Part 3

AH, little David! least of all thy kin, Fresh from the thyme-sweet meads of Thessaly, Where the cool pastures overhang the sea, Leaving thy sheep to join the battle’s din: Here is Philistia, here the chosen hosts Wavering half-hearted on the unfought plain, Chiding thy zeal as “premature” and “vain,” The while the turbaned giant struts and boasts. We catch the shining of thy brave young face, We watch thee fit the pebble to the sling With straight, true aim and heart that knows no fear, And turn to see, O wonder of disgrace, The serried soldiery of Christ the King Skulking, protesting, squabbling in the rear!

IF YOUTH COULD KNOW

IF youth could know, what age knows without teaching, Hope’s instability and Love’s dear folly, The difference between practising and preaching, The quiet charm that lurks in melancholy; The after-bitterness of tasted pleasure; That temperance of feeling and of words Is health of mind, and the calm fruits of leisure Have sweeter taste than feverish zeal affords; That reason has a joy beyond unreason; That nothing satisfies the soul like truth; That kindness conquers in and out of season,— If youth could know—why, youth would not be youth.

If age could feel the uncalculating urgence, The pulse of life that beats in youthful veins, And with its swift, resistless ebb and surgence Makes light of difficulties, sport of pains; Could once, just once, retrace the path and find it, That lovely, foolish zeal, so crude, so young, Which bids defiance to all laws to bind it, And flashes in quick eye and limb and tongue, Which, counting dross for gold, is rich in dreaming, And, reckoning moons as suns, is never cold, And, having naught, has everything in seeming,— If age could do all this—age were not old!

THE SOUL’S CLIMATE

“Every soul has a climate of its own, or rather _is_ a climate.”—HENRI AMIEL.

O HEART beloved, O kindest heart! Balming like summer and like sun The sting of tears, the ache of sorrow, The shy, cold hurts which sting and smart, The frets and cares which underrun The dull day and the dreaded morrow— How when thou comest all turns fair, Hard things seem possible to bear, Dark things less dark, if thou art there.

Thou keepest a climate of thine own ’Mid earth’s wild weather and gray skies, A soft, still air for human healing, A genial, all-embracing zone Where frosts smite not nor winds arise; And past the tempest-storm of feeling Each grieved and weak and weary thing, Each bird with numbed and frozen wing, May sink to rest and learn to sing.

Like some cathedral stone begirt, Which keeps through change of cold and heat Still temperature and equal weather, Thy sweetness stands, untouched, unhurt By any mortal storms that beat, Calm, helpful, undisturbed forever. Dear heart, to which we all repair To bask in sunshine and sweet air, God bless thee ever, everywhere.

THE BETTER PRAYER

WHEN I sit and think of heaven so beautiful and dear, Think of the sweet peace reigning there and the contentions here, Think of the safe, sure justice beside the earthly wrong, And set our ringing discords against celestial song, And all the full securities beside “O Lord, how long?” Oh, then I long to be there, and in my heart I pray, “Lord, open thou the pearly gates, and let me in to-day.”

And then I turn to earth again, and in my thoughts I see The small, unnoted corner given in charge to me, The work that needs be done there which no one else will do, The briars that rend, the tares that spring, the heartease choked with rue, The plants that must be trained and set to catch the sun and dew; And there seems so much to do there, that in my heart I pray, “Lord, shut thy gate, and call me not, and let me work to-day.”

SUPPLY

“Why does all heaven move toward beseeching souls?” NATHANIEL BURTON.

EMPTY the brook-fed basin high on the mountain side, Drain it drop by drop, and make it dry as you will, The forces that guide the waters no vacuum can abide; They rush, they join, they link their threads in a foaming tide, And down they hurry and hasten the spent pool to re-fill.

Empty the sphere of glass, exhaust its last spent air, Seal it and make it sure, and deem your work complete, Let but a pin pierce through the fabric anywhere, And the urgent and crowding ether, for all your guarding care, Will enter and fill the space, and laugh at your swift defeat.

So to the empty chambers of these craving souls of ours Comes the invisible grace which breathes from the Lord of heaven, Comes as comes to the sand the tide with its freshening powers, Comes as come to the harvest the solacing summer showers, As to thirst of the desert the draft which is life is given.

Only be ready and wait, and Heaven shall haste to bless. Empty thy old wine out and make a place for the new; Swifter than rushing wind shall the force divine down press, And the pitiful Lord, instead of the want and the loneliness, Shall give the peace of peace and the fulness of joy to you.

A THOUGHT

“It is better to be lost than to be saved all alone.” HENRI AMIEL.

WHAT! heaven all to one’s self and the rest of men shut out? Better were hell than that, with a share in the common doom, Than to bask and smile content, with never a fear and doubt, In the vast, vast Paradise space with the countless flowers abloom.

To lie by the River of Life and see it run to waste, To eat of the Tree of Heaven while the nations go unfed, To taste the full salvation—the only one to taste— To live while the rest are lost,—oh, better by far be dead!

For to share is the bliss of heaven, as it is the joy of earth, And the unshared bread lacks savor, and the wine unshared lacks zest, And the joy of the soul redeemed would be little, little worth, If, content with its own security, it could forget the rest.

HOLGER DANSKE

WHERE the mighty walls of Kronberg Tower o’er the cold blue tides, Like a couching lion set to guard A treasure which he hides, In a deep, deep vault shut out from day, In the heart of the dungeon place, There sleepeth Holger Danske, The noblest of his race.

There sleeps he in his rusted mail, With his sword across his knees, His snowy beard has grown ell long Through the long centuries. And if ever a faint, far murmur stirs, Or the sound of a bell’s dim chime, He moves, and fumbles at the hilt, And mutters, “Is it time?”

A peasant once of old, ’tis said, Lost in the labyrinth ways, Chanced on the door and raised the bar, And stared with a wild amaze. And, “Is it time?” he heard the shape In an awful voice demand; Trembling he answer made, “Not yet!” “Then reach to me thy hand.”

But the frightened hind dares not approach To touch that form of eld, And laid instead in the mailed grasp The iron bar he held. Like wax the iron bent and snapped, And the grim lips moved to smile. “Ha! There are men in Denmark still; I may rest me yet a while.”

Never since then has mortal man Trod the forgotten stair, Or lifted the bar of the hidden vault To rouse the sleeper there. But whenever the Danish blood is hot, Or the land for a hero cries, Men think of Holger Danske, And they look to see him rise.

For the runes have read and the sagas sung That whenever the worst shall be, And the Raven standard flutter low Above the Northern Sea, And the Danish blade be broken short, And the land be rent with grief, The genius of the Danes shall wake And come to his relief.

Before his cold and frozen look, Before his blasting blade, The armies of the foe shall flee, The alien shrink, afraid; And the Paladin of ancient days Shall rule with the ancient might, And all the bitter be made sweet, And all the wrong made right.

Out of the throes of the heaviest pain This new peace shall be born, Out of the very heart of night Break the unlooked-for morn, When the nation’s need shall answer In one deep, according chime, To the voice of Holger Danske, Demanding, “Is it time?”

VASSOS

SILENT he sits upon the Cretan height, A girdling ring of fleets and forts below; He sees the war-ships gliding to and fro, Hears distant, summoning trumpets through the night. Far off is Greece, the enemy is near; To her he speaks, to him he nothing says; Borrowing the lightning’s language for his phrase, With fiery flash he talks, in utterance clear. In the old time a monarch through the murk Stared shuddering, and watched while fiery lines Traced on the wall a word of destiny; And so the “Christian” kings who serve the Turk May read like message in those flashing signs: “Weighed, wanting, lo! thy power is taken from thee.”

MUTINY

THE heart of the world beats slow, And the pulse of life is low, And the shrunk earth powerless lies, and prone in the clutches of the frost; And the short, short days go by, And the sun in the wintry sky Shoots a cold ray into the noon as if its heat were lost.

But put your ear to the ground, And a stir of dim-heard sound Will reach it,—a murmur of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising tide. No rootlet faint and chill But shares the quivering thrill; And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter hide.

Ah, despot, hoary and old! Your fetters are strong and cold, But stronger the slender slaves they bind, and they shall conquer thee. A little longer still You may urge your cruel will, Then the dungeon-doors shall open wide and the prisoners go free.

Bluebird and robin then Shall sing your requiem. The moon shall laugh at your defeat, the teasing winds deride; For your icicles on eaves Shall dance the happy leaves And the bayonets of the daffodils thrust all your frosts aside.

For while the stars endure This sweet truth standeth sure,— That life is ever lord of death, and love o’ercometh hate. So, though the months seem long, And the icy fetters strong, We will abide in patience, come the springtime soon or late.

UNFORGOTTEN

WHERE the long pastures skirt the bay And sober-eyed New England keeps The leisure of its old-time way, Among her buried kin, she sleeps.

Blown o’er by winds or heaped with snow, That little mound and headstone rude Is all that marks for us below A flower of sweetest womanhood.

Twenty swift years of sun and shade Have fleeted past, half unperceived, Since her delightful presence made Our lives seem worthier to be lived.

The dust of days, the sands of years Have hidden her fair memory deep, And eyes once blind with bitterest tears Have long forgotten how to weep;

And death and love and life have whirled To orbits new and strange since she Who was the heart of that old world Made room for these changed things to be.

Past her still resting-place all day, With rush and flash and resonant roar, The tide of travel takes its way Along the bay-indented shore.

Shrill sounds the flying clamor, blent With softer surge of dim-heard surf, Across the orchard closes sent To break upon her graving turf.

And hearts that loved her once speed fast, Idly intent on shore and skies, Nor turn to give a look or cast A thought toward her where she lies!

It is the usual lot! We live Too strenuously for long regret, Too occupied and taxed to give Our minds to perished pain; but yet,

Borne on the vibrant, clanging wheels, I never pass that half-seen place, But flashing o’er my memory steals The vision of that sweet, lost face;

And my heart whispers low to her, Across the distance dim and chill: “Sleep softly, dearest, do not stir, I love you—I remember still.”

DENIAL

NOT only Peter in the judgment-hall, Not only in the centuries gone by, Did coward hearts deny Thee, Lord of all, But even in our time, and constantly; For feeble wills, and the mean fear of men, And selfish dread, are with us now as then.

To-day we vow allegiance to Thy name; To-day our souls, ourselves, we pledge to Thee, Yet if a storm-wind of reproach or blame Rises and beats upon us suddenly, Faltering and fearful, we deny our Lord, By traitorous silence or by uttered word.

We close our lips when speech would wake a sneer; We turn aside and shirk the rougher path; We gloss and blink as if we did not hear The scoffing word which calls for righteous wrath. All unrebuked we let the scoffer go, And we deny our Lord and Master so.

Come Thou, as once of old Thou camest in And “looked on Peter” in the judgment-hall; Let that deep, grievéd gaze rebuke our sin, Questioning, recalling, wakening, pardoning all, Till we go out and weep the whole night long, Made strong by sorrow as He was made strong.

ASTORIA BY TWILIGHT

ALL pale the daffodil-tinted sky; The dusky shores that ’neath it lie Are set like an etching against the color, As the great steamship plunges by.

There is the road I used to know, There are the windows still aglow, As when in those old days of welcome They lit the visitants to and fro.

There are the gates I used to pass, The belts of flowers, the shaven grass, The casements behind which well-known faces Smiled softly at me through the glass.

No other eye than mine could see If that dim shape be house or tree; The true heart hath its inner vision, It is all clear as day to me.

I see the forms so long unseen, Stately in age, of reverend mien, Gay youth, and flower-like baby faces, And manhood’s aspect grave and keen.

And, beautiful beyond compare, Mysteriously, strangely fair, Like some clear star high-hung in heaven And sweet as summer roses are,—

One dear face hovers o’er the spot, Which knew her once and knows her not; And still from out the deathly shadows, Looks forth, beloved and unforgot.

All vain are beauty, worth, and wit, The hours come, the hours flit; Time’s wheel inexorably turneth, And carries all our hopes with it.

It is life’s common end and way; Nothing abides and naught may stay; And strangers in the kinsmen’s places Front us with alien eyes to-day.

If Grief were not Joy’s earthly stem, And Time Eternity’s brief hem, I could not bear it to sit in shadow And watch that shore—remembering them!

THE PRICE OF FREYA

[Freya, in the Scandinavian mythology, was the goddess of Youth and Hope. While she remained with the gods and fed them daily with her golden apples they were all-powerful; but when Wodin parted with her as the price for the building of Walhalla, they suddenly became weak and weary, and a shadow rested over the world. Walhalla was of no worth without Freya.]

THE towers are strong and the towers are fair As they rise and gleam in the sunlit air, With bastion and battlement and spire Built for one rule and one desire; Fain would we enter there and sway, But the giant builder the door secures, And mutters his price as he bars the way: “Give up Freya, and all is yours.”

There in the citadel fancy built Are the riches of ages heaped and spilt; Diamonds glitter and rubies gleam, And moon-like pearls front the pale moonbeam. Golden the roof and gold the floor; The glittering splendor woos and lures; And the tempting voice repeats once more: “Give up Freya, and all is yours.”

What! give up hope with its rainbow sheen, Give up the sparkle, the song, the jest, The vision of something dreamed, not seen, Which is sweeter by far than the thing possessed? The flowers of May and the roses of June, The sweet spring-breath of the April breeze, The dew of morn and the light of noon— When we give up Freya, must we give all these?

But we give; and we enter the towers of pride, And we thread our gems and we count our gold; And we bid our hearts to be satisfied With so much to have and so much to hold. But the smile is faded from the day; Our drink is bitter, our bread is stone— And amid the shadows we sit and say: “Nothing is worth with Freya gone.”

A SUMMER SONG

SING thyself out, sweet summer, leave not a note unsung; Smile to the end, dear summer, dimpling on land and sea, Voice all the praise of the roses, O bells of the lily which rung The holiday signal for the world, heard by my heart and me!

The earth it was weary of winter, of the frost and the tingling snow, Of winds which blew from the icy Pole, daunting the faint sun-ray; And the pulse of life beat fainter, and the fire of hope burned low, And we yearned for thy coming, summer, and thou wert so far away.

Then the shy, cool noon shone warmer, and the shrunken veins of earth Pulsed with a quicker current which glowed in the willow’s stem, And the frozen graves were opened, and death gave place to birth, And the drowsy flowers reared their heads, and called the birds to them.

Back they came trooping blithely, the oriole and the wren, Robin and jay and hermit-thrush, to twilight-haunted grove; New nests, new music, and new hopes, in upland and in glen, And all the winter discords turned to harmonies of love.

O hearts that failed and doubted, and eyes that were blind and wet, And dared not trust the heavenly love which giveth each good thing, The Lord he never forgets his world, and he never will forget, And year by year from the graving snows he builds his blessed spring!

Tell thyself out then, summer, leave not a word unsaid, Give sun to sky, and dew to earth, and moon to silver sea; Give faith to sore and sorrowing hearts who grieve beside their dead, And tell them God can bring them back, even as he brought back thee.

AN EVENING PRIMROSE

WHEN all the west is red at set of sun, And cool airs waken which were hushed at noon, And crickets chirr and trill, and one by one The birds’ songs die away to sleepy croon, And each white lily on the garden walk, Dew-heavy, hangs its head upon its stalk;

When dawning soft and faint upon the blue, The vague, mysterious, dreamy blue of night, The first dim planet glimmers into view, ’Tis then it opens with a shy delight Its pale gold, wayside blossoms near and far, Holding them up to greet the evening star.

The freshness of the morning tempts it not, Nor fervid noon, nor the warm wind’s caress; It envies not the royal rose’s lot, Choosing, as background for its loveliness, The dewy shadows and the twilight lone; Making the hush of eventide its own.

The blaze and sunshine of the summer hours Know not nor prize the blooms they never see; None of the jubilant and day-lit flowers Hail it as sister, but the drowsy bee And the night-moth, just roused from his repose, They love it better than the fair, proud rose.

A type it seems of some shy human hearts, Which palely shrink from joy and shun renown, But when the sun grows colder and departs, And the dim, hovering night shuts darkly down And all the happy things which feed on day Shiver and shrink and hide themselves away—

Then, like the primrose with its pale gold star, They open sudden blooms of love and cheer, Giving out fragrance where no others are, Gilding the heavy hours of doubt and fear, Fronting the shadows, till with dawn ends pain, Then folding silently their buds again.

A ROSE IN A GLASS

ONLY a rose in a glass, Set by a sick man’s bed; The day was weary, the day was long, But the rose it spoke with a voice like song, And this is what it said:

“I know that the wind is keen, And the drifted snows lie deep; I know that the cruel ice lies spread O’er the laughing brook and the lake’s blue bed, And the fountain’s rush and leap.

“I know, I know all this; Yet here I sit—a rose! Smiling I sit, and I feel no fear, For God is good and the Spring is near, Couched in the shrouding snows.

“Canst thou not smile with me? Art thou less strong than I? Less strong at heart than a feeble flower Which lives and blossoms but one brief hour, And then must droop and die?

“Surely, thou canst endure Thy little pains and fears, Before whose eyes, all fair and bright, In endless vistas of delight Stretch the Eternal Years!”

Then over the sick man’s heart Fell a deep and hushed repose. He turned on his pillow and whispered low, That only the listening flower might know: “I thank thee, Rose, dear Rose.”

SNOWBOUND

IT looks so cold, this drifted snow, So cruelly, deadly cold, and yet The hidden bulbs and roots below Deem it their friendliest coverlet.

Wrapped warmly in its fleecy veil They hear, unshuddering where they lie, The patter and the hiss of hail, The angry storm-wind whirling by.

Above, the world is tempest-tossed; Buried too deep for doubts and fears, The detonations of the frost Come dumbed and softened to their ears.

Sleeping, they smile as children do, Secure of shield and covering, And trust the Promise, proved and true, The unforgetting pledge of spring.

Their veins a slumbering pulse informs, The life within them stirs and grows, And fed and sheltered so by storms, They wait content beneath the snows.

Life has its storms; its hard, cold days, When blasts of grief and frosts of care Drift in upon the happy ways, And blight the blooms that made them fair.

Cheerless we scan the wastes of white Which seem of Hope the high-heaped grave, Nor guess that hidden far from sight Lie germs of joy, secure and brave;

And that, when comes God’s blessed spring, (As surely it shall come at last To every grieved and patient thing!) And all the winter-time is past,—

And the snow melts, and hands unseen Set buds and blossoms on each stem, We shall note growths which had not been If Sorrow had not sheltered them!

SHELTERED

“FEAR no more the heat of the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages.”

THE piercing blast blows from the pole, The panes are glazed with ice, All etched and freaked in fairy lines, With many a strange device; The hard snow echoes underfoot To tread of hurrying feet, And every freezing breath is charged With particles of sleet.

But thou, my darling, who till late Endured the winter’s sting, And faded yearly with the flowers, And shared their suffering, Out of the storm wind and the frost, Like birds which southward soar, From the chill world which hurt thee so Hast flown forevermore.

In sheltered and eternal spring, Where never cold wind blew, Amid the all-contented saints, Thou sittest, contented too. The hard things are forgotten quite, The heavenly rest is fair, And we who shiver still on earth Are glad that thou art there.

THE OLD PINE

UPON the lonely, wind-swept crest, Where the hill-summit fronts the west, Set like gaunt sentinels in row To watch the seasons come and go, In stalwart and unbending lines, There stands a row of hoary pines.

Long have they stood, and much have seen, Deer couched once in their coverts green, The Indian paused his bow to string, The wild cat crouched before its spring, And from deep hollows far below The wolf’s long howl rang o’er the snow.

Sleek kine and browsing sheep now stray Where once was heard the wolves’ wild bay, The red man fading slow made place For an encroaching, stronger race, And on the once lonely, rocky height A church uprears its steeple white.