Part 12
O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves? Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast How are they heaped from farthest east to west! From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind raves O’er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves, To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed, Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest, How thick they lie—like flecks upon the waves! There is no mountain-top so far and high, No desert so remote, no vale so deep, No spot by man so long untenanted, But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky, Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep! O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead?
ALEXANDER
There was a man whom all men called The Great. Low lying on his death-bed, we are told, He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold, Breathless, and silent in his last estate, And they who were to bury him should wait Outside the palace) that no cerecloth’s fold Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled: Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state! Thus spake he: “On the black pall let them lie, Empty and lorn, that all the world may see How of his riches there was nothing left To Alexander when he came to die.” Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he As any beggar of his crust bereft!
THE PLACE “I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU”
I.
O Holy Place, we know not where thou art! Though one by one our well-beloved dead From our close claspings to thy bliss have fled, They send no word back to the breaking heart; And if, perchance, their angels fly athwart The silent reaches of the abyss wide-spread, The swift white-wings we see not, but instead Only the dark void keeping us apart. Where did he set thee, O thou Holy Place? Made he a new world in the heavens high hung, So far from this poor earth that even yet Its first glad rays have traversed not the space That lies between us, nor their glory flung On the old home its sons can ne’er forget?
II.
But what if on some fair, auspicious night, Like that on which the shepherds watched of old, Down from far skies, in burning splendor rolled, Shall stream the radiance of a star more bright Than ever yet hath shone on mortal sight— Swift shafts of light, like javelins of gold, Wave after wave of glory manifold, From zone to zenith flooding all the height? And what if, moved by some strange inner sense, Some instinct, than pure reason wiser far, Some swift clairvoyance that annulleth space, All men shall cry, with sudden joy intense, “Behold, behold this new resplendent star— Our heaven at last revealed!—the Place! the Place!”
III.
Then shall the heavenly host with one accord Veil their bright faces in obeisance meet, While swift they haste the Glorious One to greet. Then shall Orion own at last his Lord, And from his belt unloose the blazing sword, While pale proud Ashtaroth with footsteps fleet, Her jewelled crown drops humbly at his feet, And Lyra strikes her harp’s most rapturous chord. O Earth, bid all your lonely isles rejoice! Break into singing, all ye silent hills; And ye, tumultuous seas, make quick reply! Let the remotest desert find a voice! The whole creation to its centre thrills, For the new light of Heaven is in the sky!
TO A GODDESS
Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair! Let its light stream across the waiting seas As banners float upon the yielding breeze From the king’s tent, his presence to declare. And as his heralds haste to do their share, Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees, So let the waves in loftiest symphonies Proclaim thy glory to the listening air! Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee, For thee the patient earth has waited long— To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands From the far hills and o’er the rolling sea. Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong, A beacon-light to earth’s remotest lands.
O. W. H. (August 29, 1809.)
“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried. “May wasted all her violets long ago; No longer on the hills June’s roses glow, Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide. My stately lilies one by one have died: The clematis is but a ghost—and lo! In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow; How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed. Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said, “On every hill my golden-rod shall flame, Token of all my prescient soul foretells. His shall be golden song and golden fame— Long golden years with love and honor wed— And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”
GIFTS FOR THE KING (H. W. L., February 27th)
What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, O royal poet, on this day of days? No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays; No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; For well we know thy beckoning finger sways A mightier empire, and the world obeys. No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet The air about thee, even as when the rose Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. What can we bring to him who all things hath?
RECOGNITION (H. W. L.)
I.
Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, O friend and master? Who with wingèd feet Over the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet, To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil? The mighty bards of old?—Thy Dante, pale With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet, Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee? Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear Spencer still pouring his melodious lays, Majestic Milton’s clarion, strong and free, Or, golden link between the far and near, Bryant’s clear chanting of the eternal days?
II.
Nay, but not these! not these! Even though apace, Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread They came to meet thee—the immortal dead— Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, All the wide, luminous, enchanted space Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped— The countless host thy song had comforted! What light, what love illumed each radiant face! The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, The Davids who for Absaloms had wept, The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine, High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept— These gave thee first the heavenly countersign!
SHAKESPEARE (April 23, 1664-1889)
Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade, Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are, Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star, How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed? Poet, in royal majesty arrayed, Walking with mute gods through the realms afar— Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar, We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid! But yet we love thee, and great love is bold. Love, O our master, with his heart of flame And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee, For whom the ages lift their gates of gold; And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name Till time is lost in God’s unsounded sea!
TO E. C. S. WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE
On hoary Conway’s battlemented height, O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose! Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes; Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight, Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; Low at my feet the winding river flows; Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, War doth no more appall, nor foes affright! Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls, Where mosses creep, and ivys far and free Fling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze, Like God’s own benizon this sunshine falls. Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seas Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee!
A CHRISTMAS SONNET
I wake at midnight from a slumber deep. Hark! are the clear stars singing? Sweet and low, As from far skies, floats music’s liquid flow, Waking earth’s happy children from their sleep. Now, from the bells a myriad voices leap, And all the brazen lilies are aglow With rapturous heart-beats, swinging to and fro As the glad chimes their rhythmic pulsing keep. O soul of mine, join thou the high refrain That rings from shore to shore, from sea to sea, Like song of birds that do but soar and sing! O heart of mine, what room hast thou for pain? With love and joy make holy symphony, And keep to-day the birthday of thy King!
POVERTY
The city woke. Down the long market-place Her sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed. In her bare home a little child lay dead; Yet she was here, with white, impassive face, And hands that had no beauty and no grace, Selling her small wares for a bit of bread! Since they who live must eat though sore bestead What time had she to weep—what breathing space? Poor even in words, she had no fitting phrase Wherein to tell the story of her dole, But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone, Or mutely went on her accustomed ways, Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul, Shut in with grief, could only make its moan!
SURPRISES
I.
O Earth, that had so long in darkness lain, Waiting and listening for the Voice that cried, “Let there be light!”—on thy first eventide What woe, what fear, wrung thy dumb soul with pain! In darkling space down dropt the red sun, slain, With all his banners drooping. Far and wide Spread desolation’s vast and blackening tide. How couldst thou know that day would dawn again? But the long hours wore on, till lo! pale gleams Of faint, far glory lit the eastern skies, Broadening and reddening till the sun’s full beams Broke in clear, golden splendor on thine eyes. Darkness and brooding anguish were but dreams, Lost in a trembling wonder of surprise!
II.
Even so, O Life, all tremulous with woe, Thou too didst cower when, without sound or jar, From the high zenith sinking fast and far, Thy sun went out of heaven! How couldst thou know In that dark hour, that never tide could flow So ebon-black, nor ever mountain-bar Breast night so deep, without or moon or star, But that the morning yet again must glow? God never leaves thee in relentless dark. Slowly the dawn on unbelieving eyes Breaketh at last. Day brightens—and, oh hark! A flood of bird-song from the tender skies! From storm and darkness thou hast found an ark, Shut in with this great marvel of surprise!
C. H. R. (LOST OFF HAI-MUN IN THE CHINA SEA)
In what wide Wonderland, or near, or far, Press on to-day thy swift adventurous feet— Thou who wert wont the Orient skies to greet With song and laughter, and to climb the bar Of mountain ranges where the Cloud-gods are, With brave, glad steps, as eager and as fleet As a young lover’s, who, on errand sweet, Seeks the one face that is his guiding star? The far blue seas engulfed thee, oh! my brother, But could not quench thy spirit’s lofty fire, Nor daunt the soul that knew not how to quail. Earth-quest thou didst but barter for another, Where Alps on Alps before thee still aspire, And where, in God’s name, thou shalt yet prevail!
A NEW BEATITUDE L. G. W.
“A new beatitude I write for thee, ‘_Blessed are they who are not sure of things_,’ Nor strive to mount on feeble, finite wings To heights where God’s strong angels, soaring free, Halt and are silent.” Ah, the mystery! To-day, O friend, beyond earth’s reckonings Of time and space, beyond its jars and stings, Thou enterest where the eternal secrets be! Ay, thou art sure to-day! No more the bars Of earth’s poor limitations hold thee back, Setting their bounds to thine advancing feet. Soar, lofty soul, beyond the farthest stars, Where hope nor yearning e’er shall suffer lack, Nor knowledge fail to any that entreat!
COMPENSATION
I.
Life of my life, do you remember how, At our fair pleasance gate, a stately tree Kept silent watch and ward? Majestic, free, Its head reached heaven, while its lowest bough Swept the green turf, and all between was row On row of crested waves—a sleeping sea— Or heaving billows tossed tumultuously, When the fierce winds that smote the mountain’s brow Lashed it to sudden passion. It was old. Storm-rocked for many centuries, it had grown One with the hills, the river and the sod; Yet young it was, with largess of red gold For every autumn, and from stores unknown Bringing each springtime treasure-trove to God.
II.
Then came a night of terror and dismay, Uproar and lightning, with the furious sweep Of mighty winds, that raged from steep to steep, And ere it passed the great tree prostrate lay! Sleepless I mourned until the morning gray; Then forth I crept, as one who goes to keep Watch by his dead, too heartsick even to weep, And hardly daring to behold the day. Lo! what vast splendor met my startled eyes, What unimagined space, what vision wide! Turrets and domes, now blue, now softest green, In one unbroken circuit kissed the skies; While, veiled in soft clouds, radiant as a bride, Shone one far sapphire peak till then unseen!
QUESTIONINGS
Forth from earth’s councils thou hast passed, O friend, To those high circles where God’s angels are, Angels that need no light of sun or star! No eye may follow thee as thou dost wend Thy lofty way where heaven’s pure heights ascend— Above the reach of earthly fret or jar, Where no rude touch the blissful peace can mar, Where all harsh sounds in one soft concord blend. What have ye seen, O beauty-loving eyes? What have ye heard, O ears attuned to hear And to interpret heaven’s high harmonies? What problems hast thou solved, thou who with clear Undaunted gaze didst search the farthest skies? And dost thou still love on, O heart most dear?
REMEMBRANCE
I do remind me how, when, by a bier, I looked my last on an unanswering face Serenely waiting for the grave’s embrace, One who would fain have comforted said: “Dear, This is the worst. Life’s bitterest drop is here. Impartial fate has done you this one grace, That till you go to your appointed place, Or soon or late, there is no more to fear.” It was not true, my soul! it was not true! “Thou art not lost while I remember thee, Lover and friend!” I cry, with bated breath. What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue, Resistless tide, should blot that face from me? Not to remember would be worse than death!
IN THE HIGH TOWER
Safe in the high tower of thy love I wait, Secure and still whatever winds may blow, Although no more thy banners, bending low, Salute me from afar, when, all elate, I haste to meet thee at the postern-gate. No more I hear thy trumpet’s eager flow Through the far, listening silence come and go To greet me where I bide in lonely state. Thy King hath sent thee on some high emprise, Some lofty embassage, some noble quest, To a strange land whence cometh sound nor sign. Yet evermore I lift my tranquil eyes, Knowing that Love but doeth Love’s behest— Afar or near, my dear lord still is mine!
AFTERNOON SONGS
FOUR-O’CLOCKS
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.
Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart— Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.
Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.
And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG
Whence it came I did not know, How it came I could not tell, But I heard the music flow Like the pealing of a bell; Up and down the wild-wood arches, Through the sombre firs and larches, Long I heard it rise and swell; Long I lay, with half-shut eyes, Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!
Then the wondrous music poured Yet a fuller, stronger strain, Till my soul in rapture soared Out of reach of toil and pain! Then, oh then, I know not how, Then, oh then, I know not where, I was borne, serene and slow, Through the boundless fields of air— Past the sunset’s golden bars, Past long ranks of glittering stars, To a realm where time was not, And its secrets were forgot!
Land of shadows, who may know Where thy golden lilies blow? Land of shadows, on what star In the blue depths shining far, Or in what appointed place In the unmeasured realms of space, High as heaven, or deep as hell, Thou dost lie what tongue can tell? Send from out thy mystic portals With the holy chrism to-day, One of all thy high immortals Who shall teach me what to say!
O beloveds, all the air Was a faint, ethereal mist Touched with rose and amethyst— Glints of gold, and here and there Purple splendors that were gone, Like the glory of the dawn, Ere one caught them. Soft and gray, Lit by many a pearly ray, Were the low skies bending dim To the far horizon’s rim; And the landscape stretched away, Fair, illusive, like a dream Wherein all things do but seem! There were mountains, but they rose O’er the subtile vale’s repose, Light as clouds that far and high Soar to meet the untroubled sky. There were trees that overhead Wide their sheltering branches spread, Yet were empty as the shade By the quivering vine-leaves made. There were roses, rich with bloom, Swinging censers of perfume Sweet as fragrant winds of May Blowing through spring’s secret bowers; Yet so phantom-like were they That they seemed the ghosts of flowers.
Oh, the music sweet and strange In that land’s enchanted range! Like the pealing of the bells When the brazen flowers are swinging And the angelus is ringing, Soaring, echoing, far and near, Through the vales and up the dells— Softly on the enraptured ear A melodious murmur swells! As the rhythm of the river Day and night goes on forever, So that pulsing stream of song Rolls its silver waves along. Even silence is but sound, Deeper, softer, more profound!
All the portals were thrown wide! Stretching far on either side Ran the streets, like silver mist, By the moon’s pale splendor kissed; And adown the shadowy way, Forth from many a still retreat, One by one, and two by two, Or in goodly companies; Gliding on in long array, Light and fleet, with silent feet, One by one, and two by two, Phantoms that I could not number, Countless as the wraiths of slumber, Passed before my wondering eyes!
Then I grew aware of one Standing by me in the dun, Gray half-twilight. All the place Grew softly radiant; but his face, Albeit unveiled, I could not see For the awe that compassed me. Swift I spoke, by longings swayed Deeper than my words betrayed: “Master,” with clasped hands I prayed, “Who are these? Are they the dead?” “Nay, they never lived,” he said; “Whence art thou? How camest thou here?” Low I answered, then, in fear: “Sir, I know not; as I lay Dreaming at the close of day, Wondrous music, thrilling through me, To this land of phantoms drew me, Though I knew not how or why, Even as instinct draws the bird Where Spring’s far-off voice is heard. Tell me, Master, where am I?” “Thou art in the border-land, On the farthest, utmost strand Of the sea that lies between All that is and is not seen. Thou art where the wraiths of song Come and go, a phantom throng. ’Tis their heart’s melodious beat Fills the air with whispers sweet! These, O child, are songs unsung— Songs unbreathed by human tongue; These are they that all in vain Mightiest masters wooed amain— Children of their heart and brain That they could not warm to life By their being’s utmost strife. Every bard that ever sung Since the hoary earth was young Knew the song he could not sing Was his soul’s best blossoming, Knew the thought he could not hold Shrined his spirit’s purest gold. Look!” Where rose the city’s gate In majestic, sculptured state, From a far-off battle-plain, Through the javelins’ silver rain Bearing buckler, lance, and shield, And their standard’s glittering field, Eager, yet with shout nor din, Came a great host trooping in. Burned their eyes with martial fire, And the glow of proud desire, Such as gods and hero’s filled When their mighty souls were thrilled By old Homer’s golden lyre!
Under dim cathedral arches Pacing sad, pacing slow, As to beat of funeral marches Or to music’s rhythmic flow— With their solemn brows uplifted, And their hands upon their breasts, Where the deepest shadows drifted, One by one pale phantoms pressed. Lost in dreams of heights supernal, Mystic dreams of Paradise, Or of woful depths infernal, Slow they passed before mine eyes. Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor! Oh, the grandeur of their mien— Kin, by birthright proud and tender, To the matchless Florentine! In stately solitude, Whereon might none intrude— Majestic, grand and calm, And bearing each the palm; Dwelling, serene and fair, In most enchanted air, Where softest music crept O’er harp-strings deftly swept, And organ-thunders rolled Like storm-winds through the wold, They stood in strength sublime Beyond the bounds of time— They who had been a part Of Milton’s mighty heart!