[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
 |
 | “The Benedicts Abroad.” |
 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
“The Benedicts Abroad.”
FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER.
She journeyed north, she journeyed south,
The whole bright land she wandered over,
And climbed the mountains white with snow,
And sought the plains where palm trees grow—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
The whole bright land she wandered over,
And climbed the mountains white with snow,
And sought the plains where palm trees grow—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
Then to the seas she spread her sail,
Fled round the world—a white-winged rover,
Her small foot pressed the Grecian grass—
She saw Egyptian temples pass—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
Fled round the world—a white-winged rover,
Her small foot pressed the Grecian grass—
She saw Egyptian temples pass—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
The costliest gems shone on her brow,
The ancient Belgian spinners wove her
A rope of lace a queen might wear—
Her eyes found all most rich, most rare
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
The ancient Belgian spinners wove her
A rope of lace a queen might wear—
Her eyes found all most rich, most rare
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
The throng did flock to see her pass,
To hear her speak,—and all men strove her
Smile to win; she had the whole
Of each one's life and heart and soul—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
To hear her speak,—and all men strove her
Smile to win; she had the whole
Of each one's life and heart and soul—
But—never found the four-leaved clover.
A storm flew down and tore her sail,
A biting tempest came and drove her
Homeward, bereft, alone and poor,
The fair friends fled, the journeyings o'er
That never found the four-leaved clover.
A biting tempest came and drove her
Homeward, bereft, alone and poor,
The fair friends fled, the journeyings o'er
That never found the four-leaved clover.
224
GETTYSBURG.
1876.
Oh ye too old to feel, too young to know
The memory of those years that stirred our hearts
Deeper than human hand can ever stir,
Or single sorrow, lost to you the glow,
The thrill, the tears, as, now while day departs
Beyond the soft blue mountains, on this spur
I stand—among the graves, the soldiers' graves,
The dead of Gettysburg.
The memory of those years that stirred our hearts
Deeper than human hand can ever stir,
Or single sorrow, lost to you the glow,
The thrill, the tears, as, now while day departs
Beyond the soft blue mountains, on this spur
I stand—among the graves, the soldiers' graves,
The dead of Gettysburg.
The slow years pass,—
The youths who lie here underneath this grass
Would have been men now, and the men have worn
The graver look of age.—O lives forlorn,
O girl-heart crushed, O heart of wife that craves
One look, one touch—O mother reft of son,
Though all the world beside forget these graves,
Ye, ye do not forget! They may not know
Around you, but the birthday of the one,
The one, the lost one, silently is kept,
Deep in your hearts, and swift hot tears still flow
Upon your pillows, though they deemed you slept
In calm forgetfulness.
The youths who lie here underneath this grass
Would have been men now, and the men have worn
The graver look of age.—O lives forlorn,
O girl-heart crushed, O heart of wife that craves
One look, one touch—O mother reft of son,
Though all the world beside forget these graves,
Ye, ye do not forget! They may not know
Around you, but the birthday of the one,
The one, the lost one, silently is kept,
Deep in your hearts, and swift hot tears still flow
Upon your pillows, though they deemed you slept
In calm forgetfulness.
Come, hither, ye
Who dwell in city streets, and view the scene
Rich with the harvest, fresh from summer rain,
Studded with orchards. Yet, the agony
Was fierce there in the wheat-field, and the green
Was drenched with red; a thousand men were slain
In those fair orchards; from that low stone wall
Along the brookside, started the fierce rush
Up the hill's crest—What is it thus to fall
And die in bitter pain while yet the flush
Of youth is on the cheek? They could not know
More than the space before them, dim with smoke
From the hot guns,—but, when the captains spoke,
Each man did aim straight at his nearest foe,
To slay him or—be slain. 'Twas all he knew
Of the wide battle—the few feet of earth
That held him when he fell. And yet, the worth
Of deeds like this it was that gained the day
With its red hosts of death.
Who dwell in city streets, and view the scene
Rich with the harvest, fresh from summer rain,
Studded with orchards. Yet, the agony
Was fierce there in the wheat-field, and the green
Was drenched with red; a thousand men were slain
In those fair orchards; from that low stone wall
Along the brookside, started the fierce rush
Up the hill's crest—What is it thus to fall
And die in bitter pain while yet the flush
Of youth is on the cheek? They could not know
More than the space before them, dim with smoke
From the hot guns,—but, when the captains spoke,
Each man did aim straight at his nearest foe,
To slay him or—be slain. 'Twas all he knew
Of the wide battle—the few feet of earth
That held him when he fell. And yet, the worth
Of deeds like this it was that gained the day
With its red hosts of death.
225
But no dark pall
Broods now upon this slope, or on our hearts,
Despite these tears; the graves stretch green away,
And flowers bloom everywhere, the evening dew
Doth pearl the carved “unknown”—They gave their lives,
Yea, through their faults, their sins, perhaps, there starts
Ever this thought—they gave their lives!
Broods now upon this slope, or on our hearts,
Despite these tears; the graves stretch green away,
And flowers bloom everywhere, the evening dew
Doth pearl the carved “unknown”—They gave their lives,
Yea, through their faults, their sins, perhaps, there starts
Ever this thought—they gave their lives!
Fair day
Of Consecration, thou didst hear the man,
The plain grand speaker,—say those words that live
Immortal on the page. “The world not long
Will note what we say here,—but never can
Forget what they did here,”—O, listening throng
Of dead, ye heard it! None so fit to give
This tribute as that one whose memory drives
Mere gilded grace and courtier's art away,
The people's son—their Leader.
Of Consecration, thou didst hear the man,
The plain grand speaker,—say those words that live
Immortal on the page. “The world not long
Will note what we say here,—but never can
Forget what they did here,”—O, listening throng
Of dead, ye heard it! None so fit to give
This tribute as that one whose memory drives
Mere gilded grace and courtier's art away,
The people's son—their Leader.
Let us say
His words again. The land will not note long,
Ye dead of Gettysburg, ye voiceless throng
Of mounds, what we may write; but God forbid
It e'er forget, or care not, what ye did!
His words again. The land will not note long,
Ye dead of Gettysburg, ye voiceless throng
Of mounds, what we may write; but God forbid
It e'er forget, or care not, what ye did!
MORRIS ISLAND.
Night is falling over Charleston harbour,
Sea-fog to and fro its veil is shifting,
Sumter looms up dark; the ocean-vessels
Anchored in the stream seem slowly drifting—
Sea-fog to and fro its veil is shifting,
Sumter looms up dark; the ocean-vessels
Anchored in the stream seem slowly drifting—
Drifting with the tide; the distant city
Folded in its rivers, emblematic
Of its close-wrapped pride, low on the water
Lies like Venice on the Adriatic.
Folded in its rivers, emblematic
Of its close-wrapped pride, low on the water
Lies like Venice on the Adriatic.
Silently we wander o'er the island,
Silently, we know our feet are treading
Graves unnumbered that the ocean guardeth,
Graves unnumbered where the sand is spreading
Silently, we know our feet are treading
Graves unnumbered that the ocean guardeth,
Graves unnumbered where the sand is spreading
Thick its veil along the line of trenches;
Though no sign the dumb white desert giveth,
They are there beneath its wind-swept beaches,
Thought of them the only thing that liveth
Though no sign the dumb white desert giveth,
They are there beneath its wind-swept beaches,
Thought of them the only thing that liveth
Now upon its shore; no land-bird flutters
O'er its barren slope, no grasses growing,
Few its very sea-shells, while the sunset
Gilds the pallid levels with its glowing
O'er its barren slope, no grasses growing,
Few its very sea-shells, while the sunset
Gilds the pallid levels with its glowing
Like a mockery, and doubly arid
Shine the sand-hills of the lighthouse station,
Gold-tipped rise the broken lines of Wagner,
Looking down upon the desolation.
Shine the sand-hills of the lighthouse station,
Gold-tipped rise the broken lines of Wagner,
Looking down upon the desolation.
226
Yet we find upon these ruined ramparts,
Old embrasures of the cannon looming
Over them for shade, the legend-crowned
Chrismal passion-flowers, richly blooming
Old embrasures of the cannon looming
Over them for shade, the legend-crowned
Chrismal passion-flowers, richly blooming
All alone, more wonderful in beauty
On these sands of death, more gently tender
For their very loneliness; they grow here
Only for the dead, their purple splendour
On these sands of death, more gently tender
For their very loneliness; they grow here
Only for the dead, their purple splendour
Given him who has no other blossoms,
Marble-carven, or the living roses
By a churchyard-mound, the common soldier
Who beneath this sand somewhere reposes,
Marble-carven, or the living roses
By a churchyard-mound, the common soldier
Who beneath this sand somewhere reposes,
Throes of dying o'er. O flower of passion,
Flower of suffering, how fit to meet thee
On these pale wan shores of solemn silence,
Watching by the dead! We pause to greet thee,
Flower of suffering, how fit to meet thee
On these pale wan shores of solemn silence,
Watching by the dead! We pause to greet thee,
Thinking of the hour when each poor mortal
Buried here, the life that his Creator
Gave him for his own, did yield in anguish—
Yea, 'mid sins, could give a gift no greater
Buried here, the life that his Creator
Gave him for his own, did yield in anguish—
Yea, 'mid sins, could give a gift no greater
Were he saint or martyr! Shine on, flowerets,
Far the ships sail o'er the dusky ocean,
Far the world has gone away; ye only
Steadfast wait with Nature's still devotion;
Far the ships sail o'er the dusky ocean,
Far the world has gone away; ye only
Steadfast wait with Nature's still devotion;
And no flower had ever fairer mission,
Rose, or lily, blue-bell of the highland,
Than is thine, O lovely aureoled blossom,
Blooming here alone on Morris Island!
Rose, or lily, blue-bell of the highland,
Than is thine, O lovely aureoled blossom,
Blooming here alone on Morris Island!
272
CHARLES DICKENS.
CHRISTMAS 1870.
Ring out, O Bells, for merry, merry Christmas,
Down through the crowded street;
Let all the city chimes in pealing chorus
The Gloria repeat;
And sounding onward over hill and valley,
Buried beneath the snow,
Let village spires take up the joyful story,
Echoing to and fro.
Down through the crowded street;
Let all the city chimes in pealing chorus
The Gloria repeat;
And sounding onward over hill and valley,
Buried beneath the snow,
Let village spires take up the joyful story,
Echoing to and fro.
Bring in the evergreens, wreathe shining holly
With odorous dark pine,
Festoon the dim Cathedral's gothic arches,
The glittering organ twine;
Gather together round the glowing fireside,
The old, the grave, the gay,
And sing in carols how the holy Christ-child,
Was born on Christmas-day.
With odorous dark pine,
Festoon the dim Cathedral's gothic arches,
The glittering organ twine;
Gather together round the glowing fireside,
The old, the grave, the gay,
And sing in carols how the holy Christ-child,
Was born on Christmas-day.
But 'midst the chimes from cross-crowned steeples ringing,
The Christmas garlands green,
The children's voices joyous carols singing,
The merry household scene,
Forget not one who told the Christmas story
With matchless loving art,
“Peace and good-will to men” with tender glory
Filling his kindly heart.
The Christmas garlands green,
The children's voices joyous carols singing,
The merry household scene,
Forget not one who told the Christmas story
With matchless loving art,
“Peace and good-will to men” with tender glory
Filling his kindly heart.
Forget not one who hailed the Christmas season
In child-like faith and joy,
Sharing the festal song and merry frolics,
A laughing, grey-haired boy;
Forget not one, who yearly gave us legends
Through the long, happy past,
Each one exhaling spicy Christmas perfumes
More fragrant than the last.
In child-like faith and joy,
Sharing the festal song and merry frolics,
A laughing, grey-haired boy;
Forget not one, who yearly gave us legends
Through the long, happy past,
Each one exhaling spicy Christmas perfumes
More fragrant than the last.
The kindly heart is still; the voice is silent;
No more we wait to hear
The magic accents of the Great Enchanter,
The story-teller dear;
But from the stormy shore of dark Atlantic
To fair Pacific's wave
Thousands of hearts will send a Christmas blessing
To rest on Dickens' grave.
No more we wait to hear
The magic accents of the Great Enchanter,
The story-teller dear;
But from the stormy shore of dark Atlantic
To fair Pacific's wave
Thousands of hearts will send a Christmas blessing
To rest on Dickens' grave.
427
To GEORGE ELIOT.
O wondrous woman! shaping with thy penAs Michael Angelo did shape from stone,
Colossal forms of clear-cut outline, when
We dwell upon thy pages, not alone
The beauty of thy rose, we see, as finely traced
As roses drawn by other woman-hands
Who spend their lives in shaping them but faced
We find ourselves with giant's work that stands
Above us as a mountain lifts its brow,
Grand, unapproachable, yet clear in view
To lowliest eyes that upward look, Oh, how
Hast thou shed radiance as thy finger drew
Its shapes! A myriad women light have seen
And courage taken, because thou hast been.
599
[Clara—bright, illustrious]
Clara—bright, illustrious;
Benedict—a benediction.
May perpetual light shine on her ...
Benedict—a benediction.
May perpetual light shine on her ...
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 fair spring!
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 fair spring!
630
ON A HOMELY WOMAN, DEAD.
And hast thou served the purpose of thy life,Poor helpless clay, that many times did ask,
“Why was I born?” Not thine the daily task
Of direst Poverty that, with its strife
For bread, doth crush all faces to one mould
Of haggard care; nor thine the grace of age,
Which covereth all our lack with reverence
For silver hairs. No: in thy pilgrimage
Thou knewest always that all eyes did hold
Thee as a blot upon their loving sense
Of beauty: there was discord in the air
When thou passed by.
Thou couldst not ope thy mind,
Shed out a radiance, or compel the ear
To listen while the eye forgot; no kind
Relenting Fortune turned and gave thee wit
Or eloquence as compensation. Spare
And lean thy stores of pleasure through the years—
Some thanks, some small remembrance; thou didst sit
And gather thankfully a breath, a crumb
Of happiness thrown to thee, as the dumb
And patient dog doth wait. And if there came
One who professed to love thee, in thy shame
At thine own bitter sad deficiency,
Thou hatedst him for his dull mockery
Of love, when it was household need alone
That wanted thee. And if a kinder tone
Did sue, thou knewest, through thy hidden tears,
It was but pity, and thy pale cheek turned
Paler as thou saidst—no! Thy pulsing years,
That radiant should have been, have dimly burned
In their cramped darkened prison: couldst thou dream
Of love, of motherhood? Thou wouldst not take
The false for want of true, the gilt for gold,
The tinsel for the gem; so thou didst hold
Thy dreary life alone. And, for the sake
Of womanhood, thou wouldst not condescend
To things beneath thee; but didst ever seem
To walk with fixed endurance on thy brow
Through life, nor e'en look upward toward the end,
Lest thou shouldst lose the path that thou didst trace
In early years for all thy life.
O Face!
Poor homely Face, still, rigid, dead, and now
Soon to pass out forever from our sight
Beneath the sod, no more to vex the light,
Wert thou a mask? Then, oh! how fair must be
The face she weareth now, for wearing thee!
649
IN MEMORIAM.
G.S.B.
Gone! But we could not understand,
When broken voices said
That he was gone—we could not feel
That George, our George, was dead,
Until they brought him home, his hands crossed on his breast,
The kindly grey eyes closed, the noble heart at rest.
When broken voices said
That he was gone—we could not feel
That George, our George, was dead,
Until they brought him home, his hands crossed on his breast,
The kindly grey eyes closed, the noble heart at rest.
Home! He was hastening home, but in
One heart-beat, one quick breath,
One prayer, there met him, face to face,
The fiery form of Death
And caught his soul away. What wonder if we cried,
“Lord! If Thou hadst been there, our brother had not died!”
One heart-beat, one quick breath,
One prayer, there met him, face to face,
The fiery form of Death
And caught his soul away. What wonder if we cried,
“Lord! If Thou hadst been there, our brother had not died!”
So young, so beautiful, so strong,
So dearly, deeply prized;
So needed, trusted, leaned-upon,
So loved, so idolized—
Why was he called away, while we of little worth,
The useless and the weak, live on to cumber earth?
So dearly, deeply prized;
So needed, trusted, leaned-upon,
So loved, so idolized—
Why was he called away, while we of little worth,
The useless and the weak, live on to cumber earth?
How can we spare thee, George? How live
Through the long dreary hours
Without thee? As the cold white snow
Came down upon the flowers
We buried in thy grave, so cold grief over all
Our hearts and homes and lives came down—an icy pall.
Through the long dreary hours
Without thee? As the cold white snow
Came down upon the flowers
We buried in thy grave, so cold grief over all
Our hearts and homes and lives came down—an icy pall.
There is no comfort earth can give,
No consolation. None
Can hope for more than faith to say,
Thy will, O Lord, be done.
Help us to bear our part, as he did, in the strife—
Help us to follow after his pure, unselfish life.
No consolation. None
Can hope for more than faith to say,
Thy will, O Lord, be done.
Help us to bear our part, as he did, in the strife—
Help us to follow after his pure, unselfish life.
Then, when our pilgrimage is o'er,
When there are no more fears
Of parting, when the Lord Himself
Shall wipe away our tears,
When the grave gives up its dead, when Death is overcome,
George will be first to meet us, and bid us welcome home.
When there are no more fears
Of parting, when the Lord Himself
Shall wipe away our tears,
When the grave gives up its dead, when Death is overcome,
George will be first to meet us, and bid us welcome home.
650
PLUM'S PICTURE.
Red-golden hair with flossy wave,
Two blue eyes filled with wonder grave,
Cheeks tinted with rose-bloom,
Sweet coral mouth pursed up in awe,
For many fairy things she saw
Up in the artist's room;
From out the simple little dress
Bare in their baby loveliness,
Two rounded shoulders come,—
Two dimpled hands, so soft and fair,
Holding the flowers with folded care,
And there you have our Plum.
Two blue eyes filled with wonder grave,
Cheeks tinted with rose-bloom,
Sweet coral mouth pursed up in awe,
For many fairy things she saw
Up in the artist's room;
From out the simple little dress
Bare in their baby loveliness,
Two rounded shoulders come,—
Two dimpled hands, so soft and fair,
Holding the flowers with folded care,
And there you have our Plum.
O, darling Plum, your three short years,
Have held a charm to dry the tears
Of many mourning hearts,—
When dark the life, and deep the grief,
No words, no help, bring the relief
That baby-love imparts;
And, looking in your sunbeam face,
Watching your ways, your winsome grace,
Your little pleasures glad,—
Hearing your questions, baby-wise,
Your rippling talk, your gay surprise,
Who, who, can long be sad?
Have held a charm to dry the tears
Of many mourning hearts,—
When dark the life, and deep the grief,
No words, no help, bring the relief
That baby-love imparts;
And, looking in your sunbeam face,
Watching your ways, your winsome grace,
Your little pleasures glad,—
Hearing your questions, baby-wise,
Your rippling talk, your gay surprise,
Who, who, can long be sad?
Dear little Plum, we love to trace
Your likeness to another face,
A something hov'ring o'er
Your baby features, which recalls
A portrait hanging on our walls,
And brings him back once more;
Back to our life, as, in your eyes
We see the father's likeness rise,
His bright expression come,—
And of all loves our hearts confer,
We love you best because you were
His darling little Plum.
Your likeness to another face,
A something hov'ring o'er
Your baby features, which recalls
A portrait hanging on our walls,
And brings him back once more;
Back to our life, as, in your eyes
We see the father's likeness rise,
His bright expression come,—
And of all loves our hearts confer,
We love you best because you were
His darling little Plum.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |