 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
397
LATER POEMS
399
THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD
“There's a star in the East!” he cried,
Jasper, the gray, the wise,
To Melchior and to Balthazar
Up-gazing to the skies.
Jasper, the gray, the wise,
To Melchior and to Balthazar
Up-gazing to the skies.
“Last night from my high tower
I watched it as it burned,
While all my trembling soul
In awe and wonder yearned.
I watched it as it burned,
While all my trembling soul
In awe and wonder yearned.
“For I know the midnight heavens;
I can call the stars by name—
Orion and royal Ashtaroth
And Cimah's misty flame.
I can call the stars by name—
Orion and royal Ashtaroth
And Cimah's misty flame.
“I know where Hesper glows,
And where, with fiery eye,
Proud Mars in burning splendor leads
The armies of the sky.
And where, with fiery eye,
Proud Mars in burning splendor leads
The armies of the sky.
“But never have I seen
A star that shone like this—
The star so long foretold
By sage and seer it is!
A star that shone like this—
The star so long foretold
By sage and seer it is!
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“When first I, sleepless, saw it
Slow breaking through the dark—
Nay, hear me, Balthazar,
And thou, O Melchior, hark!—
Slow breaking through the dark—
Nay, hear me, Balthazar,
And thou, O Melchior, hark!—
“When first I saw the star
It bore the form of a child,
It held in its hand a sceptre,
Or the cross of the undefiled.
It bore the form of a child,
It held in its hand a sceptre,
Or the cross of the undefiled.
“Lo! somewhere on the earth
It shines above His rest—
The Royal One, the Babe,
On mortal mother's breast.
It shines above His rest—
The Royal One, the Babe,
On mortal mother's breast.
“Now haste we forth to find Him—
To worship at His feet,
To Him of whom the prophets sang
Bearing oblations meet!”
To worship at His feet,
To Him of whom the prophets sang
Bearing oblations meet!”
Then the Three Holy Kings
Went forth in eager haste,
With servants and with camels,
Toward the desert waste.
Went forth in eager haste,
With servants and with camels,
Toward the desert waste.
Ah! knew they what they bore?
Gold for the earthly king—
Frankincense for the God—
Myrrh for man's suffering.
Gold for the earthly king—
Frankincense for the God—
Myrrh for man's suffering.
With breath of costly spices
And precious gums of Isis,
The desert air was sweet,
As on they fared by day and night
Judea's King to greet.
And precious gums of Isis,
The desert air was sweet,
As on they fared by day and night
Judea's King to greet.
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The strange star went before them,
They followed where it led;
“'Twill guide us to His presence,”
Jasper, the holy, said.
They followed where it led;
“'Twill guide us to His presence,”
Jasper, the holy, said.
They crossed deep-flowing rivers,
They climbed the mountains high,
They slept in dreary places
Under the lonely sky.
They climbed the mountains high,
They slept in dreary places
Under the lonely sky.
One day, where stretched the desert
Before them far and wide,
They saw a smoke-wreath curling
A spreading palm beside;
Before them far and wide,
They saw a smoke-wreath curling
A spreading palm beside;
And from a lowly dwelling,
On household cares intent,
A woman gazed upon them,
In mute bewilderment.
On household cares intent,
A woman gazed upon them,
In mute bewilderment.
“O come with us!” cried Melchior,
And ardent Balthazar,
“We go to find the Christ-child,
Led by yon blazing star!
And ardent Balthazar,
“We go to find the Christ-child,
Led by yon blazing star!
“Thou knowest how the prophets
His coming long foretold;
We go to kneel before Him
With gifts of myrrh and gold.”
His coming long foretold;
We go to kneel before Him
With gifts of myrrh and gold.”
But she, delaying, answered,
“My lords, your words are good,
And I your pious mission
Have gladly understood,
“My lords, your words are good,
And I your pious mission
Have gladly understood,
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“Yet I, ere I can join you,
Have many things to do:
I must set my house in order,
Must spin and bake and brew.
Have many things to do:
I must set my house in order,
Must spin and bake and brew.
“Go ye to find Messiah!
And when my work is done
I will your footsteps follow,
Mayhap ere set of sun.”
And when my work is done
I will your footsteps follow,
Mayhap ere set of sun.”
Across the shining desert
The slow train passed from sight;
She set her house in order,
She bleached her linen white.
The slow train passed from sight;
She set her house in order,
She bleached her linen white.
With busy hands she labored
Till all at last was done—
But thrice the moon had risen,
And thrice the lordly sun!
Till all at last was done—
But thrice the moon had risen,
And thrice the lordly sun!
Then bound she on her sandals,
Her pilgrim staff she took;
With bread of wheat and barley,
And water from the brook;
Her pilgrim staff she took;
With bread of wheat and barley,
And water from the brook;
And forth she went to find Him—
The babe Emmanuel,
Who should be born in Bethlehem
By David's sacred well.
The babe Emmanuel,
Who should be born in Bethlehem
By David's sacred well.
All that long day she journeyed;
She scanned the desert wide,
In all its lonely reaches
There was no soul beside—
She scanned the desert wide,
In all its lonely reaches
There was no soul beside—
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No track to guide her ownward,
No footprints in the sand,
Only the vast, still spaces
Wide-stretched on either hand!
No footprints in the sand,
Only the vast, still spaces
Wide-stretched on either hand!
Night came—but where the Wise Men
Had seen His burning star,
No glorious sign beheld she
Clear beaming from afar,
Had seen His burning star,
No glorious sign beheld she
Clear beaming from afar,
Though Orion and Arcturus
Shone bright above her head,
And up the heavenly arches
Proud Mars his legions led!
Shone bright above her head,
And up the heavenly arches
Proud Mars his legions led!
She did not find the Christ-child.
'Tis said she seeks Him still,
Over the wide earth roaming
With swift, remorseful will.
'Tis said she seeks Him still,
Over the wide earth roaming
With swift, remorseful will.
Her thin white locks the dew-fall
Of every clime has wet—
In palace and in hovel
She seeks Messiah yet!
Of every clime has wet—
In palace and in hovel
She seeks Messiah yet!
In every child she fancies
The Hidden One may be,
On each bright head she gazes
The mystic crown to see.
The Hidden One may be,
On each bright head she gazes
The mystic crown to see.
She twines the Christmas garlands,
She lights the Christmas fires,
She leads the joyful carols
Of all the Christmas choirs;
She lights the Christmas fires,
She leads the joyful carols
Of all the Christmas choirs;
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She feeds the poor and hungry,
And on her tender breast
She soothes all suffering children
To softest, sweetest rest.
And on her tender breast
She soothes all suffering children
To softest, sweetest rest.
Attend her, holy Angels!
Guard her, ye Cherubim!
For whatsoe'er she does for these
She does it as to Him!
Guard her, ye Cherubim!
For whatsoe'er she does for these
She does it as to Him!
405
DAYBREAK
AN EASTER POEM
Mary Magdalenè,
At the break of day,
Wan with tears and watching,
Hasted on her way;
At the break of day,
Wan with tears and watching,
Hasted on her way;
Bearing costly spices,
Myrrh, and sweet perfume,
Through the shadowy garden
To the Master's tomb.
Myrrh, and sweet perfume,
Through the shadowy garden
To the Master's tomb.
Slowly broke the gray dawn:
On her head the breeze
Shook a rain of dew-drops
From the cypress-trees.
On her head the breeze
Shook a rain of dew-drops
From the cypress-trees.
Rose and lily parted
As to let her pass,
And the violets blessed her
From the tender grass.
As to let her pass,
And the violets blessed her
From the tender grass.
Little heed she paid them;
Christ, the Lord, was dead;
All at last was over,
All at last was said.
Christ, the Lord, was dead;
All at last was over,
All at last was said.
406
What of hope remainèd?
Black against the sky,
Calvary's awful crosses
Stretched their arms on high!
Black against the sky,
Calvary's awful crosses
Stretched their arms on high!
Mary Magdalenè
Made her bitter moan:
“From the sealèd sepulchre
Who shall roll the stone?”
Made her bitter moan:
“From the sealèd sepulchre
Who shall roll the stone?”
Swift she ran, her spirit
Filled with awe and fear;
Wide the door stood open
As her feet drew near!
Filled with awe and fear;
Wide the door stood open
As her feet drew near!
All the place was flooded
With a radiance bright;
Forth into the darkness
Streamed a holy light.
With a radiance bright;
Forth into the darkness
Streamed a holy light.
Down she stooped, and peering
The dread tomb within,
Saw a great white angel
Where the Lord had been!
The dread tomb within,
Saw a great white angel
Where the Lord had been!
Sore she cried in anguish:
“Who hath him betrayed?
They have taken away my Lord!
Where is he laid?”
“Who hath him betrayed?
They have taken away my Lord!
Where is he laid?”
“Nay,” the shining angel,
Calmly smiling, said—
“Why seek ye the living
Down among the dead?
Calmly smiling, said—
“Why seek ye the living
Down among the dead?
407
“He is not here, but risen!”
All her soul stood still;
Through her trembling pulses
Ran a conscious thrill.
All her soul stood still;
Through her trembling pulses
Ran a conscious thrill.
“Mary!” said a low voice;
“Rabboni!” answered she.
Then life was brought to light
And immortality!
“Rabboni!” answered she.
Then life was brought to light
And immortality!
Mary Magdalenè,
First of woman born
To see the clear light streaming
O'er the hills of morn;
First of woman born
To see the clear light streaming
O'er the hills of morn;
First to hail the Lord Christ,
Conqueror of Death,
First to bow before Him
With abated breath;
Conqueror of Death,
First to bow before Him
With abated breath;
First to hear the Master
Say—“From Death's dark prison,
From its bonds and fetters,
Lo! I have arisen!
Say—“From Death's dark prison,
From its bonds and fetters,
Lo! I have arisen!
“Now to God, my Father—
Mine and yours—I go;
And because I live
Ye shall live also!”
Mine and yours—I go;
And because I live
Ye shall live also!”
Didst thou grasp the meaning?
Know that Death was dead?
That the seed of woman
Had bruised the serpent's head?
Know that Death was dead?
That the seed of woman
Had bruised the serpent's head?
408
Didst thou know Messiah
The gates of hell had broken,
And life unto its captives
Once for all had spoken?
The gates of hell had broken,
And life unto its captives
Once for all had spoken?
O! through all the ages,
Every son of man,
Be he slave or monarch,
Born to bliss or ban—
Every son of man,
Be he slave or monarch,
Born to bliss or ban—
Lord, or prince, or peasant,
Jester, sage, or seer,
Wife, or child, or mother,
Priest, or worshipper—
Jester, sage, or seer,
Wife, or child, or mother,
Priest, or worshipper—
Through the grave's lone portals
Soon or late had passed,
But no sign or token
Back to earth had cast!
Soon or late had passed,
But no sign or token
Back to earth had cast!
In Ramah was a voice heard
Sounding through the years—
Rachel for her children
Pouring sighs and tears;
Sounding through the years—
Rachel for her children
Pouring sighs and tears;
Rizpah for her slain sons
Woful vigils keeping;
David for young Absalom
In the chamber weeping!
Woful vigils keeping;
David for young Absalom
In the chamber weeping!
All earth's myriad millions
To their dead had cried,
Empty arms outreaching
In the silence wide,
To their dead had cried,
Empty arms outreaching
In the silence wide,
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Yet from out the darkness
Came nor word, nor sound,
As the long ranks vanished
In the black profound—
Came nor word, nor sound,
As the long ranks vanished
In the black profound—
Came no word till Mary
Heard the Angel say—
“Christ the Lord is risen;
The Lord Christ lives to-day!”
Heard the Angel say—
“Christ the Lord is risen;
The Lord Christ lives to-day!”
From the empty sepulchre
Streamed the Light Divine;
Grave where is thy victory?
Where, O Death, is thine?
Streamed the Light Divine;
Grave where is thy victory?
Where, O Death, is thine?
Mary Magdalenè,
Hope is born again;
Clear the Day-star rises
To the eyes of men.
Hope is born again;
Clear the Day-star rises
To the eyes of men.
Lo! the mists are fleeing!
Shine, O Olivet,
For the crown of promise
On thy brow is set!
Shine, O Olivet,
For the crown of promise
On thy brow is set!
Lift your heads, ye mountains!
Clap your hands, ye hills!
Into rapturous singing
Break, ye murmuring rills!
Clap your hands, ye hills!
Into rapturous singing
Break, ye murmuring rills!
Shout aloud, O forests!
Swell the song, O seas!
Wake, resistless ocean,
All your symphonies!
Swell the song, O seas!
Wake, resistless ocean,
All your symphonies!
410
Wave your palms, O tropics!
Lonely isles, rejoice!
O ye silent deserts,
Find a choral voice!
Lonely isles, rejoice!
O ye silent deserts,
Find a choral voice!
Winds, on mighty trumpets,
Blow the strains abroad,
While each star in heaven
Hails its risen Lord!
Blow the strains abroad,
While each star in heaven
Hails its risen Lord!
“Alleluia! Alleluia!”—
How the voices ring!
Alleluia! Alleluia!”
Earth and heaven sing!
How the voices ring!
Alleluia! Alleluia!”
Earth and heaven sing!
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Chant his praise alway!
From the sealèd sepulchre
Christ is risen to-day!
Chant his praise alway!
From the sealèd sepulchre
Christ is risen to-day!
411
THE APPLE-TREE
Graceful and lithe and tall,
It stands by the garden wall,
In the flush of its pink-white bloom
Elate with its own perfume.
Tossing its young bright head
In the first glad joy of May,
While its singing leaves sing back
To the bird on the dancing spray.
“I'm alive! I'm abloom!” it cries
To the winds and the laughing skies.
Ho! for the gay young apple-tree
That stands by the garden wall!
It stands by the garden wall,
In the flush of its pink-white bloom
Elate with its own perfume.
Tossing its young bright head
In the first glad joy of May,
While its singing leaves sing back
To the bird on the dancing spray.
“I'm alive! I'm abloom!” it cries
To the winds and the laughing skies.
Ho! for the gay young apple-tree
That stands by the garden wall!
Sturdy and broad and tall,
Over the garden wall
It spreads its branches wide—
A bower on either side.
For the bending boughs hang low;
And with shouts and gay turmoil
The children gather like bees
To garner the golden spoil;
While the smiling mother sings,
“Rejoice for the gift it brings!
Ho! for the laden apple-tree
That stands by our garden wall!”
Over the garden wall
It spreads its branches wide—
A bower on either side.
For the bending boughs hang low;
And with shouts and gay turmoil
The children gather like bees
To garner the golden spoil;
While the smiling mother sings,
“Rejoice for the gift it brings!
Ho! for the laden apple-tree
That stands by our garden wall!”
The strong swift years fly past,
Each swifter than the last;
And the tree by the garden wall
Sees joy and grief befall.
Still from the spreading boughs
Some golden apples swing;
But the children come no more
For the autumn harvesting.
The tangled grass lies deep
Where the long path used to creep;
Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree
That leans o'er the crumbling wall!
Each swifter than the last;
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Sees joy and grief befall.
Still from the spreading boughs
Some golden apples swing;
But the children come no more
For the autumn harvesting.
The tangled grass lies deep
Where the long path used to creep;
Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree
That leans o'er the crumbling wall!
Now generations pass,
Like shadows on the grass.
What is there that remains
For all their toil and pains?
A little hollow place
Where once a hearthstone lay;
An empty, silent space
Whence life hath gone away;
Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,
Some fennel, and a clump of rue,
And this one gnarled old apple-tree
Where once was the garden wall!
Like shadows on the grass.
What is there that remains
For all their toil and pains?
A little hollow place
Where once a hearthstone lay;
An empty, silent space
Whence life hath gone away;
Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,
Some fennel, and a clump of rue,
And this one gnarled old apple-tree
Where once was the garden wall!
413
THE COMFORTER
How dost thou come, O Comforter?
In heavenly glory dressed,
Down floating from the far-off skies,
With lilies on thy breast?
With silver lilies on thy breast,
And in thy falling hair,
Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven
To this dim, earthly air?
In heavenly glory dressed,
Down floating from the far-off skies,
With lilies on thy breast?
With silver lilies on thy breast,
And in thy falling hair,
Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven
To this dim, earthly air?
How dost thou come, O Comforter?
With strange, unearthly light,
And mystic splendor aureoled,
In trances of the night?
In lone, mysterious silences,
In visions rapt and high,
And holy dreams, like pathways set
Betwixt the earth and sky?
With strange, unearthly light,
And mystic splendor aureoled,
In trances of the night?
In lone, mysterious silences,
In visions rapt and high,
And holy dreams, like pathways set
Betwixt the earth and sky?
Not thus alone, O Comforter!
Not thus, thou Guest Divine,
Whose presence turns our stones to bread,
Our water into wine!
Not always thus—for thou dost stoop
To our poor, common clay,
Too faint for saintly ecstasy,
Too impotent to pray.
Not thus, thou Guest Divine,
Whose presence turns our stones to bread,
Our water into wine!
Not always thus—for thou dost stoop
To our poor, common clay,
Too faint for saintly ecstasy,
Too impotent to pray.
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How does God send the Comforter?
Ofttimes through byways dim;
Not always by the beaten path
Of sacrament and hymn;
Not always through the gates of prayer,
Or penitential psalm,
Or sacred rite, or holy day,
Or incense, breathing balm.
Ofttimes through byways dim;
Not always by the beaten path
Of sacrament and hymn;
Not always through the gates of prayer,
Or penitential psalm,
Or sacred rite, or holy day,
Or incense, breathing balm.
How does God send the Comforter?
Perchance through faith intense;
Perchance through humblest avenues
Of sight, or sound, or sense.
Haply in childhood's laughing voice
Shall breathe the voice divine,
And tender hands of earthly love
Pour for thee heavenly wine!
Perchance through faith intense;
Perchance through humblest avenues
Of sight, or sound, or sense.
Haply in childhood's laughing voice
Shall breathe the voice divine,
And tender hands of earthly love
Pour for thee heavenly wine!
How will God send the Comforter?
Thou knowest not, nor I!
His ways are countless as the stars
His hand hath hung on high.
His roses bring their fragrant balm,
His twilight hush its peace,
Morning its splendor, night its calm,
To give thy pain surcease!
Thou knowest not, nor I!
His ways are countless as the stars
His hand hath hung on high.
His roses bring their fragrant balm,
His twilight hush its peace,
Morning its splendor, night its calm,
To give thy pain surcease!
415
SANTA CLAUS
A voice from out of the northern sky:
“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,
Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,
City and moorland, desert and dale!
From the north to the south, from the east to the west,
I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;
Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast
As I on the wings of the wintry blast!
“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,
Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,
City and moorland, desert and dale!
From the north to the south, from the east to the west,
I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;
Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast
As I on the wings of the wintry blast!
“The wondering stars look out to see
Who he that flieth so fast may be,
And their bright eyes follow my earthward track
By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.
For I have treasures for high and for low:
Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;
Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;
For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.
Who he that flieth so fast may be,
And their bright eyes follow my earthward track
By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.
For I have treasures for high and for low:
Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;
Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;
For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.
“I enter the castle with noiseless feet—
The air is silent and soft and sweet;
And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—
Fairings to make the fair more fair!
I enter the cottage of want and woe—
The candle is out, and the fire burns low;
But the sleepers smile in a happy dream
As I scatter my gifts by the moon's pale beam.
The air is silent and soft and sweet;
And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—
Fairings to make the fair more fair!
I enter the cottage of want and woe—
The candle is out, and the fire burns low;
But the sleepers smile in a happy dream
As I scatter my gifts by the moon's pale beam.
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“There's never a home so low, no doubt,
But I in my flight can find it out;
Nor a hut so hidden but I can see
The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!
There's never a home so proud and high
That I am constrained to pass it by,
Nor a heart so happy it may not be
Happier still when blessed by me!
But I in my flight can find it out;
Nor a hut so hidden but I can see
The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!
There's never a home so proud and high
That I am constrained to pass it by,
Nor a heart so happy it may not be
Happier still when blessed by me!
“What is my name? Ah, who can tell,
Though in every land 'tis a magic spell!
Men call me that, and they call me this;
Yet the different names are the same, I wis!
Gift-bearer to all the world am I,
Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where'er I fly;
But the name I bear in the courts above,
My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
Though in every land 'tis a magic spell!
Men call me that, and they call me this;
Yet the different names are the same, I wis!
Gift-bearer to all the world am I,
Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where'er I fly;
But the name I bear in the courts above,
My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”
417
THE ARMORER'S ERRAND
A BALLAD OF 1775
Where the far skies soared clear and bright
From mountain height to mountain height,
In the heart of a forest old and gray,
Castleton slept one Sabbath day—
Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
From mountain height to mountain height,
In the heart of a forest old and gray,
Castleton slept one Sabbath day—
Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.
But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;
Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”
Hark to the sound of the life and drum!
For up from the south two hundred men—
Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”
Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!
Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”
Hark to the sound of the life and drum!
For up from the south two hundred men—
Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”
Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!
Next day the village was all astir
With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of trampling feet,
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,
First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
“I'll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,
“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”
With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of trampling feet,
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben's forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
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First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
“I'll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,
“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”
So he wrought away till the sun went down,
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: “I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.
“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;
“What may this wonderful task-work be?”
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen's. He cried: “I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played
O'er the armorer's face as his hand he stayed.
“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;
“What may this wonderful task-work be?”
“To go by the light of the evening star
On an urgent errand, swift and far—
From town to town and from farm to farm
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!
Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”
He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,
“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;
And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day
Guns and men shall be under way.
But where shall I send these minute-men?”
“Do you know Hand's Cove?” said Allen then,
“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there
By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”
On an urgent errand, swift and far—
From town to town and from farm to farm
To carry the warning and sound the alarm!
Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too,
And all the fair valley the Otter runs through—
For we need more men! Make no delay,
But hasten, hasten, upon your way!”
He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt,
To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt.
“Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach,
“Friend Allen, I will be out of reach;
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Guns and men shall be under way.
But where shall I send these minute-men?”
“Do you know Hand's Cove?” said Allen then,
“On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there
By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!”
“Good-by, I'm off!” Then down the road
As if on seven-league boots he strode,
While Allen watched from the forge's door
Till the stalwart form he could see no more.
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;
By nine of the clock he was out of reach.
But still, as his will his steps outran,
He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,
Never a minute have you to lose,
Never a minute to pick or choose;
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours
Is surely enough to try your powers.
So square your shoulders and speed away
With never a halt by night or day.”
As if on seven-league boots he strode,
While Allen watched from the forge's door
Till the stalwart form he could see no more.
Into the woods passed Gershom Beach;
By nine of the clock he was out of reach.
But still, as his will his steps outran,
He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man,
Never a minute have you to lose,
Never a minute to pick or choose;
For sixty miles in twenty-four hours
Is surely enough to try your powers.
So square your shoulders and speed away
With never a halt by night or day.”
'Twas a moonless night; but over his head
The stars a tremulous lustre shed,
And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,
As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,
And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,
With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.
He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me
There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.
I've read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;
Now hark! there's a wolf on yonder height;
There's a snarling catamount prowling round;
Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;
The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills
Call to each other from all the hills;
A scream comes down from the eagle's nest;
The bark of a fox from the cliff's tall crest;
The owls hoot; and the very trees
Have something to say to every breeze!”
The stars a tremulous lustre shed,
And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet,
As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet,
And trampled the shy arbutus blooms,
With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes.
He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me
There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see.
I've read of the ‘hush of the silent night’;
Now hark! there's a wolf on yonder height;
There's a snarling catamount prowling round;
Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound;
The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills
420
A scream comes down from the eagle's nest;
The bark of a fox from the cliff's tall crest;
The owls hoot; and the very trees
Have something to say to every breeze!”
The paths were few and the ways were rude
In the depths of that virgin solitude.
The Indian's trail and the hunter's tracks,
The trees scarred deep by the settler's axe,
Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—
These were the signs he had to seek;
Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit
The Crown Point road and could follow it—
The road by the British troops hewn out
Under General Amherst in fifty-nine,
When he drove the French from the old redoubt,
Nor waited to give the countersign!
In the depths of that virgin solitude.
The Indian's trail and the hunter's tracks,
The trees scarred deep by the settler's axe,
Or a cow-path leading to the creek,—
These were the signs he had to seek;
Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit
The Crown Point road and could follow it—
The road by the British troops hewn out
Under General Amherst in fifty-nine,
When he drove the French from the old redoubt,
Nor waited to give the countersign!
The streams were many and swift and clear;
But there was no bridge, or far or near.
It was midnight when he paused to hear
At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,
And found a canoe by the river's edge,
In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.
With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide
He launched it and flew to the other side;
Then giving his message, on he sped,
By the light of the pale stars overhead,
Past the log church below Pine Hill,
And the graveyard opposite. All was still,
And the one lone sleeper lying there
Stirred not either for cry or prayer.
But there was no bridge, or far or near.
It was midnight when he paused to hear
At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall,
And found a canoe by the river's edge,
In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge.
With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide
He launched it and flew to the other side;
Then giving his message, on he sped,
By the light of the pale stars overhead,
Past the log church below Pine Hill,
And the graveyard opposite. All was still,
And the one lone sleeper lying there
Stirred not either for cry or prayer.
Only pausing to give the alarm
At rude log cabin and lonely farm.
From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along,
Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.
Look! there's a deer in the forest glade,
Stealing along like a silent shade!
Hark to the loon that cries and moans
With a living grief in its human tones!
At Pittsford the light begins to grow
In the wakening east; and drifting slow,
From valley and river and wildwood, rise,
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,
Clouds of translucent, silver mist,
Flushing to rose and amethyst;
While thrush and robin and bluebird sing
Till the woods with jubilant music ring!
At rude log cabin and lonely farm.
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Borne on by a purpose deep and strong.
Look! there's a deer in the forest glade,
Stealing along like a silent shade!
Hark to the loon that cries and moans
With a living grief in its human tones!
At Pittsford the light begins to grow
In the wakening east; and drifting slow,
From valley and river and wildwood, rise,
Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice,
Clouds of translucent, silver mist,
Flushing to rose and amethyst;
While thrush and robin and bluebird sing
Till the woods with jubilant music ring!
It was day at last! He looked around,
With a firmer tread on the springing ground;
“Now the men will be all a-field,” said he,
“And that will save many a step for me.
Each man will be ready to go; but still,
I must confess, if I'd had my will,
I'd have waited till after planting-time,
For now the season is in its prime.
The young green leaves of the oak-tree here
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear;
And I've known no rule, since I was born,
Safer than that for planting corn!”
With a firmer tread on the springing ground;
“Now the men will be all a-field,” said he,
“And that will save many a step for me.
Each man will be ready to go; but still,
I must confess, if I'd had my will,
I'd have waited till after planting-time,
For now the season is in its prime.
The young green leaves of the oak-tree here
Are just the size of a squirrel's ear;
And I've known no rule, since I was born,
Safer than that for planting corn!”
He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills,
He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,
While still to his call, like minute-men
Booted and spurred, from mount and glen,
The settlers rallied. But on he went
Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,
Down the long vale of the Otter to where
The might of the waterfall thundered in air;
Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,
Where Hand's Cove lay in the bending shore.
The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground
In a deep ravine, without word or sound;
And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest
Like a weary child, on the earth's brown breast.
He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills,
While still to his call, like minute-men
Booted and spurred, from mount and glen,
The settlers rallied. But on he went
Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent,
Down the long vale of the Otter to where
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Then across to the lake, six leagues and more,
Where Hand's Cove lay in the bending shore.
The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground
In a deep ravine, without word or sound;
And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest
Like a weary child, on the earth's brown breast.
At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat,
And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—
For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,
And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien
As a king on his throne, smiled down on him,
While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.
“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,
As a knight who has done his chief's behest!”
And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;—
For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine,
And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien
As a king on his throne, smiled down on him,
While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb.
“Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest,
As a knight who has done his chief's behest!”
“Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where's my gun?
A knight fights on till the field is won!”
And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,
He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
A knight fights on till the field is won!”
And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day,
He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!
423
FORESHADOWINGS
Wind of the winter night,
Under the starry skies
Somewhere my lady bright,
Slumbering lies.
Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,
Where the pale moonlight streams,
Softly she sleeps.
Under the starry skies
Somewhere my lady bright,
Slumbering lies.
Wrapped in calm maiden dreams,
Where the pale moonlight streams,
Softly she sleeps.
I do not know her face,
Pure as the lonely star
That in yon darkling space
Shineth afar;
Never with soft command
Touched I her willing hand,
Kissed I her lips.
Pure as the lonely star
That in yon darkling space
Shineth afar;
Never with soft command
Touched I her willing hand,
Kissed I her lips.
I have not heard her voice,
I do not know her name;
Yet doth my heart rejoice,
Owning her claim;
Yet am I true to her;
All that is due to her
Sacred I keep.
I do not know her name;
Yet doth my heart rejoice,
Owning her claim;
Yet am I true to her;
All that is due to her
Sacred I keep.
Never a thought of me
Troubles her soft repose;
Courant of mine may be
Lily nor rose.
They may not bear to her
This heart's fond prayer to her,
Yet—she is mine.
Troubles her soft repose;
Courant of mine may be
Lily nor rose.
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This heart's fond prayer to her,
Yet—she is mine.
Wind of the winter night,
Over the fields of snow,
Over the hill so white,
Tenderly blow!
Somewhere red roses bloom;
Into her warm, hushed room,
Bear thou their breath.
Over the fields of snow,
Over the hill so white,
Tenderly blow!
Somewhere red roses bloom;
Into her warm, hushed room,
Bear thou their breath.
Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite,
Breathe thou no tender word;
Wind of the winter night,
Die thou unheard.
True love shall yet prevail,
Telling its own sweet tale:
Till then I wait.
Breathe thou no tender word;
Wind of the winter night,
Die thou unheard.
True love shall yet prevail,
Telling its own sweet tale:
Till then I wait.
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WON
Bird, by her garden gate
Singing thy happy song,
Round thee the listening leaves
Joyously throng.
Tell them that yesternight
Under the stars so bright,
I wooed and won her!
Singing thy happy song,
Round thee the listening leaves
Joyously throng.
Tell them that yesternight
Under the stars so bright,
I wooed and won her!
Red rose, rejoice with me!
Swing all thy censers low,
Bid each fair bud of thine
Hasten to blow.
Lift every glowing cup
Brimming with sweetness up,
For—I have won her!
Swing all thy censers low,
Bid each fair bud of thine
Hasten to blow.
Lift every glowing cup
Brimming with sweetness up,
For—I have won her!
Wind, bear the tidings far,
Far over hill and dale;
Let every breeze that blows
Swell the glad tale.
River, go tell the sea,
Boundless and glad and free,
That I have won her!
Far over hill and dale;
Let every breeze that blows
Swell the glad tale.
River, go tell the sea,
Boundless and glad and free,
That I have won her!
Stars, ye who saw the blush
Steal o'er her lovely face,
When first her tender lips
Granted me grace,
Who can with her compare,
Queen of the maidens rare?
Yet—I have won her!
Steal o'er her lovely face,
When first her tender lips
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Who can with her compare,
Queen of the maidens rare?
Yet—I have won her!
Sun, up yon azure height
Treading thy lofty way,
Ruler of sea and land,
King of the Day—
Where'er thy banners fly,
Who is so blest as I?
I—who have won her!
Treading thy lofty way,
Ruler of sea and land,
King of the Day—
Where'er thy banners fly,
Who is so blest as I?
I—who have won her!
Oh, heart and soul of mine,
Make ye the temple clean,
Make all the cloisters pure
Seen and unseen!
Bring fragrant balm and myrrh,
Make the shrine meet for her,
Now ye have won her!
Make ye the temple clean,
Make all the cloisters pure
Seen and unseen!
Bring fragrant balm and myrrh,
Make the shrine meet for her,
Now ye have won her!
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BAPTISM OF FIRE
Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play,
Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May!
Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May!
Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept:
Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept.
Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept.
Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of bloom,
Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume.
Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume.
Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain,
Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.
Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain.
Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway,
Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!
Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay!
“O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried,
“Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”
“Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!”
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But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fire
Blazed on the glowing heart-stone like a sacrificial pyre.
Blazed on the glowing heart-stone like a sacrificial pyre.
And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes,
As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.
As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise.
In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one,
Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!
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AT THE FEAST
“And the Lord of the Castle is Time.”
When the hour has come and the servants wait
The tramp of steeds at the castle gate,
When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hall
Like a thousand stars burn over all,
When the board is spread and the feast is set,
And the dew on the roses lingers yet,
Whom shall the Master summon
To sit at his right hand?
The tramp of steeds at the castle gate,
When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hall
Like a thousand stars burn over all,
When the board is spread and the feast is set,
And the dew on the roses lingers yet,
Whom shall the Master summon
To sit at his right hand?
Let the music soar to the vaulted roof,
Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof,
While chief and retainer alike await
The Lord of the Castle who cometh late;
The guests are bidden, the red wine flows,
But not the wisest among them knows
Whom the Master shall summon
To sit at his right hand!
Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof,
While chief and retainer alike await
The Lord of the Castle who cometh late;
The guests are bidden, the red wine flows,
But not the wisest among them knows
Whom the Master shall summon
To sit at his right hand!
For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late,
When he comes, at length, in pomp and state,
And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword,
Strides to his place at the head of the board,
Oft-times reverses the order set,
Nor beckons to crown or coronet!
Whom he will the Master summons
To sit at his right hand!
When he comes, at length, in pomp and state,
And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword,
Strides to his place at the head of the board,
Oft-times reverses the order set,
Nor beckons to crown or coronet!
Whom he will the Master summons
To sit at his right hand!
430
OVER AND OVER
“Just the same thing over and over!”
But that is the way of the world, my dear;
Over and over, over and over,
Old things repeated from year to year!
But that is the way of the world, my dear;
Over and over, over and over,
Old things repeated from year to year!
Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still,
The vaulted heavens I climb and climb,
Over and over with tireless will,
Day after day till the end of time!
The vaulted heavens I climb and climb,
Over and over with tireless will,
Day after day till the end of time!
“Never a pause and never a rest;
Yet every morning the earth is new,
And ever the clouds in the golden west
Have a fresh glory shining through.”
Yet every morning the earth is new,
And ever the clouds in the golden west
Have a fresh glory shining through.”
Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hills
And through the orchard I creep and creep,
Over the meadows, and where the rills
Laugh in the shadows cool and deep.
And through the orchard I creep and creep,
Over the meadows, and where the rills
Laugh in the shadows cool and deep.
“Every spring it is just the same!
And because it is, I am sure to see
The oriole's flash of vivid flame
In the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.”
And because it is, I am sure to see
The oriole's flash of vivid flame
In the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.”
Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hear
The same old story over and over;
Mother and maiden year by year
Whisper it still to child and lover!
The same old story over and over;
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Whisper it still to child and lover!
“But sweeter it grows from age to age,
The song begotten so long ago,
When first man came to his heritage,
And walked with God in the even-glow.”
The song begotten so long ago,
When first man came to his heritage,
And walked with God in the even-glow.”
432
A LISTENING BIRD
A little bird sat on an apple-tree,
And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;
He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,
But from it there floated no silvery note.
“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he—
“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he.
And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;
He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,
But from it there floated no silvery note.
“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he—
“Not a song can I sing,” sighed he.
In tremulous showers the apple-tree shed
Its pink and white blossoms on his head;
The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,
He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.
“All the the others can sing,” he dolefully said—
“All the others can sing,” he said.
Its pink and white blossoms on his head;
The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,
He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.
“All the the others can sing,” he dolefully said—
“All the others can sing,” he said.
So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wide
The music was borne on the air's warm tide,
A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,
And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.
“If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried;
“Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
The music was borne on the air's warm tide,
A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,
And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.
“If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried;
“Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
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THE FIRST FIRE
O virgin hearth, as chaste and cold
As one who waits for burial mould,
Whom shall we summon here to keep
Watch while thou wakest from thy sleep?
As one who waits for burial mould,
Whom shall we summon here to keep
Watch while thou wakest from thy sleep?
Not from the far sky spaces, blue
As those that Zeus and Hera knew,
May Hestia wing her airy flight,
Bringer of holy warmth and light.
As those that Zeus and Hera knew,
May Hestia wing her airy flight,
Bringer of holy warmth and light.
Pan may not come. By stream and shore
Fair Naiads dry their locks no more;
No Oread dwells in mount and glen;
No Dryad flees from gods or men.
Fair Naiads dry their locks no more;
No Oread dwells in mount and glen;
No Dryad flees from gods or men.
Yet still do forest voices clear
Greet him whose soul hath ears to hear;
The murmur of the rustling pine
Is sweet as Hermes's harp divine.
Greet him whose soul hath ears to hear;
The murmur of the rustling pine
Is sweet as Hermes's harp divine.
The winds that rend the mighty oak
Clash loud as Ares's battle stroke;
The maples toss each leafy crown
Though Dian's votive wreaths are brown.
Clash loud as Ares's battle stroke;
The maples toss each leafy crown
Though Dian's votive wreaths are brown.
Here, as to sacrificial pyre
Kindled with pure celestial fire,
Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bring
The deep wood's fragrant offering,
Kindled with pure celestial fire,
434
The deep wood's fragrant offering,
As incense to this household shrine.
O hearth, no richer spoil were thine
If all Dodona's oaks had shed
Their life-blood and for thee lay dead!
O hearth, no richer spoil were thine
If all Dodona's oaks had shed
Their life-blood and for thee lay dead!
Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrill
Thy quickening veins with wonder fill?
Have the far-seeing, prescient years
No presage for thy listening ears?
Thy quickening veins with wonder fill?
Have the far-seeing, prescient years
No presage for thy listening ears?
Life hath its phases manifold,
Yet still the new repeats the old;
There is no truer truth than this:
What was, is still the thing that is.
Yet still the new repeats the old;
There is no truer truth than this:
What was, is still the thing that is.
Therefore we know that thou wilt hear
Childhood's light laughter ringing clear;
The flow of song, the breath of prayer,
Whisper of love, and sigh of care.
Childhood's light laughter ringing clear;
The flow of song, the breath of prayer,
Whisper of love, and sigh of care.
Thou wilt see youth go forth to gauge
His being's lofty heritage,
And manhood in the autumn eves
Come homeward laden with his sheaves.
His being's lofty heritage,
And manhood in the autumn eves
Come homeward laden with his sheaves.
O life and death, O joy and woe,
In mingling streams your tides shall flow,
While sun and storm alike fulfil
The mandates of the Eternal Will!
In mingling streams your tides shall flow,
While sun and storm alike fulfil
The mandates of the Eternal Will!
Now bring the torch and light the fire,
Let the swift flames leap high and higher,
Let the red radiance stream afar,
Dearer than glow of moon or star!
Let the swift flames leap high and higher,
435
Dearer than glow of moon or star!
Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear,
And fill the house with warmth and cheer!
Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright,
And souls shall soar to share thy flight!
And fill the house with warmth and cheer!
Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright,
And souls shall soar to share thy flight!
436
MIDNIGHT CHIMES
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!
Down yon lonely height
Hear the joyous summons pealing
Through the starry night.
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!
Ring the Christmas bells;
From the church-tower on the hill
Clear the music swells.
Down yon lonely height
Hear the joyous summons pealing
Through the starry night.
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!
Ring the Christmas bells;
From the church-tower on the hill
Clear the music swells.
Far and near the listening mountains
Bend to catch the strain,
Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastness
Join the glad refrain,—
Noel! Noel! All the pine-trees
Feel a subtile thrill,
And the hemlock groves, responsive,
Whisper and are still.
Bend to catch the strain,
Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastness
Join the glad refrain,—
Noel! Noel! All the pine-trees
Feel a subtile thrill,
And the hemlock groves, responsive,
Whisper and are still.
Noel! Noel! Through the valley
Where the river goes
In and out between the meadows,
Soft the music flows,
And the river, dumbly sleeping,
Feels its cold heart beat
Answering to the pulsing rhythm
Of the anthem sweet.
Where the river goes
In and out between the meadows,
Soft the music flows,
And the river, dumbly sleeping,
Feels its cold heart beat
Answering to the pulsing rhythm
Of the anthem sweet.
437
Noel! Noel! Hark! a rustling
On the frosty air,
Where the aspens, all a-quiver,
Bend their branches bare;
Airy birches, stately maples,
Black against the sky,
Wave their leafless boughs like banners
When a king goes by.
On the frosty air,
Where the aspens, all a-quiver,
Bend their branches bare;
Airy birches, stately maples,
Black against the sky,
Wave their leafless boughs like banners
When a king goes by.
Noel! Noel! Sweet-breathed oxen,
In the farm-yard close,
Lift their horned heads to listen,
Startled from repose;
Then they sleep as slept the white flocks
On Judea's hills,
While again the olden glory
Earth with rapture fills.
In the farm-yard close,
Lift their horned heads to listen,
Startled from repose;
Then they sleep as slept the white flocks
On Judea's hills,
While again the olden glory
Earth with rapture fills.
Noel! Noel! Little children
In their soft nests smile,
Dreaming of fair choiring angels
Floating near the while;
Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened,
Stir their drowsy wings
With, mayhap, a vague, unconscious
Sense of heavenly things.
In their soft nests smile,
Dreaming of fair choiring angels
Floating near the while;
Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened,
Stir their drowsy wings
With, mayhap, a vague, unconscious
Sense of heavenly things.
Noel! Noel! In the church-yard,
Where the low graves lie,
Light winds bear the strains melodious,
Soft as spirit's sigh;
Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers,
As it dies and swells?
Hear your ears the mystic music
Of earth's Christmas bells?
Where the low graves lie,
Light winds bear the strains melodious,
Soft as spirit's sigh;
Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers,
As it dies and swells?
Hear your ears the mystic music
Of earth's Christmas bells?
438
MY LADY SLEEP
In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep,
Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one;
Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep;
Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done.
Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one;
Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep;
Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done.
Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head,
Down the long garden path my Lady strays,
And kneeling by the pansies' purple bed,
Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze.
Down the long garden path my Lady strays,
And kneeling by the pansies' purple bed,
Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze.
Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands,
Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip;
Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands,
The shining grains that through her fingers slip.
Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip;
Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands,
The shining grains that through her fingers slip.
Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet,
Where the low thunder booms forevermore,
And the great waves no man hath numbered yet,
Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore.
Where the low thunder booms forevermore,
And the great waves no man hath numbered yet,
Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore.
Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars,
The daisies smiling in the meadow grass,
The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars,
The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.
The daisies smiling in the meadow grass,
The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars,
The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass.
But evermore her hands are cool and calm—
Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low;
And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm,
And silent as a dream her garments flow.
Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low;
439
And silent as a dream her garments flow.
She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell?
Angels of God, do ye her secret keep?
Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell,
The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
Angels of God, do ye her secret keep?
Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell,
The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?
440
THE KING'S TOUCH
“The King's touch—there is magic in it!
When the early dawn in the east is red,
And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,
I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.
When the early dawn in the east is red,
And I hear the song of the lark and linnet,
I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed.
“Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden gray
I will steal like a shadow over the hills,
And down where the pendulous willows sway,
And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—
I will steal like a shadow over the hills,
And down where the pendulous willows sway,
And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils—
“Till I reach the edge of the forest wide;
And there will I bide, where the still shades are,
Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,
And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.
And there will I bide, where the still shades are,
Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride,
And the sweet wild horn rings out afar.
“I will wait and listen until I see
The nodding plumes of the merry men
And the glancing pennants floating free,
A gleam of light in the lonely glen.
The nodding plumes of the merry men
And the glancing pennants floating free,
A gleam of light in the lonely glen.
“Then low in the dust at his royal feet
I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;
Perchance he will give ere I entreat,
Before I cry he may understand!
I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand;
Perchance he will give ere I entreat,
Before I cry he may understand!
“The King's proud Leech will be there I trow—
A wise old man with a reverent air—
And the laughing courtiers, row on row;
Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.
A wise old man with a reverent air—
And the laughing courtiers, row on row;
Yet not unto them will I make my prayer.
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“'Tis the King, the King, who will know it all.
His eye will discover the wound concealed;
He will bend to hear me before I call.
Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
His eye will discover the wound concealed;
He will bend to hear me before I call.
Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell!
She was dust and ashes long ago,
With the proud young king and his leech as well,
And the smiling courtiers, row on row.
She was dust and ashes long ago,
With the proud young king and his leech as well,
And the smiling courtiers, row on row.
But whether the dawn in the east be red,
Or whether the stars bloom out afield,
This truth remaineth, tho' myths lie dead:
“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
Or whether the stars bloom out afield,
This truth remaineth, tho' myths lie dead:
“Whom the King touches shall be healed!”
442
“BY DIVERS PATHS”
Unknown to me thy name or state,
Save that a mantle saintly
Of rare and sweet unworldliness
Enfolded thee most quaintly.
Save that a mantle saintly
Of rare and sweet unworldliness
Enfolded thee most quaintly.
We came and went by divers paths;
We planned nor time, nor meeting;
We spake not, save by nod, or smile,
Or glance of casual greeting.
We planned nor time, nor meeting;
We spake not, save by nod, or smile,
Or glance of casual greeting.
Yet, led by some strange chance or fate
To-day by ruined altars,
Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,
The pitying sunshine falters;
To-day by ruined altars,
Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves,
The pitying sunshine falters;
To-morrow where your blue lakes shine,
And bloom your English daisies;
Or on Helvellyn's lofty crest
The sunset splendor blazes;
And bloom your English daisies;
Or on Helvellyn's lofty crest
The sunset splendor blazes;
Or where deep organ-thunders roll
Through grand cathedral arches,
And stately Durham's triple towers
Look toward the Scottish marches;
Through grand cathedral arches,
And stately Durham's triple towers
Look toward the Scottish marches;
Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew
Each other's name nor mission,
The while a subtile kinship grew
To silent recognition.
Each other's name nor mission,
The while a subtile kinship grew
To silent recognition.
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At length where stretched a princely street
In long, receding splendor,
Down which the golden sunshine threw
A radiance warm and tender;
In long, receding splendor,
Down which the golden sunshine threw
A radiance warm and tender;
While far above us, frowning, hung
A castle old and hoary,
Stern on its battlemented heights
Renowned in song and story;
A castle old and hoary,
Stern on its battlemented heights
Renowned in song and story;
And near us, throned in marble state,
O'er time and death victorious,
He sat, the magic of whose pen
Made king and castle glorious—
O'er time and death victorious,
He sat, the magic of whose pen
Made king and castle glorious—
There, face to face, once more we met,
Like leaves in autumn weather,
That blown afar by varying winds,
Yet drift again together.
Like leaves in autumn weather,
That blown afar by varying winds,
Yet drift again together.
A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”
A little low, sweet laughter,
Just one close clasp of meeting hands,
And then, a moment after,
A little low, sweet laughter,
Just one close clasp of meeting hands,
And then, a moment after,
Between us swept the surging crowd
And we were borne asunder.
O, friend unknown, in what far land
Will we next meet, I wonder?
And we were borne asunder.
O, friend unknown, in what far land
Will we next meet, I wonder?
444
THE BLIND BIRD'S NEST
“The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—
Turkish Proverb.
Turkish Proverb.
Thou who dost build the blind bird's nest,
Am I not blind?
Each bird that flyeth east or west
The track can find.
Am I not blind?
Each bird that flyeth east or west
The track can find.
Each bird that flies from north to south
Knows the far way;
From mountain's crest to river's mouth
It does not stray.
Knows the far way;
From mountain's crest to river's mouth
It does not stray.
Not one in all the lengthening land,
In all the sky,
Or by the ocean's silver strand,
Is blind as I!
In all the sky,
Or by the ocean's silver strand,
Is blind as I!
And dost Thou build the blind bird's nest?
Build Thou for me
Some shelter where my soul may rest
Secure in Thee.
Build Thou for me
Some shelter where my soul may rest
Secure in Thee.
Close clinging to the bending bough,
Bind it so fast
It shall not loose if high or low
Blows the loud blast.
Bind it so fast
It shall not loose if high or low
Blows the loud blast.
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If fierce storms break, and the wild rain
Comes pelting in,
Cover the shrinking nest, restrain
The furious din.
Comes pelting in,
Cover the shrinking nest, restrain
The furious din.
At sultry noontide, when the air
Trembles with heat,
Draw close the leafy covert where
Cool shadows meet.
Trembles with heat,
Draw close the leafy covert where
Cool shadows meet.
And when night falleth, dark and chill,
Let one fair star,
Love's star all luminous and still,
Shine from afar.
Let one fair star,
Love's star all luminous and still,
Shine from afar.
Thou who dost build the blind bird's nest
Build Thou for me;
So shall my being find its rest
Forevermore in Thee.
Build Thou for me;
So shall my being find its rest
Forevermore in Thee.
446
TWO PATHS
A path across a meadow fair and sweet,
Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,
A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.
Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,
A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.
A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star
Gleaming behind the lilac's fragrant bar,
And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
Gleaming behind the lilac's fragrant bar,
And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
A path across the meadow fair and sweet,
Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—
A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.
Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—
A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.
A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate
Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait
To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait
To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
447
ST. JOHN'S EVE
The veil is thin between
The seen and the unseen—
Thinner to-night than the transparent air;
All heaven and earth are still,
Save when from some far hill
Floateth the nightbird's unavailing prayer;
Up from the mountain bars
Climb the slow, patient stars,
Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!
The seen and the unseen—
Thinner to-night than the transparent air;
All heaven and earth are still,
Save when from some far hill
Floateth the nightbird's unavailing prayer;
Up from the mountain bars
Climb the slow, patient stars,
Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!
Ere earth had grown too wise
To commerce with the skies,
On this midsummer night the men of old
Believed the dead drew near,
Believed that they could hear
Voices long silent speaking from the mould,
Believed whoever slept
Unearthly vigil kept
Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled.
To commerce with the skies,
On this midsummer night the men of old
Believed the dead drew near,
Believed that they could hear
Voices long silent speaking from the mould,
Believed whoever slept
Unearthly vigil kept
Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled.
In solemn midnight marches
Beneath dark forest arches
They fancied that their hungry souls found God;
His angels clad in light
Stole softly through the night,
Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,
And bore to mortal ears
Tidings from other spheres,
The undiscovered way no man hath trod.
Beneath dark forest arches
They fancied that their hungry souls found God;
His angels clad in light
Stole softly through the night,
Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,
And bore to mortal ears
Tidings from other spheres,
The undiscovered way no man hath trod.
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Ah! what if it were true?
Then would I call ye who
Have one by one beyond my vision flown;
I would set wide the door
Ye enter now no more
Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown!
Come as ye came of old
Laden with love untold”—
Hark! was that nothing but the night wind's moan?
Then would I call ye who
Have one by one beyond my vision flown;
I would set wide the door
Ye enter now no more
Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown!
Come as ye came of old
Laden with love untold”—
Hark! was that nothing but the night wind's moan?
449
A LITTLE SONG
Little song I fain would sing,
Why dost thou elude me so?
Like a bird upon the wing,
Sailing high, sailing low,
Yet forever out of reach,
Thou dost vex me beyond measure,
Unallured by prayer or speech,
Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Why dost thou elude me so?
Like a bird upon the wing,
Sailing high, sailing low,
Yet forever out of reach,
Thou dost vex me beyond measure,
Unallured by prayer or speech,
Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—
I could call thee by thy name;
I have wooed thee day and night,
Yet thou wilt not own my claim.
Hark! thou'rt hovering even now
In the soft still air above me—
Fantasy or dream art thou,
That my heart's cry cannot move thee?
I could call thee by thy name;
I have wooed thee day and night,
Yet thou wilt not own my claim.
Hark! thou'rt hovering even now
In the soft still air above me—
Fantasy or dream art thou,
That my heart's cry cannot move thee?
Little song I never sang,
Thou art sweeter than the strain
That through starry mazes rang,
First-born child of joy and pain.
I shall sing thee not; but surely
From some all-compelling voice
Swelling high, serenely, purely,
I shall hear thee and rejoice!
Thou art sweeter than the strain
That through starry mazes rang,
First-born child of joy and pain.
I shall sing thee not; but surely
From some all-compelling voice
Swelling high, serenely, purely,
I shall hear thee and rejoice!
450
THE PRINCES' CHAMBER
I stood upon Tower Hill,
Bright were the skies and gay,
Yet a cloud and a sudden chill
Passed over the summer day—
A thrill, and a nameless dread,
As of one who waits alone
Where gather the silent dead
Under the charnel stone.
Bright were the skies and gay,
Yet a cloud and a sudden chill
Passed over the summer day—
A thrill, and a nameless dread,
As of one who waits alone
Where gather the silent dead
Under the charnel stone.
For before my shrinking eyes
They glided, one by one,
The great, the good, the wise,
Who here to death were done;
Sinners and saints they came
With blood-stained garments on,
Reckless of praise or blame,
Or battles lost or won.
They glided, one by one,
The great, the good, the wise,
Who here to death were done;
Sinners and saints they came
With blood-stained garments on,
Reckless of praise or blame,
Or battles lost or won.
Then over the moat I passed
And paused at the Traitors' Gate;
Did I hear a trumpet's blast,
Forerunner of deadly fate?
Lo! up the stairs from the river,
Where the sombre shadows crept,
With none to help or deliver,
Kings, queens, and princes swept!
And paused at the Traitors' Gate;
Did I hear a trumpet's blast,
Forerunner of deadly fate?
Lo! up the stairs from the river,
Where the sombre shadows crept,
With none to help or deliver,
Kings, queens, and princes swept!
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O, some of those royal dames
Drooped, with dishevelled hair,
And mien of one who claims
Close kindred with despair!
And some were proud and cold,
With eyes that blazed like stars,
As under that archway old
They passed to their prison-bars.
Drooped, with dishevelled hair,
And mien of one who claims
Close kindred with despair!
And some were proud and cold,
With eyes that blazed like stars,
As under that archway old
They passed to their prison-bars.
To prison-bars or death!
Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;
That haughty maid, Elizabeth;
Northumberland's pale queen;
Margaret Plantagenet,
Her gray locks floating wild—
How the line lengthens yet,
Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;
That haughty maid, Elizabeth;
Northumberland's pale queen;
Margaret Plantagenet,
Her gray locks floating wild—
How the line lengthens yet,
Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fiercely the black portcullis
Frowned as I onward went;
The Bloody Tower is this—
Strong tower of dread portent!
“Show me the Princes' Chamber,”
To the Yeoman Guard I said;
O, the stairs were steep to clamber,
And the rough vault dark o'erhead!
Frowned as I onward went;
The Bloody Tower is this—
Strong tower of dread portent!
“Show me the Princes' Chamber,”
To the Yeoman Guard I said;
O, the stairs were steep to clamber,
And the rough vault dark o'erhead!
No sigh in the sunny room,
No moan from the groined roof,
No wail of expectant doom
Echoed alow, aloof!
But instead a mother sang
To a child upon her knee,
Whose peals of laughter rang
Like sweet bells mad with glee.
No moan from the groined roof,
No wail of expectant doom
Echoed alow, aloof!
But instead a mother sang
To a child upon her knee,
Whose peals of laughter rang
Like sweet bells mad with glee.
452
Sunshine for murky air,
Smiles for the sob of pain,
Joy for dark despair,
Hope where sweet hope was slain!
“Art thou happy here,” I cried,
“Where once was lonely woe,
And the royal children died,—
Murdered so long ago?”
Smiles for the sob of pain,
Joy for dark despair,
Hope where sweet hope was slain!
“Art thou happy here,” I cried,
“Where once was lonely woe,
And the royal children died,—
Murdered so long ago?”
She smiled. “O, lady, yes!
Earth hath forgotten them;
See how my roses press,
Blooming on each fair stem!
The princes, they sleep sound,
But love nor joy are dead;
I fear no haunted ground,
I have my child,” she said.
Earth hath forgotten them;
See how my roses press,
Blooming on each fair stem!
The princes, they sleep sound,
But love nor joy are dead;
I fear no haunted ground,
I have my child,” she said.
453
WONDERLAND
Wonderland is here and there;
Wonderland is everywhere;
Fly not then to east or west
On some far, uncertain quest.
Wonderland is everywhere;
Fly not then to east or west
On some far, uncertain quest.
Seek not India nor Japan,
Nor the city Ispahan,
Where to-day the shadows brood
Over lonely Zendarood.
Nor the city Ispahan,
Where to-day the shadows brood
Over lonely Zendarood.
Somewhere smileth far Cathay
Through the long resplendent day;
Somewhere, moored in purple seas,
Sleep the fair Hesperides.
Through the long resplendent day;
Somewhere, moored in purple seas,
Sleep the fair Hesperides.
Somewhere, in vague realms remote
Over which strange banners float,
Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,
The dear Wonderland of dreams.
Over which strange banners float,
Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,
The dear Wonderland of dreams.
Yet no need to sail in ships
Where the blue sea dips and dips,
Nor on wings of cloud to fly
Where the haunts of faery lie.
Where the blue sea dips and dips,
Nor on wings of cloud to fly
Where the haunts of faery lie.
For by miracle of morn
Each successive day is born;
And wherever shines the sun,
There enchanted rivers run!
Each successive day is born;
454
There enchanted rivers run!
Would you go to Wonderland?
Lo! it lieth close at hand;
Wonderland is wheresoe'er
Eyes can see and ears can hear!
Lo! it lieth close at hand;
Wonderland is wheresoe'er
Eyes can see and ears can hear!
455
IN A GALLERY
(ANTWERP, 1891)
The Virgin floating on the silver moon;
Madonna Mary with her holy child;
Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;
Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;
Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,
And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;
Bold, mail clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;
Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,
Where patient women toiled; with here and there
The glint of summer skies and summer seas,
And the red glow of humble, household fires!
Madonna Mary with her holy child;
Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;
Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;
Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,
And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;
Bold, mail clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;
Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,
Where patient women toiled; with here and there
The glint of summer skies and summer seas,
And the red glow of humble, household fires!
Breathless I stood and silent, even as one
Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face
Down the long gallery drew me as a star;
A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips
Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes
That kept their own dear secret, smiling still
With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,
Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,
And a long, slender hand whose fingers held
Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.
Yet from those high, imperial presences,
Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth
With all its loves and longings, back I turned
Again and yet again, lured by the smile
That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”
Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face
Down the long gallery drew me as a star;
A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips
Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes
That kept their own dear secret, smiling still
With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,
Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,
And a long, slender hand whose fingers held
Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.
Yet from those high, imperial presences,
Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth
With all its loves and longings, back I turned
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That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”
“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue,
And “Painted by himself.”
Three hundred years
Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write
And they who read, we know another world
From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,
Even as here thou smilest, if to-day
Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,
Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived
So much earth held more precious, let thy lips
Open and answer me! Whence was it born,
The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?
What manner of man wert thou? For the books
Of the long generations do not tell!
Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?
What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men
Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down
To coming ages in the martyr's rôle;
Or, if perchance they're poets, set their woes
To wailing music, that the world may count
Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.
Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
And “Painted by himself.”
Three hundred years
Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write
And they who read, we know another world
From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,
Even as here thou smilest, if to-day
Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,
Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived
So much earth held more precious, let thy lips
Open and answer me! Whence was it born,
The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?
What manner of man wert thou? For the books
Of the long generations do not tell!
Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?
What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men
Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down
To coming ages in the martyr's rôle;
Or, if perchance they're poets, set their woes
To wailing music, that the world may count
Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.
Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
457
IN MARBLE PRAYER
(CANTERBURY, 1891)
So still, so still they lie
As centuries pass by,
Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;
They never lift their eyes
In sudden, sweet surprise;
The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair;
Forth from their close-sealed lips
Nor moan, nor laughter, slips,
Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!
As centuries pass by,
Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;
They never lift their eyes
In sudden, sweet surprise;
The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair;
Forth from their close-sealed lips
Nor moan, nor laughter, slips,
Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!
Yet evermore they pray!
We creatures of a day
Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;
Nations arise and fall;
Oblivion's heavy pall
Hides kings and princes from all human ken,
While these in marble state,
From age to age await
The rolling thunder of the last amen!
We creatures of a day
Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;
Nations arise and fall;
Oblivion's heavy pall
Hides kings and princes from all human ken,
While these in marble state,
From age to age await
The rolling thunder of the last amen!
Not in dim crypts alone,
Or aisles of fretted stone,
Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;
And the red light streams down
On mitre and on crown,
Till each proud jewel blazes like a star;
But where the tall grass waves
O'er long-forgotten graves,
Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!
Or aisles of fretted stone,
Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;
And the red light streams down
On mitre and on crown,
458
But where the tall grass waves
O'er long-forgotten graves,
Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!
Dost Thou not hear and heed?
O, in Earth's utmost need
Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?
Not for themselves they pray
Whose woes have passed for aye;
For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!
Thou Sovereign Lord of All,
On whom they mutely call,
Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
O, in Earth's utmost need
Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?
Not for themselves they pray
Whose woes have passed for aye;
For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!
Thou Sovereign Lord of All,
On whom they mutely call,
Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
459
NOCTURNE
O bird beneath the midnight sky!
As on my lonely couch I lie,
I hear thee singing in the dark—
Why sing not I?
As on my lonely couch I lie,
I hear thee singing in the dark—
Why sing not I?
No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;
No fond mate answers to thy cry;
No other voice, through all the dark,
Makes sweet reply.
No fond mate answers to thy cry;
No other voice, through all the dark,
Makes sweet reply.
Yet never skylark soaring high
Where sun-lit clouds rejoicing lie,
Sang as thou singest in the dark,
Not mute as I!
Where sun-lit clouds rejoicing lie,
Sang as thou singest in the dark,
Not mute as I!
O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why
So far thy ringing love-notes fly,
While other birds, hushed by the dark,
Are mute as I?
So far thy ringing love-notes fly,
While other birds, hushed by the dark,
Are mute as I?
No prophecy of morn is nigh;
Yet as the sombre hours glide by,
Bravely thou singest in the dark—
Why sing not I?
Yet as the sombre hours glide by,
Bravely thou singest in the dark—
Why sing not I?
460
COME WHAT MAY
Come what may—
Though what remaineth I may not know,
Nor how many times the rose may blow
For my delight, or whether the years
Shall be set to the chime of falling tears,
Or go on their way rejoicing—
Yet, come, what may,
I have had my day!
Though what remaineth I may not know,
Nor how many times the rose may blow
For my delight, or whether the years
Shall be set to the chime of falling tears,
Or go on their way rejoicing—
Yet, come, what may,
I have had my day!
Come what may—
The lurid storm or the sunset peace,
The lingering pain or the swift release,
Lonely vigils and watchings long,
Passionate prayer or soaring song,
Or silence deep and golden—
Still, come what may,
I have had my day!
The lurid storm or the sunset peace,
The lingering pain or the swift release,
Lonely vigils and watchings long,
Passionate prayer or soaring song,
Or silence deep and golden—
Still, come what may,
I have had my day!
Come what may,
I have known the fiery heart of youth,
Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;
I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,
The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,
The flush of glad possession—
And, come what may,
I have had my day!
I have known the fiery heart of youth,
Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;
I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,
The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,
The flush of glad possession—
And, come what may,
I have had my day!
461
Come what may,
I have learned that out of the night is born
The mystic flower of the early morn;
I have learned that after the frost of pain
The lily of peace will bloom again,
And the rose of consolation.
Then, come what may,
I have had my day!
I have learned that out of the night is born
The mystic flower of the early morn;
I have learned that after the frost of pain
The lily of peace will bloom again,
And the rose of consolation.
Then, come what may,
I have had my day!
462
NUREMBERG
Over the wide, tumultuous sea
In trancèd hours I dream of thee,
Ancient city of song and myth,
Whose name is a name to conjure with,
And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
In trancèd hours I dream of thee,
Ancient city of song and myth,
Whose name is a name to conjure with,
And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
I see thee fair in the white moonlight;
The stars are asleep at noon of night,
Save one that between St. Lawrence' spires
Kindles aloft its silver fires—
A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
The stars are asleep at noon of night,
Save one that between St. Lawrence' spires
Kindles aloft its silver fires—
A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
Leaning over thy river's brim
Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim,
While under its bridges glide and gleam
The rippling waves of a silent stream,
Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim,
While under its bridges glide and gleam
The rippling waves of a silent stream,
Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Oh, the charm of each haunted street,
Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;
Sculptured miracles soaring free
In temple and mart for all to see,
Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;
Sculptured miracles soaring free
In temple and mart for all to see,
Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Even thy beggars lift their eyes,
Finding ever some new surprise;
Even thy children pause from play,
To hear what thy graven marbles say,
Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
Finding ever some new surprise;
Even thy children pause from play,
To hear what thy graven marbles say,
Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
463
Other cities for crown and king
Wide their glorious banners fling,
Lifting high on the azure field
Blazoned trophies of sword and shield,
That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
Wide their glorious banners fling,
Lifting high on the azure field
Blazoned trophies of sword and shield,
That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
But thou, O city of old renown,
Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;
Thou dost give to the poet bays,
Immortelles for the deathless lays
Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;
Thou dost give to the poet bays,
Immortelles for the deathless lays
Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
They are thy Lords of High Degree,
Marvels of art who wrought for thee,
Toiling on with tireless will
Till the wondrous hands in death were still.
Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
Marvels of art who wrought for thee,
Toiling on with tireless will
Till the wondrous hands in death were still.
Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
They were dust and ashes long ago;
Over their graves the sweet winds blow;
Yet they are alive whom men call dead—
This is thy spell, when all is said;
This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
Over their graves the sweet winds blow;
Yet they are alive whom men call dead—
This is thy spell, when all is said;
This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
464
A MATER DOLOROSA
Then down the street came Giacomo, flushed
With wine and laughter. I can see him now,
With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,
Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crew
Of merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,
So long ago it was! Yet I can see
Just how the campanile shone that night
Like molten silver, while its carven saints
Prayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow crept
Over the moon's face; and it grew so dark
That the red star in Giacomo's cap
Paled and went out, and Giulio's shoulder-clasp
Lost all the lustre of its burnished gold,
And faded out of sight. Strange, how we lose
So much we would remember, and yet keep
Trifles like this until the day of doom!
They had swept past me where I stood in shade
When Giacomo turned. Just then the moon
Shone out again, illumining the place,
And he paused laughing, catching sight of me
There by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!
I was young then, and some said I was fair;
But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—
Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed!
Know you Fra Alessandro? He would have
A model for his picture. Go you then
To-morrow to his studio and say
Giacomo sent you. At the convent there,
Near Santa Croce.”
So I thither went
Early next morning, trembling as I stole
Into the master's presence. A grave man
Of most unworldly aspect, with bowed head
And pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,
He sat before an easel, lost in thought.
“Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in,
And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,
But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eye
For minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,
Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemed
As if the judgment-day had come, and God
Sat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,
Nodding as one content—“To-morrow morn
I pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bring
A little child with thee—some fair, sweet child
Whose eyes are like the morning?”
Then I said,
Bethinking me of Beppo's little boy
Whose mother died last week—“Yes, I will come
Surely, my father, and will bring with me
The fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,”
Softly he answered, and a sudden light
Made his pale face all glorious. At the door
I paused, and looking backward saw him bow
Before the easel as before a shrine.
I know not if he prayed, but never saint
Had aspect more divine.
Next day I went
With little Nello to the studio.
Impatiently the Frate greeted us,
Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?”
But as I drew the cap from Nello's head
And the moist tendrils of his golden hair
Fell softly on his forehead, he cried out:
“The boy is like an angel! And thy face,
Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,
But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,
And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,
As thus, or thus.”
The child was half afraid;
And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,
Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,
Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I held
Him close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,
“O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!
I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.
And thou and this fair child—”
Even while he spoke
He turned back to the easel; but I sprang
From the low pedestal, and, with the boy
Still in my arms, I fell down at his feet.
“Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried,
While my hot forehead touched his garment's hem;
“Not that, for God's sake! Paint me otherwise.
Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,
As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe'er you will,
Only not that, not that!”
Smiling he stooped
And raised me from the ground, and took the child
In unaccustomed arms all tenderly,
Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.
“But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing else
Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,
Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.”
With wine and laughter. I can see him now,
With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo,
Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crew
Of merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long,
So long ago it was! Yet I can see
Just how the campanile shone that night
Like molten silver, while its carven saints
Prayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow crept
Over the moon's face; and it grew so dark
That the red star in Giacomo's cap
Paled and went out, and Giulio's shoulder-clasp
Lost all the lustre of its burnished gold,
And faded out of sight. Strange, how we lose
So much we would remember, and yet keep
Trifles like this until the day of doom!
They had swept past me where I stood in shade
When Giacomo turned. Just then the moon
Shone out again, illumining the place,
And he paused laughing, catching sight of me
There by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay!
I was young then, and some said I was fair;
But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.—
Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed!
Know you Fra Alessandro? He would have
A model for his picture. Go you then
To-morrow to his studio and say
465
Near Santa Croce.”
So I thither went
Early next morning, trembling as I stole
Into the master's presence. A grave man
Of most unworldly aspect, with bowed head
And pale chin resting on his long, thin hand,
He sat before an easel, lost in thought.
“Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in,
And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned,
But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eye
For minutes that seemed hours scanned my face,
Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemed
As if the judgment-day had come, and God
Sat on the great white throne! At length he spoke,
Nodding as one content—“To-morrow morn
I pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bring
A little child with thee—some fair, sweet child
Whose eyes are like the morning?”
Then I said,
Bethinking me of Beppo's little boy
Whose mother died last week—“Yes, I will come
Surely, my father, and will bring with me
The fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,”
Softly he answered, and a sudden light
Made his pale face all glorious. At the door
I paused, and looking backward saw him bow
Before the easel as before a shrine.
I know not if he prayed, but never saint
Had aspect more divine.
Next day I went
With little Nello to the studio.
Impatiently the Frate greeted us,
Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?”
But as I drew the cap from Nello's head
466
Fell softly on his forehead, he cried out:
“The boy is like an angel! And thy face,
Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams,
But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there,
And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm,
As thus, or thus.”
The child was half afraid;
And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms,
Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face,
Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I held
Him close and soothed him, Alessandro cried,
“O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir!
I paint a virgin for an altar-piece.
And thou and this fair child—”
Even while he spoke
He turned back to the easel; but I sprang
From the low pedestal, and, with the boy
Still in my arms, I fell down at his feet.
“Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried,
While my hot forehead touched his garment's hem;
“Not that, for God's sake! Paint me otherwise.
Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen,
As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe'er you will,
Only not that, not that!”
Smiling he stooped
And raised me from the ground, and took the child
In unaccustomed arms all tenderly,
Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand.
“But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing else
Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen,
Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.”
Then suddenly I saw it all—the light
Dim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,
The swinging censers, candles burning clear,
With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume,
The high white altar, and above a face,
My face, pale shining through the scented gloom
Like a lone star! Then in the hush a voice
Chanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still.
I who had been a sinner, could I dare
Thus to mock God and man? Low at his feet
Again I fell, and there I told him all
As he had been my soul's confessor, poured
My very heart out. Signor, life is hard
And cruel to child-women, when the street
Is their sole nursing mother. I had had
No friend, no home, save when old Barbara
In some rare mood of pity let me creep
Under her wing for shelter. Then she died,
And even that poor semblance of a home
Was mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,
Out of the dust and moil I grew as tall
And fair as lily in a garden plot,
Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—
God knows how girls are tempted when false love
Comes with beguiling words and tender lips,
Promising all things, and their barren lives
Break into sudden bloom as when a bud
Unfolds its shining petals in the sun
And joys to be a rose!
No word he spake,
Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.
But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,
Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his hands
Into the shining masses of my hair,
Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted up
My wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;
And even in that dark hour a thrill of joy
Ran through my soul as the pure lips met mine.
Dim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds,
The swinging censers, candles burning clear,
467
The high white altar, and above a face,
My face, pale shining through the scented gloom
Like a lone star! Then in the hush a voice
Chanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still.
I who had been a sinner, could I dare
Thus to mock God and man? Low at his feet
Again I fell, and there I told him all
As he had been my soul's confessor, poured
My very heart out. Signor, life is hard
And cruel to child-women, when the street
Is their sole nursing mother. I had had
No friend, no home, save when old Barbara
In some rare mood of pity let me creep
Under her wing for shelter. Then she died,
And even that poor semblance of a home
Was mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on,
Out of the dust and moil I grew as tall
And fair as lily in a garden plot,
Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!—
God knows how girls are tempted when false love
Comes with beguiling words and tender lips,
Promising all things, and their barren lives
Break into sudden bloom as when a bud
Unfolds its shining petals in the sun
And joys to be a rose!
No word he spake,
Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale.
But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears,
Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his hands
Into the shining masses of my hair,
Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted up
My wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good;
And even in that dark hour a thrill of joy
Ran through my soul as the pure lips met mine.
468
Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the child
Clasped to my bosom, daring not to raise
My eyes to the face above me. Well I knew
It was the priest's face, not the painter's, now!
Was it his voice that through the silence stole,
“A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low?
Just for one instant on my head a hand
Fell as in benediction. Then he said
“Arise, my daughter, and come thou with me
Where bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,
Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of all
The saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,
Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soul
Of all iniquity, and make it clean.”
Startled I answered him—“But who will care
For Nello then? His mother died last week,
And Beppo's heart is buried in her grave—
He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.”
But with a wide sweep of his beckoning arm
Down the long cloisters strode he, and across
The heated pavement of the market-place,
Nor looked to see if we were following him
Until he paused before the convent gate;
Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heard
The sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame.
“Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said.
“Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,
And straightway tell the abbess all the tale
Told unto me this day. Farewell!” The gate
Swung to with iron clang, and Nello's arms
Half strangled me as round my neck he clung,
Awed by the holy stillness.
Since that hour
I with the humble sisters of St. Clare
Have given myself to deeds of mercy, works
Meet for repentance, ministering still
Unto all souls that suffer, even as now
I minister to you.
But what, you ask,
Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—
God rest his soul!—and the child 'bode with us.
But when the lad drew nigh to man's estate—
Too old for women's guidance—he was found
Oftener than elsewhere at the studio
Of old Fra Alessandro. He became
A painter, Signor, and men call him great.
I know not if he is—but you can see
His pictures yonder in San Spirito.
Clasped to my bosom, daring not to raise
My eyes to the face above me. Well I knew
It was the priest's face, not the painter's, now!
Was it his voice that through the silence stole,
“A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low?
Just for one instant on my head a hand
Fell as in benediction. Then he said
“Arise, my daughter, and come thou with me
Where bide the holy sisters of St. Clare,
Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of all
The saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer,
Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soul
Of all iniquity, and make it clean.”
Startled I answered him—“But who will care
For Nello then? His mother died last week,
And Beppo's heart is buried in her grave—
He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.”
But with a wide sweep of his beckoning arm
Down the long cloisters strode he, and across
The heated pavement of the market-place,
Nor looked to see if we were following him
Until he paused before the convent gate;
Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heard
The sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame.
“Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said.
“Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her,
And straightway tell the abbess all the tale
Told unto me this day. Farewell!” The gate
Swung to with iron clang, and Nello's arms
Half strangled me as round my neck he clung,
Awed by the holy stillness.
Since that hour
I with the humble sisters of St. Clare
Have given myself to deeds of mercy, works
469
Unto all souls that suffer, even as now
I minister to you.
But what, you ask,
Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year—
God rest his soul!—and the child 'bode with us.
But when the lad drew nigh to man's estate—
Too old for women's guidance—he was found
Oftener than elsewhere at the studio
Of old Fra Alessandro. He became
A painter, Signor, and men call him great.
I know not if he is—but you can see
His pictures yonder in San Spirito.
You've seen them? seen my face there? now you know
Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you
Through all these weeks of languor?
It may be.
I am too old to care now, have outlived
Youth and its petty consciousness. My face
Is mine no longer. It is God's alone.
A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you
Through all these weeks of languor?
It may be.
I am too old to care now, have outlived
Youth and its petty consciousness. My face
Is mine no longer. It is God's alone.
A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!
470
AFTER LONG WAITING
After long waiting when my soul puts off
This mortal vesture and is free to go
Through all God's universe in search of thee,
How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost?
This mortal vesture and is free to go
Through all God's universe in search of thee,
How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost?
Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deep
Profound abysses where the dim spheres roll;
Through starry mazes and through violet seas,
And purple reaches stretched from world to world;
Profound abysses where the dim spheres roll;
Through starry mazes and through violet seas,
And purple reaches stretched from world to world;
Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived,
Where knowledge falters and where reason fails,
And only faith's strong pinion dares to soar,
How shall it make its lonely way to thee?
Where knowledge falters and where reason fails,
And only faith's strong pinion dares to soar,
How shall it make its lonely way to thee?
In that far realm what myriads abide!
When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear?
One grain of sand beside the unresting sea—
One blade of grass where endless prairies roll!
When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear?
One grain of sand beside the unresting sea—
One blade of grass where endless prairies roll!
I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed!
The face you knew I shall no longer wear;
For few or many though the years may be,
My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown.
The face you knew I shall no longer wear;
For few or many though the years may be,
My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown.
I have grown older here, whilst thou beneath
The tree of life hast found thy youth again;
I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free,
Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God.
The tree of life hast found thy youth again;
471
Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God.
O friend and lover, go thou not too far!
Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight,
Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy,
I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!
Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight,
Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy,
I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |