Part 1
POEMS
OF
CLARENCE COOK
POEMS
BY
CLARENCE COOK
NEW YORK
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1902 BY LOUISA W. COOK
PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE GILLISS PRESS, NEW YORK FOR LOUISA W. COOK AND HER FRIENDS 1902
THIS LITTLE VOLUME OF PUBLISHED AND UNPUBLISHED VERSES BY THE LATE
CLARENCE COOK
IS DEDICATED TO HIS MANY FRIENDS AND LOVERS BY HIS WIFE
LOUISA W. COOK
CHRONOLOGY
1828
September 8th, Clarence Chatham Cook born at Dorchester, Massachusetts.
1849
Graduated at Harvard College.
Studied architecture for a season. Then became a tutor. Lectured on Art and gave readings from Shakespeare’s plays.
1852
Married Tuesday, October 26th, to Louisa De Wint Whittemore, widow of Samuel Whittemore of New York City.
1863
Began a series of articles published in the _New York Tribune_, on “American Art and Artists.”
1864
Editor of _The New Path_, a pre-Raphaelite journal published in New York.
1868
Published “The Central Park.”
1869
Paris correspondent of _The New York Tribune_. Went to Italy at the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war.
1870
Returned to the United States and renewed his connection with _The New York Tribune_.
1874
Wrote the text of a heliotype reproduction of Dürer’s “Life of the Virgin.”
1878
Completed “The House Beautiful” and edited, with notes, the translation of Lübke’s “History of Art.”
1884
Editor and proprietor of _The Studio_, a monthly magazine of art published in New York.
1886
Published an illustrated work in three large volumes entitled “Art and Artists of Our Time.”
1900
Clarence Chatham Cook died at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson May 31, aged 72 years.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Chronology vii
The Maple Tree 1
Abram and Zimri 6
An April Violet 10
Regret 12
L’Ennui 14
Aspiration 16
The Soul’s Question 18
Assertion 32
The Apple 33
For Easter Day 34
On One Who Died in May 36
The Yew Tree 39
The Immortal 41
Two Mays 45
Wind Harpings 47
A Valentine 49
Coming--Come 52
Ulysses and the Sirens 53
Ottilia 54
A Portrait 57
Sonnet 60
To Giulia, Singing 61
Yesterday and To-Day 63
A Sonnet in Praise of His Lady’s Hands 66
POEMS
BY
CLARENCE COOK
THE MAPLE TREE
An April sun with April showers Had burst the buds of lagging flowers; From their fresh leaves the violets’ eyes Mirrored the deep blue of the skies; The daffodils, in clustering ranks, Fringed with their spears the garden banks, And with the blooms I love so well Their paper buds began to swell, While every bush and every tree Burgeoned with flowers of melody; From the quick robin with his range Of silver notes, a warbling change, Which he from sad to merry drew A sparkling shower of tuneful dew, To the brown sparrow in the wheat A plaintive whistle clear and sweet. Over my head the royal sky Spread clear from cloud his canopy, The idle noon slept far and wide On misty hill and river side, And far below me glittering lay The mirror of the azure bay.
I stood beneath the maple tree; Its crimson blooms enchanted me, Its honey perfume haunted me, And drew me thither unaware, A nameless influence in the air. Its boughs were hung with murmuring bees Who robbed it of its sweetnesses-- Their cheerful humming, loud and strong, Drowned with its bass the robin’s song, And filled the April noontide air With Labor’s universal prayer. I paused to listen--soon I heard A sound of neither bee nor bird, A sullen murmur mixed with cheer That rose and fell upon the ear As the wind might--yet far away Unstirred the sleeping river lay, And even across the hillside wheat No silvery ripples wandered fleet. It was the murmur of the town, No song of bird or bee could drown-- The rattling wheels along the street, The pushing crowd with hasty feet, The schoolboy’s call, the gossip’s story, The lawyer’s purchased oratory, The glib-tongued shopman with his wares, The chattering schoolgirl with her airs, The moaning sick man on his bed, The coffin nailing for the dead, The new-born infant’s lusty wail, The bells that bade the bridal hail, The factory’s wheels that round and round Forever turn, and with their sound Make the young children deaf to all God’s voices that about them call, Sweet sounds of bird and wind and wave; And Life no gladder than a grave.
These myriad, mingled human voices, These intertwined and various noises Made up the murmur that I heard Through the sweet hymn of bee and bird. I said--“If all these sounds of life With which the noontide air is rife, These busy murmurings of the bee Robbing the honied maple tree, These warblings of the song-birds’ voices, With which the blooming hedge rejoices, These harsher mortal chords that rise To mar Earth’s anthem to the skies, If all these sounds fall on my ear So little varying--yet so near-- How can I tell if God can know A cry of human joy or woe From the loud humming of the bee, Or the blithe robin’s melody?”
God sitteth somewhere in his heaven-- About him sing the planets seven; With every thought a world is made, To grow in sun or droop in shade; He holds Creation like a flower In his right hand--an æon’s hour-- It fades, it dies,--another’s bloom Makes the air sweet with fresh perfume. Or, did he listen on that day To what the rolling Earth might say? Or, did he mark, as, one by one, The gliding hours in light were spun? And if he heard the choral hymn The Earth sent up to honor him, Which note rose sweetest to his ear? Which murmur did he gladliest hear?
_The Roses, April, 1853._
ABRAM AND ZIMRI
_Poem founded on a Rabinnical Legend_
Abram and Zimri owned a field together, A level field, hid in a happy vale; They ploughed it with one plough, and in the spring Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful grain; Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves, And stored them, with much labor, in his barns. Now Abram had a wife and seven sons, But Zimri dwelt alone within his house. One night, before the sheaves were gathered in, As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed, And counted in his mind his little gains, He thought upon his brother Abram’s lot, And said, “I dwell alone within my house, But Abram hath a wife and seven sons; And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike: He surely needeth more for life than I: I will arise and gird myself, and go Down to the field, and add to his from mine.” So he arose and girded up his loins, And went out softly to the level field. The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds, The trees stood black against the cold blue sky, The branches waved and whispered in the wind. So Zimri, guided by the shifting light, Went down the mountain path, and found the field; Took from his store of sheave a generous third, And bore them gladly to his brother’s heap, And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.
Now that same night, as Abram lay in bed, Thinking upon his blissful state in life, He thought upon his brother Zimri’s lot, And said, “He dwells within his house alone, He goeth forth to toil with few to help, He goeth home at night to a cold house, And hath few other friends but me and mine (For these two tilled the happy vale alone), While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed, Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons, Who aid me in my toil, and make it light; And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike; This, surely, is not pleasing unto God. I will arise and gird myself, and go Out to the field, and borrow from my store, And add unto my brother Zimri’s pile.”
So he arose and girded up his loins, And went down softly to the level field. The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds, The trees stood black against the starry sky, The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze; So Abram, guided by the doubtful light, Passed down the mountain path, and found the field, Took from his store of sheaves a generous third, And added them unto his brother’s heap; Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.
So the next morning, with the early sun, The brothers rose and went out to their toil; And when they came to see the heavy sheaves, Each wondered in his heart to find his heap, Though he had given a third, was still the same.
Now the next night went Zimri to the field, Took from his store of sheaves a generous share And placed them on his brother Abram’s heap; And then lay down behind his pile to watch. The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud, The cedars stood up black against the sky, The olive branches whispered in the wind. Then Abram came down softly from his home, And, looking to the left and right, went on, Took from his ample store a generous third, And laid it on his brother Zimri’s pile. Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms, And wept upon his neck and kissed his cheek, And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak, Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.
AN APRIL VIOLET
Pale flower, that by this stone Sweetenest the air alone, While round thee falls the snow And the rude wind doth blow. What thought doth make thee pine Pale Flower, can I divine?
Say, does this trouble thee That all things fickle be? The wind that buffets so Was kind an hour ago. The sun, a cloud doth hide, Cheered thee at morning tide.
The busy pleasuring bee Sought thee for company. The little sparrows near Sang thee their ballads clear. The maples on thy head Their spicy blossoms shed.
Because the storm made dumb The wild bees booming hum; Because for shivering The sparrows cannot sing; Is this the reason why Thou look’st so woefully?
To-morrow’s laughing sun Will cheer thee, pallid one; To-morrow will bring back The gay bee on his track, Bursting thy cloister dim With his wild roistering.
Canst thou not wait the morrow, That rids thee of thy sorrow? Art thou too desolate To smile at any fate? Then there is naught for thee But Death’s delivery.
_The Roses, May 4, 1853._
REGRET
Look out, sad heart, through wintry eyes To see thy summer go: How pallid are thy bluest skies Behind this veiling snow.
Look out upon thy purple hills, That all the summer long, Laughed with an hundred laughing rills, And sang their summer song.
You only see the sheeted snow That covers grass and tree; The frozen streamlets cannot flow, No bird dares sing to thee.
Look out upon Life’s summer days That fade like summer flowers; What golden fruitage for thy praise, From all those bounteous hours?
Sings any bird, or any wind Amid thy falling leaves? Why is it, if thou look’st behind, Thy heart forever grieves?
_Newburgh, January 4, 1854._
L’ENNUI
Oh April grass, so truly My wish for spring divining, Oh April sun, so gaily In at my window shining, What cheer can ye impart Unto a faded heart?
Oh thoughts of Summer days Born of the violet’s blue. Oh wooing western wind, That maketh all things new-- What cheer can ye impart Unto a faded heart?
Oh mountains brown and sere, Mantled in morning light, Oh golden sunset sea Wrecked on the shores of night, What cheer can ye impart Unto a faded heart?
Oh longings evermore For some ungiven good, Oh yearnings to make clear The dimly understood, What cheer can ye impart Unto a faded heart?
Cover thy weary eyes With hands too weak for prayer, Think on the happy past, From other thoughts forbear Which can no cheer impart Unto a hopeless heart.
_The Roses, April 20, 1853._
ASPIRATION
Thou sea, whose tireless waves Forever seek the shore, Striving to clamber higher, Yet failing evermore; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire?
Thou sun, whose constant feet Mount ever to thy noon, Thou canst not there remain, Night quenches thee so soon; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire?
Rose, in my garden growing, Unharmed by winter’s snows, Another winter cometh Ere all thy buds unclose; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire?
Mortal, with feeble hands Striving some work to do, Fate, with her cruel shears, Doth all thy steps pursue; Why wilt thou still aspire Though losing thy desire?
_The Roses, Newburgh,
April 21, 1853._
THE SOUL’S QUESTION
_Inscribed to Rev. A. Dwight Mayo_
Dear friend, in whom my soul abides, Who rulest all its wayward tides, Accept the feeble song I sing, And read aright my stammering.
I
As on my bed at night I lay, My soul, who all the weary day Had fought with thoughts of death and life, Began again the bitter strife.
II
This question would she ask, until My tired eyes with tears would fill, And overrun and fill again; So that I cried out in my pain--
III
“When thou art made a heap of earth, And all thy gain is nothing worth, Where shall I go? Shall I too die And fade in utter entity?
IV
“Shall my fine essence be the sport Of idle chance and fade to nought; The morning dew upon the flower Dried by the sunlight in an hour?
V
“Doth God with careless eyes look down On peopled slope and crowded town, And, though he mark the sparrow’s death, Think nothing _more_ of human breath?
VI
“Or if I shall not die, but live-- What other dwelling will he give In which to lead another life And wage anew the ended strife?
VII
“Turn up to heaven thy streaming face, And glance athwart the starry space; What planet, burning in the blue, Shall hold thy life begun anew?”
VIII
I looked out on the still midnight, A thousand stars were flashing bright; Unclouded shone the sailing moon And filled with pallor all the room.
IX
The earth was hid with silver snow, I heard the river’s steady flow, I saw the moonlight softly fall On running stream and mountain wall.
X
I found no peace in gazing here; The earth seemed cold and very drear; River and mountain bathed in light, Were grim and ghastly in my sight.
XI
The mountain wall--a hand divine Drew on the sky its perfect line-- Said to my soul, “Of this be sure, Thy race shall die, but I endure.
XII
“And while I take the morning’s kiss On my brows bathed in crimson bliss Or listen to the eternal song The seven great spheres in heaven prolong.
XIII
“While on my sides the cedar grows Through summer’s suns and winter’s snows, Or while I rock my piny crown, Whose high tops draw the lightning down,
XIV
“So long as I in might endure I watch man fading, swift and sure; I smile, and whisper to my flowers, Man dieth and the earth is ours--”
XV
A scalding tear rolled down my cheek, Through thickening sobs I strove to speak; “Are those the hills I saw to-night Mantled in pomp of purple light?”
XVI
All day the earth on every side Lay robed in vesture of a bride, While lit on snow-wreathed bush and tree The winter birds sang joyfully.
XVII
The river sparkled cold and keen With burnished tracts of wintry gleam; Above, the sky’s unclouded blue The smile of God on all things threw.
XVIII
O’er hill and field elate I walked, With all things fair by turns I talked; I felt the God within me move And nothing seemed too mean for Love.
XIX
The flower of day that bloomed so fair Closed on the perfumed evening air; A holy calm o’er Nature stole And bathed in prayer my happy soul.
XX
A golden glory caught the world;-- High up the crimson clouds were curled, A purple splendor hid the sun A moment--and the day was done.
XXI
I gazed at will; my thankful eyes Were bathed in dews of Paradise; My heart ran out my God to meet, And clasped his knees and kissed his feet.
XXII
He led me like a little child Whereso he would; the darkness smiled Whereso we walked; such glory of light Enshrined him, making very bright
XXIII
Whatever darkness veiled my mind; I looked on all the grief behind As on a fevered dream. To-night The peace is gone and gone the light
XXIV
I prayed for sleep, an earnest prayer I thought that God would surely hear; Yet, though my tears fell fast and free, He kept his boon of sleep from me.
XXV
Again my soul her quest began-- “Must I too fall beneath the ban? And, if I die not in thy death, Where shall I live who am but breath?
XXVI
“When the frame stiffens into stone, And death and it are left alone, And round about it in the grave The rat shall gnaw and winds shall rave,
XXVII
“Shall I within the dwelling stay To watch above the heap of clay, And while the dreary ages roll Lie housed in earth, a prisoned soul?”
XXVIII
If this be Hell, to sit and hear The hum of life from year to year, Yet have no part nor lot in all That men do on this earthly ball,
XXIX
But sit and watch from hour to hour The slow decay of beauty and power, And when the last faint trace is gone To sit there still and still watch on,
XXX
While other men shall share my doom And other souls within the tomb Shall sit beside me dumb and pale Forever in that fearful vale--
XXXI
With that, cold sweat ran down my face I rose up straightway in my place I lit my lamp, my Bible took And sat to read the blessed Book.
XXXII
I turned the pages to and fro Not knowing where to read, and so Sat very still with tightened breath Till I could catch that one word--“death”
XXXIII
“Cain”--the page blackened as I read The awful name of him who led God’s curse like lightning down to earth, Blasting and scarring home and hearth.
XXXIV
I turned the page; I read the line Of those old men, the half divine, Of whom no record is supplied But, “thus he lived, and then, he died--”
XXXV
Not any comfort could I find, A sudden sickness seized my mind, I felt my heart beat slow and weak I tried to pray, I could not speak.
XXXVI
Oh! bitterness beyond compare. When our last refuge fades to air; Where shall the hopeless soul repose, For who is there that _surely knows_?
XXXVII
I read how Saul in wild En-dor Questioned the witch, and what he saw. How Samuel’s ghost rose pale and grim Out of the grave and answered him.
XXXVIII
I read the awful words he said-- “Why am I thus disquieted?” “Disquieted”--what dreamless sleep Weighed on his eyelids calm and deep?
XXXIX
Thereat I shook from head to foot-- I made no cry, my heart was mute; I could not call on God, nor pray, For all my faith had fled away.
XL
As when a man, who in a dream To slide down some blank wall shall seem, Clutches at air, strikes out in vain His helpless hands and shrieks with pain,
XLI
While all the air with mocking eyes Is full, foul shapes and soundless cries That laugh to scorn his deadly fear With laughter that he swoons to hear,
XLII
And swooning wakes: my helpless soul Felt the dim waves above her roll, The firm earth slide beneath her feet, And all her agony complete.
XLIII
I read that Christ had conquered Death By giving up his holy breath; And calling Lazarus by his name Had brought him back to life again.
XLIV
What these things mean I cannot say; They do not drive my fear away, For where was Lazarus when he heard The voice of Christ pronounce that word?
XLV
Was he within the voiceless tomb Beside his sometime earthly home, Watching the slowly changing form Yield to the touch of mole and worm?
XLVI
Or was he in some blessed place A saint, with glory in his face; And did he drop, a gliding star Down to the earth where mortals are?
XLVII
And clothe himself in dust again To share the bitter life of men, To live a few dark years below And back again to glory go?
XLVIII
This thought raised up my fainting heart And somewhat eased the deadly smart, My lips began to move in prayer-- My soul to breathe a freer air.
XLIX
I prayed for peace, I prayed for trust; I prayed to feel that God is just; I prayed that let what would befall I still might trust Him over all.
L
And whether sunk in deadly gloom The soul must rest within the tomb; Or sit within God’s awful light To which the sun’s blaze is as night?
LI
Or shape its course from life to life And waxing strong in endless strife, Through everlasting years pursue The work that God shall give to do?
LII
I might, without a fear, lay down When he shall call, my earthly crown, Trusting that he who gave me breath Will keep me in the day of death.
LIII
I looked again upon the earth. The day rejoicèd in its birth; And on the sullen rack afar Trembled the fading morning star!
_Written 1849._
ASSERTION
Too late, I drew from scanty springs The barren cheer that in them lies. Too late, I fettered eager wings That longed to bathe in bluer skies.
Too late, I squandered golden hours God gave me for his praise to spend. Too late, I gathered idle flowers Forgetful of my journey’s end.
God needs my deed; however small The help I lend, to work his will, Not without grief he sees me fall. Or fail his purpose to fulfil.
_New York, March 1, 1854._
THE APPLE