Part 2

If Love were all, how dark the world! What sorrow for the stricken heart! If Love were all, with Love grown cold-- No tempest raging bleak and bold, Its icy fury ever hurled As madly as the storms that dart Across the soul when Love is dead. Poor soul, on bitter passion fed, Seeing in Earth or Heaven--no bliss, When Love has died in Love's last kiss. If Love were all!

If Love were all, how fair the earth! What joy in every heart-throb here! If Love were all, and Love were kind, Love's message, blown on every wind, Thrilling the soul, would give small worth To cringing caution, or the jeer Of those who murmur "Love must die" When Love's alight from eye to eye, Life is a happy holiday. "Where's Winter?" Ah, 'twere ever May, If Love were all!

_THE ROVER_

That it be love, I dare not say, I only know when he's away, Dark as the night, so dark the day.

But still he'll rove, and still I'll try Some light to see in yon grim sky.

For I will prove if power there be To lead him through the night to me In that soul-star,--fair Constancy.

_AH! LITTLE LAKE_

Ah! little lake, though fair thou art, A sapphire flashing to the sky, Thy charm is only for the eye, Thy beauty cannot hold my heart.

Green hill-sides bending to thy shore Gleam clear in the autumnal light, While far above, Monadnock's height Keeps rugged guard thy waters o'er.

And yet these very beauties cloy; As in a prison I am bound, Though fair the walls that gird me round, My housemate is no longer joy.

Thy loveliness breeds discontent, For far my foolish heart would be, It longs for the unquiet sea, And with desire is sorely rent.

Hateful the walls that me debar From happier things that haunt me so, Even my weary thoughts are slow To reach the great, great world afar.

I half believe there is no world Those cruel hill-tops there beyond. Oh--for the wizard Merlin's wand! That all these mountain curves uncurled.

I might behold the shore I love, Might hear the roaring of the tide, Might see the ocean, reaching wide And boundless as the sky above.

One hour beside that sea-kissed beach Quick throbbing to its love's caress, Would yield to me more happiness Than a whole life-time here could teach.

_SEVERUS SPEAKS_

"For nearly eighteen years upon my head The crown of Empire heavily has set. The burden on my shoulders I have borne Of an estate encumbered far and wide With debts I had to pay. Ah! everywhere Murmurs, revolts, or wars assailed my throne. Now quiet comes--even in Britain here, The most disturbing Province of them all. Yet I must go, the profits I must leave To others to enjoy--to hold with ease What I with bitter travail have obtained. Peace there must be, and mutual amity, The one support to hold the Empire firm, To keep the Glory of the Empire bright. Discord would be the ruin of the pile, That my poor hands have built so painfully. Only when Peace prevails may we behold How small things grow to greatness. --Now I die And all the issue of the coming days I leave to my successor, and my son, Though he has been a cruel son to me. Bassanius I name your Emperor, The new-made Antoninus, who long tried To get that title by the sword, Who sought my death, the dangers knowing not That always must surround a diadem, Forgetting that the places of the great Are guarded well by Envy and by Fear. Blind is ambition, for it cannot see That though a sovereign's power large may seem To others, by himself the things possessed Are counted small enough, aye small they _are_. For titles cannot make a happy man. While his thin thread of life must waver so, His might is laid upon a weak support. So men may point to me, and say 'Behold-- A man who once was all things in this world, Yet now is nothing. For like meaner men He paid his debt to nature. His exploits He left behind.' Aye, friends I leave my deeds For you to register. Reproach or praise The shadowing pencil of oblivion At last will blot. And yet that all the care That I have taken for the general good May bring forth happy fruits when I am dust, This would I make my one, my last request, --Assist my sons with counsel and with aid, That they may rule according to the law, And you obey according to the right. So, through you both--my legions and my sons-- The Empire shall be held in high respect."

And then the dying Emperor feebly turned Toward the urn wherein so soon must lie His ashes--and he cried "So shalt thou hold What the whole world one time could not contain." Thus died Severus.

_TOWN AND COUNTRY_

About the country they may talk who will, Who praise it ever to the town's despite. Let him extol the charms of wood and hill Who finds them peerless. None disputes his right.

For me the town! Each well-worn footway old To me is dearer than your grass-grown lane. Not all who struggle here contend for gold; Green-growing things quit not the soul of pain.

"God made the country." Ay, and God made man. Working through man His power He displays, And in the city's mazes His great plan Is writ as clear as in calm country ways.

_STRENGTH RENEWED_

Antaeus, as the ancient poets sing, Though in his contest with the God of Power Doomed to be conquered, stayed the fatal hour, And the onlookers set to wondering. For overborne, to Earth he'd closely cling, Until he rose again, a mighty tower. Thus could the Earth with strength her lover dower, And very near to victory could bring. So when I feel thy tender hand in mine, I, too, dear love, against the world could stand, Courage divine comes with thy lightest touch. Afar from thee Antaeus-like I pine, But strength returns now as I clasp thy hand. Ah! that so slight a thing should mean so much.

_AT MIAMI_

Here, where the proud hibiscus blooms in flame, Where swaying palms nod lightly to the sea, Where each azalea towers--a stately tree-- And orange blossoms charm, today I came Upon a little flower unknown to fame, Half hid in the scant sward, white as this shell From yonder beach, and I can hardly tell What drew me to it, murmuring its name.

"Bred in cool meadows, vagrant from the North, Fair Dewberry, what art thou doing here? Or chance, or purpose started thee to roam? And yet whatever power sent thee forth, Still it is thine to call the sudden tear, To stir the trembling heart with thoughts of home."

_WHICH_

Who then is rich, who poor? I'll tell you now Of one, a meagre life who had to live, Wear dingy garb, and scarcely could allow Himself what men call comfort; yet to give Was his delight,--to give full-heartedly. Though Fate had hampered him, he always knew Some one still poorer. In humility He thus gave hope to him who had small view Of happier things;--solace to him who wept;-- And to the beaten courage to endure. He shared his little with the starved, and kept His best for those who needed most. Though poor, By giving he grew richer day by day In all that brightens life's uncertain way.

There was another who had never known A wish unsatisfied. For everything That luxury could offer was his own. Thus all that learning, all that wealth could bring Adorned his life. The many him would praise,-- For this world loves the prosperous,--and still Close to himself he hugged his all. To raise A helping hand he never had the will. He never heard the cries of men in need. Of all he had he would not give a part. For "I" and "mine" was ever his one creed. No balm had he for any aching heart. Mean was his life (as was the other's great) Despite the splendor of his high estate. And now in yonder world I wonder which-- For both are dead--is counted poor--or rich.

_THE BLESSED DEAD_

They loved life, even as we, who went away From their dear dwelling-place to one unknown To us who linger here. They could not stay, Nor we go with them, so they went alone.

Although their beating hearts with ours kept time, Although their clinging hands we fondly held, We could not walk the path they had to climb, Hardly we heard the death-call when it knelled.

Trustful, or fearful of the way ahead, They had to journey from this throbbing life, And we--we know they are the blessed dead, For they have gone away from pain and strife.

We cannot see the land where they have gone. Our eyes are dim, and they are hid in light, But we are following them toward the dawn, Who knows when it will break upon our sight!

_OAK-LEAVES_

Crinkled oak-leaves, twinkling in the sun, Splashed by midday showers, dripping cold-- Serrate oak-leaves, silvered by the sun That has brushed yon dull brown grass with gold.

Green and crinkled oak leaves, tremble now-- Strong you would be, strong would be and bold, Ah! green oak-leaves, you are trembling now-- By the saucy wind deceived--cajoled!

Trembling oak leaves--you are soon to fall, Soon to hide the earth with yellowing mould Twinkling, crinkling oak-leaves, soon you'll fall For the autumn sun is shining cold.

_SELF-SATISFIED_

Well satisfied with all his own, he stands Holding a trembling balance in his hands; On one scale--wealth and ease, men's praises, too-- Whatever charms the soul, and keeps it true. But on the other scale--lo--the foul street Where pallid children play, where poor folk greet, And crowded houses dirty, dimly lit, On whose dull walls all misery is writ, Houses wherein the herded cannot fight The ambushed evil lurking day and night. Has he--contented one--who counts his gain, Balanced the cost--the wretchedness and pain Of those who help him hoard his heap of gold? Ah, human life may be too dearly sold! For see, the one scale weighs the other down. His gold, his ease, his honors--by Heaven's frown Withered to nothing, now, behold he stands-- Broken his scales--reaching imploring hands.

_MY VIGIL_

Companioned by the lonely hours, My vigil with the stars I keep,-- The happy stars that never weep,-- The wakeful stars that never sleep, Spirit of me that frets and cowers, Ah, what am I, that I should be And breathe in this Infinity?

Unburdened of the weight of self, Toward the highest heights I am borne, Below lies Earth, begrimed and worn, Far, far from me her praise, her scorn, Her joys, her woes, her loss, her pelf, One with the happy stars am I! Our limits the unbounded sky!

_TO MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE_

Dear Lady of Tranquillity, Ah! lightly have the years Their music on thy heart-strings played, and all the smiles and tears That mark the joy of living, that sound the depths of pain For thee make one great harmony--a happy heart's refrain.

(_On her eighty-sixth birthday._)

_THE SOARER_

There soars a warbler toward high Heaven, His course seems sure and straight;-- So speeds an arrow from the bow-string, Yet who can read his fate!

For while he carols like a seraph Bound for a radiant star Mayhap the fowler's eye, relentless, Has doomed him from afar.

A longer life the crawling snail hath Than thou--O wanderer bright-- Ah, let the sluggard crawl in safety, Thine is the realm of light!

Like thee a soaring soul's in peril, Yet its one hour is worth A whole Eternity of grovelling Closer to grimy earth.

_A FANCY_

The world of dreams is all my own, Wherein I wander--free, alone;-- And each weird, fervid fantasy Is dearer than earth's joys to me. The waking world I share with you; And yours, as mine, is the ocean's blue. For us both spring's early flowers are fair, Or the cold stars gleam through the frosty air.

But in the world of dreams I rove Over sunny fields, or in shaded grove,-- Such beauty your eyes never saw-- And all is mine without let or law. Ah! the hopes and fears that come and go With my flying fancy, none may know; Though unsubstantial, it seems My real world--this world of dreams.

_THE SHRIEKING WOMAN AT MARBLEHEAD_

'Twas a Spanish galleon sailed the seas,-- Two centuries since have rolled-- Laden with silver and gems to please Gay dames and gallants bold.

But villainous pirates seized the ship As homeward she was bound; Ah, she has made her last long trip For they ran her soon aground.

From Oakum Bay into Marblehead They brought one lady fair,-- Her husband, alas, and his crew are dead, And her they will not spare.

Loud, loud she shrieked in the pirates' arms, "Oh, save me--Jesu, save!" Cruel echo mocked at her wild alarms, As they dug her a nameless grave.

Yet once a year when the night has come That saw her dreadful death, You can hear her above the ocean's boom Shriek out with her dying breath.

_THE HUGUENOT LOVERS_

Sorrowful pleading on her face is written With love commingled, and my heart throbs fast, Flooded with currents of a deep emotion Stirred by the memory of that awful past. Note the sad gaze of him who bends above her, What say his eyes in answer to her own? What did he think as tenderly he kissed her? What was the meaning of his whispered tone? Spoke he of honor's claim poor love's outweighing, Or did her circling arms so well enfold That the white kerchief wearing-badge of safety-- He passed the lurking foe with spirit bold.

Ah, they are vanished now--the maid and lover, Their history the wisest cannot tell. Mayhap upon that night of cruel slaughter, Eager to meet the zealot's hate he fell. Mayhap in some fair corner of the Kingdom, Under the gentler rule of brave Navarre, They showed the kerchief to their children's children, And told the story of the unholy war.

_TO JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE_

Gay Summer sees the flowering Of buds that were the gift of Spring; And Winter counts the ripened sheaves That Autumn harvested. Who grieves When he at length has won the race, Or backward then his way would trace?

Oh, honored Poet, Wit, and Sage, This birthday marks an open page, And here before its record's writ, These words we would inscribe on it. "Thou, upon whom thy years fourscore So lightly sit, thou hast a store Of memories such as they alone May have whose hearts all truth have known. Now may this year bring thee no less Than all the past of happiness!"

(_On his eightieth birthday._)

_WEED OR FLOWER_

"'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said, "Nay, call it not a flower--this little weed, If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed-- Better the world were if it lay there dead."

"Ah--rather let it live!" a second cried, "Weed it may be, and yet it has its use, Here in its healing essence its excuse For blooming lies, and here its only pride."

"Destroy it not!" another pled, "Behold This tapering leaf--this soft and tender green, Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene-- This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold."

Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright! For only flowers in this garden grow,-- His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might."

_THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (IN MEMORY)_

Sage of the silver pen! Wherever thy thought was heard, Thou wert a leader of men. Poet of honored word! Knight of the eagle glance, Piercing the depths of wrong, "Justice" thy cry, and thy lance True in its aim, and strong.

Man of the ruddy heart Beating warm for our kind! Thine was the hero's part; Eyes wert thou to the blind: Thou a staff to the weak, Here we our tribute lay-- Homage thou didst not seek-- Twined with a wreath of bay, A garland woven of love, Woven of love and tears, Pure as the note of a dove, Voicing thy peaceful years.

(_Read at the Memorial Meeting Nov. 20, 1911._)

LIGHTER VERSE

_FRIGHTENED_

Today I had the awfulest time, Dear mother, in the wood. That hill out there we were to climb, And we'd been very good. But nurse was walking up the hill, When little Anne and I, We had to stop and stand quite still, And Anne began to cry.

For something moved behind the trees, We felt so all alone-- Said I to Anne, "Stop crying, please, I'll hit it with a stone." Cried Anne, "Oh, listen, hear it growl." Said I, "I'm not afraid Of bears or lions." "Now don't scowl. You look so cross," she said. So then I had to smile and smile, for Anne was crying all the while. And if we didn't _hear_ a bear, I'm sure, dear mother, one was there.

Boys always must take care of girls, You see you've told me so. That's why I tried to pat Anne's curls, And walked with her real slow. But when we heard nurse calling out, "Come, children, come along!" "Come, Nurse," you should have heard me shout-- Anne says my voice is strong. "Run, Anne," I cried, "I'm almost five, and I'll kill any bear alive." And if we didn't _see_ a bear, I truly think that one was there.

How glad I was when Nurse turn'd round, For everything seemed queer. The trees looked strange, and then that sound We didn't like to hear. Nurse laughed when we had told her all About the bear we saw. "I came as quick's I heard you call, And it's against the law For bears to live where people stay. They are five hundred miles away." But if we didn't _meet_ a bear, I'm sure that _almost_ one was there.

_THE CHRISTMAS LETTER_

I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better; If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray, And all whose presents come to me from places far away. Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her, No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter. For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well, And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell. I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her, But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas letter," That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't Remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't.

_A VICTIM_

My Auntie has a camera, and when I'm out at play And see her coming with it, I try to hide away. For oh, it is so bothersome to hear her, with a laugh, Call, "Stand just were you are, dear; I'll take a photograph."

Sometimes, an angry lion, I have just begun to roar, And all the children run from me to sneak behind the door, When Auntie to our forest comes--why does she stop our fun? I'd like to shoot that camera there with my wooden gun.

Perhaps, a fire engine, I am rushing to a fire, While people loudly call for help as flames rise higher and higher. I hurry toward the hydrant here, for oh! the flames are hot! When Auntie with her camera cries, "What a fine snapshot!"

But then it doesn't seem to snap, so I must be polite, And when she says, "Oh please, stand still, the sun is not just right," I have to pull up where I am, and see that house burn down, For Auntie doesn't understand, even when I twist and frown.

She only says, "Don't squirm, my pet! Oh, what a cunning pose! Your scowl is better than a smile,"--so that's the way it goes-- A p'liceman or an admiral, no matter what I am, I have to face that camera as quiet as a lamb.

_JACK FROST_

Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed, Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red, With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox, And grandmother's fair favorites, old-fashioned hollyhocks.

One night we feared Jack Frost might come to blight the tender flowers-- We almost felt his cruel breath in the early evening hours; So Margery took coverings and spread them, thick and warm, To shield the flowers, as blankets wrap a sleeping baby's form.

Then in the morning, when we looked across the dewy grass, And saw the traces Jack Frost leaves where he is wont to pass-- For each spreading tree and slender bush had felt his chill caress, And some had drooped, and some had blushed in crimson loveliness--

We hastened to the garden-bed, and there, in bright array, The little flowers looked blithely up to greet the smiling day. Safe hid from Jack Frost's piercing breath, he never saw them there, And the flowers still bloom for Margery, to thank her for her care.

_A CURIOSITY_

I knew a little boy, not very long ago, Who was as bright and happy as any boy you know. He had an only fault, and you will all agree That from a fault like this a boy himself might free.

"I wonder who is there, oh, see! now, why is this?" And "Oh, where are they going?" and "Tell me what it is?" Ah! "which" and "why" and "who," and "what" and "where" and "when," We often wished that never need we hear those words again.

He seldom stopped to think; he almost always knew The answer to the questions that around the world he threw. To children seeking knowledge a quick reply we give, But answering what he asked was pouring water through a sieve. Yet you'll admit his fate was as sad as it was strange. Our eyes we hardly trusted, who slowly saw him change. More curious grew his head, stemlike his limbs, and hark! He was at last a mere interrogation-mark!

_THE FIRST LIE_

I'm sure I did not break this cup; It just fell down,--I know it did-- For I was only climbing up, _Why_ do they keep the cake-box hid?-- I wanted such a little bit! And then I heard that creaking door, I can't tell what it was I hit, Nor how that cup got on the floor.

The shelf it stood on was too high, That cup my mother loved the most! Oh dear! I never told a lie, And mother whispered, "Do not boast," The day I said I never could. (But there's that broken cup!)--and then I promised that I never would-- So--I'll not tell a lie--_again_.

_THE PARASOL_

You are the loveliest parasol I ever saw,--and all my own,-- What frilly frills! I feel as tall As mother now. Here! take my doll. Dolls are for children--ladies grown Have parasols, and fans, and rings, And all those pretty, shiny things.

Nurse calls you "sunshade," but I think That is too plain a word, for see! You are so satiny and pink And there is such a curly kink Here in your handle, there could be No name too fine, I love you so, I'll take you everywhere I go.

Next Sunday when to church I walk, Above my head I'll hold you high. Oh! how the other girls will talk, And maybe some of them will mock, "How proud she feels," as I pass by-- I'd hold you up, straight down the aisle, If only people wouldn't smile.

_A MODERN GRANDMOTHER_

I want to see a grandmother like those there used to be, In a cosy little farm-house, where I could go to tea; A grandmother with spectacles and a funny, frilly cap, Who would make me sugar cookies, and take me on her lap, And tell me lots of stories of the days when she was small, When everything was perfect--not like today at all.

My grandmother is "grandma," and she lives in a hotel, And when they ask "What is his age?" she smiles and will not tell. Says she doesn't care to realize that she is growing old; Then whispers--"But you're far too big a boy for me to hold." Her dresses shine and rustle, and her hair is wavy brown, And she has an automobile, that she steers, herself, down town.