The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard :: :: University of Virginia Library

Does the robin still remain?
One, I mean, that loves and grieves?
And—supposing that I could
Join the Children in the Wood,
Would it cover me with leaves?

Flowers, I see, can still be bought,
And who will may buy, not I:
I want more than these poor flowers,
I demand the dews, the showers,
Wind, and trees, and summer sky.

Why not say, you poor old man,
You demand what is no more?

338

Were it May, twice over May,
You would still be sad to-day,
For you are not as before.

May is only for the young,
Chill December suits you best:
Fallen leaves, not flowers, for you,
You have nothing left to do:
Make your bed, and take your rest.

AN OLD MAN'S NEW-YEAR'S SONG.

I will not stir abroad to-day,
But find at home what cheer I may.
Old men like me are out of date:
Who wants to see a grizzled pate?
If silver hairs were locks of gold,
I might be as I was of old;
For then my dead would all be here,
And that would make a happy Year.

The old man now, the young man then,
Are we the same, or different men?
One sits at home with slippered feet,
The other braves the driving sleet:
His light heart suns itself with wine,
It will not warm this heart of mine:
One sees the bridal, one the bier,
And each, in his own way, the Year.

Where are the friends I used to know,
Ned, Fred, not many years ago,
Whose glass clinked mine amid the din
Of Old Year out and New Year in?

339

“Dead rhymes with Ned,” the Master said,
Himself among the Masters dead:
Alack, and drear, and fear, and tear,
Methinks, all sad words rhyme with Year.

Some one, perhaps, will care for me
When I no longer hear or see.
I hope my little man of ten,
When he shall take my place with men,
Will think about me in the grave,
If only for the gifts I gave,
And say, “If father was but here,
It would be such a happy Year!”

Peace, old man, peace! And cease this song,
Which does the merry season wrong.
You have the sweetness of regret,
The friendships you remember yet,
You have what time will not destroy,
The love of your remembering boy:
These surely are enough to cheer
The morning of the saddest Year.

THE VANISHED MAY.

Why is it that when Spring is come,
The first sweet touch of Spring,
That something all the Winter dumb
Begins in me to sing?
Begins, perforce, this sunny day
To solemnize the darkened May?

Why the bird sings I know, I see
Its journeys through the air;

340

There is a nest in yonder tree,
Its little ones are there.
Thy song, sweet bird, is not like mine,
But one unending Valentine.

I wander through the woods, and mark,
Above, below, around,
The tribes that live on leaf and bark,
And burrow in the ground;
If Life be happiness, I guess
The world is full of Happiness.

Why is it, then, that I am sad?
What have I done to-day,
When every creature else is glad,
To lose the joy of May?
Why ask what have I lost? In truth,
What is the saddest loss but Youth?

My youth has gone, and what remains?
The woods, the clouds, the sea,
The wild March winds, the April rains—
But what are these to me?
When head and heart alike are gray,
What can restore the vanished May?

A NEW YEAR'S SONG.

The world is full of mystery,
Which no one understands:
What is before our eyes we see,
The work of unseen hands;
But whence, and when, and why they wrought,
Escapes the grasp of human thought.

341

There was a time when we were not,
And there will be again
When we must cease, and be forgot,
With all our joy and pain.
Gone like the wind, or like the snow,
That fell a thousand years ago.

We live as if we should not die,
Blindly, but wisely, too;
For if we knew Death always nigh,
What would we say, or do,
But fold our hands, and close our eyes,
And care no more who lives or dies?

If Death to each man in his turn
Is coming, soon or late,
Be ours the soldier's unconcern,
And his courageous fate;
Better to perish in the strife
Than to preserve the coward's life.

Before my hearth-fire pondering long,
As 't were a bivouac,
I heard last night this solemn song,
Which I have summoned back.
It seems my sombre mood to cheer,
And is my greeting to the Year.

New Year, if you were bringing Youth,
As you are bringing Age,
I would not have it back, in sooth;
I have no strength to wage
Lost battles over. Let them be,
Bury your dead, O Memory!

342

You can bring nothing will surprise,
And nothing will dismay,
No tears again in these old eyes,
No darkness in my day.
You might bring light and smiles instead,
If you could give me back my dead.

I have beheld your kin, New Year,
Full fifty times, and none
That was so happy, and so dear,
I wept when it was done.
Why should we weep when years depart,
And leave their ashes in the heart?

Good-by, since you are gone, Old Year,
And my past life, good-by!
I shed no tear upon your bier,
For it is well to die.
New Year, your worst will be my best—
What can an old man want but rest?

MAY-DAY.

If I were asked the season,
I could not tell to-day;
I should say it still was Winter—
The Calendar says May.

If this, indeed, be May-day,
I must be growing old,
For nothing I was used to
Do I to-day behold.

343

On May-day in New England,
In that old town of ours,
We rose before the daybreak,
And went and gathered flowers.

If there are woods in Hingham
I have forgot; I know
That there were woods in Seekonk
Some forty years ago.

And thither went the children,
For there the wild flowers grew;
They plucked them up by handfuls,
With fingers wet with dew.

And then in pretty baskets,
With little sprigs of green
They placed them, and stole homeward,
And hoped they were not seen.

Along the roads and by-ways
The merry creatures crept,
And round their sweethearts' houses,
While still their sweethearts slept.

The baskets on their windows
They hung, and stole away;
And no one knew who did it,
Or, knowing, none would say.

It spoiled her simple pleasure
If any maiden knew
Who sent her her May basket—
She had to guess out who.

344

Ah, those indeed were May-days,
But this, this dreary day,
The Calendar's mistaken—
'Tis not the first of May!

Why, if it were, my lady,
I would have gone in time,
And made you your May basket,
If only one of rhyme!

But I haven't done it, darling,
For the words that I have sung
Are only recollections
Of May when I was young.

UP IN THE TREES.

Would we were there, in the woods together,
Two little birds in the mid-summer weather,
Out of the winter, away from sorrow,
With—think of it—never a thought of the morrow!
Up in the trees, whose branches are swinging,
They sit in the soft airs, singing, singing
A song in which youth and passion are blended,
That is always beginning, and never ended!

Look at them there now, sitting, sitting
Where owls are hooting, and bats are flitting:
One is singing, the other is sleeping,
While the Lady Moon through the leaves is peeping!
And now look at us, whose years are doubled,
We have missed so much, and have been so troubled,
Would we were there in the woods together,
Two happy birds in the mid-summer weather!

345

AN OLD SONG REVERSED.

“There are gains for all our losses.”
So I said when I was young.
If I sang that song again,
'T would not be with that refrain,
Which but suits an idle tongue.

Youth has gone, and hope gone with it,
Gone the strong desire for fame.
Laurels are not for the old.
Take them, lads. Give Senex gold.
What's an everlasting name?

When my life was in its summer
One fair woman liked my looks:
Now that Time has driven his plough
In deep furrows on my brow,
I'm no more in her good books.

“There are gains for all our losses?”
Grave beside the wintry sea,
Where my child is, and my heart,
For they would not live apart,
What has been your gain to me?

No, the words I sang were idle,
And will ever so remain:
Death, and Age, and vanished Youth,
All declare this bitter truth,
There's a loss for every gain!

346

SONGS UNSUNG.

Let no poet, great or small,
Say that he will sing a song;
For Song cometh, if at all,
Not because we woo it long,
But because it suits its will,
Tired at last of being still.

Every song that has been sung
Was before it took a voice,
Waiting since the world was young
For the poet of its choice.
O, if any waiting be,
May they come to-day to me!

I am ready to repeat
Whatsoever they impart;
Sorrows sent by them are sweet,
They know how to heal the heart:
Ay, and in the lightest strain
Something serious doth remain.

What are my white hairs, forsooth,
And the wrinkles on my brow?
I have still the soul of youth,
Try me, merry Muses, now.
I can still with numbers fleet
Fill the world with dancing feet.

No, I am no longer young,
Old am I this many a year;

347

But my songs will yet be sung,
Though I shall not live to hear.
O my son that is to be,
Sing my songs, and think of me!

SISTE, VIATOR.

As I was going on my way,
For every man his way must go,
I met a youth, one sweet spring day,
Who knew me, or who seemed to know;
Bright as a lover when he stands
Where she is in her bridal trim.
“Stop, crown me.” Then with ready hands
I made a rosy crown for him.

As I was going on my way,
I did not dare to tarry long,
I met a man one summer day,
Of noble bearing, tall and strong:
The light of love was in his eyes,
The spirit of love in every limb.
“Stop, live with me.” I thought it wise
To stop a while and live with him.

As I was going on my way,
But slower than when I began,
I met a man, one autumn day,
Ah, such a piteous, poor old man!
I saw his tears, and somehow knew
The grief that made his eyes so dim.
“Stop, comfort me.” What could I do
But stop and try to comfort him?

348

Now I am going on my way,
A chill is creeping over me,
But whether from the winter day,
Or something that I do not see,
Who knows? I feel it stealing near,
A fearful presence, ghastly, grim:
“Stop!” When that dreadful word I hear,
I shall lie down in dust with him.

YOUTH AND AGE.

When I was young there seemed to be
No pleasure in the world for me.
My fellows found it everywhere,
Was none so poor but had his share,
They took mine, too.
I sought in vain, it was my fate
To be too early, or too late.
The nest was there, the bird was flown,
Ah why? And to what golden zone?
If Youth but knew!

Why art thou, Youth, so swift, so slow?
Why dost thou let thy pleasures go?
All that they grasp thy hands let fall,
The best they do not grasp at all,
Do not pursue.
What tingles in my blood like wine?
Those tender eyes that turn to mine,
The soft tears in my eyes that start—
Tell me, what does it mean, my heart?
If Youth but knew!

349

Now I am old there seems to be
No pleasure in the world for me,
But vain regrets for what is past,
Because I did not hold it fast,
Because it flew.
That Youth is weak, and Age is strong,
Should be the burden of my song,
And might be in my happier hours,
If autumn leaves were summer flowers,
If Age could do!

Mock not my sighs, and my white hair,
O Youth, so foolish and so fair!
Remember, life is not all June,
The lean and slippered pantaloon
Awaits thee, too.
Be wise, delay not, oh make haste,
Go, steal your arms around her waist,
The rosebud mouth begins to blow,
Stoop down, and kiss it so, boy, so!
If Age could do!

Dum vivimus, the wise men say,
And you can do it, as well as they;
So live and love, then, while you can,
Nor sigh, like me, when you are a man,
“If Youth but knew!”
Far better be where Folly dwells,
And shake with him your jangling bells,
Than hear belated Wisdom come,
And beat upon the muffled drum,
“If Age could do!”

350

IRREPARABLE.

The sorrow of all sorrows
Was never sung or said,
Though many a poet borrows
The mourning of the dead,
And darkly buries pleasure
In some melodious measure.

The loss of youth is sadness
To all who think, or feel,
A wound no after gladness
Can ever wholly heal;
And yet, so many share it,
We learn at last to bear it.

The faltering and the failing
Of friends is sadder still,
For friends grown foes, assailing,
Know when and where to kill;
But souls themselves sustaining,
Have still a friend remaining.

The death of those who love us,
And those we love, is sore;
But think they are above us,
Or think they are no more,
We bear the blows that sever,
We cannot weep forever!

The sorrow of all sorrows
Is deeper than all these,

351

And all that anguish borrows,
Upon its bended knees;
No tears nor prayers relieve it,
No loving vows deceive it.

It is one day to waken
And find that love is flown,
And cannot be o'ertaken,
And we are left alone:
No wo that can be spoken,
No heart that can be broken!

No wish for love's returning,
Or something in its stead;
No missing it, and yearning
As for the dearer dead:
No yesterday, no morrow,
But everlasting sorrow.

THE TWO ANCHORS.

It was a gallant sailor man,
Had just come home from sea,
And as I passed him in the town
He sang “Ahoy!” to me.
I stopped, and saw I knew the man,
Had known him from a boy;
And so I answered sailor-like,
“Avast!” to his “Ahoy!”
I made a song for him one day,
His ship was then in sight,
“The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.”

352

I gave his hand a hearty grip.
“So you are back again?
They say you have been pirating
Upon the Spanish Main.
Or was it some rich Indiaman
You robbed of all her pearls?
Of course you have been breaking hearts
Of poor Kanaka girls!”
“Wherever I have been,” he said,
“I kept my ship in sight,
‘The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.’”

“I heard last night that you were in,
I walked the wharves to-day,
But saw no ship that looked like yours.
Where does the good ship lay?
I want to go on board of her.”
“And so you shall,” said he;
“But there are many things to do
When one comes home from sea.
You know the song you made for me,
I sing it morn and night,
‘The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.’”

“But how's your wife, and little one?”
“Come home with me,” he said.
“Go on, go on; I follow you.”
I followed where he led.
He had a pleasant little house,
The door was open wide,
And at the door the dearest face,
A dearer one inside!

353

He hugged his wife and child, he sang,
His spirits were so light,
“The little anchor on the left,
The great one on the right.”

'Twas supper-time, and we sat down,
The sailor's wife and child,
And he and I; he looked at them,
And looked at me, and smiled.
“I think of this when I am tossed
Upon the stormy foam,
And though a thousand leagues away,
Am anchored here at home.”
Then, giving each a kiss, he said,
“I see in dreams at night
This little anchor on my left,
This great one on my right!”

TOO OLD FOR KISSES.

My uncle Philip, hale old man,
Has children by the dozen;
Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate and Ann—
How many call me “Cousin?”
Good boys and girls, the best was Bess,
I bore her on my shoulder;
A little bud of loveliness
That never should grow older!
Her eyes had such a pleading way,
They seemed to say, “Don't strike me.”
Then, growing bold another day,
“I mean to make you like me.”

354

I liked my cousin, early, late,
Who liked not little misses:
She used to meet me at the gate,
Just old enough for kisses!

This was, I think, three years ago,
Before I went to college:
I learned but one thing—how to row,
A healthy sort of knowledge.
When I was plucked, (we won the race,)
And all was at an end there,
I thought of Uncle Philip's place,
And every country friend there.
My cousin met me at the gate,
She looked five, ten years older,
A tall young woman, still, sedate,
With manners coyer, colder.
She gave her hand with stately pride.
“Why, what a greeting this is!
You used to kiss me.” She replied,
“I am too old for kisses.”

I loved—I love my Cousin Bess,
She's always in my mind now;
A full-blown bud of loveliness,
The rose of womankind now!
She must have suitors, old and young
Must bow their heads before her;
Vows must be made, and songs be sung
By many a mad adorer.
But I must win her: she must give
To me her youth and beauty;
And I—to love her while I live
Will be my happy duty.

355

For she will love me soon or late,
And be my bliss of blisses,
Will come to meet me at the gate,
Nor be too old for kisses!

THE LADY'S GIFT.

“O give me something, Lady,
For I have given my heart,
A trifle to replace it,
When we are far apart.”
She drew from out her bosom
A rose-bud wet with dew,
And gave it to him, saying,
“Here's something, Sir, for you.”
“I take it, and will keep it,
For never lady wore
A flower so pure and perfect,
But you must give me more.”

“I have no more to give, Sir,
A simple maid like me,
Who has nor birth nor fortune,
What should she have?” said she.
“But you have gold,” he answered.
“No lady in the land
So rich a dower.” “What is it?”
“The ring upon your hand.”
She slipped from off her finger
The little ring she wore.
“I take it, and will wear it,
But you must give me more.”

356

“What more have I to give you?
Why give you anything?
You had my rose before, Sir,
And now you have my ring.”
“You have forgotten one thing.”
“I do not understand.”
“The dew goes with the rose-bud,
And with the ring the hand.”
She gave her hand, he took it,
And kissed it o'er and o'er:
“I give myself to you, love,
I can not give you more.”

THE MARRIAGE KNOT.

I know a bright and beauteous May,
Who knows I love her well;
But if she loves, or will some day,
I cannot make her tell.
She sings the songs I write for her,
Of tender hearts betrayed;
But not the one that I prefer,
About a country maid.
The hour when I its burden hear
Will never be forgot:
“O stay not long, but come, my dear,
And knit our marriage knot!”

It is about a country maid—
I see her in my mind;
She is not of her love afraid,
And cannot be unkind.

357

She knits, and sings with many a sigh,
And, as her needles glide,
She wishes, and she wonders why
He is not at her side.
“He promised he would meet me here,
Upon this very spot:
O stay not long, but come, my dear,
And knit our marriage knot!”

My lady will not sing the song.
“Why not?” I say. And she,
Tossing her head, “It is too long.”
And I, “Too short, may be.”
She has her little wilful ways,
But I persist, and then,
“It is not maidenly,” she says,
“For maids to sigh for men.”
“But men must sigh for maids, I fear,
I know it is my lot,
Until you whisper, ‘Come, my dear,
And knit our marriage knot!’”

Why is my little one so coy?
Why does she use me so?
I am no fond and foolish boy
To lightly come and go.
A man who loves, I know my heart,
And will know hers ere long,
For, certes, I will not depart
Until she sings my song.
She learned it all, as you shall hear,
No word has she forgot.
“Begin, my dearest.” “Come, my dear,
And knit our marriage knot!”

358

PHILLIS.

“Phillis, to what can I compare
The golden glory of your hair?
Your cheek—was never cheek so fair,
Tell me if those be blushes there,
Or roses dropt on lilies?
Close, an you will, your eyes divine,
Still through their lids I feel them shine:
You will some day to me incline,
No distant day you must be mine;
Then why not now, O, Phillis?”
Phillis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

“You are a fair one, Phillis; but who knows
Whether the lily and the rose,
(Methinks your color comes and goes,)
Your golden tresses, and all those
Bewildering charms and graces,
Who, save your maid—why do you start?
Knows what is nature, what is art?
Do you ever keep the two apart?
What have you given me for my heart
But patched and painted faces?”
Phillis, with a frown and smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

“Your waiting-woman, Mistress Prue,
Has more and deeper wit than you:
She knows precisely what to do
When Matt and Diggory come to woo,
And how to hold her lovers.

359

Now you—I have a mind to see
What pretty Prue will say to me
(She is a buxom wench, pardie,)
'Twill not be ‘fie!’ and ‘la, let be!’
That angry flush discovers.”
Phillis, with a frown, not smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

“Phillis, you love me, you confessed
When I began my silly jest;
The guarded secrets of your breast
Slipped out, your heart among the rest,
Your heart that now so still is,
A little bird, that fluttered then
For fear that I, like lighter men—
Your nod says ‘Yes.’ But tell me when,
Or I must summon Prue again—
When shall it be, O Phillis?”
Phillis, with a happy smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

THE NECKLACE OF PEARLS.

He met her in the garden,
A bright and beauteous maid,
Who, grown at once a woman,
Was not of love afraid:
She loved, and could not help it,
Her heart went out to his,
And as he stooped to kiss her
She rose to meet his kiss.

He kissed her in the garden,
And—was it what he said,

360

Or the shadow of the roses
That made her cheeks so red?
Her bosom rising, falling,
With new and strange delight,
The string of pearls upon it
Was not so white, so white.

He drew her down the garden,
He would not hear her “No,”
She must go if she loved him
Who loved her, loved her so:
They must go pluck the roses
And listen to the dove:
The dove was wooing, wooing,
As he was her—for love.

He led her down the garden,
And while her arms were round
The neck she, parting, clung to,
She saw upon the ground
The string that held her necklace,
With not a pearl thereon:
The slender string was broken,
And all the pearls were gone.

Then up and down the garden
She wandered with dismay,
And wondered where her pearls were,
And how they slipt away:
They nestled in her bosom
One little hour ago,
Before they plucked the roses,
And her tears began to flow.

So round and round the garden
She went with peering eyes:

361

O is not that the necklace
That shining yonder lies?
'Tis but a string of dew-drops
The wind has broken there,
Or the tears that she is shedding
That make her look more fair.

Still round and round the garden
She hunted high and low,
In the red hearts of the roses,
The lily's breast of snow:
The thorns they pricked her fingers,
Her fingers bled and bled,
But her heart was bleeding faster—
O why was she not dead?

For she must leave the garden
And meet her mother's eye,
Who will perceive she sorrows,
And ask the reason why;
And she must meet her father,
Who, as she hangs her head,
Will miss the priceless necklace,
And wish that she were dead.

THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

I met a little maid one day,
All in the bright May weather;
She danced, and brushed the dew away
As lightly as a feather.
She had a ballad in her hand
That she had just been reading,
But was too young to understand

362

That ditty of a distant land,
“The flower of love lies bleeding.”

She tripped across the meadow grass,
To where a brook was flowing,
Across the brook like wind did pass,
Wherever flowers were growing
Like some bewildered child she flew,
Whom fairies were misleading:
“Whose butterfly,” I said, “are you?
And what sweet thing do you pursue?”
“The flower of love lies bleeding.

I've found the wild rose in the hedge,
And found the tiger-lily,
The blue flag by the water's edge,
The dancing daffodilly,
King-cups and pansies, every flower
Except the one I'm needing;
Perhaps it grows in some dark bower,
And opens at a later hour,
This flower of love lies bleeding.”

“I wouldn't look for it,” I said,
“For you can do without it.
There's no such flower.” She shook her head.
“But I have read about it!”
I talked to her of bee and bird,
But she was all unheeding:
Her tender heart was strangely stirred,
She harped on that unhappy word,
“The flower of love lies bleeding!”

“My child,” I sighed, and dropped a tear,
“I would no longer mind it;

363

You'll find it some day, never fear,
For all of us must find it.
I found it many a year ago,
With one of gentle breeding;
You and the little lad you know,
I see why you are weeping so—
Your flower of love lies bleeding!”

WISHING AND HAVING.

If to wish and to have were one, my dear,
You would be sitting now
With not a care in your tender heart,
Not a wrinkle upon your brow.
The clock of time would go back with you
All the years you have been my wife,
Till its golden hands had pointed out
The happiest hour of your life:
I would stop them at that immortal hour,
The clock should no longer run:
You could not be sad, and sick, and old—
If to wish and to have were one.

You are not here in the winter, my love,
The snow is not whirling down,
You are in the heart of the summer woods,
In your dear old sea-side town;
A patter of little feet in the leaves,
A beautiful boy at your side;
He is gathering flowers in the shady nooks—
It was but a dream that he died!
Keep hold of his hands, and sing to him,
No mother under the sun

364

Has such a seraphic child as yours—
If to wish and to have are one.

Methinks I am with you there, dear wife,
In that old house by the sea;
I have flown to you as the bluebird flies
To his mate in the poplar-tree.
A sailor's hammock hangs at the door,
You swing in it, book in hand;
A boat is standing in for the beach,
Its keel now grates on the sand:
Your brothers are coming—two manly men,
Whose lives have only begun:
Their days will be long in the land, dear heart,
If to wish and to have are one.

If to wish and to have were one, ah me!
I would not be old and poor,
But a young and prosperous gentleman,
With never a dun at the door.
There would be no past to bewail, my love,
There would be no future to dread;
Your brothers would be live men again,
And my boy would not be dead.
Perhaps it will all come right at last,
It may be, when all is done,
We shall be together in some good world,
Where to wish and to have are one.

THE FOLLOWER.

We have a youngster in the house,
A little man of ten,
Who dearest to his mother is
Of all God's little men.

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In-doors and out he clings to her,
He follows up and down;
He steals his slender hand in hers,
He plucks her by the gown.
“Why do you cling to me so, child?
You track me everywhere;
You never let me be alone.”
And he, with serious air,
Answered, as closer still he drew,
“My feet were made to follow you.”

Two years before the boy was born,
Another child of seven,
Whom Heaven had lent to us awhile,
Went back again to Heaven.
He came to fill his brother's place,
And bless our failing years,
The good God sent him down in love,
To dry our useless tears.
I think so, mother, for I hear
In what the child has said
A meaning that he knows not of,
A message from the dead.
He answered wiser than he knew,
“My feet were made to follow you.”

Come here, my child, and sit with me,
Your head upon my breast;
You are the last of all my sons,
And you must be the best.
How much I love you, you may guess
When, grown a man like me,
You sit as I am sitting now,
Your child upon your knee.

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Think of me then, and what I said,
(And practised when I could,)
'Tis something to be great and wise,
'Tis better to be good.
O, say to all things good and true,
“My feet were made to follow you.”

Come here, my wife, and sit by me,
And place your hand in mine,
(And yours, my child,) while I have you
'Tis wicked to repine.
We've had our share of sorrows, dear,
We've had our graves to fill;
But thank the good God overhead,
We have each other still.
We've nothing in the world beside,
For we are only three;
Mother and child, my wife and child,
How dear you are to me.
I know, indeed, I always knew,
My feet were made to follow you!

LOVE'S WILL.

Love always looks for love again.
If ever single, it is twain,
And till it finds its counterpart
It bears about an aching heart.
Glory is with itself content,
Wisdom, with what the gods have sent;
But love, whom they look down upon,
Fond fool, will have all things or none.

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Who dare deny his high demands,
Let them beware, for he hath hands;
Strong hands hath Love, and swift to slay,
And feet that know themselves the way
To where his parted self may be.
“Go, find, and fetch her unto me,”
He cries, and straightway they are twain.
Love always will have love again.

THE FILLET.

Love has a fillet on his eyes,
He sees not with the common ken;
Whom his fine issues touch despise
The censures of indifferent men.
There is in love an inward sight,
That not in wit nor wisdom lies;
He walks in everlasting light,
Despite the fillet on his eyes.

If I love you, and you love me,
It is for solid reasons, Sweet,
For something other than we see,
That satisfies, though incomplete;
Or, if not satisfies, is yet
Not mutable, where so much dies.
Who love, as we, do not regret
There is a fillet on love's eyes.

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A CATCH.

Was ever yet a man,
Since this old world began,
That looked upon a woman bewitched not of her eyes?
Mating, or separating,
Or loving her, or hating,
In all his commerce with her the fool was never wise.

Heigho! It cannot be,
For seeing she is she,
She has him at advantage, in body, and in mind:
Pursuing, or undoing,
She still compels his wooing,
And therefore is it, ladies, that Love is painted blind!

LOVE.

Love is older than his birth.
So a loving poet sung.
How can he be so old, so young,
Born every hour throughout the earth?
Hearts grow cold,
And bells are tolled;
His heart has never ceased to beat,
Still his feet are dancing feet.

Blazing in his strong right hand
Is the hymeneal torch;
He lights the bridegroom from the porch
To where the priests and altars stand;

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Leads the maid,
Who, unafraid,
Passes then from maid to wife,
Knows the secret of her life!

Earth hath kings—he kings them all.
Their rich palaces are his.
They were, and are not, but he is.
He sees great empires rise and fall,
Fall and rise,
With equal eyes;
Nothing disturbs his happy reign,
So our kissing lips remain.

When you press your lips to mine,
What care I for Time or Fate?
Death must pass me by, or wait
For a moment less divine.
Heart to heart,
We cannot part;
Henceforth we breathe immortal breath,
Love is mightier than Death.

AT LAST.

When first the bride and bridegroom wed,
They love their single selves the best;
A sword is in the marriage bed,
Their separate slumbers are not rest.
They quarrel, and make up again,
They give and suffer worlds of pain.
Both right and wrong,
They struggle long,

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Till some good day, when they are old,
Some dark day, when the bells are tolled,
Death having taken their best of life,
They lose themselves, and find each other;
They know that they are husband, wife,
For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!

A DIRGE.

Low lies in dust the honored head,
Cold is the hand that held the sword;
Slowly we bear them to the dead,
And lay them down without a word.

What is there to be said, or done?
They are departed, we remain;
Their race is run, their crowns are won,
They will not come to us again.

Cut off by fate before their prime
Could harvest half the golden years,
All they could leave they left us—time,
All we could give we gave them—tears.

Would they were here, or we were there,
Or both together, heart to heart.
O death in life, we can not bear
To be so near—and so apart!

371

A CARCANET.

Not what the chemists say they be
Are pearls—they never grew;
They come not from the hollow sea,
They come from heaven in dew.

Down in the Indian sea it slips,
Through green and briny whirls,
Where great shells catch it in their lips,
And kiss it into pearls.

If dew can be so beauteous made,
O, why not tears, my girl?
Why not your tears? Be not afraid—
I do but kiss a pearl!

A ROSE SONG.

Why are red roses red?
For roses once were white.
Because the loving nightingales
Sang on their thorns all night,
Sang till the blood they shed
Had dyed the roses red.

Why are white roses white?
For roses once were red.
Because the sorrowing nightingales
Wept when the night was fled,
Wept till their tears of light
Had washed the roses white.

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Why are the roses sweet?
For once they had no scent.
Because one day the Queen of Love
Who to Adonis went
Brushed them with heavenly feet—
That made the roses sweet!

LILIAN.

All men admire you, even I,
Who like you not, pronounce you fair.
Time was I had not passed you by,
You might have caught me with your hair,
That still is beauteous to behold.
If I should liken it to gold,
I should disparage it, and you,
Which, certes, I could never do.

Go, Lilian, go, but ere you leave,
I must an ancient story tell.
Before our father Adam fell,
Before he saw our mother Eve,
He had a wife, whom God the Lord
Made for his mate when He made him;
Tall as he was, and strong of limb,
Of splendid beauty, stern and cold,
Glorious with golden hair, that rolled
Down to her feet. She was so bold
She stung him into savage ire;
Her sharp tongue cut him like a sword,
Wayward as wind, and fierce as fire.
This woman, Lilith, born his wife,
The torment was of Adam's life.

373

He left her, as you may conceive,
And God created mother Eve.
You think the serpent tempted her,
And she our father, but you err;
It was Lilith in the serpent, she
It was who tempted with her lies,
(As once you might have tempted me,)
And lost them Paradise!
Nor was her vengeance sated then,
For, devil as she was at birth,
She has gone up and down the earth
Tempting till now the sons of men.
She captives with unholy arts:
Who loves her, dies. We know her dead—
There is a hair from out her head
Twisted around their hearts!

O lady of the golden hair!
Lilian, or Lilith, when I die,
When this poor heart has ceased to beat,
They will not find you tangled there,
Nor will they find me at your feet,
For, see, I pass you by.
The hair around my heart that day,
If golden once, will then be gray!

GOING HOME.

I went home with Ludmilla,
As I very often do;
We sat on the grass together—
But what is that to you?

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Beneath the trees we chatted,
But not a word of love;
As innocent as children,
Or the birds that sang above.

I squeezed her little fingers,
That pressed, methought, my own.
“Ludmilla, O Ludmilla,
If you were only grown!”

At the cheeks of poor Ludmilla,
Who turned away her head,
You might have lighted a candle,
They blushed so red, so red!

“What is it, dear Ludmilla,
What maiden hopes or fears?”
Her answer to my question
Was a sudden stream of tears.

“Weep not, weep not, Ludmilla,
Or let your tears be few:
My heart is constant ever,
And only beats for you.”

The moon stole out of the darkness,
As bright as bright could be;
She smiled when I kissed my darling,
And wished that she were she.

We'll meet again to-morrow,
And each the promise made:
Then something rustled near us,
But we were not afraid.

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I went home with Ludmilla,
Not as I used to do,
For I covered her with kisses—
But what is that to you?

AT THE WINDOW.

I saw him through the window,
When the new moon was in sight,
Come stealing down the garden,
One balmy summer night.

He tapped upon the window,
“Give me a kiss,” he said;
And straightway I was hidden,
Like a little mouse, in bed.

One eye above the bed-clothes
Was, O, so fast asleep;
But the other beneath—it was lucky
He was not there to peep.

He called again, as eager
As the stag for cooling brooks,
Or the bee that in the lilies
For golden honey looks.

The silence of my chamber—
It almost made me start,
For nothing there betrayed me,
But the beating of my heart.

376

He knocked, and called, and called me,
And his voice, so clear and sweet,
It pulled away the bed-clothes,
And stood me on my feet!

It drew me to the window.
“He must be gone,” I thought.
I raised the window softly,
And peeping out was caught.

Was caught and showered with kisses.
How many did he get?
As many as my blushes,
For I am blushing yet!

SORROW AND JOY.

Tell me what is sorrow? It is a garden-bed.
And what is joy? It is a little rose,
Which in that garden grows.
I plucked it in my youth so royal red,
To weave it in a garland for my head;
It pricked my hand, I let it drop again,
And now I look and long for it in vain.

Tell me what is sorrow? It is an endless sea.
And what is joy? It is a little pearl,
Round which the waters whirl.
I dived deep down, they gave it up to me,
To keep it where my costly jewels be;
It dazzled me, I let it fall again,
And now I look and long for it in vain.

377

Tell me what is sorrow? It is a gloomy cage.
And what is joy? It is a little bird,
Whose song therein is heard.
Opening the door, for I was never sage,
I took it from its perch; with sudden rage
It bit me—bit, I let it go again,
And now I look and long for it in vain.

Tell me when my sorrow shall ended, ended be?
And when return the joy that long since fled?
Not till the garden-bed
Restores the rose; not till the endless sea
Restores the pearl; not till the gloomy cage
Restores the bird; not, poor, old man, till age
Which sorrow is itself, is youth again—
And so I look and long for it in vain!

IN ALSATIA.

Here is a friend shall fight for thee,
Be thou good fellow, and under ban.
Where have I met thee? Let me see,
But, tush! what matter? A man's a man.
This is a hand has handled sword,
So fill up thy can, and clink with me;
Out with thy troubles, thou hast my word,
Here is a friend shall fight for thee.

Thirty years man-at-arms was I,
Trailed pike in Flanders, rough work there,
Stormed forts, sacked cities—pass that by,
Also the women dragged by the hair.

378

There must be soldiers, I suppose,
So long as kings and peoples be.
Marry, sir, 'tis a world of blows,
But here is a friend shall fight for thee.

“Free lance, freebooter,” runs the song,
Writ by some skulking clerk, I wot.
I never do peaceful burghers wrong,
Nor kiss a woman, an she would not.
Never take purse, but from the dead,
That are long past spending, unlike me,
Who seek not your gold, but good instead,
For here is the friend shall fight for thee.

What knaves be these? No friends of mine.
I'll parley with them. What want ye here?
The splash on my ruffle? Pshaw! 'tis wine,
Will draw on ye, dogs, if you dare come near.
Have at ye, then, without a word,
Man enough yet for two or three.
Old fellow, thou hast one friend—thy sword,
For this is the friend that fights for thee!

THE FLOWN BIRD.

The maple leaves are whirled away,
The depths of the great pines are stirred;
Night settles on the sullen day,
As in its nest the mountain bird.
My wandering feet go up and down,
And back and forth, from town to town,
Through the lone woods, and by the sea,
To find the bird that fled from me.

379

I followed, and I follow yet,
I have forgotten to forget.

My heart goes back, but I go on,
Through summer heat, and winter snow;
Poor heart, we are no longer one,
We are divided by our woe.
Go to the nest I built, and call,
She may be hiding, after all,
The empty nest, if that remains,
And leave me in the long, long rains.
My sleeves with tears are always wet,
I have forgotten to forget.

Men know my story, but not me,
For such fidelity, they say,
Exists not—such a man as he
Exists not in the world to-day.
If his light bird has flown the nest,
She is no worse than all the rest;
Constant they are not, only good
To bill and coo, and hatch the brood.
He has but one thing to regret,
He has forgotten to forget.

All day I see the ravens fly,
I hear the sea-birds scream all night;
The moon goes up and down the sky,
And the sun comes in ghostly light.
Leaves whirl, white flakes about me blow—
Are they spring blossoms, or the snow?
Only my hair! Good-bye, my heart,
The time has come for us to part.
Be still, you will be happy yet,
For Death remembers to forget!

380

THE RIVALS.

A king of a most royal line
Stood at his gates, as History saith:
He stretched his hand, he made the sign
To put a captive there to death.

As those who can no further fly
Turn sharp and grasp the deadly swords,
So the poor wretch about to die
Abused the king with bitter words.

“What does he say?” the king began,
To whom his jargon was unknown.
His Vizier, a kind-hearted man,
Who knew that language like his own.

Answered him, “‘O my lord!’ he cries,
‘Who stay their hasty hands from blood—
God made for such men Paradise.
He loves, He will defend the good.’”

The King's great heart was touched at this.
“The captive's blood shall not be shed.”
Then—for a serpent needs must hiss—
A rival of the Vizier said:

“It is not decorous that we
Whose blood comes down from noble springs—
No matter what the end may be,
We should speak truth before our kings.

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The man who kneels respited here
Abused our gracious, clement lord:
There was no blessing, O Vizier,
There was a curse in every word.”

Sternly to him the king: “I see,
You speak the truth, no doubt; but still
His falsehood better pleaseth me,
For he meant good, and you mean ill.

If I should punish, as I might,
(Be thankful that I am not just)
Your head, when I commanded ‘Smite!’
Would roll before me in the dust.”

THE VOICE OF EARTH.

The Caliph Omar came one summer day
Where one of the great House of Ommeyeh
Was to be borne within the sepulcher,
And, straight commanding not a man should stir,
Went down among the tombs with a loud cry,
And left them wondering there. An hour passed by,
And his attendants waited. Then he came,
Like one whose head is bowed with grief or shame.
Red were his eyes with tears he could not check,
And the great veins were swollen on his neck.
“Commander of the Faithful,” then they said,
“What has so long detained you with the dead?”
“I sought their tombs who dearest were,” said he,
“Saluted all, but none saluted me.
I turned my back upon them to depart,
And from the Earth a voice that smote my heart

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Cried out: ‘Omar, why dost not ask of me
Where are the arms, that they salute not thee?’
‘What is become of them?’ And Earth replied:
‘The bands that tied them once have been untied.
The hand, the wrist, the arm, the shoulder-blade,
All now are separated, all decayed.’
Turning my back in terror to depart,
Again the dreadful voice that shook my heart.
Earth called to me once more: ‘Omar, Omar!
Why dost not ask me where the bodies are?’
‘What is become of them?’ And Earth replied:
‘What once were bodies lie on every side.
The shoulders parted from the ribs, and they
From the backbone, the hip bones dropped away,
The two thigh bones, the knees, the legs, the feet,
All have departed, never more to meet.’
I turned me for the third time to depart.
Again the same dark voice that crushed my heart:
‘Attend to me, Omar. Hast thou no shroud
That wears not out?’ And I, with spirit bowed:
‘O, what will not wear out?’ Earth answered: ‘These—
The fear and love of God and his decrees.’”

SAINT AND SINNER.

A certain holy anchorite
Who for himself a cave had made,
Comfortless, in the waste Thebaid,
Where, like a wild beast in his den,
He passed a long life far from men,
Untroubled by the hateful sight
Of woman—this old man austere
Fasted, and scourged himself, and prayed,

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Renouncing all the world holds dear;
His sole thought being, day and night,
How to find favor in God's eyes,
And thereby enter Paradise.

He led this life threescore and ten
Starved years, puffed up with sanctity.
“Who more a saint?” he thought, and then
Prayed God to show him what saint he
Should emulate to holier be;
Thinking, no doubt, like many now,
Who kneel self-righteously, and pray,
That God would stoop from Heaven, and say:
“There is none holier than thou.”

That night God's Angel came to him,
(The sun at noonday would be dim
By the great light that filled the place,)
And said: “If thou in sanctity,
And in the growth of heavenly grace,
Would'st all surpass, thou must do more
Than fast, and scourge thyself, and pray.
Thou must be like, or strive to be,
A certain man; a poet he,
For he upon a pipe doth play,
And sing and beg from door to door.”

He heard in great astonishment,
Arose, and took his staff, and went
Wandering the neighboring country round
To find this poet; whom, when found
(He sat a-piping in the sun,
And sang what songs came in his head,)
He questioned earnestly, and said:
“I pray thee, brother, tell me now

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What good and great work thou hast done?
What path that holy men have trod,
What fast, what penance, or what vow
Makes thee acceptable to God?”

Ashamed to be so questioned, he
Hung down his head as he replied:
“O, father, do not scoff at me;
I know no good work I have done,
And, as for praying, well-a-day,
I so unworthy am to pray,
That, sinner, I have never tried.
I go from door to door and play,
(You caught me piping in the sun,)
Cheering the simple people there,
Who something for my hunger spare.”

The holy man insisted: “Nay,
But in the midst of thy ill life,
(For it is ill, as thou dost say,)
Perhaps some good work thou hast done.”
The singer then: “I know of none.”

Within the hermit's mind a strife
Now rose—the Angel—who could tell
Whether it were from Heaven or Hell?
“How hast thou,” to the poet then,
“Become the beggar that thou art?
Hast thou thy worldly substance spent
In riotous living—women, wine,
Like most that idle craft of thine
Who follow Hellward, sinful men?”

To whom the other, pained at heart,
But not a whit ashamed: “It went

385

Another way. 'Twas thus. I found
A poor, pale woman, running round
Hither and thither, sick, distraught,
(It pains me to recall it yet,)
Her husband, children had been sold
In slavery to pay a debt.
But she was comely to behold,
So certain sons of Belial sought
Her ruin, whom may God condemn!
Her, weeping, to my hut I brought,
And there protected her from them.
I gave her all that I possessed,
Went with her to the city where
Her wretched husband had been sold,
And her young children; found them there
And brought them back. You guess the rest,
For they are happy as of old.
But what of that? In Heaven's name
What man would not have done the same?”

The hermit, smitten to the heart
At the sad tale of that poor wife,
Wept bitterly, saying: “For my part,
I have not done, in all my life
I thought so holy, so much good.
And thou art so misunderstood,
And yet thou makest no complaint;
And men, because I fast and pray,
While thou upon thy pipe dost play,
They call thee Sinner, and me Saint!”

386

BRAHMA'S ANSWER.

Once when the days were ages,
And the old Earth was young,
The high gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages
Her open secrets wrung.
Each questioned each to know
When came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth below.

Indra, the endless giver
Of every gracious thing
The gods to him deliver,
Whose bounty is the river
Of which they are the spring,
Indra, with anxious heart,
Ventures with Vivochuno where Brahma is apart.

“Brahma! Supremest Being!
By whom the worlds are made,
Where we are blind, all-seeing,
Stable, where we are fleeing,
Of Life and Death afraid,
Instruct us, for mankind,
What is the body, Brahma! O Brahma, what the mind?”

Hearing as though he heard not,
So perfect was his rest,
So vast the Soul that erred not,
So wise the lips that stirred not,
His hand upon his breast
He laid, whereat his face
Was mirrored in the river that girt that holy Place.

387

They questioned each the other
What Brahma's answer meant.
Said Vivochuno, “Brother,
Through Brahma the great Mother
Hath spoken her intent,
Man ends as he began—
The shadow on the water is all there is of Man.”

“The Earth with woe is cumbered,
And no man understands:
They see their days are numbered
By one that never slumbered,
Nor stayed his dreadful hands,
I see with Brahma's eyes,
The body is the shadow that on the water lies.”

Thus Indra, looking deeper,
With Brahma's self possessed.
So dry thine eyes, thou weeper,
And rise again, thou sleeper!
The hand on Brahma's breast
Is his divine assent,
Covering the soul that dies not. This is what Brahma meant.

HYMNS OF THE MYSTICS.

[Roses I see, the sweetest roses]

Roses I see, the sweetest roses,
As in the cool kiosk I pass,
Tied in a thousand fragrant posies,
And fastened to the roof with grass.

What has bewitched the grass, I wonder?
It is the humblest weed that grows.

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How comes it that it sits up yonder
And on a level with the rose?

“Silence!” The grass said, and in sadness
Let fall its tears in pearls of dew;
“The generous man robs none of gladness
And never scorns old friends for new.

I am no rose among the roses,
And yet there's not a child but knows
That the poor grass that ties these posies
Is from the Garden of the Rose!”

[The love I bear you, dearest]

The love I bear you, dearest,
Would make the prettiest tale,
If I had for a pen to write it
The bill of a nightingale.

And what should I have for paper?
I know what would be best:
Each page should be a rose-leaf,
As snow white as your breast.

And with such pen and paper
What ink should then be mine?
Tears—when I wrote of my sorrow,
When I wrote of my pleasure—wine!

[The flying of the arrow]

“The flying of the arrow
In the air;
The shifting of the shuttle
In the loom;

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The sinking of the water
In the sand;
The passing from the cradle
To the tomb;
Tell me, Sufi, tell me, is it all?

What the bow that shoots us
Into life?
Where the loom that throws us
To and fro?
Whose the hands that spills us
Into death?
What in the making mars us
Here below?
O tell me, tell me, Sufi, what it is!”

“I see the arrow flying,
Not what sends it,
The bow that shoots it hither,
And who bends it;
I see the shuttle shifting,
Not what throws it,
The weaver who begun it,
And will close it;
I see the water sinking,
Not what spills it;
The emptied pitcher filling,
And who fills it;
But where the arrow flieth,
And what the loom is weaving,
And where the water sinketh,
I do not see at all.
What in the cradle lieth,
And what it is that thinketh,
And what it is that dieth,

390

The living and the leaving,
I do not know at all.
Perhaps it is not, Hadje,
Perhaps it does but seem:
The shadow of a vanished cloud
On a troubled stream;
What some Power remembers—the Phantom of its Dream!”

[Their names who famous were of old]

Their names who famous were of old
Are antiquated; long ago
Camillus, Cæsar, Scipio
Were with forgotten men enrolled.
Augustus, Hadrian, Antonine,
There is an end to all the line.
Where is the hand that grasped the sword?
The brow that wore the diadem?
Let the grave answer, if it can;
Speak, speak, thou dust that once was man!
The hollow grave returns no word,
Oblivion long has buried them.
This fate is theirs, and this alone,
Who in a wondrous way have shone.
For all the rest, who go to death,
As soon as they breathe out their breath,
They are gone—pursuit of them is vain,
And no man speaks of them again.
Since all is dust, then, what remains
That should employ our serious pains?
Just thoughts, as if the gods were by,
Good deeds, and words which never lie:
A disposition that receives,
Accepts what happens, and believes

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The hidden spring from which it flows,
The distant sea to which it goes,
Though by no mortal understood,
Is necessary, wise, and good.
Great names have perished; this survives,
And shapes the issue of our lives.

[Trust not fortune. She will be]

Trust not fortune. She will be
Everything but true to thee.
False and fickle all her life,
The old dame has been the wife
Of a thousand bridegrooms—none
Mourned a day when he was gone.
She delights to desolate,
Very bitter is her hate;
And she hates most when she knows
There are those who scorn her, those
Who rejoice in better things
Than the baubles that she brings,
Conqueror's laurel, crown of kings!
To reject these and be wise
Is a folly in her eyes;
To be good is worse than this,
Since it shows her what she is,
And that she is baffled, too;
For what is there she can do
To the good and to the wise,
Who her earthly dross despise,
For their hearts are in the skies,
Where their heavenly treasure lies!

392

[Men seek retreats, and some retire]

Men seek retreats, and some retire
To country houses; mountains these
Affect, and those the shore of seas:
Thou, too, dost such things much desire.
This is a mark of common men,
Which thou, desiring, shouldst refuse.
There is for thee, when thou shalt choose,
Deeper retirement. Have it, then.
Retire into thyself; nowhere
With greater quiet, lesser care
Than in his own soul man can be,
The seat of all tranquillity;
For rest is nothing else, I find,
Than the good ordering of the mind.
Give, then, thyself to this retreat
Constantly, and thyself renew;
And let thy principles be few,
But like the earth beneath thy feet
Solid, and like the Heaven serene,
For these will keep thy spirit clean.
It will return not as it went,
But free from every discontent.

Desire of the thing called Fame,
The petty wish to leave a name,
Perhaps torments thee. It should not.
See how soon all things are forgot,
Things that are mean and things sublime.
The chaos of unending time
Stretches before thee and behind:
Behold it with a stable mind.
Know that applause is empty; know
That who pretend to give thee praise
Hold not the same mind many days;
And for the praise that flatters so,

393

Think of the narrowness of the space
That circumscribes it. For the earth,
The whole earth, is a point, and small
The nook that is thy dwelling-place;
And few are in it; and from birth
They hasten deathward, one and all.
Who are these men, and what their ways,
That thou shouldst hanker for their praise?

What, then, remains? This there remains,
This territory of thine own.
Retire into it, be alone,
Dismiss what now disturbs, or pains;
Be strong—you may, be free—you can,
And look at all things like a man;
For know that things, or great or small,
Do never touch the soul at all.
And know that all which thou dost see
Changes and will no longer be.
Nothing endures, O Lord, but Thee!

[What harmonious is with thee]

What harmonious is with thee,
O Universe! is so with me,
Nothing too early, or too late,
That is at thy appointed date.
Everything is fruit to me,
Which thy seasons, Nature, bring:
All things from thee, and all in thee,
To thee returneth everything.
“Dear city of Cecropia,”
The poet said its streets who trod:
Wilt thou not say—be wise and say—
“Dear city of the living God!”

394

[Though thou shouldst live a thousand years]

Though thou shouldst live a thousand years,
Whatever fate gives,
Or what refuses,
Let this support thee in thy fears,
Let this console thee in thy tears,
Man loses but the life he lives,
And only lives the life he loses.
Longest and shortest are but one:
The present is the same to all;
The past is done with and forgot;
The future is not yet begun;
Nothing from either can befall,
For none can lose what he has not.
All things from all Eternity
Come round and round the whirling spheres;
It makes no difference if we see
The same things for a hundred years,
Or for a million. They are here.
Who longest lives, who shortest dies,
Loses the same sweet earth and skies,
For they remain—we disappear.

[Pain and pleasure both decay]

Pain and pleasure both decay,
Wealth and poverty depart;
Wisdom makes a longer stay,
Therefore, be thou wise, my heart.

Land remains not, nor do they
Who the lands to-day control.
Kings and princes pass away,
Therefore, be thou fixed, my soul.

395

If by hatred, love, or pride
Thou art shaken, thou art wrong;
Only one thing will abide,
Only goodness can be strong.

[The whole of this great world, I say]

The whole of this great world, I say,
From the first to the last born,
Since it passes swift away,
Is not worth a barley-corn.

To some better world than this
Hie thee—open wide the door
To some chamber—such there is—
Whence thou shalt depart no more.

[When the drum of sickness beats]

When the drum of sickness beats
The change o' th' watch, and we are old,
Farewell youth, and all its sweets,
Fires gone out that leave us cold!

Hairs are white that once were black,
Each of fate the message saith;
And the bending of the back
Salutation is to death.

[To bear what is, to be resigned]

To bear what is, to be resigned,
The mark is of a noble mind.

396

Stir not thy hand, or foot, or heart,
Be not disturbed, for Destiny
Is more attached, O man, to thee
Than to thyself thou art!
If patience had but been thy guest,
Thy destined portion would have come,
And like a lover on thy breast
Have flung itself, and kissed thee dumb!

[Why should man struggle early, late]

Why should man struggle early, late,
When all he is is fixed by Fate?

For everything that comes and goes,
Goes, comes at its appointed date.

The wind is measured as it blows,
The grains of sand have each their weight.

Only the fool can say he chose
The woman that is now his mate.

And so with friends and so with foes,
The rising and the falling State.

'Tis idle to support, oppose,
To open or to shut the gate.

What is we see; but no one knows
What was, or will be, small or great.

Nothing is certain but the close,
And that is hid from us by Fate.

397

[Old Bishop Ivo met one day]

Old Bishop Ivo met one day,
As he went up and down the lands,
A stern, sad woman on her way,
With fire and water in her hands;
In this hand water, that hand fire,
And she was filled with holy ire.

“What mean those symbols, Mother, tell?
And whither go you?” She replies:
“To quench with this the flames of Hell,
With this to burn up Paradise.
Fear, hope must nevermore be known,
But man serve God through love alone.”

[The carver thought, the carver wrought]

The carver thought, the carver wrought,
There was a rapture in his mood;
He saw Our Lady in his thought,
And wrought upon the sandal wood.
His hand would not obey his will,
It faltered and forgot its skill.
“No one will say who sees that face,
‘Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!’”

He dropped his tools, he bowed his head,
He heard a voice that somewhere spoke:
“Go, burn the sandal-wood,” it said,
“And work upon that block of oak.
What one holds not the other may,
The image may be there to-day.”
It was, and all who saw her face
Said, “Mary Mother, full of grace!”

398

[There was of old a Moslem saint]

There was of old a Moslem saint
Named Rabia. On her bed she lay
Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint.
“Send for the holy men to pray.”
And two were sent. The first drew near:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not bow beneath the rod,
And bear the chastening strokes of God.”
Whereto the second, more severe:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not in the rod rejoice,
And make the strokes he bears his choice.”
Then she, who felt that in such pain
The love of self did still remain,
Answered: “No prayers can be sincere
When they from whose wrung hearts they fall
Are not as I am, lying here,
Who long since have forgotten all.
Dear Lord of Love! There is no pain.”
So Rabia, and was well again.

[Said Ibn Abi Wakkoo, whose strong bow]

Said Ibn Abi Wakkoo, whose strong bow
Laid from afar the Prophet's foemen low,
So sure his arrows in their deadly flight,
Was smitten in his age with loss of sight.
As he was led to Mecca, on the way
The men he passed entreated him to pray
To God for them. Whereat his nephew spake,
Feeling great pity for his blindness' sake:
“Uncle, to-day make one thing clear to me.
Thou prayest for others, and God heareth thee;
Why dost thou, then, remain in this thy night?
Why not implore Him to restore thy sight?”

399

“Son of my brother,” with a smile he said,
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head,
“If I see not, God sees, and His decree
Is dearer than the eyes with which I used to see.”

[There came to Nushervan, surnamed the Just]

There came to Nushervan, surnamed the Just,
A certain man, a courtier, with the dust
Of travel on him, and with heart elate.
“I hear,” he said, “that God (His Name be Great!)
Has taken from the world your mortal foe,”
Naming a king whom death had then laid low.
“And did you hear,” the Sultan made reply,
“That I am overlooked, and not to die?
I have no room for exultation, friend,
For, like my rival's life, my life must end.”
The courtier slunk away, abashed and sad,
For he had learned that good news may be bad.

[Let me a simple tale repeat]

Let me a simple tale repeat,
As Sadi wrote it. Thus it ran:
His servants, at a hunting seat,
Were roasting game for Nushervan,
And, as they had no salt there, one
Was sent unto a village near
To fetch some. Ere the man could run,
The Sultan called him back. “Come here.
Take it at a fair price, and see
There is no force, lest there should be
A precedent established so,
Which might the village overthrow.”

400

They asked what damage could ensue
From such a trifle. Whereupon
He answered: “When the race was new
Oppressions were but small and few;
But as the years went on and on
Every new comer added more,
And each was larger than before,
Till what was small had grown so great
It toppled o'er on many a State,
And crushed the people unto dust.
We must be just.” And from that day,
Sadi, I think, goes on to say,
They surnamed Nushervan the Just.

[He needs a guide no longer]

He needs a guide no longer
When he hath found the way
That leads already to the Friend;
He cannot go astray.

He need not search for ladders
To climb with feet and hands,
When on the topmost dome of heaven
His soul already stands.

No messenger nor letter
He needs, when he at rest
Lies folded close in favor
Upon the Sultan's breast.
Rumi, thou needest nothing more,
For what thou hast is best.

401

[How many, many centuries]

How many, many centuries,
When Death's long sleep has closed my eyes,
Mankind will walk above my head,
And I shall never hear their tread.
My kingdom as it came will go,
Another will possess my lands;
They passed from hand to hand, and so
Will pass from mine to other hands.”

This verse was written long ago
Upon the crown of Kai Khosro.

[Walking along the shore one morn]

Walking along the shore one morn,
A holy man by chance I found,
Who by a tiger had been torn,
And had no salve to heal his wound.
Long time he suffered grievous pain,
But not the less to the Most High
He offered thanks. They asked him why?
For answer he thanked God again;
And then to them: “That I am in
No greater peril than you see;
That what has overtaken me
Is but misfortune—and not sin.”

[“Shall we, O Master,” Ke Loo said]

“Shall we, O Master,” Ke Loo said,
“Still serve the spirits of the dead?”
“To serve the dead why should we strive,
Who could not serve them when alive?”

402

“Tell me what death is,” said Ke Loo.
To whom again Confucius saith:
“While life we do not, cannot know,
What can we hope to know of death?”
And further, since he still would seek:
“Ke Loo, I do not care to speak.”

“If you, the Master, speak not, then,
What shall your scholars say to men?”
“Does Heaven speak?” the sage replied,
And as he spoke his spirit sighed:
“The seasons run their endless ways,
The days go by with tireless wing,
And all things come in all the days,
But Heaven—does Heaven say anything?”

THOMAS MOORE.

(May 28, 1879.)

A lord of lyric song was born
A hundred years ago to-day;
Loved of that race that long has worn
The shamrock for the bay.

He sung of wine, and sung of flowers,
Of woman's smile, and woman's tear,
Light songs, that suit our lighter hours,
But O, how bright and dear!

Who will may build the epic verse,
And, Atlas-like, its weight sustain;
Or solemn tragedies rehearse
In high, heroic strain.

403

So be it. But when all is done,
The heart demands for happy days
The lyrics of Anacreon,
And Sappho's tender lays.

Soft souls with these are satisfied.
He loved them, but exacted more,
For his the lash that Horace plied,
The sword Harmodius wore.

Where art thou, Brian, and thy knights,
So dreaded by the flying Dane?
And thou, Con of the Hundred Fights?
Your spirits are not slain!

Strike for us, as ye did of yore,
Be with us, we shall conquer still,
Though Irish kings are crowned no more
On Tara's holy hill.

Perhaps he was not hero born,
Like those he sung—Heaven only knows;
He had the rose without the thorn,
But he deserved the rose.

For underneath its odorous light
His heart was warm, his soul was strong;
He kept his love of Country bright,
And sung her sweetest song.

Therefore her sons have gathered here
To honor him, as few before,
And blazon on his hundredth year
The fame of Thomas Moore.

404

SALVE, REGINA.

The race of greatness never dies.
Here, there, its fiery children rise,
Perform their splendid parts,
And captive take our hearts.

Men, women of heroic mould
Have overcome us from of old;
Crowns waited then, as now,
For every royal brow.

The victor in the Olympian Games—
His name among the proudest names
Was handed deathless down:
To him the olive crown.

And they, the poets, grave and sage,
Stern masters of the tragic stage,
Who moved by art austere
To pity, love, and fear—

To these was given the laurel crown,
Whose lightest leaf conferred renown
That through the ages fled
Still circles each gray head.

But greener laurels cluster now,
World-gathered, on his spacious brow,
In his supremest Place,
Greatest of their great race—

405

Shakespeare! Honor to him, and her
Who stands his grand interpreter,
Stepped out of his broad page
Upon the living stage.

The unseen hands that shape our fate
Moulded her strongly, made her great,
And gave her for her dower
Abundant life and power.

To her the sister Muses came,
Proffered their masks, and promised fame;
She chose the tragic—rose
To its imperial woes.

What queen unqueened is here? What wife,
Whose long bright years of loving life
Are suddenly darkened? Fate
Has crushed, but left her great.

Abandoned for a younger face,
She sees another fill her place,
Be more than she has been—
Most wretched wife and queen!

O royal sufferer! Patient heart!
Lay down thy burdens and depart;
“Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell.”
They ring her passing-bell.

And thine, thy knell shall soon be rung,
Lady, the valor of whose tongue,
That did not urge in vain,
Stung the irresolute Thane

406

To bloody thoughts and deeds of death,
The evil genius of Macbeth;
But thy strong will must break,
And thy poor heart must ache.

Sleeping, she sleeps not; night betrays
The secret that consumes her days.
Behold her where she stands,
And rubs her guilty hands.

From darkness, by the midnight fire,
Withered and weird, in wild attire,
Starts spectral on the scene
The stern, old gipsy queen.

She croons her simple cradle song,
She will redress his ancient wrong—
The rightful heir come back
With Murder on his track.

Commanding, crouching, dangerous, kind,
Confusion in her darkened mind,
The pathos of her years
Compels the soul to tears.

Bring laurels! Go, ye tragic Three,
And strip the sacred laurel-tree,
And at her feet lay down
Here, now, a triple crown.

Salve, Regina! Art and Song,
Dismissed by thee, shall miss thee long,
And keep thy memory green,
Our most illustrious Queen.

407

DIES NATALIS CHRISTI.

Not as of old they came,
With harp and flute, and the shrill sistrum's ring,
Before the chariot of their dusky king,
What time the Sun a-flame
From winter's gloomy solstice did appear,
To light the torches of the coming Year;
With whom the priests, with banner and with shrine,
Past shapes colossal, Sphinx and Pyramid,
And what therein is hid,
The dust of early kings, or lore divine,
Following the morn in slow procession while
The sacred singers clap their hands
Where great Osiris' statue stands,
Who, lost, is found, and guards again the Nile,
Marking the rhythm of that rejoicing chorus
Wherewith they celebrate the birth of Horus,
The son of god Osiris, the happy infant Horus!

Nor as the Magi went,
Before the dawn of Day,
And clomb the mountains from whose steep ascent
They caught the earliest ray,
In robes as spotless as their own desire,
Who silver censers bore, where burned the Sacred Fire.
Lo, in his ivory car,
Like some white cloud inlaid with morning's gold,
The haughty Persian monarch borne in state,
On whom his nobles wait,
Fierce satraps tamed of old,
Mounted upon their camels whose trappings blaze afar.

408

The summit reached, all faces toward the East,
Puts on his wreathed tiara the High-Priest,
And standing reverent there,
Welcomes the rising sun with incense and with prayer.
“Glory to Ormuzd!” all the Magi sing;
“The Just Judge! The All-Seeing!
The Centre of all Being!
The Universal King!
To Mithras, salutation!
The Never-Sleeping, Most-Exalted One,
Who from the golden watch-tower of the sun
Beholds his fair creation!
Created and Creator,
Mithras, Mediator,
Between the Good and Ill, perpetual Mediator!”

Nor as the sterner race,
Who, many gods adoring, most adored
The strong and cruel master of the sword,
Dread Mars, who drove their legions o'er the earth,
Consented for a space
To stoop to harmless mirth.
Rank, like the robe it wore, was laid aside,
Master and slave changed places,
And slaves, with happy faces,
Went strutting round the streets in sudden pride,
Each with the freedman's cap upon his head,
Aping patrician airs, and richly garmented.
The slave was master now,
The master waited on his slave,
What he demanded gave,
Brought wine when he commanded, and chaplets for his brow.
Gifts were exchanged, they loved who late had hated,
The useless sword was sheathed, old feuds were ended,

409

Prisoners were liberated,
And labor was suspended:
The lowest lorded like the best,
Enjoyed his scurril jest,
Nor was imperial Cæsar's self offended.
Equal, as in the years of old,
When gracious Saturn ruled mankind,
And Earth, untilled, brought forth the yellow corn,
And all the gods were of one mind,
Before the evil days were born,
The happy Age of Gold!
To Saturn's temple all repair,
“O Father Saturn, hear our prayer!
Hear, and help, and bring again
The old Saturnian reign,
Gracious Father Saturn, the glad Saturnian reign!”

With other rites the Wise Men of the East,
Prophet, and King, and Priest,
Girded their loins, and hasted from afar,
Led by the light of that auspicious Star
From Sabæan altars to Jerusalem,
Where Herod asked of them,
“Whence are ye come, and why?”
And spirits not their own their tongues unloose:
“Where is He who is born King of the Jews?
We have beheld His planet in the sky,
And come to worship Him.”
Then Herod, troubled, called the Sanhedrim:
“Where shall this Child be born, this King appear?”
“From Bethlehem, in Judæa,
A Governor shall come, as seers foretell,
To rule my chosen people, Israel.”
The Wise Men tarry not; for now the Day
Draws down the West, and in the darkening East

410

Hovers the watchful Star whose light increased
To guide them on their way.
They followed where it led,
Till o'er the Infant's head,
Who wrapt in swaddling bands in a manger lay,
It stood, and filled the place—
Or was it from His face
That more than Light that turned the Night to Day?
They knelt. The holy Child
Stretched out His hands, and smiled,
And took their gifts, gold, frankincense, and myrrh:
Love, awe, divine surprise
Were in His mother's eyes,
As if again the Angel spake to her.
The shepherds ran to see
What the great light might be,
Leaving their flocks untended on the plain,
And what the heavenly song,
So sweet, so clear, so strong,
Of which they did but catch the glad refrain,
Not heard on earth till then,
“Good-will and peace to men!
Glory to God on high! Good-will and peace to men!”

This is the Child foretold
By seers and prophets old;
Of whom, in the beginning, it was said,
The Woman's seed shall bruise the Serpent's head.
Nor was the gracious promise once forgot,
Though man remembered not;
For when the tribes of Israel went astray,
Bowing to other gods that could not save,
Their young men captive, and their strong men slain,
Disconsolate they turned to Him again,
He did not turn away,

411

But, full of mercy, still the promise gave,
The Comforter to them.
There shall come forth a rod on Jesse's stem,
A branch from out his roots. And He shall be
To those who dwell in darkness a great light,
A spirit of counsel and might
That shall subdue, enlighten, and set free.
And Earth, rejoiced, shall see,
Outgrown its ancient hate, that love is best,
Nor to the weak the strong be terrible;
Together then the wolf and lamb shall dwell,
The leopard and the kid lie down to rest,
And a little child shall lead them. This is He.
And He shall judge the nations, and rebuke
The warring sons of men;
Swords shall be beaten into plowshares then,
The murderous spear into the pruning hook;
Nor sword nor spear uplifted as before,
For War shall be no more!
Zion, awake, arise, unloose thy bands!
Arise, put on thy strength, be not cast down!
Put on thy beautiful garments and thy crown,
And stretch thy sceptred hands
Above the subject lands,
Revered, beloved of them,
No captive but a Queen, supreme Jerusalem!
The City of God on Earth! Divine Jerusalem!

Not like a king He came,
With princes and the powerful of the Earth
Gathered around his Virgin Mother's bed,
While priestly hands are laid upon His head,
And heralds through the land proclaim His birth,
And all the happy people shout His name.
Only the Wise Men knew,

412

The Wise Men and the shepherds kneeling round,
Immanuel was found,
The Prince of Peace, who should the Kings of Earth subdue!
These, and the host above,
Who sang the hymn of love,
That rose triumphant then,
“Good-will and peace to men!
God has come down on Earth! Good-will and peace to men!”

THE MASQUE OF THE THREE KINGS.

I.

[Before the Inn at Bethlehem. The Shepherds.]
First Shepherd.
What men be these in brave array!
And who be they that follow them?
They ride before the break of day,
And soon will halt at Bethlehem.

Second Shepherd.
I know them not, but I can see
That they are strangers, and, I guess,
Of noble lineage. They should be
Kings, or the sons of kings—no less.

Third Shepherd.
It may be they have gone astray,
And did not mean to come this way.
I will accost them at the gate,
Hear what they say, and set them straight.
[Enter the three Kings.
Hail, Masters, hail!

413

First King.
And who be ye
That meet us here? We looked to meet
The elders who should wash our feet
And offer hospitality;
Not shepherd swains, with homely looks,
Whose only sceptres are their crooks.

First Shepherd.
True, we are shepherds, nor the first
This city on the hill hath nursed;
For once the Flower of Jesse's Stem
Tended his flocks at Bethlehem.
Thence were we honored in the Past,
And henceforth shall be honored more
Than ever shepherds were before,
For we have seen it all at last.

Second King.
What mean ye, shepherds?

Second Shepherd.
Hear, O King!
Give ear unto a wondrous thing.
We sat and watched our flocks last night,
When suddenly the heavens were bright,
As though a thousand mornings shone.
Amid that Light we saw a Throne,
But not Who sat thereon. Below
We saw the angels come and go,
Glorious and gracious to behold,
With shining wings and harps of gold.
They touched their harps, and sung a song,

414

So low and sweet, so loud and strong,
One might live on it his whole life long.
We knew not half the angels sung,
For it was in an unknown tongue;
But the refrain thereof was plain,
(O, may it never cease again!)
“Glory to God!” it ran, and then,
“Good will on earth, and peace to men!”

Third King.
And this was all?

Third Shepherd.

A Star now stood
Above the heavenly multitude,
Higher than the highest ever trod,
But far below the feet of God.
A moment stood, then settled down
And rested over Bethlehem town,
Whereto there came, as rumor saith,
Along the road from Nazareth,
A man and woman, travelling slow.
They reach the Inn, but find the door
Fastened. There is no room for more.
Where shall the way-worn travellers go?
Only the stable-floor remains,
A stall for chamber, straw for bed,
Where he may rest his weary head,
And she endure her mother-pains.

This is the stable. Enter ye
And greet the Holy Family.

415

II.

[In the Stable. Joseph, Mary, the Child Jesus, and the Three Kings.]
Joseph.
Pray who are ye that thus molest
Poor travellers in their nightly rest?

First King.
Sir, take it not amiss that we
Have come unbidden unto thee,
From the depth of distant lands,
Over mountains, over sands,
Seeking a Child, whose birth, foretold
By seers and oracles of old,
Has long been sought, and promised near.
We followed his Star, and it led us here.

Joseph.
But who are ye, whose looks declare
That not of common folk ye are?
For, peering at ye closely now,
I see a crown on every brow.

First King.
I am Balthazar. My race,
Strong in war and swift in chase,
Was the first of old to trace
Motions of the stars in Space—
What surrounds the Sun's broad track,
Mystery of the Zodiac.
These things to know, not Heaven to dare,
Nor its jealous Power to share,

416

Did Nimrod build his tower on high.
Of his imperious seed am I,
King of Chaldea, Balthazar,
Who have sought thee from afar,
Following thy Child's bright Star,
Bringing, as a king may bring,
A present worthy of a king,
(“King of Jews” they say He is,
But Herod likes it not, I wis,)
This censer, such the Magi swing
In my temple, fetched from thence,
Filled with precious frankincense.

Second King.
I Melchior am, whose kingdom stands
Beyond the swart Egyptian lands,
Under the glare of burning skies,
Nubia, which barren sands enclose,
Save where the lordly current flows
Of Nilus, and my mountains rise
Along the rim of the Red Sea.
Such treasuries no king save me
Had ever. Gold from base to crown,
There is not a river but washes it down!
I fetch thee gold. This wedge behold.

Joseph.
Ah, that is something like, now—gold!

Third King.
I am Caspar. Your wise king,
Solomon o' th' Magic Ring,
Hearing of my rocky shores,
Rich in gold and silver ores,

417

Sent his ships across the seas,
That they should laden be with these,
So his workmen might adorn
His great Temple, wall and floor;
And what precious stones are worn
On the High Priest's breastplate, where
They flash out their imprisoned tire
On the purple stuffs of Tyre
Which are the curtains. Furthermore,
Tusks of ivory white as milk,
And curious, broidered robes of silk,
For his concubines to wear,
Making fairer what was fair.
These I do not offer, sir;
But instead a box of myrrh.

Joseph.
That, too, is something; for they say
Its healing properties are sure.
Moreover, if it fails to cure,
It leads to death the easiest way.
Nay, still is potent; for when death
Has robbed a man of his last breath,
And shut the doorways of the head,
We use it to embalm the dead.

Mary.

The pain is ended
Before the morn:
By none attended,
The child was born.
He lies asleep in these arms of mine,
In this poor stable, among the kine.

418

If what was spoken
Should not be true,
My heart is broken,
My Son, for you:
For never till now, since the world begun,
Has a virgin mother borne a son.

But my soul rejoices,
For, hark, I hear
The heavenly Voices,
Far off and near.
They sing in my soul as they sing in the sky—
Lord, what a happy mother am I.

No great king's daughter
So happy is
When they have brought her
Her child to kiss;
No matter from whom his lineage springs,
For thou, my Son, art the King of kings!

First King.
He stretches out his little hand,
Like one accustomed to command;
He lifts three fingers. There must be
A sacred mystery in Three.

Second King.
But the night is going,
The cock is crowing,
The beasts are stirring in the stall;
We must away
Before the day,
Lest Herod should discover all.

419

For he is crafty, and I fear
His messenger has dogged us here.

[Exeunt the Three Kings.
[Enter Sathanas.
Sathanas.
The kings have gone, with all their train,
But not to Herod's court again.
He will be very wroth with them,
And all the folk in Bethlehem;
For he determined has to slay
All children that are born to-day.
Weep, Rachel, for your children slain!
But one shall live. It suits me not
This Child should perish with the rest;
Though death upon his mother's breast,
Methinks, were better than the lot
Which I perceive is his. For he
Hath been delivered unto me
To work my will on. Child, prepare,
For I shall tempt thee everywhere—
The heavy burden thou must bear,
The awful doubt that follows thy prayer.
I bring not incense, gold, nor myrrh,
For I am not thy worshipper;
But, not to be behind these Kings,
So lavish with their offerings,
I have torn from Eden's Tree
A slip, and planted it for thee,
On the hill of Calvary.
Thou shalt be nailed upon it there,
By Roman soldiers, high in the air,
With a crown of thorns for a diadem,
And die in sight of Jerusalem.

420

The Child Jesus.
Get thee behind me, Satan—so.
I know thee, and myself I know.
What thou hast threatened will befall;
A part thou seest, but not all—
Else thou wouldst worship. Nay, thou dost,
And worshipping thou art not lost;
Saved by Him thou hast withstood,
For thou art Evil—He is Good.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Of all the merry days of old,
When merry days did most abound,
When cups were drained, and catches trolled,
And hearty healths went round,
The best was Christmas, all the rest
But ushers to this royal Guest.

Before he came, from out the wood
The log was dragged with noisy mirth;
With last year's brand the baron stood
Beside the blazing hearth:
Bring in the Yule log! Light it—more—
Now let the wide old chimney roar!

Within the hall, with ivy hung,
They gather, laughing, high and low;
And maids are kissed, if they be young,
Beneath the mistletoe.
If Care appears each thirsty soul
Will drown it in the wassail bowl.

421

He comes—he's here! Let dinner wait
Until the silver trumpets sound.
The boar's head is borne in in state,
With rosemary garlands crowned.
They sing—how does the burden go?
Qui estis in convivio.

What suited feudal days and men
Suits not a later day and race;
Rank has abased itself since then,
Gone is the pride of place.
Except when nature makes them so,
There is no longer high and low.

Put off the crown, put up the sword,
Abhorrent to the heart and mind;
His equal spirit has restored
The manhood of mankind.
Wisely we celebrate His birth,
The benefactor of the Earth.

Wisely and gladly. What was best
Of that old Christmas time is here:
The merry heart, the ready jest,
The hospitable cheer.
Welcome to all, the rich, the poor,
Welcome the beggar at the door.

But merrier be; the children hear,
They must not hear a sigh to-day;
Dear hearts, they must not see a tear,
But laugh, and romp, and play.
Gayly the Christmas Eve began
With many a little maid and man.

422

Looked forward to for days before,
And dreamed about at night, it comes;
They gather at the guarded door,
And their hearts beat like drums.
The door is now flung back, they see,
O sight of sights—the Christmas Tree!

Green as if wet with summer dew,
And fairies there did late carouse,
Loaded with toys as if they grew
On its enchanted boughs,
And lighted candles—what can be
More beauteous than the Christmas Tree?

The children of the poor that night
Hang up their stockings by the bed,
For Santa Claus will surely light
Upon the roof o'erhead,
And stealing in the chamber share
His gifts among the sleepers there.

Be merrier, merrier, young and old,
Let nothing cloud this happy day.
Chime, bells, as if ye never tolled!
And golden moments stay!
Fold, fold your wings, delay your flight,
Prolong this hallowed day and night.

Beneath the cross, beneath the spire,
Wherever Christian people meet,
Around the cheerful household fire,
Along the crowded street,
Blessing has fallen, and prayers forgot
Have risen from hearts that knew it not.

423

Prepare the feast. Unlock the bin,
Bring out to-night the generous wine;
Bring flowers, and have the children in
When you sit down to dine.
Prepare yourselves, put on your best,
To honor every Christmas guest.

The dinner waits, and so do we;
Your arm—this way—find each his place;
The smile on every lip shall be
Received as silent grace.
Be seated all, draw up, and then
Fall to like valiant trenchermen.

This turkey is a royal one,
A king on this alone might dine;
The wine—but taste it—bright the sun
That ripened this good wine;
A little for the children, Dear,
For Christmas comes but once a year.

John, Master George will take some wine;
Be careful of that lady's dress;
Mother, the children think it fine,
Behold their happiness!
Fill up, for bumpers now I call,
“A health to all! God bless us all!”

We are happy. Would that every heart
In this great city, all the poor
Who herd together, hide apart,
The wronged, the evil-doer,
The desperate who shun the light,
O would that these were so to-night!

424

For they are men; the worst are men,
And they must live, and they must die.
Look kindly down upon them, then,
Our Father, and be nigh.
Thy hand is strong to help, to save,
Thou art their Judge beyond the grave!

Be pitiful: they must be fed:
O entertain these guests of thine!
Give these, thy hungry children, bread,
Their water turn to wine!
Make them as happy as Thou art,
O Love Divine! Paternal Heart!

A WEDDING UNDER THE DIRECTORY.

In the French Republic, second year,
About the first of May,
A wedding party went on their way
Under the newly budded trees
In the Garden of the Tuileries,
That was crowded far and near;
And old, and young,
They chatted and sung,
For the wind was mild, and the weather was clear.
This newly wedded groom and bride
Strolled slowly homeward side by side,
He holding her reticule and fan,
And counting himself a happy man,
She thinking herself a happy wife,
And Buddal the brightest season of life.
O, she was fair in her long white dress
Of silk, or satin—who cares which now?

425

With her yellow curls low down on her brow,
Under her flowing bridal veil,
That made her look just a trifle pale,
Pure as the rose-bud in her breast,
(Ah, little bird, to have such a nest
A picture of perfect loveliness!

What do you think of your Aucassin,
O beautiful Nicolette?
He is brave without, and good within,
And he will never forget.
Life is rosy with him to-day,
As he struts along with your big bouquet,
And his jaunty hat—no cockade there!
(Does he think of the 13th Vendimaire?
No, he lives, so he was away,
Or was not in the Rue St. Honoré!)
Do you guess what songs are singing within
The half-turned head of your Aucassin?
Hearken, and you will hear
In your inner ear:
“Ma mie,
Ma douce amie,
Réponds à mes amours.
Fidèle
A cette belle
Je t'aimerai toujours.”

What do you think of your Nicolette,
O Citoyen Aucassin?
Without a coy rose-bud coquette,
She's as chaste as a lily within!
The sprays above her are not so sweet,
Nor the day so debonair,
As she with her delicate, noiseless feet

426

Tripping from stair to stair.
You lucky fellow, you have on your arm
A loving, confiding, perfect charm!
“Tra la! tra la!” her light heart goes
As she trips and skips on the tip of her toes.
Her slippers were made by Bourdon: her hair
Was dressed by Léonard—Peste! Why do you smile?
I know his style,
And, as Buffon says, the style is the man,
The Citoyenne's is à la Persane.
Do you know what pretty chansonette
Runs through the head of your Nicolette?
“Je le veux; car c'est la raison
Que je sois maître en ma maison.”
(That elderly person looking this way
Wrote that vieille ronde gauloise—Beaumarchais.
He is lifting his hat. “Merci, M'sieu.”)
Such is the song she is singing to you:
But deeper down, where her feelings are,
She is crooning the dirge of the queen of Navarre,
(See that she does it never!)
“Je n'ay plus ny père, ny mère,
Ny sœur, ny frère.”
Here she sighs,
And looks in your eyes,
And hopes you will love her forever!

What do you think of the happy pair,
O saucy, pert Dorine?
You only think that you are fair,
And you know you love to be seen.
You have no heart, but plenty of art,
And you flatter yourself that you are smart—
Don't be so quick,
It is my vile English—“Tu est chic!”

427

You are wearing a love of a hat, Dorine,
And what dainty satin shoes!
Whose miniature is that, Dorine,
On your little white neck?
Do you run at his beck?
But remember you still have something to lose.
She heeds me not—she is lost, not won,
And is singing a song of Villon:
“Dictes moy, ou ne en quel pays
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiada, ne Thais
Qui fut sa cousine germaine?”

(He sings.)

“Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra,”
And Nicolette hummed the refrain,
And Dorine went “Tra-la-la.”

(His friend warns him.)

“What are you doing, and why so gay,
Georges Cadoudal? A word in your ear.
Barras and Carnot have seen you here,
Mon cher camarade at Savenay!
O General Cadoudal, fly with your wife,
Madame, beseech him to save his life!
I warn you, ami, have nothing to do
With Pichegru;
For he is as rash as you are brave,
Or you will fall in the Place de Grève,
Riddled with bullets!” “We'll change the strain,”
Said Cadoudal, “with a new refrain:

428

‘Général Cadoudal est mort,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Général Cadoudal est mort,
Est mort et enterré.’”
“Fi donc,” Dorine said. “Mais il est forth.”
And he was, on that terrible day.

TWO KINGS.

“Two kings are dead.”—
Thomas Goffe.

I saw, but whether it was in a dream,
Where Present, Future, Past
Blend and bewilder us, and strange things seem
Familiar—while they last;

Or in the flesh, as walking in the street
We see a friend or foe—
Who knows? I saw a man with faltering feet
Who down a hill did go.

The bleak and barren hill like iron rang
Beneath his fitful tread;
The trees had shed their leaves, and no bird sang—
The birds were flown, or dead.

The time of the year was autumn, and the hour
The last that leaves the light;
For in the sullen West like a great flower
Day faded into Night.

429

What could be more forlorn than that hill-side,
Where, through the withered leaves,
That wrinkled, bent old creature walked and sighed,
That mournfulest of eves?

The grief that looked out of his hollow eyes
Refused to be consoled
By tears, that still would come, with heavy sighs—
Piteous in one so old!

He wrung his trembling hands, and tore his hair,
Then stood as carved in stone,
And stared behind him—there was no one there,
For he was all alone.

“Why are you here in such a woful plight?
Why do you turn your head,
And stare so backward through the glimmering light?”
“Because my Kings are dead.”

“Clearly,” I thought, “his wits have gone astray.”
And then to him I said,
“Your Kings—what Kings? There are none hereto-day—”
“Because the Kings are dead.”

I thought it best to humor this old man,
Who like another Lear
Went wandering down the hill side, weak and wan,
As if his end were near.

“Tell me about them, Sire, for I perceive
That you are kingly, too.
I will go downward with you, by your leave.”
He smiled, and said, “You do.”

430

I scanned him closer, and, to my surprise,
He was not as before;
There was a wild light in his laughing eyes,
And he was old no more!

“O Prince! O King!” he cried; but not to me
His greeting was addressed,
Nor any person there whom I could see.
“My master, and my guest!

Most beautiful art thou of all thy race,
Most gracious and benign;
The right to rule is in thy royal face,
And in those lips of thine.

No robe is rich enough for thee to wear,
What earthly robe could be?
The bright abundance of thy golden hair
Is crown enough for thee.

All things that thou dost look on are made fair.
The eagle's eye sees far;
But thy soft eye sees farther—everywhere
It lights upon a star.

The feet of the mountain does are swift in flight—
Off like the wind they go;
Thou art before them on the mountain height,
And thou art first below.

This to the eye thou art; but to the heart
Whose pulses beat with thine,
Who can declare what happiness thou art?
Declare, O Heart of mine!

431

Dear is the pressure of a woman's hand,
And woman's lips are sweet;
Weak men by her caresses are unmanned,
And grovel at her feet.

But she is not the best of all good things,
For, when I am with thee,
I love thee better, O my King of Kings!
And dost not thou love me?

His presence honors my poor house again,
I give him of my best;
Who would not give his all to entertain
So beautiful a guest?”

“I do not see the King you speak of, Sire.”
The old man shook his head:
“Nor I, for I have lost my heart's desire,
My dear, young King is dead!”

“But where, pray, tell me, have they buried him?”
“I know not, but I guess
That somewhere in a chamber, hushed and dim,
He lies in loveliness.

Wrapped in a purple pall, as if asleep,
His hands upon his breast;
And fair, sad women watch, but do not weep,
Lest they disturb his rest.

Right royally his brother filled his place,
And glorious to behold
Was his tall form, broad chest, and bearded face,
And his great crown of gold.

432

No yellow locks for him, he wears the crown,
And can the helmet wear;
He bears a sword that smites his foemen down,
Who angers him, beware!

For this great King is swift as he is stern,
Nor pity knows, nor fear;
He can see thousands fall, and cities burn,
And never shed a tear.

But war delights him not, for he is wise,
And knows that peace is best.
There is a kindly humor in his eyes,
And he can laugh and jest.

What his dead brother only had begun,
(What rare beginnings those!)
Taken up by his strong will, was straightway done,
Cities and ramparts rose.

This masterful great man, who was my King,
And who was full of cares,
Had time to hear his merry minstrels sing,
And hear his people's prayers.

But he is gone, the strong, the good, the just,
And gone his golden crown;
His sceptre and his sword are in the dust,
His kingdom has gone down.

Low lies that mighty form that filled the throne,
Low lies that royal head;
The race is ended: I am here alone
Because the King is dead!”

433

“Thou strange old man,” I said, “if man thou art,
That growest so thin and pale,
I feel a chillness creeping round my heart
At thy accursèd tale.

Who art thou? Speak!” He spoke not—was not there,
If ever there, had flown,
And left me talking to the empty air,
On the dark hill alone!

“I am the man whom I have seen,” I said,
“I have my story told;
I have a wrinkled face and a gray head,
And I am growing old.

I have outlived my youth, that was so dear,
Seen manhood pass away,
And now have reached the autumn of my year,
The evening of my day.

For lo, in the far West, so lately red,
There is no spark of light;
Darkness below, and darkness overhead—
Alone, alone at night!”

TO THE MEMORY OF KEATS.

(On coming into possession of his copy of “The Rogue: or Guzman de Alfarache.” London, 1634.)

Great Father mine, deceased ere I was born,
And in a classic land renowned of old;
Thy life was happy, but thy death forlorn,
Buried in violets and Roman mold.

434

Thou hast the Laurel, Master of my soul!
Thy name, thou saidst, was writ in water—No,
For while clouds float on high, and billows roll,
Thy name shall worshipped be. Will mine be so?
I kiss thy words as I would kiss thy face,
And put thy book most reverently away.
Girt by thy peers, thou hast an honored place,
Among the kingliest—Byron, Wordsworth, Gray.
If tears will fill mine eyes, am I to blame?
“O smile away the shades, for this is fame!”

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

This man whose homely face you look upon,
Was one of Nature's masterful, great men;
Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won;
Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.
Chosen for large designs, he had the art
Of winning with his humor, and he went
Straight to his mark, which was the human heart;
Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent.
Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,
The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid;
He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road
Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.
Hold, warriors, councilors, kings! All now give place
To this dear benefactor of the Race.

THE VICTORIES OF PEACE.

Soldiers! Brave men that gather here to-day,
Veterans, ye know what war is—none so well,
For you have faced, in many a fatal fray,
The stern arbitrament of shot and shell;

435

Have seen your comrades, brothers, as they fell,
Struck out of life, or maimed for life. Ye know,
Better than civic song like mine can tell,
Red battle-fields where thousands are laid low,
The last victorious charge, the final overthrow!

Peace hath her victories no less renowned
Than war, and they more lasting are, and true;
With olive-leaves, not laurels, they are crowned,
And simple tasks and pleasures they pursue.
We owe these victories to men like you.
Strength such as yours, when nations are betrayed,
Springs on the foemen—certain to subdue.
Upon the deep foundations war has laid
Peace builds her durable home, and is no more dismayed.

To you and your courageous deeds we owe
That this our dear Republic is not dead,
Crushed like the Commonwealths of long ago,
For which in vain their sturdy children bled.
I see your camps, I hear your martial tread
As you go tramping southward. You know best
What followed, as the long months slowly fled,
Drawn battles, victories that were not pressed,
The thousands Carnage stamped in Earth's maternal breast!

Peril and death awaited you afar,
Heart-ache and apprehension were our lot;
We bore at home the burden of the war
Which never for a moment was forgot.
We looked and sighed for letters—that came not,
Imagined all dark reasons for delay,
Struck down, perchance, by some stray picket shot,
Or in the sick bed, where life ebbed away:
We prayed, we wept, we died a thousand deaths each day!

436

But this is ended—ended! What was then
Has vanished like a nightmare, and no more
The slaughter of our best and bravest men,
Our sires, our sons, our brothers, we deplore;
For now, on firmer basis than before,
The up-builded structures of the State remain.
The winds may blow thereon, the waves may roar
And batter against the pillars—but in vain;
War, baffled, beaten so, will not return again.

Peace hath her victories no less renowned
Than war. Her ways are wider; they embrace
More than a thousand city walls surround—
She folds to her impartial heart the Race,
To what shall I compare her perfect face,
Benignant, gracious, calm? No Goddess, she,
Sky-born, superior to time and space,
But human, Woman—Mother, whom to see
Strengthens their hearts and arms, and keeps her children free.

Pursue the wings of morning as she flies
Across the broad and peaceful Continent,
Under the endless arch of summer skies,
To where the evening makes her slow descent,
Reddening the headlands of the firmament,
And the long wave that welters from Japan;
Tell me if the blue heavens were ever bent
Above a happier realm since time began?
God gave the Old World to kings—He kept the New for Man!

Soldiers! The peaceful victories of home
Outweigh the deadly victories of war;
No column consecrates them, no proud dome,
They cost no blood, they heal without a scar.

437

By these the sinews of the nation are
Strengthened, not strained, but kept inviolate,
To grapple with foes at home, and foes afar;
For, soldiers, these preserve, perpetuate
The glory you restored—the greatness of the State!

HISTORY.

The Vision of a Woman comes to me,
As I am walking in the crowded street;
Of more than mortal mold she seems to be,
And bears the dust of empires on her feet.
Gathering below her generations meet,
And Time before her strict tribunal stands.
She sits, impartial, on the judgment seat,
And holds an iron tablet in her hands;
Around her are the scribes who write what she commands.

Back to the dim beginnings of the race,
The far-off, primitive days, she turns her eyes;
She has but to will, and suddenly time and place
Are brought to doom before her. They arise
From unremembered graves, with bitter cries,
Because their evil deeds are known at last,
Their foul abominations, based on lies;
Ashes in vain upon their heads they cast:
We harden our hearts against the unpardonable Past!

Whence came, and when, the families of men
That sparsely peopled earth when she was young?
Who can declare the immeasurable when,
The inconceivable, infinite whence they sprung?
Much-knowing History answers not, and the tongue

438

Of her elder sister, Fable, charms no more:
Gone is the high descent to which they clung,
Children of gods whom mortal mothers bore;
They came not after their gods, but thousands of years before.

They left no history, but lived and died
Like the wild animals round them which they slew;
The woods and streams their ravenous wants supplied,
To hunger and to thirst were all they knew.
The skins of beasts about their loins they drew,
And made themselves rude weapons out of stone,
Sharp arrow-heads and lances, to subdue
Their fellow savages, waylaid alone:
From these beginnings Man and War and Woe have grown.

By slow degrees their dull wits were aware
Of ways less dangerous: they somehow found
They need not track the wild beasts to their lair,
And slay them for their flesh, for in the ground
A power was that brought forth the grains around,
The taste whereof was good: they made them plows
Of flint and bone, which they to hurdles bound
With willow withes, and twigs of forest boughs;
Tame creatures they yoke thereto that break the sods they browse.

Others of these are shepherds, whose live wealth
Whitens the land for leagues, a watchful band,
Near whom the gaunt wolves, baffled, prowl by stealth;
Their tents of skins that summer suns have tanned
Are pitched where rivers fertilize the land;
Young children part the curtains, and look out,
Or, gamboling where their tethered playmates stand,

439

The petted lambs, or kids, they laugh and shout:
Nomadic tribes are these, whom horsemen put to rout.

Before all these are Shadows, born of fear
And hope, that slowly put on Shapes unknown:
They seem to threaten, and they domineer,
Huge, uncouth images of wood and stone,
Set up in templed places, groves that none
Dare violate, and few dare penetrate,
Save those, austere, who wait on them alone,
Gray-bearded, reverend men whose words are fate:
In the stead of their gods they judge the people at the gate.

The will of these high gods they all declare,
What power behind each hideous symbol lies:
Their wrath must be appeased by priestly prayer,
Their mutable favor bought by sacrifice.
Lo, where the smokes of their burnt offerings rise
Grateful to their craving palates,—kindle more!
They scrutinize the world with sleepless eyes,
And harken to the suppliants who implore;
They punish those who scoff, but they bless those who adore!

If they have might, they do not put it forth
To succor their worshippers, nor heed their tears;
For still in every corner of the earth
Are swift, dark horsemen, armed with bows and spears,
Whose sudden war-cries ring in the startled ears
Of the shepherds and husbandmen whom they surround,
Harry and pillage, and enslave for years:
Happier are they whose life-blood stains the ground
Than those they drag away, men, women, children—bound!

440

To guard against these woeful tribulations
Tribes band themselves together, one by one,
Until the growing multitudes are nations.
Then chiefs they choose, and kings: from sire to son
Their lordly lines in clear succession run.
The rustic tills his pastures as before,
And drives his herds home when the day is done;
The merchant, bolder, sails from shore to shore:
Protected, they forget the perilous days of yore.

Artificers come, and industries begin.
The potter turns his wheel, and molds his clay;
Matron and maid at whirring distaffs spin,
Twisting long threads of flax; and all the day
The weaver plies his shuttle, and whiles away
The peaceful hours with songs of battles past;
Strong spear-heads and sharp swords wherewith to slay,
And armor-plates, are hammered out or cast;
Tents lessen, structures rise, and cities are at last.

If men are plundered when the tribes are small,
Slaughtered, enslaved, given over to stripes and blows,
Greater calamities on nations fall,
For hatred in the heart of greatness grows;
All powerful peoples are begotten foes;
Their kings suspect each other, but pretend
Credence of what their lying lips disclose;
Friendly a king may be, but not a friend,
For he seeks by forcible means to gain a peaceable end.

The whirlwind of a thousand battle-storms
Bursts on my sight, interminable cloud
Over all ages, lands, where terrible forms—
Deep Darkness in the darkness—struggle and crowd;
Furrows below as though mankind were plowed,

441

Great armies grappling in the death-embrace,
To whom, unheard, the thunder calls aloud,
Under whom, unfelt, the earthquake rocks the base
Of the imperturbable Earth, which breeds this savage race!

The Vision of a Man—if he were Man—
Who such prodigious armies led to war,
Who Arabia, Libya, India overran,
And, flaming westward like a baleful star,
Across the Asian table-lands his car
Drove to barbaric Thrace, where graven were his
Tremendous deeds on pillars seen afar:
The proud inscription underneath was this:
“Sesostris, King of Kings, Beloved of Ammon is!”

Glimpses of conquerors, imperious ghosts,
That once inhabited tenements of clay;
Glimpses of soldiery, in serried hosts,
And of the encompassed cities where they lay;
Of sharp, incessant attacks, day after day;
Of stout resistance, and night-sallies out;
Of those who sullenly bear their dead away,
And hurriedly strip and bury them—Ah, that shout!
A desperate dash at gates, a stubborn rally—a rout!

Tumultuous ages follow, awful waves
Which the sea of time rolls shoreward more and more;
No longer men, but monsters, soldiers and slaves,
They labor, and fight, and cruel gods adore.
Deserts are where great cities were of yore;
They camp in sight of their ruins, and know it not.
Other cities elsewhere bear the names they bore:
Forgot are old races, new ones are begot,
But there are mighty names that will not be forgot!

442

Out of the whirling tempest that overwhelms
Kingdoms and empires, ruinous conquerors glare;
The brows of some are bright with brazen helms,
Dinted with blows; their diadems others wear;
Purple their robes are, and their swords are bare,
And all drip blood! They menace Man again;
Cambyses, Alexander, Cæsar dare
The world to arms against them; Tamerlane
Comes with his Tartar horde and thousands of captives slain!

And is this all? These surgings to and fro
Of sanguinary forces, are they all?
Enormous rivers of doom they flow and flow
Luridly, darkened by terrors that appall:
Before their fury nations, races fall,
Swept on to annihilation, till at last
Sheer down the steeps of a mighty mountain wall
They plunge—and are no more! Earth stares aghast!
Are these iniquities, then, the substance of the Past?

No! In the Order of the Universe
They are only parts thereof,—the smallest part,
For they have blessed the world they meant to curse,
And have wrested away their sceptres that man's heart
Might govern his lesser brain, and larger art
Than theirs have created, to themselves unknown:
Out of their fertile desolations start
Fresh forms of life that are not overthrown,
Benignant growths of Peace the hands of War had sown.

The would-be conquerors of the Earth were more
Than they conceived: behind their iron hands,
That smote so blindly at the hearts before,
The inscrutable Creator stood—and stands;

443

The everlasting Spirit of Good commands,
For lo, the hands are folded that so late
Grappled and mangled the still-bleeding lands
Where Turk and Muscovite in deadly hate
Struggled to defend and to seize the long-sought Golden Gate

Where battle-pillars were planted cities rose,
And hid the spot where armies were interred;
Above the graves where mouldering kings repose
The hum of busy multitudes is heard;
Sweet thoughts are whispered, happy hearts are stirred,
And hands are joined with holy marriage rites:
Invisible walls of Law the people gird,
Shutting injustice out; and Art invites
All that is divine in man to her diviner heights.

Four Shapes she hath. The first of these is Sound,
The melody of voice and lute and lyre,
That makes the feet trip and the spirits bound;
A sister Shape sits near, but sits up higher,
Fulfilled of solemn songs and portents dire,
With sudden and tragic endings, long foretold;
Two others, lesser in the sacred quire,
But more esteemed of men, color and mold
Greatness and glory and grace that die not, and grow not old.

Slowly but surely in the shock of wars
The ample victories of Peace are wrought.
They bind up new-made wounds, and heal old scars,
They cherish letters, and encourage thought:
Old, dusty scrolls are to the daylight brought,
And copied by pious hands in convent cells;
Philosophy in learned schools is taught;
Religion summons with sonorous bells,
And up cathedral domes the pealing organ swells!

444

All this, and all that was, and is, the eyes
Of the Muse of History at a glance behold.
Unshaken is she, whoever lives or dies,
Calm as a marble statue, and as cold;
Ten thousand plausible lies to her are told,
She neither harkens nor heeds, but guides the pen
Whereby the truth is written from of old.
Austere Observer of the ways of men,
What dost thou think of us, and what wilt thou write—and when?

We stand upon the threshold of great things;
Shall we cross it, and possess them? O, shall we,
Who have not inherited the curse of kings,
Come under their rule hereafter? Shall we be
Among the Commonwealths that once were free,
But soon in Empires sank? Shall Man repeat
His old defeats in us? Or History see
One race in whom all resolute virtues meet,
That will not stand condemned before her judgment seat?

GUESTS OF THE STATE.

(July 4, 1876.)

Victorious in her senate-house she stands,
Mighty among the nations, latest born.
Armed men stood round her cradle, violent hands
Were laid upon her, and her limbs were torn;
Yet she arose, and turned upon her foes,
And, beaten down, arose,
Grim, as who goes to meet
And grapple with Defeat,

445

And pull Destruction from her iron seat!
When saw the Earth another,
O valorous Daughter of imperious Mother,
Who greatly dared as thou?
Making thy land one wide Thermopylæ,
And the long leagues of sea thy Salamis,
Determined to be free
As the unscaled Heaven is,
Whose calm is in thy eyes, whose stars are on thy brow!

Thy children gathered round thee to defend,
O mother of a race of hardy sons!
Left plows to rust in the furrows, snatched their guns,
And rode hot haste as though to meet a friend,
Who might be nigh his end,
Which thou wert not, though often sore beset.
Nor did they fall in vain who fell for thee,
Nor could thy enemies, though its roots they wet
With thy best blood, destroy thy glorious tree,
That on its stem of greatness flowers late.
Hedged with sharp spines it shot up year by year,
As if the planets drew it to their sphere,
The quick earth spouting sap through all its veins.
Till of the days that wait
To see it burst in bloom not one remains,
Not so much as an hour,
For, lo, it is in flower,
Bourgeoned, full blown in an instant! Tree of trees,
The fame whereof has flown across the seas,
Whereat the elder sisters of the race
Have hastened to these walls,
These vast and populous halls,
To look on this Centurial Tree,
And to strike hands with thee,
And see thy happy millions face to face.

446

First comes, as nearest, an imperial dame,
Named for that king's fair daughter whom Jove bore
Through the blue billows to the Cretan shore,
Where she its queen became.
Parent of many peoples, strong and proud,
Comes Europe in her purples, peaceful here:
Her great sword sheathed, and rent the battle-cloud
Wherewith her kings surround her,
The chains that long have bound her
Concealed, though clanking loud,
As stately she draws near.
Hither Europe, great and mean,
Half a slave, and half a queen,
Hear what words are to be spoken,
What the Present doth foretoken,
Hear, and understand, and know,
As did our wiser Mother a hundred years ago.

England, our Mother's Mother! Come, and see
A greater England here! O come, and be
At home with us, your children, for there runs
The same blood in our veins as in your sons;
The same deep-seated love of Liberty
Beats in our hearts. We speak the same good tongue:
Familiar with all songs your bards have sung,
Those large men, Milton, Shakespeare, both are ours.
Come from the shadow of your minster towers,
Vast, venerable, from your storied domes,
Where Glory guards the ashes of the Great,
And your baronial halls, and cottage homes:
Hither, and learn what constitutes a State.
Not royal rulers, who inherit Power,
Which otherwise they never had attained,
Torn from the world in some disastrous hour
By violent kings, whose hands with blood were stained.

447

Nor dukes, nor earls, who trace their pedigrees
Through tortuous lines to some old ancestor,
Who was a yeoman then,
But who became the instrument of these,
And was ennobled, and was man no more:
Not lords, and kings—but men!
England of Sidney, Vane,
What we received from you, receive from us again!

Next come those neighbors twain,
Fair, fickle, courtly France, and sombre Spain.

Shorn of her ancient strength, but potent still,
From her great wall girt city by the Seine,
Shattered by hard beleaguerment, and wild ire
That sacked and set her palaces on fire,
Pulled down her pillared Column in disdain,
Most apt for all things ill;
From her green vineyards, ripening in the sun
On southern slopes their misted, purple blooms,
From cunning workshops, and from busy looms,
And where her princely painters ply their Art,
Artificer and Artist, both in one,
Tempter and Tempted, Syren of mankind,
Of many minds, but not the stable mind,
Keen wit and stormy heart:
With blare of trumpets and with roll of drums
She comes triumphantly—France comes!

Spain, with a grave sedateness,
That well befits her old renown and greatness,
When she put boldly forth to find a world,
Found it, and pillaged it, and with flags unfurled,
Sailed in her galleons homeward, red with blood,
But wealthy with her spoil; nor did the flood

448

Engulf her for her cruelties, blessed, not banned,
By him who holds the keys of Peter in his hand!
They came not to bring peace here, but a sword,
Sharp followers of the meek and loving Lord,
Whom priests and monks were riding, and still ride,
Cowls over crowns, and over all the pride
That arrogates to know the will of God,
Holding alike His sceptre and His rod,
Lighting at once the censer, and the fires
Wherein the poor wretch Heresy expires!
Te Deums then, but now—
But thou dost well to bow,
And cross thyself, and mutter Aves. We,
Who know not thy temptations, cannot know
What their punishment should be;
But Heaven adjusted vengeance long ago,
When the New World passed from thee!

Three follow. Deadly feud
Two cherished many years;
For one was held in bitter servitude,
And flouted for her tears.

But she has risen victorious, and is crowned
Among the nations, with one foe remaining,
Powerless, except in curses, and complaining,
And spiritual thunders that not now confound,
Controlling, where he can,
The consciences of the living, souls of the dead,
Vicegerent of High God in puny man;
More arrogant than She who sat of old
On her Seven Hills, where altar smokes up-curled,
Hungry for blood and gold,
Sleepless, and ever mailed and helmetèd,
Whose legions scourged the World!

449

Free Italy comes hither,
Bringing with her
The memory of her glorious, great dominions,
What time her eagles swept with iron pinions
Three Continents, and her conquerors came home,
Followed by fallen kings, the slaves of Rome;
The memory of her patriots and sages,
That burned like watch-fires through the long, dark ages:
Grave senators, stout captains, famous men
Who wielded sword and pen:
Tasso, Boccaccio, the stern Florentine,
With other children of her royal line,
Who govern the soul and heart
With Music, Song, and Art!

Austria, who wears the crowns of divers lands,
Snatched from pale brows in battle by red hands;
Haught mistress of old peoples, Serb and Slave,
Bohemian, Styrian, stalwart Tyrolese,
Whom now she must provoke and now appease;
From where the waters of the Danube lave
Vienna's walls, and winding past Komorn
Flow southward down through Hungary to the sea;
And where her chamois-hunters wind the horn
Along the Rhetian Alps, she comes, elate,
Peaceful, and prosperous, hither. May she be
A civic nation, with a happier fate
Than fell on her at Sadowa! O may she
Be lenient, juster, wiser than before,
Mother, and not Oppressor,
Redresser, not Transgressor,
And her black eagles' talons rend no more!

But who is she comes with her, with such a mountain air,
And singing on her way,

450

A simple spray of edelweis in her abundant hair,
A cold light in her bright, blue eyes, like that of winter day,
Steady, but sparkling, like her lakes, which Heaven stoops down to see,
And sees itself so clearer? Who may the maiden be?
No maiden, but a matron, mother of sturdy men,
Whose lion spirits Nature with independence fills,
Walled in with kingdoms, empires, and the everlasting hills.
Perhaps they have been conquered: but tell us where and when.
Not where her Arnold grasped the Austrian spears,
Nor when the Tuileries gave up its king,
And they were hacked in pieces! All the years
Have seen them dying, dying,
But never flying,
Unless they followed Victory's crimson wing!
As peaceful as the bosom of their lakes,
As rugged as the Alps which are their home,
Along whose granite feet their rivers foam,
As dreadful as the thunder when it shakes
Its lightnings over Jura! Heart and hand
Welcome the sole Republic—Switzerland.

With these come other three,
One kingdom and two empires, all at peace,
But dreaming of new warfare. Who shall say
When they may draw their million swords, and slay
The poor, unpitied peoples? What release
These have from them, and what the end may be?

Six years of doubtful greatness, hardly won,
Hath She possessed, and guarded day and night,
Forging huge cannon, in her grim delight,

451

To do (mistaken!) what can not be done.
The weak will band against her when she becomes too strong,
The strong will fall upon her when she becomes too weak,
And none will plead for her who smote them long,
Nor will her children turn the over-smitten cheek.
They sow but ill who sow the seeds of hate,
For while the harvests grow, the reapers wait.
Another Jena may efface Sedan,
And Kaiser (grant it, God!) give place to Man.
She should be greater in good things than they
Who sit on thrones about her, Pope and Czar,
For she was born beneath a better star,
And had good men to guide her on her way.
“Iron and blood” are curses
That hatch out sure reverses:
For Conquest flies from Carnage, which she brings,
Borne down in the lost battle by its tremendous wings!
Be greater than thy neighbors, Germany,
Severe step-mother, whom thy sons forsake
For peace and freedom elsewhere. Glory lies
Not in thine arms, but arts, in what is wise
Among thy thinkers, scholars, who partake
Of a larger nature than belongs to thee.
Better the land whose battles Luther fought
Than that of Frederick, misnamed the Great;
To which the deaf Beethoven, harkening, brought
God's chapel music; for which Goethe thought;
A prosperous People, not a powerful State!

But who is she, woman of northern blood,
With fells of yellow hair and ruddy looks,
Berserker wife, with many an ocean son?
Her robe is hemmed with mountains, fringed with fiords,

452

With scattered islands sown like pearls thereon,
Rivers therein as plentiful as brooks.
Her feet are in the seas, and arctic birds
Hover and scream about her; on her brow
The shadows of great pine woods: like the flood
Enters, and like the pine stands Sweden now!

Towering above and dwarfing these a Shape
Enormous and portentous. She looks down
And captives with her smile, and with her frown
Destroys, till none escape.
Her head in arctic winters, she looks round,
Westward and eastward, from the wild White Cape,
Across Siberian wastes to Behring Strait.
In the far distance her sharp eyes are glancing
To where her feet are stealthily advancing,
On peoples whom her Cossacks will surround,
On kings they will unking, and temples great
Whose gods they will destroy, or mutilate,
Despite the many hands that smite no more.
Southward, to where the mountain passes lead
To India; from her red Crimean shore,
Where she beheld in rage her children bleed,
Southward, along the waters, till she sees
Minarets and mosques,
Green gardens, cool kiosks,
Seraglios, where the Sultan lolls at ease—
She scarce can keep her hands off, for her hands
Pluck empires from her pathway! She commands
Her myriads, they obey: her shadows darken
Europe, Asia, who to her whispers harken,
Dreading her voice of thunder,
And the foot that tramples them under—
So comes imperious Russia! Giantess
With thin spots in her armor, forged too fast

453

Of outworn breastplates of old generations,
Her strength enfeebled by sparse populations,
Nomadic in the steppes: if she were less
She would be greater; she has grown too vast.
What does she see within her and without her?
What guards has sovereign Nature set about her?
Above an icy ocean, and below
Innumerable streams that come and go,
Through wildernesses, and unherded plains,
Long mountain ranges, where the snow remains,
And mocks the short-lived summer, penal mines,
Where poor, enslaved, rebellious Poland pines,
Chastising armies on her wide frontiers,
Where, imminent, War appears!
These things, O Russia! are thy weakness, these
Thy hard misfortune; nor can all thy state
Their terrible force abate,
Nor thy great cities, nor thy navied Seas,
Colossal Sister, whom we welcome here
To these high halls in this Centurial Year!

Who is this Woman of majestic mien?
More than woman, less than Queen,
Her long robe trailed with the dust
Of the old, ruined cities wherein she
Sate, abject, head bowed, in dead apathy,
Till some young, cruel hunter, spying, thrust
(Half in anger, half in play,)
His sharp spear at her as he rode that way,
Grazing her heart, till, startled back to life,
She rose, and fled, and hid among the tombs,
Safer where gaunt hyenas were at strife,
Than where men were! O wretched and forlorn!
Why art thou living? O why wert thou born?

454

Where are the many crowns that thou hast worn,
Discrowned One, and the many sceptres where?
Thy face is furrowed, furrowed, and thy hair
(Still golden) is disheveled! O what dooms
Have fallen upon thee! O what suns are set!
Thy far eyes see them yet.
The light of lost dominion lingers there,
The melancholy evening of regret;
And in thine ears what voices of despair,
The wailings of thy myriad children slain
By Mede and Roman, Turk and Tartar hordes,
The rush of onset and the din of swords,
Gengis, and Bajazet, and Tamerlane:
Weep, Asia, weep again!
Another in thy place,
So suddenly we did not see thee go;
Thou wert, and here she is! If there was woe,
There is no trace thereof in her untroubled face.
Who can declare the stature of this Woman,
The simple light of wonder in her eyes,
The strange, mysterious gloom that deeper lies,
And whether she be Godlike, or be Human?
Unhusbanded, and primitive;
But now, behold, her children live,
Crowding about her knees, the Mother of the Race!
Tents arise, and flocks are fed,
And men begin to bury dead.
O Shepherdess, thy sons depart,
The tents, the flocks, and where they were;
Cities gather, and thou art
No Shepherdess, but Worshipper.
For round thee exhalations rise,
Which men, beholding, straightway say,
“Lo, these are Gods!” and go their way,
And carve in wood, and mold in clay,

455

And cut in stone rude images
Hideous thereof, and bow to these,
Thou being their Priestess, both when they
Bring their first-fruits and on the altars lay,
And when their yearling lambs they sacrifice
To Gods that know not of it, nor any thing.
The ruler at the gate is now a king,
Has armèd men and horsemen, and is to battle gone,
Headed and goaded on by thee, O more than Amazon,
Whose once white robe is purple, whose strong right hand is red—
Heap ashes on thy head,
Thou dark, infuriate Mother, whose children's blood is shed!
Who shall declare her, from her garment's hem
To the tall towers of her great diadem,
Goddess! Gone again—
For here poor, ruined Asia weeps, and weeps in vain!

With her are certain of her peoples—they
Who dwell in far Cathay;
They, neighboring, who their island empire hold;
They, less remote, more old,
Who live in sacred Ind.

What shall we call
This Curious One, who builded a great wall,
That, rivers crossing, skirting mountain steeps,
Did not keep out but let in the Invader;
Who is what her ancients made her;
Who neither wholly wakes, nor wholly sleeps,
Fool at once and sage,
Childhood of more than patriarchal age?
With twinkling, almond eyes, and little feet,
She totters hither, from her fields of flowers,

456

From where Pekin uplifts its pictured towers,
And from the markets where her merchants meet
And barter with the world. We close our eyes,
And see her otherwise.
(Perhaps the spell began
With the quaint figures on her painted fan.)
At first she is a Land,
A stretch of plains and mountains, and long rivers,
Down which her inland tribute she delivers
To the sea cities: where a child may stand,
A man may climb, plants are, and shrubs, and trees;
Arable every where,
No idlers there
In that vast hive-world of industrious bees.
Now she is many persons, many things,
The little and the great;
The Emperor plowing in the Sacred Field,
What time the New-Year comes in solemn state:
A soldier, with his matchlock, bow, and shield,
Behind the many-bannered dragon wings;
A bonze, where the high pagodas rise,
And Buddha sits, cross-legged, in rapt repose;
A husbandman that goes
And sows his fields with wheat,
And gathers in his harvests, dries his tea;
Hunter, from whom the silver pheasant flies;
Boatman, whose boat floats downward to the sea;
Sailor, whose junk is clumsy; woodman, who
Cuts camphor-trees, and groves of tall bamboo;
Gardens, where flowers and fruits together grow,
The banyan and pomegranate, and the palm,
And the great water-lily, white as snow;
Rivers, with low squat bridges; every where
Women and children; beardless men, with queues,
In tunics, short wide trowsers, silken shoes,

457

Some with the peakèd caps of Mandarins;
Behold the ruby button burning there,
And yonder severed head that ghastly grins;
Old hill-side tombs, where mourners still repair;
Innumerous Bustle, immemorial Calm—
And this is China!

She
Who follows quickly—if she woman be—
Is clad in a loose robe, whose flowing folds
Mold out the shape they cover, and discover
To the eye of lord and lover,
The strong limbs, girdled waist, the arm that holds
Her island children, and the breasts that feed.
Woman and mother, why that manly stride,
And the two swords at thy side?
Offended or defended, who must bleed?
Her face is powdered, painted, and her hair,
Drawn high above her head, with pins of gold
Is fastened: if light olive tints are fair,
Fair is her oval face, though over-bold.
Good-humor lights it, frankness and the grace
Of high-born manner, honor, pride of place:
But, looking closer, keener, we discern
Something that can be stern,
Like the dark tempest on her mountain highlands,
The wild typhoons that whirl around her thousand islands!
Most bounteous here, as in her sea girt lands,
Where she stretches forth her hands,
Plucks cocoas and bananas in woods of oak and pine,
Grapes on every vine,
And walks on gold and silver, and knows her power increased,
Nor fears her nobles longer the Lady of the East!

458

What words of what great poet can declare
This woman's fallen greatness, her despair,
The melancholy light in her mild eyes?
She neither lives—nor dies!
First-born of Earth's First Mother, she gave birth
To the infant races, and her dwelling place
Cradled the young religions: face to face,
Her many gods and children walked the Earth.
(Who could know, when Life began,
Which was God, and which was Man?)
Her mountains are the bases of the sky,
Where the gods brooded, uncreate, eternal,
Celestial and infernal,
Indra every where, and Siva nigh—
Thunder voice that in the summer speaks,
Shadow of the wings that fly,
Arrow in the bended bow!
Did they wander down the mountain peaks,
Through the clouds and everlasting snow?
Or did men clamber up, and fetch them down below?
Who may know
What their heads and hands portend,
What the beasts whereon they ride,
And whether these be deified;
What was in the beginning, and shall be in the end?
What matter? Things like these,
Struggles to ascend the ladder of the air,
Plunges to reach unbottomed mysteries,
Have been thy ruin, India, once so fair,
So powerful, prayerful! Hands that clasp in prayer
Let go the sword and sceptre: thou hast seen
Thine roughly wrested from thee, and hast been
A prey to many spoilers, some thine own.
Timor proclaimed himself thy Emperor;
And Baber conquered, beaten thrice before;
And Nadir took thy glorious Peacock Throne;

459

And others, Hindoo, Moslem, self-made kings,
Carved out rich kingdoms from thy wide domains,
Had violent, bloody reigns,
And perished (the gods be thanked!) like meaner things,
If meaner, crueler in thy forests be,
Among the wolves and jackals skulking there,
And dreadful tigers roaring in their lair,
Than these foul beasts that so dismembered thee!
O Mortal and Divine!
The largeness of the primitive world is thine!
The everlasting handywork remains,
In the high mountain ranges, the broad plains,
The wastes, and vast, impenetrable woods,
(Oppressive solitudes
Where no man was,) the multitudinous rivers—
The Gods were generous givers,
If from the heavenly summit of Meru,
Beyond all height, they sent the Ganges down.
Or is it, Goddess, from thy mountained crown,
Far-lifted in the inaccessible blue,
Its waters, rising in perpetual snow,
Come in swift torrents, swollen in their flow
By larger rivers, others swelling them,
All veins to this long stem
Of thy great leaf of verdure? Sacred River,
That from Gangotri goest to the Sea,
Past temples, cities, peoples, Holy Stream,
Whom but to hear of, wish for, see, or touch,
Bathe in, or sing old hymns to, day by day,
Whom but to name a hundred leagues away,
Was to atone for all the sins committed
In three past lives, (for Vishnu so permitted,)
O Ganges! would the Powers could re-deliver
Thy virtues lost, or we renew the dream:
We can restore so much,
India, we cannot yet relinquish Thee!

460

A Vision of a Cloud,
Remote, but floating nearer, looming higher;
Movements therein as if of smothered fire,
And voices that are neither low nor loud.
A Vision of a Shadow, stooping down,
Or rising up: we first behold the feet,
Then the huge, grasping hands; at last the frown
On what should be the face of this Afreet.
A Vision of a Form that lies supine,
Feet in the Indian Ocean, elbow leaning
On a green Atlantic cape, with nothing screening,
Not even a lifted palm-leaf, the fierce shine
Of summer from its blinking, blinded eyes,
The hot sirocco from its desert brain,
Which a great Sea cannot cool: supine it lies—
If chained, it hugs the chain!
Its head is on the mountains, and its hands
Fumble in its long slumber and dull dreams;
They finger cowries in the briny sands,
And dabble in the ooze of shrinking streams.
What happens around it neither hears nor heeds,
Awake or sleeping: over it lizards crawl,
The desert ostrich scampers in its face,
The hippopotamus crushes its river reeds,
Locusts consume, lions tear: it lies through all—
Most brutish of the Race!

A Vision of a River, and a Land
Where no rain falls, which is the river's bed,
Through which it flows from waters far away,
Great lakes, and springs unknown, increasing slow,
Till the midsummer currents, rushing red,
Come overflowing the banks day after day,
Like ocean billows that devour the strand,
Till, lo, there is no land,

461

Save the cliffs of granite that inclose their flow,
And the waste sands beyond; subsiding then
Till Earth comes up again, and the husbandmen
(Chanting old hymns the while)
Sow their sure crops, which till midwinter be
Green, gladdening the old Nile
As he goes on his gracious journey to the Sea!
Land of strange gods, human, and beast, and bird,
Where animals were sacred and adored,
The great bull Apis being of these the chief;
Pasth, with her woman's breast and lion face,
Maned, with her long arms stretching down her thighs;
Nu, with the ram's head and the curlèd horns;
And Athor, whom a templed crown adorns;
And Mut, the vulture. And the higher Three,
The Goddess-Mother Isis, and her lord,
Divine Osiris, whom dark Typhon slew,
For whom, in her great grief,
(Leading unfathered Horus, weeping, too,)
She wandered up and down, lamenting sore,
Searching for lost Osiris: Libya heard
Her lamentations, and her rainy eyes
Flooded the shuddering Nile from shore to shore,
Till she had found, in many a secret place,
The poor dismembered body (can it be
These are supreme Osiris?) whereat she
Gathered the dear remains that Typhon hid,
And builded over each a Pyramid
In thirty cities, and was queen no more;
For Horus governed in his father's stead,
The crowns of Earth and Heaven on his anointed head!
From out the mists of hoar Antiquity
Straggle uncertain figures, gods or men,
Menes, Athothis, Cheops, and Khafren;
No matter who these last were, what they did,

462

Save that each raised a monstrous Pyramid
To house his mummy, and they rise to-day
Rifled thereof! And she
Colossal Woman, couchant in the sands,
Who has a lion's body, paws for hands,
(If she was wingèd, like the Theban one,
The wide-spread wings are gone.)
Nations have fallen round her, but she stands,
Dynasties came and went, but she went not,
She saw the Pharaohs and the Shepherd Kings,
Chariots and horsemen in their dread array,
Cambyses, Alexander, Anthony,
The hosts of standards, and the eagle wings,
Whom, to her ruinous sorrow, Egypt drew:
She saw, and she forgot,
Remembered not the old gods, nor the new,
Which were to her as though they had not been;
Remembered not the opulent, great Queen,
Whom riotous misbecomings so became,
Temptress, whom none could tame,
Splendor and Danger, fatal to beguile;
Remembered not the serpent of old Nile,
Nor the Herculean Roman she loved and overthrew!
Half buried in the sand she lies:
She neither questions, nor replies;
And what is coming, what is gone,
Disturbs her not: she looks straight on,
Under the everlasting skies,
In what Eternal Eyes!
Out of all this a Presence comes, and stands
Full-fronted, as who turns upon the Past,
Modern among the ancients, and the last
Of re-born, risen nations: in her hands,
That once so many sceptres held, and rods,
A palm leaf set with jewels: Princess, she,

463

She has her palaces along the Nile,
Her navies on the Sea;
And in the temples of her fallen gods,
(Not hers, she knows but the One God over all,)
She hears from holy mosques the muezzins call,
“Lo, Allah is Most Great!” And when the dawn
Is drawing near, “Prayer better is than Sleep.”
She rides abroad, her curtains are undrawn,
She walks with lifted veil, nor hides her smile,
Nor the sweet, luminous eyes, where languors creep
No more: she is no more Circassian girl,
But Princess, woman with the mother-breast;
No Cleopatra to dissolve the pearl
And take the asp—the East become the West!
Honor to Egypt, honor,
May Allah smile upon her!
He does; for, while on others waning now,
The Prophet's Crescent broadens on her brow.
O prosper, Egypt, prosper! Nor deplore
What was, and might have been,
When thou wert slave and queen:
Hither, and sing “In Exitu” no more!

Welcome, a thousand welcomes! Our emotion
Demands a speech we have not: it demands
The unutterable largeness of the Ocean,
The immeasurable broadness of the Lands
That own us masters. Who is he shall speak
This language for us? From what mountain peak?
And in the rhythms of what epic Song,
At once serene and strong?
Welcomes, ten thousand welcomes! It is much,
O Sisters, ye have done in coming here,
For from the hour ye touch

464

Our peaceful shores, ye are peaceful, equal, dear!
Not with exultations,
O Sister, Mother Nations,
Do we receive your coming; for more than many see
Comes with ye; do ye see it? It is what is to be
Some day among your myriads, who will no more obey,
But, peaceable or warring, will then find out the way
Themselves to govern: if they tolerate
Kaisers, and Kings, and Princelings, as to-day,
It will be because they pity, and are too good to hate.
The New World is teaching the Old World to be free:
This, her acknowledgment from these, is more
Than all that went before.
Henceforth, America, Man looks up to Thee,
Not down at the dead Republics. Rise, arise!
That all men may behold thee. Be not proud,
Be humble and be wise,
And let thy head be bowed
To the Unknown, Supreme One, who on high
Has willed thee not to die!
Be grateful, watchful, brave,
See that among thy children none shall plunder,
Nor rend asunder,
Swift to detect and punish, and strong to shield and save!
Shall the drums beat, trumpets sound,
And the cannon thunder round?
No, these are warlike noises, and must cease;
Not thus, while the whole world from battle rests,
The Commonwealth receives her honored guests;
She celebrates no Triumphs but of Peace.

465

THE PEARL OF THE PHILIPPINES.

“I hear, Relempago, that you
Were once a famous fisherman,
Who at Negros, or Palawan,
Or, maybe, it was at Zèbou,
Found something precious in the sand,
A nugget washed there by the rain,
That slipped from your too eager hand,
And soon as found was lost again.
If it had been a pearl instead,
(Why does your good wife shake her head?)
I could the story understand;
For I have known so many lost,
And once too often to my cost.
I trade in pearls; I buy and sell.
They say I know their value well.
I have seen some large ones in my day,
Have heard of larger—who shall say
How large these unseen pearls have been?
I don't believe in things unseen.
I hear there's one now at Zèbou
That dwarfs a bird's egg, and outshines
The full moon in its purity.
What say you, is the story true?
And what's the pearl called? Let me see—
The Pearl of all the Philippines.”
'Twas at Manilla, and the three
Sat in a shaded gallery
That looked upon the river, where
All sorts of sailing boats all day
Went skimming round, like gulls at play,
And made a busy picture there.

466

The speaker was—what no one knew,
Except a merchant: Jew with Jew,
A Turk with Turks, Parsee, Hindoo,
But still to one religion true,
And that was Trade: a pleasant guest,
Who, knowing many things, knew best
What governs men, for he was one
Whom many trusted, trusting none.
His host, Relempago, who heard
His questions with an inward shock,
Looked up, but answered not a word.
He was a native Tagaloc;
A man that was not past his prime,
And yet was old before his time.
His face was sad, his hair was gray,
His eyes on something far away.
His wife was younger, and less sad;
A Spanish woman, she was clad
As are the Tagal women; fair,
With all her dark abundant hair,
That was a wonder to behold,
Drawn from her face with pins of gold.
“You have not seen it, I perceive,”
Said the pearl merchant; “nor have I.
I'd have to see it to believe,
And then would rather have you by.
There's no such pearl.” “You spoke of me,”
After a pause his host began:
“Yes, I was once a fisherman,
And loved, though now I hate, the sea.
'Twas twenty—thirty years ago,
And this good lady by my side
Had not been many moons the bride
Of poor but proud Relempago.
That I was poor she did not care,

467

She let me love her—loved again.
She comes of the best blood of Spain;
There is no better any where.
You see what I am. As I said,
I cast my bread upon the sea,
Or from the sea I drew my bread,
What matter, so it came to me?
We loved, were young, our wants were few:
The happiest pair in all Zèbou!
At last a child, and what before
Seemed happiness was more and more
The thing it seemed, the dream come true.
You smile: I see you never knew
A father's pleasure in a child.”
“Pardon, my friend, I never smiled;
I am a father. I have three
Sweet troubles that are dear to me.”
“But ours was not a trouble, no,”
Said simple, good Relempago.
“It was the sweetest, dearest child;
So beautiful, so gay, so wild,
And yet so sensitive and shy,
And given to sudden, strange alarms:
I've seen it in its mother's arms,
Bubbling with laughter, stop and sigh.
It was like neither in the face,
For we are dark, and that was fair;
An infant of another race,
That, born not in their dwelling-place,
Left some poor woman childless there!
A bird that to our nest had flown,
A pearl that in our shell had grown,
We cherished it with double care.
It came to us as legend says
(I know not if the tale be true)

468

Another child in other days
Came hither to depart no more,
Found one bright morning on the shore,
The Infant Jesus of Zèbou.”
“So you, too, had,” the merchant said,
With just a touch of quiet scorn,
“What shall I say—a Krishna born?
But with no halo round its head.
What did you name the boy?” “A girl,
Not boy, and therefore dearer, sweeter,
We called the infant Margarita,
For was she not our precious Pearl?
You, who have children, as you say,
Can guess how much we loved the child,
Watching her growth from day to day,
Grave if she wept, but if she smiled
Delighted with her. We were told
That we grew young as she grew old.
I used to make long voyages,
Before she came, in distant seas,
But now I never left Zèbou,
For there the great pearl-oysters grew,
(And still may grow, for aught I know,
I speak of twenty years ago.)
Though waves were rough and winds were high,
And fathoms down the sea was dark,
And there was danger from the shark,
I shrank from nothing then, for I
Was young and bold and full of life,
And had at home a loving wife,
A darling child, who ran to me,
Stretching her hands out when I came,
And kissed my cheek, and lisped my name,
And sat for hours upon my knee.
What happier sight was there to see?

469

What happier life was there to be?
I lived, my little Pearl, in thee!
O, mother! why did I begin?”
He stopped, and closed his eyes with pain,
Either to keep his tears therein,
Or bring that Vision back again.
“You tell him.”
“Sir,” the lady said,
“My husband bids me tell the tale.
One day the child began to ail;
Its little cheek was first too red,
And then it was too deathly pale.
It burned with fever; inward flame
Consumed it, which no wind could cool;
We bathed it in a mountain pool,
And it was burning all the same.
The next day it was cold—so cold
No fire could warm it. So it lay,
Not crying much, too weak to play,
And looking all the while so old.
So fond, too, of its father, he,
Good man, was more to it than I:
The moment his light step drew nigh
It would no longer stay with me.
I said to him, ‘The child will die.’
But he declared it should not be.”
“'Tis true,” Relempago replied:
“I felt if Margarita died
My heart was broken. And I said,
‘She shall not die till I have tried
Once more to save her.’ What to do?
Then something put into my head
The Infant Jesus of Zèbou.
‘I'll go to him: the Child Divine
Will save this only child of mine.

470

I will present him with a pearl,
And he will spare my little girl,
The largest pearl that I can find,
The one that shall delight his mind.
The purest, best, I give to you,
O Infant Jesus of Zèbou!’
'Twas morning when I made the vow,
And well do I remember now
How light my heart was as I ran
Down to the sea, a happy man!
All that I passed along the way,
The woods around me and above
The plaintive cooing of the dove,
The rustling of the hidden snake,
The wild ducks swimming in the lake,
The hideous lizards large as men,
Nothing, I think, escaped me then,
And nothing will escape to-day.
I reached the shore, untied my boat,
Sprang in, and was again afloat
Upon the wild and angry sea,
That must give up its pearls to me,
Its pearl of pearls! But where to go?
West of the island of Bojo,
Some six miles off, there was a view
Of the cathedral of Zèbou,
Beneath whose dome the Child Divine
Was waiting for that pearl of mine.
Thither I went, and anchored; there
Dived fathoms down, found rocks and sands,
But no pearl-oysters anywhere,
And so came up with empty hands.
Twice, thrice, and—nothing! ‘Cruel sea!
Where hast thou hid thy pearls from me?
But I will have them, nor depart

471

Until I have them, for my heart
Would break, and my dear child would die.
She shall not die! What was that cry?
Only the eagle's scream on high.
Fear not, Relempago!’ Once more,
Down, down, along the rocks and sands
I groped in darkness, tore my hands,
And rose with nothing, as before.
‘O Infant Jesus of Zèbou!
I promised a great pearl to you:
Help me to find it.’ Down again,
It seemed forever, whirled and whirled;
The deep foundations of the world
Engulfed me and my mortal pain;
But not forever, for the sea
That swallowed would not harbor me.
I rose again, I saw the sun,
I felt my dreadful task was done.
My desperate hands had wrenched away
A great pearl-oyster from its bed,
And brought it to the light of day;
Its ragged shell was dripping red,
They bled so then. But all was well,
For in the hollow of that shell
The pearl, pear-shaped and perfect, lay.
My child was saved. No need to tell
How I rejoiced, and how I flew
To the cathedral of Zèbou;
For there the Infant Jesus stands,
And holds my pearl up in his hands.”
He ended. The pearl merchant said,
“You found your daughter better?” “No,”
The wife of poor Relempago
Replied. “He found his daughter dead.”
“'Twas fate,” he answered. “No,” said she,

472

“'Twas God. He gave the child to me;
He took the child, and He knew best:
He reached, and took it from my breast,
And in His hand to-day it shines,
The Pearl of all the Philippines!”

WRATISLAW.

Of all the songs that have been sung,
Of all the tales that have been told,
One never wearies, young or old,
Nor has since this old world was young—
The tale, the song that celebrates
That fiery something in the breast
Which makes man do his worst and best,
And underlies his loves and hates,
The basis of the iron will
That is wrought up at once to kill,
Nor cares whose heart's blood it may spill.
Such strength is grand, no doubt, but still
There is a stronger and a better,
That strikes no blow and knows no fetter,
Yet makes its stubborn sinews bend,
And overcomes it in the end.
The strength of weakness, which above
The angels call the might of love,
And bow to with adoring awe,
As did the little Wratislaw.

Where now the Servian and the Turk,
Born foes, as slave and master are,
Are at their grim old murderous work,
Grappling in most unequal war,

473

Six hundred years ago, or more,
The land was wasted, as to-day,
Overrun, as when the shore gives way
And the wild waves devour the shore,
By Tartar tribes as wild as they,
The barbarous horde of Genghis Khan,
Who scourged mankind as never man
Before or since, as if he were
Hell-sent to pitch his dark pavilions
Upon the grave of slaughtered millions,
And make the earth a sepulchre!
Down from the steppes of Tartary
His countless thousands swept for years,
His long-haired horsemen with their spears,
His bowmen with their arrows keen;
Such pitiless fiends were never seen
Till then, and worst of all was he,
Destruction's self whose iron tread
Shook kingdoms: peaceful peoples lay
Secure before him in Cathay;
He passed that way and they were dead.
Across the swift, swollen winter rivers,
Across the hot, parched summer sands,
With bended bows and bristling quivers,
And spears and scymetars in their hands,
Rushed Tartar, Mongol, Turkoman,
To do the bidding of Genghis Khan,
Through Russia, Poland, down to where
Morava is; they halted there.
Before they came there was—if not
Perpetual peace, which nowhere reigns,
So darkly Nature shapes our ends—
There still were times when men forgot
They had been foes, and might be friends,
Having the same blood in their veins.

474

Princes and peoples prospered. Now—
How do we track the savage sea,
When its spent waves no longer roar,
But by their ravage of the shore
Whose once tall cliffs have ceased to be?
Such was the track of Genghis Khan,
Who from his boyhood overran
The lands, and made their rulers bow
To his imperious will, or whim,
As if the world belonged to him.
Temples and towers were trampled down,
Were pillaged, and were set on fire:
Pagoda, mosque, and Christian spire,
The great walled city, little town,
The herdsman's hut, the monarch's hall,
He pillaged and destroyed them all:
Nor stayed the hands of his rough horde
Who put their dwellers to the sword,
The soldier fighting on the wall,
The old, old man with snow-white hair,
Mothers with children at the breast,
Virgins—but let thy curtain fall,
Oblivion, and conceal the rest!
The work of death was never done,
For everywhere along their track
Were flights of vultures; everywhere
The wolves came trooping from their lair,
Came famished, and went glutted back.
The smoke of battle dimmed the sun,
And darkness like a funeral pall
Was on the ruins, all were black
Save when the embers smouldered red:
It was as if the Earth were dead,
And they heaped ashes on her head!
They halted in Morava. Nay,

475

They were defeated there and then,
By Slavic chiefs and Slavic men,
Warriors more desperate than they,
Whose spears and lances cleft their way
To where their horsemen were at bay,
And horse and rider rolled in dust,
And whose sharp swords with lightning thrust,
Ringing on helmet, armor, shield,
Pierced, clove, until they turned and fled,
And left them masters of the field
Piled with a hundred thousand dead!

This Sir Berka, valiant knight,
Though too old for combat now,
From his castle on the height
Saw, and hungered for the fight,
Saw, but with an anxious brow.
All that day and all the morrow
On his battlements he stood,
Now in joy, and now in sorrow,
Gazing on the distant wood,
In whose depths, like frightened deer,
He saw the Tartars disappear.
Sitting at the old man's side,
But no help to the old man,
Was Ludmilla, once his pride,
Wife of his first-born, his Jan,
Jan, who girt on his good sword,
And pursued the flying horde;
Who returned not with his train,
To the castle gates again,
And who was not with the slain!
She was gazing on his track,
And her heart was sore afeard,
For the Tartars disappeared,

476

And her husband came not back!
There was yet another one
Clinging to Sir Berka's side,
Wratislaw, his youngest son,
Who his sorrow strove to hide,
For some one must be brave, he saw,
And cheer his father, poor, old man,
Whose heart had gone out after Jan,
And had forgotten Wratislaw.
A piece of childhood, for, in sooth,
One might not call the lad a youth;
The suns of twelve short summers had shed
Their light upon his little head,
Upon the golden locks that shone
With greater glory than their own;
The flowers of twelve short springs had come
And looked upon him, like the sun,
And seen their loveliness outdone
By something in his pensive face:
Perhaps it was his winning grace,
Perhaps its might of martyrdom;
For there was that about the boy,
Young as he was, and slight of frame,
Which only tenderness could tame,
And only death destroy.
Such was the child, and such the fire
That in his fair, frail body burned,
As he beheld the wasted land;
He sighed, but wept not, for his sire
Hated the sight of tears; he turned
And shut them back, and kissed his hand.

There are seasons, hours of dread,
When something must be done or said;
Hearts bear much, but their tense chords

477

Must be touched, or they will break.
Nature then, for sorrow's sake,
Smites its silence into words.
The woman's heart was here the first
That into lamentation burst,
And thus the pale Ludmilla spake:
“Ah, my hero, ah, my Jan,
Dearest husband, princely man,
Woe to thy poor wife, to me,
Who have lost my sons with thee!
Woe to thy forefathers' land,
Whose bright star hath set with thine;
It hath now nor head nor hand,
The strongest is as weak as mine.
O, that we have lived to pray
As we must on this dark day,
For we cannot be comforted
But by the thought that thou art dead.
Bitter comfort, dreadful prayer,
Death to thee, to us despair!
But better so, if so it be,
Far better thou wert in thy grave
Than living captive and a slave:
But none can make a slave of thee;
Slaves die a thousand deaths a day,
Thou hast but one death, Jan, and I,
Thy childless widow, bid thee die,
And I will follow!” “Sister, nay,”
Said Wratislaw, and stole to her,
“There is a better Comforter.”

Sir Berka was the last to speak,
And bitter were the words he said,
And piteous were the tears he shed,
For tears would come, and all the same

478

When brushed away they came and came.
“What have I done, Lord, to arouse
Thine anger on our ancient house?
For thou art angry, sure, with me.
Why are its deep foundations shaken?
Why is its last strong pillar taken?
Why am I thus in age forsaken?
Lord God! what have I done to thee?
Behold me here, a broken man,
For they have taken my hero, Jan,
Who should my feeble hands sustain,
And plant my name and race again!
Calamities have fallen before
Upon my house, but not another
Like unto this, and nevermore
Can this befall, for none remain;
For what is she, and what am I?
A weeping woman, not a mother,
And an old man, soon to die!”

The young child, Wratislaw, till now
Had kept his tears back, inly grieved
To see his father so bereaved;
But now they gushed, and his pale brow
Flushed for his brother's childless wife
Who by his father's taunt was stung,
And for himself, for he, though young,
Would not be blotted out of life,
Even by his father's evil tongue.
So with a hurt, proud look he said,
“O father! wherefore dost thou say
That thy great stem is broken—dead,
Because one branch is torn away?
True, Jan is gone, but Jan lives still,
And Wratislaw is still with thee;

479

It is his duty now to be
What the brave Jan was, and to fill,
Till he returns, his vacant place,
And so uphold the name and race.”
Sir Berka answered not, but smiled,
A smile that was not good to see,
Then, turning to his daughter, he:
“The spirit of his ancestry
Flames up a moment in the child,
Crackles in words, but words are wild,
For deeds, not words, are wanted now.
To think this weakling sprung from me,
This slip from our ancestral tree!
He has his mother's eye and face,
And he repeats her saintly race,
Not mine, by Heaven! his woman's hand
Will never bear the battle brand,
It may the censer; he shall be
A servant in some pious place,
And pray for me with shaven brow;
And if I live—but I shall die,
He shall prepare me for the sky!”
The child a moment crouching low,
For every word had been a blow
That smote his heart, started at length,
And rose up in his boyish strength:
“My lord and father, we are taught,
By holy men in Holy Writ,
The boasted strength of man is naught,
Unless the Lord sustaineth it.”
“Peace! I have heard the words before,
And I will hear the words no more;
They will not rescue my poor Jan
From the claw of Genghis Khan!”
Sadly, but proudly, Wratislaw,

480

Whose courage in his clear blue eye
Shot like a falcon through the sky,
Answered, but with a voice of awe,
“God's ways are not the ways of man,
For when He wills the weak are strong:
And, father, thou hast done me wrong;
But thou my face no more shall see,
For, though the sword I cannot draw,
I will go find my brother Jan.
Farewell; he will return with me.”

Before Sir Berka could reply
The boy had gone, but none knew where,
Had vanished, like a flying hare
That in an instant flashes by.
They sought him here, they sought him there,
They rode, they ran, like hounds in cry,
But nowhere found a trace of him;
For how he vanished no man saw,
So swift the steed, and strong of limb—
If steed he saddled for the flight
That swept him from his father's sight.
Sir Berka was a woeful man;
Before he had but lost his Jan,
Now he had lost his Wratislaw!
He cursed his wild, unpitying mood,
He cursed his dark and savage heart
That now against itself took part,
Because too late it understood
How dear the boy was, and how good.
He loved him now, if not before,
But he had always loved him, yes,
And hungered for his fond caress,
And now he loved him more and more.

481

Sir Berka was an altered man,
Whether he sat within his hall,
Or wandered slowly round his lands;
His wrinkled features grew more wan,
More white his hair that used to fall
So darkly down his shoulders; all
The man was shaken, most his hands,
That scarce could carve his meat, and raise
The wine cup to his withered lips;
He had no hope of better days,
A strong soul setting in eclipse.
Darkly Sir Berka's days were spent,
Darkly the seasons came and went;
Whether the flowers of spring were growing,
Whether the summer fruits were glowing,
Whether the autumn winds were blowing,
Whether the winter sky was snowing,
He knew not, cared not; all he saw
Was nothing to this lonely man,
Since tidings there were none of Jan,
And none of Wratislaw!
He had but one strong hold of life,
That poor, weak, fading, childless wife,
Whose pardon twenty times a day
He begged, whose dear head he caressed,
And closely to his bosom pressed,
Lest she, too, should be torn away.

One day, as thus disconsolate
Sir Berka sat within his hall,
A stranger rode up to the wall,
And halted at the castle gate:
A stalwart figure came in sight,
Of whom, if one but marked his height,

482

The noble carriage of his head,
He would—he must at once have said,
The stranger is a valiant knight.
He looked at first a Christian man,
But one who journeyed from afar,
And Christian armor surely wore,
But closer like a Tartar khan,
For he was dark or tanned, and bore,
As the khans did, a scymetar.
He strode—he seemed to know the way—
Straight through the castle to the door
That opened in Sir Berka's hall;
He strode between him and the day
That smote his shadow on the floor,
Weaponed, and broad, and tall.
He kneeled down at the old man's chair,
And at his childless daughter's feet,
Whose startled heart did strangely beat,
As if a ghost were there!
“Who is this kneeling, silent man?”
“O father, it is Jan!”
Who will may paint this, or may try,
I will go on, and tell the rest;
The secrets of the human breast
Are not for every curious eye.
Pass over, then, the shock of meeting,
Sir Berka's and Ludmilla's greeting,
And see the son and husband seated
Between his father and his wife,
Holding a hand in each hard palm,
Erect, and resolute, and calm.
They asked the story of his life
Since that destructive, glorious hour
That broke the dreaded Tartar's power.
This is the story he repeated;

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“You stood upon the battlement
That day and watched the way I went;
You saw a portion of the fight;
The Tartars fled, and we pursued
Pell-mell behind the multitude,
And harried their disastrous flight.
They fled like hares, in such dismay
That had we numbered man for man
There would not be a Tartar clan
Upon the earth to-day!
But one fled not, but stood at bay,
With ten or twelve brave fellows more,
All horsemen; by the garb he wore
He should have been a khan.
He rode at me, and I at him,
We fought like men who fight to die,
Not careless, though, of life or limb,
But with a wary eye.
I smote his helmet off, and might
Have cloven his Tartar skull in twain,
But when I saw his hair was white,
I could not strike him,—wrong, perchance,
But I would do the like again.
He smiled, and shot a lightning glance
Full in my face, but never stirred;
He waved his hand without a word,
And in an instant I was bound,
Tied hand and foot upon my horse,
And borne, as all were borne along,
For now the panic was so strong
That nothing could withstand its force.
It was not long before I found
That old, bare-headed, white-haired man
I should have slain was Genghis Khan!
At first I knew the way they fled,

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The woods they pierced, the streams they crossed,
The mountain passes and defiles;
But when one flees a thousand miles,
And sees strange starlight overhead,
The knowledge of his path is lost.
I only knew, or cared to know,
That they were driven back, and back,
That they were harried on their track,
That thousands perished in the snow;
I thanked the Lord God it was so!
I suffered somewhat, but you see
It did not make an end of me,
For, father, here I am with thee,
With thee, Ludmilla.” Neither spake,
For fear, perhaps, their tears would break,
Their full hearts overflow.
“At last we reached the Tartar land,
The kingdom that is Genghis Khan's,
The remnant of a thousand clans,
But still a mighty band.
Pass lightly over them and him,
For they were sullen, he was grim,
And had a hasty hand.
Pass lightly over what came next,
As over a dream that long perplexed
The short hours of the night, and fled,
And left the morning in its stead,
And me—not as it threatened, dead,
But living, as I am to-day.
For God the Lord is strong to save
The hearts that trust him; only say
That I was there a slave.
You know what that is, you have seen
Those who have Tartar captives been,
But never one, I think, like me;

485

Or so, at least, thought Genghis Khan.
Dark man! he knew enough of man
To know that I was free,
And would be, though in chains, until
Death or deliverance came; his will
Was met and matched by mine; so he—
He went his way, and I went mine.
He never saw me peak and pine,
Nor heard me sigh for rest.
I thought to fill a Tartar grave
Were better than to live—a slave,
But God knew better, He knew best.
I was not wholly downcast; I
Believed the day and hour would come
(May Heaven forgive me if I lie!)
When I should rise, and journey home
And be with you—I was in heart;
There was no day, there was no hour
But I was here; no earthly power
Could keep our souls apart!
I saw you as I see you now,
With fewer furrows on your brow,
Father; and you, Ludmilla, saw,
And my young brother, Wratislaw,
His frank blue eyes, his yellow hair,
There never was a child so fair!
I think we never understood
How brave he was, as brave as good.”
Sir Berka groaned, Ludmilla sighed;
But Jan went on, with tender pride:
“I loved the boy; my own dear son—
If God had pleased to send me one—
Could not have dearer been than he,
The flower of all our family!
Night after night I dreamed of him,

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Bright dreams that did till morning last;
At length they lessened and were dim,
At last they vanished in the past.
Then suddenly I was aware,
Still in my dreams that sadder grew,
That something, some one followed me,
Some one did day and night pursue;
It might be beast, it might be man,
The face, the form I could not see,
Nor knew I when it was, or where:
And once my name was shouted, ‘Jan!’
This happened many moons ago,
When mountain sides were white with snow,
And I was slave to Genghis Khan.
One day he summoned me; I went,
And found him in his battle tent,
Girt round by bowmen; there I saw—
Great God!—my brother Wratislaw!
The grim, old king looked up and smiled.
‘Come here, my slave, beside this child;
Behold how pale he is, how weak,
His wasted form, his sunken cheek;
He says he is your brother, says
He comes to get your freedom,—he
Who sees the end of all his days
Is nigh, death waiting, comes to me,
Offers himself to be my slave,
If I will set you free.
Slavonian, speak, I know you brave.
Would you advise this less than man
(Support him, for he faints you see,)
To be the slave of Genghis Khan?’
My brother proudly raised his head,
And with a flashing eye he said,
‘Look not upon my wasted frame,

487

For thine will one day be the same,
But think, remember how I came,
Over mountain, over plain,
Where thy flying clans were slain,
Where unburied they remain;
From far Morava to thy throne
I came, but did not come alone,
For God was with me, led my hand,
Guided the feet that bore me here,
Through Poland, Russia, Tartar land;
Six moons of travel for a man,
Through ways a man might fear.
Now listen, therefore, Genghis Khan,
For God speaks through me and to thee:
Thou art to set my brother free,
I am to be thy slave!
The youngest I, the oldest he;
A man with one foot in the grave
Our father, with no son but Jan,
My brother, who is wed to one
That loves him, but has borne no son;
He must return, and I remain.
But hear, O Genghis Khan, again,
If thou refuse, what will be done:
Thou hast seven sons, and all men say
That they are what thy sons should be;
But thou shalt see them fade away
In seven short months, and from to-day,
But not if Jan is free.’
Seven long, dark days of dread suspense,
Days, ages that would not depart,
Interminable and intense,
That almost broke my heart—
I could not suffer more—
Then I was summoned, as before,

488

By Genghis Khan, who thus began:
‘Slavonian, I have sent for you,
For you have done what few have dared,
Fought hand to hand with Genghis Khan,
Who, when he sees him, knows a man,
And, fighting, knows if he is brave;
It was for this your life was spared,
And you were made a slave.
I have subdued, and can subdue.
It suits me now to set you free,
Not for yourself, but for your brother,
For I have never seen another
That was as brave as he.
I have seven brothers, but not one
Would do for me what he has done;
I have seven sons, but not a son
Would do the same for me:
I would not do it for any man,
And not for God—if God there be—
For I am Genghis Khan!
But for that boy, that tender bird
That from his nest should not have stirred,
Too stout of heart, too weak of wing,
Methinks I would do anything.
Take him, and go. Through all my land
I have sent word that you are free;
Return to peace and happiness;
Depart, and think no more of me!’
I knelt and kissed—I could no less—
His world-dividing hand.”
“And Wratislaw?” “But you shall hear.
They brought me armor, mine, you see,
And that great helmet shagged with hair,
And from his own side Genghis Khan
Took off the scymetar I wear;

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They girt it on me—I was free!
Two steeds were brought me to pursue
My long, long journey back to you.
I rode, for all the ways were clear,
I rode and rode, as if for life,
And here I am, the same old Jan.”
“But Wratislaw?” He rose up then,
And led his father and his wife
Straight to the casement, whence they saw
In the court-yard two Tartar steeds,
And his squire holding them: like reeds
They trembled, for two serving-men
Bore something forward—Wratislaw?
No, no, it was not he they bore
With slow steps through the castle gate,
And up the stairs, and in the hall.
It was a strong box, that was all,
Studded with knobs and bands of gold;
And it was heavy, too, to hold,
The bearers drooped beneath the weight;
An oaken chest, wherein of old
Brave Genghis Khan his treasure stored,
The crowns he had conquered with his great sword,
A treasure chest, no more.
Jan put his hand within his breast,
And then took out a curious key,
And, kneeling down where they could see,
Unlocked the treasure chest.
Yes, it was Wratislaw! He died
The day he found his brother Jan,
Died then, and almost at his side.
Struck with his greatness, Genghis Khan,
Whose stormy soul for once was calmed,
Had the dear body then embalmed.
It was his body that they saw,

490

The treasure there was Wratislaw!
They stood and looked at one another,
Like men whose days are nearly done:
“I thank thee, God, for such a brother!”
“I thank thee, God, for such a son!”
How beautiful he was! The child
Was lovelier than in life: his face
Had caught a more than earthly grace;
It was as if an angel smiled,
But a strong angel, one whose might
Was manifested there in light,
To which the light of day was dim.
Yes, it was Wratislaw who slept.
In the rich chest of Genghis Khan.
His promise had been kept,
For he had found his brother Jan,
And Jan had now returned with him.

THE DEAD MASTER.

It is appointed unto man to die.
Where Life is Death is, dominating Life,
Wresting the sceptre from its feeble grasp,
And trampling on its dust. From the first hour
When the first child upon its mother's breast
Lay heavily, with no breath on its cold lips,
To the last hour when the last man shall die,
And the race be extinct—Death never came,
Nor ever will come, without apprehension.
The dying may be ready to depart,
For sleep and death are one to them; but we

491

Who love them, and survive them—unto whom
The places they once filled are filled no more,
For whom a light has gone out of the sun,
A shadow fallen on noonday, unto us,
Who love our dead, Death always comes too soon,
A consternation, and a lamentation,
The sorrow of all sorrows, till in turn
We follow them, and others mourn for us.

This tragic lesson of mortality
The Master who hath left us learned in youth,
When the Muse found him wandering by the stream
That sparkled, singing, at his father's door—
The first Muse whom the New World, loving long,
Wooed in the depths of her old solitude.
The green, untrodden, world-wide wilderness
Surrendered to the soul of this young man
The secret of its silence. Centuries passed;
The red man chased the deer, and tracked the bear
To his high mountain den—but he came not.
The white man followed; the great woods were felled,
And in the clearings cottage smokes arose,
And fields were white with harvests: he came not.
The New World waited for him, and the words
Which should disburden the dumb mystery
That darkened its strange life, when summer days
Steeped the green boughs with light, and winter nights
Looked down like Death upon the dead, old world;
For what was Earth but the great tomb of man,
And suns and planets but sepulchral urns
Filled with the awful ashes of the Past?

Such was the first sad message to mankind
Of this young poet, who was never young,
So heavily the old burden of the Earth

492

Weighed on his soul from boyhood. Yet not less,
Not less, but more he loved her; for if she
Was sombre with her secret she was still
Beautiful as a goddess; and if he
Should one day look upon her face no more,
He would not cease to look till that day came:
For he for life was dedicate to her,
The inspiration of his earliest song,
The happy memory of his sterner years,
The consolation of his ripe, old age.
What she was to the eyes of lesser men,
Which only glance at the rough husk of things,
She never was to him;—but day and night
A loveliness, a might, a mystery,
A Presence never wholly understood,
The broken shadow of some unknown Power,
Which overflows all forms, but is not Form—
The inscrutable Spirit of the Universe!
High-priest whose temple was the woods, he felt
Their melancholy grandeur, and the awe
That ancientness and solitude beget,
Strange intimations of invisible things,
Which, while they seem to sadden, give delight,
And hurt not, but persuade the soul to prayer:
For, silent in the barren ways of men,
Under green roofs of overhanging boughs,
Where the Creator's hands are never stayed,
The soul recovers her forgotten speech,
The lost religion of her infancy.

Nature hath sacred seasons of her own,
And reverent poets to interpret them.
But she hath other singers, unto whom
The twinkle of a dew-drop in the grass,
The sudden singing of an unseen bird,

493

The pensive brightness of the evening star,
Are revelations of a loveliness
For which there is no language known to man,
Except the eloquent language of the eye,
Hushed with the fullness of her happiness.
What may be known of these recondite things
Our grave, sweet poet knew: for unto him
The Goddess of the Earth revealed herself
As to no other poet of the time,
Save only him who slumbers at Grasmere,
His Brother,—not his Master. From the hour
When first he wandered by his native stream
To crop the violets growing on its banks,
And list to the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
To the last hour of his long, honored life,
He never faltered in his love of Nature.
Recluse with men, her dear society,
Welcome at all times, savored of content,
Brightened his happy moments, and consoled
His hours of gloom. A student of the woods
And of the fields, he was their calendar,
Knew when the first pale wind-flower would appear,
And when the last wild-fowl would take its flight;
Where the cunning squirrel had his granary,
And where the industrious bee had stored her sweets.
Go where he would, he was not solitary,
Flowers nodded gayly to him, wayside brooks
Slipped by him laughingly, while the emulous birds
Showered lyric raptures that provoked his own.
The winds were his companions on the hills—
The clouds, and thunders—and the glorious Sun,
Whose bright beneficence sustains the world,
A visible symbol of the Omnipotent,
Whom not to worship were to be more blind
Than those of old who worshipped stocks and stones.

494

Who loves and lives with Nature tolerates
Baseness in nothing; high and solemn thoughts
Are his, clean deeds and honorable life.
If he be poet, as our Master was,
His song will be a mighty argument,
Heroic in its structure to support
The weight of the world forever! All great things
Are native to it, as the Sun to Heaven.
Such was thy song, O Master! and such fame
As only the kings of thought receive, is thine;
Be happy with it in thy larger life
Where Time is not, and the sad word—Farewell!

HYMN TO THE SEA.

If there is nothing sure but the unsure,
Which is at once its cradle and its grave,
Creative and destructive, hand that molds,
And feet that trample, instruments of Change,
Which is itself the instrument of Power:
If these, our bodies, conscious of themselves,
And cognizable by others like themselves,
Waste and supply their forces day by day,
Till there is nothing left of what they were,
The whole man being re-made from head to foot;
How comes it then, I say, that standing here
Beside the waters of this quiet bay,
Which welter shoreward, roughened by the wind,
Twinkling in sunshine, I am the same man
Who gazed upon them thirty years ago,
Lulled by their placid motion, and the sense
Of something happy they begat in me?

I saunter by the shore and lose myself
In the blue waters, stretching on, and on,

495

Beyond the low-lying headland, dark with woods,
And on to the green waste of sea, content
To be alone—but I am not alone,
For solitude like this is populous,
And its abundant life of sky and sun,
High-floating clouds, low mists, and wheeling birds,
And waves that ripple shoreward all day long,
Whether the tide is setting in or out,
Forever rippling shoreward, dark and bright,
As lights and shadows and the shifting winds
Pursue each other in their endless play,
Is more than the companionship of man.

I know our inland landscapes, pleasant fields,
Where lazy cattle browse, and chew the cud;
The smooth declivities of quiet vales:
The swell of uplands, and the stretch of woods,
Within whose shady places Solitude
Holds her perpetual court. They touch me not,
Or only touch me in my shallowest moods,
And leave no recollection. They are naught.
But thou, O Sea, whose majesty and might
Are mild and beautiful in this still bay,
But terrible in the mid-ocean deeps,
I never see thee but my soul goes out
To thee, and is sustained and comforted;
For she discovers in herself, or thee,
A stern necessity for stronger life,
And strength to live it: she surrenders all
She had, and was, and is possessed of more,
With more to come—endurance, patience, peace.

I love thee, Ocean, and delight in thee,
Thy color, motion, vastness,—all the eye
Takes in from shore, and on the tossing waves;

496

Nothing escapes me, not the least of weeds
That shrivels and blackens on the barren sand.
I have been walking on the yellow sands,
Watching the long, white, ragged fringe of foam
The waves had washed up on the curves of beach,
The endless fluctuation of the waves,
The circuit of the sea-gulls, low, aloft,
Dipping their wings an instant in the brine,
And urging their swift flight to distant woods,
And round and over all the perfect sky,
Clear, cloudless, luminous in the summer noon.

I have been sitting on the stern, gray rocks,
That push their way up from the under-world,
And shoulder the waves aside, and musing there
The sea of Time has ebbed with me, and I,
Borne backward with it, have beheld the Past,
Times, places, generations, all that was
From the infancy of Earth. The primitive race,
That skulked in caves, and wore the skin of beasts:
Shepherds and herdsmen, whose nomadic tents
Were pitched by river-banks in pasture-lands,
Where no man was before them; husbandmen,
Who shaped out for themselves rude implements
Of tillage, and for whom the Earth brought forth
The first of harvests, happy when the sheaves
Were gathered in, for robber-bands were near—
Horsemen with spears, who seized their flocks and herds,
And led their wives and children captive—all
Save those who perished fighting sold as slaves!
Rapine and murder triumph. I behold
The shock of armies in forgotten fields,
The flight of arrows, and the flash of swords,
Shields pierced, and helmets cloven, and hosts gone down
Behind the scythèd chariots: cities girt

497

By grim, beleaguering, formidable foes,
With battering-rams that breach the tottering walls,
And crush the gaunt defenders; mailèd men
That ride against each other and are unhorsed
Where lances shiver and the dreadful sweep
Of the battle-ax makes havoc: thunderous guns
Belching destruction through the sulphurous cloud
That wraps the league-long lines of infantry;
The charge of cavalry on hollow squares—
Sharp shots, and riderless horses! This is War,
And these are men—thy children, Earth! The Sea
Has never bred such monsters, though it swarms
With living things; they have not overrun
Its spacious realms, and left them solitudes:
The desolation of the unfooted waves
Is not of their dark making, but of thine,
Inhospitable, barren, solemn Sea!

Thou wert before the Continents, before
The hollow heavens, which like another sea
Encircles them, and thee; but whence thou wert,
And when thou wast created, is not known.
Antiquity was young when thou wast old.
There is no limit to thy strength, no end
To thy magnificence. Thou goest forth
On thy long journeys to remotest lands,
And comest back unwearied. Tropic isles,
Thick set with pillared palms, delay thee not,
Nor Arctic icebergs hasten thy return.
Summer and winter are alike to thee,
The settled, sullen sorrow of the sky
Empty of light; the laughter of the sun;
The comfortable murmur of the wind
From peaceful countries, and the mad uproar
That storms let loose upon thee in the night

498

Which they create and quicken with sharp, white fire,
And crash of thunders! Thou art terrible
In thy tempestuous moods, when the loud winds
Precipitate their strength against the waves;
They rave, and grapple and wrestle, until at last,
Baffled by their own violence, they fall back,
And thou art calm again, no vestige left
Of the commotion, save the long, slow roll
In summer days on beaches far away.

The heavens look down and see themselves in thee,
And splendors, seen not elsewhere, that surround
The rising and the setting of the sun
Along thy vast and solitary realms.
The blue dominion of the air is thine,
And thine the pomps and pageants of the day,
The light, the glory, the magnificence,
The congregated masses of the clouds,
Islands, and mountains, and long promontories,
Floating at unaccessible heights whereto
Thy fathomless depths are shallow—all are thine.
And thine the silent, happy, awful night,
When over thee and thy charmed waves the moon
Rides high, and when the last of stars is gone,
And darkness covers all things with its pall—
Darkness that was before the worlds were made,
And will be after they are dead. But no,
There is no death—the thing that we call death
Is but another, sadder name for life,
Which is itself an insufficient name,
Faint recognition of that unknown Life—
That Power whose shadow is the Universe.