Chapter 3

That all thy path be light Let darkness fall on me; If all thy days be bright, Mine black as night could be; My love would light my night.

For thou art more than life, And if our fate should set Life and my love at strife, How could I then forget I love thee more than life?

Christine

The beauty of the northern dawns, Their pure, pale light is thine; Yet all the dreams of tropic nights Within thy blue eyes shine. Not statelier in their prisoning seas The icebergs grandly move, But in thy smile is youth and joy, And in thy voice is love.

Thou art like Hecla's crest that stands So lonely, proud, and high, No earthly thing may come between Her summit and the sky. The sun in vain may strive to melt Her crown of virgin snow-- But the great heart of the mountain glows With deathless fire below.

Expectation

Roll on, O shining sun, To the far seas, Bring down, ye shades of eve, The soft, salt breeze! Shine out, O stars, and light My darling's pathway bright, As through the summer night She comes to me.

No beam of any star Can match her eyes; Her smile the bursting day In light outvies. Her voice--the sweetest thing Heard by the raptured spring When waking wild-woods ring-- She comes to me.

Ye stars, more swiftly wheel, O'er earth's still breast; More wildly plunge and reel In the dim west! The earth is lone and lorn, Till the glad day be born, Till with the happy morn She comes to me.

To Flora

When April woke the drowsy flowers, And vagrant odors thronged the breeze, And bluebirds wrangled in the bowers, And daisies flashed along the leas, And faint arbutus strove among Dead winter's leaf-strewn wreck to rise, And nature's sweetly jubilant song Went murmuring up the sunny skies, Into this cheerful world you came, And gained by right your vernal name.

I think the springs have changed of late, For "Arctics" are my daily wear, The skies are turned to cold gray slate, And zephyrs are but draughts of air; But you make up whatever we lack, When we, too rarely, come together, More potent than the almanac, You bring the ideal April weather; When you are with us we defy The blustering air, the lowering sky; In spite of Winter's icy darts, We've spring and sunshine in our hearts.

In fine, upon this April day, This deep conundrum I will bring: Tell me the two good reasons, pray, I have, to say you are like spring?

[You give it up?] Because we love you-- And see so very little of you.

A Haunted Room

In the dim chamber whence but yesterday Passed my belovèd, filled with awe I stand; And haunting Loves fluttering on every hand Whisper her praises who is far away. A thousand delicate fancies glance and play On every object which her robes have fanned, And tenderest thoughts and hopes bloom and expand In the sweet memory of her beauty's ray. Ah! could that glass but hold the faintest trace Of all the loveliness once mirrored there, The clustering glory of the shadowy hair That framed so well the dear young angel face! But no, it shows my own face, full of care, And my heart is her beauty's dwelling-place.

Dreams

I love a woman tenderly, But cannot know if she loves me. I press her hand, her lips I kiss, But still love's full assurance miss, Our waking life forever seems Cleft by a veil of doubt and dreams.

But love and night and sleep combine In dreams to make her wholly mine. A sure love lights her eyes' deep blue, Her hands and lips are warm and true. Always the fact unreal seems, And truth I find alone in dreams.

The Light of Love

Each shining light above us Has its own peculiar grace; But every light of heaven Is in my darling's face.

For it is like the sunlight, So strong and pure and warm, That folds all good and happy things, And guards from gloom and harm.

And it is like the moonlight, So holy and so calm; The rapt peace of a summer night, When soft winds die in balm.

And it is like the starlight; For, love her as I may, She dwells still lofty and serene In mystery far away.

Quand-Même

I strove, like Israel, with my youth, And said, Till thou bestow Upon my life Love's joy and truth, I will not let thee go.

And sudden on my night there woke The trouble of the dawn; Out of the east the red light broke, To broaden on and on.

And now let death be far or nigh, Let fortune gloom or shine, I cannot all untimely die, For love, for love is mine.

My days are tuned to finer chords, And lit by higher suns;, Through all my thoughts and all my words A purer purpose runs.

The blank page of my heart grows rife With wealth of tender lore; Her image, stamped upon my life, Gives value evermore.

She is so noble, firm, and true, I drink truth from her eyes, As violets gain the heaven's own blue In gazing at the skies.

No matter if my hands attain The golden crown or cross Only to love is such a gain That losing is not loss.

And thus whatever fate betide Of rapture or of pain, If storm or sun the future hide, My love is not in vain.

So only thanks are on my lips; And through my love I see My earliest dreams, like freighted ships, Come sailing home to me.

Words

When violets were springing And sunshine filled the day, And happy birds were singing The praises of the May, A word came to me, blighting The beauty of the scene, And in my heart was winter, Though all the trees were green.

Now down the blast go sailing The dead leaves, brown and sere; The forests are bewailing The dying of the year; A word comes to me, lighting With rapture all the air, And in my heart is summer, Though all the trees are bare.

The Stirrup Cup

My short and happy day is done, The long and dreary night comes on; And at my door the Pale Horse stands, To carry me to unknown lands.

His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sound dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof, And joys of life so soft and warm.

Tender and warm the joys of life,-- Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife, So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.

So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,-- The night comes down, the lights burn blue; And at my door the Pale Horse stands, To bear me forth to unknown lands.

A Dream of Bric-a-Brac

[C.K. _loquitur_.]

I dreamed I was in fair Niphon. Amid tea-fields I journeyed on, Reclined in my jinrikishaw; Across the rolling plains I saw The lordly Fusi-yama rise, His blue cone lost in bluer skies.

At last I bade my bearers stop Before what seemed a china-shop. I roused myself and entered in. A fearful joy, like some sweet sin, Pierced through my bosom as I gazed, Entranced, transported, and amazed.

For all the house was but one room, And in its clear and grateful gloom, Filled with all odors strange and strong That to the wondrous East belong, I saw above, around, below, A sight to make the warm heart glow, And leave the eager soul no lack, An endless wealth of bric-a-brac.

I saw bronze statues, old and rare, Fashioned by no mere mortal skill, With robes that fluttered in the air, Blown out by Art's eternal will; And delicate ivory netsukes, Richer in tone than Cheddar cheese, Of saints and hermits, cats and dogs, Grim warriors and ecstatic frogs.

And here and there those wondrous masks, More living flesh than sandal-wood, Where the full soul in pleasure basks And dreams of love, the only good. The walls were all with pictures hung: Gay villas bright in rain-washed air, Trees to whose boughs brown monkeys clung, Outlineless dabs of fuzzy hair. And all about the opulent shelves Littered with porcelain beyond price: Imari pots arrayed themselves Beside Ming dishes; grain-of-rice Vied with the Royal Satsuma, Proud of its sallow ivory beam; And Kaga's Thousand Hermits lay Tranced in some punch-bowl's golden gleam. Over bronze censers, black with age, The five-clawed dragons strife engage; A curled and insolent Dog of Foo Sniffs at the smoke aspiring through.

In what old days, in what far lands, What busy brains, what cunning hands, With what quaint speech, what alien thought, Strange fellow-men these marvels wrought!

As thus I mused, I was aware There grew before my eager eyes A little maid too bright and fair, Too strangely lovely for surprise. It seemed the beauty of the place Had suddenly become concrete, So full was she of Orient grace, From her slant eyes and burnished face Down to her little gold-bronze feet.

She was a girl of old Japan; Her small hand held a gilded fan, Which scattered fragrance through the room; Her cheek was rich with pallid bloom, Her eye was dark with languid fire, Her red lips breathed a vague desire; Her teeth, of pearl inviolate, Sweetly proclaimed her maiden state. Her garb was stiff with broidered gold Twined with mysterious fold on fold, That gave no hint where, hidden well, Her dainty form might warmly dwell,-- A pearl within too large a shell. So quaint, so short, so lissome, she, It seemed as if it well might be Some jocose god, with sportive whirl, Had taken up a long lithe girl And tied a graceful knot in her. I tried to speak, and found, oh, bliss! I needed no interpreter; I knew the Japanese for kiss,-- I had no other thought but this; And she, with smile and blush divine, Kind to my stammering prayer did seem; My thought was hers, and hers was mine, In the swift logic of my dream. My arms clung round her slender waist, Through gold and silk the form I traced, And glad as rain that follows drouth, I kissed and kissed her bright red mouth.

What ailed the girl? No loving sigh Heaved the round bosom; in her eye Trembled no tear; from her dear throat Bubbled a sweet and silvery note Of girlish laughter, shrill and clear, That all the statues seemed to hear. The bronzes tinkled laughter fine; I heard a chuckle argentine Ring from the silver images; Even the ivory netsukes Uttered in every silent pause Dry, bony laughs from tiny jaws; The painted monkeys on the wall Waked up with chatter impudent; Pottery, porcelain, bronze, and all Broke out in ghostly merriment,-- Faint as rain pattering on dry leaves, Or cricket's chirp on summer eves.

And suddenly upon my sight There grew a portent: left and right, On every side, as if the air Had taken substance then and there, In every sort of form and face, A throng of tourists filled the place. I saw a Frenchman's sneering shrug; A German countess, in one hand A sky-blue string which held a pug, With the other a fiery face she fanned; A Yankee with a soft felt hat; A Coptic priest from Ararat; An English girl with cheeks of rose; A Nihilist with Socratic nose; Paddy from Cork with baggage light And pockets stuffed with dynamite; A haughty Southern Readjuster Wrapped in his pride and linen duster; Two noisy New York stock-brokèrs And twenty British globe-trottèrs. To my disgust and vast surprise They turned on me lack-lustre eyes, And each with dropped and wagging jaw Burst out into a wild guffaw: They laughed with huge mouths opened wide; They roared till each one held his side; They screamed and writhed with brutal glee, With fingers rudely stretched to me,-- Till lo! at once the laughter died, The tourists faded into air; None but my fair maid lingered there, Who stood demurely by my side. "Who were your friends?" I asked the maid, Taking a tea-cup from its shelf. "This audience is disclosed," she said, "Whenever a man makes a fool of himself."

Liberty

What man is there so bold that he should say "Thus, and thus only, would I have the sea"? For whether lying calm and beautiful, Clasping the earth in love, and throwing back The smile of heaven from waves of amethyst; Or whether, freshened by the busy winds, It bears the trade and navies of the world To ends of use or stern activity; Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way To elemental fury, howls and roars At all its rocky barriers, in wild lust Of ruin drinks the blood of living things, And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore,-- Always it is the sea, and men bow down Before its vast and varied majesty.

So all in vain will timorous ones essay To set the metes and bounds of Liberty. For Freedom is its own eternal law; It makes its own conditions, and in storm Or calm alike fulfills the unerring Will. Let us not then despise it when it lies Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm Of gnat-like evils hover round its head; Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame Of riot and war we see its awful form Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe Rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings. Forever in thine eyes, O Liberty, Shines that high light whereby the world is saved, And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee!

The White Flag

I sent my love two roses,--one As white as driven snow, And one a blushing royal red, A flaming Jacqueminot.

I meant to touch and test my fate; That night I should divine, The moment I should see my love, If her true heart were mine.

For if she holds me dear, I said, She'll wear my blushing rose; If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque, As white as winter's snows.

My heart sank when I met her: sure I had been overbold, For on her breast my pale rose lay In virgin whiteness cold.

Yet with low words she greeted me, With smiles divinely tender; Upon her cheek the red rose dawned,-- The white rose meant surrender.

The Law of Death

The song of Kilvani: fairest she In all the land of Savatthi. She had one child, as sweet and gay And dear to her as the light of day. She was so young, and he so fair, The same bright eyes and the same dark hair; To see them by the blossomy way, They seemed two children at their play.

There came a death-dart from the sky, Kilvani saw her darling die. The glimmering shade his eyes invades, Out of his cheek the red bloom fades; His warm heart feels the icy chill, The round limbs shudder, and are still And yet Kilvani held him fast Long after life's last pulse was past, As if her kisses could restore The smile gone out forevermore.

But when she saw her child was dead, She scattered ashes on her head, And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet, And rushing wildly through the street, She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet.

"Master, all-helpful, help me now! Here at thy feet I humbly bow; Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!" She groveled on the marble floor, And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er. And suddenly upon the air There fell the answer to her prayer: "Bring me to-night a lotus tied With thread from a house where none has died."

She rose, and laughed with thankful joy, Sure that the god would save the boy. She found a lotus by the stream; She plucked it from its noonday dream. And then from door to door she fared, To ask what house by Death was spared. Her heart grew cold to see the eyes Of all dilate with slow surprise: "Kilvani, thou hast lost thy head; Nothing can help a child that's dead. There stands not by the Ganges' side A house where none hath ever died." Thus, through the long and weary day, From every door she bore away Within her heart, and on her arm, A heavier load, a deeper harm. By gates of gold and ivory, By wattled huts of poverty, The same refrain heard poor Kilvani, _The living are few, the dead are many._

The evening came--so still and fleet-- And overtook her hurrying feet. And, heartsick, by the sacred fane She fell, and prayed the god again. She sobbed and beat her bursting breast "Ah, thou hast mocked me, Mightiest! Lo! I have wandered far and wide; There stands no house where none hath died." And Buddha answered, in a tone Soft as a flute at twilight blown, But grand as heaven and strong as death To him who hears with ears of faith: "Child, thou art answered. Murmur not! Bow, and accept the common lot."

Kilvani heard with reverence meet, And laid her child at Buddha's feet.

Mount Tabor

On Tabor's height a glory came, And, shrined in clouds of lambent flame, The awestruck, hushed disciples saw Christ and the prophets of the law. Moses, whose grand and awful face Of Sinai's thunder bore the trace, And wise Elias,--in his eyes The shade of Israel's prophecies,-- Stood in that wide, mysterious light, Than Syrian noons more purely bright, One on each hand, and high between Shone forth the godlike Nazarene.

They bowed their heads in holy fright,-- No mortal eyes could bear the sight,-- And when they looked again, behold! The fiery clouds had backward rolled, And borne aloft in grandeur lonely, Nothing was left "save Jesus only."

Resplendent type of things to be! We read its mystery to-day With clearer eyes than even they, The fisher-saints of Galilee. We see the Christ stand out between The ancient law and faith serene, Spirit and letter; but above Spirit and letter both was Love. Led by the hand of Jacob's God, Through wastes of eld a path was trod By which the savage world could move Upward through law and faith to love. And there in Tabor's harmless flame The crowning revelation came. The old world knelt in homage due, The prophets near in reverence drew, Law ceased its mission to fulfill, And Love was lord on Tabor's hill.

So now, while creeds perplex the mind And wranglings load the weary wind, When all the air is filled with words And texts that ring like clashing swords, Still, as for refuge, we may turn Where Tabor's shining glories burn,-- The soul of antique Israel gone, And nothing left but Christ alone.

Religion and Doctrine

He stood before the Sanhedrim; The scowling rabbis gazed at him. He recked not of their praise or blame; There was no fear, there was no shame, For one upon whose dazzled eyes The whole world poured its vast surprise. The open heaven was far too near, His first day's light too sweet and clear, To let him waste his new-gained ken On the hate-clouded face of men.

But still they questioned, Who art thou? What hast thou been? What art thou now? Thou art not he who yesterday Sat here and begged beside the way; For he was blind. --_And I am he; For I was blind, but now I see_.

He told the story o'er and o'er; It was his full heart's only lore: A prophet on the Sabbath-day Had touched his sightless eyes with clay, And made him see who had been blind. Their words passed by him like the wind, Which raves and howls, but cannot shock The hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

Their threats and fury all went wide; They could not touch his Hebrew pride. Their sneers at Jesus and His band, Nameless and homeless in the land, Their boasts of Moses and his Lord, All could not change him by one word.

_I know not what this man may be, Sinner or saint; but as for me, One thing I know,--that I am he Who once was blind, and now I see_.

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 honor 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 forever and aye. The blessing may come and may stay, For the wrestler's heroic endeavor; But the question, unheeded forever, 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 worshiping 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 art's 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.