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Full text of "Younger American poets, 1830-1890;"

LIBRARY 



b 
- 

GIFT OF 

GEORGE MOREY RICHARDSON. A 4 

i 



OF THE 

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. \ 



Received, ^August, 
Accession No. 7.2...^ Class No. 



YOUNGER 

AMERICAN POETS 

1830-1890 



EDITED BY 

DOUGJLAS SLADEN, B.A. OXON. 

B.A., LL.B. MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA 

AUTHOR OF "AUSTRALIAN LYRICS," "A POETRY OF EXILES," ETC., ETC., AND EDITOR 
OF " AUSTRALIAN POETS," " A CENTURY OF AUSTRALIAN SONG," ETC., ETC. 



WITH AN APPENDIX OF 

YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS 

EDITED BY 

GOODRIDGE BLISS ROBERTS 

OF ST JOHN, N.B. 



OF THB 

UNIVERSITY 




THE CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPlANY 

NEW YORK 

J 891 



V 2- 



[The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved. } 




DEDICATED TO 

THE CITIZENS OF BOSTON 

THE CRADLE OF LI/ERATURE IN AMERICA, 

THE GREAT CITY, 
WHICH, AS IT TOOK THE LEAD IN WAGING WAR WITH ENGLAND 

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO, 
NOW TAKES THE LEAD IN WAGING PEACE, 

AS A HOMAGE TO ITS GREATNESS 

AND A GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF THE HOSPITALITY RECEIVED 
AT MY FIRST RESTING-PLACE IN AMERICA. 



TO THE AMERICAN FALL AT NIAGARA. 

Niagara, national emblem ! Cataract 

Born of the maddened rapids, sweeping down 
Direct, resistless from the abyss s crown 

Into the deep, fierce pool with vast impact 

Scarce broken by the giant boulders, stacked 

To meet thine onslaught, threatening to drown 
Each tillaged plain, each level-loving town 

Twixt thee and ocean. Lo ! the type exact ! 

America Niagarized the world. 

Europe, a himdred years agone^ beheld 
An avalanche, like pent-up Erie, hurled 

Through barriers, to which the rocks of eld 
Seemed toy things leaping into godlike space 
A sign and wonder to the human race. 

DOUGLAS SLADEN 



NIAGARA, October 18, 1889. 



/ desire to crave the indulgence of the reader for 
typographical errors, the book having had the dis 
advantage of passing through the Press while I was 
away in Japan, without the proper works at hand for 
correcting the proofs. 

DOUGLAS SLADEN. 



YOKOHAMA, jt/i December 1889. 







CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

DEDICATION v 

DEDICATORY SONNET vi 

To THE READER xxv 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE (1830-1886) 

Vicksburg ....... 1 

Beauregard s Appeal ...... 3 

Beyond the Potomac ] 4 

The Rose and Thorn . . Q 

The Red Lily . ! 6 

Ariel ......... 7 

Pre-Existence ...... g 

After the Tornado 9 

Tristram of the Wood . 9 

WILL. WALLACE HARNEY (1831) 

Adonais ....... 11 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN (1833) 

Pan in Wall Street 13 

Toujours Amour ...... IQ 

" The Undiscovered Country ".. . . . 17 

Song from a Drama ...... 17 

The Discoverer ..... 18 

The Death of Bryant ] ] 20 

Proven9al Lovers ...... 23 

The Hand of Lincoln . 25 

The World Well Lost ...!. ] 26 
Liberty Enlightening the World .... . 27 

CHARLES HENRY WEBB [John Paul] (1834) 

Little Mamma ..... 29 

With a Nantucket Shell . . . 32 
The King and the Pope . 



x CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GEORGE ARNOLD (1834-1865) 

Beer \\ 

A Sunset Fantasie 

JOHN JAMES PIATT (1835) 

Awake in Darkness . . 

The Buried Ring ^ 

Apart oq 

The Mower in Ohio . . 49 

The Blackberry Farm 

Conflagration .;. .. ...-. _ 
The New House ..- A 
A Song of Content ... 
Fires in Illinois 

WILLIAM WINTER (1836) 

My Queen 

Adelaide Neilson 

DAVID GRAY (1836-1888) 

To J. H. (Colonel John Hay) 50 

Divided { 

Sir John Franklin and his Crew *> 

Rest . . , . . - 
Cross of Gold . . ..... 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1836) 

Palabras Carinosas 5o 

Identity ; 

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS (1837) 

Forlorn ^ 

Thanksgiving . . ~ | 

Through the Meadow 

Dead f 

The Poet s Friends 

Avery . . . 

HENRY AMES BLOOD (1838) 

Shakespeare . . 

Pro Mortuis . . . - 

The Two Enchantments 

COLONEL JOHN HAY (1838) 

Jem Bludso . . 

How it Happened . . 
Regardant ... 



CONTENTS. xi 

PAGE 

FATHER ABRAM JOSEPH EYAN (1839-1886) 

In Memory of my Brother . . . . . .74 

Sentinel Songs ........ 75 

The Conquered Banner . . . . . . . 77 

C. S. A 79 

[FRANCIS] BRET HARTE (1839) 

Her Letter . . . . . . . . .80 

Dickens in Camp 83 

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH (1839) 

The Clocks of Kenilworth 84 

The Florida Ibis 88 

EOSSITER JOHNSON (1840) 

Faith s Surrender 90 

Lawrence . . . . . . . .92 

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER (1840-1890) 

A Trio for Twelfth Night 94 

Love s Infinite made Finite (Liber Amoris) ... 99 

The Creed of Love (Liber Amoris) 100 

The Sense of Loss (Liber Amoris) 100 

EGBERT KELLY WEEKS (1840-1876) 

By the Light of the Moon 101 

On the Beach 102 

The Mist 102 

A Rainy Day . . . . . . . . 103 

EDWARD EOWLAND SILL (1841-1887) 

Opportunity . . . . . . . . . 104 

Five Lives 105 

The Fool s Prayer . .-.-.. . .106 

JAMES HERBERT MORSE (1841) 

The Errand 108 

Waiting in the Rain 109 

Song . . . . . . . . . .110 

Who Knows 110 

Labour and Life . Ill 

The Power of Beauty Ill 

CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER [Joaquiii Miller] (1841) 

The Ship in the Desert 113 

The Rhyme of the Great River . . . . .117 
From the Rhyme of the Great River .... 120 



xii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Charity 120 

To the" Lion of Saint Mark 122 

Pace Implora 123 

Kit Carson s Ride 124 

CHARLES M. DICKINSON (1842) 

The Children 129 

SIDNEF LANIER (1842-1881) 

Sunrise A Hymn of the Marshes 131 

The Marshes of Glynn 137 

Song of the Chattahoochee 140 

A Ballad of Trees and the Master 142 

From " The Symphony " 142 

The Crystal 145 

DAVID LAW PROUDFIT (1842) 

At Odds with Life 148 

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS [Yciwcob Strauss] (1842) 

Der Oak and der Vine 152 

Mine Vamily 154 

He gets here shust der same ! 154 

Mine Moder-in-Law . . . . . .156 

Der Drummer . 157 

" Don d feel too Big !" 158 

Der Vater-Mill 159 

EICHARD WATSON GILDER (1844) 

Ode 161 

A Woman s Thought ] 63 

Reform 164 

Decoration Day 165 

" There is Nothing new under the Sun " . . . .165 

The Sower 166 

" O Silver River flowing toward the Sea" . . .167 

Sheridan 168 

The White Tsar s People 169 

Sunset from the Train 171 

The Master-Poets . . 172 

SONGS 

The Song of a Heathen 173 

I Love her Gentle Forehead 173 

" Beyond the Branches of the Pine " .... 174 

" The Woods that bring the Sunset near " . . . 174 

" Oh Love is not a Summer Mood " 175 

Song 175 

Only Once 175 






CONTENTS. xiii 

PAGE 

SONNETS 

" My Love for Thee doth March like Armed Men " . 176 

The Dark Room 176 

On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln . . .177 
Love s Jealousy . . . . . . . .178 

The Celestial Passion 178 

The Evening Star 179 

The Sonnet ... 179 

Keats 180 

Father and Child 180 

"Call me not Dead" 181 

JOHN BOYLE O KEILLY (1844-1890) 

Jacqueminots . . . . . . . .181 

The Celebes 182 

A Savage ......... 183 

Love s Secret . . . . . . . . 183 

Distance ......... 184 

Uncle Ned s Tale 184 

Western Australia ....... 193 

Dying in Harness . . . ... . . . 194 

J. H. BONER (1845) 

" We Walked among the Whispering Pines " . . .197 
The Light ood Eire 198 

MAURICE THOMPSON (1844) 

The Death of the White Heron . . . ." .199 

Ceres 202 

Diana 203 

An Exile 204 

WILL CARLETON (1845) 

The First Settler s Story . . . . . .209 

EDGAR FAWCETT (1847) 

Imperfection . .219 

The Punishment . . . . . . . .219 

The Meeting . . ^ . . . . . . 220 

To an Oriole 220 

The Moon in the City ...... 221 

Decoration Day .... .... 221 

Fiat Justitia 222 

Gold 223 

Still Water . .224 

Master and Slave .,,.,,. 225 



UNIVERSITY 



xiv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Sorceress 226 

A Straggler 234 

Ivy 235 

JAMES JEFFREY EOCHE (1847) 

Sir Hugo s Choice 236 

The V-a-s-e 238 

Andromeda . . . . ..... . . 239 

Babylon . . . ....... . . 239 

WALTER LEARNED (1847) 

On the Fly-Leaf of a Book of Old Plays . . .240 

Marjorie s Kisses 241 

The Prime of Life 242 

Eheu ! Fugaces 242 

HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS (1847) 

Beaver Pond Meadows ....... 243 

The Rising of the Curtain 245 

Hugh Latimer ........ 247 

JOHN VANCE CHENEY (1848) 

Waiting 248 

Our Mother 248 

Great is To-Day . . . 249 

Snowflakes . . . . . . . . .250 

Spring Song 250 

Loves of Leaves and Grasses . . . . .251 

Song of the Gloaming . . . .... . 251 

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN (1848) 

The Lost Hellas 252 

Evolution ......... 256 

CHARLES DE KAY (1848) 

Arcana Sylvarum 258 

Invocation ......... 259 

Ulf in Ireland . . . ... . . 260 

Surrender . . . .... . . . 263 

The Tornado . . . . . . . . 264 

Serenade ......... 266 

From "Barnaval" ....... 266 

EGBERT BURNS WILSON (1850) 

Life and Love ......... 269 

My Lady Sleeps , , . , , . , . 272 



CONTENTS. 



EUGENE FIELD (1850) 

Our Two Opinions . 273 

Lullaby 274 

A Dutch Lullaby 275 

A Norse Lullaby 277 

GEORGE WASHINGTQN WRIGHT HouGHTON (1850) 

Anniversary Hymn 277 

The Handsel Ring 278 

The Harp (Legend of St Olafs Kirk) . \ \ ! 279 

The Song (Legend of St Olafs Kirk) . . . 279 

Gone ! (Legend of St Olafs Kirk) 280 

Tapestries (Legend of St Olafs Kirk) . . . .281 

ARLO BATES (1850) 

To My Infant Son 281 

On the Road to Chorrera . . . . . 284 

A Shadow Boat ..... 284 

Sonnets in Shadow 285 

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP (1851) 

Gettysburg, a Battle Ode . . . . . ,287 

The Sunshine of Thine Eyes , 288 

The Phoebe-Bird \ \ 2 88 

Keenan s Charge 289 

IRWIN RUSSELL (1853-1879) 

Prom " Christmas Night in the Quarters "... 291 

Nebuchadnezzar .... 293 

Her Conquest 295 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1853) 

The South Wind and the Sun .... 295 

Knee-Deep in June ........ 300 

When She Comes Home ..... 303 

When Bessie Died ... 393 

The King ... . . . . ] 304 

Jim 306 

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK (1854) 

Dollie ..... 30g 

A Knot of Blue ..... . 399 

An Afterthought ..... 309 
The Sailor s Sweetheart , , . . 



xvi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

H. C. BUNNER (1855) 

The Way to Arcady 311 

The Appeal to Harold 314 

JAMES BERRY BENSEL (1856-1886) 

My Sailor 315 

WILLIAM PRESCOTT FOSTER (1856) 

The Wind and the Stars and the Sea . . . .316 

The Sea s Voice 317 

The Silence of the Hills 318 

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH (1856) 

Ghosts 319 

Love 321 

The Tocsin 321 

Song The Vigil 322 

The Burden of Time 322 

JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON (1858) 

When Clover Blooms 324 

Quatrain 325 

Syrinx 325 

The Tyrian s Memory 32b 

JOHN ELIOT BOWEN (1858) 

To Wilding, my Polo-Pony 328 

The Man who Rode to Conemaugh 329 

CHARLES HENRY LUDERS (1858) 

The Dead Nymph 331 

EICHARD EUGENE BURTON (1859) 

The City 335 

Apprisals <*> 

Song of the Sea 

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN (I860) 

Dawn and Dusk 337 

On Some Buttercups 339 

Bacchus <Jd9 

A Madrigal ^U 

A Betrothal *** 

A Persian Dancing Girl . , , * d4 * 



CONTENTS., ; xvH 

PAGE 

CLINTON SCOLLARD (I860) 

As I Came Down from Lebanon . . . ... 342 

The Hunter . . " . . . . . . . . 343 

By the Turret Stair . . * . . . _..* . . . 346 

On a Bust of Antinous . . . . . 347 

Sidney Godolphin . . . .... . . 348 

LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL [John Philip Varley] (1862) 
The Way-Side Virgin ... . . . 349 

Song . . .. .. ... .350 

Song . . .851 

MADISON J. CAWEIN (1865) 

Carmen . . . . . . . . .351 

The Heron . ... ... . . .353 

HENRY TYRRELL (I860) 

The Debutante . . . ... . .353 

Idylls . . ; T . . . .*.".*. .354 

DANIEL L. DAWSON 

The Seeker in the Marshes . . . . . .354 

RICHARD HOVEY (1864) 

Beethoven s Third Symphony 356 

ARTHUR MACY 

My Masterpiece ........ 357 

OSCAR FAY ADAMS 

Beaten 359 

MAURICE EGAN 

Of Flowers . . . . .".*.. .360 

The Old Violin . . . . . . . . 360 

Theocritius 361 

Maurice De Guerin . . ... . . . 361 

JAMES E. NESMITH 

Monadnoc . . . . . . . . 362 

LOUISE MAY ALCOTT (1832) 

Transfiguration . . .*. ... . 374 

ANNE EEEVE ALDRICH 

Color Song ...... . . . . 375 

A Song of Life . . . . ,.,.,.. 376 

The Wish . . ... .. . , 376 

b 



xviii CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES (1838-1889) 

Springs . . . . 4 377 

AtTappan . . . . . . . . -378 

Last Days of Byron 378 

MAT ELIZABETH BLAKE (1840) 

A Dead Summer 380 

Going and Coming 381 

Heartsick! . .... .... .383 

HELEN GRAY CONE (1859) 

The Accolade 384 

A Song of Failure . .... . .389 

The Dandelions . . . . . - . . .389 

Emelie 390 

Elsinore . -392 

To-Day 394 

INA D. COOLBRITH 

The Poet . . 394 

DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE (1858) 

Desire 395 

Pegasus 397 

A Dainty Fop ,398 

The Dead Moon . .... . . .399 

MARGARET[TA WADE] DELAND (1857) 

Affaire D Amour . . . . . .401 

Summer 402 

Life 402 

" While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night " . 403 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY (1861) 

Tarpeia " . . . -404 

A Passing Song 407 

The Wild Ride 407 

The Light of the House 408 

After the Storm 409 

The Poet .409 

HELEN JACKSON [H. H.] (1831) 

A Christmas Symphony .... . . .410 

At Last . . . . 413 

When the Tide comes in . . . . .- .415 



CONTENTS. xix 

PAGE 

When the Baby died . . . . . . 416 

Land 417 

When the Kings come . . . . . . .418 

Mordecai ......... 418 

Christmas Night in Saint Peter s . . . .419 

SONNETS 

Bon Voyage ........ 420 

Sealed Orders 421 

Avalanches . . . . . . .421 

Cheyenne Mountain .421 

Danger 422 

The Fir-Tree and the Brook 422 

Refrain . *. . . . 424 

My Tenants . . . . . . . . . 425 

Dedication 426 

May 427 

The Poet s Forge . 427 

Vanity of Vanities ....... 428 

Habeas Corpus . . . ... . . 429 

A Last Prayer . . . ...... . 430 

EOSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP (1851) 

Francie .431 

Dorothy 432 

Looking Backward . . . . . . .432 

The Out-Going Race 433 

EMMA LAZARUS (1849-1887)-- 

The Crowing of the Red Cock 434 

The Banner of the Jew . ... . . . 435 

A Masque of Venice ....... 436 

JULIE MATHILDE LIPPMANN (1864) 

A Song of the Road . . 438 

Time . . . . . . . . .439 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 

A Painted Fan 440 

The House of Death 441 

How Long ......... 442 

We Lay us Down to Sleep . . . . . .442 

" If there were Dreams to Sell " 443 

When Day was Done . . . . . 444 

At End . . 445 

Heart ! Sad Heart : A Rondel 445 

Wife to Husband . . 445 

The Venus of Burne Jones 446 



xx CONTENTS. 

PAGK 

The Last Good-Bye . 447 

After Death . . . . -. ;.-.-. .447 

The Cup of Death . . . . . . . . 448 

Hie Jacet . . . . - . . . . . 448 

A Cry 449 

NORA PERRY 

After the Ball 449 

Tying her Bonnet under her Chin . . . . .451 

The Romance of a Rose 453 

Abraham Lincoln s Christmas Gift . . . . .455 

Riding Down 456 

Cressid . . .457 

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD (1844) 

All the Rivers 459 

On the Bridge of Sighs . 460 

Afterward . 460 

Galatea , . . .461 

SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT (1836) 

There was a Rose . . . ... . 463 

In Doubt . . . . . . . . . .464 

Broken Promise 464 

The Watch of a Swan 464 

The Witch in the Glass 465 

Comfort through a Window 465 

Making Peace 466 

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 

A Blemished Offering 467 

A Belle of Praeneste 468 

Persephone , . . . 470 

The First Thanksgiving Day 471 

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR 

Easter Morning . . . . . . . 473 

El Madhi to the Tribes of the Soudan . . . .476 

The Brooklyn Bridge 478 

Heroes 480 

AMELIE EIVES (1863) 

Grief and Faith 481 

A Sonnet. ....... . 483 



CONTENTS. xxi 

PAGE 

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. ( 1835) . 

Magdalen . 484 



Agatha s Song 
The Lonely Grave 
Oak Hill 
An Old Song . 



485 
486 
488 
488 



Goldsmith s Whistle . . ..-.. . 489 
CELIA THAXTER (1836) 

The Only Foe . . . .... . 494 

Song . . .495 

A Tryst . .495 

Slumber Song . . . . . . .498 

Schumann s Sonata in A Minor ..... 498 

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS (1854) 

The Quiet Pilgrim 500 

Exiles . . . 501 

Frost 501 

MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND (1836) 

Down the Bayou . . . . . . . . 502 

How Much do you Love Me ..... . . . 505 

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 

Solitude ... . 506 



Answered 
Midsummer . 
The Lost Garden 
The Story 



507 
508 
509 
511 



Advice 511 

My Ships . . . ... . . .512 

Will 513 

Winter Rain ......... 514 

Life ........ 514 



YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL (I860) 

Keziah . . . . 519 

A Lake Memory ...... 521 

Three Things " 521 

Manitpu ........ . . . . . 522 

GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON 

By the Fountain . ..-..-. . . 523 

The^Way of the World 525 



xxii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Shelley 526 

True Love and Tried 527 

What Matters It ? . . . . . . . .528 

Our Poets . . .529 

Death 530 

On Life s Sea . . 532 

Relics . 534 

BLISS CARMAN (1861) 

Stir 535 

Death in April . . . 535 

A Windflower . . . . . . . .542 

A. H. CHANDLER 

The Death-Song of Chi-wee-moo ...... 542 

ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD 

The Canoe . . . . . . . . .543 

HEREWARD K. COCKIN 

Epitaph on an Early Settler . . . . . .546 

JOHN HUNTER DUVAR (1830) 

From Enamorado . . 548 

Song from Enamorado . . . . . . .549 

Twilight Song (from De Roberval) . . . . .549 

Brown of England s Lay ...... 550 

THE EEV. ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON 

L Ordre de Bon Temps ....... 551 

The Legend of Glooscap 552 

The Resettlement of Acadia 554 

At Grandmother s ........ 557 

The Voyage of Sleep 559 

The Whaling Town 560 

Flood Tide 561 

Love-Letters ......... 561 

Sometime ......... 562 

Louis FRECHETTE 

"Saint-Malo" 563 

" Le Drapeau Anglais " . . . . . . . 5G4 

" La Decouverte du Mississippi " 566 

JAMES HANNAY 

A Ballad of Port Royal . . .... . .570 

SOPHIE M. HENSLEY 

Triumph 572 

There is no God . . 572 



CONTENTS. xxiii 

MM 

MATTHEW EICHEY KNIGHT 

Dream and Deed ........ 573 

A Song of Failure ... . . . . .573 

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN (1861) 

Heat . . 575 

Between the Rapids . . . . . . .577 

One Day 579 

The Weaver 579 

Comfort 580 

Outlook . .581 

Knowledge . . . . . . . . . 581 

The Railway Station 582 

WILLIAM Douw LIGHTHALL 

National Hymn . . . . . . \ . 582 

Canada not Last . . . . . . . 583 

Homer .......... 585 

ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART 

Guilt in Solitude . . 586 

Frost-Work 589 

BURTON W. LOCKHART 

Song 589 

Life s Noblest Heights 590 

AGNES MAULE MACHAR 

Drifting among the Thousand Islands . . . . 590 

The Whip-poor-will . . . . . . . . 591 

Two Visions . . . . . . . . . 592 

In the Studio 593 

WILLIAM M LENNAN 

"The Pines" Mount Royal . . . . . 595 

CHARLES MAIR (1840) 

From " The Tecumseh " . 595 

MART MORGAN [Gowan Lea] 

"In Apprehension, so Like a God ! " . . . 598 

CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY (1835) 

From Far 599 

South Africa Remembered at Niagara, Canada . . 600 

Some One Comes . . , 600 



xxiv CONTENTS. 



JOHN EEADE (1837) 

Antigone . . ...... . . . 601 

British Canada to Mr Louis H. Frechette . . . 602 

Pictures of Memory . . . . . ...... . 602 

Dominion Day . . . 605 

In my Heart . ......... 607 

PROFESSOR CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS EGBERTS 

Collect for Dominion Day .... . . 608 

Canada . "... . 609 

Khartoum . . . . 610 

The Pipes of Pan . . . . , . . .611 

The Isles: An Ode .613 

Salt 614 

Severance 615 

Actaeon ... . . . . . . . 615 

ELIZABETH GOSTUYCKE EGBERTS 

A Secret Song 621 

THE EEV. F. G. SCOTT (1861) 

Time . . . . . . . . 622 

Knowledge . . . . . . . . . 622 

British War Song 624 

Estrangement . . . . . . . . . 624 

PHILLIPS STEWART (1863) 

Hope . . . 625 

Alone . . " 626 

At Sea . . . . . . . . . .627 

BARRY STRATON 

The Robin s Madrigal . . .... .627 

From The Building of the Bridge . . . . .628 

ARTHUR WEIR (1864) 

L Ordre de Bon Temps ....... . .629 

At Rainbow Lake 631 

In Absence 632 

APPENDIX I. 

A Study of Sidney Lanier by Mrs Laurence Turnbull . 635 

APPENDIX II. 

President Gates on Sidney Lanier . .- . . . 645 




TO THE READER* 



THE literary men of England and the United States 
are one people, with the same tastes and a reciprocal 
feeling of affection. No English author can be in 
sensible to the efforts of American authors and the 
leading American publishing houses to persuade 
their Government to join the international copy 
right league, and there is no more appreciative 
audience than the American. 

With the works of English authors, rising as 
well as risen, our cousins are laudably familiar. 
But the compliment has not been returned, and 
this book is an attempt to make English readers 
know something more of the bright young poets 
whose names they see in the great international 
magazines The Century and Harper s. 

I have confined myself to writing of the younger 
poets, for two reasons. The British Public is as 
conversant as it is ever likely to be with the poems 
of Longfellow, Bryant, Poe, Emerson, Whittier, 
Holmes, and Lowell, and it would therefore have 
been a great pity to use up the large amount of 
space which must have been allotted to them to 
preserve proportion, while, on the other hand, it 
would have been very impertinent to have in 
cluded them without an exhaustive study of their 
works, in order to contribute something fresh about 

* This introduction is an expansion of my two articles which 
appeared in the New York Independent of June 12th and June 19th, 
1890. 



xxvi TO THE READER. 

them not to mention the dog-in-the-mangering 
about copyrights. 

Nor has there, as far as I know, been any at 
tempt made in England to put before the Public 
a work dealing only with the contemporary part 
of American poetry. 

Before going further, it would perhaps be as 
well to define "Younger American Poets." The 
ante-bellum poets, those whose fame was already 
secure before the War, naturally did not fall into 
this limitation. But the War itself seemed hardly 
a satisfactory line of demarcation. However, 
while considering this question, I happened to 
notice that Paul Hamilton Hayne, whom I have 
accordingly made the patriarch of this work, was 
born on the 1st of January 1830. And as the 
book was going to press at the end of 1889, this 
gave me an exact period of sixty years. 

As it seemed, also, that no collection of " Younger 
American Poets " would be complete without those 
who were judged in their lifetime among the most 
likely to furnish successors to the Longfellow 
group " H. H.," Sidney Lanier, Emma Lazarus, 
Edward Rowland Sill, and the poets of the South, 
Paul Hayne and Father Ryan, I decided to include 
all born within the period, living or dead. 

It would be invidious, while all the authors 
included are alive, or only recently dead, to make 
comparisons of merit, and I shall confine myself 
to remarking on the features which have struck 
me most in some of the more noticeable of them. 

It is natural to mention first the name of Sidney 
Lanier, for his personality, if it be true that for 
a man to be a great poet he must also be a great 
personality. 

In Lanier, the beautiful character, the high, un- 



TO THE READER. xxvii 

relaxed purpose shine out. In his work the con 
scientious workman and the artist revelling in the 
exercise of his art are never lost. Indeed some 
times, as in that great poem of "Sunrise," written 
under the same sad circumstances as Raphael s 
" Transfiguration " was painted, he steps from con 
scientious to conscious, artistic to artificial. 

But his contribution to American poetry, and 
indeed to all poetry, was great. For he asked 
himself what was the true ATS Poetica, and he 
endeavoured to write in accordance with the 
answer evolved. He seems to me parallel to 
Dante Rossetti. Each cherished not only poetry, 
but a sister art. And as Rossetti s poems betray 
the painter, Lanier s betray the musician. Each 
had a pathetic loftiness of purpose. Each had 
original ideas as to form. Each felt the hand of 
death. Each had a singularly ennobling and vivi 
fying effect on his fellows. Each was the founder 
of a school, some of whom anatomise, and some of 
whom imitate his art. 

Lanier s poetry has a real value, because it is 
beautiful, it is original, and it has a purpose. No 
one can read "The Master and the Trees," and 
" The Marshes of Glynn," without feeling that he 
is face to face with a real new poet. And no one 
can read his volume through without feeling that 
a pure, high soul has unfolded its aspirations to 
him. 

Lanier differs from the other dead poets in 
cluded in this book in that he was not only a poet 
but the founder of a school of poetry. To give 
the British reader an idea of the teaching he 
bequeathed to his school, I have added a couple 
of appendices, one summarised from the able 
memoir by President Merrill E. Gates, of Rutger s 



xxviii TO THE READER. 

College, the other, by Mrs Laurence Turnbull, of 
Baltimore, giving the cult of the Lanierophant. 

From Lanier it is natural to pass to Helen Hunt, 
born Helen Fiske, and by a second marriage Helen 
Jackson. 

Nature was bountiful to her. She was what is 
called a natural poet, human in sympathies, and 
with a fine lyric touch. I have noticed, in reading 
the hundreds of books which I have had to examine 
for this work, that a larger percentage of women 
writers than men have the lyric quality. I attribute 
this to woman s not writing unless she has some 
natural turn for it, whereas a man s education shows 
him the mechanism of writing poetry, the mere 
moves on the chess-board, and he finds it an agree 
able exercise to express his thoughts in this form, 
and more particularly in England, where every 
scholar has learned to write Latin and Greek verse, 
and is, consequently, well acquainted with prosody, 
though Americans must rival them in productive 
ness, if one can trust the witticism of the editor of 
Harper s Magazine, who once remarked to me : 
" Every night at nine o clock I take out my watch 
and say to myself, there are at this minute a hundred 
thousand people on this continent writing poetry, 
and most of them will send their poems to me." 

To instance what I have said about women, I 
could quote a long list of Americans, such as Helen 
Hunt, Louise Chandler Moulton, Nora Perry, 
Harriet Prescott Spofford, Edna Dean Proctor, 
Edith Thomas, Helen Gray Cone, Margaret Deland, 
Danske Dandridge, and Louise Imogen Guiney. 

But to return to " H. H.," the broad human heart 
shows^itself from one end of her writing to the 
other. She is essentially human, and she has 
eminently the faculty of creating an interest, for 



TO THE READER. xxix 

she chooses bright, picturesque metres, and uses 
picturesque expressions. 

It was said of Longfellow that no one will deny 
that the world is better for his having been born. 
This is true also of " H. H." She was a sort of 
feminine Longfellow, inferior to him, as one would 
expect a woman to be, in scholarship and learning, 
like him in striking the keynote of home. This is 
shown, for example, in her sonnets, such as " Outward 
Bound " structurally imperfect, but noble poems. 

Paul Hamilton Hayne and Father Abram John 
Ryan, the dead Southern poets, were both of them, 
at their best, war poets. But Hayne s fame rests 
on his poems generally, and Ryan s on his battle- 
pieces, such as his world-renowned " The Conquered 
Banner." 

Seldom has a poet been so identified with a cause 
as this priest-Tyrtseus. 

In his poems one sees the whole terrible drama, 
founded on the brave old theme of Cavalier and 
Roundhead, acted afresh the grim, old story of 
high hopes shattered, high blood poured out like 
water, romance and chivalry subjected to reality. 
Ryan has created a monument more beautiful and 
more enduring than marble over the grave of the 
gallant but ill-fated Gray. 

The "Conquered Banner," "Sentinel Songs," 
and the lines on his brother, are among the finest 
war poems in our language. 

Hayne, too, had his tongue tipped with fire when 
he sang the high hopes of valour to the Southern 
cavaliers in such poems as " Beyond the Potomac " 
and " Vicksburg." His story is a tragical one, with 
its loss of the beautiful ancestral home at Charles 
ton, and the long years of reduced circumstances 
in Georgia. 



xxx TO THE READER. 

Hayne s poems are not all of equal interest, but 
every now and then one comes upon something 
very striking. Where he felt strongly he had stir 
ring eloquence ; what he knew familiarly he could 
paint vividly. 

Among the living younger poets, the first to con 
sider is, of course, Edmund Clarence Stedman, their 
patriarch, with a single minor exception, and dis 
tinguished not only as a poet but as one of the first 
critics of the day. His great work on the Victorian 
Poets is in its fifteenth edition, and is considered 
the best yet written on contemporary English poets. 
And some of his poems, like " Pan in Wall Street," 
and " How Old Brown took Harper s Ferry," are 
known to every man and woman who reads in the 
United States. The born-Americans who don t 
read are a scarcely appreciable portion. His noble 
"Undiscovered Country" is worthy of the pen 
which wrote 

"Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust," 

and his pathetic " The Discoverer " and " Proven9al 
Lovers," the latter one of the best things of its kind 
in English, are familiar to all scholars. A strange, 
picturesque career, a fascinating personality, is 
Stedman s. That his battle-pieces are so full of fire 
is no wonder, for he was a war correspondent in 
the great Civil War. After this, to use his own 
expression, he saw how fools make money, and made 
a great fortune, becoming one of the best-known 
figures on Wall Street as a broker and banker. 
Then, by no fault of his own, but by one in whom 
he placed implicit confidence, the whole was swept 
away, and he had to begin life again. Now his 
muse sings too seldom, for his energies have been 



TO THE READER. xxxi 

taken up with editing the whole corpus of American 
writings the great encyclopaedic Library of 
American Literature, published by Mark Twain s 
firm, Charles L. Webster & Co., the most stupend 
ous thing of the kind yet attempted. 

America can ill spare such a poet for the editorial 
mill. It is cruel that he should not have the leisure 
to be writing lyrics and ballads to form part of the 
household words of his country. What makes 
Stedman such a fine critic is the unusual combination 
of the generous, enthusiastic, poetical heart with a 
relentlessly clear and judicial intellect. His judg 
ment detects every flaw in taste or workmanship, 
but his generosity makes it impossible for him to 
thrust a poisoned dagger where he finds these holes 
in the armour of his brother poets. For to Stedman 
his brother poets are brothers. It is delightful to 
know him, to mark what an eager, enthusiastic, 
poetical spirit burns in that spare body, what a 
keen intellect is revealed in that bright, intellectual 
face, with its magnificent crown of silver hair. If 
he had but the leisure, no one could have a better 
chance of succeeding Whittier as the poet of the 
American people. For Stedman is essentially in 
touch with his people an American of the best 
kind, cosmopolitan in his sympathies, patriotic in 
his sentiments. He is proud of America, proud of 
being an American, satisfied with the people of 
America. But he feels that Europe is the comple 
ment of America that America is an outline 
sketch, which wants the light and shade of Europe 
added to make it a complete picture. 

Owing to the copyright arrangements, Bret Harte, 
Thomas Bailey Aldrich, and William Winter are 
represented by only a couple of short poems each, 
so to discuss them would be like a sermon without 



xxxii TO THE READER. 

a text. Anyhow, Harte and Winter are known 
as well on one side of the Atlantic as the other. 
Aldrich has achieved something very like perfec 
tion within the limitations, which he would seem 
deliberately to have laid down for himself except 
in Wyndham Towers. 

Edgar Fawcett is a master of irony, has an 
extraordinary command of metre and rhyme, is 
picturesque in his wording, and strong in his 
situations. His poems are full of character. It 
is not necessary to more than mention here 
that he is one of the most successful novelists 
of the day. 

Among all the poetry I have read for my books 
I have liked the flavour of none better than 
Richard Watson Gilder s. It is ripe wine, dis 
tinguished alike by mellowness and bouquet. 
Gilder s poetry is like Longfellow s it soothes 
one and makes one feel better. I remember 
Russell Sullivan saying to me that he always reads 
a few pages of Longfellow before sitting down 
to dinner, to put him in a comfortable frame of 
mind for his meal. The mention of their names 
together recalls my impression that, since the 
death of Longfellow, Gilder has been unexcelled 
among American writers of the sonnet. Gilder s 
poems are instinct with the beautiful disposition 
and delicate taste which endears him personally. 
Delicacy is their quality, or perhaps I should say 
exquisiteness, so as not to imply the unintended 
sense of fragility. 

As will be seen from the poems quoted in this 
book, Gilder is among the most scholarly of younger 
American poets. Though liberal to those of others, 
he has strong opinions of his own, expressed in 
verse terse, picturesque, and musical, eloquent 



TO THE READER. xxxiii 

above all because so obviously the outcome of 
the heart, not of effort. 

The name I associate most closely with Gilder s 
is Maurice Thompson. 

In his poems, too, delicate grace, delicate taste 
are conspicuous, and he has fields of his own 
archery and sport in the South. In the course of 
this work I have read no other poem like "The 
Death of the White Heron." It has the subtle 
sympathy with Nature remarkable in those prose 
poets John Burroughs and Richard JefFeries, 
while its poetical form is exquisite ; and " In Exile," 
on his favourite theme of bowcraft, is almost 
equally delightful. He has also a dainty classical 
vein of his own. 

Since I began this selection, John Boyle O Reilly s 
eager spirit has at last found rest. He was a 
natural balladist, with the gifts and the faults of 
his countrymen, often eloquent, musical, pathetic to 
a marked degree, but often also spoiling his poems 
by unpruned luxuriance or the intrusion of platform 
platitudes. But O Reilly, in these very poems, had 
one great point in his favour, that they were the out 
come of intense if not always very poetical feeling. 

James Whitcomb Riley is chiefly known as a 
dialect poet, but personally I prefer, as a rule, 
such of his poems as are not in dialect, such, for 
instance, as " The South Wind and the Sun." In 
these, I think, he stands among the foremost of the 
younger men. Riley may always be " innocent of 
the great offence," as he undoubtedly is in " Knee- 
deep in June," but I am haunted by a suspicion that 
most poets put poems into dialect when they are 
hopelessly unpoetic in the English of Tennyson. 

The palm of popularity, among the dialect poets, 
falls to Will Carleton, author of Farm Ballads, 



xxxiv TO THE READER. 

Farm Festivals, etc. Probably none of the 
younger poets has such a hold upon the affections 
of the sixty millions. And not without reason, 
for Carleton is in thorough sympathy with the 
unadulterated American, distinctly has something 
to say, and says it with no small degree of mother- 
wit and pathos. 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox, for somewhat similar 
reasons, has a large audience of a somewhat similar 
character. 

Humorous poets should perhaps be mentioned 
here, as most dialect poets deal with humorous 
subjects. 

I have noticed that while the Americans are as 
a nation born humorists, they have comparatively 
few high-class humorous writers. Mark Twain 
is more American than Frank Stockton ; the 
cartoons in the comic papers more racy of the 
soil than their delicious little society vignettes. 

Bret Harte and Colonel John Hay, of course, 
stand at the head of the younger poets in repu 
tation as humorists, though neither of them has 
the spirit of mirth like poor Irwin Russell, the 
darkey-dialect poet, whose " Christmas Night in 
Quarters" is about the best thing of the kind I 
have read. 

After Harte and Hay comes Charles Follen 
Adams, as " Yawcob Strauss," the rival of the 
veteran Charles Leland. Yawcob Strauss s German- 
English is very funny, and he has Josh Billings s 
gift of preaching pithy little sermons in his 
humorous moralisings. He is quite an American 
^Esop sometimes. "Don t feel too big ," "Mine 
Moder-in-law," and " Der Oak und der Vine," seem 
to me admirable in one or other of these ways. 
Riley I have already mentioned ; and James Jeffrey 



TO THE READER. xxxv 

Roche wrote a poem of the kind, with which 
American newspapers are stuffed, like a Christ 
mas plum-pudding with currants, so superior to the 
rest that it has taken its place in literature 
" The V-a-s-e." 

In a higher grade, the reader will notice a 
delightful jeu d esprit from the pen of John Paul 
(Charles Henry Webb), " The King and the Pope," 
and E. R. Sill s "Fool s Prayer." 

So much for indigenous humour. Of late there 
has been a surfeit of vers de societe poems, with 
an affectation of sprightliness, taken from the 
French, second hand, through Austin Dobson, 
whose exquisite style has met with a more general 
appreciation in America than in his own country. 

Up to about a year ago this affectation was at 
its very height, puffed up by balloons of ballades 
and rondeaux and villanelles, manufactured prin 
cipally by the very young poets. Clever young 
Americans have a Chinese aptitude for imitating 
this sort of thing. Frank Dempster Sherman, who 
has enjoyed remarkable success, and whose work 
manship is of remarkable beauty, can write Dobson- 
ese that might pass for Dobson. The heads of this 
school have produced some really bright work. But 
there are others who have nothing but a good ear 
and a capacity for technical finish, and can enter 
into the spirit of this veneering with zest. The 
same class now is turning out pseudo-Nature poems 
of the smell-of-the-autumn-woods-brand with equal 
gusto. There seems to be a kind of a parallel 
between this element in poetry and what is called 
" dudishness " in dress ; it shows a certain delicacy, 
a certain originality of taste, but no brawn. 

How refreshing it was to turn from these 
lucubrations (I speak literally, knowing what ex- 



xxxvi TO THE READER. 

penditure of midnight oil) to a poem like " Lasca." 
I could say from my heart 

" I want free life and I want fresh air ; 
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle." 

There is, unfortunately, no evidence that this arch- 
favourite with the American reciter s audiences is 
the work of an American. What evidence there 
is rather points the other way, for it has been 
traced back as far as Temple Bar, where it ap 
peared over the signature of Frank Desprez, and 
the editors of the great Library of American 
Literature, whom I have consulted, are inclined 
to pronounce it the work of an Englishman who 
had been ranching in Texas or something of the 
kind. I was never able to see a copy of the 
poem until I came upon a quotation from it in 
the " Home-Maker," in Marion Harland s charming 
novel With Best Intentions. I wrote off to her, 
and she was kind enough to comply with my 
request and give me a copy of the complete poem, 
which, by her courtesy, I subjoin, on the chance 
of its being proved American. 

LASCA. 

I want free life and I want fresh air ; 

And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, 

The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, 

The m&lfo of horns and hoofs and heads 

That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads ; 

The green beneath and the blue above, 

And dash and danger, and life and love. 

And Lasca ! 

Lasca used to ride 

On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side, 
With blue serape and bright-belled spur; 
I laughed with joy as I looked at her. 
Little knew she of books or of creeds ; 
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs ; 
Little she cared, save to be by my side, 



TO THE READER. xxxvii 

To ride with me, and ever to ride, 

From San Saba s shore to Lavaca s tide. 

She was as bold as the billows that beat, 

She was as wild as the breezes that blow ; 

From her little head to her little feet 

She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro 

By each gust of passion ; a sapling pine, 

That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, 

And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, 

Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. 

She would hunger that I might eat, 
Would take the bitter arid leave me the sweet ; 
But once, when I made her jealous for fun, 
At something I d whispered, or looked, or done, 
One Sunday, in San Antonio, 
To a glorious girl on the Alamo, 
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger, 
And sting of a wasp ! it made me stagger ! 
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, 
And I shouldn t be maundering here to-night ; 
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound 
Her torn reboso about the wound, 
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don t count 
In Texas, down by the Eio Grande. 

Her eye was brown, a deep, deep brown; 
Her hair was darker than her eye ; 
And something in her smile and frown, 
Curled crimson lip and instep high, 
Showed that there ran in each blue vein, 
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, 
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain. 
She was alive in every limb 
With feeling, to the finger-tips ; 
And when the sun is like a fire, 
And sky one shining, soft sapphire, 
One does not drink in little sips. 

The air was heavy, the night was hot, 

I sat by her side, and forgot forgot; 

Forgot the herd that were taking their rest, 

Forgot that the air was close opprest, 

That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, 

In the dead of night or the blaze of noon ; 



xxxviii TO THE READER. 

That once let the herd at its breath take fright, 
Nothing on earth can stop the flight ; 
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, 
Who falls in front of their mad stampede ! 

Was that thunder ? I grasped the cord 
Of my swift mustang without a word. 
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. 
Away ! on a hot chase down the wind ! 
But never was fox-hunt half so hard, 
And never was steed so little spared. 
For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared 
In Texas, down by the Bio Grande. 

The mustang flew, and we urged him on ; 

There was one chance left, and you have but one: 

Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse ; 

Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance ; 

And if the steers in their frantic course 

Don t batter you both to pieces at once, 

You may thank your star ; if not, good-bye 

To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, 

And the open air and the open sky, 

In Texas, down by the Eio Grande ! 

The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt 
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, 
Down came the mustang, and down came we, 
Clinging together, and what was the rest ? 
A body that spread itself on my breast. 
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, 
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest ; 
Then came thunder in my ears, 
As over us surged the sea of steers, 
Blows that beat blood into my eyes, 
And when I could rise 
Lasca was dead ! 

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, 

And there in earth s arms I laid her to sleep ; 

And there she is lying, and no one knows, 

And the summer shines and the winter snows; 

For many a day the flowers have spread 

A pall of petals over her head ; 

And the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air, 

And the sly coyote trots here and there, 



TO THE READER, xxxix 

And the black snake glides and glitters and slides 

Into a rift in a cottonwood tree ; 

And the buzzard sails on, 

And comes and is gone, 

Stately and still like a ship at sea ; 

And I wonder why I do not care 

For the things that are like the things that were. 

Does half my heart lie buried there 

In Texas, down by the Eio Grande ? 

Frank Desprez. 

In support of my estimate of the cherry-stone- 
carvers I quote the satire of Dr William Hayes 
Ward, a great scholar, and one of the editors of the 
Independent, at once the principal religious journal 
of the United States, and that which attaches more 
importance to literary contributions than any 
regular newspaper, with perhaps a single excep 
tion : 

But who are these ? A company of youth 
Upon a tesselled pavement in a court, 
Under a marble statue of a muse, 
Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic fount 
Drawn from a faucet in a rockery. 
With mutual admiration they repeat 
Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse, 
Their versicles and icicles of song ! 

What know ye, verse wrights of the Poet s art ? 

What noble passion or what holy heat 

Is stirred to frenzy when your eyes admire 

The peacock feathers on a frescoed wall, 

Or painted posies on a lady s fan ? 

Are these thine only bards, young age, whose eyes 

Are blind to Heaven and heart of man ; whose blood 

Is water, and not wine ; unskilled in notes 

Of liberty, and holy love of land, 

And man, and all things beautiful ; deep skilled 

To burnish wit in measured feet, to wind 

A weary labyrinth of laboured rhymes, 

And cipher verses on an abacus ? 



xl TO THE READER. 

Are these thy poets, age of trusts and rings, 

Of stolen wealth and Senate millionaires ? 

These who have only seen the chiselled Muse, 

And never felt her life ? Why, tell me but 

Ye know not did the tuneful Nine attend 

Great Phoebus, god of the all-kindling sun ? 

Ye never learned at Thespian festival 

How bubbling Hippocrene answered the foot 

Of Pegasus, nor how the Delian god, 

Apollo, god of poets and the lyre, 

Father of healing, speaker of oracles, 

Strangled the Python and the Sminthian plague. 

Nor would ye care to see him come again 

With lyre and knife to flay the Marsyan sham ! 

Ye elder seers surviving, grey with love 

Of fellow-man, and beauty s sanctities, 

Delay your flight, Browning and Tennyson, 

Lowell and Whittier, till these ears shall hear 

Some higher note that might call back our dead, 

And teach us to despise mechanic bards 

Expert to solder silver filigree, 

To carve out verse to order and for pay, 

Product and purchase of the magazine.* 

While Stedman, in his Poets of America, remarks 
that the brilliant young men who would have been 
poets were all writing novels, and, judging from 
their prose, such men as G. W. Cable and Frank 
Stockton would have been fully armed if they had 
leapt into the arena of poetry. 

It has been said that America will never produce 
a national poet till she produces one inspired by 
the axe. In this class of poetry no younger 
American has higher claims than John James 
Piatt. 

He is essentially the farmer-poet he who has 
been most successful in capturing the spirit of 
Beauty in the clearing, the furrow, and the harvest 
field. There is a fine simplicity in Piatt s Illinois 

* From " The Invocation," published in the Independent of May 
10, 1888. 



TO THE READER. xli 

and Ohio poems, as dignified and interesting as it 
is simple. 

Speaking of Piatt reminds me of his colleague 
in his first volume of poems, who has since, in 
another line, risen to a pinnacle in both nations 
William Dean Howells. I think Howells, as a poet, 
has received scanty justice. Few of the younger 
poets have so much of the Longfellow quality, 
though he treats a more familiar class of subjects. 

The subjects he chooses are interesting, and he 
treats them with a great deal of poetical grace and 
musicality, as well as the qualities for which his 
novels are famous. 

Two of the best lyrics in this book are by poets 
very little known, except through the columns of 
the Century Magazine, Will Wallace Harney and 
Henry Ames Blood. And even David Gray, author 
of one or two of the finest American sonnets, and 
a poem on Sir John Franklyn, that might be as 
popular in England as Sir Francis Hasting Doyle s 
" Private of the Buffs," when it becomes known 
there, is only familiar to certain circles. 

Another gap in the poetical brotherhood has 
occurred since I began that fair, rare spirit, 
Henry Bernard Carpenter, author of the strange, 
weird poem "A Trio for Twelfth Night," which 
bears the stamp of spontaneous generation by poetic 
frenzy as distinctly as the " Ancient Mariner ; " 
author also of the " Liber Amoris," a mystical poem 
which is a failure as a whole, but pregnant with 
noble passages and rich touches. The " Liber 
Amoris" is like one of the great fifteenth century 
pictures, ill-digested, lacking in unity to our modern 
ideas, but with here a little episode, there a magni 
ficent suit of armour (sometimes even smith s work 
of gold and jewels let into the canvas), now a tree, 



OF Tl 

UNIVERSITY 

- . . 




xlii TO THE READER. 

now a flower, now a champing horse exquisitely 
done, not to mention the castle in the background^ 
upon which fancy has run wild. 

Englishmen will remember him as the Unitarian 
brother of the Bishop of Ripon, Dr Boyd Carpenter. 

Another luxuriant genius is Cincinnatus Hiner 
Miller, better known by his nom de plume of 
Joaquin Miller. Few of the younger poets have 
been read so much as Miller, who is as well known 
in England and Australia as in America. And 
rightly, for Miller, at any rate, is distinctly American, 
and has broken fresh ground. He has been called 
the Poet of the Sierras, and he differs from Bret 
Harte by the introduction of the horse on to his 
stage. Harte leans more to the Anglo-Saxon side 
of Western life with its miners, Miller more to the 
Spanish side with its vaqueros. 

His poetry is richer than most American poetry. 
It seems as if the voluptuous South, with its gor 
geous colouring and Italian opera mode of life, had 
been burnt into most of the pottery which comes 
from his wheel. And many of his pieces are lovely 
not fine porcelain, he is too careless or clumsy for 
that, but like Japanese earthenware remarkable 
this piece for bold beauty of form, this for an 
effective dash of colour, a third for an admirable 
little relievo, or a romance animating the whole. 
Miller can tell a good story, and can write a ringing- 
line, but he cannot gallop gracefully for long to 
gether, or turn out perfect workmanship. However, 
he is essentially interesting, and there is many a bit 
of fine poetic workmanship which I should like to 
see perish before " The Ship in the Desert " or the 
opening part of " The Rhyme of the Great 
Kiver." 

Miller s merits and his faults may be well illus- 



TO THE READER. xliii 

trated by comparing "Kit Carson s Ride" with 
" Lasca," a poem on the same theme. 

From California to Chicago is a long way, and 
Chicago long lay under the stigma of, Gallio- 
like, " caring for none of these things "; but there is 
quite a literary movement there now, at the head 
of which stands that charming writer Eugene Field. 

Near contemporaries with Field are Charles De 
Kay, Arlo Bates, and George Parsons Lathrop. 
De Kay is a man to whom one looks for a great 
poem, a man who has done much and seen much, 
with a wonderful variety both of erudition and 
physical accomplishments. Essentially a strong 
man, full of vitality and combativeness. His special 
weakness is that he trains his cannon over the heads 
of ordinary mortals. He takes it for granted that 
they will understand his allusions as well as he 
does. I never studied a poem of De Kay s without 
being repaid for the study. His poems are full of 
suggestiveness, and a kind of philosophy. But the 
fact remains that they require study, that they are 
not to be read by him who runs. This, I take it, is a 
distinct defect. Have a profound meaning in your 
poems if you like, but have a surface meaning also. 
It is not every reader who finds leisure or pleasure 
to fish. 

De Kay seems to me to write like an overworked 
man, who pours forth poems which he feels to be 
full of meat, but which he has not the time to distil 
into clear essence. It is a choice between limiting 
his output, keeping it in the secrecy of his study 
till he has the opportunity for distilling, which never 
comes, or keeping dumb all equally distasteful to 
a strong and ardent nature. But it is to such 
natures, in a happy interval of leisure, that one 
looks for a great work. 



xliv TO THE READER. 

Arlo Bates, who has made quite a mark as a 
novelist, is a man with a strong personality, in con 
versation almost as cynical as his novels, but a good 
lover and a good hater. His impressive sonnets 
are an index to the real earnestness of the man. 

Lathrop is the best war poet among all the 
younger poets on the Northern side, picturesque, 
impassioned, pathetic. In his "Gettysburg Ode" 
he soars to the heights of eloquence. 

To my mind, the finest work produced among the 
very young men is J. E. Nesmith s " Monadnoc," the 
bulk of which I have given. He has written in 
the style attempted by the pseudo-Nature school, but 
his work bears the impress of genuine communing 
with Nature, and thorough gestation and finish. I 
do not know the age of Daniel Dawson of Phila 
delphia, but I have seen some very strong poetry 
by him. 

There are poets who should have appeared in this 
volume, and whom I should have been only too 
glad to include, such as the third of the Calif ornian 
triumvirate, Charles Warren Stoddard, whose 
quality was recognised many years ago by Long 
fellow in his Poems of Places, and the Southern 
War poet, James Ryder Randall, whose " Maryland, 
my Maryland" was one of the most celebrated 
songs of the War. But nothing has been inserted 
in this volume without the permission of both 
author and publisher, and I did not receive replies 
from these gentlemen until too late to include 
specimens from their poems. 

I have heard much, also, of G. E. Woodberry s 
" North Shore Watch," but have never been able to 
see a copy as it was privately printed, and the 
author away from America. 

There is yet one more little knot whom I should 



TO THE READER. 



xlv 



have liked, by extending my limitation, to include, 
for the British Public does not know them as it does 
the other members of the Longfellow group I 
refer to K H. Stoddard, Walt Whitman, Thomas 
Parsons, author of the famous poem on the bust of 
Dante, H. H. Brownell, the naval war poet, and one 
or two more. 

But they belong to the earlier generation, though 
the astonishing vitality of Stoddard keeps him still 
jousting among men twenty years his junior. 

Before proceeding to the poetesses, it will be 
interesting to compare the relative progress of the 
younger poets of the two branches of Shakespeare s 
family by giving a list of the English poets who 
come within the period of this work. The follow 
ing is a list of those born in the Old Country, after 
1830, who are included in Stedman s Victorian 
Poets, which is perhaps the best authority on 
contemporary English poetry : 



ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 
ALEXANDER SMITH. 
ANDREW LANG. 
JEAN INGELOW. 
ISA CRAIG KNOX. 
CHRISTINA G. EOSSETTI. 
AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 
SEBASTIAN EVANS. 
GEORGE A. SIMCOX. 
PHILIP B. MARSTON. 
JOHN LEYCESTER WARREN. 
JOHN PAYNE. 
A. W. E. O SHAUGHNESSY. 
WILLIAM MORRIS. 
LEWIS MORRIS. 
EICHARD GARNETT. 
FREDERICK H. MYERS. 
Mrs HAMILTON KING. 
GEORGE MEREDITH. 
J. A. SYMONDS. 



EDWIN ARNOLD. 
ALFRED AUSTIN. 
Mrs SINGLETON (VIOLET 

FANE). 

JAMES THOMSON. 
EDMUND GOSSE. 
WILFRED S. BLUNT. 
EICHARD DIXON. 
A. M. F. EOBINSON. 

C. C. LlDDELL. 

THEODORE WATTS. 
EDWARD DOWDEN. 
WILLIAM WATSON. 
P. J. HAMERTON 
E. J. LEE HAMILTON. 
W. J. DAWSON. 
ERNEST MYERS. 
EDWARD C. LEFROY. 
WALTER H. POLLOCK. 
OSCAR WILDE. 



TO THE READER. 



EEYNELL KODD. 
EGBERT Louis STEVENSON. 
AUSTIN DOBSON. 
MARY DOWNING. 
EGBERT, LORD LYTTON. 
EGBERT BUCHANAN. 
GEORGE BARLOW 
WALTER C. SMITH. 
HARRIET E.HAMILTON-KING. 
MATHILDE BLINDE. , 

MICHAEL FIELD. 
ERIC MACKA.Y. 
EGBERT BRIDGES. 



HALL CAINE. 
WILLIAM SHARP. 
DOUGLAS SLADEN. 
ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. 
C. G. D. EGBERTS. 
CLEMENT SCOTT. 
T. MARZIALS. 
HAMILTON AIDE. 
JOSEPH ASHBY STERRY. 
LEWIS CARROLL. 
WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE. 
WESTLAND MARSTON. 
HERMAN MERIVALE. 



W. S. GILBERT. 

To pass on to the poetesses, " H. H.," whom I place 
at their head, has already been discussed, and I 
am precluded from discussing Edith M. Thomas 
and the late Emma Lazarus, because copyright 
difficulties prevent my laying before my readers 
adequate specimens to support my remarks. I 
may say, however, that the general verdict places 
Miss Thomas very high, if not at the head of the 
living women poets of America. 

Celia Thaxter is unrivalled as a poetess of the 
sea, and many editions have attested the way in 
which her genius is recognised by her fellow- 
countrymen. One of the volumes from which 
I quote has passed through sixteen. 

The poetry of Louise Chandler Moulton is musical, 
pathetic, delicately finished. She has just that 
charm which endears " Trefoil " to English readers 
a natural singer devoid of poetical artifice 
or mannerism. I consider her the best woman 
sonnet-writer. 

Next to "H. H." among the poetesses I should 
place Nora Perry. In spite of unevenness of work 
manship, Miss Perry has in a large degree just 




OF THE 

UNIVERSITY \ 
TO THE READER. V^C^^lvii 

that in which recent American poetry seems to 
me least remarkable inspiration. 

When I read the masterpieces of two brothers, 
Westward Ho and Geoffrey Hamlyn, when I 
read The Daughter of Heth or " Edinburgh after 
Flodden," when I read Cable s best work, or 
that most tragical tragedy, Juliana Horatia 
Swing s Story of a Short Life, I feel the 
blood tingling at the roots of my hair, the tears 
welling ; I feel their inspiration, and say to 
myself, " This is genius." But very little of what 
I have read for this anthology affects me thus. 
Stedman has brought this thrill in my veins, this 
mist over my eyes, once, twice, so have Hayne and 
.Ryan and Lathrop with their battle-pieces, so has 
Hay with a love poem, and Harte with an episode. 
These are but few, and I don t know that any 
of them have stirred me more than "Riding 
Down." Miss Perry is a New Englander of New 
Englanders. No one has made the stately figures 
of the great actors in the Revolution drama 
rise before us with such a Witch of Endor veri 
similitude. 

What she has done for her magnificent Went- 
worths Margaret Junkin Preston has done for 
the Pilgrims, though without the same fire. 

Harriet Prescott Spofford is a born poetess. Not 
infrequently in her poems, as in "The Lonely 
Grave," one comes across that rare note of spon 
taneity. 

Edna Dean Proctor s great poem I am unable to 
quote, as it has not yet been published. This is 
much to be regretted, as it is on a purely American 
theme "A Voice from the Zuni Indians," and 
created quite a furore among the literati when 
recited in Boston. 



xlviii TO THE READER. 

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps needs no comment, as 
she is known all over the world. 

Reference has been made above to Ella Wheeler 
Wilcox. Much ridicule has been levelled at her, 
and much solid success has fallen to her share. I 
doubt if any living poetess s books sell like hers. 
Her publisher told me that he had sold 65,000 copies 
of Poems of Passion. It is interesting to analyse 
the sources of her success. It was originally due, 
undoubtedly, to the amatory reputation of her 
poems. But she has also a considerable gift of 
melody can invent a ringing metre, and, choosing 
her themes from the everyday life of all, has a 
knack of putting into a pithy line what the average 
person has been thinking all along but never said. 
There is a good deal in common, both in the capti 
vating jingle of their lines and in the mother- wit 
with which they put into apophthegms the philo 
sophy of the life we live, between her and that 
most successful of Colonial poets, Adam Lindsay 
Gordon the Burns of Victoria. I met an ex-drover 
from Queensland the other day who asked me if I 
had ever seen her poems, and told me that he 
thought " they were splendid ; they reminded him 
so much of Gordon s." 

Poetry has its genre as well as painting. 

I shall close my glance at the contemporary 
poetry of America with some remarks on four 
gifted young poetesses who may at any time take 
a leading position among the women singers of 
their country, Helen Gray Cone, Danske Dandridge, 
Louise Imogen Guiney, and Margaret Deland. Of 
these, so far, Margaret Deland has achieved much 
the greatest success. Her poems have gone through 
several editions, while her religious novel, John 
Ward, Preacher, had quite a phenomenal success. 



TO THE READER. xlix 

She writes charming little poems in the style of 
Herrick ; and some of them, such as the " Affaire 
d Amour" quoted, are thoroughly Herrickian in 
their beauty and spirit. And she had the good 
fortune to be left alone in her studies after the 
sweetest poet of the seventeenth century, while 
others were learning to play the "fair old tunes 
of France," most of them, it is to be feared, not 
from the original music, but from the selec 
tions of Dobson, Gosse, and Lang. At one time 
it seemed uncertain whether the cherry-stone- 
carvers would do a series of cameos from Herrick 
or Villon ; but the bluff Devonshire parson escaped 
the chipping, and Mrs Deland was left in un 
disturbed possession of her delightful " Old Garden" 
to cultivate the flowers of seventeenth century 
England. 

Louise Imogen Guiney s " Wild Ride " shows 
genuine inspiration, and when she shakes off the 
trammels of her curious and extensive reading, and 
evolves from herself solely, she has a great promise 
before her. But, to my mind, almost the most 
poetical among the very young poetesses are Danske 
Dandridge and Helen Gray Cone. 

Their styles and choice of subjects are quite 
different, but both have the genuine note are 
really song-birds. Take for instance Miss Cone s 
" The Accolade," " Emelie," and " Elsinore," or Mrs 
Dandridge s "Desire" and "The Dead Moon." 
Both are happy and ingenious in their metres and 
subjects, and fresh in their feeling. 

Here I must say a few words of sincere regret 
over two more poets, who died during the progress 
of this work, Charlotte Fiske Bates, author of the 
generous poem on Major Andre, "At Tappan," 
which will bring Englishmen and Americans nearer 

d 



1 TO THE READER, 

together, and Dr John Eliot Bo wen, whose delicate 
taste in editing the literary columns of the Inde 
pendent, and whose translations of " Carmen Silva," 
proved him a true poet, as well as a true man. 

With them I leave the United States to turn for 
a few minutes to Canada, to which I shall advert 
very briefly, for two or three reasons. In the first 
place, my relations with the younger Canadian 
poets have been so intimate that my judgment 
might be warped ; and, in the second, it would be 
difficult to avoid so invidious a topic as compari 
son with the younger poets across the border; 
while, in the third place, with a few exceptions, 
the selections from Canadian authors have not 
been made by myself. I had to leave New York 
and commence my protracted travels across Canada 
to Japan when I had only begun the Canadian 
portion of my book, and consequently I felt that 
it would be an advantage to entrust the rest of the 
selections to Mr Goodridge Bliss Roberts, the 
literary editor of Progress, who has been making 
a study of the subject for two or three years past. 
I am only responsible for the selections from 
Charles George Douglas Roberts, Jane Elizabeth 
Gostwycke Roberts, Bliss Carman, Arthur Went- 
worth, Hamilton Eaton, William Douw Lighthall, 
George Frederick Cameron, Sophie M. Aim on, 
James Hannay, and the great Frechette, the 
laureate of the French Academy. Roberts has 
been distinctly the most successful of the (English- 
speaking) younger Canadian poets, his name al 
ready being familiar in England as well as the 
United States. Elsewhere I have had occasion to 
write very warmly of his work. 

Carman s "Death in April" had the honour of 
being accepted by so fastidious a critic as Aldrich 



TO THE READER. li 

for the Atlantic Monthly; and almost alone of 
younger poets on this side has he enjoyed the 
honour of contributing poems to the great English 
literary papers and reviews. 

Archibald Lampman and the Rev. W. W. Camp 
bell are rivals in the favour of American magazines, 
and both are genuine poets who hear Nature s 
many voices, and show direct communication with 
her. 

Cameron rests under the disadvantage of his 
premature death. Eaton, I think, has been the 
most happy of the Canadians in treating their 
national legends. There are few writers in the 
United States who equal him in this respect. His 
volume, though only recently issued, is one of the 
best yet produced by a Canadian, with a tine Long 
fellow-like vein running through it. Mair s fine 
play, Tecumseh, has, I hear, enjoyed the largest 
circulation of any Canadian poem. Two poetesses 
enjoy a wide reputation in Canada, Agnes M. 
Machar, and the late Isabella Valancy Crawford ; 
and Sophie M. Almond Hensley has produced a 
really remarkable sonnet. 

John Reade is a true poet, whose position as one 
of the principal leader-writers of Canada, has left 
him with but little time to write gems like " In my 
Heart." The most illustrious poet in the dominion 
is a French Canadian writer, Louis Frechette, 
crowned laureate by the French Academy. 

I was acquainted too late with the unusual 
merit of Duncan Campbell Scott. The virile and 
emphatic poems noted below are the works of 
the Rev. Frederick George Scott. 

But to end these desultory remarks, Canada s 
day in poetry has not yet come. She has produced 
no Longfellow, no Bryant, no Poe, no Emerson, 




Hi TO THE READER. 

no Whittier. But she has a generation of bright 
young poets coming on, who are, I think, equal to 
their contemporaries in the United States. In 
conclusion, I have to thank the authors quoted and 
their publishers for permission to publish specimens 
of their works in America. I wish I had to thank 
them for England also, but the copyright league, 
much wished for on both sides, is not yet an 
accomplished fact. 

I have to give special thanks, for most invaluable 
assistance in getting my work together, to the 
editors of the Century Magazine; to Mr Arthur 
Stedman of the Library of American Literature; to 
Mr Gleeson White, editor of that admirable little 
anthology Ballades and Rondeaux, and, above 
all, to Mr H. O. Houghton, head of the firm of 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ; to Mr T. Miles of the 
firm of Roberts Brothers; and Mr North of the 
firm of Charles Scribner s Sons the three firms 
which own nearly all the most important copy 
rights both for permissions and help. 

Nor must I omit to mention the special help 
received from Dr D. G. Gilman, President of the 
great Johns Hopkins University; President Gates 
of Rutgers College; Dr William Hayes Ward of 
the Independent; and Mrs Turnbull with regard 
to Sidney Lanier. I will conclude with an 
adaptation of our Australian motto "Advance 
America." 

DOUGLAS SLADEN. 



R A tf 

OF THE 

UNIVERSITY 




Younger American Poets. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYKE. 

[Born at Charleston, S.C., 1st January 1830, died near Augusta, 
Ga., 6th July 1886. Author of Poems (Boston, 1855) ; Sonnets 
and other Poems (New York, 1857) ; Avolis, a Legend of the 
Island of Cos (Boston, 1859) ; Legends and Lyrics (Philadelphia, 
1872) ; The Mountain of the Lovers, and other Poems (New 
York, 1873). The poems quoted are taken from the complete 
edition of his poems, published by the D. Lothrop Company, 
Boston, in 1882, by kind permission of the publishers.] 

V1CKSBURG. 

A BALLAD. 

FOR sixty days and upwards, 

A storm of shell and shot 
Rained round us in a flaming shower, 

But still we faltered not. 
" If the noble city perish," 

Our grand young leader said, 
" Let the only walls the foe shall scale 

Be ramparts of the dead ! " 

For sixty days and upwards, 

The eye of heaven waxed dim ; 
And e en throughout God s holy morn, 

O er Christian prayer and hymn, 
A 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Arose a hissing tumult, 

As if the fiends in air 
Strove to engulf the voice of faith 

In the shrieks of their despair. 

There was wailing in the houses, 

There was trembling on the marts, 
While the tempest raged and thundered, 

Mid the silent thrill of hearts : 
But the Lord, our Shield, was with us, 

And ere a month had sped, 
Our very women walked the streets 

With scarce one throb of dread. 

And the little children gambolled, 

Their faces purely raised, 
Just for a wondering moment, 

As the huge bombs whirled and blazed, 
Then turned with silvery laughter 

To the sports which children love, 
Thrice-mailed in the sweet, instinctive thought 

That the good God watched above. 

Yet the hailing bolts fell faster, 

From scores of flame-clad ships, 
And about us, denser, darker, 

Grew the conflict s wild eclipse. 
Till a solid cloud closed o er us, 

Like a type of doom and ire, 
Whence shot a thousand quivering tongues 

Of forked and vengeful fire. 

But the unseen hands of angels, 

Those death-shafts warned aside, 
And the dove of heavenly mercy 

Ruled o er the battle-tide ; 
In the houses ceased the wailing, 

And through the war-scarred marts 
The people strode, with steps of hope, 

To the music in their hearts. 



PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. 



BEAUREGARD S APPEAL. 

YEA ! since the need is bitter, 

Take down those sacred bells, 
Whose music speaks of hallowed joys, 

And passionate farewells ! 

But ere ye fall dismantled, 

Ring out, deep bells ! once more : 

And pour on the waves of the passing wind 
The symphonies of yore. 

Let the latest born be welcomed 

By pealings glad and long, 
Let the latest dead in the churchyard bed 

Be laid with solemn song. 

And the bells above them throbbing, 

Should sound in mournful tone, 
As if, in grief for a human death, 

They prophesied their own. 

Who says tis a desecration 

To strip the temple towers, 
And invest the metal of peaceful notes 

With death-compelling powers ? 

A truce to cant and folly ! 

Our people s all at stake, 
Shall we heed the cry of the shallow fool, 

Or pause for the bigot s sake 1 

Then crush the struggling sorrow ! 

Feed high your furnace fires, 
And mould into deep-mouthed guns of bronze, 

The bells from a hundred spires. 

Methinks no common vengeance, 

No transient war eclipse, 
Will follow the awful thunder-burst 

From their adamantine lips. 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A cause like ours is holy, 

And it useth holy things ; 
While over the storm of a righteous strife, 

May shine the angel s wings. 

Where er our duty leads us, 

The grace of God is there, 
And the lurid shrine of war may hold 

The Eucharist of prayer. 



BEYOND THE POTOMAC. 

THEY slept on the field which their valour had won, 
But arose with the first early blush of the sun, 
For they knew that a great deed remained to be done, 
When they passed o er the river. 

They arose with the sun, and caught life from his light, 
Those giants of courage, those Anaks in fight, 
And they laughed out aloud in the joy of their might, 
Marching swift for the river. 

On, on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills ; 

On, on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills ; 

And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and 

thrills 
At the thought of the river. 

Oh ! the sheen of their swords ! the fierce gleam of their 

eyes ! 

It seemed as on earth a new sunlight would rise, 
And, king-like, flash up to the sun in the skies, 
O er their path to the river. 

But their banners, shot-scarred, and all darkened with 

gore, 

On a strong wind of morning streamed wildly before 
Like wings of death-angels swept fast to the shore, 
The green shore of the river. 



PA UL HAMILTON HA YNE. 5 

As they march, from the hill side, the hamlet, the stream, 
Gaunt throngs whom the foemen had manacled, teem, 
Like men just aroused from some terrible dream, 
To cross sternly the river. 

They behold the broad banners, blood-darkened yet fair, 
And a moment dissolves the last spell of despair, 
While a peal, as of victory, swells on the air, 
Rolling out to the river. 

And that cry, with a thousand strange echoings spread, 
Till the ashes of heroes were thrilled in their bed, 
And the deep voice of passion surged up from the dead, 
" Ay, press on to the river." 

On, on ! like the rushing of storms through the hills, 

On, on ! with a tramp that is firm as their wills ; 

And the one heart of thousands grows buoyant, and 

thrills 
As they pause by the river. 

Then the wan face of Maryland, haggard and worn 
At this sight, lost the touch of its aspect forlorn, 
And she turned on the foemen, full-statured in scorn, 
Pointing stern to the river. 

And Potomac flowed calmly, scarce heaving her breast, 
With her low-lying billows all bright in the west, 
For a charm as from God lulled the waters to rest 
Of the fair rolling river. 

Passed ! passed ! the glad thousands march safe through 

the tide ; 

Hark ! foeman, and hear the deep knell of your pride, 
Ringing weird-like and wild, pealing up from the side 
Of the calm-flowing river. 

Neath a blow swift and mighty the tyrant may fall ; 
Vain, vain ! to his gods swells a desolate call ; 
Hath his grave not been hollowed, and woven his pall, 
Since they passed o er the river 1 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



THE ROSE AND THORN. 

SHE S loveliest of the festal throng 

In delicate form and Grecian face ; 
A beautiful incarnate song 

A marvel of harmonious grace ; 
And yet I know the truth I speak ; 

From those gay groups she stands apart, 
A rose upon her tender cheek, 

A thorn within her heart. 

Though bright her eyes bewildering gleams, 

Fair tremulous lips and shining hair, 
A something born of mournful dreams, 

Breathes round her sad enchanted air ; 
N"o blithesome thoughts at hide-and-seek 

From out her dimples smiling start; 
If still the rose be on her cheek, 

A thorn is in her heart. 

Young lover, tost twixt hope and fear, 

Your whispered vow and yearning eyes 
Yon marbled Clytie pillared near 

Could move as soon to soft replies ; 
Or, if she thrill at words you speak, 

Love s memory prompts the sudden start ; 
The rose has paled upon her cheek, 

The thorn has pierced her heart. 



THE RED LIL Y. 

I CALL her the Red Lily. Lo ! she stands 
From all her milder sister-flowers apart; 

A conscious grace in those fair folded hands, 

Pressed on the guileful throbbings of her heart ! 



PA UL HAMILTON HA YNE. 

I call her the Red Lily. As all airs 

Of North or South, the Lily s leaves that stir, 

Seem lost in languorous sweetness that despairs 
Of blissful life or hope, except through her. 

So this Red Lily of maids, this human flower, 
Yielding no love, all sweets of love doth take, 

Twining such spells of passion s secret power 
As, woven once, what lordliest will can break 1 



ARIEL. 

" My dainty Ariel." Tempest. 

A VOICE like the murmur of doves, 
Soft lightning from eyes of blue ; 

On her cheek a flush like love s 
First delicate, rosebud hue ; 

Bright torrents of hazel hair, 
Which glittering, flow and float 

O er the swell of her bosom fair, 

And the snows of her matchless throat ; 

Lithe limbs of a life so fine, 

That their rhythmical motion seems 

But a part of the grace divine 
Of the music of haunted dreams. 

Low gurgling laughter, as sweet 
As the swallow s song i the South, 

And a ripple of dimples that dancing, meet 
By the curves of a perfect mouth. 

creature of light and air ! 

O fairy sylph o the sun ! 
Hearts whelmed in the tidal gold of her hair 

Rejoice to be so undone ! 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS 



PRE-EXISTENCE. 

WHILE sauntering through the crowded street 
Some half-remembered face I meet, 

Albeit upon no mortal shore 

That face, me thinks, hath smiled before. 

Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
I tremble at some tender song 

Set to an air whose golden bars 
I must have heard in other stars. 

In sacred aisles I pause to share 
The blessings of a priestly prayer, 

When the whole scene which greets mine eyes 
In some strange mode I recognise, 

As one whose every mystic part 
I feel prefigured in my heart. 

At sunset, as I calmly stand, 
A stranger on an alien strand, 

Familiar as my childhood s home 

Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 

One sails toward me o er the bay, 
And what he comes to do and say 

I can foretell. A prescient lore 
Springs from some life outlived of yore. 

swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
Of deep soul-knowledge ! not as dreams^ 

For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, 
But oft, with lightning certainty, 

Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain, 
To make old thoughts and memories plain 



PA UL HAMILTON HA YNE. 

Thoughts which, perchance, must travel back 
Across the wild bewildering track 

Of countless seons ; memories far, 
High-reaching, as yon pallid star, 

Unknown, scarce seen, whose nickering grace 
Faints on the outmost rings of space. 



AFTER THE TORNADO. 

LAST eve the earth was calm, the heavens were clear : 
A peaceful glory crowned the waning west, 
And yonder distant mountain s hoary crest 
The semblance of a silvery robe did wear, 
Shot through with moon-wrought tissues ; far and near, 
Wood, rivulet, field all Nature s face expressed 
The haunting presence of enchanted rest. 
One twilight star shone like a blissful tear, 
Unshed. But now, what ravage in a night ! 
Yon mountain height fades in its cloud-girt pall ; 
The prostrate wood lies smirched with rain and mire; 
Through the shorn fields the brook whirls wild and 

white ; 

While o er the turbulent waste and woodland fall, 
Glares the red sunrise blurred with mists of fire ! 



TRISTRAM OF THE WOOD. 

ONCE when the autumn fields were wet, 
The trumpets rang ; the tide of battle set 
Toward grey Broceliande, by the western sea. 

In the fore-front of conflict grimly stood, 
Clothed in dark armour, Tristram of the Wood, 
And round him ranged his knights of Brittany. 



io YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Of lordlier frame than even the lordliest there, 

Firm as a tower, upon his vast destrere, 

He looked as one whose soul was steeped in trance. 

Ne er spake nor stirred he, though the trumpet s sound 
Echoed abroad, and all the glittering ground 
Shook to the steel-clad warrior s swift advance ; 

Ne er spake nor stirred he, for the mystic hour 
Closed o er him then ; the glamour of its power 
Dream-wrought, and sadly beautiful with love 

Love of the lost Iseult. In marvellous stead 
Of thronging faces, with looks stern and dread, 
Through the dense dust, the hostile plumes above, 

He saw his fair, lost Iseult s passionate eyes, 
And o er the crash of lances heard her cries, 
Shrill with despair, when last they twain did part. 

"While others thrilled to strife, he, thrilled with woe, 
Felt his life-currents shuddering cold and low 
Round the worn bastions of his broken heart. 

Then rolled his way the battle s furious flood ; 
Squadrons charged on him blindly ; blows and blood 
Showered down like hail and water ; vainly drew 

The whole war round him, still his broadsword s gleam 
Flashed in death s front, and still, as mapped in dream. 
He fought and slew, witting not whom he slew, 

Nor knew whose arm had smitten him deep and sore 
So deep that Tristram never, never more 
Shone in the van of conflict ; but the smart 

Of his fierce wound tortured him night and day, 
Till, through God s grace, his life-blood ebbed away, 
And death s sweet quiet healed his broken heart. 



WILL. WALLA CE HARNE Y. 1 1 



WILL. WALLACE HARNEY. 



[Born at Bloomington, Indiana, 20th June 1831. Has resided 
since 1869 in Florida.] 



ADO NA IS. 

SHALL we meet no more, my love, at the binding of the 

sheaves, 

In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low, 
When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen 

leaves, 

And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: 
Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered 

plume ; 

Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in 

the bloom, 
And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of 

the broom, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. 

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to 

each; 

Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
All the heart was full of feeling : Love had ripened into 

speech, 
Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the 

peach, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. 

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the 

corn, 
Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 



12 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Sweet as lovers fickle oaths, sworn to faithless HIM ids 

forsworn, 
When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow-drinking 

horn, 
Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. 

Love left us at the dying of the mellow Autumn eves ; 

Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colours of 

the leaves, 
And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the 

sheaves, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. 

Then the reapers gather home, from the grey and misty 

meres ; 

Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their 

spears, 
One whose face is like the moon, fallen grey among the 

spheres, 
With the daylight s curse upon it, as the sun sinks low. 

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers 

sung ; 

Oh ! happy are the apples when the south winds blow ! 
Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe 

and young, 
Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies 

among, 
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 13 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 

[Born at Hartford, Connecticut, 8th October, 1833 ; graduated at Yale 
University, 1853. Author of Poems, Lyric and Idyllic (New 
York, 1860) ; Alice of Monmouth, an Idyl of the Great War, 
and other Poems (New York, 1864) ; The Blameless Prince, and 
other Poems (Boston, 1869) ; Victorian Poets (Boston, 1875, 
and London, 1875) ; Poets of America (Boston, 1886, and 
London, 1886) ; Lyrics and Idylls, with other Poems (London, 
1879) ; Hawthorne and other Poems (Boston, 1877) ; Poetical 
Works (Boston, 1873, and subsequently with additions). Edited 
the Poems of Austin Dobson, with an introduction (New 
York, 1880) ; Is editing, with Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, A 
Library of American Literature (New York, 1888-90.) The 
poems quoted by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
Boston, are from the Collected Edition of his Poems, published 
by that firm.] 

PAN IN WALL STREET. 

JUST where the Treasury s marble front 

Looks over Wall Street s mingled nations ; 
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 

To throng for trade and last quotations ; 
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 

Outrival, in the ears of people, 
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 

From Trinity s undaunted steeple, 

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 

Sound high above the modern clamour, 
Above the cries of greed and gain, 

The curbstone war, the auction s hammer ; 
And swift, on Music s misty ways, 

It led, from all this strife for millions, 
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 

And as it stilled the multitude, 

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 

I saw the minstrel, where he stood 
At ease against a Doric pillar : 



14 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

One hand a droning organ played, 

The other held a Pan s-pipe (fashioned 

Like those of old) to lips that made 

The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 

Twas Pan himself had wandered here 

A-strolling through this sordid city, 
And piping to the civic ear 

The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! 
The demi-god had crossed the seas, 

From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, 
And Syracusan times, to these 

Far shores and twenty centuries later. 

A ragged cap was on his head ; 

But hidden thus there was no doubting 
That, all with crispy locks o erspread, 

His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting ; 
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 

Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, 
And trousers, patched of divers hues, 

Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. 

He filled the quivering reeds with sound, 

And o er his mouth their changes shifted, 
And with his goat s-eyes looked around 

Where er the passing current drifted ; 
And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 

The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, 
Even now the tradesmen from their tills, 

With clerks and porters, crowded near him. 

The bulls and bears together drew 

From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, 
As erst, if pastorals be true, 

Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
The random passers stayed to list, 

A boxer JEgon, rough and merry, 
A Broadway Daplmis, on his tryst 

With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 

In tattered cloak of army pattern, 
And Galatea joined the throng, 

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern \ 
While old Silenus staggered out 

From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, 
And bade the piper, with a shout, 

To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 

A newsboy and a peanut-girl 

Like little fauns began to caper : 
His hair was all in tangled curl, 

Her tawny legs were bare and taper ; 
And still the gathering larger grew, 

And gave its pence and crowded nigher, 
While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 

His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 

O heart of Nature, beating still 

With throbs her vernal passion taught her,- 
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 

Or by the Arethusan water ! 
New forms may fold the speech, new lands 

Arise within these ocean-portals, 
But Music waves eternal wands, 

Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 

So thought I, but among us trod 

A man in blue, with legal baton, 
And scoffed the vagrant demi-god, 

And pushed him from the step I sat on. 
Doubting I mused upon the cry, 

" Great Pan is dead ! " and all the people 
Went on their ways : and clear and high 

The quarter sounded from the steeple. 
1867. 



T 6 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 



TOU/OURS AMOUR. 

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
At what age does Love begin 1 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
Summers three, my fairy queen, 
But a miracle of sweets, 
Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
Show the little archer there, 
Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
When didst learn a heart to win ? 
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 

" Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 

" I can t tell you if I try. 
Tis so long I can t remember : 
Ask some younger lass than I ! " 

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
When does hoary Love expire, 
When do frosts put out the tire 1 
Can its embers burn below 
All that chill December snow 1 
Care you still soft hands to press, 
Bonny heads to smooth and bless? 
When does Love give up the chase 1 
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 

" Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
" Youth may pass and strength may die 
But of Love I can t foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I ! " 
1867. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 17 



"TJZE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY." 

COULD we but know 
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 

Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,- 
Ah, if beyond the spirit s inmost cavil, 

Aught of that country could we surely know, 
Who would not go 1 

Might we but hear 
The hovering angels high imagined chorus, 

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear 

One radiant vista of the realm before us, 

With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
Ah, who would fear ? 

Were we quite sure 

To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, 
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, 
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, 
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, 
Who would endure? 



SONG FROM A DRAMA. 

The souls which are one without knowing it, and which can 
approach no nearer by ever so close an embrace than they 
ever eternally are, pine for a blending which can never be 
Vox HABTMAN^ ^ r6main distinct indiv i<*uals." EDOUAED 

THOU art mine, thou hast given thy word 
Close, close in my arms thou art clinging ; 
Alone for my ear thou art singing 

A song which no stranger hath heard : 

But afar from me yet, like a bird, 

Thy soul, in some region unstirred, 
On its mystical circuit is winging. 
B 



i8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own ; 
Henceforth we are mingled forever : 
But in vain, all in vain, I endeavour 

Though round thee my garlands are thrown, 

And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone 

To master the spell that alone 
My hold on thy being can sever. 

Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me ! 
But thy soul, when I strive to be near it 
The innermost fold of thy spirit 
Is as far from my grasp, is as free, 
As the stars from the mountain-tops be, 
As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, 

From the portionless king that would wear it. 

1873. 



THE DISCOVERER. 

I HAVE a little kinsman 
Whose earthly summers are but three, 
And yet a voyager is he 
Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
Than all their peers together ! 
He is a brave discoverer, 
And, far beyond the tether 
Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
Ay, he has travelled whither 
A winged pilot steered his bark 
Through the portals of the dark, 
Past hoary Mimir s well and tree, 
Across the unknown sea. 

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, 
Came one who bore a flower, 
And laid it in his dimpled hand 
With this command : 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 19 

" Henceforth them art a rover ! 
Thou must take a voyage far, 
Sail beneath the evening star, 
And a wondrous land discover." 

With his sweet smile innocent 

Our little kinsman went. 

Since that time no word 

From the absent has been heard. 

Who can tell 

How he fares, or answer well 
What the little one has found 
Since he left us, outward bound 1 
Would that he might return ! 
Then should we learn 
From the pricking of his chart 
How the skyey roadways part. 
Hush ! does not the baby this way brin<r 
To lay beside the severed curl, 

Some starry offering 
Of chrysolite or pearl ? 

Ah, no ! not so I 
We may follow on his track, 

But he comes not back. 

And yet I dare aver 
He is a brave discoverer 
Of climes his elders do not know. 
He has more learning than appears 
On the scroll of twice three thousand years 
More than in the groves is taught, 
Or from furthest Indies brought 
He knows, percliance, how spirits fare, 
What shapes the angels wear, 
What is their guise and speech 
In those lands beyond our reach, 

And his eyes behold 

Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told 
1877. 



20 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 

How was it then with Nature when the soul 
Of her own poet heard a voice which came 
From out the void, " Thou art no longer lent 
To Earth ! " when that incarnate spirit, blent 
With the abiding force of waves that roll, 
Wind-cradled vapours, circling stars that flame, 

She did recall *? How went 
His antique shade, beaconed upon its way 
Through the still aisles of night to universal day 1 

Her voice it was, her sovereign voice, which bade 

The earth resolve his elemental mould ; 
And once more came her summons : " Long, too long, 
Thou lingerest, and charmest with thy song ! 
Return ! return ! " Thus Nature spoke, and made 
Her sign ; and forthwith on the minstrel old 

An arrow, bright and strong, 
Fell from the bent bow of the answering Sun, 
Who cried, " The song is closed, the invocation done ! " 

But not as for those youths dead ere their prime, 

New-entered on their music s high domain, 
Then snatched away, did ail things sorrow own : 
No utterance now like that sad sweetest tone 
When Bion died, and the Sicilian rhyme 

Bewailed ; no sobbing of the reeds that plain, 

Rehearsing some last moan 
Of Lycidas ; no strains which skyward swell 
For Adonais still, and still for Astrophel ! 

The Muses wept not for him as for those 

Of whom each vanished like a beauteous star 
Quenched ere the shining midwatch of the night ; 
The greenwood Nymphs mourned not his lost delight, 
Nor Echo, hidden in the tangled close, 



EDMUND CLARENCE S TED MAN. 21 

Grieved that she could not mimic him afar. 

He ceased not from our sight 
Like him who, in the first glad flight of Spring, 
Fell as an eagle pierced with shafts from his own wing. 

This was not Thyrsis ! no, the minstrel lone 
And reverend, the woodland singer hoar, 
Who was dear Nature s nursling, and the priest 
Whom most she loved ; nor had his office ceased 
But for her mandate : " Seek again thine own ; 
The walks of men shall draw thy steps no more ! " 

Softly, as from a feast 
The guest departs that hears a low recall, 
He went, and left behind his harp and coronal. 

"Return!" she cried, "unto thine own return ! 

Too long the pilgrimage ; too long the dream 
In which, lest thou shouldst be companionless, 
Unto the oracles thou hadst access, 
The sacred groves that with my presence yearn." 

The voice was heard by mountain, dell, and stream, 

Meadow and wilderness, 
All fair things vestured by the changing year, 
Which now awoke in joy to welcome one most dear. 



The dark recesses, the infinitude 
Of whispering old oaks and soughing pines. 
" He comes!" the warders of the forest shrines 
Sang joyously, " His spirit ministrant 

Henceforth with us shall walk the underwood, 

Till mortal ear divines 
Its music added to our choral hymn, 
Rising and falling far through archways deep and dim ! " 

The orchard fields, the hill-side pastures green, 
Put gladness on ; the rippling harvest-wave 
Ran like a smile, as if a moment there 
His shadow poised in the midsummer air 
Above ; the cataract took a pearly sheen 



22 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Even as it leapt ; the winding river gave 

A sound of welcome where 
He came, and trembled, far as to the sea 
It moves from rock-ribbed heights where its dark foun 
tains be. 

His presence brooded on the rolling plain, 

And on the lake there fell a sudden calm, 
His own tranquillity ; the mountain bowed 
Its head, and felt the coolness of a cloud, 
And murmured, " He is passing ! " and again 

Through all its firs the wind swept like a psalm ; 

Its eagles, thunder-browed, 

In that mist-moulded shape their kinsman knew, 
And circled high, and in his mantle soared from view. 

So drew he to the living veil, which hung 

Of old above the deep s unimaged face, 
And sought his own. Henceforward he is free 
Of vassalage to that mortality 
Which men have given a sepulchre among 

The pathways of their kind, a resting-place 

Where, bending one great knee, 
Knelt the proud mother of a mighty land 
In tenderness, and came anon a plurn^d band. 

Came one by one the Seasons, meetly drest, 

To sentinel the relics of their seer. 
First Spring upon whose head a wreath was set 
Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet 
Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest 

Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear 

(Her sweet eyes dewy wet), 

June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine 
The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine. 

Next, Autumn, like a monarch sad of heart, 

Came, tended by his melancholy days. 
Purple he wore, and bore a golden rod, 
His sceptre ; and let fall upon the sod 
A lone fringed-geniian ere he would depart. 



EDMUND CLARENCE S TED MAN. 23 

Scarce had his train gone darkling down the ways 

When Winter thither trod, 
Winter, with beard and raiment blown before, 
That was so seeming like our poet old and hoar. 

What forms are these amid the pageant fair 

Harping with hands that falter ? What sad throng 1 
They wait in vain, a mournful brotherhood, 
And listen where their laurelled elder stood 
For some last music fallen through the air. 

"What cold, thin atmosphere now hears thy song 1 ?" 

They ask, and long have wooed 
The woods and waves that knew him, but can learn 
Naught save the hollow, haunting cry, " Return ! 
return ! " 

1878. 



PROVENCAL LOVERS. 

AUCASSIN AND NlCOLETTE. 

WITHIN the garden of Beaucaire 
He met her by a secret stair, 
The night was centuries ago. 
Said Aucassin, " My love, my pet, 
These old confessors vex me so ! 
They threaten all the pains of hell 
Unless I give you up, ma belle ; " 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

" Now, who should there in heaven be 
To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie ? 
To reach that spot I little care ! 
There all the droning priests are met ;- 
All the old cripples, too, are there 
That unto shrines and altars cling 
To filch the Peter-pence we bring ; " 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 



24 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

" There are the barefoot monks and friars 
With gowns well-tattered by the briars, 
The saints who lift their eyes and whine : 
I like them not a starveling set ! 
Who d care with folk like these to dine? 
The other road twere just as well 
That you and I should take, ma belle ! " 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

" To purgatory I would go 
With pleasant comrades whom we know, 
Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights 
Whose deeds the land will not forget, 
The captains of a hundred tights, 
The men of valor and degree : 
We ll join that gallant company," 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

"There, too, are jousts and joyance rare, 
And beauteous ladies debonair, 
The pretty dames, the merry brides, 
Who with their wedded lords coquette 
And have a friend or two besides, 
And all in gold and trappings gay, 
With furs, arid crests in vair and gray," 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

" Sweet players on the cithern strings, 
And they who roam the world like kings, 
Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! 
Pardie ! I d join them now, my pet, 
If you went also, ma douce mie ! 
The joys of heaven I d forego 
To have you with me there below," 
Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 

1878. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 25 



THE HAND OF LINCOLN, 

LOOK on this cast, and know the hand 

That bore a nation in its hold ; 
From this mute witness understand 

What Lincoln was, how large of mould 

The man who sped the woodman s team, 
And deepest sunk the ploughman s share, 

And pushed the laden raft astream, 
Of fate before him unaware. 

This was the hand that knew to swing 

The axe since thus would Freedom train 

Her son and made the forest ring, 

And drove the wedge, and toiled amain. 

Firm hand, that loftier office took, 
A conscious leader s will obeyed, 

And, when men sought his word and look, 
With steadfast might the gathering swayed. 

No courtier s, toying with a sword, 
Nor minstrel s, laid across a lute; 

A chief s, uplifted to the Lord 

When all the kings of earth were mute ! 

The hand of Anak, sinewed strong, 
The fingers that on greatness clutch ; 

Yet, lo ! the marks their lines along 
Of one who strove and suffered much. 

For here in knotted cord and vein 
I trace the varying chart of years ; 

I know the troubled heart, the strain, 
The weight of Atlas and the tears. 

Again I see the patient brow 

That palm erewhile was wont to press ; 
And now tis furrowed deep, and now 

Made smooth with hope and tenderness. 



26 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For something of a formless grace 

This moulded outline plays about; 
A pitying flame, beyond our trace, 

Breathes like a spirit, in and out, 

The love that cast an aureole 

Round one who, longer to endure, 

Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole, 
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure. 

Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, 

Built up from yon large hand, appears : 

A type that Nature wills to plan 
But once in all a people s years. 

What better than this voiceless cast 

To tell of such a one as he, 
Since through its living semblance passed 

The thought that bade a race be free ! 
1883. 



THE WORLD WELL LOST. 

THAT year 1 Yes, doubtless I remember still, 
Though why take count of every wind that blows ! 

Twas plain, men said, that Fortune used me ill 
That year, the self-same year I met with Rose. 

Crops failed ; wealth took a flight ; house, treasure, land, 
Slipped from my hold thus Plenty comes and goes. 

One friend I had, but he, too, loosed his hand 
(Or was it 1 1) the year I met with Rose. 

There was a war, methinks ; some rumour, too, 
i^Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows ; 
Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view, 
Throve, spite of all ; but I, I met with Rose ! 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 27 

That year my white-faced Alma pined and died : 
Some trouble vexed her quiet heart, who knows 1 ? 

Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side, 
Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose. 

Was there no more 1 Yes, that year life began : 
All life before a dream, false joys, light woes, 

All after-life compressed within the span 

Of that one year, the year I met with Rose ! 
1883. 



LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD. 
[THE BARTHOLDI STATUE IN NEW YORK HARBOUR.] 

WARDER at ocean s gate, 

Thy feet on sea and shore, 
Like one the skies await 

When time shall be no more ! 
What splendours crown thy brow 1 
What bright dread angel Thou, 

Dazzling the waves before 
Thy station great 1 

" My name is Liberty ! 

From out a mighty land 
I face the ancient sea, 

I lift to God my hand ; 
By day in Heaven s light, 
A pillar of fire by night, 

At ocean s gate I stand 
Nor bend the knee. 

" The dark Earth lay in sleep, 
Her children crouched forlorn, 

Ere on the western steep 
I sprang to height, reborn : 



28 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Then what a joyous shout 
The quickened lands gave out, 
And all the choir of morn 
Sang anthems deep. 

" Beneath yon firmament, 
The New World to the Old 

My sword and summons sent, 
My starry nag unrolled : 

The Old World s hands renew 

Their strength ; the form ye view 
Came from a living mould 
In glory blent. 

" ye, whose broken spars 
Tell of the storms ye met, 

Enter ! there are no bars 
Across your pathway set : 

Enter at Freedom s porch, 

For you I lift my torch, 
For you my coronet 
Is rayed with stars. 

" But ye that hither draw 

To desecrate my fee, 
Nor yet have held in awe 

The justice that makes free, 
A vaunt, ye darkling brood ! 
By Eight my house hath stood : 

My name is Liberty, 
My throne is Law." 

O wonderful and bright, 

Immortal Freedom, hail ! 
Front, in thy fiery might, 

The midnight and the gale ; 
Undaunted on this base 
Guard well thy dwelling-place : 
Till the last sun grow pale 

Let there be Light ! 
1886, 



CHARLES HENRY WEBB. 29 



CHARLES HENRY WEBB (JOHN PAUL). 

[Born at Rouse s Point, New York, 24th January 1834. Author of 
Liffith Lank, or Lunacy, a Travesty on Charles Reade s Griffith 
Gaunt (New York, 1867) ; Parodies, Prose and Verse (1876) ; 
Our Friend from Victoria, etc. ; Vagrom Verse (Ticknor & 
Company, now Houghton, Mitflin & Company, Boston, 1889). 
The poems quoted are from this last volume, by kind permission 
of the firm. ] 

LITTLE MAMMA. 

WHY is it the children don t love me 

As they do Mamma 1 
That they put her ever above me 

"Little Mamma?" 
I m sure I do all that I can do 
What more can a rather big man do, 

Who can t be Mamma 1 

Any game that the tyrants suggest, 
" Logomachy " which I detest 
Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or base-ball 
I m always on hand at the call. 
When Noah and the others embark, 
I m the elephant saved in the ark. 
I creep, and I climb, and I crawl 
By turns am the animals all. 

For the show on the stair 

I am always the bear, 
The Chimpanzee, or the Kangaroo. 

It is never " Mamma," 
Little Mamma, 
Won t you 1 

My umbrella s the pony, if any 

None ride on Mamma s parasol ; 

I m supposed to have always the penny 

For bon-bons, and beggars, and all ; 

My room is the one where they clatter 

I am reading, or writing, what matter ! 



30 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

My knee is the one for a trot, 

My foot is the stirrups for Dot. 

If his fractions get into a snarl, 

Who straightens the tangles for Karl? 

Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine, 

And tries to " bound " flimsy old Spain ? 

Why, 

It is I, 

Papa 

Not little Mamma ! 

That the youngsters are ingrates, don t say. 
I think they love me in a way 

As one does the old clock on the stair, 

Any curious, cumbrous affair 
That one s used to having about, 

And would feel rather lonely without 

I think that they love me, I say, 
In a sort of a tolerant way ; 

But it s plain that Papa 

Isn t little Mamma. 

Thus when twilight comes stealing a-near 
When things in the firelight look queer, 
And shadows the play-room enwrap, 
They never climb into ray lap 
And toy with my head, smooth and bare, 
As they do with Mamma s shining hair; 
Nor feel round my throat and my chin 
For dimples to put fingers in, 
Nor lock my neck in a loving vice 
And say they re "mousies," that s mice 
And will nibble my ears, 

Will nibble and bite 

With their little mice teeth, so sharp and so white 
If I do not kiss them this very minute 
Don^t-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it 

Dear little Papa ! 
That s what they say and do to Mamma. 



CHARLES HENRY WEBB. 31 

If mildly hinting, I quietly say that 
Kissing s a game more than one can play at, 
They turn up at once those innocent eyes, 
And I suddenly learn to my great surprise 

That my face has "prickles" 

My moustache tickles. 

If in storming their camp I seize a pert shaver, 
And take as a right, what was asked as a favour, 

It is " Oh, Papa, 

How horrid you are 

You taste exactly like a cigar ! " 

But though the rebels protest and pout 
And make a pretence of driving me out, 
I hold, after all, a main redoubt, 
Not by force of arms, nor the force of will, 
But the power of love, which is mightier still. 
And very deep in their hearts, I know, 
Under the saucy and petulant " Oh," 
The doubtful "Yes," or naughty "No," 
They love Papa. 

And down in the hearts that no one sees, 
Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees, 
I know that I could not abate one jot 
Of the love that is held by my little Dot 
Or my great big boy for their little Mamma, 
Though out in the cold it crowded Papa. 
I would not abate it the tiniest whit, 
And am not jealous the least little bit; 
For I ll tell you a secret ; come, my dears, 
And I ll whisper it right-into-your-ears 

I too love Mamma ! 

"Little Mamma!" 



32 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

WITH A NANTUCKET SHELL. 

I SEND a shell from the ocean beach ; 

But listen thou well, for my shell hath speech. 

Hold to thine ear, 

And plain thou lt hear 

Tales of ships 

That were lost in the rips, 

Or that sunk on shoals 

Where the bell-buoy tolls, 
And ever and ever its iron tongue rolls 
In a ceaseless lament for the poor lost souls. 

And a song of the sea 
Has my shell for thee ; 
The melody in it 
Was hummed at Wauwinet, 
And caught at Coatue 
By the gull that flew 

Outside to the ships with its perishing crew. 
But the white wings wave 
Where none may save, 
And there s never a stone to mark a grave. 

See, its sad heart bleeds 

For the sailors needs, 

But it bleeds again 

For more mortal pain, 

More sorrow and woe 

Than is theirs who go 
With shuddering eyes and whitening lips 
Down in the sea in their shattered ships. 

Thou fearest the sea 1 
And a tyrant is he, 
A tyrant as cruel as tyrant may be ; 
But though winds fierce blow, 
And the rocks lie low, 



CHARLES HENRY WEBB. 33 

And the coast be lee, 
This I say to thee ; 

Of Christian souls more have been wrecked on shore 
Than ever were lost at sea ! 



THE KING AND THE POPE. 

THE King and the Pope together 

Have written a letter to me : 

It is signed with a golden sceptre, 

It is sealed with a golden key. 

The King wants me out of his eyesight 

The Pope wants me out of his See. 

The King and the Pope together 
Have a hundred acres of land : 
I do not own the foot of ground 
On which my two feet stand : 
But the prettiest girl in the kingdom 
Strolls with me on the sand. 

The King has a hundred yeomen 
Who will fight for him to-day : 
The Pope has priests and bishops 
Who for his soul will pray : 
I have only one true sweetheart, 
But she ll kiss me when I say. 

The King is served at his table 

By ladies of high degree : 

The Pope has never a true love, 

So a cardinal pours his tea : 

No ladies stand round me in waiting, 

But my sweetheart sits by me. 

And the King with his golden sceptre, 
The Pope with Saint Peter s key, 
Can never unlock the one little heart 
That is opened only to me. 
o 



34 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For I am the Lord of a Realm, 
And I am Pope of a See ; 
Indeed, I m supreme in the kingdom 
That is sitting just now on my knee ! 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 

[Born at New York City, 24th June 1834, died at Strawberry Farms, 
New Jersey, 3d November 1865. Author of "M Arone" Papers, 
The Jolly Old Pcdayogue, and other Poems. The poems quoted 
are by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

HERE, 

With my beer 
I sit 
While golden moments flit : 

Alas! 

They pass 
Unheeded by : 
And, as they fly, 
I 
Being dry, 

Sit, idly sipping here 

My beer. 

finer far 

Than fame, or riches rare, 

The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar ! 

Why 

Should I 

Weep, wail, or sigh ! 

What if luck has passed me by 1 
What if my hopes are dead 
My pleasures fled ? 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 35 

Have I not still 

My fill 

Of right good cheer, 
Cigars and beer ? 

Go, whining youth, 
Forsooth I 

Go, weep and wail, 

Sigh and grow pale, 

Weave melancholy rhymes 

On the old times, 

Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear, 
But leave to me my beer ! 

Gold is dross, 

Love is loss, 

So, if I gulp my sorrows down 
Or see them drown 
In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, 
Then do I wear the crown, 

Without a cross ! 



A SUNSET FANTASIE. 

WHEN the sun sets over the bay, 

And sweeping shadows solemnly lie 
On its mottled surface of azure and grey, 

And the night-winds sigh, 
Come, O Leonore, brown-eyed one, 
To the cloudy realms of the setting sun ! 
Where crimson crag, and silvery steep, 
And amaranth rift, and purple deep, 
Look dimly soft as the sunset pales, 
Like the shadowy cities of ancient tales. 

As Egypt s queen went floating along 
To her lover, when all the orient air 

Was laden with echoes of dreamy song, 
And the plash of oars and perfumes rare, 



36 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

So will we float, 
In a golden boat, 
On velvet cushions soft and wide ; 

I and my love, the onyx-eyed, 
Will watch the twilight radiance fail, 
Cheek by cheek and side by side, 

And our mingled breath, O Leonore, 
Shall fan the silken sail, 

To the shining line of that faery strand 

Where sky is water and cloud is land, 

The wonderful sunset shore ! 

On those dim headlands, here and there, 
The lofty glacier-peaks between, 

Through the purple haze of the twilight air, 
The tremulous glow of a star is seen. 

There let us dwell, O Leonore, 

Free from the griefs that haunt us here, 
Knowing no frown, nor sigh, nor tear ; 

There let us bide for evermore, 

Happy for aye in the sunset sphere ! 

In the mountainous cloudland, far away, 

Behold, a glittering chasm gleams. 
0, let us cross the heaving bay, 
To that land of love and dreams ! 

There would I lie, in a misty bower, 
Tasting the nectar of thy lip, 
Sweet as the honeyed dews that drip 

From the budding lotos-flower ! 
Dip the oar and spread the sail 
For shining peak and shadowy vale ! 
Fill, O sail, and plash, O oar, 
For the wonderful sunset shore ! 



JOHN JAMES PI A TT. 37 



JOHN JAMES PIATT. 

[Born in James Mill (now Milton), Indiana, 1st March 1835. 
Author of Poems in Sunshine and Firelight (Cincinnati, 1886) ; 
Western Windows, and other Poems (1871) ; Poems of House 
and Home (Boston, 1878) ; The Union of American Poetry and 
Art (Cincinnati, 1880-1) ; Idylls and Lyrics of the Ohio Valley 
(London, 1884; Boston, 1888); and At the Holy Well; a 
Handful of New Verses (Dublin, 1887). The poems quoted are 
by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

A WAKE IN DARKNESS. 

MOTHER, if I could cry from out the night 
And you could come (Oh, tearful memory !) 
How softly close ! to soothe and comfort me, 
As when a child awaken d with affright, 
My lips again as weak and helpless quite, 
Would call you, call you, sharp and plaintively 
O vain, vain, vain ! Your face I could not see ; 
Your voice no more would bring my darkness light, 
To this shut room, though I should wail and weep, 
You would not come to speak one brooding word 
And let its comfort warm me into sleep 
And leave me dreaming of its comfort heard : 
Though all the night to morn at last should creep 
My cry would fail, your answer be deferr d. 
November, 1865. 



THE BURIED RING. 

ACROSS the door-step, worn and old, 
The new bride, joyous, pass d to-day ; 

The grey rooms show d an artful gold, 
All words were light, all faces gay. 



38 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Ah, many years have lived and died 
Since she, the other vanish d one, 

Into that door, a timid bride, 

Bore from the outer world the sun. 

O lily, with the rose s glow ! 

O rose i the lily s garment clad ! 
The rooms were golden long ago, 

All words were blithe, all faces glad. 

She wore upon her hand the ring, 

Whose frail and human bond is gone 

A coffin keeps the jealous thing 
Radiant in shut oblivion : 

For she, (beloved, who loved so well,) 
In the last tremors of her breath, 

Whisper d of bands impossible 

" She would not give her ring to Death." 

But he, who holds a newer face 

Close to his breast with eager glow, 

Has he forgotten her embrace, 
The first shy maiden s, long ago ? 

Lo, in a ghostly dream of night, 
A vision, over him she stands, 

Her mortal face in heavenlier light, 

With speechless blame but blessing hands ! 

And, smiling mortal sorrow s pain 
Into immortal peace more deep, 

She gives him back her ring again 
The new bride kisses him from sleep ! 



JOHN JA MES PI A TT. 39 



APART. 

AT sea are tossing ships ; 

On shore are dreaming shells, 
And the waiting heart and the loving lips, 

Blossoms and bridal bells. 

At sea are sails a-gleam ; 

On shore are longing eyes, 
And the far horizon s haunting dream 

Of ships that sail the skies. 

At sea are masts that rise 

Like spectres from the deep ; 
On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries 

That cross the waves of sleep. 

At sea are wrecks a-strand ; 

On shore are shells that moan, 
Old anchors buried in barren sand, 

Sea-mist and dreams alone. 



THE MO WER IN OHIO. 
[JUNE, MDCCCLXIV.] 

THE bees in the clover are making honey, and I am 

making my hay : 
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man s breath 

to-day. 

The bees and I are alone in the grass : the air is so very 

still 
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen 

mill. 



40 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I 

can not hear 
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty 

ear : 

The chime of striking scythes, the fall of the heavy swaths 

they sweep 
They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep ; 

So still, I am not sure if a cloud, low down, unseen there 

be, 
Or if something brings a rumour home of the cannon so 

far from me : 

Far away in Virginia, where Joseph and Grant, I know, 
Will tell them what I meant when first I had my mowers 
go! 

Joseph, he is my eldest one, the only boy of my three, 
Whose shadow can darken my door again, and lighten 
my heart for me. 

Joseph, he is my eldest how his scythe was striking 
ahead ! 

William was better at shorter heats, but Jo in the long- 
run led. 

William, he was my youngest ; John, between them, I 

somehow see, 
When my eyes are shut, with a little board at his head 

in Tennessee. 

But William came home one morning early, from Gettys 
burg, last July, 

(The mowing was over already, although the only mower 
was I :) 

William, my captain, came home for good to his mother ; 

and I ll be bound 
We were proud and cried to see the flag that wrapt his 

coffin around ; 



JOHN JAMES PI A TT. 41 

For a company from the town came up ten miles with 

music and gun : 
It seemed his country claimed him then as well as his 

mother her son. 

But Joseph is yonder with Grant to-day, a thousand 

miles or near, 
And only the bees are abroad at work with me in the 

clover here. 

Was it a murmur of thunder I heard that hummed again 

in the air 1 
Yet, may be, the cannon are sounding now their Onward 

to Richmond there. 

But under the beech by the orchard, at noon, I sat an 

hour it would seem 
It may be I slept, a minute, too, or wavered into a 

dream. 

For I saw my boys, across the field, by the flashes as 

they went, 
Tramping a steady tramp as of old, with the strength in 

their arms unspent ; 

Tramping a steady tramp, they moved like soldiers that 

march to the beat 
Of music that seems, a part of themselves, to rise and 

fall with their feet ; 

Tramping a steady tramp, they came with flashes of 

silver that shone, 
Every step, from their scythes that rang as if they needed 

the stone 

(The field is wide and heavy with grass) and, coming 

toward me, they beamed 
With a shine of light in their faces at once, and surely 

I must have dreamed ! 



42 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For I sat alone in the clover-field, the bees were working 

ahead. 
There were three in my vision remember, old man : and 

what if Joseph were dead ! 

But I hope that he and Grant (the flag above them both, 

to boot,) 
Will go into Richmond together, no matter which is 

ahead or afoot ! 

Meantime, alone at the mowing here an old man some 
what grey 

I must stay at home as long as I can, making, myself, 
the hay. 

And so another round the quail in the orchard whistles 

blithe ; 
But first I ll drink at the spring below, and whet again 

my scythe. 



THE BLACKBERRY FARM. 

NATURE gives with freest hands 
Richest gifts to poorest lands. 
When the lord has sown his last 
And his field s to desert passed, 
She begins to claim her own, 
And instead of harvests flown, 
Sunburnt sheaves and golden ears 
Sends her hardier pioneers : 
Barbarous brambles, outlawed seeds, 
The first families of weeds 
Fearing neither sun nor wind, 
With the flowers of their kind 
(Outcasts of the garden-bound), 
Colonise the expended ground, 
Using (none her right gainsay) 
Confiscations of decay : 



JOHN JAMES PI A TT. 43 

Thus she clothes the barren place, 

Old disgrace, with newer grace. 

Title-deeds, which cover lands 

Ruled and reaped by buried hands, 

She disowning owners old, 

Scorning their " to have and hold " 

Takes herself; the mouldering fence 

Hides with her munificence ; 

O er the crumbled gatepost twines 

Her proprietary vines ; 

On the doorstep of the house 

Writes in moss "Anonymous," 

And, that beast and bird may see, 

" This is Public property; " 

To the bramble makes the sun 

Bearer of profusion : 

Blossom-odours breathe in June 

Promise of her later boon, 

And in August s brazen heat 

Grows the prophecy complete ; 

Lo, her largess glistens bright, 

Blackness diamonded with light ! 

Then, behold, she welcomes all 

To her annual festival : 

" Mine the fruit but yours as well," 

Speaks the Mother Miracle ; 

" Rich and poor are welcome ; come, 

Make to-day millennium 

In my garden of the sun : 

Black and white to me are one. 

This my freehold use content 

Here no landlord rides for rent ; 

I proclaim my jubilee, 

In my Black Republic, free. 

" Come," she beckons ; " enter, through 

Gates of gossamer, doors of dew 

(Lit with summer s tropic fire), 

My Liberia of the brier " 



44 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

CON FLA GRA TION. 



PLAYING with little children on the hearth, 

An hour ago 

With fitful mirth 

Their gentle eyes were lighted lo ! the Flame, 
Like a lithe Fairy, to their fancies came, 

Whispering whispers low ! 

II. 

All sleep. The harmless Fairy wakes and chases 
Across the floor, and from the darkness crawls, 

Clambering up the walls, 
And looks into the children s sleeping faces, 

Now through the window shines 

On the dew-burden d-vines ; 

Then, Fiend-like, leaps, 
Aloof, 

Upon the roof ! 

The city sleeps. 
It waves its myriad hands, 
And laughs and dances, a maniac lost from bands ! 

in. 

The scared bells ring ! 
All sleepers, wakening, start 

With fluttering heart ! 
Look ! the gigantic Thing 
The unimprison d Fury, tosses high 
Bloodiest arms against the frighten d sky, 
O er streets that glare with men ! Midnight gives way 

To the flame-cradled day ! 
White Fear and red Confusion mingle cries : 
"Arise ! arise ! 
The city is in flame ! " 



JOHN JAMES PIA TT. 45 

The hearth-born Terror keeps its hurrying march, 
The world aghast before, the clouds its victory-arch, 
(The Lares on their altars die, 

The wives and children fly :) 

And ashes are its fame ! 



THE NE W HO USE. 



THE BUILDING. 

A STRANGER in the village street, 
Shines the new house in morning light 
No quick enchantment sprung by night, 
A vision for the sun, complete, 
Like that the Arabian story shows : 
For the slow toil of hours and days, 
With steadfast hands and stalwart blows, 
Wrought with the builder s brain, to raise 
This temple, yet unconsecrate, 
Of Home and Household Deities, 
The stronghold of Domestic Peace, 
Familiar Church and private State ! 
The builder he has watch d it long, 
Since first the pencil-plan was made 
And the deep under-stone was laid, 
The fast foundation firm and strong, 
Through slow processes, day by day, 
While floors were fix d and rafters hung 
Till now the workmen pass d away 
He wakes from slumber, blithe and young 
Behold, at last, his work is done 
His house-in-air no longer dream, 
Illumined by the morning gleam, 
Transfigured by the rising sun 1 



46 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

n. 

THE DWELLERS. 

Come at Morning you shall see 
What a blissful company 
Enter in the open door ! 
Children, children, evermore, 
Dancing, singing, laughing, play, 
Making merry holiday 
Happy faces, garments gay ! 
Introducing Fairy-land, 
Back to barren desert sand 
Bringing flowers flown from earth : 
The long coming-in of Birth ! 

Come at Midnight you shall see 
What a ghostly company 
Pass from out the open door ! 
Old men, old men, evermore, 
Wrinkled, dusty, travel-spent, 
Burden-bearers bow d and bent. 
Songless, sighing, halting, slow, 
In funereal garments go, 
But, upon the threshold, lo ! 
Sudden children, vanish there, 
Lost in light and lifting air, 
Beautiful with blissful breath : 
The long going-forth of Death ! 



A SONG OF CONTENT. 

THE eagle nestles near the sun ; 

The dove s low nest for me ! 
The eagle s on the crag ; sweet one, 

The dove s in our green tree ! 
For hearts that beat like thine and mine 

Heaven blesses humble earth ; 
The angels of our Heaven shall shine 

The angels of our Hearth ! 



JO HN JA MES PI A TT. 47 



FIRES IN ILLINOIS. 

How bright this weird autumnal eve 
While the wild twilight clings around, 

Clothing the grasses everywhere, 
With scarce a dream of sound ! 

The high horizon s northern line, 
With many a silent-leaping spire, 

Seems a dark shore a sea of flame 
Quick, crawling waves of fire ! 

I stand in dusky solitude, 

October breathing low and chill, 

And watch the far-off blaze that leaps 
At the wind s wayward will. 

These boundless fields, behold, once more, 
Sea-like in vanished summers stir ; 

From vanished autumns comes the Fire 
A lone, bright harvester ! 

I see wide terror lit before 

Wild steeds, fierce herds of bison here ; 
And, blown before the flying flames, 

The flying-footed deer ! 

Long trains (with shaken bells, that move 
Along red twilights sinking slow) 

W^hose wheels grew weary on their way 
Far westward, long ago : 

Lone waggons bivouacked in the blaze, 
That, long ago, streamed wildly past ; 

Faces, from that bright solitude, 
In the hot gleam aghast ! 

A glare of faces like a dream, 

No history after or before, 
Inside the horizon with the flames, 

The flames nobody more ! 



48 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

That vision vanishes in me, 

Sudden and swift and fierce and bright ; 
Another gentler vision fills 

The solitude, to-night : 

The horizon lightens everywhere, 

The sunshine rocks on windy maize ; 

Hark, everywhere are busy men, 
And children at their plays ! 

Far church spires twinkle at the sun, 
From-villages of quiet born, 

And, far and near, and everywhere, 
Homes stand amid the corn. 

No longer, driven by wind, the Fire 
Makes all the vast horizon glow, 

But, numberless as the stars above, 
The windows shine below ! 



WILLIAM WINTER. 

[Born at Gloucester, Massachusetts, 15th July 1836. Author of 
The Convent, and other Poems (Boston 1854) ; The Queen s 
Domain, and other Poems (1858) ; My Witness ; a Book of 
Verse (1871) ; Shakespeare s England (Edinburgh, 1886) : and 
Wanderers a collected volume of his poems published (1889) 
by David Douglas & Co., Edinburgh, and Ticknor & Co., 
now Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, by whose kind per 
mission the poems below quoted are given.] 

MYQ UEEN. 

HE loves not well whose love is bold ! 
I would not have thee come too nigh : 
The sun s gold would not seem pure gold 
Unless the sun were in the sky : 
To take him thence and chain him near 
Would make his beauty disappear. 



WILLIAM WINTER. 49 

He keeps his state, do them keep thine, 

And shine upon me from afar ! 

So shall I bask in light divine, 

That falls from love s own guiding star ; 

So shall thy eminence be high, 

And so my passion shall not die. 

But all my life will reach its hands 
Of lofty longing toward thy face, 
And be as one who speechless stands 
In rapture at some perfect grace ! 
My love, my hope, my all will be 
To look to heaven and look to thee ! 

Thy eyes will be the heavenly lights ; 
Thy voice the gentle summer breeze, 
What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 
The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
And I will touch thy beauteous form 
In June s red roses, rich and warm. 

But thou thyself shalt come not down 
From that pure region far above ; 
But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, 
Queen of my heart and queen of love ! 
A monarch in thy realm complete, 
And I a monarch at thy feet ! 



ADELAIDE NEILSON. 

(Died August 15, 1880.) 

AND oh, to think the sun can shine, 
The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, 
And she, whose soul was all divine, 
Be darkly mouldering in the tomb : 



50 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

That o er her head the night wind sighs, 
And the sad cypress droops and moans ; 
That night has veiled her glorious eyes, 
And silence hushed her heavenly tones : 

That those sweet lips no more can smile, 
Nor pity s tender shadows chase, 
With many a gentle, child-like wile, 
The rippling laughter o er her face : 

That dust is on the burnished gold 
That floated round her royal head ; 
That her great heart is dead and cold 
Her form of fire and beauty dead ! 

Roll on, grey earth and shining star, 
And coldly mock our dreams of bliss ; 
There is no glory left to mar, 
Nor any grief so black as this ! 



DAVID GRAY. 

[Born at Edinburgh, Scotland, 8th November 1836. Came to 
America in 1849. Died at Bingharnpton, New York, 18th 
March 1888. His poems, essays, letters of travel and autobio 
graphy, have been collected in two admirable volumes by Mr 
J. W. Lamed, librarian of Buffalo. The poems quoted are 
given by kind permission of Mrs David Gray and Mr Larned.] 

TO J. H. (Col. John Hay). 

THE happy time when dreams have power to cheat 
Is past, dear friend, for me. As in old days, 
So, still, at times, they throng their ancient ways 
And trail their shining robes before my feet, 
Or stand, half-lifted to their native skies 
By the soft oval of white arms, and eyes 
Closing on looks unutterably sweet, 
Then the grim Truth beside me will arise 
And slay them, and their beauty is no more, 



UNIVERSITY 




DA VI D GRA Y. 

No more their beauty saving such as dies 
Into the marble of mute lips, or flies 
With the swift light of dying smiles, before 
The eye that strains to watch can tell, for tears, 
How passing fair it shone how dusk have grown the 
years. 



DIVIDED. 

THE half-world s width divides us ; where she sits 
Noonday has broadened o er the prairied West ; 
For me, beneath an alien sky, unblest, 
The day dies and the bird of evening flits. 

Nor do I dream that in her happier breast 

Stirs thought of me. Untroubled beams the star, 

And recks not of the drifting mariner s quest, 

Who, for dear life, may seek it on mid-sea, 

The half- world s width divides us ; yet, from far 

And though I know that nearer may not be 
In all the years yet O beloved, to thee 
Goes out my heart, and, past the crimson bar 
Of sunset, westward yearns away away 
And dieth towards thee with the dying day ! 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN AND HIS CRE W. 

TOLL the saintly minster bell, 

For we know they re now at rest ; 

Where they lie, they sleep as well 
As in kirkyard old and blest. 



52 . YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Let the requiem echo free 

From the shores of England, forth 

Over leagues of angry sea, 

Toward the silence of the North. 

Half a score of years or more, 

They were phantoms in our dreams ; 
Many a night, on many a shore 

Lit by wan Aurora-gleams, 
We have tracked the ghostly band 

Seen distressful signals wave 
Till we find dim William s Land 

Holy with the heroes grave. 

Toll the bell ! that they may rest, 

Haunting spectres of our brain, 
They for whom her tireless quest 

Love pursued so long in vain. 
Nevermore let fancy feign 

That the wondering Esquimaux 
Haply sees them toil again, 

Wild and haggard, through the snow. 

From the Erebus they pass d 

To a realm of light and balm ; 
And the Terror sailed at last 

Into peace and perfect calm. 
Toll the bell ; but let it s voice, 

Moaning in the minster dome, 
Change at times, and half rejoice, 

For the mariners at home ! 



DA VID GRA Y. 53 



REST. 

ONCE more, blessed valley, I seek and have found thee ; 

Tired, hunted, I ran, with the mad world hallooing ; 

I slipped to thy shade I am safe from pursuing 

No care climbeth over the green walls that bound thee, 

In the hush of thy woodlands that draw me and woo me, 

By the rush of thy waters whose thunders thrill through 

me, 

In deep hemlock cover, in vine-trellised arbour, 

My heart finds once more a blest haven and harbour. 
But the summers are many, the years have flown fleetly, 

Since first we came hither, with revel and laughter. 

Ah ! how cosy the jest, then, the mirth following after 
The poem to praise thee, the song that ran sweetly. 

It was joy, then, that met us, by greenwood and meadow ; 
It is rest, now, rest only, we crave in thy shadow. 



CROSS OF GOLD. 

i. 

THE fifth from the north wall ; 
Row innermost ; and the pall 
Plain black all black except 
The cross on which she wept, 
Ere she lay down and slept. 

II. 

This one is hers, and this 
The marble next it his, 
So lie in brave accord 
The lady and her lord, 
Her cross and his red sword. 



54 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

m. 

And now, what seekest thou here 
Having no care nor fear 
To vex with thy hot tread 
These halls of the long dead, 
To flash the torch s light 
Upon their utter night 1 
What word hast thou to thrust 
Into her ear of dust 1 

IV. 

Spake then the haggard priest : M 
In lands of the far East 
I dreamed of finding rest 
What time my lips had prest 
The cross on this dead breast. 

v. 

And if my sin be shriven, 
And mercy live in heaven, 
Surely this hour, and here, 
My long woe s end is near 
Is near and I am brought 
To peace, and painless thought 
Of her who lies at rest, 
This cross upon her breast, 

VI. 

Whose passionate heart is cold 
Beneath this cross of gold ; 
Who lieth, still and mute, 
In sleep so absolute, 
Yea, by the precious sign 
Shall sleep most sweet be mine ; 
And I, at last, am blest, 
Knowing she went to rest 
This cross upon her breast. 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 55 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

[Born in Portsmouth, N. H., llth November 1836. Author of The 
Dells (1855) ; The Ballad of JBabie Bell, and other Poems (1856) ; 
The Queen of Shcba ; a Romance of Travel (1877) ; Pampinea, 
and other Poems (1861) ; two collections of Poems (1863 and 
1865) ; Cloth of Gold, and other Poems (1874) ; Flower and 
Thorn, Later Poems (1876) ; an edition de luxe of Lyrics and 
Sonnets (1880) ; and Friar Jerome s Beautiful Boole (1881), etc. 
The poems are quoted from the Household Edition of his 
works with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 



PALABRAS CARINOSAS. 

GOOD-NIGHT ! I have to say good-night 
To such a host of peerless things ! 
Good-night unto that fragile hand 
All queenly with its weight of rings ; 
Good-night to fond uplifted eyes, 
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair, 
Good-night unto the perfect mouth, 
And all the sweetness nestled there, 
The snowy hand detains me, then 
I ll have to say good-night again ! 

But there will come a time, my love, 

When, if I read our stars aright, 

1 shall not linger by this porch 

With my adieus. Till then, good-night ! 

You wish the time were now 1 And I. 

You do not blush to wish it so 1 

You would have blushed yourself to death 

To own so much a year ago 

What, both those snowy hands ! Ah, then 
I ll have to say good-night again ! 



56 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



IDENTITY. 

SOMEWHERE in desolate wind-swept space 
In Twilight-land in No-man s-land 

Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, 
And bade each other stand. 

" And who are you?" cried one, agape, 

Shuddering in the gloaming light. 
" I know not," said the Second Shape, 
I only died last night ! " 



u 



WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 

[Born in Martin s Ferry, Ohio, 1st March 1837. Author of Italian 
Journeys (1867) ; Suburban Sketches (1868) ; The Rise of Silas 
Lapham (1885) ; Tuscan Cities (1885) ; The Minister s Charge 
(1886) ; Indian Summer (1886) ; Modern Italian Poets (1887) ; 
April Hopes (New York, 1887), etc. The poems given are 
quoted with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ] 

FORLORN. 



RED roses, in the slender vases burning, 

Breathed all upon the air, 
The passion and the tenderness and yearning, 

The waiting and the doubting and despair. 

ii. 

Still with the music of her voice was haunted, 

Through all its charmed rhymes, 
The open book of such a one as chanted 

The things he dreamed in old, old summer-times. 



WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 57 



The silvern chords of the piano trembled 

Still with the music wrung 
From them ; the silence of the room dissembled 

The closes of the songs that she had sung. 

IV. 

The languor of the crimson shawl s abasement, 

Lying without a stir 
Upon the floor -the absence at the casement, 

The solitude and hush were full of her. 

v. 

Without, and going from the room, and never 

Departing, did depart 
Her steps ; and one that came too late forever 

Felt them go heavy o er his broken heart. 

VI. 

And, sitting in the house s desolation, 

He could not bear the gloom, 
The vanishing encounter and evasion 

Of things that were and were not in the room. 

VII. 

Through midnight streets he followed fleeting visions 

Of faces and of forms ; 
He heard old tendernesses and derisions 

Amid the sobs and cries of midnight storms. 

VIII. 

By midnight lamps, and from the darkness under 

That lamps made at their feet, 
He saw sweet eyes peer out in innocent wonder, 

And sadly follow after him down the street. 



58 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



IX. 



The noonday crowds their restlessness obtruded 

Between him and his quest ; 
At unseen corners jostled and eluded, 

Against his hand her silken robes were pressed. 



x. 



Doors closed upon her ; out of garret casements 

He knew she looked at him 
In splendid mansions and in squalid basements, 

Upon the walls he saw her shadow swim. 



XI. 



From rapid carriages she gleamed upon him, 

Whirling away from sight ; 
From all the hopelessness of search she won him 

Back to the dull and lonesome house at night. 



XII. 



Full early into dark the twilights saddened 

Within its closed doors ; 
The echoes, with the clock s monotony maddened, 

Leaped loud in welcome from the hollow floors ; 



XIII. 



But gusts that blew all day with solemn laughter 
From wide-mouthed chimney-places, 

And the strange noises between roof and rafter, 
The wainscot clamour, and the scampering races 



XIV. 



Of mice that chased each other through the chambers, 

And up and down the stair, 
And rioted among the ashen embers, 

And left their frolic footprints everywhere, 



WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 59 



xv. 



Were hushed to hear his heavy tread ascending, 

The broad steps, one by one, 
And toward the solitary chamber tending, 

Where the dim phantom of his hope alone 



XVI. 



Rose up to meet him, with her s growing nearer, 

Eager for his embrace, 
And moved, and melted into the white mirror, 

And stared at him with his own haggard face. 



XVII. 



But turning, he was ware her looks beheld him 

Out of the mirror white ; 
And at the window yearning arms she held him, 

Out of the vague and sombre fold of night. 



XVIII. 



Sometimes she stood behind him, looking over 

His shoulder as he read ; 
Sometimes he felt her shadowy presence hover 

Above the dreamful sleep, beside his bed ; 



XIX. 



And rising from his sleep, her shadowy presence 

Followed his light descent 
Of the long stair her shadowy evanescence 

Through all the whispering rooms before him went. 



xx. 



Upon the earthly draught of cellars blowing 

His shivering lamp-flame blue, 
Arnid the damp and chill, he felt her flowing 

Around him from the doors he entered through. 



60 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

XXI. 

The spiders wove their web upon the ceiling ; 

The bat clung to the wall ; 
The dry leaves through the open transom stealing 

Skated and danced adown the empty hall. 

XXII. 

About him closed the utter desolation, 

About him closed the doom ; 
The vanishing encounter and evasion 

Of things that were and were not in the room 

XXIII. 

Vexed him forever ; and his life forever 

Immured and desolate, 
Beating itself, with desperate endeavour, 

But bruised itself, against the round of fate. 

XXIV. 

The roses, in their slender vases burning 

Were quenched long before ; 
A dust was on the rhymes of love and yearning ; 

The shawl was like a shroud upon the floor. 

XXV. 

Her music from the thrilling chords had perished ; 

The stillness was not moved 
With memories of cadences long cherished, 

The closes of the songs that she had loved. 

XXVI. 

But not the less he felt her presence never 

Out of the room depart ; 
Over the threshold, not the less, forever 

He felt her going on his broken heart. 



WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 61 

THANKSGIVING. 



LORD, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought : 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still : 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Our Thanksgiving accept. 

II. 

For the ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer : 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our Chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 



THROUGH THE MEADOW. 

THE summer sun was soft and bland 
As they went through the meadow land. 

The little wind that hardly shook 
The silver of the sleeping brook 
Blew the gold hair about her eyes, 

A mystery of mysteries ! 
So he must often pause, and stoop, 
And all the wanton ringlets loop 
Behind her dainty ear emprise 

Of slow event arid many sighs. 

Across the stream was scarce a step, 
And yet she feared to try the leap ; 
And he, to still her sweet alarm, 
Must lift her over on his arm. 



62 YO UNGER A M ERIC AN POE TS. 

She could not keep the narrow way, 
For still the little feet would stray, 
And ever must he bend t undo 
The tangled grasses from her shoe, 
From dainty rosebud Hps in pout 
Must kiss the perfect flower out ! 

Ah ! little coquette ! Fair deceit ! 
Some things are bitter that were sweet. 



DEAD. 



SOMETHING lies in the room 

Over against my own ; 
The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom 

Of candles, burning alone, 
Untrimmed, and all aflare 
In the ghastly silence there ! 

n. 

People go by the door, 

Tip-toe, holding their breath, 
And hush the talk they held before, 

Lest they should waken Death, 
That is awake all night 
There in the candle light ! 

in. 

The cat upon the stairs 

Watches with flamy eye, 
For the sleepy one who shall unawares 

Let her go stealing by. 
She softly, softly purrs, 
A.nd claws at the banisters. 



WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 63 

IV. 

The bird from out its dream 

Breaks with a sudden song, 
That stabs the sense like a sudden scream ; 

The hound the whole night long 
Howls to the moonless sky, 
So far, and starry, and high, 



THE POETS FRIENDS. 

THE robin sings in the elm ; 

The cattle stand beneath, 
Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes 

And fragrant meadow-breath. 

They listened to the nattered bird, 
The wise-looking, stupid things ; 

And they never understand a word 
Of all the robin sings. 



A VERY. 

NIAGARA, 1853. 



ALL night long they heard, in the house beside the shore, 
Heard, or seemed to hear, through the multitudinous roar, 
Out of the hell of the rapids as twere a lost soul s cries, 
Heard and could not believe ; and the morning mocked 

their eyes, 
Showing, where wildest and fiercest the waters leaped up 

and ran 
Raving, round him and past, the visage of a man, 



64 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Clinging, or seeming to cling, to the trunk of a tree that 

caught, 

Fast in the rocks below, scarce out of the surges raught, 
Was it a life, could it be, to yon slender hope that clung ? 
Shrill, above all the tumult the answering terror rung. 
Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is 

drowned 
Over the rocks the lines of another are tangled and 

wound ; 
And the long fateful hours of the morning have wasted 

soon, 

As it had been some blessed trance, and now it is noon, 
Hurry, now with the raft ! But O build it strong and 

staunch, 
And to the lines and treacherous rocks look well as you 

launch ! 

Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent 

sides, 

Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides 
Onward rushes the raft, with many a lurch and a leap 
Lord ! if it strike him loose from the hold he scarce can 

keep ! 

No ! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harm 
less at last, 
And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast. 

ii. 

Now, for the shore ! But steady, steady, my men, and 
slow ; 

Taut now the quivering lines; now slack, and so, let 
her go ! 

Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multi 
tude ; 

Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems 
to brood 

Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all, 

Save for the rapid s plunge, and the thunder of the fall 



WILLIAM DEAN HO WELLS. 65 

But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale, 
Chorusing his unheard despair, a desperate wail : 
Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings, 
Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings. 

in. 

All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways ; 
And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and prays : 
Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to save, 
Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and 

the wave 
Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their 

strife, 
Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his 

life, 
Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and women 

swoon. 

Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon, 
And it is sunset now and another boat and the last 
Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has 

safely passed. 

IV. 

Wild through the crowd comes a man that nothing can 

stay, 
Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his 

way. 
"No ! we keep the bridge for them that can help him, 

You, 
Tell us, who are you?" "His brother!" "God help 

you both ! pass through." 

Wild, wide, arms of imploring, he calls aloud to him, 
Into the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance 

dim ; 
But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are 

lost 

As in a wind of autumn leaves of autumn are tossed. 

F 



66 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope 
Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope ; 
Sees all as in a dream, the terrible pageantry, 
Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying 

free ; 
Sees, then, the form, that, spent with effort and fasting 

and fear, 
Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying so 

near, 
Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled 

and hurled 
Headlong on to the cataract s brink and out of the world. 



HENRY AMES BLOOD. 

[Born at Temple, New Hampshire, 1838. Author of How Much I 
Loved Thee, a play privately published. The poems given are 
quoted with the Author s permission.] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

I WISH that I could have my wish to-night ; 

For all the faeries should assist my flight 

Back into the abyss of years 

Till I could see the streaming light, 

And hear the music of the spheres 

That sang together at the joyous birth 

Of that immortal mind, 

The noblest of his kind, 

The only Shakespeare that has graced our earth. 

Oh, that I might behold 

Those gentle sprites, of others all unseen. 

Queen Mab and Puck the bold, 

With courtseys manifold 

Slide round his cradle every morn and e en ; 

That I might see the nimble shapes that ran 

And frisked and frolicked by his side, 



HENRY AMES BLOOD. 67 

When school-hoars ended or began, 

At morn or eventide 

That I might see the very shoes he wore 

Upon the dusty street, 

His little gown and pinafore, 

His satchel and his schoolboy rig complete ! 

If I could have the wish I rhyme, 

Then should this night and all it doth contain, 

Be set far back upon the rim of Time, 

And I would wildered be upon a stormy plain ; 

The wanton waves of winter wind and storm 

Should beat upon my ruddy face, 

And on my streaming hair ; 

And hags and witches multiform, 

And beldames past all saintly grace, 

Should hover round me in the sleety air. 

Then, hungry, cold, and frightened by these imps of sin, 

And breathless all with buffeting the storm, 

Betimes I would arrive at some old English inn, 

Wainscoted, high and warm. 

The fire should blaze in antique chimney-places ; 

And on the high-backed settles, here and there, 

The village gossip and the merry laugh 

Should follow brimming cups of half-and-half ; 

Before the fire, in hospitable chair, 

The landlord fat should bask his shining face, 

And slowly twist his pewter can ; 

And there in his consummate grace, 

The perfect lord of wit, 

The immortal man, 

The only Shakespeare of this earth should sit. 
There, too, that Spanish galleon of a hulk, 
Ben Jonson, lying at full length, 
Should so dispense his goodly bulk 
That he might lie at ease upon his back, 
To test the tone and strength 
Of Boniface s sherris-sack. 



68 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And there should be some compeers of these two, 

Bare wits and poets of the land, 

Whom all good England knew, 

And who are now her dear forget-me-nots ; 

And they should lounge on Shakespeare s either hand, 

And sip their punch from queer old cans and pots. 

Oh, then, such drollery should begin, 

Such wit flash out, such humour run 

Around the fire in this old English inn, 

The veriest clod would be convulsed with fun ; 

And Boniface s merry sides would ache, 

And his round belly like a pudding shake. 

Never since the world began 

Has been such repartee ; 

And never till the next begins, 

Will greater things be said by man, 

Than this same company 

Were wont to say so oft in those old English inns. 

Dear Artist, if you paint this picture mine 

Do not forget the storm that roars 

Above the merry din and laughter within doors ; 

But let some stroke divine 

Make all within appear more rich and warm, 

By contrast with the outer storm. 



PRO MORTUIS. 

FOR the dead and for the dying ; 

For the dead that once were living, 
And the living that are dying, 

Pray I to the All-forgiving. 

For the dead who y ester journeyed; 

For the living who, to-morrow, 
Through the Valley of the Shadow, 

Must all bear the world s great sorrow ; 



HENRY AMES BLOOD. 69 

For the immortal, who, in silence, 
Have already crossed the portal ; 

For the mortal who, in silence, 
Soon shall follow the immortal ; 

Keep thine arms round all, Father ! 

Round lamenting and lamented ; 
Round the living and repenting, 

Round the dead who have repented. 

Keep thine arms round all, O Father ! 

That are left or that are taken ; 
For they all are needy, whether 

The forsaking or forsaken. 



THE TWO ENCHANTMENTS. 

O, HEAR from yonder height 
That glorious trumpet sounding ! 
How fierce my pulses beat ! 
But in the valley bright 
The rebecs are resounding : 
How sweet, how magic sweet ! 
Ah, whither shall I go ? 

See now from the height 
Those mighty shapes advancing 
So radiant, yet so far ! 
But in the valley bright 
The youths and maidens dancing 
How beautiful they are ! 
Ah, whither shall I go ? 

How grand about the height 
Fame s noble army winding 
To pinnacles above ! 
But in the valley bright, 
Her hair with roses binding, 
Lingers the maid I love : 
Ah, whither shall I go ? 



70 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

COLONEL JOHN HAY. 

[Born in Salem, Indiana, 8th October 1838. Author of Pike County 
Ballads, Jem Bludso (Boston 1871) ; Castilian Days, A History 
of the Administration of Abraham Lincoln, in collaboration with 
John G. Nicolay, and The Bread Winners (New York, 1883). 
The poems given are from Pike County Ballads, and are quoted 
with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

JEM B L U D S O, 

OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. 

WALL, no ! I can t tell whar he lives, 

Becase he don t live, you see ; 
Leastways, he s got out of the habit 

Of livin like you and me. 
Whar have you been for the last three year 

That you haven t heard folks tell 
How Jemmy Bludso passed in his checks 

The night of the Prairie Belle ? 
He weren t no saint, them engineers 

Is all pretty much alike, 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And another one here, in Pike ; 
A kurless man in his talk was Jem, 

And an awkward hand in a row, 
But he never funked, and he never lied, 

I reckon he never knowed how. 
And this was all the religion he had, 

To treat his engine well ; 
Never be passed on the river ; 

To mind the pilot s bell ; 
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, 

A thousand times he swore, 
He d hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 
All boats has their day on the Mississip 

And her clay come at last, 
The Movaster was a better boat, 

But the Belle she wouldn t be passed. 



COLONEL JOHN HAY. 71 

And so she came tearing along that night 

The oldest craft on the line 
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 

The fire bust out as she cleared the bar, 

And burnt a hole in the night, 
And quick as a flash she turned, and made 

For that wilier-bank on the right. 
There was runnin and cursin , but Jem yelled out, 

Over all the infernal roar, 
" I ll hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last galoot s ashore." 

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin boat 

Jem Bludso s voice was heard, 
And they all had trust in his cussedness, 

And knowed he would keep his word. 
And sure s you re born, they all got off 

Afore the smokestacks fell, 
And Bludso s ghost went up alone 

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He weren t no saint, but at jedgment 

I d run my chance with Jem, 
Longside of some pious gentlemen 

That wouldn t shook hands with him. 
He seen his duty, dead-sure thing, 

And went for it thar and thin ; 
And Christ ain t a-going to be too hard 

On a man that died for men. 



HO W IT HAPPENED. 

I PRAY you pardon, Elsie, 
And smile that frown away 

That dims the light of your lovely face 
As a thunder-cloud the day, 



72 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I really could not help it, 

Before I thought, it was done, 
And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, 

Like an icicle in the sun. 

I was thinking of the summers 

When we were boys and girls, 
And wandered in the blossoming woods, 

And the gay wind romped with her curls. 
And you seemed to me the same little girl 

I kissed in the alder-path, 
I kissed the little girl s lips, and alas ! 

I have roused a woman s wrath. 

There is not so much to pardon, 

For why were your lips so red *{ 
The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold 

From the proud, provoking head. 
And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes 

And played round the tender mouth, 
Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind 

That blows from the fragrant south. 

And where after all is the harm done 1 ? 

I believe we were made to be gay, 
And all of youth not given to love 

Is vainly squandered away, 
And strewn through life s low labours, 

Like gold in the desert sands, 
Are love s swift kisses and sighs and vows 

And the clasp of clinging hands. 

And when you are old and lonely, 

In memory s magic shrine 
You will see on your thin and wasting hands, 

Like gems, these kisses of mine. 
And when you muse at evening 

At the sound of some vanished name, 
The ghost of my kisses sliall touch your lips 

And kindle your heart to flame, 



COLONEL JOHN HA V. 73 

REGARDANT. 

As I lay at your feet that afternoon, 
Little we spoke, you sat and mused, 
Humming a sweet old-fashioned tune, 

And I worshipped you, with a sense confused 
Of the good time gone and the bad on the way, 
While my hungry eyes your face perused 

To catch and brand on my soul for aye 

The subtle smile which had grown my doom, 

Drinking sweet poison hushed I lay 

Till the sunset shimmered athwart the room. 

I rose to go. You stood so fair 

And dim in the dead day s tender gloom : 

All at once, or ever I was aware, 

Flashed from you on me a warm strong wave 

Of passion and power ; in the silence there 

I fell on my knees, like a lover, or slave, 

With my wild hands clasping your slender waist ; 

And my lips, with a sudden frenzy brave, 

A madman s kiss on your girdle pressed, 
And I felt your calm heart s quickening beat, 
And your soft hands on me one instant rest. 

And if God had loved me, how endlessly sweet 
Had He let my heart in its rapture burst, 
And throb its last at your firm, small feet ! 

And when I was forth, I shuddered at first 
At my imminent bliss, as a soul in pain, 
Treading his desolate path accursed, 

Looks back and dreams through his tears dim rain 
That by heaven s wide gate the angels smile, 
Relenting, and beckon him back again, 

And goes on, thrice damned by that devil s wile, 

So sometimes burns in my weary brain 

The thought that you loved me all the while. 



74 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



FATHER ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN. 

[Born in Norfolk, Pa., 15th August 1839. Died in Louisville, Ky., 
22d April 1886. Author of The Conquered Banner; Poems, 
Patriotic, Religious and Miscellaneous ; Life of Christ, The Lost 
Cause, The Sword of Lee, The Flag of Erin, and the epic, 
Their Story Runneth Thus. The poems given are from the 
Household Edition of his works, published by the Baltimore 
Publishing Co., with whose kind permission they are quoted.] 

IN MEMOR Y OF MY BROTHER. 

YOUNG as the youngest who donned the grey, 

True as the truest that wore it, 
Brave as the bravest he marched away 
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay), 
Triumphant waved our flag one day 

He fell in the front before it. 

Firm as the firmest, where duty led, 

He hurried without a falter ; 
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
And the day was won but the field was red 
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 

On his country s hallowed altar. 

On the trampled breast of the battle plain 
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 

On his pale, pure face not a mark of pain 

(His mother dreams they will meet again), 

The fairest form amid all the slain, 
Like a child asleep he nestled. 

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 

The field where his comrades found him, 
They buried him there and the big tears crept 
Into strong men s eyes that had seldom wept 
(His mother God pity her smiled and slept, 
Dreaming her arms were around him). 



FA THER AS RAM JOSEPH RYAN. 75 

A grave in the woods with the grass o ergrown, 

A grave in the heart of his mother 
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; 
There is not a name, there is not a stone, 
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan 
O er the grave where never a flower is strewn, 
But his memory lives in the other. 



SENTINEL SONGS. 

WHEN falls the soldier brave, 

Dead at the feet of wrong, 
The poet sings and guards his grave 

With sentinels of song. 

Songs, march ! he gives command, 
Keep faithful watch and true ; 

The living and dead of the conquered land 
Have now no guards save you. 

Grey ballads ! mark ye well ! 

Thrice holy is your trust ! 
Go ! halt by the fields where warriors fell ; 

Rest arms ! and guard their dust. 

List ! songs ! your watch is long, 
The soldier s guard was brief; 

Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong 
Ye may not seek relief. 

Go ! wearing the grey of grief ! 

Go ! watch o er the dead in grey ! 
Go ! guard the private and guard the chief, 

And sentinel their clay ! 

And the songs, in stately rhyme 
And with softly-sounding tread, 

Go forth, to watch for a time a time 
Where sleep the Deathless Dead. 



76 YO UNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And the songs, like funeral dirge, 

In music soft and low, 
Sing round the graves whilst hot tears surge 

From hearts that are homes of woe. 

What tho no sculptured shaft 

Immortalise each brave 1 
What tho no monument epitaphed 

Be built above each grave ? 

When marble wears away 

And monuments are dust, 
The songs that guard our soldier s clay 

Will still fulfil their trust, 

With lifted head and stately tread 
Like stars that guard the skies, 

Go watch each bed where rest the dead 
Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. 



When falls the cause of Right, 

The poet grasps his pen, 
And in gleaming letters of living light 

Transmits the truth to men. 

Go ! songs ! he says who sings, 

Go ! tell the world this tale ; 
Bear it afar on your tireless wings : 

The Right will yet prevail. 

Songs ! sound like the thunder s breath ! 

Boom o er the world and say : 
Brave men may die Right has no death ! 

Truth never shall pass away ! 

Go ! sing thro a nation s sighs ! 

Go ! sob thro a people s tears ! 
Sweep the horizons of all the skies, 

And throb through a thousand years ! 



FA THER ABRAM JOSEPH R VAN. 77 

And the songs, with brave, sad face, 

Go proudly down their way, 
Wailing the loss of a conquered race 

And waiting an Easter-day. 

Away ! away ! like the birds, 

They soar in their flight sublime ; 
And the waving wings of the poet s words 

Flash down to the end of time. 

When the flag of justice fails, 

Ere its folds have yet been furled, 
The poet waves its folds in wails 

That flutter o er the world. 

Songs, march ! and in rank by rank 

The low, wild verses go, 
To watch the graves where the grass is dank 

And the martyrs sleep below. 

Songs ! halt when there is no name ! 

Songs ! stay when there is no stone ! 
And wait till you hear the feet of Fame 

Coming to where ye moan. 

And the songs, with lips that mourn, 
And with hearts that break in twain 

At the beck of the bard a hope forlorn- 
Watch the plain where sleep the slain. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 

FURL that Banner, for tis weary ; 
Round its staff tis drooping dreary ; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
For there s not a man to wave it, 
And there s not a sword to save it, 



78 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And there s not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it ; 
Furl it, hide it let it rest. 

Take the Banner down ! tis tattered ; 
Broken is its shaft and tattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh ! tis hard for us to fold it ; 
Hard to think there s none to hold it ; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner ! furl it sadly ! 
Once ten thousand hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousand wildly, madly, 

Swore it should for ever wave ; 
Swore that foeman s sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float for ever 

O er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And that Banner it is trailing ! 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For though conquered, they adore it ! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! 
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner ! True, its gory, 
Yet tis wreathed around with glory, 
And twill live in song and story, 
Though its folds are in the dust : 



FATHER ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN. 79 

For its fame on brightest pages 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages 
Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
Treat it gently it is holy 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not unfold it never, 
Let it droop then, furled for ever, 

For its people s hopes are dead ! 



C. S. A. 

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, 
Who living were true and tried for us, 
And dying sleep side by side for us ; 

The Martyr-band 

That hallowed our land, 
With the blood they shed in a tide for us ? 

Ah ! fearless in many a day for us 
They stood in front of the fray for us, 
And held the foeman at bay for us ; 

And tears should fall 

Fore er o er all 
Who fell while wearing the grey for us. 

How many a glorious name for us, 

How many a story of fame for us 

They left ! Would it not be a blame for us 

If their memories part 

From our land and heart, 
And a wrong to them, and shame for us ? 

No, no, no, they were brave for us, 

And bright were the lives they gave for us ; 

The land they struggled to save for us 



8o YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Will not forget 
Its warriors yet 
Who sleep in so many a grave for us. 

On many and many a plain for us 

Their blood poured down all in vain for us, 

Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us ; 

They bleed we weep, 

We live they sleep, 
" All lost " the only refrain for us. 

But their memories e er shall remain for us, 

And their names, bright names, without stain for us ; 

The glory they won shall not wane for us, 

In legend and lay 

Our heroes in gray 
Shall for ever live over again for us. 



[FRANCIS] BRET HARTE. 

[Born in Albany, N.Y., 2Sth August 1839. Author of Poems, 
(Boston, 1871) ; Luck of Roaring Camp, and other Sketches 
(1871) ; East and West Poems (1871) ; Poetical Works (1871) ; 
By Shore and Sedge (1885) ; Snow-Bound at Eagle s (1886) ; 
A Millionaire of Rough and Ready (1887) ; The Crusade of the 
Excelsior (1887) ; also collected Works (5 vols., 1882). The 
poems given are from the Household Edition of his poems, and 
are quoted by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
Boston, and Chatto & Windus, London.] 

HER LETTER. 

I M sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I come from the dance, 
In a robe even you would admire 

It cost a cool thousand in France ; 
I m be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 
In short, sir, " the belle of the season " 

Is wasting an hour upon you. 



[FRA NCIS} BRE T HARTE. 8 1 

A dozen engagements I ve broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 
Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits on the stairs for me yet. 
They say he ll be rich, when he grows up, 

And then he adores me indeed ; 
And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

" And how do I like my position 1 " 

" And what do I think of New York 1 " 
"And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? " 
" And isn t it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds, and silks, and all that 1 " 
" And aren t it a change to the ditches 

And tunnels of Poverty Flat?" 

Well, yes, if you saw us out driving 

Each day in the Park, four-in-hand 
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 

To look supernaturally grand, 
If you saw papa s picture, as taken 

By Brady, and tinted at that, 
You d never suspect he sold bacon 

And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 

In the glare of the grand chandelier, 
In the bustle and glitter befitting 

The " finest soiree of the year," 
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, 
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," 

And the dance that we had on " The Fork : " 

Of Harrison s barn, with its muster, 

Of flags festooned over the wall ; 
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 

And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 
F 



82 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 

And how I once went down the middle 
With the man that shot Sandy M Gee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 

On the hill, when the time came to go ; 
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 

From under their bedclothes of snow ; 
Of that ride, that to me was the rarest ; 

Of the something you said at the gate. 
Ah ! Joe, then I wasn t an heiress 

To " the best-paying lead in the state." 

Well, well, it s all past ; yet it s funny 

To think as I stood in the glare 
Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should be thinking right there, 
Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork and all that, 
Just to dance with old Folensbee s daughter, 

The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I m writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste is still low), 
Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I m spooning on Joseph, heigh-ho ! 
And I m to be " finished " by travel, 

Whatever s the meaning of that. 
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 

In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night ! here s the end of my paper ; 

Good-night ! if the longitude please, 
For maybe, while wasting my paper, 

TOUT sun s climbing over the trees. 
But know, if you haven t got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 
That my heart s somewhere there in the ditches 

And you ve struck it, on Poverty Flat. 



[FRANCIS} BRET HARTE. 83 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack s scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew, 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew ; 

And then, while shadows round them gathered faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of "Little Nell." 

Perhaps twas boyish fancy, for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 
While the whole camp with " Nell " on English meadows 

Wandered, and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes o ertaken 

As by some spell divine 
Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire ; 

And he who wrought that spell ? 
Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 



84 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 

With hop- vines incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills ; 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreathes entwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, 

This spray of Western Pine ! 



HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. 

[Born at Warren, Rhode Island, 22d December 1839. Author of 
Story of the Hymns (Boston, 1876) ; Zig-zag Journeys (1876-86) ; 
The Prayers of History (1880) ; Poems for Christmas, Easter, 
and the New Year (1883) ; Great Composers, and Wonderful 
Christmases of Old (1885) ; Songs of History (1887, Boston, 
New England Publishing Co.). The poems quoted are from 
this volume, and are given with the kind permission of the 
publishers.] 

THE CLOCKS OF KENIL WORTH. 

SUGGESTED BY THE RUINED CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN, 
VIRGINIA. 

"The clocks were stopped at the banquet-hour." 

AN ivy spray in my hand I hold, 

The kindly ivy that covers the mould 

Of ruined halls ; it was brought to me 

From Kenilworth Castle, over the sea 

O, Ivy, Ivy, I think of that Queen, 

Who once swept on her way through the oak walls green, 

To Kenilworth, far in the gathering glooms, 

Her cavalcade white with silver plumes. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold ! 



HEZEKIAH BUTTER WORTH. 85 

O, Ivy, Ivy I see that hour. 

The great bell strikes in the signal -tower, 

The banners lift in the ghostly moon, 

The bards ProvenQal their harps attune, 

The fiery fountains play on the lawns, 

The glare of the rocket startles the fawns, 

The trumpets peal, and roll the drums, 

And the Castle thunders, " She comes, she comes ! " 
They are one, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold ! 

But hark ! the notes of the culverin ! 

To the Castle s portal, trooping in, 

A thousand courtiers torches bear, 

And the turrets flame in the dusky air. 

The Castle is ringing, "All hail ! all hail ! " 

Ride slowly, O Queen ! mid the walls of mail, 

And now let the courtliest knight of all 

Lead thy jewelled feet to the banquet hall; 

A thousand goblets await thee there, 

And the great clocks lift their faces in air. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold f 

O, Ivy true ; O, Ivy old, 
The great clocks stare on the cups of gold, 
Like dreadful eyes, and their hands pass on 
The festive minutes, one by one. 
"Dying dying," they seem to say 
" This too this too shall pass away." 
And the knights look up, and the knights look down, 
And their fair white brows on the great clocks frown. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold f 



86 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

On the dais the Queen now stands and falls 
A silence deep on the blazing halls ; 
She opens her lips but, hark ! now dare 
The clocks to beat in the stillness there 1 
" Dying dying," they seem to say 
"This too this too shall pass away !" 
And the Queen looks up, and with stony stare 
The high clocks look on the proud Queen there. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold ! 

Then the dark knights say, " What is wanting here ? 
" That the hour should last " so said a peer. 
" The hour shall last ! " the proud earl calls ; 
" Ho ! Stop the clocks in the banquet halls ! " 
And the clock s slow pulses of death were stilled, 
And the gay earl smiled, and the wine was spilled, 
And the jewelled Queen at the dumb clocks laughed, 
And the flashing goblet raised and quaffed. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold ! 

But time went on, though the clocks were dead ; 
O er the dewy oaks rose the morning red. 
The earl of that sun-crowned castle died, 
And never won the Queen for his bride, 
And the Queen grew old, and withered, and grey, 
And at last in her halls of state she lay 
On her silken cushions, bejewelled, but poor, 
And the courtiers listened without the door. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold I 

The twilight flushes the arrased hall, 
The Night comes still, and her velvet pall 



HEZEKIAH B UTTER WOR TH. 87 

Of diamonds cold drops from her hand, 

And still as the stars is the star-lit land. 

Men move like ghosts through the castle s rooms, 

But the old clocks talk mid the regal glooms : 

" Dying dying," they seem to say, 

Till the astrals pale in the light of day. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold ! 

O, Ivy true, as they listen there, 
On the helpless Queen the great clocks stare, 
And over and over again they say, 
"This too this too shall pass away." 
And she clasps the air with her fingers old, 
And the hall is shadowy, empty and cold. 
" Life ! life ! " she cries, " my all would I give 
For a moment, one moment, O Time, to live ! " 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold I 

On her crownless brow fell white her hair, 
And she buried her face in her cushions there : 
" One moment ! " it echoed through the hall, 
But the clock stopped not on the arrased wall. 

There is a palace whose dial towers 

Uplift no record of vanishing hours, 
Disease comes not to its doors, nor falls 
Death s dusty step in its golden halls. 

And more than crowns, or castles old, 

Or red-cross banners or spurs of gold, 

That palace key it is to hold, 
0, Ivy, Ivy, dark and cold / 



88 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

THE FLORIDA IBIS. 
THE Southern Cross uplifts one glowing star 
Between the horizon and the Gulf afar ; 
I watch the light from the lone river bar, 

And gaze across the sea. 
A sea, on which an hundred sunsets flow, 
Whose tides around an hundred islands glow, 
Where lies the sky above in deeps below, 

A shadow falls on me. 
Has heaven opened 1 do evangels fly, 
As in the prophet s heaven, across the sky ? 
An hundred silver wings now fill my eye, 

A cloud of wings, as one. 
O Ibis, Ibis ! whose thin wings of white 
Scarce stir the roses of the sunset light, 
When Day dissolving leaves the coasts to Night, 

And far seas hide the sun ; 

From weedy weirs where blaze the tropic noons, 
Savannas dark where cool the fiery moons ; 
From still Lake Worth, and mossy-walled lagoons, 

Where never footsteps stray; 
To far Clear Water, and its isles of pine, 
From beryl seas to seas of opaline, 
Those level coasts where helpless sea conchs shine, 

Thou driftest on thy way ! 

Ibis, Ibis, bird of Hermes bold, 
The avatar to men from gates of gold, 

That blessed all eyes that saw thy wings of old, 
My thought, like thee, hath wings. 

1 follow thee, as cool the shadows fall, 
And burn the stars on yon horizon s wall ; 
And Memphian altars, as my thoughts recall, 

My soul to thee upsprings ! 

My heart to-night with Nature s soul is thrilled, 
As with the fire that priests of Isis filled 
When ro^e thy wings, and all the world was stilled 

Beneath thy lucent plumes ! 



HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. 89 

O Ibis, Ibis, whence thy silent flight 1 
O er everglades that only fire-flies light, 
Magnolias languid with their blooms, when Night 
Gathers from far her glooms. 

O er mossy live-oaks, high palmetto shades, 
The cypressed lakelets of the everglades ; 
O er rivers dead, and still pines colonnades, 
Where sweet the jessamine grows \ 

Where red blooms flame amid the trailing moss, 
And streams unnumbered low lianas cross, 
Wild orange groves, where in their nests of floss 
The sun-birds find repose. 

But hark ! what sound upon the stillness breaks ? 
A rifle shot a boatman on the lakes, 
An Ibis wing above in silver flakes 
A white bird downward falls ! 

O Ibis, Ibis, of the tropic skies, 
For whom tho arches of the sunsets rise, 
God made this world to be thy Paradise, 
Thy Eden without walls. 

O Ibis dead, that on the dark lake floats, 
Whose dimming eyes see not the sportsmen s boats, 
O er whose torn wing some brutal instinct gloats, 
I wonder if in thee 

Lives not some spirit, so the Egyptian thought, 
Some inner life from Life s great Fountain brought, 
Something divine from God s great goodness caught, 
Some Immortality ? 

Are all these Paradises dead to thee, 
The cool savanna and the purple sea, 
The air, thy ocean, where thou wanderest free, 
I wonder, are they dead 1 

Or hast thou yet a spirit life, that flies 
Like thine own image through the endless skies, 
And art thou to some new-born Paradise 
By higher instincts led 1 



90 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Is death, like life, alike to all that live ? 
Does God to all a double being give 1 
Do all that breathe eternal life receive 1 
Is thought, where er it be, 

Immortal as the Source from whence it came 1 
O living Ibis, in the sunset s name, 
Still flying westward thou and I, the same. 
Can answer not but He ! 



ROSSITER JOHNSON. 

[Born at Rochester, New York, 27th January 1840. Graduated at 
the University of Rochester 1863. Author of Phaeton Rogers, 
a Novel of Boy Life (New York, 1881) ; A History of the War 
between the United States and Great Britain in 1812-15 (1882) ; 
A History of the French War, ending in the Conquest of Canada 
(1882) ; Idler and Poet (Boston, 1883) ; and A Short History of 
the War of Secession (1885-7). The poeuis given are quoted 
with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin <fe Co.] 

FAITH S SURRENDER. 

As vanquished years behind me glide, 

Trailing the banner of their boasts, 
Lo ! step by step and stride for stride, 

Beside me walk their silent ghosts. 
Each, while a narrow moment burned, 

The breath of full existence shared ; 
Then mortal substance backward turned, 

Immortal shadow onward fared. 

Between the doing and the dreaming, 

My slack hands fall ; 
Between the being and the seeming, 

My senses pall ; 

And swiftly through life s broken arches 
Care with his troop triumphant marches, 

And claims me thrall. 

Then ever, mid the moving throng 
Whose mocking footfalls echo mine, 



ROSSITER JOHNSON. 91 

Poor widowed Memory heads along 

Her children in a lengthened line. 
What time the head in silence hung, 

I knew them by that voiceless sign 
Their tender forms for ever young, 

Their weary eyes as old as mine. 

Between retreating and encroaching 

Their footprints lie ; 
Between beseeching and reproaching 

Their voices die ; 

And every scheme of better living 
They mar with blotches of misgiving, 

And thrust it by. 

The one foul word in record fair 

Stands out the foremost on the page, 
Till all of good or glory there 

Seems chance-achieved or shrunk with age ; 
The present help of manly strength, 

The royal sway of manly will, 
However bold, go down at length 

Before some iron-visored ill. 

Betwixt old baulk and new beginning 

How Courage quails ! 
Twixt white intent and stain of sinning 

How Virtue fails ! 

And backward on her own path turning, 
When Hazard s lurid torch is burning, 

How Reason pales ! 

From self the subtle motive spun, 

Through self the generous purpose burns, 
For self the martyr deed is done, 

And round to self at last returns 
The boon for others dearly bought, 

The far result of sacrifice, 
That triumphs in completed thought, 

Or lights a gleain in dying eyes. 



92 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Betwixt grim fact and sad surmising, 

Joys merge in pain ; 
T wixt love for self and self-despising, 

What grounds remain, 
Where Hope is lord and Fear is vassal, 
Where calm Content may build her castle, 

Nor build in vain ? 

Though Truth be steadfast as the hills 

Whose flinty faces mock at Time, 
What boots it, if no living rills 

Roll downward from that steep sublime 1 
I could not hold its airy height, 

Though I should trace the narrow track. 
While trembling foot and failing sight 

Conspire too well to hurl me back. 

Between the climbing and the creeping, 

There s blood and bruise ; 
Between the laughing and the weeping, 

The soul may lose 

Her grasp of all that makes the morrow 
Seem other than a greener sorrow, 

With fresher dews. 



LA WRENCE. 

HE came in the glory of summer ; in the terror of 

summer he went ; 
Like a blossom the breezes have wafted ; like a bough 

that the tempest has rent. 
His blue eyes unclosed in the morning, his brown eyes 

were darkened at morn ; 
And the durance of pain could not banish the beauty 

wherewith he was born. 
He came can we ever forget it, while the years of our 

pilgrimage roll ? 
He CRme in thine anguish of body, he passed mid our 

anguish of soul, 



ROSSITER JOHNSON, 93 

He brought us a pride and a pleasure, he.left us a pathos 

of tears : 
A dream of impossible futures, a glimpse of uncalendared 

years. 
His voice was a sweet inspiration, his silence a sign from 

afar ; 
He made us the heroes we were not, he left us the 

cowards we are, 
For the moan of the heart follows after his clay, with 

perpetual dole, 
Forgetting the torture of body is lost in the triumph 

of soul. 

A man in the world of his cradle, a sage in his infantine 

lore, 
He was brave in the might of endurance, was patient, 

and who can be more ? 
He had learned to be shy of the stranger, to welcome 

his mother s warm kiss, 
To trust in the arms of his Father, and who can be 

wiser than this ? 
The lifetime we thought lay before him, already was 

rounded and whole, 
In dainty completeness of body and wondrous perfection 

of soul. 

The newness of love at his coming, the freshness of grief 

when he went, 
The pitiless pain of his absence, the effort at argued 

content, 
The dim eye for ever retracing the few little footprints 

he made, 
The quick thought for ever recalling the visions that never 

can fade, 
For these but one comfort, one answer, in faith s or 

philosophy s roll : 
Come to us for a pure little body, went to God for a 

glorified soul. 



94 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 

[Born in Ireland in 1840. Author of The Liber Amoris (1886, 
Boston, Ticknor & Co., now Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) The ex 
tracts from this poem are given by kind permission of the 
publishers. " The Trio for Twelfth-Night " is from the Atlantic 
Monthly.] 

A TRIO FOR TWELFTH-NIGHT 



WHO first brought man the morning dream 
Of a world s hero 1 Whence the gleam 
Which grew to glory full and sweet 
As the wide wealth of waving wheat 

Springs from one grain of corn 1 
What drew the spirits of earth s grey prime 
To lean out from their tower of time 
Toward the small sound of Hope s far chime 

Heard betwixt night and morn 1 

First it was sung by heaven; then scrolled 
By the scribe-stars on leaves of gold 
In that long-buried book of Seth, 
Which slept a secret deep as death, 

Unknown to men forlorn, 
Till a seer touched a jasper lid 
In a sand-sunken pyramid, 
And out the oracular secret slid, 

Betwixt the night and morn. 

Zarathustra, Bactria s king, next said, 
" When in the sky s blue garden-bed 
A lily-petaled star shall fold 
A human shape, the gift foretold 

Shall blossom and be born : 
Then shall the world-tides flow reversed, 
New gods shall rise, the last be first, 
And the best come from out the worst, 

As night gives birth to morn. 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 95 

II. 

So while the drowsed earth swooned and slept 
Mute holy men their vigils kept, 
By twelve and twelve : as light decayed, 
They marked through evening s rosy shade 

The curled moon s coming horn, 
All stars that fed in silent flock, 
And each tossed meteor s back-blown lock. 
So watched they from their wind-swept rock, 

Betwixt the night and morn. 

Slow centuries passed ; at last there came 
By night a dawn of silver flame, 
Whose flower-like heart grew white and round 
To a smooth, perfect pearl, with sound 

Of music-planet born, 
In whose clear disk a fair child lay, 
And " Follow me " was heard to say : 
Round him the pale stars fled away 

As night before the morn. 

Forthwith from morning s crimson gate 
The Three Kings rode in morning state 
Across Ulai s storied stream, 
With westward wistful eyes agleam, 

As pilgrim s westward borne, 
They left the tide to sing old deeds, 
The stork to plash half -hid in reeds : 
A thousand spears, a thousand steeds, 

They rode twixt night and morn. 

in. 

Melchior had coat and shoes of red, 
And a pure alb sewn with gold thread ; 
Beneath a tire of Syrian mode 
Streamed the soft storm of hair that snowed 

From cheek and chin unshorn ; 
Down to the ground his saffron pall 
Fell as warm sunbeams earthward fall, 
And he sun-like, seemed king of all, 

Betwixt the nisjht and morn. 



96 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Red-robed, red-sandaled, golden-clad, 
Came Gaspar, beardless as a lad: 
Through his fair hair s divided stream 
His red cheeks glowed as poppies gleam 

Through sheaves of yellow corn. 
Love s life in him was scarce fulfilled, 
Like as when daybreak shadows yield 
Night s iron lids lie half unsealed 

In colours of the morn. 

Bronzed Balthasar, with beard thick-fed, 
Came last, in tunic royal red 
And broidered alb and yellow shoon. 
With him life s rose had touched its noon, 

And died and left the thorn, 
Which proved by its sharp, thrilling heat 
That larger life is less complete 
Till the heart s bitter grows to sweet, 

As night melts into morn. 



Said Melchior, " In blue silk I fold 
The rock s best fruit, red-hearted gold : 
So grant us, mighty Mother East, 
One who shall raise thy power decreased, 

And break Home s pride and scorn, 
Till our red, wine-warm world hath sent 
Its breath through the cold West, and blent 
The Orient with the Occident 

In one wide sea of morn." 

Said Gaspar, " I bring frankincense 
From Caraman s hills, whose thickets dense 
Hide the balm-bleeding bark which feeds 
The fuming shrine with fragrant seeds : 

So may this child, when born, 
Be Love s high Lord, and yield his love 
As incense, and draw down the Dove 
To crown his brows in sign thereof, 

Betwixt the night and morn." 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 97 

Said Balthasar, " And I bring myrrh, 
In death and life man s minister ; 
Which braves decay as burial-balm, 
Or, mixed with wine, brings the deep calm 

Which power and love both scorn : 
Such be this child, God s answering breath 
To the one prayer the whole world saith, 
Oh, grant us myrrh for pain and death. 

Betwixt our night and morn. " 

v. 

Twice fifty se nnights o er them bent 
The fierce blue weight of firmament. 
Through sea-like sands they still pursued 
The unsetting star, until it stood 

Above where, travail-worn, 
A new-made mother smiled, whose head 
Lay near the stalled ox, as she fed 
Her babe from her warm heart, on bed 

Of straw, twixt night and morn. 

As day new-sprung from drooping day, 
Near her in shining light He lay, 
And made the darkness beautiful. 
Couched on low straw and flakes of wool 

From Bethlehem s lambs late-shorn, 
He seemed a star which clouds enfold, 
Swathed with soft fire and aureoled 
With sun-born beams of tender gold, 

The very star of morn. 

At her son s feet the kingly Three 
Laid, with bowed head and bended knee, 
Their gold and frankincense and myrrh, 
Nor tarried, so the interpreter 

Of God s dream once did warn, 
But hied them home ere the day broke ; 
While without awe the neighbour folk 
Flocked to the door and looked and spoke, 

Betwixt the night and morn. 
G 



98 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

VI. 

A tall centurion first drew near, 
Brass-booted, on whose crest sat Fear. 
He bent low to the fragrant bed, 
With beard coal-black and cheek rust-red, 

And each palm hard as horn ; 
Quoth he, " Our old gods empire shakes, 
Mehercule ! Now this babe o ertakes 
All that our Venus-Mother makes 

Betwixt the night and morn." 

A shepherd spake : " Behold the Lamb, 
Who ere He reign as heaven s I AM 
Must undergo and overcome, 
As sheep before the shearers dumb, 

Unfriended, faint, forlorn. 
Him then as King the skies shall greet, 
And with strewn stars beneath His feet 
This Lamb shall couch in God s gold seat, 

And rule from night to morn." 

A woman of the city came, 
Who said, "In me hope conquers shame. 
Four names in this child s line shall be 
As signs to all who love like me, 

God pities where men scorn : 
Dame Rahab, Bathshebah, forsooth, 
Tamar, whose love outloved man s truth, 
And she cast out, sweet alien Ruth, 

Betwixt the night and morn." 

VII. 

Next Joseph, spouse of Mary, came, 
Joseph Bar-Panther was his name, 
Who said, " This babe, Lord God, is Thine 
Only begotten Son divine, 

As Thou didst me forewarn ; 
And I will stand beside His throne, 
And all the lands shall be His own 
Which the sun girds with burning zone, 

And leads from night to morn." 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 99 

Said Zaeharias, " Love and will 
With God make all things possible. 
Shall God be childless ? God unwed ? 
Nay ; see God s first-born in this bed 

Which kings with gifts adorn. 
I would this babe might be at least 
As I, an incense-burning priest, 
Till all man s incense-fires have ceased, 

Betwixt the night and morn." 
Whereat his wife Elisabeth : 
" My thoughts are on the myrrh, since death 
Shades my sere cheek, which, as a shore, 
Is wrought with wrinkles o er and o er. 

Now be this child new-born 
A prophet, like my prophet-boy, 
A voice to shake down and destroy 
Throne, shrine, each carved and painted toy, 

Betwixt the night and morn." 

But Mary, God s pure lily, smiled : 

" Lord, with Thy manhood crown my child, 

More man, more God ; for they who shine 
Most human shall be most divine. 

Of those I think no scorn, 
King, prophet, priest, when worlds began; 
But higher than these my prayer and plan : 
Oh, make my child the Perfect Man, 

The Star twixt night and morn." 



LOVE S INFINITE MADE FINITE. 

OH, there are moments in man s mortal years, 
When for an instant that which long has lain 
Beyond our reach, is on a sudden found 
In things of smallest compass, and we hold 
The unbounded shut in one small minute s space 
And worlds within the hollow of our hand 



ioo YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A world of music in one word of love, 
A world of love in one quick wordless look, 
A world of thought in one translucent phrase, 
A world of memory in one mournful chord, 
A world of sorrow in one little song. 
Such moments are man s holiest, the full-orbed 
And finite form of Love s infinity. 
From "Liber Amoris" 



THE CREED OF LOVE. 

A MIGHTIER church shall come, whose covenant word 
Shall be the deeds of love. Not Credo then, 
Amo shall be the password through its gates. 
Man shall not ask his brother any more, 
" Believest thou 1 " but " Lovest thou ? " and all 
Shall answer at God s altar, "Lord, I love." 
For Hope may anchor, Faith may steer, but Love, 
Great Love alone, is captain of the soul. 
From "Liber Amoris" 



THE SENSE OF LOSS. 

WHEN the first minstrel winds of winter lay 
Their wild hands on the leafless boughs, which heave 
With slow-drawn sighs, till all the forest harp 
Wails o er the buried autumn and lets loose 
The sea-like music of eternity; 
Then if perchance thou wanderest forth alone 
Toward the sad setting of the autumnal day, 
Across the darkening spirit s instrument 
There comes the rush of sad and tender thoughts 
And wild regrets and mournful memories ; 
And lamentations and deep dirge-like airs 
Awake within thee for sweet summers gone 
And the dead faces and the buried years 



ROBERT KELLY WEEKS. 101 

That never can return. All, all is lost ; 
Surge upon surge of tempest- driven stars 
Seems sinking to the tomb whither great God 
Waits to descend : tis Nature s burial-day. 
Such, such was I in spirit at that hour ; 
With desolation darker even than this, 
I folded me about. What now was left 1 
Father and friend and love and hope and all 
Reft from me, grief and memory but remained. 
In these I clothed my thoughts, on these I fed, 
With these I walked and talked ; till sorrow grew 
To be a sort of joy to my sad soul, 
And desolation well-nigh a delight. 
From " Liber Amoris." 



ROBERT KELLY WEEKS. 

[Born in New York City, 21st September 1840. Died in New 
York, 13th April 1876. Graduated at Yale, 1862. Author of 
Poems (New York, 1866) ; Episodes and Lyric Pieces (1870), 
and others. The poems given are from the collected edition 
of his poems, published by Henry Holt & Co., with whose kind 
permission they are quoted.] 

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON. 

THE boughs that bend over, 

The vines that aspire 
To be close to your window 

Prevent my desire. 

Come forth from them, darling ! 

Enough tis to bear 
That between us be even 

Impalpable air ! 



102 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS, 



ON THE BEACH. 

THANKS to a few clouds that show 
Sd white against the blue, 

At last even I begin to know 
What I was born to do ; 

What else but here to lie 
And bask me in the sun ? 

Well pleased to see the sails go by 
In silence one by one \ 

Or lovingly, along the low 

Smooth shore no plough depraves, 
To watch the long low lazy flow 

Of the luxurious waves. 



THE MIST. 

I SAW along the lifeless sea 
A mist come creeping stealthily, 
Without a noise and slow, 
A crouching mist came crawling low 
Along the lifeless sea. 

None marked that creeping, crawling mist 
That crawled along the sea, 
That crept and crawled so stealthily 
And was so weak and white ; 
The moon was shining clear, I wist, 
Above it in the night. 

I saw it creeping, crawling low, 
Slow crawling from the sea, 
I saw it creep and crawl and grow 
Till all the stifled earth below 
Was shrouded silently : 



ROBERT KELLY WEEKS. 103 

I saw it creep and crawl and grow, 
A forceless, formless thing. 
Determined, tireless, ceaseless, slow, 
Silent and silencing ; 
I saw it creep and crawl and rise 
And crawl into the skies ; 

The stars began to faint and fail, 
That were so pure and clear ; 
The moon took on a loathsome look 
Of likeness to her fear 
That closer crawled and clung to her 
And clung more near and near. 

The smothered moon went out and left 

Not even the mist to see, 

Mere blankness, and a sickening sense 

Of something worse to be ; 

And certainly in midst of it 

An awful thing I wist, 

It was to know that all the world 

Was nothing but a mist 

But a creeping, crawling mist 



A RAINY DA Y. 

A WIND that shrieks to the window pane, 

A wind in the chimney moaning, 
A wind that tramples the ripened grain, 

And sets the trees a-groaning ; 
A wind that is dizzy with whirling play, 
A dozen winds that have lost their way 

In spite of the other s calling. 
A thump of apples on the ground, 
A nutter and flurry and whirling round 

Of leaves too soon a-dying ; 



104 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A tossing and streaming like hair unbound 

Of the willow boughs a-flying ; 
A lonely road and a gloomy lane, 
An empty lake that is blistered with rain, 
And a heavy sky that is falling. 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 

[Born at Windsor, Connecticut, 29th April 1841. Died at Cleve 
land, Ohio, 27th February 1887. Graduated at Yale, 1861. 
Author of The Hcrmitaye, and other Poems (1868, Leypoldt 
& Holt, New York) ; Poems (1888, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
Boston). The poems given are quoted from the latter volume 
with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

OPPOR T UNITY. 

THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream : 

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain ; 

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords 

Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince s banner 

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. 

A craven hung along the battle s edge, 

And thought, " Had I a sword of keener steel 

That blue blade that the king s son bears, but this 

Blunt thing ! he snapt and flung it from his hand. 

And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king s son, wounded, sore bestead, 

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, 

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout 

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, 

And saved a great cause that heroic day. 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 105 



FIVE LIVES. 

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop 
That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. 
To the naked eye they lived invisible ; 
Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell 
Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. 

One was a meditative monad, called a sage ; 
And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought : 
Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, 
Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, 
Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence 
When I am very old, yon shimmering doom 
Come drawing down and down, till all things end ? " 
Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt 
No other mote of God had ever gained 
Such giant grasp of universal truth. 

One \vas a transcendental monad ; thin 

And long and slim of the mind ; and thus he mused : 

" Oh vast, unfathomable monad-souls ! 

Made in the image " a hoarse frog croaks from the pool, 

" Hark ! twas some god, voicing his glorious thought 

In thunder music ! Yea, we hear their voice, 

And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. 

Some taste they have like ours, some tendency 

To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." 

He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas 

That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. 

One was a barren-minded monad, called 
A positivist ; and he knew positively ; 
" There was no world beyond this certain drop. 
Prove me another ! Let the dreamers dream 
Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, 
And higher and lower ; life is life enough." 
Then swaggering half a hair s breadth hungrily 
He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed. 



106 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

One was a tattered monad, called a poet ; 

And with shrill voice estatic thus he sang. 

" Oh, little female monad s lips ! 

Oh, little female monad s eyes ! 

Ah, the little, little, female, female monad ! " 

The last was a strong-minded monadess, 
Who dashed amid the infusoria, 
Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove, 
Till the dizzy others held their breath to see. 

But while they led their wondrous little lives 

Ionian moments had gone wheeling by, 

The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed ; 

A glistening film twas gone ; the leaf was dry. 

The little ghost of an inaudible squeak 

Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; 

Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox 
Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, 
Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. 



THE FOOL S PRA YER. 

THE Royal feast was done ; the King 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 

And to his jester cried : " Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " 

The Jester doffed his cap and bells 
And stood the mocking court before ; 

They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the Monarch s silken stool 

His pleading voice, " O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 107 

" No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool 

The rod must heal the sin ; but, Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay ; 

Tis by our follies that so long 

We hold the earth from heaven away. 

" These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 

Go crushing blossoms without end ; 
These hard well-meaning hands we thrust 

Among a heart-strings of a friend. 

" The ill-timed truth we might have kept 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung "? 

The word we had not sense to say 
Who knows how grandly it had rung ? 

" Our faults no tenderness should ask, 

The chastening stripes must cleanse them ail ; 

But for our blunders oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

"Earth bears no balsams for mistakes; 

Men crown the knave, and .scourge the tool 
That did his will but them, O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens cool, 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
" Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 



1 08 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

JAMES HERBERT MORSE. 

[Born at Hubbardston, Mass., 8th October 1841. Graduated at 
Harvard. Author of Summer Haven Songs (1886, New York, 
Geo. Putnam & Sons). The poems are quoted, by special per 
mission, from this volume.] 

THE ERRAND. 
Do me a courtesy 

Thou tall white rose : 

Nobody knows 
How the rain comes down 

In the town. 

Now, in my mind, I see 

A deep-eyed girl 

Watching the whirl, 
From her window-pane, 

Of the rain. 

Slender as thou is she 

All ways as pure, 

As white, be sure, 
With thy perfect grace 

In her face. 

Do me a courtesy 

Thou artless rose : 

Nobody knows 
How the rain comes down 

In the town. 

Knowing her value, she 

Has still no art, 

Opening her heart 
For the common eye 

To espy. 

All know as well as we, 

The secret troth 

Rending us both, 
Or they would surmise 

From her eyes. 



JAMES HERBERT MORSE. 109 

Go thou, and, secretly, 

In thine own way 

Tell her, this day 
Though so dark, it is white 

By her light. 

Do me this courtesy 

Thou silent rose : 

Nobody knows 
How the rain comes down 

In the town. 



WAITING IN THE RAIN. 

DRIP, drip, the rain comes falling, 
Rain in the woods, rain on the sea ; 

Even the little waves, beaten, come crawling 
As if to find shelter here with me. 

This is the spot she named for parting, 
Here to shake hands and go in pain ; 

Never to kiss, though our souls be smarting, 
Here by the little waves, here in the rain. 

And oh to think of the bygone blisses 
One at first, and a thousand soon 

Fond, sweet glances, and stolen kisses, 

At twilight, starlight, at midnight, and noon ! 

Rain, rain, it rained for ever, 

Rain could not sunder hearts so fond ! 

Now in the rain to go parting, and never 
Never to meet till dark Beyond ! 

Here in the rain, the great sea throbbing 
Here can hearts meet and love not wake 1 

Here in the rain, the pine boughs sobbing 
How can hearts sever and yet not break ? 



no YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

SONG. 

FAME. 

ALL over the world we sing of Fame 

Bright as a bubble, and hollow; 
With a breath men make it and give it a name ; 
All over the world they sing the same, 

And the beautiful bubble follow. 

Its rounded, splendid, gossamer walls 

Hide more than our fairy fancies : 
For here, in the vaulted, antique halls, 
Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls, 
And a fairy figure dances. 

And men will do for a glancing eye 

And foot that tarries never, 
More, far more than look and sigh ; 
For men will fight, and man will die 

But follow it on for ever. 



WHO KNO WS. 

JUNE leaves are green, pink is the rose, 
White bloom the lilies ; yet who knows, 
Or swears he knows the reason why ? 
None dare say "I." 

The oriole, flitting stoops and sips 

A soft sweet kiss from the lily s lips : 

Who taught the oriole to steal so ? 
None say they know. 

Whether the oriole stops and thinks, 
Or whether he simply stoops and drinks, 
Saying only it suits him well, 
This who can tell ? 



JAMES HERBERT MORSE. in 

We marvel whither this life stream tends, 
And how remote are its hidden ends ; 
But life and loving soon slip over 
Time and the lover. 

A kiss is all ; a sip and a song, 
A day is short, and a year is not long. 
Loving would double but thinking stole 
Half from the whole. 



LABOUR AND LIFE. 

How to labour and find it sweet : 
How to get the good red gold 
That veined hides in the granite fold 

Under our feet 
The good red gold that is bought and sold, 

Raiment to man, and house, and meat ! 

And how, while delving, to lift the eye 
To the far-off mountains of amethyst, 
The rounded hills, and the intertwist 

Of waters that lie 
Calm in the valleys, or that white mist 

Sailing across a soundless sky. 



THE PO WER OF BE A UTY. 

THOU needst not weave nor spin 
Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in, 
Nor, forth a-field at morn, 
At eve bring home the corn, 
Nor on a winter s night 
Make blaze the faggots bright. 



ii2 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

So lithe and delicate 
So slender is thy state, 
So pale and pure thy face, 
So deer-like in their grace 
Thy limbs, that all do vie 
To take and charm the eye. 

Thus, toiling where thou rt not 
Is but the common lot : 
Three men mayhap alone 
By strength may move a stone 
But, toiling near to thee, 
One man may work as three. 

If thou but bend a smile 
To fall on him the while, 
Or if one tender glance, 
Though coy and shot askance, 
His eyes discover, then 
One man may work as ten. 

Men commonly but ask 
"When shall I end my task 1 " 
But seeing thee come in 
Tis, " When may I begin 1 " 
Such power does beauty bring 
To take from toil its sting. 

If then thou lt do but this 
Fling o er the work a bliss 
From thy mere presence none 
Shall think thou st nothing done ; 
Thou needst not weave nor spin 
Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in. 



C INC INN A TUS HINER MILLER. 1 1 3 



CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER 
(JOAQUIN MILLER). 

[Born in the Wabash District, Indiana, 10th November 1841. 
Author of Songs of the Sierras (Boston and London, 1871) ; 
Songs of the Sunlands (1873) ; Songs of the Desert (1875) ; 
Songs of Italy (1878) ; Collected Poems (1882) ; and Songs of the 
Mexican Seas. The poems quoted are from the collected 
edition of his works, and are published by kind permission of 
Roberts Brothers, Boston and London.] 

THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 

A MAN in Middle Arizone 

Stood by the desert s edge alone, 
And long he looked, and leaned. He peer d, 
Above his twirl d and twisted beard, 
Beneath his black and slouchy hat . . . 
Nay, nay, the tale is not of that. 

A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip, 
Stood on a mountain top, and he 
Look d long and still and eagerly. 
" It looks so like some lonesome ship 
That sails this ghostly, lonely sea, 
This dried-up desert sea," said he, 
" Those tawny sands of Arazit "... 
Avaunt ! the tale is not of it. 

A chief from out the desert s rim 
Rode swift as twilight swallows swim, 
Or eagle blown from eyrie nest. 
His trim-limb d steed was black as night, 
His long black hair had blossom d white, 
With feathers from the Koko s crest ; 
His iron face was flush d and red, 
His o eyes flash d fire as he fled, 
For he had seen unsightly things ; 
Had felt the flapping of their wings, 

H 



ii4 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

A wild and wiry man was he, 
This tawny chief of Shoshonee ; 
And oh his supple steed was fleet ! 
About his breast flapp d panther skins, 
About his eager flying feet 
Flapp d beaded, braided moccasins : 
He rode as rides the hurricane ; 
He seeni d to swallow up the plain ; 
He rode as never man did ride, 
He rode, for ghosts rode at his side, 
And on his right a grizzled grim . . . 
No, no, this tale is not of him. 

An Indian warrior lost his way 

While prowling on this desert s edge 

In fragrant sage and prickly hedge, 

When suddenly he saw a sight, 

And turned his steed in eager flight. 

He rode right through the edge of day, 

He rode into the rolling night, 

He leaned, he reach d an eager face, 

His bl&ck wolf skin flapp d out and in, 

And tiger claws on tiger skin 

Held seat and saddle to its place ; 

But that grey ghost that clutched thereat 

Arrete ! the tale is not of that. 

A chieftain touch d the desert s rim 

One autumn eve : he rode alone 

And still as noon-made shadows swim. 

He stopp d, he stood as still as stone, 

He leaned, he look d, then glisten d bright 

From out the yellow yielding sand 

A golden cup with jewell d rim. 

He leaned him low, he reached a hand, 

He caught it up, he galloped on, 

He turned his head, he saw a sight . . . 

His panther skins flew to the wind, 

The dark, the desert lay behind ; 



CINCINNA TUS HINER MILLER. 1 1 5 

The tawny Ishmaelite was gone ; 

But something sombre as death is ... 

Tut, tut ! the tale is not of this. 

A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown, 

From farthest desert touched the town, 

And, striding through the crowd, held up 

Above his head a jewell d cup. 

He put two fingers to his lip, 

He whispered wild, he stood a-tip 

And leaned the while with lifted hand, 

And said, " A ship is yonder dead," 

And said, " Doubloons lie sown on sand 

In yon far desert dead and brown, 

Beyond where wave-wash d walls look down, 

As thick as stars set overhead : 

That three shipmasts uplift like trees "... 

Away ! the tale is not of these. 

An Indian hunter held a plate 

Of gold above his lifted head, 

Around which king s had sat in state . . 

" Tis from that desert ship," they said, 

" That sails with neither sail nor breeze, 

Or galleon, that sank below 

Of old, in olden dried-up seas, 

Ere yet the red men drew the bow." 

But wrinkled women wagg d the head, 
And walls of warriors sat that night 
In black, nor streak of battle red, 
Around against the red camp light, 
And told such wondrous tales as these 
Of wealth within their dried-up seas. 

And one, girt well in tiger s skin, 

Who stood, like Saul, above the rest, 

With dangling claws about his breast, 

A belt without, a blade within, 

A warrior with a painted face, 

And lines that shadow d stern and grim, 



>^D B 

f O 

I UNI 



OF THK 



UNIVERSITY 



ERSITY j 



1 1 6 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Stood pointiog east from his high place, 
And hurling thought like cannon shot, 
Stood high with visage flushed and hot . 
But, stay, this tale is not of him. 

ii. 

By Arizona s sea of sand 
Some bearded miners, grey and old, 
And resolute in search of gold, 
Sat down to tap the savage land. 

They tented in a canon s mouth 
That gaped against the warm wide south, 
And underneath a wave-washed wall, 
"Where now no rains nor winds may fall, 
They delved the level salt-white sands 
For gold, with bold and horned hands. 

A miner stood beside his mine, 
He pull d his beard, then look d away 
Across the level sea of sand, 
Beneath his broad and hairy hand, 
A hand as hard as knots of pine. 

" It looks so like a sea," said he. 
He pulled his beard, and he did say, 
" It looks just like a dried-up sea." 
Again he pulled that beard of his, 
But said no other thing than this. 

A stalwart miner dealt a stroke, 
And struck a buried beam of oak. 
An old ship s beam, the shaft appeared 
With storm-worn faded figure-head. 

The miner twisted, twirled his beard, 

Lean d on his pick-axe as he spoke : 

" Tis from some long-lost ship," he said, 

" Some laden ship of Solomon 

That sailed these lonesome seas upon. 



CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER. 117 

In search of Opher s mine, ah me ! 
That sailed this dried-up desert sea." 
Nay, nay, tis not a tale of gold, 
But ghostly land storm-slain and old. 



THE RHYME OF THE GREAT RIVER. 

AND where is my city, sweet blossom-sown town ? 

And what is her glory, and what has she done ? 

By the Mexican seas in the path of the sun 
Sit you down : in the crescent of seas sit you down. 

Ay, glory enough by my Mexican seas ! 
A story enough in the battle-torn town 
Hidden down in the crescent of seas, hidden down 

Mid mantle and sheen of magnolia-strewn trees. 

But mine is the glory of souls, of a soul 

That bartered God s limitless kingdom for gold, 
Sold stars and all space for a thing he could hold 

In his palm for a day, ere he hid with the mole. 

O Father of waters ! O river so vast ! 

So deep, so strong, and so wondrous wild, 
He embraces the land as he rushes past 

Like a savage father embracing his child. 

His sea-land is true and so valiantly true, 
His leaf-land is fair and so marvellous fair, 
His palm-land is filled with a perfumed air 

Of magnolia s blooms to its dome of blue. 

His rose-land has arbours of moss ssvept oak; 
Grey, Druid old oaks ; and the moss that sways 

And swings in the wind is the battle smoke 
Of duellists, dead in her storied days. 

His love-land has churches and bells and chimes ; 

His love-land has altars and orange-flowers ; 
And that is the reason for all these rhymes, 

These bells, they are ringing through all the hours. 



1 1 8 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

His sun-land has churches, and priests at prayer, 
White nuns, as white as the far north snow ; 
They go where danger may bid them go, 

They dare when the angel of death is there. 

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, 

In the Creole quarter, with great black eyes, 

So fair that the mayor must keep them there 
Lest troubles, like troubles of Troy, arise. 

His love-land has ladies, with eyes held down, 
Held down, because if they lifted them, 

Why you would be lost in that old French town, 
Though you held even God s garment hem. 

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, 

That they bend their eyes to the holy book 

Lest you should forget yourself, your prayer, 
And never more cease to look and to look. 

And these are the ladies that no man see, 
And this is the reason men see them not, 

Better their modest sweet mystery, 
Better by far than the battle-shot. 

And so, in this curious old town of tiles, 

The proud French quarter of days long gone, 

The castles of Spain and tumble-down piles, 
These wonderful ladies live on and on. 

I sit in the church where they come and go ; 

I dream of glory that has long since gone, 
Of the low raised high, of the high brought low, 

As in battle-torn days of Napoleon. 

These piteous places, so rich, so poor ! 

One quaint old church at the edge of the town 
Has white tombs laid to the very church door, 

White leaves in the story of life turned down. 

White leaves in the story of life are these, 
The low white slabs in the long strong grass, 
Where glory has emptied her hour-glass, 

And dreams with the dreamers beneath the trees. 



CINC1NNA TUS HINER MILLER. 1 1 9 

I dream with the dreamers beneath the sod, 

Where souls pass by to the great white throne ; 
I count each tomb as a mute milestone 

For weary, sweet souls on their way to God. 

I sit all day by the vast, strong stream, 

Mid low white slabs in the long strong grass, 
Where time has forgotten for aye to pass, 

To dream, and ever to dream and to dream. 

This quaint old church with its dead to the door, 
By the cypress swamp at the edge of the town, 
So restful seems that you want to sit down 

And rest you, and rest you for ever more. 

And one white tomb is a lowliest tomb 

That has crept up close to the crumbling door, 

Some penitent soul, as imploring room 
Close under the cross that is leaning o er. 

Tis a low white slab, and tis nameless, too 
Her untold story, why, who should know 1 

Yet God, I reckon, can read right through 
That nameless stone to the bosom below. 

And the roses know and they pity her, too ; 
They bend their heads in the sun or rain, 
And they read, and they read, and then read again, 

As children reading strange pictures through. 

Why, surely her sleep it should be profound ; 

For oh the apples of gold above ! 

And oh the blossoms of bridal love ! 
And oh the roses that gather around ! 

And sleep of a night, or a thousand morns ? 

Why, what is the difference here to-day 1 

Sleeping and sleeping the years away 
With all earth s roses, and none of its thorns. 

Magnolias white and the roses red 

The palm-tree here and the cypress there : 

Sit down by the palm at the feet of the dead, 
And hear a penitent s midnight prayer. 



1 20 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

FROM THE RHYME OF THE GREAT RIVER. 

PART VII. 

SHE prays so long ! She prays so late ! 

What siii in all this flower-land 

Against her supplicating hand 
Could have in heaven any weight. 

Prays she for her sweet self alone 1 
Prays she for some one far away, 
Or some one near and dear to-day, 

Or some poor, lorn, lost soul unknown ? 

It seems to me a selfish thing 
To pray for ever for one s self; 
It seems to me like heaping pelf 

In heaven by hard reckoning. 

Why, I would rather stoop, and bear 
My load of sin, and bear it well, 
And bravely down to burning hell, 

Than ever pray one selfish prayer ! 



CHARITY. 

HER hands were clasped downward and doubled 
Her head was held down and depress d, 

Her bosom, like white billows troubled, 
Fell fitful and rose in unrest ; 

Her robes were all dust, and disorder d 

Her glory of hair, and her brow, 
Her face, that had lifted and lorded, 

Fell pallid and passionless now. 

She heard not accusers that brought her 

In mockery hurried to Him, 
Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought her 

With eyes lifted doubtful and dim. 



CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER. 121 

All crushed and stone-cast in behaviour 

She stood as a marble would stand, 
Then the Saviour bent down, and the Saviour 

In silence wrote on in the sand. 

What wrote He 1 How fondly one lingers 

And questions, what holy command 
Fell down from the beautiful fingers 

Of Jesus, like gems in the sand. 

better the Scian uncherish d 

Had died ere a note or device 
Of battle was fashion d than perished 

This only line written by Christ. 

He arose and He looked on the daughter 

Of Eve, like a delicate flower, 
And He heard the revilers that brought her 

Men stormy, and strong as a tower ; 

And He said, " She has sinri d ; let the blameless 

Come forward and cast the first stone ! " 
But they, they fled shamed and yet shameless, 

And she, she stood white and alone. 
Who now shall accuse and arraign us 1 

What man shall condemn and disown 1 
Since Christ has said only the stainless 

Shall cast at his fellows a stone. 
For what man can bare us his bosom, 

And touch with his forefinger there, 
And say, Tis as snow, as a blossom 1 

Beware of the stainless, beware ! 
O woman, born first to believe us ; 

Yea, also born first to forget ; 
Born first to betray and deceive us, 

Yet first to repent and regret ! 

O first then in all that is human, 
Lo ! first where the Nazerene trod, 

O woman ! O beautiful woman ! 

Be then first in the Kingdom of God ! 



122 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

TO THE LION OF SAINT MARK. 
i. 

I KNOW you, lion of grey Saint Mark ; 
You fluttered the seas beneath your wing, 
Were king of the seas with never a king. 
Now over the deep and up in the dark, 
High over the girdles of bright gas-light, 
With wings in the air as if for flight, 
And crouching as if about to spring 
From top of your granite of Africa, 
Say, what shall be said of you some day. 

II. 

What shall be said, grim Saint Mark, 
Savage old beast so crossed and churl ed, 
By the after men from the under-world 1 
What shall be said as they search along 
And sail these seas for some sign or spark 
Of the old dead fires of the dear old days, 
When men and story have gone their ways, 
Of even your city and name from song ? 

in. 

Why, sullen old monarch of stilled Saint Mark, 
Strange men from the West, wise-mouthed and strong 
Will come some day and, gazing long 
And mute with wonder, will say of thee : 
" This is the saint ! High over the dark, 
Foot on the Bible and great teeth bare, 
Tail whipped back and teeth in the air 
Lo ! this is the saint, and none but he ! " 



CINCINNATUS MINER MILLER. 123 

PACE IMPLORA. 



BETTER it were to abide by the sea 

Loving somebody, and satisfied ; 

Better it were to grow babes on the knee, 

To anchor you down for all your days, 

Than to wander and wander in all these ways 

Land-forgotten and love-denied. 

Yea, better to live as the mountaineers live, 

Than entreat of the gods what they will not give. 

II. 

Better sit still where born, I say, 

Wed one sweet woman and love her well, 

Love and be loved in the old East way, 

Drink sweet waters, and dream in a spell, 

Than to wander in search of the Blessed Isles, 

And to sail the thousand of watery miles 

In search of love, and find you at last 

On the edge of the world, and a curs d outcast. 

in. 

Yea, laugh with your neighbours, live in their way 

Be it never so humble. The humbler the home, 

The braver, indeed, to brunt the fray. 

Share their delights and divide your tears, 

Love and be loved for the full round years, 

As men once loved in the young world s pride, 

Ere men knew madness and came to roam, 

When they lived where their fathers had lived and died, 

Lived and so loved for a thousand years. 

IV. 

Better it were for the world, I say, 

Better indeed for a man s own good, 
That he should sit still where he was born, 
Be it land of sand, or of oil and corn, 



124 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

White sea-border or great black wood, 
Bleak white winter, or bland sweet May, 
Than to wander the world as I have done, 
For the one dear woman that is under the sun. 

v. 

Better abide, though skies be dim, 

And the rivers espoused of the ice and snow ; 

Better abide, though the thistles grow, 

And the city of smoke be obscured of the sun, 

Than to seek red poppies and the sweet dreamland- 

Than to wander the world as I have to-day, 

Breaking the heart into bits like clay, 

And leaving it scattered upon every hand. 



KIT CARSON S RIDE. 

" RUN 1 Now you bet you ; I rather guess so ! 
But he s blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, boy, whoa ! 
No, you wouldn t believe it to look at his eyes, 
But he is, badger blind, and it happen d in this wise. 

" We lay in the grasses and the sunburnt clover 
That spread on the ground like a great brown cover 
Northward and southward, and west and away 
To the Brazos, to where our lodges lay, 
One broad and unbroken sea of brown, 
Awaiting the curtains of night to come down 
To cover us over and conceal our flight 
With my brown bride, won from an Indian town 
That lay in the rear the full ride of a night. 

" We lounged in the grasses her eyes were in mine, 
A_nd her hand on my knee, and her hair was as wine 
In its wealth and its flood, pouring on and all over 
Her bosom wine-red, and pressed never by one ; 
And her touch was as warm as the tinge of the clover 
Burnt brown as it reach d to the kiss of the sun ; 



C INC INN A TUS HINER MILLER. 125 

And her words were as low as the lute-throated dove ; 
And as laden with love as the heart when it beats 
In its hot eager answer to earliest love, 
Or the bee hurried home by its burthen of sweets. 

" We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, 

Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride ; 

And the heavens of blue and the harvest of brown 

And beautiful clover were wedded as one, 

To the right and the left, and in the light of the sun. 

Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 

Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 

Of red Comanches are hot on the track 

When once they strike it. Let the sun go down 

Soon, very soon, muttered bearded Old Revels 

As he peer d at the sun, lying low on his back, 

Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerked at his steed 

And he sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, 

And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear on the ground ; 

Then again to his feet, and to me, to my bride, 

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, 

His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, 

And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a reed - 

Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle your steed, 

And speed you if ever for life you would speed, 

And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride 

For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, 

And feet of wild horses hard flying before, 

I hear like a sea breaking high on the shore, 

While the buffalo come like a surge of the sea, 

Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us there, 

As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire. 

" We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, 
Threw them on, sinch d them on, sinch d them over again, 
And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheers, 
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, 
Cast aside the catenas red-spangled with gold, 
And gold-mounted Colts , the companions of years, 
Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a breath, 



126 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse 
As bare as when born, as when new from the hand 
Of God without word, or one word of command. 
Turn d head to the Brazos in a red race with death, 
Turn d head to the Brazos with a breath in the air 
Blowing hot from a king bearing death in his course ; 
Turn d head to the Brazos with a sound in the air 
Like the rush of an army, and a flash in the eye 
Of a red wall of tire reaching up to the sky, 
Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black rolling sea 
Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweeping free 
And afar from the desert blew hollow and hoarse. 

" Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, 
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look nor low call, 
Of love-note or courage ; but on o er the plain 
Of steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 
With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, 
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose and grey nose, 
Reaching long, breathing loud, as a creviced wind blows : 
Yet we broke not a whisper, we breath d not a prayer, 
There was work to be done, there was death in the air, 
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 

" Grey nose to grey nose, and each steady mustang 
Stretch d neck and stretch d nerve till the arid earth rang, 
And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck 
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. 
Twenty miles ! . . . thirty miles ! . . . a dim distant 

speck . . . 

Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos in sight, 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 
I stood in my stirrup and look d to my right 
But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger : I saw his head drooping 
Hard down on his breast, and his naked breast stooping 
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 
To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
A terrible surf on a red sea of flame 



IVERSITY 



CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER. 

Bushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching higher. 

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 

The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full 

Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 

Of battle, with rage and with bello wings loud 

And unearthly, and up through its lowering cloud 

Came the flash of his eyes like a half -hidden fire, 

While his keen crooked horns, through the storm of his 

mane, 

Like black lances lifted and lifted again 
And I look d but this once, for the fire lick d through, 
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. 

" I look d to my left then and nose, neck, and shoulder 

Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs ; 

And up through the black blowing veil of her hair 

Did beam full in mine her two marvellous eyes, 

W T ith a longing and love, yet with a look of despair 

And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, 

And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 

Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 

To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck s swell 

Did subside and recede, and the nerves fall as dead. 

Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his head, 

With a look of delight ; for not courage nor bribe, 

Nor naught but my bride, could have brought him to me. 

For he was her father s, and at South Santafee 

Had once won a whole head, sweeping everything down 

In a race where the world came to run for the crown. 

And so when I won the true heart of my bride 

My neighbour s and deadliest enemy s child, 

And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe 

She brought me this steed to the border the night 

She met Revels and me in her perilous flight 

From the lodge of the chief to the North Brazos side ; 

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, 

As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 

The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 

I should surely escape without other ado 



128 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Than to ride, without blood, to the North Brazos side, 
And await her and wait till the next hollow moon 
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon 
And swift she would join me, and all would be well 
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell 
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, 
The last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape a love a desire 
Yet never a word, not one look of appeal, 
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel 
One instant for her in my terrible night. 

" Then the rushing of fire around me and under, 

And the howling of beasts and a sound as of thunder 

Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, 

As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her 

Red hands in their hair, and kiss d hot till they died 

Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, 

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone . . . 

And into the Brazos ... I rode all alone 

All alone, save only a horse long-limb d, 

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 

Then just as the terrible sea came in 

And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, 

Till the tide block d up and the swift stream brimm d 

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 

"Sell Pache blind Pache 1 ? Now, mister ! look here ! 
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer 
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier," 
For the ways they were rough and Comanches were 

near ; 

" But you d better pack up, sir ! That tent is too small 
For us two after this ! Has an old mountaineer, 
Do you book-men believe, get no turn-turn at all ? 
Sell Pache ! You buy him ! A bag full of gold ! 
You show him ! Tell of him the tale I have told ! 
Why, he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old ! 
. . . Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin 
To them cities you teil of ... Blast you and yom- tin ! " 



CHARLES M. DICKINSON. 129 

CHARLES M. DICKINSON. 

[Born at Lowville, New York, 1842. The poem given, The Children, 
was for many years printed as by the famous novelist, Charles 
Dickens.] 

THE CHILDREN. 

WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And the school for the day is dismissed, 
The little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kissed ; 
Ob, the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in their tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood too lovely to last ; 
Of joy that my heart will remember, 

While it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin, 
When the glory of God was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

All my heart grows as weak as a woman s, 

And the fountain of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o er them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
Oh, there s nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of God in disguise ; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
Those truants from home and from heaven 

They have made me more manly and mild ; 
And I know now how JESUS could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child ! 
I 



130 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have just enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun ; 
I would pray God to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would bound back to myself ; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of God ; 
My heart is the dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
My frown is sufficient correction ; 

My love is the law of the school. 

-1 shall leave the old house in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more ; 
Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones, 

That meet me each mom at the door ! 
I shall miss the " good-nights " and the kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning for me. 

T shall miss them at morn and at even, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons of life are all ended, 

And death says : " The school is dismissed 
May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kissed ! 



SIDNE Y LANIER. j 3 1 



SIDNEY LANIER. 

[Born at Macon, Georgia, 3d February 1842. Lecturer on English 
Literature at the John Hopkin s University, Baltimore, 1879. 
Died at Lynn, North Carolina, 1881. Author of Tiger Lilies, a 
Novel (New York, Hunt & Houghton, 1867) ; The Science of 
English Verse (New York, Charles Scribner s Sons, 1880) ; The 
Enylish Novel and the Principles of its Development (New York, 
Charles Scribner s Sons, 1883) ; Poems, edited by His Wife (New 
York, Charles Scribner s Sons, 1884), etc. The poems quoted 
below are all taken from this volume with the kind permission 
of the Messrs Scribner.] 

SUNRISEA HYMN OF THE MARSHES. 

IN my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain 

Of the live oak, the marsh, and the main. 

The little green leaves would not let me alone in my 

sleep ; 
Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range and 

of sweep, 

Interwoven with wafture of wild sea-liberties, drifting, 
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, 

Came to the gates of sleep. 

Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep 
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, 
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling : 

The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter yes, 
Shaken with happiness : 

The gates of sleep stood wide. 

I have waked, I have come, my beloved ! I might not 

abide : 
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to 

hide 

In your gospeling glooms, to be 
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea 

my sea. 

Tell me, sweet burly-bark d, man-bodied Tree 
That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know 
From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow ? 



1 32 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent 

deeps. 

Reason s not one that weeps. 
What logic of greeting lies 
Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the 

eyes ? 

O cunning green leaves, little masters ! like as ye gloss 
All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that 

emboss 
The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan, 

So, 

(But would I could know, but would I could know,) 
With your question embroid ring the dark of the 

question of man, 

So, with your silence purfling this silence of man 
While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under 
the ban, 

"Under the ban, 
So, ye have wrought me 

Designs on the night of our knowledge, yea, ye have 
taught me, 

So, 

That haply we know somewhat more than we know. 
Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, 
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, 
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, 
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves, 
Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, 
Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet 
That advise me of more than they bring, repeat 
Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath 
From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, 
Teach me the terms of silence, preach me 
The passion of patience, sift me, impeach me, 

And there, oh there 
As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the 

air, 
Pray me a myriad prayer. 



SIDNE Y LANIER. 1 33 

My gossip, the owl, is it thou 
That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough, 
As I pass to the beach, art stirred 1 
Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird 1 
Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea, 
Old chemist, wrapped in alchemy, 

Distilling silence, lo, 

That which our father-age had died to know 
The menstruum that dissolves all matter thou 
Hast found it : for this silence, filling now 
The globed clarity of receiving space, 
This solves us all : man, matter, doubt, disgrace, 
Death, love, sin, sanity, 
Must in yon silence clear solution lie. 
Too clear ! That crystal nothing who ll peruse 1 
The blackest night could bring us brighter news. 
Yet precious qualities of silence haunt 
Round these vast margins, ministrant. 
Oh, if thy soul s at latter gasp for space, 
With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race 
Just to be fellow d, when that thou hast found 
No man with room or grace enough of bound 
To entertain that New thou tell st, thou art, 
; Tis here, tis here thou canst unhand thy heart 
And breathe it free, and breathe it free, 
By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 

The tide s at full : the marsh with flooded streams 

Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 

Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies 

A rhapsody of morning stars. The skies 

Shine scant with one forked galaxy, 

The marsh brags ten : looped on his breast they lie. 

Oh, what if a sound should be made ! 
Oh, what if a bound should be laid 
To this bow-and-string-tension of beauty and silence 

a-spring, 

To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the 
string ! 



1 34 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam 
Will break as a bubble o erblown. in a dream, 
Yon dome of too tenuous tissues of space and of night, 
Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light, 
Oversated with beauty and silence, will seem 
But a bubble that broke in a dream, 
If a bound of degree to this grace be laid, 
Or a sound or a motion made. 

Butjio : it is made : list ! somewhere, mystery, where 1 
In the leaves 1 in the air 1 
In my heart ? is a motion made : 

Tis a motion of dawn, like a nicker of shade on shade. 
In the leaves tis palpable : low multitudinous stirring 
Upwinds through the woods \ the little ones, softly con 
ferring, 
Have settled my lord s to be looked for ; so ; they are 

still ; 

But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, 
And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of 

the river, 

And look where a passionate shiver 
Expectant is bending the blades 
Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, 
And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting, 

Are beating 
The dark overhead as my heart beats, and steady and 

free 
Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea 

(Run home, little streams, 

With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), 
And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak, 
For list, down the inshore curve of the creek 

How merrily flutters the sail, 
And lo, in the East ! Will the East unveil 1 
The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed 
A flush : tis dead ; tis alive : tis dead, ere the West 
Was aware of it : nay, tis abiding, tis un withdrawn : 
Have a care, sweet Heaven ! Tis Dawn. 



SIDNE Y LAN1ER. 1 3 5 

Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is 

up-rolled : 

To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling gold 
Is builded, in shape as a bee-hive, from out of the sea : 
The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, 

The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 
Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee 
That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea. 

Yet now the dew-drop, now the morning grey 

Shall live their little lucid sober day, 

Ere with the Sun their souls exhale away. 

Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 

The summ d morn shines complete as in the blue 

Big dew-drop of all Heaven. With these lit shines, 

O er-silvered to the furthest sea-confines, 

The sacramental marsh one pious plain 

Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 

Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, 

Minded of naught but peace and of a Child. 

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure 
Of motion, not faster than dateless Olympian leisure, 
Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure 

to pleasure ; 

The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling, 
For ever revealing, revealing, revealing, 
Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise tis done ! 

Good-morrow, lord Sun ! 
With several voice, with ascription, 
The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul 
Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows 

doth roll, 
Cry good, and past good, and most heavenly morrow, lord 

Sun! 

Artisan, born in the purple, Workman Heat, 
Porter of passionate atoms that travail to meet 
And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, innermost Guest 
At the marriage of elements, Fellow of publicans, blest 



136 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o er 
Tiie idle skies, yet labourest fast evermore ; 
Tiiou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat 
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive-Labourer Heat 
Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea s all news, 
With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues, 
Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues, 
Ever shaming the maidens, lily and rose 
Confess thee, and each mild flame that grows 
In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine, 

It is thine, it is thine ! 

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds a- swirl 
Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl 
In the magnet earth, yea, thou with a storm for a heart, 
Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part 
From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light, 
Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright 
Than the eye of a man may avail of ; manifold One, 
I must pass from thy face> I must pass from the face of 

the Sun : 

Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a frown ; 
The worker must pass to his work in the terrible town. 
But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done ; 
I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun : 
How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run, 

I am lit with the Sun. 

Oh ! never the mast-high run of the seas 

Of traffic shall hide thee, 
Never the hell-coloured smoke of the factories 

Hide thee, 
Never the reek of the time s fen-politics 

Hide thee, 

And ever my heart through the night shall with know 
ledge abide thee, 

And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath tried thee, 
Labour, at leisure, in art, till yonder beside thee 
My soul shall float, friend Sun, 

The day being done. 
December, 1880. 



SIDNE Y LAN IE R. 1 37 

THE MARSHES OF GLYNN. 

GLOOMS of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad cloven 
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, 
Emerald twilights, 
Virginal shy lights 

Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 
When lovers pace timidly down through the dim colon 
nades 
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, 

Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
The wide sea marches of G-lynn ; 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, 

Wild wood privacies, closets of lone desire, 

Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of 

leaves, 
Cells of the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul 

that grieves, 
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the 

wood, 
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; 

O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the 

vine, 
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did 

shine 
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in 

mine : 

But now when the moon is no more, and riot is rest, 
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth 

seem 

Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream. 
Aye, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul 

of the oak, 
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome 

sound of the stroke 



138 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Of the scythe of time, and the trowel of trade is low, 
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, 
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, 
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 

marshes of Glynn 
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought 

me of yore 
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but 

bitterness sore, 
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable 

pain 
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, 

Oh, now unafraid, I am fain to face 

The vast sweet visage of space. 
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 
Where the grey beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the 
dawn, 

For a mete and a mark 
To the forest dark : 

So: 

Affable live-oak, leaning low, 

Thus with your favour soft, with a reverent hand, 
(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land !) 
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
On the firm-packed sand, 

Free 
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 

Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmer 
ing band 

Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the 
folds of the land. 

Inward and outward to northward and southward the 
beach-lines linger and curl 

As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows 
the firm, sweet limbs of a girl. 

Yanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 

Softly the sand-beach wavers away to the dim grey 
looping of light. 



SIDNE Y LAN IE R. 1 39 

And what if behind me to westward the wall of the 

woods stands high 1 
The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea 

and the sky ! 
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, bread 

in the blade, 
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or 

a shade, 

Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
To the terminal blue of the main. 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea 1 
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
marshes of Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-with 

holding and free, 
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to 

the sea ! 
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the 

sun, 
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath 

mightily won 

God out of knowledge, and good out of infinite pain, 
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God : 
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 
In the freedom that fills all the space twixt the marsh 

and the skies : 

By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God : 
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 

And the sea lends large, as the marsh : lo out of his 

plenty the sea 
Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood-tide must be : 



140 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Look how the grace of the sea doth go 

About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
Here and there, 
Everywhere, 

Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the 
low-lying lanes 

And the marsh is nieshed with a million veins, 

That like as with rosy and silvery essence flow 

In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 

Farewell, my lord Sun ! 

The creeks overflow : a thousand rivulets run 

Twixt the roots of the sod : The blades of the marsh- 
grass stir, 

Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr ; 

Passeth and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; 

And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the water be ! 
The tide is in his ecstasy. 
The tide is at his highest height : 
And all is night. 

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of 



Roll in on the souls of men, 

But who will reveal to our waking ken, 

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 

Under the waters of sleep 1 
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when 

the tide comes in 
On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes 

of Glynn 



SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

OUT of the hills of Habersham, 
Down in the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain, 
Run the rapid and leap the fall, 



SIDNE Y LANIER. 1 4 1 

Split at the rock and together again, 
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover s pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried, Abide, abide, 
The wilful water weeds held me thrall, 
The laving laurel turned my tide, 
The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham 

Here in the valley of Hall. 

High over the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valley of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham. 

These glades in the valley of Hall. 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook -stone 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
Crystals clear or a cloud with mist, 
Ruby, garnet and amethyst- 
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 



142 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 
And oh, riot the valleys of Hall 
Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 
Downward the voices of Duty call 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, 
And the lordly main from beyond the plain 
Calls o er the hills of Habersham, 
Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER. 
INTO the woods my Master went, 
Clean forspent, forspent. 
Into the woods my Master came, 
Forspent with love and shame. 
But the olives they were not blind to Him, 
The little grey leaves were kind to Him : 
The thorn -tree had a mind to Him 
When into the woods He came. 

Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 

Out of the woods my Master came, 

Content with death and shame. 

When death and shame would woo Him last, 

From under the trees they drew Him last : 

Twas on a tree they slew Him last 

When out of the woods He came. 



FROM THE SYMPHONY: 

A VELVET flute-note fell down pleasantly 

Upon the bosom of that harmony, 

And sailed and sailed incessantly, 

As if a petal from a wild-rose blown 

Had fluttered down upon that pool of tone 



SIDNE Y LANIER. 1 43 

And boatwise dropped o the convex side 
And floated down the glassy tide, 
And clarified and glorified 
The solemn spaces where the shadows bide. 
From the warm concave of that fluted note 
Somewhat, half song, half odour, forth did float, 
As if a rose might somehow be a throat : 
" When Nature in her far-off glen 
Flutes her soft messages to men 
The flute can say them o er again ; 
Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone, 
Breathes through life s strident polyphone 
The flute-voice in the world of tone. 
Sweet friends, 
Man s love ascends 
To finer and diviner ends 
Than man s mere thought e er comprehends, 

For I, e en I, 

As here I lie, 
A petal on a harmony, 
Demand of science whence and why 
Man s tender pain, man s inward cry, 
When he doth gaze on earth and sky ? 
I am not overbold : 

I hold 

Full powers from Nature manifold. 
I speak for each no-tongued tree 
That, spring by spring, doth nobler be, 
And dumbly and most wistfully 
His mighty prayerful arms outspreads 
Above men s oft-unheeding heads, 
And his big blessing downward sheds. 
I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves, 
Lichens on stones and moss on eaves, 
Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves ; 
Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes, 
And briery mazes bounding lanes, 
And marsh-plants, thirsty, cupped for rains 
Andjmilky stems and sugary veins ; 



144 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For every long-armed woman vine 
That round a piteous tree doth twine ; 
For passionate odours, and divine 
Pistils, and petals crystalline \ 
All purities of shady springs, 
All shyness of film-winged things 
That fly from tree-trunks and bark-rings ; 
All modesties of mountain-fawns 
That leap to covert from wild lawns, 
And tremble if the day but dawns ; 
All sparklings of small beady eyes 
Of birds, and sidelong glances wise 
Wherewith the jay hints tragedies ; 
All piquances of prickly burs, 
And smoothnesses of downs and furs, 
Of eiders and of minevers ; 
All limpid honeys that do lie, 
At stamen-bases, nor deny 
The humming-bird s fine roguery, 
Bee-thighs, nor any butterfly ; 
All gracious curves of slender wings, 
Bark-motlings, fibre-spiral ings, 
Eern-wavings, and leaf-flickerings ; 
Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell 
Wherewith in every lonesome dell 
Time to himself his hours doth tell j 
All tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings, dove s melodious moans, 
And night s unearthly under-tones; 
All placid lakes and waveless deeps, 
All cool reposing mountain-steeps, 
Vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps ; 
Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights, 
And warmths, and mysteries, and mights, 
Of Nature s utmost depths and heights, 
These doth my timid tongue present, 
Their mouthpiece and leal instrument 
And servant, all love-eloquent. 



SIDNEY LANIER. 145 



THE CRYSTAL. 

AT midnight, death s and truth s unlocking time, 

When far within the spirit s hearing rolls 

The great soft rumble of the course of things 

A bulk of silence in a mask of sound, 

When darkness clears our vision that by day 

Is sun-blind, and the soul s a raving owl 

For truth and flitteth here and there about 

Low-lying woody tracks of time and oft 

Is minded for to sit upon a bough, 

Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree 

And muse in that gaunt place, twas then my heart, 

Deep in the meditative dark, cried out : 

" Ye companies of governor-spirits grave, 
Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news 
From steep-wall d heavens, holy malcontents, 
Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all 
That brood about the skies of poesy, 
Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars ; 
Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none 
With total lustre blazeth, no, not one 
But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh 
Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks 
His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist 
Of defect ; yea, you masters all must ask 
Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give, 
We lovers of you, heavenly glad to meet 
Your largesse so with love, and interplight 
Your geniuses with our mortalities. 
Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakespeare sole 
A hundred hurts a day I do forgive 
(Tis little, but, enchantment ! tis for thee) : 
Small curious quibble ; Juliet s prurient pun 
In the poor, pale face of Romeo s fancied death ; 
Cold rant of Richard ; Henry s fustian roar 
Which frights away that sleep he invocates ; 
Wronged Valentine s unnatural haste to yield; 

K 



146 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men 
In faint disguises that could ne er disguise 
Yiola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind ; 
Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax 
Of speech obscure that had as leif be plain ; 
Last I forgive (with more delight, because 
Tis more to do) a laboured-lewd discourse 
That e en thy young invention s youngest heir 
Besmirched the world with. 

Father Homer, thee, 
Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes 
Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues 
That tease the patience of the centuries, 
Thy sleazy scrap of story, but a rogue s 
Rape of a light-o -love, too solid a patch 
To border with the gods. 

Thee, Socrates, 

Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive 
Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies 
That were but dandy upside-down, thy words 
Of truth that, mildier spoke, had manlier wrought. 

So, Buddha, beautiful ! I pardon thee 
That all the All thou hadst for needy man 
"Was nothing, and thy Best of being was 
But not to be. 

Worn Dante, I forgive 

The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells 
Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed 
By death, nor time, nor love. 

And I forgive 

Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars 
Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel, 
Immortals smite immortals mortalwise 
And till all heaven with folly. 

Also thee, 
Brave ^Eschylus, thee I forgive, for that 






SIDNE Y LANIER. 1 47 

Thine eye, by bare, bright justice basilisked, 
Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love stands 
shining. 

So, unto thee, Lucretius mine 
(For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this 
That s now complaining ?), freelv I forgive 
Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth 
Whose graves eat souls and all. 

Yea, all your hearts 

Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large : 
Aurelius fine, oft superfine ; mild saint 
A Kempis, overmild ; Epictetus, 
Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct 
Rapt Behmen, rapt too far ; high Swedenborg, 
O ertoppling ; Langley, that with but a touch 
Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top 
Of English songs, whereof tis dearest, now, 
And most adorable ; Csedmon, in the morn 
A-calling angels with the cow-herd s call 
That late brought up the cattle ; Emerson, 
Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost 
Thy Self, sometimes ; tense Keats, with angels nerves 
Where men s were better ; Tennyson, largest voice 
Since Milton, yet some register of wit 
Wanting; all, all, I pardon, ere tis asked, 
Your more or less, your little mole that marks 
Your brother and your kinship seals to man. 
But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, 
But Thee, O poet s Poet, Wisdom s Tongue, 
But Thee, man s best Man, O love s best Love, 
perfect life in perfect labour writ, 
O all men s Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, 
What if or yet, what mole, what flaw, what lapse, 
What least defect or shadow of defect, 
What rumour, tattled by an enemy, 
Of inference loose, what lack of grace 

Even in torture s grasp, of sleep s, or death s, 

Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, 
Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ 1 " 



I 4 8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



DAVID LAW PROUDFIT. 

[Born in Newbury, New York, 27th October 1842. Author of Love 
among the Gamins (New York, 1877), and Mask and Domino 
(Philadelphia, 1888). The poems quoted are from this latter 
volume, and are given with the kind permission of the pub 
lishers. 

AT ODDS WITH LIFE. 

Tis a toilsome path to climb, 
But all climbing is sublime 
(If you think so). One flight more, 
Yonder is the studio door. 
Artist s eyries should be high, 
Don t you think so 1 Near the sky ; 
Up above the small affairs 
Of our lower life of cares ; 
Up, far up, in regions where 
Stars and comets float in air 
In an atmosphere that brings 
Glimpses of unusual things 
Into those who dare to soar 
To the shifting changeful shore 
Of strange fancies, fair and far. 
Tired, Elsie 1 Here we are. 

No one here. Sit down, my dear 
Rest a moment. It is clear 
He will soon return. You see 1 
Palette, brushes, carelessly 
Flung about in artist fashion. 
Ah, these men of fire and passion 
Love disorder, and it seems 
To befit a man of dreams. 
Let me whisper something, dear; 
I ve a fancy though I fear 
Tis irreverent indeed 
That our average artists need 



DA VID LA W PRO UDFIT. 149 

Something more of that fine fire 
Which ethereal dreams inspire, 
To redeem them from the trace 
Of an easy common-place. 

This the merit of our friend : 
He begins where others end. 
With all their fidelity, 
Colour, form, and harmony, 
He has something better worth ; 
Something of a nobler birth, 
Born of earthquakes, lightnings, storms. 
He has friends in fancy forms 
Such as throng the midnight hours, 
Play with meteoric showers, 
Ride auroras through the sky, 
Mount the crescent moon 011 high, 
Then go fishing down the night 
After, stars of faded light ; 
Familiar, he, of elf and gnome ; 
All fantastic shapes that roam 
Sceptred, winged, a glorious band, 
Through the mystery-haunted land 
Wondrous land of fire-fly gleams 
Seen of poets in their dreams. 

But the dreamers, men who see 

Shadowy forms of mystery 

In the earth and sea and sky ; 

Men whose winged fancies fly 

To the uttermost, remote 

Realms where shapes ethereal float ; 

Men whose fine sense subtly hears 

Music from the distant spheres, 

Often miss their heritage 

In this heartless, hurrying age, 

Though, too late, their fame may be 

Handed to posterity. 

For they seem at odds with life, 

Armoured feebly for its strife. 



1 50 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

And our friend, whose picture there 
Shadows forth such white despair 
Hath his trials, I surmise ; 
For, within his hungry eyes, 
When I saw him last, I read 
Something curious, vague and dread. 
Then I said that I would buy 
This Prometheus, and his eye 
Lit up strangely, with a fire 
Born of some extreme desire. 
Think you famine s spectre stood 
With him in his solitude 1 

Had we sooner come indeed 
It perhaps had served his need, 
But you like it ? Then to-day 
There shall be no more delay. 
See what vigour, grandeur, gloom ; 
What an atmosphere of doom! 
What a hopeless, vast despair, 
In that figure lying there 
Chained with iron links and rods ! 
Awful eyes that judge the gods ! 
Face of agony untold, 
Yet contemptuous, scornful, bold ! 
Bare, cold rocks, uplifted high 
To a lowering, thunderous sky ; 
And a sea in league with fate, 
Making all things desolate ! 
Yes, with sombre feeling tainted, 
But a picture grandly painted, 
Such a canvas lifts the soul 
Out of Habit s dull control, 
Plumes Imagination s wing, 
And crowns the artist like a king. 

What a strange collection here ! 
Curious is it not, my dear ? 
Rubbish, some good folks would say 
In their lofty, stupid way, 



DA V1D LA W PRO UDFIT. \ 5 1 

Lacking insight. Who can tell 

What suggestions herein dwell? . 

See this travesty in wood 

Of a human attitude ; 

There a figure stuffed with hair 

Semblance of a ]ady fair; 

Bits of armour, china, lace, 

Plaster hands, a foot, a face, 

A sword, a Malay creese, a knife, 

Fit to take a pirate s life ; 

Gobelin tapestry, faded, rare, 

Screening in yon alcove there 

Such a dismal effigy 

Hanging from a beam you see ? 

Well, my gentleman is late, 
Elsie, since we still must wait, 
What thing better can I do 
Than to make love, sweet, to you 1 
Nay, no prudery, my dear ! 
What vague presence do you fear 1 
Rosy lips, one little kiss ! 
Elsie darling, what is this? 
Trembling, and your face is white ! 
What has frozen you with fright ? 
Tell me precious ! speak to me ! 
Do you dread yon effigy 1 
No, no, no, my sweet tis naught ! 
J Tis not living, as you thought ! 
See tis nothing you should fear ! 
It is horror ! what is here ? 
Come away ! come ! come ! tis true 
This is not a place for you. 



152 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS 
(YAWCOB STRAUSS). 

[Born at Dorchester, Massachusetts, now a part of Boston, 21st 
April 1842. Author of Lcedle Yaivcob Strau&s, and other Poems 
(Lee & Shepherd, Boston, 1878), and Dialect Ballads (Harper 
Brothers, New York, 1888). "Der Drummer," is from the 
former volume, " Mine Vamily," " Don d feel too big," "Mine 
Moder-in-Law," " Der Vater-mill," " Der Oak und der Vine," 
are from the latter, and are published by special consent of 
these firms.] 

DER OAK AND DER VINE. 

I DON D vas preaching voman s righdts, 

Or anyding like dot, 
Und I likes to see all beoples 

Shust gondented mit dheir lot ; 
Budt I vants to gondradict dot snap 

Dot made dis leedle shoke ; 
" A voraan vas der glinging vine, 

Und man, der shturdy oak." 

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be drue ; 

Budt, den dimes oudt off nine, 
I find me oudt dot man himself 

Vas peen der glinging vine ; 
Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone, 

Und he vas shust "tead proke," 
Dot s vhen der vornan shteps righdt in, 

Und peen der shturdy oak. 

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts 

Und see dhose " shturdy oaks " 
All planted roundt ubon der seats 

Shust hear dheir laughs and shokes ! 



CHARLES POLLEN ADAMS. 1 53 

Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, 

Mit glothes oudt on der lines ; 
Yhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine friendts, 

Und vhich der glingirig vines ? 

Ven Sickness in der householdt comes, 

Und veeks und veeks he shtays, 
Who vas id fighdts him mitoudt resdt, 

Dhose veary nighdts und days 1 
Who beace und gomfort alvays prings, 

Und cools dot f efered prow 1 
More like id vas der tender vine 

Dot oak he glings to, now. 

" Man vants budt leedle here below," 

Der boet von time said ; 
Dhere s leedle dot man he don d vant, 

I dink id means, inshted ; 
Und ven der years keep rolling on, 

Dheir cares und droubles pringing 
He vants to pe der shturdy oak, 

Und, also, do der glinging. 

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more, 

Und don d so shturdy peen, 
Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance 

To helb run Life s masheen. 
In helt und sickness, shoy und pain, 

In calm or shtormy veddher, 
Twas beddher dot dhose oaks and vines 

Should alvays gling togeddher. 



154 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



MINE VA MIL Y. 

DIMBLED scheeks, mit eyes off plue, 
Mout like id was moisd mit dew, 
Und leedle teeth shust peekin droo 
Dot s der baby. 

Curly head, und full of glee, 
Drousers all oudt at der knee 
He vas peen blaying horse, you see 
Dot s leedle Yawcob. 

Von hundord-seexty in der shade, 
Der oder day ven she vas veighed 
She beats me soon, I vas avraid 
Dot s mine Katrina. 

Bare-footed hed, und pooty stoudt, 
Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt, 
Fond off his bier und sauer kraut 
Dot s me himself. 

Von schmall young baby, full off fun, 
Von leedle, prite-eyed roguish son, 
Von frau to greet vhen vork vas done- 
Dot s mine vamily. 



HE GETS DHERE SHUST DER SAME! 

OLDT JEsop wrote a fable, vonce, 

Aboudt a boasting hare 
Who say : " Vhen dhere vas racing 

You can alvays find me dhere ! " 



CHARLES POLLEN ADAMS. 1 5 5 

Und how a tortoise raced mit him, 

Und shtopped hees leedle game, 
Und say : " Eef I don d been so shpry, 

I gets dhere shust dhere same ! " 



Dot vas der cases eferyvhere, 

In bolidics und trade, 
By bersbiration off der brow 

Vas how soocksess vas made. 
A man may somedime " shdrike id rich," 

Und get renown und fame, 
Budt dot bersbiration feller, too, 

He gets dhere shust der same. 



Der girl dot makes goot beeskits, 

Und can vash und iron dings, 
Maybe don d been so lofely 

As dot girl mit dimondt rings ; 
Budt vhen a vife vas vanted 

Who vas id dot s to blame 
Eef dot girl mitoudt der shewels 

Should get dher shust der same ? 

Dot schap dotleafes hees peesnis, 

Und hangs roundt "Bucket Shops," 
To make den tollars oudt off von, 

Yhen grain und oil shtock drops, 
May go avay vrom dhere, somedimes, 

Mooch poorer as he came. 
" Der mills off God grind shlowly " 

Budt dhey get dhere shust der same. 



Dhen neffer mindt dhose mushroom schaps 

Dot shpring oup in a day ; 
Dhose repudations dhey vas made 

By vork, und not by blay. 



1 56 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Shust poot your shoulder to der vheel, 
Eef you vould vin a name, 

Und eef der Vhite House needs you 
You vill get dhere shust der same. 



MINE MODER-IN-LA W. 

DHERE vas many qveer dings in dis land off der free, 

I neffer could qvite understand ; 
Der beoples dhey all seem so deef rent to me 

As dhose in mine own faderland. 
Dhey gets blendy droubles, und indo mishaps 

Mitoudt der least bit off a cause ; 
Und vould you pelief it 1 dhose mean Yangee shaps 

Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws ? 

Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot ! 

Yhy not gife der oldt lady a show ? 
Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot, 

Mit mine baby, I shust like to know ? 
Und dhen in dher vinter vhen Katrine vas sick 

Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw, 
Who made rightd avay oup dot fire so quick 1 

Yhy, dot vas mine moder-in-law. 

Id vas von off dhose voman s righds vellers I been 

Dhere vas nocling dot s mean aboudt me; 
Yhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen, 

Yhy, I shust let her run id, you see. 
Und vhen dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some dricks 

(A block off der oldt chip he vas, yaw !) 
Ef he goes for dot shap like some dousand off bricks, 

Dot s all righdt ! She s mine moder-in-law. 



CHARLES POLLEN ADAMS. 1 57 

Yeek oudt und veek in, id vas alvays der same, 

Dot vomen vos boss off der house ; 
But, delm, neffer mindt ! I vas glad dot she came, 

She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss. 
Und ven dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring 

Und firevood to shplit oup und saw- 
She vas velcome to do it. Dhere s not anyding 

Dot s too good for mine moder-in-law. 



DER DRUMMER. 

WHO puts oup at der pest hotel, 
Und dakes his oysders on der schell ? 
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? 
Der drummer. 

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 
Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? 
Der drummer. 

Who dakes me py der handt und say : 
" Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ? " 
Und goes for peesness right avay 1 
Der drummer. 

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
Und dells me " look, und see how nice ? " 
Und says I gets " der bottom price ? " 
Der drummer. 

Who says der dings vas eggstra vine 
From Sharmany, upon der Rhine" 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt nf nine 
Der drummer. 



158 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Who dells how sheap der goots vas bought: 
Mooch less as vot I good imbort, 
But lets dem go as he vas "short?" 
Der drummer. 

Who varrants all der goots to suit 
Der gustomers ubon his route, 
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot 1 
Der drummer. 

Who gomes around ven I been oudt, 
Drinks oup mine bier, und eats mine kraut, 
Und kiss Katrina in der mout 1 
Der drummer. 

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 
Yill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 
Und mit a plack eye goes avay 1 
Der drummer. 



"DON D FEEL TOO BIG!" 

A FEOG vas a-singing von day in der brook, 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 

Und he sh veiled mit pride, und he say, " Shust look ; 

Don d I sing dose peautiful songs like a book ? " 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 

A fish came a-svimming along dot vay; 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 
"I ll dake you oudt off der vet," he say; 
Und der leedle froggie vas shtowed avay. 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 



CHARLES POLLEN ADAMS. 1 59 

A hawk flew down und der fish dook in ; 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 
Und der hawk he dink dot der shmardest vin 
Ven he shtuck his claws in dot fish s shkin. 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !) 

A hunter vas oudt mit his gun aroundt, 

(Id vas beddher, mine friends, yon don d feel too big !) 
Und he say, ven der hawk vas brought to der groundt, 
Und der fish und der leedle frog vas foundt, 

" It vas beddher, mine friends, you don d feel too big !" 



DER VATER-MILL. 

I READS aboudt dot vater-mill dot runs der life-long day, 
Und how der vater don d coom pack vhen vonce id flows 

avay : 
Und off der mill shtream dot glides on so beacef ally and 

shtill, 
Budt don d vas putting in more vork on dot same vater 

mill. 
Der boet says, tvas beddher dot you holdt dis broverb 

fast, 
" Der mill id don d vould grind some more mit vater dot 

vas past." 

Dot boem id was peautiful to read aboudt ; dot s so ! 
Budt eef dot vater vasrtt past how could dot mill whee 7 

go? 
Und vhy make drouble mit dot mill vhen id vas been 

inclined 

To dake each obbordunity dot s gifen id to grind ? 
Und vhen der vater cooms along in qvandidies so vast, 
Id lets some oder mill dake oup der vater dot vas past. 



160 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Dhen der boet shange der subject, und he dells us vonce 

again : 
" Der sickle neffer more shall reap der yellow, garnered 

grain." 
Yell ; vonce vas blendy, aind t id 1 Id vouldn t been so 

nice 

To haf dot sickle reaping oup der same grain ofer, tvice ! 
Yhy, vot s der use off cutting oup der grass alreaty mown? 
Id vas pest, mine moder dold me, to let veil enough alone. 

"Der summer vinds refife no more leaves strewn o er 

earth and main." 
Yell ; who vants to refife them ? Dhere vas blendy more 

again ! 
Der summer vinds dhey shtep righdt oup in goot time to 

brepare 
Dhose blants und trees for oder leaves ; dhere soon vas 

creen vones dhere. 
Shust bear dis adverb on your mindts, mine frendts, und 

holdt id fast ! 
Der new leaves don d vas been aroundt undil der oldt vas 

past. 

Dhen neffer mindt der leaves dot s dead ; der grain dot s 

in der bin ; 
Dhey both off dhem haf had dheir day, und shust vas 

gathered in. 
Und neffer mindt der vater vhen id vonce goes droo der 

mill; 
Ids vork vas done ! Dhere s blendy more dot vaits, ids 

blace to fill. 
Let each von dake dis moral, vrom der king down to der 

peasant : 
Don d mindt der vater dot vas past, budt der vater dot 

vas bresent. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 161 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 

[Born at Bordentown, New Jersey, 8th February 1844. Author of 
The New Day (New York, 1875) ; The Poet and His Master 
(1878) ; Lyrics (1885) ; and The Celestial Passion (1887). The 
poems given are quoted with the kind permission of The 
Century Co., New York.] 

ODE. 
i. 

I AM the spirit of the morning sea ; 

I am the awakening and the glad surprise ; 

I fill the skies 

With laughter and with light. 

Not tears, but jollity 

At birth of day brim the strong man-child s eyes. 

Behold the white 

Wide three-fold beams that from the hidden sun 

Rise swift and far, 

One where Orion keeps 

His armed watch, and one 

That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps ; 

The third blots out the firm-fixed Northern star. 

I am the wind that shakes the glittering wave, 
Hurries the snowy spume along the shore 
And dies at last in some far-murmuring cave. 
My voice thou hearest in the break er s-roar, 
That sound which never failed since time began, 
And first around the world the shining tumult ran. 

II. 

I light the sea and wake the sleeping land. 

My footsteps on the hills make music, and my hand 

Plays like a harper s on the wind-swept pines 

With the wind and the day 
I follow round the world away ! away ! 
Wide over lake and plain my sunlight shines, 
And every wave and every blade of grass 
Doth know me as I pass ; 
I 



1 62 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And me the western sloping mountains know, and me 
The far-off, golden sea. 

O sea, whereon the passing sun doth lie ! 

man, who watch est by the golden sea ! 
Weep not, O weep not thou, but lift thine eye 
And see me glorious in the sunset sky ! 

in. 

1 love not the night 

Save when the stars are bright, 
Or when the moon 

Fills the white air with silence like a tune. 
Yea, even the night is mine 
When the Northern Lights outshine, 
And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine ; 
Yea, mine deep midnight, though the black sky lowers, 
When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore in 
starry showers. 

IV. 

I am the laughter of the new-born child 

On whose soft-breathing sleep an angel smiled. 

And I all sweet first things that are : 

First songs of birds, not perfect as at last, 

Broken and incomplete, 

But sweet, oh, sweet ! 

And I the first faint glimmer of a star 

To the wrecked ship that tells the storm is past : 

The first keen smells and stirring of the Spring ; 

First snow-flakes, and first May-flowers after snow, 

The silver glow 

Of the new moon s ethereal ring ; 

The song the morning stars together made, 

And the first kiss of lovers under the first June shade. 

v. 

My sword is quick, my arm is strong to smite 
In the dread joy and fury of the fight. 
I am with those who win, not those who fly ; 
With those who live I am, not those who die, 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 

Who die 1 Nay nay that word 

Where I am is unheard ; 

For I am the spirit of youth that cannot change, 

Nor cease, nor suffer woe ; 

And I am the spirit of beauty that doth range 

Through natural forms and motions, and each show 

Of outward loveliness. With me have birth 

All gentleness and joy in all the earth. 

Raphael knew me, and showed the world my face ; 

Me Homer knew, and all the singing race, 

For I am the spirit of light, and life, and mirth. 



A WOMAN S THOUGHT. 

I AM a woman therefore I may not 

Call him, cry to him, 

Fly to him, 

Bid him delay not ! 

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet 

Still as a stone 

All silent and cold. 

If my heart riot 

Crush and defy it ! 

Should I grow bold 

Say one dear thing to him, 

All my life fling to him, 

Cling to him 

What to atone 

Is enough for my sinning ! 

This were the cost to me, 

This were my winning 

That he were lost to me. 

Not as a lover 
At last if he part from me, 
Tearing my heart from me, 
Hurt beyond cure, 
Calm and demure 



164 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Then must I hold me 
In myself fold me 
Lest he discover ; 
Showing no sign to him 
By look of mine to him 
What he has been to me 
How my heart turns to him, 
Follows him, yearns to him, 
, Prays him to love me. 

Pity me, lean to me, 
Thou God above me ! 



REFORM. 

i. 

OH, how shall I help to right the world that is going 

wrong ! 

And what can I do to hurry the promised time of peace ! 
The day of work is short, and the night of sleep is long ; 
And whether to pray or preach, or whether to sing a song, 
To plough in my neighbour s field, or to seek the golden 

fleece, 
Or to sit with my hands in my lap, and wish that ill 

would cease ! 

n. 
I think, sometimes, it were best just to let the Lord 

alone ; 
I am sure some people forget He was here before they 

came; 
Though they say it is all for His glory, tis a good deal 

more for their own, 
That they peddle their petty schemes, and blate and 

babble and groan. 
I sometimes think it were best, and I were little to 

blame, 
Should I sit with my hands in my lap, in my face a 

crimson shame. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 165 

DECORATION DA Y. 

i. 

SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun, 
The flags that proudly waved ; she heard the bugles 

calling ; 

She saw the tattered banners falling 
About the broken staffs, as one by one 
The remnant of the mighty army passed ; 
And at the last 
Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done. 

ii. 

She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet 
As the long line swept round the crowded square ; 
She heard the incessant hum 
That filled the warm and blossom-scented air, 
The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum, 
The happy laugh, the cheer, Oh glorious and meet 
To honour thus the dead, 
Who chose the better part 
And for their country bled ! 

The dead ! Great God ! she stood there in the street, 
Living yet dead in soul and mind and heart while far 

away 
His grave was decked with flowers by stranger s hands 

to-day. 



"THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER 

THE SUN." 

THERE is nothing new under the sun ; 

There is 110 new hope or despair ; 
The agony just begun 

Is as old as the earth and the air. 
My secret soul of bliss 

Is one with the singing stars, 
And the ancient mountains miss 

No hurt that my being mars. 



1 66 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I know as I know my life, 

I know as I know my pain, 
That there is no lonely strife, 

That he is mad who would gain 
A separate balm for his woe, 

A single pity and cover : 
The one great God I know 

Hears the same prayer over and over. 

I know it because at the portal 

Of Heaven I bowed and cried, 
And I said, " Was ever a mortal 

Thus crowned and crucified ! 
My praise Thou hast made my blame ; 

My best Thou has made my worst ; 
My good Thou hast turned to shame ; 

My drink is a naming thirst." 

But scarce my prayer was said 

Ere from that place I turned; 
I trembled, I hung my head, 

My cheek, shame-smitten, burned : 
For there where I bowed down 

In my boastful agony, 
I thought of Thy cross and crown, 

O Christ ! I remembered Thee. 



THE SOWER. 

A SOWER went forth to sow, 

His eyes were dark with woe ; 

He crushed the flowers beneath His feet, 

Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, 

That prayed for pity everywhere. 

He came to a field that was harried 

By iron, and to heaven laid bare : 

He shook the seed that He carried 

O er that brown and bladeless place. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 167 

He shook it, as God shakes hail 

Over a doomed land, 

When lightnings interlace 

The sky and the earth, and His wand 

Of love is a thunder-flail. 

Thus did that Sower sow ; 
His seed was human blood, 
And tears of women and men. 
And I who near Him stood, 
Said : When the crop comes, then 
There will be sobbing and sighing, 
Weeping and wailing and crying, 
Flame, and ashes, and woe. 

II. 

It was an autumn day 

When next I went that way. 

And what, think you, did I see, 

What was it that I heard, 

What music was in the air 1 

The song of a sweet-voiced bird 1 

Nay but the songs of many, 

Thrilled through with praise and prayer. 

Of all those voices not any 

Were sad of memory ; 
But a sea of sunlight flowed, 
And a golden harvest glowed ! 
And I said : Thou only art wise 
God of the earth and skies ! 
And I thank Thee, again and again, 
For the Sower whose name is Pain. 



" O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TOWARD 
THE SEA: 

O SILVER river flowing toward the sea, 

Strong, cairn, and solemn as thy mountains bo ! 



168 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Poets have sung thy ever-living power, 

Thy wintry day, and summer-sunset hour ; 

Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep; 

What commerce thine, how many myriads reap 

The harvest of thy waters. They have sung 

Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung 

From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts 

Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts 

Of savage warriors that once ploughed thy waves 

Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves ; 

The waving outline of thy wooded mountains, 

Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains 

On either side, far to the salty main, 

Like golden coins alternate on a chain. 

Thou pathway of the empire of the North, 

Thy praises through the earth have travelled forth ! 

I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout 

That follows when a hero from the rout 

Of battle issues, " Lo, how brave is he, 

How noble, proud, and beautiful ! " But she 

Who knows him best "How tender ! " So thou art 

The river of love to me ! 

Heart of my heart, 

Dear love and bride is it not so indeed? 
Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed. 



SHERIDAN. 

QUIETLY, like a child 

That sinks in slumber mild, 

No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar, 
Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war. 

Though his the power to smite, 
Quick as the lightning s light, 
His single arm an army, and his name a host, 
Not his the love of blood, the warrior s cruel boast. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 169 

But in the battle s flame 

How glorious he came! 
Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears 

the shore, 
While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before. 

Twas he, his voice, his might, 

Could stay the panic flight. 

Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat, 
And turn to evening triumph morning s foul defeat. 

He was our modern Mars, 

Yet firm his faith that wars 

Erelong would cease to vex the sad ensanguined earth, 
And peace for ever reign, as at Christ s holy birth. 

Blest land, in whose dark hour 

Arise to loftiest power 

No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant s part, 
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart ! 

Of such our chief of all ; 

And he who broke the wall 

Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend ; 
And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend. 

And now above his tomb 

From out the eternal gloom 
" Welcome !" his chieftain s voice sounds o er the cannon s 

knell ; 
And of the three one only stays to say " Farewell ! " 



THE WHITE TSAR S PEOPLE. 

PART I. 
I. 

THE White Tsar s people cry 

" Thou God of the heat and the cold, 

Of storm and of lightning, 

Of darkness, and dawn s red brightening ; 

Hold, Lord God, hold, 

Hold Thy hand lest we curse Thee and die." 



1 70 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

n. 

The White Tsar s people pray, 
" Thou God of the South and the North, 
We are crushed, we are bleeding, 
J Tis Christ, tis Thy Son interceding : 
Forth, Lord, come forth ! 
Bid the slayer no longer slay." 

in. 

The White Tsar s people call 
Aloud to the skies of lead : 
" We are slaves, not freemen ; 
Ourselves, our children, our women, 
Dead, we are dead, 
Though we breathe, we are dead men all 

IV. 

" Blame not if we misprize Thee 

Who can, but will not draw near. 

Tis Thou who hast made us, 

Not Thou, dread God, to upbraid us. 

Hear, Lord God, hear ! 

Lest we whom Thou madest despise Thee. 

PART II. 

I. 

THEN answered the most high God, 
Lord of the heat and the cold, 
Of storm and of lightning, 
Of darkness, and dawn s red brightening: 
" Bold, yea, too bold, 
Whom I wrought from the air and the clod! 

ii. 

" Hast thou forgotten from Me 
Are those ears so quick to hear 
The passion and anguish 
Of your sisters, your children, who languish 
Near 1 Ah, not near, 
Far off by the uttermost sea ! 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 171 

in. 

" Who gave ye your hearts to bleed 
And brains to plan and to plan ? 
Why call ye on heaven, 
Tis the earth that to you is given ! 
Plead, ye may plead, 
But for man I work through man. 

IV. 

" Who gave ye a voice to utter 

Your tale to the wind and the sea 1 

One word well spoken 

And the iron gates are broken. 

From Me, yea, from Me 

The word that ye will not mutter. 

v. 

" I love not murder but ruth. 
Begone from my sight ye who take 
The knife of the coward 
Even ye who by heaven were dowered ! 
Wake ye, O wake, 
And strike with the sword of Truth ! 

VI. 

" Fear ye lest I misprize ye 

I who fashioned not brutes, but men. 

After the lightning 

And darkness the dawn s red brightening ! 

Men be ye men ! 

Lest I who made ye despise ye ! " 



SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN. 

i. 

BUT when the sunset smiled, 

Smiled once and turned toward dark, 

Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed 

Along the horizon s edge ; 



172 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Like hooded monks that hark 

Through evening air 

The call to prayer; 

Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow, away; 

When, like a changing dream, the long cloud wedge, 

brown-grey, 

Grew saffron underneath, and ere I knew, 
The interspace, green-blue 
The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore, 
The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more. 

II. 

Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now, 
Wondering if thy deep brow 
In dreams of me were lifted to the skies, 
Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies ; 
If thou didst stand alone, 
Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here, 
But closer and more dear, 
Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line of 

blackening pine ; 
When lo ! that second smile, dear heart, it was thine 

own. 



THE MASTER-POETS. 

HE, the great World-Musician at whose stroke 
The stars of morning into music broke ; 
He from whose being Infinite are caught 
All harmonies of light, and sound, and thought, 
Once in each age, to keep the world in tune 
He strikes a note sublime. Nor late, nor soon, 
A God-like soul, music and passion s birth, 
Vibrates across the discord of the earth 
And sets the world aright. 

O, these are they 

Who on men s hearts the mightiest power can play,- 
The master-poets of humanity 
Sent down from heaven to lift men to the sky. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 173 

SONGS. 

THE SONG OF A HEATHEN 
(SOJOURNING IN GALILEE, A.D. 32). 



IF Jesus Christ is a man, 

And only a man, I say 
That of all mankind I cleave to him, 

And to him will I cleave alway. 

II. 

If Jesus Christ is a God, 

And the only God, I swear 
I will follow Him through Heaven and hell, 

The earth, the sea, and the air ! 



I LOVE HER GENTLE FOREHEAD. 

I LOVE her gentle forehead, 

And I love her tender hair; 
I love her cool, white arms, 

And her neck when it is bare. 

I love the smell of her garments ; 

I love the touch of her hands ; 
I love the sky above her, 

And the very ground where she stands. 

I love her doubting and anguish ; 

I love the love she withholds ; 
I love my love that loveth her 

And anew her being moulds. 



174 YO UNGER A M ERIC AN P OE TS. 

"BEYOND THE BRANCHES OF THE PINE: 

BEYOND the branches of the pine 
The golden sun no more doth shine, 

But still the solemn after-glow 
Floods the deep heavens with light divine. 

The night-wind stirs the corn-field near, 
The grey moon turns to silver clear, 

And one by one the glimmering stars 
In the blue dome of heaven appear. 

Now do the mighty hosts of light 
Across the darkness take their flight, 

They rise above the eastern hill 
And silent journey through the night. 

And there beneath the starry zone, 
In the deep, narrow grave, alone, 

Rests all that mortal was of her, 
The purest spirit I have known. 



"THE WOODS THAT BRING THE 
SUNSET NEAR: 

THE wind from out the west is blowing, 
The homeward-wandering cows are lowing, 
Dark grows the pine-woods, dark and drear, - 
The woods that bring the sunset near. 

When o er wide seas the sun declines, 
Far off its fading glory shines, 
Far off, sublime, and full of fear 
The pine-woods bring the sunset near. 

This house that looks to east, to west, 
This, dear one, is our home, our rest ; 
Yonder the stormy sea, and here 
The woods that bring the sunset near. 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 175 

OH LOVE IS NOT A SUMMER MOOD. 

i. 
OH Love is not a summer mood, 

Nor flying phantom of the brain, 
Nor youthful fever of the blood, 

Nor dream, nor fate, nor circumstance. 

Love is not born of blinded chance, 

Nor bred in simple ignorance. 

ii. 
Love is the flower of maidenhood ; 

Love is the fruit of mortal pain ; 
And she hath winter in her blood. 

True love is steadfast as the skies, 

And once alight she never flies ; 

And Love is strong, and Love is wise. 



SONG. 

YEARS have flown since I knew thee first, 
And I know thee as water is known of thirst : 
Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, " 
And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night. 



ONLY ONCE. 

ONCE only, Love, may love s sweet song be sung ; 
But once, Love, at our feet love s flower is flung ; 
Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young : 
Say shall we love, dear Love, or shall we hate ! 

Once only, Love, will burn the blood-red fire ; 

But once awakeneth the wild desire ; 

Love pleadeth long, but what if love should tjre ! 

Now shall we love, dear Love, or shall we wait ! 
The day is short, the evening cometh fast ; 
The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past ; 
The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last : 

Love, let us love ere it be late, too late ! 



176 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



SONNETS. 

"MY LOVE FOR THEE DOTH MARCH 
LIKE ARMED MEN." 

MY love for thee doth march like armed men 
Against a queenly city they would take. 
Along the army s front its banners shake; 

Across the mountain and the sun-smit plain 

It steadfast sweeps as sweeps the steadfast rain ; 
And now the trumpet makes the still air quake, 
And now the thundering cannon doth awake 

Echo on echo, echoing loud again. 

But lo ! the conquest higher than bard had sung ; 
Instead of answering cannon comes a small 
White flag the iron gates are open flung, 

And flowers along the invaders pathway fall. 
The city s conquerors feast their foes among, 
And their brave flags are trophies on her wall. 



THE DARK ROOM. 

i. 

A MAIDEN sought her love in a dark room, 
So early had she yearned from yearning sleep, 
So hard it was from her true love to keep, 
And blind she went through that all-silent gloom, 
Like one who wanders weeping in a tomb. 
Heavy her heart, but her light fingers leap 
With restless grasp and question in that deep 
Unanswering void. Now when a hand did loom 
At last, how swift her warm impassioned face 
Pressed gainst the black and solemn-yielding air, 
As near more near she groped to that bright place, 
And seized the hand, and drowned it with her hair, 
And bent her body to his fierce embrace, 
And knew what joy was in the darkness there, 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 177 

II. 

Great God ! the arms wherein that maiden fell 
Were not her lover s; I am her lover I 
Who sat here in the shadows silently 

Silent with gladness, for I thought, O hell ! 

I thought to me she moved, and all was well. 
She saw me not, yet dimly could descry 
That beautiful hand of his, and with a sigh 

Sank on his fair and treacherous breast. The spell 

Of the Evil One was on me. All in vain 

I strove to speak my parched lips were dumb. 
See ! see ! the wan and whitening window pane ! 

See, in the night, the awful morning bloom ! 

Too late she will know all ! Heaven ! send thy rain 
Of death, nor let the sun of waking come ! 



ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN. 

THIS bronze doth keep the very form and mould 
Of our great martyr s face. Yes, this is he: 
That brow all wisdom, all benignity ; 
That human, humorous mouth ; those cheeks that hold 

Like some harsh landscape all the summer s gold ; 
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea 
For storms to beat on ; the lone agony 
Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. 

Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men 

As might some prophet of the elder day, 

Brooding above the tempest and the fray 

With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. 
A power was his beyond the touch of art 
Of armed strength : his pure and mighty heart. 



i;B YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



LOVE S JEALOUSY. 

OF other men I know no jealousy, 

Nor of the maid who holds thee close, oh close! 

But of the June-red, summer-scented rose, 
And of the orange-streaked sunset sky 
That wins the soul of thee through thy deep eye ; 

And of the breeze by thee beloved, that goes 

O er thy dear hair and brow; the song that flows 
Into thy heart of hearts, where it may die. 
I would I were one moment that sweet show 

Of flower ; or breeze beloved that toucheth all ; 

Or sky that through the summer eve doth burn. 
I would I were the song thou lovest so, 

At sound of me to have thine eyelid fall : 

But I would then to something human turn. 



THE CELESTIAL PASSION. 

O WHITE and midnight sky, O starry bath, 

Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal flood ; 
Cleanse me, ye stars, from earthly soil and scath 

Let not one taint remain in spirit or blood ! 
Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps ; 

Touch and baptise me with the mighty power 
That in ye thrills, while the dark planet sleeps ; 

Make me all yours for one blest, secret hour ! 
O glittering host, O high angelic choir, 

Silence each tone that with thy music jars ; 
Fill me even as an urn with thy white fire 

Till all I am is kindred to the stars ! 

Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy night, 

So shall my days be full of heavenly light ! 



RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 179 



THE EVENING STAR. 

THE evening star trembles and hides from him 

Who fain would hold it with imperious stare ; 

Yet, to the averted eye, lo ! unaware 
It shines serene, no longer shy and dim. 
Oh, slow and sweet, its chalice to the brim 

Fills the leaf-shadowed grape with rich and rare 

Cool sunshine, caught from the white circling air ! 
Home from his journey to the round world s rim 
Through lonely lands, through cloudy seas and vext 

At last the holy Grail met Launfal s sight, 
So when my friend lost him who was her next 

Of soul, life of her life, all day the fight. 
Raged with the dumb and pitiless God. Perplexed 

She slept. Heaven sent its comfort in the night. 



THE SONNET. 

WHAT is a sonnet 1 Tis the pearly shell 
That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea 
A precious jewel carved most curiously \ 

It is a little picture painted well. 

What is a sonnet 1 Tis the tear that fell 
From a great poet s hidden ecstasy ; 
A two-edged sword, a star, a song ah me ! 

Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell. 

This was the flame that shook with Dante s breath ; 
The solemn organ whereon Milton played, 
And the clear glass where Shakespeare s shadow falls 

A sea this is beware who ventureth ! 
For like a fjord the narrow floor is laid 
Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls. 



1 80 YO UNGER A M ERIC A N POE TS. 



KEATS. 

TOUCH not with dark regret his perfect fame, 
Sighing " Had he but lived he had done so ; " 
Or, " Were his heart not eaten out with woe 

John Keats had won a prouder, mightier name ! " 

Take him for what he was and did nor blame 

Blind fate for all he suffered. Thou shouldst know 
Souls such as his escape no mortal blow 

No agony of joy, or sorrow, or shame ! 

" Whose name was writ in water ! " what large laughter 
Among the immortals when that word was brought ! 

Then when his fiery spirit rose flaming after 

High toward the topmost heaven of heavens up-caught ! 
" All hail ! our younger brother ! " Shakespeare said, 
And Dante nodded his imperial head. 



FATHER AND CHILD. 

BENEATH the deep and solemn midnight sky, 
At this last verge and boundary of time 
I stand, and listen to the starry chime 

That sounds to the inward ear, and will not die. 

Now do the thoughts that daily hidden lie 
Arise, and live in a celestial clime, 
Unutterable thoughts, most high, sublime, 

Crossed by one dread that frights mortality. 

Thus, as I muse, I hear my little child 

Sob in its sleep within the cottage near, 

My own dear child ! Gone is that mortal doubt ! 

The Power that drew our lives forth from the wild 
Our Father is ; we shall to Him be dear, 
Nor from His universe be blotted out ! 



JOHN BO YLE O REILL Y. 1 81 



"CALL ME NOT DEAD." 

CALL me not dead when I, indeed, have gone 

Into the company of the everliving 

High and most glorious poets ! Let thanksgiving 
Rather be made. Say " He at last hath won 
Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, 

Music and song and light of immortal faces : 

To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, 
He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. 
To-morrow (who can say) Shakespeare may pass, 

And our lost friend just catch one syllable 

Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well, 
Or Milton, or Dante, looking on the grass 

Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still 

To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill." 



JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 

[Born at Dowth Castle, Co. Meath, Ireland, 28th June 1844. 
Landed in Philadelphia 23d November 1869. Founded the 
Papyrus Club. Author of Songs of the Southern Seas (Boston, 
1873) ; Songs, Legends, and Ballads (1878) ; Moondyne (1879) ; 
Statuesin the Mock (1881) ; and In Bohemia (1886). The poems 
given are quoted with the kind permission of The Pilot Pub 
lishing Co., Boston.] 

JA CQ UEMINO TS. 

I MAY not speak in words, dear, but let my words be 

flowers, 

To tell their crimson secret in leaves of fragrant fire ; 
They plead for smiles and kisses as summer fields for 

showers, 
And every purple veinlet thrills with exquisite desire. 

0, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of soft confession 
You give my amorous roses for the tender hope they 
prove ; 



182 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And press their heart-leaves back, love, to drink their 

deeper passion, 

For their sweetest, wildest perfume is the whisper of 
my love ! 

My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness and the 

sighing, 
All the longing of a heart that reaches thirsting for 

its bliss ; 

And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips and eyes are dying 
For the melting of her love-look and the rapture of 
her kiss. 



THE CELEBES. 

" The sons of God came upon the earth and took wives of the 
daughters of men." Legends of t fie Talmud. 

DEAR islands of the Orient, 

Where Nature s first of love was spent ; 

Sweet hill-tops of the summered land 

Where gods and men went hand in hand 

In golden days of sinless earth ! 

Woe rack the womb of time, that bore 

The primal evil to its birth ! 

It came ; the gods were seen no more : 

The fields made sacred by their feet, 

The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet, 

The streams their bright forms mirrored, 

The fragrant banks that made their bed, 

The human hearts round which they wove 

Their threads of superhuman love 

These were too dear and desolate 

To sink to fallen man s estate j 

The gods who loved them loosed the seas, 

Struck free the barriers of the deep, 

That rolled in one careering sweep 

And filled the land, as twere a grave, 

And left no beauteous remnant, save 

Those hill-tops called the Celebes. 



JOHN BOYLE V RE ILLY. 183 



A SAVAGE. 

DIXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 
Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl ; 

Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage, 
And watch him stride in freedom from the hall. 

"Return on Friday, to be shot to death/" 
So ran the sentence it was Monday night. 

The dead man s comrades drew a well-pleased breath ; 
Then all night long the gambling dens were bright. 

The days sped slowly ; but the Friday came, 
And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground ; 

They chose six riflemen of deadly aim, 

And with low voices sat and lounged around. 

" He will not come." " He s not a fool." " The men 
Who set the savage free must face the blame." 

A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then 

Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came. 

Silent and stern a woman at his heels ; 

He motions to the brave, who stays her tread. 
Next minute flame the guns : the woman reels 

And drops without a moan Dixon is dead. 



LOVE S SECRET. 

LOVE found them sitting in a woodland place, 
His amorous hand amid her golden tresses ; 

And Love looked smiling on her glowing face 
And moistened eyes upturned to his caresses. 

" O sweet," she murmured, "life is utter bliss ! " 

" Dear heart," he said, " our golden cup runs over ! " 

" Drink, love," she cried, "and thank the gods for this! " 
He drained the precious lips of cup and lover. 



1 84 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered thence, 
The mated bosoms heard this benediction: 

Love lies within the brimming bowl of sense: 

Who keeps this full has joy who drains, affliction." 

They heard the rustle as he smiling fled : 

She reached her hand to pull the roses blowing. 

He stretched to take the purple grapes o erhead ; 

Love whispered back, " Nay, keep their beauties grow 
ing" 

They paused, and understood: one flower alone 
They took and kept, and Love flew smiling over. 

Their roses bloomed, their cup went brimming on 

She looked for Love within, and found her lover. 



DISTANCE. 

THE world is large, when its weary leagues two loving 

hearts divide; 
But the world is small, when your enemy is loose on 

the other side. 



UNCLE NED S TALE. 
AN OLD DRAGOON S STORY. 

I OFTEN, musing, wander back to days long since gone by, 
And far-off scenes and long-lost forms arise to fancy s eye. 
A group familiar now I see, who all but one are fled, 
My mother, sister Jane, myself, and dear old Uncle Ned. 
I ll tell you how I see them now. First, mother in her 

chair 

Sits knitting by the parlour fire, with anxious matron air ; 
My sister Jane, just nine years old, is seated at her feet, 
With look demure, as if she, too, were thinking how to 

meet 



JOHN BO YLE O RE ILL Y. 185 

The butcher s or the baker s bill, though not a thought 

has she 

Of aught beside her girlish toys; and next to her I see 
Myself, a sturdy lad of twelve, neglectful of the book 
That open lies upon my knee, my fixed admiring look 
At Uncle Ned, upon the left, whose upright, martial mien, 
Whose empty sleeve and grey moustache, proclaim what 

he has been. 
My mother I had always loved ; my father then was 

dead ; 
But twas more than love twas worship I felt for 

Uncle Ned. 

Such tales he had of battle-fields, the victory and the rout, 
The ringing cheer, the dying shriek, the loud exulting 

shout ! 
And how, forgetting age and wounds, his eye would 

kindle bright, 
When telling of some desperate ride or close and deadly 

fight! 

But oft I noticed in the midst of some wild martial tale, 
To which I lent attentive ear, my mother s cheek grow 

pale : 
She sighed to see my kindled look, and feared I might 

be led 

To follow in the wayward steps of poor old Uncle Ned. 
But with all the wondrous tales he told twas strange 

I never heard 

Of his last fight, for of that day he never spoke a word. 
And yet twas there he lost his arm, and once he e en 

confessed 
Twas there he won the glittering cross he wore upon his 

breast. 

It hung the centre of a group of Glory s emblems fair, 
And royal hands, he told me once, had placed the bauble 

there. 
Each day that passed I hungered more to hear about that 

fight, 
And oftentimes I prayed in vain. At length, one winter s 

night, 



1 86 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The very night I speak of now, with more than usual care 
I filled his pipe, then took my stand beside my uncle s 

chair : 

I fixed my eyes upon the Cross, he saw my youthful plan ; 
And, smiling, laid the pipe aside and thus the tale 

began : 

" Well, boy, it was in summer time, and just at morn 
ing s light 

We heard the Boot and Saddle ! sound : the foe was 
then in sight, 

Just winding round a distant hill and opening on the 
plain. 

Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb 
and rein. 

We snatched a hasty breakfast, we were old campaigners 
then : 

That morn, of all our splendid corps, we d scarce one 
hundred men ; 

But they were soldiers, tried and true, who d rather die 
than yield : 

The rest were scattered far and wide o er many a hard- 
fought field. 

Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging pace 

We left the bivouac behind ; and soon the eye could trace 

The columns moving o er the plain. Oh ! twas a stir 
ring sight 

To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight : 

To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, steady 
wheel, 

They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel, 

Our place was on the farther flank, behind some rising 
ground, 

That hid the stirring scene from view ; but soon a boom 
ing sound 

Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war s loud 
thunder rolled, 

And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly 
message told. 



JOHN BO YLE ORE ILL Y. 1 87 

We hoped to have a gallant day ; our hearts were all 

aglow ; 
We longed for one wild, sweeping charge, to chase the 

flying foe. 
Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no 

orders came : 
They clutched their swords, and muttered words twere 

better not to name. 
For hours the loud artillery roared, the sun was at its 

height, 
Still there we lay behind that hill, shut out from all the 

fight! 
We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing 

British cheers, 

And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears. 
Oar hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed 

the very hill 

That hid the sight : the evening fell, and we were idle still. 
The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry 

snort 

And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport. 
When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our 

hope, 
A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing 

down the slope. 
He bore the wished-for orders. At last ! our Colonel 

cried ; 
And as he read the brief despatch his glance was filled 

with pride. 

Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone, 
The stern, expressive sentence spoke, He said it must 

be done ! 
It shall be done ! our Colonel cried. ( Men, look to 

strap and girth, 
We ve work to do this day will prove what every man 

is worth; 
Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long 

delay, 
The General says on us depends the fortune of the day ! 



i88 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

" No order needed we to mount, each man was in his 

place, 
And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran 

face. 

We trotted sharply up the hill, and halted on the brow, 
And then that glorious field appeared. Oh ! lad, I see 

it now ! 

But little time had we to spare for idle gazing then : 
Beneath us, in the valley, stood a dark-clad mass of men : 
It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted, 

There ! 
Behold your work ! Our orders are to charge and break 

that square ! 
Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his 

reins, 
A.nd pressed the helmet o er his brow ; the horses tossed 

their manes 
In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned the springy 

heath, 
Impatient for the trumpet s sound to bid them rush to 

death. 

" Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour : at last we 

heard the words, 
Dragoons ! I know you ll follow me. Ride steady men ! 

Draw swords ! 
The trumpet sounded : off we dashed, at first with steady 

pace, 

But growing swifter as we went. Oh ! twas a gallant race ! 
Three-fourths the ground was left behind : the loud and 

thrilling < Charge ! 

Rang out ; but, fairly frantic now, we needed not to urge 
With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their 

foaming flanks. 
They seemed to fly. Now straight in front appeared the 

kneeling ranks. 
Above them waved a standard broad : we saw their rifles 

raised, 
A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley 

blazed. 




JOHN BO YLE O RE ILL Y. 1 89 

The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a 

trooper fell ; 
But we were left. What cared we then 1 but onward 

rushing still ! 

Again the crash roared fiercely out; but on ! still madly on ! 
We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who 

was gone. 
We gored the horses foaming flanks, and on through 

smoke and glare 
We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no 

thought, no care ! 
Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage 

heel 
I struck my horse : with awful bound he rose right o er 

their steel ! 

" Well, boy, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap 
was made, 

But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped a reek 
ing blade. 

I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with 
blood : 

I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous 
mood. 

I parried not, nor guarded thrusts ; I felt not pain or 
wound, 

But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my 
sword around. 

I tried to reach the standard sheet but there at last 
was foiled. 

The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel 
recoiled. 

They saw his fright, and pressed him then : his terror 
made him rear, 

And falling back he crushed their ranks, and broke their 
guarded square ! 

My comrades saw the gap he made, and soon came dash 
ing in ; 

They raised me up, I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din. 



1 90 Y O UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

I d seen some fearful work before, but never was engaged 
In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged. 
The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly 

steel : 
Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they 

seemed to feel. 
No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths 

instead, 

And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the dead. 
The fight was round the standard : though outnumbered 

ten to one, 
We held our ground, ay, more than that, we still 

kept pushing on. 
Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by 

storm. 
I seized the pole, a blow came down and crushed my 

outstretched arm. 

I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed away ; 
And, with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the 

fray. 
At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o er 

heaps of slain : 
Some fought to death ; some wavered, then fled across 

the plain. 

"Well, boy, the rest is all confused : there was a fearful 
rout ; 

I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their mad 
dened shout. 

Then came a blank : my senses reeled, I know not how 
I fell ; 

I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell. 

My mind was gone : when it came back I saw the moon 
on high ; 

Around me all was still as death. I gazed up at the sky, 

And watched the glimmering stars above, so quiet did 
they seem, 

And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fear 
ful dream. 



JOHN BO YLE a RE ILL Y. 191 

But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wan 
dering brain, 
And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts 

of pain. 
My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased 

with every breath ; 
I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for 

death. 
My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the 

sward, 
But something still my right hand grasped : I thought 

it was my sword. 
I raised my hand to cast it off, no reeking blade was 

there ; 
Then life and strength returned, I held the Standard 

of the Square ! 
With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh ! then I 

wished to live. 
Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard 

seemed to give ! 
I gazed around : far down the vale I saw a camp-fire s 

glow. 
With wandering step I ran that way, I recked not 

friend or foe. 
Though stumbling now o er heaps of dead, now o er a 

stiffened horse, 
I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my 

onward course. 
But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked 

my feverish speed ; 
Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to 

bleed. 

I knew that if I fell again, my chance of life was gone, 
So, leaning on the standard-pole, I still kept struggling 

on. 
At length I neared the camp-fire : there were scarlet 

jackets round, 
And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the 

ground. 



192 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men, about 
a score : 

God ! twas all that now remained of my old gallant 

corps ! 

The muster-roll was being called : to every well-known 
name 

1 heard the solemn answer, Dead ! At length my 

own turn came. 
I paused to hear, a comrade answered, Dead ! I saw 

him fall ! 

I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call. 
My life was flowing "fast, and all around was gathering 

haze, 
And o er the heather tops I watched niy comrades 

cheerful blaze. 
I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man 

could bear. 

God ! it was an awful thing to die with help so near ! 
And death was stealing o er me : with the strength of 

wild despair 

1 raised the standard o er my head, and waved it 

through the air. 
Then all grew dim : the fire, the men, all vanished from 

my sight, 

My senses reeled ; I know no more of that eventful night. 
Twas weeks before my mind came back : I knew not 

where I lay, 
But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came 

each day. 
They told me how the waving flag that night had caught 

their eye, 
And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that 

I must die ; 
They brought me all the cheering news, the war was at 

an end. 

No wonder twas, with all their care, I soon began to mend. 
The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant 

train, 
But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now twere vain. 



JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 193 

Enough, I soon grew strong again : the wished-for route 

had come, 
And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers 

for home. 
We soon arrived ; and then, my lad, twould thrill your 

heart to hear 

How England welcomed home her sons with many a ring 
ing cheer. 
But tush ! what boots it now to speak of what was said 

or done 1 
The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were 

gone. 
Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah ! that memory is 

sweet ! 

They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet. 
I parted from my brave old corps : twere matter, lad, 

for tears, 

To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years. 
I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease. 
There, boy, I ve told you all my tales. Now let me 

smoke in peace." 

How vivid grows the picture now ! how bright each 

scene appears ! 
I trace each loved and long -lost face with eyes bedimmed 

in tears. 
How plain I hear thee, Uncle Ned, and see thy, musing 

look, 

Comparing all thy glory to the curling wreaths of smoke! 
A truer, braver soldier ne er for king and country bled. 
His wanderings are for ever o er. God rest thee, Uncle 

Ned! 



WESTERN A USTRALIA. 

BEAUTEOUS Southland ! land of yellow air, 

That hangeth o er thee slumbering, and doth hold 

The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold 



194 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 

Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth ! 

Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 

O land, God made thee wondrous to the eye ! 

But His sweet singers thou hast never heard ; 
He left thee, meaning to come by-and-bye, 

And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 
He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers, 

But left them scentless : ah ! their woeful dole, 
Like sad reproach of their Creator s powers, 

To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. 

He gave thee trees of odorous precious wood ; 

But, midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit. 
He looked, but said not that His work was good, 

When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey : every bell 
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist ; 

But no bee-lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist. 

O strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint 

For others eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw thee ; but the senses faint 

In soft delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of colour. Virgin fair thou art, 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 

The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart. 



D YING IN HARNESS. 

ONLY a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road, 
Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy 

load ; 

Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes 
Watching the frighted teamster goading the beast to rise. 



JOHN BOYLE CPREILLY. 195 

Hold ! for his toil is over no more labour for him ; 
See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes 

grow dim ; 

See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests the head 
Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be 

dead ; 

After the weary journey, how restful it is to lie 
With the broken shafts and the cruel load waiting only 

to die. 

Watchers, he died in harness died in the shafts and 
straps 

Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the day s mis 
haps 

One of the passing wonders marking the city road 

A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad. 

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile, 
What is the symbol 1 Only death why should we cease 

to smile 
At death for a beast of burden 1 On, through the busy 

street 
That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying 

feet. 

What was the sign 1 A symbol to touch the tireless will 1 ? 
Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still 1 
The seed on the rock is wasted on heedless hearts of men, 
That gather and sow and grasp and lose labour and 

sleep and then 

Then for the prize ! A crowd in the street of ever- 
echoing tread 

The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his 
harness dead ! 



196 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



IN BOHEMIA. 

I D rather live in Bohemia than in any other land ; 

For only there are the values true, 

And the laurels gathered in all men s view. 

The prizes of traffic and state are won 

By shrewdness or force or by deeds undone ; 

But fame is sweeter without the feud, 

And the wise of Bohemia are never shrewd, 

Here, pilgrims stream with a faith sublime 

From every class and clime and time, 

Aspiring only to be enrolled 

With the names that are writ in the book of gold ; 

And each one bears in mind or hand 

A palm of the dear Bohemian land. 

The scholar first, with his book a youth 

Aflame with the glory of harvested truth ; 

A girl with a picture, a man with a play, 

A boy with a wolf he has modelled in clay ; 

A smith with a marvellous hilt and sword, 

A player, a king, a ploughman, a lord 

And the player is king when the door is past. 

The ploughman is crowned, and the lord is last ! 

I d rather fail in Bohemia than win in another land 

There are no titles inherited there, 

No hoard or hope for the brainless heir ; 

No gilded dullard native born 

To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn : 

Bohemia has none but adopted sons ; 

Its limits, where Fancy s bright stream runs ; 

Its honours, not garnered for thrift or trade, 

But for beauty and truth men s souls have made. 

To the empty heart in a jewelled breast 

There is value, maybe, in a purchased crest ; 

But the thirsty of soul soon learn to know 

The moistureless froth of the social show ; 

The vulgar sham of the pompous feast 

Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest ; 



/. H. BONER. 197 

The organised charity, scrimped and iced, 

In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ ; 

The smile restrained, the respectable cant, 

When a friend in need is a friend in want ; 

Where the only aim is to keep afloat, 

And a brother may drown with a cry in his throat. 

Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the grasp 

of a friendly hand, 
And I d rather live in Bohemia than in any other land. 



J. H. BONER. 

[Born in North Carolina, 1845. Author of Whispering Pines 
(1883, Brentano & Co., Washington), from which the poems 
given are quoted by special permission.] 

WE WALKED AMONG THE WHISPERING 
PINES. 



IT was a still autumnal day 

So sadly strange and strangely bright 
The hectic glow of quick decay 

Tinged everything with lovely light. 
It warmly touched the fragrant air 

And fields of corn and crumbling vines 
Along the golden Yadkin, where 

We walked among the whispering pines. 

II. 
Alas, that tender hectic glow 

Shone in her gentle, pallid face, 
And none save God in heaven could know 

My agony to see its trace 
To watch those fatal roses bloom 

Upon her cheeks red, cruel signs 
But all of love, not of the tomb, 

We spoke among the whispering pines. 



1 98 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

in. 
Ah, fatal roses never yet 

Have they deceived. She drooped and died. 
We parted and we never met 

Again ; but often at my side 
An angel walks her step I know 

A viewless arm my neck entwines ; 
0, angel love, so years ago 

We walked among the whispering pines. 



THE LIGHT OOD FIRE. 

i. 
WHEN wintry days are dark and drear 

And all the forest ways grow still, 
When gray snow-laden clouds appear 

Along the bleak horizon hill, 
When cattle all are snugly penned, 

And sheep go huddling close together, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 

From farm-house chimneys in such weather 
Give me old Carolina s own, 
A great log house, a great hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar, 
And a red, leaping light ood fire. 

n. 

When dreary day draws to a close 
And all the silent land is dark, 
When Boreas down the chimney blows 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark, 
When limbs are bent with snow or sleet 

And owls hoot from the hollow tree, 
With hounds asleep about your feet, 
Then is the time for reverie. 
Give me old Carolina s own, 
A hospitable wide hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or briar, 
And a red, rousing light ood fire. 



MAURICE THOMPSON. 199 



MAURICE THOMPSON. 

[Born at Fairfield, Indiana, 9th September 1844. Author of 
Jloosier Mosaics (New York, 1875) ; The Witchery of Archery 
(1878) ; A Tallahassee Girl (Boston, 1882) ; His Second Cam 
paign (1882) ; Songs of Fair Weather (1883) ; At Love s Extremes 
(1885) ; Byways and Bird Notes (1885) ; The Boys Book of 
Sports (I88Q) ; A Banker of Banker sville (1886); Sylvan Secrets 
(1887) ; The Story of Louisiana, and A Fortnight of Fol y (New 
York 1888). The poems given are quoted with the kind per 
mission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

THE DEATH OF THE WHITE HERON, 

CYPRESS LAKE, FLORIDA. 

/ PULLED my boat with even sweep 
Across light shoals and eddies deep, 
Tracking the currents of the lake 
From lettuce raft to weedy brake. 

Across a pool death-still and dim 
I saw a monster reptile swim, 

And caught, far off and quickly gone, 
The delicate outlines of a fawn. 
Above the marshy islands new 
The green teal and swift curlew; 

The rail and dunlin drew the hem 
Of lily-bonnets over them ; 

I saw the tufted wood-duck pass 
Between the wisps of water-grass. 

All round the gunwales and across 
I draped my boat with Spanish moss, 

And, lightly down from head to knee, 
I hung guy air-plants over me ; 

Then, lurking like a savage thing 
Crouching for a treacherous spring, 

I stood in motionless suspense 
Among the rushes green and dense. 



200 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I kept my bow half-drawn, a shaft 
Set straight across the velvet haft. 

Alert and vigilant, I stood 
Scanning the lake, the sky, the wood. 

I heard a murmur soft and sad 
From water-weed to lily-pad, 

And from the frondous pine did ring 
The hammer of the golden wing. 

On old drift-logs the bitterns stood. 
Dreaming above the silent flood ; 

The water-turkey eyed my boat, 

The hideous snake-bird coiled its throat, 

And birds whose plumage shone like flame, 
Wild things grown suddenly, strangely tame,- 

Lit near me ; but I heeded not : 
They could not tempt me to a shot. 

Grown tired at length, I bent the oars 
By grassy brinks and shady shores, 

Through labyrinths and mysteries 
Mid dusky cypress stems and knees, 

Until I reached a spot I knew, 
Over which each day the herons flew. 

I heard a whisper sweet and keen 
Flow through the fringe of rushes green, 

The water saying some light thing, 
The rushes gaily answering. 

The wind drew faintly from the south, 
Like breath blown from a sleeper s mouth, 

And down its currents sailing low 
Came a lone heron white as snow. 



MAURICE THOMPSON. 201 

He cleft with grandly spreading wing 
The hazy sunshine of the spring ; 

Through graceful curves he swept above 
The gloomy moss-hung cypress grove ; 

Then gliding down a long incline, 
He flashed his golden eyes on mine. 

Half-turned he poised himself in air, 
The prize was great, the mark was fair ! 

I raised iny bow, and steadily drew 
The silken string until I knew 

My trusty arrow s barbed point 
Lay on my left forefinger joint, 

Until I felt the feather seek 

My ear, swift drawn across nay cheek : 

Then from my fingers leapt the string 
With sharp recoil and deadly ring, 

Closed by a sibilant sound so shrill, 
It made the very water thrill, 

Like twenty serpents bound together, 
Hissed the flying arrow s feather ! 

A thud, a puff, a feathery ring, 
A quick collapse, a quivering, 

A whirl, a headlong downward dash, 
A heavy fall, a sullen splash, 

And like white foam, or giant flake 
Of snow, he lay upon the lake ! 

And of his death the rail was glad, 
Strutting upon a lily-pad ; 

The jaunty wood-duck smiled and bowed ; 
The belted kingfisher laughed aloud, 



202 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Making the solemn bittern stir 
Like a half- wakened slumberer ; 

And rasping notes of joy were heard 
From gallinule and crying-bird, 

The while with trebled noise did ring 
The hammer of the golden-wing ! 



CERES. 

THE wheat was flowing ankle-deep 
Across the field from side to side ; 

And, dipping in the emerald waves, 
The swallows flew in circles wide. 

The sun, a moment flaring red, 
Shot level rays athwart the world, 

Then quenched his fire behind the hills, 
With rosy vapours o er him curled. 

A sweet, insinuating calm, 

A calm just one remove from sleep, 

Such as a tranquil watcher feels, 
Seeing mild stars at midnight sweep 

Through splendid purple deeps, and swing 
Their old, ripe clusters down the west 

To where, on undiscovered hills, 

The gods have gathered them to rest, 

A calm like that hung over all 

The dusky groves, and, filtered through 
The thorny hedges, touched the wheat 

Till every blade was bright with dew. 

Was it a dream ? We call things dreams 
When we must needs do so, or own 

Belief in old, exploded myths, 

Whose very smoke has long since flown. 



MAURICE THOMPSON, 203 

Was it a dream ? Mine own eyes saw, 
And Ceres came across the wheat 

That, like bright water, dimpled round 
The golden sandals of her feet. 



DIANA. 

SHE had a bow of yellow horn 
Like the old moon at early morn. 

She had three arrows strong and good, 
Steel set in feathered cornel wood. 

Like purest pearl her left breast shone 
Above her kirtle s emerald zone ; 

Her right was bound in silk well-knit, 
Lest her bow-string should sever it. 



Ripe lips she had, and clear grey eyes, 
And hair pure gold blown hoyden-wise 

Across her face like shining mist 

That with dawn s flush is faintly kissed. 

Her limbs ! how matched and round and fine ! 
How free like song ! how strong like wine ! 

And, timed to music wild and sweet, 
How swift her silver-sandalled feet ! 

Single of heart and strong of hand, 
Wind-like she wandered through the land. 

No man (or king or lord or churl) 
Dared whisper love to that fair girl. 

And woe to him who came upon 
Her nude, at bath, like Acteon ! 

So dire his fate, that one who heard 
The flutter of a bathing bird, 



204 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

What time he crossed a breezy wood, 
Felt sudden quickening of his blood ; 

Cast one swift look, then ran away 

Far through the green, thick groves of May ; 

Afeard, lest down the wind of spring 
He d hear an arrow whispering ! 



AN EXILE. 
i. 

THE singing streams, and deep, dark wood 
Beloved of old by Robin Hood, 

Lift me a voice, kiss me a hand, 
To call me from the younger land, 

What time by dull Floridian lakes, 
What time by rivers fringed with brakes, 

I blow the reed, and draw the bow, 
And see my whistling arrows go 

Well sent to deer or wary hare, 
Or wild-fowl hurtling down the air ; 

What time I lie in shady spots 
On beds of mild forget-me-nots, 

That fringe the fen-lands insincere 
And boggy marges of the mere, 

Whereon I see the heron stand, 
Knee-deep in sable slush of sand, 

I think how sweet if friends should come 
And tell me England calls me home. 

ii. 

I keep good heart, and bide my time, 
And blow the bubbles of my rhyme ; 

I wait and watch, for soon I know 
In Sherwood merry horns shall blow. 






MAURICE THOMPSON. 205 

And blow and blow, and folk shall come 
To tell me England calls me home. 

Mother of archers, then I go 
Wind-blown to you with bended bow, 

To stand close up by you and ask 
That it be my appointed task 

To sing in leal and loyal lays 

Your matchless bowmen s meed of praise ; 

And that unchallenged I may go 

Through your green woods with bended bow, 

Your woods where bowered and hidden stood 
Of old the home of Robin Hood. 

Ah, this were sweet, and it will come 
When Merry England calls me home ! 

in. 

Perchance, long hence, it may befall, 
Or soon, mayhap, or not at all, 

That all my songs nowhither sent, 
And all my shafts at random spent, 

May find their way to those who love 
The simple force and truth thereof ; 

Wherefore my name shall then be rung 
Across the land from tongue to tongue, 

Till some who hear shall haste to come 
With news that England calls me home. 

I walk where spiced winds raff the blades 
Of sedge-grass on the summer glades ; 

Through purfled braids that fringe the mere 
I watch the timid tawny deer 

Set its quick feet and quake and spring, 
As if it heard some deadly thing, 



206 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

When but a brown snipe nutters by 
With rustling wing and piping cry ; 

I stand in some dim place at dawn, 
And see across a forest lawn 

The tall wild- turkeys swiftly pass 
Light-footed through the dewy grass ; 

I shout, and wind my horn, and go 

The whole morn through with bended bow, 

Then on my rest I feel at noon 
Sown pulvil of the blooms of June ; 

I live and keep no count of time, 
I blow the bubbles of my rhyme : 

These are my joys till friends shall come 
And tell me England calls me home. 

IV. 

The self-yew bow was England s boast ; 
She leaned upon her archer host, 

It was her very life-support 
At Crecy and at Agincourt, 

At Flodden and at Halidon Hill, 
And fields of glory redder still ! 

O bows that rang at Sol way Moss ! 
O yeomanry of Neville s Cross ! 

These were your victories, for by you 
Breastplate and shield were cloven through 

And mailed knights, at every joint 
Sore wounded by an arrow-point, 

Drew rein, turned pale, reeled in the sell, 
And, bristled with arrows, gasped and fell 

O barbed points that scratched the name 
Of England on the walls of fame ! 



MAURICE THOMPSON. 207 

O music of the ringing cords 

Set to grand songs of deeds, not words ! 

yeomen ! for your memory s sake, 
These bubbles of my rhyme I make, 

Not rhymes of conquest stern and sad, 
Or hoarse-voiced, like the Iliad, 

But soft and dreamful as the sigh 
Of this sweet wind that washes by, 

The while I wait for friends to come 
And tell me England calls me home. 

v. 

1 wait and wait ; it would be sweet 
To feel the sea beneath my feet, 

And hear the breeze sing in the shrouds 
Betwixt me and the white-winged clouds, 

To feel and know my heart should soon 
Have its desire, its one sweet boon 

To look out on the foam-sprent waste 
Through which my vessel s keel would haste, 

Till on the far horizon dim 

A low white line would shine and swim ! 

The low white line, the gleaming strand, 
The pale cliffs of the Mother-land ! 

Oh God ! the very thought is bliss, 
The burden of my song it is, 

Till over sea song-blown shall come 
The news that England calls me home ! 

VI. 

Ah, call me, England, some sweet day 
When these brown locks are silvergrey, 

And these brown arms are shrunken small, 
Unfit for deeds of strength at all ; 



208 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

When the swift deer shall pass me by, 
Whilst all unstrung my bow shall lie, 

And birds shall taunt me with the time 
I wasted making foolish rhyme, 

And wasted blowing in a reed 

The runes of praise, the yeoman s meed, 

And wasted dreaming foolish dreams 
Of English woods and English streams, 

Of grassy glade and queachy fen 
Beloved of old by archer men, 

And of the friends who would not come 
To tell me England called me home. 

VII. 

Such words are sad : blow them away 
And lose them in the leaves of May, 

O wind ! and leave them there to rot, 
Like random arrows lost when shot ; 

And here, these better thoughts, take these 
And blow them far across the seas, 

To that old land and that old wood 
Which hold the dust of Robin Hood ! 

Say this, low-speaking in my place : 
" The last of all the archer race 

" Sends this his sheaf of rhymes to those 
Whose fathers bent the self-yew bows, 

" And made the cloth-yard arrows ring 
For merry England and her King, 

" Wherever Lion Richard set 
His fortune s stormy banneret ! " 

Say this, and then, oh, haste to come 
And tell me England calls me home. 



WILL CARLE TON. 209 

WILL CARLETON. 

[Born in Michigan, 1845. Author of Farm Ballads (1873) ; Farm 
Legends (1875) ; Young Folks Rhymes (1876) ; Farm Festivals 
(1881) ; City Ballads (1885) ; City Legends (1889). All these 
are published by Harper & Brothers, New York, with whose 
kind permission the " First Settler s Story " is quoted. It is 
taken from Farm Festivals. ] 

THE FIRST SETTLERS STORY. 
IT ain t the funniest thing a man can do 
Existing in a country when it s new ; 
Nature who moved in first a good long while 
Has things already somewhat her own style, 
And she don t want her woodland splendours battered, 
Her rustic furniture broke up and scattered, 
Her paintings, which long years ago were done 
By that old splendid artist-king, the sun, 
Torn down and dragged in Civilisation s gutter, 
Or sold to purchase settlers bread and butter. 
She don t want things exposed, from porch to closet 
And so she kind o nags the man who does it, 
She carries in her pockets bags of seeds, 
As general agent of the thriftiest weeds ; 
She sends her blackbirds in the early morn, 
To superintend his fields of planted corn ; 
She gives him rain past any duck s desire 
Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire ; 
She sails mosquitoes leeches perched on wings 
To poison him with blood-devouring stings ; 
She loves her ague-muscles to display, 
And shake him up say every other day ; 
With careful, conscientious care, she makes 
Those travelling poison-bottles, rattlesnakes ; 
She finds time, mongst her other family cares, 
To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears ; 
She spurns his offered hand, with silent gibes, 
And compromises with the Indian tribes 
(For they who ve wrestled with his bloody art 
Say Nature always takes an Indian s part) ; 




3io YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

In short, her toil is every day increased, 
To scare him out, and hustle him back east ; 
Till fin lly, it appears to her some day, 
That he has made arrangements for to stay; 
Then she turns round as sweet as anything, 
And takes her new made friend into the ring, 
And changes from a snarl into a purr : 
From mother-in-law to mother as it were. 

Well, when I first infested this retreat, 
Things to my view looked frightful incomplete ; 
But nature seemed quite cheerful, all about me, 
A-carrying on her different trades without me, 
These words the forest seemed at me to throw: 
" Sit down and rest awhile before you go ; " 
From bees to trees the whole woods seemed to say 
" You re welcome here till you can get away, 
But not for time of any longer amount ; 
So don t be hanging round on our account." 
But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, 
And brought my wife and plunder right along ; 
I hadn t a round-trip ticket to go back, 
And if I had, there wasn t no railroad track; 
And driving east was what I couldn t endure : 
I hadn t started on a circular tour. 

My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, 
And helped me every blessed way she could ; 
She seemed to take to every rough old tree, 
As sing lar as when first she took to me. 
She kep our little log-house neat as wax ; 
And once I caught her fooling with my axe. 
She learned a hundred masculine things to do 
She aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin true, 
Although in spite of my express desire, 
She always shut her eyes before she d fire, 
She hadn t the muscle (though she had the heart) 
In out-door work to take an active part ; 
Though in our firm of Duty and Endeavour, 
She wasn t no silent partner whatsoever. 



WILL CARLE TON. 211 

When I was logging, burning, choppin* wood 
She d linger round, and help me all she could, 
And kept me fresh-ambitious all the while, 
And lifted tons, just with her voice and smile. 
With no desire my glory for to rob, 
She used to stan around and boss the job; 
And when first-class success my hands befell, 
Would proudly say, " We did that pretty well ! " 
She was delicious, both to hear and see 
That pretty wife-girl that kept house for me. 

Sundays, we didn t propose for lack o church 

To have our souls left wholly in the lurch ; 

And so I shaved and dressed up well s I could, 

And did a day s work trying to be good. 

My wife was always bandbox-sleek ; and when 

Our fat old bull s-eye watch said half-past ten 

( Twas always verging from the narrow way, 

And li d on Sundays, same as any day), 

The family Bible from its high perch started 

(The one her mother gave her when we parted), 

The hymn-book, full of music-balm and fire 

The one she used to sing in in the choir 

One I sang with her from I ve got it yet 

The very first time that we really met ; 

(I recollect, when first our voices gibed, 

A feeling that declines to be described ! 

And when our eyes met near the second verse 

A kind of old-acquaintance look in hers, 

And something went from mine, which, I declare, 

I never even knew before was there 

And when our hands touched slight as slight could be 

A streak of sweetened lightnin thrilled through me ! 

But that s enough of that : perhaps, even now, 

You ll think I m softer than the law ll allow ; 

But you ll protect an old man with his age, 

For yesterday I turned my eightieth page ; 

Besides there d be less couples falling out 

If such things were more freely talked about.) 



212 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Well, we would take these books sit down alone, 

Arid have a two-horse meeting, all our own ; 

And read our verses, sing the sacred rhymes, 

And make it seem a good deal like old times. 

But finally across her face there d glide 

A sort of sorry shadow, from inside ; 

And once she bared her head, like a tired flower, 

Upon my arm, and cried a half-an-hour. 

I humoured her until she had it out, 

And didn t ask her what it was about ; 

I knew right well : our reading, song, and prayer, 

Had brought the old times back, too true and square. 

The large attended meetings morn and night ; 

The spiritual and mental warmth and light; 

Her father, in his pew, next to the aisle ; 

Her mother, with the mother of her smile; 

Her brother s sly, forbidden Sunday glee; 

Her sisters, e en a-most as sweet as she ; 

Her girl and boy friends, not too warm or cool; 

Her little scrub class in the Sunday-school ; 

The social, and the singings and the ball ; 

And happy home-cheer waiting for them all 

These marched in close procession through her mind, 

And didn t forget to leave their tracks behind. 

You married men there s many in my view 

Don t think your wife can all wrap up in you, 

Don t deem, though close her life to yours may grow, 

That you are all the folks she wants to know ; 

Or think your stitches form the only part 

Of the crotchet-work of a woman s heart. 

Though married souls each other s lives may burnish. 

Each needs some help the other cannot furnish. 

Well, neighbourhoods meant counties, in those days ; 

The roads didn t have accommodating ways ; 

And maybe weeks would pass before she d see 

And much less talk with any one but me. 

The Indians sometimes showed their sun-baked faces, 

But they didn t teem with conversational graces ; 



WILL CARLE TON. 213 

Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, 

But twasn t like talking with a human soul ; 

And finally I thought that I could trace 

A half-heart-hunger peering from her face. 

Then she would drive it back, and shut the door ; 

Of course that only made me see it more. 

Twas hard to see her give her life to mine, 

Making a steady effort not to pine ; 

Twas hard to hear the laugh bloom out each minute, 

And recognise the seeds of sorrow in it ; 

No misery makes a close observer mourn, 

Like hopeless grief with hopeful courage borne ; 

There s nothing sets the sympathies to paining, 

Like a complaining woman, uncomplaining ! 

It always draws my breath out into sighs, 

To see a brave look in a woman s eyes. 

Well she went on, as plucky as could be, 

Fighting the foe she thought I did not see, 

Arid using her heart-horticultural powers 

To turn the forest to a bed of flowers. 

You can not check an unadmitted sigh, 

And so I had to soothe her on the sly, 

And secretly to help her draw her load ; 

And soon it came to be an uphill road ; 

Hard work bears hard upon the average pulse, 

Even with satisfactory results ; 

But when effects are scarce, the heavy strain 

Falls dead and solid on the heart and brain. 

And when we re bothered, it will oft occur 

We seek blame-timber ; and I lit on her ; 

And looked at her with daily lessening favour, 

For what I knew she couldn t help, to save her. 

(We often what our minds should blush with shame for 

Blame people most for what they re least to blame for.) 

Then there d a misty jealous thought occur, 

Because I wasn t Earth and Heaven to her, 

And all the planets that about us hovered, 

And several more than hadn t been discovered ; 



214 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And my hard muscle-labour, day by day, 

Deprived good-nature of the right of way; 

And taint no use the trying to conceal 

From hearts that love us what our own hearts feel ; 

They can t escape close observation s mesh 

And thoughts have tongues that are not made of flesh. 

And so ere long she caught the half -grown fact : 

Commenced observing how I didn t act; 

And silently began to grieve and doubt 

O er old attentions now sometimes left out 

Some kind caress some little petting ways 

Commenced a-staying in on rainy days 

(I did not see it clear then, I ll allow ; 

But I can trace it rather acc rate now) ; 

And Discord, when once he had called and seen us, 

Came round quite often, and edged in between us. 

One night, I came from work unusual late, 
Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate 
Her supper struck me wrong (though I ll allow 
She hadn t much to strike with, any how) : 
And when I went to milk the cows, and found 
They d wandered from their usual feeding ground, 
And maybe d left a few long miles behind em, 
Which I must copy, if I meant to find em, 
Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, 
And in a trice these hot words I had spoke : 
"You ought to have kept the animals in view, 
And drove em in ; you d nothing else to do. 
The heft of all our life on me must fall, 
You just lie round, and let me do it all." 

That speech it hadn t gone a half a minute, 

Before I saw the cold black poison in it ; 

And I d have given all I had and more, 

To ve only safely got it back in-door. 

I m now what most folks " well-to-do " would call : 

I feel to-day as if I d give ii all, 

Provided I through fifty years might reach, 

And kill and bury that half-minute speech 



WILL CARLETON. 215 

Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds ; 

You can t do that way when you re flying words, 

Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead : 

But God Himself can t kill them when they re said. 

She handed back no words, as I could hear ; 

She didn t frown she didn t shed a tear ; 

Half proud, half crushed, she stood and looked me o er, 

Like some one she had never seen before ! 

But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise 

I never viewed before in human eyes. 

(I ve seen it enough since in a dream ; 

It sometimes wakes me, like a midnight scream). 

That night, while theoretically sleeping, 

I half heard and half felt that she was weeping ; 

And my heart then projected a design 

To softly draw her face up close to mine, 

And beg of her forgiveness to bestow, 

For saying what we both knew wasn t so. 

I ve got enough of this world s goods to do me, 

And make my nephews painfully civil to me : 

I d give it all to know she only knew 

How near I came to what was square and true. 

But somehow, every single time I d try, 

Pride would appear and kind o catch my eye, 

And hold me, on the edge of my advance, 

With the cool steel of one sly, scornful glance. 

Next morning, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, 

With dinner pail and sharpened axe I started 

Away for my day s work she watched the door, 

And followed me half-way to it or more ; 

And I was just a-turning round at this, 

And asking for my usual good-bye kiss ; 

But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, 

And in her eye a shadow of reserve ; 

And she had shown perhaps half unawares 

Some little independent breakfast airs 

And so the usual parting didn t occur ; 

Although her eyes invited me to her, 



216 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Or rather half invited me ; for she 

Didn t advertise to furnish kisses free, 

You always had that is, I had to pay 

Full market price, and go more n half the way. 

So, with a short " Good-bye," I shut the door, 

And left her as I never had before. 

Now, when a man works with his muscle smartly, 

It makes him up into machinery, partly ; 

And any trouble he may have on hand 

Gets deadened like, and easier to stand. 

And though the memory of last night s mistake 

Bothered me with a dull and heavy ache, 

I all the forenoon gave my strength full rein, 

And made the wounded trees bear half the pain. 

But when at noon my lunch I came to eat, 

Put up by her so delicately neat 

Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday s had been, 

And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she d put in 

" Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant 

It seemed as if her kiss with me she d sent ; 

Then I became once more her humble lover, 

And said, " To-night I ll ask forgiveness of her." 

I went home over-early on that eve, 
Having contrived to make myself believe, 
By Vcirious signs I kind o knew and guessed, 
A thunder-storm was coming from the west. 
( Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, 
How many honest ones will take its part ; 
A dozen first-class reasons said twas right 
That I should strike home early on that night.) 

Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, 

With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue ; 

But all within looked desolate and bare ; 

My house had lost its soul she was not there ! 

A pencilled note was on the table spread, 

And these are something like the words it said : 

" The cows have strayed away again, I fear ; 

I watched them pretty close j don t scold me, dear 



WILL CARLETON. 217 

And where they are, I think I nearly know ; 
I heard the bell not very long ago 

I ve hunted for them all the afternoon ; 
I ll try once more I think I ll find them soon. 
Dear, if a burden I have been to you. 
And hav n t helped you as I ought to do, 
Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead ; 
I ve tried to do my best I have, indeed. 
Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, 
And have kind words for me when I get back." 

Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue, 
Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, 
And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded ; 
My thunder-storm had come, now twasn t needed. 
I rushed out door the air was stained with black ; 
Night had come early, on the storm-cloud s back. 
And everything kept dimming to the sight, 
Save when the clouds threw their electric light ; 
When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, 
I d think I saw her knowing twas not true. 
Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray 
As if the ocean waves had lost their way \ 
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, 
In the cold clamour of its cannonade. 
And she, while I was sheltered, dry and warm, 
Was somewhere in the clutches of the storm ! 
She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, 
Had always hid her white face on my breast ! 

My dog, who d skirmished round me all the day, 
Now crouched and whimpering in a corner lay : 
I dragged him by the collar to the wall 
I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl 
" Track her, old boy ! " I shouted ; and he whined, 
Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind, 
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood 
I followed him, as faithful as I could. 



2i8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame ! 

We raced with death, we hunted noble game. 

All night we dragged the woods without avail ; 

The leaves got drenched we could not keep the trail. 

Three times again my cabin home I found, 

Half hoping she might be there safe and sound ; 

But each time twas an unavailing care, 

My house had lost its soul ; she was not there ! 

When, climbing the wet trees, next morning-sun 

Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, 

Bleeding and drenched by toil and sorrow bent 

Back to what used to be my home I went. 

But as I neared our little clearing-ground 

Listen ! I heard the cow-bell s tinkling sound ; 

The cabin door was just a bit ajar ; 

It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star ! 

" Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form ! 

She made them guide her homeward through the storm ! " 

Such pangs of joy I never felt before : 

" You ve come ! " I shouted, and rushed through the door. 

Yes, she had come and gone again. She lay 

With all her young life crushed and wrenched away 

Lay the heart-ruins of our home among 

Not far from where I killed her with my tongue. 

The rain-drops glittered mid her hair s long strands, 

The forest-thorns had torn her feet and hands, 

But midst the tears brave tears that I could trace 

Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, 

I once again the mournful words could read 

" I ve tried to do my best I have indeed." 

And now I m mostly done : my story s o er 
Part of it never breathed the air before. 
Tisn t over-usual, it must be allowed, 
To volunteer heart-history to a crowd, 
And scatter mongst them confidential tears, 
But you ll protect an old man with his years ; 
And wheresoe er this story s voice can reach 
This is the sermon I would have it preach : 



EDGAR FA IVCE TT. 219 

Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds ; 
You can t do that way when you re flying words. 
" Careful with fire," is good advice we know : 
" Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. 
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead ; 
But God Himself can t kill them when they re said ! 
You have my life-grief : do not think a minute 
Twas told to take up time. There s business in it. 
It sheds advice ; whoe er will take and live it, 
Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it. 

EDGAB FAWCETT. 

Born in New York City, 26th May 1847. Author of Fantasy and 
Passion (Boston, ]878); Song and Story (1884); Romance and 
Revery (1886). Mr Fawcett is also the author of numerous 
novels, besides one or two books of essays. The poems from 
Fantasy and Passion are given with the kind permission of 
Roberts Brothers, and the others with the kind permission 
of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

IMPERFECTION. 

WHENCE comes the old silent charm whose tender stress 

Has many a mother potently beguiled 
To leave her rosier children, and caress 

The white brow of the frail misshapen child 1 ? 
Ah ! whence the mightier charm that age by age 

Has lured so many a man, through spells unknown, 
To serve for years, in reverent vassalage, 

A beauteous bosom and a heart of stone. 



THE PUNISHMENT. 

Two haggard shades, in robes of mist, 

For longer years than each could tell, 
Joined by a stern gyve, wrist with wrist, 

Have roamed the courts of hell. 
Their blank eyes know each other not ; 

Their cold hearts hate this union drear 
Yet one poor ghost was Launcelot, 

And one was Guinevere. 



220 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

THE MEETING. 
I SAW in dreams a dim bleak heath, 

Where towered a gaunt pine by a rock, 
And suddenly, from the earth beneath, 

That rent itself with an angry shock, 
A shape sprang forth to that wild place, 

Whose limbs by chains were trenched and marred 
And whose sardonic pain-worn face 

Was grimly scorched and scarred. 

He waited by the spectral pine 

Aloft he lifted haggard eyes ; 
A woman s form, of mien divine, 

Dropt earthward in seraphic wise. 
Chaste as though bathed in breaking day 

And radiant with all saintly charms, 
She flew toward him till she lay 

Close-locked in his dark arms ! 

I heard a far vague voice that said : 

" On earth these twain had loved so well 
That now their lives, when both are dead, 

Burst the great bounds of Heaven and Hell. 
Alike o er powers of gloom and light 

Prevailed their fervid prayers and tears ; 
They meet on this bleak heath one night 

In every thousand years ! " 



TO AN ORIOLE. 

How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly 

In tropic splendour through our Northern sky ? 

At some glad moment was it nature s choice 
To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice 1 

Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, 
In some forgotten garden, ages back, 

Yearning toward heaven until its wish was heard 
Desire unspeakably to be a bird ? 



EDGAR FA IVCE TT. 22 1 

THE MOON IN THE CITY. 

PALE roamer through the purple hollow of night, 
In all thy wanderings weird, from East to West, 

"What wonder thou dost gladly shower thy light 
On many a dusky region of earth s breast ? 

Wild tracts of cloisteral forest-land I know 
Are welcome to that luminous heart of thine, 

Where under murmurous branches thou canst throw 
Dim palpitant arabesques of shade and shine ! 

Smooth meadows dying against far opal skies 
Thou lovest with lonely splendours to illume, 

And turn their bodiless vapours, when they rise, 
To phantoms greatening in the doubtful gloom. 

The haughtiest mountain happy dost thou feel 
To mantle with thy radiance, chastely soft, 

Like intercessional mercy s meek appeal 
Where cold majestic justice towers aloft ! 

When deep in measureless peace he lulls his waves, 
Or when their perilous masses proudly curl, 

Thy pennon of brilliance, though he smiles or raves, 
Along the varying sea dost thou unfurl ! 

But ah ! though forest, mountain, meadow and sea, 
Shall each thy separate favour sweetly win, 

White lily of heaven, how can it pleasure thee 
To blossom above the city s ghastly sin ! 



DECORATION DA Y. 

TO-DAY, as the pulses powerful 
Of the glad young year awake, 

It would seem that with tokens flowerful 
A nation had gone to take, 

While passing in throngs processional 
Over sweeps of mellowed sod, 

The sky for a blue confessional, 
And to tell its grief to God ! 



222 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

But more than to march regretfully 
With the earthward-pointing gun, 

And more than to merge forgetfully 
The Blue and the Gray in one, 

Were to love, with its sweet sublimity, 
The thought of an endless peace, 

And to swear, in grand unanimity, 
That war shall forever cease ! 

For how is your service beautiful, 
O mourners that meet to-day, 

If the hands that are now so dutiful 
Shall to-morrow spoil and slay ? 

If the hate that your love is levelling 
Shall to-morrow lift its brow, 

And redden with bloody revelling 
The graves that you garland now ? 

For only if all humanity 

Could have learned to well abhor 

The imperious blind insanity, 
The iniquitous waste of war, 

Would the splendid and stainless purity 

Of to-day beam out afar, 
Down the duskiness of futurity, 

As with light of a morning star ! 

And then would the blooms you shed upon 
These numberless grave-mounds be 

As though the dews they had fed upon 
Were the waters of Galilee 



FIAT JUSTITIA. 



i. 



THEY tell her he is dead ; and when she hears 

Right instantly she fears 
Lest they shall wonder that she sheds no tears 



EDGAR FA WCETT. 223 

"Poor widowed one," they whisper, for they see 

Her sorrowing mien ; but she 
Makes passionate inward murmur : " I am free ! " 

II. 
She hears that he is dead : and when she hears, 

Leap the hot heavy tears 
To eyes that have not wept for years and years 

And lo, she has forgiven him all the shame 

He wrought upon her name, 
So blackening it with soilure of black blame. 

Then to his home she hurries, yearning sore 

To look on him once more ; . . . 
But friends, in awful virtue, guard the door. 



GOLD. 

No spirit of air am I, but one whose birth 
Was deep in mouldy darkness of mid-earth. 

Yet where my yellow raiments choose to shine, 
What power is more magnificent than mine ? 

In hall or hut, in highway or in street, 
Obedient millions grovel at my feet. 

The loftiest pride to me its tribute brings; 
I gain the lowly vassalage of kings ! 

How many a time have I made honour yield 
To me its mighty and immaculate shield ? 

How often has virtue, at my potent name, 
Robed her chaste majesty in scarlet shame ? 

How often Las burning love, within some breast 
Frozen to treachery at my cold behest ? 

Yet ceaselessly my triumph has been blent 
With pangs of overmastering discontent 1 



224 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For always there are certain souls that hear 
My stealthy whispers with indifferent ear. 

Pure souls that deem my smile s most bland excess, 
For all its lavish radiance, valueless ! 

Rare souls, from my imperious guidance free, 
Who know me for the slave that I should be ! 

Grand souls, that from my counsels would dissent, 
Though each were tempted with a continent ! 



STILL WATER. 

HE wrote and wrote, but could not make a name ; 
Then cursed his fate and called the world to blame ; 
The world that knew not genius when it came ; 

" The world, " he cried, "that crowns us in a night 
For nothing ; but that damns us, wrong or right, 
Rather from sheer indifference than from spite." 

One of his friends would slyly smile to hear ; 

" Ah ! second-hand Byronics ! " One would sneer ; 

One said " Give over ; " one said " Persevere ! " 

One said but little, though she thought and thought, 
Through the long weeks and all the work they brought, 
While the wife toiled and while the mother taught. 

There went a story that he might have wed 
An heiress, this poor scribbler for his bread, 
But took a little meek-eyed girl instead, 

A little meek-eyed girl without a cent, 

Who scarcely knew what half his writings meant, 

Loved him reveringly, and was content. 

And now her spirit mused upon a way 
To brighten his dull face again. One day 
Her slender hand along his shoulder lay. 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 225 

" Write this." . . . And then she told him what to write, 
In just a few fleet words, and stole from sight, 
With smiling lips but with a look of fright. 

He laughed, at first ; yet in a little space 
The languid laughter died from out his face 
And left mute meditation in its place . . . 

If I mistake not, it was this same year 
That suddenly men knew him, far and near, 
As having won the world s capricious ear. 

And she ? Why, if she had riot seen so plain 
How soon the laurels cured his longing pain, 
She might have held them even in mild disdain. 

But now she blesses fortune s kind decree, 

Proud, glad, through him ! though still, for all we see, 

The same small meek-eyed wife she used to be. 



MASTER AND SLA VE. 

ON his rotting old throne sat Death, in a cave where the 

black dews fell. 
Near by stood his beautiful awful slave, the angel 

Azrael. 

"Have you served me true," said Death "in your work 

of tears to-day ? " 
And Azrael answered, " Live the King ! I hearken and 

I obey. 

" A bride on her bridal morn ; a lover that dreamed of 

bliss ; 
A child, last-left in a widow s home, these stiffened 

beneath my kiss. 

" These and the numberless more : yea, Master, my work 

of tears 
To-day has sped as in other days, for years, for years 

and for years." 

Death smiled with his dark sad mouth, with his hard 
grave passionless eye. 

p 



226 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

"And what of the souls that sought your kiss? Did 
you pass these proudly by ? 

" When the mourners moaned your name with their 

longing lips and wan, 
When a wild hand signalled you to pause, did you then 

pass proudly on ? " 

And the angel Azrael said, in lowly and loyal way, 
" Even so, dark Master. Live the King ! 1 hearken and 
I obey." 



THE SORCERESS. 

ESMEH, the favourite wife of Shah-Zarar, 

Ruled her great lord, at Ispahan, by love. 

The gardens of her palace, jasper-walled, 

Hung towering, with their bloom fill terraces, 

O er lands whose proud sweep, while she gazed on them, 

Made her thrice queen. No rival shared her home, 

Where lengths of gallery, each like some new dawn 

For brilliance, linked their luxuries of pomp. 

Her eunuchs blazed with gems ; her dancing-girls, 

Daughters of Egypt, swarthy as its wastes, 

Daughters of Greece, white as its temples are, 

Daughters of Syria, lissome as its palms, 

Daughters of India, mystic as its gods, 

Daughters of Nubia, black and eyed with fire, 

All chosen as flowers of grace among their kind, 

Flattered by measures wove with fantasy 

The languors of her couch at noon or eve. 

That poet allowed sweet chief in all the realm, 

Whom Saadi and Hafz would have crowned to-day, 

Whose verse dense marts would swarm from booths to list, 

Sang for her sole delight his lays of power. 

Georgian had been her birth, of royal kin ; 

Her beauty, a marvel ere the child grew maid, 

Was borne on breeze of rumour to the King ; 

Who, when he heard the story of it, grew wroth, 

And saying, " I weary of these rosy lies 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 227 

That greed of place coins thick to tempt my note, 
By Allah, I laugh at this one," clad the theme 
In fear that struck his boldest courtier mute. 

Still months being flown, his Vizier dared, one day, 

To set the girl among a timorous group 

Of new-bought slaves ; and when the veils were drawn 

From various faces, and Esmeh s looked forth, 

Winsome, unparalleled for virgin bloom, 

The King half doubtful if twere ghost or flesh 

He gazed on, cried with awe, "What maid is this?" 

Then, learning her true lineage, from his robe 

He loosed a diamond of great price, and sunk 

Its glory amid her dusk of hair, and bade 

The ceremonial of their spousals haste, 

And clear through seven fond years, from then till now, 

Clave to his new choice with unfaltering love. 

Broad were the lands by Shah-Zarar s dead sires 

Bequeathed him, justly governed, knit with ties 

Of fealty, and on every still frontier, 

From Smyrna to the Indus, freed of war. 

Such peace had fallen his people that the King, 

Joyed at their thrift and bounty, might have paid 

In gloomier hours but momentary heed 

To tidings that now vexed his mood with spleen. 

For now a certain sorceress, witch or sprite, 

Named Dara, but whose actual race none knew, 

Had wrought, in near or distant towns, twas told, 

Black spells on caliph, pasha, prince, emir, 

By tricks of dance, till some went mad for love 

And others died of it as from a plague. 

Yet none could snare the beauteous woman-curse 

Who boldly pushed her presence where she willed, 

Melting, if seized, in fumes of lurid smoke 

That stung her captor s hands to leave them void. 

In each new city it was her whim to choose, 

Promptly this Dara would claim courtesy 

Of him who reigned there. Such demand refused 

She passed in scorn beyond the gates once more, 



228 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Crying out, " I am but woman, yet your chief 

Has fear lest Dara should unveil her face 

And dance before him ! Valiant is your chief, 

By Allah and all the prophets ! May he meet 

His foes with equal nerve, should need arise ! 

Nor let him brand me sorceress, for such plea 

Will help him ill ; I am leagued with no dark imps; 

I am woman, only woman, though my shield 

From violence be a gift of magic source. 

Who fears me fears himself; who meets me fair 

And falls, hath fallen alone by his own lack 

Of temperance, wisdom, bravery, chastity, 

And all that should in men mean manlihood .... 

Go tell your chief how Dara scorns him ! Go ! " 

Herewith her form, close-vestured in its veil, 

Would speed from sight, and what she had hurled in scoff, 

With all the subtlety of challenge there, 

Retold to grandees who had flouted her, 

Bred ire and shame, till heads of other towns, 

Eager to prove their strength against her lures, 

Flung back the doors of palaces to greet 

Her coming ; but the witchery of her dance 

Would follow, and death or madness be its price. 

Girt by the surety of his peerless love, 

Such tales in Shah-Zarar could wake alone 

Contempt for those whom Dara s blights had harmed. 

And when at last he learned that she had fared 

In calm audacity to Ispahan, 

Soliciting his own imperial heed, 

"Throw wide the gates," he ordered. "Bid her seek 

Our audience-hall to-morrow. Lodge her well, 

And charge her that she use, to trap our sense, 

Her most voluptuous deviltries of dance. 

We mean to test her necromancies all, 

And tax their baleful cunning till it wane. 

We never yet felt thrall to woman born, 

Save one, the loveliest, purest now on earth. 

Let this deft jade, who boasts that she can play 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 229 

On what is beast in man till man turn beast, 
Feel her own boast grow ashes on her lips ! 
To-morrow at noon we wait her. We have said." 

Ere yet the slaves had lit the scented lamps 

Between the porphyry columns looming dark 

Where dim pavilions died in flowery courts, 

That evening, while the west was one sad rose 

Pierced with one lambent star, the enamoured King 

Sat with Esmeh, and told her of his plan ; 

And she, remembering all the vaunted spells 

Of Dara, this famed sorceress, wound both arms, 

White bonds of passion, round her lord, and prayed 

Retraction of his perilous resolve. 

While so she prayed, the rich night of her eyes 

Burned on his own, and beamed through tears unshed 

Entreaty and pathos. "0 my lord and love," 

She pleaded, " who that lives will ever hold 

Thy greatness at a loftier worth than I? 

Yet even a king like Shah-Zarar is man, 

And she, this temptress, may in frailty store 

Bane fit for demons, like some thread of simke 

That scarce will stir the ferns wherefrom it slides, 

Yet fells the unheeding lion ! my liege, 

Seek thou not proof that heights of good are thine 

Beyond her deeps of ill, for this all know ; 

But shouldst thou match thy strength with hers, twill be 

The valour of virtue hurling honest blows 

At slippery guile that fights by craft alone ! " 

Listening, the King looked pity allied with love, 
And answered : " O Esmeh, my dew-bathed rose, 
Truly thou wouldst not make me jeer for slaves ! 
I have sworn to front this pest until it shrink 
In swoon of impotence from what its fangs 
Would maim and slay. My sanctity of oath 
Must bide inviolate, though the prayer you prayed 
Were wistfuller than yonder twilight star 
That drops reluctant from the damask west. 
Ask all my turquoise-quarries ; bid me drape 



230 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Your doors with rarer broideries from Cashmere, 

Carpet your bath-brinks with new tiger-skins 

Fresh from Mazanderan, fetch choicei furs 

To glad you from chill slopes of Astrakhan, 

From Turkestan bring gaudier tapestries, 

Hang in your ears more pearls from hot Ceylon- 

But seek not to assuage in me the zeal 

For this my task of high example, shown 

Through reign of spirit above debasing clay. 

For if I fail, toward whom all eyes are turned 

As light of guidance, wherefore should I hope 

Those multitudes of lives that hail me head 

Would find not in my ignominy excuse 

For thrice ten thousand sins more gross than mine 1 . . . 

But O my heaven of womanhood made earth, 

My sweet idolatry, my Esmeh, rest sure 

That Allah, who in thee forestalls my bliss 

Of Paradise hereafter, will not soil 

A love as holy as ours with stain so foul, 

Nor let my soul, for even a transient hour, 

Swerve from its deathless constancy to thine ! " 

So the King spoke ; and Esmeh bowed her head, 

Weeping. . . . But on the morrow Dara danced 

In the great hall where Shah-Zarar sat throned. 

Meek was her mien as quite unveiled she came 

In presence of the mighty Persian King. 

Her garb, of some diaphanous fabric, clung 

Mist-like about her stature, telling all 

Its willowy delicacy ; her gold hair 

Showed in bright leash how plenteous were its coils, 

Wrapping her small drooped head ; both arms were nude, 

But laces lay thick-plied on loins and breast. 

No jewel or trace of ornament she wore, 

And while toward Shah-Zarar she slowly moved, 

" A hundred fairer faces pine unkissed," 

He thought, " in that seraglio whose long floors 

For seven sweet years my foot hath never paced ! " 

Then Dara, pausing midway of the hall, 

Flung from her supple throat a film of scarf 



EDGA R FA VVCE TT. 231 

That seemed to melt in vapour, and now at once, 
With no least hint of prelude, softly danced. 

Gentle of movement, while she thus began, 
But full of pliant rhythm and somnolence, 
Her body in ordered action bowed and swayed. 
Harmonious was the sequence of her steps, 
Each gesture fraught with dexterous elegance, 
Each posture clothed in dignity and ease. 

" Apt," thought the King, with all a critic s phlegm ; 

"Yet many a girl in Ispahan may match 

Thus far the scope of her accomplishment. 

A sure precision in her equipoise 

Offends like vanity ; were it faultier, 

With some appeal in it for leniency, 

Less coldly perfect and deliberate, 

Less wrought by codes of schools, its power were more." . . . 

But Dara had not ended yet her dance, 

Nay, scarce had she begun its wizardries 

And soon her motions, quickening, lost all look 

Of study or plan, but seemed alone to breathe 

A spirit of candid impulse, fervid truth. 

Music, as though of breezes rustling leaves, 

Or tinkle of waters through a mossy gorge, 

Or rustle of dreamy seas on elfin sands, 

Woke round her, following where she leapt or crouched, 

Exulted or desponded, fired or mused. 

Her hair, as if unbound by viewless hands, 

Dilated, fluttering like a golden flame, 

And suiting each new bend of her white arms. 

The gauzes at her bosom, drifting back, 

Had bared its curves of snow, unseen till now. 

Her eyes had grown a splendour, mild yet keen ; 

New lineaments and meanings filled her face, 

And tremulous at the verges of her lips 

Faded or flashed her rich mesmeric smile. 

Forward with flushing cheek, leaned Shah-Zazar, 
The spell had fallen upon him ere he knew. 



232 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

No wreath of haze, from bastions of great hills 

Blown to fantastic shape by summer wind, 

Drifts with an airier buoyancy than now 

The form of Dara seemed to glide and swim. 

Her dance, through some untold resource of art 

Miraculous, or sorcery still more strange, 

Had grown the incarnate history of love, 

Its joys, regrets, hopes, yearnings, fears, despairs . . . 

In turn all lived, throbbed, shuddered where she swept 

Here ardent and there languorous, here alert 

With blissful torture, there forlorn with doubt. 

The agony, the expectancy, the pang 

Of disappointment, the brief meagre cheer 

Of consolation, every phase of love 

Spoke in her sinuous change and counterchange . . . 

Then victory wed with ecstasy at last 

Rose rapturous after suffer ing. . . . Now her glance 

Was blithe delirium, her ethereal arms 

Intoxication, her swift-panting mouth 

Enticement, her unfathomable smile 

The drowsy mystery of all love s delight ! 

" Allah protect me ! " murmured the great King . . . 
He rose, to fly the hall, then backward sank . . . 
Too late he rose ; the spell had mastered him. 

Wild-eyed he gazed on Dara where she danced ; 
He stretched both arms out while she nearer drew 
His breath came hard ; all thought of realm or name 
Had perished from his mind or conscience ; floods 
Of weird fleet mist were hurrying through the hall, 
And in their flexuous volume he descried 
Nothing save Dara, beautiful past thought 
An houri, a devil, he was careless which 
Radiant amid these folds of rushing cloud. 

Nearer she drew, the enchantress, nearer yet, 

Still weaving the wild wonders of her dance. . . . 

" Great King," she whispered, "grant thy slave a boon." 

Then Dara laughed a low melodious -laugh, 

And whispered, " Thou will grant it not, I know ! " 



EDGAR FA WCETT. 233 

Staggering, the King had risen, " Whate er it be, 
J Tis thine. By Mahomet I swear tis thine ! " 

Then Dara laughed once more ; her eyes were homes 
Of luminous promise, and her lifted face 
Beamed ravishment from symmetries unguessed 
Till now. . . . " / ask the head of thine Esmeih ! " 

Between her words thus given, and what next fell, 
It seemed to Shah-Zarar one moment s flash. . . . 
Later, vague memories thrilled him that he spoke 
With harsh command, while hearing as in dream 
Warnings from minions born but to obey, 
And that in wrath he towered insistently 
Till seized by fright men fled to work his hest, 
However terrible, and that Dara danced 
More near his throne s foot, and he stooped to her, 
Infatuate, pleading she would share his power, 
And rule, his Dara, Queen as he was King. 

Then suddenly the wan mists fled and made 

The audience-hall as ever it had been, 

Save that a eunuch cowered before his throne, 

Bearing a head whose neck yet dripped with blood, 

Esmeh s ! And now crying out with grief, 

The wild King burst the trammels of his trance ; 

And as he wakened, echoing his mad wail, 

The sorceress vanished with a shriek of hate, 

To leave him glaring at her ghastly work. 

Many the silent centuries ago 

Since fell this deed of shadowy tragedy; 

But night winds breathe it yet o er glades and dells 

Of Persian hills ; and moonlit streams that pour 

From Demavend s high snows yet murmur it; 

And Caspian billows mourn it as they break ; 

Or southward, where Persepolis rears pale 

Her marble memories of dead state, the stars 

Robe in their melancholy of eloquence, 

Whose voice is light, the anguish of the tale. 



234 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



A STRAGGLER. 

I LEFT the throng whose laughter made 
That wide old woodland echo clear, 

While forth they spread, in breezy shade, 
Their plethoric hamperfuls of cheer. 

Along a dark moss-misted plank 
My way in dreamy mood I took, 

And crossed, from balmy bank to bank, 
The impetuous silver of the brook. 

And wandering on, at last I found 
A shadowy tranquil gladelike place, 

Full of mellifluous leafy sound, 

While midmost of its grassy space 

A lump of rugged granite gleamed, 
A tawny-lichened ledge of grey, 

And up among the boughs there beamed 
One blue delicious glimpse of day ! 

In fitful faintness on my ear 

The picnic s lightsome laughter fell, 

And softly, while I lingered here, 
Sweet fancy bound me with a spell ! 

In some bland clime across the seas 
Those merry tones I seem to mark, 

While dame and gallant roamed at ease 
The pathways of some stately park. 

And in that glimpse of amethyst air 
I seemed to watch, with musing eye, 

The rich blue fragment, fresh and fair, 
Of some dead summer s morning sky ! 

And that rough mass of granite, too, 
From graceless outlines gently waned, 

And took the sculptured shape and hue 
Of dull old marble, deeply stained. 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 235 

And then (most beauteous change of all ! ) 
Strewn o er its mottled slab lay low 

A glove, a lute, a silken shawl, 
A vellum-bound Boccaccio ! 



IVY. 

ILL canst thou bide in alien lands like these, 

Whose home lies over seas, 
Among manorial halls, parks wide and fair, 

Churches antique, and where 
Long hedges flower in May, and one can hark 
To carollings from old England s lovely lark ! 

Ill canst thou bide where memories are so brief, 

Thou that hast bathed thy leaf 
Deep in the shadowy past, and known strange things 

Of crumbled queens and kings ; 
Thou whose dead kindred, in years half forgot, 
Robed the grey battlements of proud Camelot ! 

Through all thy fibre s intricate expanse 

Hast thou breathed sweet romance ; 
Ladies that long are dust thou hast beheld 

Through dreamy days of eld ; 
Watched in broad castle-courts the merry light 
Bathe gaudy banneret and resplendent knight. 
And thou hast seen, on ancient lordly lawns, 

The timorous dappled fawns ; 
Heard pensive pages with their suave lutes play 

Some low Provencal lay ; 

Marked beauteous dames through arrased chambers glide, 
With lazy and graceful stag-hounds at their side. 

And thou hast gazed on splendid cavalcades 

Of nobles, matrons, maids, 
Winding from castle gates on breezy morns, 

With golden peals of horns, 
In velvet and brocade, in plumes and silk, 
With falcons, and with palfreys white as milk. 



236 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Through convent-casements thou hast peered, and there 

Viewed the rneek nun at prayer ; 
Seen, through rich panes dyed purple, gold and rose, 

Monks read old folios ; 

On abbey-walls heard wild laughs thrill thy vine 
When the fat tonsured priests quaffed ruby wine. 

O ivy, Laving lived in times like these, 

Here art thou ill at ease ; 
For thou art one with ages passed away, 

We are of yesterday ; 
Shorb retrospect, slight ancestry is ours, 
But thy dark leaves clothes history s haughty towers ! 



JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 

[Born in Queen s County, Ireland, 31st May 1847. Author of 
Songs and Satires (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, 1887), 
from which volume the four last poems are taken by special 
permission.] 

SIR HUGO S CHOICE. 

IT is better to die, since death comes surely, 
In the full noontide of an honoured name, 

Than to lie at the end of years obscurely, 
A handful of dust in a shroud of shame. 



Sir Hugo lived in the ages golden, 

Warder of Aisne and Picardy; 
He lived and died, and his deeds are told in 

The Book immortal of Chivalrie : 

How he won the love of a prince s daughter 
A poor knight he with a stainless sword 

Whereat Count Rolf, who had vainly sought her, 
Swore death should sit at the bridal board. 

a A braggart s threat, for a brave man s scorning ! 

And Hugo laughed at his rival s ire, 
But couriers twain, on the bridal morning, 

To his castle gate came with tidings diie. 



JAMES JEFFRE Y ROCHE. 237 

The first a-faint and with armour riven : 
" In peril sore have I left thy bride, 

False Rolf waylaid us. For love and Heaven ! 
Sir Hugo, quick to the rescue ride ! " 

Stout Hugo muttered a word unholy; 

He sprang to horse and he flashed his brand, 
But a hand was laid on his bridle slowly, 

And a herald spoke : " By the king s command, 

This to Picardy s trusty warder : 

France calls first for his loyal sword, 
The Flemish spears are across the border, 

And all is lost if they win the ford." 

Sir Hugo paused, and his face was ashen, 
His white lips trembled in silent prayer 

God s pity soften the spirit s passion 
When the crucifixion of Love is there ! 

What need to tell of the message spoken 1 

Of the hand that shook as he poised his lance 1 

And the look that told of his brave heart broken, 
As he bade them follow, "For God and France!" 

On Cambray s field next morn they found him, 
Mid a mighty swath of foemen dead ; 

Her snow-white scarf he had bound around him 
With his loyal blood was baptised red. 

It is all writ down in the book of glory, 
On crimson pages of blood and strife, 

With scanty thought for the simple story 
Of duty dearer than love or life. 

Only a note obscure, appended 

By warrior scribe or monk perchance, 

Saith : " The good knight s ladye was sore offended 
That he would not die for her but France." 

Did the ladye live to lament her lover? 

Or did roystering Rolf prove a better mate 1 
I have searched the records over and over, 

But nought discover to tell her fate. 



238 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And I read the moral A brave endeavour 
To do thy duty, whate er its worth, 

Is better than life with love for ever 
And love is the sweetest thing on earth. 



THE V-A-S-E. 

FROM the madding crowd they stand apart, 
The maidens four and the Work of Art ; 

And none might tell from sight alone 
In which had Culture ripest grown, 

The Gotham Million fair to see, 
The Philadelphia Pedigree, 

The Boston Mind of azure hue, 

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo, 

For all loved Art in a seemly way, 
With an earnest soul and a capital A. 

Long they worshipped j but no one broke 
The sacred stillness, until up spoke 

The Western one from the nameless place, 
Who blushing said : " What a lovely vace ! " 

Over three faces a sad smile flew, 
And they edged away from Kalamazoo. 

But Gotham s haughty soul was stirred 
To crush the stranger with one small word : 
Deftly hiding reproof in praise, 
She cries : " Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze ! " 

But brief her unworthy triumph when 
The lofty one from the home of Penn, 

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, 
Exclaims : " It is quite a lovely vahs ! " 



JAMES JEFFRE Y ROCHE. 239 

And glances round with an anxious thrill, 
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. 

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, 
And gently murmurs : " Oh, pardon me ! 

" I did not catch your remark, because 

I was so entranced with that charming vaws ! " 

Dies erit prmgelida. 
Sinistra quum Bostonia. 



ANDROMEDA. 

THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel 

stone , 
The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his 

own; 
The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there 

alone. 

Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, 
Ye left her there alone ! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy 

pain ; 
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the 

main : 

But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again ; 
Tis Perseus sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming 

Across the western main. 
Ireland ! my country ! he comes to break thy chain ! 



BAB YLO N. 

HER robes are of purple and scarlet, 
And the kings have bent their knees 

To the gemmed and jewelled harlot 
Who sitteth on many seas. 



240 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

They have drunk the abominations 
Of her golden cup of shame ; 

She has drugged and debauched the nations 
With the mystery of her name. 

Her merchants have gathered riches 
By the power of her wantonness, 

And her usurers are as leeches 
On the world s supreme distress. 

She has scoured the seas as a spoiler ; 

Her mart is a robbers den, 
With the wrested toil of the toiler, 

And the mortgaged souls of men. 

Her crimson flag is flying, 

Where the East and the West are one ; 
Her drums while the day is dying 

Salute the rising sun. 

She has scourged the weak and the lowly 
And the just with an iron rod ; 

She is drunk with the blood of the holy, 
She shall drink of the wrath of God ! 



WALTER LEARNED. 

[Born at New London, Connecticut, 22d June 1847. Author of 
Between Times (New York, F. A. Stokes & Co., 1890), with 
whose permission the poems quoted are given.] 

ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF 
OLD PL A YS. 

AT Cato s Head in Russell Street 
These leaves she sat a-stitching ; 

I fancy she was trim and neat, 
Blue-eyed and quite bewitching. 

Before her in the street below, 

All powder, ruffs, and laces, 
There strutted idle London beaux 

To ogle pretty faces ; 



WALTER LEARNED. 241 

While, filling many a Sedan chair 
With hoop arid monstrous feather, 

In patch and powder London s fair 
Went trooping past together. 

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap 

They sauntered slowly past her, 
Or printer s boy, with gown and cap 

For Steele, went trotting faster. 

For beau nor wit had she a look, 

Nor lord nor lady minding ; 
She bent her head above this book, 

Attentive to her binding. 

And one stray thread of golden hair, 

Caught on her nimble fingers, 
Was stitched within this volume, where 

Until to-day it lingers. 

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair ; 

W T igs, powder, all out-dated ; 
A queer antique, the Sedan chair ; 

Pope, stifF and antiquated. 

Yet as I turn these odd old plays, 

This single stray lock finding, 
I m back in those forgotten days, 

And watch her at her binding. 



MARJORIES KISSES. 
MARJORIE laughs and climbs on my knee, 
And I kiss her and she kisses me, 
I kiss her, but I don t much care, 
Because, although she is charming and fair 

Marjorie s only three. 

But there will come a time, I ween, 
When, if I tell her of this little scene, 
She will smile and prettily blush, and then 
I shall long in vain to kiss her again, 
When Marjorie s seventeen. 



242 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

THE PRIME OF LIFE. 

JUST as I thought I was growing old, 
Ready to sit in my easy chair, 

To watch the world with a heart grown cold, 
And smile at a folly I would not share, 

Rose came by with a smile for me, 
And I am thinking that forty year 

Isn t the age that it seems to be, 

When two pretty brown eyes are near. 

Bless me ! of life it is just the prime, 
A fact that I hope she will understand ; 

And forty year is a perfect rhyme 

To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand. 

These grey hairs are by chance, you see 
Boys are sometimes grey, I am told : 

Rose came by with a smile for me, 
Just as I thought I was getting old. 



EHEU! FUG ACES. 

SWEET sixteen is shy and cold, 
Calls me "sir," and thinks me old ; 
Hears in an embarrassed way 
All the compliments I pay ; 

Finds my homage quite a bore, 
Will not smile on me, and more 
To her taste she finds the noise 
And the chat of callow boys. 

Not the lines around my eye, 
Deepening as the years go by ; 
Not white hairs that strew my head, 
Nor my less elastic tread ; 

Cares I find, nor joys I miss, 
Make me feel my years like this ; 
Sweet sixteen is shy and cold, 
Calls me "sir," and thinks me old 



HENR Y AUG US TIN BEERS. 243 

HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS. 

[Professor of English Literature, Yale College. Born at Buffalo, 
N. Y., 2d July 1847. Graduated at Yale College, 1869. Author 
of the following books: A Century of American Literature 
("Leisure Hour Series," Henry Holt & Co., New York, 1878) ; 
Odds and Ends : Verses Humorous, Occasional and Miscellaneous 
(Hovighton, Miffln & Co., Boston, 1878) ; Life of N. P. Willis 
("American Men of Letters Series," Houghton, JVlifflin & Co., 
Boston, 1885) ; Selections from the Prose Writings of N. P. 
Willis (edited, with Introduction), Chas. Scribiier s Sous, New 
York, 1885); The Thankless Muse, verse (Houghton, Mifflin & 
Co., Boston, 1885); An Outline Sketch of English Literature 
(Phillips & Hunt, New York, 1886) ; An Outline Sketch of 
American Literature (Phillips & Hunt, New York, 1887). Pro 
fessor Beers has also written numerous uncollected articles 
scattered through the principal Magazines, etc. The poems 
quoted come from The ThanUcss Muse, printed by Honghton, 
Mifflin & Co., Boston, and are reprinted by kind permission of 
that firm.] 

BEAVER POND MEADOW. 

THOU art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades : 
Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades 
Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air 
Decays. Thou my Serboriian Bog art, where 
O er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, 
Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. 
Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen 
Shalt be a lonely land where stilted men 
Stalking across the surface waters go, 
Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow 
Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay, 
Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. 
Thou hast thy crocodiles : on rotten logs 
Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask : the frogs, 
When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, 
Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring. 
The schoolboy comes on holidays to take 
The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake, 
Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night. 
The hog-snout s swollen corpse, with belly white, 



244 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I find upon the footway through the sedge, 
Trodden by tramps along the water s edge. 

Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below, 

Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go 

Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine 

More tonic than the incense of the pine. 

Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness, 

A drain for slaughter-pens, a wilderness 

Of trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs, where rank 

The poison sumach grows, and in the tank 

The water standeth ever black and deep, 

Greened o er with scum ; foul pottages, that steep 

And brew in that dark broth, at night distil 

Malarious fogs, bringing the fever chill. 

Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold : 

The murdered pedlar s body, five days old, 

Among the yellow-lily-pads, was found 

In yonder pond : the new-born babe lay drowned 

And throttled on the bottom of this moat, 

Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat ; 

Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp ; whose meals 

It furnishes, fat pouts and mud-spawned eels. 

Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild, 

Unwholesome thou the suburb s outcast child, 

Behind whose grimy skin and matted hair 

Warm nature works and makes her creature fair. 

Summer has wrought a blue and silver border 

Of iris flags and flowers in triple order 

Of the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond, 

And o er the milkweeds in the swamp beyond 

Tangled the dodder s amber-coloured threads. 

In every fosse the bladderwort s bright heads 

Like orange helmets on the surface show. 

Richer surprises still thou hast : I know 

Tiie ways that to thy penetralia lead, 

Where in black bogs the sundew s sticky bead 

Ensnares young insects, and that rosy lass, 

Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the grass. 



HENR Y AUG US TIN BEERS. 245 

Once on a Sunday, when the bells were still, 

Following the path under the sandy hill, 

Through the old orchard and across the plank 

That bridges the dead stream, past many a rank 

Of cat- tails, midway in the swamp I found 

A small green mead of dry but spongy ground, 

Entrenched about on every side with sluices 

Full to the brim of thick lethean juices, 

The filterings of the marsh. With line and hook, 

Two little French boys from the trenches took 

Frogs for their Sunday meal, and gathered messes 

Of pungent salad from the water-cresses. 

A little isle of foreign soil it seemed, 

And listening to their outland talk, I dreamed 

That yonder spire above the elm-tops calm 

Rose from the village chestnuts of La Balme. 

Yes, many a pretty secret hast tliou shown 

To me, O Beaver Pond, walking alone 

On summer afternoons, while yet the swallow 

Skimmed o er each flaggy plash and gravelly shallow ; 

Or when September turned the swamps to gold 

And purple. But the year is growing old ; 

The golden-rod is rusted, and the red 

That streaked October s frosty cheek is dead ; 

Only the sumach s garnet pompons make 

Procession through the melancholy brake. 

Lo ! even now the autumnal wind blows cool 

Over the rippled waters of thy pool, 

And red autumnal sunset colours brood 

Where T alone and all too late intrude. 



THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN. 

WE sit before the curtain, and we heed the pleasant bustle; 
The ushers hastening up the aisles, the fans and pro 
grammes rustle ; 



246 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The boy that cries librettos, and the soft, incessant sound 
Of talking and low laughter that buzzes all around. 

How very old the drop-scene looks ! A thousand times 

before 
I ve seen that blue paint dashing on that red distemper 

shore ; 

The castle and the guazzo sky, the very ilex-tree, 
They have been there a thousand years a thousand 

more shall be. 

All our lives we have been waiting for that weary daub 

to rise ; 
We have peeped behind its edges, " as if we were God s 

spies ; " 

We have listened for the signal ; yet still, as in our youth, 
The coloured screen of matter hangs between us and the 

truth. 

When in my careless childhood I dwelt beside a wood, 
I tired of the clearing where my father s cabin stood ; 
And of the wild young forest paths that coaxed me to 

explore, 
Then dwindled down, or led me back to where I stood 

before. 

But through the woods before our door a waggon track 

went by, 

Above whose utmost western edge there hung an open sky; 
And there it seemed to make a plunge, or break off 

suddenly, 
As though beneath that open sky it met the open sea. 

Oh, often have I fancied, in the sunset s dreamy glow, 
That mine eyes had caught the welter of the ocean waves 

below ; 
And the wind among the pine-tops, with its low and 

ceaseless roar, 
Was but an echo from the surf on that imagined shore. 



HENR Y AUGUS TIN BEERS. 247 

Alas ! as I grew older, I found that road led down 
To no more fair horizon than the squalid factory town; 
So all life s purple distances, when nearer them I came, 
Have played me still the same old cheat, the same, the 
same, the same ! 

And when, O King, the heaven departeth as a scroll, 
Wilt thou once more the promise break thou madest to 

my soul ? 
Shall I see thy feasting presence thronged with baron, 

knight, and page 1 
Or will the curtain rise upon a dark and empty stage 1 

For lo, quick undulations across the canvas run ; 

The foot-lights brighten suddenly, the orchestra has done; 

And through the expectant silence rings loud the 

prompter s bell ; 
The curtain shakes, it rises. Farewell, dull world, 

farewell ! 



HUGH LA TIMER. 

His lips amid the flame outsent 
A music strong and sweet, 

Like some unearthly instrument, 
That s played upon by heat. 

As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal, 

Sets all its perfume free, 
The incense of his hardy soul, 

Hose up exceedingly. 

To open that great flower, too cold 
Were sun and vernal rain ; 

But fire has forced itTto unfold, 
Nor will it shut again. 



248 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



JOHN VANCE CHENEY. 

[Born at Groveland, New York, 1848. Author of Th.isti.edr if t 
(1887, New York, F. A. Stokes & Co.), and Wood Blooms 
(New York, 1888, F. A. Stokes & Co.), with whose kind per 
mission the poems quoted below are given.] 

WAITING. 

THE fields fold in silence the ripened sheaves, 
The bright moon breaks on the swinging leaves, 
The dark s great daisies are blowing above, 
O leap to my side, my Love, my Love ! 

You have said not a gem in the blue below, 
But, on my neck, but would lose the glow ; 
You have said no bloom in the blue above 
Is fit for my bosom, Love, my Love. 

You have likened my song to the song of the bird, 
My sigh to the tree s the night wind stirred : 
Like the moan of the pine, of the lone wild dove, 
My song, my sighing, to-night, my Love. 

The fields fold in glory the golden sheaves, 
The full moon silvers the swinging leaves : 
As the white cloud waits for the wind above, 
I m waiting for you, my Love my Love. 



OUR MOTHER. 

WHEN the first man stood forth in Paradise, 
And the first woman came to grace her bowers, 
The conscious garden glowed with thousand flowers, 
With light wild, laughing light, in thousand eyes 
Of beauty. Lovelier than young morning lies 
On hill-tops, hovered round the wondering hours ; 
And splendors richer than the red west showers 
Fell wide on Eden, all glory and surprise. 



JOHN VANCE CHENEY. 249 

And does Our Mother love us, now, the less, 
And why we fail her, does she understand *? 
For him that comes with trust and tenderness, 
Eden still blossoms from her very sand : 
Some flower believe it blossoming but to bless, 
Will wait to wither in the last man s hand. 



GREA T IS TO- DA Y. 

OUT in a world that s gone to weed ! 

The great tall corn is still strong in his seed ; 

Plant her breast with laughter, put song in your toil, 

The heart is still young in the mother soil : 

There s sunshine and bird-song, and red and white clover, 

And love lives yet, world under and over. 

The light s white as ever, sow and believe, 

Clearer dews did not glisten round Adam and Eve, 

Never bluer heavens nor greener sod 

Since the round world rolled from the hand of God. 

There s a sun to go down, to come up again, 

There are new moons to fill when the old moons wane. 

Is wisdom dead since Plato s no more, 

Who ll that babe be, in yon cottage door 1 

While your Shakspeare, your Milton takes his place in 

the tomb 

His brother is stirring in the good mother-womb : 
There s glancing of daisies and running of brooks, 
Ay, life enough left to write in the books. 

The world s not all wisdom, nor poems, nor flowers, 
But each day has the same good twenty-four hours, 
The same light, the same night. For your Jacobs, no 

tears ; 

They see the Rachels at the end of the years : 
There s waving of wheat, and the tall strong corn 
And his heart blood is water that sitteth forlorn. 



250 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

SNO WFLAKES. 

FALLING all the night-time, 

Falling all the day, 
Silent into silence, 

From the far-away, 

Never came like glory 

To the April leas, 
Never summer blossoms 

Thick and white as these. 

Falling all the night-time, 

Falling all the day, 
Stilly as the spirits 

Come from far-away, 

Snowflakes, winged snowflakes, 
Fancy, following, sees 

Souls of flowers flutt ring 
Over winter leas. 



SPRING SONG. 

INVISIBLE hands from summer lands 
Have plucked the icicles one by one ; 
And sly little fingers, reached down from the sun, 
Lay hold on the tips of the grass in the sands. 
And O, and O 
Where is the snow ! 
The crow is calling, 
Showers are falling. 

Up, up and out of your garments gray, 
Ho willow and weed, each secret seed ; 
The music of waters is heard in the mead, 
And surly old winter has hied him away ! 
And O, and O 
Where is the snow ! 
The snake is crawling 
Showers are falling. 



JO PIN VANCE CHENEY. 251 

LOVES OF LEAVES AND GRASSES. 

THE little leaves, ah me ! 
Coquetting in the tree ! 
Swaying in the sunny weather, 
Now, they steal together, 
Now, flutter free, as fain 
Never to kiss again. 

Yon grass there, too, I see 
Suspicious gallantry : 
Each spear unto his sweeting 
Whispers a secret greeting, 
Then primly, in the sun, 
Smiles over what he s done. 

Sweet spring-time in the tree, 
In fields where grasses be ! 
So perfect is his vesture, 
So pretty every gesture, 
I ween no leaf or blade 
But wins his dainty maid. 



SONG OF THE GLOAMING. 

THE toad has the road, the cricket sings, 
The heavy beetle spreads her wings : 

The bat is the rover, 

No bee on the clover, 

The day is over, 

And evening come. 

The brake is awake, the grass aglow, 
The star above, the fly below : 

The bat is the rover, 

No bee on the clover, 

The day is over, 

And evening come. 



252 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The stream moves in dream, the low winds tune, 
Tis vespers at the shrine of June : 

The bat is the rover, 

No bee on the clover, 

The day is over, 

And evening come. 



HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. 

[Born at Fredericksvoern, Norway, 23d September 1848. Author 
of Gunnar ; A Norse Jtomance (New York, 1874); A Norse 
man s Pilgrimage (1875); Tales from Two Hemispheres (Boston, 
1876) ; Falconberg (1878),; Goethe and Schiller; their Lives and 
Works (1878); Ilka on the Hill-Top, and other Stories (1881); 
Queen Titania (1882); A Daughter of the Philistines (Boston, 
1884) ; The Story of Nonvay (1886) ; The Light of Her 
Countenance (1889) ; Vagabond Tales (1889) ; Idylls of Norway 
(1882). The poems given are from the last volume, and are 
published with the kind permission of Charles Scribner s Sons. 

THE LOST HELLAS. 

FOR a breath of myrtle and of bay, 

And glints of sunny skies through dark leaves flashing 

And dimpling seas beneath a golden day, 

Against the strand with soft susurrus plashing ! 

And fair nude youths, with shouts arid laughter dashing 

Along the shining beach in martial play ! 

And rearing gainst the sky their snowy portals, 

The temples of the glorious Immortals ! 

Thus oft thou risest, Hellas, from my soul 
A vision of the happy vernal ages, 
When men first strove to read life s mystic scroll, 
But with the torch of joy lit up its pages ; 
When with untroubled front the cheerful sages 
Serenely wandered toward their shadowy goal, 
And praised the gods in dance of stately measure, 
And stooped to pluck the harmless bud of pleasure. 



HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. 253 

Out of the darkness of the primal night, 
Like as a dewy Delos from the ocean, 
Thy glory rose a birthplace for the bright 
Sun-god of thought. And freedom, high devotion, 
And song, sprung from the fount of pure emotion, 
Bloomed in the footsteps of the God of light, 
And Night shrank back before the joyous paean, 
And flushed with morning rolled the blue ^Egean. 

Then on Olympus reigned a beauteous throng ; 

The heaven s wide arch by wrathful Zeus was shaken ; 

Fair Pho3bus sped his radiant path along, 

The darkling earth from happy sleep to waken ; 

And wept when by the timorous nymph forsaken, 

His passion breathing in complaining song ; 

And kindled in the bard the sacred fire, 

And lured sweet music from the silent lyre. 

Then teemed the earth with creatures glad and fair ; 
A calm, benignant god dwelt in each river, 
And through the rippling stream a naiad s bare 
White limbs would upward faintly flash and quiver. 
Through prisoning bark the dryad s sigh would shiver, 
Expiring softly on the languorous air ; 
And strange low notes, that scarce the blunt sense seizes, 
Were zephyr voices whispering in the breezes. 

Chaste Artemis, who guides the lunar car, 

The pale nocturnal vigils ever keeping, 

Sped through the silent space from star to star, 

And, blushing, stooped to kiss Endymion sleeping ; 

And Psyche, on the lonely mountain weeping, 

Was clasped to Eros heart, and wandered far 

To brave dread Cerberus and the Stygian water, 

With that sweet, dauntless trust her love had taught her. 

On Nature s ample, warmly throbbing breast, 
Both god and man and beast reposed securely ; 
And in one large embrace she closely pressed 
All being s fullness, myriad-shaped but surely 
The self same life ; she saw the soul rise purely 



254 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For ever upward in its groping quest 

For nobler forms ; and knew in all creation 

The same divinely passionate pulsation. 

Thus rose the legends fair, which faintly light 
The misty centuries with their pallid glimmer, 
Of fauns who roam on Mount Cithairon s height, 
Where through the leaves their sunburnt faces shimmer, 
And in cool copses, where the day is dimmer, 
You hear the trampling of their herded flight ; 
And see the treetops wave their progress after, 
And hear their shouts of wild, immortal laughter. 

The vast and foaming life, the fierce desire 

Which pulses hotly through the veins of Nature 

Creative rapture and the breath of tire 

Which in exalting blight and slay the creature ; 

The forces seething neath each placid feature 

Of Nature s visage which our awe inspire 

All glow and throb with fervid hope and gladness 

In Dionysus and his sacred madness. 

Each year the lovely god with vine-wreathed brow 
In dreamy transport roves the young earth over ; 
The faun that gaily swings the thyrsus bough, 
The nymph chased hotly by her satyr lover, 
The roguish Cupids mid the flowers that hover 
All join his clamorous train, and upward now 
Sweep storms of voices through the heavens sonorous 
With gusts of song and dithyrambic chorus. 

But where great Nature guards her secret soul, 
Where viewless fountains hum in sylvan closes, 
There, leaned H gainst a rugged oak-tree s bole, 
Amid the rustling sedges, Pan reposes. 
And round about the slumberous sunshine dozes, 
While from his pastoral pipe rise sounds of dole ; 
And through the stillness in the forest reigning, 
One hears afar the shrill, sad notes complaining. 



HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. 255 

Thus, in the olden time, while yet the world 
A vale of joy was, and a lovely wonder, 
Men plucked the bud within its calyx curled, 
Revered the still, sweet life that slept thereunder ; 
They did not tear the delicate thing asunder 
To see its beauty wantonly unfurled, 
They sat at Nature s feet with awed emotion, 
Like children listening to the mighty ocean. 

And thus they nobly grew to perfect bloom, 
With gaze unclouded, in serene endeavour, 
No fever- vision from beyond the tomb 
Broke o er their bright and sunlit pathway ever, 
For gently as a kiss came Death to sever 
From spirit flesh, and to the realm of gloom 
The pallid shades with fearless brow descended 
To Hades, by the winged god attended. 

Why sorrow, then with vain petitions seek 

The lofty gods in their abodes eternal 1 

To live is pleasant, and to be a Greek ; 

To see the earth in garments fresh and vernal, 

To watch the fair youths in their sports diurnal, 

To feel against your own a maid s warm cheek, 

To see from sculptured shrines the smoke ascending, 

And with the clouds and ether vaguely blending. 

And sweet it is to hear the noble tongue, 
Pure Attic Greek with soft precision spoken ! 
And ah ! to hear its liquid music flung, 
In rocking chords and melodies unbroken, 
From Homer s stormy harp the deathless token 
That Hellas Titan soul is strong and young 
Young as the spring that s past, whose name assuages 
The gloom and sorrow of the sunless ages. 

Her fanes are shattered, and her bards are dead, 
But, like a flame from ruins, leaps her glory 
Up from her sacred dust its rays to shed 
On alien skies of art and song and story, 
Her spirit rising from her temples hoary 



X"vT BRA *?X 

f OF THK X 

I UNIVERSITY J 
X OF .. . SXK JT 



256 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Through barren climes dispersed, hns northward fled ; 
As, though the flower be dead, its breath may hover, 
A homeless fragrance, sweet, the meadows over. 



EVOLUTION. 



BROAD were the bases of all being laid, 

On pillars sunk in the unfathomed deep 

Of universal void and primal sleep. 

Some mighty will, in sooth, there was that swayed 

The misty atoms which inhabited 

The barren, unillumined fields of space ; 

A breath, perchance, that whirled the mists apace, 

And shook the heavy indolence that weighed 

Upon the moveless vapours. Oh, what vast, 

Resounding undulations of effect 

Awoke that breath ! What dizzying a3ons passed 

Ere yet a lichen patch the bare rock flecked ! 

Thus rolls with boom of elemental strife 

The ancestry e en of the meanest life. 

II. 

I am the child of earth and air and sea ! 

My lullaby by hoarse Silurian storms 

Was chanted, and through endless changing forms 

Of plant and bird and beast unceasingly 

The toiling ages wrought to fashion me. 

Lo these large ancestors have left a breath 

Of their strong souls in mine, defying death 

And doom. I grow and blossom as the tree, 

And ever feel deep-delving earthly roots 

Bending me daily to the common clay ; 

But with its airy impulse upward shoots 

My life into the realms of light and day : 

And thou, O sea, stern mother of my soul, 

Thy tempests sing in me, thy billows roll. 



HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. 257 

in. 

A sacred kinship I would not forego 

Binds me to all that breathes ; through endless strife 

The calm and deathless dignity of life 

Unites eacli bleeding victim to its foe. 

What life is in its essence, who doth know ? 

The iron chain that all creation girds, 

Encompassing myself and beasts and birds, 

Forges its bond unceasing from below, 

From water, stone, and plant, e en unto man. 

Within the rose a pulse that answered mine 

(Though hushed and silently its life-tide ran) 

I oft have felt ; but when with joy divine 

I hear the song-thrush warbling in my brain 

Is glory in this vast creation s chain. 

IV. 

I stood and gazed with wonder blent with awe 

Upon the giant footprints Nature left 

Of her primeval march in yonder cleft : 

A fern-leaf s airy woof, a reptile s claw, 

In their eternal slumber there I saw 

In deftly-wrought sarcophagi of stone. 

What humid tempests, from rank forests blown, 

Whirled from its parent stem yon slender straw 1 

What scaly creature of a monstrous breed 

Bore yonder web-foot through the tepid tide? 

Oh, what wide vistas thronged with mighty deed 

And mightier thought have here mine eyes descried ! 

Come, a fraternal grasp, thou hand of stone ! 

That flesh that once was thine is now mine own. 

v. 

Sublime is life, though in beginnings base 
At first enkindled. In this clod of mold 
Beats with faint spirit-pulse the heart of gold 
That warms the lily s cheek ; its silent grace 
B 



258 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Dwells unborn neath this sod. Fain would I trace 
The potent mystery which, like Midas hand, 
Thrills the mean clay into refulgence grand ; 
For, gazing down the misty aisles of space 
And time, upon my sight vast visions throng 
Of the imperial destiny of man. 
The life that throbbed in plant and beast ere long 
Will break still wider orbits in its van, 

A race of peace-robed conquerors and kings, 
Achieving evermore diviner things. 



CHARLES DE KAY. 

[Born at Washington, District of Columbia, 1848. Author of 
Hesperus (New York, 1880, Charles Scribner s Sons) ; The 
Vision of Nimrod (New York, 1881, D. Appleton & Co.) ; The 
Vision of Esther (New York, 1882, D. Appleton & Co.) ; The 
Love Poems of Louis Barnaval (New York, 1883, D. Appleton & 
Co. ). The two last poems are from the last of these volumes, the 
others from the first ; and they are given by special permission.] 

ARCANA SYLVARUM, 

HARK! . . . 

What booming 

Faints on the high-strung ear ? 

Through the damp woods (so dark 

No flowers are blooming) 

I hear, I hear 

The twang of harps, the leap 

Of hairy feet, and know the revel s ripe, 

While, like a coral stripe, 

The lizard cool doth creep, 

Monster, but monarch there, up the pale Indian Pipe. 

Hush! . . . 

Your panting 

Will scare them from their game. 

Let not a foot-fall crush 

Their rites enchanting ! 

The deadwood s flame, 



CHARLES DE KA Y. 259 

Bellies of murdered fire-flies 

And glimmering moonstones thick with treasured rays 

Shall help our round-eyed gaze 

Antics unholy to surprise 

Which the ungodly crew round the red lizard plays. 

Now ! . . . 
No breathing 

To spoil the heathenish dance ! 
Lest from each pendent bough 
Poison be seething, 
A hair-fine lance 

Pierce to our brain and slowly slay. 
But look your breathless fill, and mark them swing, 
Man and maid a capering, 
Ugly, fair, morosely gay, 

Round the red lizard smooth, crowned for their wicked 
king. 

Back! . . . 
Inhuman 

Are gestures, laughs and jeers. 
Off, ere we lose the track ! 
Nor man nor woman 
May stand your leers, 
Shameless and loose, uncovered creatures ! 
Quick, lest we join their orgies in the dark ! 
Back ! for the madness stark 
Is crawling through our nature 

To touch the red lizard vile, spread on the damp white 
bark. 



INVOCATION. 

SCENT of the rose ! . . . 

Breath of the new-ploughed field and verdurous sigh 

From copses budding ! . . . 

Myrrhs that the chafing boughs 



260 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Of aromatic pine-trees cause to fly 
O er coily fern-tops, studding 

The layers damp of fronds that heap in long wind-rifted 
rows . . . 

Bloom of the quince 

So firm and ruddy and tender to foretell 
Crisp fruit and^solid ! . . 
Heart of the forest prince 
Of odour nuttier than the sandal smell ! . . . 
And all ye marshes squalid 

Whose fog a savoury saltness pricks, whose veins the clear 
tides rinse . . . 

Hair of the night 

Black where the stars glimmer in sparks of gold 
Through tresses fragrant . . . 
Breeze that in smooth cool flight 
Trails a strange heat across the listening wold . . . 
Breast of the coy and vagrant 

Uncertain spring, beneath whose cold glows the great 
heart of light . . . 

Clouds of the blue, 

Crowned by the sun and torn by lightning-jag . . . 

And joyous sparkles 

In seas and drops of dew . . . 

Ye smiles and frowns that alter where the crag 

Glitters and darkles ! . . . 

Hear me, ye blissful, that alone see why I call on you ! 



ULF IN IRELAND. 

(A.D. 790.) 

WHAT then, what if my lips do burn, 

Husband, husband ; 

What though thou see st my red lips burn 
Why look st thou with a look so stern, 
Husband? 



CHARLES DE KA Y. 261 

It was the keen wind through the reed, 

Husband, husband : 

Twas wind made sharp with sword-edge reed 
That made my tender lips to bleed, 

Husband. 

And hath the wind a human tooth, 

Woman, woman ? 

Can light wind mark like human tooth 
A shameful scar of love uncouth. 

Woman ? 

What horror lurks within your eyes, 

Husband, husband? 
What lurking horror strains your eyes, 
What black thoughts from your heart arise, 

Husband ? 

Who stood beside you at the gate, 

Woman, woman? 
Who stood so near you by the gate 
No moon your shapes could separate, 

Woman ? 

So God me save, twas I alone, 

Husband, husband ! 
So Christ me save, twas I alone 
Stood listening to the ocean moan, 

Husband ! 

Then hast thou four feet at the least, 

Woman, woman ! 

Thy Christ hath lent thee four at least, 
Oh, viler than four-footed beast, 

Woman / 

A heathen witch hath thee unmanned, 

Husband, husband ! 
A foul witchcraft, alas, unmanned : 
Thou saw st some old tracks down the sand, 

Husband ! 



262 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Yet were they tracks that went not far, 

Woman, woman; 

Those ancient foot-marks went not far, 
Or else you search the harbour bar, 

Woman. 

It is not yours alone that bleed, 

Woman, woman; 

Smooth lips not yours may also bleed, 
Your wound has been avenged with speed, 

Woman ! 

What talk you so of bar and wound, 

Husband, husband? 
What ghastly sign of sudden wound 
And kinsman smitten to the ground, 
Husband ? 

/ saw your blood upon his cheek, 

Woman, woman ; 

The moon had marked his treacherous cheek, 
I marked his heart beside the creek, 

Woman ! 

What, have you crushed the only flower, 
Husband, husband ! 

Among our weeds the only flower ? 

Henceforward get you from my bower, 
Husband ! 

I love you not ; I loved but him, 
Husband, husband ; 

In all the world I loved but him ; 

Not hell my love for Brenn shall dim, 
Husband ! 

He s caught her by her jet-black hair; 

Sorrow, sorrow ! 

He s bent her head back by the hair 
Till all her throbbing throat lies bare 

Sorrow ! 



CHARLES DE KA K 263 

You knew me fiercer than the wolf, 

Woman, woman; 

You knew I well am named the wolf ; 
I shall both you and him engulf, 

Woman. 

Yet I to you was always kind, 

Woman, woman; 
To serpents only fools are kind ; 
Yet still with love of you Fm blind, 

Woman. 

Til look no more upon your face, 

Woman, woman; 

These eyes shall never read your face, 
For you shall die in this small space, 

Woman ! 

He s laid his mouth below her chin, 

Horror ! 

That throat he kissed below the chin 
No breath thereafter entered in : 

Horror, horror ! 



SURRENDER. 

THERE lies a bliss just in the lion s jaws 

Ere yet his fangs crush to the very bone, 
The while his dread broad soft unswerving paws 

Rest on a victim without cry or moan, 
But keenly wakeful to his great warm mouth, 
His yellow eyes, lovely, yet void of routh, 
The cloudy mane his awful shoulders wreathing, 
His deep low breathing. 

And there s a hatred for the being, too, 
That drags a wounded life among his kin ; 

An instinct vile the helpless to undo 

And lick the creature dust of those that win. 



264 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

As though twere needful to be baser yet 
A longing sometimes will the bosom fret, 
While garlands fresh the haughtiest heads are crowning 
To drown the drowning. 

There s a strange luxury in being undone 

Crushed flat, brayed line, wiped out and all destroyed, 
A mighty joy to meet that glorious one 

Whose power is boundless as the unsounded void, 
To feel a force that plays with you a while, 
Takes your best life s blood for his lawful spoil 
Till, fed superb by you, the careless render 
Stalks on in splendour. 

Have you not felt it, that wild thrill of joy 
Such joy perchance as the sad Hindoo feels 

When priests drag forth their grim and giant toy 
And o er his neck crunch the slow turning wheels 1 

Women, ye know what the sweet anguish is 

In being o erthrown, what though the giver of bliss 

Be god or lion, ah, or manlike demon 
Speak, O ye women ! 



THE TORNADO. 

WHOSE eye has marked his gendering ? On his throne 

He dwells apart in roofless caves of air, 

Born of the stagnant, blown of the glassy heat 

O er the still mere Sargasso. When the world 

Has fallen voluptuous, and the isles are grown 

So bold they cry, God sees not ! as a rare 

Sunflashing iceberg towers on high, and fleet 

As air-ships rise, by upward currents whirled, 

Even so the bane of lustful islanders 

Wings him aloft. And scarce a pinion stirs. 

There gathering hues, he stoopeth down again, 
Down from the vault. Locks of the gold-tipped cloud 
Fly o er his head ; his eyes, Saint Elmo flames ; 
His mouth, a surf on a red coral reef. 



CHARLES DE KA Y. 265 

Embroidered is his cloak of dark blue stain 
With lightning jags. Upon his pathway crowd 
Dull Shudder, wan-faced Quaking, Ghastly-dreams. 
And after these, in order near their chief, 
Start, Tremor, Faint-heart, Panic and Affray, 
Horror with blanching eyes, and limp Dismay 

Unroll a grey-green carpet him before 
Swathed in thick foam : thereon adventuring, bark 
Need never hope to live ; that yeasty pile 
Bears her no longer ; to the mast-head plunged 
She writhes and groans, careens, and is no more. 
Now, prickt by fear, the man-devourer shark, 
Gale-breasting gull and whale that dreams no guile 
Till the sharp steel quite to the life has lunged, 
Before his pitiless, onward-hurling form 
Hurry toward land for shelter from the storm. 

In vain. Tornado and his pursuivants, 
Whirlwind of giant bulk, and Water-spout, 
The gruesome, tortuous devil-fish of rain 
O ertake them on the shoals and leave them dead. 
Doomsday has come. Now men in speechless trance 
Glower unmoved upon the hideous rout, 
Or, shrieking, fly to holes, or yet complain 
One moment to that lordly face of dread 
Before he quits the mountain of his wave 
And strews for all impartially their grave. 

And as in court-yard corners on the wind 
Sweep the loose straws, houses and stately trees 
Whirl in a vortex. His unswerving tread 
Winnows the isle bare as a thresher s floor. 
His eyes are fixed ; he looks not once behind, 
But at his back fall silence and the breeze. 
Scarce is he come, the lovely wraith is sped. 
Ashamed the lightning shuts its purple door, 
And heaven still knows the robes of gold and dun, 
While placid Ruin gently greets the sun. 



266 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



SERENADE. 

WHEN on the pane your face you press 
The twin lights gazing toward the shore 
Are my two eyes for evermore. 

Behold and weigh their dumb distress : 
Against that one sweet fleeting sight 
They bide them constant all the night. 

The grey gull blown from out the sea 

That gains swift-wing d your purple shore 
When far out grievous tempests roar 

Is my embodied thought of thee. 

My world, so dry with hopeless drouth, 
Grows fresh at thought of one red mouth. 

The wild-rose reaching forth a hand 
To grasp your robe on bridle path 
Be sacred from your gentle wrath, 

It is my longing fills the land. 
The grasses on each favoured sod 
Bow down to kiss where you have trod. 

The winds that in the chimney blow 
Are babbled words of tenderness, 
And tributes to your loveliness 

The red leaves falling from the bough. 
In love so wide and yet so rare 
Each thing of nature asks a share. 



FROM "BARNAVAL." 

Ask of voices in the twilight 

And of waves along the shore, 
Ask of pine-trees when they murmur 
Sound that s music to the core 
Peradventure they can tell 
111 or well . 



CHARLES DE KA Y. 267 

Ask the sunset o er the mountain 

And the white cloud and the brown, 
Ask the larches in the gloaming 
If delight may wear a frown 
For there lurks in sylvan dell 
Many a spell .... 

Ask the woods ablaze at midnight 

And the northern wildfire dance, 
Ask the red moon o er the ocean 
For a flame that haunts a glance 
Marvels greater oft befell 
Monk in cell .... 

Ask the lines of lapsing water 

And the cypress in the wind, 
Ask the lovely curves of islands 
For a grace that heals the blind 
Caught in whorls of little shells 
Beauty dwells .... 

Ask of thrushes brown of pinion 
And the day-fly s velvet wing, 
Ask the golden heart of pansies 
For the daintiest living thing 

Bees have tolled when branches swell 
Winter s knell .... 

Ask. And if all nature loves you, 
Melodies, and clouds, and moon, 
Forms of beauty, woodland perfumes, 
Each and all shall serve as rune 
Whence the maiden s name to spell 
I love well. 



268 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

FROM "BARNAVAL." 
YELLOW and amber-hued, pink-white, gold-red 
Roses for one pulled who at last came not, 
Roses, your perfumes to the dustiest spot, 
Each cobweb of my attic now are sped, 
And soothe me with a fond reproach when all complaints 
are said. 

Droop the head, beauties, oh, and rain your leaves 
Along the bare and sunrif t powdered floor ! 
Though death be nigh, could ye have blossomed 

more? 

Did ye not waste beneath my humble eaves 
As much, to you as all the West s innumerable sheaves ? 

Generous, celestial, rainbow-tinctured souls, 

Too great to murmur at your slender fate, 
Would you were fixed in firm and gorgeous state 

On convent walls where daily upward rolls 

To heaven in incense for that queen whose meekness 
heaven controls ! 

Roses, I am so lonely in the waste ! 

And ye too pass, and sunsets flit and fade ; 
The birds are going ; music dies while made 

And every noble thing away must haste : 

I linger here and think on one henceforth forlorn, 
disgraced. 

Why should man seem so noble and not be 1 

Why from his heart shed forth a perfume rare 
That only seems to embalm the troubled air 1 ? 

Why talk so true, why be so fair to see, 

Why wrap about him snake-skin robes rank with 
hypocrisy 1 

Roses, farewell ! I could not keep you here 
To linger longer in a tradesman s world ; 
In vain to those your wonders are unfurled 

Who hold the high thing cheap, the base thing dear. 

The cry is gold ! your priceless charms will only raise 
a sneer. 



ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 269 

ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 

[Born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, 1850, but resides in 
Frankfort, Kentucky. Author of Life and Love, published in 
New York, by Cassell & Company, with whose kind permis 
sion the poems given are quoted.] 

LIFE AND LOVE. 

ONCE, in the long ago, when Life and Love 

Walked ever, hand in hand : 
They came to Earth, from some fair realm above, 

And wandered through the land. 

Much did they find whereon their art to try, 

For then the world was new ; 
They shook the sunbeams from the blended sky, 

And steeped the ground with dew. 

Upon the fields the emerald turf they spread, 

And clad the hills in green ; 
They laid the meadows in the vales, and led 

The glittering streams between. 

Life lifted up the flowers throughout the land, 

By woodland, slope and fen ; 
Love stooped and touched them with her glowing hand, 

And they have bloomed since then. 

Life taught the birds to build within the brake, 

And clothed each fledgling s wing ; 
Love lifted up her voice, but once, to wake 

The songs which now they sing. 

Thus ever hand in hand they journeyed on 

From sea to sun-lit sea : 
Their garments had the freshness of the dawn 

That wakes the flowering lea. 

And journeying thus, at length they found a child, 

New-risen from the sod ; 
Life frowned, and said, "He is a beast"; Love smiled 

And said, " He is a god." 



2/0 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Thus were their hands disjoined, and from the ground 

Betwixt these twain, arose 
A dark and shadowed figure sorrow-crowned, 

And draped in sable woes. 

Because that Nature s tenderest demands 

Did seem of little worth 
From henceforth, Life and Love their parted hands 

Shall join no more on earth. 

For this, the flowers shall haste to fail and fade, 

The wood and field turn sere ; 
And all the songsters of the summer glade 

Fly with the changing year. 

Life lifted up the Child, and gave him breath, 

And he did walk between 
Love on the right Life on the left and Death 

Did follow, all unseen. 

"What wilt thou give," saith Life, "and I will show 

Thine eyes the path of fame, 
And lead thee, so that after years shall know 

And wonder at thy name 1 " 

" All," said the Child, " that Fate shall bring to me, 

And all that Fame can give 
To heart and mind, all, will I give to thee, 

If I shall always live. " 

But Love bent low and gently laid his head 

Against her broad, white breast 
" What wilt thou give to me 1 " she softly said, 

"And I will give thee rest." 

" Alas ! " he answered. " I am now bereft, 

Of all I might control. 
One gift remains myself alone, am left, 

To thee I give my soul ! " 

Then Love put sandals on his naked feet, 

And, in her tender care, 
Wove him a broidered garment soft and sweet 

Such as a god might wear. 



ROBERT BURNS WILSON. 271 

She girt his body with the golden zone 

Loosed from her own warm breast, 
And on his lips the imprint of her own 

She passionately pressed. 
And in his heart she lit the deathless fire 

Which rests not, night nor day ; 
But still doth turn the soul, with fond desire, 

To beauty s path, alway. 

So they did journey, and the land was fair, 

Each new-born day did seem 
Hope s inspiration, as when morning air 

Breathes from a woodland stream. 

But Life began to weary of the way 

Such fickle heart hath she 
And though Love urged with tears, she would not stay, 

But shook her fair hand free. 

Then Death came swiftly up, in silent might, 

With arms outstretched and cold ; 
And bare the child back to the land of Night, 

To mingle mould with mould. 
But Love still journeyed on from scene to scene, 

Sought still some land of rest ; 
And ever by her side a soul did lean, 

Close to her faithful breast. 

Long ages have rolled by, Earth s children find 

Life false and fickle still ; 
Her promises are fair, but she, unkind, 

Forsakes them all at will. 

The path is sweet and blooming, still the same 

As in that ancient day ; 
And sable Death still follows hard to claim 

The soul-forsaken clay. 

And still she lives, whose dear, divine conti ol 

Nor Life, nor Death, can sever ; 
And journeying still, the unimprisoaed soul 

Goeth on with Love for ever. 



272 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

MY LAD Y SLEEPS. 

AH, happy-hearted bird, 
Full-throated minstrel, shaking all the air 
With golden ripples of thy passion pleading ; 
I tell thee true, my lady is not heeding ; 
She lies asleep, within her window there ; 

Good sooth thou art not heard. 
Thou living memory of her kindly care, 
The small white hand, which once had gifts to share, 
Will never hold forth morsels for thy feeding 

In sad hereafter days ; 
Nor pluck the roses by her lattice creeping. 

So slow the curtain sways, 
Not strange it seemeth now, she should be sleeping ; 

So soft the sweet air strays, 

So fair she lies. 
And in her room the silences are keeping 

A watch upon her eyes, 
And with forgetful balm their light-lids steeping. 

Lest she should wake and rise, 
The roses she last gathered now are weeping 

Upon my lady s breast ; 
Close to the foam-like laces of her gown 

Their silent lips are pressed, 
And drops of dew, like fragrant tears, slip down 
Between the moveless snowy billows there 
Which heave no more, for rapture, nor despair. 

Nor storm nor sunshine, rain, nor falling dew, 
Nor stirring leaves, nor voice of friend or foe, 

Nor surge of all the worlds shall enter through 
The stillness guarding now that slumberer fair ; 

Whose heart knows now no guest, 
Nor any ray nor shadow, weal nor woe. 

Cease, cease thy song, sweet bird, far hence, fly thou ; 
Where Nature keeps 
June-day revel, in fair fields new drest, 
Thy mate awaits thee there ; 



EUGENE FIELD. 273 

There summer spreads her dappled robes anew, 

There bends the snowy crest, 
The pliant elder, where the sweet winds blow ; 

There hangs thy nest 
Amidst the leafage, on some swaying bough ; 

There happy thou, love-blest, 

May st soon forget : farewell she marks not now : 
Thou canst not break the calm which wraps her brow ; 

My lady sleeps, 

At rest ! At rest ! At rest ! 



EUGENE FIELD. 

[Born in St Louis, Missouri, 2d September 1850, but resides at 
Chicago. Author of A Model Primer (Denver Tribune Pub. 
Co., 1882); Cultures Garland (Tricknor & Co., Boston, 1887) ; 
A Little Book of Western Verse (Scribner s Sons, New York, 
1890); and A Little Boole of Profitable Talcs (Scribner s Sons, 
New York, 1890).] 

OUR TWO OPINIONS. 

Us two wuz boys when we fell out 

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now ; 
Don t rec lect what twuz about, 

Some small difference, I ll allow. 
Lived next neighbours twenty years, 

A-hatin each other, me ; nd Jim 
He havin his opinyin uv me 

Nd I havin my opinyin uv him ! 

Grew up together, nd wouldn t speak, 

Courted sisters, and marr d em, too 
Tended same meetin house oncet a week, 

A-hatin each other, through nd through. 
But when Abe Linkern asked the West 

F r soldiers, we answered me nd Jim 
He havin his opinyin uv me 

Nd I havin my opinyin uv him ! 



274 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Down in Tennessee one night 

Ther was sound uv firm fur away, 
Nd the sergeant allowed ther d be a tight 

With the Johnnie Rebs some time next day; 
Nd as I was thinkin of Lizzie nd home, 

Jim stood afore me, long nd slim 
He havin his opinyin uv me 

Nd I havin my opinyin uv him ! 

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin to be 

Serious trouble f r me nd him 
Us two shuck hands, did Jim nd me, 

But never a word from me or Jim ! 
He went his way nd I went mine, 

Nd into the battle s roar went we 
I havin my opinyin uv Jim 

Nd he havin his opinyin uv me ! 

Jim never come back from the War again, 

But I haint forgot that last, last night 
When, waitin f r orders, us two men 

Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight ; 
Nd, after it all, it s soothin to know 

That here I be, nd yonder s Jim 
He havin his opinyin uv me 

Nd I havin my opinion uv him ! 



LULLABIES. 

LULLABY. 

FAIR is the castle up on the hill 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 
The night is fair and the waves are still, 
And the wind is singing to you and me 
In this lowly home beside the sea 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 



EUGENE FIELD. 275 

On yonder hill is store of wealth 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 
And revellers drink to a little one s health ; 
But you and I bide night and day 
For the other love that has sailed away 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep 

Ghostlike, O my own ! 
Out of the mists of the murmuring deep ; 
Oh, see them not and make no cry 
Til the angels of death have passed us by 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

Ah, little they reck of you and me 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 
In our lonely home beside the sea ; 
They seek the castle up on the hill, 
And there they will do their ghostly will 

Hushaby, O my own ! 

Here by the sea, a mother croons 

" Hushaby, sweet my own ; " 
In yonder castle a mother swoons 
While the angels go down to the misty deep, 
Bearing a little one fast asleep 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

A DUTCH LULLABY. 

WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe- 
Sailed on a river of misty light 

Into a sea of dew. 
" Where are you going, and what do you wish ? " 

The old moon asked the three. 
" We have to come to fish for the herring-fish 
That live in this beautiful sea ; 
Nets of silver and gold have we," 
Said Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



276 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The old moon laughed and sung a song 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe, 
And the wind that sped them all night long 

Ruffled the waves of dew ; 
The little stars were the herring-fish 

That lived in that beautiful sea ; 
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 
But never afeard are we " 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



All night long their nets they threw 
For the fish in the twinkling foam. 
Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home. 
Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 

As if it could not be ; 

And some folks thought twas a dream they d dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea. 
But I shall name you the fishermen three : 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 

Is a wee one s trundle-bed ; 
So shut your eyes while mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be. 
And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



GEORGE W. W. HO UGH TON. 277 

NORSE LULLABY. 

THE sky is dark and the hills are white 

As the storm -king speeds from the north to-night, 

And this is the song the storm-king sings, 

As over the world his cloak he flings : 

" Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ; " 
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings : 

" Sleep, little one, sleep." 

On yonder mountain side a vine 
Clings at the foot of a mother pine ; 
The tree bends over the trembling thing 
And only the vine can hear her sing : 

" Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep 
What shall you fear when I am here 1 

Sleep, little one, sleep." 

The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
The tree may croon to the vine to-night, 
But the little snowflake at my breast 
Liketh the song I sing the best 

" Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ; 
Weary thou art, anext my heart 

Sleep, little one, sleep." 



GEORGE WASHINGTON WRIGHT HOUGHTON. 

[Born 12th August 1850, at Cambridge, Mass. Author of Christmas 
Booklet (1872); Songs from Over the Sea (1874) ; Album Leaves 
(1877) ; Drift from York Harbor (1879); Legend of St Olaf s 
Kirk (1880); and Niagara, and other Poems (1882). The 
poems given are quoted with the kind permission of Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.] 

ANNIVERSAR Y HYMN. 

THERE have been nobler days, my friends, 

And ruddier skies than ours, 
When men wrought deeds, but God the ends, 

And faiths grew into powers. 



2;8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

There have been loftier stations too, 
When youths were souls of men, 

Because they had great deeds to do, 
Greatness was goodness then. 

And prouder destinies have been, 
When truth was saved from harm, 

Smitten, the miracles of sin 
By man s God-muscled arm. 

Yet epochs, stations, destinies 
Are not mere births of time ; 

Sublimely do what in us lies : 
This is to be sublime ! 



THE HANDSEL RING. 

" HERE, O lily-white lady mine, 
Here by thy warrior-sire s own shrine, 
Handsel I thee by this golden sign, 

This sunshiny thing." 
Weeping she reached her hand so slim, 
Smiled, though her eyes were wet and dim, 
Saying : " I swear, by Heaven, by him, 

And by this handsel ring ! " 

But as she bended her eyes abashed, 
Out of his fingers the jewel flashed ; 
On the grey flags of the kirk it clashed, 

That treacherous thing ; 

Clashed, and bounded, and circled, and sped, 
Till through a crevice it flamed and fled, 
Down in the tomb of the knightly dead 

Darted the handsel ring. 

" Matters not, darling ! Ere day be o er, 
Goldsmiths shall forge for thy hands a score ; 
Let not thy heart be harried and sore 
For a little thing ! " 



GEORGE W. IV. HOUGHTON. 279 

" Nay ! but behold what broodeth there ! 
See the cold sheen of his silvery hair ! 
Look how his eyeballs roll and stare, 
Seeking thy handsel ring ! " 

"I see nothing, my precious, my own ! 
Tis a black vision that sorrow hath sown ; 
Haste, let us hence, for dark it hath grown ; 

And moths are on wing." 
" Nay, but his shrunken fist, behold, 
Looses his lance-hilt and scatters the mold ! 
What is that his long fingers hold 1 

Christ ! tis our handsel ring ! " 

And when the bridegroom bends over her, 
Neither the lips nor the eyelids stir; 
Naught to her now but music and myrrh, 

Needless his handsel ring. 

Introduction to "Legend of St Olafs Kirk" 



THE HARP. 

THEREBY it came 

That Friar Knut, the tutor of the Prince, 
Was bidden to teach its chords ; and week by week 
With lessening weariness and growing love 
Her deft hands learned to chase the melody 
From string to string through mazy harmonies ; 
Until the instrument, jealous at first 
And obstinate, became a willing slave, 
Seemed part of her, and Yalborg and her harp 
Were mouthpiece of the household. 

From Legend of St Olafs Kirk. 



THE SONG. 

MELODIOUS began 

The prelude, rich with changing symphonies, 
Sending the world far spinning into space, 



28o YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And lifting the rapt listener to a realm 
Of peace and restf ulness. Then bove the strings 
Arose her voice, first like a far-off sigh, 
Betokening love s beginnings, wordless still; 
Now gaining confidence, and, flushed with hope, 
Climbing to higher, ever-gladdening strains ; 
Till, buried by the deepening chords, the voice 
Was lost and all the melody confused. 
There seemed vague wanderings without a goal, 
Beating of wings without the power of flight, 
A seeking for some unknown, needful thing, 
A sweeping of the strings to find one note 
That ever, as she followed it, took flight ; 
And when at last it hovered within grasp, 
And voice and harp arose in unison 
To snare the perfect ending with a twang 
The string brake off, and with a timorous cry 
The note escaped and the unfinished song 
Clashed into dissonance. 

Ibid. 



GONE! 

WITH desolate steps 

She left the bellman and crept down the stairs ; 
Heard all the air re-echoing : " He is gone ! " 
Felt a great sob behind her lips, and tears 
Flooding the sluices of her eyes ; turned toward 
The empty town, and for the first time saw 
That Nidaros was small and irksome, felt 
First time her tether galling ; and, by heaven ! 
Wished she d been born a man-child, free to fare 
Unhindered through the world s wide pastures, free 
To stand this hour by Axel, as his squire, 
And with him brave the sea-breeze. Aimlessly 
She sought the scattered gold-threads that had formed 
Life s glowing texture ; but how dull they seemed ! 
How bootless the long waste of lagging weeks, 
With dull do-over of mean drudgeries, 



ARLO BATES. 281 

And miserable cheer of pitying mouths 
Whistling and whipping through small round of change 
Their cowering pack of saw and circumstance ! 
How slow the crutches of the limping years ! 

Ibid. 



TAPESTRIES. 

BY giddy stairway led, 

He sought his chamber, whose rich tapestries 
Stiff with embroidery of silk and gold 
Conquered the darkness, making night alive 
With courtly peacocks, pecking from the grass 
Topaz and pearl and sheeny amethyst, 
White estridges with wind beneath their wings, 
Lithe tigers lapped in sunshine tropical, 
And palm-trees blotting, by their taper stems 
And leafy mass, a heaven of sunset fires. 
But the bright fervour of the figures blurred, 
As though they nickered neath a breathing wind, 
Swaying the cloths. 

Ibid. 

ARLO BATES. 

[Born 16th December 1850, East Machias, Maine, U.S.A. Gradu 
ated 1876, Bowdoin College. Author of Patty s Perversities 
(Osgood & Co., 1881) ; Mr Jacobs (W. B. Clarke & Co., 1883); 
The Pagans (Henry Holt & Co., 1884); A Wheel of Fire 
(Charles Scribner s Sons, 1885); Berries of the Briar, poems 
(Roberts Brothers, 1886); Sonnets in Shadow, poems (Roberts 
Brothers, 1887); A Lad s Love (Roberts Brothers, 1887); 
The Philistines (Ticknor & Co., 1888); Prince Vance [with 
Eleanor Putrmm] (Roberts Brothers, 1888) ; Albrecht (Roberts 
Brothers, 1889). The poems quoted are published with the 
kind permission of Roberts Brothers.] 

TO MY INFANT SON. 
IN what far land you dwelt before you came 

To this our earth, truly I cannot tell ; 
But much I fear you hold yourself to blame 

When you reflect, and doubt if you did well 



282 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

To make the change. What wild caprice did move 

you 
On quest so rash as changing worlds to prove you ? 

Much of that world I wonder, while I try 

Still to discover in your speech or mien 
Some clue its place or sort may signify. 

I surely something of that land unseen 
May gather if I do but watch you shrewdly, 
Although, perchance, I form my guesses crudely. 

It must a region be of sweetest clime 

And wholesome air that one so fair has bred ; 

It much misheartens me that this world s grime 

Your milk-white soul should smirch ere all be said. 

Brought you no amulet or magic token 

By which all spells of evil may be broken 1 

That you were wise with wisdom of that land 
Your canny kiiowingness full well doth show; 

Though some strange vow I cannot understand 
Has sealed your lips from telling what you know. 

No hint can I beguile from your discretion 

To give me of its lore the least impression. 

I am assured by your right regal air 

You were a prince therein, of sway supreme ; 

Sooth, it behooves me speak Your Highness fair 
Against the day you shall your crown redeem ! 

I pray consider, if at times I thwart you, 

Tis but that useful lessons may be taught you. 

Belike from your superior heights you deem 
Much that I count of weight but little worth ; 

To you, no doubt, as idle fardels seem 

The things men strive for in this surly earth. 

But do not by your former standards measure ; 

These are the best we know of worth or pleasure. 






ARLO BATES. 283 

Had we the wisdom renders you so wise, 

We too, mayhap, would all these trifles scorn ; 

Would hold earth s honours as the emptiest lies, 
Its gains as windle-straws trampled forlorn. 

Yet, certes, we already hold them lightly : 

Sad were our case to rate them yet more slightly. 

Methinks I was a fool that your sweet speech, 
When first you came, I did not strive to learn, 

But cumbered rather mine to you to teach, 

When surely yours had better served your turn 

If you were minded any hints to scatter 

Of the hid way you came, or such high matter. 

They much must miss you in your former place ; 

It chills my heart to think how lorn and sad 
Would be the home had known, but lost your grace. 

Prithee consider, fair sojourning lad, 
How little able I to live without you, 
And slip not back, even though fortune flout you. 

Some time, it may be, fate will be so kind 
As passports to us both at once to send ; 

And I myself your guest, perhaps, may find, 
And watch you as you debonairly bend 

To the glad plaudits of your subjects loyal, 

Half mad with joy to greet their master royal. 

Ah, well ; if so it fall, though I should be 
Far from the throne set in the lower ranks, 

Yet I at least your kingly state may see, 

And babble garrulous to those around of pranks 

You played while here incognito you tarried, 

And out of sight your wings and aureole carried. 

Meanwhile, since my son s shape you deign to wear, 
If I fall short in aught, beseech you, naught 

Set down to malice. Since within you share 

A king s state yet, with kingly kindness fraught 

Be still your thought. Reflect; we both walk blindly; 

Then why should either bear himself unkindly ? 



284 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

ON THE ROAD TO CHORRERA. 

1790. 
THREE horsemen galloped the dusty way 

While sun and moon were both in the sky ; 
An old crone crouched in the cactus shade, 
And craved an alms as they rode by. 
A friendless hag she seemed to be, 
But the queen of a bandit crew was she. 
One horseman tossed her a scanty dole, 
A scoffing couplet the second trolled, 
But the third, from his blue eyes frank and free, 
No glance vouchsafed the beldam old ; 
As toward the sunset and the sea, 
No evil fearing, rode the three. 

A curse she gave for the pittance small, 
A gibe for the couplet s ribald word ; 
But that which once had been her heart 
At sight of the silent horseman stirred ; 

And safe through the ambushed band they speed 
For the sake of the rider who would not heed ! 



A SHADOW BOAT. 
UNDER my keel another boat 

Sails as I sail, floats as I float ; 
Silent and dim and mystic still, 

It steals through that weird nether-world, 
Mocking my power, though at my will 

The foam before its prow is curled, 

Or calm it lies, with canvas furled. 
Vainly I peer, and fain would see 

What phantom in that boat may be ; 
Yet half I dread, lest I with ruth 

Some ghost of my dead past divine, 
Some gracious shape of my lost youth, 

Whose deathless eyes once fixed on mine 

Would draw me downward through the brine ! 



ARLO BATES. 285 



SONNETS IN SHADOW. 

XXVII. 

WE must be nobler for our dead, be sure, 

Than for the quick. We might their living eyes 
Deceive with gloss of seeming ; but all lies 

Were vain to cheat a prescience spirit-pure. 

Our soul s true worth and aim, however poor, 

They see who watch us from some deathless skies 
With glance death-quickened. That no sad surprise 

Sting them in seeing, be ours to secure. 

Living, our loved ones make us what they dream ; 

Dead, if the^ see, they know us as we are ; 
Henceforward we must be, not merely seem. 

Bitterer woe than death it were by far 

To fail their hopes who love us to redeem ; 
Loss were thrice loss that thus their faith should mar. 

XXVI. 

As dying Roland to God solemnly, 
At awful Ronceval, lifted his glove 
Crimson with pagan gore, must we, above 

All petty passions, the heart steadfastly 

Hold up on high, all bleeding though it be 

From sorrow s wounds. By memory of the love 
Which has been ours, though hope, like the ark s dove, 

Return no more, all consecrate are we. 

The heart which once such love as we have known 

Has touched, for evermore is dedicate 
To holy use ; as when some god has shown, 

By portent high, the stone decreed by fate 

To be his shrine. No more it is our own : 
It is an altar where we humble wait. 



286 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



XXV. 

As some flame-crooked venomed Malay blade 

Writhes snake-like through a dusky woman s side 
Its film of poison deep within to hide, 

Does sorrow pierce, life s inmost to invade ; 

While human comfort would our hearts persuade 
That in the hand of Time doth balm abide. 
Shall time our hearts from the old love divide 1 

Vain were a hope could so our faith degrade. 

What have we left save fealty alone ? 

Shall we to Time this jewel yield, which yet 
Vows of a faith eternal made our own ? 

The drop most bitter in woe s beaker set 

Is doubt of our soul s firmness ! He has known 
Grief s sharpest who has feared he may forget ! 



XXIV. 

WHEN two souls have been truly blent in one, 
It could not chance that one should cease to be 
And one remain alive. Twere falsity 

To all that has been to count union done 

Because death blinds the sight. Such threads are spun 
By dear communion as e en the dread Three 
Cannot or cut or disentangle. Sea 

From shore the moon may draw ; but two drops run 

Together, what may separate 1 ? What thought 

Touched but one brain 1 What pulse-beat, faint or high 
Did not each heart share duly ? There is naught 

In all we do or dream, from lightest sigh 

To mightiest deed, by which we are not taught 
We live together and together die. 



GEORGE PARSONS LA THRO P. 287 

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROR 

[Born at Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, 25th August 1851. Author 
of Rose and Roof tree (Boston, 1875) ; Study of Hawthorne, 
Afterglow, An Echo of Passion (Boston, 1882) ; In the Distance 
(1882); Spanish Vistas (New York, 1883); Newport (New 
York, 1884); True (1884); and Gettysburg, etc. The poems 
quoted are given by special permission.] 

GETTYSBURG. 

A BATTLE ODE. 

LOVELY to look on, O South, 
No longer stately-scornful 
But beautiful still in pride, 
Our hearts go out to you as toward a bride ! 

Garmented soft in white. 

Haughty, and yet how love-imbuing and tender, 
You stand before us, with your gentle mouth, 
Where clinging thoughts as bees a-cluster 
Murmur through the leafy gloom, 

Musical in monotone 
Whisper sadly. Yet a lustre 
As of glowing gold-grey light 
Shines upon the orient bloom, 
Sweet with orange-blossoms, thrown 
Round the jasmine-starred, deep night 
Crowning with dark hair your brow. 
Ruthless, once, we came to slay, 

And you met us then with hate. 
Rough was the wooing of war : we won you, 
Won you at last, though late ! 

Dear South, to-day, 
As our country s altar made us 

One for ever, so we vow 
Unto yours our love to render : 
Strength with strength we here endow, 
And we make your honour ours. 
Happiness and hope shall sun you : 
All the wiles that have betrayed us 
Vanish from us like spent showerrj ! 



288 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES. 

THE sunshine of thine eyes 

(O still, celestial beam !), 
Whatever it touches it fills 

With the life of its lambent gleam. 

The sunshine of thine eyes, 

Oh let it fall on me ! 
Though I be but a mote of the air, 

I could turn to gold for thee ! 

From "Rose and Roof-Tree" 



THE PHCEBE-BIRD. 

YES, I was wrong about the phcebe-bird. 
Two songs it has, and both of them I ve heard : 
I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow 
Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow 
Strength from the other, making one more brave, 
And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. 

But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens : 

One is for hey-day, one is sorrow s cadence. 

Our voices vary with the changing seasons 

Of life s long year, for deep and natural reasons. 

Therefore despair not. Think not you have altered, 
If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered. 
We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain, 
Delight, and death, and moods of bliss or bane, 
With love, and hate, or good, and evil all, 
At separate times, in separate accents call ; 
Yet tis the same heart-throb within the breast 
That gives an impulse to our worst and best. 
I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended, 
The Listener finds them in one music blended. 



GEORGE PARSONS LA THROP. 289 

KEENAN S CHARGE. 

CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY 1863. 

THE sun had set ; 

The leaves with dew were wet ; 

Down fell a bloody dusk 

On the woods, that second of May, 

Where Stonewall s corps, like a beast of prey, 

Tore through with angry tusk. 

" They ve trapped us, boys ! " 
Rose from our flank a voice. 
With a rush of steel and smoke 
On came the Rebels straight, 
Eager as love and wild as hate : 
And our line reeled and broke ; 

Broke and fled. 

No one stayed but the dead ! 

With curses, shrieks and cries, 

Horses and waggons and men 

Tumbled back through the shuddering glen, 

And above us the fading skies. 

There s one hope, still 
Those batteries parked on the hill! 
" Battery, wheel ! " ( mid the roar) 
" Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire 
Retiring. Trot ! " In the panic dire 
A bugle rings " Trot " and no more. 

The horses plunged, 

The cannon lurched and lunged, 

To join the hopeless rout. 

But suddenly rode a form 

Calmly in front of the human storm, 

With a stern, commanding shout : 

" Align those guns ! " 

(We knew it was Pleasonton s). 

The cannoneers bent to obey, 

And worked with a will at his word : 



290 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And the black guns moved as if they had heard. 
But ah, the dread delay ! 

" To wait is crime ; 

O God, for ten minutes time ! " 

The general looked around. 

There Keenan sat, like a stone, 

With his three hundred horse alone 

Less shaken than the ground. 

" Major, your men 1 " 

" Are soldiers, General." " Then, 

Charge, Major ! Do your best : 

Hold the enemy back, at all cost, 

Till my guns are placed ; else the army is lost. 

You die to save the rest ! " 

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, 
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasonton s eyes 
For an instant clear, and cool, and still ; 
Then, with a smile he said : "I will." 

" Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them shrank. 

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, 

Rose joyously, with a willing breath 

Rose like a greeting hail to death. 

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; 

.Shouted the officers, crimson-sash d ; 

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow, - 

In their faded coats of the blue and yellow; 

And above in the air, with an instinct true, 

Like a bird of war their pennon new. 

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, 
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, 
And strong brown faces bravely pale 
For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close 
On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 

Line after line the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was riug d with flame ; 



IR WIN RUSSELL. 29 1 

Rode in and sabered and shot and fell ; 
Nor came one back his wounds to tell. 
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, 

While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung 
Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. 
Line after line ; ay, whole platoons, 
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons, 
By the maddened horses were onward borne 
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn ; 
As Keenan fought with his men side by side. 

So they rode, till there were no more to ride. 

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, 
What deep echo rolls 1 Tis a death salute 
From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved 
Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! 

Over them now year following year 
Over their graves, the pine-cones fall, 
And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call ; 
But they stir not again : they raise no cheer ; 
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease, 
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace. 
The rush of their charge is resounding still 
That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 



IRWIN RUSSELL. 

[Born at Port Gibson, Mississippi, 3d June, 1853 ; died at New 
Orleans, 23d December, 1879. The poems quoted are from the 
collected edition of his poems published in 1888 by The Century 
Co., with whose kind permission they are given.] 

FROM " CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE 
QUARTERS: 

Go way fiddle ! folks is tired o hearin you a-squawkin , 
Keep silence fur yo betters ! don t you heah de banjo 
talkin ? 



292 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

About de possum s tail she s gwine to lecter ladies, 

listen 
About de ha r whut isn t dar, an why de ha r is missin . 

" Dar s gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin 

solemn 
Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an he read de ribber 

column 

An so he sot his hands to wuk a-eParin timber patches, 
An lowed he s gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah 

"Natchez." 

Ol Noah kep a-nailin , an a-chippin , an a-sawin 

An all de wicked neighbours kep a-laughin an a- 

pshawin , 
But Noah didn t min em, knowin what wuz gwine to 

happen, 
An forty days an forty nights de rain it kep a-drappin . 

Now, Noah had done catched a lot ob ebry sort of beas es, 
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin , it beat em all to pieces ! 
He had a Morgaw colt an sebral head o Jarsey cattle 
An druv em board de Ark as soon s he heered de thunder 
rattle. 

Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! It come so awful hebby 
De ribber riz immejitly, an busted troo de lebbee ; 
De people all wuz drowned out cep Noah an de critters 
An men he d hired to work de boat, an one to mix de 
bitters. 

De Ark she kep a-sailin an a-sailin an a-sailin ; 
De lion got his dander up, an like to bruk de palin ; 
De sarpirits hissed ; de painters yelled ; tell whut wid all 

de fussin 
You c u dn t hardly heah de mate a-bossin roun an 

cussin . 

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin on de packet, 
Got lonesome in de barber-shop an c u dn t stand de 
racket ; 



IRWIN RUSSELL. 293 

An so, fur to amuse hisse f, he steamed some wood an 

bent it, 
An soon he had a banjo made de fustdat wuz invented. 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an 

screws an aprin, 

An fitted in a proper neck twuz berry long an tap rin . 
He tuk some tin, an twisted him a thimble fur to ring it ; 
An den de mighty question riz : how wuz he gwine to 

string it 1 

De possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I s a-singin ; 
De ha rs so long an thick an strong des fit fur banjo- 

stringin ; 
Dat nigger shaved em off as short as washday-dinner 

graces ; 
An sorted ob em by de size, f om little E s to bases. 

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig twuz " Nebber 

min de wedder" 

She soun like forty-lebben bands a-playin all togedder. 
Some went to pattin ; some to dancin ; Noah called de 

figgers, 
An Ham he sot an knocked de tune, de happiest ob 

niggers ! 

Now, sence dat time it s mighty strange dere s not de 

slightes showin 

Ob any ha r at all upon de possum s tail a-growin ; 
An curi s, too, dat niggers ways : his people nebber 

los em 
Fur whar you finds de nigger dar s de banjo an de 

possum. 



NEB UCHADNEZZAR. 

i. 

You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah ! 
Whar is you tryin to go, sah 1 
I d hab you fur to know, sah, 
I s a-holdin ob de lines. 



294 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

You better stop dat prancin ; 
You s paw ful fond ob dancin , 
But I ll bet my yeah s advancin 
Dat I ll cure you ob yo shines. 

n. 

Look heah, mule ! Better min out ; 
Fust ing you know you ll fin out 
How quick I ll wear dis line out 
On your ugly, stubbo n back. 
You needn t try to steal up ; 
An lif dat precious heal up ; 
You s got to plough dis fiel up, 
You has, sah, fur a fac . 

in. 

Dar, dat s de way to do it ! 
He s comin right down to it ; 
Jes watch him ploughin troo it ! 
Dis nigger ain t no fool. 
Some folks dey would a beat him ; 
Now, dat would only heat him 
I know jes how to treat him : 
You mus reason wid a mule. 

IV. 

He minds me like a nigger. 
If he wuz only bigger 
He d fotch a mighty figger, 
He would, I tell you ! Yes, sah ! 
See how he keeps a clickin ! 
He s as gentle as a chicken, 
An nebber thinks o kickin 
Whoa dar ! Nebuchadnezzah ! 

v. 

Is dis heah me, or not me 1 
Or is de debbil got me 1 
Wuz dat a cannon shot me ? 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 295 

Hah I laid heah more n a week 1 
Dat mule do kick amazin ! 
De beast wuz sp iled in raisin 
But now I spect he s grazin 
On de oder side de creek. 



HER CONQUEST. 

MUSTER thy wit, and talk of whatsoever 

Light, mirth-provoking matter thou canst find : 
I laugh, and own that thou, with small endeavour, 
Hast won my mind. 

Be silent if thou wilt ; thine eyes expressing 

My thoughts and feelings, lift them up to mine : 
Then quickly thou shalt hear me, love, confessing, 
My heart is thine. 

And let that brilliant glance become more tender 
Return me heart for heart then take the whole 
Of all that yet is left me to surrender : 
Thou hast my soul. 

Then, when the three are fast in thy possession, 
And thou hast paid me back their worth, and more, 
I ll tell thee all whereof I ve made thee cession 
Was thine before. 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

[Born at Greenfield, Indiana, 1853. Author of The Old Swimmin - 
Hole, and \Leven more Poems, by Benj . F. Johnson of Boone, 
(1883) ; The Boss Girl, and other Sketches (1886) ; Afterwhiles 
(1887) ; and Character Sketches and Poems (1887). The poems 
quoted are from Afterwhiles, published by The Bowen-Merrill- 
Co., Indianapolis, 1888, and are given by special permission.] 

THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN. 

O THE South Wind and the Sun ! 
How each loved the other one 

Full of fancy full of folly- 
Full of jollity and fun! 



296 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

How they romped and ran about, 
Like two boys when school is out, 
With glowing face, and lisping lip, 
Low laugh, and lifted shout ! 

And the South Wind he was dressed 
With a ribbon round his breast 

That floated, flapped and fluttered 
In a riotous unrest, 
And a drapery of mist, 
From the shoulder and the wrist 

Flowing backward with the motion 
Of the waving hand he kissed. 

And the Sun had on a crown 

Wrought of gilded thistledown, 
And a scarf of velvet vapor, 

And a ravelled-rainbow gown ; 

And his tinsel-tangled hair, 

Tossed and lost upon the air, 
Was glossier and flossier 

Than any anywhere. 

And the South Wind s eyes were two 

Little dancing drops of dew, 
As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, 

And blew and blew and blew ! 

And the Sun s like diamond stone, 

Brighter yet than ever known, 
As he knit his brows and held his breath, 

And shone and shone and shone ! 

And this pair of merry fays 
Wandered through the summer days ; 

Arm-in-arm they went together 
Over heights of morning haze 
Over slanting slopes of lawn 
They went on and on and on, 

Where the daisies looked like star-tracks 
Trailing up and down the dawn. 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 297 

And where er they found the top 

Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop 
They chucked it underneath the chin 

And praised the lavish crop, 

Till it lifted with the pride 

Of the heads it grew beside, 
And then the South Wind and the Sun 

Went onward satisfied. 

Over meadow-lands they tripped, 

Where the dandelions dipped 
In crimson foam of clover-bloom, 

And dripped and dripped and dripped ; 

And they clenched the bumble-stings, 

Gauming honey on their wings, 
And bundling them in lily-bells, 

With maudlin murmu rings. 

And the humming-bird, that hung 

Like a jewel up among 
The tilted honeysuckle-horns, 

They mesmerised, and swung 

In the palpitating air, 

Drowsed with odors strange and rare, 
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away 

And left him hanging there. 

And they braided blades of grass 

Where the truant had to pass ; 
And they wriggled through the rushes, 

And the reeds of the morass, 

Where they danced, in rapture sweet, 

O er the leaves that laid a street 
Of undulant mosaic for 

The touches of their feet. 

By the brook, with mossy brink, 
Where the cattle came to drink, 
They trilled and piped and whistled 
With the thrush and bobolink, 



298 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Till the kine, in listless pause, 
Switched their tails in mute applause, 
With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, 
And bubble-dripping jaws. 

And where the melons grew, 
Streaked with yellow, green and blue, 

These jolly sprites went wandering 
Through spangled paths of dew ; 
And the melons, here and there, 
They made love to, everywhere, 

Turning their pink souls to crimson 
With caresses fond and fair. 

Over orchard walls they went, 
Where the fruited boughs were bent 

Till they brushed the sward beneath them 
Where the shine and shadow blent 
And the great green pear they shook 
Till the sallow hue forsook 

Its features, and the gleam of gold 
Laughed out in every look. 

And they stroked the downy cheek 
Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek 

And flushed it into splendor ; 
And with many an elfish freak 
Gave the russet s rust a wipe 
Prankt the rambo with a stripe, 

And the winesap blushed its reddest 
As they spanked the pippins ripe. 

Through the woven ambuscade 
That the twining vines had made, 

They found the grapes in clusters, 
Drinking up the shine and shade 
Plumpt, like the tiny skins of wine, 
With a vintage so divine 

That the tongue of fancy tingled 
With the tang of muscadine. 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 299 

And the golden-banded bees, 

Droning o er the flowery leas, 
They bridled, reined and rode away 

Across the fragrant breeze, 

Till in hollow oak and elm 

They had groomed and stabled them 
In waxen stalls that oozed with dews 

Of rose and lily-stem. 

Where the dusty highway leads, 

High above the wayside weeds 
They sowed the air with butterflies 

Like blooming flower-seeds, 

Till the dull grasshopper sprung 

Half a man s height up, and hung 
Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, 

And sung and sung and sung ! 

And they loitered, hand in hand, 

Where the snipe along the sand 
Of the river ran to meet them 

As the ripple meets the land; 

And the dragon-fly, in light 

Gauzy armor, burnished bright, 
Came tilting down the waters 

In a wild, bewildered flight. 

And they heard the killdee s call, 

And afar, the waterfall, 
But the rustle of a falling leaf 

They heard above it all ; 
And the trailing willows crept 

Deeper in the tide that swept 
The leafy shallop to the shore. 

And wept and wept and wept ! 

And the fairy vessel veered 
From its moorings tacked and steered 
For the center of the current 
Sailed away and disappeared : 



300 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

And the burthen that it bore 
From the long-enchanted shore 
" Alas ! the South Wind and the Sun ! : 
I murmur evermore. 

For the South Wind and the Sun, 
Each so loves the other one, 

For all his jolly folly, 
And frivolity and fun, 
That our love for them they weigh 
As their fickle fancies may, 

And when at last we love them most, 
They laugh and sail away. 



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE. 



TELL you what I like the best 
Long about knee-deep in June, 
Bout the time strawberries melts 
On the vine, some afternoon 

Like to jes git out and rest, 
And not work at nothin else ! 

ii. 

Orchard s where I d ruther be 
Needn t fence it in fer me ! 

Jes the whole sky overhead, 
And the whole airth underneath 

Sort o so s a man kin breathe 
Lik he ort, and kind o has 
Elbow-room to keerlessly 

Sprawl out len thways on the grass 

Where the shadder s thick and soft 
As the kivvers on the bed 

Mother fixes in the loft 
Allus, when they s company ! 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 301 

in. 

Jes a sort o lazein there 
S lazy at you peek and peer 

Through the \vavin leaves above, 

Like a feller at s in love 
And don t know it, ner don t keer ! 
Ever thing you hear and see 

Got some sort o interest 

Maybe find a bluebird s nest 

Tucked up there conveenently 

Fer the boys at s apt to be 

Up some other apple-tree ! 
Watch the swallers skootin past 
Bout as peert as you could ast ; 

Er the bobwhite rise and whiz 

Where some other s whistle is. 

IV. 

Ketch a shadder down below 
And look up to find the crow, 
Er a hawk away up there, 
Pearantly froze in the air ! 

Here the old hen squawk and squat 

Over ever chick she s got, 
Suddent-like ! And she s knows where 

That air hawk is, well as you ! 

You jes bet your life she do ! 

Eyes a glitteriri like glass 

Waitin till he makes a pass ! 

v. 

Pee-wees singin , to express 

My opinion s second class, 
Yit you ll hear em more er less ; 

Sapsucks gittin down to biz, 
Weedin out the lonesomeness ; 

Mr. Bluejay full of sass, 

In them base-ball clothes o his 
Sportin round the orchard jes 



302 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Like he owned the premises ! 

Sun out in the fields kin sizz, 
But flat on yer back, I guess, 

In the shade s where glory is ! 
That s jes what I d like to do 
Stiddy fer a year er two ! 

VI. 

Plague ! ef they ain t sompin in 
Work at kind o goes ag in 

My convictions ! long about 
Here in June especially ! 
Under some old apple-tree, 
Jes a restin through and through, 

I could git along without 
Nothin else at all to do 
Only jes a wish in you 

Was a gettin there like me, 
And June was eternity ! 

VII. 

Lay out there and try to see 

Jes how lazy you kin be ! 
Tumble round and souse yer head 
In the clover-bloom, er pull 
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes, 
And peek through it at the skies, 
Thinkin of old chums at s dead, 
Maybe, smilin back at you 
In betwixt the beautiful 
Clouds o gold and white and blue ! 
Month a man kin railly love 
June, you know, I m talking of ! 

VIII. 

March ain t never nothin new ! 

Aprile s altogether too 
Brash fer me ! and May I jes 

Bominate its promises ! 



JAMES WHITCOMB RTLEY. 303 

Little hints o sunshine and 
Green around the timber-land 
A few blossoftis, and a few 
Chip-birds, and a sprout er two 
Drap asleep, and it turns in 
.Fore daylight and snows ag in ! 

But when June comes clear my throat 
With wild honey ! Binch my hair 

In the dew ! and hold my coat ! 

Whoop out loud ! and throw my hat ! 

June wants me, and I m to spare ! 

Spread them shadders anywhere, 

I ll get down and waller there, 
And obleeged to you at that ! 



WHEN SHE COMES HOME. 

WHEN she comes home again ! A thousand ways 
I fashion, to jmyself, the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome : I shall tremble yes ; 

And touch her, as when first in the old clays 

I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 

Mine eyes, such was my faint heart s sweet distress. 
Then silence : And the perfume of her dress 
The room will sway a little, and a haze 
Clog eyesight soulsight, even for a space : 

And tears yes : And the ache here in the throat, 
To know that I so ill deserve the place 

Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 
Again is hidden in the old embrace. 



WHEN BESSIE DIED. 
" IF from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped " 



304 YO UNGER AMERICA N POE TS. 

When Bessie died 
We braided the brown hair and tied 
It just as her own little hands 
Had fastened back the silken strands 
A thousand times the crimson bit 
Of ribbon woven into it 
That she had worn with childish pride 
Smoothed down the dainty bow and cried- 
When Bessie died. 

When Bessie died 
We drew the nursery blinds aside, 
And, as the morning in the room 
Burst like a primrose into bloom, 
Her pet canary s cage we hung 
Where she might hear him when he sung 
And yet not any note he tried, 
Though she lay listening folded-eyed. 

When Bessie died 
We writhed in prayer unsatisfied ; 
We begged of God, and He did smile 
In silence on us all the while ; 
And we did see Him, through our tears, 
Enfolding that fair form of hers, 
She laughing back against His love 
The kisses we had nothing of 
And death to us He still denied, 
When Bessie died 

When Bessie died. 



THE KING. 



i. 



THEY rode right out of the morning sun- 
A glimmering, glittering cavalcade 

Of knights and ladies, and every one 
In princely sheen arrayed ; 



JAMES WHITCOM8 RILEY. 365 

And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, 
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red 
That spurted about in the breeze and bled 
In the bloom of the everglade. 

II. 

And they rode high over the dewy lawn, 

With brave, glad banners of every hue, 
That rolled in ripples, as they rode on 

In splendor, two and two ; 
And the tinkling links of the golden reins 
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains 
As the castanets in a dream of Spain s 

Intensest gold and blue. 

in. 

And they rode and rode ; and the steeds they neighed 

And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides 
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played 

Like the moon on rippling tides ; 
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, 
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, 
And jostled in time to the teeming throng, 

And their knightly song besides. 

IV. 

Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, 

And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild 
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her 

As one at a wilful child, 
And as knight and lady away they flew, 
And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too, 
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, 

He kissed his hand and smiled. 

v. 

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, 
The pageant glittered across the plain, 
And the turf spun back, and wild-weed flower 
Was only a crimson stain ; 

u 



3o5 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And a dreamer s eyes they are downward cast, 
As he blends these words with the wailing blast : 
" It is the King of the Year rides past ! 
And Autumn is here again." 

JIM. 
HE was jes a plain, ever -day, all-round kind of a jour.* 

Consumpted-lookin but la ! 
The jokiest, wittiest, story-tellin , song-singin , 

Laughin est, j oiliest 

Feller you ever saw ! 
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he 

Was fine enough in his talk, 

And his feelin s too ! 
Lordy ! ef he was on y back on his bench ag iu 

To-day, a carryin on 

Like he used to do ! 

And any shopmate can tell you they never was, on top 
o dirt 

A better feller n Jim ! 
You want a favor, and couldn t git it anywheres else 

You could get it o him ! 
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world I guess ! 

Give up ever nickel he s worth 
And, ef you d a-wanted it, and named it to him, 

And it was his, 

He d a give you the earth ! 

Allus a-reachin out, Jim was, and a he pin some 

Pore feller onto his feet 
He d a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse f 

So s the feller got somepin to eat ! 
Didn t make no differ nce at all to him how he was dressed, 

He used to say to me, 

"You togg out a tramp party comfortable in winter 
time, a huntin a job, 

And he ll git along ! " says he. 

* "Jour," contraction of the word "journeyman." 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 307 

Jim didn t have, ner never could git ahead so overly much 

O this world s goods at a time. 

Tore now I ve saw him, more n onc t, lend a dollar, and 
ha f to, more n likely, 

Turn round and borry a dime ! 

Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse f fer a while 

Then jerk his coat, 

And kind o square his chin, 
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse f on his old shoe-bench, 

And go to peggiii ag in ! 

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at ever jes naturely 

Coughed hisse f to death ! 
Long enough after his voice was lost he d laugh 

In a whisper and say 

He could git ever thing but his breath 
"You fellers," he d sort o twinkle his eyes and say, 

" Is a-pilin onto me 
A mighty big debt for that-air little weak-chested 

Ghost o mine to pack 

Through all eternity ! " 

Now there was a man at jes peared-like to me, 

At ort n t a-never a-died ! 

" But death haint a-showin no favours," the old boss 
said, 

" On y to Jim ! " and cried : 

And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the 
shop, 

Er the whole blame neighborhood, 
He says, " When God made Jim, I bet you He 

Didn t do anything else that day 

But jes set round and feel good ! " 



jo8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 

[Born at Tuskaloosa, Alabama, 1854. Author of Cap and Bells, 
published, in New York, by F. A. Stokes in 1886, with 
whose kind permission the poems given are quoted.] 

DOLLIE. 

SHE sports a witching gown 
With a ruffle up and down, 

On the skirt : 
She is gentle, she is shy, 
But there s mischief in her eye, 

She s a flirt ! 

She displays a tiny glove, 
And a dainty little love 

Of a shoe ; 

And she wears her hat a-tilt 
Over bangs that never wilt 

In the dew. 

Tis rumoured chocolate creams 
Are the fabrics of her dreams 

But enough ! 
I know beyond a doubt 
That she carries them about 

In her muff. 

With her dimples and her curls 
She exasperates the girls 

Past belief : 

They hint that she s a cat, 
And delightful things like that 

In their grief. 

It is shocking, I declare, 
But what does Dollie care 

When the beaux 
Come flocking to her feet 
Like the bees around a sweet 

Little rose ! 



SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. 309 

A KNOT OF BLUE. 

FOR THE BOYS OP YALE. 

SHE hath no gems of lustre bright 

To sparkle in her hair ; 
No need hath she of borrowed light 

To make her beauty fair. 
Upon her shining locks afloat 

Are daisies wet with dew, 
And peeping from her lissome throat 

A little knot of blue. 

A dainty knot of blue, 

A ribbon blithe of hue, 
It fills my dreams with sunny gleams, 

That little knot of blue. 

I met her down the shadowed lane, 

Beneath the apple-tree, 
The balmy blossoms fell like rain 

Upon my! love and me; 
And what I said or what I did 

That morn I never^knew^ 
But to my breast there came and hid 

A little knot of blue. 

A little knot of blue, 

A love knot strong and true, 
Twill hold my heart till life shall part, 

That little knot of blue. 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

I WAS in the garden chatting 
Amid the mignonette, 

She with her snowy tatting, 
I with my cigarette. 



i o YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

I still can see her fingers 
Flit softly in and out ; 

With rapture memory lingers 
To view her lips a-pout. 

A happy sunbeam glancing 

Upon a wayward curl 
Set every pulse to dancing, 

And turned my brain a-whirl ; 
And when she looked up shyly, 

I could not help, you see, 
But stoop and kiss her slyly, 

Behind the apple-tree. 

Strange that some mote for ever 

Should mar the rays of bliss ! 
Though conscious I had never 

Yet won so sweet a kiss, 
Alas the act of plunder 

So gracefully she bore, 
I could not choose but wonder, 

Had she been kissed before ! 



THE SAILOR S SWEETHEART. 

MY love he is a sailor lad, 

He says he loves me true 
For all my wealth of golden hair, 

Because my eyes are blue ; 
And while he is upon the sea, 

Whose raging billows roar, 
The village lads come wooing me 

At least some half a score. 
I list to what the laddies say, 

Of smiles they have no lack, 
And though I say nor yea nor nay, 

I think I ll wait for Jack. 



HENR Y CU YLER B UNNER. 3 1 1 

There s Donald and there s Robin Gray, 

Oh you should hear them sigh, 
I smile at them and only say 

I ll answer by and by. 
They bring me trinkets from the fair, 

And ribbons bright like this ; 
And oftentimes they humbly kneel 

And plead me for a kiss, 
And then I turn and look away. 

Across the billows black, 
And softly to myself I say 

I think I ll wait for Jack. 

Ye bonnie stars shine out, shine out, 
Ye billows cease your war ; 

south wind rise and blow my love 
Within the harbour bar ! 

No other lad can woo as he ; 

My smiles are shallow smiles 
For oh, my heart is on the sea 

Amid the western isles, 
And though I let the laddies woo 

I give no wooing back; 

1 only do as lasses do, 

The while I wait for Jack. 



H. C. BUNNER. 

[Born about 1855. Author of Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere, 
The Midge, Short Sixes, etc. The poems quoted are from the 
former volume, and are published with the kind permission of 
Charles Scribner s Sons.] 

THE WAY TO ARCADY. 
, what s the way to Arcady, 

To Arcady, to Arcady; 
Oh, what s the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry ? 
Oh ! what s the way to Arcady ? 
The spring is rustling in the tree 
The tree the wind is blowing through 



312 YO UNGER A M ERIC A N POE TS. 

It sets the blossoms flickering white. 
I knew not skies could burn so blue 

Nor any breezes blow so light. 
They blow an old-time way for me 

Across the world of Arcady. 

Oh what s the way to Arcady ? 
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, 
Quit mocking of the song-bird s note. 
How have you heart for any tune, 
You with the wayworn russet shoon ? 
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, 
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. 
I ll brim it well with pieces red, 
If you will tell the way to tread. 

Oh, I am bound for Arcady , 
And if you but keep pace with me 
You tread the way to Arcady. 

And where away lies Arcady, 

And how long yet may the journey be ? 

Ah, that (quoth he) / do not know 
Across the clover and the snow 
Across the frost, across the flowers 
Through summer seconds and winter hours. 
I ve trod the way my whole life long. 

And know not now where it may be; 
My guide is but the stir to song, 
That tells me I can not go wrong, 
Or clear or dark the pathway be 

Upon the road to Arcady. 

But how shall I do who cannot sing ? 

I was wont to sing, once on a time 
There is never an echo now to ring 

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. 

} Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), 
The folk all sing in Arcady. 

But how may he find Arcady 
Who hath nor youth nor melody ? 



H. C. BUNNER. 313 

What, know you not, old man (quoth he) 
Your hair is white, your face is wise 
That Love must kiss that mortal s eyes 

Who hopes to see fair Arcady? 

No gold can buy you entrance there ; 
But beggared love may go all bare 
No wisdom won with weariness ; 
But Love goes in with Folly s dress 
No fame that wit could ever win ; 
But only Love may lead Love in 
To Arcady, to Arcady. 

Ah, woe is me, through all my days 
Wisdom and wealth I both have got, 

And fame, and name, and great men s praise; 

But Love, ah, Love ! I have it not. 

There was a time, when life was new 

But far away, and half forgot 

I only know her eyes were blue ; 
But Love I fear I knew it not. 

We did not wed, for lack of gold, 

And she is dead, and I am old. 

All things have come since then to me 
Save Love, ah, Love ! and Arcady. 

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), 
My way s for Love and Arcady. 

But you, you fare alone, like me; 

The grey is likewise in your hair. 
And love have you to lead you there, 

To Arcady, to Arcady ? 

Ah, not lonely do I fare ; 

My true companion s Memory, 

With Love he fills the Spring-time air; 

With Love he clothes the Winter tree. 
Oh, past this poor horizon s bound 

My song goes straight to one who stands- 
Her face all gladdening at the sound 



314 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

To lead me to the Spring-green lands, 

To wander with enlacing hands. 

The songs within my breast that stir 

Are all of her, are all of her. 

My maid is dead long years (quoth he), 

She waits for me in Arcady. 

Oh, yoris the way to Arcady, 

To Arcady, to Arcady, 
Oh yon s the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry. 

THE APPEAL TO HAROLD. 
HARO ! Haro ! 

Judge now betwixt this woman and me, 

Haro! 

She leaves me bond, who found me free. 
Of love and hope she hath drained me dry 
Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky; 
She hath not left me tears for weeping, 
Nor will my eyelids close in sleeping, 
I have gathered all my life s blood up 

Haro ! 
She hath drunk and thrown aside the cup. 

Shall she not give me back my days ? 

Haro! 

I made them perfect for her praise. 
There was no flower in all the brake 
I found not fairer for her sake ; 
There was no sweet thought I did not fashion 
For aid and servant to my passion. 
Labour and learning worthless were, 

Haro! 
Save that I made them gifts for her. 

Shall she not give me back my nights ? 

Haro ! 

Give me sweet sleep for brief delights ? 
Lo, in the night s wan mid I lie, 
And ghosts of hours that are dead go by : 



JA MRS BERR Y BENS EL. 3 1 5 

Hours of a love that died unshriven ; 

Of a love in change for my manhood given : 

She caressed and slew my soul s white truth, 

Haro! 
Shall she not give me back my youth 1 

Haro ! Haro ! 
Tell thou me not of a great judge, 

Haro! 

It is He who hath my sin in grudge. 
Yea, from God I appeal to thee ; 
God hath not part or place for me. 
Thou who hast sinned, judge thou my sinning, 
I have staked my life for a woman s winning ! 
SlTe hath stripped me of all save remembering, 

Haro ! 
Right thou me, right thou me, Harold the King ! 



JAMES BERRY BENSEL. 

[Born at New York City, 2d August 1 856. Died there, 3d February 
1886. Author of In the Kings Garden (1886, D. Lothrop, 
Boston), and a novel, King Cophetua s Wife, (published only 
as a serial in the Overland Monthly, 1883). The poem 
given is published with the kind permission of the D. Lothrop 
Company. ] 

MY SAILOR. 
HE lay at my side on the eastern hill, 

My brave, sweet lad with the golden hair ; 
And gazed at the vessel which seemed to fill 

The rippling breadth of the harbour there ; 

The black-hulled vessel from over the sea, 
The white-sailed vessel that came and went, 

" I am going to sail away," said he, 

" To sail some day to my heart s content ! 

" I shall see the waving of south land palms, 
The dark, fierce fronts of the icebergs tall, 

And gather the grapes, as a beggar alms, 

From vines on some Spanish convent s wall." 



3i6 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Then he drew my hand from beneath his chin, 
And trailed my fingers across his lips 

" Yes, we both will sail from this town of Lynn 
In one of those staunch old black-pro wed ships." 

So one summer evening his ship set sail 
And floated off in the twilight grim ; 

I heaped up the vessel with blossoms pale 
And wept that I could not follow him. 

And I cannot say that the palms are there, 
Nor icy mountains he longed to see ; 

But I know he sailed into lands more fair 
And stronger arms, when he went from me. 

O, my brave, sweet lad ! how his angel eyes 

Will gaze out over the ocean dim 
That reaches from earth into Paradise, 

Till I set my sail and follow him. 



WILLIAM PRESCOTT FOSTER. 

[Born at Weld, Franklin County, Maine, 20th August 1856 ; 
graduated from Bates College, 1881. The poems quoted are from 
the Century Magazine. 

THE WIND AND THE STARS AND THE SEA. 

THE wind and the stars and the sea, 
What song can be sung of these three, 

With words that are written in lines 1 
Ah, God of the stars and the sea, 
The voice of the song, it should be 

The voice of the wind in the pines. 

The voice of the song, it should be 
The voice of the coast of the sea, 

Stepmother and wrecker of ships ; 
As deep and as hoarse as the tune 
Bleak Labrador sings to the moon, 

With rocky and cavernous lips. 



WILLIAM PRESCOTT FOSTER. 317 

The wind and the stars and the sea, 
The Arctic night knoweth the three ; 

No other sojourner it hath, 
Save death and these three from of old, 
To whose abode throned in the cold, 

No living thing knoweth the path. 

There nothing to grieve or rejoice 
E er lifts up the sound of its voice 

A world ere the birth of a soul ; 
A thousand long ages speed by, 
Still glimmer the stars in the sky, 

Still whistles the gale from the pole. 

Amid the unharvested plains, 

The blossornless land where death reigns, 

The wind sings of doom and of graves ; 
It sings of the days when the world 
Shall crumble to sand, and be whirled 

Like dust in the teeth of the waves. 

Where ice-mountains thunder and crash, 
Where frozen waves gurgle and dash, 

Where love never came with its tears, 
Like a lost world s desolate cry, 
Shrills sea-wind to sea and to sky, 

And only the ear of God hears. 



THE SEAS VOICE. 

i. 

AROUND the rocky headlands, far and near, 

The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue, 

Till all the coast s mysterious caverns rung 

With the waves voice, barbaric, hoarse and drear. 

Within this distant valley, with rapt ear, 
I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung, 
Or some grey god, as when the world was young 
Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear. 



3 1 8 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought, 
The sea s deep roar and sullen surge and shock 
Broke the long silence of eternity, 

And echoed from the summits where God wrought, 
Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock 
With ploughs of ice-hills, harnessed to the sea. 

II. 

The sea is never quiet, east and west, 

The nations hear it, like the voice of fate, 
Within -vast shores its strife makes desolate, 
Still murmuring, mid storms that to its breast 

Return, as eagles screaming to their nest. 
Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait, 
While old earth crumbles to eternal rest, 
Or some hoar monster calling to his mate 1 

O ye, that hear it moan about the shore, 

Be still and listen : that loud voice hath sung. 
Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown; 

And when man s voice is dumb, for evermore 
Twill murmur on, its craggy shores among, 
Singing of gods, and nations overthrown. 



THE. SILENCE OF THE HILLS. 
THE windy forest, rousing from its sleep, 
Voices its heart in hoarse, Titanic roar, 
The ocean bellows from its rocky shore, 
The cataract, that haunts the rugged steep, 
Makes mighty music in its headlong leap, 
The clouds have voices, and the rivers pour 
Their floods in thunder down to ocean s floor, 
The hills alone mysterious silence keep. 
They cannot rend the ancient chain, that bars 
Their iron lips, nor answer back the sea, 
That calls to them far off in vain the stars 
They cannot hail, nor their wild brooks. Ah me ! 
What cries from out their stony hearts will break, 
In God s great clay, when all that sleep shallVake. 



CHARLES LOTTN HILDRETH. 319 



CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH. 

[Born in New York, 28th August 1856 ; graduated at the College of 
the City of New York. Author of Oo, The New Sym 
phony, Judith, The Masque of Death (Belford Company, 
New York, Chicago, and San Francisco, 1889). The poems 
quoted are from the last named, and are republished by the 
kind permission of Belford Company.] 

GHOSTS. 

TWELVE by the chime : from idle dreams awaking, 
I trim my lamp and mount the creaking stair ; 

The shadows through the carven arches shaking 
Seem mocking phantoms that pursue me there. 

The faded portraits in the lamp-light s glamour 

Look down with cold inquisitorial gaze; 
The scupltured busts, the knights in rusted armour, 

Loom large against the window s pictured maze. 

Thick dust falls from the time-worn, tattered hangings, 

Thick dust lies on the tessellated floor ; 
My step sounds loud, the door s sepulchral clangings 

Roll far along the gusty corridor. 

Ah me ! amid my dwelling s desolation 
It seems some fable that my brain recalls, 

That once a glad and gallant generation 

Loved, laughed, and feasted in these lonely halls. 

Silent the voice of song, and hushed the laughter, 
Cheerless and cold the empty banquet-room ; 

The spider weaves in gilded groin and rafter, 

The shrill wind whistles th rough the vaulted gloom. 

Vanished those dear ones, by what hidden highways, 
In what far regions, o er what stormy waves, 

I know not, nor in what oblivious byways 

The sere grass sighs above their nameless graves. 



320 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And yet, as if my souls s imperious longing 
Were as a spell unspoken yet supreme, 

Pale shapes seem through the hollow darkness thronging, 
Like those wan visitants which haunt a dream. 

They gather round me through the silent spaces, 
Like clouds across the waning twilight blown, 

Till all the room is filled with flickering faces 

And hovering hands that reach to wring my own. 

With friendly greeting and familiar gesture, 
Wearing the form and feature that they wore 

When youth and beauty clothed them like a vesture, 
They come, the unforgotten ones of yore. 

On cheek and brow I feel their chill caresses, 
Like cold, faint airs of autumns long ago ; 

I hear the sighing of their ghostly tresses, 
The trailing of their garments to and fro. 

Up from the gulfs of time, the blind abysses, 
Those radiant phantoms of the past arise, 

And bring again the perfume of their kisses, 
The peril and the splendour of their eyes. 

But cold their lips, they breathe no warm affection, 
And cold their breasts as frozen shapes of snow ; 

Their luminous eyes are but a vague reflection; 
Stray starbeams in the ice-bound stream below. 

Tis well : nay, if by spell or incantation 
The loved and lost I might again behold, 

Breathing and warm in youth s bright incarnation, 
And glowing with the loveliness of old : 

That word I would withhold, for their sakes only : 
Estranged and changed as in a haggard dream, 

Time-tossed and tempest-beaten, old and lonely, 

To their young eyes what spectres we should seem ! 



CHARLES LO TIN HJLDRE TH. 321 

LO VE. 

LOVE was primeval ; from forgotten time 

Come hints of common lives by love made great, 
In pastoral song or fragmentary rh3 r me, 

While fades the fame of many a warlike state. 
Love lives for ever, though we pass away; 

Still shall there be hot hearts and longing eyes, 
Hyperion youths and maids more fair than they, 

Loath lips and lingering hands and parting sighs, 
When we have vanished and our simple doom 

Is blended with the themes of old romance. 
Ay, from our dust young buds and flowers shall bloom, 

To deck bright tresses in the spring-tide dance 
And be the mute, sweet signs of love confessed 
To passioned hopes upon a maiden s breast. 



THE TOCSIN. 

WHAT voice as of the tempest-trampled sea, 
What turbulence of terror and delight, 

What organ-peal, what solemn litany 
Clamours along the quiet aisles of night ? 

What tocsin s moan through midnight silence falls, 
What clash of arms, what hurrying to and fro, 

While grimly serried on the fortress-walls, 
The spearmen lean to watch the coining foe ? 

What is this wonder of a thousand eyes 
That flashes far along the ancient street, 

What throng is this that waits with mute surmise, 
What clangs of drums, what tread of marching feet 1 

What banners blaze from roof and balcony, 

W nat scarfs from snowy shoulders glimmer down, 

While hark ! the rending shout reels to the sky: 
" It is the king who comes to claim his own ! " 
x 



322 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



SONG THE VIGIL. 

O LOVE, why wilt thou banisli me so soon 1 

See yonder floats the crescent moon, 

A shining boat becalmed on azure seas 

Among the twinkling Pleiades ; 

And not one star has quenched its crystal lamp 

In haggard daybreak s dew and damp. 

No spectral glimmer streaks the eastern skies, 
Night lingers still ; look up, dear eyes, 
Faint beacons lit for love, thy tender shine 
Betrays thee to no gaze but mine : 
And none can hear lips meeting in a kiss 
So hushed, my sweet, as this and this ! 

Why tremble so 1 In slumber fathoms deep 

They lie who bid us part and weep, 

Dreaming their sleek white dove in perfumed nest 

Sleeps safe in unregretful rest. 

Let them dream on deluded, while we wake 

The long night through for love s sweet sake. 



THE BURDEN OF TIME. 

IN cloudy legends of the dawn of years, 

Or sculptured verse on shard or shattered stone, 

The oldest lore is still of love and tears, 
Of wild dark wars and cities overthrown, 

And blows and bitter deeds and mad defeat, 

Whereof the burden is, " Yet love is sweet." 

And from all ways, where men have dwelt and died, 
From nations dwindled to a minstrel s song, 

A sound of voices, mingled, multiplied, 
A rumour of delight, despair and wrong, 

Of sorrows infinite and strange amaze, 

Waft down the troubled winds of many days. 



CHARLES LOTIN HILBRETH. 323 

Crying : " We were love s votaries of old 
Though dust, our immemorial names remain 

Embalmed in tales a thousand times retold, 
That beat like echoes in the heart and brain, 

Of stately strains through whose exultant now 

Breathe parting sighs, vain longings, utter woe." 

Crying : " Ten years against the city s walls 
The brazen waves of battle beat in vain, 

And many a widow wailed in Dardan halls, 
And many a Greek lay cold along the plain, 

Till hapless Troy expired in blood and flame 

And grew a word for Helen s love and shame." 

Crying : "I am Leander, whom the sea 

Spared to young Hero s arms a little space, 

Then seized and smote the life out suddenly, 
One black and bitter night, before her face ; 

But we had loved, nor gods nor mortals may 

Efface the perfect past we had our day." 

Crying : " The proud, sweet mouth and subtle smile, 
The varying mood, the dusk, low-lidded gaze, 

Stayed my war-wandering steps beside the Nile ; 
There, hand in hand, down love s delicious ways, 

We walked to death, foreseeing, unafraid, 

And passed from dreams to darkness, well repaid." 

But these are intimations faint with time ; 

Hark, how from hearts that tremble and aspire, 
Albeit unknown in any poet s rhyme, 

The passion-song leaps up like living fire ! 
" Travail and tears, wan brows and wounded feet, 
These are love s sure award yet love is sweet." 



324 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON. 

[Born at Frankfort, N.Y., 26th April 1858. Author of The 
Fallen, and other Poems (Utica, 1876) ; Out of the Shadows 
(Philadelphia, 1880) ; Songs in all Seasons (Boston, 1885) ; and 
In Realms of Gold (Cassell & Co., New York, 1887). The 
poems quoted are from the last volume, and are given with the 
kind permission of the publishers.] 



WHEN CLOVER BLOOMS. 

WHEN clover blooms in the meadows, 

And the happy south winds blow ; 
When under- the leafy shadows 
The singing waters flow 
Then come to me ; as you pass 
I shall hear your feet in the grass, 
And my heart shall awake and leap 
From its cool, dark couch of sleep, 
And shall thrill again, as of old, 
Ere its long rest under the mold 
When clover blooms. 

Deem not that I shall not waken ; 

I shall know, my love, it is you : 
I shall hear the tall grass shaken, 

I shall hear the drops of the dew 
That scatter before your feet ; 
I shall smell the perfume sweet 
Of the red rose that you wear, 
As of old in your sunny hair ; 
Deem not that I shall not know 
It is your light feet that go 
Mid clover blooms. 

O love, the years have parted 

The long, long years ! our ways ; 

You have gone with the merry-hearted 
These many and many days, 



JAMES BENJAMIN KEN YON. 325 

And I with that grim guest 
Who loveth the silence best. 
But come to rne I shall wait 
For your coming, soon or late, 
For soon or late, I know 
You shall come to my rest below 
The clover blooms. 



Q U A TRAIN. 

SHE would not stir a single jetty lash 

To hear me praised; but when my life was blamed 
Her parian cheeks were kindled like a flash, 

And from her heart a sudden love upflamed. 



SYRINX. 

LEAVE me to wither here by this dark pool, 

Where the winds sigh amid the shuddering reeds, 
And slimy things creep through the water-weeds, 

And snakes glide out from coverts dim and cool. 

Leave me, O Pan ; thou hast been made the fool 
Of thy hot love ; go where thy white flock feeds, 
And pipe thy ditties in the dewy meads, 

And watch the silly sheep that own thy rule. 

Get hence ; I am become a loveless thing ; 

No charms of mine shall ever tempt thee more ; 

No more in valleys green and echoing 

Shalt thou surprise and fright me, as of yore ; 

Go, clash thy hoofs, and make the woodlands ring, 
But let me wither here on this dark shore. 



326 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



THE TYRIAN S MEMOR V. 

WHAT stars were kindled in the skies, 
What blossoms bloomed, what rivers ran, 
I know not now; how wide the span 
Of years which dimly stretch between 

That morn I saw the big sun rise, 
Blinking upon the dazzling sheen 

Of banners in the Grecian van, 

And this, no tongue shall tell, I ween. 

On helm and shield, on sword and spear 

The sun shone down exultingly ; 

No Son of Tyre knew how to flee 

Before the face of any foe, 
Nor would our women shed a tear, 

Though face to face with speechless woe, 
And heart to heart with misery 

For fear a Tyrian could not know. 

There came the sound of clashing arms, 

Of catapults and falling stones, 

Of shouts and shrieks, and stifled groans, 

While men stood on the crumbling wall, 
And recked not of the dire alarms, 

But saw their brave compatriots fall, 
And heard the crunching of their bones, 

Then closed with death, unheeding all. 

I know not how the battle fared, 

Though Tyre, " the ocean queen," is dead, 
And lowly lies her crownless head, 
Amid the ashes of her pyre. 

Few were the warriors that were spared 
The spear, the flying dart, the fire ; 

Into the heart an arrow sped 

My eyes were closed on falling Tyre. 



JAMES BENJAMIN KENYON. 32? 

I have forgot how tenderly 

The olive ripened on the hill ; 

How sweetly, when the nights were still, 

The nightingale sang in the grove ; 
How soft the moon was on the sea, 

How low the mourning of the dove ; 
For my dead heart no memories thrill, 

Save the glad memory of my love. 

O, like the footsteps of the morn 

Her footsteps gleamed along the street; 

Her shining, foam-white, sandaled feet 

Fell lightly as the summer rain 
On stones which grosser feet had worn ; 

And, but my heart so long has lain 
In ashes, it would wake and beat 

At thought of meeting her again. 

Her hair was dark as Egypt s night : 

Her breasts shone like twin nenuphars ; 

Her brave eyes burned like Syrian stars 

That morn she pressed her lips to mine, 
And bade me forth unto the fight ; 

My blood shot through my veins like wine 
I felt myself another Mars 

In thew, in life, in love divine. 

Who knows that on the emerald zone 
Which belts the changeless azure sea 
Another city yet may be, 
More fair than Tyre 1 Nathless, I wis, 
Howe er the phantom years have flown, 

The wrinkled world must ever miss 
That Tyrian maid who gave to me 

Her first, her last, her farewell kiss. 



328 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

JOHN ELIOT BOWEN. 

[Born at Brooklyn, N.Y., 8th June 1858. Graduated from Yale 
University, 1881. Received the degree of Bachelor of Philo 
sophy, 1883. Received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, 
1886 both from Columbia College, N.Y. January 1887, 
published The Conflict of East and West in Egypt (G. P. 
Putnam s Sons, N.Y.). The London Athenceum said, "On 
the whole, this is the best summary of the Egyptian question 
with which we are acquainted." December 1888, Songs of 
Toil, by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania, translated, with 
an Introductory Sketch (F. A. Stokes & Brother, N.Y.). 
The poems quoted are from the Century and Harper s respec 
tively. Died January 3, 1890.] 

TO WILDING, MY POLO-PONY. 

MY Wilding, I must leave thee ! 

Does word of parting grieve thee 
As it grieves me, thy master, fond, indulgent, 
Who see the softness in thine eye refulgent 
And think a thousand thoughts are dreaming there 
As like my thoughts as love is like love s prayer 1 

How passing true thou art to me 

Thy whinnyings apart to me 
Make clear. Thy kissing breath upon my cheek 
Is warm as June-time love, that needs not speak 
To set the heart that beateth true a-bloom 
To stir the sense to quaff the day s perfume. 

Thou art a pretty fellow : 

Thy brilliant chestnut yellow 
Shines like a changing silk ; the driven snows 
Have stained thy foot and striped thy Roman nose 
A-top the neck thy bristling mane doth curve, 
And every muscle shown doth seem a nerve. 

And every step or motion 

Gives those who see a notion 
Of Pegasus. Thou needest not his wings : 
Thy dainty limbs were made for flights and flings ; 
And if thy feet do touch the earth, tis done 
As one would quickly kiss, twixt fear and fun. 



JOHN ELIO T BO WEN. 329 

If some one now a stranger 

Drop apples in thy manger, 
And fetch thee sugar in his pocket too, 
Thou lt eat perhaps and yet to me be true, 
Nor let the stranger learn the secret sign 
That makes thee lift thy foot and bow so fine. 

But when I m gone, who ll ride thee, 

Caress, or even chide thee 1 
Will other understand thy playful tricks, 
Thy curvetings and antics, bucks and kicks 1 
Will other let thee shy on loosened rein, 
And let thee have thy head o er every plain 1 

And who will drive thee, pony, 

O er roughish roads and stony 1 
Ah, Wilding, cunning rogue, I ll not forget 
The day I paid a friend a friendly debt 
And loaned thee : how thou brokest trace and rein 
And, leaving him, sped home to me again ! 

They say that I ll forget thee 

And never more will pet thee, 
When I have learned to love some maiden fair; 
I say that she with thee my love shall share ! 
If I must love thee less to love her more, 
I ll love thee as I love thee now thrice o er ! 

I ll see thee in the spring time, 

For birds and me the wing-time 
To take the northward flight. Together then 
We ll seek the lanes, and run and race again. 
But, Wilding-pony, I must leave thee now. 
Farewell ! Now whinny, lift thy foot and bow ! 

(From "The Century," for January 1888.) 



THE MAN WHO RODE TO CONEMAUGH. 

INTO the town of Conemaugh 
Striking the people s souls with awe, 



330 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Dashed a rider, aflame and pale, 

Never alighting to tell his tale, 

Sitting his big bay horse astride. 

" Run for your lives to the hills ! " he cried. 

" Run to the hills ! " was what he said, 

As he waved his hand and dashed ahead. 

" Run for your lives to the hills ! " he cried, 
Spurring his horse whose reeking side 
Was necked with foam as red as flame. 
Whither he goes and whence he came 
Nobody knows. They see his horse 
Plunging on in his frantic course, 
Veins distended and nostrils wide, 
Fired and frenzied at such a ride. 
Nobody knows the rider s name 
Dead for ever to earthly fame. 
" Run to the hills ! to the hills ! " he cried, 
" Run for your lives to the mountain-side ! " 

" Stop him ! he s mad ! just look at him go ! 
Taint safe," they said, " to let him ride so." 
" He thinks to scare us," said one with a laugh, 
" But Conemaugh folks don t swallow no chaff. 
Taint nothing, I ll bet, but the same old leak 
In the dam above the South Fork Creek." 
Blind to their danger, callous of dread, 
They laughed as he left them and dashed ahead. 
" Run for your lives to the hills ! " he cried, 
Lashing his horse in his desperate ride. 

Down through the valley the rider passed, 

Shouting and spurring his horse on fast ; 

But not so fast did the rider go 

As the raging, roaring, mighty flow 

Of the million feet and the millions more 

Of water whose fury he fled before. 

On he went and on it came, 

The flood itself a very flame 



CHA RLES HENR Y L UDERS. 3 3 1 

Of surging, swirling, seething tide, 

Mountain high and torrents wide. 

God alone could measure the force 

Of the Conemaugh flood in its V-shaped course. 

Behind him were buried under the flood 

Conemaugh town and all who stood 

Jeering there at the man who cried : 

" Run for your lives to the mountain-side ! " 

On he sped in his fierce, wild ride : 

" Run to the hills ! to the hills ! " he cried. 

Nearer, nearer came the roar 

Horse and rider fled before. 

Dashing along the valley ridge 

They came at last to the railroad bridge. 

The big horse stood, the rider cried : 

" Run for your lives to the mountain-side ! 

Then plunged across, but not before 

The mighty, merciless, mountain roar 

Struck the bridge and swept it away, 

Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. 

But over and under and through that tide 

The voice of the unknown rider cried : 

" Run to the hills ! to the hills ! " it cried ; 

" Run for your lives to the mountain-side ! " 



CHARLES HENRY LUDERS. 

[Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 25th June 1858. Author of 
Hallo, My Fancy ! published in conjunction with S. Decatur 
Smith, jun. (Philadelphia, D. M Kay, 1887). The poem quoted 
is from Scribncr s Magazine.] 

THE DEAD NYMPH. 

A FANTASY. 

FLORA, the nymph, is dead. 
She of the down-dropt head ; 
She of the eye half hid 
Under its fringed lid; 



332 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

She of the lily throat 
That never again shall float 
Like a lily over her breast. 
Never shall seem to rest 
Like the lilies that fall and rise 
O er calms reflecting the skies, 
As her bosom free from leaven 
Of earth reflected Heaven. 



Never again shall he, 

The dreamer, the child of song, 

Gliding at eve along 

The still lake s margent, see 

As he dips his shallop s oars 

Close by the mirrored shores, 

Her shadowy form of grace 

Slip from its hiding place 

In the gloom of sheltering ferns 

Into an open space 

Where the moon s white radiance burns 

Nor, as a fawn that turns 

Its delicate head to sniff 

An instant longer the scent 

With the sweet wood-zephyrs blent, 

Ere it bounds away like a ^vvhiff 

Of wind-blown mist thro the trees, 

Will she wait for him, while the breeze 

Plays with the glistening strands 

Of her hair, as she curves her hands 

Over her questioning eyes, 

Love-lit with a shy surprise. 

Never again with lute 
And love-song sweetly sung, 
Will he lure her from among 
The forest cloisters mute ; 
Nor from the shadowy shore, 
With songs, will he row her o er 



CHARLES HENRY LUDERS. 333 

The cool, moon-whitened calm 

Unto the sheltered coves 

O erhung by blossoming groves 

Of the shell-girt isles of balm ; 

Not evermore again 

Will she visit the world of men; 

Nor is there any stave 

Can call her back from the grave, 

Nor ever a madrigal 

Can pass her beneath the pall 

Unto the pain and strife 

Which living men call Life ! 

Yet, in his dreams and songs, 

She is not dead to him : 

Not all in vain he longs 

For her presence in the dim 

Green glooms of the ancient wood ; 

For Heaven has found it good 

To turn forever the sting 

Of sorrow from hearts that sing. 

And all day long he treads 

The forest s whispering aisles ; 

And the checkered sunlight sheds 

Its glow o er a face thaft smiles, 

Smiles as he softly strays 

Under the leafy haze, 

Whispering, " She is here, 

Death could not wound my dear. 

Listen ! you say a thrush 

With wild song breaks the hush ; 

I say it is she my love 

Singing in yonder grove. 

Tis she ! I say ; for she said, 

One night when her fair, bright head 

Lay on my breast, My own, 

If ever thou rt left alone, 

Think not that thy love is dead, 

But look till thou find st the red 



334 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Wild rose, and say " Tis her cheek." 

Then kiss it close ; and seek 

Where the clear dew never dries 

Blue violets for mine eyes; 

Then, would st thou kiss my lips, 

The bee will lead where he sips; 

Sapphires will clasp my throat 

Where water-lilies float; 

My hands will be the air 

Caressing thy forehead fair, 

And oft, when the rain-drops beat 

The leaves, thou wilt hear my feet 

Leading the murmuring shower 

Away from thy sylvan bower. 

Thus did she speak, and then 

Faded from earthly ken 

Out of the arms that clasped 

Her form, and my hands but grasped 

This robe upon either side. 

My arms were locked on the breast 

That her golden hair had prest, 

And thus did I lose my bride ! " 

Still through the haunted aisles 
Of the wood, and at its edge 
Where the ripples stir the sedge, 
This dreamer walks, and smiles 
On the violet and the rose, 
Arid the lily s calm repose; 
And you who have heard his song, 
And the fantasies which throng 
Its burden, may know with me 
That the maiden was Purity, 
And the lover a sullied soul 
That saw, in the scented flowers, 
Emblems of hallowed hours 
Of the Innocence that stole 
Unto its God when Sin 
The Dark Guest entered in ! 



RICHARD EUGENE BURTON. 335 



RICHARD EUGENE BURTON. 

[Born at Hartford, Connecticut, 14th March 1859. Graduated at 
the Johns Hopkins University. The poems quoted are from the 
Century and Harper s, Magazine.] 



THE CITY. 

THEY do neither plight nor wed 

In the City of the dead, 

In the city where they sleep away the hours ; 

But they lie, while o er them range 

Winter-blight and summer-change, 

And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers. 

No, they neither wed nor plight, 

And the day is like the night, 

For their vision is of other kind than ours. 

They do neither sing nor sigh, 

In that burgh of by and by 

Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long 

But they rest within their bed, 

Leaving all their thoughts unsaid, 

Deeming silence better far than sob or song. 

No, they neither sigh nor sing, 

Though the robin be a-wing, 

Though the leaves of autumn march a million strong. 

There is only rest and peace 

In the City of Surcease 

From the failings and the wailings neath the Sun, 

And the wings of the swift years 

Beat but gently o er the biers, 

Making music to the sleepers every one. 

There is only peace and rest ; 

But to them it seemeth best, 

For they lie at ease and know that life is done. 



336 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

APPRISALS. 

I MAKE apprisal of the maiden moon 
For what she is to me : 

Not a great globe of cheerless stone 

That hangs in awful space alone, 
And ever so to be ; 

But just the rarest orb, 

The very fairest orb, 

The star most lovely- wise 

In all the dear night-skies ! 

So thou to me, O jestful girl of June ! 

I have no will to hear 
Cold calculations of thy worth 
Summed up in beauty, brain, and birth 

Such coldly strike mine ear. 
Thou art the rarest one. 
The very fairest one, 
The soul most lovely-wise 
That ever looked through eyes ! 



SONG OF THE SEA. 

THE song of the sea was an ancient song 
In the days when the earth was young : 
The waves were gossiping loud and long 
Ere mortals had found a tongue : 
The heart of the waves with wrath was wrung 
Or soothed to a siren strain. 
As they tossed the primitive isles among. 
Or slept in the open main. 
Such was the song and its changes free, 
Such was the song of the sea. 

The song of the sea took a human tone 
In the days of the coming of man ; 
A mournfuler meaning swelled her moan, 
And fiercer her riots ran : 



FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 337 

Because that her stately voice began 
To speak of our human woes ; 
With music mighty to grasp and span 
Life s tale and its passion-throes. 
Such was the song as it grew to be, 

Such was the song of the sea. 
The song of the sea was a hungry sound 
As the human years unrolled ; 

For the notes were hoarse with the doomed and drowned, 
Or choked with a shipwreck s gold : 
Till it seemed no dirge above the mould 
So sorry a story said, 
As the midnight cry of the waters old 
Calling above their dead. 
Such is the song and its threnody, 

Such is the song of the sea. 
The song of the sea is a wondrous lay, 
For it mirrors human life : 
It is grave and great as the judgment-day, 
It is torn with the thought of strife : 
Yet under the stars it is smooth, and rife 
With love-lights everywhere, 
When the sky has taken the deep to wife 

And their wedding day is fair 

Such is the ocean s mystery, 

Such is the song of the sea. 

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 

[Born at Peekskill, N.Y., 6th May 1860. Author of Madrigals 
and Catches 1887, New York, F. A. Stokes & Co. ; I^rLsfor 
a Lute 1890, Boston, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. The poems 
quoted by special permission, are from the former.] 

DA WN AND D USK. 

i. 
SLENDER strips of crimson sky 

Near the dim horizon lie, 
Shot across with golden bars 
Reaching to the fading stars ; 





Of THK 

UNIVERSITY 



338 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Soft the balmy west wind blows 
Wide the portals of the rose ; 
Smell of dewy pine and fir, 
Lisping leaves and vines astir ; 
On the borders of the dark 
Gayly sings the meadow-lark, 
Bidding all the birds assemble, 
Hark, the welkin seems to tremble ! 
Suddenly the sunny gleams 
Break the poppy-fettered dreams, 

Dreams of Pan, with two feet cloven, 
Piping to the nymph and faun, 

Who, with wreaths of ivy woven, 
Nimbly dance to greet the dawn. 

II. 

Shifting shadows indistinct ; 

Leaves and branches, crossed and linked, 

Cling like children, and embrace, 

Frightened at the moon s pale face. 

In the gloomy woods begins 

Noise of insect violins ; 

Swarms of fireflies flash their lamps 

In their atmospheric camps, 

And the sad voiced whip-poor-will 

Echoes back from hill to hill, 

Liquid clear above the crickets 

Chirping in the thorny thickets; 

Weary eyelids, eyes that weep, 

Wait the magic touch of sleep ; 

While the dew, in silence falling, 
Fills the air with scent of musk, 

And this lonely night-bird, calling, 
Drops a note down through the dusk. 



FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 339 

ON SOME BUTTERCUPS. 

A LITTLE way below her chin, 

Caught in her bosom s snowy hem, 

Some buttercups are fastened in, 
Ah, how I envy them ! 

They do not miss their meadow place, 
Nor are they conscious that their skies 

Are not the heavens, but her face, 
Her hair, and mild blue eyes. 

There in the downy meshes pinned, 
Such sweet illusions haunt their rest, 

They think her breath the fragrant wind, 
And tremble on her breast ; 

As if, close to her heart, they heard 

A captive secret slip its cell, 
And with desire were sudden stirred 

To find a voice and tell ! 



BACCHUS. 

LISTEN to the tawny thief 
Hid behind the waxen leaf, 
Growling at his fairy host, 
Bidding her with angry boast 
Fill his cup with wine distilled 
From the dew the dawn has spilled 
Stored away in golden casks 
Is the precious draught he asks. 

Who, who makes this mimic din 
In this mimic meadow inn, 
Sings in such a drowsy note, 
Wears a golden belted coat ; 



340 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Loiters in the dainty room 
Of this tavern of perfume ; 
Dares to linger at the cup 
Till the yellow sun is up ? 

Bacchus, tis, come back again 
To the busy haunts of men ; 
Garlanded and gaily dressed, 
Bands of gold about his breast ; 
Straying from his paradise, 
Having pinions angel-wise, 
Tis the honey-bee, who goes 
Bevelling within a rose ! 



A MADRIGAL. 

ALL the world is bright, 

All my heart is merry, 
Violets and roses red, 

Sparkling in the dew : 
Brow the lily s white ; 

Lip the crimson berry ; 
Hark, I hear a lightsome tread, 

Ah, my love, tis you ! 

Wing to me, birds, and sing to me : 

None so happy as I ! 
Only the merriest melodies bring to me 

When my beloved is by. 

All the air is sweet, 

All my heart is quiet, 
Fleecy clouds on breezes warm 

Floating far above : 
Eye where soft lights meet ; 

Cheek where roses riot ; 
Look, I see a gracious form 

Ah tis you, my love ! 



FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 34! 

Wing to her, birds, and sing to her ; 

None so happy as she ! 
Only the merriest melodies bring to her, 

Only this message from me ! 



A BETROTHAL. 

"I LOVE you," he whispered low, 
In joy, for a moment bold ; 

And suddenly, white as snow, 
The warm little hand grew cold. 

" I love you," again he said, 

And touched the soft finger-tips ; 

But shyly she bent her head, 
To hide the two trembling lips. 

" I love you," she turned her face, 
His heart overfilled with fear \ 

When lo, on her cheek the trace 
Of one tiny passion-tear ! 

" I love you," he gently spoke, 

And kissed her, sweet, tearful-eyed ; 

The rose-blossom fetters broke ; 
"I love you, too," they replied. 



A PERSIAN DANCING GIRL. 

JASMINE S tangled in her hair 
Ebon hair loosely hangs 
Looped with silver serpent fangs, 

Swaying in the scented air. 

Silken sandals on her feet 
Tiny feet that trip in time 
To the tambourine, and rhyme 

With the tinkling music sweet. 



342 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

On her olive-tinted breast, 

Turquoise trinkets, jewels, rings 
Lovers tokens gifts from kings, 

Jingle gayly, never rest. 

Now she gives a dizzy twirl 
To the measure of the dance 
Quicker than a stolen glance 

Glides the dainty, graceful girl. 

Just beyond the eager throng, 
Lazily her lover smokes 
With his rivals, telling jokes 

Spiced with strains of Persian song. 

Idly waiting, well he knov/s 
How they hate him, every one. 
In the garden of the Sun 

He has plucked the fairest rose. 



CLINTON SCOLLARD. 

[Born at Clinton, N.Y., 18th September 1860. Author of Pic 
tures in Song (New York, G. P. Putnam s Sons, 1884) ; With 
Reed and Lyre (Boston, D. Lothrop & Co., 1886); Old and 
New World Lyrics (New York, F. A. Stokes & Co., 1888). The 
poems given are all quoted by special permission.] 

AS I CAME DO WN FROM LEBANON. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 

Came winding, wandering slowly down 
Through mountain passes bleak and brown, 

The cloudless day was well-nigh done. 

The city, like an opal set 

In emerald, showed each minaret 

Afire with radiant beams of sun, 
And glistened orange, fig and lime, 
Where song-birds made melodious chime, 

As I came down from Lebanon. 



CLINTON SCOLLARD. 343 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
Like lava in the dying glow, 
Through olive orchards far below 
I saw the murmuring river run ; 
And neath the wall upon the sand 
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, 
With precious spices they had won, 
Lay long and languidly in wait 
Till they might pass the guarded gate, 
As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon, 
I saw strange men from lands afar 
In mosque and square and gay bazaar, 

The Mazi that the Moslem shun, 

And grave Effendi from Stamboul 

Who sherbet sipped in corners cool; 

And, from the balconies o errun 

With roses, gleamed the eyes of those 
Who dwell in still seraglios, 

As I came down from Lebanon. 

As I came down from Lebanon 

The naming flower of day-time died, 
And night, arrayed as is a bride 

Of some great king in garments spun 

Of purple and the finest gold, 

Out-bloomed in glories manifold ; 

Until the moon, above the dun 

And darkening desert, void of shade, 
Shone like a keen Damascus blade, 

As I came down from Lebanon. 



THE HUNTER. 

THROUGH dewy glades ere morn is high, 
When fleecy cloud-ships sail the sky, 

With buoyant step and gun a-shoulder 
And song on lip he wanders by. 



344 YO UNGER A ME RICA N PO TS. 

He feels the cool air fan his brow, 
He scents the spice of pine-tree bough, 

And lists, from moss-encrusted bowlder, 
Tiie thrush repeat her matin vow. 

Afar he hears the ringing horn, 
And, from the rustling fields of corn, 

The harvest music welling over, 
Greeting the autumn day, new-born. 

In pendant purple globes he sees 
The wild grapes hang amid the trees, 

And, from the last red buds of clover, 
The darting flight of golden bees. 

He marks the fiery crimson gleam 
On wide primeval woods, that seem 

Like armored hosts with banners flying 
That march when weary warriors dream. 

Before him long-eared rabbits pass 

Like shadows through the aisles of grass ; 

From copses, wren to wren replying, 
Utter for him a morning mass. 

He does not heed the partridge s drum, 
The squirrel s chattering, nor the hum 

Of myriad noises that, incessant, 
Down dusky forest arches come. 

He crosses quiet nooks of shade, 
With flickering sunlight interlaid, 

Where, when outshines the silver crescent 
Flit by the pixies, half afraid. 

Thus on and on he blithely speeds, 
Through briery brake and tangled reeds, 

Thinking of Robin and his bowmen 
And all the archer s daring deeds ; 



CLINTON SCOLLARD. 345 

Till neath a slope by vines o ergrown, 
Where, in the ages that have flown, 

The redmen slew their swarthy foemen, 
He stands beside a pool alone. 

Deep in the thicket, dense and dim, 
That skirts the water s rushy rim, 

He crouches low and keenly listens 
For sound of hoof or stir of limb. 

At length he sees within the sheen 
Of trembling leafage, darkly green, 

A lustrous eye that softly glistens, 
And then a head of royal mien. 

The startled hillsides sharply ring, 
And answering echoes backward fling, 

While prone, upon the earth before him, 
A proud red deer lies quivering. 

He swings his prize to shoulders strong, 
Then homeward swiftly strides along; 

The great blue skies a-smiling o er him, 
And all around the birds in song. 

Behind the woods the sun creeps down, 
And leaves thereon a crimson crown ; 

From sapphire portals, pale and tender, 
Venus o erlooks the meadows brown. 

And now that shadows hide the lane 
Where rolled the orchard-laden wain, 

His weary feet upon the fender, 
He slays the red deer o er again ! 



346 YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

BY THE TURRET STAIR. 

(A.D. 1200.) 

RUN ! Rim ! little page, tell your lady fair 
That her lover waits by the turret stair, 
That the stars are out, and the night-wind blows 
Up the garden path from the crimson rose 
Run ! Run ! little page. 

Haste ! Haste ! little page, ere the round moon s rim 
Peeps over the edge of the forest dim, 
And the breeze has died that seems to bear 
The scent of the rose from the trellis there 
Haste ! Haste ! little page. 

Soft ! Soft ! little page, lest her sire may guess, 

By her look of fear and fond distress, 

That he hides in the night by the turret stair 

Who would steal from his bower the flower so fair 

Soft ! Soft ! little page. 

List ! List ! little page, to that faint footfall 
Far away in the depths of the vaulted hall : 
Is it echo alone, or a mournful moan 
Borne out from those ghostly walls of stone ? 
List ! List ! little page. 

See ! See ! little page, who stands in white 
All clad in the pale and changing light ! 
Is t an angel ? Ay, tis my lady fair, 
And she hastes to her love down the turret stair. 
See ! See ! little page. 

Farewell ! little page, for away, away, 
Through the still black night to the dawn of day 
My lady so sweet and I must fare 
Till we reach the foot of my turret stair 
Farewell ! little page. 



CLINTON SCOLLARD. 347 



ON A BUST OF ANTING US. 

UPON your beauteous face of sculptured glory, 

A heritage that time shall ne er destroy, 
I read your mournful and pathetic story, 
O blithe Bithynian boy. 

How through your woodlands green and meadows bloomy 

You roamed at will in glad and childish days, 
And dreamed that naught within the world was gloomy, 
And gave the great Gods praise. 

Knelt with your soft cheeks glowing to Apollo, 

Hung garlands fair where Venus was enshrined, 
Heard dryads voices in the tree trunks hollow, 
Fauns, in the whispering wind. 

How the proud Csesar came and you departed, 

Beholding never more your happy home, 

But following him, capricious, myriad-hearted, 

Unto all-conquering Rome. 

How by your truthful, artless ways and tender, 

You won the imperious monarch s changeful love ; 
How in your soul his jeers did slow engender 
Distrust of Gods above. 

How by the Tiber, in the sunlight golden, 

While round you frowned the Olympians, now disowned, 
You pondered long o er many a volume olden 
Of creeds long since dethroned. 

How when encamped on fiery sands Egyptian, 

You, seeking truth beneath their God s dark brows, 
Were lured to death by some priest-wrought inscription, 
Believing in their vows. 

I seem to see, as graven with a stylus, 

The last sad scene, your pitiful despair, 
The slow and sombre flow of dismal Nilus, 
To hear your parting prayer. 



348 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Thus in the loyal hope of death forefending 
From his proud heart who gave so little joy, 

You brought your life to sacrificial ending, 
O blithe Bithynian boy ! 



SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 

THEY rode from the camp at morn 

With clash of sword and spur, 
The birds were loud in the thorn, 

The sky was an azure blur. 
A gallant show they made 

That warm noon-tide of the year, 
Led on by a dashing blade, 

By the poet-cavalier. 

They laughed through the leafy lanes, 

The long lanes of Dartmoor, 
And they sang their soldier strains, 

Pledged "death " to the Roundhead boor ; 
Then they came at the middle day 

To a hamlet quaint and brown 
Where the hated troopers lay, 

And they cheered for the King and crown. 

They fought in the fervid heat, 

Fought fearlessly and well, 
But low at the foeman s feet 

Their valorous leader fell. 
Full on his fair young face 

The blinding sun beat down ; 
In the morn of his manly grace 

He died for the King and crown. 

O the pitiless blow, 

The vengeance-thrust of strife 
That blotted the golden glow 

From the sky of his glad, brave life ! 



LANGDON EL W YN MITCHELL. 349 

The glorious promise gone ; 

Night with its grim black frown ! 
Never again the dawn, 

And all for the King and crown. 

Hidden his sad fate now 

In the sealed book of the years ; 
Few are the heads that bow, 

Or the eyes that brim with tears, 
Reading twixt blots and stains 

From a musty tome that saith 
How he rode through the Dartmoor lanes 

To his woeful, dauntless death. 

But I, in the summer s prime, 

From that lovely leafy land 
Look back to the olden time 

And the leal and loyal band. 
I see them dash along, 

I hear them charge and cheer, 
And my heart goes out in a song 

To the poet-cavalier. 



LANGDON ELWYN MITCHELL (JOHN PHILIP 
VARLEY). 

[Born at Philadelphia, 1862. Author of Sylvian, and other Poems 
(1885, New York, Brentano Brothers), from which the poems 
given are quoted by special permission.] 

THE WAY-SIDE VIRGIN. 
(FRANCE.) 

I AM the Virgin ; from this granite ledge 

A hundred weary winters have I watched 

The lonely road that wanders at my feet, 

And many days I ve sat here, in my lap 

A little heap of snow, and overheard 

The dry, dead voices of sere, rustling leaves ; 

While scarce a beggar creaked across the way. 



350 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

How very old I am ; I have forgot 

The day they fixed me here; and whence I came, 

With crown of gold, and all my tarnished blue. 

How green the grass is now, and all around 

Blossoms the May ; but it is cold in here, 

Sunless and cold. Now comes a little maid 

To kneel among the asters at my feet ; 

What a sweet noise she makes, like murmurings 

Of bees in June ; I wonder what they say, 

These rosy mortals when they look at me ? 

I wonder why 

They call me Mary, and bow down to me ? 

Oh I am weary of my painted box, 

Come child, 

And lay thy warm face on my wooden cheek, 
That I may feel it glow as once of yore 
It glowed when I, a cedar s happy heart, 
Felt the first sunshine of the early spring. 



SONG. 

I HAVE a love has golden hair, 
And she is fair, and golden fair, 
And golden is she everywhere, 
And my love is my golden care ! 

For she is like the golden wheat, 
Or like the sunflower golden-sweet, 
Or like the sun in heaven that shines, 
Or like a thousand golden mines. 

Nor would I change my golden sweet, 
For golden mines, or golden wheat, 
Nor for the great and golden sun, 
No, not for ought he shines upon ! 



MADISON J. CA WEIN. 351 

SONG. 

MARY, the mother, sits on the hill 
And cradles child Jesu, that lies so still ; 
She cradles child Jesu, that sleeps so sound, 
And the little wind blows the song around. 
The little wind blows the mother s words, 
" Ei, Jesu, ei," like the song of birds ; 
" Ei, Jesu, ei," I heard it still 
As I lay asleep at the foot of the hill. 
" Sleep, babe, sleep, mother watch doth keep, 
Ox shall not hurt thee, nor ass, nor sheep ; 
Dew falls sweet from thy Father s sky, 
Sleep, Jesu, sleep ! ei, Jesu, ei ! " 

MADISON J. CAWEIN. 

[Born at Louisville, Kentucky, 23d March 1865. Author of 
Blooms of the Berry (1887); The Triumph of Music (1888); 
Accolon of Gaul (1889), all published by John P. Morton 
& Co. , Louisville, Kentucky. The poems given are quoted by 
special permission.] 

CARMEN. 

LA Gitanilla ! tall dragoons, 
In Andalusian afternoons, 
With ogling eye and compliment 
Smiled on you, as along you went 
Some sleepy street of old Seville; 
Twirled with a military skill 
Moustaches ; buttoned uniforms 
Of Spanish yellow, bowed your charms. 

Proud, wicked head and hair blue-black ! 
Whence your mantilla, half-thrown back, 
Discovered shoulders and bold breast 
Bohemian brown ! Arid you were dressed 
In some short skirb of gipsy red 
Of smuggled stuff; thence stockings dead 
White silk, exposed with many a hole, 
Thro which your plump legs roguish stol^ 



352 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A fleshly look ; and tiny toes 

In red morocco shoes with bows 

Of scarlet ribbons. Daintily 

You walked by me, and I did see 

Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip, 

That gnawed the rose you once did flip 

At bashful Jose s nose, while loud 

Laughed the gaunt guards among the crowd. 

And in your brazen chemise thrust, 

Heaved with the swelling of your bust, 

The bunch of white acacia blooms 

Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes. 

As in a cool neveria 

I ate an ice with Merimee, 

Dark Carmencita, you passed gay, 

All holiday bedizened, 

A new mantilla on your head ; 

A crimson dress bespangled fierce ; 

And crescent gold, hung in your ears, 

Shone wrought morisco, and each shoe 

Cordovan leather, spangled blue, 

Glanced merriment ; and from large arms 

To well-turned ancles all your charms 

Blew fluttering and glitterings 

Of satin bands and beaded strings ; 

And round each arm s fair thigh one fold, 

And graceful wrists, a twisted gold 

Coiled serpents tails fixed in each head, 

Convulsive-jewelled glossy red. 

In flowers and trimmings to the jar 

Of mandolin and low guitar 

You in the grated patio 

Danced ; the curled coxcombs flirting row, 

Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance, 

With wily motion and glad glance 

Voluptuous, the wild ro?nalis, 

Where every movement was a kiss 

Of elegance delicious, wound 

In your Basque tambourine s dull sound 



HENRY TYRRELL. 353 

Or as the ebon castanets 
Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets, 
Saw angry Jose thro the grate 
Glare on us a pale face of hate, 
When some indecent colonel there 
Presumed too lewdly for his ear. 

Some still night in Seville ; the street, 
Candilejo ; two shadows meet 
Flash sabres crossed within the moon 
Clash rapidly a dead dragoon. 



THE HERON. 

As slaughter red the long creek crawls 
From solitary forest walls, 
Out where the eve s wild glory falls. 
One wiry leg drowned in his breast, 
Neck-shrunk, flame-gilded with the west, 
Severely he the evening wears. 

The whimp ring creek breaks on the stone : 
The new moon came, but now is gone ; 
White, tingling stars wink out alone. 
Lank spectre of wet, windy lands, 
The melancholy heron stands ; 
To clamoring dive into the stars. 



HENRY TYRRELL. 

[Of New York City. Born Ithaca, N. Y., 1860. Published in 
the Century Magazine. ] 

THE DEBUTANTE. 

THE music dwells upon its dying chord, 

And thou dost linger trembling at thy start 
Across the charmed borderland of Art. 
The footlight s arc is like a flaming sword, 

To frighten yet defend thee. Every word 
Has meaning more than lies within thy part, 
Thrilled with the pathos of a fainting heart 
And asking sympathy that none afford. 



354 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

But wait ! and when the fostering years shall bring 
Perfection to those fairest gifts of thine, 
Its tributes at thy feet a world will fling, 
And call thy calm precision fire divine. 
All other hearts emotions thou shalt waken, 
Whilst thine amid the tempest rests unshaken. 



IDYLLS. 

CREUSA, in those idyll lands delaying, 

For ever hung with mellow mists of gold, 
We find but phantoms of delights long cold. 
We listen to the pine and ilex swaying 

Only in echo ; to the players playing, 

On faint, sweet flutes, lost melodies of old. 
The beauteous heroes are but stories told ; 
Vain at the antique altars all our praying. 

Oh, might we join, in vales unknown to story, 
On shores unsung, by Western seas sublime, 
The spirit of that loveliness and glory 

Hellenic, with these hearts of fuller time, 
Then to our days would sunnier joys belong 
Than thrill us now in old idyllic song. 



DANIEL L. DAWSON. 

[Of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The poem quoted is from 
Lippincotfs Magazine.] 

THE SEEKER IN THE MARSHES. 

THANKSGIVING to the gods ! 

Shaken and shivering in the autumn rains, 
With clay feet clinging to the weary sods ; 

I wait below the clouds, amid the plains, 
As though I stood in some remote, strange clime. 
Waiting to kneel upon the tomb of time. 



DANIEL L. DAWS ON. 355 

The harvest swaths are gathered in the garth, 

The aftermath is floating in the fields, 
The house-carl bides beside the roaring hearth, 

And clustered cattle batten in the shields. 

Thank ye the gods, dwellers in the land, 
For home and hearth and ever-giving hand. 

Stretch hands to pray and feed and sleep and die. 
And then be gathered to your kindred gods ; 

Low in dank barrows evermore to lie, 
So long as autumn over wood-ways plods, 
Forgetting the green earth as ye forgot 

Its glory in the day when it was born 
To you, on some fair tide in grove and grot, 

As though new-made upon a glimmering morn : 

And it shall so be meted unto you 

As ye did mete when all things were to do. 

The wild rains cling around me in the night 

Closer than woman in the sunny days, 
And through these shaken veins a weird delight 

Of loneliness and storm and sodden ways 
And desolation, made most populous, 
Builds up the roof-trees of the gloomy house 
Of grief, to hide and help my lonely path, 
A sateless seeker for the aftermath. 

Thanksgiving to the gods ! 

No hidden grapes are leaning to the sods, 
No purple apple glances through green leaves, 

Nor any fruit or flower is in the rains, 
Nor any corn to garner in long sheaves ; 

And hard the toil is on these scanty plains, 
Howbeit I thank the ever-giving ones, 

Who dwell in high Olympus near the stars, 
They have not walked in ever-burning suns, 

Nor has the hard earth hurt their feet with scars ; 
Never the soft rains beat them, nor the snow, 
Nor the sharp winds that we marsh-stalkers know 
In the sad halls of heaven they sleep the sleep, 
Yea, and no morn breaks through their slumber deep. 



356 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

These tilings they cast me forth at eventide to bear 

With curving sickle over sod and sand; 
And no wild tempest drowns me to despair 

Nor terror fears me in a barren land. 
Perchance somewhere, across the hollow hill, 

Or in the thickets in these dreary meads, 
Great grapes, uncut, are on the limp vine still, 

And waving corn still wears its summer weeds, 
Unseen, ungathered in the earlier tide, 
When larger summer o er the earth did glide. 
Who knows? Belike from this same sterile path 
My harvest hand, heaped with an aftermath, 
Shall cast the garner forth before their feet, 
Shapely and shaven clean, and very sweet. 

Thanksgiving to the gods ! 
Wet with the falling rain ; 

My face and sides are beaten as with rods, 
And soft and sodden is the endless plain. 
How long ! how long ! Do I endure in vain ? 



RICHAKD HOVEY. 

[Of Washington, D. C. Born in Illinois 1864.] 

BEETHOVEN S THIRD SYMPHONY. 
PASSION and pain, the outcry of despair, 

The pang of the unattainable desire, 

And youth s delight in pleasures that expire 
And sweet high dreamings of the good and fair 
Clashing in swift soul-storm, through which no prayer 

Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke dire. 

Then through a mighty sorrowing, as through fire, 
The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the air 
Of the dear earth and, with the scent of flowers 

And song of birds assuaged, takes heart agaii), 

Made cheerier with this drinking of God s wine, 
And turns with healing to the world of men, 
And high above a sweet strong angel towers, 

And Love makes life triumphant and divine. 



ARTHUR MACY. 357 

ARTHUR MACY. 

[Of Boston, Massachusetts.] 

MY MASTERPIECE. 

I WROTE the truest, tend rest song 

The world has ever heard ; 
And clear, melodious and strong 

And sweet was every word. 
The flowing numbers came to me 

Unbidden from the heart; 
So pure the strain, that poesy 

Seemed something more than art. 

No doubtful cadence marred a line, 

So tunefully it flowed, 
And through the measure, all divine 

The fire of genius glowed. 
So deftly were the verses wrought, 

So fair the legend told, 
That every word revealed a thought, 

And every thought was gold. 

Mine was the charm, the power, the skill, 

The wisdom of the years ; 
Twas mine to move the world at will 

To laughter or to tears. 
For subtile pleasantry was there, 

And brilliant flash of wit, 
Now, pleading eyes were raised in prayer, 

And now with smiles were lit. 

I sang of hours when youth was king, 

And of one happy spot 
Where life and love were everything, 

And time was half forgot. 
Of gracious days in woodland ways, 

When every flower and tree 
Seemed echoing the sweetest phrase 

From lips in Arcadie. 



358 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Of sages old and Norseman bands 

That sailed o er northern seas ; 
Enchanting tales of fairy lands 

And strange philosophies. 
I sang of Egypt s fairest queen, 

With passion s fatal curse ; 
Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine, 

As deathless as his verse. 

Of time of the Arcadian Pan, 

When dryads thronged the trees 
When Atalanta swiftly ran 

With fleet Hippomenes. 
Brave stories, too, did I relate 

Of battle flags unfurled ; 
Of glorious days when Greece was great 

When Rome was all the world ! 

Of noble deeds for noble creeds, 

Of woman s sacrifice 
The mother s stricken heart that bleeds 

For souls in Paradise. 
Anon I told a tale of shame, 

And while in tears I slept, 
Behold ! a white-robed angel came 

And read the words and wept ! 

And so I wrote my perfect song, 

In such a wondrous key, 
I heard the plaudits of the throng, 

And fame awaited me, 
Alas ! the sullen morning broke, 

And came the tempest s roar : 
Mid discord trembling I awoke, 

And lo ! my dream was o er ! 

Yet often in the quiet night 

My song returns to me ; 
I seize the pen, and fain would write 

My long lost melody. 



OSCAR FA Y ADAMS. 359 

But dreaming o er the words, ere long 

Comes vague remembering, 
And fades away the sweetest song 

That man can ever sing ! 



OSCAR FAY ADAMS. 

[Author of The Handbook of English Authors, The Handbook of 
American Authors, Through the Year with the Poets, etc., etc.] 

BEATEN. 

WHERE is the spirit of striving that once was so strong 

in my heart 1 
And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps 

at the start 1 

I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a doubt, 
Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds 

were about, 
Always believed in hard fighting, and never once trusted 

to luck, 
Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow 

that I struck. 

What is the guerdon of labour, of honesty what thereward? 
Only a pittance at most, with simplicity conquered byfraud. 
Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a sneer? 
Why should we look to the future expecting the skies to 
be clear? 

Always the strongest are prospered : why may it not be 

so again 
If there s a heaven hereafter reserved for the children of 

men? 

Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so beyond ? 
I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but 

despond. 
Never for me will the prospect be brightened again by 

a hope ; 
I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil 

to cope. 



360 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Beaten am I in the struggle, the doom of the conquered 

is mine ; 
Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may 

not divine. 
Now I await the glad moment when I shall have done 

with it all, 
When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my face 

to the wall 



MAURICE EGAN. 
OF FLOWERS. 

THERE were no roses till the first child died, 
No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease, 
No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees, 
The honey-hearted woodbine, no gold-eyed 
And white-lashed daisy-fl owners, nor, stretching wide, 
Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas, 
Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze 
Runs giddy races playing seek and hide : 
For all flowers died when Eve left Paradise, 
And all the world was flowerless awhile, 
Until a little child was laid in earth ; 
Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes, 
And from its lips rose-petals for its smile, 

And so all flowers from that child s death took birth. 



THE OLD VIOLIN. 

THOUGH tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust 
Like some great thought on a forgotten page ; 

The soul of music cannot fade or rust 

The voice within it stronger grows with age ; 

Its strings and bow are only trifling things 
A master-touch ! its sweet soul wakes and sings. 



MA URICE EG AN. 361 



THEOCRITUS, 

DAPHNIS is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, 
And mourning mingles with their fountains song; 
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long 

They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus-plain ; 

The master-voice is silent, songs are vain ; 

Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong, 
Done by the gods when gods and men were strong, 

Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain : 

O sweetest singer of the olden days, 

In dusty books your idylls rare seem dead ; 
The gods are gone, but poets never die; 

Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, 
Sicilian nightingales enraptured 

Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. 



MAURICE DE GUERIN. 

THE old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes 
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair 
Unseen by others ; to him maidenhair 

And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise 

A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise 

Brought charmed thoughts ; and in earth everywhere 
He, like sad Jaques, found unheard music rare 

As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 

A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, 

He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed, 
Till earth and heaven met within his breast : 

As if Theocritus in Sicily 

Had come upon the Figure crucified 

And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. 



362 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

JAMES E. NESMITH. 
MONADNOC. 



FROM field and fold aloof he stands, 
A lonely peak in peopled lands, 
Rock-ridged above his wooded bands : 

Like a huge arrow-head in stone, 

Or baffled stag at bay alone, 

Round him the pack-like hills lie prone. 

The gentle hours, in gradual flight, 
Weave round his huge impassive height 
A warp of gloom, a woof of light: 

All day the purple shadows dream 
Along his slopes, or upward stream ; 
And shafts of golden sunlight gleam, 

Searching the dusk of humid dells, 
To sleep among the sleeping wells, 
And frowning rocks where Echo dwells. 

Mild as the breath from isles of palm, 
The breezes, blowing in the calm, 
Breathe sweet with balsam, fern, and balm 

Huge cloud-cliffs fringe the blue profound, 
And lift their large white faces round 
The dim horizon s distant bound. 

n. 

If the dull task begins to tire, 
When dawn s pure flood of rosy fire 
Strikes up each beaming wall and spire, 

Awake, and mount his rocky stair, 
Drink deep from wells of taintless air, 
And lighter grows the load of care: 



JAMES E. NESMITH. 363 

Hampshire s white hills at distance rise, 
Pure peaks that climb the azure skies, 
The peopled plain s blue boundaries. 

The mist, in wither d wreaths and swirls, 
Is blown before the breeze which curls 
Up from the shining underworlds: 

Stray troops from teeming cities take 
His battlements with shouts, and make 
The sleepy echoes start awake ; 

The ringing laugh, the random rhyme, 
Come back in mimic as they climb, 
From aged crags as old as time. 

We see the creeping morning train 
Crawl out across the distant plain, 
The smoke drifts like a dusky stain ; 

And hear afar the iron horse 

Hurl d headlong on his gleaming course 

A fragment of the cosmic force ; 

His screaming vapours hoarse with sound, 
And clash d and crashing on the ground 
His clanging wheels roll d ever round : 

A wing d and wandering meteor sent 
To be a woodland wonderment, 
In vales and valleys indolent ; 

A fiery vision which invades 
The stillness of sequester d shades, 
And daisied fields and drowsy glades ; 

And roars with an intenser light 
In dim recesses of the night, 
Filling the forest with affright. 

Faint from below resounds or shrills 
His shriek among the lonely hills, 
His foot above the foaming rills ; 



364 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

He feels the fires that gnaw his heart, 
Before him shapes and shadows start, 
Behind him fields and forests dart ; 

He rolls along the ringing rails, 
The cliffs and loud indignant dales 
Echo with wild and warning wails. 

The shock and tumult came not near 
The still parks of the mountaineer. 
But softer sound for him to hear : 

His straining sight may only mark 
A floating smoke or flying spark 
Flit thro the daylight or the dark. 

in. 

At dusk he watches from the steep 
The gloom which wraps the distant deep 
Across the sinking landscape creep ; 

To feed upon the tender light, 
And each serene and lovely sight 
That blooms upon the verge of night. 

Beyond brown beds of brake and fern, 
Like embers in the night s black urn. 
The sullen fires of sunset burn : 

The caverns of the burning beam, 
Behind dark clouds, thro rent and seam 
And fiery cracks and chasms gleam; 

Deep pits of flame beyond the pines, 
Whose stems, in long and slender lines, 
Divide the light as day declines; 

Fill d with fierce fires which slowly wane, 
And glimmer on the distant plain, 
And lighten thro the lonely lane. 



JAMES E. NESMITH. 365 

The darken d woods and dim dull streams 
Brighten with the unearthly gleams 
Which haunt the western gate of dreams; 

Which drape the hovel, lifted high 
Between the water and the sky, 
In beauty that transports the eye; 

And throw their bright prismatic ray 
About the ruin d, dying day, 
Which sinks in darkness and decay; 

Fallen about the fading west, 
By dim decrepit fires caress d, 
And shades that suffer no arrest. 

The gloom about the mountain s base 

Crawls up and falls upon his face, 

His form grows faint in night s embrace. 

He takes upon his breast and head 
The glow which from the plain has fled, 
Ere yet the dying sun is dead. 

The trailing glories droop and die 
Along the lake where they did lie, 
And the wild light forsakes the sky. 



VII. 

Bald crag, lie is more dead asleep 
Than long drown d seamen in the deep, 
Where tides of awful stillness creep : 

He would not hear the bitter cry 
Should tender Youth and Beauty lie 
Stretch d on his sharpest stones to die. 



366 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

What answers when the groping thought 
Would probe the depths whence he was brought, - 
The unknown past which speaketh naught 1 

What change has warped the hills and leas 
Since first he rose to forms like these 
Above the wild Laurentian seas 1 

The Alps and Andes were not born 
When first he saw the beaming morn 
Paint on the dark a world forlorn: 

He heard the wind of Destiny 
Speed trackless over land and sea, 
Sowing the seeds of life to be : 

Where now the youths and maidens climb, 
The uncouth dragons of the prime 
Crawl d at the gloomy dawn of time: 

He saw the arctic ice intrude 
Into his realm, summer exclude, 
And make a desert solitude. 

The Frost his crystal coils unwound, 
In his cold circle crawl d, wall d round 
With snows and frozen deeps profound. 



VIII. 

The savage roam d the fruitful land, 
His past a gulf no bridge has spanned, 
A stream which withers in the sand : 

Either from Asia s ancient hives 
The tempests tossed a few frail lives, 
Whence the wild West her hordes derives ; 

Or Nature, working out her plan, 
To mould the occidental man, 
Wrought the rich clay of Yucatan. 



JAMES E. NE SMITH. 3 6 7 

There his wild roots took firmest hold, 

In cruel cities, long of old, 

Of which no traveller s tale is told : 

Whose crimes bold Cortes guess d of yore, 
Finding along the lonely shore 
Abandon d altars srnear d with gore : 

Whose thronging streets and temples stood 
Where now decay and rain brood, 
Within a vast and ancient wood, 

Strewed with crude idols, fallen prone, 

The Molochs of a rite unknown, 

Like that which stained the Druid s stone. 



IX. 

Beyond the middle stream and plain, 
The race increas d, from main to main, 
Grew mixed in blood, with many a strain ; 

Mound-builders and nomadic bands, 
Cliff-dwellers, who in hostile lands 
Hollow d their homes with patient hands ; 

And cut the Colorado s wall 

In forms grotesque, crude curve and scrawl, 

Strange shapes of things that swim or crawl 

Warriors whose dusky mothers bore 
Tecumseh, Uncas, Sagamore, 
To keep the keys of savage lore ; 

Who hunted here their tawny herds, 
And gave to mountains, brooks, and bird?, 
The poetry of lovely words : 

Chocorua, whose utterance falls 

Like mountain echoes, and recalls 

Bald peaks, dark pines, and rocky walls ; 



368 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Niagara, whose sound awakes 

Wild cataract voices, roaring breaks 

Of foam, white streams, and plunging lakes. 

The sweet-lipp d Susquehanna sings 

The name they gave her, where she brings 

Her whispering waters from the springs ; 

And Minnehaha in the West, 

By those soft syllables caress d 

Will chide her wild waves when they rest, 

And scold each into song again, 
To speak them to the pebbled plain, 
The pathless wood and steep moraine. 

They vanish d like thin shreds of night, 
And ragged mists, from creek and bight, 
When seas are kissed with dawn s first light 

Their voices with the streams are roll d, 
And murmur when their names are told 
The music of the tongues of old. 

x. 

A stronger race possess d the soil, 
To wrest therefrom the fruits of toil, 
And load their homes with peaceful spoil : 

Imperial peoples, crossing seas, 

From lands long loved and lives of ease, 

To colonise primeval leas; 

Whose children rose to heights sublime ; 
Whose light increas d to latest time, 
Not reaching now the perfect prime; 

Which yet but nickers thro the gloom, 
And nutters from the brinks of doom, 
To meet the darkness of the tomb. 



JAMES E. NE SMITH. 369 

When earth forgets that man was born, 
Monadnoc still shall hail the morn, 
His aged crags not yet outworn. 

He sits as when in moods of thought 
Men stare with vacant eyes at naught, 
Heedless of what around is wrought. 

A Titan fallen from the stars 

He seems, here in celestial wars 

Hurl d down, and seamed with fearful scars; 

His brow upturn d to that high realm 
Where erst he rear d his radiant helm, 
And godlike rushed to overwhelm. 



XI. 

Take flight and circle all the sky, 
More lofty mountains chain the eye, 
The themes of dim antiquity; 

The Hindu Kailas, and those twain 
The twofold sacred rivers drain, 
Drawing their waters to the plain; 

And Taurus; Atlas, icy topped; 
Tall Ararat whose pillars propped 
The Ark when all the waters dropped; 

The hills of Hellas, with their wells 

And fabled waters, classic cells, 

And column d shrines and pine dark dells ; 

And many that sit eminent 
Within the broad-plain d Occident, 
Cordilleras magnificent : 

Primeval peaks of frost and fire, 
Dome, wall, and pinnacle and spire, 
Which pierce the spirit with desire ; 



370 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The ancient homes of high emprise, 

Like ocean opening to the eyes 

New lands, new hopes, and larger skies ; 

The seats of Freedom from of old, 
Quarries and mines whose ribs infold 
Rare crystals, silver, and pure gold ; 

The source of fruitful streams which flow 
Thro teeming continents below, 
Beside whose banks great cities grow. 



XII. 

No everlasting ice has crown d 
The crag above, no gold is found 
Within his rock-seal d entrails bound, 

Yet here men feel the mystery, 
The power and ancient royalty, 
Which cloak the mountain and the sea. 

Imagination lightly springs 

From his bleak rock and spreads her wings, 

And scales the heaven s cloudy rings. 

The cabin d spirit here can find 
Free pastures, and the jaded mind 
The strength for which it was design d. 

No classic pool is here, or shrine, 
But pillar d temples of sweet pine, 
And cool pure waters crystalline ; 

A clear and dappled brook, inlaid 
With spotted sands, in sun and shade, 
From his tall top a long cascade, 

Till in the meads asleep it lies, 
And changing colour with the skies, 
Mirrors^the world like living eyes. 



JAMES E. NE SMI TIL 371 

XIII. 

Here at the death of lovely days, 

What time the smouldering beam decays, 

Dark phantoms haunt the dusky ways; 

The shows of Fancy when she takes 

The gleams and glooms of night, and wakes 

A seeming life in forms she makes; 

And working from dim clews, detects 

Conceal d resemblances, effects 

Wrought of deep shade and day s bright wrecks : 

Dark boles like voiceless sentinels stand, 
The glow of sunset s glimmering brand 
Burning along the dusky land: 

A sunken thicket then appears 

An ambush set with threatening spears ; 

A mask each grovelling shadow wears, 

And mocks the gloomy beasts of yore, 
Whose shambling shapes appear no more, 
Whose dens the little lads explore : 

Fierce Bruin, burly, dull, uncouth, 
Huge honey lover, his sweet tooth, 
Blood-guilty, sharp, and bare of ruth, 

Content to grub for worms or rut 
In rotten leaves, for herb or nut, 
Or offal from the logger s hut: 

The giant cat, who whilom kept 

The woods in fear, who, crouching, crept 

So softly cruel and adept; 

The beautiful and pitiless, 
Cloth d with perfidious loveliness, 
And smooth, soft skin that none caress; 



372 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Not now she rustles in the hush, 

Or springs from bending branch to crush 

The red deer in the trampled bush : 

The moody moose, morose, forlorn, 
His bearded head hung with huge horn, 
A monstrous growth each year newborn, 

A creature fashion d in the mould 

Of sombre forests vast and old, 

Moss bound, and green thro heat and cold,- 

Obscure and sullen, timid, mild, 
True birth of that rude northern wild 
To whose dim swamps he seems exiled ; 

In touch with their mysterious shades, 
Dark hemlocks, pines, and cedar glades 
Whose mournful verdure never fades. 

For him the lonely hunter waits 

And watches till dawn penetrates, 

In long bright cracks, night s sombre gates, 

What time his monstrous antlers loom 
Between the glimmering light and gloom, 
And totter where he meets his doom. 



XIV. 

Here once a careless foot might wake 
The coil d and sleeping rattlesnake, 
And raise him bristling from the brake : 

Now where the dying sunbeam falls 
He haunts the naked plains, or crawls 
In canons and by mountain walls. 

A lonely lover of the sun, 

Tho armed with death, content to shun 

The foe from which he will not run. 



\BRA~ft" 

OF THE 

^VERSITY 



JAMES E. NESMITH. 

Whom oft the scout, at break of day, 
Findeth beside the fainting ray 
Of his dim fire, with dumb dismay; 

Or warmed within some inner fold 
Of his furred robe, made over-bold 
By the old curse that keeps him cold. 

The harmless adder yet may hide 
Close by, upon the warm hillside, 
Or cool d beside some crystal tide; 

His chequer d cousin, curl d among 
The stones, may nicker with his tongue, 
And hiss, yet leave his foe unstung. 

The porcupine makes his wild home 
By gloomy rills which roll in foam, 
Dropped from the mountain s mighty dome 

The trout yet haunt the lucid streams, 
Now pois d, still as the golden beams, 
Now darting thro the watery gleams: 

The grouse, conceal d from curious eyes, 
Drums in the wood, or whirring flies, 
Leaving us still with sharp surprise : 

A scornful eagle yet may dare 

The distant shot, the shout, the stare, 

And keep the lordship of the air : 

And when the wild and waning year 
Crisp curls the crystal mountain mere, 
The wary waterfowl appear. 



374 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 

[Born in Pennsylvania, 1832. Author of Moods, Little Women 
Little Men, An Old- Fashioned Girl, Eight Cousins, Under the 
Lilacs, etc. The poem quoted is from A Masque of Poets, by 
kind permission of Messrs Roberts Brothers, Boston.] 



TRANSFIG URA TION. 

MYSTERIOUS Death ! who in a single hour 

Life s gold can so refine 

And by thy art divine 
Change mortal weakness to immortal power ! 

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years, 

Spent with the noble strife 

Of a victorious life, 
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears. 

But, ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung, 

A miracle was wrought, 

And swift as happy thought 
She lived again, brave, beautiful, and young. 

Age, Pain and Sorrow dropped the veils they wore, 

And showed the tender eyes 

Of angels in disguise, 
Whose discipline so patiently she bore. 

The past years brought their harvest rich and fair, 

While Memory and Love 

Together fondly wove 
A golden garland for the silver hair. 

How could we mourn like those who are bereft, 

When every pang of grief 

Found balm for its relief 
In counting up the treasure she had left 1 



LOUISA MA V ALCOTT. 375 

Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time, 

Hope that defied despair, 

Patience that conquered care, 
And loyalty whose courage was sublime. 

The great, deep heart that was a home for all ; 

Just, eloquent and strong, 

In protest against wrong ; 
Wide charity that knew no sin, no fall. 

The Spartan spirit that made life so grand, 

Mating poor daily needs 

With high, heroic deeds, 
That wrested happiness from Fate s hard hand. 

We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, 

Full of the grateful peace 

That followed her release ; 
For nothing but the weary dust lies dead. 

Oh noble woman ! never more a queen 

Than in the laying down 

Of sceptre and of crown, 
To win a greater kingdom yet unseen : 

Teaching us how to seek the highest goal ; 

To earn the true success ; 

To live, to love, to bless, 
And make death proud to take a royal soul. 



ANNE REEYE ALDRJCH, 

[Author of The Rose of Flame (New York, G. P. Putnam s Sons, 
1889), from which these extracts are made by special per 
mission. ] 

COLOR SONG. 

WHITE and red, wine and bread, 
We ate and drank, our wooing sped. 
Alas, the measure of secret pleasure, 
My mother s curse is on my head. 



376 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Green and blue, land and sea, 

Over them both you fled from me. 

Ah mad, sweet wooing, twas my undoing, 

No more on Earth your face I see. 



A SONG OF LIFE. 

DID I seek life ? Not so ; its weight was laid upon me, 
And yet of my burden sore I may not set myself free. 
Two love, and lo, at love s call, a hapless soul must wake; 
Like a slave it is called to the world, to bear life, for 
their love s sake. 

Did I seek love 1 Not so; Love led me along by the hand. 
Love beguiled me with songs and caresses, while I took. 

no note of the land. 
And lo, I stood in a quicksand, but Love had wings, and 

he fled. 
Ah fool, for a mortal to venture where only a god may tread ! 



THE WISH. 

COME, let us spend an idle hour in wishing. 

Like happy children on a summer s day, 
Feigning we never spent a past together, 

Nor know what farewells we shall have to say. 

And I will wish this silver tide of moonlight, 
That shows your tender face, and upturned eyes, 

Its weary lips half parted in their languor, 
Too tired with kissing me, to speak replies. 

I wish this silver tide of summer moonlight, 
Were that strange flood of ancient fairy lore, 

Wherein the hapless mortal rashly plunging, 
Was changed from flesh to stone, forevermore. 



CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. 377 

Through the long centuries we should still be sleeping, 
And time would never touch your luring charms, 

And I, past any chance of changing fortune, 
Should hold you, through the ages, in my arms. 

Ah, Sweet, the days are past of elfin magic 
And you must fade like any other flower, 

And, at the longest, I can only linger 

To keep you in my arms one fleeting hour. 

Ah, Sweet, forgive the reverie s bitter ending, 
What, has my foolish fancy made you weep 1 

Nay, close instead those white and weary eyelids, 
And dream we love for ever, in your sleep. 



CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. 

[Born in New York City, 30th November 1838. Author of Risk, 
and other Poems (Boston, 1879) ; The Seven Voices of Sympathy 
(1881), etc. Died 1889.] 

SPRINGS. 

WITH unaccustomed tenderness 

The wayward son enfolds his mother; 

With strange and sudden gentleness 
The sister looks upon her brother. 

The babe is tightened in the hold, 

With gushes of maternal passion; 
The wife and husband show their love 

After the maid s and lover s fashion. 

And some white face with moveless lids 
That can be wet with tears no longer, 

Staying perchance life s wonted way 

Has made love s current flow the stronger. 

Or, it may be, in last night s dream, 

Each felt what might be Death s aggression ; 

And waking, tearful Love ran forth, 
To prove still safe his own possession. 



378 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



AT TAPPAN. 

THIS is the place where Andre met that death 
Whose infamy was keenest of its throes, 

And in this place of bravely-yielded breath 
His ashes found a fifty-years repose ; 

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave, 

With those who have been kings in blood or fame, 

As Honour here some compensation gave 
For that once forfeit to a hero s name. 

But whether in the Abbey s glory laid, 
Or on so fair but fatal Tappan s shore, 

Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed 
The loving pity and regret they bore. 

In view of all he lost his youth, his love, 

And possibilities that wait the brave, 
Inward and outward bound, dim visions move 

Like passing sails upon the Hudson s wave. 

The Country s Father ! how do we revere 
His justice Brutus-like in its decree 

With Andre-sparing mercy, still more dear 
Had been his name if that, indeed, could be ! 



LAST DA YS OF B YRON. 

JUST at the point 

Of facing death in fronting Moslem steel, 
Lo ! in the fever s silent strife he sank ! 
Out of the valorous yet chaotic Greeks 
His skill and nerve had gathered ordered ranks. 



CHARLOTTE F1SKE BATES. 379 

May not the chaos of his passions first 

Have heard light summoned, and have felt its 

dawn? 

May not the liberty of God s own truth 
Have struck some shackles of his bondage off 
While he was seeking to make others free ? 
Amid the blackness we must see and shun, 
Gleams out a light wherein it read the hint 
Of the surpassing glory sin eclipsed. 
Who knows what age or illness might have 

wrought? 

Those two reformers of an evil life, 
That have of vilest sinners moulded saints. 
Be it not ours to cover vice of his, 
But to remember we have seen his worst, 
Which most men hide as misers hide their hoard. 

While Thought drinks in the purest tones he 

struck, 

All her nerves tremble with bewildered joy : 
Round some creations such a splendour burns, 
He seems himself the very lyric god, 
Encircling whom, great passions of the soul 
With linked hands, like maids of Helicon, 
Accord his power in faultless harmonies. 
Greece lives for ever in his splendid verse, 
Which, should her relics utter ruins lie, 
Could bound her glory with immortal lines. 
Fitting that he who lived and sang of her 
Should breathe his life out on her lovely shore ! 
Wave-beaten Missolonghi, it is thou 
That hold st the parting secrets of that soul 
Not walled like thee, with strength, but like 

thyself 
Beaten forever by the mighty sea ! 



380 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE. 

[Born in Ireland, 1840. Author, among other volumes, of Poems, 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, 1882 ; Verses along the 
Way, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1890 ; A Summer Holiday in 
Europe, Lee & Shepard, Boston, 1890.] 

A DEAD SUMMER. 

WHAT lacks the summer 1 

Not roses blowing, 

Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife, 
Nor green things gay with the bliss of growing, 

Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life, 
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining, 

Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall, 
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining 

Three little buds I miss, no more, 

That blossomed last year at my garden door, 
And that is all. 

What lacks the summer ? 

Not leaves a-quiver 

With arrows of light from the land of dawn, 
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling river, 

Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn, 
Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches, 

Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall, 
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches, 

Life pulses gladly on vale and hill, 

But three little hearts that I love are still, 
And that is all. 

What lacks the summer ? 

O light and savour, 

And message of healing the world above ! 
Gone is the old-time strength and flavour, 

Gone is the old-time peace and love ! 
Gone is the bloom of the shimmering meadow, 



MAR\ ELIZABETH BLAKE. 381 

Music of birds, as they sweep and fall, 
All the great world is dim with shadow, 
Because no longer mine eyes can see 
The eyes that made summer and life for me, 
And that is all. 



GOING AND COMING. 

FORWARD ! 
" On to the front ! " the order ran, 

" On to the front the foe to meet," 
They shouldered their muskets, boy and man, 

And marched away through the city street. 
Banners flying and drum-beat proud, 

Marshalled them on through the noisy way, 
But many a heart in the waiting crowd 

Was faint and sick with its fear that day. 

Forward ! 
" On to the front ; " twas a fearful call 

With Death before to beckon them on ; 
Who would be first on the field to fall ? 

Who would be left when the rest were gone 1 

Was this the last time, full and free, 

To hear the pulse of the city roll, 
Before they gasped in their agony 

With the last deep throb of the parting soul 1 

Forward ! 
On to the front ! From peace and life, 

From wife and child with their clinging hands, 
To the shock and crash of the fearful strife, 

To the unknown grave in the southern lands. 
Yet firm as the beat of their martial feet, 

And strong with a freeman s strength of soul, 
They marched away through the crowded street 

With quiver of trumpet and loud drum roll, 

Forward ! 



382 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Home ! 
With silken folds of the banner torn 

In gaps, with the sunlight streaming through, 
The bayonets gleam from the muskets worn, 

And stain and dust on the army-blue ; 
Back from the battlefields far away, 

Their medals of bronze on check and brow, 
They came through the city streets to-day, 

Our Legion of Honour we call them now. 

Home! 
When the word went down to that hell of war, 

And the fetid walls where the prisoners slept, 
God ! what a shout rang near and far 

And up to the listening heavens swept ! 
Eyes that were dry mid the groans of death, 

Hearts unawed by the bullet and sword, 
Grew dim and soft with the whispered breath, 

And melted in tears at the well-known word. 

Home ! 
Many had reached it long ago, 

Not the place that our hearts had planned, 
The fireside rest that their feet should know 

Who came to us back from the direful land, 
But a sweeter rest which never shall cease 

Than the deepest depths of our love could give, 
Where God Himself is the light of Peace, 

And the ransomed soldiers of freedom live. 

Home ! 
Whether on earth or whether in heaven, 

Where lips may touch or prayers arise, 
Honour and praise to their names be given 

Under the sun or above the skies. 
Till the jubilant air shall rise and swell 

With strong full shouts of the heart s delight, 
Welcome with clangour of cannon and bell 

The bronze-brown heroes of field and fight 

Home ! 



MAR Y E LIZ ABE TH BLAKE. 383 



HEARTSICK! 

" Is it the tramp of men to battle 

Breaking across the silent night, 
The stinging roll of the musket s rattle, 

The far-off shock of the deadly fight 1 
Is it the moan of strong men dying, 

Coming across the dreary plain 1 " 
" Mother, only the south wind sighing, 

And the falling drops of the summer rain." 

" Listen again ! where the hill lies glooming, 

Flinging its shadow across the grass, 
Did you not hear the cannon booming, 

And clash of steel from the rocky pass ? 
Now drawing nearer, now retreating, 

Are there not cries on the village green ? " 
Only the surf on the dark rocks beating, 

And the roll of the thunder dropped between. 

Alas and alas ! when the heart is fearing, 

Every shadow has life and weight, 
Even the wind, to the spirit s hearing, 

Comes like the call of a beckoning Fate ! 
You, O child, in your spring-time gladness, 

Only the wrath of the tempest see, 
I, with a longing, sick heart sadness, 

What does the south wind say to me 1 

That some place where its breath is falling 

He is fighting, perhaps is slain ; 
That some place where its voice is calling 

He is moaning my name in vain ; 
Somewhere under its lonely sighing, 

In broken slumber or deadly strife, 
In camp or field is the trite heart lying 

That calls you "darling" and calls me "wife." 



YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

You and I, my little one, nesting 

Safe by his hearthstone, far away, 
What shall we do for our soldier s resting, 

What can we do but wait and pray. 
Through all the changes life may ring us, 

Waiting and praying with trust and might, 
But most of all when the south winds bring us 

A message from him, as they do to-night. 



HELEN GRAY CONE. 

[Born at New York City, 8th March 1859. Author of Oberon and 
Puck, brought out by Cassell & Company, with whose kind 
permission the poems given are quoted.] 

THE ACCOLADE. 



Now filled was all the sum 

Of serving years, and past, for ever past, 

All duties, all delights, of young esquires : 

And to the altar and the hour at last 

The hour, the altar, of his dear desires 

Clear-shriven and whitely clad the youth was come. 

II. 

Full many a squire was in that household bred 
To arms and honour and sweet courtesy, 
Who wore that sojourn s fragrant memory 
As amulet in after-battles dread ; 
And meeting in kings houses joyously, 
Or, wounded, in the sedge beside a lake, 
Such men were bounden brothers, for the sake 
Of the blade that knighted and the board that fed. 



HELEN GRA Y CONE. 385 

in. 

To eastward bnilded was the oratory: 

There all the warm spring night, while in the wood 

The buds were swelling in the brooding dark, 

And dreaming of a lordlier dawn the lark, 

Paced to and fro the youth and dreamed on glory, 

And watched his arms : Great knights in mailed hood 

On steeds of stone sat ranged along the aisle, 

And frowned upon the aspirant : " Who is he 

Would claim the name and join the company 

Of slayers of soldans swart and dragons grim, 

Not ignorant of wanded wizards guile, 

And deserts parched, and waters wide to swim ? " 

He halted at the challenge of the dead. 

Anon, in twilight, fancy feigned a smile 

To curve the carven lips, as though they said, 

" Oh welcome, brother, of whom the world hath need ! 

Ere the recorded deed 
We trembled, hoped, and doubted, even as thou." 

And therewithal he lifted up his brow, 
Uplift from hesitance and humble fear, 
And saw how with the splendour of the sun 
The glimmering oriel blossomed rosy-clear ; 
And lo, the Vigil of the Arms was done ! 



IV. 

Now, mass being said, before the priest he brought 
That glittering prophecy, his untried sword. 
In some mysterious forge the blade was wrought, 
By shadowy arms of force that baffle thought 
Wrought curiously in the dim under-world ; 
And all along the sheath processions poured, 

Thronged shapes of earth s weird morn 
Ere yet the hammer of Thor was downward hurled ; 
Not less it had for hilt the Cross of Christ the Lord, 
And must thereby in battle ave be borne. 
2 u 



386 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



v. 

Cool-sprinkled with the consecrated wave, 

That blade was blessed, that it should strike to save ; 

And next, pure hands of youth in hands of age 

Were held upon the page 
Of the illuminate missal, full of prayers, 
Rich fields, where through the river of souls has rushed 
Long, long, to have its passion held and hushed 
In the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares : 
And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plight 
To bear the sword, or break it, for the Right, 
And living well his life, yet hold it light, 
Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing. 



VI. 

Thereon a troop of maids began to bring, 
With flutter as of many-coloured doves, 
The hauberk that right martially did ring, 

And weight of linked gloves, 
And helmet plumed, and spurs ablaze with gold. 
Each gave in gracious wise her guiding word, 
As bade or fresh caprice, or usance old : 
As Ride thou swift by golden Honour spurred, 
Or Be thou faithful, fortunate and bold. 
But scarce for his own heart the aspirant heard. 



VII. 

And armed, all save the head, 

He kneeled before his master grey and good. 

Like some tall, noble, ancient ship he stood, 

That once swept o er the tide 
With banners, and freight of heroes helmeted 
For worthy war, and music breathing pride. 

Now, the walled cities won, 
And storms withstood, and all her story spun, 



HELEN GRA Y CONE. 387 

She towers in sand beside some sunny bay, 

Whence in the silvery morn new barks go sailing gay. 

So stately stood the Knight : 

And with a mighty arm, and with a blade 

Reconsecrate at fiery fonts of fight, 

He on the bowed neck gave the accolade. 

Yet kneeled the youth bewildered, for the stroke 
Seemed severance sharp of kind companionships; 
And the strange pain of parting in him woke ; 
And as at midnight when a branch down dips 
By sudden-swaying tempest roughly stirred, 

Some full-fledged nested bird, 
Being shaken forth, though fain of late to fly, 
Now flickers with weak wing and wistful cry, 

So flickered his desires 

Twixt knighthood, and delights and duties of esquires. 
But even as with the morrow will uprise, 

Assured by azure skies, 

The bird, and dart, and swim in buoyant air, 
Uprose his soul, and found the future free and fair ! 



VIII. 

And girded with Farewell and with Godspeed 

He sprang upon his steed. 

And forth he fared along the broad bright way ; 
And mild was the young sun, and wild the breeze, 
That seemed to blow to lands no eye had seen ; 
And Pentecost had kindled all the trees 
To tremulous thin whispering flames of green, 
And given to each a sacred word to say ; 
And wind-fine voices of the wind-borne birds 
Were ever woven in among their words. 
Soft brooding o er the hamlet where it lay, 
The circling hills stood stoled with holy white, 
For orchards brake to blossom in the night ; 



388 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And all the morning was one blown blue flower, 

And all the world was at its perfect hour. 

So fared he gladly, and his spirit yearned 

To do some deed fit for the deep new day. 

And on the broad bright way his armour burned, 

And showed him still, a shifting, waning star, 

To sight that followed far. 

Till last, the fluctuant wood the flash did whelm, 
That flood-like rolled in light and shadow o er his helm. 



IX. 

I know not more : nor if that helm did rust 
In weed of some drear wilderness down-thrust, 

Where in the watches lone 
Heaven s host beheld him lying overthrown, 
While God yet judged him victor, God whose laws 
Note not the event of battle, but the cause. 
I know not more : nor if the nodding prize 
Of lustrous laurels e er that helm did crown, 
While God yet judged him vanquished, God whose eyes 
Saw how his Demon smote his Angel down 
In some forgotten field and left him low. 
Only the perfect hour is mine to know. 



you who forth along the highway ride, 

Whose quest the whispering wood shall close around, 
Be all adventure high that may betide, 
And gentle all enchantments therein found ! 

1 would my song were as a trumpet-sound 

To nerve you and speed, and weld its notes with power 
To the remembrance of your perfect hour : 
To ring again and again, and to recall 

With the might of music, all : 
The prescience proud, the morning aspiration, 
But most the unuttered vow, the inward consecration ! 



HELEN GRA Y CONE. 389 



A SONG OF FAILURE. 

WITH green swords pointing to heaven, 
When the dawn flushed, glad to see, 

Like three gay knights in the garden 
Were flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis. 

And the plumes of two were purple, 

The colour of hope and pride, 
And the last was snowy-crested, 

As a maiden soul should ride. 

But a wind from the west brought warning, 
And at noontide, a sound of power, 

We heard on the roofs loud marching 
The steady feet of the shower. 

And the sharp green swords were broken, 
When the dusk fell, sad to see ; 

And low, ah low, were lying 
The plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis ! 



THE DANDELIONS. 

UPON a showery night and still, 

Without a sound of warning, 
A trooper band surprised the hill, 

And held it in the morning. 
We. were not waked by bugle-notes, 

No cheer our dreams invaded, 
And yet at dawn, their yellow coats 

On the green slopes paraded. 



390 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

We careless folk the deed forgot ; 

Till one day, idly walking, 
We marked upon the self-same spot 

A crowd of veterans talking. 
They shook their trembling heads and grey 

With pride and noiseless laughter 
When, well-a-day ! they blew away, 

And ne er were heard of after ! 



EMELIE. 

" chaste goddess of the ivodes grene, 
I am (thou wost) yet of thy compagnie, 
A maydc, and love hunting and renerie, 
And for to walke in the wodes wilde." 

Chaucer s "Jfnightes Talc. 

SHE greets the lily on the stalk; 

She shakes the soft hair from her brows ; 
She wavers down the garden walk 

Beneath the bloomy boughs. 
She is the slenderest of maids ; 

Her fair face strikes you like a star ; 
The great stone tower her pathway shades 
The prison where the Princes are. 
Across the dewy pleasance falls, 

All in the clear May morning light, 
The shadow of those evil walls 
That look so black by night. 

She is so glad, so wild a thing, 

Her heart sings like the lark all day ; 
The unhooded falcon on the wing 

Is not more freely gay. 
In sun and wind doth she rejoice, 

And blithely drinks the airy blue, 
Yet loves the solemn pines that voice 

The grief she never knew. 



HELEN GRA Y CONE. 39 ! 

In silence of the woods apart 

Her sure swift step the Dryads know ; 
Full oft she speeds the bounding hart, 

And draws the bending bow. 
Fine gleams across her spirit dart, 

And never living soul, saith she, 
Could make her choose for aye to lose 

Her own sweet company. 

But sometimes, when the moon is bright, 

So bright it almost drowns the stars, 
She thinks how some have lost delight 

Behind the prison bars. 
It makes her sad a little space, 

And casts a shadow on her look, 
As branches in a woody place 

Do nicker on a brook. 



Last night she had a dream of men, 

Dark faces strange with keen desire ; 
She heard the blaring trumpet then, 

She saw the shields strike fire. 
The pomp of plumes, the crack of spears, 

Beyond her happy circle lie ; 
Thank Heaven ! she has but eighteen years, 
And loves the daisies and the sky. 
And yet across her garden falls, 

All in the clear May morning light, 
The shadow of the prison walls, 
That look so black by night. 



392 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



ELSINORE. 

IT is strange in Elsinore 

Since the day King Hamlet died. 

All the hearty sports of yore, 

^ Sledge and skate, are laid aside ; 

Stilled the ancient mirth that rang, 

Boisterous, down the fire-lit halls ; 
They forgot, at Yule, to hang 

Berried holly on the walls. 
Claudius lets the mead still flow 

For the blue-eyed thanes that love it ; 

But they bend their brows above it, 
And for ever to and fro, 

Round the board dull murmurs go : 
" It is strange in Elsinore 

Since the day King Hamlet died." 

And a swarm of courtiers flit, 

New in slashed and satined trim, 
With their freshly-fashioned wit 

And their littleness of limb, 
Flit about the stairways wide, 

Till the pale Prince Hamlet smiles, 
As he walks, at twilight tide, 

Through the galleries and the aisles. 

For to him the castle seems 

This old castle, Elsinore 
Like a thing built up of dreams ; 

And the king s a mask, no more ; 
And the courtiers seems but flights 

Of the painted butterflies ; 
And the arras, wrought with fights, 

Grows alive before his eyes. 



HELEN GRA Y CONE. 393 

Lo, its giant shapes of Danes, 

As without a wind it waves, 
Live more nobly than his thanes, 

Sullen carpers, ale-fed slaves ! 

In the flickering of the fires, 

Through his sleep at night there pass 
Gray conceits and young desires 

Faces out of memory s glass, 
Fragments of the actor s art, 

Student s pleasures, college broils, 
Poesies that caught his heart, 

Chances with the fencing foils ; 
Then he listens oftentimes 

With his boyhood s simple glee, 
To dead Yorick s quips and rhymes, 

Leaning on his father s knee. 
To that mighty hand he clings, 

Tender love that stern face charms ; 
All at once the casement rings 

As with strength of angry arms. 
From the couch he lifts his head, 

With a shudder and a start ; 
All the fires are embers red, 

And a weight is on his heart. 

It is strange in Elsinore. 

Sure some marvel cometh soon ! 

Underneath the icy moon 
Footsteps pat the icy floor ; 
Yoices haunt the midnights bleak, 

When the wind goes singing keen ; 
And the hound, once kept so sleek, 

Slinks and whimpers and grows lean; 
And the shivering sentinels, 

Timorous on their lonesome round, 
Starting count the swinging bells, 

Starting at the hollow sound ; 



394 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And the pine-trees chafe and roar, 

Though the snow would keep them still. 
In the state there s somewhat ill ; 

It is strange in Elsinore. 



TO-DA Y. 

VOICE, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts 

of old fashion, 

English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way, 
Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous 

passion 
Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day! 

Hand, with what colour and power thou could st show, 

in the ring hot-sanded, 

Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay, 
Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, 

bare-handed ; 
Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day ! 



INA D. COOLBKITH. 

[Born in Springfield, Illinois. Author of Perfect Day, and other 
Poems, published in San Francisco in 1881. The poem quoted 
is from the Century Magazine.] 

THE POET. 

HE walks with God upon the hills ! 

And sees, each morn the World arise 

New-bathed in light of paradise. 
He hears the laughter of her rills, 



1NA D. COOLBRITH. 395 

He melodies of many voices, 

And greets her while his heart rejoices. 
She to his spirit undefiled, 
Makes answer as a little child ; 

Unveiled before his eyes she stands, 

And gives her secrets to his hands. 



DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE. 

[Born in Copenhagen, Denmark, circa 1858. Author of Joy, 
published in 1888 by G. P. Putnam s Sons, with whose kind 
permission the poems quoted are given.] 



DESIRE, 

AN APRIL IDYL. 

COME, dear Desire, and walk with me ; 
We ll gather sweets, and rob the bee ; 
Come, leave the dimness of your room, 
We ll watch, how since the morning rain 
The spider sitteth at her loom, 
To weave her silken nets again. 
I know a field where bluets blow, 
Like frost from fingers of the night, 
And in a sheltered coppice grow 
Arbutus trailers, blush and white. 

She leaves the room and walks with me 
Where dance the leaflets airily ; 
Across the stile and o er the grass, 
And down the shaded copse we pass. 
What sweeter bliss beneath the sun 
Than through the wooded ways to go 
With her whose heart is almost won, 
And let the fulness overflow ! 



396 YO UNGER A ME RICA N P OE TS. 

Her voice is ringing clear and blithe, 
I mark her motions, free and lithe ; 
Sometimes the briers that lift her dress 
Reveal the ankle s gracefulness. 
The flowers, on which she will not tread, 
Pay homage with each nodding head, 
As though the Lady May, their queen, 
Were lightly pacing o er the green. 

The bluebird to my suit gives heed ; 
The wood-thrush warbles me good-speed ; 
And every bird in every tree, 
That peeps at her and peers at me, 
Sings loud encouragement and long, 
And bids us welcome in his song. 

Kind stones, I thank you for your grace, 
I bless each wet and marshy place ; 
Low pile of logs and fallen fence, 
I owe ye twain a recompense, 
With prostrate tree and matted vine ; 
Each bar that gives occasion sweet 
To hold her supple hand in mine, 
And teach her where to place her feet. 

See, my Desire, the mossy nook 
Where grows the pink anemone ; 
I ll kindly lift you o er the brook, 
And neath the dropping dog-wood tree 
We ll sit and watch the mating birds, 
And put their wooing into words. 

O downcast eyes ! O tender glow ! 

O little hand that trembles so ! 

O throbbing heart and fluttering breast ! 

timid passion, half confessed ! 

We hear and scarcely know we hear 

The red-bird whistle bold and clear ; 



DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE. 397 

Beneath the blooming dog-wood bough 
The moments pass, we know not how, 
Till day is on her burning pyre, 
And I have won my heart s Desire. 



PEGASUS. 

STEEP a poet in the sun, 

And bathe a singer in the blue, 
And bring, to solace such an one, 

Fresh, honeyed draughts of clover dew ! 
Then let a song for soothing float 
From out the hermit thrush s throat. 
Upon a mountain side apart, 

Where blows no breath of earthly care, 
There let him ease his gentle heart, 

And drink him drunk with mountain air. 
Perchance before the day be past, 
The winged horse may come at last, 
And lightly curvet o er the hill, 
Then stand to learn the master s will. 
Or if he wait till comes the night, 
Until the lady moon arise, 
And sleepy starlets blink their eyes, 
And whip-poor-wills begin to call, 
There ll be such rambles through the skies ; 
Such antics on his upward flight ; 
Such caracoles fantastical ; 
Such circlings wild and swift and strong, 
As ne er were set in mortal song ! 

O Pegasus ! if I might be 
Upon the mountain slope with thee : 
And might I share thy sweeping flight, 
And gambols in the mystic light ; 
Or through the airy pastures wind, 
With speed that leaves the breeze behind, 
To join the starry company, 
Twere happiness enough for me. 



398 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A DAINTY FOP. 
So jaunty, free and debonair, 
And winning welcome everywhere, 
A dainty fop has passed me by ! 
I did not see, but felt him nigh, 
And though he dared to kiss my cheek, 
He did not speak, he did not speak. 

Shall I confess, beneath the rose, 

A secret you must ne er disclose, 

That almost every summer day 

This lover kisses me in play 1 

But whence he comes, or where he goes 

No mortal knows, no mortal knows. 

A cultured taste in him I find, 
And proof of an aesthetic mind ; 
He winnows first the clover fields, 
And next the rose aroma yields ; 
Now who can tell me from the scent, 
Which way he went, which way he went ? 

A connoisseur of rich perfumes, 
To-day he steals from lilac blooms ; 
To-morrow leaves the garden belles, 
And flies to woodbine-scented dells ; 
Who could resist the sighing swain, 
Nor kiss again, nor kiss again 1 

Like Psyche, in my arbours green 

I wait for him I ne er have seen ; 

His fragrant breath betrays him nigh, 

His fragrant breath and gentle sigh, 

As though a burden on his breast 

Was ne er confessed, was ne er confessed ! 

To none is this gay rover true ; 

He charms each day with odours new ; 

But when, where hides the partridge-vine 

He finds the luscious eglantine, 

And when for her he leaves the rest, 

I love him best, T love him best. 



DANSKE CAROLINA DANDRIDGE. 399 

THE DE.AD MOON. 

i. 
WE are ghost-ridden : 

Through the deep night 
Wanders a spirit, 

Noiseless and white. 

Loiters not, lingers not, knoweth not rest ; 
Ceaselessly haunting the East and the West. 
She, whose undoing the ages have wrought, 
Moves on to the time of God s rhythmical thought. 
In the dark, swinging sea, 

As she speedeth through space, 
She reads her pale image ; 

The wounds are agape on her face. 
She sees her grim nakedness 

Pierced by the eyes 
Of the spirits of God 

In their flight through the skies. 
(Her wounds they are many and hollow.) 
The Earth turns and wheels as she flies, 
And this Spectre, this Ancient, must follow. 

n. 

When, in the seons, 

Had she beginning ? 
What is her story 1 

What was her sinning ? 
Do the ranks of the Holy Ones 

Know of her crime 1 
Does it loom in the mists 

Of the birthplace of Time 1 
The stars, do they speak of her 

Under their breath, 
"Will this Wraith be for ever 

Thus restless in death ? " 
On, through immensity, 

Sliding and stealing, 
On through infinity, 

Nothing revealing. 



400 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

in. 

I see the fond lovers : 

They walk in her light : 
They charge the "soft maiden " 

To bless their love-plight. 
Does she laugh in her place, 
As she glideth through space ? 
Does she laugh in her orbit with never a sound ? 

That to her, a dead body, 
With nothing but rents in her round ; 
Blighted and marred ; 
Wrinkled and scarred ; 
Barren and cold ; 
Wizened and old ; 
That to her should be told, 
That to her should be sung 
The yearning and burning of them that are young ? 



IV. 



Our Earth that is young, 

That is throbbing with life, 
Has fiery upheavals, 

Has boisterous strife j 

But she that is dead has no stir, breathes no air 
She is calm, she is voiceless, in lonely despair. 



v. 



We darfc through the void : 

We have cries, we have laughter : 
The phantom that haunts us 

Comes silently after. 
This Ghost-lady follows, 

Though none hear her tread ; 
On, on, we are flying, 

Still tracked by our Dead ; 
By this white awful Mystery, 
Haggard, and dead. 



MARGARET[TA WADE] DELAND. 401 

MARGARET[TA WADE] DELAND. 

[Born in Alleghany, Pennsylvania, 23d February 1857. Author of 
The Old Garden (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston 1886) ; John 
Ward, Preacher (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, 1888) ; 
Sidney (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, 1891).] 

AFFAIRE D AMOUR, 

FOR E. W. W. 

ONE pale November day, 
Flying Summer paused, 

They say : 

And growing bolder, 
O er rosy shoulder 

Threw to her lover such a glance, 
That Autumn s heart began to dance. 
(O happy lover !) 

A leafless peach-tree bold 

Thought for him she smiled, 

I m told ; 

And, stirred by love, 
His sleeping sap did move, 
Decking each naked branch with green 
To show her that her look was seen ! 
(Alas poor lover !) 

But Summer, laughing, fled, 
Nor knew he loved her ! 

Tis said 

The peach-tree sighed, 
And soon he gladly died : 
And Autumn, weary of the chase, 
Came on at Winter s sober pace 
(O careless lover !) 



402 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

SUMMER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

HIGH on the crest of the blossoming grasses, 
Bending and swaying with face toward the sky, 

Stirred by the lightest west wind as it passes, 
Hosts of the silver-white daisy-stars lie ! 

I, looking up through the mist of the flowers, 
I, lying low on the earth thrilled with June, 

Give not a thought to the vanishing hours, 
Save that they melt into twilight too soon ! 

Blossoms of peaches float down for my cover, 
Snowflakes that blushed to be kissed by the sun, 

Blossoms of apples drift over and over, 

White they with grief that their short day is done ! 

Buttercup s lanterns are lighted about me, 
Burly red clover s warm cheek presses mine; 

Powdery bee never once seems to doubt me, 
Tipping each chalice for Summer s new wine ! 

Tiny white butterflies ("Brides" children name them) 
Flicker and glimmer, and turn in their flight; 

Surely the sunshine suffices to tame them, 
Close to my hand they will swing and alight. 

Small timid breezes than butterflies shyer, 
Just for a moment soft buffet my face, 

Then fly away to the tree tops and higher, 

Shaking down shadows o er every bright space. 



LIFE. 

BY one great Heart, the universe is stirred : 

By its strong pulse, stars climb the darkening blue; 
It throbs in each fresh sunset s changing hue, 

And thrills through low sweet song of every bird : 



MARGARET\TA WADE] DELAND. 403 

By it, the plunging blood reds all men s veins ; 
Joy feels that Heart against his rapturous own, 
And on it, Sorrow breathes her sharpest groan ; 

It bounds through gladness and the deepest pains. 

Passionless beating through all Time and Space ; 
Relentless, calm, majestic in its march, 
Alike, though Nature shake heaven s endless arch, 

Or man s heart break, because of some dead face ! 

Tis felt in sunshine greening the soft sod, 
In children s smiling, as in mother s tears ; 
And, for strange comfort, through the aching years, 

Men s hungry souls have named that great Heart, GOD ! 



WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR 
FLOCKS B Y NIGHT. 

LIKE small curled feathers white and soft, 

The little clouds went by, 
Across the moon, and past the stars, 

And down the western sky ! 
In upland pastures, where the grass 

With frosted dew was white, 
Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay 

That first, best Christmas night. 

The Shepherds slept ; and, glimmering faint, 

With twist of thin blue smoke, 
Only their fire s crackling flames 

The tender silence broke 
Save when a young lamb raised his head, 

Or, when the night wind blew, 
A nesting bird would softly stir 

Where dusky olives grew ; 

With finger on her solemn lip 
Night hushed the shadowy earth 

And only stars and angels saw 
The little Saviour s birth. 



404 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Then came such flash of silver light 

Across the bending skies, 
The wondering Shepherds woke, and hid 

Their frightened, dazzled eyes ! 

And all their gentle sleepy flock 

Looked up, then slept again, 
Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars 

Brought endless peace to men 
Nor even heard the gracious words 

That down the ages ring 
" The Christ is born ! the Lord has come, 

Good-will on earth to bring ! " 

Then o er the moonlit, misty fields, 

Dumb with the world s great Joy, 
The Shepherds sought the white-walled town, 

Where lay the baby boy 
And oh, the gladness of the world, 

The glory of the skies, 
Because the longed-for Christ looked up 

In Mary s happy eyes ! 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 

[Born at Boston, Massachusetts, 1861. The poems quoted are from 
Songs at the Start (1884, Cupples, Upham & Co., Boston) ; The 
White Sail (1887, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston), and are 
published by special permission of the author.] 

TARPEIA. 

WOE : lightly to part with one s soul as the sea with its 

foam! 
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome ! 

Lo, now it was night, with the moon looking chill as she 

went : 
It was morn when the innocent stranger strayed into 

the tent. 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 405 

The hostile Sabini were pleased, as one meshing a bird ; 
She sang for them there in the ambush ! They smiled 
as they heard. 

Her sombre hair purpled in gleams, as she leaned to the 

light ; 
All day she had idled and feasted, and now it was night. 

The chief sat apart, heavy browed, brooding elbow on knee; 
The armlets he wore were thrice royal, and wondrous to 
see: 

Exquisite artifice, whorls of barbaric design, 
Frost s fixed mimicry; orbic imaginings fine 

In sevenfold coils : and in orient glimmer from them, 
The variform voluble swinging of gem upon gem. 

And the glory thereof sent fever and fire to her eye. 
I had never such trinkets ! She sighed like a lute was 
her sigh. 

Were they mine at the plea, were they mine for the 

token, all told, 
Now the citadel sleeps, now my father the keeper is old, 

If I go by the path I know, and thou followest hard, 
If yet at the touch of Tarpeia the gates be unbarred 1 

The chief trembled sharply for joy, then drew rein 011 

his soul, 
Of all this arm beareth, Iswearl will cede thee the whole. 

And up from the nooks of the camp, the hoarse plaudit 

outdealt, 
The bearded Sabini glanced hotly, and vowed as they knelt, 

Bare-stretching the wrists that bore also the glowing great 

boon : 
Yea ! surely as over us shineth the lurid low moon, 

Not alone of our lord, but of each of us take what he hath ! 
Too poor is the guerdon if thou wilt but show us the path. 



406 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Her nostril upraised, like a fawn s on the arrowy air, 
She sped ; in a serpentine gleam to the precipice stair, 

They climbed in her traces, they closed on their evil 

swift star : 
She bent to the latches, and swung the huge portal ajar 

Repulsed where they passed her, half-tearful for wounded 

belief, 
The bracelets! she pleaded. Then faced her the 

leonine chief, 

And answered her: Even as I promised, maid-merchant, 

I do. 
Down from his dark shoulder the baubles he suddenly drew. 

1 This left arm shall nothing begrudge thee. Accept. Find 

it sweet. 
Give, too, O my brothers ! The jewels he flung at her feet, 

The jewels hard, heavy; she stooped to them, flushing 

with dread, 
But the shield he flung after : it clanged on her beautiful 

head. 

Like the Apennine bells when the villager s warnings 

begin, 
Athwart the first lull broke the ominous din upon din; 

With a Hail, benefactress ! Upon her they heaped 

in their zeal 
Death : agate and iron, death : chrysoprase, beryl and 

steel. 

Neath the outcry of scorn, neath the sinewy tension and 

hurl, 
The moaning died slowly, and still they massed over the 

girl 

A mountain of shields ! and the gemmy bright tangle in 

links 
A torrent-like gust, pouring out on the grass from the 

chinks, 



L O VISE IMOGEN G VINE Y. 407 

Pyramidal gold ! the sumptuous monument won 

By the deed they had loved her for, doing, and loathed 

her for, done. 

Such was the wage that they paid her, such, the acclaim ; 
All Rome was aroused with the thunder that buried 

her shame. 

On surged the Sabini to battle. O you that aspire ! 
Tarpeia the traitor had fill of her woman s desire. 

Woe : lightly to part with one s soul as the sea with its 

foam ! 
Woe to Tarpeia, Tarpeia, daughter of Rome ! 



A PASSING SONG. 

WHERE thrums the bee and the honeysuckle hovers, 
Gather, golden lasses, to a roundelay; 
Dance, dance, yokefellows and lovers, 
Headlong down the garden, in the heart of May ! 
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away. 

Dance ! What if last year Winnie s cheek were rounder 1 
Dance ! tho that foot, Hal, were nimbler yesterday. 
Spread the full sail ! for soon the ship must founder ; 
Flaunt the red rose ! soon the canker-worm has sway : 
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away. 

See the dial shifting, hear the night-birds calling ! 
Dance, you starry striplings ! round the fountain-spray : 
With its mellow music out of sunshine falling, 
With its precious waters trickling into clay, 
Youth is slipping, dripping, pearl on pearl, away. 



THE WILD RIDE. 

I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 
All day, the commotion of sinewy mane-tossing horses ; 
All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and 
neighing. 



408 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Cowards and laggards fall back ; but alert to the saddle, 
Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn, 

galloping legion, 
With a stirrup-cup each to the one gracious woman that 

loves him. 

The road is thro dolour and dread, over crags and 

morasses; 
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal 

or entice us: 
What odds ? We are Knights, and our souls are but 

bent on the riding ! 

/ hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 
All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; 
All night, from their cells, the importunate trancing and 
neighing. 

We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the storm- 
wind ; 

We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the 
anvil. 

Thou leadest, O God! All s well with Thy troopers 
that follow. 



THE LIGHT OF THE HOUSE. 

BEYOND the cheat of Time, here where you died you live ; 
You pace the garden-walks secure and sensitive; 
You linger on the stair : Love s lonely pulses leap ! 
The harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. 

Years after, and years after, you keep your heirdom still, 
Your winning youth about you, your joyous face and skill, 
Un vexed, un apprehended, with waking sense adored ; 
And still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord. 

To every quiet inmate, strong in the cheer you brought, 
Your name is as a spell midway of speech and thought ; 
And unto whoso knocks, an awe-struck visitor, 
The sunshine that was you floods all the open door ! 



LOUISE IMOGEN GU1NEY. 409 



AFTER THE STORM. 

i. 

Now that the wind is tamed and broken, 

And day gleams over the lea, 
Row, row, for the one you love 
Was out on the raging sea : 

Row, row, row, 

Sturdy and brave o er the treacherous wave, 
Hope like a beacon before, 

Row, sailor, row 
Out to the sea from the shore ! 

II. 
O the oar that was once so merry, 

O but the mournful oar ! 
Row, row ; God steady your arm 
To the dark and desolate shore : 

Row, row, row, 

With your own love dead, and her wet gold head 
Laid there at last on your knee, 

Row, sailor, row, 
Back to the shore from the sea ! 



THE POET. 

LISTEN! the mother 
Croons o er her darling; 
Birds to the summer 
Call from the trees ; 
Sailors in chorus 
Chant of the ocean : 
The Poet s heart singeth 
Songs sweeter than these. 

Thy lute, gentle lover, 
To her thou adorest; 
Ye troubadours! paeans 
For princes of Guelph : 



410 YO UNGER AMERICA N POE TS. 

But Heaven s own harpers 
Breathe not in their music 
The song that his happy heart 

Sings to itself ; 
The changeless, soft song that it 

Sings to itself ! 



HELEN JACKSON [H. H.]. 

[Born 18th October 1831, at Amherst, Massachusetts. Her maiden 
name was Helen Maria Fiske. She married, first, Captain 
E. B. Hunt, U.S.A. (28th October 1852) ; second, Mr William 
Sharpless Jackson (October 1875). Died in California, 12th 
August 1885. Author of Verses (Boston, 1870); Bits of 
Travel (Boston, 1870) ; Bits of Talk about Home Matters (1873, 
Roberts Brothers, Boston); Verses, enlarged (1874, Roberts 
Brothers,- Boston) ; Ramona (1884); A Century of Dishonour, 
etc., etc. The poems quoted are from the collected edition of 
her poems, published by Roberts Brothers, Boston, by kind 
permission of that firm.] 

A CHRISTMAS SYMPHONY. 



CHRISTMAS stars! your pregnant silentness, 
Mute syllabled in rhythmic light, 

Leads on to-night, 

And beckons, as three thousand years ago 
It beckoning led. We simple shepherds, know 

Little we can confess, 
Beyond that we are poor, and creep 
And wander with our sheep, 

Who love and follow us. We hear, 
If we attend, a singing in the sky; 

But feel no fear, 
Knowing that God is always nigh, 

And none pass by, 
Except His Sons, who cannot bring 
Tidings of evil, since they sing. 
Wise men with gifts are hurrying 



HELEN JA CKSON [H, H.\ 41 

In haste to seek the meaning of the Star, 
In search of worship which is new and far. 
We are but humble, so we keep 
On through the night, contented with our sheep, 
And with the stars. Between us and the east, 

No wall, no tree, no cloud, lifts bar. 
We know the sunrise. No one least 

Of all its tokens can escape 
Our eyes that watch. But all days are 
As nights, and nights as days, 
In our still ways. 

We have no dread of any shape 

Which darkness can assume or fill ; 
We are not weary ; we can wait ; 
God s hours are never late. 
The wise men say they will return, 
Revealing unto us the things they learn. 

Mayhap ! Meantime the Star stands still ; 
And, having that, we have the Sign. 
If we mistake, God is divine ! 

II. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 
Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still 

Its glory reinstates, 
Beyond humiliation s utmost ill, 
On peerless throne, which she alone can fill, 
Each earthly woman. Motherhood is priced 

Of God, at price no man may dare 
To lessen, or misunderstand. 

The motherhood which came 
To virgin sets in vestal flame, 
Fed by each new-born infant s hand, 

With Heaven s air, 
With Heaven s food, 
The crown of purest purity revealed, 
Virginity eternal signed and sealed 
Upon all motherhood ! 



412 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

m. 
Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 

Oh, riot alone because Judea waits, 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still, 

The Babe has mates. 

Childhood shall be for ever on the earth ; 
And no man who has hurt or lightly priced 
So much as one sweet hair 

On one sweet infant s head, 

But shall be cursed ! Henceforth all things fulfil 
Protection to each sacred birth. 
No spot shall dare 

Refuse a shelter. Beasts shall tread 
More lightly ; and distress, 
And poverty, and loneliness, 
Yea, and all darkness, shall devise 
To shield each place wherein an infant lies. 
And wisdom shall come seeking it with gift, 
And worship it with myrrh and frankincense, 
And Kings shall tremble if it lift 
Its hand against a throne. 
But mighty in its own 
Great feebleness, and safe in God s defence, 

No harm can touch it, and no death can kill, 
Without its Father s will ! 

IV. 

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, 

Oh, not alone because Judea waits 
This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. 
The universe must utter and fulfil 

The mighty voice which states, 
The mighty destiny which holds, 

Its key-note and its ultimate design. 
Waste places and the deserts must perceive 
That they are priced, 

No less than gardens in the Heart Divine. 
Sorrow her sorrowing must leave, 

And learn one sign 



HELEN JACKSON [ff. H.}. 413 

With joy. And Loss and Gain 

Must be no more. 
And all things which have gone before, 

And all things which remain, 

And all of Life, and all of Death be slain 

In mighty birth, whose name 
Is called Redemption ! Praise ! 

Praise to God ! The same 
To-day and yesterday and in all days 

Forever ! Praise ! 

v. 

O Christmas Stars ! Your pregnant silentness, 
Mute syllabled in rythmic light, 

Fills all the night. 

No doubt, on all your golden shores, 
Full music rings 
Of Happiness 
As sweet as ours. 

Midway in that great tideless stream which pours, 
And builds its shining road through trackless space, 
From you to us, and us to you, must be 

Some mystic place, 
Where all our voices meet, and melt 
Into this solemn silence which is felt, 

And sense of sound mysterious brings 
Where sound is not. This is God s secret. He 
Sits centred in his myriads of skies, 
Where seas of sound and seas of silence rise, 
And break together in one note and key, 
Dwelling limitless in harmony. 



AT LAST. 

O THE years I lost before I knew you, 

Love ! 
O the hills I climbed and came not to you, 

Love I 



414 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Ah, who shall render unto us to make 

Us glad 
The things which for and of each other s sake 

We might have had ? 

If you and I had sat and played together, 

Love, 
Two speechless babies in the summer weather, 

Love, 
By on sweet brook which, though it dried up long 



Still makes for me to-day a sweeter song 
Than all I know, 

If hand in hand through the mysterious gateway, 

Love, 
Of womanhood we had first looked, and straightway, 

Love, 
Had whispered to each other softly, ere 

It yet 
Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear 

We both forget, 

If all of this had given its completeness, 

Love, 
To every hour, would it be added sweetness, 

Love? 
Could I know sooner whether it were well 

Or ill 
With thee ? One wish could I more sweetly tell, 

More swift fulfil? 

Ah ! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder, 

Love, 
Losing the precious present while I wonder, 

Love, 
About the days in which you grew and came 

To be 
So beautiful/ and did not know the name 

Or~sight of me. 



HEL EN JA CKSON [//. //.] 415 

But all lost things are in the angels keeping, 

Love; 
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, 

Love ; 
The years of Heaven will all earth s little pain 

Make good, 
Together there we can begin again 

In babyhood. 



WHEN THE TIDE COMES IN. 

WHEN the tide comes in, 
At once the shore and sea begin 

Together to be glad. 

What the tide has brought 
No man has asked, no man has sought ; 

What other tides have had 

The deep sand hides away ; 
The last bit of the wrecks they wrought 

Was burned up yesterday. 

When the tide goes out, 
The shore looks dark and sad with doubt, 

The landmarks are all lost. 

For the tide to turn 
Men patient wait, men restless yearn. 

Sweet channels they have crossed, 

In boats that rocked with glee, 
Stretch now bare stony roads that burn 

And lead away from sea. 

When the tide comes in 
In hearts, at once the hearts begin 

Together to be glad. 

What the tide has brought 
They do not care, they have not sought. 

All joy they ever had 

The new joy multiplies ; 
All pain by which it may be bought 

Seems paltry sacrifice. 



4 1 6 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

When the tide goes out, 
The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt : 

All trace of joy seems lost. 

Will the tide return ? 
In restless questioning they yearn, 

With hands unclasped, uncrossed, 

They weep, on separate ways. 
Ah ! darling, shall we ever learn 

Love s tidal hours and days 1 



WHEN THE BAB Y DIED. 

i. 
WHEN the baby died, 

On every side 

White lilies and blue violets were strown; 
Unreasoning, the mother s heart made moan : 
" Who counted all these flowers which have grown 

Unhindered in their bloom ? 

Was there not room, 
O Earth, and God, couldst thou not care 
For mine a little longer 1 Fare 
Thy way, O Earth ! All life, all death 
For me ceased with my baby s breath ; 
All Heaven I forgot or doubt. 

Within, without, 

Is idle chance, more pitiless than law." 
And that was all the mother saw. 

II. 
When the baby died, 

On every side 

Rose strangers voices, hard and harsh and loud. 
The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. 
The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed 
That men s eyes might not see 

Her misery ; 

But in her bitter heart she said, 
" Ah me ! tis well that he is dead, 



HELEN JA CKSON \H. H.}. 4 1 7 

My boy for whom there was no food. 
If there were God, and God were good, 
All human hearts at last might keep 

The right to weep 

Their dead. There is no God, but cruel law." 
And that was all the mother saw. 

in. 
When the baby died, 

On every side 

Swift angels came in shining, singing bands, 
And bore the little one, with gentle hands, 
Into the sunshine of the Spirit Land; 

And Christ the Shepherd said, 

" Let them be led 
In gardens nearest to the earth. 
One mother weepeth over birth, 
Another weepeth over death; 
In vain all Heaven answeveth. 
Laughs from the little ones may reach 
Their ears, and teach 

Them what, so blind with tears, they never saw, 

That of all life, all death, God s love is law." 



LAND. 

O LAND, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 
No mortal knows what seas I sail 
With hope and faith which never fail, 
With heart and will which never quail. 
Till on thy shore my sails are furled, 
O land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

land, sweet land ! New World ! my world ! 

1 cross again, again, again 

The magic seas. Each time I reign 
Crowned conqueror. Each time remain 
New shores on which my sails are furled, 
A sweeter land ! A newer world ! 



4i 8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

world, New World ! Sweet land, my land ! 

1 come to-day, as first 1 came. 
The sea is swift, the sky is flame. 

My low song sings thy nameless name. 

Lovers who love, ye understand ! 

O sweetest world ! O sweetest land ! 

WHEN THE KINGS COME. 
WHEN the kings come to royal hunting-seats 
To find the royal joys of summer days, 
The servants on the lofty watch-tower raise 
A banner, whose swift token warning greets 
The country. Threatening stern, an armed man meets 
Each stranger, who, by pleasant forest ways, 
All unawares, has rambled till he strays 
Too close to paths where, in the noonday heats, 
The King, uncrowned, lies down to sleep. Such law 
As this the human soul sets heart and face 
And hand, when once its King has come. In awe, 
And gladness too, all men behold what grace 
Such royal presence to the eye can bring, 
And how the heart and hand can guard their King. 



MORDECAL 

MAKE friends with him ! He is of royal line, 
Although he sits in rags. Not all of thine 
Array of splendour, pomp of high estate, 
Can buy him from his place within the gate, 
The king s gate of thy happiness, where he, 
Yes, even he, the Jew, reraaineth free, 
Never obeisance making, never scorn 
Betraying of thy silver and new-born 
Delight. Make friends with him, for unawares 
The charmed secret of thy joys he bears; 
Be glad, so long as his black sackcloth, late 
And early, thwarts thy sun; for if in hate 
Thou plottest for his blood, thy own death-cry, 
Not his, comes from the gallows, cubits high. 



HELEN JA CKSON \H. H.\ 4 9 

CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN SAINT PETER S. 

Low on the marble floor I lie : 

I am alone : 

Though friendly voices whisper nigh, 
And foreign crowds are passing by, 

I am alone. 

Great hymns float through 
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow 
Refrain, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

With tender joy all others thrill ; 

I have but tears : 

The false priests voices, high and shrill, 
Reiterate the "Peace, good will;" 

I have but tears. 

I hear anew 

The nails and scourge ; then come the low 
Sad words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

Close by my side the poor souls kneel ; 

I turn away ; 

Half-pitying looks at me they steal ; 
They think, because I do not feel, 

I turn away. 

Ah ! if they knew, 

How following them, where er they go, 
I hear, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

Above the organ s sweetest strains 

I hear the groans 
Of prisoners, who lie in chains, 
So near, and in such mortal pains, 

I hear the groans. 

But Christ walks through 
The dungeon of St Angelo, 
And says, "Forgive them, fov they know 

Not what they do." 



420 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And now the music sinks to sighs 

The lights grow dim : 
The Pastorella s melodies 
In lingering echoes float and rise ; 

The lights grow dim ; 

More clear and true, 
In this sweet silence, seem to flow 
The words, " Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do." 

The dawn swings incense, silver gray ; 

The night is past ; 

Now comes, triumphant, God s full day ; 
No priest, no church can bar its way : 

The night is past : 

How on this blue 

Of God s great banner, blaze and glow 
The words, "Forgive them, for they know 

Not what they do ! " 



SONNETS. 
BON VO YA GE. 

THERE S not an Lour but from some sparkling beach 

Go joyful men, in fragile ships to sail, 

By unknown seas to unknown lands. They hail 

The freshening winds with eager hope, and speech 

Of wondrous countries which they soon will reach. 

Left on the shore, we wave our hands, with pale, 

Wet cheeks, but hearts that are ashamed to quail, 

Or own the grief which selfishness would teach. 

Death, the fairest lands beyond thy sea 

Lie waiting, and thy barks are swift and staunch 

And ready. Why do we reluctant launch ? 

And when our friends their heritage have claimed 

Of thee, and entered on it, rich and free, 

Oh, why are we of sorrow not ashamed 1 



HELEN JA CKSON [H. H.}. 42 1 

SEALED ORDERS. 

WHEN ship with " orders sealed " sails out to sea, 
Men eager crowd the wharves, and reverent gaze 
Upon their faces, whose brave spirits raise 

No question if the unknown voyage be 

Of deadly peril. Benedictions free 

And prayers and tears are given, and the days 
Counted till other ships, on homeward ways, 

May bring back message of her destiny. 

Yet, all the time, Life s tossing sea is white 

With scudding sails which no man reefs or stays 
By his own will, for roughest day or night : 

Brave, helpless crews, with captain out of sight, 
Harbor unknown, voyage of long delays, 
They meet no other ships on homeward ways. 

A VALANCHES. 

O HEART that in Love s sunny height doth dwell, 

And joy unquestioning by day, by night, 

Serene in trust because the skies are bright ! 

Listen to what all Alpine records tell, 

Of days on which the avalanches fell. 

Not days of storm when men were pale with fright, 

And watched the hills with anxious, straining sight, 

And heard in every sound a note of knell ; 

But when in heavens still, and blue, and clear, 

The sun rode high, those were the hours to fear. 

And so the monks of San Bernard to-day, 

May the Lord count their souls and hold them dear, 

When skies are cloudless, in their convent stay, 

And for the souls of dead and dying pray. 

CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN. 

BY easy slope to west, as if it had 

No thought, when first its soaring was begun, 

Except to look devoutly to the sun, 

It rises, and has risen, until glad, 



422 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

With light as with a garment, it is clad, 
Each dawn, before the tardy plains have won 
One ray ; and after day has long been done 
For us, the light doth cling reluctant, sad 
To leave its brow. Beloved mountain, I, 
Thy worshipper as thou the sun s each morn 
My dawn, before the dawn, receive from thee ; 
Arid think, as thy rose-tinted peaks I see 
That thou wert great when Homer was not born, 
And ere thou change all human song shall die. 



DANGER. 

WITH what a childish and short sighted sense 

Fear seeks for safety ; reckons up the days 

Of danger and escape, the hours and ways 

Of death ; it breathless flies the pestilence ; 

It walls itself in towers of defence ; 

By land, by sea, against the storm it lays 

Down barriers ; then, comforted, it says : 

" This spot, this hour is safe." Oh, vain pretence ! 

Man born of man knows nothing when he goes ; 

The winds blow where they list, and will disclose 

To no man which brings safety, which brings risk. 

The mighty are brought low by many a thing 

Too small to name. Beneath the daisy s disk 

Lies hid the pebble for the fatal sling. 



THE FIR-TREE AND THE BROOK. 

THE Fir-Tree looked on stars, but loved the Brook ! 
" O silver-voiced ! if thou wouldst wait, 
My love can bravely woo." All smiles forsook 
The Brook s white face. " Too late ! 
Too late ! I go to wed the sea. 
I know not if my love would curse or bless thee. 
I may not, dare not, tarry to caress thee. 
Oh, do not follow me ! " 



HELEN JACKSON [H. H.}. 423 

The Fir-Tree moaned and moaned till spring ; 
Then laughed in maniac joy to feel 
Early one day, the woodmen of the King 
Sign him with sign of burning steel, 
The first to fall. " Now flee 

Thy swiftest, Brook ! Thy love may curse or bless me, 
I care not, if but once thou dost caress me, 
O Brook, I follow thee ! " 

All torn and bruised with mark of axe and chain, 
Hurled down the dizzy slide of sand, 
Tossed by great waves in ecstasy of pain, 
And rudely thrown at last to land, 
The Fir-Tree heard : "Oh, see 
With what fierce love it is I must caress thee ! 
I warned thee I might curse, and never bless thee, 
Why did st thou follow me 1 " 

All stately set with spar and brace and rope, 
The Fir-Tree stood and sailed, and sailed. 
In wildest storm when all the ship lost hope, 
The Fir-Tree never shook nor quailed, 
Nor ceased from saying, " Free 

Art thou, O Brook ! But once thou hast caressed me 
For life, for death, thy love has cursed or blessed me ; 
Behold, I follow thee ! " 

Lost in a night, and no man left to tell, 
Crushed in the giant iceberg s play, 
The ship went down without a song, a knell. 
Still drifts the Fir-Tree night and day; 
Still moans along the sea 

A voice : " O Fir-Tree ! thus must I possess thee : 
Eternally, brave love, will I caress thee, 
Dead for the love of me ! " 



424 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



REFRAIN. 

OF all the songs which poets sing, 

The ones which are most sweet, 
Are those which at close intervals 

A low refrain repeat ; 
Some tender word, some syllable, 

Over and over, ever and ever, 

While the song lasts, 

Altering never. 
Music if sung, music if said, 
Subtle like some fine golden thread 

A shuttle casts, 
In and out on a fabric red, 

Till it glows all through 

With the golden hue. 
Oh ! of all the songs sung, 

No songs are so sweet 
As the songs with refrains, 

Which repeat and repeat. 

Of all the lives lived, 

No life is so sweet, 
As the life where one thought, 

In refrain doth repeat, 
Over and over, ever and ever, 

Till the life ends, 
Altering never, 

Joy which is felt, but is not said, 
Subtler than any golden thread 

Which the shuttle sends 
In and out in a fabric red, 

Till it glows all through 

With a golden hue. 
Oh ! of all the lives lived, 

Can be no life so sweet 
As the life where one thought 

In refrain doth repeat. 



HELEN JA CKSON [H. H.}. 42 5 

" Now name me a thought 

To make life so sweet, 
A thought of such joy 

Its refrain to repeat." 
Oh ! foolish to ask me. Ever, ever 

Who loveth believes, 
But telleth never. 

It might be a name, just a name not said, 
But in every thought, like a golden thread 

Which the shuttle weaves 

In and out on a fabric red, 
Till it glows all through 

With a golden hue. 
Oh ! of all sweet lives, 

Who can tell how sweet 
Is the life which one name 

In refrain doth repeat 1 



MY TENANTS. 
I NEVEE had a title-deed 
To my estate. But little heed 
Eyes give to me, when I walk by 
My fields, to see who occupy. 
Some clumsy men who lease and hire 
And cut my trees to feed their fire, 
Own all the land that I possess, 
And tax my tenants to distress. 
And if I said I had been first, 
And, reaping, left for them the worst, 
That they were beggars at the hands 
Of dwellers on my royal lands, 
With idle laugh of passing scorn 
As unto words of madness born, 
They would reply. 

I do not care ; 

They cannot crowd the charmed air ; 
They cannot touch the bonds I hold 
On all that they have bought and sold. 



426 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

They can waylay my faithful bees, 

Who, lulled to sleep, with fatal ease, 

Are robbed. Is one day s honey sweet 

Thus snatched 1 All summer round my feet 

In golden drifts from plumy wings, 

In shining drops on fragrant things, 

Free gift, it came to mo. My corn, 

With burnished banners, morn by morn, 

Comes out to meet and honour me ; 

The glittering ranks spread royally 

Far as I walk. When hasty greed 

Tramples it down for food and seed, 

I, with a certain veiled delight, 

Hear half the crop is lost by blight. 

Letter of law these may fulfil, 

Plant where they like, slay what they will ; 

Count up their gains and make them great ; 

Nevertheless, the whole estate 

Always belongs to me and mine. 

We are the only royal line. 

And though I have no title-deed 

My tenants pay me loyal heed 

When our sweet fields I wander by 

To see what strangers occupy. 



DEDICA TION. 

WHEN children in the summer weather play, 

Flitting like birds through sun and wind and rain, 

From road to field, from field to road again, 

Pathetic reckoning of each mile they stray 

They leave in fl owners forgotten by the way; 

Forgotten, dying, but not all in vain, 

Since, finding them, with tender smiles, half pain, 

Half joy, we sigh, " Some child passed here to-day." 

Dear one, whose name I name not lest some tongue 

Pronounce it roughly like a little child 

Tired out at noon, 1 left my flowers among 

The wayside things. I know how thou hast smiled, 



HELEN JACKSON \H. //.]. 427 

And that the thought of them will always be 
One more sweet secret thing twixt thee and me. 



MA Y. 

THE voice of one who goes before to make 
The paths of June more beautiful, is thine, 
Sweet May ! Without an envy of her crown 
And bridal ; patient stringing emeralds 
And shining rubies for the brows of birch 
And maple ; flinging garlands of pure white 
And pink, which to their bloom add prophecy; 
Gold cups o er-filling on a thousand hills 
And calling honey-bees ; out of their sleep 
The tiny summer harpers with bright wings 
Awaking, teaching them their notes for noon ;- 
O May, sweet-voiced one, going thus before, 
Forever June may pour her warm red w r ine 
Of life and passion, sweeter days are thine. 



THE POETS FORGE. 

HE lies on his back, the idling smith, 

A lazy, dreaming fellow is he ; 
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray, 
He lies on his back the livelong day, 
Not a tool in sight ; say what they may, 

A curious sort of a smith is he. 
The powers of the air are in league with him ; 

The country around believes it well ; 
The wondering folk draw spying near ; 
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear ; 
No wonder they feel a little fear ; 

When is it his work is done so well ? 
Never sight nor sound to see or hear ; 

The powers of the air are in league with him ; 
High over his head his metals swing, 

Fine gold and silver to shame the king ; 



428 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

We might distinguish their glittering, 
If once we could get in league with him. 

High over his head his metals swing ; 
He hammers them idly year by year, 
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain : 
" A bench and book are a ball and chain, 
The adze is better tool than the plane ; 

What s the odds between now and next year ! " 

Hammers and chuckles his low refrain, 

A lazy, dreaming fellow is he : 
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,, 
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout ; 
He laughs and asks what it s all about; 

Oh, a curious sort of smith is he ? 



VANITY OF VANITIES. 

BEE to the blossom, moth to the flame : 
Each to his passion ; what s in a name 1 

Red clover s sweetest, well the bee knows ; 
No bee can suck it ; lonely it blows. 

Deep lies its honey, out of reach, deep ; 
What use in honey hidden to keep 1 

Robbed in the autumn, starving for bread ; 
Who stops to pity a honey-bee dead 1 

Star-flames are brightest, blazing the skies ; 
Only a hand s breadth the moth- wing flies. 

Fooled with a candle, scorched with a breath ; 
Poor little miller, a tawdry death ! 

Life is a honey, life is a flame ; 

Each to his passion ; what s in a name ? 

Swinging and circling, face to the sun 
Brief little planet, how it doth run ! 



HELEN JACKSON [//. //.]. 429 

Bee-tiine and moth-time, add the amount; 
White heat and honey, who keeps the count *\ 

Gone some fine evening, a spark out- tost ! 
The world no darker for one star lost ! 

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame ; 
Each to his passion; what s in a name ! 



HABEAS CORPUS. 

MY body, eh ? Friend Death, how now 1 
Why all this tedious pomp of writ 1 

Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow 
For half a century, bit by bit. 

In faith thou knowest more to-day 
Than I do, where it can be found ! 

This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, 
To which I now am chained and bound, 

Has not of kith or kin a trace 

To the good body once I bore ; 
Look at this shrunken, ghastly face : 

Didst ever see that face before 1 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art 
Thy only fault thy lagging gait, 

Mistaken pity in thy heart 

For timorous ones that bid thee wait, 

Do quickly all thou hast to do, 

Nor I nor mine will hindrance make ; 

I shall be free when thou art through : 

I grudge thee nought that thou must take. 

Stay ! I have lied ; I grudge thee one, 
Yes, two I grudge thee at this last, 

Two members which have faithful done 
My will and bidding in the past. 



430 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I grudge thee this right hand of mine, 

I grudge thee this quick-beating heart : 
They never gave me coward sign, 

Nor played me once a traitor s part. 
I see now why in olden days 

Men in barbaric love or hate 
Nailed enemies hands at wild crossways, 

Shrined leaders hearts in costly state : 
The symbol, sign, and instrument 

Of each soul s purpose, passion, strife, 
Of fires in which are poured and spent 

Their all of love, their all of life. 

O feeble, mighty human hand ! 

fragile, dauntless human heart ! 
The universe holds nothing planned 

With such sublime, transcendent art ! 

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine 
Poor little hand, so feeble now ; 

Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, 
Its veins so pallid and so slow 

. . . (Unfinished here.) 

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou- art ; 

1 shall be free when thou art through. 
Take all there is take hand and heart ; 

There must be somewhere work to do. 



A LAST PR A YER. 
FATHER, I scarcely dare to pray, 

So clear I see, now it is done, 
That I have wasted half my day, 

And left my work but just begun ; 

So clear I see that things I thought 
Were right or harmless were a sin 

So clear I see that I have sought, 
Unconscious, selfish aims to win ; 



ROSE HAWTHORNE LA THRO P. 431 

So clear I see that I have hurt 

The souls I might have helped to save ; 

That I have slothful been, inert, 
Deaf to the calls thy leaders gave. 

In outskirts of thy kingdoms vast, 
Father, the humblest spot give me ; 

Set me the lowliest task thou hast ; 
Let me repentant work for thee ! 



ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP. 

[Born at Lenox, Massachusetts, 20th May 1851. Author of Along the 
Shore, published, in 1888, by Ticknor & Co., now Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co., Boston, with whose kind permission the poems 
quoted are given.] 

FRANC IE. 

I LOVED a child as we should love 

Each other everywhere ; 
I cared more for his happiness 

Than I dreaded my own despair. 

An angel asked me to give him, 

My whole life s dearest cost ; 
And in adding mine to his treasures 

I knew they could never be lost. 

To his heart I gave the gold, 

Though little my own had known ; 

To his eyes what tenderness 

From youth in mine had grown ! 

I gave him all my buoyant 

Hope for my future years : 
I gave him whatever melody 

My voice had steeped in tears. 

Upon the shore of darkness 

His drifted body lies, 
He is dead, and I stand beside him, 

With his beauty in my eyes. 



432 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

I am like those withered petals 
We see on a winter day, 

That gladly give their colour 
In the happy summer away. 

I am glad I lavished my worthiest 
To fashion his greater worth ; 

Since he will live in heaven, 
I shall lie content in the earth. 



D OROTHY. 

DEAR little Dorothy, she is no more ! 
[ have wandered world-wide, from shore to shore ; 
I have seen as great beauties as ever were wed ; 
But none can console me for Dorothy dead. 

Dear little Dorothy ! How strange it seems 
That her face is less real than the faces of dreams ; 
That the love which kept true, and the lips which so 

spoke, 
Are more lost than my heart, which died not when it 

broke ! 



LOOKING BACKWARD. 

GKEY towers make me think of thee, 
Thou girl of olden minstrelsy, 
Young as the sunlight of to-day, 
Silent as tasselled boughs of May ! 

A wind-flower in a world of harm, 

A hair-bell on a turret s arm, 

A pearl upon the hilt of Fame 

Thou wert, fair child of some high name. 

The velvet page, the deep-eyed knight, 
The heartless falcon, poised for night, 
The dainty steed and graceful hound, 
In thee their keenest rapture found 



ROSE HA WTHORNE LA THRO P. 433 

But for old ballads, and the rhyme 

And writ of genius o er the time 

When keeps had newly reared their towers, 

The winning scene had not been ours. 

O chivalry ! Thy age was fair, 
When even knaves set out to dare 
Their heads for any barbarous crime, 
And hate was brave, and love sublime. 

The bugle-note I send so far 
Across Time s moors to thee, sweet star, 
Where stands thy castle in its mist, 
Hear, if the wandering breezes list ! 



THE OUT-GOING RACE. 

THE mothers wish for no more daughters 
There is no future before them. 
They bow their heads and their pride 
At the end of the many tribes journey. 

The mothers weep over their children 
Loved and unwelcome together, 
Who should have been dreamed, not born, 
Since there is no road for the Indian. 

The mothers see into the future, 
Beyond the end of that Chieftain 
Who shall be the last of the race 
Which allowed only death to a coward. 

The square, cold cheeks, lips firm-set, 
The hot, straight glance, and the throat-line, 
Held like a stag s on the cliff, 
Shall be swept by the night-winds, and vanish ! 
2 E 



434 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

EMMA LAZARUS. 

[Born at New York City, 22d July 1849. Died at New York, 
19th November 1887. Author of Poems and Translations 
(New York, 1867) ; Admctus, and other Poems (1871) ; Alide, 
an Episode of Gfozthe s Life (Philadelphia, 1874); Poems and 
Ballads of Heine (New York, 1881) ; Poems, 2 vols. ; Narra 
tive, Lyric and Dramatic; Jewish Poems and Translations, 
Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.] 

THE CRO WING OF THE RED COCK. 

ACROSS the Eastern sky has glowed 

The flicker of a blood-red dawn, 
Once more the clarion cock has crowed, 

Once more the sword of Christ is drawn. 
A million burning rooftrees light 
The world-wide path of Israel s flight. 

Where is the Hebrew s Fatherland 1 
The folk of Christ is sore bestead ; 

The Son of Man is bruised and banned, 
Nor finds whereon to lay His head. 

His cup is gall, His meat is tears, 

His passion lasts a thousand years. 

Each crime that wakes in man the beast, 

Is visited upon his kind. 
The lust of mobs, the greed of Priest, 

The tyranny of Kings, combined 
To root his seed from earth again, 
His record is one cry of pain. 

When the long roll of Christian guilt 
Against his sires and kin is known, 

The flood of tears, the life-blood spilt, 
The agony of ages shown, 

What oceans can the stain remove, 

From Christian law and Christian love ? 

Nay, close the book ; not now, not here, 

The hideous tale of sin narrate, 
Re-echoing in the martyr s ear 

Even he might nurse revengeful hate, 



EMMA LAZARUS. 435 

Even he might turn in wrath sublime, 
With blood for blood and crime for crime : 

Coward ? Not he, who faces death, 
Who singly against worlds has fought, 

For what 1 ? A name he may not breathe, 
For liberty of prayer and thought. 

The angry sword he will not whet, 

His nobler task is to forget. 



THE BANNER OF THE JE W. 

WAKE, Israel, wake ! Recall to-day 

The glorious Maccabean rage, 
The sire heroic, hoary-grey, 

His five-fold lion-lineage : 
The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God, 
The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod."* 

From Mizpeh s mountain-ridge they saw 
Jerusalem s empty streets, her shrine 

Laid waste where Greeks profaned the Law, 
With idol and with pagan sign. 

Mourners in tattered black were there, 

With ashes sprinkled on their hair. 

Then from the stony peak there rang 

A blast to ope the graves ; down poured 

The Maccabean clan, who sang 
Their battle-anthem to the Lord. 

Five heroes lead, and following, see, 

Ten thousand rush to Victory ! 

Oh for Jerusalem s trumpet now, 

To blow a blast of shattering power, 

To wake the sleepers high and low, 
And rouse them to the urgent hour ! 

No hand for vengeance but to save, 

A million naked swords should wave. 

* The sons of Mattathias Jonathan, John, Eleazer, Simon 
(also called the Jewel), and Judas the Prince. 



436 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Oh deem not dead that martial fire, 
Say not the mystic flame is spent ! 

With Moses law and David s lyre, 

Your ancient strength remains unbent. 

Let but an Ezra rise anew, 

To lift the Banner of the Jew. 

A rag, a mock at first erelong, 

When men have bled, and women wept 

To guard its precious folds from wrong, 

Even they who shrunk, even they who slept. 

Shall leap to bless it, and to save. 

Strike ! for the brave revere the brave ! 



A MASQUE OF VENICE. 

NOT a stain, 

In the sun-brimmed sapphire cup that is the sky 
Not a ripple 011 the black translucent lane 
Of the palace-walled lagoon. 

Not a cry 

As the gondoliers with velvet oar glide by, 
Through the golden afternoon. 

From this height 

Where the carved, age-yellowed balcony o er-juts 
Yonder liquid, marble pavement, see the light 
Shimmer soft beneath the bridge 

That abuts 

On a labyrinth of water ways, and shuts 
Half their sky off with its ridge. 

We shall mark 

All the pageant from this ivory porch of ours, 
Masques and jesters, mimes and minstrels, while we hark 
To their music as they fare. 

Scent their flowers 

Flung from boat to boat in rainbow radiant showers 
Through the laughter-ringing air. 



EMMA LAZARUS. 437 

See ! they come, 

Like a flock of serpent-throated black-plumed swans, 
With the mandoline, the viol, and the drum, 
Gems afire on arms ungloved, 

Fluttering fans, 

Floating mantles like a great moth s streaky vans 
Such as Veronese loved. 

But behold 

In their midst a white unruffled swan appear. 
One strange barge that snowy tapestries enfold, 
White its tasselled silver prow. 

Who is here ? 

Prince of Love in masquerade or Prince of Fear, 
Clad in glittering silken snow ? 

Cheek and chin 

Where the mask s edge stops are of the hoar frost s hue. 
And no eye-beams seem to sparkle from within 
Where the hollow rings have place. 

Yon gay crew 

Seem to fly him, he seems ever to pursue. 
Tis our sport to watch the race. 

At his side 

Stands the goldenest of beauties; from her glance 
From her forehead, shines the splendour of a bride, 
And her feet seem shod with wings 

To entrance, 

For she leaps into a wild and rhythmic dance, 
Like Salome at the King s. 

Tis his aim 

Just to hold, to clasp her once against his breast, 
Hers to flee him, to elude him in the game. 
Ah, she fears him overmuch ! 

Is it jest, 

Is it earnest 1 a strange riddle lurks half-guessed 
In her horror of his touch. 



438 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For each time 

That his snow-white fingers reach her, fades some ray 
From the glory of her beauty in its prime ; 
And the knowledge grows upon us that the dance 

Is no play 

Twixt the pale, mysterious lover and the fay 
But the whirl of fate and chance. 

Where the tide 

Of the broad lagoon sinks plumb into the sea, 
There the mystic gondolier hath won his bride. 
Hark, one helpless, stifled scream ! 

Must it be ? 

Mimes and minstrels, flowers and music, where are ye ? 
Was all Venice such a dream ? 
May 1886. 



JULIE MATHILDE LIPPMANK 

[Born at Brooklyn, N.Y., 27th June 1864.] 

A SONG OF THE ROAD. 

COME, comrades ! since the road is long 
Let s liven it by tune and song, 
And greeting give to all we pass : 
To white-of-head ; to light-of-head ; 
To matron grave, and laughing lass : 
Hurrah ! for lane and by-way ; 
For distant path and nigh-way ; 
For friends we greet, for foes we meet 
Along the world s broad highway. 

Tis morning-break, lithe limbs are strong. 
Who dreams of crime and guilt and wrong 1 
Yon youngling and his violet-eyes ? 
Nay ! light-of-mind and love-so-blind 
Are wisdom-proof and folly-wise. 

Hurrah ! for lane and by-way, etc. 



JULIE MATHILDE LIP P MANN. 439 



Tis noontide, let us spend an hour 
Dream-drinking, ere we lose the power, 
And all our pleasure disappears, 
Since slight-of-heart and blight-of-heart 
Have sworn the goblet smacks of tears. 

Hurrah ! for lane and by-way, etc. 

Tis night, and lo ! foul thieves have mobbed 
The weak ones here, and left them robbed 
Of hope and faith and love and rest 
But sure-of-soul and pure-of-soul 
Still fold their treasures to their breast : 
Hurrah ! for lane and by-way ; 
For distant path and nigh- way ; 
For every one -whose journey s done 
Who s gained the distant skyway. 



TIME. 

A FROLICKING fellow is Time. 

He stirs young hearts to a vague desire ; 
He blossoms the rose, he buds the briar. 

He frets the ivy to start and climb, 
He tunes the world to a Summer-rhyme, 

Oh, a frolicking fellow is Time. 

A treacherous tyrant is Time. 
Young hearts desires he ne er fulfils : 

He blights the rose, and the bud he kills ; 
The garden gathers his gift of grime ; 

The still pool sleeps neath his sheet of slime ; 

Oh, a treacherous tyrant is Time. 

Yet a comforting comrade is Time. 
He heals young hearts of their piercing pain, 

With his soothing simples and tender rain. 
The bare world, gives he, a robe of rime, 
Till it glisters far like a thing sublime. 

Oh, a comforting comrade is Time. 



440 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

[Born at Pomfret, Connecticut, U.S.A. Author of the following 
books, all published by Roberts Brothers, Boston, Massachusetts 
Bed-Time Stories (1873) ; More Bed-Time Stories (1874) ; Some 
Women s Hearts (1874) ; Poems (1877), also published under 
the title of Swallow-Flights, by Macmillan & Co., London 
More Bed-Time Stories (1880) ; Random Rambles (1881) Fire 
light Stories (1883) ; Ourselves and Our Neighbours (1887) 
also, in 1887, edited a selection of Philip Bourke Marston s 
poems, entitled Garden Secrets, with a Biographical Sketch 
of P. B. M. ; Miss Eyre from Boston, and Others (1889) ; and 
In the Garden of Dreams, Roberts Bros., Boston, and Mac 
millan & Co., London.] 

A PAINTED FAN. 

ROSES and butterflies snared on a fan, 

All that is left of a summer gone by ; 
Of swift bright wings that flashed in the sun, 

And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die ; 

By what subtle spell did you lure them here 

Fixing a beauty that will not change 

Roses whose petals never will fall, 

Bright, swift wings that never will range 1 

Had you owned but the skill to snare as well 
The swift-winged hours that came and went, 

To prison the words that in music died, 
And fix with a spell the heart s content, 

Then had you been of magicians the chief ; 

And loved and lovers should bless your art 
If you could but have painted the soul of the thing, 

Not the rose alone, but the rose s heart ! 

Flown are those days with their winged delights, 
As the odour is gone from the summer rose ; 

Yet still, whenever I wave my fan, 

The soft, south wind of memory blows. 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 441 

THE HOUSE OF DEATH. 

NOT a hand has lifted the latchet 
Since she went out of the door 

No footstep shall cross the threshold 
Since she can come in no more. 

There is rust upon locks and hinges, 
And mould and blight on the walls, 

And silence faints in the chambers, 
And darkness waits in the halls 

Waits as all things have waited 

Since she went, that day of spring, 

Borne in her pallid splendour 

To dwell in the Court of the King : 

With lilies on brow and bosom, 

With robes of silken sheen, 
And her wonderful, frozen beauty, 

The lilies and silk between. 

Red roses she left behind her, 

But they died long long ago 
Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom 

That seemed through the dusk to glow. 

The garments she left mock the shadows 

With hints of womanly grace, 
And her image swims in the mirror 

That was so used to her face. 

The birds make insolent music 
Where the sunshine riots outside, 

And the winds are merry and wanton 
With the summer s pomp and pride. 

But into this desolate mansion, 

Where love has closed the door, 
Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter, 

Since she can come in no more. 



442 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

HOW LONG. 

IF on my grave the summer grass were growing, 
Or heedless winter winds across it blowing, 
Through joyous June, or desolate December, 
How long, sweetheart, how long would you remember, 
How Jong, dear love, how long 1 

For brightest eyes would open to the summer, 
And sweetest smiles would greet the sweet new-comer, 
And on young lips grow kisses for the taking, 
When all the summer buds to bloom are breaking, 
How long, dear love, how long 1 

To the dim land where sad-eyed ghosts walk only, 
Where lips are cold, and waiting hearts are lonely, 
I would not call you from your youth s warm blisses, 
Fill up your glass and crown it with new kisses 
How long, dear love, how long ? 

Too gay in June you might be to regret me, 
And living lips might woo you to forget me ; 
But ah, sweetheart, I think you would remember, 
When winds were weary in your life s December 
So long, dear love, so long. 



WE LA Y US DOWN TO SLEEP. 

WE lay us down to sleep, 
And leave to God the rest; 

Whether to wake and weep 
Or wake no more be best 

Why vex our souls with care 1 
The grave is cool and low; 

Have we found life so fair 
That we should dread to go 1 

We ve kissed love s sweet red lips, 
And left them sweet and red ; 

The rose the wild bee sips 
Blooms on when he is dead. 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 443 

Some faithful friends we ve found, 

But they who love us best, 
When we are under ground 

Will laugh on with the rest. 
No task have we begun 

But other hands can take ; 
No work beneath the sun 

For which we need to wake. 
Then hold us fast, sweet Death, 

If so, it seemeth best 
To Him who gave us breath 

That we should go to rest. 
We lay us down to sleep, 

Our weary eyes we close ; 
Whether to wake and weep 

Or wake no more, He knows. 



IF THERE WERE DREAMS TO SELL." 

( ( If there were dreams to sell, 
What would you buy ? " BEDDOES. 

IF there were dreams to sell, 
Do I not know full well 

What I would buy 1 
Hope s dear, delusive spell, 
Its happy tale to tell 

Joy s fleeting sigh. 
I would be young again 
Youth s madding bliss and bane 

I would recapture 
Though it were keen with pain, 
All else seems void and vain 

To that fine rapture. 
I would be glad once more 
Slip through an open door 

Into Life s glory 
Keep what I spent of yore, 
Find what I lost before 

Hear an old story. 



444 YO UNO ER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

As it of old befell, 

Breaking Death s frozen spell, 

Love should draw nigh : 
If there were dreams to sell, 
Do I not know too well 

What I would buy 1 



WHEN DA Y WAS DONE. 
THE clouds that watched in the west have fled ; 

The sun has set and the moon is high ; 
And nothing is left of the day that is dead 

Save a fair white ghost in the eastern sky. 

While the day was dying we knelt and yearned, 
And hoped and prayed till its last breath died ; 

But since to a radiant ghost it has turned, 
Shall we rest with that white grace satisfied ? 

The fair ghost smiles, with a pale cold smile, 
As mocking as life, and as hopeless as death 

Shall passionless beauty like this beguile ? 

Who loves a ghost, without feeling or breath ? 

I remember a maiden, as fair to see, 

Who once was alive, with a heart like June ; 

She died, but her spirit wanders free, 

And charms men s souls to the old, mad tune. 

Warm she was, in her life s glad day ; 

Warm and fair, and faithful and sweet ; 
A man might have thrown a kingdom away 

To kneel and love at her girlish feet. 
But the night came down, and her day was done ; 

Hoping and dreaming were over for aye ; 
And then her career as a ghost was begun 

Cold she shone, like the moon on high. 
For maiden or moon shall a live man yearn 1 

Shall a breathing man love a ghost without breath 1 
Shine, moon, and chill us you cannot burn 

Go home, girl-ghost, to your kingdom of death. 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 445 

AT END. 

AT end of Love, at end of Life, 
At end of Hope, at end of Strife, 
At end of all we cling to so, 
The sun is setting must we go 1 

At dawn of Love, at dawn of Life, 
At dawn of Peace that follows Strife, 
At dawn of all we long for so, 
The sun is rising let us go ! 



HEART, SAD HEART; A RONDEL. 

HEART, sad heart, for what are you pleading 1 
The sun has set and the night is cold ; 
To go on hoping were over bold 

Dead is the fire for want of feeding. 

Tears are keeping your eyes from reading 
The old, old story, so often told ; 

Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading ? 
The sun has set, and the night is cold. 

The wind and the rain in the dark are breeding 
Storms to sweep over valley and wold ; 
Love, the outcast, with longing bold, 
Clamours and prays to a power unheeding 
Heart, sad heart, for what are you pleading 1 



WIFE TO HUSBAND. 

WHEN I am dust, and thou art quick and glad, 
Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days we had, 
What happy days, beside the shining seas, 
Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease, 
Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover, 
Or whispering our own love-story over. 

When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space, 
And set another in my vacant place, 



446 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth, 
Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth, 
Be happy, dearest one, and surely know 
/ would not have thee thy life s joys forego. 

Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still, 
I lie, who once was swift to do thy will, 
Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss, 
Who, dying, blessed thee for that by-gone bliss : 
I pray thee do not bar my presence quite 
From thy new life, so full of new delight. 

I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side ; 

My presence should not chill thy fair young bride 

Only bethink thee how alone I lie : 

To die and be forgotten were to die 

A double death ; and / deserve of thee 

Some grace of memory, fair howe er she be. 



THE VENUS OF BURNE JONES. 

PALLID with too much longing, 
White with passion and prayer, 

Goddess of love and beauty, 
She sits in the picture there 

Sits, with her dark eyes seeking 
Something more subtle still 

Than the old delights of loving 
Her measureless days to fill. 

She has loved and been loved so often, 
In her long, immortal years, 

That she tires of the worn-out rapture, 
Sickens of hopes and fears. 

No joys or sorrows move her 
Done with her^ancient pride, 

For her head she found too heavy 
The crown she has cast aside. 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 447 

Clothed in her scarlet splendour, 

Bright with her glory of hair, 
Sad that she is not mortal, 

Eternally sad and fair. 

Longing for joys she knows not, 

Athirst with a vain desire, 
There she sits, in the picture, 

Daughter of foam and fire. 



THE LAST GOOD-BYE. 

How shall we know it is the last good-bye ? 

The skies will not be darkened in that hour, 
No sudden blight will fall on leaf or flower, 
No single bird will hush its careless cry, 

And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh 
Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears 
In your dear eyes will answer to my fears ; 
But there will come no voice of prophecy : 

No voice to whisper, " Now, and not again, 

Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer, 
For all the wild, unmitigated pain 

Of those who, parting, clasp hands with despair." 

" Who knows 1 " we say, but doubt and fear remain, 
Would any choose to part thus unaware 1 



AFTER DEATH. 

And very sweet it is 
To know he still is warm, though I am cold. 

CHKISTINA ROSSETTI. 

I WOULD not have thee warm when I am cold ; 

But both together neath some sylvan mound, 
Amid the pleasant secrets under ground, 

Where green things flourish in the embracing mould, 

And jealous seeds the souls of blossoms hold 
In some sweet fellowship of silence bound, 
Deeper than life, more exquisite than sound, 

Rest tranquilly while Love s new tales are told. 



448 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

We will not grudge the waking world its bliss 
Its joy of speech, its gladness of surprise, 

When lovers clasp each other s hands and kiss, 
And earth puts on new glory to their eyes : 
We, lying there, with Death s deep knowledge wise, 

Will know that we have found Life s best in this. 



THE CUP OF DEATH. 

FOR A PICTURE BY ELIHU VEDDER. 

SHE bends her lovely head to taste thy draught, 
O thou stern "Angel of the Darker Cup," 
With thee to-night in the dim shades to sup, 

Where all they be who from that cup have quaffed. 

She had been glad in her own loveliness, and laughed 
At Life s strong enemies who lie in wait, 
Had kept with golden youth her queenly state, 

All unafraid of Sorrow s threat ning shaft. 

Then human Grief found out her human heart, 
And she was fain to go where pain is dumb ; 
So Thou wert welcome, Angel dread to see, 
And she fares onward with thee willingly, 
To dwell where no man loves, no lovers part 
So Grief that is makes welcome Death to come. 



HIC JACET. 

So love is dead that has been quick so long ! 
Close, then, his eyes, and bear him to his rest, 
With eglantine and myrtle on his breast, 

And leave him there, their pleasant scents among 

And chant a sweet and melancholy song 
About the charms of which he was possest, 
And how of all things he was loveliest, 

And to compare with aught were him to wrong. 



NORA PERRY. 449 

Leave him, beneath the still and solemn stars, 
That gather and look down from their far place, 
With their long calm our brief woes to deride, 
Until the Sun the Morning s gate unbars, 

And mocks, in turn, our sorrows with his face 
And yet, had Love been Love, he had not died. 



A CRY. 
O WANDERER in unknown lands, what cheer 1 

How dost thou fare on thy mysterious way ? 
What strange light breaks upon thy distant day, 
Yet leaves me lonely in the darkness here 1 

bide no longer in that far-off sphere, 

Though all Heaven s cohorts should thy footsteps stay. 
Break through their splendid, militant array, 
And answer to my call, O dead and dear ! 

1 shall not fear thee, howsoe er thou come. 

Thy coldness will not chill, though Death is cold 
A touch and I shall know thee, or a breath ; 
Speak the old, well-known language, or be dumb ; 
Only come back ! Be near me as of old, 
So thou and I shall triumph over Death ! 



NORA PERRY. 

[Born in Massachusetts. Author of After the Ball, and other Poems 
(Boston, 1874 and 1879); The Tragedy of the Unexpected, and 
other Stories (1880) ; Her Lover s Friend (1880) ; Book of Love 
Stones (1881); For a Woman (1885); New Songs and Ballads 
(1886); and A Flock of Girls (1887). The poems quoted are 
given by permission of the author, with the kind consent of 
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

AFTER THE BALL. 
THEY sat and combed their beautiful hair, 

Their long bright tresses, one by one, 
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there, 
After the revel was done. 
2 F 



450 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ; 

Idly they laughed like other girls, 
Who over the fire, when all is still, 

Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robes of satin and Brussels lace, 
Knots of flowers and ribbons too, 

Scattered about in every place 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 

Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night, 
For the revel is done. 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 

Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, 

Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
And the little feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
All out of the bitter St Agnes weather, 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, 

Maud and Madge in robes of white, 

The prettiest night-gowns under the sun, 

Curtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done, 

Float along in a splendid dream, 

To a golden gittern s tinkling tune, 
While a thousand lustres shimmering stream, 

In a palace s grand saloon. 
Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 

Tropical odours sweeter than musk, 
Men and women with beautiful faces 

And eyes of tropical dusk, 

And one face shining out like a star, 
One face haunting the dreams of each, 

And one voice sweeter than others are, 
Breaking into silvery speech 



NORA PERRY. 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 

An old, old story over again, 
As down the royal bannered room, 

To the golden gittern s strain, 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
While an unseen spirit walks beside 

And all unheard in the lover s talk 
He claimeth one for a bride. 

Oh Maud and Madge, dream on together, 
With never a pang of jealous fear ! 

For, ere the bitter St Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, 
Braided brown hair and golden tress, 

There ll be only one of you left for the bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, 

Only one for the bridal pearls, 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, 

Only one to blush through her curls 
At the sight of a lover s face. 

Oh beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
For you the revel has just begun ; 

But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night, 
The revel of life is done ! 

But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, 
Queen of heaven and bride of the Sun, 

Oh beautiful Maud you will never miss 
The kisses another hath won ! 



TYING HER BONNET UNDER HER CHIN. 
TYING her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
But not alone in the silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 



452 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man s heart within. 

They were strolling together up the hill, 
Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill, 
And it blew the curls a frolicsome race, 
All over the happy peach-coloured face, 
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, 
Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blew a colour, bright as the bloom 
Of the pinkest fuschia s tossing plume, 
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl 
That ever imprisoned a romping curl, 
Or, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
Tied a young man s heart within. 

Steeper and steeper grew the hill ; 
Madder, merrier, chillier still 
The western wind blew down, and played 
The wildest tricks with the little maid 
As, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man s heart within. 

O western wind, do you think it was fair, 

To play such tricks with her floating hair 1 

To gladly, gleefully do your best 

To blow her against the young man s breast, 

Where he as gladly folded her in, 

And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin ? 

Ah Ellery Yane, you little thought, 
An hour ago, when you besought 
This country lass to walk with you, 
After the sun had dried the dew, 
What perilous danger you d be in, 
As she tied her bonnet under her chin ! 



NORA PERRY. 453 



THE ROMANCE OF A ROSE. 

IT is nearly a hundred years ago 
Since the day the Count de Rochambeau 
Our ally against the British crown 
Met Washington in Newport town. 

Twas the month of March, and the air was chill, 
But, bareheaded over Aquedneck hill, 
Guest and host they took their way, 
While on either side in grand display 

A gallant army, French and fine, 
Was ranged three deep in a glittering line ; 
And the French fleet sent a welcome roar 
Of a hundred guns from Conauicut shore ; 

And the bells rang out from every steeple, 
And from street to street the Newport people 
Followed and cheered, with a hearty zest, 
De Rochambeau and his honoured guest. 

And women out of the windows lent, 
And out of the windows smiled and sent 
Many a coy admiring glance 
To the fine young officers of France. 

And the story goes that the belle of the town 
Kissed a rose and flung it down 
Straight at the feet of de Rochambeau ; 
And the gallant Marshal bending low, 

Lifted it up with a Frenchman s grace, 
And kissed it back with a glance at the face 
Of the daring maiden where she stood, 
Blushing out of her silken hood. 

That night at the ball, still the story goes, 
The Marshal of France wore a faded rose 
In his gold-laced coat, but he looked in vain 
For the giver s beautiful face again. 



454 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Night after night, and day after day, 
The Frenchman eagerly sought, they say, 
At feast or at church or along the street, 
For the girl who flung the rose at his feet. 

And she night after night, day after day, 
Was speeding farther and farther away 
From the fatal window, the fatal street, 
Where her passionate heart had suddenly beat 

A throb too much, for the cool control 

A Puritan teaches to heart and soul ; 

A throb too much for the wrathful eyes 

Of one who had watched in dismayed surprise 

From the street below ; and taking the gauge 
Of a woman s heart in that moment s rage, 
He swore, this old colonial squire, 
That before the daylight should expire 

This daughter of his, with her wit and grace, 
Her dangerous heart, and her beautiful face, 
Should be on her way to a sure retreat, 
Where no rose of hers could fall at the feet 

Of a cursed Frenchman, high or low : 
And so while the Count de Rochambeau, 
In his gold-laced coat, wore a faded flower, 
And waited the giver hour by hour, 

She was sailing away in the wild March night 
On the little deck of the sloop " Delight ; " 
Guarded even in the darkness there 
By the wrathful eyes of a jealous care. 

Three weeks after a brig bore down 
Into the harbour of Newport town 
Towing a wreck twas the sloop " Delight." 
Off Hampton rocks in the very sight 

Of the land she sought, she and her crew, 
And all on board of her, full in view 
Of the storm-bound fishermen over the bay 
Went to their doom on that April day. 



NORA PERRY. 455 

When Rochambeau heard the terrible tale, 

He muttered a prayer, for a moment grew pale, 

Then "Mon Dieu ! " he exclaimed, "so my fine romance, 

From beginning to end, is a rose and a glance ! " 

A rose and a glance, with a kiss thrown in ; 
That was all, but enough for a promise of sin, 
Thought the stern old squire when he took the gauge 
Of a woman s heart in that moment of rage. 

So the sad old story comes to a close : 
Tis a century since ; but the world still goes 
On the same base round, still takes the gauge 
Of its highest hearts in a moment s rage. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 

TwAS in eighteen hundred and sixty-four, 
That terrible year when the shock and roar 
Of the nation s battles shook the land, 
And the fire leapt up into fury fanned, 

The passionate, patriotic fire, 

With its throbbing pulse and its wild desire 

To conquer and win, or conquer and die, 

In the thick of the fight when hearts beat high 

With the hero s thrill to do and to dare, 

Twixt the bullet s rush and the muttered prayer. 

In the North and the East, and the great North- West, 

Men waited and watched with eager zest 

For news of the desperate, terrible strife, 
For a nation s death or a nation s life ; 
While over the wires there flying sped 
News of the wounded, the dying, and dead. 

" Defeat and defeat! Ah what was the fault 
Of the grand old army s sturdy assault 
At Richmond s gates 1" in a querulous key, 
Men questioned at last impatiently, 



456 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

As the hours crept by, and day by day 
They watched the Potomac Army at bay. 
Defeat and defeat ! it was here, just here, 
In the very height of the fret and fear, 

Click, click ! across the electric wire 
Came suddenly flashing words of fire, 
And a great shout broke from city and town 
At the news of Sherman s marching down, 

Marching down on his way to the sea 
Through Georgia swamps to Victory, 
Faster and faster the great news came, 
Flashing along like tongues of flame, 

McAllister ours ! And then, ah ! then, 
To that patientest, tenderest, noblest of men, 
This message from Sherman came flying swift 
" I send you Savannah for a Christmas gift ! " 



RIDING DO WN. 
O, DID you see him riding down, 
And riding down, while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see, 
And all the bells rang mad with glee ? 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people shout, 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear 1 

And did you see the waving flags, 

The fluttering flags, the tattered flags, 

Red, white, and blue, shot through and through, 

Baptized with battle s deadly dew ? 

And did you hear the drum s gay beat, 
The drum s gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
The cymbals clash, the cannon s crash, 
That rent the sky with sound and flash ? 



NORA PERRY. 457 

And did you see me waiting there, 
Just waiting there and watching there, 
One little lass, amid the mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass 1 

And did you see him smiling down, 
And smiling down, as riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face, 

My face uplifted, red and white, 
Turned red and white with sheer delight, 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Out flashing in their swift surprise ? 

O, did you see how swift it came, 
How swift it came, like sudden flame, 
That smile to me, to only me, 
The little lass who blushed to see 1 

And at the windows all along, 
O all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces fair beyond compare. 
Beamed out upon him riding there ! 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 

He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face, 
He turned to me, to only me, 
The little lass who blushed to see ! 



CRESSIJJ. 

HAS any one seen my Fair, 
Has any one seen my Dear 1 
Could any one tell me where 
And whither she went from here 1 



458 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The road is winding and long, 
With many a turn and twist, 
And one could easy go wrong, 
Or ever one thought or list. 

How should one know my Fair, 
And how should one know my Dear? 
By the dazzle of sunlight hair 
That smites like a golden spear. 

By the eyes that say " Beware," 
By the smile that beckons you near, 
This is to know my fair, 
This is to know my Dear. 

Rough and bitter as gall 

The Voice that suddenly comes 

Over the windy wall 

Where the fisherman have their homes 

" Ay, ay, we know full well 
The way your fair one went : 
She led by the ways of Hell, 
And into its torments sent 

" The boldest and bravest here, 
Who knew nor guilt nor guile, 
Who knew not shadow of fear 
Till he followed that beckoning smile. 
" Now would you find your Fair, 
Now would you find your Dear 1 
Go, turn and follow her where 
And whither she went from here, 
"Along by the winding path 
That leads by the old sea-wall : 
The wind blows wild with wrath, 
And one could easily fall 

" From over the rampart there, 
If one should lean too near, 
To look for the sunlight hair 
That smites like a golden spear ! 




ilTY 



ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 459 
ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 

[Born at Boston, Massachusetts, 31st August 1844. Author of 
The Gates Ajar (1868) ; Men, Women, and Ghosts (1869) ; Hedged 
In (1870); The Silent Partner (1870); Poetic Studies (1875); 
The Story of Avis (1877) ; My Cousin and 7(1879) ; Old Maids 
Paradise (1879) ; Sealed Orders (1879) ; Friends, a Duet (1881); 
Dr Zay (1882); Beyond the Gates (1883); The Gates Between 
(1887); Jack, the Fisherman (1887); and The Master of 
Magicians, with Herbert D. Ward ; also Come Forth, collabor 
ated with Herbert D. Ward (1890). The poems quoted are 
given with the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

ALL THE RIVERS. 

"ALL the rivers run into the sea." 
Like the pulsing of a river, 
The motion of a song, 
Wind the olden words along 
The tortuous turnings of my thoughts whenever 
I sit beside the sea. 

"All the rivers run into the sea." 
O you little leaping river, 
Laugh on beneath your breath ! 
With a heart as deep as death, 

Strong stream, go patient, grave, and hasting never, 
I sit beside the sea. 

"All the rivers run into the sea." 
Why the passion of a river ? 
The striving of a soul 1 
Calm the eternal waters roll 
Upon the eternal shore. At last, whatever 
Seeks, shall find the sea. 

"All the rivers run into the sea." 
O thou bounding, burning river, 
Hurrying heart ! I seem 
To know (so one knows in a dream) 
That waiting heart of God forever, 
Thou too shalt find the sea. 



460 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

IT chanceth once to every soul, 

Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole, 

Upon Life s bridge of Sighs to stand, 
"A palace and a prison on each hand." 

O palace of the rose-heart s hue ! 

How like a flower the warm light falls from you ! 

O prison with the hollow eyes ! 

Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise ! 

palace of the rose-sweet sin ! 

How safe the heart that does not enter in ! 

O blessed prison-walls ! how true 

The freedom of the soul that chooseth you ! 



AFTER WARD. 

THERE is no vacant chair. The loving meet, 
A group unbroken smitten, who knows how ? 

One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat; 

We gave him once that freedom. Why not now ? 

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest ; 

He needed it too often, nor could we 
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best. 

Which of us would disturb him 1 Let him be. 

There is no vacant chair. If he will take 

The mood to listen mutely, be it done. 
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache, 

Plead not nor question ! Let him have this one. 

Death is a mood of life. It is no whim 

By which life s Giver mocks a broken heart. 

Death is life s reticence. Still audible to Him, 
The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart. 



ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD. 461 

There is no vacant chair. To love is still 
To have. Nearer to memory than to eye. 

And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will 
We hold by our love, that shall not die. 

For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try ! 

Who can put out the motion or the smile 1 
The old ways of being noble all with him laid by 1 

Because we love, he is. Then trust awhile. 



GALATEA. 

A MOMENT S grace, Pygmalion ! Let me be 
A breath s space longer on this hither hand 
Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet. 
Whether to be thy statue or thy bride 
An instant spare me ! Terrible the choice, 
As no man knoweth, being only man; 
Nor any, saving her who hath been stone 
And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange 
Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse ? 
Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart 1 
Repose eternal for a woman s lot ? 
Forego God s quiet for the love of man 1 
To float on his uncertain tenderness, 
A wave tossed up the sea of his desire, 
To ebb and flow whene er it pleaseth him ; 
Remembered at his leisure, and forgot. 
Worshipped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood, 
Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will, 
Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell ; 
And every single severed nerve that beats 
In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust 
Tn fire at first, and then in frost, until 
The fine, protesting fibre snaps ? 



462 YO UNGER A M ERIC AN P OE TS. 

Oh, who 

Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this ? 
What woman out of all the breathing world 
Would be a woman, could her heart select 
Or love her lover, could her life prevent ? 
Thus let me be that only, only one ; 
Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme, 
No other ever made, or can, or shall. 
Behold the future shall stand still to ask, 
What man was worth a price so isolate 1 
And rate thee at its value for all time. 

For I am driven by an awful Law. 
See ! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me, 
And carves me like a chisel at my heart. 
Tis stronger than the woman or the man : 
Tis greater than all torment or delight ; 
Tis mightier than the marble or the flesh, 
Obedient be the sculptor and the stone ! 
Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all 
The pangs that woman ever bore for man; 
Thine I elect to be, denying them ; 
Thine I elect to be, defying them ; 
Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them ; 
And being thine for ever, bless I them ! 

Pygmalion ! take me from my pedestal, 
And set me lower lower, Love ! that I 
May be a woman, and look up to thee ; 
And looking, longing, loving take and give 
The human kisses worth the worst that thou 
By thine own nature shalt inflict on me. 



SARAH MORGAN BR VAN PI A TT. 463 



SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT. 

[Born in Lexington, Kentucky, llth August 1836. Author of 
A Woman s Poems (Boston, 1871) ; A Voyage to the Fortunate 
Isles, and other Poems (1874) ; That New World, and other Poems 
(1876); Poems in Company with Children (1877); Dramatic 
Persons and Moods (1879); An Irish Garland (Edinburgh, 
1884); Selected Poems (London, 1885); In Primrose Time 
(1886); and Child s World Ballads (1887). The poems given 
are quoted by the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

THERE WAS A ROSE. 

11 THERE was a rose," she said, 

" Like other roses, perhaps, to you. 
Nine years ago it was faint and red, 

Away in the cold dark dew, 

On the dwarf bush where it grew. 

" Never any rose before 

Was like that rose, very well I know ; 
Never another rose any more 

Will blow as that rose did blow, 

When the wet wind shook it so. 

"What do I want? Ah, what? 

Why, I want that rose, that wee one rose, 
Only that rose. And that rose is not 

Anywhere just now ? . . . God knows 

Where all the old sweetness goes. 

" I want that rose so much ; 

I would take the world back there to the night 
When I saw it blush in the grass, to touch 

It once in that Autumn light. 

" But a million marching men 

From the North and the South would arise, 
And the dead would have to die again ? 

And the women s widowed cries 

Would trouble anew the skies ! 



464 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

" No matter. I would not care ; 

Were it not better that this should be ? 
The sorrow of many the many bear, 
Mine is too heavy for me. 
And I want that rose, you see ! " 
WASHINGTON, B.C., 1870. 



IN D O UB T. 

THROUGH dream and dusk a frightened whisper said 
"Lay down the world : the one you love is dead." 
In the near waters, without any cry 
I sank, therefore glad, oh so glad, to die ! 

Therefore, oh, next to God, I pray you keep 

Yourself as your own friend, the tried, the true. 

Sit your own watch others will surely sleep. 

Weep your own tears. Ask none to die with you. 



BROKEN PROMISE. 

AFTER strange stars, inscrutable, on high ; 

After strange seas beneath his floating feet ; 
After the glare in many a brooding eye, 

I wonder if the cry of " Land " was sweet 1 

Or did the Atlantic gold, the Atlantic palm, 

The Atlantic bird and flower, seem poor, at best, 

To the grey Admiral under sun and calm, 

After the passionate doubt and faith of quest ? 



THE WATCH OF A SWAN. 
I READ somewhere that a swan, snow-white, 
In the sun all day, in the moon all night, 
Alone by a little grave would sit 
Waiting, and watching it. 



SARAH MORGAN BR VAN PIA TT. 465 

Up out of the lake her mate would rise, 
And call her down with his piteous cries 
Into the waters still and dim ; 
With cries she would answer him. 

Hardly a shadow would she let pass 
Over the baby s cover of grass ; 
Only the wind might dare to stir 
The lily that watched with her. 

Do I think that the swan was an angel ? Oh, 
I think it was only a swan, you know, 
That for some sweet reason, winged and wild, 
Had the love of a bird for a child. 



THE WITCH IN THE GLASS. 

"My mother says I must not pass 

Too near that glass; 
She is afraid that I will see 
A little witch that looks like me, 
With a red, red mouth to whisper low 
The very thing I should not know ! " 

" Alack for all your mother s care ! 

A bird of the air, 
A wistful wind, or (I suppose 
Sent by some hapless boy) a rose, 
With breath too sweet, will whisper low 
The very thing you should not know ! " 

COMFORT THROUGH A WINDOW. 
(CHILD WITHIN TO TRAMP WITHOUT.) 

IT S not so nice here as it looks, 

Witli china that keeps breaking so, 

And five of Mr Tennyson s books 
Too fine to look in is it, though 



466 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

If you just had to sit here (Well !) 
In satin chairs too blue to touch, 

And look at flowers too sweet to smell, 
In vases would you like it much 1 

If you see any flowers, they grow, 
And you can find them in the sun. 

These are the ones we buy, you know, 
In winter time when there are none ! 

Then you can sit on rocks, you see, 
And walk about in water, too 

Because you have no shoes ! Dear me ! 
How many things they let you do ! 

Then you can sleep out in the shade 
All day, I guess, and all night too, 

Because you know, you re not afraid 
Of other fellows just like you ! 

You have no house like this, you know, 
(Where mamma s cross, and ladies call)- 

You have the world to live in, though, 
And that s the prettiest place of all ! 



MAKING PEACE. 

AFTER this feud of yours and mine 

The sun will shine ; 
After we both forget, forget, 

The sun will set. 

I pray you think how warm and sweet 

The heart can beat; 
I pray you think how soon the rose 

From grave-dust grows. 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON. 467 



SWEET World, if you will hear me now : 
I may not own a sounding Lyre 

And wear my name upon my brow 
Like some great jewel quick with tire. 

But let me, singing, sit apart, 

In tender quiet with a few, 
And keep my fame upon my heart, 

A little blush-rose wet with dew. 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON. 

Born in Milton, Pennsylvania ; went to the South early ; has 
identified herself with the South. Author of Beechenbrook ; 
Old Songs and New (1870) ; Cartoons (1870); and For Love s 
Sake (1887) ; Colonial Ballads (1887). The poems quoted are 
given with the kind permission of Roberts Brothers for "A 
Blemished Offering," and Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for the 
others.] 

A BLEMISHED OFFERING. 

" I WOULD my gift were worthier ! " sighed the Greek, 
As on he goaded to the temple-door 
His spotted bullock. " Ever of our store 

Doth Zeus require the best ; and fat and sleek 

The ox I vowed to him (no brindled streak, 

No fleck of dun,) when through the breaker s roar 
He bore me safe, that day, to Naxos shore ; 

And now, my gratitude, how seeming weak ! 

But here be chalk-pits ! What if I should white 
The blotches, hiding all unfitness so 1 
The victim in the people s eyes would show 

Better therefore ; the sacrificial rite 
Be quicker granted at thus fair a sight, 

And the great Zeus himself might never know." 



463 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

A BELLE OF PRAENESTE. 

CASTELLANI COLLECTION OF ANTIQUES. 



HERE is her toilet-case a crust 
O er it of greenest classic rust 
Still with the delicate twist and twine 
Visible of the rare design; 
Even the very casket where, 

Nearly three thousand years ago, 

One who was young and fresh and fair 

Fair as the fairest that you know 
Hoarded her maiden treasures. See, 
Here is the mirror that used to be 
Able to flash with silvery grace 
Back the divinity of her face; 
This is the conib its carvings yet 
Perfect that knotted her braids of jet ; 
There s the cicada for her brow; 

Arrows whose points are blunted now ; 

Coils for her throat ; an unguent pot 

(Proof of some moulder s wondrous skill), 

Ivory tablet with a blot 
Showing a tint of the carmine still. 

ii. 
This was her necklace : even as I 

Toy with its links of threaded gold, 
She may have toyed, with pensive sigh, 

Drooping them through her fingers, while 
Hearing, perhaps, with blushing smile, 

Under the limes, some lover bold 
Telling a tale that s never old. 
Here is the fibula that lay 
Over her heart for many a day, 
Throbbing what time that lover won 
Wreaths when Etruscan games were done ; 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON. 469 

Quivering under the anguished strain 
When he was borne from battle, slain; 
Rising and falling with her breath, 
Warming, with life or chilled with death ! 

in. 

She has she vanished who seems so near, 
Drawn by this ancient cista here ? 
Faded, as faded those sunset dyes 
Into the infinite, awful skies 1 
Passed, as the wind passed over the grain 
Headed to ripeness on the plain 
Girdling Praeneste ? Did she so 
Perish, these centuried years ago, 
Leaving this only trace, whose rust 
Even may mock her scattered dust? 
Can you believe this streak of red 
Lives, while her subtle soul is dead 1 
Do the cicada s wings unfold 
Essence her spirit could not hold 1 
Dare you avouch this bronze can be 
Something immortal more than she ? 

IV. 

Why do I ask ? Somewhere, somewhere 
Shrouded in boundless depths of air 
Nearer than we conceive, or far 
Out of the reach of sun or star, 
Vital and sentient, mind, heart, will, 
Waits this Belle of Praeneste still, 
Conscious as when in the flesh below, 
Nearly three thousand years ago 
Waits and for what ? Ah, God doth know ! 



470 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



PERSEPHONE. 

LISTEN what a sudden rustle 

Fills the air ! 
All the birds are in a bustle 

Everywhere. 
Such a ceaseless hum and twitter 

Overhead, 
Such a flash of wings that glitter, 

Wide outspread ! 
Far away I hear a drumming 

Tap, tap, tap ! 
Can the woodpecker be coming 

After sap ? 
Butterflies are hovering over 

(Swarms on swarms) 
Yonder meadow-patch of clover 

Like snow storms. 
Through the vibrant air a tingle 

Buzzingly 
Throbs, and o er me sails a single 

Bumble-bee ; 
Lissome swayings make the willows 

One bright sheen, 
Which the breeze puffs out in billows 

Foaming green. 
From the marshy brook that s smoking 

In the fog, 
I can catch the croon and croaking 

Of a frog. 
Dog-wood-stars the slopes are studding, 

And I see 
Blooms upon the purple-budding 

Judas-tree. 
Aspen-tassels thick are dropping 

All about, 
And the alder-leaves are cropping 

Broader out : 



MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON. 47 1 

Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, 

Edged with rose 
The dark bed of periwinkle 

Fresher grows. 
Up and down are midges dancing 

On the grass ; 
How their gauzy wings are glancing 

As they pass ! 
What does all this haste and hurry 

Mean, I pray 
All this out-door flush and flurry 

Seen to-day 1 
This presaging stir and humming, 

Chirp and cheer, 
Mean ? it means that Spring is coming : 

Spring is here ! 



THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DA Y. 
(A.D. 1622.) 

" AND now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the 

piled-up store 
Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the 

meadows o er, 
" Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of 

grain ; 
J Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His 

sun and rain. 

"And therefore I, William Bradford, (by the grace of 
God to-day, 

And the franchise of this good people,) Governor of Ply 
mouth, say, 

Through virtue of vested power ye shall gather with 
one accord, 

And hold, in the month November, Thaiiksgiving~unto 
the Lord. 



472 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

"He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet 

we ve sought so long; 
He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from 

wrack and wrong ; 
And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden that he 

may know 
We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests 

grow. 

" So shoulder your matchlocks, masters, there is hunting 

of all degrees ; 
And fishermen, take your tackle and scour for spoil the 

seas ; 
And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts 

employ 
To honour our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of 

Joy! 

" We fail of the fruits and dainties we fail of the old 

home cheer ; 
Ah these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us 

here ; 
But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons 

lie; 
Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the 

pumpkin-pie ! " 

So bravely the preparations went on for the autumn 

feast ; 
The deer and the bear were slaughtered : wild game from 

the greatest to least 
Was heaped in the colony cabins ; brown home-brew 

served for wine, 
And the plum and the grape of the forest for orange 

and peach and pine. 

At length came the day appointed : the snow had begun 

to fall, 
But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily 

over all, 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 473 

And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with 

glad accord 
To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the 

Lord. 

In his seat sate Governor Bradford : men, matrons, and 

maidens fair; 
Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corslet and sword, 

were there ; 
And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn 

the sway, 
For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o ershadowed 

Thanksgiving day; 

And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sat down with his 

hundred braves, 
And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and 

waves, 
And looked on the granaried harvest, with a blow on 

his brawny chest, 
He muttered, " The Good Great Spirit loves His white 

children best ! " 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 

Born at Henniker, New Hampshire. Author of Poems (Boston, 
1866) ; A Russian Journey (1872) ; Poems (Boston : Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co., 1890). The poems quoted are by special per 
mission.] 

EASTER MORNING. 

THE fasts are done ; the Aves said ; 

The moon has filled her horn; 
And in the solemn night I watch 

Before the Easter morn. 
So pure, so still the starry heaven, 

So hushed the brooding air, 
I could hear the sweep of an angel s wings 

If one should earthward fare ; 



474 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Great Michael with his flaming sword, 
Sandalphon bearing to the Lord 
Some heart-cry of despair. 

But since the sunset glow went out, 

And the fitful wind grew still, 
No sound has stirred the waiting night, 

No flash lit sky or hill. 
Gabriel nor Uriel speeds to tell 

Some heavenly boon is won ; 
To other spheres in the airy deep 

Their shining pathways run, 
And, left of angel ministries, 

Alone upon celestial seas 
Earth circles round the sun. 

Yet joy is here, for woods and fields 

Thrill to the kiss of spring ; 
The brooks go laughing down the glens, 

The birds for gladness sing ; 
In forest glens the wind-flowers wave ; 

The earliest violets blow ; - 
And soon will come the carnival 

Of orchard flush and snow, 
When air is balm and blossoms fall 
As if the blessed angels all 

Brought Paradise below. 

Alas for April song and bloom ! 

My eyes are dim with tears 
As I think of the dead no spring will wake 

Through all the circling years ! 
With broken hearts we laid them down ; 

We followed them with prayers ; 
And warm and true for aye we keep 

Our love and trust with theirs ; 
But silence shrouds them evermore, 
Nor sun, nor star, nor sea, nor shore, 

A pitying message bears. 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 475 

for a rift in the arching heaven ! 

A gleam of the jasper walls ! 
A single note of the holy hymn 

That ceaseless swells and falls ! 
Their graves are cold, and they never come 

When the evening sun is low, 
Nor sit with us one happy hour 

In the firelight s fading glow: 
And I dream till my eyes are dim with tears, 
And all my life o erpowered with fears, 

As the night-watches go. 

Hark ! tis the west wind blowing free, 

Swift herald of the dawn; 
Faint murmurs answer from the wood ; 

The night will soon be gone. 
Sad soul ! shall day from darkness rise, 

And the rose unfold from the sod, 
And the bare, brown hills grow beautiful 

When May their slopes has trod, 
While they for whom the sun shone fair, 
And rose and bird rejoiced the air, 

Sleep on, forgot of God ? 

Depart, drear visions of the night ! 

We are the dead, not they ! 
High in God s mansions of delight 

They greet immortal day ! 
Look out ! The sky is flushed with gold 

In glad, celestial warning ; 
The purple clouds are backward rolled, 

And, gloom and shadows scorning, 
O er grief and death victorious, 
Above all glories glorious, 

Comes up the Easter morning ! 



476 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

EL MAHDI TO THE TRIBES OF 
THE SOUDAN. 

(1884.) 

I HAVE heard the voice of the Lord 

As the Prophet heard of old ; 
For me have the blessed angels 

The book of Fate unrolled ; 
Gabriel, holiest, highest, 

Flashed to my cave from the sky, 
And cried, as the dawn illumed the east, 

" Wake ! for the end is nigh ! 
Speed ! for tis thine to save the saints, 

And their proud oppressors slay, 
And to fill the earth with righteousness 

Before the judgment day." 

Then he was gone as the lightning goes ; 

And my heart leapt up as flame ; 
And forth I rushed to the Holy War 

For the glory of Allah s name ; 
And rippling river, and rustling reeds, 

And the wind of the desert sighing, 
Echoed his cry as I passed them by, 

" Speed ! for the hours are flying ! " 
The sunbeans shone, like lances keen, 

Across the Meccan plain ; 
The roar of hosts was in my ears, 

Their fury in my brain ; 
And I vowed to the God of the Faithful 

His Prophet alone should reign ! 

Now, who is on the side of God 

Tq fight this fight with me 
To break the ranks of the Infidels 

And hurl them back to the sea, 
And all this tortured, trampled land 

From greed and spoil to free 1 
This land where the bitter cry goes up 

From even the lips of the dumb, 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 477 

" Mata yathar El Mahdi 

When will the Mahdi come 1 " 
Who yearns for bliss in Paradise 1 

Who fears eternal flame ? 
Let him follow me to the Holy War 

For the glory of Allah s name ! 
Leave your flocks on the grassy hills 

Of cool Atbara s stream ; 
Under the palms by ttie lonely wells 

No more at noontide dream ; 
From Nile s fair groves and uplands, 

From meadow and marsh and mere, 
Throng to the Crescent banner 

With lance, and shield, and spear ! 
Come on your flying stallions 

From lordly Darf ur s side ; 
Bold from Sahara s burning depths 

On your swift camels ride ; 
The sun by day shall bid you speed, 

By night each guiding star, 
Through the thorny wastes of Kordofan, 

The wide plains of Sermaar ! 
And from Fez and far Morocco ; 

From Yemen and Hejaz : 
For round the world to the Faithful 

This fire of God shall blaze 
And from the realms of the Indian Sea, 

And isles of spice and balm, 
Shall a thousand thousand hither haste 

For the glory of Islam ! 

And as in the valley of Bedr, 

When the Moslems charged the foe, 
The angels stooped to the stormy pass 

And laid the faithless low 
So shall they watch my standard, 

And all along our line 
Will hover their shining legions, 

And the battle be divine ! 



OF THK 



478 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And should you fall in the conflict, 

O glorious, glad surprise ! 
White winged camels will bear you thence 

To the bowers of Paradise 
Up to the crystal fountains, 

And the feast of the Tuba tree, 
The songs of Israfil to hear, 

The face of God to see ! 

Allah ! I long for the onset ! 

Moslems ! welcome the day 
When forth in the rosy dawn we sweep 

As victors to the fray ! 
For fierce as the lion leaping 

At night from his woody lair ; 
Dread as the hot simoom whose breath 

No living thing may dare ; 
Strong as the sun when he mounts the sky 

To bathe in the western sea 
So fierce, to the godless of the earth, 

So dread, so strong are we ! 
And, by the soul of Mohammed 

Nay, by the Throne of God 
The Infidel and the Spoiler 

Shall into the dust be trod ! 
And away by the winds of heaven 

As worthless chaff be blown, 
And the Prophet, and true Believers, 

Shall rule in the earth alone ! 



THE BROOKL YN BRIDGE. 

A GRANITE cliff on either shore; 

A highway poised in air; 
Above, the wheels of traffic roar ; 

Below, the fleets sail fair ; 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 479 

And in and out, forevermore, 
The surging tides of ocean pour, 
And past the towers the white gulls soar, 
And winds the sea-clouds bear. 

O peerless this majestic street, 

This road that leaps the brine ! 
Upon its height twin cities meet, 

And throng its grand incline, 
To east, to west, with swiftest feet, 
Though ice may crash and billows beat 
Though blinding fogs the wave may greet, 

Or golden summer shine. 

Sail up the Bay with morning s beam, 

Or rocky Hellgate by, 
Its columns rise, its cables gleam, 

Great tents athwart the sky ! 
And lone it looms, august, supreme, 
When, with the splendour of a dream, 
Its blazing cressets gild the stream 

Till evening shadows fly. 

By Nile stand proud the pyramids, 

But they were for the dead ; 
The awful gloom that joy forbids, 

The mourners silent tread, 
The crypt, the coffin s stony lids, 
Sad as a soul the maze that thrids 
Of dark Amenti, ere it rids 

Its way of judgment dread. 

This glorious arch, these climbing towers, 

Are all for life and cheer ! 
Part of the new world s nobler dowers; 

Hint of millennial year 
That comes apace, though evil lowers, 
When loftier aims and larger powers 
Will mould and deck this earth of ours, 

And heaven at length bring near ! 



480 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Unmoved its cliffs shall crown the shore ; 

Its arch the chasm dare ; 
Its network hang, the blue before, 

As gossamer in air ; 
While in and out, forevermore, 
The surging tides of ocean pour, 
And past its towers the white gulls soar 

And winds the sea-clouds bear ! 



HEROES. 

THE winds that once the Argo bore 

Have died by Neptune s ruined shrines, 
And her hull is the drift of the deep sea-floor, 

Though shaped of Pelion s tallest pines. 
You may seek her crew on every isle 

Fair in the foam of ^Egean seas, 
But, out of their rest, no charm can wile 

Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 

And Priam s wail is heard no more 

By windy Ilion s sea-built walls ; 
Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, 

Shouts, " O ye Gods ! tis Hector falls ! " 
On Ida s mount is the shining snow, 

But Jove has gone from its brow away, 
And red on the plain the poppies grow 

Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day 

Mother Earbh ! Are the heroes dead ? 

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more 1 
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red 

All that is left of the brave of yore ? 
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought 

Far in the young world s misty dawn 1 
Or to teach as gray-haired Nestor taught ? 

Mother Earth ! are the Heroes gone 



AM ELI E RIVES. 481 

Gone 1 ? In a grander form they rise; 

Dead 1 We may clasp their hands in ours ; 
And catch the light of their clearer eyes, 

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. 
Wherever a noble deed is done 

Tis the pulse of a Hero s heart is stirred ; 
Wherever Right has a triumph won 

There are the Heroes voices heard. 

Their armour rings on a fairer field 

Than the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod; 
For Freedom s sword is the blade they wield, 

And the gleam above is the smile of God. 
So, in his isle of calm delight, 

Jason may sleep the years away; 
For the Heroes live, and the sky is bright, 

And the world is a braver world to-day. 



AMELIE HIVES. 

[Born in Richmond, Virginia, 23d August 1863. Author of Virginia 
of Virginia, The Quick or the Dead, Herod and Mariamne, etc. 
The poems given are by special permission. . The " Grief and 
Faith " sonnets are from Harper s Magazine ; the other sonnet 
from The* Century. The sonnets " Grief and Faith " are repub- 
lished by kind permission of the editor of Harper s Magazine; 
the other sonnet by kind permission of the editor of The 
Century Magazine.] 

GRIEF AND FAITH. 



FOLD back the sun-bright hair ; kiss the meek lids, 
That lie like flowers above the flower-blue eyes ; 
Grieve not, to grieve her with thy anguished sighs ; 

Such peace as Christ hath given her forbids 

Even the storm of woe to rage, and rids 

Fierce Death of half his terrors. In such wise 
Sleep doth appear ere Love hath said, " Arise ! " 

Or Love lies quiet while that fair Joy bids. 
2 H 



482 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Sweet Soul, praised be thy God that I am left 
To bear this anguish in thy dear heart s stead ; 

That thou art happy, while I am bereft; 

That I, not thou, kneel by our desolate bed, 

And know Life s sword hath stabbed me to the heft, 
Knowing that I do live, while thou art dead. 

ii. 

Ah me ! thy child ! How can I love thy child, 

Which hath begun its life by taking thine ? 

And yet it was thine own, and thine is mine ; 
Therefore it is mine too. Oh God ! the wild, 
Mad, helpless yearning to lay down this mild, 

Pale, winter flower among the flowers that shine 

Like stars about thee, while Love, grown divine, 
Omnipotent, unquestioned, undefiled, 
Bids Death exchange, and let thee live again ! 

Nay, I want not thy child ; I thirst for thee, 
As thirst the summer meadows for the rain, 

As longs the mainland for the tarrying sea, 
As stricken souls do yearn for bodily pain. 

Oh, God in heaven ! must such anguish be 1 

ill. 

Alas ! alas ! God will not let thee hear, 

To grieve in heaven for my bitterness; 

Nor would I have thee listen, to confess 
God loves thee more than I. Ah, have no fear ; 
My sorrow cannot touch thee. I am here, 

And thou art where no love can harm, or bless, 

Or reach, or move thee. Let me keep one tress, 
To rest where thy head rested one fair year. 
It is not much to ask of thee, O sweet, 

Who hast for love of me given thy bright life. 
Such kisses as had made thy pure heart beat 

But yesterday, still leave thee stone, my wife. 
Farewell, dear brow, dear mouth, dear hands, dear feet ! 

Thine is the freedom ; mine, the fire, the knife. 






AMELIE RIVES. 483 

IV. 

Yet was it wonderful, when all is said, 

Heaven should desire thee ? Nay; for thou wert far 

Above most women as God s handmaids are; 
Thy soul as flowers that bloom when day is fled; 
Thy purity as crown upon thy head ; 

In all things lovely. There was naught to mar 

The jewel of thy nature, while a star 
Seemed thy sweet, steadfast love. Now, being dead, 
Thou, star-like, love-like, seekest heaven, while I 

Seem cast from heaven, like Satan, into hell. 
O darling, ask thy God to let me die 

Thou who canst plead so nobly and so well. 
It shall be borne, so rest come by-and-by. 

Thou canst not answer 1 Then, once more, farewell ! 

v. 
Sweet eyes, farewell ; cold bosom, fare thee well; 

Farewell all joy, all love, all hope, all peace. 

Welcome, fierce pain, till Death do bid ye cease, 
Farewell, content. My bride, my wife, farewell. 
The mother of my child ! Oh hell in hell, 

For which High God Himself hath no surcease, 

No straws of comfort such as gleaners lease 
From fields already harvested ! This knell 
Rings ever in mine ears : " She gave her life 

In giving thee thy child." What care had I, 
So that my rose bloomed on, if that Death s knife 

Pruned each bud as it blossomed ? Is to die 
To love no more, O exquisite, pale wife, 

Or only to be deaf unto Love s cry ? 

A SONNET. 

TAKE all of me, I am thine own, heart, soul 
Brain, body all ; all that I am or dream 
Is thine for ever ; yea though space should teem 
With thy conditions, I d fulfil the whole- 
Were to fulfil them to be loved of thee. 
Oh love me love me, so to die would be 



484 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

To live for ever. Let me hear thee say 
Once only " Dear, I love thee " then all life 
Would be one sweet remembrance, thou its king : 
Nay thou art that already, and the strife 
Of twenty worlds could not uncrown thee. Bring, 
O Time ! my monarch to possess his throne, 
Which is my heart and for himself alone. 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 

[Born at Calais, Maine, 3d April 1835. Author of Sir Rohan s Ghost 
(Boston, 1859); The Amber Gods, and other Stories (Boston, 
1863; Azarian (1864); New England Legends (1871); The 
Thief in the Night (1872); and Ballads about Authors (1888), 
etc. The poems quoted are given by kind permission of the 
D. Lothrop Company, for "Goldsmith s Whistle," and Houghton, 
Miiflin & Co., for the other poems.] 

MAGDALEN. 

IF any woman of us all, 

If any woman of the street, 
Before the Lord should pause and fall, 

And with her long hair wipe His feet 

He whom with yearning hearts we love, 
And fain would see with human eyes 

Around our living pathway move, 
And underneath our daily skies 

The Maker of the heavens and earth, 
The Lord of life, the Lord of death, 

In whom the universe had birth, 

But breathing of our breath one breath 

If any woman of the street 

Should kneel, and with the lifted mes-h 
Of her long tresses wipe His feet, 

And with her kisses kiss His flesh 

How round that woman would we throng, 
How willingly would clasp her hands 

Fresh from that touch divine, and long 
To gather up the twice blest strands ! 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 485 

How eagerly with her would change 

Our idle innocence, nor heed 
Her shameful memories and strange, 

Could we but also claim that deed ! 



AGATHA S SONG. 

SOONER or later, the storms shall beat 
Over my slumber from head to feet \ 
Sooner or later, the winds shall wave 
On the long grass above my grave. 

I shall not heed them where I lie, 
Nothing their sound shall signify; 
Nothing the headstone s fret of rain, 
Nothing to me the dark day s pain. 

Sooner or later, the sun shall shine 

With tender warmth on that mound of mine 

Sooner or later, in summer air, 

Clover and violet blossom there. 

I shall not feel in that deep-laid rest 

The sheeted light fall over my breast, 

Nor ever note in those hidden hours 

The wind-blown breath of the tossing flowers. 

Sooner or later, the stainless snows 
Shall add their hush to my mute repose ; 
Sooner or later, shall slant and shift, 
And heap my bed with their dazzling drift. 

Chill though that frozen fall shall seem, 
Its touch no colder can make the dream 
That recks not the sweet and sacred dread 
Shrouding the city of the dead. 

Sooner or later, the bee shall come 
And fill the noon with his golden hum; 
Sooner or later, on half-poised wing, 
The bluebird s warble about me ring, 



486 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Ring and chirrup and whistle with glee, 
Nothing his music means to me ; 
None of these beautiful things shall know 
How soundly their lover sleeps below. 

Sooner or later, far out in the night, 
The stars shall over me wing their flight \ 
Sooner or later, the answering dews 
Catch the white spark in their silent ooze. 

Never a ray shall part the gloom 
That wraps me round in the kindly tomb ; 
Peace shall be perfect for ]ip and brow 
Sooner or later, but, oh, not now ! 



THE LONELY GRAVE. 

BLOOD-RED the roses blossom in the dell, 
The bosky place where once the battle fell ; 
Tall have the grasses grown since then, and rank 
The ferns, fed with the ghastly dew they drank. 
O sweet, sweet, sweet these roses of the South; 
Sweet these rain-lilies blowing after drouth ; 
Sweet the wild grape, whose bunches everywhere 
Fling spice upon the lonesome summer air ; 
Sweet the great orange boughs and jasmine flowers 
In dawn and dusk through all the visiting hours 
That troop across the hidden grave s low swell 
Where the palmetto stands, a sentinel ! 

A lonely grave, none care for it, none know 
His name who all these seasons sleeps below. 
Only the heedless hunter pauses there 
To sight some wing that quivers in the air, 
Nor feels the presence of an ancient pain 
That yearns about the unknown spot in vain. 
Only the noonday sunshine comes ; the rain ; 
The golden moons above it wax and wane ; 
The wild deer crouch beside it, and the snake 
Glitters and slips along beneath the brake ; 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 487 

While, from the dagger-tree the bubbling song 
Of mocking-birds makes music all night long. 

But far on northern hills a woman grows 

The sadder with each gust the south wind blows ; 

A mother listens, and with eager ears 

The step long hushed in every footfall hears ; 

And friends, flower laden, in a martial rout 

Among the fortunate graves go in and out. 

Ah, if to-day one violet fell here, 

One bluebell dropped its heaven-holding tear, 

One homely door-stone blossom shed its breath, 

Less desolate with the despair of death, 

For all the song, the splendid glow and gleam, 

This lush-leaved covert of the dead would seem ! 

Yet, on this sole day of the waiting year, 

Since love with its dear tribute comes not near, 

Its shadow steals through the green under-gloom 

To scatter armfuls of pale myrtle bloom, 

A dark shape, crooning o er the lonely grave, 

The wildly-tuned thank-offering of the slave. 

For here, where strange boughs move and strange wings 

whirr, 

He rests upon his arms who died for her. 
Brighter the tide that wet the soil returns, 
And in the blaze of the pomegranate burns ; 
Loftier the heavens climb from that low grave, 
Tenderer the air to which his breath he gave. 
Because he died, her children are her own ; 
Her soul, she cries, to a white soul has grown ; 
Because he sleeps beneath an alien sod 
Her race in fuller sunlight answers God. 
Oh sweet the bosky dell in sun and shower, 
Sweet the low wind that creeps from flower to flower ! 
Oh sweet, sweet, sweet these roses of the South, 
The breath of the rain-lilies honeyed mouth ; 
Sweet the bird s song across the lonely grave, 
But sweeter still the blessings of the slave ! 



488 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



OAK HILL. 

THERE are roses of passionate perfume 
In the gardens under the hill, 

Red-lipped and rich with the honey 
That the brown bee sips at will. 

Lightly their breath is blowing 
Wherever the west wind flies, 

A part of the breathing rapture 
Of laughter and kisses and sighs. 

But here, where the silence is perfect 

As in undiscovered lands, 
The lilies are crowding like sainted souls 

With their gold harps in their hands. 

And I think if the Lord, at cool of day, 
Should again with his servants tread, 

It is here that his feet would linger, 

In this Garden of the Dead ! 



AN OLD SONG. 

AN old song, an old song! But the new are not so 

sweet, 
Sweet though they be with honeyed words, and sweet 

with fancies fair, 
With thrills of tune in silver troop of answering echoes 

fleet, 
With tender longings slumberous upon enchanted air. 

An old song ! But across its verse what viewless voices 

sing! 

Through all its simple burden what human pulses stir ! 
More intimate with grief and joy than any precious 

thing 
That the years have wrapped away in frankincense and 

myrrh. 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 49 

Lovers have sung it, summer nights, when earth itself 

seemed heaven ; 

Sailors far off on lonely seas have given it to the gale ; 
Mothers have hushed its measure on the quiet edge of 

even, 
While soft as falling rose leaves dear eyelids dropped 

their veil. 

Long since the sailor made his grave between two rolling 

waves, 
The lovers and their love are naught, mother and child 

are dust ; 
But to-night some maiden lilts it, to-night its sounding 

staves 
Are blowing from the stroller s lips on this balmy 

blossom-gust. 

A part of life, its music flows as the blood flows in the 

vein ; 
Laughter ripples through it, tears make its charm 

complete; 
For the heart of all the ages beats still through this old 

strain, 
An old song, an old song, but the new are not so sweet ! 



GOLDSMITH S WHISTLE. 

A LIGHT heart had the Irish lad, 
As light as any in the land, 

And surely that was all he had, 

Save the King s English, at command ! 

Nay, Greek had he, a goodly store, 
Though not a penny came to mock it ; 

Well, well, and he had something more- 
He had a whistle in his pocket ! 

Ay, Greek he had, pure root and stem ; 

And that great parlance never rang 
Round gownsmen at Lou vain, for them 

Nor Plato spoke nor Homer sang. 



490 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

And he had dreamed of classes there, 
And he had crossed the deep seas over, 

Determined in a scholar s chair 
With cap and gown to live in clover. 

But dean nor don of that famed school 

Cared for the lore the stranger brought, 
Greek was not in their time-worn rule, 

And all his silver speech was naught. 
Strange land, strange ways, strange faces, too ; 

A land that flowed with milk and honey 
And no word of their tongue he knew, 

And had no stiver of their money. 

He supped that night beside the brook, 

That night he slept beneath the hedge ; 
Dark was the great sky s dreary look, 

Hope gave no promise, fate no pledge. 
And when the morning came, despair 

Hung over him, and hunger gnawed him 
He was so young, and life so fair, 

And death confronted him, and awed him. 

And then he was an Irish lad - 

The April in him had its way; 
Sun shining, should not one be glad ? 

Birds singing, one not match their play? 
Soft blew the breeze his tears to wipe, 

And there, upon the grassy hummock, 
He laughed at care, and took his pipe, 

And played a tune to stay his stomach. 

He played, nor knew of any nigh, 

Lost for the hour in sweet employ, 
Till through his dream there stole a cry, 

A little chirping note of joy ; 
And beating time there, every one, 

With lips that laughed and eyes that glistened, 
Like roses burning in the sun, 

Some happy children sat and listened. 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SP OF FORD. 491 

And scarce less innocent than they 

He gave a nod of merry cheer, 
Blew out his cheeks with fresher play, 

And blew the strain out loud and clear. 
Clear as the whistling nightingale 

He blew the tuneful moment s fancies, 
Sweet airs of ancient Innisfail, 

Or graveside keene, or fleet-foot dances. 

And when he ceased and fani would leave 

The spot, with slower step and slower, 
One caught his hand, and one his sleeve, 

And led him to their mother s door. 
They brought him honey, brought him bread, 

They swarmed about, a pretty rabble, 
And still he heard, when farther sped, 

The music of their unknown babble. 

And going on he knew not where, 

Feet somewhat sore, eyes somewhat dim, 
A shadow fell upon the air, 

And suddenly one went with him 
The shadow of remembered song, 

The memory of a mighty singing, 
That made the way, late hard and long, 

Light with the music round it ringing ; 

Carolan s singing, long removed, 

The last of the great bards who blew 
Life through old ballads, whom men loved, 

By the same token, whom kings slew. 
Still could our wanderer see again 

The streaming beard, the tattered camlet, 
The shouldered harp whose throbbing strain 

Brought greeting glad in hall and hamlet. 

Not as perchance in elder days, 

When daised ladies bent to hear, 
And the torch shed its fitful blaze 

On bull-hide shield and restless spear, 



492 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

While some old minstrel, gaunt and hoar, 

With "Dathi s Doom " made broadswords rattle, 

And the wild song of " Argan Mor " 

Stirred all their hearts to sudden battle ; 

But as beside some cabin door 

The harp was strung to gentler tune, 
And hushed the babe the mother bore, 

And hushed the grandam s hapless croon. 
While "Usna s Children" called the tear, 

And lovers, moved with tender feeling, 
Felt all their pulses bound to hear 

"Cnshla-ma-chree" and soft "Lough Sheeling." 

What music blown on every gale 

Old Carolan was playing then ! 
What hero s chant, what banshee s wail, 

Our happy wanderer heard again ! 
The Desmond s love he heard once more 

Sweet Catharine MacCormac gracing, 
And saw upon Killarney s shore 

O Donohue s White Horses racinj 



e* 



Far off the windy music crept 

To silence ; and the startled youth 
Laughed at the sudden thought that leapt 

He was a minstrel, too, forsooth ! 
Like Carolan, he also went 

To no one but his pipe a debtor, 
The earth his bed, the sky his tent 

A minstrel he, for want of better ! 

From village green to green his way 

He, too, should pay with pleasant tunes, 
While quiet folk, at close of day, 

Broke bread, or in the idle noons. 
He, where he saw two lovers lean, 

Could slyly play a " Mina-meala," 
And should a loiterer mischief mean 

Could give the rousing " Fague a ballagh ! " 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 493 

And many a jolly catch complete 

Bally mahon should lend him then ; 
The " Groves of Blarney," heavenly sweet 

And sad, should melt the hearts of men ; 
Unwritten song his thoughts o erran, 

From misty time, with stirring story, 
Here came the " Humming of the Ban," 

And here came " Garry one in Glory ! " 

What bliss, what power, the soul to lead, 

The tear, the smile, a hurrying slave ! 
Oh, Music, with your rudest reed, 

This one to life and hope you gave ! 
No more the shady hedge and copse ; 

The lad forsook the sheltering byway, 
Took out his whistle, tried its stops, 

And bravely trudged along the highway. 

As fabled beasts before the lyre 

Fell prone, so want and hunger fled ; 
The way was free to his desire, 

And he like one with manna fed. 
The world, the world, for him was meant, 

Cathedral towers, and Alpine torrents! 
He trod a measure as he went, 

And piped and sang his way to Florence ! 

Great wit and scholar though he be, 

I love, of all his famous days, 
This time of simple vagrancy 

Ere youth and bliss had parted ways. 
With what a careless heart he strayed. 

Light as the down upon a thistle, 
Made other hearts his own, and paid 

His way through Europe with a whistle ! 



494 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

CELTA THAXTER 

[Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 29th June 1836. Author of 
Among the Isles of Shoals (Boston, 1873) ; Poems (1871) ; Drift 
Weed (1878) ; Poems for Children (1884) ; The Cruise of the 
Mystery, and other Poems (1886), etc. The poems given are 
quoted by kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] 

THE ONL Y FOE. 

WILD, threatening sky, white, raging sea, 
Fierce wind that rends the rifted cloud, 

Sets the new moon s sharp glitter free, 
And thunders eastward, roaring loud ! 

A fury rides the autumn blast, 

The hoary brine is torn and tossed ; 

Great Nature through her spaces vast 
Casts her keen javelins of the frost. 

Her hand that in the summer days 
Soothed us with tender touch of joy, 

Deals death upon her wintry ways ; 
Whom she caressed she would destroy. 

Life shrinks and hides ; all creatures cower 
While her tremendous bolts are hurled, 

That strike with blind, insensate power 
The mighty shoulder of the world. 

Be still, my soul, thou hast no part 
In her black moods of hate and fear ; 

Lifted above her wrath thou art, 

On thy still heights, serene and clear. 

Remember this, not all the wild, 
Huge, untamed elements have force 

To reach thee, though the seas were piled 
In weltering mountains on thy course. 

Only thyself thyself can harm. 

Forget it not ! And full of peace, 
As if the south wind whispered warm, 

Wait thou till storm and tumult cease. 



CELfA THAXTER. 495 



SONG. 

WE sail toward evening s lonely star 

That trembles in the tender blue ; 
One single cloud, a dusky bar, 

Burnt with dull carmine through and through, 
Slow smouldering in the summer sky, 

Lies low along the fading west. 
How sweet to watch its splendours die, 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed ! 

The soft breeze freshens, leaps the spray 

To kiss our cheeks with sudden cheer ; 
Upon the dark edge of the bay 

Lighthouses kindle, far and near, 
And through the warm deeps of the sky 

Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest 
Tn deep refreshment, thou and I, 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed. 

How like a dream are earth and heaven, 

Starbeam and darkness, sky and sea ; 
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even, 

Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me ! 
O realise the moment s charm, 

Thou dearest ! we are at life s best, 
Folded in God s encircling arm, 

Wave-cradled thus and wind-caressed. 



A TRYST. 

FROM out the desolation of the North 

An iceberg took its way, 
From its detaining comrades breaking forth, 

And travelling night and day. 

At whose command 1 Who bade it sail the deep 
With that resistless force 1 



496 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Who made the dread appointment it must keep ? 
Who traced its awful course 1 

To the warm airs that stir in the sweet South 

A good ship spreads her sails ; 
Stately she passed beyond the harbour s mouth 

Chased by the favouring gales ; 

And on her ample decks a happy crowd 

Bade the fair land good-bye ; 
Clear shone the day, with not a single cloud 

In all the peaceful sky. 

Brave men, sweet women, little children bright, 

For all these she made room, 
And with her freight of beauty and delight 

She went to meet her doom. 

Storms buffeted the iceberg, spray was swept 

Across its loftiest height ; 
Guided alike by storm and calm, it kept 

Its fatal path aright. 

Then warmer waves gnawed at its crumbling base 

As if in piteous plea ; 
The ardent sun sent slow tears down its face, 

Soft flowing to the sea. 

Dawn kissed it with her tender rose tints, Eve 

Bathed it in violet, 
The wistful colour o er it seemed to grieve 

With a divine regret. 

Whether Day clad its clefts in rainbows dim 

And shadowy as a dream, 
Or Night through lonely spaces saw it swim 

White in the moonlight s gleam, 

Ever Death rode upon its solemn heights, 

Ever his watch he kept ; 
Cold at its heart through changing days and nights 

Its changeless purpose slept. 



CKLIA THAXTER. 497 

And where afar a smiling coast it passed, 

Straightway the air grew chill ; 
Dwellers thereon perceived a bitter blast, 

A vague report of ill. 

Like some imperial creature moving slow, 

Meanwhile, with matchless grace, 
The stately ship unconscious of her foe, 

Drew near the trysting place. 

For still the prosperous breezes followed her, 

And half the voyage was o er, 
In many a breast glad thoughts began to stir 

Of lands that lay before. 

And human hearts with longing love were dumb, 

That soon should cease to beat, 
Thrilled with the hope of meetings soon to come, 

And lost in memories sweet. 

Was not the weltering waste of water wide 

Enough for both to sail 1 
What drew the two together o er the tide, 

Fair ship and iceberg pale 1 

There came a night with neither moon nor star, 

Clouds draped the sky in black \ 
With fluttering canvas reefed at every spar, 

And weird fire in her track, 

The ship swept on ; a wild wind gathering fast 

Drove her at utmost speed. 
Bravely she bent before the fitful blast 

That shook her like a reed. 

O helmsman, turn thy wheel. Will no surmise 

Cleave through the midnight drear, 
No warning of the horrible surprise 

Reach thine unconscious ear 1 ? 
2 i 



498 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

She rushed upon her ruin. Not a flash 

Broke up the waiting dark; 
Dully through wind and sea one awful crash 

Sounded, with none to mark. 

Scarcely her crew had time to clutch despair, 

So swift the work was done; 
Ere their pale lips could frame a speechless prayer, 

They perished, every one! 



SLUMBER SONG. 

THOU little child, with tender, clinging arms, 

Drop thy sweet head, my darling, down and rest 

Upon my shoulder, rest with all thy charms; 
Be soothed and comforted, be loved and blessed. 

Against thy silken, honey-coloured hair 
I lean a loving cheek, a mute caress ; 

Close, close I gather thee and kiss thy fair 
White eyelids, sleep so softly doth oppress. 

Dear little face that lies in calm content 
Within the gracious hollow that God made 

In every human shoulder, where He meant 
Some tired head for comfort should be laid ! 

Most like a heavy-folded rose thou art, 
In summer air reposing, warm and still. 

Dream thy sweet dreams upon my quiet heart ; 
I watch thy slumber ; naught shall do thee ill. 



SCHUMANN S SONATA IN A MINOR. 

THE quiet room, the flowers, the perfumed calm, 
The slender crystal vase, where all aflame ; 

The scarlet poppies stand erect and tall, 

Colour that burns as if no frost could tame, 

The shaded lamplight glowing over all, 

The summer night a dream of warmth and balm. 



CELIA THAXTER. 499 

Out breaks at once the golden melody, 

"With passionate expression !" Ah, from whence 
Comes the enchantment of this potent spell, 

This charm that takes us captive, soul and sense 1 
The sacred power of music, who shall tell, 

Who find the secret of its mastery ? 

Lo, in the keen vibration of the air, 
Pierced by the sweetness of the violin, 

Shaken by thrilling chords and searching notes 
That flood the ivory keys, the flowers begin 

To tremble; ; tis as if some spirit floats 
And breathes upon their beauty unaware. 

The stately poppies, proud in stillness, stand 

In silken splendour of superb attire: 
Stricken with arrows of melodious sound, 

Their loosened petals fall like flakes of fire; 
With waves of music overwhelmed and drowned, 

Solemnly drop their flames on either hand. 

So the rich moment dies, and what is left ? 

Only a memory sweet, to shut between 
Some poem s silent leaves, to find again, 

Perhaps when winter blasts are howling keen, 
And summer s loveliness is spoiled and slain, 

And all the world of light and bloom bereft. 

But winter cannot rob the music so ! 

Nor time nor fate its subtle power destroy 
To bring again the summer s dear caress, 

To wake the heart to youth s unreasoning joy, 
Sound, colour, perfume, love, to warm and bless, 

And airs of balm from Paradise that blow. 



5oo YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS. 

[Born at Chatham, Ohio, 12th August 1854. Author of A New 
Year s Masque, and other Poems (Boston, 1885) ; The Round 
Year (1886); and Lyrics and Sonnets (1887). The poems 
given are quoted with the kind permission of Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.] 

THE QUIET PILGRIM. 

" What shall I say ? He hath both spoken unto me, and Himself 
hath done it : I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my 
soul." ISAIAH xxxvm. 15. 

WHEN on iny soul in nakedness 
His swift avertless hand did press, 
Then I stood still, nor cried aloud, 
Nor murmured low in ashes bowed; 
And, since my woe is utterless, 
To supreme quiet I am vowed; 
Afar from me be moan and tears, 
I shall go softly all my years. 

Whenso my quick light-sandalled feet 
Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet, 
I mingle with their throng at will; 
They know me not an alien still, 
Since neither words nor ways unsweet 
Of stored bitterness I spill; 
Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears, 
I shall go softly all my years. 

Whenso I come where Griefs convene, 
And in my ear their cry is keen, 
They know me not, as on I glide, 
That with Arch Sorrow I abide. 
They haggard are, and drooped of mien, 
And round their brows have cypress tied; 
Such shows I leave to light Grief s peers, 
I shall go softly all my years. 

Yea, softly ! heart of hearts unknown. 
Silence hath speech that passeth moan, 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS. 501 

More piercing-keen than breathed cries 
To such as heed, made sorrow-wise. 
But save this voice without a tone, 
That runs before me to the skies, 
And rings above thy ringing spheres, 
Lord, I go softly all my years. 



EXILES. 
THEY both are exiles; he who sailed 

Great circles of the day and night, 
Until the vapoury bank unveiled 

A land of palm trees fair to sight. 

They both are exiles ; she who still 
Seems to herself to watch, ashore, 

The wind too fain his canvas fill, 
The sunset burning close before. 

He has no sight of Saxon face, 

He hears a language harsh and strange ; 
She has not left her native place, 

Yet all has undergone a change. 

They both are exiles ; nor have they 
The same stars shining in their skies; 

His nightfall is her dawn of day, 

His day springs westward from her eyes. 

Each says apart, There is no land 

So far, so vastly desolate, 
But had we sought it hand in hand, 

We both had blessed the driving fate. 



FROST. 

How small a tooth hath mined the season s heart ! 
How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire, 
Until it blazes like a costly pyre 
Built for some Ganges emperor old and swart, 



502 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

Soul-sped on clouds of incense ! Whose the art 

That webs the streams each morn with silver wire, 

Delicate as the tension of a lyre ? 

Whose falchion pries the chestnut burr apart 1 

It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite, 

Who doth unbuild the summer s palaced wealth, 

And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight; 

Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter night 

The spoiler builds again, with jealous stealth, 

And sets a mimic garden cold and bright. 



MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND. 

[Born in Lyons, N.Y., about 1836. Author of The Brother 
Clerks, a Novel (1858, Derby and Jackson, N.Y.) ; Xariffa s 
Poems (1881, J. B. Lippincott & Co.) ; and Down the Bayou 
(1882, Ticknor & Co., now Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston). 
The poems given are with the kind permission of these firms 
the shorter poem being from the earlier volume. Mrs Town- 
send has now another volume of verse ready for the press.] 

DOWN THE BAYOU. 
WE drifted down the long lagoon, 
My Love, my Summer Love and I, 
Far out of sight of all the town, 
The old Cathedral sinking down, 
With spire and cross, from view below 
The borders of St John s bayou, 
As toward the ancient Spanish Fort, 
With steady prow and helm a port, 
We drifted down, my Love and I, 
Beneath an azure April sky, 
My Love and I, my Love and I, 
Just at the hour of noon. 

We drifted down, and drifted down, 
My Love, my Summer Love and I. 
Beyond the Creole part of town, 
Its red- tiled roofs, its stucco walls, 
Its belfries with their sweet bell-calls, 



MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND. 503 

The Bishop s Palace, which enshrines 

Such memories of the Ursulines ; 

Past balconies where maidens dreamed 

Behind the shelter of cool vines ; 

Past open doors where parrots screamed ; 

Past courts where mingled shade and glare 

Fell through pomegranate boughs, to where 

The turbaned negress, drowsy grown, 

Sat nodding in her ample chair : 

Beyond the joyance and the stress, 

Beyond the greater and the less, 

Beyond the tiresome noonday town, 

The parish prison s cupolas, 

The bridges, with their creaking draws, 

And many a convent s frown, 

We drifted on, my Love and I, 

Beneath the semi-tropic sky, 

While from the clock- towers in the town 

Spake the meridian bells that said, 

Twas morn tis noon 

Time flies and soon 

Night follows noon. 
Prepare ! Beware ! 

Take care ! Take care ! 

For soon so soon 
Night follows noon, 
Dark night the noon, 
Noon ! noon ! noon ! noon ! 

To right, to left, the tiller turned, 
In all its gaud, our painted prow. 
Bend after bend our light keel spurned, 
For sinuously the bayou s low 
Dark waters neath the sunshine burned, 
There in that smiling southern noon, 
As if some giant serpent wound 
Along the lush and mellow ground 
To mark the path we chose to go ; 
When, in sweet hours remembered now, 



504 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

The long lagoon we drifted down ; 

My Love, my Summer Love and I, 

Far out of reach of all the town, 

Beyond the Ridge of Metairie, 

And all its marble villages 

Thronged with their host of Deaf and Dumb, 

Who to the feet of Death have come 

And laid their earthly burdens down ! 

We drifted slow, we drifted fast, 

Bulrush and reed and blossom past, 

My Love, my Summer Love and I. 

As the chameleon pillages 

Its tint from turf, or leaf, or stone, 

Or flower it haps to rest upon, 

So did our hearts, that joyous day, 

From every beauty in our way 

Some new fresh tinge of beauty take, 

Some added gladness make our own 

From things familiar yet unknown. 



With scarce the lifting of an oar, 

We lightly swept from shore to shore, 

The hither and the thither shore, 

With scarce the lifting of an oar, 

While far beyond, in distance wrapped, 

The city s lines lay faintly mapped, 

Its antique courts, its levee s throngs, 

Its rattling floats, its boatmen s songs, 

Its lowly and its lofty roofs, 

Its tramp of men, its beat of hoofs, 

Its scenes of peace, its brief alarms, 

Its narrow streets, its old Place d Armes, 

Whose tragic soil of long ago 

Now sees the modern roses blow : 

All these in one vast cloud were wound, 

Of blurred and fainting sight and sound, 

As on we swept, my Love and I, 

Beneath the April sky together 



MAR Y A SHLE Y TO WNSEND. 505 

In all the bloomy April weather, 
My Love, my Summer Love and I, 
In all the blue and amber weather. 

We passed the marsh where pewits sung, 
My Love, my Summer Love and I; 
We passed the reeds and brakes among, 
Beneath the smilax vines we swung; 
We grasped at lilies whitely drooping 
Mid the rank growth of grass and sedge, 
Or bending toward the water s edge, 
As for their own reflection stooping. 
Then talked we of the legend old, 
Wherein Narcissus fate is told; 
And turned from that to grander story 
Of heroed past, or modern glory, 
Till the quaint town of New Orleans, 
Its Spanish and its French demesnes. 
Like some vague mirage of the mind, 
In Memory s cloudlands lay denned; 
And back and backward seemed to creep 
Commerce, with all her tangled tongues, 
Till Silence smote her lusty lungs, 
And Distance lulled Discord to sleep. 



HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE ME. 

How much do I love thee 1 

Go ask the deep sea, 
How many rare gems 

In its coral caves be; 
Or ask the broad billows 

That ceaselessly roar, 
How many bright sands 

Do they kiss on the shore. 

How much do I love thee ? 
Go ask of a star, 



5o6 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

How many such worlds 

In the universe are; 
Or ask of the breezes, 

Which soothingly blow, 
From whence do they come 

And whither they go. 

How much do I love thee ? 

Go ask of the sun 
To tell when his course 

Will for ever be done. 
Or demand of the dust, 

Over which thou hast trod, 
How many cold hearts 

Moulder under the sod. 

How much do I love thee ? 

When billow and sea 
And star shall have told 

All their secrets to thee 
When zephyr and sunbeam 

Their courses reveal 
Thou shalt know what this bosom 

Which loves thee can feel. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 

[Born in Johnstown Centre, Wisconsin. Author of Drops of 
Water (New York, 1872) ; Maurine (Milwaukee, 1875) ; ShdLt 
(1883); Poems of Passion (Chicago, 1883); Mai MouUc (New 
York, 1885), and Poems of Pleasure (1 888). The poems quoted 
are given with the kind permission of Belford, Clarke & Co.] 

SOLITUDE. 

LAUGH, and the world laughs with you; 

Weep, and you weep alone. 
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, 

But has trouble enough of its own. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 57 

Sing, and the hills will answer; 

Sigh, it is lost on the air. 
The echoes bound to a joyful sound, 

But shrink from voicing care. 

Rejoice, and men will seek you; 

Grieve, and they turn and go. 
They want full measure of all your pleasure, 

But they do not need your woe. 
Be glad, and your friends are many; 

Be sad, and you lose them all. 
There are none to decline your nectared wine, 

But alone you must drink life s gall. 

Feast, and your halls are crowded ; 

Fast, and the world goes by. 
Succeed and give, and it helps you live, 

But no man can help you die. 
There is room in the halls of pleasure 

For a long and lordly train, 
But one by one we must all file on 

Through the narrow aisles of pain. 



ANSWERED. 

GOOD-BYE. Yes, I am going. 

Sudden 1 Well, you are right. 
But a startling truth came home to me 

With sudden force last night. 
What is it 1 Shall I tell you 1 

Nay, that is why I go. 
I am running away from the battlefield, 

Turning my back on the foe. 

Riddles 1 You think me cruel ? 

Have you not been most kind 1 
Why, when you question me like that, 

What answer can I find 1 



5o8 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

You fear you fail to amuse me, 
Your husband s friend and guest, 

Whom he bade you entertain and please 1 ? 
Well, you have done your best. 

Then why, pray, am I going 1 

A friend of mine abroad, 
Whose theories I have been acting upon, 

Has proven himself a fraud. 
You have heard me quote from Plato 

A thousand times, no doubt. 
Well, I have discovered he did not know 

What he was talking about. 

You think I am talking strangely 1 

You cannot understand 1 
Well, let me look down into your eyes, 

And let me take your hand. 
I am running away from danger, 

I am flying before I fall, 
I am going, because, with heart and soul, 

I love you. That is all. 
There, now you are white with anger, 

I knew it would be so. 
You should not question a man too close 

When he tells you he must go. 



MIDSUMMER. 

AFTER the Maytime and after the Junetime 

Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, 
Cometh the round world s royal noontime, 

The red midsummer of blazing heat, 
When the sun, like an eye that never closes, 

Bends on the earth its fevered gaze, 
And the winds are still and the crimson roses 

Droop, and wither, and die in its rays. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 509 

Unto my heart has come this season, 

O my lady, my worshipped one, 
When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, 

Sails Love s cloudless noonday sun. 
Like a great red ball in my bosom, burning 

With fires that nothing can quench or tame, 
It glows till my heart itself seems turning 

Into a liquid lake of flame. 

The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, 

The dreams and fears of an earlier day, 
Under the noontide s royal splendour 

Droop like roses, and wither away. 
From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, 

From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, 
Only the sun, in a white heat glowing 

Over an ocean of great content. 
Sink, my soul, in this golden glory ! 

Die, O my heart, in thy rapture swoon! 
For the autumn must come with its mournful story, 

And Love s midsummer will fade too soon. 



THE LOST GARDEN. 

THERE was a fair green garden sloping 

From the south-east side of a mountain ledge, 
And the earliest tints of the dawn came groping 

Down through its paths, from the day s dim edge. 
The bluest skies and the reddest roses 

Arched and varied its velvet sod, 
And the glad birds sung as the soul supposes 

The angels sing on the hills of God. 

I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting 
With life s rare rapture and keen delight, 

And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting 
For something over the mountain s height. 



5io YO UNGER AMERICAN POE TS. 

I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory 

That turned to crimson the peaks of snow, 

And the winds from the west all breathed a story 
Of realms and regions I longed to know. 

I saw, on the garden s south side, growing 

The brightest blossoms that breathe of June ; 
I saw in the east how the sun was glowing, 

And the gold air shook with a wild bird s tune ; 
I heard the drip of a silver fountain, 

And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee. 
But still I looked out over the mountain, 

Where unnamed wonders awaited me. 

I came at last to the western gateway, 

That led to the path I longed to climb ; 
But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway, 

For close at my side stood greybeard Time. 
I paused with feet that were fain to linger 

Hard by the garden s golden gate, 
But Time stood pointing with one stern finger, 

" Pass on," he said, " for the day grows late." 

And now on the chill grey cliffs I wander : 

The heights recede which I thought to find, 
And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder 

When I think of the garden I left behind. 
Should I stand at last on its summit s splendour, 

I know full well it would not repay 
For the fair, lost tints of the dawn so tender 

That crept up over the edge o day. 

I would go back, but the ways are winding 

(If ways there are to that land, in sooth. 
For what man ever succeeds in finding 

A path to the garden of his lost youth ?) 
But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten, 

That a rose scent drifts from far away, 
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen, 

That a young laugh breaks on the air, like spray. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 511 

THE STOR Y. 

THEY met each other in the glade, 

She lifted up her eyes. 
Alack the day ! Alack the maid ! 

She blushed in swift surprise. 
Alas, alas, the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes ! 

The pail was full, the path was steep, 

He reached to her his hand, 
She felt her warm young pulses leap, 

But did not understand. 

Alas, alas, the woe that comes from clasping hand with 
hand ! 

She sat beside him in the wood, 

He wooed with words and sighs. 
Ah ! love in spring seems sweet and good, 

And maidens are not wise. 
Alas, alas, the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs ! 

The summer sun shone fairly down, 

The wind blew from the south ; 
As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, 

His kiss fell on her mouth. 
Alas, alas, the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth, 

And now the autumn time is near, 

The lover roves away. 
With breaking heart and falling tear, 

She sits the livelong day. 
Alas, alas, for breaking hearts when lovers rove away. 



ADVICE. 

I MUST do as you do ? Your way, I own, 

Is a very good way. And still 
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, 

One over, one under the hill. 



512 YO UNGER A ME RICA N POE TS. 

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, 
That the prudent choose each time, 

And you think me reckless and rash to-day 
Because I prefer to climb. 

Your path is the right one, and so is mine; 

We are not, like peas in a pod, 
Compelled to lie in a certain line, 

Or else be scattered abroad. 

Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, 

If we all went just one way, 
Yet our paths will meet, no doubt, at the end 

Though they lead apart to-day. 

You like the shade, and I like the sun; 

You like an even pace, 
I like to mix with the crowd, and run, 

And then rest after the race. 

I like danger and storm and strife, 

You like a peaceful time; 
I like the passion and surge of life, 

You like its gentle rhyme. 

You like buttercups, dewy sweet, 

And crocuses, framed in snow; 
I like roses born of the heat 

And the red carnations glow. 

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, 

For so it was written down, 
We must follow our given paths to the end, 

But I trust we shall meet in town. 



MY SHIPS. 

IF all the ships I have at sea 
Should come a-sailing home to me, 
Weighed down with gems and silk and gold, 
Ah, well ! the harbour could not hold 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 513 

So many sails as there would be 
If all my ships came in from sea. 

If half my ships came home from sea, 
And brought their precious freight to me, 
Ah, well ! I should have wealth as great 
As any king who sits in state, 
So rich the treasures that would be 
In half my ships now out at sea. 

If just one ship I have at sea 

Should come a-sailing home to me, 

Ah, well ! the storm-clouds then might frown, 

For if the others all went down, 

Still, rich and proud and glad I d be 

If that one ship came home to me. 

If that one ship went down at sea, 

And all the others came to me, 

Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, 

With glory, honour, riches, gold, 

The poorest soul on earth I d be 

If that one ship came not to me. 

O skies, be calm ! O winds, blow free, 
Blow all my ships safe home to me! 
But if thou sendest some a-wrack, 
To nevermore come sailing back, 
Send any, all, that skim the sea, 
But bring my love ship home to me ! 



WILL. 

THERE is no chance, no destiny, no fate, 
Can circumvent or hinder or control 
The firm resolve of a determined soul. 

Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great, 

2K 



514 YOUNGER AMERICAN POETS. 

All things give way before it, soon or late. 
What obstacle can stay the mighty force 
Of the sea-seeking river in its course, 

Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait ? 

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. 

Let the fool prate of luck ! The fortunate 
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, 
Whose slightest action or inaction serves 

The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still, 

And waits an hour sometimes for such a will. 



WINTER RAIN. 

FALLING upon the frozen world last night, 

I heard the slow beat of the winter rain. 

Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain, 
The icebound Earth but mocked their puny might. 
Far better had the fixedness of white 
And uncomplaining snows (which make no sign 
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine), 
Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. 
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, 

I learned the uselessness of uttered woe ; 

Though sinewy Fate deal her most skilful blow, 
I do not waste the gall now of my tears, 
But feed my pride upon its bitter, while 
I look straight in the world s bold eye and smile. 



LIFE. 

LIFE, like a romping schoolboy full of glee, 
Doth bear us on his shoulders for a time : 
There is no path too steep for him to climb, 
With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free 
As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, 
By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, 
And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. 515 

Till, tired out, he cries, " Now, carry me ! " 

In vain we murmur. " Come," Life says, " fair play," 

And seizes on us. God ! He goads us so. 
He does not let us sit down all the day. 

At each new step we feel the burden grow, 

Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, 
Watching for Death to meet us on the way. 



YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS 



Tounger Canadian Poets. 



WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL. 

[Born I860.] 

KEZIAH. 

" KEZIAH ! Keziah ! " the blue lake is rocking, 
Out over its bosom the white gulls are nocking, 
Far down in the west the dim islands are lying, 
While through the hushed vapours the shores are 

replying : 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 

A vine-clambered cabin with blue skies that bound it, 
Wild glamour of forest, lake, shoreland, around it, 
Far calling of birds, mists rising and falling, 
While through the hushed silence a weird voice is 

calling : 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 

She went down the shore-path, her dark eyes were 

dreaming, 

The sheen of her hair in the sunlight was gleaming, 
The snow of her neck like the lake s snowy foaming, 
And a man s promise met her down there in the 

gloaming : 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 



520 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

She went in her girlhood, her innocent sweetness, 
She went in her trusting glad woman s completeness, 
She went with a hope and returned with a sorrow, 
A horrible dread of the coming to-morrow : 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 

The old woman moaneth, her meagre form swayeth, 
" God s curse of all curses on him who betray eth," 
O poor foolish girl-heart, dead past our reproving, 
God s hate on the base heart that played with her 

loving. 
" Keziah ! Keziah ! " 



O never, O never, while human hearts falter, 
Weak penitent prayers at the foot of God s altar, 
Not man s choking creeds, nor heaven s dread thunder, 
Can wipe out the curse from the lives that sleep under. 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 



The girl like a flower caught late in life s snowing, 
Too full of love s summer for October s blowing, 
Died quick in her shame, the mother her sadness 
Wore out into bitterness, sorrow, then madness. 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 

Years after she d sit by the hut door at even, 
When vapours were soft over lake, shore and heaven, 
And dream in her madness a girl-figure coming 
With youth s dreamy beauty in out of the gloaming. 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 

Dead, gone, these long years by the hut-side she s 

sleeping, 

Where over its dead walls the red vines are creeping, 
But the fisher-folk say that at summer eves falling, 
In out of the stillness they hear a voice calling : 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 






WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL. 521 

And over the lake with its glamour of vapours, 
Through which the faint stars soon will glimmer like 

tapers, 

From the dim islands lit with the purpled day s dying, 
Like a far, caverned echo a faint voice replying, 
"Keziah! Keziah!" 



A LAKE MEMORY. 

FROM THE CENTURY. 

THE lake comes throbbing in with voice of pain 
Across the flats, athwart the sunset s glow, 

I see her face, I know her voice again, 
Her lips, her breath, O God, as long ago. 

To live the sweet past over I would fain, 
As lives the day in the dead sunset s fire, 

That all these wild, wan marshlands now would stain, 
With the dawn s memories, loves and flushed desire. 

I call her back across the vanished years, 

Nor vain a white-armed phantom fills her place; 

Its eyes the wind-blown sunset fires, its tears 
This rain of spray that blows about my face. 



THREE THINGS. 

THREE things are strange to me; 

The kiss of the west-wind s breath, 

The wonder of life and death, 

And the thoughts that the future hath. 

Three things are sad to me; 
The earth on a new-made grave, 
The sob of winds in a cave, 
And a heart that never gave. 



522 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Three things are sweet to me; 
-The song of a bird that flies, 
The blue of the summer skies, 
And the light in a young wife s eyes. , 



MANITOU. 

THE SACRED ISLAND OF THE INDIANS IN LAKE HURON. 

GIRDLED by Huron s throbbing and thunder, 
Out on the drift and lift of its blue; 
Walled by mists from the world asunder, 
Far from all hate and passion and wonder, 
Lieth the isle of the Manitou. 

Here where the surfs of the great lake trample, 
Thundering time-worn caverns through, 
Beating on rock-coasts aged and ample; 
Reareth the Manitou s mist-walled temple, 
Floored with forest and roofed with blue. 

Grey crag-battlements, seared and broken, 

Keep these passes for ages to come; 

Never a watch-word here is spoken, 

Never a single sign or token, 

From hands that are motionless, lips that are dumb. 

Only the Sun-god rideth over, 
Marking the seasons with track of flame ; 
Only the wild fowl float and hover; 
Flocks of clouds whose white wings cover 
Spaces on spaces without a name. 

Year by year the ages onward 

Drift, but it lieth out here alone; 

Earthward the mists and the earth mists sunward, 

Star ward the days, and the nights blown downward 

Whisper the forests, the beaches make moan. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 523 

Far from the world and its passions fleeting, 
Neath quiet of noon-day and stillness of star, 
Shore unto shore each sendeth greeting, 
Where the only woe is the surf s wild beating, 
That throbs from the maddened lake afar. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMEROK 
BY THE FOUNTAIN. 

BY the margin of the fountain, in the soulful summer 

season, 
While the song of silver-throated singers smote and 

shook the air, 
While the life seemed sweet enough to live without a 

ray of reason 

Save that it was, and that the world was lovely 
everywhere. 

By the fountain, where the Oreads, through the 

moonlit nights enchanted 
Of the summer, may have sported and have laved 

their shining limbs : 
By the fountain, which in elder days the Moenads 

may have haunted, 

Giving all the praise to Bacchus, twining wreaths and 
singing hymns : 

By the fountain whose pellucid waves within the delicate 

basin 
Daintly tinkling, dropping dreamily, made a music in 

the ears 

Like the echo of some high, some arch-angelic diapason 
Drifting downward from the ever swinging, never 
silent spheres: 



524 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

By the fountain fringed with laurel, whose green 

branches, intertwining, 
Let but few swift shafts of sunshine in to paint the 

odorous space, 

Lo ! a maiden fairer far than any future lay reclining 
On an arm whose white, warm beauty shot a splendour 
through the place. 

Oh her eyes were like to Leda s lights divine to him who 

misses 
In a desert land his pathway when the moon is on 

the wane; 
And her tress was dark as Yashti s and her lips were 

ripe for kisses, 

Though on them had fallen no kiss as yet of passion 
or of pain. 

And her smile was bright and splendid as the east when 

morn is breaking, 

Only softer far and sweeter, far diviner and more calm, 
And her voice was like the song of birds the sylvan 

echoes waking 

In the gardens of a king where gleam the myrtle and 
the palm. 

Then the blood that fed my pulses leaped to life as if 

Apollo 
Had recrossed the March meridian, bringing winter 

in his track, 
And my heart made merry music while the streamlet 

in the hollow 
Did its very best to answer with a hopeful echo back. 

Then the poet and the lover leapt to life and wrought 

within me, 
Who neath many a constellation had been but a man 

to men: 
Who had knelt before the altars and the fanes that 

failed to win me 

From reproachings and repinings to my better self 
again. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 525 



THE WA Y OF THE WORLD. 

WE sneer and we laugh with the lip the most of us 

do it, 
Whenever a brother goes down like a weed with the 

tide; 
We point with the finger and say Oh we knew it ! we 

knew it ! 

But see ! we are better than he was, and we will 
abide. 

He walked in the way of his will the way of desire, 
In the Appian way of his will without ever a bend; 
He walked in it long, but it led him at last to the 

mire, 

But we who are stronger will stand and endure to 
the end. 

His thoughts were all visions all fabulous visions of 

flowers, 

Of bird and of song and of soul which is only a song ; 
His eyes looked all at the stars in the firmament, ours 
Were fixed on the earth at our feet, so we stand and 
are strong. 

He hated the sight and the sound and the sob of the 

city; 
He sought for his peace in the wood and the musical 

wave; 
He fell, and we pity him never, and why should we 

pity- 
Yea, why should we mourn for him we who still 
stand, who are brave ? 

Thus speak we and think not, we censure unheeding, 

unknowing, 
Unkindly and blindly we utter the words of the 

brain; 

We see not the goal of our brother, we see but his going, 
And sneer at his fall if he fall, and laugh at his pain. 



526 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Ah me ! the sight of the sod on the coffin lid, 

And the sound, and the sob, and the sigh of it as it 
falls ! 

Ah me the beautiful face forever hid 
By four wild walls ! 

You hold it a matter of self-gratulation and praise 
To have thrust to the dust, to have trod on a heart 

that was true, 
To have ruined it there in the beauty and bloom of its 

days? 

Very well ! There is somewhere a Nemesis waiting 
for you. 



SHELLE Y. 



" DUST unto Dust ? " No spirit unto spirit 
For thee, beloved ! for thou wert all fire, 
All luminous flame, all passionate desire, 

All things that mighty beings do inherit, 
All things that mighty beings do require. 
" Dust unto dust 1 " Ah no ! Thou did st respire 
In such a high and holy atmosphere, 
Where clouds are not, but calms, and all things clear, 

Not one like ours, but purer far and higher, 

Thou did st not know of dust. How "dust to dust" 
then here 1 



ii. 



Spirit to spirit be it ! Thou wert born 
An heir apparent to the throne of mind. 
It lessens not thy right that some were blind, 

And looked on thee and fixt a lip of scorn, 
And threw on thee the venom of their kind : 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 527 

Thou wert a brother to the sun and wind 
And it is meet that thou art of them now. 
I see thee standing, with thy godlike brow 
High-arched and star-lit, upwardly inclined, 
While at thy feet the singers of sweet song do bow. 



in. 

For spirits are not as men : these did not know 
An angel had been with them on the earth, 
A singer who had caused a glorious birth 

Of glorious after-singers here below, 

Where much was sung and little sung of worth. 

I see the stars about thee as a girth, 

The moon in splendour standing by thy side, 
And lesser moons that evermore do glide 

About her circling, making songs of mirth, 

And o er thy head supreme Apollo in his pride, 

IV. 

Pleased with the homage that his children give thee, 
Remembering it as his, even as thou art; 
Knowing thy heart a portion of his heart, 

And spreading forth his breast as to receive thee, 
Twin soul of his, that had been rent apart. 

I leave to marts the language of the mart. 
Ashes to ashes say above the crust 
Of him who was but ashes, it is just ! 

But over tliee as homeward thou did st start, 

Spirit to spirit was true, and not " dust unto dust ! " 



TRUE LOVE AND TRIED. 

A RONDEL. 

TRUE love and tried that never sleeps, , 
Though all the world may sleep beside : 

But still perpetual vigil keeps 
True love and tried ! 



-528 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Whatever comes with time or tide, 

Whoever sows whoever reaps, 
Still faithful will this love abide. 

Yea, more ! Beyond the purple steeps, 
Beyond the river s margin wide, 

We yet shall know thine utmost deeps 
True love and tried ! 



WHAT MATTERS IT? 



WHAT reck we of the creeds of men ? 
We see them we shall see again. 

What reck we of the tempest s shock 1 

What reck we where our anchor lock ? 
On golden marl or mould 

In salt-sea flower or riven rock 
What matter so it hold 1 



n. 

What matters it the spot we fill 

On Earth s green sod when all is said 1 
When feet and hands and heart are still 

And all our pulses quieted ? 
When hate or love can kill nor thrill, 

When we are done with life and dead ? 



ill. 

So we be haunted night nor day 
By any sin that we have sinned, 

What matter where we dream away 
The ages 1 in the isles of Ind, 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 529 

In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay, 

Or in some world of winter wind 1 



It may be I would wish to sleep 

Beneath the wan, white stars of June, 

And hear the southern breezes creep 
Between me and the mellow moon; 

But so I do not wake to weep 
At any night or any noon, 

v. 

And so the generous gods allow 

Repose and peace from evil dreams, 

It matters little where or how 

My couch be spread : by moving streams, 

Or on some eminent mountain s brow 
Kist by the morn s or sunset s beams. 



VI. 

For we shall rest : the brain that planned, 
That thought or wrought or well or ill, 

At gaze like Joshua s moon shall stand, 
Not working any work or will, 

While eye and lip and heart and hand 
Shall all be still shall all be still ! 



OUR POETS. 

THESE men to loose or burst the galling chains 
Of those who mourn in darkness over sea ! 

These men who feel a fever in their veins 

At every moon change these to set men free ! 



530 . YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

These these ! who sing in rapture of the Czar 
And howl their hallelujahs in his ears 

To bruise the head of that grim monster war, 
To close the eye of bitterness and tears ! 

These men of servile souls and servile songs 
To name the day when despotism shall cease ! 

These men, forsooth, to right the people s wrongs 
And give the world her harvest-time of Peace. 

What can he know of joys or miseries 

Yon vain, luxurious fool, who lolls at ease 
And sips the foam alone upon the cup 1 

Whoe er would know or one or all of these 

Must take the ponderous chalice, hold it up 
And drink life s vintage to its very lees ! 



DEATH* 

DEAR friend, I know this world is kin, 
And all of hate is but a breath : 

We all are friends, made perfect in 
Our near relationship by death. 

And so, although it was not mine 
To meet thee in thy walk below, 

Or know of thee till feet of thine 

Were on the hills no man can know; 

For friendship s sake I fain would bring 
A flower, or two, to thee to prove 

That memory lives, that death s sharp sting 
Hath still an antidote in love. 



* In memoriam of Maggie Meagher. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 531 

Devoured by his desire of her 

The king, who ever loved her best, 
Hath stilled the billowing of her breast, 

Hath kissed her so no pulse doth stir, 
But all of her doth lie at rest. 



Then, knowing she may never now 
Wish any else, he takes his leave, 
And little recks how they may grieve 

Who see the splendour of her brow 

Gleam ghastly through the gathering eve; 



Who see her lying pale, supine, 

With wild red roses twined with fair 
About her throat, and in her hair, 

And on her bosom, all divine 
If but a little life were there. 



Nor heeds he aught the sunless glooms 
And fair forms folded from the light 
In close graves crowded far from sight 

In lone lands dedicate to tombs 

And scarce to starbeams known at night; 



But goes his way ; and as he goes 
Leaves that we hold as sorrow here,- 
The pain of parting and the tear, 

The broken lily and the rose 

Down fallen with the fallen year. 



Cold king, most lone and absolute ! 
What maid would be desired of thee 1 
From thy embrace who would not flee 1 

What though a monarch, being mute 
In love of thine what love could be 1 



532 . YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Can any good be silent so 1 

Be dumb, and do its work and pass 
Swift as an image in a glass ? 

Ah, all of good that we can know 
Thus comes to us, and leaves, alas ! 

While we, who have no key to ope 
Death s cabinet of mysteries, 
Can only vainly strain our eyes, 

And hold to heaven and that high hope 
That death is good in any guise ! 



And if but slight to thee appear 

The tribute brought, now that thine eyes 
May view through all the eternal year 

The fairer flowers of Paradise, 

If dim and all unworthy look 
The offering, yet remember well 

We do not sleep by Eden s brook, 
Or dream on beds of Asphodel : 

So only bring the flowers that bloom 
Beside us, fresh enough and fair; 

Enough to wither on thy tomb : 

And with our hearts behold them there ! 



ON LIFE S SEA. 

ON Life s sea ! Full soon 

The evening cometh cheerless, sad, and cold 
Past is the golden splendour of the noon, 

The darkness comes apace and I grow old. 



GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON. 533 

Yet the ship of Fate 

Drives onward o er the waters mountain high ! 
And now the day goes out the western gate 

And not a star is smiling in the sky. 



Gloom before behind ! 

Rude billows battling with an iron shore 
On either hand : anon, the chilling wind 

Smiting the cordage with an angry roar. 



Then the compass veers 

And doth avail not : for the dust of earth 
Hath marred its beauty, and the rust of years 

Hath made its mechanism of little worth. 



And tho oft I gaze 

Into the lost, yet ever lovely Past, 
And strive to call a power from perished days 

With which to dare the midnight and the blast, 



The power flies my hand ; 

And my sad heart grows wearier day by day, 
Beholding not the lights which line the land 

And throw their smile upon the desert way : 



For the star of Hope 

Shed but one beam along the lonely path, 
Then slid behind the clouds adown the slope, 

And set forever in a sea of wrath ! 



Yet the ship moves on 

Aye, ever on ! still drifting with the tide. 
With Faith alone to look or lean upon, 

As pilot o er the waters wild and wide. 
2 M 



534 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Yet for all, I feel 

My bark shall bound on billows gentler rolled. 
Be Faith my pilot, then, until the keel 

Shall kiss and clasp the glittering sands of gold ! 



RELICS. 

PUT them aside I hate the sight of them ! 
That golden wonder from her golden hair 
That faded lily which she once did wear 

Upon her bosom and that cold hard gem 
Which glittered on her taper finger fair. 

They are of her, and, being so, they must 

Be like to her, and she is all a lie 

That seems a truth when truth is not a-nigh,- 
A thing whose love is light as balance dust. 

I loved her once, I love nay, put them by! 

Conceal them like the dead from sight away ! 
I must forget her and she was so dear 
In former times ! I could not bear them near : 

Let them be sealed forever from the day 
Be wrapt in darkness, shrouded buried here 

Where never more my eye may rest on them ! 
This golden wonder from her golden hair 
This faded lily that she once did wear 

Upon her bosom and this joyless gem 
That glittered on her taper finger fair. 



BLISS CARMAN. 535 

BLISS CARMAN. 

[Born 15th April 1861, at Fredericton, New Brunswick.] 

STIR. 

A STIR on the brink of evening, 
A tint in the warm grey sky, 

The sound of loosened rivers : 
And Spring goes by. 

A stir at the rim of winter, 

A wing on the crisp midnight : 

A herald from dusk to gloaming 
In Northward flight. 

A stir in the dawn re-arousing 

The wild uiideparted unrest, 
To forth in the springtime and follow 

The infinite quest. 

At stir of the golden April 

By Indian-willow and stream, 

The sap goes upward with morning, 
And death is a dream. 



DEATH IN APRIL. 

" In low lands where the sun and moon are mute." 

Ave atque Vale. 

O MOTHER England, bow thy reverend head 

This April morning. Over Northlands wan 
Midspring comes back to freshen thee once more, 



536 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

With daisies on the mounds of thy loved dead, 
Like Chaucer s benediction from the dawn, 

Or his, ah me ! who down thy forest floor 
Went yestereven. Now 

In vain thou art regirdled, as alone 
Of all the elder lands or younger thou 
With hawthorn spray canst be, that weariless 

Eternal charm of thine, thou home of blown 
Seafarers in the storm through dark and stress. 

Tis spring once more upon the Cumner hills, 
And the shy Cumner vales are sweet with rain, 

With blossom, and with sun. The burden of time 

By eerie woodland messengers full fills 
Our unrernembered treasuries of pain 

With long-lost tales of unforgotten prime ; 
The stir of winds asleep, 

Roaming the orchards through unlanguid hours, 
Allures us to explore the vernal deep 
And unhorizoned hush wherein we wend, 

Yet always some elusive weird there lowers, 
Haunting its uttermost cloud walls unkenned. 

There skirt the dim outroads of April s verge, 

Memorial of an elder age, grey wraiths 
Which went nowhither when the world was young, 
Grim ghosts which haunt the marges of the surge 

Of latest silence. Beaming sunshine bathes 
The wanderers of life, and still among 

The corners of the dawn 
Lurk these dark exiles of the nether sea, 

Unbanished, unrecalled from ages gone. 

Disowned ideals, deeds, or Furies blind, 
Or murdered selves, I know not what they be, 

Yet are they terrible though death be kind. 

Companioned by the myriad hosts of eld, 
We journey to a land beyond the sweep 



BLISS CARMAN. 537 

Of knowledge to determine. Tented where 
The storied heroes watch aforetime held, 

We hold encampment for a night and sleep 
Into the dawn ; till, restless, here and there 

A sleeper, having dreamed 
Of music, and the childhood sound of birds, 

And the clear run of river heads which gleamed 

Along his hither coming through the gloom, 
Rouses from his late slumber, and upgirds 

Him to look forth where the gold shadows loom. 



Ah, Cumner, Cumner, where is morning now 1 
A nightwatch did he bide with thee, but who 

Hath his clear prime ? Perchance the great dead 
Names, 

Wide bruited, shall restore thee him, if thou 
His captive flight with ransom flowers pursue 

And gleaming swallows down the glittering Thames 
Where the long sea-winds go. 

In vain, in vain ! To the hid wells of tears 
In their hot waste thou canst not journey so, 
Nor make leap up the old desire, outworn ; 

For Corydon is dead these thousand years, 
Dear Corydon who died this April morn. 



O mother April, mother of all dreams, 

Child of remembrance, mother of regret, 
Inheritor of silence and desire, 
Who dost revisit now forsaken streams, 

Canst thou, their spirit, evermore forget 
How one sweet touch of immemorial fire 

Erewhile did use to flush 
The music of their wells, as sunset light 

Is laid athwart the springtime with keen hush ? 

Being so gracious and so loved, hast thou 
In all thy realm no shelter from the night 

Where Corydon may keep with Thyrsis now 1 



538 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Hast thou some far sequestering retreat 

We can but measure by the pause and swing 

Of old returning seasons filled with change 1 

When far from this world, whither do thy feet 
Lead thee upon the margins of the spring 1 

Through what calm lulls of weather dost thou range 
In smiling reverie, 

Between the crisp of dawn and noon s white glare ? 
Beyond the borders of the wintry sea, 
Remembering those who loved thy garment s hem 

As children love the oxeyes, dost thou there 
Reserve a shadow of content for them ? 

Belike some tender little grave-eyed boy, 

Of mild regard and wistful, plaintive moods, 

Fondling of earth, darling of God, too shy 

For fellowship with comrades, finds employ 
In undiscoverable solitudes 

Of childhood, when the gravel paths are dry, 
And the still noons grow long. 

In the old garden s nook of quiet sun, 

Where brownies, elfin things, and sun motes throng 
He builds a hut of the half-brown fir boughs, 

Whose winter banking for the flowers is done, 
And there all day his royal fairy house 

He keeps, with entertainment of such guests 
As no man may bring home ; he peoples it 

As never Homer peopled Troy with kings. 

In the wide morning his unnamed behests 
Strange foresters obey, while he doth sit 

And murmur what his sparrow playmate sings 
From the dark cedar hedge. 

Twin tiny exiles from the vast outland, 
They know the secret unrecorded pledge 
Whereby the children of the dawn are told. 

The toiling small red ants are his own band 
Of servitors ; his minstrels from of old 



BLISS CARMAN. 539 

Light-hearted pillagers of golden shrines 

The bees were, in the willows ; row on row 
Are his the tall white lilacs in the sun, 
And his the stainless roof-work of the pines. 

He in that wide unhaste beats to and fro, 
Borne far a- wind as a poised bird might run, 

Or as a sunburnt shard 
Might gleam, washed over by the glimmering sea : 

A mother hand hath still his doom in guard ; 

The sparrow cadence and the lilac s prime 
Go build the soul up of a man to be, 

While yet he kens them not, nor self, nor time. 

O mother April, mother of all dreams, 

In thy far dwelling keepest thou for him 
Such hospitable bounty 1 Hast thou there 
A welcome of seclusion and sweet streams 

Of sheer blue waters, at whose running brim, 
Under the gold of that enchanted air, 

Thy frail windflowers are spread 1 
Crown with thy smile the end of his rare quest, 

And cherish on thy knees that holiest head ; 

Sweet mother, comfort his dear spirit now 
With perfect calm, with long-abiding rest, 

And that love thou canst tend him, only thou ! 

April, O mother of all the dappled hours, 
Restorer of lost days, for whom we long ; 

Bringer of seedtime, of the flowers and birds ; 

Sower of plenty, of the buds and showers ; 
Exalter of dumb hearts to the brink of song ; 

Revealer of blind Winter s runic words ! 
Relief from losing strife 

To him thou givest, and to us regret. 
Wilt thou requicken ever there to life 
Our dreams which troop across the burning hills, 

Or on some primal bleak windlands forget 

Thy yearning children by their woodland rills ? 



540 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS, 

We muse and muse, and never quite forego 
The sure belief in thy one home at last. 

The years may drive us with dull toil and blind, 

Till age bring down a covering like snow 
Of many winters, yet the pausing blast 

Hath rifts of quiet, and the frozen wind 
Zones of remindful peace ; 

Then, while some pale green twilight fades to gold, 
There comes a change, and we have found release 
In the old way at thy returning hands. 

Forever in thy care we grow not old, 

No barrows of the dead are in thy lands. 

O April, mother of desire and June, 

Great angel of the sunshine and the rain, 

Thou, only thou, canst evermore redeem 

The world from bitter death, or quite retune 
The morning with low sound wherein all pain 

Bears part with incommunicable dream 
And lisping undersong, 

Above thy wood-banks of anemone. 
A spirit goes before thee, and we long 
In tears to follow where thy windways roam, 

Depart and traverse back the toiling sea, 
Nor weary any more in alien home. 

With what high favour hast thou rarely given 
A springtime death as thy bestowal of bliss ! 

On Avon once thy tending hands laid by 

The puppet robes, the curtained scenes were riven, 
And the great prompter smiled at thy long kiss; 

And Corydon s own master sleeps a-nigh 
The stream of Rotha s well, 

Where thou didst bury him, thy dearest child ; 
In one sweet year the Blessed Damozel 
Beholds thee bring her lover, loved by thee, 

Outworn for rest, whom no bright shore beguiled, 
To voyage out across the grey North Sea ; 



BLISS CARMAN. 541 

And slowly~Assabet takes on her charm, 

Since him she most did love thou hast withdrawn 

Beyond the wellsprings of perpetual day. 

And now tis Laleham : from all noise and harm, 
Blithe and boy-hearted, whither is he gone, 

(Like them who fare in peace, knowing thy sway 
Is over carls and kings, 

He was too great to cease to be a child, 

Too wise to be content with childish things,) 
Having heard swing to the twin-leaved doors of gloom, 

Pillared with autumn dust from out the wild, 
And carved upon with BEAUTY and FOREDOOM ? 

Awhile within the roaring iron house 

He toiled to thrill the bitter dark with cheer ; 

But ever the earlier prime wrapped his white soul 

In sure and flawless welfare of repose, 

Kept like a rare Greek song through many a year 

With Chian terebinth, an illumined scroll 
No injury can deface. 

And men will toss his name from sea to sea 
Along the wintry dusk a little space, 
Till thou return with flight of swallow and sun 

To weave for us the rain s hoar tracery, 

With blossom and dream unravelled and undone. 

We joy in thy brief tarrying, and beyond, 

The vanished road s end lies engulfed in snow, 

Far on the mountains of a bleak new morn. 

Craving the light, yet of the dark more fond, 
Abhorring and desiring do we go, 

A cruse of tears, and love with leaven of scorn, 
Mingled for journeyed fare ; 

While in the vision of a harvest land 

We see thy river wind, and looming there, 
Death walk within thy shadow, proudly grim, 

A little dust and sleep in his right hand, 
The withered windflowers of thy forest dim. 



542 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 



A WINDFLOWER. 

BETWEEN the roadside and the wood, 
Between the dawning and the dew, 

A tiny flower before the wind, 
Ephemeral in time, I grew. 

The chance of straying feet came by, 
Nor death nor love nor any name 

Known among men in all their lands, 
"Yet failure put desire to shame. 

To-night can bring no healing now, 
The calm of yesternight is gone ; 

Surely the wind is but the wind, 
And I a broken waif thereon. 



How fair my thousand brothers wave 
Upon the floor of God s abode : 

Whence came that careless wanderer 
Between the wood side and the road ! 



A. H. CHANDLER. 



THE DEATH-SONG OF CHI-WEE-MOO. 

EACH morn I wake, each morn I wake, 

I hear the loon upon the lake 

The heart is full of care, the heart is full of care, 

She cries, in notes of wild despair. 



ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. 543 

She, too, has lost, she, too, has lost 
Her breast, with mine, is tempest-tost 
A loving mate, a loving mate, 
For whom, with me, she still doth wait. 

Three moons ago, three moons ago 
What days what nights of bitter woe ! 
They would not stay, they would not stay 
From " camp " and " lake " both sped away. 

White shone the moon, white shone the moon 

Last night, again I heard the loon 

In sympathy, in sympathy, 

She poured her sorrow out to me. 

The sun so fair, the sun so fair, 
Shines on the lake ; and everywhere 
The mated dove, the mated dove, 
Re-sings all day her tale of love. 

Oh, Manitou ! Oh Manitou ! 
We both forgive them, though untrue 
Farewell ! we cry farewell ! we cry 
Tis our last death-song we must die ! 



ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. 

THE CANOE. 

MY masters twain made me a bed 
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar, 
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder 
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread 
With furry skins, and laughing said, 

"Now she shall lay her polished sides, 
As queens do rest, or dainty brides, 
Our slender lady of the tides ! " 



544 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

My masters twain their camp-soul lit, 
Streamed incense from the hissing cones, 
Large, crimson flashes grew and whirled, 
Thin golden nerves of sly light curled 
Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, 
Half way about each grim bole knit, 
Like a shy child that would bedeck 
With its soft clasp a Brave s red neck; 
Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, 
The awful plumes shake on his crest, 
And fearful drops his timid face, 
Nor dares complete the sweet embrace. 

Into the hollow hearts of brakes, 

Yet warm from sides of does and stags, 

Pass d to the crisp dark river flags; 

Sinuous, red as copper snakes, 

Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, 

Gilded and hid themselves in night. 

My masters twain, the slaughtered deer 

Hung on forked boughs with thongs of leather, 

Bound were his stiff, slim feet together 

His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; 

The wandering firelight drew near 

And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, 

On the sharp splendour of his branches; 

On the white foam grown hard and sere 

On flank and shoulder, 
Death hard as breast of granite boulder, 

And under his lashes 
Peered thro his eyes at his life s grey ashes. 

My masters twain sang songs that wove 
(As they burnished hunting blade and rifle) 
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle 
Loud of the chase, and low of love. 

O Love, art thou a silver fish ? 
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, 



ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD. 545 

Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, 
Casting at thee the light-wing d wish, 
And at the last shall we bring thee up 
From the crystal darkness under the cup 

Of lily folden 

On broad leaves golden ? 

" O Love ! art thou a silver deer, 
Swift thy starr d feet as wing of swallow, 
While we with rushing arrows follow; 
And at the last shall we draw near, 
And over thy velvet neck cast thongs 
Woven of roses, of stars of songs ? 

New chains all moulden 

Of rare gems olden ! " 

They hung the slaughtered fish like swords 
On sapling slender like scimitars 
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, 
Blazed in the light the scaly hordes. 

They piled up boughs beneath the trees, 
Of cedar-web and green fir tassel ; 
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, 
The camp fire blushed to the tender breeze. 

The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, 
With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty 
Dreamed of the dead stag stout and lusty; 
A bat by the red flames wove its round. 

The darkness built its wigwam walls 
Close round the camp, and at its curtain 
Press d shapes, thin woven and uncertain, 
As white locks of tall waterfalls. 



546 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

HEREWARJD K. COCKIN. 
EPITAPH ON AN EARLY SETTLER. 

PAUSE, pilgrim footsteps ! reverently draw near, 
The vanguard of a nation slumbers here. 

Mayhap he wandered once by Yarrow s side, 
Or dreamed where Severn rolls its volumed tide. 

Perchance his infant gaze first saw the light 
Nigh lordly Snowdon s heaven-ambitioned height. 

Or thrilled his boyish heart, in bygone days, 
At sound of stricken Erin s mournful lays. 

Amid the crowded marts of Old World strife, 
He yearned to breathe a purer, freer life. 

Brave heart ! Beyond Atlantic s sullen roar 
He sought a home on this wild western shore. 

His stalwart might and keen, unerring aim, 
Taught lurking savages to dread his name. 

In peril s midst he raised his cabin rude, 
And lived his one companion, solitude. 

Yet not his only one. Where er he trod 

In simple childlike faith he walked with God. 

With quenchless courage and unflinching toil, 
Redeemed he day by day the crumbling soil. 



HERE WARD K. COCKIN. 547 

Primeval woods beneath his sturdy blows, 
Beamed forth in glebes that blossomed as the rose. 

And years rolled by. Europe her exiles sent, 
Around him grew a thriving settlement. 

Yet, tis not good for man to live alone, 
He wooed and won a maiden for his own. 

The flowers of June smiled on his marriage kiss, 
And thrice ten years he tasted wedded bliss. 

His children, born neath Freedom s own roof-tree, 
Were cradled in the arms of Liberty. 

They lived to bless the author of their birth, 
And by their deeds renewed his honest worth. 

His neighbours loved the kindly, upright way, 
Of one whose yea was yea, whose nay was nay. 

And, did dispute arise, his word alone 
Was jury, judge and verdict blent in one. 

Dark day which saw, and gloomier hearts which said 
" The father of the settlement is dead"; 

When full of years, beloved on ev ry hand, 
His spirit left them for the Better Land. 

Tread softly, stranger ! reverently draw near, 
The vanguard of a nation slumbers here. 



54 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

JOHN HUNTER DUVAR. 

[Born 1830.] 

FROM ENAMORADO. 

As rolls a wave of perfume o er the sea 
From rosefields windward, down to us a-lee, 
In wave of languor cometh love to me. 

As all oppressed with sweets is July noon, 

And leaves lack breath, and linnets cease their tune, 

In noontide heat of love I faint and swoon. 

As when the ardent sky grows overcast, 

And ill winds rave, and dips the chaloup s mast, 

I wake ! the dream of love hath drifted past. 



MAZIAS 

Lost to my vision, yet within my heart 
The latest look of thine is fondly limned, 
And though the bitter fate that bade us part, 
Heard no complaint and saw no eyelid dimmed, 
My heart in secret weeps as bitter tear 
As mother s wept above her dead son s bier. 
More happy are the dead who bid adieu 
Than they whom the last farewell leaveth lorn, 

For the dead live in form affection drew, 

The dead may not regret the living mourn, 
So could I claim the love the living give, 
For far from thy dear love I die yet live. 



JOHN HUNTER DUVAR. 549 



SONG FROM ENAMORADO. 

FLY out, O rosy banner, on the breeze ! 
Clash music ! in a tempest wild and free, 
King out, O bells ! above the waving trees, 
Shine sun, earth smile, and add thy voice, O sea ! 
My Lady lady loves me. 

Yet lisping streams that flash in currents strong, 
Hill echoes ! founts that plashing purl and ream ! 
Sweet singing birds ! that twitter all day long 
For my wantonness, be this the theme 
My Lady lady loves me. 

O unseen spirits ! faery ministers 
That swirl in summer cloudland, and rejoice 
And stream your flowing hair, less bright than hers, 
Join in the chorus with your unheard voice : 
My Lady lady loves me ! 



TWILIGHT SONG. 

FROM DE ROBERVAL. 

THE mountain peaks put on their hoods. 

Good night ! 

And the long shadows of the woods 
Would fain the landscape cover quite, 
The timid pigeons homeward fly, 
Scared by the whoop- owl s eerie cry, 

Whoo oop ! whoo oop ! 
As like a fiend he flitteth by; 
The ox to stall, the fowl to coop, 



550 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

The old man to his nightcap warm, 

Young men and maids to slumbers light, 

Sweet Mary, keep our souls from harm ! 
Good night ! good night ! 



BRO WN OF ENGLAND S LA Y. 

THE villeins clustered round the bowl 
At merrie Yule to make good cheere, 

And drank with froth on beard and jowl: 
" Was-hael to the Thane ! 
May never Breton taste our beer, 
Nor Dane" 



Till the red cock on the chimney crew, 
And each man cried with a mighty yawn, 

As the tapster one more flagon drew : 
" To the Saxon land was-hael ! 
May we never want for mast fed brawn 
Nor ale." 

The Thane took up the stirrup cup 
And blew off the the reaming head, 

And at one draught he swigged it up 
And smacked his lips and said : 
" Was-hael to coulter and sword ! 
Was-hael to hearth and hall, 
To Saxon land and Saxon lord 
And thrall." 



THE REV. A. W. H. EATON. 551 

THE REV. ARTHUR WENTWORTH 
HAMILTON EATON. 

[Born at Kentville, Nova Scotia.] 

EORDRE DE BON TEMPS. 

Two hundred years ago and more 

In History s romance, 
The white flag of the Bourbons flew 

From all the gates of France. 

And even on these wild Western shores 

Rock-clad and forest-mailed, 
The Bourbon name, King Henry s fame 

With " Vive le Roi " was hailed. 

O " Vive le Roi ! " and " Vive le Roi ! " 

Those wild adventurous days 
When brave Champlain and Poutrincourt 

Explored the Acadian bays. 

When from Port Royal s rude-built walls 

Gleamed o er the hills afar 
The golden lilies of the shield 

Of Henry of Navarre. 

A gay and gallant company 

Those voyagers of old, 
Whose life in the Acadian fort 

Lescarbot s verse has told. 

Their " Order of Good Times " was formed 

For mirth and mutual cheer; 
And many a tale and many a song 

Beguiled that winter drear. 

Aye, while the snow lay softly o er 

The meadows crisp and bare, 
And hooded all the clustering hills 

Like nuns of Saint-Hilaire, 



552 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Each day they spread a goodly feast 

Not anywise too poor 
For cafes of the nobles in 

The famous Rue Aux Ours. 

And as the old French clock rang out, 

With echoes musical, 
Twelve silvery strokes, the hour of noon, 

Through the pine-scented hall, 

The Master of the Order came 

To serve each hungry guest, 
A napkin o er his shoulder thrown, 

And flashing on his breast, 

A collar decked with diamonds, 

Fair pearls, turquoises blue; 
While close behind in warrior dress 

Walked old chief Membertou. 

Then wine went round and friends were pledged, 

With gracious courtesy, 
And ne er was heard one longing word 

For France beyond the sea. 

O days of bold adventure past; 

O gay, adventurous men, 
Your " Order of Good Times " I think 

Shall ne er be seen again ! 



THE LEGEND OF GLOOSCAP. 

BARING its breast to the sun as of yore 
Lieth the peaceful Acadian shore ; 
Fertile and fair in the dew and the rain, 
Kipen its fields of golden grain. 

Like a sabred sentinel grim and grey 
Blomidon stands at the head of the Bay, 
And the famous Fundy tides at will 
Sweep into Minas Basin still. 



THE REV. A. W. H. EATON. 553 

From its home in the hills the Gaspereau 
Sings as it strays to the sea below, 
Wanders on till it wakes in the tide 
A muddy river, deep and wide. 

Here at the edge of the ancient wood 
Is the spot where Basil s smithy stood ; 
Close to these clustering willows green 
Was the home of his love, Evangeline. 

This is the old Acadian shore 

Prized by the poet more and more 

As he lives in the loves and hopes, and hears 

Silvery strains from the silent years. 

Long ere the Frenchmen drove away 
The cruel tides from the fair Grand Pre, 
And bound the dykes like emerald bands 
Round the Acadian meadow lands, 

The Micmac sailed in his birch canoe 
Over the Basin calm and blue. 
With salmon spear to the lakeside crept, 
Then by his wigwam fire slept. 

Far in the depths of the forest gray 
Hunted the moose the livelong day; 
While the Micmac mother crooned to her child 
Forest folk-songs weird and wild. 

Over the tribe with jealous eye 
Watched the Great Spirit from on high ; 
In the purple mists of Blomidon 
The god-man, Glooscap, had his throne. 

No matter how far his feet might stray 
From the favourite haunts of his tribe away, 
The Micmac s cry of faith or fear 
Failed not to find his Glooscap s ear. 

Twas he who had made for the Indian s use 
Beaver and bear, and sent the moose 



554 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Roaming over the wild woodlands; 
He who had strewn upon the sands 

Of the tide-swept shore of the stormy bay 
Amethysts purple, and agates grey; 
And into the heart of love had flung 
That which keeps love ever young. 

Then the Frenchmen came, a thrifty band, 
Who felled the forest and sowed the land, 
And drove from their haunts by the sunny shore 
Micmac and moose for evermore. 

And Glooscap, the god-man, sore distrest, 
Hid himself in the unknown West, 
And the Micmac kindled his wigwam fire 
Far from the grave of his child and his sire, 

Where now as he weaves his basket gay, 
And paddles his birch canoe away, 
He dreams of the happy time for men 
When Glooscap shall come to his tribe again. 



THE RESETTLEMENT OF AC ADI A. 

THE rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of 

grey 
When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the 

Bay; 
There were diamonds on every wave that drew the 

strangers on, 
And wreaths of wild arbutus round the brows of Blo- 

midon. 

Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, 

Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields 
in vain, 

Five times the winter snows caressed, and summer sun 
sets smiled 

On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees growing wild. 



THE REV. A. W. H. EATON. 555 

There was silence in the forest and along the Minas 

shore, 

And not a habitation from Canard to Beau Sejour, 
But many a ruined cellar, and many a broken wall, 
Told the story of Acadia s prosperity and fall. 

And even in the sunshine of that peaceful day in June, 
When Nature swept her harp and found her strings in 

perfect tune, 

The land seemed calling wildly for its owners far away, 
The exiles scattered on the coast, from Maine to 

Charleston Bay; 

Where with many bitter longings for their fair homes 

and their dead, 
They bowed their heads in anguish and would not be 

comforted ; 

And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, beyond the sea, 
They could not sing the songs of home, in their 

captivity. 

But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land 

no more, 
For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the 

shore, 
And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with Scripture 

stored, 
Rejoices he has found at last, "the garden of the Lord." 

There are families from Tolland, from Killingworth 

and Lyme, 
Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong men in 

their prime. 
There are lovers who have plighted their vows in 

Coventry, 
And merry children dancing o er the vessels decks in 

glee. 

They come as came the Hebrews into their promised land, 
Not as to wild New England s shores came first the 
Pilgrim band; 



556 YO UNGER CANADIAN POE TS. 

The Minas fields were fruitful, and the Gaspereau had 

borne 
To seaward many a vessel with its freight of yellow corn. 

They come with hearts as true as are their manners 

blunt and cold 
To found a race of noblemen of stern New England 

mould, 
A race of ancient people whom the coming years shall 

teach 
The broader ways of knowledge, and the gentler forms 

of speech. 

They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts 

are blind 
To the subtle charms of nature, and the love of human 

kind? 
The blue laws of Connecticut have shaped their thought, 

tis true, 
But human laws can never wholly Heaven s work undo. 

And tears fall fast from many an eye, long time unused 

to weep, 
For o er the fields lay whitening the bones of cows and 

sheep, 
The faithful cows that used to feed upon the broad 

Grand Pre, 
And with their tinkling bells comes slowly home at close 

of day. 

And where the Acadian village stood, its roofs o ergrown 

with moss, 
And the simple wooden chapel, with its altar and its 

cross, 
And where the forge of Basil sent its sparks toward the 

sky, 
The lonely thistle blossomed, and the fire weed grew high. 

The broken dykes have been rebuilt, a century and more, 
The cornfields stretch their furrows from Canard to 
Beau Sejour, 



THE REV. A. W. H. EATON. 557 

Five generations have been reared beside the fair Grand 

Pre, 
Since the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the 

Bay. 

And now across the meadows, while the farmers reap 

and sow, 

The engine shrieks its discords to the hills of Gaspereau, 
And ever onward to the sea the restless Fundy tide 
Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy trade ships, side 

by side. 

And the Puritan has yielded to the softening touch of time, 

Like him who still content remained in Killingworth 
and Lyme, 

And graceful homes of prosperous men make all the 
landscape fair, 

And mellow creeds and ways of life are rooted every 
where. 

And churches nestle lovingly on many a glad hill-side, 
And holy bells ring out their music in the eventide; 
But here and there on untilled ground, apart from glebe 

or town, 
Some lone, surviving apple tree stands leafless, bare, and 

brown. 

And many a traveller has found, as thoughtlessly he 

strayed, 

Some long-forgotten cellar in the deepest thicket s shade, 
And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet scented, fair, 

and green, 
That seemed to tell again the story of Evangeline. 



AT GRANDMOTHER S. 

UNDER the shade of the poplars still, 
Lilacs and locusts in clumps between, 

Roses over the window-sill, 

Is the dear old house, with its door of green 
2 o 



558 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Never were seen such spotless floors, 

Never such shining rows of tin, 
While the rose-leaf odours that came thro the doors, 

Told of the peaceful life within. 

Here is the room where the children slept, 
Grandmother s children tired with play, 

And the famous drawer where the cakes were kept, 
Shrewsbury cookies, and carraway. 

The garden walks where the children ran 
To smell the flowers and learn their names, 

The children thought, since the world began 
Were never such garden walks for games. 

There were tulips and asters in regular lines, 
Sweet-williams and marigolds on their stalks, 

Bachelors buttons and sweet-pea vines, 
And box that bordered the narrow walks. 

Pure white lilies stood cornerwise 

From sunflowers yellow and poppies red, 

And the summer pinks looked up in surprise 
At the kingly hollyhocks overhead. 

M.orning glories and larkspur stood 

Close to the neighbourly daffodil; 
Cabbage roses and southernwood 

Roamed thro the beds at their own sweet will. 

Many a year has passed since then, 

Grandmother s house is empty and still. 

Grandmother s babies have grown to men, 
And the roses grow wild o er the window-sill. 

Never again shall the children meet 

Under the poplars grey and tall, 
Never again shall the careless feet 

Dance thro the rose-leaf scented hall. 

Grandmother s welcome is heard no more, 
And the children are scattered far and wide, 



THE REV. A. IV. H. EATON. 559 

And the world is a larger place than of yore, 
But hallowed memories still abide. 

And the children are better men to-day 

For the cakes and rose-leaves and garden walks, 

And grandmother s welcome so far away, 
And the old sweet-williams on their stalks. 



THE VOYAGE OF SLEEP. 

To sleep I give myself away, 

Unclasp the fetters of the mind, 

Forget the sorrows of the day, 
The burdens of the heart unbind. 

With empty sail this tired bark 
Drifts out upon the sea of rest, 

While all the shore behind grows dark 
And silence reigns from east to west. 

At last awakes the hidden breeze 

That bears me to the land of dreams, 

Where music sighs among the trees, 
And murmurs in the winding streams. 

O weary day, O weary day, 

That dawns in fear and ends in strife, 
That brings no cooling draught to allay 

The burning fever-thirst of life. 

O sacred night when angel hands 
Are pressed upon the tired brow, 

And when the soul on shining sands 
Descends with angels from the prow. 

To sleep I give myself away, 

My heart forgets its vague unrest, 

And all the clamour of the day, 
And drifts toward the quiet west, 



560 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 



THE WHALING TOWN. 

ADZE and hammer and anvil stroke 

Echo not oji the shore, 
The wharves are crumbling, old, and grey, 

And the whale ships come no more. 

Grass grows thick in the empty streets, 
And moss o er the blackened roofs, 

And the people are roused to wonderment 
At the sound of horses hoofs. 

There s not a woman in all the town 

But keeps in memory 
The face of a husband, a lover, a friend 

Lost, she says, at sea. 

Lost in the days when in every storm 

Some well-known ship went down, 
And mothers wept and fathers prayed 

In the little whaling town. 

When every sail the children spied 

As they tossed the shining sand, 
Came from the storehouse of the sea 

With light for all the land. 

And still to the edge of the rotting wharves 

The tides from day to day 
Come with an eager wish to bear 

The whaling ships away. 

And many an aged mariner looks 

Across the sparkling sea, 
And dreams that the waves with sails are flecked 

As of old they used to be. 



, THE REV. A. W. H. EATON. 561 



FLOOD TIDE. 

THE tide came up as the sun went down, 
And the river was full to its very brim, 

And a little boat crept up to the town 
On the muddy wave, in the morning dim. 

But that little boat with its reed-like oar 

Brought news to the town that made it weep, 

And the people were never so gay as before, 
And they never slept so sound a sleep. 

News of a wreck that the boatman had seen 
Off in the bay, in a fierce, wild gale ; 

Common enough, such things, I ween, 

Yet the women cried and the men were pale. 

Strange that a little boat could bring 

Tidings to plunge a town in tears ! 
Strange how often some small thing 

May shatter and shiver the hope of years. 

O, none but the angel with silver wings 

That broods o er the river and guards the town, 

Heeds half of the woe each evening brings, 
As the tide comes up, and the sun goes down. 



LOVE-LETTERS. 

WHO keeps not somewhere safely stored away, 
Like jewels in a casket quaint, from view, 
A bundle of love-letters, old or new, 

Yellow with age, or fresh as buds of May. 

Who, sometimes, in the silence of the night, 

With stealthy fingers does not draw them forth, 
Dear, tender treasures, not of common worth, 

And live the old love o er that suffered blight. 



562 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Yes, here are mine, not faded yet with years ; 
Sometimes I laugh at the old tender flame 
That kindled them, but is it any shame 

To whisper they are wet, to-night, with tears. 

What strange, persistent power love has to hold 
Its life, though all its ashes have grown cold. 



SOMETIME. 

SOMETIME, sometime, 
The clouds of ignorance shall part asunder, 

And we shall see the fair, blue sky of truth 
Spangled with stars, and look with joy and wonder 
Up to the happy dream-lands of our youth, 
Where we may climb. 

Sometime, sometime, 
The passion of the heart we keep dissembling 

Shall free herself, and rise on silver wing, 
And all these broken chords of music, trembling 
Deep in the soul, our lips shall learn to sing, 
A strain sublime. 

Sometime, sometime, 
Love s broken links shall all be reunited, 
But not upon the ashy forge of pain ; 
The full-blown roses dead, the sweet buds blighted 
Shall bloom beside life s garden walks again, 
In fairer clime. 

Sometime, sometime, 
The prophet s unsealed lips shall straight deliver 

The message of eternal life uncursed; 
Wind-swept, the poet s heaven-tuned soul shall quiver, 
And from his trembling lyre at length shall burst 
Immortal rhyme. 



LOUIS FRECHETTE. 5 6 3 

LOUIS FRECHETTE. 

[Crowned laureate by the French Academy.] 

" SAINT-MALO." 

Voici 1 apre Ocean. 

La houle vient lecher 
Les sables de la greve et le pied du rocher 
Oil Saint-Malo, qu un bloc de sombres tours crenelle, 
Semble veiller, debout comme une sentinelle. 
Sur les grands plateaux verts, 1 air est tout embaume 
Des ardmes nouveaux que le souffle de mai 
Mele a 1 acre senteur des pins et des melezes 
Ou on voit dans le lointain penches sur les falaises. 
Le soleil verse un not de rayons printaniers 
Sur les toits de la ville et sur les blancs burners 
Qui s ouvrent dans le port, prets a quitter la cote. 
C est un jour solennel, jour de la Pentecote. 

La cathddrale a mis ses habits les plus beaux; 
Sur les autels de marbre un essaim de flambeaux 
Lutte dans 1 ombre avec les splendeurs irisees 
Des grands traits lumineux qui tombent des croisees. 

Agenouille tout pres des balustres benits, 
Un groupe de marins que le hale a brunis, 
Devant le Dieu qui fait le calme et la tempete, 
Dans le recueillement prie en courbaut la tete. 
Un homme an front serein, au port ferme et vaillant, 
Calme comme un heros, fier comme un Castillan, 
L allure male et 1 oeil avide d aventure, 
Domine chacun d eux par sa haute stature. 
C est Cartier, c est le chef par la France indique; 
C est 1 apotre nouveau par le destin marque 
Pour aller, en depit de 1 ocean qui gronde, 
Porter le verbe saint a 1 autre bout du monde. 
Un eclair brille au front de ce predestine. 
Soudain, du sanctuaire un signal est donne, 



564 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS, 

Et, sous les vastes nefs pendant que 1 orgue roule 
Son accord grandiose et sonore, la foule 
Se leve, et, delirante, en un cri de stentor, 
Entonne en fremissant le " Veni, Creator ". . . 

De quels mots vous peindrais-je, 6 spectacle sublime? 
Jamais, aux jours sacres, des parvis de Solime, 
Chant terrestre, qu un choeur eternel ache v a 
Ne monta plus sincere aux pieds de Jehova. . . 

LMmotion saisit la foule tout entiere, 

Quand, du haut de 1 autel, Miomme de la priere, 

Emu, laissa tomber ces paroles d adieu : 

Vaillants chretiens, allez sous la garde de Dieu. . 

O mon pays, ce fut dans cette aube de gloire 
Que s ouvrit le premier feuillet de ton histoire. 
Trois jours apres, du haut de ses maehecoulis 
Par le fer et le feu mainte fois demolis, 
Saint-Malo regardait, fendant la vague molle, 
Trois voiliers qui doublaient la pointe de son mole, 
Et, dans les reflets d or d un beau soleil levant, 
Gagnaient la haute mer toutes voiles au vent. 

Le carillon mugit dans les tours e"branlees ; 

Du haut des bastions en bruyantes voices, 

Le canon fait gronder ses tonnantes rumeurs; 

Et, salues de loin par vingt mille clameurs, 

Au bruit de 1 airain sourd et du bronze qui fume, 

Cartier et ses vaisseaux s enfoncent dans la brume . . 



DRAPEAU ANGLAIS." 

REGARDE, ne disait mon pere, 
Ce drapeau vaillamment porte ; 
II a fait ton pays prospere, 
Et respecte ta liberte. 

C est le drapeau de TAngleterre ; 
Sans tache, sur le fismament, 



LOUIS FRECHETTE. 565 

Presque & tous les points de la terre 
II flotte glorieusement. 

Oui, sur un huitieme du globe 
C est 1 etendard officiel ; 
Mais le coin d azur qu il derobe 
Nulle part n obscurcit le ciel. 

II brille sur tous les rivages; 

II a seme tous les progres 

Au bont des mers les plus sauvages 

Coinme aux plus lointaines forets. 

Laissaut partout sa fiere empreinte, 
Aux plus feroces nations 
II a porte la flamme sainte 
De nos civilisations. 

Devant 1 esprit humain en marche 
Mainte fois son pli rayonna, 
Comme la colombe de 1 arche, 
Ou comme 1 ecleir du Sina. 

Longtemps ce glorieux insigne 
De notre gloire fut jaloux, 
Comme s il se fut cru seul digne 
De marcher de pair avec nous. 

Avec lui, dans bien des batailles, 
Sur tous les points de 1 univers, 
Nous avons mesure nos tailles 
Avec des resultats divers. 

Un jour, notre banniere auguste 
Devant lui dut se replier; 
Mais alors s il nous fut injuste, 
II a su le faire oublier. 

Et si maintenant son pli vibre 
A nos remparts jadis gaulois, 
C est au moins sur un peuple libre 
Qui n a rien perdu de ses dioils. 



566 YQUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Oublions les jours de tempetes; 
Et, rnon enfant, puisque anjourd hui 
Ce drapeau flotte sur nos tetes, 
II faut s incliner devant lui. 

Mais, pere, pardonnez si j ose . . . 
N en est-il pas un autre a nous I . . . 
Ah . . . celui-la, c est autre chose 
II faut le baiser a genoux. . . 



"LA DECOUVERTE DU MISSISSIPL" 



LE grand fleuve dormait couche dans la savane. 
Dans les lointains brumeux passaient en caravane 
De farouches troupeaux d elans et de bisons. 
Drape dans les rayons de 1 aube matinale, 
Le desert deployait sa splendeur virginale 
Sur d innondables horizons. 

Juin brillait. Sur les eaux, dans Fherbe des pelouses, 
Sur les sommets, au fond des profondeurs jalouses, 
L ete fecond chantait ses sauvages amours. 
Du sud a 1 aquilon, du couchant a 1 aurore, 
Toute Timmensite semblait garder encore 
La majeste des premiers jours. 

Travail mysterieux ... les rochers aux fronts chauves, 
Les pampas, les bayous, les bois, les antres fauves, 
Tout semblait tressaillir sous un souffle effrene; 
On sentait palpiter les solitudes mornes, 
Comme au jour ou vibra das 1 espace sans bornes, 
L hymne du monde nouveau-ne. 

L Inconnu tronait la dans sa grandeur premiere. 
Splendide et tachete d ombres et de lumiere, 
Comme un reptile immense au soleil engourdi, 
Le vieux Meschacebe, vierge encor de servage, 
Deployait ses anneaux de rivage en rivage 
Jusques aux golfes du Midi, 



LOUIS FRECHETTE. 5 6 7 

Echarpe de Titan sur le globe enroulee, 
Le grand fleuve epanchait sa nappe immaculee 
Des regions de 1 Ourse aux plages d Orion, 
Baignant le steppe aride et les bosquets d orange, 
Et mariant ainsi dans un hymen etrange 
L equateur au septentrion. 

Tier de sa liberte, fier de ses flots sans nombre, 
Fier des bois tenebreux qui lui versent leur ombre, 
Le Roi-des-eaux n avait encore, en aucun lieu 
Ou 1 avait promene sa course vagabonde, 
Depose le tribut de sa vague profonde, 
Que devant le soleil et Dieu . . . 

ii. 

Jolliet . . . Jolliet . . . quel spectacle feeriqut^ 
Dut frapper ton regard, quand ta nef historique 
Bondit sur les flots d or du grand fleuve inconnu . . . 
Quel sourire d orgueil dut effleurer ta levre f . . . 
Quel eclair triomphant, a cet instant de fievre, 
Dut resplendir sur ton front nu ! ... 

Le voyez-vous la-bas, debout comme un prophete, 
L oeil tout illumine d audace satisfaite, 
La main tendue au loin vers TOccident bronze, 
Pendre possession de ce domaine immense, 
Au nom du Dieu vivant, au nom du roi de France, 
Et du rnonde civilise 1 . . . 

Puis, berce par la houle, et berce par ses reves, 
L oreille ouverte aux bruits harmonieux des greves, 
Humant 1 acre parfum des grands bois odorants, 
Rasant les ilots verts et les dunes d opale, 
De meandre en meandre, au fil de 1 onde pale, 
Suivre le cours des flots errants . . . 

A son aspect, du sein des flottantes ramures, 
Montait comme un concert de chants et de murmures; 
Des vols d oiseaux marins s elevaient des roseaux, 
Et, pour montrer la route a la pirogue frele, 






568 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

S enf uyaient en avant, trainant leur ombre grele 
Dans le pli lumineux des eaux. 

Et, pend<mt qu il allait voguant a la derive, 
On aurait dit qu au loin, les arbres de la rive, 
En arceaux parfumes penches sur son chemin, 
Saluaient le heros dont 1 energique audace 
Yenait d inscrire encor le nom de notre race 
Aux fastes de 1 esprit humain. 

in. 

O grand Meschacebe . . . voyageur taciturne, 
Bien des fois, au rayon de Tetoile nocturne, 
Sur tes bords endormis je suis venu m asseoir; 
Et la, seul et reveur, perdu sous les grands ormes, 
J ai sou vent du regard suivi d etranges formes 
Glissant dans les brumes du soir. 

Tantdt je croyais voir, sous les vertes arcades, 
Du fatal De Soto passer les cavalcades 
En jetant au desert un defi solennel; 
Tantdt c etait Marquette errant dans la prairie, 
Impatient d offrir un monde a sa patrie, 
Et des ames a 1 Eternel. 

Parfois, sous les taillis, ma prunelle trompee 
Croyait voir de La Salle etinceler 1 epee, 
Et parfois, groupe informe allant je ne sais ou, 
Devant une humble croix 6 puissance magique . 
De farouches guerriers a 1 oeil sombre et tragique 
Passer en pliant le genou. 

Et puis, bergant mon ame aux reves des poetes, 
J entrevoyais aussi de blanches silhouettes, 
Doux fantomes flottants dans le vague des nuits 
Atala, Gabriel, Chactas, Evangeline, 
Et Tombre de Rene, debout sur la colline, 
Pleurant ses immortels ennuis. 

Et j endormais ainsi mes souvenirs mososes. . 
Mais de ces visions poetiques et roses 



LOUIS FRECHETTE. 569 

Celle qui plus souvent venait frapper mon oeil, 
C etait, passant a a loin dans un reflet de gloire, 
Ce hardi pionnier dont notre jeune histoire 
Redit le nom avec orgueil. 

IV. 

Jolliet . . . Jolliet . . . deux siecles de conquetes, 
Deux siecles sans rivaux ont passe sur nos tetes, 
Depuis Fheure sublime ou, de ta propre main, 
Tu jetas d un seul trait sur la carte du monde 
Ces vastes regions, zone immense et feconde, 
Futur grenier du genre humain . . . 

Deux siecles ont passe depuis que ton genie 
Nousfraya le chemin de la terre benie 
Que Dieu fit avec tant de prodigalite ; 
Qu elle garde toujours dans les pi is de sa robe, 
Pour les desherites de tous les points du globe, 
Du pain avec la liberte. 

Oui, deux siecles ont f ui . . . La solitude vierge 
N est plus la. Du progres le flot montant submerge 
Les vestiges derniers d un passe qui finit. 
Ou le desert dormait grandit la metropole; 
Et le fleuve asservi courbe sa large epaule 
Sous I arche aux piles de granit. 

Plus de forts sans fin : la vapeur les sillonne. 
L aster des jours nouveaux sur tous les points rayonne; 
L enfant de la "nature est evangelise; 
Le soc du laboureur fertilise la plaine; 
Et le surplus dore se sa gerbe trop pleine 
Nourrit le vieux monde epuise . . . 

v. 

Des plus purs devouments merveilleuse sernence, 
Qui de vous eut jamais reve cette oeuvre immense, 
O Jolliet, et vous, apotees ingenus, 



570 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Vaillants soldats de Dieu, sans orgueil et sans crainte, 
Qui portiez le flambeau de la verite sainte 
Dans ces parages inconnus 1 

Des volontes du ciel executeurs dociles, 
Vous futes les jalons qui rendent plus faciles 
Les durs sentiers ou doit marcher I humanite . . . 
Gloire a vous tous ! . . . du temps f ranchissant les abimes 
Yos noms environnes d aureoles sublimes 
Iront a rimmortalite. 

Et toi de ces heros, genereuse patrie, 

Sol canadien que j aime evec idolatrie, 

Dans I accomplissment de tous ces grands ^travaux, 

Quand je pese la part que le ciel t a donnee, 

Les yeux sur 1 avenir, terre predestinee, 

J ai foi dans tes destins nouveaux . . . 



JAMES HANNAY. 
A BALLAD OF PORT ROYAL. 

FAIR is Port Royal river 

In the Acadian land; 
It flows through verdant meadows, 

Wide spread on either hand ; 
Through orchards and through corn fields 

It gaily holds its way, 
And past the ancient ramparts, 

Long fallen to decay. 

Peace reigns within the valley, 

Peace on the mountain side, 
In hamlet and in cottage, 

And on Port Royal s tide ; 
In peace the ruddy farmer 

Reaps from its fertile fields; 
In peace the fisher gathers 

The spoils its basin yields. 



JAMES HAN NAY. 

Yet this sweet vale has echoed 

To many a warlike note, 
The strife compelling bugle, 

The cannon s iron throat n 
The wall piece and the musket 

Have joined in chorus there, 
To fill with horrid clangour 

The balmy morning air. 

And many a gallant war fleet, 

Has in the days gone by, 
Lain in that noble basin, 

And flouted in the sky 
A flag with haughty challenge 

To the now ruined hold, 
Which reared its lofty ramparts, 

In the warlike days of old. 

And in the early spring time, 

When farmers plough their fields, 
Full many a warlike weapon, 

The peaceful furrow yields : 
The balls of mighty cannon 

Crop from the fruitful soil, 
And many a rusted sword blade, 

Once red with martial toil. 

Three hundred years save thirty 

Have been and passed away 
Since bold Champlain was wafted 

To fair Port Royal Bay : 
And there he built a fortress, 

With palisadoes tall, 
Well flanked by many a bastion, 

To guard its outward wall. 

Here was the germ of Empiie, 

The cradle of a state, 
In future ages destined 

To stand among the great 




572 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Then hail to old Port Royal ! 

Although thy ramparts fall, 
Canadian towns shall greet thee 

The mother of them all. 



SOPHIE M. HENSLEY. 
TRIUMPH. 

THE sky, grown dull through many waiting days, 
Flashed into crimson with the sunrise charm, 
So all my love, aroused to vague alarm, 

Flushed into fire and burned with eager blaze. 

I saw thee not as suppliant, with still gaze 

Of pleading, but as victor, and thine arm 
Gathered me fast into embraces warm, 

And I was taught the light of Love s dear ways. 

This day of triumph is no longer thine, 

Oh conqueror, in calm exclusive power. 
As evermore, through storm, and shade, and shine, 

Your woe my pain, your joy my ecstasy, 
We breathe together, so this blessed hour 
Of self-surrender makes my jubilee 



THERE IS NO GOD. 

THERE is no God ! If one should stand at noon 

Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays, 
Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays 

And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon 

Gives back the brightness of the heart of June, 

And he should say: "There is no sun" the day s 
Fair show still round him, should we lose the blaze 

And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon 



MA TTHE W RICHE Y KNIGHT. 573 

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought, 

" The man is blind ! " and throbs of pitying scorn 
Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering 

mind. 

We feel, and see, and therefore know, the morn 
With blush of youth ne er left us till it brought 

Promise of full-grown day. " The man is blind!" 



MATTHEW RICKEY KNIGHT. 
DREAM AND DEED. 

WHATE ER I do, where er I go, 

There s one that goes before; 
How deep soe er the truths I know, 

That other knoweth more. 

Full stronger than my utmost strength, 

Full better than my best, 
Though dark my aim, whate er its length, 

He leadeth in the quest. 

I find the traces of his flight; 

I hear the distant wing ; 
He never looms in very sight ; 

My winter in his spring. 

I touch the verge of art or ken, 

And he is in its core ; 
I reach its centre too, and then 

He speedeth on before. 



A SONG OF FAILURE. 
THE weary hand I sing and heart, 

That never poet sang ; 
The silent song, the buried art, 

The unknown martyr s pang. 

A thousand pseans noise the deeds 
Of men who fought and won ; 



574 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

I sing the hero masked in weeds, 
And shrinking from the sun. 

He fought as good and brave a fight 

As ever mortal fought ; 
His eye was keen, his cause was right,- 

And all availed naught. 

I sing the men who did the right 
When wrong was on the throne, 

And fearless in a world s despite, 
Stood for the truth alone ; 

The men that builded for all time 

In unobserved ways, 
Self-pois ed in their aim sublime, 

Nor craved a people s praise. 

For they who rose in favouring hour 
And fashioned all things new, 

Expressed a silent, living power 
That through long ages grew : 

And they who hewed the solid stone 
On which the temple stands, 

We know them not we have alone 
The labour of their hands. 

I sing the bard whose glory earned 
Was lost mid war and lust : 

And him who died ere he had learned 
His hidden powers to trust : 

The poet who could ne er express 
The notes that through him rang, 

For songs are in the silences 
Sweeter than bard e er sang. 

I sing the hand that lost the prize ; 

The hope that died too soon ; 
The sons of spring whose gentle eyes 

Ne er saw the flowers of June, 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. 575 

The grief that never spake, I sing; 

The strong love never told ; 
The victories of suffering ; 

The heart in youth grown old. 

Tell me not he who fails will miss 

The guerdon of his aim : 
The life that crowns the hope of this 

Will meet the soul s just claim. 

A voice I hear. They only win 

Who, brave and pure and true, 
Discrown the foe that reigns within, 

And self and sin subdue. 

When every mask is torn from men, 

Who earned the day s success 
May still have failed the hero then 

Rise from the wilderness. 

In the new light of that far day 

How sad our praise will seem, 
When they who fell in many a fray 

Shall near the throne supreme. 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. 

[Born November 1861.] 

HEAT. 

FROM plains that reel to southward, dim, 

The road runs by me white and bare ; 
Up the steep hill it seems to swim 

Beyond, and melt into the glare ; 
Upward half way, or it may be 

Nearer the summit slowly steals 
A hay-cart moving dustily 

With idly clacking wheels. 

By his cart s side the waggoner 
Is slouching slowly at his ease, 

Half-hidden in the windless blur 
Of white dust puffing to his knees, 



576 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

This waggon on the height above, 
From sky to sky on either hand, 

Is the sole thing that seems to move 
In all the heat-held land. 

Beyond me in the fields the sun 

Soaks in the grass and hath his will ; 
I count the marguerites one by one ; 

Even the buttercups are still. 
On the brook yonder not a breath 

Disturbs the spider or the midge. 
The water-bugs draw close beneath 

The cool gloom of the bridge. 

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood 

Dark patches in the burning grass, 
The cows, each with her peaceful cud, 

Lie waiting for the heat to pass. 
From somewhere on the slope near by 

Into the pale depth of the noon 
A wandering thrush slides leisurely 

His thin revolving tune. 

In intervals of dreams I hear 

The cricket from the droughty ground ; 
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear 

A small innumerable sound. 
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze, 

The burning sky-line blinds my sight ; 
The woods far off are blue with haze ; 

The hills are drenched in light. 

And yet to me not this or that 

Is always sharp or always sweet ; 
In the sloped shadow of my hat 

I lean at rest, and drain the heat ; 
Nay more, I think some blessed power 

Hath brought me wandering idly here : 
In the full furnace of this hour 

My thoughts grow keen and clear. 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. $77 

BETWEEN THE RAPIDS. 

THE point is turned ; the twilight shadow fills 

The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore, 
And on our ears from deep among the hills 

Breaks now the rapid s sudden quickening roar. 
And yet the same, or have they changed their face, 

The fair green fields, and can it still be seen, 
The white log cottage near the mountain s base, 

So bright and quiet, so home-like and serene < \ 
Ah, well I question, for as five years go, 
How many blessings fall, and how much woe. 

Aye there they are nor have they changed their cheer, 

The fields, the hut, the leafy mountain brows ; 
Across the lonely dusk again I hear 

The loitering bells, the lowing of the cows, 
The bleat of many sheep, the stilly rush 

Of the low whispering river, and through all, 
Soft human tongues that break the deepening hush 

With faint-heard song or desultory call ; 
Oh comrades hold ; the longest reach is past ; 
The stream runs swift, and we are flying fast. 

The shore, the fields, the cottage just the same, 

But how with them whose memory makes them sweet 1 
Oh if I called them, hailing name by name, 

Would the same lips the same old shouts repeat ? 
Have the rough years, so big with death and ill, 

Gone lightly by and left them smiling yet ? 
Wild black-eyed Jeanne whose tongue was never still, 

Old wrinkled Picaud, Pierre and pale Lisette, 
The homely hearts that never cared to range, 
While life s wide fields were filled with rush and change. 

And where is Jacques, and where is Yerginie 1 

I cannot tell ; the fields are all a blur. 
The lowing cows whose shapes I scarcely see, 

Oh do they wait and do they call for her ? 



578 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

And is she changed, or is her heart still clear 
As wind or morning, light as river foam 1 

Or have life s changes borne her far from here, 
And far from rest, and far from help and home ? 

Ah comrades, soft, and let us rest awhile, 

For arms grow tired with paddling many a mile. 

The woods grow wild, and from the rising shore 

The cool wind creeps, the faint wood odours steal ; 
Like ghosts adown the river s blackening floor 

The misty fumes begin to creep and reel. 
Once more I leave you, wandering toward the night, 

Sweet home, sweet heart, that would have held me in; 
Whither I go I know not, and the light 

Is faint before, and rest is hard to win. 
Ah sweet ye were and near to heaven s gate ; 
But youth is blind and wisdom comes too late. 

Blacker and loftier grow the woods, and hark ! 

The freshening roar ! The chute is near us now, 
And dim the canyon grows, and inky dark 

The water whispering from the birchen prow. 
One long last look, and many a sad adieu, 

While eyes can see and heart can feel you yet, 
I leave sweet home and sweeter hearts to you, 

A prayer for Picaud, one for pale Lisette, 
A kiss for Pierre, my little Jacques, and thee, 
A sigh for Jeanne, a sob for Yerginie. 

Or, does she still remember 1 Is the dream 

Now dead, or has she found another mate 1 
So near, so dear ; and ah, so swift the stream ; 

Even now perhaps it were not yet too late. 
But oh, what matter ; for before the night 

Has reached its middle, we have far to go : 
Bend to your paddles, comrades ; see, the light 

Ebbs off apace ; we must not linger so. 
Aye thus it is ! Heaven gleams and then is gone : 
Once, twice, it smiles, and still we wander on. 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. 579 

ONE DA Y. 

THE trees rustle ; the wind blows 

Merrily out of the town ; 
The shadows creep, the sun goes 

Steadily over and down. 

In a brown gloom the moats gleam ; 

Slender the sweet wife stands ; 
Her lips are red ; her eyes dream ; 

Kisses are warm on her hands. 

The child moans ; the hours slip 

Bitterly over her head : 
In a grey dusk the tears drip ; 

Mother is up there dead. 

The hermit hears the strange bright 

Murmur of life at play ; 
In the waste day and the waste night 

Times to rebel and to pray. 

The labourer toils in grey, wise, 

Godlike and patient and calm ; 
The beggar moans ; his bleared eyes 

Measure the dust in his palm. 

The wise man marks the flow and ebb 

Hidden and held aloof : 
In his deep mind is laid the web, 

Shuttles are driving the woof. 



THE WE A VER. 

ALL day, all day, round the clacking net 

The weaver s fingers fly: 
Grey dreams like frozen mists are set 

In the hush of the weaver s eye ; 
A voice from the dusk is calling yet, 

" Oh, come away, or we die ! " 



58o YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Without is a horror of hosts that fight, 

That rest not, and cease not to kill, 
The thunder of feet and the cry of flight, 

A slaughter weird and shrill ; 
Grey dreams are set in the weaver s sight, 

The weaver is weaving still. 

" Come away, dear soul, conie away, or we die ; 

Hear st thou the moan and the rush ! Come away ; 
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly; 

The kind God hath left them this day; 
The battle-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry, 

And the red swords swing and slay. 

" Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain, 

When pain is wherever we fly ? 
And death is a sweeter thing than a chain : 

Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry. 
The kind God giveth the days that wane ; 

If the kind God hath said it, I die." 

And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled, 

And the city was made a tomb, 
And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead 

Shone into that silent room, 
And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead 

Brown weaver slain by his loom. 

Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land, 

Where no suns rise or set, 
Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand, 

Round the dusk of its silken net 
Forever flieth his shadowy hand, 

And the weaver is weaving yet. 

COMFORT. 

COMFORT the sorrowful with watchful eyes 
In silence, for the tongue cannot avail. 
Yex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale 

Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. 581 

To him whose grief outmasters all replies. 

Only watch near him gently; do but bring 

The piteous help of silent ministering, 
Watchful and tender, this alone is wise. 

So shall thy presence and thine every motion, 
The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion 

Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief, 
And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul. 
He shall bow down beneath thy mute control, 

And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief. 



OUTLOOK. 

NOT to be conquered by these headlong days, 
But to stand free : to keep the mind at brood 
On life s deep meaning, nature s altitude 

Of loveliness, and time s mysterious ways; 

At every thought and deed to clear the haze 
Out of our eyes, considering only this, 
What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, 

This is to live, and win the final praise. 

Though strife, ill fortune, and harsh human need 
Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb 
With agony ; yet, patience there shall come 

Many great voices from life s outer sea, 
Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, 
Murmurs and glimpses of eternity. 



KNOWLEDGE. 

WHAT is more large than knowledge and more sweet ; 
Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs, 

Of passions and of beauties and of songs; 
Knowledge of life ; to feel its great heart beat 



UNIVERSITY 



582 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Through all the soul upon her crystal seat; 

To see, to feel, and evermore to know ; 

To till the old world s wisdom till it grow 
A garden for the wandering of our feet. 

Oh for a life of leisure and broad hours, 

To think and dream, to put away small things, 
This world s perpetual leaguer of dull naughts ; 

To wander like the bee among the flowers 
Till old age find us weary, feet and wings 
Grown heavy with the gold of many thoughts. 



THE RAIL WA Y STATION. 

THE darkness brings 110 quiet here, the light 
No waking : ever on my blinded brain 
The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, 

The engine s scream, the hiss and thunder smite; 

I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, 
Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain : 
I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train 

Move labouring out into the bourneless night. 

So many souls within its dim recesses, 
So many bright, so many mournful eyes : 

Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses ; 
What threads of life, what hidden histories, 

What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, 
What unknown thoughts, what various agonies ! 



WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL. 
NATIONAL HYMN. 

To Thee whose smile is might and fame, 

A nation lifts united praise 
And asks but that Thy purpose frame 

A useful glory for its days. 



WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL. 583 

We pray no sunset lull of rest, 

No pomp and bannered pride of war ; 

We hold stern labour manliest, 
The just side real conqueror. 

For strength we thank Thee : keep us strong, 

And grant us pride of skilful toil ; 
For homes we thank Thee : may we long 

Have each some Eden rood of soil. 

O, keep our mothers kind and dear, 
And make the fathers stern and wise ; 

The maiden soul preserve sincere, 

And rise before the young man s eyes, 

Crush out the jest of idle minds, 

That know not, jesting, when to hush ; 

Keep on our lips the word that binds, 
And teach our children when to blush. 

Forever constant to the good 

Still arm our faith, thou Guard Sublime, 
To scorn, like all who have understood, 

The atheist dangers of the time. 

Thou hearest ! Lo, we feel our love 
Of loyal thoughts and actions free 

Toward all divine achievement move, 
Ennobled, blest, ensured, by Thee. 



CANADA NOT LAST. 

AT VENICE. 

Lo ! Venice, gay with colour, lights and song, 

Calls from St Mark s with ancient voice and strange: 

I am the Witch of Cities ! glide along 

My silver streets that never wear by change 



584 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Of years : forget the years, and pain, and wrong, 
And every sorrow reigning men among. 

Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee 
To my illusions. Old and siren strong, 

I smile immortal, while the mortals nee 

Who whiten on to death in wooing me. 

AT FLORENCE. 

Say, what more fair, by Arno s bridged gleam, * 
Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato s slope 

At eventide, when west along the stream, 
The last of day reflects a silver hope ! 

Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam : 

The city s mass blent in one hazy cream, 

The brown Dome midst it, and the Lily tower, 

And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem 
Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power 
On this side, greenly dark with cypress, vine and 
bower. 

AT ROME. 

End of desire to stray I feel would come 

Though Italy were all fair skies to me, 
Though France s fields went mad with flowery foam 

And Blanc put on a special majesty. 
Not all could match the growing thought of home 
Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on ROME 

This ancient, modern, mediaeval queen 
Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome, 

Imperial ruin and villa s princely scene 

Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene. 

REFLECTION. 

Rome, Florence, Venice noble, fair and quaint, 
They reign in robes of magic round me here ; 

But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint, 
With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. 

* " Sovra l bel fiume d Arno la gran villa." Dante. 



WILLIAM DO UN LIGHTHALL. 585 

Plead not ! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim ! 

I see the fields, I see the autumn hand 
Of God upon the maples ! Answer Him 

With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand 
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst ! 
I see the sun break over you ; the mist 

On hills that lift from iron bases grand 

Their heads superb ! the dream, it is my native land. 



HOMER, 
(EARLY LINES.) 

TIME, with his constant touch, has half erased 
The memory, but he cannot dim the fame 
Of one who best of all has paraphrased 
The tale of waters with a tale of flame, 
Yet left us but his accents and his name. 

Upon that life, the sun of history 

Shines not, but Legend, like a moon in mist, 

Sheds over it a weird uncertainty, 
In which all figures wave and actions twist, 
So that a man may read them as lie list. 

We know not if he trod some Theban street, 
And sought compassion on his aged woe, 

We know not if on Chian sand his feet 
Left footprints once ; but only this we know, 
How the high ways of fame those footprints show. 

Along the border of the restless sea, 

The lonely thinker must have loved to roam, 

We feel his soul wrapt in its majesty, 
And he can speak in words that drip with foam, 
As though himself a deep, and depths his home. 

Hark ! under all and through and over all, 
Runs on the cadence of the changeful sea; 
Now pleasantly the graceful surges fall, 



586 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

And now they mutter in an angry key 

Ever, throughout their changes, grand and free. 

How sternly sang he of Achilles might, 
How sweetly of the sweet Andromache, 

How low his lyre when Ajax prays for light ; 
(Well might he bend that lyre in sympathy, 
For also great, and also blind was he.) 

We almost see the nod of stern-browed Jove, 
And feel Olympus shake ; we almost hear 

The melodies that Greek youths interwove 
In psean to Apollo, and the clear, 
Full voice of Nestor, sounding far and near. 

A dignity of sadness filled his heart, 
That sadness, born of immortality, 

Which they alone who live in art 
Feel in its sweetness and its mystery, 
Half-filled already with infinity. 

Yea, Zeus was wise when he decreed him blind, 
And wiser still when he decreed him poor ; 
For insight grew as outer sight declined, 
And want o errode the ills it could not cure, 
Else rhapsody had lacked its lay most pure. 



ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART. 

GUILT IN SOLITUDE. 

THE wretched have an hour to weep, 
And penitence may bring repose; 

But there are thoughts that cannot sleep, 
And endless, solitary woes : 

For me sin s sorrow hath no close; 

I am a soul stained and unshriven, 

To whom no soothing hour is given. 



ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART. 587 

The erring find an hour to pray, 

The faint on pitying mercy call ; 
The freshness of an earlier day, 

When, innocent, he trusted all, 
Again upon his heart may fall; 
My poisoned spring of life doth tend 
To bitterness that hath no end. 

Eyes, that have wept away their bloom, 
May light their orbs of faded blue; 

And pallid cheeks the rose resume, 
As fields their flowery robes renew; 

But smiles have bidden me adieu; 

Nor laughter on its ruby shore 

Shall break its joyous wavelets more. 

For, in this lonely hermit cell, 

Watching his hosts that in heaven s bower, 
And night s eternal palace, dwell, 

I spend, unseen, the midnight hour, 
The captive of some awful Power ; 
Benumbed in heart, with cankering pain, 
And branded with the curse of Cain. 

Star of lost Hope ! long set O where, 

Amid these shades will ye arise 1 
When will I see your lustre rare 

Amid the glory of yon skies 1 
Alas ! ye ne er shall greet my eyes ! 
At noon of day, or night, the air 
Breeds only cursing and despair. 

Ears ! but for one unceasing cry ! 
Eyes ! but for one unfading stain ! 

In vain from these I seek to fly, 
To lag or linger is in vain ! 

A fearful breathing haunts the plain ; 

And if I walk by wood or hill, 

The spectre dogs my footsteps still. 



588 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Yet, mid a hurrying human sea, 

I ve swept along the dizzying street, 
And felt that all men looked at me, 

Till terror winged my hastening feet ! 
And ere I reached my dim retreat, 
The rills poured down a crimson flood, 
The evening sun seemed bathed in blood ! 

One awful voice in all things speaks ! 
It shrieks out of the twilight glade ; 

Against each shuddering hill it breaks, 
And rustles under every shade : 

My cheek is blanched, my soul dismayed ; 

Then mocking peals affright the air 

And ring the dirge of my despair ! 

I feel not earthly joy, nor need, 

Nor the wild pulse of strange desire ; 

Remote from men I sit, and feed 

My heart with keen, remorseful fire. 

I have nor wife, nor child, nor sire ; 

Happy am I, in this, that no 

Unhappy life can share my woe. 

For, surely as the bird of eve 

Shall charm with song her favourite vale, 
And surely as the heart must grieve, 

When bliss of love is changed to bale, 
I must pronounce my doleful tale ; 
Judgment and doom upon me press, 
And the Voice whispers me " Confess ! " 

And love is but a thought resigned, 

Awakening scarce a passing sigh, 
Like music breathed upon the wind, 

That wins not to the ear reply : 
Tis not for me to love, but die ! 
I dare not link thy fate with mine 
/ am a murderer Madeline ! " 



BURTON W. LOCK HART. 589 

FROST-WORK. 

WITH wannest smile, from chilliest night, the morn 
Arising, brings white veil from darkness drear 

Refled, and over her chaste features worn, 
Until the tardy sun his face doth clear : 
Behold ! what maze of fairydom is here 1 

There s not an elm that springs its shaft aloof, 

But gives of Winter s stateliest beauty proof ! 
All trees as branching corals now appear. 
I stand, with eye attent, and wistful ear 

Where silence lays her finger, as if soon 

Quaint bugles blown from Elfin-land to hear : 

But lo ! the magic scatters the pure boon 

Is quickly gone ! each tall tree s powdery crown 
Does mid th applausive stillness tremble down ! 



BURTON W. LOCKHART. 
SONG. 

SLOPE softly o er the verdurous mead, 

Sunlight of cloudless skies, 
And kiss my lady s cheek ! 

Lo ! her deep, passionate eyes, 
By love ethereal love illumed, 

Eclipse thy whitest beams, 
Whenever they glance back 

The borrowed sheen of silvery streams. 

Blow gently round the winding woods, 

O perfumed, gleeful air ! 
And touch my lady s lips, 

Wooing with kisses rich and rare : 
Her murmurous breath, outbreathed in sighs, 

Is balmier than thine, 
Wafted from orange groves 

In some far-off voluptuous clime. 



590 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

LIFE S NOBLEST HEIGHTS. 

LIFE S noblest heights are hidden from the gloomless dells 

of mirth ; 
Years, that bring the dim skies nearer, bring prophetic 

visions too : 

Down into our souls come intimations of life s worth, 
If enshrined within our hearts there live the Good 
and True. 

Awhile Earth s gardens bloom, and the lofty planets 

burn; 
We who tread this mother Earth shall see their flames 

expire : 

In the cycles vast of ruin, we alone shall ruin spurn ; 
Life immortal shall be scatheless amid Time s dissolving 

fire; 
Even into eternal domes of glory we aspire. 



AGNES MAULE MACHAE. 

DRIFTING AMONG THE THOUSAND 
ISLANDS. 

NEVEK a ripple on all the river, 

As it lies, like a mirror, beneath the moon, 
Only the shadows tremble and quiver, 

Neath the balmy breath of a night in June ! 
All dark and silent, each shadowy island 

Like a silhouette, lies on its silver ground, 
While, just above us, a rocky highland 

Towers, grim and dusk, with its pine trees crowned. 

Never a sound, save the wave s soft plashing, 
As the boat drifts idly, the shore along, 

And the darting fire-flies, silently flashing, 
Gleam, living diamonds, the woods among; 

And the night-hawk flits o er the bay s deep bosom, 
And the loon s laugh breaks through the midnight calm, 



AGNES MAULE MACHAR. 591 

And the luscious breath of the wild vine s blossom 
Wafts from the rocks like a tide of balm. 

Drifting ! Why cannot we drift forever? 

Let all the world and its worries go ! 
Let us float and float with the flowing river, 

Whither, we neither care nor know ! 
Dreaming a dream, might we ne er awaken 

There s joy enough in this passive bliss ! 
The wrestling crowd and its cares forsaken, 

Was ever Nirvana more blest than this ? 

Nay ! But our hearts are ever lifting 

The screen of the present, however fair ; 
Not long, not long, can we go on drifting, 

Not long enjoy surcease from care ! 
Ours is a nobler task and guerdon 

Than aimless drifting, however blest, 
Only the heart that can bear the burden 

Can share the joy of the victor s rest ! 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

OH Whip-poor-will oh Whip-poor-will ! 
When all the joyous day is still, 
When, from the sky s fast deepening blue, 
Fades out the sunset s latest hue, 
We hear thy tireless measured trill, 
Oh Whip-poor-will oh Whip-poor-will ! 

In the soft dusk of dewy May, 
At pensive close of autumn day, 
Though other birds may silent be, 
Or flood the air with minstrelsy, 
Thou carest not eve brings us still 
Thy plaintive burden, Whip-poor-will ! 

When moonlight fills the summer night 
With a soft vision of delight, 



592 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

We listen till we fain would ask 
For thee, some respite from thy task, 
At dawn we wake, and hear it still, 
Thy ceaseless song, oh Whip-poor-will ! 

We hear thy song, but see not thee, 

Thou seemest but a voice to be, 

A wandering spirit, breathing, yet 

For parted joys, a vain regret, 

So plaintive thine untiring trill, 

Oh Whip-poor-will, oh Whip-poor-will ! 

Oh faithful to thy strange refrain, 

Is it the voice of joy or pain ? 

We cannot know, thou wilt not tell 

The secret kept so long and well, 

What moves thee thus to warble still 

Oh Whip-poor-will ! Oh Whip-poor-will ! 



TWO VISIONS. 

WHERE close the curving mountains drew 
To clasp the stream in their embrace, 

With every outline, curve, and hue 
Reflected in its placid face 

The ploughman stopped his team, to watch 
The train as swift it thundered by ; 

Some distant glimpse of life to catch 
He strained his eager, watchful eye. 

His glossy horses patient stand, 
With wonder in their gentle eyes, 

As, through the tranquil mountain land, 
The snorting monster onward flies ; 

The morning freshness is on him, 

Just roused from sleep and balmy dream s- 

The wayfarers, all soiled and dim, 
Think longingly of mountain streams. 



AGNES MAULE MACHAR. 593 

Oh for the joyous mountain air ! 

The long, delightful autumn day 
Among the hills, the ploughman, there, 

Must have perpetual holiday ! 

And he, as all day long, he guides 

His steady plough, with patient hand, 

Thinks of the train that onward glides 
Into some new, enchanted land ; 

Where, day by day, no plodding round 
Wearies the frame and dulls the mind, 

Where life thrills keen in sight and sound, 
With ploughs and furrows left behind ! 

Even so, to each, the untrod ways 
Of life are touched by fancy s glow, 

That ever sheds its brightest rays 
Upon the path we do not know! 



IN THE STUDIO. 

You smile to see the canvas bear 
The golden sunshine of September, 

And trace, in all its outlines fair, 
The landscape we so well remember ! 

You mark the sky of softest blue, 

The dreamy haze, so golden-mellow 

The woods, in robes of richest hue, 

Just turning, here and there, to yellow ; 

The solemn pines above the stream, 

Where yon grey mountain rears its shoulder,- 
The maple s gold and scarlet gleam 

Beside the lichened granite boulder. 

You whisper, with a fond delight, 

That this reflection of September 
Might cheer us on the wildest night, 

Amid the snows of dull December ! 



594 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

But, while you kindly praise the whole, 

You cannot see the figure in it 
That graved upon the artist s soul 

The sunshine of that happy minute; 

You cannot see the earnest eyes 

That grew so dreamy and so tender, 

While watching, with a glad surprise, 

That autumn landscape s golden splendour ; 

You cannot see the soul-lit face 

That glowed response to Nature s sweetness, - 
So adding to its ripest grace, 

Its crowning charm of glad completeness ! 

Well, Love, that charm is left me still, 

Though vanished is that glad September; 

Though leaves lie strewn and winds blow chill, 
You are my sunshine of December ! 



WILLIAM M LENNAN. 
"THE PINES" MOUNT ROYAL. 

THE Mountain woos us from the heat, 
With leaves that wave, with birds that sing 
To see the Earth s great pulses beat 
Beneath the first warm kiss of Spring. 

We sit beneath the sheltering Pines 
Which, murmuring, sent their fragrance down, 
The buds are bursting on the vines, 
The fields are losing all their brown : 

The robin pauses in his flight 
To pour abroad his mellow note, 
On fence and field the crows alight, 
The swallows in the clear blue float. 

The brown pine-needles at our feet 
Spread forth until the green is met, 



CHARLES MAIR. 595 

To mingle all their perfume sweet 
With trillium and with violet. 

Below us rolls the swelling plain 
With lines and groves of graceful trees, 
With fields that pale and turn again 
As ruffled by the passing breeze. 

The golden silence o er us seems 
Scarce broken by the insects hum, 
Though faint and low, like songs in dreams, 
The chimes from distant steeples come. 

As St Laurent s twin towers arise 
To mark its nest amid the green, 
Westward, the silver water flies, 
In changing beauties, past Lachine. 

Far to the North a ray streams down, 
And by its shimmering beauties led, 
We see its golden glories crown 
The place where mighty Rivers wed. 

Then comes the end, the bright light pales, 
The wind springs up afresh and chill, 
A rising mist the fair plain veils 
And sweeps in silence towards the hill. 



CHARLES MAIR. 

[Born 1840.] 
FROM THE TECUMSEH. 

LEFROY (recites}. 

THERE was a time on this fair Continent 
When all things throve in spacious peacefulness. 
The prosperous forests unmolested stood, 
For where the stalwart oak grew there it lived 
Long ages, and then died among its kind. 



596 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

The lioary pines those ancient of the earth 
Brimful of legends of the earthly world, 
Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued. 
And all things else illumined by the sun, 
Inland or by the lifted wave, had rest. 
The passionate or calm pageants of the skies 
No artist drew; but in the auburn west 
Innumerable faces of fair cloud 
Vanished in silent darkness with the day. 
The prairie realm vast ocean s paraphrase 
Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers 
Unnamed save in mute Nature s inventory 
No civilised barbarian trenched for gain. 
And all that flowed was sweet and uncorrupt. 
The rivers and their tributary streams, 
Undammed, wound on forever, and gave up 
Their lonely torrents to weird gulfs of sea, 
The ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail, 
And all the wild life of this Western World 
Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods, 
And by those plenteous streams and mighty lakes, 
And on stupendous steppes of peerless plain, 
And in the rocky gloom of canyons deep, 
Screened by the stony ribs of mountains hoar 
Which steeped their snowy peaks in purging cloud, 
And down the Continent where tropic suns 
Warmed to her very heart the mother earth, 
And in the congeal d north where silence self 
Ached with intensity of stubborn frost, 
There lived a soul more wild than barbarous; 
A tameless soul the sunburnt savage free 
Free, and untainted by the greed of gain ; 
Great Nature s man content with Nature s food. 

TECUMSEH. 

Comrades, and faithful warriors of our race ! 

Ye who defeated Harmar and St Glair, 

And made their hosts a winter s feast of wolves ! 



CHARLES MAIR. 597 

I call on you to follow me again, 

Not now for war, but as forearmed for fight. 

As ever in the past so is it still : 

Our sacred treaties are infringed and torn ; 

Laughed out of sanctity, and spurned away ; 

Used by the Long-Knife s slaves to light his fire, 

Or turned to kites by thoughtless boys, whose wrists 

Anchor their fathers lies in front of heaven. 

And now we re asked to council at Vincennes ; 

To bend to lawless ravage of our lands, 

To treacherous bargains, contracts false, wherein 

One side is bound, the other loose as air ! 

Where are those villains of our race and blood 

Who signed the treaties that unseat us here ; 

That rob us of rich plains and forests wide ; 

And which, consented to, will drive us hence 

To stage our lodges in the Northern Lakes, 

In penalties of hunger worse than death ? 

Where are they 1 that we may confront them now 

With your wronged sires, your mothers, wives and babes, 

And, wringing from their false and slavish lips 

Confession of their baseness, brand with shame 

The traitor hands which sign us to our graves. 



LEFROY. 

This region is as lavish of its flowers 
As Heaven of its primrose blooms by night. 
This is the Arum which within its root 
Folds life and death; and this the prince s Pine, 
Fadeless as love and truth the fairest form 
That ever sun-shower washed with sudden rain. 
This golden cradle is the Moccasin Flower, 
Wherein the Indian hunter sees his hound; 
And this dark chalice is the Pitcher-Plant, 
Stored with the water of forgetfulness. 
Whoever drinks of it, whose heart is pure. 
Will sleep for aye neath foodf ul asphodel, 
And dream of endless love. 



598 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

JENA (sings], 
Fly far from me 

Even as the daylight flies, 
And leave me in the darkness of my pain ! 
Some earlier love will come to thee again, 
And sweet new moons will rise, 
And smile on it and thee. 

Fly far from me 

Even whilst the daylight wastes 
Ere thy lips burn me in a last caress; 
Ere fancy quickens, and my longings press, 

And my weak spirit hastes 
For shelter unto thee ! 

Fly far from me 

Even whilst the daylight pales 
So shall we never, never meet again ! 
Fly ! for my senses swim O Love ! oh pain ! 

Help ! for my spirit fails 
I cannot fly from thee ! 



MARY MORGAN (GOWAN LEA). 

" In apprehension, so like a god " 

TAKE the mouldering dust, 

Wake it into life, 

Matter is but servant of the mind. 

Touch the silent keys : 

Genius can evoke 

Music wherein gods commune with men. 

Read the soul of man, 
And the farthest star : 
Truth is one, and is forever true. 

Think the wildest thought, 

Hope the utmost hope 

Time shall be when all shall be fulfilled. 



CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY. 599 

Wonder not at deed, 

Wonder more at thought, 

Wonder at the hope that feeds itself. 

Genius is divine, 

Genius is true : 

Man becomes that which he worships God ! 



CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY. 

[Born about 1835.] 

FROM FAR. 

I DREAMED that youth returned, the unreturning ! 

I saw her cottage on the high hill stand ; 
And by broad waters in the sunset burning, 

I walked once more with Laura, hand in hand. 

How firmly fashioned is the tiny figure, 

Her keen grey eyes, how fairy-like they glow; 

She stands, her light limbs full of grace and vigour, 
Her hand close claspt in mine, as long ago ! 

It is not love upon my senses stealing, 

My thoughts no purpose and no pause allow ; 

No passion blinds with the intenser feeling, 
As once again I kiss that fair young brow. 

Enchantment streamed once more on hill and ether, 
Beneath us ocean seemed a summer sea ; 

" Be mine," I said, "and let us go together, 
That I once more may pure and happy be." 

But what her words were I cannot remember, 

For suddenly awaking, I lay here, 
In this bleak land whose May might match December, 

The sullen spring-time of a flowerless year. 



6oo YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

SOUTH AFRICA REMEMBERED AT 
NIAGARA, CANADA. 

WIND of the south, hast thou stolen the breath of the 
blossoming heather 

Fresh from the land I left, never again to return : 

Bringing me back the days, when, walking over the hill 
side, 

Many a time we met, we who shall meet not again ! 

There are the myrtles still, there twine the clambering 



roses 



Garden and granite cliff, there are they still as of old ! 
There by the wine-dark sea, dark bloom Constantia s 

vineyards, 
There are the tall black ships, moored in the mirroring 

wave, 
Changeless all and fair, as then when last I beheld them 

Faintly with farewell gaze, over the heave of the sea 

Changeless, though but a dream ; still fair, though but 

an illusion, 
Seen through the torrent s sweep, heard through the 

cataract s roar. 



SOME ONE COMES. 

SOME one comes, I hear the footsteps, 

See the shadow cast, 
At my lonely door that trembles 

In the bitter blast 

Some one comes or is it fancy, 

Or a friend at last. 

" Open quick, so fast the snowflakes 

Fleck the winter sky. 
Let me in ! the storm increases 

As the night draws nigh 
Shelter ! quick ! no corpse is colder 

In the grave than I." 



JOHN READE. 60 1 

" I am Wealth, and I can give thee 

Gold that men adore 
Friends and troops of merry comrades, 

Joyous as of yore." 
Fool ! will all thou hast to offer, 

Vanished youth restore ? 

" I am Love, whom years that vanish 

Still shall find the same ! " 
Still ! as when in southern sunshine 

.First the Phantom came 1 ? 
With a fond word, long unspoken 

A forgotten name ! 

" I am Death, I only offer 

Peace that long day done. 
Follow me into the darkness " 

Welcome ! Friend, lead on 
Only spare my dog ; let something 

Grieve, when I am gone ! 



JOHN READE. 

[Born 1837.] 

ANTIGONE. 

IF Homer ne er had sung; if Socrates 
Had never lived in virtue s cause to die; 
If the wild chorus of the circling seas 
Had never echoed back poor Sappho s sigh; 
If Sparta had not with her purest blood 
Traced on all time the name " Thermopylaa ; " 
If Greece, united through the surging flood 
Of Persian pride, had not arisen free; 
If nought of great or wise or brave or good 
Had proved thee, Hellas, what thou wast, to be, 
Save that thou didst create "Antigone" 
Thou still hadst in the van of nations stood. 
Fall n are thy noblest temples, but above 
Them all there gleams thy shrine of woman s love. 



602 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

BRITISH CANADA TO MR LOUIS 
H. FRECHETTE* 

O GIFTED son of our dear land and thine, 
We joy with thee on this thy joyous day, 
And in thy laurel crown would fain entwine 
A modest wreath of our own simple bay. 
Shamrock and thistle and sweet roses gay, 
Both red and white, with parted lips that smile, 
Like some bright maiden of their native isle 
These, with the later maple, take, we pray, 
To mingle with thy laurelled lily, long 
Pride of the brave and theme of poet s song. 
They err who deem us aliens. Are not we 
Bretons and Normans, too 1 North, south and west 
Gave us, like you, of blood and speech their best, 
Here, re-united, one great race to be. 



PICTURES OF MEMORY. 



HEKE is the old church. Now I see it all 

The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall. 

The dear old sleepy town is still abed 

Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red. 

And everything is, as this graveyard still, 

Except the soldiers at their morning drill, 

And in the Pool a fishing boat or two 

Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar, 

And the dim curlews on the distant shore, 

And the lark soaring through the ether blue. 

But now the lazy smoke curls through the air 

I will go down and see who tenant there, 

And meet old friends. " First, wanderer, look around 

And see what friends of thine are underground ! " 

* On the occasion of his poems being crowned by the French 
Academy. Read by the Hon. P. J. O. Chauveau at a banquet 
2-iven to Mr Frechette. 



JOHN READE. 603 

II. 

The mountains gather round thee as of yore, 

holy lake, across whose tranquil breast 
Was borne the saint who to the farthest west 
Brought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore. 
There on the islet at the chapel door 

The penitents are kneeling, while along 
There flows the mystic tide of sacred song 
To where I stand upon the rugged shore. 
But now, there is a silence weird and dread, 
And utter loneliness is in my heart. 

1 came to seek the living but the dead 
This is their welcome. Slowly I depart 
Nor read the name beneath a single cross 
He still is rich who doth not know his loss. 

in. 

There is the school-house; there the lake, the lawn; 

And there, just fronting it, the barrack-square; 

But of all those I knew not one is there 

Even the old gate keeper he is gone. 

Ah me ! ah me ! when last I stood upon 

This grassy mound, with what proud hopes elate 

I was to wrestle with the strength of fate 

And conquer ! Now I live and that is all. 

Oh ! happier those whose lot it was to fall 

In noble conflict with their country s foes, 

Far on the shores of Tauric Chersonese ! 

Nay, all are blest who answer duty s call. 

But do I dream or wake 1 What ghosts are these ? 

Hush ! throbbing heart ! these are the sons of those. 

IV. 

Oh ! what could wake to life that first sweet flame 
That warmed my heart when by the little Bay 
On blissful summer evenings I lay 
Beneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she came 
Who was to me far more than wealth or fame, 



604 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine, 
To make her, if she could be, more divine 
By outer splendour and a noble name. 
Now I may wait in vain from early mom 
Till sunset for the music of her feet. 
And yet how little change has come upon 
This fairy scene her beauty made so sweet ! 
It weareth still the glory of her smile. 
Ah ! if she were but here a little while. 



v. 

It is ebb-tide. The scientific eye 

May see slow changes creeping o er the shore. 

I know not whether it be less or more, 

I know that it is it, that I am I. 

I note no difference in the curlew s cry 

The restless billows have not lost their tone; 

The ocean moaneth with the old-time moan 

But from my heart there riseth a strange sigh 

For something that I see not. Yet I see 

Of happy faces goodly company. 

And I am well and strong and full of life, 

I have a pleasure in the salt sea breeze. 

I sympathise with Nature s calm and strife, 

Why may I not be gay as well as these ? 



VI. 

Why in the day-dream of a vain regret 
Lap the soul s energies ? Why linger near 
The place of graves for ever 1 Every year 
Has its own burden : to each day is set 
Its tale of duty. It is better far 
To pilot the soul s bark by sun and star, 
Than, looking ever to the shore behind, 
Leave it a ready prey to every wind. 
And yet we love to linger near the Past, 
We love to stand upon the windy shore 



JOHN READE. 605 

And, gazing far upon the dim sea- waste, 
Which holds our joys, our tears, our loves of yore, 
Wait till some treasure at our feet be cast 
From the unsounded deeps of Nevermore. 



DOMINION DA Y. 
JULY IST, 1867. 



OUR land is flushed with love ; through the wealth of 

her gay-hued tresses 
From his bright-red fingers the sun has been dropping 

his amorous fire, 
And her eyes are gladly oppressed with the weight of 

his lip s caresses, 

And the zephyr-throbs of her bosom keep time with 
the voice of his lyre. 

ii. 

Tis the moon of the sweet, strong summer, the King of 

the months of the year, 
And the King of the year is crowning our Land with 

his glory of love, 
And the King of all Kings, in whose crown each gem is 

the light of a sphere, 

Looks smilingly down on our Land from the height of 
his heaven above. 

in. 

For to-day she breathes what to her is the first of a 

nation s breath, 
As she lies neath the gaze of the sun, as a bride, or 

a child new-born 
Lies with fair motionless limbs in the beautiful semblance 

of death, 

Yet awake with the joy of a bird that awakes with the 
whisper of morn. 

2 R 



6o6 YO UNGER CANADIAN POE TS. 



IV. 



And her soul is drinking the music that flows through 

the golden lyre, 

Erom the deeps of the woods and waters and wonder 
ful hearts of men, 
From the long-hushed songs of the forest, the wild 

primeval choir, 

Till she feels the breath of the spirit move over her 
face again. 



PART VIII. 

i. 

The ocean has kissed her feet 
With cool, soft lips that smile, 

And his breath is wondrously sweet 
With the odours of many an Isle. 

II. 

He has many a grand old song 
Of his grand, old fearless Kings ; 

And the voice from his breast is strong, 
As he sings and laughs as he sings. 

in. 

Though often his heart is sad 

With the weight of the grey-haired days 
That were once as light and as glad 

As the soul of a child that plays. 

IV. 

But to-day at Canada s feet, 

He smiles, as when Yenus was born, 
And the breath from his lips is as sweet 

As the breath of wet flowers at morn. 



JOHN READE. 607 

IN MY HEART. 



IN my heart are many chambers through which I wander 

free; 
Some are furnished, some are empty, some are sombre, 

some are light ; 

Some are open to all comers, and of some I keep the key, 
And I enter in the stillness of the night. 

n. 

But there s one I never enter, it is closed to even me ! 

Only once its door was opened, and it shut for ever 
more; 

And though sounds of many voices gather round it, like 
a sea, 

It is silent, ever silent, as the shore. 

in. 

In that chamber long ago, my love s casket was concealed, 
And the jewel that it sheltered I knew only one could 

win ; 
And my soul foreboded sorrow, should that jewel be 

revealed, 
And I almost hoped that none might enter in. 

IV. 

Yet day and night I lingered by that fatal chamber door, 
Till she came at last my darling one, of all the earth 

my own ; 
And she entered and she vanished with my jewel, which 

she wore ; 
And the door was closed and I was left alone. 

v. 

She gave me back^no jewel, but the spirit of her eyes 
Shone with tenderness a moment, as she closed that 
chamber door, 



6o8 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

And the memory of that moment is all I have to 

prize 
But that, at least, is mine for ever more. 

VI. 

Was she conscious, when she took it, that the jewel was 

my love ? 
Did she think it but a bauble, she might wear or toss 

aside 1 

I know not, I accuse not, but I hope that it may prove 
A blessing, though she spurn it in her pride. 



PROFESSOR CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS 
ROBERTS. 

[Professor of English Literature at the University of King s 
College, Windsor, Nova Scotia. Born in New Brunswick.] 

COLLECT FOR DOMINION DA Y. 

FATHER of nations ! Help of the feeble hand ! 

Strength of the strong ! to whom the nations kneel 1 
Stay and destroyer, at whose just command, 
Earth s kingdoms tremble and her empires reel ! 

Who dost the low uplift, the small make great, 
And dost abase the ignorantly proud, 
Of our scant people mould a mighty state, 
To the strong, stern, to Thee in meekness bowed ! 

Father of unity, make this people one ! 

Weld, interfuse them in the patriot s flame, 
Whose forging on their anvil was begun 

In blood late shed to purge the common shame ; 
That so our hearts, the fever of faction done, 
Banish old feud in our young nation s name. 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 609 



CANADA. 

CHILD of nations, giant-limbed, 
Who stand st among the nations now 

Unheeded, unadored, unhymned, 
With unanointed brow, 

How long the ignoble sloth, how long 
The trust in greatness not thine own 1 

Surely the lion s brood is strong 
To front the world alone ! 

How long the indolence, ere thou dare 
Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame 

Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear 
A nation s franchise, nation s name 1 

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire, 
These are thy manhood s heritage ! 

Why rest with babes and slaves 1 Seek higher 
The place of race and age. 

1 see to every wind unfurled 

The flag that bears the Maple Wreath ; 
Thy swift keels furrow round the world 
Its blood-red folds beneath ; 

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas ; 

Thy white sails swell with alien gales ; 
To stream on each remotest breeze 

The black smoke of thy pipes exhales. 

O Falterer, let thy past convince 

Thy future, all the growth, the gain, 

The fame since Cartier knew thee, since 
Thy shores beheld Champlain ! 

Montcalm and Wolfe ! Wolfe and Montcalm ! 

Quebec, thy storied citadel 
Attest in burning song and psalm 

How here thy heroes fell ! 



6io YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

O thou that bor st the battle s brunt 

At Queenstown, and at Lundy s Lane, 

On whose scant ranks but iron front 
The battle broke in vain ! 

Whose was the danger, whose the day, 

From whose triumphant throats the cheers, 

At Chryslers Farm, at Chateauguay, 
Storming like clarion-bursts our ears 1 

On soft Pacific slopes, beside 

Strange floods that northward rave and fall,- 
Where chafes Acadia s chainless tide 

Thy sons await thy call. 

They wait; but some in exile, some 

With strangers housed, in stranger lands; 

And some Canadian lips are dumb 
Beneath Egyptian sands. 

O mystic Nile ! Thy secret yields 
Before us, thy most ancient dreams 

Are mixed with far Canadian fields 
And murmur of Canadian streams. 

But thou, my Country, dream not thou ! 

Wake, and behold how night is done, 
How on thy breast, and o er thy brow, 

Bursts the uprising sun ! 



KHAR TO UM. 

SET in the fierce red desert for a sword, 

Drawn and deep-driven implacably ! The tide 
Of scorching sand that chafes thy landward side 
Storming thy palms ; and past thy front outpoured 
The Nile s vast dread and wonder ! Late there roared 
(While far off paused the long war, long defied) 
Mad tumult thro thy streets ; and Gordon died, 
Slaughtered amid the yelling rebel horde. 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 611 

Yet, spite of shame and wrathful tears, Khartoum, 
We owe thee certain thanks, for thou hast shown 

How still the one a thousand crowds outweighs, 
Still one man s mood sways millions, one man s doom 
Smites nations ; and our burning spirits own 
Not sordid these nor unheroic days ! 



THE PIPES OF PAN. 

RINGED with the nocking of hills, within shepherding 

watch of Olympus, 

Tempe, vale of the gods, lies in green quiet withdrawn ; 
Tempe, vale of the gods, deep-couched amid woodland 

and woodland, 
Threaded with amber of brooks, mirrored in azure of 

pools, 
All day drowsed with the sun, charm-drunken with 

moonlight at midnight, 
Walled from the world forever under a vapour of 

dreams 
Hid by the shadows of dreams, not found by the curious 

footstep, 
Sacred and secret forever, Tempe, vale of the gods. 

How, through the cleft of its bosom, goes sweetly the 

water Peneus ! 

How by Peneus the sward breaks into saffron and blue ! 
How the long slope-floored beech-glades mount to the 

wind-wakened uplands, 
Where, through flame-berried ash, troop the hoofed 

centaurs at morn ! 
Nowhere greens a copse but the eye-beams of Artemis 

pierce it. 

Breathes no laurel her balm but Phrebus fingers caress, 
Springs no bed of wild blossom but limbs of dryad, have 

pressed it. 
Sparkle the nymphs, and the brooks chime with shy 

laughter and calls. 




OF THB 



612 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Here is a nook ; two rivulets fall to mix with Peneus, 
Loiter a space, and sleep, checked and choked by the 

reeds. 
Long grass waves in the windless water, strewn with 

the lote-leaf ; 

Twist thro dripping soil great alder roots, and the air 
Glooms with the dripping tangle of leaf -thick branches, 

and stillness 
Keeps in the strange-coiled stems, ferns, and wet-loving 

weeds. 
Hither comes Pan, to this pregnant earthy spot, when 

his piping 
Flags; and his pipes outworn breaking and casting 

away, 

Fits new reeds to his mouth with the weird earth- 
melody in them, 

Piercing, alive with a life able to mix with the gods. 
Then, as he blows, and the searching sequence delights 

him, the goat-feet 
Furtive withdraw; and a bird stirs and flutes in the 

gloom * 

Answering; float with the stream the outworn pipes 

with a whisper, 
" What the god breathes on, the god never can wholly 

evade ! " 

God-breath lurks in each fragment forever ; dispersed by 

Peneus, 
Wandering, caught in the ripples, wind-blown hither and 

there, 
Over the whole green earth and globe of sea they are 

scattered, 

Coming to secret spots, where in a visible form 
Comes not the god, though he come declared in his 

workings. And mortals 

Straying in cool of morn, or bodeful hasting at eve, 
Or in the depths of noonday plunged to shadiest coverts, 
Spy them, and set to their lips, blow and fling them 

away. 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 613 

Ay, they fling them away, but never wholly ! There 
after 

Creeps strange fire in their veins, murmur strange 
tongues in their brain, 

Sweetly evasive ; a secret madness takes them, a 
charm-struck 

Passion for woods and wild life, the solitude of the hills. 

Therefore they fly the heedless throngs and traffic of cities, 

Haunt mossed caverns, and wells bubbling ice-cool ; and 
their souls 

Gather a magical gleam of the secret of life, and the 
god s voice 

Calls to them, not from afar, teaching them wonderful 
things. 



THE ISLES: AN ODE. 



FAITHFUL reports of them have reached me oft ! 
Many their embassage to mortal court, 
By golden pomp, and breathless-heard consort 

Of music soft, 
By fragrances accredited, and dreams. 

Many their speeding herald whose light feet 
Make pause at wayside brooks, and fords of streams, 
Leaving transfigured by an effluence fleet 
Those wayfarers they meet. 

ii. 

No wind from out the solemn wells of night 
But hath its burden of strange messages, 
Tormenting for interpreter; nor less 

The wizard light 
That steals from noon-stilled waters, woven in shade, 

Beckons somewhither, with cool fingers slim. 
No dawn but hath some subtle word conveyed 
In rose ineffable at sunrise rim, 
Or charactery dim. 



614 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

m. 

One moment throbs the hearing, yearns the sight ; 
But tho not far, yet strangely hid the way, 
And our sense slow; nor long for us delay 

The guides their flight ! 
The breath goes by; the word, the light, elude; 

And we stay wondering. But there comes an hour 
Of fitness perfect and unfettered mood, 

When splits her husk the finer sense with power, 
And yon their palm-trees tower ! 

IV. 

Here Homer came, and Milton came, tho blind. 

Omar s deep doubts still found them nigh and nigher, 
And learned them fashioned to the heart s desire. 

The supreme mind 
Of Shakespeare took their sovereignty, and smiled. 

Those passionate Israelitish lips that poured 
The song of songs attained them; and the wild 
Child-heart of Shelley, here from strife restored, 
Remembers not life s sword. 



SALT. 

O BREATH of wind and sea, 

Bitter and clear, 
Now my faint soul springs free, 

Blown clean from fear ! 

hard sweet strife, O sting 
Of buffeting salt ! 

Doubt and despair take wing, 
Failure and fault. 

1 dread not wrath or wrong, 

Smile, and am free, 
Strong while the winds are strong, 
The rocks, the sea. 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 615 

Heart of my heart ! tho life 

Front us with storm, 
Love will outlast the strife, 

More pure, more warm. 



SEVERANCE. 

THE tide falls, and the night falls, 
And the wind blows in from the sea, 

And the bell on the bar it calls and calls, 
And the wild hawk screams from his tree. 

The late crane calls to his fellows gone 

In long flight over the sea, 
And my heart with the crane flies on and on, 

Seeking its rest and thee. 

O love, the tide returns to the strand, 

And the crane flies back over sea, 
But he brings not my heart from his far-off land, 

For he brings not thee to me. 



ACTION. 
(A Woman of Platcea speaks.) 

I HAVE lived long, and watched out many days, 
And seen the showers fall and the light shine down 
Equally on the vile and righteous head. 
I have lived long, and served the gods, and drawn 
Small joy and liberal sorrow, scorned the gods, 
And drawn no less my little meed of good, 
Suffered my ill in no more grievous measure. 
I have been glad alas, my foolish people, 
I have been glad with you ! And ye are glad, 
Seeing the gods in all things, praising them 
In yon their lucid heaven, this green world, 
The moving inexorable sea, and wide 



616 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Delight of noonday, till in ignorance 

Ye err, your feet transgress, arid the bolt falls ! 

Ay, have I sung, and dreamed that they would hear; 

And worshipped, and made offering; it may be 

They heard, and did perceive, and were well pleased, 

A little music in their ears perchance, 

A grain more savour to their nostrils, sweet 

Tho scarce accounted of. But when for me 

The mists of Acheron have striven up, 

And horror was shed round me; when my knees 

Relaxed, my tongue clave speechless, they forgot. 

And when my sharp cry cut the moveless night, 

And days and nights my wailings clamoured up 

And beat about their golden homes, perchance 

They shut their ears. No happy music this, 

Eddying through their nectar cups and calm ! 

Then I cried out against them, and died not; 

And rose, and set me to my daily tasks. 

So all day long, with bare, uplift left arm, 

Drew out the strong thread from the carded wool, 

Or wrought strange figures, lotus-buds and serpents, 

In purple on the himation s saffron fold; 

Nor uttered praise with the slirn-wristed girls 

To any god, nor uttered any prayer, 

Nor poured out bowls of wine and smooth bright oil, 

Nor brake and gave small cakes of beaten meal 

And honey, as this time, or such a god 

Required, nor offered apples summer-flushed, 

Scarlet pomegranates, poppy bells, or doves. 

All this with scorn, and waiting all day long, 

And night long with dim fear, afraid of sleep, 

Seeing I took no hurt of all these things, 

And seeing mine eyes were dried of their tears 

So that once more the light grew sweet for me, 

Once more grew fair the fields and valley streams, 

I thought with how small profit men take heed 

To worship with bowed heads, and suppliant hands, 

And sacrifice, the everlasting gods, 

Who take small thought of them to curse or bless, 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 617 

Girt with their purples of perpetual peace ! 

Thus blindly deemed I of them ; yet and yet 

Have late well learned their hate is swift as fire, 

Be one so wretched to encounter it ; 

Ay, have I seen a multitude of good deeds 

Fly up in the pan like husks, like husks blown dry. 

Hereafter let none question the high gods ! 

I questioned ; but these watching eyes have seen 

Actseon, thewed and sinewed like a god, 

God-like for sweet speech and great deeds, hurled down 

To hideous death scarce suffered space to breathe 

Ere the wild heart in his changed quivering side 

Burst with mad terror, and the stag s wide eyes 

Stared one sick moment mid the dog s hot jaws. 

Cithseron, mother mount, set steadfastly 

Deep in Boeotia, past the utmost roar 

Of seas, beyond Corinthian waves withdrawn, 

Girt with green vales awake with brooks or still, 

Towers up mid lesser-browed Boaotian hills 

These couched like herds secure beneath its ken 

And watches earth s green corners. At mid-noon 

We of Platsea mark the sun make pause 

Right over it, and top its crest with pride. 

Men of Eleusis look toward north at dawn 

To see the long white fleeces upward roll, 

Smitten aslant with saffron, fade like smoke, 

And leave the grey-green dripping glens all bare, 

The drenched slopes open sunward ; slopes wherein 

What gods, what god-like men to match with gods 

Have roamed, and grown up mighty, and waxed wise 

Under the law of him whom gods and men 

Reverence, and call Cheiron ! He, made wise 

With knowledge of all wisdom, had made wise 

Actseon, till there moved none cunninger 

To drive with might the javelin forth, or bend 

The corded ebony, save Leto s son. 

But him the centaur shall behold no more 

With long stride making down the beechy glade, 



6 1 8 YO UNGER CANADIAN POE TS. 

Clear-eyed, with firm lips laughing, at his heels 
The clamour of his fifty deep-tongued hounds ; 
Him the wise centaur shall behold no more. 

I have lived long, and watched out many days, 

And am well sick of watching. Three days since, 

I had gone out upon the slopes for herbs, 

Snake-root, and subtle gums ; and when the light 

Fell slantwise through the upper glens, and missed 

The sunk ravines, I came where all the hills 

Circle the valley of Gargaphian streams. 

Reach beyond reach all down the valley gleamed, 

Thick branches ringed them. Scarce a bowshot past 

My platan, thro the woven leaves low- hung, 

Trembling in meshes of the woven sun, 

A yellow-sanded pool, shallow and clear, 

Lay sparkling, brown about the further bank 

From scarlet-berried ash-trees hanging over. 

Then suddenly the shallows brake awake 

With laughter and light voices, and I saw 

Where Artemis, white goddess incorrupt, 

Bane of swift beasts, and deadly for straight shaft 

Unswerving, from a coppice not far off, 

Came to the pool from the hither bank to bathe. 

Amid her maiden company she moved, 

Their cross-thonged yellow buskins scattered off, 

Unloosed their knotted hair; and thus the pool 

Received them stepping, shrinking, down to it. 

There they flocked white, and splashed the water-drops 

On rounded breast and shoulder snowier 

Than the washed clouds athwart the morning s blue, 

Fresher than river grasses which the herds 

Pluck from the river in the burning noons. 

Their tresses on the summer wind they flung ; 

And some a shining yellow fleece let fall 

For the sun s envy ; others with white hands 

Lifted a glooming wealth of locks more dark 

Than deepest wells, but purple in the sun. 



PROFESSOR C. G. D. ROBERTS. 619 

And she, their mistress, of the heart unstormed, 
Stood taller than they all, supreme, and still, 
Perfectly fair like day, and crowned with hair 
The colour of nipt beech-leaves ; ay, such hair 
"Was mine in years when I was such as these. 
I let it fall to cover me, or coiled 
Its soft thick coils about my throat and arms ; 
Its colour like nipt beech-leaves, tawny brown, 
But in the sun a fountain of live gold. 

Even as thus they played, and some lithe maids 

Upreached white arms to grasp the berried ash, 

And, plucking the bright bunches, shed them wide 

By red ripe handf uls, not far off I saw 

With long stride making down the beechy glade, 

Clear-eyed, with firm lips laughing, at his heels 

The clamour of his fifty deep-tongued hounds, 

Actseon. I beheld him not far off, 

But unto bath and bathers hid from- view, 

Being beyond that mighty rock whereon 

His wont was to lie stretched at dip of eve, 

When frogs are loud amid the tall-plumed sedge 

In marshy spots about Asopus bank, 

Deeming his life was very sweet, his day 

A pleasant one, the peopled breadths of earth 

Most fair, and fair the shining tracts of sea ; 

Green solitudes, and broad low-lying plains 

Made brown with frequent labours of men s hands, 

And salt, blue, fruitless waters. But this mount, 

Cithseron, bosomed deep in soundless hills, 

Its fountained vales, its nights of starry calm, 

Its high chill dawns, its long-drawn golden days, 

Was dearest to him. Here he dreamed high dreams, 

And felt within his sinews strength to strive 

Where strife was sorest and to overcome, 

And in his heart the thought to do great deeds, 

With power in all ways to accomplish them. 

For had not he done well to men, and done 

Well to the gods 1 Therefore he stood secure. 



620 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

But him, for him Ah that these eyes should see ! 

Approached a sudden stumbling in his ways ! 
Not yet, not yet he knew a god s fierce wrath, 
Nor wist of that swift vengeance lying in wait. 

And now he came upon a slope of sward 

Against the pool. With startled cry the maids 

Shrank clamouring round their mistress, or made flight 

To covert in the hazel thickets. She 

Stirred not ; but pitiless anger paled her eyes, 

Intent with deadly purpose. He, amazed, 

Stood with his head thrust forward, while his curls 

Sun-lit lay glorious on his mighty neck, 

Let fall his bow, and clanging spear, and gazed 

Dilate with ecstasy ; nor marked the dogs 

Hush their deep tongues, draw close, and ring him round, 

And fix upon him strange, red hungry eyes, 

And crouch to spring. This for a moment. Then 

It seemed his strong knees faltered, and he sank. 

Then I cried out, for straight a shuddering stag 

Sprang one wild leap over the dogs ; but they 

Fastened upon his flanks with a long yell, 

And reached his throat ; and that proud head went down 

Beneath their wet, red fangs and reeking jaws. 

I have lived long, and watched out many days, 
Yet have not seen that aught is sweet save life, 
Nor learned that life hath other end than death. 
Thick horror like a cloud had veiled my sight, 
That for a space I saw not, and my ears 
Were shut from hearing ; but when sense grew clear 
Once more, I only saw the vacant pool 
IJnrippled, only saw the dreadful sward, 
Where dogs lay gorged, or moved in fitful search, 
Questing uneasily ; and some far up 
The slope, and some at the low water s edge, 
With snouts set high in air and straining throats 
Uttered keen howls that smote the echoing hills. 
They missed their master s form, nor understood 



ELIZABETH GOSTUYCKE ROBERTS. 621 

Where was the voice they loved, the hand that reared. 
And some lay watching by the spear and bow 
Flung down. 

And now upon the homeless pack 

And paling stream arose a noiseless wind 

Out of the yellow west awhile, and stirred 

The branches down the valley ; then blew oif 

To eastward toward the long grey straits, and died 

Into the dark, beyond the utmost verge. 



ELIZABETH GOSTUYCKE ROBERTS. 

A SECRET SONG. 

OH Snow-bird, Snow-bird ! 

Welcome thy note when maple boughs are bare ; 

Thy merry twitter, thy emphatic call 
Like silver trumpets pierce the freezing air 

What time the radiant flakes begin to fall. 
We know thy secret ! When the day grows dim, 

Far from the homes that thou hast cheered so long, 
Thy chirping changes to a twilight hymn ! 

Oh Snow-bird, Snow-bird, wherefor hide thy song ? 

Oh Snow-bird, Snow-bird ! 

Is it a song of sorrow none may know, 

An aching memory ? Nay, too glad the note ; 
Untouched by knowledge of our human woe 

Clearly thy crystal flutings fall and float. 
We hear thy tender ecstasy, and cry : 

" Lend us thy gladness that can brave the chill 
Under the splendours of the winter sky, 

Oh Snow-bird, Snow-bird, carol to us still ! 



622 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

THE KEV. F. G. SCOTT. 

[Born 1861.] 

TIME. 

I SAW Time in his workshop carving faces ; 
Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs, 
Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs 

Of light and shade ; sorrows that smooth the traces 

Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces 
His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground 
And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round; 

The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces. 

Long time I stood and watched, with hideous grin 
He took each heedless face between his knees, 
And graved and scarred and bleached with boiling 
tears. 

I wondering turned to go, when, lo! my skin 
Feels crumpled, and in glass my own face sees 
Itself all changed, scared, careworn, white with years. 



KNOWLEDGE. 

THEY were Islanders, our fathers were, 

And they watched the encircling seas, 
And their hearts drank in the ceaseless stir, 

And the freedom of the breeze ; 
Till they chafed at their narrow bounds 

And longed for the sweep of the main, 
And they fretted and fumed like hounds 

Held in within sight of the plain, 
And the play 
And the prey. 

So they built them ships of wood, and sailed 

To many an unknown coast; 
They braved the storm and battles hailed, 

And danger they loved most ; 



THE REV. F. G. SCOTT, 623 

Till the tiny ships of wood 

Grew powerful on the globe, 
And the new-found lands for good 
They wrapped in a wondrous robe 
Of bold design, 
Our brave ensign. 

And islanders yet in a way are we, 

Our knowledge is still confined, 
And we hear the roar of encircling sea 

To be crossed in the ship of the mind; 
And we dream of lands afar, 

Unknown, unconquered yet, 
And we chafe at the bounds there are, 

And our spirits fume and fret 
For the prize 
Of the wise. 

But we ll never do aught, I know, unless 

We are brave as our sires of old, 
And face like them the bitterness 

Of the battle and storm and cold; 
Unless we boldly stand, 

When men would hold us back, 
With the helm-board in our hand, 

And our eyes to the shining track 
Of what may be 
Beyond the sea. 

There are rocks out there in that wide, wide sea, 

Neath many a darkling stream, 
And souls that once sailed out bold and free 

Have been carried away in a dream; 
For they never came back again 

On the deeps the ships were lost; 
But in spite of the danger and pain, 

The ocean has still to be crossed, 
And only they do 
Who are brave and true. 



624 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

BRITISH WAR SONG. 

" WARS and rumours of wars " the clouds lower over the 

sea, 

And a man must now be a man, if ever a man can be; 
"Wars and rumours of wars" a cry from the naming 

East, 
For the vultures are gathered together, and the lions 

roar over the feast : 

War ! Shall we flinch ! Shall we tremble ! Shall we 

shrink like cowards from the fray 1 
Better all Britons were dead than their glory passed 

away ! 
The clouds may be dark and lowering, the storm may be 

loud and long, 
But the hearts of our men are true, and the arms of our 

men are strong. 

From the thousand years of glory, from the grave of 

heroes gone, 
Comes a voice on the breath of the storm, and a power 

to spur us on : 

A man must now be a man, and every man be true, 
For the grave that covers our glory shall cover each 

Briton too. 



ESTRANGEMENT. 

Do you remember how, one autumn night, 

We sat upon the rocks and watched the sea 
In dreamlike silence, while the moonlight fell 
On you and me 1 

How, as we lingered musing, side by side, 

A cold, white mist crept down and hid the sea 
And dimmed the moon, and how the air grew chill 
Hound you and me? 






PHILLIPS STEWART. 625 

The mist and chill of that drear autumn night, 

When we sat silent looking on the sea, 
I often think has never passed away 
From you and me. 



PHILLIPS STEWART. 

[Born 1863.] 

HOPE. 

IN shadowy calm the boat 
Sleeps by the dreaming oar ; 

The green hills are afloat 
Beside the silver shore. 

Youth hoists the white winged sail, 
Love takes the longing oar 

The oft-told fairy tale 
Beside the silver shore. 

Soft lip to lip, and heart 
To heart, and hand to hand, 

And wistful eyes, depart 
Unto another strand. 

And lovely as a star 

They tremble o er the wave, 
With eager wings afar, 

Unto the joys they crave. 

In a sweet trance they fare 
Unto the wind and rain, 

With wind-tossed waves of hair, 
And ne er return again. 

And at the drifting side 
Changed faces in the deep 

They see, and changing tide, 
Like phantoms in a sleep. 



626 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Slow hands furl the torn sail 
Without one silver gleam, 

And, sad and wan and pale, 
They gaze into a dream. 



ALONE. 

THE fire flits on the walls 
And glitters on the pane : 

To Memory recalls 
The happy past again. 
I sit alone. 

A tender dreamful light 
O ercasts the fading green; 

Amid the leaves sad flight 
And Autumn s golden sheen, 
I roam alone. 

Alas, the wild winds sweep 
O er Winter s bosom white, 

Like moans of restless sleep, 
Or hollow sounds of night. 
I sigh alone. 

The hyacinth doth peep 

And spring-time lilies bloom 

O er dearest ones asleep 

Within the dreamless tomb. 
I weep alone. 

The distant church-bell sounds 
O er fragrant meadows broad 

And silent sleepers mounds; 
All pass to worship God 
I walk alone. 



BARR Y STRA TON. 627 

Soft doth the music steal 

Out o er the flowering sod ; 
No grief these sleepers feel 

For evermore. O God, 
I am alone. 



AT SEA. 

UPON the shore stood friends, 
Who gazed upon the barque and little crew 
Till all had faded in the golden west, 
And darkness settled on the lonely sea. 
Then whispered they, with voices low and sad, 

" Will they return to vine-clad Spain, their home, 
Or perish in some far-off clime alone 1 " 
Far o er the sea the little vessel passe;! 
Till all grew tired of the moaning waves, 
And at the dismal creaking of the masts, 
The hollow beating of the sails ; they turned 
Their lonuing eyes far o er the restless sea, 
And thought of home, and friends, and vine-clad Spain. 
In dreams the tender voice of Philomel 
Their souls did soothe, and wandered neath the moon 
With love-lit eyes, fair maids, whose silvery laugh 
Stole o er the slumbering sense like music sweet. 



BARRY STRATON. 

THE ROBIN S MADRIGAL. 

SANG a robin on a morn, 

Joying in the growing light ; 

To my soul the notes were born, 

And my soul could read them right. 

This is what the robin said 
In the elm overhead 



628 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

" Haste from southern sultry skies, 

Sweet love ! Pretty love ! 
Here a fairer summer lies, 

Sweet love ! Pretty love ! 
Wintry gloom has passed away 

Soon shall burst in bloom the May. 
Soon shall we love s summer prove, 

Bright, with happy skies above, 
Love s long holiday. 

Winter tarries not for long, 

Sweet love ! Pretty love ! 
Hope than doubt is far more strong, 

Sweet love ! Pretty love ! 
Here within the scented shade 

Shall a bonnie home be made; 
Here my songs shall cherish thee, 

Here our love shall constant be, 
And not long delayed." 

Thus the robin sang his lay 

On the budding bough above, 
Joyous of the coming May 

When pink blossoms wake to love 
Thus my heart the livelong day, 

Sweet love ! Pretty love ! 
Sings for thee this springtide gay, 

Love s long holiday. 



FROM THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE. 

I KNOW the secrets of thy streams, 
The dusky entrances which lead 
To quiet haunts, where herons feed, 
Where daylight pauses, sleeps and dreams. 
Within this circling woodland mere 
The swollen spring-tide swamps the grass 



ARTHUR WEIR. 629 

Save where the scattered hummocks rise, 
And over fields in harvest bare 
The waters eddy everywhere, 
And little mist-puffs pause or pass 
Like cloudlets in thy mirrored skies, 
Here where the sunken weed-mesh parts, 
Wax- white lilies and golden hearts 
Sleep on the stream, fair spirits, they, 
Of wooing beams that, on a day, 
Sighed through the maple boughs above, 
And died upon thy breast for love ! 

This is the utter lust of sight 
This scene of land and water wed 
Lit by the morning s sloping light, 
Through shifting screens of alders shed, 
And mingling boughs of arching trees, 
Which rather hush than voice the breeze. 
The lisping ripples in the reeds, 
The heron s foot-fall in the flood, 
These, only, mar the quietude, 
Save when a brown bee homeward speeds 
Or darting, gleaming fishes rise 
To feed on circling gnats and flies 
Made slumbery by the solitude. 



ARTHUR WEIR. 

[Born 1864.] 

L ORDRE DE BON TEMPS. 

WHEN Champlain with his faithful band 

Came o er the stormy wave 
To dwell within this lonely land, 

Their hearts were blithe as brave ; 
And winter, by their mirth beguiled, 

Forgot his sterner mood, 



630 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

As by the prattling of a child 
A churl may be subdued. 

Among the company there came 

A dozen youths of rank, 
Who in their eager search for fame 

From no adventure shrank ; 
But, with the lightness of their race 

That hardship laughs to scorn, 
Pursued the pleasures of the chase 

Till night from early morn. 

And soon their leader, full of mirth, 

And politic withal 
Well knowing that no spot on earth 

Could hold them long in thrall, 
Unless into their company, 

Its duties and its sport, 
Were introduced the pageantry 

And etiquette of court 

Enrolled them in a titled band, 

L ordre de bon Temps, named 
First Knighthood s grade for which this land 

Of Canada is famed. 
Each one in turn Grand Master was 

At close of day released 
His duty to maintain the laws, 

And furnish forth a feast. 

Filled with a pardonable pride 

In nobles wont to dwell, 
Each with his predecessor vied 

In bounty to excel, 
And thus it was the festive board 

With beaver, otter-, deer, 
And fish and fowl was richly stored, 

Throughout the changing year. 

t 
At mid-day for our Sires of old 

Dined when the sun was high 



ARTHUR WEIR. 631 

To where the cloth was spread, behold 

These merry youths draw nigh, 
Each bearing on a massy tray 

Some dainty for the feast, 
While the Grand Master leads the way, 

Festivity s high priest ! 

Then seated round the banquet board, 

Afar from friends and home, 
They drank from goblets freely poured 

To happier days to come. 
And once again, in story, shone 

The sun, that erst in France 
Was wont, in days long past and gone, 

Amid the vines to dance. 

Still later, when the sun had set, 

And round the fire they drew 
To sing, or tell a tale ere yet 

Too old the evening grew, 
He who had ruled them for the day 

His sceptre did resign, 
And drink to his successor s sway 

A brimming cup of wine. 



AT RAINBOW LAKE. 

THERE is a spot, far from the world s uproar, 

Amid great mountains, 
Where softly sleeps a lake, to whose still shore 

Steal silvery fountains, 
That hide beneath the leafy underwood, 
And blend their voices with the solitude. 

Save where the beaver-meadow s olive sheen 

In sunlight glimmers, 
On every side, a mass of weaving green, 

The forest shimmers 

And oft re-echoes with the black bear s tread, 
That silences the song birds overhead. 



632 YOUNGER CANADIAN POETS. 

Here thickly droops the moss from patriarch trees, 

And loons fly wailing. 
Here king-bird s screams come hoarsely down the breeze, 

And hawks are sailing 

Above the trees. Here Nature dwells alone, 
Of man unknowing, and to man unknown. 

Smiling, she rises when the morning air, 

The dawn just breaking, 
Bids the still woodlands for the day prepare, 

And Life, awaking, 

Welcomes the sun, whose bride, the morn, is kissed 
And, blushing, lays aside her veil of mist. 

Here Nature with each passing hour reveals 

Peculiar graces : 
At noonday she grows languid, and then steals 

To shady places. 

And revels in their coolness, at her feet 
A stream, that fills with music her retreat. 

At eve she comes, and, blushing like a maid, 

Unrobes in shadows, 
Bathes in the lake, and wanders through the glade 

And o er the meadows. 

From her dank locks, wherever she doth pass, 
The diamond dew-drops dripping to the grass. 

And then she sleeps ; when o er the lake s calm tide 

The moon comes stealing, 
And draws from her the veil of night aside, 

Her charms revealing, 

While silent stars keep ceaseless watch above, 
And all the earth breathes peace and rest and love. 



IN ABSENCE. 

SLEEP, dearest, sleep beside the murmuring sea ; 
Sleep, dearest, sleep, and bright dreams compass thee. 



ARTHUR WEIR. 633 

My sleepless thoughts a guard of love shall be 
Around thy couch and bid thee dream of me. 
Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep. 

Sleep, dearest, sleep, the slumber of the pure ; 
Sleep, dearest, sleep, in angels care secure. 
Evil itself thy beauty would allure 
To cease from ill and make thy joyance sure. 
Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep. 

Sleep, dearest, sleep ; in slumber thou art mine ; 
Sleep, dearest, sleep ; our souls still intertwine. 
Yon radiant star that on thy couch doth shine 
Bears from my lips a kiss to lay on thine. 

Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep. 



APPENDIX I. 



MRS TURNBULL S study of Lanier will be better appreciated 
by the light of the following data summarised from President 
Gates s paper : 

Sidney Lanier was descended from a Huguenot family, 
whose earlier members were famous at the court of the 
Stuarts for their gifts of music and love of art, transplanted 
to Virginia in 1716. Born at Macon, Georgia, in 1842, Sidney 
early showed a passionate fondness for music and wonder 
ful powers as a musician. 

At fourteen he entered Oglethorpe College as a sopho 
more, graduated in 1860, and held the position of tutor at 
the college until the outbreak of the rebellion. The first 
call to arms, in April, 1861, found him marching toward 
Virginia with the first regiment that left his State. He 
and his dearly loved younger brother, Clifford, enlisted as 
privates. They were tent companions, and three times 
Sidney declined promotion because it would have rendered 
necessary their separation. 

After three campaigns together they were at last separ 
ated, and each was placed in command of a privateer. 
Captured in an attempt to run the blockade, Sidney was for 
five months a prisoner at Point Lookout. His flute, his 
inseparable companion in his army life, he had slipped up 
his sleeve as he entered the prison ; and with it the boy 
prisoner made many friends. 

His prison experience is recorded in his only novel, Tiger 
Lilies, written and sent to the press within three weeks, in 
1867 a story now out of print, but described as " luxuriant, 
unpruned, yet giving rich promise of the poet," abounding in 
evidences of a fertile imagination and of high ideals of art. 

Released from prison a few days before Lee surrendered, 



636 APPENDIX I. 

he reached home, emaciated and feeble, only in time to 
witness his mother s death from consumption. Congestion 
of the lungs seized on him then, and he never afterward 
knew vigorous health. Indeed, from this time his life was 
a prolonged struggle with consumption. 

For two years he faithfully discharged the humble duties of 
clerk in a shop, at Montgomery, Alabama. In 1867 he became 
principal of an academy at Prattville, and a few weeks later 
he married Miss Mary Day. The marriage was a most con 
genial one. 

Before the first year of his married life had passed, a 
violent haemorrhage from the lungs forced him to give up 
his position as principal of the school of Prattville. Yielding 
to the wishes of his father, a lawyer who still practises at 
Macon, Georgia, he settled at that place, and for five years 
studied and practised law. The spring and summer of 1870 
brought an alarming decline and a distressing cough. Most 
pronounced symptoms of consumption, in 1872, drove him to 
New York for medical assistance, and later to Texas for a 
change of air. 

In December 1873 he found in Baltimore the opportunities 
for broader study which he desired ; and, after the fullest 
deliberation in that correspondence with his father of which 
we have seen a part, he began a life of systematic study, 
supporting himself meantime by filling the place of first 
flute for the Peabody Symphony Concerts. It was a 
courageous struggle, this long-continued effort to support his 
wife and children with pen and flute by such work as he 
had strength to do between frequent haemorrhages. 

At Baltimore he went in for an eager and enthusiastic 
course of study in Anglo-Saxon and in English literature. 
These might be styled his professional studies, since they 
were intimately connected with his own improvement in his 
chosen art, poetry. But he also read eagerly along lines of 
natural science, philology, metaphysics, and art. He 
sought to make himself the full man, whose mind should be 
stored with well-ordered knowledge of all that concerned his 
time. He saw clearly what so many poetasters seem never 
to suspect, that a great poet must know first of all. In his 
marsh songs there is evidence of a breadth of scientific 
thought that is cosmic in its far-reaching sweep and in its 
suggestions of orderly power and unchanging relations, alike 
in the natural and in the spiritual world. No poet of our 
time, unless it be Tennyson, has written verse which is at 
once so instinct with poetic beauty and fire, and so crowded 



APPENDIX L 637 

with suggestions of the scientific theories of our time. These 
poems demand and repay careful study. They breathe the 
keenest delight in Nature, and yet inanimate Nature and 
human life are at one in them, not because the poet s moods 
are mirrored in Nature, not because he has formally re 
solved to see human life in symbols, but because soul life 
is to him so emphatically the source and the support of all 
life that the growths and phases of Nature are not only 
interpreters of spiritual and aesthetic truth, but naturally and 
spontaneously speak that language and share in and express 
that life. 

The years from 1873 to 1876 he spent in Baltimore, alone, 
his family remaining in the South. His flute and his pen 
supported them. 

The fact that Lanier had been in the Confederate army 
lent an especial propriety to Bayard Taylor s suggestion that 
he be chosen to write the words for the cantata at the open 
ing of the Centennial Celebration at Philadelphia, when a 
reunited North and South first learned to know each other 
in peace. 

In the summer of 1876 his family joined him in West 
Chester, Pennsylvania, but symptoms so alarming followed a 
severe cold that his physicians warned him that he could not 
live until spring unless he sought a warmer climate. The 
winter of 1877 was passed in Florida. 

His devoted study of English literature, continued through 
all these years, now bore fruit in a course of lectures upon 
Elizabethan verse, delivered to a parlour class of thirty 
ladies. The warm praise which these lectures received led 
to a more ambitious course upon Shakespeare. The lovers 
of art and letters in Baltimore rallied to the support of these 
lectures with something of that generous desire to aid 
struggling genius, mingled with a willingness to be known 
as the discerning early patrons of a nascent reputation, 
which marked Carlyle s first lecture courses in London. The 
undertaking was much talked of, and the lecturer received 
unlimited encomiums ; but the course was so managed that 
it yielded little or no money to the needy poet. 

It had one result that was most welcome to him, however. 
President Gilman was led by it to offer to Lanier a lecture 
ship on English literature in Johns Hopkins University. The 
official notification of his appointment reached him on his 
birthday, in 1879, and brought with it the assurance of 
a fixed income, however small, for the first time since his 
marriage twelve years before. 

2T 



6 3 s APPENDIX /. 

This welcome recognition of his literary powers found the 
poet exhausted by another haemorrhage, his body so enfeebled 
that it could not hold prisoner for a much longer time the 
rare soul that had so valiantly struggled against adversity. 
Still in his feebleness he did the full work of a strong man. 
Occasional poems were printed, beautiful and carefully 
finished. Within six weeks, in the summer of 1879, he wrote 
The Science of English Verse, a volume which in itself merits 
an essay. Beyond question the English language contains 
DO other such suggestive, artistic, yet scientific analysis of 
the " formal element in poetry," of the effects of vowel and 
consonant sequences, and of the acoustic basis and the 
capabilities of the differing rhythms and measures in poetic 
composition. 

And now, while the last clear flames of his life are burning 
out in song and in poetic prose so perfect that we can 
scarcely credit the record of the bodily weakness in which 
such work was done, let us turn from the history of the 
poet s life to note some characteristics of his poetry. 

With Lanier man and personality and will are so intensely 
real, and so constantly underlie his thought, that his most 
beautiful descriptions of Nature take the form of successive 
personifications, and Nature, beautiful as she is, becomes 
only the antithesis which gives a sharper emphasis to man s 
power of self-direction, self-determination, personality; and 
personality is so supremely the all-important fact in the 
universe that all animate and inanimate objects come into 
the scope of his vision personified and related to himself. 

His sense of beauty and his heart of love fill him with 
a passionate tenderness toward all that is beautiful in Nature. 
He shows again and again an overmastering love of broad, 
free spaces the marshes, the sea, the night sky. 

" Oh, is it not to widen man, stretches the sea? " 

And he has the gift of setting all his work at times in such 
wide, cosmic views of Nature as flash upon the reader broad 
generalisations and far-reaching relations whose radiant 
luminousness has been compressed into a phrase or a 
verse. 

Beyond any other poet Lanier shows a love for plant life 
and trees. Does he love them because they live and grow, 
yet never make capricious or wilful choice of evil, but grow 
steadily to their appointed form, breathing out a quiet 
beauty ? 

" To company with large, amiable trees " 



APPENDIX I. 639 

was a delight and a necessity with him. Early and late he 
sought them. 

" In my sleep, I was fain of their fellowship, fain 

Of the live-oaks, the marsh and the main ; 
The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep. 

I have come ere the dawn, beloved, my live-oaks, to hide 
In your gospelling glooms." 

Again and again the praise of trees and of forests recurs 
in his verse, like the delicious veins of rich, penetrating 
forest odours that cross your pathway in mountain travel, 
lending an added charm to the beauty of the scenery. 

"The wood-smells, that swiftly but now brought breath 
From the heaven-side bank of the river of death." 

Here is the secret of the charm of a sunset forest scene 
caught in a couplet : 

"And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream." 

He speaks of 

" Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire, 
Wildwood privacies closets of lone desire." 

"Pure with the sense of the passing of saints thro the wood 
Cool, for the dutiful weighing of ill with good" 

The presence of trees was a ministration to his soul. He 
sought the forest for refreshment as a lover seeks the sight 
of his lady s face. It is as if his soul in some pre-existent 
state had plighted troth with a hamadryad ! Hear him as 
he lifts the curtain of moss and slips in among the live oaks, 
away from carking cares : 

"So, 

Affable live-oak, leaning low 
Thus, with your favour soft, with a reverent hand, 
Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the Land, 
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
On the firm-packed sand, 
Free." 

And the passionate purity of his forest thoughts is seen in 
such lines as these : 

"To loiter down lone alleys of delight, 
And hear the beating of the hearts of trees, 
And think the thoughts that lilies speak in white 
By green wood-pools and pleasant passages." 

Here is a picture of the oak colonnades of a grove : 

"Between 

Old companies of oaks that inward lean 
To join iheir radiant amplitudes of green." 



640 APPENDIX L 

But it is the soothing yet inspiring companionship of trees 
that is his favourite note : 

" For love, the dear wood s sympathies, 
For grief, the wise wood s peace." 

This ministration of trees to a mind and heart "forespent 
with shame and grief" finds its culmination in the pathetic 
lines upon that olive garden near Jerusalem, which to those 
of us who have sat within its shade must always seem the 
most sacred spot on earth. The almost mystic exaltation 
of the power of poetic sympathy which characterizes the 
lines "Into the Wood my Master went" may impair their 
religious effect for many devout souls. But to many others 
this short poem will express most wonderfully that essential 
human-heartedness in the Son of Man, our Divine Saviour, 
which made Him one with us in His need of the quiet, 
sympathetic ministrations of Nature perhaps the heart of 
the reason why this olive grove was " the place where He 
was wont to go " for prayer. 

You have noticed the difference between the confused 
masses of indistinct shadow which the gaslight throws upon 
the city pavements from the leafy branches of intervening 
trees, and the crisp, photographic distinctness of the shadow 
pictures of leaf and twig and moving branch cast at your 
feet by the incandescent electric light shadows in which 
each individual leaf, its shape, its transparency or opacity, 
and the angle which its plane makes with the rays of light 
and with the pavement, is exactly written ? As wide as this 
difference is that between the vague, general terms in which 
most other poets write of trees (where they write of them at 
all) and the loving delineation of the minutest peculiarities 
of tree life and leaf life which this ardent lover of trees gives 
us again and again. The long list of living growths for 
which " the flute " speaks in the " Symphony " might almost 
serve as the classed catalogue of the botanist, so full is it ; 
yet see how it breathes with the poet s love for that of 
which he writes : 

" I speak for each no-tongued tree 
That Spring by Spring doth nobler be, 
And dumbly and most wistfully 
His mighty prayerful arms outspreads 
Above men s oft-unheeding heads, 
And bis big blessing downward sheds. 
I speak for all shaped blooms and leaves, 
Lichens on stones, and moss on eaves, 
Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves, 
Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes, 
And briery mazes bounding lanes, 



APPENDIX I. 641 

And marsh-plants, thirsty cupped for rains, 
And milky stems and sugary veins. 
For every long-armed, woman-vine 
That round a piteous tree doth twine; 
For passionate odours, and divine 
Pistils, and petals crystalline; 
All purities of shady springs, 
All shynesses of film-winged things 
That fly from tree-trunks and bark-rings ; 
All gracious curves of slender wings, 
Bark-mottlings, flbre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings and leaf flickerings, 
Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell 
Wherewith in every lonesone dell 
Time to himself his hours doth tell." 

It is the blending of the " conception of love as the organic 
idea of moral order " with an austerity of purity, an intense 
white-heat of admiring devotion to holiness and truth, which 
makes Lanier the apostle of beauty and holiness in the history 
of American art and letters. 

His conception of the function, the "mission" of the artist 
we need not infer from mere allusions. He distinctly formul 
ates it in more than one of his poems, as well as in his prose 
writings. In Individuality the cloud (which, "still-eyed and 
shadow-browed, steals off from yon far-drifting crowd," "And 
comes and broocls upon the marsh ") is arraigned by the poet 
for " contempts on Mercy, Right, and Prayer," because but 
yesterday 

" Thy lightning slew a child at play, 
And then a priest with prayers upon his lips 
For his enemies, and then a bright 
Lady that did but ope the door 

Upon the storming night 
To let a beggar in," etc. 

"What myriad righteous errands high 
Thy flames might run on ! " 

To which the cloud makes answer : 

"What the cloud doeth 
The Lord knoweth, 
The cloud knoweth not. 
What the artist doeth 
The Lord knoweth; 
Knoweth the artist not ? " 

" Awful is art, because tis free. 

The artist trembles o er his plan 
Where men his s^elf must see ; 
Who made a song or picture, he 
Did it, and not another, God or man." 

" Each artist, gift of terror, owns his will." 



642 APPENDIX L 

Not Arthur s Difference between Phj/sical and Moral Law, not 
Hazard s Man a Creative First Cause, is more explicit in its 
doctrine of responsibility. This Puritan-like sense of man s 
accountability, " as ever in the Great Task-Master s eye," 
pervades his poems. And in particular upon the artist 
Lanier lays the heaviest responsibility for the right use of 
the great gifts entrusted to him. The thought of artists as 

" harps that stand 
In the wind, and sound the wind s command," 

breathing out, irresponsibly, a strain in praise of good or ill, 
is repellent to his soul. The true keynote and master-tone 
is the holiness of beauty. With this all a man s words and 
deeds should be in harmony. And neither in artists nor in 
common men can he tolerate that clanging, discordant 
looseness of tone which inevitably follows the surrender or 
the forgetting of responsibility, of personal allegiance to 
ethical law. 

Lanier was pre-eminently a musician in his art. In his 
literary criticism there is abundant use of the " imagery " of 
music "notes" and "tones" and "melodies" and "har 
monies " and " tone-colours " are his natural language. He 
believed, too, that 

" Music, on earth, much light upon heaven had thrown ; " 

and his most helpful views of the future of men on earth, as 
well as his most inspiring outlooks into the heavenly distances 
and the vast futurities of the soul, are most frequently given 
in terms of music. Lanier had no sympathy with the poet- 
friend who objected to any theory of verse, and said, "As for 
me, I would rather continue to write verse from poetic in 
stinct." To him Lanier quotes Ben Jonson s lines eulogising 
the knowledge and trained skill with which Shakespeare 
" shakes a lance at ignorance." 

His volumes of prose are invaluable for students, because 
they incessantly demand of the reader and the would-be poet 
that he study, learn, acquire. " The trouble with Poe was, 
he did not know enough," says Lanier. " He needed to know 
a good many more things in order to be a great poet." And 
to young poets : " You need not dream of winning the atten 
tion of sober people with your poetry unless that poetry and 
your soul behind it are informed and saturated with at least 
the largest final conceptions of current science." " Once for 
all, in art, to be free is not to be independent of any form ; 
it is to be master of many forms." 



APPENDIX I. 643 

He was possessed by the deepest conviction that the beauty 
of the art of poetry, like all other beauty, had its foundation 
in law. So dominant was this conviction that, publishing 
but little, he held all his powers of expression in reserve 
until by intense study he could formulate a scientific theory 
of the art of verse, under which he could be free (for freedom 
is possible only by voluntary conformity to law) free to 
work freely " for time, not for the day." The Science of 
English Verse gives us the result of these studies. It deserves 
a fuller criticism than is possible in this article. Its central 
inspiring idea is to be inferred from that sentence of Dante s 
which Lanier inscribed upon its title-page : " But the best 
conceptions cannot be, save where science and genius are." 

His wealth of imagination ; his fine powers of poetic con 
ception ; his skill and art in the coining of happy phrases ; 
his " deft marshalling " of vowels and consonants ; his con 
stantly increasing mastery of the forms of verse ; his union 
of close study and broad reading with deep poetic insight, 
the finest flushes of poetic feeling, and the most daring free 
dom in the use of passionate, thought-laden outbursts of 
expression ; his quick, full, and unvarying reliance upon 
intuition and the intuitive perception of great truth as the 
poet s supremest gift, at the moment when 

" Belief overmasters doubt, and 1 know 
That I know : " 

all these mark him as a great poet. 

We left the poet just made happy in his illness by his 
appointment on his thirty-eighth birthday, in 1879, to a 
lectureship on English literature at the Johns Hopkins 
University. Let us follow him hurriedly through the two 
years of life left to him. 

It was in May 1880 that the final fever fell upon him. 
After that date he lived only because soul and will triumphed 
over a body that, but for their transcendent power, must 
have yielded at once to disease. A summer in the open air 
at West Chester prolonged his life, and the autumn time saw 
him again in Baltimore, his wife and children about him. In 
December all hope was abandoned ; but he rallied, and in 
February he delivered his second course of lectures at the 
University, since published as the Development of the English 
Novel, a most delightful and thoughtful volume, already 
recognised as a classic. 

It was in December of this winter, when too feeble to 
raise food to his mouth, with a fever temperature of 104 de- 



644 APPENDIX L 

grees, that he pencilled that glorious outburst of poetic life 
and fire, " Sunrise on the Marshes," his greatest poem. He 
seemed to fear that his soul might lose its feeble servant, the 
body, before this message from the world of beauty, where 
that soul already floated far above pain and suffering, could 
be left on record that other men might by it be uplifted. 

As soon as the return of spring would allow a change, 
they bore the dying poet to the Carolinas, as a last hope, to 
try the effect of tent life in a milder climate. His brother 
Clifford became once more his tent companion, as in the days 
of their army life. Laid thus close to the bosom of mother- 
earth, breathed upon day and night by her soft mother- 
breath, he lingered yet a little while he even seemed to 
rally back toward strength. 

His brother, summoned suddenly by important business, 
left him, in hope of seeing him again, so marked had been 
the improvement. But in September 1881, alone with his 
wife, as they would have chosen to meet the inevitable, his 
eyes closed on this world. 



APPENDIX II 



SIDNEY LANIER. 

A STUDY. 



ALL that is strongest and truest in poetry is an inspiration ; 
that is, it holds within itself a thought or a teaching not con 
sciously created, nor even mastered, in its inception by the 
mind that brought it forth, but susceptible of growth and 
further illumination even to the poet himself who was the 
chosen instrument of his message. Thus all true poets must 
have moments when they are also seers, as in the olden time 
they were denominated; they must have visions perchance 
at the time not fully comprehended wherein somewhat is 
revealed to them which they must transmit. 

Thus our poet cries out as he wanders at night among 
the thousand voices of Nature, which bring him vague 
promises of revelations long sought mysterious hints border 
ing on knowledge, 

" So ye have wrought me 

Designs on the night of our knowledge, yea, ye have taught me 
So that haply we know somewhat more than we know." 

To such moments of inspiration we owe our noblest poems. 
Wordsworth was surely lifted out of himself when he wrote 
his matchless ode. And Tennyson s In Memoriam unfolds 
new treasures to the loving seeker each time that he 
brings to it the perplexities bred of the thought of the age. 
Perchance the spirit of the gifted friend, whose threnody it 
is, ministered to him, and brought him from that world 
which knows not Time, an inspiration reaching out beyond 



646 APPENDIX II. 

the time in which he wrote, and pertaining to things whicli 
his own spirit, unaided, had not attained to. For never 
again, when his fame had reached its height, could he mete 
out such strong help to the questionings that brooded over 
the intellectual atmosphere like an ever-increasing mist of 
sadness. For maturity of thought, for nobility of conduct, 
for insight into things spiritual, for solvents to questions 
scarce yet propounded, these inspirations of the years of his 
youth were never again reached. In them he was indeed 
greater than he knew. 

So Browning has caught for us out of these God-given 
moments glimpses of duty, of human hopes and possibilities, 
of earthly love, of God s love, of the eternal hope, and of 
immortality, filled with a strength and depth greater perhaps 
than he himself has dreamed, and lifted purely beyond the 
mannerisms, didacticisms, and wilful obscurities which belittle 
too much that has come from his sinewey yet often roughly 
handled pen. Sometimes that fine spirit he so tenderly 
invokes may " lean from the holier blue " to inform his words 
with " new depths of the Divine." For it is noticeable how 
often the manner of the sterner poet takes on the grace and 
flow of the wife s method, as he apostrophises her. But all in 
spiration, though we may not trace the manner of its revela 
tion, is a veritable effluence from the invisible world ; and 
because there are moods of reception, as well as of creation, we 
who read or listen shall gather more if we recall this 
admonition of the deep and soulful singer who, recognising 
the Divine voice, " through all the pulses of the universe/ 
cried, " Hearken, hearken, God speaketh in thy soul ! " 

How blessed are those to whom it is given, even in the 
least degree, to be an inspiration for others, through their 
words, their writings, their aims, or that noble bearing of 
pain, thwarting or misconception, which often crowns some 
life that is very lowly in the eyes of men with a dignity that 
is royal to the angels, who weigh our loftiness and littleness 
with heavenly measures. Such moods, in life or thought, are 
not continuous, or we should be angels and not men ; but if 
a writer at his highest moments lias uttered anything that 
inspires, we may well feel, not that we should blindly admire 
everything that comes from his pen, but that the passages 
which attract us less are worthy of examination in a fair and 
seeking spirit, and in the light of the artist s personality. 

There are some poets whom we read for beauty alone, and 
whom upon moral grounds we should discard ; they having 
the form of poetry without its soul, have neither claim to the 



. 

C7NIVI 



APPENDIX II. 

name of seer nor to our reverent study; when they cease to 
attract, we may pass them by. But while perfect poetry, 
the finest and most elevating of all the arts, demands perfect 
art form no form, however exquisite, may take the place 
of that inward beauty and meaning which alone can give 
any creation a real hold upon life and immortality. As 
Lanier himself says, in words that have been often quoted as 
showing the determining characteristics of his own life and 
work, " He, in short, who has not come to that stage of quiet 
and eternal frenzy in which the beauty of holiness and the 
holiness of beauty mean one thing, burn as one fire, shine as 
one light within him he is not yet the great artist" 
(the meaning of his " quiet and eternal frenzy " being well 
interpreted by Professor Seely s thought, "Nothing is pure 
that is not passionate"). And in the same paragraph he 
tells us, "Time, whose judgments are inexorably moral, will 
not accept his work." 

Avowing such a purpose as the holiness of beauty and the 
beauty of holiness in an age which is either over-practical 
or too tolerant of sestheticism without questioning its 
tendencies fashioning his own ways upon the high ideal he 
had conceived of a poet s life (believing that he should first 
be a poet before he could sing and teach), it was said of him 
by a critic, when he passed away, that he was " his own best 
poem." With a strong and reverent faith in human nature, 
yet a prophet s keen denunciation of its littlenesses ; with 
an unflinching belief in the overmastering, immortal love 
which shall surely right the seeming wrongs of life this 
faith kept his presence radiating sunshine, even in that last 
winter when the shadows of death were closing about him, 
and the last cruel sacrifice the surrender of an elaborately 
wrought scheme of literary work which was to have left his 
message with mankind was kept at bay with a hope 
almost as naive as a child s, in the face of the ceaseless, con 
suming fever and the pitiless, growing bodily weakness. 

Coming late to the art life for which he knew himself 
created, he was an indomitable student and worker, a knight 
full of the grace and chivalry of the olden time, yet abreast 
of the culture and science and deepest thought of the new ; 
while he felt the time to be so benumbed by worldly 
wisdom that he would neither practise nor preach it in his 
singularly poetic and unpractical ways, so that he suffered 
much where a prudent garnering of his resources, and more 
thought for details, would have been both nobler and wiser. 
Yet this is a fault more natural and more easily pardoned to 



648 APPENDIX II. 

minds that are truly filled with great aims than to less 
gifted ones ; but partly on this account his recognition was 
less during his lifetime than the world had already accorded 
to many far less richly endowed. 

He left us an unconscious portrait of himself when he 
sketched 

"The Catholic man who hath mightily won 
God out of knowledge, and good out of infinite pain, 
And sight out cf blindness, and purity out of a stain," 

traced further in " My Democrat," whose " height shall be 
the height of great resolution, and love, and faith, and 
beauty, and knowledge, and subtle meditation ; his head 
shall be forever among the stars." 

He showed us his ideal when he painted the Christ 
hurling the money-changers from His temple, and the next 
moment preaching love to them from the steps ; his faith 
that love shall prevail, and light or knowledge shall 
triumph, 

" Howe er thou turn st, wrong earth, still Love s in sight, 
For we are taller than the breadth of night." 

How evils vanish before Love s compassion. "I cannot find 
where ye have found Hell," quoth Love, in the charming fable 
where Mind and Sense would override the gracious Heavenly 
Faith. 

His indignation at the Time-Spirit, in the first sonnet of 
the poem "Acknowledgment." 

" Age that half-believ st thou half-believ st, 
Half doubt st the substance of thine own half-doubt. 

Yea, if the Christ (called thine) now paced yon street, 
Thy halfness hot with His rebuke would swell ; 
Legions of scribes would rise and run and beat 
His fair intolerable Wholeness twice to Hell ! " 

Of the uses of pain s discipline, we find in the poem called 
" Opposition," 

" The dark hath many dear avails; 
The dark distils divinest dews. 

Of fret, of dark, of "thorn, of chill 
Complain no more ; for these, heart, 
Direct the random of the Will, 
As rhymes direct the rage of art." 

Of his reverence for Christ, in that most perfect " Ballad 
of Trees and the Master," and in the " Crystal" less well 
understood, though in intention most full of homage. 



APPENDIX II . 649 

And while he is not properly a religious poet, in the sense 
of making theological expression his aim, his feeling on this 
great question is everywhere traceable, both expressly and 
indirectly, and we have such strong expressions as these, 

" God, whom my roads all reach, howe er they run 
My Father, Friend, Beloved, dear All-One, 



Thee in my soul, my soul in Thee I feel 
Self of myself." 



And for the record of his own last days those who knew 
him in that time may read the touching picture in this 
passage, conceived very early in his poetic career, 

" Yea, standing smiling in thy future grave. 

Serene and brave, 
With unremitting breath 

Inhaling life from death. 
Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent 

Thyself thy monument." 

To be with such a man, in whose presence one was un 
consciously at one s best, with a craving to advance in all 
that was good arid noble, was of itself an inspiration Is 
there no tune in our fast flowing life to gather what 
we may from the poems such a dreamer has left us thinkino- 
as we note how few they are, "Tis not what Man Does 
which exalts him, but what man Would do " ? 

Because of his intimate acquaintance with all that was 
best in the earlier sources of literature, and because, like all 
great word-artists, he was ever seeking to enrich his art 
loth to see anything that was good fall away from remem 
brance, occasional quaintnesses of conceit and expression 
winch may sound fanciful or overstrained to those who 
meet them first m his writings, are remembered by his 
friends as habits of his daily speech, entirely natural to one 
who was in all things true and without affectations, although 
nis aims and methods of thought could not fail to produce 
originalities, or unconventionalities of manner 

For short as was his art life, in it he slightly indicated 
a new school of thought. Loving the beautiful and the 
ideal with an intensity that was never reached by the 
apostle ot sweetness and light, holding with Puritan stern 
ness to nobility of conduct, the sway of conscience and 
absolute truth the extremes of Hebraism and Hellenism 

P U i T J The tlme needs heart ! " he c " ed - The good 
m each should no longer stand opposed ; the two ideas were 
fused by the strong forces of freedom and love, and there 
came forth, large-hearted and large-brained, the spirit of 



650 APPENDIX //. 

catholicity, which might in art terms be named the Neo 
Hellenic Hebraic nourished on all that had been of good 
in all the ages past, and open to all that is and shall be of 
noble in the new. 

We trace this thought in these lines from the 
" Symphony," 

" To follow Time s dying melodies through, 
And never to Jose the old in the new, 
And ever to solve the discords true, 
Love alone can do." 

Keen-visioned as Carlyle for the evils which the stern 
Scotch prophet denounced, his hope in human nature and 
in God s wise lovingness kept him buoyant in the face of 
them ; at one with Arnold in his definition of poetry, " the 
idea of beauty and of a human nature perfect in all its 
sides," his ideal of perfection was broader than Arnold s. 
The joy of the spiritual, the potency of love, the freedom 
which makes the sacredness of art are insisted upon. " Awful 
is art because tis free." His soul pants for freedom as for 
recognition, and at times can find it nowhere save alone 
with Nature, to whom he attributes " precious qualities of 
silence." 

"Oh, if thy soul s at latter gasp for space, 
With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race, 
Just to be followed, when that thou has found 
No man with room or grace enough of bound 
To entertain that New thou tell st, thou art 
Tis here, tis here thou canst unhand thy heart, 
And breathe it free." 

Lanier has a strong faith in the doctrine of individuality, 
strangely opposed to Arnold s jealousy of it, but the catholic 
man cannot forget that mankind is not an entity, but a 
vast collection of separate souls, whose sacred personality he 
would not efface, but encourage and elevate, that each may 
bear his part in the perfection of the whole thus advancing 
by a common loftiness of purpose the holiness and beauty 
of the race. 

" My Lord is large, my Lord is strong; 
Giving He gave; my me is mine." 

The roots of his "All -Centuries Plant" strike deep down 
into Puritan and Huguenot soil, branching out in fair freedom 
in an atmosphere of Greek culture, of Christian civilisation, 
and modern thought, and reaching far up toward heaven, 
with its gracious perfume, to win the Father s blessing. 

Does not the larger spirit of catholicity take one step in 
advance of the spirit of culture (if culture is to be defined 



APPENDIX II. 651 

by Hellenism) in solving the problems of the age ? In full 
sympathy with the needs of the time, not cast down by the 
evils which exist, because of its perfect trust that God s 
love shall ultimately prevail strong through this faith to 
labour and to suffer, it gladly embraces all that is noble 
not only in every system, but in all the souls of whom our 
Father has made one brotherhood. 

Once, before creeds were fashioned, it was recorded by the 
All-Wise One, " her sins which are many are forgiven ; for 
she loved much" And again it is written, " Love is the ful- 
rilling of the law." Love recognises the divine germ in this 
human brotherhood ; love is the atmosphere of catholicity. 

One cannot read Lanier without perceiving that his first 
and deepest passion is for music ; his rhythms, his choice of 
words, his sudden surprises of change or pause, explain 
themselves at once as echoing some melody through which 
the thought sings itself in his soul ; and we know that he has 
simply made choice of word tone, instead of musical notation, 
to convey his meaning. For this reason his poems are best 
interpreted when read aloud. 

No dryad of classic pastoral age ever lay nearer to the 
heart of Nature than did he. 

" Yea, Nature, singing sweet and lone, 
Breathes through life s strident polyphone. 
The flute voice in the world of tone." 

He tells us in his " Symphony," and straightway sounds 
for us a delicious melody of tone and image, all broidered 
close with quaint conceits. Through its freshness and grace 
and passionate Nature love we first learned the heart of the 
poet, before we grew, as in later years, into his friendship ; 
and with what a sense of gratitude we told each other that 
a true poet was among us ! How fair and wonderful and 
voiceful a world lies open to the magic love-touch of one who 
gives thanks for 

" All gracious curves of slender wings, 
Bark-mottlings, flbre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings and leaf-flickerings. 

Yea, all fair forms and sounds and lights, 
And warmths and mysteries and mights 
Of Nature s utmost depths and heights." 

Yet it would be unfair to him to let this Nature passion 
show itself only through these faun -like passages just quoted ; 
a deeper, holier spirit pervaded the forest steps, or awaited 
him by the sea marsh. 



652 APPENDIX IL 

" Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin 
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the Marshes of Glynn. 

"Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, 
Wild-wood privacies, closets of Ion? desire, 
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, 
Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, 
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, 
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good." 

It is difficult not to quote too much in attempting to show 
this passionate and many-sided Nature love, yet one more 
extract under this head may be pardoned to show his 
peculiar power of personification, 

" I have waked, I have come, my beloved, I might not abide ; 
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks to hide 
In your gospelling glooms to be 
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea." 

" Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms. 
Yegconsciences murmuring faiths under forms, 
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves, 
Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves, 
Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me." 

" And there, oh, there 

As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air, 
Pray me a myriad prayer." 

It seems too sacred to be spoken of without intrusion, yet 
it should be told, the perfect, satisfying joy that gladdened 
the home life of this artist, the quick intellectual and 
emotional response that mirrored his thoughts and aims and 
gave them back to him with stereoscopic roundness, the 
upholding influence of this holy love in the dark days which 
taught him the uses of pain. In this, at least, he had his 
heart s desire, and from its fragrance was exhaled that most 
perfect love poem beginning 

" In the heart of the Hills of Life." 

He was so truly a beauty lover, so responsive to every 
upward influence, that what he admired in those of whom he 
wrote soon became a living part of his own character, his 
large generosities in admiration returning quickly to crown 
him. For this reason the tersest and most comprehensive 
characterisation of our poet, although it was an unconscious 
one, is to be drawn from his own words, which continually 
recur to me when I would make him known to others. 
Take, for instance, lines, here and there, from his poem to 
Beethoven, ever his "Dear Master" in music, as was 
Shakespeare in literature, 



APPENDIX II. 653 

"0 Psalmist of the weak, the strong, 
troubadour of love and strife." 

" To know all things save knowingness. 
To grasp, yet loosen feeling s rein ; 
To waste no manhood on success." 

"Though teased by small mixt social claims 
To lose no large simplicity. 
To hold with keen, yet loving eyes, 
Art s realm from cleverness apart, 
To know the clever good and wise, 
Yet haunt the lonesome heights of Art." 

And, finally, he suras up for us, in words how few and 
simple, his theory and love of art life, and his faith. 

" I work in freedom wild, 
But work as plays a little child, 
Sure of the Father, Self and Love alone." 

Perhaps some may say that here are only isolated 
passages, that to concede their beauty or aspiration is merely 
to grant the charm of the special thoughts, and does not 
necessarily prove the value of the poems as a whole ; that, 
therefore, nothing has been said to prove the place that 
Sidney Lanier should occupy among the world s poets. 

Be it so. Even if the limitations of this paper had not 
prevented the critical study of his work from an artistic 
standpoint, for doubtless all art work must bear the tests of 
art before it can be finally adjudged to its proper niche in 
Time s vast Walhalla, it was only the intention of this study 
to place before those who are better qualified as critics his 
oneness of purpose, the peculiar correspondence between his 
individuality and his work, the unusual degree in which he 
himself was fashioned by his ideals, the unfailing loftiness of 
his aspirations, and the uplifting force he was invariably felt to 
possess by those who came near to him. Without such knowledge 
of the man in his wholeness, gained from personal acquaint 
ance, or from those who intimately knew him, it is impossible 
that his work should receive an adequate interpretation. 
With it those critics who are fitted for their office, and who 
feel the sacredness of their responsibility in directing the 
eyes of a seeking world to include all holiness and beauty in 
all art and nature, will surely find a niche for a man who 
lived for " whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are 
lovely, whatsoever things are of good report." 

Whether the Greek standard of art, as applied to the 
intellectual life, shall suffice for our fevered modern time ? 

2 u 



654 APPENDIX 1L 

whether new breadth of thought does not necessitate more 
freedom in form ? whether some forms peculiar to Lanier, 
which were not accidental, but were wrought after his own 
technical Science of Verse, shall stand the tests of time ? 
whether an extraordinary unity of purpose throughout work 
that was finished, and that which was merely sketched, may 
atone for some didacticism, some roughness, or carelessness ? 
these and kindred questions are not for his friends to decide. 
The world must finally ask, " How does Sidney Lanier rank 
as a poet ? How have his own words spoken for him ? " and 
time shall answer, "Time, whose judgments are inexorably 
moral." 

Because of our growing catholicity, of the many moods 
and minds to be ministered to, it is increasingly difficult to 
keep within the lines of criticism we have hitherto felt to 
be fixed ; and new determining principles, allowing larger 
latitude, may possibly be among the changes not far distant. 
As works of transcendent genius in any period are a law 
unto themselves, having power to move the hearts of all 
future ages yet the laws deducible from their being, however 
closely followed in minor works, lack this emotional power 
so must there not be a genius for every period, who shall 
show forth the spirit and needs of his time after a method 
which shall be new for those who judge by what has gone 
before ? 

Just as now we are beginning to allow nay, almost to 
crave an expression indicative of some noble moulding 
emotion in the faces of our marble groups, may not the 
case arise where the question to be asked is, not whether 
the outline is severely classic, but whether the passionate 
emotion flows purely and harmoniously, revealing new lines 
of grace? whether the thought moves us in the direction of 
the tendency for which the artist strives? whether that 
tendency is upward ? 

" There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the 
world, and none of them is without signification. There 
fore, if I know not the meaning of the voice, I shall be to him 
that speaketh a barbarian, and he that speaketh shall be 
a barbarian unto me." 

Would not life be richer in harmonies if we knew the 
meaning of these many kinds of voices ? 

And if a new voice, whose signification is just growing 
clear to us utters not new truth, since truth is one but 
widening aspects of the truth ; and if in the spacious 



APPENDIX II. 655 

temple of art gracious acceptance is granted to this new 
voice, no other voice that has ever added one least grace-note 
to the full psalm of life is less needed than before. In the 
symphony that earth breathes up to heaven there are many 
parts strong chords of wondrous power, sweet choruses of 
lesser voices but no discords of jealousy, for even the painful 
minor strain has its sequence of perfection ; and the spirit 
of catholicity, the glad "Lark of the Dawn" shall teach us 
all lovingly to welcome each tone that makes for harmony 
and light. 

FRANCESE L. TURNBULL. 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



A 


PAGE 


At Last, 


PAGE 

413 






At Odds with Life, 


148 


ABRAHAM Lincoln s 




At Rainbow Lake, 


631 


Christmas Gift, 


455 


At Sea, .... 


627 


Accolade, The, 


384 


At Tappan, 


378 


Actseon, 


615 


Australia, Western, 


193 


Adonais, 


11 


Avalanches, . 


421 


Advice, .... 


511 


Avery, .... 


63 


Affaire d Amour, . 


401 


Awake in Darkness, 


37 


After Death, . . . 


447 






After the Ball, 


449 






After the Storm, . 


409 


B 




Afterward, 


460 






Agatha s Song, 


485 


BABYLON, 


239 


All the Rivers, 


459 


Bacchus, 


339 


Alone, .... 


626 


Ballad of Port Royal, . 


570 


An Afterthought, . 


309 


Ballad of Trees and the 




An Exile, 


204 


Master. . 


142 


Andromeda, . 


239 


Banner of the Jew, The, 


435 


Anniversary Hymn, 


277 


Banner, The Conquered, 


77 


Answered, 


507 


Beach, On the, 


102 


Antigone, 


601 


Beaten, .... 


359 


Apart, .... 


39 


Beauty, The Power of, . 


111 


Appeal to Harold, The, . 


314 


Beauregard s Appeal, 


3 


Apprisals, 


336 


Beaver Pond Meadow, . 


243 


Arcady, The Way to, 


311 


Beethoven s Third Sym 




Arcana Sylvarum, . 


258 


phony, . 


356 


Ariel, .... 


7 


Belle of Prseneste, . 


468 


As 1 came down from 




Betrothal, A, . 


341 


Lebanon, 


342 


Between the Rapids, 


577 


At End, . ... 


445 


Beyond the Branches of 




At Grandmother s, . 


557 


the Pine, 


174 



658 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



Beyond the Potomac, 
Blackberry Farm, The, . 


PAGE 

4 
42 


Conflagration, 
Content, A Song of, 


PAGE 

44 
46 


Blemished Offering, A, . 


467 


Country, The Undis 




Boat, A Shadow, . 


284 


covered, . 


17 


Bon Voyage, . 


420 


Creed of Love, The, 


100 


British Canada to Mr 




Cressid, .... 


457 


Louis M. Frechette, 


602 


Cross of Gold, 


53 


British War Song, . 


624 


Crowing of the Red 




Broken Promise, 


464 


Cock, The, . 


434 


Brooklyn Bridge, The, . 


478 


Cry, A, . . . . 


449 


Brother, In Memory of, . 


74 


Crystal, The, . 


145 


Brown of England s Lay, 


550 


C. S. A., ... 


79 


Bryant, The Death of, . 


20 


Cup of Death, The, 


448 


Burden of Time, The, . 


322 






Buried King, The, . 


37 






Byron, Last Days of, 


378 


D 




By the Fountain, . 


523 






By the Light of the 




DAINTY Fop, A, 


308 


Moon, 


101 


Dandelions, The, . 


389 


By the Turret Stair, 


346 


Danger, .... 


422 






Dark Room, The, . 


176 






Dawn and Dusk, . 


337 


C 




Day, A Rainy, 


103 






Dead Moon, The, . 


399 


CALL Me not Dead, 


181 


Dead, .... 


62 


Canada, .... 


609 


Dead Nymph, The, 


331 


Canada not Last, . 


583 


Dead Summer, A, . 


380 


Canoe, The, . 


543 


Death, .... 


530 


Carmen, .... 


351 


Death of the White 




Celebes, The, . 


182 


Heron, 


199 


Celestial Passion, The, . 


178 


Death in April, 


535 


Ceres, .... 


202 


Death Song of Chi-wee- 




Charity, .... 


120 


wo, .... 


542 


Chattahoochee, Song of 




Debutante, The, . 


353 


the,. 


140 


Decoration Day, 


165 


Cheyenne Mountain, 


421 


Decoration Day, 


221 


Children, The, 


129 


Dedication, 


426 


Christmas Night in St 




Der Drummer, 


157 


Peter s, . 


419 


Don t Feel Too Big, . 


158 


City, The, 


335 


Der Oak und der Vine, . 


152 


Clocks of Kenilworth, 




Der Vater Mill, . 


159 


The, 


84 


Desire, .... 


395 


Collect for Dominion 




Diana, .... 


203 


Day, 


608 


Dickens in Camp, . 


83 


Colour Song, . 


375 


Discoverer, The, 


18 


Comfort, 


580 


Distance, 


184 


Comfort through a 




Divided,. . . 


51 


Window, . 


465 


Dollie, .... 


308 



INDEX TO POEMS. 


659 




PAGE 


PAGE 


Dominion Day, 


605 


From " Christmas Night 




Dorothy, 


432 


in the Quarters," 


291 


Down the Bayou, . 


502 


From Enamorado, . 


548 


Drama, Song from a, 


17 


From Far, 


599 


Dream and Deed, . 


573 


From the Building of The 




Drifting among the Thou 




Bridge, . 


628 


sand Islands, . 


590 


From the Tecumseh, 


595 


Dying in Harness, . 


194 


From " The Symphony," 


142 






Frost, .... 


501 






Frost Work, . 


589 


E 








EASTEK Morning, . 


473 


G 




Eheu ! Ftigaces, 


242 






El Mahdi to the Troops 




GALATEA, . ... 


164 


of the Soudan, 


476 


Garden, The Lost, . 


509 


Elsinore, 


392 


Gettysburg, . 


287 


Emelie, .... 


390 


Ghosts .... 


319 


Enchantments, The Two, 


69 


Gloaming, Song of the, . 


251 


Epitaph on an Early 




Glynn, The Marshes of, . 


137 


Settler, . 


546 


Going and Coming, 


381 


Errand, The,. 


108 


Gold, .... 


223 


Estrangement, 


624 


Goldsmith s Whistle, 


489 


Evening Star, The, 


179 


Gone, .... 


280 


Evolution, 


256 


Great is To-Day, . 


249 


Exile, An, ... 


204 


Grief and Faith, . 


481 


Exiles, . . . 


501 


Guilt in Solitude, . 


586 


F 




H 




FAILURE, A Song of, 


389 


HABEAS CORPUS, . 


427 


Faith s Surrender, . 


90 


Hand of Lincoln, The, . 


25 


Father and Child, . 


180 


Handsel Ring, The, . 


278 


Fiat Justitia, 


222 


Harp, The, . 


279 


Fires in Illinois, 


47 


Heart, Sad Heart, . 


445 


Fire, The Light ood, 


198 


Heartsick, 


383 


First Thanksgiving Day, 


471 


Heat, . . , . 


575 


Fir Tree and The Brook, 


422 


He gets There shust the 




First Settler s Story, The, 


209 


Same, 


154 


Five Lives, . 


105 


Hellas, The Lost, . 


252 


Flood Tide, . 


561 


Her Conquest, 


295 


Florida Ibis, The, . 


88 


Her Letter, . 


80 


Foe, The Only, 


494 


Heroes, The, . 


480 


Fool s Prayer, The, 


106 


Heron, The, . 


353 


Forlorn, 


56 


Hie Jacet, 


448 


Francie, 


431 


Hills, Silence of the, 


318 


From " Barnaval," . 


266 


Homer, .... 


585 



66o 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



Hope, . 


PAGE 

625 


House of Death, The, . 


441 


House, The New, . 


45 


How It Happened, . 


71 


How Long, . 


442 


How Much do you Love 




Me? 


505 


Hugh Latimer, 


247 


Hunter, The, 


343 


Hymn of the Marshes, A, 


131 


I 




IDENTITY, 


56 


Idylls, .... 


354 


If there were Dreams to 




Sell, 


443 


I Love Her Gentle Fore 




head, . 


173 


Imperfection, 


219 


Invocation, . 


259 


In Absence, . 


632 


In Bohemia, . 


196 


In Doubt, 


464 


In my Heart, 


607 


In the Studio, 


593 


Isle, The, 


613 




235 


J 




JACQUENIMOTS, 


181 


Jem Bludso, . 


70 


Jim, .... 


306 


K 




KEATS, .... 


180 


Keenan s Charge, . 


289 


Keziah, .... 


519 


Khartoum, 


610 


King, The, . 


304 


King and the Pope, The, 
Kit Carson s Ride, 


33 
124 


Knee-Deep in June, 


300 


Knot of Blue, A, . 


309 


Knowledge, . 
Knowledge, . . . 


581 
622 



LABOUR and Life, . . Ill 
La Decouverte du Missi- 

sippi, . . . 566 

Lake Memory, A, . . 521 

Land, .... 417 

Lawrence, . . 92 

Last Goodbye, The, . 447 

Last Prayer, A, . . 430 

Le Drape au Anglais, . 564 

Legend of Glossop, The, 552 

Life 402 

Life, .... 514 

Life, The Prime of, . 242 

Life and Love, . . 269 

Light of the House, The, 408 

Lily, The Red, . . 6 

Little Mamma, . . 29 

Lullabies, . . . 274 

Lonely Grave, The, . 486 

Looking Backward, . 432 

L Ordre de Bon Temps, . 551 

Loss, The Sense of, . 100 

Love, .... 321 
Love s Infinite made 

Finite, . . . 99 

Love s Jealousy, . . 178 

Love Letters, . . 561 
Love s of Leaves and 

Grasses, . . . 251 

Lovers, Provengal, . 23 

Love s Secret, . 183 



M 

MADRIGAL, A, . 340 

Magdalen, . . 484 

Making Peace, . 466 

Manitou, . . 522 
Man who rode to Cone 

maugh, The, . 329 

Marjorie s Kisses, . 241 

Masque of Venice, . 436 

Master Poets, The, 172 

Master and Slave, . 225 

Maurice de Guerin, 361 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



66 1 



May, ....., 

Meadow, Through the, . 

Meeting, The, 

Midsummer, . 

Mine Moder-in-Law, 

Mine Family, 

Mist, The, . 

Monadnoc, 

Moon in the City, The, . 

Mordecai, 

Mower in Ohio, The, 

My Lady Sleeps, . 

My Love for Thee doth 

march like Armed 

Men, 

My Masterpiece, . 
My Queen, 
My Ships, 
My Tenant, . 



N 

NATIONAL Hymn, . 
Nebuchadnezzar, 



O 

OAK Hill, 

Ode, 

Of Flowers, . 

Oh, Love is not a Summer 

Mood, 

Old Song, An, 
Old Violin, The. . 
On a Bust of Antonius, . 
On the Beach, 
One Day, 

On Some Buttercups, 
On the Fly Leaf of a 

Book of Old Plays, . 
On the Life Mask of 

Abraham Lincoln, . 
Only Once, 
On Life s Seas, 
On the Bridge of Sighs, . 
On the Road to Chorrera, 



PAGE 


PAGK 


427 


Opportunity, . 


104 


61 


O Silver Biver flowing 




220 


toward the Sea, 


167 


508 


Our Mother, . 


248 


156 


Our Poets, 


529 


154 


Our Two Opinions, 


273 


102 


Out-going Race, The, 


433 


362 


Outlook, 


581 


221 






418 






39 


P 




272 








PACE Implora, 


123 




Painted Fan, A, . 


440 


176 


Palabras Carmosas, 


55 


357 


Pan in Wall Street, 


13 


48 


Passing Song, A, . 


407 


512 


Passion, The Celestial, . 


178 


425 


Pegasus, .... 


39*7 




People, The White Tsar s, 


169 




Persian Dancing Girl, A, 


341 




Persephone, 


470 




Phoebe Bird, The, . 


288 


582 


Pictures of Memory, 


602 


293 


Pilgrim, The Quiet, 


500 




Pines, The, . 


594 




Pipes of Pan, The, . 


611 




Poet, The, 


394 




Poet, The, 


409 


488 


Poet s Forge, The, . 


427 


161 


Poet s Friends, The, 


63 


360 


Pope and the King, The, 


33 




Power of Beautv, The, . 


111 


175 


Prayer, The Fool s, 


106 


488 


Pre-existence, 


8 


360 


Pro Mortuis, . 


68 


347 


Provencal Lovers, . 


23 


102 






579 






339 


Q 




240 


QUATRAIN, 


325 




Queen, My, . 


48 


177 






175 






532 


R 




460 






284 


RAILWAY Station, The, 


582 



662 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



Rainy Day, A, 


PAGE 

103 


Snowflakes, . 


PAGE 

250 


Refrain, 


424 


Solitude, 


506 


Reform, 


164 


Some One Comes, . 


600 


Regardant, . 


73 


Sometime, 


562 


Relics, .... 


534 


Sonnet, .... 


483 


Rest, .... 


53 


Sonnet, The, . 


179 


Resettlement of Acadia, 




Sonnets in Shadow, 


285 


The, 


554 


Song, .... 


110 


Rhyme of the Great 




Song, .... 


350-1 


River, The, . 


117 


Songs, .... 


173 


Riding Down, 


456 


Song, .... 


495 


Ride, Kit Carson s, 


124 


Song, The, . 


279 


Ring, The Buried, . 


37 


Song, .... 


589 


Ring, The Handsel, 


278 


Song of the Sea, 


336 


Rising of the Curtain, 




Song from Enamorado, . 


549 


The, 


945 


Song of Life, A, 


376 


Robin s Madrigal, The, . 


627 


Song of the Gloaming, . 


251 


Romance of a Rose, 


481 


Song of Failure, A, 


389 


Room, The Dark, . 


176 


Song of Failure, A, 


573 


Rose and Thorn, The, . 


6 


Song of the Road, A, 


438 






Song from a Drama, 


17 






Song of Content, A, 


46 


S 




Song of the Chatta- 








hoochee, . 


140 


SAILOR S Sweetheart, The, 


310 


Song, The Vigil, . 


322 


Saint Malo, . 


563 


Sorceress, The, 


226 


Salt, .... 


614 


South Africa remem 




Savage, A, . 


183 


bered at Niagara, 




Schumann s Sonata in A 




Canada, . 


600 


Minor, . 


498 


South Wind and the Sun, 


295 


Sealed Orders, The, 


421 


Sower, The, . 


166 


Sea s Voice, The, . 


317 


Springs, .... 


377 


Secret Song, A, 


621 


Spring Song, . 


250 


Seeker in the Marshes, 




Star, The Evening, 


179 


The, 


354 


Still Water, . 


224 


Sense of Loss, The, 


100 


Stir, .... 


535 


Sentinel Songs, 


75 


Straggler, A, . 


234 


Serenade, 


266 


Story, The, . 


511 


Severance, 


615 


Summer, . , 


402 


Shadow Boat, A, . 


284 


Sunrise, a Hymn of the 




Shakespeare, . 


66 


Marshes, 


131 


Shell, With a Nantucket, 


32 


Sunset, Fantasie, . 


35 


Shelley,. 


526 


Sunset from the Train, . 


171 


Sheridan, 


168 


Sunshine of Thine Eyes, . 


288 


Ship in the Desert, The, . 


113 


Surrender, ... 


263 


Silence of the Hills, The, 


318 


Sydney Godolphin, 


348 


Sir Hugo s Choice, . 


236 


Symphony, A Christmas, 


410 


Slumber Song, 


498 


Syrinx, .... 


325 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



663 



TALE, Uncle Ned s, . 184 
Tapestries, . . .281 
Tarpeia, . .404 

Thanksgiving, . . 61 
Theocritus, . . .361 
There is no God, . . 572 
There is nothing New 

under the Sun, . 165 
There was a Rose, . . 463 
Thought, A Woman s, . 163 
Three Things, . . 521 

Through the Meadow, . 61 
Time, .... 439 
Time, .... 622 
Time, The Burden of, . 322 
To an Oriole, . . . 220 
Tocsin, The, . . .321 
To-Day, . . . .394 
To J. H., 50 

To My Infant Son, . 281 

Tornado, After the, . 9 

Tornado, The, . .264 
To The Lion of St 

Mark s, . . . 122 
Toujours Amour, . .160 
To Wilding, my Polo 

Pony, . . .328 
Transfiguration, . . 374 
Trees and the Master, 

A Ballad of, . .142 
Trio for Twelfth Night, 

A, .... 94 
Triumph, , . . 572 
Tristram of the Wood, . 9 

True Love and Tried, . 527 
Two Enchantments, The, 69 
Twilight Song . .549 
Two Visions, . . . 592 
Tying Her Bonnet Under 

Her Chin, . . 451 
Tyrian s Memory, The, . 326 
Tryst, A, . . .495 



U 

ULF in Ireland, . . 260 

Uncle Ned s Tale, . . 184 
Undiscovered Country, 

The, ... 17 



VANITY of Vanities, 

Vase, The, . 

Venus of Burne Jones 

The, 

Vicksburg, 
Vigil, The, . 
Virgin, The Wayside, 
Voyage of Sleep, The, 



W 



428 
238 

446 
1 

322 
349 

559 



WAITING, . . . 248 

Waiting in the Rain, . 109 

Watch of a Swan, . . 464 

Way of the World, The, 525 

Wayside Virgin, The, . 349 

Way to Arcady, The, . 311 

Weaver, The, . . 579 
We Lay Us Down to 

Sleep, . . .442 

Western Australia, . . 193 
We Walked among the 

Whispering Pines, . 197 

What Matters It, . . 528 

Whaling Town, The . 560 

When Bessie Died, . . 303 

When Day was Done, . 444 

When the Baby Died, . 416 

When the Kings Come, . 418 

When the Clover Blooms, 324 
When the Tide Comes 

In, . . . . 415 

When She Comes Home, 303 
While Shepherds Watched 

their Mocks by Night, 403 



664 



INDEX TO POEMS. 



Whip-poor- Will, The, . 591 
White Heron, Death of 

the, .... 199 

Who Knows. . . . 110 

Wife to Husband, . . 445 

Wild Ride, The, . . 407 

Will, .... 513 

Windflower, A, . . 542 
Wind, Stars and Sun, 

The, . 316 



PAGR 

Winter Rain, . . . 514 
Wish, The, . . .376 

Witch in the Glass, The, 465 

With a Nantucket SheU, 32 
Woods that Bring the 

Sunset Near, . . 174 
World, Liberty Enlight 
ening the, . . 27 
World Well Lost, The, . 26 



INDEX TO AUTHORS NAMES. 



ADAMS, Charles Follen. 
Adams, Oscar Fay. 
Alcott Louisa May. 
Aldrich, Anne Reeve. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. 
Arnold, George. 

BATES, Arlo. 
Bates, Charlotte Fiske. 
Beers, Henry Augustin. 
Bensel, James Berry. 
Blake, Mary Elizabeth. 
Blood, Henry Ames. 
Boner, J. H. 
Bowen, John Eliot. 
Borjesen, Hjalmar Hjorth. 
Bunner, H. C. 
Burton, Richard Eugene. 
Butterworth, Hezekiah. 

CAMERON, George Frederick. 
Campbell, William Wilfrid. 
Carleton, \Vill. 
Carman, Bliss. 
Carpenter, Henry Bernard. 
Cawein, Madison J. 
Chandler, A. H. 
Cheney, John Nance. 
Cockin, Hereward K. 
Cone, Helen Gray. 
Coolbrith, Ina D. 
Crawford, Isabella Valancy. 

DANDRIDGE, Danske Carolina. 



Dawson, Daniel L. 
Deland, Margaret. 
Dickinson, Charles M. 
Dewar, John Hunter. 

EATON, Rev. Arthur Went- 

worth Hamilton. 
Egan, Maurice. 

FAWCETT, Edgar. 
Field, Eugene. 
Foster, William Prescott. 
Frechette, Louis. 

GILDER, Richard Watson. 

Gray, David. 

Guiney, Louise Imogen. 

HANNAY, James. 

Harvey, Will Wallace. 

Harte, Bret. 

Hay, Colonel John. 

Hayne, Paul Hamilton. 

Hensley, Sophie M. 

Hildreth, Charles Lotin. 

Houghton, George W. Wright. 

Hovey, Richard. 

Howells, William Dean. 

JACKSON, Helen. 
Johnson Rossitor. 

KAY, Charles De. 
Kenyon, James Benjamin. 



666 



INDEX TO A UTHORS NAMES. 



Knight, Matthew Richey. 

LAMPMAN, Archibald. 
Lamer, Sydney. 
Lathrop, George Parsons. 
Lathrop, Rose Hawthorn. 
Lazarus, Emma. 
Learned, Walter. 
Lighthall, William Doun 
Lippmann, Julie M. 
Lockhart, Arthur John. 
Lockhart, Burton. 
Liider, Charles Henry. 

MACY, Arthur. 
Machar, Agnes Maule. 
Mair, Charles. 
Miller, Cincinnatus Hiner. 
Mitchell, Langdon Elwyn. 
M Lennan, William. 
Morgan, Mary. 
Morse, James Herbert. 
Moulton, Louise Chandler. 
Mulvaney, Charles Pelham. 

NEILSON, Adelaide. 
Nesmith, James E. 

O REILLY, John Boyle. 

PECK, Samuel Minturn. 
Perry, Nora. 
Piatt, John James. 
Piatt, Sarah Morgan Byran. 
Preston, Margaret Jenkins. 
Proctor, Edna Deans. 



Proudfit, David Law. 

READE, John. 

Riley. James Whitcomb. 

Rives, Amelie. 

Robert, Charles George Douglas, 

fr ---- Professor. 

Roberts, Elizabeth Gostuycke. 

Roche, James Jeffrey. 

Russell, Irwin. 

Ryan, Father Abram Joseph. 

SCOLLAKD, Clinton. 
Scott, Rev. E. G. 
Sherman, Erank Dempster. 
Sir Edward Roland. 
Spofford, Harriett Prescott. 
Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 
Stewart, Philips. 
Staton, Barry. 

THAXTEK, Celia. 
Thomas, Edith Matilda. 
Thomson, Maurice. 
Townsend, Mary Ashley. 
Tyerll, Henry, 

WARD, Elizabeth Stewart 

Phelps. 

Webb, Charles Henry. 
Weeks, Robert Kelly. 
Weir, Arthur. 
Wilcox, Ella Wheeler. 
Wilson, Robert Burns. 
Winter, William. 




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