Part 2
When Spain in San Ulloa's Bay Her sacred treaty broke, Stout Hawkins fought his way through fire And gave her stroke for stroke.
A bitter malt Spain brewed that day, She drained it to the lees: The thunder of her guns awoke The Dragon of The Seas.
From coast to coast he ravaged far, A scourge with flaming breath: Where'er the Spaniard sailed his ships, Sailed Francis Drake and Death.
No coast was safe against his ire; Secure no furthest shore; The fairest day oft sank in fire Before the Dragon's roar.
He made th' Atlantic surges red Round every Spanish keel, Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead, The noblest of Castile.
From Del Fuego's beetling coast To sleety Hebrides He hounded down the Spanish host And swept the flaming seas.
He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes 'Mid Orange bowers set, La Mancha's maidens feared to sail Lest they the Dragon met.*
King Philip, of his ravin' reft, Called for "the Pirate's" head; The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn And knighted Drake instead.
And gave him ships and sent him forth To sweep the Spanish Main, For England and for England's brood, And sink the fleets of Spain.
And well he wrought his mighty work, Till on that fatal day He met his only conqueror, In Nombre Dios Bay.
There in his shotted hammock swung Amid the surges' sweep, He waits the look-out's signal cry Across the quiet deep,
And dreams of dark Ulloa's bar, And Spanish treachery, And how he tracked Magellan far Across the unknown sea.
But if Spain fire a single shot Upon the Spanish Main, She 'll come to deem the Dragon dead Has waked to life again.
*Note. It is related that King Philip one day invited a lady to sail with him on a lake, and she replied that she was afraid they might meet "the Dragon."
THE BENT MONK
Ever along the way he goes, With eyes cast down as in despair, And shoulders stooped with weight of woes And lips from which unceasing flows An agonized prayer.
His form is bent; his step is slow; His hands with fasting long are thin; And wheresoe'er his footsteps go, Men hear his muttered prayer and know He weeps for deadly sin.
This monk was once the knightliest Of knights who ever sat in hall: With wondrous might and beauty blest; And whoso met him lance-in-rest Had need on Christ to call.
Men say this monk with hair so hoar, And eye where grief hath quenched the flame, Once loved a maiden fair and pure, And for she would not wed him swore He 'd bring her down to Shame.
They say he wooed her long and well; And splendid spoils both eve and morn Of song and tourney won, they tell, He gave her till at last she fell, Then drave her forth with scorn.
The world was cold; her father's door Was barred--they thus the tale repeat-- Her name was heard in jousts no more; And so, one day the river bore And laid her at his feet.
Her brow was calm, the sunny hair Lay tangled in the snowy breast, And from the face all trace of care And sin was cleansed away, and there Shone only utter rest.
The old men say that when the wave That burden brought, then backward fled, He stooped, no sign nor groan he gave, As mourners by an open grave; But fell as one struck dead.
He seemed, when from that swound he woke, A man already touched by Death, As when the stalwart forest oak, Blasted beneath the lightning's stroke Lives on, yet languisheth.
And ever since he tells his beads, And sackcloth lieth next his skin, And nightly his frail body bleeds With knotted cord that intercedes With Christ for deadly sin.
For his own soul he hath no care, By penance purged as if by flame: Men know that agonized prayer He prays is for the maiden fair Whom he brought down to Shame.
And still along the way he goes, With eyes cast down as in despair, And shoulders stooped with weight of woes, And lips from which forever flows An agonized prayer.
THE MESSAGE
An ancient tome came to my hands: A tale of love in other lands: Writ by a Master so divine, The Love seems ever mine and thine. The volume opened at the place That sings of sweet Francesca's grace: How reading of Fair Guinevere And Launcelot that long gone year, Her eyes into her lover's fell And--there was nothing more to tell. That day they op'ed that book no more: Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.
Beneath the passage so divine, Some woman's hand had traced a line, And reverently upon the spot Had laid a blue forget-me-not: A message sent across the years, Of Lovers' sighs and Lovers' tears: A messenger left there to tell They too had loved each other well. The centuries had glided by Since Love had heaved that tender sigh; The tiny spray that spoke her trust, Had like herself long turned to dust.
I felt a sudden sorrow stir My heart across the years for her, Who, reading how Francesca loved, Had found her heart so deeply moved: Who, hearing poor Francesca's moan, Had felt her sorrow as her own. I hope where e 'er her grave may be, Forget-me-nots bloom constantly: That somewhere in yon distant skies He who is Love hath heard her sighs: And her hath granted of His Grace, Ever to see her Lover's face.
THE NEEDLE'S EYE
They bade me come to the House of Prayer, They said I should find my Saviour there: I was wicked enough, God wot, at best, And weary enough to covet rest.
I paused at th' door with a timid knock: The People within were a silken flock-- By their scowls of pride it was plain to see Salvation was not for the likes of me.
The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn, And the cassocked priest,--I saw him yawn,-- The rich and great and virtuous too, Stood smug and contented each in his pew.
The music was grand,--the service fine, The sermon was eloquent,--nigh divine. The subject was, Pride and the Pharisee, And the Publican, who was just like me.
I smote my breast in an empty pew, But an usher came and looked me through And bade me stand beside the door In the space reserved for the mean and poor.
I left the church in my rags and shame: In the dark without, One called my name. "They have turned me out as well," quoth He, "Take thou my hand and come fare with me.
"We may find the light by a narrow gate, The way is steep and rough and strait; But none will look if your clothes be poor, When you come at last to my Father's door."
I struggled on where 'er He led: The blood ran down from His hand so red! The blood ran down from His forehead torn. "'Tis naught," quoth He, "but the prick of a thorn!"
"You bleed," I cried, for my heart 'gan quail. "'Tis naught, 'tis naught but the print of a nail." "You limp in pain and your feet are sore." "Yea, yea," quoth He, "for the nails they were four."
"You are weary and faint and bent," I cried. "'Twas a load I bore up a mountain side." "The way is steep, and I faint." But He: "It was steeper far upon Calvary."
By this we had come to a narrow door, I had spied afar. It was locked before; But now in the presence of my Guide, The fast-closed postern opened wide.
And forth there streamed a radiance More bright than is the noon-sun's glance; And harps and voices greeted Him-- The music of the Seraphim.
I knew His face where the light did fall: I had spat in it, in Herod's Hall, I knew those nail-prints now, ah, me!-- I had helped to nail Him to a tree.
I fainting fell before His face, Imploring pardon of His grace. He stooped and silencing my moan, He bore me near to His Father's throne.
He wrapt me close and hid my shame, And touched my heart with a cleansing flame. "Rest here," said He, "while I go and try To widen a little a Needle's Eye."
THE CLOSED DOOR
Lord, is it Thou who knockest at my door? I made it fast and 't will not open more; Barred it so tight I scarce can hear Thy knock, And am too feeble now to turn the lock, Clogged with my folly and my grievous sin: Put forth Thy might, O Lord, and burst it in.
CONVENTION
At the Judgment-bar stood spirits three: A thief, a fool and a man of degree, To whom spake the Judge in his Majesty.
To the shivering thief: "Thy sins are forgiven, For that to repent thou hast sometime striven; There be other penitent thieves in Heaven."
To the fool: "Poor fool, thou art free from sin; To My light thou, too, mayest enter in, Where Life and Thought shall for thee begin."
To the mirror of others, smug and neat, With the thoughts and sayings of others replete, This Judgment rolled from the Judgment-seat:
"Remain thou thyself, a worm to crawl. Thou, doubly damned, canst not lower fall Than ne'er to have thought for thyself at all."
THE MAGDALEN
He flaunted recklessly along, With hollow laugh and mocking song;
In tawdry garb and painted mirth, The sorrowfulest thing on earth.
Time runs apace: the fleeting years Left but her misery and her tears.
The very brothel-door was barred Against a wretch so crook'd and marred.
She knocked at every gate in vain, The cast-out harlot black with stain--
At all save one,--when this she tried,-- 'T was His, the High Priest crucified.
He heard her tears, flung wide His door And said, "Come in, and sin no more."
THE REQUIREMENT
To the Steward of his vineyard spake the Lord, When he handed him over His Keys and Sword: "See that you harken unto my word:
"There be three chief things that I love," quoth He, "That bear a sweet savor up to me: They be Justice, Mercy and Purity."
Justice was sold at a thief's behest; Purity went for a harlot's jest, And Mercy was slain with a sword in her breast.
THE LISTENER
A sparrow sang on a weed, Sprung from an upturned sod, And no one gave him heed Or heard the song, save God.
CONTRADICTION
A bishop preached Sunday on Dives forsaken: How he was cast out and Lazarus taken; The very next day he rejoiced he was able To dine that evening at Dives' table. While wretched Lazarus, sick and poor, Was called an impostor and turned from the door.
THE QUESTION
Why may I not step from this empty room, Where heavy round me hangs the curtained gloom, And passing through a little darkness there, Even as one climbs to bed an unlit stair, Find that I know is but one step above, And that I hunger for: my Life: my Love?
'T is but a curtain doth our souls divide, A veil my eager hand might tear aside-- One step to take, one thrill, one throb, one bound, And I have gained my Heaven, the Lost have found-- Have solved the riddle rare, the secret dread: The vast, unfathomable secret of the Dead.
It seems but now that as I yearning stand, I might put forth my hand and touch her hand; That I might lift my longing eyes and trace But for the darkness there the gracious face; That could I hush the grosser sounds, my ear The charmed music of her voice might hear.
She may not come to me, Alas! I know, Else had she surely come, long, long ago. The Conqueror Death, who save One conquers all, Had never power to hold that soul in thrall; No narrowest prison-house; no piled up stone Had held her heart a captive from my own.
No, 't is not these: Hell's might nor Heaven's charms, Had never power to hold her from my arms;-- 'T is that by some inscrutable, fixed Law, Vaster than mortal vision ever saw, Whose sweep is worlds; whose track Eternity, Somewhere her soul angelic waits for me:--
Waits patiently His Wisdom, whose decree Is Wisdom's self veiled in Infinity: Who gives us Life divine with mortal breath, Yet in its pathway, lo! hath planted Death; Who grants us Love our dull souls to uplift Nearer to Him; yet tears away His Gift;
Crowns us with Reason in His image made, Yet blinds our eyes with never lifting shade. Who may the mystery solve? 'T is His decree! Can Mortal understand Infinity? Prostrate thyself before His feet, dull clod, Who saith, "Be still, and know that I am God."
Ah! did we surely know the joys that wait Beyond the portal of the silent gate, Who would a moment longer here abide, The spectre, Sorrow, stalking at his side? Who would not daring take the leap and be Unbound, unfettered clean, a slave set free!
OUR DEAD
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep With the earth for their bed, With stones at their head: We leave them and weep When we bury our dead.
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep,-- On our Mother's calm breast We leave them to rest-- To rest while we weep.
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep-- They reck not our tears, Though the sad years creep-- Through our tears, through the years They tranquilly sleep.
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; We bury the bloom Of our life,--all our bloom In the coffin we fold: We enfold in the tomb: We reenter the room We left young,--we are old.
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; The cold Time-tides flow With winter and spring, With birds on the wing, With roses and snow, With friends who beguile Our sorrow with pity-- With pity awhile. Then weary and smile, Then chide us, say, "Lo! How the sun shines,--'t is May." But we know 't is not so-- That the sun died that day When we laid them away, With the earth for a bed-- When we buried our dead.
We bury our dead, We lay them to sleep; We turn back to the world; We are caught,--we are whirled In the rush of the current-- The rush and the sweep Of the tide, without rest. But they sleep--they the blest-- The Blessed dead sleep: They tranquilly rest On our Mother's calm breast.
MY MOTHER
I knew her in her prime, Before the seal of Time Was graven on her brow, As Age hath graved it now: When radiant Youth was just subdued To yield to gracious womanhood. And as an inland lake Lies tranquil mid the hills, Unruffled by the storms that break Beyond, and mirrors Heaven; So, to her spirit, freed from ills, A blessed calm was given. Encircled by War's strife Peace ruled her life. Christ's teachings were her constant guide, And naught beside, Christ's Death and Passion were her plea-- None needed she; For that amid earth's fiercest strife Her life was patterned on His life. Now when her eyes grow dim She lives so close to Him, The radiance of His smile Envelops her the while. As when the Prophet's figure shone With light reflected from the Throne, So, ever in her face Shines Heaven's divinest grace. Her soul is fresh and mild As is a little child. And as the fleshly tenement With age grows worn and bent, Her Spirit's unabated youth Is aye to me The mind-compelling truth Of Immortality. Her voice is, as it were, A silver dulcimer, Tuned like the seraph's lays Eternally to praise. The blessings of Christ's chosen friends Are doubly hers, whose mind, To charity inclined, No selfish ends Have ever for an instant moved: Who served like Martha And like Mary loved.
HER INFLUENCE
The tender Earth that smiles when kissed by Spring; The flowers; the budding woods; the birds that sing The Summer's song her spirit to me bring.
The meadows cool that breathe their fragrant myrrh; Deep, placid pools that little breezes blur; Soft-tinkling springs speak to my heart of her.
Heaven's purple towers upon the horizon's rim; The dove that mourns upon his lonely limb, Fill my soul's cup with memories to its brim.
In evening's calm when in the quiet skies, The lustrous, silent, tender stars uprise, I feel the holy influence of her eyes.
That deeper hour when Night with Dawn is blent, And Silence stirs, its languors well-nigh spent, I hear her gently sigh with sweet content.
I hear young children laughing in the street: Catch rays of sunshine from them as we meet, And smile content to know what makes them sweet.
Yea, everywhere, in every righteous strife, I find her spirit's fragrant influence rife, Like Mary's precious spikenard sweetening Life.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
He challenged all that came within his ken, And Error held with steadfast mind aloof. E'en Truth itself he put upon the proof: Holding that Light was God's first gift to men.
THE STRANGER
Straying one day amid the leafy bowers, A Presence passed, masked in a sunny ray, Tossing behind him carelessly the hours, As one shakes blossoms from a ravished spray,-- Strewing them far and wide. Nor glanced to either side.
A-sudden as he strolled he chanced upon A flower which full within his pathway blew, White as a lily, modest as a nun, Sweeter than Lilith's rose in Eden grew-- Her beauty he espied, Approached and softly sighed.
His breath the blossom stirred and all the air Grew fragrant with a subtle, rich perfume; The spiced alleys glowed, the while a rare And crystal radiance did illume All the adjacent space As 't were an angel's face.
Kneeling, he gently laid his glowing lips, Like softest music on her lips, when came A thrill that trembled to her petal-tips, And on the instant, with a sudden flame, Leaped forth the shining sun, And Earth and Heaven were one.
"Who art thou?" queried she, "Tell me thy name, To whom Godlike this Godlike power is given, That thus for me, without or fear or shame, But by thy lips' soft touch Greatest Heaven?" Whilst to his heart she clove, He whispered, "I am Love."
LOVE
(AFTER ANACREON)
Astray within a garden bright I found a tiny winged sprite:
He scarce was bigger than a sparrow And bore a little bow and arrow.
I lifted him up in my arm, Without a thought of guile or harm;
But merely as it were in play, With threats to carry him away.
The sport he took in such ill part, He stuck an arrow in my heart.
And ever since, I have such pain,-- I cannot draw it out again.
And yet, the strangest part is this: I love the pain as though 't were bliss.
AN OLD REFRAIN
It seems to me as I think of her, That my youth has come again: I hear the breath of summer stir The leaves in the old refrain: "Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? I will seek my Love, with the wings of a dove, And pray her to love but me."
The flower-kissed meadows all once more Are green with grass and plume; The apple-trees again are hoar With fragrant snow of bloom. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
The meadow-brook slips tinkling by With silvery, rippling flow, And blue-birds sing on fences nigh, To dandelions below. Oh! my Lady-love, Oh, my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I hear again the drowsy croon Of honey-laden bees, And catch the poppy-mellowed rune They hum to locust trees. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady-love be? etc.
Far off the home-returning cows Low that the Eve is late, And call their calves neath apple-boughs To meet them at the gate. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
Once more the Knights and ladies pass In visions Fancy-wove: I lie full length in summer grass, To choose my own True-Love. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know not how,--I know not where,-- I dream a fairy-spell: I know she is surpassing fair,-- I know I love her well. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know she is as pure as snow:-- As true as God's own Truth:-- I know,--I know I love her so, She must love me, in sooth! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know the stars dim to her eyes; The flowers blow in her face: I know the angels in the skies Have given her of their grace. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
And none but I her heart can move, Though seraphs may have striven; And when I find my own True-love, I know I shall find Heaven. Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! where can my Lady be! I will seek my Love with the wings of a dove And pray her to love but me.
TO CLAUDIA
It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes Are sweeter far to me, Than is the light of Summer skies To captives just set free.
It is not that the setting sun Is tangled in thy hair, And recks not of the course to run, In such a silken snare.
Nor for the music of thy words, Fair Claudia, love I thee, Though sweeter than the songs of birds That melody to me.
It is not that rich roses rare Within thy garden grow, Nor that the fairest lilies are Less snowy than thy brow.
Nay, Claudia, 't is that every grace In thy dear self I find; That Heaven itself is in thy face, And also in thy mind.
THE APPLE-TREES AT EVEN
Ah! long ago it seems to me, Those sweet old days of summer, When I was young and fair was she, And sorrow only rumor.
And all the world was less than naught To me who had her favor; For Time and Care had not then taught How Life of Death hath savor.
And all the day the roving bees Clung to the swinging clover, And robins in the apple-trees Answered the faint-voiced plover.
And all the sounds were low and sweet; The zephyrs left off roaming In curving gambols o'er the wheat, To kiss her in the gloaming.
The apple-blossoms kissed her hair, The daisies prayed her wreathe them; Ah, me! the blossoms still are there, But she lies deep beneath them.
I now have turned my thoughts to God, Earth from my heart I sever; With fast and prayer I onward plod-- With prayer and fast forever.
Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks low And bids me think of Heaven, I always hear the breezes blow The apple-trees at even.
MY TRUE-LOVE'S WEALTH
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For she hath wealth of golden hair, Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow, That shines about her shoulders rare, Like sunlight on new driven snow.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For she hath eyes so soft and bright, So deep the light that in them lies, That stars in heaven would lose their light Ashine beside my True-love's eyes.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath such dainty hands, So snowy white, so fine and small, That had I wealth of Ophir's lands, For one of them I 'd give it all.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath a face so fair, Such winsome light about it plays, For worldly wealth I nothing care, So I can look upon her face.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For endless wealth of mind hath she, Her heart so stored with precious lore-- Her riches they as countless be As shells upon the ocean's shore.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- The wild-brier bough hath less of grace And on wild violets when she treads They turn to look into her face And scarcely bow their azure heads.
My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath herself, in fee, And this is more than worlds to me.
A VALENTINE
My patron saint, St. Valentine, Why dost thou leave me to repine, Still supplicating at her shrine?
But bid her eyes to me incline, I 'll ask no other sun to shine, More rich than is Golconda's mine.
Range all that Woman, Song, or Wine Can give; Wealth, Power, and Fame combine; For her I 'd gladly all resign.