II
Sometimes, when in uphappy mood,
I on my limitations brood,
And think how narrow the confines,
In which the soul almost repines,
I turn again—just to behold
My finny friends of burnished gold.
How little is their rounded sphere,
Though rivers wide are rushing near!
How little chance themselves to be,
In freedom’s realm, the sunny sea!
I wonder not that mournful gape,
And rolling glance they seem to ape.
Yet, all the pity I bestow
Is tearless, since in heart I know,
It would be fatal for my fish
To leave the boun’dry of their dish,
For they would be an easy prey
To larger ones in stream or bay.
And then this moral comes to me,
While craving larger liberty;
It might be death the bounds to break,
Which fate and duty round me make,
So be content and get the best
Of what, perhaps, is but a jest.
THE FIDDLER’S CHRISTMAS MUSIC
(Founded on a Norwegian Folk-lore.)
There lived in the land of Ole Bull
A peasant-fiddler of old,
Whose soul with music was often more full
Than his violin ever told.
He knew not the art of clefs and notes,
Such seemed but some mystic runes,
But he heard the music that richly floats
In nature’s unwritten tunes.
He played for the dances at many a farm,
Led many a bridal train,
And everywhere did he naively charm
The mirth-loving maid and swain;
But sometimes he played in a lonely place,
When no one, perchance, was near,
And then there was sadness in his face,
In his eyes a furtive tear.
For the strains which he heard he could never play,
Though trying it o’er and o’er,
Forgotten they were from day to day,
And wandered his way no more;
Sometimes in anger he flung the thing,
Which would not obey his soul,
Then took it again with its broken string,
Like a mother her child from his fall.
On a Christmas eve he had listened long
To the tones in the snowy air—
The bells that sent forth their joyous song,
Re-echoing here and there
In mountain hollow or forest deep,
Or far o’er the frozen fjord,
A thousand voices woke from their sleep,
To join in the heavenly chord.
In the house the Christmas feast was spread,
And he ate and drank as he should,
There was meat and pudding and raisin bread,
And the Yule-tide brew was good;
They feasted well on that holy eve,
And did not forget a pray’r,
And the fiddler felt it was good to live,
For banished he had all care.
In his sleep that night he seemed to see
His room full of fairy-folk,
They danced about with a wondrous glee
To the tunes their fiddler awoke—
Such tunes as he never had heard before,
So soft, so clear, and gay,
Like silver ripples against a shore,
In the morn of a summer’s day.
He saw the player, his strings and bow,
Each touch of his finger tips,
From which such gladness did overflow,
With pleasure of lovers’ lips;
He asked the elfin to teach him one,
Ah, one from his repertoire,
Which he gladly did, and when it was done,
Another, just for encore.
He taught him three, and he taught him four,
Yea, six, while the fairies danced,
Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor,
At which the elfin glanced,
And saw a cross on its side engraved,
Then rose and run with a cry,
The fairies following, as morning waved
His rosy plumes in the sky.
The peasant awoke from his fairy dream,
Sought his fiddle, began to play,
And strange enough, as it now may seem,
Remembered tunes in the elfin way,
He played them all till the day shone bright,
He played them all till the church bells rang,
To call to mass among candle lights,
To hear the story which angels sang.
But neither mass, nor the homily
Could fix his mind on the solemn things;
An absent look in his face one might see,
And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings;
His wife did see it and almost wept,
And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sake
Might be from fairies and devils kept,
Both when asleep, or when awake.
That Christmas season, for three weeks long,
He played for dances, yea, every night,
His melodies were both sweet and strong,
And gave the people such great delight,
They said they never before had heard
Such music come from a violin,
And wondereed much of what things had stirred
The fiddler’s heart, or where he had been.
But this he kept to himself alone,
For often since he the fairies saw,
List to their music when brightly shone
The moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow,
And more and more did he learn their art,
Yea, some did whisper, he was possest,
But he had won every woman’s heart,
When he was old, and was laid to rest.
CRUEL KITTY
Kitty is playing on the side of the hill,
All in the new-mown grass,
Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you kill
That beautiful thing, alas!
She caught it and wounded its wings!
“How cruel of kitty to play in this way;”
Your friend on top of the hill,
If she were alive, now surely would say,
Alas, that her voice should be still!
That prattled of beautiful things.
In her grave on the hill the little one lies;
Her kitten at play in the hay;
And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries,
With grief she is pining away,
Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings.
TO ——
Were I an artist, I would paint thee thus:—
Tall, lithe and slender, like a Grecian youth
In flowing garb, whose lines enhance the form,
A face whose soul is innocence and truth,
And eyes of dreamy love, that blesses us
With gladness, like the sunlight after storm.
Were I a master of sweet music, I
Would turn the rhythm of thy motion, and
Thy voice and laughter into melody,
A symphony, fit for a royal band,
With joy of glitt’ring waves and zephyr’s sigh
With love’s entrancement and pure ecstasy.
But I, alas, have nothing but a rhyme,
In which to clothe the pleasure of an hour,—
An hour amid the fields and on the stream;
I picked for thee the rarest, sweetest flower,
A wild rose, mingling odor with the thyme,
Since that seems truest of a poet’s dream.
FAREWELL
Farewell, dear lass, it grieves me much
That thou must leave us here alone,
Thou gav’st our summer months a touch
Of happiness, as seldom known,
Thou gavest such a sunny cheer,
That every day seemed like a play,
And now, when autumn’s winds blow drear,
Thou needs must go so far away!
The leaves lie yellow on the lawn,
The blackbirds gather into flocks,
The thrush and lark have long since gone,
The crows sit cawing on the rocks,
The heavy clouds soar wild and black
Across the meadows, sear with frost,
I stand alone beneath their wrack,
And feel that summer’s joy is lost.
But I shall ne’er forget thy smile,
And ever in my heart shall ring
The laughter which did e’er beguile
Each brooding care to take its wing,
Thy winsomeness which woke my soul
From lethargy’s dun dreariness
Shall leave a glamour over all,
And even winter’s darkness bless.
So fare thee well, my brown-eyed lass,
May heaven keep thee pure and sweet!
May ne’er a shadow o’er thee pass
Of evil’s harm or dark deceit!
And mayst thou from the Southern clime
Return when April’s breezes blow,
When minstrel hosts perceive ’tis time
To lift their wings and northward go.
ALONE
It is good to be all alone,
In the dark of the night, aye, the starry night,
When those you love truest are from you gone,
In the far away, beyond sound and sight;
When the wind is singing its sad, strange song
In gloomy tree-tops, a-tow’ring high,
And whispers the names for whom you long,
And the love for which you sigh.
It is good to be all alone with one’s soul,—
The soul which so seldom has chance to speak;
It is good to be freed from the narrow and small,
To rise from the vale to the mountain peak,
To be guided by stargleams into a sphere,
Where the world does not reach with its clamour and cry,
And there in the silence pause, till you hear
Your innermost self and the God that is nigh.
LINES ON AN OLD SONGBOOK
An old hymnbook, owned by my great-grandmother, and bearing the following inscription:
Cenfebam Hafniae d. 9 Sept. Anno 1684,
is a collection of hymns and religious songs, written by Dorothe Engelbrets Datter, a poetess of considerable distinction in Norway and Denmark in the 17th century.
I faintly can remember still
A scene from childhood years,
A picture dim which always will
Be treasured in my heart until
Beyond the change of good and ill,
It glorified appears.
I saw through an half-open door
An aged woman’s face,
Amid the sunlight on the floor,
Uplifted and it seemed adore
A heavenly vision, or implore
For mercy and for grace.
An open book was in her hand,
From which she read and sang,
I was too young to understand,
And yet I thought it was most grand,
A music from a better land
Which through her singing rang.
This is the book, or part thereof,
An aged, thumbworn tome,
Quaint hymns of penitence and love,
By one whom heaven did endow
With glory fit for Sapho’s brow,
Far in her northern home.
I look upon each yellow page,
Each stain and finger-mark,
And see in them my heritage,—
My Great Grandmother’s heritage,
Which did her pious soul engage,
In times remote and dark.
PEARLS AND PALACES
I wandered down a dusty road,
And spent myself to sheer fatigue,
Until I fell beneath a load
Of misery and man’s intrigue,
When all at once I saw a string
Of lustrous pearls, close by the way,
It seemed such strange a hap and thing,
That I believed my sense astray.
But as I dared to touch the gems,
And as I felt their soft delight,
And saw the coloring, which hems
The robe of dawn o’er snowcapped height,
Play in their orbs, I felt a thrill
Of pleasure surging through my soul,
And then a peace, so rare and still,
Upon my restless heart to fall.
At length I rose to journey on,
But with a new-born strength and zest,
The burden gone, I saw the sun,
I felt that life is heaven-blest,
The string of pearls I treasured most,
And guarded it with fondest care,
Lest such a fount of joy be lost,
Lest doubt again should me ensnare.
I travelled long, at last I came
Into a place of Palaces,
Such as in heaven have highest fame,
But which the earthbound covet less;
The saints of old did know them well,
And gave their all that they might win
Admittance to the humblest cell,
And God’s forgiveness for their sin.
Each pearl became within my hand
A key wherewith the doors to ope,
And angel guides did ready stand
To point to each sincerest hope;
And dazzling glory filled the halls,
To archéd roof the music rose,
And master’s art adorned the walls,
And o’er it all hung sweet repose.
The first and nearest door, I tried,
Was one a singer, long ago,
Found when distressed with pain he cried
For healing streams to him to flow,
Then sang his praise alone to Him,
“Who healeth all thy sicknesses,”
And there I found a truth, now dim,
That God with health the sick can bless.
Another palace-door a pearl
Swung open widely to my gaze,
And like the waves that gently curl
Upon the sunlit water’s face,
There came in waves of harmony
A thousand voices in this place,
All promises of things to be,
And of His daily help of grace.
As the orchestral melody
By variations is enhanced,
So did his words: “Come unto me,”
Lead jubilant; I stood entranced,—
“Come unto me, I’ll give you rest,
My yoke is easy, burden light,”—
Ah, here I found all that my quest
Had sought in weariness and night.
Another pearl did ope the gate
To throne-rooms of the Sovereign’s pow’r,
Where not a shadow of dark Fate
Had part in any dial’s hour;
But truth and righteousness and love
Did govern life and destiny,
The Sovereign’s will, supreme above
The ways of man, did all decree.
And in this hour of awful gloom,
When faith is wrecked, and hope is low,
The glory from this Palace-room
Makes all the mountain-peaks aglow;
And shadows flee from vale and plain,
And struggling armies see a gleam,
Commensurate with grief and pain,—
The truth of what seemed but a dream.
My rosary has many beads,
I need an endless life to learn,
To what exalted things each leads,
For which my soul doth truly yearn,—
And when the innermost I gain,
There hangs a cross which lights the way
To Palace-portals where I fain
Would be this moment, and for aye.
VICTOR HUGO
It was on a midsummer night,
Now long ago,
In the far-off land of Norway,
I sat in an open window,
And dreamed.
The valley and hills and distant mountains
Were all like a dream
In the soft light and wonderful calm
Of the night.
The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch,
And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and vale
Wrought with a fairy-potion,
Dreams and thrills of the soul.
The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fire
Like pillars rose from the wooded heights
To the sky cerulian,
Where the evening star shone bright,
Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy;
It shimmered above a cataract,
Whose music rose and fell
Where the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord.
The night had voices:
Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires;
Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds;
Yet all was peace, and joy, and life,
And mystery such as the Avon Bard
Did see and hear on a Midsummer night.
I was but a boy, and the names of the great
Were new to me, and yet not strange,—
I knew not why.
That day I had read about Hugo,
That he, the greatest of singers
In our own day, was dead;
I felt a heart-gripping sorrow,
And wept as over a friend.
It seemed that his spirit was there,
In the dreams of that Saint John’s night,
That all the fairies and flowers and streams
Were greeting him with a love that had sadness,
And yet which rose on the wings of gladness,
Up to the stars.
My soul did feel it, I know not how,
That he was there, a part of it all,
The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life.
TO A FRIEND
In the stillness of the evening,
When the dew is on the grass,
And the forest stands a-dreaming,
’Round the moonlit lake of glass,
Do I hear a sighing whisper,
As when happy lovers part,
It is thine I hear, my lady,
Rising from all nature’s heart.
When the autumn winds are blowing,
And the yellow leaves fall down,
Whirled upon the river, flowing
To the mighty, distant sound,—
Then I hear thy soul a-weeping,
For the love that is no more,
For the life now in God’s keeping,
On a far-off, unknown shore.
When the fields and hills are covered
With a blanket of pure snow,
And the streams, where oft we hovered,
Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow,
Then I know thy life lies hidden
Under sorrow’s wintry plaid,
But the hope, which seems forbidden,
In its course cannot be staid.
When in spring new life is risen
From the grave with songs of joy,
Then thy soul shall leave its prison,
And its broken harp employ,
Then again that sighing whisper,
Charged with love and happiness,
I shall hear amid the woodlands
Which the dreamy lake caress.
TO A “KNOCKER”
This sturdy world is hard to knock,
Though hit it as you may,
It moves, unmindful of the shock,—
In its accustomed way.
It laughs a little cynic laugh
And says: “Fall into line,
The use of Mose’ rod and staff
Is but for the divine.
“Come, son, or thou must surely die,
One fool the more or less
Will not provoke a mournful cry,
Nor cause an hour’s distress.
“So know thy best, be like the rest,
And stop thy foolish knocking,
Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’
Save one, the quest of shopping.”
A VISION
To-day I had a vision of the thing
Which we call life—the sum of human life—
In person of an upright monster-man,
Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues,
Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green,
And blue and purple and the violet,
Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black;
His large and bony feet strode heavily,
A-trampling, upon beings in his path,
On men and women and on little babes,
And crushed them in the dust without a pity,
Once in a while he lifted to his breast
Some one with fondling pleasure, and did bear
The favorite aloft, that all might see
His glory’s contrast to their misery;
But then at length, he tired of even such,
And cast them down into the common dust.
I looked upon his visage, strangest this,
A blending of the human and the beast:—
But then the vision vanished, and I heard
A cry and circling of the Pheonix bird.
SIGNS CELESTIAL
I read in the mystic Kabbala
That there is a creature in heaven
To which the most blessed Jehovah
Two wonderful tokens hath given:
A word in its forehead at morning,
A word in its forehead at night,
Like jewels those words are adorning
The creature with glory and light.
The first one is “Truth” which is telling
The angels of heaven, it is day,
Its lustre most joyous, compelling,
Is guiding and keeping their way.
The other is “Faith,” which betoken
That night is advancing apace,
With rays that are dimmer and broken,
Like sunset through silvery haze.
And I pondered this much, till I ventured
The signs on this world to apply,
Though Rabbins of old might have censured,
And judged that for this I must die.
But the sign that is set on this creature—
The world—I perceive is the last,
The first may belong to the future,
When night’s gloomy vigils are past.
DESPAIR
Hence vain, illusive Hope,
Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool!
For thee should be the hangman’s rope,
Or drowning in the deepest pool,
Or everlasting prison in the darkest pit
Of Dante’s hell,
Where like a Siren thou should’st sit
And mock thyself by saying: all is well.
I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,—
The only prophetess of real truth,
Who nothing promises, who never made
A fair illusion for aspiring youth;—
“All is nothing,” she doth whisper still,
A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems,
A soothing balm for every human ill,
A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.
Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny,
Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave,
Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,—
The world’s great cry which like a wave
Breaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,—
Thou autocrat of all that overwhelms
Man’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate,
To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.
HOPE
When mid the ruins of my life
I sit dejected and forlorn,
And think, how useless was the strife
That was by strong ambitions borne,
And count the years and reck the cost,
Which all seem idly spent and vain,
Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost,
Life’s failures bring the better gain!”
When sorrow, troubles come in flocks,
Like angry clouds, driven by the blast,
Like waves against the riven rocks,
On which my helpless soul is cast,
And night and darkness come apace,
With not a friend around to cheer,
Again she shows her angel face,
And whispers gently: “Do not fear.”
When by the graves of those I love
Dark doubts are hovering around,
She lifts my tearful look above
The withered lily on the mound,
And in the blue, so far away,
I see a gleam, it seems a smile,—
Again I hear her softly say:
“Despair not, wait a little while.”
O, blessed Hope, without whose aid,
No victory is ever won,
In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade,
Or evening shadows drear and dun,
Thou art our guardian angel, who
Walks with us, when all others fail,
And scatters roses, fresh with dew,—
O, heaven-born all hail! all hail!
BE STILL MY SOUL, BE STILL
Be still my soul, be still;
Fret not thyself with cares of life,
With worldly vanity and strife,
Which bring but ill.
Withdraw thyself and be alone,
Alone in holy solitude,
Then shalt thou know the highest good,
And for thy sins atone.
Then shalt thou know the harmony
Of sweet celestial strains,
Whose soothing notes allay the pains
Brought on by human misery.
This world is void of peace,—
’Tis nowhere found, except within,
When from the earthly gain to win,
Thou deignest cease.
AWAKE
The livelong night I lie awake,
While all the world is slumbering,
And weary I am numbering
The hours which on the stillness break;
The hours, which give to others balm,
The blessed balm of soothing sleep,
My mind in cruel torture keep,
And yet demand a perfect calm.
The hours whose loss I oft bewail
At close of busy workingday,
Now gladly I hear pass away,
And the approaching morning hail.
And yet their woe hath recompense,
Which sleeping mortals do not know,
For gentle voices come and go,
With solace to the weary sense.
From distant meadows comes the sound
Of cowbells, stirred at intervals,
And to my heart with joy recalls
The age when in their clang I found
Suggestions of a fairy land,
When Elfins rang their silver bells
In flow’ry meads and shady dells,
Or on the quiet moonlit strand.
I hear the cricket’s autumn song,
The ceaseless music of the night,
It tells about the summer’s flight,
And of its life, so full and strong,
Of memories with love aglow,
In youth and manhood’s fuller life,
Of vanished days with glory rife,
Whose joys I ne’er again shall know.
And far away the river sings
Its lullaby out to the sea,
A sense of rest comes over me,
Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings.
THE AWAKENING
Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended,
And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended,
And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended.
To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided,
My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided,
And find the compass true in which my soul confided.
ASTERS
A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red,
Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl,
Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed,
But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.
The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving,
Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say:
“Man by the bread alone shall not be living,”
And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.
BUTTERFLIES
I sit on my porch the long after-noon,
And dream, and dream, and dream;
And the butterflies hover across the lawn,
In shadow and golden beam,
From flower to flower they flutter and fly,
The sweet of their beauty to find,
And out of my dream I wake with a cry:
“Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”
For the chalice of life has few sweets for me,
But mostly some bitter thing,
The flowers which I planted with youthful glee,
So often their poison bring,
And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past,
With remorse for their follies and hopes,
That the few joys of life so briefly do last,
And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.
Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care,
And why should I murmur and fret,
While the summer is here, and all nature is fair,
And gleams mid the shadows are set?
I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays,
And dance with the butterflies gay,
And dream little less, and enter the ways
Of things which remain for a day.
THE ROSEBUSH
Against a quivering, golden beam,
Where dance a myriad winged things,
A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream,
While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings,
It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet
An offering up to the happy bard,
Whose flood of melody flows to meet
The floating essence of wild-rose nard.
The flush of pink amid shades of green,
Is like a wreath for a June-day bride,
Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen,
Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide,
For this is midsummer’s perfect eve,
When minds are roving on fancy’s wing,
When hearts are young and all things believe,
And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.
A rare creation, a gift divine,
This rosebush is in my garden nook,
Whose beauty all of the sacred Nine
Would fancy more than the wisest book,
For not a poet in any age
Did joyful loveliness e’er express
Like that which lolls round the unseen mage,
So perfect, charming, and effortless.
It stands apart from the world of woe,
An yet has balm for the troubled mind,
An holy altar where one may know
The joy of beauty, and solace find,
Since God is there as in days of eld,
When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn,
(For I have always in secret held,
That bush had also its roses borne.)
From crowds pretentious and gibbering,
I turn oppressed to this holy place,
Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing,
Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace;
My soul is free, as I bend to kiss
The smiling rose, whose enchanting breath
Fills all my being with such a bliss,
That I could wish it the sting of death.
TWO ASPECTS
There’s a golden light on one side of the tree,
On the other there is a shadow,
The shadowy side goes out to me,
The other runs down to the meadow,
And the light is beckoning me away
To the leas and fields of new-mown hay,
Beckoning out from the shadow.
There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree,
On the other a golden light,
And the shadowy side is inviting me
To rest in its sweet delight,
For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair,
And the heat of the sun is not striking there,—
And I stand at the tree in a plight.
THE GREAT “I AM”
Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee!
Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving,
Seen and unseen, are not of Thee!
They are not,—
But self-eliminating,—
Since Thou alone art Truth and Love.
What is of man’s finiteness
Is nothing in Thy Everlastingness;—
He only is; That only is,
Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter!
THE DEATH CHANT
I heard a chant and a wailing,
Among the wooded hills,
From an Indian hut where they carried away
A man from his earthly ills.
The black-garbed women were chanting
The weirdest song I have heard—
An Indian lamentation,
Till nature itself seemed stirred.
And my heart was filled with pity,
As I saw that band forlorn,
Its poverty and sorrow—
On that bright September morn.
And I thought of their ancient story,
When the country was all their own,
And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory—
A splendor to us unknown—
The glory of forest and prairie,
A-teeming with herds and game,
And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes—
For food but another name.
When they were lords of the realms they surveyed,
And lived to their heart’s content,
Till the white man came and robbed them
Of all but their rotting tent.
And the chiefs sat down in the ashes
Mid the hearth-stones of the past,
And a race of pride and adventure
Stood round with eyes downcast.
And the songs of the chase and the battle,
And the ballads of joy were hushed—
But the death-chant is still remembered,
By hearts that are sad and crushed.
And it seemed like the wail of a people
Whose sun upon earth has set—
The chant of the weeping women,
And the men to burial met.
THE LETTER
I wrote a letter from my heart,
Aglow with pain and passion,
In angry words and sudden start
Of pity and compassion.
The thing was done in utmost haste,
The pen inclined to caper,
I count it now an awful waste
Of rather decent paper.
And when the thing, I had achieved,
Was folded in my pocket,
My soul felt wondrously relieved,
Spent, like a fiery rocket.
When I did think of sending it,
I made a vague decision,
That it should wait a little bit,
Ere going on its mission.
It waited one, it waited two
And three days for the mailing,
And on the fourth myself did go
Where it was sure of failing.
Upon our journey did we cross
A stream of gentle flowing,
Where I impulsively did toss,
Against the breezes blowing,—
The letter torn to smithereens,
Like snowflakes slow descending,
Received by lambent hyalines
And current gaily wending.
Thus on the river’s peaceful breast
My words of pain were carried,
Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest,
And some did longer tarry.
And to the sea may be they sailed,
Where ocean swells are moaning,
Where life’s great agony is wailed
Mid nature’s endless groaning.
Though nought is lost, yet it is well
To let the fiery letter
Find such a fate, for it will quell
Things that destroy the better.
And this advice I freely give:
Write down your spirit’s frowning,
For three days let it lonely live,
Then kill it all by drowning.
GOD’S TRUTH-TELLER
The poet is no liar. No!
Though truth may not be told
By him, just so, and so,—
By weight, and measure, or the cold
And soulless numbers—
By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber
The Psyche in its flight
Into that heavenly light
Of things, which children know,—
And poets see and feel
In beauty, which is truth,
Whose life-inspiring glow
Sometimes doth steal
Upon him, as does love upon the youth,
And moves his heart to song—
The music of his being,
Whose notes are pure and strong,
While he is seeing
God’s Seraphims, and all
The earth replete with glory,—
And hears the call
From ages hoary
To his own day, and times to be—
The voice of God;
Truth-teller he,
Despite the rod
Of proud custodians
Of labelled “scientific facts” sans
Poetry,—
Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—
Truth-teller he, because to him was given
The vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,
In little things and great,
In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.
THE DEATH OF THE POET
(Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”)
Life’s checkered dream is over,
Ended its joys and woes;
Silent the bard and the lover
Down to the valley goes;
Down to the dark, broad river
Wanders his restless soul,
Into the vast Forever,
Which he so oft heard call,—
Ever, forever,
Singing through each and all.
Over him spirits hover,
Spirits who knew his life,
Knew all that holy power—
Wasted in grief and strife,—
Knew how he gave, not heeding
Sordidness, greed and sin,
Knew how his heart was bleeding,
Only the true to win,—
Ever, forever,
Living within.
Music too vast for language,
Bursting the bonds and bounds,
Now shall be free from anguish,
Free from discordant sounds,
Finding what here it never
Reached in its noblest fight,
The cadence of life’s forever,
The glory of deathless light,—
Ever, forever,
Leading him through the night.
Pale now the brow of the singer,
Undecked by laurel-wreath,
Only a few friends linger,
To whom he his songs bequeathed;
But a host is waiting yonder,
Whose praise on his ears doth burst,
And the soul, who does lonely wander,
Shall quench its immortal thirst,—
Ever, forever,
And the things that are last shall be first.
IN SEARCH OF THE PERFECT
The snow was new, and soft, and deep,
The forest far away from me,
And yet how could I Christmas keep
Without a perfect Christmas tree?
So I set out, a boy of twelve,
With sled in hand to reach the pines,
And through the snow made for myself
A track amid most wild confines.
Beneath the lofty trees there stood
Full many a little evergreen,
And all were straight, and seemed quite good,
But not a perfect one was seen.
I waded on from tree to tree,
And thought, at times my choice I’d found,
But lo, it lacked true symmetry,
True symmetry from top to ground.
And thus the afternoon was spent,
Until the evening-shadows fell,
My axe, at last, was deftly sent
Into a spruce, each stroke did tell
Its fate through all the silent wood,
On echoes distant, echoes near,
Which seemed to say in mocking mood:
“The perfect one is here—is here!”
My ardor for the perfect one
Subsided as I strapped my prize,
Half of my strength was also gone,
And easy was the compromise.
My basking in the new-fall’n snow
Had drenched me and brought on a chill,
The homeward journey, long and slow,
Sent me to bed severely ill.
Long was I racked with fever’s fire,
My life was like a flick’ring light,
They thought its last gleam would expire
Amid the storm of New Year’s night.
Thus did I almost pay full score
For that my first and youthful quest
For perfectness, and evermore
I’ve found this is her stern behest:
Who would find me must give his all,
And even then may sorely fail,
But it adds glory to the soul
To walk in the Immortal’s trail.
THE CHRISTMAS CACTUS
Born on the desert’s sandy plain,
Born among thorns and heat and pain,
Brought to my home, amid cold and snow,
Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory,
Telling in symbol the Christ-child story,
And the way that He still must go.
For tokens of joy in a world of woe,
’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow,
The word of truth and the song’s clear strain,
That warms the heart when the earth is frozen,
The Lord of life has nourished and chosen
In deserts of thorns and pain.
But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flower
Has sweetest meaning at that great hour,
When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve,
Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing,
And from its petals a love is flowing,
Which none but Christ can give.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT
Night, and a lonely star,
Night, with its deep repose,
A gleam of light from afar—
To souls oppressed with woes.
Light of the Bethlehem-star
On the inn and the shepherd-cotes,
That breaks o’er the golden bar,
Whence the angel-anthem floats.
Song of peace upon earth,
Peace which to heaven has fled,
But shall find its second birth,
Where the blood of millions is shed.
“Peace and good will to men!”
Verily ’tis His voice,
Bidding us trust again,
Yea, even in hope to rejoice.
Let us follow the guiding ray,
Let us go to the manger and see
The things which the angel did say,
The things that must surely be.
And our doubts and our fears shall cease,
As we enter the holy place,
Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace,
The Christ-child of love and grace.
Like children we there will bend
Ourselves in true adoration,
And humbly in worship blend
With every people and nation.
And sing with the unseen choir:
“A Saviour to us is born!”
Till kindles the heavenly fire
In our hearts on Christmas morn.
A NEW YEAR’S INVOCATION, 1918
Lord in this hour of tempest dread,
Be Thou our stay!
While boisterous billows lift their head
Upon our way;
While angry clouds the sun obscure,
Be Thou our light!
And give us courage to endure
The night!
Deliver us from coward’s fear,
And craven’s wish for pleasure.
Help us defend what is most dear,
With love’s full measure,—
The Liberty our fathers won
Through storm and bloody fray,
The Liberty of Washington,
Of Lincoln, and of Clay!
Grant us to guard this heritage
For all mankind,
That when the world shall cease to rage,
It here may find
The gift of Heaven, beyond all price,
To show the way,
That through this awful sacrifice
May dawn a better day!
We know not what the year will bring
Of loss and sorrow;
But help us Thou in faith to sing
Of every morrow
As that of hope and victory,
And larger meed,
With trust that Thou wilt ever be
Our help in need!
Thus we will breast the darkest storm,
Since not alone,
And confident, Thou wilt perform,
At last enthrone,
Thy righteous acts among all men,
And tyrants overthrow;
Grant that this year’s recording pen
Such victories may know! Amen.
EASTER
Our souls have need of Easter—
Of resurrection light,
For never times were trister,
Nor darker seemed the night.
Our souls have need of Easter
With sunrise on the tomb,
For Mary has many a sister
Who weeps within the gloom.
Our souls have need of Easter,
Its lily pure and sweet,
As when the day-dawn kissed her
Before the Saviour’s feet.
Our souls have need of Easter,
With angel heraldry,
Which breaks the base and bister
Seal of the Pharisee.
Our souls have need of Easter,
With faith more glad and strong,
To be the firm resister
Of untruth and the wrong.
Our souls have need of Easter,
Which scatter’s arméd foe,
Whose bloody spears still glister
Where midnight watch-fires glow.
Our souls have need of Easter,
With gleams of victory
O’er powers dark and sinister,
And cruel tyranny.
SONNETS
LUX EX ORIENTE
(Inscription on Haskal hall, University of Chicago)
A feeble light of mummy-cloth and bones,
From crumbling coffins and the broken tombs,
From hieroglyphic mysteries on stones,
Removed from pyramidal catacombs,
Or sacred rock-hewn shrines where silence, and
Dark night have reigned five thousand years,—
A flick’ring flame, hid ’neath the desert sand,
And now revived, until its brightness clears
The gloom of history, thanks to the toil
Of sages who are following its gleam
Into the hoary past, and there the oil
Of wisdom find which turns the agelong dream
Of resurrection to reality,
And Egypt from Oblivion sets free.
ON THE STATUE OF VOLTAIRE
(In the Art Institute, Chicago)
He looks upon the daily passing throng,
As in his day he gazed upon the world,
With cynic smile while it did pass along
With standards of its varied creeds unfurled;
Upon his forehead, reason’s citadel,
His searching thoughts have left their runic stamp;
The meager hands and neck the story tell,
How frail the temple of his spirit’s lamp;
In classic robe and fillet does he sit,
The poet-critic of France’ golden age,
By whom the torch of liberty was lit,
In truth and beauty on the written page;—
And work and freedom in this sage did find
Their true apostle to all humankind.
A VENETIAN WELL-HEAD (XV CENTURY)
(In the Gothic room of the Minneapolis Art Institute)
When I behold these grooves, cut in the edge
Of Istrian marble by the bucket-ropes,
Thy ancient history its romance opes
From Zorzi palace garden and its hedge:
I see the dark-eyed maidens, near the ledge,
And plumed signors feeding ardent hopes
From glances darting o’er thy watery slopes:
Or hear the lovers whisper soft their pledge,
As deep and pure as was thy cooling drink,—
The fount of life, the elixir of youth,
The well-spring of Venetian art and song,
When truth was beauty and all beauty truth;—
Even now thy charms can make the weary strong,
While pausing at thy side to dream and think.
THE PROSPECT
A youth lay stretched upon the new-mown hay,
In woodland meadow, near a winding stream,
And gazed at summer-clouds so far away,
And who can tell the substance of his dream?—
A span of horses and a rusty rake
Stood near him, where his father made repair,—
The ground was rough, and things did sometimes break,
And added trouble to the toiler’s care;—
At last the rake was fixed, the boy arose
To take his place upon its iron-stool,
And doing so, he said: “Do you suppose
That I can go away, this fall, to school?”
To which his father answered: “We will see,—
If you work hard, till snow flies, it may be.”
THE HARVEST
The perfect, all resplendent moon looks down,
From cloudless realms of blue, upon a scene
Most marvellous,—Earth in her harvest-gown,—
A golden garment, hemmed by darkish green,
Moved by the wandering winds that drink the sweet
Of new-mown clover-fields and tasselled corn;
The sound thereof is as when lovers meet,
And whisper gladness out of hearts love-lorn;—
Her royal robe, to which the world is clinging,
On which the moon and sun smile with delight,
Of which all nature’s minstrels now are singing
In varied melodies, by day and night,—
Earth’s great achievement, loveliest and best,
The golden harvest of the Middle West.
THE REWARD OF EPIMENIDES
When Solon gave to Athens laws, and sought
To cleanse it from pollutions and the crimes
Which dire disasters from the gods had brought,
He called a prophet from the purer clime,
Of sunny Crete, great Epimenides,
The wise, the nymph-begotten, whose long sleep
Had let him into nature’s mysteries,
And things that are for common minds too deep:
He came, and did the work of bard and priest,
That Solon’s code might shine clear as the sun.
And what reward?—The people hardly wist
But offered riches for the service done.
“An olive branch is all I ask,” he said;
That branch is green, though Athen’s glory’s dead.