 | [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.
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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.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |