Chapter IV: Part 4

Duncan my lover was good to see,
Straight and tall as the dark pine tree;
Black was his eye as the deep midnight;
His arm was strong and his step was light;
His words were kind and his laugh rang free,--
And oh! he was all in the world to me!
But he marched away through the narrow glen
To fight for Scotland with Charlie’s men.

The days were long and the nights were drear,
My heart grew sick with its weight of fear;
For the battle was fought and the battle was lost,
And the hearts of the living must count the cost;
And Charlie Stuart’s an outlaw now
With a price in gold on his bonnie brow;
And never the watchers in brae and glen
Shall welcome the coming of Charlie’s men.

And Duncan, my lover, my life, my light,
Was the first to fall in that bitter fight;
With Scotland’s banner clasped close in his hand
They laid him to sleep in that stranger land;
Narrow and lonely and low is his bed,
And the gorse of the Southland blooms thick o’er his head;
But still I roam through the mournful glen
And wait for the marching of Charlie’s men.

The mavis and merle in the thicket pipe clear,
But the wail of the pibroch is all I can hear;
The heather a-bloom takes the tint of his plaid,
And the foam on the burn shows the Stuart cockade;
The moonlight that falls on the rocks of Ben More
Is alive with the gleam of his targe and claymore--
And still in my heart and the haunted glen
There echoes the marching of Charlie’s men.

A LOST IDEAL

A mocking bird from out the South
Sang through my dream, he said,
But when the dream was done I heard
A woman’s voice instead.

A woman’s voice that strove to wake
The joyous tones I missed;
But only breathed a sigh across
The lips that pain had kissed.

A deep perfume of tropic flowers
Stole through my dream, he said;
But when I sought the blossoms bright
I saw a face instead.

A woman’s face where Nature wrote
The score of some grand hymn,
Then blotting it with life and toil
Left all the record dim.

And in the dream my soul thrice turned
To greet a comrade call;
But when I woke the gray of night
Lay silent over all.

THE LIFE-BOND

“The last brotherhood is of pain.”--_Hindoo Saying._

You think my mouth is over-stern
For woman-grace and tenderness;
You wonder if my lips could learn
The trick of love word and caress;
You sadden when you meet my eyes;
You say they are too still and deep,
Like water where a shadow lies
Some secret thing to hide and keep.
My face no smooth, soft beauty owns,
Unlined and happy as a flower;
My voice has lack of laughing tones
To charm you in a care-free hour--
But I have lived! I do not need
Your play-day love, that only seeks
It’s own light joy, nor stays to heed
The message which the shadow speaks.
Death-darkening eyes have looked in mine
And gone the braver for that glance;
And hearts sore-pressed have sought a sign,
Then turned to meet the fighting chance;
And hands that fought to hold the breach
Have caught fresh weapons from my hands;
And lips that knew but stranger speech
Have learned how love may understand.
Joy with you, friend, and happiness!
You do not need me now, but when
Life wills your hour of pain and stress
Turn back--and find me waiting then.

TO SONG

Grant us, O Soul of Song, that we may find
Much joy in singing, though the road be blind;
Thou knowest we, thy Children of the Air,
Must get our dinners, God alone knows where,
And for a ragged coat have scanty words;
So let us joy in music with the birds,
Our brother minstrels, who among the trees
Have short delight what time the summer please.
Make summer for us, e’en when winter snows
Beat down upon us and the north winds blows;
Fence us with mail against the biting blast,
And feed our fancy, though the body fast.

If any Hall keep still the olden cheer,
Grant thou we find an ungrudged welcome there,
And as of old have leave to harp and sing
Till wild bees hum the reveille of Spring;
And black birds pipe it, and the cuckoos call;
And every ivy leaf along the wall
Shakes to the sun a tender green leaf-wing
And whispers “Spring! The Spring! It is the Spring!”
Then Ho! for pouch and staff and cockle shell!
Ho! for the road we know and love so well!
Stay an you will! For us the Open Way;
The sun and stars and winds of Arcady!

HER GIFT

To Our Lady of La Casa Nichita.

She would have told you that she had
No clever gifts to win and wile;
No cunning trick of speech or song
To charm and change your mood the while,
Not under her smooth fingers flowed
The music, by her touch set free;
Not through her hands her inward dream
Was wrought for all the world to see.

And yet--she spoke, and in his soul
One heard the song his vision sought;
And one within her eyes beheld
The symbol of his noblest thought;
And one who held that Beauty dwelt
A thing apart from common need,
Passed through her door and went his way
To voice a finer, truer creed.

She would have said no gift was hers,
No power of speech or brush or pen;
And yet--who passing touched her hand,
Turned to his highest dream again
With surer faith and larger hope--
For hers, the great gift to inspire,
To shine across our duller lives
And light them as with temple fire.

THE LIFE EXPRESS

When all is said life’s not unlike a train--
Save that we take it if we will or no--
And whence it comes, and whither it will go,
Or if it will companion us again,
No guide books tell, no mapped time tables show;
Nor of the miles ahead can any know--
Whether tomorrow’s road be hill or plain.
For some the swift express; the rumbling freight
For others; some must till the end harrass
Their souls for fare, while others ride in state--
Yet to one end that heeds not caste or class.
When we outside that far Last Station wait
May the Great Agent meet us with a pass.

FOR A BIRTHDAY

Wiser and older grown
I will not wish you, nor say,
“Many returns of the day!”
Nor bid for happiness--
Since Life will ban or bless
Still in the old, stern way.

If years be a boon or curse
I reckon a close-drawn thing;
And doubt if the good they bring
Outweighs by a hair the pain--
If the loss sink not the gain--
Yet, be yours as you onward wend,
Strong soul, and rest at the end.

GOD SPEED

Comrade, whose eyes have seen beyond
That Last Horizon lone and far;
Remoter than the utmost star
That watches on the rim of space;
I that shall see no more your face,
Save in some vision brief and fond,
I that alone must go and come,
I that alone must stay or roam,
Bid you God speed and hearty cheer,
Bid you a joy untouched of fear
On every road a soul may take.
To fuller life, to dreamless sleep,
To all a heart may give or keep,
God speed you, guide your going--yet
The roads of earth not quite forget.

A CHANT TO DEATH

When the bright sunrise slants across the hills
And every peak is like a golden tower
Where some glad face looks East to meet the day,
My heart leaps strong with thankfulness for dawn,
Singing like Memnon in the sands of old
For fresh hope and new promise. And when noon
Poises the far sun midway in his course
I joy in space for working; for an hour
In which to shape my hidden thought a form
Before my fellows, that my dream may live
When I am brother to the silent dust.

And when night’s shadow folds the weary earth,
With all her burden of tired hearts that pray,
Best of life’s gifts, sleep and forgetfulness,
One boon alone I crave of heaven, rest.
But most I bow in thankfulness for death;
Wise death, kind death, who softly stoops to lay
All pitiful a cool hand on the brow
That life has fevered with his pitiless
Stern goading on an ever-fruitless round.

Master of Fate, and rest’s own almoner,
No angel sable-winged and harsh and cold,
No black-robed, hidden-visaged shape art thou,
Preying upon the frightened souls of men;
But a near friend, whose hand upon our own
Touches to strengthen, and whose shadow is
Like the one tree within a sun swept waste.
Hope giver, healer, they who would upbraid
Thy name and coming know not thee nor life;
But we who work here in the dark, we know.

We know whose name gives courage for the fight;
Whose call rings “Forward” down the lagging line.
Captained by thee we lift each day the load
To aching shoulders, take the road once more
With song and laughter and bugle blown
To straggling comrades: “Look you, man, good cheer!”
Who knows? Perhaps tonight we bivouac;
Face front, and let us win our rest like men;
With tasks well done and nothing scrimped or shirked;
Sure that at last we get discharge of Life
And serve a gentler master, even Death.

THE FAR-CALLED

The French peasants have a belief that if a green bough be found upon the cradle of a new-born child the fairies have called that child to wander far in quest of other-worldly things all its mortal life.

When on the bed of birth I lay
Out of the dark one came,
And laid the green bough on my head
And kissed my lips with flame;
And whispered in my ear the call
I may no more deny;
Nor ever drown in lesser sound
Until the hour I die.

And though my feet go down the street
They feel not wood and stone;
But tread the floor of forests far,
And uplands wide and lone:
And eyes like clouds blown through with rain
Turn pleading-like to me--
Their sorrow I may stay to ease,
But not their gladness see.

I know the roads my kindred take
To gain and gear and home,
I turn and bid them all Godspeed--
And yet I may not come.
I know the good of gain and gear,
And hearth alight with love--
Bide ye that may--I cannot stay,
That seeking still must rove.

And little camp-fires in the dark
Send out their light to me;
And little sweet, low voices call:
“O traveller, who are ye,
That goes so fast, that goes so far
Along the hidden night,
As if ye sought some radiant star,
Nor ever camp-fire’s light?”

But for my soul I may not turn,
My feet are strong and swift;
I go to find beyond the wind
Where unknown mountains lift,
The tree where-from the green bough came,
The voice that calls to me;
Visions more bright than star or light,
That lead and beckon me.

TIRED

I wonder if the growing grass
Has ever weariness?
Or the little flowers that lean
The gray hillside to bless?

Their roots reach down into the mold
So deep, that once was men;
I wonder do they ever draw
A heart-ache from it then?

And the rain that patters down
On the green blades like tears;
Has it kept a taste of salt
From the forgotten years?

And the wind that has been breath
Of happy lips or sad;
Is that why its voice has still
No sound ever wholly glad?

Forget us, Earth, forget;
When we dry our tears on your breast;--
As we and the mold are one
Let us nothing know but rest.

WHEN SHE WENT ON

How white and calm and still she lay!
The little child-like hands at rest,
Folded so lightly on her breast--
It seemed some solemn wonder-play!

The waxen lids pressed down her eyes,
Blue, wistful eyes that could not see
How still beside her tenderly
We kept our useless ministries.

One smoothed the pillow at her head,
With hands that trembled overmuch;
And drew the sheet with lingering touch,
And closed the books that she had read.

The little room still seemed to hold
All of her warm, bright, living self;
The empty slippers on the shelf
Still kept her foot’s slim mold.

O restless feet that could not wait
Our slower footsteps, blundering, fond;
Turn back to us when soon or late
We seek you in the Land Beyond.

O GREAT CONSOLER

A hymn to thee, a hymn to thee, consoler;
Thou strong consoler who hast touched our life
With a great quiet brooding o’er its strife;
With a great peace beyond its wrath and dolor.

All other hopes, all other loves, may fail us;
Thou over all art truth and constancy;
Our little passions quench themselves in thee;
Thy balm and strength must at the last avail us.

Walk with me then as brother walks with brother;
Hold thou my hand; I think I hear thee say:
“Bethink thee; this may be thy last ‘today’;
Thine eyes may not look out across another.

“Then forward! face what e’er it brings and laugh
Straight in the eyes of Fortune at her worst;
No loss he fears who hath lost all at first,
Nor fears to drink, who my dark wine would quaff.

“Art empty-handed? Yea, but at the best
No wealth of earth could stay an hour my feet;
Dost thirst! My cup upon the lip is sweet;
Art weary? I alone can give thee rest.”

AND THIS IS LIFE

And this is life--to have and hold
A little love, a little gold;
To prove the Dream with work well done;
To rest an hour before the sun
Drops down to night--then journey on
An unmapped road to seek the Dawn.

THE THINKER

He who grasps at the flowers of thought
Oft finds in his eager fingers naught,
But leafless stalks where the blossoms hung,
In some long-lost summer when life was young--
Or at best but a glimmer of thistle down
To sprinkle his hair ’neath the laurel crown.

Note from Transcriber

It was decided not to correct likely mistakes in the poems. However, for the convenience of the reader, we are providing this list of some deviations from other editions.

Page 13: In lieu of “A week. God speed”, “A week--God speed”

Page 18: In lieu of “muleteers had sudded”, “muleteers had sudden”

Page 36: In lieu of “upon its hedge”, “upon its edge”

Page 61: In lieu of “The long-dead altars”, “The long-dead tapers”

Page 68: In lieu of “Senor”, “Señor”

Page 101: In lieu of “growed on the own”, “growed on the’r own”

Page 102: In lieu of “along with the bosses”, “along with the boss’s” and “An’ I lay” instead of “An’ I low”

Page 105: In lieu of “handsomeness, ye low”, “handsomeness, ye ’low”

Page 107: In lieu of “I haint”, “I hain’t”

Page 108: In lieu of “I low”, I ’low”