Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

THESE POEMS ARE DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, BAYARD TAYLOR, WHOM I ADMIRE AS A POET, AND LOVE AS A MAN.

R. H. S.

THE TWO GATES.

There are two starry gates, like Morn and Even,
Flung back along the thresholds of a plain,
Where Earth looks out upon the watchful Heaven,
And Heaven looks in upon the Earth again.

One lifts its pillars from a sea of flowers,
And pours along the lands a flood of light:
The other wraps in clouds its iron towers,
While half the world around is lost in Night.

White-robed and innocent, in linkèd bands
Young children crowd the first, with dreamy eyes,
And pluck the lilies there with eager hands,
The sole surviving blooms of Paradise.

Youth leads them down the path, but soon departs:
And Manhood beckons to its stern estate;
Save when the angels fold them to their hearts,
And bear them swiftly through the iron gate.

Some urge their chariots to the distant goals;
Some wallow in the mire of sensual things;
And some preserve the whiteness of their souls,
And walk beneath the shade of angels' wings.

The monarch feasts in purple robe and crown;
The ragged beggar starves for want of bread;
And laurelled conquerors reap their red renown,
While widows weep, and orphans wail the dead.

But all in turn are borne across the plain,
Or swift or slow, by some resistless fate,
With which they strive from year to year—in vain,
Impelled for ever towards the shadowy gate.

Some in their youth, while Hope still waves her torch,
And some in age, when locks are thin and white,
Groping their way along the cloudy porch,
Until they vanish in the yawning night.

All vanish there, and are replaced again
By myriads more, that tread the paths they trod;
And God looks down upon that host of men,
But few of all the host look up again to God!

THE BROKEN GOBLET.

One day some shepherds found a Faun asleep,
Beneath the shelter of a shady oak:
Said one, “What say you? let us bind him here,
And he shall sing before we let him go.
They say these creatures are poetical;
But who would guess it from their looks and life?”
They bound him to the tree with withered vines,
And pelted him with acorns, till he woke.
And “Where am I?” he said, and “What is this?
This oak is not the one before my cave,
Nor were these vines around me, till I slept.
But where is now my goblet? Can it be—
'T is shivered yonder!—Gods! it is too much!
Who has been fooling with me? Ah! 't is you,
Hidden behind you tuft of birchen spray.
I see your crook, my quaint Arcadian,

And you, my lad, perched on yon swinging limb.
Cease pelting me,—you hurt me! Let me loose!
Undo these viny fetters if you please.”
“But no,” said they, “we do not please at all;
Sing us a song, and we will let you go.”
“What shall I sing about, mischievous boys?—
My theme shall be the Broken Goblet now,
But mind, you must not ask too much of me;
With this misfortune fresh upon my heart,
I cannot sing as I was wont to do.”
They sat beside him, and the Faun began:

I.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
It was the jewel of my cave; I had
A corner where I hid it in the moss,
Between the jagged crevices of rock,
Where no one but myself could find it out;
But when a nymph or wood-god passed my door,
I filled it to the brim with bravest wine,
And offered them a draught, and told them all
That Jove had nothing richer at his feasts,
Though Ganymede and Hebe did their best:
His nectar is not richer than my wine,
Said I, and for the cup,—it speaks itself!—
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

II.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
Sometimes my shaggy brothers of the wood
Held gay carousals with me in my cave;
I had a skin of Chian wine therein,
Of which I made a feast; and all who drank
From out my dainty cup, a feast itself,
Made songs about the bright, immortal shapes
Engraven on the side below their lips:
But we shall never drain it any more,
And never sing about it any more;
For I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

III.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Pan was graved upon it, rural Pan;
He sat at noon within a shady bower
Piping, with all his listening herd around;
(I thought at times I saw his fingers move,
And heard his music: did I dream or not?)
Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped
From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees;
And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought—
The simple god!—he heard another Pan
Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes!

But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

IV.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Jove was there transformed into the Bull
Bearing forlorn Europa through the waves,
Leaving behind a track of ruffled foam;
Powerless with fear she held him by the horns,
Her golden tresses streaming on the winds;
And Cupids sported near in rocking shells,
And sea-gods glanced from out their weedy caves,
And on the shore were maids with waving scarfs,
And hinds a-coming to the rescue—late!
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

V.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For rosy Bacchus crowned its rich designs:
He sat within a vineyard full of grapes,
With Ariadne kneeling at his side;
His arm was thrown around her slender waist,
His head lay in her bosom, and she held
A cup a little distance from his lips,
And teased him with it, for he wanted it.

A pair of spotted pards were sleeping near,
Couchant in shade, their heads upon their paws;
And revellers were dancing in the woods,
Snapping their jolly fingers evermore!
But all is vanished, lost, for ever lost,
For I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

MEMORY.

O Memory! who shall paint thee as thou art?
Who shall embody thee, since every heart,
Shaping from self alone
Conception of its own,
Doth o'er thee its peculiar mantle cast?
Sometimes thou watchest o'er the solemn Past,
Like sweet Cordelia by the couch of Lear,
Smoothing with pious hands his snowy hair;
Or young-eyed Spring, a virgin debonair,
By Winter's shrouded bier.
Sometimes thou followest the reaper Time,
Gleaning with needful care whate'er he leaves,
The loose ears shaken from his garnered sheaves,
The relics of our prime;
Sometimes thou sittest like a maid, alone,
In pleasant dreams of Youth, thy true-love flown,

Reading his burning letters o'er for hours,
Kissing his gifts, and all his faded flowers,
And more than all, the miniature of old,
Thick-set with jewels, in a case of gold;
And sometimes, full of grief, thou liest in tears,
Within the solemn sepulchre of Years,
Clasping the urns, and scattering flowers above
The mouldering dust of Hope, and Faith, and Love.

Thou hast a thousand votaries, Memory!
A thousand happy hearts delight in thee;
What dost thou want with me?
Why dost thou haunt me so? In mercy cease,
And give my tortured heart a moment's peace;
I have a hell within me,—is it naught?
Why stretch me longer on the rack of Thought?
There are some chords of feeling, tender chords,
A touch would break, they are so nearly broken;
And some impassioned words, but bitter words,
Must never more be spoken.
I sigh, but oh! 't is not for thee I sigh;
I thirst, but pass thy maddening beaker by;
I sigh for rest, I thirst for Lethe's wave,
And hope ere long to find them—in my grave!

HARLEY RIVER.

Through the midst of the town the river runs,
Stealing through meadows and pastures green,
Like a gliding snake in the dewy grass,
A moment hid, and a moment seen;
Winding along through clover-fields,
And orchards by hawthorn hedges crossed,
It hurries away with its silver feet,
And at last in the distant sea is lost.

It lies like a mirror before me now,
Glassing the sky with its clouds of snow;
And long green grasses, and slender reeds,
And bushes, beside the margin grow;
A breath of wind steals over its face,
And ripples a moment the tranquil tide;
And the willows dip, and the long boughs drip,
And circles are spreading on every side.

Hard by the bridge, and over the dam,
The little Mill standeth, old and gray;
The gates are up, and the water falls,
Making a sleepy noise all day:
The heavy old wheel is turning round,
Grinding the farmers' wheat and corn;
And the chaff floats out, and the yellow meal,
Like golden mist from the fields at morn.

A little way out from the rippled shore,
Where the flags shoot up, and the cresses float,
Water-lilies are pitched, like tents,
Or the folded sails of a fairy boat:
The sand at the bottom is flecked with shells,
Hollow on hollow, and ridge on ridge;
With wavering weeds, and shimmering stones,
And the mossy wrecks of the fallen bridge.

Here the boys of the village come and play
Through the spring and summer at leisure hours,
Launching their argosies dug from chips,
Laden with pebbles, and weeds, and flowers;
Wading in for the calamus roots,
And lilies, and shells that pave the sand,
And sailing out upon crazy planks,
Stoned by their shouting mates on land.

The simpler, straying with staff and scrip,
Culls his rarest herbs on the brink;
The way-side traveller, dusty and dry,
Stops by the crystal stream to drink;
The angler comes with his bending rod,
And lieth beneath a shady tree,
Feeling his line, from time to time,
A quiet and patient man, perdie!

Wagoners, urging their loaded wains
To market, water their horses here;
And the ploughman, driving a-field at morn,
Halts with his yoked and hornèd steer;
Cattle stand in the cooling tide,
In summer noons, by the insects stung;
And the milk-white lambs and the shepherd's dog
Lap the water with panting tongue.

And winters, when ice has fettered the stream,
The lads come hither before the sun,
And skate till they hear the school-bell ring
Its morning knell of frolic and fun;
While the lesser children, muffled up warm,
Drag each other on sleds about,
And slide in a row on the slippery paths,
And fall in heaps with a mighty shout.

When I was a boy with a careless heart,
I played with mine ancient comrades here;
My foot was as light, my voice was as loud,
And my innocent spirit as full of cheer;
But wrinkled and careworn now I stand
By the river's bank with a throb of pain,
And sigh that the days which have passed away,
Like its waters, can never return again.

THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP.

Beside the road in Harley town
There stands an ancient Blacksmith's Shop,
Whose walls and roofs are dark and low,
With chimneys peeping o'er the top;
Some two or three on either side,
But only one with fire supplied,
Which puffs its smoky volumes high,
In dusky wreaths along the sky.

Harrows, and wains with splintered shafts,
And broken wheels, are standing round;
And molten coals and cinders lie
In scattered heaps along the ground;
And in the yard, beside the door,
You see the square old tireing-floor,
With grass, and weeds, and waving sedge
Bent down around its blackened edge.

Fronting the door the anvil stands,
With burnished surface broad and clear;
The rusty pinchers dropped in haste,
And heavy sledge, are lying near;
While hammers, tongs, and chisels cold,
And crooked nails, and horseshoes old,
With all the tools renowned of yore
In blacksmith ditties, strew the floor.

Beneath the window stands a row
Of dusty benches rough and rude;
And bars and files are thrown thereon,
And vices on the edge are screwed;
And see!—the last year's almanac,
With songs and ballads torn and black,
And battle prints by sea and land,
That line the walls on every hand.

The forge is in a little nook,
Before the chimney slant and wide;
And, in a leather apron clad,
You see the helper by its side:
Nodding his head and paper crown,
He moves the handle up and down,
Beneath his arm, with motion slow,
And makes the rattling bellows blow.

Hard by, the blacksmith folds his arms,
And swells their knotted sinews strong;
Or turns his iron in the fire,
And rakes the coals, and hums a song:
But when his heat throws out its light,
He hurries to the anvil bright,
And sledges fall with deafening sound,
And sparks are flying thick around.

The village idlers lounge about,
And talk the country gossip o'er;
And now and then a farmer's man
Drives up on horseback to the door:
And reapers come from pastures near,
And Ned the ploughman with his steer,
And passing teamsters broken down,
O'erloaded for the neighboring town.

From morning's break to evening's close,
In early spring and autumn time,
The dusky blacksmith plies his craft,
And makes his heavy anvil chime;
And oft he works at dead of night,
Like some deep thinker, strong and bright,
That shapes his stern, laborious lore
In iron thoughts, for evermore!

THE OLD ELM.

Where the bank of the river slopes away,
And the road runs down to Harley bay,
(A sheet of glass through the summer day,)
The Old Elm stands
With its knotted limbs,
Waving their leaves in the ocean breeze,
The pomp and pride of the village trees.

'T is a brave old tree, though its trunk is dark,
With a mossy beard, and a wrinkled bark;
And they say sometimes that the early lark
And the swallow build
Their nests in the boughs,
Where the birds can peep at the azure sky,
Rocking about in their cradles high.

In the sunny Spring, and the frosty Fall,
When the schoolboys round are playing ball,
They run to the edge o' th' garden wall,
(Where the peach-trees stand
And the currants grow,)
And breathless, sly, with a shout of glee,
Back to their base, the glorious Tree!

And truants climb in the emerald spray,
Up to the top where the swallows lay,
Filching their eggs from day to day;
They wave their caps
At the screaming birds,
And drop, while the boughs are cracking round,
Scratched and bruised, on the stony ground.

When the sky is bright with the noontide beam,
And the cattle wade in the neighboring stream,
The wagoner, driving his heavy team,
In a cloud of dust,
To the market town,
Turns from the road, an hour delayed,
To rest and dream in the grateful shade.

Summer has gone with its bloom and sheen,
And sober Autumn invests the scene,

The Old Elm doffs its robe of green,
And dresses in state
Like a herald proud,
Shedding the leaves from his giant palms,
Autumn's largesse, and lavish alms!

Alas! I am like the fading tree,
And scatter my foliage fast and free,
Illuminate leaves of Poesy;
A bountiful alms
Of golden thought,
Soon to be swept, by a solemn blast,
Away to the dead and wasted Past!

LU LU.

Lu Lu is soft and timid as the dove;
But I am wilder than a mountain eagle:
My matted locks are darker than the clouds
That lower around the brows of stormy hills;
The glances of mine eye are like the lightnings,
Shot through the ragged eyelids of the storm:
But when I think of thee, my sweet Lu Lu!
No child can have a heart as soft as mine.

I saw Lu Lu at daybreak with her fawn;
She led it by her in a silken leash:
O simple fawn! if I were in thy place,
I would not need a leash to follow her!
The dove I gave her yesterday has learned,
Already learned, to nestle in her breast;
Too happy dove! if I were in thy place—
If? if?—by Allah I must be, or die!

KAM POU.

Of Kam Pou.

Kam Pou with the soft blue eyes,
He is my Uncle's man:
And Pou Tsi is my maid,
The sister of Kam Pou.

Of Pou Tsi.

When Kam Pou is away,
I look at little Pou Tsi:
Her eyes are soft and blue,
But nothing so sweet as his!

Binding Sheaves.

Kam Pou in the barley-field
Binds his sheaves in the sun:
Float over the sun, ye clouds!
Lest it burn the white-faced boy!

The Uncle.

My Uncle is old and white,
And wise—in his own conceit:
He says I must wed Vulá,
But I will not, dear Kam Pou!

The Garden Call.

Come to my garden, sweet,
After your sheaves are bound:
Pou Tsi, your sister dear
(And mine), will open the gate.

Beware!

Look out for my Uncle, though,
His eyes are sharp and sly:
And he will slay you dead;
Then what would become of me?

Of Vulá.

I will not wed Vulá,
For all his junks of tea:
But thee, whose only wealth
Is a heart,—nay, two hearts now!

Art back again?

What! you are back again!
I did n't beckon you:

But since he has come so far,
Pou Tsi, you may let him in.

Shamefacedness.

But oh! he must be so still,
And never look in my face,
Because it will make me blush:
(He colors up to the eyes!)

Kiss me, Sweet!

Pou Tsi, run back for my veil.
Here is a screen of trees:
You may kiss me in the mouth:
Do you love me, dear Kam Pou?

102

SILENT SONGS.

If I could ever sing the songs
Within me day and night,
The only fit accompaniment
Would be a lute of light!

A thousand dreamy melodies,
Begot with pleasant pain,
Like incantations float around
The chambers of my brain!

But when I strive to utter one,
It mocks my feeble art,
And leaves me silent, with the thorns
Of Music in my heart!

103

AN IDEAL.

A soft ideal long beloved,
But long beloved in vain,
In Memory's gallery hangs alone,
The picture of my brain!

It is not young nor beautiful,
But worn with sin and care,—
Like her who washed the feet of Christ,
And wiped them with her hair!

But oh! the sweetness of the face,—
The sadness of the eye!—
It haunts my soul by day and night,
And will until I die!

104

[She left the world in early youth]

She left the world in early youth,
Without a sigh resigned,
To wear the veil of thought within
The cloisters of her mind.

The vanities and cares of life
Did never reach her there;
Her days were passed in holy works,
Her nights were passed in prayer:

But not for sorrows of her own,
Nor sins to be forgiven;
Devotions were the golden rounds
By which she rose to Heaven.

107

A PRELUDE.

My desk is heaped with niceties
From tropic lands divine;
But this is braver far than all,—
A flask of Chian wine!

Brim up my golden drinking-cup,
And reach a dish of fruit,
And then unlock my cabinet,
And hand me out my lute;

For when these luxuries have fed
And filled my brain with light,
I must compose a nuptial song
To suit my bridal night!

108

IN THE HAREM.

The scent of burning sandal-wood
Perfumes the air in vain;
A sweeter odor fills my sense,
A fiercer fire my brain!

O, press your burning lips to mine!—
For mine will never part,
Until my heart has rifled all
The sweetness of your heart!

The lutes are playing on the lawn,
The moon is shining bright,
But we like stars are melting now
In clouds of soft delight!

109

THE ARAB STEED.

My beautiful barb is swift and fleet,
With the speed of thought in his flying feet;
His eyes are large, and full of fire,
His nostrils blown with royal ire;
He pricks his ears at the lightest sound,
Snuffs the air, and paws the ground,
And champs his bit with a foamy mouth,
Looking away to the fiery South!

I leap on his back without saddle or rein;
One pat on his neck, one hand in his mane,
We 're off to the desert so brave and grand,
Outspeeding the pillars of rolling sand.
In dust the drivers and camels fall,
And the whirlwind covers and buries all;
But away in its van we fly like light,
Where the groves are green and the fountains bright.

117

SUMMER.

The Summer-time has come again,
With all its light and mirth,
And June leads on the laughing Hours,
To bless the weary Earth.

The sunshine lies along the street,
So dim and cold before,
And in the open window creeps,
And slumbers on the floor.

The country was so fresh and fine
And beautiful in May,
It must be more than beautiful,—
A Paradise to-day!

118

If I were only there again,
I'd seek the lanes apart,
And shout aloud in mighty woods,
To ease my happy heart!

But prisoned here with flat brick walls,
I sit alone and sigh;
My only glimpse of Summer near,
A strip of cloudy sky.

119

TO A NIGHTINGALE.

“King Pandion he is dead;
And thy friends are lapped in lead.”

Awake, thou melancholy bird,
Thy tale of ancient wrong,
For every shepherd's heart is stirred
To hear the solemn song.

From woods of Thrace in autumn hours,
No longer there to rest,
Thou cam'st into our western bowers,
To build awhile thy nest.

The swallow lagged behind thy flight,
Nor yet has shown her wing,
Though skies are soft and full of light,
And groves are green with Spring.

120

But vain are skies and groves to thee,
Whose days of joy are fled;
And vain the swallow o'er the sea
To all the lost, and dead!

Yet wake, thou mournful bird, again;
Again thy woe impart,
And every heart that hears thy strain
Will grow a kindred heart.

121

TO B. T.

Though Youth is fresh upon us, we are squires
Of Poesy, and swell her shining train,
With all the belted knights, whose prowess fires
Our hearts to do what noble deeds remain;
The golden spurs are ours ere many days
If we are true; then let us join our hands,
And knit our souls in Friendship's holy bands,
To help each other in the coming frays.
Envy and hate are for the low and mean:
We will be noble rivals, oftentime
Crossing our spears in tournaments of rhyme,
In friendly tilts to glorify our Queen;
Friendly to all save caitiffs foul and wrong,
But stern to guard the Holy Land of Song!

122

[The Sun pursues his starry round in space]

The Sun pursues his starry round in space,
Alone in light, but not alone in love;
For in his train the Moon doth climb above,
And turn to him her meek and patient face:
Alone in strength the forest cedar towers,
But not alone in love, by love embraced;
The vine upsprings and clings about his waist,
And at his feet do grow a thousand flowers:
Nor are the flowers—though none their sweets repay
With kindred sweets—alone; the summer breeze
Hangs round their lips, while troops of loving bees
Lie on their hearts and sigh their souls away:
Why then should I, though none may answer me
With equal love, O Love, despair of thee?

123

TO W. J. R.

WITH A MANUSCRIPT.

A common weed, a pebble, or a shell
From the waste margent of a classic sea,
A flower that grew where some great empire fell,
Worthless themselves, are rich in memory;
So these frail lines are precious, since the hand
That shaped their calm precision wastes in mould,
And the hot brain that kindled them is cold
In its own ashes, like a blackened brand;
But where the fiery Spirit of the spell?
Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb?
Or scowling down the ministers of doom,
That torture him upon the racks of Hell?
To bigots leave their self-created gloom,
Not this is Nature's creed, but—All is well!

124

THE GAME OF CHESS.

We played at chess, Bianca and myself,
One afternoon, but neither won the game.
Both absent-minded, thinking of our hearts,
Moving the ivory pawns from black to white,
Shifted to little purpose round the board;
Sometimes we quite forgot them in a sigh,
And then remembered it, and moved again;
Looking the while along the slopes beyond,
Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the grove
Where lovers sat in shadow, back again,
With sideway glances in each other's eyes;
Unknowingly I made a lucky move,
Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen;
My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand,—
A soft white hand that gave itself away,—
Told o'er the simple story of my love,

125

In simplest phrases, which are always best,
And prayed her, if she loved me in return,—
A fabled doubt,—to give her heart to me;
And then, and there, above that game of chess,
Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness—
I'm coming, Sweet!—she gave her heart to me!

126

FROM A PLAY.

Alas! I think of you the livelong day,
Plying my needle by the little stand,
And wish that we had never, never met,
Or I were dead, or you were married off—
Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,
And take the lute you gave me, but the strings
Have grown so tuneless that I cannot play;
I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,
The sweet old tunes we loved, and weep aloud!
I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-day
To read a chapter in the Holy Book;
I could not see a line, I only read
The solemn sonnets that you sent to me:
Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,
For you come in between me and the Lord,
And when I strive to lift my soul above,

127

My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!
And nights, when I am lying on my bed,
(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly!)
I think of you, and fall asleep, and dream
I am your own, your wedded, happy wife,—
But that can never, never be on earth!

THE END.