Chapter V

I will cherish the dreams I am dreaming tonight,
Will upbuild the old homestead once more,
And perhaps when I'm dead, for another's delight
It will bloom by the Delaware's shore.

REFRAIN.

Norma

A Legend of the Wayne Highlands

Along the lake's wild northern shore
An island dark with trees
Lies shadow-like, and o'er and o'er
At midnight thru a leafy door
Comes music on the breeze,
Sweet music on the breeze,
Where sad-eyed Norma dreams,
And o'er the wave, in thru the trees
The mellow moonlight streams.

And Norma's voice is sweet to hear
As the breathing of a bell;
But while so welcome to the ear
Of any one afar or near,
The notes, O few can tell!
The notes, O few can tell!
Falling so wildly sweet,
Like the mournful ringing of a bell
With the tones still incomplete.

How came this maid upon the isle
Within the Hills of Wayne?
Why sings she sweetly all the while
As if to ease her self-denial?
Why sings she a refrain
At the lonely midnight hour
On an island dark with trees,
Enchanting souls unto her bower
By such sweet melodies?

The legend runs:--That long ago
A lover came to woo,
But left her--why?--(no man doth know)
For while her love like wine did flow
Away from her he drew--
He drew from her away,
While she was left forlorn
And ever (so the legends say)
Did daily for him mourn.

But Norma left her home one night
When all were fast asleep
And angel-like she trod the light
Moonpath across the waters bright
Until she ceased to weep,
Until she ceased to weep,
Singing a sweet, sweet song
That on the lake that lay asleep
The night-wind did prolong.

And after Norma's death, one day
A knock at her father's door
Announced the lad who went away
When both were lovers young and gay,
Who now would love her more
Than any other maid,
Yes, any other maid,
Saying, O where is Norma now,
Where is my sweetheart now?

O Youth, my daughter is not here--
She waited, waited long
To hear the voice she held more dear
Than all the rest--nor could we cheer
Her with another song;
But many hear her sing
By the island,--sing so sweet
That never, never can they bring
The song to me complete.

The lover sadly turned away
And vowed that he would know
The song complete e'er dawn of day
And followed where the moonpath lay
Upon the lake below,
Where Norma sang of love
On the island dark with trees
That cast deep shadows on the cove,
And his heart was ill at ease.

At midnight o'er the moonlit wave
He bent his little boat,
Till he heard the song the soft winds gave,
But if his life that song might save,
He could not tell a note!
He could not learn a note!
Tho' many, and many, and many a night
In the lovely moonpath gleaming bright
He listened from his boat.

But the song he never, never knew
Altho' he listened long,
And so it is--is ever true
When hearts withhold a love long due;
For Love sings one sweet song,
One sweet familiar song,
At thy heart's door today,
And knocking, waits, but waiting long
Forever turns away.

Plant a Tree

The Past unto the Present cries--
Arise, ye more than blind, arise!
For I who fell the forest low
Would now another forest grow,
But what is done I cannot mend,
So unto you a message send--
Much did I do for you, for me
Plant a tree,
Plant a tree.

The Present, waking from its sleep,
Across the hills began to creep,
And saw where Past had fallen far
A noble forest, with a scar
On many a wounded mountain side
That from the elements would hide--
And answered:--Past, I will for thee
Plant a tree,
A forest tree.

The feeling Future, yet unborn,
Heard Present echoing her horn,
And stirring somewhat in Life's cell
Did try her dearest wish to tell,
Whispering in an undertone:
I--I shall reap as ye have sown,
O heed the Past! and--thanks to thee--
Plant a tree,
Plant a tree.

Maid of Shehawken

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true,
I sing a fond farewell,
But, maiden, though I sing adieu,
My love I cannot tell--
My love I cannot tell to thee
For parting gives me pain,
Oh may I in the days to be
Meet with thee once again.

Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair,
Accept my humble praise,
And may thy path be free from care,
Full happy be thy days,
And ever mid the lure of life
Where e'er thy lot may be,
In pleasant paths or weary strife--
Remember, I love thee.

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true,
Tho' far away we roam,
Few places will we find, O few
As sweet as our highland home,
And tho' Life's pathway lead along
The shining streets of gold,
Our lips will never know a song
As sweet as the songs of old.

Maid of Shehawken, dearer far
Than any that I know,
Lighting my pathway like a star,
Afar from thee I go,
But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne
My heart is still with thee,
O maiden, may we meet again
In the days that are to be.

To the Delaware

Cease thy murmuring, Delaware,
For thy many braves so fair
Who are sleeping by thy stream--
Rouse them not--there let them dream.
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.
There, where still the owlets cry
And the solemn night-winds sigh,
Let the victor's head remain
With the spirits of the slain,
Leave the warriors fast asleep
Where the willows o'er them weep,
For thy murmuring, Delaware,
Cannot wake those sleeping there,
For thy voice deep in the foam
Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree
Sleep beneath the self-same tree,
And where warriors small and great,
Share in death a common fate,
Leave the pale-face and the braves
Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high
Try to bridge the endless sky,
And where willows bend like lead
O'er the footprints of the dead--
To each brother slumbering there,
Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

REQUIEM:

Brave!--thy happy days have fled
Into silence with the dead;
Thy canoe, thy well-worn way,
And thy bow are in decay.
And no more thy camp-fires gleam
By thy sweet, complaining stream;
And I mourn thy ruthless fate;
Weeping am I--but too late--
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.

Starlight Lake

Well named thou art, O little lake
Set in among the hills;
Well named art thou,--each star doth make
Reflected forms that fancies wake
And memory fondly fills.

And nightly on the rugged shore
Each cot with ruddy beam
Lights up thy face from pane and door
And throws a stream of silver o'er
Thy bosom like a dream.

Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown,
Fling shadows on thy face,
And to their branch the birds have flown,
Except the owl, whose monotone
The listening ear can trace.

There, where the starlight thickly trails
A path across thy wave,
A passing boat a boatman hails
Whose maiden crew still softly sails
As with a pilot brave.

While from thy shore a lithe canoe
Shoots o'er thy bosom fair,
Leaving behind a milk-white view
As when the beaver paddled thru
Thy waters unaware.

Up rides the moon with rosy rim
All silently and still,
Chasing away the shadows dim
That on thy surface seem to swim
Like wood nymphs from the hill.

Now midnight comes, and on thy shore
No boatman plies his way,
The cottage lights shine forth no more
From window-pane or open door
Where yet thy shadows play.

Silent and strangely still is all;
The stars like candles are,
No echoes on the forest fall,--
Each lonely owl hath ceas'd to call
His wood-mate from afar.

Silent and calmly still is all;
Dim Night is monarch now,
His kingdom is the midnight air,
The forests his attendants fair,
Who, at his bidding, bow--

And stand like sentinels asleep
Beneath the moon's wan beam,
Until Aurora fair doth creep
Above the hill where she doth keep
Bright morn with welcome gleam.

An Inquiry

Speak, O speak, my angel fair,
Is there sadness everywhere--
Folly where the flower feedeth
Rapids where the river leadeth
To delight?

Is there, is there anything
An eternal joy can bring--
What is real and what but seemeth
Like a dream a dreamer dreameth
Thru the night?

Can there be, Angel of Love
Can there be bright homes above--
What is Life--and when it endeth
What is Death--why it descendeth
I implore?

Tell me, Angel, can it be
That thy hand is leading me--
Tell me, are these seraphs singing
Up in heaven, gladness bringing
Evermore?

Twin Lake

In the Wayne Highlands

The shadows fall on Twin Lake fair
As crimson sets the Autumn sun;
A holy hush is on the air
Of eventide and day is done.

No zephyrs kiss the little lake;
So still and calm is either shore,
That on her face dim shadows wake
And deepen ever more and more.

And where the long-leaf laurels grow
A cuckoo sounds the hour of rest,
And fondly answering far below
Its mate is calling from her nest.

Now comes the twilight, calm and still,
And, with a cloak of sable hue,
Half hides the lake and upland hill
That faint and fainter fades from view.

And through the broken web of night
Each stalwart star with even ray
Reflects upon the lake a light
To guide a boatman on his way.

And soon the massive moon doth ride
Athwart the pine trees' heavy shade,
That doth her fiery chariot hide,
As an apparent halt is made.

And sweetly from a maiden fair
In yon canoe that skirts the shore
A laugh rings out upon the air
And echoes softly o'er and o'er

Till dying on the distant hill,
An evening silence settles far,--
A quietness, so calm, so still,
With rising moon and silent star--

That peace, sweet peace subdues the soul,
While on the clear and pensive air
The bells of Como softly toll
The ever-sacred hour of prayer.

The Man Who Swears

It is often, yes, often that the man who swears
Is a man who dares and a man who cares;
For the gentle voice and the eye of blue
Will sometimes tell of a heart less true
Than the rough, cold voice and manner stern--
And you some day this truth will learn:--
That often, yes, often that the man who swears
Is a man who dares and a man who cares.

When you are sick with fever and pain,
Who comes to ease your weary brain?
Is it the friend with the eyes of blue
And gentle voice that comes to you,
Or, is it the one with manner cold
And voice so stern and ways so bold,
That presses a hand on your fevered brow
And soothes your troubled spirits now.

When you are down and your friends are few,
Who is it comes to comfort you?
Is it the one with eyes so mild
And voice as sweet as a little child--
Is it the one with gentle way
That comes to you and dares to say:--
So sorry, friend; say, here's my hand,
I'll do your bidding; now just command?

When in misfortune you need a friend
Who will fight for you to the bitter end--
Is it always the one who speaks quite low
And fears to say what he knows, is so,
Or is it the man who speaks his mind
And shows some mettle--and hardly kind
Whose heart is cold until your woe
Melts an entrance as the sun melts snow?

I would not say that swearing is right
But I say some men are willing to fight--
It is wrong indeed for a man to swear,
And I envy no one's weakness there--
Still I believe, with me you would say
While one will swear and another pray
You would follow the man who is willing to dare
Tho one might pray and the other swear.

The Glen

Here Nature's nice adjusted tool
Hath cut a chasm; and each pool
Reflects a narrow, rocky room
Where sun-born flowers seldom bloom,
But where the ledging, level shelves
Betray the dance hall of the elves.

And overhead the tasseled trees
Frown from the wall, and with each breeze
Awake the solemn avenue,
But hide from sight the upward view,
When with a hundred harps they sing
To Boreas their mighty king.

Here Echo dwells in lonely mood,
And answers to the dying wood;
Unsuited to a varying rhyme
She hath no voice for tuneful Time
Content to speak as she hath heard
The lyric wind, the singing bird.

Here these same falls awoke the glen
Long, long before the march of men;
Long, long before yon broken soil
Brought forth the fruit of human toil
And here these falls will dance and play
When feeling man has passed away.

Sing little Falls; and echo Glen,
Till silent are the songs of men
And they that dwell upon the earth
Have disappeared as at thy birth
And senseless Rock--if think ye can,
Think ye--how short the life of man!

Hope

Kind guardian of the Lonely Shore,
And Sorrow's true and only friend,
Comforting angel of the poor--
What heavenly spirit did descend
With passive voice, with ways unknown,
Within thy very self complete?
O Hope, when left at last alone
We fall a suppliant at thy feet
And worship there, with heart forlorn
From childhood's land of make-believe,
Through early youth, the brightening morn,
Till tottering age, the fading eve.

And who could walk without thee, friend?
Who walk dim paths without thy hand?
From out the world shouldst thou ascend
Blind Poverty would stalk the land;
Despair would seize some simple knave
And Hatred every evil one,--
O Hope, for more would seek the grave
Without thy timely vision shown:--
The sick upon the lowly bed;
The blind a-begging as of yore;
The weeping child who works unfed;
The prisoner by the fatal door,
All, led along, still cling below
To feel thy subtle charms so free,
As wearily, drearily on they go,
Following, following after thee.

And when upon Life's field they fall,
When Disappointment reigns supreme,
Thy voice, omnipotent, would call
E'en from the dust their fondest dream;
Would call and wake the slumbering thought,
And point it to some great ideal
While adding all, but taking naught
From out the present, living real.
Then, Hope, thou sentinel of light
By Disappointment's lonely shore,
Speak out amid the depth of night
And guide us safely evermore.

Lines to Liars

Let lawyers harp about the law,
And all its majesty and might;
They find in every case a flaw
And think they're right.

Let politicians praise the truth
And laud its virtue to the sky--
They practice from their very youth
To give the lie.

Let prophets send the saints to heaven
And damn poor sinners e'en to hell--
How such authority is given
They cannot tell.

Let doctors prate of human pain
Alleviated by their skill,
When Death's dull sickness comes, in vain
Is every pill.

Let poets pipe of bloody war
And claim its carnal method right;
They're only piping cowards, for
Not one will fight.

And so it seems we mortals boast
Of knowledge where we know the least
And show our ignorance the most
Like any beast.

Fooling

He was a lad--a tender boy,
And she--she held him as her toy,
And when she wearied of his way
And would with other playthings play,
I heard him say beneath his breath:--
A fool am I; it is my death--
She jilted me--the little lass,--
I will not let such fooling pass
But shift at once some bitter dart
Back--back again into her heart,
But then thought he--All those who play
With fools are fools as well as they,
And so he made a living rule:--
It takes a fool to fool a fool.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Comet and Other Verses, by Irving Sidney Dix