Chapter 8

They come to ev'ry life -- sad, sunless days, With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; And thro' the dark we grope along our ways With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs.

What is the dark? Why cometh it? and whence? Why does it banish all the bright away? How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense? Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray?

Hast felt it? I have felt it, and I know How oft and suddenly the shadows roll From out the depths of some dim realm of woe, To wrap their darkness round the human soul.

Those days are darker than the very night; For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams; But these days bring unto the spirit-sight The mysteries of gloom, until it seems

The light is gone forever, and the dark Hangs like a pall of death above the soul, Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, And sinks beneath a sea where tempests roll.

____ Winter on the Atlantic.

A Reverie ["Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream?"]

Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Why ask when the night only knoweth? The night -- and the angel of sleep! But ever since then a music deep, Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth Under each thought of my spirit that groweth Into the blossom and bloom of speech -- Under each fancy that cometh and goeth -- Wayward, as waves when evening breeze bloweth Out of the sunset and into the beach. And is it a wonder I wept to-day? For I mused and thought, but I cannot say If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night; And now -- even now -- 'neath the words I write, The flush of the dream or the flow of the song -- I cannot tell which -- moves strangely along. But why write more? I am puzzled sore: Did I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; The words of earth are a darksome veil, The poet weaves it with artful grace; Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, Lets it rustle along his rhymes, But gathers it close, covering the face Of ev'ry thought that must not part From out the keeping of his heart.

St. Mary's

Back to where the roses rest Round a shrine of holy name, (Yes -- they knew me when I came) More of peace and less of fame Suit my restless heart the best.

Back to where long quiets brood, Where the calm is never stirred By the harshness of a word, But instead the singing bird Sweetens all my solitude.

With the birds and with the flowers Songs and silences unite, From the morning unto night; And somehow a clearer light Shines along the quiet hours.

God comes closer to me here -- Back of ev'ry rose leaf there He is hiding -- and the air Thrills with calls to holy prayer; Earth grows far, and heaven near.

Every single flower is fraught With the very sweetest dreams, Under clouds or under gleams Changeful ever -- yet meseems On each leaf I read God's thought.

Still, at times, as place of death, Not a sound to vex the ear, Yet withal it is not drear; Better for the heart to hear, Far from men -- God's gentle breath.

Where men clash, God always clings: When the human passes by, Like a cloud from summer sky, God so gently draweth nigh, And the brightest blessings brings.

List! e'en now a wild bird sings, And the roses seem to hear Every note that thrills my ear, Rising to the heavens clear, And my soul soars on its wings

Up into the silent skies Where the sunbeams veil the star, Up -- beyond the clouds afar, Where no discords ever mar, Where rests peace that never dies.

So I live within the calm, And the birds and roses know That the days that come and go Are as peaceful as the flow Of a prayer beneath a psalm.

De Profundis

Ah! days so dark with death's eclipse! Woe are we! woe are we! And the nights are ages long! From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips O my God! woe are we! Trembleth the mourner's song; A blight is falling on the fair, And hope is dying in despair, And terror walketh everywhere.

All the hours are full of tears -- O my God! woe are we! Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes -- Every heart is strung with fears, Woe are we! woe are we! All the light hath left the skies, And the living awe struck crowds See above them only clouds, And around them only shrouds.

Ah! the terrible farewells! Woe are they! woe are they! When last words sink into moans, While life's trembling vesper bells -- O my God! woe are we! Ring the awful undertones! Not a sun in any day! In the night-time not a ray, And the dying pass away!

Dark! so dark! above -- below -- O my God! woe are we! Cowereth every human life. Wild the wailing; to and fro! Woe are all! woe are we! Death is victor in the strife: In the hut and in the hall He is writing on the wall Dooms for many -- fears for all.

Thro' the cities burns a breath, Woe are they! woe are we! Hot with dread and deadly wrath; Life and love lock arms in death, Woe are they! woe are all! Victims strew the spectre's path; Shy-eyed children softly creep Where their mothers wail and weep -- In the grave their fathers sleep.

Mothers waft their prayers on high, O my God! woe are we! With their dead child on their breast. And the altars ask the sky -- O my Christ! woe are we! "Give the dead, O Father, rest! Spare thy people! mercy! spare!" Answer will not come to prayer -- Horror moveth everywhere.

And the temples miss the priest -- O my God! woe are we! And the cradle mourns the child. Husband at your bridal feast -- Woe are you! woe are you! Think how those poor dead eyes smiled; They will never smile again -- Every tie is cut in twain, All the strength of love is vain.

Weep? but tears are weak as foam -- Woe are ye! woe are we! They but break upon the shore Winding between here and home -- Woe are ye! woe are we! Wailing never! nevermore! Ah! the dead! they are so lone, Just a grave, and just a stone, And the memory of a moan.

Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet -- O my God! woe are we! Tears will trickle into prayers When we kneel down at His feet -- Woe are we! woe are we! With our crosses and our cares. He will calm the tortured breast, He will give the troubled rest -- And the dead He watcheth best.

When? (Death)

Some day in Spring, When earth is fair and glad, And sweet birds sing, And fewest hearts are sad -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know it will be sweet To leave the homes of men And rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In Thy home, O my God!

Some Summer morn Of splendors and of songs, When roses hide the thorn And smile -- the spirit's wrongs -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; I know I will rejoice To leave the haunts of men And lie beneath the sod, To hear Thy tender voice In Thy home, O my God!

Some Autumn eve, When chill clouds drape the sky, When bright things grieve Because all fair things die -- Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when, I know I shall be glad, Away from the homes of men, Adown beneath the sod, My heart will not be sad In Thy home, O my God!

Some Wintry day, When all skies wear a gloom, And beauteous May Sleeps in December's tomb, Shall I die then? Ah! me, no matter when; My soul shall throb with joy To leave the haunts of men And sleep beneath the sod. Ah! there is no alloy In Thy joys, O my God!

Haste, death! be fleet; I know it will be sweet To rest beneath the sod, To kneel and kiss Thy feet In heaven, O my God!

The Conquered Banner

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it -- let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner -- it is trailing! While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe.

For, though conquered, they adore it! Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! Weep for those who fell before it! Pardon those who trailed and tore it! But, oh! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so.

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages -- Furl its folds though now we must.

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly! Treat it gently -- it is holy -- For it droops above the dead. Touch it not -- unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead!

A Christmas Chant

They ask me to sing them a Christmas song That with musical mirth shall ring; How know I that the world's great throng Will care for the words I sing?

Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, Their voices and hearts are glad; But I -- I am old, and my locks are gray, And they tell me my voice is sad.

Ah! once I could sing, when my heart beat warm With hopes, bright as life's first spring; But the spring hath fled, and the golden charm Hath gone from the songs I sing.

I have lost the spell that my verse could weave O'er the souls of the old and young, And never again -- how it makes me grieve -- Shall I sing as once I sung.

Why ask a song? ah! perchance you believe, Since my days are so nearly past, That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve Is the old man's best and last.

Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme? Art's sweet but meaningless notes? Or the music of thought, that, like the chime Of a grand cathedral, floats

Out of each word, and along each line, Into the spirit's ear, Lifting it up and making it pine For a something far from here;

Bearing the wings of the soul aloft From earth and its shadows dim; Soothing the breast with a sound as soft As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;

Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears From our being's higher part; Dimming the eyes with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart?

Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along -- The undertone of a life!

Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules -- A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools:

A music I learned in the days long gone -- I cannot tell where or how -- But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow.

And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells.

But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song?

The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there;

That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few?

They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so?

That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd.

They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above;

That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath.

And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true?

No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song.

And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels.

Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve Are haunting the lonely man, Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, He'll sing them as best he can.

Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke This holiest night of the year, Who knows how its melody may wake A Christmas smile or a tear?

So on with the mystic song, With its meaning manifold -- Two tones in every word, Two thoughts in every tone; In the measured words that move along One meaning shall be heard, One thought to all be told; But under it all, to be alone -- And under it all, to all unknown -- As safe as under a coffin-lid, Deep meanings shall be hid. Find them out who can! The thoughts concealed and unrevealed In the song of the lonely man.

* * * * *

I'm sitting alone in my silent room This long December night, Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom With many a picture bright. Ah! how the fire can paint! Its magic skill, how strange! How every spark On the canvas dark Draws figures and forms so quaint! And how the pictures change! One moment how they smile! And in less than a little while, In the twinkling of an eye, Like the gleam of a summer sky, The beaming smiles all die.

From gay to grave -- from grave to gay -- The faces change in the shadows gray; And just as I wonder who they are, Over them all, Like a funeral pall, The folds of the shadows droop and fall, And the charm is gone, And every one Of the pictures fade away.

Ah! the fire within my grate Hath more than Raphael's power, Is more than Raphael's peer; It paints for me in a little hour More than he in a year; And the pictures hanging 'round me here This holy Christmas eve No artist's pencil could create -- No painter's art conceive;

Ah! those cheerful faces, Wearing youthful graces! I gaze on them until I seem Half awake and half in dream. There are brows without a mark, Features bright without a shade; There are eyes without a tear; There are lips unused to sigh. Ah! never mind -- you soon shall die! All those faces soon shall fade, Fade into the dreary dark Like their pictures hanging here. -- Lo! those tearful faces, Bearing age's traces!

I gaze on them, and they on me, Until I feel a sorrow steal Through my heart so drearily; There are faces furrowed deep; There are eyes that used to weep; There are brows beneath a cloud; There are hearts that want to sleep; Never mind! the shadows creep From the death-land; and a shroud, Tenderly as mother's arm, Soon shall shield the old from harm, Soon shall wrap its robe of rest Round each sorrow-haunted breast Ah! that face of mother's, Sister's, too, and brother's -- And so many others, Dear is every name -- And Ethel! Thou art there, With thy child-face sweet and fair, And thy heart so bright In its shroud so white; Just as I saw you last In the golden, happy past; And you seem to wear Upon your hair -- Your waving, golden hair -- The smile of the setting sun. Ah! me, how years will run! But all the years cannot efface Your purest name, your sweetest grace, From the heart that still is true Of all the world to you; The other faces shine, But none so fair as thine; And wherever they are to-night, I know They look the very same As in their pictures hanging here This night, to memory dear, And painted by the flames, With tombstones in the background, And shadows for their frames.

And thus with my pictures only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve. I'm sitting alone in my pictured room -- But, no! they have vanished all -- I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, I'm watching the ashes fall. And far away back of the cheerful blaze The beautiful visions of by-gone days Are rising before my raptured gaze. Ah! Christmas fire, so bright and warm, Hast thou a wizard's magic charm To bring those far-off scenes so near And make my past days meet me here?

Tell me -- tell me -- how is it? The past is past, and here I sit, And there, lo! there before me rise, Beyond yon glowing flame, The summer suns of childhood's skies, Yes -- yes -- the very same! I saw them rise long, long ago; I played beneath their golden glow; And I remember yet, I often cried with strange regret When in the west I saw them set And there they are again; The suns, the skies, the very days Of childhood, just beyond that blaze! But, ah! such visions almost craze The old man's puzzled brain! I thought the past was past! But, no! it cannot be; 'Tis here to-night with me!

How is it, then? the past of men Is part of one eternity -- The days of yore we so deplore, They are not dead -- they are not fled, They live and live for evermore. And thus my past comes back to me With all its visions fair.

O past! could I go back to thee, And live forever there! But, no! there's frost upon my hair; My feet have trod a path of care; And worn and wearied here I sit I am too tired to go to it.

And thus with visions only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; But, no! the fire is dying, And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, Are sad, and I hear them sighing. The wind hath a voice to pine -- Plaintive, and pensive and low; Hath it a heart like mine or thine? Knoweth it weal or woe? How it wails in a ghost-like strain, Just against that window pane! As if it were tired of its long, cold flight, And wanted to rest with me to-night. Cease! night-winds, cease! Why should you be sad? This is a night of joy and peace, And heaven and earth are glad! But still the wind's voice grieves! Perchance o'er the fallen leaves, Which, in their summer bloom, Danced to the music of bird and breeze, But, torn from the arms of their parent trees, Lie now in their wintry tomb -- Mute types of man's own doom.

And thus with the night winds only, And the fancies they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

How long have I been dreaming here? Or have I dreamed at all? My fire is dead -- my pictures fled -- There's nothing left but shadows drear -- Shadows on the wall:

Shifting, flitting, Round me sitting In my old arm chair -- Rising, sinking Round me, thinking, Till, in the maze of many a dream, I'm not myself; and I almost seem Like one of the shadows there. Well, let the shadows stay! I wonder who are they? I cannot say; but I almost believe They know to-night is Christmas eve, And to-morrow Christmas day.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To change life's bitter gall to sweet, And change the sweet to gall again; To take the thorns from out our feet -- The thorns and all their dreary pain, Only to put them back again.

To take old stings from out our heart -- Old stings that made them bleed and smart -- Only to sharpen them the more, And press them back to the heart's own core.

Ah! no eve is like the Christmas eve! Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, Bright and dark, and dark and bright. All these mingle, all these meet, In this great and solemn night.

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve To melt, with kindly glowing heat, From off our souls the snow and sleet, The dreary drift of wintry years, Only to make the cold winds blow, Only to make a colder snow; And make it drift, and drift, and drift, In flakes so icy-cold and swift, Until the heart that lies below Is cold and colder than the snow.

And thus with the shadows only, And the dreamings they unweave, Alone, and yet not lonely, I keep my Christmas eve.

'Tis passing fast! My fireless, lampless room Is a mass of moveless gloom; And without -- a darkness vast, Solemn -- starless -- still! Heaven and earth doth fill.

But list! there soundeth a bell, With a mystical ding, dong, dell! Is it, say, is it a funeral knell? Solemn and slow, Now loud -- now low; Pealing the notes of human woe Over the graves lying under the snow! Ah! that pitiless ding, dong, dell! Trembling along the gale, Under the stars and over the snow. Why is it? whence is it sounding so? Is it a toll of a burial bell?

Or is it a spirit's wail? Solemnly, mournfully, Sad -- and how lornfully! Ding, dong, dell! Whence is it? who can tell? And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still! How the sounds tremble! how they thrill! Every tone So like a moan; As if the strange bell's stranger clang Throbbed with a terrible human pang.

Ding, dong, dell! Dismally, drearily, Ever so wearily. Far off and faint as a requiem plaint Floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell Piercingly -- thrillingly, Icily -- chillingly, Near -- and more near, Drearer -- and more drear, Soundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell!

Now sinking lower, It tolleth slower! I list, and I hear its sound no more. And now, methinks, I know that bell, Know it well -- know its knell -- For I often heard it sound before.

It is a bell -- yet not a bell Whose sound may reach the ear! It tolls a knell -- yet not a knell Which earthly sense may hear. In every soul a bell of dole Hangs ready to be tolled; And from that bell a funeral knell Is often outward rolled; And memory is the sexton gray Who tolls the dreary knell; And nights like this he loves to sway And swing his mystic bell. 'Twas that I heard and nothing more, This lonely Christmas eve; Then, for the dead I'll meet no more, At Christmas let me grieve.

Night, be a priest! put your star-stole on And murmur a holy prayer Over each grave, and for every one Lying down lifeless there!

And over the dead stands the high priest, Night, Robed in his shadowy stole; And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, To respond to his prayer of dole.