Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr

It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago
Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn
It blew so gayly on the hills of morn,
And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.

Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart—
Gone with the freshness of the early hours,
The songs that filled the air with silver showers,
The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.

Yet still in tender light the garden lies;
The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;
Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;
The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.

And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide
Their many colored petals to the sun,
As glad to live as if the evening dun
Were far away, and morning had not died!

296

A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG

Whence it came I did not know,
How it came I could not tell,
But I heard the music flow
Like the pealing of a bell;
Up and down the wild-wood arches,
Through the sombre firs and larches,
Long I heard it rise and swell;
Long I lay, with half-shut eyes,
Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!

Then the wondrous music poured
Yet a fuller, stronger strain,
Till my soul in rapture soared
Out of reach of toil and pain!
Then, oh then, I know not how,
Then, oh then, I know not where,
I was borne, serene and slow,
Through the boundless fields of air—
Past the sunset's golden bars,
Past long ranks of glittering stars,
To a realm where time was not,
And it secrets were forgot!

Land of shadows, who may know
Where thy golden lilies blow?
Land of shadows, on what star
In the blue depths shining far,
Or in what appointed place

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In the unmeasured realms of space,
High as heaven, or deep as hell,
Thou dost lie what tongue can tell?
Send from out thy mystic portals
With the holy chrism to-day,
One of all thy high immortals
Who shall teach me what to say!

O beloveds, all the air
Was a faint, ethereal mist
Touched with rose and amethyst—
Glints of gold, and here and there
Purple splendors that were gone,
Like the glory of the dawn,
Ere one caught them. Soft and gray,
Lit by many a pearly ray,
Were the low skies bending dim
To the far horizon's rim;
And the landscape stretched away,
Fair, illusive, like a dream
Wherein all things do but seem!
There were mountains, but they rose
O'er the subtile vale's repose,
Light as clouds that far and high
Soar to meet the untroubled sky.
There were trees that overhead
Wide their sheltering branches spread,
Yet were empty as the shade
By the quivering vine-leaves made.
There were roses, rich with bloom,
Swinging censers of perfume
Sweet as fragrant winds of May
Blowing through spring's secret bowers;
Yet so phantom-like were they
That they seemed the ghosts of flowers.

298

Oh, the music sweet and strange
In that land's enchanted range!
Like the pealing of the bells
When the brazen flowers are swinging
And the angelus is ringing,
Soaring, echoing, far and near,
Through the vales and up the dells—
Softly on the enraptured ear
A melodious murmur swells!
As the rhythm of the river
Day and night goes on forever,
So that pulsing stream of song
Rolls its silver waves along.
Even silence is but sound,
Deeper, softer, more profound!

All the portals were thrown wide!
Stretching far on either side
Ran the streets, like silver mist,
By the moon's pale splendor kissed;
And adown the shadowy way,
Forth from many a still retreat,
One by one, and two by two,
Or in goodly companies;
Gliding on in long array,
Light and fleet, with silent feet,
One by one, and two by two,
Phantoms that I could not number,
Countless as the wraiths of slumber,
Passed before my wondering eyes!

Then I grew aware of one
Standing by me in the dun,
Gray half-twilight. All the place
Grew softly radiant; but his face,

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Albeit unveiled, I could not see
For the awe that compassed me.
Swift I spoke, by longings swayed
Deeper than my words betrayed:
“Master,” with clasped hands I prayed,
“Who are these? Are they the dead?”
“Nay, they never lived,” he said;
“Whence art thou? How camest thou here?”
Low I answered, then, in fear:
“Sir, I know not; as I lay
Dreaming at the close of day,
Wondrous music, thrilling through me,
To this land of phantoms drew me,
Though I knew not how or why,
Even as instinct draws the bird
Where Spring's far-off voice is heard.
Tell me, Master, where am I?”
“Thou art in the border-land,
On the farthest, utmost strand
Of the sea that lies between
All that is and is not seen.
Thou art where the wraiths of song
Come and go, a phantom throng.
'Tis their heart's melodious beat
Fills the air with whispers sweet!
These, O child, are songs unsung—
Songs unbreathed by human tongue;
These are they that all in vain
Mightiest masters wooed amain—
Children of their heart and brain
That they could not warm to life
By their being's utmost strife.
Every bard that ever sung
Since the hoary earth was young
Knew the song he could not sing

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Was his soul's best blossoming,
Knew the thought he could not hold
Shrined his spirit's purest gold.
Look!”
Where rose the city's gate
In majestic, sculptured state,
From a far-off battle-plain,
Through the javelins' silver rain
Bearing buckler, lance, and shield,
And their standard's glittering field,
Eager, yet with shout nor din,
Came a great host trooping in.
Burned their eyes with martial fire,
And the glow of proud desire,
Such as gods and hero's filled
When their mighty souls were thrilled
By old Homer's golden lyre!

Under dim cathedral arches
Pacing sad, pacing slow,
As to beat of funeral marches
Or to music's rhythmic flow—
With their solemn brows uplifted,
And their hands upon their breasts,
Where the deepest shadows drifted,
One by one pale phantoms pressed.
Lost in dreams of heights supernal,
Mystic dreams of Paradise,
Or of woful depths infernal,
Slow they passed before mine eyes.
Oh, the vision's pallid splendor!
Oh, the grandeur of their mien—
Kin, by birthright proud and tender,
To the matchless Florentine!

301

In stately solitude,
Whereon might none intrude—
Majestic, grand and calm,
And bearing each the palm;
Dwelling, serene and fair,
In most enchanted air,
Where softest music crept
O'er harp-strings deftly swept,
And organ-thunders rolled
Like storm-winds through the wold,
They stood in strength sublime
Beyond the bounds of time—
They who had been a part
Of Milton's mighty heart!

And where, mysterious ones,
And Shakespeare's princely sons,
Bearing in lavish hands
The spoil of many lands?
From castles lifted far
Against the evening star,
Where royal banners float
O'er rampart, tower, and moat,
And the white moonlight sleeps
Upon the Donjon keeps;
From fairy-haunted dells
Among the lonely fells;
From banks where wild thyme grows
And the blue violet blows;
From caverns grim, and caves
Lashed by the deep sea-waves;
From darkling forest shade,
From busy haunts of trade,
From market, court, and camp,
Where folly rings her bells,

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Or sorrow tolls her knells,
Or where in cloister cells
The scholar trims his lamp—
Wearing the sword, the gown,
The motley of the clown,
The beggar's rags, the dole
Of the remorseful soul,
The wedding-robe, the ring,
The shroud's white blossoming,
O myriad-minded man,
Thus thine immortal clan
Passed down the endless ways
Of the eternal days!

Then said I to my spirit:
“These are they who wore the crown;
Well the king's sons may inherit
All his glory and renown.
Where are they—the songs unsung
By the humbler bards whose lyres
Through earth's lowly vales have rung,
Like the notes of woodland choirs?
They whose silver-sandalled feet
Never climbed the clouds to meet?”

Where?—The air grew full of laughter
Low and sweet, and following after
Came the softest breath of singing
As if lily bells were ringing;
And from all the happy closes,
Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses,
Bearing woodland ferns of palm-boughs in their hands,
From the dim secluded places,
Through the wide enchanted spaces,

303

With their song-illumined faces
Swept the shadowy minstrel bands!

Songs unsung, the high and lowly,
Songs, the holy and unholy,
In that purest air grown wholly
Clean from every spot and stain!
And I knew as endless ages
Still were turning life's full pages,
Each should find his own again—
Find the song he could not sing,
As his soul's best blossoming!

304

QUESTIONING A ROSE

It was fair, it was sweet,
And it blossomed at my feet.
“O thou peerless rose!” I said,
“Art thou heir to roses dead—
Roses that their petals shed
In the winds of long ago?
Who bequeathed to thee the glow
Of thy perfect, radiant heart?
What proud queen of fire and snow
Lived to make thee what thou art?

“Who gave thee thy nameless grace
And the beauty of thy face,
Touched thy lips with fragrant wine,
Pledging thee in cups divine?
On some long-forgotten day,
When earth kept glad holiday,
One bright rose was born, I think,
Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink—
Born, more blest than others are,
To be thy progenitor!

“Oh, the roses that have died
In the unremembered Junes!
Oh, the roses that have sighed
Unto long-forgotten runes!
Dost thou know their secrets dear?

305

Have they whispered in thine ear
Mysteries of the rain and dew,
And the sunshine that they knew?
Have they told thee how the breeze
Wooed them, and the amorous bees?

“Silent, art thou? Thy repose
Mocks me, yet I fain would know
Art thou kin to one rare rose
Of a summer long ago?
It was sweet, it was fair;
Someone twined it in my hair,
When my young cheek, blushing red,
Shamed the roses, someone said.
Dust and ashes though it be,
Still its soul lives on in thee.”

306

THE FALLOW FIELD

The sun comes up and the sun goes down;
The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town;
But if it be dark or if it be day,
If the tempests beat or the breezes play,
Still here on this upland slope I lie,
Looking up to the changeful sky.

Naught am I but a fallow field;
Never a crop my acres yield.
Over the wall at my right hand
Stately and green the corn-blades stand,
And I hear at my left the flying feet
Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is red
I list for our master's eager tread.
He smiles at the young corn's towering height,
He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,
But he glances not at the fallow field
Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimes the shout of the harvesters
The sleeping pulse of my being stirs,
And as one in a dream I seem to feel
The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel,
Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain
As they heap their wains with the golden grain.

307

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,
Though on every tongue your praise is loud.
Our mother Nature is kind to me,
And I am beloved by bird and bee,
And never a child that passes by
But turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue;
I have my share of the rain and dew;
I bask like you in the summer sun
When the long bright days pass, one by one,
And calm as yours is my sweet repose
Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.

For little our loving mother cares
Which the corn or the daisy bears,
Which is rich with the ripening wheat,
Which with the violet's breath is sweet,
Which is red with the clover bloom,
Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.

Useless under the summer sky
Year after year men say I lie.
Little they know what strength of mine
I give to the trailing blackberry vine;
Little they know how the wild grape grows,
Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.

Little they think of the cups I fill
For the mosses creeping under the hill;
Little they think of the feast I spread
For the wild wee creatures that must be fed:
Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee,
And the creeping things that no eye may see.

308

Lord of the harvest, thou dost know
How the summers and winters go.
Never a ship sails east or west
Laden with treasures at my behest,
Yet my being thrills to the voice of God
When I give my gold to the golden-rod.

309

OUT AND IN

A ship went sailing out to sea,
A gallant ship and gay,
When skies were bright as skies could be,
One sunny morn in May.
The light winds blew,
The white sails flew,
The pennants floated far;
No stain I saw,
Nor any flaw,
From deck to shining spar!
And from the prow, with eager eyes,
Hope gazed afar—to Paradise.

A ship came laboring in from sea,
One wild December night;
Ah! never ship was borne to lee
In sadder, sorrier plight!
Rent were her sails
By furious gales,
No pennants floated far;
Twisted and torn
And all forlorn
Were shuddering mast and spar!
But from the prow Faith's steady eyes
Caught the near light of Paradise!

310

HER FLOWERS

“Nay, nay,” she whispered low,
“I will not have these buds of folded snow,
Nor yet the pallid bloom
Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume,
Nor lilies waxen white,
To go with her into the grave's dark night.

“But now that she is dead
Bring ye the royal roses blushing red,
Roses that on her breast
All summer long, by these pale hands caressed,
Have lain in happy calm,
Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”

Roses for all the joy
Of perfect hours when life had no alloy;
When hope was glad and gay,
And young Love sang his blissful roundelay;
And to her eager eyes
Each new day oped the gates of Paradise.

But, for that she hath wept,
And over buried hopes long vigil kept,
Bring mystic passion-flowers,
To tell the tale of sacrificial hours
When, lifting up her cross,
She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!

311

Then at her blessèd feet,
That never more shall haste on errands sweet,
Lay fragrant mignonette
And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,—
Dear humble flowers, that make
Each passer-by the gladder for their sake!

For she who lieth here
Trod not alone the high paths shining clear,
With light of star and sun
Falling undimmed her lofty place upon;
But stooped to lowliest ways,
Filling with fragrance all the passing days!

312

THREE LADDIES

O sailors sailing north,
Where the wild white surges roar,
And fierce winds and strong winds
Blow down from Labrador—
Have you seen my three brave laddies,
My merry red-cheeked laddies,
Three bold, adventurous laddies,
On some tempestuous shore?

O sailors sailing south,
Where the seas are calm and blue,
And light clouds and soft clouds
Are floating over you,
Say, have you seen my laddies,
My three bright, winsome laddies,
My brown-haired, smiling laddies,
With hearts so leal and true?

O sailors sailing east,
Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by;
O sailors sailing west,
Ask the eagles soaring high,
If they have seen my laddies,
My careless, heedless laddies,
Three debonair young laddies,
Beneath the wide, wide sky?

313

O sailors, if you find them,
Pray send them back to me;
For them the winds go sighing
Through every lonely tree—
For these three wandering laddies,
My tender, bright-eyed laddies,
The laughter-loving laddies,
Whom they no longer see.

There are three men who love me,
Three men with bearded lips;
But oh! ye gallant sailors
Who sail the sea in ships—
In elf-land, or in cloud-land,
Or on the dreamland shore,
Can you find the little laddies
Whom I can find no more?
Three quiet, thoughtful laddies,
Three merry, winsome laddies,
Three rollicking, frolicking laddies,
On any far-off shore?

314

SUMMER, 1882

R. W. E.

O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?
In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,
What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,
Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?

Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feet
Even now upon the mountains. All the hills
Rise up to greet thee. Nature's great heart thrills,
Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?

And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!
To the far North I bend my listening ear;
By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear
One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!

“Why should I haste where light and song have fled?
The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master's lyre;
The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’
When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”

315

THORNLESS ROSES

“No rose may bloom without a thorn?”
Come down the garden paths and see
How brightly in the scented air
They bloom for you and me!

See how, like rosy clouds, they lie
Against the perfect, stainless blue!
See how they toss their airy heads,
And smile for me, for you!

No scanty largess, meanly doled—
No pallid blooms, by two, by three,
But a whole crowd of pink-white wings
Fluttering for you and me.

So fair they are I cannot choose;
I pluck the rich spoils here and there;
I heap them on your waiting arms;
I twine them in your hair.

There is no thorn among them all—
No sharp sting in the heart of bliss—
No bitter in the honeyed cup—
No burning in the kiss.

Nay, quote the proverb if you must,
And mock the truth you will not see;
Nathless, Love's thornless roses blow
Somewhere for you and me.

316

TREASURE-SHIPS

O beautiful, stately ships,
Ye come from over the seas,
With every sail full spread
To the glad, rejoicing breeze!
Ye come from the dusky East,
Ye come from the golden West,
As birds that out of the far blue sky
Fly each to its sheltered nest.

All spoils of the earth ye bring;
From the isles of far Cathay,
From the fabled shores of the Orient,
The realms of eternal day.
The prisoned light of a thousand gems,
The gleam of the virgin gold,
Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,
Shut up in the narrow hold.

Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;
Ivory white as milk;
Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,
And fold upon fold of silk;
Gauzes that India's maidens wear;
Spices, and rare perfumes;
Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups
The wealth of the summer blooms.

317

The blood of a thousand vines;
The cotton's drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth's broad threshing-floor.

Yet, O ye beautiful ships!
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne'er come in?

318

CHOOSING

Meadow-sweet or lily fair—
Which shall it be?
Clematis or brier-rose,
Blooming for me?
Spicy pink, or violet
With the dews of morning wet,
Sweet peas or mignonette—
Which shall it be?

Flowers in the garden-beds,
Flowers everywhere;
Blue-bells and yellow-bells
Swinging in the air;
Purple pansies, golden pied;
Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed;
Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed,
Climbing everywhere!

Oh, the roses darkly red—
See, how they burn!
Glows with all the summer heat
Each crimson urn.
Bridal roses pure as snow,
Yellow roses all a-blow,
Sweet blush-roses drooping low,
Wheresoe'er I turn!

319

Life is so full, so sweet—
How can I choose?
If I gather this rose,
That I must lose!
All are not for me to wear;
I can only have my share;
Thorns are hiding here and there;
How can I choose?

320

NOT MINE

It is not mine to run
With eager feet
Along life's crowded ways,
My Lord to meet.

It is not mine to pour
The oil and wine,
Or bring the purple robe
And linen fine.

It is not mine to break
At his dear feet
The alabaster-box
Of ointment sweet.

It is not mine to bear
His heavy cross,
Or suffer, for his sake,
All pain and loss.

It is not mine to walk
Through valleys dim,
Or climb far mountain-heights
Alone with him.

He hath no need of me
In grand affairs,
Where fields are lost, or crowns
Won unawares.

321

Yet, Master, if I may
Make one pale flower
Bloom brighter, for thy sake,
Through one short hour;

If I, in harvest-fields
Where strong ones reap,
May bind one golden sheaf
For Love to keep;

May speak one quiet word
When all is still,
Helping some fainting heart
To bear thy will;

Or sing one high, clear song,
On which may soar
Some glad soul heavenward,
I ask no more!

322

THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE

One autumn day we three,
Who long had borne each other company—
Grief, and my Heart, and I—
Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky.

The fields were bare and brown;
From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down;
There were no birds to sing,
Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing.

We sought the barren sand
Beside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand,
Paced its slow length, and talked
Of our supremest sorrows as we walked.

Slow shaking each bowed head,
“There is no anguish like to ours,” we said;
“The glancing eyes of morn
Fall on no souls more utterly forlorn.”

But suddenly, across
A narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss,
We saw before our eyes,
High hung above the tide, a temple rise—

A temple wondrous fair,
Lifting its shining turrets in the air,
All touched with golden gleams,
Like the bright miracles we see in dreams.

323

Grief turned and looked at me.
“We must go thither, O my friends,” said she;
Then, saying nothing more,
With rapid, gliding step passed on before.

And we—my Heart and I—
Where Grief went, we went, following silently,
Till in sweet solitude
Beneath the temple's vaulted roof we stood.

'Twas like a hollow pearl—
A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirl
Of passion stirred not, where
A luminous splendor trembled in the air.

“O friends, I know this place,”
Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space,
Where, either soon or late,
I and my kindred all shall lie in state.”

“But do Griefs die?” I cried.
“Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied.
“Yet all at last will lie
In this fair chamber, slumbering quietly.

“Chamber of Silence, this;
Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss.
Mine hour hath come. We three
Will walk, O friends, no more in company.”

Then was I dumb. My Heart
And I—how could we with our dear Grief part,
Who for so many a day
Had walked beside us in our lonely way?

324

But she, with matchless grace,
And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face,
Said, “Leave me here to sleep,
Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.”

What could we do but go?
We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo!
The pearly door had closed,
Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.

“Nay, go not back,” she said;
“Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.”
Then, on the other side,
On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,

Through which we onward passed
Into a chamber lowlier than the last,
But, oh! so sweet and calm
That the hushed air was like a holy psalm.

“Chamber of Peace” was writ
Where the low vaulted roof arched over it.
Then knew we Grief must cease
When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.

325

THREE ROSES

“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose,
A deep-tinted red rose?” said she.
“In the sunny garden closes,
How they burn, the dark-red roses,
How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”

“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose,
A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she.
“At its heart a flush so tender,
With what veiled and softened splendor
Droopeth now its languid head toward me!”

“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose,
A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she.
“With its pale cheek tinted faintly,
'Tis a vestal, pure and saintly,
Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”

326

FOUR LETTERS

(INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)

[_]

[In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.]

Four letters on a yellow page
Writ when the century was young;
A few small grains of shining sand
Across it lightly flung!

A child was born—child nameless yet;
A son to love till life was o'er;
But did no strange, sweet prescience stir,
Teaching of something more?

Thy son! O father, hadst thou known
What now the wide world knows of him
How had thy pulses thrilled with joy,
How had thine eye grown dim!

Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years,
Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze,
And seen him as he stands to-day,
Crowned with unfading bays—

While Love's red roses at his feet
Pour all their wealth of rare perfume,
And Truth's white lilies, pure as snow,
His lofty way illume—

327

How had thy heart's strong throbbing shook
The eager pen, the firm right hand,
That threw upon this record quaint
These grains of glittering sand!

O irony of Time and Fate!
That saves and loses, makes and mars,
Keeps the small dust upon the scales,
And blotteth out the stars!

Kingdoms and thrones have passed away;
Conquerors have fallen, empires died,
And countless sons of men gone down
Beneath War's crimson tide.

The whole wide earth has changed its face;
Nations clasp hands across the seas;
They speak, and winds and waves repeat
The mighty symphonies.

Mountains have bowed their haughty crests,
And opened wide their ponderous doors;
The sea hath gathered in its dead,
Love-wept on alien shores.

Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame,
Have challenged all the slumbering land;
Yet neither Time nor Change has touched
These few bright grains of sand!

328

VALDEMAR

Within a city quaint and old,
When reigned King Alcinor the Bold,
There dwelt a sculptor whose renown
With pride and wonder filled the town.
And yet he had not reached his prime;
The first warm glow of summer-time
Had but just touched his radiant face,
And moulded to a statelier grace
The stalwart form that trod the earth
As it had been of princely birth.
So fair, so strong, so brave was he,
With such a sense of mastery,
That Alcinor upon his throne
No kinglier gifts from life could own
Than those it brought from near and far
To the young sculptor, Valdemar!
Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame,
To lend its magic to his name,
Had outrun Fortune's swiftest pace
And conquered in the friendly race.
But a fair home was his, where bees
Hummed in the laden mulberry-trees;
Where cyclamens, with rosy flush,
Brightened the lingering twilight hush,
And the gladiolus' fiery plume
Mocked the red rose's brilliant bloom;
Where violet and wind-flower hid

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The acacia's golden gloom amid;
Where starry jasmines climbed, and where,
Serenely calm, divinely fair,
Like a white lily, straight and tall,
The loveliest flower among them all,
His sweet young wife, Hermione,
Sang to the child upon her knee!

Here beauteous visions haunted him,
Peopling the shadows soft and dim;
Here the old gods around him cast
The glamour of their splendors past.
Jove thundered from the awful sky;
Proud Juno trod the earth once more;
Pale Isis, veiled in mystery,
Her smile of mystic meaning wore;
Apollo joyed in youth divine,
And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine.
Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned,
With virgin footsteps spurned the ground;
Here rose fair Venus from the sea,
And that sad ghost, Persephone,
Wandered, a very shade of shades,
Amid the moonlit myrtle glades.
Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child,
The Holy Mother, meek and mild,
Angels on glad wing soaring free,
Pale, praying saints on bended knee,
Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave
Who for their guerdon won a grave,
Earth's laughing children, rosy sweet,
And the soul's phantoms, fair and fleet—
All these were with him night and day,
Charming the happy hours away!
Oh, who so rich as Valdemar?

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What ill his joyous life can mar?
With home and glorious visions blest,
Glad in the work he loveth best!

But Love's clear eyes are quick to see;
And one fair spring, Hermione.
Sitting beneath her mulberry-tree
With her young children at her knee,
Saw Valdemar from day to day,
As one whose thoughts were far away,
With folded arms and drooping head
Pace the green aisles with silent tread;
Saw him stand moodily apart
With idle hands and brooding heart,
Or gaze at his still forms of clay,
Himself as motionless as they!
“O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bear
Some burden that I do not share!
I am your wife, your own true wife;
Shut me not out from heart and life!
Why brood you thus in silent pain?”
As shifts the changing weather-vane,
So came the old smile to his face,
Saluting her with courtly grace.
“Nay, nay, Hermione, not so!
No secret, bitter grief I know;
But, haunting all my dreams by night
And thoughts by day, one vision bright,
One nameless wonder, near me stands,
Claiming its birthright at my hands.
It hath your eyes, Hermione,
Your tender lips that smile for me;
It hath your perfect, stately grace,
The matchless beauty of your face.
But it hath more! for never yet

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On brow of earthly mould was set
Such splendor and such light as streams
From this rare phantom of my dreams!”

Lightly she turned, and led him through
Under the jasmines wet with dew,
Into a wide, cool room, shut in
From the great city's whirl and din—
Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay.
“Dear idler, do thy work, I pray!
Thy radiant phantom lieth hid
The mould of centuries amid,
Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise
And live beneath the wondering skies!”

Then rose a hot flush to his cheek;
His stammering lips were slow to speak.
“Hermione,” he said at length,
As one who gathers up his strength,
“Hermione, my wife, I go
Far from thee on a journey slow
And long and perilous; for I know
Somewhere upon the earth there is
A finer, purer clay than this,
From which I'll mould a shape more fair
Than ever breathed in earthly air!
I go to seek it!”

“Ah!” she said,
With smiling lips, but tearful eyes,
Half lifted in a grieved surprise,
“How shall I then be comforted?
Not always do we find afar
The good we seek, my Valdemar!
This common, wayside clay thy hand

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Hath been most potent to command.
Yet I—I will not bid thee stay.
Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”

Then his long journeyings began,
And still his hope his steps outran.
O'er desert sands he came and went;
He crossed a mighty continent;
Plunged into forests dark and lone;
In jungles heard the panther's moan;
Climbed the far mountains' lofty heights;
Watched alien stars through weary nights;
While more than once, on trackless seas,
His white sails caught the eddying breeze.
Yet all his labor was for nought,
And never found he what he sought,
Or far or near. The finer clay
But mocked his eager search alway.

Ofttimes he came, with weary feet,
Back to the home so still and sweet
Where his fair wife, Hermione,
Dwelt with her children at her knee;
But never once his eager hand
Thrilled the mute clay with high command.
One day she spoke: “O Valdemar,
Cease from your wanderings wide and far!
Life is not long. Why waste it, then,
Chasing false fires through marsh and fen?
Mould your fair statue while you may;
High purpose sanctifies the clay.”

He answered her, “My dream must wait,
Fortune will aid me, soon or late!
Perhaps the clay I may not find—

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But a strange tale is in the wind
Of an old man whose life has been
Shut up wild solitudes within
On Alpine mountains. He has found
What I have sought the world around.
A learnèd, godly man, he knows
How the full tide of being flows;
And he, in some mysterious way,
Makes, if he cannot find, the clay.
He will his secret share with me—
I go to him, Hermione!”

“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies,
And while you dream, the vision dies!
And look! Our children suffer lack;
There is no coat for Claudio's back;
Theresa's little feet, unshod,
Are torn by shards on which they trod;
And Marcius cried but yesterday
When the lads mocked him at their play.
The very house is crumbling down;
The broken hearth-stone needs repair;
The roof is open to the air—
It wakes the laughter of the town!
O Valdemar! if you must go
Up to those trackless fields of snow,
Mould first from yonder common clay
Something to keep the wolf away—
A Virgin for some humble shrine,
A soldier clad in armor fine,
Or even such toys as Andrefels
To laughing, wondering children sells.”

“Now murmur not, Hermione,
But be thou patient,” answered he.

334

“Why mind the laughter of the town?
It cannot shake my fair renown!
A touch of hardship, now and then,
Will never harm our little men;
And as for this old, crumbling roof,
Let rude winds put it to the proof,
And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I
Surely the Land of Promise spy,
Where the fair vision of my dreams,
Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams!
In its white hand it holdeth up
For us, my love, a brimming cup
Where wealth and fame and joy divine
Mingle in life's most sparkling wine.
Bid me God-speed, Hermione,
And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”

So on he sped, from day to day—
Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun,
Where scarlet-coated poppies run,
Gay soldiers ready for the fray—
Past vineyards purpling on the hills,
Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills,
And homes like dovecotes nestling high
Midway between the earth and sky!
Then on he passed through valleys dim
Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim,
Up towering heights whence glaciers launch
Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight,
Or where, dread messenger of fright,
Sweeps down the awful avalanche!
And still upon the mountain side
To every man he met he cried,
“Where shall I find, oh! tell me where,
The hermit of this upper air,

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Who Nature's inmost secret knows?”
And, pointing to the eternal snows,
Each man replied, with wagging head,
“Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”

At length one day, as sank the sun,
He reached a low hut, dark and dun,
And, entering unbidden, found
An old man stretched upon the ground:
A white-haired, venerable man,
Whose eyes had hardly light to scan
The face that, blanched with awful fear,
Bent down, his failing breath to hear.
“Pax vobiscum,” he murmured low,
“Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”

“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar.
“Alas! alas! I came from far
To learn thy secret of the clay—
Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!”
But while he wet the parchèd lips,
The dull eyes closed in death's eclipse;
And the old seer in silence lay,
Himself a thing of pallid clay,
With all his secrets closely hid
As Ramses' in the pyramid.

Long time within that lonely place
Valdemar lived, but found no trace
In learnèd book or parchment scroll
(The ink scarce dry upon the roll)
Of aught the stars had taught to him.
Within the wide horizon's rim,
Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play,
Knew the lost secret of the clay.

336

Then sought he, after journeyings hard,
The holy monks of St. Bernard.
But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well,
A man not ruled by book and bell.
Godly, perhaps—but much inclined
Some newer road to heaven to find.
And was he dead? God rest his soul,
After this life of toil and dole!

And that was all! O Valdemar!
Fly to thy desolate home afar,
Where wasted, worn, Hermione,
With her pale children at her knee,
Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!

He finds her, smiling as she sleeps,
For night more tender is than day,
And softly wipes our tears away.
“Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries,
As one whose spirit inly dies;
“Hear me confess that I have been
False to thee in my pride and sin!
God give me grace from this blest day
To do His work in common clay!”

Next morn, in humble, sweet content,
Into his studio he went,
Eager to test his willing hand,
And rule the clay with wise command.
But no fair wonder first he wrought,
No marvel of creative thought,
Not even a Virgin for a shrine,
Or soldier clad in armor fine—
Only such toys as Andrefels
To laughing, wondering children sells!

337

One day he knelt him gravely down
Beside the hearth-stone, rent and brown.
“And now, my patient wife,” said he,
“What can be done with this, we'll see.”
With straining arm and crimsoned face
He pried the mortar from its place,
Lifted the heavy stone aside,
And left a cavern yawning wide.
Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sun
The guerdon of his search was won;
And where his broken hearth-stone lay
He found at last the perfect clay!

338

JUBILATE!

Jubilate! Jubilate!
Christ the Lord is risen to-day!
Hear the mighty chorus swelling
Over land and over sea!
River calls aloud to river,
Mountain peak to mountain peak—
Jubilate! Jubilate!
Christ the Lord is risen to-day!

Waken, roses, from your slumbers!
Lilies, wake—for he is near!
Happy bells in wild-wood arches,
Ring and swing in sweet accord!
Lift your voices, O ye maples,
Sing aloud, ye stately pines,
Jubilate! Jubilate!
Christ the Lord is risen to-day!

O thou goddess of the springtime,
Fair Ostera, thou art dead!
Never more shall priests and vestals
Weave fresh garlands for thy shrine;
But the happy voices ringing
Over land and over sea,
Swell the mighty jubilate—
“Christ the Lord is risen to-day!”

339

EASTER LILIES

O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing,
Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day?
Do the shining angels, through Heaven's arches flying,
Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?

For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd—
Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear;
From our close embraces ye are far removèd,
And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.

Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting—
Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!”
Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting—
Earth and we together sang a roundelay!

Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow;
Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears;
After night of watching came the glad to-morrow,
Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.

Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth,
Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day—
And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth,
Heaven's own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!

340

“O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST”

O wind that blows out of the West,
Thou hast swept over mountain and sea,
Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings
The breath of my love to me?
Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips?
Or tangled her soft brown hair?
Or fluttered the fragrant heart
Of the rose she loves to wear?

O sun that goes down in the West,
Hast thou seen my love to-day,
As she sits in her beautiful prime
Under skies so far away?
Hast thou gilded a path for her feet,
Or deepened the glow on her cheeks,
Or bent from the skies to hear
The low, sweet words she speaks?

O stars that are bright in the West
When the hush of the night is deep,
Do ye see my love as she lies
Like a chaste, white flower asleep?
Does she smile as she walks with me
In the light of a happy dream,
While the night winds rustle the leaves,
And the light waves ripple and gleam?

341

O birds that fly out of the West,
Do ye bring me a message from her,
As sweet as your love-notes are,
When the warm spring breezes stir?
Did she whisper a word of me
As your tremulous wings swept by,
Or utter my name, mayhap,
In a single passionate cry?

O voices out of the West,
Ye are silent every one,
And never an answer comes
From wind, or stars, or sun!
And the blithe birds come and go
Through the boundless fields of space,
As reckless of human prayers
As if earth were a desert place!

342

A SUMMER SONG

Roly-poly honey-bee,
Humming in the clover,
Under you the tossing leaves,
And the blue sky over,
Why are you so busy; pray?
Never still a minute,
Hovering now above a flower,
Now half-buried in it!

Jaunty robin-redbreast,
Singing loud and cheerly,
From the pink-white apple tree
In the morning early,
Tell me, is your merry song
Just for your own pleasure,
Poured from such a tiny throat,
Without stint or measure?

Little yellow buttercup,
By the way-side smiling,
Lifting up your happy face,
With such sweet beguiling,
Why are you so gayly clad—
Cloth of gold your raiment?
Do the sunshine and the dew
Look to you for payment?

343

Roses in the garden beds,
Lilies, cool and saintly,
Darling blue-eyed violets,
Pansies, hooded quaintly,
Sweet-peas that, like butterflies,
Dance the bright skies under,
Bloom ye for your own delight,
Or for ours, I wonder!

344

THE URN

Across the blue Atlantic waves
She sent a little gift to me:
A golden urn—a graceful toy
As one need care to see.

Smiling, I held it in my hand,
Thinking her message o'er and o'er,
Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near
The undiscovered shore.

Oh! had it been a funeral urn—
The gift my darling sent to me
With loving thoughts and tender words
Across the heaving sea—

A funeral urn which might have held
Her sacred ashes, sealed in rest
Utter as that which holds in thrall
Some pulseless marble breast!

Where drifts she now? On what far seas
Floateth to-day her golden hair?
What stars behold her pale hands, clasped
In ecstasy of prayer?

Forever in this thought of mine,
Like the fair Lady of Shalott,
She drifteth, drifteth with the tide,
But never comes to Camelot!

345

THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER

“What, ho!” he cried, as up and down
He rode through the streets of Windham town—
“What, ho! for the day of peace is done,
And the day of wrath too well begun!
Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills;
Drive down the cattle from off your hills;
For Boston lieth in sore distress,
Pallid with hunger and long duress:
Her children starve, while she hears the beat
And the tramp of the red-coats in every street!”

“What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent,
Over the hill-sides he came and went;
And Parson White, from his open door
Leaning bareheaded that August day,
While the sun beat down on his temples gray,
Watched him until he could see no more.
Then straight he strode to the church, and flung
His whole soul into the peal he rung;
Pulling the bell-rope till the tower
Seemed to rock in the sudden shower—

The shower of sound the farmers heard,
Rending the air like a living word!
Then swift they gathered with right good-will
From field and anvil and shop and mill,
To hear what the parson had to say
That would not keep till the Sabbath-day.

346

For only the women and children knew
The tale of the horsemen galloping through—
The message he bore as up and down
He rode through the streets of Windham town.

That night, as the parson sat at ease
In the porch, with his Bible on his knees,
(Thanking God that at break of day
Frederic Manning would take his way,
With cattle and sheep from off the hills,
And a load of grain from the barns and mills,
To the starving city where General Gage
Waited unholy war to wage),
His little daughter beside him stood,
Hiding her face in her muslin hood.

In her arms her own pet lamb she bore,
As it struggled down to the oaken floor:
“It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said,
“To the children that cry for meat and bread,”
Then lifted to his her holy eyes,
Wet with the tears of sacrifice.
“Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no need
That the hearts of babes should ache and bleed.
Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play,
You and your pet, through the livelong day.”

He laid his hand on her shining hair,
And smiled as he blessed her, standing there,
With kerchief folded across her breast,
And her small brown hands together pressed,
A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet,
With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet.
Away to its place the lamb she led,
Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed,

347

While the moon rose up and the stars looked down
On the silent streets of Windham town.

But when the heralds of morning came,
Flushing the east with rosy flame,
With low of cattle and scurry of feet,
Driving his herd down the village street,
Young Manning heard from a low stone wall
A child's voice clearly yet softly call;
And saw in the gray dusk standing there
A little maiden with shining hair,
While crowding close to her tender side
Was a snow-white lamb to her apron tied.

“Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must go
To the children crying in want and woe.
It is all I have.” And her tears fell fast
As she gave it one eager kiss—the last.
“The road will be long to its feet. I pray
Let your arms be its bed a part of the way;
And give it cool water and tender grass
Whenever a way-side brook you pass.”
Then away she flew like a startled deer,
Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear.

Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyes
One moment up to the morning skies;
Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strode
Sturdily down the lengthening road.
“Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and lead
Me safe with my charge to the souls in need!
Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole,
Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll,
To the city in want and woe that lies
I will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.”

348

MARCH FOURTH

1881–1882

One year ago the plaudits of the crowd,
The drum's long thunder and the bugle's blare,
The bell's gay clamor, pealing clear and loud,
And rapturous music filling all the air;

One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires,
Ten thousand banners bursting into bloom
As the proud day advanced its golden fires,
And all the crowding centuries gave it room;

One year ago the laurel and the palm,
The upward path, the height undimmed and far,
And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm,
One high, pure spirit, shining like a star!

To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament;
For shouts or triumph, tears that fall like rain;
A world remembering, with anguish rent,
Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain!

The year moves on; the seasons come and go;
Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set;
Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou know
The land that loved thee never can forget?

349

It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way,
Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea;
Yet, while it owns another's rightful sway,
It patient grows and strong, remembering thee!

350

ROY

Our Prince has gone to his inheritance!
Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile,
Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance,
And try the rough ways of the world awhile?

Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress,
Would he not hasten to his own again?
Why should he bear its labor and duress,
And all the untold burden of its pain?

Or what if from the golden palace gate
The king's fair son on some bright morn should stray?
Would he not send his lords of high estate
To lead him back ere fell the close of day?

Even so our King from Heaven's high portals saw
The fair young Prince where earth's dull shades advance,
And sent his messengers of love and law
To bear him home to his inheritance!

351

THE PAINTER'S PRAYER

“NEC ME PRÆTERMITTAS, DOMINE!”

(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt's “Light of the World.”)

“Nay,” he said, “it is not done!
At to-morrow's set of sun
Come again, if you would see
What the finished thought may be.”
Straight they went. The heavy door
On its hinges swung once more,
As within the studio dim
Eye and heart took heed of Him!

How the Presence filled the room,
Brightening all its dusky gloom!
Saints and martyrs turned their eyes
From the hills of Paradise;
Rapt in holy ecstasy,
Mary smiled her Son to see,
Letting all her lilies fall
At His feet—the Lord of all!

But the painter bowed his head,
Lost in wonder and in dread,
And as at a holy shrine
Knelt before the form divine.

352

All had passed—the pride, the power,
Of the soul's creative hour—
Exaltation's soaring flight
To the spirit's loftiest height.

Had he dared to paint the Lord?
Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?
Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!
Ah, the shame his soul within!
Saints might turn on him their eyes
From the hills of Paradise,
But the painter could not brook
On that pictured face to look.

Yet the form was grand and fair,
Fit to move a world to prayer;
God like in its strength and stress,
Human in its tenderness.
From it streamed the Light divine,
O'er it drooped the heavenly vine,
And beneath the bending spray
Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way!

Suddenly with eager hold,
Back he swept the curtain's fold,
Letting all the sunset glow
O'er the living canvas flow.
Surely then the wondrous eyes
Met his own in tenderest wise,
And the Lord Christ, half revealed,
Smiled upon him as he kneeled!

Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,
Up he brush and palette caught,
And where deepest shade was thrown

353

Set one sign for God alone!
Years have passed—but, even yet,
Where the massive frame is set
You may find these words: “Nec me
Prætermittas, Domine!”

“Neither pass me by, O Lord!”
Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word,
Low we bow before thy feet,
Thy remembrance to entreat!
In our soul's most secret place,
For no eye but thine to trace,
Lo! this prayer we write: “Nec me
Prætermittas, Domine!”

354

FROM EXILE

Paris, September 3, 1879

(A Mother speaks)

Ah, dear God, when will it be day?
I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.
Tossing, I watch the silent stars
Mount up from the horizon bars:
Orion with his flaming sword,
Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;
Auriga up the lofty arch
Pursuing still his stately march—
So patient and so calm are they.
Ah, dear God! when will it be day?

O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear
A cock crow through the silence clear!
The dawn's faint crimson streaks the east,
And, afar off, I catch the least
Low murmur of the city's stir
As she shakes off the dreams of her!
List! there's a sound of hurrying feet
Far down below me in the street.
Thank God! the weary night is past,
The morning comes—'tis day at last.

Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!
The sun is up, it gilds the skies.
She does not stir. The young sleep sound

355

As dead men in their graves profound.
Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!
To-day there is no time to waste.
Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.
Hand me the glass. Once I was fair
As thou art. Now I look so old
It seems my death-knell should be tolled.

Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?
Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?
Well, that's not strange. All night I lay
Waiting and watching for the day.
But—there! I'll drink it; it may make
My cheeks burn brighter for his sake
Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy!
How can I bear the unwonted joy?
I, who for eight long years have wept
While happier mothers smiling slept;
While others decked their sons first-born
For dance, or fête, or bridal morn,
Or proudly smiled to see them stand
The stateliest pillars of the land!
For he, so gallant and so gay,
As young and debonair as they,
My beautiful, brave boy, my life,
Went down in the unequal strife!
The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?
The good God judgeth up on high.

And now He gives him back to me!
I tremble so—I scarce can see.
How full the streets are! I will wait
His coming here beside this gate,
From which I watched him as he went,
Eight years ago, to banishment.

356

Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when
You see a band of stalwart men,
With one fair boy among them—one
With bright hair shining in the sun,
Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,
Blue as the blue of summer skies.
My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?
O Son of God! hast Thou forgot
Thy Mother's agony? Yet she,
Was she not stronger far than we,
We common mothers? Could she know
From her far heights such pain and woe?—
Run farther down the street, and see
If they're not coming, Rosalie!

Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!
What? just beyond the convent towers,
And coming straight this way? O heart,
Be still and strong, and bear thy part,
Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear
Above the city's hum the near
Slow tread of marching feet; I see—
Nay, I can not see, Rosalie;
Your eyes are younger. Is he there,
My Antoine, with his sunny hair?
It is like gold; it shines in the sun:
Surely you see it? What? Not one—
Not one bright head? All old, old men,
Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then
He has not come—he is ill, or dead!
O God, that I were in thy stead,
My son! my son! Who touches me?
Your pardon, sir. I am not she
For whom you look. Go farther on
Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.

357

‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ You?
You are not he—my Antoine! You—
A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he
Was a mere boy who went from me,
Only a boy! I'm sorry, sir.
God bless you! Soon you will find her
For whom you seek. But I—ah, I—
Still must I call and none reply!
You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!
Thou art mine own, my banished one!

358

A MOTHER-SONG

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining,
Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky;
Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining:
Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!

Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping;
Watches and waits she the angel's song to hear;
Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping,
Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.

Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing;
Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells;
With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging,
While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!

Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices,
All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain,
“Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices,
And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!

Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of glory
The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn!
Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the story
How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!

359

EASTER MORNING

Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair,
To Annie Blair spake she,
As from beneath her wrinkled hand
She peered far out to sea.

“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair,
For my old eyes are dim;
See you a single boat afloat
Within the horizon's rim?”

Sweet Annie looked to east, to west,
To north and south looked she:
There was no single boat afloat
Upon the angry sea.

The sky was dark, the winds were high,
The breakers lashed the shore,
And louder and still louder swelled
The tempest's sullen roar.

“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried;
“Doth any boat come in?”
And scarce she heard the answering word
Above the furious din.

“Pray God no boat may put to sea
In such a gale!” she said;
“Pray God no soul may dare to-night
The rocks of Danger Head!”

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“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,”
Dame Margaret cried again,
“When Mary's Son, the Merciful,
On Calvary was slain.

“The earth did quake, the rocks were rent,
The graves were opened wide,
And darkness like to this fell down
When He—the Holy—died.

“Give me your hand, O Annie Blair;
Your two knees fall upon;
Christ send to you your lover back—
To me, my only son!”

All night they watched, all night they prayed,
All night they heard the roar
Of the fierce breakers dashing high
Upon the lonely shore.

Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand,
A voice above the din:
“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!
Is Annie Blair within?

“High on the rocks of Danger Head
Her lover's boat is cast,
All rudderless, all anchorless—
Mere hull and splintered mast.”

Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand,
And women wailing sore:
“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!
Your son you'll see no more!

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“God pity you! Christ comfort you!”
The weeping women cried;
But “May God pity Annie Blair!”
Dame Margaret replied.

“For life is long and youth is strong,
And it must still bear on.
Leave us alone to make our moan—
My son! alas, my son!”

The Easter morning, flushed with joy,
Saw all the winds at rest,
And far and near the blue sea smiled
With sunshine on its breast.

The neighbors came, the neighbors went;
They sought the house of prayer;
But on the rocks of Danger Head
The dame and Annie Blair,

With still, white faces, watched the deep
Without a tear or moan.
“I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair—
“My heart is turned to stone.”

Forth from the church the pastor came,
And up the rocks strode he,
Baring his thin white locks to meet
The salt breath of the sea.

“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake,
The sea give up its dead,
For Christ our Lord is risen indeed—
'Tis Easter morn,” he said.

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Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry,
A rush of hurrying feet,
The swarming of a hundred men
Adown the village street.

“Now unto God and Christ the Lord
Be praise and thanks alway!
The sea hath given up its dead
This blessed Easter-day.”

363

SEALED ORDERS

“Oh, whither bound, my captain?
The wind is blowing free,
And overhead the white sails spread
As we go out to sea.”

He looked to north, he looked to south,
Or ever a word he spake;
“With orders sealed my sails I set—
Due east my course I take.”

“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried,
“This only do I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever wind may blow.”

For many a day we sailéd east.
“O captain, tell me true,
When will our good ship come to port?”
“I cannot answer you!”

“Then, prithee, gallant captain,
Let us but drift awhile!
The current setteth southward
Past many a sunny isle,

“Where cocoas grow, and mangoes,
And groves of feathery palm,
And nightingales sing all night long
To roses breathing balm.”

364

“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered,
“This only do I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever winds may blow!”

Then sailed we on, and sailed we east
Into the whirlwind's track.
Wild was the tempest overhead,
The sea was strewn with wrack.

“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain,
Thou'rt rushing on to death!”
But back he answer shouted,
With unabated breath:

“Turn back who will, I turn not!
For this one thing I know,
That I must sail due eastward
However winds may blow!”

“Oh, art thou fool or madman?
Thy port is but a dream,
And never on the horizon's rim
Will its fair turrets gleam.”

Then smiled the captain wisely,
And slowly answered he,
The while his keen glance widened
Over the lonely sea:

“I carry sealéd orders.
This only thing I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever winds may blow!”

365

AN ANNIVERSARY

So long, so short,
So swift, so slow,
Are the years of man
As they come and go!

O love, it was so long ago!
So long, so long that we were young,
And in the cloisters of our hearts
Hope all her joy-bells rung!
So long, so long that since that hour
Fulf half a lifetime hath gone by—
How ran the days ere first we met,
Belovéd, thou and I?

We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn
Must still presage the rising sun,
And rose and crimson flush the east
Ere day is well begun.
We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraiths
That fled when Day's full splendor kissed
Our souls' high places, and its winds
Swept the vales clear of mist!

So long, so short,
So swift, so slow,
Are the years of man
As they come and go!

366

O love, it was but yesterday!
Who said it was so long ago?
How many times the rose hath bloomed,
Why should we care to know?
For it was just as sweet last June,
As dewy fresh, as fair, as red,
As when our first glad Eden knew
The rare perfumes it shed!

O love, it was but yesterday!
If yesterday is far away,
As brightly on the hill-tops lies
The sunshine of to-day.
Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad!
O circling years, fly swift or slow!
Your ripening harvests shall not fail,
Nor autumn's utmost glow.

367

MARTHA

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve.
Not all with tranquil heart,
Even at thy dear feet,
Wrapped in devotion sweet,
May sit apart!

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bear
The burden of the day,
Its labor and its heat,
While others at thy feet
May muse and pray!

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must do
Life's daily task-work; some
Who fain would sing, must toil
Amid earth's dust and moil,
While lips are dumb!

Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn,
And woman bake the bread!
And some must watch and wake
Early, for others' sake,
Who pray instead!

Yea, Lord!—Yet even thou
Hast need of earthly care.
I bring the bread and wine
To thee, O Guest Divine!
Be this my prayer!

368

THE HOUR

What is the hour of the day?
O watchman, can you tell?
Hark! from the tower of Time
Strikes the alarum-bell!

The strokes I cannot count.
O watchman, can you see
On the misty dial-plate
What hours remain for me?

I know the rosy dawn
Faded—how long ago!—
Lost in the radiant depths
Of morning's golden glow.

Then all the mountain tops
Stood breathless at high noon,
While earth for brief repose
Put off her sandal shoon.

Now faster fly the hours—
The afternoon is here;
O watchman in the tower,
Tell me, is sunset near?

Yet—why care I to know?—
Beyond the sunset bars
Upon the dead day wait
The brightest of the stars!

369

THE CLOSED GATE

I walked along a narrow way;
The sun was shining everywhere;
The jocund earth was glad and gay,
With morning freshness in the air.

The grass was green beneath my feet;
The skies were blue and soft o'erhead;
The robin carolled clear and sweet,
And flowers their fragrance round me shed.

How shone the great hills far away;
How clear they rose against the blue;
How fair the tranquil meadows lay,
Where the bright river glances through!

But suddenly, as on I pressed,
Before me frowned a closéd gate;
Filled with dismay, and sore distressed,
I strove in vain to conquer fate!

Beyond, the hills for which I sighed—
Beyond, the valleys still and fair—
Beyond, the meadows stretching wide,
And all the shining fields of air!

What does it mean, O Father! when
Thy children reach some closéd gate,
Which, though they knock and knock again,
Will not its watch and ward abate?

370

Still shall they batter at the walls?
Or still, like children, cry and fret,
While the loud clamor of their calls
Swells high in turbulent regret?

When thou hast barred the door, shall they
Challenge thy wisdom, God of love?
Or humbly wait beside the way
Till thou the barrier shalt remove?

Too oft we cannot hear thee speak,
So loud our voices and our prayers,
While to the patient and the meek
The gate thou openest unawares!

371

CONTENT

Not asking how or why,
Before thy will,
O Father, let my heart
Lie hushed and still!

Why should I seek to know?
Thou art all-wise;
If thou dost bid me go,
Let that suffice.

If thou dost bid me stay,
Make me content
In narrow bounds to dwell
Till life be spent.

If thou dost seal the lips
That fain would speak,
Let me be still till thou
The seal shalt break.

If thou dost make pale Pain
Thy minister,
Then let my patient heart
Clasp hands with her.

Or, if thou sendest Joy
To walk with me,

372

My Father, let her lead
Me nearer thee!

Teach me that Joy and Pain
Alike are thine;
Teach me my life to leave
In hands divine!

373

MY WONDERLAND

They tell me you have been in Wonderland.
Why, so have I! No boat's keel touched the strand,
No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding car
Bore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.

And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes,
Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies;
I, too, have been in Wonderland, and know
How through its secret vales the weird winds blow.

One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn—
I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn,
Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the south
A young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.

She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and near
Her minstrels' voices, jubilant and clear;
While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet,
All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,

Ran over hill and dale, to bring to her
Green robes with wild flowers 'broidered. All astir
Were the gay, courtier butterflies; the trees
Flung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;

The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed,
Her happy servitors around her pressed,
Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filled
With life's new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.

374

In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day,
In a gray casket, deftly hidden away,
I found two pearls; but as I looked they grew
To living jewels, that took wing and flew.

And once a creeping worm, within my sight
Wove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and white;
Then, bursting from its cerements, soared in air,
A radiant vision, most supremely fair.

Out of the darksome mould, before my eyes
I saw a shaft of emerald arise,
Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold,
And set with gems of splendors manifold.

Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood,
When o'er the vaulted dome there swept a flood
Of lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyre
Took to its heart a globe of crimson fire.

The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl became
A liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame;
And as I gazed, a silver crescent hung
In violet depths, a thousand stars among.

I saw a woman, marvellously fair,
Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air;
Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold,
A marble goddess of transcendent mould.

I saw a folded bud, in one short hour,
Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower.
O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far;
Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!

375

THE GUEST

O thou Guest so long delayed,
Surely, when the house was made,
In its chambers wide and free,
There was set a place for thee.
Surely, in some room was spread
For thy sake a snowy bed,
Decked with linen white and fine,
Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.

Yet thou hast not kept the tryst.
Other guests our lips have kissed:
Other guests have tarried long,
Wooed by sunshine and by song;
For the year was bright with May,
All the birds kept holiday,
All the skies were clear and blue,
When this house of ours was new.

Youth came in with us to dwell,
Crowned with rose and asphodel,
Lingered long, and even yet
Cannot quite his haunts forget.
Love hath sat beside our board,
Brought us treasures from his hoard,
Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine,
Vintage of the hills divine.

376

Down our garden path has strayed
Young Romance, in light arrayed;
Joy hath flung her garlands wide;
Faith sung low at eventide;
Care hath flitted in and out;
Sorrow strewn her weeds about;
Hope held up her torch on high
When clouds darkened all the sky.

Pain, with pallid lips and thin,
Oft hath slept our house within;
Life hath called us, loud and long,
With a voice as trumpet strong.
Sometimes we have thought, O Guest,
Thou wert coming with the rest,
Watched to see thy shadow fall
On the inner chamber wall.

For we know that, soon or late,
Thou wilt enter at the gate,
Cross the threshold, pass the door,
Glide at will from floor to floor.
When thou comest, by this sign
We shall know thee, Guest divine:
Though alone thy coming be,
Someone must go forth with thee!

377

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear,
No doubt it is. I was thinking here
Only to-day, as I sat in the sun,
How fair was the scene I looked upon;
Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise,
How it might look to other eyes.

'Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed
Cut here and there in the turf; instead,
The broad straight paths run east and west,
Down which two horsemen could ride abreast,
And north and south with an equal state,
From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.

And, where they cross on the middle line,
Virgin's-bower and wild woodbine
Clamber and climb at their own sweet will
Over the latticed arbor still;
Though since they were planted years have flown,
And many a time have the roses blown.

To the right the hill runs down to the river,
Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver,
And under the shade of the hemlock-trees
The low ferns nod to the passing breeze;
There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep
With a tangle of vines o'er the wooded steep.

378

So quiet it is, so cool and still,
In the green retreat of the shady hill!
And you scarce can tell, as you look within,
Where the garden ends and the woods begin.
But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light,
What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!

Red roses burn in the morning glow;
White roses proffer their cups of snow;
In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold
The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold;
And stately and tall the lilies stand,
Like vestal virgins, on either hand.

Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies,
Flutter and dance under summer skies;
Blue violets here in the shade are set,
With a border of fragrant mignonette;
And here are pansies and columbine,
And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.

Stately hollyhocks, row on row,
Golden sunflowers, all aglow,
Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,
Asters of every shade and hue;
And over the wall, like a trail of fire,
The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.

My lady's-slippers are fair to see,
And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,
With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides,
And many another flower besides.
Do you see that rose without a thorn?
It was planted the year my Hal was born.

379

And he is a man now. Yes, my dear,
An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here,
I think how often lover and maid
Down these long flowery paths have strayed,
And how little feet have over them run
That will stir no more in shade or sun.

As one who reads from an open book,
On these fair luminous scrolls I look;
And all the story of life is there—
Its loves and losses, hope and despair.
An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyes
Fair as the hills of Paradise.

380

DISCONTENT

I.

(The Brier Rose speaks.)

I cling to the garden wall
Outside, where the grasses grow;
Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,
And the yellow mulleins blow.
The dock and the thistle crowd
Close to my shrinking feet,
And the gypsy yarrow shares
My cup and the food I eat.

The rude winds toss my hair,
The wild rains beat me down,
The wayside dust lies white
And thick on my leafy crown.
I cannot keep my robes
From wanton fingers free,
And the veriest beggar dares
To stop and gaze at me.

Sometimes I climb and climb
To the top of the garden wall,
And I see her where she stands,
Stately and fair and tall—

381

My sister, the red, red Rose,
My sister, the royal one,
The fairest flower that blows
Under the summer sun!

What wonder that she is fair?
What wonder that she is sweet?
The treasures of earth and air
Lie at her dainty feet;
The choicest fare is hers,
Her cup is brimmed with wine;
Rich are her emerald robes,
And her bed is soft and fine.

She need not lift her head
Even to sip the dew;
No rude touch makes her shrink
The whole long summer through.
Her servants do her will;
They come at her beck and call.
Oh, rare is life in my lady's bowers
Inside of the garden wall!

II.

(The Garden Rose speaks.)

The garden path runs east,
And the garden path runs west;
There's a tree by the garden gate,
And a little bird in a nest.
It sings and sings and sings!
Does the bird, I wonder, know
How, over the garden wall,
The bright days come and go?

382

The garden path runs north,
And the garden path runs south;
The brown bee hums in the sun,
And kisses the lily's mouth;
But it flies away, away,
To the birch-tree, dark and tall.
What do you find, O brown bee,
Over the garden wall?

With ruff and farthingale,
Under the gardener's eye,
In trimmest guise I stand—
Oh, who so fine as I?
But even the light wind knows
That it may not play with me,
Nor touch my beautiful lips
With a wild caress and free.

Oh, straight is the garden path,
And smooth is the garden bed,
Where never an idle weed
Dares lift its careless head.
But I know outside the wall
They gather, a merry throng;
They dance and flutter and sing,
And I listen all day long.

The Brier Rose swings outside;
Sometimes she climbs so high
I can see her sweet pink face
Against the blue of the sky.
What wonder that she is fair,
Whom no strait bonds enthrall?
Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,
Outside of the garden wall!

383