Chapter C: P. R. EASTBOUND--No. 2 (3)

The illumined fringes of his thoughts
Have set the world's face after him,
As one would follow clear flute notes
Heard in cool aisles of forests dim.

With loving face of child and friend
To look on as the last of earth,
God wrapt him in a robe of light,
And gave him strong immortal birth.

He looks again in the clear eyes
Of her, the love-dream of his youth,
The moonlit side of his great heart,
To whom he gave his manhood's truth.

Perfect conditions of new life
Are vibrant to his being there,--
Gone in to feel the wider thrill,
Gone in to breathe the purer air.

COMPLETENESS

Life gives us better than it takes away,--
In brighter hope, and broader, fuller day.

There is no past, but all things move and blend
In sure fulfilment of a promised end.

We leave the misty capes and vales we trod,
For the glad sunshine on the Hills of God.

To slow grand measure up the aisle of years
Move truths enfranchised from long bonds and tears.

Hands that groped darkly for the truth of things
Hold the clear signet of the King of Kings.

Broad waves that tossed in fierce white passion-heat
Fall into psalm and kiss the resting feet.

MY GARDEN WALL

I

It comforts me through all my days
To know that on this strange old earth,
On which we two found human birth,
I have a friend who cares for me.

Not a high God, serene and just,
Who from His calm sure place of bliss
Looks down from His world into this,
And burns me that I grow more white.

But just a man, so strong and dear--
How dear the stars know in the sky,
And the sweet birds as home they fly,
When evening comes, to the warm nest!

He can do things that I can not:
He builds a wall around my heart;
Some day we will not dwell apart--
A man is stronger than a girl.

II

Within the wall that he has made
I plant the seeds of life's queen flowers;
I watch them grow through pleasant hours,--
Be sure they neither droop nor fade.

Perhaps some passers-by may think:
"It only is a common wall,
Solid and square, not very tall"--
But could they look over the brink,

And see the rose and mignonette,
Spicy carnations red and white,
That pulse their perfume in the light,
With tall pale lilies firmly set!

III

Now while the sweet wild autumn rain
Is falling on the world outside,
How safely does my heart abide
In the dear shelter of my wall!

IN JUNE

Some glad thing comes to me
Always in June,
Some new joy gladly set
To a sweet tune.

Is it that earth so thrills
With bud and bloom,
That the sad heart of life
Lets go its gloom?

Some dear long absent face
Answers some prayers,
Or may be just a token
That some one cares.

Some glad thing hidden long
In some old room,
Says, "Let us go to her,
For it is June.

"Why cheat her any more,
For we are hers,
Unlock the dusty door,
My being stirs

"With longing to behold
A human face,
And with a touch of joy
Add some new grace."

Far back in earth's grey dawn,
Before God's words
Had crystalized in suns,
Or stars had heard

That clear creative call,
"Let there be light
On all My works below,
For day and night"--

When first earth's wrinkled face
Saw the white moon
Gleam on unfinished work,
There was no June,--

But as the thoughts of God
Shewed perfect spheres,
We think He called up June
To gem the years!

When we are inward drawn
To God's dear heart,
And the white silence falls
As we depart,

And the new air seems filled
With some rare tune,
How sweet our last earth-look
If it were June!

SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS

The rivers that sweep to the sea
Bear to it the heart of the land--
The eyes of the gods in the stars
The thoughts of my heart understand.

And the joy in the heart of the rose,
The song in the heart of the rain,
The glory of gladness that flows
O'er the billows of tall ripened grain,

The strength in the heart of the hills,
The unmeasured lament of the sea,
The low happy laugh of the rills,--
All answer to something in me,
To something in me!

SONG

Where the soft shadows fall,
Where the wind's voices call,
Softly and low,--

Mother earth, cover me!
Daisies, grow over me!
Bury me low.

Far from the sound of strife,
From the rude voice of life,
Bury me deep!

Where the soft summer rain
Soothes all my weary pain,
There let me sleep.

Wild are earth's hopes and vain,
Even love touches pain--
Bury me low!

Mother earth, cover me!
Daisies, grow over me!
Bury me low!

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY

POPPŒA

(_At the Theatre_)

Dark tresses made rich with all treasures,
Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea--
She is splendid as Rome that was Cæsar's,
And cruel as Rome that was free!

Could I paint her but once as I found her!
From her porphyry couch let her lean,
With the reek of the circus around her--
Who is centre and soul of the scene:

Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle
When he swoops to his prey from on high;
Bold arms by the red gold made regal--
White breast never vexed with a sigh:

And haughty her mien as of any
Her sires whom the foemen knew well,
As they rode through the grey mist at Cannæ,
Ere consul with consular fell.

Unabashed in her beauty of figure--
Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled
To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor
Of the race that has conquered the world.

And fierce with the blood of the heroes--
In their sins and their virtues sublime--
Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's,
And as keen for a kiss as a crime!

But the game that amuses her leisure
Loses zest as the weaker gives way;
And the victor looks up for her pleasure--
Shall he spare with sword-point or slay?

Half-grieving she gathers her tresses,
Now the hour for the games has gone by,
And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses,
Point prone, as she signs, "Let him die!"

GEORGE MURRAY

THE THISTLE

A LEGENDARY BALLAD

'Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall,
Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines,--a fortress grim and tall.
The moon and stars were veiled in clouds, and from the Castle's
height
No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night;
Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound
Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round.

The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear;
The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch to cheer;
Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were stretched in
sound repose,
While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows;
And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay,
Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray.

But in that hour,--when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep,--
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep,
A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the wood
That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood,--
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains--
They are the "Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes!

Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand;
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand;
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with
carnage strewn,
For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known.
And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines--
They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins!

Onward they creep with noiseless tread--their treacherous feet are
bare,
Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should
scare.
"Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be
scaled,
And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be regaled.
Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard wave;
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the
grave!"

Silent as shadows, on they glide; the gloomy fosse is nigh--
"Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths are dry.
Speed, warriors, speed!"--but, hark! a shriek of agonizing pain
Bursts from a hundred Danish throats--again it rings, again!
Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat,
And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet!

That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling
soul,
And, shouting "Arms! to arms!" he sped the Castle bell to toll.
But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night,
Each clansman started from his couch and armed him for the fight;
The drawbridge falls,--and, side by side, the banded heroes fly
To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die!

As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's crest
Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest;
As lions bound upon their prey, or as the burning tide
Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's side--
So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines,
Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes.

The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes:
They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless
blows;
Claymore and battle-axe and spear were steeped in slaughter's
flood,
While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood;
And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes
Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines!

Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave of Time
Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their crime.
In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace
Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless race;
And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea,
Hath Scotland's honor tarnished been--God grant it ne'er may be!