PS 3503 .R782 1904 Copy 1 Atttflttt?tt0 A Uratih nf Autumn iGeattpB ANTOINETTE A WREATH OF AUTUMN LEAVES BY Alonzo Brown ii PRE68 OF we8tbrook publishing company 6 North 13th Street, Philadelphia tfi^j X UBRARYof CONGRESS Two Copies Keceivca JAN 21 1905 y. Uofcyiiijiii entry v^, . 5 /, / q c r SS ^ XAc Noi J cyac t COPY B. I I II I !!■>! COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY ALONZO BROWN ANTOINETTE. I I read it from the sage's pen, It is the poet's wonted theme, That men are but the forms of men That move within a world of dream. Sorrow a dream, a dream the strife Of soul, the high aspiring zeal ; Fate smites her adamantine wheel To lightning, and we name it life. The soul of man, a sentient clod, A wandering voice upon the shore, That from the darkness unto God Cries through the ages evermore. What seems a part, O Lord, of Thee, Is but a flame, a smoking brand Swung to and fro within the hand Of blind, relentless destiny. I see the evening sunlight fall, I list the evening breezes play, And through yon dim aerial hall I see the cloud-wheels roll away. A moment from the voiceless deep, Shadows of mist that only seem, We watch the towers of Heaven gleam, Then, silence and eternal sleep. II The bards of eld have told it me, So say a hundred sages now, Each with a light upon his brow That tells of immortality. Fire mixed with clay is in the mould. Into the nothing if I must, But let me die with them that hold The fire diviner than the dust. Not downward run, O Death, to thee, With glimmering stream, the tides of time, Nor reach in some mysterious clime The stillness of Oblivion's sea. But upward, onward, heaves the wave, Bright circling till the farther zone Of waters doth in music lave The skirting of the Great White Throne. Ill We walked alone ; the autumn breeze Made music in the forest old, While spread the lordly maple trees Beneath our feet a floor of gold. And how we talked, dear Antoinette, Of finished dream and hope begun! The glory of that autumn sun Within my soul is shining yet. It was a calm, a holy hour ; — Thou spak'st of Andrew and thy love; — Down from her high encrimsoned bower Did float the mourning of the dove. The parting hand we took and gave, Life's holy call we understood; And there within the silent wood We laid our childhood in the grave. Years fled apace, our toil increased, Each fain would choose a place of rest; Mine eyes beheld the storied East And thine the glory of the West. Hyperion did flash for me A beacon to the gates of morn; To West, for thee, fair Cynthia's horn Poured golden fire upon the sea. As unto Him it seemeth good, The roaring waves around thee cease ; I still am toiling with the flood And thou hast entered into peace. A vision from that radiant shore Bends o'er me now; thy sainted face, Thy beauty and thy tender grace Abide within me evermore. Full oft I watch thy sail afar In the deep blue of ether gleam ; Thy ship a cloud, thy soul a star, So thou returnest in my dream. And sweet the hope I cherish yet, I sailing East, thee sailing West, In yon far Islands of the Blest, Shall meet again, dear Antoinette. IV Once more, as in the far-off days, I hear the wood-dove murmur sweet; I sit within the lone retreat, Or walk the old frequented ways. What golden hour hath ever passed But left its haunting, fond regret? Too sweet, too full of joy to last, Too full of sorrow to forget. To voice of bird my bosom thrills ; Fair are the fields as fair they seemed When children here we sat and dreamed Of the great world beyond the hills. One lofty hope, one sacred fire, Burned in us twain; of purpose true, Each heart did evermore aspire To something higher than it knew. Still do mv feet, as erst thev trod, Through the long darkness weary climb; Thou, strong in faith, of hope sublime, Didst leap as lightning unto God. Dead are the fires, or dimly burn, And trails the wing that Fancy gave; E'en Hope herself, if Hope return, Comes like a phantom from the grave. O the dead past, the wealth of tears! Beholdest thou the written page? And shall I bring thee in mine ag*e The fruitage of the wasted years? Ask me not now the golden sheaves; As one that gleaneth out of time, I gather up the scattered leaves And weave for thee a wreath of rhyme. Thy sainted name I call aloud Till all the listening hills rejoice; And Echo, daughter of a voice, Falls like an anthem from the cloud. My lips are purer naming thee, And song is healer to my heart; O might the song immortal be As thou thyself immortal art! Sweet spirit, touch me with thy breath. let me sing, or dream I sing, One glorious song ere I do wing O'er that lone river sounding death. 1 touch the ladder wrought of rhyme, I grasp it, stumbling in the night; Lend me thy harp, and I will climb From this dread silence into light. I spake, and heard the spirit say: "O thou, that dost a shadow sit, Faint echo of the Infinite, How shall I say thee yea, or nay? "Why art thou come, a pilgrim old, A wanderer from the ways of Truth ; Why askest now, thy story told, The music and the fire of youth? ''From springs within her sacred vale, Life filled for thee a cup divine, And thou hast poured it out like wine Upon the altars of thy Baal. "Thy wayward verse no joy shall bring, A flitting leaf in darkness blown ; Thy Psalm of Life I bid thee sing, But sing it to thyself alone. "Or, if thy heart to numbers wed Still yearns for what the world denies, The dead behold with kindly eyes ; — Go harp thy music to the dead. "Stay thou, or bid more quickly pass, The shadow slanting at the door ; Join bit by bit the shattered glass, Shall the clear image shine once more? "Thou hadst a voice with power to draw And fire the slumbering hearts of men; For that sweet lyre I gave thee then, Behold a scrannel-pipe of straw. "And mourn thou not, but humbly trust, If thy fair temple ere thou build, Thy hand shall crumble into dust And leave thy purpose unfulfilled. "Salute thy muse; she lifteth high A withered hand presaging doom, A sibyl raving in the gloom ; — Now take thy harp and prophesy." VI Then came the voice and milder came: "Weave, weave thy song; now, ere the gloom Of night enfold thee, web and loom ; Make new thy robe and hide thy shame. "Sing quickly, ere thy harp be rust, Once mute, and mute f orevermore ; What carest thou, thy body dust, Whether the dull world laugh or snore ? 'The world heeds not, and should not heed, Mayhap; thou thinkest not aright; Even a broken lyre hath might To save thy soul, — this be thy meed. "Sing blithe, for once the banquet o'er, Thy windows dark, stranger or kin, Ah, who shall ask at curtained door For the lone harper dead within? "Go weave thy songs, take heart of grace; The withered leaves upon thy brow, Thy Lord will bless, beholding how, Though late, thou strivest in the race. "Sing clear, albeit the jostling throng Pause not to hear. From thy deep Hell Set free, the magic wing of song Shall waft thee where archangels dwell. "Go count the gain and count the loss, Then take thy heavy burden up; The wine is bitter in the cup, No crown, mayhap, but take the Cross." VII The cypress I, and thou the pine, Neighbor, I bend and touch thee, — so; Now, let me tell thee all my woe, And I will listen unto thine. For silence is the food of grief, And none would bear his grief alone ; Each mourner fain would find relief In finding sorrow like his own. While thus I beat the little drum Of self, lamenting in the night, A voice that seemed a shaft of light, Fell on my soul and smote me dumb: "Thy sorrow is the summer snow; The little vintage of thy tears Is but the aftermath of woe To the great harvest of the years. "The little, little god of pelf Hath sent his prophet unto thee; The Lord of Life thou canst not see For that high altar unto self. "With glint of gold thine eyes are dim, Dim with the tinsel and the dross; Between thy doubting soul and Him, Lo, the dread shadow of the Cross! "Thy heart, a pearl within must lie, Else vain thy cup of bitter wine ; — 'Tis sacrifice that makes divine, The fool drinks hemlock but to die." 10 VIII My weary eyes for weeping fail, Beholding not the world's desire ; How blithe soe'er I touch the lyre, Its music trembles into wail. The prophets come, the prophets go, As lightning gleam their winged feet, And knowledge runneth to and fro And wisdom crieth in the street. And yet, alas! howe'er we crown The kingly soul that goeth up, We still do quaff th' enchantress' cup And serve the beast that goeth down. "We faint, we starve, O Christ, we die! From 'neath the city's granite floor, That voice of wail, that bitter cry, Rings in our ears forevermore. 'Tis ours to loose the galling band; We are the law, we are the state; — Alas, the iron hand of Fate Is oft a Christian brother's hand. With Gospel-preparation shod We tread the winepress for the gain, And naming it the wrath of God, Despise the soul that we have slain. Her robe defiled, her banner torn, Within her broken temple-gate Fair Freedom sitteth desolate, — The sons of Freedom are forsworn. >> ii The bride of Christ is captive led, In golden chain she maketh moan, Her children's blood is dripping red From teeth of dragons she hath sown. We boast of power, an arm unseen, We speak, and lo! the mountains nod; We are the mighty hand of God; Shall not the hand of God be clean? We garner souls, our golden sheaves, Yet hoarding still the earthly dross, More reverence pay the living thieves Than the dead Christ upon the cross. O Christian, wake! be bold and free! To thee the world unceasing cries; The world she hath a thousand eyes, And all her eyes are set on thee. Go draw from deeper, sweeter wells, Go bid thy selfishness depart ; Cast out the hypocrite that dwells In the Shekinah of thy heart. The temple veil go rend in twain, Lay bare the harlotry within ; Go smite the cheek of mitred sin That of pollution maketh gain. Let thine own life be pure and whole ; O'er outward foe woulds't thou prevail, Go slay the priests within thy soul That keep the altar-fires of Baal. 12 Wash thee, then gird thy sword again, Fear not the tumult and the roar; Truth smiting error, evermore Makes dreadful lightning unto men. Thou art the promise — prove thy worth- Of that great world that is to be, Behold the Lord of all the earth Doth stand and wait on thee, on thee. IX To him who well his part hath borne, Whose age a dauntless spirit cheers, The shadow of a hundred years Is but the twilight unto morn. The guerdon of immortal youth If thou would'st win be bold, be bold; Who fight for Freedom and for Truth, They do not die, they grow not old. Still sendeth God his men of might, Still to and fro his heralds fly, Still round the world his prophets cry, And speak the darkness into light. Though Sin doth breed upon the land, Though hearts be faint and vision fail, There still is left a stalwart band That have not bent the knee to Baal. Of all the grand and shining train, Thee, thee we love and honor most; In thee we joy, of thee we boast, O thou imperial son of Maine ! 13 Thy dauntless soul did mount alone And shine above the wavering crowd, As o'er the sons of Israel shone The Fiery Pillar and the Cloud. Thy years of toil and ceaseless strife Have taught the laggard world anew What one brave heart can dare and do ; Thou shamest us to nobler life. A chief art thou, a leader born, Thy tongue a sword, a sword thy pen, That flash the lightning of thy scorn, A terror unto evil men. We meet to-night, our hearts are glad, We joy in thee and thy renown; Thou wearest now the snowy crown Of many a brave Olympiad. The Lord anoints thee Prince of Men, And, seeing thee, we worship him; At morn we gird the sword again And march against the Anakim. X Through waveless calm of summer seas, Past flowery islands fringed with palm And odorous trees distilling balm, We seek the famed Hesperides. Not so, not so, forevermore Tis toil alone that giveth rest; Through crash of ocean and its roar, We gain the Islands of the Blest. 14 Awake, O youth, what seems afar The sound of dreamland music sweet, Is but the clangor of the street Or cymbals clashing unto war. The present hour is evermore An earnest of the great to be; Tis here we seek the mystic lore That lights us through eternity. With many a tower and many a dome, In every heart is builded fair A thing of fire, a thing of air, The likeness of the spirit's home. We rise from out the great unknown At stroke of the enchanter's rod, Wierd spirits mailed in flesh and bone That wore through darkness up to God. With roar of wheels and ceaseless hum, We move in power, a thing of dread, A voice between the voiceless dead And voiceless living yet to come. XI How passing fair the days of old, The glory of our golden prime! Our hearts were light, our spirits bold, In music ran the sands of Time. We trode upon enchanted ground ; Young Love awoke, to purple morn He winded clear his elfin horn ; Nor deemed we then so sweet a sound 15 Might echo down the vale of years And for the laughter and the smiles Claim bitter recompense of tears. Alas, the time! alas, the wiles! friends, the golden cycle run, Through that dread wall without a door, Each passing to return no more, How have ye vanished one by one! Still, like the tide upon the sands, The little people, wave on wave; 1 feel the might of tiny hands That push me to the open grave. I murmur not, I count it gain ; Love holds with youth eternal tryst; Though I do pass within the mist, The dreamer and the dream remain. XII My love stood at the gates of Morn, Like one that smiles but inly grieves, I saw her gather scattered leaves As from the book of Sibyl torn. "O Love," I cried, "the wine, red wine Of Life runs free; — behold, I quaff! Touch with thy lips and make divine, — ■ With thee I share it, half and half. "Two lives in one, a perfect whole ; On the fair stream no shadow lies. I look for truth within thine eyes And see the image of my soul. 16 "Without thy hand in vain I trim The sail, the auguries are vain; For one alone the sky is dim, I cast the horoscope for twain. "Toward one bright cloud — I mark the sign- Two eagles soar in yonder blue ; Of my own life a prophet true, Fain would I prophet be of thine. "I see a youth beside thee stand; He speaks thee fair, he loves thee well; The marriage ring is on thy hand, I hear the sound of marriage bell". Quoth she: "Within the ring I trace The path of years, — thy love is cold ; My heart is young, my face is old, And thou beholdest but the face". I said: "O love, thy words deny, I cleave to thee whate'er betide; The flower of youth may fade and die, My love shall evermore abide". And she: "Thou sayest our hearts are kin; Speech standeth in the door of thought And makes it dark; thy words are naught, I fain would see the soul within". "O love," I cried, "enthralled yet free, My heart, thy heart, the secret knows ; What need of words to thee and me Who speak the language of the rose ?" Sweet marriage bells, and smiles and tears, And clasped hands, and love's desire, And then, ah then, a paling fire Slow glimmering in the mist of years. Not eagle soaring to his rest, Nor the low mourning of the dove, Soft wooing to her leafy nest, The symbol and the type of love. life, O love, how fair ye seem, Transfigured in the fire of truth! No more in fantasies of youth, 1 seek fulfillment of my dream. My heart hath purer fire within, And hers hath learned a sweeter trust; We dwell beside the tents of Sin, Yet build no altar unto lust. I look not on the things of men, The days have brought me goodly store; I count the gain and evermore The now seems better than the then. Though light of that first Eden fail, Around me fairer Eden lies. The shrine of self is in the vale, — I climb the mount of sacrifice. One voice, one hand, my journey speeds To view the richer, broader land; We climb, and climb, 'tis not her hand That trembles, nay, nor mine that leads. 18 XIII A river rolling in the wood, A murmuring spring, a leafy tent, A poet making low lament Unto the fountain and the flood: for the song! my harp is true, My heart is unto music wed; 1 fain would sing the old, the new, But, woe is me! the Muse is dead. She died with old Maeonides, She died in Sappho's golden isle; She died beneath the glorious smile Of Athens, chanting trilogies. Her Pindar dead, a mourning ran In music round the Hill of Mars; For one great bard, Sicilian Pan Did pipe his sorrow to the stars. She sleeps with Maro by the steep Where mountain murmurs to the wave, She sleeps with Horace in the cave Of Tybur, an eternal sleep. One cypress wreath did round her own And Tasso's forehead twining run. Not into Heaven passed alone, O Florence, thine immortal son. Her garment glimmered in the dawn, As at the morn, all richly dight, A ladie fair, a goodlie knight, Rode through the vale of Avalon. 19 With words of fate that burned as fire, She talked with Omar in the tent ; Till with him vanished Muse and lyre Into the voiceless firmament. "Ah, woe is me!" the poet said; "I tune my harp, I touch the string ; The world it waits to hear me singr, But woe is me! the Muse is dead." A faerie queen and lover meet ; With warbled speech they onward go, As brooklets twain, whose waters sweet In ever tinkling music flow. Men say the world in scorn she quit; — A star the Muse, the bard a sun, She wanders with the mighty one Of Avon through the Infinite. With fair Urania one did move, In scorn of Fate, to high renown. Hers was a more than mortal love And his a more than mortal crown. Upon her arm, with failing breath, Her sightless Sampson weary leant, As from the world they silent went Through awful darkness unto death. O blithe the pipe and silvan horn By river-side and mountain glen! The mavis sang to purple morn That the old gods were come again. 20 Men saw the Muse with Goethe rise, A lightning flash, a flying throne; — The Land of Rhine a moment shone As shine the fields of Paradise. For children twain her heart is sad; The bard of St. Cecilia's day And him that sang the Dunciad, Mourning she crowned, and passed away. "Ah, woe is me!" the poet said; "I pledge to Love my vows renew ; I fain would sing of Freedom, too, But woe is me! the Muse is dead." Her lyre became a Northern Light And hinted immortality; The shadow of the Infinite Did waver on the land and sea. Childe Harold came, a pilgrim late, Sad exile from the court of Jove; He came in splendor, lord of love, He went in darkness, lord of hate. O Muse that leadest Shelley home, Turn thou no more thine envious eyes Where, 'neath the marble walls of Rome, The lordly Adonais lies. Ere shades of night the waters blur, For thy Endymion and thee The boundless marble of the sea Shall be a kinglier sepulchre. 2r In tattered robe a minstrel sat, And wept, and wept; in anguish sharp, "The man's a man for a' that", He cried, and broke a nation's harp. Thy heart, fair Muse, is cleft in twain, And half is with Aurora Leigh ; Sordello, mourning her and thee, Kept half, nepenthe to his pain. Thy daughter sleeps on Tuscan plain, Watched o'er by Alp and Apennine ; Thy son, in London's storied fane, With England's mightiest and thine. Once more the lamps are burning dim; In yonder lonely isle of Wight, Her love is dying in the night, And she is dying, too, with him. Like Merlin did the wizard pass ; Through window in the Muse's grot, He showed as in a magic glass How fair the towers of Camelot. Uncouth of speech, unskilled of pen, The fair young West sat lone and mute, Three prophets came with harp and lute, And voiced her music unto men. Each at the forge of fancy wrought, Their anvils rang a chorus true; Wide o'er the land the fire of thought In sparks from golden hammers flew. 22 And one I saw with laurel crown; Amid the roaring and the strife, I heard him chant a Psalm of Life, I saw the people bowing down. Beside his grave, the Muse alone Wept not though all the land did weep ; Beneath one low memorial stone Sibyl and son of Sibyl sleep. And one he piped a woodland note, A quiet man, the neighbors said ; The day the Muse and he were wed He wore a simple Quaker coat. By winding paths of joy and grief She led him to the house of Fame ; At last, upon her fair Greenleaf She, dying, wrote a deathless name. And one his scorn of evil hurled In language quaint and quainter jest ; Yet, Prophet Hosea, in thy breast There beat the heart of half the world. Dead lay the maid of music born, A rose within thy coffined hand; — For spirits twain the Gates of Horn Rolled inward to the Silent Land. Sweet trinity of song, sweet lyre! They sang, and passing to their rest, Each left an echo in the West, The hope of them that do aspire. 2^ And one there was did write his name, Like Sibyl, on the leaves of grass, And none might read, till glorious Fame Touched it with fire of chrysoprase. Loved of the storm, and wind-caressed, So went he forth; we saw him stand On the high places of the land, The great behemoth of the West. He lives an echo in the rock, A dweller in the tents of Pan; His soul is in the earthquake shock, In tempest, and the heart of man. And other mighty bards there be Perchance, invisible, alone, Each sitting on a crystal throne, Like the great gods we cannot see. And some there be that woo her smile, Like far-off dwellers of the sea, Each harping in his lonely isle, With none to hear his minstrelsy. But what doth more my sorrow move, Unnamed among the nameless host, There be that love and love her most Yet have no language for their love. XIV O for a harp whose thrilling tones Might syllable the burning thought, That e'en the discord of our groans Might be a deathless music wrought! 24 I hear the rush of eagle's wing, I hear the far-off bittern's drum, And now the city's roar and hum And now a faint asolian string. Earth cries aloud, "Abide, abide!" And still the ships flit o'er the sea; And the dread voice within the tide Sounds requiem and prophecy. I hear the music in the shell; But do I hear it as it blew From Ocean's lips? Or false, or true, Do I repeat it? Who shall tell? I cannot see my way aright, — I stumble on, nor mark the goal; My light, mayhap, a borrowed light, My soul, the shadow of a soul. Howe'er my verse in splendor glow, Within the fiery forge of thought, The cooling chain with labor wrought, Rings iron to the hammer's blow. And yet methinks within the lyre, Sweet cords unsmitten still remain, That wait some wizard's touch to fire Anew the grand, immortal strain. His song shall make my lisping dumb; Content am I; nay more, elate, If I but fiddle while I wait Till that great lord of music come. 25 XV Once more beside the sea! my lips Are wet with brine, old Ocean smiles ; Once more I watch the speeding ships Between the city and the isles. No myth, no dream, the gods of Greece ; I touch the shell that Triton blew; To the dim East I sail anew With Argo for the Golden Fleece. I hear the murmur of the throng In the blue hills of Ocean hid; I hear the harping and the song Of many a far off Hesperid. On river marge, by cliff and cave, The pipes of Pan; bright as of old, Sits Hesper in her tower of gold, Her lantern flashes to the wave. Within my heart forevermore Doth echo sweet, Apollo's lute. Greece hath her sleep, — her magic lore Enthralls me though her lips are mute. Here, where the azure wide unfurled Trails till the stars and ocean meet, And the blue sea-dogs run to greet Their mistress roaming round the world, To roar of breakers and the roll Of Triton sounding to the dome, I build an Ilium in my soul Out of the sea-mist and the foam. 26 XVI Give me, with Omar, in the calm,, Between the city and the sea, A harp and the o'ershadowing palm, And minstrels piping Pehlevi. Ho, for the East, the caravan ! A tent by night, a steed by day; — Away, o'er the wide waste, away To the high towers of Kublai Khan ! Or let me rest in spirit free Where that fair, fabled, Indian dove, Beneath the sorrow-ending tree Asoka, mourned her vanished love. There let me dream until the blue Rivers have rolled away in tears, After a thousand, thousand years, To wake again, — the world made new. Give me the onward march of man, The tumult and the shrilling tone Of bugle to the pipes of Pan At river-mouth and harbor blown. Give me the oak, the mountain pine, The seed of empire in the breast, And that great wonder moving west, The glory of the Saxon line. Give me to mark the far off goal Grow clearer as the cycle wanes; Give me the upward striving soul, — Be lord who will of what remains. 27 And may the giver, crowning bliss, How wide so'er my Eden lie, Sweet hope's fulfilment, grant that I, In the new home, remember this. XVII Night, sweet Night, that dost outpour A sea of darkness on my soul, And fill the sea with stars, bend o'er Me sleeping and my heart control. 1 take thy hand, O Night, thy breath Is winged with sleep ; here let me lie In the sweet dream of life till I Forget the waking dream of death. The low moon in her maiden charms Bends o'er the forest brown and still, To clasp within her snowy arms Endymion dreaming on the hill. I rest me here in thy soft noon Of stars ; I sleep, the amorous rose And lily lull me in repose; — I shall awake too soon, too soon. One fleecy cloudlet floating high, Gleams in the azure firmament Where some lone Arab of the sky Lies dreaming in his windy tent. Here in the sultry tide of noon, Myself and Arab dozing, too, Their veil of ether gleaming through, Go floating o'er me star and moon. 28 Noon, eternal be; let Him That made thee fair his might reveal, With magic touching spoke and rim, And stay the gliding of thy wheel. Ah, no? Then say at whose behest Thou hast from the blue zenith rolled And built with pillars flaming gold Thy bright pavilion in the West, And left still evening in the sky, Alone to weep the vanished day, And mourn with Dian, sigh for sigh, Her great Hyperion, passed away. The hills are pictured in the stream; 1 watch the giants of the wood, Like ghosts, reflected in the flood, Pass with the twilight into dream. Sweet eventide with sighs of love And yearning fraught! to unseen shore I wing my hopes, each like a dove, Through heaven to return no more. They come no more, but I shall go To them, where they have builded high My home, a palace in the sky; — Sweet Eventide hath told me so. XVIII In seraph's wing and golden-rod, Lo, one divine elixir flows ; Hath angel 'neath the eyes of God A seeming fairer than the rose? 29 My veins do run a redder wine For the sweet lyre within the rose; And lily's heart a secret knows That doth my heart incarnadine. A brother I, to bird and bee, — One language in the house of Pan; The stately soul within the tree Nods to the soul within the man. If thou and I immortal be, And thou a prophet, speaking oak, When each shall pass, a shadow, smoke, Where shall I meet thy soul, O tree? thought of him that understands, That murmuring bendest me above, 1 feel thy soft caressing hands; Say, dost thou love me as I love? Dost whisper me, O calm, serene, That just behind yon azure veil There standeth God? Mine eyes do fail; Believest where thou hast not seen? And hast thou rightly understood Why He that fashioned man and tree, Made thee a giant of the wood, And me a dwarf to question thee? Rememberest what time we sate By the great world-encircling stream And each began a mighty dream Of upward-yearning, strong as Fate? 30 And knowest thou what aeons lie Between us and that far-off shore, And what hath been since thou and I Heard that primeval ocean roar? Ah, what shall be the strife of soul, When once again the ways divide, Ere thee and me, once more, the tide Of being to one haven roll? And shall we guess or shall we know, The why of being and the how, Or bandy question to and fro No saner, wiser, then than now? And when this heart is cold and low, All silent in this lone retreat, tell how warm and true it beat For thee in ages long ago! How I did woo thee and desire To teach my harp a sweeter tone, Till thou didst make thyself a lyre And sound thy music with mine own. Mayhap some far off Eden lies, Where I shall be, the cycle run, A watcher and a Holy One, And thou a Tree of Paradise. 1 pledge no faith, I make no vow, I cast no foolish horoscope; The Lord of Life, he knoweth now, — I do not know, I only hope. 31 XIX Then spake the soul within the tree, Each leafy bough became a song To challenge mine; sweet minstrelsy, Mild as a lute, but O how strong! "Spirit that flittest to and fro, Thy tent of darkness in and out, That buildest altars unto Doubt, Nor sayest once, I know, I know, "Am I thy brother? Claimest kin? And that grim raven for thy soul ? Open, that I may look within And mock thee in thy house of dole. "Explain thy god that naught explains, Bow thee to each wind-shaken reed And tremble at the falling creed, — Yet the great Lord of Life remains. The prophets come, the prophets go, And cry each new evangel out, — So thou dost waver to and fro Upon the changing tides of doubt. "Now on a shoreless sea, becalmed, Most erring when believing most, Thou pipest unto spirits lost And knowest not that thou art damned. Thou seest ever in thy heart The shadow of the dread unknown ; Sweet song hath sealed thy lips, and Art Breathes on thee, touching thee to stone. ?.2 "Atom that evermore aspires, And questions ever how and why, Still hoping though the heart deny, I know thee as I knew thy sires. "They laugh, they weep, a little way Together, — then, nor smiles nor tears; Here in my shadow, mix their clay Father and son, a thousand years. "My sire and I the cycle span; Between us twain, the ages rolled Have heaped the ashes and the mould, — All that is left or known of man. "I cannot tell what kingdoms lie Twixt that white hand and this green bough; Thy word is brother, — then am I Immortal as immortal thou. "The lords of good and evil sit Upon the circle of the earth And the great doors of Death and Birth Swing outward to the Infinite. "Shinar from out her ruined bower Looks forth with mourning in her smile To him that late his Babel-Tower Hath builded in the Druid's isle. "He climbed unto the awful door Of Fate and challenged them that keep; But now, with Babylon, asleep, He waketh not forevermore. "An ocean rolling without rest, An empire waning till it die; — Thy mighty Nimrod of the West, What hath he told thee more than I? "Of things that are and things that seem, Discernest thou the false, the true? Thy soul hath run the cycle through, What now the image of thy dream? "What is the circuit? What the goal? And when shall this great wheel, aflame, With myriad suns, dissolving roll Into the nothing whence it came? "Go trim thy tiny cockle-shell And sail the star-encircled main ; Go ask the Pleiades again And bid the old Arcturus tell "Where thou shalt be when this great coil Unrolls, the universe outworn, And, what to thee, or rest or toil When Time uncycles night and morn. "And soul, if soul be greater man, Say, would thy Heaven Heaven be Without the song-bird and the tree? Or hast thou dreamed a fairer plan? "I ask nor why, nor whence I came, Nor who hath wrought me, trunk and limb; I do but stand and lift my flame Of leaves, an anthem unto Him. 34 "I touch the curtained doors of Fato, No inward fear, no outward zeal ; What she may hide, or what reveal, I do not know, I wait, I wait." XX A little child I lay in dream, There stood a heaven-reaching wall Twixt me and the great God, and all The lightning of the world did seem Within the wall. My soul was dust, A conscious ether downward blown Without a wind, — and hate and lust And darkness claimed me for their own. I saw a star that flaming fell, Quenched in the dark and noisome tide; I heard a voice that wailing cried, "This is Damnation, this is Hell!" And terror woke me. False or true, It was no dream, no wizard's rod That smote me. Child, but well I knew That I had touched the Mount of God. The child was youth, the youth was man; Once more that horror from the cave Of sleep; I stood beside a grave, The long years shrunken to a span. At eve, beneath the greenwood tree Methought there stood a minstrel old, And sang of love and poesy, Of lady fair and hero bold. 35 I saw a little globe of light Flit hither, thither on the mead; They whispered, "Death." I gave no heed, The phantom glimmered out of sight. Once more that sphere of light, as one That loiters, came; it smote the tree, It withered. "Death, but let him run", I said, "He seeks not me, not me". The little globe, or far or near, Did smite and smite, — its aim was true. The terror of the grave I knew Was sphered within, I felt no fear. And I did smile to see him pass. The trembling lily paled, "and I", She whispered, "is it I? Alas!" He touched her and I saw her die. And then he turned. Ah! who shall tell The terror? Did mine eyelids close? A dart of flame shot from the rose, — The world was lightning and I fell Dissolving into mist and fire, Fathomless depths, till a strong hand Me stayed; a voice, "Aspire, aspire!" One cried and touched me with his wand. Then a swift wing, ascending, bore Me upward from the gates of death, And lo, the morn! and the soft breath Of Spring, and light, sweet light once more. 36 XXI O thou that dost my heart inspire, Late coming, but expected long, Draw near; let thy sweet breath touch lyre And lips to a diviner song. The shadow and the voice of dole Within rebuke ; O wing my prayer Up to the Lord of Light and scare That dreadful raven from my soul. One blood, one fire our being hath, And twain, — He ransomed twain I wist ; Thy hand, and that great wall of wrath Shall roll asunder like a mist. And should my trembling soul, set free From clay, a moment downward tend, Speak thou the Master, he will send His mighty angel unto me. Mine eyes are dim, my locks are gray, And I a sweeter wisdom learn ; I weep no more the wasted day, Nor count the loss; late I return To the high purpose unfulfilled. Mark thou anew the height of wall, The tale of stone; I heed thy call, — Henceforth, O Lord, I build, I build. XXII Faith took my hand, around me shone A glory like the dream of youth; I stood upon the mount of Truth And saw the shadow of a throne. 37 1 saw unfold the perfect plan Of that fair world that is to be; A mightier than the fabled Pan Did pipe his music unto me. I saw one banner streaming o'er One glorious isle, one land of rest, And one great river rolling west That ceaseth not forevermore. I scan the cycles of the past, I see the beast and creeping thing, Each striving upward, till at last The voice of anthem and the wing. Life treads the lonely seons dim, Arising, Lord, to Thee sublime ; Who erst were dragons of the slime Now flame adoring seraphim. Each sunless cave thy mandate hears ; The voiceless people of the sea Do make a ladder of the years And climb through darkness unto Thee. From age to age, we know not how, We grow from children unto men ; We break the idols of the then To build the altars of the now. From age to age, we somewhat feel The changing of the mortal clod; From age to age, the golden wheel Of life doth circle nearer God. 38 We grope for truth, and blindly reach, Our eyes anointed dimly see The glory of the time to be, — We cannot voice it into speech. Yet 'mid the roar and dust and heat Of fiery forges purging doubt, Ten thousand clanging hammers beat The world's great anvil-music out. Fate spins ; Time weaves the shroud of Fate. To one fair goal the cycles run, Still do the Father and the Son Work evermore, — yea, work and wait. And while we cast the horoscope, Pursuing still our destined way, Faith lights anew the torch of Hope And guides until the perfect day. XXIII Cousin, my baubles at thy feet; Flash one the pure ethereal fire Of truth, that one to thy desire, Select, and wear it till we meet. Wear it, a token on thy brow, A talisman upon thy hand; Then I, howe'er exalted thou, Shall know thee in the Blessed Land. XXIV And Friend that dost my harping list, Fain would I speak thee, soul to soul, Once more ere dim oblivion roll O'er us and hide us in the mist. 39 But now my plaint hath vexed thee long; I am aweary of the strife And thou art weary of the song. Farewell, — this is my Psalm of Life. 4 o LIBRARY OF CONGRESS III|H|i|||"|i'il'!HIIII|i'M'""i|' I'" liiniiiiii II I II I II II I HI I ill I!!! 018 602 323 7