Chapter 3

I, knight-at-arms, in my own forest lost! Count of the empire, heir to crags and caves, And brother to the eagle and the fox! The music of the thunder, and the wind Among the arches of the oaks, may choir A requiem for my passing soul. But hist! A footstep in the leaves--some poaching hind Or gypsy trapping game--Holà! holà! Perhaps the kobolds are abroad to-night. Zanthon knows well these mountain-folk entice. The woods divide, dawn breaks, I see the verge; Bathony's stronghold on the Polish plains Should top the wilderness: were Zanthon here, To boast his prowess in our hunting bouts, I would not cuff nor flout him, could we sight In the old way, with fanfaron, the boars On the old battlements, our ancient badge. That lie to Zanthon on the Volga's banks, When Amine sent the wild rose by his hand, Was Satan's wile. I played the Cossack well. With shame my mustache bristled when I said, "Troopers must forage where the grain is grown: I share my kopecks with the village priest, Who winnows peccadillos by the sheaf." Then Zanthon, laughing in his foxy beard: "When Amine meets me in the plane-tree walk (Where pairing little finches seek to build, We saw the cuckoo thieve their nests when boys), Shall I then tell her, in my peasant way, Your broken promise, and her troth denied?" And he was gone--gone, with the stud he bought From Schamyl's son, up by Caucasus way, Leaving me solitude to reason with. Around me, then, an odor swept--the rose! It plagued my nostrils day and night, in gusts It blew, but one way only--towards Amine. At cards it smote me, in the saddle puffed, Through my tent walls at night its withered blast Pierced, and changed me in my wavering dreams. What spell was this, by love or friendship sent? Across the steppes I followed Zanthon, close,-- He might have heard the whinny of my mare; Verst after verst, the measure of her hoofs Beat out a rhythm, like a cackling laugh. But on the frontier my poor Sesma fell: I heard the ravens croaking from the hills. The sun has burned away the valley's mist. And in the silent, tranquil morning air A mirage rises of my ruined walls: Gold-colored, crystal-edged, the banners flash. The rooks are stringing for the old beech copse. This gully crossed, the bridge that spans the stream-- But halte-lâ, my heart crowds up my breast, For this is Poland, Mother of my Soul! Quoth Zanthon, watching in the plane-tree walk, "My fine Bathony comes to join the feast, And raise the conopeum for my bride. I pay the kopecks to the priest to-day, But Amine in his sheaf will not be bound."

ACHILLES IN ORCUS.

From thy translucent waves, great Thetis, rise! Mother divine, hear, and take back the gift Thou gavest me of valor and renown, And then seek Zeus, but not with loosened zone For dalliance; entreat him to restore Me, Achilles, to the earth, to the black earth, The nourisher of men, not these pale shades, Whose shapes have learned the presage of thy doom; They flit between me and the wind-swept plain Of Troy, the banners over Ilion's walls, The zenith of my prowess, and my fate. Give me again the breath of life, not death. Would I could tarry in the timbered tent, As when I wept Patroclus, when, by night, Old Priam crept, kissing my knees with tears For Hector's corse, the hero I laid low. My panoply was like the gleam of fire When in the dust I dragged him at my wheels, My heart was iron,--he despoiled my friend. Cast on these borders of eternal gloom, Now comes Odysseus with his wandering crew; He pours libations in the deep-dug trench, While airy forms in multitudes press near, And listen to the echoes of my praise. His consolation vain, he hails me, "Prince!" Vain is his speech: "No man before thy time, Achilles, lived more honored; here thou art Supreme, the ruler in these dread abodes." Speak not so easily to me of death, Great Odysseus! Rather would I be The meanest hind, and bring the bleating lambs From down the grassy hills, or with a goad To prod the hungry swine in beechen woods, Than over the departed to bear sway. Then from the clouds to note the warning cry Of the harsh crane; to see the Pleiads rise, The vine and fig-tree shoot, the olive bud; To hear the chirping swallows in the dawn, The thieving cuckoo laughing in the leaves! So, may Achilles pass his palace gate, And later heroes strike Achilles' lyre!

ABOVE THE TREE.

Why should I tarry here, to be but one To eke out doubt, and suffer with the rest? Why should I labor to become a name, And vaunt, as did Ulysses to his mates, "I am a part of all that I have met." A wily seeker to suffice myself! As when the oak's young leaves push off the old, So from this tree of life man drops away, And all the boughs are peopled quick by spring Above the furrows of forgotten graves. The one we thought had made the nation's creed, Whose death would rive us like a thunderbolt, Dropped down--a sudden rustling in the leaves, A knowledge of the gap, and that was all! The robin flitting on his frozen mound Is more than he. Whoever dies, gives up Unfinished work, which others, tempted, claim And carry on. I would go free, and change Into a star above the multitude, To shine afar, and penetrate where those Who in the darkling boughs are prisoned close, But when they catch my rays, will borrow light, Believing it their own, and it will serve.

TO AN ARTIST.

To me, long absent from the world of art, You bring the clouded mountains, my desire, The tranquil river, and the stormy sea, The far, pale morning, and the crimson eve, And silent days, that brood among lush leaves, When, in the afternoon, the summer sun Is gliding down the hazy yellow west, And my soul's atmosphere rests in the scene, Until I dream the boundaries of my life May hold an unknown, coming happiness. How shall I, then, to show my gratitude, But offer you a picture drawn in words-- With all the art I have,--in black and white!

A LANDSCAPE.

Between me and the woods along the bay The swallows circle through the darkling mist, The robins breast the grass, and they divide This solitude with me. The rippling sea And sunset clouds, the sea gulls' flashing flight From looming isles beyond--I watch them now With a new sense. Where are the swallows' young, And where the robins' nests? Year after year They hover round this ancient house, and I, Within as heedless, saw the long years pass, Nor ever dreamed a day like this might come-- A day when mourners go about the street For one who always loved his fellow-men. The windflower trembles in the woods, the sod Is full of violets, the orchards rain Their scented blossoms. May unfolds its leaves-- Nature's eternal mystery to renew. Must man be less than leaf or flower, and end? If I go hence, when this departed soul Has left no human tie to bind me now, When spring unfolds, and I recall his past, Will their remembrance lead me here again, To teach me that his spirit comes to show That Nature is eternal for man's sake?

FROM THE HEADLAND.

I hear the waters of some inlet now Come lapping to the fringe of yonder wood, The storm-bent firs, and oaks along the cliff. The yellow leaves are glistening in the grass, The grassy slope I climb this autumn day. Ensnaring me, the brambles clutch my feet, As if constraining me to be a guest To the wild, silent populace they shield. It cannot say, nor I, why we are here. What is my recompense upon this soil, For other paths are mine if I go hence, Still must I make the mystery my quest? For here or there, I think, one sways my will. There is no show of beauty to delight The vision here, or strike the electric chord Which makes the present and the past as one. No thickets where the thrushes sing in maze Of green, no silver-threaded waterfalls In vales, where summer sleeps in darkling woods With sunlit glades, and pools where lilies blow. Here, but the wiry grass and sorrel beds, The gaping edges of the sand ravines, Whose shifting sides are tufted with dull herbs, Drooping above a brook, that sluggish creeps Down to the whispering rushes in the marsh. And this is all, until I reach the cliff, And on the headland's verge I stand, enthralled Before the gulf of the unquenchable sea-- The sea, inexorable in its might, Circling the pebbly beach with limpid tides, Storming in bays whose margins fade in mist; Now blue and silent as a noonday sky, At twilight now the pearly rollers shake The sunset's trail of violet and gold; Or black, when rushing on the rocky isles Anchored in waves that bellow to the winds. I watch till comes the night; the moonlight falls, The silvery deep on some far journey goes, To solve for me, I think, this mystery.

AS ONE.

When I, enclosed within the city's walls, Behold the multitudes that come and go, Hands clenched on gain, and nature all denied, Then I recall, recall the drift of time.

But when she proffered all her wealth to me, The first faint blossom of the spring I share, The latest autumn leaf, the last green blade, Then I forget, forget the drift of time.

The months go by, and take me in their train, The vesture wrapping them enfolds me too, And all the journey through we seem as one, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

I hear the bluebird's call in windy dawns, The robin's cheery note from dewy fields, The swallow's cry along the pool at eve, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

When hedges give the prophecy of birds, And sunbeams play on the expectant boughs, The leaves uncurl and fill their veins with life, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

I watch a tumult in the summer skies, A blur of sunshine, and the rush of rain, The tempest dying in the twilight's hush, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

When winter woods are armored by the frost, And all the highways filled with soundless snows, Then comes the sun to show his golden palm, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

The mountains look upon me and the sea-- I hover on their crests in silver mists, And with the waters pass beyond their verge, And I forget, forget the drift of time.

THE VISITINGS OF TRUTH KNOWN ELSEWHERE.

Spending abroad these varied autumn days, Their melancholy legend I deny. They keep a vanished treasure I will seek, And follow on a track of mystic hopes. While watching in thy atmosphere, I see The form of beauty changes, not its soul. When with the Spring, the flying feet of youth Spurning the present as it passed, and me, I thought the world a mere environment To hold my wishes and my happiness. I have forgot that foolish, vain belief, Now in my sere and yellow leaf, serene, I offer Autumn all my homage now. The eddies, whirling, rustling in my path, Lure me like sprites, and from the leaves a voice: "Say not our lesson is decay; we fall, And lo, the naked trees in beauty lift Their delicate tracery against the sky. On the pale verdure of the grass we spread A shining web of scarlet, bronze, and gold; When the rain comes, the oaks uphold us still. The holly shines, and waits the Christmas chimes, Beneath the branches of the evergreens." November's clouds without a shadow lift The purple mountains of its airy sphere, And all my purpose waits upon them now. Day fades--a rose above the darkling sea, And from the amber sky clear twilight falls; The orange woods grow black, and I go forth, And as I go, the noiseless airs pass by, And touch me like the petals of a flower; The cricket chirps me in the warm, dry sod, Drowsy, and I would pipe a cheery strain; But from the pines I hear the call of night, And round the quiet earth the stars wheel up, With me eternal, and I stay beneath, Until I fade into the fading plain.

WE MUST WAIT.

The testimony of my loss and gain Will I give utterance to, though none may hear. When long ago, bereft of all I loved, I sought in Nature recompense, implored For pity, solace, or forgetfulness, "The dear, familiar seasons as they pass, The seal of memory on every place," I said, "will give the sympathy I seek, The restoration which they owe to me." By day and night I prayed as futile prayers As the wind's shriek in lonesome winter nights; By the sea they fell as empty as the shells Upon its sands, uncertain as its mists. With them I tracked the shadows of the woods, And sowed them in the fields among the seed; Whoso reaped harvest, I could gather none. I wandered in the thickets, giving tongue Like a lost hound, dazed by their solitude, The while birds called their mates, the lilies blazed, And roses opened to the wandering airs. They vanished with the leaves that voyaged the brook, Which babbled of no story but its own. How blind I was to Nature's liberty! Grief stalked beside me, I was sore beset, And could not hear the turning of Time's wheel. Still were the skies serene, the earth most fair, When with the doleful chant of dust to dust Mingled the laughter of this sunlit sea; And through my tears I saw the ripples dance, And June's sweet breezes kiss the swaying elms. As he who turns the key within his door And gazes at his walls before he goes, Then forward sets his steps--so I set mine To join a band whose purpose was to find A world of action; but my heart was cold, My mind supine. Yet I remained with them, And answered to the roll called Honor, Fame! Where were my memories and my ardent prayers? The years stood far behind, their columns graved Deep with the adage which youth names _No More_. Like one who enters some old storied hall, And down its vista suddenly beholds A banner waving out its old device Of victory--so suddenly I felt My later life a void. I was recalled! My prayers were answered, and behold me here; Within the pale of all my loss and gain, The dear, familiar seasons as they pass, The seal of memory on every place, Bestow the restoration which I sought. At peace, I know, as those who suffer know, There is no secret we can wrest at will From Nature. Time must bring and share with her The gift of resignation, cure for grief, And cast upon our ways this ray of hope-- That I, the lost, and Nature may be one.

UNRETURNING.

Now all the flowers that ornament the grass, Wherever meadows are and placid brooks, Must fall--the "glory of the grass" must fall. Year after year I see them sprout and spread-- The golden, glossy, tossing buttercups, The tall, straight daisies and red clover globes, The swinging bellwort and the blue-eyed bent, With nameless plants as perfect in their hues-- Perfect in root and branch, their plan of life, As if the intention of a soul were there: I see them flourish as I see them fall! But he, who once was growing with the grass, And blooming with the flowers, my little son, Fell, withered--dead, nor has revived again! Perfect and lovely, needful to my sight, Why comes he not to ornament my days? The barren fields forget their barrenness, The soulless earth mates with these soulless things, Why should I not obtain _my_ recompense? The budding spring should bring, or summer's prime, At least a vision of the vanished child, And let his heart commune with mine again, Though in a dream--his life was but a dream; Then might I wait with patient cheerfulness, That cheerfulness which keeps one's tears unshed, And blinds the eyes with pain--the passage slow Of other seasons, and be still and cold As the earth is when shrouded in the snow, Or passive, like it, when the boughs are stripped In autumn, and the leaves roll everywhere. And he should go again; for winter's snows, And autumn's melancholy voice, in winds, In waters, and in woods, belong to me, To me--a faded soul; for, as I said, The sense of all his beauty, sweetness, comes When blossoms are the sweetest; when the sea, Sparkling and blue, cries to the sun in joy, Or, silent, pale, and misty waits the night, Till the moon, pushing through the veiling cloud, Hangs naked in its heaving solitude: When feathery pines wave up and down the shore, And the vast deep above holds gentle stars, And the vast world beneath hides him from me!

CLOSED.

The crimson dawn breaks through the clouded east, And waking breezes round the casement pipe; They blow the globes of dew from opening buds, And steal the odors of the sleeping flowers. The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves, To dart above their shadows on the lake, Till its long rollers redden in the sun, And bend the lances of the mirrored pines. Who knows the miracle that brings the morn? Still in my house I linger, though the night-- The night that hides me from myself is gone. Light robes the world, but strips me bare again. I will not follow on the paths of day. I know the dregs within its crystal hours; The bearers of my cups have served me well; I drained them, and the bearers come no more. Rise, morning, rise, for those believing souls Who seek completion in day's garish light. My casement I will close, keep shut my door, Till day and night are only dreams to me.

MEMORY IS IMMORTAL.

Time passed, as passes time with common souls, Whose thoughts and wishes end with every day; For whom no future is, whose present hours Reveal no looming shade of that which was.

But Memory is immortal, for she comes To me, from heaven or hell, to me, once more! As birds that migrate choose the ocean wind That beats them helpless, while it steers them home, So I was this way driven--I chose this way-- Of old my dwelling-place, where all my race Are buried. At first I was enchanted here; Impossible appeared the pall, the shroud; And in my spell I trod the grassy streets, Where in the summer days mild oxen drew The bristling hay, and in the winter snows The creaking masts and knees for mighty ships, Whose hulls were parted on the coral reefs, Or foundered in the depth of Arctic nights. I wandered through the gardens rank and waste, Wonderful once, when I was like the flowers; Along the weedy paths grew roses still, Surviving empire, but remaining queens.

My mood established by the slumbrous town-- (Slumber with slumber, dream with dream should be) I sought a mansion on the lonely shore, From which, his feet made level with his head, Its occupant was gone. I lived alone. Whoso, beneath this roof, had played his part In life's deep tragedy, not here again Could be rehearsed its scenes of love or hate. Upon the ancient walls my pictures hung, Of men and women, strong and beautiful, Whose shoulders pushed along the world's great wheel; Landscapes, where cloud and mountain rose as one, Where rivers crept in secret vales, or rolled Past city walls, whose towers and palaces By slaves were builded, and by princes fallen! And books whose pages ever told one tale, The tale of human love, in joy or pain, The seed of our last hope--Eternity. Days glided by, this mirage cheating all; Morn came, eve went, and we were tranquil still. If form, and sound, and color fail to show, By poet's, painter's, sculptor's noble touch, The subtle truth of Nature, can I tell How Nature poised my mind in light and shade?

But Memory is immortal, and to me She advanced, silent, slow, a muffled shape. One moonlight night I walked through long white lanes; The sky and sea were like a frosted web; The air was heavy with familiar scents, Which travelled down the wind, I knew from where-- The fragrance of a grove of Northern pines. My feet were hastening thither--and my heart! At last I stood before a funeral mound, From which I fled when vanished love and life-- Long years ago--fled from my father's house; Banished myself, to banish him I loved-- His broken history and his early grave. And in the moonlight Memory floated on, Immortal, with my now immortal Love!

THE TRYST.

Impelled by memory in a wayward mood, Reluctant, yearning, with a faithless mind, I sought once more a long neglected spot, A wooded upland bordered by the sea, Whose tides were swirling up the reedy sands, Or floating noiseless in the yellow marsh. My way was wild. The winds, awaking, smote My face, but as I passed a ruined wall Brambles and vines and waving blossoms dashed A frolic-welcome, like a summer rain. Shouldering the hills against the murky east Stood stalwart oaks, and in the mossy sod Below the trembling birches whispered me, "Not here!" I reached the silence-loving pines, And lingered. The mists swept from the wooded hills, And, rolling seaward, hid the anchored ships. So, happy, dreaming an old dream again, Of keeping tryst in secret on the knoll, I wandered on, listening in dreamy maze To sounds I thought familiar,--the approach Of well-known footsteps in the leafy path,-- A murmuring voice calling me by name! Through the pine shafts the sunless light of dawn Stole. Day was come. My dream would be fulfilled! Above the hills the sky began to blaze, And ushering morn the west flushed rosy-red; Then, the Sun leaping from his bed of gold, Scattered cloud-banners, crimson, gray, and white. There was my shadow in the leafy path Alone,--none was to keep the tryst with me! No voice, no step among the hills I heard. The joyous swallows from their nestlings flew, Mad in the light with song. Far out at sea The white sails fluttered in the eager breeze, But Day was silent holding tryst with me,-- My pilgrimage rewarded--faith restored.

NO ANSWER.

You tell me not, green multitude of leaves, Mingling and whirling with the willful breeze, Nor you, bright grasses, trembling blade to blade, What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

The spirit of the flowers is watching now, As winking in the sun they suck the dew, The thickets parley with the splendid fields-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

Up where the brook laps round the shining flags, And tinkling foam bells pass the weedy shore, And where the willow swings above the trout-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

The clouds hold knowledge in their snowy peaks, They hide it in their moving fleecy folds, They share it with the sunset's golden isles-- What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

Fullness and sweetness, and the power of life, Must I in ignorance remain alone, And yield the quest of speech for certain proof? What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

Sweetness and beauty, and the power of life, Is it creation's anthem--parts for all? Is this the knowledge--will you answer me What meaneth June, to hap us every year?

ON THE HILLTOP.

"By the margent of the sea I would build myself a home."