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THE HERMITAGE AND 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
^t/X^i 
 
 
 Cop3Tight, 1867, 
 By E. R. sill. 
 
 Copyright, 1889, 
 By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Ca 
 
 A/l rights reserved* 
 
 •••• • (tc 
 
 a « c c c 
 
 ••• ••• 
 
 ••• •-• 
 
 • • •'• 
 
 
 The Riverside Press ^ Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 
 27, /5S7. 
 
 / held his letter in my hand, 
 
 And even while I read 
 The lightning flashed across the land 
 
 The word that he was dead. 
 
 How strange it seemed! His living voice 
 
 Was speaking from the page 
 Those courteotis phrases, tersely choice. 
 
 Light-hearted, witty, sage. 
 
 I wondered what it was that died! 
 
 The man himself was here, 
 His modesty, his scJtolar''s pride, 
 
 His soul serene and clear. 
 
 These neither death nor time shall dim. 
 Still this sad thing must be — 
 
 Henceforth I Tnay not speak to him. 
 Though he can speak to me! 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 The Hermitage - 7 
 
 Starlight 70 
 
 A Dead Bird in Winter • • • 73 
 
 Spring Twilight 76 
 
 Evening 78 
 
 Eastern Winter 81 
 
 A Prayer 84 
 
 The Polar Sea 86 
 
 The Future 89 
 
 The North Wind 91 
 
 California Winter 95 
 
 The Lover's Song 99 
 
 Tropical Morning at Sea 100 
 
 A Foolish Wish 103 
 
 Every-day Life 106 
 
 Before Sunrise in Winter .107 
 
 Sibylline Bartering . . - 108 
 
THE HERMITAGE.* 
 
 I. 
 
 LIFE, — a common, cleanly, 
 
 quiet life, 
 Full of good citizenship and re- 
 pute, 
 
 New, but with promise of prosperity, — 
 
 A well - bred, fair, young - gentlemanly 
 life,— 
 
 What business had a girl to bring her 
 eyes. 
 
 And her blonde hair, and her clear, ring- 
 ing voice. 
 
 And break up life, as a bell breaks a 
 dream ? 
 
 Had Love Christ's wrath, and did this 
 life sell doves 
 
 1 California, Bay of San Francisco, 1866. 
 
8 The Hermitage 
 
 In the world's temple, that Love scourged 
 it forth 
 
 Beyond the gates ? Within, the worship- 
 ers, — 
 
 Without, the waste, and the hill-country, 
 where 
 
 The life, with smarting shoulders and 
 stung heart, 
 
 Unknowing that the hand which scourged 
 could heal, 
 
 Drave forth, blind, cursing, in despair to 
 die, 
 
 Or work its own salvation out in fear. 
 
 Old World — old, foolish, wicked World 
 
 — farewell ! 
 Since the Time-angel left my soul with 
 
 thee. 
 Thou hast been a hard step-mother unto 
 
 me. 
 Now I at last rebel 
 Against thy stony eyes and cruel hands. 
 
The Hermitage 9 
 
 I will go seek in far-oif lands 
 
 Some quiet corner, where my years shall 
 
 be 
 Still as the shadow of a brooding bird 
 That stirs but with her heart-beats. Far, 
 
 unheard 
 May wrangle on the noisy human host, 
 While I will face my Life, that silent 
 
 ghost, 
 And force it speak what it would have 
 
 with me. 
 
 Not of the fair young Earth, 
 The snow-crowned, sunny-belted globe ; 
 Not of its skies, nor Twilight's purple 
 
 robe. 
 Nor pearly dawn ; not of the flowers' 
 
 birth. 
 And Autumn's forest - funerals ; not of 
 
 storms. 
 And quiet seas, and clouds' incessant 
 
 forms ; 
 Not of the sanctuary of the night. 
 
lo The Hermitage 
 
 With its solemnities, nor any sight 
 
 And pleasant sound of all the friendly 
 
 day : 
 But I am tired of what we call our lives j 
 Tired of the endless humming in the 
 
 hives, — 
 Sick of the bitter honey that we eat, 
 And sick of cursing all the shallow 
 
 cheat. 
 
 Let me arise, and away 
 To the land that guards the dying day, 
 Whose burning tear, the evening-star. 
 Drops silently to the wave afar ; 
 The land where summers never cease 
 Their sunny psalm of light and peace. 
 Whose moonlight, poured for years un- 
 told, 
 Has drifted down in dust of gold ; 
 Whose morning splendors, fallen in show- 
 ers. 
 Leave ceaseless sunrise in the flowers. 
 
The Hermitage a 
 
 There I will choose some eyrie in the 
 hills, 
 Where I may build, like a lonely bird, 
 And catch the whispered music heard 
 Out of the noise of human ills. 
 
 So, I am here at last ; 
 A purer world, whose feet the old, salt 
 
 Past 
 Washes against, and leaves it fresh and 
 
 free 
 As a new island risen from the sea. 
 
 Three dreamy weeks we lay on Ocean's 
 
 breast, 
 Rocked asleep, by gentle winds caressed, 
 Or crooned with wild wave-lullabies to 
 
 rest. 
 A memory of foam and glassy spray ; 
 Wave chasing wave, like young sea-beasts 
 
 at play ; 
 Stretches of misty silver 'neath the moon, 
 
12 The Hermitage 
 
 And night-airs murmuring many a quiet 
 tune. 
 
 Three long, delicious weeks' monotony 
 
 Of sky, and stars, and sea. 
 
 Broken midway by one day's tropic 
 scene 
 
 Of giant plants, tangles of luminous 
 green, 
 
 With fiery flowers and purple fruits be- 
 tween. 
 
 I have found a spot for my hermit- 
 age, — 
 
 No dank and sunless cave, — 
 
 I come not for a dungeon, nor a cage, — 
 
 Not to be Nature's slave, 
 
 But, as a weary child, 
 
 Unto the mother's faithful arms I flee. 
 
 And seek the sunniest footstool at her 
 knee. 
 
 Where I may sit beneath caresses mild. 
 
 And hear the sweet old songs that she 
 will sing to me. 
 
The Hermitage b^ 
 
 'T is a grassy mountain-nook. 
 
 In a gorge, whose foaming brook 
 
 Tumbles through from the heights above, 
 
 Merrily leaping to the light 
 
 From the pine- wood's haunted gloom, — 
 
 As a romping child. 
 
 Affrighted, from a sombre room 
 
 Leaps to the sunshine, laughing with de- 
 light: 
 
 Be this my home, by man's tread unde- 
 filed. 
 
 Here sounds no voice but of the mourn- 
 ing dove, 
 
 Nor harsher footsteps on the sands ap- 
 pear 
 
 Than the sharp, slender hoof-marks of 
 the deer, 
 
 Or where the quail has left a zigzag row 
 
 Of lightly printed stars her track to show. 
 
 Above me frowns a front of rocky wall, 
 Deep cloven into ruined pillars tall 
 And sculptures strange j bald to its dizzy 
 edge, 
 
14 The Hermitage 
 
 Save where, in some deep crevice of a 
 
 ledge 
 Buttressed by its black shadow hung 
 
 below, 
 A solitary pine has cleft the rock, — 
 Straight as an arrow, feathered to the tip, 
 As if a shaft from the moon-huntress' bow 
 Had struck and grazed the cliff's defiant 
 
 lip, 
 And stood, still stiffly quivering with the 
 
 shock. 
 
 Beyond the gorge a slope runs half-way 
 up, 
 With hollow curve as for a giant's cup, 
 Brimming with blue pine-shadows : then 
 
 in air 
 The gray rock rises bare, 
 Its front deep-fluted by the sculptor- 
 storms 
 In moulded columns, rounded forms, 
 As if great organ-pipes were chiseled 
 there, 
 
The Hermitage 75 
 
 Whose anthems are the torrent's roar 
 
 below, 
 And chanting winds that through the 
 
 pine-tops go. 
 Here bursts of requiem music sink and 
 
 rise, 
 When the full moonlight, slowly streaming, 
 
 lies 
 Like panes of gold on some cathedral 
 
 pave. 
 While floating mists their silver incense 
 
 wave. 
 And from on high, through fleecy win- 
 dow-bars. 
 Gaze down the saintly faces of the stars. 
 
 Against the huge trunk of a storm- 
 snapped tree, 
 
 (Whose hollow, ready-hewn by long de- 
 cay, 
 
 Above, a chimney, lined with slate and 
 clay, 
 
 Below, a broad arched fireplace makes 
 for me,) 
 
1 6 The Hermitage 
 
 I 've built of saplings and long limbs a 
 
 hut. 
 The roof with lacing boughs is tightly- 
 shut, 
 Thatched with thick-spreading palms of 
 
 pine, 
 And tangled over by a wandering vine, 
 Uprooted from the woods close by, 
 Whose clasping tendrils climb and twine. 
 Waving their little hands on high. 
 As if they loved to deck this nest of mine. 
 Within, by smooth white stones from the 
 
 brook's beach 
 My rooms are separated, each from each. 
 On yonder island-rock my table 's spread. 
 Brook-ringed, that no stray, fasting ant 
 
 may come 
 To make himself with my wild fare at 
 home. 
 
 Here will I live, and here my life shall 
 be 
 SerenCy still, rooted steadfastly, 
 
The Hermitage ly 
 
 Yet pointing skyward, and its motions 
 
 keep 
 A rhythmic balance, as that cedar tall, 
 Whose straight shaft rises from the chasm 
 
 there, 
 Through the blue, hollow air. 
 And, measuring the dizzy deep. 
 Leans its long shadow on the rock's gray 
 
 wall. 
 
 Through the sharp gap of the gorge 
 
 below. 
 From my mountains' feet the gaze may go 
 Over a stretch of fields, broad-sunned. 
 Then glance beyond. 
 Across the beautiful bay. 
 To that dim ridge, a score of miles away, 
 Lifting its clear-cut outline high. 
 Azure with distance on the azure sky. 
 Whose flocks of white clouds brooding on 
 
 its crests 
 Have winged from ocean to their piny 
 
 nests. 
 
1 8 The Hermitage 
 
 Beyond the bright blue water's further 
 rim, 
 
 Where waves seem ripples on its far-off 
 brim, 
 
 The rich young city lies, 
 
 Diminished to an ant-hill's size. 
 
 I trace its steep streets, ribbing all the hill 
 
 Like narrow bands of steel, 
 
 Binding the city on the shifting sand : 
 
 Thick-pressed between them stand 
 
 Broad piles of buildings, pricked through 
 here and there 
 
 By a sharp steeple ; and above, the air 
 
 Murky with smoke and dust, that seem to 
 show 
 
 The bright sky saddened by the sin be- 
 low. 
 
 The voice of my wild 'brook is marvel- 
 ous ; 
 Leaning above it from a jutting rock 
 To watch the image of my face, that forms 
 
The Hermitage 19 
 
 And breaks, and forms again (as the 
 
 image of God 
 Is broken and re-gathered in a soul), 
 I listen to the chords that sink and swell 
 From many a little fall and babbling run. 
 That hollow gurgle is the deepest bass ; 
 Over the pebbles gush contralto tones. 
 While shriller trebles tinkle merrily, 
 Running, like some enchanted - fingered 
 
 flute, 
 Endless chromatics. 
 
 Now it is the hum 
 And roar of distant streets; the rush of 
 
 winds 
 Through far-off forests : now the noise of 
 
 rain 
 Drumming the roof ; the hiss of ocean- 
 foam : 
 Now the swift ripple of piano-keys 
 In mad mazurkas, danced by laughing 
 girls. 
 
 So, night and day, the hurrying brook 
 sroes on : 
 
20 The Hermitage 
 
 Sometimes in noisy glee, sometimes far 
 
 down, 
 Silent along the bottom of the gorge. 
 Like a deep passion hidden in the soul, 
 That chafes in secret hunger for its sea : 
 Yet not so still but that heaven finds its 
 
 course ; 
 And not so hid but that the yearning 
 
 night 
 Broods over it, and feeds it with her stars. 
 
 When earth has Eden spots like this for 
 
 man, 
 Why will he drag his life where lashing 
 
 storms 
 Whip him indoors, the petulant weather's 
 
 slave ? 
 There he is but a helpless, naked snail, 
 Except he wear his house close at his 
 
 back. 
 Here the wide air builds him his palace 
 
 walls, — 
 
The Hermitage 21 
 
 Some little corner of it roofed, for sleep j 
 Or he can lie all night, bare to the sky. 
 And feel updrawn against the breast of 
 
 heaven, 
 Letting his thoughts stretch out among 
 
 the stars, 
 As the antennae of an insect grope 
 Blindly for food, or as the ivy's shoots 
 Clamber from cope and tower to find the 
 
 light, 
 And drink the electric pulses of the sun. 
 
 As from that sun we draw the coarser 
 
 fire 
 That swells the veins, and builds the brain 
 
 and bone. 
 So from each star a finer influence streams, 
 Kindling within the mortal chrysalis 
 The first faint thrills of its new life to 
 
 come. 
 
 Here is no niggard gap of sky above. 
 With murk and mist below, but all sides 
 clear, — 
 
22 The Hermitage 
 
 Not an inch bated from the full-swung 
 
 dome ; 
 Each constellation to the horizon's rim 
 Keen-glittering, as if one only need 
 Walk to the ,edge there, spread his wings, 
 
 and float, 
 The dark earth spurned behind, into the 
 
 blue. 
 
 I love thee, thou brown, homely, dear 
 
 old Earth ! 
 Those fairer planets whither fate may 
 
 lead, 
 Whatever marvel be their bulk or speed, 
 Ringed with what splendor, belted round 
 
 with fire, 
 In glory of perpetual moons arrayed, 
 Can ne'er give back the glow and fresh 
 
 desire 
 Of youth in that old home where man had 
 
 birth, 
 Whose paths he trod through wholesome 
 
 light and shade. 
 
The Hermitage 2^ 
 
 Out of their silver radiance to thy dim 
 
 And clouded orb his eye will turn, 
 
 As an old man looks back to where he 
 
 played 
 About his father's hearth, and finds for 
 
 him 
 No splendor like the fires which there did 
 
 burn. 
 
 See : I am come to live alone with thee. 
 Thou hast had many a one, grown old and 
 
 worn. 
 Come to thee weary and forlorn, 
 Bent with the weight of human vanity. 
 But I come with my life almost untried, 
 In thy perpetual presence to abide. 
 Teach me thy wisdom ; let me learn the 
 
 flowers, 
 And know the rocks and trees, 
 And touch the springs of all thy hidden 
 
 powers. 
 Let the still gloom of thy rock-fastnesses 
 Fall deep upon my spirit, till the voice 
 
24 The Hermitage 
 
 Of brooks become familiar, and my heart 
 
 rejoice 
 With joy of birds and winds ; and all the 
 
 hours, 
 Unmaddened by the babble of vain men, 
 Bring thy most inner converse to my ken. 
 So shall it be, that, when I stand 
 On that next planet's ruddy-shimmering 
 
 strand, 
 I shall not seem a pert and forward child 
 Seeking to dabble in abstruser lore 
 With alphabet unlearned, who in disgrace 
 Returns, upon his primer yet to pore — 
 But those examiners, all wise and mild, 
 Shall gently lead me to my place, 
 As one that faithfully did trace 
 These simpler earthly records o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 
 Beckoned at sunrise by the surf's white 
 hand, 
 I have strayed down to sit upon the 
 beach. 
 
The Hermitage 2^ 
 
 And hear the oratorio of the Sea. 
 
 On this steep, crumbling bank, where the 
 high tides 
 
 Have crunched the earth away, a crooked 
 oak — 
 
 A hunch -backed dwarf, whose limbs, 
 cramped down by gales, 
 
 Have twisted stiffening back upon them- 
 selves — 
 
 Spreads me a little arbor from the sun. 
 
 On the brown, shining beach, all ripple- 
 carved. 
 Gleams now and then a pool j so smooth 
 
 and clear, 
 That, though I cannot see the plover 
 
 there 
 Pacing its farther edge (so much he looks 
 The color of the sand), yet I can trace 
 His image hanging in the glassy brine — 
 Slim legs and rapier-beak — like silver- 
 plate 
 With such a pictured bird clean-etched 
 upon it. 
 
26 The Hermitage 
 
 Beyond, long curves of little shallow 
 
 waves 
 Creep, tremulous with ripples, to the 
 
 shore. 
 Till the whole bay seems slowly sliding in, 
 With edge of snow that melts against the 
 
 sand. 
 
 Above its twinkling blue, where cease- 
 lessly 
 
 The white curve of a slender arm of foam 
 
 Is reached along the water, and with- 
 drawn, 
 
 A flock of sea-birds darken into specks ; 
 
 Then whiten, as they wheel with sunlit 
 wings, 
 
 Winking and wavering against the sky. 
 
 The earth for form, the sea for coloring, 
 And overhead, fair daughters of the two. 
 The clouds, whose curves were moulded 
 
 on the hills. 
 Whose tints of pearl and foam the ocean 
 
 gave. 
 
The Hermitage 2y 
 
 O Sea, thou art all-beautiful, but dumb ! 
 Thou hast no utterance articulate 
 For human ears ; only a restless moan 
 Of barren tides, that loathe the living 
 
 earth 
 As alien, striving towards the barren 
 
 moon. 
 Thou art no longer infinite to man : 
 Has he not touched thy boundary-shores, 
 
 and now 
 Laid his electric fetters round thy feet ? 
 Thy dumb moan saddens me ; let me go 
 
 back 
 And listen to the silence of the hills. 
 
 At last I live alone : 
 No human judgment-seats are here 
 Thrust in between man and his Maker's 
 
 throne. 
 With praise to covet, or with frown to 
 
 fear: 
 No small, distorted judgments bless, or 
 
 blame j 
 
28 The Hermitage 
 
 Only to Him I own 
 
 The inward sense of worth, or flush of 
 shame. 
 
 God made the man alone ; 
 And all that first grand morning walked 
 
 he so. 
 Then was he strong and wise, till at the 
 
 noon, 
 When tired with joyous wonder he lay 
 
 prone 
 For rest and sleep, God let him know 
 The subtile sweetness that is bound in 
 
 Two. 
 
 Man rises best alone : 
 Upward his thoughts stream, like the 
 
 leaping flame, 
 Whose base is tempest-blown ; 
 Upward and skyward, since from thence 
 
 they came. 
 And thither they must flow. 
 But when in twos we go, 
 
The Hermitage 29 
 
 The lightnings of the brain weave to and 
 
 fro, 
 Level across the abyss that parts us all ; 
 If upward, only slantwise, as we scale 
 Slowly together that night-shrouded wall 
 Which bounds our reason, lest our reason 
 
 fail. 
 If linked in threes, and fives, 
 However heavenward the spirit strives. 
 The lowest stature draws the highest 
 
 down, — 
 The king must keep the level of the 
 
 clown. 
 The grosser matter has the greater power 
 In all attraction ; every hour 
 We slide and slip to lower scales, 
 Till weary aspiration fails, 
 And that keen fire which might have 
 
 pierced the skies. 
 Is quenched and killed in one another's 
 
 eyes. 
 
^o The Hermitage 
 
 A child had blown a bubble fair 
 That floated in the sunny air : 
 A hundred rainbows danced and swung 
 Upon its surface, as it hung 
 In films of changing color rolled, 
 Crimson, and amethyst, and gold, 
 With faintest streaks of azure sheen, 
 And curdling rivulets of green. 
 " If so the surface shines," cried he, 
 " What marvel must the centre be ! " 
 He caught it — on his empty hands 
 A drop of turbid water stands ! 
 
 With men, to help the moments fly, 
 I tossed the ball of talk on high, 
 With glancing jest, and random stings, 
 Grazing the crests of thoughts and things. 
 In many a shifting ray of speech 
 That shot swift sparkles, each to each. 
 I thought, " Ah, could we pierce below 
 To inner soul, what depths would show ! " 
 In friendships many, loves a few, 
 I pierced the inner depths, and knew 
 
The Hermitage jr 
 
 'T was but the shell that splendor caught : 
 Within, one sour and selfish thought. 
 
 I found a grotto, hidden in the gorge. 
 Paved by the brook in rare Mosaic work 
 Of sand, and lucent depths, and shadow- 
 streaks 
 Veining the amber of the sun-dyed wave. 
 Between two mossy masses of gray rock 
 Lay a clear basin, which, with sun and 
 
 shade 
 Bewitched, a great transparent opal made, 
 Over whose broken rims the water ran. 
 Above each rocky side leaned waving 
 
 trees 
 Whose lace of branches wove a restless 
 
 roof, 
 Trailed over by green vines that sifted 
 
 down 
 A dust of sunshine through the chilly 
 shade. • 
 
 Leaning against a trunk of oak, rock- 
 wedged. 
 
^2 The Hermitage 
 
 Whose writhen roots were clenched upon 
 
 the stones, 
 I was a Greek, and caught the sudden 
 
 flash 
 Of a scared Dryad's vanishing robe, and 
 
 heard 
 The laughter, half-suppressed, of hiding 
 
 Fauns. 
 Up the dark stairway of the tumbling 
 
 stream 
 The sun shot through, and struck each 
 
 foamy fall 
 Into a silvery veil of dazzling fire. 
 Along its shady course, the tossing drops 
 By some swift sunbeam ever caught, were 
 
 lit 
 To sparkling stars, that fell, and flashed, 
 
 and fell, 
 Incessantly rekindled. Bubble-troops 
 Came dancing by, to break just at my 
 
 feet ; 
 Lo ! every bubble mirrored the whole 
 
 scene — . 
 
The Hermitage ^^ 
 
 The streak of blue between the roofing- 
 boughs, 
 And on it my own face in miniature 
 Quaintly distorted, as if some small elf 
 Peered up at me beneath his glassy dome. 
 
 If men but knew the mazes of the brain 
 And all its crowded pictures, they would 
 
 need 
 No Louvre or Vatican : behind our brows 
 Intricate galleries are built, whose walls 
 Are rich with all the splendors of a life. 
 Each crimson leaf of every aut'imn walk, 
 Dewdrops of childhood's mornings, every 
 
 scene 
 From any window where we 've chanced 
 
 to stand. 
 Forgotten sunsets, summer afternoons 
 Hang fresh in those immortal galleries. 
 Few ever can unlock them, till great Death 
 Unrolls our life-long memory as a scroll. 
 One key is solitude, and silence one, 
 
^4 The Hermitage 
 
 And one a quiet mind, content to re^t 
 In God's sufficiency, and take His world, 
 Not dabbling all the Master's work to 
 
 death 
 With our small interference. God is God. 
 
 Yet we must give the children leave to 
 
 use 
 Our garden-tools, though they spoil tool 
 
 and plant 
 In learning. So the Master may not 
 
 scorn 
 Our awkwardness, as with these bungling 
 
 hands 
 We try to uproot the ill, and plant with 
 
 good 
 Life's barren soil : the child is learning 
 
 use. 
 Perhaps the angels even are forbid 
 To laugh at us, or may not care to laugh, 
 With kind eyes pitying our little hurts. 
 
 'Tis ludicrous that man should think he 
 roams 
 
The Hermitage ^5 
 
 Freely at will a world planned for his use. 
 Lo, what a mite he is ! Snatched hither 
 
 and yon, 
 Tossed round the sun, and in its orbit 
 
 flashed 
 Round other centres, orbits without end ; 
 His bit of brain too small to even feel 
 The spinning of the little hailstone, Earth. 
 So his creeds glibly prate of choice and 
 
 will. 
 When his whole fate is an invisible speck 
 Whirled through the orbits of Eternity. 
 
 We think that we believe 
 That human souls shall live, and live, 
 When trees have rotted into mould, 
 And all the rocks which these long hills 
 
 enfold 
 Have crumbled, and beneath new oceans 
 
 lie. 
 But why — ah, why — 
 If puny man is not indeed to die, 
 
jj5 The Hermitage 
 
 Watch I with such disdain 
 
 That human speck creeping along the 
 
 plain, 
 And turn with such a careless scorn of 
 
 men 
 Back to the mountain's brow again, 
 And feel more pleased that some small, 
 
 fluttering thing 
 Trusts me and hovers near on fearless 
 
 wing. 
 Than if the proudest man in all the land 
 Had offered me in friendliness his hand ? 
 
 However small the present creature 
 
 man, — 
 Ridiculous imitation of the gods, 
 Weak plagiarism on some completer 
 
 world, — 
 Yet we can boast of that strong race to be. 
 The savage broke the attraction which 
 
 binds fast 
 The fibres of the oak, and we to-day 
 
The Hermitage ^y 
 
 By cunning chemistry can force apart 
 The elements of the air. That coming 
 
 race 
 Shall loose the bands by which the earth 
 
 attracts ; 
 A drop of occult tincture, a spring touched 
 Shall outwit gravitation ; men shall float, 
 Or lift the hills and set them where they 
 
 will. 
 The savage crossed the lake, and we the 
 
 sea. 
 That coming race shall have no bounds 
 
 or bars, 
 But, like the fledgeling eaglet, leave the 
 
 nest, — 
 Our earthly eyrie up among the stars, — 
 And freely soar, to tread the desolate 
 
 moon, 
 Or mingle with the neighbor folk of Mars. 
 Yea, if the savage learned by sign and 
 
 sound 
 To bridge the chasm to his fellow's brain, 
 Till now we flash our whispers round the 
 
 globe, 
 
^8 The Hermitage 
 
 That race shall signal over the abyss 
 
 To those bright souls who throng the 
 
 outer courts 
 Of life, impatient who shall greet men 
 
 first 
 And solve the riddles that we die to know. 
 
 'T is night : I sit alone among the hills. 
 
 There is no sound, except the sleepless 
 brook. 
 
 Whose voice comes faintly from the 
 depths below 
 
 Through the thick darkness, or the som- 
 bre pines 
 
 That slumber, murmuring sometimes in 
 their dreams. 
 
 Hark! on a fitful gust there came the 
 sound 
 
 Of the tide rising yonder on the bay. 
 
 It dies again : 't was like the rustling 
 noise 
 
 Of a great army mustering secretly. 
 
The Hermitage ^g 
 
 There rose an owl's cry, from the woods 
 
 below, 
 Like a lost spirit's. — Now all 's still 
 
 again. — 
 'T is almost fearful to sit here alone 
 And feel the deathly silence and the 
 
 dark. 
 I will arise and shout, and hear at least 
 My own voice answer. — Not an echo 
 
 even! 
 I wish I had not uttered that wild cry ; 
 It broke with such a shock upon the air, 
 Whose leaden silence closed up after it, 
 And seemed to clap together at my ears. 
 The black depths of these muffled woods 
 
 are thronged 
 With shapes that wait some signal to 
 
 swoop out, 
 And swirl around and madden me with 
 
 fear. 
 I will go climb that bare and rocky height 
 Into the clearer air. 
 
40 The Hermitage 
 
 So, here I breathe ; 
 That silent darkness smothered me. 
 
 Away 
 Across the bay, the city with its lights 
 Twinkling against the horizon's dusky line, 
 Looks a sea-dragon, crawled up on the 
 
 shore, 
 With rings of fire across his rounded 
 
 back. 
 And luminous claws spread out among 
 
 the hills. 
 Above, the glittering heavens. — Magnifi* 
 
 cent! 
 Oh, if a man could be but as a star. 
 Having his place appointed, here to rise, 
 And there to set, unchanged by earthly 
 
 change. 
 Content if it can guide some wandering 
 
 bark, 
 Or be a beacon to some home-sick soul ! 
 
 Those city-lights again : they draw my 
 gaze 
 
The Hermitage 41 
 
 As if some secret human sympathy 
 
 Still held my heart down from the lonely 
 
 heaven. 
 A new-born constellation, setting there 
 Below the Sickle's ruby-hilted curve, 
 They gleam Not so ! No constella- 
 tion they ; 
 I mock the sad, strong stars that never 
 
 fail 
 In their eternal patience ; from below 
 Comes that pale glare, like the faint, 
 
 sulphurous flame 
 Which plays above the ashes of a fire : 
 So trembles the dull flicker of those 
 
 lamps 
 Over the burnt-out energies of man. 
 
 II. 
 
 A month since I last laid my pencil 
 down, — 
 An April, fairer than the Atlantic June, 
 Whose calendar of perfect days was kept 
 
42 The Hermitage 
 
 By daily blossoming of some new flower. 
 The fields, whose carpets now were silken 
 
 white, 
 Next week were orange-velvet, next, sea- 
 blue. 
 It was as if some central fire of bloom. 
 From which in other climes a random 
 
 root 
 Is now and then shot up, here had burst 
 
 forth 
 And overflowed the fields, and set the 
 
 land 
 Aflame with flowers. I watched them 
 
 day by day. 
 How at the dawn they wake, and open 
 
 wide 
 Their little petal-windows, how they turn 
 Their slender necks to follow round the 
 
 sun, 
 And how the passion they express all day 
 In burning color, steals forth with the 
 
 dew 
 All night in odor. 
 
The Hermitage 4^ 
 
 I have wandered much 
 These weeks, but everywhere a restless 
 
 mind 
 Has dogged me, like the shadow at my 
 
 heels. 
 Sometimes I watched the morning mist 
 
 arise, 
 Like an imprisoned Genie from the stream, 
 And wished that death would come on me 
 
 like dawn. 
 Drawing the spirit, that white, vaporous 
 
 mist, 
 Up from this noisy, fretted stream of life, 
 To fall where God will, in his bounteous 
 
 showers. 
 Sometimes I walked at sunset on the edge 
 Of the steep gorge, and saw my shadow 
 
 pace 
 Along a shadow-wall across the abysS, 
 And felt that we, with all our phantom 
 
 deeds, 
 Are but far-slanted shadows of some life 
 That walks between our planet and its 
 
 God. 
 
44 The Hermitage 
 
 All the long nights — those memory- 
 haunted nights, 
 
 When sleepless conscience would not let 
 me sleep, 
 
 But stung, and stung, and pointed to the 
 world 
 
 Which like a coward I had left behind, 
 
 I watched the heavens, where week by- 
 week the moon 
 
 Slow swelled its silver bud, blossomed full 
 gold. 
 
 And slowly faded. 
 
 Laid the pencil down — 
 Why not ? Are there not books enough ? 
 
 Is man 
 A sick child that must be amused by 
 
 songs, 
 Or be made sicker with their foolish noise ? 
 
 Then illness came : I should have ar- 
 gued, once, 
 
The Hermitage ^5 
 
 That the ill body gave me those ill 
 
 thoughts ; 
 But I have learned that spirit, though it be 
 Subtile, and hard to trace, is mightier 
 Than matter, and I know the poisoned 
 
 mind 
 Poisoned its shell. Three days of fever- 
 fire 
 Burned out my strength, leaving me 
 
 scarcely power 
 To reach the brook's side and my scanty 
 
 food. 
 What would I not have given to hear the 
 
 voice 
 Of some one who would raise my throb- 
 bing head 
 And shade the fevering sun, and cool my 
 
 hand 
 In her moist palms ! But I lay there, 
 
 alone. 
 Blessed be sickness, which cuts down our 
 
 pride 
 And bares our helplessness. I have had 
 new thoughts. 
 
46 The Hermitage 
 
 I think the fever burned away some lies 
 Which clogged the truthful currents of 
 
 the brain. 
 Am I quite happy here? Have I the 
 
 right, 
 As wholly independent, to scorn men ? 
 What do I owe them — self ? Should I 
 
 be I, 
 Born in these hills ? A savage rather ! 
 
 Food, 
 The sailor-bread ? Yes, that took mill 
 
 and men : 
 Yet flesh and fowl are free ; but powder 
 
 and gun — 
 What human lives went to the making of 
 
 them ? 
 I am dependent as the villager 
 Who lives by the white wagon's daily 
 
 round. 
 Yea, better feed upon the ox, to which 
 The knife is mercy after slavery, 
 Than kill the innocent birds, and trustful 
 
 deer 
 
The Hermitage 4y 
 
 Whose big blue eyes have almost human 
 
 pain j 
 That 's murder ! 
 
 I scorned books : to those same books 
 I owe the power to scorn them. 
 
 I despised 
 Men: from themselves I drew the pure 
 
 ideal 
 By which to measure them. 
 
 At woman's love 
 I laughed : but to that love I owe 
 The hunger for a more abiding love. 
 Their nestlings in our hearts leave vacant 
 
 there 
 These hollow places, like a lark's round 
 
 nest 
 Left empty in the grass, and filled with 
 
 flowers. 
 
 What do I here alone ? 'T was not so 
 strange, 
 Weary of discords, that I chose to hear 
 The one, clear, perfect note of solitude ; 
 
48 The Hermitage 
 
 But now it plagues the ear, that one shrill 
 
 note : 
 Give me the chords back, even though 
 
 some ring false. 
 
 Unmarried to the steel, the flint is cold : 
 Strike one to the other, and they wake in 
 fire. 
 
 A solitary fagot will not burn : 
 Bring two, and cheerily the flame ascends. 
 Alone, man is a lifeless stone ; or lies 
 A charring ember, smouldering into ash. 
 
 If the man riding yonder looks a speck, 
 The town an ant-hill, that is but the 
 
 trick 
 Of our perspective : wisdom merely means 
 Correction of the angles at the eye. 
 I hold my hand up, so, before my face, — 
 It blots ten miles of country, and a town. 
 
The Hermitage 49 
 
 This little lying lens, that twists the rays, 
 So cheats the brain that My house, My 
 
 affairs, 
 My hunger, or My happiness. My ache, 
 And My religion, fill immensity ! 
 Yours merely dot the landscape casually. 
 'T is well God does not measure a man's 
 
 worth 
 By the image on his neighbor's retina. 
 
 I am alone : the birds care not for me, 
 Except to sing a little farther off, 
 With looks that say, " What does this fel- 
 low here ? " 
 The loud brook babbles only for the 
 
 flowers : 
 The mountain and the forest take me not 
 Into their meditations ; I disturb 
 Their silence, as a child that drags his toy 
 Across a chapel's porch. The viewless 
 
 ones 
 Who flattered me to claim their company 
 
^o The Hermitage 
 
 By gleams of thought they tossed to me 
 
 for alms, 
 About their grander matters turn, nor 
 
 deign 
 To notice me, unless it were to say — 
 As we put oif a troublesome child — 
 
 "There, go! 
 Men are your fellows, go and mate with 
 
 them ! " 
 
 If I could find one soul that would not 
 lie, 
 I would go back, and we would arm our 
 
 hands, 
 And strike at every ugly weed that stands 
 In God's wide garden of the world, and 
 try, 
 Obedient to the Gardener's commands. 
 To set some smallest flowers before we 
 die. 
 
 One such I had found, — 
 But she was bound, 
 
7he Hermitage 5/ 
 
 Fettered and led, bid for and sold, 
 Chained to a stone by a ring of gold. 
 
 In a stony sense the stone loved her, 
 
 too: 
 Between our places the river was broad, 
 Should she tread on a broken heart to go 
 
 through — 
 Could she put a man's life in mid-stream 
 
 to be trod. 
 To come over dry-shod ? 
 
 Shame ! that a man with hand and 
 brain 
 Should, like a love-lorn girl, complain. 
 Rhyming his dainty woes anew. 
 When there is honest work to do ! 
 
 What work, what work? Is God not 
 wise 
 To rule the world He could devise ? 
 Yet see thou, though the realm be His, 
 
tp2 The Hermitage 
 
 He governs it by deputies. 
 
 Enough to know of Chance and Luck, 
 
 The stroke we choose to strike is struck •, 
 
 The deed we shght will slighted be, 
 
 In spite of all Necessity. 
 
 The Parcae's web of good and ill 
 
 They weave with human shuttles still, 
 
 And fate is fate through man's free will. 
 
 With sullen thoughts that smoulder 
 
 hour by hour, 
 In vague expectancy of help or hope 
 Which still eludes my brain, waiting I sit 
 Like a blind beggar at a palace-gate, 
 Who hears the rustling past of silks, and 
 
 airs 
 Of costly odor mock him blowing by. 
 And feels within a dull and aching wish 
 That the proud wall would let some 
 
 coping down 
 To crush him dead, and let him have his 
 
 rest. 
 
The Hermitage 55 
 
 No help from men : they could not, if 
 
 they would. 
 And God ? He lets His world be wrung 
 
 with pain. 
 No help at all then ? Let life be in vain : 
 To get no help is surely greatest gain j 
 To taunt the hunger down is sweetest 
 
 food. 
 
 O mocker, Memory ! From what float- 
 ing cloud. 
 
 Or from what witchery of the haunted 
 wood. 
 
 Or faintest perfumes, softly drifting 
 through 
 
 The lupines' lattice-bars of white and 
 blue, 
 
 Steals back upon my soul this weaker 
 mood "i 
 
 My heart is dreaming; — in a shadowy 
 room 
 
 I breathe the vague scent of a jasmin- 
 bloom 
 
^4 The Hermitage 
 
 That floats on waves of music, softer 
 played, 
 
 Till song and odor all the brain pervade ; 
 
 Swiftly across my cheek there sweeps the 
 thrill 
 
 Of burning lips, — then all is hushed and 
 still j 
 
 And round the vision in unearthly awe 
 
 Deeps of enchanted starlight seem to 
 draw. 
 
 In which my soul sinks, falling noise- 
 lessly, — 
 
 As from a lone ship, far-off, in the night. 
 
 Out of a child's hand slips a pebble white. 
 
 Glimmering and fading down the awful 
 sea. 
 
 That night, which pushed me out of 
 
 Paradise, 
 When the last guest had taken his mask 
 
 of smiles 
 And gone, she wheeled a sofa from the 
 
 light 
 
The Hermitage 55 
 
 Where I sat touching the piano-keys, 
 And begged me play her weariness away. 
 I played all sweet and solemn airs I knew, 
 And when, with music mesmerized, she 
 
 slept, 
 I made the deep chords tell her dreams 
 
 my love. 
 Once, when they grew too passionate, I 
 
 saw 
 The faint blush ripen in their glow, and 
 
 chide, 
 Even in dreams, the rash, tumultuous 
 
 thought. 
 Then when I made them say, " Sleep 
 
 on, dream on, 
 For now we are together; when thou 
 
 wak'st 
 Forevermore we are alone — alone," 
 She sighed in sleep, and waked not : then 
 
 I rose. 
 And softly stooped my head, and, half in 
 
 awe. 
 Half passion-rapt, I kissed her lips fare- 
 well. 
 
^6 The Hermitage 
 
 Only the meek - mouthed blossoms 
 
 kiss I now, 
 Or the cold cheek that sometimes comes 
 
 at night 
 In haunted dreams, and brushes past my 
 
 own. 
 
 Ah, what hast thou to do with me, sweet 
 
 song — 
 Why hauntest thou and vexest so my 
 
 dreams ? 
 Have I not turned away from thee so 
 
 long — 
 So long, and yet the starry midnight 
 
 seems 
 Astir with tremulous music, as of old, — 
 Forbidden memories opening, fold on 
 
 fold? 
 
 O ghost of Love, why, with thy rose-leaf 
 lips. 
 Dost thou still mock my sleep with 
 kisses warm, 
 
The Hermitage ^y 
 
 Torturing my dreams with touching finger^ 
 tips, 
 That madden me to clasp thy phantom 
 form? 
 
 Have I not earned, by all these tears, at 
 last, 
 
 The right to rest untroubled by that Past ? 
 
 Unto thy patient heart, my mother 
 
 Earth, 
 I come, a weary child. 
 I have no claim, save that thou gav'st me 
 
 birth, 
 And hast sustained me with thy nurture 
 
 mild. 
 I have stood up alone these many years ; 
 Now let me come and lie upon my face. 
 And spread my hands among the dewy 
 
 grass, 
 Till the slow wind's mesmeric touches pass 
 Above my brain, and all its throbbing 
 
 chase ; 
 
^8 The Hermitage 
 
 Into thy bosom take these bitter tears, 
 And let them seem unto the innocent 
 
 flowers 
 Only as dew, or heaven's gentle showers ; 
 Till, quieted and hushed against thy 
 
 breast, 
 I can forget to weep, 
 And sink at last to sleep, — 
 Long sleep and rest. 
 
 Her face ! 
 It must have been her face, — 
 No other one was ever half so fair, — 
 No other head e'er bent with such meek 
 
 grace 
 Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde 
 
 hair. 
 In a carriage on the street of the town. 
 Where I had strayed in walking from the 
 
 bay, 
 Just as the sun was going down. 
 Shielding her sight from his latest ray, 
 She sat, and scanned with eager eye 
 
The Hermitage 59 
 
 The faces of the passers-by. 
 Whom was she looking for ? Not me — 
 Yet what wild purpose can it be 
 That tempted her to this wild land ? 
 — I marked that on her lifted hand 
 The diamonds no longer shine 
 Of the ring that meant, not mine — not 
 mine ! 
 
 Ah fool — fool — fool ! crawl back to 
 thy den, 
 Like a wounded beast as thou art, again ; 
 Whosever she be, not thine — not thine ! 
 
 I sat last night on yonder ridge of rocks 
 To see the sun set over Tamelpais, 
 Whose tented peak, suffused with rosy 
 
 mist, 
 Blended the colors of the sea and sky 
 And made the mountain one great ame- 
 thyst 
 Hanging against the sunset. 
 
6o The Hermitage 
 
 In the west 
 There lay two clouds which parted com- 
 pany, 
 Floating like two soft-breasted swans, and 
 
 sailed 
 Farther and farther separate, till one 
 
 stayed 
 To make a mantle for the evening-star ; 
 The other wept itself away in rain. 
 A fancy seized me ; — if, in other worlds. 
 That Spirit from afar should call to me, 
 Across some starry chasm impassable, 
 Weeping, " Oh, hadst thou only come to 
 
 me ! — 
 I loved you so ! — I prayed each night 
 
 that God 
 Would send you to me ! Now, alas ! too 
 
 late, 
 Too late — farewell ! " and still again, 
 
 " farewell ! " 
 Like the pulsation of a silenced bell 
 Whose sobs beat on within the brain. 
 
The Hermitage 6r 
 
 I rose, 
 
 And smote my staff strongly against the 
 
 ground, 
 And set my face homeward, and set my 
 
 heart • 
 
 Firm in a passionate purpose : there, in 
 
 haste, 
 With that one echo goading me to speed, 
 " If it should be too late — if it should be 
 Too late — too late ! " I took a pen and 
 
 wrote : 
 
 " Dear Soul, if I am mad to speak to 
 
 thee, 
 And this faint glimmer which I call a hope 
 Be but the corpse-light on the grave of 
 
 hope — 
 If thou, O darling Star, art in the West 
 To be my Evening-star, and watch my day 
 Fade slowly into desolate twilight, burn 
 This folly in the flames; and scattered 
 
 with 
 Its ashes, let my madness be forgot. 
 
62 The Hermitage 
 
 But if not so, oh be my Morning-star, 
 And crown my East with splendor : come 
 to me ! " 
 
 A stern, wild, broken place for a man to 
 
 walk 
 And muse on broken fortunes; a rare 
 
 place, — 
 There in the Autumn weather, cool and 
 
 still, 
 With the warm sunshine clinging round 
 
 the rocks 
 Softly, in pity, like a woman's love, — 
 To wait for some one who can never 
 
 come — 
 
 As a man there was waiting. Overhead 
 
 A happy bird sang quietly to himself. 
 
 Unconscious of such sombre thoughts 
 below. 
 
 To which the song was background : — 
 
 "Yet how men 
 Sometimes will struggle, writhe, and 
 scream at death ! 
 
The Hermitage 6^ 
 
 It were so easy now, in the mild air, 
 
 To close the senses, slowly sleep, and 
 
 die j 
 To cease to be the shaped and definite 
 
 cloud, 
 And melt away into the fathomless 
 
 blue ; — 
 Only to touch this crimson thread of life. 
 Whose steady ripple pulses in my wrist, 
 And watch the little current soak the 
 
 grass, 
 Till the haze came, then darkness, and 
 
 then rest. 
 Would God be angry if I stopped one life 
 Among His myriads — such a worthless 
 
 one ? 
 If I should pray, I wonder would He send 
 An angel down out of that great, white 
 
 cloud, 
 (He surely could spare one from praising 
 
 Him,) 
 To tell if there is any better way 
 Than — Look ! Why, that is grand, 
 
 now ! (Am I mad ? 
 
64 The Hermitage 
 
 I did not think I should go mad!) 
 
 That 's grand — 
 One of the blessed spirits come like this 
 To meet a poor, lean man among the 
 
 rocks, 
 And answer questions for him ? " 
 
 There she stood, 
 With blonde hair blowing back, as if the 
 
 breeze 
 Blew a light out of it, that ever played 
 And hovered at her shoulders. Such 
 
 blue eyes 
 Mirrored the dreamy mountain dis* 
 
 tances, — 
 (Yet, are the angels' faces thin and wan 
 Like that ; and do they have such 
 
 mouths, so drawn. 
 As if a sad song, some sad time, had died 
 Upon the lips, and left its echo there ?) 
 
 And the man rose, and stood with 
 folded hands 
 
The Hermitage 6^ 
 
 And head bent, and his downcast looks in 
 
 awe 
 Touching her garment's hem, that, when 
 
 she spoke, 
 Trembled a little where it met her feet. 
 
 " I am come, because you called to me 
 
 to come. 
 What were all other voices when I heard 
 The voice of my own soul's soul call to 
 
 me? 
 You knew I loved you — oh, you must 
 
 have known! 
 Was it a noble thing to do, you think, 
 To leave a lonely girl to die down there 
 In the great empty world, and come up 
 
 here 
 To make a martyr's pillar of your pride ? 
 There has been nobler work done, there 
 
 in the world. 
 Than you have done this year ! " 
 
 Then cried the man : 
 
66 The Hermitage 
 
 " O voice that I have prayed for — O sad 
 
 voice, 
 And woful eyes, spare me if I have 
 
 sinned ! 
 There was a little ring you used to 
 
 wear " — 
 
 " O strange, wild Fates, that balance 
 bliss and woe 
 On such poor straws ! It was a brother's 
 gift." 
 
 " You never told me " — 
 
 " Did you ever ask ? " 
 
 " You, too, were surely prouder then 
 than now ! " 
 
 " Dear, I am sadder now : the head 
 must bend 
 A little, when one 's weeping." 
 
The Hermitage 67 
 
 Then the man, — 
 While half his mind, bewildered, at a 
 
 flash 
 Took in the wide, lone place, the singing 
 
 bird, 
 The sunshine streaming past them like a 
 
 wind, 
 And the broad tree that moved as though 
 
 it breathed : 
 " Oh, if 't is possible that in the world 
 There lies some low, mean work for me 
 
 to do, 
 Let me go there alone : I am ashamed 
 To wear life's crown when I flung down 
 
 its sword. 
 Crammed full of pride, and lust, and lit- 
 tleness, 
 O God, I am not worthy of thy gifts ! 
 Let me find penance, till, years hence, 
 
 perchance. 
 Made pure by toil, and scourged with pain 
 
 and prayer" — 
 
68 The Hermitage 
 
 Then a voice answered through His 
 
 creature's lips, — 
 " God asks no penance but a better life. 
 He purifies by pain — He only ; 't is 
 A remedy too dangerous for our 
 Blind pharmacy, Lo ! we have tried that 
 
 way, 
 And borne what fruit, or blossoms even, 
 
 save one 
 Poor passion - flower ! Come, take thy 
 
 happiness ; 
 In happy hearts are all the sunbeams 
 
 forged 
 That brighten up our weatherbeaten 
 
 world. 
 Come back with me — Come ! for I love 
 
 you — Come ! " 
 
 If it was not a dream : perchance it 
 was — 
 Often it seems so, and I wonder when 
 I shall awaken on the mountain-side, 
 
The Hermitage 6g 
 
 With a little bitter taste left in the mouth 
 Of too much sleep, or too much happiness, 
 And sigh, and wish that I might dream 
 again. 
 
STARLIGHT. 
 
 HEY think me daft, who nightly 
 meet 
 My face turned starward, while 
 my feet 
 Stumble along the unseen street ; 
 
 But should man's thoughts have only room 
 For Earth, his cradle and his tomb, 
 Not for his Temple's grander gloom ? 
 
 And must the prisoner all his days 
 Learn but his dungeon's narrow ways 
 And never through its grating gaze ? 
 
 Then let me linger in your sight 
 
 My only amaranths ! blossoming bright 
 
 As over Eden's cloudless night. 
 
starlight 7/ 
 
 The same vast belt, and square, and 
 
 crown, 
 That on the Deluge glittered down, 
 And lit the roofs of Bethlehem town ! 
 
 Ye make me one with all my race, 
 A victor over time and space. 
 Till all the path of men I pace. 
 
 Far-speeding backward in my brain 
 We build the Pyramids again, 
 And Babel rises from the plain ; 
 
 And climbing upward on your beams 
 I peer within the Patriarchs' dreams, 
 Till the deep sky with angels teems. 
 
 My Comforters ! — Yea, why not mine ? 
 The power that kindled you doth shine, 
 In man, a mastery divine ; 
 
 That Love which throbs in every star. 
 And quickens all the worlds afar. 
 Beats warmer where his children are. 
 
>j2 Starlight 
 
 The shadow of the wings of Death 
 Broods over us j we feel his breath : 
 " Resurgam " still the spirit saith. 
 
 These tired feet, this weary brain, 
 Blotted with many a mortal stain, 
 May crumble earthward — not in vain. 
 
 With swifter feet that shall not tire, 
 Eyes that shall fail not at your fire, 
 Nearer your splendors I aspire. 
 
A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER. 
 
 HE cold, hard sky and hidden 
 sun, 
 The stiffened trees that shiver 
 so, 
 With bare twigs naked every one 
 To these harsh winds that freeze the 
 snow, — 
 
 It was a bitter place to die, 
 
 Poor birdie ! Was it easier, then, 
 
 On such a world to shut thine eye. 
 And sleep away from life, than when 
 
 The apple-blossoms tint the air, 
 And, twittering in the sunny trees. 
 
 Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair. 
 
 Breasting the warm, caressing breeze ? 
 
y4 ^ Dead Bird in Winter 
 
 Nay, it were easiest, I feel, 
 
 Though 't were a brighter Earth to 
 lose, 
 To let the summer shadows steal 
 
 About thee, bringing their repose ; 
 
 When the noon hush was on the air. 
 And on the flowers the warm sun 
 shined, 
 
 And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair, 
 That He who made it must be kind. 
 
 So I, too, could not bear to go 
 
 From Life in this unfriendly clime, 
 
 To lie beneath the crusted snow, 
 
 When the dead grass stands stiff with 
 rime ; 
 
 But under those blue skies of home, 
 Far easier were it to lie down, 
 
 Where the perpetual violets bloom. 
 
 And the rich moss grows never brown ; 
 
A Dead Bird in Winter 75 
 
 Where linnets never cease to build 
 
 Their nests, in boughs that always wave 
 
 To odorous airs, with blessing filled 
 From nestled blossoms round my grave. 
 
SPRING TWILIGHT. 
 
 INGING in the rain, robin ? 
 
 Rippling out so fast 
 All thy flute-like notes, as if 
 This singing were thy last ! 
 
 After sundown, too, robin ? 
 
 Though the fields are dim. 
 And the trees grow dark and still, 
 
 Dripping from leaf and limb. 
 
 *T is heart-broken music — 
 That sweet, faltering strain, — 
 
 Like a mingled memory. 
 Half ecstasy, half pain. 
 
 Surely thus to sing, robin, 
 Thou must have in sight 
 
spring Twilight 77 
 
 Beautiful skies behind the shower, 
 And dawn beyond the night. 
 
 Would thy faith were mine, robin ! 
 
 Then, though night were long. 
 All its silent hours should melt 
 
 Their sorrow into song. 
 
EVENING. 
 
 HE Sun is gone : those glorious 
 
 chariot-wheels 
 
 Have sunk their broadening 
 
 spokes of flame, and left 
 
 Thin rosy films wimpled across the West, 
 
 Whose last faint tints melt slowly in the 
 
 blue, 
 As the last trembling cadence of a song 
 Fades into silence sweeter than all sound. 
 
 Now the first stars begin to tremble 
 
 forth 
 Like the first instruments of an orchestra 
 Touched softly, one by one. — There in 
 
 the East 
 Kindles the glory of moonrise : how its 
 
 waves 
 
Evening yg 
 
 Break in a surf of silver oxi the clouds ! — 
 White, motionless clouds, like soft and 
 
 snowy wings 
 Which the great Earth spreads, sailing 
 
 round the Sun. 
 
 O silent stars ! that over ages past 
 Have shone serenely as ye shine to-night, 
 Unseal, unseal the secret that ye keep ! 
 Is it not time to tell us why we live ? 
 Through all these shadowy corridors of 
 
 years, 
 (Like some gray Priest, who through the 
 
 Mysteries 
 Led the blindfolded Neophyte in fear,) 
 Time leads us blindly onward, till in 
 
 wrath 
 Tired Life would seize and throttle its 
 
 stern guide. 
 And force him tell us whither and how 
 
 long. 
 But Time gives back no answer — only 
 
 points 
 
8o Evening 
 
 With motionless finger to eternity, 
 Which deepens over us, as that deep 
 
 sky 
 Darkens above me : only its vestibule 
 Glimmers with scattered stars j and down 
 
 the West 
 A silent meteor slowly slides afar, 
 As though, pacing the garden-walks of 
 
 heaven, 
 Some musing seraph had let fall a flower. 
 
EASTERN WINTER. 
 
 OLD — cold — the very sun looks 
 cold, 
 With those thin rays of chilly 
 gold 
 Laid on that gap of bluish sky 
 That glazes like a dying eye. 
 
 The naked trees are shivering, 
 Each cramped and bare branch quivering. 
 Cutting the bleak wind into blades, 
 Whose edge to brain and bone invades. 
 
 That hard ground seems to ache, all day, 
 Even for a sheet of snow, to lay 
 Upon its icy feet and knees. 
 Stretched stiffly there to freeze and freeze. 
 
82 Eastern Winter 
 
 And yon shrunk mortal — what 's within 
 That nipped and winter-shriveled skin ? 
 The pinched face drawn in peevish lines, 
 The voice that through his blue lips 
 whines, — 
 
 The frost has got within, you see, — 
 Left but a selfish me and me: 
 The heart is chilled, its nerves are numb, 
 And love has long been frozen dumb. 
 
 Ah, give me back the clime I know, 
 Where all the year geraniums blow. 
 And hyacinth-buds bloom white for snow j 
 
 Where hearts beat warm with life's de- 
 light, 
 Through radiant winter's sunshine bright, 
 And summer's starry deeps of night ; 
 
 Where man may let earth's beauty thaw 
 The wintry creed which Calvin saw, 
 That God is only Power and Law ; 
 
Eastern Winter 8^ 
 
 And out of Nature's bible prove, 
 
 That here below as there above 
 
 Our Maker — Father — God — is Love. 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 GOD, our Father, if we had but 
 truth ! 
 Lost truth — which thou per- 
 chance 
 Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward 
 youth 
 He waste in song and dance ; 
 That he might gain, in searching, mightier 
 
 powers 
 For manlier use in those foreshadowed 
 hours. 
 
 If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake, 
 
 And follow twinkling motes 
 Thinking them stars, and the one voice 
 forsake 
 
 Of Wisdom for the notes 
 
A Prayer 8^ 
 
 Which mocking Beauty utters here and 
 
 there, 
 Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear ! 
 
 Oh love us, for we love thee, Maker — 
 
 God ! 
 And would creep near thy hand. 
 And call thee " Father, Father," from th& 
 
 sod 
 Where by our graves we stand. 
 And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or 
 
 blame. 
 Thy garment's hem, which Truth and 
 
 Good we name. 
 
THE POLAR SEA. 
 
 jT the North, far away, 
 Rolls a great sea for aye, 
 Silently, awfully. 
 
 Round it on every hand 
 
 Ice-towers majestic stand, 
 
 Guarding this silent sea 
 
 Grimly, invincibly. 
 
 Never there man hath been. 
 
 Who hath come back again, 
 
 Telling to ears of men 
 
 What is this sea within. 
 
 Under the starlight. 
 
 Rippling the moonlight, 
 
 Drinking the sunlight, 
 
 Desolate, never heard nor seen, 
 
 Beating forever it hath been. 
 
The Polar Sea Sj 
 
 From our life far away 
 Roll the dark waves, for aye, 
 Of an Eternity, 
 Silently, awfully. 
 Round it on every hand 
 Death's icy barriers stand. 
 Guarding this silent sea 
 Grimly, invincibly. 
 Never there man hath been 
 Who could return again, 
 Telling to mortal ken 
 What is within the sea 
 Of that Eternity. 
 
 Terrible is our life — 
 
 In its whole blood-written history 
 
 Only a feverish strife ; 
 
 In its beginning, a mystery — 
 
 In its wild ending, an agony. 
 
 Terrible is our death — 
 
 Black-hanging cloud over Life's setting 
 
 sun. 
 Darkness of night when the daylight is 
 
 done. 
 
88 The Polar Sea 
 
 In the shadow of that cloud, 
 Deep within that darkness' shroud. 
 Rolls the ever- throbbing sea ; 
 And we — all we — 
 Are drifting rapidly 
 And floating silently 
 Into that unknown sea— ^ 
 Into Eternity, 
 
THE FUTURE. 
 
 HAT may we take into the vast 
 Forever ? 
 That marble door 
 Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, 
 No fame-wreathed crown we wore, 
 No garnered lore. 
 
 What can we bear beyond the unknown 
 portal ? 
 
 No gold, no gains 
 Of all our toiling : in the life immortal 
 
 No hoarded wealth remains, 
 
 Nor gilds, nor stains. 
 
 Naked from out that far abyss behind us 
 
 We entered here : 
 No word came with our coming, to re- 
 mind us 
 
go The Future 
 
 What wondrous world was near, 
 No hope, no fear. 
 
 Into the silent, starless Night before us, 
 
 Naked we glide : 
 No hand has mapped the constellations 
 o'er us. 
 
 No comrade at our side, 
 
 No chart, no guide. 
 
 Yet fearless toward that midnight, black 
 and hollow. 
 Our footsteps fare : 
 The beckoning of a Father's hand we fol- 
 low — 
 His love alone is there, 
 No curse, no care. 
 
THE NORTH WIND. 
 
 LL night, beneath the flashing 
 hosts of stars, 
 The North poured forth the pas- 
 sion of its soul 
 In mighty longings for the tawny South, 
 Sleeping afar among her orange-blooms. 
 All night, through the deep canon's organ- 
 pipes. 
 Swept down the grand orchestral harmo- 
 nies 
 Tumultuous, till the hills' rock buttresses 
 Trembled in unison. 
 
 The sun has risen. 
 But still the storming sea of air beats on, 
 And o'er the broad green slopes a flood 
 of light 
 
92 The North Wind 
 
 Comes streaming through the heavens 
 
 like a wind, 
 Till every leaf and twig becomes a \yxQ 
 And thrills with vibrant splendor. 
 
 Down the bay 
 The furrowed blue, save that 't is starred 
 
 with foam, 
 Is bare and empty as the sky of clouds ; 
 For all the little sails, that yesterday 
 Flocked past the islands, now have furled 
 
 their wings, 
 And huddle frightened at the wharves — 
 
 just as, 
 A moment since, a flock of twittering 
 
 birds 
 Whirled through the almond trees like 
 
 scattered leaves. 
 And hid beyond the hedge. 
 
 How the old oaks 
 Stand stiffly to it, and wrestle with the 
 storm ! 
 
The North Wind pj 
 
 While the tall eucalyptus' plumy tops 
 Tumble and toss and stream with quiver- 
 ing light. 
 Hark ! when it lulls a moment at the ear, 
 The fir-trees sing their sea-song : — now 
 
 again 
 The roar is all about us like a flood ; 
 And like a flood the fierce light shines, 
 
 and burns 
 Away all distance, till the far blue ridge, 
 That rims the ocean, rises close at hand. 
 And high, Prometheus-like, great Tamal- 
 
 pais 
 Lifts proudly his grand front, and bears 
 
 his scar. 
 Heaven's scath of wrath, defiant like a 
 god. 
 
 I thank thee, glorious wind ! Thou bring- 
 
 est me 
 Something that breathes of mountain 
 
 crags and pines, 
 Yea, more— from the unsullied, farthest 
 
 North, 
 
94 Th^ North Wind 
 
 Where crashing icebergs jar like thunder- 
 shocks, 
 
 And midnight splendors wave and fade 
 and flame, 
 
 Thou bring'st a keen, fierce joy. So wilt 
 thou help 
 
 The soul to rise in strength, as some great 
 wave 
 
 Leaps forth, and shouts, and lifts the 
 ocean-foam. 
 
 And rides exultant round the shining 
 world. 
 
CALIFORNIA WINTER. 
 
 HIS is not winter : where is the 
 
 crisp air, 
 And snow upon the roof, and 
 frozen ponds. 
 And the star-fire that tips the icicle ? 
 
 Here blooms the late rose, pale and 
 
 odorless ; 
 And the vague fragrance in the garden 
 
 walks 
 Is but a doubtful dream of mignonette. 
 In some smooth spot, under a sleeping 
 
 oak 
 That has not dreamed of such a thing as 
 
 spring. 
 The ground has stolen a kiss from the 
 
 cool sun 
 
g6 California Winter 
 
 And thrilled a little, and the tender grass 
 Has sprung untimely, for these great 
 
 bright days, 
 Staring upon it, will not let it live. 
 The sky is blue, and 't is a goodly time, 
 And the round, barren hillsides tempt the 
 
 feet; 
 But 't is not winter : such as seems to 
 
 man 
 What June is to the roses, sending floods 
 Of life and color through the tingling 
 
 veins. 
 
 It is a land without a fireside. Far 
 Is the old home, where, even this very 
 
 night. 
 Roars the great chimney with its glorious 
 
 fire. 
 And old friends look into each other's 
 
 eyes 
 Quietly, for each knows the other's trust. 
 
 Heaven is not far away such winter 
 nights : 
 
California Winter 97 
 
 The big white stars are sparkling in the 
 east, 
 
 And glitter in the gaze of solemn eyes ; 
 
 For many things have faded with the flow- 
 ers, 
 
 And many things their resurrection wait ; 
 
 Earth like a sepulchre is sealed with 
 frost, 
 
 And Morn and Even beside the silent 
 door 
 
 Sit watching, and their soft and folded 
 wings 
 
 Are white with feathery snow. 
 
 Yet even here 
 We are not quite forgotten by the Hours, 
 Could human eyes but see the beautiful 
 Save through the glamour of a memory. 
 Soon comes the strong south wind, and 
 
 shouts aloud 
 Its jubilant anthem. Soon the singing 
 
 rain 
 ■ Comes from warm seas, and in its skyey 
 
 tent 
 
g8 California Winter 
 
 Enwraps the drowsy world. And when, 
 
 some night, 
 Its flowing folds invisibly withdraw, 
 Lo ! the new life in all created things. 
 The azure mountains and the ocean gates 
 Against the lovely sky stand clean and 
 
 clear 
 As a new purpose in the wiser soul. 
 
THE LOVER'S SONG. 
 
 END me thy fillet, Love ! 
 I would no longer see ; 
 Cover mine eyelids close awhile, 
 And make me blind like thee. 
 
 Then might I pass her sunny face, 
 
 And know not it was fair ; 
 Then might I hear her voice, nor guess 
 
 Her starry eyes were there. 
 
 Ah ! banished so from stars and sun — 
 
 Why need it be my fate ? 
 If only she might dream me good 
 
 And wise, and be my mate ! 
 
 Lend her thy fillet, Love ! 
 
 Let her no longer see : 
 If there is hope for me at all. 
 
 She must be blind like thee. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
A TROPICAL MORNING AT SEA. 
 
 ^KY in its lucent splendor lifted 
 Higher than cloud can be ; 
 Air with no breath of earth to 
 stain it, 
 Pure on the perfect sea. 
 
 Crests that touch and tilt each other, 
 
 Jostling as they comb ; 
 Delicate crash of tinkling water, 
 
 Broken in pearling foam. 
 
 Plashings — or is it the pinewood's whis- 
 pers, 
 Babble of brooks unseen, 
 Laughter of winds when they find the 
 blossoms, 
 Brushing aside the green ? 
 
A Tropical Morning at Sea loi 
 
 Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle ; 
 
 Foam-wreaths slipping by, 
 Soft as a snow of broken roses • 
 
 Afloat over mirrored sky. 
 
 Off to the East the steady sun-track 
 
 Golden meshes fill — 
 Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, 
 
 Never a moment still. 
 
 Liquid palms but clap together, 
 Fountains, flower-like, grow — 
 
 Limpid bells on stems of silver — 
 Out of a slope of snow. 
 
 Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets — 
 
 Blue as a summer sky, 
 When you blink at its arch sprung over 
 
 Where in the grass you lie. 
 
 Dimly an orange bit of rainbow 
 Burns where the low west clears, 
 
 Broken in air, like a passionate promise 
 Born of a moment's tears. 
 
102 A Tropical Morning at Sea 
 
 Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, 
 Clouds in the distance dwell, 
 
 Clouds that are cool, for all their color, 
 Pure as a rose-lipped shell. 
 
 Fleets of wool in the upper heavens 
 
 Gossamer wings unfurl ; 
 Sailing so high they seem but sleeping 
 
 Over yon bar of pearl. 
 
 What would the great world lose, I won* 
 der — 
 
 Would it be missed or no — 
 If we stayed in the opal morning. 
 
 Floating forever so 1 
 
 Swung to sleep by the swaying water. 
 
 Only to dream all day — 
 Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, 
 
 Scatter such dreams away ! 
 
A FOOLISH WISH. 
 
 HY need I seek some burden 
 small to bear 
 Before I go ? 
 Will not a host of nobler souls be here, 
 
 Heaven's will to do ? 
 Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid ? 
 
 silly soul ! what matters my small aid 
 
 Before I go ! 
 
 1 tried to find, that I might show to them, 
 
 Before I go. 
 The path of purer lives : the light was 
 dim, — 
 
 I do not know 
 If I had found some footprints of the way ; 
 It is too late their wandering feet to stay. 
 
 Before I go. 
 
104 
 
 A Foolish Wish 
 
 I would have sung the rest some song of 
 cheer, 
 
 Before I go ; 
 But still the chords rang false j some jar 
 of fear 
 
 Some jangling woe. 
 And at the end I cannot weave one 
 
 chord 
 To float into their hearts my last warm 
 word, 
 
 Before I go. 
 
 I would be satisfied if I might tell, 
 
 Before I go. 
 That one warm word, — how I have loved 
 them well. 
 
 Could they but know ! 
 And would have gained for them some 
 
 gleam of good ; 
 Have sought it long ; still seek, — if but 
 I could ! 
 Before I go. 
 
A Foolish Wish lo^ 
 
 'Tis a child's longing, on the beach at 
 play : 
 
 " Before I go," 
 He begs the beckoning mother, " Let me 
 stay 
 
 One shell to throw ! " 
 'T is coming night ; the great sea climbs 
 
 the shore, — 
 " Ah, let me toss one little pebble more, 
 Before I go 1 " 
 
EVERY-DAY LIFE, 
 
 I HE marble-smith, at his morning 
 task 
 Merrily glasses the blue-veined 
 stone, 
 With stout hands circling smooth. You 
 ask, 
 " What will it be, when it is done ? " 
 
 " A shaft for a young girl's grave." Both 
 hands 
 Go back with a will to their sinewy 
 play; 
 And he sings like a bird, as he swaying 
 stands, 
 A rollicking stave of Love and May. 
 
BEFORE SUNRISE IN WINTER. 
 
 PURPLE cloud hangs half-way- 
 down ; 
 Sky, yellow gold below ; 
 The naked trees, beyond the town. 
 Like masts against it show — 
 
 Bare masts and spars of our earth-ship. 
 With shining snow-sails furled ; 
 
 And through the sea of space we slip, 
 That flows all round the world. 
 
SIBYLLINE BARTERING. 
 
 ATE, the gray Sibyl, with kind 
 eyes above 
 Closely locked lips, brought 
 youth a merry crew 
 Of proffered friends ; the price, self-slaying 
 love. 
 Proud youth repulsed them. She and 
 they withdrew. 
 
 Then she brought half the troop ; the cost, 
 the same. 
 My man's heart wavered : should I take 
 the few. 
 And pay the whole ? But while I went 
 and came. 
 Fate had decided. She and they with- 
 drew. 
 
Sibylline Bartering log 
 
 Once more she came, with two. Now life's 
 midday- 
 Left fewer hours before me. Lonelier 
 grew 
 The house and heart. But should the late 
 purse pay 
 The earlier price ? And she and they 
 withdrew. 
 
 At last I saw Age his forerunners send. 
 Then came the Sibyl, still with kindly 
 eyes 
 And close-locked lips, and offered me one 
 friend, — 
 Thee, my one darling ! With what 
 tears and cries 
 
 I claimed and claim thee j ready now to 
 
 pay 
 The perfect love that leaves no self to 
 
 slay! 
 
JUL 21 1902