Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Thou hast been a kindly year,
Thou hast spared us many a tear,
Thou hast vanquished many a fear,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
Lightly touched by summer showers,
Budding hopes have grown to flowers,
Happy days have flown like hours,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.

Many a lesson thou hast taught,
Precious favors thou hast brought,
Pleasant changes thou hast wrought,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.

Now thy rule is near an end,
Thy last records have been penned,
We must part at last, true friend.
_Fare thee well, Old Year._

Close and seal the book of fate,
With whate’er it may relate,
Sin and goodness, love and hate,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
One more volume is complete,
Take it to the Mercy Seat,
Lay it at the Master’s feet,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.

REFRAIN.

_Fare thee well, Old Year,
Fare thee well, Old Year,
Thou hast been a faithful friend,
Fare thee well, Old Year._

PEGASUS.

If you find Pegasus a steed
Scornful of your control,
Who canters well enough, indeed,
But will not caracole,
So much the better, poet mine,
’Tis bottom wins the race.
Let poetasters prance, in fine;
Keep you the steady pace.

Let poetasters hunt for sound,
Chase metres, out of breath;
Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,
Nor fame in at the death.
So, let your Pegasus be free
To hunt some thought sublime,
While you sit still, with clinging knee,
And gallop simple rhyme.

Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,
There’s nothing like the hunt,
The good horse straining at the girth,
The clear-tongued hounds in front.

And if your Pegasus can bear
You well before the rout,
Don’t curb and make him beat the air;
Loose rein, and let him out.

Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,
With ornate language wrought,
Its cadences, though sweet indeed,
But hide the lack of thought.
Be yours the poem that can stand
From trappings wholly free,
Each thought a Phryne, to be scanned
In fearless nudity.

IT WOULD BE EASY TO BE GOOD.

Who walks the paths of righteousness
Or follows ways of evil,
Who knows the joys that angels bless
Or sin’s insensate revel,
At last, too well has understood
Sin is not worth a feather.--
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.

Waiving the conscience we offend,
And weighing but the pleasure,
Though we all sinful joys might blend,
They make a sorry treasure.
The loftiest joys must be subdued,
The soul we fain must tether.--
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.

Oh, would that man might give free scope
To every gentle feeling!
The soul would realize its hope
Its noblest side revealing.

Would man might trust man’s brotherhood
In calm and stormy weather.--
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.

If no one schemed to do a wrong,
No need for wrong were given;
If each his neighbor helped along,
This earth would be a heaven;
If men once met in rectitude,
Farewell, the regions nether.--
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.

THE LITTLE TROOPER.

Swift troopers twain ride side by side
Throughout life’s long campaign.
They make a jest of all man’s pride,
And oh, the havoc! As they ride,
They cannot count their slain.

The one is young and debonair,
And laughing swings his blade.
The zephyrs toss his golden hair,
His eyes are blue; he is so fair
He seems a masking maid.

The other is a warrior grim,
Dark as a midnight storm.
There is no man can cope with him.
We shrink and tremble in each limb
Before his awful form.

Yet though men fear the sombre foe
More than the gold-tressed youth,
The boy with every careless blow
More than the trooper grim lays low,
And causes earth more ruth.

Keener his mocking sword doth prove
Than flame or winter’s breath.
Men bear his wounds to the realm above,
For the little trooper’s name is Love,
His comrade’s only Death.

CUPID’S DISGUISES.

Dan Cupid wears disguises.
We never see his form,
Till suddenly he surprises
And takes the heart by storm.

He hides at times in the blushes
That tinge a cheek so fair,
Or oft in the moonlit hushes
In a sweet voice on the air.

Sometimes he’s in the dancing
Of mirth in azure eyes,
Sometimes in the curve entrancing
Of lips that part in sighs.

And sometimes in the glimmer
Of arm, rich lace beneath;
Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer,
Sometimes in the peep of teeth.

Oh, he’s a little bandit,
And bold as bold can be.
He leads us, single-handed,
Into captivity.

For none is a match for Cupid.
He swifter is than thought.
The keenest mind is but stupid
When he begins to plot.

MUSIC.

Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,
And yet so few it satisfies
That man fain dreams life is complete
Only beyond the skies.

And like the mystic cloud of fire
That guided Israel’s way by night,
Every unsatisfied desire
Leads man towards the right.

Around him, mingling with the dust,
Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;
Hope, virtue, charity and trust
Amid life’s deserts die.

Fade aspirations, fades each dream
Of goodness, honor and renown.
Man floats on a polluted stream,
Which fain would drag him down.

But music, like the nightingale
That sweetly sings in woodland brakes,
When hope and trust and virtue fail,
Man’s nobler nature wakes.

Only in music doth man find
An echo of the dreams of youth,
When he saw gods among mankind,
In woman only truth.

BABY’S STOCKING.

Baby’s dainty little stocking
Hangs beside his wicker cot,
Darling mother’s wishes mocking
And the treasures she has brought.

For it is so small that never
Gift can find a place inside.
Was there doting mother ever
So distressed at Christmas tide?

Baby’s eyes are closed and dreaming
Of the gentle mother face;
Baby’s hands are clasped and seeming
Interlocked in fond embrace.

Baby’s lips are softly smiling,
And the Rubicon of youth
He has passed, for lo! beguiling
Mother’s kisses, peeps a tooth.

Naught for gifts is baby caring.
Santa Claus has many a gem,
But, God’s love and mother’s sharing,
Baby has no need of them.

MY DIVINITY.

I am a god; yes, I,--
(Smile, if you will, at the claim)
Mote though I am in the ambient sky,
Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame,
Still, a divinity.

My sceptre I claim, and, perchance,
My altars as well,--who knows?
You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance,
You know my radius. Well, suppose
You pipe, I dance.

Am I the Primary Cause?
That’s my affair, not my creatures’.
Did I create nature’s adamant laws,
Or am I but one of her manifold features?
Fellow gods can pick flaws!

But the little corpuscles of blood
I create by millions each hour,
Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood,
As each lives its life, can my limits and power
Declare understood?

Alone in the grey of my brain
I sit and my universe rule.
What can they know of their god, though they fain
Question, perhaps, each contemptible fool,
What joy is, why pain?

Do they brag of their universe, boast,
Worsting some hostile bacillus,
Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost,
Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?”
What fate has each ghost?

Perfecting some large thought that may
Move the earth that I dwell on,
A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay.
Am I annoyed if they call me a felon!
It is I, or they.

My work, for their sake, shall I cease,
My very nature disjoint?
Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace?
Must I miracle work for a microscope point,--
Corpuscles to please?

We are not one, we are twain,
Yet are we one and not two.
They are the universe, I am the brain,
In and about them, knit through and through,--
Chords in one strain.

In common we have, at least, this,
Creator and creature, that we
Must rise to the height of our powers, or miss
Life’s best for ourselves, and each other decree
Frustrate of bliss.

* * * * *

Is, now, this godhead of mine,
My limits, this difference vast
Between creature and maker, a symbol? In fine
Is mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massed
Through the Divine?

THE SLEEPING SOUL.

Will ever thy soul awake,
Awake and come smiling to greet my own?
Will ever the love-light break
From thine eyes upon me, like the sun
On the billows that shoreward run,
Into foam by the winds of the ocean blown?

To me seems thy pure soul sleeping.
Thou hast in thy heart a bird,
But its head is under its wing.
I watch it and think with weeping
How sweet a song it might sing;
Yet by love it is never stirred.

Oft in the hush of a drowsy night
I dream that I hear that low bird voice
Lilting so merrily,
Singing so cheerily,
Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice;
But alas, takes flight
My dream before the dawn’s lance of light.

Alas, it is not for me
To kiss thy soul, as the prince in story
Kissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips,
And to a life-love waken thee.
Round thee there is a maiden glory
Fairer than circles the sun that dips
Into the sea while chill night comes creeping
Slowly, silently through the sky;
But as well might I
Reach out my hand to the sun and try
To make his glory my very own
As think to touch with my finger tips
Thy glorious beauty that shrinks from me.

THE MOTHER.

Down the bright pathway of life, where joy, like the throstle, was
singing,
She passed, like a sungleam at dawn, through mistlands of sorrows
and fears,
Seeking the soul of the babe at her bosom now nursing and clinging,
And stood in the valley of death, gloomed with the shadow of tears.

Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortal
Who dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life.
Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal,
Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her
strife.

Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow,
Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred;
But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed
meadow,
Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was
the Lord.

Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways
of heaven,
Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams,
On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven,
And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of
her dreams.

PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH.

Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate;
Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late;
Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you.
So soon they wither, do not hesitate,
Lest you should gather roses not, but rue.
Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate,
And love turns hate.

Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat;
To age not even the rose itself is sweet,
Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great,
Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit.
Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings Fate
Than memory of scorned joys crushed by our feet
In flight too fleet.

O FOOLISH HEART.

O foolish heart, to flutter so
With hope and fear;
O treacherous blush, to come and go
When he is near;
Why do ye to the world reveal
The passion I would fain conceal?

O ears, that love to hear him speak;
O downcast eyes,
Whose lashes droop upon each cheek,
Nor dare to rise;
Do ye not know she sees and hears
Fond looks and words that cost me tears?

Be brave, mine heart, if he despise,
Give scorn for scorn;
Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,--
Yet soul, why mourn?
Though she may claim him for her own,
My love, my love is mine alone.

MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER.

My heart’s a merry rover,
Though innocent of wrong;
Forever beauty’s lover,
Yet never constant long.

When coral lips are pouting,
Their smiling to disguise,
He kneels and loves, not doubting
They are his richest prize.

Yet when, amid his dreaming,
He spies a bosom fair,
At once the rogue is scheming
To gain admittance there;

Though should he see the tresses
That frame a pretty head,
His love and his caresses
He spends on them instead.

Then, if bright eyes confuse him
With many a saucy stare,
The lips, the curls, the bosom
Must mourn their worshipper.

And yet this merry rover
Is nothing if not true,
He’s but one maiden’s lover,
And, dearest, she is you.

THE CIGARETTE SMOKER.

Mark her as she stands,
Blue eyes bright, match alight,
Shielding with her hands
The growing flame,
Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips,
The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure,
Cigarette by name.

There! it makes her cough.
If she smoke, must she choke
When blue whirls come off?
Now she denies
The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss,
Holds it burning, to ash turning,
Till at last it dies.

Thus she lit my heart,
By the fell magic spell
Of love’s witching art,
And just as I
Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire,
Let my yearning and heart-burning
Into ashes die.

TAKE ME AS YOU FIND ME.

Take me as you find me,
Take me so,
Else from love unbind me,
Let me go.

Two twin gifts God gave me,
Body and soul;
These shall lose or save me,
As years roll.

I can never alter;
I must wend
Onward, thus, nor falter
To the end.

If you love, then, love me,
Sweetheart, so
You’ll not look above me,
Nor below.

AT THE TRYST.

The evening stars are shining
Amid the gloom of air,
Like gold and jewels twining
Among thy golden hair.

They guard the dawn’s shut portal
And count the moments fleet,--
O maiden, we are mortal,
Why hasten not thy feet?

The moonlight and the shadows
Are wooing by the stream,
And far across the meadows
Thy windows brightly gleam.

My eager heart is beating
Beneath the trysting tree,
The evening hours are fleeting,
Why com’st thou not to me?

SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA.

ON A FLASK OF WATER.

_Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal._

From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,
The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,
I come to shores where, through the golden air,
Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.
From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preys
On women, wan with torture and despair,
I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,
Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.

From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,
A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,
I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,
Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.
I come where East and West stand face to face,
The childhood and the manhood of the race.

SPRING IN THE SOUTH.

Through the quaint southern winter without snow,
Without an icy blast or chilling air,
When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,
The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.

The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,
The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,
Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,
Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.

Then come the rains, and in their cortege bring
Streams to the canyons, and to ranch and glen
Wild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein rides
The bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,
Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sides
A blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.

A WINTER DAY.

_In the Sierras._

O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’en
Was risen to flood each sombre peak with light,
Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,
Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls between
They swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.
Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,
As though the vast hills boasted of their might,
Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.

Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and came
Across the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!
On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,
Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,
A vision of the unforgotten North
’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.

_In the Valley._

Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,
Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scent
With the faint odor of the snow is blent.
Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,
And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.
The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,
Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,
But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.

Summer is in the vale, though in the heights
The bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.
Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delights
Sun and soft winds through many a golden day
In many an Eden valley, nestling warm
Below the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.

THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE.

_Sierra Madre, Cal._

Ere yet the Spanish cavalier
For this new world set sail,
Ere yet the padres came anear
San Gabriel’s sunny vale,
Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men
Across the western hills,
I rippled down this rocky glen,
The happiest of rills.

The shadows of the spreading oak
Oft lay upon my breast;
Oft through the brown madronas broke
The bear upon his quest.
Past starry yuccas, to my brink,
At many a crimson dawn,
The mountain lion came to drink,
And oft a timid fawn.

The golden moments came and went
Of many a sunny year,
And still I rippled on, content
And solitary here.
At times a weary miner came
And quaffed my cooling stream,
At times I saw the camp-fire flame
Of hardy hunters gleam.

Though oft I paused to hear some bird
Trill in the leaves above,
A maid I never saw nor heard,
Nor knew the name of love.
Oh, there was never rivulet
So merry in a glen;
But now I never can forget,
Nor merry be again.

She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,
The dizzy trail along.
Upon my ferny marge she stood
And listened to my song.
I saw her, and I leapt for glee
In many a lucent wave,
And when she stooped to drink from me,
My very heart I gave.

She passed, and now no more I sing
Among the granite hills;
Instead, my ceaseless murmuring
The sombre canyon fills.
Oh! ye to whom that maid divine
Hath also heartless been,
Come join your mournful plaint with mine,
The pool of Sant’ Oline.

WINTER IN THE SOUTH.

At home the blossoms are asleep
Beside the frost-bound rills;
At home the snow is drifting deep
Upon the windy hills;
At home the ice king mocks the sun,
The woods are drear and bare,
And of the birds there is not one
Left singing anywhere.

But here the fields are green with grain,
The mesas bright with flowers.
The birds repeat each dulcet strain
They learned in Eden’s bowers.
’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees
Have mingled odorous blooms,
And here and there the eager bees
Hum through the golden glooms.

The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,
Stand knee deep in the green,
Like patriarchs smiling as they go
Blithe groups of youth between.
Behind them is the burning sand
Of the Mojave[A] waste;
Before, the warm Pacific strand,
By golden seas embraced.

When in the palm tree’s shade I rest
Through a many a perfect day,
My heart would fain forget life’s quest,
And live in dreams alway;
But when upon the snow-clad hills
Mine eyes again look forth,
I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,
Stern homeland in the north!

Give me the seasons of the year,
The bursting of the leaf,
The northern summer brief but dear,
And autumn’s golden sheaf.
Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,
With snow and storm at strife.
The south is a bewitching dream,
But in the north is life.

THE KINDERGARTEN.

O blossoming lives that to the fruits
Now ripened for the gathering in,
Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits
Touched the new soul with taint of sin,

We who now watch you at your game,
We, weary of the toil and strife,
Must envy you your scorn of fame,
Your eager, loving trust in life.

Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles
His blocks unsteadily in air,
May yet a minster build, whose aisles
Shall echo to a nation’s prayer.

Perchance, the child that scarce can tell
The letters on his cubes of wood,
May yet with a poetic spell
Charm and uplift the multitude.

They question not, they only live
To pluck the blossoms of each hour.
Ambition frets them not, they give
No thought to pomp or place or power.

We too have toys, and we pursue
Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh
Because our blocks are built askew,
And our best hopes in ruins lie.

Yet over us, as over these,
A teacher watches, true and kind,
Striving to guide our fantasies,
And patient with the groping mind.

From flower of wisdom unto flower
He leads us, as these babes are led,
Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,
The prizes won, the lessons said.

And happy he who in this school
Of life, that fits the soul for death,
Has learned to serve as well as rule,
And speak for truth with every breath.

THE POET.

The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn
Attains perfection through the sun-swept day,
And poets, to life’s highest mission born,
By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.

And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,
That in the open casement sighs or sings,
The poet soul is void of melodies
Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.

Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,
Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,
Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours
Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone.

And oft his numbers falter, and his song
In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again
The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,
And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.

And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh
His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;
And in the warfare between soul and flesh
His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.

But should he cease to wage the upward strife,
Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,
Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,
Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.

For the true poet, throwing down his gage
To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,
And with the broadened vision of the sage
Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.

He learns that all who would be truly great
Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,
But take such trials as are given by Fate
And set them to sweet music by their art.

He only is a poet who can find
In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,
Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind
By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.

GOLD TRESSES.

My love is now a woman grown.
About her shoulders fall no more
Her locks, in beauty all their own.
Their days of liberty are o’er.

No longer may, with soft caress,
The zephyr’s unseen hand uplift
Each net-like, golden-threaded tress
To catch the sunlight’s moted drift.

I know each tress, and have a name
Whereby my memory holds it dear,
From that which is her forehead’s frame
To that which hides her shelly ear.

And one there is I loved to touch,
On which my heart first suffered wreck,
That sometimes fell aside too much
And showed the ivory of her neck.

And though ’tis bound upon her head
And all its beauty hid from me,
Still other charms I see instead,
And still am in captivity.

I see the grace of neck and ear
Unveiled, that erst beneath the tress
But peeped, as pearly sea shells peer
Through ocean’s weedy wilderness.

Ye captive tresses that disdained
My love, and wantoned in the wind,
I know your grief, for I was chained
Her slave ere ye were thus confined.

She hath but gloried in our love,
And laughs to find us strain our gyves.
Come, let us slaves unite and prove
That power to break her bond survives.

Aid me with love her heart to chain,
And soon, when she and I are wed,
My hands shall set ye free again
To wanton sweetly round her head.

EN ROUTE.

By town and hamlet, field and wood,
Past glimpses of empurpled hills,
O’er many a broad, sun-smitten flood
And many a myriad tinkling rills,
The train swings on and brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
While I to chafe at time am fain,
Which holds me sundered from thy smile.

I see among the emerald trees
Embowered, the village church spires gleam;
I see white homestead front the breeze,
And of our own sweet home I dream;
While still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
And fewer moments yet remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.

The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,
Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,
Nor lift their heads, as past we run,
The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Till scarce a moment doth remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.

Onward we sweep, yet all our speed
Leaves not pursuing night behind;
Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,
And homeward plods the weary hind;
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Until my heart is home again
And I am basking in thy smile.

AT DAWN.

At dawn of day a shaft of light
Pierces the sable breast of night,
Which, dropping many a sable plume,
Flits far into the nether gloom,
All silently.

At dawn of day the sun’s first beam
Dispels the mist that hides the stream,
And scatters from the hill and wood
The clouds that there did sit and brood,
Formless and grey.

And when the night from earth is driven,
And clouds and mist have fled from heaven,
The waking birds take eager flight
Up through the golden rain of light,
With happy song.

Into my life, that knew no day,
A maiden winged a kindly ray,
And, flying wearily and slow,
Far fled the sombre bird of woe
I harbored long.

My heart no longer pined in night,
The mists that hid hope’s stream took flight,
Life’s hills a sunnier aspect took,
And I found many a pleasant nook
Within life’s grove.

And now my thoughts, like birds, arise,
Singing, towards the golden skies,
Afar from earthly doubt and strife,
Through the pure radiance of her life,
On wings of love.

MY STAR.

There is a star in the pure ether high,
My other home it is,
Whereto, when sorrow threatens me, I fly,
And in my flight towards the vaulted sky
The hated sorrows roll
Down from my fleet-winged soul,
As from the sea gull’s circling form the spray
Drops to the storm-vext bay
Its pinions erst did kiss.

Well said the Seer, that overstudy brought
A weariness of the flesh;
And oft my brain, worn with its overthought,
Watches the night steal past, while sleep comes not.
Then doth my star arise
Slowly before my eyes,
Steady, serene and cold, yet heavenly bright,
And, while my grief takes flight,
Binds all my thoughts in leash.

No longer fear and discontent combine
To make my future drear,
For I arise and from that star of mine
Look down and see our small earth dimly shine;
And all life’s joy and pain
Their proper worth obtain,
And I to smile at all past fears begin,
For earth’s discordant din
Is stilled, and God I hear.

TO A PICTURE.

O stately head, O rippling grace
Of tresses flowing free,
O dark-eyed, queenly, thoughtful face,
Awake and comfort me.

Since love can thrill with noble zeal
The meanest of us all,
It may thy glorious form reveal,
Thy tender soul recall.

Then come thou from thy gilded cage
And nestle by my side,
And I will be thy faithful page,
If thou wilt be my bride.

Come, trustful eyes, and trust in me,
O sweet one, heed my cry;
Speak sad, sweet mouth, I wait for thee
To bid me live or die.

Tell me no artist’s god-like mind
To thy fair face gave birth,
But that his vision I may find
Alive upon this earth.

And I will seek her far and wide,
In palace and in cot,
And love shall once more conquer pride,
And she shall share my lot.

THE POET AND HIS RHYMES.

Whoever reads a poet’s rhyme
To find the poet there,
Might equally essay to climb
To castles in the air.

He lives not in reality,
Or rather, lives too much.
He makes a forest of a tree,
A palace of a hutch.

To-day a transient pang appears
His life’s eternal sorrow,
But he is laughing through his tears
And full of joy to-morrow.

For if there’s oft a germ of truth,
The flower is fancy’s own.
’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth,
And his is still unknown.

And sometimes in his happiest days,
Without excuse or cause,
He pens the mournfullest of lays,
To win the world’s applause.

And from the saddest heart, at times,
The merriest stanzas flow.
Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymes
The poet’s heart to know.

TO AN INFANT.

O little one, new born,
I would I were like thee;
Then were this whole world’s scorn
And praise alike to me.

Then would I look on life
As do thine azure eyes,
And know how vain its strife,
How paltry what we prize.

Tradition cannot claim
Dominion over thee,
Nor fear the pinions maim
Of thy young soul and free.

All things to thee are new.
Thy mind runs in no groove.
Thou dost both false and true
Question alike, and prove.

Thou art no shadowy soul,
But the incarnate “I”,
And thou wilt reach thy goal,
Or failing, thou wouldst die.

Indomitable will
That makes us all obey,--
If I were childlike still,
I were more man to-day.

TO SCOTLAND.

Miles upon miles of ocean
’Twixt Scotland roll and me.
Its hills and dales I have not seen,
And scarce expect to see.
The homestead of my fathers
The keen ploughshare has torn,
And where the hearth once welcomed all
Waves now the golden corn.

Oh, Canada, my country,
My love for thee is deep,
Yet I fain would see the old church-yard
Where my forefathers sleep.
And fondly, ever fondly,
My heart in secret yearns,
That its songs may find a welcome
In the bonnie land of Burns.

Upon the Scottish heather
I opened not my eyes,
I cannot speak the sweet Scotch tongue,
Remote my pathway lies;
Yet Scotland, mother Scotland,
Though fate us twain may part,
I claim my heritage of thee,
For I have the Scottish heart.

ROSINA VOKES.

The years may come, the years may go,
And many a song be sung
Across the footlight’s golden glow
By many a silvery tongue,
But though new divas charm the ear,
Still memory shall recall
One song we nevermore shall hear:
“His ’art was true to Poll.”

For who that hath the singer’s heart
Will care to sing that song
To those whom She, with witching art,
Had held in thrall so long?
Let other songs our pulses stir,
Delight us with them all,
But leave unsung for sake of her
“His ’art was true to Poll.”

Time was when every heart beat high,
Each lip was wreathed in smiles
To hear her sing that melody
With all her witching wiles;
But now, ’twould be no song of mirth,
’Twould bid the sad tears fall,
For though She dwells no more on earth,
Our ’arts are true to Poll.

A LITTLE MAID.

I know a maid beyond compare
For virtue sweet and beauty rare.
Her eyes are turquoise and her hair
Is sunlight netted.

She has her lovers, great and small,
The quiet student, wise and tall,
The child that hugs its battered doll,--
By them she’s petted.

Her heart seems ever warm and gay,
In smiles and kindly words, each day,
She scatters round her on life’s way
Love beyond measure.

The wild flowers, as she passes by,
Bloom sweeter for her being nigh;
The bird that mounts into the sky
Sings for her pleasure.

Her sorrows she is wont to hide,
Her joys she shares on every side;
She is her doting mother’s pride,
Her father’s jewel.

If we, who style this world so bad,
But strove, like her, to make it glad,
Life then would seem by far less sad,
Nor half so cruel.

SAMSON AND DELILAH.

Thou art o’erbold, Delilah, thus to try
Thy traitorous arts upon a soul like mine,
And lure me to eternal slavery
With glances warm like wine.

One clasp of my strong hands at will could break
Thy tender body, like a fragile flower.
How darest thou prey of my heart to make,
And plot against my power?

Hast thou no fear the brute in me will rise,
Wrathful, and tear thy shapely limbs apart,
And dull the jewelled lustre of thine eyes,
And still thy faithless heart?

Why dost thou let me look upon thy face,
And see myself embowered in thine eyes,
And every curve of thy lithe figure trace
Beneath thy robe’s disguise.

What harm have I wrought thee that thou shouldst stand
And menace all my life with one great woe?
Thou hast me in the hollow of thy hand--
Take me or let me go!

MY LADY’S BONNET.

My lady has a stylish bonnet,
Bedecked with ribands, gay and bright,
And with a song bird perched upon it,
With tiny wings outspread for flight.

Its little beak is opened wide,
As though in its most joyous trill
The harmless thing had suddenly died.
One waits to hear it carol still.

My lady has a tender heart,
She feeds the poor, instructs the young,
At tale of woe her tears will start,
And words of kindness throng her tongue.

My lady’s eyes are full of glee,
But cloud and with just anger flash
If in her walk she chance to see
Some poor beast cringe beneath the lash.

My lady has a stylish bonnet,
Bedecked with ribands gay and bright,
But with a slaughtered bird upon it.--
My gentle lady, is this right?

FLOWERS AND FEARS.

She had been in the fields at play
Through golden summer hours,
And brought with her, at close of day,
A cluster of wild flowers.

And when she slept, we went to see
The little one at rest,
Our own sweet flower, and there, ah, me!
The flowers lay on her breast.

Her little brow was smooth and white,
Her merry eyes were closed,
She smiled, as though some heavenly sprite
Whispered as she reposed.

She looked so pure, so white, so fair
Below the ominous flowers,
She seemed a blossom plucked from care
To bloom in heavenly bowers.

And oh, the whelming flood of pain,
The sudden sense of dearth!
We kissed her o’er and o’er again,
And brought her back to earth.

THE ROSEBUD.

In my garden a rosebud is growing, is growing,
So fast, ’twill be blossoming soon.
Around it the zephyrs are balmily blowing,
The sweet scented zephyrs of June,
Of June,
The odorous zephyrs of June.

My love shall watch o’er, and protect, and protect it,
While shyly its petals unfold.
The bees shall not rob nor the canker affect it,
Nor night make it tremble with cold,
With cold,
Nor night make it shudder with cold.

And when it is blown, I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it
To her whom I worship alone.
On her beauteous bosom she’ll lay it and wear it
And rival its charms by her own,
Her own,
And shame all its grace by her own.

NIL DESPERANDUM.

Life with life is woven in.
Neither sorrow nor delight,
Neither nobleness nor sin,
Known to one
But falls upon
All men with its grace or blight.

He who sinks into despair,
He who from his task recoils,
Makes his fellow-laborers bear
On life’s road
A heavier load.
Some one for each sluggard toils.

What though failure crown our task!
’Tis the portal to success.
Often Fortune wears a mask.
Face the strife
And live your life;
Be no coward in distress!

FLESH AND SPIRIT.

Say what you will,
If love would have its fill,
Though it may feed long on the one dear face,
It never is content, save in embrace.

Say what you will,
Though passion have its fill,
It never is content, nor has delight,
If love come not to sanctify the rite.

Harmonious flesh and spirit,
These only shall inherit
The joys of earth, and in the dread To Be
Not death itself shall break that unity.

Woe to the narrow heart
Would strive these twain to part;
Look down the ages, through the world’s mad din,
This is the one unpardonable sin.

IN CHURCH.

I never feel so near to God and heaven
As when I kneel in worship at thy side,
And hear thy humble prayer to be forgiven
For sake of Him who for our saving died.

And though I do not mingle with thy prayer
Plea of my own, but, silent, bow my head,
So close our souls are knit, I seem to share
The bounteous blessings God on thee doth shed.

I hear the choir their joyous praises singing,
But not their voices soften my flint heart;
Thine only in my inmost soul is ringing,
Bidding peace enter, grief and sin depart.

And as the music through my pulse is stealing,
The rampart of my pride a ruin falls,
Even as of old the Jewish trumpets’ pealing
Shook down of haughty Jericho the walls.

SUCCOR THE CHILDREN.

Wan hands that never grasped a flower,
Ears stranger to the wild bird’s song,
To rule, where shall they find the power?
How wage life’s battle, right the wrong?

When the great hour of duty comes,
How shall they meet the mighty toil,
Whose blood is tainted by the slums,
Whose ears know but the street’s turmoil?

Succor the children of the street,
And teach them in the fields to play,
Nor let them in the stifling heat
Of crowded cities fade away;

That, when we drop the thread of life
And, dreamless, sleep beneath the sod,
They may be ready for the strife
That brings this planet nearer God.

THE SUNSET LESSON.

I watched the sun one summer eve
Sink slowly in the west,
And the quiet sea and fleecy clouds
In rosy robes were dressed.

I saw the evening glide away,
Yet still the sea and sky,
As faint the star-zoned twilight grew,
Were full of majesty.

And as, upon the breezy hill,
I turned to sky and sea,
Methought that nature spake and bade
My spirit guileless be,

That, as the deepening shades of age
Close round me, like the night,
The memory of my past might still
Life’s evening gild with light.

AS FROM THE NECTAR-LADEN LILY.

As from the nectar-laden
Lily the wild bee sips,
A British queen, sweet maiden,
Drained with her loving lips
The poison that was filling
Her husband’s veins with death,
Her love with new life thrilling
His heart with each drawn breath.

Not less thy love, sweet maiden,
Nor less thy bravery,
For when I came, o’erladen
With poisoned hopes, to thee,
With smiles and shy caresses
The venom thou didst drain,
And, healing my distresses,
Didst give new life again.

MUMMY THOUGHTS.

Once those who sought for relics of the past
Stumbled by chance on an Etrurian tomb,
And saw a monarch sitting in the gloom,
Sceptred and crowned. Their eager hearts beat fast,
And on the masonry themselves they cast,
To seize the wonder. As, throughout the room,
The axe stroke rang, it knelled the monarch’s doom.
He fell to dust, and left them all aghast.

So, oft while searching through the realms of mind,
I have discovered many a kingly thought,
In solitary grandeur throned and crowned,
And striven to bear it forth, only to find
That, when the first stroke of my pen did sound,
It fell to dust, and lo! I had it not.

TO CERTAIN NATURE POETS.

Friends,--such I call ye, for it is not meet
To hail ye brethren in the tuneful art,
Since I but falter, though of earnest heart,--
Friends, I have thought, reading your measures sweet,
Your verses, though with many a charm replete,
Were bettered did they some high thought impart,
Or in man’s conscience plant a sudden dart.
Why proffer roses when the world craves wheat?

Who paints a picture hath ill done his task,
If he show not the soul in that he paints.
Why give to mere description all your lays
While what the eye beholds is but a mask
To some grand truth the poet’s hand should raise,
Revealing that for which man’s spirit faints.

THE PATRIARCH’S DEATH.

The birds that twitter in the budding trees
And build their nests in some umbrageous grove,
Through early summer guard the young they love,
And fill the air with tuneful melodies.
Then, as the fledgelings wake from dreamful ease,
Eager throughout the unknown world to rove,
The parents teach them their new strength to prove,
And beat with fearless wings the summer breeze.

And then the nest sways empty on the bough.
The parents, weary, although sweet the task,
Take flight to other haunts, to rest from care.
The fledgelings in the glowing sunbeams bask,
Living their life. So is it everywhere,--
The patriarch dies; he is but resting now.

OH, WERE IT NOT.

Oh, were it not for one fair face,
One angel voice, one loving smile,
The world would be a dreary place,
And life to me not worth the while.

Methinks the sun shines but to show
How wondrous fair the maiden is;
Methinks the warm winds only blow
That they may kiss her draperies.

I know the roses bloom that they
May live an hour upon her breast;
I know that I would willingly
Share their brief life to share their nest.

FAREWELL.

When the heart speaks, the lips are still,
And if I cannot say farewell,
’Tis that a thousand yearnings thrill
My heart, and hold my lips in spell.

Let thine own heart the thoughts express
My lips would speak. Yet why repine?
I knew thee, and, at least, can bless
Thy life, though sundered far from mine.

THE TIDE.

Twice in the day a mighty tide there rolls
Throughout our city streets,
A limitless, deep sea of human souls,
Each wave, a heart that beats.

Ah, me! what various ships are drifting there,
Upon that living sea;
What guile and innocence, what joy, what care,
What utter misery!

At morn it ebbs far from home’s golden shore
Into the sea of life,
Where its dark billows meet and foam and roar
In never-ending strife.

At night it flows, far from the mart’s turmoil,
Backward upon its way,
Where wives and children bring sweet rest from toil,
Till dawns another day.

From year to year ’tis thus these waters move,
Life’s duties to fulfill;
Obedient to the silvery moon of love,
That rules them at its will.

MY COMRADE.

Could I have had you made a boy,
And both be young through life,
Methinks I might forgo the joy
Of calling you my wife.

For sweet as is the kiss of love
And all our converse staid,
Still dearer to our hearts doth prove
Some wayward escapade.

When from behind your glistening foil
You dare me to the fray,
From sober spousehood I recoil;
It is “en garde” straightway.

And when we urge our light canoe
Upon some sparkling tide,
More prone am I to think of you
As comrade than as bride.

Ah, were you but a youth, like me,
Who could, unawed, recline
By huge camp fire, beneath some tree,
Upon a couch of pine;

And could you press through marsh and brake
And thrive on hunter’s food,
What sweet excursions we might make
To nature’s solitude!

Yet if you were a youth, some maid
Might lure you from my side,
So I shall wish you still, comrade,
My dainty, fair-haired bride.

MY GIFT.

I bring a gift that all may bring,
So common ’tis to human kind;
And yet it is so rare, a king
His crown for it had well resigned.

It is a gift gold cannot buy,
And one which never can be sold;
A gift no mortal can deny,
And one that fades not, nor grows old.

And while I would not have it spurned,
Such is my heart’s perversity,
Unless I know my gift returned,
Life hath no joy in store for me.

HAMLIN’S MILL.

Brightly the sun that summer day
Upon the charming scene was shining,
And warm the thrifty village lay,
Amid its silent fields reclining.
The river, like a silver thread,
Wound round the hazy, shimmering hill,
Till, plunging o’er the dam, it fled
In eddies down to Hamlin’s Mill.

Along the pathway, through the grove,
Beneath the shady trees, we hurried.
The birds were twittering above,
While in and out the squirrels scurried.
We took the narrow road which wound
Through clearings that were smoking still;
And soon our merry chat was drowned
Amidst the noise at Hamlin’s Mill.

We stood within the sunlit room
And watched the busy bobbins turning;
Then gathered round a jangling loom,
The flying shuttle’s secret learning.
Across the mossy flume we crept,
Whose leaky sides their burden spill,
And stood beside the pond, where slept
The giant power of Hamlin’s Mill.

Beside the ceaseless loom of fate
We stand and watch what it is weaving.
The warp is spun of love and hate,
The woof of merriment and grieving.
But far beyond earth’s noise and dust,
There rules the one stupendous Will,
The power in which His creatures trust,
As in the mill-pond Hamlin’s Mill.

A BALLADE OF JOY.

Dear one, who wast chosen, ere time was made,
The heart of my heart and my wife to be;
Who cam’st, with the gifts of the gods arrayed,
To lighten the labors of life for me;
Ere yet I had looked on the face of thee,
My soul dreamed dreams and awoke and said:
“None other is worthier love than she,
And earth shall be heaven when we are wed.”

But woe as a burden on man is laid,
And the soul finds its vision not readily.
Between us came many a mocking shade,
That smiled with the smile of my fantasy,
And I thought, can it be I have met with thee?
Then the arrows of truth through the false were sped,
And I heard thy soul murmuring cheeringly,
“The earth shall be heaven when we are wed.”

Like streams in the hollows of hills that played,
Though sundered by league upon league they be,
That, slipping through tangles of sun and shade,
Meet, mingle and flow to the shoreless sea,
At last my soul met with the soul of thee,
And woes fell from me as leaves fall dead
When winds have wakened the sleeping tree,
And earth became heaven when we were wed.

ENVOI.

And now, though years like the birds may flee,
And death draw nigh us with noiseless tread,
I reek not how soon may the summons be,
For earth became heaven when we were wed.

REMEMBRANCE.

(_From the German of Fredrich Matthison._)

I think of thee
When through the brake
The nightingales sweet music make.
When dost thou think of me?

I think of thee
By the shady well,
Under the twilight’s glimmering spell.
Where dost thou think of me?

I think of thee
With pleasant pain,
With yearning, while the hot tears rain.
How dost thou think of me?

Oh, think of me
Till in some star
We meet again. However far,
I think of none but thee.

THE GLOVE.

A narrow glen with winding sides,
Bestrewn with rocks and gloomed with trees,
Grey, rolling clouds, chased by the breeze,
A stream, which through the valley glides.

Among the trees that climb the hill
The eager squirrels scold the crows,
And sharply sound the sudden blows
Of some woodpecker’s greedy bill.

The blood root, crouching in the grass,
From its protecting broad leaf peers;
The horse tails shake aloft their spears,
Like foemen, at us as we pass.

Here wandering with a friend I love,
Our speech with sparrow-chatter drowned,
He in the little valley found
An early violet, I a glove.

The flower grew beside a stone,
And shyly peered above the sod,
While, distant from it not a rod,
The dainty glove lay all alone.

Some child had drawn it from her hand
To dabble in the sunny spring,
And then, the thoughtless little thing,
Had left it lying on the rand.

And as I saw the symbols there
Of budding life and blossoming spring,
Arose and from my heart took wing
To heaven a brief and heartfelt prayer:

O little child, whoe’er thou art,
And in whatever station set,
Be modest, like the violet,
And act in life an earnest part,

That, as the streamlet by the sun
Is gently lifted to the skies,
Thy soul may unto heaven arise
Whene’er its earthly course is run.

THE MAGIC BOW.

(_From the French of Charles Cros._)

Rippling low to her dainty feet,
Tress with tress did mingle and meet,
Yellow as ripening August wheat.

Her voice had an eerie melody,
Like that of an angel or a fay.
Beneath dusk lashes her eyes shone gray.

He by no rival swain set store,
As valleys through, or mountains o’er,
The maid upon his steed he bore.

For all the land had held not one
That she in her pride would look upon
To the day she met him, and was undone.

Love did her fond heart so enchain
That when her lover smiled disdain,
She to sicken and die was fain.

As she lay dying on his arm,
She said, “Bind thy bow with my locks, to charm
The maid to whom thy heart grows warm.”

One long, wild kiss, and the maid was dead.
The shimmering aureole round her head
He bound to his bow, as she had said.

Then as a blind man mournfully
Sweeps his Cremona, so did he,
And went forth, seeking charity.

And all were thrilled with ecstasy,
For the dead lived within the lay,
And with her songs all hearts did sway.

The king showered honors on his head;
The dark-eyed queen, to honor dead,
With him by moonlight swiftly fled.

But when, to please her, he essayed
To play, no more the bow obeyed,
But mournfully did him upbraid.

And at its plaint the sinful twain
In mid-flight by remorse were slain,
And the dead had her pledge again.

Her locks that to her dainty feet
Rippling low, did mingle and meet,
Yellow as ripening August wheat.

AT THE SEASIDE.

O sun, with thy ardent glance,
Thou hast made my darling flush!
But the swarthier tints enhance
The charms of her modest blush.
Thou hast lent thy warmth and light
To the gleam of her melting eyes,
Till a glance in their depths so bright
Seems a peep into Paradise.

O sea, with thy great white arms,
Thou hast stolen my love from me!
Thou hast clasped to thy breast her charms;
She has rested her head on thee.
Thou hast tangled her silken hair,
And kissed her face and her lips--
Ah! Love, he is false! Beware
Of that spoiler of men and ships!

THE ORPHANS.

Shall walls have pity and man’s heart have none?
Shall walls protect and man refuse to aid?
At Christmas, when our children are arrayed
In furs, shall orphans crouch behind a stone
To hide them from the storm? Is there not one
Will see the outstretched hand of that frail maid,
To whom the baby brother clings, afraid?
Will no ear heed when hunger makes its moan?

No father’s arm about their forms is thrown
To shield them from distress, no mother’s love
Draws them within the shelter of her breast.
Those tender souls must front the world alone;
But, if Christ came not vainly from above,
Some noble heart will aid them, thus distressed.

ALADDIN’S LAMP.

Aladdin’s lamp of Eastern tale,
Which claimed my simple faith in youth,
Its loss no longer I bewail,
But hold it mine in very truth.

The geni waits but my command
To raise me, and, as swift as thought,
Bear me abroad, from land to land,
Wherever I would fain be brought.

Amid the silent northern snows,
Or where Egyptian deserts burn,
Wherever man has been, he goes,
And tells me all I wish to learn.