 
 
 Which rack the frames of men, until dis- 
 ease 
 
 And life appear twin-born, are all un- 
 known 
 
 To the rude savage, while their crops are 
 sown 
 
 Like plague-seeds in the marts of luxury. 
 
 The mental ailments, pale despondency, 
 
 And madness, and the nameless imps that 
 toll 
 
 Their dismal peals across tlie hapless 
 soul. 
 
 All these belong not to the mountain-side 
 
 Or the recesses of tlie forest wide. 
 
 Better to suffer the sharp penalties 
 
 Of nature's broken statutes, so to please 
 
 The senses with fictitious happiness? 
 
 Better to sin and suffer sin's distress ? 
 
 Here, undisturbed by envy, pride, and 
 hate, 
 
 One's wants how simple and one's joys 
 how great ! 
 
16 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Here, one may dwell as ignorant Adam 
 
 dwelt 
 In peaceful Eden. Here, when tempests 
 
 pelt, 
 I'll laugh at all the threats of wind and 
 
 wave, 
 Within the granite chambers of this Cave. 
 Here, when the sky is calm and earth is 
 
 glad. 
 My steps may climb the hills in beauty 
 
 clad. 
 And find those buoyant joys of heart and 
 
 brain 
 That dwell upon the hills. And, not in 
 
 vain, 
 Through shadowy forests my adventurous 
 
 feet 
 Shall seek romantic valleys lone and 
 
 sweet, 
 Where hermit roses dwell, and mighty 
 
 oaks 
 Welcome to their deep arms the elfin 
 
 folks, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 17 
 
 And where from caves, in which may 
 
 Titans dream. 
 Glides with soft music oft a white-lipped 
 
 stream. 
 Here, far removed from all the strife of 
 
 men, 
 I'll dwell in happy freedom in this glen, 
 Free from the sordid pride and greed and 
 
 toil, 
 Those vermin of the world which human 
 
 bliss despoil. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I have become a student of the sky, 
 Watching it through long liours of revery. 
 Before the day has dawned 1 often climb 
 An isolated peak that stands sublime 
 Near to the Cave ; there pause, and view 
 
 the mist 
 Rise from the valleys, by the sunrise 
 
 kissed ; 
 Its broad and lake-like fields serenely 
 
 spread 
 In winding gulfs about the islanded 
 
18 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Summits of pine-clad hills of smaller 
 
 height, 
 And windless seas beneath the moon of 
 
 night 
 
 Lying less still and cold ; and watch the 
 
 beams 
 Flowing across the mist in silver streams 
 Till the mist breaks in foam against the 
 
 hills, 
 And glides away, revealing silver rills 
 And wakening woods and green and flow- 
 ery vales, 
 While gently rise the odorous morning 
 gales. 
 
 The clouds are wondrous things in all their 
 
 ways — 
 Whether like fleecy flocks they calmly 
 
 graze 
 Along the azure fields ; or proudly sail 
 Like gallant ships before some upper gale ; 
 Or stand like patriot mountain-chains of 
 
 snow, 
 With fathomless abysses cleft below ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 1 9 
 
 Or pile in splendid domes and palaces, 
 Flushed with celestial colors numberless ; 
 Or rove as precious argosies of showers, 
 Consigned to lovely ports of fruits and 
 
 flowers ; 
 Or battle high in heaven in awful wrath, 
 While Cossack lightnings hover round 
 
 their path ; 
 Or graceful rainbows magically form, 
 Smiling away the squadrons of the storm; 
 Or stretch in wondrous wreaths and dia- 
 dems, 
 With stars at intervals like sparkling gems, 
 Wind-woven into light and argent lace 
 The maiden moon on summer night& to 
 grace. 
 
 A single sunset hath more loveliness 
 Than all the boasted paintings kings pos- 
 sess. 
 Then Nature revels in most glorious mood, 
 Revealing powers which shame our feeble 
 brood. 
 
20 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Take the rare moment ere the large sun 
 
 sinks 
 Behind far hills and their mysterious 
 
 brinks — 
 The sky then opens like a radiant rose, 
 Blooming beside a zenith where repose 
 AVhite flakes and threads of vapor, and 
 
 cloud -shapes 
 Of wondrous grace, and airy gulfs and 
 
 capes : 
 Soon the whole sky becomes a molten sea 
 Of climbing fire and color; shadowy 
 Ravines receive the mantling streamS of 
 
 gold; 
 While marvelous scarlet hues, too mani- 
 fold 
 And beautiful for human words to tell 
 Or thought to treasure, in bright billows 
 
 swell 
 Up to the very edges of the blue ; 
 And every instant s[)lendors ever new 
 With still unfolding charms enrapt the 
 
 view. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 21 
 VII. 
 
 Youth quickly tires of calm retreats, 
 And loves the tumult of the streets : 
 A^j^e loves the noise of peaceful rills, 
 But not the noise of babbling men ; 
 Age loves the stretch of quiet hills, 
 AVhile mortared bricks fatigue its ken. 
 
 Youth fondly seeks the glittering strife 
 
 And gay e ties of busy life : 
 
 Age seeks the balm of solitude 
 
 To heal the hurts the world bestows — 
 
 The balm tliat's found in lonely wood. 
 
 Or converse with a blushing rose. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I FIND my instinct for companionship 
 Oft leads me to converse with other minds 
 Carefully chosen in my many books — 
 Minds incandescent in their nobler moods. 
 And happily shorn of all those paltry 
 traits 
 
22 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Which, wlien our comnides are in flesh 
 
 and blood, 
 Are smoke to hide their brightness from 
 
 our eyes. 
 The wounded spirit shrinking from the 
 
 world. 
 Which still may find companionship in 
 
 books, 
 Meets there high sympathies which solace 
 
 best 
 A wounded spirit in a generous breast ; 
 For books are friends — when they are 
 
 worthy friends — 
 AVhose comradeship a constant gladness 
 
 lends. 
 And there one meets from every land and 
 
 age, 
 Poet and wit, philosopher and sage. 
 The mind that journeys into realms ideal, 
 May oft forget the sorrows of the real ; 
 The pen becomes the hand of Beatrice 
 Guiding us on through realms of joy and 
 
 peace. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 23 
 
 Poesy, like a fair enchantress, waves 
 Her waiul above the soul, and from its 
 
 graves 
 New forms of beauty into being start, 
 AVith speech, before unheard, to move the 
 
 heart — 
 A serapli, uttering from a mortal's hood 
 The soul-thoughts of the living and the 
 
 dead, 
 Like a shell that murmurs of the sirens' 
 
 bed. 
 Or the wierd sweet music in a haunted 
 
 wood. 
 
 Tlie Flowers of Thought with their divine 
 perfume — 
 
 How shall we know the gardens where 
 they bloom ? 
 
 Their lusty roots what rich soil nourishes. 
 
 And feeds them with perennial loveliness ? 
 
 What purer air and light their leaves dis- 
 close. 
 
 That they outvie the beauties of the rose ? 
 
24 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Not on tlie hillside where the golden grain 
 Coquets till comes the scythe by which 'tis 
 
 slain ; 
 Not where Anacreon-hearted bobolinks 
 Loiter in meadows till the warm sun sinks ; 
 Not in romantic woods where Diyads 
 
 dream ; 
 Not fed by kisses of Arcadian stream ; — 
 Where nurtured, then, those fair, immortal 
 
 flowers, 
 Strewing life's pathway like Idalian 
 
 bowers ? 
 We find them in the strangest of all 
 
 nooks — 
 Hidden within the pages of our books ! 
 Mayhap, these Flowers of Thought which 
 
 for us bloom. 
 Reach their deep roots to some forgotten 
 
 tomb — 
 Where rolls the Nile, or Tiber's turgid 
 
 tide, 
 Or Grecian skies o'er fairest lands preside, 
 Or stares the Sphinx in awful mystery, 
 Or drift the sacred waves of Galilee. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 25 
 
 Mayliap, tlicy lie unknown for centuries 
 Before discovered to far-sailing eyes, 
 Yet henceforth to our galleons evermore 
 Tiu^y send rare perfumes fiom their Sabian 
 
 shore. 
 Where'er they grow, in all our hearts they 
 
 own 
 A Memnon's statue, giving forth its tone 
 Of marvelous music under the dawn's 
 
 kiss ; 
 And on the cloud-curtain hiding the abyss 
 Of matters infinite are seen their dyes. 
 Shining like starbeams from unfathomed 
 
 skies. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In youth I trained my errant thoughts to 
 
 climb 
 In springtime growth the trellises of 
 
 rhyme ; 
 And often now, by venting it in verse, 
 I save my soul the lava of a curse. 
 
26 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 The world gives scant rewards to Poesy. 
 From sounding brass it turns its sordid 
 
 face 
 Impatiently to hear a minstrel's voice — 
 Albeit a happy thought whose music beats 
 Against the lattice of a pent-up soul, 
 Shall live as long as hearts feel grief or 
 
 joy. 
 
 But the true minstrel sings not for re- 
 wards — 
 He sings because the song is in his soul. 
 Poesy blooms as a spontaneous flower, 
 "Whene'er it blooms at all, and fame or 
 
 wealth 
 Add but false petals to its lovely growth ; 
 Though they may give to cunning handi- 
 work 
 Skilled counterfeits to cheat a careless 
 
 world. 
 Poets are few, yet all at times are poets. 
 The heart that never felt poetic heat. 
 In some volcanic epoch or sweet spring. 
 Is a poor barren clod of earth indeed. 
 Where heavenly flowers ne'er climb 
 through brier and weed. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 27 
 
 Let sordid souls the Winged Horse 
 
 despise 
 And count him of no value ! Let dull 
 
 eyes 
 Regard his wings with scorn, because their 
 
 flight 
 Avoids the marts where Gold obscures the 
 
 sight ! 
 Those who have felt the rapture of his 
 
 speed, 
 Grasping the mane of the Olyminan steed. 
 Know that his glorious gallops have a 
 
 worth 
 Beyond the gilded baubles of all earth ! 
 What empery to ride the Winged Horse — 
 To leave all cares and sorrows and 
 
 remorse 
 Of this dull earth beneath, and gayly 
 
 skim 
 Along the heavens to their hill-girt rim; 
 And oft on chosen mountain-tops to rest, 
 Forgetful of mankind, and Nature's 
 
 guest ; 
 
28 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 To swim on summer clays above the 
 
 heat ; 
 To pierce the fleecy cloud-waves as they 
 
 fleet 
 And find blue oceans on their farther 
 
 side; 
 To distance the swift eagles in their 
 
 pride, 
 And listen to the birds intone their 
 
 notes 
 In blue abysses where no discord floats ! 
 His feet may wander througli a wilder- 
 ness, 
 And lo, it shines with beauteous palaces ; 
 May traverse desert sands or arctic 
 
 snows. 
 And every hoof-print blossoms with a 
 
 rose. 
 
 Solitude is a pent-browed oracle, 
 And the sole nurse of deep and patient 
 thought : 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 29 
 
 Her messages of truth are poorly heard 
 Where greed and folly spin their noisy 
 
 tops. 
 The kindliest of the gifts of Solitude 
 Is the perfect key wherewithal Memory 
 To foot-sore souls unlocks her magic halls, 
 Wherein are hung the pictures of the 
 
 Past. 
 Fairest among the pictures that are hung 
 Along the silent galleries of my soul, 
 This is the one, and most distinctly 
 
 seen : — 
 
 Two sentinel oaks of reverend age, (whose 
 
 green 
 And mighty tops stand close beside a lake 
 Where silver waves on banks of verdure 
 
 break,) 
 Half hide from view the antiquated Cot 
 That lends an idyl to the lonely spot. 
 The windows are thrown open to the 
 
 breeze 
 That loves the green abysses of the 
 
 trees , 
 
30 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Its walls are fondled by romantic vines 
 Where many a flower its blushing cheek 
 
 reclines ; 
 And from the string-latched door a path 
 
 descends 
 To where the lake its crystal circle 
 
 bends. 
 Across the lakelet twice an arrow's flight 
 A rocky hill abruptly meets the sight, 
 And stretches upward into quiet woods, 
 Cleft with deep dells and lovely solitudes. 
 
 There the keen blood of boyhood swiftly 
 
 sped 
 Through joyous veins ; there with electric 
 
 tread 
 The lithe form bounded, nimble as the fawn 
 That came to drink beside the lake at 
 
 dawn ; 
 There the round, silver voice rang sweetly 
 
 out 
 In laughter and loud song and blithesome 
 
 shout, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 31 
 
 While health and vigor lent their ecstacies, 
 Flushed the brown cheeks and sparkled in 
 
 the eyes. 
 Alas ! we mortals were not born for ease, 
 To pass our lives in golden joys like 
 
 these ! 
 Alas ! our fate ordains we toilers must 
 Confront life's pathway through a soiling 
 
 dust — 
 To sweat, to toil, to tire, to sin, to sob, 
 As helpless items of a drifting mob ! 
 Tell us, O Seers whose rhythmic voices 
 
 bring 
 From life's hard rock full many a fabled 
 
 spring. 
 Why all these passions, agonies and toils. 
 To win a victory that death despoils ? 
 The answer cometh back, (like the sad 
 
 tone 
 Of some old harp which perished hands 
 
 have known,) 
 And murmurs that the gem of happiness 
 Sparkles not on the forehead of success, 
 
32 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 But rather brightens with its mystic fires 
 The darkness where man labors and 
 aspires. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Once I was young but now am old — 
 Ah! those brief words sound meaning- 
 less 
 To hearts not yet divorced by the stern 
 
 code of fate 
 From youth and happiness ! 
 But unto lives grown dark and cold, 
 (Like wintry fields barren and desolate, 
 Where once the grass was green and birds 
 
 might mate,) 
 Ah ! unto lives thus dark and cold, 
 What realms of sunless gloom those eight 
 short words unfold ! 
 
 Could all the priceless gems that shine 
 
 On princely brows be mine. 
 
 How quickly in a single di'aught of wine 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 33 
 
 Would I dissolve them all, if thus its 
 
 flood 
 Might pour anew the buoyant blood 
 Of boyhood into veins grown stagnant 
 
 with life's mud ! 
 
 And yet, the draught could bring a bitter 
 curse 
 
 Unless the graves might open, and their 
 dead 
 
 Walk forth into the sunshine, and 
 rehearse 
 
 The scenes that, like lost music, have for- 
 ever fled ! 
 
 A goddess that to youth is well-nigh 
 
 dumb. 
 Memory, to age doth ever come 
 With lips benignly garrulous. 
 Her words invoke the spirits of the past. 
 And they with pleasing voices throng to 
 
 us, 
 And sing of golden days that could not 
 
 last. 
 
34 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Of loved and loving faces fled from earth, 
 Of scenes of happy mirth, 
 Of treasured kisses, words and smiles, 
 All blooming as perennial flowers in mem- 
 ory's halcyon isles. 
 
 Often my weary eyes, when lone I sit 
 
 Before my evening fire, see in it 
 
 The old log school-house underneath tiie 
 
 hill. 
 Close to the withered hemlock from whose 
 
 root 
 Gushed forth the crystal rill ; 
 School comrades merry-faced and swift of 
 
 foot ; 
 The rooms in which I slept and ate and 
 
 played, 
 And where my father knelt when mother 
 
 prayed ; 
 The droll-faced dolls in wondrous gar- 
 ments clad, 
 My sisters kissed when good and whipped 
 
 when bad ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 35 
 
 The pockets crammed with apples, pencils, 
 
 strings, 
 Knife-handles, horse-shoe nails, and end- 
 less things ; 
 The dog that barked, the cat that purred ; 
 The latticed bird-cage, and its little bird 
 That always ate or sang whene'er it 
 
 stirred ; 
 The cock that crowed too early every 
 
 morn ; 
 The barn, the orchard, the tin dinner- 
 horn ; 
 The old red saw-mill, and the valley brook 
 Whose fishes were so shy of snare and 
 
 hook ; 
 The broad old elm tliat stood before 
 The gate, and often on wild winter nights 
 With shaking limbs would tap upon the 
 
 door. 
 As through the window shone our fire- 
 side's warm delights. 
 And then the panorama moves along, 
 And leaves the realms of youthful laugh 
 and song, 
 
36 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 And si lows the road where care and grief 
 
 and sin 
 To hirk like thieves and snarl like wolves 
 
 begin. 
 Swift and more swift the pictures move, 
 Save when the tearful eyes take notice of 
 Grass-covered graves, tresses of golden 
 
 hair, 
 And things that seem to speak like spirits 
 
 from the air. 
 
 Alas ! for him who leans upon his staff, 
 Tlic ghosts of long-dead years in his weak 
 moan and laugh ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Within my humble hall there hangs 
 against the wall 
 A fairer flower than summer garlands 
 know — 
 A beautiful old face, whose gentleness and 
 grace 
 Beam forth like winter flowers beside 
 the snow. 
 
A Cai'ern for a Hermitage. 37 
 
 How calm the light which lies within 
 those dear old eyes ! 
 How noble the sad patience of that 
 brow ! 
 Those furrows which the years wore deep 
 with many tears — 
 Ah! how serene beneath life's sunset 
 now! 
 
 As on that face I gaze my fancy seeks the 
 days, 
 Long vanished, which her laughing girl- 
 hood knew ; 
 I see the well-sweep move she oft has told 
 me of, 
 And forest paths her bare feet rambled 
 through. 
 
 And then my fancy strays to those roman- 
 tic days 
 When maidenhood built castles in the 
 the air, 
 
 And saw in bright day-dreams Idyllic 
 vales and streams 
 
38 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 
 Where dwelt no sordid souls and all was 
 fair. 
 
 Ah, beautiful old face, that brow was once 
 the place 
 Where Cupid, the Olympian, had his 
 reign ; 
 Those furrowed cheeks have known swift 
 bridal blushes blown, 
 Like fragrant flames, across their fair 
 domain ! 
 
 41as ! all now remains of years of joys and 
 pains 
 Seems pictured in that face upon tlic 
 wall! 
 Alas ! that life should bloom so nigh the 
 fatal tomb 
 Wliich in its voiceless darkness buries 
 all! 
 
 Constant and faithful friend, within these 
 lines \ sen4 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 39 
 
 My greetings to thee whereso'er thou 
 art ; 
 For like a thornless rose thy lovely mem- 
 ory grows 
 
 And blossoms at the gateway to my 
 heart ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I may no, worthy picture draw of her, 
 For want of worthy words. When art- 
 ists stir 
 Their paints to mimic the transcendent 
 
 dyes 
 A gorgeous sunset pours across the skies, 
 I think their souls must faint and timid 
 
 grow. 
 I have no words her loveliness to show, 
 As on the canvas of my soul I see 
 Her maiden charms in their sweet empery 
 Of heavenly eyes, fair forehead, rosebud 
 
 mouth, 
 Cheeks delicate yet blooming like the 
 south, 
 
40 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Brown hair all flecked with light — such 
 
 as the sun 
 Once in his loom for fair sea-maidens 
 
 spun, 
 And form as graceful as a dream in stone 
 Chiseled when goddesses on eajdi w-^re 
 
 known. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Brown eyes and brown hair, 
 White pearls in rose lips, 
 
 Neck graceful and fair 
 
 As the sailing in air 
 Of summer cloud ships. 
 
 Thoughts sweet as the rose 
 The sunrise hath kissed, 
 Speech sweet to its close, 
 And sweet laughter that flows 
 Like morn through tlie mist, 
 
A Cavern for a Hennliaye. 41 
 
 XV. 
 
 More sweet than the mountain's echo 
 Of horns on the neighboring hike, 
 Was the love in my darling's voice 
 As it answered back my own ; 
 More soft than summer stars 
 On sleeping waters sown, 
 Was the love in my darling's eyes 
 AVhich answ^ered the love I spake. 
 
 Like a timorous bird her hand 
 Was nestled in my embrace, 
 (How soft and warm it was !) 
 And the darkness of her liair, 
 (Where a wild-rose sweetly bloomed,) 
 Was lit by moonbeams fair ; 
 And the balmy night-wind loitei-ed 
 About our trysting-place. 
 
 We had w^andered up a valley, 
 Beside a truant stream. 
 While a summer afternoon 
 Pistilled its golden hours : 
 
42 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Our hearts with love were freighted, 
 Like our hands with blushing flowers 
 And life to us seemed an Eden 
 Worthy a poet's dream. 
 
 The sun had lowered his bucket 
 
 Of liquid light in the west, 
 
 And the moon in the east was lifting 
 
 Her bucket of flowing gold, 
 
 And the oak above us rustled 
 
 Its leafage overbold, 
 
 As on her beauteous lips 
 
 Love's virgin kiss I pressed. 
 
 Love is a flame that burns 
 Like a star's sky-cradled fire ; 
 And shines with its fairest lustre 
 When earth, like a timid nun, 
 In darkness veils herself 
 From the glances of the sun ; 
 And eaoh pillar of cloud becomes 
 A pillar of bright desire ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 43 
 
 Then, under Love's charming magic, 
 All the nobler legends writ 
 Deepest upon the heart, 
 (Tliose legends for which our lips 
 Never learn but a broken language,) 
 Come forth from their eclipse, 
 With all their stellar meanings 
 Like phosphorous darkness-lit. 
 
 x\a. 
 
 Our living wishes are unquiet waves 
 
 That, driven by winds and tides, forever 
 flee 
 
 And find no place of rest beneath the 
 skies , 
 
 Our buried wishes oft have shallow 
 graves. 
 
 And upward from their darkness mock- 
 ingly 
 
 Thrust fleshless hands to flout our startled 
 eyes. 
 
44 A Carer?) for a Hermitage. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Lithe as a leopard in his limbs and walk ; 
 Tall and broad-shouldered like an ideal 
 
 prince ; 
 His curling locks auburn and plentiful ; 
 His large eyes dark and smiling; his frank 
 
 face 
 Noble and care-free ; in the bloom of 
 
 youth ; 
 Such is the vision that besets my brain 
 This afternoon. 
 
 Hastily up a street 
 That merges in a dusty country-road 
 He strides — the healthful air painting his 
 
 cheeks 
 And warming his young blood like balmy 
 
 wine. 
 True, his rough garments are threadbare 
 
 with age ; 
 True, in his coat collapses a lank purse 
 Which careless wants have sucked lik^ 
 
 leeches at ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 45 
 
 True, only homely toils employ his arm, 
 To guide the plow, or reap the ripened 
 
 grain ; 
 True, humble joys and simple aspirations 
 Content the healthful hunger of his soul : 
 But what all these save trifles, when his 
 
 heart 
 Is pure, honest and robust, and sweet 
 
 health — 
 Tlie goddess most divine that smiles on 
 
 youth — 
 Affords him transports which no gold can 
 
 buy ? 
 True, he is yet obscure, with life's strange 
 
 battle 
 Unfought before him, wherein he may fall, 
 Or slowly sicken from defeated hopes ; 
 Yet who would not prefer youtli with its 
 
 strength. 
 Its banquets of delight still to be tasted, 
 To all the music that the trump of fame 
 Can blatter forth to mock her favorites ? 
 Alas ! how soon the dew deserts the 
 
 flower t 
 
46 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 XVIII. 
 
 The Minstrel of Meudon stood where the 
 
 tide 
 Of a city poured most strong and wide, 
 (A tide that surges beneath the sway 
 Of its yellow planet both night and day.) 
 Across his face the wounds of thought 
 Their scars and furrows had sternly 
 
 wrought, 
 And Titan-like in his cavernous eyes 
 Were symbols, dreams and prophecies. 
 
 The busy and gay swept past the spot 
 Where he stood — and heeded the Minstrel 
 
 not, 
 For his cloak was poor and his frame was 
 
 bent 
 With age and sorrows. His life he had 
 
 lent 
 To the search of nobler things than are 
 
 sold 
 In the sordid marts of power and gold : 
 So the vulgar scorn of the rich and great 
 From him provoked but a smile sedate. 
 
A Cat em for a Hermitage. 47 
 
 What cared he for their pomp and power, 
 Tliose empty bubbles that burst in an 
 hour? 
 
 As he stood and watched the human tide 
 "With its dregs of squalor and froth of 
 
 pride, 
 A funeral train swept slowly by, 
 Foolish with sable pageantry. 
 As the minstrel looked, a wayward thought 
 To his face a shadowy briglitness brought ; 
 And he seized his harp, with a curious 
 
 scorn, 
 And its music rose like the blast of a 
 
 horn. 
 Swift faces of wrath were turned to him. 
 As if to rend him limb from limb ; 
 But his fingers struck the strings ai>ace. 
 And the scornful smile still kept his face. 
 Then soon the minstrel's mighty art 
 Revealed its empire over the heart; 
 For the lowering faces softened down. 
 And the smile and the tear followed the 
 
 frown. 
 
48 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 While the pull-bearers paused, forgetting 
 
 to pass, 
 And the monks neglected to mumble their 
 
 But now what strange caprice is this, 
 Or doth the minstrel play amiss? 
 A merry tune to which might dance 
 Fays and elfins where moonbeams glance, 
 Floats from his harp on the wondering 
 
 air 
 So sweet as to banish all grief and care ; 
 And the bald-pated monks keep time, toe 
 
 and heel. 
 And the pall-bearers join in a rollicking 
 
 reel. 
 But while the Minstrel of Meudon hath 
 
 shown 
 To the gaping crowd his sceptre and 
 
 throne, 
 The smile hath slowly left his face 
 And a weary frown usurped its place ; 
 For all this time his mighty art 
 Hath not been used for so idle a part 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 49 
 
 As to study what already he knew — 
 What follies monks and mourners can do : 
 The sad-eyed minstrel hath only played 
 For that breathless dust in the coffin laid ; 
 And he saddens to know that while his 
 
 strings 
 Yield him an empire o'er living things, 
 All his skill is but baffled and impotent 
 
 breath 
 When it crosses the Sphinx-like presence 
 
 of Death 1 
 
 XIX. 
 
 It was morn ; and through the bars of my 
 window came a bird, 
 
 Singing a song so sweet that a golden sun- 
 beam heard 
 
 And followed into the gloom to listen, 
 rapture -still 
 
 Save when the beech outside trembled to 
 some soft trill. 
 4 
 
50 A Cavern for a Hennitaye. 
 
 Before the singing had ceased, beneath 
 
 some spell most strange 
 Into a happy bird my dream had made me 
 
 change ; 
 And out of the window we passed, the bird 
 
 that had sung and I, 
 And flew to a snow-white cloud that was 
 
 drifting through the sky. 
 
 Through a portal in the cloud my guide 
 
 and I then passed 
 Into a realm so dark that sleep soon held 
 
 me fast ; 
 And I cannot tell how far the cloud had 
 
 made its fliglit 
 Ere I wakened from the sleep whose bonds 
 
 had held me tight. 
 
 Then, lo! I wore no longer the tiny 
 bird's disguise. 
 
 But stood in my own stature with wonder- 
 widened eyes; 
 
 And heard such wondrous sounds and saw 
 such wondrous sights, 
 
 That their recollections serve me a ban- 
 quet of delights. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 51 
 
 I stood within a valley in some delicious 
 
 land, 
 Where like wine to cheer the blood were 
 
 the breezes blowing bland ; 
 Where a soft, romantic light on the flowers 
 
 and verdure fell 
 Like the glances of a virgin when they 
 
 hold us in their spell ; 
 
 Where, at intervals, soft sounds across the 
 silence drifted 
 
 With surprises that were sweet as rosy 
 lips uplifted; 
 
 Where everything about me was so beau- 
 tiful and rare, 
 
 I fancied some Aladdin's lamp liad wrought 
 the wonders there. 
 
 I sang like a village boy when through the 
 
 woods he rides. 
 As I wandered tli rough the valleys and 
 
 up the green hillsides ; 
 Yet I marvelled that no beings like mortal 
 
 men seemed tliere. 
 Though I lieard sweet peals of laughter 
 
 and soft voices everywhere. 
 
52 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 All suddenly I saw my Darling's form and 
 
 lace 
 Before me, like an angel of loveliness and 
 
 grace : 
 I ran with outstretched arms to clasp her 
 
 then and there, 
 But she faded while I followed in rapture 
 
 and despair. 
 
 Yet she gave a kiss of love, wafted from 
 
 her finger-tips, 
 More precious than the kisses bestowed 
 
 by mortal lips ; 
 And she sang a low farewell as from my 
 
 longing siglit 
 She faded, as a ship fades from the shore 
 
 at night. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Sometimes I conjecture our souls are 
 
 darkened by the wings 
 Of events whose swift approach we thus 
 
 are taught to know. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 53 
 
 Our prescience may be sure, thougli based 
 on mystic things 
 
 Governed by mystic laws. Many shad- 
 ows above us go. 
 
 Have I heard the mystic sound of the 
 
 dreaded Stygian stream? 
 If so, I soon shall have solved, or cease 
 
 the weary strife 
 Of seeking to solve, the problem o'er 
 
 which Death sneers at Life. 
 Lives my Darling beyond the grave? or 
 
 did I dream but a Dream ? 
 
 XXL 
 
 In vain, in vain, in vain ! Wliy strive 
 
 aside to tear 
 The dark and mighty veil that drapes the 
 
 realms of air ? 
 *T would seem all codes of faith — let them 
 
 be true or false — 
 Belong to a realm where Reason puts off 
 
 his crown and halts. 
 
54 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Why not quaff in verdant valleys what 
 
 pleasant streams may flow? 
 Why seek their mountain sources through 
 
 solitudes of snow ? 
 Why not bask like butterflies among the 
 
 random flowers? 
 Why vex our little wings in search of 
 
 fancied bowers? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That unknown thing within us we try to 
 call a soul, 
 
 And famish on the threshold of such a 
 barren word — 
 
 By what mysterious powers are its sea- 
 like billows stirred, 
 
 What tidal influences its restless waves 
 control ? 
 
 We see the lights and shadows across its 
 
 surface blown, 
 And behold it as a mirror where images 
 
 are thrown ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. />5 
 
 But hid are its coral walls and adamantine 
 
 towers, 
 Where monsters are at home and sirens 
 
 make their bowers. 
 
 Tliough our thoughts leave earth beneath, 
 like the carols of a hirk, 
 
 Is there ever when *' heaven peeps through 
 the blanket of the dark " 
 
 To spy our mortal ways ? or, are we like 
 bubbles which rise 
 
 From seas that witlessly mirror the mean- 
 ingless void of the skies? 
 
 Are we made like the crawling worms and 
 only a finer clay ? 
 
 Is night the infinite womb, and her finite 
 child, the day? 
 
 Or, are truths which shine with the bright- 
 ness of suns that never set, 
 
 And hid because of the mists our darkful 
 hearts beget ? 
 
oG A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 All about us are riddles, unsolved because 
 they cannot be solved. 
 
 Our senses are doors to darkness where 
 man in his stupor winks. 
 
 The Past is a burial desert where scowls 
 an inscrutable Sphinx, 
 
 And the future an ideal cloud-land in law- 
 less mists involved. 
 
 We teem with a thousand marvels, and so 
 
 does the grass at our feet. 
 We gaze at tlie stars, and we feel we are 
 
 ants pushing globes of clay. 
 The portals before us open along our 
 
 groping way, 
 But the portals keep closing behind us. 
 
 And human life is fleet. 
 
 Let man look into his soul and he finds a 
 looking-glass. 
 
 Curiously twisted and warped in number- 
 less crooked ways ; 
 
 Its surfaces constantly changing beneath 
 his hectored gaze, 
 
 And from heaven and hell alike the images 
 which pass. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 57 
 
 In those convex and concave mirrors, 
 (where falsehood dwells alone, 
 
 And peril in too much gazing— for mad- 
 ness may come of it,) 
 
 In garments of motely hues demons and 
 angels flit 
 
 Distorted, dilated, or dwarfed, and never 
 truly shown. 
 
 Drifting, drifting, drifting, my mind is a 
 
 rudderless ship 
 Tossed on a shoreless sea. Can anyone 
 
 tell the trip 
 On which he was launched at his birth ? 
 
 For such fogs what compass avails? 
 Why not go where the sirens are singing 
 
 and struggle no more with the gales ? 
 Better a crown of straws and a silly scep- 
 tre of lath. 
 If so the monarch be happy within his 
 
 haughty cell, 
 Than a digger of thoughts whose roots 
 
 reach down into torture and wrath — 
 Than to strive with unsatisfied thirsts like 
 
 Tantalus in Hell ! 
 
58 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Mad? Let the wiseacres find a single 
 soul that is sane ! 
 
 The spiders of madness weave their cob- 
 webs in every brain ? 
 
 A crazy and credulous crew, whose com- 
 pass to ruin dips, 
 
 We sail on yawning seas, with foolish joy 
 on our lips, 
 
 And always magnet-mountains arise to 
 wreck our ships. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Hast thou seen those pictures of Centaurs? 
 
 Why, thou art a Centaur thyself; 
 And the beast is thy greater part, and thy 
 
 swifter part as well ! 
 Dost thou claim to guide the beast ? Then 
 
 somewhat reflect, and tell 
 If the beast be not thy master and thou 
 
 but an impotent elf? 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 59 
 XXIV. 
 
 I sneer at my own baseness ! O, I scorn 
 The universal baseness of mankind ! 
 I loathe my very self that I was born 
 Of such a race of dogs and wolves in mind ! 
 Thou Desert, welcome with thy scenes 
 
 forlorn ! 
 The soul is not all wretched when resigned ! 
 Henceforth, the pains which rack me shall 
 
 be borne 
 In all the exhaustless strength of silent 
 
 scorn : 
 
 Let the storms beat of Fate and Circum- 
 stance — 
 Her fiercest shafts let hostile Fortune fling — 
 I rise above them all. In sufferance 
 Patient and strong, I trample like a king 
 Under my heel all the vile things of chance. 
 The soul is its own master, and to bring 
 The soul to its own mastery is to gain 
 The sceptre of the world and break its 
 chain. 
 
GO A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! My heart is wrapt in 
 
 gloom, 
 Whose murky horrors a dread chaos seem 
 Of hopeless blight and ruin. From the 
 
 tomb 
 Of years whose memory is a mocking 
 
 dream, 
 I hear an awful oracle of doom. 
 Horrors and horrors throng, and darkly 
 
 stream 
 Like hungry harpies o'er me. Rend and 
 
 tear — 
 Endurance is the offspring of despair! 
 
 Existence, at the best, is but a curse ; 
 Pleasure a sleeping adder ; happiness 
 A gaudy plume that waves above a 
 
 hearse. 
 Vanity, vanity, woe and bitterness 
 Compose the draught we drink. The 
 
 things we nurse 
 Drive thorns into our hearts with eac^' 
 
 caress, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 61 
 
 And sicken with their perfumes. Vain, 
 
 vain, vain ! 
 The slaves of fate we drag a poisoned 
 
 chain ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Who knows but these hanging-gardens 
 
 which are the land of our dreams. 
 Will become the home where our spirits 
 
 will bask by the flower-banked 
 
 streams ? 
 Who knows but the passing waters of 
 
 earthly cares and pains, 
 (Which are flowing forever by but never 
 
 empty their beds,) 
 There will form peaceful lakes encircled 
 
 by emerald plains ? 
 And these hardest of couches turn softest 
 
 — the hands that hold our heads ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Behold the blazing log of sturdy oak, 
 How soon 'twill vanish in its shroud of 
 smoke — 
 
62 A Cavern for a Hermitafje. 
 
 But, therefore, doth the acorn sprout in 
 
 vain, 
 Warmed by the sun and nourished by the 
 
 rain ? 
 Cans't tell us what ils destiny may be ? 
 To buffet the wild billows of the sea ? 
 To shine in motley paints in purse-proud 
 
 halls? 
 To fall to earth and perish where it falls ? 
 Moulded from dust which soon is dust 
 
 again, 
 Thus vain and transient seem the lives of 
 
 men — 
 The longest life, upon lime's shoreless sea 
 But a poor bubble of fri\olity — 
 Ilnmnnity an all-devouring dyke, 
 Through Avhich the generations ooze alike. 
 Alike for all the darkness unexplored 
 Before and after Avhere the stream is 
 
 poured. 
 
 Lives man no more ? Ends all within the 
 
 grave ? 
 Is there no Heaven to seek, no Christ to 
 
 save? 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitags. ^o 
 
 Is life a curse, the gift of cruelty ? 
 Man but a storm-tossed ship upon a sea 
 AVithout a port tliat's worth the toil to 
 
 gain, 
 Worthless his struggles, all his wisdom 
 
 vain ? 
 Are good and evil only empty cheats ; 
 Our noblest victories our woi'st defeats ? 
 Is human progress but a gilded curse, 
 Guiding our hapless race from bad to 
 
 worse ? 
 Religion to the rescue ! Not fierce creeds, 
 Beneath whose sway the martyr burns 
 
 and bleeds ; 
 Not some illogical and monstrous dream, 
 To make the infidel triumphant seem ; 
 But rational and universal Love, 
 Worthy of man below and God above ! 
 Polluted and despoiled by priestly rule, 
 Trampled beneath the lioofs of ridicule- 
 Still it lives on in its perennial bloom. 
 To justify the cradle and the tomb ! 
 
64 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 XXVII. 
 
 A desolate island in a desolate sea — 
 A desolate island with no greenery 
 Of grass or flowers or trees to make it fair, 
 Nothing save drifted sands and rocks pili^d 
 
 bare. 
 It seemed a shoreless sea, whose billows 
 
 rolled 
 Sullen and listless, like a bosom old 
 In anguish, when it slowly heaves and sinks 
 In some new woe from which in vain it 
 
 shrinks. 
 An awful storm arose ; the sea and sky 
 Were mingled in deep darkness; loud on 
 
 high 
 The thunders shook heaven's arches ; 
 
 through the gloom 
 Demoniac lightnings shot their bolts of 
 
 doom. 
 At last the chaos ceased. Serene and 
 
 bright 
 Shone forth the sun, and radiant flowers 
 
 of light 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 65 
 
 Adorned a rainbow's graceful arcli fliat 
 
 hung 
 Across tlie sky, the scattered clouds 
 
 among. 
 Beneath the arch I saw a mystic face, 
 Fair beyond w^ords ; and, in a little space, 
 I heard a voice speak soft as dream-words 
 
 flow — 
 "Hope waits on high for him who waits 
 
 below." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Foretold by prophet, priest and bard, 
 By sign and portent heralded. 
 The true Messiaii came und bled, 
 And yet mankind knew not the Lord. 
 The true Messiah came to earth — 
 Not as a kingly conqueror comes. 
 In jewelled pomp and noise of drums, 
 But a lone manger gave him birth. 
 Poor fishermen composed the band 
 With whom he moved in humblest guise; 
 Nor wealth nor greatness reached his eyes, 
 5 
 
66 A Cavern for a ttermitage. 
 
 Nor sword nor sceptre stnined his hand. 
 
 He saw the strutting Ciesars pass, 
 
 He saw the parasites of power, 
 
 All as the insects of an hour, 
 
 Or Hitting shadows on the grass. 
 
 Unlike all other princes born, 
 
 He valued not what men most prized ; 
 
 So Gentiles doubted and despised, 
 
 And Jews and Romans laughed in scorn. 
 
 Not less the radiance of the flame 
 
 Because too pure for mortal eyes ; 
 
 Not less a radiance from the skies 
 
 Because men looked through mists and 
 
 shame ! 
 Whatever comes to men or man 
 Of blessings that beget no curse, 
 Making all better, nothing worse. 
 From inmost unto utmost span. 
 Must come as comes the modest shower 
 The gentle breeze, the nightly dew, 
 As comes the morning from the blue, 
 As comes the crimson to the flower. 
 The light of the Messiah's birth, 
 A quiet daybreak in the sky, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 67 
 
 Still as the centuries go by 
 
 Broadens its radiance round tlie earth. 
 
 No threatening swords of Moslem hosts, 
 
 No frightful gifts on Pagan shrines, 
 
 No awful menaces and signs, 
 
 The true Messiah's kingdom boasts. 
 
 Its laws, pacific and benign. 
 
 Are warm with sunlight from above ; 
 
 Its messages are words of love 
 
 And gifts of peace and joys divine. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 "Existence, at the best, is but a curse," 
 Those words I wrote of late, are they all 
 
 truth. 
 Or, only one half truth and one half worse ? 
 As falsehood's rabid froth, I had in youtii 
 Denounced them, each and all, those 
 
 words I wrote. 
 But I have deeply sinned, and sin hath left 
 Its curse upon my soul ; and hate hath 
 
 smote 
 Mine idols into dust. A frightful theft 
 
68 A Cavern Jar a Hermitage, 
 
 Against one's life, with hand upon one's 
 
 throjit, 
 Sin must commit, before one stands bereft 
 Like that of trust in God and in one's 
 
 kind, 
 A Sampson in life's temple, shorn and 
 
 blind ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Only in dreams our Castles of the Air 
 Are built above the heavy fogs of care ; 
 Only in dreams De Leon's fountain flows, 
 Where pain and age can wash away their 
 woes. 
 
 The flower of hai)pincss can only bloom 
 Where virtue tills the soil and love abides; 
 It may be in the bright and festive room, 
 Or in the hut where [)Overty resides. 
 Its beauteous petals open and perfume 
 No spot because wealth pours her golden 
 
 tides, 
 Or fame or fashion wield their gilded rods, 
 Or power forgets the vengeance of the gods. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 69 
 XXXI. 
 
 I SPECULATE if part of my fierce gloom 
 Might still be swept aside with laughter's 
 
 broom ? 
 For laughter is a broom to sweep the 
 
 brain 
 Of many of its webs of care and pain : 
 And men should not disdain to look well 
 
 after, 
 What the Olympians loved, blood-rousing 
 
 laughter. 
 
 Grief is a bat that loves the darkness best, 
 
 And far from noise and sunshine buiUls 
 its nest : 
 
 Get tlie lieart stirring once with nimble 
 blood, 
 
 And Grief soon elsewhere rears its dusky 
 brood. 
 
 Go out and breathe the sparkling atmos- 
 phere — 
 
 The gods' champagne that gives celestial 
 cheer ; 
 
70 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Shake crfF the stupor of thy spirit's pain, 
 As the lion shakes the dewdrops from his 
 
 mane ; 
 Be not like barnacles upon a log 
 Drifting at lazy random through a fog ; 
 Nor absent-minded like an amorous spark 
 When winking at his sweetheart in the 
 
 dark : 
 A giant when he first emits his moan 
 Is smaller and weaker than a dwarf when 
 
 grow^n ; 
 So griefs which might be strangled at the 
 
 first, 
 Are into grisly monsters quickly nursed ! 
 
 However deep the ills of life may prick 
 Our feet like cruel tliorns; however sick 
 Our hearts may turn to view a sterile 
 
 waste 
 Whose niggard streams have all a brack- 
 ish taste ; 
 Yet is it not weakness, wickedness and 
 
 folly, 
 To cringe to fate in moping melancholy ? 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 71 
 
 Oft griefs are harrows for the soul which 
 
 tit 
 Its soil for crops of wisdom, worth and 
 
 wit ; 
 And hearts are clay which need the clouds 
 
 and rain, 
 As well as sunshine, or they bear no 
 
 grain. 
 Yet are there those of fortunes so serene, 
 No storms disturb the sunshine of the 
 
 scene, 
 Who still contrive a peevish irrigation 
 By brewing tempests in imagination : 
 Better a dancing dog, whose gravity 
 Of pendent paw and melanclioly eye, 
 The tragic pantomime and fictile game 
 Of all such puling puppets put to shame ! 
 Even for him whose grief is stern and 
 
 real. 
 Not some mere phantom idle and ideal, 
 'Tis proof of senile w^eakness to bewail, 
 If strength be left to fight the pelting 
 
 hail. 
 
72 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 XXXII. 
 
 'Tis true that I liave had sufficient cause 
 For railing at my kind, yet broken laws 
 Are predecessors of most punishments. 
 I own 'tis true that in remote events 
 Of boyhood and of manhood frequent guilt 
 Upon my wayward soul its darkness spih. 
 A young man's soul is like a pleasure- 
 ground 
 Where colors flaunt and merry fiddles 
 
 sound ; 
 An old man's soul a house gone to decay, 
 Too oft with bats by niglit and owls by 
 
 day: 
 And when the springs of innocent cheer- 
 fulness 
 Are choked by guilty riot or excess, 
 An old man's soul then boasts no verdant 
 
 lawn 
 Whereon the sunset emulates the dawn. 
 Vices and follies when they'i-e nursed by 
 
 men, 
 Are like the eggs hatched by the foolish 
 hen. 
 
A Cavern for a Herntltdcje. 73 
 
 For they are serpents' eggs which, soon 
 
 or kite, 
 Shall wreak upon us their envenomed 
 
 hate. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Am I a cynic? I hope not. To-day, 
 By chance I looked upon a boy at play. 
 The dog that in a mirror stops lo stace, 
 And giowls as if some oiher dog were 
 
 there — 
 That is the cynic. Yet the crabbedest 
 
 cur 
 That growls whene'er canine adults dure 
 
 stir 
 Within his presence, will, when pupi)ies 
 
 play, 
 Like a kind czar his terrors put away, 
 And amiably unbend his awful frown. 
 So, when a child tugs at an old man's 
 
 gown, 
 And pulls his hair and clutches at his knee. 
 Then April sunshine warms his heart, and 
 
 he 
 
74 A Cavern for a Hermitage 
 
 Forgets to be a cynic for the while — 
 Such is the genial power of childhood's 
 
 smile. 
 A frigid mien may be a lying mask ; 
 Oft the soul's wine is in a frozen cask, 
 The balmy excellence with which 'twas 
 
 tilled, 
 In potent richness at its core distilled. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Sometimes I weary of my hermitage — 
 For discontent belongs to human hearts, 
 As weeds belong to gardens. The king 
 
 wearies 
 Of crown and sceptre, and oft times 
 
 would barter 
 A principality for a peasant's cottage ; 
 The peasant wearies of ids humble hearth, 
 And for the splendid emptiness of wealth 
 Oft like a fool, would baiter home and 
 
 wife ; 
 The merchant wearies of his bulging 
 
 ledgers ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitaye. 75 
 
 The statesman of Lis power and strata- 
 gems ; 
 The lawyer of his cobwebs, quips and 
 
 quirks ; 
 The sailor of his floor upon the waves ; 
 The doctor of his perilous bohises ; 
 And all would welcome at such times a 
 
 change 
 To novel scenes and aspii-ations strange. 
 Sometimes my fancy paints me wondrous 
 
 tales— 
 Of whiskered captains, of adventurous 
 
 sails, 
 Of splendid cities, of high feats of men, 
 In the far world beyond this narrow glen. 
 Alladdin and the genii of the lamp, 
 As told round cimpfires of an Arab 
 
 camp. 
 Ever delight the dwellers of all lands, 
 Just as they charm the nomads of the 
 
 sands : 
 But stranger than the wildest Orient 
 
 dream, 
 The miracles of modern progress seem, 
 
76 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Save as familiar uses blunt tlieir charm. 
 Did ever the Orient dream of a cunning 
 
 arm 
 Reaching beneath wide seas to distant 
 
 shores ; 
 Of ships tiiat journey without sails or oars ; 
 Of iron muscles skilfulier than hands 
 And taught in all the crafts of all the 
 
 lands? 
 
 Alas! too well I know what bitter lore 
 Close contact with our fellows has in 
 
 store, 
 To teach us that despite the marvelous 
 
 things 
 Which lend to human progress magic 
 
 wings, 
 Heads are no wiser, hearts no purer 
 
 grown. 
 Than those the ancients knew in ages 
 
 gone. 
 While, probably, the greatest ancients 
 
 knew 
 Catarrhs and colics as we moderns do, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. T7 
 
 Pltiyed in the dirt when children, and 
 
 when men 
 Oft found themselves all smeared with dirt 
 
 again; 
 So, wliile the earth grows older every day, 
 Men still are moulded from the self-same 
 
 clay, 
 Swayed by the passions, appetites and 
 
 whims 
 Wliich Adam felt and every Homer limns. 
 The dwarf that on a giant's shoulder rides, 
 Sees farther than tlie giant he bestrides. 
 Like the dull boor who at a stranger 
 
 stares 
 And judges of him by tlie coat lie wears, 
 So men are prone to reason on events 
 Not from essentials but from accidents. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I HAVE noticed a turkey-cock distend with 
 
 the wind of pride, 
 And his hauglitiness of step like a silly 
 
 lordling's stride; 
 
78 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 I have noticed his feathers stiffen like the 
 
 arrogance of a snob, 
 And liis tail unfold like a fan in the 
 
 clutch of a female nabob. 
 Alike vainglorious we, at this nineteentli 
 
 century's close, 
 "When we prate of our boasted land and of 
 
 other nations' woes. 
 True, our cities are crowded with traffic, 
 
 our thoroughfares glitter with gold ; 
 True, our pageants far outshine all the 
 
 pageantry of old; 
 True, on every side we see the marvels of 
 
 thought and toil 
 As they blossom in freedom's sunshine 
 
 and grow on freedom's soil ; 
 But tliis is not enough. It is man, not 
 
 his handiwork, 
 Which makes the essential odds betwixt 
 
 the Christian and Turk. 
 If the man be ignoble, what good that he 
 
 rides in a palace-car ? 
 If the man be base, he is base though his 
 
 opulence shine afar. 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 79 
 
 We are worshippers of idols and Mammon 
 
 is our false God, 
 So have broken the Lord's Command- 
 ment and must walk beneath his rod, 
 If we look to the east or west, if we look 
 
 to tlie north or the south. 
 We bow to some ^rolden ima^je and wor- 
 
 ship with heart and mouth ; 
 We are taught to despise the beauty and 
 
 grandeur of things ideal — 
 Except, forsooth, they are bond-slaves to 
 
 things that are sordid and real ; 
 We are taught that Dollars are better 
 
 than Thoughts that enoble I he soul. 
 That tlie man who has wealth and power 
 
 — though a wretch — has reached life's 
 
 goal; 
 We bend our knees to the Rich, though 
 
 vile as the vilest weed, 
 And glance with scorn at the Poor, though 
 
 noble in thought and deed ; 
 We raise our hats to Success, and ask not 
 
 what road it came, 
 Though its chariot- wheels still smoke from 
 
 the gutters of crime and shame ! 
 
80 A Cavern for a HcrmiicKje. 
 
 Not strange, we are dwarfing in manhood 
 and swiftly becoming small-souled, 
 
 Better trained for a nation of thieves than 
 the Spartan youths of old ; 
 
 Not strange that our statesmen turn rob- 
 bers, that demagogues rule the State, 
 
 That gold has mastered the ballot and 
 bribes swerve the nation's fate ! 
 
 How^ else, how else could it be, O turkey- 
 cocks thoughtless and vain — 
 
 So big in your strutting feathers, so dimin- 
 utive in brain ? 
 
 You are only barnyard fowls walking the 
 filthy ground ; 
 
 You are tamed, and cannot fly into the 
 blue profound. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 I STOOD and saw a slow ship sailing in, 
 Whose lonely path across the seas had been 
 I looked on every sorrow, age and sex. 
 Among the exiles swarming on her decks — 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage, 8 1 
 
 The old man with gray locks and tottering 
 
 staff — 
 The bright-eyed boy with music in his 
 
 laugli — 
 Tlie home-sick matron, with her long-drawn 
 
 sigh— 
 The graceful girl with moonlight in her 
 
 eye— 
 The patient peasant with atliletic arm 
 To greet the honest toil of shop and farm — 
 All these, abandoning their native hind, 
 I saw approach Columbia's welcome strand. 
 Grief in each heart, hope kindling every 
 
 eye, 
 To seek new homes beneath an alien sky. 
 
 Alas ! the shadow of tlie tyrant's rod 
 Had blighted the fair tliresholds where 
 
 they trod ; 
 And robbers Avith long titles for their 
 
 masks, 
 Siolcn the wages of their wretched tasks, 
 L(a\ ing no good they ever could attain, 
 Save hopeless lives of penury and pain ; 
 
82 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 While far across the ocean their dim eyes 
 Had pictured all that life could realize — 
 The blessed liberty to till the vsoil, 
 And reap the harvests springing from their 
 
 toil— 
 The blessed right to labor, and aspire 
 To every good ambition may desire — 
 An equal law and every man his own, 
 Tlie wicked insolence of rank unknown. 
 But, as the sun has spots upon its face, 
 wSo do all evil things and things of grace. 
 In this strange world, of which so small we 
 
 know, 
 So odd unite and so togetlier gro\v. 
 That surely wjiat is evil, what is good, 
 Is never easy to be understood : 
 And thus it is to view the crazy tricks 
 Of the strange whirligigs of politics — 
 The subtle schemes with disappointments 
 
 fraught — 
 The bubble honors bursting soon as 
 
 caught — 
 The rancors, jealousies and dark designs — 
 The fierce assaults, the mines and coun- 
 termines — 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 83 
 
 The humbugs practiced with a saint-like 
 
 leer — 
 The hollow friendships and the hates sin- 
 cere — 
 In short, the hordes of rascals great and 
 
 small, 
 Who, wolf-like, ftitten upon those who fall, 
 And who, like foul fish dripping from the 
 
 brine, 
 Shine while they rot and rotten while they 
 
 shine ! 
 I cannot stop to view the whole arena's 
 Menagerie of serpents, wolves, hyenas, 
 Tiger^, sharks, monkeys— now and then a 
 
 lion — 
 Which Uncle Sam is called to keep his 
 
 eye on ; 
 I only marvel as I look around, 
 His striped pants are still above the 
 
 ground ! 
 Millions of partisans con well each word 
 Whene'er the voice of leadership is heard; 
 And though it drip with folly and deceit- 
 It matters not— a million tongues repeat ; 
 
84 A Cavern for a HcDnitufje. 
 
 Just as a liungi7 parrot will rehearse, 
 To get his meal, a sermon or a verse. 
 He who would thrive in politics must first 
 Bury his manhood as a thing accursed — 
 Must study prudence and neutrality, 
 Must smile by habit, blush not at a lie — 
 Extend a cordial hand to rogues and Tools — 
 Consent to be enrolled with servile tools — 
 Like weather-cocks obey each wind that 
 
 blows — 
 Like rotten sticks float as the current flows — 
 And then — if not too honest or too wise — 
 AVith decent luck debility will rise. 
 Patriot few, with duties to perform, 
 Acting as faithful pilots in the storm, 
 Braving whatever perils may assail. 
 Scorning the hardships of the fiercest gale — 
 O noble Few, disdaining things of self, 
 Toiling for country, not for place and pelf; 
 You, as your guerdon for each lofty aim, 
 Suffer infirratitude and hate and shame ! 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitaye. %b 
 XXXVII 
 
 And why not I ? Why shouhl I hide and 
 
 shirk, 
 When kind and country all need honest 
 
 work ? 
 To arms, my soul ! rouse from thy slothful 
 
 spleen, 
 And seek thy duties with heroic mien ! 
 Unless I prove my readiness to give, 
 What right have I to ask ? what right to 
 
 live? 
 
 True, different men need difference of pur- 
 suits, 
 
 Just as to different trees are different 
 fruits ; 
 
 True, swine for acorns always hunt the 
 oak. 
 
 While oft by man this obvious law is 
 broke ; 
 
 True, the world sees beneath a chancel- 
 lor's wig 
 
 The frequent noddle of a brainless prig — 
 
80 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 Finds if some doctors swallowed their own 
 
 pills 
 Their fate would save their neighbors 
 
 numerous ills — 
 Beholds a pulpit turned into a pound 
 By some stray ass of most ungodly 
 
 sound — 
 True, I may blunder likewise, or may 
 
 fail, 
 Or merely pound the air \\\X\\ worthless 
 
 flail- 
 But, there is work to do for every man, 
 And he fails not who does the best he 
 
 can. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Poverty's face looks giim and hard and 
 
 cold, 
 Yet it is poverty makes the w^orld rich. 
 Men must be poor or else they will not 
 
 toil. 
 And if men cease to toil the world must 
 
 halt, 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 87 
 
 The cities crumble and depopulate, 
 The mills and markets close, the harvest- 
 fields 
 Return untilled to primal wilderness, 
 And nakedness and famine like gaunt 
 
 wolves 
 Glare at all doors. Not wealth, but 
 
 poverty. 
 Forces the complex wheels of social life, 
 And moves the hands around the clock of 
 
 Progress. 
 The nine must toil, or else the ten must 
 
 starve : 
 Should then the nine complain because the 
 
 tenth 
 Escapes his share ? Or should the tenth, 
 
 tiie drone. 
 Despise tlie busy bees that fill the hive ? 
 The poor man's envy and the rich man's 
 
 scorn 
 Are equal folly, equal blasphemy. 
 Doth the kind Providence that paints the 
 
 flower, 
 
88 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 And stores the lands and seas with fire 
 
 and food, 
 And belts the earth with verdure for her 
 
 flocks, 
 In everything omnipotent and benign 
 So blunder in the synthesis of man, 
 The sovereign favorite in the universe, 
 Tliat Poverty is made tiie common lot, 
 And yet a curse to all tlie sons of toil? 
 Nay : indolence, the pale-face child of 
 
 wealth, 
 Bred listlessly in leisure's languid lap, 
 Seems born to the cradle of young Her- 
 cules, 
 Beset witli serpents, but without the 
 
 strength 
 Of Hercules to strangle and subdue i 
 Because the wholesome wines of inno- 
 cence 
 Seem guarded by the keys of poverty, 
 For their excitements, wealth and indo- 
 lence 
 Seem driven to vice and folly in all 
 climes ; 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 89 
 
 The sons and tlaugliters born to opulence, 
 Seem born upon a maelstrom's placid 
 
 edge, 
 Without a port for which compelled to 
 
 sail, 
 With selfishness their compass, with 
 
 caprice 
 The wayward pilot of their heedless voy- 
 age. 
 Drifting along with music on their decks 
 And insolent colors and wild merriment. 
 The glim-jawed vortex hidden from their 
 sight. 
 
 All hail to Toil, though rugged and 
 uncouth ! 
 
 All hail to Poverty, though cold and grim ! 
 
 Hail to the Son and Mother ! It is they, 
 
 And only they, who evermore redeem 
 
 The world from hunger, thirst and naked- 
 ness : 
 
 ' Tis they who bear the shields of law and 
 order : 
 
 'Tis they whose fingers rub Aladdin's 
 lamp, 
 
90 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 While nations swarm across the continents, 
 And splendid cities as by magic rise : 
 'Tis they capture the lightnings from the 
 
 clouds, 
 And harness them as servants to the earth : 
 'Tis they whose hands scatter upon the 
 
 seas 
 The sails of commerce, like the prodigal 
 
 hand 
 Of autumn scatters leaves upon the winds: 
 'Tis they who send the thoughts and 
 
 words of men 
 Beneath the surging seas from land to 
 
 land ; 
 Who fill our homes with music, works of 
 
 art, 
 And all that soothes the careworn souls 
 
 of men, 
 And all that educates, subdues, refines ! 
 Hail then to Toil, and hail to Poverty, 
 The Son and Mother, who redeem the 
 
 earth 
 From barbarism, anarchy, despair ! 
 
A Cavern for a Hermitage. 91 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Behold the hill-born brook, 
 So brightly pure and sweet, 
 Leaping from rock to rock 
 With the sunshine on its feet ; 
 But when it halts on the plain, 
 Lazy and motionless, 
 Then slime and filth profane, 
 And wriggling ugliness. 
 And such is the stagnant soul ; 
 And down in its sombre deeps 
 Vile thoughts like monsters roll. 
 And Death like a horror creeps. 
 
 Behold how a bugle's blare 
 Pours music into the blood, 
 ' Til it leai)S like a thing of air, 
 Disdaining its banks of mud : 
 Then even the coward's clay 
 Shamefully torpid and cold. 
 Melted in battle's ray, 
 May fill a hero's mould. 
 
92 A Cavern for a Hermitage. 
 
 But the sluggard is doubly damned, 
 Both body and soul grown dull, 
 Like a sliip that lies becalmed 
 ' Til the elements rot her hull. 
 
 XL. 
 
 A Cavern for a Hermitage, 
 From all the hives of men apj rt— 
 'Tis a fit place for beasts to rage, 
 But not a human heart ! 
 Farewell, O crabbed Solitude, 
 F'or scenes of busy life ! 
 Again I'll quaff th' elixir brewed 
 Only 'midst toil and strife ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Farewell, O thou beautiful wild-rose, 
 Dew-freshened and kissed by the sun ; 
 Farewell, O thou innocent child-rose, 
 Mine eyes liave alone looked upon ! 
 
A Carei-n for a Hermitage. 9o 
 
 I shall leave thee as lover leaves maiden 
 When belting his sword for the foe ! — 
 May the winds treat thee kindly when 
 
 laden 
 With odors thy lips shall bestow ! 
 
 Be genial, O skies, in adorning 
 
 This virgin so lovely and sweet ! 
 
 O ye robins, sing blithely each morning, 
 
 This guest of the forest to greet I 
 
 Thou dweller within this green wildwood, 
 Sweet saint in thy convent apart, 
 Like a song or a laughter from childhood 
 Thine image I'll bear in my heart ! 
 
 FmiS.