Part 4

Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow, Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred; But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed meadow, Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was the Lord.

Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways of heaven, Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams, On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven, And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of her dreams.

PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH.

Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate; Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late; Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you. So soon they wither, do not hesitate, Lest you should gather roses not, but rue. Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate, And love turns hate.

Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat; To age not even the rose itself is sweet, Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great, Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit. Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings Fate Than memory of scorned joys crushed by our feet In flight too fleet.

O FOOLISH HEART.

O foolish heart, to flutter so With hope and fear; O treacherous blush, to come and go When he is near; Why do ye to the world reveal The passion I would fain conceal?

O ears, that love to hear him speak; O downcast eyes, Whose lashes droop upon each cheek, Nor dare to rise; Do ye not know she sees and hears Fond looks and words that cost me tears?

Be brave, mine heart, if he despise, Give scorn for scorn; Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,-- Yet soul, why mourn? Though she may claim him for her own, My love, my love is mine alone.

MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER.

My heart’s a merry rover, Though innocent of wrong; Forever beauty’s lover, Yet never constant long.

When coral lips are pouting, Their smiling to disguise, He kneels and loves, not doubting They are his richest prize.

Yet when, amid his dreaming, He spies a bosom fair, At once the rogue is scheming To gain admittance there;

Though should he see the tresses That frame a pretty head, His love and his caresses He spends on them instead.

Then, if bright eyes confuse him With many a saucy stare, The lips, the curls, the bosom Must mourn their worshipper.

And yet this merry rover Is nothing if not true, He’s but one maiden’s lover, And, dearest, she is you.

THE CIGARETTE SMOKER.

Mark her as she stands, Blue eyes bright, match alight, Shielding with her hands The growing flame, Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips, The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure, Cigarette by name.

There! it makes her cough. If she smoke, must she choke When blue whirls come off? Now she denies The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss, Holds it burning, to ash turning, Till at last it dies.

Thus she lit my heart, By the fell magic spell Of love’s witching art, And just as I Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire, Let my yearning and heart-burning Into ashes die.

TAKE ME AS YOU FIND ME.

Take me as you find me, Take me so, Else from love unbind me, Let me go.

Two twin gifts God gave me, Body and soul; These shall lose or save me, As years roll.

I can never alter; I must wend Onward, thus, nor falter To the end.

If you love, then, love me, Sweetheart, so You’ll not look above me, Nor below.

AT THE TRYST.

The evening stars are shining Amid the gloom of air, Like gold and jewels twining Among thy golden hair.

They guard the dawn’s shut portal And count the moments fleet,-- O maiden, we are mortal, Why hasten not thy feet?

The moonlight and the shadows Are wooing by the stream, And far across the meadows Thy windows brightly gleam.

My eager heart is beating Beneath the trysting tree, The evening hours are fleeting, Why com’st thou not to me?

SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA.

ON A FLASK OF WATER.

_Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal._

From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days, The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare, I come to shores where, through the golden air, Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays. From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preys On women, wan with torture and despair, I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer, Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.

From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands, A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest, I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands, Flower of the centuries, the titanic West. I come where East and West stand face to face, The childhood and the manhood of the race.

SPRING IN THE SOUTH.

Through the quaint southern winter without snow, Without an icy blast or chilling air, When the broad mesas arid lie and bare, The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.

The golden orange bends the lithe branch low, The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere, Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care, Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.

Then come the rains, and in their cortege bring Streams to the canyons, and to ranch and glen Wild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein rides The bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then, Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sides A blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.

A WINTER DAY.

_In the Sierras._

O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’en Was risen to flood each sombre peak with light, Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night, Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls between They swept, and hid bare ledge and living green. Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height, As though the vast hills boasted of their might, Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.

Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and came Across the hills. The clouds retired, and lo! On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth, Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow, A vision of the unforgotten North ’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.

_In the Valley._

Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers, Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scent With the faint odor of the snow is blent. Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers, And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours. The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent, Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent, But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.

Summer is in the vale, though in the heights The bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey. Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delights Sun and soft winds through many a golden day In many an Eden valley, nestling warm Below the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.

THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE.

_Sierra Madre, Cal._

Ere yet the Spanish cavalier For this new world set sail, Ere yet the padres came anear San Gabriel’s sunny vale, Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men Across the western hills, I rippled down this rocky glen, The happiest of rills.

The shadows of the spreading oak Oft lay upon my breast; Oft through the brown madronas broke The bear upon his quest. Past starry yuccas, to my brink, At many a crimson dawn, The mountain lion came to drink, And oft a timid fawn.

The golden moments came and went Of many a sunny year, And still I rippled on, content And solitary here. At times a weary miner came And quaffed my cooling stream, At times I saw the camp-fire flame Of hardy hunters gleam.

Though oft I paused to hear some bird Trill in the leaves above, A maid I never saw nor heard, Nor knew the name of love. Oh, there was never rivulet So merry in a glen; But now I never can forget, Nor merry be again.

She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood, The dizzy trail along. Upon my ferny marge she stood And listened to my song. I saw her, and I leapt for glee In many a lucent wave, And when she stooped to drink from me, My very heart I gave.

She passed, and now no more I sing Among the granite hills; Instead, my ceaseless murmuring The sombre canyon fills. Oh! ye to whom that maid divine Hath also heartless been, Come join your mournful plaint with mine, The pool of Sant’ Oline.

WINTER IN THE SOUTH.

At home the blossoms are asleep Beside the frost-bound rills; At home the snow is drifting deep Upon the windy hills; At home the ice king mocks the sun, The woods are drear and bare, And of the birds there is not one Left singing anywhere.

But here the fields are green with grain, The mesas bright with flowers. The birds repeat each dulcet strain They learned in Eden’s bowers. ’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees Have mingled odorous blooms, And here and there the eager bees Hum through the golden glooms.

The swart Sierras, crowned with snow, Stand knee deep in the green, Like patriarchs smiling as they go Blithe groups of youth between. Behind them is the burning sand Of the Mojave[A] waste; Before, the warm Pacific strand, By golden seas embraced.

When in the palm tree’s shade I rest Through a many a perfect day, My heart would fain forget life’s quest, And live in dreams alway; But when upon the snow-clad hills Mine eyes again look forth, I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills, Stern homeland in the north!

Give me the seasons of the year, The bursting of the leaf, The northern summer brief but dear, And autumn’s golden sheaf. Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam, With snow and storm at strife. The south is a bewitching dream, But in the north is life.

THE KINDERGARTEN.

O blossoming lives that to the fruits Now ripened for the gathering in, Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits Touched the new soul with taint of sin,

We who now watch you at your game, We, weary of the toil and strife, Must envy you your scorn of fame, Your eager, loving trust in life.

Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles His blocks unsteadily in air, May yet a minster build, whose aisles Shall echo to a nation’s prayer.

Perchance, the child that scarce can tell The letters on his cubes of wood, May yet with a poetic spell Charm and uplift the multitude.

They question not, they only live To pluck the blossoms of each hour. Ambition frets them not, they give No thought to pomp or place or power.

We too have toys, and we pursue Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh Because our blocks are built askew, And our best hopes in ruins lie.

Yet over us, as over these, A teacher watches, true and kind, Striving to guide our fantasies, And patient with the groping mind.

From flower of wisdom unto flower He leads us, as these babes are led, Till chimes, at last, the closing hour, The prizes won, the lessons said.

And happy he who in this school Of life, that fits the soul for death, Has learned to serve as well as rule, And speak for truth with every breath.

THE POET.

The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn Attains perfection through the sun-swept day, And poets, to life’s highest mission born, By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.

And like the harp, attuned to every breeze, That in the open casement sighs or sings, The poet soul is void of melodies Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.

Life, the magician, with his subtle powers, Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown, Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone.

And oft his numbers falter, and his song In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng, And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.

And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm; And in the warfare between soul and flesh His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.

But should he cease to wage the upward strife, Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power, Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life, Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.

For the true poet, throwing down his gage To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist, And with the broadened vision of the sage Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.

He learns that all who would be truly great Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part, But take such trials as are given by Fate And set them to sweet music by their art.

He only is a poet who can find In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light, Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.

GOLD TRESSES.

My love is now a woman grown. About her shoulders fall no more Her locks, in beauty all their own. Their days of liberty are o’er.

No longer may, with soft caress, The zephyr’s unseen hand uplift Each net-like, golden-threaded tress To catch the sunlight’s moted drift.

I know each tress, and have a name Whereby my memory holds it dear, From that which is her forehead’s frame To that which hides her shelly ear.

And one there is I loved to touch, On which my heart first suffered wreck, That sometimes fell aside too much And showed the ivory of her neck.

And though ’tis bound upon her head And all its beauty hid from me, Still other charms I see instead, And still am in captivity.

I see the grace of neck and ear Unveiled, that erst beneath the tress But peeped, as pearly sea shells peer Through ocean’s weedy wilderness.

Ye captive tresses that disdained My love, and wantoned in the wind, I know your grief, for I was chained Her slave ere ye were thus confined.

She hath but gloried in our love, And laughs to find us strain our gyves. Come, let us slaves unite and prove That power to break her bond survives.

Aid me with love her heart to chain, And soon, when she and I are wed, My hands shall set ye free again To wanton sweetly round her head.

EN ROUTE.

By town and hamlet, field and wood, Past glimpses of empurpled hills, O’er many a broad, sun-smitten flood And many a myriad tinkling rills, The train swings on and brings us twain Each minute nearer by a mile, While I to chafe at time am fain, Which holds me sundered from thy smile.

I see among the emerald trees Embowered, the village church spires gleam; I see white homestead front the breeze, And of our own sweet home I dream; While still the fleet train brings us twain Each minute nearer by a mile, And fewer moments yet remain To hold me sundered from thy smile.

The wheat fields shimmer in the sun, Sleek cattle in the meadows browse, Nor lift their heads, as past we run, The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows. And still the fleet train brings us twain Each minute nearer by a mile, Till scarce a moment doth remain To hold me sundered from thy smile.

Onward we sweep, yet all our speed Leaves not pursuing night behind; Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead, And homeward plods the weary hind; And still the fleet train brings us twain Each minute nearer by a mile, Until my heart is home again And I am basking in thy smile.

AT DAWN.

At dawn of day a shaft of light Pierces the sable breast of night, Which, dropping many a sable plume, Flits far into the nether gloom, All silently.

At dawn of day the sun’s first beam Dispels the mist that hides the stream, And scatters from the hill and wood The clouds that there did sit and brood, Formless and grey.

And when the night from earth is driven, And clouds and mist have fled from heaven, The waking birds take eager flight Up through the golden rain of light, With happy song.

Into my life, that knew no day, A maiden winged a kindly ray, And, flying wearily and slow, Far fled the sombre bird of woe I harbored long.

My heart no longer pined in night, The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight, Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took, And I found many a pleasant nook Within life’s grove.

And now my thoughts, like birds, arise, Singing, towards the golden skies, Afar from earthly doubt and strife, Through the pure radiance of her life, On wings of love.

MY STAR.

There is a star in the pure ether high, My other home it is, Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly, And in my flight towards the vaulted sky The hated sorrows roll Down from my fleet-winged soul, As from the sea gull’s circling form the spray Drops to the storm-vext bay Its pinions erst did kiss.

Well said the Seer, that overstudy brought A weariness of the flesh; And oft my brain, worn with its overthought, Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not. Then doth my star arise Slowly before my eyes, Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright, And, while my grief takes flight, Binds all my thoughts in leash.

No longer fear and discontent combine To make my future drear, For I arise and from that star of mine Look down and see our small earth dimly shine; And all life’s joy and pain Their proper worth obtain, And I to smile at all past fears begin, For earth’s discordant din Is stilled, and God I hear.

TO A PICTURE.

O stately head, O rippling grace Of tresses flowing free, O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face, Awake and comfort me.

Since love can thrill with noble zeal The meanest of us all, It may thy glorious form reveal, Thy tender soul recall.

Then come thou from thy gilded cage And nestle by my side, And I will be thy faithful page, If thou wilt be my bride.

Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me, O sweet one, heed my cry; Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for thee To bid me live or die.

Tell me no artist’s god-like mind To thy fair face gave birth, But that his vision I may find Alive upon this earth.

And I will seek her far and wide, In palace and in cot, And love shall once more conquer pride, And she shall share my lot.

THE POET AND HIS RHYMES.

Whoever reads a poet’s rhyme To find the poet there, Might equally essay to climb To castles in the air.

He lives not in reality, Or rather, lives too much. He makes a forest of a tree, A palace of a hutch.

To-day a transient pang appears His life’s eternal sorrow, But he is laughing through his tears And full of joy to-morrow.

For if there’s oft a germ of truth, The flower is fancy’s own. ’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth, And his is still unknown.

And sometimes in his happiest days, Without excuse or cause, He pens the mournfullest of lays, To win the world’s applause.

And from the saddest heart, at times, The merriest stanzas flow. Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymes The poet’s heart to know.

TO AN INFANT.

O little one, new born, I would I were like thee; Then were this whole world’s scorn And praise alike to me.

Then would I look on life As do thine azure eyes, And know how vain its strife, How paltry what we prize.

Tradition cannot claim Dominion over thee, Nor fear the pinions maim Of thy young soul and free.

All things to thee are new. Thy mind runs in no groove. Thou dost both false and true Question alike, and prove.

Thou art no shadowy soul, But the incarnate “I”, And thou wilt reach thy goal, Or failing, thou wouldst die.

Indomitable will That makes us all obey,-- If I were childlike still, I were more man to-day.

TO SCOTLAND.

Miles upon miles of ocean ’Twixt Scotland roll and me. Its hills and dales I have not seen, And scarce expect to see. The homestead of my fathers The keen ploughshare has torn, And where the hearth once welcomed all Waves now the golden corn.

Oh, Canada, my country, My love for thee is deep, Yet I fain would see the old church-yard Where my forefathers sleep. And fondly, ever fondly, My heart in secret yearns, That its songs may find a welcome In the bonnie land of Burns.

Upon the Scottish heather I opened not my eyes, I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue, Remote my pathway lies; Yet Scotland, mother Scotland, Though fate us twain may part, I claim my heritage of thee, For I have the Scottish heart.

ROSINA VOKES.

The years may come, the years may go, And many a song be sung Across the footlight’s golden glow By many a silvery tongue, But though new divas charm the ear, Still memory shall recall One song we nevermore shall hear: “His ’art was true to Poll.”

For who that hath the singer’s heart Will care to sing that song To those whom She, with witching art, Had held in thrall so long? Let other songs our pulses stir, Delight us with them all, But leave unsung for sake of her “His ’art was true to Poll.”

Time was when every heart beat high, Each lip was wreathed in smiles To hear her sing that melody With all her witching wiles; But now, ’twould be no song of mirth, ’Twould bid the sad tears fall, For though She dwells no more on earth, Our ’arts are true to Poll.

A LITTLE MAID.

I know a maid beyond compare For virtue sweet and beauty rare. Her eyes are turquoise and her hair Is sunlight netted.

She has her lovers, great and small, The quiet student, wise and tall, The child that hugs its battered doll,-- By them she’s petted.

Her heart seems ever warm and gay, In smiles and kindly words, each day, She scatters round her on life’s way Love beyond measure.

The wild flowers, as she passes by, Bloom sweeter for her being nigh; The bird that mounts into the sky Sings for her pleasure.

Her sorrows she is wont to hide, Her joys she shares on every side; She is her doting mother’s pride, Her father’s jewel.

If we, who style this world so bad, But strove, like her, to make it glad, Life then would seem by far less sad, Nor half so cruel.

SAMSON AND DELILAH.

Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to try Thy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine, And lure me to eternal slavery With glances warm like wine.