Part 13

And where, mysterious ones, Are Shakespeare’s princely sons, Bearing in lavish hands The spoil of many lands? From castles lifted far Against the evening star, Where royal banners float O’er rampart, tower, and moat, And the white moonlight sleeps Upon the Donjon keeps; From fairy-haunted dells Among the lonely fells; From banks where wild thyme grows And the blue violet blows; From caverns grim, and caves Lashed by the deep sea-waves; From darkling forest shade, From busy haunts of trade, From market, court, and camp, Where folly rings her bells, Or sorrow tolls her knells, Or where in cloister cells The scholar trims his lamp— Wearing the sword, the gown, The motley of the clown, The beggar’s rags, the dole Of the remorseful soul, The wedding-robe, the ring, The shroud’s white blossoming, O myriad-minded man, Thus thine immortal clan Passed down the endless ways Of the eternal days!

Then said I to my spirit: “These are they who wore the crown; Well the king’s sons may inherit All his glory and renown. Where are they—the songs unsung By the humbler bards whose lyres Through earth’s lowly vales have rung, Like the notes of woodland choirs? They whose silver-sandalled feet Never climbed the clouds to meet?”

Where?—The air grew full of laughter Low and sweet, and following after Came the softest breath of singing As if lily bells were ringing; And from all the happy closes, Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses, Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands, From the dim secluded places, Through the wide enchanted spaces, With their song-illumined faces Swept the shadowy minstrel bands!

Songs unsung, the high and lowly, Songs, the holy and unholy, In that purest air grown wholly Clean from every spot and stain! And I knew as endless ages Still were turning life’s full pages, Each should find his own again— Find the song he could not sing, As his soul’s best blossoming!

QUESTIONING A ROSE

It was fair, it was sweet, And it blossomed at my feet. “O thou peerless rose!” I said, “Art thou heir to roses dead— Roses that their petals shed In the winds of long ago? Who bequeathed to thee the glow Of thy perfect, radiant heart? What proud queen of fire and snow Lived to make thee what thou art?

Who gave thee thy nameless grace And the beauty of thy face, Touched thy lips with fragrant wine, Pledging thee in cups divine? On some long-forgotten day, When earth kept glad holiday, One bright rose was born, I think, Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink— Born, more blest than others are, To be thy progenitor!

Oh, the roses that have died In the unremembered Junes! Oh, the roses that have sighed Unto long-forgotten runes! Dost thou know their secrets dear? Have they whispered in thine ear Mysteries of the rain and dew, And the sunshine that they knew? Have they told thee how the breeze Wooed them, and the amorous bees?

Silent, art thou? Thy repose Mocks me, yet I fain would know Art thou kin to one rare rose Of a summer long ago? It was sweet, it was fair; Someone twined it in my hair, When my young cheek, blushing red, Shamed the roses, someone said. Dust and ashes though it be, Still its soul lives on in thee.”

THE FALLOW FIELD

The sun comes up and the sun goes down; The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; But if it be dark or if it be day, If the tempests beat or the breezes play, Still here on this upland slope I lie, Looking up to the changeful sky.

Naught am I but a fallow field; Never a crop my acres yield. Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn-blades stand, And I hear at my left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is red I list for our master’s eager tread. He smiles at the young corn’s towering height, He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, But he glances not at the fallow field Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimes the shout of the harvesters The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, And as one in a dream I seem to feel The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain As they heap their wains with the golden grain.

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, Though on every tongue your praise is loud. Our mother Nature is kind to me, And I am beloved by bird and bee, And never a child that passes by But turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue; I have my share of the rain and dew; I bask like you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is my sweet repose Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.

For little our loving mother cares Which the corn or the daisy bears, Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet’s breath is sweet, Which is red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.

Useless under the summer sky Year after year men say I lie. Little they know what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.

Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see.

Lord of the harvest, thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or west Laden with treasures at my behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God When I give my gold to the golden-rod.

OUT AND IN

A ship went sailing out to sea, A gallant ship and gay, When skies were bright as skies could be, One sunny morn in May. The light winds blew, The white sails flew, The pennants floated far; No stain I saw, Nor any flaw, From deck to shining spar! And from the prow, with eager eyes, Hope gazed afar—to Paradise.

A ship came laboring in from sea, One wild December night; Ah! never ship was borne to lee In sadder, sorrier plight! Rent were her sails By furious gales, No pennants floated far; Twisted and torn And all forlorn Were shuddering mast and spar! But from the prow Faith’s steady eyes Caught the near light of Paradise!

HER FLOWERS

“Nay, nay,” she whispered low, “I will not have these buds of folded snow, Nor yet the pallid bloom Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume, Nor lilies waxen white, To go with her into the grave’s dark night.

But now that she is dead Bring ye the royal roses blushing red, Roses that on her breast All summer long, by these pale hands caressed, Have lain in happy calm, Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”

Roses for all the joy Of perfect hours when life had no alloy; When hope was glad and gay, And young Love sang his blissful roundelay; And to her eager eyes Each new day oped the gates of Paradise.

But, for that she hath wept, And over buried hopes long vigil kept, Bring mystic passion-flowers, To tell the tale of sacrificial hours When, lifting up her cross, She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!

Then at her blessèd feet, That never more shall haste on errands sweet, Lay fragrant mignonette And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,— Dear humble flowers, that make Each passer-by the gladder for their sake!

For she who lieth here Trod not alone the high paths shining clear, With light of star and sun Falling undimmed her lofty place upon; But stooped to lowliest ways, Filling with fragrance all the passing days!

THREE LADDIES

O sailors sailing north, Where the wild white surges roar, And fierce winds and strong winds Blow down from Labrador— Have you seen my three brave laddies, My merry red-cheeked laddies, Three bold, adventurous laddies, On some tempestuous shore?

O sailors sailing south, Where the seas are calm and blue, And light clouds and soft clouds Are floating over you, Say, have you seen my laddies, My three bright, winsome laddies, My brown-haired, smiling laddies, With hearts so leal and true?

O sailors sailing east, Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by; O sailors sailing west, Ask the eagles soaring high, If they have seen my laddies, My careless, heedless laddies, Three debonair young laddies, Beneath the wide, wide sky?

O sailors, if you find them, Pray send them back to me; For them the winds go sighing Through every lonely tree— For these three wandering laddies, My tender, bright-eyed laddies, The laughter-loving laddies, Whom they no longer see.

There are three men who love me, Three men with bearded lips; But oh! ye gallant sailors Who sail the sea in ships— In elf-land, or in cloud-land, Or on the dreamland shore, Can you find the little laddies Whom I can find no more? Three quiet, thoughtful laddies, Three merry, winsome laddies, Three rollicking, frolicking laddies, On any far-off shore?

SUMMER, 1882 R. W. E.

O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou? In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom, What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume, Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?

Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feet Even now upon the mountains. All the hills Rise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills, Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?

And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait! To the far North I bend my listening ear; By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!

Why should I haste where light and song have fled? The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre; The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’ When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”

THORNLESS ROSES

“No rose may bloom without a thorn?” Come down the garden paths and see How brightly in the scented air They bloom for you and me!

See how, like rosy clouds, they lie Against the perfect, stainless blue! See how they toss their airy heads, And smile for me, for you!

No scanty largess, meanly doled— No pallid blooms, by two, by three, But a whole crowd of pink-white wings Fluttering for you and me.

So fair they are I cannot choose; I pluck the rich spoils here and there; I heap them on your waiting arms; I twine them in your hair.

There is no thorn among them all— No sharp sting in the heart of bliss— No bitter in the honeyed cup— No burning in the kiss.

Nay, quote the proverb if you must, And mock the truth you will not see; Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blow Somewhere for you and me.

TREASURE-SHIPS

O beautiful, stately ships, Ye come from over the seas, With every sail full spread To the glad, rejoicing breeze! Ye come from the dusky East, Ye come from the golden West, As birds that out of the far blue sky Fly each to its sheltered nest.

All spoils of the earth ye bring; From the isles of far Cathay, From the fabled shores of the Orient, The realms of eternal day. The prisoned light of a thousand gems, The gleam of the virgin gold, Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl, Shut up in the narrow hold.

Shawls from the looms of Ispahan; Ivory white as milk; Shimmer of satin and rare brocade, And fold upon fold of silk; Gauzes that India’s maidens wear; Spices, and rare perfumes; Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups The wealth of the summer blooms.

The blood of a thousand vines; The cotton’s drifted snow; The fragrant heart of the precious woods That deep in the tropics grow; The strength of the giant hills; The might of the iron ore; The golden corn, and the yellow wheat From earth’s broad threshing-floor.

Yet, O ye beautiful ships! There are ships that come not back, With flying pennant and swelling sail, Over yon shining track! Who can reckon their precious stores, Or measure the might have been? Who can tell what they held for us— The ships that will ne’er come in?

CHOOSING

Meadow-sweet or lily fair— Which shall it be? Clematis or brier-rose, Blooming for me? Spicy pink, or violet With the dews of morning wet, Sweet peas or mignonette— Which shall it be?

Flowers in the garden-beds, Flowers everywhere; Blue-bells and yellow-bells Swinging in the air; Purple pansies, golden pied; Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed; Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed, Climbing everywhere!

Oh, the roses darkly red— See, how they burn! Glows with all the summer heat Each crimson urn. Bridal roses pure as snow, Yellow roses all a-blow, Sweet blush-roses drooping low, Wheresoe’er I turn!

Life is so full, so sweet— How can I choose? If I gather _this_ rose, _That_ I must lose! All are not for me to wear; I can only have my share; Thorns are hiding here and there; How can I choose?

NOT MINE

It is not mine to run With eager feet Along life’s crowded ways, My Lord to meet.

It is not mine to pour The oil and wine, Or bring the purple robe And linen fine.

It is not mine to break At his dear feet The alabaster-box Of ointment sweet.

It is not mine to bear heavy cross, Or suffer, for his sake, All pain and loss.

It is not mine to walk Through valleys dim, Or climb far mountain-heights Alone with him.

He hath no need of me In grand affairs, Where fields are lost, or crowns Won unawares.

Yet, Master, if I may Make one pale flower Bloom brighter, for thy sake, Through one short hour;

If I, in harvest-fields Where strong ones reap, May bind one golden sheaf For Love to keep;

May speak one quiet word When all is still, Helping some fainting heart To bear thy will;

Or sing one high, clear song, On which may soar Some glad soul heavenward, I ask no more!

THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE

One autumn day we three, Who long had borne each other company— Grief, and my Heart, and I— Walked out beneath a dull and leaden sky.

The fields were bare and brown; From the still trees the dead leaves fluttered down; There were no birds to sing, Or cleave the air on swift, rejoicing wing.

We sought the barren sand Beside the moaning sea, and, hand in hand, Paced its slow length, and talked Of our supremest sorrows as we walked.

Slow shaking each bowed head, “There is no anguish like to ours,” we said; “The glancing eyes of morn Fall on no souls more utterly forlorn.”

But suddenly, across A narrow fiord wherein wild billows toss, We saw before our eyes, High hung above the tide, a temple rise—

A temple wondrous fair, Lifting its shining turrets in the air, All touched with golden gleams, Like the bright miracles we see in dreams.

Grief turned and looked at me. “We must go thither, O my friends,” said she; Then, saying nothing more, With rapid, gliding step passed on before.

And we—my Heart and I— Where Grief went, we went, following silently, Till in sweet solitude Beneath the temple’s vaulted roof we stood.

’Twas like a hollow pearl— A vast white sacred chamber, where the whirl Of passion stirred not, where A luminous splendor trembled in the air.

“O friends, I know this place,” Said Grief at last, “this lofty, silent space, Where, either soon or late, I and my kindred all shall lie in state.”

“But do Griefs die?” I cried. “Some die—not all,” full calmly she replied. “Yet all at last will lie In this fair chamber, slumbering quietly.

Chamber of Silence, this; Who brings his Grief here doth not go amiss. Mine hour hath come. We three Will walk, O friends, no more in company.”

Then was I dumb. My Heart And I—how could we with our dear Grief part, Who for so many a day Had walked beside us in our lonely way?

But she, with matchless grace, And a sweet smile upon her tear-wet face, Said, “Leave me here to sleep, Where every Grief forgets at last to weep.”

What could we do but go? We turned with slow, reluctant feet, but lo! The pearly door had closed, Shutting us in where all the Griefs reposed.

“Nay, go not back,” she said; “Retrace no steps. Go farther on instead.” Then, on the other side, On noiseless hinge another door swung wide,

Through which we onward passed Into a chamber lowlier than the last, But, oh! so sweet and calm That the hushed air was like a holy psalm.

“Chamber of Peace” was writ Where the low vaulted roof arched over it. Then knew we Grief must cease When sacred Silence leadeth unto Peace.

THREE ROSES

“Oh, shall it be a red rose, a red rose, a red rose, A deep-tinted red rose?” said she. “In the sunny garden closes, How they burn, the dark-red roses, How they lift up their glowing cups to me!”

“Oh, shall it be a blush rose, a blush rose, a blush rose, A dewy, dainty blush rose?” said she. “At its heart a flush so tender, With what veiled and softened splendor Droopeth now its languid head toward me!”

“Oh, shall it be a white rose, a white rose, a white rose, A fair and fragrant white rose?” said she. “With its pale cheek tinted faintly, ’Tis a vestal, pure and saintly, Yet its silver lamp is shining now for me!”

FOUR LETTERS (INSCRIBED TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)

[In an old almanac of the year 1809, against the date August 29th, there is this record, “Son b.” The sand that was thrown upon the fresh ink seventy years ago can still be seen upon the page.]

Four letters on a yellow page Writ when the century was young; A few small grains of shining sand Across it lightly flung!

A child was born—child nameless yet; A son to love till life was o’er; But did no strange, sweet prescience stir, Teaching of something more?

Thy son! O father, hadst thou known What now the wide world knows of him, How had thy pulses thrilled with joy, How had thine eye grown dim!

Couldst thou, through all the swift, bright years, Have looked, with glad, far-reaching gaze, And seen him as he stands to-day, Crowned with unfading bays—

While Love’s red roses at his feet Pour all their wealth of rare perfume, And Truth’s white lilies, pure as snow, His lofty way illume—

How had thy heart’s strong throbbing shook The eager pen, the firm right hand, That threw upon this record quaint These grains of glittering sand!

O irony of Time and Fate! That saves and loses, makes and mars, Keeps the small dust upon the scales, And blotteth out the stars!

Kingdoms and thrones have passed away; Conquerors have fallen, empires died, And countless sons of men gone down Beneath War’s crimson tide.

The whole wide earth has changed its face; Nations clasp hands across the seas; They speak, and winds and waves repeat The mighty symphonies.

Mountains have bowed their haughty crests, And opened wide their ponderous doors; The sea hath gathered in its dead, Love-wept on alien shores.

Proud cities, wrapped in fire and flame, Have challenged all the slumbering land; Yet neither Time nor Change has touched These few bright grains of sand!

VALDEMAR

Within a city quaint and old, When reigned King Alcinor the Bold, There dwelt a sculptor whose renown With pride and wonder filled the town. And yet he had not reached his prime; The first warm glow of summer-time Had but just touched his radiant face, And moulded to a statelier grace The stalwart form that trod the earth As it had been of princely birth. So fair, so strong, so brave was he, With such a sense of mastery, That Alcinor upon his throne No kinglier gifts from life could own Than those it brought from near and far To the young sculptor, Valdemar! Mayhap he was not rich—for Fame, To lend its magic to his name, Had outrun Fortune’s swiftest pace And conquered in the friendly race. But a fair home was his, where bees Hummed in the laden mulberry-trees; Where cyclamens, with rosy flush, Brightened the lingering twilight hush, And the gladiolus’ fiery plume Mocked the red rose’s brilliant bloom; Where violet and wind-flower hid The acacia’s golden gloom amid; Where starry jasmines climbed, and where, Serenely calm, divinely fair, Like a white lily, straight and tall, The loveliest flower among them all, His sweet young wife, Hermione, Sang to the child upon her knee!

Here beauteous visions haunted him, Peopling the shadows soft and dim; Here the old gods around him cast The glamour of their splendors past. Jove thundered from the awful sky; Proud Juno trod the earth once more; Pale Isis, veiled in mystery, Her smile of mystic meaning wore; Apollo joyed in youth divine, And Bacchus wreathed the fragrant vine. Here chaste Diana, crescent-crowned, With virgin footsteps spurned the ground; Here rose fair Venus from the sea, And that sad ghost, Persephone, Wandered, a very shade of shades, Amid the moonlit myrtle glades. Nor they alone. The Heavenly Child, The Holy Mother, meek and mild, Angels on glad wing soaring free, Pale, praying saints on bended knee, Martyrs with palms, and heroes brave Who for their guerdon won a grave, Earth’s laughing children, rosy sweet, And the soul’s phantoms, fair and fleet— All these were with him night and day, Charming the happy hours away! Oh, who so rich as Valdemar? What ill his joyous life can mar? With home and glorious visions blest, Glad in the work he loveth best!