Part 2
In lines keen-cut, and lasting as the stone When sculptor's art transforms it into life-- That erst were soulless marble, still and poor To mirror forth our hope or joy or strife!
In lines keen-cut! Yea, on my living heart, (That slumbered 'neath its veil of seeming death), Thou tracest characters full bold and deep, And breathest now with life-inspiring breath!
Thus was Love born! To me, who deemed it cast Behind me!--with the shadows and the blight That fell on trusting heart and life and home, And wrapped my soul in darkest tones of night!
Nay, but thy Love has waked me, and I live! For love and life, twin-born, are guests of mine, Thine eyes have told me lover's sweetest tale, And tender lips have sealed me wholly thine!
So, if within the hours apart we walk Ofttimes in paths that take us from our nest-- The nest we built with loving heart and hands-- It takes not from us love nor trust nor rest!
It takes them not--no hand but ours can rob Each other of this gift surpassing all! No hand but ours can bind or break this bond, And from no other hand but ours can fall
Blight or distrust, or grief or bitter pain; And so, my own, in this we builded well If through life's storm or sunshine there shall fall No grief or loss our lips may ever tell!
My heart grows faint with longing and with love,-- And yet I know I must not keep thee e'er A tender bond-slave to my amorous will;-- Such chain as that 'twere ill that thou shouldst wear!
I would not have thee swayed, dear love, by aught Thy manhood would disclaim; nor would I hold Thee prisoner to my clinging heart, howe'er Its pleading touch would seek to thee enfold!
Love cannot live where faith and trust are not,-- Love will not brook a gilded chain to wear;-- And where the fetters bind, the bird's sweet song Is hushed--the skies above, no more, are fair!
But I would hold thee in my heart of hearts So little prisoner, that thou ne'er shouldst stray From Love's dear shrine,--but, through the waning years Our love-life should grow dearer day by day!
SELECTION
Yes, hold me closer, closer in thy arms, And closer to thy beating heart, that I, Secure in all that crowns a woman's lot, May now, with thee, the bitter past defy!
Yet would I not call down an envious doom On any of the future's sunny days; 'Twere ill in me to tempt the Fates, I trow; But, rather, as one pleading, kneels and prays:--
"Stay but thy hand, O Time! and pitying grant Us of thy sunny sheaves of Harvest Day; Hours brimmed with sweetness and all glad with love,-- That, passing on, we scarce may heed the way
"That erst was strewn with sharpest stones and weeds; So lead us gently, Time, we may not miss Aught of Life's joy or of its brilliant light, Or, missing, crave a fuller cup than this!"
Yes, hold me closer, closer; let me rest My head, content, above thy throbbing heart. Struggle and bay of laurel are the world's; But this, my own dear Love, the better part!
Fame and Ambition--lo! do not they burn With all the lurid light and gleam of earth? Love, silent and benign, an influence sheds, And heralds forth in life a higher birth!
Vain is ambition, yea, or conquered goal, To bind my heart or satisfy me here. Then hold me closer, closer to thee, Love; For this I give it all--hold thou me near!
LEGENDARY SONGS
THE MANSION THAT ENDURED
(This legend, in prose, I found in a French collection, and have believed it would be acceptable rendered into verse. M. L.)
Back, in olden time when emperors Ruled the land where Tiber flows, Proud and stern dwelt Gondoforus, As the ancient legend shows.
As he mused in hours of leisure, Came into his brain this thought: "Straight I'll build, for mine own glory Here, a palace deftly wrought
"Of the richest gold and silver; With the choicest gems bedecked; That shall on my house and lineage Still a greater light reflect.
"Shall outshine the Roman Emperor's In its beauty and its worth; Place fore'er his lordly structure 'Mid the lesser of the earth."
So he sent his message speeding To the regions far and near, That some great and cunning builder Might at his command appear.
When, one day, with mien all lowly, Wrapped about in garments gray, Stood the architect before him, His behest to now essay.
Spoke his will--and Gondoforus Went forth proudly unto war; Days and months sped on unheeded, Still no word came from afar.
Yet the architect wrought, silent, Though he touched nor plan nor pen; For the palace he was building Was not seen by eyes of men.
While unto the poor and wretched Freely of the gold gave he; Precious stones were turned to healing Needs of poor humanity!
Back, returning flushed with victory, Gondoforus came apace; Sought, in vain, to view his palace-- Bare and empty was its place!
Then he sent, with sternest message, For the architect, and said-- "Caitiff, what is now thy showing? Answer, by thy hoary head!"
Thomas (he who, doubting, lingered When his fellows pressed to claim As their risen Lord, the Saviour) Spake: "Oh, thou of kingly name,
"Lo! thy house is even builded!" But the warrior bade them cast In deep dungeon him who trifled With his will--there bind him fast,
While he planned the subtlest torment For the traitor's aged frame, While he doomed, with keenest vengeance, Him to torture, death and shame!
But, as in his rage he pondered, Sleep o'ertook him, held him chained, And a vision hovered near him-- Earthly sense grew dim and waned.
Then the spirit of his brother Swiftly to his side drew nigh; Said, in words that thrilled his being, "He whom thou hast doomed to die
"Is the servant of the Mighty; Is an instrument of grace, For the angels now have shown me (Where no narrow walls have place
"And where dwell the hosts eternal) Reared in all its beauty there, Lo! a House of precious jewels And of ornament most fair.
"Fashioned of the precious metals Thou wouldst fain have builded here; Fashioned with a grace and glory That on Earth doth not appear.
Thus, in Paradise there standeth Waiting thee, a House divine, Which the Architect hath fashioned All on Earth to now outshine!"
Then the vision paled and vanished; Gondoforus straightway sped To the captive, who awaiting, Bowed in prayer his aged head.
Gondoforus knelt before him; Then the holy Thomas spoke, As he raised the humble warrior Crushed beneath the vision's stroke--
"Knowest not, O King, the mansions That endure, are reared on high? Builded there, for us, in Heaven By our faith and charity."
THE CHIMES
On fair Lake Como's sunny brink, An ancient monastery stood Close to the mountain's steep ascent, As nestling 'neath its snowy hood. And there a pale young artisan His cunning plied; a wondrous chime He sought to frame, that those who loved The beauty of that molten rhyme Within the valley's breadth should hear Pealing at morn and even clear.
For years he toiled, content if he At last might frame a chime so sweet That pilgrims oft would silent pause To hear the music glad repeat. Borne o'er the tranquil waters' reach And bringing swift unto the heart
Its tones of warning, praise, and love, That nevermore should then depart. Such was the thought he wove, and prayed That his life's work be holy made.
The day came when that perfect chime Was placed aloft, its song to wing Forth o'er the waters' silent reach And to the convent's roof to bring The lost and wayworn traveller from The busy haunts of world and strife, Back, where the calm of prayer might prove The guide-post to Eternal life! Then was the artisan as one Whose dearest life-work, here, was done.
Not so, howe'er! 'Twas yet to be A lifelong task--a path to lead Through many a land, in futile search O'er stony ways where feet should bleed. Not yet his soul's high guerdon find-- The prize his hands had placed aloft. How rarely here on earth we see Life's morning fill its promise soft. Not yet was he to find his rest Beside Lake Como's lovely breast.
A savage horde o'erran the land And bore away the prizéd chime; Afar from peaceful Como's side, To some unknown and distant clime. In vain the artisan complained Beneath a fate unkind; he drew No comfort from lament or prayer, For peace no more his hearthstone knew. Then, as one day he brooding mused And consolation sweet refused,
He seemed to see before his eyes A land outspread, wherein his feet Should wander, seeking ever there His loved and lost--his chime so sweet, He rose at once; he sought no aid; But bowed his head in silent prayer; Then from his home he straightway passed That no one might his purpose share. And leaving home and rest that day With breaking heart went on his way.
Whene'er he heard, in foreign land, Some wondrous story of a chime Whose tones were liquid notes of song, Whose bells rang out a gladsome rhyme, He journeyed to that storied place, Nor paused till he should reach the spot,-- Only to find his quest in vain, While yet those bells were ne'er forgot. Each day his soul went up in prayer That those clear chimes might pierce the air!
Thus journeyed he for many a year While locks of gold had turned to grey Till in a distant land he strayed And heard at close of summer day The old sweet song rung by his chime He long had listened for in vain! Quickly rose tears in lifted eyes, Quickly his heart renounced its pain! "O loved and lost! for many a day You've called me from my youth away!"
For now on foreign strand he waits Alone in age--alone in kin, Listening as listens one who bides Outside of Heaven, to praise within. Not vain his search! not lost his love! He feels once more the old-time throb Ere cruel foes his prize had ta'en; No more may they his treasure rob! His life went forth in one glad cry Beneath that far-off, alien sky!
'Twas ended--all the tender search; The hours of pain and sleepless toil; There, where no loved his hand might clasp; There, on that wild and foreign soil. But deep within his heart was writ His purpose pure; his steadfast search. And lo! his chime still calls to prayer, And still peals forth from ivied church. The bells once blessed by saintly hands Now call, in Limerick, God's commands!
My story's done--what need to say He sleeps as well and sweetly there Beneath that arch of foreign sky As in his native land so fair. He found, ere death had met his feet The prize he sought with spirit brave, And finding was content to lie Afar from Como in his grave. Love was the goal that led his feet To peace and deathless calm replete.
The chimes? Ah, well, perhaps they peal No less the sweetly that their note In alien lands the tidings bring; They still to God their praise devote, And though their maker no more hears The liquid music of each tone, They speak to those whose living needs Make of the chimes their very own. Though hand that made is turned to clay, His work--the chimes--lives on alway!
FRANCIS COSTER'S STORY
(I came across this legend, in prose, some time ago, to which was prefixed this note: "The following exquisite story was written by Anthony of Sienna, and translated from the Dominican records by Francis Coster, a famous preacher of the sixteenth century. Mr. Gould, author of _Mysteries of the Middle Ages,_ has succeeded in rendering it into current English."
In rendering the story into verse, I have kept to the text as closely as possible. M. L.)
Once--I've read in olden story-- Lived a holy man of God, And two children, 'neath his guidance, Through life's pitfalls safely trod.
Every day's returning duties Found them docile at his side, There to draw from Wisdom's fountain All his tender care supplied.
But the day's first, freshest hour At the altar found them prone, Gladly giving to their Savior All He claimeth as His own.
There they served with purest offering At the sacrifice sublime, Knelt, responded, and with reverence Sounded oft the bell's clear chime.
And this duty then completed, To the little chapel door Turned their feet, and, entering, vanished There to eat their humble store.
But one day their teacher seeking, Spake the elder one full clear, "Tell us, Father, what fair infant Doth so oft to us appear?"
Then the priest replied in accents Full of tender, loving care-- "Son, I know not him you speak of Who with thee thy task doth share."
But they came again unto him Day by day, with urgent word, And it was with deepest wonder That their simple tale he heard.
And he asked--"Of what sort is he?" And they answered him again-- "Father, he is clad in raiment Seamless and without a stain!"
"But whence cometh he?" replying Spoke the priest in accents mild; And they answered, "From the altar, As it were, descends the child.
"And we asked him then to share With us of our milk and bread; And he doth, right willingly;" This is what the children said.
And the priest was full of wonder; To the children then spake he-- "Are there marks whereby to know him If mine eyes the child should see?"
"Yes, my father, yes, he beareth In his hands and in his feet Wounds that pierce his tender body." These the words that they repeat.
"From his hands the crimson liquid, On the bread he taketh, flows Till beneath his touch it blusheth Like the deep heart of the rose!"
Then with awe replied their master-- "O my sons, list unto me! Know it is the sweet Child Jesus The Holy One, that you did see!
"When again he cometh to you, With these words your greeting be: 'Thou hast breakfasted with us, Grant we three may sup with Thee!'"
Then the children did his bidding; Sweetly then the Child did say, "Be it so, on Thursday next; Be it on Ascension Day!"
On that day they came rejoicing, But they brought nor milk nor bread; Served they at the Mass right gladly; "Pax Vobiscum," then was said--
But they still knelt on, unheeding, Thus they fell in Christ asleep; Master, children, with their Savior Then his marriage-feast did keep!
SONGS ON THE HEIGHTS
THE OLD CEMETERY
Lo! half way up the hill I pause To turn within the ancient gate And enter ground now hallowéd! The silent city where they wait In perfect rest till He shall bid Them rise who now in sleep are laid; Whose life, and death, and waiting e'en, On Him in childlike faith is stayed! No sound is heard within the spot Save the soft wind among the trees, Or song of insect's busy hum, Or low of herd upon the breeze. I walk 'mid graves of those long dead, Who lived and suffered, strove and won, And now have entered into life E'en while we say their life is done! I fain would take when I return Into the world's wild rush and roar, The peace of this fair autumn day, That it bide with me evermore! That I may learn from this blest spot Where sleep the dead--who in the Lord Now take their rest--that life is more Than idle jest, than passing word, Than anxious effort for the bread That perisheth! Yea, more! That life is as a vessel given Of precious ointment, that we bear And fear that we its freight may waste Ere we may yield it to His care!
LINES ON IMMORTALITY
Poor trembling soul within this frame of clay, That vainly questioneth, wouldst fain essay The problem that nor time nor man may solve, Around which cycles evermore revolve!
Not till the light upon thy quest is born, That only beams in an immortal morn, Shalt thou be satisfied, thy fears allayed, And, freed from earth, a new creation made!
A DREAM
I dreamed, and lo! upon the silent earth (That ever swings, as from its misty birth), I kinless stood! and all the streams that erst In joyous measure sang me forth their tale Sank to a murmur; even while there burst Upon mine eyes that straightway turned me pale! I looked and wondered, and I grew as chill As though their fated touch had froze my blood; As far beyond that living, green-clad hill, In breathless awe, mine eyes were turned, I stood Appalled! Forth from the bosom of the deep There rose a wondrous chain of towering cliffs, Clear as the lake upon whose mirror sleep Light-poised, all tenderly the skiffs; While rays of light played o'er their polished sides, As slowly rose and sank they on the tides. Kissed by the sun they grew; their colors' sheen Of rose and emerald-touched tips; between The amethyst deepened to a royal tone Of purple, and I stood and gazed, alone! I knew that naught of earth was left save me To look upon that strange and glorious sea! And, as I gazed, wild flames leapt up to seize The iceberg's glow and melt it to their will: Naught could their hungry rage of greed appease, While luridly and sullen burned they still, What, then, does it portray--this onslaught fierce Of flames upon these sunlit cliffs of ice, If it be not that Evil seeks to pierce The armor thrown about the soul's device; The powers that wage unceasing war, And ever seek to gain what lies afar Above them! "Souls of just men perfect made," "Yield not," I cried, "for here a mortal stands "Alone and helpless in these alien lands; "And yet on mortal lips, I know, is laid "The burden of a knowledge far above "All thought of human gain or human love!" And crying thus, I woke, nor ever knew If to fruition my bright vision grew.
ON EMPYREAN HEIGHTS
(Read at Hardman Hall, New York City, before the International League of Press Clubs, June 3, 1897.)
I stood on empyrean heights and saw, Outlined in figures bold, a vision there; Loud were the shouts of strife and deadly war, While Peace, remote, shone in her beauty fair. I heard the clash of arms; the martial tread; While nation warred with nation in their lust Of pride and power, until there lay the dead-- The heroes of a decade--in the dust!
I saw, in ranks that spread to either pole, Heroic deeds of great men and of true; The highest aspirations of the soul; The work wrought, through the many, by the few! I sped from rising sun unto the west; I read the stars that mirrored in the sky; And some in a resplendent light were dressed, And some through shadow I could scarce descry.
I saw a Nation's rise and saw its fall; I learned a people's passing glory there; I heard the strident voice of Justice call, And answering cheer and joy were in the air. I passed through touching scenes of humble life, Where hearts were beating in their full content; Where far from peaceful hearth and home lay strife, And days of joy and gaiety were spent.
I passed 'mid scenes of dark and dull despair, On, on, where bitter want and hunger raged; Where naught of holiness was pictured there, But man 'gainst man his cruel warfare waged! I heard the wail of childhood in its need, And saw the fearful shadow of Death's wing Pass swiftly on and through the darkness speed, And heard the joyous song the angels sing!
I heard the deeds of woe--saw sins of ill; I knew Life's tragedy was played the while; That greed of gain--that selfish, restless will Was crushing out the tender youth's sweet smile. I also read of good and saw its scope Of radiance on a troubled world's dark web; And saw that trust and love and buoyant hope Outrode the spring-time tide ere it could ebb.
Nay, tell me, then, whence came each passing scene, And why such widespread power vouchsafed to me, That time nor space held aught of bar between The shifting lights of land and distant sea? How could I realize the utmost span Of life and love, nay more, of silent death As meted out within the time of man, And passing o'er the wide world's pulsing breath?
O puissant Press! what need have I to tell The power of thy great sceptre wielded here? When those, beneath whose brilliant, magic spell We've sat entranced, now in our midst appear! Each face familiar warms the brother's heart; Each hand extended meets an earnest clasp; Each friend is here, a living sentient part Of Brotherhood and seeks an honest grasp!
O mighty power for good or yet for ill; For saving grace; mayhap for withering blight! Thy brimming cup of service should be still The draught to lift a weary world to light. Thy arm should raiséd be in noble strife; Thy steady hand still wield the trenchant pen; Thus all of light and grace and noble life Shall call thee forth from hearts of fellowmen!
SONGS OF REMEMBRANCE
A LITTLE WHILE
(March 14, 1889.)
A little while, my friends, and I am lying Beneath the sod that tells us Spring is nigh; And I, who've found this life no rest supplying, Shall lay my task aside without a sigh.
A little while, and friends who kindly greet me Shall seek my place--in tears shall seek in vain; And those whose love and tender thought now meet me, Shall say--"She comes, our friend, no more again!"
A little while--and oh, how great the yearning To lay the burden down, to be as free As bird that hails its nest, on wing returning; So do I think, beloved, of rest and thee!
The rest my weary heart and soul have waited Through all these years of sorrow and of doubt; As traveller on his homeward way, belated, Impatient seeks and can not bide without.
And thee! Oh loved one gone, this year, before me, Unto a world of light and rapture pure; The thought of thee doth, smiling, now allure me To draw more close and yet to more endure!
REVERIE
O'er the long reach of water comes The plash of dipping oar, And faintly, borne upon the wind, Far voices gain the shore.
I hear their low, faint murmur as The boat glides on its way, And with the glance of flashing oar Fall silver drops of spray!
I lie with half-closed eyes and dream Of days that long are fled; While fancy brings unto my side The forms of those now dead.
When life and love were as a song From vibrant chords of youth! When every heart that greeted me Spoke but of trust and truth!
Thus half-adream I hold commune With mine own heart, and ask Were youth and joy the greater gain, Or life's more finished task?
Quick comes the answer to my lips-- Quick to the question craved-- "The noblest deeds of life are those In later years engraved
"On tablets of the living mind, In characters full bold; Not happiness, nor yet content, Can here life's measure hold!