The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder

This day I heard such music that I thought:
Hath human speech the power thus to be wrought,
Into such melody,—pure, sensuous sound,—
Into such mellow, murmuring mazes caught;
Can words (I said), when these keen tones are bound
(Silent, except in memory of this hour)—
Can human words alone usurp the power
Of trembling strings that thrill to the very soul,
And of this ecstasy bring back the whole?

II

Ah, no ('t was answered in my inmost heart),
Unto itself sufficient is each art,
And each doth utter what none other can—
Some hidden mood of the large soul of man.
Ah, think not thou with words well interweaved
To wake the tones wherein the viol grieved
With its most heavy burden; think not thou,
Adventurous, to push thy shallop's prow
Into that surge of well-remembered tones,
Striving to match each wandering wind that moans,
Each bell that tolls, and every bugle's blowing
With some most fitting word, some verse bestowing
A never-shifting form on that which past
Swift as a bird that glimmers down the blast.

III

So, still unworded, save in memory mute,
Rest thou sweet hour of viol and of lute;

129

Of thoughts that never, never can be spoken,
Too frail for the rough usage of men's words—
Thoughts that shall keep their silence all unbroken
Till music once more stirs them;—then like birds
That in the night-time slumber, they shall wake,
While all the leaves of all the forest shake.
O, hark! I hear it now, that tender strain
Fulfilled with all of sorrow save its pain.

THE POET'S FAME

Many the songs of power the poet wrought
To shake the hearts of men. Yea, he had caught
The inarticulate and murmuring sound
That comes at midnight from the darkened ground
When the earth sleeps; for this he framed a word
Of human speech, and hearts were strangely stirred
That listened. And for him the evening dew
Fell with a sound of music, and the blue
Of the deep, starry sky he had the art
To put in language that did seem a part
Of the great scope and progeny of nature.
In woods, or waves, or winds, there was no creature
Mysterious to him. He was too wise
Either to fear, or follow, or despise
Whom men call Science—for he knew full well
All she had told, or still might live to tell,
Was known to him before her very birth;
Yea, that there was no secret of the earth,
Nor of the waters under, nor the skies,
That had been hidden from the poet's eyes;
By him there was no ocean unexplored,
Nor any savage coast that had not roared
Its music in his ears.

130

He loved the town—
Not less he loved the ever-deepening brown
Of summer twilights on the enchanted hills;
And long would listen to the starts and thrills
Of birds that sang and rustled in the trees,
Or watch the footsteps of the wandering breeze
And the quick, wingèd shadows flashing by,
Or birds that slowly wheeled across the unclouded sky.
All these were written on the poet's soul;
But he knew, too, the utmost, distant goal
Of the human mind. His fiery thought did run
To Time's beginning, ere yon central sun
Had warmed to life the swarming broods of men.
In waking dreams, his many-visioned ken
Clutcht the large, final destiny of things.
He heard the starry music, and the wings
Of beings unfelt by others thrilled the air
About him. Yet the loud and angry blare
Of tempests found an echo in his verse,
And it was here that lovers did rehearse
The ditties they would sing when, not too soon,
Came the warm night;—shadows, and stars, and moon.

Who heard his songs were filled with noble rage,
And wars took fire from his prophetic page—
Most righteous wars, wherein, 'midst blood and tears,
The world rushed onward through a thousand years.
And still he made the gentle sounds of peace
Heroic; bade the nation's anger cease!
Bitter his songs of grief for those who fell—
And for all this the people loved him well.

They loved him well and therefore, on a day,
They said with one accord: “Behold how gray

131

Our poet's head hath grown! Ere 't is too late
Come, let us crown him in our Hall of State;
Ring loud the bells, give to the winds his praise,
And urge his fame to other lands and days!”
So was it done, and deep his joy therein.
But passing home at night, from out the din
Of the loud Hall, 'the poet, unaware,
Moved through a lonely and dim-lighted square—
There was the smell of lilacs in the air
And then the sudden singing of a bird,
Startled by his slow tread. What memory stirred
Within his brain he told not. Yet this night,—
Lone lingering when the eastern heavens were bright,—
He wove a song of such immortal art
That there lives not in all the world one heart—
One human heart unmoved by it. Long! long!
The laurel-crown has failed, but not that song
Born of the night and sorrow. Where he lies
At rest beneath the ever-shifting skies,
Age after age, from far-off lands they come,
With tears and flowers, to seek the poet's tomb.

THE POET'S PROTEST

O man with your rule and measure,
Your tests and analyses!
You may take your empty pleasure,
May kill the pine, if you please;
You may count the rings and the seasons,
May hold the sap to the sun,
You may guess at the ways and the reasons
Till your little day is done.

But for me the golden crest
That shakes in the wind and launches

132

Its spear toward the reddening West!
For me the bough and the breeze,
The sap unseen, and the glint
Of light on the dew-wet branches,
The hiding shadows, the hint
Of the soul of mysteries.

You may sound the sources of life,
And prate of its aim and scope;
You may search with your chilly knife
Through the broken heart of hope.
But for me the love-sweet breath,
And the warm, white bosom heaving,
And never a thought of death,
And only the bliss of living.

TO A YOUNG POET

In the morning of the skies
I heard a lark arise.
On the first day of the year
A wood-flower did appear.

Like a violet, like a lark,
Like the dawn that kills the dark,
Like a dewdrop, trembling, clinging,
Is the poet's first sweet singing.

“WHEN THE TRUE POET COMES”

“When the true poet comes, how shall we know him?
By what clear token; manners, language, dress?
Or will a voice from heaven speak and show him—
Him the swift healer of the earth's distress?

133

Tell us, that when the long-expected comes
At last, with mirth and melody and singing,
We him may greet with banners, beat of drums,
Welcome of men and maids and joybells ringing;
And, for this poet of ours,
Laurels and flowers.”

Thus shall ye know him, this shall be his token—
Manners like other men, an unstrange gear;
His speech not musical, but harsh and broken
Will sound at first, each line a driven spear.
For he will sing as in the centuries olden,
Before mankind its earliest fire forgot—
Yet whoso listens long hears music golden.
How shall ye know him? Ye shall know him not
Till, ended hate and scorn,
To the grave he's borne.

YOUTH AND AGE

“I like your book, my boy,
'T is full of youth and joy,
And love that sings and dreams.
Yet it puzzles me,” he said;
“A string of pearls it seems,
But I cannot find the thread.”

“O friend of olden days!
Dear to me is your praise,
But, many and many a year
You must go back, I fear;
You must journey back,” I said,
“To find that golden thread!”

134

THE SONNET

What is a sonnet? 'T is the pearly shell
That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea;
A precious jewel carved most curiously;
It is a little picture painted well.
What is a sonnet? 'T is the tear that fell
From a great poet's hidden ecstasy;
A two-edged sword, a star, a song—ah me!
Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell.
This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath;
The solemn organ whereon Milton played,
And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls:
A sea this is—beware who ventureth!
For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid
Mid-ocean deep sheer to the mountain walls.

A SONNET OF DANTE

(“Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare”)

So fair, so pure my lady as she doth go
Upon her way, and others doth salute,
That every tongue becometh trembling-mute,
And every eye is troubled by that glow.
Her praise she hears as on she moveth slow,
Clothed with humility as with a suit;
She seems a thing that came (without dispute)
From heaven to earth a miracle to show.
Through eyes that gaze on her benignity
There passes to the heart a sense so sweet
That none can understand who may not prove;
And from her countenance there seems to move
A gentle spirit, with all love replete,
That to the soul comes, saying, “Sigh, O, sigh!”

135

THE NEW TROUBADOURS

(AVIGNON, 1879)

They said that all the troubadours had flown—
No bird to flash a wing or swell a throat!
But as we journeyed down the rushing Rhone
To Avignon, what joyful note on note
Burst forth beneath thy shadow, O Ventour!
Whose eastward forehead takes the dawn divine;—
Ah, dear Provence! ah, happy troubadour,
And that sweet, mellow, antique song of thine!
First, Roumanille, the leader of the choir,
Then graceful Matthieu, tender, sighing, glowing,
Then Wyse all fancy, Aubanel all fire,
And Mistral, mighty as the north-wind's blowing;
And youthful Gras, and lo! among the rest
A mother-bird who sang above her nest.

KEATS

Touch not with dark regret his perfect fame,
Sighing, “Had he but lived he had done so”;
Or, “Were his heart not eaten out with woe
John Keats had won a prouder, mightier name!”
Take him for what he was and did—nor blame
Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know
Souls such as his escape no mortal blow—
No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame!
“Whose name was writ in water!” What large laughter
Among the immortals when that word was brought!
Then when his fiery spirit rose flaming after
High toward the topmost heaven of heavens up-caught!
“All hail! our younger brother!” Shakespeare said,
And Dante nodded his imperial head.

136

AN INSCRIPTION IN ROME

(PIAZZA DI SPAGNA)

Something there is in Death not all unkind;
He hath a gentler aspect, looking back;
For flowers may bloom in the dread thunder's track,
And even the cloud that struck with light was lined.
Thus, when the heart is silent, speaks the mind;
But there are moments when comes rushing, black
And fierce upon us, the old, awful lack,
And Death once more is cruel, senseless, blind.
So when I saw beside a Roman portal
“In this house died John Keats”—for tears that sprung
I could no further read. O bard immortal!
Not for thy fame's sake—but so young, so young;
Such beauty vanished; spilled such heavenly wine;
All quenched that power of deathless song divine!

DESECRATION

The poet died last night;
Outworn his mortal frame.
He hath fought well the fight,
And won a deathless name.

Bring laurel for his bier,
And flowers to deck the hearse.
The tribute of a tear
To his immortal verse.

Husht is that piercing strain—
Who heard, for pleasure wept.
His were our joy and pain;
He sang—our sorrow slept.

137

Yes, weep for him; no more
Shall such high songs have birth;
Gone is the harp he bore
Forever from the earth.

Weep, weep, and scatter flowers
Above his precious dust;
Child of the heavenly powers—
Divine, and pure, and just.

Weep, weep—for when to-night
Shall hoot the hornèd owl,
Beneath the pale moon's light
The human ghouls will prowl.

What creatures those will throng
Within the sacred gloom,
To do our poet wrong—
To break the sealèd tomb?

Not the great world and gay
That pities not, nor halts
By thoughtless night or day,
But,—O more sordid-false!—

His trusted friend and near,
To whom his spirit moved;
The brother he held dear;
The woman that he loved.

“JOCOSERIA”

Men grow old before their time,
With the journey half before them;
In languid rhyme
They deplore them.

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Life up-gathers carks and cares,
So good-by to maid and lover!
Find three gray hairs,
And cry, “All's over!”

Look at Browning! How he keeps
In the seventies still a heart
That never sleeps—
Still an art

Full of youth's own grit and power,
Thoughts we deemed to boys belonging;
The springtime's flower—
Love-and-longing.

TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND

WITH EMERSON'S “POEMS”

Edmund, in this book you'll find
Music from a prophet's mind.
Even when harsh the numbers be,
There's an inward melody;
And when sound is one with sense,
'T is a bird's song, sweet, intense.
Chide me not the book is small,
For in it lies our all in all.
We who in El Dorado live
Have no better gift to give.
When no more is silver mill,
Golden stream, or iron hill—
Search the New World from pole to pole,
Here you'll find its singing soul!

139

OUR ELDER POETS

(1878)

He is gone! We shall not see again
That reverend form, those silver locks;
Silent at last the iron pen
And words that poured like molten rocks.

He is gone, and we who thought him cold
Miss from our lives a generous heat,
And know that stolid form did hold
A fire that burned, a heart that beat.

He is gone, but other bards remain—
Our gray old prophet, young at heart;
Our scholar-poet's patriot strain;
And he of the wise and mellow art.

And he who first to Science sought,
But to the Merry Muses after;
Who learned a secret never taught—
The knowledge of men's tears and laughter.

He also in whose music rude
Our peopled hills and prairies speak,
Resounding, in his modern mood,
The tragic fury of the Greek.

And he, too, lingers round about
The darling city of his birth—
The bard whose gray eyes looking out
Find scarce one peer in all the earth.

140

LONGFELLOW'S “BOOK OF SONNETS”

'T was Sunday evening as I wandered down
The central highway of this swarming place,
And felt a pleasant stillness—not a trace
Of Saturday's harsh turmoil in the town;
Then as a gentle breeze just stirs a gown,
Yet almost motionless, or as the face
Of silence smiles, I heard the chimes of “Grace”
Sound murmuring through the autumn evening's brown.
To-day, again, I past along Broadway
In the fierce tumult and mid-noise of noon,
While 'neath my feet the solid pavement shook;
When lo! it seemed that bells began to play
Upon a Sabbath eve a silver tune—
For as I walked I read the poet's book.

“H. H.”

I would that in the verse she loved some word,
Not all unfit, I to her praise might frame—
Some word wherein the memory of her name
Should through long years its incense still afford.
But no, her spirit smote with its own sword;
Herself has lit the fire whose blood-red flame
Shall not be quenched—this is her living fame
Who struck so well the sonnet's subtile chord.
None who e'er knew her can believe her dead;
Tho' should she die they deem it well might be
Her spirit took its everlasting flight
In summer's glory, by the sunset sea—
That onward through the Golden Gate it fled.
Ah, where that bright soul is cannot be night.

141

THE MODERN RHYMER

I

Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That we no more our verse would scrawl,
For Shakespeare he had sung it all!
And yet, whatever others see,
The earth is fresh to you and me;
And birds that sing, and winds that blow,
And blooms that make the country glow,
And lusty swains, and maidens bright,
And clouds by day, and stars by night,
And all the pictures in the skies
That moved before Will Shakespeare's eyes;
Love, hate, and scorn; frost, fire, and flower;
On us as well as him have power.
Go to! our spirits shall not be laid,
Silenced and smothered by a shade.
Avon is not the only stream
Can make a poet sing and dream;
Nor are those castles, queens, and kings
The hight of sublunary things.

II

Beneath the false moon's pallid glare,
By the cool fountain in the square
(This gray-green dusty square they set
Where two gigantic highways met)
We hear a music rare and new,
Sweet Shakespeare was not known to you!
You saw the New World's sun arise;
High up it shines in our own skies.
You saw the ocean from the shore;

142

Through mid-seas now our ship doth roar—
A wild, new, teeming world of men
That wakens in the poet's brain
Thoughts, that were never thought before,
Of hope, and longing, and despair,
Wherein man's never-resting race
Westward, still westward, on doth fare,
Doth still subdue, and still aspire,
Or turning on itself doth face
Its own indomitable fire;—
O million-centuried thoughts that make
The Past seem but a shallop's wake!

University of Virginia Library

5. PART V

MUSIC AND WORDS

I

II

III