Part 13

In farther planets there are men who talk, Not with their lips, but with their eyes alone, With beaming eyes and brows that burn with thought: Pure souls whose sentiments need but be born To be expressed. Where speech of mouth and tongue Were barbarous discord. Where no voice imparts Thought, but divulging eye and sensitive brow. Superior planets, far beyond our sphere, And nearer God than ages shall combine To lift our world up with its wrangling woes. Worlds that are strange to sickness and disease Of mind and body; perfect mentally,-- Past what we name perfection here on Earth,-- And physically. Morally divine As creeds have taught us God's high Heaven is. Worlds where Love makes no playmate of vile Lust; Where Hope makes no companion of Despair; Where Power can not trample with fierce feet; And, impotent, the iron hand of Might Surrenders its red weapon unto Mind; Where Truth and Thought are wedded, in one rule Of far progression, whose white child is Love.

So have I dreamed, and longed to leave sad Earth, And live anew on some diviner sphere; A world so higher, lovelier than this, So spiritually perfected and refined, That, should an Earth-born mortal,--suddenly Translated thither,--unprepared behold, Dazed with divinity, before the feet Of its inhabitants he would fall prone In worship and astonishment; and, all The exaltation of celestial peace Singing within, cry out: "Yea, this is Heaven! How long, O sinner, hast thou dwelt in Hell!"

VII

An iron despotism the day's: A brutal anarchy the night's: What hope for hope when day betrays, And night in death delights?

For, once I prayed for gulfs of gold, And morn pooled heav'n with sombre blood: For skies of stars, and skies behold-- Malignant with the scud.

And so I marvel not that he, Gray-haired and toothless, hugs his stove, While I my youth, which once was she, Have buried with my love.

VIII

All thoughts of nature are but forms Of life and death, with which began Love: love, that swept the heavens with storms, Evolving worlds to perfect man.

Thoughts are the forms of mind; and come And go, assuming every shape: Science and art: through which we clomb, And climb, to angel from the ape.

A LEGEND OF THE LILY

Pale as a star that shines through rain Her face was seen at the window-pane, Her sad, frail face that watched in vain.

The face of a girl whose brow was wan; To whom the kind sun spoke at dawn, And a star and the moon when the day was gone.

And oft and often the sun had said-- "O fair, white face, O sweet, fair head, Come talk to me of the love that's dead."

And she would sit in the sun a while, Down in the garth by the old stone-dial, Where never again would he make her smile.

And often the first bright star o'erhead Had whispered, "Sweet, where the rose blooms red, Come look with me for the love that's dead."

And she would wait with the star she knew, Where the fountain splashed and the roses blew, Where never again would he come to woo.

And oft the moon, when she lay in bed, Had sighed, "Dear heart, in the orchardstead Come dream with me of the love that's dead."

And she would stand in the moon, the dim, Where the fruit made heavy the apple limb, Where never again would she dream with him.

So summer passed and the autumn came; And the wind-torn boughs were touched with flame; But her life and her sorrow remained the same.

Or, if she changed, as it comes about A life may change through trouble and doubt,-- As a candle flickers and then goes out,--

'Twas only to grow more quiet and wan, Sadly waiting at dusk and at dawn For the coming of love forever gone.

And so, one night, when the star looked in, It kissed her face that was white and thin, And murmured, "Come! thou free of sin!"

And when the moon, on another night, Beheld her lying still and white, It sighed, "'Tis well! now all is right."

And when one morning the sun arose, And they bore her bier down the garden-close, It touched her, saying, "At last, repose."

And they laid her down, so young and fair, Where the grass was withered, the bough was bare, All wrapped in the light of her golden hair.

So autumn passed and the winter went; And spring, like a blue-eyed penitent, Came, telling her beads of blossom and scent.

And, lo! to the grave of the beautiful The strong sun cried, "Why art thou dull? Awake! awake! Forget thy skull!"

And the evening-star and the moon above Called out, "O dust, now speak thereof! Proclaim thyself! Arise, O love!"

And the skull and the dust in the darkness heard. Each icy germ in its cerements stirred, As Lazarus moved at the Lord's loud word.

And a flower arose on the mound of green, White as the robe of the Nazarene; To testify of the life unseen.

And I paused by the grave; then went my way: And it seemed that I heard the lily say-- "Here was a miracle wrought to-day."

THE END OF THE CENTURY

There are moments when, as missions, God reveals to us strange visions; When, within their separate stations, We may see the Centuries, Like revolving constellations Shaping out Earth's destinies.

I have gazed in Time's abysses, Where no smallest thing Earth misses That was hers once. 'Mid her chattels, There the Past's gigantic ghost Sits and dreams of thrones and battles In the night of ages lost.

Far before her eyes, unholy Mist was spread; that darkly, slowly Rolled aside,--like some huge curtain Hung above the land and sea;-- And beneath it, wild, uncertain, Rose the wraiths of memory.

First I saw colossal spectres Of dead cities: Troy--once Hector's Pride; then Babylon and Tyre; Karnac, Carthage, and the gray Walls of Thebes,--Apollo's lyre Built;--then Rome and Nineveh.

Empires followed: first, in seeming, Old Chaldea lost in dreaming; Egypt next, a bulk Memnonian Staring from her pyramids; Then Assyria, Babylonian Night beneath her hell-lit lids.

Greece, in classic white, sidereal Armored; Rome, in dark, imperial Purple, crowned with blood and fire, Down the deeps barbaric strode; Gaul and Britain stalking by her, Clad in skins, tattooed with woad.

All around them, rent and scattered, Lay their gods with features battered, Brute and human, stone and iron, Caked with gems and gnarled with gold; Temples, that did once environ These, in wreck around them rolled.

While I stood and gazed and waited, Slowly night obliterated All; and other phantoms drifted Out of darkness pale as stars; Shapes that tyrant faces lifted, Sultans, kings, and emperors.

Man and steed in ponderous metal Panoplied, they seemed to settle, Condors gaunt of devastation, On the world: behind their march-- Desolation: Conflagration Loomed before them with her torch.

Helmets flamed like fearful flowers: Chariots rose and moving towers: Captains passed: each fierce commander With his gauntlet on his sword: Agamemnon, Alexander, Cæsar, Alaric, horde on horde.

Huns and Vandals: wild invaders: Goths and Arabs: stern Crusaders: Each, like some terrific torrent, Rolled above a ruined world; Till a cataract abhorrent Seemed the swarming spears uphurled.

Banners and escutcheons, kindled By the light of slaughter, dwindled-- Died in darkness:--the chimera Of the Past was laid at last. But, behold, another era From her corpse rose, vague and vast.

Demogorgon of the Present! Who in one hand raised a Crescent, In the other, with submissive Fingers, lifted up a Cross; Reverent and yet derisive Seemed she, robed in gold and dross.

In her skeptic eyes professions Of great faith I saw; expressions, Christian and humanitarian, Played around her cynic lip; Still I knew her a barbarian By the sword upon her hip.

And she cherished strange eidolons, Pagan shadows--Plato's, Solon's-- From whose teachings she indentured Forms of law and sophistry; Seeking aye for truth she ventured Just so far as these could see.

When she vanished, I--uplifting Eyes to where the dawn was rifting Darkness,--lo! beheld a shadow Towering on Earth's utmost peaks; Round whom morning's El Dorado Rivered gold in blinding streaks.

On her brow I saw the stigma Still of death; and life's enigma Filled her eyes: around her shimmered Folds of silence; and afar, Faint above her forehead, glimmered Lone the light of one pale star.

Then a voice,--above or under Earth,--against her seemed to thunder Questions, wherein was repeated, "Christ or Cain?" and "Man or beast?" And the Future, shadowy-sheeted, Turned and pointed towards the East.

THE ISLE OF VOICES

The wind blew free that morn that we, High-hearted, sailed away; Bound for that Island named the Blest, Remote within the unknown West, Beyond the golden day.

There, we were told, each dream of old, Each deed and dream of youth, Each myth of life's divinest prime, And every romance, dear to time, Put on immortal truth.

The love undone; the aim unwon; The hope that turned despair; The thought unborn; the dream that died; The unattained, unsatisfied, Should be accomplished there.

So we believed. And, undeceived, A little crew set sail; A little crew with hearts as stout As any yet that faced a doubt And tore away its veil.

And time went by; and sea and sky Had worn our masts and decks; When, lo! one morn with canvas torn, A phantom ship, we came forlorn Into the Sea of Wrecks.

There, day and night, the mist lay white, And pale stars shone at noon; The sea around was foam and fire, And overhead hung, thin as wire, A will-o'-wisp of moon.

And through the mist, all white and whist, Gaunt ships, with sea-weed wound, With rotting masts, upon whose spars The corposants lit spectre stars, Sailed by without a sound.

And all about,--now in, now out,-- Their ancient hulls, was shed The worm-like glow of green decay, That writhed and glimmered in the gray Of canvas overhead.

And each that passed, in hull and mast, Seemed that wild ship that flees Before the tempest--seamen tell-- Deep-cargoed with the curse of Hell, Through roaring rain and seas.

Ay! many a craft we left abaft Upon that haunted sea; But never a hulk that clewed a sail, Or waved a hand, or answered hail, And never a man saw we.

At last we came where--pouring flame-- In darkness and in storm, Vast a volcano westward reared An awful summit, lava-seared, Like some terrific arm.

And we could feel beneath our keel The ocean throb and swell, As if the Earthquake there uncoiled Its monster bulk, or Titans toiled At the red heart of Hell.

Like madmen now we turned our prow North, towards an ocean weird Of Northern Lights and icy blasts; And for ten moons with reeling masts And leaking hold we steered.

Then black as blood through streaming scud Land loomed above our boom, An isle of iron gulfs and crags And cataracts, like wind-tossed rags, And caverns lost in gloom.

And burning white on every height, And white in every cave, A naked spirit, like a flame, Now gleamed, now vanished; went and came Above the windy wave.

No mortal thing of foot or wing Made glad its steep or strand; But voices, voices seemingly-- Vague voices of the sky and sea-- Peopled the demon land.

Yea, everywhere, in earth and air, A lamentation wept; That, gathering strength above, below, Now like a mighty wind of woe, Around the island swept.

And in that sound, it seemed, was bound All life's despair of art; The bitterness of joy that died; The anguish of faiths crucified; And love that broke its heart.

The ghost it seemed of all we'd dreamed, Of all we had desired; That--turned a curse, an empty cry-- With wailing words went trailing by In hope's dead robes attired.

And could this be the land that we Had sought for soon and late? That Island of the Blest, the fair, Where we had hoped to ease our care And end the fight with fate.

O lie that lured! O pain endured! O toil and tears and thirst! Where we had looked for blesséd ground The Island of the Damned we found, And in the end--were curst!

THE WATCHER

Young was the dream that held her when The world was moon-white with the May: She watched the singing fishermen Sail out to sea at break of day: Soft, as the morning heavens then, The eyes that watched him sail away.

Old was her grief when summer filled The world with warm maturity: Far off she watched the nets that spilled Their twinkling foison by the sea: Where on the rocks she sat and stilled With song his infant on her knee.

Who to her love would make them lies-- Those vows his sea-slain manhood swore? Beneath the raining autumn skies The fishing vessels put to shore: She watches with remembering eyes For the brown face that comes no more.

AT THE SIGN OF THE SKULL

_It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!" With every man in this life below-- But the things of the world are a fleeting show._

The post-chaise Time that all must take Is old with clay and dust; Two horses strain its rusty brake Named Pleasure and Disgust.

Our baggage totters on its roof, Of Vanity and Care, As Hope, the post-boy, spurs each hoof, Or heavy-eyed Despair.

And now a comrade with us rides, Love, haply, or Remorse; And that dim traveler besides, Gaunt Memory on a horse.

And be we king or be we kern Who ride the roads of Sin, No matter how the roads may turn They lead us to that Inn:

Unto that Inn within that land Of silence and of gloom, Whose ghastly Landlord takes our hand And leads us to our room.

_It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!" With every man in this life below-- But the things of the world are a fleeting show._

DUM VIVIMUS

I

Now with the marriage of the lip and beaker Let Joy be born! and in the rosy shine, The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor, Let Care, the hag, go drown! No more repine At all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine! Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher in Philosophies of old Anacreon And Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn, Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.

II

Some lives need less than others.--Who can ever Say truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness? Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is never Sure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless; And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess. "All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs; And in this world what has more right than Wrong? Come! let us hush remembrance with a song, And learn with folly to be glad and wise.

III

There was a poet of the East named Hâfiz, Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us go Praising them, too. And where good wine to quaff is And maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe; For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know, Where wine and love are not; where, sans disguise, Each one must lie in his strait bed apart, The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart, And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.

FAILURE

There are some souls Whose lot it is to set their hearts on goals That adverse Fate controls.

While others win With little labor through life's dust and din, And lord-like enter in

Immortal gates; And, of Success the high-born intimates, Inherit Fame's estates....

Why is 't the lot Of merit oft to struggle and yet not Attain? to toil--for what?

Simply to know The disappointment, the despair, and woe Of effort here below?

Ambitious still to reach Those lofty peaks, which men, aspiring, preach, For which their souls beseech:

Those heights that swell Remote, removed, and unattainable, Pinnacle on pinnacle:

Still yearning to attain Their far repose, above life's stress and strain, But all in vain, in vain!...

Why hath God put Great longings in some souls and straightway shut All doors of their clay hut?

The clay accurst That holds achievement back; from which, immersed, The spirit may not burst.

Were it, at least; Not better to have sat at Circe's feast, If afterwards a beast?

Than aye to bleed, To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed, And nevermore succeed?

THE CUP OF JOY

Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their toy.

Who have given brain and heart To the thankless world of Art, And from Fame have won no part.

Who have labored long at thought; Starved and toiled and all for naught; Sought and found not what they sought.

Let our goblet be the skull Of a fool; made beautiful With a gold nor base nor dull:

Gold of madcap fancies, once It contained, that,--sage or dunce,-- Each can read whoever runs.

First we pour the liquid light Of our dreams in; then the bright Beauty that makes day of night.

Let this be the must wherefrom, In due time, the mettlesome Care-destroying drink shall come.

Folly next: with which mix in Laughter of a child of sin, And the red of mouth and chin.

These shall give the tang thereto, Effervescence and rich hue Which to all good wine are due.

Then into our cup we press One wild kiss of wantonness, And a glance that says not less.

Sparkles both that give a fine Lustre to the drink divine, Necessary to good wine.

Lastly in the goblet goes Sweet a love-song, then a rose Warmed upon _her_ breast's repose.

These bouquet our drink.--Now measure With your arm the waist you treasure-- Lift the cup and drink to Pleasure.

LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT

I

Unto her fragrant face and hair,-- As some wild-bee unto a rose, That blooms in splendid beauty there Within the South,--my longing goes: My longing, that is overfain To call her mine, but all in vain; Since jealous Death, as each one knows, Is guardian of La belle Heléne; Of her whose face is very fair-- To my despair, Ah, belle Heléne.

II

The sweetness of her face suggests The sensuous scented Jacqueminots; Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts; Her hands, long lilies in repose: Fair flowers all without a stain, That grow for Death to pluck again, Within that garden's radiant close. The body of La belle Heléne; The garden glad that she suggests,-- That Death invests, Ah, belle Heléne.

III

God had been kinder to me,--when He dipped His hands in fires and snows And made you like a flower to ken, A flower that in Earth's garden grows,-- Had He, for pleasure or for pain, Instead of Death in that domain, Made Love the gardener to that rose, Your loveliness, O belle Heléne! God had been kinder to me then-- Me of all men, Ah, belle Heléne.

LOVE AND LOSS

Loss molds our lives in many ways, And fills our souls with guesses; Upon our hearts sad hands it lays Like some grave priest that blesses.

Far better than the love we win, That earthly passions leaven, Is love we lose, that knows no sin, That points the path to Heaven.

Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth, Through whom our dreams are nearest; And loss, through whom we see the worth Of all that we held dearest.

Not joy it is, but misery That chastens us, and sorrow;-- Perhaps to make us all that we Expect beyond To-morrow.

Within that life where time and fate Are not; that knows no seeming: That world to which Death keeps the gate Where Love and Loss sit dreaming.

THE END OF ALL

I

I do not love you now, O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride! You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still denied Food when mine hungered; and of which love died-- I do not love you now.

II

I do not love you now, O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive! You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did give No drop to drink to help my love to live-- I do not love you now.

III

I do not love you now! But did I love you in the old, old way, And knew you loved me--'though the words should slay Me and your love forever, I would say, "I do not love you now! I do not love you now!"

A ROSE O' THE HILLS

The hills look down on wood and stream On orchard-land and farm; And o'er the hills the azure-gray Of heaven bends the livelong day, And all the winds blow warm.

On wood and stream the hills look down, On farm and orchard-land; And o'er the hills she came to me Through wildrose-brake and blackberry, The hill-winds hand in hand.

The hills look down on home and field, On wood and winding stream; And o'er the hills she came along, Upon her lips a wildwood song, And in her eyes a dream.

On home and field the hills look down, On stream and hill-locked wood; And breast-deep, with disordered hair, Fair in the wildrose tangle there, A sudden while she stood.

O hills, that look on rock and road, On grove and harvest-field, To whom God giveth rest and peace, And slumber, that is kin to these, And visions unrevealed!

O hills, that look on road and rock, On field and fruited grove, No more shall I find peace and rest In you, since entered in my breast God's sweet unrest of love!

THE WHITE VIGIL

I

Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead, And by your sheeted form stood all alone: Frail as a flower you lay upon your bed, And on your face, through the wide casement, shone The moonlight, pale as I, who kissed you there, So young and fair, white violets in your hair.

Oh, sick with suffering was my soul; and sad To breaking was my heart that would not break; And for my soul's great grief no tear I had, No lamentation for my heart's deep ache; Yet what I bore seemed more than I could bear, Beside you there, white violets in your hair.

A white rose, blooming at the window-bar, And, glimmering in it, like a firefly caught Upon the thorns, the light of one white star, Looked in on you, as if they felt and thought, As did my heart,--"How beautiful and fair And young she lies, white violets in her hair!"

And so we looked upon you, white and still, The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past, Like a pale traveler, behind the hill With all her sorrowful silver. And at last Darkness and tears and you, who did not care, Lying so still, white violets in your hair.

A STUDY IN GRAY

A woman, fair to look upon, Where waters whiten with the moon; Around whom, glimmering o'er the lawn, The white moths swoon.

A mouth of music; eyes of love; And hands of blended snow and scent, That touch the pearly shadow of An instrument.