Chapter 5

Now close on the storm it rises, Now sadly it sinks with a moan-- Like a human heart in its anguish, Crushing a fruitless groan-- Like a soul that goes wailing and pining, Thro' the motherless world, alone.

Is it hung in an ancient turret? Is it swung by a mortal hand? Is it chiming in woe or gladness, Its symphonies sweet and grand? Is it rung for a shadowy sorrow, In the shadowy phantom land?

Alas for the beautiful guesses That live in a poet's rhyme-- 'Tis only the bell of the factory Tolling its woe sublime; And the wind is the ghostly ringer, Ringing the midnight chime.

Toll, mournful bell of the tempest, Through my dreams by sleep unblest; My bosom is throbbing as madly To surges of wild unrest-- E'en as thy heart of iron Is beating thy brazen breast!

MAY-THALIA.

TO THOMAS HEMPSTEAD.

Thy lay--a sweet sung bridal hymn, Wedding the Old year to the New, 'Mid starry buds, and silver dew, And brooks, and birds in woodlands dim--

That touched the hidden veins of thought With the electric force of strife, Thrilled the dumb marble of my life Unto a perfect beauty wrought.

And straight, unclasping from my brow The thorny crown of lost delight, The solemn grandeur of the night Flashed on me from old years, as now.

The budding of my days is past! And May sits weeping in the shade The weeds on April's grave have made, Blown slantwise in the sobbing blast.

Ah me! but in the Poet's heart Some pools of troubled water lie! The hidden founts of agony, That keep the better springs apart.

What comfort is there in the Earth! What height, or depth, where we may hide Our life long anguish, and abide The ripening unto newer birth!

But Poet, in thy song is power To lift the flood gates of my woe, And bid its solemn surging flow Far from the triumph of this hour.

Yea, rising from life's evil things, My soul, long blinded from the light, Starlit across the purple night Sweeps the red lightning of her wings!

I will be free! there is a strength In the full blowing of our youth To climb the rosied hills of truth From the dry desert's burning length.

From far a voice shouts to my fate As shout the choiring Angels, when The fiery cross of suffering men Falls broken at the narrow gate!

Be brave! be noble, and sublime Thyself unto a higher aim-- Keeping thy nature white of blame In all the dreary walks of time!

Oh musty creeds in mouldy books! Blind teachers of the blind are ye-- A plainer wisdom talks with me In God's full psalmody of brooks.

The rustling of a leaf hath force To wake the currents of my blood, That sweep, a wild Niagara-flood, Hurled headlong in its fiery course.

The moaning of the wind hath power To stir the anthem of my soul, Unto a mightier thunder roll Than ever shook a triumph hour.

Betwixt the gorgeous twilight bars Rare truths flow from melodious lips-- God's all-sublime Apocalypse-- His awful poem writ in stars!

Each ray that spends its burning might In the alembic of the morn, Is, in the Triune splendors, born Of the great uncreated light!

To me the meanest creeping thing Speaks with a loud Evangel tongue, Of the far climes forever young In His all-glorious blossoming.

And thus, oh Poet! hath thy lay-- Woven of brightest buds and flowers Blowing, in breezy South-land bowers, Against the blushing face of May--

A passion, and a power, that thrills My hidden nature unto strife, To battle bravely, for the life Across the dim Eternal hills!

MEMORIES.

While the wild north hills are reddening In the sunset's fiery glow, And along the dreary moorlands, Shine the stormy drifts of snow, Sit I in my voiceless chamber From the household ones apart, And again is Memory lighting The pale ruins of my heart.

And again are white hands sweeping, Wildly, its invisible chords, With the burden of a sorrow That I may not wed to words. Vainly I this day have striven, List'ning to the snow-wind's roll, To forget the haunting music That is throbbing in my soul.

Not my pleasant household duties, Nor the rosied light of Morn, Nor the banners of the sunset On the wintry hills forlorn, Could unclasp the starry yearning From my mortal, weary breast, Nor interpret the weird meaning Of the phantom's wild unrest.

All last night I heard the crickets Chirping on the lonely hearth, And I thought of him that lieth In the embraces of the earth; Till the lights died in the village, And the armies of the snow, In the bitter woods of midnight Tracked the wild winds to and fro.

Oh my lover, safely folded In the shadow of the grave, While about my low-roofed dwelling Moaning gusts of winter rave. Well I know thy pale hands, folded In the silence of long years, Cannot give me back caresses For my sacrifice of tears.

Oh ye dark and vexing phantoms-- Ghostly memories that arise, Keeping ever 'twixt my spirit And the beauty of the skies-- Memories of a faded splendor, And a lost hope, long ago, Ere my April grew to blushing And my heavy heart to woe.

Saw ye in your solemn marches From the citadel of death, In our bridal halls of beauty Burning still the lamp of faith? Doth a watcher, pale and patient, Folded from the tempest's wrath, Wait the coming of my footsteps Down the grave's long, lonesome path?

No reply!--the dreary shadows Lengthen from the silent hills, And a heavy boding sorrow Still my aching bosom fills. Now the moon is up in beauty, Walking on a starry hight, While her trailing vesture brightens The gray hollows of the night.

Things of evil go out from me, Leave this silence-haunted room, Full enough of darkness keepeth In the chamber of his tomb. Full enough of shadow lieth In that dim futurity-- In that wedding night, where, meekly, My beloved waits for me!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I remember the dear little cabin That stood by the weather-brown mill, And the beautiful wavelets of sunshine That flowed down the slope of the hill, And way down the winding green valley, And over the meadow--smooth shorn,-- How the dew-drops lay flashing and gleaming On the pale rosy robes of the morn.

How the blush-blossoms shook on the upland, Like a red-cloud of sunset afar, And the lilies gleamed up from the marsh pond Like the pale silver rim of a star; How the brook chimed a beautiful chorus, With the birds that sang high in the trees; And how the bright shadows of sunset Trailed goldenly down on the breeze.

I remember the mossy-rimmed springlet, That gushed in the shade of the oaks, And how the white buds of the mistletoe, Fell down at the woodman's strokes, On the morning when cruel Sir Spencer Came down with his haughty train, To uproot the old kings of the greenwood That shadowed his golden grain.

For he dwelt in a lordly castle That towered half-way up the hill, And we in a poor little cabin In the shade of the weather-brown mill, Therefore the haughty Earl Spencer Came down with his knightly train, And uprooted our beautiful roof-trees That shadowed his golden grain.

Ah! wearily sighed our mother, When the mistletoe boughs lay shed; But never the curse of the orphan Was breathed on the rich man's head; And when again the gentle summer Had gladdened the earth once more, No branches of gnarled oaks olden Made shadows across the floor.

GURTHA.

The lone winds creep with a snakish hiss Among the dwarfish bushes, And with deep sighing sadly kiss The wild brook's border rushes; The woods are dark, save here and there The glow-worm shineth faintly, And o'er the hills one lonely star That trembles white and saintly.

Ah! well I know this mournful eve So like an evening olden; With many a goodly harvest sheaf The upland fields were golden; The lily moon in bridal white Leaned o'er the sea, her lover, And stars with beauty filled the Night-- The wind sang in the clover.

The halls were bright with revelry, The beakers red with wassail; And music's grandest symphony Rung thro' the ancient castle; And she, the brightest of the throng, With wedding-veil and roses, Seemed like the beauty of a song Between the organ's pauses.

My memory paints her sweetly meek, With her long sunny tresses, And how the blushes on her cheek Kissed back their warm caresses; But like an angry cloud that cleaves Down thro' the mists of glory, I see the flowers a pale hand weaves Around a forehead gory.

The road was lone that lay between His, and her father's castle, And many a stirrup-cup, I ween, Quaffed he of generous wassail. My soul drank in a larger draught From the burning well of hate, The hand that sped the murderous shaft Was guided by my fate.

Red shadows lay upon the sward That night, instead of golden-- And long the bride's maids wait the lord In the bridal-chamber olden; Ah, well! pale hands unwove the flowers That bound the milk-white forehead-- The star has sunk, the red moon glowers Down slopes of blackness horrid.

IN MEMORIAM.

JOHN B. ABRAHAMS, OF PORT DEPOSIT, AGED 22 YEARS.

He giveth His beloved sleep.

--Psalms 127:2

From heaven's blue walls the splendid light Of signal-stars gleams far and bright Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies Orion's radiant mysteries Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise--

I see--with flashing sword in hand, With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-- The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon Hangs her white lamp--the night wind's rune Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray, Wraps all the golden ships away--

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow Of ghostly moon and vapor go, Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone-- My heart is heavy as a stone, And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest, With pale hands crossed on silent breast, Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave, And pallid church-yard daisies wave About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng Of choiring stars--and deep and strong The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river, Oh golden planets, pausing never! His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain-- And human sighing, born of pain-- Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change Clashing on projects new and strange-- The tireless nations forward range--

Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest Wherein he lieth--being blest, With chill hands cross'd on silent breast.

Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint Drifts down the deathly shadows faint, Why weep ye for this risen saint?

His life's pale ashes, under foot That cling about the daisies' root Will bear at last most glorious fruit!

'Tis but the casket hid away Neath roof of stone and burial clay; The jewel shines in endless day!

And thus I gather for my tears Sweet hope from faith in after years; And far across the glimmering spheres

Height over height the heavens expand-- I see him in God's Eden land, With palms of vict'ry in his hand;

O'er brows of solemn breadth profound, With fadeless wreaths of glory wound, He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.

Aye! in a vision, see I now; Christ's symbol written on his brow-- Found worthy unto death art thou!

And ever in this heart of mine, So won to glorious peace, divine This vision of our lost shall shine;

Not with pale forehead in eclipse With close-sealed lids and silent lips, But grand in Life's Apocalypse!

For very truly hath been said-- For the pale living--not the dead-- Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed!

MISSIVE TO ----.

Purple shafts of sunset fire Glory-crown the passionate sea, Throbbing with a fierce desire For the blue immensity.

Floods of pale and scarlet flame Sweep the bases of the hills, With a blushing unto shame Thro' their rosy bridal-thrills.

Slowly to the gorgeous West Twilight paces from the East, Like a dark, unbidden guest Going to a marriage feast.

Dian--palaced in the blue-- O'er the eve-star, newly born, Shakes a sweet baptismal dew From her pearly drinking-horn.

Not the Ocean's fiery soul Throbbing up thro' all his deeps-- Not the sunset tides that roll Gloriously against the steeps

Of the hills, that to the stars Lift their regal wedded brows, Glittering, through the golden bars Clasping close their nuptial snows.

Not the palace lights of Hesper In the Queendom of the Moon, Win me from that lovely vesper-- The last one of our last June.

Oh the golden-tressed minutes! Oh the silver-footed hours! Oh the thoughts that sang like linnets, In a woodland full of flowers!

When my wild heart beat so lightly It forgot its mortal shroud; And an Angel trembled brightly In the fold of every cloud.

Wo! That storms of sorrow-strife Hold the pitying light apart, And the golden waves of life Beat against a breaking heart.

Saddest fate that e'er has been Woven in the loom of years, Our sworn faith has come between, Heavy with the wine of tears.

Broken vow and slighted trust-- Hope's white garments soiled and torn-- Passion trampled in the dust By the iron heel of scorn.

Thou art dead, to me, as those Folded safe from mortal strife; Dead! as tho' the grave-mould froze The red rivers of thy life!

Oh! My Sweet! My Light! My Love! With my grief co-heir sublime! Storms and sorrows ever prove True inheritors of Time.

Hush! An Angel holds my heart From its breaking--tho' I stand, From the happy world apart, On a broad and barren sand.

I will love thee tho' I die! Love thee, with my ancient faith! For immortal voices cry: Love is mightier than Death!

CHICK-A-DEE'S SONG.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! High up in the budding vine I've woven and hidden a dainty retreat For this little brown darling of mine! Along the garden borders, Out of the rich dark mold, The daffodils and jonquils Are pushing their heads of gold; And high in her bower-chamber The little brown mother sits, While to and fro, as the west winds blow, Her pretty shadow flits.

Weet, weet, weet! Safe in the branching vine, Pillowed on woven grasses sweet, Our pearly treasures shine; And all day long in the sunlight, By vernal breezes fanned, The daffodil and the jonquil Their jeweled discs expand; And two and fro, as the west winds blow, In the airy house a-swing, The feeble life in the pearly eggs She warms with brooding wing!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Under a flowery spray Downy heads and little pink feet Are cunningly tucked away! Along the shining furrows, The rows of sprouting corn Flash in the sun, and the orchards Are blushing red as morn; And the time o' the year for toil is here, And idle song and play With the jonquils, and the daffodils, Must wait for another May.

LATER POEMS.

TO MY SISTER.

M.A. KENNON.

"God's dear love is over all."

Dear, the random words you said Once, as we two walked apart, Still keep ringing in my head, Still keep singing in my heart: Like the lone pipe of a bird, Like a tuneful waterfall Far in desert places heard-- "God's dear love is over all!"

Thro' the ceaseless toil and strife They have taught me to be strong! Fashioned all my narrow life To the measure of a song! They have kept me brave and true-- Saved my feet from many a fall, Since, what ever fate may do, God's dear love is over all!

Lying in your chamber low, Neath the daisies and the dew, Can you hear me? Can you know All the good I owe to you? You, whose spirit dwells alway Free from earthly taint and thrall! You who taught me that sweet day God's dear love is over all!

From your holy, far off Heaven, When the beams of twilight wane, Thro' the jasper gates of even Breathe those trustful words again; They shall aid and cheer me still, What-so-ever fate befall, Since thro' every good and ill God's dear love is over all!

MEASURING THE BABY.

We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall: A lily grew at the threshold, And the boy was just so tall; A royal tiger lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dews to hold.

Without the blue birds whistled, High up in the old roof trees; And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow, That danced on the lattice sill!

His eyes were wide as blue-bells, His mouth like a flower unblown, Two little barefeet, like funny white mice, Peept out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture. That yet had a touch of pain-- When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again!

Ah me! In a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Thro' tears that fell like a bitter rain We measured the Boy to-day! And the little bare feet, that were dimpled, And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose!

Up from the dainty pillow, White as the rising dawn, The fair little face lay smiling With the light of Heaven thereon! And the dear little hands, like rose leaves Dropt from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine, That crept to the shrouded sill!

We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rose-wood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We crept with a childless moan: To the height of the sinless Angels Our little one had grown!

THE LIGHT OF DREAMS.

Last night I walked in happy dreams, The paths I used to know; I heard a sound of running streams, And saw the violets blow; I breathed a scent of daffodils; And faint and far withdrawn, A light upon the distant hills, Like morning, led me on.

And childish hands clung fast to mine, And little pattering feet Trod with me thro' the still sunshine Of by-ways green and sweet; The flax-flower eyes of tender blue, The locks of palest gold, Were just the eyes and locks I knew And loved, and lost--of old!

By many a green familiar lane Our pathway seemed to run Between long fields of waving grain, And slopes of dew and sun; And still we seemed to breathe alway A scent of daffodils, And that soft light of breaking day Shone on the distant hills.

And out of slumber suddenly I seemed to wake, and know The little feet, that followed me, Were ashes long ago! And in a burst of rapturous tears I clung to her and said: "Dear Pitty-pat! The lonesome years They told me you were dead!

"O, when the mother drew, of old, About her loving knee The little heads of dusk and gold, I know that we were three! And then there was an empty chair-- A stillness, strange and new: We could not find you anywhere-- And we were only two!"

She pointed where serenely bright The hills yet glowed afar: "Sweet sister, yon ineffable light Is but the gates ajar! And evermore, by night and day, We children still are three, Tho' I have gone a little way To open the gates," said she.

Then all in colors faint and fine The morning round me shone, The little hands slipt out of mine, And I was left alone; But still I smelled the daffodils, I heard the running streams; And that far glory on the hills-- Was it the light of dreams?

BEN HAFED'S MEED.

Ben Hafed, when the vernal rain Warmed the chill heart of earth again, Tilled the dull plot of sterile ground, Within the dank and narrow round That compassed his obscure domain; With earnest zeal, thro' heat and cold, He wrought and turned the sluggish mold, And all in furrows straight and fair He sowed the yellow seed with care, Trusting the harvest--as of old.

Soft fell the rains, the suns shone bright, The long days melted into night, And beautiful, on either hand, Outspread the shining summer land, And all his neighbor's fields were white. Long drawn, beneath the genial skies, He saw deep-fruited vineyards rise; On every hill the bladed corn Flashed like the falchions of the morn Before Ben Hafed's wistful eyes.

But in the garden, dull and bare, Where he had wrought with patient care, No cluster purpled on the vine, No blossom made the furrows shine With hints of harvest anywhere! Ben Hafed, scorning to complain, Bent to his thankless toil again: "I slight no task I find to do, Dear Lord, and if my sheaves be few, Thou wilt not count my labor vain?"

His neighbors, rich in flocks and lands, Stood by and mocked his empty hands: "Why wage with ceaseless fret and toil The grim warfare that yields no spoil? Why spend thy zest on barren sands? The circling seasons come and go, And others garner as they sow; But year by year, in sun and rain, Thou till'st these fields with toil and pain, Where only tares and thistles grow!"

With quiet mien Ben Hafed heard, And answered not by sign or word, Tho' some divine, all-trustful sense Of loss made sweet thro' recompense, In God's good time, within him stirred. With no vain protest or lament, Low to the stubborn glebe he bent: "I till the fields Thou gavest me, And leave the harvest, Lord, to thee," He said--and plodded on, content.

And ever, with the golden seeds, He sowed an hundred gracious deeds-- Some act of helpful charity, A saving word of cheer, may be, To some poor soul in bitter need! And life wore on from gold to gray; The world went by, another way: "Tho' long and wearisome my task, Dear Lord, 'tis but a tithe I ask, And Thou will grant me that, some day!"

One morn upon his humble bed, They found Ben Hafed lying dead, God's light upon his worn old face, And God's ineffable peace and grace Folding him round from feet to head. And lo! in cloudless sunshine rolled The glebe but late so bare and cold, Between fair rows of tree and vine Rich clustered, sweating oil and wine, Shone all in glorious harvest gold!

And One whose face was strangely bright With loving ruth--whose garments white Were spotless as the lilies sweet That sprang beneath His shining feet-- Moved slowly thro' those fields of light; "Blest be Ben Hafed's work--thrice blest!" He said, and gathered to His breast The harvest sown in toil and tears: "Henceforth, thro' Mine eternal years, Thou, faithful servant, cease and rest!"

WINTER BOUND.

If I could live to see beyond the night, The first spring morning break with fiery thrills, And tremble into rose and violet light Along the distant hills!

If I could hear the first wild note that swells The blue bird's silvery throat when spring is here, And all the sweet, wind ruffled lily bells Ring out the joyous matins of the year!

Only to smell the budding lilac blooms The balmy airs from sprouting brake and wold, Rich with the strange ineffable perfumes Of growing grass and newly furrowed mold!

If I could hear the rushing waters call In the wild exultation of release, Dear, I might turn my face unto the wall And fall asleep in peace!

MISLED.

Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, My love, I follow you everywhere! By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay.

By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' shine and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade. But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you.