Chapter IV

Silent as ever, stoic as of old,
Their children sit with empty hands to wait
The sequel that the future shall unfold,--
The unwritten "Finis" of remorseless fate.
Vanquished they stand before oblivion's gate,
Knowing that soon the everlasting seal
Of destiny shall all obliterate
Their finished story, which, for woe or weal,
Shall be with Him who writ to hide or to reveal.

KENOTAPHION.

O wanderer! whoever thou mayest be,
I beg of thee to pass in silence here
And leave me with my empty sepulchre
Beside the ceaseless turmoil of the sea;
Pass me as one whom life's old tragedy
Hath made distraught--who now in dreams doth keep
His cherished dead, unmindful of her sleep
In ocean's bosom locked eternally!
Scorn not the foolish grave that I have made
Beside the deep sea of my soul's unrest,
But let me hope that when the storms are stayed
My phantom ship shall sail from out the west
Bringing the boon for which I long have prayed--
The broken vigil and the ended quest.

THE RED CROSS.

St. George, I learned to love thee in my youth
When of thy deeds I read in deathless song;
And now, when I behold the dragon Wrong
Hard by the castle-gates of Love and Truth,
I feel the world's great need of thee, forsooth,
To strike the heavy blow delayed too long.
Then turning from the mediaeval throng,
Where thou wert bravest, yet the first in ruth,
I watch thy votaries by land and sea
Armed with thy sacred sign go forth to fight
Anew the battle of humanity
Beneath the flag of mercy and of right;
No holier band a holier realm e'er trod
Than this--the world's knight-errantry of God!

MIDSUMMER NOON.

Through shimmering skies the big clouds slowly sail;
A faint breeze lingers in the rustling beech;
Atop the withered oak with vagrant speech
The brawling crows call down the sleepy vale;
Unseen the glad cicadas trill their tale
Of deep content in changeless vibrant screech,
And where the old fence rambles out of reach,
The drowsy lizard hugs the shaded rail.
Warm odors from the hayfield wander by,
Afar the homing reaper's noontide tune
Floats on the mellow stillness like a sigh;
One butterfly, ghost of a vanished June,
Soars dimly where in realms of purple sky
Dips the wan crescent of the vapory moon.

THE SNOW MAN.

Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!
Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun
With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run
Within thy frozen veins, no kindling thought
Light up those eyeless sockets wherein naught
But hate could dwell if once they flashed the fire
Of being, or the doom-gift of Desire
Should curse thy life, unbidden and unsought.
Poor snow man with thy tattered hat awry,
And broomstick musket toppling from thy hands,
'Tis well thou hast no language to decry
Thy poor creator or his vain commands;
No tear to shed that thou so soon must die,
No voice to lift in prayer where no god understands!

OUR SISTER OF THE STREETS.

She comes not with the conscious grace
Of gentle, winsome womanhood,
Nor yet, withal, the flaunting face
Of men and women understood,
But rather as a thing apart,
A wind-blown petal of a rose,
A specter with a specter's heart
That cometh once--and goes.

Her eyes some trace of cold, white light
Within their haunted depths still hold,
Though hunger's fever made them bright,
And lack of pity made them cold.
We know her when she passes by,
Whom no one loves or chides or greets--
The woman with the cold, bright eye--
Our sister of the streets.

We know the tawdry arts she tries,
The tint of cheek, the gold of hair,
To mimic nature for the eyes
Of those who scorn her paltry care,
And spurn those charms--if aught abide
Within her beauty's narrowed scope--
Now touched with less a wanton's pride
Than with an outcast's hope.

We know her in the blatant crowd,
And feel her, as we feel, in fine,
The eyes' remembrance of a cloud,
The lips' faint bitterness of brine;
We know her when she passes by,
Whom no one loves or chides or greets--
The woman with the cold, bright eye--
Our sister of the streets.

THE EARTHWORM AND THE STAR.

An Earthworm once loved a Star. In the hush of the summer night,
He lay quite close to the ground and gazed on its golden light;
He looked from his house of clay, and dreamed of wonderful things,
Till, lo! (as he thought) his longing brought forth miraculous wings.

The Butterfly soared in the air, straight toward the beckoning spark;
His wings grew weary and chill, but the Star smiled through the dark;
His wings grew heavy and cold, the wings that he dreamed love gave,
And he folded them there in the starlight, and the dust became his
grave.

THE RIDDLE OF THE SPHINX.

From age to age the haggard human train
Creeps wearily across Time's burning sands
To look into her face, and lift weak hands
In supplication to the calm disdain
That crowns her stony brow.... But all in vain
The riddle of mortality they try:
Doom speaks still from her unrelenting eye--
Doom deep as passion, infinite as pain.
From age to age the voice of Love is heard
Pleading above the tumult of the throng,
But evermore the inexorable word
Comes like the tragic burden of a song.
"The answer is the same," the stern voice saith:
"Death yesterday, today and still tomorrow--Death!"

THE MOTHERS.

Beyond the tumult and the proud acclaim,
Beyond the circle where the glory beats
With withering light upon the mighty seats,
They hear the far-resounding trump of fame;
On other lips they hear the one-loved name
In vaunting or derision, and they weep
To know that they shall never lull to sleep
Those tired heads, crowned with desolating flame.
Beyond the hot arena's baleful glow,
Beyond the towering pomp they dimly see,
They sit and watch the fateful pageants go
Through war's red arch, or up to Calvary,
The First Love still within their hearts impearled--
Mothers of all the masters of the world!

IN THE NIGHT.

_The Child._

I hear you weeping, mother, dear,--
I hear you wake and weep;
What brings the tears into your eyes
When you should be asleep?
I hear my name upon your lips;
What is it that you say
Of one who broke a trusting heart,
But now is far away?

_The Mother._

I weep for you, my pretty lass,
Frail flower of love unblessed,
Because I can not always hold
You close unto my breast;
I weep that you some day must go
Alone your way to find,
For, oh, you have your mother's eyes,
And men are seldom kind!

FORGIVEN.

I might have met his anger with a smile
For so it was that I had set my heart
To mask deception with a wanton's guile,
And save the tears that now begin to start.

I might have worn my guilty crown of thorn,--
Yea, even worn it gladly like a prize;
But, oh! more bitter than his rage or scorn,
He left me with forgiveness in his eyes.

A WOMAN, AND SOME MEN.

Once in a dream of Babylon
I sat with Lilith and Cain
At the world-old drama, "From God to God,"
In the House of Things Profane;
Trumpets and lights, and the players
Swung to the stage, and then
I saw as I looked in their faces
A woman, and some men.

Men with the eyes of the psalmist,
Men with the hearts of Saul,
Strong with the wine of valor,
But faint with the woman's thrall;
Calm were her eyes as she held them
Charmed to her soulless sway,
For she had the face of the Magdalene,
And the heart of Aholiba.

Wine and kisses and gusty words,
Kisses and wine again,
And her lips and brow were red with stains
From the hairy mouths of men,
Red as the stain on the brow of Cain
That burned with his Maker's hate,
Or the lips of the witch that Adam loved
Ere God revealed his mate.

Trumpets and lights and the players
Swung from the stage, and then
The curtain fell on the drama
Of a woman and some men;
While cleaving the dome of the temple
Fell the Avenger's rod,
And lo! when I looked again I saw
We were face to face with God.

And Lilith, the witch, dropped down and prayed
That her child a soul might have,
And the blood red stain on the brow of Cain
Be wiped out in the grave;
And this was my dream of Babylon
When I sat with Lilith and Cain
At the world-old drama, "From God to God,"
In the House of Things Profane.

THE NEWLY DEAD.

I.

With the light just quenched in their eyes
They lie in their graves 'neath the skies,
And the fresh clod rests
Heavy upon their breasts.
The white rose dies
Upon the new-made mound, and underneath
The lily shrivels in the shriveling hand.
Pale guests of sovereign Death,
They sought their silent beds at his command,
And it seems
Strange that their life-long dreams
Shall find them no more,--never bid them arise
And go forth with a glory in their eyes.

II.

Still, voiceless, cold,
They lie in their shrouds and hold
The crumbling links that make
A chain for Memory's sake,
Broken, alas! too soon.
Blithe morn and brazen noon
And eve with garb of gray and gold,
Know them no more in the dark ways they take.
They have forgot the sun,
And the fiery worlds that run
About it. Something--(what, let no man say,)--
Begot of mystery is in mystery done:
The rest shall be with them and God alway.

THE FIRST BORN.

I.

"He has eyes like the Christ,"
The mother said, and smiled;
"He will be wise and good,
My wondering little child.
God grant him strength to do
Whate'er his tasks may be,
But spare him, if Thou wilt,
O, spare him Calvary!"