Part 9
There’s an old arm-chair in the corner, Straight-backed and tall and quaint; Ah! many a generation— Sinner and sage and saint— It hath held in its ample bosom With murmur nor complaint!
In the glow of the fire-light playing, A tiny, blithesome pair, With the music of their laughter Fill all the tranquil air— A rosy, brown-eyed lassie, A boy serenely fair.
A woman sits in the shadow Watching the children twain, With a joy so deep and tender It is near akin to pain, And a smile and tear blend softly— Sunshine and April rain!
Her heart keeps time to the rhythm Of love’s unuttered prayer, As, with still hands lightly folded, She listens, unaware, Through all the children’s laughter, For a footfall on the stair.
I know the woman who sits there; Time hath been kind to her, And the years have brought her treasures Of frankincense and myrrh Richer, perhaps, and rarer, Than Life’s young roses were.
But I doubt if ever her spirit Hath known, or yet shall know, The bliss of a happier hour, As the swift years come and go, Than this in the shadowy chamber Lit by the hearth-fire’s glow!
MY LOVERS
I have four noble lovers, Young and gallant, blithe and gay, And in all the land no maiden Hath a goodlier troupe than they! And never princess, guarded By knights of high degree, Knew sweeter, purer homage Than my lovers pay to me!
One of my noble lovers Is a self-poised, thoughtful man, Gravely gay, serenely earnest, Strong to do, and bold to plan. And one is sweet and sunny, Pure as crystal, true as steel, With a soul responding ever When the truth makes high appeal.
And another of my lovers, Bright and _debonair_ is he, Brave and ardent, strong and tender, And the flower of courtesie. Last of all, an eager student, Upon lofty aims intent: Manly force and gentle sweetness In his nature rarely blent.
But when of noble lovers All alike are dear and true, And her heart to choose refuses, Pray, what can a woman do? Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye, Even as I myself am blest, That I know not which is dearest, That I care not which is best!
THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER
Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought; Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;
Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.
Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or bride Who in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by side,
Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.
He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fame Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.
All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled, By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.
So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set: Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!
But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride— Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.
“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays, How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”
Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar, With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.
But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer, For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.
All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone, And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted stone.
Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?
Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side! Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.
Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth; On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.
* * * * *
Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name. For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.
Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—
Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good; Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;
Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete, And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.
* * * * *
Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night, Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!
Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread; There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.
“Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day? Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?
Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping sore: “For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;
And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor, From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”
No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain; No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.
“’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said, As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head.
Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle, Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while:
When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!
All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;
And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head, With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.
They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride; Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by side;
While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before, And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.
BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE
Butterfly and Baby Blue, Did you come together Floating down the summer skies, In the summer weather? Seems to me you’re much alike, Airy, fairy creatures, Though I small resemblance find In your tiny features!
Butterfly has gauzy wings, Bright with jewelled splendor; Baby Blue has pink-white arms, Rosy, warm, and tender. Butterfly has golden rings, Charming each beholder; Baby wears a knot of blue On each dimpled shoulder.
Butterfly is never still, Always in a flutter; And of dainty Baby Blue The same truth I utter! Butterfly on happy wing In the sunshine dances; Baby Blue for sunshine has Mother’s smiles and glances!
Butterfly seeks honey-dew In a lily palace; Baby Blue finds nectar sweet In a snow-white chalice. Butterfly will furl its wings When the air grows colder; While dear Baby Blue will be Just a trifle older!
Ah! the days are growing short, Soon the birds will leave us, And of all the garden flowers Cruel frost bereave us. Butterfly and Baby Blue, Do not go together, Sailing through the autumn skies In the autumn weather!
KING IVAN’S OATH
King Ivan ruled a mighty land Girt by the sea on either hand; A goodly land as e’er the sun In its long journey looked upon! His knights were loyal, brave, and true, Eager their lord’s behests to do; His counsellors were wise and just, Nor ever failed his kingly trust; The nations praised him, and the state Grew powerful, and rich, and great; While still with long and loud acclaim, His people hailed their monarch’s name!
Fronting the east, a stately pile, The palace caught the sun’s first smile; Lightly its domes and arches sprung, As earth’s glad hills when earth was young; And miracles of airy grace, Each tower and turret soared in space. Within——But here no rhythmic flow Of words with light and warmth aglow Can tell the story. Not more fair Are your own castles hung in air! Painter and sculptor there had wrought The utmost beauty of their thought; There the rich fruit of Persian looms Glowed darkly bright as tropic blooms; There fell the light like golden mist, Filtered through clouds of amethyst; There bright-winged birds and odorous flowers With song and fragrance filled the hours; There Pleasure flung the portals wide, And soul and sense were satisfied!
The queen? No fairer face than hers E’er smiled upon its worshippers; And she was good as fair, ’twas said, And loved the king ere they were wed. And he? No doubt he loved her, too, After a kingly fashion—knew She had a right his throne to share, And would be mother of his heir. But yet, to do him justice, he Sometimes forgot his royalty— Forgot his kingly crown, and then Loved, and made love, like other men!
There seemed no shadow near the throne; Yet oft the great king walked alone, Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down, And on his royal face a frown. Sat Mordecai within his gate? What scoffing spectre mocked his state? What demon held him in a spell? Alas! the sweet queen knew too well! Apples of Sodom ate he, since She had not borne to him a prince, Though thrice his hope had budded fair, And he had counted on an heir. Three little daughters, dainty girls With sunshine tangled in their curls, Bloomed in the palace; but no son— The long-expected, waited one, Flower of the state, and pride of all— Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall!
The king was angered. It may be No worse than other men was he; But—a high tower upon a hill— His light shone far for good or ill! In from the chase one day he rode; To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode; Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame, Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flame At his quick coming. Up she rose, Stirred from her wonted calm repose, A lily flushing when the sun Its stately beauty looked upon! Alas! alas! so blind was he— Or else he did not care to see— He had no pity, though she stood In perfect flower of womanhood! “You bear to me no son,” he said; Then flinging back his haughty head: “Each base-born peasant has an heir, His name to keep, his crust to share, While I—the king of this broad land— Have no son near my throne to stand! Who, then, shall reign when I am dead? Who wield the sceptre in my stead? Inherit all my pride and power, And wear my glory as his dower? Give me a man-child, who shall be Lord of the realm, himself, and me!”
Then pallid lips made slow reply— “God ordereth. Not you nor I!” His brow flushed hot; a sudden clang As of arms throughout the chamber rang, And turning on his heel, he threw Back wrathful answer: “That may do For puling women—not for me! Now, by my good sword, we shall see! So help me Heaven, I will not brook On a girl’s face again to look! And when you next shall bear a child, Though fair a babe as ever smiled, If it be not a princely heir, By all the immortal gods, I swear I ne’er will speak to it, nor break My soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!”
Then forth he fared and rode away, Nor saw the queen again that day— The hapless queen, who to the floor Sank prone and breathless, as the door Swung to behind him, and his tread Down the long arches echoèd. In truth she was in sorry plight When her maids found her late that night, The king learned that which spoiled his rest, But kept the secret in his breast!
* * * * *
At length, when months had duly sped, High streamed the banners overhead, And all the bells rang out at morn In jubilant peals—a Prince was born! Now let the joyous music ring! Now let the merry minstrels sing! Now pour the wine and crown the feast With fruits and flowers of all the East! Now let the votive candles shine And garlands bloom on every shrine! Now let the young, with flying feet Time to bewildering music beat, And let the old their joys rehearse In stirring tale, or flowing verse! Now fill with shouts the waiting air, And scatter largess everywhere!
Ah! who so happy as the king? Swift flew the hours on eager wing; And the boy grew apace, until The second summer, sweet and still, Dropped roses round him as he played Where arched the leafy colonnade. How fair he was tongue cannot say, But he was fairer than the day; And never princely coronet On brow of nobler mould was set; Nor ever did its jewels gleam Above an eye of brighter beam; And never yet where sunshine falls, Flooding with light the cottage walls, ’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds, Or tenderest breath of loving words, Blossomed a sweeter child than he! How the king joyed his strength to see, Counting the weeks that flew so fast— Each fuller, happier than the last! Six months had passed since he could walk; Was it not time the prince should talk? Ah! baby words with tripping feet! Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet!
At length within the palace rose Rumor so strange that friends and foes Forgot their love, forgot their hate, Pausing to croon and speculate. Vague whispers floated in the air; A hint of mystery here and there; A sudden hush, a startled glance, Quick silences and looks askance. Thus day by day the wonder grew, Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew. The prince—his father—what was this Strange tale so surely told amiss? The young prince dumb? Who dared to say That nature such a prank could play? _Dumb to the king?_ In silence bound, With voiceless lips that gave no sound When the king questioned?—Yet, no lute, Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute, Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung, Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue!
The court physicians came and went; Learned men from all the continent Gave wise opinions, talked of laws, Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause. Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child, As one bewildered, sighed and smiled, In a wild storm of weeping broke, Moved its red lips, but never spoke.
The changeful years rolled on apace; The young prince wore a bearded face; The good queen died; the king grew gray; A generation passed away. Courtiers forgot to tell the tale; Gossip itself grew old and stale. But never once, in all the years That bore such freight of joys and tears, Was the spell broken: not one word From son to sire was ever heard. Mutely his father’s face he scanned— Mutely he clasped his agèd hand— Mutely he kissed him when at last To death’s long slumber forth he passed! Come weal or woe, he could not break The mystic silence for Love’s sake!
AT DAWN
At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke, And its glory flooded the mountain side, I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day, Eleven years since my darling died!”
And then I turned to my household ways, To my daily tasks, without, within, As happily busy all the day As if my darling had never been!—
As if she had never lived, or died! Yet when they buried her out of my sight I thought the sun had gone down at noon, And the day could never again be bright.
Ah, well! As the swift years come and go, It will not be long ere I shall lie Somewhere under a bit of turf, With my pale hands folded quietly.
And then someone who has loved me well— Perhaps the one who has loved me best— Will say of me as I said of her, “She has been just so many years at rest”—
Then turn to the living loves again, To the busy life, without, within, And the day will go on from dawn to dusk, Even as if I had never been!
Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so! The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine, And the soft green grass creep still and slow, Sometime over a grave of mine—
And over the grave in your hearts as well! Ye cannot hinder it if ye would; And I—ah! I shall be wiser then— I would not hinder it if I could!
IN MEMORIAM
[Cyrus M. and Mary Ripley Fisher, lost on steamship Atlantic, April 1, 1873.]
Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sung Of one who, when the earliest flowers were seen, So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young, Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green.
Soft was the turf we raised to give her room; Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell; Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloom Brightening the couch of her who loved it well.
Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day, When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid! O, ye beloved whom I sing _this_ day, Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid!
Could we but lay you down by her dear side, Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest, Where the still hours in slow succession glide, And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast—
Where all day long the shadows come and go, And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing— Where all night long the starlight’s tender glow Falls where the flowers you loved are blossoming—
Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm; Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more; And the clear swelling of our thankful psalm Should drown the beat of surges on the shore.
But the deep sea will not give up its dead. O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep, Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed, And bless your God for graves whereon to weep!
WEAVING THE WEB
“This morn I will weave my web,” she said, As she stood by her loom in the rosy light, And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear, Followed afar the swallow’s flight. “As soon as the day’s first tasks are done, While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she, “I will hasten to weave the beautiful web Whose pattern is known to none but me!
I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair, And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said; “So fadeless and strong will I weave my web That perhaps it will live after I am dead.” But the morning hours sped on apace; The air grew sweet with the breath of June; And young Love hid by the waiting loom, Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune.
“Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried, “And morn is short though the days are long! This noon I will weave my beautiful web, I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.” But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky; The burden and heat of the day she bore And hither and thither she came and went, While the loom stood still as it stood before.
“Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said; “My web must wait till the eventide, Till the common work of the day is done, And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.” So, one by one, the hours passed on Till the creeping shadows had longer grown; Till the house was still, and the breezes slept, And her singing birds to their nests had flown.
“And now I will weave my web,” she said, As she turned to her loom ere set of sun, And laid her hand on the shining threads To set them in order one by one. But hand was tired, and heart was weak: “I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she, “And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rare Are not so bright, or so fair to see!
I must wait, I think, till another morn; I must go to my rest with my work undone; It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried, As lower and lower sank the sun. She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still; The weaver slept in the twilight gray. Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful web In the golden light of a longer day?
THE “CHRISTUS” OF THE PASSION PLAY OF OBERAMMERGAU
How does life seem to thee? I long to look Into thine inmost soul, and see if thou Art even as other men! Oh, set apart And consecrate so long to purpose high, Canst thou take up again our common lot, And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell, Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries, Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep, Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do? Unto what name less sacred answerest thou Who hast been called the Christ of Nazareth? Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns, Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree, Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty?
RABBI BENAIAH
Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day, When the low sun athwart the level sands Shot his long arrows, from far Eastern lands Homeward across the desert bent his way.
Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan— The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace; Before him, lifted in the clear, far space, From east to west the towers of his city ran!
Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky; Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he, “Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me! As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!”
Soon like a bird across the waste he flew, Nor drew his rein till at the massive gate That guards the citadel’s supremest state He paused a moment, slowly entering through.
Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped; The city slept; but like a burning star, Where his own turret-chamber rose afar, A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed!
Into his court he rode with sudden clang. The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word; By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred, No shouts of welcome on the night air rang!
But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs, With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name, And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came— The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers.
Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear, “Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keep My welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep, And let their glad tongues break the silence here!”
“Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said. “Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me. I have a trouble to make known to thee Ere I before thee can lift up my head.”
Into an inner chamber led she him, And with her own hands brought him meat and wine, A purple robe, and linen pure and fine. He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim!