Part 2

And all eyes turned upon the bench; what would that stern Judge do? His face was soft as baby’s smile; he had been born anew. “You have sinned, my lads; go, sin no more!” Then he set them free, And who shall say that Jesus was not Juror No. 3?

HE WHO SITS IN THE GLOOM.

Not a day goes by, but I read somewhere In this wonderful world of ours, That some lowly being has raised his soul And become as the Norman towers. From out of the sweat and the slavish grind, From the depths where but hope is known, There has risen a star, serene and pure, That reacheth the Heavenly throne.

And no one knoweth his neighbor’s lot, Or divineth the Father’s will, For he who sits in the gloom tonight May tomorrow walk on the hill; For swift as the flash of a falcon’s wing, In the gloaming homeward flight, Comes the change that lifteth the downcast up, And the darkness turns to light.

MI-LADY’S SHOE.

I only know you by the crease And dents across your dainty shoe. And yet there’s something in that crease-- YOU!

A fairy phantom of the mind, Above thy shoe a form I see, Another worships at thy shrine-- ME!

BESIDE THE SEA.

Beside the sea, beside the sea, I seemed to hear my mother’s voice. She had been sleeping twenty years, And yet her voice came back to me, Beside the sea, beside the sea.

WINTER’S SORROWS.

There’s a bitterness and sorrow in the Winter’s leaden air, A chilling sort of something that’s akin to human care, A tender gray of sadness, like a voice of bygone gladness, In the ashen sombre atmosphere that lingers everywhere.

There are tear-drops on the eyelid, in the Winter’s leaden air, A sympathetic chord is touched that finds expression there; Reality seems clearer, and the end of all seems nearer, In the sober, flinty ether, supernaturally bare.

KISSES.

Kisses sweet behind the door-- She was three and I was four; Kisses still are sweet to me, Though she now is fifty-three.

Kisses sweet behind the door-- I was three and he was four; Kisses still are sweet to me, Though he is more than fifty-three.

MYSTERY.

From out the caverns of mysterious thought Appeared a form who said, “I’m Memory.” “Go back!” cried I, “I care not for the past, Send me the form who knows what’s yet to be.”

A shadow rose and said, “You call, I’m here; Thy future leads thee to the Stygian shore, And none shall weep for thee a single tear.” “Avaunt!” I cried, “I will not hear thee more.”

ALMA MATER “PENNSYLVANIA.”

I see thee, dear “Old Penn,” in silhouette, Far back along the road on which I came; And memories, fragrant as the violet, Are interwoven with thine honored name.

I’ve thrilled at “Harvard” and at good old “Yale,” Proud have I been to meet their doughty men, But in the world there’s just one nightingale-- My Alma Mater, my own honored “Penn.”

NAPOLEON’S TOMB.

Here pause and gaze, ye travelers young and old, On this dull marble hewn in sacred mould, Mark that inscription on the graven stone, Within sleeps he, who stood ’mongst men alone.

Within sleeps he who at Marengo fought, Whose skill and courage set his foes at naught; Who led his men beneath th’ Egyptian Sun, Scarce fought a battle, but the day he won.

Who, living, loved the cannon’s deadly roar, And made his trumpets heard on every shore; Who, with his eagle banner, never furled, His conquering legions over-ran the world.

Proud Austria humbled lay beneath his feet, And Russia’s legions fled in swift retreat; He saw the world, ambition swelled his heart, He longed for all, nor cared to have a part.

So lost he all, insatiate from the first, When his proud deeds like fire on Europe burst. A soldier, statesman, Emperor, _toute chose_ King, Before nor since has lived so grand a thing.

He died in exile from his glorious France, On lonely isle, his life a leaden trance; The sea around, walled in on every side, His proud heart broke, and so the hero died.

Within this marble rest the mummied bones Of him who held in life a dozen thrones; Approach with awe and reverential tread, Here sleeps the mightiest of the living--dead.

THE SORROWS GRIM WANT IMPOSES.

’Neath the sorrows that grim want imposes, Imperious stalks decay; Hunger’s terrors have withered the roses That bloomed and then faded away.

The hearts which with young life once budded, The fond hopes which happiness kissed, Are dissolved in the tears which have flooded The homes of the poor in our midst.

I WOULD I WERE STILL A BOY.

Oh! joy, for a fancied rest Instead of this grind, a toy. God seems to know what is best, But would I were still a boy.

Oh! man, and a heartsick smile, Has something gone wrong ahead? Why! life is scarcely worth while, If man can wish himself dead.

Oh! well, poor fellow, I know Some have it better than you. But, man! wherever you go, The satisfied are the few.

Go seek ye, and ye shall find The light of eternal joy. When Faith once enters the mind, Again you will be a boy.

THE SAME VOICE.

The same voice speaks as the days of eld, Since the human race began, Enmeshed in the woof and weave of life, Designed in the form of man.

It spoke the dawn of his natal day, It is speaking today as then, The voice that speaks is the voice of God, From out of the mouths of men.

MEMORIES.

The fragrance of a cigarette, The incense of a morning fair; The odor of the mignonette, The perfume of a woman’s hair, The sunset dancing on the sea, White bolles of cirrus in the sky, Bring back fond memories to me. Ask not! I cannot tell you why.

OLD DAYS.

A BALLAD.

She stood by the stile in the twilight dim, With a soft look in her eye; ’Twas a tryst, she waited alone for him, Her lover, a warrior bold and grim, ’Neath that beauteous evening sky.

“Why tarries my lord?” quoth the maiden fair, “My love, my love, come to me!” In her eyes came a look so sweet and rare, As she gazed to the wood, through the scented air, Till her eyes could no longer see.

Still she waited there for her warrior bold, “He will come to-night!” said she. Then up rode a knight in armor of gold: “Your warrior died like a knight of old, On the battlefield,” said he.

ON THE ENGAGEMENT OF MISS CONSTANCE MORE.

Thou hast the wit and charming grace To match with speech thy lovely face-- A maid whom men adore. Yet I do prophesy this night, Before the dawn of next year’s light That thou wilt be no “More.”

OH, GONDOLIER.

Oh, Gondolier, turn thy boat again, That I may see the sunlight on its prow, The light that I have tried to paint in vain, The light of Heaven--there! ’tis shimmering now.

A PROPOSAL.

Let us go a-maying, love; All the world is playing, love, This God-sent happy day. Let us be together, love, Ever and forever, love, Forever and for aye.

LAKE GENEVA--A MEMORY.

I sat beside her in the gloaming light, And neither spoke--’twas by Geneva’s lake. We sat, and neither spoke, and then came Night.

MY BOYHOOD’S HOME.

Oh, many a time in the silent night I sigh for the days gone by, When a happy boy with gay delight I hailed the cuckoo’s cry.

And the dear old woods that I loved so well, Where the stock-dove built its nest; The rippling stream and the hermit’s cell, Its green and shady crest.

The stately home ’neath the elms so tall, The lawn with its cool bright turf; The old peach tree by the garden wall, Each has its own sweet worth.

For my head is bent with the weight of years, As white as the falling snow; My stream of life through this vale of tears Will soon have ceased to flow.

THE DEATH OF THE HOST OF THE JOLLY SWAN

The pewter pots were shining on the shelves behind the bar, Like the gold and silver lining of a sunset cloud afar, And the pine log fire burned brightly with its blaze of light and heat, Athwart the untrodden sawdust floor that looked so clean and neat.

A cheerful, ruddy glamor lighted up the tavern walls, And, shooting through the open door, lit up the silent halls, To where the old clock’s pendulum swung slowly to and fro, With measured beat, that seemed to speak of the days of long ago.

Sick unto death--in the room above--lay the host of the Jolly Swan. And far and near, his kinsmen had, to seek the doctors, gone, For the jovial face and the merry laugh of the host of yesterday Had all departed, leaving naught but the mould of the living clay.

Alone in his chamber he watched the sun slope down to his Western bower, And a gentle smile stole o’er his face, as the old clock chimed the hour. His thoughts were of the days gone by--as the host of the Jolly Swan, He had raised his tankard high and drank to the health of the old friends gone.

There was good old Squire Thornleigh, with his great big raw-boned gray, And the biggest hearted fellow that e’er waved the “Hark! Away!” There was Jones, the hunting parson, with his jovial, ringing laugh, Who could preach a right good sermon and an honest bumper quaff.

Then there was Billy Foster, who was only twenty-two, When he broke his neck in the hunting field through the casting of a shoe. And portly old Judge Horner, who in the room below, Had smoked and drank full many a night in the days of long ago.

And as he thought, the window ope’d, and in slipped Huntsman Death, Arrayed in scarlet, white-topped boots, with a fine rich malty breath. “Ah! good old friend,” the huntsman cried, “since you have called me here, Get down the pewter pots that we may drink a funeral bier--

For I have ridden hard today to reach the Swan this night, And what I ask is nothing more than what is only right.” With that, the host got out of bed and brought two pewters brimmed, And while below he saw that all the tavern lights were trimmed.

His kinsman, riding up the road, with doctors from afar, Reined up to watch the lights that burned so brightly in the bar; While the jolly host with Death alone sat in the room above, And drank the foaming liquor down, his first and only love.

Just then the sound of horses’ hoofs the sick man heard without, And he and Death, in one glad breath, sent up a hunting shout-- “It’s bold Squire Thornleigh’s raw-boned gray, or Parson Jones’s bay-- I’m coming, Squire, Yoick’s tally-ho!” Death shouted, “Hark! Away!”

Yoick’s tally-ho fills loud the room as he springs up from bed, And the bugle horn sounds merrily in the chamber of the dead; Gay prancing steeds and huntsmen bold ride blithely by his side, “Yoicks! tally-ho!” rang from his lips, and back he fell and died.

His kinsmen heard that hunting shout, that old familiar cry, And in they rushed--too late--too late--to see the good man die. Two empty tankards on the floor was all that they could see, And how the host of the Jolly Swan died--is still a mystery.

OH! TAMACA.

Oh! Tamaca, oh! Tamaca, I see thy face, I see thy face. The sea is rolling on the bar, Low hang the clouds, afar, afar, Thy skiff bounds swiftly in the race, Tis death that leads thee, Tamaca.

ONE SWEET MOMENT.

Under the lindens we wandered, Gaily my love and I; Light through the shimmering leaflets Fell like a kiss from the sky. On to her soft, golden tresses, Into her eyes divine, Smothered her form with caresses, Blended her shadow with mine.

Under the lindens we wandered; Fifty years had gone by; Light through the cold, naked branches Fell like a pall from the sky. Old and forsaken, our children Had left us to starve and to die; But we lived in the past one sweet moment ’Neath the lindens, my love and I.

MINE TONIGHT.

Mine to-night, For tomorrow’s light Our dream will end, and waking bring dull pain. Oh! the happy past, Far too sweet to last, For ’tis decreed we shall not meet again.

In thy dear eyes My heaven lies, And yet forever I must say good-bye; With your lips to mine, And my heart to thine, With this last embrace would God I could die.

THE MELODY OF LOVE.

Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. The woodbine turns to listen to thy voice; The subtle beauty of such love as ours Makes every living thing rejoice. Blending sweet heaven with our earthly love, Locked in each other’s arms, our prayers to God Rise from our souls unto his throne above In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him.

Oh! breathe again thine answer to the stars. The nightingale doth listen in the grove To music sweeter than the breath of flowers, Unto the melody of love. Holy as triumphs of an angel hand, Strained heart to heart, for love is God’s command, Mute in the fulness of our joy, we stand In gratitude, sweet gratitude to Him.

WIVES.

We were alone--my wife and I-- God from above looked down on us, Never a word did either speak, Dry lay the salt from the tears on her cheek, Joy was afar from us.

Silence held sway, the sin was mine, Pride was my sin--alas! for me, Pride that strangled the man within, That silenced the truth and increased my sin, She had done naught to me.

Someone’s speaking. Who dares intrude? Reckless being, away from here. “Reckless”--that little form in white? Clinging to her, crying “Mother, good night!” Low hung my head in shame.

“Mother,” I cried, “can you forgive?” With faltering step I went to her, And never a word did mother speak, But the salt grew wet on her glowing cheek, And joy came back to us.

A COUNTRY ROMANCE.

May I take your hand in mine, Little Miss? For this fairy-like retreat In the country fresh and sweet, Is what I’ve longed to meet, Little Miss.

Yes, I came here from the town, Little Miss; Without an aim in view, I have roved the country through, And by chance I’ve met with you, Little Miss.

You were born upon the farm, Little Miss? Why, how happy you must be In the country pure and free! I am filled with ecstasy, Little Miss.

Do I like the city belles, Little Miss? Well! some I do, and yet, Why you needn’t pout and fret, For I am still to let, Little Miss.

I am longing for a kiss, Little Miss. Yes, I’m asking with my eyes In a tongue that never lies, And in words I can’t disguise, Little Miss.

Oh! is what I say quite true, Little Miss? Ah! Why should Phyllis doubt With that pretty little pout? I know what I’m about, Little Miss.

Now what age am I, you ask, Little Miss? Well, I’ve just turned twenty-two, And I’d like to marry you.

* * * * *

Now, I’m married. Ah! Who to? That little Miss.

WORD WOUNDS.

Though strong emotion sweeps the heart, Though anguish wings the brow, Hold back the words whose cruel smart Hurts no one worse than thou

Pause, pause until the morrow brings Reflection, thoughts more kind, Then from calm reason’s crystal springs Distill from out thy mind.

A wound received from warrior’s sword May heal within a day, But the wound of some light, thoughtless word May be a wound for aye.

THE GONDOLIER’S SONG.

(From “Lionardo, the Gondolier.”)

Goodnight, my love, a fond goodnight, The moon shines down on thee. But soon that cloud shall hide its light, And thy dear face from me, And thy dear face from me.

Goodnight again, my beauteous flower, Farewell, my gentle dove; The night speeds on, ’tis now the hour When we must part, my love-- When we must part, my love.

Sleep, softly sleep, luxurious rest, Sweet dreams, dear love, be thine. May each unconscious thought be blest With love, sweet love of mine-- Goodnight, sweet love of mine.

AVAUNT! YE TEARS.

Avaunt! ye tears, ’tis not the soul That crumbles ’neath the grassy sod. Now dost thou learn how vain to weep, When death means, “God”?

THE LAST OF THE TASMANIANS.

Tasmania, a large, beautiful island to the southeast of Australia, when discovered by Van Dieman, was peopled with a magnificent race of savages, resembling somewhat the American Indian. Civilization, with its attendant advantages and evils, proved too much for the primitive child of the forest. The last Tasmanian, a woman, died in 1885, and the once splendid race is now extinct.

PROLOGUE.

Alone she sits, nor marks the dying day. Alone on earth, she bows her weary head, And dusky spirits bear her soul away; A race extinct. The last Tasmanian dead.

APOSTROPHE.

Where are thy dark sons, Tasmania, Tasmania? Where are the lords who once swayed o’er thy shore? Gone to their fathers; Oh! weep ye, Tasmania, Weep for the race thou shalt see never more.

Weep for the race on thy fair bosom nourished, Tutored by nature, untrammeled, so free; Kings of thy green hills and valleys they flourished, Kings who now sleep in their graves by the sea.

Proud were the race who knew not their beginning, To whom the long past was as sealed as their fate, Who counted their seasons when insects were winging, The time by the shadows, the suns for their date.

Skilled were thy dark sons, Tasmania! Tasmania! Virtuous, gentle and peaceful their ways; Till civilization o’ertook thee, Tasmania, And civilized habits renumbered their days.

Set is the sun of thy people, Oh, country! Strangers now trample unawed o’er they race; Forgotten, the dusky-hued sons that a century Past were the monarchs of all thy sweet place.

Soft may they sleep by thy shores, Oh! Tasmania, Where sea-dirges swell for the child of the past; Sleep as thy guardian spirits, Tasmania, Hovering round thy dear land to the last.

AN ENGLISH LANE.

Tall elms on either side with stately heads, With here and there an oak of ancient days, Sweet briar hedges flanked with clover beds, In which the feathered songster trills his lays.

WORDS TO MENDELSSOHN’S “CONSOLATION.”

Lord, my poor heart, with sadness now is breaking, Longing for light, that I may find belief, Aching for rest from these tumultuous doubtings, Seeking to find the path that leads to peace. But Oh! dear Lord, my soul refuses comfort; Vainly I strive for the goal beyond this sad, sweet world. Rest for eternity. Grant then, Oh! Lord, the enlightenment of sorrow, That gentle faith which comes through grief alone; Ripened in hours of darkest tribulation, When my poor soul stood face to face with Thee.

A MAIDEN OF TE PITO TE HENUA, AN ISLAND IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC.

On her beautiful puoka (head) Hung her raven-black rauoko (hair) While love filled her mokoikoi (heart) Her alabaster kiri (skin) Gleamed on her kapu hivi (shoulder). And her petticoats came down to her kuri (knee).

Sweet was her aerero (tongue); White were her even niho (teeth), And graceful her kakari munava (waist); Voluptuous her ngutu (lips) And shapely were her heru (legs). Well developed were her kiko ua-ua (muscles).

Oh, this maid of Rapa Nin (island) Bore a rima tuhi hana (ring). Beloved was she by a tangala (man), Who in his little vaka (boat) Caught a wedding gift of ika (fish) And breathed his tale of love in her ringa (ear).

AN ACTOR’S EPITAPH.

Here lies a body whose majestic grace Drew from his fellow-man unstinted praise; Who lured emotion from her hiding place, And thrilled the world with deeds of other days. He that possessed, which unto Art is dear, A grand conception of unvarnished truth; He oft provoked a smile, more oft a tear, Sublime and beauteous in his manly youth.

Full in the zenith of his great renown, God gave to him his final part to play; While Death untimely rung the curtain down On that great scene where man doth pass away. The rustling leaves soft whisper o’er his head, And robins fill the air with sweetest sound; Within the theatre of the mighty dead The actor sleeps beneath the sacred ground.

THE LOVED ONES LEFT BEHIND.

There are sounds of martial music, But the laugh is hushed within, As the soldier boys march bravely down the street; A little child is weeping, As she listens to the din, Of kettle-drum and tramp of many feet.

“Oh! my papa! Oh! my papa!” Wailed the tiny little mite. “You have gone and left poor mamma all alone; Come back, my darling papa, Oh! do come home tonight, And see how good your little girl has grown.

“I won’t be naughty, papa, And I won’t make any noise, When papa’s head is aching him so bad; I will walk about so quietly And put away my toys, Your little girl won’t make her father sad.”

But the tiny voice fell empty, On the shadows in the room, And the music in the distance fainter grew; This is but a single instance Of the scenes within the gloom, Which the loved ones left behind are passing through.

LIFE’S VOYAGE IN VAIN.

With eyes upcast to the glistening stars, Full of a strange mysterious awe, I watch the lights on the heavenly bar, And think of the ships that are sailing in, Cargoless, empty, their voyage in vain.

THE SONG OF THE STREAM.

Born on some distant mountain top, A happy wanderer from its birth, From stone to stone with merry laugh It dances o’er its mother earth.

Then with some gathering streamlet meets, With bubbling laughter on they fling Their glittering sprays through sweet retreats, And cool abodes of sylvan king.

The mighty river next appears, And to its arms the youngsters race, Then separate with baby tears, While current marshalls each in place.

And last the ocean heaves in view, Then dies for aye the streamlet’s span; Death is the ocean, all life through, Whose outstretched arms wait every man.

DRY THINE EYES.

Dry thine eyes, love; cease thy weeping, For thy boy will soon be sleeping Safe within the angels’ keeping-- Dry thine eyes.

Hold my hand; the tide is flowing, Down the stream my boat is going, On the banks the kine are lowing, In the skies.

See, my love, the shadows creeping, Round my bed while I am sleeping, List! I hear a sound of weeping! Now it dies.

Raise me up, the day is breaking; Streaks of gray proclaim its waking; Sleep my weary eyes forsaking, In the light.

Raise me up that I may, nearer, Watch the shades becoming clearer; Ebbing life seems growing dearer. But my sight

Fails again; the sombre fretting Changes now to golden netting. See! the blood-red sun is setting! Love, good-night.

Unto God my soul is winging; I can hear the angels singing; Joy bells overhead are ringing! Dry thine eyes.

HONOR.

When aloft two young hearts are soaring To those realms of pleasure and pain, The law and the prophets ignoring, There’s a something recalls them again.