] an ee t\\%\ W omas 0ass-Jl M S3O t V7 Book_. '3$ Copyright^ ^03 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. THE DANCERS T 1 1 E DANCE R S And Other I U and hytid II V EDITH \l. THOMAS RICH VRD G. BADGER i K>3 Copyright 1902 by Richard G. Badger All Rights Rtstrved THE LIBRARY OFl OOIK3RE8S, I m..A«#A.< xXa No. JVWVA- I oorv b Printed at The Gorbam Press, Boston To the A i / homai i • ntcnts it - - • - Soul of the Vm - Is it - - - ' The Wohti of:-. W 35 ves of i' mo - Blossom Wind - - - - ige - - ure and Man - Wi pe is Done - The Life of a Bird - - per - No Nests and No Songs - ritage of Song - The Mintage of Sorrow - Lex Talionis - •J be Bees in In the Childhood of the May - 47 The Lover s World - -48 A Lone Woman s Watch-Night - 49 Forbearance - - - 5° The Lining of the Gloves - 51 How Many a Year - - 53 Siege - - - -54 Three Women in War Time - "55 One Woman s Voice Against War - 56 The Healing Hand - - -58 Guarding the Pass - - -59 Lost^Opportunity - - 60 At a North Window - -61 The Guest of a Summer - -61 The Perfect Hour - - -63 Beyond Memory - - -64 The Evening Road - - 65 Silent Amyclae - - 6j The Land of Lost Hopes - -69 Timon to the Athenians - -72 Where Goest Thou - - "73 A Knight Errant of the Soul - 74 As I Went Forth - - 76 rl 77 1 78 - e Laws A Vision oj 1 Compa - yagers - Palingenesis - - -go The Mistakes oj Id Me, Dark A !!!!• D f A I I And now a hundre The gloam-cv Din rcvc tin and h The stream slonc in light pursue* rg!o\s , And slender Dian bends • noiielc 1! Agnus' ancient heart is all alight, most shrine; ist a bene right On frost gendary ; His massive doors stand open to the night, And thence is heard the Nowcl hymn benign The priest his thank-uplifting censer >\vings, And, hid alort, the :sponsive - 111 •or his flock with fervor intercedes; But ort meanly sounds of mirth, outside, Do jar on piout souls bent o'er their beads; i youthful worshippers their thoughts di\ : mporal delights and spirit needs. The priest himself no longer will abide Hse heedless troop that dance and sing without; x> sends to bid them cease their revel-rout. i t IV But Youth and Holiday, conspiring twain! Their heady course they will not intermit, Impelled like the free steed once given rein. Counsel the morning zephyrs as they flit In ceaseless play across the bearded grain! But Youth, when once of grave decorum quit, Stays not his feet, till, of their own accord, Grown folly-tired, they sink upon the sward. V 'T was so. The ghostly father might upbraid — The merry Dancers heeded not at all; But wilder yet the measures that they swayed. Then on St. Magnus' self the priest did call; In open door he stood, and thus he prayed: "Oh, grant thy servant that it shall befall To these, who will not hear the word of grace, That they shall dance a twelvemonth in this place!" VI The dawn is red upon St. Magnus' spires, His chimes ring in the holy Christmas morn, Whilst, thin and light, the smoke from village fires Into the windless sky is slowly borne. Night-fallen snow the turf, the branch, attires In raiment white as wool new- washed and shorn; But in the drifted churchyard there's a spot The silent loom of Heaven hath mantled not. 12 \ II *now ha:t c night lot No: i the gathering in\ ng, VIII Margarethe — Bertha — Marie. iu break vour mo hea TV h breathless pleasure part. 14 Rupert as beguiled? ase, lctt benea the revelers lei Hie day wears late; the nightly ihadei descend. I\ leigh re peeps out the blushing May, Bee more the primrose leans I -, glad, the swallow To haunts nc autumn she forsook. • Iagnua* b must she chide — for look! :ig still, who danced on Christmas r. Iibey re singing itill, :<> suit the dance the. "Are ye not hungry? Bread and meat I bring: Eat, children; otherwise ye perish soon." "Are ye not thirsty? Water from the spring I've brought, to slake your thirst this blazing noon." Good souls ! down on the ground themselves they fling, And weep to see the unregarded boon; The summer days are long and fiercely bright: Sweet Heaven, would that endless were the night! XI And now 't is Margarethe! late yestreen Thy sister died, and dying, prayed for thee. They soon will bring her to the churchyard green; Yonder the heaped-up clods thyself may' st see. ,, "My Bertha! thou a bride this day hadst been; But now for ay unwedded must thou be!" "My Marie, little one! come, rest thee, sweet!" Meseems, but faster move those choric feet. XII Whoso to Colewiz Town comes pilgrim-wise, Or rider halting but to taste the ale, He must the Dancers see with his own eyes; Then ready credence lends he to the tale How luckless stranger, under twilight skies, Did fall in swoon before St. Magnus' pale, Believing that the Willis, circling there, Advanced to close him in their eddying snare. H Mil he late D -hrill. gn, The \\ inter ca heer, to melt ill. The P \l\ Then answer mikes the got> ••B ' ig be) lead not the life rail. >ild not shrink, though with the keenest ki >o t deadly stroke should deal.*' Spake then a stranger guest: "I have heard tell •rcbertus can reverse the spell; \\ , the great bishop dwelling at Colop The mighty Hercbertus, he alone ^ solves the charm a wizard *es the curse in -udden anger thrown." Thus talk good folk until, with droning tongue, St. Magnus' midnight bell bids all around hose who trcaJ. enchanted ground. XVI It is the winter, and the little town Once more is buried to its eyes in snow; And still a few last, loitering flakes come down, Albeit, in the western heavens low, A rosy smile redeems the zenith frown. And touched with rose the dreaming faces show Of them who, never worn, retire, advance, Singing the song that times their mazy dance. XVII Yet is St. Magnus' ancient heart alight, Glad, warm, and glowing, to his inmost shrine. For, if God wills it so, this Holy Night There shall be wrought a miracle divine, As those of eld were wrought, in all men's sight. Therefore, devoutly let each one incline; And if there lurk a secret thought of ill, That thought dislodge, and entertain good will. XVIII Down the long aisle he comes, that saintly man From far Cologne, our comfort to restore. His face, attentive, all the people scan — That blessing smile, the prophet-looks of yore. Close follows him the priest who laid the ban (Since then advanced in years a double score), With piteous livid cheek and bowed frame — God wot his sin hath brought its lustral flame! \l\ N «U, a* brethren «.• the In rub: aborcd pu, *c. hit wis not wmc I Bi ronouiur >c. un aught but ; ine hapless Dancers fi Now htth he crossed the threshold ot the do Now, silently, in hushed, expectant bands, the torch-lit dusk the people pour; us, where he stands, They throng, with u - growing more. He nothing holds in his grave, : hands Save the bent staff that shephcrvis used, ot To bring the strayed ur weakling to the told. XXI That staff from charm and malison sets free. That staff no greater miracle hath done, In all the ages past, than now ye see. Behold the Dancers! — how he smites each one, And, smiling, gently saith, ■ 'Absolved be From henceforth, thou my daughter, thou my mm - song dies out; and slack the eel, •vhen, unbanded, turns the spinning-wheel. XXII And now, in many a quavering, smothered call, 'Tis "Margarethe — Bertha — Marie, love!" And "Franz, my boy!" The dreamer stands in thrall. Down from the disenchanted boughs above, Dislodged, the feathery snow-wreaths lightly fall, Like shedded plumes. At the cold touch thereof, The dreamer starts into this waking world, And tears, unware, lie on the cheek impearled. XXIII Their year-long dance at last is done. But they, Young creatures all, they can remember naught Save that in Fairyland they were a day; A piper piped, and his sweet tunes they caught. To this, "It bodes no good," the gossips say. But at his word, who such release hath wrought, All hearts uplift, and put away all fears; And the sad priest throws off his load of years. XXIV Now might be seen the Yule fire blazing bright — Unfailing oasis in winter's waste; And now, the joyous revel at its height, Beneath the Druid branch the guests have paced. Ere one can think, St. Magnus sounds good night. Good night ! Once more the spiced sweet wine they taste Then gleams awhile the lantern's wandering spark; It sinks, a homeward star — and all is dark. 18 I IM [ANTED R A /.. ' //.;/.' I I r a talc oi I latel) read a trcasi; a hose legend -haun •nc. p the starlit d- the dead leaves eerie converse *ugh the rich Conjurer 'i Kingdom with mc n :ig there, the story shall be told I of old. 11 In Leinster in There was no maiden of the countryside But (allows (such a night as this!) her fortune tried. The bursting nut upon the hearth she plu ci lighted candle she would bear, Gazed in her glass with eyes intent and u ngs, like a witch's pra She sowed three ro\s> or nothing on the en Ill All rites had little Barbara performed, Yet nothing did she see, and nothing hear; Her busy thoughts soon into dreamland swarmed. The rosy apple lay, untasted, near For him who, ere another rounded year, Should taste Love's feast with her. And now the wind (As on this very night) with sighings drear, Spake close beneath her latticed window-blind Such dream wise things as it hath spoke time out of mind. IV Why moans our little sister? "Rest thee, rest! Fear naught." Soon careful arms have clasp'd her round, And a soft cheek against her own is pressed. For thus, since childhood, Barbara hath found In mother-love with sister's love upbound, Swift respite from the terrors of the night. But now, what sleep so restless, yet so sound, That not for touch or tone will take its flight, Or aught at all except the broadcast morning light! "My precious one, such troubled dreams were thine; Yet, though I strove, I could not waken thee." "Dear mother-sister — dearest sister mine — Methought an unknown guide did beckon me Far, far from here. My will I could not free; I needs must follow through weald and waste. Outworn I reached a manor fair to see; Outworn, alone, through a long hall I paced, That was with many a speaking, stately portrait graced. 20 \ I •>Scd a sta . n 'he hearth eld ■ little fitful flu trembling When, A voice pron< e and name, .tre That I mav tra^e thee when thou goctt I know not where!' VII il and a sinful thing — But over me cign, stern comm.r I must ol the birthday ring, D name engra\ :i the hand — The ring, thai *nd, ;i the marble n ^h. The »ut the tailing bn Then were the tour walls darkling earth and si And, once again, till dawn a wanderer was I. VIII •'But, Agatha, thou art not vexed at mer Thou dost not mourn the ring? 'Twas mine last This morning it is gone, as thou canst ser , darling, thou no reason hast to grieve: I may not tell thee why, but I be That ere another winged vear is r tfhtest threads tor thee will Fortune v So spake her sister, sage otlook and tone, ; iin her own. IX The Winter long is over in the land, And mellow is the furrowed soil, and quick With hopeful promise to the toiler's hand. He, too, that toils not, leaning on his stick, Is cheered to see the bean-flowers set so thick, And thick the blossoms on the orchard bough. How sweet the air! Hath any soul been sick? Oh, let that soul drink health from beauty now; Stand forth beneath the sky; unknit the careworn brow! X "Say, children, if ye guess, what aileth him — The stranger who oft leans beyond the hedge To see our budding roses? Yet so dim His eye, he knows them not from ragged sedge! The black ox's hoof hath trod on him, I pledge My hopes beyond the grave, he seeketh aye For that which flees him to the world's far edge! Come, children, tell me what the gossips say: Your grandsire nothing hears — the old at home must stay!' XI Good Agatha replies with playful look: "Let Barbara speak. And if she be the rose (To us the sweetest flower in any nook — Or tame or wild — that in our Leinster grows) Hath drawn the stranger to our garden-close, With what true eye hath he the best discerned." (A blush-rose, on the moment, springs and blows!) "Ay, sister, grandsire, all that I have learned, I freely tell you; since deceit I always spurned. 22 XII he liked a rov, in i iptkc I ga\ n he pasievl. Again, is I was scirchir acclct that had fallen | eipcd the he XIII grindiir hat, htm sta\ :>on the old oik bci it. pike of losses other's quest 4i ever hi he was blest .ird sight, sivc tor the thing he sought — ing not lost, 1 posscssc He had red naught; But much, in truth, hen of" whit he slid hive though' \l\ his time closed arc the ears of age, And lid-fast arc the eyes. And now, alone, Spake cirelcsslv good Agatha the sage: eat prudence, little Barhe, thou hast sho- But I have heard the stranger well is knov That gentle is his birth, and the estate Is broad I h singly h iwn. aid his health hath surf •some this air; so he prolongs hi XV Then subtly did fond Agatha contrive: "Thou doest but a charitable deed, If from his soul this withering gloom thou drive. Lightly along the self-same channel lead Thy talk. Say that thou gav'st his words good heed; Since back to thee thy bracelet he could bring, Thou would' st, once more, consult his wizard rede, For thou hast lost a yet more precious thing — Thy sister's gift to thee — the name, too, on the ring!" XVI "That dare I not — !" broke in the little maid; "For well thou knowest how the ring was lost, And all the tricks at Halloween I played. Alas, those charms were wrought at heavy cost, To be, as I have been, a homeless ghost — A shadow of myself — of self bereft !" "Then, child, tell only what importeth most — A ring of thine was somewhere lost, or left; And thou, once more, art fain to seek his counsel deft." XVII The Rose sends challenge to the flower- world all: What bloom like mine — at once both proud and sweet? Unstored do the Rose's burning accents fall Upon the twain within the garden-seat. Yet, what can make the Rose's color fleet From a young maiden's cheek — what sudden stress? What words are these a young man may repeat, While light springs up in eyes long lustreless? But come, let us o'erhear — 'twere idle, still to guess? 2 4 \\ III It ib ■tie Birluru bro* hid the th ted bv her sister's iul Since he had found hr • So great ■ wizard migh «kC. Intent, eak thou the truth, :p thine eves, and thev the truth shall ^pcak, it muft he that slender ring of gold Bounds the whole world of hap] eck. me when thou this ring didst lose, and eke All circumstance that did the time itl is then the Rose's color fled her check; But since her tongue to guile she could not K She told straight tor. '. i the end. XX * thou hast spoken truth, and naught beside" He said, "Til speak the living truth to thee. That night some charms of Halloween I tried, lus to do by a blithe comp.r In mine old hall, tar in the -ce. The charms pertormed, I thought of then DO DM I cemed it strange that sleep came not to me; And as the rising u >or, I watched with half-shut eyes the firelight on the 8 XXI "Then glidingly, and noiseless as a dream, A figure stoled in white, with floating hair, Touched faintly by the embers' fitful gleam, Approached the fireplace and stood wavering there — Stood piteously, with tender feet all bare, And tender palms reached out above the coals (As they had borne too long the frosty air). Then, I remembered me the time — All Souls, When visions vanish as the hour of midnight tolls! XXII "Already was the clock upon the stroke, Already had the vision turned to go When, in a voice I scarcely knew, I spoke, Desiring that the presence should bestow Some sign, or constant pledge of truth, to show When daylight should to disbelief incline. The vision faded. On the mantel, lo! This ring I found. And surely, it is thine, And surely, maiden, both the ring and thou art mine!" XXIII Needs not to say what afterwards befell — How smiled the mother-sister sage and dear, When came the fine confession, guessed full well; Or how, before the rounding of the year, She saw — through many a rainbow-lighted tear — Her darling pace the aisle, a happy bride! Nay ! — rather must I counsel all who hear Leave juggling wiles of Halloween untried, Lest no such powers benign your doubtful venture guide! 26 rm grai • >k upon the rushing str^ Alike they stand to tike th- onset's y retB. ath them. * its quiet gleam, Kheinstein ind :<> Rc:> hemtein, his bell \iries welding peal and funeral knell. rarer, as the bird or arrow flies, rs to thotc of Rcichenstein, Thin either* s bastions to the church thit lies in the nu g chine. So neir those windov. when a c dumb and skies ire gold, mutuil speech divine, converse Kuno hold, But Fite hid lessoned them to be more vrilC :han bold! To Gcrdi the I amc a gi* A birthday gift from Reichcm:cin he came, A letter round his neck: As true as s:. Hf % 11 fail thte not — Fidele is his name. Thus Kuno wrote, tanning more bright the flame ong-increasing fancies — how the steed, ch his own hand to one high hest did tame, Should bear her, serve her, though himself, indeed, Might not so much as touch her C that birthday morn, his dear last hope ij stolen hence; tor at the trial-tilt, He one had met, with whom he might not cope — Dark Kurt, whose hand was ever on the hilt, Prompt still to deeds of violence and guilt, To him the prize, old Sifrid's daughter, passed. Sweet Gerda! Many tears her blue eyes spilt, Her heart was holden, and its doors were fast; Yet what avails? Her father's will in iron was cast. The bridal day was set — too soon arrived! The Castle maidens robed her as they would — In veil and vestment by deft hands contrived — In gems and laces of the antique mood. In splendor tired — yet in their midst she stood Like some fair chosen creature without stain, That, thus bedecked, in early times and rude, Was led unto the altar to be slain, Where the lean priest stood waiting pitiless and fain. And flesh had failed her in that deathly hour, But that, to Mother Mary she had knelt, At dawn of day, to ask her saving power; And, rising up, a nameless cheer had felt, That even yet within her bosom dwelt. Joyous she seemed, whom sorrow late consumed; But, here and there, an eye did sudden melt, Of such as judged to madness she was doomed, Unless, ere long, a broken heart should be entombed! One dartling glance toward the neighboring cliff! For well her heart divined who watched her there; Then spake she gayly, "'Twere great favor if Mine own good gray my maiden self might bear Once more to Clement's shrine. ' ' They grant her prayer. 28 the sell || lifting crag or Beheld the wedding guests ride . in their \an a> Put mortal speech, his love 4inl sorr I — d a fair pi Nor knew he red. But as keen thought its many edges tunu • ndrous sight dii . as the bridal i ight, the gray hor Strikes with sharp hoove he makes, the while his rider he The welcome call «>r waters, deep and hu. nng to death no hand i N hind save Heaven's that death can n tall, But, reared to plunge, the pacer wheels though from tar aloft, a master call He heeds — a voice whereof he knows the i lo! with Hying fc nd on bo . >ad no charger's hoof before hath traced, He takes the steep, as it were level ground! To Reichenstein he mounts! "No time to waste!" ('Tis Kuno's voice) "Let down the drawbridge in all haste/ ' Soon, in the Castle's court, Fidele stands, With quivering, foam sprent-flank, with drooping head. Unclasped from his neck are Gerda's hands, And from his back his burden dear is shed. Can ye not guess what tenderest words are said (What love-names, also, for the gallant gray)? But it behooves me to recount, instead, How Kuno orders all in armed array, To meet whatever foes the castle's walls essay. But even as the hurried order goes, A gathering rumor runs about the place, And soon the barred and massive doors unclose, And henchmen four, with slow, regardful pace, Bear hither Sifrid. He, in the mad chase, Unseated from his horse, 'mid rocks was thrown. But he, while suffering sharpens all his face, Is fain to speak: "My children, I atone: Ye shall each other's be; and both be as mine own!" Thus spake sweet Gerda's father in remorse Nor knew his vow was loosed the while he spake. Though even then, the Kurt — an unwept corse Down the swift Rhine his drowned way did take. But, while the new-found joy cures past heartache, The gray approaches, and with neck a-droop (As one but glad or sorry for their sake), Pushes his loving way into the group, While a brave cheer runs round the Castle's yeoman troop! 3o NIK SOI i i HI H Whenever about the fields I %oul of the violet haunt - 1 look — there is never I lei! to be » In the patched grass is no thread of peCRJ But I walk as one who would chide Lest they trample the hope of something if Here cmn no flower be blooming, I know — :hc soul of the .»unts mc Again and again that thrilling breath, Fresh as the lite that is snatched out Keen as the blow that Lore might deal Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal — trilling thai breath, *o vital that blow — The soul >let haunts me Is it the blossom that slumbers as •r the leaf-mould dank and M And visits in dreams the wondering air rcof the passing sweetness I srw is it the flower shed long ago? The soul of the violet haunts me so! 3» IS IT SPRING AGAIN IN OHIO Is it Spring again in Ohio? Is the sleep of the Winter over? Far in the heavens, the bluebird, Low in the marshland, the plover, Anear, in the orchard, the redbreast, — Wherever one looks, the hover Of wings — wherever one listens, The note of the homing rover! Is it Spring again in Ohio? Is it Spring again in Ohio, And the sleep of the Winter over? Blooms in the woods the wild service? Where Zephyr bendeth above her, Gleams the faint dawn of the wind-flower? Breaks from the turfy cover The tender star of the thistle, — The dew-cradling leaf of the clover? Is it Spring again in Ohio? Is it spring again in Ohio, And the sleep of the Winter over? Are these the rare days — O my comrade — Blithest for homing rover? Once would we forth — and follow Far as the cry of the plover — By stream, and by greening pasture, By fallow, and breezy cover! Is it Spring again in Ohio? I tnij laluting: ! . II I. •• W HE \RT BR v - SPRING :n the ctrlicst violets <■: est southward slot When the <-rc>» in .ver slim Palely light the wood path dim, il s wee; and keen • the Mill- il seen, When that blitbe forerunning air Breathes more hope than thou canst bear, Thou, O buried, broken h Into quivering life shall itti Thou shah ask the flov, erctorc waken these — and these, — Soulless gazers on the light, Wherefore lead these up from night, And not send a thrilling call :ng eyes more sweet than all." 33 MIDNIGHT BREAD Above the canon of the street The gleaming files of Heavens climb: One almost hears his own heart beat — So silent and so dead the time! Far, far away the tide has drawn, That, sounding, filled this canon's cleft; The city's myriad soul is gone, And but its empty frame is left. But what is yonder moving line — Scarce moving line, in human guise, Near by where Grace Church lifts her sign That fostering care is in the skies? One — two — the bell-tower now has dealt, 'Tis late, but later yet shall be Ere this slow moving line shall melt Which nightly Heaven's watchers see. These are my brothers scorned of Fate — My brothers of the Empty Hand: Their turn in silence they await, Patient, half-sleeping, as they stand. Into the dark, at length, they fade, Bearing their dole of Midnight Bread; And when the hunger-pang is stayed God knows where each shall lav his head! 34 Birc «rc my walk, •ool ! Hark, how the \\o\\cs <>• • 15 the sound I heard a huma fire on mv hearth ^ht :hout is the N Blanching with fear from C4rth to iky — I ot the wind rush :, they arc fell, and they never tire, But they shun the ligl blazing fire. So bk portion, so sate am I. js the sound I heard a human cr j They have broken the leash that held them back, he whole world dreads the fierce, wild pack! To shelter, to shelter, let all things fly — Hark, how the wolves of the wind rush Matters not where, the heath, or the town, Whatever they meet they're trampling down: of the victim they're draining dl is the sound 1 heard a human CfJ The sound, too plain it rises again, The myriad wailing ot outcast men: In the pith ot the pack the en lie — Hark, how the v Who is it knocks at the door of my heart? Open I must, though in terror I start, At the blue-cold lip and the hollow eye. (The sound I heard was a human cry!) Whoever hath shelter, whoever hath store, Slide the bolt of the grudging door; Be the poor with us, lest they should die — Hark, how the wolves of the wind rush by ! THE DOVES OF THE DUOMO Said the brooding dove to her mate, ' 'Whenever the great bell tolls (And it tolls both early and late) The good folk pray for their souls.' ' "What matters to thee and to me? We have no souls, men say, (And wiser are men than we;) So, therefore, we need not to pray/' "Then," said the brooding dove, "Let us pray — let us pray for their souls- For the city we so much love — Whenever the great bell tolls!" 36 • WIND Is th . light o'crlaps the . :hc Blo^ Merc, ill unscc • But the heirs the And the bee within the \ honeyed bet trees, to shi' their sn ie leans, to look and listen, When the Blossom gins to bl :is but the lightest sighing, ng not the downball from the grass; But the s he place d it, n the hour of Beauty soon mutt pass! petal fa :he earliest flake of snow — he bough its comrades tremble, he Blossom Wind begins to blow 37 Borne along the hollow fragrant tempest, Drifts the orchard Spirit to her doom. Faintly heard, a fairy dirge is chanting, — Faintly glimpsed her face amid the eddying bloom. Blown afar the fair pavilion; Then the rain comes soft and slow; Sober green the flower replaces, When the Blossom Wind has ceased to blow. 38 I All the Mist-dru; Mi, I m here to praise the | I, nunc cir tttUfl its taint communis I, it> ning, ;ig 1 will praise tru- ll All the v attention the bud that ne'er uncloses — Flower of dim, irfld gentif Said the poet: ••Let the uorld praise on" I the bud that ne'er uncloses! Though its heart deep Never bee has cn:r Fancy, tired or roaming, In itl violet gloam Sinks down and r Ill All the world pays court to famed ones High in honor seated. Who will praise the great unnamed ones And the brave defeated? Said the poet: "Let the world pay court to famed ones, I will praise the great unnamed ones, Sing their viewless trophies — Word their silent strophes — I their own true lover; Till the world discover These its great unnamed ones!" MIRAGE Treasure the shadow. Somewhere, firmly based, Arise those turrets that in cloud-land shine; Somewhere, to thirsty toilers of the waste, Yon phantom well-spring is a living sign. Treasure the shadow. Somewhere, past thy sight, Past all men's sight, waits the true heaven at last: Tell them whose fear would put thy hope to flight, There are no shadows save from substance cast. 40 \ND M \\ g of the am nging Io\ - the front ot the m< 11] speak • of the rapture I the v hut repeatcth the liquid |lfl the the flame of the rote is not brighter, in token, as ■ passes I I the song of the i ugh his little heart with m the answering npturc ol nun DO quickening impulse shall take. O drops of :h ot the thorn! () singing bir \ere never a mutual tongue, is there never a common rein to give thanks, wherein to give praise, from the hearts ye have filled? i the pure distilmcnt \cr tning, has spilled? 4' If but one moment, in all the swift season giddy with change, We that are God's one creation, yet strangers, might be less strange! But this is the pain of" the pleasure — the bitter-sweet which man drains: Unconscious-glad Nature unconscious of man forever re- mains! WHEN HOPE IS DONE Who turns away from gazing at the sun Sees its dusk images fill all the air. It is not otherwise when Hope is done: Her darkling phantoms make the heaven of Despair. 4 2 I'll: I BIRD .>ns arc ti >som a tl thine c power M sets thec idt] Thou the tide and the hour . or turn I - the world th :ig. Thou herald ot rapture and light. Thou wca\cst a home oung — DC but thyself hath the sleight. rid thou an gone, \o shall say where is thy re ipturc and light are withdrawn Into some Heaven-side nest. For who \\ hath beheld Where, stricken, v. Haat thou not been, from ot old, — 45 A LIGHT SLEEPER By his lov'd nest and hopes, sits fast asleep The sedge-bird in some dewy covert deep; Throw the least pebble there, he quickly wakes Quickly the long bright day's refrain uptakes. So is it with the Muse's slumbering child; His couch is made upon Parnassus wild; If Sleep depart, Song springs within his breast, And wakes the old melodious unrest. "NO NESTS AND NO SONGS" Why are ye silent, ye dryads of thicket and grove? Perchance from the fowler ye hide and brood o'er your wrongs. "Nay; careless and songless at close of the season we rove, Mute are we all, after springtime — no nests and no songs!* ' Wise were ye ever, ye dryads of thicket and grove ! To the fullness of life and its struggle all joyance belongs: And we — when no longer we strive, as blithely we strove — Is it so with ourselves as with you — no nests and no songs? 44 I o? the GoddcN ling on •< part, md pitting desr, — ire the P \ blended \ regions where throng: P emi vc the poet's 1< s ^ng. . know ye not where tire the soil huh ih<« One moon shall re the sv- » cr shall have star; :>eauty all the chastened gro ed soul hath, alto, some such hattlc-rlcld — It hath the vintage, too, ol Thrasymene! LEX TALIONIS Say the finny folk who glide in the stream, "We could be happy the whole day long Were it not that in sun or in shadow we dream Of pinions that hover to do us wrong !" Say the people whose pathways are through the sky, "We could sing our songs, we could brood our nests, Were it not we have seen our fellows lie With a strange red plume on their silent breasts!' ' The fowler mused as he bagged the game, "How careless and free were man's estate Were it not for the fear he scarce can name — Were it not for the arrows of lurking Fate!" THE BEES IN FLORIDA To that soft, floral land, where lurks no storm, Where hides the quest of Ponce de Leon, Bring from the north your murmuring, busy swarm — No sweets they'll hive where wintry want is none! So with the Muse's child; where pleasures are, Where new delights arise, unnamed, unsought, No song he makes for days and ears afar, But hovers idly in the sunshine of his thought ! + 6 In the childhood But so s>. Tha jrc thr\ . U ij ! Tb I there is • In th M ty, — ICUTC am! : — Icfa is dearer \ >uld destr Pleasure, also, we must ill There is joy and there is pain In the childhood ot the M There arc thought- not chain, they hold ethcrc. er — beaded rain — Halt" conceal them, halt bet: Did : by girl U Halt-rcmcm* c can never quite dest: re them welcome, give them way, — Subtle pain and subtler In the childhood of the M ♦7 THE LOVER'S WORLD They were all more subtle than I, Who moved in blind rapture among them, "That our notes are new, we deny, A thousand times over we've sung them, Be it thrush, or linnet, or dove!" "Nay, but ye birds, one and all, Now sing, with a rounded completeness, From matin to vesper call; Where got ye that marvelous sweetness?' ' "From the voice of the soul of thy love!" They were all more subtle than I, Who knelt in rapt worship before them, "The roses of summers gone by, Didst thou so praise, so adore them, And set them all roses above?" "Nay; but ye are not the same — Ye bloom with a beauty supremer; Where got ye that delicate flame, Half veiling your petals?" "O dreamer. From the light of the soul of thy love. n l 4 8 mum NIGH i \ the ! — All shape chc <>ac, ; ,cr attic nook above i >^ to its pleasures B\ one lone limp i slender glut she fillc AiKi \\c. The while she mused with a Tnert was • joyoui time — :imc, how long, how long , r'i house . *er The laughing guests had sped the parting \ c*r . . . riow, from bclfrv high, The chime rang out against a tingling s hile the crystal solitude grew tense, raised the chalice clear mute pledging intimate and dear irank to those she loved, ot sundered lot; She drank to those she loved — but who forgo: memory, Memory's only recompense :rank to those whose lips in dust are d Whoae ipirits, as she mused, with kindling etc, Seemed leaning from the starlit vague immense, Though veiled to lei 4V And if, of these one face all peerless shone, — One face, — long-lost in youth, such spell it wrought Her own grew younger with so dear a thought! Thus, lonely, yet forever not quite lone Her clear face lit from far within the soul, With Love that temporizeth not with Doubt — With memories deathless while the long years roll, She watched the Old Year out. FORBEARANCE He said — oft questioned why his wit's keen lance, Strikes right and left, his bosom-friend perchance, While traitor and deserter scathless go — "We speak no evil of the dead, you know! ,, 5° the Itttd c— M Rece i ved 4 > her gloves so fine, I . 1-fillcvi and plump ucrc the re — 1 purse uj> filled with gold I at cich 1 ambush roll It shot a laughing g ough to say: On N earnest thought and sp< A client fair her tec would . >uit well-won at court. A dan x>, there was f days of dainty hood!) shown m) rausc, Hive proof of gratituci The glistening itoi I read the dainty note; 60 took his subtle pen in ha Al rote: — "Lady, upon a New Year's Day, No gift of grace we spurn; But, while your gloves I keep for aye, The lining I return.' ' Thus, in the gracious days of old, They spake in gracious phrase: 'Twas golden speech from hearts of gold- Ah f bring me back those days! MO \R