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MARION PELTON GUILD

Wellesley, '80

PRINTED FOR THE BENEFIT

OF THE

WELLESLEY COLLEGE LIBRARY FUND

GARNET ISABEL PELTON

Wellesley, '97

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Copyright, 1906
By Marion Pelton Guild

BOSTON, MASS.

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3513

To

My Beloved Poet

KATHARINE LEE BATES

whose unbroken friendship for nearly thirty years
has been one of the greatest blessings and inspira-
tions of my life, and without whose persistent
encouragement this little sheaf of verse would have
failed of its harvesting.

00

These days and those days,

And all of life between !
Dream days, rose days,

And fading leaves for green !
But constant as this heart that beats

To one unaltered tune,
0 friend, thy soul exhales its sweets

In Love's perpetual June.

Acknowledgments for courteous permission to reprint
poems that have appeared in periodicals are made to the
Atlantic, Century, Lippincott's, Chautauquan, New England,
Outlook, Churchman, Congregationalist, Christian En'havor
World, Sunday School Times, and Springfield Rep^ihlican.
Thanks are due also to Messrs. Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. for
allowing the republication here oi At Matunu^k, which origi-
nally appeared in their book of sea poems, Surf and Wave.

CONTENTS

I

PAGE

Semper Plus Ultra 11

The Prodigal Son 13

To the Supreme Artist 16

Strange Rhynies 17

The Joy that Abides 18

Crippled 20

The One Task 22

II

Red Roses 25

With Jacqueminots 27

A Cavalier Variation 28

I Dreamed, Beloved 29

The Helpmeet 30

O, Why Are thine Eyes so Joyful? 31

Faust's Question 32

The Gift of Bereavement 33

Experience 34

Heroism 35

Memory 36

Without Fear and Without Reproach 37

Thy Thoughts : A Song of Discipleship 39

III

At Grand Manan 43

Moonrise on the Passamaquoddy 45

All in the Golden Morning 46

7

PAGE

In the Carolina Mountains 47

My Lady Souivvood 48

To a Live-Oak 50

On the Veranda 51

In Flood 52

The Answer of the Hepaticas 53

Birds at Dawn 55

IV

The Perfect Lyric 59

The Truth of Art 60

V

At Matunuck 65

Harold Singing 68

A Valentine 70

Fortune-Telling 72

VI

Guinevere Dying; A Dramatic Monologue 77

VII

SONNETS

To Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning: On the

Publication of their Letters . . . , 83

On Reading Poe's Ligeia 85

An Echo of Dante 86

Uncertainty 87

The Key \ 88

Lake George 89

Liberty Enlightening the World 90

Charleston in 1900 91

The Ultimate Love 93

8

SEMPER PLUS ULTRA.

Through the storm — and beyond !
When the crystal air is heaven's own wine,
Vital with breezes, all divine
With the refluent glory of gleam and shine; —

0, but the heart must sing !

Through the pain — and beyond !
When the pulses swell with the incoming flow
Of the tide of life that had ebbed so low.
And the dawn of a richer youth's aglow; —

0, but the heart must sing !

Through the loss — and beyond !
When the unguessed gain asserts its power,
And the soul that faltered in failure's hour
Knows itself and its deathless dower; —

0, but the heart must sing!

Through the grief — and beyond!
When God, who hid the beloved face,
Folds His child in His own embrace.
And an angel is felt in the vacant place; —

O, but the heart must sing!
11

Through the sin — and beyond !
When the fetters have fall'n by the open door,
And the spirit stands upright once more,
And the balm of Christ has healed the sore; —

O, but the heart must sing!

Through despair — and beyond !
Thou God of God and Light of Light,
To Thee, in Thy mercy infinite,
In Thy tested strength and Thy proven might ,-

0, but the heart must sing !

12

THE PEODIGAL SON.

Here feast I at my Father's board,
Who starved among the swine;

For me must every foot be fleet
And every lamp must shine;

For me the merry music sounds,
The dancers dip and twine.

My heart beats fast against my robe.

The best robe, soft and red;
With sobbing breath and tightening throat

And tears in rapture shed,
I feel His ring upon my hand,
His blessing on my head.

Ah! bitter was the way, and oft
My blood my path would trace;

And guilt and grief and stabbing shame
With all my steps kept pace;

And yet I famished not for bread
So sore as for His face.

The road seemed endless. On I fared.
Wresting each mile from death;

Then such an awe upon me fell
I scarce could draw my breath;

My spirit felt His coming as
Of one that succoreth.

Blind, fainting, to His mighty breast
He caught and held me fast;

I knew the fortress of His arms
About my weakness cast;

And, when he kissed my traitor cheek,
I guessed His heart at last.

The piteous words I oft had conned

I trembling strove to say;
But sudden glory round me poured

A brighter, richer day.
In wonderment I lifted up

My head that drooping lay.

The glory streamed from out His eyes.
As from all Beauty's throne.

O depths of love unthinkable
That in their splendor shone !

0 pain of love that travaileth
And bleedeth for its own !

O gleam of wisdom hoar with eld
Ere sang the stars of mom !

O shifting, blending, dazzling lights,
That thrilled my hope forlorn

To undreamed miracles of joy
And surge of life reborn !

14

He brought me home, and here I sit,
Even in my boyhood's place;

And on my very soul is stamped
Each largess of His grace;

But still transfiguring all I see
That radiance of His face!

15

TO THE SUPREME ARTIST.

What poignancy of loveliness

In music or in dream,
Thy rarer loveliness can tell,

Thy slightest grace beseem!

We praise the beauteous alphabet

That spells Thy cosmic Art:
Sunshine and moonlight, stars and flowers,

A child, a mother's heart.

The whole succession exquisite
Of shapes that come and go;

But Thee, prime Artist, Beauty's self, —
How oft we miss Thee so !

Once only from Thy deeps of light

The essential Splendor came
ITn veiled yet soft to mortal sight :

Man's awe enshrines His name.

16

STRANGE RHYMES.

On a day of prisoning pain
Came the Muse to me again.
What a poet-prince is Time,
Making Muse and pain to rhyme!

In my hour of loss supreme
Came — what men would call a dream.
Yet that dream, by day and night,
Still has been my pillared light.

In my sharpest agony
Came a healing balm to me
So divine that it sufficed :
Came the vision of the Christ.

17

THE JOY THAT ABIDES.

What heart may cease from singing,
Each latest Christmas morn,

The song of the day when far away
The Hope of the World was bom !

Not alone to the little children,

Who bend with faces bright
Over the longed-for treasures

That dawn mth the Christmas light.

Nor yet to the souls unstricken,

Who count with voices clear
Their jewels of love and friendship,
■ Set in this crown of the year, —

Not alone to these, O spirit,

Comes the splendor of Christmas morn ,
The joy of the day when far away

The Hope of the World was born ;

But to heads that are bowed with sorrow.
To eyes that are dim with tears.

To hearts that ache in the emptiness
Of the desolated vears.

18

For what is the Christ-child's message?

The love that enspheres all love;
The nearness of these groping Uves

To the Father-life above;

The peace that passeth knowledge;

The wisdom we may not guess,
That folds our souls and the souls we crave

In perfect tenderness.

Then let each heart go singing,

This latest Christmas morn,
The song of the day when far away

The Hope of the World was bom !

19

CRIPPLED.

Beethoven deaf, and Milton blind!
And you and I, of lowlier kind,
With small yet vital tasks assigned,

We too have known the spirit's ache
At special powers disabled, make
Our bitter plaint for the work's sake.

Yet where our blunted tools we mourn,
Divinest music strains are borne;
Beethoven, eye us not with scorn!

And Milton, of his sight bereaved.

Vision and victory achieved;

Twice must his cro\\Ti be laurel-leaved !

Ah, can it be that Fortune mocks

With cruel-tender paradox

The lives she gives her hardest knocks,

And grants, in strange, relenting mood,

Some super-sensuous aptitude.

When well her maimings are withstood?

Fortune? Her shrine is grey and cold.
O Father of us all, behold
Our handicaps, how manifold !

20

Thou only know'st what self -wrought wrong
Must in the grievous count belong.
Thou only makest weakness strong.

And in Thine all-resourceful mind
Alone our riddle is untwined, —
How he that loseth life shall find.

O crowning Answer, heartening Grace,
Lift Thou on us Thy regnant face, —
Crippled or no, we dare the race!

21

THE ONE TASK.

A sculptor with a dulled and twisted tool
Might yet such patient mastery attain,
Albeit more slow, with unresented pain

To round at last his image beautiful.

So grant us, Lord, whose powers before us lie
Like battered instruments, no whit to cease
Our toil the visioned statue to release

Of Beauteous Living, till to live we die.

22

11

RED ROSES.

I roam in a garden vestal-fair

The livelong tranquil day,
'Mid spotless lilies and snowdrops there

And tremulous tints of May;
Where myriad violets scent the gloom

Of the forest-winding stream,
And throngs of white camellias bloom

With a chill, unearthly gleam;
But I sicken of all, and cry to Fate
For the red, red roses beyond the gate.

From every land, from every clime,

The earth-stars here are come,
And proudly they banish the old lord Time

From their glamour-haunted home;
But where the purple pansies grow.

Uplifting their eyes to mine,
I wander, restless and sad and slow,

And seek for a flower divine.
Then I sicken of all, and cry to Fate
For the red, red roses beyond the gate.

For there, from my vine-wreathed prison-wall,

I see their passionate glow;
I catch a fragrance rarer than all

The breath of my flowers of snow;

The visioned light of their dusky hearts

Strikes e'en my lilies dim;
And the wine of their beauty a strength imparts

That floods my soul to the brim.
So I gaze in longing, and cry to Fate
For the red, red roses beyond the gate.

'' Beyond the gate," moans the traveler Wind,

" There are darker sights than these;
Freshness and bloom^ are hard to find

And the shade of Eden trees;
But the plains are bare and the mountains cold,

And drear is the desolate sea;
The woe of the world is grim and old,

'Tis death to thy flowers and thee."
But I hearken not; I cry to Fate
For the red, red roses beyond the gate.

I know there is sorrow and gloom and pain

In the world for a soul untried;
That my buds may wither, nor bloom again.

If the gate be opened wide.
But I cry for freedom, for love, for life!

For the real that conquers the dream!
And I kiiow that there, in the heart of the"strife,

The victor's banners gleam.
So I break the barrier, and fly with Fate
To the red, red roses beyond the gate!

1879.

26

WITH JACQUEMINOTS.

Do you know what roses mean?

Have you quaffed their fragrant wine

Till its spirit, half divine,
Overmasters yours, my queen?

As their crimson dusks unfold
Depths of beauty passing speech,
Secrets God alone can teach.

Do you feel your heart controlled?

Is that virginal, proud heart

Throbbing w4th the roses' power?
Blossoming, this very hour,

To a rose's counterpart?

Beauty, fragrance, tenderness.
Mystery, enchantment, fire,
God's touch, — O my soul's desire.

Dare I whisper, '' Yield and bless " ?

27

A CAVALIER VARIATION.

Thy bugle, this, that calls me from thy side,
As thine the lute that sings our endless troth;

Honor and thou in one fair house abide,
And loving either, I must needs love both.

28

I DREAMED, BELOVED.

I dreamed, Beloved, thou wast lying-
in some dim chamber far from day.

Where strangers whispered, '^ He is dying! "
And none could point me out the way.

I woke, Beloved. All the morrow
Was calm with unforeseen delight;

For even through that maze of sorrow
Thy soul had touched me in the night.

29

THE HELPMEET.

Once again the sunshine blooms, transfigured into

goldenrod,
As I fare alone and ^vistf ul to the quiet house of God ;
In my brain the old refrain, *' Ah, would my dearest

with me trod! '^

Then I picture thee as passing through some far-off,

thirsty place,
Where the weary men and women from thj- cheer

take heart of grace.
And I think, " The friendless drink the benediction

of his face."

What am I that I should call thee from thy Heaven-
appointed way?

I, whose glory is to help thee bear the burden of the
day?

Not for me alone, my own, the elixir of thy blessing.
Nay!

Nay! the universe has errands for her \^ise and

faithful son.
Come not, though I die with longing, till the perfect

work be done.
Thus to lose thee is to choose thee, for our souls are

closeUer one!

30

0, WHY ARE THINE EYES SO JOYFUL?

O, why are thine eyes so joyful?

And why is thy laugh so gay?
" The king of mine eyes and my laughter

Sets sail for his realm to-day! "

Hast thou a magical mirror
Wherein to behold liim depart?

" 'Tis the myriad-faceted jewel
Of love that I wear on mv heart! "

31

FAUST'S QUESTION.

" He loves thee. Understandest thou? "
With softened lights the stage is set;

And in the garden -glamour now

Faust stands with trusting Margaret.

She droops beneath his misty gaze
Her young, defenceless, golden head;

And white upon the shadowy ways
The daisy's prophet leaves are shed.

Amid the throng that smiles or sighs,
A woman's face confronts the scene,

AVith loathing WTit in hopeless eyes
And blight where loveliness has been.

And coiling memories, anguish-born.
Envenomed at the question stir;

Her heart responds with shame and scorn,
'' Ah, yes! such love as his for her! "

Another woman turns and sees

In eyes that catch her soul to heaven,

The meaning of all mysteries.

All pain transfigured, vital leaven

For daily bread, the kingly prize
Of high endeavor, tenderness

Of Love himself in mortal guise:

And she too murmurs, " Yes, ah, yes! "
32

THE GIFT OF BEREAVEMENT.

Great Death, of old a spectre thou
To chill the soul; but ah, not now!
Ah, not to me! Of Life a part
Grown fair and natural thou art,
Wearing the all-expressive grace
And lure of the beloved face.

33

EXPERIENCE.

On the raw of his soul he played

With a bow whose touch was fire;

'Twas of quivering memories made,

And one deathless, fine desire.

Ah, what a marvelous strain!

Elixir to heart and brain !

And his pain was lost in the fear

Of his eyes so old and clear,

Of his truth-attaming eyes,

So grave and glad and wise, —

" If the young men should not hear! "

34

HEROISM.

Two strains of laughter passing sweet

I hold, and pt^ssing dear,
I fain would think, where angels meet:

A child's laugh, bubbling clear;

And shards of joy, of hope, of trust,

Welded, as stout hearts dare,
To some gay laughter-blade, that's thrust

At the Fafnir of Despair.

35

MEMORY.

What shadow hovers near?

" A messenger of woe."
What scourges doth he bear?

*' The sins of long ago."

Nay, 'tis an angel's shield,

Wrought of thine ancient sorrow,
Lest unawares thou yield

And fall to-morrow.

3C

WITHOUT FEAR AND WITHOUT REPROACH.

Ride forth, O knight, to battle!

White hands their beauty yield
To buckle on thine armor

And poise thy dinted shield.
Lo, how the little children

Upturn their faces bright!
Lo, how the grey old fathers

Have blessed thee for the fight!

Ride forth! the day is breaking

And yonder stalks the foe;
Deep scars and ancient witness

Thy might that smote him low;
But with his ghastly banners

Again he blots the day.
O, grim will be the struggle

Along the spear-set way!

For 'tis no human warrior

Whose hatred bars thy path;
No human shape that beckons

The sword-thrusts of thy wrath.
Powers of the realms of darkness

Are mustered in his train.
And off his magic armor

The lances fall like rain.

Yet ride thou forth, 0 hero!

No lance of steel is thine,
But sped with swerveless lightning

Of purposes divine.
Look to the hills around thee!

Behold the countless throng
Of God's white legions, gathered

To sing thy triumph-song !

Thy face is calm and trustful;

But in thine eyes a flame
Of life and death that scorches

The coward into shame;
And round thy mouth the promise

Of victory doth wait
In lines of conquered passion

And will at one with fate.

Ride forth, O crown of knighthood !

Our hearts' blood prays for thee;
The captive's fetters tremble

Before thy golden key :
The world's long sceptered evil

Is tottering on its throne;
The Lord of Hosts be with thee

To make the world His own

38

THY THOUGHTS.

A SONG OP DISCIPLESHIP.

They dawn upon me with the dawning sun,

And robe me for the da}^;
Wherever my illuinined path may run,

Thy thoughts make glad the w^ay.

They company my loneliness; the}' shine,

A mightier presence still,
When Friendship lays her noble hand in mine,

And works her gracious will.

Thy thoughts with resurrection voices call

My life to hope and power;
With serried wings impregnable they wall

My soul in danger's hour.

They feed me with God's altar-bread and wine

From chalices of gold;
They quire for me the harmonies divine

Sung by the stars of old.

At night they spread my couch with whitest peace;

My prayer is angel-blessed;
And in their calm, till thought's own sweet surcease,

Enfolded deep I rest.

39

Ill

AT GRAND MANAN.

Lo, this gracious hauiit of solitude, this eyrie where
we lie!

Lo, these craggy ramparts, Titan-hewn, and scarred
by storms gone by !

Lo, the quivering, shimmering sapphire, vast, un-
broken to the sky!

'' Pitying Nature," late we prayed her, " take thy

spendthrifts to thy breast;
Let the greatness of thy soul the greatness of our

need invest;
Give us mighty spaces, mighty silences — we die

for rest!"

Just the lapping of the ripples, just the breathing of

the breeze;
Here a seagull, there a swallow, flashing past our

cleft of ease;
And above, the sturdy lighthouse, sentinel o'er isles

and seas.

Canopied with drowsy azure, couched upon the

venturous grass,
Neighbored by the nodding bluebell, one with

nature's general mass.
What to us the world beyond the waters, what the

hours that pass!

43

All in time. Some dim to-morrow sees Antaeus in

the fight;
But to-day he cares not even to lament his broken

might;
Sunk in primal stupor, drunk with earth's embrace,

the earth-bom's right!

44

MOONRISE ON THE PASSAMAQUODDY.

Pearl and opal and amethyst

Blend in the sea and sky;
Filmily folded in drowsy mist

Harbor and islands lie.

Low in the west the ebbing rose
Fails from the twilight shores-
Eastward the great moon dimly glows.
Poised on the sapphire floor.

Only a glint of her deepening light
Touches the tremulous tide;

But soon will the silver path be dight
Where angel dreams may glide.

Wake, sweet music ! and softly breathe

Over the tranced sea
The peace these holy calms bequeath

To struggle that is to be.

45

ALL IN THE GOLDEN MORNING.

All in the golden morning,

Upon the bay's blue breast,
A flock of snowy seagulls

One frolic moment rest.
So free, so glad, so fearless.

Poised in their plumy pride !
Like m.arshalled water-lilies

They stem the rippling tide.

Anon their leader soareth, —

Hey for the race begun !
An' upward rain of blossoms,

They dazzle in the sun;
A rain of living blossoms.

Into the glory hurled,
To add new speech to beauty,

New gladness to the world !

46

IN THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS.

See, as we climb the woodland way,

Yon rose-tinged blossom shine!
And this, more white than acolyte

That guards a hidden shrine !
What sudden awe withholds the word

One to the other saith?
What great impending loveliness

Catches the startled breath?

Lo, softly fall the reverent lights,

Where pillared oaks o'erscreen
A holy house not made with hands,

A sylvan chapel green;
And here, in tall, calm, stately ranks

Above the teeming sod,
The virgin rhododendrons lift

Their beauty unto God.

47

MY LADY SOURWOOD.

Here in our mountains you shall see
A piquant, delicate little tree;
Assuming but a modest place,
Too wholly fine to flaunt her grace;
Yet I suspect her, even in that,
A typical aristocrat, —
Among her sturdier sisterhood
The peerless Lady of the wood.

Her shape is slender, curving, lithe;

To gay Sir Breeze she courtesies blithe;

Her satin raiment's tender sheen

Was never matched by daintiest queen;

And on her nodding tresses set

She wears a maiden coronet

Of blossom-sprays, all sweet and fair,

Like valley-lilies lifted there.

Thus she at Summer's court. But when
Great Autumn smites the land again
With tmgling prophecies of woe.
Of failing life and shrouding snow,
Then, like some exquisite marquise
Before the Terror, brave she sees
Her noble comrades meet the call,
And stands the proudest of them all.

48

The indignant blood within her bums;
To one pure, crimson flush she turns,
So beautiful, the foe must pause
And grieve to work his bitter laws;
And lo! on dauntless breast and brow
Pale blossoms linger even now :
Witness of youth, that mocking cries,
" There is no death! " and smiling dies.

49

TO A LIVE-OAK.

My forest Atlas, lifting to the sky

A beauteous world of frail, dependent life, —

Along the reaches of thy mighty arms

Soft friezes of the resurrection fern.

And wind-blown draperies of filmy moss.

Grey, eerie, phantom-fair; thy massive trunk

Broidered with lichens, starred with delicate vines

That cling for sanctuary to thy strength;

And far above, thine own plain, faithful leaves!

Under thy vast benignity I stand,

O new-found friend, and in thy murmurs hear

Voices of ancient friendship quiring sweet.

50

ON THE VERANDA.

O swaying vine, whose curtained grace
Makes me a sweet and hidden place,
Whose living stars of limpid green
In myriad witcheries are seen
To overdroop and interlace; —

You cannot know my human case;
Your glancing runes I may not trace;
Though oft I court your tender screen ,
O swaying vine!

Yet many a soul-enchanted space
Within your emerald bower I pace;
Yea, sometimes, when my sight is keen,
I catch, your baffling spells between,
A glimpse of very Beauty's face,
O swaying vine!

51

IN FLOOD.

So! you thought me dead,

With the snow-wreaths round my head,

The weights upon my breast.

With my swift life-currents hid

^Neath the icy coverlid.

The close-wrapped winding-sheet

Bound strait about my feet.

Lying in white, at rest.

Dead! Have a care, I say!

Out of the way!

Ha, ha! I am free, I am free!
Once more I leap to the race.
Once more I exult in the face
Of the open sky and the sun
And the splendor of Spring begun.
Laugh out, shout aloud, with me!

Crack, crash! Good-by to the dam!

I hurl the timbers aside.

Resistless, I thimder past

Faster and yet more fast.

What now is their scatteredjpride

To the living joy I am?

Ha, ha ! I triumph at last !

52

THE ANSWER OF THE HEPATICAS.

You came in your alien sorrow
To our hushed and beautiful wood;
The brown leaves rustled to greet you,
The bare, brave boughs to meet you
Bent in the pure, earth-scented,
Pitying wind; but you stood
Like a captive that hopes no morrow.
Dull, deaf, blind, broken-hearted.
The tears to our quick eyes started !

Yet how could you know we were hiding

A few steps farther on?

" Death in my heart,'' you cried,

^' And death in the wood abiding!

I have slain sweet youth, and the vision

That, fairer than aught beside.

Ever before me shone.

Alas! when that is gone.

Well may the paths be dreary.

Well may the winds be weary,

And the creaking boughs make moan! "

One glance, and you kneel beside us!
Yes, trembling hands, we are here;
The mould no longer may hide us
And into your face we peer.
53

O, let our smile delay you!

Dark face, grow bright, we pray you!

See, we are fragile and white.

But we mock at frost and blight;

Before our leaves we speed,

As before a promise, its deed;

For we haste, we haste to live.

Into the ranks, O soul!

Full place and free we give.

For the Lord of Life and of Death

To you and to all things saith,

"Live! Live! live!^'

54

BIRDS AT DAWN.

A lingering ache that will not change nor cease,
A dim entanglement of broken dreams,
Where false is true and truth a shadow seems, —

Hark! through the maze glad melodies of peace!

Sing on, sweet birds, across the weary night;
And let the fulness of your rich refrain
Enfold my sense from restlessness and pain,

Until the heavens break forth in hymns of light.

Ay, happy birds, that herald in the day.

My heart shall make you answer, song for song ;
What though your night and mine were twice as
long !

God's glorious sunshine laughs them both away.

55

IV

THE PERFECT LYRIC.

Like Shakespeare's lark that sweeps into the blue;
Like Swinburne's roses, washed with Wordsworth's

dew;
Like Sappho's fire that bums the centuries through.

A keen, bright dagger, piercing to the heart;
A sweetness heaven-distilled, to allay the smart;
A rainbow tear, dropped by imperial Art.

59

THE TRUTH OF ART.

Say not, the rapt musician's strain,
The painter's brush, the poet's pen,
Tell idle tales for idle men.

And mock with dreams the hearts in pain.

No ! the responsive artist-life
Quivers to all life everywhere.
Aches with the weight of human care,

And drinks from bitter waves of strife.

Only, the artist's quickened sense

Hears, through the abyss of grief and wrong.

Far echoes of a primal song,
A bliss that chords the elements.

And thus not ignorant, but free,

Of earth's despair, he truly tells

The jangling of our mortal bells.
But, under all, God's harmony.

And e'en if through some black distress
His own heart fail, his eyes grow dim,
God wields his instrumient for him

To issues that he may not guess.

60

The saddest song is music still;

The saddest picture, beauty's school;

The saddest life is rich and full
As rounded by the Eternal Will.

61

AT MATUNUCK.

'' Sweetheart, the storm is over;

Come; watch the waves with me."
So I said to my baby lover,

And led him down to the sea.

There the great deep surged in fury
As far as sight could reach,

While the breakers hurled their passion
In white foam on the beach.

And the ceaseless song that the waters
Are sounding night and day

Was blent with the shriek of the tempest
And the dashing of the spray.

But the warrior sun, victorious
At the portals of the night,

Wide flinging his crimson banners.
Had whelmed the storm with light.

A sight sublime and solemn.

As stern and glad as life ;
So I bade the child be silent,

To watch the dying strife.

65

For I thought, " Our Heavenly Father
Now speaks to man, His child.

Not only in calm and sunshine,
But in flood and tempest wild,

" His love has its lesson for us.
Our waiting hearts to cheer;

Blest are the eyes that see Him,
Blest are the ears that hear! "

So I lost myself in dreaming.
With eyes on the sea's blue rim;

But the child, with his soft child fingers,
Drew down my face to him;

And prattled the baby-nonsense

That is more than sense to the wise.

With only a glance for the ocean
And a smile for the burning skies.

^' Yes, darling," I said, " but listen;

The night is too grand for speech;
Hark to the voice of the waters

And learn the wonders they teach."

But ever the dainty fingers

Were busy with my face;
And the brooklike murmur paused not

In its quaint, bewitching grace.

Vainly I turned to seaward,

For all that I could hear
Was the sweet voice saying, " I love you. "

Then I bowed to the word in fear;

In fear lest the earthly grandeur

And clouds in sunset piled
Had dimmed for me the glory

That shone in the heart of the child.

" Darling," I cried, " I yield me!

Ah, dull and deaf and blind,
To turn to Nature's beauty

From the blessing of my kind !

'' God's love, in truth, is in all things,

But most in the soul of man;
And one smile of your eyes is better

Than the best that the cold earth can! "

67

HAROLD SINGING.

Harold comes lingering down the stair,

My child-knight Harold, with boyish grace;
Under his close-cropped golden hair

Shines the mischievous rose of his face.
But the dancing eyes are dreamy now,

And the laughing mouth is wistful grown,
And the voice that is rarely grave or slow

Chants in a pitiful undertone:
" For men must work and women must weep,"

Over and over, this alone.

Ha, laddie, what words are these for you?

Where did you catch the grim, sweet strain?
Such be for souls that have journeyed through

The gates of the city of toil and pain.
But you, on a pathway just begun.

Out with the birds in the meadow-grass,
Playing at hide-and-seek with the sun,

Why should you echo the world's alas?
'' For men must work and women must weep,"-

Unheard, unheeded, the questions pass.

But, Harold, I see in your shining eyes
The crystal light that the young souls bear

To the human world from the God-lit skies.
But lose in the tempests of grief and care.
68

Keep the light while you may, little man.
For the threatening years press on apace;

Sport with the butterflies all you can,
Soon must you strive in a sterner race;

For men must work and women must weep,
And the shadows will deepen across the face.

The boy smiles out of the midst of his song !

" Why do you wonder that I have heard
What our neighbor goes singing the whole day long?

The beautiful music ! For never a bird ,
Though birds are not so sober, you know.

Twittered an air that I loved so well;
And the words in my heart sound strange and low.

What is the rest of it? Can't you tell?
" For men must work and women must weep,"

Again he murmurs the tuneful spell.

Ay, the ballad is true, and truth is sweet;

And better than heart of the happiest boy
Is the man's heart, knowing of life complete,

Of the struggle and sorrow that end in joy.
You're stirred by the music over the way?

Then answer it, Harold, loud and clear;
For the darkness brightens into the day.

And a prophet of hope is the voice you hear.
For men must work and women must weep,

And in all God draweth His children near!

A VALENTINE.

You do not care for lovers yet,

My little maid, my Valentine?
The foolish moths you'd fain forget

That hover where your graces shine?
Still, wait you some endearing word

From those whose hearts with yours entwine,
Borne by the good Saint's carrier-bird?

O little maid, take mine! take mine!

Let lovers please their ladies' ears

This merry day, my Valentine,
AVith swelling verse wherein appears

A compliment for every line;
The simple truth alone I speak;

No aid I ask from Muses nine;
And gallantry were all too weak

To greet aright my Valentine.

I will not praise you for your eyes,

My Valentine, my little maid !
Though depth of steadfast sweetness lies

Within their brown and thoughtful shade;
Nor any beauties will I sing

To any outward sense displayed;
To love these were too slight a thing.

Were love by their fair limit stayed.

But O, the heart within your breast,

My Valentine, my little maid!
So loyal to the parent-nest;

So swift the stranger's cause to aid;
So trustful when the days are sad;

So patient under hopes dela3^ed;
So childlike still, so freely glad

When days are bright, my little maid!

And O, the simple wisdom shown.

My white, w^hite rose, my Valentine,
In thousand matters, — look and tone

And deed and choice; the instinct fine
That seeks the noblest everywhere;

The arrowy thought, that up the incline
Of lofty questions cleaves the air;

To these I bow, my Valentine!

And O, the pure, unselfish will.

My little maid, my white, white rose.
That, better than all grace or skill.

On God's great will its weakness throws.
And, borne upon that mighty stress,

Forever purer, stronger grows !
God help you other souls to bless

As mine you bless, my white, white rose!

71

FORTUNE-TELLING .

My darling has learned the secret

That the gypsies, long ago,
Wielded to lure the yellow gold

From credulous hands of snow;
And now, in a charmed silence

No voice from the world must break,
She deals and ponders the old, old cards.

For dear Dame Fortune's sake.

Anon she starts, exulting:

'' A letter, a mystery,
The smile of the sun, the laugh of the lute

And a lover of high degree !
But alas for my wish, it comes not! ''

The broad brows knit as in pain.
The poor little prophets are straight upswept

And the tale begins again.

0 grey eyes, masterful, steady.

On the whimsical task intent.
Little ye know of the shining forms

That over your folly are bent;
Little ye know of the promise

That throbs in the living air.
The gracious hands outstretched in vain,

Or the royal gifts they bear!
72

Great Mother Nature lingers:

" I have almost lost my child! "
And stately Learning echoes her

In accents deep and mild.
That was Art's plumy pinion

That brushed against your face.
That strain of music is calling you

As it soars to the heavenly place.

But hark! what hurrying footsteps

Bring hither weal or woe?
What shape imperious, dazzling, stern.

Arrests the pulses' flow?
Quick, maiden, break from your glamour!

Down, the false prophets! 'Tis She!
0 quick, or eternity hides her, sweet!

'Tis Opportunity !

73

VI

GUINEVERE DYING.

A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE.

^'Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,
Hereafter in that icorld where all are pure
We two may meet before high God, and thou
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know
I am thine husband — not a smaller soul,
Not Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,
I charge thee, my last hoj^e."

1, who was young, am old; my heart beats low;
O'er all the world a gradual twilight creeps, —
This narrow, hidden, blessed convent world,
Where I have prayed and fasted, toiled and taught,
And through long years have purged away my sin.
The nuns, my doves who flock about me here.
Missing their wonted crumbs of holy thought,
Marvel to see their abbess gaze afar
With eyes im watchful; and my little ones,
Children of whiter mothers, stand and stare
In cherub-wonder romid my lowly bed.
Small, tender hands, I feel your clinging yet.
And bless the flaxen heads in order due !

But soundless voices call me; and the cloud
That parts us from eternity grows thin.
So thin, its opalescence almost breaks.
And lets the keen light through. 0 glorious face,

77

0 solemn, challenging, majestic eyes

Of Arthur, my great angel, dawn ye there?
Then Heaven is Heaven indeed !

Yea, I am weak;

1 know that Heaven is God; and whiles, the goal
And summit of my life's attainment, gleams
The all-transcending vision of Himself;

No dream, no image, but His very self,
In holiness and grace ineffable.
Fountain of glory and beauty and delight
And marvelous fulfilments, past our hope.
I have so learned His mercy, that I think
Nothmg too merciful for Him. And now
This mortal faileth, 'tis His pitying hand
Leads my weak thoughts the old, beloved way
To that fair glass wherein I saw Him first,
Arthur, the whitest splendor of earth since Christ!

For through thee, Arthur, did He wake my soul;
And deep against His love in thine I sinned;
And in thy pureness read my foulness plain;
And by thy great forgiveness hoped in His, —
Forgiveness almost unbelievable.
Yet my one star in skies that else were black.
" Perchance," — God be my witness! I have lived
And eaten and drunk and breathed and pulsed that
word;

78

By that " Perchance " endured the agony

Of knowing what I was; by that " Perchance "

Fought the grim fight with steady-eyed Despair;

Cast out the sick self-love that tortured yet

With vengeful pangs the simple penitence

Approved of God and thee; and standing straight

Beneath my shameful burden, carried it

In steadfast patience till it wore away.

By that " Perchance " I haled unworthy thoughts

To sternest judgment, clean out-lived at last

The stain that, loathed by day, besmirched my

dreams.
By that " Perchance " I girded all my soul
To service true-begotten of thine own,
However dwarfed and tardy; strove to bring
My little world that might have been so great
To some faint semblance of that noble weal
Thou laboredst for, thou with thy Table Round
Until — alas! alas! O saving Christ,
Sustain me, shield me from this sharpest thrust
Of sworded memory, that I failed my king
And thwarted him at kingliest, — that for me
The land is darker for a race unborn !

Can he forget it, in the deeps of light?
Could any, howsoever he forgave.
Save God Himself, take back to spotless breast
Such treachery? touch robes that once were vile

79

Nor shrink through all his whiteness? " His last
hope "?

0 let me be thy serving- wench on high,
Thy tool, thy errand-bearer, anything,
My heart's one master, so in mercy thou
Permit me near thee, sharing in thy life
And in thy work, lest even Death be vain,

And Heaven without thee but a foothold whence

1 still might climb to thee!

Ah, softly, breath!
What mighty wings are arching o'er my head?
What great, celestial presence spheres me round
With living sanctuary of awiul peace
And ecstasy undreamed? Arthur, or God?

1901.

80

Vll
SONNETS

TO ROBERT AND ELIZABETH BARRETT
BROWNING.

ON THE PUBLICATION OF THEIR LETTERS.
I.

0 mated souls, that through the blissful deeps
Of heaven on heaven wing your ethereal way,
Know ye how Love on earthly shores to-day

For your true sake his feast in triumph keeps?

Know ye how all the world of lovers heaps
Its garlands on the living words that aye
The holy passion of your vows shall say

Till Song itself to grey oblivion creeps?

The alpha and omega of the heart;

The perfect scale, to its first note returning;

Each fond detail, each jot of life or art,
Touched with the fire upon the altar burning !

While Genius smiles, a happy prisoner, caught

In golden labyrinths of one sweet thought.

II.

Our modern Muse hath fever in her veins;

Her lips, alas! have known the tainted springs;

We turn afresh to where your fountain flings
Its crystal challenge to all droughts and stains.
Your white ideal, crowned with the fact, remains

83

Steadfast amid the shock of baser thmgs;

Your love the shining seal of witness brings
To Nature's charter, Eden's height regains.
Ah, if the mighty quests that now possess you

Permit one pause of earth-revealing sight,
Surely the blessing ye have wrought must bless you

A keener glow inform the heavenly light,
Some finer echo of our praise must ring
In those infinitudes where Love is king !

84

ON READING POE'S '' LIGEIA."

Behold, a lonely turret-chamber, hung
With gleaming tapestries, whereon are wrought
Dark arabesques, that mock the gazer's thought

By subtile change to demon-shapes; high swung,

A lamp of twisted gold, with many a tongue
Of serpent flame; swift apparitions, caught
And prisoned fast in carven ebony; nought

Save leaden windows, whence no light is flung.

What means this horror of enchanted gloom,
O wizard poet? What this sound of woe?
This weird, low music that the wailing wind

Sweeps ever round the ever-darkening room?
" Ah, friend, the open mystery doth show
The haunted chamber of the poet's mind! "

AN ECHO OF DANTE.

My highest Love, my God, thy gifts are great, —
Those gifts of joy and pain, that draw my soul
Still upward into virtue's wise control,

Where Thou, the Gift forever new, dost wait.

But from the hands of Thy benignant fate
No blessing comes that wings me to the goal
Like this, wherein my life is rounded whole.

My lady, standing by the Eden gate.

For in the mystic union that we share

Of heart and thought and purpose, in her grace
That lifts me, all unworthy, to her place.

And leads me through Thy pastures glorious-fair,
As in a mirror, reverently I see
The perfect marriage of our souls with Thee.

86

UNCERTAINTY.

As one who reads a subtly-wov'n romance,

Where kindred lives, though scattered far and

wide.
Are drawn within the sweep of one great tide.

By the wise master's soul-discerning glance;

Where joy and pain each other's power enhance;
And slowly, surely, all things join to guide
The tale unto its ending, where abide

The perfect reasons of the seeming chance;

I read my life. Its mysteries are sweet,
For through the past one fair design I find,

And toward the future look with kindling eyes.

Yea, skies may lower, storms gather, tempests beat;

But what are they? New methods of God's mind,

Whereby He sends some crown of blest surprise.

87

THE KEY.

Full many a shape the protean Cupid taketh
Before my wondering eyes; a flower, a gem,
A song, a light, a sovereign diadem;

And each an image of the whole he maketh.

But most of all, when fevered longing slaketh
Her thirst in memory's wine, behold, I see
Young Cupid in the likeness of a key,

And all my soul to fuller life awaketh.

0 key of keys, O love! thy power unlocketh
The stored experience of these hearts around me,
The dim, rich treasuries of spirit-history;

The symbol-guarded gates of art it mocketh;

Yea, Heaven's essential life at last hath crowned
me.
Who bear this talisman to ope its mystery.

88

LAKE GEORGE.

(Called by the Jesuit missionaries who discovered it, " The
Lake of the Holy Sacrament.")

Lake of the Sacrament ! no truer name

Could shrine the holy gift thy breezes bring,
Thy virgin isles enfold, thy forests sing,

And all thy blue, exultant waves proclaim!

So flashed thy glory on the priests whose fame
Is one with thine, — brave heralds of the King,
Who, thirsting, faint, and spent with wandering,

Caught sight of thee, and felt their courage flame.

And we, no hero-band, yet still athirst,
Soul-hungry, for the living bread and wine.

Come hither from the city's maze, the accurst
False paradise, where baneful lustres shine,

Lift up our hearts, from vain enchantments free,

And feed upon the Christ, beholding thee!

89

LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD.

Here on the threshold of the West I stand.
O straining eyes and wildered brains, behold
Across the waves my greatening star of gold;

Hope on, until the vessel reach the strand!

Sons, found at last, I bid you to a land
Of mighty works and spaces manifold,
Where in joy's ranks your names shall be enrolled,

And plenty meet the unexhausted hand.

O terrible faces, haggard, brutish, dazed.
Almost my spirit sinks beneath your woe !
Yet I bethink me of a glorious sight:

Your brethren, now to manhood's stature raised, —
Shapes dire as yours, ten plastic years ago —
Waiting to welcome you to life and light.

DO

CHARLESTON IN 1900.

I.

Like mighty spirits, jubilantly free,

Around St. Michael's tower the sea-winds sweep.

Below, the quaint, ancestral houses keep
Their hoard of history; piled verandas see
Ghosts of great days that never more shall be

Athwart their shadowy spaces; ivies leap

Grim garden-walls within whose shelter sleep
All loveliest blooms that Flora hath in fee.
And noble river-arms the city hold

In blue embrace, the while they seek the south
And meet majestic in a broad expanse
Of surging waves and islands famed of old,

Where still on Moultrie's guns the sunbeams
glance.

And Sumter watches from the harbor-mouth.

11.

Alas! the golden scene is filmed with grey.

For through the clustering leaves the glance must

fall
On earthquake-bolts that bind the slanted wall
And mellow tints that murmur of decay.
Shock upon shock and direful day on day

91

Have helmed the dauntless city, — cyclone, call
Of gulfing waves, and, most malign of all.
War's thrice-felt pangs, her very hope to slay.
Yea, though her garments gloriously are wrought
With roses, though she smileth to the last,
And none can dim the courage of her eyes, —
Her heart is old with sorrow, and her thought
Is robed in black; her face is toward the past,
And all her spirit's music woven with sighs.

92

THE ULTIMATE LOVE.

That gentle lady, whose tempestuous throne
Was Dante's heart., inspired her poet's quest;
Sent down her laureled messenger, to arrest

His uncompanioned feet, to wanderings prone,

And guide them where the abysms of horror groan,
Yea, on to Purgatory's fire-washed crest.
Where with most stern yet merciful behest

She waited him, and Eden's morn outshone.

'Twas she who led him still from shining sphere
To sphere more glorious, till at last they came
To that great, final splendor of God's face;

Then Beatrice soft withdrew. All fear.
All hope, all joy concentered in that flame,
And God alone filled all his being's space.

93

PS3513.U58S4 1906

3 9358 00252659 5

PS3513
U58
S4
1906

Guildy Marion Laura Peiton*

Semper plus ultra / by Marion Pelton

Guild* [Bostonf Mass* : Fort Hill

Press ]f 1906*

93 p* ; 20

cm*

252659

MBNU

25 JAN 82

8089395

NEDDbp

06-16725r

PS3513.U58S4 1906

3 9358 00252659 5