V,, 
 
Class ESM^ 
 
 CopyrightN^ 
 
 !qa4 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
ftom Cttpt anD Cl^oft; 
 
BY 
 
 LOUIS ALEXANDER ROBERTSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 The Dead Calypso, Beyond the Requiems 
 and Cloistral Strains 
 
 € 
 
 San Francisco 
 1904 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies Raceivtiil 
 
 DEC 17 1904 
 
 Copyriiint tntry 
 
 CLASS ^^ XXC Noi 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 T'Sss'sr 
 
 Copyright^ IQO4 
 by 
 
 Louis Alexander Robertson 
 
 PRINTED BY THE STANLEY-TAYLOR CO., S. F. 
 
3amea ^. CoUman 
 
MUTE TYPE OF PATIENT FORTITUDE 
 (To the T}\'c) 
 
 Oft hast thou bent before the gale, 
 
 And heard the tempests 'round thee roar; 
 Oft hast thou found their fury fail, 
 
 As down on thee the demons bore. 
 
 They wounded thee in many a war, 
 But still thou standest unsubdued, 
 
 To battle zvith them as before. 
 Mute Type of Patient Fortitude. 
 
 Though vainly they thy strength assail. 
 Of scars they gave thee many a score; 
 
 Though thou art armored zvith the mail 
 That fiercer onslaughts may ignore, 
 Still many a limb from thee they tore, 
 
 And on the plain their plunder strezved — 
 Trophies that Time cannot restore. 
 
 Mute Type of Patient Fortitude. 
 
The pleasant pathways of the vale. 
 
 Let sighing Strephon still explore; 
 Yea, he may have the Hozvery dale, 
 
 And fair-faced Phyllis there adore; 
 
 Thy silent shade to me means more, 
 There oft in melancholy mood, 
 
 I stroll to learn thy saving lore, 
 Mute Type of Patient Fortitude. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 To calm, blue skies I see thee soar, 
 Forgetful of the Borean brood 
 
 Harked on by thunder-throated Thor, 
 Mute Type of Patient Fortitude. 
 
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CONTENTS 
 
 The Crust of Content 15 
 
 The Sequoias 16 
 
 The Burning of Care 17 
 
 The Songs of Sorrow 19 
 
 Lines to Daniel O'Connell 21 
 
 The Promised Peace 22 
 
 Protean Zeus 27 
 
 Helen 28 
 
 Proserpina , 29 
 
 Eurydice 30 
 
 The Pigmy Shouldn't Play the Giant's Game. 31 
 
 To Rudyard Kipling 33 
 
 We Must Sit Silent When the Devil Drives ... 36 
 Give a Beggar a Horse and He'll Gallop to 
 
 Hell 38 
 
 The Swoon 41 
 
 The Tearful Troth 43 
 
 These Dreary Days 45 
 
 Phryne 47 
 
 The Crowning Charm 54 
 
 Happy Days 56 
 
ftom Crtpt anD Ci^oit; 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE CRUST OF CONTENT 
 
 He, who for some great aim hath never sought 
 More than life's stern demands to satisfy, 
 
 Climbs closer to the gods, whose needs are 
 naught, 
 Than he whose sordid soul doth multiply 
 The millions which he vainly dreams will buy 
 
 The calm content that gold hath never bought; 
 
 Croesus to Solon this confessed when brought," 
 Bankrupt and conquered, to the stake to die. 
 
 The crust that balks the wolf may sometimes 
 seem 
 Sweet as the manna in the wilderness; 
 *Tis when the soul forgets the flesh to stray 
 Where, in the realm of some harmonious dream. 
 It listens to the whispered words that bless, 
 And learns the charm that chides the world 
 away. 
 
 [15] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE SEQUOIAS 
 
 Like to the kingly Saul, whose towering crest 
 Rose midst the hosts of Israel without peer, 
 So we behold the great Sequoias rear 
 
 Their cloud-kissed crowns of glory in the West. 
 
 And thus they stood, when on the Virgin's breast 
 The longed-for Shiloh slept at last, while near, 
 
 The Shepherds and the Magi round him pressed — 
 Their offerings to the infant Christ to bear. 
 
 Where are the Syrian cedars of that day? 
 
 Gone, as the breeze that bent their boughs is 
 gone; 
 Yet these great trees, triumphant over time, 
 Stand as they stood, defiant of decay. 
 As when they watched the Saviour's birthday 
 dawn. 
 And heard the stars their Maker's music 
 chime. 
 
 [i6] 
 
FROM CEYPT AND CHOIK 
 
 THE BURNING OF CARE 
 
 However fair the day may dawn, when in the 
 
 dark it dies, 
 There seems to roll above the gloom a requiem 
 
 of sighs. 
 
 And yet there is no night so long, but morning 
 
 with it brings 
 The faith that gives the soul again Hope's new 
 
 unwearied wings. 
 
 Then swift it soars to where it sees some glow- 
 ing haven gleam. 
 
 And lark-like cleaves the melting mists to clasp 
 the luring dream. 
 
 Sometimes we realize the dream, and for a mo- 
 ment live 
 
 Within the calm content and peace the world can 
 never give. 
 
 [17] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Oh, if that moment and its bliss we could one day 
 
 detain, 
 Then Eden's garden glades were ours to wander 
 
 through again. 
 
 The best philosophy is that which lets the Pres- 
 ent cast 
 
 A curtain o'er the dreary days and doings of the 
 Past; 
 
 That trusts the Future with a faith that would 
 not fear to look 
 
 On every pale or pregnant page of its mysteri- 
 ous book. 
 
 These are the musings which are wont to come 
 to us tonight, 
 
 As here we stand to fling again with our accus- 
 tomed rite, 
 
 The burden of our griefs and groans upon the 
 
 pyre of Care, 
 And watch it vanish in the flames that feed upon 
 
 it there. 
 
 [i8] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE SONGS OF SORROW 
 
 By the Babylonian rivers Israel's children sat 
 
 and wept, 
 On the willows that drooped near them hung the 
 
 harps they oft had swept; 
 And their captors came and mocked them and 
 
 commanded them to sing, 
 In their grief, the songs of Sion and the City of 
 
 their king. 
 
 But they sat in silent sorrow, and they thought of 
 other days, 
 
 Or but sadly sang in undertones the great Jeho- 
 vah's praise; 
 
 And their harps hung idly by them, and their eyes 
 were filled with tears. 
 
 And the present only mocked them as they 
 thought of other years. 
 
 [19] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 So the singer who has suffered does not often 
 
 touch the strings 
 Till they tremble into gladness, for the present 
 
 o'er him flings 
 A deep shadow, all the darker, when of the past 
 
 he dreams, 
 Then the song that sounds his sorrow, unto him 
 
 the sweetest seems. 
 
 Thus the many mournful measures, which we 
 
 chide, their sadness owe 
 To some heart that dreams in darkness of the 
 
 days of long ago; 
 But oft like a benediction on some sufferer they 
 
 fall, 
 For the songs that soothe our sorrows are the 
 
 sweetest songs of all. 
 
 [20] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 LINES SPOKEN WHILE PLACING A 
 
 WREATH UPON THE MEMORIAL 
 
 SEAT ERECTED TO DANIEL 
 
 O'CONNELL IN SAUSALITO 
 
 The wreath we bring and lay with loyal hand 
 Upon the stone which crowns the spot where 
 thou 
 
 So oft hast wandered in the past to stand 
 Where we, who honor thee, are gathered now; 
 
 This wreath will fade ere scarce a day hath fled, 
 I But 'round thy brow are bound the living leaves 
 
 That seat the Singer with the Deathless Dead — 
 The few whose laurels Fame not often weaves. 
 
 Thy lips are mute; but each melodious strain 
 Thy fancy conjured from the vibrant chords, 
 
 Lives in our love, there ever to remain 
 Among the dearest treasures Memory hoards. 
 
 [21] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE PROMISED PEACE 
 
 It is the season when we turn again 
 The pages of the past and pause to read 
 
 Of One who gave unto the sons of men, 
 Long years ago, the best and purest creed 
 That ever proved its worth in word and deed. 
 
 And though the tidings to the shepherds told 
 Are unfulfilled, again we hear and heed 
 
 The hymn the hosts of heaven sang of old — 
 What time from star to star their hallelujahs 
 rolled. 
 
 Now though we turn with reverence to the past, 
 And with fond faith its sacred story tell; 
 
 Yet have the mists of Mammon o'er us cast 
 The bane of unbelief, until we dwell 
 Within the dark indifference of a spell 
 
 That Christ himself should come again to break. 
 That bard were base as he whose cold kiss fell 
 
 Upon the Saviour's cheek, did he forsake 
 The truth for fictioned phrase, or with false fingers 
 take 
 
 [22] 
 
FEOM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 From out the treasured past one grain of gold 
 To gild with flattering pen a present pride; 
 And for the future — no man may behold 
 And chart the crafty currents of that tide, 
 Down which it is our destiny to glide 
 To where across Time's trackless waters roll 
 The black and baffling mists of Death that 
 hide 
 The unknown bourne, which to man's dreaming 
 soul 
 Shines ever through the gloom, a hope-created 
 goal. 
 
 The promised peace to earth has never come, 
 And never will as long as man shall hear 
 
 The blaring bugle and the muttering drum 
 Call him from kith and country on to where 
 The hosts of Greed and Glory skyward rear 
 
 Their crimson-colored banners to his gaze ; 
 The while the lusts of loot and empire sear 
 
 His soul to selfish ends and sordid ways 
 That mock the Star of Peace that did o'er Beth- 
 lehem blaze. 
 
 [23] 
 
FROM CEYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Or worse than War's shrill clarion that wakes 
 
 The sleeping thunder for some foreign foe, 
 Is the soul-slaying thirst for gold that slakes 
 Its craving where far better blood doth flow. 
 No Roman triumph in the past could show 
 Captives chained closer to the chariot wheel, 
 Than Mammon's modern conquerors who 
 know 
 No creed but gold, whose hearts can never feel 
 The peace that passeth all their glutted vaults 
 reveal. 
 
 The flesh is more than raiment, and the life 
 
 Is more than meat; yet we the truth disdain 
 And battle ever in the strenuous strife 
 For what, when won, to ashes oft doth wane. 
 We labor on with hand and heart and brain, 
 But at the best we build upon the sand; 
 ,;; The peace we pant for ever doth remain 
 
 Beyond the aching heart and outstretched hand, 
 And seems a myth that man may never under- 
 stand. 
 
 [24] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Beneath the burden of the primal curse 
 We toil and sweat, but could more bravely 
 bend 
 And bear the galling yoke, yea, were it worse, 
 If we but knew what waits us in the end. 
 Or if we could back through the ages wend 
 And hear again the ringing reeds of Pan — 
 
 See Cytherea from the waves ascend. 
 And with the pagan's raptured vision scan 
 What he beheld of old, we then might bear the 
 ban. 
 
 The gods and myths of Greece have ever flown 
 From field and mountain and from grove and 
 stream. 
 Ah, no ! they live ; but we ourselves have grown 
 Blind to the beauty of the splendid dream 
 That thralled man's senses when the unborn 
 beam 
 Of Truth's eternal torch in darkness lay; 
 
 Before the din of dynamo and steam 
 Moaned Fancy's dirge and drove us forth to 
 stray 
 Far from the pictured night into the dreamless 
 day. 
 
 [25] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Now though the fountain of our faith be dry, 
 And in Life's waste no cooling stream 
 appears; 
 Hark! to the chorus rolling through the sky, 
 It calls across the desert of the years 
 And chides our pagan dreams and sceptic 
 sneers: 
 For from the lesson of His love we learn 
 The faith that falters not, the hope that 
 cheers 
 Life's darkest hours, and through Him we may 
 turn 
 Into the path that leads to that for which we 
 yearn. 
 
 [26] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 PROTEAN ZEUS 
 
 Into a Satyr did the god degrade 
 
 Himself to clasp Antiope an hour; 
 
 Then, as a Bull,, he figured to deflower 
 Europa, deemed Phoenicia's fairest maid; 
 Amphitryon's part he with Alcmena played; 
 
 To Danae he seemed a Golden Shower; 
 In Dian's form Callisto he betrayed, 
 
 And as a Flame entered Aegina's bower. 
 
 Once where Eurotas' murmuring waters flow, 
 A frightened Swan sought Leda's sheltering 
 breast; 
 In his warm plumage, whiter than the snow, 
 The crimsoned roses of her cheeks she 
 pressed: — 
 From that immortal mingling Helen came. 
 Whose beauty set the Trojan towers aflame. 
 
 [27] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 HELEN 
 
 These are the eyes in which proud Paris gazed, 
 When fast across the dark Aegean sea 
 He fled with Helen, on the night when she 
 
 Left Sparta's shore, and Menelaus raised 
 
 The rescuing cry; then War's red beacon blazed, 
 While Greece with all her glorious chivalry 
 Dashed 'gainst the dauntless Dardan hosts to 
 free 
 
 The fair and faithless woman Homer praised. 
 
 Virtue hath rarely worn Fame's glittering crown. 
 Where are the women of the past who reigned 
 In spotless robes? Penelope, Lucreece — 
 Ah God, how few! But Helen's glorious gown 
 Defies the dust of ages, and though stained 
 With Passion's grapes, gives glamour unto 
 Greece. 
 
 [28] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 PROSERPINA 
 
 Daughter of Ceres, throned within the shade 
 Of Hell's black arches, ever gazing through 
 The gloom to where, wet with the morning dew, 
 
 The violet greets the sun in Enna's glade. 
 
 Year after year it flourishes to fade, 
 But through the mists of time thy face we view. 
 As fair as when great Pluto paused to woo, 
 
 When at thy side his foaming steeds were stayed. 
 
 The fragrant fields of sea-girt Sicily, 
 That bloomed beneath thy feet, have barren 
 grown 
 And all the music of her streams is still. 
 The birds sit mute on every withered tree, 
 With thistles now that velvet sward is sown, 
 The winds that wantoned with thy hair are 
 chill. 
 
 [29] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 EURYDICE 
 
 How Orpheus must have thrilled thy captive soul, 
 When, facing Dis thy freedom to obtain, 
 He struck the classic chords, the master strain — 
 
 That made rocks reel and rivers backward roll. 
 
 Hell's tortured heroes heard his hymns extol 
 Thy matchless worth, till they forgot their pain, 
 And turned — one glimpse of thy fair face to 
 gain, 
 
 As after him they saw thee earthward stroll. 
 
 Proserpina sat silent while he played. 
 
 Then whispered to her lord to set thee free; 
 Great Pluto nodded, and the gates of hell 
 Swung swift and wide, while Cerberus obeyed 
 The taming tune; then Orpheus turned to see 
 If thou wert safe, and heard thee shriek 
 "Farewell!" 
 
 [30] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE PIGMY SHOULDN'T PLAY THE 
 GIANT'S GAME 
 
 In these pretentious times when Fortune's walls 
 Are hung with treasured trophies, which a few 
 Have with the skill that climbs, the craft that 
 crawls, 
 Compelled or cozened from the common crew. 
 More than we poorer people deem their due. 
 It might be well to hear them ere we blame," 
 1 Remembering while their vices we review, 
 
 I The pigmy shouldn't play the giant's game. 
 
 i The slugs and bullets, shells and cannon balls 
 I Which rained as thick as hail at Waterloo 
 
 j Upon Napoleon's brave, unbeaten Gauls, 
 Till he a fugitive for safety flew. 
 Are nothing now; though only five-foot-two, 
 A place among the Titans he can claim; 
 
 The brain counts, not the body, well he knew 
 The pigmy shouldn't play the giant's game. 
 
 [31] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Peace hath, like War, her battles and her brawls, 
 
 Crops have been cornered often ere they grew; 
 The market rises and the market falls, 
 
 The Fates have favored many a curious coup; 
 
 Plutus hath guided many a gamester through 
 His glittering heaps, and taught him how to frame 
 
 The fortune, that — from nothing — millions 
 drew; 
 The pigmy shouldn't play the giant's game. 
 
 The posing of an actor sometimes palls, 
 But here his talent we shall not taboo; 
 
 For when he swaggers through the Thespian halls, 
 And plays the part of Hamlet or the Jew, 
 Or of Petruchio, whom the sullen shrew 
 
 Defied while he her temper tried to tame. 
 The mimic may this maxim then eschew — 
 
 The pigmy shouldn't play the giant's game. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Prince, I'm a laggard at this rendezvous; 
 
 I met my Muse, a most exacting dame. 
 Who said, 'twas vain such verses to pursue — 
 
 The pigmy shouldn't play the giant's game. 
 
 [32] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 TO RUDYARD KIPLING 
 (Double Ballade) 
 
 When Triton's thrilling trumpet tone 
 Sang first across the restless blue, 
 
 From East to West, from zone to zone, 
 Such witchery o'er the waves he threw, 
 That Orpheus from his lute ne'er drew 
 
 Such music for the rocks and trees, 
 As that which o'er the billows flew, 
 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 That sounding shell was shoreward thrown 
 
 To thee by Amphitrite, who 
 Now hears across her surges blown, 
 
 The thrilling notes she loved and knew 
 
 Long, long ago; but there were few 
 Who ever sang such songs as these — 
 
 Which on thy lips ring loud and true» 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 [33] 
 
FEOM CRYPT AND CHOIE 
 
 These broad, blue tides we call our own, 
 
 Methinks should have another hue. 
 For in their deadly deeps is sown 
 
 The flesh of many a fearless crew; 
 
 Though for our Admiralty we strew 
 To shore and shark the fullest fees, 
 
 Still " Give us more ! " the surges sue, 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 Not for the "Meteor Flag" alone, 
 Dost thou all other song eschew; 
 
 We hear the Liner's engines groan. 
 We feel the Freighter's " bucking screw," 
 The Derelict drifts past our view — 
 
 Scoffed by the surge, mocked by the breeze. 
 Storm-driven, battered and perdu; 
 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 [34] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Yet not alone old Ocean's moan 
 
 Thy many measures doth imbue; 
 To sing the soldier thou art prone; 
 
 Thy ringing rhymes are a tattoo; 
 
 When Tommy Atkins walks askew, 
 Or stands at anything but ease, 
 
 He gets from thee the proper cue, 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 Familiar forms again are shown. 
 
 Nor would we from this verse taboo - 
 The " Rag and Hank of Hair and Bone " 
 
 We knew her well, the shallow shrew! 
 
 And wonder how we came to woo 
 And swear our love on bended knees; 
 
 But long ago we said Adieu, 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 This somewhat sorry ambigu 
 
 Smacks of the ballade's strict decrees; 
 Our Muse dislikes the stern gooroo, 
 
 O Singer of the Seven Seas! 
 
 [35] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 WE MUST SIT SILENT WHEN 
 THE DEVIL DRIVES 
 
 Of all the sayings and the saws we hear — 
 The precepts and the proverbs — new or old — 
 
 While many fall like folly on the ear, 
 A few are weighted well with Wisdom's gold, 
 And oft some philosophic treasure hold. 
 
 Their little homilies guide many lives; 
 When over smooth or rocky roadways rolled, 
 
 We must sit silent when the devil drives. 
 
 When through the gloom the lights of home 
 appear, 
 
 To welcome us across the wind-swept wold; 
 When 'round the blazing hearth we gather near — 
 
 Safe-shielded from the tempest and the cold; 
 
 Then, while some song is sung or story told, 
 Fate, from the freezing world without, arrives 
 
 And like a wolf glares on the sheltered fold; 
 We must sit silent when the devil drives. 
 
 [36] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 The future may be faced without a fear; 
 
 If through the past not blindly we have strolled, 
 It often lends a light to lead us where — 
 
 Havened in peace — our hearts shall be consoled; 
 
 Though Destiny by Fate is oft controlled, 
 Yet when the heart upholds the hand that strives, 
 
 Fortune and Fame may be o'er Failure scrolled, 
 Though we sit silent when the devil drives. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Prince, many a man for years has been cajoled 
 And buffeted by Fate, and still survives; 
 
 But till we slumber softly in the mould, 
 We must sit silent when the devil drives. 
 
 [37] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 GIVE A BEGGAR A HORSE AND HE'LL 
 GALLOP TO HELL 
 
 Give a pauper a purse that is bursting with gold, 
 And the meats and the music, the women and 
 wine 
 You will soon in a profligate pageant behold, 
 For he cannot to Luxury's limits confine 
 The ambition that bums in his blood to out- 
 shine 
 Even lavish Lucullus — whom none could excel. 
 There is truth in the phrase, there is lore in the 
 line — 
 Give a beggar a horse and he'll gallop to hell. 
 
 [38] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 He may rot in his rags, he may freeze in the cold, 
 He may snore in the sewer, or crib with the 
 kine, 
 He may crunch the hard crust that is charity- 
 doled, 
 He may share — like the prodigal — husks with 
 
 the swine; 
 All of Poverty's curses may in him combine. 
 Till the dogs that licked Lazarus 'gainst him 
 rebel; 
 But I say it again, though the saying's not 
 mine- 
 Give a beggar a horse and he'll gallop to hell. 
 
 [39] 
 
FEOM CEYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Ah, what pictures the portals of Pluto unfold! 
 
 What diversions the devil delights to design! 
 When the clattering hoofs of the courser con- 
 trolled 
 
 By the pauper are heard on the easy incline; 
 
 Then Old Nick doesn't take very long to divine 
 Who is riding so fast, for he knows the pace well, 
 
 And awaits with a welcome both warm and 
 benign ; 
 Give a beggar a horse and he'll gallop to hell. 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 You must pardon me. Prince, if this envoy en- 
 shrine 
 The sad lady whom Pluto took with him to 
 dwell; 
 But to fry in the flame near the fair Proserpine, 
 Give a beggar a horse and he'll gallop to hell. 
 
 [40] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE SWOON 
 
 I have swooned nigh to death in those white arms 
 of thine, 
 Till the trance that enthralled me hath grown 
 To a dream where the glories of heaven were 
 mine, 
 Then have waked on thy bosom to own 
 That the seraphs who stroll through the regions 
 above, 
 Never know the rare bliss that I feel 
 When I wander with thee where the labyrinths 
 of love 
 Their most exquisite raptures reveal. 
 
 [41] 
 
FEOM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 I have looked on the stars till my listening ears 
 
 Have been filled with the strains of the blest; 
 But my soul a more eloquent harmony hears 
 
 In the dreams that I dream on thy breast. 
 'Tis the low, blissful beat of a heart that replies 
 
 With a passionate love unto mine; 
 'Tis the melody heard in thy murmuring sighs 
 
 When my being is blending with thine. 
 
 I have walked where the demons of sorrow and 
 pain 
 Mock the memories of happier days; 
 I have drunk the dark dregs of despair that 
 remain 
 In the cup of the love that betrays; 
 But thy lips — like the breath of a spring that is 
 fled— 
 In my heart have awakened once more 
 All the glorious dreams of a day that is dead, 
 And its peace and its passion restore. 
 
 [42] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE TEARFUL TROTH 
 
 It is a tale that has been often told, 
 
 The story of a love that leaps to life 
 
 And blooms in beauty, though a dark distrust 
 
 Lurks ever near to menace and destroy. 
 
 It is the legend of the love that lives 
 Through doubting days and through the harrow- 
 ing hours 
 Of long and lonely nights; a love that dreams 
 Of unforgettable and feverish things 
 That burn within the blood and bring again 
 The memory of the murmured midnight vow, 
 When mutual, melting lips were wont to tell 
 The thrilling and — perhaps — the tearful troth. 
 
 [43] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Ah, fair and fond, low-voiced and lovely-limbed, 
 Made of the classic clay that wakens men 
 To valorous deeds, or drugs them with desire, 
 Until they dream that lust and love are one — 
 From dawn to dark I see thy faultless face. 
 And through the night it haunts me, till I feel 
 That I could gladly give my life to live 
 One brief, ambrosial hour on thy white breast. 
 
 The memories of the past cannot outweigh 
 A world of present woe; I feel as one, 
 Who — worn and wearied in a wilderness, 
 Wherein no fountain springs or food is found — 
 Dreams of the glorious days that once were his- 
 The feast, the flagon, and the flowers and fruit- 
 And hears again the mocking melody 
 Of one familiar, unforgotten voice. 
 
 So in my dreams I sometimes feel the lips 
 That kissed away my cares and chained my soul 
 Within a charm that time can never break, 
 Then wake to wonder if I ever steal 
 Into thy thoughts as thou dost into mine. 
 
 [44] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THESE DREARY DAYS 
 
 These dreary days, how dark they seem, 
 But from their gloom I often stray 
 
 To greet thee in a glorious dream. 
 
 These dreary days, how dark they seem. 
 
 But through the clouds there bursts a beam 
 Prophetic of a brighter day. 
 
 These dreary days, how dark they seem, 
 But from their gloom I often stray. 
 
 When thou wert by my side, the hours 
 Were lit with Love's enrapturing light; 
 
 Now dark are these abandoned bowers. 
 
 When thou wert by my side, the hours 
 
 Crowned me with Love's unfading flowers 
 That separation cannot blight. 
 
 When thou wert by my side, the hours 
 Were lit with Love's enrapturing light. 
 
 [45] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Soon there will dawn a day when we 
 
 Shall meet again, no more to part; 
 I dream of all the bliss to be. 
 Soon there will dawn a day when we 
 In one another's eyes shall see 
 
 The love now hidden in each heart. 
 Soon there will dawn a day when we 
 
 Shall meet again, no more to part. 
 
 Our souls shall then together blend; 
 
 Yea, even now I speed through space. 
 This hour my way to thee 1*11 wend, 
 Our souls shall then together blend, 
 And Love unto my heart shall lend 
 
 The rapture of thy blest embrace. 
 Our souls shall then together blend; 
 
 Yea, even now I speed through space. 
 
 [46] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 PHRYNE 
 (A Dream) 
 
 When thou wert with me in the waking hours 
 Of those delirious, but degrading da5^s, 
 Now gone forever; or when on my breast, 
 Pillowed in slumber, thy fair cheek was laid — 
 Whether it was that each enchanted sense 
 Was drugged so deeply with thy sorcery, 
 Or whether thy warm lips in whispers low, 
 Unheard by me, murmured unto my heart 
 "Why dream of me, when I am by thy side? " 
 I cannot say; but through those after hours — 
 The sequent drowsy intervals, when love 
 Languished a little ere it waked again — 
 I never saw thy face come to console 
 Or mock me in my sleep as now, when I 
 Turn in the dark with dream-deluded lips 
 To kiss the pillow pressed by thee no more. 
 
 [47] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Sometimes as fair as Eos, when she flmgs 
 The sombre curtains of the night apart 
 To beam in beauty on a sleeping world, 
 Dost thou appear to me; yea, I have felt 
 The pressure and the passion of thy lips, 
 And almost heard thee whisper as of old. 
 
 * * * 
 
 * * * 
 
 * * 
 
 One night I dreamt that I was one among 
 
 A multitude of people gathered in 
 
 The city Cecrops founded; there I saw 
 
 A spacious place, circled with shrines and fanes 
 
 Ornate with chiseled treasures that were brought 
 
 From classic shades to crown a pagan rite 
 
 With a reflected glory of the day 
 
 That dawned when Aphrodite trod the seas. 
 
 [48] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 In the mute language that the dreamer speaks, 
 I questioned one who stood near me, to learn 
 The meaning of the mighty concourse there; 
 He pointed to an empty pedestal 
 Standing between two sculptured effigies 
 Of foam-bom Cytherea; one revealed 
 A carved conceit of unimpassioned Love, 
 The other was a marble dream of Lust. 
 
 Upon the right, the chaste Ourania sat, 
 A milk-white dove upon her whiter breast. 
 And on her brow the sacred myrtle leaves. 
 While on the left, Euploea stood as when 
 The Cnidian youth stole to her in the dark, 
 And stained her snowy bosom with the blood 
 Of lips that crushed her marble mouth in vain. 
 
 [49] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Then mystic hymns, such as are only heard 
 In the domain of an englamouring dream, 
 Rolled from the opening portals of a fane, 
 In which a throng of priestesses appeared, 
 Led by a priest; a woman with them walked. 
 Hooded and masked, garbed in a purple robe 
 That swept the shining tiles on which she trod 
 With slow and stately step, until she came 
 And paused in silence at the vacant plinth. 
 
 [so] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Then did the priest proclaim that she was one 
 
 In whom the best and basest elements 
 
 Mingled together in a breast on which 
 
 E'en Zeus himself had been content to rest. 
 
 He also told that listening host that she 
 
 Possessed the "cestus" Cytherea wore— 
 
 The conquering charm that no man may resist. 
 
 He said it was a flavor of the flesh, 
 
 Found only in a few, and only when 
 
 Some face, some form, and, it may be, some voice 
 
 Combine with it to kindle in the blood 
 
 The rabies of a desperate desire. 
 
 He said as well, she loved to worship in 
 
 Pandemos' shrine, then wander forth to give 
 
 The sailormen of Salamis her lips. 
 
 [SI] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 Then turning from that eager throng to her, 
 And pointing to the plinth, he said, "Ascend, 
 Let us behold the breathing beauty which 
 In after ages man shall turn to see. 
 But through the dim, deluding mists of time; 
 For thou art one of those who have the power 
 To prompt the chisel and the brush and pen, 
 And gain an undeserved, but deathless fame." 
 
 Still masked and robed, she in an instant scaled 
 
 The waiting pedestal, where she remained 
 
 A mystery for a moment, but no more; 
 
 For at a sign, the robe slipped from her form. 
 
 The hood dropped off, the mask was flung aside, 
 
 And Phryne stood in faultless beauty there. 
 
 [S2] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 The marble miracle of Phidias — 
 The chaste Ourania — seemed to shrink away. 
 The people cried with an applauding voice, 
 "Euploea! O Euploea!" for they saw 
 In Phryne's form the living counterpart 
 Of one whose Parian beauty never paled, 
 Until it met its breathing prototype — 
 The matchless mistress of Praxiteles. 
 
 Then silence followed; as I looked on her, 
 
 Methought I saw a likeness unto thee, 
 
 And cried thy name aloud; a thousand tongues 
 
 Chorused my cry and claimed thee as their own. 
 
 Then in the clamor I awoke to find 
 
 The dream as fleeting as thy faithless love. 
 
 [53] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 THE CROWNING CHARM 
 
 It is because the truth is on thy lips 
 
 That thou art dear to me. 
 Thy candor and thy confidence eclipse 
 
 All other charms in thee. 
 Though thou art crowned with grace and beauty, 
 dear, 
 
 A better boon is thine: 
 It is the heart that held no faltering fear 
 
 When it confessed to mine. 
 
 I learn from thee the courage that can cast 
 
 A scrutinizing beam 
 Upon the sombre spectres of the past. 
 
 Till, like a dismal dream. 
 They fade away and in their caverns cower 
 
 Before my fearless gaze; 
 Yea, love has given unto me the power 
 
 To laugh at other days. 
 
 [54] 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 It is no wonder then that on thy breast 
 
 I find the longed-for goal, 
 Which through a waste of years hath been the 
 quest 
 
 Of an o'erwearied soul. 
 But I have reached at last the oasis 
 
 I dreamed of in my youth, 
 And drink the passion of thy peerless kiss, 
 
 The sweeter for its truth. 
 
 [55] 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
FROM CRYPT AND CHOIR 
 
 HAPPY DAYS 
 
 There is no music like the merry clink 
 Of glasses, when some fair one's health we drink; 
 There is no toast more fitting than the phrase 
 My mistress murmurs, it is " Happy Days ! " 
 
 Wet with the wine, her red lips part to show 
 Pearls that are whiter than the winter snow; 
 The amber beads that sparkle in the glass, 
 Blush crimson as her rose-leaf lips they pass. 
 
 The Mirth, the Music, and the Wit, and Wine 
 With whispered kiss and dreaming eyes combine 
 And kindle in my heart the love that lights 
 The way from happy days to heavenly nights. 
 
 Oh, heavenly nights! An arctic winter were 
 Too short to linger by the side of her 
 Whose lips would make it seem a night in June — 
 On whose brief bliss the dawn would break too 
 
 [56] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 SOME PRESS NOTICES 
 
 of 
 
 "The Dead Calypso," "Beyond the Requiems" 
 and "Cloistral Strains." 
 
 Last night before retiring, I read again for the 
 third or fourth time that powerful poem "Ataxia," 
 What imagination! What realism! It stirred 
 every fibre of my nature, awakened every quality 
 and every faculty, and mixed all night with all my 
 thoughts and fancies. If a piece of self-revela- 
 tion, it is awful; anyway it is a super-Byronic 
 production — creation. — Addison P. Russell, 
 Author of "A Club of One." 
 
 There is good poetry in this book; some of the 
 verses being of great strength and originality. 
 — Boston "Times," November 10, 1901. 
 
 Louis A. Robertson's book, "The Dead Ca- 
 lypso," made him a singer of national note. — 
 New York "World," January 24, 1903. 
 
 [59] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 A notable feature of the work of this Golden 
 State poet is the near approach to perfection of 
 his poetry. He avoids false quantity, and the 
 tone of each poem is sustained from beginning to 
 end, so that one is constrained to follow it to its 
 conclusion. — Buffalo "Courier," December, 1902. 
 
 Some of Louis A. Robertson's sonnets are 
 equal to the best in the English language. — San 
 Francisco "Bulletin." 
 
 He seems on the whole the most promising of 
 the literary group. — Chicago "Inter-Ocean," De- 
 cember 30, 1901. 
 
 Among the many who made their first appear- 
 ance, Louis A. Robertson, who wrote "The Dead 
 Calypso," is probably the best. — Baltimore "Sun," 
 December 26, 1901. 
 
 The collection throughout shows the hand of a 
 master, and is sure to be welcomed as a real con- 
 tribution to the poetic literature of our country. — 
 Trenton, N. J., "Times," February 21, 1902. 
 
 [6o] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 Louis A. Robertson is one poet of the day 
 whose poetry can be read more than once. — San 
 Francisco "Post," December 13, 1902. 
 
 "Cloistral Strains" places Louis A. Robertson 
 amongst the foremost and most divine of poets. 
 — San Jose "Mercury," December 6, 1902. 
 
 Mr. Robertson's work is all of a high literary 
 order. This California poet has already won 
 recognition in England and other countries as 
 well as California. — Boston "Beacon," December 
 24, 1902. 
 
 The work opens with a challenging call to that 
 once fascinating goddesSj-and in a metre almost as 
 seductive as the smile of the siren it taunts. The 
 book is full of good verse. Mr. Robertson is a 
 poet, and the West is the better for him. — Chicago 
 "Record-Herald," December 28, 1904. 
 
 The melody of the verse is as notable as the 
 warmth of its fancy. — New York "Times." 
 
 [6i] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 The book has fire and grit in it. It has also 
 much tenderness and sadness. It runs the gamut 
 from the most spiritual aspiration to the rage oi 
 desire defeated in satiation. In the matter oi 
 form all the verses are exquisitely done. In the 
 rnatter of feeling the intensity is poignant. Al- 
 ways the song has color to it, has blood and bone 
 and flesh woven through it. Mr. Robertson is a 
 lover of the sonnet, and his book contains a dozer 
 poems in that form that are of exquisite work- 
 manship.— St. Louis "Mirror," October 10, 1901 
 
 There are poems in this volume of noble range 
 Robertson is certainly a purist, and has a thor- 
 ough knowledge of the technique of poetry. He 
 is never guilty of false quantity, nor does he evei 
 lower the tone from its original setting. His 
 work has received recognition in the East and 
 England, and there is an increasing demand foi 
 the work of this extraordinary California poet 
 Louis Alexander Robertson is one of the few 
 poets of the day whose work can be read more 
 than once. — San Francisco "Post," December 13 
 1901. 
 
 [62] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 Mr. Robertson's lines reveal the faculty of mak- 
 ing the old mythology real. Like Keats, he fuses 
 his thought into an imaginative glow that makes 
 the fables of Greece and Rome live again for us 
 of these prosaic days. Those who feel the sway 
 of his passion will recognize the hand of a master. 
 — San Francisco ''Chronicle," August 11, 1901. 
 
 His verses show the hand of a man of great 
 literary attainments; a man whose mentality has 
 been cultivated to the highest pitch, and yet whose 
 soul is, and ever has been, the soul of a born 
 poet. In expression and form Mr. Robertson's 
 verses are in themselves perfect; yet this mechani- 
 cal excellence, if we may so express it, attracts no 
 attention to itself. The lines run so smoothly 
 and the thoughts are so beautifully expressed, that 
 it is the intent of the poetry, and not its form, 
 that makes the lasting impression on the reader's 
 mind.— San Francisco "Call," August 18, 1901. 
 
 The beauty of the lines is most often that of 
 the polished and engraved gem, yet his thought 
 
 [63] 
 
PRESS NOTICES 
 
 moves freely and gives no hint of fetters. — San 
 Francisco "Argonaut," August 36, 1901. 
 
 In this book there are verses that thrill the 
 senses and stir the blood and awake one's enthusi- 
 asm and cause one to read and reread; there are 
 lines that impress one with their beauty as a 
 faultless piece of statuary, and there are some 
 that cut the air with the swing of a flaming 
 scimitar. His songs come to us in many strains, 
 and through the sob of lascivious music and the 
 flow of forbidden wine there steals the echo of 
 the swelling choir and the impressive cadence of 
 the cathedral hymn, chanted in a key that har- 
 monizes well with the dim religious lights. — San 
 Francisco "News Letter," August 10, 1901. 
 
 His lines oft glow with brilliant pictures; they 
 unfold grand scenes; tableau after tableau pre- 
 sents itself in brilliant, pulsating coloring. This 
 is particularly true of the poem "The Dead 
 Calypso." The scenes painted are the work of 
 a master of the English language. — San Francisco 
 "Bulletin," August 18, 1901. 
 
 [64] 
 
DEC 171904