Chapter 4

They were all doctors of renown, The great men of a famous town, With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise, Beneath their wide phylacteries; The wisdom of the East was theirs, And honour crowned their silver hairs. The man they jeered and laughed to scorn Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born; But he knew better far than they What came to him that Sabbath-day; And what the Christ had done for him He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

SINAI AND CALVARY.

There are two mountains hallowed By majesty sublime, Which rear their crests unconquered Above the floods of Time. Uncounted generations Have gazed on them with awe,-- The mountain of the Gospel, The mountain of the Law.

From Sinai's cloud of darkness The vivid lightnings play; They serve the God of vengeance, The Lord who shall repay. Each fault must bring its penance, Each sin the avenging blade, For God upholds in justice The laws that He hath made.

But Calvary stands to ransom The earth from utter loss, In shade than light more glorious, The shadow of the Cross. To heal a sick world's trouble, To soothe its woe and pain, On Calvary's sacred summit The Paschal Lamb was slain.

The boundless might of Heaven Its law in mercy furled, As once the bow of promise O'erarched a drowning world. The Law said, "As you keep me, It shall be done to you;" But Calvary prays, "Forgive them; They know not what they do."

Almighty God! direct us To keep Thy perfect Law! O blessed Saviour, help us Nearer to Thee to draw! Let Sinai's thunders aid us To guard our feet from sin; And Calvary's light inspire us The love of God to win.

THE VISION OF ST. PETER.

To Peter by night the faithfullest came And said, "We appeal to thee! The life of the Church is in thy life; We pray thee to rise and flee.

"For the tyrant's hand is red with blood, And his arm is heavy with power; Thy head, the head of the Church, will fall If thou tarry in Rome an hour."

Through the sleeping town St. Peter passed To the wide Campagna plain; In the starry light of the Alban night He drew free breath again:

When across his path an awful form In luminous glory stood; His thorn-crowned brow, His hands and feet, Were wet with immortal blood.

The godlike sorrow which filled His eyes Seemed changed to a godlike wrath As they turned on Peter, who cried aloud, And sank to his knees in the path.

"Lord of my life, my love, my soul! Say, what wilt Thou with me?" A voice replied, "I go to Rome To be crucified for thee."

The Apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,-- The vision had passed away; The light still lay on the dewy plain, But the sky in the east was gray.

To the city walls St. Peter turned, And his heart in his breast grew fire; In every vein the hot blood burned With the strength of one high desire.

And sturdily back he marched to his death Of terrible pain and shame; And never a shade of fear again To the stout Apostle came.

ISRAEL.

When by Jabbok the patriarch waited To learn on the morrow his doom, And his dubious spirit debated In darkness and silence and gloom, There descended a Being with whom He wrestled in agony sore, With striving of heart and of brawn, And not for an instant forbore Till the east gave a threat of the dawn; And then, as the Awful One blessed him, To his lips and his spirit there came, Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him, The cry that through questioning ages Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

Most fatal, most futile, of questions! Wherever the heart of man beats, In the spirit's most sacred retreats, It comes with its sombre suggestions, Unanswered for ever and aye. The blessing may come and may stay, For the wrestlers heroic endeavour; But the question, unheeded for ever, Dies out in the broadening day.

In the ages before our traditions, By the altars of dark superstitions, The imperious question has come; When the death-stricken victim lay sobbing At the feet of his slayer and priest, And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing To the sound of the cymbal and drum On the steps of the high Teocallis; When the delicate Greek at his feast Poured forth the red wine from his chalice With mocking and cynical prayer; When by Nile Egypt worshipping lay, And afar, through the rosy, flushed air The Memnon called out to the day; Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire; In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades, Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire Through arts highest miracles higher, This question of questions invades Each heart bowed in worship or shame; In the air where the censers are swinging, A voice, going up with the singing, Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

No answer came back, not a word, To the patriarch there by the ford; No answer has come through the ages To the poets, the seers, and the sages Who have sought in the secrets of science The name and the nature of God, Whether cursing in desperate defiance Or kissing His absolute rod; But the answer which was and shall be, "My name! Nay, what is it to thee?" The search and the question are vain. By use of the strength that is in you, By wrestling of soul and of sinew The blessing of God you may gain.

There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven That never will shine on our eyes; To mortals it may not be given To range those inviolate skies. The mind, whether praying or scorning, That tempts those dread secrets shall fail; But strive through the night till the morning, And mightily shalt thou prevail.

THE CROWS AT WASHINGTON.

Slow flapping to the setting sun By twos and threes, in wavering rows, As twilight shadows dimly close, The crows fly over Washington.

Under the crimson sunset sky Virginian woodlands leafless lie, In wintry torpor bleak and dun. Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines Like a warmed opal in the sun, With wide advance in broken lines The crows fly over Washington.

Over the Capitol's white dome, Across the obelisk soaring bare To prick the clouds, they travel home, Content and weary, winnowing With dusky vans the golden air, Which hints the coming of the spring, Though winter whitens Washington.

The dim, deep air, the level ray Of dying sunlight on their plumes, Give them a beauty not their own; Their hoarse notes fail and faint away; A rustling murmur floating down Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms; They touch with grace the fading day, Slow flying over Washington.

I stand and watch with clouded eyes These dim battalions move along; Out of the distance memory cries Of days when life and hope were strong, When love was prompt and wit was gay; Even then, at evening, as to-day, I watched, while twilight hovered dim Over Potomac's curving rim, This selfsame flight of homing crows Blotting the sunset's fading rose, Above the roofs of Washington.

REMORSE.

Sad is the thought of sunniest days Of love and rapture perished, And shine through memory's tearful haze The eyes once fondliest cherished. Reproachful is the ghost of toys That charmed while life was wasted. But saddest is the thought of joys That never yet were tasted.

Sad is the vague and tender dream Of dead love's lingering kisses, To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam Of unreturning blisses; Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride For the pitiless death that won them,-- But the saddest wail is for lips that died With the virgin dew upon them.

ESSE QUAM VIDERI.

The knightly legend of thy shield betrays The moral of thy life; a forecast wise, And that large honour that deceit defies, Inspired thy fathers in the elder days, Who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase, TO BE RATHER THAN SEEM. As eve's red skies Surpass the morning's rosy prophecies, Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays. Scorning thy faith and purpose to defend The ever-mutable multitude at last Will hail the power they did not comprehend,-- Thy fame will broaden through the centuries; As, storm and billowy tumult overpast, The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.

WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME.

There's a happy time coming, When the boys come home. There's a glorious day coming, When the boys come home. We will end the dreadful story Of this treason dark and gory In a sunburst of glory, When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter When the boys come home, For our hearts will be lighter When the boys come home. Wives and sweethearts will press them In their arms and caress them, And pray God to bless them, When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest When the boys come home, And their cheer will ring the loudest When the boys come home. The full ranks will be shattered, And the bright arms will be battered, And the battle-standards tattered, When the boys come home.

Their bayonets may be rusty, When the boys come home, And their uniforms dusty, When the boys come home. But all shall see the traces Of battle's royal graces, In the brown and bearded faces, When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them, When the boys come home, To bless them and to greet them, When the boys come home; And the fame of their endeavour Time and change shall not dissever From the nation's heart for ever, When the boys come home.

LESE-AMOUR.

How well my heart remembers Beside these camp-fire embers The eyes that smiled so far away,-- The joy that was November's.

Her voice to laughter moving, So merrily reproving,-- We wandered through the autumn woods, And neither thought of loving.

The hills with light were glowing, The waves in joy were flowing,-- It was not to the clouded sun The day's delight was owing.

Though through the brown leaves straying, Our lives seemed gone a-Maying; We knew not Love was with us there, No look nor tone betraying.

How unbelief still misses The best of being's blisses! Our parting saw the first and last Of love's imagined kisses.

Now 'mid these scenes the drearest I dream of her, the dearest,-- Whose eyes outshine the Southern stars, So far, and yet the nearest.

And Love, so gaily taunted, Who died, no welcome granted, Comes to me now, a pallid ghost, By whom my life is haunted.

With bonds I may not sever, He binds my heart for ever, And leads me where we murdered him,-- The Hill beside the River.

CAMP SHAW, FLORIDA, February 1864.

NORTHWARD.

Under the high unclouded sun That makes the ship and shadow one, I sail away as from the fort Booms sullenly the noonday gun.

The odorous airs blow thin and fine, The sparkling waves like emeralds shine, The lustre of the coral reefs Gleams whitely through the tepid brine.

And glitters o'er the liquid miles The jewelled ring of verdant isles, Where generous Nature holds her court Of ripened bloom and sunny smiles.

Encinctured by the faithful seas Inviolate gardens load the breeze, Where flaunt like giant-warders' plumes The pennants of the cocoa-trees.

Enthroned in light and bathed in balm, In lonely majesty the Palm Blesses the isles with waving hands,-- High-Priest of the eternal Calm.

Yet Northward with an equal mind I steer my course, and leave behind The rapture of the Southern skies,-- The wooing of the Southern wind.

For here o'er Nature's wanton bloom Falls far and near the shade of gloom, Cast from the hovering vulture-wings Of one dark thought of woe and doom.

I know that in the snow-white pines The brave Norse fire of freedom shines, And fain for this I leave the land Where endless summer pranks the vines.

O strong, free North, so wise and brave! O South, too lovely for a slave! Why read ye not the changeless truth,-- The free can conquer but to save?

May God upon these shining sands Send Love and Victory clasping hands, And Freedom's banners wave in peace For ever o'er the rescued lands!

And here, in that triumphant hour, Shall yielding beauty wed with power; And blushing earth and smiling sea In dalliance deck the bridal bower.

KEY WEST, 1864.

IN THE FIRELIGHT.

My dear wife sits beside the fire With folded hands and dreaming eyes, Watching the restless flames aspire, And rapt in thralling memories. I mark the fitful firelight fling Its warm caresses on her brow, And kiss her hands' unmelting snow, And glisten on her wedding-ring.

The proud free head that crowns so well The neck superb, whose outlines glide Into the bosom's perfect swell Soft-billowed by its peaceful tide, The cheek's faint flush, the lip's red glow, The gracious charm her beauty wears, Fill my fond eyes with tender tears As in the days of long ago.

Days long ago, when in her eyes The only heaven I cared for lay, When from our thoughtless Paradise All care and toil dwelt far away; When Hope in wayward fancies throve, And rioted in secret sweets, Beguiled by Passion's dear deceits,-- The mysteries of maiden love.

One year had passed since first my sight Was gladdened by her girlish charms, When on a rapturous summer night I clasped her in possessing arms. And now ten years have rolled away, And left such blessings as their dower; I owe her tenfold at this hour The love that lit our wedding-day.

For now, vague-hovering o'er her form, My fancy sees, by love refined, A warmer and a dearer charm By wedlock's mystic hands entwined,-- A golden coil of wifely cares That years have forged, the loving joy That guards the curly-headed boy Asleep an hour ago upstairs.

A fair young mother, pure as fair, A matron heart and virgin soul! The flickering light that crowns her hair Seems like a saintly aureole. A tender sense upon me falls That joy unmerited is mine, And in this pleasant twilight shine My perfect bliss myself appals.

Come back! my darling, strayed so far Into the realm of fantasy,-- Let thy dear face shine like a star In love-light beaming over me. My melting soul is jealous, sweet, Of thy long silence' drear eclipse; O kiss me back with living lips, To life, love, lying at thy feet!

IN A GRAVEYARD.

In the dewy depths of the graveyard I lie in the tangled grass, And watch, in the sea of azure, The white cloud-islands pass.

The birds in the rustling branches Sing gaily overhead; Grey stones like sentinel spectres Are guarding the silent dead.

The early flowers sleep shaded In the cool green noonday glooms; The broken light falls shuddering On the cold white face of the tombs.

Without, the world is smiling In the infinite love of God, But the sunlight fails and falters When it falls on the churchyard sod.

On me the joyous rapture Of a heart's first love is shed, But it falls on my heart as coldly As sunlight on the dead.

THE PRAIRIE.

The skies are blue above my head, The prairie green below, And flickering o'er the tufted grass The shifting shadows go, Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds Fleck white the tranquil skies, Black javelins darting where aloft The whirring pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance The dim horizon bounds, Where all the air is resonant With sleepy summer sounds,-- The life that sings among the flowers, The lisping of the breeze, The hot cicala's sultry cry, The murmurous dream of bees.

The butterfly--a flying flower-- Wheels swift in flashing rings, And flutters round his quiet kin, With brave flame-mottled wings. The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire The Phlox' bright clusters shine, And Prairie-Cups are swinging free To spill their airy wine.

And lavishly beneath the sun, In liberal splendour rolled, The Fennel fills the dipping plain With floods of flowery gold; And widely weaves the Iron-Weed A woof of purple dyes Where Autumn's royal feet may tread When bankrupt Summer flies.

In verdurous tumult far away The prairie-billows gleam, Upon their crests in blessing rests The noontide's gracious beam. Low quivering vapours steaming dim The level splendours break Where languid Lilies deck the rim Of some land-circled lake.

Far in the east like low-hung clouds The waving woodlands lie; Far in the west the glowing plain Melts warmly in the sky. No accent wounds the reverent air, No footprint dints the sod, Lone in the light the prairie lies Rapt in a dream of God.

ILLINOIS, 1858.

CENTENNIAL.

A hundred times the bells of Brown Have rung to sleep the idle summers, And still to-day clangs clamouring down A greeting to the welcome comers.

And far, like waves of morning, pours Her call, in airy ripples breaking, And wanders to the farthest shores, Her children's drowsy hearts awaking.

The wild vibration floats along, O'er heart-strings tense its magic plying, And wakes in every breast its song Of love and gratitude undying.

My heart to meet the summons leaps At limit of its straining tether, Where the fresh western sunlight steeps In golden flame the prairie heather.

And others, happier, rise and fare To pass within the hallowed portal, And see the glory shining there Shrined in her steadfast eyes immortal.

What though their eyes be dim and dull, Their heads be white in reverend blossom; Our mothers smile is beautiful As when she bore them on her bosom!

Her heavenly forehead bears no line Of Time's iconolastic fingers, But o'er her form the grace divine Of deathless youth and wisdom lingers.

We fade and pass, grow faint and old, Till youth and joy and hope are banished, And still her beauty seems to fold The sum of all the glory vanished.

As while Tithonus faltered on The threshold of the Olympian dawnings, Aurora's front eternal shone With lustre of the myriad mornings.

So joys that slip like dead leaves down, And hopes burnt out that die in ashes, Rise restless from their graves to crown Our mother's brow with fadeless flashes.

And lives wrapped in traditions mist These honoured halls to-day are haunting, And lips by lips long withered kissed The sagas of the past are chanting.

Scornful of absence' envious bar BROWN smiles upon the mystic meeting Of those her sons, who, sundered far, In brotherhood of heart are greeting;

Her wayward children wandering on Where setting stars are lowly burning, But still in worship toward the dawn That gilds their souls' dear Mecca turning;

Or those who, armed for God's own fight, Stand by His Word through fire and slaughter, Or bear our banner's starry light Far-flashing through the Gulf's blue water.

For where one strikes for light and truth, The right to aid, the wrong redressing, The mother of his spirit's youth Sheds o'er his soul her silent blessing.

She gained her crown a gem of flame When KNEASS fell dead in victory gory; New splendour blazed upon her name When IVES' young life went out in glory!

Thus bright for ever may she keep Her fires of tolerant Freedom burning, Till War's red eyes are charmed to sleep And bells ring home the boys returning.

And may she shed her radiant truth In largess on ingenuous comers, And hold the bloom of gracious youth Through many a hundred tranquil summers!

A WINTER NIGHT.

The winter wind is raving fierce and shrill, And chides with angry moan the frosty skies; The white stars gaze with sleepless Gorgon eyes That freeze the earth in terror fixed and still. We reck not of the wild night's gloom and chill, Housed from its rage, dear friend; and fancy flies, Lured by the hand of beckoning memories, Back to those summer evenings on the hill Where we together watched the sun go down Beyond the gold-washed uplands, while his fires Touched into glittering life the vanes and spires Piercing the purpling mists that veiled the town. The wintry night thy voice and eyes beguile, Till wake the sleeping summers in thy smile.

STUDENT-SONG.

When Youth's warm heart beats high, my friend, And Youth's blue sky is bright, And shines in Youth's clear eye, my friend, Love's early dawning light, Let the free soul spurn care's control, And while the glad days shine, We'll use their beams for Youth's gay dreams Of Love and Song and Wine.

Let not the bigot's frown, my friend, O'ercast thy brow with gloom, For Autumn's sober brown, my friend, Shall follow Summer's bloom. Let smiles and sighs and loving eyes In changeful beauty shine, And shed their beams on Youth's gay dreams Of Love and Song and Wine.

For in the weary years, my friend, That stretched before us lie, There'll be enough of tears, my friend, To dim the brightest eye. So let them wait, and laugh at fate, While Youth's sweet moments shine,-- Till memory gleams with golden dreams Of Love and Song and Wine.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

I pray you, pardon me, Elsie, And smile that frown away That dims the light of your lovely face As a thunder-cloud the day. I really could not help it,-- Before I thought, 'twas done,-- And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, Like an icicle in the sun.

I was thinking of the summers When we were boys and girls, And wandered in the blossoming woods, And the gay winds romped with your curls. And you seemed to me the same little girl I kissed in the alder-path, I kissed the little girl's lips, and, alas! I have roused a woman's wrath.

There is not so much to pardon,-- For why were your lips so red? The blond hair fell in a shower of gold From the proud, provoking head. And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes, And played round the tender mouth, Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind That blows from the fragrant south.

And where, after all, is the harm done? I believe we were made to be gay, And all of youth not given to love Is vainly squandered away. And strewn through life's low labours, Like gold in the desert sands, Are love's swift kisses and sighs and vows And the clasp of clinging hands.

And when you are old and lonely, In Memory's magic shine You will see on your thin and wasting hands, Like gems, these kisses of mine. And when you muse at evening At the sound of some vanished name, The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips And kindle your heart to flame.

GOD'S VENGEANCE.

Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine; I will repay," saith the Lord; Ours be the anger divine, Lit by the flash of His word.

How shall His vengeance be done? How, when His purpose is clear? Must He come down from His throne? Hath He no instruments here?

Sleep not in imbecile trust, Waiting for God to begin, While, growing strong in the dust, Rests the bruised serpent of sin.

Right and Wrong,--both cannot live Death-grappled. Which shall we see? Strike! only Justice can give Safety to all that shall be.

Shame! to stand paltering thus, Tricked by the balancing odds; Strike! God is waiting for us! Strike! for the vengeance is God's.

TOO LATE.