LLO 
 
BOOKS BY LLOYD MIFFLIN 
 
 THE HILLS 
 
 Page 8x10. With eight reproductions from pen drawings 
 by Thos. Moran. N.A. 
 
 Privately Printed, 1896 
 
 AT THE GATES OF SONG 
 
 Illustrated with ten reproductions in half-tone after draw 
 ings by Thos. Moran. N.A. First and second editions. 
 
 Estes & Lauriat, Boston, 1897 
 
 Third edition revised and printed from new plates, with 
 portrait. Henry Frowde, London, 1901 
 
 THE SLOPES OF HELICON AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 With eight illustrations by Thos. Moran, N.A., and with 
 two by the author. 
 
 Estes & Lauriat, Boston, 1898 
 
 ECHOES OF GREEK IDYLS Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1899 
 
 THE FIELDS OF DAWN AND LATER SONNETS 
 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1900 
 
 AM ODE ON MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 Written and delivered at the request of the G. A. R. 
 
 Out of Print 
 
 ODE ON THE SEMI-CENTENNIAL OF 
 
 FRANKLIN AND MARSHALL COLLEGE, 1903 
 
 The Iloffer Press. 1903 
 
 BIRTHDAYS OF DISTINGUISHED ISTii CENTURY AMERICANS 
 
 With poetical quotations The Levytijpe Co., Philada., 1S97 
 
 CASTALIAN DAYS 
 
 Fifty sonnets, with photogravure portrait. 
 
 Henry Frowde, London and New York. i903 
 
 THE FLEEING NYMPH AND OTHER VERSE 
 
 Small, Maynard & Co., Boston, J905 
 
 COLLECTED SONNETS 
 
 Being a selection of 350 of the Author s Sonnets 
 
 Henry Frowde, London and New York, 190 
 MY LADY OF DREAM Small, Maynard & Co., 10Qf> 
 
 TOWARD THE UPLANDS 
 
 Henry Frowde, London and New York, 190S 
 FLOWER AND THORN 
 
 Henry Frowde, London and New York. 1W9 
 
FLOWER AND THORN 
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 LLOYD MIFFLIN 
 
 Written on air or running water 
 
 CATULLUS 
 
 HENRY FROWDE 
 
 AND 
 
 35 WEST 32x0 STREET 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MCMIX 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1909 
 BY LLOYD MIFFLIN 
 
 A II fights reserved 
 
 Composition, Electrotyping and Printing by the Wickersham Printing Co., 
 Lanc?ster, Pennsylvania, U. S. A. 
 
267782 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE PASSING OF NOVEMBER , . . I 
 
 CHRISTMAS TWILIGHT THE OLD HOMESTEAD . . . . 2 
 
 THE MOTOR-CAR 3 
 
 THE COUNTRY ROAD IN WINTER 4 
 
 DOLORES REMEMBERS 5 
 
 THE BRIDGE AT LANCASTER 6 
 
 FAR FROM THE TOWN . . . .7 
 
 THE VISION ............ 8 
 
 FETTERED . . ... . . . . . . . .9 
 
 THE COUNTRYSIDE IN APRIL 10 
 
 THE QUIET HOME n 
 
 THOUGH DAYS ARE DREAR 12 
 
 TASSO IN PRISON 13 
 
 FROM THY PIERCED HEART . . . . . . . , . 14 
 
 THE RURAL TOWN 15 
 
 "As SOME LONE ALIEN" . 16 
 
 THE SUMMER EVE . . .17 
 
 BENEATH HER WINDOW 18 
 
 ON UPLAND SLOPES 19 
 
 THE PUNISHMENT ............ 20 
 
 RAIN IN NOVEMBER 21 
 
 THE QUEST ... 22 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THOMAS MORAN, N. A. . . . . . . . . . .23 
 
 WATCHING THE BREEZE IN THE POPLARS ...... 24 
 
 AT DUSK IN THE CASTLE GARDEN ........ 25 
 
 To A DEAR COMPANION ......... 26 
 
 THE LINGERING WINTER . 27 
 
 To A STATUE FOR A TOMB 28 
 
 WAR 29 
 
 ROBERT FULTON I 30 
 
 ROBERT FULTON II 31 
 
 INTO THE TWILIGHT 32 
 
 DESECRATION OF NIAGARA FALLS 33 
 
 FROM NOVEMBER CRAGS 34 
 
 MAMMON ENTHRONED 35 
 
 THE EVENING WANES 36 
 
 To APRIL FAR AWAY 37 
 
 THE LOVER SPEAKS I 38 
 
 THE LOVER SPEAKS II 39 
 
 THE LOVER SPEAKS III 40 
 
 A SEPTEMBER NOON 41 
 
 THE SWALLOWS 42 
 
 As WINTER NEARS . . .43 
 
 MELISSA 44 
 
 "BLAME NOT THE POET" 43 
 
 A HERMIT OF THE HILLS 46 
 
 THE LOVER S RETROSPECT 47 
 
 ON THE BEACH AT CHELSEA . 48 
 
 O YEARNING LIFE I 49 
 
 O YEARNING LIFE II 50 
 
THE PASSING OF NOVEMBER 
 
 THE tawny meadows pale ; shriveled and sere 
 The grasses die ; and robed in cloistral grey, 
 Pensive, along the willowed water-way, 
 November trails in silence down the year. 
 
 Grieving, she enters now that region drear 
 Of faded blooms, and beauty in decay; 
 Round her are veiled sounds, and vague dismay 
 At whispered threnodes from the pallid mere. 
 
 Her eyes are sweet with sorrow, and the rose 
 Pales, ashen, in her cheek. She turns in pain, 
 To view the ravaged splendor which she leaves, 
 
 And moves like music dying. Where she goes 
 Rises the yearning requiem of the rain, 
 And through the mist, the Harp of Mona grieves. 
 
CHRISTMAS TWILIGHT THE OLD HOMESTEAD 
 
 THE snow lies deep. Alone I stand and brood. 
 Around me, lingering, hovers many a shade 
 Of those beloved, who, in the morning, made 
 Earth beautiful . . . Now, by our tears bedewed, 
 
 They lie in silence of white solitude .... 
 
 Lost in new Light ? or in the darkness strayed ? 
 Spent stars adored whose untracked footsteps fade 
 A reminiscent glory unrenewed. 
 
 I see the little graveyard of the town 
 
 Far-off, a hallowed place of softened pain ; 
 Snow-folded, in that quiet closure rest 
 
 Loved ones whose spirits whisper once again .... 
 
 Ah me! 
 
 How tenderly the Twilight trembles down 
 
 As though to soothe a sorrow long suppressed. 
 
THE MOTOR-CAR 
 
 TWAS fine to see the housewife, debonair, 
 
 Drive the old carriage down the Summer road 
 Smiling and buoyant, with a happy load 
 Of rosy children, on whose faces Care 
 
 Threw not a shade, nor on the mother s fair, 
 Which, with suffused pleasure, radiant glowed, 
 As on her lap the exultant youngling crowed, 
 Reached for the reins, and sought to drive the mare! 
 
 And have all tender idyls had their day, 
 And left our world unrythmical and drear, 
 While the swift Juggernaut our spirit jars? 
 
 We mourn the lovely old things passed away, 
 As, from imprisoning lawns, we see with fear 
 The crimson streak of demon-driven cars ! 
 
THE COUNTRY ROAD IN WINTER 
 
 TO AN ARTIST 
 
 WHAT could be less alluring as a theme 
 Than these prosaic banks of roadside clay, 
 Whereon the pitiless noon-glare of the day 
 Beats, wintry-drear? Yet the soft colors seem 
 
 Subdued to loveliness, dun, fawn, and cream ; 
 While all the ground along the wooded way, 
 Is Quaker-tinted with the roseate gray 
 Shown on the breast of doves, a painter s dream! 
 
 These banks are topped with moss, in richest tone 
 Of verd, or umber, glowing where it glooms, 
 And through it all the sere arbutus shows ; 
 
 If slopes are winning now, with dead leaves strown, 
 What will they be when April wears the rose 
 And strews these mosses with her starry blooms ! 
 
DOLORES REMEMBERS 
 
 I TROD the garden walks where once we strayed 
 When all the flowers with love were redolent ; 
 And there the wood-thrush trilled a serenade 
 With rapturous notes that held a veiled lament. 
 
 It almost seemed as if he had been sent 
 To flaunt in Sorrow s face, felicity; 
 As if he knew of days when we two went 
 Silent along the paths in ecstasy. 
 
 I plucked a flower within the walks to-day 
 And brought it with me to my silent room, 
 Strewing the petals on the snow-white bed ; 
 
 I did not speak what was there left to say? 
 But kissed the rose-leaves, breathed their faint perfame, 
 And on the desolate pillow sank my head. 
 
THE BRIDGE AT LANCASTER 
 
 AGE cannot mar my classic sweep of line ; 
 These arches, shaped from Conestoga stone, 
 Have kept me perfect, and about me strown 
 A fadeless charm. Grey memories are mine, 
 
 Colonial echoes by the banks that twine 
 
 Round towered Lancaster. Though dawn has flown, 
 And Youth and Loveliness have been o erthrown, 
 I grow in beauty as the years decline. 
 
 I hear across me pass, as in a dream, 
 The old-time teamster, as he slowly goes, 
 With sweet-belled horses of the wagon-train ; 
 
 And when along me slants the morning gleam, 
 Men call me beautiful as one of those 
 In glowing landscapes limned by Claude Lorraine* 
 
FAR FROM THE TOWN 
 
 BEAUTY, the Sprite, will lurk in simplest things 
 Ere she unveil her radiance. It is meet 
 That she should snare us with her cobweb sweet 
 Across the wildwood path. Though she hath wings 
 
 She folds them here, and by the sylvan springs 
 Dabbles in ferny pools her rosy feet, 
 While by her side, within the green retreat, 
 The bathing red-bird preens, and softly sings. 
 
 Youth s budding roses to her spell respond : 
 Ofttimes she lingers with some humble maid 
 Unknown to her, and slowly makes her fair: 
 
 In grape-vine arbor flecked with pleached shade 
 One such I saw, her form her face her hair 
 Transfigured by the touch of Beauty s wand. 
 
THE VISION 
 
 THE demons of the storm had reached their goal , 
 The midnight sky with lightning-flame was floored ; 
 And twice he felt his flickering life had soared 
 Out of the body, for, mid thunder-roll 
 
 He saw his sins flashed on a burning scroll, 
 
 As thwart the night two monstrous pinions oared 
 Straight to him, and from out the vastness poured 
 Regions of darkness on his fainting soul. 
 
 "What bode ye, Wings?" to them his spirit spoke; 
 Then closer still he clung to life s weak thread; 
 And, as they nearer swooped, his thin voice broke, 
 
 Yet firm he uttered, with his weakened breath: 
 
 " I know ye now ! . . . Ye are the Wings of Death, 
 Which I defy, being already dead." 
 
FETTERED 
 
 Tis true I am not now what I would be 
 
 If health had helped me on ; for I have been 
 As one who battles some great wave of green 
 That still o errides him in a cruel sea. 
 
 Had I been armed with strength as gloriously 
 As some who sing, then in the hyaline 
 Of song, sailing beyond the ports terrene, 
 I might have reached my haven. But for me 
 
 Sickness hath dimmed my star into eclipse, 
 Hath bound my wings about me with a thong; 
 As some pale diver, the sea-weed among, 
 
 Sinks with his treasure ere he reach the ships, 
 So I sink back, and from impassioned lips 
 Drop in the deep the garnered pearls of song. 
 
THE COUNTRYSIDE IN APRIL 
 
 THERE is a stirring on the field and farm, 
 
 Where steady teams are stepping to and fro ; 
 Up slanting roads the loaded wagons go 
 Pulled by the four great horses, smoking-warm. 
 
 The wheat s long levels hold their verdant charm, 
 Where the staid Rustic, pacing sure and slow, 
 Covering the field, the clover-seed to sow, 
 Sways, with a rhythmic beat, his brawny arm. 
 
 High on the very edges of the hill 
 
 The homing plowman comes from out the clouds, 
 While over all is spread the noon-tide hush ; 
 
 And from the valley, lying gray and still, 
 
 Which sunshine lights, and floating shadow shrouds, 
 Rises the incense from the burning brush. 
 
 10 
 
THE QUIET HOME 
 
 THE granite gate-way seals the hushed demesne ; 
 A maple lane up-winds through flickering shade, 
 And there the wood-thrush warbles, unafraid ; 
 A haunt it is of tangled vine, with sheen 
 
 Of swaying leafage, where the wild birds preen ; 
 Abandoned gardens there ; a ferny run 
 Tinkling by orchards old ; slopes where the sun 
 Filters through boughs primeval to the green. 
 
 Crowning the knoll the stone house, arched by trees. 
 Stands nobly porched, fit for a poet s mood, 
 And glimmering statues light the wilding lawn ; 
 
 And there are nooks of shaded solitude 
 Of such reclusion that the fancy sees 
 Step from the boscage some unstartled fawn*. 
 
 11 
 
THOUGH DAYS ARE DREAR 
 
 Now dull November sombers all the plain 
 And veils with sadness the empurpled rims 
 That zoned our sight ; so time, evanished, dims 
 Those far-off frontiers of the soul s domain ; 
 
 Yet, from the deeps beyond them, wells the strain 
 Heard in rapt youth, and all the heaven swims 
 With shapes of morning, while the faint-heard hymns 
 Float from the phantom harps, with Love s refrain. 
 
 O flickering torch of Memory, glow and burn ! 
 And thou, O Love, resume thine earlier sway, 
 And let the glamour of the Dawn return : 
 
 For though Remembrance flood with tears her urn 
 Yet still she smiles ; and Beauty, passed away, 
 Blooms ever in the heart a rose of grey. 
 
 12 
 
TASSO IN PRISON 
 
 O GENTLE Lady, unto thee alone 
 
 I whisper this : When thou shalt think me dead 
 Come to that darkened room, by sorrow led, 
 And place thy hand upon my heart of stone 
 
 To feel if yet it pulse, for it hath grown 
 So used to beat with rapture at thy tread 
 It still would throb e en though it long hath bled ; 
 But when thou knowest that life indeed hath flown, 
 
 Weave thou with smiles a wreath of laurel leaves, 
 And with thy love, bind it upon my brow 
 Alas, I have not earned that golden bough 
 
 Then close the lid that no one else perceives ; 
 For if Love crown me, so much Love achieves 
 Not Death himself that crown may disallow ! 
 
 13 
 
-FROM THY PIERCED HEART" 
 
 SWEET sings the thrush, leaf-hidden in the dell, 
 Sweeter the nightingale upon her thorn ; 
 Rapturous the greeting of long absence born, 
 But deeper is the passion of farewell. 
 
 The lamentation of the rose-lipped shell 
 On alien shores, melodiously forlorn, 
 Is dearer than the glee of Triton s horn, 
 The curfew s toll than Conquest s clarion swell. 
 
 Oh, not to those who hear the undertone 
 Of life s remembered sweetness long ago 
 Grieve on the shores of time, ah, not to those 
 
 Shall lutes of mirth their rapture e er disclose : 
 From thy pierced heart pour rills of dulcet moan, 
 O Sorrow, Mother of melodious woe ! 
 
 14 
 
THE RURAL TOWN 
 
 How restful, after whirl of city sights, 
 
 Life s troublous tide that seething, ebbs and flows, 
 To find within thy shelter such repose 
 O little town among the Mennonites ! 
 
 The moving shadows chase the flickering lights 
 And touch the miller in his dusty clothes, 
 As, with his load, he slowly driving, goes 
 Down the worn way to where "The Swan" invites. 
 
 Musing, I look along the dappled street : 
 In shadowy porches under maple leaves 
 The white-capped women, rocking, pause and dream, 
 
 Sewing in silence ; and the village stream, 
 
 From golden meadows of the tented sheaves, 
 Soothes with a song, and lures to pastures sweet. 
 
 .15 
 
-AS SOME LONE ALIEN" 
 
 As some lone Alien, who within his bed 
 After long nights of restlessness, hath lam 
 Wasted with fever, looking through the pane, 
 Longs for the coming of the morning red 
 
 To ease the throbbing of his heart and head, 
 And hopes, as night hath failed, that day again 
 May bring the quiet of a restful brain, 
 And that, at length, he may be comforted: 
 
 So we, worn, fitful, weak, and ill at ease, 
 Sick of this dark existence which is rife 
 With troubles of the soul that never cease ; 
 
 Far from our home, and tired with the strife, 
 Press our flushed faces to the glass of Life 
 And dream the Dawn, at last, will bring us peace. 
 
 16 
 
THE SUMMER EVE 
 
 AUGUST has come, and by Salunga s bank 
 Cows and their calves in silver circles wade; 
 The leaves of willows throw their arrowy shade 
 Across the bull s dun loins, while on his flank 
 
 The flecks of light shine gold amid the rank 
 Green rushes. From the farm a little maid, 
 Calling the kine, conies slowly down the glade, 
 And crosses lightly on the swaying plank. 
 
 It is the milking hour, and many a herd 
 Is lowing in the valley at the bars, 
 Where round them loom the darkling hills of oats; 
 
 While from the lonely upland, some wild bird 
 Thrills the rich silence with his plaintive notes, 
 And in the West tremor of coming stars. 
 
 17 
 
BENEATH HER WINDOW 
 
 THE RURAI, lyOVER SPEAKS 
 
 "O> TARDY Sun, burst thou the yielding gate, 
 And through the opening barriers swifter rise; 
 Glow in rich splendor from the throbbing skies, 
 And bid the grayness and the gloom abate ! 
 
 Flame on her casement in thy royal state; 
 Shine in the lattice with no rude surprise, 
 Touching with tenderness her maiden eyes 
 And let her dream be true that here I wait." 
 
 So spake he, neath her bowery window-pane 
 That rapturous morning in a , spring-time fled ; 
 The birds, delirious, thrilled a wondrous strain 
 
 And all the East flamed as with banners red; 
 Then, looking up, he saw her golden head, 
 And waited, happy, in the cherry lane. 
 
 18 
 
ON UPLAND SLOPES 
 
 I LOVE to wander through the chestnut wood 
 When darling April, in her slip of green, 
 Peeps shyly round the trunks, and smiles between 
 The budding branches. There, in dreamful mood, 
 
 Sweet Fancy summons all her airy brood, 
 While some lone Dryad in her dim ravine 
 The branch still swaying from her touch unseen 
 Lures us to depths of deeper solitude. 
 
 Alas for him who in the guttered town 
 
 Must press the pavement with reluctant feet, 
 When he would roam on slopes of tufted brown, 
 
 And on the carpet near the ancient boles 
 
 Feel, through the mosses more than velvet-sweet, 
 The warm earth woo him as he lingering strolls ! 
 
THE PUNISHMENT 
 
 BEYOND the narrow verge of space and time, 
 
 Within the dark, illimitable swamps 
 
 Lit only by the ignes fatui lamps, 
 
 They lie and writhe, in penance for their crime. 
 Once they had human forms. Now, blacked with grime 
 
 Of sulphurous pools, by vapor overcome, 
 
 They groan and strangle in the nauseous scum, 
 
 Foul shapes that wallow in the noxious slime. 
 Gigantic as some midnight thunder-cloud, 
 
 Above them throned, glaring and vitrious-eyed, 
 
 Ramps the green Monster unto whom they bowed ; 
 For rancorous jealousy they here abide : 
 
 Their rancor is not cured, but only cowed ; 
 
 And still they worship him they deified. 
 
 20 
 
RAIN IN NOVEMBER 
 
 OUR grief is this, O gently-falling rain, 
 
 That thou must veil these amethystine hills 
 Verges of June that lured the spirit on 
 Beyond the outposts dim. And, sylvan stream, 
 
 Thou of the gurgling lyre, sweet troubadour, 
 Soft harper of the pebbly tones, must thou 
 Be mute ? And ye, dark unumbrageous trees, 
 Why are ye widowed of the choir that made 
 
 Song tremble in your leafage? Solemn boles, 
 Ye, also, fill with gloom the wanderer s mind, 
 While ever, through the haunted silence, sounds 
 
 The feathery falling of the withered leaf, 
 Faint as the patter of a phantom step, 
 The ghostly footfalls of the passing Year. 
 
 21 
 
THE QUEST 
 
 O, I must view the marvels men have seen ! 
 Forth must I fare, and early in yon dell, 
 Sheltered and folded in the lily-bell, 
 Find Ariel dreaming ; or, in forest green, 
 
 Where daughters of the Morning stoop to glean 
 The dew-drop from the rose, I must dispel 
 This literal world, and learn what spirits tell 
 Who bide in veiled beauty, unterrene. 
 
 Along the mountain, in the misty morns, 
 
 I hear the cloudy lyres. Through spectral fern 
 Flashes the fabled stag s engoldened horns : . . 
 
 Ah, let me steal through silvery silence wan, 
 That I may hear the sound for which I yearn,- 
 Apollo harping to the blushing Dawn ! 
 
 22 
 
THOMAS MORAN, N. A. 
 
 LOVER of grandeur ! lo, thy canvas teems 
 
 With crag and cloud where sovereign color glows ; 
 
 Canyons abysmal ; swift torrential snows ; 
 
 And peaks ensanguined by impassioned gleams : 
 
 Then, thwart our sight, the sea-girt City streams 
 Sumptuous with golden sail and domes of rose 
 Above the sunset wave . . . And still there flows 
 Thy pictured pageant of enchanting dreams. 
 
 Ambered in sweet remembrance these shall live, 
 Than truth more fair, being so finely feigned . . . 
 They never die, who, from the spirit, give 
 
 Works of Ideal Beauty to their kind : 
 Ethereal loveliness in Art attained 
 Is throned, for ever, in the intemporal mind. 
 
 23 
 
WATCHING THE BREEZE IN THE YOUNG 
 LOMBARDY-POPLARS 
 
 ON Summer dusks, aloft within the sky, 
 
 These delicate, slender saplings may be seen, 
 Aerial Nymphs y-clad in tender green, 
 The love-lorn Dryads of dim poesy : 
 
 More sensitive than vanes, for they descry 
 
 Breezes unheard ; and trembling, show a sheen 
 Of silvered limbs a-flutter, as they lean 
 With undulations lithe as waving rye. 
 
 Are they the spirit of some sylvan Queen 
 
 Of old Romance, with whom there still remained 
 The poetry of movement without noise ? 
 
 The undulant grace, befitting her demesne, 
 With courtly condescension still retained, 
 Yet gravely mannered, and with regal poise? 
 
 24 
 
AT DUSK IN THE CASTLE GARDEN 
 
 THESE are the paths where cypress foliage made 
 Twilight at noon ; and here my Lady fair, 
 With patch and fan, and with bepowdered hair, 
 Waited her lover while the fountain played. . . 
 
 Was that the rustle of her dim brocade 
 
 Trailing the walks adown the dusk parterre ? . . . 
 Grief? was there grief? and madly passionate prayer? 
 And lip on lip, at parting, wildly laid? . . . 
 
 The spectral flowers sway with her garment s stir, 
 And, where she moves, the fountain through her shows, 
 And perfume breathes of lavender and myrrh, 
 
 As faint-heard footfalls from the gloom arise 
 Of ghostly lovers, while her tender sighs 
 Mix with the fragrance of the vanished rose. 
 
 25 
 
TO A DEAR COMPANION 
 
 O MUSE benignant, thou whose longed-for rays 
 Star the rapt midnight of Pierian toil ; 
 My crowning happiness ; celestial foil 
 For the long tedium of the loveless days! 
 
 Thou dost not come as envy with dispraise, 
 Nor scowl upon me, seeking to embroil 
 Each limpid morning with a harsh turmoil, 
 But lett st me wend thy spiritual ways. 
 
 What should I do without thee, heavenly Friend? 
 O hover near me by the veiled gate, 
 And let thy silvery sandals prelude sweet 
 
 The cloudy music of thy coming feet ; 
 I, who am nearing now the Valley s end, 
 Reach for thy hand, and looking upward, wait. 
 
 26 
 
THE LINGERING WINTER 
 
 THE mist came drizzling down the livelong day, 
 As though the laggard time would never pass ; 
 Yet the green mantle of the sprouting grass 
 Gave hint of Spring, and made us hope for May. 
 
 The lowering skies were blank with dreary gray; 
 And as we peered from out the cottage glass 
 A bird flew by, but never deigned, alas, 
 To cheer us with the briefest roundelay. 
 
 Some venturous dandelions made a knot 
 Of gold upon the lawn ; in pale despair 
 The snow-drop struggled in the garden plot ; 
 
 Then, mid the dearth of blooms, for her sweet hair, 
 I plucked the earliest semblance showing there, 
 The roseate blossoms of the apricot. 
 
 27 
 
TO A STATUE FOR A TOMB 
 
 HANS SCHUIyER, SCULPTOR 
 
 AH ! all things fade, and all our hearts are bowed 
 With loss of dear ones, whose beloved eyes 
 Haunt us for ever in this world of sighs ! 
 Life? tis a dream of Hope, from birth to shroud. 
 
 The pomp and blazon of the throned proud 
 
 Crumble to dust. Fame, conquered, frustrate lies, 
 With all her chiseled granite of emprise 
 Evanished as the shadow of a cloud ! 
 
 O pensive Emblem of our sojourn brief, 
 
 Thy sculptor gave thee more than mortal breath, 
 And quietude far deeper than repose : 
 
 Man s life is but the turning of a leaf, 
 
 But thou, who wearest Beauty s fadeless rose, 
 Thou, only, hast immunity from Death ! 
 
 28 
 
WAR 
 
 And war was in his heart. PSAI.M 
 
 SHALL fell, inhuman slaughter still increase 
 
 When even famished beasts kill not their kind? 
 Shall man, more brutal, man, insensate, blind, 
 Wallow in blood at some small king s caprice? 
 
 Let squadrons sink; accursed savagery cease, 
 Let soldiers till the soil. Then what a world 
 Were this rent Earth, with every war- flag furled,. 
 And in all hearts the deep desire for Peace ! 
 
 Spirit Benign ! help struggling man to seek 
 
 World-brotherhood, to heal, not cause the scars; 
 Oh! by our own dead of the North and South 
 
 Remembered, curb the Nations ruthless wars ; 
 While Conflict looms, help Thou our effort weak- 
 Mere cobweb, spun across the cannon s mouth ! 
 
ROBERT FULTON 
 
 1765-1815 
 i 
 
 A CHILD of Lancaster, upon this land 
 
 Here was he born, by Conowingo s shade; 
 Along these banks our youthful Fulton strayed 
 Dreaming of Art. Then Science touched his hand, 
 
 Leading him onward, when, beneath her wand, 
 Wonders appeared that never more shall fade : 
 He triumphed o er the Winds, and swiftly made 
 The giant, Steam, subservient to command. 
 
 How soft the sunlight lies upon the lea 
 
 Around his home, where boyhood days were sped ! 
 These checkered shadows on the fading grass 
 
 Symbol his fortunes, as they fleeting pass : 
 " He did mankind a service/ could there be 
 A tribute more ennobling to the dead ! 
 
 30 
 
ROBERT FULTON 
 
 1765-1815 
 II 
 
 TIME-HONORED son, whose memory we revere, 
 Around the wondering earth thy lustrous name 
 Shone in old days, a sudden star of Fame! 
 Nor is that glamour dimmed. No leaves are sere 
 
 Among thy laurels. Greater seems, each year, 
 Thy priceless benefaction. Let them crown 
 Thy rare achievement with deserved renown, 
 Who reap the guerdon of thy rich career ! 
 
 Long hast thou passed the dark Lethean stream, 
 
 Yet who but envies that illustrious sleep? 
 
 Though thou art dust, yet vital is thy Dream : 
 The waves of all the world still chaunt of thee : 
 
 Thy soul pervades the Ship, and wings the Deep, 
 
 Thy Spirit is immortal on the sea ! 
 
 31 
 
INTO THE TWILIGHT 
 
 OF AN AGIJD POBT 
 
 As a knight-errant, confidently bold, 
 
 Hearing that in some far dominion 
 
 In principalities anear the sun 
 
 There would be tourney held, goes, eager-souled, 
 To clash with peers enpanoplied in gold, 
 
 But halts, finding the prizes being won 
 
 By fiery Youth with flaming gonfalon, 
 
 Then turns, and leaves, knowing himself too old : 
 
 So he, Knight of the Muse, coming too late 
 To combat for the laurel, droops his lance 
 Amid the blare of onset. Younger men 
 
 Press round him ; he gives way as they advance ; 
 Doffs his worn plume, and riding toward the gate, 
 Salutes ; withdraws ; and seeks the dusk again. 
 
 32 
 
PROPOSED DESECRATION OF NIAGARA FALLS 
 
 Spretce injuria formes 
 
 YE Powers that rule within a sovereign State, 
 Shall this nefarious project, born of lust 
 For gold, go on ? Against this scheme unjust, 
 Hath the pure voice of principle no weight? 
 
 Will a whole People s protest not abate 
 The profanation of a sacred trust, 
 Of Grandeur, Beauty, and of Power august, 
 And leave Niagara inviolate? 
 
 If, Mammon-driven, ye, like pliant slaves, 
 Abet a deed iniquitous as this, 
 The malediction of a race unborn, 
 
 Reverberating o er dishonored graves, 
 
 Shall sink your blighted memory in the abyss 
 Of the wronged World s irrevocable scorn ! 
 
FROM NOVEMBER CRAGS 
 
 THE SUSQUEHANNA 
 
 HIGH on the rocky crags, bowed to the wind, 
 I stand amid a vortex of blown leaves 
 Swirled round me as a drift of frantic birds. 
 Cloud-shadows sweep the plain, while all the hills 
 
 Grow dimmer azure in meridian light. 
 
 And such a gale ! see how the buzzards take it 
 With pulseless wings gyring the slopes of air ! 
 Far off, a slated roof flares like the sun, 
 
 Where valley-rills flash darts of blinding silver. 
 Ah, but below me trancing sight ! behold 
 The River and its islands bathed in blue! 
 
 Those amethystine islands, grouped as though 
 Some mighty painter, life-long pondering, found 
 Beauty at last, and proudly throned it there! 
 
 34 
 
MAMMON ENTHRONED 
 
 How long, upon our blood-bought freeman s soil, 
 
 Shall we endure this infamy of rule? 
 
 Has the whole country turned one patient fool? 
 
 We cringe, and lick the hand that takes the spoil. 
 Twould make the dastard blood of cowards boil 
 
 To feel our degradation brave hearts burst 
 
 To see the horde of ravenous jaws accursed 
 
 These wolves of Greed upon the throat of Toil ! 
 Shall not the myrmidons of Fraud atone 
 
 For crimes committed? Is the civic health 
 
 Still to be venomed by iniquity? 
 Must Anger cool, and unavenging see 
 
 For the luxurious feet of unearned Wealth 
 
 The bleeding back of Labor made a throne ? 
 
THE EVENING WANES 
 
 THE glory of the dawning! . . . Whence has flown 
 The affluence of the Morn? ... To eyes that gaze 
 Enraptured on those far-off halcyon days, 
 Across the dreary present, dull has grown 
 
 The offerings of the world. For we have known 
 The dewy dawn in Love s delicious ways 
 Rose-twined ; but now the golds are turned to grays, 
 The happier paths with umbered leaves are strown. 
 
 And though the West still beckons as of yore, 
 Her lure has lessened, and the Huntress* bow, 
 The sweet meniscus, hangs within the glow 
 
 A dwindled arc of amber light no more ; 
 And cloud-built cities of the sunset show 
 Only hesternal splendors, gone before. 
 
TO APRIL FAR AWAY 
 
 WHY wilt thou, beauteous Season, still delay, 
 Mocking our hope? For now the dearest thing 
 Of all the desolate world is thought of Spring ! 
 Then leave the South where sweet magnolia spray 
 
 Is fragrant in thy hair, and hither stray 
 To touch our laurel into stars, and bring 
 Bloom to these crags. O make the ridges ring, 
 And tremble into song the wastes of gray ! 
 
 Dear April, come, and brush the empearlM dew 
 Along the paths of morn ! I hear thy feet 
 Far off, melodious - on the hills apart, 
 
 Stirring the fragrance from the blossoms blue ; 
 Oh, to these vales return, ethereal Sweet ! 
 And be the violet of the lonely heart. 
 
THE LOVER SPEAKS 
 
 i 
 
 NOT that these lines make even slight records 
 Of half the virtue that in her did dwell ; 
 Not that such shallow things as soulless words 
 Could, to mankind, her thralling radiance tell. 
 
 The breeze soft-blowing down th Euganean dell 
 May with it bear faint odor of the rose ; 
 But of its beauty that doth all excel, 
 The breeze can nothing to the world disclose. 
 
 Not the great masons of ethereal rhyme, 
 The rare dome-builders of enduring verse, 
 Who rear proud structures in the blue of Time,- 
 
 Not such consummate architects can trace 
 Nor even in transcendent moods rehearse 
 The rapturous enchantment of her face ! 
 
THE LOVER SPEAKS 
 
 ii 
 
 THE thought of her the inspiring thought of her 
 Makes glad my heart with radiant memories ; 
 Her spirit is the potent conjurer 
 That raises vanished pleasures to mine eyes. 
 
 Purer she was than is the light that lies 
 
 Sphered in the slender Cynthia of the West ; 
 
 Poetic as the gloaming when it dies 
 
 Far in those deathless fields of perfect rest. 
 
 I shall remember every word she said, 
 Yea, while my subject mind holds empery 
 In this its temple even when I am dead 
 
 If thought shall of the soul keep register 
 I shall remember, and eternally be 
 Steeped in the sweetness of my dream of her ! 
 
 S9 
 
THE LOVER SPEAKS 
 
 in 
 
 I AM a cloud within the fading sky 
 
 That gathers to its heart the twilight gray; 
 Above the hills of youth supine I lie 
 Dissolving slowly like the ghost of day: 
 
 But thou, with thine old-time refulgent ray, 
 Dost beam above my dark a very star; 
 Thy well-remembered beauty makes a way 
 Of deathless splendor down the steeps afar. 
 
 O Memory! dearest friend of those who mourn, 
 Grant me who ask it this exceeding grace 
 Me, who without thee would be too forlorn : 
 
 Still hold thy mirror, clear, without a blur, 
 Through all eternity before my face, 
 That I may see, past death, my dream of her ! 
 
 40 
 
A SEPTEMBER NOON 
 
 A FRINGE of hazy woods, not far away, 
 
 Outlined the hills, while realms of languorous air 
 Slumbered beyond. The fields were lying bare, 
 Denuded of the harvest and the hay, 
 
 Which loomed in stacks, tawny, and silvern-gray. 
 The slopes of corn were tasseled, roseate-fair, 
 And, on the levels, drills were moving where 
 The bounty of a future season lay. 
 
 The watchman s rattle of the locust seemed 
 To make the quiet deeper round the homes ; 
 The russet pear was mellowed, and the bees 
 
 Gathered the nectar for the bursting combs ; 
 Beneath the umbrage of the willow-trees 
 The Durhams, in the meadow, stood and dreamed. 
 
 41 
 
THE SWALLOWS 
 
 HAVE you not seen, when peace the evening brings, 
 And all the West is in a golden glow, 
 Two flying swallows almost stop their wings, 
 Sail near together, and move very slow, 
 
 And murmur something in soft twitterings 
 
 That one scarce hears, so tender tis, and low, 
 Then through the sky dart on in revellings 
 Ah Love, were we not like them long ago ? 
 
 But now, athwart the sunset s crimsoned bars, 
 I see the ravens flapping to the wood, 
 And Night descending with upbraiding stars, 
 
 While voices whisper, as I stand alone : 
 
 "Where are the swallows gone? When love has flown, 
 What is the world but peopled solitude ! " 
 
 42 
 
AS WINTER NEARS 
 
 THOUGH Autumn still impedes the Winter s tread,, 
 Yet on he comes. His sullen footsteps wend 
 Through dreamy dells of drowsihood that tend 
 To realms of cold. The robins now have fled 
 
 To far savannas ; and by hunger led, 
 In seeded grasses tinier wings descend, 
 Alighting on the stalks that dip and bend 
 Mid garrulous chirpings as the flock is fed. 
 
 I see November lingering in the vale 
 
 And backward waving as she silent goes ; 
 On leafless bough is left the empty nest 
 
 Where song once filled the arches of the dale ,-. 
 And e en within the garden of the West 
 Faded to ashes lies the evening rose. 
 
 43 
 
MELISSA 
 
 THE deep arch-innocence of her roguish eyes, 
 Their coy demureness, as from some mischance ; 
 The injured angel cooing soft replies 
 With feigned penitentiary glance ; 
 
 That mild ingenue-look of sufferance ; 
 The deftly-acted, harmless little lies ; 
 The fond pretendings, sweet inconstancies, 
 A thousand times did these her charm enhance. 
 
 Ah, what a wily general Cupid is ! 
 
 Retreats, advances, seems to yield the fight, 
 And never, in the open, battles fair: 
 
 Guerilla-bandit, capturing with a kiss, 
 
 Trenched in the ambush of a bosom white, 
 Or hid in boscage of a lock of hair! 
 
 44 
 
"BLAME NOT THE POET" 
 
 BLAME not the Poet, ye who idly read, 
 
 If on the strings he strike with fingers rude, 
 Or if at times his tones are harsh and crude ; 
 Nature is crowned as often with a weed 
 
 As with a flower; foolish were he, indeed, 
 
 Who loved her less for that. Our very blood 
 Bounds not with equal pace, but every mood 
 Hath its own pulse. Let Nature for him plead, 
 
 For even she oft falls below her best; 
 
 Her harp is half unstrung not always tense ; 
 No flat monotony of excellence 
 
 Is hers. This glorious pageant of the West 
 Is but her gala-day magnificence, 
 Here, as she looks one moment, sumptuous dressed. 
 
 45 
 
A HERMIT OF THE HILLS 
 
 Loquitur 
 
 O NOT for me a host of friends benign, 
 
 With discourse sweet; for, save in earlier days, 
 I came through life s loud, many-million ed maze 
 Companionless. If queenly guests were mine, 
 
 They were intemporal Spirits forms divine 
 Ol far Pieria. But for these, my days 
 Were lonelier than an exile s one who strays 
 Banished within Siberia s white confine. 
 
 Man s sweet communion is to me unknown 
 
 Now, for long years. Art filched the place of Friend ; 
 And yet I grieve not that I walked alone ; 
 
 But of that fuller life which yet may be, 
 
 What, in immortal spheres, shall be the end 
 Shall I be friendless through eternity? 
 
 46 
 
THE LOVER S RETROSPECT 
 
 IN deeps of Elis, when was done the chase, 
 Or ere she bathed, fair Arethusa stood 
 Star-like in beauty. In that solitude 
 Her loveliness lit all the leafy place. 
 
 Alpheus, seeing the soul-light of that face, 
 Loved her, although she did his arms elude ; 
 At last, beyond the blue Sicilian flood, 
 They rushed together in one long embrace : 
 
 Light of my Youth ! in days of adverse fate 
 I saw you standing by my life s lone shore 
 And passionately sought to clasp your hand; 
 
 But ah, than he I am less fortunate, 
 Favored Alpheus ! no Ortygian strand 
 Shall see our currents mingle, ever more ! 
 
ON THE BEACH AT CHELSEA 
 
 STILL is the distant sea, as if it wore 
 
 The eternal calm of peace ; it lies in sleep. 
 Down in that vast unfathomable deep, 
 Power and Silence reign for evermore. 
 
 But here, along the grey dunes of the shore, 
 In furious haste the white-maned breakers leap 
 Dashed into thunder, as they inward sweep, 
 And, on the shingle, hurl their loud uproar. 
 
 O realm mysterious of the gulphs profound, 
 How beautiful is silence ! Let the soul 
 Nourish itself on thy tranquillity ! 
 
 The depths are still ; while on the surface roll 
 But empty foam and all the fume of sound, 
 The louder voice is from the shallower sea. 
 
 48 
 
O YEARNING LIFE! 
 
 i 
 
 DEEP-ROOTED grievance, vague, intangible, 
 Scarce by the introspective mind discerned ; 
 A hunger unappeased, that long has burned 
 Within the soul s unconquered citadel: 
 
 Arraignments stern of Life, against the knell 
 Struck by its limitations, later learned ; 
 These blast the peace of spirits that have spurned 
 The primrose path, and urge them to rebel. 
 
 E en love by sweet possession is bereaved. 
 The core is ashes of all things desired. 
 O yearning Life, is this to be our doom 
 
 That still the ungathered grape must bear the bloom ? 
 That we must crave the height still unachieved, 
 Yearn for the peak beyond the peak acquired? 
 
 49 
 

 
 O YEARNING LIFE! 
 ii 
 
 MAY not this spiritual discontent, 
 
 Disdain for all the temporal gifts that are, 
 This spurning of each fresh acquired star, 
 Be, by Omnipotence, divinely meant 
 
 As vague revealings of the soul s ascent 
 To some more sublimated state afar, 
 Where it may rise to meet an avatar 
 More glorious when the chrysalis is rent? 
 
 The very babe will cast away his toy 
 
 That yester-morn was all his heart s desire ; 
 
 Age counts as naught what manhood counted joy ; 
 
 Such disaffection points to rarer things ... 
 
 Oh, breathe in us Thy breath of kindling fire ! 
 Oh, let the aurelia gain at last her wings ! 
 
 50 
 
NOTES 
 
 Acknowledgment is here made to the following publications for 
 permission to reprint poems which have appeared in their columns : 
 The American Art News ; The Evening Mail ; Tht Conserv 
 ator ; The Independent ; The Lancaster Intelligencer. 
 
 Pages 2-1 1. The Author s home = Norwood. 
 
 Page 15 A town not far from Lancaster, Pa. 
 
 Page 17. Salunga is the author s abbreviation of the Indian 
 name Chicquesalunga. 
 
 Page 23. In early life the writer studied painting under Moran, 
 and has always considered him one of the most accomplished and 
 poetical painters of the age. 
 
 Page 28. The twelfth line of this sonnet, slightly varied, prop 
 erly belongs to the Sculptor, as it is the legend which accompanies 
 the figure . . . Lovers of art will not fail to remember with delight 
 Hans Schuler s exquisite recumbent statue of Ariadne which graces 
 the Walters Collection in Baltimore. 
 
 Pages 30, 31. Written for the Celebration of Fulton s Birthday 
 held at his birthplace in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. These 
 somewhat perfunctory poems were delivered on that occasion by 
 Hon. W. U. Hensel with an eloquence which effectively covered 
 any shortcomings which they may possess. 
 

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