Part 7

To stand within the vortex Where surging forces play, A poised and pliant figure Immutable as they, Till time and space and energy Surrenders to his sway.

He shall be free to journey Over the teeming earth, An insatiable seeker, A wanderer from his birth, Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, With fortitude for girth.

His hands shall have dominion Of all created things, To fashion in the likeness Of his imaginings, To make his will and thought survive Unto a thousand springs.

The world shall be his province, The princedom of his skill; The tides shall wear his harness, The winds obey his will; Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, Shall work to do him ill.

A creature fit to carry The pure creative fire, Whatever truth inform him, Whatever good inspire, He shall make lovely in all things To the end of his desire.

St. Michael's Star

In the pure solitude of dusk One star is set to shine Above the sundown's dying rose, A lamp before a shrine. It is the star of Michael lit In the minster of the sun, That every toiling hand may give Thanks for the day's work done.

For when the almighty word went forth To bid creation be,-- The glimmering star-tracks on the blue, The tide-belts on the sea,-- Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand The lasting hills arose, Their bases on the poppied plain, Their peaks in bannered snows.

Cedar and thorn and oak were born; Green fiddleheads uncurled In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues Came forth to glad the world;-- The magic of the punctual seeds, Each with its pregnant powers, As the lord Michael fashioned them To keep their days and hours.

Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide, Soft wings to poise and gleam, He formed the pageant tribe by tribe As vivid as a dream. And still must his beneficence Renew, create, sustain, Sorcery of the wind and sun, Alchemy of the rain.

Teeming with God, the kindly sod Yearns through the summer days With the mute eloquence of flowers, Its only means of praise. At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills Throb to the song of birds, And all the dim blue silence thrills To transport not of words.

For earth must breed to spirit's need, Clay to the finer clay, That soul through sense find recompense And rapture on her way. And man, from dust and dreaming wrought, To all things must impart The trend and likeness of his thought, The passion of his heart.

The love and lore he shall acquire To word and deed must dare; Resemblances of God his sire His voice and mien must bear. His children's children shall portray The skill which he bestows On living; and what life must mean His craftsman's instinct knows.

Line upon line and tone by tone, The visioned form he gives To sound and color, wood and stone, Takes loveliness and lives. He sees his project's soaring hope Grow substance, and expand To measure a diviner scope Beneath his patient hand.

To pencil, brush, and burnisher His wizardry he lends, And to the care of lathe and loom His secret he commends. In hues and forms and cadences New beauty he instills, A brother by the right of craft To Michael of the hills.

The Dreamers

Charlemagne with knight and lord, In the hill at Ingelheim, Slumbers at the council board, Seated waiting for the time.

With their swords across their knees In that chamber dimly lit, Chin on breast life effigies Of the dreaming gods, they sit.

Long ago they went to sleep, While great wars above them hurled. Taking counsel how to keep Giant evil from the world.

Golden-armored, iron-crowned, There in silence they await The last war,--in war renowned, Done with doubting and debate.

What is all our clamor for? Petty virtue, puny crime, Beat in vain against the door Of the hill at Ingelheim.

When at last shall dawn the day For the saving of the world, They will forth in war array, Iron-armored, golden-curled.

In the hill at Ingelheim, Still, they say, the Emperor, Like a warrior in his prime, Waits the message at the door.

Shall the long enduring fight Break above our heads in vain, Plunged in lethargy and night, Like the men of Charlemagne?

Comrades, through the Council Hall Of the heart, inert and dumb, Hear ye not the summoning call, "Up, my lords, the hour is come!"

El Dorado

This is the story Of Santo Domingo, The first established Permanent city Built in the New World.

Miguel Dias, A Spanish sailor In the fleet of Columbus, Fought with a captain, Wounded him, then in fear Fled from his punishment.

Ranging the wilds, he came On a secluded Indian village Of the peace-loving Comely Caguisas. There he found shelter, Food, fire, and hiding,-- Welcome unstinted.

Over this tribe ruled-- No cunning chieftain Grown gray in world-craft, But a young soft-eyed Girl, tender-hearted, Loving, and regal Only in beauty, With no suspicion Of the perfidious Merciless gold-lust Of the white sea-wolves,-- Roving, rapacious, Conquerors, destroyers. Strongly the stranger Wooed with his foreign Manners, his Latin Fervor and graces; Beat down her gentle, Unreserved strangeness;

Made himself consort Of a young queen, all Loveliness, ardor, And generous devotion. Her world she gave him, Nothing denied him, All, all for love's sake Poured out before him,-- Lived but to pleasure And worship her lover.

Such is the way Of free-hearted women, Radiant beings Who carry God's secret; All their seraphic Unworldly wisdom Spent without fearing Or calculation For the enrichment Of--whom, what, and wherefore?

Ask why the sun shines And is not measured, Ask why the rain falls Aeon by aeon, Ask why the wind comes Making the strong trees Blossom in springtime, Forever unwearied! Whoever earned these gifts, Air, sun, and water? Whoever earned his share In that unfathomed Full benediction,

Passing the old earth's Cunningest knowledge, Greater than all The ambition of ages, Light as a thistle-seed, Strong as a tide-run, Vast and mysterious As the night sky,-- The love of woman? Not long did Miguel Dias abide content With his good fortune. Back to his voyaging Turned his desire, Restless once more to rove With boon companions, Filled with the covetous Thirst for adventure,-- The white man's folly.

Then poor Zamcaca, In consternation Lest she lack merit Worthy to tether His wayward fancy, Knowing no way but love, Guileless, and sedulous Only to gladden, Quick and sweet-souled As another madonna, Gave him the secret Of her realm's treasure,-- Raw gold unweighed, Stored wealth unimagined; Decked him with trappings Of that yellow peril; And bade him go Bring his comrades to settle In her dominion.

Not long the Spaniards Stood on that bidding. Gold was their madness, Their Siren and Pandar. Trooping they followed Their friend the explorer, Greed-fevered ravagers Of all things goodly, Hot-foot to plunder The land of his love-dream. They swooped on that country, Founded their city, Made Miguel Dias Its first Alcalde,-- Flattered and fooled him, Loud in false praises For the great wealth he had By his love's bounty.

Then the old story, Older than Adam,-- Treachery, rapine, Ingratitude, bloodshed, Wrought by the strong man On unsuspecting And gentler brothers. The rabid Spaniard, Christian and ruthless (Like any modern Magnate of Mammon), Harried that fearless, Light-hearted, trustful folk Under his booted heel. Tears (ah, a woman's tears,-- The grief of angels,--) Fell from Zamcaca, Sorrowing, hopeless, Alone, for her people.

Sick from injustice, Distraught, and disheartened, Tortured by sight and sound Of wrong and ruin, When the kind, silent, Tropical moonlight, Lay on the city, In the dead hour When the soul trembles Within the portals Of its own province, While far away seem

All deeds of daytime, She rose and wondered; Gazed on the sleeping Face of her loved one, Alien and cruel; Kissed her strange children, Longingly laying a hand In farewell on each, Crept to the door, and fled Back to the forest.

Only the deep heart Of the World-mother, Brooding below the storms Of human madness, Can know what desolate Anguish possessed her.

Only the far mind Of the World-father, Seeing the mystic End and beginning, Knows why the pageant Is so betattered With mortal sorrow.

On the Plaza

One August day I sat beside A cafe window open wide To let the shower-freshened air Blow in across the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, Rides on with Victory leading him.

The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold, And clouds of gold and pink and gray Were piled up at the end of day, Far down the cross street, where one tower Still glistened from the drenching shower.

A weary, white-haired man went by, Cooling his forehead gratefully After the day's great heat. A girl, Her thin white garments in a swirl Blown back against her breasts and knees, Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, Alive and modern and superb, Crossed from the circle of the curb.

We sat there watching people pass, Clinking the ice against the glass And talking idly--books or art, Or something equally apart From the essential stress and strife That rudely form and further life, Glad of a respite from the heat, When down the middle of the street, Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull-stifling day, Three street-musicians came. The man, With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace, While a young girl tugged at a trace Upon the other. And between The shafts there walked a laughing queen, Bright as a poppy, strong and free. What likelier land than Italy Breeds such abandon? Confident And rapturous in mere living spent Each moment to the utmost, there With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist Supple, heroic and free-laced, Between her two companions walked This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, Did half the work, made all the cheer Of that small company.

No fear Of failure in a soul like hers That every moment throbs and stirs With merry ardor, virile hope, Brave effort, nor in all its scope Has room for thought or discontent, Each day its own sufficient vent And source of happiness.

Without A trace of bitterness or doubt Of life's true worth, she strode at ease Before those empty palaces, A simple heiress of the earth And all its joys by happy birth, Beneficent as breeze or dew, And fresh as though the world were new And toil and grief were not. How rare A personality was there!

A Painter's Holiday

We painters sometimes strangely keep These holidays. When life runs deep And broad and strong, it comes to make Its own bright-colored almanack. Impulse and incident divine Must find their way through tone and line; The throb of color and the dream Of beauty, giving art its theme From dear life's daily miracle, Illume the artist's life as well. A bird-note, or a turning leaf, The first white fall of snow, a brief Wild song from the Anthology, A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,-- And there is worth enough for him To make the page of history dim. Who knows upon what day may come The touch of that delirium Which lifts plain life to the divine, And teaches hand the magic line No cunning rule could ever reach, Where Soul's necessities find speech? None knows how rapture may arrive To be our helper, and survive Through our essay to help in turn All starving eager souls who yearn Lightward discouraged and distraught. Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught And treasured in the heart, how then We walk enchanted among men, And with the elder gods confer! So art is hope's interpreter, And with devotion must conspire To fan the eternal altar fire. Wherefore you find me here to-day, Not idling the good hours away, But picturing a magic hour With its replenishment of power.

Conceive a bleak December day, The streets all mire, the sky all gray, And a poor painter trudging home Disconsolate, when what should come Across his vision, but a line On a bold-lettered play-house sign, _A Persian Sun Dance_.

In he turns. A step, and there the desert burns Purple and splendid; molten gold The streamers of the dawn unfold, Amber and amethyst uphurled Above the far rim of the world; The long-held sound of temple bells Over the hot sand steals and swells; A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones In barbarous maddening monotones; While sandal incense blue and keen Hangs in the air. And then the scene Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released, The sorcery of all the East, In rose and saffron gossamer,-- A young light-hearted worshipper Who dances up the sun. She moves Like waking woodland flower that loves To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve Is like a sapling's sway and swerve Before the spring wind. Her dark hair Framing a face vivid and rare, Curled to her throat and then flew wild, Like shadows round a radiant child. The sunlight from her cymbals played About her dancing knees, and made A world of rose-lit ecstasy, Prophetic of the day to be.

Such mystic beauty might have shone In Sardis or in Babylon, To bring a Satrap to his doom Or touch some lad with glory's bloom. And now it wrought for me, with sheer Enchantment of the dying year, Its irresistible reprieve From joylessness on New Year's Eve.

Mirage

Here hangs at last, you see, my row Of sketches,--all I have to show Of one enchanted summer spent In sweet laborious content, At little 'Sconset by the moors, With the sea thundering by its doors, Its grassy streets, and gardens gay With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet, With the last brush of paint still wet, (Showing how inspiration toils), Is one where the white surf-line boils Along the sand, and the whole sea Lifts to the skyline, just to be The wondrous background from whose verge Of blue on blue there should emerge This miracle.

One day of days I strolled the silent path that strays Between the moorlands and the beach From Siasconset, till you reach Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land That fronts the ocean, lone and grand As when the Lord first bade it be For a surprise and mystery. A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, The level lonely moors, and I The only soul in all that vast Of color made intense to last! The small white sea-birds piping near; The great soft moor-winds; and the dear Bright sun that pales each crest to jade, Where gulls glint fishing unafraid.

Here man, the godlike, might have gone With his deep thought, on that wild dawn When the first sun came from the sea, Glowing and kindling the world to be, While time began and joy had birth,-- No wilder sweeter spot on earth!

As I sat there and mused (the way We painters waste our time, you say!) On the sheer loneliness and strength Whence life must spring, there came at length Conviction of the helplessness Of earth alone to ban or bless. I saw the huge unhuman sea; I heard the drear monotony Of the waves beating on the shore With heedless, futile strife and roar, Without a meaning or an aim.

And then a revelation came, In subtle, sudden, lovely guise, Like one of those soft mysteries Of Indian jugglers, who evoke A flower for you out of smoke. I knew sheer beauty without soul Could never be perfection's goal, Nor satisfy the seeking mind With all it longs for and must find One day. The lovely things that haunt Our senses with an aching want, And move our souls, are like the fair Lost garments of a soul somewhere. Nature is naught, if not the veil Of some great good that must prevail And break in joy, as woods of spring Break into song and blossoming.

But what makes that great goodness start Within ourselves? When leaps the heart With gladness, only then we know Why lovely Nature travails so,-- Why art must persevere and pray In her incomparable way. In all the world the only worth Is human happiness; its dearth The darkest ill. Let joyance be, And there is God's sufficiency,-- Such joy as only can abound Where the heart's comrade has been found.

That was my thought. And then the sea Broke in upon my revery With clamorous beauty,--the superb Eternal noun that takes no verb But love. The heaven of dove-like blue Bent o'er the azure, round and true As magic sphere of crystal glass, Where faith sees plain the pageant pass Of things unseen. So I beheld The sheer sky-arches domed and belled, As if the sea were the very floor Of heaven where walked the gods of yore In Plato's imagery, and I Uplifted saw their pomps go by.

The House of space and time grew tense As if with rapture's imminence, When truth should be at last made clear, And the great worth of life appear; While I, a worshipper at the shrine, For very longing grew divine, Borne upward on earth's ecstasy, And welcomed by the boundless sky.

A mighty prescience seemed to brood Over that tenuous solitude Yearning for form, till it became Vivid as dream and live as flame, Through magic art could never match, The vision I have tried to catch,-- All earth's delight and meaning grown A lyric presence loved and known.

How otherwise could time evolve Young courage, or the high resolve, Or gladness to assuage and bless The soul's austere great loneliness, Than by providing her somehow With sympathy of hand and brow, And bidding her at last go free, Companioned through eternity?

So there appeared before my eyes, In a beloved, familiar guise, A vivid, questing human face In profile, scanning heaven for grace, Up-gazing there against the blue With eyes that heaven itself shone through; The lips soft-parted, half in prayer, Half confident of kindness there; A brow like Plato's made for dream In some immortal Academe, And tender as a happy girl's; A full dark head of clustered curls Round as an emperor's, where meet Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, Distilling from a mind unmarred The glory of her rapt regard.

So eager Mary might have stood, In love's adoring attitude, And looked into the angel's eyes With faith and fearlessness, all wise In soul's unfaltering innocence, Sure in her woman's supersense Of things only the humble know. My vision looks forever so.

In other years when men shall say, "What was the painter's meaning, pray? Why all this vast of sea and space, Just to enframe a woman's face?" Here is the pertinent reply, "What better use for earth and sky?"

The great archangel passed that way Illuming life with mystic ray. Not Lippo's self nor Raphael Had lovelier, realer things to tell Than I, beholding far away How all the melting rose and gray Upon the purple sea-line leaned About that head that intervened.

How real was she? Ah, my friend, In art the fact and fancy blend Past telling. All the painter's task Is with the glory. Need we ask The tulips breaking through the mould To their untarnished age of gold, Whence their ideals were derived That have so gloriously survived? Flowers and painters both must give The hint they have received, to live,-- Spend without stint the joy and power That lurk in each propitious hour,-- Yet leave the why untold--God's way.

My sketch is all I have to say.

The Winged Victory

Thou dear and most high Victory, Whose home is the unvanquished sea, Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keep The very freshness, fold, and sweep They wore upon the galley's prow, By what unwonted favor now Hast thou alighted in this place, Thou Victory of Samothrace?

O thou to whom in countless lands With eager hearts and striving hands Strong men in their last need have prayed, Greatly desiring, undismayed, And thou hast been across the fight Their consolation and their might, Withhold not now one dearer grace, Thou Victory of Samothrace!

Behold, we, too, must cry to thee, Who wage our strife with Destiny, And give for Beauty and for Truth Our love, our valor and our youth. Are there no honors for these things To match the pageantries of kings? Are we more laggard in the race Than those who fell at Samothrace?

Not only for the bow and sword, O Victory, be thy reward! The hands that work with paint and clay In Beauty's service, shall not they Also with mighty faith prevail? Let hope not die, nor courage fail, But joy come with thee pace for pace, As once long since in Samothrace.

Grant us the skill to shape the form And spread the color living-warm, (As they who wrought aforetime did), Where love and wisdom shall lie hid, In fair impassioned types, to sway The cohorts of the world to-day, In Truth's eternal cause, and trace Thy glory down from Samothrace.

With all the ease and splendid poise Of one who triumphs without noise, Wilt thou not teach us to attain Thy sense of power without strain, That we a little may possess Our souls with thy sure loveliness,-- That calm the years cannot deface, Thou Victory of Samothrace?

Then in the ancient, ceaseless war With infamy, go thou before! Amid the shoutings and the drums Let it be learned that Beauty comes, Man's matchless Paladin to be, Whose rule shall make his spirit free As thine from all things mean or base, Thou Victory of Samothrace.

The Gate of Peace

Ah, who will build the city of our dream, Where beauty shall abound and truth avail, With patient love that is too wise for strife, Blending in power as gentle as the rain With the reviving earth on full spring days? Who now will speed us to its gate of peace, And reassure us on our doubtful road?

Three centuries ago a fearless man, Yearning to set his people in the way, Threw all his royal might into a plan To found an ideal city that should give Freedom to every instinct for the best, From humblest impulse in his own domain To rumored wisdom from the world's far ends. Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve, Beneath the patient smile of Indian skies This fair dream flourished for a score of years, Until the blight of evil touched its bloom With fading, and transformed its vivid life Into a ghost-flower of its fair design.

Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir, A sad custodian of sacred tombs, And scattered feathers from the purple wings Of doves who reign in undisputed calm Over this Eden of hope and fair essay, Recall the valor of this ancient quest.