Chapter 9

I was born on a stormy morn In a kingdom walled with snow, Whose crystal cities laugh to scorn The proudest the world can show; And the daylight's glare is frozen there In the breath of the blasts that blow.

Life to me was a jubilee From the first of my youthful days: Clinking my icy toys with glee-- Playing my childish plays; Filling my hands with the silver sands To scatter a thousand ways:

Chasing the flakes that the Polar shakes From his shaggy coat of white, Or hunting the trace of the track he makes And sweeping it from sight, As he turned to glare from the slippery stair Of the iceberg's farthest height.

Till I grew so strong that I strayed ere long From my home of ice and chill; With an eager heart and a merry song I traveled the snows until I heard the thaws in the ice-crag's jaws Crunched with a hungry will;

And the angry crash of the waves that dash Themselves on the jagged shore Where the splintered masts of the ice-wrecks flash, And the frightened breakers roar In wild unrest on the ocean's breast For a thousand leagues or more.

And the grand old sea invited me With a million beckoning hands, And I spread my wings for a flight as free As ever a sailor plans When his thoughts are wild and his heart beguiled With the dreams of foreign lands.

I passed a ship on its homeward trip, With a weary and toil-worn crew; And I kissed their flag with a welcome lip, And so glad a gale I blew That the sailors quaffed their grog and laughed At the work I made them do.

I drifted by where sea-groves lie Like brides in the fond caress Of the warm sunshine and the tender sky-- Where the ocean, passionless And tranquil, lies like a child whose eyes Are blurred with drowsiness.

I drank the air and the perfume there, And bathed in a fountain's spray; And I smoothed the wings and the plumage rare Of a bird for his roundelay, And fluttered a rag from a signal-crag For a wretched castaway.

With a sea-gull resting on my breast, I launched on a madder flight: And I lashed the waves to a wild unrest, And howled with a fierce delight Till the daylight slept; and I wailed and wept Like a fretful babe all night.

For I heard the boom of a gun strike doom; And the gleam of a blood-red star Glared at me through the mirk and gloom From the lighthouse tower afar; And I held my breath at the shriek of death That came from the harbor bar.

For I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

I journeyed on, when the night was gone, O'er a coast of oak and pine; And I followed a path that a stream had drawn Through a land of vale and vine, And here and there was a village fair In a nest of shade and shine.

I passed o'er lakes where the sunshine shakes And shivers his golden lance On the glittering shield of the wave that breaks Where the fish-boats dip and dance, And the trader sails where the mist unveils The glory of old romance.

I joyed to stand where the jeweled hand Of the maiden-morning lies On the tawny brow of the mountain-land. Where the eagle shrieks and cries, And holds his throne to himself alone From the light of human eyes.

Adown deep glades where the forest shades Are dim as the dusk of day-- Where only the foot of the wild beast wades, Or the Indian dares to stray, As the blacksnakes glide through the reeds and hide In the swamp-depths grim and gray.

And I turned and fled from the place of dread To the far-off haunts of men. "In the city's heart is rest," I said,-- But I found it not, and when I saw but care and vice reign there I was filled with wrath again:

And I blew a spark in the midnight dark Till it flashed to an angry flame And scarred the sky with a lurid mark As red as the blush of shame: And a hint of hell was the dying yell That up from the ruins came.

The bells went wild, and the black smoke piled Its pillars against the night, Till I gathered them, like flocks defiled, And scattered them left and right, While the holocaust's red tresses tossed As a maddened Fury's might.

"Ye overthrown!" did I jeer and groan-- "Ho! who is your master?--say!-- Ye shapes that writhe in the slag and moan Your slow-charred souls away-- Ye worse than worst of things accurst-- Ye dead leaves of a day!"

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, And I hold a sovereign reign Over the lands, as God designed, And the waters they contain: Lo! the bound of the wide world round Falleth in my domain!

. . . . . . .

'I wake, as one from a dream half done, And gaze with a dazzled eye On an autumn leaf like a scrap of sun That the wind goes whirling by, While afar I hear, with a chill of fear, The winter storm-king sigh.'

MORTON

The warm pulse of the nation has grown chill; The muffled heart of Freedom, like a knell, Throbs solemnly for one whose earthly will Wrought every mission well.

Whose glowing reason towered above the sea Of dark disaster like a beacon light, And led the Ship of State, unscathed and free, Out of the gulfs of night.

When Treason, rabid-mouthed, and fanged with steel, Lay growling o'er the bones of fallen braves, And when beneath the tyrant's iron heel Were ground the hearts of slaves,

And War, with all his train of horrors, leapt Across the fortress-walls of Liberty With havoc e'en the marble goddess wept With tears of blood to see.

Throughout it all his brave and kingly mind Kept loyal vigil o'er the patriot's vow, And yet the flag he lifted to the wind Is drooping o'er him now.

And Peace--all pallid from the battle-field When first again it hovered o'er the land And found his voice above it like a shield, Had nestled in his hand.

. . . . . . . .

O throne of State and gilded Senate halls-- Though thousands throng your aisles and galleries-- How empty are ye! and what silence falls On your hilarities!

And yet, though great the loss to us appears, The consolation sweetens all our pain-- Though hushed the voice, through all the coming years Its echoes will remain.

AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA

With a sweeter voice than birds Dare to twitter in their sleep, Pipe for me a tune of words, Till my dancing fancies leap Into freedom vaster far Than the realms of Reason are! Sing for me with wilder fire Than the lover ever sung, From the time he twanged the lyre When the world was baby-young.

O my maiden Autumn, you-- You have filled me through and through With a passion so intense, All of earthly eloquence Fails, and falls, and swoons away In your presence. Like as one Who essays to look the sun Fairly in the face, I say, Though my eyes you dazzle blind Greater dazzled is my mind. So, my Autumn, let me kneel At your feet and worship you! Be my sweetheart; let me feel Your caress; and tell me too Why your smiles bewilder me-- Glancing into laughter, then Trancing into calm again, Till your meaning drowning lies In the dim depths of your eyes. Let me see the things you see Down the depths of mystery! Blow aside the hazy veil From the daylight of your face With the fragrance-ladened gale Of your spicy breath and chase Every dimple to its place. Lift your gipsy finger-tips To the roses of your lips, And fling down to me a bud-- But an unblown kiss--but one-- It shall blossom in my blood, Even after life is done-- When I dare to touch the brow Your rare hair is veiling now-- When the rich, red-golden strands Of the treasure in my hands Shall be all of worldly worth Heaven lifted from the earth, Like a banner to have set On its highest minaret.

THE ROSE

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,-- For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo-- Till quenched was the flame of love in him, And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose-- Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine-- The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?"

. . . . . . . .

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.

THE MERMAN

I

Who would be A merman gay, Singing alone, Sitting alone, With a mermaid's knee, For instance--hey-- For a throne?

II

I would be a merman gay; I would sit and sing the whole day long; I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine, And squirt it up in a spray of song, And soak my head in my liquid voice; I'd curl my tail in curves divine, And let each curve in a kink rejoice. I'd tackle the mermaids under the sea, And yank 'em around till they yanked me, Sportively, sportively; And then we would wiggle away, away, To the pea-green groves on the coast of day, Chasing each other sportively.

III

There would be neither moon nor star; But the waves would twang like a wet guitar Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum-- Neither moon nor star; We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales-- Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal, "All night!" rakishly, rakishly; They would pelt me with oysters and wiggletails, Laughing and clapping their hands at me, "All night!" prankishly, prankishly; But I would toss them back in mine, Lobsters and turtles of quaint design; Then leaping out in an abrupt way, I'd snatch them bald in my devilish glee, And skip away when they snatched at me, Fiendishly, fiendishly. O, what a jolly life I'd lead, Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed! Soft are the mermaids under the sea-- We would live merrily, merrily.

THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of tear-drops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And, even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE

We are not always glad when we smile: Though we wear a fair face and are gay, And the world we deceive May not ever believe We could laugh in a happier way.-- Yet, down in the deeps of the soul, Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, There's an ache and a moan That we know of alone, And as only the hopeless may know.

We are not always glad when we smile,-- For the heart, in a tempest of pain, May live in the guise Of a smile in the eyes As a rainbow may live in the rain; And the stormiest night of our woe May hang out a radiant star Whose light in the sky Of despair is a lie As black as the thunder-clouds are.

We are not always glad when we smile!-- But the conscience is quick to record, All the sorrow and sin We are hiding within Is plain in the sight of the Lord: And ever, O ever, till pride And evasion shall cease to defile The sacred recess Of the soul, we confess We are not always glad when we smile.

A SUMMER SUNRISE

AFTER LEE O. HARRIS

The master-hand whose pencils trace This wondrous landscape of the morn, Is but the sun, whose glowing face Reflects the rapture and the grace Of inspiration Heaven-born.

And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, I see the lotus-lands of old, Where odorous breezes fall and rise, And mountains, peering in the skies, Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold.

And, spangled with the shine and shade, I see the rivers raveled out In strands of silver, slowly fade In threads of light along the glade Where truant roses hide and pout.

The tamarind on gleaming sands Droops drowsily beneath the heat; And bowed as though aweary, stands The stately palm, with lazy hands That fold their shadows round his feet.

And mistily, as through a veil, I catch the glances of a sea Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail Of Jason's Argo beckons me.

And gazing on and farther yet, I see the isles enchanted, bright With fretted spire and parapet, And gilded mosque and minaret, That glitter in the crimson light.

But as I gaze, the city's walls Are keenly smitten with a gleam Of pallid splendor, that appalls The fancy as the ruin falls In ashen embers of a dream.

Yet over all the waking earth The tears of night are brushed away, And eyes are lit with love and mirth, And benisons of richest worth Go up to bless the new-born day.

DAS KRIST KINDEL

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"-- The old split-bottomed rocker--and was musing all alone.

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;-- And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair-- A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth; And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.

And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstacy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin, And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:--

'By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,-- We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd--You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side,-- But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,-- We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.'

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings,--"It is Christmas--all is well!"

AN OLD YEAR'S ADDRESS

"I have twankled the strings of the twinkering rain; I have burnished the meteor's mail; I have bridled the wind When he whinnied and whined With a bunch of stars tied to his tail; But my sky-rocket hopes, hanging over the past, Must fuzzle and fazzle and fizzle at last!"

I had waded far out in a drizzling dream, And my fancies had spattered my eyes With a vision of dread, With a number ten head, And a form of diminutive size-- That wavered and wagged in a singular way As he wound himself up and proceeded to say,--

"I have trimmed all my corns with the blade of the moon; I have picked every tooth with a star: And I thrill to recall That I went through it all Like a tune through a tickled guitar. I have ripped up the rainbow and raveled the ends When the sun and myself were particular friends."

And pausing again, and producing a sponge And wiping the tears from his eyes, He sank in a chair With a technical air That he struggled in vain to disguise,-- For a sigh that he breathed, as I over him leant, Was haunted and hot with a peppermint scent.

"Alas!" he continued in quavering tones As a pang rippled over his face, "The life was too fast For the pleasure to last In my very unfortunate case; And I'm going"--he said as he turned to adjust A fuse in his bosom,--"I'm going to--BUST!"

I shrieked and awoke with the sullen che-boom Of a five-pounder filling my ears; And a roseate bloom Of a light in the room I saw through the mist of my tears,-- But my guest of the night never saw the display, He had fuzzled and fazzled and fizzled away!

A NEW YEAR'S PLAINT

In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. --TENNYSON.

The bells that lift their yawning throats And lolling tongues with wrangling cries Flung up in harsh, discordant notes, As though in anger, at the skies,-- Are filled with echoings replete, With purest tinkles of delight-- So I would have a something sweet Ring in the song I sing to-night.

As when a blotch of ugly guise On some poor artist's naked floor Becomes a picture in his eyes, And he forgets that he is poor,-- So I look out upon the night, That ushers in the dawning year, And in a vacant blur of light I see these fantasies appear.

I see a home whose windows gleam Like facets of a mighty gem That some poor king's distorted dream Has fastened in his diadem. And I behold a throng that reels In revelry of dance and mirth, With hearts of love beneath their heels, And in their bosoms hearts of earth.

O Luxury, as false and grand As in the mystic tales of old, When genii answered man's command, And built of nothing halls of gold! O Banquet, bright with pallid jets, And tropic blooms, and vases caught In palms of naked statuettes, Ye can not color as ye ought!

For, crouching in the storm without, I see the figure of a child, In little ragged roundabout, Who stares with eyes that never smiled-- And he, in fancy can but taste The dainties of the kingly fare, And pick the crumbs that go to waste Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.

Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down-- The "merry greeting" best appears On loving lips that never drown Its worth but in the wine of tears; Go, close your coffers like your hearts, And shut your hearts against the poor, Go, strut through all your pretty parts But take the "Welcome" from your door.

LUTHER BENSON

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse That hovers o'er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike, And cruel beak to stab and tear In virtue's vitals everywhere,-- You need no sympathy of mine To aid you, for a strength divine Encircles you, and lifts you clear Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor, As, looking through the open door Of your sad life, I only see A broad landscape of misery, And catch through mists of pitying tears The ruins of your younger years, I see a father's shielding arm Thrown round you in a wild alarm-- Struck down, and powerless to free Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark And desolate--the latest spark Of hope is passing in eclipse-- The prayer upon a mother's lips Has fallen with her latest breath In ashes on the lips of death-- I see a penitent who reels, And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels, And moans for mercy for the sake Of that fond heart he dared to break.

And lo! as when in Galilee A voice above the troubled sea Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood That rolled in tempest-waves of blood Within you, fell in calm so sweet It ripples round the Saviour's feet; And all your noble nature thrilled With brightest hope and faith, and filled Your thirsty soul with joy and peace And praise to Him who gave release.

"DREAM"

Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam-- Because of this I called her "Dream."

Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness--so I called her "Dream."

Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream."