Chapter 3

Tell me when you'll marry; Darling, name the day: Do not longer tarry, Life slips fast away. Do not, like the nightingale, Live your harshness to bewail. At your feet I entreat-- Let my love prevail.

OTHER POEMS.

_THE SPIRIT WIFE._

THE SACRIFICE.

Rabbi Ben Horad was a learned man, Of gentle ways, who taught a pious flock, So small, at morn and eve the sexton ran From door to door, and with a triple knock Summoned the faithful who were dwelling there To kneel and seek the Lord in humble prayer.

The sexton had a daughter, than whom dreamed Man fairer none, and from whose great, dark eyes An angel soul in spotless radiance beamed, As shines a star from out the midnight skies. She loved the Rabbi with a maid's first love: He worshipped her well nigh like God above.

Whene'er by mortal sickness sorely pressed One of the little congregation lay, The sexton's mallet to the flock expressed With its sad knock his woe, and bade them pray; Arid oft their intercession with the Lord Prevailed, and He the invalid restored.

Late, late one night the sexton sought to sleep, But ere he slept himthought he heard a sound That caused his heart to throb, his flesh to creep-- The ghostly knocking of his daily round-- And, trembling, to his child he cried in fear: "Some one is dying, daughter, dost thou hear?"

She heard the sound and answered with a cry, Love teaching her: "Oh! it is he, mine own: Rabbi Ben Horad is about to die-- Oh! father, haste! life may not yet have flown; Bid all our people pray, that God may hear, And in His mercy turn a willing ear."

All through the night the faithful people prayed That their beloved Rabbi still might live; And by their prayers the hand of death was stayed, Yet could their prayers no greater favor give; And so he lingered, while she watched the strife, With sinking heart, waged between death and life.

Then, as a last resort, from door to door The young men went, that all who wished might give Some space of time out of their own life's store, That yielded to the Rabbi he might live. Some gave a year, a month a week, a day, But wheresoe'r they went none said them nay.

At last they sought the maid and gravely asked: "What wilt thou give, O maiden?" and she cried-- By his sad plight her deathless love unmasked-- "Oh! gladly for his sake I would have died: Take all my life and give it unto him." They wrote, but saw not, for their eyes were dim.

And lo! the Rabbi lived; but ere the earth Had thrice upturned its face to greet the sun, Hushed was the little congregation's mirth, For the sweet maiden's life its course had run; And, decked with flowers, they bore her to her grave, He sobbing by whom she had died to save.

THE SPIRIT SONG.

Chastened by grief, Ben Horad holier grew, And, uncomplaining, toiled from day to day. His sad, sweet smile his loving flock well knew, His kindly voice their sorrows charmed away; Yet, though he bowed before his Master's will, His heart was sad, for he was human still.

By night or day, wherever he might stray, Through bustling city streets or lonely lane, One form he ever saw--a maiden gay; One voice he heard--a soft, melodious strain: And oh! the loneliness, to see and hear, Yet lack the tender touch of one so dear!

Long as he read into the silent night, The winking stars soft peeping in his room, While at his hand the dreamy, lambent light Just lit his book and left all else in gloom. His study walls evanished, and in mist He saw the maid whose dead lips once he kissed:

Yet dead no more, but his dear spirit wife. And still in heaven she sang the same glad strain She would have sung on earth had not her life Been given to him that he might live again, And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me, Who robbed her of her sweet futurity."

There came a day when on the Rabbi's ears Fell the low moans of one in mortal pain. Slowly they died, as though dissolved in tears, While a weak infant's wail took up the strain. Sadly Ben Horad smiled, and raised his head: "She has been spared that agony," he said.

Then all his sorrow died; but not for long, For soon again the spirit voice he heard, Crooning all day a little cradle song, With happiness and love in every word. And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me, Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."

Once more he heard her moans, and once again Heard the young mother crooning o'er her child. And then came no more sorrow in the strain, Which had there been might him have reconciled, But as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me, Who robbed her of her sweet maturity."

And still he read the Talmud, day and night, And still the years slipped by on noiseless wing. Then one day as he studied, lo! the sprite, Till then long silent, recommenced to sing. He sighed: "To-day she feasts her eldest boy, And I have robbed my darling of this joy."

Again was silence, and again there fell Upon the Rabbi's ears the sweet refrain, With the glad tumult of a marriage bell, Now rising like a bird, now low again. "Her daughter weds," he said. "Ah! woe is me, Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."

Year after year he lived, and children died Of age, whom he had dandled, until he, Worn with his grief, for death's oblivion sighed; But still he heard the same sweet melody, And could not die until the singing ceased, For by her life had his life been increased.

Long flashed the lamp upon the sacred page, Long peeped the star-worlds through the orioled pane, Long nightly sat the white-haired, saintly sage And listened till at last the happy strain Died into discord. "God be thanked," he said-- Next day they found him, smiling now--but dead.

_RHODOPE'S SHOE._

In Egypt Rhodope was born, And lived afar from king and court; No jewels did the maid adorn; She crowned herself with flowers in sport.

Her hair was like a summer night, Her eyes like stars that twinkle low, Her voice like soft winds in their flight, When through the tremulous leaves they blow.

She dwelt beside the sacred Nile, And in its waters every day, With but the sun to gaze and smile, Like any nymph was wont to play.

While in the limpid stream she played One day, an eagle cleft the blue, And, hovering o'er the sporting maid, Upon the bank espied her shoe.

Loth to forget so sweet a sight, And lest his memory should grow dim, He sought the earth with sudden flight, And bore the shoe aloft with him.

He bore it far, and let it fall In the king's palace, where next day So lily-frail, so strangely small, Within the palace-court it lay.

The king was walking, wrapped in thought, Throughout his palace, up and down: Him had his councillors besought, With some fair maid to share his crown,

And he had searched the wide world through To find a princess he could love, Yet all in vain he sought to woo, His heart there was not one could move.

Into the palace-court he went, Still wondering whom to make his bride, And as he strolled, eyes earthward bent, The wondrous tiny shoe he spied.

As leaps the sun to tropic skies, So sprang his heart unto its choice, Love sparkled brightly in his eyes, And thrilled triumphant in his voice.

"You bid me wed, I could not do, For lack of love, your bidding, Sirs. But find the maid who wore this shoe, And I will make my kingdom hers."

They searched the palace from the ground Up to the towers, but in vain; Nowhere was maiden to be found To own the shoe and share the reign.

Then came a lad, who told in awe How just at dawn an eagle flew Above the town, and from its claw Dropped to the palace-yard the shoe.

The wise men stroked their beards, and said: "The gods have surely done this thing, That our beloved lord may wed A maiden meet for such a king."

Then far and wide the heralds rode To find the king's God-chosen bride; They chanced on Rhodope's abode, The overflowing Nile beside.

She stood before the heralds twain, She fitted on the tiny shoe, And claimed it for her own again, And not till then their errand knew.

The richest robes they offered her, But she refused them: "If my king In my coarse garb, will deem me fair, Then only will I take his ring."

Before the king the maid they brought, And at his feet she bent the knee; He gently raised her: "Nay, kneel not, O sweetheart! I should kneel to thee,

"Fair as a poet's dream thou art, Purer than lilies--Oh! mine own, Since thou has won thy monarch's heart, 'Tis meet that thou shouldst share his throne."

The wise men stroked their beards and said: "The gods have surely done this thing." Then Rhodope the fair was wed, And ruled all Egypt with the king.

_HOPE AND DESPAIR._

You love the sun and the languid breeze That gently kisses the rosebud's lips, And delight to see How the dainty bee, Stilling his gauze-winged melodies Into the lily's chalice dips.

I love the wind that unceasing roars, While cringe the trees from its wrath in vain, And the lightning-flash, And the thunder-crash, And skies, from whose Erebus depths outpours In slanting drifts the autumnal rain.

You sigh to find that the time is here When leaves are falling from bush and tree; When the flowerets sweet Die beneath our feet, And feebly totters the dying year Into the mists of eternity.

To me the autumn is never drear, It bears the glory of hopes fulfilled. Though the flowers be dead, There are seeds instead, That, with the spring of the dawning year, With life will find all their being thrilled.

You tread the wood, and the wind behold Tear down the leaves from the crackling bough Till they make a pall, As they thickly fall, To hide dead flowers. The air seems cold, No summer gladdens the forest now.

HOPE AND DESPAIR

I tread the maze of the changing wood, And though no light through the maples plays, Yet they glow each one, Like a rose-red sun, And drop their leaves, like a glittering flood Of warm sunbeams, in the woodland ways.

Poor human heart, in the year of life All seasons are, and it rests with thee To enjoy them all, Or to drape a pall O'er withered hopes, and to be at strife With things that are, and no brightness see.

_CARLOTTA._

Poor, lone Carlotta, Mexico's mad Queen, Babbling of him, amid thy vacant halls, Whose ears have long been heedless of thy calls; Sad monument of pomp that once hath been, Thy staring eyes mark ever the same scene Of levelled muskets, and a corpse which falls, Dabbled in blood, beneath the city walls-- Though twenty years have rolled their tides between.

Not of this world thy vengeance! They have passed, Traitor and victim, to the shadow-land. Not of this world thy joy; but, when at last Reason returns in Paradise, its hand Shall join the shattered links of thought again, Save those that form this interval of pain.

_EQUALITY._

Mad fools! To think that men can be Made equal all, when God Made one well nigh divinity And one a soulless clod.

Nowhere in Nature can we find Things equal, save in death, One man must rule with thoughtful mind, One serve with panting breath.

The maples spread their foliage green To shade the grass below, Hills rise the lowly vales between Or streams would never flow.

A million creatures find a home Within a droplet's sphere, And giants through the woodlands roam While quakes the land in fear.

A tiny fall in music breaks Against the mountain's base, While roars an avalanche and shakes The whole world in its race.

One must be weak and one be strong, One huge, another small, To help this teeming world along, And make a home for all.

Equality is death, not life, In Nature and with man, And progress is but upward strife With some one in the van.

_LACHINE._

You named it better than you knew Who called yon little town Lachine, Though through the lapse of years between The then and now, men jeered at you.

You thought by it to find a way, Through voiceful woods and shimmering lakes, To where the calm Pacific breaks On weedy ledges at Cathay.

In fancy you beheld yon tide Upbear a thousand argosies, Whose spicy odors filled the breeze, And floated far on every side.

'Twas but a wish-born dream, men said, And sneered that you were so unwise. Blind scoffers! Would that they could rise A few short moments from the dead,

To see how, through the power of man, Your vision is no more a dream, And learn that this majestic stream Is now the highway to Japan!

From year to year, with dauntless strides, O'er fertile plains your sons have pressed, Portaging from the East to West, Between the two great ocean tides.

And in their trail they drew a chain Of steel across the virgin land, Uniting with this slender band The eastern and the western main.

Where once the bison roamed, and woke The heavens with his thunderous tread, The tireless engine speeds instead, And tosses high its plumes of smoke.

Like spider in a web, it creeps On filmy bridge, o'er sparkling streams, Or chasms where the sunlight gleams Part-way, and dies amid the deeps.

It scales the rugged, snow-clad peaks, And looks afar on East and West, Then, like an eagle from its nest, Darts down, and through the valley shrieks.

It was not formed by Nature's hand, This sun-ward highway to Japan; O'er mountain-range and prairie, man Has forced the path his genius planned.

And Commerce, universal king, Has followed with unnumbered needs, And scatters everywhere the seeds Of towns that in a night upspring.

In tumult strange the air abounds, The whirr of birds is dying out, The swart mechanic's lusty shout Amid the clang of iron sounds.

And streams, that once unbroken ran, Now on their outspread scroll reveal, Written by many a sliding keel, The lordly signature of man.

DE SALABERRY AT CHATEAUGUAY.

We are scarcely one to seven, But our cause is just; Help us in our trial, heaven! Keep the ford we must.

Swiftly through the reeds and rushes Pours the Outarde flood, Turned by sunset's rosy flushes To a stream of blood.

Sprinkled with the hues of slaughter, Wave the forest trees. Gently o'er the sparkling water, In the autumn breeze.

Strange that Nature should remind us Of the coming fight! Let it come--it will but find us Battling for the right.

Never shall the land that gave us Birth be held a thrall: Ere the Stars and Stripes enslave us, Death shall have us all!

Quickly in this silent dingle Raise the _abatis_, Near where Outarde waters mingle With the Chateauguay.

Hasten, Night, across the meadows, Kiss the streams to sleep, Wrap us in thy cloak of shadows, Bid the stars not peep.

Night has passed; the birds, awaking, Greet the dawning day. Wherefore are our foemen making Such a long delay?

Hark! at last they come; now, steady! Wait the signal gun. When I fire, fire you. Now! ready? Fire! Ah! lads, well done!

Like a vaulted wave that shatters On a rocky coast, And in mist and salt spray scatters, Breaks the mighty host.

Like the wave, that swift returning Bursts upon the strand, Falls the foe, with hatred burning, On our little band.

We are scarcely one to seven, But our cause is just; Help us in our trial, heaven! Keep the ford we must.

Fall the shot-clipped leaves about us Like the summer rain; Charge the bitter foes to rout us Ever and again.

Quarter never asked nor given, Still we beat them back, Though our slender ranks are riven With each fierce attack.

Long the fearful battle rages, Death his harvest reaps-- He will live in history's pages In the grave who sleeps.

Round us, stronger, ever stronger, Sweeps the hostile horde; If the strife continue longer, We shall lose the ford.

We are scarcely one to seven, But our cause is just; Help us in our trial, heaven! Keep the ford we _must_!

Hope! The fox, when worn with running, Subtlety must use: Let us strive to win by cunning What by force we lose.

Bugler, seek the forest border Whence our friends should come; For attack, sound loud the order, Beat upon the drum.

So our foes may think in error That our friends are nigh, And, disturbed by sudden terror, From the conflict fly.

Through the wood the bugler dashes, Far beyond the fray-- While the deadly musket flashes Point him on his way,

Faintly o'er the din of battle, On the ear there fall From afar a drum's sharp rattle, And a bugle call.

Through the forest, drawing nearer, Ring the bugle notes, And the drum-beat, quicker, clearer, On the calm air floats.

Cheer! my lads, and cease from firing, Sheathe the blood-stained sword, For our foemen are retiring-- We have kept the ford.

TENNYSON.

The noble lion groweth old, The weight of years his eyesight dims, And strength deserts his mighty limbs, His once warm blood runs slow and cold.

The sunlight of another day Slants through the jungle's tangled mass; He marks the shadows, but, alas! Sees not the sun among them play.

His regal head lies buried deep Between his paws--his reign is o'er-- His great voice stirs the world no more, And round his lair the jackals creep.

They scent their prey, and, with the joy Of meaner natures, far and wide From deep obscurity they glide, The dying monarch to annoy.

With naked fangs they circle round, And fiercely snarl, until once more The thicket quivers at his roar, And all their paltry yelps are drowned.

The woodland with his voice is thrilled, Though hope abandoned mars the strain; But echoes cease, and then again With jackal barks the air is filled.

Though dying, he is royal yet-- Even now, earth doth not hold his peer: Bark, jackals, bark! ere dies the year The world your tumult will forget.

AT RAINBOW LAKE.

There is a spot, far from the world's uproar, Amid great mountains, Where softly sleeps a lake, to whose still shore Steal silvery fountains, That hide beneath the leafy underwood, And blend their voices with the solitude.

Save where the beaver-meadow's olive sheen In sunlight glimmers, On every side, a mass of waving green, The forest shimmers And oft re-echoes with the black bear's tread, That silences the song birds overhead.

Here thickly droops the moss from patriarch trees, And loons fly wailing. Here king-birds' screams come hoarsely down the breeze And hawks are sailing Above the trees. Here Nature dwells alone, Of man unknowing, and to man unknown.

Smiling, she rises when the morning air, The dawn just breaking, Bids the still woodlands for the day prepare, And Life, awaking, Welcomes the Sun, whose bride, the Morn, is kissed And, blushing, lays aside her veil of mist.

Here Nature with each passing hour reveals Peculiar graces: At noonday she grows languid, and then steals To shady places, And revels in their coolness, at her feet A stream, that fills with music her retreat.

At eve she comes, and, blushing like a maid, Unrobes in shadows, Bathes in the lake, and wanders through the glade And o'er the meadows. From her dank locks, wherever she doth pass, The diamond dew-drops dripping to the grass.

And then she sleeps; when o'er the lake's calm tide The Moon comes stealing, And draws from her the veil of night aside, Her charms revealing, While silent stars keep ceaseless watch above, And all the earth breathes peace and rest and love.

THE RACE.

A girlish voice like a silver bell Rang over the sparkling tide, "A race! a race!" She was under the trees by the river-side, Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell, And hid her face.

Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream, And their oars like bars of silver gleam, As they dip and flash and kiss the river, As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver. Then the ripples die, And the girlish cry Floats gaily again to the summer sky.

"Ready? Go!" As the arrow springs from the straightened bow, The skiffs dart off for the distant goal: The oars are bent like blades of steel, And the hissing waters, cleft in twain, Curl away astern in a feathery train, While girlish laughter, peal on peal, Rings over the river and over the shore, And from the island the echoes roll. We hear the mysterious voice again. "We have won! we have won! Will you race once more?"

The water drips in golden rain From the blade of the resting oar, Again we take, our place, and again That clear voice wakes the shore: "Go!" And we bend to our oars once more, And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadows Give place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.

Our skiff is steered by skilful hands, Its rowers' arms are strong, But muscles are not iron bands To bear such conflict long. And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast, And cheeks too hotly burn, Before the welcome goal is passed-- The rest two lengths astern.

The evening air is growing chill, The moon is sinking low: The race is ours--across the wave We call, but nothing answers save The winds that gently blow, "Come race again." But all in vain-- The silvery voice is still.

_MY TREASURE_.

"What do you gather?" the maiden said, Shaking her sunlit curls at me-- "See, these flowers I plucked are dead, Ah! misery."

"What do you gather?" the miser said, Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me-- "I cannot sleep at night for dread Of thieves," said he.

"What do you gather?" the dreamer said, "I dream dreams of what is to be; Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled, Ah! woe is me."

"What do you gather?" the young man said-- "I seek fame for eternity, Toiling on while the world's abed, Alone," said he.

"What do I gather?" I laughing said, "Nothing at all save memory, Sweet as flowers, but never dead, Like thine, Rosie."

"I have no fear of thieves," I said, "Daylight kills not my reverie, Fame will find I am snug abed, That comes to me."

"The past is my treasure, friends," I said, "Time but adds to my treasury, Happy moments are never fled Away from me."

"All one needs to be rich," I said, "Is to live that his past shall be Sweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red, Eternally."

_WELCOMING THE NEW YEAR_.

We gathered, a jovial party, Together on New Year's eve, To welcome the coming monarch And to see the old one leave,

We chatted around the fireside, And wondered what time would bring: We had not a tear for the parting year, But longed for the coming king.

For youth reaches ever forward, And drops from its eager clasp The realized gifts of fortune, Some phantom of hope to grasp.

Soon a maiden spoke of the custom, Now lapsed in this age of prose, To open the door for the New Year The instant the Old Year goes;

Then, leaving the door wide open, To stand in the silent street And, with a generous "welcome," The entering guest to greet.

It suited our youthful fancy, And, when the glad chimes began, From our cosy nook by the fireside Down into the street we ran.

And, far and near, we all could hear The great bells ringing out the year, And, as they tolled, the music rolled, Hoarse-sounding, over town and wold.

"The year is dead," _Gros Bourdon_ said, The clanging echoes quivering fled, And, far and wide, on every side, The bells to one another cried.

The mountain woke, and from its cloak Shook off the echoes, stroke for stroke. Then silence fell on hill and bell, And echoes ceased to sink and swell.

Standing beside the door wide open thrown, Her voice more musical than any bird's, And with a winning sweetness all its own, Our Queen thus winged her joyous thoughts with words: