Part 2

Dost thou know what is coming? In thine eyes, That seem to look afar, Where God’s own secrets are, There grows a kindling wonder and surprise. Thou art mine Holy One, Yet, though high heaven be won, I am thy mother! Smile upon me, sweet, Here at thy feet!

THREE CROSSES

There were three crosses on the hill, Three shadows downward thrown; O Mary Mother, heard you not The other mothers’ moan?

Your Son--he was the Holy One Whom angels comforted; They touched his lips with heavenly wine In those dark hours of dread!

For him all nature mourned; the sun Veiled its resplendent face; Darkness and tumult for his sake Filled all the awful space.

And you--the sword that pierced your heart Grave prophets had foretold; You saw the crown above the cross, Clear shining as of old!

O Mary Mother, sitting now Enthroned beside your Son, You knew even then the glorious end For which the deed was done!

You saw the ages bending low In homage at his feet; You heard the songs of triumph, And the music piercing sweet.

Three crosses on dark Calvary’s hill, Three awful shadows thrown; Three mothers, faint with anguish sore, Making to God their moan.

But they, those other mothers, who Bent down to comfort them? They cowered afar; they had not dared To touch your garment’s hem.

Even if in mockery, your Son Was crowned and hailed as king; While theirs--disgraced, dishonored they, Past all imagining!

They loved like you; their sons had lain Like yours in sinless rest, Cradled to slumber, soft and deep, On each fond, faithful breast.

Yet now the terror and the shame, The agony untold, The deathless mother-love, unquenched By horrors manifold!

Three crosses on the dreadful hill, Three shadows downward thrown; Mother of Sorrows, thou hast borne Not one sharp pang alone!

ON THE HEIGHT

Like some great Merlin of an elder day, In robes of glistening samite clasped with pearl, White-haired, white-bearded, self-contained, and lone, Thy radiant forehead lifted to the skies, Majestic in pure splendor, thou dost sit, Monarch of mountains, while the lesser kings,-- Only less kingly than thyself,--as if In some high presence-chamber, proudly wait, On either hand, the setting of the sun. Far in the kindling west the globe of fire Sinks slowly out of sight. The rich clouds fade; The glory dies; earth shivers and is still. Behold! thou too art growing gray with eld When the swift afterglow, like living flame, Crowns thee with rubies, wraps thee in soft robes Pink-white and tender as blush roses are, And thou art beautiful as love’s young dream! What though the fair dream vanish as it came? Lo! as I gaze with half-suspended breath, The heavens open, and above thy brow Jupiter blazes in the darkening skies, Brightest of all thy diadem of stars.

Winter and silence and fast-gathering night! Dost thou remember--thou who now no more Answerest by word or token to my cry-- Dost thou remember one fair summer eve, Long, long ago, ere winter nights came down, When thou and I scaled yon far mountain height, And climbed its highest peak, and stood alone, Hand clasped in hand, heart beating close to heart, Poised between earth and sky? Beneath us rolled, Like ocean waves when all the winds are still, Billows of verdure to the horizon’s verge; Green, dimpled valleys, interlaced with streams; Fair silver lakes, all tremulous with stars; And multitudinous mountains, far and near, Encompassing the whole. All this we saw, Then turned and saw each other--which was more!

WHEN SPENSER DIED

Thus spake my Lord of Essex on the day When, after woful stress, rare Spenser died: “Now give ye heed, my lieges! Ye shall lay My Spenser forth in splendor and in pride, With rich array of banners floating wide, And pomp of sable plumes, and scutcheons fair. Let kind Death yield him what stern Life denied! Then bear him to the abbey’s holy air, That he the sepulchre of buried kings may share!”

They laid him forth. Then up the mighty nave, Hung with rich tapestries that to and fro Waved softly in the scented air, all brave With dim, historic splendors, to the flow Of rolling music, tremulous and slow, With solemn liturgies and chantings clear, Through the vast arches echoing soft and low, They bore him onward to the silence drear, While kings and priests of song walked by his stately bier.

With tender hands the velvet pall they bore, Wrought with rich arabesques of silver sheen, Its silver fringes sweeping the dark floor Of the gray, pillared aisles they moved between; Nor paused until, with proud yet reverent mien, Where Chaucer slept they lowered him to his rest; Then gently dropped into the void unseen Odes, for spring flowers, to die upon his breast In fragrant, voiceless speech, that still their love confessed.

And, ere they left him to his long repose, Into the brooding dark each poet cast The pen his verse was writ with. Ah! who knows? The years are silent, and the hoary past; And Fame’s far trump hath no resounding blast Heralding name or state. Yet make ye room, O mighty shades, for one, the first and last And mightiest of ye all! In Spenser’s tomb Mayhap our Shakespeare’s pen yet lights the murky gloom!

LOOKING TOWARD SPAIN

I stand on a rocky headland Far out in the deep blue main, And only its tremulous splendor Lies between me and Spain.

Behind me the pine-tree forest, Singing the old refrain; Before, the exulting billows And the far dreamland of Spain.

On the red rocks dash the breakers; Their spray is a blinding rain; My hair is wet with the sea-foam, But the wind blows straight from Spain.

Hark to the roar and the tumult And the cries like a soul in pain! But beyond is the calm and the silence, And the beautiful land of Spain.

Afar, on the dim horizon, I watch with a yearning vain Yon fair ship gallantly sailing Straight on to the ports of Spain.

And it’s oh, for the splendid castles, And the light on tower and fane, And the mystical, magical glory Of the marvellous realm of Spain!

Night falls on the rocky headland As day and its splendors wane, While o’er the dark waters the moonlight Is building a bridge to Spain.

But I think with an infinite longing Of the hopes that no longer reign, Of the dreams that are past fulfilment, Unless on thy shores, O Spain!

INSTALLATION HYMN

Sing aloud, O happy voices! Fill the air with joyful praise, While each grateful heart rejoices In the gift that crowns our days.

Sing for joy, but let your singing To the heights of prayer upreach; To thy throne, O God, are winging Thoughts too vast for human speech.

Yet for him whom thou hast sent us Now with yearning hearts we pray; Keep thou him whom thou hast lent us, Father, near to thee alway.

When his heart grows faint and weary, Strengthen him with heavenly wine; If his path grows dark or dreary, Lighten it with light divine.

When the spirit, Lord, is willing, Though the shrinking heart is weak, Let thy voice, all tempests stilling, Blessèd words of comfort speak.

When he kneels beside our dying, When he lays our dead away, In our anguish and our crying, Teach thou him what words to say.

When before thy holy altar He shall pour the sacred wine, Let his strong hand never falter, Holding fast to hand of thine.

Now on pastor and on people, Lord, thy fullest blessing pour, While the bell from out the steeple Rings in peace forevermore.

THE SACRAMENTAL HYMN

“And when they had sung a hymn, they went out unto the Mount of Olives.”

Oh, to have heard that hymn Float through the chamber dim, Float through that “upper room,” Hushed in the twilight gloom! Up the dark, starry skies Rolled the deep harmonies;-- Angels who heard the strain, How ran the high refrain?

How rose the holy song? Triumphant, clear, and strong, As a glad bird uplift Over the wild sea-drift? Or was its liquid flow Tremulous, sad, and slow-- Presage and prophecy Of lone Gethsemane?

Was it a lofty psalm, Foretelling crown and palm? Soared it to heights of prayer On the still, vibrant air? When the last feast was spread, And the last words were said, Sang the Lord Christ the hymn In the old chamber dim?

LESSONS TWAIN

Just two things you knew, Little one who flew Like a dove to heaven One fair summer even: Love and pain. These two Held Life’s lore for you!

Child, do we know more? Earth for you is o’er; All that it hath brought you, All that it hath taught you; Lessons twain for thee-- How much more know we?

OUTLIVED

Not alone the trembling stars Glimmering through their cloudy bars; Not alone yon mountain height Firm in adamantine might; Not alone the rolling seas Dread with awful mysteries; Nor the green earth, lying fair Under smiling depths of air; Nor the lofty towers that man, Strong to do and wise to plan, Hath reared proudly, stone by stone, To the heavens--not these alone Have outlived thee, thou whose dust Earth hath held in sacred trust, While a century hath shed Countless blooms above thy head. Thou art dust, but toys remain Fragile as a daisy-chain; Trifles light as thistle-down Or the dandelion’s crown! Here’s the cup that held your wine, Frail and flower-like, thin and fine; Here’s the beaker whose slight rim Reddened when you kissed the brim; Here’s the glass that held your face Mirrored in its curving grace; Linen wrought with dainty care; Laces delicate as air; Letters where your name is set, Holding subtle fragrance yet;-- Thou art dust, while toys remain Fragile as a daisy-chain!

JACQUES AND SUZETTE

There you sit in a niche together, Out of the reach of wind and weather, Looking down on a fierce bronze dragon, A cloisonné vase, and a gilded flagon, The opal gleam of a Venice glass, A chamois climbing an Alpine pass, An ivory boat from far Japan, An odorous flask from Ispahan, And a host of things-- Trifles that last while Life takes wings!

O chère Suzette, what years have flown Since you and Jacques were together thrown, And loved and quarrelled, and loved again-- The old, old fate of dames and men! But there you sit in your carven shrine, With never a thought of me or mine, Even though beset By your great-great-grandchildren, belle Suzette!

Puffed and powdered your golden hair Gleaming under the rose you wear, One long, loose curl drooping low Over your bosom’s tender snow; Arching eyebrows, and smiling lips Red as the rose the wild bee sips-- Thus, even yet, I see and I know you, chère Suzette!

White puffed sleeves and a fall of lace, Lending your figure girlish grace; Purple bodice that gems bedeck; A string of amethysts round your neck; Plenty of furbelows to show How you plumed your gay wings long ago, Lady Suzette, In the days when youth and pleasure met.

But, Grand-père Jacques, with your curled brown wig, And your broad white kerchief, trim and trig, Out of which rises your shaven chin, With your delicate lips and your nostrils thin, And a certain self-confident, high-bred air, Smiling and gallant and debonair-- I wonder yet If she made your heart ache, this Suzette?

Or perhaps, monsieur, ’twas the other way; For she was jealous and you were gay, And under that frill of falling snow A passionate heart beat warm, I know. Dear Grand-père Jacques, I doubt if you Were undeniably good and true; Did you make her fret, Though you called her gently, “Ma chère Suzette”?

Ye do not answer, O smiling lips! From the silent past no answer slips. Quaint letters more than a century old Hint at romances that might be told; But dust and ashes are all who knew How life fared on between you two, Jacques and Suzette, Or how its warp and its woof were set.

Nay, nay, dear hearts, I will vex you not; Be your loves, or glad or sad, forgot! Keep ye your secrets an you will, Sitting up yonder calm and still, Side by side in a niche together, Out of the reach of stormy weather, And whispering yet, “Mon ami Jacques!” “Ma chère Suzette!”

AT BAR HARBOR

“Peace be within thy walls!” the prophet cried In far Jerusalem when time was young; O steadfast tower the changeful sea beside, What sweeter words were ever said or sung!

Peace to thy walls! I cry with him of old; Peace that no storm disturbs, no tempest mars; May each glad morning bring to thee its gold, Each tranquil night its benison of stars!

And peace to her, of this fair realm the queen, Who bade thee rise where rolls the blue salt sea; Give her thy strength, ye spires of living green, Thy deathless joy, O Ocean, wild and free!

HUBERT DE BURGH

“Make ready my war-ships,” cried Blanche of Castile; “Make them stanch and well ordered from topmast to keel; Then over the Channel in haste bid them dance, Bearing aid to my Louis, fair Louis of France!”

There were eighty good ships, but with forty or less Brave Hubert de Burgh dared the storm and the stress; At the mouth of the Thames he encountered them all, Overcame the proud Frenchmen and held them in thrall.

He sent Louis home with his lilies all torn, His banners all drooping, his glory all shorn; And the bold English barons made haste to declare That Hubert de Burgh royal honors should share.

But alack and alas! for one dark day there rose A clashing, a clamor, a tumult of foes, Crying, “Death to Earl Hubert! With magical art And unholy spells he hath won the king’s heart!”

Straightway to the altar then fled he, and laid His hand on the cross, as of old on his blade; But fast his foes followed, like wolves on the track, When the aisles of the forest with shadows are black!

They stayed not for candle, for book, nor for bell, For the holy rood’s chrism, the crosier’s high spell; From the chancel they dragged him forth into the night, While the stars veiled their faces and fled from the sight.

With clashing of broadswords above his bare head, They haled and they harried him, sorely bestead, Till they reached a brown smithy afar on the green, Two pendulous, wide-spreading lindens between.

Then they cried to the blacksmith, with jeer and with shout: “Ho, varlet! from this your grim fortress come out, And forge us some fetters both heavy and strong,-- Chain-armor for one who shall wear it full long!”

Forth came the swart yeoman, and bent a low knee, But not to that wild crew obeisance made he! He knelt to Earl Hubert and kissed his cold hand, Then rose and confronted the murderous band.

“If I forge ye one bolt for Earl Hubert, who drave The French from our land and their ships from the wave, May my strong arm be palsied, my hand lose its skill. I have but one life; take it now an ye will!”

They thundered and cursed, but unflinching he stood, As with courage undaunted he faced the mad brood; And to every fierce menace one answer he gave: “I forge ye no fetters for Hubert the brave!”

No chains for brave Hubert! The night wore away. Birds twittered, mists lifted, the morning grew gray, Ere, sullenly leaving the smithy’s low door, To the Tower, but unfettered, Earl Hubert they bore.

CHRISTIANA

She is wayworn, she is weary; She hath journeyed long and far, In the dawning, and at noonday, And beneath the evening star.

She hath carried heavy burdens; She hath borne another’s load; She hath shared her herbs and lentils With those fainting on the road.

Take her scrip and loose her sandals; Bring cool water for her feet; Lave her tired limbs, and fold them In fair linen, fresh and sweet.

Part the soft hair on her forehead; Lightly touch the drifted snow, That was like the golden sunshine In rare summers long ago.

Whisper softly, for she sleepeth! Lay her pale hands on her breast. Do not wake her! Lift her gently, Lest you break this perfect rest.

Bear her to the upper chamber; Let the sound of weeping cease; For it looketh toward the sunrise, And the chamber’s name is--_Peace_.

THE CHAMBER

Room where I so oft have slept, Room where I so oft have wept, Room wherein my dead have lain, Wrapped away from care and pain, When my earthly day is done, Burdens dropped and rest begun, Life and thought and being fled-- Who will love thee in my stead?

Who will make thee fair and sweet, Bid the sun thy casements greet, Open all thy windows fair To the incense-laden air? From the garden bring the rose, And at daylight’s dreamy close See the moon’s pale splendor fall On the chamber’s inmost wall?

I would charm thee, if I could, Unto all that’s bright and good, For her sake who after me Sometime shall find rest in thee. I would weave a spell so rare-- Half a rhyme and half a prayer-- That nor grief nor pain nor sin Through thy doors should enter in!

If she dreameth maiden dreams, Be they calm as sunlit streams; If in some far, golden year A young mother shall lie here With a fair child on her breast, Cradled into softest rest, Lo! I charge thee, for my sake, Holy care of her to take!

If some woman, half dismayed, Here shall see her beauty fade, See a shadow slowly pass O’er her image in the glass, Comfort her, I pray thee! Spread Wings of peace above her head; Bid thine angels guard to keep Over her, the while I sleep!

“IN MANUS TUAS, DOMINE!”

The glow has faded from the west, The splendor from the mountain’s crest; Stern Day’s relentless task is done, And Nature rests at set of sun. But ere she shuts her weary eyes, Soothed as by airs of Paradise, She softly prays on bended knee, “_In manus tuas, Domine!_”

O silent hours, how dear ye are! There is no light of moon or star; The twilight shadows slowly creep From rock to rock, from steep to steep; The trees stand breathless on the hill, The restless winds are hushed and still; Only one prayer from land and sea: “_In manus tuas, Domine!_”

And, O my soul, be sure when night In God’s good time puts out the light, And draws the curtains soft and dim Round weary head and heart and limb, You will be glad! But ere you go To sleep that no rude dreams shall know, Be this prayer said for you and me: “_In manus tuas, Domine!_”

THE CITY CALLED CHU

There’s a brave little captain goes sailing Day by day o’er an ocean blue. “Whither bound?” I demand, and he answers: “I sail for the city called Chu!”

’Tis a wonderful ship that he sails in, And ’tis manned by a wonderful crew, But all tides that flow bear it onward To the ports of the city called Chu.

It hath masts mortal hand never fashioned; It hath sails earthly winds never blew; And its keel and its rudder know only The way to the city called Chu.

Oh, tell me, my brave little captain, So ready to dare and to do, What you find when you reach the fair city-- The marvellous city called Chu?

Hath it temples and turrets and towers That soar to its skies of pure blue? Hath it far-leaping splendor of fountains-- This beautiful city called Chu?

Hath it mystical, magical rivers? Hath it roses that bloom the year through? Hath it glamour of moonlight and starlight, The love-haunted city called Chu?

Are its clear, silver bells ever chiming? Hath it voices that call but to you? Is there magic of music and laughter In the halls of the city called Chu?

Sail on, oh, sail on, little captain, So ready to dare and to do. What is there this side of high heaven So fair as your city called Chu?

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE HEMLOCK

Ye say I am old--I am old; and ye threaten to hew me down, Lest the roof of your puny dwelling should be crushed by my heavy crown; Ye measure my spreading branches, ye mock me with idle fears!-- Ye pygmies that creep at my foot-stool, what know ye of age, or years?

I reckon ye all as shadows! Ye are but as clouds that pass Over the face of the mountains and over the meadow-grass; Your generations are phantoms; like wraiths they come and go, Leaving no trace behind them in the paths they used to know!

But I!--For six hundred rolling years I have stood like a watch-tower, I! I have counted the slow procession of centuries circling by! I have looked at the sun unblenching; I have numbered the midnight stars; Nor quailed when the fiery serpent leaped from its cloudy bars!

Or ever ye were a nation, or your commonwealth was born, I stood on this breezy hilltop, fronting the hills of morn, In the strength of my prime uplifting my head above meaner things, Till only the strong winds reached it, or the wild birds’ sweeping wings!

It was mine to know when the white man ventured the unknown seas, And silence fled before him, and the forest mysteries; I saw his towers and steeples that pierced the unfathomed sky, And his domes that darkened the heavens--but above them all soared I!

He builded his towns and cities, and his mansions fine and fair, And slowly his fertile meadows grew wide in the tranquil air; He stretched his iron pathways from the mountains to the sea-- But little cared I for his handiwork! ’Twas the one great God made me!

The Earth and the Sun and the mighty Winds, and the great God over all, These bade me stand like a sentinel on the hilltop grand and tall. Know ye that a hundred years ago men called me old and worn? Yet here I tower above their graves, and laugh them all to scorn!

For what are threescore years and ten, ye creatures of a day? Ye are to me like the flying motes that in the sunshine play! Shall I tremble because ye threaten and whisper that I am old? I will die of my own free, lordly will, ere the year has shed its gold!

But till then, as I stood or ever the land of your love was born, I will stand erect on my hilltop, fronting the hills of morn, In the pride of mine age uplifting my head above meaner things, Till only the strong winds reach it, or the wild birds’ sweeping wings!

FOR A CHRISTENING

Blow softly, winds of the South! Skies of the South, bend low! Sparkle, ye radiant waters, In the sunset’s tender glow!

Keep watch and ward, O palm-trees! Oaks, spread your branches wide! O sentinel pine-trees, let your strength Like the strength of the hills abide!