THE MOTHER 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 / 
 
 BY 
 
 SrWEIR MITCHELL, M. D., LL. D. Harv. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a psalm OF DEATHS AND OTHER POEMS," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK / 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY U ^ t-, / ir^ 
 
 Wax, iSibetjSid* 3Pre|^, CamiribBe 
 1893 
 
 
 

 Copyright, 1892, 
 By S. weir MITCHELL. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S.A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Ca 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Mother 1 
 
 Responsibility 12 
 
 The Roman Campagna 20 
 
 The Protestant Cemetery at Rome . . .23 
 
 Roma 26 
 
 My Lady op the Roses 29 
 
 The Quaker Lady 34 
 
 The Wreck op the Emmeline 38 
 
 Venice 45 
 
 Venice to Italy 46 
 
 The Decay op Venice 47 
 
 Pisa: The Duomo 48 
 
 The Vestal's Dream 49 
 
 Lincoln 50 
 
 The Lost Philopena 51 
 
 St. Christopher 52 
 
 Dreamland 55 
 
 Evening by the Sea 58 
 
 Idleness 59 
 
 A Graveyard 60 
 
 Loss 61 
 
iv CONTENTS 
 
 Come in 62 
 
 GrOOD-NlQHT 63 
 
 The Rising Tide di 
 
 Verses 65 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 " I will incline mine ear to the parable, and show my dark 
 speech upon the harp." 
 
 Christmas ! Christmas ! merry Christmas ! 
 
 rang the bells. O God of grace ! 
 In the stillness of the death-room motionless I 
 
 kept my place, 
 While beneath my eyes a wanness came upon 
 
 the little face, 
 And an empty smile that stung me, as the pallor 
 
 grew apace. 
 Then, as if from some far distance, spake a 
 
 voice : " The child is dead." 
 « Dead ? " I cried. " Is God not good ? What 
 
 thing accursed is that you said ? " 
 Swift I searched their eyes of pity, swaying, 
 
 bowed, and all my soul, 
 Shrunken as a hand had crushed it, crumpled 
 
 like a useless scroll 
 Read and done with, passed from sorrows : only 
 
 with me lingered yet 
 
2 THE MOTHEB 
 
 Some dim sense of easeful comfort in the glad 
 
 leave to forget. 
 But again life's scattered fragments, memories 
 
 of joy and woe, 
 Tremulously came to oneness, as a storm-torn 
 
 lake may grow 
 Quiet, winning back its pictures, when the wild 
 
 winds cease to blow. 
 As if called for God's great audit came a vision 
 
 of my years, 
 Broken gleams of youth and girlhood, all the 
 
 woman's love and tears. 
 Marveling, myself I saw as one another sees, 
 
 and smiled, 
 Crooning o'er my baby doUs, — part a mother, 
 
 part a child ; 
 Then, half sorry, ceased to wonder why I left 
 
 my silent brood, 
 Till the lessoning years went by me, and the in- 
 stinct, love-renewed, 
 Stirred again life's stronger fibre, and were 
 
 mine these living things ; 
 Bone of my bone ! flesh of my flesh ! Who on 
 
 earth a title brings 
 Flawless as this mother-title, free from aught of 
 
 mortal stain. 
 
THE MOTHER 3 
 
 Innocent and pure possession, double-born of 
 
 joy and pain ? 
 Oh, what wonder these could help me, set me 
 
 laughing, though I sobbed 
 As they drew my very heart out, and the laden 
 
 breasts were robbed ! 
 Tender buds of changeful pleasure came as come 
 
 the buds of May, 
 Trivial, wondrous, unexpected, blossoming from 
 
 day to day. 
 Ah ! the clutch of tendril-fingers, that with 
 
 nature's cunning knew 
 So to coil in sturdy grapple round the stem 
 
 from which they grew. 
 Shall a man this joy discover ? How the heart- 
 wine to the brain 
 Bushed with shock of bliss when, startled, first 
 
 I won this simple gain ! 
 How I mocked those seeking fingers, eager for 
 
 their earliest toy, 
 Telling none my new-found treasure ! Miser of 
 
 the mother's joy, 
 Quick I caught the first faint ripple, answering 
 
 me with lip and eyes. 
 As I stooped with mirthful purpose, keen to 
 
 capture fresh replies ; 
 
4 THE MOTHER 
 
 Oh, the pretty wonder of it, when was born the 
 
 art to smile, 
 Or the new, gay trick of laughter filled my eyes 
 
 with tears the while, — 
 Helpful tears, love's final language, when the 
 
 lips no more can say. 
 Tears, like kindly prophets, warning of another, 
 
 darker day. 
 Thus my vision lost its gladness, and I stood on 
 
 life's dim strand. 
 Watching where a little love-hark drifted slowly 
 
 from the land ; 
 For again the heUs seemed ringing Christmas 
 
 o'er the snow of dawn, 
 And my dreaming memory hurt me with a hot 
 
 face, gray and drawn. 
 And with small hands locked in anguish. Ah ! 
 
 those days of helpless pain ! 
 Mine the mother's wrathful sorrow. Ah! my 
 
 child, hadst thou been Cain, 
 Father of the primal murder, black with every 
 
 hideous thought. 
 Cruel were the retribution ; for, alas ! what 
 
 good is wrought 
 When the very torture ruins all the fine machine 
 
 of thought ? 
 
THE MOTHER 5 
 
 So with reeling brain I questioned, while the 
 
 fevered cheek grew white, 
 And at last I seemed to pass with him, released, 
 
 to outer night. 
 Seraph voices whispered round me. " God," they 
 
 said, " hath set our task, — 
 Thou to question, we to answer : fear not ; ask 
 
 what thou wouldst ask." 
 Wildly beat my heart. Thought only, regnant, 
 
 held its sober pace. 
 Whilst, a winged mind, I wandered in the bleak 
 
 domain of space. 
 Then I sought and saw untroubled aU the mys- 
 tery of time, 
 Where beneath me roUed the earth-star in its 
 
 first chaotic slime. 
 As bewildering ages passing with their cyclic 
 
 changes came. 
 Heaving land and 'whelming waters, ice and 
 
 fierce volcanic flame. 
 Sway and shock of tireless atoms, pulsing with 
 
 the throb of force. 
 Whilst the planet, rent and shaken, fled upon 
 
 its mighty course. 
 Last, with calm of wonder hushed, I saw amid 
 
 the surging strife 
 
6 THE MOTHER 
 
 Rise the first faint stir of being and the tardy 
 
 morn of life, — 
 Life in countless generations. Speechless, mer- 
 cilessly dumb, 
 Swept by ravage of disaster, tribe on tribe in 
 
 silence come, 
 Till the yearning sense found voices, and on 
 
 hill, and shore, and plain. 
 Dreary from the battling myriads rose the birth- 
 right wail of pain. 
 Gpd of pityJ Son of sorrows! Wherefore 
 
 should a wiU unseen 
 Launch on years of needless anguish this great 
 
 agonized machine ? 
 "Was Himself who wiUed this torment but a 
 
 slave to law self-made ? 
 Or had some mad angel-demon here, unchecked 
 
 and undismayed. 
 Leave to make of earth a Job ; until the cruel 
 
 game was played 
 Free to whirl the spinning earth-toy where his 
 
 despot forces wrought. 
 While he watched each sense grow keener as 
 
 the lifted creature bought 
 With the love-gift added sorrow, and there came 
 
 to man's estate 
 
THE MOTHER 7 
 
 Will, the helpless, thought, the bootless, aU the 
 
 deathward war with fate ? 
 Had this lord of trampled millions joy or grief, 
 
 when first the mind. 
 Awful prize of contests endless, rose its giant 
 
 foes to bind ; 
 When his puppet tamed the forces that had 
 
 helped its birth to breed. 
 And with growth of wisdom master, trained 
 
 them to its growing need ; 
 Last, upon the monster turning, on the serpent 
 
 form of Pain, 
 Cried, " Bring forth no more in anguish ; " with 
 
 the arrows of the brain 
 Smote this brute thing that no use had save to 
 
 teach him to refrain 
 When earth's baser instincts tempted, and the 
 
 better thought was vain ? 
 Then my soul one harshly answered, " Thou 
 
 hast seen the whole of earth. 
 All its boundless years of misery, yea, its glad- 
 ness and its mirth. 
 Yet thou hast a life created ! Hadst thou not 
 
 a choice ? Why cast 
 Purity to life's mad chances, where defeat is sure 
 
 at last ? " 
 
8 THE MOTHER 
 
 Low I moaned, "My tortured baby," and a 
 
 gentler voice replied, 
 "One alone tby soul can answer, — tliis, this 
 
 only, is denied. 
 Yet take counsel of thy sadness. Should God 
 
 give thy will a star 
 Freighted with eternal pleasure, free from agony 
 
 and war, 
 Wouldst thou wish it ? Think ! Time is not 
 
 for the souls who roam in space. 
 Speak! Thy will shall have its way. Be 
 
 mother of one joyous race. 
 Choose ! Yon time-worn world beneath thee 
 
 thou shalt people free from guilt. 
 There nor pain nor death shall ruin, never there 
 
 shall blood be spilt." 
 Then I trembled, hesitating, for I saw its beauty 
 
 born, 
 Saw a Christ-Hke world of beings where no 
 
 beast by beast was torn, 
 Where the morrows bred no sorrows, and the 
 
 gentle knew not scorn. 
 " Yet," I said, " if life have meaning, and man 
 
 must be, what shall lift 
 These but born for joy's inaction, these who 
 
 crave no added gift ? 
 
THE MOTHER 9 
 
 Let the world you bid me people hurl forever 
 through the gloom, 
 
 Tenantless, a blasted record of some huge fu- 
 nereal doom, 
 
 Sad with xmremembered slaughter, but a cold 
 and lonely tomb." 
 
 Deep and deeper grew the stillness, and I knew 
 
 how vain my quest. 
 Not by God's supremest angel is that awful se- 
 cret guessed. 
 Yet with duU reiteration, like the pendulum's 
 
 dead throb, 
 Beat my heart ; a moaning infant, all my body 
 
 seemed to sob, 
 And a voice hke to my baby's called to me 
 
 across the night 
 As the darkness fell asunder, and I saw a wall 
 
 of light 
 Barred with crucificial shadows, whence a weary 
 
 wind did blow 
 Shuddering. I felt it pass me heavy with its 
 
 freight of woe. 
 Said a voice, " Behold God's dearest ; also these 
 
 no answer know. 
 
10 THE MOTHER 
 
 These be they who paid in sorrow for the right 
 to bid thee hear. 
 
 Had their lives in ease been cradled, had they 
 never known a tear, 
 
 Feebly had their psalms of warning fallen upon 
 the listening ear. 
 
 God the sun is God the shadow ; and where 
 pain is, God is near. 
 
 Take again thy life and use it with a sweetened 
 sense of fear ; 
 
 God is Fathe^ ! God is Mother ! Regent of a 
 growing soul, 
 
 Free art thou to grant mere pleasure, free to 
 teach it uncontrol. 
 
 Time is childhood! larger manhood bides be- 
 yond life's sunset hour. 
 
 Where far other foes are waiting ; and with ever 
 gladder power. 
 
 Still the lord of awful choice, O striving crea- 
 ture of the sod, 
 
 Thou shalt learn that imperfection is the noblest 
 gift of God! 
 
 For they mock his ample purpose who but 
 , dream, beyond the sky. 
 
THE MOTHER 11 
 
 Of a heaven where will may slumber, and the 
 
 trained decision die 
 In the competence of answer found in death's 
 
 immense reply." 
 
 Then my vision passed, and weeping, lo ! I woke, 
 
 of death heref t ; 
 At my breast the baby brother, yonder there 
 
 the dead I left. 
 For my heart two worlds divided : his, my lost 
 
 one's ; his, who pressed 
 Closer, waking all the mother, as he drew the 
 
 aching breast. 
 While twain spirits, joy and sorrow, hovered 
 
 o'er my plundered nest. 
 Newport, October, 1891. 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 Thus, lying among the roses in the garden of the Great Inn, 
 sang Attar El Din of iihingps yet to be, when the Angels of 
 A£Brmation and Denial should struggle for the soul of him 
 dead. 
 
 " I MoONKiE, the angel, am come 
 
 To count of his good deeds the sum, 
 
 For this mortal, death-stricken and dumb." 
 
 " I Nekkeer, the clerk of ill thought, 
 Am here to dispute what hath wrought 
 This maker of song, come to naught. 
 
 " Let us call from the valleys of gloom. 
 From the night graves of sleep and the tomb. 
 The wretched he lured to their doom." 
 
 Said Moonkir, the angel of light, 
 "Life is made of the day and the night ; 
 Let us summon the souls he set right." 
 
 (12) 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 13 
 
 Then, parting the dark tents of sleep, 
 Or stirred from their earth-couches deep, 
 Came souls that were glad or did weep. 
 
 Spake a Voice : 
 
 " I sat beside the cistern on the sand, 
 When this man's song did take me in its hand. 
 And hurled me helpless, as a sling the stone 
 That knows not will or pity of its own. 
 Within my heart was seed of murder sown. 
 So once I struck, — yea, twice, when he did 
 groan." 
 
 " Ay, that was the song," said a voice, 
 
 " Which I heard as I lay 
 
 'Gainst my camel's broad flanks, 
 
 Thinking how to repay 
 
 The death-debt, ere night fled away. 
 
 And I rose as he sang, to rejoice 
 
 With a blessing of thanks, 
 
 For the song took my slack will and me 
 
 As a strong man might lustily throw 
 
 The power of hand and of knee 
 
 To string up to purpose a bow. 
 
 Quick I stole through the dark, but was stayed, 
 
14 RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 Just to hear how, with every-day phrase, 
 Such as useth a child or a maid, 
 From praise of decision to praise 
 Of the quiet of evening, he fell, 
 As a brook groweth stiQ on the plain 
 To picture how come through the grain 
 The women with jars to the well. 
 Near I drew o*er the sands cool and gray 
 With my knife in my teeth, swift to slay. 
 Hot and wet felt my hand as I crept ; 
 Blank-eyed 'neath my eyes the man lay ; 
 This other had struck where he slept." 
 
 Then Moonkir, who treasures good deeds, 
 To mark how the total exceeds. 
 Said, " He soweth of millet and weeds 
 
 " Who casts forth a song in the night, 
 As a pigeon is flung for its flight. 
 He knoweth not where 't will alight. 
 
 " Lo, Allah a wind doth command, 
 And the caravan dies in the sand, 
 And the good ship is sped to the land." 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 15 
 
 Spake a Voice : 
 
 " I lay among the idle on the grass, 
 
 And saw before me come and go, alas ! 
 
 This evil rhymer. And he sang how God 
 
 Is but the cruel user of the rod, 
 
 And how the wine cup better is than prayer ; 
 
 Whereon I ciirsed, and counseled with despair, 
 
 And drank with him, and left my field untUled : 
 
 So all my house with want and woe was filled." 
 
 Spake a Voice : 
 
 " And I, that took no heed of things divine. 
 
 And ever loved to loiter with the wine, 
 
 Was stirred to think, and straightway sobered 
 
 went, 
 And in the folded stillness of my tent 
 Struggled with Allah, and at morning fair 
 Beheld this poet like the rest in prayer." 
 
 Cried he whose proportion of sin 
 These angels considered within, 
 Cried the soul of this Attar El Din, 
 
 " O weigher of goodness and light, 
 O stern clerk of evil and night. 
 Between the slow comings and flight 
 
16 BESPONSIBILITY 
 
 " Of the sun and the day-death there lies, 
 Ere sleep shall have cloaked a man's eyes, 
 Ere the red dawn shall bid him arise, 
 
 " An hour when the prayer seed is strown ; 
 
 Man tilleth or letteth alone, 
 
 For the ground where it falls is his own. 
 
 " Behold at even-time within my tent 
 
 I wailed in song because a death-shaft, sent 
 
 From Azrael's bow, had laid again in dust 
 
 My eldest born ; I sang because I must. 
 
 For hate, love, Joy, or grief, like Allah's birds, 
 
 I have but song, and man's dull use of words 
 
 Fills not the thirsty cup of my desire 
 
 To hurt my brothers with the scorch of fire 
 
 That burns within. Yea, they must share my 
 
 fate, 
 Love with me, hate, with me be desolate ; 
 And so I drew my bowstring to the eye, 
 And shot my shafts, I cared not where or why, 
 If but the men indifferent, who lay 
 Beneath the palm-trees at the fall of day, 
 I could make see with me the dead boy's look 
 That swayed me like the bent reeds of the brook. 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 17 
 
 " But one who heard, and through long stress 
 
 of grief 
 Wrestled with agony of loss in vain, 
 Into the desert went, and made full brief 
 A clearance with the creditor called Pain, 
 And by a sword thrust gave his heart relief. 
 
 " One whose dry eyes were as the summer sand 
 Wept as I sang, and said, ' I understand.' 
 
 " And one who loved did also comprehend, 
 Because I sang how, to life's bitter end, 
 The death-fear sweetens love ; and went his way 
 With deepened love to where the dark-eyed 
 lay." 
 
 Spake a Voice : 
 
 " My father's foe, a dying man, 
 
 Thirst-stricken by the brookside lay ; 
 
 Its prattle mocked him as it ran 
 
 So near, and yet so far away. 
 
 The cold, quick waters soothed my feet. 
 
 Hot from the long day's desert heat ; 
 
 I drank deep draughts, and deep delight 
 
 Of sated vengeance. Life grew sweet 
 
18 RESPONSIBILITY 
 
 Because the great breast heaved and groaned, 
 
 The red eyes yearned, the black lips moaned. 
 
 Because my foe should die ere night. 
 
 Then, as a rich man scatters alms, 
 
 A careless singer 'neath the palms, 
 
 With lapse and laughter, and pauses long. 
 
 Merrily squandered the gold of song. 
 
 Just a babble of simple childish chants : 
 
 How they dig little wells with the small brown 
 
 hand; 
 How they watch the caravan march of the ants, 
 And build tall mosques with the shifting sand, 
 And are mighty sheiks of a corner of land. 
 
 "Ah ! the rush, and the joy of the singing. 
 Swept peace o'er my hate, and was sweet 
 As the freshness the waters were bringing 
 Was cool to my desert-baked feet. 
 
 " Thereon I raised mine enemy, and gave 
 The cold clear water of the wave ; 
 And when he blessed me I did give again. 
 And had strange fear my bounty were but vain ; 
 When, as I bent, he smote me through the breast. 
 And that is all ! Great Allah knows the rest." 
 
RESPONSIBILITY 19 
 
 Said Nekkeer, the clerk of man's wrong, 
 " Great Solomon's self might be long 
 In judging this mad son of song." 
 
 Cried the poet, " Shall two men agree ? 
 Thou mighty collector of sin, 
 Be advised, come with me to the Inn ; 
 There are friends who shall witness for me. 
 Great-bellied, respectable, stanch, 
 One arm set a-crook on the haunch, 
 They will pour the red wine of advice ; 
 And behold, ye shall know in a trice 
 How hopeless of wisdom to weigh 
 The song words a poet may say." 
 
 Said Nekkeer, the clerk of iU thought, 
 " Ah ! where shall decision be sought ? 
 Let us quit the crazed maker of verse, 
 A confuser of good and of worse." 
 
 " But first," quoth this Attar El Din, 
 " I am dry ; leave my soul at the Inn." 
 
 Newport, October, 1891. 
 
THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA 
 
 How gentle here is Nature's mood ! She lays 
 A woman-hand upon the troubled heart, 
 Bidding the world away and time depart, 
 While the brief minutes swoon to endless days 
 FiUed full of sad, inconstant thoughtfulness. 
 
 Behold 't is eventide. Dun cattle stand 
 
 Drowsed in the misted grasses. From the 
 
 hoUows deep, 
 Dim veils, adrift, o'er arch and tower sweep, 
 Casting a dreary doubt along the land. 
 Weighting the twilight with some vague dis- 
 tress. 
 
 Transient and subtle, not to thought more near 
 Than spirit is to flesh, about me rise 
 Dim memories, long lost to love's sad eyes ; 
 
 Now are they wandering shadows, strange and 
 drear. 
 
 That from their natal substance far have strayed. 
 
 (20) 
 
THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA 21 
 
 The witches of the mind possess the time, 
 
 And cry, " Behold thy dead ! " They come, 
 
 they pass ; 
 We yearn to give them feature, face. Alas ! 
 
 Love hath no morn for memory's failing prime ; 
 
 What once was sweet with truth is but a shade. 
 
 The ghosts of nameless sorrow, joy, despair. 
 Emotions that have no remembered source. 
 Love-waifs from other worlds, hope, fear, re- 
 morse 
 Born of some vision's crime, wail through the air, 
 Crying, We were and are not, — that is all. 
 
 Yet sweet the indecisive evening hour 
 
 That hath of earth the least. Unreal as 
 
 dreams 
 Dreamed within dreams, and ever further, 
 seems 
 The sound of human toil, while grass and flower 
 Bend where the mercy of the dew doth fall. 
 
 Strange mysteries of expectation wait 
 
 Above the grave-mounds of the storied space. 
 Where, buried, lie a nation's strength and 
 grace. 
 
22 THE ROMAN CAMPAGIfA 
 
 And the sad joys of Koine's imperious state 
 That perished of its insolent excess. 
 
 A dull, gray shroud o'er this vast burial rests, 
 Is deathly still, or seems to rise and fall. 
 As on a dear one, dead, the moveless pall 
 
 Doth cheat the heart with stir of her white 
 breasts. 
 
 Mocking the troubled hour with worse distress. 
 
 A deathful languor holds the twilight mist. 
 Unearthly colors drape the Alban hiUs, 
 A dull malaria the spirit fills ; 
 Death and decay all beauty here have kissed, 
 Pledging the land to sorrowing loveliness. 
 BoME, May, 1891. 
 
THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT ROME 
 
 THE GRAVE OF KEATS 
 " Here lies one whose name was writ in water." * 
 
 Fair little city of the pilgrim dead, 
 
 Dear are thy marble streets, thy rosy lanes : 
 
 Easy it seems and natural here to die, 
 
 And death a mother, who with tender care 
 
 Doth lay to sleep her ailing little ones. 
 
 Old are these graves, and they who, mournfully, 
 
 Saw dust to dust return, themselves are 
 
 mourned ; 
 Yet, in green cloisters of the cypress shade. 
 Full-choired chants the fearless nightingale 
 Ancestral songs learned when the world was 
 
 young. 
 Sing on, sing ever in thy breezy homes ; 
 Toss earthward from the white acacia bloom 
 The mingled joy of fragrance and of song ; 
 Sing in the pure security of bliss. 
 
 ^ Inscription placed on his tomb, at Keats's request. 
 
 (23) 
 
24 PBOTESTANT CEMETERY AT ROME 
 
 These dead concern thee not, nor thee the fear 
 
 That is the shadow of our earthly loves. 
 
 And me thou canst not comfort ; tender hearts 
 
 Inherit here the anguish of the doubt 
 
 Writ on this gravestone. He, at last, I trust, 
 
 Serenity of confident attainment knows. 
 
 The night falls, and the darkened verdure starred 
 
 With pallid roses shuts the world away. 
 
 Sad wandering souls of song, frail ghosts of 
 
 thought 
 That voiceless died, the massing shadows haunt, 
 Troubling the heart with unfulfilled delight. 
 The moon is listening in the vault of heaven. 
 And, like the airy march of mighty wings. 
 The rhythmic throb of stately cadences 
 Inthralls the ear with some high-measured 
 
 verse, 
 Where ecstasies of passion-nurtured words 
 For great thoughts find a home, and fill the 
 
 mind 
 With echoes of divinely purposed hopes 
 That wore on earth the death-pall of despair. 
 Mght darkens round me. Never more in life 
 May I, companioned by the friendly dead. 
 Walk in this sacred fellowship again ; 
 
PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT ROME 25 
 
 Therefore, thou silent singer 'neath the grass, 
 Sing to me still those sweeter songs unsimg, 
 " Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone," 
 Caressing thought with wonderments of phrase 
 Such as thy springtide rapture knew to win. 
 Ay, sing to me thy unborn summer songs. 
 And the ripe autumn lays that might have been ; 
 Strong wine of fruit mature, whose flowers alone 
 we know. 
 BOME, May, 1891. 
 
ROMA 
 
 Ripe hours there be that do anticipate 
 The heritage of death, and bid us see, 
 As from the vantage of eternity. 
 
 The shadow-symbols of historic fate. 
 
 As o'er some .Alpine summit's lonely steep, 
 Blinding and terrible with spears of light, 
 Hurling the snows from many a shaken height. 
 
 The storm-clad spirits of the mountain sweep, — 
 
 Thus, in the solitude where broodeth thought, 
 Torn from rent chasms of the soundless past. 
 Go by me, as if borne upon the blast, 
 
 The awful forms which time and man have 
 wrought. 
 
 Swift through the gloom each mournful chariot 
 rolls, 
 Dim shapes of empire urge the flying steeds, 
 
 (26) 
 
BOMA 27 
 
 Featured with man's irrevocable deeds, 
 Robed with the changeful passions of men's 
 souls. 
 
 Ethereal visions pass serene in prayer, 
 Their eyes aglow with sacrificial light ; 
 Phantoms of creeds long dead, their garments 
 bright, 
 
 Drip red with blood of torture and despair. 
 
 In such an hour my spirit did behold 
 
 A woman wonderful. Unnimibered years 
 Left in her eyes the beauty born of tears. 
 
 And full they were of fatal stories old. 
 
 The trophies of her immemorial reign 
 
 The shadowy great of eld beside her bore ; 
 A broidery of ancient song she wore, 
 
 And the glad muses held her regal train. 
 
 Still hath she kingdom o'er the souls of men ; 
 
 Dear is she always in her less estate. 
 
 The sad, the gay, the thoughtful, on her wait, 
 Praising her evermore with tongue and pen. 
 
28 BOMA 
 
 Stately her ways and sweet, and all her own ; 
 As one who has forgotten time she lives, 
 Loves, loses, lures anew, and ever gives, — 
 
 She who all misery and all joy hath known. 
 
 If thou wouldst see her, as the twilight fails. 
 Go forth along the ancient street of tombs, 
 And when the purple shade divinely glooms 
 
 High o'er the Alban hills, and night prevails. 
 
 If then she i^ not with thee while the light 
 Glows over roof and column, tower and dome. 
 And the dead stir beneath thy feet, and Rome 
 
 Lies in the solemn keeping of the night, — 
 
 If then she be not thine, not thine the lot 
 Of those some angel rescues for an hour 
 From earth's mean limitations, granting power 
 
 To see as man may see when time is not. 
 Rome, May, 1891. 
 
MY LADY OF THE ROSES 
 
 At Venice, while the twilight hour 
 Yet lit a gray-waUed garden space, 
 I saw a woman fair of face 
 
 Pass, as in thought, from flower to flowero 
 The roses, haply, something said. 
 For here and there she bent her head, 
 
 Till, startled from their hidden nest 
 
 In the covert of her breast. 
 
 Blushes rose, like fluttered birds. 
 At those naughty rosy words. 
 
 One need not wise as Portia be 
 
 To guess love held her heart in fee. 
 Prudently a full-blown rose 
 For her confidence she chose : 
 
 Whispering, she took its breath. 
 
 And, for what its fragrance saith, 
 Smiling knelt, and kissed it twice ; 
 Caught it, held it, kissed it thrice. 
 
 Ah ! her kiss the rose had killed ; 
 Wrecked, in tender disarray 
 
 (29) 
 
30 MT LADY OF THE EOSES 
 
 On the grotmd its petals lay, 
 
 All its autumn fate fulfilled. 
 Swiftly from her paling face 
 Fell the rosy flush apace. 
 
 Had her kiss recalled a bliss 
 
 Life for evermore should miss ? 
 Had there been a fatal hour 
 When false lips had hurt the flower 
 
 Of love, and now its sad estate 
 
 She saw in that dead rose's fate ? 
 Who may know ? A little while 
 She lingered with a doubtful smile ; 
 
 Took then a younger rose, whose slips 
 
 The garden knew, and with her lips 
 
 Its color matched. What gracious words 
 It said might know the garden birds, — 
 
 Something, perchance, that liked her well ; 
 
 But roses kiss, and never tell. 
 
 What confession, what dear boon. 
 Heard that ruddy priest of June ? 
 
 Was it a mad gypsy-rose 
 
 Fortunes eager to disclose. 
 
 Gravely whispering predictions 
 Rich with love's unending fictions. 
 
MY LADY OF THE BOSES 31 
 
 Saying nonsense good to hear, 
 Like a pleasant-mannered seer ? 
 
 Gypsy palms are crossed with gold, 
 
 But my lady, gayly bold, 
 In the antique coin of kisses 
 Paid for prophecy of blisses ; 
 
 And, to make assurance sure. 
 
 This conspirator demure 
 Murmured, in a pretty way, 
 What her prophet ought to say. 
 
 Low she laughed, and then was gone ; 
 
 My pleasant little play was done. 
 
 Alone I sit and muse. Below, 
 Black gondolas glide to and fro, 
 
 Like shadows that have stolen away 
 
 From centuried arch and palace gray. 
 Then, as if out of memory brought, 
 
 The sequel of my garden masque 
 Comes silently, by fancy wrought, — 
 
 A gift I had not cared to ask. 
 
 Lo ! where the terraced marble ends, 
 
 Barred by the sweetbrier's scented bound, 
 The lady of my dream descends. 
 
32 MY LADY OF THE ROSES 
 
 And day by day the garden ground 
 Her footsteps know ; with lingering gait, 
 She wanders early, wanders late, 
 Or, sadly patient, on the lawn 
 Each day renews her gentle trust, 
 
 When, from the busy highway drawn, 
 Float high its curves of sunlit dust. 
 The children of her garden greet 
 With counsel innocent and sweet 
 The coming of her constant feet. 
 She whispers, and their low replies 
 Bring gladness to her lips and eyes ; 
 She will no other company ; 
 For her the flowers have come to be 
 All of life's dimmed reahty. 
 Purple pansies, gold embossed. 
 That in love had once been crossed. 
 Murmur, We have loved and lost ; 
 And the cool blue violets 
 Sigh, We wait for life's regrets. 
 Thistles gray, beyond the fence, 
 Mutter prickly common sense ; 
 While the lilies, pale and bent. 
 Say, We too sinned, are penitent ; 
 Only that can bring content. 
 
MY LADY OF THE BOSES 33 
 
 Red generations of the rose 
 
 Unheeded passed to death's repose ; 
 The peach upon the crumbling wall, 
 With springtide bloom and autimm fall, 
 
 No proverb had to foster fear. 
 
 No time-born wisdom brought her near. 
 The willows o'er two noisy brooks, 
 In marriage come to sober mood, 
 
 Were but green slips, that eve of May ; 
 
 Now, underneath their shade she looks. 
 And smiling says, " Time must be rude. 
 
 To keep him thus so many a day." 
 
 They tell her he is dead ! " Ah ! nay," 
 
 She answers ; " he but rode away. 
 
 And he will come again in May. 
 
 And I can wait," she says, and stands 
 With roses in her thin white hands. 
 
 Childlike, with innocent replies. 
 
 She meets the world. Wide open lies 
 Her book of life ; Time turns the leaves, 
 Like each to each, because she grieves 
 
 Nor less nor more, save when in fear, 
 
 On one dark eve of aU the year. 
 Dismayed lest love's divine distress 
 Be dulled by time's forgetfulness. 
 Venice, June, 1891. 
 
THE QUAKER LADY^ 
 
 'Mid drab and gray of moiildered leaves, 
 
 The spoil of last October, 
 I see the Quaker lady stand 
 
 In dainty garb and sober. 
 
 No speech has she for praise or prayer, 
 
 No blushes, as I claim 
 To know what gentle whisper gave 
 
 Her prettiness a name. 
 
 The wizard stillness of the hour 
 
 My fancy aids : again 
 Return the days of hoop and hood 
 
 And tranquil William Penn. 
 
 I see a maid amid the wood 
 
 Demurely calm and meek, 
 Or troubled by the mob of curls 
 
 That riots on her cheek. 
 
 ^ Oldenlandia ccerulea (bluets, innocence), known in Penn- 
 syWania as the " Quaker ladies." 
 (34) 
 
THE QUAKER LADY 35 
 
 Her eyes are blue, her cheeks are red, — 
 
 Gay colors for a Friend, — 
 And Nature with her mocking rouge 
 
 Stands by a blush to lend. 
 
 The gown that holds her rosy grace 
 
 Is truly of the oddest ; 
 And wildly leaps her tender heart 
 
 Beneath the kerchief modest. 
 
 It must have been the poet Love 
 
 Who, while she slyly listened, 
 Divined the maiden in the flower. 
 
 And thus her semblance christened. 
 
 Was he a proper Quaker lad 
 
 In suit of simple gray ? 
 What fortune had his venturous speech, 
 
 And was it " yea " or " nay " ? 
 
 And if indeed she murmured " yea," 
 And throbbed with worldly bliss, 
 
 I wonder if in such a case 
 Do Quakers really kiss ? 
 
36 THE QUAKEB LADY 
 
 Or was it some lore-wildered beau 
 
 Of old colonial days, 
 TVith clouded caue and broidered coat, 
 
 And very artful ways ? 
 
 And did he wliisper tbrougli her curls 
 Some wicked, pleasant tow, 
 
 And swear no courtly dame had words 
 As sweet as " thee " and " thou " ? 
 
 Or did he praise her dimpled chin 
 
 In eager song or sonnet, 
 And find a merry way to cheat 
 
 Her kiss-defying bonnet ? 
 
 And sang he then in verses gay, 
 
 Amid this forest shady, 
 The dainty flower at her feet 
 
 "Was Kke his Quaker lady ? 
 
 And did she pine in English fogs. 
 
 Or was his love enough ? 
 And did she leam to sport the fan. 
 
 And use the patch and pufE ? 
 
THE QUAKER LADY 37 
 
 Alas ! perhaps she played quadrille, 
 And, naughty grown and older, 
 
 Was pleased to show a dainty neck 
 Above a snowy shoulder. 
 
 But sometimes in the spring, I think. 
 
 She saw, as in a dream. 
 The meeting-house, the home sedate, 
 
 The Schuylkill's quiet stream ; 
 
 And sometimes in the minuet's pause 
 
 Her heart went wide afield 
 To where, amid the woods of May, 
 
 A blush its love revealed. 
 
 Till far away from court and king 
 
 And powder and brocade. 
 The Quaker ladies at her feet 
 Their quaint obeisance made. 
 Newpobt, 1889. 
 
THE WRECK OP THE EMMELINE^ 
 
 This tack might fetch Absecom bar, 
 
 The wind lies fair for the Dancin' Jane ; 
 
 She 's good on a wind. If we keep this way, 
 You might talk with folk in the land of Spain. 
 
 A tidy snack of a breeze it be ; 
 
 Just hear it whistle 'mong them dunes ! 
 It ain't no more nor a gal for strong, — 
 
 Sakes ! but it hollers a lot of toones. 
 
 Ye 'd ought to hear it October-time 
 A-fiddlin' 'mong them cat-tails taU ; 
 
 Our Bill can fiddle, but 'gainst that wind 
 He ain't no kind of a show at aU. 
 
 Respectin' the wrack you want to see, 
 
 It 's yon away, set hard and fast 
 On the outer bar. When tides is low 
 
 You kin see a mawsel of rib an' mast. 
 
 1 A true story, 
 (38) 
 
THE WRECK OF THE EMMELINE 39 
 
 Four there was on us, wrackers all, 
 
 Born and bred to foller the sea, 
 And Dad beside ; that 's hun you seed 
 
 Las' night a-mendin' them nets with me. 
 
 Waal, sir, it was n't no night for talk ; 
 
 The pipes went out, an' we stood, we four, 
 A-starin' dumb through the rattlin' panes. 
 
 And says Tom, " I 'd as lief be here ashore." 
 
 The wust wind ever I knowed 
 
 Was swoopin' across the deep. 
 An' the waves was humpin' as white as snow. 
 
 An' gallopin' in like frighted sheep. 
 
 Says Bill, " 'T ain't nat'ral, that big moon 
 Ed be so quiet, them stars that bright, 
 
 A-p'intin' down from the big old roof. 
 As they might be icicles tipt with light." 
 
 Lord ! sich a wind ! It tuk that sand 
 An' flung it squar' on the winder-sash. 
 
 An' howled and mumbled 'mong the scrub, 
 An' yelled like a hurt thing 'cross the mash. 
 
40 THE WBECK OF THE EMMELINE 
 
 Old Dad as was sittin' 'side the fire ; 
 
 Jus' now an' agin he riz his head, 
 An' says he, " God help all folks at sea, — 
 
 God help 'em livin', and buiy 'em dead. 
 
 " God help them in smacks as sail. 
 An' men as v'yage in cruisers tall ; 
 
 God help all as goes by water. 
 
 Big ship and little, — help 'em all." 
 
 " Amen ! " says Bill, jus' like it was church ; 
 
 An' all of a sudden says Joe to me, 
 " Hallo ! " an' thar* was a flash of light. 
 
 An' the roar of a gun away to sea. 
 
 " An' it 's each for aU ! " cries Dad to me ; 
 
 " The night ain't much of a choice for sweet." 
 So up he jumps an' stamps aroun', 
 
 Jus' for to waken his sleepy feet. 
 
 " An' it 's into ilers and on with boots," 
 Sings Dad, " Thar' be n't no time to spar'. 
 
 Pull in y'r waist-straps. Hurry a bit ; 
 The shortest time '11 be long out thar'." 
 
THE WBECK OF THE EMMELINE 41 
 
 I did n't like it, nor them no more, 
 
 But roun' we scuttles for oar and ropes. 
 
 An' out we plunged in the old man's wake. 
 For we knowed as we was thar' only hopes. 
 
 The door druv' in ; the cinders flew ; 
 
 The house, it shook ; out went the light ; 
 The air was thick with squandered sand, 
 
 As nipt like the sting of a bluefly bite. 
 
 "We passed yon belt of holly and pine, 
 
 An' in among them cedar an' oak 
 We stood a bit on the upper shore. 
 
 An' stared an' listened, but no man spoke. 
 
 " Whar' lies she, Bill ? " roars Dad to me. 
 As down we bended. Then bruk' a roar 
 
 As follered a lane of dancin' light 
 
 That flashed and fluttered along the shore. 
 
 "She's thar'," says Joe; "I'd sight of her 
 then ; 
 
 She 's hard and high on the outer bar. 
 Nary a light, and fast enough. 
 
 And nary a mawsel of mast or spar." 
 
42 THE WRECK OF THE EMMELINE 
 
 Groans Dad, " Good Lord, it 's got to be ! " 
 Says Tom, " It ain't to be done, I fear." 
 
 Shouts Joe, a-laffin' (he alius lafEed), 
 "It ain't to be done by standin' here." 
 
 Waal, in she went, third time of tryin', — 
 " In with a will," laffs Joe, in a roar, 
 
 Wind a-cussin' and Dad a-prayin'. 
 But spry enough with the steerin' oar. 
 
 Five hours — an' cold. I was clean played out. 
 
 " Give way," shouts Dad, " give way thar' 
 now ! " 
 " Hurray ! " laffs Joe. An' we slung her along. 
 
 With a prayer to aft an' a laff in the bow. 
 
 There was five men glad when we swep' her in 
 
 Under the lee, an' none too soon. 
 "Aboard thar', mates!" shouts Dad, an' the 
 wind 
 
 Jus' howled like a dog at full of moon. 
 
 « Up with you, BiU ! " sung Dad. So I — 
 I grabbed for a broken rope as hung. 
 
 Gosh ! it was stiff as an anchor-stock, 
 But up I swarmed, and over I swung. 
 
THE WRECK OF THE EMMELINE 43 
 
 Ice ? She was ice from stem to stam. 
 
 I gripped the rail an' sarched the wrack, 
 An' cleared my eyes, an' sarched agin' 
 
 For li\dn' sign on that slidin' deck. 
 
 Four dead men in the scuppers lay 
 Stiff as steel, they was froze that fast ; 
 
 An' one old man was hangin' awry, 
 Tied to the stump of the broken mast. 
 
 Ice-bound he were. But he kinder smiled, 
 A-lookin' up. I was sort of skeered. 
 
 Lord ! thinks I, thar' was many a prayer 
 Froze in the snow of that orful beard. 
 
 Thar' was one man lashed to the wheel, 
 
 An' his eyes was a-starin' wild. 
 An' thar', close-snuggled up in his arms, — 
 
 O Lord, sir, the pity ! — a little child. 
 
 Now that jus' done for me. Down I fell. 
 Jus' fell to my knees, — I das n't stand, — 
 
 An' I says, " O Lord ! the wicked wind, 
 It has killed at sea an' cussed on land." 
 
44 THE WRECK OF THE EMMELINE 
 
 Then a leap to the boat. " Dead all," says I ; 
 
 " Give way," an' we bent to the springin' oar ; 
 An' never no word says boy or Dad, 
 
 TiU we crashed full high on the upper shore. 
 
 Then Dad, he dropped for to pray. 
 But I stood aU a shake on the sand ; 
 
 An' the old man says, " I could wish them souls 
 Was fetched ashore to the joyful land." 
 
 But Joe, he l^ffs. Says Dad, right mad, 
 
 " Shut up. Ye 'd grin if ye went to heaven." 
 
 " Why not ? " says Joe. " As for this here 
 earth, 
 It takes lots of laffin' to keep things even." 
 
 Ready about, an' mind for the boom ; 
 
 Ef ye keer for to hold that far, 
 You may see the Emmeline, keel and rib, 
 
 Stuck fast an' firm on the outer bar. 
 
 Newport, October, 1891. 
 
VENICE 
 
 I AM Venezia, that sad Magdalen, 
 
 Who with her lovers' arms the turbaned East 
 
 Smote, and through lusty centuries of gain 
 
 Lived a wild queen of battle and of feast. 
 
 I netted, in gold meshes of my hair, 
 
 The great of soul ; painter and poet, priest, 
 
 Bent at my will with picture, song, and prayer, 
 
 And ever love of me their fame increased, 
 
 Till I, a queen, became the slave of slaves, 
 
 And, like the ghost-kings of the Umbrian 
 
 plain. 
 
 Saw from my centuries torn, as from their 
 
 graves. 
 
 The priceless jewels of my haughty reign. 
 
 Gone are my days of gladness, now in vain 
 
 I hurt the tender with my speechless pain. 
 
 Venice, June, 1891. 
 
 (45) 
 
VENICE TO ITALY 
 
 O Italy, thou fateful mistress-land, 
 
 That, like Delilah, won with deathful bliss 
 
 Each conquering foe who wooed thy wanton 
 
 kiss, 
 
 And sheared thy lovers' strength with certain 
 
 hand. 
 
 And gave them to Philistia's bonds of vice ; 
 
 Smiling to see the strong limbs waste away, 
 
 The manly vigor crippled by decay. 
 
 Usurious years exact the minute's price. 
 
 Ah ! when my great were greatest, ever glad, 
 
 I thanked them with the hope of nobler 
 
 deeds. 
 
 Statesman and poet, painter, sculptor, 
 
 knight, — 
 
 These my dear lovers were ere days grew sad, 
 
 And them I taught how mightily exceeds 
 
 AU other love the love that holds God's light. 
 
 Venice, Jwwe, 1891. 
 
 (46) 
 
THE DECAY OF VENICE 
 
 The glowing pageant of my story lies, 
 A shaft of light across the stormy years, 
 When 'mid the agony of blood and tears, 
 
 Or pope or kaiser won the mournful prize, 
 
 Till I, the fearless child of ocean, heard 
 
 The step of doom, and trembling to my fall, 
 
 Eemorseful knew that I had seen unstirred 
 Proud Freedom's death, the tyrant's festival ; 
 
 Whilst that Italia which was yet to be, 
 And is, and shall be, sat a virgin pure, 
 
 High over Umbria on the mountain slopes, 
 And saw the failing fires of liberty 
 Fade on the chosen shrine she deemed secure. 
 
 When died for many a year man's noblest hopes. 
 
 Venice, June, 1891. 
 
 (47) 
 
PISA: THE DUOMO 
 
 Lo, this is like a song writ long ago, 
 
 Born of the easy strength of simpler days, 
 
 Filled with the life of man, his joy, his praise, 
 
 Marriage and childhood, love, and sin, and woe, 
 
 Defeat and victory, and aU men know 
 
 Of passionate remorses, and the stays 
 
 That help the weary on life's rugged ways. 
 
 A dreaming seraph felt this beauty grow 
 
 In sleep's pure hour, and with joy gTown 
 
 bold 
 
 Set the fair crystal in the thought of man ; 
 
 And Time, with antique tints of ivory wan. 
 
 And gentle industries of rain and light. 
 
 Its stones rejoiced, and o'er them crumbled 
 
 gold 
 
 Won from the boundaries of day and night. 
 
 Pisa, May, 1891. 
 
 (48) 
 
THE VESTAL'S DREAM 
 
 Ah, Venus, white-limbed mother of delight. 
 Why shouldst thou tease her with a dream so 
 
 dear? 
 Winged tenderness of kisses, hovering near, 
 Her gentle longings cheat. Forbidden sight 
 Of eager eyes doth through the virgin night 
 Perplex her innocence with cherished fear. 
 O cruel thou, with sweets to ripen here 
 In wintry cloisters what can know but blight. 
 Wilt leave her now to scorn ? The lictor's 
 blows 
 To-morrow shall be merciless. The light 
 Dies on the altar ! Nay, swift through the night, 
 Comes pitiful the queen of young desire. 
 That reddened in a dream this chaste white 
 rose. 
 And lights with silver torch the fallen fire. 
 
 Home, May, 1891. 
 
 (49) 
 
LINCOLN 
 
 Chained by stern duty to the rock of state, 
 His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth, 
 Ever above, though ever near to earth, 
 Yet felt his heart the vulture beaks that sate 
 Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait 
 TiU the keen lightnings bring the awful hour 
 When wounds and suffering shall give them 
 power. 
 Most was he like to Luther, gay and great, 
 
 Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and 
 limb. 
 Tender and simple too ; he was so near 
 To all things human that he cast out fear, 
 And, ever simpler, like a little child. 
 
 Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him 
 Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled. 
 
 Newport, October, 1891. 
 
 (50) 
 
THE LOST PHILOPENA 
 
 TO M. G. M. 
 
 More blest is lie who gives tlian who receives, 
 For lie that gives doth always something get : 
 Angelic usurers that interest set : 
 And what we give is like the cloak of leaves 
 
 Which to the beggared earth the great 
 trees fling, 
 Thoughtless of gain in chilly Autumn days : 
 The mystic husbandry of nature's ways 
 
 Shall fetch it back in greenery of the 
 Spring. 
 One tender gift there is, my little maid, 
 That doth the giver and receiver bless, 
 And shall with obligation none distress ; 
 Coin of the heart in God's just balance weighed ; 
 Wherefore, sweet spendthrift, still be prodigal. 
 And freely squander what thou hast from all. 
 
 LucBBNB, July, 1891. 
 
 (51) 
 
ST. CHRISTOPHER 
 
 FOR A CHILD 
 
 There was none so tall as tliis giant bold. 
 
 He had a name that could not be told, 
 
 A name so crooked no Christian men 
 
 Could say it over and speak again. 
 
 One day he^ came where a good man prayed 
 
 All alone in the forest shade. 
 
 Then the giant in wonder said : 
 
 " Why do you bend the knee and head ? " 
 
 " I bend," he said, " because I be 
 The weakest thing that you can see. 
 I pray for help to do no wrong, 
 To Christ who is so good and strong." 
 
 " Ho," said the giant, " when I see 
 One strong enough to conquer me, 
 I shall be glad to bend my knees. 
 Which are as stout as any trees." 
 
 " But," said the good man, sad and old, 
 
 " Yon stream is deep, the water cold. 
 Prayer is the Spirit's work for some. 
 
 (52) 
 
ST. CHRISTOPHER 53 
 
 Work is the prayer of the body dumb." 
 " If that be prayer," said the giant tall, 
 " The maimed and sick, the weak and small, 
 Across the stream and to and fro, 
 I shall carry and come and go, 
 Until the time when I shall see 
 Thy strong Christ come to humble me." 
 So all day long, with patient hand. 
 He bore the weak from strand to strand. 
 At last, one eve, when winds were wild. 
 He heard the voice of a little child 
 Saying, " Giant, art thou asleep ? 
 Carry me over the river deep." 
 On his shoulder broad he set the child, 
 And laughed to see how the infant smiled. 
 Up to his waist the giant strode. 
 While fierce around the water flowed ; 
 His great back shook, his great knees bent. 
 As staggering through the waves he went. 
 " Why is this ? " he cried aloud ; 
 "Why should my great back be bowed ? " 
 Spake from his shoulder, sweet and clear, 
 A voice, — 't was like a bird's to hear, — 
 " I am the Christ to whom men pray 
 When comes the morn and wanes the day." 
 
64 ST. CHBISTOPHER 
 
 " No," said the giant, " a child art thou. 
 Not to a babe shall proud men bow! " 
 He set the child on the farther land, 
 And wiped his brow with shaking hand. 
 
 " In truth," he cried, " the load was great ; 
 Wherefore art thou this heavy weight ? " 
 The little child said, " I was heavy to thee 
 Because the world's sins rest on me." 
 
 " If thou canst carry them all on thee, 
 Who art but a little child to see, 
 Thou must be strong, and I be weak, 
 And thou must be the one I seek." 
 Therefore the giant, day by day. 
 Still kept his work, and learned to pray. 
 And his pagan name that none should hear, 
 Was changed to GKant Christopher. 
 1887. 
 
DREAMLAND 
 
 Up anchor ! Up anchor ! 
 
 Set sail and away! 
 The ventures of dreamland 
 
 Are thine for a day. 
 Yo, heave ho ! 
 
 Aloft and alow 
 Elf sailors are singing, 
 
 Yo, heave ho! 
 The breeze that is blowing 
 
 So sturdily strong 
 Shall fill up thy sail 
 
 With the breath of a song. 
 A fay at the mast-head 
 
 Keeps watch o'er the sea ; 
 Blown amber of tresses 
 
 Thy banner shall be ; 
 Thy freight the lost laughter 
 
 That sad souls have missed, 
 Thy cargo the kisses 
 
 That never were kissed. 
 
 (55) 
 
66 DBEAMLAND 
 
 And ho, for a fay maid 
 
 Born merry in June, 
 Of dainty red roses 
 
 Beneath a red moon. 
 The star-pearls that midnight 
 
 Casts down on the sea, 
 Dark gold of the sunset 
 
 Her fortune shall he. 
 And ever she whispers. 
 
 More tenderly sweet, 
 " Love am I, love only. 
 
 Love perfect, complete. 
 The world is my lordship. 
 
 The heart is my slave ; 
 I mock at the ages, 
 
 I laugh at the grave. 
 Wilt sail with me ever, 
 
 A dream-haunted sea, 
 Whose whispering waters 
 
 Shall murmur to thee 
 The love-haunted lyrics 
 
 Dead poets have made 
 Ere life had a fetter. 
 
 Ere love was afraid ? " 
 
DBEAMLAND 57 
 
 Then up with the anchor ! 
 
 Set sail and away ! 
 The ventures of loveland 
 
 Are thine for a day. 
 Newport, 1890. 
 
EVENING BY THE SEA 
 
 With noble waste of lazy hours 
 I loitered, till I saw the moon, 
 A rosy pearl, hang vast and strange 
 Above the long gray dune ! 
 
 And hither, thither, as I went. 
 
 My ancient friend the sea beside, 
 
 Whatever tune my spirit sang 
 
 The dear old comrade tried. 
 
 Bab Harbor, 1892. 
 
 (58) 
 
IDLENESS 
 
 There is no dearer lover of lost hours 
 
 Than I. 
 I can be idler than the idlest flowers ; 
 
 More idly lie 
 Than noonday lilies languidly afloat, 
 And water pillowed in a windless moat. 
 And I can be 
 
 Stiller than some gray stone 
 That hath no motion known. 
 It seems to me 
 
 That my still idleness doth make my own 
 All magic gifts of joy's simplicity. 
 
 Restigoxjche Eiveb, 1892. 
 
 (59) 
 
A GRAVEYARD 
 
 As beats the unrestf ul sea some ice-clad isle 
 Set in the sorrowful night of arctic seas, 
 Some lorn domain of endless silences, 
 So, echoless, unanswered, falleth here 
 The great voiced city's roar of fretful life. 
 
 Rome, 1891.^ 
 
 (60) 
 
LOSS 
 
 Life may moult many feathers, yet delight 
 
 To soar and circle in a heaven of joy ; 
 
 The pinion robbed must learn more swift employ, 
 
 Till the thinned feathers end our eager flight. 
 
 Bar Harbor, 1892. 
 
 (61) 
 
COME IN 
 
 " Come in." I stand, and know in thought 
 
 The honest kiss, the waiting word. 
 
 The love with friendship interwrought, 
 
 The face serene by welcome stirred. 
 
 Bab Habbob, 1892. 
 
 (62) 
 
GOOD-NIGHT 
 
 Good-night. Good-niglit. Ah., good the night 
 That wraps thee in its silver light. 
 Good-night. No night is good for me 
 That does not hold a thought of thee. 
 Good-night. 
 
 Good-night. Be every night as sweet 
 
 As that which made our love complete, 
 
 Till that last night when death shall he 
 
 One brief " Good-night," for thee and me. 
 
 Good-night. 
 Newport, 1890. 
 
 (63) 
 
THE RISING TIDE 
 
 An idle man I stroll at eve, 
 
 Where move the waters to and fro ; 
 Full soon their added gains will leave 
 
 Small space for me to come and go. 
 
 Already" in the clogging sand, 
 I walk with dull, retarded feet ; 
 
 Yet still is sweet the lessening strand. 
 
 And still the lessening light is sweet. 
 
 Newpobt, October, 1891. 
 
 (64) 
 
VERSES 
 
 READ ON THE PRESENTATION BY S. WEIR MITCHELL 
 TO THE PHILADELPHIA COLLEGE OP PHYSICIANS OF 
 SARAH W. whitman's PORTRAIT OF OLIVER WEN- 
 DELL HOLMES, M. D. 
 
 We call them great who have the magic art 
 To summon tears and stir the human heart, 
 With fictive grief to bring the soul annoy, 
 And leave a dew-drop in the rose of joy. 
 A nobler purpose had the Masters wise 
 Who from your walls look down with kindly 
 
 eyes. 
 Theirs the firm hand and theirs the ready brain 
 Strong for the battle with disease and pain. 
 Large were their lives : these scholars, gentle, 
 
 brave, 
 Knew all of man from cradle unto grave. 
 What note of torment had they failed to hear ? 
 All grief's stern gamut knew each pitying ear. 
 Nor theirs the useless sympathy that stands 
 
 (65) 
 
66 VEBSES 
 
 Beside tlie suffering with defenseless hands ; 
 Divinely wise, their pity had the art 
 To teach the brain the ardour of the heart. 
 These left a meaner for a nobler George ; 
 These trod the red snows by the Valley Forge, 
 Saw the wild birth-throes of a nation's life, 
 The long-drawn misery and the doubtful strife : 
 Yea, and on darker fields they left their dead 
 Where grass-grown streets heard but the bear- 
 er's tread. 
 While the sad death-roll of those fatal days 
 Left small reward beyond the poor man's praise. 
 Lo ! Shadowy greetings from each canvas come. 
 Lips seem to move now for a century dumb : 
 From tongues long hushed the soimd of welcome 
 
 falls, 
 " Place, place for Holmes upon these honoured 
 
 waUs." 
 The lights are out, the festal flowers fade, 
 Our guests are gone, the great hall wrapped in 
 
 shade. 
 Lone in the midst this silent picture stands, 
 Ringed with the learning of a score of lands. 
 From dusty tomes in many a tongue I hear 
 A gentle Babel, — " Welcome, Brother dear. 
 
VERSES 67 
 
 Yea, though Apollo won thy larger hours, 
 And stole our fruit, and only left us flowers. 
 The poet's rank thy title here completes — 
 Doctor and Poet, — so were Goldsmith, — 
 
 Keats." 
 The voices failing murmur to an end 
 With " Welcome, Doctor, Scholar, Poet, Friend." 
 
 In elder days of quiet wiser folks. 
 When the great Hub had not so many spokes, 
 Two wandering Gods, upon the Common, found 
 A weary schoolboy sleeping on the ground. 
 Swift to his brain their eager message went. 
 Swift to his heart each ardent claim was sent ; 
 " Be mine," Minerva cried. " This tender hand 
 Skilled in the art of arts shall understand 
 With magic touch the demon pain to lay. 
 From skill to skill and on to clearer day 
 Far through the years shall fare that ample 
 
 brain 
 To read the riddles of disease and pain." 
 " Nay, mine the boy," Apollo cried aloud, 
 " His the glad errand, beautiful and proud, 
 To wing the arrows of delightful mirth. 
 To slay with jests the sadder things of earth. 
 
68 VEBSES 
 
 At his gay science melancholy dies, 
 
 At his clear laugh each morbid fancy flies. 
 
 Rich is the quiver I shall give his bow, 
 
 The eagle's pinion some bold shafts shall know ; 
 
 Swift to its mark the angry arrow-song 
 
 Shall find the centre of a nation's wrong ; 
 
 Or in a people's heart one tingling shot 
 
 Pleads not in vain against the war-ship's lot. 
 
 Yea, I will see that for a gentler flight 
 
 The dove's soft feathers send his darts aright 
 
 When smiles and pathos, kindly wedded, chant 
 
 The plaintive lay of that unmarried aunt ; 
 
 Or sails his Nautilus the sea of time. 
 
 Blown by the breezes of immortal rhyme. 
 
 Or with a Godspeed from her poet's brain. 
 
 Sweet Cl^mence trips adown the Rue de Seine. 
 
 The humming-bird shall plume the quivering 
 
 song, 
 Blithe, gay, and restless, never dull or long. 
 Where gayly passionate his soul is set 
 To sing the Katydid's supreme regret, 
 Or creaking jokes, through never-ending days. 
 Rolls the quaint story of the Deacon's chaise. 
 Away with tears ! When this glad poet sings, 
 The angel Laughter spreads her broadest wings. 
 
VEBSES 69 
 
 By land and sea where'er St. George's cross 
 And the starred banner in the breezes toss, 
 The merry music of his wholesome mirth 
 Sends rippling smiles around our English earth." 
 
 " Not mine," Minerva cried, " to spoil thy joy ; 
 Divide the honours, — let us share the boy ! " 
 April, 1892.