Part 2

’Twas her’s, not mine--yet strange to tell Moons waxed and waned and years flew by, Ere she had learned love’s sacred spell By touch of hand and glance of eye.

Moons waxed and waned and years flew by, I thought she loved, alas! not me; By touch of hand and glance of eye The truth was told--ah! ecstasy!

I thought she loved, alas! not me-- Within my heart there fell a hush, The truth was told ah! ecstasy! When first I saw my lady blush.

THE RONDEAU.

First find your refrain--then build as you go With delicate touch, neither heavy nor slow, But dainty and light as a gossamer thread, Or the fleecy white cloud that is breaking o’erhead, Or the sea-foam that curls in the soft evening glow; And your rhyme must be swinging--not all in a row, But as waves on the sands in fine ebb and quick flow; Yet of rules for a rondeau I hold this the head-- First find your refrain.

For the subject--there’s nothing above or below, That a poet can learn or a critic may know, But a rondeau will hold a rhyme-ring that will wed The thought to the thing; yet whatever is said Will ne’er be a rondeau till you with one blow-- First find your refrain.

WINTER.

Winter’s blast is coldly sweeping O’er the pallid face of earth; All the merry elves are sleeping, Wearied out with last year’s mirth; Dismal spirits doomed to wander, Never resting anywhere, Chase the sparkling crystals yonder Through the chill and cheerless air; Where the birds sang in the branches Not a sound is heard at all; Snowy flakes in avalanches Flutter down with silent fall; Where the grasses nursed the flowers Not a sign of life is seen And the frost has turned the showers Into sheets of icy sheen; All the air is sadly sighing, All the trees with sorrows ring; All is dying--dying--dying Winter--go! come back, O Spring.

PURPOSE.

Brother! awake from thy long lethargy; Walk forth into the world, search out the task That is allotted thee; tear off the mask Of morbid thought that ever blindeth thee. God hath appointed each good man to be His warrior in the righteous fray; then ask His benison, and, donning sword and casque, March forth to meet the common enemy. Each good deed done shall be a death-blow given Unto a sin conceived; each true word said Shall be a javelin that hath not sped In vain--its force doth come direct from Heaven. Waste not the time; man’s inmost spirit saith “Life without purpose is a lingering death.”

SONNET.

Year after year I see the trees unfold Their baby leaves to the maturing sun; Then tender birth of blossoms, one by one, From parent stems that still their nurture hold; Later the tall green corn takes on its gold, Crowned with the glory of a purpose done; And last, the sands of beauty being run, All things decline into the common mould. Age after age whirls on the appointed round Of mortal destiny; old thoughts take bloom; And new minds battle in the time-worn strife, Death’s winter nips before the task is crowned, And, soon or late, within oblivion’s tomb Men fall like leaves from God’s great tree of life.

A ROMAN GIRL’S PRAYER.

On thy grassy altar, dear, Pour I out the two-year wine, And the incense rises clear From thy holy shrine.

Lend me Venus, both thine ears; Let me whisper unto thee All the hopes and all the fears Raging now in me.

He whom I have loved so well-- For whose love my soul hath burned, Yields to Chloe’s fatal spell And my vows hath spurned.

On her beauty now his eyes Beam as once they beamed on mine-- Broken are the solemn ties Made beneath the vine.

It cannot be that he is born All my joy to turn to grief, For if he do prove forsworn-- Death is my relief.

Mother Venus, look with smiles, Lest I lose this joy of love: Lend me all thy wit and wiles His cold heart to move.

Bless this philtre I prepare From the swift and sweet vervain; Mother Venus, hear my prayer-- Lead him back again!

A BALLADE OF BOCCACCIO.

The length of each day to make short And friendship to bind by a chain, Our Queen was appointed to reign In the realm of a leafy resort. Strong laws did her ruling support If need were her wish to maintain; Though none could Love’s presence profane When Philomel governed the court.

How fine did our gallants disport With ladies who followed the train, Whilst wisdom enlightened each brain In the wit of each ready retort. Ah! those were the days of fair sport The world ne’er will witness again, For Honour her rights did retain When Philomel governed the Court.

What stories our souls did transport O’er the beauties of Fancy’s domain, And their morals and meanings were plain, Though your critics now try to distort. When Beauty and Truth do consort, Hypocrisy preacheth in vain, And Scandal and Slander were slain When Philomel governed the Court.

Ye moderns, who fight, might and main, For Mammon, believe this report, Men lived in their castles in Spain When Philomel governed the Court.

RELEASE.

He fears to die who knows not how to live, For Death is friendly, shaping to an end The woeful accidents which fate doth blend With high success, to fairer fortunes give; Who for this close would ask alternative Unto a further lease of earth to lend His soul, and clip the wings that would ascend To God, the source of life infinitive? Look at the parable of things--the sun Must some day out--the fairest blossoms die-- Sweet-throated songsters cease their minstrelsy-- And Nature endeth all she hath begun. So fear ye not to meet the great release, For direst storms dissolve in lasting peace.

THE WHIP-POOR-WILL!

When early shades of evening’s close The air with solemn darkness fill, Before the moonlight softly throws Its fairy mantle o’er the hill, A sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

The Nightingale unto the rose Its tale of love may fondly trill; No love-tale this--’tis grief that flows With pain that never can be still, The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

Repeated oft, it never grows Familiar; but is sadder still, As though a spirit sought repose From some pursuing, endless ill, The sad sound goes In plaintive thrill; Who hears it knows The Whip-poor-will.

THE DEATH OF THE LAUREATE.

Weep, England, weep! if thou hast tears to shed-- Thy master-son of song has passed away; The Arthur of thy poets far has sped, As the long-toiling light fades out of day Into an unseen land; no later lay, To cheer thy heart and make thy soul more strong, Shall sound within thy walls of sea-girt gray, From the rare voice of him who gave so long The noblest numbers of new English song.

Around the world the echoes of that song Swiftly rebound, all English hearts to fill, And o’er each peak of empire speed along In roseate splendour, as the sudden thrill Of sunrise tips with beauty each new hill; From east and west the glory of his fame Rolls back to Albion’s shores, and ever will-- For east and west can show no poet’s name More true and pure, more free from blot and shame.

He died in dear old England--in the land Where Chaucer first sang tales of jovial cheer; Where Spenser chanted forth his pæans grand, And Shakespeare left a word supreme and clear; Where Milton bade the epic reappear, And Wordsworth, later, gained a deathless name; With these great five, this memorable year Has yielded Tennyson, for future fame The sixth true English poet to acclaim.

The moon streamed through the lattice where he lay, In that last struggle of the living powers, And round his brow her glory ’gan to play, As when he wooed her in sweet English bowers, ’Midst silent birds and open-hearted flowers, Till scenes of old-time beauty through his brain Before him passed; thus kindly death endowers The last sad moments, lulling them from pain, And memory brings her sweetest stores again.

THE SONNET.

The sonnet is a diamond flashing round From every facet true rare colored lights; A gem of thought carved in poetic nights To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned; A miniature of soul wherein are found Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights; A drop of blood with which a lover writes His heart’s sad epitaph in its own bound; A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark’s throat; A cascade small flung in a canyon steep With crystal music. At this shrine of song High priests of poesy have worshipped long.

THE POET.

Men call him mad because he weaves The glory of the golden corn And paints the beauty of the sheaves They gather night and morn.

They laugh when he in rhapsody, With eye uplift and soul serene, Translates the wonders of the sky Which they have dimly seen.

Or if he pluck a wayside flower And tell them of its beauty rare, They smile, not knowing God’s great power Is manifested there.

Or if when tempests rule the sky He walk and talk with wind and rain, They call his soul’s great ecstacy A sickness of the brain.

He walks unrecognized of men, For sense may not discern the soul; The morrow’s wonders of his pen Their sympathies control.

Along the battle-field of life, Content to lose if others gain, He lifts no finger in the strife, Yet feels its bitter pain.

He wanders through the crowded street, Or lingers by the country side, For all things good his heart doth beat With love that is world-wide.

The troubles of his fellow men He shrines with pity in heart, And prays the time to hasten when All sorrow shall depart.

And when the kindly voice of Death Proclaims life’s journey duly trod, He blesses all with parting breath And leaves the rest to God.

IN BŒOTIA.

Vine tendrils drooping in the mid-day sun Take me to Greece, ere Sappho sang those lays, Whose echoes, falling down this length of days, Trance us with beauty, sweet and halcyon; Satyrs, green-garlanded, skip madly on Through woody wilds, loud shouts of ribald praise Mingle with merry laughter, and amaze The peaceful shepherds, who, affrighted, run; Fair dryads swell the riot-filling song From every tree trunk, and from each pure spring Sweet naiad voices rise with silvery ring To welcome him who leads the dancing throng, Old Bacchus! reeling ’neath the weight of wine, Chanting a stave, half drunken, half divine.

LOVE-LAND.

Ah! Jenny! though life is not over, Yet the sweetness of living is past; No longer we walk through the clover And watch the white clouds sailing fast; For a darkness has newly arisen To spread and to spoil our fair sky, All our days must be spent in a prison And the black cloud shall never pass by.

Ah! Jenny! though bright the scales glitter, In the midst of the coil lurks a fang, The fruit of the almond is bitter Though the blossoms are fair while they hang; The rose has a canker within it, And some day the lark will not sing, The year that flew by as a minute Shall bear heavy on Love’s broken wing.

Ah! Jenny! our play-book lies broken Behind us;--before is the page Hermetic;--and so for a token To charm away grief in our age Remember the words of Creation, Our “Let there be Love,” when Love’s fire Through our lips like a sacred libation Drenched our souls with the wine of desire.

Ah! Jenny! we journeyed together Life’s road for a year and a day, Bright summer has been all our weather, Fair blossoms have strewn all our way; And shall we now part at the corner Of the cross-roads and meet nevermore, Because the world leers like a scorner And mocks when we pass by its door?

Ah! Jenny! the hand that I gave you That night when I promised to keep Your heart--lo! I stretch out to save you And to save my own soul from Hell’s deep; Let the world say its worst;--we shall never Hear its voice or see aught of its gloom, For in Love-land the birds sing forever And the roses are always in bloom.

THE LEGENDS AND LILIES OF FRANCE.

Sad and soft is the dirge on the Gallic shore By the mournful moan of the ocean made For the days and the deeds that are now no more ’Ere the last of the Knights in his tomb was laid In the depth of an old cathedral’s shade; Above are his casque, shield, banner and lance With the sword that had struck him the accolade; But dead are the legends and lillies of France.

Did he pine for the powder and polished floor, Gay dances, bright glances of masquerade? When he parleyed of politics, was it not o’er The lightning-blue gleam of his Damascene blade? If he sang, was it not of an old Crusade? If he listened and laughed at a love romance, Would he rather not look at a carronade? But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

If his lady’s fair favour he sought to implore By a witty ballade or a sad serenade Did he write it? Not he, when a troubadour Was willing to sing all the day if paid In a bower of bloom or a vine arcade, Or to sigh all night in the moonbeam’s dance, While he dreamed of rampart and escalade; But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

The Cathedral still stands with its fine façade; Some old stones of the rampart remain by chance; There are diplomats, dances, and gasconade-- But dead are the legends and lilies of France.

HAWTHORN SPRAY.

After the early spring’s dissolving powers Had eased the earth of winter’s icy weight, I went into the woods with soul elate To watch the coming of the first-born flowers; Fair Flora soon began to build her bowers Of leaf and bloom in forms both small and great, The trees put forth their canopies of state, And from the ground sprang up between the hours Most beauteous blossoms in a glorious band Of perfect shapes and colors richly blent, And all my soul was fill’d with glad content; But one pink hawthorn in a far-off land Sent all my thoughts like birds on eager wing Back to the beauty of Old England’s spring.

IF I WERE KING.

If I were King of some great land With lords and commons to command, My crown should be with justice bright Instead of jewels--and Love’s light Should be the sceptre in my hand.

One law of virtue should be planned That all alike might understand The simple rule, that right is right-- If I were King.

One Church should stand in God’s own sight Where all who wished to worship, might, Its ministers should be a band Of soldiers with a purpose grand To put all evil thoughts to flight, If I were King.

WORLD, WIND, LEAVES AND SNOW

_World._

Grey wind of the North! with thy burden so chill, (Oh! for the blast and the blowing,) Why flyest thou fast over river and rill, Adown the deep valley and up the steep hill, (Alas! for the storms that are sowing.) Through gloom-spreading forest, bare meadow, bleak moor, Above the sea-surges, along the sea shore, O! whither, grey wind, art thou going?

_Wind._

The corpse of my lover my arms do enfold, (Oh! for the roar and the rattle.) Whose beauty was rarer and fairer than gold, Whose joys were bright jewels, unbought and unsold, (Alas! for the fear-stricken cattle.) And I chant in thine ear the sad dirge of the dead, For the summer is slain and the winter so dread Is hasting to offer thee battle.

_World._

Sere leaves of the autumn, resplendent and bright, (Oh! for the frost and the fading.) Why fall ye so thickly by day and by night, With raining of color that dazzles the sight, (Alas! for the winter’s invading.) Till heaped on my bosom like relics of love Ye lie, sad remembrancers, sorrow to move My spirit with woe overlading.

_Leaves._

We thought to have woven a garment of grace, (Oh! for the moon and the veiling.) Embroidered with beauties bright fancy should trace, But, alas! we have gazed on his death-stricken face, (Alas! for the heavens are paling.) And the robe of our fancy is changed to a pall And the garlands that lately did crown him must fall; Love’s labor is all unavailing.

_World._

Pale snow, with a touch that is light as the air, (Oh! for sky’s cloud and earth’s cover.) Why weighest thou down on my heart filled with care, On my soul with its anguish too heavy to bear. (Alas! for the end when ’tis over.) In thy mantle of gauze why hid’st thou mine eyes, That would look at fond love e’er forever love lies In the grave of my newly-slain lover.

_Snow._

I cover thy face lest the sight of thy dead, (Oh! for love, sacred and splendid.) Should strike in thy soul its unnameable dread, For sympathy now and forever is fled, (Alas! for lost love, undefended.) And I wrap up thy breast with the warmth of my heart, Which shall stay till the spring breaks and bids me depart, When the time of thy mourning is ended.

ROSE.

Know you whence the roses came? Roses are the queen of flowers; Rose is my beloved’s name.

All my heart was set aflame As we walked through Cupid’s bowers; Know you whence the roses came?

Is it sweetness--is it shame-- When the sunshine’s spoiled by showers? Rose is my beloved’s name.

Duty sits a stern old dame On a throne of ruined towers; Know you whence the roses came?

Youth must live and who shall blame If with love it pass the hours? Rose is my beloved’s name.

Life and love is all a game, Shine and shadow--gleams and glowers-- Know you whence the roses came? Rose is my beloved’s name.

A SEA DREAM.

My spirit wandered by the ocean shore; Proud argosies sailed out to Albion’s isle Deep-laden with a new world’s golden store, The sun-kissed waves danced lightly, Nature’s smile Suffused o’er all the scene sweet loveliness awhile.

Light silver veils, like tender thoughts outspread When dreaming lovers taste supernal joy, Floated around Heaven’s azure bridal bed In listless splendour; others did convoy Earth’s treasures o’er the deep that plotted to destroy.

There rose as from the sea a strange mirage Out of the past; the clouds like floating drapes Each moment changed, and ocean’s long rivage Was wreathed by magic in a thousand shapes, Now gemmed with flashing isles, now girt with solemn capes.

And all the cities that have loved the sea To their destruction, passed along the sky, And I beheld them, as the drowning see, In that last moment when they sink to die, All life’s forgotten scenes unrolled by memory.

Time-honoured Greece, whose fingers clutched the wave And clasped it to a heart that beats no more, Sank with her wisdom in a silent grave, Leaving her sons a splendour to deplore While moans the tideless sea around each classic shore.

Rich Carthage, whose swift keels swam round the world, Phœnicia’s loveliest daughter. Her fair hand Was fought for by the nations; Fate hath hurled, Her and her glory from their sea-throne grand, Buried like some old palm beneath the burning sand.

Great Venice stood amid the nuptials gay Blessing as bride the fair but fickle sea; But all her pride and pomp have passed away, Dukes, doge, ships, senate, riches, sovereignty, That once compelled the world to fall on bended knee.

Imperial Rome, set like a lustrous gem Within seven guardian jewels! Tyrant Time Stole from her thoughtful brow its diadem And the three wreaths that crowned her all-sublime, Stained though their golden leaves with many a bloody crime.

Proud Spain! once mistress of the sea, before The fool Ambition led her ships in vain Against the bulwarks of old England’s shore, When God smote down her pride upon the main And sank her power so low, it never rose again.

Then fell a mist before my wondering sight Over the past, and slowly there arose Our blessèd Britain in her glorious might, The awe and admiration of her foes, Whose land of liberty protecting seas enclose.

The diamond of nations, set in gold, Flashing with truth that sparkles o’er the earth, Compared to her what empery of old Hath wrought for suffering man such deeds of worth, Or filled with living light dark lands of ageless dearth?

THE BLACK KNIGHT.

To King Banalin’s court there came From divers lands beyond the sea A score of knights, with hearts aflame With love for lady Ursalie, Whose wondrous beauty and fair fame Were sung by Europe’s minstrelsy.

Each lord in retinue did bring A noble and a princely band, Whose deeds the troubadours did sing Through length and breadth of Christian land, And each by turn besought the King The favour of his daughter’s hand.

But spake the King to each brave lord, “When first the sun shall shine in May A tourney in the palace-yard We do appoint, and on that day Who holds his own with spear and sword Shall take our daughter fair away.”

Whereat the Lady Ursalie Blanched as a lily of the vale, For many moons had waned since she First pledged her love to Sir Verale, And for that sick to death was he Her trembling lips turned ashen pale.

The heavy scent of musk and myrrh Hung all about the inner room, Dim taper lights did faintly stir To life the arras through the gloom,-- She bade her handmaid bring to her The treasure-box that held her doom.

With lightest touch a secret spring Upraised the silver casket’s lid; She took therefrom a golden ring, A broken coin, a heart hair-thrid, And many a sweet and precious thing Wherein her plighted troth was hid.

“Then welcome death, if death it prove,” She said and kissed with lips still pale Each sweet remembrance of his love;-- “I will not fail thee, Sir Verale, Though from thy couch thou canst not move To don for me thy coat of mail.”

Unto the chapel straight she went And knelt before the altar-stone; Her face within her hands she bent Praying with many a tear and moan Until the day was well-nigh spent, When came a beadsman she had known;

“O! Father! join thy prayer with mine The life of Sir Verale to save; O! plead then at our Lady’s shrine For health to one so young and brave. For I will wed, with help divine, No other lord this side the grave.”