Copyright }J^_ 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/invertedtorchothOOalex 
 
The Inverted Torch 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
The Inverted Torch 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL JOHN ALEXANDER 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 1912 
 

 Copyright 1912 
 By SAMUEL JOHN ALEXANDER 
 
 THE ARGONAUT PRESS 
 
 §GIA316026 
 
v> 
 
 The publishers of the Century, Sunset, Out West, and the 
 Smart Set have kindly permitted the author to include in this 
 volume several of his poems that had appeared in these 
 magazines, and their courtesy is here gratefully acknowledged. 
 
 in 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEDICATION 9 
 
 THE INVERTED TORCH 11 
 
 OUR LADY OF SORROWS (To San Francisco) 13 
 
 OUR LADY OF VICTORIES (To Loyal San Fran- 
 ciscans wherever they may dwell) 17 
 
 THE HALLS OF FANCY 20 
 
 THE WEAVER 22 
 
 THE PAGAN'S PLEA 24 
 
 THE DENIED CHRIST 25 
 
 CLOTH OF GOLD 27 
 
 VIRGINIA'S GIFT 28 
 
 THE OLD SOUTH TO THE MEMORY OF LINCOLN 29 
 
 THE ANGRY RED STAR (To Ambrose Bierce) 31 
 
 THE CRY OF THE HUMAN 33 
 
 "THESE CHRISTS THAT DIE UPON THE BARRI- 
 CADES"— 1871 36 
 
 MARIE ANTOINETTE 43 
 
 THE SONG OF RUPERT'S MEN 45 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF ALFRED TENNYSON (This 
 Dedication of the "Divine Message" — An Un- 
 finished Poem) 47 
 
 GOD SAVE THE KING (To Mother England) 62 
 
 THE KING'S TRYST 64 
 
 THE MOTHER CALL 66 
 
 SONNET (To Cromwell) 68 
 
 ELIZABETH, THE QUEEN 69 
 
 V 
 
PAGE 
 
 THE GOLDEN ROSE (To' H. R. H. the Princess Henry 
 
 of Battenberg) , IZ 
 
 TO RUDYARD KIPLING le 
 
 A DREAM OF ITALY 78 
 
 HENRY V OF FRANCE 80 
 
 THE GHOST OF ITYS 82 
 
 A HEALTH TO THE KING (Of Portugal) 83 
 
 FRANCIS I AT PAVIA 85 
 
 AT THE TOURNAMENT 87 
 
 AVE ATQUE VALE 88 
 
 SONNET 89 
 
 THE RED ROSE OF EARTH 90 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE GATE (To San Francisco) 91 
 
 THE GOD ON HORSEBACK 92 
 
 SONNET 93 
 
 FEET OF CLAY 94 
 
 TO ONE WHO KNOWS 96 
 
 TO SAN FRANCISCO 97 
 
 CHI-CA-GO! CHI-CA-GO! (At San Francisco, April 18, 
 
 1906) 99 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE DOME 101 
 
 THE ROSE OF PEACE (To a Child dead at the foot 
 
 of Seventh Street, San Francisco) 103 
 
 THE TRYST OF FATE 105 
 
 TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 107 
 
 THE DIVORCE lo9 
 
 TO AMBROSE BIERCE Ill 
 
 "AH, GIVE US BUT YESTERDAY!" 112 
 
 A LETTER TO A GHOST 113 
 
 THE TOUCH OF THE HUMAN (April, 1906) 117 
 
 THE SILENT HOUSE 121 
 
 THE BROTHERS 123 
 
 TO JOAQUIN MILLER 125 
 
 vi 
 
PAGE 
 
 THE WAR SHIPS OF THE SKIES -. . 126 
 
 GLOWING EMBERS 127 
 
 THE LEPER 130 
 
 MY LITTLE GHOST 131 
 
 GOD'S HILL AT BELMONT 133 
 
 SONNET 134 
 
 THE HILLS OF OCEAN VIEW 135 
 
 DEAD JOY 138 
 
 TO SING LEE (At Millbrae, April 18, 1906) 139 
 
 THE CALIFORNIA POPPY 141 
 
 IN NOVEMBER 142 
 
 THE KING IN DARIEN 143 
 
 TO THE NEMOPHILA ("Baby Blue Eyes") 145 
 
 THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTERS 146 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 147 
 
 ELECTRA 148 
 
 THE BRIDAL 149 
 
 THE CHOICE 151 
 
 SONNET (To the Dear People) 152 
 
 "MYSELF AM HELL" 153 
 
 WHOLESALE ONLY 155 
 
 SONNET (To Life) 157 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN KEATS 158 
 
 OUR LADY OF WELCOME 159 
 
 SONNET (Prescribed for Poets and Inscribed to Editors) 160 
 
 THE THEFT OF WINTER (In California) 161 
 
 THE PHILISTINE . 163 
 
 SONNET ("Dead, Dead, Dead") 164 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE AT BERESFORD (To E. W.) . . . . 165 
 
 TO LINCOLN (The Old South and the New) 167 
 
 THE SEEKERS (San Francisco, April 18) 169 
 
 HER BIRTHDAY. APRIL 18 (To San Francisco) 172 
 
 SONNET (To the Columbine) 173 
 
 vii 
 
PAGE 
 
 THE IMPREGNABLE CASTLE 174 
 
 THE THREE AT STANFORD 175 
 
 TO MRS. N. C. P 176 
 
 "THE REGIONS WHICH ARE HOLY LAND" (W. 
 
 T. P.) 177 
 
 THE HOUSE OF SPLENDID VISIONS 201 
 
 THE WILL OF GOD (Inscribed, Without Permission, 
 to the "Presidents" of the Central American "Re- 
 publics") 203 
 
 THE SHADOW BEFORE— AT NEW YEAR'S 205 
 
 TO THE WOMAN (Writer of the Battle Hymn) 208 
 
 GOD AND THE POET 209 
 
 THE PASSING OF JOY 211 
 
 GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT 213 
 
 THE GOLDEN CUPS OF GOD (Inscribed, Without Per-. 
 
 mission, to Theodore Roosevelt) 215 
 
 THE CALL TO ARMS 219 
 
 "THE GIFT TO DIE" (To My Lady Fortune) 221 
 
 THE GOLDEN SPURS OF GOD 225 
 
 THE GIFT OF THE SOUTH TO LINCOLN 233 
 
 MISERERE DOMINE (October 10, 1911) 235 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE WEST (Judge Thou Between 
 
 Them) . -. 237 
 
 THE CRY OF THE EAST (Judge Thou Between Them) 240 
 
 THE POET'S PROTOTYPE 243 
 
 THE MUSE TO A MERCENARY POET 244 
 
 Vlll 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 Welcome, my masters ! Ye be come to buy 
 At market prices, and with due regard 
 To your own interest, lest ye should award 
 
 For such commodity a price too high, 
 
 A Soul. Then, marry, such to sell have I. 
 Yet, as 'tis somewhat time and passion marred, 
 God wot, ye shall not find my dealing hard ; 
 
 For sell I must, so will it please ye try? 
 
 Here be strange wares, intangible and frail; 
 
 Some tarnished tinsel from some Cloth of Gold; 
 A bursted bubble from a fairy tale; 
 
 Some bitter memories of a birthright sold; 
 A talent buried deep beyond avail; 
 
 An ancient promise, unfulfilled from old. 
 
THE INVERTED TORCH 
 
 I have paused at Thy Shrine in the porch 
 Where the acolytes kneel and adore, 
 But I went from their midst, who am more 
 
 To the Innermost Holies that scorch 
 
 With the flame of Thy Torch. 
 
 Yea, My Lord, I have held them apart 
 From the red dripping fingers of Life 
 I have held them above in the strife, 
 
 And I vow Thee my soul and my heart 
 
 In the shrine where Thou art. 
 
 I have lifted my soul to the vow. 
 
 And my heart rises up nothing loath 
 Though Thou claimest the vow and the oath, 
 
 By the splendour of God on my brow 
 
 Though Thou claimest them now. 
 
 Shall I fear Thee, My Lord? Shall I fear? 
 When the torrent of life is repressed, 
 By Thy hand on my brow and my breast, 
 
 Thou, visibly, audibly near 
 
 To the eye and the ear. 
 
 I have served where the light was withdrawn, 
 I have sowed for a harvest of wrath, 
 And the whirlwind hath reaped in my path 
 
 11 
 
But Thy Torch was a splendour thereon 
 And the Promise of Dawn. 
 
 Though the Sun God belated shall twine 
 In the rue for my forehead, a leaf 
 Of His laurel, to mock at my grief 
 
 I will turn to the Torch in Thy shrine 
 
 And its splendour divine. 
 
 12 
 
OUR LADY OF SORROWS 
 
 TO SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 She stood in Her tattered purple, and called to them each 
 
 by name; 
 And Her words swept out on the winds and girdled the 
 
 earth with a flame. 
 Oh, the North and the South were quickened; the East 
 
 and the West were stirred; 
 And the blood flushed up in their cheeks; their souls 
 
 flashed up to Her word. 
 And they came from lands far sundered, that a world 
 
 away divides, 
 And the deserts rose against them and the Gods of the 
 
 winds and tides; 
 But they swept above and beyond them and came to the 
 
 Golden Gate 
 Of the House of a Thousand Pillars, where Our Lady of 
 
 Sorrows sate; 
 And of old from its halls of banquet a myriad shining 
 
 lights 
 Streamed through the purple shadows, from a score of 
 
 star-crowned heights. 
 But the walls were fallen asunder, and the pillars lay 
 
 overthrown ; 
 And thrice a Queen for Her sorrows. She sate on a fallen 
 
 stone ; 
 For Her court was held in the open; Her throne was set 
 
 on the Way 
 
 13 
 
That stretches its breadth of splendour from Twin Peaks 
 
 down to the bay;' 
 And Her robes were soiled and tattered, their purple 
 
 dimmed with the smoke, 
 But they knelt in the ashes around Her, and kissed the 
 
 hem as She spoke. 
 And She said: "I am She who was set at the marches of 
 
 sea and of land. 
 With the crowns of the world on my brow, and girt with 
 
 the sword of command; 
 And the many come to my doorways; they enter, abide 
 
 and pass 
 Like shadows on wind-driven waters, or seeds from the 
 
 wind-shaken grass. 
 Though the Gods play at quoits with my hills, though 
 
 Titans creep up to the lure, 
 Yet I watch unafraid from my heights in the centre of 
 
 things that endure. 
 Ye are lords in your far lying lands and great in your 
 
 lordships, yet still, 
 Ye are tools of the Gods to my hands to hew to the lines 
 
 of My Will; 
 From nethermost deeps I have called; ye have followed 
 
 the path of the sun; 
 Ye are four where your rule is supreme; but to serve and 
 
 obey me but one. 
 Yet with rending and riving of earth the old order passes 
 
 away; 
 Ye were liegemen on yesterday's heights, but brothers in 
 
 deeps of today. 
 
 14 
 
And as sister to brother I charge ye, go forth from me 
 
 now to your lands, 
 That ye dazzle the eyes of the Gods with the gifts of your 
 
 brotherly hands; 
 That the sails, like a white-crested torrent, stream out on 
 
 the limitless blue, 
 With the gifts that shall top and exceed and better the 
 
 best that I knew ; 
 That my house, reestablished, shall rise four square to the 
 
 corners of earth, 
 With Honour to circle the walls, and with Beauty to shine 
 
 at the hearth; 
 That the pillars befluted and carved like a forest of marble 
 
 arise, 
 And the domes like a rainbow of bubbles float over them 
 
 into the skies. 
 As the flick of a whip on the cheek, that brings the red 
 
 flush through the tan, 
 I adjure ye to this by the all that may quicken the pulse 
 
 of the Man ; 
 By the bond of the human between us; by Honour, the 
 
 rock that abides 
 In the turbulent ocean of life, midst the shifting of sands 
 
 and of tides ; 
 By the Day when our souls shall be weighed in the bal- 
 ance, unclothed and unshod. 
 By the Spirit Divine in the man, and the Absolute Splen- 
 dour of God." 
 She spoke and they heard Her in silence ; but sudden their 
 
 faces went white. 
 
 15 
 
They were dumb from a stress of emotion, and pale from 
 
 excesses of light. 
 And they spoke no word to Her speaking, but bowed with 
 
 their heads in the dust, 
 With a promise, a prayer and a vow to compass the heights 
 
 of Her trust. 
 So they went from Her presence and parted, and hastened 
 
 each one to his land, 
 That their tribute, thrice trebled, might thunder a torrent 
 
 of gold to Her hand. 
 
 16 
 
OUR LADY OF VICTORIES 
 
 TO LOYAL SAN FRANCISCANS WHEREVER THEY MAY DWELL. 
 
 Flung from off our Mother's Bosom, we have wandered 
 
 from Her side, 
 The hills rise up between us and long level leagues divide. 
 But wherever we may roam 
 Yet our hearts are still at Home, 
 And She holds them in Her Keeping, where the gaunt and 
 
 shattered Dome 
 Wraps the ocean mists about it, in its hurt and angry 
 pride. 
 
 We have built our household altars on the Padres' Royal 
 
 Way 
 That dallies with the shining hills, that loiters with the bay, 
 Where the spendthrift Morning spills 
 Floods of light upon the hills 
 From his brimming golden flagons, that the patient Night 
 
 refills. 
 On the Alameda hills that guard the gateways of the 
 Day. 
 
 God, with loving purpose lingered o'er the primal solitude. 
 Smiled content upon His handiwork and "Saw that it was 
 good." 
 
 And the radiance of His Smile 
 Lingers o'er each shining mile 
 Of the green and lustrous valley, and the redwoods clois- 
 tered aisle, 
 
 17 
 
Over marshland and o'er meadow, over mountain and 
 o'er wood. 
 
 But Her children claim their Birthright; they have written 
 
 large their claim 
 In the Sybil's book of Destiny, escaping from the flame. 
 By our claim of Birth and Blood, 
 By Her claim of Motherhood, 
 We shall claim our Right inherent, long withheld and 
 
 long withstood, 
 To the deep sky-filling thunder of Her great, historic 
 Name. 
 
 A whisper on the Belmont hills; the Redwood plains were 
 
 stirred ; 
 The Woodside mountains bent their crests of lofty pride, 
 
 and heard; 
 
 And a sudden splendour broke 
 O'er the San Mateo oak. 
 And it tossed its arms on high to grasp a rainbow, as She 
 
 spoke, 
 With the Promise of Her Coming, long desired and long 
 
 deferred. 
 
 By the shadow of Her Midnight, writ aforetime on Her 
 
 brow, 
 By the radiance of Her Morning, shining full upon Her 
 now, 
 
 By red dripping Spear and Rod, 
 By the Pathway that He trod 
 
 18 
 
When the hills were rent asunder by the dying cry of 
 
 God, 
 She hath pledged Her Soul on high in recognition of Her 
 
 vow. 
 
 By all things that man holds holy, She shall surely come 
 
 to them, 
 In Her robes of Royal purple, with Her Regal diadem, 
 And the haughty light that lies 
 In the depths of those dark eyes 
 Shall grow mellow as the moonlight in the dusk of tropic 
 
 skies, 
 As Her children kneel about Her, clutching at Her gar- 
 ment's hem. 
 
 Majestically moving from the reestablished throne, 
 
 Her feet efface the painted lie upon the boundary stone ; 
 For Her Faith and Love abide 
 To Her Own, that scattered wide. 
 
 See Her myriad watch fires flicker from the quiet country 
 side. 
 
 She comes across the alien fields to claim again her 
 
 OWN. 
 
 19 
 
THE HALLS OF FANCY 
 
 These are the lofty and far-reaching halls 
 
 Whose light and airy walls 
 
 Are built of stuff of dreams; 
 
 With ever-changing, iridescent gleams 
 
 Of sunlight and star shining and moonbeams; 
 
 And lit from that far height 
 
 That lies beyond the tides of day and night. 
 
 These are the charmed pinnacles that rise, 
 
 Piercing enchanted skies; 
 
 Up from the glamour thrown 
 
 By seven-hued rainbows of the corner stone; 
 
 Up through the purple silences, star sown. 
 
 To the far Central Throne 
 
 Of Him, Who Reigns All Knowing and Unknown. 
 
 Put off thy shoes from thee and veil thy face ; 
 
 This is His Holies Place. 
 
 Let but the Levite stand 
 
 With reverent face, and touch with hallowed hand 
 
 The Ark that bears the Covenant of the land ; 
 
 That seals our right to rise 
 
 Above the brute, with seraphs of the skies. 
 
 Oh, thou, my soul, awake to a new birth. 
 
 Put off thy robes of earth. 
 
 Stand naked and unshod 
 
 Within these Holy Halls, where late hath trod 
 
 20 
 
The Visible Presence of the Soul of God. 
 
 Cleanse thou thyself, that pure, 
 
 Thou mayst contain the Infinite, yet endure. 
 
 Build thyself shining ladders of Heartbreak, 
 
 My Soul, whereby to take 
 
 Yon heaven-distant star. 
 
 That beckons thee with smiling face from far, 
 
 To the High Halls where the Immortals are. 
 
 Let yon remotest sun 
 
 Weave thee a path to the Ineffable One. 
 
 21 
 
THE WEAVER 
 
 The Weaver, weaving in a silent room 
 
 The iridescent web of Fancy's loom, 
 
 That opaline and changing Cloth of Gold, 
 
 For his soul's ransom, with his soul's sweat told; 
 
 With reverent awe, with foaming of the lips 
 
 He drew his dream forms from the black eclipse 
 
 Of primal voids. He saw his work unroll. 
 
 Compelled and guided by the Oversoul. 
 
 He fed the loom thread after shining thread. 
 
 His flying hand a Hand diviner led. 
 
 Exulting colors, ecstasies of light 
 
 Reft from some God on his forbidden height; 
 
 All lights, all shadows and all melodies; 
 
 All discords trumpeted by winds and seas. 
 
 All evanescent odors that are met 
 
 Within the faded chaplet of Regret; 
 
 A devil's prayer, that blistered where it fell 
 
 And hell smut drifted on the smoke of hell ; 
 
 A drop of sunlight from a dewy lawn. 
 
 Spilled from the golden flagon of the dawn; 
 
 A saint's desire, more white than shining wool; 
 
 The Scarlet Soul of the Sin Beautiful; 
 
 Flotsam and jetsam drifted to his hand. 
 
 Wreckage of all men's souls, from no man's land. 
 
 And good or ill, his fingers wove it in. 
 
 The God compelled; it ever must have been. 
 
 He leaned his soul to listen; not to miss 
 
 God's whisper, speaking in the serpent's hiss; 
 
 22 
 
He heard His trumpet from a far off height 
 
 When the red lightning stabbed the heart of night; 
 
 His soul's ear heard; he trembled and rejoiced 
 
 In varying tones of God, the Many Voiced. 
 
 A deeper silence on the silence falls; 
 
 A deeper shadow on the shadowed walls; 
 
 God and the Weaver and a silent loom, 
 
 And shadows dripping blackness on the gloom 
 
 Above his finished work; and over all 
 
 God's Shadow thrown above him as a pall, 
 
 Starlit, sun flaming, with its glooms unfurled 
 
 Between him and the shadow of the world. 
 
 And his work blossoms purple, gold and red, 
 
 And the white face above it of the dead. 
 
 The Weaver's web is woven; let him keep 
 
 Between the eve and dawn his tryst with sleep. 
 
 23 
 
THE PAGAN'S PLEA 
 
 Thou Knowest ! Oh, Thou Knowest ! Thou ! 
 Jehovah, Buddha, Jove, or Lord, 
 To Whom all men with one accord, 
 
 At diverse altars pay their vow, 
 
 Thou Knowest! Oh, Thou sad-browed Christ, 
 Or be Thou God, or be Thou Man, 
 How I with bleeding feet outran 
 
 Thy Faith, which not my soul sufficed. 
 
 My soul, attuned to Arcadie, 
 
 Drank discord in the city street; 
 
 I dreamed of Latmos — and my feet 
 Were bloody upon Calvary. 
 
 I, also bruised with bloody rods, 
 Turned unto These, Incarnate Joy. 
 Gods with the light heart of a boy, 
 
 And Beauty in the guise of Gods. 
 
 24 
 
THE DENIED CHRIST 
 
 Oh, Face Divinely Human, grave and tender. 
 
 Deep-lined whereon I trace 
 Sad thoughts, that mar the else ineffable splendour 
 
 We might not dare to face; 
 
 Why comest Thou at night, when dews of healing 
 
 Should visit my sad eyes, 
 Thy robes ungirt, half hiding, half revealing 
 
 The wounds of sacrifice. 
 
 Lord, Lord, I see the beauty of Thy Being, 
 
 And of Thy Words that shine 
 Star-like across dim ages; but the seeing 
 
 May never make me Thine. 
 
 The solemn, sacred service of Thy Preaching 
 
 Lies patent to mine eyes. 
 Yet what my soul might gather of Thy Teaching 
 
 My Pagan heart denies. 
 
 I, also, from a Calvary exceeding, 
 
 I, scourged with bloody rods. 
 Turn from Thy Passion and Thy Brother Pleading 
 
 To my remembered Gods. 
 
 For I am Greek of Star-Crowned Hellas, lying 
 An emerald, sun kissed 
 
 25 
 
Beneath her skies of sapphire, vainly vying 
 With seas of amethyst. 
 
 Still must I hear in western woodlands ringing 
 
 The Syrinx pipes of Pan; 
 Striking old chords of recollection, bringing 
 
 My vales Arcadian. 
 
 Still must some Pagan Almond Flower of Beauty 
 
 To which my heart shall cling 
 Bloom from the barren Aaron's rod of duty 
 
 In perfect blossoming. 
 
 26 
 
CLOTH OF GOLD. 
 
 God, the Giver, wove the gracious Cloth of old. 
 Maculate, perchance, and sullied, but His Royal Cloth of 
 Gold. 
 
 And He wove it to the flashing 
 
 Of His lightnings, and the crashing 
 Of His thunders, splitting open the impenetrable gloom. 
 
 His Divine Foreordination 
 
 Lit the path of tribe and nation 
 Flashing from His flying shuttles and the thunder of His 
 loom. 
 
 God hath willed it from the primal dawn, and still 
 All the ages sweat their blood and tears in furtherance 
 of His Will. 
 
 He hath Willed that heights supernal 
 
 Rise above the plains; eternal. 
 Lest the Star of Splendour pale its fires, and Glory pass 
 away; 
 
 That the soul of man might quicken ; 
 
 Lest the soul of man should sicken 
 In the stagnant lower levels and a monotone of gray. 
 
 God hath given ! Woe to him whose hands profane 
 
 The Inviolable Cloth of Gold Where His Anointed reign. 
 For His Cloth of Gold before them, 
 Flung about them, rising o'er them, 
 
 Is the canopy of Princes and a carpet to His Feet. 
 Where He comes with light unfailing. 
 Comes with comfort and availing. 
 
 Where the King of Kings above them and His earthly 
 Regents meet. 
 
VIRGINIA'S GIFT • 
 
 Two! Two of her sons and yet one had sufficed; 
 
 O'er topping the height of the nation's behest; 
 Two first born and noblest. Bear witness, oh, Christ, 
 
 Of the sons that she suckled in pride at her breast 
 She gives us the best. 
 
 Lo, these are her jewels; the Virgin of Wars 
 Hath set them above in the heavens for a sign, 
 
 For a Promise and Portent of Peace midst the stars, 
 Of hatred and discord grown dimmer, that shine 
 From south of the Line. 
 
 Let the virgins go forth with the lamps in their hand; 
 
 With the gifts of the times let the wise men adore. 
 As a God in her giving, she proffers the land 
 
 The Star Shining Most of the opulent More 
 Of sons that she bore. 
 
 28 
 
THE OLD SOUTH TO THE MEMORY OF LINCOLN 
 
 Full reverently, and with contrite heart, 
 
 Of that great Whole, we come to claim a part. 
 
 The land's Great Tribune, faithful to his trust. 
 
 All Merciful, All Patient, and All Just. 
 
 Time, the great alchemist, hath thrown within 
 
 His crucible, some portion of our sin. 
 
 His solvent, the all comprehending touch 
 
 Of Human in This Man, availeth much 
 
 To melt the baser metals, hate and scorn, 
 
 Corroding envy and a pride outworn; 
 
 Touched with a Christ-like tenderness, behold, 
 
 He gives them back to us refined gold. 
 
 Which gold of Love, perchance, may serve to pay 
 
 Our tithes, too long withheld from him, today. 
 
 Content yourself, not lightly do we change; 
 
 And changed to him, yet we do not estrange 
 
 Ourselves from that we are, and shall remain, 
 
 Though all the future plead to us in vain. 
 
 The high and haughty humor of the blood 
 
 We drew from Mother England, stands us good. 
 
 In rock-ribbed stubbornness, we hold our place 
 
 Within the old traditions of our race. 
 
 Our fathers served the King across the sea; 
 
 We, for the same Lost Cause, drew swords with Lee. 
 
 We stand, and still shall stand as we have stood, 
 
 The heirs and guardians of the Ancient Blood. 
 
 The purple shadows of our past are thrown 
 
 About his light, and still the light is shown. 
 
 29 
 
The clearer for the shadows, we must yield 
 To him, the last fruits of an outworn field. 
 The half-unwilling homage, wrenched apart 
 And crowned, above the passions of our heart. 
 We may not follow in his steps of light ; 
 But we may watch and worship in the night. 
 I think that the All Human in This Man, 
 Lest that the All Divine should mar His plan 
 With a too high perfection, over bright. 
 Too fiercely blinding for our mortal sight. 
 Still draws him to us, nearer and more near. 
 More perfect, were too perfect, and less dear. 
 We love him for himself, and for the flaw 
 That sets his steps with ours in Nature's law. 
 Flawed with the old familiar flaw from birth. 
 The fond, sweet Birthmark of our Mother Earth. 
 South of the South, within our veins there runs 
 Mixed with our blood, the blood of Southern suns. 
 We give not lightly; giving, give our whole, 
 The undivided all of heart and soul. 
 Now, in his full-leafed coronet of praise 
 We come to lay, among the palms and bays. 
 Our Southern Olive, the most dearest trust. 
 That time may lay above his sacred dust. 
 Late won, our Love goes with it, and if late, 
 He, who hath won Eternity, may wait. 
 
 30 
 
THE ANGRY RED STAR 
 
 TO AMBROSE BIERCE. 
 
 Up from the West I saw it rise; 
 
 I watched and worshipped from afar; 
 
 Not Peace on earth proclaimed the Star, 
 The Angry Red Star of the skies. 
 
 In darkened skies it set its rule. 
 
 They fled before the fiery sign; 
 
 It pierced with influence malign 
 The triple armor of the fool. 
 
 War, war, a just and righteous war! 
 Its flaming lances in and out 
 Flashed their ensanguined lights about 
 
 The altars where the false priests are; 
 
 Whose shrines the ancient shrines supplant; 
 Who kneeling, bind about their face 
 Phylacteries of the Commonplace, 
 
 Wherewith to seek the Great God Cant. 
 
 That cold, inclement breast of Art 
 I touched, and found it but the sheath 
 , To hide in deeper depths beneath 
 Thy warmly red and human heart; 
 
 31 
 
Which bade a doubting heart maintain 
 
 Its birthright of celestial fire; 
 
 And bade an ancient height aspire 
 Above the levels of the plain. 
 
 Through all my paths of unsuccess, 
 In the black dungeons of my night, 
 Thy Words v^ere still the dawning light 
 
 Escaping from the dark's duress ; 
 
 That shining on my height unwon 
 A beacon fire of Promise burned, 
 To which I held, to which I turned, 
 
 As Parsees to the risen sun. 
 
 Oh, if my soul may hope to rise 
 
 In some new light of some new dawn, 
 Round after broken round upon 
 
 My Jacob's ladder to the skies, 
 
 I, though upon its topmost round, 
 
 Will pause and give my thanks at length 
 To thy strong soul which gave me strength, 
 
 And set my feet above the ground. 
 
 I thank the Gods, who gave me grace 
 To link my lesser name with thine; 
 With thy reflected light to shine. 
 
 Although but for a moment's space. 
 
 32 
 
THE CRY OF THE HUMAN 
 
 We were near to each other a moment, and nearer we 
 
 were that I saw 
 The touch of the Human upon you, and loved you for 
 
 stain and for flaw. 
 We were dear to each other a moment, but now you have 
 
 grown from me far, 
 And bright as the lance of the Sun God, and clean as the 
 
 light of a star. 
 The sound of your name has grown holy ; I falter it under 
 
 my breath. 
 Can you hearken that cry of the Human, flung back 
 
 through the gateways of death? 
 Though I add to my stature a cubit, though I clasp to the 
 
 breast for my own 
 The belt of yon hunter in heaven, could I reach you to 
 
 where you have grown? 
 Though out of the depths I approach you, and draw^ down 
 
 your soul to my touch. 
 Can I bid it be you as I knew you, and hold it and love it 
 
 as such? 
 Shall I seek you, who held you the dearest, where the 
 
 lilies blow cold and white 
 On margins of motionless waters, in the perfect and pas- 
 sionless light. 
 Where the hymns rise up heavy like incense, and the harps 
 
 and the viols are strung? 
 I want you again as I knew you, with the earth stain on 
 
 heart and on tongue. 
 
 33 
 
I want you again as I saw you, when booted and spurred 
 
 and astride, 
 You sat with your knee on the pommel, a-flush from the 
 
 heat of the ride. 
 
 You rode through the gates of the morning, and a breeze 
 
 of the dawn, as you came, 
 Breathed on life's smoldering embers, and stirred the wan 
 
 ashes to flame. 
 You came as the breaking of daylight, through the 
 
 branches of blossoming trees. 
 And the desert of life became vocal with the voices of 
 
 birds and of bees. 
 And the hands of the spring, in their weaving, had woven 
 
 you garments of joy, 
 And your wine of the summer ran over from the jeweled 
 
 gold cup of the boy. 
 Oh, stranger, in Strangerland yonder, new god, with the 
 
 old feet of clay, 
 Were dearer the roses that faded, and the loves that went 
 
 out with the day? 
 Do you weary of harp and of viol and the droning of pas- 
 sionless tunes. 
 And the heavy, barbaric splendour, through the heavy, 
 
 unchanging noons? 
 'Tis noon in the courtyards of Heaven, unbegot of the 
 
 kiss of the sun, 
 And the souls pass up without shadow, for the noon and 
 
 the night are as one. 
 There is light in the ultimate heavens, fathomless, blinding 
 
 and white. 
 
 34 
 
Oh, boy that I loved in the foretime, engulfed in abysses 
 
 of light, 
 Do you shrink from the pitiless splendour, and clutch at 
 
 the jewel lit bars, 
 And sigh your soul into the distance to the best beloved 
 
 star of the stars? 
 
 35 
 
"THESE CHRISTS THAT DIE UPON THE 
 BARRICADES"— 1871 
 
 In the days when the brimming cup of guilt 
 
 That France replenished, ran o'er and spilt 
 
 Turbulent torrents of bloody waves, 
 
 Bearing her sons to nameless graves. 
 
 And the insolent ghost of Ninety-Three 
 
 Walked in the open for all to see, 
 
 In the faithless city strange things were done. 
 
 That man might flee from and devils shun. 
 
 And Paris arose, half God, half beast, 
 
 And the beast sprang up, the God decreased; 
 
 And she went forth in the night and stood 
 
 With the jungle taint hot in her blood; 
 
 With the frantic eyes of one who knew 
 
 Ninety-Three and Bartholomew; 
 
 With soul of a devil, flawed and scarred, 
 
 Diamond bright and diamond hard; 
 
 And the Leash of God but scarce repressed 
 
 The tiger's heart in her human breast. 
 
 And the devil beat his loud rappel 
 
 For recruits from San Antoine — and hell. 
 
 And the grim old saint threw off his gray. 
 
 And stood like a galliard gallant, gay 
 
 In insolent colour, vibrantly red. 
 
 Like a Gabriel's trumpet over the dead.^ 
 
 And the soul of the devil flashed hell warm 
 
 And hell red over the hell black storm, . 
 
 And answered the hell shriek of the cry, 
 
 36 
 
"On to the Barricades ! Kill and Die !" 
 Oh, Christ of Cavalry ! Ghost of God ! 
 Red with the wound of nail and rod, 
 Was it for This Thy Sweat and Tears 
 Swept like a river adown the years. 
 Gulfed and lost in the black abyss 
 And crimson flood of a day like this. 
 Yet if demons, devil released from hell, 
 They fought like Gods; like Gods they fell; 
 And the Splendid Madness of their cause 
 Flashed up star high above human laws; 
 Guilt with a crown of light, star sown, 
 Murder Majestic upon a throne. 
 Pushed from their foothold inch by inch, 
 They fell in their tracks, but did not flinch ; 
 Did not flinch when the cannon came 
 Vomiting death from throats aflame; 
 They died like heroes, and knew not why; 
 And who shall question man's right to die? 
 And ever above, their flags flashed red, 
 A hell flame menace o'er quick and dead. 
 And the men who threw the dice with God 
 Stood in the last red ditch, red shod, 
 With red hands raised for the final throw 
 Of loaded dice that must turn up low. 
 Their soul's strength propped the broken wall 
 Of the Barricade, crumbling to its fall ; 
 They stood like a rock, and felt it reel, 
 Swept by a tidal wave of steel ; 
 Stood in a phalanx, strong but thin 
 
 37 
 
When the wall broke down, the storm rushed in; 
 
 Breasts full front to the flood that came 
 
 A spray of steel on a wave of flame, 
 
 They sank submerged, but did not yield 
 
 To the torrent sweeping across the field. 
 
 And then, as a ray of light divides 
 
 The sullen torment of tortured tides. 
 
 Came from their midst a boy, who stood 
 
 In that horror haunted welter of blood 
 
 As breath and dew of the Dawn that fell 
 
 Like balm on that gaping wound of hell. 
 
 Hand to his brow he stood at salute. 
 
 All blood bespattered, a fair young shoot 
 
 Of the Tree of Treason, from bitter root. 
 
 A gypsy blossoming wildly sweet. 
 
 Grown in the garden O'f slum and street. 
 
 And a dozen years on his brow grew scant. 
 
 And a trebled measure of woe and want. 
 
 And he claimed, with the light heart of his race, 
 
 From the hands of Death a moment's grace; 
 
 A reef of Time, wherefrom to see 
 
 The ocean of All Eternity ; 
 
 Leave to go to his home near by, 
 
 To go with Life, to return to die. 
 
 And the leader smiled from eyes heart-warm 
 
 At the boyish face and slender form; 
 
 He was well content that the boy should draw 
 
 The one white lot from the outraged law; 
 
 And with tender gruffness he bade him on, 
 
 *'Go to the devil and keep thee gone." 
 
 38 
 
And the boy's eyes flashed and his cheek flushed red 
 
 In his wounded pride, as he turned and said : 
 
 "Pardon, my captain, you jest; but I 
 
 Will surely return in time to die." 
 
 And grimly and gladly the captain drew 
 
 The lots of Fate for the captured few; 
 
 And Death laughed loud as he held the sack 
 
 The lots were drawn from, for all were black. 
 
 For these were the lots of Fate for all, 
 
 To stand together against a wall, 
 
 To stand for a time — for all time to fall ; 
 
 Riddled with shot, and thrown to drench 
 
 With the blood of traitors, a shallow trench. 
 
 Brutal, blood-stained, braggart, but Brave ! 
 
 They carried their valour unto the grave. 
 
 And flung a jest with their dying breath 
 
 To ruffle the majesty of Death. 
 
 And suddenly rose above the noise 
 
 In silver treble, a boyish voice, 
 
 Thin and clear and distinct and sweet 
 
 Over the riot upon the street; 
 
 The cry of Honour from heights of Pride, 
 
 The cry of Humanity, Deified. 
 
 "A moment, my captain, 'tis only I, 
 
 Back again just in time to die." 
 
 And the tumult ceased, and the silence fell 
 
 Of God's Truce over that seething hell; 
 
 And captor and captive, with dim eyes 
 
 Bent to a vision from o'er the skies. 
 
 And over life's flaw beheld it pass. 
 
 39 
 
Walls of jasper and seas of glass, 
 
 Palms of Victory, Lilies worn 
 
 On Mary's Bosom when Christ was born, 
 
 What man loves best, and holds most high 
 
 Were met in the boy returned to die; 
 
 Glowing, triumphant, and out of breath, 
 
 The Royal Guest at this feast of Death. 
 
 As a poet priest, or a painter paints 
 
 The glorified images of saints. 
 
 Where the sodden gray of life is told 
 
 In glowing colours and words of gold, 
 
 So the barefoot boy grew up August 
 
 As a King's Son, guarding his Gallant Trust; 
 
 Prince, above Prince of an ancient line. 
 
 Royal in tatters — by Right Divine; 
 
 Clothed in his Spirit Radiance, 
 
 Highest and Noblest, First Born of France. 
 
 So he stood with the men against the wall. 
 
 Brave as a man, and half as tall; 
 
 A thief, peradventure, but if a thief. 
 
 One who was brave beyond belief ; 
 
 If a thief, a thief who titanic grew 
 
 On heights of the spirit into the blue; 
 
 If a thief, a thief to whom Honour came 
 
 With the God's Gift hidden in smoke and flame. 
 
 And Death for a moment stayed his hand 
 
 Ere he waved them forth to the unknown land; 
 
 And stood still, tranced for a moment's space. 
 
 Blinded by Splendour flung in his face ; 
 
 Never before such light was drawn 
 
 40 
 
From the founts of God beyond the dawn 
 
 To fall on the ways of San Antoine. 
 
 And never before a boy hath trod 
 
 Such Royal Purple through Death to God. 
 
 And the savage voice of Duty spoke, 
 
 And the rifles answered through flame and smoke. 
 
 Or bronze, or brass, or marble bleeds 
 
 With words red dripping from gallant deeds, 
 
 Deeds of heroes with sword and lance, 
 
 Heroes of History and Romance 
 
 Who fought for Honour, and fell for France. 
 
 And the brass might laugh in exultant joy. 
 
 Writ with the God's deed of the Boy, 
 
 And the marble soften like wax to claim 
 
 The indelible impress of his name. 
 
 Now, the leash of Order, tighter drawn, 
 
 Strangles the soul of San Antoine; 
 
 And the tree with madness at its root, 
 
 That bore for a day such golden fruit. 
 
 Withered and dead and lopped away 
 
 Lets in the bare, bleak light of day. 
 
 And the Barricades no more are built 
 
 By Radiant Madness and Splendid Guilt. 
 
 But in San Antoine is Holy Ground, 
 
 And here comes Honour, by Glory crowned. 
 
 Where he threw his boy's all into the strife. 
 
 His tattered and trampled Toy of Life. 
 
 Ah, little Hero, with soul of flame. 
 
 Where is the daybreak of thy Name 
 
 To be largely written above by Fame; 
 
 41 
 
To light the pathway of sun and star, 
 
 To light our sordid earth from afar; 
 
 The Torch of God, with its light intense, 
 
 Overshining Magnificence. 
 
 And the world forgets it; but I suppose 
 
 Some One, Somewhere, Remembering Knows. 
 
 42 
 
MARIE ANTOINETTE 
 
 Hastens Night o'er star-sown summits, but her palHcl 
 
 brows are drawn 
 Tense in lines of frightened anguish; and her feet tread 
 
 hard upon 
 Feet reluctant, halt and trembling, the unwilling feet of 
 
 Dawn. 
 
 In that hour of august anguish when a God hung on the 
 
 tree 
 All the cosmic forces trembled; so they tremble now to 
 
 see 
 The accursed hour in birth pangs of this woman's Calvary. 
 
 Where is God? Oh, where is He Who set this woman's 
 
 feet upon 
 Cloth of purple, golden blazoned, and the footsteps of a 
 
 throne, 
 That the splendour of her form might faintly figure forth 
 
 His own. 
 
 Where is God and where His Anger, that apocalyptic ire 
 Sweeping o'er His fields of harvest, when the wings of 
 
 Mercy tire; 
 While the guilty stubble shrivels in its seven-times-heated 
 
 fire? 
 
 France has fiefed enfranchised Freedom, and the sovereign 
 people claim 
 
 43 
 
Royal blood to drench the altar they have builded in her 
 
 name. 
 Name of God invoked by devils, may it scorch them with 
 
 its flame ! 
 
 Hark! the jackals of the sewers hasten onward to their 
 
 prey; 
 Faggots from the devil's burning, spurned from hell, and 
 
 gone astray; 
 And the harlot, drunk with blood, shall drink of dearer 
 
 blood today. 
 
 Nothing doubt their brutish souls were filled with anger 
 
 and surprise 
 At the haughty pride that slumbered in the depths of 
 
 those sad eyes. 
 When the victim went a victor to the place of sacrifice. 
 
 For the costly vase is shattered, and the sacred blood is 
 
 spilt ; 
 And the last black stone is set upon the house their hands 
 
 have built; 
 And the crimson knot is woven in the altar cloth of Guilt. 
 
 Open wide, ye gates of darkness, where the damned in tor- 
 ments dwell 
 
 Shut to Hope with triple portals, when the son of Morning 
 fell. 
 
 That all hell rise up to meet them, when their souls go 
 down to hell. 
 
 44 
 
THE SONG OF RUPERT'S MEN 
 
 There is blood on the grass, 
 
 And a flame on the wind 
 That leaps as we pass 
 
 And follows behind; 
 There's a ragged red spot 
 
 On faces grown white, 
 And eyes that see not 
 
 Though they stare at the night. 
 Let the Puritans wince 
 
 At the gifts that we bring, 
 Who follow the Prince 
 
 For God and the King. 
 
 From the mount where He trod 
 
 When the Tables came down. 
 The finger of God 
 
 Points the rights of the Crown. 
 Now God with Our Cause 
 
 For Our Cause is His Own, 
 For the King and the Laws, 
 
 For the Church and the Throne. 
 Then out with our swords ! 
 
 Let the universe ring 
 And reecho our words 
 
 For God and the King. 
 
 And here's to Another 
 With glasses brimmed high, 
 
 45 
 
The friend and the brother 
 
 Who gives us to die. 
 If Life shall betray 
 
 With a sycophant's breath, 
 Then huzza for the day 
 
 Of Honour and Death. 
 Come he soon, come he late, 
 
 We care not, who fling 
 Our defiance to fate 
 
 For God and the King! 
 
 46 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 THIS DEDICATION OF THE ''dIVINE MESSAGE/' 
 
 An UnHnished Poem. 
 
 Strong Soul, that human and divine, 
 
 With radiance ineffable 
 
 Controlled my being with a spell, 
 And bade a lesser light to shine. 
 
 In one whose grief was overmuch 
 
 Bound to base uses. One who saw 
 
 Of his own soul the blot, the flaw, 
 Yet felt upon his brow the touch, 
 
 The seal of some diviner lips. 
 
 The fiery and the cleansing pain. 
 
 That draws the franchised soul again 
 From the black caverns of eclipse. 
 
 Yea, felt his soul a harp, whose strings 
 
 Some God with careless fingers swept. 
 
 Who half revealing, wholly kept 
 His secret of eternal things. 
 
 And in strange moods of thought unfurled. 
 
 Past all the subtlest laws of art. 
 
 Felt Universal Nature's heart 
 Throb through the pulses of the world. 
 
 47 
 
Forgive me, who have dared to lift 
 My faltering voice in praise of Thee. 
 For that it is, and can not be. 
 
 Forgive the giver and the gift. 
 
 Forgive me, that I strive to sound 
 The strings which late your hands let fall. 
 Forgive me, that I tread withal, 
 
 Though softly, on this holy ground. 
 
 For not with careless feet I stepped 
 Across the grave, where long ago 
 Went forth the strains of love and woe 
 
 That make the name of Hallam wept. 
 
 But with full reverence I trod, 
 As one who at the altar kneels 
 Awe-stricken, while the priest reveals 
 
 The Body and the Blood of God. 
 
 Here hast thou set the farthest bound 
 Of Sorrow's wide and waste domains; 
 Past which her writ no more obtains 
 
 Where Silent, purple robed and crowned, 
 
 She broods above the throngs that meet 
 — From all the patient lands that cry 
 To the inexorable sky — 
 
 To lay their homage at her feet. 
 
 48 
 
Within her sacred temple's porch, 
 They come to pray or weep awhile. 
 Or wait his coming with a smile, 
 
 Who comes with his inverted torch. 
 
 But few within her holies' place 
 
 Shall stand to draw her veil away; 
 Or see the fiery splendours play, 
 
 Or the compassion of her face. 
 
 Ah well for them, their brows forbear 
 The guerdon of her glorious gain; 
 Her fiery signet seal of pain, 
 
 Her clinging chaplet of despair. 
 
 'Tis well for them, they may not know 
 That anguish, human and divine. 
 Which set, an altar in a shrine. 
 
 Thy apotheosis of woe. 
 
 Dear Master, for whose reverend brow 
 We wrought our wreath of palms or bays, 
 To whom we brought such meed of praise, 
 
 As merely mortals might avow. 
 
 They were, who watchers of the night 
 Beheld the Star rise in the east. 
 They were, who bidden to the feast, 
 
 Went forth with lamps trimmed and alight. 
 
 49 
 
They were, whose hands with gladness told, 
 To thee a shining rosary. 
 Of gifts befitting them and thee, 
 
 Their myrrh and frankincense and gold. 
 
 But woe to me, whose soul too late 
 Hath owned the influence of the star, 
 And brought my laggards gifts from far 
 
 To lay beside the folded gate. 
 
 Yet should I stand on English ground, 
 Methinks I scarce should think it strange 
 To see thee standing, without change, 
 
 Within thy star-encircled round. 
 
 So hast thou stood within my sight. 
 What time the patient stars came out, 
 And kept long watch and ward about 
 
 The sacred temples of the night. 
 
 Nay, didst thou stand before my face 
 Tonight in spirit, with thy soul 
 Purged of the body's gross control. 
 
 And fetterless of Time and Space, 
 
 Impalpable unto my touch. 
 
 But all the human shining through, 
 The All Divine that veiled my view, 
 
 I would not wonder overmuch. 
 
 50 
 
Nay, scarce to see thy face beside 
 A Face all tender and all grave, 
 His Face, in Whom no part I have. 
 
 The Face of Him I have denied. 
 
 For so thy being's strength compelled 
 My weakness. All my first and best, 
 By thy diviner soul possessed, 
 
 By thy diviner soul upheld, 
 
 Grew from me farther and more far. 
 Grew from me clearer and more clear, 
 Grew to thee nearer and more near. 
 
 The glow worm shining to the star. 
 
 Dear are the claims of blood and birth; 
 I claim thee by a dearer claim. 
 From thee my soul derives the flame. 
 
 Which surely is not all of earth. 
 
 And if in these poor verses be, 
 
 Mixed with much dross, some thought divine, 
 The light with which it shines is thine, 
 
 'Tis thine and hath its source from thee. 
 
 Nor thy deserts, nor my desires. 
 
 Have set my little best so low, 
 
 Which should from higher heights bestow, 
 The light bestowed of heavenly fires. 
 
 51 
 
For I have burst the golden bars, 
 
 The portals of the dawn, and pressed. 
 Like him of old, unto my breast 
 
 The death-keen lances of the stars. 
 
 Might I a moment's space compel 
 The God, whose fiery pulses roll 
 In stormy tides about my soul. 
 
 Half audible, half visible, 
 
 Methinks my soul is not so base 
 
 That thou wouldst scorn the song I bring, 
 
 Nor pass, an unregarded thing. 
 My leaf amidst your palms and bays. 
 
 Of what avail, of what avail, 
 
 From out the night no answers come. 
 The voice of all the Gods is dumb; 
 
 Old signs of hope and promise fail. 
 
 For lapped among the dews and balms 
 In lotos-eating bliss they lie. 
 Or drunk with slumber's wine deny 
 
 My song their laurel and their palms. 
 
 Now thrice the English May hath strewn 
 The hawthorn's snow upon the breeze. 
 And thrice in England over seas 
 
 The poppy's golden cup hath blown. 
 
 52 
 
And thrice in Britain, east or west, 
 Or old, or new, or where the day 
 Steals from the night's embrace away. 
 
 Or where the Sun God veils his crest, 
 
 The holy bells of Christmas rang 
 
 The angels' anthem back again; 
 
 Their peace on earth, good will to men 
 Since he hath gone from us who sang; 
 
 The song that all our soul sufficed, 
 The human song, the song divine, 
 Drawn from deep founts of light that shine 
 
 With splendour of the Risen Christ. 
 
 He sang of love; and lo, the breast 
 
 Of lovers, trembling in the bliss 
 
 Of glorious insufficiencies, 
 A higher, holier love confessed. 
 
 He sang of woe; and we who trod 
 In darkened ways, knelt to avow 
 The august shadow on our brow, 
 
 The shadow of the Soul of God. 
 
 He sang of God; the conscious sky 
 
 Grew quickened; and the light that not 
 Of suns' and earths' embrace was got. 
 
 The visible soul of the Most High 
 
 53 
 
Went forth from its abiding place. 
 
 The stars paled in that radiant dawn, 
 
 And Mercy drew her veil upon 
 Th' ineffable light we might not face. 
 
 Alas for us, our souls are less 
 
 That part of the harmonious whole, 
 The soul compelling Over Soul 
 
 Hath left its temples tenantless. 
 
 White sheets of moonlight drifting by 
 The sails of seas that lie beyond. 
 The Light of England, waned and wanned. 
 
 That some new star might shine on high. 
 
 Dust unto dust. There comes a guest 
 A lordly guest, who gives to keep 
 The sacred burden of his sleep, 
 
 To his own England's gentle breast. 
 
 Sleep thou thy England's soil beneath; 
 And Thou, whose generous bosom bore. 
 Thou high and haughty heritor 
 
 Of this divinest trust of Death; 
 
 Oh, Britain, round whose brows are met 
 The triple crowns; the trinity 
 Of three in one, and one of three. 
 
 Thy hundred warrior princes set. 
 
 54 
 
Oh, England, England, his and mine ! 
 Oh thou whose footsteps not in vain 
 Divide the vexed and vexing main, 
 
 Majestic Mother of a line 
 
 In patience and in strength who pressed 
 The steps of Freedom mounting higher, 
 And fanned to flame the flickering fire 
 
 Of sacred fury, in her breast ! 
 
 Thy gracious claim of Motherhood; 
 Our love that as a rock abides 
 The shifting of the sands and tides. 
 
 The righteous claim of Saxon blood. 
 
 All cry for peace. Oh, not in vain. 
 Though alien hands would rend apart 
 The god-laid burthen on our heart, 
 
 Our heritage of love and pain. 
 
 To Saxon hearts where e'er they be. 
 Who heart to heart, and soul to soul. 
 Would keep our Saxon empire whole, 
 
 Peace and good will across the sea. 
 
 Stand thou with us, as we with thee. 
 So shall we standing side by side. 
 The realm of either world divide, 
 
 From pole to pole, from sea to sea. 
 
 55 
 
Oh, splendid dream! A God's desire, 
 
 Drawn from deep draughts of heavenly springs, 
 
 And soaring on exalted wings. 
 Might set its radiant bounds no higher. 
 
 An ancient right that we who trod 
 The vintage of His wrath from yore, 
 Who armed with strength and patience bore 
 
 The delegated Will of God. 
 
 While still a festering ill prolongs 
 Its rule, and bankrupt justice fails. 
 Should throw our swords into the scales 
 
 That balance nations' rights and wrongs. 
 
 The factor of divine events, 
 
 'Tis ours to loose in peace or war. 
 The crimson tangled knots that mar 
 
 The web of His Divine Intents. 
 
 Oh, might we bind the scattered rays 
 
 Of Britain's glory into one; 
 
 Her world wide lands, which not the sun 
 Forsakes in all his circling ways; 
 
 Then peace on earth, good will to men. 
 Were not an idle shibboleth. 
 Blown through the dusty lips of death. 
 
 And drenched with Abel's blood again. 
 
 56 
 
Nor Justice then a prince's fool, 
 Nor Truth a servile lackey kept; 
 But prince and people should accept 
 
 God's Truth and Justice in our rule. 
 
 Then should our will to judgment bring 
 A princely war lord, grown o'er bold, 
 Or bid a fretful people hold 
 
 The tryst of ages with their King. 
 
 Then on our all protecting shield 
 Where frowned on gules the Gorgon's head, 
 Should Truth and Justice rule instead. 
 
 With Mercy on an argent field. 
 
 So should our gracious influence draw 
 The quickened nations in our track. 
 And each to each should answer back 
 
 In common speech and righteous law. 
 
 Our lands are many, star on star. 
 We called them from the purple shades, 
 Through desert paths and forest glades. 
 
 We set our ancient boundaries far. 
 
 We gave our banners to the breeze, 
 The seas divided and we passed; 
 Our Flag from many a haughty mast 
 
 Flung crimson lights on unknown seas. 
 
 57 
 
We built in patience to endure. 
 
 Against the years' corroding length 
 We set the pillars of our strength, 
 
 As pillars of the earth are sure. 
 
 Oh, shall we shrink in craven fears 
 At the long shadows lengthening fast, 
 Of this our greatness grown so vast. 
 
 And waxing with th' increasing years ! 
 
 And we, shall we whose promise seemed 
 The Covenant of God with man, 
 Whose splendid purpose still outran 
 
 The all that priest or poet dreamed ; 
 
 Who led the foremost van that led 
 The armies of the risen day, 
 Turn from the gates of dawn away 
 
 To walk with ghouls among the dead ? 
 
 And bid the evil seeds that fell 
 
 From hands forgotten — ashes — dust, 
 Spring up a crop of hate and lust 
 
 To glut the hungry maws of hell? 
 
 Then are we lost. The moment nears. 
 The serpent's subtle soul hath wound 
 Its coils about the sky, and bound 
 
 The kindly influence of the spheres. 
 
 58 
 
For this were madness. This to tell 
 The litany of devils taught. 
 Oh, this were madness, hell begot, 
 
 And spurned from out the gates of hell. 
 
 That gives to alien hands to reap 
 The gain of our ancestral field. 
 That each may win, let either yield, 
 
 And either give, that both may keep. 
 
 Scourged with the angry Master's rod 
 Be they who throng the venal mart 
 And in His temple rend apart 
 
 The veritable PEACE OF GOD. 
 
 May ceaseless travail still bestead 
 Their path, and of the mingled flood 
 Of sweat upon their brow, may blood 
 
 Commingle with their bitter bread. 
 
 May still the pillars of Thy wrath. 
 
 The blackening cloud of smoke by day. 
 The nightly fire's consuming ray, 
 
 With flame and blackness hedge their path. 
 
 And weltering in a guilty flood 
 
 Of dreams, that watch with them through night, 
 May wild-eyed murder meet their sight, 
 
 Bespattered with a kinsman's blood. 
 
 59 
 
And mingling ever with' the groans 
 And shrieks of battle, may they hear 
 Throb through the ringing in their ear, 
 
 With shrill, insistent monotones, 
 
 A spirit whisper, keen and thin. 
 
 Stabbed to the sense of heart and brain. 
 And crying ever, *Thou art Cain, 
 
 And none shall slay thee for thy sin." 
 
 Set Thou their bed of death where none 
 Shall close the faded orbs of sight. 
 But stabbed with fiery pangs of light. 
 
 And brazen lances of the sun. 
 
 Wrench Thou the guilty soul away. 
 That the death tainted body draw 
 The jackals, striving tooth and claw 
 
 With vultures, for th' accursed clay. 
 
 Oh, Thou, to Whom our prayers were poured 
 In every age, to Whom was spilt 
 The Guiltless Blood, to purge our guilt, 
 
 To Thee, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord, 
 
 To Thee we cry. Oh, hear us. Thou, 
 Let not th' Unpardonable Sin 
 Sprung from the gates of hell within 
 
 Set her red mark upon our brow. 
 
 60 
 
Nor madness stretching forth her hands, 
 And groping for the Hght through dark, 
 Set hands upon the hallowed ark 
 
 That bears the Covenant of our lands. 
 
 May rather chaos come again, 
 
 And death and darkness through the spheres, 
 
 Engulf their ancient barriers. 
 The little lives of Gods and men. 
 
 61 
 
GOD SAVE THE KING 
 
 TO MOTHER ENGLAND. 
 
 Mother of many men, 
 Monarch in many lands, 
 Mistress on many seas, 
 Come now Thy sons again 
 Proffering to Thy hands 
 Mightier gifts than these. 
 
 These be but leaves of rhyme, 
 Fragile and faded leaves, 
 Formless and incomplete. 
 Never the hand of Time 
 Binding them into sheaves 
 Lays them before Thy feet. 
 
 Comes with my less, a More; 
 Comes with my least, a Most ; 
 Comes with my part, a Whole. 
 Comes to Thine ancient shore 
 Gifts from a far-off coast. 
 Gifts from a Nation's Soul.' 
 
 Grief, with Thy Grief to rise ; 
 Tears, with Thy Tears to fall ; 
 Hope, with Thy Hope to spring 
 Into the mourning skies 
 Over the dead King's pall, 
 
 Crying, GOD SAVE THE KING. 
 
 62 
 
Hark I From an ancient height, 
 Jubilant, clear and high, 
 Shrilly the trumpets ring 
 Ring for an Ancient Right, 
 With an old battle cry 
 
 Crying, GOD SAVE THE KING. 
 
 63 
 
THE KING'S TRYST 
 
 The Tryst of Widowed Lands 
 
 The Wider Britain keeps. 
 With faltering steps She stands 
 
 On Her exulting steeps; 
 She flings Her mourning bands 
 
 Across Her subject deeps. 
 
 The August Mother calls 
 Her children o'er the tide; 
 
 High are the ocean walls, 
 The ocean walls are wide, 
 
 But yet, what e'er befalls 
 They hasten to Her side. 
 
 At Britain's high behest 
 
 From North and South they come; 
 They come from East and West 
 
 Swift foot across the foam; 
 They gather to Her breast 
 
 When Britain calls them Home. 
 
 They come with flying feet, 
 And eyes with tears grown dim ; 
 
 From East and West they meet 
 Upon the world's far rim; 
 
 They pass with footsteps fleet 
 To keep their tryst with Him. 
 
 64 
 
Gifts for the Royal Dead 
 From all the lands that lie 
 
 Where Britain's Zone of Red 
 Is bounded by the sky. 
 
 Peace that may still bestead, 
 And Love that shall not die. 
 
 Peace ! Peace be with the Kin| 
 Let jangling faction cease. 
 
 Above His ashes fling 
 The Flower of Civic Peace. 
 
 So from His grave shall spring 
 The Star of Christ's Increase. 
 
 65 
 
THE MOTHER CALL 
 
 Today a sudden splendour falls 
 
 On castle, cot and dome. 
 The little Island Empire calls 
 
 Her wandering children home. 
 
 The voice swept through the northern wold, 
 The southern vales were stirred. 
 
 Her thousand echoing hills retold 
 The splendour and the word. 
 
 The touch, divinely tender, filled 
 
 The awed, expectant land, 
 And alien heartstrings throbbed and thrilled 
 
 Swept by the Master hand. 
 
 The peaceful garden islands know 
 
 The crowded camp's alarms. 
 The trumpets' call, the watchfircs' glow, 
 
 The clashing of the arms. 
 
 But high, and clear and sweet, above 
 
 The rattling of the guns. 
 With Mother faith, with Mother love. 
 
 The Mother calls her sons. 
 
 "The ocean walls are strong and wide. 
 
 And strong and wide the sea. 
 And thrice a thousand leagues divide 
 
 My absent sons from me. 
 
 66 
 
"Come, Children of the Wandering Feet, 
 Where e'er your footsteps roam. 
 
 From alien field, from stranger street, 
 Your Mother calls ye home. 
 
 "I call ye from a stranger's land, 
 
 To send ye forth again. 
 I give ye with a Mother's hand 
 
 To exile and to pain. 
 
 *T set for ye a banquet board 
 Where graves are dug beneath. 
 
 Whereat from sanguine cups is poured 
 The wild, sweet wine of death." 
 
 The vintage of the Lord of Hosts 
 Grows ripe on hill and plain. 
 
 Reap thou his multitude of ghosts, 
 His hecatombs of slain. 
 
 Go forth, to make thy purpose good. 
 
 Land of the Rising Sun. 
 Of alien faith, of alien blood, 
 
 Our will with thine is one. 
 
 For valour, faith and mercy move 
 
 Beneath the tawny skin. 
 And kindred thoughts and actions prove 
 
 How close we are akin. 
 
 67 
 
Young Britain of the farther east, 
 Thy golden spurs but won; 
 
 Set thee triumphant o'er thy Feast 
 Thy Risen Rising Sun. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO CROMWELL. 
 
 Cromwell, the deep damnation of your name 
 
 Outblackens Satan's in his subject land, 
 
 Where doubly damned above himself you stand 
 On inaccessible mountain peaks of shame 
 Crowned with all final infamies of fame, 
 
 Upon your brow the ineffaceable brand 
 
 Of Cain thrice trebled, by an Angry Hand 
 Scorched in immortal agonies of flame. 
 Methinks my Lord of Darkness shall not love 
 
 Your overlordly shadow near him thrown. 
 Will you not call your parliament to prove. 
 
 Oh Prince of Regicides, his right your own, 
 And reign above your saints as once above 
 
 Crowned, Damned and Hated, on your usurped throne? 
 
 68 
 
ELIZABETH, THE QUEEN 
 
 I, bastard born of that new royal blood 
 
 That God hath set a space upon the throne 
 
 Of Norman William; he, himself, like me, 
 
 A bastard, born of the most basest blood 
 
 That ever smirched the scutcheon of a King 
 
 With the bar-sinister unspeakable. 
 
 A tanner's daughter she, Arlotta hight 
 
 That so her name might match the what she was. 
 
 So doth that hell-smut blotch the blazoned shield 
 
 Of this Leander of the narrow seas, 
 
 Bearing his fame and infamy to clip 
 
 His England, all unwilling, to his breast. 
 
 I, too, would woo and win, and winning, wear 
 
 My England on my bosom. Gifts I bring 
 
 Perchance not all unworthy her and me. 
 
 I wis my soul, man-statured, might aspire 
 
 To tread the circles of the titan souls 
 
 Of the great Edwards, heaping crown on crown 
 
 To scale the summit of a God's desire. 
 
 Mine is the people's voice, impetuous 
 
 To crown a King or crucify a God. 
 
 All rights are mine, save that Diviner Right 
 
 Through which Kings hold their fiefs from God, and reign. 
 
 Oh, this may not be mine ! I shall not hear 
 
 The rustle of the Dove within the Tree 
 
 With healing for the nations in its leaves. 
 
 Oh, this may not be mine ! I shall not see 
 
 The Shadow of the Soul of God that shines 
 
 69 
 
Outshining lightnings, over and beyond 
 
 My doubtful right, that shines upon the brow 
 
 Of Wrong Undoubted; like the gems of paste 
 
 That light the tangles of a strumpet's hair. 
 
 Yet who should wear the crown? Not she of Scots! 
 
 My younger cousin, with her Elder Right; 
 
 That White Rose, shining from a thousand thorns 
 
 That prick me to the bosom where a heart 
 
 Should throb in the mere woman. I, the Queen, 
 
 Th' Incarnate Soul of England, wear no heart 
 
 To trip the nimble leaping of my brain. 
 
 Myself am My Own Right, wherein I see 
 
 The utmost present and the ultimate most 
 
 Of good that is, and good that is to be 
 
 To all this realm of England. Oh, My Land, 
 
 Oh, My Dear England, Mother, Spouse, and Child, 
 
 So help me the Most High, Who hears my vow, 
 
 Myself am consecrate and set apart 
 
 A vestal virgin to the sacred fire 
 
 That burns upon the altar of my heart ! 
 
 My strength shall gird thy weakness with a sword; 
 
 My love shall light a pathway to thy feet; 
 
 The purple of my robes shall cover thee 
 
 To the last verge of thy extremest isle 
 
 That stands a Maid of Honor to the Dawn, 
 
 Or clasps the dying Sun God to her breast. 
 
 Lo, I am I, the Queen, and with this ring, 
 
 The shining symbol of Eternity, 
 
 I wed thee on this night and in this place 
 
 Where Death hath snapped the weaker links apart 
 
 70 
 
That bound my sister to thee for her day. 
 
 She hath loved much ; pray God that He forgive 
 
 Her love that sowed the seeds of hate afar 
 
 On wanton winds, the which ourselves shall reap 
 
 That follow after. She hath made, in truth, 
 
 Our England lackey in the halls of Spain, 
 
 Serf to a tyrant master. By God's Death, 
 
 We shall amend the master and the man 
 
 To our complete contentment. We shall light 
 
 A thousand candles, burning at the shrine 
 
 Of Saint Elizabeth, the English Queen, 
 
 Shall light our path across with-holden seas 
 
 To Western Gardens, and their Fruit of Gold. 
 
 The night steals on apace, the heavy night, 
 
 For she hath watched and waited. The wan night 
 
 Her face is pallid from a stress of awe; 
 
 For she hath seen strange shadows rise and fall. 
 
 And a great Shape that entered in the doors. 
 
 And lordly strode through all these lordly halls 
 
 Of England's Kings. The courtiers doffed their caps 
 
 And louted low, as though the Queen did pass 
 
 To that Majestic Presence, heralded 
 
 By his two white-faced heralds, Pain and Fear. 
 
 A Shadow bearing a Great Gift of Light 
 
 To her who doffed the crown and passed with it 
 
 Out from the radiance of the palace lights, 
 
 The purple pomps, the gilded gauds of time, 
 
 Into the gray and melancholy wastes. 
 
 To reign, perhaps to serve, in those far lands 
 
 That lie beyond the sun's light and the stars. 
 
 71 
 
Oh, wert thou Tudor ? • Wert Plantagenet ? 
 Wert of our House of Atreus, drenched with blood 
 Of brother brother slain, who liest white 
 Grown very meek and very patient now; 
 Aye, patient to my presence, who wert wont 
 To love not well my crescent shadow thrown 
 Between thee and thine own decrescent light. 
 But this is in the night, and of the night. 
 And I am of the Dawn and Fiefed of Dawn 
 With a Great Fief. I look in mine own soul 
 As in a mirror, and therein I see 
 Nan Boleyn's base-born daughter and The Queen 
 Who shall leave England greater than she found. 
 
 n 
 
THE GOLDEX ROSE 
 
 TO H. R. II. THE PRINCESS HENRY OF BATTENBEKG. 
 
 White Marvel of the Rose of God, 
 
 The Rose of Certain Peace. It blew 
 
 As Aaron's almond blossom grew 
 In beauty from the barren rod. 
 
 From death the miracle of birth ; 
 
 The Hand that strikes us down, uplifts; 
 
 The Giver gives His Radiant Gifts 
 To these, His Chosen of the earth. 
 
 And thou hast sought and found it far 
 
 Where tropic jungles circle black 
 
 In serpent coils about the track 
 Of God's and Britain's righteous war. 
 
 'Tis well that thou whose soul hath known 
 
 A little while, no more should know 
 
 The fretful ages' flux and flow 
 That sap the pillars of a throne. 
 
 Though Faction flap her fiery wings 
 Where loyal Faith no more abides, 
 Though Treason's bloody hand divides 
 
 The purple raiment of her Kings, 
 
 n- 
 
Thou wilt not know. Thy all complete, 
 The leaf, the blossom and the gold 
 Of harvest sheaves at noonday told 
 
 Untimely, fall at Britain's feet. 
 
 And she whose feet are steadfast in 
 The paths of empire, she shall keep 
 A moment tryst with Death, to weep 
 
 The Warrior Prince that might have been. 
 
 High Princess ! Princess yesterday; 
 Today a Widow, come too late 
 To kneel beside the folded gate 
 
 Whence none may roll the stone away. 
 
 Lo ! Thou art Royal ; dust indeed. 
 But Royal Dust; the laboring earth 
 In stronger travail gave thee birth; 
 
 And Higher Light informed thy need. 
 
 For thou art of the stately stem 
 That lifts its lofty branches high ; 
 The earth, their heritage; the sky, 
 
 A royal canopy to them. 
 
 Now art thou near to us; the Touch, 
 The Christ-like Touch upon thy brow 
 Absolves the subjects' straightened vow 
 
 To one who loves and sorrows much. 
 
 74 
 
And we, whose father's fathers bled 
 For thine, may bring our offerings 
 Of sorrow to the hall of Kings, 
 
 And mourn with thee beside thy dead. 
 
 Oh, we were brutish, misbegot, 
 
 Nor in our veins the loyal flood 
 
 Of unforgetting Saxon blood 
 That makes us one, had we forgot 
 
 The Good Queen's gracious deed, that gave 
 — The Signet Seal of Christ's Increase 
 The Certain Knot of Love and Peace — 
 
 The wreath for Martyred Garfield's grave. 
 
 Take, Madame, then from o'er the sea 
 These frail and faded leaves of rhymes; 
 Though they were trebled twenty times 
 
 Alike unworthy Thine and Thee. 
 
 Yet haply may they serve to tell. 
 If blown by ocean winds they fall 
 Within thy ancient castle's wall. 
 
 That Saxon love remembers well. 
 
 God's Grace go with thee to ensure 
 The splendid sorrows of thy lot, 
 His Patience and His Strength. "Break not. 
 
 For thou art Royal, but endure." 
 
 75 
 
TO RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 With a battle axe for pen 
 
 Flashed above the heads of men, 
 With thy soul's poetic passion to a Berserk fury growing, 
 
 Sir, thy words are rough hewn Facts, 
 
 Stamping on the yielding wax 
 Of our memory, thy rubric tangled in its crimson glowing. 
 
 Nothing doubt our envious bays 
 Fall before thee on thy ways. 
 We, man milliners of Art, who prink and prank and prune 
 and polish 
 
 At our fragile flowers of rhyme. 
 Sown upon the shores of Time, 
 That tomorrow's sun shall wither, and tomorrow's waves 
 demolish. 
 
 Yet my soul may stand with thine 
 
 On the heights we deem divine. 
 And, grown up to equal stature, may reach out and call 
 thee Brother; 
 
 Equal by the gracious laws 
 
 Of the kindred blood that draws 
 Thee and me in adoration to the Great Majestic Mother. 
 
 We're for England ! Thou and I ; 
 We're for England ! Throned high ; 
 We're for England ! In Her ancient robes and with Her 
 antique Honour; 
 
 7(i 
 
We're for England ! At Her hearth ; 
 We're for England ! Round the earth ; 
 We're for England ! With Her Triple Crowns and All 
 Her Crowns upon Her. 
 
 Here's to England ! Glasses brimmed. 
 Here's to England ! With eyes dimmed 
 By the stormy waves that break against the heights of our 
 emotion. 
 
 Here's to England ! Brother, drink, 
 Standing each upon the brink 
 h'^arther East and farthest Westward of Her tributary 
 ocean. 
 
 77 
 
A DREAM OF ITALY 
 
 Peace on the earth, and on the waters Peace; 
 
 In yonder cloudless heavens above us, Peace ; 
 
 And Peace with him who slumbers at my side, 
 
 The boy companion of my lonely way 
 
 To this untaken fortress of the hills 
 
 That guards Balboa's ocean. Lo, he lies 
 
 In that dim border and debatable land 
 
 That owns the equal sway of those great lords 
 
 Whom men call Life and Death. Above him now 
 
 The shadow of their cognizance is thrown 
 
 Or roses white, or roses red, that pale 
 
 Or flush above the olive of his face. 
 
 So doth he lie, a dream within a dream, 
 
 A charmed prince in an enchanted land. 
 
 From which myself might draw him to my side 
 
 — The devious ways by which he went made straight 
 
 For his returning feet — did I but place 
 
 My hand upon his brow, become august 
 
 With the compelling dignities of Sleep. 
 
 And he would wake and smile, and smiling speak 
 
 In those soft sibilant accents that I love; 
 
 In hearing which my soul perchance would see 
 
 The God-blown Bubble of the Lordly Dome 
 
 That floats above the Tiber, o'er the dust 
 
 That once was Rome — and still is Italy. 
 
 I am not alien to this land that lies 
 
 A wedge of emerald thrust between her walls 
 
 Of sapphire seas. Myself am native here; 
 
 78 
 
I leap the Rubicon of alien blood 
 
 Too shallow to divide myself from Her, 
 
 My Soul and Spirit Mother. Oh, Beloved! 
 
 Oh, Well Beloved ! Oh, Best Beloved Thou ! 
 
 What shall I bring Thee from my human love 
 
 That wanders lost upon the soaring heights 
 
 Of a God's adoration? Naught but these? 
 
 Naught but these flawed futilities of Art? 
 
 This rainbow's ladder, broken at the base 
 
 In seven-hued toppled steps I may not climb. 
 
 Naught but these airy capitals that fell 
 
 From broken columns of my hall of dreams 
 
 Wherein my soul may never hope to dwell. 
 
 Naught but these minor melodies of song 
 
 That shall not reach thine ears of royalty 
 
 Attuned to statelier measures. Naught but these? 
 
 To lay beside the gifts the Magi bring 
 
 From all the wider east where God is born 
 
 Incarnate in each new-born Poet's breast. 
 
 ''9 
 
HENRY V OF FRANCE 
 
 King upon whose sacred brow 
 Ne'er the sacred oil was spilt, 
 In High Houses God hath built 
 
 Over Prince and people, thou 
 
 Standest God Anointed now. 
 
 King ! A nation's cornerstone 
 That the builders threw aside, 
 Crovv^ning guilty Regicide ; 
 
 Claimest thou on high thine own, 
 
 Reigning on a spirit throne. 
 
 Thou, too, on thy Lupercal, 
 
 With a more than Caesar's frown 
 Flung aside the people's crown, 
 Unsubservient to their call 
 For a crowned and sceptred thrall. 
 
 Not the franchise of the base. 
 Not the scarlet suffrage drawn 
 From the sin of San' Antoine 
 Soiled the glory and the grace 
 Of the last flower of thy race. 
 
 Clothe thee in Thy Right anew ; 
 
 Crushed by Time — and Royal still ; 
 
 Treason trampled — but God's V/ill ; 
 And thy Royal White that grew 
 Over rebel red and blue. 
 
 80 
 
Standing in the sight of God 
 Render back His Gift August, 
 Stainless held by thee in trust; 
 Steps unto a throne untrod 
 But thy feet by Honour shod. 
 
 Bear to Henry, Great and Good, 
 Thou, too, Henry Good and Great, 
 Held above the reach of Fate 
 Thy unswerving rectitude. 
 And thy stainless Kinglihood. 
 
 King! Rejected and denied; 
 
 King! Rejecting and denying; 
 
 King ! Defeated and defying. 
 Casting a base crown aside. 
 Placing Honour above pride. 
 
 Unto thee we bring our vows, 
 Pledging ancient faith anew; 
 God is with His Chosen Few, 
 We who come to bend our brows 
 To the King Crowned in God's House. 
 
 81 
 
THE GHOST OF ITYS 
 
 Hark! 'Tis the nightingale. 
 
 What floods of wailing, 
 What storms of grief assail 
 
 The heavens, scaling 
 A God's despair, or fail 
 
 Sadder in failing. 
 
 Seest thou incarnate song 
 And soul of grieving. 
 
 That horror haunted wrong 
 Beyond retrieving. 
 
 Shall not the ages long 
 Soothe thy bereaving? 
 
 Seest thou in this fair wood 
 That hears thy singing, 
 
 The Thracian halls that stood 
 With terrors ringing. 
 
 And to thy solitude 
 The Furies winging? 
 
 Still, in thy forest green. 
 
 Lies Itys dying. 
 Still o'er the charmed scene 
 
 His ghost is flying. 
 Still, rose and thee between. 
 
 His soul is sighing. 
 
 82 
 
A HEALTH TO THE KING 
 
 OF PORTUGAL. 
 
 A health to the King, 
 
 A health to the Boy, 
 Though boyish he fling 
 
 His Crown as a toy, 
 With his sceptre and ring 
 
 On the bosom of Joy. 
 
 Shall no blossom of May, 
 And no breath of the Spring, 
 
 And no dawn of the Day, 
 And no flash of Love's wing 
 
 Be flung on the way 
 
 Of the Boy — grown a King? 
 
 For the King is but man 
 That Her bosom that bore 
 
 Shall resume in a span; 
 But the Kingship is more, 
 
 And the Top of God's plan 
 From His days of Before. 
 
 Go forth in God's Might, 
 For His trumpets are blown, 
 
 And the land is alight 
 
 With the fires He hath sown. 
 
 In His Might and Thy Right 
 Enter in to Thine Own. 
 
 83 
 
Crush down with thy heel 
 The traitors who trod 
 
 With the flashing of steel 
 And feet bloody shod, 
 
 O'er the faithful who kneel 
 At the altars of God. 
 
 A health to the King, 
 
 The King by God's Grace. 
 
 May His Providence bring 
 The King to his Place, 
 
 New splendour to fling 
 On the past of his race. 
 
 84 
 
FRANCIS I AT PAVIA 
 
 All day upon that fatal day, the stroke of sword and lance 
 Fell thickest, where, through smoke and flame, flamed, 
 
 ever in advance. 
 The lilies on his breast before the lily flag of France. 
 
 His arms above the arms of France, upon his breast were 
 
 crossed. 
 The victor's banners flaunting free, above the King were 
 
 tossed, 
 The King, who left that fatal field, with all but honor lost. 
 
 Came one who stood before the King, reluctantly who 
 
 came. 
 Of equal lofty majesty, his cognizance the same. 
 And King's blood struggled in his cheek, against a flush 
 
 of shame. 
 
 De Bourbon bowed his haughty head; he faltered where 
 
 he stood, 
 Before that flower of chivalry, that crov/n of Kinglihood ; 
 That star upon the brow of France and kinsman of his 
 
 blood. 
 
 The King and traitor face to face ! A moment as of old. 
 Distilled from poisoned depths of hate, the monarch's 
 
 words were told. 
 De Bourbon drank the bitter draught and shivered with its 
 
 cold. 
 
 85 
 
"Fair fall thee, gentle cousin, as thou fairly com'st to 
 
 bring 
 Upon the field where fortune fails, the double offering 
 Of love unto thy kinsman's heart, and homage to thy King. 
 
 "Nay, cousin, lift that lofty head that bends so low to me. 
 Thy haughty heart and victor hand absolve thy subject 
 
 knee. 
 Enfiefed by fickle fortune thou, the King must bend to 
 
 thee." 
 
 He turned in scorn and gave his sword to one obscure, 
 
 unknown. 
 Who on his bended knee received and gave the King his 
 
 own. 
 To whom the King, with Kingly grace, and unforbidding 
 
 tone, 
 
 "Now, by the crown I lose this day, and by my father's 
 
 land. 
 When traitors kneel, it well becomes thy honesty to 
 
 stand." 
 He bent with princely courtesy and raised him by the hand. 
 
 86 
 
AT THE TOURNAMENT 
 
 Comes now My Lord of Death, his pennon flying; 
 
 Sans cognizance 
 Upon his sable armour; loud defying 
 
 With sword and lance 
 My Lord of Life, with enmity undying, 
 
 And a I'outrance. 
 
 Comes forth My Lord of Life, his armour gleaming. 
 
 But over light; 
 In all the galliard grace of youth, beseeming 
 
 A gallant knight. 
 The legend of his house above him streaming, 
 
 "Mine Ancient Right." 
 
 They meet, as meet two rival bolts of thunder 
 
 In a black sky. 
 As the red flash that tears the skies asunder, 
 
 Their swords flash high. 
 They fall. Alas ! My Lord of Life falls under. 
 
 So fair to die. 
 
 'Tis o'er. The final coup de grace is given. 
 
 Let the bells toll; 
 Let lighted candles show him way to heaven, 
 
 While priests make dole ; 
 His guilty soul hath passed away unshriven. 
 
 God rest his soul ! 
 
 87 
 
AVE ATQUE VALE 
 
 The autumn is dead, 
 
 And the year Hes a-dying, 
 Where yellow and red 
 
 The sere leaves are flying. 
 They cover him up as-a pall, while the winds of the winter 
 are sighing. 
 
 They have made him a bed; 
 
 They have pranked it with holly ; 
 With berries of red 
 To slay Melancholy. 
 Ye fools ! She will rise from her grave, though you bury 
 her deep in your folly. 
 
 He came to the crown 
 
 In the midst of our cheering ; 
 To death he goes down 
 
 With O'ur wailing or jeering; 
 The Boy King we set on the throne of his sires with 
 caresses endearing. 
 
 A health to the King 
 
 Who comes on the morrow, 
 From flagons that fling 
 Defiance to sorrow. 
 The wine of the present is ours, and the wine o-f the 
 future we borrow. 
 
A health to the King 
 
 From glasses of gladness. 
 His coming shall bring 
 Surcease to our sadness. 
 Let us eat of the fruit of Desire and be drunk with the 
 wine of our madness. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Oh, might I fling my heart beneath thy feet 
 Shod with the radiant gladness of the dawn, 
 Despoiled from eastern hill and dewy lawn. 
 
 Thrice happy dawn ! Thrice happy earth to greet 
 
 Thy footsteps, with new flowers springing fleet. 
 Thrice happier I, from barren heights withdrawn, 
 To give my heart for thee to tread upon. 
 
 Ah, it were sweet ! Ah, it were passing sweet ! 
 Natheless. my soul above me weighs aright 
 
 Thy lesser soul, that stinted, starved and doled. 
 Strives with its farthing rush-light in the night. 
 
 I, set above thee, crowned with light from old. 
 Stoop down adoring from an ancient height 
 
 To clip, and crown thee with my Shower of Gold. 
 
 89 
 
THE RED ROSE OF EARTH 
 
 God's Benison upon the Boy 
 With boyish grace who came 
 
 An apotheosis of Joy 
 
 That scorched me as with flame. 
 
 A wave of sorrow swept my soul, 
 My eyes with tears grew dim. 
 
 Oh God ! What seas of silence roll 
 Between myself and him. 
 
 The morning blossoms in his eyes. 
 
 Shall not, beneath his feet 
 The purple hyacinth arise 
 
 The Sun God's eyes to meet? 
 
 Myself am franchised in the stars; 
 
 My fingers free upon 
 The key to loose the morning's bars 
 
 And usher in the dawn. 
 
 Yet, though I draw him to me close 
 
 With pressure of the hand, 
 And match my Star with his Red Rose, 
 
 He would not understand. 
 
 I watch from alien heights afar 
 
 My kindly Halls of Birth ; 
 And I would give my farthest Star 
 
 For his Red Rose of Earth. 
 
 90 
 
OUR LADY OF THE GATE 
 
 TO SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 While still the pillars of the earth endure 
 
 The deep foundations of Her house are sure. 
 
 Though the red flag of cosmic hate unfurled 
 
 Flash through the caverns of the underworld; 
 
 Though Titans struggling in the primal deeps 
 
 Fling hill on hill, to gain Her sun-crowned steeps, 
 
 Still shall She reign, Our Lady of the Gate, 
 
 Where all things enter, come they soon or late. 
 
 Still North and South, still East and West shall meet 
 
 To lay their vassal homage at Her feet. 
 
 Still Time, Her handmaid, gather to Her hands 
 
 The sea-flung tribute of Her subject lands. 
 
 Oh Thou, beloved ! Mother of many men, 
 
 Strong sons, who build Thy broken walls again, 
 
 Who with enduring labor set the base 
 
 Of all Thy Future in its ancient place. 
 
 Temples to Hermes shall they build, to meet 
 
 The needs that spring beneath his winged feet. 
 
 Yet at those altars, where the God receives 
 
 The tangled vows of traders and of thieves, 
 
 Yea, even there, diviner, drifted down 
 
 From higher heights, a higher light may crown. 
 
 Oh, may that Flower of Beauty that was Greece, 
 
 That Star of Splendour that was Rome, increase. 
 
 And bloom familiar round Thy wonted ways. 
 
 And shine above Thee with serener rays. 
 
 So shalt Thou hear, the while Thy walls aspire. 
 
 The throbbing music of the Sun God's lyre. 
 
THE GOD ON HORSEBACK 
 
 A wind grows out of the breeze 
 And lashes the frightened trees, 
 Till they cry out loud in their pain, 
 Till they cry tO' the wind in vain; 
 And the wind complains to the seas. 
 
 And the notes of an old refrain 
 Rise clear above wind and rain. 
 
 And the pulse of my soul is stirred 
 
 By a melody long unheard, 
 That calls to me not in vain. 
 
 And I see him once more, as when 
 
 I saw him before me then, 
 
 When he touched for a moment's space 
 My life with his strength and grace, 
 
 And rode from my life again. 
 
 A gallant and boyish form, 
 
 In the breath of the south wind warm 
 
 That toyed with his tumbled hair ; 
 
 That kissed him and found him fair, 
 As he spurred in front of the storm. 
 
 He leaned from his seat, and cast 
 
 A smile at me as he passed. 
 
 And the lust of Life and the pride 
 Of the Boy God, spurred and astride. 
 
 Thrilled like a clarion's blast. 
 
 92 
 
Ah, little Ghost, when we stand 
 With the ghosts, in No Man's Land, 
 Will yon come with boyish grace, 
 With the old smile on your face, 
 And greet me, and understand ? 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Have at you, sir, again ! Your walls are high. 
 
 I, disinherited and dispossessed, 
 
 Unwelcome suitor and unbidden guest, 
 The jest of some mad Boy God in the sky. 
 Yet shall I enter in; I, even L 
 
 I, set apart by some supreme behest. 
 
 By all the Splendid Madness in my breast. 
 To win your walls, and higher walls, or die. 
 
 Scorn not to meet me. No unknightly lance 
 Of border foray seeks this stricken field; 
 
 Forged on the ringing anvil of Romance, 
 In the hot furnaces of Grief annealed. 
 
 With it I seek My Own, which lies, perchance, 
 In yonder frowning castle keep concealed. 
 
 93 
 
FEET OF CLAY 
 
 I said, "I will fashion a god, 
 
 And worship it in a shrine. 
 I am weary of staff and rod 
 
 And the touch of the All Divine. 
 I have clutched at the morning's bars 
 
 When the gates were flung apart. 
 I have drawn the light of the stars 
 
 Like lances, unto my heart. 
 I am weary, and now, meseems, 
 
 I should live my life while I may." 
 And I fashioned it in my dreams. 
 
 And the feet of the idol were clay. 
 
 And beautiful to behold 
 
 The glorious image grew. 
 And the hair was brown or gold, 
 
 And the eyes were brown or blue. 
 And it was absolute good 
 
 As deep as my eyes could see. 
 And truer than truth it stood 
 
 For that it was truth to me. 
 And the work of my hands was sweet, 
 
 I worshipped it night and day. 
 And I flung my soul at its feet, 
 
 And the feet of the idol were clay. 
 
 And they mocked the work of my soul 
 As faulty and incomplete. 
 
 94 
 
With the human part of the whole, 
 
 And the stain of earth on the feet. 
 And I said to them, "Misbegot ! 
 
 Beggars in brain and in soul ! 
 I love it for what it is not, 
 
 And not as a perfect whole." 
 And I said, "I will have my will. 
 
 Pharisees, go your way. 
 I will love and worship it still," 
 
 And the feet of the idol were clay. 
 
 95 
 
TO ONE WHO KNOWS 
 
 I thank thee, dear, for coming in the night 
 
 To him who loved thee in remembered days 
 
 Beyond thy comprehension or desire. 
 
 Yea, I did know in that vast loneHness 
 
 That crowds my steps upon the barren heights, 
 
 Where Absolute Sorrow, purple-robed and crowned. 
 
 Broods o'er the crowding throngs that pay their tithes 
 
 Of sweat and tears at all her wayside shrines. 
 
 That thou wouldst come; that thou wouldst surely seek 
 
 Him who might seek thee not. And I rejoice 
 
 That not the august music of the spheres 
 
 That rolls its surges on the farthest shores 
 
 Of space illimitable, taught thine ear. 
 
 With its diviner thunder to forget 
 
 The minor mellow melodies of earth. 
 
 Blew not some breeze across some charmed land. 
 
 Through some enchanted gates of long ago, 
 
 Through which our lingering feet, with morning shod, 
 
 Our foreheads garlanded with dews and balms. 
 
 Passed through the gates of dawn, to where a bow 
 
 Spanned all our heavens, and lit our path on earth 
 
 That thus I saw thee, as in truth I saw. 
 
 Thou, all thyself, thou, all and only mine. 
 
 Thou, as I knew thee, flawed with the sweet flaw, 
 
 The gracious birth bark of our Mother Earth, 
 
 That sets the jewel nearer and more dear. 
 
 96 
 
TO SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 If we dreamed that we loved Her aforetime, 'twas the ghost 
 
 of a dream; for I vow 
 By the splendour of God in the highest, we never have 
 
 loved Her till now. 
 When Love bears the trumpet of Honour, oh, highest and 
 
 clearest he calls, 
 With the light of the flaming of towers, and the sound 
 
 of the rending of walls. 
 When Love wears the purple of Sorrow, and kneels at 
 
 the altar of Grief, 
 Of the flowers that spring in his footsteps, the white 
 
 flower of Service is chief. 
 As a flower on the snow of Her bosom, as a star in the 
 
 night of Her hair, 
 We bring to our Mother such token as the time and the 
 
 elements spare. 
 
 If we dreamed that we loved Her aforetime, adoring we 
 
 kneel to Ller now. 
 When the golden fruit of the ages falls, swept by the 
 
 wind from the bough. 
 The beautiful dv/elling is shattered, wherein, as a queen 
 
 at the feast, 
 In gems of the barbaric tropics and silks of the ultimate 
 
 East, 
 Our Mother sat throned and triumphant, v/ith the wise 
 
 and the great in their day. 
 They were captains, and princes, and rulers ; but She, She 
 
 was greater than they. 
 
 97 
 
We are sprung from the builders of nations; by the souls 
 
 of our fathers we swear, 
 By the depths of the deeps that surround Her, by the 
 
 height of the heights She may dare. 
 Though the Twelve league in compact against Her, though 
 
 the sea gods cry out in their wrath. 
 Though the earth gods, grown drunk of their fury, fling 
 
 the hilltops abroad in Her path. 
 Our Mother of masterful children shall sit on Her throne 
 
 as of yore, 
 With Her old robes of purple about Her, and crowned 
 
 with the crowns that She wore. 
 
 She shall sit at the gates of the world, where the nations 
 
 shall gather and meet, 
 And the Ea"st and the West at Her bidding shall lie in a 
 
 leash at Her feet. 
 
 98 
 
CHI-CA-GO! CHI-CA-GO! 
 
 AT SAN FRANCISCO^ APRIL 18, 1906. 
 
 When the long appointed Morning from the primal deeps 
 
 awoke ; 
 When the Guilty Hour of God released the Moment and 
 the Stroke, 
 
 Then the human ant hill stirred, 
 And it trembled as it heard 
 O'er the wreck and wrack of matter, the deep thunder of 
 
 God's Word 
 In reverberating echoes, o'er a hell of flame and smoke. 
 
 Here was touchstone for the Human. Fear and Terror 
 unconfined 
 
 From the soul's supreme dominion and the leashes of the 
 mind, 
 
 Drove them forth and backward, drove 
 Them in broken waves, that strove 
 
 In the vortex of a whirlpool, neath the flaming skies 
 above. 
 
 But serene, clear-eyed and steadfast, there was one re- 
 mained behind. 
 
 And the shattered walls about him groaned and trembled 
 
 as he bent 
 In apocalyptic vision o'er the shining instrument; 
 While he strove, with vain essay 
 To control the rebel ray, 
 To Chi-ca-go, Chi-ca-go, two thousand miles away. 
 And the trembling wires refused to take the message that 
 he sent. 
 
 99 
 
Oh, he wrought with steadfast fingers, and a soul uncon- 
 
 quered still. 
 While the tempest stormed the lowland and swept onward 
 
 to the hill. 
 
 While the flame of dot and dash 
 Answered to a redder flash 
 From the flaming towers and steeples, punctuated by a 
 
 crash. 
 And the rebel lightning flickered, unsubservient to his 
 
 will. 
 
 Then Pity's eyes grew dim with tears, and Mercy's heart 
 was stirred; 
 
 And the Soul of God grew troubled at the lightning- 
 tangled word; 
 
 At the Human cry that came 
 Up to Him on wings of flame, 
 
 Crying out, "Help, Help !" to Brothers, in the Great All 
 Father's Name. 
 
 And that cry of August Sorrow, with its solemn meaning 
 blurred. 
 
 And He spoke unto the lightning and it hastened to obey; 
 And the letters formed like soldiers, in an orderly array; 
 And they hastened by God's Grace 
 O'er the lands of conquered Space, 
 And the world fell back behind them, in the fury of the 
 
 race 
 To the gates of Human Brotherhood, two thousand miles 
 away. 
 
 loa 
 
OUR LADY OF THE DOME 
 
 The God has spoken ! Be it so. 
 
 Let not the shrines of Hermes fail 
 Of all we hold most dear, although 
 
 We give our honour with this sale. 
 
 Are loyal faith and honour more, 
 Are they as much as fallen leaves 
 
 From last year's wind storm, cast before 
 The god of traders — and of thieves. 
 
 Despoiled of all that once we were; 
 
 Of all that once was ours bereft; 
 The' all of all our past was there. 
 
 This crown upon our brows was left. 
 
 Unmoved before the shock that sapped 
 The pillars of the earth, she stood. 
 
 And watched the flood of flame that lapped 
 Her sky-aspiring altitude. 
 
 With patient and with steadfast eyes, 
 Through murky day and fire-sown night, 
 
 She saw the star of hope arise, 
 And dark delivered of the light. 
 
 And now, from her abiding place 
 
 Cast down, and thrown as so much dirt 
 
 To traders in the market place ! 
 Oh, high and over Gods avert 
 
 101 
 
The shorter shrift of ruffian hand, 
 The captive queen to traders cast. 
 
 The Future withers of that land 
 That sells the altars of its Past. 
 
 Oh, were there men, among the men 
 Who grasp with mailed hand the Now, 
 
 Would rather purchase of the Then 
 Her laureled franchise for their brow ! 
 
 Ah, that indeed a gracious gift. 
 And that in truth the fairies' gold, 
 
 Crowned, throned, and sceptred, to uplift 
 Our Lady to her place of old. 
 
 Or, on supremer heights to stand 
 O'er the new altars of our home. 
 
 From frozen heart and ruffian hand 
 God Save Our Lady of the Dome. 
 
 102 
 
THE ROSE OF PEACE 
 
 TO A CHILD DEAD AT THE FOOT OF SEVENTH STREET^ 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 From some fair heavens the sudden splendour fell, 
 Some gracious fingers wove the hidden spell, 
 Wrought some compassionate god this miracle. 
 
 Whence camest thou? What gardens of delight 
 Gave thee to earth, to grow up tall and white. 
 Bear bud and blossom in a single night? 
 
 Doubt not thy life was drawn of heavenly dew, 
 Down filmy web of rainbows, falling through 
 On this old Rose of Peace, forever new. 
 
 Here, where the foul and noxious vapours creep, 
 Like poisonous serpents, from the ooze and seep 
 That sap the city's rotting refuse heap; 
 
 Here, the great Master molds His crudest clay. 
 His wheels revolving swiftly, night and day, 
 Turn out His image, grim and gaunt, and gray. 
 
 Yet here was holy ground; a moment's space 
 So gracious and so hallowed was the place. 
 That I, the lonely passer, veiled my face. 
 
 And faltered, lest I tread too hard upon 
 
 His noiseless steps, whose fingers thin and wan 
 
 Unbar to us the gateways of the dawn. 
 
 103 
 
Strange that my memories linger 'round the spot, 
 Which doubtless she who bore him hath forgot, 
 While I, who knew him not, forget him not. 
 
 And still I wonder, as I wondered then, 
 To feel the gush of sudden tears again, 
 Th' unwonted and unwilling tears of men. 
 
 Oh, little ghost, that flitted wan and white 
 Between the purple curtains of the night. 
 Oh, younger brother, with my elder right; 
 
 Oh, child, whose widely wandering footsteps cease 
 To tread the path where days and years increase. 
 Clasp the white marvel of your Rose of Peace. 
 
 But I, whom not the toys of time beguiled, 
 God help me that I envied this dead child, 
 Passing from all defilement, undefiled. 
 
 Oh, Thou, divine, serene, compassionate, 
 I may not seek Thee, but I watch and wait 
 To see Thee beckon from the eternal gate. 
 
 Not long. I see the bow of promise shine; 
 My certain covenant with the Soul Divine ; 
 What God I know not, but the Gift is mine. 
 
 104 
 
THE TRYST OF FATE ' 
 
 "I have never seen you do aught hut laugh. 
 Play day love^ could you laugh ziith me 
 If ive stopped the doing of things by half— 
 
 Play day comrade, awake from sleep, 
 
 There is work to do, and a tryst to keep. 
 
 We must be far when morning spills 
 
 His cup of light on the eastern hills. 
 
 Thou and I until we stand 
 
 Free and fiefed in no man's land. 
 
 Wake ! There is one who stands beside 
 
 Thy bed, who may not be denied. 
 
 Though thou set thy soul upon the chance 
 
 Of the loaded dice of circumstance. 
 
 Still it must be, as it was before, 
 
 Thou the lesser, and I the more. 
 
 So all our yesterdays have proved 
 
 Me the lover, and thee the loved. 
 
 Bend thy soul to my stronger will. 
 
 Thou wert mine of old, and I claim thee still. 
 
 Mine in body and soul and breath. 
 
 In our yesterdays of life and death. 
 
 And ever through cycles of the sky 
 
 Still thou wert thou, and I was I. 
 
 And boy and boy, or man and maid. 
 
 Our souls stood naked and unafraid. 
 
 And our myriad lives clasped hands, I wis, 
 
 To lead our steps to a night like this. 
 
 105 
 
Gently, gently, lest we -awake 
 
 Eyes to weep, and hearts to break; 
 
 Lest their woman's weeping and woman's prayers 
 
 Clutch at my purpose unawares. 
 
 And the splendid madness of our dream 
 
 Burst like bubbles upon the stream. 
 
 'Tis bravely done. Your careless stride 
 
 Keeps us together, side by side, 
 
 To the boat that struggles on the tide. 
 
 That flutters a bird with a broken wing; 
 
 That strains at its leash, a living thing. 
 
 There in the mirk of the fading town, 
 
 The lights of the well-lost world go down. 
 
 And the rags of life that we flung behind 
 
 Flaunt their littleness down the wind. 
 
 And the tattered banners of the storm 
 
 Flaunt in front of the south wind warm 
 
 And the waves in their white-lipped anguish cry 
 
 To an angry God in an angry sky. 
 
 And ever we settle as we drift 
 
 For the sea flows in through flaw and rift. 
 
 And the wine of Being disappears 
 
 From the broken cup of your twenty years. 
 
 Scarce have you pressed your lips of flame 
 
 To its splendid sin and sorrow and shame. 
 
 Now night draws down and the lights burn low, 
 
 Play day love, it is time to go. 
 
 A swirl of waters, a gasp for breath. 
 
 And the wide, free liberty of death. 
 
 106 
 
TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 The master of a double art, 
 
 He bore the gifts to make man whole; 
 
 His tears and laughter for the soul, 
 A potion for the body's smart. 
 
 If not the highest, yet so high. 
 
 So clear and sweet his message rang, 
 If not a priest or prophet sang 
 
 Yet the whole world was more thereby. 
 
 And the sad age forgot awhile 
 
 Her sweat and tears, and stopped to quaff 
 The mellow music of his laugh. 
 
 And answered to it with a smile. 
 
 And yet, methinks, he might have built 
 Those Statelier Mansions for his art, 
 Whereon the sweat of soul and heart 
 
 About the corner stone are spilt. 
 
 He, fiefed in yonder blue serene ; 
 
 He, free beyond the morning bars ; 
 
 He, franchised in the farther stars. 
 And the wide spaces in betw^een. 
 
 Here had he with firm footstep trod. 
 Here had he swept the so'unding lyre. 
 Whose waves of thunder and of fire 
 
 Surge upwards to the feet of God; 
 
 107 
 
But that he chose of his" own will 
 
 To heal the grievous wounds of man; 
 To walk the Good Samaritan, 
 
 And gentle healer of the ill; 
 
 To pour the balsam of his mirth, 
 Free flowing from the lesser fount 
 Sprung midways on the sacred mount, 
 
 Upon the tired heart of earth. 
 
 Perchance, he chose the better part. 
 
 And ye, who knew and loved him, bring 
 The first arbutus of the spring 
 
 To lay above his gentle heart. 
 
 108 
 
THE DIVORCE 
 
 "Mr. Death, you're a lawyer of well-known repute, 
 
 Your practice extensive. I bring you my suit. 
 
 I had sought you so long that my hopes had grown dull, 
 
 When I saw on your doorways the crossbones and skull. 
 
 My name is, or rather, my husband's is, Life. 
 
 And I am, or rather, I have been his wife. 
 
 'Twas a match that I sought not. My parents, in truth, 
 
 Limed the bird, set the trap, forged the chains for my 
 
 youth. 
 What I want? Oh, 'tis only the old tale, of course, 
 I am tired of my husband, and seek a divorce." 
 "I well know your husband. In truth, I may say 
 That I own his estates. As you know, he's quite gay. 
 They are heavily mortgaged ; his assets are nil 
 If I chose to foreclose, as I possibly will." 
 "In the meanwhile, I hope — may I hope? — you will choose 
 To press my case for me. You will not refuse? 
 
 For the fee " "Oh, I charge a high price, to be sure. 
 
 But the game's worth the candle. I'm certain to cure. 
 
 In fact, I may say, without any restraint. 
 
 When I'm done with a client he ne'er makes complaint. 
 
 For the cause of your action — I ask, though I know, 
 
 Incompatible — each of you — mutually so." 
 
 "Oh, you've told it yourself. He's too florid, too gay. 
 
 Too gaudy of night, and too tawdry of day. 
 
 Our union was cursed with the curse of the Lord. 
 
 I shrink from his bed, and I starve at his board." 
 
 "What ! he starves you ?" "Ay, starves me — that is, on 
 
 the whole 
 
 109 
 
He feeds up my body, and starves down my soul. 
 
 He serves me three courses — fear, pain and despair, 
 
 Washed down with a draught of the black wine of care. 
 
 But the dew on the blossom, the sun on the dew. 
 
 The blue of the sky, and a star in the blue, 
 
 The gold-spangled dust on the butterflies' wings. 
 
 The grace of all gracious, intangible things. 
 
 These fail from his menu. In truth, he don't know. 
 
 Is the fault his or mine? God hath fashioned him so." 
 
 "Your case is a sad one, but old as the earth. 
 
 It clutched at your soul through the gateways of birth; 
 
 It followed your footsteps wherever you trod; 
 
 The ghost of yourself, and the Shadow of God. 
 
 Have patience a moment, and know that the doors 
 
 Of my office swing wide, to such cases as yours. 
 
 I will draw up your papers, and seal with my seal 
 
 That bars change O'f venue, admits no appeal ; 
 
 That no court can annul, when the sentence is spoke ; 
 
 Nor the juggling of lawyers rescind, nor revoke. 
 
 Tomorrow we seek His Superior Court, 
 
 The last high tribunal of Human resort. 
 
 But the Judge, though a just One, is known as severe. 
 
 And I fear that you " "No, friend, fear not that I fear. 
 
 With his ring did he wed me, who holds me with chains ; 
 He won me as bride; as a slave he retains. 
 Break the chains! Set me free, and my soul will rejoice 
 In His lightning of eye and His thunder of voice. 
 If His justice avails not. His charity fails, 
 I will throw my despair 'gainst His wrath in the scales." 
 "Till we meet then, adieu." "Au revoir, not adieu. 
 Since I seek on the morrow His courtroom with you." 
 
 110 
 
TO AMBROSE BIERCE 
 
 For that I came to you a guest, 
 
 Where guest unbid might haply meet 
 Small place whereon to set his feet, 
 
 And scanty furtherance of his quest; 
 
 For that to one ill used to sue. 
 
 Who deemed his suit, perchance, o'er bold 
 From high and kindly heart you told 
 
 Largesse of praise beyond his due. 
 
 I thank you ; were my thoughts but deeds, 
 Or might I cancel deed with thought, 
 Then of my thanks to you were wrought 
 
 The full contentment of your needs. 
 
 'Tis well. I will not make my Art 
 The jester in the people's court; 
 Nor bid the Goddess born resort 
 
 A harlot to the public mart. 
 
 God wot, I enter not the race 
 
 For large success and honour scant, 
 The apotheosis of Cant, 
 
 The Triumph of the Commonplace, 
 
 Methinks, such race were well unrun. 
 
 The God may vanish whence He came. 
 
 And I, I quit the losing game, 
 Scarce worth the winning — if I won. 
 
 Ill 
 
"AH, GIVE US BUT YESTERDAY!' 
 
 The night has fled before him ; 
 
 And the victor sun is borne, 
 Robed and crowned in royal splendour, 
 
 Through the gateways of the morn; 
 With his cloth of gold before me. 
 
 Yet my sad heart turns away 
 Wounded by the golden lances 
 
 Of the sun of Yesterday. 
 
 The morning light is gleaming, 
 
 And the morning dew impearled 
 On the golden roses clinging 
 
 Round the roof-tree of the world. 
 But I turn in heart-sick longing 
 
 To the blossom on the spray. 
 And the dew upon the blossom. 
 
 In the dawn of Yesterday. 
 
 112 
 
A LETTER TO A GHOST 
 
 Walter, do you remember yet, 
 Across the clanging barriers. 
 Fast growing wider, of five years, 
 
 The April morning when we met? 
 
 You may, but I shall not forget. 
 
 April, the name is melody; 
 
 The Spirit of the Spring that weaves 
 White blossoms in amidst green leaves, 
 And flings them to the bird and bee, 
 From daisied turf and orchard tree. 
 
 But now with angry step she came, 
 Her feet ascending up the path 
 Of hatred, to the heights of wrath, 
 
 Wherefrom the Tithes of God to claim 
 
 In an apocalypse of flame. 
 
 I was — n'importe — you were seventeen, 
 A fair, slim stripling in his May; 
 How might I match my brown and gray 
 
 With your young springtime's gold and green? 
 
 God and all time rose up between. 
 
 You knew — or did you know? — how fond 
 I was of your fresh morning dew. 
 And all the boyish flame of you. 
 
 113 
 
For me, my friendship never wanned ; 
 Though you have surely grown beyond. 
 
 How should you know? I never told 
 My thoughts, but laid them by to stir 
 My soul with scents of lavender, 
 With legends from a page of gold, 
 To warm my heart by, when I'm old. 
 
 We shall not see their like again. 
 Those passionate, heroic days. 
 At which the world stood still to gaze; 
 Ah me ! In those days men were men, 
 And brothers to each other then. 
 
 And heaven high they piled their vows 
 To see Our Mother stand again 
 Grown fairer in the sight of men. 
 With Her old crown upon Her brows 
 In Her new builded Golden House. 
 
 And I, I felt my pulses stir 
 — Though exiled from her side I stood- 
 With Her imperious claim of Blood; 
 And brought the body's sweat to Her 
 As gold and frankincense and myrrh. 
 
 Our Sacred Mother, from whose brow 
 Her crowns were fallen in the dust; 
 Dethroned, unsceptred and — August, 
 
 114 
 
Thrice more august and dearer now 
 Than sceptred, robed and crowned, I vow. 
 
 Ah, Walter, you had laughed to know 
 How I, who toiled among the brick. 
 Slave to the genii of the pick. 
 Rose up on Spirit Heights, to throw 
 My soul's vast pity o'er Her woe. 
 
 How I in all that vast profound 
 Of ruin, felt the All divine 
 Approach me in the Human Shrine, 
 Where I, adoring, knelt and bound 
 My Love Her bleeding wounds around. 
 
 Yet had I pride, that none had dared 
 Save she, to tread such deeps of woe; 
 Or light so red a torches' glow ; 
 So high its sullen splendour flared 
 The Gods upon Olympus stared. 
 
 And that apo-calypse of dole. 
 
 That sorrow sown across the land 
 By some Divine and Wanton hand. 
 Was the strong fortress and the goal 
 To which I strove to lift my soul. 
 
 Ah, Memory is Sorrow's crown, 
 
 Wherefrom, amidst the thorns arise 
 The Jewels of Remembered Eyes ; 
 
 115 
 
And blue eyes call to me, or brown, 
 From all the widely ruined town. 
 
 From all Her avenues that led 
 
 From nowhere, through all gaunt distress. 
 To waste and empty nothingness, 
 Ghosts of the quick and of the dead 
 Gather at midnight round my bed. 
 
 And, Walter, since a ghost you are, 
 — Nay, laugh not; join me in the toast, 
 "A health to my remembered ghost," — 
 I seek your ghostly light from far, 
 As the Night cries out to the Star. 
 
 And so I weave for you this net, 
 
 Whose fragile threads are wet and stained 
 From the gold chalice, ceaseless drained. 
 
 Of the heart's blood and the soul's sweat. 
 
 On the black altars of Regret. 
 
 And now I come to seek you far, 
 Who know me not, nor seek to know ; 
 I, also ghost of long ago. 
 
 Cry: "God be with you where you are; . 
 
 Adieu. Or is it au revoir?" 
 
 116 
 
THE TOUCH OF THE HUMAN 
 
 APRIL^ 1906. 
 
 In the days when the Gods came near to men, 
 And the souls of men were wanned and thinned, 
 
 As a Great Voice rose and fell again 
 In sullen thunder above the wind; 
 
 Then our souls crouched down in the dust to hear 
 And to shrink away from them as they came; 
 
 And their visible presence swept so near 
 
 That we shrank and shriveled within the flame. 
 
 And we lay supine, and with shattered will, 
 
 While they came and Spoke, and went rough shod 
 
 O'er the frightened earth, that shivered still 
 At the awful imminence of the God. 
 
 And they passed; and we rose again and crept 
 
 To stare in a stupid wonderment 
 At the wonderful ruins, tempest swept. 
 
 In the visible footsteps where they went. 
 
 Then we rose again, to our feet, and Stood ; 
 
 And Man had come to his own again; 
 We were heirs of an old historic blood. 
 
 Sons of our Mother, masterful men. 
 
 And we raised the glove that the Fates threw down. 
 With an angry smile and stuck it, mayhap, 
 
 117 
 
In a last year's hat with tattered crown, 
 Or beside our pipe, in a ragged cap. 
 
 And we swore a great oath to set the base 
 
 Of a greater future upon our past, 
 And Our Mother's House in its ancient place, 
 
 In despite of the Fates — while time should last. 
 
 And we went like brothers, and sought our place, 
 Gentle and simple, churl and clown, 
 
 Lofty and noble, mean and base. 
 
 In the broken halls of the bankrupt town. 
 
 And I came as became me to come ; withal 
 I wrote my name in a cynic mood. 
 
 In a cynically loyal scrawl 
 In the League of Human Brotherhood. 
 
 And I stood for a moment glad, but dazed, 
 At the sudden thrill of the Human Touch, 
 
 To the soul that fed on itself and gazed 
 In an introspection overmuch. 
 
 They were gallant days when the shining steel, 
 Spade and hatchet, shovel and pick, 
 
 Flashed in the cause of the Commonweal, 
 Round twisted girder and broken brick. 
 
 Steel that flashed as in battle's van ; 
 Dust that rose as a battle cloud; 
 
 118 
 
While the Crowned and Bleeding Heart of Man 
 Flashed from our flags a defiance proud. 
 
 And the gates of Honour were closed to none ; 
 
 But each might walk with his bosom starred 
 With the Order of Service himself had won, 
 
 And the Cross of Merit, a God's award. 
 
 And we, who were heirs of the ancient blood, 
 And Sons of Our Mother, felt the stir 
 
 Of her pulses throbbed to our hearts, and stood 
 Less for ourselves, and more for Her. 
 
 And as for myself, I vow I served 
 
 In a half adoring thankfulness ; 
 And held as an honour not all deserved, 
 
 The right to succor Her in distress. 
 
 They were gracious days ; and they touch today 
 With a gracious hand; and the ghosts are thick 
 
 That smiled and spoke me, and went their way, 
 As I toiled in the ruins with spade and pick. 
 
 And I thank the Gods for the saving grace 
 Of the Human Touch, that I knew ye all, 
 
 And that Sorrow linked our names for a space. 
 On a tear-stained page, in a blood-red scrawl. 
 
 Fair ghost of the boy with golden hair, 
 Sad ghost of the man with hair of gray, 
 
 119 
 
I am but ghost, and but ghosts ye are, 
 Blown out on the winds of Yesterday. 
 
 Let us tarry a moment before we go. 
 Dissonant ghosts, to clutch and hold 
 
 In the turbulent age's ebb and flow 
 
 Our phantom measures of fame or gold. 
 
 Tarry a little, and hear me vow 
 
 By the dearest oath that my soul may swear, 
 By the higher light on my wider brow. 
 
 And the leaf of Laurel that is not there, 
 
 I would serve again for the Commonweal, 
 In the ranks of the men grown Titan tall, 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder against the wheel. 
 And All for One, and One for All. 
 
 I am vowed to the marble breast of Art; 
 
 The banns are spoke that I can not stay; 
 And my soul consents, but I found my heart 
 
 In that liaison of an April day. 
 
 And my soul may thrive; but my heart is loath 
 For the grip of flesh in the halls that rang, 
 
 To the man's deep drum roll of Saxon oath, 
 And the silver bugle of boyish slang. 
 
 Let us begone, for Our Mother calls 
 
 From Her higher heights, and we may not stay 
 
 In the beautiful, broken, ruined halls, 
 And the golden glamour of Yesterday. 
 
 120 
 
THE SILENT HOUSE 
 
 Knock ! Knock ! The door is barred. 
 Ye are true in watch and ward 
 Bolt and bar and lock, so witness these, my fingers, bruised 
 and scarred. 
 
 Yet I know they would not feel 
 Though they beat on triple steel. 
 While I wrench the dreadful secret from its black and 
 broken seal. 
 
 Oh, the dark, forbidding house 
 
 Frowns from black and angry brows, 
 Like a violated temple, brooding o'er its broken vows. 
 
 Surely, Something, silent shod, 
 
 In the middle night hath trod 
 In the inner holies, riving at the handiwork of God. 
 
 Speak ! Speak ! He will not speak 
 
 Though I cry out with a shriek; 
 Though the coward blood runs backward from the pallor 
 of my cheek; 
 
 Though I cry out "It is I !" 
 
 Comes no answer to my cry 
 Save an echo, beaten backward from the adamantine sky. 
 
 Bring the axe and bring the bar; 
 Let us throw the door ajar 
 On the guilty Something, hiding where the trembling 
 shadows are; 
 
 121 
 
Something rending with its claw; 
 Dripping ravin from its jaw; 
 Springing up to tear asunder, crouching down again to 
 gnaw. 
 
 Nay, what ecstasy of fear. 
 
 Nothing ! There is nothing here 
 But the empty casket, rifled of the gem I held most dear. 
 
 He hath gone, and gone with him 
 
 Something vast and Something dim, 
 Something filling all the heavens to the far horizon's rim. 
 
 Not as wild beasts tear their prey 
 Death divorces soul from clay, 
 But he bears it on white wings above a flawed and futile 
 day. 
 
 Let us leave him with his light 
 Bleakly, mystically white. 
 Let us wrap the shadows round us and go forth into the 
 night. 
 
 122 
 
THE BROTHERS 
 
 I am My Lord of Life, 
 I sit in the crowded ways, 
 
 My feet are red with the strife 
 Of the myriad yesterdays. 
 
 I sit in the market place 
 
 Where souls are bought and sold. 
 With a smile on my false face 
 
 At the thirty pieces told. 
 
 And whenever the stakes run high 
 
 Forever my skill avails 
 To throw with the loaded die, 
 
 And juggle the lying scales. 
 
 But they fawn about my feet ; 
 
 They bend the supple knee ; 
 With loyal love they greet 
 
 My rags of royalty. 
 
 Till, at closing of the day. 
 
 Broken, bankrupt and banned. 
 
 They pass from me away 
 And seek my brother's land. 
 
 I am My Lord of Death, 
 I sit from the throng apart, 
 
 Li my palace of Hushed Breath, 
 In the land of Quiet Heart. 
 
 123 
 
And my palace walls frown black 
 When the evening light hath gone; 
 
 But they flush and answer back 
 The light of Another Dawn. 
 
 With my brother, Life, I keep 
 A tarnished truce of fate. 
 
 But my fair twin brother. Sleep, 
 Is the keeper of my gate. 
 
 His face is fair to see; 
 
 His feet are shod with wool; 
 And he holds the golden key 
 
 Of my Palace Beautiful. 
 
 I am My Lord of Death, 
 
 I am My Lord of Peace, 
 In my palace of Hushed Breath, 
 
 In the valleys of Heartsease. 
 
 124 
 
TO JOAQUIN MILLER 
 
 To thee upon a purple height, 
 
 Lit by an evening star, 
 I, dweller in the halls of night, 
 
 And v/here the shadows are. 
 Lifted my brows unto the light, 
 
 And sought thee from afar. 
 
 And I rejoice, that in my days 
 One Day hath blossoms more; 
 
 Serenely o'er the crowded ways 
 Of all my days before; 
 
 As a white lily in its grace, 
 To kneel to and adore. 
 
 From an unbounding unsuccess. 
 
 From him who nothing hath. 
 From the sad captive in duress 
 
 And circled round with wrath, 
 How shall he, from his littleness, 
 
 Fling gifts upon thy path ? 
 
 That thou, perchance, from gracious heart. 
 
 With kindly hand shall raise 
 The scentless, pale, wild flower of Art, 
 
 That blooms upon thy ways, 
 And half contemptuous set apart 
 
 From thy full crown of bays. 
 
 125 
 
THE WAR SHIPS OF THE SKIES 
 
 In the vast spaces of yon blue profound, 
 Yon silent sea, yon world without a sound, 
 Comes now a voice to waken — and to wound. 
 
 Alas, alas, shall yonder stainless blue 
 Wrapped in red flames, distill a crimson dew, 
 Staining, defiling, dripping, ghastly through, 
 
 On the child's forehead, on the sad-browed Christ 
 
 In yonder shrine. Whose Passion unsufficed 
 
 To staunch the blood, whereat His Blood is priced. 
 
 Shall twenty ages of the Pririce of Peace 
 
 Not still the war drums, bid the trumpets cease. 
 
 Drive man's red rapine from His upper seas? 
 
 And Man ! Shall Nature's first and final cause 
 The polished purport of Her savage laws, 
 Shoot forth red talons with his wild beast claws; 
 
 Quarter his shadow on this shield of light. 
 
 Set up his finite with the infinite, 
 
 His war tents in these Halls of Day and Night? 
 
 126 
 
GLOWING EMBERS 
 
 Oh, boy's thin features, cold and white, 
 
 I knew you warmly human ; 
 Whence comes that superhuman light 
 
 To any born of woman? 
 The King hath loved him ; by that grace, 
 
 Kinglike, he doth inherit 
 Majestically in this place 
 
 The Kingdom of the Spirit. 
 
 The doors are shut ; the shutters drawn ; 
 
 Nor coming now, nor going; 
 The King hath set His seals upon 
 
 The house of His bestowing. 
 Its master gone, the King's writ strips 
 
 The dark, deserted dwelling. 
 Oh, boy, beneath those close shut lips 
 
 What secrets worth the telling ! 
 
 But yesterday, a careless boy 
 
 He took his boyish inning 
 At the old game — with pagan joy — 
 
 Of living and of sinning. 
 Dawn set her jeweled steps of light 
 
 A pathway to his going; 
 The inner chambers of the night 
 
 Held secrets for his knowing. 
 
 Do they whose footsteps with him fared 
 His springtime paths of pleasure, 
 
 127 
 
Who from his cup of summer shared 
 
 The boy's unstinted measure, 
 Who sinned with him his boyish sin, 
 
 Who halved his boyish folly. 
 Kneel at the august shrine, wherein 
 
 His broken toys grow holy? 
 
 I call the name I loved, in vain; 
 
 Nor answer nor replying; 
 Only the winter wind and rain 
 
 Antiphonally crying. 
 Bertie, to yonder heights of death 
 
 That boyish name endearing ! 
 I falter it beneath my breath. 
 
 And tremble in the hearing. 
 
 Ah, dear, for thou wert passing dear ; 
 
 Perchance for this the dearer 
 That one short moment set thee near, 
 
 One white-winged instant, nearer. 
 Still, flawed with folly as we are, 
 
 The jewel of our choosing 
 Shines ever brighter from afar. 
 
 And dearer for the losing. 
 
 Ah, Friend, whose boyish footsteps stray 
 
 Past sunrise and' sunsetting, 
 No dawn shall light the eastern way 
 
 To day of my forgetting. 
 A light illumes my pathway yet 
 
 128 
 
From those old glowing embers. 
 And thou above wilt not forget 
 Him who on earth remembers. 
 
 Kneels Memory in her holy shrine, 
 
 Where purple, rose and golden. 
 Through windows of the spirit shine 
 
 Old joys — lost or withholden. 
 Here, kneeling in a secret place. 
 
 She veils her face and falters. 
 Seeing thy once familiar face 
 
 At her familiar altars. 
 
 129 
 
THE LEPER 
 
 Nay, come not near me. I am he 
 
 Who bruised and bleeding from her rods, 
 
 Whom mortals call Necessity, 
 Burned incense to the alien gods. 
 
 I set the fool's cap on my head ; 
 
 I bent the knee where Momus rules ; 
 I kissed the hand I scorned ; and led 
 
 The courtiers, in his court of fools. 
 
 The silver bells rang high and shrill 
 Above the gibing and the jeers. 
 
 I pledged my soul to drink my fill. 
 Myself the maddest of my peers. 
 
 It was a pleasant jest; but now 
 'Tis fire of hell. No god averts 
 
 The ominous circle from my brow. 
 
 Whereon it clings and stains and hurts. 
 
 ^t3' 
 
 Nay, touch me not, and come not nigh. 
 
 Stand not my sin and me between. 
 Let my soul cleanse it with its cry, 
 
 The leper's cry, "Unclean ! Unclean 
 
 130 
 
MY LITTLE GHOST 
 
 Little Ghost, whose footsteps fleet 
 Passed me in the crowded street 
 Where the torrents of the people in the frowning canons 
 meet ; 
 
 Little Ghost of flame and dew, 
 Now I keep my tryst with you, 
 And the morrow after Death, my soul shall pledge you 
 faith anew. 
 
 Little Ghost of mine, your glance 
 Pierced my bosom like a lance 
 Couched for God and Love and Honour, in the old days of 
 Romance. 
 
 Nor affirming, nor denying. 
 Neither question nor replying ; 
 For we passed like ships in ocean, with no signal flags 
 a-flying. 
 
 But I saw your hair was spun 
 
 In the chambers of the Sun, 
 By the happy Hours awaiting till his shining race was won. 
 
 Soft as silken eider-down. 
 
 Hair of gold, or hair of brown, 
 This I know not; but I know you w'ore it like a monarch's 
 crowai. 
 
 Bluest blue, or grayest gray. 
 Eyes of thine I may not say; 
 
 131 
 
But I know they led the Morning, and it blossomed into 
 Day. 
 
 And the captive day was drawn 
 By their light from budding dawn 
 On diviner heights, till night assumed her crown of stars 
 thereon. 
 
 Vanish, little Ghost of Gladness, 
 Vision of a Poet's madness; 
 Foam and sparkle of Delight upon my purple wine of sad- 
 ness; 
 
 Lest my long, black shadow grown 
 Longer, blacker, shall be thrown 
 On the path before your footsteps, and be added to your 
 own. 
 
 132 
 
GOD'S HILL AT BELMONT 
 
 West of Belmont on a lonely hill are a few crumbling stones, 
 bearing the date of the early 'fifties. The jungle has swept over 
 them, and if remembered of God, they are quite forgotten of man. 
 
 Where the torrent of the hills 
 Pours its emerald flood, and spills 
 Overtopping waves of verdure, to the green waves of the 
 sea, 
 
 They have laid them down to rest. 
 With the green turf o'er their breast. 
 They have reached through time, and taken seizin of 
 Eternity. 
 
 They are dust, who once were men; 
 
 Earth has claimed her own again; 
 'Tis the final law of nature, once they were and now are 
 not. 
 
 Creeps o'er them the chaparral. 
 
 Over them the dead leaves fall, 
 Man forsaken, man forgotten, in this all-forgotten spot. 
 
 Never footstep of the dawn 
 
 Enters here, to tread upon 
 The encircling shadows, guarding the enchanted solitude. 
 
 Hesitant, and half afraid. 
 
 Lingers noon, without the shade. 
 And the flying night flies faster, o'er the black and haunted 
 wood. 
 
 133 
 
When the mask of night is drawn 
 
 From the face of the last dawn, 
 When before the last great moment, heaven and earth are 
 hushed and still, 
 
 When the final trumpet thrills 
 
 To the stout heart of the hills, 
 Will the lonely dead awaken, on this lost and lonely hill? 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Bring us nor roses white, nor roses red 
 
 To crown the brows of love, for on them be 
 The garden's sweat, the blood of Calvary. 
 
 And we, alas ! whose erring feet mislead 
 
 To new and stranger faiths, no longer tread 
 The once familiar paths of Arcady. 
 Mayhaps, our souls have gained Eternity, 
 
 But all the sweeter ways of life are dead. 
 
 Ah, sweeter these, than rose of mortal knowing. 
 Beside the enchanted waters flowing deep 
 
 Into the unknown land, the poppies blowing. 
 
 Red, sullen torches of oblivion glowing. 
 
 But our sad gods their one last guerdon keep, 
 Their scarlet poppies of eternal sleep. 
 
 134 
 
THE HILLS OF OCEAN VIEW 
 
 Spring is regnant in the valleys; Spring is throned upon 
 the mountains ; 
 She hath sent her royal summons forth ; her vassal 
 lands are fain 
 To attend their Sovereign Lady in the place of pleasant 
 fountains 
 That have spilled themselves before her in a shower of 
 golden rain. 
 
 She hath summoned with her magic wand her chosen 
 maids of honour ; 
 They have set their jeweled footprints o'er the threshold 
 of the dawn ; 
 They robe her in her purple gown, they serve and wait 
 upon her; 
 They tire and dress her royal head and set her crown 
 thereon. 
 
 I am captive to the city streets, but still my heart goes 
 straying; 
 She hath touched me with her sceptre, and the broken 
 fetters fall ; 
 Go forth, my heart, and guide my feet and we will go 
 a-Maying, 
 For Spring hath thrown her gentle chains about a 
 willing thrall. 
 
 Let us leave the stony highways and the tangle of the 
 alleys, 
 
 135 
 
The false and fleeting mirage of the street and avenue, 
 Let us seek the shaded canyons and the flower-enameled 
 
 valleys, 
 And the hills I knew in boyhood rising over Ocean 
 
 View. 
 
 Oh, my heart, from gloomy dungeons let us sally to 
 recapture 
 The elusive Something vanished, where the scent of 
 lilac brings 
 In a sudden flash of memory the evanescent rapture, 
 And the more enduring heart-break of a score of 
 buried springs. 
 
 We will wander o'er the meadows with a flame of poppies 
 glowing 
 — Stirring bugle blasts of color — where the Sun God's 
 coursers stood; 
 We will kneel in woodland temples, where the pallid 
 blossoms blowing 
 Guard the chaste untaken altars, Vestal Virgins of the 
 wood. • 
 
 We will seek in rugged canyons rising upwards from the 
 valleys, 
 Like a Titan's heaven-flung stairway with its higher 
 steps untrod, 
 For the trillium's vase of ivory, like a sacrificial chalice, 
 With its triune leaves to bring to mind the Trinity of 
 God. 
 
 136 
 
Oh, My Hills of God behind me, ever purple in the dis- 
 tance, 
 Drenched with flying ocean vapors, beaten by the bitter 
 wind, 
 The feet of flesh forsake ye, but the soul with high 
 insistence 
 Hath burst her prison cells of clay and lingers on 
 behind. 
 
 I have sought and found the jewel of the Poet's crowned 
 passion 
 In the Labyrinths of God, whereof my fingers hold the 
 clew, 
 But I drop the Shining Spirit Thread to kneel in adoration 
 To the ghosts of my dead springtimes on the Hills of 
 Ocean View. 
 
 137 
 
DEAD JOY 
 
 Fair as the Prince of Troy, 
 
 Hidden away 
 Lieth what is of Joy 
 
 Fairest of clay. 
 Though we cry out to the boy 
 
 Naught will he say. 
 
 Now that he lieth there 
 
 Patient and meek, 
 Smoothing his shining hair 
 
 Kissing his cheek. 
 Speak ! In your wild despair 
 
 Bid him to speak ! 
 
 Nay, he will answer not 
 
 Nor yea nor nay. 
 He was but earth begot; 
 
 Now he is clay. 
 Come from the haunted spot, 
 
 Hasten away. 
 
 138 
 
TO SING LEE 
 
 AT MILLBRAE,, APRIL 18, 1906, 
 
 We were East born and West born, and alien in color, in 
 
 creed and in birth, 
 But the East and the West flung together, clasped hands 
 
 in the trembling of earth. 
 What struggles of Titans imprisoned in nethermost deeps 
 
 of the prime. 
 And matching their Ossas and Pelions 'gainst the sun- 
 circled ramparts of Time; 
 What memories stirred in her bosom, what passionate 
 
 pangs of unrest, 
 What taint in her blood from of olden, thus curdled the 
 
 milk in her breast, 
 That she turned in her maniac fury, her love of aforetime 
 
 forsworn. 
 With her features contorted and trembling in hate of the 
 
 sons she had borne. 
 For flung from the All Mother's bosom, swept out by the 
 
 flame of her wrath. 
 We fled from her presence, and stumbled in the pits that 
 
 she digged in our path. 
 And the house strained hard at its moorings, and battered 
 
 and wracked out of form, 
 Caught up in the whirlwind of Cosmos, heaved high like 
 
 a ship in a storm. 
 A moment, a cycle, an aeon, we strove in abysses of death. 
 In the quicksands that swallowed our footsteps, the whirl- 
 pool that dragged us beneath. 
 
 139 
 
Till clasped by the hand of Existence, though bleeding 
 
 and struck to the floor, 
 We gathered Our Own from her wreckage, and fought out 
 
 a way to the door. 
 To the dew on the face of the blossom, to sun upon blos- 
 som and thorn. 
 To breezes from Orient hill-tops that blew through the 
 
 gateways of morn, 
 To the promise of God in the sky, that circled the blue 
 
 without end. 
 And wrapped us about from His Wrath, as we looked in 
 
 the face of a Friend. 
 Sprung from the Esau of nations, the first born and last in 
 
 the race. 
 In the adamant Arch of Degree he was set as a stone at 
 
 the base. 
 And doomed by the souls of his fathers to serve with his 
 
 soul in the mire 
 For the husks and the lees of Possession, doled down from 
 
 the heights of Desire. 
 So he stood in the April morning, unlovely in face and in 
 
 frame ; 
 But Pity had touched the gaunt features and Mercy shone 
 
 out as a flame. 
 For the mask of the Orient fell from his face, in the shock 
 
 that released 
 His Soul to shine forth for a moment from inscrutable 
 
 eyes of the East. 
 And it answered the Soul of the West, and united in Kin- 
 ship they ran 
 
 140 
 
From the anger of God in the heavens, to clutch at the 
 
 Human in Man. 
 So he stood in our doorway unclaiming the kinship of 
 
 Blood and of Birth, 
 And the aid that he tendered a neighbor had come from 
 
 the ends of the earth. 
 
 THE CALIFORNIA POPPY 
 
 With large and liberal largesse behold. 
 
 The gilded guerdon of a thousand rains. 
 
 The hills grow rich, and opulent the plains. 
 The fond, sweet miracle that Eden told, 
 To Universal Mother Earth of old, 
 
 A mellow melody of minor strains, 
 
 That runs with Springtime madness in her veins, 
 And blossoms from her breast in fairy gold. 
 Still the old miracle, forever new 
 
 With each new spring the golden cups are set. 
 To hold their brimming fill of morning dew, 
 
 And speak to man of God, lest he forget 
 The lights of Eden, and the tree that grew 
 
 Within the walls, where the four rivers met. 
 
 141 
 
IN NOVEMBER 
 
 Oh, Roses, Red Roses, the winds are a-wailing; 
 In the halls of November the year is a-f ailing; 
 The summer is dead and the autumn lies ailing. 
 
 Ye came with the spring, when her fingers were spinning 
 The green robes of May; now the leaves are a-thinning. 
 Why woo ye the winter? Why wait on his winning? 
 
 Oh, Bride of the Summer, list not to his suing. 
 Turn not your red lips to his white-lipped undoing. 
 'Tis death, not a bridal ; a rape, not a wooing. 
 
 The lost and the lovely who loved ye, are sleeping. 
 The dead leaves in torrents above them are sweeping. 
 Go doff your red robes, and go down to them weeping. 
 
 ]^2 
 
THE KING IN DARIEN 
 
 Man hath clothed him with the lightning, he hath shod 
 his feet with thunder; 
 Past the dream of Priest or Poet still his steadfast steps 
 outran ; 
 And he stands upon the mountains and the heights are 
 trodden under 
 In a shining Way of Triumph, for the Royalty of Man. 
 
 He hath clipped the heavens with his wings, and in his 
 winged leaping 
 Drags a tributary ocean in a leash of either hand; 
 Till he loose them from their tether with resistless current 
 sweeping, 
 But with measured, man-made impulse o'er the subju- 
 gated land. 
 
 Past the purple tropic headlands, between jeweled tropic 
 islands, 
 From the lands beyond the dawn, the lands behind the 
 night, they come; 
 And the tropic jungles echo upward to the tropic high- 
 lands. 
 With the thrilling of the bugle and the throbbing of the 
 drum. 
 
 They will enter in the gateway like a splendid vision, 
 weaving 
 On a field of stainless blue their changing, iridescent 
 gleams ; 
 
 143 
 
In a Poet's Dream of Beauty never went such fair de- 
 ceiving 
 From the shining loom of Fancy, through the Ivory 
 Gate of Dreams. 
 
 When the nations' navies enter, with their silken banners 
 
 streaming, 
 
 One, the blue-eyed English boy, shall enter first, and go 
 
 before 
 
 In his Poet Bucentaur and bear the golden circle gleaming, 
 
 For the bridal of the waters, as the warrior princes bore. 
 
 As the scattered stars of heaven and the clustered con- 
 stellations 
 Wan and wither, pale and vanish, at the coming of the 
 sun. 
 He shall shine serenely o'er ye ; in your pathway for the 
 nations. 
 Ye have cleft the hills asunder, in a Royal Road for 
 One. 
 
 For we tell you, we, who Know, to ye, perchance, that 
 shall not know it, 
 That the Master of the spot hath entered here from 
 lands afar; 
 Hath aforetime scrawled above ye the Crowned Rubric 
 of the Poet, 
 — Taken seizin of his Kingdom — and hath sealed it with 
 a star. 
 
 144 
 
In his Elder Right of Royalty, he enters to inherit, 
 
 Crowned beyond the grosser vision of the purblind eyes 
 of men. 
 O'er your tributary earthly realms, the Kingdom of the 
 Spirit, 
 Reigning as a Poet King, "Upon a Peak in Darien." 
 
 TO THE NEMOPHILA . 
 
 ""baby blue eyes""" 
 
 What bird across the walls of Eden flew 
 Above thee in the alien land, and threw 
 O'er thee his shadow of celestial blue? 
 
 Or else from bluer skies than ours, was drawn 
 — From azure meadows, where the feet of Dawn 
 Walked golden shod in the dim ages gone — 
 
 The evanescent azure of thine eyes. 
 That man might dream a fairer paradise, 
 With all thy blue reflected in its skies. 
 
 145 
 
THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTERS 
 
 Why, Mono and Inyo ! The news has surprised me ! 
 
 You are blood of my blood, you are flesh of my flesh. 
 Yet your message has come, and its words have apprised 
 me 
 
 That two of my daughters have turned out "Secesh." 
 I have loved you sincerely, although you're not comely 
 
 Like dear Santa Clara, the flower of you all. 
 But my dwelling is large, there's a home for the homely. 
 
 With bed in the chamber and board in the hall. 
 
 Think not that the fires of your mother's affection 
 
 Are quenched by the flaws of your face or your frame. 
 For your angular features and sallow complexion 
 
 Believe me, my dears, cut no ice in its flame. 
 If my daughters are many, my bosom is ample, 
 
 And in it for each of you, mother love thrills. 
 With a strength that avails to its need, for example 
 
 It crosses wide deserts and overtops hills. 
 
 Stuff and nonsense ! Let's hear no more talk of eloping 
 
 With the silver mine owner from over the way. 
 A truce to your folly ! An end to your hoping ! 
 
 Return to your duty, untrounced, while you may. 
 And, besides, I am really quite sure that you miscount 
 
 His fortune, for know, silly girls that you are. 
 The Silver he brags of is largely at discount. 
 
 And Mr. Nevada, himself, below par. 
 
 146 
 
Your friend, whom I. also know well, Mrs. Austin, 
 
 Who loves yoii quite dearly, and well knows your needs, 
 I've not heard from her yet, but I'm sure she's quite lost in 
 
 Amazement, to hear of your frolicsome deeds. 
 And now, my dear girls, no vexatious beseeching, 
 
 Return to your mother who loves you, and know 
 Let you reach where you will, yet my will is o'er reaching. 
 
 No go, naughty daughters ! No go, you can't go ! 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER 
 
 Kind Lord, a boon we crave, 
 
 To Thee an easy task. 
 It is not much we have, 
 
 Nor is it much we ask. 
 
 Grant us some pleasant spot 
 (So may we hope to thrive) 
 
 Where that which is, is not. 
 And two and two make five. 
 
 This will suffice our need. 
 Nor do we ask for more. 
 
 We never can succeed 
 
 Where two and two make four. 
 
 147 
 
ELECTRA 
 
 Alas, alas, Electra! Grown less fair; 
 
 With thy disheveled hair. 
 
 Ghastly and livid white, 
 
 Writhing in tangled agonies of light 
 
 Upon the startled bosom of the night. 
 
 Thou, of the Sisters Seven 
 
 Who shone the fairest in the halls of heaven. 
 
 To thee what bitter memories remain 
 
 Of the old Dardan plain; 
 
 Of thy ecstatic joy, 
 
 Thy amorous dalliance with the princely boy 
 
 Within the walls of heaven builded Troy. 
 
 Thou, exiled from thy place, 
 
 Amidst the awful heights and depths of space. 
 
 Whence comest thou to vex our sight, and why? 
 
 From what remoter sky 
 
 Immeasurably far 
 
 Beyond the circle of the Sun God's car. 
 
 Beyond the light of alien sun and star, 
 
 Comest thou to us again 
 
 Presaging evil to the sons of men. 
 
 The fall of empires, and the death of kings 
 
 Ever thy presence brings. 
 
 From thy remotest yore. 
 
 Now, NOW, what bringest thou from that dim shore 
 
 To crown thy evil most, with yet a more. 
 
 Perchance, the cosmic fire 
 
 To loose the burden of thy Titan sire. 
 
THE BRIDAL 
 
 Fill up his cup each guest 
 
 Let it brim over. 
 Ready both bride and feast. 
 
 Tarries the lover. 
 Why is my lord so late? 
 
 Why does he tarry? 
 Here in my halls I wait 
 
 Whom he would marry. 
 Long, life and I were wed, 
 
 Long have I proved him, 
 Shared with him board and bed. 
 
 Never I loved him. 
 Life is a sorry jest 
 
 All the world over. 
 He I wed now is best, 
 
 Faithfulest lover. 
 Hasten, my lord, I pray. 
 
 Hasten yet faster. 
 This is our wedding day. 
 
 Lord, Friend and Master. 
 Narrow the bridal bed; 
 
 Satin its pillows; 
 Satin all white its spread; 
 
 White lace in billows. 
 Comes my lord's tiring maid 
 
 Softly a-creeping. 
 Soft are her fingers laid 
 
 On the bride sleeping. 
 
 149 
 
Up from the bed and flee !' 
 
 The rite's unnerving. 
 Let mortal eyes not see 
 
 His servant's serving. 
 Up ! away from the shock 
 
 Ghastly, inhuman. 
 Lest, maddened, we mock 
 
 Christ, born of woman. 
 Still bride of a day. 
 
 Soft lie your cover. 
 My Lord Death, away ! 
 
 The bridal is over. 
 
 150 
 
THE CHOICE 
 
 To me came Phoebus, ere the night was drawn 
 From purple pomps and pageantries, upon 
 The car that leads the triumph of the dawn. 
 
 Yea, all the purple chambers of the night 
 Blossomed as silver lilies. In my sight 
 The dark conceived, and bore a Star of light. 
 
 The radiant robes of his divinity 
 
 Enveloped and effaced me; unto me 
 
 He spoke, and said: 'T give a gift to thee. 
 
 No perfect gift I give, but thou shalt lift 
 Thy soul above, and see through flaw and rift 
 The giver's soul enshrined within the gift." 
 
 Of old in Hellas and in Rome adored 
 
 The Sun God spoke, and at my feet were poured 
 
 His treasures in his ancient chambers stored ; 
 
 Torrents of gems, from which myself might choose. 
 Dulling the rainbow with their myriad hues; 
 Mine, one to take, and many to refuse. 
 
 And last, might overleap a god's desire, 
 A single string from his immortal" lyre, 
 Throbbing and trembling with unearthly fire. 
 
 151 
 
My soul flashed up to that exalted hour. 
 I, mortal, chose of all his Golden Shower 
 A God's apocalypse of pain and power. 
 
 "Lord, cast Thy shadow o'er my shadowed ways; 
 Nor peace I ask, nor joy, nor length of days; 
 Give me the Gift wherewith to sound Thy Praise." 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE DEAR PEOPLE. 
 
 Good Friends, Sweet Voices, if indeed ye be 
 
 Sweet voices, or good friends, I pray ye hear. 
 
 Lend me the large circumference of your ear. 
 Though I approach your regnant sovereignty 
 With head erect, and with unbended knee. 
 
 Doubt not that your endearing charms are dear 
 
 To me; for what but love should bring me near? 
 Pray ye, believe me of your charity. 
 
 How much I love ye, do ye seek to know. 
 To the full height of your most high desire. 
 
 (How high is that, if your desires be low?) 
 Sooner my heart, than love for ye shall tire. 
 
 ('Tis tired now, is but my love so so.) 
 So help me Hermes ! God and Thief and Liar. 
 
 152 
 
"MYSELF AM HELL" 
 
 I said, "From deeper deeps, my plaint 
 
 Cries to an empty shrine. 
 So I to ease my grief will paint 
 
 A deeper grief than mine." 
 
 I might not find a grief more deep 
 
 On earth ; so it befell 
 I, mortal, sought the forlorn steep 
 
 Whence souls go down to hell. 
 
 The gates which swing not back again 
 
 I freely entered in. 
 For, lo ! the countersign was Pain ; 
 
 The key thereof was Sin. 
 
 The wrath of God, in wanton strength, 
 
 O'er all the murky skies. 
 Outstretched eternity in length 
 
 Ere yet hell knew sunrise. 
 
 I saw the seas of fire that seethe 
 With waves of flame, that tossed 
 
 From white hot molten deeps beneath 
 The spirits of the lost. 
 
 And one, from out that weltering storm, 
 Who came my steps to meet; 
 
 Flame dripped like water from his form. 
 And ran about his feet. 
 
 153 
 
He placed his fingers on my brow; 
 
 They scorched me to the bone. 
 Oh, Hell's Red Dripping Crown ! I vow 
 
 Those fingers were my own. 
 
 I, that sad ghost of fiery seas, 
 In whom mine eyes might trace 
 
 Myself, in all the agonies 
 Of that distorted face. 
 
 Mine, mine, the God imploring eyes ; 
 
 Mine, cracked and bleeding lips; 
 Mine, hands that tore at empty skies 
 
 With flaming finger tips. 
 
 Oh, Christ, the Pitiful ! But then 
 
 Some ray of morning broke 
 From my remembered skies again ; 
 
 It touched me, and I woke. 
 
 Yet still, when dawn proclaimed her rule, 
 
 Livid upon my face 
 That Mark, not all the winds can cool. 
 
 Nor all the seas erase. 
 
 Still on my brow that monstrous birth 
 
 Begot of Pain and Sin. 
 A dream? Why, so, perchance, the earth, 
 
 The heavens, and all therein. 
 
 154 
 
WHOLESALE ONLY 
 
 Three Ancient Ladies, with a stock complete, 
 
 Have flung their sign out in a modern street; 
 
 The which, "All orders filled in time to catch 
 
 The Lozver Roads, with neatness and dispatch." 
 
 Their windows blossom with a long array 
 
 Of toys to please a sunlit holiday; 
 
 With shining folds of silver paper bound, 
 
 With golden tinsel and red ribbon wound ; 
 
 In homeopathic portions made to spill 
 
 The smaller purses in their gaping till; 
 
 All duly labeled; "Joy" and "Love" and "Peace," 
 
 "Honour" and "Wealth" and "Leisure" and "Heartsease." 
 
 "Open for business !" But so grim and gaunt 
 
 I shrank to proffer them my retail want. 
 
 Obsequious, I sought her listening ear 
 
 The least severest of the all severe. 
 
 "Though lean my purse, God wot, no woman L 
 
 The man who comes to price, remains to buy. 
 
 Joy comes too high, but give me, if you please, 
 
 An ounce of Leisure, and some small Heartsease. 
 
 On that high shelf, the smallest of the lot. 
 
 Tied with red ribbon in a shining knot." 
 
 Thus I to her. A smile a moment's space 
 
 Crackled the ancient parchment of her face. 
 
 And surely. No ! But surely. Yes ! I think. 
 
 Just the remote suggestion of a wink 
 
 Half lit the brooding shadows of her eye 
 
 Like a red flash across an angry sky. 
 
 155 
 
She clapped her hands; the shop boy came in haste; 
 
 "Life/' mortals call him. I, with grim distaste 
 
 And black disfavor, met the smirking smile 
 
 With which he oiled his creaking tones the while. 
 
 He marshaled forth his words in flying ranks 
 
 "Regrets" tripped up the nimble heel of "Thanks." 
 
 His "Thanks" light fingered, spread deceiving nets 
 
 To tangle the lame feet of his "Regrets." 
 
 These marked down bargains, temptingly displayed, 
 
 Were naught but the "blank cartridges of trade" ; 
 
 A shining emptiness, to catch the eye 
 
 Of the chance bargain hunter, passing by. 
 
 "Sold out of gauds like these, we show with pride 
 
 Our Wholesale Warehouse on the other side. 
 
 These puncheons hold our Black Wine of Despair, 
 
 An ancient vintage. Read the trade-mark there 
 
 Scorched with a Flaming Sword: 'Adam and Son, 
 
 The Eden Vineyards, Anno Mundi One.' 
 
 For this black cloth we have a great demand 
 
 A staple 'tis in every age and land. 
 
 Our Grief A No. 1, our special pride. 
 
 Is warranted all wool and a yard wide. 
 
 And this is our perennial brand of Soap, 
 
 For Bubble Blowing none compares with Hope. 
 
 Our stock is large, the favorite of our toys. 
 
 Beloved by all the larger girls and boys." 
 
 His long, lean finger pointing here and there. 
 
 With eager gestures stabbed the wounded air. 
 
 And he so wheedled me and hypnotized, 
 
 I pawned my soul to him I most despised. 
 
 156 
 
In short, the rogue so cozened me, I bought 
 The things I wanted least, and least had sought, 
 A plague on him and all his wares ! I vow 
 I hold no further commerce with him now. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO LIFE. 
 
 What God so cursed me that I took to wife 
 — For surely some mad Boy God aimed the jest 
 That laid the ancient wanton on my breast — 
 His cast-ofif concubine, that men call Life? 
 Five hath she borne me — Fear, Despair and Strife 
 To loot my scanty stores of peace and rest; 
 And black-browed Hate and Scorn, to bring as guest 
 Pain, and the pang of his red dripping knife. 
 One hell-bestowed, and five myself begot; 
 
 Five and their dam, to hang with foul embrace 
 And poisoned lips that stain, a scarlet blot 
 
 Or livid blotch on my reluctant face. 
 I am hag-ridden up steep heights, God wot. 
 And imp-spurred downward, in a devil's race. 
 
 157 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Lost Pleiad of serener skies 
 
 Drawn from thy milder spheres, 
 
 What evil influence bid thee rise 
 In our remoter years? 
 
 The radiant light of those proud eyes 
 
 — The echo of the Dawn — 
 They should have waked when Grecian skies 
 
 Lit the young Parthenon. 
 
 They should have waked on charmed ground, 
 
 In some enchanted night. 
 The light that lit them drifted round 
 
 From some diviner height. 
 
 Those passionate lips should have possessed 
 
 Artemis' haughty mouth; 
 And taught to love that virgin breast 
 
 Thirsty of too long drought. 
 
 Thy name, "in water writ," shall live 
 
 While living waters run. 
 And while the gates of morning give 
 
 A pathway to the sun. 
 
 Earth claims again her earth-born earth. 
 
 The lesser souls flit by. 
 This faded Rose of Life gave birth 
 
 To some new Star on High. 
 
 158 
 
OUR LADY OF WELCOME 
 
 Where the Earth is swept backward, defeated by the rush 
 of the sea on the sands, 
 
 Our Lady of Welcome sits throned on the uttermost verge 
 of the lands; 
 
 She cries out aloud to the Nations, and beckons with wel- 
 coming hands. 
 
 She has walked in the valley of shadows ; She has stood 
 
 in the tumult of war 
 Of the elements, rebel against Her; Her children were 
 
 scattered afar; 
 But the Day held a torch to Her travail, and the Night 
 
 lit defeat with a star. 
 
 She has trod down defeat in Her pathway; She has 
 
 entered again to Her Own; 
 Her children, re-gathered, establish the far-lying rule of 
 
 Her throne; 
 And the winds shout the echoes to heaven of Her trumpets 
 
 of victory blown. 
 
 By the splendour of great deeds accomplished, by the 
 
 pulses of pride in Her breast, 
 She has summoned the world to Her Presence; She has 
 
 bidden the East as a guest ; 
 And the North and the South are made welcome in the 
 
 halls of the Queen of the West. 
 
 159 
 
By the sea, led in leash o'er the mountains to serve as 
 
 man's slave between walls, 
 By the miracle working of God through the hand of the 
 
 Human, She calls; 
 Let the lands rise in haste at Her bidding, and follow 
 
 the sun to Her Halls. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 PRESCRIBED FOR POETS AND INSCRIBED TO EDITORS. 
 
 Of withered platitudes, take "quantum suff," 
 
 On barren plains, by stagnant marshes seen; 
 
 (Beware of Fancies poisoned Evergreen;) 
 Of commonplace and cant, throw in enough; 
 Ten parts of ''rot" and twenty drachms of "puff.'* 
 
 This mixed, and shaken well in your machine, 
 
 Comes out the "poetry," called "magazine." 
 And take it? Heaven forbid! Go sell the stuff. 
 
 Yea, go and sell it; ye shall win thereby 
 Your thirty silver pieces. Though to win 
 
 Ye pawn some shreds of honour; though on high 
 The frightened Muses fly before your sin; 
 
 Though Phoebus winks a tear from either eye, 
 And hides his pain his ancient halls within. 
 
 160 
 
THE THEFT OF WINTER 
 
 IN CALIFORNIA. 
 
 A lusty boy, not here grown old, 
 
 His shining hair was spun 
 Of the fine raveled cloth of gold, 
 
 Gift of our Lord, the Sun. 
 
 But, lo, what madness fills his veins, 
 
 For he hath drunken full 
 Of brimming flagons of the rains 
 
 In the House Beautiful. 
 
 And he hath sought the fields where May 
 
 Had lain her down to rest; 
 And he hath reft and borne away 
 
 The green robe from her breast. 
 
 Her robe of state ! The impish elf ! 
 
 With gold flowers overlaid, 
 Wherein to prank his thievish self 
 
 For his mad masquerade; 
 
 Wherein, through all his sunlit way 
 
 His boyish limbs are swift; 
 Wherein he brings the gift of May, 
 
 And shining April's gift. 
 
 A golden deed. A gracious thing. 
 A jeweled gift, to draw 
 
 161 
 
The gilded largesse of the Spring 
 From Nature's broken law. 
 
 But, Mother Nature ill bestead 
 
 With impotent surprise, 
 Tears the gray tresses of her head 
 
 And rubs her startled eyes. 
 
 The wise old lady ! Let her change 
 
 The course of sun and star 
 That the Greek Kalends' hands arrange 
 
 Our winter's calendar. 
 
 162 
 
THE PHILISTINE 
 
 Aye, tear the ancient titles down ; let nothing more remain 
 That caught a gleam of Splendour from the Red and Gold 
 
 of Spain. 
 Leave not a rag of old Romance to clothe our souls there- 
 with. 
 Let Jones Street run its Saxon course, and intersect with 
 
 Smith, 
 That of the meeting may be born, to gild the name anew, 
 A brand new street for philistines, called Smytheson 
 
 Avenue. 
 Why weeps the gentle philistine? Why doth the jingo 
 
 rage 
 At glowing ecstasies of light upon our earlier page? 
 Spain stamped deep impress on our soil. With iron hand 
 
 she pressed 
 Her rubric writ in blood and tears and Splendour on our 
 
 breast. 
 Comes now the modern philistine and says it doesn't suit; 
 We'll "pluck it from our bosoms though our hearts be at 
 
 the root." 
 So, out upon the impious rogue that scouts the Gradgrind 
 
 rule 
 Of cabbage for the wise man's pot but roses for the fool. 
 Oh, brothers of the Holy League, the Trust is ours, to pull 
 About our heads the golden dome of the House Beautiful. 
 'Tis ours to clip the Graces' robes to match our wit, and 
 
 bind 
 The Sun God's Soul in leaden chains of our Boeotian mind. 
 
 163 
 
Let Eancy fold her shining wings, and veil her face before 
 The sacred soul-compelling law that two and two make 
 
 four. 
 Let Beauty hunted from the earth, shine on us from afar, 
 Not as the light of hearth and hall, but as an alien star. 
 And I, among the least of these, am come to lay my axe 
 To Fancy's laurels, grown above the underbrush of Facts. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 "dead, dead^ dead'' 
 
 Light in the Night and on the purple crest 
 
 Of her exceeding and extremest height. 
 
 Night, and he only watching with the Night; 
 And One who came and touched him on the breast. 
 And whispered, "Peace"; the countersign was "Rest." 
 
 The which he heard, and spoke, with face grown white, 
 
 In the strong stress of that compelling light 
 That lit the footsteps of the God confessed. 
 Was it not strange? Oh, it was passing strange. 
 
 Was it not sweet? Oh, it was passing sweet. 
 Oh, passing strange and sweet that sudden change. 
 
 Life's broken fetters fell from hands and feet 
 Fiefed in the far off lands and free to range 
 
 Through the wide spaces of the All Complete. 
 
 164 
 
THE WHITE ROSE AT BERESFORD 
 
 TO E. W. 
 
 Came up the long, straight avenue 
 Our Dread and Sovereign Lord; 
 
 His fingers bore the Hidden Clew 
 Beside the Naked Sword. 
 
 How found My Lord of Death the way 
 
 To where the Morning spills 
 His waves in rose and saffron spray 
 
 Upon the Beresford hills ? 
 
 For, oh, the skies above were blue; 
 
 The hills about were green; 
 And Spring on snowy pinions flew 
 
 The blue and green between. 
 
 He came and lo, his commg cast 
 
 A shadow on the sky; 
 And the trees shivered when he passed 
 
 As though a wind went by. 
 
 To one alone he bore the Rose, 
 Who took with face grown white. 
 
 And eyes that drew the eyelids close 
 On that compelling light. 
 
 The years above his brow decreased; 
 The thin lips boyish smiled; 
 
 165 
 
And the torn Mask of Life released 
 The features of a child. 
 
 So, childlike to Her Mighty Heart 
 From whence a child he came, 
 
 He rendered back to Her a part 
 Of childhood's dew and flame. 
 
 Blow white, oh Perfect Rose of Peace 
 
 He wears upon his breast, 
 Through the sweet valleys of Heartsease 
 
 And opened gates of Rest. 
 
 166 
 
TO LINCOLN 
 
 THE OLD SOUTH 
 
 With unrepentant pride, we laid The Flag away, to stir 
 Some holy memories in us, with its scent of lavender. 
 And rent, and racked, and robbed by war, with Southern 
 
 pride we cast 
 Above our present nakedness, the purple of our Past. 
 We shut the temples' clanging gates, ourselves had flung 
 
 apart 
 To welcome franchised Peace, we built an altar in our 
 
 heart. 
 Peace scorned of devils ! Hell begot, that hell might spit 
 
 upon, 
 And spurn with loathing from her gates, to vex the gates 
 
 of dawn. 
 We higher held, and loved the more, the soldier with his 
 
 sword. 
 Than traders, parting in His name, the raiment of the 
 
 Lord. 
 Peace came to us the drab of War; the outraged land 
 
 appealed 
 From jugglers in the market-place, to Caesars of the field. 
 
 AND THE NEW 
 
 Peace! Peace! Above the jangling worlds, the years of 
 
 Christ increase 
 With twice a thousand silver tongues, they cry to us for 
 
 Peace. 
 The sacred blood was sprinkled on the lintel of our door 
 
 167 
 
That bids the Angel of the Sword to vex the land no more. 
 We make our ancient wrongs the steps whereon our souls 
 
 shall climb 
 To where his crowned Eternity looks loving down on 
 
 Time. 
 Co-equal in our Trinity, our High and Holy Three, 
 We set Our Lincoln in a shrine, with Washington and 
 
 Lee. 
 And by the Beauty of that Life, the Glory of that Name, 
 That born with us, arose with you, that each a share 
 
 might claim. 
 And as he hears us overhead ! We pledge you Peace 
 
 again. 
 A righteous Peace, a brother's Peace, the Peace of equal 
 
 men. 
 
 168 
 
THE SEEKERS 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO, APRIL 18. 
 
 The grist for the mills of the Gods, that is gathered from 
 
 near and from far, 
 With rending and riving of atoms, with clashing of sun 
 
 and of star, 
 We clutched it with desperate hands from the Fates and 
 
 the Furies who came 
 With the sound of the rending of gates in torrents of 
 
 wind-driven flame. 
 Though the earth fled away from our feet in trembling 
 
 and loathing, yet still. 
 Our souls from the depths of our need flashed up to the 
 
 heights of our will. 
 We wrought in a passionate fury; with hands that were 
 
 bleeding we wrought. 
 Though our souls sweat blood in the seeking, we sought, 
 
 and we found what we sought. 
 We strained at the stone over-weighty, we wrenched at 
 
 the girder, and still 
 Our fingers all torn and defenseless grew mailed in the 
 
 armor of will. 
 The pulse of our heart rang alarm at the sound of a sigh 
 
 or a moan; 
 We followed a veining of scarlet that trickled o'er mortar 
 
 and stone. 
 We drew them from tangles of wreckage, from pits of the 
 
 dark where they lay, 
 
 169 
 
From nethermost valleys of shadows we carried them into 
 
 the day. 
 The old and the young lay together; together the dying 
 
 and dead; 
 The white hair was smirched with the earth-stain; the 
 
 gold hair bedabbled with red. 
 To one came the King in his wrath, and the dead man 
 
 stared up in affright, 
 Struck full in the face with the blow, and buffeted into 
 
 the night. 
 To one came the King in his love, and the fingers of 
 
 healing were laid 
 On the heart and the brain over-wrought, and he smiled 
 
 in his sleep, unafraid. 
 And one clinched his fist in his anger ; and one clasped the 
 
 Cross to her breast; 
 And one raised his hand as adjuring; and one was more 
 
 fair than the rest; 
 He lay with his face on his arm, in the strong, careless 
 
 grace of the boy, 
 Struck out by the Gods in their pastime, and broke in 
 
 their wrath as a toy; 
 My soul, to his soul that was passing, by the Name that 
 
 the lips may not speak 
 Adjured him with august compelling, that brought the 
 
 faint flush to his cheek; 
 And he tarried a space at my bidding on the brink of the 
 
 Great Divide, 
 And he looked in my face, and his eyes smiled into my 
 
 eyes, and he died. 
 
 170 
 
There was never the time for a tear, nor ever the time 
 
 for a sigh, 
 But my face grew white in the light of his soul as it 
 
 passed me by. 
 And the hand of a God had lingered on the finer clay and 
 
 the soul, 
 But we laid him the one, with the many, and a part of the 
 
 broken whole. 
 And Fear held the torch to our seeking; we sought in 
 
 morasses of dread 
 For the bond of the Human between us, the quick, the 
 
 dying and dead. 
 And nearer from ultimate reaches, the wings of the 
 
 tempest were drawn, 
 And leading the vanguard of rapine, the Fates and the 
 
 Furies swept on. 
 
 171 
 
HER BIRTHDAY. APRIL 18 
 
 TO SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 Bring we to the Most High our palms of praise; 
 
 Comes now the Day of days 
 
 When from the flame and smoke 
 
 Round that proud head, that bent not to the stroke, 
 
 The radiance of the wider morning broke; 
 
 The High and Holy Day 
 
 When Her old earth and heavens passed away. 
 
 From that Medea's Caldron, where she cast 
 
 The all of all Her past. 
 
 The Sacred Mother drew 
 
 In splendour trebled twenty times that grew 
 
 The golden recompense of all things new. 
 
 To sit Her throne again 
 
 Crowned, robed and sceptred in the sight of men. 
 
 Seek through the fields of that titanic war 
 
 Scarce shall ye find a scar, 
 
 Though struggling Titans hurled 
 
 From the dim caverns of the underworld 
 
 Hill upon trembling hill top; and unfurled 
 
 Upon her broken towers 
 
 The flaming flag of the infernal powers. 
 
 Blow the shrill bugle ; let the drum unroll 
 Its thunder of the soul. 
 
 172 
 
Let all our banners wave 
 
 Our thanks to Him Who took away and gave. 
 
 She, who was dead, hath risen from the grave; 
 
 The stone is rolled away; 
 
 Risen, she greets the light of the new day. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE COLUMBINE. 
 
 Lo, I today have broken holy bread; 
 
 My trembling lips have tasted hallowed wine; 
 
 I, mortal, compassed by the All Divine 
 With higher light, in higher ways was led 
 To where the awful Sacrament was spread; 
 
 God and I only, in a hidden shrine 
 
 Wherein, like swinging lamps, the columbine 
 Lit all the shadows with its flowers of red. 
 
 I, heritor of bud and flower and leaf, 
 I, free and fiefed in His enchanted wood, 
 
 Knelt to receive His accolade of Grief; 
 Bestowed on purple peaks of Solitude; 
 
 Wherewith the Poet holds from God his fief. 
 Whereof God's seal proclaims his title good. 
 
 173 
 
THE IMPREGNABLE CASTLE 
 
 In yonder frowning walls tonight 
 The knights their revels keep. 
 
 Between me and the giddy height, 
 The castle moat is deep. 
 
 And who am I, a wandering knight, 
 To dare that haughty steep? 
 
 From mine own castle of Romance 
 
 I, disinherited, 
 Despoiled of all but sword and lance, 
 
 In alien ways am led, 
 Till, of mine own inheritance, 
 
 The times be brought to bed. 
 
 No silken gage of love is bound 
 
 About my sable crest. 
 But antique loyalty hath found 
 
 A dwelling in my breast. 
 I couch my lance for Gods discrowned, 
 
 And princes dispossessed. 
 
 God wot, my arm is not less strong, 
 
 My lance is not less bright 
 Than theirs, the fortune-favored throng. 
 
 That feasts within tonight, 
 Where I among my peers belong 
 
 Of mine own knightly right. 
 
 174 
 
THE THREE AT STANFORD 
 
 Tread ye with reverent feet, for Here is God; 
 
 Here, where The Three have trod, 
 
 Father, Mother, and Son. 
 
 Doubt not that to This Three, the Three in One 
 
 Gave the enduring palms of victory won; 
 
 In the high heavens to wave, 
 
 But deeply rooted in an earthly grave. 
 
 Here where their earthly shadows unsufficed 
 
 In very truth is Christ. 
 
 Through their Gethsemane, 
 
 Up the steep summits of their Calvary, 
 
 One, Who had passed before them, led The Three. 
 
 His Strength Divine sustained 
 
 His Human Brothers, tear and travel-stained. 
 
 This is His High and Holy House that stands 
 
 Not built alone with hands; 
 
 Divinely Human Love 
 
 Laid the deep stone and reared the arch above, 
 
 Man's Immortality of Love to prove. 
 
 Within this Holy Shrine 
 
 The Human reaches to the All Divine. 
 
 Oh, Childless Givers of the Gift, to ye 
 
 What shall our giving be? 
 
 Be this the gift we bring 
 
 To reach them in the heavens on swift wing : 
 
 As the lark soaring, as the lark to sing, 
 
 Cry we with eyes grown dim 
 
 Mother or Father unto Her or Him. 
 
TO MRS. N. C P. 
 
 Thou, who from old with gentle fingers drew 
 
 Our All within thy touch, 
 Thou, chosen One^ of all our chosen Few, 
 
 So few, but, oh, so Much ! 
 
 Of all we were, of all we are, a part, 
 
 Distance may not divide; 
 Within the fairy circle of the Heart 
 
 Thou standest at our side. 
 
 Thou hast shone on us with a light so clear 
 
 The years may not erase; 
 Nay, rather doth each swift recurring year 
 
 Make dearer still thy face. 
 
 With thee, on golden heights of long ago, 
 
 Our gold of Life was spent; 
 Be thou beside us in the deeps we go, 
 
 As on the heights we went. 
 
 176 
 
"THE REGIONS WHICH ARE HOLY LAND" 
 
 w. 
 
 Friend whom God loved, I bear in mind 
 What time we left the world behind, 
 The little noisy world we trod. 
 For the Deep Silences of God, 
 And all the gracious strength that fills 
 The circle of the gracious hills. 
 The silvery veil was rent in two 
 That hides the face of Ocean View, 
 Pierced by the spears of Day, and flung 
 On rock and roof and tree it hung; 
 And wider waxed and greater grew 
 The great gold jewel in the blue; 
 To thee a weighed and measured sun. 
 But unto me the Radiant One. 
 Oh, was it thine, and was it mine, 
 That wildly sweet, delirious wine 
 That thou and I a moment quaffed, 
 And pledged each other in, and laughed, 
 Laughed that the world should be so fair 
 To the last peaks of Everywhere; 
 Laughed that our footsteps trod upon 
 The gold fringed-curtains of the Dawn; 
 Laughed, that we held within our hands 
 The key of our enchanted lands, 
 The gold clew to the golden maze 
 Of our unwonted holidays. 
 
 177 
 
And high above our heads unfurled 
 
 On the blue heights above the world, 
 
 Yon Heavens Highway Spirit trod 
 
 The White Flag of the Truce of God. 
 
 A Truce ! A Truce ! God's hour of Peace, 
 
 That bids the lesser jangling cease. 
 
 That with the Silence of His Voice 
 
 Stills the earth's tumult and her noise ; 
 
 That flings a royal canopy 
 
 Above the serf, and sets him free. 
 
 And all the blue of all the skies, 
 
 And all the tender green that lies 
 
 Upon the bosom of the May, 
 
 And all the golden halls of Day, 
 
 And all the silver lamps that shine 
 
 In Night's blue dome, were thine and mine. 
 
 The larger air, the fuller breath, 
 
 Were free as life, were free as death. 
 
 And we were free; oh, we were free, 
 
 If lost in God's immensity. 
 
 Not from a miser's fingers doled. 
 
 But bounteous double hands of gold, 
 
 So Youth and Hope together spent 
 
 Their largesse on the way we went. 
 
 Old for our land; a hundred years 
 
 Has flowed the tide of hopes and fears, 
 
 The tide of joy and grief has flowed 
 
 And ebbed along the Mission Road, 
 
 That thin gold thread, on which is strung, 
 
 Unknown, imhonoured and unsung, 
 
 178 
 
The jewels of futurity, 
 
 Seed pearls of cities yet to be. 
 
 Strange, is it not, that thou shouldst keep 
 
 Thy Heaven guarded Halls of Sleep, 
 
 Where Silence broods with brows august, 
 
 And lips that speak not o'er her Trust. 
 
 Where Sorrow, sad-browed sentinel. 
 
 Cries with unwilling voice, "All's Well," 
 
 Where thou and I upon a day 
 
 inimitably far away, 
 
 Rode full tilt in the laughing strife 
 
 Across the captured walls of Life. 
 
 Strange, is it not? Perchance, we trod 
 
 Upon that unclaimed field of God, 
 
 Where now the wise in grief may see 
 
 The seed bed of Eternity, 
 
 — Wet with a rain of tears — that yields 
 
 The flowers for th' Elysian fields. 
 
 The robes of Night are closer drawn 
 
 About the breast of Cypress Lawn, 
 
 And Day, with halting step, invades 
 
 The sacred silence of the shades 
 
 That the tall gum trees rise to make 
 
 Wider and deeper, for thy sake. 
 
 For thee, whose boyish fingers drew 
 
 A patch of green, a strip of blue, 
 
 Wherewith to cover up thy breast 
 
 In the dim chambers of thy rest. 
 
 But in our wise unwisdom, we 
 
 Passed heedless o'er the graves to be. 
 
 179 
 
Thanks to the kindly hand that locks 
 Foreknowledge in Pandora's box. 
 I thank my Gods that I may find 
 Them in free spaces, unconfined, 
 Not clipped within a man-made house 
 Ascends the homage of my vows, 
 To rise on futile wings and fall 
 With broken heart against a wall. 
 I thank Them that my prayers may rise 
 On lesser wings, to nearer skies, 
 Confined by yonder shining dome 
 About the altar fires of Home; 
 Nor lost in yonder vast profound 
 Of blackness, flame encircled round, 
 That Ancient Void, wherein we poured 
 To some Jehovah, Jove, or Lord, 
 Measures of ecstasies and dole. 
 First fruits of body and of sotil. 
 I thank my Gods that they are Here 
 About me, imminently near. 
 A God to vivify and fill 
 The mountain and the mountain rill ; 
 To ride upon the south wind warm. 
 To loose or leash the thunder storm; 
 To light and trim the altar fires 
 Of Night on her perpetual pyres; 
 To brush the envious clouds away 
 That bar the access of the day; 
 To stoop from plentitude of power. 
 To paint or pluck a wayside flower. 
 
 180 
 
Ah ! Friend of mine, thou couldst not hear 
 
 The music patent to my ear, 
 
 The Cosmic music, wild and sweet, 
 
 Above the horses' ringing feet. 
 
 Thine was the morning's radiant wine, 
 
 The rainbow o'er our path was thine. 
 
 These burnt out Fires of God were mine. 
 
 'Tis dear to me, the way we went, 
 
 For Grief and Joy aHke have spent 
 
 Their substance on it ; every mile 
 
 Is bounded by a tear or smile; 
 
 A shining and a Sacred Way 
 
 From the blue waters of the bay. 
 
 To the white walls of San Jose. 
 
 We passed through all the gracious green, 
 
 Flawed with white villages between, 
 
 And came where San Mateo stood 
 
 A Dryad in a charmed wood; 
 
 Unvexed by the woodsman's strokes, 
 
 Her presence haunts her native oaks. 
 
 She turns toward the west and calls 
 
 The Oread of the mountain walls. 
 
 And sees dim-eyed, as in a dream, 
 
 The Naiad of her vanished stream. 
 
 Ah, here where Dignity and Ease 
 
 May rest care free beneath the trees. 
 
 Ah, here should Beauty unconfined 
 
 Reign over heart and soul and mind. 
 
 An Attic Princess exiled far, 
 
 'Tis here should rest her wandering car; 
 
 181 
 
Here fiefed again, and repossessed 
 
 Of her old East, in our new West. 
 
 We passed and came where Belmont keeps 
 
 Her halls upon her wooded steeps^ 
 
 That rise, advance, divide, or meet. 
 
 And fling their green waves at her feet. 
 
 Or on some higher hill tossed high 
 
 Break in green spray against the sky. 
 
 I thank the Gracious Hand that spills 
 
 The shining torrent of the hills. 
 
 Not David with desire above 
 
 Mine own, encompassed them with love. 
 
 My feet have ever brushed them nigh. 
 
 Mine eyes shall see them though I die. 
 
 Hark ! From the distance Beresford calls 
 
 To Belmont, o'er the mountain walls. 
 
 And the wind hears the call, and weaves 
 
 The answering whisper of green leaves; 
 
 Earth's sweet and sacred melodies 
 
 Sung on the hill tops by the trees, 
 
 And echoed by the birds and bees. 
 
 And I rejoice that I may reach 
 
 These thin high subtleties of speech 
 
 Of the Great Mother, reconciled 
 
 In so far, to her wayward child. 
 
 I, set within such straitened round. 
 
 By such strong links of habit bound, 
 
 The golden daily links, that close 
 
 About a moonbeam, or a rose. 
 
 Forbid by all my past to roam 
 
 182 
 
Beyond the Covenant of Home, 
 
 Whose hands have stayed the sacred Ark 
 
 Deep graven with my finger's mark. 
 
 All this, about me and mine own, 
 
 I set above me on a throne. 
 
 And kneel before, and throw above 
 
 My royal canopy of Love. 
 
 Our shadows withered by the sun 
 
 Marked his increasing summits won. 
 
 They scorched and shriveled in his flame, 
 
 And vanished from us as we came 
 
 Where Redwood tells the future gains 
 
 Of her wide heritage of plains; 
 
 As the seas level, as the seas 
 
 Swept into ripples by the breeze, 
 
 And archipelagoed by trees. 
 
 Majestic spreading oaks, that rise 
 
 Like island walls against the skies. 
 
 To him, whose soul is tuned aright, 
 
 What melodies of sound — and sight ; 
 
 What fairy tapestries are wove 
 
 Of the moonbeams in yonder grove. 
 
 What white limbs flash when Dryads fling 
 
 From them their leafy covering. 
 
 All this so beautiful, alas ! 
 
 All These so beautiful, must pass 
 
 When Vesta lights her altar fires 
 
 To be their sacrificial pyres, 
 
 And stronger Lares of the hearth 
 
 Cast out the Gods of outer earth. 
 
 183 
 
Slowly the Sun God's chariot wheeled 
 
 Down the long, westward sloping field; 
 
 We followed in his steps and came 
 
 Where Beauty rises, as a flame 
 
 Flung round th' Unutterable Name. 
 
 So shines her soul where Woodside fills 
 
 A green nook, riven from the hills. 
 
 From whence a shining valley keeps 
 
 Step with its guardian mountain steeps. 
 
 Men call it Portola; to me 
 
 It is my fields of Arcadie. 
 
 Ah, here were dignity and peace ; 
 
 The larger statured soul's increase; 
 
 Surcease from sordid loss and gain 
 
 That leave a scar, or leave a stain. 
 
 Here Life, with cleaner hands, might bring 
 
 To Death a nobler offering. 
 
 Here might my soul's abiding place 
 
 Arise in antique Attic grace 
 
 Of ivory moonbeams, and thereon 
 
 A rose carved by the hands of Dawn. 
 
 A pillar from the purple halls 
 
 Of Night, torn from the higher walls. 
 
 Whose lonely summits catch from far 
 
 The silver gleaming O'f the star, 
 
 A block from his triumphal way 
 
 Gold glowing from the feet of Day. 
 
 A window free to all the stars, 
 
 A door latched by the morning's bars. 
 
 And shining pinnacles above 
 
 184 
 
The seven-hued web that Iris wove. 
 
 A pathway to the Star of Hope, 
 
 Long alien to my horoscope. 
 
 Ah, here indeed, if I am I, 
 
 As I was I in years gone by, 
 
 I, who with boyish folly shod, 
 
 Yet held the Shining Clew of God, 
 
 Here drifting down serener streams 
 
 Of time, upon my bark of dreams. 
 
 Whose purple sails and ivory prow 
 
 Flashed from the tumult of my brow. 
 
 Here I unhappy, even I, 
 
 Might proffer These above the sky; 
 
 Above the sky, but not above 
 
 My antique loyalty and love, 
 
 Lustrous and held above the strife 
 
 My Iridescent Pearl of Life. 
 
 We came to where the cross roads meet 
 
 And part beside the mountain's feet. 
 
 And one road in contentment yields 
 
 Its life to bound the level fields. 
 
 And from their lesser summit gains 
 
 The lesser guerdon of the plains. 
 
 And one with higher purpose thrills 
 
 To curb the hot pride of the hills, 
 
 And sets its patient, stubborn length 
 
 Against th' imperious mountain's strength. 
 
 Here is a spot of Holy Ground; 
 
 The roads encompass it around, 
 
 Three pine trees from its bosom rise 
 
 185 
 
To search the secrets of the skies ; 
 
 They speak in whispers when the wind 
 
 Cuts through the trees, and leaves are thinned, 
 
 To two majestic oaks, that stand 
 
 Across the road on either hand. 
 
 And here of old a willow stood, 
 
 An alien in the native wood. 
 
 Oh, Heart ! Of all supreme desire, 
 
 Oh, Soul ! With white wings in the mire, 
 
 Oh God ! The Many Voiced, Who spoke 
 
 A Threat and promise when I woke. 
 
 If dearer be, where all is dear. 
 
 With love exceeding, it is Here. 
 
 The inner Holies, wherein stands 
 
 The Altar of the Holy Lands, 
 
 Wherefrom I shall not take again 
 
 The Sacrament of Joy or Pain. 
 
 Though here again my steps drew nigh, 
 
 Not I, but the sad ghost of I ; 
 
 Ghost of a shadow, wanned and thinned, 
 
 And whipped upon the wanton wind. 
 
 Would throw itself before, and clutch 
 
 The Past with a despairing touch. 
 
 Light laughter dashed its sparkling foam 
 
 Towards the august purple dome 
 
 That bent above, and seemed to chide 
 
 With its solemnity star eyed. 
 
 This spray upon the- waves of speech 
 
 That rippled on our rainbowed beach. 
 
 Which, we unknowing, was the shore 
 
 186 
 
That guards the shrine of Nevermore. 
 From hearts flung open wide, we spoke, 
 Our words fantastic as the smoke 
 That from the fading fires beneath 
 Ascended in a wind tossed wreath. 
 Light fancies, as might please the ear 
 Of Faun or Oread Hstening near; 
 Flotsam and jetsam, wayward flung. 
 From Pagan heart and lawless tongue. 
 I, Pagan of a type antique, 
 And thou half savage and half Greek ; 
 Drunk with Delight and crowned with Joy, 
 In the divine right of the boy. 
 It pleased me well to win such grace, 
 Though but a white-winged moment's space, 
 To mix my deeper soul's allay 
 With the bright heart's gold of the boy; 
 And drawn from my forbidden heights. 
 To warm my heart at the twin lights 
 That flashed and sparkled from the sheath 
 Of the brown velvet underneath. 
 Oh, burnt out marvel of the eyes 
 That watched with me — in Paradise, 
 Through the white glamour of a night 
 Drenched in star shining and moonlight; 
 In what fair heavens was relumed 
 The splendour that the God resumed. 
 The light which might not pass away, ■ 
 Though thou art dust beneath the clay. 
 Sleep laid his finger on thy lips ; 
 
 187 
 
Sleep touched thy brown eyes to eclipse; 
 
 And that which was in essence Thou 
 
 Vanished from lip and eye and brow, 
 
 And left me lonely in the night, 
 
 God and myself and my soul's light. 
 
 And a wind whispered to the trees 
 
 The secret of old melodies. 
 
 The silence of the forest stirred 
 
 My soul with a forgotten word. 
 
 That fluttered on elusive wing, 
 
 That circled round my brow, to bring 
 
 Increasing memories, dim but vast. 
 
 Of us in our remoter past. 
 
 And in this place and on this night 
 
 I won of my withheld birthright 
 
 Some little part, a golden page 
 
 Torn glowing from a Golden Age. 
 
 The hill slopes eastward, that the Sun 
 
 May linger ere his heights be won. 
 
 And lingering, turn adoringly 
 
 To the best sight his eyes may see, 
 
 The Perfect Pearl of Attic Art, 
 
 God's soul and Man's in equal part. 
 
 Man dreamed a pearl, the pearl he wrought 
 
 With All the Gods behind the thought. 
 
 So fair ! Its counterpart might rise 
 
 On their Olympus o'er the skies. 
 
 Wherein the Sun God and the Nine 
 
 188 
 
Might claim, with jealousy divine, 
 
 A portion of Athene's shrine. 
 
 And thou and I, upon the rim 
 
 Of that green hill top, stood with Him ; 
 
 And saw, perchance with eyes grown dim, 
 
 The rosy lipped caress of Dawn 
 
 Adoringly and slow withdrawn. 
 
 Pressed on the new-born Parthenon. 
 
 We stood upon a turf inlaid 
 
 With tangled breadths of light and shade. 
 
 And we were Greek, and Greece was Greece 
 
 In her fair prime and prime's increase. 
 
 The vision vanished from my eyes 
 Left staring at the midnight skies. 
 I watched the patient stars grow dim 
 And pass beyond the heaven's rim; 
 They hung a moment on the crest 
 Of the black mountains in the west. 
 Upon the redwoods branches tossed 
 They signaled to me, and were lost. 
 The forest stirred with vague unrest. 
 And an old memory in my breast. 
 I hushed my heart beneath the shade 
 To hear the wood Gods in the glade ; 
 I leaned my soul with listening ear 
 An antique melody to hear 
 I heard of yore where rivers ran 
 Through reedy vales Arcadian, 
 
 189 
 
The wild sweet syrinx pipes of Pan. 
 And at the old remembered chords 
 My thoughts flashed from me into words ; 
 Slipped from the mind's leash, and outran 
 Beyond the measure of my plan, 
 
 A PRAYER UNTO THE GREAT GOD PAN. 
 
 Oh, where art Thou, on yonder charmed mountains, 
 
 From whence enchanted fountains 
 
 Slip through the tangled brake, 
 
 'Neath the tall redwoods' plumed heads to slake 
 
 Their deeper thirst at yonder shining lake — 
 
 Here dost thou sit and call 
 
 To the white Naiad of the waterfall? 
 
 Clothed in the meshes of her golden hair 
 
 Is she not passing fair, 
 
 And wonderfully white. 
 
 Seen in the ebon chambers of the night? 
 
 Beats not thy God's heart quicker at the sight 
 
 Of that fair body, seen 
 
 A gleam of white amidst the living green? 
 
 Or dost thou rather sit alone, and brood 
 
 In some far solitude, 
 
 Of all thy lands that lie 
 
 In field and forest marsh and mountain high 
 
 Far flung to the far edges of the sky ? 
 
 190 
 
Here dost thou think of Her 
 
 While the soft sighing winds of memory stir? 
 
 Still dost thou see within thy fierce embrace 
 
 That fair and frightened face, 
 
 Still do thine arms enfold 
 
 The roses and the ivory and gold 
 
 Of that fair form within thy wanton hold, 
 
 That left thee but a reed 
 
 To serve the heights and depths of a God's need? 
 
 Yet doth her immortality of gain 
 
 Rise o'er the loss and pain ; 
 
 Her weak and woman's heart 
 
 Become th' immortal instrument of Art, 
 
 Of the wide Universe of Sound a part 
 
 Throbs on thy mountains, lingers 'neath thy trees, 
 
 So'ul-stirring and heart-breaking melodies. 
 
 Star shining and moonlight upon thy brow, 
 
 Art thou not near us now, 
 
 Now while the earth receives 
 
 Artemis' golden-feathered shafts, and weaves 
 
 Them with the benediction of green leaves; 
 
 A tapestry to fall 
 
 In green and gold upon thy palace wall? 
 
 Lo ! thou art near to me, for I am Greek, 
 Moulded in lines antique; 
 Greek, when the perfect flower 
 
 191 
 
Of Greece blew whitest in a golden hour, 
 Whereof the scent remains to us for dower; 
 Crushed 'neath the ages' feet, 
 But still immortally and wildly sweet. 
 
 And here is Greece, and here is Arcadie, 
 
 Now, here, about us three. 
 
 Thou and the boy and I, 
 
 We, who lie here, and thou, who standest by. 
 
 So near that thou mightst touch us where we lie. 
 
 Now, while the forest grieves 
 
 With an old secret whispered by the leaves. 
 
 Now hath he pledged and given awhile to keep 
 
 His boyish soul to Sleep; 
 
 He lies with his fair face 
 
 Upon his arm, in strong, unconscious grace. 
 
 I may not seek his soul's abiding place. 
 
 Who have no clew to keep 
 
 Step with him in his labyrinths of sleep. 
 
 Thou, wert thou Heracles, then he to thee 
 
 Should the young Hylas be ; 
 
 Wert thou the God of Light, 
 
 Thou shouldst stoop down from an adoring height 
 
 To bear him past the jealous West Wind's might. 
 
 Lest Hyacinthus slain 
 
 Repurple earth with his sweet flowers of pain. 
 
 Now he is far from me, and thou art near, 
 A God whom not I fear; 
 
 192 
 
I, too, am earth of Earth, 
 
 Earth born, I seek the fond, famihar hearth, 
 
 In the wide halls of her who gave me birth ; 
 
 And love thee not the less 
 
 For thy goats' hoofs and thy limbs' shagginess. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, oh, passing sweet, it were to hear, 
 
 Though but with my soul's ear, 
 
 Thy pipes, oh. Great God Pan, 
 
 In wild, delirious melodies that ran 
 
 Like wild fire through the vales Arcadian. 
 
 Oh, sound them for my sake 
 
 That I may scale the heavens of heart break. 
 
 Oh, Pan, if from the mountain or the forest, 
 
 Come when our need is sorest; 
 
 Stride o'er the shadowed page 
 
 With thy goats' hoofs and crush with a God's rage 
 
 The false ideals of an iron age; 
 
 Teach us the golden lore 
 
 Of all the golden pages of before. 
 
 — So ran my fancies while I kept 
 My vigils o'er the boy who slept; 
 So near, he slumbered at my side ; 
 So far, the shoreless seas are wide 
 And deep that rose between us twain ; 
 He, like young Hyacinthus, slain 
 By a God's Love; for Sleep awhile 
 
 193 
 
Had slain his soul, whose boyish smile 
 Flashed on white wings across the grace 
 Of his serene, untroubled face; 
 And I, who reached out from the Night 
 Above her darkness and her light, 
 To struggle with the Infinite, 
 Now Dawn, in rose and saffron shod. 
 Stepped through the gateways of the God, 
 With rosy-lipped persuasion won 
 Night's summits to the Radiant One ; 
 On the broad shield his blazoned bars 
 Displaced her coronet of stars; 
 Despoiled of all her gems, she fled 
 With one pale star upon her head. 
 And the old miracle, retold 
 In rose, in saffron, and in gold, 
 Threw wide the folded gates, that keep 
 Their ward upon the eyes of sleep. 
 And that the mountain still was strong 
 That man had girdled with his thong, 
 And that its heart but half confessed 
 His leash across its haughty breast; 
 We rose when Dawn proclaimed the Day, 
 And went with him our westward way. 
 A hundred heights impetuo'us cast 
 Their shadow o'er us as we passed. 
 And every gracious moment drew 
 The curtain from some fairer view. 
 We scaled its crest, and stood at length 
 Above the mountain's conquered strength. 
 
 194 
 
And East and West on either hand, 
 
 The Poet's Land, The Holy Land, 
 
 A stainless vision without flaw 
 
 Flashed up beneath us, and we saw, 
 
 Saw in the distance Stanford's lift 
 
 A mortal love's Liimortal Gift; 
 
 A gracious and a Godlike fruit 
 
 Of Human and of bitter root; 
 
 A priceless wine, whose grapes were trod 
 
 And crushed beneath the feet of God; 
 
 Hers is the Large Writ Scroll, to prove 
 
 Man's Immortality of Love; 
 
 And all the great and gracious dower 
 
 From Sorrow golden-linked to Power. 
 
 So sharp the mountain walls divide 
 
 The alien worlds of either side. 
 
 The red hearts of the East and West 
 
 Throbbed with full pulses through the breast 
 
 That lay on either side confessed. 
 
 Lay East th' illumined scroll of God, 
 
 But half effaced where man had trod; 
 
 A shining palimpsest, unrolled 
 
 In green and azure, lit with gold, 
 
 God's chosen colours, scattered free, 
 
 Green Time's fair handmaid, Blue to be. 
 
 The warden of Eternity. 
 
 And fairly written, strong and sure. 
 
 Here Man had scrawled his signature 
 
 On field and forest, stamping down 
 
 The deeper impress of a town, 
 
 195 
 
White, between blue and green, to stand 
 
 His seals upon the goodly land. 
 
 The goodly land of corn and wine, 
 
 Of reddening tree, and purpling vine ; 
 
 The summer suns, the winter rains, 
 
 Run in sweet madness through her veins ; 
 
 And the kind, ordered madness yields 
 
 The trebled tithes of fertile fields. 
 
 The lesser forehead of the plain 
 
 Is wrinkled o'er with loss and gain; 
 
 But still the Sacred West shall be 
 
 Free mountains, bounded by the free, 
 
 No man's dominion of the sea. 
 
 Here man hath set no stain and flaw 
 
 Of his forged seal on Nature's law. 
 
 When the young stars for gladness sang 
 
 These heights and deeps with echoes rang; 
 
 And still the Poet's vision sees 
 
 In all the multitudinous trees, 
 
 The branches that the fair young Earth 
 
 Set for the Mayday round her hearth, 
 
 In the first springtime of her birth. 
 
 Whereo'f today La Honda weaves 
 
 Herself a coronet of leaves. 
 
 Queen of the twilight lands, that pay 
 
 No homage to the God of Day ; 
 
 His golden arrows blunted fall 
 
 Against her haughty forest wall. 
 
 A woodland princess, in her eyes 
 
 Is more of sunset than sunrise. 
 
 196 
 
She sees the white tents of her folk 
 
 Encircled by the camp fire's smoke, 
 
 Between her and the ruddy glow 
 
 The barefoot boys pass to and fro ; 
 
 Their careless fingers clutch the wealth 
 
 Of stainless and untainted health; 
 
 They learn the lore of Nature's books, 
 
 The woods, the mountains, and the brooks, 
 
 The shining Words of God, that teach 
 
 The soul the Universal Speech. 
 
 Day fled, defeated and discrowned, 
 
 Night's sable garments swept us round. 
 
 So near ! Our souls together crept, 
 
 Huddled away from Her who swept 
 
 In all the dreadful pageantry 
 
 That Jove unveiled to Semele, 
 
 Wherefrom man hides his eyes, lest sight 
 
 Be blasted by excess of light. 
 
 So hid our souls from Her; but soon 
 
 Upon the heights a silver moon, 
 
 The top and crown of all I dreamed. 
 
 Flashed through the purple void, and seemed. 
 
 Seen through the branches of the trees, 
 
 A shining sail on unknown seas. 
 
 And the fair Sister of the Day 
 
 Brushed with her light our fears away; 
 
 The younger, kindlier God dispelled 
 
 That August A\vfulness of Eld. 
 
 Full soon thy captive spirit wore 
 
 The chains of the kind conqueror, 
 
 197 
 
The gentle and the golden chains 
 Wherein the loser tells his gains. 
 It is an awful thing to keep 
 Long vigils in the shrine of Sleep; 
 To stare deep-eyed upon the eyes 
 From which no answering light replies; 
 To question lips that may not reach 
 The shattered golden strings of speech; 
 To seek the soul whose wings are furled 
 On unknown heights of some new world. 
 An awful — and a holy thing, 
 I bid My Mother Night to bring 
 From Her high heights, that holiest are. 
 Where the star whispers to the star, 
 Through tjie awed skies the Cosmic Spell 
 That links the Heavens, Earth and Hell 
 With secrets that they may not tell; 
 Hence let her bring again, although 
 My heart shall break anew to know 
 AH the vast blackness and the light 
 That burnt the blackness of the night; 
 And the tall redwoods boughs unfurled 
 Whose topmost branches roofed the world, 
 Where my unquiet spirit stood 
 Between thee and the solitude 
 Of God, the mountains and the wood. 
 Ah, Friend, the Human overmuch 
 Drew me from some Diviner Touch; 
 Else had I, watching in the bright 
 And perfect beauty of that night, 
 
 198 
 
Bridged with my soul the deep abyss 
 
 Where yonder Upper Silence is; 
 
 Had won the subtle spell that taught 
 
 The Whence, the Where, the Why ; had caught 
 
 Some secret of Eternal things ; 
 
 Had drunk deep draughts of heavenly springs ; 
 
 Had ate of that forbidden fruit 
 
 Whose flower was madness, and whose root 
 
 Crept through waste spaces of the years 
 
 To underflowing streams of tears. 
 
 Friend of an Unforgotten Day, 
 
 What light shall fall upon my way 
 
 Save that heart-breaking splendour, cast 
 
 Through the stained windows of the Past, 
 
 That grim, gaunt shrine where Memory is; 
 
 Stabbed with forbidden ecstasies, 
 
 Sharp pangs of old-time Joy and Pain 
 
 Flung from their ruthless hands, to stain 
 
 With sullen and with dreadful red 
 
 Her white lips pressed against her Dead. 
 
 Oh, My Dear Lands ! My Radiant Lands ! 
 
 Where Pleasure gave me both her hands. 
 
 Where Hope her gilded bauble set 
 
 Whereof no hue remaineth yet ; 
 
 Now only black-robed Memory broods 
 
 Above her barren solitudes. 
 
 One hope remains of old desires; 
 
 One glowing coal of faded fires; 
 
 That in their green and gentle breast 
 
 I rest who knew not, shall find rest. 
 
 199 
 
Aye, soft shall fall o'er heart and brow. 
 Unquiet, but grown quiet now, 
 Though careless flung by stranger hands 
 The earth of My Remembered Lands. 
 
 200 
 
THE HOUSE OF SPLExNDID VISIONS 
 
 Prince of Desolation, God to whom no gracious odors rise 
 Of the flowers upon the altar, or the meats of sacrifice. 
 There are dearer, richer offerings that find favor in thine 
 eyes. 
 
 Thine, the subtle odors rising from the garlands of regret; 
 Thine, the tears that scorch in falling; thine, the soul's 
 
 corroding sweat, 
 Poured from brimming cups of anger, when The Twelve 
 
 are secret met. 
 
 I shall know thee when thou comest, thou whose livid 
 
 brows are crowned 
 With a wreath of scarlet poppies, plucked upon the ghostly 
 
 ground 
 Where the sullen waters wander, demon haunted, without 
 
 sound. 
 
 I shall know thee not to fear thee; thou and I have often 
 
 met 
 In the jousting at the tourney, where the lists of Life are 
 
 set; 
 We have met, and thou wert victor ; but the end was never 
 
 yet. 
 
 Shall I know and shall I wonder, in the dawn of some new 
 day, 
 
 201 
 
At the House of Splendid Visions, tenantless and in decay, 
 And the halls a God hath dwelt in, mingling with the 
 common clay? 
 
 Shall I wake to fear and loathing when the earth-worm 
 
 nearer crawls. 
 Creeping through the open doorways, creeping o'er the 
 
 crumbling walls, 
 Rioting with rites unholy through the dark, deserted halls? 
 
 Were it all of life to live, and were it all of death to die. 
 But the ages bear in travail, and the new-born babe is I, 
 Whipped in fiery circles onward through the cycles of the 
 sky. 
 
 Though the perfect Pearl of "Memory, cast in death's cor- 
 roding wine. 
 
 Lose its lustre, pale and vanish from its old, familiar 
 shrine, 
 
 Yet shall "I" be lord and master in the halls of Thine and 
 Mine. 
 
 *T," the redly glowing centre of a black circumference ; 
 *T," the verb to be and suffer, in an ever present tense ; 
 *T," a shadow, dragged a captive, in the triumph of events. 
 
 I am I through all the ages of a surety; yet am I 
 
 But a dream of angry devils, whipped with curses from on 
 
 high. 
 Or the jest of some Mad Boy God, drunk with nectar in 
 
 the sky? 
 
 202 
 
THE WILL OF GOD 
 
 INSCRIBED, WITHOUT PERMISSION, TO THE "PKESIDENTS" 
 OF THE CENTRAL AMERICAN '^REPUBLICS/' 
 
 God said, ''I have waited long, 
 
 For the years are Mine to wait, 
 With a patience over-strong 
 
 And a mercy over-great. 
 
 "But now I weary at length 
 
 Of My heavy wrath long stored; 
 And I bare My arm of strength 
 
 And the lightning of My sword. 
 
 "Let My chosen one go forth 
 
 With the message of My mouth; 
 And My armies of the North 
 
 To war on the rebel South. 
 
 "For the land is wan and vexed 
 
 That a double rule divides; 
 And the people sore perplexed 
 
 When the law shifts with the tides. 
 
 "And My ways are not the ways 
 
 Of the sons of men, and still 
 From out of its tangled maze 
 
 Shines the gold- clew of My Will; 
 
 203 
 
"That the sword of Justice bring. 
 The shelter of Mercy's shield, 
 
 And that Peace and Order spring 
 From the chaos of the Field. 
 
 'T have watched and waited long. 
 And I come to count My sheaves ; 
 
 But the tares are high and strong 
 And with naught thereon but leaves. 
 
 "I will sweep them from My path; 
 
 They shall wither as a gourd 
 In the furnace of My wrath. 
 
 I have sworn it, I, the Lord." 
 
 204 
 
THE SHADOW BEFORE— AT NEW YEAR'S 
 
 Blew bugles from a far off height; 
 
 The bells rang sweet and clear; 
 Wild music in the frosty night ; 
 
 The Birthnight of the Year, 
 
 From Christmas revels lagged behind 
 
 Still stood upon the floor 
 The Lighted Tree that brought to mind 
 
 That Other Babe of yore. 
 
 To welcome him we drew the latch ; 
 
 The Boy was passing fair, 
 With eyes of cloudless blue, to match 
 
 The sunshine of his hair. 
 
 And, oh, they cried, our steps shall keep 
 
 Step with the Boy who goes 
 Through springtime daisies drifted deep, 
 
 And jungles of the rose. 
 
 Our Golden Rosary of Days 
 
 In shining sequence told, 
 A bead for Summer's orchard ways. 
 
 And Autumn's sheaves of gold. 
 
 And when again returns The Birth, 
 
 Our wonted All shall reach 
 Half circled round the wonted hearth, 
 
 And each clasp hands with each. 
 
 205 
 
But one, whose sad, prophetic soul 
 
 Strange marks of torture bore, 
 Saw from the Boy's white hands unroll 
 
 The Shadow Cast Before. 
 
 Ere Time with blighting hand shall touch 
 
 The Boy's gold hair with gray, 
 Of these, much loved, and loving much. 
 
 One shall have passed away. 
 
 One grown All Patient, He or She, 
 
 With white and folded hands 
 Shall drift out on the unknown sea 
 
 To undiscovered lands. 
 
 Peace ! Peace ! With Him or Her be Peace. 
 
 But woe to those bereft. 
 No truce with braggart peace from these 
 
 Whom He or She hath left. 
 
 But these shall draw themselves apart 
 
 And sit with eyes grown dim; 
 Hands clutched above the breaking heart 
 
 That breaks for Her or Him. 
 
 Shall hear with old remembered pain 
 THAT voice, distinct, but thinned. 
 
 Rise o'er the falling of the rain. 
 And struggle with the wind. 
 
 206 
 
And they shall tremble at the sound. 
 
 Oh, Nature's Broken Trust ! 
 How wind and rain are tossed around 
 
 Above that Sacred Dust. 
 
 Dust ! Dust ! Ah, Dust were passing well 
 
 If Nature's kindlier law. 
 Oh, Seven Times Heated Fires of Hell ! 
 
 H Dust were all they saw ! 
 
 But THIS ! This ghoulish feast of Death, 
 
 His grim and ghastly spoils, 
 From which, with terror gasping breath. 
 
 The heart of man recoils. 
 
 Drown Memory in the black abyss. 
 
 Heap high the earth above. 
 Oh, Christ, the pitiful! Is THIS 
 
 That which we used to love? 
 
 20; 
 
TO THE WOMAN 
 
 WRITER OF THE BATTLE HYMN. 
 
 What make you, weak and Woman's hand 
 With these sharp tools of Art? 
 
 Or seek within the Poet's Land 
 Where Woman hath no part? 
 
 The fiefs are many in the Land 
 
 That owns our Lord, the Sun; 
 The Star Crowned Kings abo'Ut him stand, 
 
 The vassal Queens were none. 
 
 Who bade thee rise above the height 
 
 Of Nature's niggard plan. 
 To crown thy Woman's brows with light 
 
 And overtop the Man? 
 
 Who gave into Thy Woman's hand 
 
 The Lightning of the Lord, 
 And bade thee spill upon the land 
 
 His Cup of Wrath long stored? 
 
 Who bade thy Woman's gentle voice 
 
 The Trump of God to roll. 
 And rise above the battle's noise 
 
 The Thunder of the Soul ? 
 
 Thy words the dying soldier found 
 
 The thunder and its light. 
 He wrapped him in the light and sound 
 
 And went into the Night. 
 
 208 
 
GOD AND THE POET 
 
 God and the Poet and Night, 
 And the Night stood still upon 
 
 The top of her topmost height 
 Midway between dusk and dawn. 
 
 Night, and a light in the night 
 
 That lit itself and illumed ; 
 Wonderful, mystical, white, 
 
 That burned and was unconsumed. 
 
 And the night was tranced to a hush ; 
 
 And sudden the winds grew still. 
 And God from the Burning Bush 
 
 Spoke to the Poet His Will. 
 
 God said to the Poet, "Thou 
 Art royal. I give thee to wear 
 
 A crown of thorns for thy brow ; 
 But thyself shall fashion it fair. 
 
 "Thou shalt fashion it in My Sight; 
 
 Strength do I give thee to keep; 
 I give thee light in the night ; 
 
 Watch thou, while thy brothers sleep. 
 
 "On the altar of sacrifice 
 
 Thou shalt lay at My feet thy heart. 
 Thou shalt buy thy soul with a price 
 
 Since soul of My Soul thou art." 
 
 209 
 
And the Poet stood upright 
 
 And named the Wonderful Name 
 
 And his soul in that fierce light 
 Stood naked and without shame. 
 
 While ever within his sight 
 The splendours rose and fell 
 
 That veil th' intolerable light 
 Of the Presence made visible. 
 
 210 
 
THE PASSING OF JOY 
 
 What doth young Hyacinthus here, or is it he of Troy, 
 Or loved of Goddess or of God, but each the fairest boy 
 That ever set a warld at arms, or bade a God employ 
 His shining soul in servile deeds to win a favor coy. 
 
 Or is it that fair Spartan lad, forever beautiful. 
 
 So passing fair the water nymphs raised their white arms 
 
 to pull 
 Him down amidst the pleasant shades of waters dim and 
 
 cool. 
 For whom the great Alcides crowns his hero brows with 
 
 wool. 
 
 Or hath the young Antinous arisen from the wave. 
 
 And burst the leaden chains of death, the dungeons of the 
 
 grave, 
 Who led a vassal to his will, his crowned and sceptred 
 
 slave ; 
 The Master of the Roman world — and impotent to save. 
 
 Nay, it is none of these dead boys, so beautiful of yore. 
 Who wave their wan, white hands to us, from their dim, 
 
 ghostly shore. 
 But He, my Well Beloved Joy, is fairer than the four, 
 Though each was fairest of the fair that all the ages bore. 
 
 His brows are wonderfully white; his lips are coral red; 
 Upon his cheeks the rose of York and Tudor rose are 
 wed; 
 
 211 
 
And when he opens his blue eyes, the erring dawn shall 
 
 tread 
 On stranger ways of unknown heights, bewildered and 
 
 misled. 
 
 Alack ! Alack ! What ails the boy ? He hath gone far 
 
 to seek 
 In some dim, undiscovered land, that patience pale and 
 
 meek, 
 That dulls the azure of his eyes, the roses of his cheek. 
 Thrice Beautiful and Best Beloved ! Speak to me when 
 
 I speak ! 
 
 Dead ! Dead ! And shall such Beauty die, such Glory pass 
 
 away, 
 Such Splendour leave its native heavens to hide its light 
 
 in clay? 
 Joy dead ! Then let the shining dawn forsake the gates 
 
 of day; 
 That heaven and earth alike may wear a monotone of 
 
 gray. 
 
 212 
 
GOD DEFEND THE RIGHT 
 
 Lord of Hosts, God of Battles, arm the Right ! 
 
 When the little Island Empire goes like David to the fight. 
 
 Be Thou then the shield before her, 
 
 Be the wing to hover o'er her, 
 Be her cloud of smoke by day, and be her cloud of fire by 
 night. 
 
 Let the justice of her pleading 
 
 With Thy Spirit interceding, 
 Rise above the noise of battle and find favor in Thy sight. 
 
 Lord of Hosts, God of Justice, shield the Just ! 
 Be a mighty fortress to her, though in Thee is not her 
 trust. 
 
 For her cause is high and human. 
 For our Brothers born of woman. 
 Twice two hundred squalid millions, cowering abject in 
 the dust. 
 
 With her strength may she uplift them, 
 Save them from themselves, and gift them. 
 Dower them with the gift of ransom from the brutal 
 Cossack's lust. 
 
 Lord of Hosts, God of Mercy, know Thine own ! 
 
 For Thy harvest fields stand ready where the seeds of 
 wrath were sown. 
 
 When Thy sickles are a-reaping. 
 When Thy sheaves of grain are heaping. 
 
 213 
 
When Thy harvesters are vanished, and Thy harvest fields 
 all mown, 
 
 Comes the hour of Thy awarding, 
 Thy condemning, Thy rewarding, 
 
 Sift their motives out, and judge them at the footstep of 
 Thy throne. 
 
 Lord of Hosts, God of Vengeance, lift Thy hand ! 
 For a long black shadow lies athwart, and blights an 
 ancient land. 
 
 Serpent-subtile in its creeping, 
 
 Tiger-cruel in its leaping, 
 Let it wither as a gourd before the fire of Thy command. 
 
 God of Vengeance, when Thy thunder 
 
 Parts the plunderer from his plunder. 
 Cursed be he who moves the landmarks and the metes 
 from where they stand. 
 
 214 
 
THE GOLDEN CUPS OF GOD 
 
 INSCRIBED^ WITHOUT PERMISSION^ TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 Pray you, sir, content your Highness with the tribute clue 
 to Ciesar. 
 Touch not THESE ! The Golden Vessels bear the 
 Covenant of our lands. 
 Touch them not, or touch them lightly, with your soldier's 
 hands, for these, sir, 
 THESE, the Levites of the Temple scarce may touch 
 with reverent hands. 
 
 Break your adamant of purpose, rash, impetuous and 
 unswerving; 
 Bare your feet ! 'Tis holy ground whereon the Poet's 
 feet have trod. 
 Holy, holy to the Lord, whereon his priestly hands in 
 serving, 
 Poured the sacrificial wine from out the Golden Cups of 
 God. 
 
 They wxre wrought by cunning workmen, in the cot and 
 in the castle. 
 Haughty hand of Norman noble, humble hand of Saxon 
 thrall, 
 Shaped the English metal deftly, midst the weeping or the 
 wassail, 
 By the turf fires, at the ingle nook, the torches in the 
 hall. 
 
 215 
 
Cleanly souls of Northern stature climbed their Jacob's 
 stairs of serving. 
 And the cognizance of princes lights the path of him 
 who serves. 
 Did the graver slip within their hands ? Then it may be in 
 the swerving 
 That the golden lines grew tangled in a knot of gracious 
 curves. 
 
 So the goodly cups were fashioned; and the splendour of 
 their gleaming 
 Lit the mediaeval shadows, as they passed from mouth to 
 mouth ; 
 And His Spirit touched the Poet's lips and the Poet in his 
 dreaming 
 Set the Northern gold a-sparkle with the jewels of the 
 South. 
 
 Purple gems from Grecian quarfies, solemn monotones of 
 colour; 
 Pearls despoiled from Eastern peoples; Latin gems of 
 cosmic flame; 
 Jewish jewels from the Temple, higher, holier and duller 
 With their smouldering depths a-tremble with the 
 radiance of the NAME. 
 
 High and holy hands have held them; and the splendour 
 of the Human 
 Threw diviner lights upon the antique vessels in their 
 hands. 
 
 216 
 
Standing upright in the Presence, unafraid, though born 
 of woman, 
 Heaping to a jealous God the First Fruits of our EngHsh 
 lands. 
 
 Shakespeare, with his arms colossal circling all the lands 
 and ages ; 
 Keats, whose boyish hands essayed to guide the coursers 
 of the sun; 
 Milton, soiling his high office with his treason's hell-got 
 wages ; 
 Tennyson, the golden throated, from the purple heights 
 he won. 
 
 These have served the Sacred Vessels that have bound the 
 kindred nations ; 
 Linked and leashed in laws of loving by their golden 
 arabesque. 
 They have served to pour our father's God the wine of 
 our oblations. 
 Though your Highness' haughty humor hold the antique 
 lines grotesque. 
 
 Servant, masterful in serving; Master, to your servants 
 loyal; 
 Hotspur in the van of Progress; final apex of His plan; 
 High born Tribune of the people, wearing lightly the 
 Blood Royal, 
 Long descended, high ascended, to the red heart of the 
 MAN. 
 
 217 
 
Undefiled and undiminished, give us back our ancient 
 letters ! 
 Moses smote the desert rock, the thirsty people drank 
 their fill; 
 Of the Courtesy we crave you, we, your clients, are your 
 debtors, 
 Greater that it flows reluctant from the granite of your 
 will. 
 
 Master mind O'f many moods, your mood may make, but 
 may not alter; 
 Lead the armies of the Morning, and we follow where 
 you lead. 
 Handle not to their misuse the Sacred Vessels on the 
 altar. 
 By the Splendour of the Soul of God, they still shall 
 serve our need ! 
 
 218 
 
THE CALL TO ARMS 
 
 Children of the Rising Sun, return ! 
 
 For new Hghts are glowing where the ancient watch fires 
 burn. 
 
 Come from lowlands and from highlands, 
 
 And a thousand tropic islands, 
 Tangled in a knot of emeralds in the amethystine blue. 
 
 To the mother-land that bore ye, 
 
 With the Sun Flag floating o'er ye, 
 And the old familiar pathways that your wandering foot- 
 steps knew. 
 
 Children of the Rising Sun, come home ! 
 From the far-off western land across the foam. 
 
 Drop the mattock and the spade, 
 
 And the tools of toil and trade ; 
 There are nobler tools a-forging in the furnace of events. 
 
 There's the land for your assistance, 
 
 There's the foe for your resistance. 
 With his vast and brutish body sprawled across two conti- 
 nents. 
 
 Children of the Rising Sun, go forth ! 
 For your Mother sets a banquet for the vultures in the 
 north. 
 
 There'll be service at the feast 
 For the greatest and the least, 
 For each son of the old empire, old two thousand years 
 ago. 
 
 219 
 
While the crimson tide is flowing, 
 And the banquet lights are glowing, 
 And the vultures gorge their greedy fill upon the spread 
 of snow. 
 
 Children of the Rising Sun, arise ! 
 
 For the fiery skeins of lightning are tangled in the skies. 
 
 There's the roll and crash of thunder 
 
 As the old worlds fall asunder; 
 But the strong young eastern Britain from the storm and 
 stress shall spring; 
 
 With the glamour of old splendour, 
 
 New ideals to defend her. 
 And with shelter for the peoples of the Orient 'neath her 
 wing. 
 
 220 
 
"THE GIFT TO DIE" 
 
 TO MY LADY FORTUNE. 
 
 Out on you, harlot ! Gorged with gold, 
 Giving your all to churl and clown ; 
 
 Drab of a play day, bought and sold. 
 Body and soul and scarlet gown. 
 
 Flung as a plaything to the base, 
 Tossed as a toy from man to man. 
 
 Where each may win you and wear a space, 
 And he may have you and hold — who can. 
 
 And so you have come for a moment's stay. 
 
 I may clip and kiss you and claim my right. 
 And who was it won you yesterday? 
 
 And who shall win you tomorrow night? 
 
 Yet yesterday to have won your kiss. 
 The Judas kiss from your lips that fell. 
 
 Why, I would have given my all for this, 
 Body and soul to burn in hell. 
 
 Now, Patience, a beggar, sits outworn ; 
 
 The gates of Reserve are flung apart; 
 And I write my name in the Book of Scorn 
 
 With the last black drops of a breaking heart. 
 
 I had not cared that my life should hold 
 In a red and rabble rout of noise, 
 
 221 
 
Nor fame, nor power,- nor love, nor gold. 
 The overgrown children's outworn toys. 
 
 They were naught to a soul like mine ; for so 
 I had been content had the path I trod 
 
 Borne the Red Flower of the Poet's woe. 
 And the Bitter Fruit of the Tree of God. 
 
 Oh, he who is born to the Purple, Knous. 
 
 And God be my Judge ! I knew it well, 
 While thrice a decade of wants and woes 
 
 I served my time at the gates of hell. 
 
 But who that passed me by should see 
 Beneath the cloak of hodden gray. 
 
 The purple and gold of Royalty 
 Sparkle and flash and burn away? 
 
 And up from desperate depths of me 
 
 And down from despairing heights, my eye 
 
 Flung them with mocking courtesy 
 The Poet's arrogant I Am I. 
 
 I had but a soul, and I threw my all, 
 A pearl of price, in an Esau's pot. 
 
 I clinched the chain on, sorrow's thrall, 
 And little reward I won, God wot. 
 
 I bent my soul to the body's need, 
 
 And wrought at a starved and stubborn soil. 
 
 222 
 
Apples of Sodom were my meed, 
 
 And the jester's cap to crown my toil. 
 
 I chose perforce the worser part. 
 
 And the pangs of an impotent desire 
 Stabbed in and seared against my heart 
 
 Cut like a sword and burn like fire. 
 
 Roses grow by the garden walk ; 
 
 Roses grow on the garden wall ; 
 They are dear to me, flower and stalk, 
 
 Heart's blood, soul's sweat drenched them all. 
 
 A star in a midnight tempest tossed ; 
 
 A gleam of light upon wintry seas; 
 And so — the battle was fought and lost, 
 
 And my soul was priced at toys like these. 
 
 And my soul against its prison bars 
 
 Beat in its impotent despair, 
 For the clean white spaces of the stars 
 
 And the blue serene of the upper air; 
 
 For the cool green silence of the wood ; 
 
 For the white-lipped voices of the sea ; 
 For the purple hills of solitude, 
 
 And the golden paths of liberty. 
 
 But if for a moment, in idle whim, 
 Or patient passion, I tried to slip 
 
 223 
 
The gyves from bruised and bleeding limb, 
 Duty, the master, cracked his whip. 
 
 Out on you, now, you two-faced jade! 
 
 Your fickle favors are dearly bought. 
 Come if you will and ply your trade. 
 
 But come as you will, you will come unsought. 
 
 Though you gave as a God might give, and not 
 From a miser's fingers, scrimped and doled, 
 
 As a God might give to a God, God wot, 
 Of his myrrh and frankincense and gold, 
 
 I would pass them by with heedless eyes; 
 
 I would not see, or I would not care; 
 I would give them all for the pearl of price 
 
 That you can not give and I can not wear; 
 
 For the soul that answered the wood bird's note, 
 Or spread its wings and adventured far, 
 
 For the heart that under the ragged coat 
 Throbbed to the pulse of sun and star. 
 
 Though you flung your glittering jewels high 
 Till they spilled from the golden cup again, 
 
 I would choose from all but "The Gift to Die," 
 And to cleanse my soul from the souls of men. 
 
 224 
 
THE GOLDEN SPURS OF GOD 
 
 Leave me here, I pray, a little. Thou art Thou and I am L 
 Thou and I rise up between us, and the mad Gods in the 
 
 sky. 
 Thou art cloth of gold of morning, lit with iridescent 
 
 gleams ; 
 I am purple stuff of midnight, pierced with opal light of 
 
 dreams ; 
 Thou art soft and shining, painted pink and white, a pretty 
 
 toy. 
 Dandled on the lap of Nature, fondled in the arms of Joy ; 
 I, the ghost of some lost God, who wander on from age 
 
 to age. 
 Through the endless cycles, seeking my withholden heritage. 
 I am immortelles of graveyards; thou art roses drenched 
 
 in dew; 
 Who shall bind the twain together? What shall be be- 
 tween us two? 
 Leave me now, again I pray thee, for the sentry stars are 
 
 drawn 
 All about night's ancient temples, midway between dusk 
 
 and dawn. 
 Playday friend, await our play-days. I alone would win 
 
 and wear 
 In my soul a deeper secret than the heart of man may 
 
 bear. 
 Raised upon despairing heights and plunged in guilty deeps 
 
 again. 
 Wrenching from the churlish warders Whence and Where 
 
 and Why and When. 
 
 225 
 
'Tis the place as once I knew it. I, the ghost of him who 
 
 knew, 
 Free to walk the earth till cock-crow, seek my olden paths 
 
 anew ; 
 Ocean View, that from the distance overlooks the shifting 
 
 sands 
 Flung from roaring ocean caverns on her wan and wasted 
 
 lands. 
 Here of old, a boy I wandered where the ocean mists are 
 
 . curled 
 Round the hilltops sloping westward to the edges of the 
 
 world. 
 In a labyrinth of shadows, dreaming some old dream anew. 
 Clutching with a boyish ardor broken sword and tangled 
 
 clew. 
 Many a night from yonder casement did I watch Orion 
 
 rise 
 With his jeweled girdle striding with wide steps across 
 
 the skies; 
 Many a night I watched the Pleiads with their patient 
 
 eyes grown dim 
 Seek beloved and lost Electra strayed beyond the heaven's 
 
 rim; 
 Many a night when night was flying did I see a pallid 
 
 Dawn 
 Shrink reluctant from her chambers with a pall of mist 
 
 o'er drawn; 
 Saw the sentry stars retreating, driven from the heavenly 
 
 field, 
 And the golden bars of morning flaunt above night's sable 
 
 shield. 
 
 226 
 
All the pageantry of Nature fed the altar fires of Art, 
 Twin and equal royal sisters, regnant ever in my heart. 
 And I walked in rhythmic madness and in airy fetters 
 
 bound, 
 Captive to a dream of Beauty and a melody of sound. 
 Hark ! What God compelling thunder splits the earth 
 
 from pole to pole, 
 What divine abysses open, driving lightnings round my 
 
 soul ! 
 Hark ! What ecstasies of battle and what clash of Gods at 
 
 strife, 
 'Tis the Blind Old Beggar calls me, thundering at the 
 
 gates of life. 
 Homer, dead, but ever Deathless; Homer, the All Seeing 
 
 blind; 
 Homer, begging bitter bread, and King of all the Kings of 
 
 mind. 
 Falls a gleam of Antique Splendour on the jacket of the 
 
 boy; 
 NOW, the Golden Age about him, HERE, before the walls 
 
 of Troy. 
 Dawn above beleaguered Ilium and the Greek encampment 
 
 hums 
 With the voice of many peoples, for divine Achilles 
 
 comes. 
 Pallas, cold and Tudor hearted, with the lightning of her 
 
 glance 
 Flashed from frozen deeps of azure, leads the van of 
 
 Greek advance. 
 Phoebus, standing from the rabble of the lesser Gods 
 
 apart, 
 
 227 
 
Guards the sacred walls that rose responsive to his Poet - 
 
 Art. 
 Oh, the splendour of the madness; oh, the glory of the 
 
 dream 
 Flashing through the gates of ivory, with All Beauty for 
 
 its theme. 
 Fancy, brought to bed of Sorrow, in his shower of golden 
 
 rain 
 Feels the throbbing of Her First Born, with an old remem- 
 bered pain. 
 Fancy, fleeing Time's duress on wings of wide aspiring, 
 
 spills 
 Antique gems from Eastern quarries on a slope of Western 
 
 hills. 
 While the boy, as Ganymede, caught in upper space and 
 
 whirled 
 On titanic wings of light above the shadow of the world, 
 Ate in trembling of the spirit and with gasping of the 
 
 breath 
 That forbidden Fruit of Life in those forgotten halls of 
 
 death. 
 Homer's magic and the boy ! Ah, here was wild and bitter 
 
 work 
 Brewed in some Medea's caldron in a haunted midnight 
 
 mirk. 
 Woe to him whose boyish fingers pluck the dragon-guarded 
 
 fruit 
 That hath sorrow for its blossom and black madness for 
 
 its root, 
 I am free and franchised yonder on the heights beyond the 
 
 stars, 
 
 228 
 
Free to guide the Sun God's coursers through the morn- 
 ing's shining bars. 
 But a crownless prince I wander, and in royal rags I 
 
 stand, 
 Stranger to my mother age and alien in my father's land. 
 And my eyes grow dull and heavy, wounded by exceeding 
 
 light, 
 And my ears are vexed with voices crying ceaseless in the 
 
 night. 
 Life, a drab in outworn tatters, hastens to her sullen 
 
 close 
 In a masque of Fates and Furies and a mire of Wants and 
 
 Woes. 
 Better I were lying yonder, where the golden poppies, spun 
 From his raveled cloth of satin, rise to greet Our Lord, 
 
 the Sun. 
 Where nemophila lies weeping tears of dew from her blue 
 
 eyes 
 For her deeper deeps of azure in the walls of paradise. 
 Nay, but Nature hath her vengeance; banned and barred 
 
 and broken, still 
 As a God, exacts her incense; as a woman, works her will. 
 Angry Nature smears her tablets and the straight lines of 
 
 her plan ; 
 And the heavens gain a Poet — but the world hath lost a 
 
 Man. 
 Man is one as God unchanging; but the Poet still is three, 
 Man and boy and woman, mingled in a changing trinity. 
 And the boy within my bosom, starved and stinted, still 
 
 shall claim 
 
 229 
 
Dew of morning to my noonday, though it shrink in that 
 
 fierce flame. 
 I, the dreamer, in my dreaming dreamed a deeper, truer 
 
 truth 
 In the silver bubbles floating in the golden halls of youth ; 
 Found in his fantastic follies the fulfilling of the law, 
 Beauty in the blackened blot and all perfection in the flaw. 
 Oh, to throw from off my soul the purple pall of mournful 
 
 rhyme ! 
 Oh, to wrench one hour of morning from the niggard hand 
 
 of Time ! 
 Oh, to see the years behind me swiftly lessening down the 
 
 night. 
 All the world untrod before me at the breaking of the 
 
 light ! 
 Oh, to see, a careless boy, the gilded bark of morning float 
 Through the rosy seas of ether and through purple hills 
 
 remote ! 
 This were more than Poet's poem; this were more than 
 
 singer's song; 
 Though the ages swept them starwards on increasing 
 
 currents strong. 
 Fool ! Tf Fancy lead thy footsteps, let her lead them to 
 
 thy gain. 
 Get thyself largesse from Sorrow and a guerdon out of 
 
 Pain. 
 Shall the boy's v^^eak fingers, clutching his mirage of 
 
 earthly things 
 Hold thy wild, exulting sorrow, soaring on exalted wings ? 
 Wilt thou lead the ages captive in a fickle chain of joy 
 
 230 
 
Of the evanescent roses from the forehead of the boy? 
 Drown thy soul in azure deeps of his serene, untroubled 
 
 eyes ; 
 Jove-like, set his shining hair a constellation in the skies. 
 This were folly past the folly that a folly's wage beseems ; 
 This were folly crowned by madness at the ivory gate of 
 
 dreams. 
 There be braver banners flying than the banner of the boy. 
 With its field of gold and azure and its crimson rose of 
 
 joy. 
 Throw thy all within the balance ; weigh thy more against 
 
 his less; 
 Thou art captive — Crowned and Sceptred — murmur not at 
 
 thy duress. 
 Ate lights the torch of fancy and the Furies fly behind ; 
 He shall pawn his heart who wears the costly jewels of 
 
 the mind. 
 Let thy almond flower of Beauty bloom upon the barren 
 
 rod; 
 And thy scattered Rose of Passion strew the path that 
 
 leads to God. 
 Gather thee thy little all, and bring the undiminished whole 
 To the Lord in many regions and the Captain of the Soul. 
 Oh, the stars in heaven are many ; but the Sun is crowned 
 
 and One, 
 And his star-crowned vassals render homage to Our Lord, 
 
 the Sun. 
 Keats, untimely slain in battle: Shelley, dead beside the 
 
 sea; 
 Tennvson, the flawless mirror to reflect all chivalrv; 
 
 231 
 
Homer's shining antique spear and Shakespeare's mediaeval 
 
 lance ; 
 These have rifled all the castles in the kingdom of 
 
 Romance. 
 And the golden halls stand empty, and the shining land lies 
 
 bare, 
 And the lesser knights but gather crumbs of Honour for 
 
 their share. 
 Wilt thou at the laureled altar break the Bread of Life 
 
 with these. 
 Drink the sacrificial chalice to its black and bitter lees; 
 Waiting in the inner holies, spirit naked and unshod, 
 For the Accolade of Phoebus, and the Golden Spurs of 
 
 God? 
 
 232 
 
THE GIFT OF THE SOUTH TO LINCOLN 
 
 As Florence drew about her breast the Hlies of her scorn, 
 And sent an exile from her heart, her First and Eldest 
 
 born. 
 The flawless gem, the flashing star, the fair, imperial 
 
 flower, 
 Which might, diminished twenty times, have been a 
 
 nation's dower ; 
 So we, exalted o'er the lands, to whom the Babe was born, 
 Received him with our lamps unfilled, and laughed the 
 
 Gift to scorn. 
 The river of our ancient blood, a river deep and wide, 
 Encircled with its sullen waves our purple peaks of pride. 
 The crowned phantoms of our race, their ghostly voices 
 
 cast 
 Into His balances, that weigh the future with the past. 
 Our voice annulled the voice of God, we trod the blossom 
 
 down; 
 Ourselves, with ruthless hands, despoiled the Jewel from 
 
 our Crown. 
 Our Morning Star, by night forbid to give its light, went 
 
 forth ; 
 Our Wandering Pleiad rose afar, the Pole Star of the 
 
 North. 
 
 And as the faithless city yearns in pangs of mother pain. 
 And stretches forth her empty hands to claim her own 
 again. 
 
 233 
 
Our earth-born voices cry to him across the voiceless 
 
 void; 
 We strive to warm our hearts before the fire ourselves 
 
 destroyed. 
 And still the Thought ! That fadeless lamp on altars of 
 
 regret. 
 Might Time approach Eternity to pay so dear a debt ! 
 To us remains, with hands made clean, with contrite 
 
 hearts to bring 
 Such gifts as Love may lay before a Prophet, Priest and 
 
 King. 
 We give a gift, a gracious gift, a gift of gifts, to shine 
 More dear than frankincense, or myrrh, or gold before 
 
 his shrine. 
 We give the purple of our pride, the scarlet of our sin, 
 Wherewith to weave a snow-white pall for him who lies 
 
 within. 
 Doubt not he knows ! Doubt not to him, the Just and 
 
 Merciful, 
 Our purple is as cloth of gold, our scarlet white as wool. 
 
 234 
 
MISERERE DOMINE 
 
 OCTOBER 10, 1911. 
 
 Thou dost not know, My Well Beloved, 
 
 Within her bosom sleeping, 
 With what mad steps the earth hath moved 
 
 That holds thee in her keeping. 
 Thou shalt not know; and I rejoice 
 
 That These, at least, are holy; 
 God's Silence o'er the people's voice. 
 
 And Death above life's folly. 
 
 The people greet their queen today, 
 
 Their new crowned Progress hailing. 
 Oh, God ! If this their mirth, I pray 
 
 Let me not hear their wailing. 
 From spirit heights I see beyond. 
 
 Oh, discord of tomorrow ! 
 Oh, glad, exultant voices wanned 
 
 And beaten thin by Sorrow ! 
 
 Oh, Christ ! In yonder Human shrine ; 
 
 Oh, God ! Above its steeple ; 
 Oh, Mystic Trinity Divine, 
 
 Pity this frenzied people. 
 Thy rods to heal their sin, oh. Lord, 
 
 With gracious balms of Sadness ; 
 Draw not the lightning of Thy Sword 
 
 To slay them in their Madness. 
 
 235 
 
I kneel within a falling shrine, 
 
 Before a broken altar; 
 An outworn creed I hold divine, 
 
 With loyal lips I falter. 
 Between me and a sacred flame 
 
 Her scarlet robes are flaunting; 
 Between me and the Holy Name 
 
 Her sacrilegious vaunting. 
 
 Upon exceeding mountain heights 
 
 Her Guilty World is tendered. 
 But I retain mine ancient rights, 
 
 Serenely unsurrendered. 
 She shall not claim my sacred wine, 
 
 The Sacrament of Sorrow; 
 The Bitter Bread of God is mine, 
 
 And mine is Death's Tomorrow. 
 
 Dear Dead ! The feet of Death are clean 
 
 From all her crimson welter. 
 Thou liest on yon slope of green 
 
 With yon green hills for shelter. 
 And that I loathe Life's stain and flaw, 
 
 And also that I love thee, 
 I, too, would rest by thee, and draw 
 
 Yon gracious green above me. 
 
 236 
 
THE PRAYER OF THE WEST 
 
 Judge Thou Between Them 
 
 We thank Thee, oh, God of our fathers, for the gift of the 
 
 sword and the clew ; 
 For the strength to drive nations before us, for the 
 
 patience to build them anew ; 
 For Thy Light to Thy servants restricted, and Thy 
 
 Promise reserved to the few. 
 
 We thank Thee, oh, God, that Thy Wisdom hath made us 
 
 Thy shepherds, to keep 
 With the sword of the flesh and the spirit, the steps of 
 
 Thy wandering sheep. 
 That hath showed us the fields of Thy harvest, and the 
 
 sickle wherewith we shall reap. 
 
 We have set forth our lamps on the mountains, that the 
 
 nations might see them from far; 
 O'er deserts and seas and morasses, we have followed the 
 
 course of Thy Star, 
 That Thy Light might be got of the shadows, and Thy 
 
 Peace of the travail of war. 
 
 Thou art mighty, oh, God, Thou art just. 
 And we zvho are dust of the dust. 
 
 We cry to Thy Justice to witness how well we have served 
 in our trust. 
 
 237 
 
We have sought out the festering places; we have swept 
 
 them with fire and with sword; 
 In the dungeons of heathenish darkness, we have let in 
 
 the light of Thy Word. 
 The paths and the highways are garnished, and made clean 
 
 for the steps of the Lord. 
 
 We have hunted their priests from the altars, where the 
 
 blasphemous wonders were shown; 
 And their heathenish temples lie shattered, or standing 
 
 deserted and lone. 
 Shut silence and shadows to worship, the impotent idols 
 
 o'erthrown. 
 
 We have broken their tyrants, and lifted the serf to the 
 
 heights of a man; 
 In the race to the swift and the strong, we were foremost, 
 
 but still, as we ran 
 We paused in the sweating and tumult, and hewed to the 
 
 lines of Thy Plan. 
 
 Thou art mighty, oh, God, Thou art good. 
 If our hands he not guiltless of blood. 
 
 Yet we cry to Thy Goodness to witness how we have with- 
 held and withstood. 
 
 Comes Esau, the seller of birthrights, to clutch at a birth- 
 right forsworn; 
 
 Come princes of paganish peoples ; come peoples decadent, 
 outworn; 
 
 238 
 
And the walls of Thy citadel crumble, blown down by the 
 blast of their horn. 
 
 We are thrown as a prey to the spoiler; they compass our 
 
 way with their wrath ; 
 We sink in their whirlpools of envy, that are set as a pit in 
 
 O'ur path ; 
 We are flung from the rocks of their hatred, and pierced 
 
 by the lances of Gath. 
 
 Oh, God of our fathers from olden. Destroyer and Builder, 
 
 we claim 
 Thy Promise, delivered in thunders, and circled by curses 
 
 of flame. 
 And Thy visible aid, as the sanction of the deeds we have 
 
 done in Thy Name. 
 
 Thou art mighty, Lord Christ, who wert human. 
 And we, who are compassed with foeman. 
 We cry to Thy throne for assistance, in the lifting of man 
 born of uoman. 
 
 239 
 
THE CRY OF THE' EAST 
 
 Judge Thou Between Them 
 
 We were great of aforetime; our fathers, from their seat 
 
 on the roof of the world, 
 Looked down on the valleys beneath them, where the 
 
 smoke of their camp fires upended, 
 And their trumpets rolled thunders before them, and their 
 
 strength on the valleys was hurled. 
 
 Their lightnings flashed down from the mountains; they 
 
 girdled the earth with a flame; 
 They pressed to the lips of the nations the red cup of 
 
 trembling and shame; 
 And the lands fled away from their coming, and the 
 
 desert sprang up when they came. 
 
 As a ghost brushed aside by the morning, is the tale of our 
 
 victories told. 
 As shadows trod down by the noonday, with our blood 
 
 grown more wise, or more cold, 
 We would sit in the sun in our fashion and worship our 
 
 Gods as of old. 
 
 Art Thou mighty, oh, God, art Thou just? 
 Then we, who are trod in the dust, 
 
 IV e cry to Thy justice to witness how ill these have served 
 in their trust. 
 
 240 
 
The halls of the Orient echo to the footstep of soldier and 
 
 priest ; 
 As vermin they cling to her garments; as locusts flock 
 
 down to the feast; 
 As vultures sink claws in her bosom to tear at the throat 
 
 of the East. 
 
 The beautiful temples are shattered and the glorious images 
 
 broke ; 
 And the holy signs and the wonders, at the shrines where 
 
 the oracles spoke 
 Have vanished, like shadows at noonday, or columns of 
 
 wind-driven smoke. 
 
 They have broken and banished our princes; the base and 
 
 unclean they set high ; 
 The rights of our fathers are juggled, and set on the cast 
 
 of a die, 
 From the tangle of red in the centre, to the uttermost edge 
 
 of the sky. 
 
 Art Thou mighty, oh, God, art Thou good? 
 Then these torrents of innocent Hood 
 Shall sweep o'er its shedders accusing, to the steps of Thy 
 throne in its Hood. 
 
 Lo, the round table feast of the brothers, and Esau sits 
 
 down to the feast ; 
 Lo, the weighing of lands in the balance, and the greatest 
 
 sprung forth from the least; 
 
 241 
 
Lo, the Hour, brought' to bed of the Nation, to strike for 
 the rights of the East. 
 
 And the trump of the Gods on the mountains, that calls to 
 
 the peoples from far. 
 That they rise in the mirk of the midnight, and watch for 
 
 the light of the Star, 
 Begot at the barbaric bridals, and borne in the travail of 
 
 war. 
 
 Such "faith," to the faithless we proffer, as lies in the lie 
 
 of our word; 
 Such "brotherhood," bastard-begotten; such "peace" as 
 
 the wars may afford; 
 Such "rights" as are spat from the rifles, and caught on 
 
 the point of the sword. 
 
 To the Gods of our race in the distance, 
 We cry, zvith pathetic persistence. 
 
 With the cry of the younger begot, for we claim but the 
 ■ right to existence. 
 
 242 
 
THE POET'S PROTOTYPE 
 
 I envy not the God of Light 
 His dalHance with the Dawn; 
 
 I envy not the Queen of Night 
 To young Endymion, 
 
 Nor Zeus his compelHng might; 
 I am Bellerophon. 
 
 Men call me mad for that I keep 
 
 A tryst beyond their ken ; 
 A light above yon upper deep 
 
 Beckons to me again; 
 I mount my winged steed and sweep 
 
 Beyond the sight of men. 
 
 A Splendid Passion is my guest 
 Who bars the door to Sleep, 
 
 Who in the dungeons of my breast 
 Bids captive Reason weep, 
 
 Who drives the wounded feet of Rest 
 Up yonder starry steep. 
 
 We mount the path of stars that shine 
 
 Beyond the earth's eclipse; 
 From fountains of the Soul Divine 
 
 A Radiant Madness drips; 
 Gasping, I drink the Hallowed Wine 
 
 With foaming of the lips. 
 
 243 
 
THE MUSE TO A MERCENARY "POET" 
 
 Lackey and scullion ! Dost thou seek for hire 
 To trail the white robes of the God in mire? 
 Think'st thou to fill the bounds of thy base need 
 With a King's Ransom, or a Poet's Meed? 
 Or wilt thou set the holiest Muse of Art 
 A common drab upon the public mart? 
 Soul hunger shalt thou know and not be fed ; 
 Though thy gross bod}' find its fill of bread. 
 Soul thirst shall parch thee with an arid heat; 
 Though pleasant waters sparkle at thy feet. 
 Pleasure shall seek and woo thee as a bride; 
 Thou shalt arise — filled and unsatisfied. 
 A Voice shall cry to thee and thou shalt hear 
 Faint through the earth born ringing in thy ear; 
 A Light shall shine for thee and thou shalt see 
 With clouded vision, dim and fitfully; 
 Voice and Light beckon to thee, but never again 
 Through all thy dolorous days of joy or pain 
 Shalt thou the Sword, or the Lost Clew regain. 
 Dust of the earth ! Clay of the common clay ! 
 Go down to shadows with thy little day. 
 But till thy night fall, my revenge I wreak, 
 The Agony of Lips that may not Speak. 
 
 244 
 
MAY 29 1512 
 
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