 | The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton |  |
351
Sonnets.
A Sonnet is a moment's monument—
Memorial from the Soul's Eternity
To one dead, deathless hour.
D. G. Rossetti.
Memorial from the Soul's Eternity
To one dead, deathless hour.
D. G. Rossetti.
353
Love's Rosary.
To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare.
355
I.
LAND OF MY DREAMS.
O spacious, splendid Land that no man knows,
Whose mystery as the tideless sea is deep,
Whose beauty haunts me in the courts of sleep!
What whispering wind from thy hid garden blows,
Sweet with the breath of Love's celestial rose?
What field hast thou that mortal may not reap?
What soft enchantment do those meadows keep
Through which Life's bright, unfathomed river flows?
Whose mystery as the tideless sea is deep,
Whose beauty haunts me in the courts of sleep!
What whispering wind from thy hid garden blows,
Sweet with the breath of Love's celestial rose?
What field hast thou that mortal may not reap?
What soft enchantment do those meadows keep
Through which Life's bright, unfathomed river flows?
I can resist thy charm when noon is high;
Mine ears are deafened while earth's clamors rave;
But now the sun has set, the winds are low,
And Night with her proud company draws nigh,
Thy spell prevails, thy mystic joys I crave—
Land of my Dreams, I will arise and go.
Mine ears are deafened while earth's clamors rave;
But now the sun has set, the winds are low,
And Night with her proud company draws nigh,
Thy spell prevails, thy mystic joys I crave—
Land of my Dreams, I will arise and go.
356
II.
THOUGH WE WERE DUST.
In the vast realms of unconjectured space,
Where devious paths eternally outspread,
Where farthest stars their mighty marches tread,
And unknown suns through unknown systems pace,
What power can give our longing hearts the grace
To follow feet that long ago have fled,
Among the thronging populace of the dead
To find the welcome of the one dear face?
Where devious paths eternally outspread,
Where farthest stars their mighty marches tread,
And unknown suns through unknown systems pace,
What power can give our longing hearts the grace
To follow feet that long ago have fled,
Among the thronging populace of the dead
To find the welcome of the one dear face?
Nay! Let the souls throng round us! I am I,
And you are you! We should not vainly seek:
Would you not hear, though faint and far my call?
Nay, were we dust, and had no lips to speak,
Our very atoms on the winds blown by
Would meet, and cling, whatever might befall.
And you are you! We should not vainly seek:
Would you not hear, though faint and far my call?
Nay, were we dust, and had no lips to speak,
Our very atoms on the winds blown by
Would meet, and cling, whatever might befall.
357
III.
THE ROSE OF DAWN.
How mockingly the morning dawns for me,
Since thou art gone where no pursuing speech,
No prayer, no farthest-sounding cry can reach!
I call, and wait the answer to my plea—
But only hear the stern, dividing sea,
That pauses not, however I beseech,
Breaking, and breaking, on the distant beach
Of that far land whereto thy soul did flee.
Since thou art gone where no pursuing speech,
No prayer, no farthest-sounding cry can reach!
I call, and wait the answer to my plea—
But only hear the stern, dividing sea,
That pauses not, however I beseech,
Breaking, and breaking, on the distant beach
Of that far land whereto thy soul did flee.
Do happy suns shine on thee where thou art?
And kind stars cheer with friendly ray thy night?
And strange birds wake with music strange thy morn?
This beggared world, where thou no more hast part,
Misapprehends the morning's young delight,
And the old grief makes the new day forlorn.
And kind stars cheer with friendly ray thy night?
And strange birds wake with music strange thy morn?
This beggared world, where thou no more hast part,
Misapprehends the morning's young delight,
And the old grief makes the new day forlorn.
358
IV.
THOU REIGNEST STILL.
Thou liv'st and reignest in my memory,
Discrowned of earth, but crowned still in the soul
Subject to thee from pole to utmost pole:—
This is the kingdom thou hast still in fee,
Though Silence and the Night have hidden thee—
King, crowned in joy, and crowned again in dole,
Sovereign and master of my being's whole,
My heart, and life, and all there is of me.
Discrowned of earth, but crowned still in the soul
Subject to thee from pole to utmost pole:—
This is the kingdom thou hast still in fee,
Though Silence and the Night have hidden thee—
King, crowned in joy, and crowned again in dole,
Sovereign and master of my being's whole,
My heart, and life, and all there is of me.
It is thy breath I breathe upon the air;
Thou shinest on me with the stars of night;
Thou risest for me with the morning sun;
I enter Dreamland's Court and find thee there,
And finding quiver with the old delight,
When life and love and hope had just begun.
Thou shinest on me with the stars of night;
Thou risest for me with the morning sun;
I enter Dreamland's Court and find thee there,
And finding quiver with the old delight,
When life and love and hope had just begun.
359
V.
TIME'S PRISONER.
Time was, beloved, when from this far-off place
My words could reach thee, and thine own reply—
Now thou art gone, and my heart's longing cry
Pursues thee, as some runner runs his race—
Cleaves like a bird the emptiness of space,
And falls back, baffled, from the pitiless sky.
Ah, why with thee, so dear, did I not die?
Why should I live benighted of thy face?
My words could reach thee, and thine own reply—
Now thou art gone, and my heart's longing cry
Pursues thee, as some runner runs his race—
Cleaves like a bird the emptiness of space,
And falls back, baffled, from the pitiless sky.
Ah, why with thee, so dear, did I not die?
Why should I live benighted of thy face?
Thou wilt have sped so far before I come—
How shall I ever win to where thou art?
Or, if I find thee, shall I not be dumb—
With voiceless longing break my silent heart?
Nay! Surely thou wilt read mine eyes, and know
That for thy sake all heaven I would forego.
How shall I ever win to where thou art?
Or, if I find thee, shall I not be dumb—
With voiceless longing break my silent heart?
Nay! Surely thou wilt read mine eyes, and know
That for thy sake all heaven I would forego.
360
VI.
“HAVE I NOT LEARNED TO LIVE WITHOUT THEE YET?”
Have I not learned to live without thee yet?—
Years joined to scornful years have mocked my pain;
Light-footed joys have proffered transient gain,
And smiled on me, and wooed me to forget;
And lesser loves my pathway have beset
With cheap enticements. Since my heart was fain,
Sometimes I listened, but their boast was vain,—
They had no coin to pay the old time's debt.
Years joined to scornful years have mocked my pain;
Light-footed joys have proffered transient gain,
And smiled on me, and wooed me to forget;
And lesser loves my pathway have beset
With cheap enticements. Since my heart was fain,
Sometimes I listened, but their boast was vain,—
They had no coin to pay the old time's debt.
And thou? Thou art at rest, and far away
From all the vain delusions of the hour;
Like some forsaken child, I weep by night,
While thou rejoicest in thy perfect day:
Thine is the triumph, thine the immortal power,—
Art thou too glad to mourn for earth's delight?
From all the vain delusions of the hour;
Like some forsaken child, I weep by night,
While thou rejoicest in thy perfect day:
Thine is the triumph, thine the immortal power,—
Art thou too glad to mourn for earth's delight?
361
VII.
A HEAVENLY BIRTHDAY.
Dost thou take note and say, in thy far place,
“This birthday is the first since that dark hour
When on my breast was laid Love's funeral flower?”
Thou hast won all, in the immortal race—
Conquerer of life and death and time and space—
And I, a lagging, beaten runner, cower,
While round me mocking memories jeer and lower,
And from thy far world comes no helpful grace.
“This birthday is the first since that dark hour
When on my breast was laid Love's funeral flower?”
Thou hast won all, in the immortal race—
Conquerer of life and death and time and space—
And I, a lagging, beaten runner, cower,
While round me mocking memories jeer and lower,
And from thy far world comes no helpful grace.
Thou dost not whisper that those heights are cold
Where I walk not beside thee, and the night
Of death is long. Nay, I am over-bold!
Thou sittest comforted and healed with light,
And young and glad; and I who wait am old;
Yet shall I find thee, even in Death's despite.
Where I walk not beside thee, and the night
Of death is long. Nay, I am over-bold!
Thou sittest comforted and healed with light,
And young and glad; and I who wait am old;
Yet shall I find thee, even in Death's despite.
362
VIII.
LETHE.
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain,
And teach the unforgetful to forget?
D. G. Rossetti.
And teach the unforgetful to forget?
D. G. Rossetti.
I tire of phantoms that my heart distrain,
That claim their own, and will not let me rest,
That mock me with old laughter, long-hushed jest,
And of the love I promised once are fain.
Shall I not seek some opiate for pain,
And drug the ceaseless ache within my breast—
Bid Memory “Hence!” as an unwelcome guest,
And smite the joyous chords of Life again?
That claim their own, and will not let me rest,
That mock me with old laughter, long-hushed jest,
And of the love I promised once are fain.
Shall I not seek some opiate for pain,
And drug the ceaseless ache within my breast—
Bid Memory “Hence!” as an unwelcome guest,
And smite the joyous chords of Life again?
Nay! Then must I forbid the dead to speak,
And do the holy past unholy wrong—
Disown its claim—refuse to pay its debt—
All Heaven would look with scorn on one so weak!
I choose, instead, to suffer and be strong—
Give me no Lethe! I will not forget.
And do the holy past unholy wrong—
Disown its claim—refuse to pay its debt—
All Heaven would look with scorn on one so weak!
I choose, instead, to suffer and be strong—
Give me no Lethe! I will not forget.
363
IX.
A SILENT VOICE.
They bid me welcome in the proud New Year,
Crowned with delight, his Minister the Sun—
Monarch, whose sumptuous reign has just begun:
Nay, I am deaf—their shouts I do not hear—
I miss a voice that long ago was dear;
A tender voice, whose lightest call had won
My ear, my heart, my life, till life were done:—
That voice is silent—theirs I will not hear.
Crowned with delight, his Minister the Sun—
Monarch, whose sumptuous reign has just begun:
Nay, I am deaf—their shouts I do not hear—
I miss a voice that long ago was dear;
A tender voice, whose lightest call had won
My ear, my heart, my life, till life were done:—
That voice is silent—theirs I will not hear.
A little bird that finds the winter cold
Comes out, and looks at me, and sings of him
Who made the vanished summers warm; and, bold
With sorrow, calls the New Year's splendor dim.
Nay, bird, he is gone far who used to sing;
And days, and months, and years no message bring.
Comes out, and looks at me, and sings of him
Who made the vanished summers warm; and, bold
With sorrow, calls the New Year's splendor dim.
Nay, bird, he is gone far who used to sing;
And days, and months, and years no message bring.
364
X.
WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED UPON THE AIR.
Were but my spirit loosed upon the air—
By some High Power who could Life's chains unbind,
Set free to seek what most it longs to find—
To no proud Court of Kings would I repair:
I would but climb, once more, a narrow stair,
When day was wearing late, and dusk was kind;
And one should greet me to my failings blind,
Content so I but shared his twilight there.
By some High Power who could Life's chains unbind,
Set free to seek what most it longs to find—
To no proud Court of Kings would I repair:
I would but climb, once more, a narrow stair,
When day was wearing late, and dusk was kind;
And one should greet me to my failings blind,
Content so I but shared his twilight there.
Nay! well I know he waits not as of old—
I could not find him in the old-time place—
I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold,
Through worlds unknown, in strange celestial race,
Whose mystic round no traveller has told,
From star to star, until I see his face.
I could not find him in the old-time place—
I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold,
Through worlds unknown, in strange celestial race,
Whose mystic round no traveller has told,
From star to star, until I see his face.
365
Of Life and Love.
The Accumulated Past.
D. G. Rossetti.
D. G. Rossetti.
367
AT MIDSUMMER.
The spacious Noon enfolds me with its peace—
The affluent Midsummer wraps me round—
So still the earth and air, that scarce a sound
Affronts the silence, and the swift caprice
Of one stray bird's lone call does but increase
The sense of some compelling hush profound,
Some spell by which the whole vast world is bound,
Till star-crowned Night smile downward its release.
The affluent Midsummer wraps me round—
So still the earth and air, that scarce a sound
Affronts the silence, and the swift caprice
Of one stray bird's lone call does but increase
The sense of some compelling hush profound,
Some spell by which the whole vast world is bound,
Till star-crowned Night smile downward its release.
I sit and dream—midway of the long day—
Midway of the glad year—midway of life—
My whole world seems, indeed, to hold its breath:—
For me the sun stands still upon his way—
The winds for one glad hour remit their strife—
Then Day, and Year, and Life whirl on toward Death.
Midway of the glad year—midway of life—
My whole world seems, indeed, to hold its breath:—
For me the sun stands still upon his way—
The winds for one glad hour remit their strife—
Then Day, and Year, and Life whirl on toward Death.
368
THE LIFE-MASK OF KEATS.
Poet to poet gave this mask, of him
Who sang the song of Rapture and Despair;
Who to the Nightingale was kin; aware
Of all the Night's enamouring—the dim
Strange ecstasy of light at the moon's rim;
The unheard melodies that subtly snare
The listening soul—Pan's wayward pipes that dare
To conjure shapes now beautiful, now grim.
Who sang the song of Rapture and Despair;
Who to the Nightingale was kin; aware
Of all the Night's enamouring—the dim
Strange ecstasy of light at the moon's rim;
The unheard melodies that subtly snare
The listening soul—Pan's wayward pipes that dare
To conjure shapes now beautiful, now grim.
He who this life-mask prized so tenderly
Might not behold the semblance that it wore,
The charm ineffable—now sweet, now sad:
But well he knew what loveliness must be
Upon the face of Keats for evermore,
And with his spirit's gaze saw and was glad.
Might not behold the semblance that it wore,
The charm ineffable—now sweet, now sad:
But well he knew what loveliness must be
Upon the face of Keats for evermore,
And with his spirit's gaze saw and was glad.
369
SOUL TO BODY.
Oh, long-time Friend, 'tis many a year since we
Took hands together, and came through the morn,
When thou and day and I were newly born—
And fair the future looked, and glad and free—
A year as long as whole Eternity—
And full of roses with no stinging thorn,
And full of joys that could not be outworn;
And time was measureless for thee and me.
Took hands together, and came through the morn,
When thou and day and I were newly born—
And fair the future looked, and glad and free—
A year as long as whole Eternity—
And full of roses with no stinging thorn,
And full of joys that could not be outworn;
And time was measureless for thee and me.
Long have we fared together, thou and I:
Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow:
Small wonder if I dread to say good-by
When our long pact is over, and I go
To enter strange, new worlds beyond the sky,
Called by that Power to whom no man saith No.
Thou hast grown dearer, as old friends must grow:
Small wonder if I dread to say good-by
When our long pact is over, and I go
To enter strange, new worlds beyond the sky,
Called by that Power to whom no man saith No.
370
AT REST.
Shall I lie down to sleep, and see no more
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky—
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die—
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?
The splendid pageantry of earth and sky—
The proud procession of the stars sweep by;
The white moon sway the sea, and woo the shore;
The morning lark to the far Heaven soar;
The nightingale with the soft dusk draw nigh;
The summer roses bud, and bloom, and die—
Will Life and Life's delight for me be o'er?
Nay! I shall be, in my low silent home,
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware—
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care—
At rest—at rest! What better thing to say?
Of all Earth's gracious ministries aware—
Glad with the gladness of the risen day,
Or gently sad with sadness of the gloam,
Yet done with striving, and foreclosed of care—
At rest—at rest! What better thing to say?
371
SHALL I COMPLAIN?
Shall I complain because the feast is o'er,
And all the banquet lights have ceased to shine?
For joy that was, and is no longer mine;
For love that came and went, and comes no more;
For hopes and dreams that left my open door;
Shall I, who hold the past in fee, repine? ...
Nay! there are those who never quaffed life's wine—
That were the unblest fate one might deplore.
And all the banquet lights have ceased to shine?
For joy that was, and is no longer mine;
For love that came and went, and comes no more;
For hopes and dreams that left my open door;
Shall I, who hold the past in fee, repine? ...
Nay! there are those who never quaffed life's wine—
That were the unblest fate one might deplore.
To sit alone and dream, at set of sun,
When all the world is vague with coming night—
To hear old voices whisper, sweet and low,
And see dear faces steal back, one by one,
And thrill anew to each long-past delight—
Shall I complain, who still this bliss may know?
When all the world is vague with coming night—
To hear old voices whisper, sweet and low,
And see dear faces steal back, one by one,
And thrill anew to each long-past delight—
Shall I complain, who still this bliss may know?
372
PARTING.
'Tis you, not I, have chosen. Love, go free!
No cry of mine shall hold you on your way.
I wept above the dead Past yesterday:—
Let it lie now where all fair dead things be,
Beneath the waves of Time's all-whelming sea.
Forget it or remember—come what may—
The time is past when one could bid it stay:
What boots it any more to you or me?
No cry of mine shall hold you on your way.
I wept above the dead Past yesterday:—
Let it lie now where all fair dead things be,
Beneath the waves of Time's all-whelming sea.
Forget it or remember—come what may—
The time is past when one could bid it stay:
What boots it any more to you or me?
It was my life—what matter?—I am dead,
And if I seem to move, or speak, or smile,
If some strange round of being still I tread
And am not buried, for a little while,
Yet, look you, Love, I am not what I seem:
I died when died my faith in that dear dream.
And if I seem to move, or speak, or smile,
If some strange round of being still I tread
And am not buried, for a little while,
Yet, look you, Love, I am not what I seem:
I died when died my faith in that dear dream.
373
VAIN FREEDOM.
So I am free whom Love held thrall so long!
Now will I flaunt my colors on the air,
And with triumphal music scale heaven's stair,
Till all those shining choirs shall hush their song,
And hark in silent wonder to the strong,
Compelling harmonies that boldly dare
To soar so high, and make the blest aware
That, free like them, I stand their ranks among.
Now will I flaunt my colors on the air,
And with triumphal music scale heaven's stair,
Till all those shining choirs shall hush their song,
And hark in silent wonder to the strong,
Compelling harmonies that boldly dare
To soar so high, and make the blest aware
That, free like them, I stand their ranks among.
Nay! but my triumph mocks me,—chills the day:
Bound would I be, and suffer, and be sad,
Rather than free, and with no heart to ache.
Strong God of Love, still hold me in thy sway!
Give back my human pain; let me go mad
With the old dreams, old tortures, for Love's sake.
Bound would I be, and suffer, and be sad,
Rather than free, and with no heart to ache.
Strong God of Love, still hold me in thy sway!
Give back my human pain; let me go mad
With the old dreams, old tortures, for Love's sake.
374
THE NEW YEAR DAWNS.
The New Year dawns—the sun shines strong and clear;
And all the world rejoices and is gay;
The city-loving birds from spray to spray
Flit busily and twitter in my ear
Their little frozen note of wintry cheer:
From ruddy children with the snow at play
Ring peals of laughter gladder than in May,
While friend greets friend, with “Happy be thy Year!”
And all the world rejoices and is gay;
The city-loving birds from spray to spray
Flit busily and twitter in my ear
Their little frozen note of wintry cheer:
From ruddy children with the snow at play
Ring peals of laughter gladder than in May,
While friend greets friend, with “Happy be thy Year!”
So would I joy, if Thou wert by my side—
So would I laugh, if Thou couldst laugh with me—
But, left alone, in Darkness I abide,
Mocked by a Day that shines no more on thee:
From this too merry world my heart I hide—
My New Year dawns not till thy face I see.
So would I laugh, if Thou couldst laugh with me—
But, left alone, in Darkness I abide,
Mocked by a Day that shines no more on thee:
From this too merry world my heart I hide—
My New Year dawns not till thy face I see.
375
ASPIRATION.
Break, ties that bind me to this world of sense,
Break, now, and loose me on the upper air:—
Those skies are blue; and that far dome is fair
With prophecy of some divine, intense,
Undreamed-of rapture. Ah, from thence
I catch a music that my soul would snare
With its strange sweetness; and I seem aware
Of Life that waits to crown this life's suspense.
Break, now, and loose me on the upper air:—
Those skies are blue; and that far dome is fair
With prophecy of some divine, intense,
Undreamed-of rapture. Ah, from thence
I catch a music that my soul would snare
With its strange sweetness; and I seem aware
Of Life that waits to crown this life's suspense.
I see—I hear—yet to this world I cling—
This fatal world of passion and unrest—
Where loss and pain jeer at each human bliss,
As autumn mocks the fleetness of the spring,
And each morn sees its sunset in the west—
Break, ties that bind me to a world like this!
This fatal world of passion and unrest—
Where loss and pain jeer at each human bliss,
As autumn mocks the fleetness of the spring,
And each morn sees its sunset in the west—
Break, ties that bind me to a world like this!
376
OH, TRAVELLER BY UNACCUSTOMED WAYS.
Oh, traveller by unaccustomed ways—
Searcher among new worlds for pleasures new—
Art thou content because the skies are blue,
And blithe birds thrill the air with roundelays,
And the fair fields with sunshine are ablaze?
Dost thou not find thy heart's-ease twined with rue,
And long for some dear bloom on earth that grew—
Some wild, sweet fragrance of remembered days?
Searcher among new worlds for pleasures new—
Art thou content because the skies are blue,
And blithe birds thrill the air with roundelays,
And the fair fields with sunshine are ablaze?
Dost thou not find thy heart's-ease twined with rue,
And long for some dear bloom on earth that grew—
Some wild, sweet fragrance of remembered days?
I send my message to thee by the stars—
Since other messenger I may not find
Till I go forth beyond these prisoning bars,
Leaving this memory-haunted world behind,
To seek thee, claim thee, wheresoe'er thou be,
Since Heaven itself were empty, lacking thee.
Since other messenger I may not find
Till I go forth beyond these prisoning bars,
Leaving this memory-haunted world behind,
To seek thee, claim thee, wheresoe'er thou be,
Since Heaven itself were empty, lacking thee.
377
GREAT LOVE.
I.
GREAT LOVE IS HUMBLE.
Humble is Love, for he is Honor's child:
He knows the worth of her he does adore,
And that high reckoning humbles him the more:
By her dear sweetness from his pain beguiled,
He would be proud because her look is mild;
But all the while he scans the oft-told score,
And his imperfectness must still deplore,
Abashed no less because on him she smiled.
He knows the worth of her he does adore,
And that high reckoning humbles him the more:
By her dear sweetness from his pain beguiled,
He would be proud because her look is mild;
But all the while he scans the oft-told score,
And his imperfectness must still deplore,
Abashed no less because on him she smiled.
To be allowed to love is Love's dear prize:
To lay his homage at Her royal feet—
To enter thus the true heart's paradise,
The name of names forever to repeat,
And read his sentence in her answering eyes—
Love should be humble—his reward is meet.
To lay his homage at Her royal feet—
To enter thus the true heart's paradise,
The name of names forever to repeat,
And read his sentence in her answering eyes—
Love should be humble—his reward is meet.
378
II.
GREAT LOVE IS PROUD.
For very humbleness Great Love is proud:
The round world were a tribute thrice too small
To render to the rightful queen of all—
Yet why should Love's least gift be disavowed—
If once her royal head the queen has bowed,
Lending her gracious ear to the low call
Of him whose glory is to be her thrall—
Who only prays his worship be allowed?
The round world were a tribute thrice too small
To render to the rightful queen of all—
Yet why should Love's least gift be disavowed—
If once her royal head the queen has bowed,
Lending her gracious ear to the low call
Of him whose glory is to be her thrall—
Who only prays his worship be allowed?
Once to have known her fairness—who is fair
Beyond the dreamer's dream, the painter's art—
This, only this, were bliss above compare:
But if he find the gateway to her heart,
Shall he not, like a king, be set apart
Who for one royal moment entered there?
Beyond the dreamer's dream, the painter's art—
This, only this, were bliss above compare:
But if he find the gateway to her heart,
Shall he not, like a king, be set apart
Who for one royal moment entered there?
379
HER YEARS.
Years come and go, each bringing in his train,
Spring fair with promise, Summer glad with bloom,
Fruit-bearing Autumn, and the Winter's gloom;
But years and seasons march for Her in vain,
Since still she strings her rosary of pain,
Catching from far some subtle, lost perfume,
Some scent of roses dying on a tomb,
Unfreshened by Spring's dew or Summer's rain.
Spring fair with promise, Summer glad with bloom,
Fruit-bearing Autumn, and the Winter's gloom;
But years and seasons march for Her in vain,
Since still she strings her rosary of pain,
Catching from far some subtle, lost perfume,
Some scent of roses dying on a tomb,
Unfreshened by Spring's dew or Summer's rain.
Why change the seasons when She cannot change?
For pomp of morn, high noon, or setting sun
What cares she? They are powerless to estrange
Her soul from Grief, who, till her day is done,
Companions her wherever she may range,
And makes her New Years old, ere yet begun.
For pomp of morn, high noon, or setting sun
What cares she? They are powerless to estrange
Her soul from Grief, who, till her day is done,
Companions her wherever she may range,
And makes her New Years old, ere yet begun.
380
MIDWINTER FLOWERS.
TO E. C. S.
I hold you to my lips and heart, fair flowers,
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.
I have a friend who to Life's winter days
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,
Since on my heart is written well that rune,
And the fine fragrance of his gentle deeds
Reveals his presence 'mong earth's common weeds.
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,
Since on my heart is written well that rune,
And the fine fragrance of his gentle deeds
Reveals his presence 'mong earth's common weeds.
381
HER PRESENCE.
I long in vain by day, but when the night
With all its jewels stars the waiting sky,
And vagrant fireflies like stray souls flit by,
She seeks me in the tender waning light,
And sits beside me there, a Presence white;—
Her eyes yearn for me, and her dear lips sigh,
But if to clasp her cold soft hands I try
The shadows deepen, and she fades from sight.
With all its jewels stars the waiting sky,
And vagrant fireflies like stray souls flit by,
She seeks me in the tender waning light,
And sits beside me there, a Presence white;—
Her eyes yearn for me, and her dear lips sigh,
But if to clasp her cold soft hands I try
The shadows deepen, and she fades from sight.
O lost and dear!—by what strange, devious way
Does she escape? for I, too, fain would flee
From all the hollow pageantry of life,
And with her through immortal meadows stray.
The free winds mock my quest, stars laugh to see,
And I wait helpless till Death end the strife.
Does she escape? for I, too, fain would flee
From all the hollow pageantry of life,
And with her through immortal meadows stray.
The free winds mock my quest, stars laugh to see,
And I wait helpless till Death end the strife.
382
WHEN WE CONFRONT THE VASTNESS OF THE NIGHT.
When we confront the Vastness of the Night,
And meet the gaze of her eternal eyes,
How trivial seem the garnered gains we prize—
The laurel wreath we flaunt to envious sight;
The flower of Love we pluck for our delight;
The mad, sweet music of the heart, that cries
An instant on the listening air, then dies—
How short the day of all things dear and bright!
And meet the gaze of her eternal eyes,
How trivial seem the garnered gains we prize—
The laurel wreath we flaunt to envious sight;
The flower of Love we pluck for our delight;
The mad, sweet music of the heart, that cries
An instant on the listening air, then dies—
How short the day of all things dear and bright!
The Everlasting mocks our transient strife;
The pageant of the Universe whirls by
This little sphere with petty turmoil rife—
Swift as a dream and fleeting as a sigh—
This brief delusion that we call our life,
Where all we can accomplish is to die.
The pageant of the Universe whirls by
This little sphere with petty turmoil rife—
Swift as a dream and fleeting as a sigh—
This brief delusion that we call our life,
Where all we can accomplish is to die.
383
ON MEETING A SAILING VESSEL IN MID-OCEAN.
She moves on grandly 'twixt the sea and sky,
Like some gigantic bird from foreign shore;
Gray mist behind her and gray mist before,
Riding upon the waters royally.
Salt winds caress her, as they urge her by,
And we who watch shall see her nevermore;
For on she goes, to where the breakers roar
Round some far coast we never may descry.
Like some gigantic bird from foreign shore;
Gray mist behind her and gray mist before,
Riding upon the waters royally.
Salt winds caress her, as they urge her by,
And we who watch shall see her nevermore;
For on she goes, to where the breakers roar
Round some far coast we never may descry.
So on Life's tide we meet an unknown soul,
And catch a passing vision of its grace;
Just seen, then vanished, leaving us to yearn
With vain desire to follow to its goal
The revelation of the radiant face—
Then heartsick to our solitude we turn.
And catch a passing vision of its grace;
Just seen, then vanished, leaving us to yearn
With vain desire to follow to its goal
The revelation of the radiant face—
Then heartsick to our solitude we turn.
384
MIDNIGHT AT SEA.
Through the deep stillness of the awful night,
I heard the clamor of the ship's great bell—
A voice cried: “Twelve o'clock, and all is well!”
Then silence, and the solemn, watching light
Of the white moon, on billows wild and white
That yielded, to her magical, dear spell,
The stormy hearts no lesser charm could quell—
Slaves of her lamp, and powerless to affright.
I heard the clamor of the ship's great bell—
A voice cried: “Twelve o'clock, and all is well!”
Then silence, and the solemn, watching light
Of the white moon, on billows wild and white
That yielded, to her magical, dear spell,
The stormy hearts no lesser charm could quell—
Slaves of her lamp, and powerless to affright.
Ah, when across the wide, unfathomed sea
Which no chart maps, whose depth no plummet knows,
To some dim, unconjectured shore we steer,
Through that wild night, into whose depths we flee
Farther than any wind from this world blows,
May cry of “All is well” our midnight cheer!
Which no chart maps, whose depth no plummet knows,
To some dim, unconjectured shore we steer,
Through that wild night, into whose depths we flee
Farther than any wind from this world blows,
May cry of “All is well” our midnight cheer!
385
INTER MANES.
In the dim watches of the midmost night,A ghost confronts him, standing by his bed,
A lonesome ghost who walks uncomforted,
Pale child of Memory and dead Delight,
No longer fair or pleasant in his sight.
With dusky hair upon her shoulders shed,
And cypress leaves for garland on her head,
As patient as the moonlight and as white,
She stands beside him, and puts forth her hand
To lead him backward into Love's lost Land—
Sad Land which shadows people, and where wait
Memory, her sire, and dead Delight, his mate—
And standing there among the shadowy band,
He learns how Love mocks him who loves too late.
386
YET, STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL YOUR FACE I FIND.
Yet, strangely beautiful your face I find;
Your voice is like the murmur that decrees
A morn of April, and awakes the trees
To meet the soft caresses of the wind.
Like sudden light your presence makes us blind;
From your compelling spell the weak man flees,
The strong man sues you on his bended knees;
And with your golden hair their chains you bind.
Your voice is like the murmur that decrees
A morn of April, and awakes the trees
To meet the soft caresses of the wind.
Like sudden light your presence makes us blind;
From your compelling spell the weak man flees,
The strong man sues you on his bended knees;
And with your golden hair their chains you bind.
I am not of them. Not to you I kneel.
Cold is your charm—like the white moon your soul;
For something more akin to me I yearn.
You can enthrall; but, Empress, can you feel?
March on, unchallenged, to your far-off goal;
From you to some more human heart I turn.
Cold is your charm—like the white moon your soul;
For something more akin to me I yearn.
You can enthrall; but, Empress, can you feel?
March on, unchallenged, to your far-off goal;
From you to some more human heart I turn.
387
A SUMMER'S DREAM.
[I. What that dead summer was my heart knows well]
What that dead summer was my heart knows well—
Knows all it held—sad joy, and joyous pain—
For pain or joy it cannot come again,
With bitter sweetness we alone could tell:—
Time, when I only thought to say farewell,
To break the links of Love's long-during chain—
That I the stars should pass, and you remain,
Held fast to earth by some malignant spell.
Knows all it held—sad joy, and joyous pain—
For pain or joy it cannot come again,
With bitter sweetness we alone could tell:—
Time, when I only thought to say farewell,
To break the links of Love's long-during chain—
That I the stars should pass, and you remain,
Held fast to earth by some malignant spell.
Procession of long days, and longer nights—
When suns rose mocking, and the moon was cold—
When Hope and I lay dying, as I thought,
Still could I bless Love's vanishing delights,
And reach pale hands to clasp him as of old,
Though each dread hour with Death's dismay was fraught.
When suns rose mocking, and the moon was cold—
When Hope and I lay dying, as I thought,
Still could I bless Love's vanishing delights,
And reach pale hands to clasp him as of old,
Though each dread hour with Death's dismay was fraught.
388
[II. So Summer, with her slow, reluctant feet]
So Summer, with her slow, reluctant feet,
Went by, and lingering smiled, as loth to part,
While fond delusions warmed my lonesome heart:—
Though lives were severed, wingèd dreams could meet;
So met we, dear, as bodiless spirits greet—
Met, and were blind, foreseeing not the smart
Of hopes that hope not, and of tears that start
From eyes that say what lips may not repeat.
Went by, and lingering smiled, as loth to part,
While fond delusions warmed my lonesome heart:—
Though lives were severed, wingèd dreams could meet;
So met we, dear, as bodiless spirits greet—
Met, and were blind, foreseeing not the smart
Of hopes that hope not, and of tears that start
From eyes that say what lips may not repeat.
One brief day here, then gone beyond the sun—
How short the way, how soon the goal is won—
So less or more of love why need we measure?
But Fate avenges pleasant things begun,
And Retribution spares not any one,
And no Gods pity those who steal their treasure.
How short the way, how soon the goal is won—
So less or more of love why need we measure?
But Fate avenges pleasant things begun,
And Retribution spares not any one,
And no Gods pity those who steal their treasure.
389
MY MASTERS.
The first of all my masters was Delight—
I bent my knee to worship him, and sought
His ministers, and all the bliss they wrought,
In Day's large splendor, and the peace of Night,
In song, and mirth, and every goodly sight;
Until fair Love another lesson taught,
And bitter pain dearer than pleasure brought,
And my whole soul was subject to his might.
I bent my knee to worship him, and sought
His ministers, and all the bliss they wrought,
In Day's large splendor, and the peace of Night,
In song, and mirth, and every goodly sight;
Until fair Love another lesson taught,
And bitter pain dearer than pleasure brought,
And my whole soul was subject to his might.
Brief while I strove for Fame—his laurel wreath
Seemed good to wear, and dear the fleeting breath
With which men praise the idol of an hour;
But one drew nigh me clothed upon with power,
And looking in the awful eyes of Death
I knew the Master at whose touch we cower.
Seemed good to wear, and dear the fleeting breath
With which men praise the idol of an hour;
But one drew nigh me clothed upon with power,
And looking in the awful eyes of Death
I knew the Master at whose touch we cower.
390
TO PRINCE ORIC.
(SIX YEARS OLD.)
Do you remember, centuries gone by,
When you were king, and I, your subject, came
To kiss your hand, and swell the loud acclaim
Wherewith the people greeted you, and cry—
“Long life, and love, and glory, O most high
And puissant lord”? The city was aflame
With torches; banners streamed; and knight and dame
Knelt at your feet—you smiled your proud reply.
When you were king, and I, your subject, came
To kiss your hand, and swell the loud acclaim
Wherewith the people greeted you, and cry—
“Long life, and love, and glory, O most high
And puissant lord”? The city was aflame
With torches; banners streamed; and knight and dame
Knelt at your feet—you smiled your proud reply.
I think you do remember; for I caught
That same elusive smile upon your lips,
When ended was the centuries' eclipse,
And I, my sovereign found, my homage brought:
“Long life, and love, and glory, now as then!”
And you?—your smile is my reward again.
That same elusive smile upon your lips,
When ended was the centuries' eclipse,
And I, my sovereign found, my homage brought:
“Long life, and love, and glory, now as then!”
And you?—your smile is my reward again.
391
A POET'S SECOND LOVE.
[I. I share your heart with her, its former Queen]
I share your heart with her, its former Queen,
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing—
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.
Who taught your lips the song of love to sing—
To whose high altar you were wont to bring
Such laurels as no Fair since Time hath been
Has decked her brow with. Joy was there and teen,
And reverence, as for some most sacred thing
Set high in Heaven for all men's worshipping;
Such laurels gathers no man twice, I ween.
Your second love, ungarlanded, uncrowned—
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say—
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,
Hears from the grave your first love's voice, to-day.
With scornful laughter mock her hope to fill
The heart ruled by its earliest sovereign still.
Fit for life's daily uses, let us say—
Whose lips have never thrilled you with sweet sound,
Hears from the grave your first love's voice, to-day.
With scornful laughter mock her hope to fill
The heart ruled by its earliest sovereign still.
392
[II. Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song]
Not mine the spell to charm your lute to song;A poet you, yet not for me your lays;
You crowned that other woman with your praise,
Lifting your voice to Heaven, triumphant, strong,
And later rhymes might do her laurels wrong;
Should you and I together tread life's ways,
An echo would pursue us from old days,
And men would say—“He loved once, well and long,
So now without great love he is content,
Since she is dead whose praise he used to sing,
And daily needs demand their aliment.” ...
Thus some poor bird, who strives with broken wing
To soar, might stoop—strength gone and glad life spent—
To any hand that his scant food would bring.
393
FAIR LIFE.
Fair Life, thou dear companion of my days—Life with the rose-red lips and shining eyes—
That led'st me through my Youth's glad Paradise,
And stand'st beside me still, in these dull ways
My older feet must tread, the tangled maze
Where cares beset me and fresh foes surprise;
On the keen wind and from the far-off skies
Is borne a whisper, which my heart dismays,
That thou and I must part. Beloved so long,
Wilt thou not stay with me, inconstant Love?
Nay, then, the cry upon the wind grows strong—
I must without thee fresh adventure prove;
And yet it may be I but do thee wrong,
And I shall find thee waiting where I rove.
394
A PLEA FOR THE OLD YEAR.
I see the smiling New Year climb the heights—
The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,
And flush the whiteness of the winter snows
Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.
The weary Old Year died when died the night,
And this new comer, proud with triumph, shows
His radiant face, and each glad subject knows
The welcome Monarch, born to rule aright.
The clouds, his heralds, turn the sky to rose,
And flush the whiteness of the winter snows
Till Earth is glad with Life and Life's delight.
The weary Old Year died when died the night,
And this new comer, proud with triumph, shows
His radiant face, and each glad subject knows
The welcome Monarch, born to rule aright.
Yet there are graves far-off that no man tends,
Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,
The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,
The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—
These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,
Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
Where lie the vanished loves and hopes and fears,
The dreams that grew to be our hearts' best friends,
The smiles, and, dearer than the smiles, the tears—
These were that Old Year's gifts, whom none defends,
Now his strong Conqueror, the New, appears.
395
WHEN I AM DEAD.
When I am dead and buried underground,
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember—“Thus she used to say—
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound”?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths—tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?
And your dear eyes still greet the shining day,
Will you remember—“Thus she used to say—
And thus, and thus, her low voice used to sound”?
Will memory wander like a ghost around
The well-known paths—tread the accustomed way;
Or will you pluck fresh blossoms of the May,
And waste no rose upon my burial mound?
I would not have your life to sorrow wed—
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake;—
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?
Your joyous youth grief-stricken for my sake;—
Though black-winged Care her home with you should make,
Yet vain would be the scalding tears you shed;
And though your heart for love of me should break,
How could I hear, or heed, if I were dead?
396
ONE AFTERNOON.
TO LOUISA, LADY ASHBURTON.
From the dear stillness of your pines you came—
That vast Cathedral where the winds are choir,
And bear to the far heavens the soul's desire,
While the great sun burns golden, like the flame,
On some high altar, to the Highest Name—
From that dear shrine whence worldly thoughts retire—
Where hearts are hushed, and souls to Heaven aspire,
You came, as one who would God's peace proclaim.
That vast Cathedral where the winds are choir,
And bear to the far heavens the soul's desire,
While the great sun burns golden, like the flame,
On some high altar, to the Highest Name—
From that dear shrine whence worldly thoughts retire—
Where hearts are hushed, and souls to Heaven aspire,
You came, as one who would God's peace proclaim.
Now sunset broods upon these solemn hills—
The day is done, and the deep night draws nigh,
And soon the waiting stars will light the sky:—
Though You and Day have gone, your presence fills
The place, and the glad air around me thrills
As if some Heaven-sent angel had passed by.
The day is done, and the deep night draws nigh,
And soon the waiting stars will light the sky:—
Though You and Day have gone, your presence fills
The place, and the glad air around me thrills
As if some Heaven-sent angel had passed by.
397
In Quest of Light.
Darkness surrounds us.
William Wordsworth.
William Wordsworth.
Once in a dream I saw the flowers
That bud and bloom in Paradise.
Christina Rossetti.
That bud and bloom in Paradise.
Christina Rossetti.
399
AFAR FROM GOD.
Fain would I scale the heights that lead to God,
But my feet stumble and my steps are weak,
Warm are the valleys, and the hills are bleak:
Here, where I linger, flowers make soft the sod,
But those far paths that martyr feet have trod
Are sharp with flints, and from their farthest peak
The still, small voice but faintly seems to speak,
While here the drowsy lilies dream and nod.
But my feet stumble and my steps are weak,
Warm are the valleys, and the hills are bleak:
Here, where I linger, flowers make soft the sod,
But those far paths that martyr feet have trod
Are sharp with flints, and from their farthest peak
The still, small voice but faintly seems to speak,
While here the drowsy lilies dream and nod.
I have dreamed with them, till the night draws nigh
In which I cannot climb: still high above,
In the blue vastness of the awful sky,
Those unscaled heights my fatal weakness prove—
Those shining heights which I must reach, or die
Afar from God, unquickened by His love.
In which I cannot climb: still high above,
In the blue vastness of the awful sky,
Those unscaled heights my fatal weakness prove—
Those shining heights which I must reach, or die
Afar from God, unquickened by His love.
400
MY FATHER'S HOUSE.
When shall I join the blessed company
Of those this barren world to me denies?
When shall I wake to the new day's surprise,
Beyond the murmur of death's moaning sea,
In that glad home where my best loved ones be;
And know that I have found my Paradise,
Finding again the love that never dies
The heart's dear welcome, biding there for me?
Of those this barren world to me denies?
When shall I wake to the new day's surprise,
Beyond the murmur of death's moaning sea,
In that glad home where my best loved ones be;
And know that I have found my Paradise,
Finding again the love that never dies
The heart's dear welcome, biding there for me?
I wait alone upon life's wind-swept beach—
The waves are high—the sea is wild and wide—
Yet Death, bold pilot, all their wrath shall dare,
And guide me to the shore I fain would reach:—
Even now I hear the swift, incoming tide,
Whose slow, eternal ebb my bark shall bear.
The waves are high—the sea is wild and wide—
Yet Death, bold pilot, all their wrath shall dare,
And guide me to the shore I fain would reach:—
Even now I hear the swift, incoming tide,
Whose slow, eternal ebb my bark shall bear.
401
NEWLY BORN.
Out of the dark into the arms of love
The babe is born, and recks not of the way
His soul has traversed to confront the day:
Enough for him the face that smiles above,
The tireless feet that on his errands move,
The arms that clasp, the tender lips that kiss,
The whole dear wealth of welcome and of bliss
His heirship and his sovereignty that prove.
The babe is born, and recks not of the way
His soul has traversed to confront the day:
Enough for him the face that smiles above,
The tireless feet that on his errands move,
The arms that clasp, the tender lips that kiss,
The whole dear wealth of welcome and of bliss
His heirship and his sovereignty that prove.
So may there be no place for Earth's vain tears
When Heaven's great rapture bursts upon the sight:—
Shall not the soul, new-born in heavenly spheres,
Forget the paths it traversed, and the night
It journeyed through, and all old hopes and fears,
Caught up into that Infinite, Great Light?
When Heaven's great rapture bursts upon the sight:—
Shall not the soul, new-born in heavenly spheres,
Forget the paths it traversed, and the night
It journeyed through, and all old hopes and fears,
Caught up into that Infinite, Great Light?
402
THE SONG OF THE STARS.
In those high heavens wherein the fair stars flower,
They do God's praises sound from night till morn,
And till the smiling day is newly born
Chant each to each His glory and His power;
Then, silent, wait, through Day's brief triumph-hour,
Watching till Night shall come again, with scorn
Of those chameleon splendors that adorn
Day's death, and then before his victor cower.
They do God's praises sound from night till morn,
And till the smiling day is newly born
Chant each to each His glory and His power;
Then, silent, wait, through Day's brief triumph-hour,
Watching till Night shall come again, with scorn
Of those chameleon splendors that adorn
Day's death, and then before his victor cower.
Forever, to immortal ears, they sing,—
These shining stars that praise their Maker's grace—
And from far world to world their anthems ring:
They shine and sing because they see His face
We, cowards, dread the vision Death shall bring,
The waking rapture, and the fair, far place.
These shining stars that praise their Maker's grace—
And from far world to world their anthems ring:
They shine and sing because they see His face
We, cowards, dread the vision Death shall bring,
The waking rapture, and the fair, far place.
403
A QUESTION: AT SEA.
How dark the clouds that hide the sky from sight,
While winds like human souls moan round our keel,
Their woe inexplicable to reveal—
With lone, unsilenced cries for lost delight,
That suns by day, or journeying moons by night
Can find no more, till the vast heavens reel
And the strong worlds are rent by that last peal,
The trumpet-blast that puts old Time to flight.
While winds like human souls moan round our keel,
Their woe inexplicable to reveal—
With lone, unsilenced cries for lost delight,
That suns by day, or journeying moons by night
Can find no more, till the vast heavens reel
And the strong worlds are rent by that last peal,
The trumpet-blast that puts old Time to flight.
Then, when the End has come, and Chaos reigns,
And darkness mocks past glories of the sun,
Will human hearts forget their human pains
In some unearthly blessedness, new-won?
Shall we outlast this brief earth's transient gains,
And know ourselves the one thing not undone?
And darkness mocks past glories of the sun,
Will human hearts forget their human pains
In some unearthly blessedness, new-won?
Shall we outlast this brief earth's transient gains,
And know ourselves the one thing not undone?
404
THE LAND OF GOLD.
Behind the sunset's bars in the wide West,
We catch the radiance of the Land of Gold;
The dazzling splendors of its wealth untold
Flash through our dreams, and wake to vague unrest
The soul—with Life's dull weariness opprest,
Or wrapped in weeds of sorrow, fold on fold—
Till, with sheer longing and despair grown bold,
We turn to seek that Land where all are blest.
We catch the radiance of the Land of Gold;
The dazzling splendors of its wealth untold
Flash through our dreams, and wake to vague unrest
The soul—with Life's dull weariness opprest,
Or wrapped in weeds of sorrow, fold on fold—
Till, with sheer longing and despair grown bold,
We turn to seek that Land where all are blest.
But the Gold fades, and the strong stars arise
That look beyond the sunset and the sun;
They see our little world swing far below,
While over it imperial planets glow—
From Heaven they whisper, “Heaven cannot be won
Until great Death has come to make men wise.”
That look beyond the sunset and the sun;
They see our little world swing far below,
While over it imperial planets glow—
From Heaven they whisper, “Heaven cannot be won
Until great Death has come to make men wise.”
405
A PRAYER IN THE DARK.
I stretch my hand out through the lonesome night,
My helpless hand, and pray Thee, Lord, to lead
My ignorant steps, and help me at my need:
Far off from home, pity my hapless plight,
And through the darkness guide me on to light!
I have no hope unless my cry Thou heed,—
Be merciful; for I am lost, indeed,
Unless thy rising sun the darkness smite.
My helpless hand, and pray Thee, Lord, to lead
My ignorant steps, and help me at my need:
Far off from home, pity my hapless plight,
And through the darkness guide me on to light!
I have no hope unless my cry Thou heed,—
Be merciful; for I am lost, indeed,
Unless thy rising sun the darkness smite.
How shall I find, who know not how to seek?
Kindle my soul, enlighten my dull mind;
My heart is heavy, and my faith is weak,—
A stone am I, and deaf and dumb and blind,—
Unhelped of Thee my footsteps helpless stray,—
Have pity, Thou, and lead me to the Day!
Kindle my soul, enlighten my dull mind;
My heart is heavy, and my faith is weak,—
A stone am I, and deaf and dumb and blind,—
Unhelped of Thee my footsteps helpless stray,—
Have pity, Thou, and lead me to the Day!
407
At Death's Postern.
The dead but sceptered sovereigns who still rule.
Byron.
Byron.
The ways of Death are soothing and serene—
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
W. E. Henley
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
W. E. Henley
409
ACROSS THE SEA.
Into the silence of the silent night
He passed, whom all men honor; and the sun
Arose to shine upon a world undone,
And barren lives, bereft of Life's delight.
The morning air was chill with sudden blight,
And Winter's cruel triumph had begun;
But He to some far Summer shore had won,
Whose splendor hides him from our dazzled sight.
He passed, whom all men honor; and the sun
Arose to shine upon a world undone,
And barren lives, bereft of Life's delight.
The morning air was chill with sudden blight,
And Winter's cruel triumph had begun;
But He to some far Summer shore had won,
Whose splendor hides him from our dazzled sight.
Not England's pride alone, this Lord of Song!
We—heirs to Shakespeare's and to Milton's speech—
Claim heritage from Tennyson's proud years:
To us his spacious, splendid lines belong—
We, too, repeat his praises, each to each—
We share his glory, and we share your tears.
We—heirs to Shakespeare's and to Milton's speech—
Claim heritage from Tennyson's proud years:
To us his spacious, splendid lines belong—
We, too, repeat his praises, each to each—
We share his glory, and we share your tears.
October, 1892.
410
ROBERT BROWNING.
I.
HIS STAR.
The Century was young—the month was May—
The spacious East was kindled with a light
That lent a sudden glory to the night,
And a new star began its upward way
Toward the high splendor of the perfect day:
With pure white flame, inexorably bright,
It reached the souls of men—no stain so slight
As to escape its all-revealing ray.
The spacious East was kindled with a light
That lent a sudden glory to the night,
And a new star began its upward way
Toward the high splendor of the perfect day:
With pure white flame, inexorably bright,
It reached the souls of men—no stain so slight
As to escape its all-revealing ray.
When countless voices cried, “The Star has set!”
And through the lands there surged a sea of pain,
Was it Death's triumph—victory of Woe?—
Nay! There are lights the sky may not forget:
When suns, and moons, and souls shall rise again,
In the New Life's wide East that star shall glow.
And through the lands there surged a sea of pain,
Was it Death's triumph—victory of Woe?—
Nay! There are lights the sky may not forget:
When suns, and moons, and souls shall rise again,
In the New Life's wide East that star shall glow.
411
II.
THE POET OF HUMAN LIFE.
Silence and Night sequestered thee in vain!
Oblivion's threats thou proudly couldst defy.
Thou art not dead—such great souls do not die:
One small world's range no longer could constrain
That strong-winged spirit of its freedom fain:
New stars, new lives, thy fearless quest would try.
Our baffled vision may not soar so high—
We mourn, as loss, thine infinite, great gain.
Oblivion's threats thou proudly couldst defy.
Thou art not dead—such great souls do not die:
One small world's range no longer could constrain
That strong-winged spirit of its freedom fain:
New stars, new lives, thy fearless quest would try.
Our baffled vision may not soar so high—
We mourn, as loss, thine infinite, great gain.
Yet, keen of sight, to whom men's souls lay bare,
Stripped clean of shams, unclothed of all disguise,
Revealed to thee as if at each soul's birth
Thou hadst been nigh to stamp it foul or fair—
Why shouldst thou seek new schools to make thee wise
Who shared Heaven's secrets whilst thou walked on earth?
Stripped clean of shams, unclothed of all disguise,
Revealed to thee as if at each soul's birth
Thou hadst been nigh to stamp it foul or fair—
Why shouldst thou seek new schools to make thee wise
Who shared Heaven's secrets whilst thou walked on earth?
December, 1890.
412
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
And can it be on the relentless blast
The Last Leaf has blown by—the tree is bare?
Strange was the chill that shivered on the air,
As if an unclothed soul were hurrying past,
In search of some new region strange and vast—
Some Country unexplored, where dead men fare,
Assuaged of Life, and all Life's carking care,
To the Great Rapture, waiting them at last.
The Last Leaf has blown by—the tree is bare?
Strange was the chill that shivered on the air,
As if an unclothed soul were hurrying past,
In search of some new region strange and vast—
Some Country unexplored, where dead men fare,
Assuaged of Life, and all Life's carking care,
To the Great Rapture, waiting them at last.
He may be glad for whom the Heavens ope,
And the New Day shines royally and clear—
But we, who mourn him and shall mourn him long,
For what meet consolation shall we hope—
Or whither shall our sorrow turn for cheer,
Bereft of our dear Singer, and his song?
And the New Day shines royally and clear—
But we, who mourn him and shall mourn him long,
For what meet consolation shall we hope—
Or whither shall our sorrow turn for cheer,
Bereft of our dear Singer, and his song?
October, 1894.
413
SUMMONED BY THE KING.
He was at home in Courts and knew the great,
Himself was of them. Ofttimes Kings have sent
To call him to their presence; and he went,
A welcome guest, to share their royal state,
For earth's high potentates a fitting mate.
He was of all men honored—crowned of Song,
And crowned of Love—and high above the wrong
Of envy, or the littleness of hate.
Himself was of them. Ofttimes Kings have sent
To call him to their presence; and he went,
A welcome guest, to share their royal state,
For earth's high potentates a fitting mate.
He was of all men honored—crowned of Song,
And crowned of Love—and high above the wrong
Of envy, or the littleness of hate.
And now the mightiest King—to summon him
To that far place whereto all souls must come—
Has sent swift Azrael, Heaven's chamberlain,—
Beyond the ultimate sea's remotest rim,
Where all the voices of this earth are dumb,
The Courtier journeys—called to Court again.
To that far place whereto all souls must come—
Has sent swift Azrael, Heaven's chamberlain,—
Beyond the ultimate sea's remotest rim,
Where all the voices of this earth are dumb,
The Courtier journeys—called to Court again.
414
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
AUTHOR OF “GARDEN SECRETS.”
He, who those secrets whispered—he is dead—
No more the rose and lily shall confide
To him how faithless was the Wind that sighed
With fleeting love, rifled their bloom and fled;
The “Garden Fairies,” by Titania led,
Ring no more chimes of rapture since he died;
And from unseen “Wind Gardens,” where abide
The souls of blossoms, no sweet breath is shed.
No more the rose and lily shall confide
To him how faithless was the Wind that sighed
With fleeting love, rifled their bloom and fled;
The “Garden Fairies,” by Titania led,
Ring no more chimes of rapture since he died;
And from unseen “Wind Gardens,” where abide
The souls of blossoms, no sweet breath is shed.
His flowers and he have vanished: yet, who knows
Through what fair fields unwitnessed of the sun
He wanders, among blossoms red and white,
Fostered of Joy—where never chill blast blows,
And the glad year is always just begun?—
Nor Time, nor Death, immortal youth can blight.
Through what fair fields unwitnessed of the sun
He wanders, among blossoms red and white,
Fostered of Joy—where never chill blast blows,
And the glad year is always just begun?—
Nor Time, nor Death, immortal youth can blight.
415
THE CLOSED GATE.
But life is short; so gently close the gate.
Winifred Howells.
Winifred Howells.
Thus wrote she when the heart in her was high,
And her brief tale of youth seemed just begun.
Like some white flower that shivers in the sun
She heard from far the low winds prophesy—
Blowing across the grave where she must lie—
Had strange prevision of the victory won
In the swift race that Life with Death should run,
And, hand in hand with Life, saw Death draw nigh.
And her brief tale of youth seemed just begun.
Like some white flower that shivers in the sun
She heard from far the low winds prophesy—
Blowing across the grave where she must lie—
Had strange prevision of the victory won
In the swift race that Life with Death should run,
And, hand in hand with Life, saw Death draw nigh.
Beyond this world the hostile surges foam:
Our eyes are dim with tears and cannot see
In what fair paths her feet our coming wait,
What stars rise for her in her far new home:—
We but conjecture all she yet may be,
While on the Joy she was, we close the gate.
Our eyes are dim with tears and cannot see
In what fair paths her feet our coming wait,
What stars rise for her in her far new home:—
We but conjecture all she yet may be,
While on the Joy she was, we close the gate.
416
A DREAM IN THE NIGHT.
TO MY MOTHER.
Sometimes it seems thy face—thy long-hid face—
Looks out on me as from a passing cloud,
Till I forget they clad thee in thy shroud,
And laid thee sleeping in thy far-off place—
So once again the tender, healing grace
Of thy dear presence is to me allowed.
Wilt thou not bless the head before thee bowed?
Wilt not thy voice thrill through the empty space?
Looks out on me as from a passing cloud,
Till I forget they clad thee in thy shroud,
And laid thee sleeping in thy far-off place—
So once again the tender, healing grace
Of thy dear presence is to me allowed.
Wilt thou not bless the head before thee bowed?
Wilt not thy voice thrill through the empty space?
How lone and cold the world without thee seemed!
Regaining thee, how warm it is and bright!
Yet all in vain to reach thee do I seek:—
And then I wake to know I have but dreamed,
And thou art silent as the silent night—
With tears I call thee, yet thou dost not speak.
Regaining thee, how warm it is and bright!
Yet all in vain to reach thee do I seek:—
And then I wake to know I have but dreamed,
And thou art silent as the silent night—
With tears I call thee, yet thou dost not speak.
| The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton | |