Class i Bonk ■')/- (n ^ CQEyRIGHT DEPOSIT. POEMS isei CHARLES WELLS RUSSELL POEMS BY CHARLES WELLS RUSSELL THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 440 FOURTH AVENUE M C M X X I NEW YORK Copyright, 1909, 1911, 1913, by Charles Wells Russell Copyright, 1921, by The Neale Publishing Company g)C!.A617114 MAY 26 1921 nt £■■■ I CONTENTS PAGE Introduction 9 Lelia (Dedication) H KRest 12 Spring 12 s^HOME 13 Absence 1^ Noon 1'^ The Wild Rose 15 Sleep 1^ The Arbor 1^ Love l'^ Wealth 1^ Untrue 1^ Summer 1^ Dreams 21 Night 22 Ruth 22 Roses 23 A Dryad 24 Forgotten 24 Autumn 25 Friendship 26 Lucy 26 Song ("To Bless— Not Gain") 27 Memories 28 DOROTEA 28 Holding the Reins 30 Driftwood 31 Peace 31 Shadowings 32 5 PAGE The Feather 34 Alone 36 Gossip 37 Jeptha's Daughter 39 Comfort 39 Sere 40 The Miser 41 Thine Angelus 42 Sunset 43 To Thee 43 Song (As with Upraised Wings) 44 After 44 Come 45 Evensong 46 Iranian 46 The Secret Place 47 Minor Chords 48 Autumn Leaves 49 Scenery 49 Tell Me 50 Easter 51 Asphodels 52 Back From the Desert 53 Hast Thou Forgotten? 53 Also 55 Shadows 56 The Dell 57 Iranian Rest 58 Night in Gulistan 62 Following 62 Song (Come with Roses) 63 Lady 63 Hands 65 EccE 65 Serene 66 Lazzarone 66 Cypress 68 The Tryst of Alkaios 69 Night in the Desert 71 6 PAGE Wandering 71 The Dream of Ruth 72 Forever 75 Folly 76 Twilight 77 Farewell 78 Ingratitude 79 The Cradle Land 79 Birds 80 Hands Invisible 80 Still Faithful 81 Nothing 81 Elizabeth 82 Swallows 83 Gentucca 84 Gleaning 85 Unweeded 86 June 86 Search 87 Mariengarn 88 Words 89 Song (Childhood's Royal Idleness) .... 90 Rocks 90 Chalices 92 Watchman 93 Spirits 93 Egyptian 94 Irene 95 There 98 Tears 100 Persian Chords 101 Chil-Chil-Ha! . 102 Nocturne 102 The Rose Lament 104 Wherefore? 105 The Russian Wedding Feast 105 Ines 106 Christina 107 Ease 108 7 PAGE Holiness 108 Ritratto-D'Incognito 109 La Pineta 109 Dogwood 110 Mother 110 Song (Pleasure in the Rising Breaketh) . . Ill The Starry Quest HI Near 144 In the Garden 145 April 145 The Return 146 The Guitar 147 Bread 148 Song (Among the Lilies of an Easter Morn) 149 Prayer 149 Song (When the Grace of Seeding Grass) . . 150 The Bench 150 Serenade 151 Thou Knowest the Place 152 Song (Come With Me, Sweet) 153 The Golden Hour 154 L'Adultera 156 Fragments, I to XIII 176-183 INTRODUCTION Whatever tends to contribute to the public's fur- ther acquaintance with the thoughts and impulses of a prominent character is always of value; and when the character himself offers a contribution so intimate as is this volume of poems, then is that value significantly augmented. Therefore, this col- lection of the poetry, — the word is here used in its noblest sense, — of Charles Wells Russell, now for the first time published, makes a revealing and im- portant addition to the world 's knowledge of a man whose juridical achievements and diplomatic, poli- tical, and scholarly activities are too conspicuous to need emphasis here. That this expression of the Publishers is more than a mere impression is ably sustained by the following extract from a let- ter written by Dr. Henry Van Dyke, to whom some of the verses of Dr. Russell, — at the time (1914) United States Minister to Persia, — had been pre- sented by another than their author : You knew beforehand how I would enjoy such verses as these. \They have a double interest when I remember the active and useful public life of the man who wrote them, and the good work he has done for our country in fighting against all sorts of abuses, and in promoting the real progress of America. I should like him to know how much I admire this side of his activity, and how much pleasure I have found in his poetry. It is fortunate for the world that reads that the application of Dr. Russell's knowledge to useful ends still granted him freedom for the indulgence of his artistic tastes and failed of power to choke the poetic expression of an imagination that claims as its ardent ally apparently limitless erudition ; the Doctor's already adequate endowment having been further enriched by extensive travel. Indeed, this familiarity with foreign climes probably has much to do with the investing of his work with the wiz- ardry known as ' ' atmosphere, ' ' which is so keenly sensed when he seems to be singing in the rose-rich land of Iran, or beneath the moonlit skies of Italy, his exquisite songs, — songs eloquent with tender- ness and pathos and peace and hope ; songs lighted by vagrant smiles and rainbow-glinting tears, with here and there the poignant note of a sob of sorrow, or a groan for grace. "Which, after all, gives but a hint of the book's enchantment. Here they live, these skillfully-woven fabrics of fancy and feeling of the poet, Dr. Russell, to whom has been graciously granted by Providence one of its greatest gifts: the pleasure of increasing the emotional, intellectual, and artistic pleasure of the ever-avid world of letters. The Publishers. 10 POEMS BY CHARLES WELLS RUSSELL LELIA Dedication Her busy hand, in homely ways, All tireless, toils its daily share, Nor waits for either blame or praise, And silent is her daily prayer. No tragic art she knows to prove How deep, how pure may be devotion. Unuttered every thought of love, She dares not trust with her emotion A tongue unskilled to show a part Of that which overflows the heart. When nights and days, when friends seemed fewest, She stood beside a bed of pain Explaining that she was the truest. And in these words did this explain (Words eloquent as words can be) : ''Here, take and drink this cup of tea." 11 REST Come with me to the mountain peaks 'er paths that neither start nor end Yet lead past twinkling forest flowers To that still world where beauty seeks The peace she cannot find in ours. Ah, dearest, come! and with me spend Time reckoned not by loss of hours. The unremembering air shall play Upon his harp of many strings Soft harmonies forever new, — For thee their secret charms display "Wild morning-glories drenched in dew, And drafts as cool shall yield the springs As maid or maenad ever drew. SPRING Where the wood and meadow met The bluet and the violet, Purer than a saint's regret, Shook their fair heads from the wet. ''Dainty snowdrop blue," said I ''Thou art fair, but far too shy, — Thou and thy sweet cousin lie Hid, like truants from the sky. ' ' Then I asked : ' ' Thou little maid, Wherefore of a kiss afraid ? ' ' 12 Answering when she could, she said ' ' To thy soul that sin was laid. ' ' After all unfeigned surprise, Questions low, with no replies, Came a new light in her eyes, — Came a shower of tears and sighs. HOME I've builded thee a mansion gay Upon a secret height, Where days as fleet as hours in May Descend on waves of light From Heaven, no longer far away. Anear thee shall alight A peace that there shall brood and stay Through all the day and night. The eagles whirl about their young A mile or more below. And in and out, the clouds among. The lightnings come and go, And farther down, like silken thong, The flashing rivers flow. There shalt thou stroke the fawn, or feel The graceful panther press Against thy knee his thews of steel, Awhine for thy caress. And never sight nor sound reveal The other world's distress. 13 ABSENCE Ah, I wonder if thou knowest How my love is love indeed, Or the comfort thou bestowest In my loneliness and need, — Through the day where 'er thou goest That my thought are bees that feed ! Ah, and when the dusky even Steals the day and night between Dost thou know their din in heaven, — Dost thou know their flying keen By mad gladness made uneven, — Are they heard, or felt, or seen ? Then they linger to behold thee From the lightning of their flight ; Then they weave around to fold thee In the charmed peace of night. Have they whispered thee and told thee What is winging their delight ? NOON The poet lay beneath the trees Translating what an amorous breeze In Sanskrit, Greek, or Japanese Did whisper his rapt ear to please ; And so he labored (carpeted Upon a rug of gold and green Inwove with thread of blue and red, — 14 An Arab plan, with silken sheen) Till half the golden hours were sped ; Till all the little tribes that dwell Where only he and robbers hide Lay stricken by the hot noon-tide And all the breezes speechless fell And not a cow did ring her bell : — Naught moves, save one forsaken cloud, The reason being nothing can ,- And all is silent, even the loud Siesta of the great god Pan. THE WILD ROSE When I was lost within a forest, child. There came the lone song of a brooklet wild. Then, turning sharply round where with a vine A dance of water-gleams did intertwine, A white rose, trembling in the brooklet's spray, Bowed at me with an unaffected grace. I could but pause, and lo, I soon did trace Where near the rose my long-lost pathway lay ! So fair that flower it scarce were seen, sweet maid, If plucked and on your own fair bosom laid ; But far less dark the wild than that which threw Its shadows round me when I met with you. SLEEP She loved me only, called me a sweet name. But ah, she seemed a visitor that came And not a child of day! 15 And when she slept, she never turned, nor sighed, But my poor heart beat fast, lest ill betide. Or her kindred take her away. I watched her sleep, and envied the cool air That could so lightly steal to lift her hair And kiss the rare, pale maid. How could I leave, when she might dream of woe. With none to whisper : " I am here, and so Sleep on, — ^be not afraid!" I sat and watched, and loved each lingering hour That gave her rest ! — and ah, I had the power Out of my love and will To keep her human and prolong her stay ! Like Heaven was the night ; and in the day I had her with me still ! THE ARBOR Now thou art gone, how fair the night ! How sweet the breezes and how bright The flowers ! Like a radiant dream The blooms that fleck the arbor seem. But all night long they pine and pray And wait and listen, — 1 and they, Hearing the petulant whippoorwill. Which only maketh the night more still And the aching void more plain, — 16 Till I press the flowers to my cheek and the pain Pierces the numbness of heart and brain, Shakes me from madness, — from dreaming again That I have not lost thee ! — that never yet I knew such a being as I regret, — Till I know all real is my despair ! Then into the glow of the luminous air, As into a song its sigh or prayer, A shadow passes, and over all The benediction of sleep doth fall. LOVE She fed her spirit from the tree "Whose fruit o'erhangs the springs of light. Seeing the far dawns yet to be Aglimmer on the mountain height. And dreaming as a summer sea Dreams, folded in the arms of night. Ah, lost dove from some bluer day ! Ah, light waif from a purer sky ! Ah, dear hours that forever stay Anear me and on slumber lie, Like roses on the breast of May ! She heard a far-off people cry In anguish, — forth with no delay She drove me, while she wept good-bye. 17 WEALTH Am I, then, poorer than these landlords all Who boast of splendid wealth in lands and gold ? They are but vassals mine and in my thrall: What theirs the caitiffs claim, for me they hold. Do I not seek my pleasure 'mid ''their'' trees, These many miles around, and by each spring, While they are toiling, take my lordly ease? For me they toil ; for me around they fling Those velvet carpets greener than all green; Mine is the bird which, redder than all red. Bursts on me like a sudden flame between White laurel buds and boughs that lean o 'erhead. Have I not chosen me upon yon hill A mansion fairer than are made with hands, — A home ancestral, — stately, — what you will. Where at each side a towering poplar stands ? What priceless pictures hang upon the walls ! Such works the antique masters painted not Who spared no pains on paler "cardinals," And saints that died for virtues now forgot. For me they whet the scythe, — ah, yes, for me ! — To spread abroad the scent of new-mown hay ; For me they sowed yon grain which, like a sea, Rolls laughing round the trembling feet of May. 18 UNTRUE They told me thou art light and gay And changeful as the clouds of May. I see thee 'mid a giddy throng "Whirled in merry dance along, — Thy soul, — that had been — not more sweet Than thy frail form and twinkling feet ; Then, lo, to seek the glimmering shade By poplars in the moonlight made, Touching the lush grass of the lawn Lightlier than a startled fawn. Concealed within the portico I watch thee, — with another, — go. Flushed and whispering soft and low. Trembling, I note the roses fair, — My roses ! — glowing in thy hair, — And then, just then, two tender eyes, — The stars of a lost paradise, — Are turned on me in sad surprise. SUMMER Now thou art gone, the sweetest bird of all For thee is lone and hath no rest at all. But sits and sings, Beloved, the whole night long Through many changes one unending song Of love, of longing and of past delight. Filling, as thou did 'st fill, the hollow night O 'erf ull with music, — in his soul 's distress Recalling scenes I can but partly guess. 19 But now he sings of some lone rose that stood Fairest in the wild gardens of the wood, And now beholds 'neath softer skies than these, Across the reaches of the southern seas, A languid houri wakened from her dreams. Where almost true man 's sweetest vision seems. And from the heart the fetters melt and fall, — "Where life is love, and love is all in all ! He sings of fear and grief and vain regret, Of lights that waned and glooms that linger yet, Of her whose touch could cool a fevered brain. Or turn to melody the cries of pain, — Of one, love-mad, that to the midnight moon Was ever muttering sweet thoughts out of tune; Of rankly odorous cedars and the breath Of flowers o'erblown and sickening to their death. And now he follows summer (that hath flown j Slowly through golden dreams to us unknown, Or lingers where the secret dove repines Above the writhing torsos of the vines Or rests within the tops of murmuring pines. He tells how, wandering, still he longs for home ; And then I wait, and on the listening air A passionate silence rises, like a prayer. But now aloud the wood and garden ring, For he is seized with tumult, and his soul Exults with music wild beyond control ! 20 I hear, — oh, hear! — through night's resound- ing halls 'Tis thee he calls. Beloved, on thee he calls, — That thou may'st come. Beloved, may'st come again And when thou comest, evermore remain ! DREAMS Why should I die, if I such dreams can dream ? After the hours when all things shadows seem And love is only pain There come the sweet caresses of pale night When she unveils her loveliness to sight And woos to dreams again. 'Twas but a dream, — and yet it is not gone ! I feel its presence yet ; ah, till the dawn, — Perhaps the livelong day, — My heart may still be singing with delight, — Still, in the sky and on the earth, a light Shine, and not pass away ! What was the dream ? — I only partly know ; I knew the voice that whispered sweet and low ; The hand that— almost ! — I pressed ; After a strange mistake, and grief in vain. Almost it was as it had been again. Some time I'll dream the rest! 21 NIGHT Nay, drive me not away again! For thee I live, or live in vain ! Must I, then, fleeing slander 's tongue, Forsake thee, lest it do me wrong? A higher dream my young heart seeks, Ahungered for the mountain peaks, — Ah, let me by thy side remain ! ' I '11 ask for nothing in return, — Oh, do but let me stay, and learn To lift thy faint head from the ground And hold thee till a path be found Through dark vales to some twilight land Where cool springs run o'er purple sand. And pale in heaven the sweet stars burn ! 'Ah, bitter is thy need!" The maid. So speaking, laid her hand on mine And gently as a spirit freed, Or from its nest a bird will lead. To where the needles of the pine Lie thickest, led me, unafraid. RUTH Beersheba's road that led from Dan, Or Boaz ' field when Ruth was seen, Not lovelier than the path which ran Where Ruth, — immortal, — wept between The hill-top pasture and the wood! There, like a fallen sumac gleaming, The cardinal wove his thread of flame. And eyes were with a promise beaming Naomi would have understood, And like a shower the tear-drops came. Ah, me ! — that hers, the tenderest, The clearest, sweetest life of all, Should soonest lose its little best, — 'Ere yet might wholly fade and fall The lilies of an Eastern morn (As some frail vine which hath caressed A stricken tree, apart is torn By idle winds), should withering lie Or, panting for the light, should die ! ROSES Still as fair the flower we planted Near these walls by dead hopes haunted O'er its trellis, where we spaded Climbs, by strangers' fingers aided. Long and pendulous, like a vine, It hangs in the dusk its roses fine. And whenever too starless my night appears And the pain of longing too keen for tears, I enter this garden, by all unseen. And linger where thou and thy care have been. The trellis, then, like an altar stands. And I bow before it with clasped hands: And I know, wherever thou kneel in prayer. One name, unforgotten, is murmured there. 23 A DRYAD Ah, who so fair a soul would stain With guilty sense of others' pain? (I marked not then, in Druid aisles, These painted windows rich in story, — Those oriels filling dim defiles With the brief wealth of evening's glory, I only saw the light that glowed Around thee and, upon thy hair, The ruddy wine the sun bestowed Until its waves were overflowed, — And thou, — with radiance everywhere. And drank the effluence more divine From thy calm eyes and wholly thine;) For who can mend the ruined vase The morning-glory once lets fall. Or who within the nest replace Its winged loss, or back may call The perfume which the rose that dies Trails thro' the portals of the skies. Or love's first sigh, more fair than all? FORGOTTEN I SEEK for peace beneath the murmuring leaves Where deepest lie and rot in mould their kin, And in the heavens where busy midnight weaves Her charms the palpitating dome within Until it gleams and murmurs like a shell, And on the lapping waves of blue that bear 24 Sometimes to pleasant lands, where ever dwell The radiant dreams that flee from ours. There The dead day riseth as a night more fair: And then I seek it 'mid the cries of pain Where fellow-travelers bleed and faint and fall, For thon would 'st go — and I be left — again — A parting far more bitter yet than all — If from the iron in my soul I wrought No ribs for frailer barks with sorrow fraught. And so I seek what on before me flies, And sometimes, when I sleep, it softly lies Upoii me like a mantle dearly bought. AUTUMN Is autumn come or summer still advancing? Beside the path the scarlet sumac falls ; Like larger swallows, through the twilight glancing. The night-birds throng; no more the partridge calls ; The hillside rain (pale warriors homeward trooping When war is over) blurs the whitened trees ; Beside the hopeless bud, resigned is drooping The finished flower, which the faithful breeze Caresses ever with a touch more tender. Now is there pause, for now at length is won From nest and field the harvest, fat or slender. Now can we bear of those whose race is run To think, at least, they rest, if not again To greet us ever. Now the meek September Exerts herself with golden stress, in vain. Puffing her cheeks at summer's dying ember. 25 Now in the trees there sounds a minor tone For him whose hopes in life, not death, are thwarted, Who cannot feel that only he is lone. But let us leave this to the broken hearted, And look how that which careth for us all Is busy where the bees and apples fall. FRIENDSHIP The gamut of the less and larger hills Which swells beneath the touch of autumn's fingers. From the torn bosom drives its flock of ills ; And where the great notes end there lifts and lingers A prophecy or promise, which a mind That is not like the owl at midday flying By hate pursued, but loves all human kind. In part may read. And from the oaks replying, A voice mysterious doth softly tell One secret of the many: ''All is well." And felt, not seen, the presence doth descend Of him who, friendless 'mid his wheeling spheres, Made the vast mind of man, to comprehend Himself and them, and gave it love and tears. LUCY Ah, touch those minor chords again, — They steal away a nameless pain ; 26 And let me take that little flower, So pure, so fresh, so sweetly fair. Its odor seems to share the power Which hides within that simple air, To wake the true and beautiful, With hovering wings unseen to lull To peace beyond compare! Play on, that I may close tired eyes And dream of honeyed hours gone by, Or waken in a paradise That not as far away doth lie. Seeing revealed the glory of thy soul, Catching its sweetness in the notes that roll In great waves by, — Feel thy heart throbbing in the notes that roll Their great waves by ! Play on, — now evening thro' the bar Shepherds the loitering flocks of night, And on a sea of peace doth rock afar The cradle of a newly born delight Beneath a sky of love without a stain ! — Ah, play, dear child, and play, and play again, Until — good-night ! SONG * ' To bless — not gain ' ' is love 's refrain, And so 'twill be forever, — The heart must die and live again, And self lie dead forever, 27 Or thou shalt know the sacred glow Of love 's delight — ah, never ! Oh, come and know how deep is woe - How near thou art to Heaven; Oh, come and feel a music peal Which jars the gates of Heaven, — Oh, come and fare where angels are And peace and prayer at even ! MEMORIES When no one sees The burning tear-drops unforbidden well From thoughts that may in utterance find no ease — Secrets that partly to ourselves we tell When no one sees. When none are near the pitiless shadow feeds As it may please And, ravening, stirs the bones of evil deeds; Yet, mid the dross, and fairer so, may spring, Beneath the trees, A few white buds, along the path to fling Some fragrance, and more welcome tears may bring When no one sees. DOROTEA Thou art a powerful sorceress whose spell All near thee weakens; 28 Thou art a rock uncharted,— all in vain Are towers and beacons ! Thine is the modest loveliness only bared By flowers at even; Thy heart is sweeter than within them lie The dews of heaven. Thou art the limitless depth of space,— the soft Blue veil that hides it ; Thou art the ocean's dark abyss, the wave. The bird that rides it. Like flashes from a dread volcano 's cloud Shoot thy swift glances, — As music 'er the moonlight water stealing, Thy sigh entrances. Idly they doubt or fear ! — ^to pluck a flower Gives pain to thee, Thou silent dove upon a masthead clinging Far out at sea! Thou art an angel, weary and disheveled, With feet that bleed. Bringing a light to one within the shadow His steps to lead, — Nay, not an angel either, — one still dearer To anguish human: Thou art, — when one beholds with vision clearer, — A little woman ! 29 HOLDING THE REINS A GOLDEN chariot swift is driven From ocean to the fields of heaven, And there its white steeds champ, all sweat- ing From the steepness of their pull; Silver tones their hoofs are beating ; From their harness beautiful Jewels glance and gleam like dew. They hurry thro' the fields of blue. Flowing mists their necks adorning. While a boy that heeds no warning, But that fearful height disdains, Sits and pulls the silken reins. But the bravest meet disaster ; And the steeds run faster and faster Till, amid the unseen dangers. Strikes a golden wheel. The bridle. Straining, breaks. Then, as a stranger's. Hear those steeds his shoutings idle. They are loose and wander free. Here and there o'er land and sea. Till the old sea-hunger stings them And their own wild nature flings them Forward over crags and snows. Downward each then leaping goes. Past the topmost pines, unresting, — Past the eagles, madly breasting Danger thousandfold, — still lunges Onward (while a white nymph plunges By him, clinging to his mane). Back to the ricks of foam again. 30 DRIFTWOOD There is a book which drifted long unread, And in it wild-flowers pale and long since dead ; A poem called ' ' The Book of Job ' ' therein Also is found, 'mid tales of God and sin. And one brief scrawl which spells to memory 's eye As precious words as in its covers lie ; For there, in girlish style, is lightly penned The name of her, a first and dearest friend, — Of one who was when in the skies o'erhead As yet a glory shone (with her it fled!) Freely she lived, — nor bowed she to the high. Nor scorned the low, but lent a ready sigh To each one 's sorrow, with a kindly smile For all but those who gossiped and the vile. One only other woman's name those pages As good as she have snatched from ruined ages. Unmarried, ''Miss" she wrote and not the name I knew so well, — I ne 'er had seen this other ; And as I read it, through the tears that came, I smiled to think a *'Miss" should be my Mother. PEACE MY comrades, why such eagerness and hasting, Such gulping down of life and never tasting ? I am going, — you may tarry here in town. The trees do not hurry in their growing, 31 Nor even the little flowers to their blowing, Nor the red leaf to its fall among the brown. Ye will not hide yourselves where I shall hide me, Where fern and laurel linger green beside me, And soothe the hectic year with dreams of spring ; Ye will not know the wild primeval feeling When solitude and stillness, gently stealing, Untie the cords that bind the spirit 's wing ; Ye will not hear life's undersong the ocean Singeth around the keen ship 's quiet motion And the cedars and the hidden rivers sing. SHADOWINGS Beneath the smoky rafters of the pines The cedar's censer swung. And, bending in the chancel dim and bare, A maiden spirit all her wealth of prayer From mines of sorrow wrung Poured on the quivering stillness of the wood; For then was heard No wildwood cry, — no dreaming bird, — No voice but of the throbbing of her blood And beating of the waves of upper air, — Prayed for a mortal's love, — Of immortality and barren ease Sick now to death, as of a slow disease. Unpitying, cold, upon the depth above Her ship of pearl, 'mid softly scudding seas. The chaste moon steered. "Oh, soon! — oh, soon ! ' ' 32 The wan one sighed and sighed again, As if in answer: ''Pain? — yea, death and pain, — Yes, give me these, that I may be like him And he may love me ! Oh, disrobe me all Of power, and with mortal passion dim A form that blinds and awes, and quick let fall The triple veil of light which hides this brow From mortals, — let him love me! — now, — oh, now ! ' ' She waited. First came shadows, warm and blent With many odors sweet and pungent, — sent As heralds of a presence of delight, — And lo, was heard the spirit of the night : *' Behold!" she cried, "thou fool and traitor base To piety and realm and ancient race, — Thou Shalt be mortal ! " " Oh ! By what strange words to give me all ! " "Yea, strange to thee, but stranger shalt thou know: When that our messenger did fetch thy prayer. Came one from him thou seekest to thy fall : ' Make me, ' that starry youth, whose stream- ing hair Doth like my girdle glitter, cried: ' If in thine eyes my secret heart is fair. Make me a deathless spirit of the air ! ' I heard him, and to mortal ken, he died. ' ' 33 Then as a star a heavenly beauty glowed 'Ere it was quenched, and onward swiftly strode The mighty presence, while a woman there Fell fainting, like a wilful, loveless bride. THE FEATHER Senora, let much fanning be And listen : there is on my mind Or in my blood, a word for thee ; And I would have it soft and kind. The gold rim on thy languid arm, The whiteness of that small white glove For such as thou may have a charm, — Not truth, — not loyalty, — nor love. ' ' Oh, love, — my love, — is low desire, — 'Twas clear that, since our game began. 'Twas not thy fault if too much fire Was kindled by a careless fan. **Jose would not insult thee so." Such coquetry as coiled and sprung! With kindly words, — 'tis best, — I go. But who would dream ? — and one so young ! ' Jose can love a woman well : He holds her kindly in his arms. And Jose 's not the man to tell How much he knows about her charms. ' ' 34 Jose — ^Jose! Yes, — yes, — I know. And yet I deemed this woman good : Dreamed that but holy fires could glow In eyes so soft ! 'Twas but a mood — One sweet hour wandering from far days To shrivel in the glare of shame. Don Jose take thee! — go thy ways! Play on with other hearts thy ' ' game ! ' ' How daintily that raven hair She decked for me with trembling spray Plucked from a living bird ! She 'd wear My love thus for some Don Jose ! ' More love ! Ah, love is but a word For silly maidens of sixteen! For thee the dance, — the eyesight blurred With wine, and kisses crushed between. ' I stay too long, — my presence tires ; But this, the final time, thou 'It bear The torture, since Jose admires Thy patience toward me. ' ' Have a care ! Senora, if not love, there 's fear ! What have I said? Ah, stay, — yet stay! For if 'tis pain to have thee near, I shall go mad with thee away! * ' I must forgive, then, this, — the worst ? So, thou wilt drag me in the dust ? Yet, by thy dark-eyed beauty cursed, I love thee still, because — I must. 35 ?) Nay! — wherefore cast beneath thy feet That feather? — it is fair to see. ' ' That crime thou never shalt repeat. ' ' My pain, alas, was naught to thee ! But have I erred and done thee wrong? Jose? ''I am thy Don Jose! To me, — a fool, — thou dost belong ! " A pardon, on my knees, I pray! ALONE Oh, tell me, dost thou blame and hast thou sorrow ? — Dost brood on that wild hour When thou didst beg of me, — didst pray to borrow Wisdom, or calm, or power Which lay beyond thee and thy heart of woman, — That lost hour when I could Have stilled and left thee — had we been less human — Had I myself withstood, — When, with my all of dark laid bare before thee, — Full many a spot and stain. Thou could 'st not stem the flood-tide that rushed o'er thee From the uncharted main? Ah, we have seen each other well! — one only Thus such as thou behold, 36 But after, dear, the world is nowhere lonely, The heart grows never cold. Now never may our Pleiades unheeded Before thee spread their skein. Nor quite may fail the faint, the sorely needed Hope all will be again. So, then, dream on! Ah, wake not from a dream- ing In which thy heart's all lies : All peace, all promise, be it sooth or seeming, The starlight of such skies ! GOSSIP * ' Good morrow, ' ' said the butterfly. And fain with him would prattle; The tortoise winked a weary eye At all her tittle-tattle. Said she to me : "I know, ' ' said she, Why his politeness fails him. He cares not how his neighbors be And nothing ever ails him; **A life of scorn for all things born He stingily doth spend it, And slyly hides from morn to morn. So time forgets to end it. * ' Such sinners can be touched, ' ' said she, "And stirred to great emotion, — 37 It needs the merry fire, you see, To set some hearts in motion." (( But thou, ' ' said I, ' ' what life is thine That thou may est scorn thy brother 's ? I know thee ; thou dost play and dine, — What dost thou for the others?" "Before a drooping girl I fly To paint her cheeks with roses, — I light a twinkle in her eye And fill her hands with posies. ''I am a living ecstasy, The handmaid of the fiowers ; I bring their dresses, which you see Hung in the sunny showers ; "The plumage of sweet thoughts am I— Fair Venus' fairest daughters, The wings whereon they fioat and fly 'er woods and fields and waters. "I tear my mummy-cloth and rise (All poets know my duty) To mirror gleams from Paradise Of hope and joy and beauty!" I would have answered, but the tips Of Psyche's fingers pressing, Did gently seal my angry lips. And left the tortoise guessing. 38 JEPTHA'S DAUGHTER I LOOKED, — and she was gone ! She had been there Before there came a darkness everywhere, For plain was seen (And nothing else mine eyes would see at all) The dogwood leaf a trembling hand let fall Where she had been. Into the depths of fatherhood had swept Another flood, — those deeps whose billows slept In restless rest When the pale moon, but not the sun, returned ; That shone no more ! — its sunken glory burned Beyond the west. My sorrow's child stood splendid and serene, — No thought of self, except as all had been Vain sacrifice For one, now hopeless, she had lived to cheer. With upward look she spoke (and shed no tear) : * ' Through pain we rise ! ' ' An amulet, — a relic, — now I wear (That last brave word so sweetly spoken there), A jewel bright As those that shine glad lovers' eyes to please. Kindled in shells by throbbings of disease In deep-sea's night. COMFORT Where the bare white bones are bleaching, And the bare black arms upreaching ; 39 Where last summer 's face is blotted, Blurred and crumpled, marred and spotted Till it never may again Lifted be from mire and rain, — There I hide me from the city; From men 's gazes and their pity ; From their praises and their scorning, In the chillness of the morning, — In the darkness or the light Which is neither day nor night, — And, when limping rabbits shiver, And the loose vines drip and quiver. And only on the laurel's fingers Glinting leaf of green yet lingers; Then, — ah, then! — the blessed cold Quenches thought to ashes old. SERE Where'er I turn, the pungent smell of leaves. The odor of their fatal fever, — flies ; For, like a serpent through the forest trailing, Creeps now the busy one that never dies. Crosses the one that never is across. And leaveth blight along the track he weaves. And yet I cannot hear a sound of wailing, — And yet I do not feel a sense of loss. As calmly as to watch the billows break, I gaze upon this manifold decay, 40 Delighting in its green and gleaming jewel Of laurel leaf, with settings brown and gray, Half thankful that the trees are naked all, And loving for their own pathetic sake (Not longing for the spring-time and renewal) The tender, clinging kisses of the fall, — Too glad for desolation thus complete To draw me down and fervidly caress, — To whisper in the hollows of my heart The secret things of utter calm distress. To hide me and to still me from alarms, — To coax me and to lead my weary feet, — From every wish to win me far apart Save this, — to rest, — swoon, — perish in such arms! THE MISER Nov^, like a mute, bedraggled dove. Day quivers, wounded, where it lies ! And softer are wan memory's cries. And kind, lean down grey clouds above. Not here the white reproachful gleam, The cold, hard candor of the skies. Or fleckless covering that lies And makes last summer's face a dream. Not here pure snow-drops high o 'er eaves, To be like angels' footsteps lifted, But dingy shreds by each wind shifted Through miry pathways when it grieves. 41 Yet here, where ragged mould reeks wet, . The green leaves glint in cameo white. The rich red berries flame out bright, And tremble priceless sprays of jet. Ah, here I love to hide my woe, — My jewel (while with hers the wild Doth soothe me like a sobbing child). My dearest jewel, — in the snow ! THINE ANGELUS Dawn and eve and eve and dawn Come with dews and come with rain, For the roses, — roses gone, — Still bring thee dear thoughts again. Dawn or eve, if dark or fair. Little doth my darling care. Blithely as the mock-birds run. Flaring over dawn's pale grass. Or white pigeon in the sun Swings to feel eve 's breezes pass, So thy soul doth find or leave Sweet repose at dawn or eve. Gently bells ring through the morn, Gentlier at the close of day, Einging into hearts forlorn Comfort and the grace to pray; Ringing tears, but tears divine For that happy heart of thine. 42 SUNSET When its great white bloom the land Opened 'neath a dawn serene Help was none, — on every hand Sorrow wounded clear and keen : Like a desert lay the pain That we ne'er should meet again. Now at eve wide seas between Are a story that is told, — Years, farewells that might have been ; Unseen arms, — thine arms! — enfold My lone eyes like brooding wings. And thy love is near and sings, — Sings me to the far-off day When thy smile would flatter grief Even in a mother's way, — Sings of life no longer brief Together, and a rainbow nigh Trailing roses through the sky. TO THEE! No campo santo sees thy form in stone, Yet hast thou truly a memorial, — one As loving, — not more sure to melt away ; For it is 1, whom thou hast left so lone : — It is I, only,— ah, the glittering whole Not ample were of heaven from pole to pole To fill the measure of a tomb for thee, Could any tomb bring comfort to thy soul! 43 But it is I who, as the beads are told Upon Time's rosary of jet and gold, Still wait to learn the secret thou should 'st know, — What, at the end, his fingers may unfold. SONG As, with upraised wings descending. Pigeons end their long, lone flight, — So she Cometh, slowly wending Through the waiting hush of night: Comes to speak of love unending, — Comes to be my one delight, — Whispers of no radiant morrow After years and years of pain, — Sobs a tale of others ' sorrow They and she can ill sustain, — Comes to bring, — to bring and borrow Courage to go on again. AFTER The one that slept had wakened in this child Whom both had loved. Beside her he beheld A hope that sobbed in passing, wan and wild. She knew not ; but through childish otherwise. Before her time her heart of woman swelled To dry the secret mist that dimmed his eyes. 44 But this from him she hid, as he from her And others better hid his pain. Afar She felt one wish within her bosom stir, — One only wish, — it wonld not let her rest; She watched him with her pity, like a star That throbbeth for another in the west. But after, when the storms were overpast, When round about him weltered leaden peace And she was something more than child at last, Their pathways led together, and the two. Bearing an old-time yearning, with increase. Long silent stood : from silence, then, they knew. COME! Child, rest awhile in mine thy flitting hand. Thy heart's horizon, to the silver brim With sunshine filled, if wider, might grow dim. Thou can'st not have thy daisies and a ring. Ah, if thou listen, do not understand ! But come and love me, — all thy treasures bring. I do not seek the things that glad thine eyes,^ I do not hear the music in thine ears; Nor thou the far, faint strains from wondrous years, Nor thou the sobs of dear caressing hours ! And what I have is fairer than the skies, But what thou boldest, Darling, only flowers. 45 EVENSONG Now from the shadows fly the swifts, Irene, As we have watched them fly, And from the darkened years return Lost doves of memory, — And odors of a purple land Where linger thou and I, Unknowing, near the parting of the ways, Irene, Like children who, in play, Are lost, — quite lost, — upon the shore Of one fair summer day. For now from eve 's awakening hours The veil hath dropped away, Which seemeth all too near to me, Irene, Too dreary and too bright; Which hideth from the longing eyes The beauty of the night And from the lonely heart shuts out A heaven of sweeter light. IRANIAN 'Tis she whom I could doubt when near Illuminates these pictured skies, — More bright than fall of pity's tear Or dew in lily lies, — She, lovelier than the moon and star Wan evening in the ear of night 46 Departing hangs ; more dear by f ar,— As dear as lost delight, — Yea, down the billowy desert's coast, Its gilded capes that ring afar, 'Tis music 's tones I love the most The palpitating skies unbar, — For through the wild a splendor sings Which, singing, to my heart replies All melted are the frozen springs, The buried longings rise. THE SECRET PLACE Ah, I would pluck the heart of darkest night And I would steal the bleeding sunset's heart To hang rare jewels there, or with delight Wring tears from thee, beloved though thou art. To deck with dew my offering of flowers That fades and fails within a few short hours. Dear, only thou may'st enter, — thou and I, — And only thou and I may ever know Where two far golden lamps that hang on high (Gilding the darkness of the aisles below) Down alabaster walls soft shadows fling, Like plumes that fall from some fair angel's wing. Like music is the turning of a door; Like ecstasy the trembling of a veil: 47 Ah, lead thou on ! be near, but on before, — For too much hope hath made my courage fail, — Ah, if thou wilt, go nearer, love, to them, And on the threshold kiss their garments' hem. All night long a beauty like the moon ! All night long a sweetness like the stars ! Softer than the waves of afternoon, To and from the temple's dome and spars, Carrier doves athwart a desert fly. And white the desert looks up at the sky. MINOR CHORDS In the spring the young birds have their mating. But thou hast only pain ! Full many are the seasons of thy waiting, And wilt thou hope again? Thou lovest, — thine are glimpses of that beauty For which all living yearn, — Foreshown in silent hour to toil and duty And secret tears that burn ; And thine love's changeless certainty, the feeling Which will not be denied. Which hears, beyond the dreadful thunder pealing. The gay returning tide ; 48 Which sees, about the tower slow bells are shaking, The fair white pigeons fly j Which waits, how near soe'er the heart to breaking, — Still waits and will not die! AUTUMN LEAVES Full sad went he and slow ; but on before The other ran, with fluttering skirts of white. He paused and mused beside the brooklet's shore, Where beech-trees in their images delight. Full sad was he, and knew, — or deemed he knew,— No hope should rest upon a heart so young : A girl, — a child, — a butterfly that flew. Forever gay, the dancing flowers among. But there is other wisdom : as the doe Noteth the leaf, so innocence at play Heard a faint sigh, the falling leaf of woe, — Heard and drew near, and would not go away. SCENERY Nay, there was dust within mine eyes Thou see 'st 'tis a gusty day. Look! where an eagle circling flies! I think I'll put the book away. For 'tis not well a scene like this By reading idle verse to miss. 49 Look, dear, how like a band that binds A lady 's hair yon torrent winds ! ' ' Right fair and bright it seemed ? " I know. "A pretty name the maiden had?" Perhaps. When thou shalt older grow Eecall the song, — 'tis not so bad, And, read by thee in some far year, Ah, may it then as bright appear ! Yes, child, remember, read and pray For him who did not read to-day. TELL ME At God 's winepress now, slow draining. Dost thou taste unfinished wine Blessing it, or uncomplaining. Or in secret heart repine For a draught long past attaining, For a dreamed cup divine? Seem the deeper vision taught thee, Thy sweet gifts which sanctified What the leanest harvest brought thee, Now as blest as dawns that died, And the potter 's hand that wrought thee. Pity's, — dear as aught beside? On one road, in one dim region, For one day of changing sky, — Tell me, has thy heart's religion Failed thee : is it best to lie 50 Calm, but silent, while in legion Words that could be deeds go by ? As the bee seeks honey merely, — Heedless of all else doth fly, Loved, to love again sincerely, — Souls like thine for this would sigh, — Loving, to be loved as dearly, — Though in gardens of the sky; And it helps to think that, choosing Now, thou would 'st, for all the blame, Little for thyself but losing. Lift a sweeter face the same. Wide-eyed, wistful, unrefusing, Hiding not the tears that came. Much it helps, where much is needing. Thinking, if a secret thorn That beloved breast is bleeding, 'Tis the loveless live forlorn; Thinking of low paths receding, — Of a higher hope newborn. EASTER Ruth sat beside him, silent, moving not, Her thoughts on him, and sometimes on the child, Than she more fair and wise and wonderful, — Sat in the dreary gleaming of the sun. The sadness and the waiting of mid-morn, By life, as by a breathless globe, shut in. 51 Near, from the eaves, the last of melting snow Shed glittering drops o 'er sepulchres of flowers. Of these he thought, — how they ere long would rise Clear, holy spirits : he could see them now As they would doff their dusty cerements. Of these he thought, until one gleam of peace Came, like a wandering sea-gull, lingering not. At him, and chiefly at his eyes, he knew She could not look. And when, full suddenly, Loud bells with anguish shook the Easter morn, He thought, perhaps her strength will not avail, And so he called her name. ASPHODELS On Saturn's rim hath stood my soul To lasso comets with a thought And glittering balls in play to roll ; But soon, with cosmic sorrow fraught, It sighed again for earth's control, — It longs to drink the breath of flowers Again, in these love-haunted bowers. A hand now sweeps the dusky lyre Aerial, — first by. notes possessed More bright than crackling leaves on fire, And then, like birds that hush to rest, Deserting, one by one, the choir, — 'Tis thou, with fingers dripping balm, midnight, and thy radiant psalm! That call of soul to soul! — oh, hear! — From that sweet heaven adust with stars! 52 At last, — oh, come! — no more I fear The rending of the veil that bars, — Knowing the asphodels are near, — The lilies and the asphodels And one who close beside them dwells. BACK FROM THE DESERT Out of that desert did I lead the way Where on love's manna, hiding, we had fed. There for a thousand years we thought to stay, Unfound, unsearched for, as the lonely dead. There wert thou, in the night and in the day. Beside me, Beloved, — day and night No change e'er bringing save a new delight, — Far, where the wings of grief could never fly, — Far, where the future and the past were not. But, in the midst of sweetness a deep sigh Heard I, when sighs had been so long forgot. I heard it, and I feared to ask thee why ; And thou could 'st not have answered. Sad and weak, I pondered long, and found no word to speak, But led thee forth into the darkening west. I should have known. Beloved, hearts like thine Do crave a life of pleasure all divine. And, blessing not, have never yet been blest. HAST THOU FORGOTTEN? Thou who not yet in Beatrice 's train Art numbered, but from scenes familiar lost 53 No less than she, I marvel dost thou mind How, by thy primal innocence, and trust As infantine, and by an answering care Thy spirit clear was cherished ? Thou wert then Forever turning that to drink which made Thy life, as lily toward the light: less fresh A new-leafed willow trailing wet with dew : Gay as a duck, by distant thunder roused, Fanning with wide-uplifted wings the air, When the rain whips and whitens the black lake And fitfully the gusts are in the trees. Hast thou forgotten how thy heart approved And welcome gave to duty, toil and care For others, — how the touch of grosser thought Grew painful, and to harm an insect 's wing Seemed harder than to suffer grievous wrong ? Hast thou forgotten, thou of those the last Permitted for a time fair days to bless. How, in the haven of a chosen dell. Like a deep water was the peace ? Through din Of wheels and men, the city 's wide unrest. It left us not ; and still the folding star Was seen more exquisite, and evening Settled more sweetly, and the world was kind. The woods, the streets, the thought for others,- these Can never be unbeautiful again. 54 ALSO Beside the desert toss their flames again The kindling poppies in the breath of dawn. The level sunbeams shimmer, and the plain Is threaded with the morning song of birds. I hear again, as friend's familiar words, A thistle leaf that halts and scrambles on. Within the watered fields, the yellow wheat : Along their waters, poplars white and tall ; And overhead a sky serene and sweet Stained by a crescent, like a flying bird : A quiet deeper for the whisper heard Of solace, by a passing breeze let fall. And there a maid, like wheat and poppies fair, Leadeth her sheep to water at a well. The shepherds, resting in the shade, declare 'Tis Laban's daughter,— for a stranger youth Who gazeth on her, eager seeks the truth ; And they, not knowing, of his uncle tell. Now is a glad first service kindly done,— The first of, oh ! how many yet to be ! For her he rolls away the heavy stone Shutting the spring ; and thinks it not amiss Of peace upon her cheek to press the kiss. To tell his coming homeward hasteth she. And then begin long waitings of a heart Untainted, Beloved, like thine own,— 65 But, ah, the thought of thee, — of what thou art And how it is with thee, so far away ! Also to thee shall seem but as a day Twice seven years, though parted and alone, — For that which I have seen within thine eyes And thou in mine, and they so long ago, Is changeless as the loves in Paradise, — Primeval, — new, — eternal! Days and years Shall mark it not, but only such pure tears Of gladness or of sorrow as may flow. SHADOWS The suns will set, the hills and plain By stillness flooded be again; White pigeons, greater flakes of snow, Again will melt in evening 's glow ; But when all wandering wings are fled. What shall be left thee in their stead ? Thine eyes shall look and look again, Thy heart not crave a look too plain Lest these, — thy last, — ^should fade away (They could not wholly fail to bless,) — From roses of a better day The shadows in thine emptiness. But patience! — though no promise smile. No self-deserting in thy need! Be patient ; let no thought or deed Thy wounded heart defile. So, take thy burden and, — farewell! The worst of all thou could 'st not know 56 The goblet from thy hand that fell, The day-dreams that forever go, Must leave thee yet the pure delight Which ever, through the longest night, Makes sweet the tears that flow. THE DELL It is so long, old trees, it is so long, Ye crouching flowers beside the path that speak Remembered things together, and thou stream 'erstrewing these with purity and light, — It is so long ! When did I hear, from out beyond the wood. The voice of one who called me as she came ? The squirrels stopped to listen, and the birds, 'Ere I could speak, made answer as she came, — It is so long ! These saw her haste to greet me, — saw her hair, — As thine, bright spirit of the waterfall, — Trembling and tossed with gladness, in the noon Of days too brief,— too brief, but all joy's own; It is so long ! The dell,— ah me ! — unchanged ! The hermit nun, Peace, for her refuge chose it. Slowly here Unfolded, one by one, of that fair soul What petaled thoughts and precious impulses ! It is so long ! 57 Perhaps 'twas wise to bid her to forget, — Perhaps she changed, — ah, would it had been true! Yet looks which once did greet me with delight I shall not see, if we shall meet again, — It is so long ! No ! — I shall see, if I such eyes can bear, — A look shall see, — passionless, sweet child. What shall I see, since all these lonely years, — ■ What hear within thy voice, if that can speak ? — It is so long ! IRANIAN REST What would 'st thou, my soul, would 'st only see New green, and that shall not again be brought The cup of Indian summer, anguish fraught, — Or leave the lonely darkness of the night Though there walks beauty in her noon of might, Her bird Iranian challenging afar And hearkening an answer from some star, — Or shun to hear the Master when he sings Because of clouds and showers that lurk behind The golden calms that brood upon his mind. Nor think on her, a fair Rose radiant made To comfort illness hopeless and afraid, Nor on a faded bridal garment shown With trembling secrecy to one alone? Time o 'er the minor chords will move his hands, As hers the sea along the starlight sands. As in long afternoons the faint wind clings Amid the forest's many -bended strings; 58 And this is of earth's music, and must be Or all be lost. The sweet birds ring throughout the rocky vale Their friendly answers or some fonder tale, — A valley into which the jagged blue Like to a broken bowl is falling through. Here pale, thin poplars murmur to the stream At moments, grudged from some delicious dream, And in the palpitant air a crag is swung Too near o 'erhead, its horny forehead hung With opal trinkets borrowed from a sky, "Which loves in shameless nakedness to lie: By night, like beacons of terrestrial wars, Burn on this crest the many-clustering stars. Here ragged-robins, peeping through the wheat, Wild hollyhocks and clover, dragon-flies. Hanging adown their blue threads tanglewise. And many an herb of little fame I greet, — Old friends still faithful under these far skies : They knew it would be lonely not to meet Familiar faces here. As evening dies. Beside a rock volcanic I recline, (For in such setting rough the burnished grain, O'erripe, is striving now to stand, in vain,) Hearing anear the limpid waters rush, And drinking, now and then, aerial wine From cups of white and yellow ; for a bush Doth roof me over thick with eglantine, — To clasp and kiss which gentle cousin's charms A young wild apple crooks his knotty arms. 59 And yellow- jackets, wasps and honey-bees Have come to bring me other sweets than these Whereon so drowsily they seem to feed, — Sipped in fair gardens of Hesperides : There many a gnawing worm, amid the leaves, Of silken thought a precious coffin weaves, Wherein the star-winged lustres dreaming lie. All day serenely fair the breathing sky More still then ever rested. Now, at eve, A purple lily, tremulous and pale. Below the stamen of as pale a star. Stands, 'mid the jeweled hills, the silent vale. And now ye, ye griefs of other years. Sunk in a rotting muck of sin and shame, Folly, remorse and dross that shuns a name, Rise, white and holy, washed in secret tears, — Yea, purer than the flakes of snow that fly Aloft, new-shaken from their windy sieve! Why are ye here ? — why beckon one who fled So long, alas, so wearily, so far, — Beyond where poet first upon a height Set beacon, flashing to a distant hill In blackness lost, the pure Promethean light, — Through chasms, darker than man's spirit, fled, Past whipping vines and where grim talons seize The rocks in vain of long since vanished trees — By swooning cliffs where mortal madness dies And cataracts that quench pursuing cries? Long there he gazed on our great mother's throes, Self-sculptured, vast, and prayed such mightier woes 60 (Tho' sad it were by loss alone to gain) To blot all records, — all ! — that so, new-born, Unloved, unloving, lone he might remain, — Lone, but not lonely, — ^brother to the rock Which shoulders mountains with a tireless will And parries with a laugh the lightning 's shock. When the black hurricane her wings hath spread. And looks upon the years in silent scorn. A lake of calm, deep-folded, lured him here. Secure down-clambering, like a virgin rill, Or as a deer when all the heights are still. And lo ! unlooked for and unwished, appear Ye, the far-hidden, the forsaken, — ^yea. Outraged and soiled and madly thrust away ! Yet, let it be in mockery ye come, I hear such accents that I dare not say : *' Go!— leave me!" From before mine eyes there falls What is a darkness, but hath seemed a day ; Low voices, sweeter than of waterfalls Decking white roses with their glittering spray, Or thronging bees, when in the noon they hum Through jasmine arbor and more patient make A maiden at the loitering of the hours. Awaken one who deemed himself awake. To find in blossom long-forgotten flowers. These pour from out their lucid urns of blue Sweet incense, ye holy ones, to you! And ye, how kind ! — and all those fears, how vain ! thou Queen Sorrow ! — thou with all the grace Of new-made mother in thy sacred face, 61 Behold a dove, storm-parted, found again, That hath no wish save near thee to remain ! NIGHT IN GULISTAN 'Tis here the fearless bulbul, with a song, Alone dares brave the beauty of the night ! He pauseth oft and long Deep drafts to take of peace and of delight. Cheeking the silence when 'tis grown too strong And rapturously bright, Darkly enchambered in the silver trees, Disdaining sleep for more luxurious ease. Now through the nunnery of white blooms the sheen Of locust, apple, orange-blossoms, all May's prelude trembles. Seen By those thro' whom his loud, clear measures fall, The shadows lighten, and the lights between Are living wings. The tall Poplars beside the running waters keep Watch near the pools wherein their brothers sleep. FOLLOWING Thou whose eyes still keep the blue Of a heaven beyond our ken, Thou dost heavenly gates undo For thy melody, which then Falleth soft o'er domes and towers And o'er parched. hearts, like showers, For thy soul is tuned unto Sounds that sleeping angels dream Tones like thine, from urns of blue, Madder ages might redeem, With their sad and sweet refrains Waking what of tears remains. Softly as her star the moon, Or as sunset after rain. Or as faith and hope full soon Follow when buds wake again, So the wandering world ere long Follows thee and thy lone song. SONG Come with roses, — ring the bell ! Ring it well, — gay throngs are moving Round the carriage, laughing, shoving. What is life save only loving? Scatter roses, — ring the bell ! Bring ye lilies, — ring the bell! Ring the bell, — fair lids are smarting. Fair cheeks cold and fresh tears starting. There 's a death, — they call it parting, — There 's a death, — so ring its knell ! LADY Do but let me live awhile, Dainty lady free from guile, 63 Thou whose future and whose past Trouble never, but each pain Of another finds refrain And is all the woe thou hast. Let me stay, and have no fear, — Evil never could come here; Were it lost in this sweet place. It would in thine own surprise Share, and shrink and hide its face From the light that round thee lies. How thy laughter. Lady fine, Lifts me to a joy like thine ! — As the soft Italian skies Lift me, when the glad sun flings ( 'Mid the down of angels' wings) Ladders from the realms divine. Though no sisters of the faun, Though no daughters of the dawn Whom the drowsy flowers caress For thy handmaids worthy be ; Yet the grass thy feet may press, — Even the weeds are touched by thee. Being from some radiant sphere, Do but let me linger near, — Me, with many a wound and stain. For my dark night be a star ! — Light me, — bless me, — near or far, None the worse for what I gain. 64 HANDS Behold yon picture overhead Of life in Pozzuoli: A woman sewing — by her bed A shrine of virgin holy. Comfort thence she long hath sought (Hard her life and lowly) . Rest thee, dame, and pray awhile ! Tho' we passersby may smile. Yet we pass more slowly. Many a lady for thy cot Gladly would forsake her lot. If her jeweled hand, as thine Might, in melancholy. Rest in peace upon the shrine Passed in Pozzuoli. ECCE GuiDO, thine Eece Homo 's face may tell How high his faith has borne the Christian's art; Thy brain and hand have wrought it wondrous well. This Ecce Femina was by thy heart All pitifully drawn, — as like, we know, As that the judge who then could dare to slay A trembling dove already wounded so Did shrink from daily to his final day, — His pain like this we suffer now, — for us She punisheth, — one woman for them all. worthy Guido !— but we pray that thus No Guidos more may our rude hearts appall ; 65 But let our passing victims to the veil In peace withdraw such patient looks and pale, SERENE He might have died and she, alas ! lived on, He might have left her to her grieving here, Left one to whom, as woman, love was all. He thinks it is as well that she is gone. He who is left is dull, — even one so dear Eemembers little, — can but scarce recall Her features, — any save the tender eyes Wherein her soul, in all its beauty, lies. He thinks 'tis well, since both their hearts have rest. He thinks she was not for a world like this, — A world unkind or mad, which will not see Who are the good, — nay, even tho' the best. 'Twas sad he wakened from a dream of bliss. Yet not so sad, for, after all, 'twas he ; For, ah ! he thinks hath never left her eyes That dream, but comforts her in Paradise. LAZZARONE Where the lazy lazzarone Gulp their evening maccaroni Still the birds of black are flitting, Weaving auguries as ever. In a patient, slow endeavor, Or on ruined columns sitting. 66 Jeered these lazy lazzarone Caesar in his glory car When he flew the wild war eagle "Where the cloudy oceans are, — Gazed and gaped thro' all the stages Of the drama later ages (When a priestly finger lifted Bade yet larger scenes be shifted) Played where he had played at war ; Played at ruling far-off regions Which no Cgesar's bloody legions Saw, or ever dreamed so far ; While these birds of black, but changing For an old a newer column, To and fro, in silent, solemn Flight of augury, went ranging. Nero and Savonarola, Tarquin and Eienzi Cola, Tarquin's Lucrece and the dame Lucrece of another fame, Laughter, license, love and tears Twisting in and out the years ; And these faithful birds through all Auguring of good — not ills, Weaving o 'er thy deathless brow Ever some new coronal Fair as is the thin moon now Come again to deck thy hills. 67 CYPRESS The cypress plumes, as well they may, in Rome Mourn with a special beauty, and of all Fairest, as should be, cluster round the tomb Of one who heard their call. Here sorrow, in her everlasting home, His chant funereal For Adonais yet doth lean to hear Whose echoes fainted on the singer's bier. Ye seek all vainly for a third fair grave : She doth not lie where such a heart should rest — She who so rashly and so fondly gave The refuge of her breast That lorn Actaeon from his hounds to save ; But, slanting from the west. The loving sunbeams linger on the grass Above him, — then to Adonais pass. Twin spirits suckled in wild war by song, And to a heedless generation given. Sweetly they slumber! Here nor pain nor wrong May come. Their skiffs, far driven Beyond the pathways which to ships belong And by mad lightnings riven. Here, underneath their loved Italian sky. Together in earth 's fairest haven lie. 68 THE TRYST OF ALKAIOS 'Tis the hour of love, — Linger not, fair maiden. Sappho, here, above, All the boughs are laden With flowers, for curtains of My poet's home— my Aiden ! Sweet and clear the urn Of thy silver singing. Tears that bless and burn To thy fond one bringing : Love's best dreams return, Round his wild heart clinging. As the grapes from vines Hang thy cluster 'd tresses: More than all their wines Are thy fond caresses When the love-light shines O'er life's dark distresses. Thy throat uttereth Such a balmy breathing As the cedar 's breath In the night wind seething. Or that of flowers, their death In new glories sheathing. Brightly glows thine arm As the beams that tan it; 69 Lightlier moves thy form Than the airs that fan it ; Beauties rich and warm (Like the ripe pomegranate) Linger round thy mouth, And in dizzy whirls Pass, to where love's drouth Thy soft eyelid furls When the purpled South Spells that conquer hurls. Mgenad! — from wild hymns By love led apart, — Dian! — (breast and limbs^ — None of Dian's heart). Through whom madly swims Everything thou art, Hail ! — and farewell, care ! Joy now pain replaces: O'er thy queenly air Play now gentle graces, As about thy hair Light soft shadow chases. Wondrous keen wit's spear Now aside thou lay est ; Wondrous sweet to hear What full low thou sayest When in love drawn near Thou thy heart betray est ! 70 NIGHT IN THE DESERT Thou hast seen the wondrous miracle when o'er us, Where hung the sky and sun, In the transfigured depths are set before us The sweet stars every one, — 'Tis wondrous, as should further revelation Transform or hide each star, With our poor, fragile fleshly habitation, — All things that round us are, — And usher to our ken scenes yet more splendid Where love, this love we share, Should be by deeper harmonies attended In yet serener air, — Like trees we see in waters dimmed and broken. But over straight and tall, Should take a marvelous meaning, here unspoken. Fair dreams fulfilling all. WANDERING His father's cot, in valley sheltered deep And framed about with gently rustling leaves. Haunts the tossed sailor 's sleep ; A matted vine beneath a porch's eaves Makes sad far birds, whose breasts in absence keep A music which relieves : Me the wild flock of mountains whence I came Calls ever — elsewhere all is void or tame. 71 There the sleek beech is mottled o'er with light And scaly, like a serpent, lifts the pine. 'Mid dark green, burning bright, I love to see the gum-tree 's red leaf shine. There sprawls the grape, with reckless waste of might ; There moves the graceful line Of cat or snake, swift death in beauty furled, 'Mid noxious herbs, the wildwood's underworld. There on a royal couch of green to lie ! Ah, there, while near obsequious trees should wave Their gorgeous fans, could I Yield to soft waters and grey rocks they lave, To ladder-rungs of light that toward the sky Lift from the glimmering cave, — Hear unrepining voices, feel kind eyes Of some small poet, singing ere he flies ! THE DREAM OF RUTH A SPLENDOR trembling in a pallid form And therefrom tiptoed in the act to start, But pausing, angel- wise, at sight of harm To wounded creature, from the herd apart, — So ran my dream. Ruth, silent as a flower, Did look too long, too near, upon a heart 72 Which, little as a widowed bird, had power To conjure hope, — whose morn and noon and night Passed like the printless footsteps of an hour Or shadow of a far cloud's dizzy flight Which hastes o 'er summer fields and leaves no trace. She read what elder saw not, — she, a child, To him an airy elf, whose laughing grace Bespoke clear days by not one care defiled. So, as a child, he kissed her on the stair At bed-time, when she paused, — it seems he smiled And, knowing not, upon her wayward hair, Gently a consecrating hand let fall. But soon the parting, — she to placid hall Where kindly sisters kindness taught returned. He to the strife for which, till then, he burned. n And then years passed, — he heard men call them years. He marked them little; and again they met, Ruth still a child, with all that most endears Of sweet and true and helpful. No regret Within her heart's still precincts might abide, But thoughts which made her poorer to forget. More years, and lo ! a wondrous maid was there, — A rare, pale maiden ; and the child had died. Serener than the child's her look and air, 73 More prone, lie thought, to laughter ; and the rest (When they and Ruth and he drew side by side) Drank eagerly her song, her jest, her merry shout. Tremor nor sigh might have her leave to say She marked his presence. Into it and out She came and went ; and then passed on her way. And she of all seemed youngest, — and most blest. Young were her eyes, her smiles like opening flowers. Each day was cheated now of half its hours. Ill Well, be what will, the slowest years move on And changes come. So Euth, he knew, was changed ; For she is coming, all her girl days done. He saw, — he heard, — 'twas not as fear arranged. Forgotten peace was his, 'ere she was gone; And many loved her who are now estranged. But from her womanhood not yet was won Her heart 's lone secret, — more it never knew : 'Twas later guessed from broken words and few. IV There fell a noon ; and in the garden slept Tired summer, resting from maternal care Of flowers full-grown. Beneath a tree they kept 74 A drowsy vigil. Bees were fumbling there, Fretting the clover-blooms and cosmos tall. Then Rnth her long-hid kindness could declare (But scarce articulate were the words let fall), How she would bring young life to patient eyes,- How of her youth she strove to lend him all. Then, pointing to some testy wasps that made A meal of yellow apple, waits and tries Again to speak ; but, of more speech afraid, — ******* I dreamed still more ; but do not bid me tell ! And stranger than the dream was my surprise, And what in this dim waking world befell. FOREVER! A YOUTH who fled the city, all at war And heartsick with town slavery and din, Did stray into the wildwood long and far. And loud he swore to dwell for aye therein In lordly freedom. As he passed, he heard A calm, uneven song, which filled far lanes Of forest with the music of a bird, — A low, but cheerful song, whose clear refrains Perhaps a mate within her dark nest heard, — A free and fearless song, whose clinging strains His heartstrings first and then his footsteps drew, — A sweet and careless song, like one that rang Sometimes within a casement that he knew. Sung by a maid unconscious that she sang. 75 Soon, homeward bound, he took with him along, — And still his heart doth sing, — that careless song. FOLLY Thou knowest not the arrows That are blown from poisoned tongues. And thou knowest not the sorrows Of the gentle, or their wrongs. Turn thee back, thou foolish maiden, From a pathway sharp with stones Where the weary, overladen, 'Mid the vultures leave their bones. Nay, I reck not of thy warning, Tho ' I call it not untrue : Not in hope, nor yet in scorning. Shall I do what I shall do. Either with me or without me Thou must walk with feet that bleed ; And I marvel thou canst doubt me: I shall follow,— do thou lead.'' But what strength hast thou to wander All the way that I must go ? Ah, poor child, I bid thee ponder And an idle wish forego! Thou couldst only, by thy weakness, Hold me back or make me fall. I have often praised thy meekness. Now, farewell! — thy comrades call. 76 *'Hear me once and hear me ever: Well my feebleness I know ; And I fear that I shall never All thy hard way live to go ; And I know, too, as thou sayest, I shall harm thee with my need ; But, persuade me as thou mayest, I shall follow,— do thou lead." TWILIGHT Ah, Twilight, gentle spirit who arrayest Thy weak limbs in a robe of dusky grey, And every rare and pallid flower betrayest To deck with tenderest hues the bier of day, Leave thy sad task awhile, if so thou mayest, Ah, beauteous mourner, stay ! Not yet thy dew-bath, lady, hast thou taken : Come, cool those burning eyes and weary feet! Not yet the firefly and the moon awaken, — Not yet the swallow startleth, blithe and fleet. Ah, thou who minglest for a heart forsaken The bitter and the SAveet, Strike not that wretched bosom ! All thy sighing Will rescue not his breath who lieth there : Call thou no more upon the unreplying, But with the living such wild sorrow share ; At thy feet, in darkness they are lying With loads too great to bear, — 77 At thy feet, with weary hands extended To thee, that thou mayest take them in thine own ! In thine ear they murmur : ' ' It is ended, — We can no longer ! ' ' — in thine ear alone ; To thy mantle's hem their heads are bended, — For thou wilt heed their moan ! Thou that art friend to such as have no other, Whose hand doth heal the burning blush of shame. Ah, bring fresh airs, for many are that smother. And counsel bring, for well thou knowest to tame The wayward heart, — be patient, like a mother, For they are much to blame. FAREWELL Leave me that squirrel dropping his loud hull. Yon red-bird flaunting by in waistcoat fine. This water-snake, from noonday ardors dull. And these few, — other laurels all be thine ! I shall not lack for pomp, — a glittering spire Of sunlight o'er me, some odd reverend trees (Old friends that chide not, question not, nor tire), A shroud imperial pricked with golden bees. Go, — let me be ! My heart in liquid peace Lies like a trout. Yet tell me this alone : Thy friend's brief hour hath brought some woe's decrease. Or, like a bird, lent music ere 'twas flown. 78 INGRATITUDE Ye vast companions of man's vaster mind, Primeval habitants, of chaos born, "Whose inmost bowels man for gold hath torn, Whose horny skin hath ripped that he might find The still more precious wealth of golden grain, — Ye who have been his bulwark when he fought With beasts ; his school where liberty was taught, And fed his flocks in your most sacred fane ; For those things have ye little thanks, — no rest. Yea, after this, the wandering poets glean : These from your trembling blue, more thought than seen. Take further harvest, 'ere the drunken west Kindles your tops to make a funeral pyre For pale, dead day and sets the heavens on fire. THE CRADLE-LAND Rugged and bare the pathless mountains rise, Their jagged capes thrust out into the blue Of heaven's serenest ocean. 'Neath me lies (So poised a lighting eagle might undo) Full many a vast, misshapen ball of stone. Near-ripened for the hand of fate to pull; Below, the gleaming of the sand alone In billows rolled or lying tired and dull, — Scenes where, with Job 's lament, in verse began Our paltry record as it yet remains. 79 And here the sorrows and the ways of man Have altered little since. Below, the plains Cry : ' ' Vanity — all vanity ! ' ' Toward kindlier skies The fainting traveler lifts imploring eyes. BIRDS Sublime as chaos at the dawn of peace, Above, below, for distant eons wait Sheer precipices, in unseen decrease Still crumbling, like the fortunes of the great. Afar and lower, at the foot of all The blinded desert writhes beneath the sun. But overhead I hear the frequent call Of birds which hither, thither sail and run, By nothing save the joy of living driven ; And down the sunbeams, like a waterfall, Their rippling song is poured from quivering heaven When ecstasies oppress beyond control, — Sweet as the grace sent down to saintly soul, Or calm unto a sinner's when forgiven. HANDS INVISIBLE The sheep, as still as when the Grecian bard Caressed them with the sweetness of his song, Above thee lingered near a scanty yard Of ruined pillar. This might once belong To temple whither victors, battle-scarred. With hymns to gods now dead were borne along. 80 The blows of time have not thy glory marred, Milo! — calm as in the quarry's womb And fair as when grew pale the artist's brow, By thee made wild ! New risen from the tomb. Thine arms no votary decks with April's bloom : Forgetting pagan days, thou reachest now Hands all unseen, in pity for the doom, Not of old gods, but women sweet as thou. STILL FAITHFUL The fairest marble ever artist's hand Did kindle, stood where was, or may have been, Great Sidon, — now 'mid turbaned Turks doth stand, To outlive Stamboul. Light they had not seen, — Its Greeks and Persians, — many and many an age ; But not for hearts like theirs hath lost its joy This lusty life ! for yet they haste to wage Glad battle for their glorious Grecian boy Or Dar-yous, mighty King of Kings, beside; Or, where the almost-winded deer doth fly Those foes turned friends, on keen-limbed Arabs ride. Above the oblong marble's corners lie Four sleepless lions ; but enough of fear Casts beauty, tramping with her quivering spear. NOTHING Temples sublime which long had lived to tell New times the magic of their maker 's wand, 81 From reckless Turkish and Venetian shell Were called, when hopeless ruins, to withstand The stroke of war; and wondrous works in gold Or bronze soon tempted spoilers, ere the awe Departed from the stories which they told, Or sank beneath the ban of creed or law: But thou, Andromache, thou poet's breath, — Thou thing of naught, — dost linger by the side Of Hector, ere he hastens to face death. Thy cheek as fresh as when thou wert a bride : Thy soft eye dropped upon his infant's hand A tear not yet, — and never to be, — dried. ELIZABETH When the news at length they brought. With the pictures, letters, — sent All unopened (thus they thought More to please me, — kindly meant,) Like a wounded beast I fought, 'Ere into my soul it went. He was not the one to blame : Women are deceivers all! She ensnared him when he came. She, though pictured tame and tall. Would I might but know her name : It is false, — they could recall ! With the foremost rode he forth, On a steed as proud as he : Oh, the strife of south and north ! Not a braver heart could be. And he knew my beauty's worth, — Liars, — no ! — he loved but me ! Kind they call me, — careless all For a selfish loss or gain, Ready at a sorrow 's call, Claiming oft another's pain, — Cheerful, too, whate'er befall; — Tell me, does my beauty wane ? — "Would he think me now as fair? If he could not, would he find Still a trace on brow or hair, — Something left in heart or mind, Something left in look or air? Would it please, — they call me kind ? SWALLOWS For you the romping stream doth leap Huge boulders, and the lusty breeze Blow bugle notes and shadows sweep Refreshing billows through the trees, — Ye vagabonds, whose trooping call Makes heaven's blue bell ring musical. But dreary now the garden pond That waited through the sunny hours ; And desolate the trees beyond The high wall, and the darkening flowers: And lonelier still the silent sky, But lonely more than all am I : 83 And, maybe for a childhood's day Beside a stream in summer shade, And maybe for the friendly way They gossip near a love-vow made, I linger as when strangers stand With news from home on alien strand. Ah, maybe these are spirit kin Would lead still upward and afar The winged thoughts that stir within And pine and know not what they are,- So near they pass us by and call Back, as the deepening shadows fall. GENTUCCA Ye wondrous histories in words not told, Too tender to be touched! — of ye, not least, Christ with his sisters, — Dante, thou with her, The one that soothed thee, exiled and bereft, — Her from whose heart alone, I think, thy soul Drew what in many worlds it had not found, — Not her of whom that other 's chiding tells : ' ' Beware lest she, too, perish ! ' ' Leaves then turned Between ye, of a story, copied down, — This were a tale, indeed ! With thine her name, — I think she saw thee write it, and besought With thine to have it live, — her name remains. Did she not pray : ' ' Great Master and dear friend, If thou canst not go on, so fall the drops Thou sayest my friendship brings thee, leave my name 84 Unblotted there. " " And some will understand, ' ' Did 'st thou not answer, brushing tears away ? GLEANING Unveiled, she claspeth now the dew And sunrise in her sheaf, — The foreign woman: soon she knew Who felt a stranger's grief, — Why barley stalks and not a few Are left, — for whose relief. He speaks, — ^behind her lashes then, High billows lift and roll. The seen, or guessed, the unconfessed Exultance of her soul: It leaves her steps unsure as when Men walk in sleep's control. Then in the hidden tears that flow Now cradled hopes are gay. Then, with her lip 's reluctant bow. Sweet thoughts in secret play. Then on her cheeks, forbidden, blow The fairest buds of May. UNWEEDED Oh, blame him not, stranger, or softlier chide, For the weeds, — for the flowers untended ; They tell him his fairy has gone to abide In a garden than his more splendid. 85 Yes, he waters black stalks with a listless hand, And the beds where the nettles possess them : He is thinking how lilies would understand When she tenderly leaned to caress them, — How he 'd hearken at eve to a faint, clear sound (All the hearts of the roses atremble), How he'd brush from before her whatever might wound, And the pain of her absence dissemble. And now would, he follow the print of her feet,, Now only to him still showing, — Ah, beware lest thou finish that work of the sleet And the rain through the pathways blowing ! JUNE The loud cicada, scents of yellowing grass, Limp rushes bent and lashing in the wave. Thick-dropping leaves that round the dark pools pass. Attend fair June 's swift progress to the grave, — These and the jaded breeze, the yellow-coat. The wasp, dull roses, many a fledgling bird. And gaudy tangled weed. Lo, not remote. Already are the woodland heralds heard ! Be patient, lorn Ophelia, — it is best: Be calm, — be silent,~what is there to say? Thou shalt, and, in some gardens of the blest, Perhaps we, too, shall have another day. 86 Nor thou nor we have reaped, but we and thou Much fragrance of white blossoms may recall, — We have not reaped, but there are wages now For those who may not gather in the fall. SEARCH Throughout the echoless palace of the night I sent my soul upon an eager quest: My soul returned 'ere yet the dawn was bright And brought me home a dark and silent guest, — One that did stare and in the threshold stood, Casting a dim, still shadow where I lay, Which sent a chill through all my bones and blood ; And there did stay, and there did mean to stay. ''What hast thou brought," I said, 'Ho one would see Where others see not, — feel what none may feel, — To him who wiser than his kind would be, — All secrets of the quick and dead reveal?" But my soul answered: " 'Tis the soul of man Would come to dwell with thee. No more, when lone Or neighborly, in peace, as they began. Thy days shall run, but thou shalt hear the groan "Of generations. Thou hast but to say: 'I for myself shall live,— to all else blind,' 87 This shape unwelcome from thy door away Shall haste. ' ' I said : ' ' 'Tis late to look behind : "Seek now within the chambers of the light." Soon through my veins a peace, like pleasure, fled, For soon came one who kissed, as dawn the night, That other, bending, like a rose, her head. Beneath the kiss that darkness, trembling, grew From foul to fair: I saw a brow of pain By this made radiant. After, through and through I rested, sending not my soul again. . MARIENGARN There lies a cove, dim-lighted by the sun. Within a twinkling sea. Where round my rest come peering, one by one. Birds (these its fishes be) : These through the antlered coral gleaming run. Knowing small fear of me, — Of one from human sunk and all that grieves, Kin to the tribe that yells Its minute joy when quietude deceives And clear-heard lilies' bells, — To all small folk that peep from curling leaves And other like sea-shells. There may the feet of conscience never come, — Her terrible, sweet face : 88 Like nymphs of Venus dropping from the foam The soft hours interlace Their fingers, and through purple caverns roam, A merry heedless chase. There am I lord, — my kingdom and desires Equal, — none else to please; There, shining from afar, like winged fires, In argosies the bees Bring the soul freight from many gorgeous Tyres, And much-untraveled seas. WORDS Hung quenched and white the harvest moon The quietude an owl awoke Who signaled from his ancient oak ; Then did still forms the wood invade Thro' vague half-lights in rustling glade; Then, music-tranced, dim roses heard The earliest vespers of a bird; Then groups of meditating kine Stood dripping wildwood's draughts divine; Then, just beyond the senses' scope Shone lands yet liege to faith and hope, And that which lives in blades of grass Did rise and like a spirit pass. The wine-press of the afternoon From golden grapes then pressed a wine Which searched with joy these veins of mine. Till once again that vision came, more than dear!— too much the same!— 69 The very look into my need Sent from a heart fresh taught to bleed,- The sigh like that which autumn heaves, First looking on the waiting leaves; The silence which thou could 'st not break With words there was no need to speak. SONG Childhood's royal idleness, Youth's vast loneliness divine. Sweeter womanly distress. Then a stronger hand in thine, Leading thee, and led, no less, Down the golden morn's decline. Graceful as new leaf at play, Tender as the leaves that fall. In thy breast the time was May Through the seasons, one and all ! Now, — alas! — from far away In the night I hear thee call. ROCKS This overshadowing tree, this hut, this dale Shut from the desert, seeming void and still, Speaks to my heart of one beyond our day. It may be I remember, — if I dream, The beings that inhabit gentle dreams 90 Are sisters to the form which here I see As sweetly moving in these quiet scenes As trembling shadow of a leaf in May. 'Twas here she lived, — here withered in the fall, Leaving no like, as doth the frosted bloom Shook by some lone, belated butterfly, — Amid these silent rocks, which here no strife Wage ever or foretell : unquiet waves Eoll not through them : they rest and unto rest, Brief or more lasting, woo the weary soul. Here, in her breast close-hiding all, she loved, — In solitude here drooped, a mateless bird, — Unsought, if not unloved, here lonely died ; Here drank, at times (I trust), in this still haunt. An opiate from the glimmering bowl of Pan. The fair young flower which yonder fading lies. Slain by some envious spirit in despite, Hath rendered up a life like hers, — so frail, So clear, so exquisite! She seemed as one Moon-kindled in the mist, — like, yet unlike, — And, girt with weakness, strong. No rude, no angry enemy prisoned here, A being formed of light. No custom hard. No law, — naught save her gentle will availed To tear apart, when soul to soul grew near, The mingling tendrils tipped with fire from Heaven. Her breast, in patience and in tenderness, — But more in tenderness, — to pain she gave. All-weighing and accepting all, and stern 91 Unto herself alone, she did but ask From solitude that dreams intone the lute So laid aside, — from kindly absence calm For her, — and for another. Here, full oft, The friendly birds, inquisitive, drew nigh. Such, and few others, knew and spoke with her. Near country folk, no question venturing, made Freely their calls for help and counsel. These Graceful as a hawk oft saw her stand, A Ruth within their fields; and resting them At noon, in reverent whispers would surmise. Not without sighing, more than half the truth. CHALICES Fashioned from luminous, pure ores of thought, I held a jeweled cup to drain to thee, — A brimming cup with trembling nectar fraught, Which at the lips did fade and cease to be. Then, with the reaching of a leopard, stole A fair arm, pressing that dark draught between Which heals all ills, — but when I seized the bowl, That also failed and could no more be seen. The upper and the lower sphinx I see, A serpent river and a midnight glare. And thee beside the roses, dear, — and thee Beside the roses I have brought thee there! WATCHMAN Watchman, tell us of the night: We are weary and would sleep, — Tell us of the desert's end: Is the dawning yet in sight? Do the robbers roam, or sheep? Does the foe before him send Spies to plan the morrow's fight? Here a formless shadow falls; Here the moonlight on the plain Showeth endless emptiness; And the far-off fox that calls Calls aloud in hungry pain, — Telleth but his own distress, And the great wide night appalls ! SPIRITS *'Hail to thee, bright spirit! — whither now? Methinks such rosy limbs and dewy hair And that soft star which glitters on thy brow Should be of dawn, were ever dawn so fair. I follow evening as her bat, and yet By some fair miracle, we here are met." ** Below, how nation unto nation calls. And, as by brother, in the one same tongue, Is answered! Look! — the last dividing walls Are tumbling fast, and wide all gateways flung 1 Fair gleams of many a torch, once pale and rare, Are mingling in new brightness! Everywhere 93 ''Seems each man's country! Yet the goal not won! Not east, not west, but upward to yon heights. Thou who did'st send and I who led them on Together now shall lead them. Wondrous lights In undiscovered regions shall we find, And darkness, like a valley, leave behind ! ' ' EGYPTIAN Hast thou plucked for thy bosom a flower, Nile, A flower to deck thee, or lured the lone feet Of a maiden with subtle and serpentine guile. With a whisper of life's or of love's deceit? Is it hair that lies golden outspread on thy stream ; Are thy wavelets caressing a delicate cheek, And, sweeter than open to love's young dream, Kind arms wide-unfolded and calm and meek? Afloat in the shadow and nearing the light, It may be a beautiful blossom and rare. Far-borne from a palace, — let fall in delight By a loved one, the kiss of her lover to share, — By a woman who waited in sorrow and pain For one who should come and should cover her eyes From the darkness of earth, — who was coming again To cover her heart from the pitiless skies, — 94 Or reached by thy wave in some shrine of the dead, Where the faces that look from its kings of stone, Like a deed once ended, a word once said, Have no turning or change ever known, — Where, in the moonlight, the palms scarce nod. And the roar of the lion comes faint and far To the sphinx, on her pedestal, lone as God, And still as the lips of the Pharaohs are. IRENE Oft on the rocks a cameo pale appears,' A calm, clear profile, in these silent woods, Hid from the desert by encircling hills, A face like one that held me, somewhere seen, Grecian, long yellowed, sculptor's love or dream. Now quite unknown both she and one who wrought In prophecy of all the kindly gra9e Which holds first glory in a later creed, — In prophecy of this and her, — of her Half shown on yon sheer grisly steep. Down in the shallow pool about its foot The scenes are eloquent of moods that once. Through many changes of untroubled thought. Familiar grew to these low forest roofs As their own harmonies of light and shade. When we, through aisles, sun-gilded, silent, green, Made pathway to this weather-sculptured wall, By aimless wanderings of a lonely bird Scarce visited till then. That gentle hand Then pressed away the branches where it seemed 95 That never slippered savag-e yet had crushed The velvet carpets, stealing on his prey. Then, while rapt noon was whispering to the soul Half-way we paused, perhaps to watch some cloud, In size and lightness like a floating swan. Possess alone the heavens and all their blue. Of leaves the fairest tints had, year by year. Been spread upon this basin 's gorgeous floor And by its viewless water there subdued To softer colors. Ruder wind passed not The challenge of yon heights. No sight Nor any sound told of the desert. These thin rills Inaudibly lived on and, wandering, found. Beneath low piles of black and yellow mould. Their slow meandering way. Here, oftentimes. We lingered till the dawning of the night Had washed the earth with beauty, — yea, until The rounded moon hung burning in the boughs And stars that shone as lesser moons, too bright For mortal gaze, embossed the dark above. Whence, as from vestibule of Heaven, came down Ineffable the glory. Is all changed Of such fair scenes, or changed alone for one Who now again disturbs the woodland calm, — Invades this realm no king may call his own Nor any good man foreign, — where there lurks No weary fool to say our hopes are vain, But gentle dreams, long elsewhere withered, shrunk, Like truth disrobing in her secret dell. Slow disentangle from the thorns of care, 96 And masks that hide us from ourselves alone Fall to the earth? Here many a fadeless hour Whose solitude was touched with tender grace And stillness with delight, for him lives on, And eyes like night or ocean deeply blue, — For him who saw each thought that thrilled thy veins And luminous mind, when slowly grew that form A veil more treacherous as thy soul was made By deeds of goodness fairer. Thou wert strong And wise, and yet by some strange humor bent To yield another worship absolute. But when I tell of thee, lest with my life Thy memory quite perish, come but cries, — But idle stammerings come. The hearers look In wondering silence which my heart doth pierce. Ah, how could they be given to know thee now By one who, blinded by unworthiness, Thy thoughts, thy looks, thine actions, — all that lies In speech or silence, and thy words were few, Could stoop to question even at thy side? Seeraed this to thee the madness that it was? Are thoughts half told, or ill, or left unsaid Here, that we harder strive to speak again? The swinging jewel of the butterfly, the bee Unspeculating, can these now be calm. And thoughts of angels we call flowers. As thou and they together in that time? Each day sufficed thee and its single aim; 97 Wish hadst thou none, except to hear one voice In proof that not for long went far from thee His thoughts, who from thy side each day that failed Less willingly was parted. Some bright drop Morn-wakened, some frail form of frost not yet Killed by the kisses waited eagerly, Some pallid star absorbed, as through his prayer The Indian, — even as these thou seemest now, — Part of the dawn and with it borne away. THERE Heaven should I attain. And one waiting be, Could I bear again In those eyes to see Shadow of that pain Wrought by words from me? Does she there for this Know how I repent? Angels, for their bliss. Do they true intent Tell of words amiss, — What the heart has meant? Tell of wild heart-cries When, at length, — but so Late! — we realize? Saints from earth who go, Strangers in the skies, Do these tell, — they know ! Oft I spoke again, But the true words died, Tender accents slain By negligence, not pride. By ignorance, — by vain Folly; but — they died! Some there are shall go, Eaised and purified, — Whiter made than snow, — Meet to rest beside Those mourned long below, — Bridegroom there with bride; But, howe'er unmeet, Worst of sinners even. Her they may not cheat Out of half her Heaven, But will let her greet One, for her sake, shriven. Shall I know her there? Will she wait to see, (Hid by virgins fair), What she means to me ? If to look I dare Will she hide to see? Will she hold to me Arms by love made weak, — 99 Let her bosom be Atremble near my cheek, That I feel and see What she cannot speak? TEARS The breezes lie and dream of her Whom once they breathed so fondly on; While this sweet hour, a gossamer Entangled, loiters ere 'tis gone. The roses and the lilies wait, — I know not what the roses wait. Aloft, where midnight sits and sings, Of other notes that float and fail I hear the many-mnrmuring wings. Kind angels, soft as silken sail. Draw near : like shadows, where I lie. The angels come and linger nigh. They come in answer to a prayer, — Not mine ! — and these great tears that fall Upon my cheek are her despair, Lone waiting in celestial hall. Ah, me ! — and have I yet to die Who now so near her bosom lie? The angels whisper: "On the earth Is love, — but pain, — but sorrow's load: What there is left of any worth Save but the steps to her abode?" 100 The angels come to lead the way For weary feet that faint and stray. PERSIAN CHORDS The tree-rows forlorn In September's still morn, By the narrow straight way Of the waters, — they stay Like sheep to be shorn. Or new nun when she kneels (Ere the angels adorn) In earth's bridal array. The plane-tops at play, Their slim plumes and shadows and white In fanciful pictures unite. Fondling the grasses. And brightening the mould. With a song sweet and old The light water passes. To plaster his cell. Yellow-striped, the wild bee Brings his jar to the well: Bright and bustling is he. Can ye dream what could be That would make more complete One chord or note sweet Of this earth 's harmony ? 101 The sound, now and then, now and then, Of the stirring of leaves. Left to silence again. In the silence a memory weaves And a spider as well. Breaks the silence the scraping of leaves. Slowly falling, as once one fell. CHIL-CHIL-HA! Our many names for thee seem all to bless. Fair bird to poets dear, man's neighbor nigh. As ''rondinella," of the "tristi lai," As * ' golondrina, " ' ' hirondelle, ' ' but less Do others than thy Persian name caress, — Not that such need of thee has Persia's sky, Her barren hills and plains. Ah, hear that cry ! That ^'Chil-Chil" hear from winged loveliness: No, — 'tis because thy mother gave it thee, — Because thy mother calls thee by it still. With '^Chil-Chil-Ha!" to summer o'er the sea She led thee when our breeze began to chill. How sad it sounded then! But now she calls Thee back again, like honey-drops it falls! NOCTURNE There came, upon the middle point of night, A vision which revisits not in vain. Ye hear, where yonder reel the heat and light, 102 The desert weeds hoarse whisper for the rain Whose loud, clear footsteps trample out the noon? So had he prayed this dream might come again. He was not sleeping, since beneath the moon He knew the sands far gleaming, and, above, The bare bright peaks. Yet round about him soon Stood oak-trees and he heard a murmuring dove. And there in summer robe of white was seen One bending o'er a babe in anxious love. Down in the fields, a partridge, perched serene, His cry repeated from a topmost rail. Quiet as his, it seemed, her heart had been Save for one dread, — lest prayer should not avail Nor tears of passionate fatherhood, but quite Fruitless his nesting with a mate so frail. To this had followed soon a keen delight. The thousand cares which more than pleasures bless. Long radiant hours of wakefulness by night. But the scene alters, — pallid from distress. Turning, she seeks — and fears — his thought to know. Such is that vision, — good to him no less (As being sacred, blest) for such its woe, — Its coming like the rain's wide peacefulness Revisiting the desert, — even so! 103 THE ROSE LAMENT Full-bosomed the rose, But now, not warm Nor wrapped in blest repose. A dreadful harm Has come, those eyes to close Which charmed her so : — Her love, her nightingale Is lying low! Silent the light leaves lie Where now he sleeps ; Singing the rills go by To twilight deeps; Sadly the breezes sigh For, ah! her breast Bleeds as his own; but he Is filled with rest. No love was like to theirs The gardens through ; Like her no flower wears The morning dew; No singer sung such airs A heart to move, — No, not unto her pine The cooing dove. The leaves, the light leaves fall With rustling sweet; Ye lilies, proud and tall. Thou primrose neat, 104 Ye know, but know not all, — Ye could not know The love they shared, nor feel WHEREFORE? Here in the Persian desert, as we lie Couched on a stony bed at set of sun, Cool and at ease, the day's hard journey done, I see a pallid flower atremble nigh, Blue and as fair as laughing angel's eye. It hangs a dainty earring on the dun. Grizzled, and wrinkled rock, of many one That with a titan visage threats the sky. Striving, I ponder over what can mean This flower that followed flower in such a clime, — This last small birth to solitude and time. Ah, now my puzzled spirit grows serene. For clear the purpose of it all is seen: To lend a drop of honey to my rhyme ! THE RUSSIAN WEDDING FEAST I SAW a painting once in far away Old Russia, — picture of a wedding feast. I saw it once, but of details the least I see as plainly now ; — the bright array 105 Of laughing dames and other guests as gay. About the groaning board the mirth increased As one more viand, — some hot, smoking beast, — Was brought, upborne upon a massive tray. But not for guests or mirth still lives the scene, But one, white-satin-gowned, from these aside, Near to the bridegroom standing, — ah, Irene! — That face is so like thine, my spirit 's bride : And so I saw thee stand, with downcast eyes. That day I passed the gates of Paradise! INES The way, perhaps, was long, — too long for thee, Perhaps for woman. If now turned aside (Not ere that thrilled which now, perhaps, has died), So be it, and my blessing! Silent be, — Be changed, — believe me changed. An ebbing tide Perhaps away has swept thee, far and wide. But word of blame, for one in days of old So good and true, — this surely were not meet. Then, like a queen, thy spirit poured its gold; And, after, through the dark I heard thy feet On the long path unwearied cadence hold, Self-sure and strong one, though thy heart so sweet. Now, times there are when nothing may withstand Such strength as wields this sorrow which doth pine, — 106 Not even faith, wind-wrestling tree, like thine, Far-searching for sweet waters in the sand! Yet thou to whom I lisped what first I knew, Thou, also, wert called woman (doubtless few Like thee the heavens in their kindness lend) ; Thou also, gentle one, — another, too, And yet again another, — ah, my friend. The faithfulness of these could know no end! CHRISTINA ^'Quando verrai, cor mio, — Quando, — ma quando ? ' ' Of thee I think, Christina, as of one Clear-cut in rigid cameo, — delicate As frailest porcelain, obdurate as fate, — As one who willingly were changed to stone Or in some prison-house were shut alone For innocence, eluding love and hate, — Would 'mid wild roses sigh that she must wait A death that would not end all, like their own. Sweet Sappho of the "West, I think of thee Also, as fuller of love's tenderness, More learned in the lore of love's distress Than that fair sister by the azure sea, — Thou white-plumed bird of God, unnested, free, Wistfully singing hymns to holiness! 107 EASE Thy great skill, Angelo, has taught decay To wear a dignity to pride scarce known, Where sits Lorenzo, tranquil, on his throne, Eegal and strong, an empire meet to sway: Those two strange beings from the tomb away Weakness have banished, mighty, naked shown, In guise robustious taken for its own By death, to claim a place within our day. We vainly question Nature: limbs like these She does not show: such outlines have been brought From where thy spirit through the curtain sees: — Sculptor, and seer, and poet, thou hast wrought Shapes from whose company we draw such ease As young Lorenzo, musing there, has caught. HOLINESS The candles burn by Raffaello's head; Upon the stair his step is heard who brings The Pope's last blessing, while a lady clings To hope none shares. The solemn words are read Which Mother Church assigns for one near dead. Now, "La Madonna,"— "La Velata, "—flings Her veil aside and, with low whisperings And close caresses, leans above the bed. "Until that woman shall be sent away I enter not," the holy man declares. They tear her forth, in spite of tears and prayers . 108 And all the passing one has power to say. No baker's daughter she, but one whose face He made, — made him eternal by its grace. RITRATTO D'INCOGNITO And now upon this wall to hang ''unknown,*' A face so fair, such vesture, such a mien! The famous artist let his best be seen Of color, drawing, posture : hands alone Cost many an anxious day. How proudly shown, Now that some centuries have slid between, This masterpiece! Yet surely must have been For that fair sitter glory of his own. But so he hangs here now. Well, after all. What matter? — to his fellows he was great, And to himself, 'tis clear, he was not small. And of all thoughts that teased him soon or late This was not one : that it could be his fate To hang thus marked "unknown" upon a wall! LA PINETA I LOVE this whisper of the pines which saith : ''My needles die and fall, as there you see. But I am changeless"; and I love to flee, — But what is this the marsh-wind uttereth? "For thee I gave my life,— no, not my death: That were but little, but I gave for thee (I pray you, set me down and let me be) My days, my nights, almost my every breath! 109 "Yea, gave my sleeping and my waking dreams, — All that I was or had, or yet might own, — All, — all was given. Now the great gift seems No gain for thee, — for me but loss and wrong, — Seems only loss, — yet how should I have known The burden, else, of any deathless song?" DOGWOOD Nov\r leads me back the winding way To where with joy, on firm, sure feet, I ran the glorious world to greet. The dogwood blooms, a snow in May, Lie scattered round, as then they lay; Swift cedar-birds, head down, repeat Their chatter in this shy retreat, And chipmunks are, as then, at play. Yes, girdling sheaves of slight avail, Here nears itself the looping trail. Ah, sunlit trees, new strung with rain! And yonder, as in Sabbath rest, The blue hills lie along the west, And I, — I am a boy again ! MOTHER MOTHER, for thy slaughtered children wild, Behold how peace, with lingering and mild, Spreads o'er their hallowed sleep her cloak of green. Now, always brave, be bravely reconciled. 110 Lift up thy head and glorious sorrow's crown! Cast from long-folded arms that sable gown! Hast thou not children's children by thy side Must bear worse burdens than their sires laid down? Look up and cherish him, the later son, Nor deem that finished which is scarce begun. I know, I know too well, what memories rise, But what were Greece without the havoc done? And why send forth the father? Was it not To shield the son ? Is this so soon forgot ? Or thinkest thou not worth thy care could be This younger scion by such sire begot? Look up and cheer him also to the field! Far brighter guerdon to his arm shall yield Than fired the heart of him who joyed to slay, And homeward came upon his own red shield. SONG Pleasure in the rising breaketh Like the glittering billow's crest; Riches waste or robber taketh; Glory's thirst knows never rest; And the worm that cankers waketh Long in pallid wisdom 's breast ; Hurt of love no potion healeth; — So we yearn to reach a door 111 Star-embossed, whose gleam revealeth Footprints pointing on before, — Gain a height whence gladness pealeth From sweet voices stilled of yore. THE STARRY QUEST CANTO I While in the south all dawns yet opened drear, And yet war's embers flashed autumnal flame, Spoke a young soldier: ''What is living here Except not dying?" — One to whom soon came (No, not to him, for first must end one's song), The Indian Summer of the poet's fame. Their lives so living, in the young heart's wrong, Drew northward to the City sisters two, And after came a youth, work-hunting long; But for such stranger little seemed to do, — One sister seeking health, one lending aid. And by much sewing earning dollars few, — Of evil in the future unafraid. Not sighing for the present, poverty For all of these two springs of comfort made, — Not richer than their ruined folk to be And to be roused, if but by need of bread. The boy and maids apart, this youthful three 112 Where tliey should sleep and whence they might be fed Oft pondered. Ah! how life's few years might bless But for that word "apart," when all is said, Guilty as parted of a world's distress! At length so chanced it that the loneliest one Saw the two others, one in feebleness Led slowly toward a bench to take the sun. And all the passers-by turned back to see,— Women and men alike,— as he had done. Much marveling who so fair a maid might be, What perfect face showed over such poor gown,— Perfect in charm, but for simplicity Well suited to the garb of faded brown, Which black, I think, in better days, had been. The youth, not too far distant, sat him down, And, hidden well, but with a vision keen, By the heart quickened, eagerly beheld,— As yet he dared to gaze,— that simple scene. And many a day his anxious bosom swelled. And many a wakeful night, because of one From health by poverty, he feared, withheld. And even then already was begun The thought that stronger arm for maid so frail Were fitter than a maid's to lean upon. 113 Clearly to church he heard the bells that call, When he had seen these sisters go to pray; But of the sermon heard, I think, not all. There, near a gothic pillar, where the day But very feebly reached, — a twilight place, — Oft would he kneel to see them pass away: The frail one beads in hand, some old white lace Adorning wrist and neck with border thin And hiding so much gown. But round the face For him so burned a glory from within That barely could its chiseled shape be seen. Then cautious questions "who and whence? begin, J ) And soon he learns the sisters fair to be Natives of that same region whence he came, Allied, like him, to strenuous rebeldry, In that great strife which brought a brand of shame To those who could have turned the sword aside. But unto some a fair, unfading name, Till war, like single combat, shall have died. The youth, of meagre aspect, ringlet hair, (Chestnut its color), calm and blue-grey eyed, Looked tenderly on all things sad or fair And quietly on evils touching him. One sister, of the world not well aware, 114 Worshiped the fairer and, with outlook dim, Would come and go, unto the other's eyes Entrusting all things, even life and limb. Yet in all household business was she wise, And to things daily needful led the way. Upon these hearts no grip of jealousies; One glowed with joy to hear the people say : ''How charming!" and the frailer, guiding, leant As those who lean with love untainted may. Likewise there came, upon home building bent, A worthy widowed dame, in wisdom grey, In children rich. To her these sisters went In search of homelike place in which to stay. And, as it chanced, that youth a garret small Nearby had hired (he hoped therefor to pay), And at this widow's house was wont to call On daughters, boarders, cash-expecting friends, Of northwardly migration, one and all; — Some puffed with pride of family, such as tends Upward, when drawn from parent's worthy deed In war, — even war may lift from selfish ends; And some whose pride was feigned, to fill the need Of merit, — also some there were who stood Discreetly silent of the past, no meed Esteeming as forgetfulness so good For things by forbears done or left undone. All this the wise old lady understood, 115 Herself discreetly silent, save to one, That quiet youth, who sat and seemed to hear, But somewhat freely let his fancies run. Here first fate brought the fair frail sister near; Here first she looked intently on his face; Here first his few words fell upon her ear. There is not any power in time or place To hinder or delay when deep calls deep. Seeing, he pitied her ill-looking case; Her soul awoke, which long had lain asleep. To find what seemed a friend well known of old, — So dear a friend that finding made her weep. Little saw he, for he had grown less bold To gaze on that which most he wished to see. And other wishes, new and manifold. Were mixed with fear that no such joy could be As giving welcome aid to one so fair. Alas! — alas! he pondered, who was he, And what was he, so high a hope to dare? The youth thus doubted; women do not so. And she had grown, in other scenes, aware How strong her charms. Yet little did she know How pure a well of feeling had been stirred. Which toward her own clear being turned to flow. Love she had known, — it spoke a strange new word. 116 Not yet quite thirty summers o'er the frame, And o'er the heart, and o'er the well-stored mind. Had passed for that fair sister, when there came, Among the threads the busy fates unwind, A golden one, — more summers than had flown Above that youth of furtive looks and kind, — Looks now of awe, — unlike what she had known From ardent suitors many. These had seen Her outward seeming; seeing this alone. They yielded to the power, which makes a queen Of whoso wields it. Wielding this had been Among life's pleasures ever the most keen. Her former wooers lacked the skill to stir The inner woman, who apart was set. Weighing their moods and motives as they were. Now looked she up to one as never yet To any, — not from weakness of the flesh And humbled spirit, — in this youth she met The other part of being; all afresh Was born, as moth from darksome chrysalis. Enkindled as a flower beneath the kiss Of April morning and as dewy sweet, — Yea, tender as a newmade mother is; For in such moments maid and mother meet. 117 CANTO II Some years; and then a presence, dimly shown, Beckoned this youth, and, quite without his aid, Swiftly he moved. Then words that seemed his own. Half willed by him, were spoken: ''Unafraid, From long familiar scenes I take my way. But whom do I now follow, mystic maid, "And shall I ever back return or stay?" When to a thick mist-curtain drew they near He strove his further going to delay. ' ' I '11 pass no further ! ' ' with some little fear These words were spoken; but he moved along, And soon, beyond the curtain, saw appear A meadow where of birds he heard such song As in the spring, to one new-freed from care, Sound their first tunings. ''Thou hast known me long "And better than thy neighbors." "Lady fair. For, tho' scarce visible, I well discern Thy loveliness, I pray thy name declare." "That one am I the poet sad and stern Did worshipfully sing." With beatings fast To see her face how then his heart did yearn! But through his blood soon other accents passed, — A voice that said: "At last," and silent grew; And he in turn : " At last ! — at last ! — at last ! ' ' 118 He craved to bring the speaker into view, But now could neither see. And, much in dread No more to hear, he tried what one might do To gain the better will of her who led, — ''Full many a time of how he fared through Hell And through those other regions have I read. But now, kind Lady, I would have thee tell If thou didst love the poet on that sphere Whence we have come and that which there be- • fell." ''In life, too, we are spirits, as now here, — A truth the Christian times have made more plain, ' ' — "Where bide ye now together, — is it near "To earth, or far o'er some ethereal main?" "For one world were we formed, — in others dwell, 'Tis said, strange races ; but for us 'twere vain "To be ourselves and grow insensible To what we know within our primal home. To what is part of us, inwoven well "Into our being. 'Neath yon starry dome Brother and sister, friend with dearest friend. So far as I have learned, shall rest and roam; "Here love to fuller harmonies ascend; Here scenes of past delight be visited, In that same world, whose beauty without end 119 ''In fragments thou hast known." ''Thus now," he said, ' ' But after death at once all clearly seen. ' ' "Indeed, not so, — to vision of the dead " The whole is not revealed. With sight more keen, With greater zest we look; but Paradise, With naught to hope, could not for us have been." Then thinking he could profit by surprise. Quickly he asked if he might see the one Whose voice but now had blessed him. "Did thine eyes "Behold her ever, or the form alone Which shut her from thee ? " " Even there as here With sound she touched me, — with an angel's tone." "I say not thou shalt gain a view more clear Or thou shalt not." "Already have been mine Two great rewards, — if merit may appear ' ' In patient hope, in love, — perhaps like thine : To hear her voice and know that mine she heard. ' ' Then spoke again that other (like strong wine Ean through his being every smallest word) : "When none believed me there, for I had died, And not a finger-tip or eyelid stirred, ' ' He lingered in the room and stood beside And murmured: 'In her bridals lying there, — Fine robes I bought, tho poor, to see her pride 120 " 'When once, at least, fit raiment she might wear; By my command so shrouded, . . . Whisperings Along the aisle; and how the people stare! *' 'Upon my trembling arm her fingers cling, Trembling, and from her cheek the rose has fled. As still the wonder grows. — And that small ring " 'Which seemed to wed us (here we are not wed. But are betrothed) that, too, remains with her.' Then divers idle things he, musing, said "Of arts and hopes in Egypt's night that were, — Of spirit, — how a spark from formless glue Fashions the eagle's plume, the tiger's fur, "Of how my being from its cover drew: — The praying lips, when all grew still beside. Obedient to my will — 'A sign most true " 'That she passed forth unchanged, whose form had died. ' Those lips, — sweet keys whereon even yet could play The lingering player! Ah, they will deride "When I shall yearn to tell of her and say How rare, — how more than magical she was : 'Truly the heart deceives thee, — 'tis its way. " 'Like many another was thy bride.' Alas! 'Like many another was that form, — that face!' But, looking in my love as in a glass, 121 ^' 'Will no one see, — ah me! — will no one trace A far, faint, feeble image of that souH' Yet some will say at least: 'In yon dark space " 'A mighty splendor swims, — yea, such control Tells of the power of such within the sky ! ' And then a shadow o'er my pleasure stole; — ' ' I did him wrong. ' He turns to leave, ' thought I. I heard his footsteps, then the rustling stir Of heavy curtains. He again drew nigh. "Shone o'er my face and breast the moon — like day;— I fear I seemed more beautiful, so long He lingered, — then the couch whereon I lay "Was shaken with his sobs. I did him wrong. Alas, poor heart! that yet must bear delay." CANTO III Long silent he remained, remembering, Until a fear came on him suddenly. Thinking them gone, but still to hope would cling And spoke again, in haste and stumblingly: "Thy poet's love, dear Lady, does but seem A distant worship, — he appears to be "As one who of thine eyes a fleeting gleam Catches, when passing thee upon the way, Scarce spoken to, beside the Arno's stream, 122 ''Or at some wedding feast, where thou art gay And he, by thee unheeded, gazing, — this, — No more but such as this he seems to say. "Tell me, can this be all? — no lingering kiss Upon thy fingers, — not one whispered word Barbed as with fire and plumed with ecstasies?" She answered: "To remember now has stirred A rare delight to heavenly joy not wed. Ah, me! — my name, near Arno's wave, I heard, "Where bowed I, gathering flowers. I would have fled, But something of command was in the voice, Though reverent, and most reverently he said: " 'I pray thee stay awhile.' I had no choice. For faint were grown my knees. He called my name. Not knowing whether I should dare rejoice "I felt that nearer unto me he came. Where tremblingly I bowed, in act to cull Another flower, — then saw I, like a flame *'The flashing of his eyes, — so wonderful! And after knew outstretched toward me a hand, Beseechingly; and then my mind grew dull, "So that but dimly I could understand. Then he enfolded me, without consent. And yet without an effort to withstand. 123 "What could I, then? So tenderly be bent, So kind he seemed, — so manly, true, and strong! Yes, many a secret hour together spent ( ( Was all the Heaven I wished." — ''And, from his song, I know 'twas all he wished." — ''Alas! not so! He wandered from me and with grievous wrong ' ' Soiled his bright soul, — then for a friar would go, Repenting deeply. Many a lonely prayer I sent to Heaven, and much bitter woe "I tasted, ere once more he came to share Such scenes. The hours together passed again He would have written of, but did not dare, "The afterthought so filled him with its pain. And then he shunned me, — sinned, — repented sore, Striving against a sensuous bent in vain; "Then, driven by wild repentance as before, He came and bade a silent, sad farewell, And for a time a friar's robe he wore. "Soon grew I pale, — a cruel blighting fell Upon my form and wasted it away. He went to be a friar. They loved me well, "My parents, — strove in life to make me stay. Caused me to wed, and I resisted not, — Alike to me the answer, yea or nay, 124 "Save for the solace to those loved ones brought, To whom my death so soon must sorrow bring, — Bring soon enough of sorrow, as I thought." She ceased, and he was silent, sorrowing. '*As soon as he had heard that I was wed, Of such remorse he felt the cruel sting * ' That long he lingered ill upon his bed, Cursing the friars and the Church as well. The faith, — even his Creator, it was said. ''He would have died, but that it so befell A gentle friend, one Guido, medicine" — She paused again ; and he : * * I pray thee tell *'For such an ill what herb or balm or wine? This for a reason I should gladly learn." ''The poet still would speak that name of mine "He gives me, writing, — he would toss and turn. Recalling ever his forsaken bride, Reproaching her for doubting his return. "How pale I found him, when I knelt beside! And how he stared and pressed against his eyes Poor bony fingers, thinking he had died "Or else been cheated by such shows as rise In fever-madness. But I touched his brow," — Again she would have ended, with deep sighs, 125 But he besought her to go on. "From now His health grew stronger; with sweet hopes I fed Of happier love to be, — I said not how, < i Nor when, nor where. And, back to health so led. How beautiful became his joyous face. How like a bridegroom seemed he, newly wed! ' * Yast grew, meanwhile, my need of heavenly grace For the last time to look upon that sight And on the path to joy my steps retrace." "Ah, now, it seems, I understand aright What in three reasons given he hides away, Wherefore he will not of thy 'parting' write; "Two reasons vain to lead men's thoughts astray, And then this third one: 'It were shame should 1 That which must clearly seem self-praising say.' * ' ' She died for love of me, '^ — who will deny This would be called self-praise, however meant?" "When I was parting, very secretly "This word by that same gentle friend I sent: 'In thee I lived, — for want of thee have died, — Live thou, and know it is my firm intent Always to linger near thee and to guide!' " "And he lived on and builded there below A shrine to which no dream, nor aught beside, 126 *'Can be compared for splendor." ''Even so! Of me alone his song, — by Hell's wild glare He strove contrasting loveliness to show; ''For him my presence hovers everywhere The poets wander, growing more divine, At length so glorions made that he can dare "With Rachel, near the Virgin, to assign A place for it among the highest there." "Ah, me," her comrade sighed, "that heart of thine No more is waiting! — his no longer waits!" CANTO IV ' ' Fair Lady, tell me somewhat of that child By Dante well-beloved, when thou had'st died." "That little girl his widowed heart beguiled "With pity for a man who wandered wide And could not see his native land again. With gentle hand, at times, his tears she dried. "Ye seek her story from his pen in vain; — Perhaps he feared that I should deem the less His love for me, divided thus in twain : — "My heart was not so natured. Blessedness It gave to him to see in her young eyes, — Or think he saw, kind looks such love express 127 "As those that watched the gates of Paradise: His eyes to her as one's from Heaven shone, A banished angel's, pining for the skies. — ''Her like I know," the youth, in eager tone. Not troubled now to think that other heard, ''Her like I knew, ere I was left so lone. "Ah, Euth, what memories of thee are stirred, "Whose love so mingled with thy thoughts of Heaven I seemed of Him a shadow dim and blurred "Who leads us, if we will, or will not, even, And those not least who think themselves have led; (Thine idol- worship may it be forgiven!) "And thou to me a pious nun, who fled The sisterhood, or was by Heaven assigned. With kind, calm upward looks, well-comforted, ' ' To comfort one alone of all mankind. And so it was that, knowing this thy dream. To those calm looks some better right to find, "I strove to be more like what thus did seem; But other eyes than thine another sight Beholding, — but no matter ! When the gleam ' ' Of dawn awakes thee, and again, at night, Knelt by thy lonely pillow, in thy prayer Must yet remain some tremors of delight, 128 ''Breathing my name and then thine own, more fair; And I, 'mid ruins of a hope deferred, At times I, too, some little solace share, *' (No, not a hope, — too strong, alas, that word!) — At times yet dream I hold against my breast, Stilled all its throbbing, like a rescued bird, — ''Still as a statue, silent, full of rest, A form set free from every change and fear; Again in mine a gentle hand is pressed; "I feel near mine a heart that should be near; I shut within wet eyes, with kisses long, A love I cannot bear, — it is too strong!" These words into the youth's conception came And slowly did he voice them, half aware That he was speaking : ' ' Ought I be to blame ' ' Or unf orgiven, should again I dare To hope, if not to end the dark eclipse Which hides the one who waiteth for me there, "At least to touch again her fingertips Or press her white robe with a pious kiss? (Ah, no ! I could not wish for lips on lips, "Unworthy as I am!)." Much more than this He poured into that kindly lady 's ear Of pleading words, which went not all amiss. 129 She answered him: ''Kneel down. She sitteth near And thou shall hear her heart against thy cheek, As first, she tells me, in a by-gone year **Thou thus didst kneeling hear it. Kneel, and seek No further blessing now." Then, for a space. He dwelt in ecstasy, nor dared to speak Until his strong desire to see her face O 'ercame him quite. ' ' Ah, gentle friend and kind. Let now thy worth and hers my sins efface, ''And in my chastened love a reason find To grant this other boon." "I, also, ask," The other said, "in fear lest, left behind "So long, he may, if I should not unmask. Forget my semblance and his love grow cold, — He yet is only earthly, — it must task "An earthly power the fading lines to hold." "But think now further: if his stay be long Yonder, is not it merciful that old "And dim should grow thine image and less strong The conscious memory of the lost Irene? If, in the pauses of some tender song, "He drop a tear, recalling what has been, — If, looking on the still, moonlighted grass, He sighs as when his head, thy hands between, 130 "Lay thus against thy breast, — and if, alas! He knows not why, but fresh un-mothered seems The child within him, as the slow years pass, ''Is it not enough? He sees thee oft in dreams. No doubt, too clearly!" Thus he answered her: "AVith what old hours my inner vision teems, "Hearing thy words! I pray thy gift defer! Now dreading what I sought. Yet let me know If I have kept her features as they were "And if now changed from those I knew below." Then he described the wondrous lines and mien And ended with, — "each lip a perfect bow." "If thus by thee in other places seen, So is she here, — the same, yet not the same, Unearthly now, though not from blemish clean. "But come now, brother. Thou has heard the name Of Guido, — his who served me as a friend. Still seeks he, as below, the poet's fame, — "So bids us come, to see and hear and mend A Greek-style drama 'Whiter made than Snow.' " Thus Beatrice, seeking thus to end The young man's yearning, adding: "Let us go." "What thinkest of my drama?"— This from one In tones of eager questioning. But the youth Was lost in thought before the play was done 131 At wars there prophesied. * ' Can it be truth That war will not now finish ? In this day Called modern, will men multiply the ruth *'0f savage forbears and the beasts of prey? I cannot this believe unless I see." '*Ah, even now, alas, from far away ''There comes the sound of combat. Not as we They slaughter now, — a hundred thousand fall, Mowed bleeding down by hideous enginery." These words of Guido that young heart appall But leave still doubting. Beatrice spake: "Do thou, Irene, go show to him, — not all, ''Nor half the truth, but gently to him break Some little of the madness that is rife." And soon a desert, level as a lake. Outspread, where moonlight lay serene and life Did seem forever into quiet passed. Then, as he marveled, seeing naught of strife. The lady's figure almost showed at last, — Or so it seemed, — and seemed it that she wept And strove to speak, but grief her tongue held fast. She pointed toward a little flower that slept In coverlet of moonbeams wrapt; and there Lay still and white (whereon he nearly stept) 132 A young fair face, enriched with golden hair. O'er many like they passed, and then beheld A meagre lion leave his rocky lair Beneath a hill of rock, whereon was spelled, 'Neath bas-reliefs of slaves and haughty kings And prostrate kings, their locks by captors held ''To-day and yesterday — to-morrow brings" — But here the rock was broken. Then there swept An angel past them, swift upon the wing, And then another, slowlier, who wept. And looking down, they saw of tears the spring, — They saw and heard. Far flash upon the night The flames of battle. Loud the engines sing The song in which the carrion birds delight: A city burning on the left upcurled In smoke and sparkles, and upon the right Each moment ranks of luckless men were hurled To Hades. As the cave-men made debate So now in argument was met the world. Savage on savage once again his hate Unblushingly did vomit as of old Beneath the still, sweet stars. 133 CANTO V They heard the call of Beatrice near, And, as they reached her saw, not her alone. But one whose longed-for presence filled with fear The youth, who whispered in a trembling tone : ''Not yet! — more slowly! Ah, I do not dare To come near one who sits upon the throne, ''The prince of poets." While he faltered there, A cheerful voice and kind pronounced his name, — 'Twas Dante's — not the wanderer's whose stare Tells ever of Caina's smoke and 'flame. But that of him Giotto limned, — as yet (And now to be forever-more the same) Unparted from the blessed one he met By Arno's wave. The voice seemed nowise new: "My Bice told me how thy heart was set "To learn if me she loved, which not a few Have doubted (so new-comers say). As here 'Twould pain me, as on earth it wont to do, "Some things to speak of, that she made all clear, Spared me, my friend, and thee to see one weep Whom now thou gazest on with awe and fear." Then praise upon his lady did he heap. So kind the poet that it was not long Ere one made calmer, found it hard to keep 134 From asking questions, as : " Can it be wrong To wage defensive war ? " " Ah, knowest thou not How seldom will a man, enraged and strong, ''Hurl blows upon another whom he sought And unresisting finds, though unafraid? Not coward fear the gentle master taught, ''But courage suited to that lofty grade Toward which he wishes all mankind to strain. I marvel now to think what joy it made "To slay my fellow beings." "But in vain. It seems, the master's teaching." "Nay, not so. The upward striving way, through grief and pain "Is best, — it were not well no change to know From worse to better, as the days go by. Through fear and strife and even crime we grow: "In rest and peace to linger is to die." "Five poets in the days thy day before Thou numberest, poet. Pray thee, tell me why "So few are poets and so many more Great souls have other powers?" "Even here I know not how, or whence, or through what door "A vision visits me. I find it near. Perhaps a wondrous one that makes me quail, Filled with humility and doubt and fear, 135 ''Like Mary when the angel came to hail And promise greater things. So, therefore, this Which thou demandest — why the poets fail? — ''How should I tell thee? — why earth's woe and bliss Through ages yield an inarticulate cry? It is a question far more dark, I wis, "Because so little bars from rivalry, — Not foreign speech, — that for no poem take Which may not moult its plumes and keep the sky. ' ' I, too, had failed you if a sad mistake Had stood. Ah, me! one morn beside a bay I plucked an ivy leaf for poet's sake "Who sought the old, but wandered from the way And stumbled on the new, the dimly shown, — The hardly come as yet. 'Ah, well a day!' "He sighed, of Homer thinking, him alone. 'Alas! How far mine leaves the Master's song!' And would, in his despair, have burned his own. "He scorned his tale of Dido and her wrong, — Her sacrifice, not knowing he had sung. Not for walled towns of what to these belong, — "Not joy to raise at spoil from corpses wrung. But to an ear unwakened yet to hear ' ' — The youth, forgetting shame, these words outflung : 136 *'Sung to the deep heart of a distant world, A chaunt caught up again in tones more clear By one who sang of Hell's two lovers whirled *' Together — still together, — nor could bear To part them for a moment — even there ! ' ' CANTO VI The poet of the youth inquiry made If yet his bones to Florence had been sent Or left in exile, where they down were laid. ''Sorely, it seems, the Florentines repent," The young man answered. ' ' Often have they tried To bring the sister city to relent ** Which latest harbored thee, — forsaking pride. Have humbly, eloquently, begged and chidden. The wrath of dreaded power by monks defied, *'A century and more by these were hidden The sacred relics, when by pope's decree Their giving up to Florence had been bidden. "But, poet, what can matter now to thee The resting-place of some few shreds of dust, — Now thou hast put on immortality?" "Long exiled while I lived, by laws unjust. From city unto city doomed to roam. Even here I have not lost the hope and trust 137 "That, soon or late, at last the day will come When whatso little may of me remain Will rest in Florence, my beloved home. ''But still I question those who come in vain." Then silence, — then ere long, like drifting haze Slowly toward them drew along the plain White spirits, opening wide eyes of amaze, Distincter growing. Endless seemed the throng. Upon the foremost Dante fixed his gaze And : ' ' Who are y e ? I think I am not wrong In saying ye are newly from the war Which rages yonder. " ' ' I, myself, belong "Unto the Guard Imperial. See this star!" He pointed to his breast as though he deemed He wore one there. "I know not where we are, But I must hasten to the front." He dreamed Of facing death, a gate already passed. Still in his eye heroic courage beamed. "On! On!" he shouted, "Victory at last!" The poet stopped him with a look austere. And questioned: "Whither, my new friend, so fast?" "To Paris! Paris! do not hold me here!" "Thy going now must have another end. Awake! — Awake! A soldier without fear, 138 ''Thy part, as mine at Campaldino, friend, Was acted well, I know." Then slowly fell The earthliness, and slowlier did mend The power of vision, till were visible The flowery meads and white-robed ones that grace, Eeclining there, the banks of asphodel. Two spirits, arm in arm, drew near apace From these, whom Dante greeted with a smile, Seeing contentment glowing in each face. They lingered near but for a little while. Then passed beyond. The knowledge who were these The youth long sought from others to beguile And from Irene at last the truth did tease : ''Those two are lovers now within the sky "Who others yonder strove in vain to please, "So wide apart from theirs their natures lie, Though excellent, in their own ways, they were. The poet's Gemma one (now knowest thou why "We halted in our speech when asked of her), The other he who called our Bice bride." With shame the young man's being was astir, But soon she calmed him : ' ' After we have died Each knows the mate for each. But there below, Alas! not known, or walls of stone divide, 139 '*0r Heaven of one enamored soon doth grow." Then neared two others, having eyes for none But for each other, loitering and slow. The one of manly beauty and the one Fair as an angel, tremulous and pale, Remembrance in her air and in the tone With which she named ''Paolo," — nor did fail The watching youth to know them. With a cry He strove to stop them, but to no avail. Then passed Giotto and Casella by: And after these two women slowly came. And Irene whispered as they drew more nigh: "Behold her coming now whose gentle name Thou givest one thou lovest, — what kind eyes! With her is Rachel, not so slight of frame. More queenly poised her head, more matron-wise Her movements." ''Dreamed I from my earliest days Of Ruth, — this Ruth and of her sweet replies. The other Ruth her like in all her ways!" CANTO VII The youth was willing, almost glad, it seemed, To rest without the power to look on one Of seeing whom again he long had dreamed. 140 But after, frequent sighings were begun, Wherefrom and from vain looks around him sent His pain was known. Then she from Bice won Permission to relieve. Full swiftly went The two together through the darkened air. Above their flight the dusky firmament Was littered thick with stars: and everywhere Was silentness, until a cock did crow. Scenes looked familiar then, but strangely fair. A park within a city. ''Dost thou know That bench ? ' ' she asked then, leading him the way. He wist not whether it was joy or woe Shot through him, sharp with thoughts of yester- day. "And knowest thou yon barbarian, vain and tall, Upon whose head and martial proud array ''The sparrows chatter when the shadows fall? And knowest yon massive steps that lead a boy At evening from his books, and dost recall ' ' How two sat late, aware of no annoy From stony hardness till was green the grass? Ah, deem not of another kind the joy ' ' In Paradise ! Of that the bounds ye pass And know it not: and longer might remain If wiselier willed. But, as ye are, alas! 141 ** Awhile must wait, your portions dashed with pain," Then, close beside him, she withdrew her veil ; And, with their hearts o'erflowing, once again Silent they lingered till the stars grew pale! While 'neath a shade they sit, they overhear The voice of Beatrice call afar, Who, ever as she calls, is drawing near, But them not calling. As the evening star Serene and fair, she rose upon their view From the low meadow, where the lilies are. Oft pausing to look back, as lovers do. ''The hour is come which endeth here thy stay." So spake, as from the air, which radiant grew, A voice exceeding sweet, in accents gay. Then Beatrice knelt and bowed her head And questioned: ''Is it must or is it mayf'* "Already grows it late," the other said. "For long hast thou been worthy, — it is late." "But whither go we two, twice over dead, — "What region lies beyond the second gate? We two are well content with what is known." "Of two I spake not, for the one must wait." 142 *'But must I surely go and go alone?" The poet near had drawn, and all had heard And hears the answer : ' ' Ages now have flown, ''For years mistaken, waiting for this word. 'Twere pitiful more ages here to spend, — Yea, sicken wouldst thou soon of hope deferred. ''Yet on thy 'yes' or 'no' does all depend." Then thus the poet : ' ' Haste thee now and go. So that my stay here may more quickly end : "For I shall strive the harder here below For right to pass on to the better day." But Beatrice gave her answer : " No ! " And would not be persuaded, or obey. When ceased the radiance, nor was heard again The angel voice, the poet's heart gave 'way, And he forbore not to confess the strain It cost to utter thus a new farewell. And how rejoiced to find his words were vain. Silent, they wept. Then wings grew audible, As of a honey bird: — "When there I told. Some little adding, that which here befell, "And begged for other future to unfold, 'Twas given me : poet, for thy sacrifice Thou, too, mayst go, and boundaries that hold 143 "Shall never part your steps through Paradise." Then cried Irene : ' ' Alas, how much this pains ! I long have feared such parting in the skies. ' ' But Beatrice : ''Not till all the stains From thee and more beside are washed away, Not while a single one of those remains ''Who much have loved us shall I end my stay." ' ' Ah, me ! — so one at will may wait on here ! ' ' Thus spake Irene . . . NEAR I FOUND me near thee whom not walls divide, Near to thee yesterday, at set of sun; Near to that face I might not look upon ; Near to those hands by mercies sanctified; Near to the voice for which my spirit cried. I strove against the wrestling foe, and won. A hand upon the latch, a Heaven begun. Then footsteps, — then the long years, — turned aside. For thine is now what I must quite forego, A good I may not share, who share its cost, — I trust, — I think, — yea, surely this is so! Calmness is thine, — no longer tempest-tost, Forgetfulness, — a blessed Lethe crossed, I trust, — I doubt not, — ah, could I but know ! 144 IN THE GARDEN Hope was budding, oh, so brightly ! Now its fallen petals nightly With fresh tears are wet; Love was in full bloom, but faintly Be that said: the word is saintly To one bosom yet. But one flower grows ever fairer, Fair and tall. Making all the garden sharer Of its odor sweet. And I wonder and I wonder Now, with spirits torn asunder, Still may pathways meet?— If each comes to dream and ponder,- If there is, yet unforbidden, One fair shrine in common, hidden By a friendly wall, — An altar taper-lit with roses, Where a sacrifice reposes ? APRIL Go, rot within your darkling beds,— there lie. Perhaps to rise, transfigured, in far dreams: For I would watch low branches tease the streams With dropping spores,— see new-come swallows fly- US Would learn what sweets the secret wildwood flowers Pour from their carven chalices again, — Would with still meadows taste the breath of rain While unforsaken by the sunlit hours. Nor thou, nor these, can daunt me, thou pale Past,— Not me! — but ah, there is a tenderer breast, — Oh, be of mine, — of only mine, — the guest, — Not hers who came the gentlest and the last ! My fancies dance like daisies there at play: Believe me, broken hearts I laugh to scorn; But spare thou her, — the silly women mourn, — If I shed tears, so doth an April day. THE RETURN Once more they come, the robin and the wren; The humming-bird is dodging by again; Again with rippling laughter ring the showers; Again earth signals back to heaven with flowers. But thou returnest not : no more I see Those young eyes brightening at the sight of me. Though every nearing woman's face deceives A heart that all too readily believes. They are all back, — the years so long gone by, The waits, the meetings, every tear, each sigh; 146 The toilings upward in hard broken ways Toward that still height whereon perfection stays. The oriole drops like sunlight through the trees, His nesting mate to cheer with melodies; The blackbirds clamor once again; the dove In the dark oak-tree coos again her love. Child of my heart's travail, so timely sent, Almost with peace to bless me and content. Almost with hope, and make me half forget, — Ah, do not wrong thy soul with one regret! THE GUITAR This life were empty should I lose the creed That thou still dwellest in a realm once ours, — That dreams there mine have been as rotting seed, And thine been, one by one, like opening flowers. Still in my heart the merry laughter rings. Which set the birds to singing in our wood; Still do I hear thy fingers touch the strings Faintly, — sufficing in our solitude. And that embrace in which two spirits met And lingered, lest the parting word be said. The blessedness of that lives round me yet, — Yet on my arm the glory of thy head ! 147 BREAD A RING too fragile and too thin he wears, Not fashioned for a man, nor one full-grown To womanhood, wherefrom, as it appears, The set has fallen, — they say a simple stone. (I nothing know save what the neighbors tell.) They say the years are many that have flown Since from a coverlet whereon it fell He lifted it and took it for his own. The hand which such a ring as that has known Should have slim fingers, dainty, delicate. Have nerves that with emotion throb and thrill, Or, maybe, lie for hours soothed and still The while a certain footstep soundeth nigh, — Should be of one far wiser than her years. Whom beauty of a thought would move to tears, — Should be of one who, all the livelong day Could sit within one 's presence, while she read, Arousing only when that passed away (Like him who woke when ceased the thrushes' lay), Brought back, it may be, from some wondrous dream Of antique heroes or of those who seem More neighborlike, within the land of Fay, Yet ever ready, dreaming still, to note If he might turn to her from what he wrote. A woman there, to dream of dreamers blind. Would shadowlike attend, ofttimes in dread Of Angels, — patient wait with meat and bread 148 To press on lips reluctant, — made thus kind By love for these and one beyond the west, — A woman of all womanry the best. SONG Among the lilies of an Easter morn A loveliest one, * Torn from the clinging stem, to lie forlorn Till day be done. Among the stars that make less dark our night A star that falls. Fairest it shone, but soon was quenched its light. From glimmering walls, Athwart the cries that mark the wild-fowl's flight, A voice that calls ! PRAYER On the cover, motionless, A weak and weary hand, — my own,- Has now let fall a hand more feeble : Motion in the lips alone, — Moved in prayer I cannot hear, — Heard, I doubt not, by the one Waiting with a welcome near Till prayer be done! 149 SONG ''When the grace of seeding grass Shoots me with a slender bow, Makes me sigh a long 'Alas!' What it is I fain wonld know ? ' ' I would know what throbbing glows. Melts and pours a ruddy stream From the splendor of the rose, — Is it sooth, or does it seem? "Burns it long within my brain? Does it perish with the seeing ? ' ' It will evermore remain Part and substance of thy being. THE BENCH Lone on a bench within the public square (Rent-free the bench and sunshine, — well for him!), A man sat gazing, with bleared eyes and dim. Upon his face were lines of sin and care. And soon, behind him, one with curling hair Uprose, a young man, straight and tall and fair. I waited, though 'twas hardly my affair. "What! art thou here in such a sorry plight; I little thought to see thee come to this. I doubt thou hast whereon to sleep to-night. And surely none will greet thee with a kiss. How oft they gave good warning, — held the light, — And yet the road thou didst contrive to miss." 150 The old man brushed some moisture from his eye And slowly answered: "Every man is one, — Unlike all other men beneath the sun; And who and what he is a mystery To him, unriddled as the years go by: He thumbs his primer when the sands have run. Then why reproach me?" "Thou hast me be- trayed, — Me wrecked, — me ruined, — wasted, — quite unmade ! I know that lump of wretchedness, — 'tis I ! " SERENADE My Lady, sleep! And may the influence of the odorous pines Thy lithe limbs steep ! Slowly, at length, the pleiad group declines : Slow billows leap: And drowsy nod the flowers at their prayers; Faint is the breathing of the wandering airs, The cricket's cheep! My Lady, sleep! Sleep while the night her silver beads shall tell, Her vigil keep! Sleep till the swallow shall make audible The dawn 's glad sweep ! Sleep till the bees within the lilies lie. Then with the morning-glory close thine eye, Again in sleep! 151 No ! No ! Arise ! Too like to death, — too like to death is sleep ! My faint heart cries; Too much like death's its silent shadows creep; Too still one lies! Is this remembrance or but fear that speaks ? — **At parting time the roses left her cheeks, The stars her eyes." THOU KNOWEST THE PLACE Thou knowest where I wait, — not far, and yet A thousand ages from the noisy streets And all the anxious faces there one meets, — Where tresses of long grass are trailing wet Within a spring as clear as from regret The memory of our love, — where noonday heats Draw near, but enter not, — where softly beats An aery surf the slumbering leaves to fret. Thou whom young dawns have nursed and spirits clear That dwell in deep, unviolated woods Where never sigh hath stained the solitudes, Almost thy crackling footstep now I hear (But that the cardinal's loud song intrudes), Almost thy white skirts whispering: "See who's near ! ' ' Come, quickly come! for I have waited long. Haste ! for my spirit waxeth much forlorn Beside grey bones, of all that clad them shorn, 152 Laid at full length the laurel boughs among,— A lordly being, even in ruin strong, Now from all native semblance stripped and worn : — Once a proud pine, rejoicing with the morn, Stirring the birds to ever merrier song. Come, let us mourn him, though not newly dead ! Come, for the squirrels and the birds are come. He is arrayed now — sumac at his head And at his feet; the serious beetles hum A requiem over him ; silk-vestmented, The choired cicadas chaunt :— Should we be dumb? SONG Come with me, sweet,— here quiet lies In serpentine, sun-spotted ways; Expectancy in trees and skies — Expectance, though the swallow flies As through the first of summer days, Though idly yet the chipmunk plays, And still as loud the partridge cries. Come with me, as of old you came; Upon lone years the gateway close ! These woods, are not they quite the same, And we almost unchanged as those? There,— almost,— is the same wild rose You touched the first great day we came. 153 Here lies, as then, yon antlered wreck, Its semblance to an oak-tree gone; As then, the playful shadows fleck That weather-scriptured wall of stone; As patiently as then the trees. Long waiting, fill their destinies; Still, writ in blooms on mouldering sod. Is tendered us the truce of God, Accepting which, dear heart, we two Again may Paradise renew. THE GOLDEN HOUR Now the corn-shock roofs him o'er And the field-mouse, — filled his store, — Thinks of ease; Now, though humming-birds are darting. Swallows muster for departing Over seas. Bound thee now seems peace descending, Seems a holy presence bending From above; Seems in thy calm face the sweetness Of a life wrought to completeness By its love. On the porch the red leaf falleth; Now no more the partridge calleth To his mate. Telling her no danger waiteth, — One same tale of cheer relateth Soon and late. 154 Tell me, in the time hereafter, Shall my lot bring sighs or laughter? Thou canst say! For thou holdest in thy fingers All of hope for me that lingers. Tell me, pray! Graceful as tall seeded grasses; Richer every day that passes In heart's gold, — Not the child that I remember, Now the woman of September I behold! Through to me what dreary days Ever parted were our ways, — Thine more fair. Fleshed as rarest ripened flower, Spirit of this radiant hour, Heed my prayer! Still the roses shrinking, shifting. In the breeze their heads are lifting After rain ; Still the bumble-bees are tumbling From the hollyhocks and bumbling In again. All of summer's wealth unf olden, Now the apples, rotting, golden, Faint and fall; In the heat a breath of chillness And a sad, prophetic stillness Over all. 155 In thine eye a tear is trembling, — On thy lips a word, dissembling Thy sweet pain; But in vain thy tongue conceals it, For thy very silence peals it Forth again. L'ADULTERA Archangel. Brothers, my wishes did ye well fulfill ? First Angel. He sits alone and gazes on his hands. Then folds them in his tunic, hidden so From his own eyes, — no other dares come near. And thus I heard him speak : * ' Here I am Caesar,— Here life and death are held in my two hands. These Roman hands, — no Jew has power like this; And if he dies, I kill him, — I who saw No sign of guilt which touched Imperial Rome, — I who have told the Jews : ' Behold the man ! I find no fault in him. ' Alas ! Alas ! How weakly, at their threat of Rome's ill-will, I shrank before their clamor ; but 'tis done : — A Roman's word has passed; and lo, 'tis done. 'Twould be as weak to change it." Many times His wife has tried to reach him, armed each one With words like adder's fangs, or feigning dreams Which frightened her, wherein she saw the man. She saw him with her waking eyes, indeed. And liked not well the sight, — the twisted thorns 156 Upon his brow, the mocking royal robe, The bloody whip wherewith the Eoman still Did hope to bring to pity that wild crowd The High Priest stirred against him, — this she saw ; Now, thwarted, she so lifts her voice, it seems That he must hear, within his chamber shut; But when she leaves off, such a silence reigns As when a soul (enwombed on earth awhile, Here to receive from tendrils of the vine. From white-upfloated grace of eagle's flight, From heroes' glances, fibres fitting it For the next higher life) departs from this, — Such silence fills the Palace, and such awe. Archangel. And thou, my brother, what of Caiaphas? Second Angel. The High Priest on his roof did much rejoice To see and hear the shouting crowd below, — His praises hear, as Saviour of them all. Who else had all been punished for one's crime Of treason against Csesar. Not for long. When I had come, rejoiced he, but amazed And trembling stood. Archangel. Ye whipped them both, the Gentile and the Priest? First Angel. I crave thy pardon. Mighty Minister, But when I saw the Roman matron stand, A statue of contempt, I pitied him. 157 Archangel. Always thou wert too pitiful. Second Angel. Ill suits Our brother with this plane of earthly life. Archangel. And thou ? It was my hope thou wouldst be stern With Caiaphas, the mover of them all. Second Angel. As from a heathen woman 's face, the veil I stripped from that black soul, — as in a glass Showed him its naked, writhing ugliness. Dismayed He raised aloft his hands; and from this act The crowd, mistaking, yet more fury roared, As though he urged them on. Then, sore afraid. He crouched and shrank and turned away his face. First Angel. I think by this his purpose may be changed. And, with him changed, the Roman will make haste To halt the punishment. Second Angel. I think not so, — Too loudly has he shouted through the streets His ' ' Death for blasphemy ! " He will not change. Archangel. The everlasting will must be fulfilled. 158 First Angel. Is there no other way ? To bear this long Is more than I can hope. No other way? Archangel. Not for a race so steeped in wickedness Will lesser sacrifice than this avail. First Angel. See ! Where they pass the outer gate. They shout, — Why shout the Gentiles, too?— ''All hail, King!" Archangel. Our brother, needed for the final scene, — Go say to the Death Angel that he now Make ready on yon hill. The time draws near. Second Angel. 1 must obey thee, Mighty Minister. First Angel. Within the city gate, behind the crowd, I see a hooded figure, with weak steps. Look how it falters and would turn to fly. Yet follows on,— yet feebly follows on. As though it still must follow. Archangel. Hither bring Whatever this may be. Perhaps thus veiled The brother I have sent for comes. 159 1 irst Angel. Behold! I have obeyed. The Hooded Figure. A most sweet voice I heard, Yet no man see that spoke. Who art thou, friend? Archangel. Thou, too, art veiled: I ask thee, who art thou? The Hooded Figure. One who would gladly not be any man, Who curses her that brought him to the light. Archangel. What ! voice of Jew, and sad at such a time ? The Hooded Figure. The man is innocent, — yea, more than that, — Perhaps even more than man. Mysterious one, As thou hast power to speak, upon thy soul I lay his death, if thou proclaim this not. The man is innocent, and I have said, — Yea, I, even I, — have said it. Archangel. Thou hast said ! The High Priest and the holy court have said He doth blaspheme. 160 The Hooded Figure. From jealousy of iDower The High Priest sought his death. The people all Were following after him, as well they might. Archangel. Rash being ! What the High Priest may have willed Is not within thy knowledge, as I think. The Hooded Figure. I would that thought were mine. One like to him, A teacher such as he, has not been sent Unto this people, and yet I, — even I, — The chosen guide of those to whom he came, — I led them forth to Caesar's governor. To ask his death upon the Roman cross. Archangel. Thou? The Hooded Figure. Yea, I. Behold! Archangel. The Holy Priest ! First Angel. Look, Caiaphas! — they dig upon yon hill To plant the cross. Caiaphas. Ah, me! I dare not look! Within the twinkling of an eye is done Mischief long ages are too short to mend. 161 Archangel. Unwisely said, great judge and holy priest, — One word from thee, — there needs but this alone. Speak to the Roman, and right willingly He will unmake his order for this death. Caiaphas. Washer of hands! — he would not. I am not A stranger sent from Eome, who knows not God And recks not who blasphemes His holy name, But one who thought, — who tried think, — just cause There was in blasphemy for death. Archangel. But go ! Go quickly now and speak to him the truth. Caiaphas. Well, be it as thou wilt, — this should be tried. Archangel. There is no other hope. Caiaphas. Yea, yea, — I go ! I cannot move. My feet are chained to earth. And all shall now be finished, — he must die! Ah, curses on the day that I was born! Archangel. Give me thy trembling hand, that I may help — 162 Cojiaphas. I move,— I move,— I go! The Lord be praised! And thou, mysterious friend, I bless thy hand. Archangel. In stumbling- haste he runs. Before him speed And draw aside the Roman. Bring thou him. If he will any wise be brought; but far From Caiaphas mislead him. First Angel. If I may! Archangel. And thou who comest with a gloomy brow Hast found the fair Death Angel? Second Angel. On a height, A bare bright peak, I saw him laid asleep. Gleaming, as near gleamed hues of gold and blue And grey and red, upon the lapsing sands, The unquenched beauty of primeval fires. A heavenly butterfly at first he seemed. To earth there fallen wounded. At my call He rose up slowly, slowly spread his wings, And, looking o'er the desert, sang this song: ''The Sands are a furnace that fines with fire And the Sun's great hammer doth beat the gold Of the heart and the life to a saint's desire. Or the rapture of one who would sing of old Clear man and the swath of his ire. 163 ' ' Where the walled city 's glories wax faint and die A city I see never made with hands : — The King of that City, upborne on high, Is casting a shadow upon the sands. But a light on a face nearby! **A light on a woman who would not go, But lingers anear him, the last of them all, — A woman of sin, lone, weeping below, — A scarlet drop for the sin doth fall. But a tear for the woman's woe. ' ' ' They have taken my lord, and I know not where They have laid him.' And 'Mary!' she hears one say, And she; 'Rabboni!' The furnace glare All dross from her spirit has burned away Till love such as this is there!" Archangel. Greatly it grieves our brother to behold The void, wild looks of those a soul forsakes. He rose unwillingly, but he will come ? Second Angel. There on the height, with half-averted face, Hand over hand upon his hilt, he waits. To hear thy dread command and to obey. Archangel. The everlasting will must be fulfilled. 164 Second Angel. But see! One sinks beneath his heavy cross- May I not help him, Mighty Minister? Archangel. Such weakness would all suffering worlds undo. Second Angel. One faints and falls. Is not she one of those Who ministered to him in Galilee? They lift her now, — a woman lifts, and John. Archangel. It is the sinful woman. Men have said Too much with sinners he has passed his days. Second Angel. May I not help the one whom sorely now The Gentile soldiers strike? Archangel. Fair brother, no! As now thine own, these tragic scenes must move Men's pity in the ages yet to come. Yea, all men in all regions. To a cross, A copy of the one despised now there, Shall Kings in legion bow the head, the knee. This holy one his word shall send afar : Slowly it moves, a river through the sand : I see it wind through crumbling banks and sink, Not ceasing when unshown. But in his name Shall men be burned whose love for their own kind Shall be their sin. And in his name shall hate,— 165 Shall bitter hate be sown, who taught sweet love, — In his fair name more cruel wars be fought Than ever yet were known, and bloody hands Be lifted to his shade in impious thanks As though he helped men slaughter. Second Angel. No! Ah, no! It cannot be ! No — No I This cannot be ! Has he not banned such savage ways of men? Archangel. And have not men for this a cross set up To thank him yonder? Second Angel. Now thy word is true But will not all be changed? He mocks the law And changes, saying he does but fulfill, — The law which orders vengeance, as for sin Of woman, death by stoning. Bending down To write with finger on the Temple's floor. When elders brought a woman, tempting him To speak, from pity, counter to the law. He wrote upon the sand, then slowly said: "Let him that sins not be the first to cast A stone at her." So did he mock the law Of blood and vengeance; and no wars can be 'Mid those who follow him. Archangel. Who follow him, Who truly follow him, but many a man 166 Shall call upon his name but basely shun To follow where he leads. Second Angel. He taught them love, — Taught only brother love. Will love not change The ways of men? Archangel. Yea, slowly. Teachers false, Taking his garb, forsaking all he taught. Shall hatred sow for ages yet to come. But here and there a few white flowers shall rise,— I see them now, and in the distant time. — The Woman. Go thou,— yes, leave me, John, for there is need. I shall be stronger soon, for my great love, Which overcame, shall lift me up again. That I may follow on unto the end. Archangel. Alas, poor woman! Now, she turns aside Too weak to totter farther. Second Angel. Is not this Of those white flowers but now in vision seen? The Woman. Ye that speak, who are ye? None I see. Still works the swoon upon me, as it seems. 167 Archangel. A great Archangel I — a mighty power. The Woman. Then, wherefore with a woman idling thus? Is not thy duty yonder, smiting those That slay the righteous one? Archangel. It had been so Of old. Jehovah reigned, another now. Above a changing world. In cither's time, What life and death ye call are nothing more Than sleep and waking are. What matters, then, Their slaying this one? The Woman. Naught I understand Is, then, Jehovah dead? Alas! — Alas! Archangel. Not so, but for earth's race one lesson then, — Another now, — one threat, — one promise then, To lead and guide you upward on the way To pure perfection. The Woman. Naught I understand. I am a sinner, — no perfection seek. I only love the Master, — only this. Archangel. No more but this concerns thee, faithful one. 168 The Woman. But look, — why dost thou let such tortures be? Archangel. Dost thou, then, bid me smite them, faithful one? The Woman. Who, I, the worst of sinners? How should I Command Archangels ? Archangel. To Jehovah pray- That he may bid me smite them, and I shall. The Woman. I was not taught that prayer. Archangel. Ask, then, of me, — Kneel but to me, and ask, and I shall go As lion through a sheepfold. Ihc Woman. 'Twas a lamb He called himself. Archangel. Ah ! Wretched woman, pray. Kneel down and rescue him who rescued thee! The Woman. Oh ! Snatch him from these cruel ones ! 169 Archangel. But thou Wilt lend no little word that tearing thorns Be cut away to let the lamb go free? Wilt thou forsake him here, thy love grown cold? Still silent?— I shall wait. Second Angel. Behold! she goes With feeble steps and looking not behind. Archangel. Alas, poor woman! Second Angel. See! — Our brother comes alone! First Angel. The Roman would not come, tho' much I tried! Archangel. The everlasting will must be fulfilled. First Angel. There yet he sat, within the chamber shut. Still gazed upon his hands, so moving them As though he washed them ever. In that tone The spirit knows to hear, I whispered him: ''Come, — end these scenes of shame, — arise and come. Short time for this remains. What shall be said In Rome of such a Roman? Thou hast squeezed One drop from those stained fingers ? " To his eyes He pressed these, crying : ' * What, a Jew ! — 170 A wretched, wandering beggar Jew, despised By his own people,— a seditious Jew ! What will Rome know, what care, when I shall speak, — When I shall say,— and is it not the truth?— I tried to save him when their court condemned? When I shall tell he sought to shake the power Of C^sar in Judea ?' ' At this thought He strove to smile, whereat my anger burned Out to the plumage-tips. Then, through the door He saw writhe in a serpent, to the skin And threatening head whereof the stars and flowers Had lent their colors ; through whose length the ribs Twisted and turned, as whorls of a fierce storm; And, as a storm, he hissing terror flashed,— Slowly came in and coiled and struck his hand. . *'It is the blood!" the trembling wretch exclaimed. Then rushed he forth, and hastened through the street ; And there I left him, by retainers chased. Who feared and marveled. Archangel. -, ^ . i o Well!— and Caiaphas? First Angel. When Caiaphas unto the Palace came. The guards derided,— mocked him,— called him mad — They would not let him enter; thence he ran, Crying aloud : ' ' The only one not mad In all the city am I, Caiaphas!" 171 Archangel. The everlasting will must be fulfilled. Second Angel. See now! The men who came from Galilee No longer follow, — save a few; but stand Doubting, or turn and mingle with the crowd. The women all yet follow. First Angel. Now they reach The bottom of the hill. The shouts have ceased; No more the Jews now mock. The soldiers cry : ' * Bow down, then, to his Kingship ! ' ' Archangel. Gentiles, — Jews, Were joined by him in care and now are joined To crucify him. Caiaphas. It was here, I think, I heard that wondrous voice. friend! — dear friend ! Archangel. "What wouldst thou, most wise judge and reverend priest ? Caiaphas. I know not what to do ! 172 Archangel. What answer gave The mighty Roman? Caiaphas. Him in vain I sought, — They called me mad. Mysterious counselor, This must not be so finished! Archangel. Aye, — it must. Caiaphas. But wherefore? Archangel. Wherefore have men not hearkened to the word ? Great teachers, Jew and Gentile, did God send. Yet crimes unnatural scarce hide from day. Caiaphas. Speak not of this, but help me,— help me now! Yonder, behold, the end is drawing near. Archangel. No end But a beginning. High upon a hill The light shall now be raised. Caiaphas. Is there no help ? No mercy,— none for him,— for me,— for me Who have such need of mercy? 173 Archangel. Ask thyself, Ask Pilate, what of mercy. Ye should know "What has become of mercy. First Angel. Thee I pray, Great Minister, to spare this guilty one. Caiaphas. In but the twinkling of an eye, it seems — Archangel. Thyself did strangle mercy ! On a hill The light shall now be lifted, — on one side Of this thyself shalt now be hung aloft, — On one the Eoman, — thus shall shine the light Between two darknesses, the ages through. Caiaphas. But listen ! — ^listen ! Didst thou hear some words ? First Angel. It seemed as though I heard a voice which cried — Caiaphas. Which cried? — Oh, tell me if I heard aright! First Angel. * ' Forgive them, for they know not what they do ! " Caiaphas. 'Tis so I heard, greater than a King ! 174 Archangel. To whom the angels and archangels bow, — Y/hom Jews and Gentiles slay. Caiaphas. But I,— but I,— I could not be forgiven, — no, not I! Archangel. Eash earthling, say not so. For even the worst Comes mercy from that prayer. Caiaphas, But I am worse — Worse than the worst am I. Archangel. Not so, — not so! Thou art a flail within the hand of one That strikes in darkness only. Soon or late That prayer shall rescue earthlings every one. Ye know not what ye do, poor stumbling things! But see! Upon the tomb which waits for him. And waits for all of you, the rays that shine, — The shadow of the cross upon the sands, — The light upon the sepulchre ! First Angel. And look! The woman does not swoon and fall, but stands Serene and comforted, as when she stood Within the Temple and the elders shrank In guilty shame away. 175 FRAGMENTS Is she thinking how oft near the slippery stair How many have tottered of those silent there As she passes? Well, maybe, themselves, they forget Like a moth how each followed a flame in her turn, How praise made them dizzy, the sigh of regret For roses ungathered. Her cheeks, how they burn! But, as for the others, what thought makes them fair? Ah, butterflies dwelling far up in the trees And bathing each moment their charms in the breeze Could never, I think, feel as dainty as these! II Ye quiet birds, sweet kindred in the trees. Long have I left you for the marts of men, To see them drain to-morrows to the lees. And of to-days scarce tasting. Now, again Let me near spirits clear and all that sings, Beings of upper air and joyous wings. Share in the gentle folding of these hills. Where next ye dine ye know not, — not one grain Stored,— not a thought for all time's threat of ills; While I, afar, with aching heart and brain, 176 Pursue and search through endless, winding ways, — Tho', too like you, for neither gain nor praise. Now, by this laughing brook, let's wander far In friendship old and sweeter than yon star Which waits to be the seal upon the fold Of one more finished day. Ill "When the swallows fail and to the tinkling quiver, Leave the waters, of a tender toned guitar, Is there naught. Dear, trembling near thee on the river Save the music and our well-beloved star? And above thee, with her garments torn and flying, All enamored and forsaken in the skies. When the midnight in wild ecstasies is dying, Is it only then the lonely midnight sighs? When thou hearest, half -awakened, a lone singing. Like a bird. Dear, singing longer than the rest. Dost thou know, then, at thy window what is winging : Dost thou rise and long to clasp it to thy breast ? It is near thee when thy pathway seems the clearest From the troubling and the doubting and the fears. It is near thee, Beloved, — it is nearest Beside thee, lying still amid thy tears. 177 IV In solitudes, where wealth and scorn abide And self is god, thy crown shall not be thorns, But serpents. With the lowly choose thy side. There, there is glory which the more adorns That but the soul may see it, when dim eyes Like birds are wakened by the voice of one Forsaking not ; there, in the mute replies Of hand to hand, a sweetness, music's own. Great kings shall bow before a greater king. Proud argosies with emptiness return ; But there is gladness, like the rains of spring, There peace and rest for aching hearts that yearn. The fates but once the thread of life unwind. Dim desolation stretched her desert sand Before him ; and he dared not look behind. Where gates forever sealed and silent stand. Ere they were sent from those forbidden skies He felt an impulse, dreaming, nothing more : He looked into the future and her eyes: Then saw he, like a shadow cast before. That other ; and they two went hand in hand Among the lilies ; and he could not tell One from the other quite, nor understand How they did seem, by some new miracle. Not two, but one, — that one, now come again. And from this doubt the tremblings yet remain. 178 VI He called again,— for long, he did not call. He sighed to see the trees about the door : Their leaves were dropping near the convent wall As he had seen them many times before. She saw him,— then she saw but falling leaves, Poor cloistered heart, and scarce found strength to speak. ' ' He loves young flowers he bindeth in his sheaves. She murmured in a voice as kind as meek. VII There, on the bed, she lay : he sat beside,— Hopeless, quite hopeless,— very calm and still. It seemed but yesterday since as a bride He saw her lying so. ''Would love or will," His soul he questioned, ''fail me, in her stead To yield up life,— to watch the tide outpour From severed veins, till light and life were fled, And she upraised, and I upon the floor?" Jealous of life and light, of earth and sky. He asked and answered silently,— none knew. That hour,— that moment, as the years go by, Returns upon him ever fresh and true,— An hour of nothing done, of nothing said; And yet therein full half of all his days Seem sacredly enclosed. The trees have shed Their blossoms in the spring,— in autumn's haze 179 Their yellowing leaves; and dews of morn and tears Of those who knew her, whom he therefore loves, Have come to him, and even hopes and fears. . . . VIII I feel thy beauty as an anguish keen, cankered lily, fading in the moon; And over thee in trembling hope I lean, As when one waxeth whiter in a swoon. Put thy strong arms around me, too, Death! Hold me that I forget, — at least, forget! Left in this vale, I linger, drawing breath. When o'er the heights the star of love hath set Oh, lead me to that kingdom, king of all, Where thou hast taken whatsoe'er is best And dear and lovely ! Take me, — hear my call ! — Where the lovely and the loving are at rest. IX I sit and I watch as the camels swing Along the hard road from the far-off land (One heart, one heaven, the news they bring). I am learning to love it — the limitless sand And the clean, sweet bell that the camels ring — Though I hear in the distance the desolate cry Of Hagar, afar from her faint boy gone, 180 For she waileth: "I cannot see him die!" Though I hear, when the others have hurried on, Alone by the sepulchre Magdalen sigh, — Though a mirror of glass is the limitless sand, And I needs must look at myself therein, And there is no cover that may withstand The might of its clearness, to hide one sin Of the sins long-cherished or newly-planned: All naked I see them, — the good as well, — Of this not the half of the whole I thought. But the little doth ring like the camels' bell, — Though 'tis thus with my soul that the sands have wrought. Yet I love it, — the fierce white truth they tell. X If thou could 'st wreak fierce pride upon the race And die with plaudits ringing in thine ear. Of what avail? The crowding times efface A glittering name, however high and clear. Where, through the night, the quavering screech- owl's cry Startles the ears of those who yet can hear. There lay thee down: the birds that linger by Shall wake thee not when leaves are green or sere, — Shall wake thee not when skies are dark or fine: All weathers shall be friends, each season best; 181 And kings shall meaner requiem have than thine, When pines shall sing above thy dreamless rest. XI Ye that loll on your beds of ease, Do you ever peer out through the flimsy veil Between your sins and the crimes of these? Have ever ye hearkened the children's wail Or the sigh of the criminal's wife? Stay, please! It may trouble a few of the comforting saws Ye have cherished since Cain uttered impudent things, To notice what penalty out of your laws On the women and children, the innocent, springs, And to ask for their punishment reason or cause, — To think of a widow or wife, — of the scorn. Lone, starving, but as she can beg or steal. Of a daughter who better had not been born. Of a son of seven years doomed to feel The winter's chill in his fair May morn. XII Sing ! — the night is short, Maria ! Sing, ah sing, till it be day! Once again ^* Santa Lucia!" Soon we shall be far away, 182 In a new- pitched camp o'er ocean Called a city and our home: 'Tis to ns a strange emotion Shared to-night with thee and Rome. Such a wail from buried ages! Such a wild and sweet caress! And that sigh of peace all sages Would give all things to possess ! XIII The ocean stretches far and wide, — Cramped are the ports and few! Then let us o'er the wild waves ride! Ye laggards all, adieu! How say ye, brothers, would ye feel The final fortress won, Or gladlier gird again the steel That mocks the rising sun? For me, — I'd hear the clarion That leads the glorious fray! Life's battle, let it still go on. And ye who will, go pray! 183 L/BRARy OF fffiiyCRESS 078 391 726 2 ^