Part 8

Here some time flowed my springs and sent a cry Of joy before them up the shining air, While morn was new, and heaven all blue and bare; Here dipped the swallow to a tenderer sky, And o’er my flowers lean’d some pure mystery Of liquid eyes and golden-glimmering hair; For which now, drouth and death, a bright despair, Shards, choking slag, the world’s dust small and dry. Yet turn not hence thy faithful foot, O thou, Diviner of my buried life; pace round, Poising the hazel-wand; believe and wait, Listen and lean; ah, listen! even now Stirrings and murmurings of the underground Prelude the flash and outbreak of my fate.

SALOME

(_By Henri Regnault_)

Fair sword of doom, and bright with martyr blood, Thee Regnault saw not as mine eyes have seen; No Judith of the Faubourg, mænad-queen, Pale on her tumbril-throne, when the live flood Foams through revolted Paris, unwithstood, Is of thy kin. Blossom and bud between, Clear-brow’d Salome, with her silk head’s sheen, Lips where a linnet might have pecked for food, Pure curves of neck, and dimpling hand aloft, Moved like a wave at sunrise. Herod said-- “A boon for maiden freshness! Ask of me What toy may please, though half my Galilee;” And with beseeching eyes, and bird-speech soft, She fluted: “Give me here John Baptist’s head.”

WATERSHED

Now on life’s crest we breathe the temperate air; Turn either way; the parted paths o’erlook; Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair, Nor read in Sibyl’s book.

The blue bends o’er us; good are Night and Day; Some blissful influence from the starry Seven Thrilled us ere youth took wing; wherefore essay The vain assault on heaven?

And what great Word Life’s singing lips pronounce, And what intends the sealing kiss of Death, It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce, And draw this tranquil breath.

Enough, one thing we know, haply anon All truths; yet no truths better or more clear Than that your hand holds my hand; wherefore on! The downward pathway, Dear!

THE GUEST

Rude is the dwelling, low the door, No chamber this where men may feast, I strew clean rushes on the floor, Set wide my window to the East.

I can but set my little room In order, then gaze forth and wait; I know not if the Guest will come, Who holds aloft his starry state.

MORITURUS

Lord, when my hour to part is come, And all the powers of being sink, When eyes are filmed, and lips are dumb, And scarce I hang upon the brink.

Grant me but this--in that strange light Or blind amid confused alarms, One moment’s strength to stand upright And cast myself into Thy arms.

ALONE

This is the shore of God’s lone love, which stirs And heaves to some majestic tidal law; And bright the illimitable horizons’ awe; God’s love; yet all my soul cries out for hers.

FAME

My arches crumble; that bright dome I flung Heavenward in pride decays; yet all unmoved One column soars, and, graven in sacred tongue, Endure the victor words--“This man was loved.”

WHERE WERT THOU?

Where wert Thou, Master, ’mid that rain of tears, When grey the waste before me stretched and wide, And when with boundless silence ached mine ears? “Child, I was at thy side.”

Where wert Thou when I trod the obscure wood, And one lone cry of sorrow was the wind, And drop by heavy drop failed my heart’s blood? “Before thee and behind.”

Where wert Thou when I fell and lay alone Faithless and hopeless, yet through one dear smart Not loveless quite, making my empty moan? “Son, I was in thy heart.”

A WISH

Could I roll off two heavy years That lie on me like lead; And see you past their cloudy tears, Nor dream that you are dead.

I would not touch your lips, your hair, Your breast, that once were mine; Ah! not for me in Faith’s despair Love’s sacramental wine.

Find you I must for only this In some new earth or heaven, To bare my sorry heart, and kiss Your feet and be forgiven.

THE GIFT

“Now I draw near: alone, apart I stood, nor deemed I should require Such access, till my musing heart Suddenly kindled to desire.

No farther from Thee than Thy feet! No less a sight than all Thy face! Nay, touch me where the heart doth beat, Breathe where the throbbing brain hath place.

Yield me the best, the unnamed good, The gift which most shall prove me near, Thy wine for drink, Thy fruit for food, Thy tokens of the nail, the spear!”

Such cry was mine: I lifted up My face from treacherous speech to cease, Daring to take the bitter cup, But ah! Thy perfect gift was peace.

Quiet deliverance from all need, A little space of boundless rest, To live within the Light indeed To lean upon the Master’s breast.

RECOVERY

I joy to know I shall rejoice again Borne upward on the good tide of the world, Shall mark the cowslip tossed, the fern uncurled And hear the enraptured lark high o’er my pain, And o’er green graves; and I shall love the wane Of sea-charm’d sunsets with all winds upfurl’d, And that great gale adown whose stream are whirl’d, Pale autumn dreams, dead hopes, and broodings vain. Nor do I fear that I shall faintlier bless The joy of youth and maid, or the gold hair Of a wild-hearted child; then, none the less, Instant within my shrine, no man aware, Feed on a living sorrow’s sacredness, And lean my forehead on this altar-stair.

IF IT MIGHT BE

If it might be, I would not have my leaves Drop in autumnal stillness one by one, Like these pale fluttering waifs that heap sad sheaves Through mere inertia trembling, tottering down.

Better one roaring day, one wrestling night, The dark musician’s fiercer harmony, And then abandoned bareness, or the light Of strange discovered skies, if it might be.

WINTER NOONTIDE

I go forth now, but not to fill my lap With violets and white sorrel of the wood; This is a winter noon; and I may hap Upon a few dry sticks, and fire is good.

A quickening shrewdness edges the fore wind; Some things stand clear in this dismantled hour Which deep-leaved June had hidden; earth is kind, The heaven is wide, and fire shall be my flower.

THE POOL

A wood obscure in this man’s haunt of love, And midmost in the wood where leaves fall sere, A pool unplumbed; no winds these waters move, Gathered as in a vase from year to year.

And he has thought that he himself lies drowned, Wan-faced where the pale water glimmereth, And that the voiceless man who paces round The brink, nor sheds a tear now, is his wraith.

THE DESIRE TO GIVE

They who would comfort guess not the main grief-- Not that her hand is never on my hair, Her lips upon my brow; the time is brief At longest, and I grow inured to bear.

All that was ever mine I have and hold; But that I cannot give by day or night My poor gift which was dear to her of old, And poorly given--that loss is infinite.

A BEECH-TREE IN WINTER

Now in the frozen gloom I trace thy girth, Broad beech, that with lit leaves upon a day When heaven was wide and down the meadow May Moved bride-like, touched my forehead in sweet mirth, And blissful secrets told of the deep Earth, Low in mine ear; wherefore this eve I lay My hand thus close till stirrings faint bewray Thy piteous secrets of the days of dearth, Silence! yet to my heart from thine has passed Divine contentment; it is well with thee; Still let the stars slide o’er thee whispering fate, The might be in thee of the shouldering blast, Still let fire-fingered snow thy tiremaid be, Still bearing springtime in thy bosom wait.

JUDGMENT

I stand for judgment; vain the will To judge myself, O Lord! I cannot sunder good from ill With a dividing sword.

How should I know myself aright, Who would by Thee be known? Let me stand naked in Thy sight; Thy doom shall be my own.

Slay in me that which would be slain! Thy justice be my grace! If aught survive the joy, the pain, Still must it seek Thy face.

DÜRER’S “MELENCHOLIA”

The bow of promise, this lost flaring star, Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She, The mighty-wing’d crown’d Lady Melancholy, Heeds not. O to what vision’d goal afar Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea, Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity, Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar. Tools of the brain--the globe, the cube--no more She deals with; in her hand the compass stays; Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays, Expect this secret to enlarge thy store; She moves through incommunicable ways.

MILLET’S “THE SOWER”

Son of the Earth, brave flinger of the seed, Strider of furrows, copesmate of the morn, Which, stirr’d with quickenings now of day unborn, Approves the mystery of thy fruitful deed; Thou, young in hope and old as man’s first need, Through all the hours that laugh, the hours that mourn, Hold’st to one strenuous faith, by time unworn, Sure of the miracle--that the clod will breed. Dark is this upland, pallid still the sky, And man, rude bondslave of the glebe, goes forth To labour; serf, yet genius of the soil, Great his abettors--a confederacy Of mightiest Powers, old laws of heaven and earth, Foresight and Faith, and ever-during Toil.

AT MULLION (CORNWALL)

_Sunday_

Where the blue dome is infinite, And choral voices of the sea Chaunt the high lauds, or meek, as now, Intone their ancient litany;

Where through his ritual pomp still moves The Sun in robe pontifical, Whose only creed is catholic light, Whose benediction is for all;

I enter with glad face uplift, Asperged on brow and brain and heart; I am confessed, absolved, illumed, Receive my blessing and depart.

THE WINNOWER TO THE WINDS

(_From Joachim de Bellay_)

To yon light troop, who fly On wing that hurries by The wide world over, And with soft sibilance Bid every shadow dance Of the glad cover.

These violets I consign Lilies and sops-in-wine Roses, all yours, These roses vermeil-tinctured Their graces new-uncinctured And gilly-flowers.

So with your gentle breath Blow on the plain beneath Through my grange blow, What time I swink and strain, Winnowing my golden grain In noontide’s glow.

EMERSON

Memnon the Yankee! bare to every star, But silent till one vibrant shaft of light Strikes; then a voice thrilling, oracular, And clear harmonies through the infinite.

SENT TO AN AMERICAN SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY

’Twixt us through gleam and gloom in glorious play League-long the leonine billows ramp and roll, The same maturing sun illumes our day, Ripens our blood--the sun of Shakespeare’s soul.

NOCTURNE

Ere sleep upheaves me on one glassy billow To drift me down the deep, I lie with easeful head upon my pillow, Letting the minutes creep.

Until Time’s pulse is stayed and all earth’s riot Fades in a limit white, While over me curve fragrant wings of quiet Tender and great as Night.

Then I gaze up. Divine, descending slumber Thine access yet forbear, Though vow I proffer none, nor blessings number, Nor breathe a wordless prayer.

A Presence is within me and above me, That takes me for its own, A Motherhood, a bosom prompt to love me, I know it and am known.

So softly I roll back the Spirit’s portals; O be the entrance wide! Silence and light from home of my Immortals Flow in, a tranquil tide.

Calming, assuaging, cleansing, freshening, freeing, It floods each inlet deep; Now pass thou wave of Light, ebb thought and being! Come thou dark wave of sleep!

THE WHIRLIGIG

Glee at the cottage-doors to-day! Small hearts with joy are big; The merchant chanced to come our way Who vends the whirligig.

You know the marvel-stick of deal, And, where the top should taper, Pinned lightly, the ecstatic wheel, Flaunting its purple paper.

Raptures a halfpenny each; and see The liberal-bosomed mother Faltering; they tug her skirts the three, (Ah, soon will come another!)

Away they start! Swift, swifter fly The buzzing, whirring chips, O eyes grown great! O gleesome cry From daubed, cherubic lips!

I as companion of my walk Had chosen a soul heroic (So much I love superior talk) An Emperor and a Stoic.

The cowslip tossed; upsoared the lark; Our choice was to recline us Against an elm-bole, I and Mark Aurelius Antoninus.

Pale victory lightened on his brow, Grieved conquest wrung from pain; Of Nature’s course he spake, and how Man should sustain, abstain.

Physician of the soul, he spake Of simples that allay The blood, and how the nerves that ache Freeze under ethic spray.

I turned; perhaps his touch of pride Moved me, a garb he wore; I saw those children eager-eyed, And Rome’s pale Emperor.

“You miss,” I said, “born Nature’s rule, Her statutes unrepealed, You would remove us from the school, And from the playing-field.

And if our griefs be vain, our joys Vainer, all’s in the plan; For what are we but gamesome boys? Through these we grow to man.

I to my hornbook now give heed, Now hear my playmates call, Will ‘chase the rolling circles speed, And urge the flying ball.’

Joys, pains, hopes, fears,--a mingled heap, Grant me, nor Prince nor prig! I want, sad Emperor, rosy sleep, Leave me my whirligig.”

In haste I spoke; such gusty talk Oft wrongs these lips of mine; Under grey clouds some day I’ll walk Again with Antonine.

PARADISE LOST AND FOUND

Eve, to tell truth, was not deceived; The snake’s word seemed to tally With something she herself conceived, Sick of her happy valley.

The place amused her for a bit, (Some think ’twas half a day) Then came, alas! a desperate fit Of neurasthenia.

She tired of lions bland and grand, She tired of thornless roses, She felt she could no longer stand Her Adam’s courtly glozes.

His “graceful consort,” “spouse adored,” His amorous-pious lectures; She found herself supremely bored, If one may risk conjectures.

“Would he but scold for once!” sighed she, “_De haut en bas_ caressings, Qualified by astronomy, Prove scarce unmingled blessings.”

She strolled; fine gentlemen in wings Would deftly light and stop her; She looked demure; half-missed her “things,” Half feared ’twas not quite proper.

They asked for Adam, always him, Each affable Archangel, Nor heeded charms of neck or limb, Big with their stale evangel.

They dined; her cookery instinct stirred; A dinner grew a dream, Not berries cold, eternal curd, And everlasting cream.

Boon fruit was hers, but tame in sooth; One thought her soul would grapple-- To get her little ivory tooth Deep in some wicked apple.

So, when that sinuous cavalier Spired near the tree of evil, The woman hasted to draw near; Such luck!--the genuine devil!

And Satan, who to man had lied, Man ever prone to palter, The franker course with woman tried, Assured she would not falter.

He spoke of freedom and its pains, Of passion and its sorrow, Of sacrifice, and nobler gains Wrung from a dark to-morrow.

He did not shirk the names of death, Worn heart, a night of tears-- If here the woman caught her breath, She dared to face her fears.

Perhaps he touched on pretty needs, Named frill, flounce, furbelow, Perhaps referred to sable weeds, And dignity in woe.

Glowed like two rose-leaves both ear-lobes, White grew her lips and set, The sly snake picturing small white robes, A roseate bassinet.

He smiled; then squarely told the curse, Birth-pang, a lord and master; She hung her head--“It might be worse, It seems no huge disaster.”

She mused--“A sin’s a sin at most; Life’s joy outweighs my sentence; What of my man, who now can boast A virtue so portentous?

Best for him too! Sweat, workman’s groan And death which makes us even; I want a sinner of my own, Who finds my breast his heaven.”

Our General Mother, which is true This tale, or that old story, Tradition’s _fable convenue_ Fashioned for Jahveh’s glory?

AFTER METASTASIO

If seeking me she ask “What hap Befel him? Whither is he fled, My friend, my poor unhappy friend?” Then softly answer “He is dead.”

Yet no! May never pang so keen Be hers, and I the giver! Say, If word be spoken, this alone, “Weeping for you he went his way.”

THE CORN-CRAKE

I

Here let the bliss of summer and her night Be on my heart as wide and pure as heaven; Now while o’er earth the tide of young delight Brims to the full, calm’d by the wizard Seven, And their high mistress, yon enchanted Moon; The air is faint, yet fresh as primrose buds, And dim with weft of honey-colour’d beams, A bride-robe for the new espousèd June, Who lies white-limbed among her flowers, nor dreams, Such a divine content her being floods.

II

Awake, awake! The silence hath a voice; Not thine, thou heart of fire, palpitating Until all griefs change countenance and rejoice, And all joys ache o’er-ripe since thou dost sing, Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands, Harsh iteration! note untuneable! Which shears the breathing quiet with a blade Of ragged edge! Say, wilt thou ne’er be still Crier in June’s high progress, whose commands Upon no heedless drowzed heart are laid?

III

Nay, cease not till thy breast disquieted Hath won a term of ease; the dewy grass Trackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread, And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass, To faint on yon soft-bosom’d pastoral steep Thee bird the Night accepts; and I, through thee, Reach to embalmèd hearts of summers dead, Feel round my feet old, inland meadows deep, And bow o’er flowers that not a leaf have shed, Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea.

IV

Even while I muse thy halting-place doth shift, Now nearer, now more distant--I have seen When April, through her shining hair adrift, Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green, The voiceful, wandering envoy of the Spring; Thee, never; though the mower’s scythe hath dashed Thy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant, Viewless; then last we lose thee, and thy wing Brushes Nilotic maize and thou dost chaunt Haply all night to stony ears of Pasht.

V

Ah, now an end to thy inveterate tale! The silence melts from the mid spheres of heaven; Enough! before this peace has time to fail From out my soul, or yon white cloud has driven Up the moon’s path I turn, and I will rest Once more with summer in my heart. Farewell! Shut are the wild-rose cups; no moth’s awhirr; My room will be moon-silvered from the west For one more hour; thy note shall be a burr To tease out thought and catch the slumbrous spell.

IN THE CATHEDRAL

The altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb. But come thou forth into the vital air Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer, And if perchance some faint cold star illume Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn? An altar of the natural rock may rise Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne On the night-wind authentic prophecies: If not, let this--to breathe sane breath--suffice, Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

(_Read at the Centenary Celebration, University of Virginia, 19th Jan. 1909_)

Seeker for Eldorado, magic land, Whose gold is beauty fine-spun, amber-clear, O’er what Moon-mountains, down what Valley of fear By what love waters fringed with pallid sand, Did thy foot falter? Say what airs have fanned Thy fervid brow, blown from no terrene sphere, What rustling wings, what echoes thrilled thine ear From mighty tombs whose brazen ports expand? Seeker, who never quite attained, yet caught, Moulded and fashioned, as by strictest law The rainbow’d moon-mist and the flying gleam To mortal loveliness, for pity and awe, To us what carven dreams thy hand has brought Dreams with the serried logic of a dream.

DEUS ABSCONDITUS

Since Thou dost clothe Thyself to-day in cloud, Lord God in heaven, and no voice low or loud Proclaims Thee,--see, I turn me to the Earth, Its wisdom and its sorrow and its mirth, Thy Earth perchance, but sure my very own, And precious to me grows the clod, the stone, A voiceless moor’s brooding monotony, A keen star quivering through the sunset dye, Young wrinkled beech leaves, saturate with light, The arching wave’s suspended malachite; I turn to men, Thy sons perchance, but sure My brethren, and no face shall be too poor To yield me some unquestionable gain Of wonder, laughter, loathing, pity, pain, Some dog-like craving caught in human eyes, Some new-waked spirit’s April ecstasies; These will not fail nor foil me; while I live There will be actual truck in take and give, But Thou hast foiled me; therefore undistraught, I cease from seeking what will not be sought, Or sought, will not be found through joy or fear, If still Thou claimst me, seek me. I am here.

SUBLIMINAL

Door, little door, Shadowed door in the innermost room of my heart, I lean and listen, withdrawn from the stir and apart, For a word of the wordless love.

And still you hide, Yourself of me, who are more than myself, within, And I wait if perchance a whisper I may win From my soul on the other side.

What do I catch Afloat on the air, for something is said or done? Are there two who speak--my soul and the nameless One? Little door, could I lift the latch.

Sigh for some want Measureless sigh of desire, or a speechless prayer? Rustle of robe of a priest at sacrifice there Benediction or far-heard chaunt?

Could we but meet, Myself and my hidden self in a still amaze! But the tramp of men comes up, and the roll of drays, And a woman’s cry from the street!

LOUISA SHORE

(_Author of “Hannibal, a Drama”_)