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DRAMATIC SKETCHES 
 
 AND 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 y 
 
 LOUIS J. BLOCK. 
 
 t<^ 
 
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 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 I 89 I. 
 
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 Copyright, 1 89 1, by Louis J. Block. 
 
 " 'orYi''LRS'vNPr'Rr '""" 
 
 ■i|| |sreKeoT7i''LRS'vNPr'RiNTERS| |i 
 
TO MY FRIEND 
 
 DR. H. K. JONES 
 ®;fti$ Book 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 DRAMATIC. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Exile — An Episode ii 
 
 Tantalus 83 
 
 Pygmalion 86 
 
 Hanging the Pictures , 90 
 
 LYRICAL AND NARRATIVE. 
 
 Ad Poetam . 95 
 
 The New Midas 96 
 
 The Feast of Roses loi 
 
 Ariadne 109 
 
 Actseon in 
 
 Ithaca 114 
 
 A Dream 116 
 
 The Royal Questioner 118 
 
 Longing 127 
 
 Weaving 131 
 
 My Ship 13s 
 
 Success 138 
 
 The Field 140 
 
 Wild Wind of the North 143 
 
 The Evening Star 145 
 
 The Drop 146 
 
 Snow-mist 147 
 
 I* 5 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Cliff 148 
 
 The Rose 150 
 
 The Star 151 
 
 Resurgence '. . •• 152 
 
 The New Day 155 
 
 Before Winter 159 
 
 Noon 162 
 
 A Summer Morning 164 
 
 The Inlet i66 
 
 The Voice of the Soul 168 
 
 The Sirens 170 
 
 Faith 172 
 
 The Quest 174 
 
 Forever 176 
 
 The Eternal Heights 177 
 
 Fate . . 178 
 
 A Thought 179 
 
 Solitude 180 
 
 Warning 182 
 
 Echo 183 
 
 Invitation 184 
 
 Premonition 185 
 
 A Platonic Hymn . , 186 
 
 Tuberose • 191 
 
 A Sigh 193 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Suspiria 197 
 
 Sub-conscious 198 
 
 Sunrise in Winter 199 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 For Pictures. I. — War 200 
 
 II. — Peace 200 
 
 Progress 202 
 
 World-Slumber . . . . ■ 203 
 
 Pandemos 204 
 
 Urania 206 
 
 The Soul speaks 208 
 
 The Intellect speaks 209 
 
 The Spirit speaks 210 
 
 Fulfilment 211 
 
 Dedication 212 
 
DRAMATIC. 
 
EXILE. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Ida. 1 
 
 . > Two children. 
 
 Alfred. ) 
 
 Scene : The shore and waters of an inlet of the sea. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Stranger {alone). 
 
 Is there in the deed-world a deed, a way, 
 Worth doing or worth following? Is there aught 
 That can call out from spirit's secret deeps 
 The hopes, the longings, that lie sleeping there, 
 Until the hour, the time, ordained of God, 
 Touches them with light point of spear or dart, 
 And they leap forth in light ? I cannot deem so. 
 The largest deeds of men are slender waves 
 Upon the sea's unmeasured stretch ; a king 
 Sits high enthroned, and dim forgetfulness 
 Clothes him as with a robe ; great love of men 
 Would set the crooked straight, and stem the stream 
 
 II 
 
12 EXILE. 
 
 That flows to gulfs of death and shame, and turn 
 
 Its speed to where the happy fields are green, 
 
 But age on age the self-same tasks survive, 
 
 The work is still to do. So large man's soul. 
 
 That all the outer world is but a star 
 
 Upon its sky, and from its own deep might 
 
 Star after star appears — white lustrous births 
 
 From its unresting motions. All things are small, 
 
 All deeds but limited by things or deeds ; 
 
 The sense of utter power, and might unswerved 
 
 From its clear end, resides not in the realm 
 
 Where souls appulse 'gainst souls, and the lame act 
 
 Halts far behind the wish ; in thought alone 
 
 Is perfect freedom ; even the seeming laws 
 
 Wherein all thought is bound, that wizard keen 
 
 Unmakes, and from the wide upheaval rears 
 
 Such domes as suit its myriad caprice. 
 
 The bitter code of good and ill, the feud 
 
 Wherein all pleasure dies, the rigorous choice 
 
 Compelling men to one strait way, — wherefore 
 
 Should the unconquered soul submit its head 
 
 To wear the yoke ? In sooth there are two worlds ; 
 
 I care not for that slavish bounded realm 
 
 Where there is work to do, and men meet men. 
 
 And strongest cords of relative despair 
 
 Encircle you ; I see no cause to act ; 
 
 I cast mine eyes upon the course of years 
 
 Even to the pale beginning. I see the world 
 
 Much like itself, bent double on its deeds. 
 
 And seeking the impossible, — to make 
 
 The world of work reflect the world of thought. 
 
 It is in vain, a futile opposition 
 
EXILE. 13 
 
 To the essential framework of the world ; 
 
 There are two worlds, a contrast sharp and dire, 
 
 And reconcilement cannot be. I, therefore, 
 
 Leave effort proved forerunner of defeat, 
 
 And with my thought am satisfied. I see 
 
 At will all splendor take on form and hue, 
 
 A pageantry of dreams pass through my soul, 
 
 Make joy for me past what the things can give j 
 
 For fantasy is more than all the world. 
 
 It is with thought that I am fallen in love ; 
 
 I hate the sickly kissings, clasping hands, 
 
 The bitter bonds of love that lures us, love 
 
 As in the world misnamed, say, rather, lust 
 
 Or some such strain which is for beasts, not men. 
 
 But lo ! I penetrate all mysteries, 
 
 I hold the keys, I watch how in my thought 
 
 Idea shapes idea, and the sphere 
 
 Rounds itself in the mighty thought of God. 
 
 I ponder the dark riddles of the sages, 
 
 I muse with the sweet poets, I forsake 
 
 The chill embrace of earth; — and this is best. 
 
 I shall withdraw me more and more, and reach 
 
 The peace which mystic faith has dreamed on, peace 
 
 Past understanding save to those strong souls 
 
 Who can renounce whatso the outer brings. 
 
 And live alone that hid internal life, 
 
 Which is the all in all, both each and all, 
 
 Oneness eterne o'erruling vast diverse. 
 
 Intellect pure in pure activity. 
 
14 EXILE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I wish I were at home ; I hate the sea, 
 Where all day long you see no boys, and sand 
 Is all you have to play in. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 But you swim, 
 And go out in the boat, and once you went 
 With father in a yacht, and stayed all night, 
 And caught great loads of fish. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I want to be 
 Down in the town where all the men are gone, 
 And have the boys to play with, but out here 
 You only see the water — ^just naught to me — 
 And gather pebbles girl-like on the beach. 
 And swim but once a day — a mere half-hour. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I like to see the waves roll far away, 
 And watch the wind make them look dark, and how 
 The little, clean, slim fish shoot here and there. 
 And the bright ripples break upon the shore. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I understand that girls may like such things. 
 In which I see no fun. I never know 
 What makes you glad, except you want me near, 
 And often kiss me out of time. 
 
EXILE. 15 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh— oh— 
 
 You boys have no conceit. I think it time 
 For me to go back home. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 No, no, you must not, 
 And leave me here alone. We can but talk, 
 There's nothing else to do, and then you know 
 One cannot talk with one's mere self. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Quite well ; 
 I sat the other day out in the wood 
 Alone for two long hours, and all the time 
 I talked with persons that seemed in my mind. 
 And they were beautiful. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You mean you thought ; 
 You make my head ache like the school-master, 
 Who tells us we must think, and so be good; 
 But I am sure he never thinks, or he 
 Would hardly scold the wrong boy as he does. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 You are just dull ; it was not thought at all. 
 
 It was not like addition, but a dream 
 
 Such as you have at night, save that you wake. 
 
 Alfred. 
 And will you tell me what your dream was like? 
 I little understand you when you speak. 
 
1 6 EXILE. 
 
 And say these curious things, but still I like it, 
 And my head sounds as though a bee shut up 
 Sang in my brain, and I knew what it said. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 But you must not break in and laugh ; 
 
 That makes me cry ; I love what my dreams show, 
 
 And you are cruel like most boys. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Nay, cease ; 
 You know I never laugh at you ; I laugh 
 Because the story makes me, and you cry 
 When most I love you ; for somehow you seem 
 So good when you go on and talk. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Well, then, 
 I will begin. You know the wood I mean — 
 You cross the hill, and in the hollow there 
 The trees stand thickest, and all is so still, 
 You only hear the waters washing faint 
 And far away. The roses there grow wild, 
 And in one spot the thick, wild grape-vines grow, 
 And the sweet odorous roses climb high up. 
 And you can sit within a summer-house 
 The good God made. 
 
 Alfred. 
 I know the very place ; 
 Where we went picnicking, and father said, 
 If he had money, he would buy the ground. 
 And build. 
 
EXILE. 17 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I sat there for awhile and sang, 
 And then I know not how, but this I saw — 
 The long green grasses swayed, and rose, and swayed. 
 And all the wild flowers I could see ; I knew 
 That there was little wind, for the tall aspen 
 Scarce showed the silver of its trembling leaves. 
 So I grew still, and watched what I could see. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 And what was that ? You take so long to tell 
 What I should say in half the time. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 At last 
 Out from the spires of grass, and all the flowers, 
 I cannot tell you how, a fairy leapt, 
 And soon the air was changed, a golden gloam 
 Came in its stead, and on their swiftest wings 
 They flew and sought a level spot — ^just where 
 The mossy old stump stands. I saw them plain, 
 The fairies of the grass were long slim things. 
 With queer peaked faces, and long golden wings 
 They folded round them like a dress of light. 
 And when they sang, you heard a small soft sound 
 That was right sharp in sweetness ; but the roses — 
 From them there came small lady-like sweet forms 
 That were all fire, — but not the fire that burns, — : 
 A rosy gentle flame ; they flew in curves. 
 And sang a song that makes me love you better ; 
 But the buttercups would have been joy to you, 
 For they were stout, and clothed in shining gold, 
 
1 8 EXILE. 
 
 And seemed to lord it everywhere so that 
 The violets, so thin you hardly saw them, 
 Nor knew them from the air, scampered away 
 When the gold tyrants came ; but night would come 
 Before I told you all. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 What did they there ? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I cannot tell ; I heard their voices small, 
 And they flew round me so that — as, at night 
 When you put head beneath the coverlet. 
 You see the fire and color interweave — 
 Their forms of many hues blended and mixed 
 And fell apart, a shifting play of flames, 
 Red, blue, and gold, and all so full of glee 
 That now my heart is glad to think upon it. 
 I sat quite still, and tried to stop my breath. 
 Till I began to weep, and then I laughed, — 
 And at the sound, they vanished, one and all. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 That is a pretty tale ; you must have slept 
 
 And dreamed. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 If you go on as you do often, 
 I shall be sorry that I told you. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You say 
 You saw, and were awake ? Hard to believe ; 
 Why do I never have such luck as you? 
 
EXILE. 19 
 
 But then I often find things when I walk, 
 And you find nothing. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Well, then, be content. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 But do you think the fairies really are, 
 And live within the grass and every flower? 
 Why then they die whenever flowers are plucked ; 
 You cannot make me think that such things are, 
 I never saw one, and you only dreamed. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 You are too hard ; why do you make me speak, 
 And tell you things, if you will treat me so? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 There, now, you cry, and yet I meant no harm. 
 Come, let me kiss you on your forehead white ; 
 So, you smile through your tears. I understand 
 But little how you girls are made or think ; 
 I saw you watch the other day awhile 
 The blood-red splashes left upon the sea 
 When the great sun went down ; but father came 
 And brought the marbles, so I turned away ; 
 But you and mother sat till the dull gray 
 Came on the sky, and the big ball of fire 
 Was gone, and you refused to play. Now say 
 What did you see ? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Why, you must look and learn ; 
 The little waves seemed all to clap their hands 
 
20 EXILE. 
 
 When a red ray went through them, and the clouds 
 Floated and swept to bathe them in the glow 
 As if they wished to die on the sun's breast ; 
 And he shed forth his light intent to give 
 All that he had to make them glad, as I 
 Would do for you when you are kind to me. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Well, maybe I shall know when I am grown. 
 Now let us walk down to the beach, and play 
 At house-building, with me for architect. 
 And you shall order what you want ; run, run. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 But I shall want a castle old, with towers 
 x\ll clad with dark-green ivy-leaves, and windows 
 With diamond panes, besides a chapel grave 
 Where I can go alone, and softly pray. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Small use in that ; you shall receive from me 
 A nobler gift, — a lofty brown-stone front, 
 With basement for the servants, and within 
 The walls well painted, and with mirrors tall 
 In parlor ; nobody cares for castles now. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 It shall be as you wish ; but see the waves, 
 How little sparks of silver fire bestud them. 
 And from the oars the fiery water falls. 
 And far away the distant blue shore lies 
 Like an unmoving mist. 
 
EXILE. 21 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Come on and play. 
 Here is the sand that reaches up the hill, 
 And we can build our houses as we list. 
 Come on and play, — what are you gazing at? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 It is the tall white stranger we saw before. 
 The silent man of sombre mien and garb. 
 With large, dark eyes that seemed to wish to weep, 
 And face white as mamma's sweet hand. You know 
 He stopped and watched us while we were at play, 
 Nor said a word, but seemed somehow so sad 
 That I felt I should like to speak, but then 
 He was so still and cold, I shook for fear. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I would not mind ; he will not trouble us ; 
 We can, you know, hit him with some small stone 
 And then run straight for home, for it is time, 
 If we shall get our dinner waiting for us. 
 
 III. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 It cannot be ; I dare not mar with change 
 The calm seclusion of my life, — the still 
 Unbroken sweep of waters guarding it. 
 My life has all the magical repose 
 Of some sweet island in a pale lagoon ; 
 The ripples break upon the clear green waters. 
 The mainland lies afar enwrapped in mists, 
 
22 EXILE. 
 
 The air is of a soft, mixed hue, not bright 
 
 As where the beast conglomerate, mankind. 
 
 The many-headed life that is but one, 
 
 Each puddled with the soul of each, doth dwell ; 
 
 Even the sun veils here his rigorous splendors, 
 
 And paces with slower step the blue-stretched heavens ; 
 
 The woods are peopled but with cool-eyed blooms 
 
 And slender well-poised ferns ; and here and there 
 
 The white fire of the sudden springs, and birds 
 
 Whose voices are the sounds interfluous thoughts 
 
 Subtly project when several merge in one. 
 
 Conjoining rays in concord of one flame, 
 
 And the long grasses swaying in the wind. 
 
 Here all is peace and intellectual calm ; 
 
 A mild self-centred spot which needs no commerce 
 
 With outward and debasing elements 
 
 To make its joyance ; here I make my home 
 
 And meditate the boundless universe. 
 
 I see unfold the endless leaves of thought, 
 
 The petals rather of the great world-rose. 
 
 Until the inmost heart lies bare ; I see 
 
 Within the multitudinous blood-red folds 
 
 The pygmy tribes of men ; and History 
 
 Is as a silly tale told by the fireside 
 
 When the late night flares in last burst of gladness. 
 
 And soon deep rest shall hold the house ; I see 
 
 The currents of the sap pass down and up. 
 
 The ceaseless potence of ideas great 
 
 That build and break, and at the hidden root 
 
 Great God himself, from whom all comes, who is 
 
 And is not the vast flower, and I am He 
 
 And All, when I ascend these easy heights. 
 
EXILE. 23 
 
 But nothing foreign may intrude; disturb 
 
 The ambient atmosphere with sullen clouds 
 
 Born of the breath of unrespective soul, 
 
 And the high bliss is dead ; disturb with check 
 
 Of contradiction Thought's unswerving flow, 
 
 And the bemired brown flood reflects no more 
 
 The picture of the sky. Here is my fear ; 
 
 Into pure Contemplation's mystic round 
 
 I may not introduce the passions* whirl. 
 
 And that strange sentiment the fool man calls 
 
 Love; difl'erent by a world's wide interspace 
 
 From Love as known in Thought's dear Heaven. I 
 
 pause ; 
 Yet Beauty is this still realm's proper garb, 
 The robe external that expresses it. 
 And, while concealing, bares its secret heart; 
 And she — the lovely child — would be fit sign 
 Of its unbroken rest and splendid joy. 
 I cannot tell how she possesses me. 
 How my conception spheres her changing form. 
 As the round sky the centred earth ; she flits 
 Into my every thought; her sweet smiles light 
 My deepest plunge of search ; and science stern 
 Grows easy, and with prodigal outpour 
 Endows me with its secrets for her sake. 
 It cannot be that in my life's clear song 
 Her footsteps should make discord, or her voice 
 Not emphasize the surely-uttered words 
 That are the very truth of truth in forms 
 That are itself externalized. And yet — 
 Ah me^I fear lest I, precipitate 
 And led by sudden veer of impulse, throw 
 
24 EXILE. 
 
 A hasty stone into my placid life, 
 
 And harm my safe release from human cares 
 
 With rippled thrills of feeling whose far end 
 
 Mine eyes discern not nor my thought. I pause ; 
 
 When first I saw the grave small face, the eyes 
 
 Quite sad, but clear with some internal flame. 
 
 The lips closed in an ecstasy of dream, 
 
 I felt her as a sure inhabitant 
 
 Of those ideal plains where is Thought's home, 
 
 Or those miraculous vales high Fancy holds, 
 
 The varying image of the things that are. 
 
 Nay, I will not give way to fear ; I dare 
 
 This deed, and quail not at the consequence. , 
 
 She shall go with me ; I will bear her home, 
 
 Engird her with most subtle influences, 
 
 And she will grow the white rose of the world. 
 
 The fairest lady in the worshipping lands, 
 
 A priestess in the virgin fane of Thought, 
 
 Iphigenia of these latter times, 
 
 The marvel of the ages, womanhood's queen, 
 
 Untouched of love or aught that can defile. 
 
 The lyre tuned to the planet's revolutions, 
 
 Star-taught to music, played upon by winds, 
 
 And voicing ocean's ancient mysteries. 
 
 Yea, I will go, and ask her of her friends, — 
 
 They dare not say me nay, I am sure fate, — 
 
 And if I must, my wealth will make me way, 
 
 For in the world of men I needs must use 
 
 Men's implements, although my heart abhors 
 
 Contact with these most foul necessities. 
 
 Yea, she will be to me my shaped expectance. 
 
 My life made clear to sight, thought clothed in form, 
 
EXILE. 25 
 
 The apex of the pyramidal loveliness, 
 Like flame upclimbing skywards, which is my life. 
 I dare the high attempt, and build the realm 
 Which circles me, past outer might to break, 
 Wherein I breathe, clasped hand in hand with God ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alfred. 
 You do not build — what are you thinking of? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I watch you, and it gives me more delight, 
 For I have no great skill of hand, and still 
 My walls and windows fall as fast as risen. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 This is your house, — four stories high, at least. 
 With rounded windows, — say how it pleases you ; 
 See, I can make queer figures round the windows 
 And over the wide door — now, that looks right ; 
 It shall be quite a palace when 'tis done. 
 
 Ida. 
 How do you make it all secure ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I know not ; 
 It stands just of itself, I think. Here are 
 Broad steps in front, and basement windows here ; 
 
 3 
 
26 EXILE. 
 
 I soon shall finish, and then give it you 
 In a long speech. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 And I shall make reply, 
 And be all smiles, and say it is too much, 
 And nothing I have done deserves return, 
 And bow, and seem ashamed till all are gone. 
 When I can clap my hands and be plain glad. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 That will be fun — you girls are smart in speech ; 
 I think you must have longer tongues than boys. 
 And pointed ones, for you are sharp at times, 
 And say what we can find no answer for. 
 How do you think a story more would look? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Take care, or your frail sand-built house will fall ; 
 You always go beyond the safety point, 
 And are impatient when your labors fail. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Yet J will try, and you will sing the song 
 Mamma has taught you since we saw this place ; 
 For somehow I can build best as you sing, 
 And raise my walls in concord with the sound, 
 For music is the only thing I know 
 Of the strange pranks you often tell me of 
 As passing in your brain not like my own. 
 
EXILE. 27 
 
 Ida (sings). 
 
 I hear the waters call 
 
 Unto me ; 
 Into a dream I fall 
 
 Of the sea ; 
 I am borne in a slender boat 
 To where the jho onset pallors float. 
 
 The white stars in the sky 
 
 Glint and gleam ; 
 I hear no voice nor cry. 
 
 Save the stream 
 That is bearing me swiftly afar 
 Past earth's remotest bound and bar. 
 
 The moon rests on the sea, 
 
 Silver white, 
 And shines in strangest glee, 
 
 Subtly bright ; 
 I pass to the viewless line 
 Where moon and trancid sea combine. 
 
 I am the Lady Moon, 
 
 And the sea, 
 I am the dim-toned tune — 
 
 Utterly — 
 The waves and the flakes of light 
 Making send down the blue-roofed night. 
 
 I die into a dream 
 
 Lighted dim, 
 I am, the fitful stream 
 
 Of the hymn 
 The Sea and the Moon and the Night 
 Fashion for joy and pure delight. 
 
28 EXILE. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 There now, 'tis done; did you bring down a doll? 
 She should walk in quite splendidly. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I know not ; 
 Here is the little one you do not like. 
 You will not have her mount your marble steps ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 No ; but you said you meant to lose her soon, 
 Or give her to the girl lives next to us. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 And so I do ; but I forgot last time 
 I saw her, and I left the homely doll 
 In this small apron-pocket unawares. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 It does not matter. Now I think of it, 
 I mean to build a church with lofty spires. 
 And pointed windows, like the one we saw 
 In the great city, — made as though the stone 
 Into fine lace-work everywhere were carved. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 And I shall go sit by the silvered strand, 
 
 And think how each small boat bears thought of me ; 
 
 Fori shall give to every one a dream 
 
 That it will bear, and I shall seem to float 
 
 Out where the great waves toss and writhe, and winds 
 
EXILE. 29 
 
 Have room to flutter out their widest skirts, 
 And freely tread the water's rippled floor. 
 I only would it were the wondrous night, 
 Set thick with stars, and overruled 
 By the sweet lady moon. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 No, you must stay ; 
 I cannot build alone, for if you sit, 
 And look on while I work, I can do better. 
 And my walls surelier rise. Now if you try. 
 You can make buildings too, old castles quaint, 
 With rounded peaked towers, or chapels small 
 For ladies grave to pray in. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 It is in vain ; 
 My hands pull down, I cannot raise a wall. 
 But, see, the stranger comes — shall we run home. 
 Or go on with our play and mind him not ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Why, let him come, he will not look nor speak. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 There is she now at play ; her sweet grave face 
 Not lighted by a smile, and her dear eyes 
 Abashed beneath the flower-like lids. The sun 
 Is glad to play with her gold hair, and make 
 A fluctuant aureole about her head. 
 How I delight to see her little hands 
 Flicker across the sand in white fair gleams, 
 And all her motions glad as grace itself ! 
 
 3* 
 
3© EXILE. 
 
 The lips are parted and I hear low sounds — 
 
 No song — but some dear chaos of dim tones 
 
 That will in time take shape, and be a tune 
 
 Taught by God's angels ; O sweet child, mine own. 
 
 It cannot be that aught save loveliness 
 
 Can bloom or be where thou art — beauty's soul. 
 
 And Heaven grown visible. I have no fear, 
 
 I will go speak to her, although the boy 
 
 Perforce must bring the world into our speech. 
 
 And gloom across our realm of poetry. 
 
 Even as a mountain throws large shadows down 
 
 Where the small waves imprisoning fiery gold 
 
 Weave on the sea the miracle of the song 
 
 The day and wind and waters hold soul-hid. 
 
 Or as a steep and blossomless review 
 
 Frowns with deep shade upon a valley-poem. 
 
 Where the mild violets hide in pallid grass, 
 
 Where the white foam of rivulets blooms to die, 
 
 And all the winds are sweet with endless spring. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, brother, he is coming — let us go ; 
 
 I fear that he will speak, and my heart beats 
 
 And chokes my breath. I feel afraid and strange; 
 
 I think his voice will be a wizard spell 
 
 To make me do what I desire not — come ! 
 
 We shall return — pray, come — I dare not move 
 
 Save you are near to help. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 A little while 
 And we must start — for you know dinner waits ; 
 
EXILE. 31 
 
 Meanwhile I purpose finishing my church. 
 You are just foolish — let him say his say — 
 We need not answer, and he will pass on. 
 I am not troubled. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Nay, but he will speak. 
 And his voice cold as are his far-off eyes. 
 And his words strange as are his pale calm lips 
 Make me afraid or ere I hear. I know 
 His deeds and speech will be as fair as friendship, 
 Yet I would rather pass him by. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 A house — 
 And nearly reared a stately church — dear boy. 
 Your hands are skilful past the common wont. 
 Where learned you this fair craft ? Your sister here 
 Gives help with her sweet smile — she labors not — 
 Or speaks encouragement with subtle words 
 You are most glad to hear. Were I at home 
 I might be aid in your exploits of art. 
 
 Alfred. 
 I care not for your aid. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 But if you knew — 
 For I have books wherein tall dwellings stand. 
 Made in times past, and wonderful to see, 
 White temples shining in the midnoon sun 
 On heights that overlook the fair green fields. 
 
32 EXILE. 
 
 Old palaces made splendid for great kings, 
 And ivy-clothed ruins, hoar and quaint. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I care not for old books, and reading hard 
 For wits like mine to understand. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 His rudeness 
 Might make me pause — my voice clings to my throat, 
 And all my body shakes — 'tis always so 
 When I adventure in the outer world, 
 Nor dwell secure my soul within. Too late; 
 I cannot now refrain who see her face. 
 White and lustrous as the one star of eve. 
 'Tis not my wish that you should read my book — 
 These are fine pictures fit for eyes like yours 
 Or your sweet sister's. If I brought my book 
 Would you look on it with me ? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 No. 
 
 Alfred, 
 
 I think 
 My sister wishes not to speak with you ; 
 For you are strange, and not like men we know. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 And yet I have desire to hear her voice. 
 She is not unlike a dear girl of mine 
 About her age, and slender-shaped as she. 
 Whom I saw placed in the cold, rain-wet grave, 
 
EXILE. 33 
 
 And I was left to weep. Dear gold -haired child, 
 
 How would it please to come with me ? — my home 
 
 Is in the far-off hills ; it stands alone 
 
 In a vast garden, where the largest flowers 
 
 Blossom and burn the summer through, and winds 
 
 Blow languid with the weight of perfumes, where 
 
 Under deep trees the winding pathways lead 
 
 To lakes set like clear stars on the green sky 
 
 Of grassy miles, where in the solemn shades 
 
 Of old oak woods the hours are filled with dreams, 
 
 And if you shut the outer sense you hear 
 
 The music that is played in fairy-land. 
 
 How would you like to go, and be mine own, 
 
 A daughter in my house of golden spells. 
 
 Where all you wished would speed from out your soul, 
 
 Swift changed to flowers for you to hold in hand. 
 
 Where you should be a queen — what say you, child ? 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, brother, it is time; I shake for fear — 
 
 He means to take me with him — give your hand. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 And I shall find a stone to throw at him j 
 
 But then he talks like you ; my brain turns round 
 
 With wondering what he means. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 You are not going? 
 
 Let us walk by the sea, and watch the waves. 
 And see the fish gleam through the waters clear ; 
 And I have tales to tell you of the past, — 
 
34 EXILE. 
 
 The days when fairies hunted in the grass 
 On chargers small as are the gold-green flies 
 That star the air with fire ; or of the days 
 When knights clad all in steel set thick with gold 
 Traversed the land to break enchanters' spells, 
 And free the long-haired damsels kept in chains 
 And held in noisome dungeons, where the light 
 Poured not its opulence of gifts; or days 
 When dryads shy lurked in the rustling woods, 
 And hoofed satyrs danced when old Pan played, 
 And through the roads of stars Diana sped. 
 The maiden-goddess white as are your thoughts. 
 My small Diana come to earth again. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 The stone just grazed him, we must turn and run, 
 He might strike with that slender stick of his. 
 I feel much grieved I did not hurt him sore, 
 But my hand trembled, and I could not throw. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Now let us speed as quickly as we may ; 
 I would not have you hurt him, but I fear, 
 And shall be glad to be at home again, 
 
 Alfred. 
 Turn now and look — how his eyes follow us. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 How white he is, and seems most deeply sad ! 
 If I but had more heart, I would go back. 
 And speak to him, and beg him not to mind, 
 
EXILE. 35 
 
 And listen to one story, but I shiver so 
 
 I must get home ; come, brother, hasten on. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I stand here trembling like a feeble boy, 
 
 As if the sweep of some experience. 
 
 Soul-shattering, and remoulding life in forms 
 
 That make the aspect of the universe 
 
 A face of deeper truth, had come upon me. 
 
 Had torn through all my body's space, and left 
 
 Me changed and alien to my former self. 
 
 My heart beats, and my breath comes quick and loud, 
 
 I seem to sigh, not breathe ; it is all vain ; 
 
 I dare not enter those forbidden haunts 
 
 Where general man builds homes, plies myriad tasks, 
 
 Plays games with vari -colored loves, seeks ends 
 
 Of transient glow, and on the fitful breaths 
 
 Of friends erects frail dwellings mutable. 
 
 I am so lightly swung on tenuous nerves. 
 
 That a faint wind that lifts no gossamer 
 
 In land of most men's lives, shakes me with shock 
 
 Of earthquake, and confuses me with fear 
 
 Lest my demesne in earth's firm-poised extent 
 
 Will fall to dust, and past the reach of things 
 
 Be cast to realm of nothingness, and fall 
 
 Within annihilation's grasp. I fear 
 
 The converse where swift wit is masterful, 
 
 I tremble when I see the gathering crowd 
 
 Prepare to darken day with their weak speech ; 
 
 Not fear, lest their base acts can work me harm. 
 
36 EXILE. 
 
 Or futile thoughts bemire my statued calm, 
 
 But natural shrinking from their lower mind, 
 
 And innate horror of the stagnant pools 
 
 Wherein they dwell of thought and slavish hope ; 
 
 Wherefore I needs must pause ; how if I bind 
 
 These freest limbs with hateful bondages, 
 
 Break the blue-skied and sweet-aired leisure's calm 
 
 Under whose roof I pass mild days with clouds, 
 
 Strange loves and curious hates will quickly frame — 
 
 For these two are yoke-fellows, never one 
 
 Appears unless the other walks full near. 
 
 If she would give up all her simple past, 
 
 Leave all behind that made her life before. 
 
 Wash from her memory what but brings it pain. 
 
 That on the white expanse of her large soul 
 
 I might write splendid thoughts of Heaven and God, 
 
 Bring her where shine the bright and changeless stars, 
 
 That in her lucid eyes their shapes might dwell, 
 
 That in her lucid mind the fiery spiritual sun 
 
 Of high philosophy might rise and burn. 
 
 And she would dwell in domes not built of hands. 
 
 But every stone a thought miraculous, 
 
 Each window a clear glass to deepest truth. 
 
 Each chamber some great dream of poet-sage. 
 
 Each door give access to the unsearched fields 
 
 Where bloom the eternal flowers that God still frames 
 
 Lest man his creature make an end of things, 
 
 And Niobe-wise proclaim his larger scope. 
 
 And dare rail at his power ! I tread the verge ; 
 
 It may not be — the outer clamor sounds — 
 
 It may not be ; the brother is a storm 
 
 Whose wrath makes dark the time I dream upon. 
 
EXILE. 37 
 
 And in the mother's eyes no doubt are tears — 
 It may not be ; for I cannot evoke 
 From slumber in a mother's deepmost heart 
 Sorrow and longing and their myriad tribes. 
 Pain is but of the world ; and I would not 
 Stain my cleansed hands with implements of woe ; 
 Even to think thereon makes my heart beat, 
 And the unused tears to flow ; I feel 
 That at this price I purchased noble peace — 
 The world and its most clamorous dignities, 
 Its golden pomps, its strong ambition's steeps, 
 Its whirlwinds of applause that seize the soul 
 And bear it to a realm of passioned joy. 
 Its friendships that have something sweet and good. 
 Its love that builds an isle of maddest bliss. 
 Mingling the soul and frame in keen delight 
 Of frozen fire, as if the summer's heat 
 Should mix — a miracle — with winter's chill. 
 And from their clasp leaped forth an ecstasy 
 That joined their several joys — all these — all these — 
 I threw away as of small price or cost 
 That I might have ideal calm, the peace 
 Which is akin to God's, wherein swift dreams 
 Pursue great thoughts, and I am still at one 
 With the deep life that is in all that is. 
 Nay — I give her up \ to breed great woe 
 In a dear mother's heart, a little one 
 To bear from the fireside where smiles and talk 
 Illumine more than the quick-leaping flames, 
 And ere the lights are set the shadows' play 
 Is weird and mutable as fancy's games 
 In children's hearts, is too hard task for me. 
 
 4 
 
38 EXILE. 
 
 I consecrate anew life's brief remains 
 To clearest meditation, and those thoughts 
 That hold the universe in scope, to hopes 
 That lift humanity aloft to heights 
 Where the faint noise of struggle, grief, and pain 
 Shall change to music as things over-lived ; 
 For in the memory's twilight, one by one, 
 The stars of long-done deeds arise, and grief 
 Outworn flames with a steady silver fire, 
 Till the vast night of the unforgotten past 
 Engirds with solemn splendor. I consecrate, 
 I consecrate, O God, my years to thee; 
 She is most fair, and I would fain see glow 
 The fire of grandest truths in her pure eyes ; 
 But all this may not be, and I return 
 To my used solitude ; to silent books 
 Wherein I pour my soul, and recreate 
 The minds majestic that upbore the world. 
 The imperial intellects that swerved time's course, 
 The living wills that were the seeds of acts 
 That will not end save with the end of things. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Here let us rest awhile ; I can no more. 
 And we are surely past his reach. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You shake. 
 And you are white, and though you do not weep, 
 Your eyes seem as of one whose tears must flow. 
 
EXILE. 39 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I cannot weep although I would ; 1 feel 
 
 Quite strange \ was there such cause for us to fear ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I do not think it ; I had stood my ground, 
 But 'twas through you I acted as if need were 
 To fight him off; now that I think on it, 
 You were quite foolish, as you often are, 
 And with you near I do beyond my will 
 Things I should not attempt alone. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, brother, 
 You must not talk so ; ah, I weep at last ; 
 Yet you are right as I so frequent find you. 
 My heart is sad when I fall on to think 
 How my weak fears broke in on several joys ; 
 How white he seemed, and his voice shook alway 
 As if to speak were hard ; if we had gone 
 Along the shore, and heard him tell his tales, 
 It had been better; yet I cannot tell 
 How some great dread took hold of me ; I think 
 If he should come again, I should repeat 
 What now I grieve at, having done. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 . Well— well- 
 It matters not, sweet sister, let us on. 
 
40 EXILE. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 We are not far from home ; we need not run, 
 And when we gain the path that rounds the hill, 
 The house will be in sight and our way clear. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 See, sister, how the grass is full of color. 
 Low-drooping blossoms, and the snap-dragon. 
 And pale pink flowers I know not how to name. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 We can rest here awhile ; you do not deem 
 That he will follow — I am yet afraid. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Here is a smooth white stone, where you can sit, 
 And the thick-leaved tree makes pleasant shade. 
 He will not come, and we are so near home 
 That they would know our cries if trouble rose. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 'Tis so, indeed, and while we rest us here, 
 You can cull perfect flowers, and clover leaves. 
 And the long grass with delicate-woven top, 
 And I will bind them in a sweet bouquet 
 For mother ; for you bear in mind she said 
 That wild flowers made her dream of happy days. 
 And seemed more tender than the flowers of home. 
 That made your heart beat, but these gentle blooms 
 Brought back the times when she was young like you 
 And full of glee. 
 
EXILE, 41 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 It is a happy thought ; 
 Meanwhile you can recover from your scare, 
 And need not frighten mother with a tale 
 Of terrible nothing, for he meant no harm. 
 And when I see him, I will speak to him, 
 And ask him of the pictures and the book. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I shall not easily forget my fear. 
 
 But here is your bouquet, the flowers well set 
 
 In a green border, and the spires of grass 
 
 In feathery tufts o'erhanging with thin shades 
 
 The pallid colors under. Let us on. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 We reach the turn of road, and mother stands 
 Looking down the tree-bordered length for us. 
 She answers my quick wave of hat — come, run. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 No, I must walk ; I am all tired and hot, 
 And now I am to tell, my cheeks burn red, 
 And my strange fear renews. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You need not speak ; 
 I will relate the startling thing for you, 
 As you are wont to make the little great. 
 And out of a slim trifle weave a tale 
 That frightens mother, makes her white. 
 
 4* 
 
42 EXILE. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 No, no, 
 You cannot tell, for I have more to say 
 Than you know of. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 You have been very long. 
 Three times or more I stood at door to gaze. 
 And wondered what detained my little ones. 
 But you remembered me — thanks for the flowers. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, dear mamma ! 
 
 Mother. 
 
 What ails my little girl ? 
 Have you been running, for you seem quite tired, 
 And shake as if miuch effort had unnerved, 
 Or set you trembling like a slender branch 
 A bird has leaped from ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Let me tell the tale ; 
 I shall not take so long, for going straight 
 I reach the end far quicker. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, mamma, 
 I am not tired, but he so frightened me. 
 That I must weep ; and yet I feel deep shame ; 
 For he was kind, and meant no harm ; I spoiled 
 His wished enjoyment, and kind brother's too. 
 
EXILE, 43 
 
 Mother. 
 
 My child, you need not weep; I kiss your cheek, 
 And in my arms fear may not find a place. 
 My little one, come, ease yourself, be calm ; 
 So, lay your head against me \ tell me now 
 Who he may be, and what adventure strange 
 Stirred in your heart such fear. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I am ashamed ; 
 He was quite good, and brother wished to stay. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You need not speak ; we met the black-clothed man, 
 
 I told you how he gazed two days ago. 
 
 He came while we were both absorbed in play, 
 
 Looked on awhile with large surprised eyes, 
 
 Then praised my houses, spoke of picture-books, 
 
 But sister felt such fear, we ran away. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 There is much more ; he spoke of his far home. 
 And all the splendors it enshrined, and asked, 
 Would I not go with him ? It is most strange. 
 But I felt quite as though I must obey ; 
 I tremble now to think of it. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Dearest, 
 He spoke but as one might in jest, no doubt ; 
 You cannot think he meant it otherwise. 
 
44 EXILE. 
 
 Remember that but just a day ago 
 
 The friend you love so used the self-same words, 
 
 And you laughed as you clung to me. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 But I, 
 Dear mother, threw a stone at him that hit ; 
 I do not deem it hurt — would that it had ! 
 
 Ida. 
 You are too rude by far. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Well, dry your eyes, 
 And now forget it all. You are at home, 
 And you shall go no more along the beach. 
 Unless some older friend companions you. 
 And yet my little girl must cease these fears, 
 And bear a stouter heart. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Delay not more, 
 Go in, the dinner waits the truants twain. 
 
 Alfred. 
 Father, was I far wrong because I threw ? 
 
 Father. 
 
 We shall not speak about it further now ; 
 Go in, and at more leisure we can talk. 
 And penetrate the matter through and through, 
 Although remember still to play the part 
 
EXILE. 45 
 
 Of a courageous brother apt to help. — 
 
 What shall be done with our sweet sensitive plant 
 
 That shuts when the breeze freshens? She was not 
 
 made 
 For earth, but some ideal virginal realm, 
 Some land of solid dream, whose air is song, 
 And all whose life is simple peace and joy. 
 Perchance she came from thence to light our home, 
 As a white lily lights the forest's gloom. 
 Or through a rent of cloud a mild star shines. 
 And saves the night from storm. Alas for us. 
 If we have not the power of wisest love 
 To bind her to us here. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Speak not such thoughts ; 
 They clothe a real fear in garb fantastic, 
 A fear I shrink to put in words or form. 
 I drive it to some far recess of mind. 
 And lull it with the melodies of hope. 
 Till it falls on light sleep. I cannot think 
 Of aught befalling our most gentle child 
 Save life's divinest ministerings. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Forgive 
 If I have roused the woe you sang asleep. 
 I would that life withheld not high success. 
 That ever flies my best-adjusted aim. 
 For her dear sake I would have liberal wealth. 
 And that fine grasp of possibilities 
 That should assure to sight her lightest wish ; 
 
46 EXILE. 
 
 For she is fashioned in so noble mould 
 That no result of pride or baneful scorn 
 Could yet ensue upon her gaining all 
 That widest life can give. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 The same sad chord ; 
 I bid you now again renounce the strain. 
 She will have love to wait upon her steps, 
 And make the frowning face of time relax, 
 And change to smiles ; surely that is enough. 
 In your strong hands and gentle as great strength's, 
 She will be safe, and grow a human flower. 
 That makes the space she dwells in full of joy. 
 
 Father. 
 
 If it prove so, it will not be to me 
 
 The high result is due. A sudden thought ; 
 
 'Tis he, indeed. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 You reproduce the child 
 In obscure hints of he. You speak of whom? 
 
 Father. 
 
 You know the sad recluse, the scholar mild, 
 Who dwells in outskirts of our busy town, 
 I saw him yestermorn in reverie 
 Pacing the beach, and wrapt in mystic dreams, 
 Scarce like a denizen of our world. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Ah, so ! 
 
 I do not wonder at the child's affright ; 
 
EXILE. 47 
 
 His cold calm eyes, and utter-abstract mien, 
 Fill me with dread when at rare times I go 
 Past the great garden which the summer makes 
 A gem miraculous set upon the ring 
 Of our dear town. 
 
 Father. 
 
 I cannot longer doubt, 
 He is the man, and we must have great care 
 Of our dear girl's play on the beach ; her frame 
 Can bear but ill these gusts of feeling strong 
 That are beyond the wont of her bright youth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Here let me rest; no shore is now in sight 
 
 Save as on either side a faint blue line. 
 
 No boat but mine pursued by the white foam 
 
 Cleaves the gray waters : I will ship my oars, 
 
 And let the boat drift with the wind and current. 
 
 The silence is so deep that I can hear 
 
 As 'twere the sound of time as it fleets by. 
 
 The flow of that unseen and mightier ocean. 
 
 Whereon the barks of states and lives and times 
 
 Have been borne forth to death or sure decay. 
 
 Beneath its voiceless waves the wrecks are hid 
 
 Of hopes that oversoared its blue of sky, 
 
 And stood at gaze on God ; of joys that crushed 
 
 The whole world as clear grapes upon the lip. 
 
 And drank intoxication of red wine 
 
 That made the soul, large as the universe, 
 
48 EXILE. 
 
 Scorn the earth's round as a child's outgrown toy ; 
 
 Of fierce disdain upon whose lofty ridge 
 
 Stood poised the soul in utter rectitude, 
 
 And showed the world where Right shone as a sun. 
 
 Upon this dizzy verge the Present stands ; 
 
 I look adown the abyss, and see the whirl 
 
 Of the fast-vanishing Past, and mightiest thrones 
 
 Of noblest virtues, images of dreams 
 
 Supernal, and extremest heights of thought, 
 
 Flicker like stars across that nether sky. 
 
 Burn, bicker, flash, are seen no more forever ; 
 
 And like a mist wherein the strong winds strive, 
 
 The Future rolls before, and underfoot 
 
 Solidifies, while all that is, is not, 
 
 Down-sunken in the gulf that waits for all. 
 
 O soul, that boldest in thy reach of thought 
 
 Time with its vast contents, and teeming space. 
 
 Thou need'st not tremble while the spectacle 
 
 Furls and unfurls, appears, appeareth not, — 
 
 The immutable mutation, changeless change, 
 
 That in its variability hath rest. 
 
 Is there no permanent ? no higher thought 
 
 Wherein the riddle answers its own quest? 
 
 Nay, here are visions born of corporal eye. 
 
 Fair shapes the senses build and break, a world 
 
 That is but as the gazer looks upon 't. 
 
 Eternity is that concentring point 
 
 Wherein all rays of being merge, the Now 
 
 Born of the Past, and holding the To-Come 
 
 As seed for ripening ; there, O soul, dwell thou ; 
 
 Nay, dwell not, rather be thou that great thought. 
 
 And so become the circling Universe, 
 
EXILE. 49 
 
 Transfuse the flow of things with thine own self, 
 
 And win essential immortality. 
 
 The light breaks through the clouds with this deep 
 
 thought, 
 As though the outer symboUed in great joy 
 The rapture of discovery ; 'tis well ; 
 As on my soul floods the wide light of truth, 
 So flood, O sun, thy realm with radiancy. 
 It is a fair new day ; I call it fair, 
 Although the sombre gray of possible rain 
 Pervades the air, and the impetuous sun 
 Is shorn of half his glory or ere it falls. 
 Look to the hollow globe of sky — how fair ! 
 In mass on mass of softest pearly tint. 
 And narrowing circles to the central point. 
 The mountainous clouds climb the steep curve of sky ; 
 See there the space of unveiled central blue, 
 Intense in brightness past the power of words, 
 The fleece-like clouds in sweetly-broken shreds 
 Environing it ; the waters lie below, 
 A rippled floor of sober shine ; ah me. 
 The wondrous air, most clear, most full of glow. 
 And every cloud and every fitful wave 
 Is dowered with perfect color ; so I drift 
 Through the pale Paradise of simple Truth. 
 I mind me of the old philosopher 
 Who saw the pure Ideas in their dance. 
 Prefiguring the worlds, and, rapt in dreams. 
 Beheld the plains whereon the assembled souls 
 Choose lives to languish through beneath the moon. 
 Can it then be that on the upper air, 
 As on the ocean's waves, green shores advance, 
 
 5 
 
50 EXILE. 
 
 And beings dwell whose drink is some fine ether, 
 
 Who scorn our gross embodiment, the garb 
 
 Wherein our souls are prisoned, and who are 
 
 Companions for the often-visiting Gods ? 
 
 I poise me on yon cloud and dare to dream 
 
 How life is shaped in that cool, placid realm, 
 
 A life of thought, clear, passionless, remote, 
 
 Unvexed by winds of fierce emotion, calm, 
 
 And resolute to pierce the core of things. 
 
 Bathed in the nearer sunlight, unbestained 
 
 With exhalations of our atmosphere. 
 
 But lo ! I dream in sooth ; not of the cloud 
 
 Is the pure vigor that has rapt my thought, 
 
 Not based on mists that from earth's ocean come. 
 
 And are but outwalls of its sullen realm ; 
 
 Above the height of air and concave sky 
 
 That limits mind of terrene men, I soar 
 
 Into the thinner ether, which to breathe 
 
 Slays the dull body's weight, and robes the soul 
 
 In nudity of clear expression, form 
 
 That is Idea's self; but see, I drift 
 
 Close to the shore, and the sun's burnished rays 
 
 Clothe with light fierce as many-flashing steel 
 
 A single spot in the encincturing landscape, 
 
 All else being wrapped in shadow pale, subdued; 
 
 Like gems the sweetly-shapen trees drink in 
 
 And then reflect the partial splendor ; a path 
 
 Winds through the gold-green arch of greeting trees, 
 
 And at the avenue's end a white small house. 
 
 And children at their play. It cannot be ! 
 
 And yet the thrill of pleasure that unmans me 
 
 Cannot deceive ! That purpose will not down ! 
 
EXILE, 51 
 
 And now I hear her laugh ; it is the voice, 
 
 And as she moves, I see the childish grace 
 
 That has a charm such as a queen of elves 
 
 Might hold her subjects with ; I do not err. 
 
 She penetrates by mystic accident 
 
 My solitude ; alas ! I hoped to tear 
 
 My roots of life out from the alien soil 
 
 They deeply clung to, dreams where she was queen. 
 
 Yet must I be a slave to whim and hope, 
 
 Be fettered by desire for earthly good. 
 
 Care for some waif of rude humanity, 
 
 Be tossed at will on waves of bitter love ? 
 
 But I must think aright ; the experiment 
 
 Is worth endeavor ; I should make the girl 
 
 The pearl, the crown of womanhood ; all Time 
 
 Her hand should wear as some slight ornament 
 
 That emphasizes beauty ; secret lore 
 
 From the unfathomed Orient's store, and grasp 
 
 Of Nature that makes her obey the will. 
 
 With those high truths the sages hid in myth 
 
 Lest the profane should read, I give for dower; 
 
 I may not yield : I will resume the search, 
 
 And bear my bird unto my eager hearth, 
 
 Not so that she will dwell there sad and caged. 
 
 But that her song, grown strong with justest use 
 
 (The bounds of her sweet home being overpassed. 
 
 And youth's much need of wisdom's guidance done). 
 
 Will fill the reaches of the world's wide wood 
 
 With more than native fire of song, and rapture 
 
 Wherein the soul finds her primeval peace. 
 
 A joy, a fury seizes me, a bliss 
 
 That has not torn me since my vanished youth, 
 
52 EXILE. 
 
 Since the fierce days when in the whirl of life 
 
 I plunged as a strong swimmer in the waves 
 
 Whose reckless foam burns gold in the high sun. 
 
 I swiftly seek the shore, I cannot fail, 
 
 It is a work set for me by the years. 
 
 Unto this height I clomb from whence all things 
 
 Are but slight elements in the vast view, 
 
 The oversight that merges in a point 
 
 The multitudinous universe, that has 
 
 The All engrasped, of knowledge absolute 
 
 The peak and summit ; hither my soul has flown. 
 
 That it might ope the doors of some deep mind, 
 
 Might pierce the darkness of intelligence 
 
 That glooms it round, and, having shown the truth. 
 
 Arm it for fight with men — my task, indeed, 
 
 Save for my feeble flesh, and halting breath — 
 
 And so my world-work will be well fulfilled. 
 
 My little prophetess, your melodies 
 
 Will pierce the slumberous ears of the old world. 
 
 Awake the time to knowledge of high truth. 
 
 Give wings to cruel-fettered Liberty ; 
 
 For I shall die, but you will be my soul. 
 
 To shed my thoughts as leaves upon the winds, 
 
 As rays of light upon the air, or rain 
 
 From highest clouds upon the thirsty fields, 
 
 My little singer, whose deep thought am I ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Stir not, brother, but watch the brown small bird 
 That stands here in the grass ; note his clear eye. 
 
EXILE. 53 
 
 See how he moves his lissome neck ; and now 
 He flits upon the tree's swayed branch, and gazes ; 
 There, he is gone, a brown speck in the air, 
 Cleaving his way as the slim fish the sea. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Father, when shall we go into the town ? 
 
 Is it your wish to have the boat made ready ? 
 
 Father. 
 
 It is not time j I wish to stay awhile. 
 My book has yet some pages to be read, 
 And I am here so pleased with the cool peace 
 That I shall hardly care to go. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Well, then. 
 May I go out alone ? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Pray, be content. 
 And sister soon shall go with you. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 This tires me ; 
 You all have books, or Ida watches birds. 
 Or, stretched upon the grass, looks at the flowers. 
 I know not whither I may turn. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Dear brother. 
 Look up into the sky. High overhead 
 The thick clouds seem asleep, but under them 
 
54 EXILE. 
 
 Thin films, most white and pure, float on the wind, 
 And where the sunlight falls, they softly shine, 
 As if all through them flashed a sudden joy, 
 And they are lighted as a face with smiles. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 It is a pretty sight ; the large clouds break. 
 And the thin shreds float on, showing the sky's 
 Pale blue through their faint woof. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Come, play ; 
 The little clouds will be our messengers. 
 And bear our thoughts away, what do you think ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 A silly game ; but as I needs must stay, 
 'Twill do to pass the time. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Now, that is sullen ; 
 Besides the day grows hot, and on the water 
 The strong sun beats unhindered, save for the shades 
 The swift clouds throw. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 But in the boat 'tis cool; 
 For -the large wind has play, and calms the heat. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 On with our game. I see a slender waif 
 Float on the wind like a white fairy skiff; 
 I bid it bear for me a beam of light 
 
EXILE, 55 
 
 To fall upon a lady's finger-ring, 
 
 And call from sleep the fire and gold are there. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I give that large white bark with back-blown pennon 
 A wind to hold, whence it will flutter loose 
 Against the small sail glittering far away, 
 That the swayed boat may skim the yielding waves 
 With speed to make one glad. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Mamma, you speak ; 
 You send the dearest wishes, and 'tis joy 
 To have you mix with us in play. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 I send 
 Upon that highest cloud a golden dream, 
 A dream that may come true, a dream of love, 
 That grows to bright reality — for whom ? 
 For the pale stranger that you met and feared. 
 
 Alfred. 
 Now, father, 'tis your turn. 
 
 Father. 
 
 If I shall play, 
 I send upon that swiftest cloud a Thought, 
 A Truth, that it may poise above the head 
 Of the pale student, flash through his tossed brain. 
 Lighting the white transparent face with flame. 
 And making clear the mystery he pursued 
 For weary years with swift discovery. 
 
56 EXILE. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I see afar a cloud with wings outspread 
 Quite like a bird ; I hang upon its neck, 
 My carrier-pigeon's neck, an unseen missive, 
 That all the boys may learn of the wide world, 
 How glad it is to feel the wind and spray 
 Dash on your face when out far on the sea. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I see a cloud all fervent with the sun. 
 Washed with the light, and sailing slow afar j 
 Into that downy nest I set a bird. 
 The bird of a sweet song, that will be borne 
 Back to our home, and there abide for us, 
 Till in the winter time it melts in tone. 
 And our rapt thoughts are carried back again 
 To this sweet shore, to this faint-sounding sea. 
 To the fair rose-glen just beyond the house. 
 To those bright flakes of fire upon the deep. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 Upon that great white ball I place a statue. 
 King-like and crowned ; let him compel the nations 
 To hold our land in reverence. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 On the verge, 
 Where the horizon gray curves to the sea, 
 A thinnest vapor speeds; 'tis scarce a cloud, 
 And more like light slow-hardening; in its woof 
 I mix I know not what, a drop of soul. 
 
EXILE. 5 7 
 
 That out of it a rain may fall on hearts 
 Fulfilled of pain, and they may quickly wake 
 As from a dream, and be mild-glad again. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I have enough ; father, read us a tale, 
 
 From the old book you were so glad to find, 
 
 And much surprised at yesterday, of how 
 
 The king went hunting through the enchanted wood, 
 
 And found his lady changed into a vine. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 A happy thought ; we all are just in mood 
 To hear \ and those rich Oriental plays 
 Need to be read when we, in tune with nature. 
 Feel not abrupt the change from daily mind 
 To that sublimed and mystic consciousness. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I sit upon the grass next to mamma ; 
 It is as well as going in the boat. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 'Twill do awhile ; but I prefer to row, 
 
 And fight the wind, and cut right through the wave, 
 
 And know how strong I am. 
 
 Father. 
 
 I have the place ; 
 Shall I go o'er the part we read last time? 
 
58 EXILE. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 A pleasant thought ; but lo ! a stranger stands 
 At the path's turn, and is at point to come. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I must into the house ; for it is he, 
 And I yet fear to meet him. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 What foolishness ! 
 You said you would be braver, and you blench 
 The first time you are tried j I mean to stay 
 And hear him speak. 
 
 Father. 
 
 No, children, get you in. 
 Or play in the green field behind the house ; 
 We shall remain to build acquaintanceship. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Come, brother, like the dear good boy you are ; 
 I tremble when I see him. I will play 
 Any game that you like, come but with me. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Your pardon if my suddenness offend. 
 
 And yet I deemed a fellow-townsman's right 
 
 Would fail not recognition. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 You are welcome, 
 Pray you be seated ; it is a pleasant thing 
 
EXILE. 59 
 
 To meet away from home co-dwellers there ; 
 It gives a sense of shattered lonesomeness, 
 And strips the place of strangeness. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Yet strangeness surely 
 Can have slight hold where friendship pitches tent, 
 And family cheer sets up abiding place. 
 
 Father. 
 
 We freely bid you be that cheer's partaker, 
 
 And it will give us joy if we have power 
 
 To make you feel at home, so be there's need. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 You make me welcome to far better home, 
 
 I deem, than the outer can build up ; in books, 
 
 Where greatest minds have reared an unseen world, 
 
 That is unto the things we see as soul, 
 
 A nobler dwelling is, more permanent. 
 
 More native to our best capacities. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Into that realm you will be worthy guide ; 
 Report that lives on lips of wisest men 
 Holds little error, and we know to you 
 That realm's each flower-lit glade, each greenest nook 
 Of ancient wood, its smooth white sands of shore. 
 Stray slopes of blossom-joy in mountain folds. 
 High table-lands that rule the unmeasured fields, 
 All places of deep thought, and those hid founts 
 Of feeling where to drink opes the soul's eyes 
 
6o EXILE. 
 
 To occultest mysteries, are as good friends : 
 We shall have joy to tread upon your steps. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Yet vague repute still speaks with too large sound ; 
 For through the yielding air the spoke word spreads, 
 And reaches ear with loud reverberation, 
 As a weak king enpanoplied in gold, 
 And wearing reflex glow of retinue, 
 May seem a very Caesar. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 But the clear page 
 Whose magic letters hide a visible truth. 
 And are of might to fuse an alien soul 
 In noblest gladness, speaks more loud than fame 
 The sentences the latter utters. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Be it so : 
 I dare belie not the deep work of years ; 
 For I have trodden many paths of thought. 
 Pursued to their far haunts evanishing truths, 
 Found ways to disentangle thinnest woofs 
 Of the arch-worker, spirit, gazed upon 
 The elements wherefrom his world is made, 
 And watched him at his labors till I knew 
 Some deepest secrets of his handicraft. 
 And took his tools, and furthered his results. 
 But 'tis not of myself I mean to speak, 
 Forgive the self-love of a lonely man, 
 
EXILE. 61 
 
 Who joins too little converse with his kind 
 
 To mould his speech to their accredited fashion. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 It always is our valued privilege 
 
 To step aside from the accustomed ways, 
 
 And with great sages meditate the world, 
 
 Not in its semblance, marvellous deceit. 
 
 But as it is to the opened eye of soul, 
 
 That visions not this realm of sense and time, • 
 
 But the essential whole which is the life. 
 
 And in whose self-recurrent pulse all things. 
 
 All times, all histories, all human thoughts. 
 
 Are points of fact wherefrom it ever builds 
 
 Its mighty fabric — nay, I speak but ill, 
 
 Not it, but He who is the Life of Life, 
 
 And Soul of Soul. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Go not into those depths ; 
 The young day laughs, the gray clouds break away. 
 The sun points to the sea, a wealth of smiles. 
 And gives command with sweetest tyranny 
 To yield to it our wondrous molten souls, 
 Breaking in luminous ripples of fleet joys. 
 And ever-changing gleams of lightsomeness. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 A trip in yonder boat were not amiss ; 
 Out to the central bay, afar from land. 
 In places where the many rarely come. 
 And the wide loneliness of sea and sky 
 
 6 
 
62 EXILE. 
 
 Engulfs you in its clearness ; underneath 
 
 The fluent waters, overhead the viewless air, 
 
 Away from all solidity, the soul — 
 
 A joy past earthly words subtly to frame — 
 
 Convinced of its eternity, and freed. 
 
 Or glad-forgetful, of its body-chains. 
 
 The world and all that is a fixed mere point. 
 
 Whereon it bird-like is light-poised awhile. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Your words bring to my mind the poet's words — 
 
 His of the fiery soul, whose home was air. 
 
 And whose deep heart was torn with this world's woes 
 
 That reddened his fierce song's absolving flow ; 
 
 You know the verses well : ''I love all waste 
 
 And solitary places, where we taste 
 
 The pleasure of believing what we see 
 
 Is boundless as we wish our souls to be." 
 
 Father. 
 
 That poet seems a favorite ; strange to me. 
 For he is mainly read and loved of men. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 But in the realm of mind all severance dies. 
 There oneness dwells, no barren monotone. 
 But unit-life ensphering all diverse. 
 Surely in thought the man or Avoman dies. 
 And simple human reasserts itself. 
 
 Father. 
 
 I cry you mercy — for the noble day 
 
 Still bids me bathe in its circumfluous sea ; 
 
EXILE. 63 
 
 I would but breathe and be, so wonderful 
 The golden clearness governs me. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 And I 
 Would give you thanks \ I care not overmuch 
 For those diversities our crude life frames, 
 And dwell by preference on those subtle hints 
 Of inner calm in whose mild atmosphere 
 All storms, absorbed as 'twere into the sun, 
 Yield place to grander forces. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Hark ! a laugh 
 Rings clear across the air — your child's, I doubt. 
 
 Father. 
 Our little girl's whom you perchance have seen. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I met two children playing in the sand, 
 
 A strong, stout boy, of a courageous mien, 
 
 And masculine eye, that dared the total world, 
 
 Companioned by a golden-haired sweet girl, 
 
 On whose pure face pure dreams had left their glow, 
 
 In whose wide eyes sat an unspotted soul, 
 
 Looking in strangeness on this lower realm. 
 
 As troubled with some unacquaintanceship, 
 
 And yet at point to dower it with its love. 
 
 Mother. 
 Our children build a world within the world, 
 And we together are a spiritual isle, 
 
 I 
 
64 EXILE. 
 
 Engirt by the wide sea of all mankind, 
 
 An individual happiness, indeed. 
 
 But drawing life from the universal soil. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 No doubt you have the secret ; I have sought. 
 But cannot say, have found ; I feel the feud ; 
 In solitude the shapes of grandest thoughts 
 Float in pure light before mine inner eyes ; 
 But on the rapture of high meditation 
 There supervenes a mighty loneliness ; 
 And yet the world of men I shudder from, 
 And know not how to bear myself in it. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Perchance, love holds the key ; forget oneself. 
 Bind life with other lives, and the wide sky 
 Is clear of clouds. 
 
 The Stranger, 
 
 I deem your words are true ; 
 I would bestow my wealth's large sovereignties 
 On others ; the power I grasp, so vast, so strong, 
 I am not apt to wield ; no doubt young hands, 
 Made strong by will suffused of truest thought, 
 Might take the full nihility of wealth, 
 And bare the eternal statue lurking there. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 What better use of wealth than personal grace 
 Wrought in the soul by studious hold of books. 
 And making beautiful the transient spot 
 Wherein we dwell? Think you not so with me? 
 
EXILE. 65 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Experience answers no. I would have one — 
 A child — a soul unharmed with life as yet — 
 To whom might fall the dower of perfect freedom ; 
 She should have space to grow as grows a flower, 
 Fed by each wind full-freighted with God's stores, 
 Bathed in the light of his unceasing suns, 
 Taking from earth the best it has to give. 
 It were a task to soothe the approach of age, 
 And rob grim death of terror. I should live 
 In my sweet pupil. 
 
 Father. 
 
 For you not hard to find, 
 I deem. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 A pure desire well worth success. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 You have a child — a lovely golden girl — 
 And I — I might confer great benefits on her ; 
 I am alone — I have not friends — but much — 
 Much else you know of — you are townsman mine. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Your words are difficult to understand. 
 
 You cannot mean 
 
 Mother. 
 
 You speak of our bright girl ? 
 You would have her ? take her from mother's side ? 
 I cannot listen longer — let me go. 
 
 6^ 
 
66 EXILE. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Sweet wife, be calm ; here is some mystery; 
 I am not clear in what is said, nor you ; 
 Explain yourself more fully, we would hear. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Forgive — I cannot now — I will return. 
 
 I am so little used to converse — I will go — 
 
 Yet ponder you my words — it will be well. 
 
 She will be queen — nor of the world alone — 
 
 But reign in the white land of intellect, 
 
 A sovereign woman, marvel of her times, 
 
 A light to burn adown the dusky road 
 
 Along which move the ages newly risen, 
 
 A fire to inflame in all men's hearts to come 
 
 Fierce love of truth, and all that is the best. 
 
 Another virgin giving to these sad latter times 
 
 A spiritual birth of deepest thought and hope, 
 
 In whose unceasing current whoso bathes 
 
 Will be reborn in inmost soul — but lo ! 
 
 I speak wild words, yet not words void of truth. 
 
 Forgive — consider all — for her behoof. 
 
 I will return. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 He is not right in mind ; 
 » I feel as I could weep — for him — for me — 
 I know not well. What meant his passioned words? 
 Tear from my side my little loving girl, 
 Who needs a mother's hand, a mother's heart. 
 Whose soul would flutter in his gilded cage 
 As some bird newly caught, pining for wood 
 
EXILE. 67 
 
 And cool upbearing winds? I am not clear 
 I seize his sense. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Take peace unto yourself; 
 He has lived long alone, and knows not well 
 How men are linked together, hence his strangeness. 
 Pity for him I beg who has torn his roots 
 Out from the general soil, and so must bear 
 An alien's part within the unheeding world. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Shall I succeed ? The doubt obtrudes itself; 
 
 I have been wrong, and clearly see wherein. 
 
 Thought is not solitary, rather grows 
 
 From contact of all souls ; you break the charm. 
 
 And enter Fancy's changeful realm, who hope 
 
 From thought's mere exercise to build up truth. 
 
 My little girl will be an avenue, 
 
 A flower-fringed way to lead my footsteps back ; 
 
 I hear her laugh sound through my vacant rooms, 
 
 And the large house recovers life and soul, 
 
 Touched by her magic finger ; as in the tale, 
 
 A myriad hopes and possibilities, 
 
 And many fair delights have fallen asleep 
 
 In the wide kingdom of my heart ; and she, 
 
 My princess, wakens all in this changed version 
 
 Of fairy-lore remote. I cast off fear, 
 
 I throw aside the cold reserve of years, 
 
 I mix with the deep life of human kind ; 
 
68 EXILE. 
 
 I know their joys, I feel the wondrous thrills 
 
 Of ecstasy that are their common fare, 
 
 I stand no more aloof; is it not true 
 
 That feeling holds the All dissolved as pearl 
 
 The Egyptian queen drank off in ruby wine? 
 
 I face the twin infinities; lo ! Thought, 
 
 Amid whose placid plains and silver streams 
 
 These many years my constant feet have gone ; 
 
 Lo ! Bliss, a sea on which I dare to float. 
 
 I see the sister hold the brother's hand, 
 
 And melt division of the bodily frame 
 
 In one sweet innocent joy ; I see the child 
 
 Stand by its mother's knee, and in their eyes 
 
 Their souls are one ; I see friend walk with friend, 
 
 And the mild stream of converse is themselves. 
 
 No more dissevered, but each mixed with each ; 
 
 The husband holds his wife against his breast. 
 
 And in the rapture of their beating hearts. 
 
 Fair marriage of two souls is consummate. 
 
 And lo ! the world of passion ; shall I quake. 
 
 And shudder back when these fierce gates expand ? 
 
 The lover scatters kisses on his mistress' lips, 
 
 As in the wood, which a dim stillness holds. 
 
 The rose-leaves fall upon the moist soft grass; 
 
 Vague thrills of fear and hope assail his breath. 
 
 And in a dream he swoons, wherein his queen 
 
 Is mystic mistress of the winds and streams. 
 
 And naught is but themselves; and e'en the depths 
 
 Of mad delights, where still the soul is torn 
 
 By gusts of joy and hate, I dare explore ; 
 
 The goddess of all lovers, pale and wan, 
 
 I see within her caverned mount, and him, 
 
EXILE. 69 
 
 The knight who bartered life and hope for her, 
 
 Who chose sad love in lieu of God's own bliss. 
 
 But now an end, I must no longer rave j 
 
 I dare not trust that she will walk beside me, 
 
 And if I fail, I give up all attempt. 
 
 The trouble comes, I sacrifice the higher, 
 
 Pure intellect, to what is of the lower born 
 
 Perchance, and on that way is certain death. 
 
 Oh, wretched that I cannot cling to one, 
 
 But must bewilder me with many aims. 
 
 It is not done, they will refuse,! think, 
 
 And I shall have again my waveless calm ; 
 
 That were the best, perhaps ; — what is the right ? 
 
 Will they forego to see her, hear her, love her? 
 
 Have I the right to tear from mother's side 
 
 The child, and be a double criminal? 
 
 Criminal — harsh word, nor yet devoid of truth. 
 
 Down with these fears ! For once I am a man, 
 
 A doer in the endless whirl of things. 
 
 No passive looker-on ; what comes will come ! 
 
 Meanwhile I put forth utmost power of hand 
 
 To grasp the fruit has pleased my eager sense. 
 
 I will give over thought, the balancing 
 
 Of many points of view, adjustment nice 
 
 Of motives filmy as the woven air. 
 
 Or quickly-vanishing mist, unravelling 
 
 Of elements fine as outspread web of light, 
 
 That garments the bright sky, a chemistry 
 
 Of spirit or of dream ; lo ! I will act 
 
 And bathe me in the stream of consequence. 
 
 Whereby I shall be man past what has been, • 
 
 Yea, be in truth the deed, the power of God ! 
 
70 EXILE. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ida. 
 But do you think that he will come again ? 
 
 Mother. 
 I have a firm conviction that he will. 
 
 Ida. 
 Then brother may go with me to the beach ? 
 
 Alfred. 
 Not so ; I wish to stay, and hear him talk. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Yes, you may stay ; we shall not see him after, 
 And both may hear the words he speaks. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Dear mother. 
 
 Close by your side I shall not be afraid. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 What kind of man is he? 
 
 Father. 
 
 He is a scholar. 
 Has traversed many lands, and noted much. 
 Has studied deepest books and gathered lore 
 That none but loftiest intellects dare pursue. 
 He is most subtile, and I more than deem 
 Has lost himself amid a maze of thoughts, 
 
EXILE. 71 
 
 So that no more he has a grasp of life. 
 But floats as a stray leaf upon the flood, 
 Or bubble through the many-pathed air. 
 
 Alfred. 
 You say what I can get no meaning from. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Most true ; I lost your question, dearest boy, 
 And merely thought aloud ; a learned man, 
 And yet I cannot call him good. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 He spoke 
 Of picture-books, of churches old and fair. 
 Of mansions wide and grand he meant to show me. 
 
 Father. 
 No doubt he might if so he felt inclined. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 But he is sad, and in my utmost fear 
 My heart weeps for him. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 There spoke my little girl ; 
 He more excites our pity than our dread. 
 
 Father. 
 
 You know we have not wealth ; how if he came. 
 And sought to bear you to his noble home. 
 And bring to pass your every lightest wish ? 
 For he has power. 
 
72 EXILE. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I shake with sudden chill ; 
 These words are not for me ? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 I hold you fast ; 
 It is a jest, a trifle cruel. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 Him? 
 Go forth with him, and leave you all behind? 
 Say, must I go? But I shall surely die. 
 Dear brother, come to me ; what can it be ? 
 I soon shall tremble at you, father dear. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 You shall not go so long as I am by ; 
 They cannot tear you from me, so be still. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Appease the child; you will forego her love. 
 And much I fear me 'twill be somewhat long 
 Before she loses memory of this shock. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Forgive, dear child ; I cannot tell you why. 
 But somehow I felt bound to say the words. 
 You should be free, I would not force your choice, 
 Though filial love makes you our own. Enough ; 
 You are too young to understand my purpose. 
 
EXILE. 73 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Your words make me ashamed of my swift harshness. 
 But lo ! the stranger comes. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I have returned. 
 
 Mother. 
 We welcome you again. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I would be plain, 
 And to my business pass at once. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Business ? 
 Mother. 
 Let him proceed. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 To you I speak, sweet child ; 
 I am a lonely man, and your clear smile 
 Is like the moon in life's sad night to me. 
 Tremble not so ; for I shall bring you joy, 
 And you will speak but to achieve your will. 
 
 Ida. 
 I am most sorry for you. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Great gladness comes 
 When you are near ; you will not flee again ? 
 
 7 
 
74 EXILE, 
 
 Ida. 
 Your sadness grieves me, but I know you not. 
 
 Alfred. 
 You brought the picture-books you promised me ? 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I do forget — and yet — not now — not now — 
 Hereafter I may send you them. Dear girl, 
 Stand by me here, and let me hold your hand. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 No — no — I would not leave my mother's side ; 
 Here I am safe — and you — I know you not, 
 You are too strange. 
 
 Father. 
 You spoke but now of business. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I do recall myself; your pardon, 
 
 I shall mean no offence, but I would speak 
 
 With freedom, and make clear my long desire. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Speak without fear ; it is my pleasure's wont, 
 I have no love for windings in and out. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I have great wealth, this is no news to you \ 
 I have small faith in that munificence 
 Which feeds its vanity by large bequests 
 
EXILE. 75 
 
 To public charities ; the donor's will 
 
 Is not expressible in perfect words, 
 
 And the keen law's interpretative skill 
 
 Brings manifold meanings from distinctest speech ; 
 
 So the bequest is tortured from its end, 
 
 And waters fields quite alien from the hope. 
 
 I would bestow my gifts with lesser failure. 
 
 Father. 
 
 You well express my thought ; to be dispenser 
 Of one's own bounties seems the wiser course. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 You pardon me, I would enrich your days, 
 And change the dull monotony of your life 
 To graceful interchange of pure delights. 
 And harnessing the courser, property. 
 To the swift car of your sweet family cheer, 
 Set you at freedom from material chains. 
 And leave the world to master as you wished. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Too large a gift, too slender toil for me ; 
 Achievement is the best reward of work. 
 I should refuse the gift. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 But hear me through : 
 I am a lonely man ; I would find way 
 To sweet communion with my fellow-man. 
 The sense of glad society is long disused, 
 And of itself the blossom will not grow. 
 
76 EXILE. 
 
 I must find other means, and with your help 
 1 shall not fail in its resuscitation. 
 
 Father. 
 
 If I can serve you in so wise a wish, 
 'Twill give me joy. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 You have a fairy child, — 
 Her hand shall guide me from my wilderness, 
 Shall starwise lead me from the labyrinth, 
 As in the ancient days the enamoured princess 
 Led the Athenian stranger to the light. 
 
 Father. 
 
 I pray you come at once to your sure point ; 
 In this obscure of words no thought is clear, 
 And I must guess your purposes. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Not guess ; 
 We both shrink from the edge ; then here it is. 
 This golden-haired fair child, this visible dream, 
 I would receive from you to bear her hence, 
 A daughter mine. The world shall be her toy, 
 She shall be queen of the world's intellect. 
 Upon the waves of fame her name shall float, 
 A ship to bear great truths to sundered lands. 
 All womanhood centred in her noble life 
 Shall vaunt itself to have borne such prodigy ; 
 Upon the mountain-peaks of time shall burn 
 Her beacon-thoughts to rouse the sluggish nations ; 
 What would you more? you cannot say me nay. 
 
EXILE. 77 
 
 Father. 
 
 You deem the answer easy; will the child 
 Return at intervals to home and friends? 
 For these, I doubt, in light of grandiose aims 
 Might fade as night's most fiercely splendent stars 
 Die on the breast of the effulgent sun. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 Return to home and friends ? strange speech to make ; 
 What have these here to do ? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Have you a heart ? 
 You tear a soul from all it holds most dear, 
 Sever as with a knife bonds red with blood, 
 Make a young life as cold and lone as yours, 
 Suppress the love that flows 'twixt mother and child, 
 And then you say these have here naught to do? 
 
 Father. 
 
 Dear wife, no more. My daughter, listen well : 
 You see this gentleman ; he offers you 
 Wealth far beyond your wish — and I am poor — 
 All things that make life worth desire to live, 
 Fame, splendor, power to do mankind much service. 
 Far more than your young years can understand, 
 And I can give you but a dubious joy — 
 For I am poor — save that you will be girt 
 By purest love ; now you are free to choose ; 
 Will you go forth with him ? 
 
 7^ 
 
78 EXILE. 
 
 Ida. 
 
 I catch your sense ; 
 Oh, mother, loosen not your grasp from mine ; 
 I have no more to say. 
 
 Alfred. 
 
 I hate you, sir ; 
 If you come here again I shall be wroth. 
 And take sure means to do you some fell harm. 
 
 Father. 
 
 You have our answer, sir. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I hear not well ; 
 This looks like a refusal — folly dire ! — 
 Shall I not have the child ? 
 
 Mother. 
 
 I can no more ; 
 I pray you leave us now in peace. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 No — no — 
 I yet am at dull loss ; my brain turns round ; 
 You cannot be so cruel, yield the child. 
 A mother's selfishness should here give way. 
 
 Father. 
 
 Enough ; you seem not swift to apprehend ; 
 
 Have you not thought how in our close-meshed life 
 
 The law prevails of cost and price ? Know that 
 
EXILE, 79 
 
 Not fully formed into our grasp is given 
 The thing we seek ; out of hard sacrifice 
 As from some savage jaw 'tis ours to rend 
 What so we yet desire. You dare to ask 
 The sweetest gift of man's, nor reck the cost? 
 Go ! mix with men, dispense your charities, 
 In some fair woman's eyes doubt not to see 
 The image of your aims reflected clear ; 
 Then out of duties nobly done, and work 
 Beside your fellows, as God's visible chrism, 
 There will descend from Heaven your dear reward. 
 Your child, incarnate symbol of much toil. 
 And yielding up of self, your own, no fruit 
 Plucked from another's tree, and lacking taste 
 To soothe your hungered heart ; you ask in vain 
 What is not right to give, and, being given. 
 Could bring but death to you and her. 
 
 The Stranger, 
 
 And yet 
 My thought is pure ; you break my latest hope ; 
 To see my intent in mirror of your words 
 Is horrible. Can I be lost so far? 
 I am not used so to mistake the right. 
 Yet you seem right ; I am quite broken down ; 
 Grant me the time to gain my surer calm. 
 
 Mother. 
 Take comfort ; we are sad to give you pain. 
 
 Father. 
 
 These are grave depths of thought ; it is not well 
 To deem oneself sufficient unto all. 
 
8o EXILE. 
 
 In this dark mystery that we call life 
 
 The appulse of souls and things and deeds so close 
 
 Connects the each with all that disarray 
 
 Means exile ; as the tree draws life from air, 
 
 Yet rooted in the soil has dwelling-place, 
 
 And perishes withdrawn from vital circle, 
 
 So there survives no deed save as with all 
 
 It mixes in the spiritual ebb and flow 
 
 That is the soul of this vast universe ; 
 
 Thought abstract feeds upon itself, a phantasm. 
 
 It traverses all time and space, nor rests ; 
 
 Life fills it with red blood, though yet I deem 
 
 Mere living is but brutishness and dirt ; 
 
 In realm of pure Idea is the source 
 
 Of light, we walk in darkness otherwhere. 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 The attempt is over. If I have given offence. 
 Forgive. I am recovered from disease ; 
 There needed but this last experience 
 To render plain how that for men like me 
 The intellectual is the sole repose. 
 
 XL 
 
 The Stranger. 
 
 I feel deep shame — I must regain my calm \ 
 But I shall prove apt learner. Here is end ; 
 True, I was wrong to hope acquaintanceship 
 With action's small dexterities a task 
 Requiring little time ; the soul descends 
 With troubled steps into an alien region. 
 
EXILE. 8 1 
 
 The wisdom offered me with free outpour 
 
 I long have found stale and unprofitable. 
 
 Men have their functions, and the thinker stern 
 
 Is not the least of creatures ; but I feel shamed 
 
 At having touched that baser sphere, and known 
 
 Weak thrills of soft lascivious feeling stir 
 
 My heart bemired ; some large and cleansing thought 
 
 Will rid me of these stains ! In the clear stream 
 
 Of some great book I needs must bathe, perform 
 
 Some vast and expiatory toil of brain. 
 
 I scorn myself, the humiliation beats 
 
 Against my brows, and drains my veins of blood. 
 
 The truths they spake have only relevance 
 
 Where souls yet infantile perforce seek aid 
 
 From mutual stress, that subtle slavery 
 
 Whence highest man superb erects himself, 
 
 And being all, is freedom, his true self. 
 
 But I shall soon forget ; these latest throes 
 
 Fall from me as the cool clear drops of rain 
 
 From burnished leaves amid the sober wood. 
 
 I am restored unto myself — and never hence 
 
 Shall I make wandering : where I early found 
 
 The voice of passion fail in the far reaches, 
 
 And youth's hot tumult melt in grateful peace, 
 
 I shall abide ; the wall of chill reserve 
 
 I build more just and firm. Here is no failure, 
 
 Rather a clear recall my inmost soul 
 
 Sounds, that no further I m.ay tread the steep. 
 
 And fall to lot of common humankind. 
 
 Like one who travels from a city's bounds, 
 
 And sees the lessening lights upon the night. 
 
 And the wide circle of his sight grows lone. 
 
82 EXILE. 
 
 But overhead the large-faced moon is calm, 
 
 And the great winds are free to utter speech — 
 
 The city's tumult left behind, the pain of friendship. 
 
 The fierce remorse of love, the belittling sense 
 
 That comes of too much intercourse with men. 
 
 All these and worser left behind forever — 
 
 While the vext heart resumes its nobler peace. 
 
 The sea of thought upheaves no more with storm, 
 
 And inner weds the outer large repose. 
 
 Like him who thus hath found what long he sought, 
 
 I wander inward from the wizard sense. 
 
 Release me from its many dear deceits, 
 
 And rest within the spirit's solitude. 
 
 O mighty Thought ! O Silence vast, profound ! 
 
 O region of Ideals still, majestic. 
 
 The very temple and the home of Gods, 
 
 The atmosphere of causes, and the eagle-nest 
 
 Of glorious influences ruling all the worlds. 
 
 In you my mind and soul shall ever dwell ! 
 
 noblest Truth ! to you is dedicate 
 
 My mind, my strength, my hope, my all of being, 
 You take I for my bride, you sole I love. 
 Upon your altar as a sacrifice 
 
 1 shed my blood, and sink in worldless rest ! 
 
TANTALUS. Z^ 
 
 TANTALUS. 
 
 The truth is so ; Apollo was my friend, 
 
 And I held high acquaintance with the gods, 
 
 And sat with them at table in the days 
 
 When youth and cheerful spring-time ruled my life. 
 
 I saw the mighty Thunderer on his throne. 
 
 And fickle Juno laughing at his side ; 
 
 I saw the lightning of his sudden smile 
 
 Fill the far spaces of the Heavens with light, 
 
 And from the vantage of my topmost outlook, 
 
 I saw its radiance trembling to its fall, 
 
 Saw its swift flash across the universe, 
 
 And knew that in the realms of all the worlds 
 
 New apprehensions changed the face of time. 
 
 But chief Apollo was my friend, as dear 
 
 To me as mother to her clinging child ; 
 
 For from the fountains of his gracious power 
 
 I drank large draughts of inspiration, felt 
 
 That in the embrace of his transcendent love 
 
 My being blossomed to its utmost height. 
 
 I saw him pass Aurora's golden gates, 
 
 And flood with sunshine the yet slumbering world ; 
 
 I saw his car speed through the spiritual realms, 
 
 And rise a sun upon the souls of men. 
 
 Or beings likest men in all the worlds. 
 
 But why recall those vanished joys of youth? 
 
 Here in the depths of Hell I sit and mourn ; 
 
84 TANTALUS. 
 
 Yet I will tell you how it came I fell. 
 
 One day the Thunderer, gazing straight at me, 
 
 In tones of soft compassion said, ''Ah, child. 
 
 Too soon thou venturest on celestial plains, 
 
 Too little canst thou mould thy budding life 
 
 In harmony with the universal laws." 
 
 He spoke, and on Apollo's cheek there fell 
 
 A tear, and Heaven grew dark with misery. 
 
 Men tell a vain and foolish tale of me, 
 
 That I revealed the secrets of the gods ; 
 
 For not with revelations are the gods 
 
 At strife, all noble work is revelation. 
 
 Inspired of them ; but they cannot endure 
 
 The impotent efforts of half-witted men, 
 
 Of souls who labor in a partial way, 
 
 And mar their work with thoughtless zeal, or toil 
 
 To give expression to a lofty dream 
 
 In ignorance of the tools they needs must use. 
 
 Two worlds a man must make his home in ; foremost 
 
 The world of thought, and then by consequence 
 
 The world of sense, where principles grow fact. 
 
 And the idea finds expression fit. 
 
 Therefore I fell ; I drank the nectar, fed 
 
 The ambrosia, heard the words of all the gods. 
 
 But from the bliss of my abstract ideal 
 
 Could not descend, and hear the talk of men. 
 
 Nor understand the laws of shop and mart. 
 
 Nor join the pleasures of the laboring earth. 
 
 Therefore I fell, and hence my punishment: 
 
 Within the sea of lofty thoughts I sit. 
 
 But of them I can gain nor food nor drink, 
 
 And over me there hangs the shuddering doom. 
 
TANTALUS. 85 
 
 And am I hopeless or despairing? Nay, 
 I know the unfathomable love of Heaven, 
 I know the gods are past our finding out, 
 I know that in their providential care 
 No woe shall stand unbalanced of its joy. 
 Already through the gloom of yonder sky, 
 This moonless night that girds me thick about, 
 I catch faint gleams of glad returning light ; 
 Already yonder eastern sky empurpling 
 Quivers as if soft-touched by dawn, and soon 
 I know Apollo's golden fire will burn 
 On yonder cloud-rack, and upon my soul 
 Will rise the morning of eternal day. 
 
S6 PYGMALION. 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 One night beneath the silver silent moon, 
 
 While splendent snow-fields gleamed around me lone 
 
 And far removed from human neighborhood, 
 
 A thought of largest scope flashed on my soul. 
 
 The barren trees in dusky solemn lines 
 
 Edged the long road, and stood like sentinels 
 
 To guard the stillness, or like pillars rude 
 
 To hold the dome of cloudless star-sown sky, 
 
 And build about the atom, the slight me. 
 
 Whose swift pulsations thrilled along my veins. 
 
 The spacious church whose lights are moon and stars. 
 
 I saw the ages in their ceaseless toil. 
 
 And in the opened Heavens I saw sublime 
 
 The image of their destinies realized ; 
 
 I heard the sound of human suffering. 
 
 The mingled voices of the periods dead. 
 
 The harsh confusion of the time's complaints, 
 
 And deep-toned prophecies of woes to come ; 
 
 But like an under song that through the thrill 
 
 And crash of some divinest orchestra 
 
 Weaves its slow golden way, and instrument 
 
 On instrument absorbs into the flow 
 
 Of its all-conquering harmony, I heard, 
 
 As in a solemn hush, Pythagoras 
 
 Alone beneath the calm Italian night, 
 
 The symphony that merges in the swell 
 
PYGMALION. 87 
 
 Of its unutterable perfectness, all cries, 
 
 All sounds, all tones, all words, that clove, that cleave, 
 
 Or e'er shall cleave this world-embracing air. 
 
 And as the vision faded, and the song 
 
 Died in a last burst of its loveliness, 
 
 I heard a voice from out the central sky 
 
 Speak in the deeps of my entranced heart : 
 
 '* Say thou this vision unto anguislied men ; 
 
 Above the toiling years, beyond all time, 
 
 In spaces never mortal eyes beheld, 
 
 On shores washed by serenest waves no ship 
 
 E'er severed with its sharpened keel, say thou 
 
 That in the spiritual plains, the eternal realms. 
 
 Firm joyance waits for wisdom-craving man. 
 
 Attune thy words unto the vanished tones. 
 
 Whose golden splendor sang the perfect world. 
 
 The concord of the seasons, and the love 
 
 Of star for star, the amity of flower 
 
 With sod, the friendship close of man and earth, 
 
 The single clue that through the ages runs. 
 
 The golden sphere that clips the universe round." 
 
 So spake the voice, and so 1 listening heard ; 
 
 Then all was still, save through the branches bare 
 
 The winds went sobbing like a child in pain. 
 
 And all the stars, and their white queen, the moon. 
 
 Looked down with thousand eyes of icy dread 
 
 Where prone upon the glittering snow I lay. 
 
 Slowly I gathered thought and rose and gazed. 
 
 And far below the height whereon I stood 
 
 In the clear moonlight shone the sleeping town. 
 
 And yet beyond the silvered reach of sea. 
 
 Therefore I went, and girded up my loins. 
 
88 PYGMALION. 
 
 And entered on the long unequal strife ; 
 
 And like a statue, pure and faultless, white, 
 
 A woman-form that held my utmost love, 
 
 My purpose rose before my growing life. 
 
 And ruled my deeds with undisputed sway. 
 
 But men received with sneers my burning words, 
 
 And laughed to scorn their import, which refused 
 
 To clothe its soul of fire in usual forms, 
 
 And cloak in shallow nicety of phrase 
 
 Its solemn majesty of prophecy. 
 
 But for a time I held my soul intact, 
 
 Nor soiled with uses base the marble calm 
 
 Of my dear love, my statue pedestalled 
 
 Within my heart, my spirit's church. 
 
 But as the weary years rolled on apace, 
 
 And my laborious striving bore no fruit. 
 
 My steps grew laggard, and my heart grew cold. 
 
 Therefore I thought this high severity. 
 
 This tense upholding of a lofty aim, 
 
 This lighting beacons on unscalable hills. 
 
 This starlike shining inaccessible, 
 
 Moves men to laughter, and suffices not. 
 
 Men's moods still love the grassy stream-fed fields, 
 
 Nor care to breathe the chilly mountain air. 
 
 Wherefore I poured my thought in narrower moulds. 
 
 And swerved its high significance to meet 
 
 The temporary hopes and aims of men. 
 
 So round me grew a bitter clamorous sect, 
 
 A barking crowd of indurated souls, 
 
 Who minced the truth, and looked with hate and scorn 
 
 On those who walked without their narrow ring. 
 
 Then wealth and luxury played round my feet. 
 
PYGMALION. 89 
 
 And trumpet-voicM fame proclaimed my name 
 In the four quarters of the listening earth. 
 But in my heart there was a growing blank, 
 And on my soul, that gazed with longing sore, 
 The vision visibly darkened day by day. 
 Wherefore one night in deep despair I went 
 To the cold summit where the solemn dream 
 Had visited my unexpectant soul. 
 And as I clomb the hill, I heard again 
 The music of the universe, and saw 
 In gradual clearness the world's destiny, 
 The universal end that all things serve, 
 The pure ideal of eternity. 
 But as I heard, the harmony was snapped, 
 And fell away in discord, ruinous, harsh. 
 And as I gazed, the vision shook with earthquake, 
 Its light endured eclipse, its symmetry 
 Vanished in waves of chaos dire and vast. 
 Then round me poured the ocean of that storm, 
 And in my ears sounded and howled the din 
 Of winds unearthly making ceaseless moan ; 
 And then I knew that I was deep in Hell. 
 One last long look I cast into my heart, 
 And saw my statue soiled and sensualized, 
 Bemired, dragged in the dirt of vulgar aims, 
 Discrowned, and beast in semblance, that shone erst 
 A woman mild with eyes of love and hope. 
 Then sunk I depths of Hell unfathomable. 
 Until I reached this ledge of lingering hope. 
 Where through the day I weep and pray and weep, 
 And in the passage of the moonless nights 
 Sometimes catch sudden gleams of distant stars. 
 
 8* 
 
90 HANGING THE PICTURES. 
 
 HANGING THE PICTURES. 
 
 At last they came, the treasures I had longed 
 To hold within my hands for many days. 
 With eagerness I cut the cord and gazed ; 
 From wide unfathomable eyes of bliss 
 The mystical mother looked upon me there ; 
 The child sat throned upon her arms as King 
 Of all the worlds and the long reach of time. 
 I looked at it with feelings gently touched, 
 And loved the mighty artist for his gift, 
 Though but a faint reflection was my own. 
 Now underneath this picture lay one more, 
 The fair incomparable Madonna, she 
 Who floats amid the softly-parting clouds, 
 Her feet upon the moon, and circled by 
 A crowd of lovely angels, winsome babes. 
 That take the air as native element. 
 Miraculous flight of playful birds of Heaven. 
 I lingered with them long, and gazed at them, 
 And held them in all lights, and strove to catch 
 Some glimpse of the deep message they contained. 
 At length I cut my cord and placed my hooks. 
 And hung them, but the day was pale and gray, 
 And rain-clouds strove to weep their bitter tears 
 For this earth's many sins, and robe in gloom 
 The habitations and the homes of men. 
 I could not get them in the proper light, 
 
HANGING THE PICTURES, 9 1 
 
 I took them down and tried another way, 
 
 But it was all in vain ; they hung awry, 
 
 They were too far apart, they were too near. 
 
 I tried again, again, but all in vain. 
 
 And now the clouds assembled thick and vast. 
 
 The sudden lightning gleamed, and thunder rolled 
 
 Sullen across the summer's sultry air. 
 
 I sat me down, and could not hold my tears. 
 
 And felt somehow an aching sense of loss. 
 
 For all my joy was simply dust and ashes. 
 
 > 
 
LYRICAL AND NARRATIVE. 
 
AD POETAM. 
 
 What dost thou seek in the night's deep mystery, 
 
 Dreamer of dreams, and singer of songs ? 
 Dost thou believe the world's sad history 
 
 Will cease from its lengthening record of sorrow, 
 Will put from itself its grave garment of wrongs, 
 Will bask in the light of the sun-mastered morrow, 
 Because thy keen music dissevers the air, 
 And all the four winds thy sweet messages bear? 
 
 Nay, thou dost say the songs that have gladdened thee 
 Sprang from thy heart like young birds from their nest, 
 Stilled with their murmurs the woes which have sad- 
 dened thee, 
 Rescued thy soul from thy passion's sharp peril, 
 Hushed into calm thy tumultuous breast ; 
 
 And shall the sweet realm of thy singing prove 
 sterile, 
 Now thou hast built round the listening heart 
 A land in whose seasons no winter has part ? 
 
 Surely with thee, O compassionate singer of songs, 
 
 With thee all is well, O dreamer of dreams ; 
 What though the day, though the night, be the bringer 
 of wrongs. 
 Art thou not sovereign of mystical regions. 
 Art thou not sovereign of the land which gleams 
 With the light of pure Hope's innumerous legions ? 
 Wherefore lead, oh, lead us, to thy realm where spring, 
 Joy, and clear wisdom abide and sing. 
 
 95 
 
96 THE NEW MIDAS. 
 
 THE NEW MIDAS. 
 
 Of old the gracious gods from Heaven descended, 
 
 In hands immortal bearing costly gifts, 
 With man his daily toilsome pathways wended, 
 Shed solemn radiance in transfiguring drifts, 
 Radiance of Heaven's midsun. 
 On all things thought or done, 
 With might divine man against men defended. 
 
 From wrong that slays the laboring truth that lifts. 
 
 They taught to cleave with prow the unmeasured ocean. 
 To harvest wave-ridged fields where foam-flowers 
 grow. 
 To count Time's all-prevailing pulse and motion. 
 The spirit's deepmost mysteries to know, 
 To tend the sprouting grain. 
 To rear on brown-hued plain 
 The splendid symbol of the heart's devotion, 
 With cities populous the land to sow. 
 
 They built much-trodden roads to realms ideal, 
 
 And peopled with their oracles the air, 
 Uniting in relation hymeneal 
 
 Man's hope and all the fruitful earth did bear, 
 So that his visionings 
 On splendor-dropping wings 
 Haunted each vale and glade, and changed the real 
 To visible image of his dreams most fair. 
 
THE NEW MIDAS. 97 
 
 Therefore in woods where summer lingered playing, 
 Making her footsteps sweet with grass and flower, 
 Where pleasure circled swart Silenus straying. 
 Where Bacchus slept in rose-illumined bower, 
 And dryads trod the green, 
 And shy soft-eyed were seen 
 Slim nymphs and oreads going blithe a-Maying, 
 Midas, the king, occasion found and hour. 
 
 For him, Silenus — ^who, afar from joyance 
 
 The wine-god's merry crew made in that gloom. 
 Had wandered, and in bacchant mazed annoyance 
 Pondered of satyr lost the imminent doom — 
 For guerdon of kind care, 
 And conduct safe to where 
 The grieving master stayed the revel's buoyance. 
 Set in the space the glad god's smiles illume. 
 
 And Bacchus all King Midas' askings granted, 
 Giving him power to change to virgin gold 
 All things in which his mystic touch implanted 
 The virtue magical his hand did hold ; 
 A shallow boon, indeed. 
 Born of material greed, 
 Of fortunate sequence in due period scanted, 
 A fool's desire that scorn and grief unfold. 
 
 But, in these latter days, in joys ethereal 
 
 The gods sit on their thrones, forgetting men ; 
 
 Void is the earth of all their songs imperial. 
 Void is each forest deep and rose-clad glen, 
 
 9 
 
98 THE NEW MIDAS. 
 
 Void is the chainless air, 
 Void are the spaces fair 
 With immemorial march of worlds sidereal, 
 Mute are those tones to earthly denizen. 
 
 Sometimes sweet companies from the dim spacious 
 Plains of the Heavens descend the flushing light. 
 Circle young hopes with halos warm and gracious, 
 Strengthen travailing thought with spiritual might, 
 Flit before children's eyes. 
 Paint the gold sunrise skies. 
 Gladden deep-grieving hearts with dreams veracious. 
 And cheer brave souls upholding struggling right. 
 
 But momentary is the golden vision ; 
 
 The level winds upbear not long the feet 
 Treading secure their waves as fields elysian. 
 For one tranced interval the soft wings beat, 
 And tones sweet as Love's voice 
 Bid the worn soul rejoice. 
 Then night or daylight stares in grim derision 
 On emptied homes and spectre-peopled street. 
 
 One god remains man's friend, gold-haired Apollo, 
 Mindful of shepherd days when Time was young, 
 Sad with man's woe, sad with the gladness hollow 
 The Fates for world around his soul have hung ; 
 He knows the burdened heart. 
 The clamorous, fruitless part 
 Of hope bemocked with dream it cannot follow. 
 Of mind in anxious dubitation swung. 
 
THE NEW MIDAS. 99 
 
 Therefore, as Bacchus erst in forests olden, 
 
 He gave a gift, but universal, pure; 
 The gift to change to substance spiritual-golden, 
 The shows and forms of all man's life obscure; 
 No selfish, thoughtless boon, 
 But power to set in tune 
 The wide world-chaos age on age beholden. 
 
 To build the harmonious sphere that shall perdure. 
 
 Therein the passionate sea's deep-throated mystery. 
 The high-domed laugh of cloudless mid-day sky, 
 The light of stars, and weird, unspoken history 
 
 Stream-cloven caves through all their darkness sigh, 
 The calms of summit snows 
 Flushed with the sunset rose. 
 And voice of summer's breeze-bent flower consistory. 
 Furnish the feast whereby the soul will lie. 
 
 Therein the soul in sovereignty pure and regal 
 
 Sceptres the elemental powers at will. 
 Haunts thought's sea-spaces like a spirit sea-gull. 
 Hearkens what songs the empyrean fill, 
 Feels through its spirit limbs 
 Thrill Love's mysterious hymns, 
 Spreads its broad wings and soars like sun-born eagle. 
 To God's sun-temple crowning God's steep hill. 
 
 Therein the nations in firm friendship banded, 
 Travelling the centuries loud with rapturous song, 
 
 Past the vexed rocks where ancient peoples stranded, 
 Secure from war and hatred's poisonous wrong, 
 
lOO THE NEW MIDAS. 
 
 One body, one wide heart, 
 To earth's remotest part, 
 One great world-giant, conquer Fate, and landed 
 On greener shores the pastoral times prolong. 
 
 Therein the One supreme, the ineffable glory. 
 
 The soul of love and substance pure of good. 
 The infinite might and world-embracing story. 
 The life of stream and singing-bird and wood, 
 The trumpet of the storm. 
 The light whose beams inform 
 Rapt thought and wisdom with much travail hoary. 
 Serenely smiles in measureless fatherhood. 
 
 O lord Apollo, thee, by night and daytime 
 
 Singing we praise and long with thee to be ; 
 Clear as the silver stars at night's mid play-time, 
 Thou comest that work-wearied men may see ; 
 At autumn's fruitful tide. 
 By winter's bright fireside. 
 In rose-draped summer, and in chaster May-time, 
 We sing the gladness that is still with thee. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. lOl 
 
 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 Argument. — Elagabalus, Emperor of Rome and Priest of the 
 Sun, becoming weary of his Senate, determined to rid himself of 
 them, and at the same time make a sacrifice to his god, the Sun. 
 Wherefore he called them to a sumptuous feast, at which he pro- 
 cured a veritable shower of roses, whereunder they were miser- 
 ably smothered, and offered up as victims to his refulgent Idol. 
 
 How long shall virtue, good, most empty names, 
 Bind fast the limbs of him who rules the world ? 
 
 How long shall senate, state, familiar claims, 
 Around his hopes like restless snakes be curled? 
 
 How long the power which every pleasure tames 
 In virtue's cerements be most basely furled ? 
 
 Let Love and Joy call forth their happy crowds 
 
 Resplendent as a flock of sunset clouds. 
 
 From bliss to bliss, the lucent waves of life, 
 
 Let our souls' barques glide onward pauselessly, 
 
 Past sound or sight remove all storm and strife, 
 Where we seek rest, may calm forever be, 
 
 The winds with wildest odors ever rife. 
 
 Mild blossoms grow, and fruits down-load the tree, 
 
 Forgotten cares that nest within our hearts. 
 
 And slay our dreams with swift envenomed darts. 
 
 To-morrow let the all-beholding sun, 
 
 Whose altars smoke with ceaseless sacrifice. 
 
 Rejoice as never yet since first begun 
 
 His daily course ; his flame-dispersing eyes 
 
 9* 
 
I02 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 Shall dim in smoke of rapturous triumph won, 
 
 For his sake, by the King, who, dust-clad, lies, 
 Lord of the world, yet abject slave mid slaves. 
 Before his throne, and his protection craves. 
 
 Prepare the feast ! To-morrow's noon shall know 
 A carnival where life and death shall meet, 
 
 Where life in splendor like the sun's shall glow, 
 Where death wild revelry shall kiss and greet, 
 
 Where joys shall fall like countless flakes of snow. 
 Where death shed myriad darts like sharp-tongued 
 sleet. 
 
 Sing praises to the Sun, our God, our Lord : 
 
 We bring him victims more than war and sword ! 
 
 Prepare the feast ! Earth's choicest treasures spill 
 More lavish than the full-blown moon her light ; 
 
 Bright gold, that filled the bowels of the hill. 
 And gems that lay deep-hidden from the sight. 
 
 Convert to shapes that suit unfettered will ; 
 
 And fruits, and wines that drank immeasured night 
 
 Of depths mysterious, flowers, dance, and song, 
 
 Our summer tide of revels shall prolong ! 
 
 At the clear morrow's noon, the palace gates 
 Admit the noble, wise, and great, and good ; 
 
 The regal slendor brightly dissipates 
 
 The latest fear that checked the rapid blood. 
 
 Elagabalus, fair amid such mates. 
 
 Reflects on all the radiance of his mood ; 
 
 Like morn's fair beams traversing a clear lake, 
 
 The smiles across his pale face fleet and shake. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 103 
 
 Up marble stairs whose balustrades with gold 
 Are thick encrusted as the night with stars, 
 
 Through halls whose beauty crowns the sense, past old 
 Dusk chambers through whose moonlit window-bars 
 
 The midnight glow on kingly revels rolled. 
 Satiate with splendor that no discord mars, 
 
 The dreaming guests follow the rustling girls, 
 
 Whose feet make softer music than the whirls 
 
 Of midnight oreads in aerial dance. 
 
 Lo ! marvels that the brain but half conceives ; 
 For as the darkness flees, when truth's strong lance 
 
 Pierces the air with gleaming strokes and leaves 
 To light fields uncontested, or as prance 
 
 Morn's radiance-winged coursers, when she weaves 
 Her night- slaying spell, and showers white floods of 
 
 splendence 
 From mane and hoofs across their swift ascendence, 
 
 Even thus the night of bliss experienced fled, 
 
 The fiery morn of bliss expectant rose. 
 Their souls like outworn garments from them shed 
 
 The dreams of the wan past, the real grows 
 On them as summer's sun on winter dead, 
 
 The fleeting moments novel joys disclose, 
 Rapture on rapture gradual revel keeps, 
 Capricious as a fountain's golden leaps. 
 
 What mortal tongue may hope in words to tell 
 The wonder of the place wherein they stood ? 
 
 From lands mysterious by some potent spell, 
 From sunless depths of seldom-visited wood, 
 
I04 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 From gloomy cavern or sprite-haunted dell, 
 
 Sprang forth the hands whose subtle masterhood 
 Fashioned the solid miracle of dream, 
 Whose wondrous glory did around them gleam. 
 
 A vast hall, through whose many-windowed walls 
 The noontide fell with yellow fire and flame, 
 
 The senses lulled by slumberous water-falls, 
 And melancholy strains fitfully came 
 
 Like echoes soft and low. Loose-robed thralls, 
 African slaves, like beasts that singers tame. 
 
 Recline about the boards of gem-starred gold, 
 
 Or in their dusky hands the wine-cups hold. 
 
 The roof presents an intertangled net 
 
 Of precious fretwork, vine and grapes and flower. 
 Around the central orb, all golden, set 
 
 To catch the errant sunbeams, then to shower 
 A* rain of light upon the fount whose wet 
 
 Circumference beneath is bright with dower 
 Of broad-leaved lilies, round whose thinnest cups 
 Quick sunbows leap in merry downs and ups. 
 
 And myriad loves shoot subtly-pointed darts 
 Across the walls, whose crowning carved curves 
 
 Titans uplift, and on which Painting starts 
 Into fair life of thought. Here ocean swerves 
 
 As Venus treads its waves like lovers' hearts. 
 Here Helen passion's wildest flights ennerves. 
 
 Here Phaedra spurns the cold Hippolytus, 
 
 Here sings of love fierce Sappho amorous. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 105 
 
 The tortured earth in meek subservience 
 
 Had oped her thousand doors, and shown her spoils 
 To countless slaves, who bore her treasures thence. 
 
 And wove them in their unimagined toils 
 To all that fills the eye, or thrills the sense ; 
 
 There lay the fruits and flowers of nameless soils. 
 The forest and the sea their tribute brought, 
 Whate'er the brain conceived, the hand had wrought. 
 
 The garlands crown the brows, the rosy wine 
 
 Shines thick with sunbeams like weird snakes of fire, 
 
 Pleasure and song their passioned souls entwine. 
 And wake the slumbering brood of strong desire ; 
 
 Fiercer the music, wilder wild eyes shine. 
 
 Fiercer the mirth like flames upclambering higher ; 
 
 Fancy withdraws them from the streaming light, 
 
 They live in dreams outshining those of night. 
 
 It was the height and fury of the feast ; 
 
 The King descends, and through the risen crowd 
 Walks slow, his priest-garb glorious as the East, 
 
 When morning kindles all its waste of cloud. 
 Shone in the sun a lesser sun. Sound ceased 
 
 As low a subtle purpose he avowed : 
 ''Ye strove for glory, for the laurel crown. 
 To-day shall furnish you fair roses of renown." 
 
 Like noiseless cloud or breeze he crept away, 
 
 The doors behind him clanged with harshest din ; 
 
 Wild music rose upon the air. Men say 
 A youth whose young years were as thick with sin 
 
lo6 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 As ruins old with ivy, heard that lay- 
 As he past Circe's isle was wandering. 
 Fear sprung from sleep that lulled its fiends awhile, 
 They stood with lifted cup and frozen smile. 
 
 Lo! as an exhalation flees the morn, 
 
 The roof recedes before the engulfing air ; 
 
 They stand amazed, they watch in dread, in scorn, 
 The yawning cleft ; some sink in weak despair, 
 
 Some dream of scenes whose splendor will adorn 
 Past splendor ; hark! the King's voice low and rare 
 
 " Sing praises to the Sun, our God, our Lord : 
 
 We bring him victims more than war or sword !" 
 
 Down rang the trembling cups, loud cries of rage 
 And fear and woe affright the shaken walls, 
 
 The doors are shut. Like tigers in a cage 
 
 They stamp the floor, and beat the space that galls 
 
 Their impotence. In vain the white-haired sage. 
 The poet, patrician, and most wretched thralls. 
 
 Attempt to flee. They wrench the casement bars ; 
 
 Behold unnumbered spears like midnight's stars. 
 
 But, lo ! a miracle. The winds are red 
 With unimaged rain, that fills the light 
 
 With rosy hue like curtains of the bed 
 Adonis sleeps on, hid from human sight. 
 
 They pause and laugh, mirth is no longer dead. 
 They fill the bowl and joy in such a night ; 
 
 A rain whose drops were roses swiftly fell. 
 
 And quick enclosed them in a roseate dell. 
 
THE FEAST OF ROSES. 1 07 
 
 They bind the roses in their streaming locks, * 
 
 They drink to Joyance, Hope, and mighty Love, 
 
 They tear the lilies from the fountain's rocks, 
 Their steps to sensuous music nimbly move, 
 
 Their blood comes from their hearts in maddening 
 shocks, 
 Through dreams their errant fancies errant rove. 
 
 And ever fell engirt by odors keen 
 
 The roses like a baleful star-shower seen. 
 
 Roses, roses, roses, wonderful rain, 
 
 Roses, roses, thicker than wintry hail, 
 Immixed with blooms that veins of dryads stain, 
 
 And blooms that at a lover's vows grow pale, 
 White, golden, violet, red, the dim eyes fain 
 
 Would close their weary orbs lest sight should fail ; 
 Roses, roses, roses, ceaselessly falling. 
 With steps more soft than echo on love faint calling. 
 
 Roses, roses, roses, up to the knees. 
 
 Where now lies mirth forgotten and forlorn ? 
 
 Roses, roses, their fallings do not cease, 
 
 Where now are all the joys that lit the morn ? 
 
 Roses, roses, roses, their heaps increase. 
 
 Ah ! better Death when blows the onset horn. 
 
 Roses, roses, roses, up to the neck. 
 
 These crowds of their last joy or passion reck. 
 
 No breeze disturbs the sky ; the risen moon 
 Lies in the shivering arms of the dusk east ; 
 
 The setting sun affrights the eve, at noon 
 
 His rays were paler ; like a blood-stained beast 
 
I08 THE FEAST OF ROSES. 
 
 *The King stands on the roof and hearks the tune 
 The priests below chant unto their high-priest : 
 Rejoice ! rejoice ! O Sun, our God, our Lord, 
 Thou hast had victims more than war and sword ! 
 
ARIADNE. 109 
 
 ARIADNE. 
 
 In the days of the glad, sweet spring of the world, 
 
 In the dewy silver dawn of time. 
 The flame-wings of legends were loosed and unfurled, 
 
 Those blithe-voiced birds of that clear-ethered clime. 
 
 Might I catch the receding tones of those tales, 
 And follow the course of their murmurous flow. 
 
 Ah, God, to mine eyes would be given the vales 
 And the hills whence the sun and the spring never go. 
 
 For surely somewhere will the soul find life. 
 
 That thrills through its uttermost fibrils of frame. 
 
 With freedom from loss, and trouble, and strife. 
 And the far-off" fleeting of the loves it would claim. 
 
 Of old on the sleep of the brave man there fell 
 Dreams clothed about as with fervor of fire. 
 
 Fair shapes of dream, with lips sweet from song's well. 
 The visible splendor of the soul's chief desire. 
 
 So when Theseus lay blind in the prison's night, 
 In the dumb, dull stillness no sound broke afar, 
 
 Ariadne made flee the darkness like light. 
 
 Shone marvellous-clear on his sight like a star. 
 
 And he followed the thread of its golden gleam 
 
 Till the gracious white daylight shone broad on his 
 face. 
 Past the cowed, crouched monster, out into the stream 
 Of the wide, vital air, from the foul, dank place. 
 
 10 
 
no ARIADNE. 
 
 And she loved him, clove to him, led hiai forth. 
 Sat with him in his hollow, blue-prowed, swift boat, 
 
 Ploughed with him the perilous sea-ways to the north, 
 Struck out of his soul its chief pure note. 
 
 So the distant and difficult grew near and less hard. 
 Compelled by the equable pulse of her breath, 
 
 And his spirit waxed clear as the sight of a bard 
 Transpiercing the veils of life and of death. 
 
 Then the might of the true took hold of him, 
 
 And gave him strong longings for seeing his thought 
 
 Take shape and color, from the deepmost dim 
 Vast tracts of his soul into body wrought. 
 
 So she bade him God-speed, and bade him set sail, 
 Lest his love should impede the things to be ; 
 
 And watched the small speck of his boat sink and fail 
 Across the immeasurable glow of the sea. 
 
 Ah, brothers, shall our eyes the glad vision rejoice. 
 The faultless fair form of the life we would live ? 
 
 Shall we find outlet from the world's thick noise ? 
 Has Time the old power such gifts to give? 
 
 What has been, shall be ; the gods on high 
 
 Sit apart in immutable, happy peace ; 
 They fashioned man and the world ; till they die 
 
 Neither pleasure nor pain shall know loss nor increase. 
 
ACTION. Ill 
 
 ACTION. 
 
 Through the green woods the fair morning light 
 
 Flashed in a rain of shattered beams ; 
 Like a frightened thief the swift-winged night 
 
 Fled from the skies with her booty of dreams. 
 
 The lucid air of the jocund woods, 
 
 The sense of freedom that filled the green space, 
 The unseen joys that in numberless broods 
 
 Peopled the dryad-haunted place, 
 
 Awoke in the heart of the hunter bold 
 
 The keen desire to follow the game, 
 And fathom the secret old legends told 
 
 Of a stag that had put all hunters to shame. 
 
 He threw his quiver on his shoulder fair, 
 
 He seized his bow in his sinewy hand, 
 He called to his hounds with a lordly air, 
 
 And felt his breast with his joy expand. 
 
 Through the softly-lighted hush of the wood. 
 
 Through the dew-drop's quickly-extinguished shine. 
 
 He passed till his lingering footsteps stood 
 Before a thicket where the roses' twine 
 
 And the envious boughs concealed from sight 
 
 The silver expanse of the secret lake. 
 Save that sudden gleams like a snow of light 
 
 Burned through the leaf-spaces, fierce flake on flake. 
 
112 ACTyEON. 
 
 Over his head the sky was blue, 
 
 Around him sounded no living voice ; 
 
 As he waiting stood the silence grew 
 
 As of one who had lost the power to rejoice. 
 
 He knew that the mystery's heart lay bare 
 Beyond the green wall's thick-woven screen ; 
 
 He breathed the entranced deep-scented air, 
 He halted with troubled and doubtful mien. 
 
 A brooding wonder encircled the spot, 
 A breathing fear as though one stood 
 
 On the verge of the universe, and caught 
 A glimpse of the high God's solitude. 
 
 His hounds lay crouched in the knee-high grass. 
 They quivered and crept to their master's feet ; 
 
 He trembled and longed and trembled to pass. 
 And heard the musical waters beat. 
 
 With a passionate cry he sundered in twain 
 The hateful leaves that impeded his sight, 
 
 And stood transfixed to the spot in pain 
 Of a bliss that flooded his soul with light. 
 
 Like a statue cut from the moonbeams pale, 
 
 Frozen in all their luminousness. 
 The goddess stood devoid of veil 
 
 Or garment saving the windy distress 
 
 Of her golden hair, that with lambent shine 
 
 Circled her body, and lit with fire 
 The waters under, where the shadow-leaves twine 
 
 Round her pallid shadow as if sick with desire. 
 
ACTION. 113 
 
 And like lilies that rise on a burnished lake, 
 The white-armed maidens, where fancy willed, 
 
 Floated, and laughed for Diana's sake, 
 As their hollowed palms the water spilled. 
 
 Then the goddess turned her cruel pure eyes 
 On the bold intruder in a passion of scorn. 
 
 And smote with the sword of her grand surprise 
 His body through, and his spirit forlorn 
 
 Dissevered his loosened limbs' control. 
 
 And shivered the bonds that held him to earth. 
 
 As an oak is uptorn when the wind twists the whole 
 Of its might round the manifold-ringed girth. 
 
 Like remorseful thoughts that, wakened from sleep, 
 Turn on the soul, his maddened hounds 
 
 Leaped on their master, and, baying deep, 
 Filled with their din the wood's wide bounds. 
 
 Deep silence fell on the terrible place. 
 
 Deep silence and darkness of terrible death 
 
 On the man who had dared to defile the space 
 Where the goddess dwelt with unsanctified breath. 
 
 10* 
 
114 ITHACA. 
 
 ITHACA. 
 
 Wearily the mariners bend to their toil 
 
 Under the light of the noonday sun ; 
 Sadly they stoop, and bitterly think 
 
 On the glad days long over and done. 
 
 Wastes of pitiless gleaming waves 
 
 Gird them about, and in mocking glee 
 
 Rolls and plashes against their keel 
 The pauseless jeer of the cruel sea. 
 
 Dreams of the distant island home, 
 Dreams of wife and questioning child, 
 
 Hover before their brooding minds, 
 People the air with images mild. 
 
 Terrible shores untrodden of men, 
 
 Lying athwart their ways they find. 
 Infested with beasts, and dreary with moans, 
 
 Making the day beclouded and blind. 
 
 Past the perilous charm of the isles 
 
 Sirens encircle with luring song, 
 They have sailed, heart-drawn to the blooming shores, 
 
 Barely escaping their grievous wrong. 
 
 Master, O master, Ulysses wise, 
 
 Lead us beyond the monotonous main ; 
 
 Inly we weep, and long to see 
 Ithaca's woods and grassy plain. 
 
ITHACA. 115 
 
 Ithaca, Ithaca, home of our hearts, 
 Shine in the glory of sunset gold ! 
 
 Shine a soft, rosy cloud in the west. 
 Grow on our sight as our way we hold ! 
 
 Subtly the master smiles with his eyes, 
 Points them afar and bids them wait ; 
 
 Many a time, or ere they return, 
 Shall the sun pass his western gate. 
 
 Secure in the distance the island lies ; 
 
 Surely some day its cloudy shape, 
 Rising, shall glad their straining gaze, 
 
 Bent on well-loved harbor and cape. 
 
Il6 A DREAM. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 Across the wide plain of my slumber, 
 I saw through shadow and gleam, 
 
 The souls of mankind without number 
 Proceed in a pauseless stream. 
 
 The fount of their coming was hidden 
 
 In a light-suffused mist, 
 And they marched like soldiers bidden 
 
 By a word they could not resist. 
 
 They passed into black abysses 
 Of a fathomless, moonless night, 
 
 Abandoning earthly blisses, 
 Forsaking the noonday's light. 
 
 African, Chinese, European, 
 
 The several races of man. 
 Patrician, yeoman, plebeian, 
 
 Swift-changing the river ran. 
 
 Each nation upbore a banner, 
 Their many wanderings above. 
 
 Inscribed in a mystic manner 
 With the holy name of Love. 
 
A DREAM. 117 
 
 And each passer, though wrinkled and mired, 
 
 Whatever his name or his land, 
 However equipped or attired, 
 
 Held a fadeless flower in his hand. 
 
 And lo ! through the darkness before them 
 
 A sudden effulgence glowed, 
 And I saw beyond them and o'er them 
 
 The end of their toilsome road. 
 
 They stood on a plain assembled, 
 
 That glittered with endless spring, 
 And over them shone and trembled. 
 
 And around them, ring upon ring, 
 
 Like an ocean of golden splendor, 
 
 Swept the might of the world's utter Love ; 
 
 And I saw that this was the sender 
 Of all their life from above. 
 
 Then the flower each passer had cherished 
 
 Burst forth into lovelier bloom. 
 And his woes like vapors perished. 
 
 That the ardors of morning consume. 
 
 I woke in a joyous shiver, 
 
 And saw through my window-pane 
 The sun despoiling his quiver. 
 
 And his arrows' golden rain. 
 
Il8 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 I. 
 
 The King said in his heart : 
 
 " This is a bitter part 
 
 The soul must play 
 
 In the resistless sweep and sway 
 
 Of mighty powers that build the world. 
 
 I sought not life ; 
 
 Into the strife 
 
 Some supreme power hurled 
 
 My infant spirit scarcely risen from night. 
 
 Now that the light 
 
 Of bitter consciousness 
 
 Shines on the dire distress, 
 
 In whose relentless arms 
 
 Perforce I am holden, 
 
 I curse the mystic charms 
 
 That broke the golden 
 
 And dreamless sleep 
 
 My soul did keep 
 
 Upon the breast of the high God, 
 
 Or ere these realms of woe I trod." 
 
 II. 
 
 The night made no reply ; 
 Across the leaden sky 
 No star shed radiance pale, 
 Nor did the moon assail 
 
THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 1 19 
 
 With motion slow and sweet 
 
 The forces of dusk cloud, 
 
 Whose outspread crowd 
 
 Sometimes make swift retreat, 
 
 Sometimes in silver surges beat 
 
 Around her lingering feet. 
 
 The wind made dreary moan. 
 
 And rose and fell in dolorous undertone. 
 
 III. 
 
 The King said : 
 
 " I would that I were dead. 
 
 All things I have and hold, 
 
 My days are girt with gold ; 
 
 Like birds from all earth's climes 
 
 Swift pleasures fly to me 
 
 Uninterruptedly; 
 
 The poet in his rhymes 
 
 Utters my praises high. 
 
 Proclaims my name shall never die. 
 
 And writes it like a god's upon the sky ; 
 
 The beasts of wealth and fame 
 
 I long ago did tame ; 
 
 The wide earth is my slave, 
 
 I bind my chains upon the air, 
 
 And tread with feet the waters fair ; 
 
 Yet do I crave 
 
 More than all this 
 
 To make my sum of bliss. 
 
 I cannot see the dream 
 
 That comes with vagrant gleam 
 
120 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 And shy reserve of its deep loveliness, 
 
 A splendid visitant, 
 
 Into the drear excess 
 
 Of my thought's sad chaotic stress, 
 
 I cannot see my dream 
 
 Of perfect good. 
 
 And justice' utter masterhood, 
 
 Pass into life and light. 
 
 And scatter wide the cloud of night 
 
 Whose despotism 
 
 Has cast the nations in the black abysm 
 
 Of doubt and fear, 
 
 And passion-ruled cheer. 
 
 As some sweet plant 
 
 May grow in hidden nook, 
 
 By all its sisterhood forsook, 
 
 And shed its odor rare 
 
 Upon the solitary air. 
 
 With no glad eyes to see 
 
 Its crescent splendor. 
 
 Even so in me 
 
 There blooms a tender 
 
 And wide-embracing hope, 
 
 That right shall cope 
 
 With regnant wrong. 
 
 And prove more strong. 
 
 But all in vain 
 
 Are toil and strain ; 
 
 I strive to find the solemn truth, 
 
 I strive to do the supreme good, 
 
 But still I fall from lofty mood. 
 
 And weep the wasted energies of youth. 
 
THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 121 
 
 My soul is rent in twain, 
 
 And seeks to choose in vain 
 
 Between the bitter best, 
 
 And honey-sweet desire, 
 
 That burns like wind-swept fire 
 
 Within my breast. 
 
 I love all noble things. 
 
 But like thin mists at morn 
 
 They rise on subtle wings, 
 
 xAnd leave my heart in scorn. 
 
 This is not life. 
 
 This unavailing strife, 
 
 This inextinguishable feud 
 
 Between myself and good. 
 
 Therefore within my heart I said 
 
 I would that I were dead." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The mocking wind, 
 With voice worn-out and thinned. 
 Like some old beldam croaking lies. 
 That bring a pained surprise 
 Into the maiden's eyes. 
 Mutters its dismal moan 
 In the four quarters of the night ; 
 And the wide-wandering tone, 
 The smothered cry for light. 
 Pervades the darkling atmosphere. 
 In gusts of anguish drear 
 It comes from out the caverns of the east ; 
 Like one who conscience-smitten dies 
 II 
 
122 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 It comes and falls in broken sighs ; 
 
 Then, to a shrill woe increased, 
 
 It traverses the bounds of space, 
 
 And fills each place 
 
 With passion sharp and dread. 
 
 Till, caught in a strong whirl of sound. 
 
 The soul in eddies is tossed round, 
 
 And left for dead 
 
 In the midst of a sea 
 
 Of pain that sighs and sounds eternally. 
 
 V. 
 
 The King spoke words of scorn : 
 
 "The yellow light of morn. 
 
 The silence of the dark, 
 
 Look on a world of war and hate ; 
 
 As a stray spark 
 
 Of pitiless fire 
 
 Oft scatters ruin dire. 
 
 And in brief space is strong to dissipate 
 
 The high-built domes of weary years. 
 
 Even so a drop of strife 
 
 Has entered into life, 
 
 And poisoned all its several spheres. 
 
 In nature's realm 
 
 Rude forces overwhelm 
 
 The strongly-bastioned fabrics of the ages' toil ; 
 
 Beast preys on beast, 
 
 And gorges on the loathsome feast ; 
 
 Time wearily makes spoil 
 
 Of all its tireless effort strove to build, 
 
THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 1 23 
 
 And, its long reaches filled 
 
 With thick accumulating death, 
 
 It laughs in scorn beneath its breath, 
 
 And mutters low, 
 
 * From overturning unto overturning 
 
 My leaden-footed moments go.' 
 
 Think on the world of man : 
 
 A chaos without plan, 
 
 A carnival of passions fierce and rude. 
 
 Whose overmastering brood 
 
 With savage glee go spurning 
 
 Under strong tread 
 
 All things for which brave hearts have bled 
 
 And poured out life 
 
 Upon the fields of strife. 
 
 No lofty aspirations 
 
 Transfuse with hope the death-chilled nations ; 
 
 The mad, ignoble fight for gain. 
 
 The dominance of bitter hate, 
 
 The wide-spread rule of fear and pain, 
 
 The death-in-life of resignation unelate. 
 
 The ever-growing forms of ill, 
 
 My being fill 
 
 With wild despair, 
 
 And hatred of the vital air. 
 
 There is no God, 
 
 Or, if there be. 
 
 Treads He no more the earth as once He trod 
 
 The far-off fields of Galilee ? 
 
 I cannot pierce the storm whose roof 
 
 Against the light is solid-proof, 
 
 Through might of vapors thick and vast 
 
124 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 Heaped up in all the ages past. 
 
 I see no way 
 
 Into the regions of the day. 
 
 I would that I and all this world were drowned 
 
 In a still ocean's depths profound, 
 
 Past sight or sound, 
 
 Where dreamless sleep 
 
 In its dumb calm our tumult might forever keep." 
 
 V[. 
 
 The silence dread 
 
 Was as the silence of the dead ; 
 
 The wind no longer sought to fill 
 
 With prophecies of ill 
 
 The vacant realms of space \ 
 
 While clouds made bold to interlace 
 
 Great gulfs of gloom 
 
 With depths of night, dark as the doom 
 
 Of souls lost in the trackless wastes of sin. 
 
 Without, within, 
 
 Throughout the visible sphere, 
 
 Throughout the King's tempestuous soul, 
 
 Reigned passioned fear, 
 
 And uttermost expanse of dole. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then spoke a voice 
 
 Whose faintest tremble made the heart rejoice \ 
 
 A wondrous voice whose tone 
 
 Seemed effluent 
 
 From nature's inmost element, 
 
 As though the world-soul spoke. 
 
 And its mysterious silence broke. 
 
THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 125 
 
 It shook the lone 
 
 Wide air into a soft, delicious thrill of sound, 
 That reached the heart's profound, 
 And lit with hope its lampless bound. 
 " O tortured one. 
 
 Thine anguish has its utmost done. 
 Dost thou not see 
 Thy limitless expanse of destiny? 
 Because within thy soul 
 There dwells the vision of the whole. 
 The world's vast scene of violence 
 Offends thine inner loftier sense. 
 Thou art the King ; 
 Dost think a slave could bring 
 Against the All such questioning ? 
 Thy toil and pain 
 Are only steps to perfect gain ; 
 Within thy heart reside 
 The pure realities that shall abide, 
 That rule all spaces and all times. 
 And bind all chaos in a poet's rhymes. 
 Within thee find the kingdom sure 
 That shall endure ; 
 And in the light of joy and hope 
 Heaven's doors shall ope, 
 And on thy tranced sight shall fall 
 The vision of the Supreme Wisdom, guarding, loving 
 all." 
 
 VIII. 
 Then, like a rose 
 
 That in a queen's deserted garden blows, 
 
 II 
 
126 THE ROYAL QUESTIONER. 
 
 And fills the barren waste 
 
 With splendor chaste, 
 
 The moon shone in the east ; 
 
 And, one by one, the stars 
 
 Rode into sight upon their viewless cars ; 
 
 Till the mild glow, increased 
 
 To a pale sea of light, 
 
 Flooded the night ; 
 
 And, like faint echoes of some subtle song. 
 
 That tenderest memories prolong. 
 
 The winds made utterance sweet, 
 
 And sped on swiftest feet 
 
 Across the air's wide mere, 
 
 And utterly displaced the latest shade of fear. 
 
LONGING. 127 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 I. 
 
 Will it be, will it be, in the ages to come, 
 In the years of our life in other spheres. 
 When we shall have gathered the whole vast sum 
 Of suffering, and winnowed the wheat from the chaff? 
 Or will the small scope of the years 
 
 We spend on this earth. 
 
 In plenty and dearth, 
 Wherein we labor and seldom laugh, 
 Reveal the precious, the priceless boon. 
 The meaning, the sense of the mystic rune, 
 Inscribed on our foreheads, engraved on our hearts ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah, the earth is old and gray : 
 In the voice of the night and sound of the day. 
 In the cry of its deep abysses 
 And all its wildernesses. 
 
 In the howl of jungled beast and hiss of crested snake. 
 In the moan of the vast immemorial sea. 
 In the sigh of the homeless wind. 
 In the pitiless fall of the snow, fierce flake by flake, 
 In the winter trees like old age pinched and 
 thinned. 
 In the sobs of all living things that be, 
 
128 LONGING. 
 
 In the tears of the poor in the pestilent city 
 Over whom the skies shut devoid of pity, 
 In the whole wide anguish, 
 Wherein the slow months languish, 
 That nowhere finds Hope, or Heaven, or God, 
 But back into the night of fear has trod, — 
 In the one large toil of the world and the soul. 
 Do you note the stress of longing? 
 
 III. 
 
 What is it that we seek? 
 What is it that we crave ? 
 In the atmosphere chill and bleak — 
 
 Wherein we dwell — 
 Our breathing is hard and slow : 
 We call on Nature to save ; 
 We strive to burst the spell 
 That binds us in bonds we deeply know. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With passion, with might. 
 
 We seek the light. 
 Like the plantlet in the ground, 
 Like a soul in a swound, 
 Like a truth expressed in speech, 
 Like a heart endowed to teach, 
 Like a poet rudely hurled 
 In the tumult of the world. 
 Like a prophet whom men scorn, 
 Like a world in space new-born, 
 
LONGING. 129 
 
 With passion and with might 
 We seek the light. 
 
 V. 
 
 This is the sense of the mystic rune 
 
 Inscribed on our foreheads, engraved on our hearts ; 
 This is the sense of the marvellous tune 
 
 The bent trees sing, when the wild wind parts 
 The thick-woven clouds that hide the sky ; 
 The bee in the clover, 
 The swift bird-rover 
 Seeking the climes that warmly lie 
 
 In the sun's straight beam, 
 The flush of summer, the return of spring, 
 The sweet new thoughts May and April bring, 
 
 The voice of the loosened stream 
 When winter has sought his northern lair. 
 And the earth rejoices in the sunlight fair, 
 The growth of grasses, the shinings of stars, 
 
 The interchange of night and day, 
 All growth that struggles to burst the bars 
 
 Setting it hinderance and delay, 
 All storm, all tumult, that fills the breast, 
 
 Utters the secret as best it may. 
 Life seeks a beyond, a highest, a best. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Will it be, will it be. 
 
 Will the sure light shine ? — 
 Behind the veil, beyond the sea, 
 
 Will peace be thine and mine ? 
 
130 LONGING. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Lo ! the stress of longing shall create 
 That it longs for ; bear and wait ; 
 Lo ! the ages in their toil and dust 
 Have not faltered in their trust ; 
 Life shall widen, grow completer, 
 Passion fainter, labor sweeter ; 
 In the longing see expressed 
 Promise of the happy rest. 
 Since the soul is nobler far 
 Than all things that in time are. 
 Not in temporal gauds and goods 
 Can its higher-flying moods 
 Find the calm it seeks perforce : 
 Nobler, loftier is its course. 
 Therefore through all Nature's spheres 
 Ceaseless longing still appears ; 
 Therefore passion, bitter pain, 
 Reigns within the soul's domain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Complete is the soul, 
 It demands the whole \ 
 
 Its rest is sure, 
 
 And shall endure. 
 Through the might of longing it will surely gain 
 Its dwelling upon the celestial plain ; 
 Clothed in the sun, and robed in the sky. 
 Knowing nor low nor high, 
 At the heart of things, in the bosom of God, 
 Its journeyings will end, all roads overtrod. 
 
WEAVING. 131 
 
 WEAVING. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thou canst not rest ; 
 All day thou sittest 
 In a toil most blest ; 
 All the day long thou weavest 
 Sweet dreams in which thou believest ; 
 All the day long thou sittest, 
 And into the dream thou fittest 
 Soft color and passionate splendor, 
 All things most fierce and tender, 
 All hopes, all faiths, all visions, 
 The soul's superb derisions 
 Of futile wrong's misprisions. 
 Life's uttermost swift pleasures, 
 And whatso of pure treasures 
 Is kept for rarest trances, 
 And fugitive glad glances. 
 When the mystery unfolds, 
 And Heaven no farther fastness holds. 
 
 II. 
 
 Subtle weaver ! 
 
 Fearest thou no deceiver ? 
 Dost hold for true 
 All thy quick hands may do ? 
 
T32 WEAVING. 
 
 What if thou wake from dreaming, 
 And find mere shadowy seeming 
 Thy webs of joy and beauty, 
 Thy miracles of duty, 
 Thy mystical clear Heaven, 
 Thine attendant spirits seven, 
 Thy God, in whom thou belie vest. 
 Who weaves in all thou weavest — 
 What if a dream 
 These but seem, 
 And thou more frail than air. 
 With thy bliss and despair, 
 Passest as the night 
 Flees the light ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Yea, thou weavest on 
 
 Till the daylight be gone, 
 
 Till the sea have an end, 
 
 And the Heavens shall bend. 
 
 The bright stars fall 
 
 From the blue sky's hall. 
 
 Till the winds shall come together 
 
 In one burst of mixed weather. 
 
 And fleet away 
 
 From the realm of day. 
 
 Till the passage of the year 
 
 Will no more appear, 
 
 The vast web of things 
 
 Assume broad wings. 
 
 And God and the world 
 
 In one ruin be hurled. 
 
WEAVING. 133 
 
 IV. 
 
 Weave, weave ! 
 
 Thee no destiny can deceive ! 
 For the King of weavers sits 
 At the world-loom, and he fits 
 All thy threads in pattern fine 
 That can join his wide design. 
 
 Weave, weave ! 
 
 Thee no destiny can deceive ! 
 Thou art but the serving-man. 
 Doing what thy strong hands can ; 
 But the Master works and dwells 
 In thy labor, and he tells 
 Into thine attentive ear 
 Tales that rid thee of all fear : 
 
 The grace of flowers 
 
 In the summer's bowers, 
 
 The voices that spill 
 
 Sweet songs on meadow and hill. 
 
 The dance of the moon, 
 
 To an unheard tune. 
 
 Through the lustrous crowds 
 
 Of maiden clouds, — 
 Still the season will return 
 Having these within her urn ; 
 
 The truth of sages, 
 
 And the poet's miraculous pages, 
 
 All deeds of good 
 
 That resound through the solitude 
 
 Of the buried past. 
 All these are thine : 
 12 
 
134 WEAVING. 
 
 These will last, 
 
 And these will shine ; 
 
 For the Supreme Weaver sits 
 At the world-loom, and he fits 
 These into his wide design. 
 Lo ! thy weaving is but his 
 Love of thy deep ecstasies ; 
 Wherefore fear not, day or night, 
 Sleep of sleep or sight of sight. 
 And of all thou dost or art 
 He is the inner, better part. 
 Soul of soul, and breath of breath, 
 And, at last, thy death of death ! 
 
MY SHIP. 135 
 
 MY SHIP. 
 
 I. 
 
 Whither, oh, whither, my ship, wilt thou go? 
 I launch thee upon an invisible sea; 
 Through the gloom of dreams 
 Where naught is but seems, 
 Through the realms where the winds of wild hope blow, 
 Through the chill, clear air and sunlight strong of 
 thought. 
 Through the land of sure reality, 
 Through regions of splendor by marvellous hands of 
 spirits wrought, . 
 I watch thy sail 
 Across the ocean's broad expanses pass and fail. 
 
 II. 
 
 From island to island thy swift sails bear thee. 
 
 From continent to continent thy sharp keel glides ; 
 Where the wild wind abides 
 In his home of storms, thy gleaming sails declare thee ; 
 
 From the sweet green shores of summer lands 
 Thy passionate joys and longings tear thee, 
 Till the icy fields of the winter's regions, 
 Resplendent with shine of innumerous legions 
 Of sun-touched sparkles of stainless snow. 
 Engird thee with lambent and languid glow. 
 
136 MY SHIP.. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wilt thou not pause and rest, 
 By the mild winds be caressed 
 Of a patient love that would bind and hold thee, 
 In arms of quiet and slumber enfold thee, 
 
 Shield thee from pain, and keep thee unoppressed 
 
 In its warm storm-shielded nest ? 
 Nay — nay — through the measureless reaches of time, 
 
 And boundless changes of possible spaces, 
 Mutable bliss of mutable climes. 
 
 Vagrant joys of mutable places, 
 Summer and winter and silver spring, 
 Late autumn when the birds no longer sing, 
 Passions and splendors and aspirations. 
 And Pleasure's multitudinous-clothed nations, 
 Sorrows, and all the delight they bring, — 
 
 Sail, O my ship, sail, O my thought. 
 
 Seek what none other has ever sought ; 
 On ways untrod save by royal feet, 
 On winds for weaklings too rapturous-fleet, 
 
 Speed, O my ship; 
 Linger not where the dull time employs 
 Sullen labor in sullen joys ; 
 Forth through the ether, my ship, my thought. 
 Through regions thine own impulses have wrought. 
 Ceaselessly sail. 
 Till thou sink and fail 
 In the heart of sovereign and sunlike God, 
 
 In the passionate soul that floods the world, 
 Till the path thy keel has overtrod 
 
 Leads to the light in whose glory hurled 
 
MY SHIP. 137 
 
 Thou wilt mix, O my thought, with the life that is, 
 With the supreme bliss of supremest bliss, 
 
 With the strife and the life 
 
 Wherewith the All is rife, 
 
 Till thou wilt be 
 Conjoined with the sovereign Divinity ! 
 
 12^ 
 
138 SUCCESS. 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 He has failed, you say : 
 
 From the rise to the set of day 
 
 His name is not heard : 
 
 He has abandoned his lofty schemes, 
 
 He is lost in idle dreams, 
 
 The event has not occurred, 
 
 His star is not seen in the sky, 
 
 There is nothing left him save to die. 
 
 II. 
 
 Poor fool ! in your little world 
 
 The all is not done ; 
 
 Much is finished, much begun 
 
 Beyond the circlet of your life. 
 
 Since when has the stream been hurled 
 
 Of the universal strife 
 
 Over your mountain wall 
 
 To foam and appall. 
 Where the peaceful denizens of your vale 
 Meet each the other with simple all hail ? 
 
SUCCESS. ' 139 
 
 III. 
 
 Nay, if, in all the spheres 
 That greet your eyes and ears, 
 No banner uprears 
 The emblazonment of his name, 
 How dare yoii call his labor halt and lame ? 
 He thinks, he lives, he is, 
 He fulfils the hidden Destinies, 
 He has chosen the silent part 
 Held close to Nature's heart. 
 He breathes the breath of her being, 
 He sees in the sight of her seeing. 
 He heeds not the loud applause. 
 He needs not a herald of his cause. 
 Prate of your slender successes, 
 Thrid your conventional wildernesses ; 
 He has passed the farthest portal, 
 He has dropped the vesture mortal, 
 He has reached the end 
 Where Man and Life blend, 
 The ultimate Height, 
 Bathed in the World-soul for air and for light. 
 
140 THE FIELD. 
 
 THE FIELD. 
 
 What dost thou think thy field will bear 
 
 In the unknown years to come? 
 Blossom and fruit most rich and rare, 
 Trees where the birds are never dumb? 
 
 The tears fell like large drops of rain 
 
 Upon the wasted field \ 
 Dost think thy loss will be sure gain, 
 Thy tear-sown ground sweet harvest yield ? 
 
 Or, like the sea's unploughed demesne, 
 
 Burst only into flower 
 Of windy flash and barren green 
 At fitful will of the sun's power ? 
 
 Will from the bitter seed grow fruit 
 
 Sweet as the breath of life ? 
 Or can thy impetuous hope couipute 
 The end of the unending strife ? 
 
 This is a field wondrous and wide. 
 
 Sown with all human tears ; 
 Hark ! how the winds of sorrow gride, 
 Freighted with sobs and sighing fears. 
 
THE FIELD. 1 41 
 
 This is the field of human woe, 
 
 Wet with all human tears ; 
 How can the white flower, Joyance, grow 
 From scattered seed of pains and fears ? 
 
 Thou standest at the heart of night, 
 
 And Hope, the nightingale. 
 Has poured adown the dark with might 
 Her final and impetuous wail. 
 
 Now not a sound pervades the air, 
 
 Now not a star recalls 
 The time when youthful life was fair 
 Within the golden morning's halls. 
 
 Nay, if thou weep, profits it thee ? 
 
 Will lifted voices pierce 
 The iron sky of mystery 
 That clasps and mocks thine anguish fierce? 
 
 Sow thou in tears, let who will reap, 
 
 Make no more questioning : 
 Perchance if thou the summit steep 
 Wilt climb, a sudden voice will sing 
 
 Songs of consolement in thine ear ; 
 
 Nay, but I cannot tell ; 
 My toils to me as dark appear 
 As thine, ruled by the self-same spell. 
 
 Take thou thy burden in strong hands ; 
 
 What right hast thou to claim 
 Luxurious life in summer lands. 
 And freedom from life's grief and shame? 
 
142 THE FIELD. 
 
 Is it not better thus to be 
 Girt for the noble goal. 
 Than wrapped in pleasure's minstrelsy, 
 And ignorant of thine own soul ? 
 
 What signifies thy little life, 
 
 So that the universe 
 Proceed in light ? What if thy strife 
 Lead thee from better unto worse ? 
 
 What signifies thy little life. 
 
 So that the general will 
 Fulfil itself? What if thy strife 
 Slay thee or ere thou climb the hill? 
 
 Whoso will reap, sow thou in tears, 
 
 Make no more questioning ; 
 Hark ! through the night across thy fears 
 Sweet sudden voices strangely sing. 
 
 Perchance the just and best are all, 
 
 Believe what seemeth right. 
 But stand unshaken as a wall 
 That scorns the whole sea's angry might ! 
 
WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 143 
 
 WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, grim poet of the dark, 
 Weaving your fancies across the night ; 
 
 I seem to see them, forms gaunt and stark, 
 And scenes that shun the cheerful light. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, through the branches bare 
 Blow with your might till their groanings sound 
 
 Like the voice of a soul shut out from air, 
 In the cell of some sin unfathomably bound. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, under the gray sky 
 Where never a star-point flickers or gleams, 
 
 I stand and laugh and bid you go by 
 
 With the noise of your manifold homeless streams. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, fierce spirit of storm, 
 Passion and rage of the heart of things, 
 
 Soul of the strength that lusts to deform. 
 Father of ruin and scatterings, 
 
 Shatter the branches and whirl the sleet, 
 
 Rock the unstable homes of men. 
 Uproot tall oaks, and tread under feet 
 
 Town and village and denizen. 
 
144 WILD WIND OF THE NORTH. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, I fear you naught, 
 My souls exults in the storm of your might, 
 
 My thought flies far with impulsion caught 
 
 From your impotent cries hurled down the night. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, hold the globe in your grasp, 
 
 Furl and unfurl the obedient skies. 
 But more than the might of your strongest clasp 
 
 Is the weakest of babe-souls uttering cries. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, I laugh you to scorn, 
 You sleep in my soul like a child at rest, 
 
 I know you and bind you, and bid you adorn 
 My triumph of visions within my breast. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, come rest on my wrist, 
 My falcon, my bird, my plaything, my sweet. 
 
 Fold your strong wings, be still to be kissed, 
 Hush your loud sadness, hither retreat. 
 
 Wild wind of the north, a single star 
 Conquers the clouds you heaped in hate. 
 
 Shines and gladdens, and sends afar 
 
 Her challenging light to your empty state. 
 
THE EVENING STAR. 145 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Ah, star ! that bring'st the deep still night, 
 
 With shine of silver careless light, 
 
 Set far in lone expanse of sky, 
 
 With no sweet sister star near by, 
 
 Hast thou no dreams that from thy peace 
 
 Reach out to gain life's golden fleece? 
 
 Art thou content with lonely bliss, 
 And lofty calm, and thought's cold kiss? 
 With stormless sphere dim clouds above — 
 Dim clouds of hope and fear and love — 
 And all the ills that help make up 
 The mixed wine of sad life's cup? 
 
 Thy shining knows nor pause nor rest, 
 Thou seemest glad and unoppressed. 
 Thou know'st not sorrowing, piteous tears, 
 Thou seem'st unshaken by dim fears ; 
 But thou art silent as gross stone. 
 And thy white splendor dwells alone. 
 
 Ah, star ! what mean these strivings fierce 
 That shake our sphere, our hearts transpierce ? 
 We fear with thee to climb thy height 
 Encircled by wide waste of night ; 
 We spurn the soil our feet must press. 
 Yet quake to gain thy loneliness. 
 13 
 
146 THE DROP. 
 
 THE DROP. 
 
 On the rose a rain-drop lay 
 
 In the shadow by the river, 
 And afar it saw the bay 
 
 In the sunlight curve and quiver. 
 
 Was it happy in its world 
 
 Of cool gloom and pale sweet greenery, 
 Sheltered from the winds that hurled 
 
 Into woe the bay's dim scenery ? 
 
 What was day or what was night 
 
 To its faintly-hued seclusion, 
 V/hile the raptures of fierce light, 
 
 And the winds dared not intrusion ? 
 
 But the haughty river rose. 
 
 Scornful of the banks that bound it, 
 And it poured its overflows 
 
 In a weltering waste around it. 
 
 Rose and violet and lily pale 
 
 Perished in the wild commotion ; 
 
 Ah, what eager hopes assail. 
 
 As the drop speeds towards the ocean ! 
 
 Mixed with all the tides it crept 
 
 To the outer world of joyance, 
 Where the wild winds whirled and swept, 
 
 Where the fleet waves danced in buoyance. 
 
SNOW- MI ST. 147 
 
 SNOW-MIST. 
 
 Thin, subtle, woven fine, 
 
 Pictures quick dismissed ; 
 Wind-blown, rapid, sober shine. 
 
 Fickle, changing mist. 
 
 Round the tree-boles, barren, slim. 
 
 Round the branches bare, 
 Windy snow-waves sinuous swim, 
 
 Ride the snow-foamed air. 
 
 On his gray, sad throne of cloud 
 
 Sits the north wind bold. 
 Has his frosty claims allowed, 
 
 Rules with wand of cold. 
 
 Sifted fine, and still more fine, 
 
 Weaving transient webs, 
 Images of transient shine, 
 
 Snow-mist flows and ebbs. 
 
 Fierce and fiercer blows the wind, 
 
 Sifts, and lifts, and sifts. 
 Thickens where soft heaps have thinned. 
 
 Scatters ridged drifts. 
 
 Atom, atom, and wind-life, 
 
 World-scheme on world-scheme, — 
 
 Whither tends the pauseless strife, 
 Flake and gusty gleam? 
 
148 THE CLIFF. 
 
 THE CLIFF. 
 
 In a lonely land, 
 Sombre and dread, 
 
 A tall cliff reared 
 Its giant head. 
 
 It was brown and bare, 
 But the sunrise glow 
 
 Shone from its top 
 Like silver snow. 
 
 Firm-rooted it was j 
 
 The earthquake's shock. 
 
 Or the strong wind's might, 
 Moved not the rock. 
 
 It seemed as old 
 
 As the primal earth ; 
 
 No mind could tell 
 The date of its birth. 
 
 A million storms 
 
 Had thundered in vain ; 
 It seemed to laugh 
 
 At the elements' strain. 
 
 The fierce sea foamed 
 
 Around its base, 
 But no change came over 
 
 Its granite face. 
 
THE CLIFF. 149 
 
 The stars at night 
 
 Looked down in dread, 
 And dreamed it should be 
 
 When they were dead. 
 
 The midsummer sun 
 
 Begirt it with flame ; 
 It stood not more calm 
 
 When the winter came. 
 
 But a soft breeze blew, 
 
 And it bore a flower 
 Plucked from the peace 
 
 Of a lady's bower. 
 
 Softer than light. 
 
 Softer than air, 
 It touched the cliff 
 
 With the blossom fair. 
 
 And the mighty rock 
 
 Was shattered apart 
 From glittering top 
 
 To fathomless heart ! 
 
 13^ 
 
150 THE ROSE. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 The pale blue sky gleams through the opening leaves, 
 The shadows play across the ground and air, 
 
 The yellow sunlight round leaf-rims retrieves 
 Its vanquished splendor where the foliage fair 
 Shuts out the grass from its fierce pulse and care. 
 
 I hear the silence from my window seat, 
 And feel the summer entering my veins, 
 
 And know with what strange joys the hour-hearts beat; 
 The fervorous hours that dance the fleeting plains 
 Where Love has birth and sweetest Joy remains. 
 
 I see across the way the maid I love. 
 
 Lissome and shy, a part of summer's might, 
 
 A life not fallen below, or risen above, 
 
 The bliss of nature's calm, and golden light, 
 
 A maid at flower-stage, flower-like fair and bright. 
 
 I know how nature has sheer joy for core, 
 How trees put on their leaves for pure desire 
 
 To be and live, how clouds dispart in more 
 
 And more for sweet love's sake, and the sun's fire 
 Engirds the world as sounds from some great lyre. 
 
 I know the secret of the rose, a flame 
 
 Upon its slender stem, the sun's fire burst 
 
 Into a visible thing our hearts can name, 
 
 A fire of love in its fierce father-flame immerst. 
 
 The word that love and nature live to frame. 
 
THE STAR. 151 
 
 THE STAR. 
 
 Star, O star, hast thou a story 
 
 Thy silver beams write 
 
 On the page of the night 
 Of million-yeared labor, and cycle-old glory? 
 
 Star, O star, in thy beams are united 
 
 The flash and the flame. 
 
 From worlds without name. 
 Of passionate joys and loves unrequited. 
 
 Star, O star, when the deep night darkens, 
 
 I watch thee glow, 
 
 And somehow I know 
 Thy heart in a song my rapt soul hearkens. 
 
152 RESURGENCE. 
 
 RESURGENCE. 
 
 This is the time of the year's new birth when leaves 
 and grasses, 
 
 Blooms sweet-colored, and winds mild-winged, return 
 in their freshness. 
 
 Winter is dead, and all the time of ruin and wailing. 
 
 Sweetly smiling, and promising purple delights in the 
 summer, 
 
 Joy sets her foot on the earth, and, in answer to her 
 enchantment. 
 
 Light comes back to the world in a sunrise warm and 
 golden. 
 
 Who refrains from rejoicing, or who remains in bondage 
 
 Winter, with mistily-falling snows and ice like iron, 
 
 Pitiless forged for us, soul and body? Weary longings 
 
 Troubled our hearts for the coming of spring, and life, 
 and the sunlight. 
 
 Lo ! like a sea miraculous, flooding the land as with 
 laughter. 
 
 Comes the dominion of flower, and leaf, and low- 
 bowing grasses. 
 
 Surely again returns the dominion of smiles and re- 
 joicings ; 
 
 Surely back to their fastnesses in the sad spaces of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Doubt, and fear, and weeping will flee like snows in 
 the sunshine. 
 
RESURGENCE. 153 
 
 O my heart, will not youth and the bliss of its mar- 
 vellous visions, 
 
 Cloud-shapes fantastic, woven in hours of hope, and 
 unshadowed 
 
 Trustfulness, filling with glory as of suns supernatural 
 the deep sky 
 
 Doming the ancient half-forgotten dreamings — O my 
 heart, say, 
 
 Will they return and reclothe and relume, as with 
 lustre of blossoms, 
 
 All the bleak spaces which sorrow and years, like ice- 
 girdled winter, 
 
 Made in the spirit ? Speak, O my heart, canst make 
 responses 
 
 Stilling the clamors that din in thine ears, and noises 
 of weeping, 
 
 Half-suppressed as for shame and the courage of des- 
 peration ? 
 
 Seems it all in vain ? Nay, useless are dreams and 
 questioning. 
 
 Never returns the past, nor the things having been 
 which are not ; 
 
 Never returns the power which turned, like a wand 
 Mercurial, 
 
 Sorceries of pain into weird and mystical enchantments 
 of pleasure ; 
 
 Nor the touch, like that fabled of old in the fingers of 
 Midas, 
 
 Potent to spiritualize to golden and lovely resplen- 
 dence 
 
 All the dull shows of the life we spend our breath in 
 the living. 
 
154 RESURGENCE. 
 
 Take thou the day and the hour ; what though the sun 
 
 is hidden, 
 What though the clouds are weaving their gray and 
 
 gloomy engirdment 
 For the pale welkin, what though the air is solemn 
 
 and heavy, 
 Life, and time, and labor remain thee, and, in the 
 
 spring-time, 
 Swift memorial gleams of the sweet-voiced times which 
 
 return not. 
 Clouds in flocks o'ertravelling the deep blue concave, 
 
 blossoms. 
 Birds, and winds, in whose hearts reposes the measure- 
 less sunshine. 
 
THE NEW DAY. 155 
 
 THE NEW DAY. 
 
 Sweet day, that openest fair to sight 
 With gentle floods of early light, 
 And calm cool winds that pass and fleet 
 On softly-stepping viewless feet, 
 I give my heart up unto thee 
 And float upon thy glad-waved sea. 
 Unto what isles of better hope. 
 What mountain-tops of loftier scope, 
 What vales of grassy low content 
 Where life in simplest joy is spent, 
 What intercourse with flood and rill, 
 What knowledge of the clouds that fill 
 With cheerful concourse the blue sky, 
 What chance to dare, what deed to try. 
 What poet's fancy to unroll, 
 What leap to learning's utmost pole, 
 The point of sight and vantage-ground 
 From whence all mystery is found 
 In clearest regulation bound, 
 What sympathy with nature's heart, 
 Wilt thou unto my soul impart? 
 The glassy width of mountain lake, 
 Wherein the tall trees ever take 
 Miraculous bath, and while on high 
 They spread their branches to the sky 
 
156 THE NEW DAY. 
 
 And know the secret of the sun, 
 
 Yet downward still the images run 
 
 And bathe themselves within the realm 
 
 Where spirit sits beside the helm, 
 
 As man looks forth upon the earth 
 
 Yet knows his inner higher worth, 
 
 The shapes of leaves that show the stress 
 
 Of nature's toiling kindliness. 
 
 The shadows woven across the trees. 
 
 Imagination's witcheries, 
 
 The outer show and symbol glad 
 
 Of joys the watchful guardians bade 
 
 Be given to poets as their lot, 
 
 Dream following dream of the Unforgot, 
 
 The century-old shapes of desire 
 
 Girt by the glow of wondrous fire. 
 
 Wilt thou the secret of all these, 
 
 That sound within thine every breeze. 
 
 Yea more, the mysteries of the mind 
 
 That with each human breath resigned 
 
 Into thy keeping, make thy sphere 
 
 The fluent home of hope and fear, 
 
 Wilt thou endeavor to make plain 
 
 Unto me, hearkening every strain 
 
 That pulsates from thine east and west 
 
 And throbs thy sky's benignant breast? 
 
 For I would say some slender part, 
 
 Not wholly with quaint rustic art, 
 
 But fashion for mankind to hear 
 
 One faultless song, one dome uprear. 
 
 Of precious sound that crystalline 
 
 And pure of stain might glow and shine 
 
THE NEW DAY. 157 
 
 Upon the age's restless sea, 
 So wrought of love's high minstrelsy, 
 That outpoured love of the after-world 
 Should keep it safe, nor see it whirled 
 To da;rk deeps of oblivion, 
 Being born of joy and deftly spun 
 Of the eterne substance of the sun. 
 Above the body's clamorous weight, 
 That heavy is with sloth and hate, 
 I rise into the region glad 
 Where sweet discourse with thee is had, 
 The region fine and spiritual, 
 Where all division is but thrall 
 To deeper union, and the power 
 Is seen of love, whence like a flower 
 Of flowers in manifesting clear 
 The universe is born, and fear 
 Perishes like an altar smoke 
 Against the lofty roof-groins broke. 
 I see the soul of everything. 
 And from that vision joy to sing ; 
 And you, O world, may stand to know 
 What meanings through my new song flow, 
 The song upon my lips alit, 
 Born of clear fire, and bold with it, 
 A bird not seen yet among men, 
 A miracle past common ken, 
 An unconsuming winged flame 
 That from mid-heaven's most purest came, 
 A rose of birds, a flower of song, 
 Bird-like and flower-like, strange and strong, 
 And saying with voice most utter true, 
 14 
 
158 THE NEW DAY. 
 
 The new in the old, and old in new, 
 The secret poets have ever sung, 
 Why the round earth in air is swung, 
 Why planets glow with borrowed light, 
 And blossom stars strew all the night, 
 Why rivers murmur as they go, 
 And the great winds blow to and fro. 
 What marvellous motions toss and roll 
 Within the bounds of boundless soul. 
 O day, I mix myself with thee. 
 And in thy freedom, too, am free, 
 And from my lips I soon shall pour 
 The throng of words that more and more 
 May bring all listening hearts to thrill 
 With passions that their music fill. 
 And men forget their sore dismay. 
 Born into glow of the New Day. 
 
BEFORE WINTER. 159 
 
 BEFORE WINTER. 
 
 The ashen-hued November sky 
 Makes cheerless all the chilly air; 
 
 Upon the walks the dead leaves lie, 
 And silence hovers everywhere. 
 
 A week ag^o the happy sun 
 
 Had laughed his way across the blue, 
 And all the trees a garb had won 
 
 More lovely than the spring-time knew. 
 
 Adown the streets a golden fire 
 
 Had leaped from tree to neighboring tree ; 
 A flame as of some deep desire 
 
 Had scaled each bough resistlessly. 
 
 The maples here and there had shone 
 Like prophets in the glow of speech ; 
 
 And autumn breezes faintly blown 
 Some subtle secret striven to teach. 
 
 The harvest had been gathered in, 
 A splendid smile had flushed the land. 
 
 And hearts strange joyance seemed to win 
 By ways they could not understand. 
 
i6o BEFORE WINTER. 
 
 Across old Time's o'erarching sky 
 The sunset of the year had spread, 
 
 And in its rich and plenteous dye 
 A gracious promise we had read. 
 
 But now around us moans the wind, 
 And through the rustling leaves we go ; 
 
 Like men with faces pinched and thinned 
 Against the sky the bare trees show. 
 
 A dim foreboding fills our hearts, 
 A sombre frown enrobes the day ; 
 
 Our numbing fancy sadly parts 
 
 With shapes too briefly bland and gay. 
 
 We hear the Winter clank his chain, 
 His winds are gathered in the north. 
 
 His snows are marshalled on their plain 
 Of cloud, intent to sally forth. 
 
 Which shall our doubting hearts believe. 
 
 The grievous thoughts this drear wind brings, 
 
 Or the sweet thoughts that did receive 
 Glad hues from autumn's colorings? 
 
 Ah, inmost voices whisper soft, 
 October's skies shone not in vain ; 
 
 The year, its gayer plumage doffed, 
 Permits the winter's sober reign. 
 
 Beneath these sad vicissitudes 
 
 Some strong reality abides, 
 That winter's regnance still eludes, 
 
 And into genial spring-time glides. 
 
BEFORE WINTER. i6l 
 
 From state to state the wonder speeds, 
 
 It cannot rest, perforce it grows, 
 And past its brief eclipses leads 
 
 To times when all its splendor glows. 
 
 One summit gained, another looms, 
 
 The wonted strife begins anew; 
 At intervals, beyond these glooms, 
 
 The home of souls gleams on our view. 
 
 H^ 
 
1 62 NOON. 
 
 NOON. 
 
 All night my thoughts in wild commotion tossed, 
 And sleep forsook the precincts of my brain ; 
 
 The question in quick-changing guises crossed 
 My soul, with fear and suifering in its train. 
 
 The night was dark ; nor stars nor moon did shine, 
 And loudening winds by fits laughed mockingly ; 
 
 Ever before my sight the silvery line 
 Of some idea seemed in scorn to flee. 
 
 With unremitting might I strove to reach 
 
 The thought that held within its scope the truth ; 
 
 But still I failed, like infants trying speech, 
 Or boys essaying tasks beyond their youth. 
 
 The waning night brought no increase of rest, 
 I clamored for the coming of the morn ; 
 
 Surely with dawn the storm that shook my breast 
 Would calm its anger and allay its scorn. 
 
 The ruddy sunrise burned along the east ; 
 
 I rose, and sadly watched the growth of light ; 
 The day called men and nature to its feast. 
 
 But I remained imprisoned by the night. 
 
NOON. 163 
 
 Lo ! sudden gleams within my darkened soul, 
 From sources that I knew not, fell and shone; 
 
 Could I but master the elusive whole, 
 
 And call my vanished peace once more my own ! 
 
 Throughout the morn I struggled hard and well ; 
 
 The adversary slowly yielded ground. 
 And from my soul removed his lessening spell — 
 
 T felt my pain had gained its utmost bound. 
 
 The sun seemed slow in climbing the steep sky. 
 But step by step attained the wonted height ; 
 
 The day passed to its throne, and from on high 
 
 In broadening circles dropped and surged the light. 
 
 Then flashed on me the kernel of my thought, 
 And all my wearied powers fell into tune ; 
 
 I saw the vision which I long had sought. 
 
 And from the distant towers rang out the noon ! 
 
1 64 A SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 A SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 I STAND beside the stream, 
 Whose ripples with the beam 
 
 Of morning's Orient splendor shine and flow; 
 I hear the low, sweet plash, 
 And watch the small waves dash 
 
 Against the banks, on which long grasses grow. 
 
 Without a cloud, the sky- 
 Sheds from its calm on high 
 
 A benediction on the simple scene ; 
 Across the pasture wide 
 You see the slow stream glide. 
 
 And just beyond the wood's thick garb of green. 
 
 A peace past word or thought 
 
 Its subtle charm has wrought 
 On distant cornfields bending in the breeze ; 
 
 It sounds in the bird's song, 
 
 It sways in waves along 
 The yellow wheat that girds the laborers' knees. 
 
 Here, in the open field. 
 
 The floods of sunshine yield 
 A sense of some reality that fills, 
 
 With waves on waves of light. 
 
 Transcending human sight, 
 All life that dumbly breathes, or conscious thrills. 
 
A SUMMER MORNING. 165 
 
 Far off, within the wood, 
 
 Starring its solitude, 
 Swift gleams of bickering radiance flash and fade; 
 
 The light, through close-meshed leaves, 
 
 Its vagrant beauty weaves 
 Across the stream that waters wood and glade. 
 
 And now the risen sun. 
 
 Its lofty station won. 
 Floods with its glory the horizon's bound ; 
 
 The wild-flowers bend and laugh. 
 
 The birds more gayly quaff 
 The waters murmuring on with stilly sound. 
 
 I cannot tell what joy 
 
 Gives all my thoughts employ. 
 
 And opens to my soul sweet fields unseen ; 
 As though the shrouding veil 
 That wraps earth's painful tale 
 
 Had drawn aside its thickly-woven screen. 
 
 I see, O sun ! I see 
 
 The open mystery 
 Of life and time thine opulence makes more clear ; 
 
 O type of that deep peace 
 
 That from its high release 
 Floods with itself this world of grief and fear ! 
 
1 66 THE INLET. 
 
 THE INLET. 
 
 I WATCH the many-colored crowd, 
 Passing me on the busy street, 
 
 And marvel at the faces proud, 
 Or sullen with low-browed defeat. 
 
 The blue skies smile upon the earth, 
 The winds are with the clouds at play. 
 
 And happiness had surely birth 
 With sundawn of the perfect day. 
 
 I dream of all the secrets hid 
 By placid brow or gloomy eye. 
 
 As in some rock-built pyramid 
 
 An unknown king or slave may lie. 
 
 I feel the beat of every heart, 
 
 And shed the tears tired eyes let fall, 
 
 And thrill to know myself a part 
 
 Of griefs that weary, hopes that thrall. 
 
 Oh, can it be that my weak soul 
 
 Is but an inlet of the sea, 
 And knows the outer sweep and roll 
 
 Of tides that forerun Destiny? 
 
THE INLET. 167 
 
 If this be dreaming, let me hold 
 
 The dear delusion to my breast ; 
 Let me grow fearless, overbold. 
 
 And dare the noblest and the best. 
 
 Children of one sweet mother, heirs 
 Of all the hopes that thrill all hearts, 
 
 And owners of the mystic wares 
 
 That shine within the spirit's marts. 
 
 Masters of space and lords of time. 
 Wearers of robes that History wove 
 
 In far-off looms of every clime. 
 In snow-clad wood or olive-grove, 
 
 Each soul instinct with all and each, 
 
 We rise at last unto the height, 
 Foresaid in strange prophetic speech, 
 
 Whence every darkness melts in light ! 
 
1 68 THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 From realms of ether I came, 
 
 In realms of ether I dwelt, 
 Where souls like a circling flame 
 
 Round the throne of the Mystery melt. 
 
 But a darkness on me fell, 
 
 I stooped from my station high, 
 
 And the mortal, like a spell. 
 Estranged me from the sky. 
 
 The light of my shining intense 
 
 Grew dim in its vesture cold, 
 And my heart's heaven-seeking sense 
 
 Was dead as its girding mould. 
 
 I forgot my primal life 
 
 In the dream of my daily toil. 
 
 In the noise of my daily strife, 
 
 In the dust of the world's turmoil. 
 
 One day the scales dropped from my eyes, 
 I remembered my secret of birth ; 
 
 I knew that I came from the skies. 
 And held no kinship with earth. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE SOUL. 169 
 
 In this river of time and sense 
 
 I float my allotted span, 
 I return to the regions whence 
 
 I fell when I became man. 
 
 Ennobled and purified, 
 
 Freed from this prison of woe, 
 I wait for the rising tide, 
 
 I long for the shoreward flow. 
 
 With the failing of this faint breath 
 
 I shall be on the primal shore. 
 In the spiritual lands of Death, 
 
 In the Good for evermore. 
 
 15 
 
lyo THE SIRENS. 
 
 THE SIRENS. 
 
 Over the mountains, and over the sea, 
 Wilt thou, oh, wilt thou come with me? 
 Deep-shadowed groves and meadows green, 
 Splendors no mortal eye has seen. 
 Singing and mirth the livelong day, 
 These shall reward thine adventurous way. 
 
 Nay, but thy skies were no longer fair, 
 Golden thy sun, nor perfumed thine air, 
 Happy thy blossoms, nor silver thy night, 
 Glorious thy sea's tumultuous might, 
 Sunderedst thou me from the hearts that I love 
 In thy griefless expanse of regions above. 
 
 Wilt thou remain a slave to thy pain, 
 Bound in thy passion's unyielding chain ? 
 What are thy loved ones unto thee, 
 Sad with the whole of misery ? 
 Flee from the midst of thy fierce distress 
 To my pleasure's wanton wilderness. 
 
 Nay, but the gloom of my bitter past 
 Over thy skies will be surely cast ; 
 Hast thou the power wholly to part 
 Self from self, or heart from heart? 
 Whither thou lead'st me, high or low, 
 Surely myself must with thee go. 
 
THE SIRENS. 171 
 
 Linger not here, but hearken to me, 
 Seek thou my reahn's extremity; 
 Wilt thou remain in thy semi-gloom. 
 Haunted as by a perpetual doom ? 
 Shatter the bonds that encircle thee, 
 Dare to be grandly, utterly free. 
 
 Nay, but thy words are vague as the air, 
 Trouble me not with thy speeches fair ; 
 Whither I go, my word must be said, 
 My oak-leaf won, my arrow sped ; 
 What matter gloom and bitter pain? 
 The end is peace, and that is gain. 
 
172 FAITH. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Tempt me no more ! I hear thee in the dark, 
 Muttering thy words of import dire ; 
 
 Mine eyes fill up with tears, and hardly mark 
 My one star paling all its fire. 
 
 What hast thou not ta'en from me? joy and hope, 
 And life's last priceless, chiefest gift, 
 
 Trust that the world has one o'ermastering scope. 
 And suffering's clouds gloom but to lift. 
 
 I stand alone beneath the deepening night. 
 And hark the circling winds that moan, 
 
 And bear afar upon their homeless flight 
 All grief's impassioned undertone. 
 
 All time's great woe seems poured upon the air. 
 The oceaned pain engirds me round ; 
 
 My heart grows cold within me, and I dare 
 Not sink beneath the weight of sound. 
 
 My one star pulses pale and ghostly sad 
 On the black void that apes the sky ; 
 
 Will it, too, perish, borne on ways that had 
 No pity for my truths most high ? 
 
FAITH. 173 
 
 Nay, thou shalt shine though all the splendid host 
 Merge in the void that mocks at thee, 
 
 A beacon on heaven's barely-outlined coast, 
 An island on the storm-swept sea. 
 
 kin to what is deepest in my heart. 
 The energy to be and live, 
 
 The force that rules all change, and hath no part 
 In aught the Night and Death may give. 
 
 From thee shall spring strange influences to call 
 
 The light back to each starry shell 
 That floats across the sight in bond and thrall 
 
 To the base Night's o'erpowering spell. 
 
 The stars that woke with laughter of the spring 
 
 Shall re-arise in skies that know 
 The subtle perfumes Love's sweet bowers shall fling 
 
 From blooms that shine and joys that glow. 
 
 Tempt me no more with mutterings of ill ! 
 
 I will keep vigil till the rose 
 Of morning's lucency begins to thrill 
 
 From peak to peak of mountain snows. 
 
 1 will not lose thee, O my light of light. 
 
 Thou shalt not pass forth of my gaze; 
 Through thee I will make conquest of the Night, 
 And bring the sun back to my days. 
 
 Whatso will falter, toward thy glow I spring, 
 And, know not harm nor bitter scathe ; 
 
 Whatso slips from me, unto thee I cling. 
 And lose not my deep faith in Faith ! 
 
 15^ 
 
174 THE QUEST, 
 
 THE QUEST. 
 
 At the gate of the stately garden 
 The young man bravely stands ; 
 
 Afar 'mid the trees the palace 
 Overlooks the circling lands. 
 
 At the heart of the world, at the centre, 
 Where the pulse of the universe beats. 
 
 He stands and he bids them open — 
 He is scarred with many defeats. 
 
 Behind him he sees the marvels 
 Of the untold worlds of space, 
 
 Of the myriad forms of living. 
 Of the spirit's visible face. 
 
 Before him he sees the splendor 
 Of the infinite might that creates, 
 
 Of the life that upholds and strengthens. 
 Of the love that labors and waits. 
 
 He stands at the gate in patience. 
 He fears not the wardens grim, 
 
 He has passed through the trackless forest. 
 There is naught can terrify him. 
 
THE QUEST. 175 
 
 Though his head grow white with the ages, 
 Though the storm howl round him apace, 
 
 Though the night come moonless and starless. 
 He never reverses his face. 
 
 In the palace the servants are busy, 
 They furnish the room for the guest, 
 
 For the soul that has travailed and conquered, 
 That has ceased not from its quest. 
 
 He stands till the gate be opened, 
 
 He knows that the end is sure, 
 That the Soul of all souls has heard him, 
 
 That the might of his joy shall endure. 
 
176 FOREVER. 
 
 FOREVER. 
 
 Over the snow I took my way, 
 Just after golden break of day, 
 From dreams no tongue can rightly say. 
 
 The morning air made me feel glad 
 
 As fairy breezes Galahad ; 
 
 I walked with expectation clad. 
 
 The mists around me rolled and curled, 
 Like waves by a fierce storm upwhirled. 
 Or thoughts in a wild tumult hurled. 
 
 The linked clouds hid all the sky. 
 Save where the sunrise made on high 
 A splendor you might deem God's eye. 
 
 My sight was to the sunrise turned, 
 Its light within my spirit burned. 
 My feet the snowy pavement spurned. 
 
 Into the light I took my way. 
 
 Just after golden break of day. 
 
 From dreams no tongue can rightly say. 
 
THE ETERNAL HEIGHTS. 177 
 
 THE ETERNAL HEIGHTS. 
 
 Out of the tyranny of moods we must wander 
 Into the land of still, calm thought ; 
 
 Life is so hard, no one may squander 
 
 Aught of the might whereby is wrought 
 The realization with anguish bought. 
 
 This is the part of the coward and trembler, 
 To whiten whenever the trouble comes ; 
 
 This is the part of the basest dissembler, 
 
 To falter and quake when the drooped head hums 
 With the noise of the enemy's jeering drums. 
 
 The scene of life's tasks makes little matter ; 
 A failure here may be victory there ; 
 
 But the soul must grow used to the hateful clatter 
 Of diverse aims, that fills the air 
 Through which we journey to summits fair. 
 
 And these shine on in eternal sunlight. 
 
 Though mists obscure them from our view ; 
 They shine in the splendor of the mystical One Light, 
 
 The light of Love, the light of the True ; 
 
 Our eyes have seen them when skies were blue. 
 
 They shine in the soul ; man holds them within him ; 
 They shine though the outmost be dark and chill ; 
 
 They seem to beckon as though they would win him 
 To climb their sides ; all is done if his will 
 Swerve him to ascend the utmost hill. 
 
178 ^47.5:. 
 
 FATE. 
 
 Three steps and I reach the door, 
 But a whole month rolls between 
 
 Since last I stood before 
 
 My shut room's simple scene. 
 
 I pause at the door and shrink, 
 My hand is at point to turn, 
 
 But I stand and dimly think 
 Of all I long for and yearn. 
 
 My life leaps up to me there, 
 The past with its every deed. 
 
 And I tremble and hardly dare 
 The open mystery to read. 
 
 A year and a day and awhile, 
 Ay me ! there is none escape ; 
 
 Each thought, each dream, each smile 
 Will front me in questioning shape. 
 
 I open and see what no eyes 
 
 Save mine have the power to see ; 
 
 Dead scenes and dead griefs arise. 
 Dead follies make mouths at me. 
 
 Yea, so : through the dark I peer, 
 And shudder away from the door ; 
 
 Voices once heard I hear. 
 Know faces seen long before. 
 
A THOUGHT. ■ 179 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 You tremble, you shudder, you wince. 
 The trouble is hard to bear, 
 
 And Time has no power to convince 
 That good is the heart of despair. 
 
 You tremble, you shake, you thrill, 
 The bliss is too much to bear. 
 
 And Time has the power to fill 
 Your soul with its secret fair. 
 
 Ah, sorrow and bliss are twins. 
 And joy is yoke-fellow with care. 
 
 And who the sweet former wins 
 The weight of the other must bear. 
 
 Who feels not pain in its might. 
 Can feel not the sweetness rare 
 
 Of the hope that fills the night 
 With its moon-like lustre fair. 
 
i8o SOLITUDE. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 The king sat on his throne, 
 Alone, alone. 
 
 Without, the sunlight fell 
 On hill and dell. 
 
 Beside the brooklet strayed 
 Lover and maid. 
 
 Each bird sang to his mate, 
 With spring elate. 
 
 The king was sad and cold. 
 Though clad in gold. 
 
 His heart sank in his breast, 
 With woe opprest. 
 
 His face was marred with scorn 
 Of all things born. 
 
 Within his golden halls 
 
 Stood countless thralls. 
 
 His frown compelled with awe, 
 His word was law. 
 
SOLITUDE, l8l 
 
 Without, the seasons came 
 With snow and flame. 
 
 All life, with changes fleet 
 Of sad and sweet, 
 
 Sought union with the whole, 
 Its far-ofl" goal. 
 
 He sat upon his throne, 
 Alone, alone. 
 
 16 
 
1 82 WARNING. 
 
 WARNING. 
 
 A WORD, a look, a deed, 
 Each light as breathed air, 
 May bring a sudden fate, 
 And mystically breed 
 
 The black flower of despair. 
 Where rose called rose his mate. 
 
 Where erst shone peace, the sun, 
 And speech welled from the heart, 
 A reckless smile or sigh 
 Is but well past or done. 
 And viewless walls dispart 
 Two lives that wail and die. 
 
 For souls are lightly set 
 Upon the spiritual sky. 
 
 As stars that speed and flame ; 
 And if a shock or let 
 
 Falls on the fair star nigh. 
 His fellow feels the shame. 
 
 Heed well the poet's song ; 
 In gardens of the soul 
 
 Breathe delicatest blooms; 
 Beware to do them wrong. 
 Lest thou fulfil the whole 
 Air of thy life with glooms. 
 
ECHO. 183 
 
 ECHO. 
 
 As the leaves in autumn drear 
 
 Float along the sobbing wind, 
 As if gathering to the bier 
 Of the swiftly-dying year, 
 
 So my memories gather fast, 
 
 Peopling the pale air of mind. 
 Dig the graves of the sweet past, 
 And throw on the mould at last. 
 
 Like a dream of the dead night. 
 Like a cloud of the wan eve. 
 Like a wave that shone more bright 
 For the yellow sun's delight, 
 
 Joy on joy has gone to death ; 
 In the dust I sit and grieve, 
 And my body murmureth 
 For the ceasing of its breath. 
 
1 84 INVITATION. 
 
 INVITATION. 
 
 Why art thou sad ? thou dost not tell ; 
 
 Thou hast strange reason for the dim self-pity 
 That holds thee as with an inflexible spell, 
 
 And moulds to its gloom thy low-voiced ditty. 
 
 Is it that thou dost hear the moan 
 
 That fills with its sorrow eternity's spaces? 
 
 Is it that thou hast hearkened the tone 
 
 Of secret despair from life's inmost places? 
 
 Nay, wake from thy slumber, come forth into light, 
 Where the joyous waves of the wide sea glisten, 
 
 And the sounds and the gloom of the sad mother-night 
 Disturb not the songs whereunto we listen. 
 
PREMONITION. 185 
 
 PREMONITION. 
 
 Hark ! through the night didst thou hear the word 
 
 That rang down the air its terror? 
 Speak ! in the night didst thou fear the word 
 
 That muttered the awful error 
 Wherein thou art bound? 
 
 Yea ! thou hast heard the cry of thy fate, 
 
 Bondsman of woe and of sorrow ! 
 Seek not to know, to fathom the why of thy fate ! 
 
 In the sea of the awful to-morrow 
 Thou art drowned ! — art drowned ! 
 
 16' 
 
1 86 A PLATONIC HYMN. 
 
 A PLATONIC HYMN. 
 
 The sombre eastern skies 
 
 Tremble with dawn's surprise, 
 The crescent radiance floods the impatient air ; 
 
 The golden sunrise glow 
 
 Rises in overflow 
 Above the wide-spread fields and waters fair. 
 
 The moon low in the west 
 
 Sinks downward dispossest, 
 A pallid film of slowly-waning light ; 
 
 A few stars linger yet, 
 
 Worsted and sore beset. 
 The remnants of the vanishing vanquished night. 
 
 But yonder day-god yields 
 The air's empurpled fields 
 
 To regnance of the star-crowned night in turn, 
 Possessing but half power. 
 And giving place and hour 
 
 To potencies that dimlier shine and burn. 
 
 Not such thy might, O Sun ! 
 
 Who the mid place hast won 
 In the intellectual regions clear, serene ; 
 
 Thy lofty centred throne 
 
 Abides thy rule alone, 
 Plato, who Life's profoundest Life hast seen. 
 
A PLATONIC HYMN. 187 
 
 Around thee flash and flame 
 
 All those of lesser name 
 Who have loved the Truth and felt her sacred spell, 
 
 Who, in the ideal sphere. 
 
 Beyond this realm of fear, 
 Have tasted waters of her secret well. 
 
 The Orient dim and vast 
 
 Before thy vision past 
 With hoary seers and old gigantic gods ; 
 
 India, mother of lands. 
 
 Her mighty gates expands 
 To thee in her unfathomed periods. 
 
 And Egypt, vague and strange, 
 
 Unfolds the mystic range 
 Of all her priests and wonder-workers taught ; 
 
 No peak remains unclimbed, 
 
 No utmost depth unmined 
 Within the wide-extending reach of Thought. 
 
 Into the light at length 
 
 Greece stepped in youthful strength, 
 
 The nursling of the segis-bearing, blue-eyed queen ; 
 Wisdom upon her smiled, 
 An^ called her darling child. 
 
 Favored and loved beyond all realms terrene. 
 
 White-haired Parmenides, 
 Across the tumbling seas 
 Of Generation's many-changing waste, * 
 
1 88 A PLATONIC HYMN. 
 
 Saw shine the mystic One, 
 From whom all life begun, 
 And in whose round all things and times are placed. 
 
 Pythagoras, the mage, 
 
 Transcending clime and age. 
 Lived pure of stain, one with the Truth sublime ; 
 
 He knew the dateless date 
 
 Of all souls' happy fate. 
 And Spirit's mastery of the sorcerer. Time. 
 
 Socrates, called the Wise, 
 
 Within whose kindly eyes 
 All goodness shone, and through whose conquering wit 
 
 Injustice clearly saw 
 
 Its self-destroying flaw, 
 And that the Right, by its own splendor lit, 
 
 Is king of worlds and men — 
 
 Martyr and denizen 
 Of that realm glorious. Love, the Seer, controls, 
 
 Girt by the reverence meet 
 
 Of all the gods, thy seat 
 Is next the Master's in the world of souls. 
 
 Thee all of them surround, 
 
 Plato, who passed the bound 
 Set by the learning of the wise of eld. 
 
 Thee for whom very Thought 
 
 Revealed its secret, and who sought 
 The One Ineffable and whose eyes beheld. 
 
A PLATONIC HYMN. 1 89 
 
 Thy words became the source 
 Whence Thought received its course 
 
 In ages subsequent and born of thine ; 
 Great Aristotle knew 
 How much from thee he drew, 
 
 Pure gold brought from thine inexhausted mine. 
 
 Proclus, the dreamer high, 
 
 Sought thee beyond the sky 
 To fathom what thy deepest speech contains \ 
 
 Plotinus into thee 
 
 Swooned in his ecstasy, 
 Being rapt unto the far empyreal plains. 
 
 In darkness all was lost, 
 
 And earth was tempest-tost 
 While thou wert hidden from the face of men \ 
 
 Again thy sun arose 
 
 At the strange tempest's close, 
 And thou wast leader of the van again. 
 
 In Florence thy lost voice 
 
 Once more bade Life rejoice. 
 The bright Heaven of thy musings oped its doors ; 
 
 Once more thy music rang, 
 
 And the vext heart upsprang 
 Into the light which from thy pages pours. 
 
 And in these final days 
 We have not failed to gaze 
 Where thy hand points, and thy most wondrous words 
 
190 A PLATONIC HYMN. 
 
 Recall us from the deep 
 Possession by earth's sleep, 
 And sing to us as very morning's birds. 
 
 Yea, birds of Heaven, indeed, 
 Not born of mortal seed. 
 
 And pouring thy swift thought across the years. 
 Thy swift exalting hope. 
 That looks beyond the slope 
 
 That leads down into this abode of tears. 
 
 Honored be thy great name, 
 Holy, and free from blame. 
 
 Thou who hast shone a star unto us all ; 
 Monarch and wise art thou. 
 Around whose placid brow 
 
 The laurelled praises of the ages fall. 
 
TUBEROSE. 191 
 
 TUBEROSE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Flower, that I hold in my hand, 
 
 Waxen and white and unwoful, 
 
 Perfect with your race's lovely perfection, 
 
 Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the 
 
 heavens. 
 Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first 
 
 shines the glow of love's planet, 
 Trustful as a boy who holds the world in hands of 
 
 power unrelaxing. 
 Flower, graceful, lovely, 
 Lo ! I give you to the waves that roll across the ocean's 
 
 expanses. 
 
 II. 
 
 I watch you like a star on the waters, 
 
 I watch you floating away in the distance ; 
 
 The ocean gives you reception and dwelling, 
 
 The ocean with the sweep of its world-encircling 
 
 currents, 
 With its storms and winds, — 
 Mutable home where all is each and each is other. 
 
 III. 
 
 You show no signs of terror. 
 
 You float to the mid-most whirlpool, 
 
 You are made one with the unending streams, 
 
192 TUBEROSE. 
 
 The moon and' stars are reflected in your changed 
 bosom, 
 
 The measureless winds enfold you with love as a gar- 
 ment, 
 
 Night and day and time are contained in your embraces, 
 
 Clouds emerge from your heart and return, 
 
 Life and death are as slender ripples across your cen- 
 tral calmness, 
 
 Hope and wishing and longing and tumult are over. 
 
 Unto the all, your cradle and grave, your father-mother. 
 
 You have returned, 
 
 O flower transfigured ! 
 
 O flower having reached your fruition ! 
 
A SIGH. 193 
 
 A SIGH. 
 
 I. 
 
 Weary, ah, weary am I ; 
 Scorn not thou this cry of sadness. 
 Scorn not thou me who bow under many a burden ; 
 See I am weak, and clamor for aid which I find not ; 
 See I would be strong, and find each day new bonds 
 engirding me. 
 
 11. 
 
 Oh, miglit I say in verses the wonderful clearness, 
 Freshness, gladness, glory all the wide fields are robed in ! 
 Oh, might I be even as they, 
 Grateful for rain or for sunshine, 
 
 Happy in spring when the grasses softly enclothe them, 
 Bursting to flower, winsome smiles of their green ex- 
 panses. 
 Eyed with the splendor of streams that flow on in 
 
 joyance. 
 Laugh in summer to feel in their souls the sunshine. 
 And are content in the winter to sleep in their icy 
 enfoldment. 
 
 HI. 
 
 But peace I find not anywhere ; 
 
 Change brings fear and trembling deep into my soul ; 
 Would I could gain those heights empyrean 
 Spirits attain who look through this garment of visions, 
 Seeing beyond the immutable infinite calm of the soul ! 
 
 17 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SUSPIRIA. 
 
 Wilt thou return, who hast abandoned me, 
 
 Thou whom I long for, thou whom I must love? 
 I cast mine eyes unto the skies above. 
 
 And see but gloom and clouds that turn and flee ; 
 
 O moonrise or my sunrise, unto thee 
 
 I pour my longing, and have not thereof 
 So much of answer as one plume of dove, 
 
 Fallen from swift wing of messenger to be 
 
 Bringer of tidings glad and gentle words. 
 In all this stillness I sink fast toward Death, 
 No bodily ceasing but strange loss of soul ; 
 
 Wilt thou not come, O Song, and wake the birds 
 Within me, answering thy faintest breath, 
 And sunwise smite the dark that is my dole ? 
 
 17* 197 
 
19^ SUB-CONSCIOUS. 
 
 SUB-CONSCIOUS. 
 
 Wet with the last night's rain the wood-pile lies 
 Beside the walk. Around the crooked sticks, 
 Climbing with manifold coquettish tricks, 
 A morning-glory vine its antics plies, 
 And lights with vagrant gleam of green surprise 
 The darkness of the earthy-colored wood ; 
 And like a self-forgetting thought of good 
 That mitigates the glare of sinful eyes. 
 Or like pure longings for release from strife. 
 
 Rare premonitions of the better part. 
 That rise from deeps below the usual life, 
 
 And send unwonted thrills through some worn heart. 
 Amid the mouldy wood's fantastic rows 
 A red and luminous morning-glory glows. 
 
SUNRISE IN WINTER. 199 
 
 SUNRISE IN WINTER. 
 
 From depth of dusky dream I woke, and crossed 
 The new-fallen snow ; the sunrise splendor burned 
 Along the sky, and like an alchemist turned 
 
 The many clouds, mild winds had deftly tossed 
 
 In shapes fantastical as those the frost 
 
 Graves on the window-pane, to crimsoned gold; 
 The changeful rosy mists, soft fold on fold. 
 
 Crept, lit with radiance, where my gazing lost 
 
 The curving sky; I stood within a vale 
 Engirt by shifting hills of glorious mist; 
 
 The morning air was glad with colored light. 
 The trees like nuns stood wrapt in cloaks of bright 
 
 Chaste snow, and from the chimney rose the pale 
 Slow smoke to skies that shone clear amethyst. 
 
200 FOR PICTURES. 
 
 FOR PICTURES. 
 I. 
 
 WAR. 
 
 The night was black with cloud, as though the smoke 
 Of battle had congealed, and risen to roof 
 The world with gloom ; the lurid moon made proof 
 
 Of regnancy won by the dark, and broke 
 
 In waves of ghostly light; a shattered oak 
 Stood in the foreground, and the sentinel 
 Far off upon his height kept guard ; a spell 
 
 Of horror filled the air as when awoke 
 The cries of onset and appalled the day ; 
 
 The half-extinguished flames of the burned town 
 Were barely visible ; a soldier's corse 
 
 And scattered heaps of shapeless things adown 
 The plain appeared ; and, riderless, a horse 
 Took flight and shrilled its agonizing neigh. 
 
 II. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 In waves on waves of light the high sun rolled 
 Across the mid-noon air; midsummer held 
 The breathing land, and from its realm expelled 
 
 All shapes of fear; mild quiet, fold on fold, 
 
FOR PICTURES. 201 
 
 Enwrapped the spreading scene, and in the gold 
 
 Of summer's sun the grass and trees made joy ; 
 
 Soft shadows from tall trees had sweet employ 
 Upon the light-besprinkled stream ; made bold 
 With bliss, the birds wheeled swift across the air ; 
 
 The pastures stretched away to where the corn 
 Rose tall, the farm-house broke the distance, fair 
 
 And cloud-flecked shone the sky, and glad with scorn 
 Of dull constraint, the horses tossed their manes. 
 And all forgot their labors and hard pains. 
 
202 PROGRESS. 
 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 Ah, blessedness of work ; the aimless mind, 
 
 Left to pursue at will its fancies wild. 
 
 Returns at length, like some play-wearied child. 
 
 Unto its labor's knee, and leaves behind 
 
 Its little games, and learns to soothe its blind 
 
 Wide longings in the sweet tranquillity 
 
 Of limited tasks, whose mild successions wind 
 
 In pauseless waves unto the distant sea; 
 
 For blank infinity is cold as ice, 
 
 And drear the void of space unsown with stars, 
 And dolorous the barren line of shore ; 
 Therefore it was with lover-like device 
 
 This lower world was built, through whose cleft bars 
 The limitless sun of Truth shines more and more. 
 
WORLD-SLUMBER. 203 
 
 WORLD-SLUMBER. 
 
 Two thousand years agone within the manger 
 
 They laid the glorious Child, and through the sorrow 
 That clothed the world like air, and grew each mor- 
 row 
 Denser with vaporous wrongs, and horrors, stranger 
 Than all that went before, soft radiance, ranger 
 From realms above, floated, and strove to borrow 
 Heaven's fire to cleanse the many-centuried morrow 
 From deep corroding stains ; and thou, dear changer 
 Of old for new lamps, slept ; sweet infant slumber. 
 Which dreams of rescued souls fulfilled of lucence. 
 Whose slow-drawn breaths counted the whole 
 world's risings 
 From depths of dull despair, whose smiles did number 
 Swift star-dawns on the world's night of recusance. 
 And bathed mankind in bliss of its comprisings. 
 
204 FANDEMOS. 
 
 PANDEMOS. 
 
 I. 
 
 What dim mysterious power holdst thou concealed 
 In thy most varying play of smiles and moods? 
 What soul dare tread thy marvellous solitudes 
 
 Of passionate woes by murmurous utterance healed, 
 
 Nor cast his whole life's ordinance repealed 
 Before thee, that with hands of utmost power 
 Thou mayst regift the reborn soul with dower 
 
 Thy vagrant swift imaginations yield ? 
 
 For life is at thy feet, and craves thy will, 
 O love, O lady, sovereign of all lands 
 
 Wherein wild pleasure from his horn doth spill 
 
 Sweet flowers, whose odors bind with golden bands; 
 
 For none may name thee, yet thou holdst men sure. 
 
 And leadst them with unconquerable lure. 
 
 II. 
 
 Past the pale vales with lowly blossoms set. 
 
 Where slender streams sing thinly-sounding songs. 
 We have gone to where the nightingale prolongs 
 
 Impassioned cadence, and all vain regret 
 
 And hollow-hearted fear, snared in the net 
 Of bliss, flutter and perish utterly. 
 To where love's ultimate strong ecstasy 
 
 New heart and soul in outworn life beget. 
 
PANDEMOS. 205 
 
 Yea, drowned beneath thy golden infinite sea, 
 Girt by thy multitude of warring waves, 
 
 Mixed in the flow of thy unceasing streams, 
 All souls who gain thine inmost sanctuary, 
 Dwell in thy measureless expanse of graves. 
 Live but as one of thy flame-clothed dreams. 
 
 III. 
 
 Black night and sea and the loud-sounding wind 
 
 And voices muttering things ill-understood; 
 
 O night gloom with thine utmost hardihood ; 
 O sea mutter as one who deeply sinned ; 
 O wind with hate inexorably twinned, 
 
 Thy storms tumultuous gather thou apace ; 
 
 O voices cry aloud through boundless space 
 What has befallen ; lo ! spectres pale and thinned. 
 
 Is this the end ? Here by the sullen shore 
 The dream has faded with the sinking sun. 
 Is the sweet singing past away and done? 
 
 Shall eyes and smiles play sun and moon no more ? 
 The inarticulate vast roar replies, 
 And gradual clouds engulf the angry skies. 
 
 18 
 
206 URANIA. 
 
 URANIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 What silver, tremulous gleams sweep o'er the sea, 
 Making the air more glad for drops of light. 
 And severing in twain the moody plight 
 Wherein my soul lay, and in flashing glee 
 Garmenting the waves' lithesome witchery? 
 Not all undone the potence of the night 
 Sits in mine eyes, and through my languid sight 
 So rules the day, that subtly come and flee 
 Cloud-shadows 'twixt the sun and glowing earth; 
 But to the shore long grasses creep and laugh. 
 Upon the cliffs the green-clad trees make mirth ; 
 
 I stand aloof, the summer joyance quaff", 
 And through my heart unwonted pleasures flow. 
 As through the land the river's sunrise glow. 
 
 II. 
 
 What thinkest thou? within the lonely glade 
 The dryad dwells and dreams the livelong day 
 How leaf by leaf her forest clothes the May 
 
 With gold-green gloom and sunbeam-haunted shade ; 
 
 Upon the sky whose slender clouds have made 
 A web miraculous wherewith at play 
 The winds have shown their inmost fancies gay, 
 
 I read the splendid message which shall fade 
 
URANIA. 207 
 
 No more from my deep heart or Nature's scene ; 
 O soul of things attained and found at last, 
 The love that is the fountain and the source 
 Whence forests bring their periodic green, 
 Whence sunlit clouds upon the winds fly fast, 
 And passion gains its undiverted course ! 
 
 III. 
 
 O Love that holdst in sweet embrace 
 
 All forms of life, nor basely clingst to one, 
 Or in that one seeing but the centred sun 
 
 Reflected, dost in clearest eyes but trace 
 
 The lineaments of that Universal Face 
 That was or ere the strife of sense begun, 
 O Love whose image is most deftly spun 
 
 Into the spirit of Life's chiefest grace. 
 
 And leadst all feet to Beauty's shrine eterne, 
 No longer lured on this or that strange way. 
 And in all loves loving but thee alone, 
 
 We cease the anguish of all those who yearn. 
 Being made part of thyself and finding day 
 Which but unto thy worshippers is known. 
 
2o8 THE SOUL SPEAKS. 
 
 L— THE SOUL SPEAKS. 
 
 Love is the key \ we may not climb the height 
 
 Save the strong heart remains sure guide and friend, 
 And, looking past these glooms unto the end, 
 
 Expects each pulse the slow approach of light ; 
 
 For we are weak, and wander in a night 
 
 The wizard senses build, wherein they blend 
 Strange flames of joys with splendor-stars that send 
 
 Weird glamoury of glow across our sight, 
 
 And we are bound in chains most hard to break ; 
 But in our heart's abyss unfathomable 
 
 The instincts toil of higher hopes and sweet, 
 
 And as we climb, led by our loves, we take 
 
 Best hold on truths that in these high realms dwell, 
 And life's disclosures guide our eager feet. 
 
THE INTELLECT SPEAKS, 209 
 
 II.— THE INTELLECT SPEAKS. 
 
 We cannot walk thus lampless ; Thought alone 
 Can find the clew out from this maze's turns ; 
 Our faith and love wherewith our body burns 
 
 End but in darkness silent as a stone ; 
 
 For love hath end, and by our sorrow's moan 
 
 Our truths are slain, and our great grieving spurns 
 Our past belief, and all our labor earns, 
 
 Despite tears shed, and without harvest sown, 
 
 No space wherein to lay fore-wearied limbs ; 
 
 The light of Life shines but where Thought most pure 
 Communes with those fixed idealities 
 
 Whose mastery weaves our tumults into hymns 
 Of rarest sound, whose empire shall endure 
 Till Death lays hands on God's own mysteries. 
 
 18* 
 
2IO THE SPIRIT SPEAKS. 
 
 III.— THE SPIRIT SPEAKS. 
 
 Nay, out of conflict must come peace ; these twain 
 Can wage no war upon whose bitter scorn 
 There will not rise a reconciling morn, 
 
 Nor may by either either yet be slain. 
 
 Lo ! in the circle of my hands shall gain 
 
 From each be brought the other's brow to adorn, 
 And soothe the pain which severance sharp has borne ; 
 
 For I of both have need, of both am fain. 
 
 Lo ! unto Love the light of Thought is given ; 
 
 Lo ! Thought's pale cheeks grow red with Love's 
 own blood ; 
 Lo ! I who hold them friends in my bright sway j 
 
 Through me, through me, the bonds of earth are riven. 
 The ship securely sails Life's treacherous flood. 
 The sunrise burns of ever-widening day ! 
 
FULFILMENT. 2 1 1 
 
 FULFILMENT. 
 
 This is the secret; no fair blossom blows, 
 
 No cloud sails softly down the sunlit sky, 
 
 No clear dusk-shadowed stream goes sweetly by, 
 No singer lifts his voice in song that glows, 
 No sower of all these, unless he sows 
 
 For thee, scatters his seed \ yea, all is thine ; 
 
 With this wide world enclothed shalt thou shine ; 
 The morning girds thy brow; the virgin vows 
 
 Of untouched thoughts nod their long plumes for 
 thee, 
 The dim sad past waits for thy harvest-hand. 
 
 The footless future spreads its sun-path lost ; 
 
 On oceans smooth or rough no keel has crossed. 
 Under star-shine no eyes have seen, through bland 
 
 Plains of new flowerage, see. Fate beckons, see ! 
 
2 1 2 DEDICA TION. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 The moon of memory rises clear 
 
 And fills with radiance all the night ; 
 
 I am borne back in wondrous flight 
 To where the pleasant fields appear 
 Familiar with the blossoms dear 
 
 To times that pour their splendid light 
 
 Into my very sight of sight, 
 And reassume the engirding atmosphere. 
 
 I stand within the mystic land 
 
 Which spirit builds with all the past 
 As elements that can bat last, 
 
 While unforgotten murmurs bland 
 
 Of voices whose deep thoughts expand 
 Into the glow with boundaries vast. 
 Which hope has led to glories fast 
 
 By Heaven's mid purport of ideas grand, 
 
 Restore the charm that brought my feet 
 To water-springs of old renown. 
 And hill-tops on whose grassy crown 
 
 White temples shone with lore replete 
 
 To assuage the pain of life's deceit. 
 Persuade the soul to pause, and down 
 The green descent with roses sown 
 
 To watch glad garments of the Muses fleet 
 
DEDICATION. 213 
 
 The solemn majesty of peace 
 
 Surrounds me weary with the roar 
 
 Of life that loudens more and more ; 
 At one brave stroke I find release, 
 In this calm air all tumults cease, 
 
 Old stars into my vision soar, 
 
 And dreams that once my being bore 
 Into the yellowing fields of thought's increase 
 
 Flash through my brain and heart again ; 
 
 All things return unto that spring 
 
 Wherein my hopes began to sing ; 
 I am once more the denizen 
 Of earlier aspirations, past the ken 
 
 Of dullard hours that hardly bring 
 
 One flower its fading light to fling 
 On toils that are the plodding lot of men. 
 
 And lo ! my moon reveals a change. 
 
 Its light grows whiter, nobler far. 
 
 Its lustre sweeps transfigured star 
 On star into its mighty range j 
 The night transforms its moated grange 
 
 Into a field with bound and bar 
 
 Where sunrise and the sunset are ; 
 What once was lives, and what is now grows strange. 
 
 All the sweet past revives and glows 
 
 Around me with the pristine fire 
 
 Suffusing youth's undimmed desire ; 
 The spring of time before the snows 
 
2 1 4 DEDICA TION. 
 
 Of disappointment spoiled the rose 
 
 Of half its petals, and the ire 
 
 Of Destiny built smouldering pyre 
 For much this barren time no longer knows. 
 
 I am again with you, dear friend, 
 
 In lands that see no earthly sun, 
 
 But where the threads of life are spun. 
 The realm of thought without an end 
 Or mere beginning, whence gods send 
 
 The influence by whose might is done 
 
 Whatever is by action won 
 From the sheer dark whose dreamy backgrounds lend 
 
 Sight and just strength to noblest deeds ; 
 
 Nor are we there alone : I sit 
 
 And hark the cadence of your wit ; 
 I bring my blossoms mixed with weeds. 
 And thrill while many another leads 
 
 By subtle speech or sacred writ 
 
 To that realm's spaces inly fit 
 For every instant's many-shifting needs. 
 
 O'er fountains Oriental, sacred wells, 
 
 Dim distant flower-producing sods. 
 
 Haunts of gigantic mystic gods. 
 More wondrous than more recent spells 
 Evoke in simpler-colored dells. 
 
 You wielded strange diviner's rods, 
 
 And as the waters burst the clods 
 We drank and fled Earth's narrowing cells. 
 
DEDICATION. 215 
 
 But chief we trod with one who saw 
 Life's self unveiled, the top of thought 
 And crown of men, whose spirit wrought, 
 
 By being's self-returning law 
 
 And Time's successive need to draw 
 
 Help from Greek sources deeply fraught 
 With all her highest intellects sought, 
 
 In you who were his message without flaw. 
 
 Above the world we saw the dance 
 
 Of pure Ideas circling through 
 
 The realm of Godhead, and we knew 
 How thoughts from hidden thoughts advance, 
 And touched by your illumining lance 
 
 The darkest ways of hope with dew. 
 
 Which winds of sunlight overblew. 
 Glittered as gloom receded from its glance. 
 
 The deep religions of all Time 
 
 Spoke once again through your clear lips. 
 
 Old poets woke from sad eclipse. 
 And sang as in their golden prime 
 Of life eternal, and the clime 
 
 Unreached by keel of mortal ships, 
 
 And light whose glorious ocean clips 
 Those dreams about with mystic rhyme on rhyme. 
 
 Wherever thought was loftiest. 
 
 Wherever oracle was heard 
 
 Pronouncing being's solvent word, 
 Wherever song was chief and best, 
 
2l6 DEDICATION. 
 
 And truth sustained the winnowing test 
 Of age-long rigor, where new-stirred 
 Wise forecast once again recurred 
 
 To those dim sources whence have flowed the blest 
 
 Assurances of fervid bard, 
 
 That hope achieves its longings high, 
 
 And tears ascend into the sky, 
 Part of the domes whose building hard 
 Prepares the fate propitious-starred. 
 
 Which silences Heart's general sigh. 
 
 Making response to every cry. 
 And fulness gives to soul however marred, 
 
 Wherever bliss with instinct sure 
 Led to its mid of permanence, 
 The home of souls, from wandering whence 
 
 Attainment felt itself secure. 
 
 Wherever dwelt the stainless-pure. 
 We found you, and the freeing sense 
 Of high success warred on the dense 
 
 And thickening veil which we perforce endure, 
 
 The muddying vesture of decay, 
 And that dull garb we trod to dust, 
 And knew ourselves as know we must. 
 
 Children of Light's unchanging day. 
 
 You set our feet upon the way 
 
 Of purposed and unfaltering trust, 
 You taught to find the worth which rust 
 
 Cannot corrupt nor years confuse its ray. 
 
DEDICA TION. 2 1 7 
 
 And others mixed a gentler tone 
 
 With your firm voice of sight and power, 
 The woman's gracious height of dower 
 
 To see the very truth her own, 
 
 To gather blooms to thought unknown, 
 Rapt feeling's shy and secret flower, 
 To gift the many-pleasured hour 
 
 With dreams from God's own fastness hither flown. 
 
 My thoughts unto those days revert. 
 
 And mingle with those happier eyes 
 
 Alit with flame of fresh surmise, 
 That doubt was weak to lame or hurt. 
 Or fear to change their gaze alert 
 
 From seeing past the yielding skies 
 
 Ideal shapes of light arise 
 Which Time could neither touch nor disconcert. 
 
 I know them as my best of friends. 
 
 And separation cannot dim 
 
 The echo of the mutual hymn. 
 Wherein as parts, whose mixture wends 
 To music's beauty-fashioning ends, 
 
 We passed thought's ever-widening rim, 
 
 And the world's face of anguish grim 
 Saw melt in glow that strength with victory blends. 
 
 Alack ! the band is not complete. 
 
 For some have trod the ways of Death, 
 And know the tale his shut mouth saith ; 
 
 You watched their slowly-vanishing feet 
 
 19 
 
2l8 DEDICATION. 
 
 Into the luminous mists retreat, 
 
 And heard the song below the breath, 
 Which deep to deep still uttereth, 
 
 Love's silent voice than audible tunes more sweet. 
 
 They finished well the course ordained. 
 Their eyes beheld before their close 
 Heaven's white and wondrous central rose ; 
 
 They passed from life unvexed, unstained, 
 
 And many heights of hope attained ; 
 The vision of their memory grows 
 A dream wherein the far light glows 
 
 Of that fair clime that soul has never gained, 
 
 Save it has had the hardihood 
 
 To penetrate the secrets hid 
 
 In Truth's sky-cleaving pyramid \ 
 Afar from Error's darkling wood 
 They clomb the mount, and happy stood, 
 
 Where, from earth's lingering traces rid. 
 
 With gaze that feared not lifted lid 
 They watched reveal itself the Infinite Good. 
 
 4 
 
 And we shall meet them as before 
 
 Where through the many-blossomed vale 
 Truth flows without surcease or fail ; 
 
 The robe of radiance which they wore 
 
 Shall grow in lustre more and more 
 As we awake from the sad tale 
 Of Time, and hear Love's nightingale 
 
 Lighten the space which once sheer darkness wore. 
 
DEDICATION. 219 
 
 I would my words could reach their ear 
 
 Across the gulf that unto us 
 
 Is Heaven's mid self grown amorous 
 Of those we held so lief and dear ; 
 If the immortals may but hear 
 
 On heights of life less tenebrous, 
 
 And lit by fires that shake not thus 
 As stars that guide us tremble, dim, and veer, 
 
 I pour my song forth of my soul 
 
 Within the realm where their life is 
 
 To mingle with their ecstasies. 
 And so take what I give ; the whole 
 -Of ray adventure has for goal 
 
 To voice a glimpse of mysteries 
 
 That underprop the world, and ease 
 The heart when inner thunders gloom and roll. 
 
 These blossoms frail of scent and hue 
 
 In slender swaying growth have M'on 
 
 Some light of the unfading sun ; 
 They grew in gardens which you knew. 
 And precious substance deeply drew 
 
 From showers whose skies were overrun 
 
 By cloud-thoughts' deftly made and spun 
 Of words your plenty overbrimmed and threw 
 
 Across our mind's horizon, fair 
 
 With sun that answered your clear spell. 
 And flooded river, hill, and dell. 
 
 These verses are swift flights that dare 
 
2 20 DEDICATION. 
 
 The realm of the serener air ; 
 I wooed them by the mystic well 
 Around whose murmurs subtly dwell 
 
 The spirits of the life beyond compare. 
 
 These narrow pathways haply lead 
 
 To heights wherefrom the truth is seen, 
 Life's luring, nay, compelling queen ; 
 
 Small, rugged, though'they be indeed 
 
 And overgrown by many a weed. 
 
 Perchance beneath the shadows green 
 Of tall and overarching treen 
 
 Some joy may make, response to some dim need. 
 
 In music's noble-thoughted peace 
 
 We meet though distance' envious bar 
 Holds our fain hands asunder far; 
 
 In thought's soft-lumined high release 
 
 Our strengths abound, our souls increase ; 
 Time has no might to maim or mar 
 With its divisions, since we are 
 
 Where tumults of the senses fail and cease. 
 
 Truth glows around us ; we are one ; 
 
 The past, the vanished, all are here ; 
 
 The mists of the dream disappear, 
 The Ideal rises with its sun. 
 Life ever new yet unbegun 
 
 Receives us in its lofty sphere. 
 
 Whence fixed our hearts shall never veer. 
 Our journeyings surely overpast and done. 
 
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