Chapter 9

I had rather write one word upon the rock Of ages than ten thousand in the sand. The rock of ages! lo I cannot reach Its lofty shoulders with my puny hand: I can but touch the sands about its feet. Yea, I have painted pictures for the blind, And sung my sweetest songs to ears of stone. What matter if the dust of ages drift Five fathoms deep above my grave unknown, For I have sung and loved the songs I sung. Who sings for fame the Muses may disown; Who sings for gold will sing an idle song; But he who sings because sweet music springs Unbidden from his heart and warbles long, May haply touch another heart unknown. There is sweeter poetry in the hearts of men Than ever poet wrote or minstrel sung; For words are clumsy wings for burning thought. The full heart falters on the stammering tongue, And silence is more eloquent than song When tender souls are wrung by grief or shameful wrong.

The grandest poem is God's Universe: In measured rhythm the planets whirl their course: Rhythm swells and throbs in every sun and star, In mighty ocean's organ-peals and roar, In billows bounding on the harbor-bar, In the blue surf that rolls upon the shore, In the low zephyr's sigh, the tempest's sob, In the rain's patter and the thunder's roar; Aye, in the awful earthquake's shuddering throb, When old Earth cracks her bones and trembles to her core.

I hear a piper piping on a reed To listening flocks of sheep and bearded goats; I hear the larks shrill-warbling o'er the mead Their silver sonnets from their golden throats; And in my boyhood's clover-fields I hear The twittering swallows and the hum of bees. Ah, sweeter to my heart and to my ear Than any idyl poet ever sung, The low, sweet music of their melodies; Because I listened when my soul was young, In those dear meadows under maple trees. My heart they molded when its clay was moist, And all my life the hum of honey-bees Hath waked in me a spirit that rejoiced, And touched the trembling chords of tenderest memories.

I hear loud voices and a clamorous throng With braying bugles and with bragging drums-- Bards and bardies laboring at a song. One lifts his locks, above the rest preferred, And to the buzzing flies of fashion thrums A banjo. Lo him follow all the herd. When Nero's wife put on her auburn wig, And at the Coliseum showed her head, The hair of every dame in Rome turned red; When Nero fiddled all Rome danced a jig. Novelty sets the gabbling geese agape, And fickle fashion follows like an ape. Aye, brass is plenty; gold is scarce and dear; Crystals abound, but diamonds still are rare. Is this the golden age, or the age of gold? Lo by the page or column fame is sold. Hear the big journal braying like an ass; Behold the brazen statesmen as they pass; See dapper poets hurrying for their dimes With hasty verses hammered out in rhymes: The Muses whisper--'"Tis the age of brass." Workmen are plenty, but the masters few-- Fewer to-day than in the days of old. Rare blue-eyed pansies peeping pearled with dew, And lilies lifting up their heads of gold, Among the gaudy cockscombs I behold, And here and there a lotus in the shade; And under English oaks a rose that ne'er will fade.

Fair barks that flutter in the sun your sails, Piping anon to gay and tented shores Sweet music and low laughter, it is well Ye hug the haven when the tempest roars, For only stalwart ships of oak or steel May dare the deep and breast the billowy sea When sweeps the thunder-voiced, dark hurricane, And the mad ocean shakes his shaggy mane, And roars through all his grim and vast immensity.

The stars of heaven shine not till it is dark. Seven cities strove for Homer's bones, 'tis said, "Through which the living Homer begged for bread." When in their coffins they lay dumb and stark Shakespeare began to live, Dante to sing, And Poe's sweet lute began its werbelling. Rear monuments of fame or flattery-- Think ye their sleeping souls are made aware? Heap o'er their heads sweet praise or calumny-- Think ye their moldering ashes hear or care? Nay, praise and fame are by the living sought; But he is wise who scorns their flattery, And who escapes the tongue of calumny May count himself an angel or a naught: Lo over Byron's grave a maggot writhes distraught.

Genius is patience, labor and good sense. Steel and the mind grow bright by frequent use; In rest they rust. A goodly recompense Comes from hard toil, but not from its abuse. The slave, the idler, are alike unblessed; Aye, in loved labor only is there rest. But he will read and range and rhyme in vain Who hath no dust of diamonds in his brain; And untaught genius is a gem undressed. The life of man is short, but Art is long, And labor is the lot of mortal man, Ordained by God since human time began: Day follows day and brings its toil and song. Behind the western mountains sinks the moon, The silver dawn steals in upon the dark, Up from the dewy meadow wheels the lark And trills his welcome to the rising sun, And lo another day of labor is begun.

Poets are born, not made, some scribbler said, And every rhymester thinks the saying true: Better unborn than wanting labor's aid: Aye, all great poets--all great men--are made Between the hammer and the anvil. Few Have the true metal, many have the fire. No slave or savage ever proved a bard; Men have their bent, but labor its reward, And untaught fingers cannot tune the lyre. The poet's brain with spirit-vision teems; The voice of nature warbles in his heart; A sage, a seer, he moves from men apart, And walks among the shadows of his dreams; He sees God's light that in all nature beams; And when he touches with the hand of art The song of nature welling from his heart, And guides it forth in pure and limpid streams, Truth sparkles in the song and like a diamond gleams.

Time and patience change the mulberry-leaf To shining silk; the lapidary's skill Makes the rough diamond sparkle at his will, And cuts a gem from quartz or coral-reef. Better a skillful cobbler at his last Than unlearned poet twangling on the lyre; Who sails on land and gallops on the blast, And mounts the welkin on a braying ass, Clattering a shattered cymbal bright with brass, And slips his girth and tumbles in the mire. All poetry must be, if it be true, Like the keen arrows of the--Grecian god Apollo, that caught fire as they flew. Ah, such was Byron's, but alas he trod Ofttimes among the brambles and the rue, And sometimes dived full deep and brought up mud. But when he touched with tears, as only he Could touch, the tender chords of sympathy, His coldest critics warmed and marveled much, And all old England's heart throbbed to his thrilling touch.

Truth is the touchstone of all genius Art, In poet, painter, sculptor, is the same: What cometh from the heart goes to the heart, What comes from effort only is but tame. Nature the only perfect artist is: Who studies Nature may approach her skill; Perfection hers, but never can be his, Though her sweet voice his very marrow thrill; The finest works of art are Nature's shadows still.

Look not for faultless men or faultless art; Small faults are ever virtue's parasites: As in a picture shadows show the lights, So human foibles show a human heart.

O while I live and linger on the brink Let the dear Muses be my company; Their nectared goblets let my parched lips drink; Ah, let me drink the _soma_ of their lips! As humming-bird the lily's nectar sips, Or _Houris_ sip the wine of Salsabil. Aye, let me to their throbbing music thrill, And let me never for one moment think, Although no laurel crown my constancy, Their gracious smiles are false, their dearest kiss a lie.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

I am growing old and weary Ere yet my locks are gray; Before me lies eternity, Behind me--but a day. How fast the years are vanishing! They melt like April snow: It seems to me but yesterday-- Twenty years ago.

There's the school-house on the hill-side, And the romping scholars all; Where we used to con our daily tasks, And play our games of ball. They rise to me in visions-- In sunny dreams--and ho' I sport among the boys and girls Twenty years ago.

We played at ball in summer time-- We boys--with hearty will; With merry shouts in winter time We coasted on the hill. We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands, And build our forts of snow, And storm those forts right gallantly-- Twenty years ago.

Last year in June I visited That dear old sacred spot, But the school-house on the hill-side And the merry shouts were not. A church was standing where it stood; I looked around, but no-- I could not see the boys and girls Of twenty years ago.

There was sister dear, and brother, Around the old home-hearth; And a tender, Christian mother, Too angel-like for earth. She used to warn me from the paths Where thorns and brambles grow, And lead me in the "narrow way"-- Twenty years ago.

I loved her and I honored her Through all my boyhood years; I knew her joys--I knew her cares-- I knew her hopes and fears. But alas, one autumn morning She left her home below, And she left us there a-weeping-- Twenty years ago.

They bore her to the church-yard, With slow and solemn pace; And there I took my last fond look On her dear, peaceful face. They lowered her in her silent grave, While we bowed our heads in woe, And they heaped the sods above her head-- Twenty years ago.

That low, sweet voice--my mother's voice-- I never can forget; And in those loving eyes I see The big tears trembling yet. I try to tread the "narrow way;" I stumble oft I know: I miss--how much!--the helping hand Of twenty years ago.

Mary--(Mary I will call you-- 'Tis not the old-time name) Sainted Mary--blue-eyed Mary-- Are you in heaven the same? Are your eyes as bright and beautiful, Your cheeks as full of glow, As when the school-boy kissed you, May, Twenty years ago?

How we swung upon the grape-vine Down by the Genesee; And I caught the speckled trout for you, While you gathered flowers for me: How we rambled o'er the meadows With brows and cheeks aglow, And hearts like God's own angels-- Twenty years ago.

How our young hearts grew together Until they beat as one; Distrust it could not enter; Cares and fears were none. All my love was yours, dear Mary, 'Twas boyish love, I know; But I ne'er have loved as then I loved-- Twenty years ago.

How we pictured out the future-- The golden coming years, And saw no cloud in all our sky, No gloomy mist of tears; But ah--how vain are human hopes! The angels came--and O-- They bore my darling up to heaven-- Twenty years ago.

I will not tell--I cannot tell-- What anguish wrung my soul; But a silent grief is on my heart Though the years so swiftly roll; And I cannot shake it off, May, This lingering sense of woe, Though I try to drown the memory Of twenty years ago.

I am fighting life's stern battle, May, With all my might and main; But a seat by you and mother there Is the dearest prize to gain; And I know you both are near me, Whatever winds may blow, For I feel your spirits cheer me Like twenty years ago.

BETZKO

A HUNGARIAN LEGEND

Stibor had led in many a fight, And broken a score of swords In furious frays and bloody raids Against the Turkish hordes.

And Sigismund, the Polish king, Who joined the Magyar bands, Bestowed upon the valiant knight A broad estate of lands.

Once when the wars were o'er, the knight Was holding wassail high, And the valiant men that followed him Were at the revelry.

Betzko, his Jester, pleased him so He vowed it his the task To do whatever in human power His witty Fool might ask.

"Build on yon cliff," the Jester cried, In drunken jollity, "A mighty castle high and wide, And name it after me."

"Ah, verily a Jester's prayer," Exclaimed the knightly crew, "To ask of such a noble lord What you know he cannot do."

"Who says I cannot," Stibor cried, "Do whatsoe'er I will? Within one year a castle shall stand On yonder rocky hill--

"A castle built of ponderous stones, To give me future fame; In honor of my witty Fool, Betzko shall be its name."

Now the cliff was high three hundred feet, And perpendicular; And the skill that could build a castle there Must come from lands afar.

And craftsmen came from foreign lands, Italian, German and Jew-- Apprentices and fellow-craftsmen, And master-masons, too.

And every traveler journeying Along the mountain-ways Was held to pay his toll of toil On the castle for seven days.

Slowly they raised the massive towers Upon the steep ascent, And all around a thousand hands Built up the battlement.

Three hundred feet above the glen-- (By the steps five hundred feet)-- The castle stood upon the cliff At the end of the year--complete.

Now throughout all the Magyar land There's none other half so high, So massive built, so strong and grand;-- It reaches the very sky.

But from that same high battlement (Say tales by gypsies told) The valiant Stibor met his death When he was cross and old.

I'll tell you the tale as they told it to me, And I doubt not it is true, For 'twas handed down from the middle ages From the lips of knights who knew.

One day when the knight was old and cross, And a little the worse for grog, Betzko, the Jester, thoughtlessly Struck Stibor's favorite dog.

Now the dog was a hound and Stibor's pet, And as white as Carpathian snow, And Stibor hurled old Betzko down From the walls to the rocks below.

And as the Jester headlong fell From the dizzy, dreadful height, He muttered a curse with his latest breath On the head of the cruel knight.

One year from that day old Stibor held His drunken wassail long, And spent the hours till the cock crew morn In jest and wine and song.

Then he sought his garden on the cliff, And lay down under a vine To sleep away the lethargy Of a wassail-bowl of wine.

While sleeping soundly under the shade, And dreaming of revelries, An adder crawled upon his breast, And bit him in both his eyes.

Blinded and mad with pain he ran Toward the precipice, Unheeding till he headlong fell Adown the dread abyss.

Just where old Betzko's blood had dyed With red the old rocks gray, Quivering and bleeding and dumb and dead Old Stibor's body lay.

WESSELENYI

A HUNGARIAN TALE

When madly raged religious war O'er all the Magyar land And royal archer and hussar Met foemen hand to hand, A princess fair in castle strong The royal troops defied And bravely held her fortress long Though help was all denied.

Princess Maria was her name-- Brave daughter nobly sired; She caught her father's trusty sword When bleeding he expired, And bravely rallied warders all To meet the storming foe, And hurled them from the rampart-wall Upon the crags below.

Prince Casimir--her father--built Murana high and wide; It sat among the mountain cliffs-- The Magyars' boast and pride. Bold Wesselenyi--stalwart knight, Young, famed and wondrous fair, With a thousand men besieged the height, And led the bravest there.

And long he tried the arts of war To take that castle-hold, Till many a proud and plumed hussar Was lying stiff and cold; And still the frowning castle stood A grim, unbroken wall, Like some lone rock in stormy seas That braves the billows all.

Bold Wesselenyi's cheeks grew thin; A solemn oath he sware That if he failed the prize to win His bones should molder there. Two toilsome months had worn away, Two hundred men were slain, His bold assaults were baffled still, And all his arts were vain.

But love is mightier than the sword, He clad him in disguise-- In the dress of an inferior lord-- To win the noble prize. He bade his armed men to wait, To cease the battle-blare And sought alone the castle-gate To hold a parley there.

Aloft a flag of truce he bore: Her warders bade him pass; Within he met the princess fair All clad in steel and brass. Her bright, black eyes and queenly art, Sweet lips and raven hair, Smote bold young Wesselenyi's heart While he held parley there.

Cunning he talked of great reward And royal favor, too, If she would yield her father's sword; She sternly answered "No." But even while they parleyed there Maria's lustrous eyes Looked tenderly and lovingly On the chieftain in disguise.

"Go tell your gallant chief," she said, "To keep his paltry pelf; The knight who would my castle win, Must dare to come himself." And forth she sternly bade him go, But followed with her eyes. I ween she knew the brave knight well Through all his fair disguise.

But when had dawned another morn, He bade his bugleman To sound again the parley-horn Ere yet the fray began. And forth he sent a trusty knight To seek the castle-gate And to the princess privately His message to relate;--

That he it was who in disguise Her warders bade to pass, And while he parleyed there her eyes Had pierced his plates of brass. His heart he offered and his hand, And pledged a signet-ring If she would yield her brave command Unto his gracious king.

"Go tell your chief," Maria cried-- "Audacious as he is-- If he be worthy such a bride My castle and hand are his. But he should know that lady fair By faint heart ne'er was won; So let your gallant chieftain, sir, Come undisguised alone.

"And he may see in the northern tower, Over yonder precipice, A lone, dim light at the midnight hour Shine down the dark abyss. And over the chasm's dungeon-gloom Shall a slender ladder hang; And if alone he dare to come,-- Unarmed--without a clang,

"More of his suit your chief shall hear Perhaps may win the prize; Tell him the way is hedged with fear,-- One misstep and he dies. Nor will I pledge him safe retreat From out yon guarded tower; My watchful warders all to cheat May be beyond my power."

At midnight's dark and silent hour The tall and gallant knight Sought on the cliff the northern tower, And saw the promised light. With toil he climbed the cragged cliff, And there the ladder found; And o'er the yawning gulf he clomb The ladder round by round.

And as he climbed the ladder bent Above the yawning deep, But bravely to the port he went And entered at a leap Full twenty warders thronged the hall Each with his blade in hand; They caught the brave knight like a thrall And bound him foot and hand.

They tied him fast to an iron ring, At Maria's stern command, And then they jeered--"God save the king And all his knightly band!" They bound a bandage o'er his eyes, Then the haughty princess said: "Audacious knight, I hold a prize,-- My castle or your head!

"Now, mark!--desert the king's command, And join your sword with mine, And thine shall be my heart and hand, This castle shall be thine. I grant one hour for thee to choose, My bold and gallant lord; And if my offer you refuse You perish by the sword!"

He spoke not a word, but his face was pale And he prayed a silent prayer; But his heart was oak and it could not quail, And a secret oath he sware. And grim stood the warders armed all, In the torches' flicker and flare, As they watch for an hour in the gloomy hall The brave knight pinioned there.

The short--the flying hour is past, The warders have bared his breast; The bugler bugles a doleful blast; Will the pale knight stand the test? He has made his choice--he will do his part, He has sworn and he cannot lie, And he cries with the sword at his beating heart,-- "_Betray?--nay--better to die!_"

Suddenly fell from his blue eyes The silken, blinding bands, And while he looked in sheer surprise They freed his feet and hands. "I give thee my castle," Maria cried, "And I give thee my heart and hand, And Maria will be the proudest bride In all this Magyar land.

"Grant heaven that thou be true to me As thou art to the king, And I'll bless the day I gave to thee My castle for a ring." The red blood flushed to the brave knight's face As he looked on the lady fair; He sprang to her arms in a fond embrace, And he married her then and there.

So the little blind elf with his feathered shaft Did more than the sword could do, For he conquered and took with his magical craft Her heart and her castle, too.

ISABEL

Fare-thee-well: On my soul the toll of bell Trembles. Thou art calmly sleeping While my weary heart is weeping: I cannot listen to thy knell: Fare-thee-well.

Sleep and rest: Sorrow shall not pain thy breast, Pangs and pains that pierce the mortal Cannot enter at the portal Of the Mansion of the Blest: Sleep and rest.

Slumber sweet, Heart that nevermore will beat At the footsteps of thy lover; All thy cares and fears are over. In thy silent winding-sheet Slumber sweet.

Fare-thee-well: In the garden and the dell Where thou lov'dst to stroll and meet me, Nevermore thy kiss shall greet me, Nevermore, O Isabel! Fare-thee-well.

We shall meet-- Where the wings of angels beat: When my toils and cares are over, Thou shalt greet again thy lover-- Robed and crowned at Jesus' feet We shall meet.

Watch and wait At the narrow, golden gate; Watch my coming,--wait my greeting, For my years are few and fleeting And my love shall not abate: Watch and wait.

So farewell, O my darling Isabel; Till we meet in the supernal Mansion and with love eternal In the golden city dwell, Fare-thee-well.

BYRON AND THE ANGEL

_Poet:_

"Why this fever--why this sighing?-- Why this restless longing--dying For--a something--dreamy something, Undefined, and yet defying All the pride and power of manhood?

"O these years of sin and sorrow! Smiling while the iron harrow Of a keen and biting longing Tears and quivers in the marrow Of my being every moment-- Of my very inmost being.

"What to me the mad ambition For men's praise and proud position-- Struggling, fighting to the summit Of its vain and earthly mission, To lie down on bed of ashes-- Bed of barren, bitter ashes?

"Cure this fever? I have tried it; Smothered, drenched it and defied it With a will of brass and iron; Every smile and look denied it; Yet it heeded not denying, And it mocks at my defying While my very soul is dying.

"Is there balm in Gilead?--tell me! Nay--no balm to soothe and quell me? Must I tremble in this fever? Death, O lift thy hand and fell me; Let me sink to rest forever Where this burning cometh never.

"Sometimes when this restless madness Softens down to mellow sadness, I look back on sun-lit valleys Where my boyish heart of gladness Nestled without pain or longing-- Nestled softly in a vision Full of love and hope's fruition, Lulled by morning songs of spring-time.

"Then I ponder, and I wonder Was some heart-chord snapped asunder When the threads were soft and silken? Did some fatal boyish blunder Plant a canker in my bosom That hath ever burned and rankled?

"O this thirsting, thirsting hanker! O this burning, burning canker' Driving Peace and Hope to shipwreck-- Without rudder, without anchor, On the reef-rocks of Damnation!"

_Invisible Angel:_

"Jesus--Son of Virgin Mary; Lift the burden from the weary: Pity, Jesus, and anoint him With the holy balm of Gilead."

_Poet:_

"Yea, Christ Jesus, pour thy blessings On these terrible heart-pressings: O I bless thee, unseen Angel; Lead me--teach me, holy Spirit."

_Angel:_

"There is balm in Gilead! There is balm in Gilead! Peace awaits thee with caressings-- Sitting at the feet of Jesus-- At the right-hand of Jehovah-- At the blessed feet of Jesus;--Alleluia!"

CHRISTMAS EVE

I

From church and chapel and dome and tower, Near--far and everywhere, The merry bells chime loud and clear Upon the frosty air.