Chapter II

That night there came from either hand A sense of change upon the land; A brooding stillness rustled through With creeping winds that hardly blew; A shadow from the looming west, A stir of leaves, a dim unrest; It seemed as if a spell had broke.

And then the poet turned and woke As from the darkness of a dream, And with a smile divine supreme Drew up his mantle fold on fold, And strung his lute with strings of gold, And bound the sandals to his feet, And strode into the darkling street.

Through crowds of murmuring men he hied, With working lips and swinging stride, And gleaming eyes and brow bent down; Out of the great gate of the town He hastened ever and passed on, And ere the darkness came, was gone, A mote beyond the western swell.

And then the storm arose and fell From wheeling shadows black with rain That drowned the hills and strode the plain; Round the grim mountain-heads it passed, Down whistling valleys blast on blast, Surged in upon the snapping trees, And swept the shuddering villages.

That night, when the fierce hours grew long, Once more the monarch, old and grey, Called for the poet and his song, And called in vain. But far away, By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred, The shepherds in their watches heard, Above the torrent's charge and clang, The cleaving chant of one that sang.

A THUNDERSTORM

A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, And pelted waters, on the vanished plain Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed, Column on column comes the drenching rain.

THE CITY

Canst thou not rest, O city,
That liest so wide and fair;
Shall never an hour bring pity,
Nor end be found for care?

Thy walls are high in heaven,
Thy streets are gay and wide,
Beneath thy towers at even
The dreamy waters glide.

Thou art fair as the hills at morning,
And the sunshine loveth thee,
But its light is a gloom of warning
On a soul no longer free.

The curses of gold are about thee,
And thy sorrow deepeneth still;
One madness within and without thee,
One battle blind and shrill.

I see the crowds for ever
Go by with hurrying feet;
Through doors that darken never
I hear the engines beat.

Through days and nights that follow
The hidden mill-wheel strains;
In the midnight's windy hollow
I hear the roar of trains.

And still the day fulfilleth,
And still the night goes round,
And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth,
With the dance's mocking sound.

In chambers of gold elysian,
The cymbals clash and clang,
But the days are gone like a vision
When the people wrought and sang.

And toil hath fear for neighbour,
Where singing lips are dumb,
And life is one long labour,
Till death or freedom come.

Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing--
They neither laugh nor weep--
I see them coming and going,
Like things that move in sleep:

Grey sires and burdened brothers,
The old, the young, the fair,
Wan cheeks of pallid mothers,
And the girls with golden hair.

Care sits in many a fashion,
Grown grey on many a head,
And lips are turned to ashen
Whose years have right to red.

Canst thou not rest, O city,
That liest so wide, so fair;
Shalt never an hour bring pity,
Nor end be found for care?

SAPPHICS

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent, Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands, Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance, Full of foreboding.

Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches, Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them, Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasure Ruthlessly scattered:

Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and iron Comes and finds them silent and uncomplaining, Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious, Gravely enduring.

Me too changes, bitter and full of evil, Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked, Grey with sorrow. Even the days before me Fade into twilight,

Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spirit Clear and valiant, brother to these my noble Elms and maples, utterly grave and fearless, Grandly ungrieving.

Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals, Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth, Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure, Lovely with blossoms--

Shining white anemones, mixed with roses, Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover-- You, and me, and all of us, met and equal, Softly shall cover.

VOICES OF EARTH

We have not heard the music of the spheres, The song of star to star, but there are sounds More deep than human joy and human tears, That Nature uses in her common rounds; The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strain The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain That falls by minutes in the summer night. These are the voices of earth's secret soul, Uttering the mystery from which she came. To him who hears them grief beyond control, Or joy inscrutable without a name, Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled, Before the birth and making of the world.

PECCAVI, DOMINE

O Power to whom this earthly clime
Is but an atom in the whole,
O Poet-heart of Space and Time,
O Maker and Immortal Soul,
Within whose glowing rings are bound,
Out of whose sleepless heart had birth
The cloudy blue, the starry round,
And this small miracle of earth:

Who liv'st in every living thing,
And all things are thy script and chart,
Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing,
And yearnest in the human heart;
O Riddle with a single clue,
Love, deathless, protean, secure,
The ever old, the ever new,
O Energy, serene and pure.

Thou, who art also part of me,
Whose glory I have sometime seen,
O Vision of the Ought-to-be,
O Memory of the Might-have-been,
I have had glimpses of thy way,
And moved with winds and walked with stars,
But, weary, I have fallen astray,
And, wounded, who shall count my scars?

O Master, all my strength is gone;
Unto the very earth I bow;
I have no light to lead me on;
With aching heart and burning brow,
I lie as one that travaileth
In sorrow more than he can bear;
I sit in darkness as of death,
And scatter dust upon my hair.

The God within my soul hath slept,
And I have shamed the nobler rule;
O Master, I have whined and crept;
O Spirit, I have played the fool.
Like him of old upon whose head
His follies hung in dark arrears,
I groan and travail in my bed,
And water it with bitter tears.

I stand upon thy mountain-heads,
And gaze until mine eyes are dim;
The golden morning glows and spreads;
The hoary vapours break and swim.
I see thy blossoming fields, divine,
Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees--
And then that broken soul of mine--
How much less beautiful than these!

O Spirit, passionless, but kind,
Is there in all the world, I cry,
Another one so base and blind,
Another one so weak as I?
O Power, unchangeable, but just,
Impute this one good thing to me,
I sink my spirit to the dust
In utter dumb humility.

AN ODE TO THE HILLS

'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help.'--PSALM CXXI. 1.

Æons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful race of man Wrought into being, ere the tragic stir Of human toil and deep desire began: So shall ye still remain, Lords of an elder and immutable race, When many a broad metropolis of the plain, Or thronging port by some renownèd shore, Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its place Recalled no more.

Empires have come and gone, And glorious cities fallen in their prime; Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stone Have vanished in the dust and void of time; But ye, firm-set, secure, Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm, Are yet the same for ever; ye endure By virtue of an old slow-ripening word, In your grey majesty and sovereign calm, Untouched, unstirred.

Tempest and thunderstroke, With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core, Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak, And made your hollow gorges clash and roar, And scarred your brows in vain. Around your barren heads and granite steeps Tempestuous grey battalions of the rain Charge and recharge, across the plateaued floors, Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweeps Your pitiless scaurs.

The long midsummer heat Chars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire: Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feet On your wide forests wreaks his fell desire, Heaping in barbarous wreck The treasure of your sweet and prosperous days; And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beck Channels are turned to stone and tempests wheel, On brow and breast and shining shoulder lays His hand of steel.

And yet not harsh alone, Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies, O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone, Who gather beauty round your Titan knees, As the lens gathers light. The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows, The sun at noonday folds you in his might, And swathes your forehead at his going down, Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows, His golden crown.

In unregarded glooms, Where hardly shall a human footstep pass, Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums, Or lily-breathing slender pyrolas Distil their hearts for you. Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keep Coverts the lonely thrush shall wander through, With echoes that seem ever to recede, Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep, His ghostly reed.

The fierce things of the wild Find food and shelter in your tenantless rocks, The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled, The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox; For far away indeed Are all the ominous noises of mankind, The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed: Your rugged haunts endure no slavery: No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind, But all are free.

Therefore out of the stir Of cities and the ever-thickening press The poet and the worn philosopher To your bare peaks and radiant loneliness Escape, and breathe once more The wind of the Eternal: that clear mood, Which Nature and the elder ages bore, Lends them new courage and a second prime, At rest upon the cool infinitude Of Space and Time.

The mists of troublous days, The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips, The blindness gathered in Life's aimless ways Fade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit strips The bandage from their eyes, Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see; Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprise Pour over them from some divine abode, Falling as in a flood of memory, The bliss of God.

I too perchance some day, When Love and Life have fallen far apart, Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward way And make my dwelling in your changeless heart; And there in some quiet glade, Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell, Pure with cool water and inviolate shade, I'll build a blameless altar to the dear And kindly gods who guard your haunts so well From hurt or fear.

There I will dream day-long, And honour them in many sacred ways, With hushèd melody and uttered song, And golden meditation and with praise. I'll touch them with a prayer, To clothe my spirit as your might is clad With all things bountiful, divine, and fair, Yet inwardly to make me hard and true, Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad, And strong like you.

INDIAN SUMMER

The old grey year is near his term in sooth, And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm Awakens to a golden dream of youth, A second childhood lovely and most calm, And the smooth hour about his misty head An awning of enchanted splendour weaves, Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red, And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves. With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood, Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams, Nor sees the polar armies overflood The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.

GOOD SPEECH

Think not, because thine inmost heart means well, Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet words Are like the voices of returning birds Filling the soul with summer, or a bell That calls the weary and the sick to prayer. Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair.

THE BETTER DAY

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands,
That keep this restless world at strife,
Mean passions that, like choking sands,
Perplex the stream of life,

Pride and hot envy and cold greed,
The cankers of the loftier will,
What if ye triumph, and yet bleed?
Ah, can ye not be still?

Oh, shall there be no space, no time,
No century of weal in store,
No freehold in a nobler clime,
Where men shall strive no more?

Where every motion of the heart
Shall serve the spirit's master-call,
Where self shall be the unseen part,
And human kindness all?

Or shall we but by fits and gleams
Sink satisfied, and cease to rave,
Find love but in the rest of dreams,
And peace but in the grave?

WHITE PANSIES

Day and night pass over, rounding,
Star and cloud and sun,
Things of drift and shadow, empty
Of my dearest one.

Soft as slumber was my baby,
Beaming bright and sweet;
Daintier than bloom or jewel
Were his hands and feet.

He was mine, mine all, mine only,
Mine and his the debt;
Earth and Life and Time are changers;
I shall not forget.

Pansies for my dear one--heartsease--
Set them gently so;
For his stainless lips and forehead,
Pansies white as snow.

Would that in the flower-grown little
Grave they dug so deep,
I might rest beside him, dreamless,
Smile no more, nor weep.

WE TOO SHALL SLEEP

Not, not for thee, Beloved child, the burning grasp of life Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife, And clamour of midday thou shall not see; But wrapt for ever in thy quiet grave, Too little to have known the earthly lot, Time's clashing hosts above thine innocent head, Wave upon wave, Shall break, or pass as with an army's tread, And harm thee not.

A few short years We of the living flesh and restless brain Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain, The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears; And then at last when all is touched and tried, Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep In the same silent plot, O little friend, Side by thy side, In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end, We too shall sleep.

THE AUTUMN WASTE

There is no break in all the wide grey sky, Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves, And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie Round greyer stones, and the new-fallen leaves Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods, A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry, Creeps far among the charnel solitudes, Numbing the waste with mindless misery. In these bare paths, these melancholy lands, What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young? What lovers have gone forth with linkèd hands? What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung? Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away, With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay.

VIVIA PERPETUA

Now being on the eve of death, discharged From every mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind, In the brief hours yet left me for their use; Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend, Of you, Philarchus, and your company, Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed; Perchance that I may break into thine heart Some sorrowful channel for the love divine, I make this simple record of our proof In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ, Whereof the end already for the most Is death this day with steadfast faith endured.

We were in prison many days, close-pent In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves And murderers and divers evil men; So foul a pressure, we had almost died, Even there, in struggle for the breath of life Amid the stench and unendurable heat; Nor could we find each other save by voice Or touch, to know that we were yet alive, So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard To keep the sacred courage in our hearts, When all was blind with that unchanging night, And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts And ribald curses of the soldiery Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows. At first, what with that dread of our abode, Our sudden apprehension, and the threats Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds Would have denied our Lord and fallen away. Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith Was in the later holier days to be The stay and comfort of our weaker ones, Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused And shaken by our new and horrible plight-- The tender flesh, untempered and untried, Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul; For she was of a fair and delicate make, Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats And our foul prison-house were things undreamed. But little by little as our spirits grew Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues That cheered each other to incessant prayer, We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled Our Master's sacred agony and death, Setting before our eyes the high reward Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.

So passed some days whose length and count we lost, Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came. One who had interest with the governor Wrought our removal daily for some hours Into an upper chamber, where we sat And held each other's hands in childish joy, Receiving the sweet gift of light and air With wonder and exceeding thankfulness. And then began that life of daily growth In mutual exaltation and sweet help That bore us as a gently widening stream Unto the ocean of our martyrdom. Uniting all our feebler souls in one-- A mightier--we reached forth with this to God.

Perpetua had been troubled for her babe, Robbed of the breast and now these many days Wasting for want of food; but when that change Whereof I spake, of light and liberty Relieved the horror of our prison gloom, They brought it to her, and she sat apart, And nursed and tended it, and soon the child Would not be parted from her arms, but throve And fattened, and she kept it night and day. And always at her side with sleepless care Hovered the young Felicitas--a slight And spiritual figure--every touch and tone Charged with premonitory tenderness, Herself so near to her own motherhood. Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes Regained their former deep serenity, Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew Her life should not be taken till her babe Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her. Daily we were amazed at her soft strength, Her pliant and untroubled constancy, Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death, Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.

Her father, when our first few bitterest days Were over, like a gust of grief and rage, Came to her in the prison with wild eyes, And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say You are a Christian? How can any one Of honoured blood, the child of such as me, Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!' And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze, Showing the fulness of her slender height: 'This vessel, father, being what it is, An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus? Or would you name it by some other name?' 'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath, And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I Call myself aught but what I surely am-- A Christian!' and her father, flashing back In silent anger, left her for that time.

A special favour to Perpetua Seemed daily to be given, and her soul Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace, Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst, Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught With signs and symbols of the glorious end Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake. Once--at what hour I know not, for we lay In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost, And day and night were indistinguishable-- We had been sitting a long silent while, Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer, When on a sudden, like a voice from God, Perpetua spake to us and all were roused. Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said, 'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold, Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land Of darkness and exceeding peril lay Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last-- So God hath marked you for especial grace-- Advancing and against the cruel beast Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name-- Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I The next one following, and so the rest In order, and we entered with great joy Into a spacious garden filled with light And balmy presences of love and rest; And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired, Surrounded by unnumbered myriads Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed, Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech, Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul, God's language of pure love. Between the lips Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd; And while the curd was yet within my mouth, I woke, and still the taste of it remains, Through all my body flowing like white flame, Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.' And when Perpetua had spoken, all Were silent in the darkness, pondering, But Saturus spake gently for the rest: 'How perfect and acceptable must be Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus He bends to you, and through you speaks his will. We know now that our martyrdom is fixed, Nor need we vex us further for this life.'

While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls, There came the rumour that a day was set To hear us. Many of our former friends, Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats, Came to us to pervert us; with the rest Again Perpetua's father, worn with care; Nor could we choose but pity his distress, So miserably, with abject cries and tears, He fondled her and called her 'Domina,' And bowed his agèd body at her feet, Beseeching her by all the names she loved To think of him, his fostering care, his years, And also of her babe, whose life, he said, Would fail without her; but Perpetua, Sustaining by a gift of strength divine The fulness of her noble fortitude, Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I, And all of us, my father, at this hour Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer, Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.

One day, while we were at our midday meal, Our cell was entered by the soldiery, And we were seized and borne away for trial. A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes Of friends--some known to as and some unknown-- Many veiled messages of love and praise. The floorways of the long basilica Fronted us with an angry multitude; And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned In hundreds from the columned galleries. We were placed all together at the bar, And though at first unsteadied and confused By the imperial presence of the law, The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd, None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream, Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake, I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face And figure of Perpetua; for her We that were youngest of our company Loved with a sacred and absorbing love, A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow Had purified and made divine. She stood In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed, A glowing stillness that was near a smile Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come, When, like a puppet struggling up the steps, Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd Appeared, unveiling in his agèd arms The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes Were bent upon her. With a softening glance, And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom, The old Proconsul turned to her and said: 'Lady, have pity on your father's age; Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain Of harmless incense offer for the peace And welfare of the Emperor'; but she, Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes, As one that saw a vision, only said: 'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued, Bending a brow upon her rough as rock, With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear: 'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea, I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade The lictors scourge the old man down and forth With rods, and as the cruel deed was done, Perpetua stood white with quivering lips, And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries Were mingling with the curses of the crowd, Hilarianus, calling name by name, Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not As doubting for our constancy, but some Grew sick under the anxious long suspense. Perpetua again was weighed upon By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now Her father, seeking to depress her will, Withheld and would not send it; but at length Word being brought her that the child indeed No longer suffered, nor desired the breast, Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God, All were united in new bonds of hope. Now being fixed in certitude of death, We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear, The useless raiment of this world; and thus, Striving together with a single will, In daily increment of faith and power, We were much comforted by heavenly dreams, And waking visitations of God's grace. Visions of light and glory infinite Were frequent with us, and by night or day Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord, Taken at any moment on our lips; So that we had no longer thought or care Of life or of the living, but became As spirits from this earth already freed, Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh. To Saturus appeared in dreams the space And splendour of the heavenly house of God, The glowing gardens of eternal joy, The halls and chambers of the cherubim, In wreaths of endless myriads involved The blinding glory of the angel choir, Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light The thunder of their vast antiphonies. The visions of Perpetua not less Possessed us with their homely tenderness-- As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool And weeping o'er its rim a little child, Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates: Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream, Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat. She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen, And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep, And prattling in a tender childish joy Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play. By this she knew his soul had found release From torment, and had entered into bliss.

Quickly as by a merciful gift of God, Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight They moved us to the amphitheatre, Our final lodging-place on earth, and there We sat together at our agapé For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale, We hearkened to the aged Saturus, Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence, Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life, God's goodness and the solemn joy of death. Perpetua was silent, but her eyes Fell gently upon each of us, suffused With inward and eradiant light; a smile Played often upon her lips.

While yet we sat, A tribune with a band of soldiery Entered our cell, and would have had us bound In harsher durance, fearing our escape By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua, Facing him gently with a noble note Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips A lingering smile of mournful irony: 'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us, And rob us of our natural food and rest? Should ye not rather tend us with soft care, And so provide a comely spectacle? We shall not honour Cæsar's birthday well, If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew, Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.' The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed, Or by her grave and tender grace abashed, Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew. The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some, For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn Found us arisen, and Perpetua, Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued, Besought us to take food; lest so, she said, For all the strength and courage of our hearts, Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without, Already ere the morning light was full, The din of preparation, and the hum Of voices gathering in the upper tiers; Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts The picture of this strange and cruel death, Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp, The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.

The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed! Night comes, and I am still alive--even I, The least and last--with other two, reserved To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest Have suffered and with holy rapture passed Into their glory. Saturus and the men Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape, Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died Like armèd men, face foremost to the beasts, With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips. Perpetua and the frail Felicitas Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped, And shrinking and entreating, not for fear, Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away Into the vast arena, and hung up In nets, naked before the multitude, For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss. Some sudden tumult of compassion seized The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up From tier to tier, deep and imperious: So white, so innocent they were, so pure: Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame; And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint, And covered with light raiment, and again Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring, Holding each other proudly by the hand.

Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent, But, conscious only of the glaring eyes, She strove to hide herself as best she could In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe, And putting up her hands clasped back her hair, So that she might not die as one in grief, Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned, And in her loving arms caressed and raised The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne Swooning and mortally stricken from the field. Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips Parted as in a lingering ecstasy, Could not believe the end had come, but asked When they were to be given to the beasts. The keepers gathered round her--even they-- In wondering pity--while with fearless hand, Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm, She bared her breast, and guided to its goal The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.

The night is passing. In a few short hours I too shall suffer for the name of Christ. A boundless exaltation lifts my soul! I know that they who left us, Saturus, Perpetua, and the other blessed ones, Await me at the opening gates of heaven.

THE MYSTERY OF A YEAR

A little while, a year agone,
I knew her for a romping child,
A dimple and a glance that shone
With idle mischief when she smiled.

To-day she passed me in the press,
And turning with a quick surprise
I wondered at her stateliness,
I wondered at her altered eyes.

To me the street was just the same,
The people and the city's stir;
But life had kindled into flame,
And all the world was changed for her.

I watched her in the crowded ways,
A noble form, a queenly head,
With all the woman in her gaze,
The conscious woman in her tread.

WINTER EVENING

To-night the very horses springing by Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream The streets that narrow to the westward gleam Like rows of golden palaces; and high From all the crowded chimneys tower and die A thousand aureoles. Down in the west The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest, One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel A mightier master; soon from height to height, With silence and the sharp unpitying stars, Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel, Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars, Glittering and still shall come the awful night.

WAR

By the Nile, the sacred river,
I can see the captive hordes
Strain beneath the lash and quiver
At the long papyrus cords,
While in granite rapt and solemn,
Rising over roof and column,
Amen-hotep dreams, or Ramses,
Lord of Lords.

I can hear the trumpets waken
For a victory old and far--
Carchemish or Kadesh taken--
I can see the conqueror's car
Bearing down some Hittite valley,
Where the bowmen break and sally,
Sargina or Esarhaddon,
Grim with war!

From the mountain streams that sweeten
Indus, to the Spanish foam,
I can feel the broad earth beaten
By the serried tramp of Rome;
Through whatever foes environ
Onward with the might of iron--
Veni, vidi; veni, vici--
Crashing home!

I can see the kings grow pallid
With astonished fear and hate,
As the hosts of Amr or Khaled
On their cities fall like fate;
Like the heat-wind from its prison
In the desert burst and risen--
La ilàha illah 'llàhu--
God is great!

I can hear the iron rattle,
I can see the arrows sting
In some far-off northern battle,
Where the long swords sweep and swing;
I can hear the scalds declaiming,
I can see their eyeballs flaming,
Gathered in a frenzied circle
Round the king.

I can hear the horn of Uri
Roaring in the hills enorm;
Kindled at its brazen fury,
I can see the clansmen form;
In the dawn in misty masses,
Pouring from the silent passes
Over Granson or Morgarten
Like the storm.

On the lurid anvil ringing
To some slow fantastic plan,
I can hear the sword-smith singing
In the heart of old Japan--
Till the cunning blade grows tragic
With his malice and his magic--
Tenka tairan! Tenka tairan!
War to man!

Where a northern river charges
By a wild and moonlit glade,
From the murky forest marges,
Round a broken palisade,
I can see the red men leaping,
See the sword of Daulac sweeping,
And the ghostly forms of heroes
Fall and fade.

I can feel the modern thunder
Of the cannon beat and blaze,
When the lines of men go under
On your proudest battle-days;
Through the roar I hear the lifting
Of the bloody chorus drifting
Round the burning mill at Valmy--
Marseillaise!

I can see the ocean rippled
With the driving shot like rain,
While the hulls are crushed and crippled,
And the guns are piled with slain;
O'er the blackened broad sea-meadow
Drifts a tall and titan shadow,
And the cannon of Trafalgar
Startle Spain.

Still the tides of fight are booming,
And the barren blood is spilt;
Still the banners are up-looming,
And the hands are on the hilt;
But the old world waxes wiser,
From behind the bolted visor
It descries at last the horror
And the guilt.

Yet the eyes are dim, nor wholly
Open to the golden gleam,
And the brute surrenders slowly
To the godhead and the dream.
From his cage of bar and girder,
Still at moments mad with murder,
Leaps the tiger, and his demon
Rules supreme.

One more war with fire and famine
Gathers--I can hear its cries--
And the years of might and Mammon
Perish in a world's demise;
When the strength of man is shattered,
And the powers of earth are scattered,
From beneath the ghastly ruin
Peace shall rise!

THE WOODCUTTER'S HUT

Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken woods, Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes, The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow. In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless, motionless air, The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and bare The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and cracks With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of his axe. Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird-- The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is heard; Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed, And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the cedar-seed. Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge, Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's edge, With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word, And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord. Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there, Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling bear. And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and groan, And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of stone, As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames upcaught, Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of thought. Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey north-east, He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden beast, Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown guttering fire, Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm to tire. Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines below, Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull, and lift, All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing drift. But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered dreams, And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the gushing of streams; Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted floor, And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's door; The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on, The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is gone. He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields, To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the summer fields. He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined feet, The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete. And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and breeds, Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing forest-weeds; The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either hand, The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard stand. So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and snow, You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years ago; And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone, Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and gone, The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's command, The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.

AMOR VITÆ

I love the warm bare earth and all
That works and dreams thereon:
I love the seasons yet to fall:
I love the ages gone,

The valleys with the sheeted grain,
The river's smiling might,
The merry wind, the rustling rain,
The vastness of the night.

I love the morning's flame, the steep
Where down the vapour clings:
I love the clouds that float and sleep,
And every bird that sings.

I love the purple shower that pours
On far-off fields at even:
I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors
Are like the courts of heaven.

I love the heaven's azure span,
The grass beneath my feet:
I love the face of every man
Whose thought is swift and sweet.

I let the wrangling world go by,
And like an idle breath
Its echoes and its phantoms fly:
I care no jot for death.

Time like a Titan bright and strong
Spreads one enchanted gleam:
Each hour is but a fluted song,
And life a lofty dream.

WINTER-BREAK

All day between high-curded clouds the sun Shone down like summer on the steaming planks. The long, bright icicles in dwindling ranks Dripped from the murmuring eaves till one by one They fell. As if the spring had now begun, The quilted snow, sun-softened to the core, Loosened and shunted with a sudden roar From downward roofs. Not even with day done Had ceased the sound of waters, but all night I heard it. In my dreams forgetfully bright Methought I wandered in the April woods, Where many a silver-piping sparrow was, By gurgling brooks and spouting solitudes, And stooped, and laughed, and plucked hepaticas.