Chapter 3

That starry night, A mile or so of shadows from the shore, Two faces bright With laughter light Shone on two souls like stars that shine on shrines; And -- we were four.

Over the reach Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew; We reached the beach, Nor song, nor speech Shall ever tell our sacramental thought When -- we were two.

Nocturne ["I sit to-night by the firelight,"]

I sit to-night by the firelight, And I look at the glowing flame, And I see in the bright red flashes A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

How often have I seen pictures Framed in the firelight's blaze, Of hearts, of names, and of faces, And scenes of remembered days!

How often have I found poems In the crimson of the coals, And the swaying flames of the firelight Unrolled such golden scrolls.

And my eyes, they were proud to read them, In letters of living flame, But to-night, in the fire, I see only One Heart, one Face, and one Name.

But where are the olden pictures? And where are the olden dreams? Has a change come over my vision? Or over the fire's bright gleams?

Not over my vision, surely; My eyes -- they are still the same, That used to find in the firelight So many a face and name.

Not over the firelight, either, No change in the coals or blaze That flicker and flash, as ruddy To-night as in other days.

But there must be a change -- I feel it. To-night not an old picture came; The fire's bright flames only painted One Heart, one Face, and one Name.

Three pictures? No! only one picture; The Face belongs to the Name, And the Name names the Heart that is throbbing Just back of the beautiful flame.

Who said it, I wonder: "All faces Must fade in the light of but one; The soul, like the earth, may have many Horizons, but only one sun?"

Who dreamt it? Did I? If I dreamt it 'Tis true -- every name passes by Save one; the sun wears many cloudlets Of gold, but has only one sky.

And out of the flames have they faded, The hearts and the faces of yore? Have they sunk 'neath the gray of the ashes To rise to my vision no more?

Yes, surely, or else I would see them To-night, just as bright as of old, In the white of the coal's silver flashes, In the red of the restless flames' gold.

Do you say I am fickle and faithless? Else why are the old pictures gone? And why should the visions of many Melt into the vision of one?

Nay! list to the voice of the Heavens, "One Eternal alone reigns above." Is it true? and all else are but idols, So the heart can have only one love?

Only one, all the rest are but idols, That fall from their shrines soon or late, When the Love that is Lord of the temple, Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate.

To be faithless oft means to be faithful, To be false often means to be true; The vale that loves clouds that are golden Forgets them for skies that are blue.

To forget often means to remember What we had forgotten too long; The fragrance is not the bright flower, The echo is not the sweet song.

Am I dreaming? No, there is the firelight, Gaze I ever so long, all the same I only can see in its glowing A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

Farewell! all ye hearts, names, and faces! Only ashes now under the blaze, Ye never again will smile on me, For I'm touching the end of my days.

And the beautiful fading firelight Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, Three pictures -- yet only one picture -- A Heart, a Face, and a Name.

The Old Year and the New

How swift they go, Life's many years, With their winds of woe And their storms of tears, And their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom The clouds of the tempest -- the shadows of the gloom!

And ah! we pray With a grief so drear, That the years may stay When their graves are near; Tho' the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright, With love and with beauty, with life and with light, The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, To the hearts that survive them, are evermore dear.

For the hearts so true To each Old Year cleaves; Tho' the hand of the New Flowery garlands weaves. But the flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair, With the past's withered leaflets may never compare; For dear is each dead leaf -- and dearer each thorn -- In the wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn.

Yea! men will cling With a love to the last, And wildly fling Their arms round their past! As the vine that clings to the oak that falls; As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls; For the dust of the past some hearts higher prize Than the stars that flash out from the future's bright skies.

And why not so? The old, Old Years, They knew and they know All our hopes and fears; We walked by their side, and we told them each grief, And they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief; And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed In the hearts of the dead years are buried and sealed.

Let the New Year sing At the Old Year's grave: Will the New Year bring What the Old Year gave? Ah! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows, And his brow is wreathed with many a rose: But how many thorns do the roses conceal Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal?

Let the New Year smile When the Old Year dies; In how short a while Shall the smiles be sighs? Yea! Stranger-Year, thou hast many a charm, And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, But, dearer than thou -- in his shroud of snows -- Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes.

Yea! bright New Year, O'er all the earth, With song and cheer, They will hail thy birth; They will trust thy words in a single hour, They will love thy face, they will laud thy power; For the ~New~ has charms which the ~Old~ has not, And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot.

Erin's Flag

Unroll Erin's flag! fling its folds to the breeze! Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! Lift it out of the dust -- let it wave as of yore, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never! no, never! while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never! no, never! that banner should yield As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield: While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field.

Lift it up! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of old! Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears! Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky, 'Tis the sunburst resplendent -- far, flashing on high! Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh!

Lift it up! lift it up! the old Banner of Green! The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen; What though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? What though for ages it droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? No, no! God is just! Take it up! take it up! from the tyrant's foul tread, Let him tear the Green Flag -- we will snatch its last shred, And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread; And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 'Til the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said -- That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red!

Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home, Full long has its lot been to wander and roam, It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, It has flitted and fled -- but it never shall rest, 'Til, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to the shores of its old home again, Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane.

Take it up! take it up! bear it back from afar! That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war; Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth To join in the march to the land of their birth; And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home!"

The Sword of Robert Lee

Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, Flashed the sword of Lee! Far in the front of the deadly fight, High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, Led us to Victory!

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, It slumbered peacefully, Roused from its rest by the battle's song, Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, Gleamed the sword of Lee!

Forth from its scabbard, high in air Beneath Virginia's sky -- And they who saw it gleaming there, And knew who bore it, knelt to swear That where that sword led they would dare To follow -- and to die!

Out of its scabbard! Never hand Waved sword from stain as free, Nor purer sword led braver band, Nor braver bled for a brighter land, Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, Nor cause a chief like Lee!

Forth from its scabbard! How we prayed That sword might victor be; And when our triumph was delayed, And many a heart grew sore afraid, We still hoped on while gleamed the blade Of noble Robert Lee!

Forth from its scabbard all in vain Bright flashed the sword of Lee; 'Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, Defeated, yet without a stain, Proudly and peacefully!

Life

A baby played with the surplice sleeve Of a gentle priest; while in accents low, The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe," And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow In the name of the Father, and the Son, And Holy Spirit -- Three in One.

Spotless as a lily's leaf, Whiter than the Christmas snow; Not a sign of sin or grief, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.

A smile flitted over the baby's face: Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing Just passing then, and leaving a trace Of its presence as it soared to sing? A hymn when words and waters win To grace and life a child of sin.

Not an outward sign or token, That a child was saved from woe; But the bonds of sin were broken, And the babe laughed, sweet and low.

A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, And out of the cloud grief's rain fell fast; Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, Out of the future, or the past? Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, And gall must mingle with the sweet.

Yea, upon the baby's laughter Trickled tears: 'tis ever so -- Mothers dread the dark hereafter; But the babe laughed sweet and low.

And the years like waves broke on the shore Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life; But her lone heart drifted away before Her little boy knew an hour of strife; Drifted away on a Summer's eve, Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve

Her humble grave was gently made Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow; The wild birds sang where her heart was laid, And her boy laughed sweet and low.

He drifted away from his mother's grave, Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide, Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. Out from the shore and over the deep, He sailed away and learned to weep.

Furrowed grew the face once fair, Under storms of human woe; Silvered grew the dark brown hair, And he wailed so sad and low.

The years swept on as erst they swept, Bright wavelets once, dark billows now; Wherever he sailed he ever wept, A cloud hung over the darkened brow -- Over the deep and into the dark, But no one knew where sank his bark.

Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, The world still laughed, 'tis ever so -- God only knows the baby's doom, That laughed so sweet and low.

A Laugh -- and A Moan

The brook that down the valley So musically drips, Flowed never half so brightly As the light laugh from her lips.

Her face was like the lily, Her heart was like the rose, Her eyes were like a heaven Where the sunlight always glows.

She trod the earth so lightly Her feet touched not a thorn; Her words wore all the brightness Of a young life's happy morn.

Along her laughter rippled The melody of joy; She drank from every chalice, And tasted no alloy.

Her life was all a laughter, Her days were all a smile, Her heart was pure and happy, She knew not gloom nor guile.

She rested on the bosom Of her mother, like a flower That blooms far in a valley Where no storm-clouds ever lower.

And -- "Merry, merry, merry!" Rang the bells of every hour, And -- "Happy, happy, happy!" In her valley laughed the flower.

There was not a sign of shadow, There was not a tear nor thorn, And the sweet voice of her laughter Filled with melody the morn.

* * * * *

Years passed -- 'twas long, long after, And I saw a face at prayer; There was not a sign of laughter, There was every sign of care.

For the sunshine all had faded From the valley and the flower, And the once fair face was shaded In life's lonely evening hour.

And the lips that smiled with laughter In the valley of the morn, In the valley of the evening They were pale and sorrow-worn.

And I read the old, old lesson In her face and in her tears, While she sighed amid the shadows Of the sunset of her years.

All the rippling streams of laughter From our hearts and lips that flow, Shall be frozen, cold years after, Into icicles of woe.

In Memory of My Brother

Young as the youngest who donned the Gray, True as the truest that wore it, Brave as the bravest he marched away, (Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay) Triumphant waved our flag one day -- He fell in the front before it.

Firm as the firmest, where duty led, He hurried without a falter; Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, And the day was won -- but the field was red -- And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed On his country's hallowed altar.

On the trampled breast of the battle plain Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain, (His mother dreams they will meet again) The fairest form amid all the slain, Like a child asleep he nestled.

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept The field where his comrades found him, They buried him there -- and the big tears crept Into strong men's eyes that had seldom wept. (His mother -- God pity her -- smiled and slept, Dreaming her arms were around him.)

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, A grave in the heart of his mother -- His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone; There is not a name, there is not a stone, And only the voice of the winds maketh moan O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn But -- his memory lives in the other.

"Out of the Depths"

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry went up from a sea -- The waves were wild with an awful wrath, Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; The clouds hung low: Lost! Lost! Lost! Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! The cry floated over the waves -- Far over the pitiless waves; It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; The billows below them were weaving white shrouds Out of the foam of the surge, And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: Lost! Lost! Lost! Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Not the sign of a hope was nigh, In the sea, in the air, or the sky; And the lifted faces were wan and white, There was nothing without them but storm and night And nothing within but fear. But far to a Father's ear: Lost! Lost! Lost! Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed.

Lost! Lost! Lost! Out of the depths of the sea -- Out of the night and the sea; And the waves and the winds of the storm were hushed, And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed. Saved! Saved! Saved! And a calm and a joyous cry Floated up through the starry sky, In the dark -- in the storm -- "Our Father" is nigh.

A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed With crimson glory may be sweet; 'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

The rose that waves upon its tree, In life sheds perfume all around; More sweet the perfume floats to me Of roses trampled on the ground.

The waving rose with every breath Scents carelessly the summer air; The wounded rose bleeds forth in death A sweetness far more rich and rare.

It is a truth beyond our ken -- And yet a truth that all may read -- It is with roses as with men, The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom Out of a heart all full of grace, Gave never forth its full perfume Until the cross became its vase.

March of the Deathless Dead

Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, And died for me and you.

Gather them one and all, From the private to the chief; Come they from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall The tears of a Nation's grief.

Gather the corpses strewn O'er many a battle plain; From many a grave that lies so lone, Without a name and without a stone, Gather the Southern slain.

We care not whence they came, Dear in their lifeless clay! Whether unknown, or known to fame, Their cause and country still the same; They died -- and wore the Gray.

Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart; Living, they struggled side by side, Why should the hand of Death divide A single heart from heart?

Gather their scattered clay, Wherever it may rest; Just as they marched to the bloody fray, Just as they fell on the battle day, Bury them, breast to breast.

The foeman need not dread This gathering of the brave; Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, We muster once more our deathless dead, Out of each lonely grave.

The foeman need not frown, They all are powerless now; We gather them here and we lay them down, And tears and prayers are the only crown We bring to wreathe each brow.

And the dead thus meet the dead, While the living o'er them weep; And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together bled, Together still shall sleep.

Reunited

[Written after the yellow fever epidemic of 1878.]

Purer than thy own white snow, Nobler than thy mountains' height; Deeper than the ocean's flow, Stronger than thy own proud might; O Northland! to thy sister land, Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand.

Nigh twice ten years the sword was sheathed: Its mist of green o'er battle plain For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; And yet the crimson life-blood stain From passive swards had never paled, Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed.

Between the Northland, bride of snow, And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, Swept, deepening ever in its flow, The stormy wake, in war's dark tide: No hand might clasp across the tears And blood and anguish of four deathless years.

When Summer, like a rose in bloom, Had blossomed from the bud of Spring, Oh! who could deem the dews of doom Upon the blushing lips could cling? And who could believe its fragrant light Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight?

Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, That e'en from out its brightness spread, And prostrate, powerless, she fell, Rachel-like, amid her dead. Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, The waiting grave would welcome as its guest.

The Northland, strong in love, and great, Forgot the stormy days of strife; Forgot that souls with dreams of hate Or unforgiveness e'er were rife. Forgotten was each thought and hushed; Save -- she was generous and her foe was crushed.

No hand might clasp, from land to land; Yea! there was one to bridge the tide! For at the touch of Mercy's hand The North and South stood side by side: The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, In Charity's espousals are made one.

"Thou givest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my anguished years.

"Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore, Blessings that from sorrow save, Blessings giving more and more, For all thou gavest thy sister land, O Northland, in thy generous deed and grand."

A Memory

Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place at eventide.

Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue That well became the valley fair, And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders everywhere.

And where the stream, in wayward whirls, Went winding in and winding out, Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls Without their pride, all strewn about.

And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals made.

And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts, but not the palm of fame.

The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore; While bluer than the bluest sky The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore.

And on the height, and down the side Of either hill that hid the place, Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race.

While here and there the trees between -- Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, And frowning wrathful -- might be seen The moss-veiled faces of the rocks.

And round the rocks crept flowered vines, And clomb the trees that towered high -- The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a truth -- to touch the sky.

And to that vale, from first of May Until the last of August went, Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent.

'Twas there, one long-gone August day, I wandered down the valley fair: The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there.

The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day, Which flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away.

And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen, That flashed and faded, like the hopes That haunt us of what might have been.

And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems.

Low in the west gleam after gleam Glowed faint and fainter, till the last Made the dying day a living dream, To last as long as life shall last.

And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing; And e'en the lips of the summer breeze That sang all day, had ceased to sing.

And all was silent, save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet, And sang, while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet.