Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems

by Arthur Weir

THE RACE.

A girlish voice like a silver bell
Rang over the sparkling tide,
"A race! a race!"
She was under the trees by the river-side,
Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell,
And hid her face.

Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream,
And their oars like bars of silver gleam,
As they dip and flash and kiss the river,
As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver.
Then the ripples die,
And the girlish cry
Floats gaily again to the summer sky.

"Ready? Go!"
As the arrow springs from the straightened bow,
The skiffs dart off for the distant goal:
The oars are bent like blades of steel,
And the hissing waters, cleft in twain,
Curl away astern in a feathery train,
While girlish laughter, peal on peal,
Rings over the river and over the shore,
And from the island the echoes roll.
We hear the mysterious voice again.
"We have won! we have won!
Will you race once more?"

The water drips in golden rain
From the blade of the resting oar,
Again we take, our place, and again
That clear voice wakes the shore:
"Go!" And we bend to our oars once more,
And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadows
Give place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.

Our skiff is steered by skilful hands,
Its rowers' arms are strong,
But muscles are not iron bands
To bear such conflict long.
And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast,
And cheeks too hotly burn,
Before the welcome goal is passed—
The rest two lengths astern.

The evening air is growing chill,
The moon is sinking low:
The race is ours—across the wave
We call, but nothing answers save
The winds that gently blow,
"Come race again." But all in vain—
The silvery voice is still.

MY TREASURE.

"What do you gather?" the maiden said,
Shaking her sunlit curls at me—
"See, these flowers I plucked are dead,
Ah! misery."

"What do you gather?" the miser said,
Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me—
"I cannot sleep at night for dread
Of thieves," said he.

"What do you gather?" the dreamer said,
"I dream dreams of what is to be;
Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled,
Ah! woe is me."

"What do you gather?" the young man said—
"I seek fame for eternity,
Toiling on while the world's abed,
Alone," said he.

"What do I gather?" I laughing said,
"Nothing at all save memory,
Sweet as flowers, but never dead,
Like thine, Rosie."

"I have no fear of thieves," I said,
"Daylight kills not my reverie,
Fame will find I am snug abed,
That comes to me."

"The past is my treasure, friends," I said,
"Time but adds to my treasury,
Happy moments are never fled
Away from me."

"All one needs to be rich," I said,
"Is to live that his past shall be
Sweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red,
Eternally."

WELCOMING THE NEW YEAR.

We gathered, a jovial party,
Together on New Year's eve,
To welcome the coming monarch
And to see the old one leave,

We chatted around the fireside,
And wondered what time would bring:
We had not a tear for the parting year,
But longed for the coming king.

For youth reaches ever forward,
And drops from its eager clasp
The realized gifts of fortune,
Some phantom of hope to grasp.

Soon a maiden spoke of the custom,
Now lapsed in this age of prose,
To open the door for the New Year
The instant the Old Year goes;

Then, leaving the door wide open,
To stand in the silent street
And, with a generous "welcome,"
The entering guest to greet.

It suited our youthful fancy,
And, when the glad chimes began,
From our cosy nook by the fireside
Down into the street we ran.

And, far and near, we all could hear
The great bells ringing out the year,
And, as they tolled, the music rolled,
Hoarse-sounding, over town and wold.

"The year is dead," Gros Bourdon said,
The clanging echoes quivering fled,
And, far and wide, on every side,
The bells to one another cried.

The mountain woke, and from its cloak
Shook off the echoes, stroke for stroke.
Then silence fell on hill and bell,
And echoes ceased to sink and swell.

Standing beside the door wide open thrown,
Her voice more musical than any bird's,
And with a winning sweetness all its own,
Our Queen thus winged her joyous thoughts with words:

"Ring out, bells, ring! Sing, mountain, sing!
The king is dead, long live the king!
Now fast, now slow; now loud, now low,
Send out your chimes across the snow.

"Old Year, adieu; welcome the New,
The door stands open here for you.
Come in, come in, the bells begin
To falter in their merry din."

Then, as the great bells ceased to swing, two broke
A silver coin, for luck in days to come,
And though no tender words of love they spoke,
Yet hearts speak best when most the lips are dumb.

A GREATER THAN HE.

Baby sits upon the floor,
Baby's scarce a twelvemonth old;
Baby laughs, and goo-goos o'er
Memories how a babe of yore
Humbled Glooskap bold.

Glooskap was a man of might,
Skilled in magic, huge of limb;
Giant, wizard, goblin, sprite,
Ghost, witch, devil, imp of night,
All had fled from him.

Then he questioned: "Can there be
Further labors to be done?
Breathes there one to equal me,
Who before me will not flee?"
Quoth a squaw: "Yes, one."

"Name him," angry Glooskap cried,
"Baby," said she, "And be warned—
If you meddle, woe betide
All your glory, all your pride!
For you will be scorned,"

Baby sat upon the ground,
Harming none, and sucked his thumb,
Gazing with a look profound
Upon Glooskap and around,
Solon-wise, Sphinx-dumb.

Glooskap never married was,
So he thought, like all his kind,
That he knew the nursery laws
Wholly, and with ease could cause
Service prompt and blind.

Sweetly, the magician smiled,
Like the summer sun, and said:
"Hither, Baby." But the child,
By the sweet smile unbeguiled,
Only shook his head.

Like a bird among the trees,
Singing, Glooskap spake once more:
Baby listened to the glees,
Sucked his thumb, and sat at ease
Still upon the floor.

Thundering, the magician spoke:
"Hither, Baby, I command!"
Baby stirred not, only broke
Into wailings that awoke
All the desert land.

Mystic song and magic spell,
Fit to raise the very dead,
Fit to rule the imps that dwell
In the deepest depths of Hell,
Glooskap sang and said.

All was vain. Upon the floor
Baby sat, and heard each lay,
Listened close, and called for more,
When each mystic song was o'er,
But did not obey.

Then the baffled warrior wept;
And the baby in delight,
Sitting where a sunbeam slept,
Laughed and crowed, and crowing kept,
Till his foe took flight.

LIFE IN NATURE.

Life grows not more nor less; it is but force
And only changes;
Expended here, it takes another course,
And ever ranges
Throughout this circling universe of ours,
Now quickening man, now in his grave-grown flowers.

Yet dwells life not alone in man and beast
And budding flowers.
It lurks in all things, from the very least
Gleam in dark bowers
Of the great sun, through stones, and sea, and air,
Up to ourselves, in Nature everywhere.

Life differs from the soul. This is beyond
The realms of science;
God and mankind it joins in closest bond,
And bids defiance
To Death and Change. By faith alone confessed,
It dwells within our bodies as a guest.

The germ of life sleeps in the aged hills
And stately rivets,
And wakes into the life our hearts that thrills
And in leaves quivers.
The universe is one great reservoir
From which man draws of thinking life his store.

And, therefore, is it that the weary brain,
That seeks communion
With Nature in her haunts, finds strength again
In that close union:
She is our mother and the mind distressed
Drinks a new draught of life at her loved breast.

WINTER AND SUMMER.

Come Winter, merry Winter,
Rejoice while yet you may,
For nearer, ever nearer,
Fair Summer draws each day,
And soon the tiny snowdrops
Shall waken from their sleep,
And, mossy banks from under,
The modest violets peep.

The apple trees shall scatter
Their buds at Summer's feet,
And with their fragrant odors
Make every zephyr sweet;
While Nature, of wild roses,
And lilies frail and white,
Shall make a wreath for Summer,
And crown her with delight.

Forth from the smiling heavens
Shall fall the gentle rain,
The earth shall feel her presence
And welcome her with grain;
The birds shall come and twitter,
And build amid the boughs,
So Winter, merry Winter,
While yet you may, carouse.

We love you, merry Winter,
You and the joys you bring,
And loud and long your praises
Throughout the world we sing;
But Summer, gentle Summer,
Comes shyly through the glade,
And draws all hearts to love her,
So fair is she arrayed.

We love the merry sleighing,
The swinging snowshoe tramp,
While in the clear, cold heavens
The calm moon holds her lamp,

We love the breathless coasting.
The skating and the games
Played amid shouts of laughter,
Around the hearth-fire flames.

But Summer, winsome Summer,
Holds greater stores of bliss,
When all the land awakens,
And blossoms at her kiss;
We soon shall feel her presence,
And breathe her perfumed breath,
Then, Winter, dear old Winter,
We will not mourn your death.

DAUNTLESS.

So he is dead. A strange, sad story clings
About the memory of this mindless man;
A tale that strips war's tinsel off, and brings
Its horrors out, as only history can.

Within a peaceful town he dwelt in youth,
His sister's hero and his mother's pride—
The soul of honor, the abode of truth,
Beloved and reverenced on every side.

He had a sweetheart, lovely as the day,
A gentle maid, who knew not half his worth,
Who loved the sunshine, and who shrank away
From sorrow, and forever followed mirth.

They were but young, and hope's mirage upreared
In their warm hearts its rosy palaces;
They deemed them real, and longing, only feared
Life was too short for all the promised bliss.

And then came war, blood-spattered, cruel as hell,
And clamored with its iron voice for life—
Mother and sister and the wedding-bell.
The hero left, and hastened to the strife.

In vain he struck for liberty, and fell
A captive, in his earliest affray;
Then, threatening death, fierce Haynau bade him tell
Where and how strong the patriot forces lay.

"I will not tell," he cried, with eyes aflame,
"Do what thou wilt with me, I will not bring
Doom to my land, and soil my honored name:
From these sealed lips thou shalt no secret wring."

His captor only laughed. "He croweth well,
Go, bring his mother and his sister here,
And they shall die, if he refuse to tell!"
The hero answered not, but paled with fear.

The brutal soldiers to the brutish court
Dragged the weak women, and they stood o'er-awed,
Each to the other clinging for support,
And praying in her misery to God.

The fell decree the shrinking creatures heard,
And long in vain essayed to make reply,
For their weak speech could find no fitting word
To bear the burden of their agony.

Tears came at last. The brutal Haynau smiled,
But all too soon. Weeping, the mother said:
"Be not thy country's, traitor, oh! my child!
Too old am I the loss of life to dread."

Then spake the sister: "Brother mine, be brave!
Life hath no charms, if with dishonor bought;
Think not of us, our bleeding country save—
Life is so short at best, death matters naught."

The hero made no answer, but he drove
His nails into his palms, and choked for breath;
His captor bade the soldiery remove
The noble women—and they went to death.

"He hath a sweetheart," Haynau said again:
"Go, bring her hither;" and they brought her there,
Weeping with fear, and wailing low with pain,
Amid the golden ringlets of her hair.

Then from the earth she sprang, frenzied with fear,
Into her lover's arms, and kissed his cheek,
And strok'd his hair, and called him "love" and "dear,"
And prayed him for her sake to yield and speak.

He thrust her from him, clasped her yielding form
In his lithe arms again, and then once more
Repulsed her gently, and the deadly storm
That raged within him smote him to the floor.

Groping, he rose and spoke. None knew his voice:
It sounded as though coming from a tomb.
"Oh! darling, it must be—I have no choice—
Thou would'st not have me seal my country's doom?"

Haynau made sign. "Away with her," he cried.
They seized their prey, but life to her was sweet,
And, bounding from the soldiers at her side,
Screaming she crouched, and clasped her lover's feet.

"Oh! for the love you bear me, save my life!
Tell what he asks, and we will fly this place
Into some unknown land, where all this strife
Shall be forgotten in love's sweet embrace."

He made no answer save by bending low,
And kissing her damp brow. They raised their prize,
And bore her to the door, as pale as snow,
With all her soul outwelling from her eyes.

But here she turned, calm in her death despair,
And in a voice that trembled with its hate,
"My dying curse be on you everywhere,
False love," she cried, "who send me to my fate."

There was a silence, then a fusilade
Of musketry, a woman's scream and moan,
Then silence. That was all, and in the shade
Of night the hero laughed. Reason had flown.

A CHILD'S KISS.

Sweet is the maiden's kiss that tells
The secret of her heart;
Holy the wife's—yet in them dwells
Of earthliness a part;

While in a little child's warm kiss
Is naught but heaven above,
So sweet it is, so pure it is,
So full of faith and love.

'Tis like a violet in May
That knows nor fear nor harm,
But cheers the wanderer on his way
With its unconscious charm.

'Tis like a bird that carols free,
And thinks not of reward,
But gives the world its melody
Because it is a bard.