Part 1
=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=
Footnotes have been placed at the end of their respective poem.
IN THE MORNING.
IN THE MORNING.
BY
WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
Den Abend lang währet das Weinen, Aber des Morgens die Freude.
LUTHER’S VERSION.
Hear what the Morning says, and believe that.
EMERSON.
NEW YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO. 38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET.
1890.
_Copyright, 1890_, BY WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.
University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
To my Mother.
CONTENTS.
PAGE AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE 9
VITA NUOVA 11
NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND 15
DIAPASON 17
CHAMOUNIX 20
IN THE MORNING 22
MARIGOLD 25
“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!” 27
TO M----, ON HER BIRTHDAY 29
“YOURS TRULY” 30
A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER 32
IN SOMNO VERITAS 36
THALATTA 38
UNKNOWN 39
MY CROSS 41
A VALENTINE 42
WHITE PINK 44
APRILLE 45
MAY 46
AUGUST 47
CARLO’S CHRISTMAS 48
THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW 50
TWO VISIONS 52
MY CREED 54
AGAIN? 55
PANSY 56
GOLDEN-ROD 57
TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY 58
TO A VERY SMALL PINE 59
MOSSES 61
THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS 63
CHRISTMAS SNOW 64
THE “CREATION” 65
THE HAPPY VALLEY 67
DOLLIE’S SPRING 71
THE THIRD DAY 73
THE SEVENTH DAY 73
FERN LIFE 75
Its Home 75
At School 76
Asleep 76
A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind 77
The Chime 77
The Hymn of the Northern Pines 78
At Last 79
PAUSES AND CLAUSES 80
TO M----, WITH A COPY OF “THE PETERKIN PAPERS” 81
MEMORIAL POEM 83
DANDELION 90
MARJORIE 92
PRIMROSE 94
CONTENT 96
WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER 98
SEA-GIRLS 102
HOMEWARD 104
A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M---- 107
TRANSLATIONS 113
In the North-land 113
A Lovely Flower 113
Eagerly I cry 114
He who for the first Time 114
Little Maid 115
It was as if the Heavens 115
IN MORNING-LAND 117
SIC ITUR AD ASTRA 119
THE COMET, NOVEMBER, 1882 121
“HIS STAR” 122
“LICHT, MEHR LICHT!” 124
PSALM LXXX 126
UNTO THE PERFECT DAY 127
HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE 128
BLIND 130
REFUGE 133
GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO” 135
ON CHRISTMAS EVE 136
BY NIGHT 139
“STAR OF BETHLEHEM” 141
“BLESSED” 143
A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL 146
THE FOURTH WATCH 148
“WITH YOU ALWAY” 151
DECEMBER 31 152
IN MY ARM-CHAIR 154
_AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE._
_Two sorrie Thynges there be,-- Ay, three: A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken, A Lamb forsaken, A Petal from ye Wilde Rose rudely shaken._
_Of gladde Thynges there be more,-- Ay, four: A Larke above ye olde Neste blithely singing, A Wilde Rose clinging In safety to ye Rock, a Shepherde bringing A Lamb, found, in his arms,--and Chrystemesse Bells a-ringing._
IN THE MORNING.
VITA NUOVA.
A desert, treeless, boundless, The low sun round and red, Air stifling, moveless, soundless-- And I alone with my dead.
Her head lay on my shoulder, The crimson light ebbed fast; Her face grew paler, colder-- The face of my own dead Past.
Then darkness, black and frightful, Dropped from the eastern sky, With never a star, but a night-full Of horrors creeping by.
I saw how fiercely glistened Their mad eyes, two by two,-- They screamed, and as I listened They laughed like a demon crew.
See how that huge hyena Grows bolder than the rest-- Slinks--snarls--in the arena, For the corpse upon my breast!
I laughed like the brutes around me, I snarled on my stony bed, I severed the ties that bound me And gnashed upon the dead.
The tawny-sided creatures, Red claw and dripping fang, The hideous, grinning features, The awful mirth that rang,-- All vanished. Starless, boundless, The night stretched o’er my head. In the gray dawn, soulless, soundless, I sat alone with my dead.
Then rustling forms drew nearer. By the faint approaching day The frightful things grew clearer,-- Great, unclean birds of prey And carrion beasts, that waited Until, on the booty rare, Their hunger foul should be sated With my poor Past, lying there.
Oh, I, too, sullen-hearted, No word of anguish said; Till bird and beast departed I waited--dumb--by the dead.
The white east flickered with fire, A lark flew singing by, The glad light mounted higher, Up-spread o’er all the sky.
My burden, fair and human, Still rested on my hands, When lo! a gracious Woman, Swift walking o’er the sands, Until she stood before me, Breathed words of hope and cheer; Her radiant eyes were o’er me, Her presence warm and near,
And at her voice--oh, wonder!-- The dead herself awoke; The birds no longer shunned her, She smiled, and moved, and spoke, Then, “FUTURE” named, to guide me She softly sprang away; The Woman stayed beside me-- Sun rose--it was full day.
NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND.
A poet sat in his oaken chair, The pen in his eager hand, Awaiting the voice that should declare His Lord’s divine command.
The sad winds sobbed against the pane, The tempest’s tramp he heard As it scourged the night with a hissing rain-- But the Poet wrote never a word.
Then came a burst of martial mirth, And mighty cannon roared Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth-- ’Twas not the voice of the Lord.
In the Poet’s heart a memory rose Of love’s first passionate thrill That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows-- But the pen was idle, still;
When lo, a timid voice at the door, And a child, with sweet delight, Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er-- The poem was written that night.
DIAPASON.
On the crags of a far-off mountain-top At earliest dawn a snowflake fell; The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop! There is room in my icy halls to dwell!” The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear, Then wept herself to a single tear, Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide Adown the slopes of the mountain-side.
Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare, A tiny rivulet bore on their breast; Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair Mutely besought her to slumber and rest. The rivulet shone in the morning sun, And touching them tenderly, one by one, With dewy lips, like the mountain mist, Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.
Among the shadows of pine and fir A stream danced merrily on her way; A thrush from his hermitage sang to her: “Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!” The noontide shadows were cool and deep, The pathway stony, the hillside steep, The bird still chanted with all his art-- But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart.
Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright, Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea, A river rolled on, in the fading light, Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea. The sins and uncleanness of many she bore To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore, Till moonlight followed the sunset glow And her crimson waves were as white as snow.
On the lonely ledges of Appledore I listen again to the ocean’s song, And lo! in its music I hear once more The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long. In that solemn refrain that never shall end The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend, The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush, The evening hymn of the hermit thrush, The undertone of the mountain pine,-- The deep sweet voice of a love divine.
CHAMOUNIX.
Within Thy holy temple have I strayed E’en as a weary child, who from the heat And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle, And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands.
Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head; Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float Around the great white altar set on high.
So lift my heart, O God, and purify My thought, that when I walk once more Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng, One cup of water from these springs of life, One ray of sunlight from these golden days, One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow, As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear To little ones who toil, and long for rest.
IN THE MORNING.
’Twas morn, And day was born. Bright in the west the stars still burned, But ever, as the great earth turned, The eastern mountain-tops grew dark Against the rosy heaven--and hark! A single note from flute-toned thrush Drops downward through the twilight hush; Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”
The sun Touched one by one The firs along the distant crest,-- A silent host, with lance at rest; Flashed all the world with jewels rare, Quivered with joy the maiden-hair Beside the brook that downward sprang And rippling o’er its mosses, sang With silvery laugh the same glad song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”
When lo! Swift, to and fro, A sombre shadow crossed its path, Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath, The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept, The maiden-hair bowed low and wept; The heavens were black, the earth was gray The hills all blanched in the spectral day,-- The night-wind rose, and wailed this song: “Oh, long, long, Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!”
Behold, A shaft of gold Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm, The heart of heaven beat quick and warm; From bird and stream, with myriad tongue, The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung. ’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright The maiden-hair raised to the light; I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song: “Oh, sweet, sweet, Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”
MARIGOLD.
Marigold, marigold, wi’ thy wee cup o’ gold, What is it mak’s thee sae bonnie an’ gay? Sunshine has drappit, an’ filled up my cup o’ gold Fu’ to the brim wi’ the licht o’ the day.
Marigold, marigold, surely ye canna hold A’ the sweet sunshine ’at draps frae the sky! Nay, I’ve a muckle o’ licht ’at I winna hold, Saved up for you an’ for ithers to try.
Marigold, marigold, stan’in’ there a’ sae bold, What’s in thy een, ’at mak’s ’em sae bright? I keep ’em wide open, stan’in’ here a’ sae bold, Luikin’ at heaven frae mornin’ to nicht.
Marigold, marigold, bairnie wi’ cup o’ gold, What’s i’ thy hert, ’at mak’s thee sae strang? Trust i’ the One ’at gave me my cup o’ gold Lattin’ Him love me, a’ the day lang.
“SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAID’S A-WAITING!”
Eighteen years ago the sunshine Laughed to find a baby face; Laughed to see the blue eyes sober, In that golden, glad October, Softly kissed the wisps of hair, Softly kissed, and lingered there, Like an answer to a prayer, Like a whispered benediction, Token bright of heavenly grace.
Standing on life’s sunlit threshold, Gazing forth with eyes of blue On the great round world before her, On the kind skies brooding o’er her,-- From the baby hair the light Never has departed quite; Still it lingers, pure and bright. Yes, the little maid is waiting, With a purpose grand and true;
Waiting for whate’er the Father Calls His child to do and bear; Waiting, as a thirsty flower Waits the morning dew and shower. Summers come and summers go, Sparrows flutter to and fro, Autumn breezes murmur low; “Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting, With the sunshine in her hair!”
TO M----, ON HER BIRTHDAY.
WITH A CHESS-BOARD.
Your turn to move again, dear, I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life; It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear, A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife.
An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear, To serve ye the livelong day; Ready in armor to fight, dear, To live or to dee, as ye say.
Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear, I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn-- Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear, Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn!
“_YOURS TRULY._”
“Yours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me! How little she dreams what that would be To him who, trembling, reads the line,-- What if, indeed, she were truly mine!
What visions those two dear words can bring To the lonely heart that is hungering For a single touch of her dainty hand, One swift, shy glance he could understand,
And know that the formal greeting sent But half concealed what the writer meant,-- That she gave, throughout the eternities, Her own sweet self, to be truly his!
There, there!--that fire, how it smokes--what, tears? I’ll answer her letter--
“Dear Friend, I’ve fears Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still I’ll come if it’s possible. _Yours truly_, WILL.”
A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER.
The morning of Sabbath; a city at rest, But waking serenely and donning its best, For the warm March sun already is high. Above, the arch of a white-blue sky; Brown earth, with a touch of green, below; Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb; The melting ice and grimy snow Playing meadow from curb to curb, With small mud-rills in place of brooks, And a sewer for sea!
Ah, hold, my friend, I grant how childish-foolish it looks, But perhaps they’ve faith for the very end,-- For streams and sewers, greatest and least, Find ocean at last, in the misty East.
The good people all are off to the churches, While I, left here in the idlest of lurches, Must seek a preacher to preach me a sermon, Ordained with open-air dews of Hermon; A discourse conservative, grave, edifying, And--come, sir, no laughing! I really am trying To find, if I can, the road steep and narrow; Ah, here he comes, flying, a straw in his bill! I’ll beg him take pulpit; now hear, if you will, A sermon preached by a sparrow.
“My text”--hear the bird!--“I take From the street,”--that’s better,--“and make Application as follows: Down there where my comrades are basking, There’s food to be had for the asking,-- Understand me,--no shirking, Our _asking_ means _working_,-- Each swallows The meal that’s laid on his plate, Content with enough. There’s my mate, Her feathers a-fluff in the sun. That brownest, prettiest one-- Your pardon! I ought to be preaching. This, sir, is the gist of my teaching: We sparrows take things as they come, From four A. M. until six, We work (using straw without bricks); We stop now and then for a crumb Thrown down by a child; full of cheer, We twitter throughout the whole year, Investing in no loans of trouble Where the borrower always pays double.”
But your text was the Street, my good bird. This sounds like the Bible!-- “I’ve heard That life was the same, sir, in each; And, though you want me to preach, You’ll find that men, fowls, and book, If you look, Are all connected together,-- In short, are birds of a feather; And from a genuine sermon You’ll learn, sir,--this I’m firm on,-- The same Hand guides and governs all Which holds us sparrows when we fall.”
No more. Before I could even remind him Of lack of an adequate exhortation, Proper pauses, and peroration, He was off, his straw streaming far behind him.
His advice--well, certainly not very new, Yet perhaps worth trying, I think--don’t you?
IN SOMNO VERITAS.
I dreamed that I sat in my chamber And watched the dancing light Of the blaze upon my hearthstone, And the red brands, glowing bright.
I listened to the rustle Of the flames that rose and fell, And I dreamed I heard a whisper, A voice I knew full well.
The room no more was lonely, A Presence sweet was there, A girlish figure, standing, Beside my own arm-chair.
I dreamed I spoke, and trembling Lest she should prove to be The creature of a vision, I bade her sit by me.
Her grave brown eyes she lifted, Her dear hand placed in mine,-- The air was sweet with incense Of odorous birch and pine,--
And as we watched together Those eager, dancing flames, We talked of days forgotten, And spoke our childish names.
I dreamed that heaven seemed nearer, The skies a lovelier blue, Then--was it still a vision?-- I dreamed my dream came true!
THALATTA.
Far over the billows unresting forever She flits, my white bird of the sea, Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never A wing-beat nearer to me.
With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her She timidly gazes below; Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover, And little recks she of his woe.
One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters, One white plume floats downward to me; Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters-- Night--darkness--alone with the sea.
UNKNOWN.
There’s a star a-light in the gloaming, A gleam in the skies above; There’s a flower at rest on her bosom,-- On the heart of her I love.
What says the star of the twilight? What is the song of the flower? A cloud has covered the star-beam; The blossom lived but an hour.
Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven, The depth beyond, that speak; ’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom, Not the lip nor the fair white cheek.
The voice of the heavens is tender, Its whisper is fond and low; But the voice of the heart that is throbbing-- Its message I cannot know.
MY CROSS.
Only a tiny cross; She plucked it from a mountain fir, And wreathing it in soft, gray moss, Gave it in memory of her,-- Yet--’tis a cross!
Only a soft, gray cross; But, half-concealed, full many a thorn Lay waiting there, beneath the moss, To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn, This wee, sweet cross.
Only a thorny cross, Unconscious of the pain it gives; Lifeless the fir, faded the moss, Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives, It is my cross.
A VALENTINE.
If but the furry catkin small Could speak with gentle voice And bid the sad, Rejoice! A pussy-willow should be all My valentine.
If but the golden daffodil, With many a cheerful word, Could tell what it hath heard By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill, It should be mine.
If but the valley-lilies pure Could whisper in thine ear A message thou wouldst hear, Of One whose promises are sure, Whose love divine,
Such flowers my valentine should be. Yet sought I none of those,-- Only one crimson rose To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,-- Lo, it is thine!
WHITE PINK.
The maiden left a timid kiss Upon the mossy stone; Her lover true, the maiden knew, Would seek and find his own.
The lover never came again, Nor guessed the woe he wrought; Day after day neglected lay The maiden’s kiss, unsought.
At length, upspringing from the moss Through kindly sun and shower, Its petals fair unfolded there This gentle, snow-white flower.
APRILLE.
Aprille, alacke! With sunnie laugh her snow-white cloke flung backe, And gailie cast aside; Then cryed, With little wilfulle gustes of raine, Because she could not have her cloke againe.
MAY.