Chapter C: H. R (2)

Or what if from the golden palace gate
The king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray?
Would he not send his lords of high estate
To lead him back ere fell the close of day?

Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals saw
The fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance,
And sent his messengers of love and law
To bear him home to his inheritance!

THE PAINTER’S PRAYER
“NEC ME PRÆTERMITTAS, DOMINE!”

(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s “Light of the World.”)

“Nay,” he said, “it is not done!
At to-morrow’s set of sun
Come again, if you would see
What the finished thought may be.”
Straight they went. The heavy door
On its hinges swung once more,
As within the studio dim
Eye and heart took heed of Him!

How the Presence filled the room,
Brightening all its dusky gloom!
Saints and martyrs turned their eyes
From the hills of Paradise;
Rapt in holy ecstasy,
Mary smiled her Son to see,
Letting all her lilies fall
At His feet—the Lord of all!

But the painter bowed his head,
Lost in wonder and in dread,
And as at a holy shrine
Knelt before the form divine.
All had passed—the pride, the power,
Of the soul’s creative hour—
Exaltation’s soaring flight
To the spirit’s loftiest height.

Had he dared to paint the Lord?
Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?
Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!
Ah, the shame his soul within!
Saints might turn on him their eyes
From the hills of Paradise,
But the painter could not brook
On that pictured face to look.

Yet the form was grand and fair,
Fit to move a world to prayer;
God like in its strength and stress,
Human in its tenderness.
From it streamed the Light divine,
O’er it drooped the heavenly vine,
And beneath the bending spray
Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way!

Suddenly with eager hold,
Back he swept the curtain’s fold,
Letting all the sunset glow
O’er the living canvas flow.
Surely then the wondrous eyes
Met his own in tenderest wise,
And the Lord Christ, half revealed,
Smiled upon him as he kneeled!

Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,
Up he brush and palette caught,
And where deepest shade was thrown
Set one sign for God alone!
Years have passed—but, even yet,
Where the massive frame is set
You may find these words: “_Nec me
Prætermittas, Domine!_”

“Neither pass me by, O Lord!”
Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word,
Low we bow before thy feet,
Thy remembrance to entreat!
In our soul’s most secret place,
For no eye but thine to trace,
Lo! this prayer we write: “_Nec me
Prætermittas, Domine!_”

FROM EXILE
PARIS, SEPTEMBER 3, 1879

(_A Mother speaks_)

Ah, dear God, when will it be day?
I cannot sleep, I cannot pray.
Tossing, I watch the silent stars
Mount up from the horizon bars:
Orion with his flaming sword,
Proud chieftain of the glorious horde;
Auriga up the lofty arch
Pursuing still his stately march—
So patient and so calm are they.
Ah, dear God! when will it be day?

O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear
A cock crow through the silence clear!
The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east,
And, afar off, I catch the least
Low murmur of the city’s stir
As she shakes off the dreams of her!
List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet
Far down below me in the street.
Thank God! the weary night is past,
The morning comes—’tis day at last.

Wake, Rosalie! Awake! arise!
The sun is up, it gilds the skies.
She does not stir. The young sleep sound
As dead men in their graves profound.
Ho, Rosalie! At last? Now haste!
To-day there is no time to waste.
Bring me fresh water. Braid my hair.
Hand me the glass. Once I was fair
As thou art. Now I look so old
It seems my death-knell should be tolled.

Ill? No! (I want no wine.) So pale?
Like a white ghost, so wan and frail?
Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay
Waiting and watching for the day.
But—there! I’ll drink it; it may make
My cheeks burn brighter for his sake
Who comes to-day. My boy! my boy!
How can I bear the unwonted joy?
I, who for eight long years have wept
While happier mothers smiling slept;
While others decked their sons first-born
For dance, or fête, or bridal morn,
Or proudly smiled to see them stand
The stateliest pillars of the land!
For he, so gallant and so gay,
As young and debonair as they,
My beautiful, brave boy, my life,
Went down in the unequal strife!
The right or wrong? Oh, what care I?
The good God judgeth up on high.

And now He gives him back to me!
I tremble so—I scarce can see.
How full the streets are! I will wait
His coming here beside this gate,
From which I watched him as he went,
Eight years ago, to banishment.
Let me sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when
You see a band of stalwart men,
With one fair boy among them—one
With bright hair shining in the sun,
Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes,
Blue as the blue of summer skies.
My boy! my boy!—Why come they not?
O Son of God! hast Thou forgot
Thy Mother’s agony? Yet she,
Was she not stronger far than we,
We common mothers? Could she know
From her far heights such pain and woe?—
Run farther down the street, and see
If they’re not coming, Rosalie!

Mother of Christ! how lag the hours!
What? just beyond the convent towers,
And coming straight this way? O heart,
Be still and strong, and bear thy part,
Thy new part, bravely. Hark! I hear
Above the city’s hum the near
Slow tread of marching feet; I see—
Nay, I can _not_ see, Rosalie;
Your eyes are younger. Is he there,
My Antoine, with his sunny hair?
It is like gold; it shines in the sun:
Surely you see it? What? Not one—
Not one bright head? All old, old men,
Gray-haired, gray-bearded, gaunt? Then—then
He has not come—he is ill, or dead!
O God, that I were in thy stead,
My son! my son! Who touches me?
Your pardon, sir. I am not she
For whom you look. Go farther on
Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.

‘Mother!’ Who calls me ‘Mother?’ _You?_
You are not he—my Antoine! You—
A bowed, gray-bearded man, while he
Was a mere boy who went from me,
Only a boy! I’m sorry, sir.
God bless you! Soon you will find her
For whom you seek. But I—ah, I—
Still must I call and none reply!
You—kiss me? Antoine? O my son!
Thou art mine own, my banished one!

A MOTHER-SONG

Sleep, baby, sleep! The Christmas stars are shining,
Clear and bright the Christmas stars climb up the vaulted sky;
Low hangs the pale moon, in the west declining:
Sleep, baby, sleep, the Christmas morn is nigh!

Hush, baby, hush! For Earth her watch is keeping;
Watches and waits she the angels’ song to hear;
Listening for the swift rush of their wings downsweeping,
Joy and Peace proclaiming through the midnight clear.

Dream, baby, dream! The far-off chimes are ringing;
Tenderly and solemnly the music soars and swells;
With soft reverberation the happy bells are swinging,
While each to each responsive the same sweet story tells!

Hark, baby, hark! Hear how the choral voices,
All jubilantly singing, take up the glad refrain,
“Unto you is born a Saviour,” while heaven with earth rejoices,
And all its lofty battlements re-echo with the strain!

Wake, baby, wake! For, lo! in floods of glory
The Christmas Day advances over the hills of morn!
Wake, baby, wake! and smile to hear the story
How Christ, the Son of Mary, in Bethlehem was born!

EASTER MORNING

Dame Margaret spake to Annie Blair,
To Annie Blair spake she,
As from beneath her wrinkled hand
She peered far out to sea.

“Look forth, look forth, O Annie Blair,
For my old eyes are dim;
See you a single boat afloat
Within the horizon’s rim?”

Sweet Annie looked to east, to west,
To north and south looked she:
There was no single boat afloat
Upon the angry sea.

The sky was dark, the winds were high,
The breakers lashed the shore,
And louder and still louder swelled
The tempest’s sullen roar.

“Look forth again,” Dame Margaret cried;
“Doth any boat come in?”
And scarce she heard the answering word
Above the furious din.

“Pray God no boat may put to sea
In such a gale!” she said;
“Pray God no soul may dare to-night
The rocks of Danger Head!”

“This is Good Friday, Annie Blair,”
Dame Margaret cried again,
“When Mary’s Son, the Merciful,
On Calvary was slain.

The earth did quake, the rocks were rent,
The graves were opened wide,
And darkness like to this fell down
When He—the Holy—died.

Give me your hand, O Annie Blair;
Your two knees fall upon;
Christ send to you your lover back—
To me, my only son!”

All night they watched, all night they prayed,
All night they heard the roar
Of the fierce breakers dashing high
Upon the lonely shore.

Oh, hark! strange footsteps on the sand,
A voice above the din:
“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!
Is Annie Blair within?

High on the rocks of Danger Head
Her lover’s boat is cast,
All rudderless, all anchorless—
Mere hull and splintered mast.”

Oh, hark! slow footsteps on the sand,
And women wailing sore:
“Dame Margaret! Dame Margaret!
Your son you’ll see no more!

God pity you! Christ comfort you!”
The weeping women cried;
But “May God pity Annie Blair!”
Dame Margaret replied.

“For life is long and youth is strong,
And it must still bear on.
Leave us alone to make our moan—
My son! alas, my son!”

* * * * *

The Easter morning, flushed with joy,
Saw all the winds at rest,
And far and near the blue sea smiled
With sunshine on its breast.

The neighbors came, the neighbors went;
They sought the house of prayer;
But on the rocks of Danger Head
The dame and Annie Blair,

With still, white faces, watched the deep
Without a tear or moan.
“I cannot weep,” said Annie Blair—
“My heart is turned to stone.”

Forth from the church the pastor came,
And up the rocks strode he,
Baring his thin white locks to meet
The salt breath of the sea.

“The rocks shall rend, the earth shall quake,
The sea give up its dead,
For Christ our Lord is risen indeed—
’Tis Easter morn,” he said.

Oh, hark! oh, hark! A startled cry,
A rush of hurrying feet,
The swarming of a hundred men
Adown the village street.

“Now unto God and Christ the Lord
Be praise and thanks alway!
The sea hath given up its dead
This blessed Easter-day.”

SEALED ORDERS

“Oh, whither bound, my captain?
The wind is blowing free,
And overhead the white sails spread
As we go out to sea.”

He looked to north, he looked to south,
Or ever a word he spake;
“With orders sealed my sails I set—
Due east my course I take.”

“But to what port?” “Nay, nay,” he cried,
“This only do I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever wind may blow.”

For many a day we sailéd east.
“O captain, tell me true,
When will our good ship come to port?”
“I cannot answer you!”

“Then, prithee, gallant captain,
Let us but drift awhile!
The current setteth southward
Past many a sunny isle,

Where cocoas grow, and mangoes,
And groves of feathery palm,
And nightingales sing all night long
To roses breathing balm.”

“Nay, tempt me not,” he answered,
“This only do I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever winds may blow!”

Then sailed we on, and sailed we east
Into the whirlwind’s track.
Wild was the tempest overhead,
The sea was strewn with wrack.

“Oh, turn thee, turn thee, captain,
Thou’rt rushing on to death!”
But back he answer shouted,
With unabated breath:

“Turn back who will, I turn not!
For this one thing I know,
That I must sail due eastward
However winds may blow!”

“Oh, art thou fool or madman?
Thy port is but a dream,
And never on the horizon’s rim
Will its fair turrets gleam.”

Then smiled the captain wisely,
And slowly answered he,
The while his keen glance widened
Over the lonely sea:

“I carry sealéd orders.
This only thing I know,
That I must sail due eastward
Whatever winds may blow!”

AN ANNIVERSARY

_So long, so short,
So swift, so slow,
Are the years of man
As they come and go!_

O love, it was so long ago!
So long, so long that we were young,
And in the cloisters of our hearts
Hope all her joy-bells rung!
So long, so long that since that hour
Full half a lifetime hath gone by—
How ran the days ere first we met,
Belovéd, thou and I?

We had our dreams, no doubt. The dawn
Must still presage the rising sun,
And rose and crimson flush the east
Ere day is well begun.
We had our dreams—fair, shadowy wraiths
That fled when Day’s full splendor kissed
Our souls’ high places, and its winds
Swept the vales clear of mist!

_So long, so short,
So swift, so slow,
Are the years of man
As they come and go!_

O love, it was but yesterday!
Who said it was so long ago?
How many times the rose hath bloomed,
Why should we care to know?
For it was just as sweet last June,
As dewy fresh, as fair, as red,
As when our first glad Eden knew
The rare perfumes it shed!

O love, it was but yesterday!
If yesterday is far away,
As brightly on the hill-tops lies
The sunshine of to-day.
Sing thou, my soul! O heart, be glad!
O circling years, fly swift or slow!
Your ripening harvests shall not fail,
Nor autumn’s utmost glow.

MARTHA

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must serve.
Not all with tranquil heart,
Even at thy dear feet,
Wrapped in devotion sweet,
May sit apart!

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must bear
The burden of the day,
Its labor and its heat,
While others at thy feet
May muse and pray!

Yea, Lord!—Yet some must do
Life’s daily task-work; some
Who fain would sing, must toil
Amid earth’s dust and moil,
While lips are dumb!

Yea, Lord!—Yet man must earn,
And woman bake the bread!
And some must watch and wake
Early, for others’ sake,
Who pray instead!

Yea, Lord!—Yet even thou
Hast need of earthly care.
I bring the bread and wine
To thee, O Guest Divine!
Be this my prayer!

THE HOUR

What is the hour of the day?
O watchman, can you tell?
Hark! from the tower of Time
Strikes the alarum-bell!

The strokes I cannot count.
O watchman, can you see
On the misty dial-plate
What hours remain for me?

I know the rosy dawn
Faded—how long ago!—
Lost in the radiant depths
Of morning’s golden glow.

Then all the mountain tops
Stood breathless at high noon,
While earth for brief repose
Put off her sandal shoon.

Now faster fly the hours—
The afternoon is here;
O watchman in the tower,
Tell me, is sunset near?

Yet—why care I to know?—
Beyond the sunset bars
Upon the dead day wait
The brightest of the stars!

THE CLOSED GATE

I walked along a narrow way;
The sun was shining everywhere;
The jocund earth was glad and gay,
With morning freshness in the air.

The grass was green beneath my feet;
The skies were blue and soft o’erhead;
The robin carolled clear and sweet,
And flowers their fragrance round me shed.

How shone the great hills far away;
How clear they rose against the blue;
How fair the tranquil meadows lay,
Where the bright river glances through!

But suddenly, as on I pressed,
Before me frowned a closéd gate;
Filled with dismay, and sore distressed,
I strove in vain to conquer fate!

Beyond, the hills for which I sighed—
Beyond, the valleys still and fair—
Beyond, the meadows stretching wide,
And all the shining fields of air!

* * * * *

What does it mean, O Father! when
Thy children reach some closéd gate,
Which, though they knock and knock again,
Will not its watch and ward abate?

Still shall they batter at the walls?
Or still, like children, cry and fret,
While the loud clamor of their calls
Swells high in turbulent regret?

When thou hast barred the door, shall they
Challenge thy wisdom, God of love?
Or humbly wait beside the way
Till thou the barrier shalt remove?

Too oft we cannot hear thee speak,
So loud our voices and our prayers,
While to the patient and the meek
The gate thou openest unawares!

CONTENT

Not asking how or why,
Before thy will,
O Father, let my heart
Lie hushed and still!

Why should I seek to know?
Thou art all-wise;
If thou dost bid me go,
Let that suffice.

If thou dost bid me stay,
Make me content
In narrow bounds to dwell
Till life be spent.

If thou dost seal the lips
That fain would speak,
Let me be still till thou
The seal shalt break.

If thou dost make pale Pain
Thy minister,
Then let my patient heart
Clasp hands with her.

Or, if thou sendest Joy
To walk with me,
My Father, let her lead
Me nearer thee!

Teach me that Joy and Pain
Alike are thine;
Teach me my life to leave
In hands divine!

MY WONDERLAND

They tell me you have been in Wonderland.
Why, so have I! No boat’s keel touched the strand,
No white sails flew, no swiftly gliding car
Bore me to mystic realms, unknown and far.

And yet I, too, with these same questioning eyes,
Have seen its mountains and beheld its skies;
I, too, have been in Wonderland, and know
How through its secret vales the weird winds blow.

One morn, in Wonderland—one chill spring morn—
I saw a princess sleeping, pale and lorn,
Cold as a corse; when, lo! from out the south
A young knight rode, and kissed her sad, sweet mouth.

She smiled, she woke! Then rang from far and near
Her minstrels’ voices, jubilant and clear;
While in a trice, with eager, noiseless feet,
All the young maiden grasses, fair and fleet,

Ran over hill and dale, to bring to her
Green robes with wild flowers ’broidered. All astir
Were the gay, courtier butterflies; the trees
Flung forth their fluttering banners to the breeze;

The soft airs fanned her; and, in russet dressed,
Her happy servitors around her pressed,
Bearing strange sweets, and curious flagons filled
With life’s new wine, that all her pulses thrilled.

In this same Wonderland, one sweet spring day,
In a gray casket, deftly hidden away,
I found two pearls; but as I looked they grew
To living jewels, that took wing and flew.

And once a creeping worm, within my sight
Wove its own shroud and coffin, sealed and white
Then, bursting from its cerements, soared in air,
A radiant vision, most supremely fair.

Out of the darksome mould, before my eyes
I saw a shaft of emerald arise,
Bearing a silver chalice veined with gold,
And set with gems of splendors manifold.

Once in a vast, pale, hollow pearl I stood,
When o’er the vaulted dome there swept a flood
Of lurid waves, and a dark funeral pyre
Took to its heart a globe of crimson fire.

The pageant faded. Lo! the pearl became
A liquid sapphire, touched with rosy flame;
And as I gazed, a silver crescent hung
In violet depths, a thousand stars among.

I saw a woman, marvellously fair,
Flushed with warm life, and buoyant as the air;
Next morn she was a statue, breathless, cold,
A marble goddess of transcendent mould.

I saw a folded bud, in one short hour,
Open its sweet, warm heart and be a flower.
O Wonderland! thou art so near, so far;
Near as this rose, remote as yonder star!

THE GUEST

O thou Guest so long delayed,
Surely, when the house was made,
In its chambers wide and free,
There was set a place for thee.
Surely, in some room was spread
For thy sake a snowy bed,
Decked with linen white and fine,
Meet, O Guest, for use of thine.

Yet thou hast not kept the tryst.
Other guests our lips have kissed:
Other guests have tarried long,
Wooed by sunshine and by song;
For the year was bright with May,
All the birds kept holiday,
All the skies were clear and blue,
When this house of ours was new.

Youth came in with us to dwell,
Crowned with rose and asphodel,
Lingered long, and even yet
Cannot quite his haunts forget.
Love hath sat beside our board,
Brought us treasures from his hoard,
Brimmed our cups with fragrant wine,
Vintage of the hills divine.

Down our garden path has strayed
Young Romance, in light arrayed;
Joy hath flung her garlands wide;
Faith sung low at eventide;
Care hath flitted in and out;
Sorrow strewn her weeds about;
Hope held up her torch on high
When clouds darkened all the sky.

Pain, with pallid lips and thin,
Oft hath slept our house within;
Life hath called us, loud and long,
With a voice as trumpet strong.
Sometimes we have thought, O Guest,
Thou wert coming with the rest,
Watched to see thy shadow fall
On the inner chamber wall.

For we know that, soon or late,
Thou wilt enter at the gate,
Cross the threshold, pass the door,
Glide at will from floor to floor.
When thou comest, by this sign
We shall know thee, Guest divine:
Though alone thy coming be,
Someone must go forth with thee!

AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

An old-fashioned garden? Yes, my dear,
No doubt it is. I was thinking here
Only to-day, as I sat in the sun,
How fair was the scene I looked upon;
Yet wondered still, with a vague surprise,
How it might look to other eyes.

’Tis a wide old garden. Not a bed
Cut here and there in the turf; instead,
The broad straight paths run east and west,
Down which two horsemen could ride abreast,
And north and south with an equal state,
From the gray stone wall to the low white gate.

And, where they cross on the middle line,
Virgin’s-bower and wild woodbine
Clamber and climb at their own sweet will
Over the latticed arbor still;
Though since they were planted years have flown,
And many a time have the roses blown.

To the right the hill runs down to the river,
Where the willows droop and the aspens shiver,
And under the shade of the hemlock-trees
The low ferns nod to the passing breeze;
There wild flowers blossom, and mosses creep
With a tangle of vines o’er the wooded steep.

So quiet it is, so cool and still,
In the green retreat of the shady hill!
And you scarce can tell, as you look within,
Where the garden ends and the woods begin.
But here, where we stand, what a blaze of light,
What a wealth of color, makes glad the sight!

Red roses burn in the morning glow;
White roses proffer their cups of snow;
In scarlet and crimson and cloth-of-gold
The zinnias flaunt, and the marigold;
And stately and tall the lilies stand,
Like vestal virgins, on either hand.

Here gay sweet-peas, like butterflies,
Flutter and dance under summer skies;
Blue violets here in the shade are set,
With a border of fragrant mignonette;
And here are pansies and columbine,
And the burning stars of the cypress-vine.

Stately hollyhocks, row on row,
Golden sunflowers, all aglow,
Scarlet poppies, and larkspurs blue,
Asters of every shade and hue;
And over the wall, like a trail of fire,
The red nasturtium climbs high and higher.

My lady’s-slippers are fair to see,
And her pinks are as sweet as sweet can be,
With gilly-flowers and mourning-brides,
And many another flower besides.
Do you see that rose without a thorn?
It was planted the year my Hal was born.

And he is a man now. Yes, my dear,
An old-fashioned garden! But, sitting here,
I think how often lover and maid
Down these long flowery paths have strayed,
And how little feet have over them run
That will stir no more in shade or sun.

As one who reads from an open book,
On these fair luminous scrolls I look;
And all the story of life is there—
Its loves and losses, hope and despair.
An old-fashioned garden—but to my eyes
Fair as the hills of Paradise.

DISCONTENT

I.

(_The Brier Rose speaks._)

I cling to the garden wall
Outside, where the grasses grow;
Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun,
And the yellow mulleins blow.
The dock and the thistle crowd
Close to my shrinking feet,
And the gypsy yarrow shares
My cup and the food I eat.

The rude winds toss my hair,
The wild rains beat me down,
The way-side dust lies white
And thick on my leafy crown.
I cannot keep my robes
From wanton fingers free,
And the veriest beggar dares
To stop and gaze at me.

Sometimes I climb and climb
To the top of the garden wall,
And I see her where she stands,
Stately and fair and tall—
My sister, the red, red Rose,
My sister, the royal one,
The fairest flower that blows
Under the summer sun!

What wonder that she is fair?
What wonder that she is sweet?
The treasures of earth and air
Lie at her dainty feet;
The choicest fare is hers,
Her cup is brimmed with wine;
Rich are her emerald robes,
And her bed is soft and fine.

She need not lift her head
Even to sip the dew;
No rude touch makes her shrink
The whole long summer through.
Her servants do her will;
They come at her beck and call.
Oh, rare is life in my lady’s bowers
Inside of the garden wall!

II.

(_The Garden Rose speaks._)

The garden path runs east,
And the garden path runs west;
There’s a tree by the garden gate,
And a little bird in a nest.
It sings and sings and sings!
Does the bird, I wonder, know
How, over the garden wall,
The bright days come and go?

The garden path runs north,
And the garden path runs south;
The brown bee hums in the sun,
And kisses the lily’s mouth;
But it flies away, away,
To the birch-tree, dark and tall.
What do you find, O brown bee,
Over the garden wall?

With ruff and farthingale,
Under the gardener’s eye,
In trimmest guise I stand—
Oh, who so fine as I?
But even the light wind knows
That it may not play with me,
Nor touch my beautiful lips
With a wild caress and free.

Oh, straight is the garden path,
And smooth is the garden bed,
Where never an idle weed
Dares lift its careless head.
But I know outside the wall
They gather, a merry throng;
They dance and flutter and sing,
And I listen all day long.

The Brier Rose swings outside;
Sometimes she climbs so high
I can see her sweet pink face
Against the blue of the sky.
What wonder that she is fair,
Whom no strait bonds enthrall?
Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,
Outside of the garden wall!

THE DOVES AT MENDON

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

Under the vine-clad porch she stands,
A gentle maiden with willing hands,
Dropping the grains of yellow corn.
Low and soft, like a mellow horn,
While the sunshine over her falls,
Over and over she calls and calls
“Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves—
The happy doves at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

Down they flutter with timid grace,
Lured by the voice and the tender face,
Till the evening air is all astir
With the happy strife and the eager whir.
One by one, and two by two,
And then a rush through the ether blue;
While Arné scatters the yellow corn
For the gentle doves at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

They hop on the porch where the baby sits,
They come and go as a shadow flits,
Now here, now there, while in and out
They crowd and jostle each other about;
Till one, grown bolder than all the rest—
A snow-white dove with an arching breast—
Softly lights on her outstretched hand
Under the vines at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

With a rush and a whir of shining wings,
They hear and obey—the dainty things!
Dun and purple and snowy white,
Clouded gray, like the soft twilight,
Straight as an arrow shot from a bow,
Wheeling and circling high and low,
Down they fly from the slanting roof
Of the old red barn at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

Baby Alice with wide blue eyes
Watches them ever with new surprise,
While she and Wag on the mat together
Joy in the soft midsummer weather.
Hither and thither she sees them fly,
Gray and white on the azure sky,
Light and shadow against the green
Of the maple grove at Mendon.

“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné,
Calling the doves at Mendon!

A sound, a motion, a flash of wings—
They are gone—like a dream of heavenly things.
The doves have flown and the porch is still,
And the shadows gather on vale and hill.
Then sinks the sun, and the mountain breeze
Stirs in the tremulous maple-trees;
While Love and Peace, as the night comes down,
Brood over quiet Mendon!

A LATE ROSE

I sent a little maiden
To pluck for me a rose,
The sweetest and the fairest
That in the garden grows—
A blush-rose, proud and tender,
Upon its stem so slender,
Swaying in dreamy splendor
Where yellow sunshine glows.

Back came the little maiden
With drooping, downcast head,
And slow, reluctant footsteps,
And this to me she said:
“I find no sweet blush-roses
In all the garden closes:
There are no summer roses;
It must be they are dead!”

Then bent I to the maiden
And touched her shining hair—
Dear heart! in all the garden
Was nothing half so fair!
“Nay!” said I, “let the roses
Die in the garden closes
Whenever fate disposes,
If I _this_ rose may wear!”

PERIWINKLE

Tinkle, tinkle,
Periwinkle!
Soft and clear,
Far or near,
Still the mellow notes I hear!
Up and down the sunny hills,
Here you go, there you go,
Where the happy mountain rills
Tinkle soft, tinkle low;
Where the willows, all a-quiver,
Dip their long wands in the river,
And the hemlock shadows fall
By the gray rocks, cool and tall—
In and out,
And round about,
Here you go,
There you go!

Tinkle, tinkle,
Periwinkle!
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Floats the music on the air!
Through the pastures wide and free,
Here you go, there you go,
Making friends with bird and bee,
Flying high, flying low;
In and out, where lilies blowing
Nod above wild grasses growing,
Where the sweet-fern and the brake
All around rich odors make,
Where the mosses cling and creep
To the rocks, and up the steep—
In and out
You wind about,
Here and there,
Everywhere!

Tinkle, tinkle,
Periwinkle!
Day is done,
And the sun
Now its royal couch hath won!
Homeward through the winding lane,
Here you go, there you go,
While the bell in sweet refrain
Tinkles clear, tinkles low—
Tinkles softly through the gloaming,
“Drop the bars—I’m tired of roaming
Here and there, everywhere
Through the pastures wide and fair.
Home is best,
Home and rest!”
Through the bars goes Periwinkle,
While the bell goes tinkle, tinkle,
Low and clear,
Saying, softly, “Night is here!”

AFTERNOON

O perfect day,
I bid thee stay!
Too fast thy glad hours slip away;
The morn, the noon,
Have fled too soon—
Delay, O golden afternoon!

O peerless Sun,
Thou radiant one
Whose dazzling course is half-way run,
Stay, stay thy flight
Down yon blue height,
Nor haste thee to the arms of night!

The west wind blows
O’er beds of rose,
But does not stir my deep repose.
In dreamful guise
I close mine eyes,
Borne on its wings to Paradise.

Beneath this tree
Half consciously.
I share the life of all things free,
Hearing the beat
Of rhythmic feet,
As the grasses run my hand to meet.

The wild bee’s hum,
The lone bird’s drum,
O’er the wide pastures faintly come;
And soft and clear
Falls on my ear
The cow-bell’s tinkle, far and near!

Before my eyes
Three blue peaks rise,
Piercing the bright autumnal skies;
Silent and grand,
On either hand,
Far mountain heights majestic stand.

By wreaths of mist
The vales are kissed—
Fair, floating clouds of amethyst,
That follow on,
Through shade and sun,
Where’er the river’s course may run.

Here, looking down
On roof-trees brown,
I catch fair glimpses of the town.
There, far away,
The shadows play
On crags and bowlders, huge and gray.

All whispering low,
The breezes go—
The wandering birds flit to and fro;
Winged motes float by
Me as I lie,
And yellow leaves drop silently.

The morn, the noon,
Have fled too soon—
Delay, O golden afternoon,
While with rapt eyes
My spirit flies
From yon blue peaks to Paradise!

THE LADY OF THE PROW
BERMUDA, MAY, 1883

The salt tides ebb, the salt tides flow,
From the near isles the soft airs blow;
From leagues remote, with roar and din,
Over the reefs the waves rush in;
The wild white breakers foam and fret,
Day follows day, stars rise and set;
Yet, grandly poised, as calm and fair
As some proud spirit of the air,
Unmoved she lifts her radiant brow—
She, the White Lady of the Prow!

The winds blow east, the winds blow west,
From woodlands low to the eagle’s nest;
The winds blow north, the winds blow south.
To steal the sweets from the lily’s mouth!
We come and go; we spread our sails
Like sea-gulls to the favoring gales;
Or, soft and slow, our oars we dip
Under the lee of the stranded ship.
Yet little recks she when or how,
The grand White Lady of the Prow.

We laugh, we love, we smile, we sigh,
But never she heeds as we glide by—
Never she cares for our idle ways
Nor turns from the brink of the world her gaze!
What does she see when her steadfast eyes
Peer into the sunset mysteries,
And all the secrets of time and space
Seem unfolded before her face?
What does she hear when, pale and calm,
She lists for the great sea’s evening psalm?

Speak, Lady, speak! Thy sealèd lip,
Thou fair white spirit of the ship,
Could tell such tales of high emprise,
Of valorous deeds and counsels wise!
What prince shall rouse thee from thy trance,
And meet thy first revealing glance,
Or what Pygmalion from her sleep
Bid Galatea wake and weep?
The wave’s wild passion stirs thee not—
Oh, is thy life’s long love forgot?

How canst thou bear this trancèd calm
By sunlit isles of bloom and balm—
Thou who hast sailed the utmost seas,
Empress alike of wave and breeze;
Thou who hast swept from pole to pole,
Where the great surges swell and roll;
Breasted the billows white with wrath,
Rode in the tempest’s fiery path,
And proudly borne to waiting hands
The glorious spoil of farthest lands?

How canst thou bear this silence, deep
And tranquil as an infant’s sleep—
Thou who hast heard above thy head
The white sails sing with wings outspread;
Thou whose strong soul has thrilled to feel
The swift rush of the ploughing keel,
The dash of waves, and the wild uproar
Of ocean lashed from shore to shore?
How canst thou bear this changeless rest,
Thou who hast made the world thy quest?

O Lady of the stranded ship,
Once more our lingering oars we dip
In the clear blue that round thee lies,
Fanned by the airs of Paradise!
Farewell! farewell! But oft when day
On our far hill-tops dies away,
And night’s cool winds the pine-trees bow,
Our eyes will see thee, even as now,
Waiting—a spirit pale and calm—
To hear the great sea’s evening psalm!

THOU AND I

April days are over!
O my gay young lover,
Forth we fare together
In the soft May weather;
Forth we wander, hand in hand,
Seeking an enchanted land
Underneath a smiling sky,
So blithely—thou and I!

Soft spring days are over!
O my ardent lover,
Many a hill together,
In the July weather,
Climb we when the days are long
And the summer heats are strong,
And the harvest wains go by,
So bravely—thou and I!

July days are over!
O my faithful lover,
Side by side together
In the August weather,
When the swift, wild storms befall us,
And the fiery darts appall us,
Wait we till the clouds sweep by,
And stars shine—thou and I!

Summer days are over!
O my one true lover,
Sit we now alone together
In the early autumn weather!
From our nest the birds have flown
To fair dreamlands of their own,
And we see the days go by,
In silence—thou and I!

Storm and stress are over!
O my friend and lover,
Closer now we lean together
In the Indian-summer weather;
See the bright leaves falling, falling,
Hear the low winds calling, calling,
Glad to let the world go by
Unheeding—thou and I!

Winter days are over!
O my life-long lover,
Rest we now in peace together
Out of reach of changeful weather!
Not a sound can mar our sleeping—
Breath of laughter, or of weeping,
May not reach us where we lie
Uncaring—thou and I!

LATER POEMS

THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD

“There’s a star in the East!” he cried,
Jasper, the gray, the wise,
To Melchior and to Balthazar
Up-gazing to the skies.

“Last night from my high tower
I watched it as it burned,
While all my trembling soul
In awe and wonder yearned.

For I know the midnight heavens;
I can call the stars by name—
Orion and royal Ashtaroth
And Cimah’s misty flame.

I know where Hesper glows,
And where, with fiery eye,
Proud Mars in burning splendor leads
The armies of the sky.

But never have I seen
A star that shone like this—
The star so long foretold
By sage and seer it is!

When first I, sleepless, saw it
Slow breaking through the dark—
Nay, hear me, Balthazar,
And thou, O Melchior, hark!—

When first I saw the star
It bore the form of a child,
It held in its hand a sceptre,
Or the cross of the undefiled.

Lo! somewhere on the earth
It shines above His rest—
The Royal One, the Babe,
On mortal mother’s breast.

Now haste we forth to find Him—
To worship at His feet,
To Him of whom the prophets sang
Bearing oblations meet!”

Then the Three Holy Kings
Went forth in eager haste,
With servants and with camels,
Toward the desert waste.

Ah! knew they what they bore?
Gold for the earthly king—
Frankincense for the God—
Myrrh for man’s suffering.

With breath of costly spices
And precious gums of Isis,
The desert air was sweet,
As on they fared by day and night
Judea’s King to greet.

The strange star went before them,
They followed where it led;
“’Twill guide us to His presence,”
Jasper, the holy, said.

They crossed deep-flowing rivers,
They climbed the mountains high,
They slept in dreary places
Under the lonely sky.

One day, where stretched the desert
Before them far and wide,
They saw a smoke-wreath curling
A spreading palm beside;

And from a lowly dwelling,
On household cares intent,
A woman gazed upon them,
In mute bewilderment.

“O come with us!” cried Melchior,
And ardent Balthazar,
“We go to find the Christ-child,
Led by yon blazing star!

Thou knowest how the prophets
His coming long foretold;
We go to kneel before Him
With gifts of myrrh and gold.”

But she, delaying, answered,
“My lords, your words are good,
And I your pious mission
Have gladly understood,

Yet I, ere I can join you,
Have many things to do:
I must set my house in order,
Must spin and bake and brew.

Go ye to find Messiah!
And when my work is done
I will your footsteps follow,
Mayhap ere set of sun.”

Across the shining desert
The slow train passed from sight;
She set her house in order,
She bleached her linen white.

With busy hands she labored
Till all at last was done—
But thrice the moon had risen,
And thrice the lordly sun!

Then bound she on her sandals,
Her pilgrim staff she took;
With bread of wheat and barley,
And water from the brook;

And forth she went to find Him—
The babe Emmanuel,
Who should be born in Bethlehem
By David’s sacred well.

All that long day she journeyed;
She scanned the desert wide,
In all its lonely reaches
There was no soul beside—

No track to guide her onward,
No footprints in the sand,
Only the vast, still spaces
Wide-stretched on either hand!

Night came—but where the Wise Men
Had seen His burning star,
No glorious sign beheld she
Clear beaming from afar,

Though Orion and Arcturus
Shone bright above her head,
And up the heavenly arches
Proud Mars his legions led!

* * * * *

She did not find the Christ-child.
’Tis said she seeks Him still,
Over the wide earth roaming
With swift, remorseful will.

Her thin white locks the dew-fall
Of every clime has wet—
In palace and in hovel
She seeks Messiah yet!

In every child she fancies
The Hidden One may be,
On each bright head she gazes
The mystic crown to see.

She twines the Christmas garlands,
She lights the Christmas fires,
She leads the joyful carols
Of all the Christmas choirs;

She feeds the poor and hungry,
And on her tender breast
She soothes all suffering children
To softest, sweetest rest.

Attend her, holy Angels!
Guard her, ye Cherubim!
For whatsoe’er she does for these
She does it as to Him!

DAYBREAK
AN EASTER POEM

Mary Magdalenè,
At the break of day,
Wan with tears and watching
Hasted on her way;

Bearing costly spices,
Myrrh, and sweet perfume,
Through the shadowy garden
To the Master’s tomb.

Slowly broke the gray dawn:
On her head the breeze
Shook a rain of dew-drops
From the cypress-trees.

Rose and lily parted
As to let her pass,
And the violets blessed her
From the tender grass.

Little heed she paid them;
Christ, the Lord, was dead;
All at last was over,
All at last was said.

What of hope remainèd?
Black against the sky,
Calvary’s awful crosses
Stretched their arms on high!

Mary Magdalenè
Made her bitter moan:
“From the sealèd sepulchre
Who shall roll the stone?”

Swift she ran, her spirit
Filled with awe and fear;
Wide the door stood open
As her feet drew near!

All the place was flooded
With a radiance bright;
Forth into the darkness
Streamed a holy light.

Down she stooped, and peering
The dread tomb within,
Saw a great white angel
Where the Lord had been!

Sore she cried in anguish:
“Who hath him betrayed?
They have taken away my Lord!
Where is he laid?”

“Nay,” the shining angel,
Calmly smiling, said—
“Why seek ye the living
Down among the dead?

He is not here, but risen!”
All her soul stood still;
Through her trembling pulses
Ran a conscious thrill.

“Mary!” said a low voice;
“Rabboni!” answered she.
Then life was brought to light
And immortality!

Mary Magdalenè,
First of woman born
To see the clear light streaming
O’er the hills of morn;

First to hail the Lord Christ,
Conqueror of Death,
First to bow before Him
With abated breath;

First to hear the Master
Say—“From Death’s dark prison,
From its bonds and fetters,
Lo! I have arisen!

Now to God, my Father—
Mine and yours—I go;
And because I live
Ye shall live also!”

Didst thou grasp the meaning?
Know that Death was dead?
That the seed of woman
Had bruised the serpent’s head?

Didst thou know Messiah
The gates of hell had broken,
And life unto its captives
Once for all had spoken?

O! through all the ages,
Every son of man,
Be he slave or monarch,
Born to bliss or ban—

Lord, or prince, or peasant,
Jester, sage, or seer,
Wife, or child, or mother,
Priest, or worshipper—

Through the grave’s lone portals
Soon or late had passed,
But no sign or token
Back to earth had cast!

In Ramah was a voice heard
Sounding through the years—
Rachel for her children
Pouring sighs and tears;

Rizpah for her slain sons
Woful vigils keeping;
David for young Absalom
In the chamber weeping!

All earth’s myriad millions
To their dead had cried,
Empty arms outreaching
In the silence wide,

Yet from out the darkness
Came nor word, nor sound,
As the long ranks vanished
In the black profound—

Came no word till Mary
Heard the Angel say—
“Christ the Lord is risen;
The Lord Christ lives to-day!”

From the empty sepulchre
Streamed the Light Divine;
Grave where is thy victory?
Where, O Death, is thine?

Mary Magdalenè,
Hope is born again;
Clear the Day-star rises
To the eyes of men.

Lo! the mists are fleeing!
Shine, O Olivet,
For the crown of promise
On thy brow is set!

Lift your heads, ye mountains!
Clap your hands, ye hills!
Into rapturous singing
Break, ye murmuring rills!

Shout aloud, O forests!
Swell the song, O seas!
Wake, resistless ocean,
All your symphonies!

Wave your palms, O tropics!
Lonely isles, rejoice!
O ye silent deserts,
Find a choral voice!

Winds, on mighty trumpets,
Blow the strains abroad,
While each star in heaven
Hails its risen Lord!

“Alleluia! Alleluia!”—
How the voices ring!
“Alleluia! Alleluia!”
Earth and heaven sing!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Chant his praise alway!
From the sealèd sepulchre
Christ is risen to-day!

THE APPLE-TREE

Graceful and lithe and tall,
It stands by the garden wall,
In the flush of its pink-white bloom
Elate with its own perfume.
Tossing its young bright head
In the first glad joy of May,
While its singing leaves sing back
To the bird on the dancing spray.
“I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries
To the winds and the laughing skies.
Ho! for the gay young apple-tree
That stands by the garden wall!

Sturdy and broad and tall,
Over the garden wall
It spreads its branches wide—
A bower on either side.
For the bending boughs hang low;
And with shouts and gay turmoil
The children gather like bees
To garner the golden spoil;
While the smiling mother sings,
“Rejoice for the gift it brings!
Ho! for the laden apple-tree
That stands by our garden wall!”

The strong swift years fly past,
Each swifter than the last;
And the tree by the garden wall
Sees joy and grief befall.
Still from the spreading boughs
Some golden apples swing;
But the children come no more
For the autumn harvesting.
The tangled grass lies deep
Where the long path used to creep;
Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree
That leans o’er the crumbling wall!

Now generations pass,
Like shadows on the grass.
What is there that remains
For all their toil and pains?
A little hollow place
Where once a hearthstone lay;
An empty, silent space
Whence life hath gone away;
Tall brambles where the lilacs grew,
Some fennel, and a clump of rue,
And this one gnarled old apple-tree
Where once was the garden wall!

THE COMFORTER

How dost thou come, O Comforter?
In heavenly glory dressed,
Down floating from the far-off skies,
With lilies on thy breast?
With silver lilies on thy breast,
And in thy falling hair,
Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven
To this dim, earthly air?

How dost thou come, O Comforter?
With strange, unearthly light,
And mystic splendor aureoled,
In trances of the night?
In lone, mysterious silences,
In visions rapt and high,
And holy dreams, like pathways set
Betwixt the earth and sky?

Not thus alone, O Comforter!
Not thus, thou Guest Divine,
Whose presence turns our stones to bread,
Our water into wine!
Not always thus—for thou dost stoop
To our poor, common clay,
Too faint for saintly ecstasy,
Too impotent to pray.

How does God send the Comforter?
Ofttimes through byways dim;
Not always by the beaten path
Of sacrament and hymn;
Not always through the gates of prayer,
Or penitential psalm,
Or sacred rite, or holy day,
Or incense, breathing balm.

How does God send the Comforter?
Perchance through faith intense;
Perchance through humblest avenues
Of sight, or sound, or sense.
Haply in childhood’s laughing voice
Shall breathe the voice divine,
And tender hands of earthly love
Pour for thee heavenly wine!

How will God send the Comforter?
Thou knowest not, nor I!
His ways are countless as the stars
His hand hath hung on high.
His roses bring their fragrant balm,
His twilight hush its peace,
Morning its splendor, night its calm,
To give thy pain surcease!

SANTA CLAUS

A voice from out of the northern sky:
“On the wings of the limitless winds I fly,
Swifter than thought over mountain and vale,
City and moorland, desert and dale!
From the north to the south, from the east to the west,
I hasten regardless of slumber or rest;
Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast
As I on the wings of the wintry blast!

The wondering stars look out to see
Who he that flieth so fast may be,
And their bright eyes follow my earthward track
By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack.
For I have treasures for high and for low:
Rubies that burn like the sunset glow;
Diamond rays for the crownèd queen;
For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen.

I enter the castle with noiseless feet—
The air is silent and soft and sweet;
And I lavish my beautiful tokens there—
Fairings to make the fair more fair!
I enter the cottage of want and woe—
The candle is out, and the fire burns low;
But the sleepers smile in a happy dream
As I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam.

There’s never a home so low, no doubt,
But I in my flight can find it out;
Nor a hut so hidden but I can see
The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree!
There’s never a home so proud and high
That I am constrained to pass it by,
Nor a heart so happy it may not be
Happier still when blessed by me!

What is my name? Ah, who can tell,
Though in every land ’tis a magic spell!
Men call me that, and they call me this;
Yet the different names are the same, I wis!
Gift-bearer to all the world am I,
Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly;
But the name I bear in the courts above,
My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”

THE ARMORER’S ERRAND
A BALLAD OF 1775

Where the far skies soared clear and bright
From mountain height to mountain height,
In the heart of a forest old and gray,
Castleton slept one Sabbath day—
Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May,
Seventeen hundred and seventy-five.

But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive;
Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!”
Hark to the sound of the fife and drum!
For up from the south two hundred men—
Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen,
While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry
Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!”
Swept into the town with a martial tread,
Ethan Allen marching ahead!

Next day the village was all astir
With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were
Gatherings here and gatherings there,
A feverish heat in the very air,
The ominous sound of tramping feet,
And eager groups in the dusty street.
To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach
(Idle it stood, and its master away);
Blacksmith and armorer stout was he,
First in the fight and first in the breach,
And first in work where a man should be.
“I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said,
“And temper these blades if I lose my head!”

So he wrought away till the sun went down,
And silence fell on the turbulent town;
And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed,
A square of light on the sandy road.
Then over the threshold a shadow fell,
And he heard a voice that he knew right well.
It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knew
Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you!
But listen! more arduous work than this,
Lying in wait for someone is;
And tempering blades is only play
To the task I set for him this day—
Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played
O’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed.
“Say on. I never have shirked,” said he;
“What may this wonderful task-work be?”