Part 3

When first I saw you, 't was as if within My soul took shape some song-- Played by a master of the violin-- A music pure and strong, That rapt my soul above all earthly sin To heights that know no wrong.

A DAUGHTER OF THE STATES.

She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes, Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies, And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.

And I have thought that Liberty, alone Among the mountain stars, might look like her, Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor, Kindling her torch on FREEDOM'S altar-stone.

For in her self, regal with riches of Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born-- BOADICEA, meeting scorn with scorn, And ERMENGARDE, returning love for love.

AN _Autumn_ NIGHT.

Some things are good on _Autumn_ nights, When with the storm the forest fights, And in the room the heaped hearth lights Old-fashioned press and rafter: Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat, A mug of cider, sharp and sweet, And at your side a face petite, With lips of laughter.

Upon the roof the rolling rain, And tapping at the window-pane, The wind that seems a witch's cane That summons spells together: A hand within your own awhile; A mouth reflecting back your smile; And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile All thoughts of weather.

And, while the wind lulls, still to sit And watch her fire-lit needles flit A-knitting, and to feel her knit Your very heartstrings in it: Then, when the old clock ticks _'tis late_, To rise, and at the door to wait, Two words, or at the garden gate, A kissing minute.

LINES.

If GOD should say to me, _Behold!-- Yea, who shall doubt?-- They who love others more than me, Shall I not turn, as oft of old, My face from them and cast them out? So let it be with thee, behold!_-- I should not care, for in your face Is all GOD'S grace.

If GOD should say to me, _Behold!-- Is it not well?-- They who have other gods than me, Shall I not bid them, as of old, Depart into the outer_ HELL? _So let it be with thee, behold!_-- I should not care, for in your eyes Is PARADISE.

THE BLIND GOD.

I know not if she be unkind, If she have faults I do not care; Search through the world--where will you find A face like hers, a form, a mind? _I love her to despair._

If she be cruel, cruelty Is a great virtue, I will swear; If she be proud--then pride must be Akin to Heaven's divinest three-- _I love her to despair._

Why speak to me of that and this? All you may say weighs not a hair! In her,--whose lips I may not kiss,-- To me naught but perfection is!-- _I love her to despair._

A VALENTINE.

My life is grown a witchcraft place Through gazing on thy form and face.

Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorcery That makes my soul a melody.

Now 't is thy Frown, that comes and goes, That makes my heart a page of prose.

Some day, perhaps, a word of thine Will change me to thy VALENTINE.

A CATCH.

When roads are mired with ice and snow, And the air of morn is crisp with rime; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And bells ring in the CHRISTMAS time:-- It's--Saddle, my Heart, and ride away, To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray! Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring-- A man's strong love and a wedding-ring-- It's--Saddle, my Heart, and ride!

When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow, And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And the CHRISTMAS service is sung and said:-- It's--Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile, Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle, For the gifts that the church now gives to you-- A woman's hand and a heart that's true. It's--Come, O my Heart, and wait!

When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow, And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And CHRISTMAS revels begin again:-- It's--Home, O my Heart, and love, at last! And her happy breast to your own held fast; A song to sing and a tale to tell, A good-night kiss, and all is well. It's--Home, O my Heart, and love!

THE NEW YEAR.

Lift up thy torch, O Year, and let us see What Destiny Hath made thee heir to at nativity!

Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might, Whom some name Right; And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.

Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goes In Friendship's clothes; And Happiness, the mask of many woes.

Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see, Love bends the knee; And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.

Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains; And Cares and Pains, That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.

Corruption, known as Honesty; and Fame That's but a name; And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.

And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth; And, like a youth, Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.

Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease; And, high 'mid these, War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.

Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight! Deep lies the night Around us, and GOD grants us little light!

THEN AND NOW.

When my old heart was young, my dear, The Earth and Heaven were so near That in my dreams I oft could hear The steps of unseen races; In woodlands, where bright waters ran, On hills, GOD'S rainbows used to span, I followed voices not of man, And smiled in spirit faces.

Now my old heart is old, my sweet, No longer Earth and Heaven meet; All Life is grown to one long street Where fact with fancy clashes; The voices now that speak to me Are prose instead of poetry: And in the faces now I see Is less of flame than ashes.

EPILOGUE.

Beyond the moon, within a land of mist, Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires, Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst, And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires; There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Sad are the stars that day and night exist Above the Garden of all Dead Desires; And sad the roses that within it twist Deep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires; But sadder far are they who there hold tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist, Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires, Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed, On the wan willows music hangs her lyres, AEOLIAN dials by which phantoms tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed, Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires, By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist; And meet with shapes that art's despair attires; And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Thither we go, dreamer and realist, Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires, Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed, All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires, All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst-- Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

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