Chapter 2

For he served aboard the _Vanguard_, saw the Admiral blind and bleeding Borne below by silent sailors, borne to die as then they deemed. Every stout heart sick but stubborn, fought the sea-dogs on unheeding, Guns were cleared and manned and cleared, the battle thundered, flashed, and screamed.

Till a cry swelled loud and louder,--towered on fire the _Orient_ stately, Brucys' flag-ship, she that carried guns a hundred and a score; Then came groping up the hatchway he they counted dead but lately, Came the little one-armed Admiral to guide the fight once more.

"'Lower the boats!' was Nelson's order."-- But the listening boy beside him, Who had followed all his motions with an eager wide blue eye, Nursed upon the name of Nelson till he half had deified him, Here, with childhood's crude consistence, broke the tale to question "Why?"

For by children facts go streaming in a throng that never pauses, Noted not, till, of a sudden, thought, a sunbeam, gilds the motes, All at once the known words quicken, and the child would deal with causes. Since to kill the French was righteous, why bade Nelson lower the boats?

Quick the man put by the question. "But the _Orient_, none could save her; We could see the ships, the ensigns, clear as daylight by the flare; And a many leaped and left her; but, God rest 'em! some were braver; Some held by her, firing steady till she blew to God knows where."

At the shock, he said, the _Vanguard_ shook through all her timbers oaken; It was like the shock of Doomsday,--not a tar but shuddered hard. All was hushed for one strange moment; then that awful calm was broken By the heavy plash that answered the descent of mast and yard.

So, her cannon still defying, and her colors flaming, flying, In her pit her wounded helpless, on her deck her Admiral dead, Soared the _Orient_ into darkness with her living and her dying: "Yet our lads made shift to rescue three-score souls," the seaman said.

Long the boy with knit brows wondered o'er that friending of the foeman; Long the man with shut lips pondered; powerless he to tell the cause Why the brother in his bosom that desired the death of no man, In the crash of battle wakened, snapped the bonds of hate like straws.

While he mused, his toddling maiden drew the daisies to a posy; Mild the bells of Sunday morning rang across the church-yard sod; And, helped on by tender hands, with sturdy feet all bare and rosy, Climbed his babe to mother's breast, as climbs the slow world up to God.

A RESURRECTION

_Neither would they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead_.

I was quick in the flesh, was warm, and the live heart shook my breast; In the market I bought and sold, in the temple I bowed my head. I had swathed me in shows and forms, and was honored above the rest For the sake of the life I lived; nor did any esteem me dead.

But at last, when the hour was ripe--was it sudden-remembered word? Was it sight of a bird that mounted, or sound of a strain that stole? I was 'ware of a spell that snapped, of an inward strength that stirred, Of a Presence that filled that place; and it shone, and I knew my Soul.

And the dream I had called my life was a garment about my feet, For the web of the years was rent with the throe of a yearning strong. With a sweep as of winds in heaven, with a rush as of flames that meet, The Flesh and the Spirit clasped; and I cried, "Was I dead so long?"

I had glimpse of the Secret, flashed through the symbol obscure and mean, And I felt as a fire what erst I repeated with lips of clay; And I knew for the things eternal the things eye hath not seen; Yea, the heavens and the earth shall pass; but they never shall pass away.

And the miracle on me wrought, in the streets I would straight make known: "When this marvel of mine is heard, without cavil shall men receive Any legend of haloed saint, staring up through the sealèd stone!" So I spake in the trodden ways; but behold, there would none believe!

THE GLORIOUS COMPANY

"Faces, faces, faces of the streaming marching surge, Streaming on the weary road, toward the awful steep, Whence your glow and glory, as ye set to that sharp verge, Faces lit as sunlit stars, shining as ye sweep?

"Whence this wondrous radiance that ye somehow catch and cast, Faces rapt, that one discerns 'mid the dusky press Herding in dull wonder, gathering fearful to the Vast? Surely all is dark before, night of nothingness!"

_Lo, the Light!_ (they answer) _O the pure, the pulsing Light, Beating like a heart of life, like a heart of love, Soaring, searching, filling all the breadth and depth and height, Welling, whelming with its peace worlds below, above!_

"O my soul, how art thou to that living Splendor blind, Sick with thy desire to see even as these men see!-- Yet to look upon them is to know that God hath shined: Faces lit as sunlit stars, be all my light to me!"

THE TRUMPETER

Two ships, alone in sky and sea, Hang clinched, with crash and roar; There is but one--whiche'er it be-- Will ever come to shore.

And will it be the grim black bulk, That towers so evil now? Or will it be The Grace of God, With the angel at her prow?

The man that breathes the battle's breath May live at last to know; But the trumpeter lies sick to death In the stifling dark below.

He hears the fight above him rave; He fears his mates must yield; He lies as in a narrow grave Beneath a battle-field.

His fate will fall before the ship's, Whate'er the ship betide; He lifts the trumpet to his lips As though he kissed a bride.

"Now blow thy best, blow thy last, My trumpet, for the Right!"-- He has sent his soul in one strong blast, To hearten them that fight.

COMRADES

"Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?" "And whither, whither, rider toward the east?" "I rode we ride upon the same high quest, Whereon who enters may not be released;

"To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,-- A nobler form than e'er was shapen yet, Though million million cups without a flaw, Afire with gems, on princes' boards are set;

"To seek the Wine whereof none ever had One draught, though many a generous wine flows free,-- The spiritual blood that shall make glad The hearts of mighty men that are to be."

"But shall one find it, brother? Where I ride, Men mock and stare, who never had the dream, Yet hope within my breast has never died." "Nor ever died in mine that trembling gleam."

"Eastward, I deem: the sun and all good things Are born to bless us of the Orient old." "Westward, I deem: an untried ocean sings Against that coast, 'New shores await the bold.'"

"God speed or thee or me, so coming men But have the Cup!" "God speed!"--Not once before Their eyes had met, nor ever met again, Yet were they loving comrades evermore.

THE HOUSE OF HATE

Mine enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills in sight; But betwixt his house and the hills I builded a house for spite: And the name thereof I set in the stone-work over the gate, With a carving of bats and apes; and I called it the House of Hate.

And the front was alive with masks of malice and of despair; Horned demons that leered in stone, and women with serpent hair; That whenever his glance would rest on the soft hills far and blue, It must fall on mine evil work, and my hatred should pierce him through.

And I said, "I will dwell herein, for beholding my heart's desire On my foe;" and I knelt, and fain had brightened the hearth with fire; But the brands they would hiss and die, as with curses a strangled man, And the hearth was cold from the day that the House of Hate began.

And I called at the open door, "Make ye merry, all friends of mine, In the hall of my House of Hate, where is plentiful store and wine. We will drink unhealth together unto him I have foiled and fooled!" And they stared and they passed me by; but I scorned to be thereby schooled.

And I ordered my board for feast; and I drank, in the topmost seat, Choice grape from a curious cup; and the first it was wonder-sweet; But the second was bitter indeed, and the third was bitter and black, And the gloom of the grave came on me, and I cast the cup to wrack.

Alone, I was stark alone, and the shadows were each a fear; And thinly I laughed, but once, for the echoes were strange to hear; And the wind in the hallways howled as a green-eyed wolf might cry, And I heard my heart: I must look on the face of a man, or die!

So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown (By the light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone; And with horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled, And a fire-snake writhed where it fell; and at midnight the sky was red.

And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, I fell at mine enemy's feet, and besought him to slay my shame; But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were calm and great: "You rave, or have dreamed," he said; "I saw not your House of Hate."

THE ARROWMAKER

Day in, day out, or sun or rain, Or sallow leaf, or summer grain, Beneath a wintry morning moon Or through red smouldering afternoon, With simple joy, with careful pride, He plies the craft he long has plied: To shape the stave, to set the sting, To fit the shaft with irised wing; And farers by may hear him sing, For still his door is wide: "Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- The world swings round; I know not, I, If north or south mine arrows fly!"

And sometimes, while he works, he dreams, And on his soul a vision gleams: Some storied field fought long ago, Where arrows fell as thick as snow. His breath comes fast, his eyes grow bright, To think upon that ancient fight. Oh, leaping from the strained string Against an armored Wrong to ring, Brave the songs that arrows sing! He weighs the finished flight: "Live and die; by and by The sun kills dark; I know not, I, In what good fight mine arrows fly!"

Or at the gray hour, weary grown, When curfew o'er the wold is blown, He sees, as in a magic glass, Some lost and lonely mountain-pass; And lo! a sign of deathful rout The mocking vine has wound about,-- An earth-fixed arrow by a spring, All greenly mossed, a mouldered thing; That stifled shaft no more shall sing! He shakes his head in doubt. "Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- The hand is blind: I know not, I, In what lost pass mine arrows lie! One to east, one to west, Another for the eagle's breast,-- The archer and the wind know best!" The stars are in the sky; He lays his arrows by.

A NEST IN A LYRE

As sign before a playhouse serves A giant Lyre, ornately gilded, On whose convenient coignes and curves The pert brown sparrows late have builded. They flit, and flirt, and prune their wings, Not awed at all by golden glitter, And make among the silent strings Their satisfied ephemeral twitter.

Ah, somewhat so we perch and flit, And spy some crumb and dash to win it, And with a witty chirping twit Our sheltering Time--there's nothing in it! In Life's large frame, a glorious Lyre's, We nest, content, our season flighty, Nor guess we brush the powerful wires Might witch the stars with music mighty.

THISBE

The garden within was shaded, And guarded about from sight; The fragrance flowed to the south wind, The fountain leaped to the light.

And the street without was narrow, And dusty, and hot, and mean; But the bush that bore white roses, She leaned to the fence between:

And softly she sought a crevice In that barrier blank and tall, And shyly she thrust out through it Her loveliest bud of all.

And tender to touch, and gracious, And pure as the moon's pure shine, The full rose paled and was perfect,-- For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine!

THE SPRING BEAUTIES

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass, All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!"

KINSHIP

A lily grew in the tangle, In a flame red garment dressed, And many a ruby spangle Besprinkled her tawny breast.

And the silken moth sailed by her With a swift and a snow-white sail; Not a gilt-girt bee came nigh her, Nor a fly in his gay green mail.

And the bronze-brown wings and the golden, O'er the billowing meadows blown, Were still as by magic holden From the lily that flamed alone;

Till over the fragrant tangle A wanderer winging went, And with many a ruby spangle Were his tawny vans besprent. And he hovered one moment stilly O'er the thicket, her mazy bower, Then he sank to the heart of the lily, And they seemed but a single flower.

COMPENSATION

The brook ran laughing from the shade, And in the sunshine danced all day: The starlight and the moonlight made Its glimmering path a Milky Way.

The blue sky burned, with summer fired; For parching fields, for pining flowers, The spirits of the air desired The brook's bright life to shed in showers.

It gave its all that thirst to slake; Its dusty channel lifeless lay; Now softest flowers, white-foaming, make Its winding bed a Milky Way.

WHEN WILLOWS GREEN

When goldenly the willows green, And, mirrored in the sunset pool, Hang wavering, wild-rose clouds between: When robins call in twilights cool: What is it we await? Who lingers and is late? What strange unrest, what yearning stirs us all When willows green, when robins call?

When fields of flowering grass respire A sweet that seems the breath of Peace, And liquid-voiced the thrushes choir, Oh, whence the sense of glad release? What is it life uplifts? Who entered, bearing gifts? What floods from heaven the being overpower When thrushes choir, when grasses flower?

AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

(AD COMITEM JUNIOREM)

Comrade Youth! Sit down with me Underneath the summer tree, Cool green dome whose shade is sweet, Where the sunny roadways meet, See, the ancient finger-post, Silver-bleached with rain and shine, Warns us like a noon-day ghost: That way's yours, and this way's mine! I would hold you with delays Here at parting of the ways.

Hold you! I as well might look To detain the racing brook With regrets and grievance tender, As my comrade swift and slender, Shy, capricious, all of spring! Catch the wind with blossoms laden, Catch the wild bird on the wing, Catch the heart of boy or maiden!

Yet I'll hold your image fast, As this hour I saw you last,-- As with staff in hand you sat, Soft curls putting forth defiant From the tilted Mercury's hat, Wreathen with the wilding grace Of the fresh-leaved vine and pliant, Stealing down to see your face. Eyes of pleasance, lips of laughter, I shall hoard you long hereafter; Very dear shall be the days Ere the parting of the ways!

Shall you deem them dear, in truth, Days when we, o'er hill and hollow, Trudged together, Comrade Youth? Ah, you dream of days to follow! Hand in hand we jogged along; I would fetch from out my scrip, Crust or jest or antique song,-- Live and lovely, on your lip, Such poor needments as I had Were as yours; you made me glad. --Lo, the dial! No prayer stays Time, at parting of the ways!

This gold memory--rings it true? Half for me and half for you. Cleave and share it. Now, good sooth, God be with you, Comrade Youth!

THE FAIR GRAY LADY

When the charm at last is fled From the woodland stark and pale, And like shades of glad hours dead Whirl the leaves before the gale:

When against the western fire Darkens many an empty nest, Like a thwarted heart's desire That in prime was hardly guessed:

Then the fair gray Lady leans, Lingering, o'er the faded grass, Still the soul of all the scenes Once she graced, a golden lass.

O'er the Year's discrownèd sleep, Dear as in her earlier day, She her bending watch doth keep, She the Goldenrod grown gray.

THE ENCOUNTER

There's a wood-way winding high, Roofed far up with light-green flicker, Save one midmost star of sky. Underfoot 'tis all pale brown With the dead leaves matted down One on other, thick and thicker; Soft, but springing to the tread. There a youth late met a maid Running lightly,--oh, so fleetly! "Whence art thou?" the herd-boy said. Either side her long hair swayed, Half a tress and half a braid, Colored like the soft dead leaf, As she answered, laughing sweetly, On she ran, as flies the swallow; He could not choose but follow Though it had been to his grief.

"I have come up from the valley,-- From the valley!" Once he caught her, Swerving down a sidelong alley, For a moment, by the hand. "Tell me, tell me," he besought her, "Sweetest, I would understand Why so cold thy palm, that slips From me like the shy cold minnow? The wood is warm, and smells of fern, And below the meadows burn. Hard to catch and hard to win, oh! Why are those brown finger tips Crinkled as with lines of water?"

Laughing while she featly footed, With the herd-boy hasting after, Sprang she on a trunk uprooted, Clung she by a roping vine; Leaped behind a birch, and told, Still eluding, through its fine, Mocking, slender, leafy laughter, Why her finger tips were cold:

"I went down to tease the brook, With her fishes, there below; She comes dancing, thou must know, And the bushes arch above her; But the seeking sunbeams look, Dodging through the wind-blown cover, Find and kiss her into stars. Silvery veins entwine and crook Where a stone her tripping bars; There be smooth, clear sweeps, and swirls Bubbling up crisp drops like pearls. There I lie, along the rocks Thick with greenest slippery moss, And I have in hand a strip Of gray, pliant, dappled bark; And I comb her liquid locks Till her tangling currents cross; And I have delight to hark To the chiding of her lip, Taking on the talking stone With each turn another tone. Oh, to set her wavelets bickering! Oh, to hear her laughter simple, See her fret and flash and dimple! Ha, ha, ha!" The woodland rang With the rippling through the flickering. At the birch the herd-boy sprang.

On a sudden something wound Vine-like round his throbbing throat; On a sudden something smote Sharply on his longing lips, Stung him as the birch bough whips: Was it kiss or was it blow? Never after could he know; She was gone without a sound.

Never after could he see In the wood or in the mead, Or in any company Of the rustic mortal maids, Her with acorn-colored braids; Never came she to his need. Never more the lad was merry, Strayed apart, and learned to dream, Feeding on the tart wild berry; Murmuring words none understood,-- Words with music of the wood, And with music of the stream.

SUMMER HOURS

Hours aimless-drifting as the milkweed's down In seeming, still a seed of joy ye bear That steals into the soul when unaware, And springs up Memory in the stony town.

LOVE UNSUNG

Seven jewelled rays has the Sun fast bound In his arrow of blinding sheen; But he quickens the breast of the fruitful ground With a subtlest ray unseen.

And the rainbow moods of this love of ours I may blend in the song I bring; But the magic that makes life laugh with flowers Is the love that I cannot sing.

THE WISH FOR A CHAPLET

Vineleaf and rose I would my chaplet make: I would my word were wine for all men's sake. Pure from the pressing of the stainless feet Of unblamed Hours, and for an altar meet.

Vineleaf and rose: I would, had I the art, Distil, to lasting sweet, Joy's rosy heart, That no sere autumn should its fragrance wrong, Closed in the crystal glass of slender song.

SONNETS

THE TORCH-RACE

Brave racer, who hast sped the living light With throat outstretched and every nerve a-strain, Now on thy left hand labors gray-faced Pain, And Death hangs close behind thee on the right. Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight, With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain; And all thy splendor of strong life must wane And set into the mystery of night.

Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide Whose hand shall snatch, before it scars the sod, The light thy lessening grasp no more controls: Truth's rescuer, Truth shall instantly provide: This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls Play on through time beneath the eyes of God.

TO SLEEP

All slumb'rous images that be, combined, To this white couch and cool shall woo thee, Sleep! First will I think on fields of grasses deep In gray-green flower, o'er which the transient wind Runs like a smile; and next will call to mind How glistening poplar-tops, when breezes creep Among their leaves, a tender motion keep, Stroking the sky, like touch of lovers kind.

Ah, having felt thy calm kiss on mine eyes, All night inspiring thy divine pure breath, I shall awake as into godhood born, And with a fresh, undaunted soul arise, Clear as the blue convolvulus at morn. --Dear bedfellow, deals thus thy brother, Death?

SISTER SNOW

Praised be our Lord (to echo the sweet phrase Of saintly Francis) for our sister Snow: Whose soft, soft coming never man may know By any sound; whose down-light touch allays All fevers of worn earth. She clothes the days In garments without spot, and hence doth go Her noiseless shuttle swiftly to and fro, And very pure, and pleasant, are her ways.

But yesterday, how loveless looked the skies! How cold the sun's last glance, and unbenign, Across the field forsaken, russet-leaved! Now pearly peace on all the landscape lies. --Wast thou not sent us, Sister, for a sign Of that vast Mercy of God, else unconceived?

RETROSPECT

"Backward," he said, "dear heart I like to look To those half-spring, half-winter days, when first We drew together, ere the leaf-buds burst. Sunbeams were silver yet, keen gusts yet shook The boughs. Have you remembered that kind book, That for our sake Galeotto's part rehearsed, (The friend of lovers,--this time blessed, not cursed!) And that best hour, when reading we forsook?"

She, listening, wore the smile a mother wears At childish fancies needless to control; Yet felt a fine, hid pain with pleasure blend. Better it seemed to think that love of theirs, Native as breath, eternal as the soul, Knew no beginning, could not have an end.

THE CONTRAST