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 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
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SEVEN POEMS
THE HERALD'S CRY.
I.
Through the frost, through the ice, through the snow-flakes,Through the blackness of darkness on high,
Borne along on the wings of the north wind,
In the midnight there cometh a cry:
“Waken, world! Waken world! from thy dreaming—
Mount and ride, mount and ride toward the gleaming
Where the first tints of morning are beaming,
On the cold, hopeless gloom of the sky.”
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II.
Out beyond the dim realms of the midnight,On the border where shadows lie curled,
Comes the King with his shining attendants—
Comes the King with his banners unfurled;
Above him new perfumes are shedding,
Before him new glory is spreading,
Around him new millions are treading,
Thronging in, thronging in to the world.
III.
Bid them hail, bid them hail as they enter,Wide open your heart-portals fling;
The new souls, the new hopes, the new trials,
New strength and new blessings will bring;
Give thy cares to the past, dim and hoary,
Turn the page on the Old Year's sad story;
He is dead, he is dead, and the glory
Shines now on the incoming King.
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IV.
Ride away, ride away toward the eastward,O'er the hilltop the banners appear;
Linger not, linger not in the shadow
Where the past seeks its sepulchre drear;
Leave behind thee, O sinner, thy madness,
Leave behind thee, O mourner thy sadness,
Look beyond, look above, and with gladness,
Welcome in, welcome in the New Year!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
MARCH.
“March: its tree, Juniper, Its stone, Bloodstone. Its motto, ‘Courage and strength in times of danger.’”
Old Saying.
In the grey dawning across the white lake,
Where the ice-hummocks in frozen waves break,
'Mid the glittering spears of the far Northern Lights,
Like a cavalry escort of steel-coated knights,
Spanning the winter's cold gulf with an arch
Over it, rampant, rides in the wild March.
Galloping, galloping, galloping in,
Into the world with a stir and a din,
The north wind, the east wind, and west wind together,
Inbringing, inbringing the March's wild weather.
Where the ice-hummocks in frozen waves break,
'Mid the glittering spears of the far Northern Lights,
Like a cavalry escort of steel-coated knights,
Spanning the winter's cold gulf with an arch
Over it, rampant, rides in the wild March.
Galloping, galloping, galloping in,
Into the world with a stir and a din,
The north wind, the east wind, and west wind together,
Inbringing, inbringing the March's wild weather.
Hear his rough chant as he dashes along;
“Ho, ye March children, come list to my song!
Bold outlaw am I both to do and to dare,
And I fear not old Earth nor the Powers of the Air;
Winter's a dotard, and Summer's a prude,
But Spring loves me well, although I am rude.
Faltering, lingering, listening Spring—
Blushing she waits for the clang and the ring
Of my swift horse's hoofs; then forward she presses,
Repelling, returning, my boist'rous caresses.”
“Ho, ye March children, come list to my song!
Bold outlaw am I both to do and to dare,
And I fear not old Earth nor the Powers of the Air;
Winter's a dotard, and Summer's a prude,
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Faltering, lingering, listening Spring—
Blushing she waits for the clang and the ring
Of my swift horse's hoofs; then forward she presses,
Repelling, returning, my boist'rous caresses.”
“The winds are unbound and loose in the sky,
Rioting, frolicking madly on high;
Are ye able to cope with the North Wind's strong arm?
Welcome boldly his fierce grasp; 'twill do ye no harm.
He knows the children of March are my own,
Sealed with my signet of magic blood-stone.
Blood-stone, red blood-stone, green, dark and red light ...
Blood is for ardour, and stone is for might;
And the watchword borne on by West Wind, the ranger,
Is ‘Courage and strength in the moment of danger.’”
Rioting, frolicking madly on high;
Are ye able to cope with the North Wind's strong arm?
Welcome boldly his fierce grasp; 'twill do ye no harm.
He knows the children of March are my own,
Sealed with my signet of magic blood-stone.
Blood-stone, red blood-stone, green, dark and red light ...
Blood is for ardour, and stone is for might;
And the watchword borne on by West Wind, the ranger,
Is ‘Courage and strength in the moment of danger.’”
“Children of March, are ye strong, are ye strong?
Shame not the flag the West Wind bears along;
O, ye men of the March! be ye firm as the steel;
O, ye women of March! be ye loyal and leal—
Strong in your loving, and strong in your hate,
Constant, like juniper, early and late,
Juniper, juniper, juniper green,
Berries of blue set in glittering sheen,
In the winter's cold snow, in summer's hot splendour,
Unchanging, unchanging, thou heart true and tender!”
Shame not the flag the West Wind bears along;
O, ye men of the March! be ye firm as the steel;
O, ye women of March! be ye loyal and leal—
Strong in your loving, and strong in your hate,
Constant, like juniper, early and late,
Juniper, juniper, juniper green,
Berries of blue set in glittering sheen,
In the winter's cold snow, in summer's hot splendour,
Unchanging, unchanging, thou heart true and tender!”
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Singing of juniper, forward he whirled,
Galloping, galloping on through the world;
And when shivering, waking, the dull Day gazed out
From her tower in the grey clouds, she heard but the shout
Of the riotous winds as they followed in glee,
On, on to the wooing, in mad revelry,
Wooing, the wooing, the wooing of Spring—
Here's a bold wooing that makes the woods ring,
And thrills the leaf-buds though with snow overladen,
As March, the wild outlaw, bears off the Spring maiden.
Galloping, galloping on through the world;
And when shivering, waking, the dull Day gazed out
From her tower in the grey clouds, she heard but the shout
Of the riotous winds as they followed in glee,
On, on to the wooing, in mad revelry,
Wooing, the wooing, the wooing of Spring—
Here's a bold wooing that makes the woods ring,
And thrills the leaf-buds though with snow overladen,
As March, the wild outlaw, bears off the Spring maiden.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
TOM.
Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.Just listen to this:
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless, there, full in my view,
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire,
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining? He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Anyone's missing him. Then, what a shout—
Oh! how I shouted, “For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!” Again and again
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I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
“Never mind, baby, sit still like a man,
We're coming to get you as fast as we can.”
They could not see him, but I could, he sat
Still on a beam, his little straw-hat
Carefully placed by his side, and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
Again and again—O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster, I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them—when, suddenly, there at their feet
The great beams leaned in—they saw him—then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash—
Jumped to get out of the way—and I thought
“All's up with poor little Robin,” and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there, when, swift, at my side
Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame
Straight as a dart—caught the child—and then came
Back with him—choking and crying—but—saved!
Saved safe and sound!
Oh, how the men raved,
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Rushed at the work again, lest the back-wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire,
Should fall in and bury me.
Oh! you'd admire
To see Robin now, he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time;
Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now—see, he's strong as a log—
And there comes Tom, too—
Yes, Tom was our dog.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
MARTINS ON THE TELEGRAPH WIRE.
Martins up on the telegraph wire
What do ye hear to-day?
Little brown gossips, all perched in a row
On the long fairy thread, chattering, chattering,
Is there a secret that no one must know?
Safe from your merry notes, scattering, scattering,
All its intent to the skies and the trees,
The dragon-flies know it, and so may the bees,
And little he thinks who with lightning flies after
His love with love's message, that—brimming with laughter—
The martins are listening—hearing it all,
A twittering choir,
Are telling it, telling it, brave gossips small,
On the telegraph wire.
What do ye hear to-day?
Little brown gossips, all perched in a row
On the long fairy thread, chattering, chattering,
Is there a secret that no one must know?
Safe from your merry notes, scattering, scattering,
All its intent to the skies and the trees,
The dragon-flies know it, and so may the bees,
And little he thinks who with lightning flies after
His love with love's message, that—brimming with laughter—
The martins are listening—hearing it all,
A twittering choir,
Are telling it, telling it, brave gossips small,
On the telegraph wire.
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Shake their bright heads, and swell their soft throats
Hither, thither, they turn;
Tidings are thrilling their velvety breasts.
Little clawed footsteps are pattering, pattering,
On the wire-causeway. O, where are your nests?
Bad little housekeepers, shattering, shattering
All my old faith in the bird moral laws....
Home! home! every one of you. But the small claws
Cling, cling all the closer, for tidings are speeding
A wedding! And gaily the martins are heeding,
Singing bird-madrigals numberless times
With spirit and fire
And doing their utmost towards ringing the chimes
On the telegraph wire.
Hither, thither, they turn;
Tidings are thrilling their velvety breasts.
Little clawed footsteps are pattering, pattering,
On the wire-causeway. O, where are your nests?
Bad little housekeepers, shattering, shattering
All my old faith in the bird moral laws....
Home! home! every one of you. But the small claws
Cling, cling all the closer, for tidings are speeding
A wedding! And gaily the martins are heeding,
Singing bird-madrigals numberless times
With spirit and fire
And doing their utmost towards ringing the chimes
On the telegraph wire.
Martins, O martins, is there no news
Other than love and joy?
Those dumb brown posts must be steeped with words
Harder than lover's soft flattering, flattering,
Hard as sledge-hammers, my bright little birds.
The door of our inner life, battering, battering—
Spite our fierce strivings, the barrier gives way,
We hear and must hear, that he died such a day,
Our dearest and best! But the little bird-voices
Chant on in their blitheness—they take what rejoices,
That only; the rest to poor man doth belong,
He hath it entire,
While the martins find nothing but joy for their song,
On the telegraph wire.
Other than love and joy?
Those dumb brown posts must be steeped with words
Harder than lover's soft flattering, flattering,
Hard as sledge-hammers, my bright little birds.
The door of our inner life, battering, battering—
Spite our fierce strivings, the barrier gives way,
We hear and must hear, that he died such a day,
Our dearest and best! But the little bird-voices
Chant on in their blitheness—they take what rejoices,
That only; the rest to poor man doth belong,
He hath it entire,
While the martins find nothing but joy for their song,
On the telegraph wire.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
83
MIZPAH.
Genesis xxxi., 49.
The Lord watch between me and thee,When we are absent one from another;
Though long miles away thou mayst be,
And a hard fate each from the other
Forever divide, yet still must my prayer
E'er be the same—in hope or despair,
In days of soft peace, in suffering's breath,
In storm or in calm, in life or in death,
In right or in wrong, in good or in ill,
Ever the same, the same prayer still—
The Lord watch between me and thee—
Thee, love, no other—
Through might of the land, through power of the sea,
Where'er thou mayst be,
While we are absent one from another.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
LOVE UNEXPRESSED.
The sweetest notes among the human heart-strings
Are dull with rust;
The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels,
Are clogged with dust;
We pipe and pipe again our dreary music
Upon the self-same strains,
While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation,
Come back in sad refrains.
Are dull with rust;
The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels,
Are clogged with dust;
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Upon the self-same strains,
While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation,
Come back in sad refrains.
On through the world we go, an army marching
With listening ears,
Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music
He never hears;
Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort,
A word of tender praise,
A word of love, to cheer the endless journey
Of earth's hard, busy days.
With listening ears,
Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music
He never hears;
Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort,
A word of tender praise,
A word of love, to cheer the endless journey
Of earth's hard, busy days.
They love us, and we know it; this suffices
For reason's share.
Why should they pause to give that love expression
With gentle care?
Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching
With all the gnawing pain
Of hungry love that longs to hear the music,
And longs and longs in vain.
For reason's share.
Why should they pause to give that love expression
With gentle care?
Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching
With all the gnawing pain
Of hungry love that longs to hear the music,
And longs and longs in vain.
We love them and they know it; if we falter
With fingers numb,
Among the unused strings of love's expression,
The notes are dumb.
We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow,
Leaving the words unsaid,
And, side by side with those we love the dearest,
In silence, on we tread.
With fingers numb,
Among the unused strings of love's expression,
The notes are dumb.
We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow,
Leaving the words unsaid,
And, side by side with those we love the dearest,
In silence, on we tread.
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Thus on we tread, and thus each heart in silence
Its fate fulfils,
Hoping the music waiteth where are shining
The Distant Hills;
The only difference of the love in heaven
From love on earth below
Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it,
And there we all shall know!
Its fate fulfils,
Hoping the music waiteth where are shining
The Distant Hills;
The only difference of the love in heaven
From love on earth below
Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it,
And there we all shall know!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
TWO WAYS.
I.
“The spring returneth ever.”
So sang the bluebird as he fluttered by,
So hummed the soft rain falling from the sky;
Up from the budding earth broke forth a cry,
“Welcome, O Spring!”
But moving to and fro with steady pace,
She said, “It comes not back into my face.
Where is the tender bloom and youthful grace
That it should bring?
The spring returneth never.”
So sang the bluebird as he fluttered by,
So hummed the soft rain falling from the sky;
Up from the budding earth broke forth a cry,
“Welcome, O Spring!”
But moving to and fro with steady pace,
She said, “It comes not back into my face.
Where is the tender bloom and youthful grace
That it should bring?
The spring returneth never.”
“The spring returneth ever.”
So sang the brooks as down the mountain-side
They ran to join the rivers brimming wide;
Full of new life the mighty ocean cried,
“Welcome, O Spring!”
“But no; it is not true, O waves,” she said,
“Where are the hopes of youth, so long since fled,
Where are the loved ones gone unto the dead,
That it should bring?
The spring returneth never.”
So sang the brooks as down the mountain-side
They ran to join the rivers brimming wide;
Full of new life the mighty ocean cried,
“Welcome, O Spring!”
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“Where are the hopes of youth, so long since fled,
Where are the loved ones gone unto the dead,
That it should bring?
The spring returneth never.”
Thus she lamented ever;
And in her garden, sloping towards the sea,
So full of birds, and blossoms' revelry,
She never turned from her own misery
To watch the spring;
She never even saw an opening flower,
She never even felt the balmy shower,
But all alone she wandered, hour by hour,
And held the sting
Close to her heart forever.
And in her garden, sloping towards the sea,
So full of birds, and blossoms' revelry,
She never turned from her own misery
To watch the spring;
She never even saw an opening flower,
She never even felt the balmy shower,
But all alone she wandered, hour by hour,
And held the sting
Close to her heart forever.
II.
“The spring returneth ever.”
So breathed arbutus peeping from the snow,
So thought the crocus in the garden row;
Convinced at last, the lilacs whispered low,
“It is the spring!”
“Yes—yes, it is the spring, O buds of bloom!
It is the spring,” she cried, “away with gloom!
Come forth, come forth, bride-rose to meet the groom
Whom it will bring.
The spring returneth ever.”
So breathed arbutus peeping from the snow,
So thought the crocus in the garden row;
Convinced at last, the lilacs whispered low,
“It is the spring!”
“Yes—yes, it is the spring, O buds of bloom!
It is the spring,” she cried, “away with gloom!
Come forth, come forth, bride-rose to meet the groom
Whom it will bring.
The spring returneth ever.”
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“The spring returneth ever.”
I know it, know it well, O land and sea!
All my dead life wakes up to ecstasy;
It is a full delight merely to be,
To breathe, in spring,
Though old my face, my heart again is young,
Though old the roots, bright flowers again have sprung
To meet the King
Who still returneth ever.
I know it, know it well, O land and sea!
All my dead life wakes up to ecstasy;
It is a full delight merely to be,
To breathe, in spring,
Though old my face, my heart again is young,
Though old the roots, bright flowers again have sprung
To meet the King
Who still returneth ever.
Yes, hope returneth ever,
It is the coward's part to loiter sad
Among the April trees in leaf-buds clad;
Even my dead are living and are glad
In some far spring!
Immortal am I—mind, is there a choice?
Immortal am I—heart, O heart, rejoice!
Immortal am I—soul, lift up thy voice
With faith and sing
“The spring returneth ever.”
It is the coward's part to loiter sad
Among the April trees in leaf-buds clad;
Even my dead are living and are glad
In some far spring!
Immortal am I—mind, is there a choice?
Immortal am I—heart, O heart, rejoice!
Immortal am I—soul, lift up thy voice
With faith and sing
“The spring returneth ever.”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
415
SAIL ROCK, LAKE SUPERIOR.
From the far Sault of Sainte-Marie he wanders,
On, ever on, the white foam in his track,
By night, by day, sails fleet before the wind,
Until he sees the beach of Fond-du-Lac:
Yet finds not there the rest he seeks with yearning:
Frown all the cliffs—and he must wander forth
Over the waves again, by south-winds driven,
Past the dark Palisades into the north.
On, ever on, the white foam in his track,
By night, by day, sails fleet before the wind,
Until he sees the beach of Fond-du-Lac:
Yet finds not there the rest he seeks with yearning:
Frown all the cliffs—and he must wander forth
Over the waves again, by south-winds driven,
Past the dark Palisades into the north.
There stands the haunted arch of Spirit River,
There, in the storm, is seen the misty shape
Of Manitou, who guards the great Superior,
Rising above the heights of Thunder Cape;
And seeing him, the guilty one, approaching,
The voices of the surf rise in a roar
Below the porphyry cliffs, sounding a summons,
To call the spirits to the lonely shore.
There, in the storm, is seen the misty shape
Of Manitou, who guards the great Superior,
Rising above the heights of Thunder Cape;
And seeing him, the guilty one, approaching,
The voices of the surf rise in a roar
Below the porphyry cliffs, sounding a summons,
To call the spirits to the lonely shore.
Down, down, they troop through the ravines of iron,
Over the rocks where virgin silver shines,
Up, up, they roll the surf, a seething barrier.
And marshal on the beach their shadow-lines;
He cries, he weeps, he prays with arms extended:
“Have mercy upon me, a soul unblest—
I come not for your stores of shining treasure,
I only beg—I only pray for rest.
Over the rocks where virgin silver shines,
Up, up, they roll the surf, a seething barrier.
And marshal on the beach their shadow-lines;
He cries, he weeps, he prays with arms extended:
“Have mercy upon me, a soul unblest—
I come not for your stores of shining treasure,
I only beg—I only pray for rest.
Aged am I, and worn with countless journeys.
Over the lake forever must I stray;
In the whole south I cannot find a landing,
Keewenaw's copper arm thrusts me away;
I sail, and sail, yet never find a harbour—
Stern is the east, and sterner is the west,
Oh, grant me but one foothold on the north shore.
So can I die at last and be at rest!”
Over the lake forever must I stray;
In the whole south I cannot find a landing,
Keewenaw's copper arm thrusts me away;
I sail, and sail, yet never find a harbour—
Stern is the east, and sterner is the west,
Oh, grant me but one foothold on the north shore.
So can I die at last and be at rest!”
But not! They drive him off with jeers and shouting,
Before their ghostly glee the cursed one quails;
Forth from the silver rocks of haunted northland,
Not daring to look back, away he sails;
And sails, and sails, yet never finds a landing
Though fairest coasts and isles he passes by;
And hopes and hopes, yet never finds a foothold
On any shore where he can kneel and die.
Before their ghostly glee the cursed one quails;
Forth from the silver rocks of haunted northland,
Not daring to look back, away he sails;
And sails, and sails, yet never finds a landing
Though fairest coasts and isles he passes by;
And hopes and hopes, yet never finds a foothold
On any shore where he can kneel and die.
416
Weary and worn, through many a red-man's lifetime,
Over the lake he wanders on and on,
Till up through Huron, with red banners flying,
Come white men from the rising of the sun;
The Sault they name from Sainte-Marie with blessing,
The lake lies hushed before their holy bell,
As, landing on the shore of Rocky Pictures,
They raise the white cross in la grande Chapelle,
Over the lake he wanders on and on,
Till up through Huron, with red banners flying,
Come white men from the rising of the sun;
The Sault they name from Sainte-Marie with blessing,
The lake lies hushed before their holy bell,
As, landing on the shore of Rocky Pictures,
They raise the white cross in la grande Chapelle,
As the first white man's hymn on great Superior
Sounds from the rocky church not made with hands,
A phantom-boat sails in from the still offing,
And at its bow an aged figure stands;
The worn cords strain so full, the sails are swelling,
The old mast bends and quivers like a bow.
Yet calm the windless sky shines blue above them.
And calm the windless waves shine blue below.
Sounds from the rocky church not made with hands,
A phantom-boat sails in from the still offing,
And at its bow an aged figure stands;
The worn cords strain so full, the sails are swelling,
The old mast bends and quivers like a bow.
Yet calm the windless sky shines blue above them.
And calm the windless waves shine blue below.
The boat glides in, still faster, faster sailing,
Like lightning darting o'er the shrinking miles,
And, as he hears the chanting in the chapel,
For the first time in years the lone one smiles;
At last, at last, his feet are on the dear shore,
The curse is gone, his eyes to heaven rise,
At last, at last, his mother earth receives him.
At last, at last, with thankful heart he dies.
Like lightning darting o'er the shrinking miles,
And, as he hears the chanting in the chapel,
For the first time in years the lone one smiles;
At last, at last, his feet are on the dear shore,
The curse is gone, his eyes to heaven rise,
At last, at last, his mother earth receives him.
At last, at last, with thankful heart he dies.
The poor worn body, old with many lifetimes,
They find there lying on the golden sands,
But, lifting it with wonder and with reverence,
It crumbles into dust beneath their hands.
The poor worn boat, grown old with endless voyages,
Floats up the coast, unguided and alone,
And, stranding 'neath the cliff, its mission over,
By the Great Spirit's hand is turned to stone.
They find there lying on the golden sands,
But, lifting it with wonder and with reverence,
It crumbles into dust beneath their hands.
The poor worn boat, grown old with endless voyages,
Floats up the coast, unguided and alone,
And, stranding 'neath the cliff, its mission over,
By the Great Spirit's hand is turned to stone.
You see it there among the Rocky Pictures,
The mainsail and the jib, just as they were;
We never passed it with a song or laughter
In the gay days when we were voyageurs;
The best among us doffed our caps in silence,
The gayest of us never dared to mock
At the strange tale that came down from our fathers,
The pictured legend of the old Sail-Rock.
The mainsail and the jib, just as they were;
We never passed it with a song or laughter
In the gay days when we were voyageurs;
The best among us doffed our caps in silence,
The gayest of us never dared to mock
At the strange tale that came down from our fathers,
The pictured legend of the old Sail-Rock.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
417
DETROIT RIVER.
Thou brimming river, full, how full
Thou sweepest by thy even banks!
E'en one drop more, thou must o'erflow
The velvet land, where pluméd ranks
Of inland grains come calmly down
To the smooth edge, and dip their feet
Within thy still dark-flowing tide,
Where, almost brushed in passing, glide
The dark hulls of the freshwater fleet.
Thou sweepest by thy even banks!
E'en one drop more, thou must o'erflow
The velvet land, where pluméd ranks
Of inland grains come calmly down
To the smooth edge, and dip their feet
Within thy still dark-flowing tide,
Where, almost brushed in passing, glide
The dark hulls of the freshwater fleet.
Sweep on, O river, past the green—
The indolent Canadian farms
With low thatched house and old-time mill
Stretch down to meet thy clasping arms;
The grey small churches lift on high
Their crosses, and the long watch keep
Over the deep-grassed churchyards where
'Mong sunken tombstones clustered there,
The old French habitans lie asleep.
The indolent Canadian farms
With low thatched house and old-time mill
Stretch down to meet thy clasping arms;
The grey small churches lift on high
Their crosses, and the long watch keep
Over the deep-grassed churchyards where
'Mong sunken tombstones clustered there,
The old French habitans lie asleep.
Insouciant French! your fathers sailed
These Lakes as Kings;—but now their claims
From Gaspé Bay to far La Pointe,
Live only in the Gallic names
They gave;—sweet echoes from the past,
Chiming from cliff and strait and bay,
Mixed with the vowelled Indian tongue,
And fainter, fainter, fainter rung,—
Till now forgotten,—dying away.
These Lakes as Kings;—but now their claims
From Gaspé Bay to far La Pointe,
Live only in the Gallic names
They gave;—sweet echoes from the past,
Chiming from cliff and strait and bay,
Mixed with the vowelled Indian tongue,
And fainter, fainter, fainter rung,—
Till now forgotten,—dying away.
Sweep on, O river. Thou dost bind
The mighty Lakes with thy soft sheen
Of silver water; Huron's blue,
And dark Superior, and the green
Of Michigan do come to thee,
And flow where thou dost say, thy shore
Doth feel their coolness hasting by,—
But haste not, river;—stay where I
Love thee, remember thee, evermore.
The mighty Lakes with thy soft sheen
Of silver water; Huron's blue,
And dark Superior, and the green
Of Michigan do come to thee,
And flow where thou dost say, thy shore
Doth feel their coolness hasting by,—
But haste not, river;—stay where I
Love thee, remember thee, evermore.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
426
THE HEART OF JUNE.
Down in the heart of the June, my love,
Down in the heart of the June;
The gold sun singeth, “speed not away,”
The fair sky sigheth, “delay—delay,”—
And the green, green earth doth whisper “stay,”
In the heart of the red red June.
Down in the heart of the June;
The gold sun singeth, “speed not away,”
The fair sky sigheth, “delay—delay,”—
And the green, green earth doth whisper “stay,”
In the heart of the red red June.
This is the best of the world, my love,
This is the best of the year;
Behind is the springtime, cold and sweet,
Forward the summer's feverish heat;
Stay, then, my darling, thy hurrying feet,
For the best of our life is here.
This is the best of the year;
Behind is the springtime, cold and sweet,
Forward the summer's feverish heat;
Stay, then, my darling, thy hurrying feet,
For the best of our life is here.
Sip the red wine of the June, my love,
Sip the red wine of the June,
In May it was white as the fading snow,
August's deep purple will darken its glow;
Then, with lingering lip and kisses slow,
Sip the red, red wine of the June.
Sip the red wine of the June,
In May it was white as the fading snow,
August's deep purple will darken its glow;
Then, with lingering lip and kisses slow,
Sip the red, red wine of the June.
The roses, June roses, are red, my love,
They hang from your lattice high.
Faint was the May-blossom's gentle breath—
The orange-flower will be strong unto death;
But the rose is sweet, and its sweetness saith,
“There are none so lovely as I.”
They hang from your lattice high.
Faint was the May-blossom's gentle breath—
The orange-flower will be strong unto death;
But the rose is sweet, and its sweetness saith,
“There are none so lovely as I.”
Then live in the heart of this June, my love,
Live in the heart of this June.
Once we were friends—oh, cold, barren dearth!
Soon must our wedded life prove its own worth;
But now we are lovers—are gods on earth;
In the heart of this red, red June.
Live in the heart of this June.
Once we were friends—oh, cold, barren dearth!
Soon must our wedded life prove its own worth;
But now we are lovers—are gods on earth;
In the heart of this red, red June.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
427
WALPURGIS NIGHT.
We waited till the stroke of midnight, pealing
From out the old church-tower,
Came softly through the silent village stealing,
And told the mystic hour.
We hastened through the dewy gardens, finding
The shadows all awake,
Following on, in long procession winding
Down to the dusky lake.
From out the old church-tower,
Came softly through the silent village stealing,
And told the mystic hour.
We hastened through the dewy gardens, finding
The shadows all awake,
Following on, in long procession winding
Down to the dusky lake.
Up rose the mists, in ghostly ranks advancing,
To meet us on the shore;
And o'er the silver waters lightly dancing,
Our boat away they bore,
Far up the lake, where the soft moonlight lingers
Upon the northern strand,
And whispering larches, with their long green fingers,
Beckon us towards the land.
To meet us on the shore;
And o'er the silver waters lightly dancing,
Our boat away they bore,
Far up the lake, where the soft moonlight lingers
Upon the northern strand,
And whispering larches, with their long green fingers,
Beckon us towards the land.
There on the strand we sat, and heard the singing
Of Peris in the air;
The mermaid's laughter o'er the water ringing;
And Nixie in despair,
Harping upon his harp in mournful wooing;
Faint through the rustling trees
We caught the shouting of the Fauns, pursuing
The timid Dryades.
Of Peris in the air;
The mermaid's laughter o'er the water ringing;
And Nixie in despair,
Harping upon his harp in mournful wooing;
Faint through the rustling trees
We caught the shouting of the Fauns, pursuing
The timid Dryades.
We heard the springs and rivers onward flowing,
The rush of balmy showers;
The unknown sound of all the grasses growing,
The budding of the flowers;
And soon the fragrant woods took up the story,—
The whole wide earth began
To welcome in with one grand hymn of glory
The birthday of old Pan.
The rush of balmy showers;
The unknown sound of all the grasses growing,
The budding of the flowers;
And soon the fragrant woods took up the story,—
The whole wide earth began
To welcome in with one grand hymn of glory
The birthday of old Pan.
A silence followed; then arose a heyday
Of wild and lawless mirth;
The riotous luxuriance of May Day,
The carnival of earth;
All Nature frolicked till the grey dawn, blending
With the moon's fading light,
Proclaimed the morn; all the mad revels ending
Of weird Walpurgis Night.
Of wild and lawless mirth;
The riotous luxuriance of May Day,
The carnival of earth;
All Nature frolicked till the grey dawn, blending
With the moon's fading light,
Proclaimed the morn; all the mad revels ending
Of weird Walpurgis Night.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
428
CORNFIELDS.
In the broad Ohio lowlands, in the sun's white heat,
In the shadowless stillness of the clear August noon,
We feel the full earth's pulses hot and strong beneath our feet,
The ripeness and the richness of their rhythmical beat,
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green fields, ripen mellow”
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green ears, ripen yellow,
For the harvest comes soon.”
In the shadowless stillness of the clear August noon,
We feel the full earth's pulses hot and strong beneath our feet,
The ripeness and the richness of their rhythmical beat,
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green fields, ripen mellow”
Saying, “Ripen, corn; ripen, corn; green ears, ripen yellow,
For the harvest comes soon.”
In the broad Ohio lowlands thick the green ranks grow,
In straight unbroken furrows to the east, to the west,
The tree-tops in the distance are the only hills they know,
So they proudly lift their tasselled heads, whispering low,
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; hear the furrows' voices;”
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; all the field rejoices,
For our lot is the best.”
In straight unbroken furrows to the east, to the west,
The tree-tops in the distance are the only hills they know,
So they proudly lift their tasselled heads, whispering low,
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; hear the furrows' voices;”
Saying, “Rustle, leaves; rustle, leaves; all the field rejoices,
For our lot is the best.”
They know not of the shadow where the cool mountains stand;
They know not of the brook with the dark rocks at its mouth;
They only know the river and its level banks of sand—
They only know the river moving slow through the land,
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; August's gold-crowned daughters;”
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; on my sun-warmed waters
I bear you toward the South.”
They know not of the brook with the dark rocks at its mouth;
They only know the river and its level banks of sand—
They only know the river moving slow through the land,
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; August's gold-crowned daughters;”
Saying, “Float, lilies; float, lilies; on my sun-warmed waters
I bear you toward the South.”
They know the mellow richness of the brown fervid earth;
They feel the prisoned dew-drops caught in the misty morn;
They think of the soft rain-clouds, of their early spring-time birth,
And they sing of the harvest in their ripe lusty mirth,
Saying, “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; pour thy splendour on us;”
Saying “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; send down now upon us
The glory of the corn.”
They feel the prisoned dew-drops caught in the misty morn;
They think of the soft rain-clouds, of their early spring-time birth,
And they sing of the harvest in their ripe lusty mirth,
Saying, “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; pour thy splendour on us;”
Saying “Shine, heavens; shine, heavens; send down now upon us
The glory of the corn.”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
430
INDIAN SUMMER.
When the Indian summer came,
The prodigals of Nature gathered in
The slender autumn grain that grew within
Their little fields along the rivers—late
Their harvest and the hoar-frost drawing near
With all his lances; what would be their fate
If that last sunshine came not? Yet no fear
Felt they—the Indian summer always came.
The prodigals of Nature gathered in
The slender autumn grain that grew within
Their little fields along the rivers—late
Their harvest and the hoar-frost drawing near
With all his lances; what would be their fate
If that last sunshine came not? Yet no fear
Felt they—the Indian summer always came.
Old Nature loved her prodigals
The idle sons who roamed her golden West,
Scouring her prairie miles, with lance at rest,
For the mere joy of feeling the swift wind
Keen on their tawny cheeks; her thrifty ways
Of spring-time seed they laughed to scorn and sinned
And rioted through all her harvest-days;
And yet—the Indian summer always came.
The idle sons who roamed her golden West,
Scouring her prairie miles, with lance at rest,
For the mere joy of feeling the swift wind
Keen on their tawny cheeks; her thrifty ways
Of spring-time seed they laughed to scorn and sinned
And rioted through all her harvest-days;
And yet—the Indian summer always came.
When the Indian summer comes
In lives, then prodigals do gather in
Their small, late-planted harvest, sadly thin
The sheaves; yet with glad hands they hoard their store,
And deem it golden plenty—they forget
What sheaves they might have had; and, though the hoar
Of coming winter on their locks is set,
Though late—their Indian summer always comes.
In lives, then prodigals do gather in
Their small, late-planted harvest, sadly thin
The sheaves; yet with glad hands they hoard their store,
And deem it golden plenty—they forget
What sheaves they might have had; and, though the hoar
Of coming winter on their locks is set,
Though late—their Indian summer always comes.
For Nature loves her prodigals—
After our wasted months she grants the days
Of Indian summer's golden purple haze;
After our wasted lives she gives a time
For late repentance when we gather in
A slender store of virtues; all our prime
Was wasted, soon the snows of age begin,
And yet—our Indian summer always comes.
After our wasted months she grants the days
Of Indian summer's golden purple haze;
After our wasted lives she gives a time
For late repentance when we gather in
A slender store of virtues; all our prime
Was wasted, soon the snows of age begin,
And yet—our Indian summer always comes.
O well-remembered prodigal
Whom we all know, was it at this fair time—
The Indian summer of our Western clime—
That thou didst hasten to thy father? Come,
Arise, let us go forth; our Father waits—
Not here among the empty husks, our home—
Far in the purple skies, the golden gates
Of Indian summer open—prodigals, come!
Whom we all know, was it at this fair time—
The Indian summer of our Western clime—
That thou didst hasten to thy father? Come,
Arise, let us go forth; our Father waits—
Not here among the empty husks, our home—
Far in the purple skies, the golden gates
Of Indian summer open—prodigals, come!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
495
FORGOTTEN.
Once, looking through a little sheaf
Of papers stored from girlhood years,
I chanced upon a faded leaf,
And read, half smiling, half in tears,
Of papers stored from girlhood years,
I chanced upon a faded leaf,
And read, half smiling, half in tears,
This legend on the wrapping set
In delicate girl-writing small;
“Never this day, this leaf, forget.”
And lo! I had forgot it all.
In delicate girl-writing small;
“Never this day, this leaf, forget.”
And lo! I had forgot it all.
Nor could I think with all my care
What it did ever mean, and so
I slowly let the summer air
Waft it away, and watched it go
What it did ever mean, and so
I slowly let the summer air
Waft it away, and watched it go
With dreaming gaze. And is it thus,
I mused, with this world's joy and grief?
“Never forget” it seems to us,
As I wrote on my little sheaf;
I mused, with this world's joy and grief?
“Never forget” it seems to us,
As I wrote on my little sheaf;
When, lo! without our knowledge, curled
Our scroll of earth; its story small
Comes not into that higher world;
Besides—we have forgot it all!
Our scroll of earth; its story small
Comes not into that higher world;
Besides—we have forgot it all!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
ALAS!
“Prithee, what wouldst thou advise?”
Spake the timid poet;
Then slow answered all the wise
“Hadst thou skill to show it,
Vivid story of thy life,
Pains and joyance, good and ill,
Strongly sung would bring thee fame,
For the world is curious still.”
Then the poet sadly
Away did pass,
“But there is no story
In my simple life. Alas! Alas!”
Spake the timid poet;
Then slow answered all the wise
“Hadst thou skill to show it,
Vivid story of thy life,
Pains and joyance, good and ill,
Strongly sung would bring thee fame,
For the world is curious still.”
Then the poet sadly
Away did pass,
“But there is no story
In my simple life. Alas! Alas!”
496
“Prithee, what wouldst thou advise?”
Spake the poet, turning
Once again that way; the wise
Answered, “all the burning
Of thy inmost altar-fires
Sing in glowing, cadenced verse;
To the world's hot eager ear
All thy deepest love rehearse.”
Then the poet sadly
Away did pass,
“But my heart I cannot
Share with all the world. Alas! Alas!”
Spake the poet, turning
Once again that way; the wise
Answered, “all the burning
Of thy inmost altar-fires
Sing in glowing, cadenced verse;
To the world's hot eager ear
All thy deepest love rehearse.”
Then the poet sadly
Away did pass,
“But my heart I cannot
Share with all the world. Alas! Alas!”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
CONTRAST.
Six O'Clock; Broadway.
Snow, snow,—all the night full of crystal snowing,
Blow, blow,—all the light cannot stop the blowing;
Wind and snow go whirling down the brilliant street, the cold street,
Feathered flakes and eddies drown the young feet, the old feet,
Moving onward, living waves, past the frigid windows' stare,
Human toilers, human slaves through the freezing yellow glare,
And I am one,—who but I? yet my heart sings, sings,
As the blast, rushing by, double contrast brings, brings—
“Far away my Love lies
By the southern sea,
True her heart, blue her eyes,
And she waits for—me!”
Blow, blow,—all the light cannot stop the blowing;
Wind and snow go whirling down the brilliant street, the cold street,
Feathered flakes and eddies drown the young feet, the old feet,
Moving onward, living waves, past the frigid windows' stare,
Human toilers, human slaves through the freezing yellow glare,
And I am one,—who but I? yet my heart sings, sings,
As the blast, rushing by, double contrast brings, brings—
“Far away my Love lies
By the southern sea,
True her heart, blue her eyes,
And she waits for—me!”
Fleet, fleet, phosphor-gleams shine upon the river,
Sweet, sweet, tropic dreams in the jasmine quiver;
Orange-scents are filling all the lambent air, the warm air,
Moonlight on the old sea-wall falling fair, cloudless fair,
Northern troubles all at rest, there they sit with idle speech,
Listening while the ocean's breast heaves against the silver beach,
And she is one—my own Love; yet her heart sings, sings.
As the soft night above double contrast brings, brings,—
“Far away the snow drives
By the northern sea,
Long he toils, strong he strives,
And it is for—me!”
Sweet, sweet, tropic dreams in the jasmine quiver;
Orange-scents are filling all the lambent air, the warm air,
Moonlight on the old sea-wall falling fair, cloudless fair,
Northern troubles all at rest, there they sit with idle speech,
Listening while the ocean's breast heaves against the silver beach,
And she is one—my own Love; yet her heart sings, sings.
As the soft night above double contrast brings, brings,—
“Far away the snow drives
By the northern sea,
Long he toils, strong he strives,
And it is for—me!”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
542
COMMONPLACE.
My little girl is commonplace, you say?
Well, well, I grant it, as you use the phrase,
Concede the whole; although there was a day
When I too questioned words, and from a maze
Of hair split meanings cut with gloss drawn line,
Sought to draw out a language superfine,
Above the common, scarify with words and scintillate with pen;
But that time's over now—now I am content to stand with other men.
Well, well, I grant it, as you use the phrase,
Concede the whole; although there was a day
When I too questioned words, and from a maze
Of hair split meanings cut with gloss drawn line,
Sought to draw out a language superfine,
Above the common, scarify with words and scintillate with pen;
But that time's over now—now I am content to stand with other men.
It's the best place, fair youth. I see your smile—
The scornful smile of that ambitious age
That thinks it all things knows, and all the while
It nothing knows. And yet those smiles presage
Some future fame, because your aim is high;
As when one tries to shoot into the sky,
If his rash arrow at the moon he aims, a bolder flight we see,
Though vain, than if with level poise it safely reached the nearest tree.
The scornful smile of that ambitious age
That thinks it all things knows, and all the while
It nothing knows. And yet those smiles presage
Some future fame, because your aim is high;
As when one tries to shoot into the sky,
If his rash arrow at the moon he aims, a bolder flight we see,
Though vain, than if with level poise it safely reached the nearest tree.
A common proverb that! Does it disjoint
Your graceful terms? Once more you'll understand;
Cut down a pencil to too fine a point,
Lo, it breaks off, all useless in your hand!
The child is fitted for her present sphere;
Let her live out her life, without the fear
That comes when souls, daring the heights of dread infinity, are tossed
Now up, now down, by the great winds, their little home forever lost.
Your graceful terms? Once more you'll understand;
Cut down a pencil to too fine a point,
Lo, it breaks off, all useless in your hand!
The child is fitted for her present sphere;
Let her live out her life, without the fear
That comes when souls, daring the heights of dread infinity, are tossed
Now up, now down, by the great winds, their little home forever lost.
My little girl seems to you commonplace
Because she loves the daisies, common flowers;
Because she finds in common pictures, grace,
And nothing knows of classic music's powers;
She reads her romance, but the mystic's creed
Is something far beyond her simple need.
She goes to church, but the mixed doubts and theories that thinkers find
In all religious truth can never enter her undoubting mind.
Because she loves the daisies, common flowers;
Because she finds in common pictures, grace,
And nothing knows of classic music's powers;
She reads her romance, but the mystic's creed
Is something far beyond her simple need.
She goes to church, but the mixed doubts and theories that thinkers find
In all religious truth can never enter her undoubting mind.
543
A daisy's earth's own blossom—better far
Than city gardener's costly hybrid prize;
When you're found worthy of a higher star,
'Twill then be time earth's daisies to despise;
But not till then. And if the child can sing
Sweet songs like “Robin Gray,” why should I fling
A cloud over her music's joy, and set for her a heavy task
Of learning what Bach knew, or finding sense under mad Chopin's mask?
Than city gardener's costly hybrid prize;
When you're found worthy of a higher star,
'Twill then be time earth's daisies to despise;
But not till then. And if the child can sing
Sweet songs like “Robin Gray,” why should I fling
A cloud over her music's joy, and set for her a heavy task
Of learning what Bach knew, or finding sense under mad Chopin's mask?
Then as to pictures, if her taste prefers
That common picture of the “Huguenots,”
Where the girl's heart—a tender heart like hers—
Strives to defeat earth's greatest powers' great plots
With her poor little kerchief, shall I change
The print for Turner's riddles wild and strange?
Or take her stories—simple tales which her leisure hours beguile—
And give her Browning's Sordello, a Herbert Spencer, a Carlyle?
That common picture of the “Huguenots,”
Where the girl's heart—a tender heart like hers—
Strives to defeat earth's greatest powers' great plots
With her poor little kerchief, shall I change
The print for Turner's riddles wild and strange?
Or take her stories—simple tales which her leisure hours beguile—
And give her Browning's Sordello, a Herbert Spencer, a Carlyle?
Her creed, too, in your eyes is commonplace,
Because she does not doubt the Bible's truth,
Because she does not doubt the saving grace
Of fervent prayer, but from her rosy youth,
So full of life, to grey old age's time,
Prays on with faith half ignorant, half sublime.
Yes, commonplace. But if I spoil this common faith, when all is done
Can deist, pantheist or atheist invent a better one?
Because she does not doubt the Bible's truth,
Because she does not doubt the saving grace
Of fervent prayer, but from her rosy youth,
So full of life, to grey old age's time,
Prays on with faith half ignorant, half sublime.
Yes, commonplace. But if I spoil this common faith, when all is done
Can deist, pantheist or atheist invent a better one?
Climb to the highest mountain's highest verge,
Step off; you've lost the petty height you had;
Up to the highest point poor reason urge,
Step off; the sense is gone, the mind is mad.
“Thus far, and yet no further shalt thou go,”
Was said of old, and I have found it so;
This planet's ours, 'tis all we have; here we belong and those are wise.
Who make the best of it, nor vainly try above its plane to rise.
Step off; you've lost the petty height you had;
Up to the highest point poor reason urge,
Step off; the sense is gone, the mind is mad.
“Thus far, and yet no further shalt thou go,”
Was said of old, and I have found it so;
This planet's ours, 'tis all we have; here we belong and those are wise.
Who make the best of it, nor vainly try above its plane to rise.
544
Nay, nay; I know already your reply;
I have been through the whole, long years ago.
I have soared up as far as soul can fly,
I have dug down as far as mind can go:
But always found at certain depth or height,
The bar that separates the Infinite
From finite powers, against whose strength immutable we beat in vain,
Or circle round only to find ourselves at starting point again.
I have been through the whole, long years ago.
I have soared up as far as soul can fly,
I have dug down as far as mind can go:
But always found at certain depth or height,
The bar that separates the Infinite
From finite powers, against whose strength immutable we beat in vain,
Or circle round only to find ourselves at starting point again.
If you must for yourself find out this truth,
I bid you go, proud heart, with blessings free;
'Tis the old fruitless quest of ardent youth,
And soon or late you will come back to me.
You'll learn there's naught so common as the breath
Of life, unless it be the calm of death;
You'll learn that with the Lord Omnipotent there's nothing commonplace,
And with such souls as that poor child's, humbled, abashed, you'll hide your face.
I bid you go, proud heart, with blessings free;
'Tis the old fruitless quest of ardent youth,
And soon or late you will come back to me.
You'll learn there's naught so common as the breath
Of life, unless it be the calm of death;
You'll learn that with the Lord Omnipotent there's nothing commonplace,
And with such souls as that poor child's, humbled, abashed, you'll hide your face.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
HERO WORSHIP.
“He is not what you think.” O judges wise,
Can we not have Valhalla of our own
Within our hearts, where all the souls we prize
Shall sit in state, each on his royal throne?
What matter if we do not always choose
The few whose names, well-weighed, ye write above
As laurel-worthy: do ye then refuse
Our heart's free right to honour whom we love?
Can we not have Valhalla of our own
Within our hearts, where all the souls we prize
Shall sit in state, each on his royal throne?
What matter if we do not always choose
The few whose names, well-weighed, ye write above
As laurel-worthy: do ye then refuse
Our heart's free right to honour whom we love?
Rest regnant in your reasonable choice,
The two or three ye crown with cautious care;
Nor they, nor ye, need miss our wanting voice
Among the plaudits filling all the air.
The crowd will have its god with robe and crown
To worship; but for us, we must be free
To follow when the stars seem pointing down,
To love when souls seem full of royalty.
The two or three ye crown with cautious care;
Nor they, nor ye, need miss our wanting voice
Among the plaudits filling all the air.
The crowd will have its god with robe and crown
To worship; but for us, we must be free
To follow when the stars seem pointing down,
To love when souls seem full of royalty.
545
Ye smile because we cherish still a throng
Of students of the hue, the form, the tone,
The verse, the stage, the romance and the song,
Not for deep reasons, but for love alone,
We do not coldly wait till death shall place
The seal upon their works; but here and now
We love them, as we see them face to face;
Before them, warm in loyalty, we bow.
Of students of the hue, the form, the tone,
The verse, the stage, the romance and the song,
Not for deep reasons, but for love alone,
We do not coldly wait till death shall place
The seal upon their works; but here and now
We love them, as we see them face to face;
Before them, warm in loyalty, we bow.
Those whom we cherish may not all attain
A crown so bright that the whole world can view;
But is it not a diadem to gain,
The having been a glory to a few?
Should one prove false to all our hope and trust,
Should our fair marble turn to common clay,
Silent we lay the pall over the dust,
And from our temple bear our dead away.
A crown so bright that the whole world can view;
But is it not a diadem to gain,
The having been a glory to a few?
Should one prove false to all our hope and trust,
Should our fair marble turn to common clay,
Silent we lay the pall over the dust,
And from our temple bear our dead away.
What is one false among a thousand true—
A thousand opening lives so well begun!
“He is no hero, as you think,” say you?
Well, then, our faith shall help to make him one.
Back, judges, to your work of weighing, slow,
The dead ye destine to Fame's courts above!
But leave us free to worship here below
With faith and hope the living whom we love.
A thousand opening lives so well begun!
“He is no hero, as you think,” say you?
Well, then, our faith shall help to make him one.
Back, judges, to your work of weighing, slow,
The dead ye destine to Fame's courts above!
But leave us free to worship here below
With faith and hope the living whom we love.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
WE SHALL MEET THEM AGAIN.
How often while we tread the street,
Indifferent, weary, do we meet,
By chance, a face that seems more sweet
Than other faces.
Indifferent, weary, do we meet,
By chance, a face that seems more sweet
Than other faces.
How often while we tread the years,
There comes and passes, disappears,
By chance, some one whose presence cheers
Our darkened places.
There comes and passes, disappears,
By chance, some one whose presence cheers
Our darkened places.
546
All unawares are both, and yet
We look back with a vague regret,
And think that if we could have met
Or known them longer,
We look back with a vague regret,
And think that if we could have met
Or known them longer,
We might have loved them more than those
With whom our linkéd fortune flows,
They might have given us repose,
Or made us stronger.
With whom our linkéd fortune flows,
They might have given us repose,
Or made us stronger.
So chorded with our varying brood
Of feelings, chimed in with our mood,
That we were always understood
Without the telling.
Of feelings, chimed in with our mood,
That we were always understood
Without the telling.
And as we ponder, gazing back
Along the crowded hazy track
Where they have gone, our fancied lack
Doth bring a swelling
Along the crowded hazy track
Where they have gone, our fancied lack
Doth bring a swelling
Up from our hearts, which so appears
Like real sorrow, that the tears
Come too, and though our yearning hears
Cold reason saying,
Like real sorrow, that the tears
Come too, and though our yearning hears
Cold reason saying,
It was but folly,—still we dream—
“They might have loved us,”—and we seem
Like foolish children down a stream
Who go a-Maying,
“They might have loved us,”—and we seem
Like foolish children down a stream
Who go a-Maying,
When winter's cold and ice are there,
And home is near, and warm, and fair.
Ah, me! how foolish, yet how rare,
This yearning spirit!
And home is near, and warm, and fair.
Ah, me! how foolish, yet how rare,
This yearning spirit!
But, have you never thought it might
Be but a gift of second sight?
A promise of that dear delight
We shall inherit,
Be but a gift of second sight?
A promise of that dear delight
We shall inherit,
When this poor troubled life is done,
And in some other life begun,
We see their faces, one by one,
Not far, but nearly.
And in some other life begun,
We see their faces, one by one,
Not far, but nearly.
547
And they do love us, and the whole
Comes true, as happy, soul to soul,
We journey while the ages roll,
And love them dearly,
Comes true, as happy, soul to soul,
We journey while the ages roll,
And love them dearly,
As we did dream we should when here
We met them first. Ah! now how clear
It shines down from that other sphere,
That gleaming portal
We met them first. Ah! now how clear
It shines down from that other sphere,
That gleaming portal
Of death and life, the happy thought,
It was not, was not all for naught
But the faint echo, vaguely caught,
Of life immortal.
It was not, was not all for naught
But the faint echo, vaguely caught,
Of life immortal.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
THE HAUNTING FACE.
I said: “I will not know thee whence thou art,
And, though thou livest, thou art dead to me;
I seal thee in thy coffin, far apart
From all my life, from all my memory;
I weight thee down with firm resolve and scorn,
Within thy outcast's grave to lie forlorn.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
And, though thou livest, thou art dead to me;
I seal thee in thy coffin, far apart
From all my life, from all my memory;
I weight thee down with firm resolve and scorn,
Within thy outcast's grave to lie forlorn.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
I said: “O face, I bring thee all my gold,
With jewels, sandal-wood and spices rare;
I bring the dearest years my life doth hold,
With hoarded memories, and dreamings fair,
To build a royal tomb where thou in state
Shalt lie, with guard of honour at the gate.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
With jewels, sandal-wood and spices rare;
I bring the dearest years my life doth hold,
With hoarded memories, and dreamings fair,
To build a royal tomb where thou in state
Shalt lie, with guard of honour at the gate.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
I said: “Thou art not beautiful, O face!
Thy cheeks are wan; thy far-off eyes are dim.
But here is one with budding youthful grace,
Who proffers me a cup filled to the brim
With life's elixir. See! I quaff its wine,
While love's enchantment, to the full, is mine.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
Thy cheeks are wan; thy far-off eyes are dim.
But here is one with budding youthful grace,
Who proffers me a cup filled to the brim
With life's elixir. See! I quaff its wine,
While love's enchantment, to the full, is mine.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
548
I said: “The wonders of the world are vast;
Mine eyes shall see them.” Forth I go in quest
Of the red-belted lightning, coming fast
From out the east, and shining toward the west;
I hunt the northern lights o'er icebergs high,
I seek the star-cross in the southern sky.
And yet, thou hauntest me!
Mine eyes shall see them.” Forth I go in quest
Of the red-belted lightning, coming fast
From out the east, and shining toward the west;
I hunt the northern lights o'er icebergs high,
I seek the star-cross in the southern sky.
And yet, thou hauntest me!
I said: “My heart is failing me for fear;
My schemes are shadows and my hopes a dream;
I grasp them, and behold! they disappear—
Nor loves, nor friends, nor joys, are what they seem.
I will begin anew; I will subject
Myself, and live the straitest of my sect.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
My schemes are shadows and my hopes a dream;
I grasp them, and behold! they disappear—
Nor loves, nor friends, nor joys, are what they seem.
I will begin anew; I will subject
Myself, and live the straitest of my sect.”
And yet, thou hauntest me!
I said: “Art here again, O haunting face?
Speak, then, and take my curse!” The pale lips part:
“Thy life's one love thou canst not thus efface—
I but reflect the image in thine heart;
Thine own heart knows me, though thy lips may lie;
O, false to thine own self! it cannot die,
This love that haunteth thee!”
Speak, then, and take my curse!” The pale lips part:
“Thy life's one love thou canst not thus efface—
I but reflect the image in thine heart;
Thine own heart knows me, though thy lips may lie;
O, false to thine own self! it cannot die,
This love that haunteth thee!”
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
IDEAL.
(The Artist Speaks).
Ideal, are they? Nay, they're true
To very life. The tints, the flower-like grace,
The swaying form, the poise of head sublime,
The rapt expression of the dreaming face,
Are hers; I've seen her look so, many a time.
You've not? so much the worse for you.
To very life. The tints, the flower-like grace,
The swaying form, the poise of head sublime,
The rapt expression of the dreaming face,
Are hers; I've seen her look so, many a time.
You've not? so much the worse for you.
And his; throw the light on that side,
His own bright look just when about to speak,—
A half-smile on the lips, the young man's joy
In life, and strength, and youth; 'twere vain to seek
To make him handsome as he was, poor boy!
Too young? But thirty when he died.
His own bright look just when about to speak,—
A half-smile on the lips, the young man's joy
In life, and strength, and youth; 'twere vain to seek
To make him handsome as he was, poor boy!
Too young? But thirty when he died.
549
Why, blind man, what would you advise?
Shall we paint in the cares that come and go,
The pain with which this sickly world is curst,
The little ills that hover to and fro,—
Take every face and paint it at its worst?
It's truth, say you? Half-truths are lies.
Shall we paint in the cares that come and go,
The pain with which this sickly world is curst,
The little ills that hover to and fro,—
Take every face and paint it at its worst?
It's truth, say you? Half-truths are lies.
Each face has clear identity;
And down beneath the dust and stains of earth,
The lines and scars with which it seems o'ergrown,
It shines as God intended at its birth,
As it will shine before the great white throne
When we are in eternity.
And down beneath the dust and stains of earth,
The lines and scars with which it seems o'ergrown,
It shines as God intended at its birth,
As it will shine before the great white throne
When we are in eternity.
Sometimes we see this soul-face shine
From out the mask which mortals here must wear,
When youth counts back but few bright years of life;
Sometimes when aged eyes, grow dim with care,
Count forward but few years to end the strife,
We catch the ideal light divine.
From out the mask which mortals here must wear,
When youth counts back but few bright years of life;
Sometimes when aged eyes, grow dim with care,
Count forward but few years to end the strife,
We catch the ideal light divine.
Let us paint, then, the ideal,—
Our God's ideal of us at our best;
Paint it in heavenly hues, and fix it fast
With prayer and earnest love within our breast;
Strive hourly to grow like it, till at last,
The ideal shall become the real.
Our God's ideal of us at our best;
Paint it in heavenly hues, and fix it fast
With prayer and earnest love within our breast;
Strive hourly to grow like it, till at last,
The ideal shall become the real.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |