Chapter 7

And I listened as a lover To an utterance that flows In syllables like dewdrops From the red lips of a rose, Till the anthem, fainter growing, Climbing higher, chiming on Up the rounds of happy rhyming, Slowly vanished in the dawn: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, That the dawning of the morrow May in peace be ushered in."

Then I raised my eyes to Heaven, And with trembling lips I pled For a blessing for the living And a pardon for the dead; And like a ghost of music Slowly whispered--lowly sung-- Came the echo pure and holy In the happy angel tongue: "Ring out the shame and sorrow, And the misery and sin, And the dawn of every morrow Will in peace be ushered in."

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story I have listened to in dreams That vanished in the glory Of the Morning's early gleams; And--at my shadow glancing-- I feel a loss of strength, As the Day of Life advancing Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry At the rapid race of Time-- And he flies in such a flurry When I trip him with a rhyme, I'll bother him no longer Than to thank you for the thought That "my fame is growing stronger As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it, I might know as much of mirth To live and die a poet Of unacknowledged worth; For Fame is but a vagrant-- Though a loyal one and brave, And his laurels ne'er so fragrant As when scattered o'er the grave.

LINES FOR AN ALBUM

I would not trace the hackneyed phrase Of shallow words and empty praise, And prate of "peace" till one might think My foolish pen was drunk with ink. Nor will I here the wish express Of "lasting love and happiness," And "cloudless skies"--for after all "Into each life some rain must fall." --No. Keep the empty page below, In my remembrance, white as snow-- Nor sigh to know the secret prayer My spirit hand has written there.

TO ANNIE

When the lids of dusk are falling O'er the dreamy eyes of day, And the whippoorwills are calling, And the lesson laid away,-- May Mem'ry soft and tender As the prelude of the night, Bend over you and render As tranquil a delight.

FAME

I

Once, in a dream, I saw a man With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled-- A face of purity and love-- To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture--nothing more.

II

And once I saw a man, alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good-- A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall-- I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink lifeless at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshiper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue--that was all.

III

And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like a cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times-- Too fanciful, and full of whims-- For, talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life, unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift-- No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips--no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing, indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond-- Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End

AN EMPTY NEST

I find an old deserted nest, Half-hidden in the underbrush: A withered leaf, in phantom jest, Has nestled in it like a thrush With weary, palpitating breast.

I muse as one in sad surprise Who seeks his childhood's home once more, And finds it in a strange disguise Of vacant rooms and naked floor, With sudden tear-drops in his eyes.

An empty nest! It used to bear A happy burden, when the breeze Of summer rocked it, and a pair Of merry tattlers told the trees What treasures they had hidden there.

But Fancy, flitting through the gleams Of youth's sunshiny atmosphere, Has fallen in the past, and seems, Like this poor leaflet nestled here,-- A phantom guest of empty dreams.

MY FATHER'S HALLS

My father's halls, so rich and rare, Are desolate and bleak and bare; My father's heart and halls are one, Since I, their life and light, am gone.

O, valiant knight, with hand of steel And heart of gold, hear my appeal: Release me from the spoiler's charms, And bear me to my father's arms.

THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright; But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart A sorrow to one in an alien clime, Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.

The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim That once were his passionate love and his pride; And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him Have fallen away as the flowers have died. The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath The grass and the stubble--the frost and the snow.

Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom tonight, And the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.

HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting Upon the dead sea of the Past!--A view-- Sometimes an odor--or a rooster lifting A far-off "OOH! OOH-OOH!"

And suddenly we find ourselves astray In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago-- Or idly dream again upon a day Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since-- A wilted apple that the worm had spurned,-- Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints Of good old days returned.--

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, God's blessing must be resting on the fruit-- So bitter, yet so sweet!

JOHN WALSH

A strange life--strangely passed! We may not read the soul When God has folded up the scroll In death at last. We may not--dare not say of one Whose task of life as well was done As he could do it,--"This is lost, And prayers may never pay the cost."

Who listens to the song That sings within the breast, Should ever hear the good expressed Above the wrong. And he who leans an eager ear To catch the discord, he will hear The echoes of his own weak heart Beat out the most discordant part.

Whose tender heart could build Affection's bower above A heart where baby nests of love Were ever filled,-- With upward growth may reach and twine About the children, grown divine, That once were his a time so brief His very joy was more than grief.

O Sorrow--"Peace, be still!" God reads the riddle right; And we who grope in constant night But serve His will; And when sometime the doubt is gone, And darkness blossoms into dawn,-- "God keeps the good," we then will say: " 'Tis but the dross He throws away."

ORLIE WILDE

A goddess, with a siren's grace,-- A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

Wrought was she of a painter's dream,-- Wise only as are artists wise, My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, With deep sad eyes of oversize, And face of melancholy guise.

I pressed him that he tell to me This masterpiece's history. He turned--REturned--and thus beguiled Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde:--

"We artists live ideally: We breed our firmest facts of air; We make our own reality-- We dream a thing and it is so. The fairest scenes we ever see Are mirages of memory; The sweetest thoughts we ever know We plagiarize from Long Ago: And as the girl on canvas there Is marvelously rare and fair, 'Tis only inasmuch as she Is dumb and may not speak to me!" He tapped me with his mahlstick--then The picture,--and went on again:

"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child-- I see her yet, as fair and mild As ever nursling summer day Dreamed on the bosom of the bay: For I was twenty then, and went Alone and long-haired--all content With promises of sounding name And fantasies of future fame, And thoughts that now my mind discards As editor a fledgling bard's.

"At evening once I chanced to go, With pencil and portfolio, Adown the street of silver sand That winds beneath this craggy land, To make a sketch of some old scurf Of driftage, nosing through the surf A splintered mast, with knarl and strand Of rigging-rope and tattered threads Of flag and streamer and of sail That fluttered idly in the gale Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. The while I wrought, half listlessly, On my dismantled subject, came A sea-bird, settling on the same With plaintive moan, as though that he Had lost his mate upon the sea; And--with my melancholy trend-- It brought dim dreams half understood-- It wrought upon my morbid mood,-- I thought of my own voyagings That had no end--that have no end.-- And, like the sea-bird, I made moan That I was loveless and alone. And when at last with weary wings It went upon its wanderings, With upturned face I watched its flight Until this picture met my sight: A goddess, with a siren's grace,-- A sun-haired girl on a craggy place Above a bay where fish-boats lay Drifting about like birds of prey.

"In airy poise she, gazing, stood A machless form of womanhood, That brought a thought that if for me Such eyes had sought across the sea, I could have swum the widest tide That ever mariner defied, And, at the shore, could on have gone To that high crag she stood upon, To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet, Behold thy servant at thy feet.' And to my soul I said: 'Above, There stands the idol of thy love!'

"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state I gazed--till lo! I was aware A fisherman had joined her there-- A weary man, with halting gait, Who toiled beneath a basket's weight: Her father, as I guessed, for she Had run to meet him gleefully And ta'en his burden to herself, That perched upon her shoulder's shelf So lightly that she, tripping, neared A jutting crag and disappeared; But she left the echo of a song That thrills me yet, and will as long As I have being! . . .

. . . "Evenings came And went,--but each the same--the same: She watched above, and even so I stood there watching from below; Till, grown so bold at last, I sung,-- (What matter now the theme thereof!)-- It brought an answer from her tongue-- Faint as the murmur of a dove, Yet all the more the song of love. . . .

"I turned and looked upon the bay, With palm to forehead--eyes a-blur In the sea's smile--meant but for her!-- I saw the fish-boats far away In misty distance, lightly drawn In chalk-dots on the horizon-- Looked back at her, long, wistfully;-- And, pushing off an empty skiff, I beckoned her to quit the cliff And yield me her rare company Upon a little pleasure-cruise.-- She stood, as loathful to refuse, To muse for full a moment's time,-- Then answered back in pantomime 'She feared some danger from the sea Were she discovered thus with me.' I motioned then to ask her if I might not join her on the cliff And back again, with graceful wave Of lifted arm, she answer gave 'She feared some danger from the sea.'

"Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-by' From pouted mouth with angry hand, And madly pulled away from land With lusty stroke, despite that she Held out her hands entreatingly: And when far out, with covert eye I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly In reckless haste adown the crag, Her hair a-flutter like a flag Of gold that danced across the strand In little mists of silver sand. All curious I, pausing, tried To fancy what it all implied,-- When suddenly I found my feet Were wet; and, underneath the seat On which I sat, I heard the sound Of gurgling waters, and I found The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . I turned and looked upon the sea, Whose every wave seemed mocking me; I saw the fishers' sails once more-- In dimmer distance than before; I saw the sea-bird wheeling by, With foolish wish that _I_ could fly: I thought of firm earth, home and friends-- I thought of everything that tends To drive a man to frenzy and To wholly lose his own command; I thought of all my waywardness-- Thought of a mother's deep distress; Of youthful follies yet unpurged-- Sins, as the seas, about me surged-- Thought of the printer's ready pen To-morrow drowning me again;-- A million things without a name-- I thought of everything but--Fame. . . .

"A memory yet is in my mind, So keenly clear and sharp-defined, I picture every phase and line Of life and death, and neither mine,-- While some fair seraph, golden-haired, Bends over me,--with white arms bared, That strongly plait themselves about My drowning weight and lift me out-- With joy too great for words to state Or tongue to dare articulate!

"And this seraphic ocean-child And heroine was Orlie Wilde: And thus it was I came to hear Her voice's music in my ear-- Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way That I walk desolate to-day!" . . .

The artist paused and bowed his face Within his palms a little space, While reverently on his form I bent my gaze and marked a storm That shook his frame as wrathfully As some typhoon of agony, And fraught with sobs--the more profound For that peculiar laughing sound We hear when strong men weep. . . . I leant With warmest sympathy--I bent To stroke with soothing hand his brow, He murmuring--"Tis over now!--

And shall I tie the silken thread Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said.-- He faintly smiled; and then, with brow In kneading palm, as one in dread-- His tasseled cap pushed from his head " 'Her voice's music,' I repeat," He said,--" 'twas sweet--O passing sweet!-- Though she herself, in uttering Its melody, proved not the thing Of loveliness my dreams made meet For me--there, yearning, at her feet-- Prone at her feet--a worshiper,-- For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he, "Unknown to me;--unknown to me As mine to her--as mine to her."

THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller worked at making hay, And cleared her forty cents a day.

Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine, And so she worked in the sweet sunshine

Singing as glad as a bird in May "Barbara Allen" the livelong day.

She often glanced at the far-off town, And wondered if eggs were up or down.

And the sweet song died of a strange disease, Leaving a phantom taste of cheese,

And an appetite and a nameless ache For soda-water and ginger cake.

The judge rode slowly into view-- Stopped his horse in the shade and threw

His fine-cut out, while the blushing Maud Marveled much at the kind he "chawed."

"He was dry as a fish," he said with a wink, "And kind o' thought that a good square drink

Would brace him up." So the cup was filled With the crystal wine that old spring spilled;

And she gave it him with a sun-browned hand. "Thanks," said the judge in accents bland;

"A thousand thanks! for a sweeter draught, From a fairer hand"--but there he laughed.

And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day, And raked the judge instead of the hay.

A MAN OF MANY PARTS

It was a man of many parts, Who in his coffer mind Had stored the Classics and the Arts And Sciences combined; The purest gems of poesy Came flashing from his pen-- The wholesome truths of History He gave his fellow men.

He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars; And he could tell you, too, Their distances--as though the cars Had often checked him through-- And time 'twould take to reach the sun, Or by the "Milky Way," Drop in upon the moon, or run The homeward trip, or stay.

With Logic at his fingers' ends, Theology in mind, He often entertained his friends Until they died resigned; And with inquiring mind intent Upon Alchemic arts A dynamite experiment-- . . . . . . . A man of many parts!

THE FROG

Who am I but the Frog--the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to-- And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King--a King!-- For the royal robes I wear-- A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night--the Night!-- Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows--and blows,-- While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky--the sky-- As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass-- And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail--all hail!-- To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim!

DEAD SELVES

How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled-- How many of my selves are dead?

The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden--where are they? In vain I listen for their tread-- How many of my selves are dead?

The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head-- How many of my selves are dead?

The earnest features of a youth With manly fringe on lip and chin, With eager tongue to tell the truth, To offer love and life, forsooth, So brave was he to woo and win; A prouder man was never wed-- How many of my selves are dead?

The great, strong hands so all-inclined To welcome toil, or smooth the care From mother-brows, or quick to find A leisure-scrap of any kind, To toss the baby in the air, Or clap at babbling things it said-- How many of my selves are dead?

The pact of brawn and scheming brain-- Conspiring in the plots of wealth, Still delving, till the lengthened chain, Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, Recoils with dregs of ruined health And pain and poverty instead-- How many of my selves are dead?

The faltering step, the faded hair-- Head, heart and soul, all echoing With maundering fancies that declare That life and love were never there, Nor ever joy in anything, Nor wounded heart that ever bled-- How many of my selves are dead?

So many of my selves are dead, That, bending here above the brink Of my last grave, with dizzy head, I find my spirit comforted, For all the idle things I think: It can but be a peaceful bed, Since all my other selves are dead.

A DREAM OF LONG AGO

Lying listless in the mosses Underneath a tree that tosses Flakes of sunshine, and embosses Its green shadow with the snow-- Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber Born of fancies without number-- Tangled fancies that encumber Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing; And the water-lilies swinging Bells of Parian, and ringing Peals of perfume faint and fine, While old forms and fairy faces Leap from out their hiding-places In the past, with glad embraces Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers O'er the little fisher's stringers, While he baits his hook and lingers Till the shadows gather dim; And afar off comes a calling Like the sounds of water falling, With the lazy echoes drawling Messages of haste to him.

Little naked feet that tinkle Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle Down the winding road, and sprinkle Little mists of dusty rain, While in pasture-lands the cattle Cease their grazing with a rattle Of the bells whose clappers tattle To their masters down the lane.

Trees that hold their tempting treasures O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures, Furnish their forbidden pleasures As in Eden lands of old; And the coming of the master Indicates a like disaster To the frightened heart that faster Beats pulsations manifold.

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle In staccato notes that mingle Musically with the jingle- Haunted winds that lightly fan Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted By the sun, and picture-printed Like a book that sweetly hinted Of the Nights Arabian.

Porticoes with columns plaited And entwined with vines and freighted With a bloom all radiated With the light of moon and star; Where some tender voice is winging In sad flights of song, and singing To the dancing fingers flinging Dripping from the sweet guitar.

Would my dreams were never taken From me: that with faith unshaken I might sleep and never waken On a weary world of woe! Links of love would never sever As I dreamed them, never, never! I would glide along forever Through the dreams of long ago.

CRAQUEODOOM