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49
MISCELLANEOUS VERSE
50
A WITHERED ROSE
These brown, curled leaves were once a roseAll fair and fresh, and sweet as fair.
Now summer's past, and winter snows
Have buried Hope slain by Despair!
INEVITABLE
The fairest rose that blooms hides yet a thorn;The dearest friend shall one day bring you grief;
In August twilight is the winter born,
And waving wheat precedes the falling leaf.
BLACK ROCK, NANTASKET
A huge black sea-shape left at turn of tide,It drags, afar from shore, its low gaunt length.
In dateless æons in lone waters wide
Was this some slimy saurian's league-long strength?
51
DECEMBER'S WOOING
I.
DECEMBER TO MAY
Though I look old, love,
I'm young and bold, love,
When I see you.
I'm young and bold, love,
When I see you.
Fain would I ask, love,
From you some task, love,
To prove this true.
From you some task, love,
To prove this true.
That done, I'd take, love,
In payment's sake, love,
This maid I woo.
In payment's sake, love,
This maid I woo.
II.
MAY TO DECEMBER
Would you, indeed, sir?
Pray take good heed, sir,
To what I say.
Pray take good heed, sir,
To what I say.
This my behest, sir:
Cease to protest, sir,
Your love today.
Cease to protest, sir,
Your love today.
Ne'er will I wed, sir,
Where youth is sped, sir,
So go your way!
Where youth is sped, sir,
So go your way!
52
REALITY
Of Love the minstrel sang, and drew
An easy finger o'er the strings,
Then laughed and sang of other things,—
Of grass and flowers and azure blue.
An easy finger o'er the strings,
Then laughed and sang of other things,—
Of grass and flowers and azure blue.
Of Love the poet wrote, and soft
And sweet the liquid measures flowed,
Then gave his moments to an ode,
And crooks and shepherds mentioned oft.
And sweet the liquid measures flowed,
Then gave his moments to an ode,
And crooks and shepherds mentioned oft.
One day the singer met with Love,
And mighty music shook his strings,
While dreams and light imaginings
His new-roused spirit soared above.
And mighty music shook his strings,
While dreams and light imaginings
His new-roused spirit soared above.
Love met the poet on his way,
And kindled all his soul to fire,
Filled all his measures with desire,
And left no room for fancies gay.
And kindled all his soul to fire,
Filled all his measures with desire,
And left no room for fancies gay.
The minstrel sang to Love one song,
And died for joy, yet lives in this.
The poet, touched by Love's warm kiss,
With echoes fills the ages long.
And died for joy, yet lives in this.
The poet, touched by Love's warm kiss,
With echoes fills the ages long.
53
DEAR HEART, BELIEVE
Dear heart, believe I think of you
When evening grey shuts out the blue;
In the slow hours of middle night,
And when the lances of the light
First thrust the mists of darkness through.
When evening grey shuts out the blue;
In the slow hours of middle night,
And when the lances of the light
First thrust the mists of darkness through.
Nought can the days of absence do,
When faith is strong and hearts are true,
To blur with change affection's might,
Dear heart, believe.
When faith is strong and hearts are true,
To blur with change affection's might,
Dear heart, believe.
If sullen death between us drew
The veil that bars from earthly view
The much loved face, the clearer sight
Would still discern in death's despite.
Beyond the veil can love pursue,
Dear heart, believe.
The veil that bars from earthly view
The much loved face, the clearer sight
Would still discern in death's despite.
Beyond the veil can love pursue,
Dear heart, believe.
54
CAMBRIDGE
Dear city, round whose marshy rim the Charles
Passes his steel-blue sickle in slow glee,
And, circling ever, slips at last through snarls
Of piers and bridges to the expectant sea.
Passes his steel-blue sickle in slow glee,
And, circling ever, slips at last through snarls
Of piers and bridges to the expectant sea.
To thee is turned the “soft Venetian side”
Of Boston. On thy myriad roofs the slopes
Of Arlington look down; between, a tide
Scholastic ebbs and flows, sun-smit with hopes.
Of Boston. On thy myriad roofs the slopes
Of Arlington look down; between, a tide
Scholastic ebbs and flows, sun-smit with hopes.
Needs must they love thee who may call thee home,
Whose centuried past their grateful reverence claims;
Thy sister city of the golden dome
Points to no fairer scroll of noble names.
Whose centuried past their grateful reverence claims;
Thy sister city of the golden dome
Points to no fairer scroll of noble names.
Here roamed “the Scholar Gypsy” long ago;
Here gently ruled our “New World Philhellene;”
Here came the wanderer from the Pays de Vaud;
And here New England's Sibyl passed between
Here gently ruled our “New World Philhellene;”
Here came the wanderer from the Pays de Vaud;
And here New England's Sibyl passed between
The gates of birth. Here, where the lilacs hedge
The winding road, the Gentle Singer told
The Legend Golden; and the murmuring sedge
Of his loved Charles still with his name makes bold.
The winding road, the Gentle Singer told
The Legend Golden; and the murmuring sedge
Of his loved Charles still with his name makes bold.
55
Here, where the Elmwood thickets lift their pyres
Of green, a later summons came, and he,
Our best and noblest, whose each word inspires,
Slipped from life's moorings on a shoreless sea.
Of green, a later summons came, and he,
Our best and noblest, whose each word inspires,
Slipped from life's moorings on a shoreless sea.
Ah me! the men that were and are not now.
The seasons come and pass and bear away
One after other, as from autumn bough
Is swept at whiles the fruitage of its May.
The seasons come and pass and bear away
One after other, as from autumn bough
Is swept at whiles the fruitage of its May.
O City of the Scholar! Wider spread
Each year thy green elm shades, but ever keep
In quick remembrance these thy children, sped
To some far country through strange fields of sleep.
Each year thy green elm shades, but ever keep
In quick remembrance these thy children, sped
To some far country through strange fields of sleep.
56
NABOTH
Great honour hath Boston, the city, won of late in a glorious fray
With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay.
The fishers were poor and defenceless, the city was wealthy and strong,
Hath it not been ever from old time that the poor to the spoiler belong?
With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay.
The fishers were poor and defenceless, the city was wealthy and strong,
Hath it not been ever from old time that the poor to the spoiler belong?
It is twice twenty years since their fathers in the lap of a favouring breeze
Put out from the far Western Islands and hitherward sailed over seas.
The islands of summer to rearward sank slowly from sight in the wave,
As they spread out their sails to the sunshine and swift through the water they drave.
And they came, after many days' sailing, to a sea-fronting, sand-girted town,
With a fringe of white sand dunes to northward and southward the fishing smacks brown,
That lies at the end of a sea-daring, sea-cleaving spear of the land,
And after long tossing on billows it was good in that fair town to stand.
Put out from the far Western Islands and hitherward sailed over seas.
The islands of summer to rearward sank slowly from sight in the wave,
As they spread out their sails to the sunshine and swift through the water they drave.
And they came, after many days' sailing, to a sea-fronting, sand-girted town,
With a fringe of white sand dunes to northward and southward the fishing smacks brown,
That lies at the end of a sea-daring, sea-cleaving spear of the land,
And after long tossing on billows it was good in that fair town to stand.
57
And some of them said, “We will dwell here, nor seek otherwhere for a home,”
But the rest were not of this liking, and once again sped o'er the foam
Till they came to the harbour of Boston, and arrived there in sight of the town,
They brought their staunch vessel to anchor in the lee of a yellow cliff's frown.
A long, narrow isle was before them, and on it they landed that day,
And built them rude huts by the sea beach, where the women and children might stay.
But the rest were not of this liking, and once again sped o'er the foam
Till they came to the harbour of Boston, and arrived there in sight of the town,
They brought their staunch vessel to anchor in the lee of a yellow cliff's frown.
A long, narrow isle was before them, and on it they landed that day,
And built them rude huts by the sea beach, where the women and children might stay.
And the busy years past and they prospered, these fishers from over the main,
Till the elder men died and were buried, and over their labour and pain,
But their children remained on Long Island, and followed a sea-faring life,
As their fathers before them, in peace, with never the murmurs of strife,
Till Boston, the city, grew jealous, like Ahab, the the ruler, of old,
When he longed for the vineyard of Naboth, which he from his gates could behold.
No vineyard was this on Long Island, but a few scanty acres of beach,
Yet even there did the city her covetous fingers outreach.
Though the fishermen begged for their homesteads, the strong city answered them “Nay,”
For she wanted, in spite of her riches, those few acres just down in the bay.
So she gathered together her servants and sent them to Long Island strand,
And they tore down the fisher-folk homes and strewed the wreck over the land,
While the Portuguese women bewailed them, but their husbands stood sullen aside
And wondered that God in the heavens could the wrongs of His servants abide.
Thus the work of destruction went onward, while a cloud of dust covered the place
Where the men from the distant Azores had nourished a peace-loving race,
Till the grey of the long August twilight came down on that isle in the sea
And covered the work of the spoilers, and the morrow was yet to be.
Then the masterful foemen of Boston shame-facedly hurried away,
While the curses of those they had plundered rang after them over the bay
As they ring in the ears of Almighty who bringeth the strongest to shame,
Who heedeth the griefs of the humble and divideth the praise from the blame.
But His ways are still hid in the future and the city is great in her pride,
And the men in her fair council chambers the Portuguese fishers deride;
And still in the streets of the city the deed of those foemen they praise,
Who drave from Long Island the fishers on those sunshiny midsummer days.
Till the elder men died and were buried, and over their labour and pain,
But their children remained on Long Island, and followed a sea-faring life,
As their fathers before them, in peace, with never the murmurs of strife,
Till Boston, the city, grew jealous, like Ahab, the the ruler, of old,
When he longed for the vineyard of Naboth, which he from his gates could behold.
No vineyard was this on Long Island, but a few scanty acres of beach,
58
Though the fishermen begged for their homesteads, the strong city answered them “Nay,”
For she wanted, in spite of her riches, those few acres just down in the bay.
So she gathered together her servants and sent them to Long Island strand,
And they tore down the fisher-folk homes and strewed the wreck over the land,
While the Portuguese women bewailed them, but their husbands stood sullen aside
And wondered that God in the heavens could the wrongs of His servants abide.
Thus the work of destruction went onward, while a cloud of dust covered the place
Where the men from the distant Azores had nourished a peace-loving race,
Till the grey of the long August twilight came down on that isle in the sea
And covered the work of the spoilers, and the morrow was yet to be.
Then the masterful foemen of Boston shame-facedly hurried away,
While the curses of those they had plundered rang after them over the bay
59
Who heedeth the griefs of the humble and divideth the praise from the blame.
But His ways are still hid in the future and the city is great in her pride,
And the men in her fair council chambers the Portuguese fishers deride;
And still in the streets of the city the deed of those foemen they praise,
Who drave from Long Island the fishers on those sunshiny midsummer days.
Thus honour abundant did Boston achieve in a glorious fray
With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay.
And so long as the church-bells of Boston ring out from her myriad towers,
So long will the praises be chanted of these valorous foemen of ours
Who divided in sunder the roof-trees that sheltered a peace-loving folk,
Who shattered in fragments their hearth-stones and quenched forever their smoke.
With a handful of Portuguese fishers on that island just down in the bay.
And so long as the church-bells of Boston ring out from her myriad towers,
So long will the praises be chanted of these valorous foemen of ours
Who divided in sunder the roof-trees that sheltered a peace-loving folk,
Who shattered in fragments their hearth-stones and quenched forever their smoke.
1887
60
ON TRURO MOORS
O friend of mine, so dear to me,
Forget not yet those summer hours
On Truro moors beside the sea.
Forget not yet those summer hours
On Truro moors beside the sea.
O'er rolling downs we roamed in glee
To where the tall white lighthouse towers,
O friend of mine, so dear to me.
To where the tall white lighthouse towers,
O friend of mine, so dear to me.
On those high cliffs I sat with thee,
When clinging sea-fog split slow showers,
On Truro moors beside the sea.
When clinging sea-fog split slow showers,
On Truro moors beside the sea.
Fair hopes we had for days to be,
We said high purpose should be ours,
O friend of mine, so dear to me.
We said high purpose should be ours,
O friend of mine, so dear to me.
In sun or cloud we paced that lea
Elate with all that friendship dowers,
On Truro moors beside the sea.
Elate with all that friendship dowers,
On Truro moors beside the sea.
Ah! far-off week from care so free
(Time from its span no charm deflowers,
O friend of mine, so dear to me)
On Truro moors beside the sea.
(Time from its span no charm deflowers,
O friend of mine, so dear to me)
On Truro moors beside the sea.
61
AT PARTING
With eyes in which there gleamed a tear,
And voice whose syllables were broken,
She stood aghast in sudden fear.
With eyes in which there gleamed a tear,
She gazed at him who loved her dear,
And left the farewell half unspoken,
With eyes in which there gleamed a tear,
And voice whose syllables were broken.
And voice whose syllables were broken,
She stood aghast in sudden fear.
With eyes in which there gleamed a tear,
She gazed at him who loved her dear,
And left the farewell half unspoken,
With eyes in which there gleamed a tear,
And voice whose syllables were broken.
For soon would seas between them roll,
And half the world its distance sever.
How should content possess her soul
When seas would soon between them roll?
Then round her waist his strong arm stole—
“Dear heart,” he said, “my love dies never,
Though seas will soon between us roll
And half the world its distance sever.”
And half the world its distance sever.
How should content possess her soul
When seas would soon between them roll?
Then round her waist his strong arm stole—
“Dear heart,” he said, “my love dies never,
Though seas will soon between us roll
And half the world its distance sever.”
62
UT QUID DOMINE
PSALM X.
Why standest Thou from us afar,
O Lord? Why hidest Thy face?
In need and sore trouble we are.
Why standest Thou from us afar,
When the wicked the poor doth debar
From his right, and debase?
Why standest Thou from us afar,
O Lord? Why hidest Thy face?
O Lord? Why hidest Thy face?
In need and sore trouble we are.
Why standest Thou from us afar,
When the wicked the poor doth debar
From his right, and debase?
Why standest Thou from us afar,
O Lord? Why hidest Thy face?
The wicked hath said in his heart
That his glory shall never be less.
“With defeat I shall never have part,”
The wicked hath said in his heart;
So the poor he maketh to smart,
And seeketh his goods to possess.
The wicked hath said in his heart
That his glory shall never be less.
That his glory shall never be less.
“With defeat I shall never have part,”
The wicked hath said in his heart;
So the poor he maketh to smart,
And seeketh his goods to possess.
The wicked hath said in his heart
That his glory shall never be less.
“For God hath forgotten,” he cries;
“The Lord hath forgotten the poor!”
With his tongue he uttereth lies:
“For God hath forgotten,” he cries.
He lieth in wait in disguise
That his deeds may be secret and sure.
“For God hath forgotten,” he cries;
“The Lord hath forgotten the poor!”
“The Lord hath forgotten the poor!”
With his tongue he uttereth lies:
“For God hath forgotten,” he cries.
63
That his deeds may be secret and sure.
“For God hath forgotten,” he cries;
“The Lord hath forgotten the poor!”
Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known;
For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong;
The friendless Thou helpest alone.
Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known
That the wicked so mighty are grown;
And to Thee we lift up our song.
Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known;
For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong.
For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong;
The friendless Thou helpest alone.
Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known
That the wicked so mighty are grown;
And to Thee we lift up our song.
Most surely, O Lord, hast Thou known;
For Thou seest all sorrow and wrong.
O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire,—
Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer:
Let the wicked no longer conspire.
O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire,—
Lift us up from the clay and the mire,
And our hearts in Thy mercy prepare.
O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire,—
Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer.
Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer:
Let the wicked no longer conspire.
O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire,—
Lift us up from the clay and the mire,
And our hearts in Thy mercy prepare.
O Lord, Thou hast heard our desire,—
Incline Thou Thine ear to our prayer.
64
O FRIEND ESTRANGED
O friend estranged, whose love, now cold,
Once warmed my heart with bliss untold,
How near we were, now sundered far!
What fate perverse did forge the bar
That holds apart the friends of old?
Once warmed my heart with bliss untold,
How near we were, now sundered far!
What fate perverse did forge the bar
That holds apart the friends of old?
Do you forget how o'er us rolled
The tides of feeling uncontrolled,
Before your love knew wound or scar,
O friend estranged?
The tides of feeling uncontrolled,
Before your love knew wound or scar,
O friend estranged?
When first your hand-clasp loosed its hold,
And dark mistrust, grown over-bold,
Crept in, your faith to blur and mar,
Did not your spirit feel the jar
Preluding friendship's death-knell knolled,
O friend estranged?
And dark mistrust, grown over-bold,
Crept in, your faith to blur and mar,
Did not your spirit feel the jar
Preluding friendship's death-knell knolled,
O friend estranged?
65
THE ARTIST'S LAST PICTURE
Upon the painter's easel stands
The latest picture from his hands.
The canvas shows a sunset glow
Reflected in the lake below,
While mountains farther from the sight
Have caught the day's departing light,
And autumn's tints upon the leaves
Are paled by these the sunset weaves.
The latest picture from his hands.
The canvas shows a sunset glow
Reflected in the lake below,
While mountains farther from the sight
Have caught the day's departing light,
And autumn's tints upon the leaves
Are paled by these the sunset weaves.
Oh, nevermore that rosy sky
Will darken as the moments fly;
Or colour fade from off the lake,
Or mount a duller tint will take.
The glories of the lingering day
Are on that canvas fixed for aye!
Will darken as the moments fly;
Or colour fade from off the lake,
Or mount a duller tint will take.
The glories of the lingering day
Are on that canvas fixed for aye!
The hand that laid those colours fair,
The brain that schemed to set them there,
Have no more work, meseems, to do,
For both are still; the palette, too,
Hangs idly from its peg; and o'er
The box of pigments on the floor
The spider throws her web. The sun
That glittered while the work was done,
Has set in night for him who made
This canvas fair with light and shade;
For ere these glowing hues were dry
He turned him from his task to die.
The brain that schemed to set them there,
Have no more work, meseems, to do,
For both are still; the palette, too,
Hangs idly from its peg; and o'er
The box of pigments on the floor
The spider throws her web. The sun
That glittered while the work was done,
Has set in night for him who made
This canvas fair with light and shade;
66
He turned him from his task to die.
Ah! not in night his day declined;
Not thus the spirit saith. The mind
That thought, the brain that willed,
Are with diviner cunning skilled,
And somewhere out of earthly sight
The artist is, and morning light
Illumes his canvas: through his soul
The harmonies of heaven roll,
And mortal sunsets to him seem
But as some faintly-outlined dream
Recalled in brightest mid-day gleam.
Not thus the spirit saith. The mind
That thought, the brain that willed,
Are with diviner cunning skilled,
And somewhere out of earthly sight
The artist is, and morning light
Illumes his canvas: through his soul
The harmonies of heaven roll,
And mortal sunsets to him seem
But as some faintly-outlined dream
Recalled in brightest mid-day gleam.
67
“IN PEACE AND QUIETNESS”
A silver tide,
The waters glide,
And round the feet of mountains slide,
O'er whose high steep
The moonbeams peep,
And on through winding valleys keep.
The waters glide,
And round the feet of mountains slide,
O'er whose high steep
The moonbeams peep,
And on through winding valleys keep.
'Mid craggy walls,
Where alway calls
The voice of many waterfalls,
A castle stands,
Whence robber bands
Once ravaged all the neighbour lands.
Where alway calls
The voice of many waterfalls,
A castle stands,
Whence robber bands
Once ravaged all the neighbour lands.
Their fierce alarms,
Their clang of arms,
Rang o'er the peasants' wasted farms;
And city streets
Heard their hoof beats,
Beheld the keeping of their leets.
Their clang of arms,
Rang o'er the peasants' wasted farms;
And city streets
Heard their hoof beats,
Beheld the keeping of their leets.
68
Their riot fills
No more the hills,
And stirs a myriad mortal ills.
Their day is done,
Their course long run,
And memory fain their names would shun.
No more the hills,
And stirs a myriad mortal ills.
Their day is done,
Their course long run,
And memory fain their names would shun.
Along these slopes
With nature copes
The peasant, scattering seed in hopes.
The fig and vine
Their boughs entwine;
The valleys sing with corn and wine.
With nature copes
The peasant, scattering seed in hopes.
The fig and vine
Their boughs entwine;
The valleys sing with corn and wine.
In summer days
A golden haze
Hides mount and river in its maze;
In summer eves
The moonlight weaves
A shimmering splendour of the leaves,
A golden haze
Hides mount and river in its maze;
In summer eves
The moonlight weaves
A shimmering splendour of the leaves,
Or silver lights,
On autumn nights,
It scatters where no foe affrights;
While softly there
The call of prayer
Floats forth upon the peaceful air.
On autumn nights,
It scatters where no foe affrights;
While softly there
The call of prayer
Floats forth upon the peaceful air.
69
IN THE LIBRARY AT ELMWOOD
These are the friends whom he loved: these books that reveal on their pages
Pencilled marks of approval, as one claps a friend on the shoulder
Who has uttered a witty or wise thing. These are the friends he loved best,
And he knew them as one knows a brother. Now they look down from their places,
At evening and morning and mid-day, and mourn his untimely departure.
Many a time on their leaves has his white hand lovingly rested;
Many a time has he gone to these friends for their generous counsel;
Often and often have they and the poet made merry together.
Pencilled marks of approval, as one claps a friend on the shoulder
Who has uttered a witty or wise thing. These are the friends he loved best,
And he knew them as one knows a brother. Now they look down from their places,
At evening and morning and mid-day, and mourn his untimely departure.
Many a time on their leaves has his white hand lovingly rested;
Many a time has he gone to these friends for their generous counsel;
Often and often have they and the poet made merry together.
70
Now the sweet converse has past, and the glow of the fire on the hearthstone
Flashes across the dark faces that leaned from the shelves to speak to him
In accents that he understood whatever the tongue that was spoken;
Gleams on the papers that lie on the stand where he carelessly tossed them;
Glitters on ceiling and walls but no longer discovers the presence,
Gracious and courteous ever, that once made the scholar's apartment
Seem like the throne of a king when he sat there by such friends surrounded.
Flashes across the dark faces that leaned from the shelves to speak to him
In accents that he understood whatever the tongue that was spoken;
Gleams on the papers that lie on the stand where he carelessly tossed them;
Glitters on ceiling and walls but no longer discovers the presence,
Gracious and courteous ever, that once made the scholar's apartment
Seem like the throne of a king when he sat there by such friends surrounded.
1891
71
HULL
Low leagues of coast dunes bending to the westAre tremulous with waving beach grass green,
Or all aglare with shifting sands that, seen
At midday, show their arid whiteness best.
At farthest end start up, as if to breast
The ocean's might, low rounded hills that lean
Their turfed slopes to the sun, and in between
These swelling downs a road winds, all unguessed
Till near, and fringed with homely farmsteads like
Some country lane with honest country bloom.
The murmurs of the sea seem faint and far
Though close beside. All summer sounds that strike
The ear bring peace. All winds waft blent perfume
Of sea and meadow through the village quaint.
72
WHICH
O which were best, and who would dare to choose
Between the friend who holds you as his life,
Counting all effort useless if his strife
Win from you no fond word—content to lose
All else but you—or him you know no ruse
Of time can part your soul from, and no knife
Of fate dissever, though all tongues were rife
With tales of slander his fair fame to bruise?
Between the friend who holds you as his life,
Counting all effort useless if his strife
Win from you no fond word—content to lose
All else but you—or him you know no ruse
Of time can part your soul from, and no knife
Of fate dissever, though all tongues were rife
With tales of slander his fair fame to bruise?
O which were best? To give or to receive?
To love, or to be loved? To take alway,
Or stand with gifts of love before the gate
Of one beloved? Oh! curious heart, believe
All love wins love, and choice were foolish play
In this. The twain are one, or soon or late.
To love, or to be loved? To take alway,
Or stand with gifts of love before the gate
Of one beloved? Oh! curious heart, believe
All love wins love, and choice were foolish play
In this. The twain are one, or soon or late.
73
WHAT CAN DREAR DECEMBER SAY?
What can drear December say
That should make our souls rejoice?
Fields are white and skies are grey;
Winter speaks with sternest voice.
That should make our souls rejoice?
Fields are white and skies are grey;
Winter speaks with sternest voice.
Summer's gone far over seas;
Scent and sweetness all are fled;
Every southward sweeping breeze
Wails a dirge for summer dead.
Scent and sweetness all are fled;
Every southward sweeping breeze
Wails a dirge for summer dead.
Hearts are numb with nameless pain,
For the year is near its death:
“Joy once past comes not again,”
To itself the sad soul saith.
For the year is near its death:
“Joy once past comes not again,”
To itself the sad soul saith.
This is what December says,
Heard through snows and flying sleet:
“Even in my shortening days
Still abide presagings sweet
Heard through snows and flying sleet:
“Even in my shortening days
Still abide presagings sweet
Of the pleasant time to be.
In my woods the hazel swells;
Under snows who looks may see
Epigæa's rose tinged bells.
In my woods the hazel swells;
Under snows who looks may see
Epigæa's rose tinged bells.
All the blasts in fury reeling
Cannot quench my Christmas light.
Heart, look up! One came with healing
On a dark December night.”
Cannot quench my Christmas light.
Heart, look up! One came with healing
On a dark December night.”
74
HORATIO NELSON POWERS
1826–1890
Death hath no power o'er such as he;The fulness of the life to be
Shone round him in the life he spent
Within this mortal prison pent.
Texts might we gather from his looks
Such as men read in holy books,
And in his speech could hear at will
The Master's gracious accents still.
A MEMORY AT CHRISTMASTIDE
Again the snows, the Christmas carols sweet;Again the days so full of Christmas cheer.
Ah me! the friend who spoke with me last year,
And warmed my very heart with love's glad heat
Lies now where fall the winter snow and sleet,
And I, who held him past all others dear
And counted every hour without him drear,
No more shall list the coming of his feet.
75
LOVE IS SO SWEET
Love is so sweet, but he seldom stays long:
(Roses of June are gone ere July.)
Love is so sweet, but brief ia his song:
(Roses of June on the first winds fly.)
(Roses of June are gone ere July.)
Love is so sweet, but brief ia his song:
(Roses of June on the first winds fly.)
Love is so sweet, but he leaves a pain:
(Roses of June have a thorn 'neath them all.)
Love is so sweet, but he comes not again:
(Roses of June must wither and fall.)
(Roses of June have a thorn 'neath them all.)
Love is so sweet, but he comes not again:
(Roses of June must wither and fall.)
Love was so sweet, but his day is past:
(Roses lie deep 'neath December snows.)
Love was so sweet, but he fled so fast;
(Roses are done when the summer-time goes.)
(Roses lie deep 'neath December snows.)
Love was so sweet, but he fled so fast;
(Roses are done when the summer-time goes.)
76
BEFORE THE GATE OF STORMS
Before the gate of storms two dim shapes met:
(Cold are the winds when December flies;)
The one was robed in weeds of sad regret,
But saw the shining of the other's eyes.
(Cold are the winds when December flies;)
The one was robed in weeds of sad regret,
But saw the shining of the other's eyes.
Then he who wore the seal of sorrows great:
(Dark are the nights when December goes;)
“Alas! who art thou, that with face elate
Peerest so eagerly through whirling snows?”
(Dark are the nights when December goes;)
“Alas! who art thou, that with face elate
Peerest so eagerly through whirling snows?”
Clear rang the other's answer in his ear:
(Crisp are the snows when December speeds;)
“I am the spirit of the coming year;
My name is Hope, and always hope succeeds.”
(Crisp are the snows when December speeds;)
“I am the spirit of the coming year;
My name is Hope, and always hope succeeds.”
Slow turned the sad one from before the gate:
(Shadows are black when December parts;)
“O eager one, within the future wait
Thy coming, pain and woe and broken hearts.
(Shadows are black when December parts;)
“O eager one, within the future wait
Thy coming, pain and woe and broken hearts.
I am the spirit of the going year;
(Sad are the hours when December flies;)
My name is Loss, and me all men do fear,
For in my bosom twelve months' anguish lies!”
(Sad are the hours when December flies;)
My name is Loss, and me all men do fear,
For in my bosom twelve months' anguish lies!”
77
AT BAY
This the end, then, of striving; this is what comes of it all;
Darkness and foes just behind one; before, an impassable wall.
What does it matter how staunchly one may have battled for truth,
When with his weapons all broken he sits by the grave of his youth?
What did it profit in past years that one did the best that one knew,
When in the gloom of the present, virtue herself seems untrue?
Why should one fight any longer when nothing remains but defeat?
Surely such labour were useless, and idle the stirring of feet.
Darkness and foes just behind one; before, an impassable wall.
What does it matter how staunchly one may have battled for truth,
When with his weapons all broken he sits by the grave of his youth?
What did it profit in past years that one did the best that one knew,
When in the gloom of the present, virtue herself seems untrue?
Why should one fight any longer when nothing remains but defeat?
Surely such labour were useless, and idle the stirring of feet.
Ah! but the soul that is faithful knows it is well to have fought;
Knows it is good to have acted, whatever the doing has brought.
This is the crown of the conflict, this the reward of all strife,—
Faith in one's self and one's motives, no matter how darkened the life.
Flesh may be bruised and defeated, but spirit is never disgraced;
Spirit is always triumphant, whatever sharp pain it it has faced.
Knows it is good to have acted, whatever the doing has brought.
This is the crown of the conflict, this the reward of all strife,—
Faith in one's self and one's motives, no matter how darkened the life.
78
Spirit is always triumphant, whatever sharp pain it it has faced.
Here, at the end of my conflict, I counsel not yet with dispair,
Though to all seeming my struggles are his who but beateth the air.
Darkness and foes are about me, yet I stand with my back to the wall,
Facing whatever Fate sends me, and facing Fate thus I shall fall!
Though to all seeming my struggles are his who but beateth the air.
Darkness and foes are about me, yet I stand with my back to the wall,
Facing whatever Fate sends me, and facing Fate thus I shall fall!
79
A LAGGARD SPRING
The winter tarried and the spring was late,And still from wild waste lands to northward blew
The gale that stiffened nightly all the brooks
Which fed the rivers flowing past the cliffs
Of lonely cloud-swept mountains to the sea;
And all the people wearied of the cold,
And all the fields were crying for the sun.
But when the mid-March weeks were past there came
A wind from southern lands that vanquished quite
The hosts of winter. All its snows rushed down
In stormful spates, to spread themselves upon
The level meads that lay beside the streams
That in the summer shrank to silver threads
Or lost themselves amid the green, but now
Were one wide water, for the spring had come!
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