Chapter 35

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE FOUNTAIN AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON, PRESENTED BY GEORGE W. CHILDS, OF PHILADELPHIA

WELCOME, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long-imprisoned stream! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads As plashing raindrops to the flowery meads, As summer's breath to Avon's whispering reeds! From rock-walled channels, drowned in rayless night, Leap forth to life and light; Wake from the darkness of thy troubled dream, And greet with answering smile the morning's beam!

No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows Than from thy chalice flows; Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, Starry with spangles washed from golden ores, Nor glassy stream Bandusia's fountain pours, Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair Braids her loose-flowing hair, Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine snows.

Here shall the traveller stay his weary feet To seek thy calm retreat; Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper rest; Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the west, Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, Matron and maid shall chat the cares away That brooded o'er the day, While flocking round them troops of children meet, And all the arches ring with laughter sweet.

Here shall the steed, his patient life who spends In toil that never ends, Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain, Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing rein Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane; Nor the poor brute that shares his master's lot Find his small needs forgot,-- Truest of humble, long-enduring friends, Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care defends!

Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall sip, And skimming swallows dip, And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous plumes Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet perfumes Where Paestum's rose or Persia's lilac blooms; Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to drink At the full basin's brink, And whet his beak against its rounded lip, His glossy feathers glistening as they drip.

Here shall the dreaming poet linger long, Far from his listening throng,-- Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall bring; Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled wing, No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing! These hallowed echoes who shall dare to claim Whose tuneless voice would shame, Whose jangling chords with jarring notes would wrong The nymphs that heard the Swan if Avon's song?

What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured eyes! What ghosts made real rise! The dead return,--they breathe,--they live again, Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, Fresh from the springs of Shakespeare's quickening brain! The stream that slakes the soul's diviner thirst Here found the sunbeams first; Rich with his fame, not less shall memory prize The gracious gift that humbler wants supplies.

O'er the wide waters reached the hand that gave To all this bounteous wave, With health and strength and joyous beauty fraught; Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, brought From the far home of brothers' love, unbought! Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled With storied shrines of old, Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave, And Horeb's rock the God of Israel slave!

Land of our fathers, ocean makes us two, But heart to heart is true! Proud is your towering daughter in the West, Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest Her mother's pulses beating in her breast. This holy fount, whose rills from heaven descend, Its gracious drops shall lend,-- Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal dew, And love make one the old home and the new!

August 29, 1887.

TO THE POETS WHO ONLY READ AND LISTEN

WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold The flowers of every hue, Some shy, half-opened bud will hold Its drop of morning's dew.

Sweeter with every sunlit hour The trembling sphere has grown, Till all the fragrance of the flower Becomes at last its own.

We that have sung perchance may find Our little meed of praise, And round our pallid temples bind The wreath of fading bays.

Ah, Poet, who hast never spent Thy breath in idle strains, For thee the dewdrop morning lent Still in thy heart remains;

Unwasted, in its perfumed cell It waits the evening gale; Then to the azure whence it fell Its lingering sweets exhale.

FOR THE DEDICATION OF THE NEW CITY LIBRARY, BOSTON

PROUDLY, beneath her glittering dome, Our three-hilled city greets the morn; Here Freedom found her virgin home,-- The Bethlehem where her babe was born.

The lordly roofs of traffic rise Amid the smoke of household fires; High o'er them in the peaceful skies Faith points to heaven her clustering spires.

Can Freedom breathe if ignorance reign? Shall Commerce thrive where anarchs rule? Will Faith her half-fledged brood retain If darkening counsels cloud the school?

Let in the light! from every age Some gleams of garnered wisdom pour, And, fixed on thought's electric page, Wait all their radiance to restore.

Let in the light! in diamond mines Their gems invite the hand that delves; So learning's treasured jewels shine Ranged on the alcove's ordered shelves.

From history's scroll the splendor streams, From science leaps the living ray; Flashed from the poet's glowing dreams The opal fires of fancy play.

Let in the light! these windowed walls Shall brook no shadowing colonnades, But day shall flood the silent halls Till o'er yon hills the sunset fades.

Behind the ever open gate No pikes shall fence a crumbling throne, No lackeys cringe, no courtiers wait, This palace is the people's own!

Heirs of our narrow-girdled past, How fair the prospect we survey, Where howled unheard the wintry blast, And rolled unchecked the storm-swept bay!

These chosen precincts, set apart For learned toil and holy shrines, Yield willing homes to every art That trains, or strengthens, or refines.

Here shall the sceptred mistress reign Who heeds her meanest subject's call, Sovereign of all their vast domain, The queen, the handmaid of them all!

November 26, 1888.

FOR THE WINDOW IN ST. MARGARET'S IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

AFAR he sleeps whose name is graven here, Where loving hearts his early doom deplore; Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.

BOSTON, April 12, 1891.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

1819-1891

THOU shouldst have sung the swan-song for the choir That filled our groves with music till the day Lit the last hilltop with its reddening fire, And evening listened for thy lingering lay.

But thou hast found thy voice in realms afar Where strains celestial blend their notes with thine; Some cloudless sphere beneath a happier star Welcomes the bright-winged spirit we resign.

How Nature mourns thee in the still retreat Where passed in peace thy love-enchanted hours! Where shall she find an eye like thine to greet Spring's earliest footprints on her opening flowers?

Have the pale wayside weeds no fond regret For him who read the secrets they enfold? Shall the proud spangles of the field forget The verse that lent new glory to their gold?

And ye whose carols wooed his infant ear, Whose chants with answering woodnotes he repaid, Have ye no song his spirit still may hear From Elmwood's vaults of overarching shade?

Friends of his studious hours, who thronged to teach The deep-read scholar all your varied lore, Shall he no longer seek your shelves to reach The treasure missing from his world-wide store?

This singer whom we long have held so dear Was Nature's darling, shapely, strong, and fair; Of keenest wit, of judgment crystal-clear, Easy of converse, courteous, debonair,

Fit for the loftiest or the lowliest lot, Self-poised, imperial, yet of simplest ways; At home alike in castle or in cot, True to his aim, let others blame or praise.

Freedom he found an heirloom from his sires; Song, letters, statecraft, shared his years in turn; All went to feed the nation's altar-fires Whose mourning children wreathe his funeral urn.

He loved New England,--people, language, soil, Unweaned by exile from her arid breast. Farewell awhile, white-handed son of toil, Go with her brown-armed laborers to thy rest.

Peace to thy slumber in the forest shade! Poet and patriot, every gift was thine; Thy name shall live while summers bloom and fade, And grateful Memory guard thy leafy shrine!

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POEMS FROM OVER THE TEACUPS

TO THE ELEVEN LADIES

WHO PRESENTED ME WITH A SILVER LOVING CUP ON THE TWENTY-NINTH OF AUGUST, M DCCC LXXXIX

"WHO gave this cup?" The secret thou wouldst steal Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: No mortal's eye shall read it till he first Cool the red throat of thirst.

If on the golden floor one draught remain, Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain; Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know The names enrolled below.

Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well Those modest names the graven letters spell Hide from the sight; but wait, and thou shalt see Who the good angels be.

Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,-- Their names shall meet thine eye.

Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven; Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,-- The Graces must add two.

"For whom this gift?" For one who all too long Clings to his bough among the groves of song; Autumn's last leaf, that spreads its faded wing To greet a second spring.

Dear friends, kind friends, whate'er the cup may hold, Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain, Its fragrance will remain.

Better love's perfume in the empty bowl Than wine's nepenthe for the aching soul; Sweeter than song that ever poet sung, It makes an old heart young!

THE PEAU DE CHAGRIN OF STATE STREET

How beauteous is the bond In the manifold array Of its promises to pay, While the eight per cent it gives And the rate at which one lives Correspond!

But at last the bough is bare Where the coupons one by one Through their ripening days have run, And the bond, a beggar now, Seeks investment anyhow, Anywhere!

CACOETHES SCRIBENDI

IF all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

THE ROSE AND THE FERN

LADY, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn, Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower High overhead the trellised roses burn; Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern,-- A leaf without a flower.

What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet, And have been lovely in their beauteous prime, While the bare frond seems ever to repeat, "For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet The joyous flowering time!"

Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows; Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed, But while its petals still are burning red Gather life's full-blown rose!

I LIKE YOU AND I LOVE YOU

I LIKE YOU Met I LOVE You, face to face; The path was narrow, and they could not pass. I LIKE YOU smiled; I LOVE YOU cried, Alas! And so they halted for a little space.

"Turn thou and go before," I LOVE YOU said, "Down the green pathway, bright with many a flower; Deep in the valley, lo! my bridal bower Awaits thee." But I LIKE YOU shook his head.

Then while they lingered on the span-wide shelf That shaped a pathway round the rocky ledge, I LIKE You bared his icy dagger's edge, And first he slew I LOVE You,--then himself.

LA MAISON D'OR

(BAR HARBOR)

FROM this fair home behold on either side The restful mountains or the restless sea So the warm sheltering walls of life divide Time and its tides from still eternity.

Look on the waves: their stormy voices teach That not on earth may toil and struggle cease. Look on the mountains: better far than speech Their silent promise of eternal peace.

TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE

Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow Wait not for spring to pass away,-- Love's summer months begin with May! Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah, no! no! no!

Too young for love? Ah, say not so, To practise all love learned in May. June soon will come with lengthened day While daisies bloom and tulips glow!

Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah, no! no! no!

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES

LOOK out! Look out, boys! Clear the track! The witches are here! They've all come back! They hanged them high,--No use! No use! What cares a witch for a hangman's noose? They buried them deep, but they wouldn't lie still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,-- Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell. They longed to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through, On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, Browne's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It was n't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake; Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,-- Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,-- Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old? Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea! Where is the Eden like to thee? For that "couple of hundred years, or so," There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air! We 've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice,-- Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You 're a good old--fellow--come, let us go!"

I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,-- As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,-- (He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!"

To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew. "Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. "Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. "They 've been in--the place you know--so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone,-- Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." "And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled. "Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name As fast as they called the cats, they came There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, And many another that came at call,-- It would take too long to count them all. All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her,-- Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Essex people had dreadful times. The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,-- It was all the work of those hateful queans! A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone. "Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,-- "At your games of old, without asking me! I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!"

They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; He led the hags to a railway train The horses were trying to drag in vain. "Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, And here are the cars you've got to run. The driver may just unhitch his team, We don't want horses, we don't want steam; You may keep your old black cats to hug, But the loaded train you've got to lug."

Since then on many a car you 'll see A broomstick plain as plain can be; On every stick there's a witch astride,-- The string you see to her leg is tied. She will do a mischief if she can, But the string is held by a careful man, And whenever the evil-minded witch Would cut some caper, he gives a twitch. As for the hag, you can't see her, But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, And now and then, as a car goes by, You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.

Often you've looked on a rushing train, But just what moved it was not so plain. It couldn't be those wires above, For they could neither pull nor shove; Where was the motor that made it go You couldn't guess, but now you know.

Remember my rhymes when you ride again On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!

TARTARUS

WHILE in my simple gospel creed That "God is Love" so plain I read, Shall dreams of heathen birth affright My pathway through the coming night? Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale Fill with their threats the shadowy vale, With Thee my faltering steps to aid, How can I dare to be afraid?

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll Outface the charter of the soul? Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect The wrong our human hearts reject, And smite the lips whose shuddering cry Proclaims a cruel creed a lie? The wizard's rope we disallow Was justice once,--is murder now!

Is there a world of blank despair, And dwells the Omnipresent there? Does He behold with smile serene The shows of that unending scene, Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies, And, ever dying, never dies? Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan, And is that child of wrath his own?

O mortal, wavering in thy trust, Lift thy pale forehead from the dust! The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies When the blind heralds of despair Would bid thee doubt a Father's care, Look up from earth, and read above On heaven's blue tablet, GOD IS LOVE!

AT THE TURN OF THE ROAD

THE glory has passed from the goldenrod's plume, The purple-hued asters still linger in bloom The birch is bright yellow, the sumachs are red, The maples like torches aflame overhead.

But what if the joy of the summer is past, And winter's wild herald is blowing his blast? For me dull November is sweeter than May, For my love is its sunshine,--she meets me to-day!

Will she come? Will the ring-dove return to her nest? Will the needle swing back from the east or the west? At the stroke of the hour she will be at her gate; A friend may prove laggard,--love never comes late.

Do I see her afar in the distance? Not yet. Too early! Too early! She could not forget! When I cross the old bridge where the brook overflowed, She will flash full in sight at the turn of the road.

I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines; I tread the brown pathway that leads through the pines; I haste by the boulder that lies in the field, Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.

Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood? Will she wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood? The minute draws near,--but her watch may go wrong; My heart will be asking, What keeps her so long?

Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do! Why question? Why tremble? Are angels more true? She would come to the lover who calls her his own Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!

I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed. I looked: lo! my Love stood before me at last. Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks, how they glowed, As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!

IN VITA MINERVA

VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,-- She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares, Or seeks thee not at all.

Soft as the moonbeams when they sought Endymion's fragrant bower, She parts the whispering leaves of thought To show her full-blown flower.

For thee her wooing hour has passed, The singing birds have flown, And winter comes with icy blast To chill thy buds unblown.

Yet, though the woods no longer thrill As once their arches rung, Sweet echoes hover round thee still Of songs thy summer sung.

Live in thy past; await no more The rush of heaven-sent wings; Earth still has music left in store While Memory sighs and sings.

READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS

FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL

TO MY OLD READERS

You know "The Teacups," that congenial set Which round the Teapot you have often met; The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,-- Knew as the shepherd of another fold Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same As when you called him by a different name. Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill Has taught her duly every cup to fill; "Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm;" "hot as you can pour;" "No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump more." Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase At every turn the teacher's tongue betrays, Trying so hard to make his speech precise The captious listener finds it overnice.

Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain, Nor HE, the owner of the squinting brain, Which, while its curious fancies we pursue, Oft makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?"

Along the board our growing list extends, As one by one we count our clustering friends,-- The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare; In strong, dark lines our square-nibbed pen should draw The lordly presence of the MAN OF LAW; Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place, A lighter touch, his slender form to trace. Mark the fair lady he is seated by,-- Some say he is her lover,--some deny,-- Watch them together,--time alone can show If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or no. Where in my list of phrases shall I seek The fitting words of NUMBER FIVE to speak? Such task demands a readier pen than mine,-- What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?