Part 9

That Christmas season, for three weeks long, He played for dances, yea, every night, His melodies were both sweet and strong, And gave the people such great delight, They said they never before had heard Such music come from a violin, And wondereed much of what things had stirred The fiddler’s heart, or where he had been.

But this he kept to himself alone, For often since he the fairies saw, List to their music when brightly shone The moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow, And more and more did he learn their art, Yea, some did whisper, he was possest, But he had won every woman’s heart, When he was old, and was laid to rest.

CRUEL KITTY

Kitty is playing on the side of the hill, All in the new-mown grass, Hunting a butterfly; O, don’t you kill That beautiful thing, alas! She caught it and wounded its wings!

“How cruel of kitty to play in this way;” Your friend on top of the hill, If she were alive, now surely would say, Alas, that her voice should be still! That prattled of beautiful things.

In her grave on the hill the little one lies; Her kitten at play in the hay; And looking thereon a mother’s heart cries, With grief she is pining away, Like the butterfly’s sunder-torn wings.

TO----

Were I an artist, I would paint thee thus:-- Tall, lithe and slender, like a Grecian youth In flowing garb, whose lines enhance the form, A face whose soul is innocence and truth, And eyes of dreamy love, that blesses us With gladness, like the sunlight after storm.

Were I a master of sweet music, I Would turn the rhythm of thy motion, and Thy voice and laughter into melody, A symphony, fit for a royal band, With joy of glitt’ring waves and zephyr’s sigh With love’s entrancement and pure ecstasy.

But I, alas, have nothing but a rhyme, In which to clothe the pleasure of an hour,-- An hour amid the fields and on the stream; I picked for thee the rarest, sweetest flower, A wild rose, mingling odor with the thyme, Since that seems truest of a poet’s dream.

FAREWELL

Farewell, dear lass, it grieves me much That thou must leave us here alone, Thou gav’st our summer months a touch Of happiness, as seldom known, Thou gavest such a sunny cheer, That every day seemed like a play, And now, when autumn’s winds blow drear, Thou needs must go so far away!

The leaves lie yellow on the lawn, The blackbirds gather into flocks, The thrush and lark have long since gone, The crows sit cawing on the rocks, The heavy clouds soar wild and black Across the meadows, sear with frost, I stand alone beneath their wrack, And feel that summer’s joy is lost.

But I shall ne’er forget thy smile, And ever in my heart shall ring The laughter which did e’er beguile Each brooding care to take its wing, Thy winsomeness which woke my soul From lethargy’s dun dreariness Shall leave a glamour over all, And even winter’s darkness bless.

So fare thee well, my brown-eyed lass, May heaven keep thee pure and sweet! May ne’er a shadow o’er thee pass Of evil’s harm or dark deceit! And mayst thou from the Southern clime Return when April’s breezes blow, When minstrel hosts perceive ’tis time To lift their wings and northward go.

ALONE

It is good to be all alone, In the dark of the night, aye, the starry night, When those you love truest are from you gone, In the far away, beyond sound and sight; When the wind is singing its sad, strange song In gloomy tree-tops, a-tow’ring high, And whispers the names for whom you long, And the love for which you sigh.

It is good to be all alone with one’s soul,-- The soul which so seldom has chance to speak; It is good to be freed from the narrow and small, To rise from the vale to the mountain peak, To be guided by stargleams into a sphere, Where the world does not reach with its clamour and cry, And there in the silence pause, till you hear Your innermost self and the God that is nigh.

LINES ON AN OLD SONGBOOK

An old hymnbook, owned by my great-grandmother, and bearing the following inscription:

Cenfebam Hafniae d. 9 Sept. Anno 1684,

is a collection of hymns and religious songs, written by Dorothe Engelbrets Datter, a poetess of considerable distinction in Norway and Denmark in the 17th century.

I faintly can remember still A scene from childhood years, A picture dim which always will Be treasured in my heart until Beyond the change of good and ill, It glorified appears.

I saw through an half-open door An aged woman’s face, Amid the sunlight on the floor, Uplifted and it seemed adore A heavenly vision, or implore For mercy and for grace.

An open book was in her hand, From which she read and sang, I was too young to understand, And yet I thought it was most grand, A music from a better land Which through her singing rang.

This is the book, or part thereof, An aged, thumbworn tome, Quaint hymns of penitence and love, By one whom heaven did endow With glory fit for Sapho’s brow, Far in her northern home.

I look upon each yellow page, Each stain and finger-mark, And see in them my heritage,-- My Great Grandmother’s heritage, Which did her pious soul engage, In times remote and dark.

PEARLS AND PALACES

I wandered down a dusty road, And spent myself to sheer fatigue, Until I fell beneath a load Of misery and man’s intrigue, When all at once I saw a string Of lustrous pearls, close by the way, It seemed such strange a hap and thing, That I believed my sense astray.

But as I dared to touch the gems, And as I felt their soft delight, And saw the coloring, which hems The robe of dawn o’er snowcapped height, Play in their orbs, I felt a thrill Of pleasure surging through my soul, And then a peace, so rare and still, Upon my restless heart to fall.

At length I rose to journey on, But with a new-born strength and zest, The burden gone, I saw the sun, I felt that life is heaven-blest, The string of pearls I treasured most, And guarded it with fondest care, Lest such a fount of joy be lost, Lest doubt again should me ensnare.

I travelled long, at last I came Into a place of Palaces, Such as in heaven have highest fame, But which the earthbound covet less; The saints of old did know them well, And gave their all that they might win Admittance to the humblest cell, And God’s forgiveness for their sin.

Each pearl became within my hand A key wherewith the doors to ope, And angel guides did ready stand To point to each sincerest hope; And dazzling glory filled the halls, To archéd roof the music rose, And master’s art adorned the walls, And o’er it all hung sweet repose.

The first and nearest door, I tried, Was one a singer, long ago, Found when distressed with pain he cried For healing streams to him to flow, Then sang his praise alone to Him, “Who healeth all thy sicknesses,” And there I found a truth, now dim, That God with health the sick can bless.

Another palace-door a pearl Swung open widely to my gaze, And like the waves that gently curl Upon the sunlit water’s face, There came in waves of harmony A thousand voices in this place, All promises of things to be, And of His daily help of grace.

As the orchestral melody By variations is enhanced, So did his words: “Come unto me,” Lead jubilant; I stood entranced,-- “Come unto me, I’ll give you rest, My yoke is easy, burden light,”-- Ah, here I found all that my quest Had sought in weariness and night.

Another pearl did ope the gate To throne-rooms of the Sovereign’s pow’r, Where not a shadow of dark Fate Had part in any dial’s hour; But truth and righteousness and love Did govern life and destiny, The Sovereign’s will, supreme above The ways of man, did all decree.

And in this hour of awful gloom, When faith is wrecked, and hope is low, The glory from this Palace-room Makes all the mountain-peaks aglow; And shadows flee from vale and plain, And struggling armies see a gleam, Commensurate with grief and pain,-- The truth of what seemed but a dream.

My rosary has many beads, I need an endless life to learn, To what exalted things each leads, For which my soul doth truly yearn,-- And when the innermost I gain, There hangs a cross which lights the way To Palace-portals where I fain Would be this moment, and for aye.

VICTOR HUGO

It was on a midsummer night, Now long ago, In the far-off land of Norway, I sat in an open window, And dreamed.

The valley and hills and distant mountains Were all like a dream In the soft light and wonderful calm Of the night.

The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch, And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and vale Wrought with a fairy-potion, Dreams and thrills of the soul.

The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fire Like pillars rose from the wooded heights To the sky cerulian, Where the evening star shone bright, Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy; It shimmered above a cataract, Whose music rose and fell Where the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord.

The night had voices: Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires; Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds; Yet all was peace, and joy, and life, And mystery such as the Avon Bard Did see and hear on a Midsummer night.

I was but a boy, and the names of the great Were new to me, and yet not strange,-- I knew not why. That day I had read about Hugo, That he, the greatest of singers In our own day, was dead; I felt a heart-gripping sorrow, And wept as over a friend.

It seemed that his spirit was there, In the dreams of that Saint John’s night, That all the fairies and flowers and streams Were greeting him with a love that had sadness, And yet which rose on the wings of gladness, Up to the stars.

My soul did feel it, I know not how, That he was there, a part of it all, The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life.

TO A FRIEND

In the stillness of the evening, When the dew is on the grass, And the forest stands a-dreaming, ’Round the moonlit lake of glass, Do I hear a sighing whisper, As when happy lovers part, It is thine I hear, my lady, Rising from all nature’s heart.

When the autumn winds are blowing, And the yellow leaves fall down, Whirled upon the river, flowing To the mighty, distant sound,-- Then I hear thy soul a-weeping, For the love that is no more, For the life now in God’s keeping, On a far-off, unknown shore.

When the fields and hills are covered With a blanket of pure snow, And the streams, where oft we hovered, Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow, Then I know thy life lies hidden Under sorrow’s wintry plaid, But the hope, which seems forbidden, In its course cannot be staid.

When in spring new life is risen From the grave with songs of joy, Then thy soul shall leave its prison, And its broken harp employ, Then again that sighing whisper, Charged with love and happiness, I shall hear amid the woodlands Which the dreamy lake caress.

TO A “KNOCKER”

This sturdy world is hard to knock, Though hit it as you may, It moves, unmindful of the shock,-- In its accustomed way.

It laughs a little cynic laugh And says: “Fall into line, The use of Mose’ rod and staff Is but for the divine.

“Come, son, or thou must surely die, One fool the more or less Will not provoke a mournful cry, Nor cause an hour’s distress.

“So know thy best, be like the rest, And stop thy foolish knocking, Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’ Save one, the quest of shopping.”

A VISION

To-day I had a vision of the thing Which we call life--the sum of human life-- In person of an upright monster-man, Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues, Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green, And blue and purple and the violet, Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black; His large and bony feet strode heavily, A-trampling, upon beings in his path, On men and women and on little babes, And crushed them in the dust without a pity, Once in a while he lifted to his breast Some one with fondling pleasure, and did bear

The favorite aloft, that all might see His glory’s contrast to their misery; But then at length, he tired of even such, And cast them down into the common dust. I looked upon his visage, strangest this, A blending of the human and the beast:-- But then the vision vanished, and I heard A cry and circling of the Pheonix bird.

SIGNS CELESTIAL

I read in the mystic Kabbala That there is a creature in heaven To which the most blessed Jehovah Two wonderful tokens hath given:

A word in its forehead at morning, A word in its forehead at night, Like jewels those words are adorning The creature with glory and light.

The first one is “Truth” which is telling The angels of heaven, it is day, Its lustre most joyous, compelling, Is guiding and keeping their way.

The other is “Faith,” which betoken That night is advancing apace, With rays that are dimmer and broken, Like sunset through silvery haze.

And I pondered this much, till I ventured The signs on this world to apply, Though Rabbins of old might have censured, And judged that for this I must die.

But the sign that is set on this creature-- The world--I perceive is the last, The first may belong to the future, When night’s gloomy vigils are past.

DESPAIR

Hence vain, illusive Hope, Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool! For thee should be the hangman’s rope, Or drowning in the deepest pool, Or everlasting prison in the darkest pit Of Dante’s hell, Where like a Siren thou should’st sit And mock thyself by saying: all is well.

I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,-- The only prophetess of real truth, Who nothing promises, who never made A fair illusion for aspiring youth;-- “All is nothing,” she doth whisper still, A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems, A soothing balm for every human ill, A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.

Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny, Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave, Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,-- The world’s great cry which like a wave Breaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,-- Thou autocrat of all that overwhelms Man’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate, To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.

HOPE

When mid the ruins of my life I sit dejected and forlorn, And think, how useless was the strife That was by strong ambitions borne, And count the years and reck the cost, Which all seem idly spent and vain, Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost, Life’s failures bring the better gain!”

When sorrow, troubles come in flocks, Like angry clouds, driven by the blast, Like waves against the riven rocks, On which my helpless soul is cast, And night and darkness come apace, With not a friend around to cheer, Again she shows her angel face, And whispers gently: “Do not fear.”

When by the graves of those I love Dark doubts are hovering around, She lifts my tearful look above The withered lily on the mound, And in the blue, so far away, I see a gleam, it seems a smile,-- Again I hear her softly say: “Despair not, wait a little while.”

O, blessed Hope, without whose aid, No victory is ever won, In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade, Or evening shadows drear and dun, Thou art our guardian angel, who Walks with us, when all others fail, And scatters roses, fresh with dew,-- O, heaven-born all hail! all hail!

BE STILL MY SOUL, BE STILL

Be still my soul, be still; Fret not thyself with cares of life, With worldly vanity and strife, Which bring but ill.

Withdraw thyself and be alone, Alone in holy solitude, Then shalt thou know the highest good, And for thy sins atone.

Then shalt thou know the harmony Of sweet celestial strains, Whose soothing notes allay the pains Brought on by human misery.

This world is void of peace,-- ’Tis nowhere found, except within, When from the earthly gain to win, Thou deignest cease.

AWAKE

The livelong night I lie awake, While all the world is slumbering, And weary I am numbering The hours which on the stillness break;

The hours, which give to others balm, The blessed balm of soothing sleep, My mind in cruel torture keep, And yet demand a perfect calm.

The hours whose loss I oft bewail At close of busy workingday, Now gladly I hear pass away, And the approaching morning hail.

And yet their woe hath recompense, Which sleeping mortals do not know, For gentle voices come and go, With solace to the weary sense.

From distant meadows comes the sound Of cowbells, stirred at intervals, And to my heart with joy recalls The age when in their clang I found

Suggestions of a fairy land, When Elfins rang their silver bells In flow’ry meads and shady dells, Or on the quiet moonlit strand.

I hear the cricket’s autumn song, The ceaseless music of the night, It tells about the summer’s flight, And of its life, so full and strong,

Of memories with love aglow, In youth and manhood’s fuller life, Of vanished days with glory rife, Whose joys I ne’er again shall know.

And far away the river sings Its lullaby out to the sea, A sense of rest comes over me, Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings.

THE AWAKENING

Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended, And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended, And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended.

To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided, My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided, And find the compass true in which my soul confided.

ASTERS

A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red, Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl, Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed, But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.

The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving, Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say: “Man by the bread alone shall not be living,” And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.

BUTTERFLIES

I sit on my porch the long after-noon, And dream, and dream, and dream; And the butterflies hover across the lawn, In shadow and golden beam, From flower to flower they flutter and fly, The sweet of their beauty to find, And out of my dream I wake with a cry: “Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”

For the chalice of life has few sweets for me, But mostly some bitter thing, The flowers which I planted with youthful glee, So often their poison bring, And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past, With remorse for their follies and hopes, That the few joys of life so briefly do last, And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.

Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care, And why should I murmur and fret, While the summer is here, and all nature is fair, And gleams mid the shadows are set? I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays, And dance with the butterflies gay, And dream little less, and enter the ways Of things which remain for a day.

THE ROSEBUSH

Against a quivering, golden beam, Where dance a myriad winged things, A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream, While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings, It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet An offering up to the happy bard, Whose flood of melody flows to meet The floating essence of wild-rose nard.

The flush of pink amid shades of green, Is like a wreath for a June-day bride, Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen, Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide, For this is midsummer’s perfect eve, When minds are roving on fancy’s wing, When hearts are young and all things believe, And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.

A rare creation, a gift divine, This rosebush is in my garden nook, Whose beauty all of the sacred Nine Would fancy more than the wisest book, For not a poet in any age Did joyful loveliness e’er express Like that which lolls round the unseen mage, So perfect, charming, and effortless.

It stands apart from the world of woe, An yet has balm for the troubled mind, An holy altar where one may know The joy of beauty, and solace find, Since God is there as in days of eld, When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn, (For I have always in secret held, That bush had also its roses borne.)

From crowds pretentious and gibbering, I turn oppressed to this holy place, Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing, Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace; My soul is free, as I bend to kiss The smiling rose, whose enchanting breath Fills all my being with such a bliss, That I could wish it the sting of death.

TWO ASPECTS

There’s a golden light on one side of the tree, On the other there is a shadow, The shadowy side goes out to me, The other runs down to the meadow, And the light is beckoning me away To the leas and fields of new-mown hay, Beckoning out from the shadow.

There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree, On the other a golden light, And the shadowy side is inviting me To rest in its sweet delight, For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair, And the heat of the sun is not striking there,-- And I stand at the tree in a plight.

THE GREAT “I AM”

Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee! Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving, Seen and unseen, are not of Thee! They are not,-- But self-eliminating,-- Since Thou alone art Truth and Love.

What is of man’s finiteness Is nothing in Thy Everlastingness;-- He only is; That only is, Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter!

THE DEATH CHANT

I heard a chant and a wailing, Among the wooded hills, From an Indian hut where they carried away A man from his earthly ills.

The black-garbed women were chanting The weirdest song I have heard-- An Indian lamentation, Till nature itself seemed stirred.

And my heart was filled with pity, As I saw that band forlorn, Its poverty and sorrow-- On that bright September morn.

And I thought of their ancient story, When the country was all their own, And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory-- A splendor to us unknown--

The glory of forest and prairie, A-teeming with herds and game, And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes-- For food but another name.

When they were lords of the realms they surveyed, And lived to their heart’s content, Till the white man came and robbed them Of all but their rotting tent.

And the chiefs sat down in the ashes Mid the hearth-stones of the past, And a race of pride and adventure Stood round with eyes downcast.