Part 3

The eager vines close clasp the pillars round, As though to hide the signs of their decay; The cheerless chambers echo with each sound That enters in where Silence holds her sway.

Upon the ground, with torn and riven crust, There rests the cuirass of some daring knight, Enfolding but the cold, unspeaking dust Of him who nevermore shall lead the fight.

And here the chariot-furrowed roadway lies, Once trod by armies rich in valorous deeds, Now haunted by the lonely wind which sighs And creeps among the dead and tangled weeds.

Ruin and ruins everywhere, but yet, In fancy, see the myriad castles tall Whereon the banners fair of Hope are set, Then watch the wreck and ruin of it all!

Forsaken cities far beyond the sea Hold not such claim to pity as do those Grand dwellings youth rears in such majesty To crumble and form sepulchres for woes.

O memory! keep and guard your treasures well; Contented rest, and, what the past endears, Unto the ever hopeful future tell, And voice your glories through the coming years.

HALF FLIGHTS.

I think it were better that lips should forever be mute Than flattering the voice should sound, or the speech irresolute.

And better that arrows fly far past the mark, over-shot, Than but timidly sent they should droop and transfix it not.

The race should be vigorously pushed, though uneven the start, And always, wherever assigned, let us act well the part, Let firm be the footstep to tally with firm beat of heart.

But more willing am I forever to steadily plod, Inspired by a thought that my soul is not linked to a clod, Than failing in flight, to fall, stricken again to the sod, And stumble along in the pathway that leads me to God.

A KIND OF MAN.

I like a man who all mean things despises, A man who has a purpose firm and true; Who faces every doubt as it arises, And murmurs not at what he finds to do.

I like a man who shows the noble spirit Displayed by knights of Arthur’s table round; Who, face to face with life, proves his real merit, Who has a soul that dwells above the ground;

And yet, one who can understand the worry Of some chance brother fallen in the road, And speak to him a kind word ’mid the hurry, Or lay an easing hand upon his load.

Large hearted, brave-souled men to-day are needed, Men ready when occasion’s doors swing wide; Grand men to speak the counsel that is heeded, And men in whom a nation may confide.

The world is wide, and broad its starry arches, But lagging malcontents it cannot hold; The way of life to him who upright marches, Has ending in a far-off street of gold.

TRANSFIGURED.

“A cold, hard man I said,” as day by day I saw him pass the door, or, brooding, sit Before his cottage, watching children play The summer’s lingering twilight hours away-- Ever uncouth and grim, with brows close knit.

Until, one day, a wondrous change took place; Upon the door the sign of mourning, and His child lay dead! But, by what heavenly grace Did all the hardened lines fade from his face, Leaving of former self no slightest trace, As with sweet Grief he journeyed, hand in hand?

LOVE’S POWER.

Within the palace of a brain A Thought of Love dwelt all alone, And there was not another Thought That ever dared approach his throne;

Until there came a Thought of Hate, Half-crouching to the sacred seat, But, Thought of Love stretched forth a hand, And Thought of Hate died at his feet.

FIRE-HUNTING.

With dip and glide a light canoe Crept through the waters of the lake; So softly, lightly creeping through That it did not the silence break.

A lantern’s penetrating glow Burned in the dark a path of light, And far-off, on its margin, lo! A pair of eyes gleamed strangely bright!

The paddling ceased; there fell a hush. Then came a ringing rifle-shot-- A plunge into the underbrush-- Upon the beach a dark blood-clot!

With dip and glide a light canoe Crept through the waters of the lake, So softly, lightly creeping through That it did not a ripple make.

“HEARTACHE.”

[Lines naming a landscape painted by Mr. Theodore C. Steele, owned by Mr. Louis C. Gibson.]

Although the fields of summer time are dear And fair the days of sunshine-flooded hours We would not always have the summer here,-- We tire of flowers.

Let come a short October afternoon, Or yet a dreary day November sends;-- A mist hangs o’er the tired earth, and soon The night descends.

Like some cowled monk grown weary of the world, The evening creeps along in somber guise, Her face in misty shadows thickly furled To hide her eyes.

O heartache of the earth, so near to us These barren fields have on a sudden grown! Cool hand of twilight touch us--tremulous, Sick and alone.

O skies of gray, come often in our need! Come fall, O mists, efface the marks of tears,-- The lessons of our heartache with us read, And soothe our fears!

Dear barren field, we lay our hearts on thine, And leafless shrub, we make thy grief our own; Come, Spring, and touch our hearts with life divine, All heartache flown!

FRIENDSHIP’S SACRAMENT.

When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine, And paused awhile beneath your friendly roof, Good thoughts and honest purposes are mine, Awhile from trivial things I stand aloof.

It is a sacrament of friendship there, When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine; I feel in touch with all things sweet and fair; My pilgrimage is to a true home’s shrine.

Like the lost Arab, when his host will bring The bit of cake, the salt in friendly sign, When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine Across my desert rose and lotus spring,

And in my heart there is a genial glow. To-night above me starry heavens shine, Yet out of clouds the brightest stars will grow When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine.

OMAR KHAYYAM.

King of the wise who, long ago, Your tents built in the Persian sand, Let me your sweet contentment know, Here in my vigorous Western land.

Some day, when I shall stand beside The grave where you have lain so long-- At Nishapur your body died, But your soul lives in tender song--

I’ll pour upon your tomb the wine Some Western grape has given me; I’ll speak some verse, some flowing line Born here, beyond the Western sea.

And may the time be early night When torches in the desert glow, And in dim tents appears a light, While sounds the camel’s moaning, low.

Then I would be at Nishapur, To stand in reverent pause and be One happy hour a worshiper, Your grave a Mecca made for me.

Oh, my beloved, I shall taste The grape’s blood, as your songs have said, And pour it on the desert’s waste, A tribute to the ghostly dead

Whose spirits hover there, and plan Strange journeys that can never end, But, in a ghostly caravan, For ages through the past extend.

O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night, Look you toward the tomb of him Who yearned in song for greater light And found it at the goblet’s brim!

Forget him not, because he keeps Such silence; guard in light and gloom Until I reach the place he sleeps, With wine to pour upon his tomb.

A DISCOVERY.

[According to a child.]

I have just discovered what makes bread white, And why the leaves are so porous and light.

We plant the seed in fall-time in the ground, And all the winter long they grow and grow, And when the fields and woods are winter-bound, The tiny blades are green beneath the snow.

And then in summer-time, when winter’s dead, The ripened wheat is ground to flour, and so When that light flour is made up into bread, We see within the loaves the winter’s snow.

And that is the reason why bread is white, And why the loaves are so porous and light!

_SONNETS_

A MODERN PURITAN.

As though Priscilla had smoothed out the frown She had for all things that were worldly-wise-- As though she stood again ’neath softer skies Than on the bleak New England rocks looked down, And all the sorrows of that time could drown,-- Thus comes one, unaustere, with kindly eyes, Stepping from out the past’s dim tapestries, A Puritan with purity her crown.

Yet, not the shy reserve that marks her ways Nor lines of strength denoted in her face O’er which the sweetest light ’neath heaven plays, Compel our love, but traces of the race That passes down its grandeur to our days, Seeking the good and spurning all things base!

THE LAW OF LIFE.

[To Mr. Charles H. Ham, author of “Manual Training”.]

“Labor the law of life,” that is your creed; Once it was true that art meant only grace, “A pretty flower this is,” “a glorious face,” Men said, and so interpreting, did heed No higher call than came from shepherd’s reed: The brawny arm was for the warrior’s mace, The supple limb was for the champion’s race, But higher, better things were lost indeed!

Now, in this newer day, what change is wrought! We know the law of life is labor; so The hand and mind in unison are taught, With each the other’s ready servant. Lo! What a grand world will swing beneath the sun When Heart and Hand and Mind are all in one!

TO EUGENE FIELD IN ENGLAND.

Good poet of the city by the lake, Critic and satirist I wave a hand And send this greeting over sea and land-- That kindest spirits round you tend, and make Your ready feet to walk in Chaucer’s wake, And in the paths of Keats and Shelley stand; Or where the master of all singers planned His songs, may your heart inspiration take.

Where Dobson’s flowers find root in “paven ground,” And Andrew Lang and Walter Pater bide, I know that there for you a joy is found. Cease not your western Pegasus to ride, And when old book plates and rare volumes bore, Quit London’s fog and dwell with us once more.

DEPENDENCE.

When a kind parent first his children guides Into a bit of world they have not seen, Though often told about its meadows green, Or of some evil thing that there abides, Their father’s careful care each one derides; His guarded pace to them seems slow and mean, Till sudden, they go hurrying back to lean Against his surer, stronger heart.

The sides Of mountains where men’s daring feet would go Alluring are, because no man has trod; The restless slopes are tempting from below, Yet seekers will not in the safe paths plod; Like the weak children are taught to know That man must always follow after God.

BY SHERIDAN’S GRAVE.

I stood upon the heights at Arlington, And saw Potomac’s waters seaward flowing, While all about me, past our human knowing The soldiers lay--men who that soil had won From enemies as brave, who would not shun The wrath that followed on their whirlwind sowing, And there among their graves the flowers were growing, And on Virginia shone the springtime sun.

Here lies the idol of my boyish dreaming, Beside the storied river that had known The camp-fires of a mighty army, gleaming Where peace to-day her snowy scarf has thrown. Sleep, Sheridan, beyond this world of seeming, Your spirit guard this valley as its own!

VIKING.

[Written In Du Chaillu’s Viking Age.]

What has been stolen from time’s jealous hand,-- A newer Greece washed by the Baltic’s tide Where fire of Northern genius burned and died; Where long-dethronèd gods ruled o’er the land And warriors fought with sword and threatening brand? Was it these rugged shores that once defied The world as it was known to them and tried Adventurous keels on many an unknown strand?

Parents of mighty nations, kings of the sea! Fair-haired, strong-limbed path-blazers of the deep! How full a life was theirs, how broad and free,-- Passing one day Gibraltar’s tropic steep, Seeking a while some Northern coast and drear, Or sailing far to find the Western hemisphere!

VIOLIN.

Gently, beneath her perfect rounded chin, The instrument is clasped, as mothers hold Across their hearts a much-loved child, to fold It from the world of misery and sin. She draws the bow across the strings to win To life the tones now soft, now strong and bold, (But ever breathing some grand truth untold) That dormant lie within the violin.

O, mystery of music, wondrous art! The sympathetic violin but steals The loves and hates that dwell within her heart-- The very hopes, the vague desires she feels-- And at the bow’s quick touch they rise and start In melody that inmost soul reveals.

WHAT THE BABIES SAY.

What things the babies say are listened to As if the little heads were brimming o’er With pretty fancies, such as ne’er before Took form in human mind--as if they knew The glories of the world, or false or true. And with their careless-clutching fingers tore From Miss Pandora’s box the bitter store (If pleased) and handed out the sweets to you.

O baby lips, whose lispings we repeat, O baby tongue, so eager in attaining The power through which your wishes may be heard; May you remain forever pure and sweet, And ne’er in anger move, but uncomplaining, And ever by the noblest promptings stirred.

SECRETS.

How well her many secrets nature keeps And never tells to us by word or sign,-- The hidden source whence comes life-giving wine Which through the trees in springtime tingling creeps; The dwelling-place from which the wind low sweeps, His stalwart forest legions to align With leadership of giant oak or pine-- She tells us not but, brooding silent, sleeps.

So, safely locked within the human heart, Are joys and sorrows of the long ago, As hidden springs from which the sad tears start When we scarce know the power that movers their flow; And we from all the world are set apart By precious secrets none may ever know.

BLIND.

As one who in a cavern underground Can hear the jars and murmurings which tell That far away a busy people dwell, Not hearing, only knowing by the sound, So dwells he in a world by darkness bound; He hears and feels, but no dawn can dispell The night for him on whom no light e’er fell With power to drive away the night profound.

But not for aye he walks the realm of night, For one day there will break upon his eyes A flood of rarer, dark o’ercoming light Than ever flushed the arch of earthly skies, And for him dawn a morning wondrous bright Within the garden lands of Paradise.

A FANCY.

’Neath sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade; The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotone In which I hear, in fancy, softly blown, The stirring bugle notes that once were played To mocking echoes in a Southern glade; I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone-- The noise and stir of war, all backward thrown Across the gulf that peaceful years have made.

But long ago the clouds of war had spent Their fury; sounds of strife no longer fill The field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent-- But those same bugle tones are sounding still, And ringing through the starry firmament, Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill.

THOREAU.

A prince he was, yet scorning princely ways, A priest of nature, simple and sincere, To whom the wild free things were far more dear Than trammeling honors gathered of the days That only served to show him some new phase In life of flower and tree; whose greatest cheer Came when the seasons changed and he would hear The blue bird’s note or see the woods ablaze.

Though joining not in endless race with men, And caring not to lift life’s heavy load;-- Of quiet life, of solitude though fond, I love to read the thoughts traced by his pen, And fancy that I walk Marlborough road Or rest with him by peaceful Walden pond.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.