BALLADS OF GOOD DEEDS, AND 0 THEER VERSES. BY HENRY ABBEY. NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 549 & 55 BROADWAY. 1872. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, By HENRY ABBEY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. TO GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS IS DEDICATED WHATEVER OF GOOD MAY BE IN THESE PAGES. Old events have modern meanings; only that survives Of past history which finds kindred in all hearts and lives. LOWELL. The instances I produce, how fabulous soever, provided they are possible, serve as well as the true; whether it has really happened or no, at Rome or at Paris,'tis still within the verge of possibility, and human capacity, which serves me to good use, and supplies me with variety in the things I write. MONTAIGNE. CONTENTS. The author thinks it no more than just to give, with the titles of the pieces, the names of the publications in which they first appeared. PAGE THE ROMAN SENTINEL (Appletons' 7ournal). II THE FRENCH MARSHAL (Appletons' yournal).. 15 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER (Harper's Weekly).. 19 THE GALLEY-SLAVE (The Galaxy).. 23 THE STOWAWAY BOY (Harper's Weekly).. 28 THE EMIR'S CHARITY..... 32 THE KING'S SACRIFICE (AIpletons' 7ournal).. 36 THE SINGER'S ALMS (The Galaxy)... 40 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY... 44 8 CONTENTS. PAGE THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE (The Galaxy).. 49 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER (Atpl1etons' Yournal). 53 THE JEW'S FAITH (Lizppincott's Magazine). 56 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE (Appletons' yournal).. 62 AGNES HATOT (A4pletons' yournal).. 70 NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES (Appi2ietons' yournal). ~ 76 BELLEROPHON (Overland Monthly).... 83 To RICHARD GRANT WHITE (Every Saturday). 89 RECOMPENSE (Chambers's 7ournal) ~ 94 IN THE VALLEY (The Galaxy).... 98 WHILE THE DAYS GO BY.... IOI WINTER DAYS....... o3 Low TIDE (Northern Lights Magazine)... o05 AUTUMN BALLAD...... 107 DONALD....... I IO Low LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN (A4ppletons' 7ournal) IIz CONTENTS. 9" PAGE A MORNING PASTORAL (ApPeto ns' Almanac, I87I). Ii6 MAY IN A VILLAGE. 119 THE STATUE (Harper's Magazine)... 22 IN HANGING GARDENS (Appletons' yournal).. I26 FACIEBAT (Old and New).. 28 THE ROMAN SENTINEL. DEATH or dishonor, which is best to taste? A Roman sentinel in Pompeii, When God's hot anger laid that city waste, Answered the question, and resolved to die. His duty was, upon his post to bide Till the relief came, let what might betide. He stood forgotten by the fleeing guard, Choosing that part which is the bitterest still, His face with its fixed purpose cold and hard, Cut in the resolute granite of his will. 12 THE ROMAN SENTINEL. "Better," he said, "to die, than live in shame; Death wreathes fresh flowers round a brave man's name." Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore, Of a great sea beyond. The sentry saw That day the light in broad sails hoisted o'er The drifting boat of dawn; nor dreamed the flaw, The puff called death, would blow him with them by Out to the boundless sea beyond the sky. The sentry watched the mountain's fire-gashed cheeks, And saw come up the sand's entombing shower. The storm darts out its red tongue when it speaks, And fierce Vesuvius, in that wild hour, THE ROMAN SENTINEL. 13 Put forth its tongue of flame, and spoke the word Of hatred to the city from the Lord. The gloom of seventeen centuries skulked away, And standing in a marble niche was found A skeleton in armor all decay; The soulless skull was by a helmet crowned, Cleaving thereon with mingled rust and sand, And a long spear was in the crumbling hand. In Pompeii are beasts of stone with wings, Paved streets with marble temples on each side, Baths, houses, paintings, monuments of kings; But the arched gate whereat the sentry died, The rusted spear, and helmet with no crest, Are better far to see than all the rest. 14 THE ROMAN SENTINEL. O heart, whatever lot to thee God gives, Be strong, and swerve not from a blameless way; Dishonor hurts the soul that ever lives, Death hurts the body that is kin with clay. Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast. THE FRENCH MARSHAL. M cMAHON up the street of Paris came, In triumph from Magenta. Every one Had heard and praised the fearless marshal's name, And gloried in the deeds that he had done. Crowds packed the walks, and at each separate glass A face was set to see the hero pass. Grand music lifted in the morning air Its eloquent voice. Loud-mouthed bells were rung, Guns boomed till echoes welcomed everywhere; On buildings and in streets proud flags were hung, I6 THE FRENCH MARSHAL. Half like the flags of brain-silk wrought with gold, That hang on Shakespeare's pages, fold on fold. But while the marshal up the street made way, There came a little girl clothed all in white, Bringing in happy hands a large bouquet; Her flower-sweet face seemed fragrant with delight. Well pleased, the soldier, dark and fierce at need, Raised up the child before him on his steed. The pearly necklace of her loving arms She bound on him, and laid her Spring-like head Against the Autumn of his cheek, with charms Of smile and mien; while to his shoulder fled Her gold loose hair with flowers like jewels set, And made thereon a wondrous epaulet. THE FRENCH MARSHAL. 17 He seemed more like an angel than a man, As, father-like, he paid back each caress; Better than all his deeds in war's red van, Appeared this simple act of tenderness. The people cried "Huzza! " and did not pause Until the town seemed shaken with applause. So, from this hour, the general became The boast of the enthusiastic crowd; Each gave some flower of praise to deck his fame; They knew him brave-though often cold and proud; But looked not for the kindness undefiled That he had beamed upon the loving child. O cynic, deem no more the world all base, And scoff no more with either tongue or pen; 2 i8 THE FRENCH MARSHAL. You do not see the face behind the face. If God exists, there must be noble men; And many, who to us seem hard and cold, Have sunshine in their hearts as pure as gold. THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. DRECKER, a drawbridge-keeper, opened wide The dangerous gate to let the vessel through; His little son was standing by his side, Above Passaic River, deep and blue, While in the distance, like a moan of pain, Was heard the whistle of the coming train. At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back, The gate-like bridge that seems a gate of death; Nearer and nearer, on the slender track, Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath. 20 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw His darling boy fall headlong from the draw. Either at once down in the stream to spring And save his son, and let the living freight Rush on to death, or to his work to cling, And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fateWhich should he do? Were you as he was tried, Would not your love outweigh all else beside? And yet the child to him was full as dear As yours may be to you-the light of eyes, A presence like a brighter atmosphere, The household star that shone in love's mild skiesYet, side by side with duty stern and grim, Even his child became as naught to him. THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. 21; For Drecker, being great of soul and true, Held to his work, and did not aid his boy, Who, in the deep, dark water, sank from view. Then from the father's life went forth all joy; But, as he fell back pallid with his pain, Across the bridge in safety passed the train. And yet the man was poor, and in his breast Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord; True greatness needs no title and no crest To win from men just honor and reward; Nobility is not of rank, but mind, And is inborn and common in our kind. He is most noble whose humanity Is least corrupted. To be just and good 22 THE DRAWBRIDGE-KEEPER. The birthright of the lowest born may be. Say what we can, we are one brotherhood, And, rich or poor, or famous or unknown, True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. THE GALLEY-SLAVE. THERE lived in France, in days not long now dead, A farmer's sons, twin-brothers, like in face; And one was taken in the other's stead For a small theft, and sentenced in disgrace To serve for years, a hated galley-slaveYet said no word his prized good name to save. Trusting remoter days would be more blessed, He set his will to vear the verdict out, And knew most men are prisoners at best, Who some strong habit ever drag about 24 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. Like chain and ball; then meekly prayed that he Rather the prisoner he was should be. But best resolves are of such feeble thread, They may be broken in Temptation's hands. After long toil, the guiltless prisoner said: "Why should I thus, and feel life's precious sands The narrow of my glass, the present, run, For a poor crime that I have never done?" Such questions are like cups, and hold reply; For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled, And gained the country road, and hastened by Brown furrowed fields and skipping brooklets fed THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 25 By shepherd clouds, and felt'neath sapful trees The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze. Then, all that long day having eaten naught, He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought. She gave it him; but, as he quaffed the life, Down her kind face he saw a single tear Pursue its wet and sorrowful career. Within the cot he now beheld a man And maiden also weeping. "Speak," said he, "And tell me of your grief; for, if I can, I will disroot the sad, tear-fruited tree." The cotter answered: "In default of rent, We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent." 26 THE GALLEY-SLAVE. Then said the galley-slave: "Whoso returns A prisoner escaped, may feel the spur To a right action, and deserves and earns Proffered reward. I am a prisoner! Bind these my arms, and drive me back my way, That your reward the price of home may pay." Against his wish the cotter gave consent, And at the prison-gate received his fee; Though some made it a thing for wonderment That one so sickly and infirm as he, When stronger would have dared not to attack, Could capture this bold youth and bring him back. Straightway the cotter to the mayor hied, And told him all the story, and that lord Was much affected, dropping gold beside The pursed, sufficient silver of reward; THE GALLEY-SLAVE. 27 Then wrote his better in authority, Asking to set the noble prisoner free.'Tis said our galley-slave was soon released, And wedded her with love, the good and fair, The cotter's daughter, when his store increased. The brother-twin, shamed one for him should bear A dungeon's gloom, had turned to doing well, And no more shadows on these households fell. There is no nobler, better life on earth Than that of conscious, meek self-sacrifice. Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth And holy work, made His sublime disguise, Teaching this truth, still rarely understood:'Tis sweet to suffer for another's good. THE STOWAWAY BOY. W HEN three days forth upon the salty sea, There came out to the deck a little boy; Not wherewithal to pay his way had he, Yet looked up to the broad free sky with joy. His face was bright and fair, for what is good Shines out and fears not to be understood. But on the boy a doubting eye was cast, And soon there questioned him the master's mate: He said that his step-father, near a mast Had hidden him, with food, and bade him wait THE STOWAWAY BOY. 29 Within the place until they reached the shore, Where a kind aunt would give him from her store. The mate was slow to feel the story true, And thought the sailors gave the boy his food, And often questioned him before the crew; The boy replied with steadfast fortitude. At last the mate avowed the glaring lie Should be confessed or else the boy must die. Thereat he bade a sailor fetch a rope, And, pointing to the yard-arm, sternly said: "Boy, in ten minutes you will be past hope, And know the solemn silence of the dead, Unless you speak, and spurn the lie away." The boy knelt down and asked if he might pray. 30 THE STOWAWAY BOY. Above its hell of fire the tortured steam Shrieked, hissed, and groaned in terror and in pain; Yet worked the ship's great muscles, shaft and beam. The vessel seemed a sea-gull or a crane Beating the denser air that floods the world, And round and round her watery wings were whirled. The sky bent over the contented sea, And, like the boy's face, was both pure and clear; The ship's folk gathered round him anxiously, The Lord's Prayer from his earnest lips to hear. The mate, in tears, by trouble sore oppressed, Caught up the boy and clasped him to his breast! THE STOWAWAY BOY. 31 Truth's simple grandeur is her priceless wear, And virtue is the crown upon her head; So plain is she that even a child may dare To take her hand and go where she will tread. Not her shall serpent Error fascinate, She strikes it down and rules in Time and Fate. Cling thou to Truth and keep her rigid line, Nor pander to the false on either side; Truth dwells with Wisdom, makes the face to shine, Leads on to honor, is to God allied; Oh, in thy trial hour, whate'er befall, Trust her with firm faith, and all in all. THE EMIR'S CHARITY. IN Samarcand, the nether Morning Star, There lived a vizier, treasurer of the king, Who did not wed until the treasurer, Time, Had counted down to him his fortieth year. His loving bride was younger by a score Of such good coin, and beautiful as dawn. Mismatched the twain, for she was generous, And sent no beggar empty from the house; Yet gave her own, nor touched her husband's gold. But he, the treasurer, was miserly, THE EMIR'S CHARITY. 33 And tightened up the purse-strings as he said: "I too must beg unless you cease to give." The emir in disguise once passed that way, And, hearing of the kindness of the wife, Had will to test it. Knocking at the door, No wife appeared; but in her stead, in wrath, The vizier, cursing the rag-clad, crust-fed churl Who dared to seek for dole and break his peace; Then stroked his beard, and swore by Tamerlane, By the silk cerements and the sacred tomb, That Charity herself should cease to be. "Hold!" quoth the beggar; "say not so of her. I pray rather that upon the street, Yea, on the crowded corners of the street, She yet will stand, this virgin, Charity, 3 34 THE EMIR'S CHARITY. And, hearing her true words, the people there Will all espouse her cause, and make the world Mount up and spurn the level of to-day. Despise no man who asks alms at thy door; A precious diamond may be meanly set. It does not soil the angels' holy wings To hover round the poor. I doff disguise! Behold, I am the emir! yet, to prove I am not all devoid of charity, Still keep the boon of office that I gave." Hearing a stranger's voice, the wife came forth, And saw her husband kneeling on the step, And knew the emir's kind and thoughtful eyes, And smiled on him and kissed his gentle hand. And from that day, the alms-folk testify, No string was tightened round the portly purse; THE EMIR'S CHARITY. 35 But evermore the wife, with cheering smiles Doled bountifully to the grateful poor, Until, at last, when at the door of heaven She knocked, herself a beggar, Allah smiled And gave her alms of everlasting peace. THE KING'S SACRIFICE. FOR seven years the drought had parched the land, Yet day by day the sun blazed overhead, A fire-eyed fiend of fire with flaming brand. The stretching worm was by toothed famine fed. No green thing grew, for starved men tilled the mould In the dry beds where once the rivers rolled. The fakirs of the swart, abundant gods, And seers, the consulters of the stars, THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 37 In contrite sackcloth, bearing serpent-rods, Cleft the close air with words like scimitars: "The gods demand a human sacrifice — No rain will fall until the victim dies." The wise king sat in council on his throne, And heard the false priests going up and down: "A life! " he cried. " Must ever blood atone? I hate its clotted stain upon a crown. Yet, if I hold my peace, and, at their shrine, A life be offered, all the stain were mine! "Lo, it is somewhat more to be a king, Than gleam in robes of office, sit in state, Be first in pomps, and rule in every thing. To love the people, that alone is great! 38 THE KING'S SACRIFICE. So I, to prove my love, and give you rain, Proclaim myself the victim to be slain!" The feigned wrath of their idols to assuage, Forth for his death they led their upright king; Kind Time, the snail to youth, the bird to age, Had touched him lightly with its passing wing. Youthful in age he looked, bright-eyed, smoothbrowed, As for the sacrifice he knelt and bowed. Then, while the headsman held aloft the blade, A cloud, wet-laden, stole before the sun, And on the weapon, with a hand of shade, Laid dusky seizure; for the Fates had spun A longer, royal thread., The cloud amain Scattered aslant its crystal load of rain. THE KING'S SACRIFICE. 39 So fear not thou, rather than stain thy soul, To yield the empty vapor of thy breath. Hither the years, but thither ages roll, Beyond the pale-lit stream of useful death. Better to suffer than to do a wrong; Fear not, O heart, to suffer and be strong. THE SINGER'S ALMS. N Lyons, in the mart of that French town, Years since, a woman leading a fair child, Craved a small alms of one, who, walking down The thoroughfare, caught the child's glance, and smiled To see, behind its eyes, a noble soul. He paused, but found he had no coin to dole. His guardian angel warned him not to lose This chance of pearl to do another good; So as he waited, sorry to refuse The asked-for penny, there aside he stood, THE SINGER'S ALMS. 41 And with his hat held as by limb the nest, He covered his kind face, and sang his best. The sky was blue above, and all the lane Of commerce where the singer stood was filled, And many paused, and, listening, paused again, To hear the voice that through and through them thrilled. I think the guardian angel helped along That cry for pity woven in a song. The singer stood between the beggars there, Before a church, and, overhead, the spire, A slim perpetual finger in the air Held toward heaven, land of the heart's desire, As though an angel, pointing up, had said, "Yonder a crown awaits this singer's head." 42 THE SINGER'S ALMS. The hat of its stamped brood was emptied soon Into the woman's lap, who drenched with tears Her kiss upon the hand of help.'Twas noon, And noon in her glad heart drove forth her fears. The singer pleased, passed on, and softly thought, "Men will not know by whom this deed was wrought." But when at night he came upon the stage, Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng, And flowers rained on him. Naught could assuage The tumult of the welcome, save the song That for the beggars he, with covered face, Had sung while standing in the market-place. Oh, cramped and narrow is the man who lives Only for self, and pawns his years away THE SINGER'S ALMS. 43 For gold, nor knows the joy a good deed gives; But feels his heart shrink slowly, day by day, And dies at last, his bond of fate outrun; No high aim sought, no worthy action done. But brimmed with molten brightness like a star, And broad and open as the sea or sky, The generous heart. Its kind deeds shine afar, And glow in gold in God's great book on high. And he who does what good he can each day, Makes smooth and green and strews with flowers his way. THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. W HEN Theodosius, who ruled the land, Had laid exactions, deemed too hard to bear, On Antioch, angry revolt was planned, And, hoarsely surging to the public square, The folk dashed on the statues of the crown, The ruler's and his wife's, and broke them down. But, when the tide of fury ebbed away, Upon all hearts there lay a stranded dread. The dwellers sorrowed at their deed that day, And on Thought's canvas saw their danger spread. THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 45 A sombre painter, born of fault, is Fear, That magnifies the ills it makes appear. So Bishop Flavianus, strong of pen, In truth a poet, but who nobly found That he a higher good could do to men In preaching Christ, than if with laurel crowned, Left Antioch, and hastened on his way, The ruler's wrath to soften and allay. He reached Constantinople, and was led Before the emperor, who heard his plea: "We place a wreath on even the wicked dead. Since wrong, repented of, no more can be, On our dead wrong let now thy pardon rest Like a white wreath upon a silent breast." 46 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. With darkened look the ruler made reply: " Pretence cannot make sweet what sooth is sour. Not till forgiveness comes can injury die; And, though of pardon one should place the flower Where, in repentance hearsed, a wrong is lain, The wrong may rise to violence again. "You have cast down the statues cut from stone, And, of the metal of ingratitude, Reared a colossal shame. This shall be thrown, In turn, prone to the earth, by vengeance rude. Let no sleek speech blind Justice enervate! I am resolved. My word is law and fate." With saddened soul the bishop turned away; But, knowing that, of boys with harps, a choir THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. 47 Before the emperor made glad the day, While he reclined at meat, there came desire, Through *these, the singers, to renew his plea, And with' a song the threatened city free. Straightway, with loving care, he wrote an ode, Glad that, at last, to turn the wheel of use, The sparkling brook of his clear numbers flowed. "That art is best," he said, "which can induce To serviceable ends. Of old, art's kings Were fain to do good work on useful things." The rhyme was finished, and the balanced words By music voiced, whose plaintive undertone Was like the twilight notes of woodland birds. When from his potent, golden-curtained throne, 48 THE EMPEROR'S MERCY. The ruler came to feast, like seraphim The choir with harps took up the song for him. They sang the wrong and fears of Antioch, And of the awe of love repentance brings; They woke, with fingers swift, a flying flock, The fine compassion of the trembling strings. The ruler cried, "Oh, cease thy bitter song, For I forgive the city of the wrong!" Spirit of Mercy, child of love divine, By whom, through Christ, the weary may find rest, Oh, make our souls in unison with thine, And enter in and dwell in every breast; And let it need no more the power of art To rouse thee from thy slumber in the heart. THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. NEBAR, a Bedouin of noble heart, That from all men received of praise the fee, Owned a brave horse, with which he would not part, Because from death he once had run him free. The man and beast were friends, and it is vice ro sell our friend or friendship for a price. The horse was black and strong, his step was proud; His neck was.arched, his ear alert for sound; His speed the tempest's, and his mane a cloud; His hoofs woke thunder from the desert ground; 4 50 THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. His eyes flashed lightning from their inmost core: Victor of Distance was the name he bore. Daher, a Bedouin of another tribe, Had often wished to buy this famous beast; And as he smoked, and heard his friends describe Its comely parts and powers, the wish increased; But Nebar said the horse should not be sold, Though offered wealth in camels and in gold. Then Daher put on rags, and stained his face, And went to wait for Nebar, seeming lame. Him soon he saw approach with daring pace Upon the envied horse, and as he came He cried to him: "For three days on this spot Have I lain starving —pity me my lot." THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. 51 And, seeing Nebar stop, said on, "I dieMy strength is gone! " Down Nebar sprang, And raised him gently, with a pitying sigh, And set him on his horse. A laugh outrang, And Daher shouted as he plunged his spurs, "Fair price refused, one sells at last for burrs." " Stay! stay! " cried Nebar: Daher paused to hear; "Since Heaven has willed that you my beast should take, I wish you joy; but tell no man, for fear Another who was really starved might make Appeal in vain; for some, remembering me, Would fail to do an act of charity." Oh, sharp as steel to Daher seemed remorse. He paused a moment, then sprang to the ground, 52 THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE. And with bowed head brought Nebar back his horse; And, falling on his honest breast, he wound His arms about his neck for true amends, And ever afterward the two were friends. If all of us, whene'er we suffer wrong, Should bear it mildly, since God wills it so, Nor lend our speech to anger, like the song The morning stars sang life would pass below: For he who lightly draws the sword of wrath, Wounds most himself, and crowds with strife his path. THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. WVASHINGTON ALLSTON, in a foreign land, Went to his studio, and knelt to pray, Starving and weak, with want on either hand. Conscience had risen in his heart that day, As unto Saul, when hedged about with foes The accusing prophet out of death arose. Within the vast cathedral of the night, The stars, the altar-lamps, their thanks outshine; Yet he, the painter, from whose soul shone bright The nobler fire of genius, God's divine 54 THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. And greatest gift to man, had never cast One ray of gratitude for mercies past. "I have been most ungrateful, Lord," he said, "And, housed in self, I have forgotten Thee; Yet now, I pray, vouchsafe me this day's bread, And I will pay of my poor thanks the fee, As I now pay for favors heretofore-" The irreverent knocker clanked upon the door. Marquis of Stafford there the threshold crossed. "Who bought," he asked, "your'Angel Uriel?' ""It is not sold."-" Not sold! Then name the cost, And I shall make it mine." So it befell That friendship followed, and the painter came To better days, and had the use of fame. THE ARTIST'S PRAYER. 55 Oh, half the good that daily blooms for men Is from the seed of prayer. God gives success Often to test our gratitude, and then Withdraws it, if we lack, with tenderness; Yet if we turn, and of His help implore, A blessing is already at the door. THE JEW'S FAITH. IN the old days, in Alexandria, dwelt Nicanor, a self-sacrificing Jew, Who honestly in every matter dealt, Until his spreading tree of fortune grew Beyond the small dwarfed stature of his needs, And each bent bough bore reproducing seeds. And then, like him who walking up the way Turns round to question him that comes behind, He, turning, faced his heart and asked one day: "What shall I make'my duty? Fixed, my mind THE JEW'S FAITH. 57 Demands its aim must now be understood, For every man should live for some set good." Thereto his heart made answer: "Lips are fair; Make two vast doors for lips, and go with them, And hinge them on the Temple's mouth, that there They long may name thee to Jerusalem: With lily-work and palm thy doors be made, And both -with beaten copper overlaid." In time the lips were wrought, and, with much gain, He stowed them' on a bark, and sailed away; And saw the land fade forth from off the main, While'neath the sun the rippled waters lay Like the great roof that Solomon of old Built on the Temple, spiked with goodly gold. 58 THE JEW'S FAITH. When certain days flew west a storm came up, And night was like a black and fearful cave Where Powers of Awe held banquet: as cloud-cup Struck waved cloud-cup, the clash deep thunder gave, And spilled the wine of rain. The thrilling gloom Was filled with loud though unseen wings of doom. Then said the master of the worried keel: "Vile Jew, thy doors are heavy: they must go!" Nicanor cried: "Here, at thy feet, I kneel, And crave of thee to spare them. I will throw My goods away and gold, my proof of thrift; But spare the doors, to God my humble gift. "Despise me not; for he who scorns a Jew Without just cause, himself shall be despised." THE JEW'S FAITH. 59 Thereat his gains he gathered up and threw Into the sea, till all were sacrificed Except his gift; but still the Pan-like blast Piped on the reed of each divested mast. Up spoke the sailors to their master dark: "We late made mention to our gods of this, And they require we shall unload the bark Of the vile Jew and all that may be his." As the dread judgment meek Nicanor heard, He radiantly smiled, but said no word. Then in the deep the lofty doors were thrown. Nicanor prayed, "I put my trust in Thee!" And sprang out to the storm, and scaled alone,'Gainst Death, the unceasing rampart of the sea. 60 THE JEW'S FAITH. He sank and rose; but, going down once more, His wandering hand seized on a drifting door. Dripping and weak, he crawled upon his float, And heard the cry go past, " The ship is lost!" Then shrieks, death-ended. Swords of storm that smote Were now soon sheathed, while flags of foam that tossed Were furled in peace, and good Nicanor found The lip there kissed the sweet and certain ground. A cape ran out, a long, rock-sinewed arm That buffeted the sea, and this had caught The Jew and both his doors; and, free of harm, He stood in dawn's gray surf. Stout help he brought, THE JEW'S FAITH. 6I And, passing safely inland far and fast, The gifts were on the Temple hinged at last. Long centuries succeed, and Herod, king, Rose to rebuild the Temple. For rough stone, He reared stone snow, white marble. Each pure thing He beautified. Nicanor's doors alone Were left. "These," said the wise high-priests, "shall be For a memorial of piety." Danger ennobles duty simply done, And is a test wherein is cast for proof The ore of faith. There comes no fear to one Whose faith is true, for though upon that roof Where only Christ of flesh has firmly trod, He stands on rock who puts his trust in God. THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. IN Florence, years ago, there dwelt a youth, Broad-shouldered, fair in face, and tall and strong, Plighted to one he loved in very truth — A lady proud, whose black hair, fine and long, Some said, was like a flag, that waved or fell Above her heart's deceitful citadel. To these the days were bright, as days may be To all who love as lovers always should; But one fell night a cry of dread ran free, And one beloved in deadly peril stood. THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 63 About her house the hot flames roared and broke In waves of fire that dashed a spray of smoke. Prone on the seat within her oriel The lady sank; then he, her lover, came And lowered her to the street; but it befell That, as he turned back'mid the leaping flame, The roof fell in, and to the crackling floor The heavy beams his sturdy body bore. They brought him forth, all bleeding, burned, and crushed, And long he lay, and neither stirred nor spoke; Not yet by wayward death his heart was hushed, But seemed a blacksmith pounding, stroke by stroke, 64 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. And working on through night from sun to sun, Until his fateful labor would be done. "My love," soon mused the youth, "must love me well, She will be true and kind to me, I know, And life will brim with sunshine where we dwell; All's for the best, since God has willed it so. I long once more to see her sweet and fair, And kiss the ripples of her mouth and hair. "Dear love! she will behold me with her heart, And pity me, because my lot is hard; She will not look upon this outer part That for her sake is crippled and is scarred." False hope, poor heart!-for, when the lady came, She turned away with loathing, to her shame. THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 65 As one in swamps sees fire-flies flare in gloom, And fancies them the street-lights of a town Whose spires and domes among the shadows loom, Yet finds at dawn but lowland, so came down The hope-built future, and the sufferer found Beneath his feet the waste and useless ground. Yet Sorrow brings no dagger in her hand To slay the heart with whom she comes to dwell; The youth lived on, and he was wont to stand Before a church, and listen to the bell That in a great spire, bright with golden gloss, Laughed from its yellow throat beneath the cross. Then loss of wealth with other damage fell, And for a beggar's pittance he became 5 66 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. The ringer of the wide-mouthed, thick-lipped bell, Whose noisy somersets he made proclaim Vesper or mass or lovers to be wed, Or pulled it with large pity for the dead. And now they bade him ring a joyful peal, For she who once had clothed his heart with pain, Before the altar'neath the bell would kneel, And wed another. Then, for good or bane, There came two spirits out of east and west, And wrestled fiercely in the Ringer's breast. All the long night before the wedding-morn He in the belfry stayed and worked, dark-browed, And, as he looked forth when the day was born, The better spirit in his heart was cowed. THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 67 The nails were drawn, the beams made weak at last, That once had held the great bell firm and fast. The Ringer saw the landscape, and to him It was a cup, and there the red sun stood, A drop of splendid wine upon the rim, And clouds arose, clothed on with cloak and hood, And, with their stained lips at the crimson brink, Seemed monstrous genii who had come to drink. They came in time with followers in a file, The happy bridegroom and the smiling bride; They passed the portal and came up the aisle, And knelt down at the altar, side by side. The bride looked up beneath her veil of lace, And saw with fear the Ringer's livid face. 68 THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. Then sprang he to the rope to ring her knell, With all the inclement anger of his soul; The huge inverted lily of the bell Shook in the gust, and, with a last loud toll, Fell from its place, and, echoing near and wide, Crushed'neath its weight the Ringer and the bride. Revenge is base and bitter at the core, And in a noble mind will never growYet there are times when it is somewhat more, And is almost like justice-for we know That there are wrongs so deep there seems no cure, Save in dire retribution swift and sure. Yet meek Forgiveness, in her gentle reign, Repays in time in dividends of good. THE RINGER'S VENGEANCE. 69 Who doubts that, had the Ringer borne his pain, He had obtained the noblest brotherhood? For wrongs that are forgiven in our sin Are doors where loving angels enter in. AGNES HATOT. (A. D. I390.) W HEN Might made law in days of chivalry, Hatot and Ringsdale, over claims to land, Darkened their lives with stormy enmity; And for their rights agreed this test to stand: To fight steel-clad till either's blood made wet The soil disputed-and a time was set. But Hatot sickened when the day drew near, And strength lay racked that once had been his boast. AGNES HATOT. 71 Then Agnes, his fair daughter, for the fear That in proud honor he would suffer most, Set Will to do the battle in his name, And leave no foothold for the tread of Shame. She, at the gray, first coming of the day, Shook off still sleep, and from her window gazed. The west was curtained with night's dark delay; A cold and waning moon in silence raised Its bent and wasted finger o'er the vale, And seemed sad Death who beckoned, wan and pale. But Hope sails past the rugged coasts of Fear; For while awakened birds sang round her eaves, Our Agnes armed herself with knightly gear Of rattling hauberk and of jointed greaves; 72 AGNES HATOT. Withal she put on valor, that to feel, Does more for victory than battle-steel. She had a sea of hair, whose odor sweet, And golden softness, in a moonless tide Went rippling toward the white coast of her feet; But as beneath a cloud the sea may hide, So in her visored, burnished helmet, there, Beneath the cloud-like plume, was hid her hair. Bearing the mighty lance, sharp-spiked and long, She at the sill bestrode her restless steed. Her kneeling soul prayed God to make her str6ng, And prayer is nearest path to every need. She clattered on the bridge, and on apace, And met dread Ringsdale at the hour and place. AGNES HATOT. 73 They clashed in onslaught. Steel to steel replies. The champed bit foams. Rider and ridden fight. Each feels the instinct in his nature rise That in forefront of havoc takes delight. The lightning of the lances flashed and ran Until, at last, the maid unhorsed the man. Then, on her steed, she, bright-eyed, flushed, and glad, Her helmet lifted in the sylvan air; And from the iron concealment that it had, The noiseless ocean of her languid hair Broke with dishevelled spray. The cross and heart, Jewels that latched her vest, she drew apart. 74 AGNES HATOT. "Lo, it is Agnes, even I!" she said, "Who with my trusty lance have thrust you down! For hate of shame the fray I hazarded; And yet, not me the victory should crown, But God, the Merciful, who helps the right, And lent me strength to conquer in the fight." Oh, he by all should be accounted base, Who, for a gift that God has given him, Takes honor to himself. Of him all trace Forgetfulness should cancel and bedim. He steals from Heaven, for self-love makes corrupt, And dwarfs the soul who of her wine has supped. But he who gives to God the meed of praise For proof of gratitude within his heart, AGNES HATOT. 75 May find success attendant on his ways, Shall with the future have a lot and part; For time his name will brighten, though afar, As twilight brightens and brings near her star. NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. NATHAN, a wise man, who had nursed with care A tree of trade that bore sufficient coin, Lived not alone for self, but thought to share His wealth with others; so at once to join His thought to action, where the chief roads crossed He reared a palace, fair and white as frost. Here, food he laid, and smooth wine made to flow For all who came from either east or west; Beggars were not too base for him to know, And each was served as an invited guest; NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. 77 And when at last there broke the parting day, He doled them gifts, and saw them on their way. From these mere springs, his fame in rivers flowed, And proud Mithridanes, not taking heed That charities for praise of men corrode And lose their virtue, thought the same good deed He too might do and win as high renown, For Nathan's name was better than a crown. So he too built a palace wide and high, And clad it with the banners of his land; The prosperous towers grasped the golden sky, The fragrant fountains tossed on either hand; And this, and Nathan's palace, seemed to be Let down from heaven for deeds of charity. 78 NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. But proud Mithridanes was envious still, As Nathan's name was held above his own, And soon he willed to go to him and kill The generous man, that he, and he alone Through the broad world might gain the fame he could For large munificence and doing good. See how vile Envy may mislead our hearts, And feed us with unpalatable sin! Mithridanes for Nathan's door departs, And, reaching it, with peace is welcomed in; Even a parrot, up a stairway heard, Stabs at his envy with its friendly word. But ere the hospitable roof was won, He overtook an ancient on the road. NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. 79 "Tell me how near my journey now is done; I go to Nathan and his praised abode." "I am his servant," said the old man gray, "I shall ride forward with you on your way." This man was Nathan, though unknown to him Whose deadly purpose slumbered in his breast; And often in the park, as day waned dim, They met thereafter, one with gloom oppressed, And talked of Honor and her favorite few, Till from the commerce wealth of friendship grew. Here on the root-veined soil-flesh of the world, The comer told the white-beard that he sought The murder of his rival-that, fast furled, No more the name of Nathan should be caught 80 NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. And banner-like o'er hill and vale be sent As the most wise and most benevolent. "I shall see to it you are gratified," Meek Nathan said, "for, at the bud of day, Your foe will walk these time-ringed trees beside, And you may fall on him, and be away Before his death is bruited; lest in wrath They should pursue you, flee the mountain-path." At morn went forth the guest to slay the host, And saw the old man walking mid the trees, The friend he of all others loved the most. "Lo, I am Nathan! great Mithridanes; Here, where the heart is, pierce me to the hilt; Pause not with fear, but slay me if thou wilt." NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. 81 Then at his feet the guest fell prone, with tears: "My dearest father, I was proud and base; Forgive me, for remorse in after-years Will rack me, when I think upon thy face! No more my envy makes a foe of thee, For I behold thy vast humility." "Arise!" said Nathan. "Though I do forgive, I need not, for, in wishing to excel, You have done nothing wrong. Proud monarchs live Who, to be great, have thought it wise and well To slay whole armies on the field of strife; But you have only sought my humble life." The pleasant jewel of good Nathan's face Shone with the inborn lustre of his soul, 6 82 NATHAN AND MITHRIDANES. And, when the other stood up in his place, With full forgiveness round his neck he stole His amicable arms. Thus malice passed, And peace had triumphed in its stead at last. Humility is the excess of love We have for others-if that be excess Which He, who for our help, came from above And wore our humbler nature, loved to bless; But Envy is the coward side of Hate, And all her ways are bleak and desolate. BELLEROPHON SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON writes of one Who strove by charms, and with the aid of ghosts, Of making gold to find the secret out: Who drew a magic ring about his crucible, And while they labored fast at alchemy, He to beat back the adverse ghosts essayed. At last, within the circle he had drawn, Was placed a monstrous Foot, so large, his face Was level with the instep. All in vain Each puny effort to drive back the Foot. 84 BELLEROPHON. Oh, hard for him, who, having once let in Upon the charmed circle of the good The first advance of error, strives to oust The evil, and make fair the round again: The giant Foot, stock-still, will not retreat. And I bethink me him, who in the past, Before Christ's ransom purchased all our sins, And in a land that did not know of God, Upon the Plain of Wandering, the Aleian Plain, Walked silently beneath the silent stars, And kept the circle of the good intact, And to his own heart cogitated thus: "Antea, wife of Prcetus, tempted me. She, in the palace, where the fountains are, Met me at twilight as she walked alone, BELLEROPHON. 85 Clad with uncinctured robe, adorned with gems, Perfumed with all the spices of the East. She made her arms a girdle for my neck, And, lifting both her small, gold-sandalled feet, Hung her full weight upon me. Her lips' bud Bloomed to a crimson rose against my own. My beard touched her white cheek, while in my ear She told the eager whisper of her love. "I put arm's -length between our souls, and hissed Between set teeth a menace'gainst all sin. She left me thus, and went to him, her liege, And with the broken fragments of her speechBits of the jar that could not hold her tearsShe let it fall that I had done her wrong. 86 BELLEROPHON. "So, in dire wrath, the fierce king called for me, And on a tablet writing fatal characters, He sent me forth with them beyond his realm, To Lycia, to the king thereof, who met And entertained me by the Xanthus' tide. Nine days of feasting passed, and on the tenth The tablets were unsealed, their purport knownAnd their base appetite is gorged to-day. "But first the Chimaera I slew invincible. She was in front a lion, and behind A dragon, and between the two a goat. Her breath was gleaming fire that uttered forth, And burned the woodlands where she passed in wrath. And her indeed I slew and gave to death. BELLEROPHON. 87 I fought with Solymi, the Illustrious, I slew the man-opposing Amazons, I turned to naught the secret ambuscade, And won new lustre to my blameless name. "But what if I had listened to the queen, And had become the servant of her wish? I hold, the soul is like a piece of cloth, Which, being stained, is stained for evermoreThat nothing can erase the stain of sin. "Suppose, now being dead, I knelt me down Upon the first gold step of great Jove's throne, My soul a piece of cloth within my hands, All smeared and soiled and stained with Antea's sin, And said: 88 BELLEROPHON. "'Great Jove, accept this cloth, I pray; Thou madest it. The texture is as fine As the loose woof of clouds, or the worm's silk. These blots and stains are most like roses strewn.' "Then would great Jove make answer, scorning me: O fool, and blind! to mock the mighty gods; For on the golden texture of the soul, Only a noble deed seems like a flower.' "Well, whoso wills shall always have his way, And what was right that I had willed to do." TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE, ON READING HIS LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. I READ your life of Shakespeare late; The clock, swift-handed, showed the hour Of midnight on the numbered plate, And yet your words with pleasant power Held my attent inviolate. I seemed to be in Stratford town, Our Shakespeare's English Nazareth. I saw the houses thatched and brown, The street whose squalor brought it death. To my own time the past came down. 90 TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. I saw the Avon wind and glide, And Sir Hugh Clopton's bridge across, With fourteen arches cool and wide, Deep-shadowed in the water's gloss, Like care that spans some pleasure's tide. And still the present seemed to me The age of Queen Elizabeth, And on the wall of Trinity I saw the painted shape of Death, The rude, tho.ugh strong, Dance Macabree. To Shottery I seemed to stray, And passed the house where Shakespeare went, In idle hours of youthful May, To wed himself to discontent And that fair shrew Ann Hathaway. TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. 91 I saw his lampoon on the gate Of proud Sir Thomas Lucy's park, And knew he thus would irritate, More than deer-stealing after dark, This pompous Stratford potentate. Boy-husband, scarcely twenty-one, Yet with three children round his knees, It was full time that he had won From Fortune's wheel the bread for these, For mouths must eat, and work be done. And by the magic of your book, Which was like something seen, not read, I saw our Shakespeare as he took The road for London from the stead, And his want-shadowed cot forsook. 92 TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. And by the Aladdin's lamp he bore, I saw his wondrous works arise, Vast palaces of precious store, Perfumed with flowers, adorned with dyes Of thoughts that are for evermore. At Globe or Blackfriars, in his play Of "As You Like It," him the part Of faithful Adam, sear and gray, I saw impersonate, with art That showed a nature sweet as May. I saw him when he meekly wrote With Greene and Marlowe and the rest. Of his own power he took no note; For wounded pride within his breast He sought a simple antidote — TO RICHARD GRANT WHITE. 93 And that to dwell in Stratford town, And live at ease, a gentleman, By poverty no more held down, No more in dread beneath the ban Of vain Sir Lucy's stony frown. And so through life the poet passed, To win a goal of poor pretence; Like that old sculptor, who once cast, For low and paltry recompense, A statue deemed divine at last. RECOM PENSE. IN spring, two robins from the warmer lands Builded a nest upon an unsafe limb Of the tall tree that by my window stands, And every morn they praised God with a hymn, And, when a certain season passed away, Five light-green eggs within the building lay. Above the rush and clatter of the street, Devotedly was guarded each green trust, And the round house was an abode most sweet, Roofed with awaiting wings. Better to rust RECOMPENSE. 95 With iron patience than forego a hope, And pent life in the shells was felt to grope. But one dread day, before the sun went down, A cloud arose, a black and monstrous hand, That robbed the sunset of its golden crown. A windy shudder shook the frightened land. The portals of the storm were opened wide, And pealing thunder rolled on every side. Then was it some unchained malicious gust Troubled the spray whereon the nest was made, And to the ground the soft-floored dwelling thrust, And wrecked its hapless store. The birds, dismayed, Shrilled their unusual grief, and beat the air With wings whose very whir was like despair. 96 RECOMPENSE. At dawn, my neighbors, living o'er the way, Sent me the whisper that their babe was dead; And, when they led me where the body layThe free, winged spirit's shell, untimely shedAnd the wild cries of their distress I heard, I thought with pity of each parent bird. Yet grief is but a cloud that soon is past; For there the mated robins came once more, And built again a nest, compact, and fast Upon the tree that grows before my door; And in it, from the window, could be seen Five sources of sweet music, new and clean. Time passed, and to the good home opposite Another babe was born, and all the love RECOMPENSE. 97 That was bereft that fierce and stormy night, Fell to the latter child as from above; And in the nest five yellow mouths one day, Of their impatient hunger made display. We love our dead, and hold their memories dear; But living love is sweeter than regret. God's ways are just, and, though they seem severe, He can give back with blessings greater yet Than we have lost. He chastens for some good, That in our weakness is not understood. 7 IN THE VALLEY. THIS is the place-a grove of sighing pines; Their fallen tassels thatch the roofs with brown, The long and narrow roofs,'neath whose confines No dweller wakens. Though the rains weep down, Though winds, the mighty mourners, o'er the spot Go unconsoled, the inmates waken not. Along the unbusy street my way I keep, Between the houses tenanted by death, And seek the place where lies my friend asleep, Alien to- this the life of light and breath. IN THE VALLEY. 99 And here his grave, o'ergrown with heliotrope, Makes recollection seem as sweet as hope. For he, my friend, was gentle, wise, and true; Pleasant to him a beggar's thankful word; He spoke no ill of others, and he knew And loved clear brooks, green dells, and flower, and bird; And now the flowers strive to return his love By growing here his humble grave above. Tears have no courage wherewith they may cease, And God by grief is oft misunderstood. In tears I made complaint of his decease Whom I had loved, for he was young and good; I made complaint that He who rules on high Should suffer here the young and good to die. I 00 IN THE VALLEY. O Death! the warder at the gates of time, For evermore to those thy hinge swing wide Whose hope is flown, whose souls are stained with crimeGive way to all who are dissatisfied With their recurrent days, and long to cease; Swing wide for such, and to the old give peace. But close and bar thy dolorous, black gates Against the good, the beautiful, the young, Whose lamp of hope their life illuminates, Whose harp-like souls for highest strains are strung. O warder Death! give way, swing wide for sin; But close, and bar, and keep the good within. WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. I SHALL not say, our life is all in vain, For peace may cheer at last the barren hearth; But well I know that, on this weary earth, Round each joy-island is a sea of painAnd the days go by. We watch our hopes, far flickering in the night, Once radiant torches, lighted in our youth, To guide, through years, to some broad morn of truth; But these go out and leave us with no lightAnd the days go by. 102 WHILE THE DAYS GO BY. We see cloud Alps and Andes go and come, Dew-thirsty daisies praying them to give: We cry, "0 Nature, tell us why we live!" She smiles with beauty, but her lips are dumbAnd the days go by. Yet what are we? We breathe, we love, we cease: Too soon our little orbits change and fall: We are Fate's children, very tired; and all Are homeless strangers, craving rest and peaceAnd the days go by. I only ask to drink experience deep: And, in the sad, sweet goblet of my years, To find love poured with all its smiles and tears; And quaffing this, I too shall sweetly sleepWhile the days go by. WINTER DAYS. THE winter bourgeons from the north, The forests bare their sturdy breasts To every wind that wanders forth, And in their arms, the lonely nests That warmed the birdlings long ago, Are egged with drifted flakes of snow. No more the robin pipes his lay, To greet the flushed advance of morn; He sings in valleys far away; His heart is with the south to-day; He cannot shrill among the corn. 104 WINTER DAYS. For all the hay and corn are down, And garnered in the generous barns; And all the leaves are changed to brown, An icy hand is on the tarns; And on the stream that cuts the plain, A diamond necklace, frost and snow, Fairer than that which, long ago, Sir Rohan staked a name to gain. But colder far than winter days, And colder far than snow or frost, The heart whose early hope is lost, Whose birds of joy have ceased to sing; Dead winter glooms about its ways, But never promise of the spring. LOW TIDE. UNDER the cliff I walk in silence, While the intrepid waters flow, And the white birds, lit by the sun into silver, Glitter against the blue below; And the tide is low. Here years ago, in golden weather, Under the cliff, and close to the sea, A pledge was given that made me master Of all that ever was dear to me; And the tide was low. o106 LOW TIDE. Only a little year fled by after, Then my bride and I came once more, And saw the sea, like a bird imprisoned Beating its wings'gainst its bars, the shore; And the tide was low. Now I walk alone by the filmy breakersA voice is hushed I can never forget; Upon my sea dead calm has fallen, My ships are harbored, my sun is set; And the tide is low. AUTUMN BALLAD. THE orchard-bars are down, my love, and all across the lawn The dahlias raise their veinless hands to plead for summer gone; And the buckwheat and the barley are so bonny and so blithe, That they laugh, with quaint obeisance, at the reaper with his scythe. Oh, come out in the orchard, sweet, beneath the apple-trees, The happy, golden apples of our own Hesperides; Io8 AUTUMN BALLAD. And pluck the dangling, clustered grapes, in passing'neath the vine, Though they weep with luscious tears, my love, and blush to find them wine. And this babe-cheeked pear, my darling, which I hold up to your mouth, Seems a hanging nest of sweetness, wrought by summer, winging south; But the purses of the chestnuts, by the chillyfingered frost, Have been opened for his bounty, and their little hoards are lost. Last night you heard the tempest, love-the windentangled pines, And saw the world-sized clouds that lowered in gloomy, pencilled lines. AUTUMN BALLAD. Iog09 I dreamed the storm a sailor's bride who sat beside the sea, And ever wept like rain, and moaned for that which could not be. But the morn is rich with sunshine, though the storm may bode the snow; All the woods in northern distance with their gold and crimson glow. I have come to seek you, darling,'mong the queenly dahlias here, That you may be my dahlia, in this autumn of my year. DONALD. O MY white, white, light moon, that saileth in the sky, Look down upon the whirling world, for thou art up so high, And tell me where my Donald is who sailed across the sea, And make a path of silver light to lead him back to me. O my white, white, bright moon, thy cheek is coldly fair, A little cloud beside thee seems thy wildly float. ing hair; DONALD. I I I And if thou wouldst not have me grow as white and cold as thee, Go, make a mighty tide to draw my Donald back to me. O my light, white, bright moon, that doth so fondly shine, There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from thine; I too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee, Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me. LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. LOW lives we led of care and sin, Low lives with but one aim, to win Our brown and bitter bread. We dwelt beside a mountain's base, And ever more its rugged face Rose sphinx-like overhead. We could not read a meaning there; We only saw, high up in air, A pile of rocks and trees. LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND, SIN. 113 We had not climbed the massive height; Enough for us the small delight To sit betimes at ease. "What good," we asked, "would come, to stand Upon the wind-swept table-land, And look on fields below?" We sneered, content within the vale; We had nor will nor wish to scale The cliffs where cedars grow. But haply on a cloudless day A neighbor on his journey's way, Saw, at the sunset hour, The sun upon our mountain high Rest like a golden butterfly Upon an azure flower. 8 114 LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. All thoughts at last perform some use; The good or ill that they produce Must soon or late befall. When he returned, our neighbor said, "There may be fertile lands o'erhead Upon the mountain-wall." Straightway we climbed the flinty crags, And vines above us waved like flags Of welcome o'er a town. Past June-clad plains we wandered by, And lakes in which the loving sky Narcissus-like looked down. The even grass beneath our feet Was somewhat greener and more sweet Than that which grew below. LOW LIVES WE LED OF CARE AND SIN. I 15 We breathed a purer, better air; Our lives seemed wider and more fair, And earth with love aglow. O ye, long used to care and sin, Look up! take heart! and strive to win A nobler, higher ground! Think not that Virtue sits alone, Withdrawn, on frowning peaks of stone, Where only thorns abound. She rather has but quiet dells Where, with her kin, in peace she dwells, And round her all is fair; While ever, in her pleasant meads, The flowers of noble thoughts and deeds Enrich the healthful air. A MORNING PASTORAL. IF someway Bichat's theory be true, That animal and all organic life In man combine and culminate-the brain The animal, the heart organic lifeI know wherefore my love unasked goes out To meadows, trees, clear brooks, and distant hills, For thus I am their fellow and their kin. I chiefly love, while yet the day is new, To walk among the fields along the road, And brim my heart with Nature as I pass. The droning grasshoppers are not in tune; A MORNING PASTORAL. I I But here upon a leaf, one seems to drowse, A sleepy sailor in an open boat, Rocked on the uneasy billows of the airA Palinurus, who, while piloting The Trojan galleys on disastrous seas, Drowsed into death, among the Siren rocks. Here, where I pass, a noisy brook gets force, And, plunging under alders, leaps along Down to the fallow, rioting like a boy. Anon I start a thrush, and up he wings, And with a trail of music darts away, Seeking his green republic of high woods, Where he is citizen, but where his kind Use melody for speech, and have no flag Save the thin leaf that shades the hollow nest. Over the yonder tree-tops flies a crow That boldly vents his unpopular caw, 18 A MORNING PASTORAL. And breasts the stubborn wind to gain the shore, And cram his hungry crop with loathsomeness. The flowers beside the way are friends of mine, And once I knew a meditative rose That never raised its head from bowing down; But drew its inspiration from the stars. It bloomed and faded here upon the road, And, being a poet, wrote upon the air With fragrance all the beauty of its soul. I pause beneath an overhanging elm, Where, cut in granite of the vine-grown wall, The wide mouth of a quaint, conspicuous face, Speaks to all thirst with visible eloquence. Beside it sits a beggar on its trough, Who craves with quivering lip an alms from me. I give him from my earning, and go back Toward the city with a lighter heart. MAY IN A VILLAGE. OUR old colonial town is new with May. The aged elms that clasp across the streets, Grow greener sleeved with opening buds each day. Still this year's May the last year's May repeats. Even the old stone houses half renew Their youth and beauty as the old trees do. High over all, like some divine desire Above our lower thoughts of daily care, The leaden-colored, tall, religious spire Adds to the quiet of the spring-time air; 120 MAY IN A VILLAGE. And o'er the roofs the birds create a sea, That has no shore, of their May melody. Down through the lowlands now of lightest green, The undecided creek winds on its way. There the lithe willow bends with graceful mien, And views its likeness in the depths all day; While in the orchards, warm with May's warm light, The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, attired in white. Beyond, the caravan of mountains stands, The camel-backs blue-laden with the sky; And on them oft is laid by unseen hands, Like costly merchandise that men may buy, The silk of sunset clouds, and all the rare And delicate, wide lace of hazy air. MAY IN A VILLAGE. 121 So,. like a caravan, our outlived years Loom on the introspective landscape seen Within the heart. And now when May appears, And earth renews its vernal bloom and green, We but renew our longing, and we say: "Oh, would life evermore might be all May! "Would that the bloom of youth that is so brief, The bloom, the May, the fulness ripe and fair Of cheek and limb, might fade not as the leafWould that the heart might not grow old with care, Nor love turn bitter, nor fond hope decay; But soul and body lead a life of May!" THE STATUE. IN Athens, when all learning centred there, Men reared a column of surpassing height In honor of Minerva, wise and fair, And on the top that dwindled to the sight A statue of the goddess was.to stand, That wisdom might obtain in all the land. And he who, with the beauty in his heart Seeking in faultless work immortal youth, Would mould this statue with the finest art, Making the wintry marble glow with truth, THE STATUE. 123 Should gain the prize. Two sculptors sought the fameThe prize they craved was an enduring name. Alcamenes soon carved his little best; But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought That like a bright sun in a cloudless west Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought A statue, and its face of changeless stone With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone. Then to be judged the labors were unveiled; But, at the marble thought, that by degrees Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. "The lines are coarse; the form too large," said these; 124 THE STATUE. "And he who sends this rough result of haste Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste." Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high Upon the capital where it might stand; But there it seemed too small, and'gainst the sky Had no proportion from the uplooking land; So it was lowered and quickly put aside, And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, And changed them as a sudden breeze may change A field of fickle grass, and long and loud Their mingled shouts to see a sight so strange. The statue stood completed in its place, Each coarse line melted to a line of grace. THE STATUE. I25 So bold, great actions that are seen too near, Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes; They need the past for distance to appear In their true grandeur. Let us yet be wise, And not too soon our neighbor's deed malign, For what seems coarse is often good and fine. IN HANGING GARDENS. IN an old city, so the Rabbins tell, Lived a fair lady having youth and wealth, Who in the hanging gardens loved to dwell; And like a shadow, and as still as stealth, She walked the soundless paths that climbed to kiss The sun above the grand metropolis. Here stair on stair, with heavy balustrade, And columned hybrids cut in rigid stone, And vase, and sphinx, and obelisk, arrayed, And arched wide bridges over wheelways thrown. IN HANGING GARDENS. 127 Valleys of heaven the gardens seemed to be, Or isles of cloud-land in a sunset sea. The lady, daughter of some prince or king, Was loved by one of poor and lowly birth. He gave her gems enclosed in toy or ring, Trifles of cost, of value for their dearth; But she was used to greater gifts than these, And their small beauty failed her heart to please. The Soul is child of Heaven, and when the World, Her lover, brings his presents, wealth and fameWealth, a bird jewelled; fame, a ring impearledShe is not satisfied. She bears no blame; But dreams of hanging gardens pathed with bliss Above a golden-domed metropolis. FACIEBAT. AS thoughts possess the fashion of the mood That gave them birth, so every deed we do, Partakes of our inborn disquietude That spurns the old and reaches toward the new. The noblest works of human art and pride Show that their makers were not satisfied. For, looking down the ladder of our deeds, The rounds seem slender, All past work appears FACIEBAT 129 Unto the doer faulty. The heart bleeds, And pale Regret turns weltering in tears, To think how poor our best has been, how vain, Beside the excellence we would attain. 9 THE END.