Chapter 1

POEMS

BY

JOHN L. STODDARD

1913

CONJUGI CARISSIMAE

PROEM

They called him mad,--the poor, old man, Whose white hair, worn and thin, Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played His cherished violin, Forever drawing to and fro O'er silent strings a loosened bow.

At times on his pathetic face A look of perfect rapture shone, Intent on some celestial chords, Discerned by him alone; And sometimes he would smile and pause, As if receiving loud applause.

So, many a humble poet dreams His songs will touch the human heart, And full of hope his offering lays Before the shrine of Art; Poor dreamer, may he never know That he too draws a silent bow!

CONTENTS

PROEM MY PROMENADE SOLITAIRE REINCARNATION TO THE "RING NEBULA" THE WAIF THE SILVER HERONS TO THE SPHINX YOUTH AND AGE SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN UNDER THE STARS CORSICA TO THE VENUS OF MELOS MORS LEONIS A STORY OF THE SEA OLD HYMN TUNES BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA THE PILLARS OF HERCULES FRIENDSHIP TO MY DEAD DOG TO-DAY TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS THE BUTTERFLY AFTER THE STORM FALLEN "AEQUANIMITAS" DREAMLAND ROME REVISITED ON THE PALATINE THE FAREWELL AT FONTAINEBLEAU JAPAN--OLD AND NEW THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES A WINTER'S DAY ON THE PROMENADE SOLITUDE OUT OF THE RANKS AUTONOMY ORIENT TO OCCIDENT THE CAPTIVE WEARINESS A MAY MONODY MY LOST FRIENDS TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET IN SILENCE AT THE VILLA OF FREDERICK III IN A COLUMBARIUM DISCOURAGEMENT MÉSALLIANCE IN A MODERN CITY MY BORES GRATITUDE IN TENEBRIS TWO MOTHERS AT HOCHFINSTERMÜNZ THE GIFT OF JUNO THE AWAKENING THE WINE OF LIFE LIFE'S TRILOGY MYSTERIES STAR DRIFT

TYROLEAN

OBERMAIS CONTENTMENT TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS AT SUNSET POST NUBES LUX THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME MY GARDEN THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER AFTER THE VINTAGE THE PASSING MOON AUTUMN IN MERAN THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH THE OUTCASTS HEIMWEIL MY LIBRARY TOUT PASSE

BESIDE LAKE COMO

THE FAUN ISOLA COMACINA THE OLD CARRIER EVENING ON LAKE COMO DELIO PATRI ACQUA FREDDA THE POSTERN GATE UNDINE JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA THE WANDERER SECLUSION ONE MORE UNDER THE PLANE TREE "CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" THE PAGAN PAST RETIREMENT IN NOVEMBER THE CALL OF THE BLOOD THE CASCADE BIRD SLAUGHTER THE IRON CROWN CONTRASTS IN MY PERGOLA EVANESCENCE LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON DAY AND NIGHT PASSING AND PERMANENT TRIPOLI INFLUENCE LEO FAREWELL TO THE FAUN WAKEFULNESS VILLA PLINIANA POINT BALBIANELLO AT LENNO

PERSONALLY ADDRESSED

LINES WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND TO C. TO MR. AND MRS. A.H.S. To M.C. OF ATHENS TO J.B. TO M.P. TO MISS MARY C. LOW IN MEMORIAM. G.M.M. TO HON. CHARLES M. DICKINSON TO J.C.Y. TO HON. JESSE HOLDOM

TRANSLATIONS

THE KISS TO THE FLAG EMILY'S GRAVE SERENADE TO NINON THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE ANDREAS HOFER STREAM AND SEA

* * * * *

RACHEL

MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE"

Up and down in my garden fair, Under the trellis where grapes will bloom, With the breath of violets in the air, As pallid Winter for Spring makes room, I walk and ponder, free from care, In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire.

Back and forth in the checkered shade Traced by the lattice that holds the vine, With the glory of snow-capped crests displayed On the sapphire sky in a billowy line, I stroll, and ask what can compare With the charm of my Promenade Solitaire.

To and fro 'neath the nascent green Which clambers over its slender frame, With white peaks lighting up the scene, As snowfields glow with the sunset flame, I saunter, halting here and there For the view from my Promenade Solitaire.

In and out through the silence sweet, Plash of fountain and song of bird Are the only sounds in my lov'd retreat By which the air is ever stirred; It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer, So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire.

Onward rushes the world without, But the breeze which over my garden steals Brings from it merely a distant shout Or the echo light of passing wheels; In its din and drive I have now no share, As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire.

Am I dead to the world, that I thus disdain Its moil and toil in the prime of life, When perhaps a score of years remain To win more gold in its selfish strife? Am I foolish to choose the purer air Of my glorious Promenade Solitaire?

Ah no! From my mountain-girdled height I watch the game of the world go on, And note the course of the bitter fight, And what is lost and what is won; And I judge of it better here than there, As I gaze from my Promenade Solitaire.

It is ever the same old tale of greed, Of robbing and killing the weaker race, Of the word proved false by the cruel deed, Of the slanderous tongue with the friendly face; 'Tis enough to make one's heart despair Even here in my Promenade Solitaire.

They cheer, and struggle, and beat the air With many a stroke and thrust intense, And urge each other to do and dare, To gain some good they deem immense; But they look like ants contending there From the height of my Promenade Solitaire.

Backward and forward they run and crawl, Houses and treasures they heap up high, Hither and thither their booty haul, ... Then suddenly drop in their tracks and die! For few are wise enough to repair In time to a Promenade Solitaire.

Meantime the Earth speeds on through space, As the sun for a million years hath steered, And, an eon hence, the entire race Will have played its part and disappeared; But what will the lifeless planet care, As it follows its Promenade Solitaire?

REINCARNATION

I know not how, I know not where, But from my own heart's mystic lore I feel that I have breathed this air, And walked this earth before;

And that in this, its latest form My old-time spirit once more strives, As it has fought through many a storm In past, forgotten lives.

Not inexperienced did my soul This incarnation's threshold tread; Not recordless has proved the scroll It brought back from the dead.

To certain, special lines of thought My mind intuitively tends, And old affinities have brought Not new, but ancient friends.

What thrilled me in a previous state Rekindles here its ancient flame; What I by instinct love and hate I knew before I came;

And lands, of which in youth I dreamed And read, heart-moved, and longed to see, When really visited, have seemed Not strange but known to me.

When Mozart, still a child, untaught, Ran joyous to the silent keys, And with inspired fingers wrought Majestic harmonies,

There fell upon his psychic ear Faint echoes of a music known Before his natal advent here, In former lives outgrown.

In many a dumb brute's wistful eyes A dawning human soul aspires, For thus from lower forms we rise,-- Ourselves our spirits' sires.

Full many a thought that thrills my breast Is fruit resulting from a seed Sown elsewhere,--on my soul impressed By many an arduous deed;

Full many a fetter which hath lamed My struggling spirit's upward flight Was once by that same spirit framed, When further from the Light;

With justice, therefore, comes the pain That o'er the tortured world extends; And hopeful is the lessening stain, As each life-cycle ends.

No changeless, endless states await The good and evil souls set free; Each grave is a successive gate In immortality.

Too long this mighty truth hath slept Among the darkened souls of men,-- "Ye cannot see God's face, except Ye shall be born again."

The God-like Christs and Buddhas yearn, However high their spirits' stage, For man's salvation to return, As Saviour or as Sage.

On our benighted, groping minds Their noble precepts, star-like, shine; Each soul, that wisely seeks them, finds The truths that are divine.

Misunderstood and vilified, Their aims and motives scarcely known, How many of these Saints have died, Rejected by their own!

Yet, though their followers miss the way, In spite of precept and of prayer, And lead unnumbered souls astray, Committed to their care,

Upon the lofty spirit-plane, Where all lies open to their sight, The Masters know that not in vain They left the Hills of Light.

TO THE "RING NEBULA"

O pallid spectre of the midnight skies, Whose phantom features in the dome of Night Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes, Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight; On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire, From thee, whose glories it would fain admire, Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!

What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame? Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolve In myriad suns that constellations frame, Around which life-blest satellites revolve, Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep In dim procession o'er the azure steep, As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?

Or art thou still an incandescent mass, Acquiring form as hostile forces urge, Through whose vast length continuous lightnings pass, As to and fro its fiery billows surge? Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife, Where now chaotic anarchy is rife, Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?

We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays Which hither on Light's winged coursers come From fires which ages since first lit their blaze, One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb; How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearn Of life on yonder glittering orbs to learn, We read no message, and could none return!

Yet this we know:--yon ring of spectral light, Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe, Can ne'er escape in its majestic might The firm control of omnipresent law; This mote descending to its bounden place, Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace, Alike obey the Power pervading space.

THE WAIF

I sit in my luxurious chair; Soft rugs caress my slippered feet; Within, a balmy, summer air; Without, a wintry storm of sleet.

A favorite book is in my hands, A thousand others line the walls; Some souvenir of distant lands In every nook the Past recalls.

Upon a Turkish tabouret In Dresden cups of peerless blue Gleams on a pretty Cashmere tray The fragrant Mocha's ebon hue.

Two dainty hands prepare the draught, While loving glances meet my own; Two lips repeat (the coffee quaffed), "To-night 'tis sweet to be alone."

Hark! in the court my faithful hound Breaks rudely on our tête-à-tête; Too well I understand that sound! A mendicant is at my gate.

Admit him? Yes; for none shall say That he who seeks in want my door Is ever harshly turned away; His plea is heard, if nothing more.

I leave my comforts with a sigh, And, passing to the outer hall, Behold a wanderer doomed to die,-- So ill, I look to see him fall.

I know his story ere he speaks; And listening to his labored breath, I trace, with tears upon my cheeks, His long and hopeless fight with death.

A poor, storm-beaten, lonely waif, Lured southward from a colder clime By hope and that unfailing faith That health will come again in time!

Alas! too late; the dread disease Hath fixed its roots too firmly there; And now sick, friendless, at my knees, He pours forth his heart-breaking prayer.

What are his needs? Before all, food! Hot soup, bread, wine, until at last A sense of human brotherhood Obliterates his cruel past;

Yet not for long; for though well-fed, With warmer garments than before, He hath no place to lay his head, On turning from my friendly door.

I slip some silver in his hand, ('Twill purchase shelter for the night,) Then, silent and remorseful, stand To watch his bent form out of sight.

On, on he goes through snow and sleet, With nothing more of warmth and cheer! From such a home to such a street! Ah, should I not have kept him here?

My room is no less bright and warm, But all its charm and joy have fled; That lonely figure in the storm Leaves both our hearts uncomforted.

For this is but one tiny wave In life's vast, shoreless sea of woe,-- One note in man's hoarse cry to save, Resounding o'er its ebb and flow;

I ask myself in blank dismay,-- Ought I my little wealth to own? Yet, should I give it all away, 'Twere but a drop to ocean thrown!

Great God! if what I dimly see, In this small section of mankind, Of pain and want and misery, Can thus bring anguish to my mind,

How canst _Thou_ view the awful _whole_, As our ensanguined planet rolls From unknown source to unknown goal Its freight of suffering human souls?

Permitted pain!--the first and last Of riddles that we strive to solve, More poignant ever, and more vast, As man's mentalities evolve,

I hear thy victims' ceaseless wails, I view the path my race hath trod, And at the sight my spirit quails, And cries in agony to God!

THE SILVER HERONS

Within a home for captive beasts Whose world had dwindled to a cage, I noted in their mournful eyes Such resignation, fear, and rage, I longed at once to set them free, And send them over land and sea To live again in liberty.

For them no more the mountain range, The desert vast, the jungle's lair! Their meaner fate through grated bars To feel the public's hateful stare; Poor prisoners! doomed henceforth to pace With stinted strides a narrow space, And, daily, gaping crowds to face.

At length I stood before a cage, Where, guarded by a loftier screen, Were artificial rocks, and pools, And strips of vegetation green; There, perched upon some rocky mound, Or crouching on the miry ground, A flock of waterfowl I found.

Storks, poised upon a single leg, Stood dreaming of the eternal Nile,-- The Mecca of their winter flight, When lured by Egypt's sunny smile; While ducks and geese, in gabbling mood, Explored the muddy pond for food, Attended by their noisy brood.

Their keeper brought their evening meal; And instantly on broad-webbed feet, And stilt-like legs, and flapping wings, The feathered bipeds rushed to greet, With snaps and cluckings of delight, The joyful, ever-welcome sight Of supper at the approach of night.

Yet all came not! Two stood apart, With plumage like fresh-fallen snow,-- Two "Silver Herons," of a race As pure and fine as earth can show; Amid the tumult that was rife, These loathed the others' greedy strife, And looked disgusted with their life.

With closed eyes, shrinking from the mass, They seemed, in thought, removed as far From all their coarse environment As sun is separate from star! The very picture of disdain, From all such gorging, it was plain, They had determined to refrain.

The keeper murmured with reproach,-- "Those Silver Herons are too proud! Why should they not partake of food Together with the common crowd? They eat a little from my hand, But would prefer to starve, than stand Besmeared by that uncleanly band.

"A month hence, neither will be here; For both will grieve themselves to death; And when one falls, its mate expires With scarcely an additional breath; And, should there come another pair, In their turn they the fate will share Of those two herons standing there."

Poor hapless birds! I see them yet, Alone and starving in their pride,-- Their glittering plumage still intact, While standing bravely side by side; And, although put to hunger's test, Continuing mutely to protest Against defilement with the rest.

O Silver Herons, teach mankind To cherish thus a stainless name! To shun the vile, ignoble crowd, Preferring death to smirch and shame! A foul, unfriendly mob to brave, And go, unspotted, to the grave, Is not to _lose_ one's life, but _save_.

TO THE SPHINX

O sleepless Sphinx! Thy sadly patient eyes, Forever gazing o'er the shifting sands, Have watched Earth's countless dynasties arise, Stalk forth like spectres waving gory hands, Then fade away with scarce a lasting trace To mark the secret of their dwelling place: O sleepless Sphinx!

O changeless Sphinx! The very dawn of Time Beheld thee sculptured from the living rock! Still wears thy face its primal look sublime, Surviving all the hoary ages' shock: Still royal art thou in thy proud repose, As when the sun on tuneful Memnon rose, O changeless Sphinx!

O voiceless Sphinx! Thy solemn lips are dumb; Time's awful secrets lie within thy breast; Age follows age; revering pilgrims come From every clime to urge the same request,-- That thou wilt speak! Poor creatures of a day, In calm disdain thou seest them die away: O voiceless Sphinx!

Majestic Sphinx! Thou crouchest by a sea Whose fawn-hued wavelets clasp thy buried feet: Whose desert-surface, petrified like thee, Gleams white with sails of many an Arab fleet: Whose tawny billows, surging with the storm, Break on thy flanks, and overleap thy form; Majestic Sphinx!

Eternal Sphinx! The Pyramids are thine; Their giant summits guard thee night and day, On thee they look when stars in splendor shine, Or while around their crests the sunbeams play: Thine own coevals, who with thee remain Colossal Genii of the boundless plain! Eternal Sphinx!

YOUTH AND AGE

"I will gain a fortune," the young man cried; "For Gold by the world is deified; Hence, whether the means be foul or fair, I will make myself a millionaire, My single talent shall grow to ten!" But an old man smiled, and asked "And then?"

"A peerless beauty," the young man said, "Shall be the woman I choose to wed. And men shall envy me my prize, And women scan her with jealous eyes;" And he looked annoyed, when once again The old man smiled, and asked "And then?"

"I will build," he answered, "a home so fine, That kings in their castles shall covet mine; The rarest pictures shall clothe its walls, And statues stand in its stately halls; It shall lack no luxury known to men;" But still the old man asked "And then?"

"I will play a role in Church or State That all mankind shall acknowledge great; I will win at last such brilliant fame, That distant lands shall know my name, For I can wield both sword and pen;" But again the old man asked "And then?"

"Is your heart a stone," the young man cried, "Hath all ambition within you died, That nothing seems to you worth while? What mean you by that sphinx-like smile? Of what are you secretly thinking, when You utter those mournful words,--'And then?'"

Gently the old man said "O youth, The words I have spoken veil a truth Learned only through the lapse of years, And first discerned through a mist of tears; For youth is full of illusions fair Which manhood sees dissolve in air.

"Your millions will not make you blest, They will rob you, instead, of peace and rest: Your beautiful wife may be the prey Of a treacherous friend or a skilled roué; And the splendid palace that you crave Will make you Society's gilded slave.

"'Tis a weary road to political fame; Its price you must often pay in shame; And the world-known name for which you yearn On a bulletin board or a funeral urn, Is scarcely worth the toil and strife Which poison the peaceful joys of life.

"For be you ever so wise and good, By some you will be misunderstood, And fame will bring you envious foes To spoil for you many a night's repose; And alas! as your pathway upward tends, You will find self-interest in your friends!

"The loudest shout of the mob's applause Will die out after a moment's pause; And what is the greatest public praise To one whose form in the earth decays? The cruel world will always laugh At the fulsome lie of an epitaph.

"But Spring recks not of Winter's snow, And you will not believe, I know, That all those boons that tempt your powers, If gained, will be like fragile flowers, Whose freshness wilts in the fevered hand, Like roses dropped on the desert sand.

"And much of the work you deem sublime Is like the grain of pink-hued lime Which once was a coral insect's shell, But now is a microscopic cell, Entombed with countless billions more In a lonely reef on an unknown shore!"

"Alas!" said the youth,--and his eyes were wet,-- "Is old age merely a vain regret, The retrospect of wasted years, Of false ideals and lost careers? Advise me! What must I reject, And what for my permanent good select?"

"Belovd youth," the old man said, "All is not vain, be comforted! Seek not thine own, but others' joy; Ring true, like gold without alloy; Waste not thy time in asking Why, Or Whence, or Whither when we die;

"The actual world, the present hours Will give enough to tax thy powers; At no clear duty hesitate; Serve well thy neighbor and the State; So shalt thou add thy tiny form To bind the reef that breasts the storm!"

SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN

The sun is low; Yon peak of snow Is reddening 'neath the sunset glow; The rosy light Makes richly bright The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.

From vales that sleep Night's shadows creep To take possession of the steep; While, as they rise, The western skies Seem loath to leave so fair a prize.

The light of day Still loves to stay And round that pearly summit play; How fair a sight That realm of light, Contended for by Day and Night!

Now fainter shines, As Day declines, The lustrous height which he resigns; The shadows gain Th' illumined plane; The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.

When daylight dies, The azure skies Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes, Which watch with grace From depths of space The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.

And when the Light Hath put to flight Night's shadows from each Alpine height, Along the skies It quickly flies, To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.

The timid flush And rosy blush Which then from brow to bosom rush, Are pure and fair Beyond compare, Resplendent in the crystal air.

And thus alway By night and day Her varying suitors homage pay; And tinged with rose, Or white with snows, The same fair, radiant form she shows.

UNDER THE STARS

The breath of summer stirs the trees, A thousand roses round me bloom, Whose saffron petals give the breeze A wealth of exquisite perfume, As, climbing high, with tendrils bold, They clothe the walls with cups of gold.

No sound disturbs the silence sweet, The weary birds have sunk to rest; For where the snow and sunset meet The light is fading in the west, And now the carking cares of day Slip lightly from my heart away.

The emptiness of social strife, The pettiness of human souls, The cheap frivolities of life, The keen pursuit of paltry goals,-- How small they seem beneath the dome That shelters my Tyrolean home!

A shining mote, our tiny earth No furrow leaves in shoreless space! What is one brief existence worth, Which disappears, and leaves no trace? That silent, star-strewn vault survives The dawns and dusks of countless lives.

Why grieve, dear heart? Oblivion deep Will soon enshroud both friend and foe, And those who laugh and those who weep Must join the hosts of long ago, Whose transient hours of smiles and tears Make up earth's wilderness of years.

The sunset's glowing embers die, The snow-peaks lose their crimson hue, Through deepening shades the ruddy sky Burns slowly down to darkest blue, Wherein a million worlds of light Announce the coming of the night.

I gaze, and slowly my despair At human wretchedness and crime Gives place to hopes and visions fair,-- So much may be evolved by time! So much may yet men's souls surprise Beneath the splendor of God's skies!

Some day, somewhere, in realms afar His light may make all problems plain, And justice on some happier star May recompense this planet's pain, And earth's bleak Golgothas of woe Grow lovely in life's afterglow.

CORSICA

In Bordighera's groves of palm I linger at the close of day, And watch, beyond the ocean's calm, A range of mountains far away.

Their snowy summits, white and cold, Flush crimson like a tinted shell, As sinks the sun in clouds of gold Behind the peaks of Esterel.

No unsubstantial shapes are they,-- The offspring of the mist and sea; No splendid vision of Cathay, Recalled in dreamful revery;