Chapter 2

My people clutched at freedom.— Though others’ wills they chained,— But made the Law and kept it,— And Beauty, they restrained.

Then why am I a rebel To laws of rule and square? Why would I dream and dally, Or, reckless, do and dare?

O righteous, solemn Grandsires, O dames, correct and mild, Who bred me of your virtues! Whence comes this changing child?—

The thirteenth generation,— Unlucky number this!— My grandma loved a Pirate, And all my faults are his!

A gallant, ruffled rover, With beauty-loving eye, He swept Colonial waters Of coarser, bloodier fry.

He waved his hat to danger, At Law he shook his fist. Ah, merrily he plundered, He sang and fought and kissed!

Though none have found his treasure, And none his part would take,— I bless that thirteenth lady Who chose him for my sake!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

CANDLEMAS

O hearken, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow.

O furry living things, adream On winter’s drowsy breast, (How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) Arise and follow where a gleam Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, And all the woodland windings seem With sweet expectance blest.

My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May’s soft minions hereward fly, Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, The tawny, shining coat!

ALICE BROWN

SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN

O swift forerunners, rosy with the race! Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest Behind your blushing banners in the sky, Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground, How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, Each to be first in heralding of joy!

With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, And so they stand, with silence panoplied, Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, Their solemn invocation to the light.

O changeless guardians! O ye wizard first! What strenuous philter feeds your potency. That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness, Ready to learn of all and utter naught? What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite To odorous hot lendings of the heart? What wind-but all the winds are yet afar, And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet To pluck the robe of patient majesty.

Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm. And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn,

And all night thrills with memory and desire, Searching in what has been for what shall be: The marvel of the ne’er familiar day, Sacred investiture of life renewed, The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. Low in the valley lies the conquered rout Of man’s poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, One great good limpid world—so still, so still! For no sound echoes from its crystal curve Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, And has no heart to finish, for the awe And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn.

Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face! Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! Mighty libation to the Unknown God! Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst And little leaves drink sweet delirium! Being and breath and potion! living soul And all-informing heart of all that lives! How can we magnify thine awful name Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light! An exhalation from far sky retreats, It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create, Suffusing all the dusky web of night. But one lone corner it invades not yet, Where low above a black and rimy crag Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.

But lo! the east,—let none forget the east, Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. Through some sweet magic common in the skies, The rosy banners are with saffron tinct; The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, And led by silence more majestical Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.

ALICE BROWN

BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE

Burnt are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust. Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that open the budding to-morrow. Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the Gods have not broken to borrow— Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity’s dust.

ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT

FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI

Fresh mists of Roman dawn; For water search the cattle; Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd’s horn Above fountain Giulia’s prattle.

Triton, joyous and loud Of Naiads summons troops; A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, Dancing, pursuing groups.

At high noon the trumpets peal, Neptune’s chariot passes by; Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi’s jets heal Then trumpets’ echoes sigh.

Tolling bell and sunset, Twittering birds and calm; Medici’s fountain, shimmering net, Into the night brings balm.

JESSICA CARR

IN THE TROLLEY CAR

The swart Italian in the trolley car, Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed.

One Raphael-boy slipped from his father’s knee, Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, She turned away, and would not hear his plea, She turned away, and would not even speak.

With trembling lips the child crept back again To the warm shelter of his father’s breast; We looked indignant pity, for till then We thought that mother-love bore every test.

We rose to go, the father-mother said, In deep, low tones, “Don’t t’inka hard you bet The younges’ was too-seeck, and he is dead, She will be alla right, when she forget.”

When she forgets! “Great-Heart,” hold closer yet Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack! Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, When the warm tides of love come surging back.

RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY

IN IRISH RAIN

The great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat.

And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech—they call to me how oft!

They mind me just a slip o’ girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day With little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-laughing down the way.

There’s fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again—I’ll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o’ Monagan’s a-singing in the rain.

MARTHA HASKELL CLARK

CRETONNE TROPICS

The cretonne in your willow chair Shows through a zone of rosy air, A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, With blue-green crests and plumes of pride And beaks most formidably curved. I hear the river, silver-nerved, To their shrill protests make reply, And the palm forest stir and sigh.

Curious, the spell that colors cast, Binding the fancy coweb-fast, And you would smile if you could know I like your cretonne parrots so! But I have seen them sail toward night Superbly homeward, the last light Lifting them like a purple sea Scorned and made use of arrogantly; And I have heard them cry aloud From out a tall palm’s emerald cloud; And I brought home a brilliant feather, Lost like a flake of sunset weather.

Here in the north the sea is white And mother-of-pearl in morning light, Quite lovely, but there is a glare That daunts me.

Now the willow chair Suggests a more perplexing sea, Till my heart aches with memory And parrots dye the air around, And I forget the pallid Sound.

GRACE HAZARD

TO HILDA OF HER ROSES

Enough has been said about roses To fill thirty thick volumes; There are as many songs about roses As there are roses in the world That includes Mexico … the Azores … Oregon…

It is a pity your roses Are too late for Omar… It is a pity Keats has gone…

Yet there must be something left to say Of flowers like these! Adventurers, They pushed their way Through dewy tunnels of the June night Now they confer…. A little tremulous…. Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning

If Herrick would tiptoe back… If Blake were to look this way Ledwidge, even!

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

DANDELION

O Little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight!

HILDA CONKLING

RED ROOSTER

Red rooster in your gray coop, O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, Yellow and black, You have a comb gay as a parade On your head: You have pearl trinkets On your feet: The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don’t know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud… sharp… not beautiful!

HILDA CONKLING

VELVETS (BY A BED OF PANSIES)

This pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots; I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness; She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting, Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. I know you, Velvets, Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!

HILDA CONKLING

THE MOODS

The Moods have laid their hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart; My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,— A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book Of little verses, or a dancing child. My heart turns crying from the rose and book, My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair, And made my heart too wise, that was a child.

Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: I shall desire all things that may not be: The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,— Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, And holy things, and outcast things, and things, Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain.

My pity and my joy are grown alike. I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart.

FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS

HILL-FANTASY

Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the sun, A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale.

I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering; No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing, Peakèd ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue.

Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool! Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds, Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool!

He had berries ’twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal., Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to chase and steal Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low!

I said “Good-day, Thou!” He said, “Good-day, Thou!” Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back, He said, “Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now. While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack.”

Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn. Broad into my face laughed that hornèd Thing so naughtily. Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr’s bairn!

So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look! Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So! Soon ’twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost brook. Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!”

Brown One! Hoofèd One! Beat time to keep me straight. Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear. Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold thy breath, for—wait! Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe, oh, hear!

Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us? Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow? Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous. Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow.

Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe, Now? Chipmunk chatt’ring in the beech, rabbit in the brake? Furry arm around my neck: “Oh, Thou art a brave one, Thou!” Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache!

Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous, Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade, Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us, Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid!

Brown One, Hoofèd One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou! Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail! Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were on my brow Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail?

Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand-touch, Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek! “Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too much. I could never find thee horns, though day-long I seek.

“Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one. Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear. Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun! Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear!

“Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears thee! Take the pipe and go thy ways,—quick now, for the sun Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea. Take the pipe, and oh-one kiss! then run, run, run! run!”

Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn, All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray. O thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr’s bairn? I am lost and all alone, and down drops the day.

I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering There I got this Pipe o’ dreams. Strange, when I blow, Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling. Is it only sky-music, earth-music low?

FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS

THE MIRAGE

Across the Bay are low-lying cliffs, Where stand fishermen’s cottages: I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye. But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt, Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible, And those sordid dwellings have become The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings.

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE

THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN

A road goes up a pleasant hill, And a little house looks down: Ah! but I see the roadway still And the day I left the town.

The day I left my father’s home, It’s many a year ago, And a heart and hope were brave to roam the long, long road I know.

The long, long road by hill and plain, It’s tired the heart might be: But hope stayed bright in sun or rain, And a Voice that called to me.

A Voice that called me over the hill And out of the little town: Ah! but I see the roadway still. And the good house looking down.

The house that spake me never a No! As I started brave away, But said with a blessing, Go! And followed me every day.

It followed me down the road of years, For a father’s heart is true, And joy is sweet in a mother’s tears For the deeds her child may do.

The poor little deeds, all powerless For the Kingdom of God would be, Save in His mercy will He bless The road that goes with me:

The road that left a pleasant hill, Where a little house looks down: Ah! but I bless the roadway still, And the land beyond the town.

MICHAEL EARLS, S.J.

THE LILAC

The scent of lilac in the air Hath made him drag his steps and pause Whence comes this scent within the Square, Where endless dusty traffic roars? A push-cart stands beside the curb, With fragrant blossoms laden high; Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb His sudden reverie!

He sees us not, nor heeds the din Of clanging car and scuffling throng; His eyes see fairer sights within, And memory hears the robin’s song As once it trilled against the day, And shook his slumber in a room Where drifted with the breath of May The lilac’s sweet perfume.

The heart of boyhood in him stirs; The wonder of the morning skies, Of sunset gold behind the firs, Is kindled in his dreaming eyes: How far off is this sordid place, As turning from our sight away He crushes to his hungry face A purple lilac spray.

WALTER PRICHARD EATON

GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE

God, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, Though man in opposition saith me nay, And taketh from my heart its life to-day, As through the valley of the world I rove. Still unaccompanied, within the grove That doth enamored beings hold at play, My spirit must pursue its lonely way, And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above. Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire To have that which mankind may not possess, And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire, And live in one perpetual distress? Some evil power must such love inspire, And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!

CHARLES GIBSON

TO MUSIC

“Music, the language, the atmosphere of the Soul.”

Fly back where Melodies like lilies grow, My weary heart is bending low;

Fly higher yet to joyful realms above, Where holy Angels dwell in love.

Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng And bring to me their Glory-song:

Ah Music, thou and I above the World May dwell where heaven with shining song is pearled!

While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll I’ll love thee, Music, language of my soul!

Music-lark from on high, song that doth fly, Spark of the sky!

MAUDE GORDON-ROBY

THE VOICE IN THE SONG

High in the apple bough jauntily swinging, Hid by the branches in bridal array, Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing, Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay. “Sweet, sweet, my sweet, Hear I entreat! Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather, Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest! Have no fear! Trust me, dear! Sunshine of May that will gild every day Pledge I to thee if thou’lt harken to me.”

Lo! in the light thro’ the gay branches streaming, Quivering in answer to all the bird sings, Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gleaming, Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings. “Dear, on thy breast Earth yields its best! Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing, Pleading and strong in the voice of the song, Whisper low,—Yes, just so!— Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling, Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire.”

MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON

HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE

I

MOUNT CARMEL

Where art Thou, O my Lord? Mount Carmel saw the throng Of priests and heard the song; To Baal was their call— From morn till night did fall.

Where art Thou, O my Lord? Again Mount Carmel heard Not in the spoken word, Not in the earthquake’s shock, Not in the rending rock

Where art Thou, O my Lord? The still voice softly speaks; Each soul it swiftly seeks Not in the thunder roll, But in the inmost soul.

II

VESPER HYMN

Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night, To keep us till the morning light; And let no vision of alarm Come near to do Thy children harm

Within Thy circling arms we lie, O God, in Thine infinity; Our souls in quiet shall abide Beset with love on every side.

III

THIS IS THAT BREAD

This is that Bread that came down from Heaven, he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever.

Bread on which angels feed, Bread for the spirit’s need By faith receiving, New life do Thou impart, New strength to every heart, Pure love of God Thou art To us believing.

IV

O SLOW OF HEART

O slow of heart to believe! Ought Christ not to have suffered these things and to enter into His Glory?

Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart, Touch my eyes that they may see, Let me know Thee as Thou art. Life and Immortality.

V

ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS

All hail to Thee, child Jesus! As the brooding darkness flies At the swift approach of day, Sun of righteousness, arise, Chase the gloom of night away. Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, And build in every heart Thy throne.

Come to shed Thy healing balm On all nations of the earth, Child Jesus, come with holy calm, How we hail thy wondrous birth. Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own, And build in every heart Thy throne. All hail to Thee, Child Jesus!

VI

THE WINE-PRESS

Who is this that comes from Edom In such glorious array, With his festal garments gleaming, Travelling on his royal way With a face majestic, calm and grave? I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save.

Why is thy apparel crimson, Why is all thy garments’ pride Stained as in the time of vintage And with blood-red-color dyed? Because of helpers I had none— I have trodden the wine-press alone.

VII

WAKEN, SHEPHERDS!

(Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! (Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken; Whence this glowing light? Ere the dawn of morning, Solemn signs of warning Portent of affright!

(Angels) Courage, Shepherds, courage! Banish your dismay, or ye all are saved. In the town of David Christ is born to-day.

(Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken, Hear the angels sing! Jehovah sends a token, He himself hath spoken To proclaim our King.

(Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten, This shall be your sign; Where the kine are stabled, In a manger cradled Lies the Child Divine.

(Shepherds and Angels) Angels, Shepherds, People, Shout the glad refrain! Joy to every nation Bringing full salvation, Christ has come to reign. Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!

CAROLINE HAZARD

REUBEN ROY

Little fellow, brown with wind— I saw him in the street Peering at numbers on the posts, But most discreet:

For when a woman came outdoors, Or slyly peeped instead, He turned away, took off his hat, And scratched his head.

I watched him from my garden-wall Perhaps an hour or more, For something in his attitude, The clothes he wore,

Awoke the dimmest memories Of when I was a boy And knew the story of a man Named Reuben Roy.

It seems that Reuben went to sea The night his wife decried The fence he built before their house And up the side.

He wanted it but she did not, Because it hid from view The spot in which her mignonette And tulips grew.

Nobody saw his face again, But each year, unawares, He sent a sum for taxes due— And fence repairs.

My curiosity aroused, I sauntered forth to see Whether this individual Were really he.