Chapter 11

It 's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring.

I have heard a robin singing When the boughs were brown and bare, And the chilling hand of winter Scattered jewels through the air. And in spite of dates and seasons, It was always spring, I know, When I loved Lucy Landman In the days of long ago.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman, I remember you as well As if 't were only yesterday I strove your thoughts to tell,-- When I tilted back your bonnet, Looked into your eyes so true, Just to see if you were loving Me as I was loving you.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman It is true it was denied You should see a fuller summer And an autumn by my side. But the glance of love's sweet sunlight Which your eyes that morning gave Has kept spring within my bosom, Though you lie within the grave.

THE GOURD

In the heavy earth the miner Toiled and laboured day by day, Wrenching from the miser mountain Brilliant treasure where it lay. And the artist worn and weary Wrought with labour manifold That the king might drink his nectar From a goblet made of gold.

On the prince's groaning table Mid the silver gleaming bright Mirroring the happy faces Giving back the flaming light, Shine the cups of priceless crystal Chased with many a lovely line, Glowing now with warmer colour, Crimsoned by the ruby wine.

In a valley sweet with sunlight, Fertile with the dew and rain, Without miner's daily labour, Without artist's nightly pain, There there grows the cup I drink from, Summer's sweetness in it stored, And my lips pronounce a blessing As they touch an old brown gourd.

Why, the miracle at Cana In the land of Galilee, Tho' it puzzles all the scholars, Is no longer strange to me. For the poorest and the humblest Could a priceless wine afford, If they 'd only dip up water With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.

So a health to my old comrade, And a song of praise to sing When he rests inviting kisses In his place beside the spring. Give the king his golden goblets, Give the prince his crystal hoard; But for me the sparkling water From a brown and brimming gourd!

THE KNIGHT

Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on (And he wields it well, I ween); He 's on his steed, and away has gone To the fight for king and queen. What tho' no edge the broadsword hath? What tho' the blade be made of lath? 'T is a valiant hand That wields the brand, So, foeman, clear the path!

He prances off at a goodly pace; 'T is a noble steed he rides, That bears as well in the speedy race As he bears in battle-tides. What tho' 't is but a rocking-chair That prances with this stately air? 'T is a warrior bold The reins doth hold, Who bids all foes beware!

THOU ART MY LUTE

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,-- My being is attuned to thee. Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody.

Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of love--the cup of woe.

Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song.

My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall; For I 'm already one with thee!

THE PHANTOM KISS

One night in my room, still and beamless, With will and with thought in eclipse, I rested in sleep that was dreamless; When softly there fell on my lips

A touch, as of lips that were pressing Mine own with the message of bliss-- A sudden, soft, fleeting caressing, A breath like a maiden's first kiss.

I woke-and the scoffer may doubt me-- I peered in surprise through the gloom; But nothing and none were about me, And I was alone in my room.

Perhaps 't was the wind that caressed me And touched me with dew-laden breath; Or, maybe, close-sweeping, there passed me The low-winging Angel of Death.

Some sceptic may choose to disdain it, Or one feign to read it aright; Or wisdom may seek to explain it-- This mystical kiss in the night.

But rather let fancy thus clear it: That, thinking of me here alone, The miles were made naught, and, in spirit, Thy lips, love, were laid on mine own.

COMMUNION

In the silence of my heart, I will spend an hour with thee, When my love shall rend apart All the veil of mystery:

All that dim and misty veil That shut in between our souls When Death cried, "Ho, maiden, hail!" And your barque sped on the shoals.

On the shoals? Nay, wrongly said. On the breeze of Death that sweeps Far from life, thy soul has sped Out into unsounded deeps.

I shall take an hour and come Sailing, darling, to thy side. Wind nor sea may keep me from Soft communings with my bride.

I shall rest my head on thee As I did long days of yore, When a calm, untroubled sea Rocked thy vessel at the shore.

I shall take thy hand in mine, And live o'er the olden days When thy smile to me was wine,-- Golden wine thy word of praise,

For the carols I had wrought In my soul's simplicity; For the petty beads of thought Which thine eyes alone could see.

Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen For my welfare and my weal! Tho' the grave-door shut between, Still their love-lights o'er me steal.

I can see thee thro' my tears, As thro' rain we see the sun. What tho' cold and cooling years Shall their bitter courses run,--

I shall see thee still and be Thy true lover evermore, And thy face shall be to me Dear and helpful as before.

Death may vaunt and Death may boast, But we laugh his pow'r to scorn; He is but a slave at most,-- Night that heralds coming morn.

I shall spend an hour with thee Day by day, my little bride. True love laughs at mystery, Crying, "Doors of Death, fly wide."

MARE RUBRUM

In Life's Red Sea with faith I plant my feet, And wait the sound of that sustaining word Which long ago the men of Israel heard, When Pharaoh's host behind them, fierce and fleet, Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat. Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?-- That struggling faith may die of hope deferred? Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?

The billows swirl above my trembling limbs, And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt And disbelief, long conquered and defied. But tho' the music of my hopeful hymns Is drowned by curses of the raging rout, No voice yet bids th' opposing waves divide!

IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN

In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene: The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green, The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray, The waving branches with the wind at play, The slight and tremulous blooms that show between, Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.

Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze. But e'en among such soothing sights as these, I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes. Of all the longings that our hearts wot of, There is no hunger like the want of love!

THE CRISIS

A man of low degree was sore oppressed, Fate held him under iron-handed sway, And ever, those who saw him thus distressed Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray. But he, strong in himself and obdurate, Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.

Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp, Or took it not at all; and Poverty, That bruised his body with relentless grasp, Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free. But though with helpless hands he beat the air, His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer.

Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate, Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet; Those who had scorned forgave and called him great-- His friends found out that friendship still was sweet. But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head In prayer, and trembling with its import, said:

"Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune's frown; So I prevailed, for human strength was mine; But from the killing pow'r of great renown, Naught may protect me save a strength divine. Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause; I scorn men's curses, but I dread applause!"

THE CONQUERORS

THE BLACK TROOPS IN CUBA

Round the wide earth, from the red field your valour has won, Blown with the breath of the far-speaking gun, Goes the word. Bravely you spoke through the battle cloud heavy and dun. Tossed though the speech toward the mist-hidden sun, The world heard.

Hell would have shrunk from you seeking it fresh from the fray, Grim with the dust of the battle, and gray From the fight. Heaven would have crowned you, with crowns not of gold but of bay, Owning you fit for the light of her day, Men of night.

Far through the cycle of years and of lives that shall come, There shall speak voices long muffled and dumb, Out of fear. And through the noises of trade and the turbulent hum, Truth shall rise over the militant drum, Loud and clear.

Then on the cheek of the honester nation that grows, All for their love of you, not for your woes, There shall lie Tears that shall be to your souls as the dew to the rose; Afterward thanks, that the present yet knows Not to ply!

ALEXANDER CRUMMELL--DEAD

Back to the breast of thy mother, Child of the earth! E'en her caress can not smother What thou hast done. Follow the trail of the westering sun Over the earth. Thy light and his were as one-- Sun, in thy worth. Unto a nation whose sky was as night, Camest thou, holily, bearing thy light: And the dawn came, In it thy fame Flashed up in a flame.

Back to the breast of thy mother-- To rest. Long hast thou striven; Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven; Go now, pure shriven. Who shall come after thee, out of the clay-- Learned one and leader to show us the way? Who shall rise up when the world gives the test? Think thou no more of this-- Rest!

WHEN ALL IS DONE

When all is done, and my last word is said, And ye who loved me murmur, "He is dead," Let no one weep, for fear that I should know, And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.

When all is done and in the oozing clay, Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away, Pray not for me, for, after long despair, The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.

For I have suffered loss and grievous pain, The hurts of hatred and the world's disdain, And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure, Had not the pow'r to ease them or to cure.

When all is done, say not my day is o'er, And that thro' night I seek a dimmer shore: Say rather that my morn has just begun,-- I greet the dawn and not a setting sun, When all is done.

THE POET AND THE BABY

How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,-- How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,-- When a-toddling on the floor Is the muse he must adore, And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?

Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows, One must always be as quiet as a mouse; But to write one seems to me Quite superfluous to be, When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.

Just a dainty little poem, true and fine, That is full of love and life in every line, Earnest, delicate, and sweet, Altogether so complete That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.

DISTINCTION

"I am but clay," the sinner plead, Who fed each vain desire. "Not only clay," another said, "But worse, for thou art mire."

THE SUM

A little dreaming by the way, A little toiling day by day; A little pain, a little strife, A little joy,--and that is life.

A little short-lived summer's morn, When joy seems all so newly born, When one day's sky is blue above, And one bird sings,--and that is love.

A little sickening of the years, The tribute of a few hot tears Two folded hands, the failing breath, And peace at last,--and that is death.

Just dreaming, loving, dying so, The actors in the drama go-- A flitting picture on a wall, Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?

SONNET

ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES

Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire, No finger ever traced thy yellow page Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre Dost thou suggest. Nay,--impotent in age, Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.

How different was the thought of him that writ. What promised he to love of ease and wealth, When men should read and kindle at his wit. But here decay eats up the book by stealth, While it, like some old maiden, solemnly, Hugs its incongruous virginity!

ON THE SEA WALL

I sit upon the old sea wall, And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams fall, Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden's funeral pall The strange light seems to me.

The waters break upon the shore And shiver at my feet, While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er, And dim old scenes repeat; Tho' all have dreamed the same before, They still seem new and sweet.

The waves still sing the same old song That knew an elder time; The breakers' beat is not more strong, Their music more sublime; And poets thro' the ages long Have set these notes to rhyme.

But this shall not deter my lyre, Nor check my simple strain; If I have not the old-time fire, I know the ancient pain: The hurt of unfulfilled desire,-- The ember quenched by rain.

I know the softly shining sea That rolls this gentle swell Has snarled and licked its tongues at me And bared its fangs as well; That 'neath its smile so heavenly, There lurks the scowl of hell!

But what of that? I strike my string (For songs in youth are sweet); I 'll wait and hear the waters bring Their loud resounding beat; Then, in her own bold numbers sing The Ocean's dear deceit!

TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP

Thy tones are silver melted into sound, And as I dream I see no walls around, But seem to hear A gondolier Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.

Italian skies--that I have never seen-- I see above. (Ah, play again, my queen; Thy fingers white Fly swift and light And weave for me the golden mesh of love.)

Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes And soft dark hair, 'T is thou that mak'st my skies So swift to change To far and strange: But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.

Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee As one who drowns In floods of melody. Still in thy art Give me this part, Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.

CONFESSIONAL

Search thou my heart; If there be guile, It shall depart Before thy smile.

Search thou my soul; Be there deceit, 'T will vanish whole Before thee, sweet.

Upon my mind Turn thy pure lens; Naught shalt thou find Thou canst not cleanse.

If I should pray, I scarcely know In just what way My prayers would go.

So strong in me I feel love's leaven, I 'd bow to thee As soon as Heaven!

MISAPPREHENSION

Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song, With my heart's blood imbued, Instinct with passion, tremulously strong, With grief subdued; Breathing a fortitude Pain-bought. And one who claimed much love for what I wrought, Read and considered it, And spoke: "Ay, brother,--'t is well writ, But where's the joke?"

PROMETHEUS

Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea. He lit the vestal flames of poesy, Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.

Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven To lift men's souls above their low estate.

But judge you now, when poets wield the pen, Think you not well the wrong has been repaired? 'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared: The fire has been returned to Heaven again!

We have no singers like the ones whose note Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song. We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat.

The measure of our songs is our desires: We tinkle where old poets used to storm. We lack their substance tho' we keep their form: We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.

LOVE'S PHASES

Love hath the wings of the butterfly, Oh, clasp him but gently, Pausing and dipping and fluttering by Inconsequently. Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh; Love hath the wings of the butterfly.

Love hath the wings of the eagle bold, Cling to him strongly-- What if the look of the world be cold, And life go wrongly? Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold; Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.

Love hath the voice of the nightingale, Hearken his trilling-- List to his song when the moonlight is pale,-- Passionate, thrilling. Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail; Love hath the voice of the nightingale.

Love hath the voice of the storm at night, Wildly defiant. Hear him and yield up your soul to his might, Tenderly pliant. None shall regret him who heed him aright; Love hath the voice of the storm at night.

FOR THE MAN WHO FAILS

The world is a snob, and the man who wins Is the chap for its money's worth: And the lust for success causes half of the sins That are cursing this brave old earth. For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applause Is sweet to the mortal ear; But the man who fails in a noble cause Is a hero that 's no less dear.

'T is true enough that the laurel crown Twines but for the victor's brow; For many a hero has lain him down With naught but the cypress bough. There are gallant men in the losing fight, And as gallant deeds are done As ever graced the captured height Or the battle grandly won.

We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung, And we play for the stake of Fame, And our odes are sung and our banners hung For the man who wins the game. But I have a song of another kind Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales,-- An ode to the noble heart and mind Of the gallant man who fails!

The man who is strong to fight his fight, And whose will no front can daunt, If the truth be truth and the right be right, Is the man that the ages want. Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat, Yet he has not fled the strife, And the house of Earth will seem more sweet For the perfume of his life.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

She told the story, and the whole world wept At wrongs and cruelties it had not known But for this fearless woman's voice alone. She spoke to consciences that long had slept: Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, swept From heedless hovel to complacent throne. Command and prophecy were in the tone And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt. Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave, But both came forth transfigured from the flame. Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save, And blest be she who in our weakness came-- Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave A race to freedom and herself to fame.

VAGRANTS

Long time ago, we two set out, My soul and I. I know not why, For all our way was dim with doubt. I know not where We two may fare: Though still with every changing weather, We wander, groping on together.

We do not love, we are not friends, My soul and I. He lives a lie; Untruth lines every way he wends. A scoffer he Who jeers at me: And so, my comrade and my brother, We wander on and hate each other.

Ay, there be taverns and to spare, Beside the road; But some strange goad Lets me not stop to taste their fare. Knew I the goal Toward which my soul And I made way, hope made life fragrant: But no. We wander, aimless, vagrant!

A WINTER'S DAY

Across the hills and down the narrow ways, And up the valley where the free winds sweep, The earth is folded in an ermined sleep That mocks the melting mirth of myriad Mays. Departed her disheartening duns and grays, And all her crusty black is covered deep. Dark streams are locked in Winter's donjon-keep, And made to shine with keen, unwonted rays. O icy mantle, and deceitful snow! What world-old liars in your hearts ye are! Are there not still the darkened seam and scar Beneath the brightness that you fain would show? Come from the cover with thy blot and blur, O reeking Earth, thou whited sepulchre!

MY LITTLE MARCH GIRL

Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart, There she is passing, the girl of my heart; See where she walks like a queen in the street, Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet. Tripping along with impetuous grace, Joy of her life beaming out of her face, Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl, Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.

Hint of the violet's delicate bloom, Hint of the rose's pervading perfume! How can the wind help from kissing her face,-- Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace? But still serenely she laughs at his rout, She is the victor who wins in the bout. So may life's passions about her soul swirl, Leaving it placid,--my little March girl.

What self-possession looks out of her eyes! What are the wild winds, and what are the skies, Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life, Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife? Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now? What can you do with that innocent brow? Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl, But bring her to me, Wind,--my little March girl.

REMEMBERED

She sang, and I listened the whole song thro'. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) The stars were out and the moon it grew From a wee soft glimmer way out in the blue To a bird thro' the heavens winging.

She sang, and the song trembled down to my breast,-- (It was sweet, so sweet the singing.) As a dove just out of its fledgling nest, And, putting its wings to the first sweet test, Flutters homeward so wearily winging.

She sang and I said to my heart "That song, That was sweet, so sweet i' the singing, Shall live with us and inspire us long, And thou, my heart, shalt be brave and strong For the sake of those words a-winging."

The woman died and the song was still. (It was sweet, so sweet, the singing.) But ever I hear the same low trill, Of the song that shakes my heart with a thrill, And goes forever winging.

LOVE DESPOILED

As lone I sat one summer's day, With mien dejected, Love came by; His face distraught, his locks astray, So slow his gait, so sad his eye, I hailed him with a pitying cry:

"Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?" Said I, amazed. "Thou seem'st bereft; And see thy quiver hanging low,-- What, not a single arrow left? Pray, who is guilty of this theft?"