LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap....... Copyright No,. 
 
 ShelLL.U.Sr.P'^ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 Edward A. Blount, Jr., M. D 
 
 A* 
 
 sfTm 
 
 C 
 
 \ 
 
 m i4iaaa 
 
 >r of Oo^f ^ ^ 
 
 CINCINNATI, OHIO: 
 
 ELM STREET PRINTING COMPANY, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
 1897. 
 
 

 } IGo 
 
 Entered according to act of Con^n 
 in the year 1897, by 
 Edwaed a. Blount, Jr., M. I). 
 
TO 
 
 MY FATHER AND MOTHER, 
 
 WHOSE KINDNESS HAS MADE THIS VOLUME A 
 
 POSSIBILITY, I RESPECTFULLY AND 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE 
 
 MY POEMS. 
 
NTRODUCTION. 
 
 Whether or not to apologize to those who 
 read this book, I do not know. These poems 
 are merely the random thoughts of many idle 
 hours, written in various moods and in various 
 climes. I have omitted many that are dearest to 
 me, because I could not guess the spirit with 
 which they would be received. 
 
 Our fondest ideas, whether they be chiseled 
 into stone, or painted on canvas, or written down 
 in books, we are ever backward in giving to 
 what may prove adverse criticism, or even cold 
 indifference. 
 
 And so to my friends who have urged the 
 
 publication of this volume I send greeting, and 
 
 consign this part of my work (if I may call it so) ; 
 
 and I promise that if ever in the future it seems 
 
 to me that my pen can cheer or strengthen 
 
 any one, it shall not, through any fault of mine, 
 
 be idle. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 Nacogdoches, Tex., Nov. 2, 1897. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Thrice Blessed be the Power that Instilled in 
 
 my Bosom ^3 
 
 The World Never Knew ^5 
 
 Marie ^^ 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Poet I7 
 
 A Passing Glance ^^ 
 
 Hundred Yards Dash— Final i9 
 
 The White and the Red 21 
 
 To Mabel— A Maid of Gotham 22 
 
 The Hunchback 23 
 
 A Man's Life 24 
 
 The Poacher's Daughter 25 
 
 A Broken Harp '^1 
 
 In New York 28 
 
 A Study in Blue 29 
 
8 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Dead ' 30 
 
 The Cxirl Across the Way 31 
 
 Sigma Nit 33 
 
 A Mvandiere 39 
 
 A Flake 40 
 
 Answerless 41 
 
 The Cross 41 
 
 Fallen 42 
 
 Benedicite 43 
 
 Idolatry 43 
 
 To-Morrow 44 
 
 To a Friend 44 
 
 Alles ist Nicht Todt was Begraben ist 45 
 
 Rosa 47 
 
 When Shakespeare Fell in Love 48 
 
 Fantasy 49 
 
 You Ask Me why I Write of Love 51 
 
 To Edith 52 
 
 The Death of the Year 53 
 
 Rliyme and Reason 54 
 
TArjLE OF contp:nts. 9 
 
 PACK. 
 
 The Pleasures of Death 55 
 
 Gracious Brahma 56 
 
 Ghosts of Time 57 
 
 The Spring 58 
 
 Bill 60 
 
 Reflection 62 
 
 Inspiration 62 
 
 Sir Hugh of Normandie 63 
 
 My Friend and 1 68 
 
 The Final Plea. . . ; 69 
 
 Devotion 70 
 
 Rosa Graeme — Lover's Logic 71 
 
 The Meeting of the Years 72 
 
 The Shepherd's Wooing 73 
 
 Drifting 76 
 
 Changed 78 
 
 What the Locomotive Said 79 
 
 To Rose 80 
 
 Brothers 81 
 
 In Memory of Dr. Leslie Waggener 83 
 
lO TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 I Buried my Beautiful Love Last Night .... 84 
 
 Mariana 85 
 
 By the Bronx 86 
 
 A Thought 87 
 
 The Sohtude of Sadness 88 
 
 Love's Alchemy 90 
 
 To Edith Kissing Herself in the Glass 91 
 
 Four Faiths 92 
 
 Nature's in the Man 93 
 
 The Belles of Bowling Green 94 
 
 Message _ 95 
 
 Vergiss Mein Nicht 96 
 
 The Curse of a Lie 97 
 
 A Thyrsus Wreath 98 
 
 Awakening 100 
 
 An Ingenue 102 
 
 Las Golondrinas 104 
 
 So Passion is a Crimson Bud 105 
 
 Answered 107 
 
 Why Came You Not to the Trysting Place. 108 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 1 1 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Boating Poem no 
 
 As They Fell in 
 
 The Love I Bring is Earthly 113 
 
 Frigida 116 
 
 Farewell, Sweet Poesy 120 
 
POKMS. 
 
 THRICE BLESSED BE THE POWER 
 THAT INSTILLED IN MY BOSOM. 
 
 THRICE blessed be the power that instilled in 
 my bosom 
 The love of thee, Poesy, the true and sublime ; 
 May it evermore flourish, grow greener and blossom, 
 Nor feel the chill touch of all-withering time. 
 
 More pleasant by far is the magical measure, 
 
 The mellifluent flow of some well-attuned lay, 
 
 Than the purest joy yielded by a sensual born 
 pleasure. 
 That comes and is gone, and will last but a day. 
 
 Like the murmur of breezes through myrtle trees 
 sighing. 
 As they sweep from afar to our bright genial 
 clime; 
 Come over my soul the refrains all undying, 
 
 Of the bards that have sung through the lapses 
 of time. 
 
 The masters of rhythm who have traced on their 
 pages 
 Those passionate thoughts that shall live on for 
 aye; 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 While the warm blood shall throb in the pulse of 
 the ages, 
 Or while love shall still bask in emotion's pure 
 ray. 
 
 When the long cope of Heaven shall unfold its blue 
 stretches, 
 
 And the anthems of glory untrammelled roll on, 
 Then only will fade the harmonious snatches, 
 
 Such as burst from the banks of the river Avon. 
 
 So thrice blessed be the power that instilled in my 
 bosom 
 
 The love of thee, Poesy, the true and sublime ; 
 May it evermore flourish, grow greener and blossom. 
 
 Nor feel the cold touch of all-withering time. 
 
POEMS. 15 
 
 THE WORLD NEVER KNEW. 
 
 TWO lads were in the self same village born, 
 And often played together on the sand. 
 The elder, Paul, was generous, rash and brave, 
 And ruled the village urchins as a king; 
 His playmate, Conrad, was a pensive youth. 
 With dreamy eyes, and flaxen hair that fell 
 O'er both his shoulders like a golden rain. 
 
 While Paul was building little fragile ships. 
 And watching them upon the playful wave, 
 Young Conrad lounging idly in the sand 
 Looked on the beauties of the sky and sea. 
 And those of earth, and oft-times picking up 
 Some fairy-tinted shell, would gaze at it, 
 And feel a kindred passion in his breast 
 Responding to the intricate design. 
 
 They grew to men : and fearless Paul became 
 The mate and then the master of a ship ; 
 And sailing forth in search of riches, found 
 A sunken galley full of Spanish pelf. 
 
 But luckless Conrad was a delicate youth, 
 
 Unfit for coping with the fisher's trade, 
 
 And very fond of musing all alone ; 
 
 Till men, who did not know the fire that burned 
 
 His soul, were wont to style him "shiftless wretch." 
 
 His friend was Solitude ; with her he strove 
 
 A little knowledge to acquire, and thus 
 
 Was master of those soul-conveying words, 
 
l6 POEMS. 
 
 From which he wrought into a simple poem 
 
 His precious thoughts, bright children of his brain. 
 
 But his companions mocked and jeered, till he, 
 
 Disheartened, cast his work into the flame. 
 
 Nor did he long survive such cruel trials. 
 
 But sickened soon and died; while the great world 
 
 Lived on and never knew what it had lost. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 (From the French of A. de Musset.) 
 
 JUST as some little bud we see 
 In sylvan depths unfold its leaves, 
 And in the sigh the zephyr breathes 
 Smile with a gentle mystery ; 
 
 Just as its light and slender rod, 
 
 That feels its chalice leaves unturning, 
 
 Down to the bosom of the sod, 
 
 Shakes with a wild desire and yearning 
 
 So when my beauteous Mary 
 Opes her dear lips of cherry 
 
 And, singing, lifts her deep blue eyes ; 
 
 In harmony and glowing. 
 Her spirit seems, out-flowing, 
 
 To mount in music to the skies. 
 
POKMS. 17 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A POET. 
 
 O'ER the dealh-lelling wire that had thrilled the 
 sad tidings 
 The winds of the prairie moaned sadly and low ; 
 And the blasts they grew hushed at the mystic con- 
 fidings, 
 From the depth of the vale to the hill's crown 
 of snow. 
 
 When the words were flashed quick through the 
 breast of the ocean, 
 "Our sweet singer is dead, we shall ne'er see 
 him more " ; 
 The blue waves were tlirilled with a subtle emotion, 
 And the surf-beats were heavy and sad on the 
 shore. 
 
 All nature doth mourn him, but not in the thunder 
 Of tempests and torrents, and felling of trees, 
 
 As fabled of old when a life snapped asunder 
 
 And pestilence rode on the breath of the breeze. 
 
 From the depths of the woods comes a low, sad 
 repining. 
 Like dryads reciting their woes to the gale; 
 The sunsets all seem with less brilliance declining, 
 And darksome the shadows that brood through 
 the dale. 
 
 Sweet bard of our country, we ne'er may rep'ace 
 thee. 
 Though otheis aspirt to the pencil and scroll; 
 
1 8 POKMS. 
 
 The gifts that are thine and the talents that grace 
 thee, 
 Though imaged on paper have fled with thy 
 soul. 
 
 Yet thy memory shall flourish in splendor forever, 
 While harmony dwells in the quick hearts of 
 men. 
 
 And ever the meadow and mountain and river 
 In joyful concordance re-echo again. 
 
 A PASSING GLANCE. 
 
 THEY were wild, wild eyes as they gazed into 
 mine 
 In the rush and the whirl of Broadway ; 
 And the woman was fair, though she gtaggered with 
 
 wine, 
 And her features were rouged with iniquity's sign — 
 'Twas a pitiful state for the image divine — 
 An ephemeral creature astray. 
 
 They were wild, wild eyes — I remember them yet, 
 
 Their delirious, cavernous rays — 
 And my heart grows cold with a deep regret; 
 For their agonized pleading 'twere hard to forget, 
 In that instant's communion of glances that met. 
 
 Or the story I read in the gaze. 
 
 Oh, ye wild, wild eyes, here's a curse on the head 
 
 Of the man, be he living to-day, 
 That ye gazed on in fondness too easy misled : 
 Save his senses be palsied, his conscience be dead. 
 May he see what I saw, may he read what I read 
 
 In the rush and the whirl of Broadway. 
 
POEMS. 19 
 
 HUNDRED YARDS' DASH— FINAL. 
 
 SWEET Rosa, slyly joking, said: 
 " Dear Phil, I'll bet on you ; 
 The Harvard man's not worth a red 
 
 Against my white and blue ; 
 And, Phil , a kiss if you should win." 
 
 And that's the reason why 
 I swore an oath — forgive the sin — 
 To win the race or die. 
 
 At " On your marks r' my soul surged out, 
 
 A tremor seized my frame; 
 I dreamt I heard the rabble shout 
 
 Take up my rival's name. 
 " Get sctl^' I clenched my teelh and knelt 
 
 Upon the cinders dry, 
 And, reinvigorated, felt 
 
 I'd win the race or die. 
 
 For years and years we seemed to strain ; 
 
 They kept us there for aye ; 
 I saw adown the corded lane 
 
 The white goal far away ; 
 Each sinew braced against the soil, 
 
 And expectation high, 
 Each muscle ready for the toil 
 
 To win the race or die. 
 
 A shot! Three rapid strides I sped, 
 
 And rose my height and ran, 
 A figure straight before me fled — 
 
 It was the Harvard man. 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 The bleachers ran a giant's race 
 A-backward from mine eye; 
 
 He gained — it was a fearful pace — 
 "77/ ivhi the race or die ! " 
 
 The white tape grew upon my sight, 
 
 Scarce twenty yards away — 
 For months I'd hoarded up my might 
 
 To spend it all that day — 
 I read the number on his back, 
 
 And stifled down a sigh, 
 And spurned the cinder-laden track 
 
 To win the race or die. 
 
 For Rosa's sake, the final spring, 
 
 I passed him by, they said. 
 And burst the slender little string 
 
 Just half a breast ahead : 
 The effort o'er, my senses flew ; 
 
 I scarcely heard the cry ; 
 And little wondered, for I knew 
 
 rd win the race or die. 
 
roE-MS. 21 
 
 THE WHITE AND THE RED. 
 
 ALL England flowed with civic blood 
 On hill and dale; 
 So rai^ by ocean's soiUliern flood 
 A peasant tale. 
 
 A yeoman loved a prudish maid, 
 
 Rowena hight ; 
 But, oh, she wore Lancastrian red, 
 
 And he the white. 
 
 Full oft he came her hand to sue, 
 
 But all in vain — 
 " 'Twas they who were the white that slew 
 
 My brothers twain. 
 
 "And when the white rose that you wear 
 
 Is changed to red, 
 Then only," spoke Rowena fair, 
 " We two shall wed." 
 
 \\c rode away with grief possessed — 
 She would not yield — 
 
 A gray shaft pierced his galLnU breast 
 On Tovvton field. 
 
 Alack ! " she said, " God help him now" — 
 
 The little bud 
 The pallid symbol of his vow 
 
 Was red with blood. 
 
22 roEMS. 
 
 TO MABEL— A MAID OF GOTHAM. 
 
 I LIKE you, fickle little fay, 
 Sweet bit of April weather, 
 And if you cared a jot for me, 
 
 We'd hrave the world together ; 
 But well I know that when I wed, 
 
 Should fortune so enable, 
 I must forbear and chose instead 
 Anpther name than Mabel. 
 
 Oh, if, upon my natal day. 
 
 There gleamed a stai in distance 
 That shot a weird, foreboding ray 
 
 Athwart my whole existence. 
 That told of naught save doubts and fears. 
 
 And wore a crown of sable ; 
 That star among her sister spheres 
 
 Hath borne the name of Mabel. 
 
 I loved you ere I knew your name, 
 
 Your smiles and graces mainly, 
 And, knowing, love you still the same, 
 
 Though now I feel 'tis vainly : 
 Bat puzzle not, sweet golden-head, 
 
 Anent a foolish fable ; 
 My fate hath bound a silver thread 
 
 Around the name of Mabel. 
 
 I crave no loving glance or smile. 
 
 In truth, it were misleading; 
 Unskilled to fathom woman's wile, 
 
 I might pervert the reading. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Can fleeting willfulness be true? 
 
 Inconstancy be stable ? 
 I see these mimic faults in you; 
 
 Yet still — I love you, Mabel, 
 
 THE HUNCHBACK. 
 
 A HUNDRED women's eyes with love-light 
 shone, 
 A hundred manly hearts beat quick and strong ; 
 Bat none in all that flesh-adoring throng 
 Had thought for him — this bent and crippled one. 
 
 Was Nature right in pouring such a soul, 
 Like liquid gold, into that battered vase — 
 A soul that longed for beauty and for grace, 
 And knew them not save pity dropped a dole ? 
 
 His world was cold — a world of books and stone ; 
 The world he called his heaven, bright and warm — 
 The thrilling pressure of a woman's form, 
 The tender cadence of a loving tone. 
 
 He watched them dancing till his eyes grew dim ; 
 For there was passion, passion everywhere : 
 The music breathed it on the scented air, 
 But not a breath of passion lived for him, 
 
 Then came a beauty near — Oh, for a nod 
 From her, his bright dream -idol, or a glance ! — 
 She passed him reckless in the madding dance — 
 He turned into the night and cursed his God. 
 
24 poe:ms. 
 
 A MAN'S LIFE. 
 
 A BOY within the woods of Arkansas 
 Once waved a signal to a passing train, 
 And from the window of a parlor car 
 
 A white hand flashed the signal back again : 
 
 And, as the train rushed shrieking towards tlie North, 
 That white hand seemed, like waving angel's 
 wings, 
 
 To call each smouldering aspiration forth 
 
 And beckon on to higher, nobler things. 
 
 That night, as on his lowly couch he lay, 
 
 That same white signal fluttered o'er his bed; 
 
 And going from his home at break of day, 
 He swore to follow wliere that signal led. 
 
 Through honest paths it led him higher still; 
 
 A spirit spoke and eagerly he heard ; 
 Afar from home he tells his master's will. 
 
 And thousands hang expectant on his word. 
 
 And late there knelt a freshly widowed dame; 
 
 And heard the learned man expound the law ; 
 And little dreamed that 'twas through her he came 
 
 From out the lonely woods of Arkansas. 
 
POEMS. 23 
 
 THE POACHER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 IT was the poacher's daughter, 
 Fair Katy of the glen ; 
 At eve they came and sought her, 
 The laird o' Barry's men. 
 
 " By yonder woody runlet 
 
 Thy father slew a deer; 
 Thy father dies at sunset, 
 
 And bids that thou be there." 
 
 Then up lose bonny Katy, 
 
 And donned a kirtle clean, 
 
 And went by pathways shady 
 Across the broad demesne. 
 
 The laird he rose to meet her — 
 His face she could not see — 
 " Fair maid — I ne'er saw sweeter — 
 
 Whc?t wouldst thou here with me?" 
 
 " By yonder woody runlet 
 
 My father slew a deer ; 
 My father dies at sunset, 
 Save I find pity here." 
 
 " By all that's fair, my deary, 
 I'll make thy father free. 
 If from those lips of cherry 
 
 A kiss thou'lt give to me." 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 '* Oh, sir," she cried, affrighted, 
 " Such thing could never be; 
 My maiden troth is plighted 
 To roving Robin Lee." 
 
 *' Fair maid, I'll give thee title 
 If thou wilt be my wife : 
 I'll make thy sire requital, 
 
 And love thee more than life." 
 
 She spoke with accents lowly : 
 ** Such thing can never be; 
 I hold the love too holy 
 
 Of handsome Robin Lee." 
 
 Then spoke the Laird o' Barry : 
 
 " By faith, thou shalt me wed ; 
 By faith, thou shalt me marry, 
 Or I will strike him dead." 
 
 Then she: ''Oh, Laird o' Barry, 
 
 By faith, LU not thee wed ; 
 By faith, I'll not thee marry. 
 
 Though thou shouldst strike him dead." 
 
 " Then, since no laird thou' It marry, 
 
 Come be a huntsman's bride " — 
 Up sprang the Laird o' Barry, 
 And cast his cloak aside. 
 
 " I did but seek to prove thee ; 
 Thy father's roving free ; 
 I'll be no laird who love thee, 
 But merely Robin Lee." 
 
roKMS. 27 
 
 A BROKEN HARP. 
 
 NAY, tune me not so old an air, 
 Thou little nninstrel dear, 
 Of armored knights and ladies fair, 
 And shivered sword and spear; 
 'Twould seem a grander melody 
 
 Upon thy maiden tongue. 
 If thou wouldst sing the song to me 
 A thousand hearts have sung. 
 
 Oh, good Sir Edward, heart were fain, 
 
 But feeble hands rebel ; 
 I would not venture on the strain 
 
 Excepf I knew it well ; 
 I could not frame the phrases right, 
 
 My harp is badly strung ; 
 I cannot sing the song to-night 
 
 A thousand hearts have sung. 
 
 Then listen, darling, I will sing; 
 
 For voices, though uncouth, 
 Are mellowed to a softer ring 
 
 When rich with burning truth : 
 I, too, may frame the phrases wrong, 
 
 The notes disordered flung ; 
 But listen — I will sing the song 
 
 A thousand hearts have sung. 
 
 Oh, did I break thy pretty harp? — 
 Sweet, dry those grievous tears — 
 
 My fate hath spoken in her sharp 
 Approval of my fears; 
 
POKMS. 
 
 My clumsy fingers smote tco strong 
 The silken cords among; 
 
 Some other one must sing the song 
 A thousand hearts have sung. 
 
 Some other hand, with gentler touch. 
 
 Thy mended harp shall take; 
 And strike a burst of music, such 
 
 As I could never wake : 
 And I must mingle with tlie throng, 
 
 My heart by passion wrung, 
 Since I can never know the song 
 
 A thousand hearts have sung. 
 
 IN NEW YORK. 
 
 THEY were busy at night in the sufferer's room 
 While the city was roaring without, 
 With the merciful blades and the soothing perfume 
 They had sought to avert the disaster of doom, 
 While the city was roaring without. 
 
 But the shadow of Death was forebodingly nigh. 
 
 As the city went roaring without ; 
 By the strife of the pulse and the lift of the eye 
 And the clutch of the hand it were plain to descry 
 
 As the city went roaring without. 
 
 And long ere the wings of tlie day had unfurled 
 
 On the city still roaring without 
 A life had been born to the pitiless world, 
 And a life had gone forth to eternity whirled — 
 
 And the city was roaring without. 
 
roKMS. , 
 
 A STUDY IN BLUE. 
 
 ( Fro m ' ' Ell in g s7voith." ) 
 
 SO deeply blue the azure sky, 
 So darkly blue the sea, 
 So sweetly blue the laughing eye 
 Aly darling turned on me; 
 
 I said: " How fairly spreads about 
 This world of azure hue, 
 
 And would that I could riddle out 
 The mystery of the blue. 
 
 ' For there is mystery in the sky, 
 And mystery in the sea; 
 But, oh, the mystery of your e\ e 
 Were worth it all to me. 
 
 ' Man's gaze can penetrate, indeed, 
 The ocean and the air; 
 But where's the magic glass can read 
 The deeper secrets there ? 
 
 * And though I view the mighty main, 
 And Heaven's dome elate ; 
 I turn me to your side again 
 To ascertain my fate. 
 
 <( 
 
 What 'vails it me that I should know 
 
 Of all the stars above, 
 And all the coral groves below, 
 
 And never know your love. 
 
30 # POEMS. 
 
 " Yes ; there is mystery in the sky, 
 And mystery in the sea ; 
 Bat, oh, the mystery of your eye 
 Were worth it all to me." 
 
 DEAD. 
 
 WHAT, toll the bells! No, ring them out, 
 And let their iron voices shout 
 To all the gladsome world about 
 
 That she is dead. 
 Yes ; dead to sorrow, dead to woe, 
 To all the griefs we living know : 
 Poor crippled child, her sufferings past, 
 Her tortured frame released at last, 
 Let not the shades so darkly lie 
 And toll no bells — she prayed to die 
 
 And she is dead. 
 
 Go tell the ones that knew her well 
 How sweet the gracious summons fell, 
 Her aged aunt the sexton tell 
 
 That she is dead. 
 Then take her up and lay her low. 
 Not where the somber cedars grow. 
 But 'neath the lilies tall and white ; 
 And on the little marble write : 
 Be glad, thou thoughtful passer-by ; 
 Here lies poor Ruth —she prayed to die ; 
 
 And she is dead." 
 
POIvMS. 31 
 
 THE GIRL ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 IT IS true she may be of but humble degree, 
 As the worldlings of fashion would say ; 
 But never a queen in the world there has been 
 
 vSo merry a queen, or so gay : 
 For she sings at her work like a mock-bird in June ; 
 And her heart beats a time to its own glad tune; 
 And she flits to and fro like a sprite o' the moon, 
 Does the girl that lives over the way. 
 
 I labored one day till the light was grown gray, 
 
 And scarcely the page I could see ; 
 And I looked o'er the street, and, coincidence 
 sweet, 
 A glance she was casting at me : 
 Then she smiled; we were friends ; and I threw her 
 
 a kiss; 
 But she made me a face, for she took it amiss ; 
 And, ** Sure," she was thinking, "what impudence 
 this," 
 Was the girl that lives over the way. 
 
 Yet I know not her name — it were never the same 
 
 If the veil should be lifted away; 
 So I'll break not the mist, may she simply exist 
 
 As the girl that lives over the way : 
 Then it's two flights up and it's two flights down ; 
 And she dwells in the range of her grand-mother's 
 
 frown ; 
 i\nd there's never a modester maid in town 
 
 Than the girl that lives over the way. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 When the dins of the morn through my window are 
 borne, 
 Disturbing my drowsiest dream 
 With the clang and the shout, and the work-a-day 
 rout, 
 And the hissing and roaring of steam : 
 Ere the thoughts of the day have beclouded my 
 
 brain, 
 Oh, I haste to the window to see her again ; 
 And I bid her good day, for I wait not in vain. 
 For the girl that lives over the way. 
 
 When the night settles down on the weary old town. 
 
 In the maze of the streets growing dimmer; 
 And the lights down below, with a multiplied glow, 
 
 Converge to the East all a-glimmer: 
 
 Then I patiently wait for my good-night view. 
 
 And I waft her a kiss, and I bid her adieu — 
 
 ** May the fairies of slumber be gracious to you, 
 
 To the girl that lives over the way." 
 
 I can never repay, oh, you girl o'er the way, 
 The good you unconsciously wrought; 
 
 When my heart was grown drear with its burdens 
 of care. 
 And dark were the things that I thought : 
 
 But I'll weave you some day in a rollicking rhyme; 
 
 And many shall read in a far-away clime 
 
 Of the magical smile, and the graces sublime 
 Of the girl that lives over the way. 
 
POEMS. 33 
 
 SIGMA NU. 
 
 {Read at the St. Louis Grafid Chapter of the Sigma Nu Fraternity 
 1892.) 
 
 A WELCOME, brethren, trembles on my tongue, 
 But scarcely are the balanced accents free, 
 When those same tones that poised and ardent hung 
 Are cold and stiff, and lack full half the glee 
 Of brother greeting brother; but should we 
 Attempt to put in stiffly-moulded verse 
 The thoughts that fill with happy minstrelsy 
 Our merry souls — to clothe in language terse 
 Such things as well the subtlest feelings might re- 
 hearse. 
 
 When Friendship looks in Friendship's answering 
 
 eye 
 And sees the gleam ot mutual faith kept well, 
 There bursts a gleam along their common sky 
 Which speaks a welcome that we cannot tell : 
 For not in language, not in parlance, dwell 
 The nobler passions of the human brain ; 
 A pressure of the hand conveys the swell 
 Of feeling more than all the lengthy train 
 Of sounding epithets that fall unheard and vain. 
 
 Then, in a cause of common import met, 
 
 Dear brethren all (thrice brethren though you bear 
 
 Far different colors on your breast, for yet 
 
 We all adore the common badge we wear) ; 
 
 We come tonight to bring our mother cheer. 
 
34 POKMS. 
 
 To sing her joy, to pledge her sacred weal, 
 To put to flight the dullard ranks of care, 
 To bid dark sorrow flee beyond her pale, 
 And pass the merry joke, and list the jovial tale. 
 
 Our virgin mother yet is young in flight 
 Of time : five lustrums scarce have spun their way. 
 Encircled 'round the august throne of light. 
 Since into life she sprung. Her natal day 
 Was when a new-born year assumed the sway 
 Of centuries. She, waxing stronger e'er. 
 Was fair to view ; but he grew old and gray, 
 And died; and when they laid him on his bier. 
 She looked and wondered at the falling of a tear. 
 
 They placed a verdant palm-branch in her hand. 
 And gave her blinded Justice's balanced beam. 
 And one bright weapon — virtue — to withstand 
 Profane attacks or Scandal's venomed theme: 
 But first, they saw her scutcheoned motto gleam 
 Within the kindly sunlight's borrowed sheen ; 
 Then, startled at the goddess of their dream. 
 They crowned her brow with trophied laurels green, 
 And knelt before her shrine, and proudly hailed her 
 queen. 
 
 Imperial votress of a noble cause, 
 
 That title still thou dost untarnished bear; 
 
 For they who bow before thy genial laws 
 
 Of love and wisdom own a queen so fair 
 
 And just that when her banners kiss the air 
 
 The breezes grow more sweet, and, breaking from 
 
 Her gentle brow, the sunlight's dazzling glare 
 
POEMS. 35 
 
 Is soft and iiiellov\ed with a radiant gloom, 
 Unlike the brilliant rays from some tali 
 plume: 
 
 warrior s 
 
 But tempered to a softer, lovelier light, 
 
 As often, in the house of Christian faith. 
 
 The vagrant sunbeam's intercepted flight 
 
 Steals through the tinted pane whose legend saith 
 
 Some ancient tale of apostolic death 
 
 Or sainted love; and with a radiance new 
 
 Illumes the dim arcades of heavy breath 
 
 And, running fast o'er chancel and o'er pew, 
 
 Imparts to all things there that same supernal hue. 
 
 So may the spotless ray of virtue dwell 
 Forever on our words and deeds; so may 
 The busy tides of life that flood and swell 
 About our ensign hurry on their \vay. 
 Refreshed, renerved, and governed by thy sway 
 Of nobler instincts; and each waning sun 
 Engild new deeds of love — then men will say 
 The sacred mission of our liege is done. 
 And doubly sweet should be the guerdon we have 
 won. 
 
 Our fair dominion hath a far extend : 
 The sacred symbols of our order glow 
 On many a manly breast, or mayhap lend 
 New brightness to the glances fair that flow 
 From beauty's sparkling orbs, or help to throw 
 The tangling mesh of love; and, or caressed 
 By Fame, or in the scale of Fortune low. 
 
36 POE-MS. 
 
 No prouder jewel gems a brother's breast 
 Than that the sacred knighthood of his youth im- 
 pressed. 
 
 Each loyal member loves this badge— and why? 
 
 Thou little jeweled trinket, chastely fine, 
 
 We read a tale in every separate dye, 
 
 In every curving of thy proud design: 
 
 The couched snake, from forth whose golden twine, 
 
 Inlaid with gems of rich and varied hue, 
 
 Angelic pearls and red-lipped rubies shine, 
 
 With silent rhetoric glowing, doth imbue 
 
 Into our inmost souls more love for Sigma Nu. 
 
 Tis written in the dream god's book that erst 
 Divine Apollo struck his heaving lyre; 
 When such harmonious concord sudden burst 
 From forth the tensioned strings as to inspire 
 The pure and lambent flames of heavenly fire 
 That on the vestal altar ever burn; 
 Till, soaring wiih the mighty impulse higher. 
 They burst the brazen claspings of their urn, 
 And shot athwart the sky and into space eterne. 
 
 But, stealing from the Olympian halls sublime, 
 There swept one beam of fervid golden light 
 That swerved its course adown the roll of Time's 
 Alternate hues of shifting day and night 
 It caught from day a tinge of virgin white, 
 Black night a bit of sable color doled, 
 Then swiftly o'er our noble goddess bright 
 The tripled colors flung their radiant fold, 
 And tinged her splendid brow with black and white 
 and gold. 
 
poKMS. 37 
 
 Yet, brethren leal, small matter whence they came, 
 These sacred symbois that we all adore. 
 Can birthright add new luster to the name, 
 Or modern wit or legendary lore ? 
 Can not our ensign just as proudly soar 
 Though but the offspring of a later time. 
 Ne'er beetling red o'er fields of human gore ; 
 Though troubadour ne'er hymned it in his rhyme? 
 Ah, yes, to us is given a lineage more sublime. 
 
 Now, revelers, doth our goddess-dame bequeath 
 This fleeting moment to our merry feast ; 
 Forget the speedy hours roll beneath ; 
 When Mirth's the host, oh, Time's a grievous guest: 
 And yet let sadness mingle with your zest 
 E'en while you tune the Bromian god his lay ; 
 For ere to-morrow's sun shall stoop to rest 
 Each reveler shall seek his separate way, 
 And some — alas the thought — to meet no more for 
 aye. 
 
 No more to meet? a memory that is fled ? 
 A moment's radiance gulfed in outer dark ? 
 O'l, far from that, the mirth this hour has shed 
 On time's bold face shall carve a lingering mark. 
 As sea-gulls cluster round a stranded bark, 
 Whose drooping sails sway idly in the blast, 
 The halcyon wings of memory fan the spark 
 That glows upon the altar of the past 
 When darksome shadows bode and skies are over- 
 cast. 
 
 But yet a fleeting while we all shall seek 
 
 Life's broader school-room, where the tomes we read 
 
38 POEMS. 
 
 Are bound in sable and no longer speak 
 
 The wealth of years, the scientists' lengtliening creed ; 
 
 Where Grief unfolds his darkly-written screed, 
 
 And every brow's the parchment roll of Pain : 
 
 E'en then, perchance, some brother's latest deed 
 
 Will call to life the varied what-has-been, 
 
 And in his memory live this golden hour again. 
 
 Then, Care, begone; and Mirth, thou merry sprite. 
 Come with thy quips and jests a gladsome throng ; 
 And thou, celestial nymph of Pure Delight, 
 Beguile us with the cadence of thy song ; 
 Oh, loudly swell the deep refrain and long — 
 Not such another night doth future hold — 
 Bright night, we love thee, and we'll cherishlong 
 That pleasant time we spent beneath the fold 
 Of our beloved ensign, the Black and White and 
 Gold. 
 
roKMS. 39 
 
 A VIVANDIERE. 
 
 OH, the smoke was thick and stiflin| 
 And the blazes of the rifling 
 Lit the line ; 
 And anon the cannon thundered, 
 And we waited and we wondered — 
 His or mine. 
 
 Waited yet, but grimly battling 
 In the crashing and the rattling 
 
 And the roar : 
 Fled the hours, crimson-footed, 
 Fire-begirt and sable-hooded. 
 
 Through the gore. 
 
 Fled the hours, and I faltered, 
 Muscles w^orn, but nothing altered. 
 
 In the mind. 
 Oh, I did not fear the lances 
 Nor the bullets, but the glances 
 
 Black behind. 
 
 Down I fell where many anoU.er 
 Lay already; and my brother 
 
 Stabbed me here — 
 Yes, my brother — Thou art woman : 
 Mercy on a fallen foeman, 
 
 Vivandiere ! 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 A FLAKE. 
 
 DOWN-DRIFTING through the opalescent air, 
 A gentle snow-flake wavered towards the 
 earth; 
 That strange, mysterious bourne, the vista of 
 Some previous life, before the transmigrated soul 
 Was lifted up; a bourne that drew it still 
 With Nature's subtle and extensive force. 
 It marked the flawless incandescent flash 
 Of placid fields, and longed to slumber there 
 In perfect peace and purity of heart; 
 But breathed a burst of wind from out the north 
 And caught the snow-flake up and whirled it towards 
 The great metropolis; and, as it near 
 And nearer came, its little crystal heart 
 Grew black and blacker with the heavy air 
 The crowded earth exhaled; and, sinking down, 
 The dreamy little flake was crushed into 
 The mire, and with a thousand kindred souls 
 Shed vital tears, while iron-shod hoofs beat down 
 Their hearts and sleigh-bells mocked them merrily. 
 And wept they all their being into tears — 
 Great grimy tears that channeled through the filth 
 And sought the mighty river's brackish tide. 
 And thence the vast, illimitable sea. 
 
POKMS. 41 
 
 ANSWERLESS. 
 
 BEHOLD yon misty, silent sea! 
 'Twas there my darling sailed away; 
 Said she: ** Our love shall ever live 
 And cheer us night and day ; 
 
 " For daily when the wind comes out 
 You'll freight him with a message dear, 
 And nightly he shall whisper back 
 My answer to your ear." 
 
 But months and months I've lingered lone, 
 A wanderer by the silent sea — 
 The wind blows ever out to her, 
 And never in to me. 
 
 THE CROSS. 
 
 THEN I took the sacred symbol 
 From the storehouse of my youth. 
 Acid burned it. Just a thimble 
 
 Held enough to speak the truth. 
 
 And the acid ? Call it treason 
 
 If you will, but strong at length ; 
 
 For the blessed salt of reason 
 Lent the cruel acid strength. 
 
 Through the lenses long I viewed it ; 
 
 Saw the crystals in the wood 
 That for ages had imbued it — 
 
 Made it splendid — and 'twas blood. 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 [KNEW thee once when pride was on thy cheek; 
 I knew thee once when thou didst hold thy head 
 As high as any sister of thy race ; 
 I meet thee now, and scarce a welcome speak 
 Through straining lips that fain would frame instead 
 A wondering query of this awful place. 
 
 I clasp thy hand. It were an honor so 
 
 To clasp it then, like reaching fronri the earth 
 
 Unto a spot where truth and virtue cling. 
 
 I clasp it now. Alas, 'tis fallen low, 
 
 This poor white hand — I wonder were it worth 
 
 To brush the dust from tarnished angels' wings. 
 
 They ne'er could rise to such unclouded height, 
 They ne'er could pierce through such unblemished 
 
 skies. 
 I'll search thine eyes again as when the will 
 Was lov^e's request. Who knows but that I might 
 Look down across the soul-restraint that lies 
 Above thy heart and find some pureness still. 
 
POEMS. 43 
 
 BENEDICITE. 
 
 DIDST ever hear old Nature pray or know 
 Her bended knee to shake the eartli and air ? 
 I stood one time within her liouse of prayer, 
 Appalled to see, but too entranced to go — 
 " Almighty God,'^ the thunders muttered low; 
 The heavens gloomed a dismal shade of fear ; 
 And earth grew slill as very death to hear. 
 Then swept the winds tremendous to and fro ; 
 The lightnings scrolled the majesty of God 
 In burning letters on the sable sky ; 
 The rain-clouds burst their trembling hearts ii 
 
 twain ; 
 Libations rushed into the thirsty sod ; 
 The thankful rivers heaped their currents high, 
 And far and wide there rolled a vast A-men. 
 
 IDOLATRY. 
 
 YES, Rose, the horrid thought is true, 
 At idol shrines I bow, 
 And fall in daily worsliip to 
 A graven image now. 
 
 But suffer not a moment's fear 
 
 Your happy soul to start, 
 For 'tis your image, Rosa dear, 
 
 And graven on my heart. 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 THE road ran curving round a mighty hill; 
 He viewed its sweep with expectation fond ; 
 And thought with faith that was undying still, 
 
 '' Some land of brilliant beauty lies beyond." 
 
 Behind him lay the path that he had trod, 
 Far-sinking to the misty plain below ; 
 
 Above his head the mountains' lofty nod 
 
 Still hid the truths his searching eyes would 
 know. 
 
 ''Some land of brilliant beauty lies beyond, 
 God grant it so," in eager haste he cried. 
 
 He gained the vantage point and looked around — 
 Upon a waste of sorrow far and wide. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 SINCE love awakened in your breast 
 No ray of kindred passion, 
 I tempered it at your request, 
 
 And loved in friendly fashion : 
 
 But failure greets me in the end ; 
 
 I've thought the matter over. 
 And love you better as a friend 
 
 Than ever as a lover. 
 
POEMS. 45 
 
 ALLES 1ST NICHT TODT WAS 
 BEGRABEN 1ST. 
 
 MINE alone and mine forever, 
 All the love that thrills thy being, 
 All the love that lights thy glances, 
 Prompts thy bosom's glad upheaval — 
 
 Mine alone ? 
 Mine for good and mine for evil, 
 Mine for fair and luckless chances, 
 No unfettered passion fleeing 
 From thy stronger self a-sever — 
 
 Mine alone? 
 
 Let me part thy drooping tresses, 
 Where the glowing threads deliver 
 Such a soft and saintly brilliance, 
 Such a fair and fitting light to 
 
 Thy sweet brow ; 
 Let me (Have I not the right to ?) 
 Kiss them into close affilliance — 
 Why that start and sudden shiver ? 
 Did I kiss the dead man's kisses 
 
 From thy brow ? 
 
 Did there from the windy ocean 
 Rise a damp and dismal specter? 
 Did he point a ghostly finger ? 
 Did he say with taunting malice 
 Of the grave, 
 
46 poi:ms. 
 
 '' Wouldst thou drink again the chalice? 
 Wouldst thou drain the dregs that linger ? 
 I will taint thy passion's nectar 
 With the dark and grim pollution 
 Of the grave " ? 
 
 See, ril guard thee, clasping dearly — 
 Did he seek to tear thee from me ? 
 Else why shot that moment's terror 
 Through thy lissome frame atremble ? 
 
 Was it love ? 
 Love was wont not so to semble, 
 Or to speed so vile an arrow — 
 Oh, the creeping shades o'ercome me — 
 I could never love sincerely 
 
 Such a love. 
 
 Woman, though thy soul were given. 
 All thy buried past forgotten ; 
 Though I felt the warm embraces ; 
 Though I reaped the rapturous kisses 
 
 That were his : 
 Still, across the broad abysses, 
 From the gloomy resting places, 
 Where the bones lie bare and rotten, 
 He would shriek that earth and heaven 
 
 Thou wast his. 
 
poKMS. 47 
 
 ROSA. 
 
 FAIR-HAIRED, sweet eyed, laughing Rosa, 
 Loved of every man that knows her. 
 Asked me write a poem for her, please; 
 Knowing not, though fain he'd serve her, 
 That her poet's fondest fervor 
 Ne'er could frame a word of fitting praise. 
 
 Would that I might write a sonnet : 
 
 Then I'd place a tinge upon it 
 
 That should tell her of the love I bear ; 
 
 And it should be dithyrambic, 
 
 Anapestic, with iambic 
 
 Footsteps falling through the lilting air. 
 
 I would mould the phrases plastic, 
 Till they ran in gay fantastic 
 Links of rhythm to a perfect rhyme ; 
 And to weld it I would fashion 
 vSuch a burning burst of passion, 
 All its molten music should sublime. 
 
 But, throughout the lapsing ages. 
 Never lived a poet whose pages. 
 Though he sung the love of womankind, 
 Though he lit his glowing brushes 
 In the hues of beauty-blushes, 
 Limning forth the creature of his mind. 
 
 Ever need attempt to say all 
 Of the wonderful portrayal, 
 Of the dimpled Loreleis of her face : 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 Then, oh, maid, forbear your censure 
 
 If a scribbler dare not venture 
 
 Where such genius could not find a place. 
 
 Yet they tell us that a rhymist 
 Of all craftsmen is sublimest, 
 Since his work is perfect beauty true ; 
 Then if poems be perfect beauty, 
 Perfect love and perfect duty, 
 Sure the only poem I know is you. 
 
 WHEN SHAKESPEARE FELL LNT 
 LOVE. 
 
 'T^WAS in the month of May, 
 1 For so traditions say. 
 That all upon a day 
 
 Will Shakespeare fell in love; 
 And every bird was gay, 
 And every woodland fay 
 Danced 'neath the leafy way. 
 
 For Shakespeare was in love. 
 
 The elements were glad — 
 They loved the museful lad — 
 And sung a chanson mad, 
 
 For Shakespeare was in love. 
 And every gay dryad 
 That every forest had 
 Her brow in flowers clad, 
 
 For Shakespeare was in love. 
 
poe:ms. 49 
 
 FANTASY. 
 
 1 NE'ER have loved ; at twenty-one 
 There is a depth within my soul 
 Unsounded ; 
 I ne'er have felt my pulses run 
 With love's uncurbed, ecstatic roll, 
 Unbounded. 
 
 Oh, yes ; like every other man, 
 
 Some fleeting passions filled my youth ; 
 
 But seeing 
 How quickly dry the fountams ran, 
 I doubted even then their truth 
 
 Of being. 
 
 Yet some day, so the wiser say. 
 Comes to each life from near or far 
 
 Another ; 
 As oft a lonely Heaven's-ray 
 Commingles with a sister or 
 
 A brother. 
 
 And who (save some dark fortune mar, 
 The beauty of the wedding girth) 
 
 Doubts whether 
 The children of two different stars 
 Flash all the better down to earth 
 
 Together. 
 
 And thus we live, each life a share, 
 In some great artist's vast design, 
 All merging — 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 So one there is, I know not where, 
 Upon this earth, her life to mine 
 Converging. 
 
 And some day we shall meet; and, oh, 
 The moment come, how sweet will be 
 
 The winning ; 
 For we shall look and we shall know 
 Our lives were welded back in the 
 
 Beginning. 
 
 And I shall feel a love for her 
 That turns all other loves about 
 
 To loathing ; 
 Her face to Heaven's shall prefer ; 
 Life with her joy, life without 
 
 Her nothing. 
 
 And I shall greet her as we greet 
 A traveler from a voyage vast. 
 
 Rich laden ; 
 And lay these verses at her feet ; 
 And say, "I'm glad you've come at last. 
 
 Sweet maiden." 
 
POEMS. 51 
 
 YOU ASK ME WHY I WRITE OF 
 LOVE. 
 
 YOU ask me why I write of Love 
 When grander themes await my pen ; 
 When things below and things above 
 In deep mysterious. fashion move, 
 And all invite the spirit flight 
 Of museful men. 
 
 You ask me why I spend my time 
 On gay conceits and foolish things ; 
 When I — for sure the thought's no crime — 
 Might weave perchance so vast a rhyme 
 That men should stand and say, " How grand 
 Yon singer sings." 
 
 But pause, my friend, sweet friend of mine ; 
 And to the willful poet prove, 
 Before he elevates his line 
 To meet the sweep of your design — 
 What secrets old doth nature hold 
 So deep as Love. 
 
 And why should I, a youth in years, 
 Grow old in thought before my day ; 
 Go moping 'round with morbid fears ; 
 And gaze distorted through my tears ; 
 And say, " Poor man, your life's a span. 
 And you are clay." 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 Nay, let me sing my sadness down 
 In happy verse ; to-morrow morn, 
 Perhaps, like some dethroned down, 
 I'll drape my thoughts in cap and gown. 
 And shape them so the world shall know 
 Them sorrow-born. 
 
 And this is, sweet inquirer, why 
 I sing of Love in lighter vein ; 
 Because when darkness dims my sky 
 I'll read these lines and mind me, " I, 
 Though shadows now may cloud my brow, 
 Was happy then." 
 
 TO EDITH. 
 
 THOUGH sleep may press a thousand lids 
 Upon a thousand eyes ; 
 Though quiet comes when slumber bids. 
 And earthly worry flies ; 
 And each one deems 
 His land of dreams 
 A special paradise ; 
 
 Though peacefuler the drowsy span 
 
 To other men may be, 
 I would not change with any man 
 Of high or low degree ; 
 Because, you know% 
 I love you so 
 In dreams you visit me. 
 
POEMS. 53 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE YEAR, 
 
 LOUD beside the great Atlantic, 
 Ring the bells ; 
 Hear their music wild and frantic; 
 For it tells 
 
 That the year is dying, dying', 
 
 Nearly dead ; 
 While the tempest cloud is flying 
 
 'Round his head. 
 
 Oh, it's awful to be seeing 
 
 How he hates 
 To relinquish up his being 
 
 To the fates ! 
 
 Hear his dying breath terrific — 
 
 He is gone — 
 But beside the great Pacific 
 
 Lives he on. 
 
 And our bells will cease their ringing 
 
 Ere the breath 
 Of the western chimes are bringing 
 
 News of death. 
 
 So the year goes dying, dying. 
 
 In a girth 
 Of rejoicing and of sighing 
 
 'Round the earth : 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 And we meet the new with greeting, 
 
 Gladly said, 
 Fickle mortals, ere the fleeting 
 
 Old is dead. 
 
 RHYME AND REASON. 
 
 * /^^H, Psyche, come! " I cried one day, 
 ^^^ ''And I will write a pleasant rhyme, 
 And thou shalt slip into its lay 
 To make its music more sublime ; 
 
 " And where my grosser thought is vain 
 Thy finer self shall enter in, 
 And lift it to a nobler strain 
 Than else had been, 
 
 " Oh, I will wed my heart and soul, 
 My Venice and her circling sea ; 
 And golden-girt the wondrous whole 
 Shall be." 
 
 Then Psyche said : "Oh transient man, 
 No doge's ring could ever bind 
 The solemn ocean's boundless plan 
 To Venice of the fitful mind. 
 
 "The pulsing tones of grander sound 
 Than e'er thy feeble hand could deal 
 Have never compassed in their bound 
 The nothing and the real. 
 
poKMs. 55 
 
 Sing lighter songs, nor puzzle o'er 
 The solemn ocean's misty strife 
 That beats upon the rugged shore 
 Of life." 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF DEATH. 
 
 SAID Menga the viking : 
 " Here's a toast to my liking" — 
 And he tossed the gay foam with his breath — 
 " Ye have drunk to Life's pleasures 
 In bountiful measures; 
 Here's a toast to the pleasures of Death." 
 Then the bearded explorers 
 Of ocean, uproarous, 
 Drank deep to the monster agrin ; 
 While among the dark rafters 
 Echoed the loud laughter's 
 Discordant, reverberant din. 
 
 Down, down rang in thunder 
 
 The horn, while in wonder 
 The Norsemen all started aghast, 
 
 For Menga, the toaster. 
 
 The jester, the boaster, 
 Had bent like a reed in the blast; 
 
 They bore him in sadness 
 
 From the scene of his madness. 
 Where he tossed the gay foam with his breath 
 
 The cymbals are striking 
 
 For Menga the viking — 
 He has tasted the pleasures of Death. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 GRACIOUS BRAHMA. 
 
 BY the far Yamuna's waters, 
 Where the dark vanjulas wave, 
 One of India's dusky daughters 
 Kneels above a lonely grave. 
 
 Loud she cries in tearful wonder : 
 
 *' Mighty Brahma, make me free ! 
 Siva, Siva, God of Thunder, 
 
 Let thy vengeance fall on me !" 
 
 Winding slowly from the grasses 
 
 Creeps a mottled venomed asp; 
 
 Through her frame the poison passes, 
 Flees her spirit with a gasp. 
 
 Not e'en death can keep him from her- 
 Krishna lend her footsteps speed— 
 
 Oh, the god of India, Brahma, 
 Is a gracious god indeed. 
 
poe:ms. 57 
 
 GHOSTS OF TIME. 
 
 A PHANTOM there flees through the passes of 
 Time, 
 With a shadowy phantom forever pursuing, 
 And their footsteps fall with a regular chime 
 
 Through the din of the deeds that we mortals 
 are doing ; 
 'Neath the sun's hot love and the stars' soft wooing. 
 
 Forever they rush in a race that's sublime. 
 Nor pause for the flash of the thunder's brewing, 
 Nor the happier touch of a genial clime. 
 
 But the moment will come, so the oracles say. 
 
 In the evening of darkness and sinning and 
 sorrow, 
 When the elements fade in old chaos away, 
 
 And rushes the end on in hideous horror, 
 Such as death to the wicked from remorse aye can 
 borrow, 
 And the senses reel 'round and the firmament 
 sway, 
 That, the phantom To-day in the clutch of To- 
 morrow, 
 Inhere will be no To-morrow and be no To-day. 
 
58 POKMS. 
 
 THE SPRING. 
 
 A TRAVELER on a weary way, 
 At noontime slaked his thirst 
 Where, born into the hght of day, 
 A little streamlet burst. 
 
 The crystal ripples grew and fled 
 
 And merrily he swore : 
 If fortune settle on my head, 
 
 I'll vault thy current o'er, 
 
 And hang a goblet on thy brink, 
 With gilded letters meshed, 
 
 Stoop, weary traveler, stoop and drink, 
 And go thy way refreshed.' " 
 
 That traveler waxed a wealthy man, 
 
 And nobly kept his vow ; 
 Where once the spring untrammelled ran, 
 
 An arch-way hems it now ; 
 
 And hangs a goblet on its brink 
 With gilded letters meshed. 
 
 Stoop, weary traveler, stoop and drink, 
 And go thy way refreshed." 
 
 And many came and saw it there — 
 
 A pretty, useless thing — 
 And knelt and quaffed with wetted hair 
 
 The treasures of the spring. 
 
poK.vis. 59 
 
 And one day rode that traveler by 
 
 Behind a handsome span ; 
 In faith," said he, " I'll stop and try 
 
 The virtue of my plan." 
 
 But, lo ! the water, wont to come 
 
 So sunlit fair of yore, 
 Had lost full half its beauty from 
 
 The vault that hemmed it o'er. 
 
 The ripples once that twinkled back 
 
 The sun's enamored glare, 
 Were merged into the shadowed black, 
 
 And lay a dreaming there; 
 
 And lingered through their quieter glows 
 
 A taste of common clay — 
 And thoughtfully that traveler rose, 
 
 And slowly went his way. 
 
6o poi:ms. 
 
 BILL. 
 
 (Resf'cctfitlly dedicated to Mr. Wtlliant Bonaparte.) 
 
 OH, I have an old friend ; he's ajolly good friend, 
 And my dearest companion in pleasures and 
 
 woes; 
 And I know he is true, for I've studied him through 
 From the vault of his head to the tip of his toes ; 
 And I've peered long and vain in his cavernous 
 
 brain, 
 Just to try and discover a trace of deceit — 
 He is heartless I know, but it's seldom, I trow 
 You'll find one below that's more true and discreet. 
 
 He will lend you his head — not a tear does he shed — 
 
 Or his arm or his leg or whatever you please ; 
 
 And little he'll care, if only you'll spare 
 
 His dignified quiet of comfort and ease: 
 
 And he smiles through it all as he hangs on the wall, 
 
 With a humor unchanging and jovial still — 
 
 Does my ancient and musty, my creaky and rusty, 
 
 My faithful and trusty old skeleton Bill. 
 
 Whatever your mood, it is quick understood, 
 For he reads in a trice every change of your mind ; 
 Turning gloomy or gay in a wonderful way, 
 That is proof of a nature most highly refined : 
 And he'll laugh if you tell him an anecdote well, 
 For his sense of perceiving good humor is great; 
 And he grins in a glee that's a pleasure to see 
 At the gay repartee of the jokes I relate. 
 
POi;MS. 6l 
 
 When the day has been fair in its freedom from care, 
 With never a cloud to o'ershadow the sky ; 
 Then, I tell him at night, for it yields him delight, 
 How happy and blessed a mortal am I ; 
 And he smiles all the while with an ossified smile, 
 And he beams from above with a jolly good will — 
 Does my gay and my very congenial and merry, 
 My grinning and cheery old skeleton Bill. 
 
 And oft when the day has gone darkly away, 
 
 And shadows of weariness gloomily lie ; 
 
 Then I tell him at eve, though I know it will grieve, 
 
 How dreary and lonely a mortal 9m I : 
 
 And there's such a sad glow in his features I know 
 
 That the cords of his nature with sympathy thrill, 
 
 My darkly symbolic, my grim melancholic, 
 
 My grief-apostolic old skeleton Bill. 
 
 So here's to an end of the volatile friend 
 
 That will dance in the sun, but will flee from the 
 
 rain; 
 Here's a truce to the wile of the sycophant's smile, 
 And a truce to the dole of the beggar's refrain : 
 Oh, others may list to the flattery-kissed, 
 And lie in the arms of conceit if they will ; 
 But give me the rusty, the ancient and musty, 
 Yet faithful and trusty old skeleton Bill. 
 
62 POEMS. 
 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 IS AID : "The maiden of my choice 
 Shall good and pure and spotless be ; 
 Her every action shall rejoice 
 In truth and purity." 
 
 I found a maiden pure and good ; 
 
 And now I feel my vices bare, 
 As one who treads on Holy Rood, 
 
 And plucks a flow'ret there. 
 
 And oft there comes an inward voice : 
 ''Look to thyself, O man, and see 
 
 Is not the maiden of thy choice 
 Too good, too pure for thee." 
 
 INSPIRATION. 
 
 WHEN first I found I had the gift 
 Of moulding feeling into rhyme, 
 I said : *'Be mine the task to lift 
 
 The mind of man to thoughts sublime. 
 
 At first I wrote of lofty things, 
 
 The grandeur of the earth and sky ; 
 
 I strove to sing the peace that brings 
 Its calm to those who nobly die : 
 
 But late, across my lowly path, 
 
 I saw a lovely creature move ; 
 
 And now, despite the muses' wrath, 
 Try as I will, I sing of love. 
 
N 
 
 POKMS. 6^ 
 
 SIR HUGH OF NORMANDIE. 
 
 OW list, ye ladies, to a tale of old historic say 
 That happed when England trembled 'neath the 
 final Edward's sway. 
 
 There went an edict through the land by royal sig- 
 net sealed, 
 
 That called all knights to prove their worth upon the 
 listed field, 
 
 Where baser skill should match its might and that 
 of high degree, 
 
 E'en royalty should break a lance and royal eyes 
 should see. 
 
 III. 
 
 The tourney morn it dawned full clear and thousands 
 sought the fray. 
 
 To sound their praise and frame their gibes, and 
 watch the warlike play ; 
 
 And all of England's chivalry was there in bril- 
 liance dight, 
 
 And proudly flashed the vaunting sun o'er mailed 
 steed and knight, 
 
 And all of England's courtly dames had donned 
 their fairest dress ; 
 
 And 'twas a scene of knightly worth and female love- 
 liness. 
 
por:Ms. 
 
 Bat who in all that lordly throng owned heart one- 
 half so light 
 As proud Sir Hu^h of Norniandie, withal a gallant 
 
 knight; 
 For had not Lady Clara said, "This day I watch 
 
 thee ride, 
 And if thou prove of martial make come claim me 
 
 for thy bride" ? 
 And troth she was a noble dame, and ample guerdon 
 
 slie, 
 And fit to fill a warrior's heart with love and 
 
 bravery ; 
 Her father come of high descent, her mother come 
 
 of low, 
 The pride of this and grace of that sat doubly on 
 
 her brow ; 
 Nor lacked she suitors for her hand, they came from 
 
 far and near, 
 But Lady Clara listed not and turned a distant ear ; 
 They came with knighthood's jingling spurs, civilian- 
 dressed came they. 
 Bit Lady Clara listed not and wroth they rode 
 
 away; 
 Then came Sir Hugh of Normandie, his eyes were 
 
 deep and blue, 
 And well he 'gan with subtle art his lady's hand to 
 
 woo ; 
 Then to him spoke the lady fair, " This day I watch 
 
 thee ride, 
 And if thou prove of martial make come claim me 
 
 for tliy bride." 
 
r01;MS. 65 
 
 IV. 
 
 The tourney neared its height, and well Sir Hugh 
 
 upon this day 
 Had proved his strength and stern address within 
 
 the heated fray ; 
 Three times he'd couched his ready lance, this one 
 
 of foreign land, 
 And thrice some knight of proved skill went down 
 
 beneath his hand; 
 Now lowly bent his mailed form close by his lady's 
 
 side : 
 " Oh, Lady Clara, come I now to claim thee for my 
 
 bride." 
 
 V. 
 
 Then straight the fickle lady spoke : " Behold yon 
 
 sable knight, 
 While yet he rides victorious thou hast not proved 
 
 thy might ; 
 Full well he's borne him through the fray, his seat as 
 
 sure as thine — 
 Now see him ride with vaunting plume adown the 
 
 starting line." 
 Then spoke vSir Hugh of Normandie : "Oh, ladv, 
 
 false and fair. 
 For but a single glance of thine I'll fight ^/w s'aff 
 
 and bear ; 
 I'll meet yon rival in the lists, and, woe or weal be- 
 tide, 
 Ere yet another day be fled, V A claim thee for my 
 
 bride." 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, they had met in tourney shock, full fairly struck 
 
 and well ; 
 The steeds they quivered 'neath the stroke, and 
 
 horse and man they fell ; 
 The crowd they yelled tumultuously, the crowd they 
 
 strained to see — 
 The English knight lay still in death and he of Nor- 
 
 mandie. 
 
 Now weep thee, Lady Clara, long, now wail thee 
 
 loud and sore ! 
 His visor's clasp as weak as thou, thy lover is no 
 
 more — 
 Oh, let thy false and fickle heart rest easy in its 
 
 pride, 
 For comes no suitor on this night to claim thee for 
 
 his bride. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Alone within her chamber deep my Lady Clara lay; 
 And, dark and sad her mournful mind, she wept the 
 
 gloomy day : 
 *' No bridegroom cometh here to-night," my Lady 
 
 Clara said, 
 " The shroud it is his marriage robe, the grave it is 
 
 his bed." 
 The arras hangings of the room they heaved a silken 
 
 sigh; 
 The owl within the blasted oak he hooted mourn- 
 
 fully ; 
 
POEMS. 67 
 
 The midnight hour came on apace, a chill swept 
 
 through the room ; 
 The lamp burned blue, a ghastly hue, and shed a 
 
 purple gloom ; 
 The clock struck once, the clock struck twice, the 
 
 clock struck four times more — 
 And straight there rose an armored knight from forth 
 
 the chamber floor — 
 It was Sir Hugh of Normandie, his cheeks were 
 
 damp and cold, 
 His heavy locks were thick with blood and dim his 
 
 eyeballs rolled; 
 Upon that fair and noble dame he fixed a ghastly 
 
 stare, 
 The look it burned into her soul, she would have 
 
 shrieked in fear. 
 Then spoke that midnight visitant — his voice was 
 
 hoarse and deep — 
 " I come, my Lady, haught and cold, our plighted 
 
 troth to keep ; 
 My barb stands ready at the door ; come mount, for 
 
 we must ride, 
 I wrought the task thou gavest me, and claim thee 
 
 for my bride." 
 Three paces strode he through the gloom where 
 
 Lady Clara lay, 
 And clipped her in his ghostly arms — they were as 
 
 cold as clay — 
 The lights burned blue, the shadows grew and dark- 
 ened thick and fast ; 
 The owl within the stricken oak he hooted down the 
 
 blast ; 
 
68 I'OKMS. 
 
 A choral sound was heard around the living and the 
 
 dead; 
 And then the floor yawned wide agape and closed 
 
 above their head. 
 
 The startled townsmen heard that night a horse's 
 
 swift hoof beat; 
 The lonely watchman saw the sparks fly from the 
 
 stony street : 
 But never more in London town, nor in the far 
 
 countrie, 
 Did tidings come of Lady Clara or Hugh of Nor- 
 
 mandie. 
 
 MY FRIEND AND L 
 
 MY friend and I were closely bound 
 By ties of deep affection, 
 Because our tastes we always found 
 Ran in the same direction. 
 
 We loved the self-same books and tales, 
 The self-same songs and dances, 
 
 The self-same mountains, streams and vales, 
 The self-same sports and fancies. 
 
 But late my friend and I fell out ; 
 
 Young Cupid, arrant bowman. 
 Hath put our friendship all to rout — 
 
 We loved the self-same woman. 
 
POEMS. 69 
 
 THE FINAL PLEA. 
 
 THE girl I love is a dancing girl, 
 A winsome maiden she, 
 Though she live a life of constant whirl 
 
 And changing jollity : 
 But fickle she is as women may be, 
 
 And light as morning dew ; 
 And though she smiles her best on me, 
 She smiles on others, too. 
 
 And when I vow eternal love. 
 
 Devotion till I die. 
 She clasps her hands and looks ab )ve, 
 
 And says that, bye and bye. 
 She'll come and talk of sober things. 
 
 But life is all too short 
 To mix the converse of the wings 
 
 With words of deeper thought 
 
 But, Clara, beauty, too, is short; 
 
 Enjoy it while it lasts. 
 For soon the hues that summer brought 
 
 Are gone with winter's blasts ; 
 The brilliance of the vernal glows 
 
 Will soon forsake the sky ; 
 The brighter still that beauty grows 
 
 The sooner doth it die. 
 
 You can not live in a constant June, 
 For storms will intervene ; 
 
 Nor dance through life to the hollow tui; 
 Of a clanging tambourine ; 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 Nor, poised on the tip of an agile toe, 
 Bid avaunt to woman's fears ; 
 
 Nor hide with artificial glow 
 The ravage of the years. 
 
 So well it is to smile and say 
 
 You've other things in view, 
 To come again some future day 
 
 And talk it o'er with you ; 
 But think, dear Clara, on my vow 
 
 And on the faith of men ; 
 For, though I love you dearly now, 
 
 I may not love you then. 
 
 DEVOTION. 
 
 THE Crescent rushed to meet the Cross ' 
 That crimsoned through the battle's toss; 
 The whistling blades of murder swung; 
 And high above the tumult rung, 
 Allah il Allah ! 
 
 And, crashing through the bloody sea 
 In flagged and plated cluvalry. 
 The Christian lances leapt to war, 
 While shrieked the battle cry afar. 
 For God and England. 
 
 The white-cross knight and Paynim bold 
 A mingled mass of carnage rolled, 
 And north and south and east and west 
 They sprung into eternal rest 
 For God and Allah. 
 
POEMS. 71 
 
 ROSA GRAEME — LOVERS' LOGIC. 
 
 I MET her by the summer sea, 
 Beneath the summer sky; 
 A sweet and blue-eyed maiden slie, 
 
 A college student I : 
 One pensive glance her blue eyes cast 
 
 Of dark cerulean flame ; 
 T gave my love — my first — my last — 
 To pretty Rosa Graeme. 
 
 Where yachts were flitting to and fro 
 
 Upon the changeful tide ; 
 Where breezes seemed to come and go, 
 
 And, coming, going, sighed ; 
 Where, flashing landward in the sun. 
 
 The white-winged sea-gulls came ; 
 'Twas there I wooed but never won 
 
 The beauteous Rosa Graeme. 
 
 She looked across the darkening main, 
 
 And watched the tidal strife : 
 "When winter snows come round again 
 
 I'll be another's wife" — 
 "I am not fit, I know, I know. 
 
 One thought of thine to claim. 
 But say not so, oh, say not so. 
 
 Thou lovely Rosa Graeme." 
 
 Thus hearts must break and eyes must weep 
 
 In Love's enchanting ring; 
 And, oh, the care and sorrow deep 
 
 A blue-eyed glance can bring. 
 
72 POEMS. 
 
 Ere manhood darkened on my cheek 
 She bore another name, 
 
 Yet still it grieves my soul to speak 
 Of fair-haired Rosa Graeme. 
 
 'Twas ever thus since time begun, 
 
 And thus 'twill ever be ; 
 There's not a woman 'neath the sun 
 
 One whit more true than she : 
 And yet the fateful day why rue — 
 
 The world isjust the same — 
 Qui perd vous 7ie perd pas tout, 
 
 Thou pretty Rosa Graeme. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE YEARS. 
 
 THE years they clasped hands on a night in De- 
 cember, 
 When the storm cloud was low and the hurricane 
 
 blew, 
 The years they clasped hands on a night in Decem- 
 ber, 
 
 The Old and the New : 
 
 *'My son, I bequeath thee a long-hoarded crew," 
 Thus spake the old year if aright I remember, 
 "Of sorrows and heart-breaks, rejoicings a few; 
 
 "Be rife with thy sorrows, but stifle joy's ember": 
 And away to obey Time's siripling swift flew — 
 Thus spake on a night that was half in December 
 The Old to the New. 
 
POEMS. 73 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S WOOING. 
 
 OH, mountain maid, sweet mountain maid, 
 I prithee come with me, 
 For rugged is thy rocky glade, 
 And fair my lowland lea. 
 
 Though harsh and chill the wind that blows 
 
 Across thy wintry sky, 
 My valley blossoms with the rose. 
 
 And breezes linger by. 
 
 Though thundrous leaps yon roaring stream 
 
 With damp and foggy breath, 
 In peaceful flow his waters gleam 
 
 And glisten far beneath. 
 
 Though all thy barren glebe could yield 
 
 But scanty fruit or wine, 
 My people till the fertile field 
 
 And press the juicy vine. 
 
 Oh, rugged is thy rocky glade, 
 
 And fair my lowland lea ; 
 So, mountain maid, sweet mountain maid, 
 
 I prithee come with me. 
 
 Oh, shepherd lad, good shepherd lad, 
 
 Of southern mind thou art ; 
 Oh, knowest not the mountain maid 
 
 Must have a mountain heart ? 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, knowest not the woodlands wild, 
 Where lusty freedom reigns, 
 
 Are dearer to the forest child 
 Than all thy fertile plains ? 
 
 Oh, knowest not the whistling gale. 
 The tempests crashing near. 
 
 The torrent rushing to the vale, 
 Make music for mine ear. 
 
 This mountain heart were drear and sad 
 
 Upon thy lowland lea, 
 So, shepherd lad, good shepherd lad, 
 
 I can not go with thee. 
 
 Oh, mountain maid, sweet mountain maid, 
 
 Our life would be so gay. 
 The memory of thy home should fade, 
 
 Thy sorrows fall away. 
 
 We'd tend our flocks beneath the sun, 
 We'd dance beneath the moon, 
 
 To speed the gladsome hours on 
 I'd pipe a merry tune. 
 
 We'd swim the river's laughing tide. 
 
 We'd chase the gilded fly, 
 We'd roam the meadows far and wide, 
 
 In cooling shades we'd lie. 
 
 Oh, smiles are glad and tears are stayed 
 
 Upon my lowland lea; 
 So, mountain maid, sweet mountain maid, 
 
 I prithee come with me. 
 
poi^MS. 75 
 
 Oh, shepherd lad, good shepherd lad, 
 
 Thy passion pleads in vain ; 
 Some valley heart, perhaps, were glad 
 
 To hear its pleasant strain ; 
 
 But I, to sterner pleasures born. 
 
 And come of Northern stock. 
 Would rather wind the hunting horn 
 
 Than tend the grazing flock. 
 
 I could not love thy lowland ways. 
 
 My heart were filled with pain, 
 And, 'growing sadder through the days, 
 
 Would seek the hills again. 
 
 Oh, shepherd lad, good shepherd lad, 
 
 'Twere pity so and ruth ; 
 God never meant the mountain maid 
 
 To wed the lowland youth. 
 
I 'OK MS. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 LONG ISLAND SOUND can never seem 
 So fair as once a year ago, 
 When, from the bosom of the stream, 
 Where yonder white verandas gleam 
 
 Amidst the foliage low, 
 We pushed our boat, Linier and I, 
 
 Upon the lazy tide ; 
 And 'neath the golden sunset sky 
 
 Went drifting free and wide, 
 Into a world of beauty far, 
 With only Love for guiding star, 
 
 Went drifting free and wide. 
 I well remember how yon cliff 
 
 Upon the mainland side 
 His mighty shoulders seemed to lift 
 
 In grim New England pride ; 
 And smiled upon us as the light 
 
 About his temples died, 
 Encouraging with giant might 
 Two lovers who into the night 
 
 Went drifting free and wide. 
 The cooling shadows lengthened fast 
 
 Upon the gentle sea ; 
 A mighty boat for Boston passed 
 
 And rocked us merrily : 
 So fair the scene, so lovely she, 
 
 In sudden burst I cried : 
 Oh, darling mine, how sweet 't would be 
 If I could evermore with thee 
 
 Go drifting free and wide." 
 
poivMS. 77 
 
 >}c ' ^K ^^ -:- * * 
 
 Again I come once more to see, 
 
 But in a sadder way, 
 The scene that was so fair to me 
 
 A year ago to-day. 
 Yon hoary cliff across the Sound 
 
 Still lifts his shoulders high ; 
 The mighty boats the year around 
 
 Still sail to Boston by ; 
 The same dark shadows long and drear 
 
 Across the waters glide 
 As when that day with sweet Lanier, 
 When all was fair and she was dear, 
 
 I drifted free and wide. 
 Our vows were broken ere the year 
 
 Had clad himself in gray ; 
 And I alone am standing here 
 
 To moralize to-day 
 Upon the Sound so dreary grown, 
 
 The sky so darkly dyed — 
 The darkest day that I have known. 
 The day she weds, while I alone 
 
 Go drifting free and wide. 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 CHANGED. 
 
 WHEN first I met you, sweet Lanier, 
 Amidst a sylvan scene ; 
 Where breezes blew and skies were clear, 
 
 And all the hills were green : 
 When first I knew you, ere you grew 
 
 A heartless city belle, 
 I staked my very life on you, 
 
 And learned to love you well. 
 
 But here within this vast and dread 
 
 Cosmopolis of sound, 
 Where trains go rushing overhead 
 
 And roaring underground ; 
 They say the god of gold in might 
 
 Is monarch of the town, 
 And Cupid, startled at the sight, 
 
 Hath flung his arrows down. 
 
 And glances once within whore thrall 
 
 My soul had victim been 
 I fear me now those glances fall 
 
 On fifty other men; 
 I'm dizzy with the roar and whirl ; 
 
 I'm stifled with the dirt : 
 And, though I loved the country girl, 
 
 I can not love the flirt. 
 
poe:ms. 79 
 
 WHAT THE LOCOMOTIVE SAID. 
 
 AS "Number Four" swept ihundrous o'er 
 The arch at Harvey's Creek, 
 And left the bridge and pierced the ridge, 
 
 A clearer track tt) seek; 
 The engineer was mute to hear 
 A hoarsely spoken word — 
 Clafigety clang the drivers rang, 
 And this is what he heard : 
 
 "With hollow howl and rumbling roar 
 
 And rifting wreaths of sable smoke, 
 I pause alone at ocean's shore 
 
 And leave the echoes that I woke : 
 
 "The gleaming metal swift descends, 
 
 My forest high-road cleaving wide ; 
 Old Earth a ready pathway tends 
 
 My far-resounding course to guide : 
 
 "I dash above the torrent's thunder. 
 
 Below his flood resounds my yell ; 
 The flinty mountains part asunder. 
 
 And gleams my light where sun ne'er fell 
 
 "I dare the desert's arid breath, 
 
 I skim the mountain's rugged edge, 
 And mock the form of waiting death 
 Along the d'zzy, pendent edge : 
 
8o roKMS. 
 
 "I speed through canons echoing loud, 
 
 Where threatening rocks above me bow 
 And pierce the mist of humid cloud 
 
 That veils the mountain's lofty brow : 
 
 "I greet the sun where Atlantic's tide 
 Grows rosy in his youthful beam, 
 And fling his last rays from my side 
 By far Ohio's turbid stream : 
 
 ''And cities one time far away 
 
 Are neighbored by my steely span ; 
 And commerce halts beyond my sway, 
 For I'm the slave and lord of man. 
 
 TO ROSE. • 
 
 I THINK I never saw thee. Rose, 
 So like an angel seem ; 
 Upon thy cheek the starlight throws 
 A little playful beam ; 
 
 It lights the brilliance of thine eye : 
 And, Rosa, dost thou know, 
 
 Perchance it started from the sky 
 Four centuries ago ; 
 
 And, falling from its native star, 
 Hath cleft a weary line ; 
 
 But well repaid its journey far 
 To kiss a cheek like thine. 
 
PO^MS. 8 1 
 
 BROTHERS. 
 
 1 HEARD Ysaye, the great musician, play ; 
 A city's wealth and talent sat around, 
 And, as the teeming echoes died away, 
 
 They rose and hailed him prince of dulcet 
 sound. 
 From floor to roof there yelled a vast encore, 
 
 Along six lofty tiers the plaudits ran, 
 And, had a flaming angel stood before. 
 
 They scarce had honored less that wondrous 
 man. 
 
 The notes he flung 
 In music rung. 
 Like angels hung 
 With silver tongue 
 Above the throng ; 
 Now low, now high, 
 They float and fly. 
 And live and die, 
 And shriek and sigh, 
 And roll along. 
 
 A demon's yell, 
 A witch's spell, 
 A murder fell, 
 The pangs of hell. 
 The wailing accents told ; 
 A lover's song, 
 A passion strong, 
 A parting long, 
 A maiden's wrong, 
 In sweeping numbers all together rolled. 
 
82 POEMS. 
 
 I heard old Ben, the black musician, play 
 
 Beneath the branches of a mighty tree ; 
 A motley audience grouped around him lay, 
 
 Or laughed or sang or shouted in their glee; 
 For all the laborers of the country-side, 
 
 And all the maidens of the village near. 
 Had come to listen through the Sunday tide, 
 
 With rapt attention and anon a tear. 
 
 He knew by rote 
 No measured note. 
 Save such as float 
 From woodland throat, 
 Untrammelled glee ; 
 When but a child, 
 And undefiled, 
 A spirit wild 
 Came and beguiled 
 His nature free. 
 
 Streamlets flowing. 
 Cattle lowing. 
 Horns a-blowing, 
 Melons growing — 
 So sang his vibrant bow — 
 Happy hours, 
 Sunny showers, 
 Fragrant flowers. 
 Bending bowers, 
 In streams of broad, unending rhythm flow. 
 
 And oft I think that on the final day, 
 
 When God shall call his music home again, 
 
 When all material things shall pass away. 
 
 And naught but harmony on earth remain; 
 
POEMS. 83 
 
 That midst the keepers of his melody, 
 
 Although on earth a mighty space divide, 
 
 Like brothers there, the gathered hosts shall see 
 Old Ben and great Ysaye stand side by side. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF DR. LESLIE 
 WAGGENER. 
 
 {Died August iq, 1896.) 
 
 MY thoughts were buds emblossomed in 
 The furrowed garden of my brain ; 
 And when they grew enough to win 
 Word-petals and to strive and strain 
 Their little hearts into a wide domain: 
 
 I plucked them from their place and dropped 
 
 Them oft at Beauty's feet ; but, lest 
 
 The shades appall, I never stopped 
 
 Before the tombs. I let them rest, 
 
 Sweet blossoms, on a kindlier, kindred nest. 
 
 But here is one, so sad a bud 
 
 'Twould suit a tomb, and it shall go, 
 
 Pale floweret, where it seemliest would 
 
 To deck his tomb who used to show 
 
 Me how to prune my flowers that they grow 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 I BURIED MY BEAUTIFUL LOVE 
 LAST NIGHT. 
 
 I BURIED my beautiful love last night : 
 On a barren rock on a barren hill, 
 I sat in the pale moonlight; 
 And, thinking of things that were and are, 
 I said: '* It were better for me by far 
 To bury my love to-night. 
 
 ^' 'Tis only a corpse that I have here, 
 Though the corpse of a beautiful love it be" — 
 
 So I made her a memory-bier ; 
 And thoughts like mourners came trooping along ; 
 And each one paused in the sad-eyed throng, 
 
 Paused but to drop a tear. 
 
 And the grave that I dug it was deep and sure, 
 For I dug in the depths of my bleeding heart; 
 
 And the corpse that it holds is pure ; 
 The corpse of a love that came to stay 
 Through the summer-tide then passed away, 
 
 Yet left me a wraith to endure. 
 
 And if ever there comes with footsteps light 
 Another sweet love to enlighten my days, 
 
 ril look and I'll read her aright ; 
 For I'll know by the grace and the pallid pride 
 'Tis only the ghost of the love that died, 
 
 Of the love that I buried last night. 
 
PO^MS. 8=^ 
 
 MANANA. 
 
 MY love she is a winsome one, 
 This maid of Mexico — 
 " Oh, look, beneath the tropic sun 
 
 The orange blossoms glow; 
 They bloom for you and me," I said, 
 ''And mark the time that we should wed" 
 But Lila drooj)ed a laughing eye, 
 
 And smiled in charming manner ; 
 And so she passed my wooing by — 
 " Manana." 
 
 ''Well, then, for fear the bargain slip, 
 
 A kiss to pledge the wooing; 
 And sure a kiss from such a lip 
 
 Were nobly worth pursuing" — 
 A turn, a glimpse of danger fire, 
 A gleam of old Castillian ire, 
 And in the crimson of her cheek 
 
 Unfurled the warning banner ; 
 But softly did my darling speak, 
 " Manana." 
 
 Manana, oh, thou pleasant time 
 
 Where lurks nor pain nor sorrow; 
 
 Maiiana, world of cloudless clime. 
 Thou distant, glad to-morrow ; 
 
 Let feet angelic hasten thee, 
 
 I wait thy coming longingly : 
 
 Yet fate reveals a pleasant sign. 
 Whatever way I scan her; 
 
 Since love and Lila shall be mine 
 Manana. 
 
86 POEMS. 
 
 BY THE BRONX. 
 
 MAIDEN lost in meditation, 
 By the wending 
 
 Forest stream, 
 With the murmuring branches o'er thee, 
 And the drifting leaves before thee, 
 
 Red that gleam ; 
 Knowest not thy brow's elation, 
 And thy bosom's palpitation, 
 And thy cheek's ingrained carnation 
 
 Tell the tending 
 
 Of thy dream ! 
 
 Maiden, slow my footsteps turning, 
 
 Thou shalt never, 
 
 Never know 
 How I looked one lingering moment 
 On thy spirit's best endowment. 
 
 All aglow ; 
 How a stranger's sad discerning 
 Saw the sweet desire and yearning 
 In thy love-lit glances burning — 
 
 Yes ; forever 
 
 I will go. 
 
 But my soul is sad with grieving — 
 
 What supremer 
 
 Fate could be 
 Than to lie, in stillness dreaming, 
 'Neath the sunlight's golden gleaming, 
 
 All with thee ? 
 
POKMS. 87 
 
 Would that somewhere in perceiving 
 
 Of the quieter glances leaving 
 
 This old world's tumultuous heaving 
 
 Such a dreamer 
 
 Dreamt of me. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 HAPPY thought, 
 Were it known 
 Where it ought 
 To have grown, 
 With a poet; 
 But it flourished in the heart 
 Of a man of humble part, 
 Who had never learned the art 
 How to show it. 
 
 There it hung — 
 
 Never fell — 
 
 On a tongue 
 
 That could tell 
 
 Not its treasure ; 
 Yet its mission well designed, 
 For it cheered an honest mind. 
 And it taught him how to find 
 
 In it pleasure. 
 
88 POKMS. 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF SADNESS. 
 
 THE night grows old ; his locks are streaked 
 With tinge of eastern gray ; 
 The splendid pallor of his cheek 
 Proclaims the coming day ; 
 Along the hills of cloudy snows 
 The pristine gleam of morning glows, 
 
 And frights the gloom away — 
 In truth, it seems I never knew 
 A morn of quite so bright a hue. 
 
 When, oh, methought yon eastern cloud 
 
 Should be a sodden gray ; 
 That earth should wear a somber shroud, 
 
 And brilliance pale her ray; 
 That all the world should come and see. 
 That all the world should weep with me. 
 
 And words of soothing say : 
 Yet see I'm left alone, alone — 
 E'en thou, my friend, e'en thou hast flown. 
 
 The Sabbath morn breaks thin and clear ; 
 
 The deep bells call to mass; 
 The white- robed clergy on the stair 
 
 Presume to cleanse and bless ; 
 The crowd that by the altar knelt, 
 And kindly words of soothing felt ; 
 
 A crowd of prattlers pass, 
 And, satisfied to tell the bead, 
 They pass us by — Neglected Dead 
 
PO^MS. 
 
 And then, to think that yesterday 
 
 I, too, trod in yon throng 
 That through the street's resounding way 
 
 Pours its wide surge along : 
 Who knows but that my reckless glee 
 Hath whet the keen intensity 
 
 Of Griefs incessant prong, 
 And made the burden harder still 
 For those who bear it now but ill. 
 
 There's not a laugh this wide world through 
 
 But hath its cry of pain ; 
 For every bridal's gay review 
 
 There sweeps a funeral train ; 
 And yet the victor's lot is sweet, 
 Though sad the vanquished striver's rneet; 
 
 And little there's to gain 
 While men with dual passion sing : 
 The king is dead ; long live the king !" 
 
 A swimmer on an eastern main, 
 
 Upon a starless night, 
 Flings in his wake a glittering train 
 
 Of phosphorescent light : 
 E'en so athwart life's troubled roll, 
 Along the pathway of the soul. 
 
 The ray of hope falls bright— 
 Oh, would I knew futurity 
 Held such a gleam of hope for me ! 
 
90 POEMS. 
 
 LOVES ALCHEMY. 
 
 AN alchemist wrought in a lonesome cell, 
 Afar from the haunts of men, 
 Where the shadows stole from many a bole 
 Adown the glen. 
 
 The alchemist sought the philosopher's stone, 
 And his fame went far and wide. 
 And ever-long rang with his anvil's clang 
 The deep hillside. 
 
 Then came from the South a baldric-girt youth, 
 Sir Roland, of Beverly, he : 
 " Old man of the dale, thy labors that fail 
 But fruitless be. 
 
 ** I long ago found, on the banks of the Thames, 
 The charm that thou seekest to prove — 
 Nor born from retort of an earth-shapen sort — 
 The spell is love. 
 
 "The mother that bore me I loved her right well — 
 My mother was noble, they say ; 
 And untarnished the fame of the high-given name 
 Of Ellen de Bray. 
 
 " I buckled my sword, and I strode off to war; 
 The blade it was rusty and old. 
 But when the iron hilt my mother's kiss felt 
 It turned to gold." 
 
 Then the alchemist knew that Sir Roland spake well ; 
 The charm was his power above; 
 And the magical stone, so the legend hath gone, 
 Is mother's love. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 TO EDITH KISSING HERSELF IN 
 THE GLASS. 
 
 1AM jealous, pleasure-missing; 
 For to-day it came to pass 
 I discovered Edith, kissing 
 
 Her sweet image in the glass — 
 Surely this is 
 Waste of kisses, 
 Merely kissing in the glass. 
 
 But the mirror holds it gently, 
 
 And he treasures it with care 
 (He is jealous evidently) ; 
 
 And it fondly lingers there; 
 Sweet possession, 
 Fair impression, 
 How it fondly lingers there. 
 
 Never yet was such a greeting 
 
 Since the love of woman grew; 
 Yet you can not help admitting 
 It's a selfish thing to do — 
 Oh, it's charming, 
 And alarming; 
 But it's tantalizing, too. 
 
92 POEMS. 
 
 FOUR FAITHS. 
 
 A HERMIT stood on Norway's coast, 
 The scene of many a saga's boast, 
 
 In days when sagas were ; 
 And looked across the broad expanse, 
 Where heaving in a mighty dance, 
 Far-flashing in the solar glance, 
 The swirling waves retreat, advance, 
 
 And whirl the foam afar — 
 And thought upon the fearful might 
 
 Of the great thunderer, Thor. 
 
 A sentry trod, with regular port, 
 The walls of Rome's beleaguered fort 
 
 That hung the plain above ; 
 Where all that day a battle's roar 
 Had whirled its serried legions o'er 
 The bloody sward, till they who bore 
 The golden bird's aspiring soar 
 
 The foe victorious drove — 
 And wondered at the mighty hand 
 
 Of his great father, Jove. 
 
 A savage watched a winter's gale 
 That tore adown a bosky vale 
 
 A wood-obstructed path ; 
 He heard the vibrant thunders speak 
 From laboring, low and craggy peak ; 
 He saw the storm impetuous break 
 As furious all its rage to wreak 
 
 As never tempest hath — 
 And cowered close and fearful grew 
 
 At the Great Spirit's wrath. 
 
POEMS. 93 
 
 A mother watched with features wild 
 The couch where lay a fevered child, 
 
 Where Death had touched his rod ; 
 She knew the glazing eye of death, 
 The rattle of a fleeting breath — 
 The soul sprang sudden from beneath, 
 As plover, springing from the heath, 
 
 Forsakes the fetid sod — 
 The mother bowed her head and wept 
 
 And humbly cried to God. 
 
 NATURE'S IN THE MAN. 
 
 CAME one of silvern thought one day 
 Through fields of floral gold ; 
 And saw the beauties of the way, 
 
 Before his sight unrolled, 
 A-sweeping to the hill-tops gray 
 That dreaming in the distance lay 
 
 Against the azure bold ; 
 And thought he'd ne'er through Nature's sway 
 Another such behold. 
 
 But ere that evening's bending sun 
 
 His destined circuit ran. 
 There came a dark and gloomy one 
 
 And paused the scene to scan; 
 But round the broad horizon won 
 No glimpse of all the beauty spun 
 
 In God's resplendent plan — 
 So shall the truth forever run 
 
 That nature's in the man. 
 
94 po^MS. 
 
 THE BELLES OF BOWLING 
 GREEN. 
 
 ( Written upon seeing their photograph.^ 
 
 THERE'S a charm in the gazing on beauty amaz- 
 ing 
 That comes like a flash, but will linger alway; 
 Like the sun o'er the mountain that gleams on the 
 fountain, 
 And glints it and tints it diaphanous gay. 
 
 What wonder it dances before our fond glances, 
 This jewel-set jewel, of loveliness rare; 
 
 A pearl whose fair setting might cause the forgetting 
 Of charms that without it were peerlessly fair. 
 
 If the flashing of lenses such beauty condenses. 
 Oh, what must it be to the confidant's eye ; 
 
 If it's merest existence so charms us in distance, 
 Oh, charming it must be to those who are by. 
 
 McCormack, whence came it? what country can 
 claim it, 
 This chemic impression of beauty serene? 
 From the land of Kentucky? Oh, say, they are 
 lucky. 
 Those mortals that dwell in the town Bowling 
 Green. 
 
 Or opes it to mortals its fair-hemming portals? 
 
 And knows it the mirk of the footsteps of men? 
 Or is it some heaven to loveliness given, 
 
 This magical place that you call Bowling Green ? 
 
poKMS. 95 
 
 Oh, do they e'er marry and love in this fairy-land? 
 
 She married ! and this one ! and this one, I ween — 
 You have wrecked my fond hope, you have ruined 
 my Utopia, 
 
 My vestal Utopia of fair Bowling Green. 
 
 But, Mac, when we weary of the endless and dreary 
 
 Recurrence of studies in college routine. 
 We'll put our best tiles on, and we'll put our best 
 smiles on, 
 And we'll check both our trunks for the town 
 Bowling Green. 
 
 MESSAGE. 
 
 A HAPPY word came flying fast 
 Along a lonely wire; 
 A mournful summons hurried past 
 On wings of hidden fire. 
 
 A sounder clicked in fair Mobile, 
 '•' The wedding-bells are gay ;" 
 
 In Buffalo the busy steel, 
 
 " Your mother passed away." 
 
 A funeral train, a happy wife, 
 
 Dark woe, and sweet delight— 
 
 The great electric web of life 
 
 Goes throbbing day and night. 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 VERGISS MEIN NICHT. 
 
 {Fro fit the French of A. De Musset.) 
 
 REMEMBER when the beauteous maid of light 
 Unfolds her marble halls enchanted pale; 
 Remember when the soft and pensive night 
 
 Treads dreaming 'neath her silver- woven veil; 
 When memory's genial ray through all thy bosom 
 
 beams, 
 And lengthening shades invite to pleasant evening 
 dreams, 
 
 Hear in the woods' retreat 
 A murmuring voice repeat — 
 Remember ! 
 
 Remember when stern destiny uprears 
 A wall to barrier me and thee apart ; 
 When shame and exile and the flight of years 
 
 Have shattered this despairing, broken heart; 
 
 Recall, my tristful love, recall our last adieu — 
 
 Nor space nor time is aught in love's eternal view 
 
 My heart beats, aye mamtain, 
 
 The yet recurring strain — 
 
 Remember ! 
 
 Remember when beneath the frozen mould 
 
 My broken heart shall rest in slumber's power ; 
 
 Remember when the opening leaves unfold 
 That clasp about the solitary flower; 
 
POEMS. 97 
 
 Thou may'st not see me more, but still my soulful 
 
 wraith 
 Shall e'er return to thee with all a sister's faith- 
 Hear in the night's still reign 
 A murmuring voice complain — 
 Remember ! 
 
 THE CURSE OF A LIE. 
 
 IT WAS a lie; yea, a black, black lie, 
 From the lips of a friend it fell. 
 And it stunned me so that I could not speak ; 
 Far rather by far had it been the shriek 
 
 Of the veriest fiend of hell. 
 And the lips were red as the tinge of youth ; 
 And the eyes were bright as the gleam of truth; 
 But nevertheless I looked and I saw 
 Back, back in the depths, a tremulous awe 
 
 Of that hideous, horrible lie. 
 
 It was a lie; yea, a black, black lie. 
 
 From the lips of the woman I loved; 
 
 And again did I see the quick shiver and dread 
 
 Of the glance that was cast and the speech that was 
 said; 
 I saw and I listened unmoved : 
 
 And I thought, " 'Tis the same, for I knew it would 
 come 
 
 To shatter my senses, to render me dumb; 
 
 And I know I shall live on forever and aye, 
 
 In the shade of the night and the glare of the day, 
 'Neath the curse of that horrible lie." 
 
98 POEMS. 
 
 Both have forgotten that black, black lie 
 
 That shattered and palsied me so. 
 My friend — he is happy with children and wife, 
 My lore has gone back to her love-begging life — 
 
 And I — oh, forever I go ; 
 And I look with a cynic, incredulous smile. 
 And I say: " Oh, ye world, I am deaf to your wile ; 
 In vain ye may tempt me with beauty unrolled, 
 'Tis hollowest semblance, I learned it of old, 
 
 And I know 'tis a horrible lie. 
 
 A THYRSUS WREATH. 
 
 LET destiny claim — the great empress of men — 
 The ages that lie in the shade of her throne, 
 But the time that is now and the time that has been 
 We have gained with our blood, we have won for 
 our own. 
 
 I would sing you a song of the pleasures that are 
 I would lift you a lay of the joys of past ; 
 
 But thrilling the cords that were smitten afar 
 By the sweep of the souls to eternity cast. 
 
 For turn you away to the Runic design. 
 
 Or read you the songs of the East and the West' 
 
 Or scan you the roll of the Cyprian line. 
 
 What pleasures are better than pleasures possessed? 
 
poKMS. 99 
 
 Oh, ye Norns of the North by the earth-bearing tree, 
 Oh, ye Fates of the South by the life-spinning 
 wheel ; 
 Though deadly the gnaw of the serpent may be, 
 Though sharp be the blow the death edge smay 
 deal : 
 
 To the verge of perception the tree is all green, 
 And gleaming and golden the thread runs away — 
 
 Verdandi ! Verdandi! oh, Clotho serene, 
 
 Though I die in the night I will dance in the day. 
 
 They lived, they were glad in the ages agone, 
 
 And they sunk to the shadowy land of the dead; 
 
 I live, I am glad, I will sink there anon, 
 But futile the tear that is born to be shed. 
 
 No pillar shall hem in its anchorite bound. 
 
 For freedom and mirth are the things that we 
 crave ; 
 
 But scatter sweet flowers of gladness around, 
 
 And flowers will bloom to emblossom your grave. 
 
lOO PO^MS. 
 
 AWAKENING. 
 
 A MAIDEN sang in merry mood; 
 She touched the keys, they understood 
 And rippled out a changeful lay 
 To meet her thoughts inconstant play. 
 Her voice went ranging through the whole 
 Bright gamut of her youthful soul; 
 And all the notes of joy were there, 
 But none of sorrow, none of care; 
 And gayly rang the treble out, 
 For there was gladness round about ; 
 But lest the deeper tones appall 
 She never touched the bass at all. 
 And ever- more one golden note 
 Came bursting up into her throat, 
 Of such a wide and rhythmic roll. 
 It seemed some fountain of her soul 
 Had yielded up with sudden strife 
 The mystic essence of its life, 
 Came bursting up, but throbbed and died; 
 In vain the maiden singer tried 
 To frame the sound ; the note was strong, 
 And fain would blossom out in song, , 
 But still some cruel fetter bound. 
 The lock was close, the key unfound; 
 And back into her l)osom pressed, 
 With all Its wild and sweet unrest, 
 With all its mirth and rapturous glee, 
 It lived impatient to be free. 
 
 Another day she sang again 
 A deeper and a nobler strain ; 
 
POI:mS. lOi 
 
 No longer touched alone her hand 
 The higher keys, for deep and grand 
 The heavy bass ran through the stave, 
 The grave and thoughtful bass, that gave 
 So much of vigor and o^' tone, 
 She scarcely knew it for her own. 
 She sang no more the hopes and plays, 
 The pleasures of her younger days; 
 But sang of later pure delight, 
 A stolen kiss at yester-night, 
 A trysting place beneath the sky, 
 A welcome glad, a sweet good bye — 
 And, lo! that self-same golden note 
 
 Burst out, and grew and seemed to float 
 
 In sweet vibrations through the air; 
 
 A thousand accents ringing there, 
 
 The echoes of the spirit world. 
 
 In raptured rings of gladness whirled 
 
 About the maid whose happy youth 
 
 Had wakened to a blessed truth ; 
 
 The maid that stood with heart aglow 
 
 And shining face, entranced to know 
 
 How strangely sweet her wiser tongue 
 
 The sacred note of love had sung. 
 
I02 POEMS. 
 
 AN INGENUE. 
 
 YOU are lovely passing measure, 
 Leaning listless on your bended 
 Shepherd's staff; 
 Alpine beauty, mountain treasure — 
 Yes, indeed ; it is a splendid 
 Photograph. 
 
 Mark how grandly loom yon mountains, 
 And how gayly drops the valley 
 Down between ; 
 Mark the mist of falling fountains; 
 How the silver sunbeams dally 
 In their sheen. 
 
 How the brilliant smile of nature 
 Seems to roll its gathered treasure 
 To your feet — 
 You the queen, her loveliest creature, 
 Standing listless — heart and hand you're 
 Sovereign meet. 
 
 Queen of shadows, sad the knowing 
 That yon mighty peaks and passes 
 In the view 
 Are but canvas, and the flowing, 
 Flashing fountains and the grasses 
 Canvas, too. 
 
PO^MS. 103 
 
 You have passed your whole existence 
 In this mimic world of fancies 
 And of paint; 
 I have watched you from a distance — 
 Watched you still with jealous glances 
 Of constraint. 
 
 Queen of shadows, know I fully 
 They are phantoms all that rally 
 Kound your throne — 
 But the circling of a pulley, 
 
 And the mountains and the valley 
 All are gone. 
 
 But the lifting of a finger. 
 
 And the fickle phantom nation. 
 Where are they ? 
 Where the gilded ones that linger 
 Through the princely habitation 
 Of the play ? 
 
 Shadows all, I fear me greatly; 
 And my fears are growing sadder. 
 Scarce repressed — 
 Oh, the love you spoke but lately. 
 What if it should be a shadow 
 Like the rest ! 
 
I04 roEMS. 
 
 LAS GOLONDRINAS. 
 
 {From the Spanish of Gustavo Becquer.) 
 
 DARK SWALLOWS, they shall come again 
 To hang their friendly nests on high 
 And beat their wings against thy pane — 
 Beat — and playfully cry : 
 
 But those who stayed their northern flight, 
 
 Two happy lovers' names to learn. 
 To keep thy beauty still in sight — 
 Those will never return. 
 
 Thick honey-suckles, they shall hold 
 
 Thy garden wall in siege once more ; 
 Again at evening shall unfold 
 
 Beauteous buds as of yore : 
 
 But those that all dew-heavy lay, 
 
 Whose trembling drops we could discern, 
 Slow-falling like the tears of day — 
 Those will never return. 
 
 Sweet words of love, they'll come again 
 
 From ardent lips and strive to take 
 Thy heart that slumbering long hath lain — 
 ' Then, perhaps, 'twill awake. 
 
 But mute and lost and bending low. 
 
 As one by God's own presence moved — 
 The way that I loved — think not so — 
 Thou shalt never be loved. 
 
POEJMS. 105 
 
 SO PASSION IS A CRIMSON BUD. 
 
 {This and the following six selections are from a long unpublished 
 poem called " Ellingsivorth.") 
 
 SO PASSION is a crimson bud, 
 And man can pluck it to adorn, 
 But woman touches and the blood 
 
 Springs out, and dyes the hidden thorn — 
 Oh, is it right? 
 
 Yes ; man is fashioned firm and strong, 
 And lovely woman weak and frail : 
 
 He sins; it was a moment's wrong; 
 
 And she — oh, scourge her from the pale 
 Of social sight. 
 
 It must be so ; God made it so : 
 
 Oh, did it spring from primal cause, 
 
 Or upward from creation low, 
 
 Come working through one-sided laws 
 Across the plan ? 
 
 Let blindness write and priests declaim 
 For other ears. I can not think 
 
 Creating God would so defame 
 Divinity. But link on link 
 Upbuilded man. 
 
 And God's almighty stylus graved 
 The truth on tabled stones — not such 
 
 As Egypt's foundling could have saved ; 
 But on the rounding earth his touch 
 Fell mightily. 
 
Io6 POEMS. 
 
 And every aeon brought its woe; 
 
 The ages laughed to think the vain, 
 Aspiring creature they should grow — 
 "A moment's pleasure, months of pain 
 The rule shall be." 
 
 And did they err, those ages vast. 
 The mighty will behind the whole. 
 
 That moulded with the flood and blast, 
 Consuming fire and ocean's roll 
 The varied earth ? 
 
 Or did they, building up the rest, 
 And capping order with our race. 
 
 Forgetting woman, say: ''The best 
 Is man's, and woman's second place 
 By second birth ? 
 
 ** So let us make a lord of man ; 
 
 Let woman bend beneath his nod, 
 The pleasure his, and hers the pain" ? 
 Ah, that's the rule. Benignant God 
 That made it so ! 
 
 Go, man, the fairest flowers break; 
 
 But, fragile woman, thou shalt not. 
 For he is strong, but thou art weak ; 
 
 Thy hands would desecrate the spot 
 Where flowers grow. 
 
 And having plucked and felt the thorn, 
 Where wouldst thou place the little bud, 
 
 With petals drooped and all forlorn ; 
 How cleanse the dark, stigmatic blood, 
 That living blot ? 
 
POl^MS. 107 
 
 What crystal vase's polished art 
 
 That flower's misery could obscure ? 
 
 Itself would prick and wound thy heart ; 
 So pluck, foul man ; but, woman pure. 
 Oh, thou shalt not. 
 
 ANSWERED. 
 
 1 NEVER thought, my Mildred Lee, 
 When first I saw you years ago, 
 Fled startled to your mother's knee, 
 The big, ungainly lad to see, 
 That you some day should whisper me 
 A Yes, or No ; 
 A blushing, soft, ecstatic Yes, 
 Or sharp, decisive No. 
 
 Time plays a thousand pranks with man 
 And drags him, reckless, to and fro; 
 Those sisters three with wisdom span. 
 When in the fabric's varied plan 
 Our separate beings counter ran 
 For weal or woe. 
 Since I have heard the gladsome Yes, 
 And not the horrid No. 
 
 The changing colors in your cheek 
 They, gayly crimson, ebb and flow. 
 Like little ones at hide-and-seek; 
 And does the self-same maiden meek 
 Still blush to hear her lover speak 
 And praise her so. 
 When he has heard the pleasant Yes, 
 And not the cruel No ? 
 
io8 POKMS. 
 
 The sky is very fair, my dear, 
 And very fair is ocean's flow, 
 Since you in troth are standing here ; 
 But, oh, they were so dark and drear 
 Had I to-day been forced to hear, 
 A lover bending low, 
 Instead of the uplifting Yes, 
 The grave, depressing No. 
 
 WHY CAME YOU NOT TO THE 
 TRYSTING PLACE ? 
 
 WHY came you not to the trysting place 
 Last eve as the sun went down ? 
 I lingered long in the twilight grace 
 And prayed for a sight of your winsome face ; 
 Why came you not to the trysting place 
 Last eve as the sun went down ? 
 
 'Twere beautiful then had but you been there, 
 
 But gloomy with you away; 
 The sun's bright glance with its crimson glare 
 Went fading away to the eastward where 
 The clouds blushed red in the burning stare 
 
 Of the amorous king of the day. 
 
 On heaven's face like a palette wide 
 
 The beauteous tints gleamed free, 
 
 The blue and gold and the red beside ; 
 
 But one by one all the colors died, 
 
 For what's the use of their glorious pride 
 When you are not there to see? 
 
POEMS. 109 
 
 Then night swept out o'er the darkening sky, 
 
 The stars hurried forth to see ; 
 A squirrel was nibbling a walnut nigh, 
 A great bull-bat came a-wheeling by, 
 And sure I am they were wondering why 
 
 No other was there with me. 
 
 The brook went murmuring o'er its stones, 
 
 A low and lugubrious air; 
 The tall hill pines by the breezes blown 
 Were wailing far in a mournful moan. 
 Inquiring why, in their mingled tones, 
 
 I waited so lonely there. 
 
 The earth lay still in the night's embrace, 
 
 All still were the field and town; 
 And earth was naught save a dreary space 
 Devoid the sight of your winsome face — 
 Why came you not to the trysting place 
 Last eve as the sun went down ? 
 
no POEMS. 
 
 BOATING POEM. 
 
 IN a silver boat are we, 
 Sailing on a silver sea — 
 Look ! the moons above, below ! 
 One wnere all the world can see 
 One below for you and me, 
 Guiding, cheering as we row. 
 
 Oh, ye lilies there, divide! 
 Know you not that by my side 
 Sits a fairer one by far 
 Than your pure and stainless pride 
 Stem us not, but let us glide 
 Like the blessed two we are. 
 
 Rowing on the Thames or Seine, 
 There's an ugly murder stain, 
 Just a yellow tinge of blood ; 
 You can never know the pain 
 Of the bosoms rent in twain 
 That have plunged into the flood. 
 
 Who would ever think that here, 
 'Neath the^e waters, crystal clear. 
 Aught but purity could be ? 
 Dip your fingers, never fear. 
 It's as limpid as the tear 
 Of the virgin at the tree. 
 
POEMS. Ill 
 
 Look ! the glinting, gleaming splashes ! 
 How the little swimmer lashes — 
 Now, behold it — not a trace. 
 Up the finny springer dashes 
 Just to see what beauty flashes 
 So divinely in your face. 
 
 Is he jealous? — well he'd be — 
 Back, you sinner ! Mildred Lee 
 Has no other love to note. 
 Look ! she sends a kiss to me, 
 Sailing on this silver sea, 
 In this pretty silver boat. 
 
 AS THEY FELL. 
 
 I SAW a maniac's frozen form 
 Upon a college slab one day, 
 With features gaunt in wild alarm, 
 And tortured shape and lifted arm 
 
 As warding death away ; 
 And from his black and bitten tongue, 
 His writhing lips in anguish wrung; 
 And from his eye, that worst of sights, 
 That haunted me for many nights, 
 I used to shudder and to say, 
 
 '* How grim is death."* 
 
112 POEMS. 
 
 I saw a mother old in years 
 
 Upan her final couch one day, 
 Her face, bedewed with kindred tears, 
 As calmly still as one who hears 
 The dream god's gentle lay, 
 And from her care-forsaken brow 
 Those withered hands that folded nov/ 
 Upon her still, unbreathing breast 
 In nobly won, eternal rest. 
 My yearning heart grew wont to say, 
 " How sweet is death." 
 
 But when I looked at Mildred Lee 
 
 Upon that dripping plank to-day, 
 It was so pitiful to see 
 Those staring eyes that looked at me 
 
 In such a mournful way ; 
 'Twas so unfair she could not live. 
 The pretty girl who had to give 
 So much that really did exist. 
 For what might be beyond the mist, 
 That weepingly I bowed to say, 
 " How sad is death." 
 
poe:ms. 113 
 
 THE LOVE I BRING IS EARTHLY. 
 
 ONCE again, O beauteous loved one, speak the 
 gentle words to me, 
 I am jealous lest the breezes bore the teeming 
 
 accents on ; 
 Speak it bravely, none may hear it — that is strangers 
 
 — only we, 
 Loving fondly, earth forgetting, every sordid passion 
 gone. 
 
 Love Platonic ? No, by heaven ! Plato could not 
 
 love at all ! 
 God might, but poor mortals can not, and I would 
 
 not if I could. 
 Burn the lambent blazes coldly 'neath the psychic 
 
 breather's call? 
 Give it sex-love, the phlogiston. How it sparkles 
 
 through the wood. 
 
 You have beauty, and I love it; you have graces, 
 to be sure. 
 
 And I love them — wit and fancies — all that thought- 
 ful eye can view ; 
 
 Not abstractly, free from passion, is my grosser love 
 impure 
 
 If 1 lovf the essence of the subtle all-pervading jjwv ^ 
 
114 poe:ms. 
 
 Love the perfect? No, we fear it, gleaming spotless 
 
 from on high ; 
 But a germ is in our bosoms where the withered 
 
 sprouts contend ; 
 Lines of beauty meet in distance, even straightness 
 
 hurts the eye ; 
 Lines of beauty, soaring from me, let me clasp the 
 
 nether end. 
 
 So the love I bring is earthly, not a God's love, but 
 
 a man's. 
 Though the being microcosmic kindles to the fervid 
 
 glow. 
 Still there shoot no blazing comets flaming far the 
 
 wedding bans; 
 For the heart I bring is earthly, but I love you 
 
 darling, so. 
 
 Say *'I love you!" Bale-fires glimmer, speak their 
 
 jealous fury quench. 
 Set the jewel truth in English or your foreign tongue 
 
 will do ; 
 In the undulating Spanish or the quick vivacious 
 
 French — 
 What care I so it be spoken and its speaking 
 
 comes from you. 
 
 Oh the words of blessed meaning, were they ever 
 
 spoke before ? 
 Did the philter of the phrases ever still so fair a 
 
 thrall ? 
 Oh, ye Anglo-Saxon fathers that invested it of yore, 
 Thought ye such fair lips should ever tremble 
 
 sweetly to its fall? 
 
POEMS. 115 
 
 How we'll fool that stern old censor, Time, Catonian 
 
 and supreme. 
 Would he mete our days exactly, pleasures felt and 
 
 beauties seen ? 
 He forgot our happy spirits while we wove this 
 
 pleasant dream ; 
 I have lived a whole existence since the summer 
 
 leaves were green. 
 
 Just a parting kiss, my darling, there are twenty 
 
 more unpaid. 
 Look ! the day has gone before us, love accelerates 
 
 his flight ; 
 Night is gloaming through the heavens with a vague 
 
 nigrescent shade, 
 Just two parting kisses, darling, one *'I love you"; 
 
 one " Good night." 
 
ii6 poe:ms. 
 
 FRIGIDA. 
 
 O WOMAN of the lofty brow, 
 O woman of the gracious smile ; 
 I stood within thy glance just now, 
 And felt the tortured while 
 
 How lowly and corrupt a man 
 
 I must have seemed, if measured by 
 
 The fearless and discerning scan, 
 Of that instinctive eye. 
 
 I never hear thy rustling robe, 
 The magnet of thy presence feel, 
 
 But through my heart there shoots a probe 
 Of truth-unveiling steel. 
 
 For I have held that through the earth 
 There is no gift so pure and good 
 
 And lovely in its constant worth 
 As perfect womanhood. 
 
 And thou art perfect — yes, and snow 
 
 Is very white, but very cold 
 And grimy-hearted — can we know 
 
 The spirit from its hold? 
 
 For could I trace those glances home. 
 And read their utmost being true. 
 
 And with a critic microtome 
 Dissect it through and through ; 
 
POBMS. 117 
 
 Might I not find withiu that breast, 
 
 The snowy confines of thy soul, 
 Some passion fettered to its nest 
 
 By only thought's control ! 
 
 Stern thought that round about doth run, 
 And hem with such a frigid frown, 
 
 That nothing but the spotted sun 
 Could melt the barrier down. 
 
 No feebler passion, though it shone, 
 
 A fairer and a purer light, 
 But e'en the spotted sun alone 
 
 Might feast his blazing sight. 
 
 But, doubt, begone; since through the earth 
 There is no gift so pure and good, 
 
 So lovely in its constant worth 
 As perfect womanhood. 
 
 Oh, if thou wast not so exact, 
 
 So better than thy sisters are. 
 So firm a witness of the fact, 
 
 So clearly cut a star, 
 
 I had not dared, O peerless queen, 
 
 The luster of thy soul to doubt, 
 Or long to view that soul serene, 
 
 And find its impulse out. 
 
 'Twas ever my unhappy lot 
 
 To peer beneath the face of things, 
 
 To dig up bones that buried rot, 
 Pursue the bee that stings. 
 
Ii8 POEMS. 
 
 Tve often looked upon the dim 
 
 Communion of the sky and ground, 
 
 And longed to chase that flying rim 
 The very world around. 
 
 I loved a maiden years ago ; 
 
 My heart enshrined the winsome witch, 
 I worshiped, closer looked, and, lo. 
 
 She tumbled from her niche. 
 
 So morbid searching dims the grace, 
 The finer edge of fancy dulls ; 
 
 I never see a pretty face 
 But that I think of skulls. 
 
 Oh, happier far that wiser fool 
 
 Can see the rainbow's crescent crown 
 
 Unwitting of the fixed rule 
 That shoots the colors down ; 
 
 Could look upon the Grecian stone. 
 That Venus of the classic charm, 
 
 See grace and symmetry alone 
 And not the broken arm. 
 
 Who called me worm, vile thing that lies, 
 Low-grovelling in a vicious lair ; 
 
 Who basely seek my lady's eyes, 
 And look for pureness there. 
 
 And finding it, should doubt, perchance 
 
 In hidden passion it may cease ? 
 What wonder that my lady's glance 
 Should make me ill at ease ! 
 
poi:ms. 119 
 
 If lightning issued, struck me low 
 Beneath the presence of that eye; 
 
 My life outleaping, I should know 
 I had deserved to die. 
 
 But, beauty, judge me not too hard; 
 
 A fair and spotless love should spring 
 If I could ever win regard 
 
 Who am so base a thing. 
 
 And, woman of the lofty brow, 
 
 Thou, woman of the gracious smile, 
 
 Before thy queenly feet I bow, 
 Thy victim all the while. 
 
 1 can not seek that smile ; a frown 
 Would suit my bodeful nature best ; 
 
 I'll kiss the edges of thy gown, 
 And deem that spirit blest. 
 
 For still I hold that through the earth 
 There is no gift so pure and good, 
 
 So lovely in its constant worth 
 As perfect womanhood. 
 
I20 POEMS. 
 
 FAREWELL, SWEET POESY. 
 
 FAREWELL, sweet Poesy, thou'st cheered me 
 long, 
 A beacon light that golden-tipped the billows of 
 the sea \ 
 But fare thee well; my latest song 
 I sing to thee. 
 
 I did not strike my lowly lyre in vain ; 
 
 Thou'st cheered me long, but sterner calls deflect 
 my feet from thee — 
 All castles are not built in Spain, 
 
 Sweet Poesy. 
 
 I still may think of thee with bounding heart 
 
 When all the pulsing pageants of my science pass 
 before; 
 
 It may not be that we shall part 
 Forevermore. 
 
 Forevermore ? Nay, let the parting be 
 
 Like that of clasping lovers who expect to meet 
 anew ; 
 So, au revoir, ma chere amit, 
 
 Mais %ans adieu. 
 
tr 
 
 I 
 
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