Part 11

Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate, If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait— Escape from censure and gibe and hate. For an eye like his will a goal pursue So far in advance of his time and its view, That only the march of an age, forsooth, Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth. But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earth Will live in his light and know of his worth. And many and many will be the men Who move on then, And about them find The scenes that he in his day divined, Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh, And feel he is leading, and never can die. This man of the monument lived like that. Men cheer him now; but of old they sat In judgment against him; while, far away From the place where they had chosen to stay, He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoar Ere one whom he knew had begun to explore, Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van, He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man.

VIII.

Yet now are justice and judgment one. That statue glows in the gleam of the sun, Amid drumming and trumpeting, chorus and song, The praise of the speaker, the shout of the throng, Throned white o’er the waving of plumes and of flags That surge to its base as a sea to her crags. Now cheer we the monument, capp’d and clear’d, So cheer we the man for whom it is rear’d.

IX.

What? cheer we the man? No doubt, in youth There were times when the joy in his heart overran At a smile from one who knew him in truth; There were times, years later, when merely a tear From a grateful eye Would have seem’d more dear Than all the glitter that gold could buy; But, alas! in age, when character stands As fix’d as yon monument, then it demands, Ere aught can move it, far more, far more Than the cheer or the sigh that had stirr’d it of yore. Not oft, nor till ages of suns and storms Have wrought with the verdure in earthly forms, Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay. But often on earth The owners of worth That men image in marble grow stony, that way. Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friend And turn from—beware, beware in the end, Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you. O world, when ready your hero to cheer, How heeds he your welcome? say, what does he do? His eye, does it see? his ear, does it hear? His heart, does it throb? his pulse, does it thrill? Or his touch, is it cold? his clasp, is it chill?— O world, you have waited long; what have you done? O man, you have wrought so long; what have you won?—

X.

That monument there, So high, so fair, That throne of light for the man who led, Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead.

XI.

And he himself—did he know it all? Had he look’d, in his youth, Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth? Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts From winter and spring into summer and fall? Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts, Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife, And a glorified name to a sacrificed life? Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love, Best open the soul to breathe in from above The air immortal, and make it worth while That art should chisel in marble clear The lines divine that temper a smile Beyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?— Did he know it or not, perchance for his good His work was lonely and misunderstood. Perchance it was well, the best for the soul, Its nature, its nurture, that aught to control The aims inspiring his life or its plan Had gain’d but little from earth or man.

UNDER THE NEW MOON.

The hills rang back our parting jest; The dear, dear day was over; The sun had sunk below the west; We walk’d home through the clover. Our words were gay, but thought astray Our parting kept regretting,— “The old old way!” would seem to say; “The suns are ever setting.” Then, gazing back with longing soon, At once my step grew bolder; For, bright and new, I spied the moon Just over my right shoulder.

I turn’d about and bade her look; We were not superstitious; We jok’d about that shining hook, Bright bait, and skies auspicious. We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe, “This bright bait lures me only,— Like more before it, comes to go, And leave life dark and lonely. Past yon horizon, things are strewn With broken moons,” I told her: “Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon, When over my right shoulder.

“Alas to trust in each new light, A man were moonstruck, surely,— A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright, And then look’d back demurely. Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zone Made full hope’s crescent new one. I thought, “Would my old love, made known, Prove hope of love a true one?— What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon, And took her hand to hold her. “Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moon Is over my right shoulder.”

ALL IN ALL.

Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow, Nor rouse the waves’ commotion. Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low: My love sails o’er the ocean.

Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise; The yawl will find it stormy. Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.— My love is waiting for me.

Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown, Who cares for wave or weather? My love, my own! no more alone, We walk the shore together.

NOTHING AT ALL.

So many eyes that dim tears fill, That a glance of love could clear; So many ears, all sad and still, That a sigh of love could cheer;

So many hearts that are beating to greet Love that will heed no sign; So many lips that are parting to meet Love that is air, like mine;—

Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast, Burst from our souls apart! Burst! and let the truth flow past, Filling each unfill’d heart.

THE IDEALIST.

I Hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Who smiles when one is youthful, But oft in sudden shades will hide, And prove at times untruthful. “When through the skies,” They say, “she flies And leaves behind each earthly care; When round about her in the air No danger seems attending The light we find her wending, Beware! amid the brightest air The storm may burst, the lightning tear, Beware and fear! With earth so near None can be free from care.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Of rarest grace and beauty; But prone to lead the soul aside From irksome paths of duty. “Man is but man: He cannot scan Too high delights, and highly rate The lowly joys of earth’s estate. A soul to fancy turning,” They say, “is fill’d with yearning; And lives in dreams and idle schemes, That with their lure of rival gleams Make dim the light About the sight The working soul esteems.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide Oft rendering life distressful, With views that loom too high, too wide, To make a man successful. They say, “We err Who soar with her. Earth only shoos or shoots a bird; To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.— But few are those not tiring Of natures too aspiring. The common leaders of the day Amid the common people stay, Who but confide In those that guide Along the common way.”

And yet my dear and dangerous guide, I prize thy peerless beauty. I chose thee long ago my bride For love and not for booty. How much is wrought By risking naught? When I behold a path of bliss, Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss, My fears of falling under Will not restrain my wonder. And, from what thou hast found for me, Full many a truth my soul can see That earth must know Ere it forego Its need of knowing thee.

A PHASE OF THE ANGELIC.

I wonder not that artists’ hands, Inspired by themes of joy To picture forms of angel-bands, Paint, first of all, the boy.

I know if I were set the task To lure a man’s desire By traits the heavenliest one could ask, When most our souls aspire,

I would not take a blushing bride, For she may wed for pelf; Nor him who stands the bride beside, He may but love himself;

Nor matron, with her thoughts confined To maxims meant for youth; Nor man mature: too oft his mind Will close to others’ truth.

But I would blend the purity Of her whom I adore With manly power for mastery And promise yet in store.

So I would take the boy who roams Toward life, half understood, From thresholds of those holy homes That face alone the good;—

A boy who has not reach’d the brink Where vice will cross his track, Whose wish that loathes the wish to drink Still keeps the tempter back;—

A boy who hardly knows of ill, Or ill can apprehend, With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill, And faith that fears no end.

And oh, I know that those who love The purest part of joy, Would choose with me from all above The heaven that held my boy.

THE BELLE.

A smile—could it be meant for me?— Yet there she stood before me. But she had charm’d so many eyes And I was neither rich nor wise,— The belle of all the county, she: I seem’d a child, She only smiled Because she knew her mien was mild, While mine confusion bore me.

And praise—could it be meant for me?— Ah, how could I suppose it? The rarest minds I knew about Had held her gauge of them in doubt. A prize past all I hoped for, she; But young was I; And this was why She thought my pride to gratify; Yet I could but disclose it.

A blush—could it be meant for me?— Yet so she met no other. A face that all with joy would meet, Could it have blush’d my own to greet? A belle whom all had sought for, she; Yet I could see Heave but for me A sigh that strove and would be free. I spoke to free another.

She answer’d—All was meant for me Whom rivals off were shoving; And all my love had burst in flame To feel her ardor while it came. “A woman, whosoe’er she be, Is nothing more, O loved of yore, Than just a woman, nothing o’er, And can but love the loving.”

THE POET’S REASON.

I live to write; and write, good friend. In part, I know, for you; Though, while I do so, in the end Myself it pleases too.

“The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.” Of old, I hoped it would. But many and many have been the times I only deem’d them good!

I “love to write”? You near the truth. I love to talk, as well; And poems breathe a part, forsooth, Of what the soul would tell.—

Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meet That those we love should see— Not poems—but the poem sweet That all one’s life would be!

AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

My mountains, how I love your forms that stand So beautiful, so bleak, so grim, so grand. Your gleaming crags above my boyhood’s play, Undimm’d as hope, rose o’er each rising day. When now light hope has yielded place to care, O’er steadfast work I see you steadfast there. And when old age at last shall yearn for rest, By your white peaks will each aspiring glance be blest.

How bright and broad with ever fresh surprise, The scenes ye brought allured my youthful eyes! Now, when rude hands those views of old assail, When growing towns have changed the lower vale, When other friends are lost or sadly strange, Ye stand familiar still, ye do not change. And when all else abides as now no more, In you I still may see the forms I loved of yore.

Ye mounts deserve long life. Your peaks at dawn Catch light no sooner from the night withdrawn, Than those ye rear see truth, when brave men vow To serve the serf, and bid the despot bow. In vales below, if tyrants make men mild, The weak who scale your sides learn winds are wild, That beasts break loose, and birds awaken’d flee, As if in deepest sleep they dream’d of being free.

High homes of manhood, human lips can phrase No tribute fit to echo half your praise. By Piedmont’s church and Ziska’s rock-wall’d see, By Swiss and Scot who left their children free, By our New England, when she named him knave Who, flank’d by bloodhounds, chased his fleeing slave, Stand ye like them, whose memories, ever grand, Tower far above earth’s lords, as ye above its land.

Ay, stand like monuments in lasting stone To souls as lofty as the world has known. Ye fitly symbol, when with kindling light The dawn and sunset gild your summits white, The glories of their pure, aspiring worth Who aim’d at stars to feed the hopes of earth; And fitly point where they, in brighter skies, View grander scenes than yours where your heights cannot rise.

MARTIN CRAEGIN.

“Martin Cooney,” [I have found, upon making inquiry at Pittston, that the boy’s name was Craegin, not Cooney] “is the name of the boy who, deep down in the horrid depths of the Pittston mine, performed a deed of heroic self-sacrifice which shames into insignificance the actions by which many happier men have climbed to fame and honor. Cooney and a companion stood at the bottom of the shaft as the car was about to ascend for the last time. High above them roaring flame and blinding smoke amid the crash of falling timber were fast closing up the narrow way to light and life; below them in the gloomy pit were a score of men working on, unconscious of their deadly peril. Cooney, with one foot upon the car, thought of his endangered friends. He proposed to his companion that they should return and warn the miners of their threatened fate. His companion refused to go, and then Cooney, without a moment’s hesitation, but with full consciousness that he had chosen almost certain death, leaped from the car and groped his way back through the growing darkness. It was too late: the miners had closed the ventilating door before he reached them; and standing there between the immovable barrier and the shaft, the hot breath of the fiery pit poured in upon him in a pitiless blast, and so he died.”—_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin_, June 5, 1871.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor, Swing thy temple’s rusted door; Hither from the mine of Pittston, Hies, at last, one hero more.

...

While he toil’d amid the miners, Came a cry that startled him; “Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly, Saw the smoking shaft grow dim.

“Now for life!” a comrade shouted, “Mount this car! no more cars go!” “Nay for life,” replied young Martin, “Call the men at work below!”

Cried the first: “No time to tarry! Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!” “Time for them to close the smoke out!” Martin cried, and rush’d away.

“Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly, Groping down the passage dim. “Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage, Closed it on the smoke and him.

“Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.— Still the ghastly fumes crept on; Caught the boy, and, crawling round him, Choked his corpse they clung upon.

“Woe on woe!” cried those above him, “All will die; the fires descend!” By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy, Never light like that was kenn’d.

Whence, O whence that blinding brightness? What had touch’d the boy afar?— For the chariot of Elijah Had he spurn’d his comrade’s car?

“Stop the fire!” cried all the village,— Ah, but none could now keep down Martin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward, Haloed by a martyr’s crown.

Not the flood that men set flowing Faster than the fire could spread, Now could quench the flame eternal Burning in the soul that sped.

Not the cloud of smoke that gather’d, Not the dark, sad funeral pall, Now could dim the boy’s devotion, With its glory gilding all.

...

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor, Wheels immortal sweep the sky, Swing thy gates!—another hero Love incites to do and die.

OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM.

What has a child that a man has not, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? At play in the home, at work in the school, Oh, what does he care for the soul, or its rule, Or for aught that hints of the sky? Ay, what does he serve but his own desires, Impell’d by a fancy that toils or tires? His moods flow on like currents in brooks, Or ruffled or smooth, to answer the crooks. All things that are sweet or fair to see He buzzes and bustles about like a bee. He would work his arms at ball and bow, Though he never had known it would make them grow.— What virtue is his?—While a man can doubt The truth within him, nor show it without, The child holds fast, unfetter’d by lies, A faith that he never has dared to despise, Expression that knows no other control Than that of the Maker who moves the soul, A beauty of wisdom that works to obey A holy, because a natural way; And that may he have that a man may not.

What has a man that a child has not, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the school To curb his character in by rule Till the rule of his life is a lie. A man like that would spurn to find In God’s designs the quest of his mind. He crams and drams for an appetite That nothing on earth can sate or excite. His words are as dry as the words of a book,— Your sentence is ready, wherever you look. His views—he never saw any thing strange: If he did, some fellow might question his range. And all of profit he tests by pelf, And all of manhood measures by self, Forgets that God rules the world he is at, And stars himself as its autocrat. Alas for reason with such a judge! If ever you whisper or smile or budge— You may study and ponder and prove and pray— But he has a sneering, cynical way; And that may he have that a child has not.

What has a man that a child has too, When “of such is the kingdom” on high? He knows that life is better’d by rules, But he knows how split the wise and the fools When judging of rules they apply. He feels that life worth living proceeds From nature that prompts the bent of deeds; And he lets the reins of his being go, Whenever the soul moves upward so. If he look to God through self or His Book, Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook, He welcomes whatever has worth in the new, Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo. For modest he is, and loves to find Earth blest by minds that differ in kind. In short, to the simple, the frail, and the few He is fill’d with charity through and through; And, waiving your reason its right of control, Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul; And though he may tell you he doubts your way, He has much to love in spite of his “nay”; And that may a man and a child have too.

MY LOVE IS SAD.

My love is “fill’d with gloom,” you say; Yet think! when I had spied her, The flowers that made her bower so gay Had lost their light beside her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And gloomy seem? No, no; no, no.

My love is weary, wandering; Yet I, who sped to find her With worlds of fancies on the wing, Saw all fall far behind her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And weary seem? No, no; no, no.

My love is lone and weeps, I see; Yet here I wait to win her, For what is all the world to me, My arms are clasping in her. Ah, could my darling see it so, And lonely seem? No, no; no, no.

MY DREAM AT CORDOVA.

I.

Night bade me rest. I left the street, Its faces fair and banter sweet; And oh, how human seem’d the town Beside which I had laid me down! But, ere I slept, the rising moon, From skies as blue as if ’twere noon, Pour’d forth her light in silvery streams, Eclipsing all my light of dreams. And soon, as if some power would shake My drowsy eyes, and make them wake, The walls were spray’d with showers of light, Whose flickerings left a fountain bright That toss’d the moonbeams in its play, And dash’d and flash’d their gleams away. I just could see the fountain flow Within a marble court[1] below. It seem’d a spirit, clothed in white, But half reveal’d to mortal sight, Whose glancing robes would lift and glide O’er dainty limbs that danced inside, And touched the ground with throbbing sweet As if the tread of fairy feet; While round about the fount-sent shower, That strung with pearls each grateful flower, Rare fragrance rose from bush and bower.

II.

Ere long across the marble court Soft laughter rang and calls of sport, And maidens pass’d the entering gate, Whose voices rose in sweet debate, So clear, so pure, they might have sprung From moonlight, not from mortal tongue. I lay there charm’d, my eyelids closed, My limbs enchain’d; but, ere I dozed, Gave one look more. Alas for me! The moon had moved, and made me see, In dreamlike light where slept the day, Vague forms that join’d those maids at play. They linger’d there, half hid by trees And sprawling cactus; now at ease, Now whirling off in shadowy sets Where urged guitars[2] and castonets.[2] Anon, this music rose and fell, As if, because, all fill’d so well, So laden down with sweets before, The languid air could hold no more. “Ah, how could it or I?” I thought; “This land of lasting spring is fraught With charms that pale by living truth The brightest dreams that lured my youth.” Then, while the music heaved my breast, The thought it cradled sank to rest.

III.

I slept and dreamt. To you it seems No censor, swung to souls in dreams Before the mind’s most holy shrine, Rear’d there to memories most divine, Could incense hold whose fumes could rise And dim what bless’d my closing eyes. You think my soul most surely thought Of Cordova in dreams it brought. You think that once again it calms My mood to watch beneath the palms The ancient river[3] freshly lave Rome’s ruined bridge[3] that naught could save. You think, once more, my wonder wends Across that orange-court[4] and bends In that cathedral-mosk,[5] in which A thousand[5] shafts with sculptures rich Surround the soul like ghosts of trees Beyond the touch of time or breeze, While all the shafts to all bespeak, In jasper, porphyry, verdantique, The skill that train’d their artist’s hand In grand old times that blest this land Before the Moor’s glad suns had set On days that earth can ne’er forget. Nay, nay, I dreamt with joy intense, But did not heed a hint from thence.

IV.