The poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

James Russell Lowell—August, 1891.

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.

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.

415

THE CLOSED GATE.

But life is short; so gently close the gate.
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.

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.

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?

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.

University of Virginia Library

At Death's Postern.

ACROSS THE SEA.