Part 3

They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men, Who should have braved the lion in his den, Or ere they bore such message to their queen, Or took such words their aged lips between. What! I, the daughter of a royal race, Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place, And, like a common dancing-girl, who wears Her beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, bares Her brow to every gazer, boldly go To those wild revellers my face to show? I—who had kept my beauty pure and bright Only because ’twas precious in his sight, Guarding it ever as a holy thing, Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,— Could I unveil it to the curious eyes Of the mad rabble that with drunken cries Were shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far, Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star, I would have buried it in endless night! Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright, My maidens hung around me as I told Those seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old, To bear this answer back: “It may not be. My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee. It is not meet that Persia’s queen, like one Who treads the market-place from sun to sun, Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd, Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.” With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knew If my dear lord to his best self were true, That he would hold me guiltless, and would say, “I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!” But the red wine was ruling o’er his brain; The cruel wine that recked not of my pain. Up from the angry throng a clamor rose; The flattering sycophants were now my foes; And evil counsellors about the throne, Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own, With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown, Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down! Let her not see the king’s face evermore, Nor come within his presence as of yore; So disobedient wives through all the land Shall read the lesson, heed and understand.” Up spoke another, eager to be heard, In royal councils fain to have a word,— “Let this commandment of the king be writ, In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,— The perfect law that man may alter not Nor of its bitter end abate one jot.” Alas! the king was wroth. Before his face I could not go to plead my piteous case; But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers, And poisoned words that rankled in his ears, My wily foes, afraid to let him pause, Brought the great book that held the Persian laws, And ere the rising of the morrow’s sun, My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done!

Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary night I sat within my bower in woeful plight, When suddenly upon my presence stole A muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soul I knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak, Or with a breath the brooding silence break, A low voice murmured “Vashti!” Pale and still, Hushing my heart’s cry with an iron will, “What would the king?” I asked. No answer came, But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame; With clasping arms he raised me to his breast And on my brow and lips such kisses pressed As one might give the dead. I may not tell All the wild words that I remember well. Oh! was it joy or was it pain to know That not alone I wept my weary woe? Alas! I know not. But I know to-day— If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!— That though his eyes have never looked on mine Since that dark night when stars refused to shine, And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride, In stately Shushan at the monarch’s side, The king remembers Vashti, even yet Breathing her name sometimes with vain regret, Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,— “O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!”

WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME

Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sent His angel Sorrow on my heart to lay Her hand in benediction, and to say, “Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent, For He doth now recall it,” long ago. His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walked For years beside me, and we two have talked As chosen friends together. Thus I know Trouble and Sorrow are not near of kin. Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wears Upon her brow the seal of many cares; But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within. She sits with Patience in perpetual calm, Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.

HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CEMETERY

Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned, Put on your priestly robes to-day; Henceforth ye stand on holy ground, Where Love and Death hold equal sway.

Lift up to Heaven each crested head, And raise your giant arms on high, And swear that o’er our slumbering dead Ye will keep watch and ward for aye.

For month by month, and year by year, While shine the stars, and rolls the sea, Our silent ones shall gather here, To rest beneath the greenwood tree.

Here no rude sight nor sound shall break The calmness of their last, long sleep, And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake, Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep.

Our silent ones! Their very dust Is precious in our longing eyes; O, guard ye well the sacred trust, Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise!

YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY

But yesterday among us here, One with ourselves in hope and fear: Joying like us in little things, The sheen of gorgeous insect wings, The song of bird, the hum of bee, The white foam of the heaving sea.

But yesterday your simplest speech, Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach; Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyes Found in your own no mysteries. Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew, The hopes that with your girlhood grew.

But yesterday we dared to say, “’Twere better you should walk this way Or that, dear child! Do thus or so; Older and wiser we, you know.” We gave you flowers and curled your hair, And brought new robes for you to wear.

To-day how far away thou art! In all thy life we have no part. Hast thou a want? We know it not; Utterly parted from our lot, The veriest stranger is to thee All those who loved thee best can be.

Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries, Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes; Nor heed the tender words that flow From lips whose kisses thrilled thee so But yesterday! To-day in vain We wait for kisses back again.

To-day no awful mystery hid The dark and mazy past amid Is half so great as this that lies Beneath the lids of thy shut eyes, And in those frozen lips of stone, Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.

But yesterday with loving care We petted, praised thee, called thee fair; To-day, oppressed with awe, we stand Before that ring-unfettered hand, And scarcely dare to lift one tress In mute and reverent caress.

But yesterday with us. To-day Where thou art dwelling, who can say? In heaven? But where? Oh for some spell To make thy tongue this secret tell! To break the silence strange and deep, That thy sealed lips so closely keep!

LYRIC FOR THE DEDICATION OF A MUSIC-HALL

No grand Cathedral’s vaulted space Where, through the “dim, religious light,” Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown, We consecrate with song to-night;

No stately temple lifting high Its dome against the starlit skies, Where lofty arch and glittering spire Like miracles of beauty rise.

Yet here beneath this humbler roof With reverent hearts and lips we come; Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail! Henceforth be these poor walls your home.

Here speak to hearts that long have yearned Your presence and your spells to know; Here touch the lips athirst to drink Where your perennial fountains flow.

Here, where our glorious mountain-peaks Sublimely pierce the ether blue, Lift ye our souls, and bid them rise In aspirations grand and true!

O Music, Art, and Science, hail! We greet you now with glad acclaims; Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening air Waits to re-echo with your names;

Waits for your voices ringing clear Above this weary, work-day world; Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise, While Error from her throne is hurled!

WHAT I LOST

Wandering in the dewy twilight Of a golden summer day, When the mists upon the mountains Flushed with purple splendor lay: When the sunlight kissed the hilltops And the vales were hushed and dim, And from out the forest arches Rose a holy vesper hymn— I lost something. Have you seen it, Children, ye who passed that way? Did you chance to find the treasure That I lost that summer day?

It was neither gold nor silver, Orient pearl nor jewel rare; Neither amethyst nor ruby, Nor an opal gleaming fair; ’Twas no curious, quaint mosaic Wrought by cunning master-hands, Nor a cameo where Hebe, Crowned with deathless beauty, stands. Yet have I lost something precious; Children, ye who passed that way— Tell me, have you found the treasure That I lost one summer day?

Then, you say, it was a casket Filled with India’s perfumes rare, Or a tiny flask of crystal Meet the rose’s breath to bear; Or a bird of wondrous plumage, With a voice of sweetest tone, That, escaping from my bosom, To the greenwood deep has flown. Ah! not these, I answer vainly; Children, ye who passed that way, Ye can never find the treasure That I lost that summer day!

You may call it bird or blossom; Name my treasure what you will; Here no more its song or fragrance Shall my soul with rapture fill. But, thank God! our earthly losses In no darksome void are cast; Safely garnered, some to-morrow Shall restore them all at last. Somewhere in the great hereafter, Children, ye who pass this way, I shall find again the treasure That I lost one summer day!

ONCE!

Once in your sight, As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light, So grew her soul, Yielding itself to your sweet control.

Once if you spoke, Echoing strains in her heart awoke, Sending a thrill All through its chambers sweet and still.

Once if you said, “Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,” Ah! how the rose Flooded her forehead’s pale repose!

Once if your lip Dared the pure sweetness of hers to sip, Softly and meek Dark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!

Once if your name Some one but whispered, a sudden flame Burned on her cheek, Telling a story she would not speak!

You do but wait At a sepulchre’s sealed gate! Her love is dead, Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.

Why did it die? Ask of your soul the reason why! Question it well, And surely the secret it will tell.

But if your heart Ever again plays the lover’s part, Let this truth be Blent with the solemn mystery:

Pure flame aspires; Downward flow not the altar fires; And skylarks soar Up where the earth-mists vex no more.

Now loose your hold From her white garment’s spotless fold, And let her pass— While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”

CATHARINE

O wondrous mystery of death! I yield me to thine awful sway, And with hushed heart and bated breath Bow down before thy shrine to-day!

But yesterday these pallid lips Breathed reverently my humble name; These eyes now closed in drear eclipse Brightened with gratitude’s soft flame.

These poor, pale hands were swift to do The lowliest service I might ask; These palsied feet the long day through Moved gladly to each wonted task.

O faithful, patient, loving one, Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar, Canst bear the presence of The Son, And dwell where holy angels are?

Dost thou not meekly bow thine head, And stand apart with humblest mien, Nor dare with softest step to tread The ranks of shining Ones between?

Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes The hem of some white robe to touch, While on thine own meek forehead lies The crown of her who “lovèd much?”

O vain imaginings! To-day Earth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer. Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay To this Pale Wonder lying here!

THE NAME

I know not by what name to call thee, thou Who reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart! Thou who the lode-star of my being art, Thou before whom my soul delights to bow! What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear name Better than all the rest, that I may pour All that the years have taught me of love’s lore In one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame, And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me. Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar, And crowns less meet for love than reverence are, While both my heart gives joyfully to thee. Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest: I cannot tell what name befits thee best!

UNDER THE PALM-TREES

We were children together, you and I; We trod the same paths in days of old; Together we watched the sunset sky, And counted its bars of massive gold. And when from the dark horizon’s brim The moon stole up with its silver rim, And slowly sailed through the fields of air, We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.

You walk to-night where the jasmines grow, And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies; Where the spicy breezes softly blow, And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise. You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers, And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers; You pluck the acacia’s golden balls, And mark where the red pomegranate falls.

I stand to-night on the breezy hill, Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore; The north star burneth clear and still, And the moonbeams silver your father’s door. I can see the hound as he lies asleep, In the shadow close by the old well-sweep, And hear the river’s murmuring flow As we two heard it long ago.

Do you think of the firs on the mountain-side As you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow? Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide? Of the yellow willows waving slow? Do you long to drink of the crystal spring, In the dell where the purple harebells swing? Would your pulses leap could you hear once more The sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?

Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide, And the salt sea rolls our hearts between; And never again at eventide Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene. But under the palm-trees wandering slow, You think of the spreading elms I know; And you deem our daisies fairer far Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!

NIGHT AND MORNING

I.

Night and darkness over all! Nature sleeps beneath a pall; Not a ray from moon or stars Glimmers through the cloudy bars; Huge and black the mountains stand Frowning upon either hand, And the river, dark and deep, Gropes its way from steep to steep. Yonder tree, whose young leaves played In the sunshine and the shade, Stretches out its arms like one Sudden blindness hath undone. Pale and dim the rose-queen lies Robbed of all her gorgeous dyes, And the lily bendeth low, Mourner in a garb of woe. Never a shadow comes or goes, Never a gleam its glory throws Over cottage or over hall— Darkness broodeth over all!

II.

Lo! the glorious morning breaks! Nature from her sleep awakes, And, in purple pomp, the day Bids the darkness flee away. Crowned with light the mountains stand Royally on either hand, And the laughing waters run In glad haste to meet the sun. Stately trees, exultant, raise Their proud heads in grateful praise; Flowers, dew-laden, everywhere Pour rich incense on the air, And the ascending vapors rise Like the smoke of sacrifice. Birds are trilling, bees are humming, Swift to greet the new day coming, And earth’s myriad voices sing Hymns of grateful welcoming. Bursting from night’s heavy thrall, Heaven’s own light is over all!

AGNES

Agnes! Agnes! is it thus Thou, at last, dost come to us? From the land of balm and bloom, Blandest airs and sweet perfume, Where the jasmine’s golden stars Glimmer soft through emerald bars, And the fragrant orange flowers Fall to earth in silver showers, Agnes! Agnes! With thy pale hands on thy breast, Comest thou here to take thy rest?

Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy grave Loud the winter winds will rave, And the snow fall fast around, Heaping high thy burial mound; Yet, within its soft embrace, Thy dear form and earnest face, Wrapt away from burning pain, Ne’er shall know one pang again. Agnes! Agnes! Nevermore shall anguish vex thee, Nevermore shall care perplex thee.

Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait Just one moment at the gate, Ere your pure feet enter in Where is neither pain nor sin. Thou art blest, but how shall we Bear the pang of losing thee? List! _we love thee!_ By that word Once thy heart of hearts was stirred. Agnes! Agnes! By that love we bid thee wait Just one moment at the gate!

Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on To the heaven that thou hast won! By thy life of brave endeavor, Up the heights aspiring ever, Whence thy voice, like clarion clear, Rang out words of lofty cheer; By thy laboring not in vain, By thy martyrdom of pain, Our Saint Agnes— From our yearning sight pass on To the rest that thou hast won!

“INTO THY HANDS”

Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last, Weary with struggling and with long unrest, Vext by remembrances of conflicts past And by a host of present cares opprest,

I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done! Take thou the burden I have borne too long. Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One, My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!

For life—for death. I cannot see the way; I blindly wander on to meet the night; The path grows steeper, and the dying day Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.

Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired As a young child that wearies of the road; And the far heights toward which I once aspired Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.

Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will; Into thy hands commit I all my way; Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill, Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.

Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet; And in my death my sure support be thou; So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet, And wake at morn before thy face to bow!

IDLE WORDS

I.

Once I said, Seeing two soft, starry eyes Darkly bright as midnight skies,— Eyes prophetic of the power Sure to be thy woman’s dower, When the years should crown thee queen Of the realm as yet unseen,— “Some time, sweet, those eyes shall make Lovers mad for their sweet sake!”

II.

Once I said, Seeing tresses, golden-brown, In a bright shower falling down Over neck and bosom white As an angel’s clad in light— Odorous tresses drooping low O’er a forehead pure as snow,— “Some time, sweet, in thy soft hair Love shall set a shining snare!”

III.

Once I said, Seeing lips whose crimson hue Mocked the roses wet with dew,— Warm, sweet lips, whose breath was balm,— Pure, proud lips, serenely calm,— Tender lips, whose smiling grace Lit with splendor all the face,— “Sweet, for kiss of thine some day Men will barter souls away!”

IV.

Idly said! God hath taken care of all Joy or pain that might befall! Lover’s lip shall never thrill At thy kisses, soft and still; Lover’s heart shall never break In sore anguish for thy sake; Lover’s soul for thee shall know Nor love’s rapture, nor its woe;— All is said!

THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK

O skylark, soaring, soaring, Ere day is well begun, Thy full, glad song outpouring To greet the rising sun,— So high, so high in heaven Thy swift wing cleaves the blue, We sparrows in the hedges Can scarcely follow you!

O strong, unwearied singer! By summer winds caressed, Among the white clouds floating With sunshine on thy breast, We hear thy clear notes dropping In showers of golden rain, A glad, triumphant music That hath no thought of pain!

We twitter in the hedges; We chirp our little songs, Whose low, monotonous murmur To homeliest life belongs; We perch in lowly places, We hop from bough to bough, While in the wide sky-spaces, On strong wing soarest thou!

Yet we—we share the rapture And glory of thy flight— Thou’rt still a bird, O skylark,— Thou spirit glad and bright! And ah! no sparrow knoweth But its low note may be Part of earth’s joy and gladness That finds full voice in thee!

THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S

“The great bell of St. Paul’s, which only sounds when the King is dead.”

Toll, toll, thou solemn bell! A royal head lies low, And mourners through the palace halls Slowly and sadly go. Lift up thine awful voice, Thou, silent for so long! Say that a monarch’s soul has passed To join the shadowy throng.

Toll yet again, thou bell! Mutely thine iron tongue, Prisoned within yon lofty tower, For many a year has hung. But now its mournful peal Startles a nation’s ear, And swells from listening shore to shore, That the whole world may hear.

A whisper from the past Blends with each solemn tone That from those brazen lips of thine Upon the air is thrown. Never had trumpet’s peal, On clarion sounding shrill, Such power as that deep undertone The listener’s heart to thrill.

Come, tell us tales, thou bell, Of those of old renown, Those sturdy warrior kings who fought For sceptre and for crown. Tell of the lion-hearts Whose pulses moved the world; Whose banners flew so swift and far, O’er land and sea unfurled!

From out the buried years, From many a vaulted tomb, Whence neither pomp nor power could chase The dim, sepulchral gloom, Lo, now, a pale, proud line, They glide before our eyes!— Art thou a wizard, mighty bell, To bid the dead arise?

But toll, toll on, thou bell! Toll for the royal dead; Toll—for the hand now sceptreless; Toll—for the crownless head; Toll—for the human heart With all its loves and woes; Toll—for the soul that passes now Unto its long repose!

DECEMBER 26, 1910 A BALLAD OF MAJOR ANDERSON

Come, children, leave your playing this dark and stormy night, Shut fast the rattling window-blinds, and make the fire burn bright; And hear an old man’s story, while loud the fierce winds blow, Of gallant Major Anderson and fifty years ago.