Chapter 2
’Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars. ’Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, ’Tis not Venus, she whose duty ’Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.
Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid. All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.
Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.
Wisdom wearies, Love has wings— Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown— So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter. He alone gives constant joy. Hail to Momus, happy boy.
I DREAM
Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life In the full meaning of that splendid word. Its subtle music which few men have heard, Though all may hear it, sounding through earth’s strife. Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust; Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst, Its certain purpose, its serene repose, Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes, This is my dream of Life.
Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love As radiant and brilliant as a star. As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar Which glorifies vast worlds of space above. Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath, Before it bursts in fury; and as deep As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep, And sad as birth, and beautiful as death. As fervent as the fondest soul could crave, Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave. This is my dream of Love.
Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream Is beautiful and comforting and blest, Complete with certain promises of rest, Divine content, and ecstasy supreme. When that strange essence, author of all faith, That subtle something, which cries for the light, Like a lost child who wanders in the night, Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death, Shall find eternal progress, or sublime And satisfying slumber for all time. This is my dream of Death.
THE SONNET
Alone it stands in Poesy’s fair land, A temple by the muses set apart; A perfect structure of consummate art, By artists builded and by genius planned, Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand, Beyond the ken of the untutored heart, Like a fine carving in a common mart, Only the favoured few will understand. A _chef-d’œvre_ toiled over with great care, Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by, A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire, An ancient bit of pottery, too rare To please or hold aught save the special eye, These only with the sonnet can compare.
THE PAST
Fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.
A DREAM
That was a curious dream; I thought the three Great planets that are drawing near the sun With such unerring certainty begun To talk together in a mighty glee. They spoke of vast convulsions which would be Throughout the solar system—the rare fun Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one, And vanish in a seething vapour sea.
I thought I heard them comment on the earth— That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt. They wondered if live creatures moved about Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth. And then they laughed—’twas such a singing shout That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.
USELESSNESS
Let mine not be that saddest fate of all To live beyond my greater self; to see My faculties decaying, as the tree Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall. Let me hear rather the imperious call, Which all men dread, in my glad morning time, And follow death ere I have reached my prime, Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life’s gall. The lightning’s stroke or the fierce tempest blast Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day Is kinder than the calm that lets it last, Unhappy witness of its own decay. May no man ever look on me and say, “She lives, but all her usefulness is past.”
WILL
There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, Can circumvent or hinder or control The firm resolve of a determined soul. Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; All things give way before it, soon or late. What obstacle can stay the mighty force Of the sea-seeking river in its course, Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, Whose slightest action or inaction serve. The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still, And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.
WINTER RAIN
Falling upon the frozen world last I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain— Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, Far better had the fixedness of white And uncomplaining snows—which make no sign, But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine— Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow, I do not waste the gall now of my tears, But feed my pride upon its bitter, while I look straight in the world’s bold eyes, and smile.
LIFE
Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee, Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time. There is no path too steep for him to climb. With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free, As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, Till, tired out, he cries, “Now carry me!” In vain we murmur; “Come,” Life says, “Fair play!” And seizes on us. God! he goads us so! He does not let us sit down all the day. At each new step we feel the burden grow, Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, Watching for Death to meet us on the way.
BURDENED
“Genius, a man’s weapon, a woman’s burden.”—Lamartine.
Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life Than to be burdened so that you can not Sit down contented with the common lot Of happy mother and devoted wife.
To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife With all the sea’s commotion; to be fraught With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, And weighed down with the wild world’s weary strife;
To feel a fever always in your breast; To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame, A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name; To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest, And know, however great your meed of fame, You are but a weak woman at the best.
LET THEM GO
Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams, And shoot the shadows through and through with light? What matters one lost vision of the night? Let the dream go!!
Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky? Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes Before some light is lent it from on high; What folly to think happiness gone by! Let the hope set!
Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys, Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom? Severe must be the winter that destroys The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb. What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom Let the joy fade!
Let the love die. Are there not other loves As beautiful and full of sweet unrest, Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves? They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast, And thou shalt say of each, “Lo, this is best!” Let the love die!
FIVE KISSES
THE MOTHER’S KISS I
Love breathed a secret to her listening heart, And said “Be silent.” Though she guarded it, And dwelt as one within a world apart, Yet sun and star seemed by that secret lit. And where she passed, each whispering wind ablow, And every little blossom in the sod, Called joyously to her, “We know, we know, For are we not the intimates of God?” Life grew so radiant, and so opulent, That when her fragile body and her brain By mortal throes of agony were rent, She felt a curious rapture in her pain. Then, after anguish, came the supreme bliss— They brought the little baby, for her kiss!
THE BETROTHAL II
There was a little pause between the dances; Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played. The dusky path was lit by ardent glances As forth they fared, a lover and a maid. He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden— All redolent with sweet midsummer charm, And by the great primeval instinct bidden, He drew her in the shelter of his arm. The words that long deep in his heart had trembled Found sudden utterance; she at first dissembled, Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand, Then murmured “Yes,” and yielded, woman fashion, Her virgin mouth to young love’s kiss of passion.
THE BRIDAL KISS III
As fleecy clouds trail back across the skies, Showing the sweet young moon in azure space, The lifted veil revealed her shining face— A sudden wonder to his eager eyes. In that familiar beauty lurked surprise: For now the wife stood in the maiden’s place— With conscious dignity, and woman’s grace, And love’s large pride grown trebly fair and wise.
The world receded, leaving them alone. The universe was theirs, from sphere to sphere, And life assumed new meaning, and new worth. Love held no privilege they did not own, And when they kissed each other without fear, They understood why God had made the earth.
DOMESTIC BLISS IV
Sequestered in their calm domestic bower, They sat together. He in manhood’s prime And she a matron in her fullest flower. The mantel clock gave forth a warning chime. She put her work aside; his bright cigar Grew pale, and crumbled in an ashen heap. The lights went out, save one remaining star That watched beside the children in their sleep. She hummed a little song and nestled near, As side by side they went to their repose. His arm about her waist, he whispered “Dear,” And pressed his lips upon her mouth’s full rose— The sacred sweetness of their wedded life Breathed in that kiss of husband and of wife.
OLD AGE V
The young see heaven—but to the old who wait The final call, the hills of youth arise More beautiful than shores of Paradise. Beside a glowing and voracious grate A dozing couple dream of yesterday; The islands of a vanished past appear, Bringing forgotten names and faces near; While lost in mist, the present fades away. The fragrant winds of tender memories blow Across the gardens of the “Used-to-be!” They smile into each other’s eyes, and see The bride and bridegroom of the long ago. And tremulous lips, pressed close to faded cheek Love’s silent tale of deathless passion speak.
RETROSPECTION
I look down the lengthening distance Far back to youth’s valley of hope. How strange seemed the ways of existence, How infinite life and its scope!
What dreams, what ambitions came thronging To people a world of my own! How the heart in my bosom was longing, For pleasures and places unknown.
But the hill-tops of pleasure and beauty Were covered with mist at the dawn; And only the rugged road Duty Shone clear, as my feet wandered on.
I loved not the path and its leading, I hated the rocks and the dust; But a Voice from the Silence was pleading, It spoke but one syllable—“Trust.”
I saw, as the morning grew older, The fair flowered hills of delight; And the feet of my comrades grew bolder, They hurried away from my sight.
And when on the pathway I faltered, And when I rebelled at my fate, The Voice with assurance unaltered, Again spoke one syllable—“Wait.”
Along the hard highway I travelled And saw, with dim vision, how soon The morning’s gold locks were unravelled, By fingers of amorous noon.
A turn in the pathway of duty— I stood in the perfect day’s prime, Close, close to the hillside of beauty The Voice from the Silence said “Climb”
The road to the beautiful Regions Lies ever through Duty’s hard way. Oh ye who go searching in legions, Know this and be patient to-day.
HELENA
Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise Of late all men have sounded. She for whom Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb Rather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long, She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile I find no fascination in her smile, Although I make her theme of this poor song.
“Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair, And yet to me each shining silken tress Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless— Too many hands have stroked Helena’s hair.
(I know a little maiden so demure She will not let her one true lover’s hands In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)
“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me. Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.
(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)
“Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?” “Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?” I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.
(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape’s bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in passion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died.)
In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it, Armoured by my sweet lady’s trust, I sit, And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.
NOTHING REMAINS
Nothing remains of unrecorded ages That lie in the silent cemetery time; Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, Their glory may have been indeed sublime. How weak do seem our strivings after power, How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, If out of all we are, in one short hour Nothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces, Time and decay uproot the forest trees. Even the mighty mountains leave their places, And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasms And turns the proudest cities into plains. The level sea becomes a yawning chasm— Nothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry, Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky. Ideas die and old religions perish, Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains Are swept away with all we hate or cherish— Nothing remains.
Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless And all-creative spirit of the Law, Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; So full of love it must create for ever, Destroying that it may create again, Persistent and perfecting in endeavour, It yet must bring forth angels, after men— This, this remains!
COMRADES
I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and put it away, So we could rejoice together.
Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of this cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine.
We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain.
And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the _best_ of all.
We rarely meet when the world is near, For the World hath a pleasing art And brings me so much that is bright and dear That my Soul it keepeth apart.
But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, Of glitter, glow, and splendour, Like a tried old friend it comes to me, With a smile that is sad and tender.
And we walk together as two friends may, And laugh and drink God’s wine. Oh, a royal comrade any day I find this Soul of mine.
WHAT GAIN?
Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair, While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes, Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, “Care,” Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs, Were it not kindness should I give thee rest By plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast? Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth, What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth? Only the woe, Sweetheart, that sad souls know.
Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust, Of pure delight and palpitating joy, Ere change can come, as come it surely must, With jarring doubts and discords, to destroy Our far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet, Were it not best for both of us, and meet, If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss? Dying so full of joy, what could we miss? Nothing but tears, Sweetheart, and weary years.
How slight the action! Just one well-aimed blow Here, where I feel thy warm heart’s pulsing beat, And then another through my own, and so Our perfect union would be made complete: So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine. Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine, Should we not keep the best of life that way? What shall we gain by living day on day? What shall we gain, Sweetheart, but bitter pain?
TO THE WEST
[In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: “The literature of the New World must look to the West for its poetry.”]
Not to the crowded East, Where, in a well-worn groove, Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine, The trammelled mind must move— Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought, Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.
Not to the languid South, Where the mariners of the brain Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense, And wrecked upon its main— Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind’s breath To a torpid sleep that ends in death.
But to the mighty West, That chosen realm of God, Where Nature reaches her hands to men, And Freedom walks abroad— Where mind is King, and fashion is naught, There shall the New World look for thought
To the West, the beautiful West, She shall look, and not in vain— For out of its broad and boundless store Come muscle, and nerve, and brain. Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb— For out of the West shall the Poets come.
They shall come with souls as great As the cradle where they were rocked; They shall come with brows that are touched with fire Like the gods with whom they have walked; They shall come from the West in royal state, The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait.
THE LAND OF CONTENT
I set out for the Land of Content, By the gay crowded pleasure-highway, With laughter, and jesting, I went With the mirth-loving throng for a day; Then I knew I had wandered astray, For I met returned pilgrims, belated, Who said, “We are weary and sated, But we found not the Land of Content.”
I turned to the steep path of fame, I said, “It is over yon height— This land with the beautiful name— Ambition will lend me its light.” But I paused in my journey ere night, For the way grew so lonely and troubled; I said—my anxiety doubled— “This is not the road to Content.”
Then I joined the great rabble and throng That frequents the moneyed world’s mart; But the greed, and the grasping and wrong, Left me only one wish—to depart. And sickened, and saddened at heart, I hurried away from the gateway, For my soul and my spirit said straightway. “This is not the road to Content.”
Then weary in body and brain, An overgrown path I detected, And I said “I will hide with my pain In this byway, unused and neglected.” Lo! it led to the realm God selected To crown with His best gifts of beauty, And through the dark pathway of duty I came to the land of Content.
WARNING
High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, Albeit the sun shone bright; Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, “Remember Night!”
AFTER THE BATTLES ARE OVER
[Read at Reunion of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.]
After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life.
Just as the tangled grasses, In Summer’s warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valour, And many a deed sublime, Fade from the mind of the soldier O’ergrown by the grass of time
Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old! They should live for ever and ever, When the heroes’ hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, reunite! Uproot Time’s tangled grasses— Live over the march, and the fight.
Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother’s hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation’s burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again.
This silent hero of battles Knew no such word as defeat. It was left for the rebels’ learning, Along with the word—retreat. He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech