Chapter 5

You remember how the mist, When we climbed to Devil's Den, Pearly in the mountain glen, And above us, amethyst, Throbbed or circled? then away, Through the wildwoods opposite, Torn and scattered, morning-lit, Vanished into dewy gray?-- Vague as in romance we saw, From the fog, one riven trunk, Talon-like with branches shrunk, Thrust a monster dragon claw. And we climbed for hours through The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, To a wooded rock that shows Undulating leagues of blue Summits; mountain-chains that lie Dark with forests; bar on bar, Ranging their irregular Purple peaks beneath a sky Soft as slumber. Range on range Billow their enormous spines, Where the rocks and priestly pines Sit eternal, without change. We were sons of Nature then: She had taken us to her, Signalized by brier and burr, Something more to her than men: Pupils of her lofty moods, From her bloom-anointed looks, Wisdom of no man-made books Learned we in those solitudes: How the seed supplied the flower; How the sapling held the oak; How within the vine awoke The wild impulse still to tower; How in fantasy or mirth, Springing from her footsteps there, Curious fungi everywhere Bulged, exuded from the earth; Coral vegetable things, That the underworld exhaled, Bulbous, crystal-ribbed and scaled, Many colored and in rings, Like the Indian-Pipe that grew Pink and white in loamy cracks, Flowers of a natural wax, She had turned her fancy to.-- On that laureled precipice, Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, Sweet with balsam of the firs, First we felt her mother kiss Full of heaven and the wind; While the forests, wood on wood, Murmured like a multitude Giving praise where none hath sinned.-- Freedom met us there; we saw Freedom giving audience; In her face the eloquence, Lightning-like, of love and law: Round her, with majestic hips, Lay the giant mountains; there Near her, cataracts tossed their hair, God and thunder on their lips.-- Oft an eagle, or a hawk, Or a scavenger, we knew Winged through altitudes of blue, By its shadow on the rock. Or a cloud of templed white Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, Through the sky's pacific swirl, Shot with cool cerulean light. So we dreamed an hour upon That warm rock the lichens mossed, While around us foliage tossed Coins, gold-minted of the sun: Then arose; and a ravine, Which a torrent once had worn, Made our roadway to the corn, In the valley, deep and green; And the farm house with its bees, Where old-fashioned flowers spun Gay rag-carpets in the sun, Hid among the apple trees. Here we watched the twilight fall; O'er Wolf-Mountain sunset made A huge rhododendron rayed Round the sun's cloud-centered ball. Then through scents of herb and soil, To the mining-camp we turned, In the twinkling dusk discerned With its white-washed homes of toil. Ah, those nights!--We wandered forth On some haunted mountain path, When the moon was late, and rathe The large stars, sowed south and north, Splashed with gold the purple skies; And the milky zodiac, Rolled athwart the belted black, Seemed a path to Paradise. And we walked or lingered till, In the valley-land beneath, Like the vapor of a breath Breathed in frost, arose the still Architecture of the mist: And the moon-dawn's necromance Touched the mist and made it glance Like a town of amethyst. Then around us, sharp and brusque, Night's shrill insects strident strung Instruments that buzzed and sung Pixy music of the dusk. And we seemed to hear soft sighs, And hushed steps of ghostly things, Fluttered feet or rustled wings, Moved before us. Fire-flies, Gleaming in the tangled glade, Seemed the eyes of warriors Stealing under watching stars To some midnight ambuscade; To the Indian village there, Wigwamed with the mist, that slept By the woodland side, whence crept Shadowy Shawnees of the air. When the moon rose, like a cup Lay the valley, brimmed with wine Of mesmeric shade and shine, To the moon's pale face held up. As she rose from out the mines Of the eastern darkness, night Met her, clad in dewy light 'Mid Pine Mountain's sachem pines. As from clouds in pearly parts Her serene circumference grew, Home we turned. And all night through Dreamed the dreams of happy hearts.

A Confession

These are the facts:--I was to blame: I brought her here and wrought her shame: She came with me all trustingly. Lovely and innocent her face: And in her perfect form, the grace Of purity and modesty.

I think I loved her then: 'would dote On her ambrosial breast and throat, Young as a blossom's tenderness: Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.

Three months passed by; three moons of fire; When in me sickened all desire: And in its place a devil,--who Filled all my soul with deep disgust, And on the victim of my lust Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew.

One night, when by my side she slept, I rose: and leaning, while I kept The dagger hid, I kissed her hair And throat: and, when she smiled asleep, Into her heart I drove it deep: And left her dead, still smiling there.

Lilith

Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power.

Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries may rise Within the heart when 't is its lot To love and realize.

Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream.

That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed, Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed.

Above, below, on every part A crimson shadow lay, As if the red sun streamed athwart And sunset was alway.

I know not how, I know not when, I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair.

Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows no sin or wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song.

And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake.

Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure.

Nor why I kissed her soon and late And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my soul like fire.

Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er it had no power.

Or was it that your love at last My soul so long had craved, From the sweet sin that held me fast At that last moment saved?

Content

When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is care's embodiment, Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- A humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you.

A humble home, where pigeons coo, Whose path leads under breezy lines Of frosty-berried cedars to A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines, Is all I ask for me and you.

A garden, which, all summer through, The roses old make redolent, And morning-glories, gay of hue, And tansy, with its homely scent, Is all I ask for me and you.

An orchard, that the pippins strew, From whose bruised gold the juices spring; A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, Is all I ask for me and you.

A lane, that leads to some far view Of forest and of fallow-land, Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, Each with a bee in its hot hand, Is all I ask for me and you.

At morn, a pathway deep with dew, And birds to vary time and tune; At eve, a sunset avenue, And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, Is all I ask for me and you.

Dear heart, with wants so small and few, And faith, that's better far than gold, A lowly friend, a child or two, To care for us when we are old, Is all I ask for me and you.

Berrying

I.

My love went berrying Where brooks were merrying And wild wings ferrying Heaven's amethyst; The wildflowers blessed her, My dearest Hester, The winds caressed her, The sunbeams kissed.

II.

I followed, carrying Her basket; varying Fond hopes of marrying With hopes denied; Both late and early She deemed me surly, And bowed her curly Fair head and sighed:

III.

"The skies look lowery; It will he showery; No longer flowery The way I find. No use in going. 'T will soon be snowing If you keep growing Much more unkind."

IV.

Then looked up tearfully. And I, all fearfully, Replied, "My dear, fully Will I explain: I love you dearly, But look not cheerly Since all says clearly I love in vain."

V.

Then smiled she airily; And answered merrily With words that--verily Made me decide: And drawing tow'rd her, I there implored her-- I who adored her-- To be my bride.

VI.

O sweet simplicity Of young rusticity, Without duplicity, Whom love made know, That hearts in meter Make earth completer; And kisses, sweeter Than--berries grow.

To a Pansy-Violet

Found Solitary Among the Hills.

I.

O pansy-violet, With early April wet, How frail and pure you look Lost in this glow-worm nook Of heaven-holding hills: Down which the hurrying rills Fling scrolls of melodies: O'er which the birds and bees Weave gossamers of song, Invisible, but strong: Sweet music webs they spin To snare the spirit in.

II.

O pansy-violet, Unto your face I set My lips, and--do you speak? Or is it but some freak Of fancy, love imparts Through you unto the heart's Desire? whispering low A secret none may know, But such as sit and dream By forest-side and stream.

III.

O pansy-violet, O darling floweret, Hued like the timid gem That stars the diadem Of Fay or Sylvan Sprite, Who, in the woods, all night Is busy with the blooms, Young leaves and wild perfumes, Through you I seem t' have seen All that such dreams may mean.

IV.

O pansy-violet, Long, long ago we met-- 'T was in a Fairy-tale: Two children in a vale Sat underneath glad stars, Far from the world of wars; Each loved the other well: Her eyes were like the spell Of dusk and dawning skies-- The purple dark that dyes The midnight: his were blue As heaven the day shines through.

V.

O pansy-violet, What is this vague regret, This yearning, so like tears, That touches through the years Long past, when Myth and Fable In all strange things were able To beautify the Earth, Things of immortal worth?-- This longing, that to me Is like a memory Lived long ago, of those Fair children who, it knows, Loved with no mortal love; Whom smiling heaven above Fostered, and when they died Laid side by loving side.

VI.

O pansy-violet, I dream, remembering yet A wood-god-guarded tomb, Out of whose moss a bloom Sprang, with three petals wan As are the eyes of dawn; And two as darkly deep As are the eyes of sleep.-- O flower,--that seems to hold Some memory of old, A hope, a happiness, At which I can but guess,-- You are a sign to me Of immortality: Through you my spirit sees The deathless purposes Of death, that still evolves The beauty it resolves; The change that aye fulfills Life's meaning as God wills.

Heart of my Heart

Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- When we were children who would laugh and run, Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- Before came toil and care and years went ill, And one forgot and one remembered still, Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, Give me your hands and let me draw you near. Heart of my heart.

Stars are not truer than your soul is true-- What need I more of heaven then than you? Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- What need I more to make my world complete? O woman nature, love that still endures, What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. Heart of my heart.

Witnesses

I.

You say I do not love you!--Tell me why, When I have gazed a little on your face, And then gone forth into the world of men, A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky, A glamour, that transforms each common place, Attends my spirit then?

II.

You say I do not love you!--Yet I know When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon Your words awhile, my heart has gone away Filled with strange music, very soft and low, A dim companion, touching with sweet tone The discords of the day.

III.

You say I do not love you!--Yet it seems, When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom, Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams, The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell, Dreams of spring's wild perfume.

Wherefore

I would not see, yet must behold The truth they preach in church and hall; And question so,--Is death then all, And life an idle tale that's told?

The myriad wonders art hath wrought I deemed eternal as God's love: No more than shadows these shall prove, And insubstantial as a thought.

And love and labor, who have gone, Hand in close hand, and civilized The wilderness, these shall be prized No more than if they had not done.

Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bend Beneath a burden so unjust? Our works are builded out of dust, And dust their universal end.

Pagan

The gods, who could loose and bind In the long ago, The gods, who were stern and kind To men below, Where shall we seek and find, Or, finding, know?

Where Greece, with king on king, Dreamed in her halls; Where Rome kneeled worshiping, The owl now calls, And whispering ivies cling To mouldering walls.

They have served, and have passed away From the earth and sky, And their Creed is a record gray, Where the passer-by Reads, "Live and be glad to-day, For to-morrow ye die."

And shall it be so, indeed, When we are no more, That nations to be shall read,-- As we have before,-- In the dust of a Christian Creed, But pagan lore?

"The Fathers of our Fathers"

Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning the battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th.

I.

The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- What are we who now stand idle while we see our seamen slain? Who behold our flag dishonored, and still pause! Are we blind to her duplicity, the treachery of Spain? To the rights, she scorns, of nations and their laws? Let us rise, a mighty people, let us wipe away the stain! Must we wait till she insult us for a cause?-- The fathers of our fathers they were men!

II.

The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- Had they nursed delay as we do? had they sat thus deaf and dumb, With these cowards compromising year by year? Never hearing what they should hear, never saying what should come, While the courteous mask of Spain still hid a sneer! No! such news had roused their natures like a rolling battle-drum-- God of earth! and God of heaven! do we fear?-- The fathers of our fathers they were men!

III.

The fathers of our fathers they were men!-- What are we who are so cautious, never venturing too far! Shall we, at the cost of honor, still keep peace? While we see the thousands starving and the struggling Cuban star, And the outraged form of Freedom on her knees! Let our long, steel ocean-bloodhounds, adamantine dogs of war, Sweep the yellow Spanish panther from the seas!-- The fathers of our fathers they were men!

"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin"

I.

Behold! we have gathered together our battleships near and afar; Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are shotted for war: From the East to the West there is hurry, in the North and the South a peal Of hammers in fort and shipyard, and the clamor and clang of steel; And the roar and the rush of engines, and clanking of derrick and crane-- Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!

II.

Behold! I have stood on the mountains, and this was writ in the sky:-- "She is weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance God holds on high!" The balance He once weighed Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, in: One scale holds thy pride and thy power and empire, begotten of sin; Heavy with woe and torture, the crimes of a thousand years, Mortared and welded together with fire and blood and tears; In the other, for justice and mercy, a blade with never a stain, Is laid the Sword of Liberty, and the balance dips, O Spain!

III.

Summon thy vessels together! great is thy need for these!-- Cristobal Colon, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Maria Terese-- Let them be strong and many, for a vision I had by night, That the ancient wrongs thou hast done the world came howling to the fight; From the New-World shores they gathered, Inca and Aztec slain, To the Cuban shot but yesterday, and our own dead seamen, Spain!

IV.

Summon thy ships together, gather a mighty fleet! For a strong young Nation is arming, that never hath known defeat. Summon thy ships together, there on thy blood-stained sands! For a shadowy army gathers with manacled feet and hands, A shadowy host of sorrows and shames, too black to tell, That reach, with their horrible wounds, for thee to drag thee down to Hell; A myriad phantoms and spectres, thou warrest against in vain-- Thou art weighed in the Scales and found wanting, the balance of God, O Spain!

Her Vivien Eyes

Her Vivien eyes,--beware! beware!-- Though they be stars, a deadly snare They set beneath her night of hair. Regard them not! lest, drawing near-- As sages once in old Chaldee-- Thou shouldst become a worshiper, And they thy evil destiny.

Her Vivien eyes,--away! away!-- Though they be springs, remorseless they Gleam underneath her brow's bright day. Turn, turn aside, whate'er the cost! Lest in their deeps thou lures behold, Through which thy captive soul were lost, As was young Hylas once of old.

Her Vivien eyes,--take heed! take heed!-- Though they be bibles, none may read Therein of God or Holy Creed. Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,-- As Merlin was, romances tell,-- And in their sorcerous spells immersed, Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell.

There Was a Rose

There was a rose in Eden once: it grows On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows More loveliness than old seraglios Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: More purity, than ever yet had room In soul of nun or saint.--O human rose,-- Who art initial and sweet period of My heart's divinest sentence, where I read Love, first and last, and in the pauses love; Who art the dear ideal of each deed My life aspires by to some high goal,-- Set in the haunted garden of my soul!

The Artist

In story books, when I was very young, I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race; And then it was your picture took its place, Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung High in my heart's red room: no song was sung, No tale of passion told, I did not grace With your associated form and face, And intimated charm of touch and tongue. As years went on you grew to more and more, Until each thing, symbolic to my heart Of beauty,--such as honor, truth, and fame,-- Within the studio of my soul's thought wore Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art, Strove to embody and to give a name.

Poetry and Philosophy

Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet Hyblæan bees seemed swarming my retreat Around the reedy well of Poesy. I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee, Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat High on the summit of Philosophy. Around the wave of one Religion taught Her first rude children. From the stars that burned Above the mountained other, Science learned The first vague lessons of the work she wrought. Daughters of God, in whom we still behold The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold.

"Quo Vadis"

It is as if imperial trumpets broke Again the silence on War's iron height; And Cæsar's armored legions marched to fight, While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke, Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke, Again I see the living torches light The horrible revels, and the bloated, white, Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke: And here and there a little band of slaves Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul, Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word: And towards the North the tottering architraves Of empire; and, wild-waving over all, The flaming figure of a Gothic sword.

To a Critic

Song hath a catalogue of lovely things Thy kind hath oft defiled,--whose spite misleads The world too often!--where the poet reads, As in a fable, of old envyings, Crows, such as thou, which hush the bird that sings, Or kill it with their cawings; thorns and weeds, Such as thyself, 'midst which the wind sows seeds Of flow'rs, these crush before one blossom swings. But here and there the wisdom of a School Unknown to these hath often written down "Fame" in white ink the future hath turned brown; When every beauty, heaped with ridicule, In their ignoble prose, proved their renown, Making each famous--as an ass or fool.

_AFTERWORD._

_The old enthusiasms Are dead, quite dead, in me; Dead the aspiring spasms Of art and poesy, That opened magic chasms, Once, of wild mystery, In youth's rich Araby. That opened magic chasms._

_The longing and the care Are mine; and, helplessly, The heartache and despair For what can never be. More than my mortal share Of sad mortality, It seems, God gives to me, More than my mortal share._

_O world! O time! O fate! Remorseless trinity! Let not your wheel abate Its iron rotary!-- Turn round! nor make me wait, Bound to it neck and knee, Hope's final agony!-- Turn round! nor make me wait._

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Transcriber's note

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 25: "beach" changed to "beech".

Page 46: "marrige" changed to "marriage".

Page 53: "slighest" changed to "slightest".