Chapter 1
THE MIRACLE
AND OTHER POEMS
BY VIRNA SHEARD
1913
TO MY DEAR BROTHER
ELDRIDGE STANTON (JUNIOR)
WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912.
No tears for thee, no tears, or sighs, Or breaking heart-- But smiles, that thou so well that bitter hour Didst play thy part!
VIRNA SHEARD.
CONTENTS
THE MIRACLE THE CROW WHEN APRIL COMES KISMET A SONG OF SUMMER DAYS AT THE PLAY CHRISTMAS THE HEART COURAGEOUS A SONG THE CALL THE KNIGHT-ERRANT A SOUTHERN LULLABY THE FAIRY CLOCK THE SLUMBER ANGEL THE LONELY ROAD SEA-BORN THE ANGEL WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES THE OPAL MONTH NOCTURNE A SONG OF LOVE THE UNKNOWING THE PETITION HALLOWE'EN THE GLEANER THE ROVER IN SOLITUDE THE ROBIN A SONG OF ROSES PRAIRIE THE CLIMBER THE DAISY THE VISION SAINTS AT MIDNIGHT NOVEMBER THE LILY-POND LILACS APRIL PAEANS THE HARP GULLS THE SHEPHERD WIND THE TEMPLE REQUEST A SONG THE TOAST THE SEA-SHELL AT DAWN THE WHISTLER COMMON-WEALTH DON CUPID HEAVEN SIR HENRY IRVING JEAN DE BREBOEUF IN EGYPT A SONG OF POPPIES A PAGAN PRAYER A LOVE SONG
THE MIRACLE AND OTHER POEMS
THE MIRACLE
Up from the templed city of the Jews, The road ran straight and white To Jericho, the City of the Palms, The City of Delight.
Down that still road from far Judean hills The shepherds drove their sheep At silver dawn--at stirring of the birds-- When men were all asleep.
Full many went that weary way at noon, Or rested by the trees, Romans and slaves, Gentiles and bearded priests, Sinners and Pharisees.
But when the pink clouds drifted far and high, Like rose leaves blowing past, When in the west where one star blessed the sky The gates of day shut fast.
All travellers journeyed home, and the moonlight Washed the road fresh and sweet, Until it seemed a gleaming ivory path, Waiting for royal feet.
* * * * *
Now it was noon, and life at its full tide Rolled ever to and fro, A restless sea, between Jerusalem And white-walled Jericho.
Blind Bartimeus, by the highway side, Sat begging 'neath the trees, And heard the world go by, Gentiles and Jews, Sinners and Pharisees.
Blind Bartimeus of the mask-like face, And patient, outstretched hand-- He upon whom his God had set a mark No man might understand;
Blind Bartimeus of the lonely dark, Who knew no thing called fear, But dreamt his dreams, and heard the little sounds No man but he could hear.
He heard the beating of the bird's soft wings Uprising through the air; He heard the camel's footfall in the dust, And knew who travelled there.
He heard the lizard when it moved at noon On the grey, sunlit wall; He heard the far-off temple bells, what time He felt the shadows fall.
Now, in the golden hour, he stooped to hear A muffled sound and low, The tramping of a myriad sandalled feet That came from Jericho.
Then on the road a little lad he knew Ran past, with eager cry, "Ho, Bartimeus! Give thine heart good cheer, For David's Son comes by!
"He comes! He comes! And, sad one, who can say What He may do for thee? He makes the lame to walk! He heals the sick! He makes the blind to see!"
"He makes the blind to see! Oh, God of Hosts, Beyond the sky called blue, What if Messiah cometh to His own! What if the words be true!"
On his swift way the little herald sped, Like bird upon the wing, And left the lean, brown beggar--world-forgot-- Waiting for Israel's King.
But when the dust came whirling to his feet-- When the mad throng drew near-- Blind Bartimeus rose, and from his lips A cry rang loud and clear--
The cry of all the ages, of each soul In sad captivity; The endless cry from depths of bitter woe-- "Have mercy upon me!"
What though the wild oncoming multitude Jested and bade him cease; What though the Scribes and mighty Pharisees Told him to keep his peace;
What though his heart grew faint, and all the strength Slipped from each trembling limb-- The One of all the earth his soul desired Stood still--and spoke to him.
Then silence fell, while the upheaving throng, As sea-waves backward curled, Left a great path, and down the path there shone The Light of all the world.
The Light from whose mysterious golden depths The Sun rose in his might-- The light from whose white, hidden fires were lit The torches of the night;
The Light that shining on a thing of clay Giveth it Life and Will: The Light that with an unknown power can blast And bid all life be still;
The Light that calls a ray of its own light A man's undying soul-- The Light that lifts the broken lives of earth, Touches and makes them whole.
Up towards the Radiance Bartimeus went, Alone, and poor, and blind-- Feeling his way, if haply it led on To One he fain would find.
Then spoke the Voice again. Oh, mystic words Of a compelling grace: The curtain rose from off his darkened sight-- He saw the King's own face.
So strangely beautiful--so strangely near-- He worshipped with his eyes, Unheeding that for him at last there shone The sunlit noonday skies.
What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name Unto its utmost rim, He only saw the Christ--and in the light He rose and followed Him.
* * * * *
Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face, And patient, outstretched hand, Was it for this God set on thee the mark No man might understand?
THE CROW
Hail, little herald!--Art thou then returning From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day? Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning, That spring is on the way? Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,
From hill tops crested with untarnished snow; The trumpet notes are drifting--floating--falling-- Whene'er the breezes blow!
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!" Glad is thy message, little page in black-- "Winter is over, and the spring is coming-- The spring is coming back!"
Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather, Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?-- Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather, While flying to the North on buoyant wing?
Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branches And hear the sap go singing through the trees?-- Didst watch with keen, far-seeing downward glances, The leaves unlock their cells with fairy keys?
What though thy voice hath not a trace of sweetness It thrills one through and through, With promises of Joy in all completeness What time the skies are blue. When robins from the apple-trees are flinging Out on the air their silver shower of song,-- In lilac days, when children run a-singing, No single thought shall do thy memory wrong.
"Winter is over and the spring is coming!" Sweet are thy tidings, little page in black-- "Winter is over and the spring is coming-- The spring is coming back!"
WHEN APRIL COMES!
When April comes with softly shining eyes, And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair, Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies, And every day will bring some sweet surprise,-- The swallows will come swinging through the air When April comes!
When April comes with tender smile and tear, Dear dandelions will gild the common ways, And at the break of morning we will hear The piping of the robins crystal clear-- While bobolinks will whistle through the days, When April comes!
When April comes, the world so wise and old, Will half forget that it is worn and grey; Winter will seem but as a tale long told-- Its bitter winds with all its frost and cold Will be the by-gone things of yesterday, When April comes!
KISMET
Love came to her unsought, Love served her many ways, And patiently Love followed her Throughout the nights and days.
Love spent his life for her And hid his tears and sighs; He bartered all his soul for her, With tender pleading eyes.
Her scarlet mouth that smiled, Mocked lightly at his woe, And while she would not bid him stay She did not bid him go.
But hope within him failed Until he pled no more-- And cold and still he turned his face Away from her heart's door.
* * * * *
Long were the days she watched For one who never came;-- Through sleepless nights her white lips bore The burden of a name.
A SONG OF SUMMER DAYS
As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea, These rounded summer days fall back into eternity.
Into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery-- At set of sun each one slips back as pearls into the sea.
They are so sweet--so warm and sweet--Love fain would hold them fast: He weeps when through his finger tips they slip away at last.
AT THE PLAY
Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall Looketh down a carven face from out the gilded wall.
Van Dyke beard and broidered ruff silently confess That he lived--and loved perchance--in days of Good Queen Bess. (Laces fine and linen sheer, curled and perfumed hair Well became those gentlemen of gay, insouciant air.)
See! He gazeth evermore at the stage below; Noteth well the players as they quickly come and go; Queens and kings and maidens fair, motley fools and friars, Lords and ladies, stately dames, mounted knights and squires.
Well he knoweth all of them, all the grave and gay, These are they he dreamt of in the far and far away; Saints and sinners, see they come down the bygone years, And the world still shares with them its laughter and its tears.
Still we haunt the greenwood for love of Rosalind, Still we hear the Jester's bells ajingle on the wind, Still the frenzied Moor we fear--Ah! and even yet Breathless wait before the tomb of all the Capulet.
Though the slow years pass away, yet on land and sea, Follow we the Danish Prince in sad soliloquy; And I fancy sometimes when the round moon saileth high Yet in Venice meet the Jew--as he goeth by.
(Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall Looketh down a carven face from out the gilded wall.)
CHRISTMAS
With all the little children, far and near, God wot! to-day we'll sing a song of cheer! To rosy lips and eyes, that know not guile, We one and all will give back smile for smile; And for the sake of all the small and gay We will be children also for to-day.
Holly we'll hang, with mistletoe above! God wot! to-day we'll sing a song of love! And we will trip on merry heel and toe With all the fair who lightly come and go; We will deny the years that lie behind And say that age is only in the mind.
And to the needy, in whatever place, God wot! to-day we'll lend a hand of grace; For where is he who hath not need himself, Although he dine on silver or on delf? And we who pass and nod this Christmas Day May never meet again on life's highway.
But when the lights are lit, and day has flown-- God wot! there will be some who sit alone; Who sit and gaze into the embers' glow, And watch strange things that flitter to and fro-- The ghosts of dreams; and faces--long unseen; Shadows of shadows--things that once have been.
THE HEART COURAGEOUS
Who hath a heart courageous Will fight with right good cheer; For well may he his foes out-face Who owns no foe called Fear!
Who hath a heart courageous Will fight as knight of old For that which he doth count his own-- Against the world to hold.
Who hath a heart courageous Will fight both night and day, Against the Host Invisible-- That holds his soul at bay,
Who hath a heart courageous Rests with tranquillity, For Time he counts not as his foe, Nor Death his enemy.
A SONG
Love maketh its own summer time, 'Tis June, Love, when we are together, And little I care for the frost in the air, For the heart makes its own summer weather.
Love maketh its own winter time, And though the hills blossom with heather, If you are not near, 'tis December, my dear, For the heart makes its own winter weather.
THE CALL
Across the dusty, foot-worn street Unblessed of flower or tree, Faint and far-off--there ever sounds The calling of the sea.
From out the quiet of the hills, Where purple shadows lie, The pine trees murmur, "Come and rest And let the world go by."
The west wind whispers all night long "Oh, journey forth afar To the green and pleasant places Where little rivers are!"
And the soft and silken rustling Of bending yellow wheat Says, "See the harvest moon--that dims The arc-lights of the street."
Though the city holds thee captive By trick, and wile, and lure, Out yonder lies the loveliness Of things that shall endure.
The river road is wide and fair, The prairie-path is free, And still the old earth waits to give Her strength and joy to thee.
THE KNIGHT-ERRANT
Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire To right the world's wrongs and champion truth; Deep in his eyes shone a heaven-lit fire, And royal and radiant day-dreams of youth!
Gracious was he to both beggar and stranger, And for a rose tossed from fair finger-tips He would have ridden hard-pressed through all danger, The rose on his heart and a song on his lips!
All the king's foes he counted his foemen; His not to say that a cause could be lost; Spirits like his faced the enemies' bowmen On long vanished fields--nor counted the cost.
Wide was his out-look and far was his vision; Soul-fretting trifles he sent down the wind; Small griefs gained only his cheerful derision,-- God's weather always was fair to his mind.
But he would comfort a child who was crying, Knightly his deed to all such in distress; Never a beast by the road-side lay dying He did not stoop to with gentle caress.
And by the old, and the sad, and the broken, Often he lingered, a well-beloved guest; Dear was his voice, whatever the word spoken, Sweetening their day with a song or a jest.
In the far times of brave ballad and story, Men of his make kept the gates of the sea, Wrought mighty deeds of power and glory, Scattered their tyrants, and set the land free!
* * * * *
In the far times when perchance hearts were stronger, When for a faith men could face death alone, And it would seem that love lasted longer, Such a white soul would have come to its own.
Down in the city the people but noted One who was silent when things went awry, Toiled at dull tasks, and was strangely devoted To small deeds of kindness that others passed by.
Down in the city the people but noted One who thought little of wealth and its ways; One whose true words were full often misquoted, One who laughed lightly at blame or at praise.
A SOUTHERN LULLABY
Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight;-- (Shadow-man is comin' from de moon!)-- You's as sweet as roses if dey is so pink an white; (Shadow-man '11 get here mighty soon.)
Little honey baby, keep yo' footses still!-- (Rocky-bye, oh, rocky, rocky-bye!) Hush yo' now, an listen to dat lonesome whippo'-will; Don't yo' fix yo' lip an start to cry.
Little honey baby, stop dat winkin' quick!; (Hear de hoot-owl in de cotton-wood!) Yess--I sees yo' eyes adoin' dat dere triflin' trick-- (He gets chillun if dey isn't good.)
Little honey baby, what yo' think yo' see?-- (Sister keep on climbin' to de sky--) Dat's a June bug--it aint got no stinger, lak a bee-- (Reach de glory city by an by.)
Little honey baby, what yo' skeery at?-- (Go down, Moses--down to Phar-e-oh,)-- No--dat isn't nuffin but a furry fly-round bat;-- (Say, he'd betta let dose people go.)
Little honey baby, yo' is all ma own,-- Deed yo' is.--Yes,--dat's a fia-fly;-- If I didn't hab yo'--reckon I'd be all alone; (Rocky-bye--oh, rocky, rocky-bye.)
Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight;-- (Shadow man is comin' from de moon,) You's as sweet as roses, if dey is so pink and white; (Shadow-man '11 get here mighty soon.)
The lines in brackets are supposed to be sung or chanted. The Southern "Mammy" seldom sang a song through, but interladed it with comments.--V.S.
THE FAIRY CLOCK
Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day! Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play? Tell me when the sun will set--tiny globe of silver-grey.
It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn, Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn-- And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.
Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things; Run too lightly with the wind--chased too many shining wings; Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.
Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun-- All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun-- In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.
And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas! Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass.
Silver-clock! O Silver-clock! It was only yesterday Dandelions flecked the field, starry bright, and gold and gay; You are but the ghost of one--little globe of silver-grey!
Tell me--tell me of the hour--for there is so much to do! Is it early? Is it late? Fairy clock! 0 tell me true, As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue.
THE SLUMBER ANGEL
When day is ended, and grey twilight flies On silent wings across the tired land, The slumber angel cometh from the skies-- The slumber angel of the peaceful eyes, And with the scarlet poppies in his hand.
His robes are dappled like the moonlit seas, His hair in waves of silver floats afar; He weareth lotus-bloom and sweet heartsease, With tassels of the rustling green fir trees, As down the dusk he steps from star to star.
Above the world he swings his curfew bell, And sleep falls soft on golden heads and white; The daisies curl their leaves beneath his spell, The prisoner who wearies in his cell Forgets awhile, and dreams throughout the night.
* * * * *
Even so, in peace, comes that great Lord of rest Who crowneth men with amaranthine flowers; Who telleth them the truths they have but guessed, Who giveth them the things they love the best, Beyond this restless, rocking world of ours.
THE LONELY ROAD
We used to fear the lonely road That twisted round the hill; It dipped down to the river-way, And passed the haunted mill, And then crept on, until it reached The churchyard, green and still.
No pipers ever took that road, No gipsies, brown and gay; No shepherds with their gentle flocks, No loads of scented hay; No market-waggons jingled by On any Saturday.
The dog-wood there flung wide its stars, In April, silvery sweet; The squirrels crossed that path all day On tiny flying feet; The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn, Each shadowy safe retreat.
And there the golden-belted bee Sang his sweet summer song, The crickets chirped there to the moon With steady note and strong; Till cold and silence wrapped them round When autumn nights grew long.
But, oh! they brought the lonely dead Along that quiet way, With strange procession, dark and slow, On sunny days and grey; We used to watch them, wonder-eyed, Nor care again to play.
And we forgot each merry jest; The birds on bush and tree Silenced the song within their throats And with us watched to see, The soft, slow passing out of sight Of that dark mystery.
* * * * *
We fear no more the lonely road That winds around the hill; Far from the busy world's highway And the gods' slow-grinding mill; It only seems a peaceful path, Pleasant, and green, and still.
SEA-BORN
Afar in the turbulent city, In a hive where men make gold, He stood at his loom from dawn to dark, While the passing years were told.
And when he knew it was summer-time By the grey dust on the street, By the lingering hours of daylight, And the sultry noon-tide heat--
Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird To leave his cage and be free, For his heart like a shell kept singing The old, old song of the sea.
And amid the noise and confusion Of wheels that were never still, He heard the wind through the scented pines On a rough, storm-beaten hill;
While, beyond a maze of painted threads, Where his tireless shuttle flew, In fancy he saw the sunlit waves Beckon him out to the blue.
THE ANGEL
Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread He came ere break of day-- A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head, His misty robes were grey.
And no man even knew that he went by, None saw or heard him pass; Softly he moved as clouds drift down the sky, Or shadows cross the grass.
Close to a little bed where one lay low, At last he took his stand, And touched the head that tossed in restless woe With gentle, outstretched hand.
"When bitterness," he said, "is at an end, And joy grows far and dim, I am the angel whom the Lord doth send To lead men on to Him.
"Past the innumerable stars, my friend, Past all the winds that blow, We, too, must travel to our journey's end. Arise! And let us go!"
"Stay! Stay!" the other cried. "I know thy face! Death is thy dreaded name!" "Nay--I am known as 'Love' in that far place," He said, "from whence I came."
But still the other cried, with moan and tear, "I fear the dark--and thee!" "There is no dark," the angel said, "nor fear, For those who go with me.
"There is no loneliness, and nevermore The shadow-haunted night, When we pass out beyond Life's swinging door The road," he said, "is bright."
Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head, Downward the robe of grey; A radiant presence by the lowly bed Greeted the breaking day.
* * * * *
Within the long white ward one lay alone, None watched by him awhile, But some who passed him said, in whispered tone, "See--on his lips--the smile!"
WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES
For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys, The wine of life and all its keenest joys, When Christmas comes. For me, the broken playthings of the past That in my folded hands I still hold fast, When Christmas comes.
For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be, And tender dreams of sweetest mystery, When Christmas comes. For thee, the future in a golden haze, For me, the memory of some bygone days, When Christmas comes.
For thee, the things that lightly come and go, For thee, the holly and the mistletoe, When Christmas comes. For me, the smiles that are akin to tears, For me, the frost and snows of many years, When Christmas comes.
For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay, For me, the purple shadows and the grey, When Christmas comes. For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door, For me, the faces I shall see no more, When Christmas comes.
But ah, for both of us the mystic star That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar, When Christmas comes. For both of us the child they saw of old, That evermore his mother's arms enfold, When Christmas comes.
THE OPAL MONTH
Now cometh October--a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway! On the world she smiles--but to me it seems Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams, Or memories of the May.
Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare As she dances gaily by-- Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest, And she tenderly holds against her breast A belated butterfly.
The crickets sing no more to the stars-- The spiders no more put up silver bars To entangle silken wings; But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn, And here and there--both at night and at morn-- A lonely robin still sings.
A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent With perfumed winds from the Orient And they weave o'er her a spell, For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet-- And while mists like incense curl at her feet, She lingers her beads to tell.
NOCTURNE