The White Bees and Other Poems

Henry Van Dyke

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  • THE WHITE BEES
  • SONGS FOR AMERICA
  • IN PRAISE OF POETS
  • LYRICS DRAMATIC AND PERSONAL

  • Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe,
    and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team



    THE WHITE BEES



    I. LEGEND




    Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest
        of the shepherds,
      Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees."
    Golden were the hives, and golden was the honey;
        golden, too, the music,
      Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.

    Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered
        in the orchard,
      Careless and contented, indolent and free;
    Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure,
        till the fated moment
      When across his pathway came Eurydice.

    Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him;
        drove him wild with longing,
      For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face;
    Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him,
        over mead and mountain,
      On through field and forest, in a breathless
        race.

    But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent;
         like a dream she vanished;
      Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead;
    Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his
         garden empty,
      All the hives deserted, all the music fled.

    Mournfully bewailing,—"ah, my honey-makers,
         where have you departed?"—
      Far and wide he sought them, over sea and shore;
    Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them,
         brought them home in triumph,—
      Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

    Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy
         whiteness, dwell the honey-makers,
      In aerial gardens that no mortal sees:
    And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us,
         gathering mystic harvest,—
      So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

    II. THE SWARMING OF THE BEES



    I

    Who can tell the hiding of the white bees'
        nest?
    Who can trace the guiding of their swift home
        flight?
    Far would be his riding on a life-long quest:
      Surely ere it ended would his beard grow
          white.

    Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring,
      Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall,
    May you hear the humming of the white bee's
          wing
      Murmur o'er the meadow, ere the night bells
          call.

    Wait till winter hardens in the cold grey sky,
      Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all
          freeze,
    Then above the gardens where the dead flowers
          lie,
      Swarm the merry millions of the wild white
          bees.

    II

    Out of the high-built airy hive,
    Deep in the clouds that veil the sun,
    Look how the first of the swarm arrive;
    Timidly venturing, one by one,
    Down through the tranquil air,
    Wavering here and there,
    Large, and lazy in flight,—
    Caught by a lift of the breeze,
    Tangled among the naked trees,—
    Dropping then, without a sound,
    Feather-white, feather-light,
    To their rest on the ground.

    III

    Thus the swarming is begun.
    Count the leaders, every one
    Perfect as a perfect star
    Till the slow descent is done.
    Look beyond them, see how far
    Down the vistas dim and grey,
    Multitudes are on the way.
    Now a sudden brightness
    Dawns within the sombre day,
    Over fields of whiteness;
    And the sky is swiftly alive
    With the flutter and the flight
    Of the shimmering bees, that pour
    From the hidden door of the hive
    Till you can count no more.

    IV

    Now on the branches of hemlock and pine
    Thickly they settle and cluster and swing,
    Bending them low; and the trellised vine
    And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line
    Of beauty wherever the white bees cling.
    Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers,
    Softly, softly, covering all,
    Over the grave of the summer hours
    Spreading a silver pall.
    Now they are building the broad roof ledge,
    Into a cornice smooth and fair,
    Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge,
    Into the sweep of a marble stair.
    Wonderful workers, swift and dumb,
    Numberless myriads, still they come,
    Thronging ever faster, faster, faster!
    Where is their queen? Who is their master?
    The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,—
    How will they fare in a world so bleak?
    Where is the hidden honey they seek?
    What is the sweetness they toil to store
    In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam?
    Forgetfulness and a dream!

    V

    But now the fretful wind awakes;
    I hear him girding at the trees;
    He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes
    The quiet clusters of the bees
    To powdery drift;
    He tosses them away,
    He drives them like spray;
    He makes them veer and shift
    Around his blustering path.
    In clouds blindly whirling,
    In rings madly swirling,
    Full of crazy wrath,
    So furious and fast they fly
    They blur the earth and blot the sky
    In wild, white mirk.
    They fill the air with frozen wings
    And tiny, angry, icy stings;
    They blind the eyes, and choke the breath,
    They dance a maddening dance of death
    Around their work,
    Sweeping the cover from the hill,
    Heaping the hollows deeper still,
    Effacing every line and mark,
    And swarming, storming in the dark
    Through the long night;
    Until, at dawn, the wind lies down,
    Weary of fight.
    The last torn cloud, with trailing gown,
    Passes the open gates of light;
    And the white bees are lost in flight.

    VI

    Look how the landscape glitters wide and still,
       Bright with a pure surprise!
    The day begins with joy, and all past ill,
       Buried in white oblivion, lies
    Beneath the snowdrifts under crystal skies.
    New hope, new love, new life, new cheer,
      Flow in the sunrise beam,—
      The gladness of Apollo when he sees,
    Upon the bosom of the wintry year,
    The honey-harvest of his wild white bees,
       Forgetfulness and a dream!

    III. LEGEND



    Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning,
       like a tranquil vision,
     Fills the world around us and our hearts with
       peace;
    Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is
       the ending—
     Listen while I tell you how he found release.

    Many months he wandered far away in sadness,
         desolately thinking
     Only of the vanished joys he could not find;
    Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed
         him from the burden
     Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.

    Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty
         of the changing seasons,
     In the world-wide regions where his journey
         lay;
    Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed
          beside him, stars that shone to guide him,—
      Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!

    Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him
         welcome, listened while he taught them
     Secret lore of field and forest he had learned:
    How to train the vines and make the olives fruit-
         ful; how to guard the sheepfolds;
     How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.

    Friendliness and blessing followed in his foot-
          steps; richer were the harvests,
      Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came;
    Little children loved him, and he left behind him,
           in the hour of parting,
      Memories of kindness and a god-like name.

    So he travelled onward, desolate no longer,
        patient in his seeking,
     Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest;
    Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus,
           far from human dwelling,
      Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.

    Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness,
          fluttered soft around him,
      Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and
         deep.
    This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden,
          then a troubled journey,
      Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last we sleep!




    NEW YEAR'S EVE



    I

    The other night I had a dream, most clear
    And comforting, complete
    In every line, a crystal sphere,
    And full of intimate and secret cheer.
    Therefore I will repeat
    That vision, dearest heart, to you,
    As of a thing not feigned, but very true,
    Yes, true as ever in my life befell;
    And you, perhaps, can tell
    Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

    II

    The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street
    I knew so well, long, long ago;
    And on the pillared porch where Marguerite
    Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow.
    But she, my comrade and my friend of youth,
    Most gaily wise,
    Most innocently loved,—
    She of the blue-grey eyes
    That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,—
    From that familiar dwelling, where she moved
    Like mirth incarnate in the years before,
    Had gone into the hidden house of Death.
    I thought the garden wore
    White mourning for her blessed innocence,
    And the syringa's breath
    Came from the corner by the fence,
    Where she had made her rustic seat,
    With fragrance passionate, intense,
    As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite.
    My heart was heavy with a sense
    Of something good forever gone. I sought
    Vainly for some consoling thought,
    Some comfortable word that I could say
    To the sad father, whom I visited again
    For the first time since she had gone away.
    The bell rang shrill and lonely,—then
    The door was opened, and I sent my name
    To him,—but ah! 't was Marguerite who came!
    There in the dear old dusky room she stood
    Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand,
    In tender mocking mood.
    "You did not ask for me," she said,
    "And so I will not let you take my hand;
    "But I must hear what secret talk you planned
    "With father. Come, my friend, be good,
    "And tell me your affairs of state:
    "Why you have stayed away and made me wait
    "So long. Sit down beside me here,—
    "And, do you know, it seemed a year
    "Since we have talked together,—why so late?"

    Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy
    I hardly dared to show,
    And stammering like a boy,
    I took the place she showed me at her side;
    And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide
    Through the still night,
    While she with influence light
    Controlled it, as the moon the flood.
    She knew where I had been, what I had done,
    What work was planned, and what begun;
    My troubles, failures, fears she understood,
    And touched them with a heart so kind,
    That every care was melted from my mind,
    And every hope grew bright,
    And life seemed moving on to happy ends.
    (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he
    That said a woman cannot be
    The very best of friends?)
    Then there were memories of old times,
    Recalled with many a gentle jest;
    And at the last she brought the book of rhymes
    We made together, trying to translate
    The Songs of Heine (hers were always best).
    "Now come," she said,
    "To-night we will collaborate
    "Again; I'll put you to the test.
    "Here's one I never found the way to do,—
    "The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,—
    "I give this song to you."
    And then she read:
        Mein kind, wir waren Kinder,
        Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.

    But all the while a silent question stirred
    Within me, though I dared not speak the word:
    "Is it herself, and is she truly here,
    "And was I dreaming when I heard
    "That she was dead last year?
    "Or was it true, and is she but a shade
    "Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear,
    "Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade
    "When her sweet ghostly part is played
    "And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"
    But while my heart was troubled by this fear
    So deeply that I could not speak it out,
    Lest all my happiness should disappear,
    I thought me of a cunning way
    To hide the question and dissolve the doubt.
    "Will you not give me now your hand,
    "Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold,
    "That by this token I may understand
    "You are the same true friend you were of old?"
    She answered with a smile so bright and calm
    It seemed as if I saw new stars arise
    In the deep heaven of her eyes;
    And smiling so, she laid her palm
    In mine. Dear God, it was not cold
    But warm with vital heat!
    "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!"
    Then I awoke; but strangely comforted,
    Although I knew again that she was dead.

    III

    Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or
       sad?
    Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep,
    Present reward of all my heart's desire,
    Watching with me beside the winter fire,
    Interpret now this vision that I had.
    But while you read the meaning, let me keep
    The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm
    Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake
    The corners of the house,—and oh! my heart
       would break
    Unless both dreaming and awake
    My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm,
       warm!




    SONGS FOR AMERICA



    SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN



    Children of the elemental mother,
        Born upon some lonely island shore
    Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper,
        Where the crested billows plunge and roar;
    Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers,
        Fearless breasters of the wind and sea,
    In the far-off solitary places
        I have seen you floating wild and free!

    Here the high-built cities rise around you;
        Here the cliffs that tower east and west,
    Honeycombed with human habitations,
        Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest:
    Here the river flows begrimed and troubled;
        Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume,
    Restless, up and down the watery highway,
        While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.

    Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion,
        Clank and clamor of the vast machine
    Human hands have built for human bondage—
        Yet amid it all you float serene;
    Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly
        Down to glean your harvest from the wave;
    In your heritage of air and water,
        You have kept the freedom Nature gave.

    Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan
        Saw your wheeling flocks of white and grey;
    Even so you fluttered, followed, floated,
        Round the Half-Moon creeping up the bay;
    Even so your voices creaked and chattered,
        Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips,
    While your black and beady eyes were glistening
        Round the sullen British prison-ships.

    Children of the elemental mother,
        Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue,
    From the crowded boats that cross the ferries
        Many a longing heart goes out to you.
    Though the cities climb and close around us,
        Something tells us that our souls are free,
    While the sea-gulls fly above the harbor,
        While the river flows to meet the sea!

    URBS CORONATA



    (Song for the City College of New York)

    O youngest of the giant brood
      Of cities far-renowned;
    In wealth and power thou hast passed
      Thy rivals at a bound;
    And now thou art a queen, New York;
      And how wilt thou be crowned?

    "Weave me no palace-wreath of pride,"
      The royal city said;
    "Nor forge an iron fortress-wall
      To frown upon my head;
    But let me wear a diadem
      Of Wisdom's towers instead."

    And so upon her island height
      She worked her will forsooth,
    She set upon her rocky brow
      A citadel of Truth,
    A house of Light, a home of Thought,
      A shrine of noble Youth.

    Stand here, ye City College towers,
      And look both up and down;
    Remember all who wrought for you
      Within the toiling town;
    Remember all they thought for you,
    And all the hopes they brought for you,
      And be the City's Crown.

    AMERICA



    I Love thine inland seas,
       Thy groves of giant trees,
       Thy rolling plains;
    Thy rivers' mighty sweep,
    Thy mystic canyons deep,
    Thy mountains wild and steep,
      All thy domains;

    Thy silver Eastern strands,
    Thy Golden Gate that stands
      Wide to the West;
    Thy flowery Southland fair,
    Thy sweet and crystal air,—
    O land beyond compare,
      Thee I love best!

    Additional verses for the National Hymn, March, 1906.

    DOORS OF DARING



    The mountains that enfold the vale
      With walls of granite, steep and high,
    Invite the fearless foot to scale
      Their stairway toward the sky.

    The restless, deep, dividing sea
      That flows and foams from shore to shore,
    Calls to its sunburned chivalry,
      "Push out, set sail, explore!"
    And all the bars at which we fret,
      That seem to prison and control,
    Are but the doors of daring, set
      Ajar before the soul.

    Say not, "Too poor," but freely give;
      Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try.
    You never can begin to live
      Until you dare to die.

    A HOME SONG



    I Read within a poet's book
      A word that starred the page:
    "Stone walls do not a prison make,
      Nor iron bars a cage!"

    Yes, that is true; and something more
      You'll find, where'er you roam,
    That marble floors and gilded walls
      Can never make a home.

    But every house where Love abides,
      And Friendship is a guest,
    Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
      For there the heart can rest.

    A NOON SONG



    There are songs for the morning and songs
       for the night,
     For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
    But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
      And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
         Oh, the high noon, and the clear noon,
           The noon with golden crest;
          When the sky burns, and the sun turns
           With his face to the way of the west!

    How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
      How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
    Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
      To the height of his throne in the blue summer
            sky.
          Oh, the long toil, and the slow toil,
            The toil that may not rest,
          Till the sun looks down from his journey's
              crown,
            To the wonderful way of the west!

    AN AMERICAN IN EUROPE



    'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up
        and down
    Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
    To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of
        the kings,—
    But now I think I've had enough of antiquated
        things.

      So it's home again, and home again, America for
        me I
      My heart is turning home again, and there I long to
        be,
      In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean
        bars,
      Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
        of stars.

    Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in
        the air;
    And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in
        her hair;
    And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great
        to study Rome;
    But when it comes to living there is no place like
        home.

    I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions
        drilled;
    I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing
        fountains filled;
    But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble
        for a day
    In the friendly western woodland where Nature
        has her way!

    I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something
        seems to lack:
    The Past is too much with her, and the people
        looking back.
    But the glory of the Present is to make the
        Future free,—
    We love our land for what she is and what she
        is to be.

      Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for
        me I
      I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the
        rotting sea.
      To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the
        ocean bars,
      Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full
        of stars.

    THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS



    Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
        of America,
    Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of
        royal splendour;
    These are the homes that were built by the brave
        beginners of a nation,
    They are simple enough to be great, and full of
        a friendly dignity.

    I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New
        England valleys,
    Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-
        ing over them:
    Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-
        fashioned flowers,
    A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
        in the windows,
    The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and
        hickory ready for winter,
    The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with
        household relics,—
    All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of
        self-reliance.

    I love the look of the shingled houses that front
        the ocean;
    Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides
        are weather-beaten;
    Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full
        of patience and courage.
    They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is
        something indomitable about them:
    Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand
        undaunted,
    While the thin blue line of smoke from the
        square-built chimney rises,
    Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth
        and a cradle.

    I love the stately southern mansions with their
        tall white columns,
    They look through avenues of trees, over fields
        where the cotton is growing;
    I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
        shady porches,
    Music and laughter float from the windows, the
        yards are full of hounds and horses.
    They have all ridden away, yet the houses have
        not forgotten,
    They are proud of their name and place, and
        their doors are always open,
    For the thing they remember best is the pride
        of their ancient hospitality.

    In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil
        Quaker dwellings,
    With their demure brick faces and immaculate
        white-stone doorsteps;
    And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their
        high stoops and iron railings,
    (I can see their little brass knobs shining in the
        morning sunlight);
    And the solid houses of the descendants of the
        Puritans,
    Fronting the street with their narrow doors and
        dormer-windows;
    And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions
        of Charleston,
    Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses
        and magnolias.

    Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my
        eyes they are beautiful;
    For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts
        that have made the nation;
    The glory and strength of America came from
        her ancestral dwellings.

    FRANCIS MAKEMIE



    (Presbyter of Christ in America, 1683-1708)

    To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
      We bring the meed of praise too long delayed!
      Thy fearless word and faithful work have made
    For God's Republic firmer path and place
    In this New World: thou hast proclaimed the
          grace
      And power of Christ in many a forest glade,
      Teaching the truth that leaves men unafraid
    Of frowning tyranny or death's dark face.

    Oh, who can tell how much we owe to thee,
      Makemie, and to labour such as thine,
      For all that makes America the shrine
    Of faith untrammeled and of conscience free?
    Stand here, grey stone, and consecrate the sod
    Where rests this brave Scotch-Irish man of God!

    NATIONAL MONUMENTS



    Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
      The tribute that a mighty nation pays
      To those who loved her well in former days
    Means more than gratitude for glories fled;
    For every noble man that she hath bred,
      Lives in the bronze and marble that we raise,
      Immortalized by art's immortal praise,
    To lead our sons as he our fathers led.

    These monuments of manhood strong and high
      Do more than forts or battle-ships to keep
    Our dear-bought liberty. They fortify
      The heart of youth with valour wise and deep;
    They build eternal bulwarks, and command
    Eternal strength to guard our native land.




    IN PRAISE OF POETS



    MOTHER EARTH



    Mother of all the high-strung poets and
        singers departed,
    Mother of all the grass that weaves over their
        graves the glory of the field,
    Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-
        bosomed, patient, impassive,
    Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sor-
        rows!
    Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth
        below thy breast,
    Issued in some Strange way, thou lying motion-
        less, voiceless,
    All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate,
        yearning,
    Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth
        returning.

    Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time
        to these measures,
    Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly,
        irresistibly
    Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down,
        down
    Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in
        the sand.

    But the souls of the singers have entered into
        the songs that revealed them,—
    Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and
        grief and love and longing:
    Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they
        echo above thee:
    Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those
        that love thee?

    Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by
        some old enchantment
    Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speech-
        less,
    Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy
        Lord and Lover
    Working within thee awakened the man-child to
        breathe thy secret.
    All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flow-
        ing waters
    Are but enchanted forms to embody the life of
        the spirit;
    Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and
        meadow and ocean,
    Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and
        emotion.

    MILTON



    I

    Lover of beauty, walking on the height
         Of pure philosophy and tranquil song;
         Born to behold the visions that belong
    To those who dwell in melody and light;
    Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!
      What drew thee down to join the Roundhead
          throng
      Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,
    Fighting for freedom in a world half night?

    Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,
      Above all beauty bright, all music clear:
    To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,
      Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear,
    And bound thee to her with a double vow,—
      Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!

    II

    The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned
      Her singing robes to battle on the plain,
      Was won, O poet, and was lost again;
    And lost the labour of thy lonely mind
    On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find
      To comfort thee for all the toil and pain?
      What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain
    And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?

    Like organ-music comes the deep reply:
      "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be
          won.
    For God hath given to mine inward eye
      Vision of England soaring to the sun.
    And granted me great peace before I die,
      In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done."

    III

    O bend again above thine organ-board,
      Thou blind old poet longing for repose!
      Thy Master claims thy service not with those
    Who only stand and wait for his reward.
    He pours the heavenly gift of song restored
      Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close
      A noble life, with poetry that flows
    In mighty music of the major chord.

    Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic
          strain,
      Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace,
    To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain
      The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place,
    And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain,
      The loftiest poet of the Saxon race!

    WORDSWORTH



    Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
          Among the mountains, and thy song is fed
          By living springs far up the watershed;
    No whirling flood nor parching drought controls
    The crystal current; even on the shoals
      It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
      Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread,
    Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

    But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress
      Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground
        Beneath black thoughts that wither and de-
            stroy.
    Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness
      Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found
        The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

    KEATS



    The melancholy gift Aurora gained
         From Jove, that her sad lover should not
            see
      The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
    My Keats! But when the crimson blood-drop
          stained
    Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—
      Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!
      And then,—a shadow fell on Italy:
    Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

    Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
      Never to feel the pain of growing old,
        Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,
    But with the ardent lips that music kissed
      To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew
          cold,
        Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

    SHELLEY



    Knight-errant of the Never-ending
        Quest,
      And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
      For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
    To some unearthly music, and possessed
    With painful passionate longing to invest
      The golden dream of Love's immortal fire
      In mortal robes of beautiful attire,
    And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

    What wonder, Shelley, if the restless wave
      Should claim thee and the leaping flame con-
          sume
        Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach?
    Fate to thy body gave a fitting grave,
      And bade thy soul ride on with fiery plume,
        Thy wild song ring in ocean's yearning
          speech!

    ROBERT BROWNING



    How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
         In winding graveyard pathways under-
            ground,
      For Browning's lineage! What if men have
            found
    Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
    Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul?
      Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned
      Through all the world,—the poets laurel-
            crowned
    With wreaths from which the autumn takes no
            toll.

    The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these:
      The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire,
        The golden globe of Shakespeare's human
            stage,
        The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage,
      The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire,
    The tragic mask of wise Euripides.

    LONGFELLOW



    In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour
        and riches and confusion,
    Where there were many running to and fro, and
        shouting, and striving together,
    In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,
        I heard the voice of one singing.

    "What are you doing there, O man, singing
        quietly amid all this tumult?
    This is the time for new inventions, mighty
        shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet."
    But he answered, "I am only shepherding my
        sheep with music."

    So he went along his chosen way, keeping his
        little flock around him;
    And he paused to listen, now and then, beside
        the antique fountains,
    Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed
        with musically falling waters;

    Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door,
       and heard the cling-clang of the anvils;
    Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells,
       that showered their chimes upon him;
    Or he walked along the border of the sea, drink-
       ing in the long roar of the billows;

    Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented ship-
       yard, amid the tattoo of the mallets;
    Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting
       his thoughts flow with the whispering river;
    He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made
       them young again with his singing.

    Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock,
       and pierced the heart of his dearest!
    Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered
       the mystical temple of sorrow:
    Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he
       came out he was singing.

    And I saw the faces of men and women and
        children silently turning toward him;
    The youth setting out on the journey of life, and
        the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone;
    The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the
        happy mother rocking her cradle;

    The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the grey-
        minded scholar in his book-room;
    The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and
        the hunter in the forest;
    And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the
        wilderness of the city;

    Many human faces, full of care and longing, were
        drawn irresistibly toward him,
    By the charm of something known to every heart,
        yet very strange and lovely,
    And at the sound of that singing wonderfully
        all their faces were lightened.

    "Why do you listen, O you people, to this old
        and world-worn music?
    This is not for you, in the splendour of a new
        age, in the democratic triumph!
    Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the
        brazen trumpets of your poets."

    But the people made no answer, following in
        their hearts the simpler music:
    For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing
        could be better worth the hearing
    Than the melodies which brought sweet order
        into life's confusion.

    So the shepherd sang his way along, until he
        came unto a mountain:
    And I know not surely whether it was called
        Parnassus,
    But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard
        the voice of one singing.

    THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH



    I. BIRTHDAY VERSES



    Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
         Have brought another Festa round to you,
    You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
      From friends the fleeting years have bound to
          you.

    Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad
          Boy,
      Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
    And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
      And sunny hours, and sky caerulean!

    Your children all, they hurry to your den,
      With wreaths of honour they have won for
          you,
    To merry-make your threescore years and ten
      You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!

    There's many a reader whom your silver songs
      And crystal stories cheer in loneliness.
    What though the newer writers come in throngs?
      You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.

    You do your work with careful, loving touch,—
      An artist to the very core of you,—
    you know the magic spell of "not-too-much":
      We read,—and wish that there was more of
          you.

    And more there is: for while we love your books
      Because their subtle skill is part of you;
    We love you better, for our friendship looks
      Behind them to the human heart of you.

        November 24,1906.

    II. MEMORIAL SONNET



    This is the house where little Aldrich read
         The early pages of Life's wonder-book:
      With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook
    He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread
    Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red:
      Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
      His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
    Among the deeper things more simply said.

    Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
      Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
    And still he won the laurelled poet's fame
      With simple words wrought into rhymes of
           gold.
    Look, here's the face to which this house is
           frame,—
      A man too wise to let his heart grow old!

      (Dedication of the Aldrich Memorial at Portsmouth, June 11, 1908.)

    EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN



    Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
        Of beauty or of truth,
    Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,
      The hopefulness of youth,
    The courage of the gentle heart,
      The wisdom of the pure,
    The strength of finely tempered souls
      To labour and endure!

    The blue of springtime in your eyes
      Was never quenched by pain;
    And winter brought your head the crown
      Of snow without a stain.
    The poet's mind, the prince's heart,
      You kept until the end,
    Nor ever faltered in your work,
      Nor ever failed a friend.

    You followed, through the quest of life,
      The light that shines above
    The tumult and the toil of men,
      And shows us what to love.
    Right loyal to the best you knew,
      Reality or dream,
    You ran the race, you fought the fight,
      A follower of the Gleam.

    We lay upon your well-earned grave
      The wreath of asphodel,
    We speak above your peaceful face
      The tender word Farewell!
    For well you fare, in God's good care,
      Somewhere within the blue,
    And know, to-day, your dearest dreams
      Are true,—and true,—and true!

    (Read at the funeral of Mr. Stedman, January 21, 1908.)




    LYRICS DRAMATIC AND PERSONAL



    LATE SPRING



    I

    Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
      Why the sweet Spring delays,
    And where she hides,—the dear desire
      Of every heart that longs
    For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire
    Of maple-buds along the misty hills,
    And that immortal call which fills
      The waiting wood with songs?
    The snow-drops came so long ago,
      It seemed that Spring was near!
      But then returned the snow
    With biting winds, and all the earth grew sere,
      And sullen clouds drooped low
    To veil the sadness of a hope deferred:
    Then rain, rain, rain, incessant rain
      Beat on the window-pane,
    Through which I watched the solitary bird
    That braved the tempest, buffeted and tossed,
    With rumpled feathers, down the wind again.
      Oh, were the seeds all lost
    When winter laid the wild flowers in their tomb?
      I searched their haunts in vain
    For blue hepaticas, and trilliums white,
    And trailing arbutus, the Spring's delight,
    Starring the withered leaves with rosy bloom.
    The woods were bare: and every night the frost
    To all my longings spoke a silent nay,
    And told me Spring was far and far away.
    Even the robins were too cold to sing,
    Except a broken and discouraged note,—
    Only the tuneful sparrow, on whose throat
    Music has put her triple finger-print,
    Lifted his head and sang my heart a hint,—
    "Wait, wait, wait! oh, wait a while for Spring!"

    II

    But now, Carina, what divine amends
    For all delay! What sweetness treasured up,
      What wine of joy that blends
    A hundred flavours in a single cup,
      Is poured into this perfect day!
    For look, sweet heart, here are the early flowers,
      That lingered on their way,
    Thronging in haste to kiss the feet of May,
    And mingled with the bloom of later hours,—
    Anemonies and cinque-foils, violets blue
    And white, and iris richly gleaming through
    The grasses of the meadow, and a blaze
    Of butter-cups and daisies in the field,
    Filling the air with praise,
    As if a silver chime of bells had pealed!
      The frozen songs within the breast
    Of silent birds that hid in leafless woods,
      Melt into rippling floods
      Of gladness unrepressed.
    Now oriole and blue-bird, thrush and lark,
    Warbler and wren and vireo,
    Confuse their music; for the living spark
    Of Love has touched the fuel of desire,
    And every heart leaps up in singing fire.
      It seems as if the land
    Were breathing deep beneath the sun's caress,
      Trembling with tenderness,
      While all the woods expand,
    In shimmering clouds of rose and gold and green,
    To veil the joys too sacred to be seen.

    III

      Come, put your hand in mine,
    True love, long sought and found at last,
    And lead me deep into the Spring divine
      That makes amends for all the wintry past.
    For all the flowers and songs I feared to miss
              Arrive with you;
    And in the lingering pressure of your kiss
              My dreams come true;
    And in the promise of your generous eyes
              I read the mystic sign
              Of joy more perfect made
              Because so long delayed,
    And bliss enhanced by rapture of surprise.
    Ah, think not early love alone is strong;
    He loveth best whose heart has learned to wait
    Dear messenger of Spring that tarried long,
    You're doubly dear because you come so late.

    NEPENTHE



    Yes it was like you to forget,
        And cancel in the welcome of your smile
    My deep arrears of debt,
    And with the putting forth of both your hands
    To sweep away the bars my folly set
    Between us—bitter thoughts, and harsh de-
        mands,
    And reckless deeds that seemed untrue
    To love, when all the while
    My heart was aching through and through
    For you, sweet heart, and only you.

    Yet, as I turned to come to you again,
    I thought there must be many a mile
    Of sorrowful reproach to cross,
    And many an hour of mutual pain
    To bear, until I could make plain
    That all my pride was but the fear of loss,
    And all my doubt the shadow of despair
    To win a heart so innocent and fair;
    And even that which looked most ill
    Was but the fever-fret and effort vain
    To dull the thirst which you alone could still.

    But as I turned the desert miles were crossed,
    And when I came the weary hours were sped!
    For there you stood beside the open door,
    Glad, gracious, smiling as before,
    And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread
    Restored me to the Eden I had lost.
    Never a word of cold reproof,
    No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse
    The culprit whom they hold aloof,—
    Ah, 't is not thus that other women use
    The power they have won!
    For there is none like you, beloved,—none
    Secure enough to do what you have done.
    Where did you learn this heavenly art,—
    You sweetest and most wise of all that live,—
    With silent welcome to impart
    Assurance of the royal heart
    That never questions where it would forgive?

    None but a queen could pardon me like this!
    My sovereign lady, let me lay
    Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss
    Of penitence, then close the fingers up,
    Thus—thus! Now give the cup
    Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth,
    And come—the garden blooms with bliss,
    The wind is in the south,
    The rose of love with dew is wet—
    Dear, it was like you to forget!

    HESPER



    Her eyes are like the evening air,
         Her voice is like a rose,
    Her lips are like a lovely song,
      That ripples as it flows,
    And she herself is sweeter than
      The sweetest thing she knows.

    A slender, haunting, twilight form
      Of wonder and surprise,
    She seemed a fairy or a child,
      Till, deep within her eyes,
    I saw the homeward-leading star
      Of womanhood arise.

    ARRIVAL



    Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred
        leagues of land,
    Along a path I had not traced and could not
        understand,
    I travelled fast and far for this,—to take thee
        by the hand.

    A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would
        bend his knee,
    A mariner without a dream of what his port
        would be,
    So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to
        thee.

    O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary
        place,
    O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea
        race,
    The quiet room adorned with flowers where first
        I saw thy face!

    Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths
        of foam!
    The Power that made me wander far at last has
        brought me home
    To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more
        will roam.

    DEPARTURE



    Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
      And why is the garden so gay?
    Do you know that my days of delight are done,
      Do you know I am going away?
    If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream
      You were sorry for me in my pain,
    And the heads of the flowers all bowed would
        seem
      To be weeping with me in the rain.

    But why is your head so low, sweet heart,
      And why are your eyes overcast?
    Are they clouded because you know we must part,
      Do you think this embrace is our last?
    Then kiss me again, and again, and again,
      Look up as you bid me good-bye!
    For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear,
      And your smile is the sun in my sky.

    THE BLACK BIRDS



    I

    Once, only once, I saw it clear,—
         That Eden every human heart has dreamed
    A hundred times, but always far away!
    Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
    Through the still atmosphere
    Of that enchanted day,
    To lie wide open to my weary feet:
    A little land of love and joy and rest,
    With meadows of soft green,
    Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
    With delicate breath of violets unseen,—
    And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
    As if it waited for a coming guest,
    A little house of peace and joy and love
    Was nested like a snow-white dove

    From the rough mountain where I stood,
    Homesick for happiness,
    Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
    To cross, and then the long distress
    Of solitude would be forever past,—
    I should be home at last.
    But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
    And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
    On all this loveliness, so near,
    And mine to-morrow!

    Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,
    A dark bird flew,
    Silent, with sable wings.
    Close in his wake another came,—
    Fragments of midnight floating through
    The sunset flame,—
    Another and another, weaving rings
    Of blackness on the primrose sky,—
    Another, and another, look, a score,
    A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
    From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood,—
    They boiled into the lucid air
    Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
    And more, and more, and ever more,
    The numberless, ill-omened brood,
    Flapping their ragged plumes,
    Possessed the landscape and the evening light
    With menaces and glooms.
    Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place
    Where once I saw the little house so white
    Amid the flowers, covering every trace
    Of beauty from my troubled sight,—
    And suddenly it was night!

    II

    At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
    And while the morning made
    A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
    I saw the sable birds on every limb,
    Clinging together closely in the shade,
    And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
    But, oh, the little land of peace and love
    That those night-loving wings had poised
        above,—
    Where was it gone?
    Lost, lost forevermore!
    Only a cottage, dull and gray,
    In the cold light of dawn,
    With iron bars across the door:
    Only a garden where the withering heads
    Of flowers, presaging decay,
    Hung over barren beds:
    Only a desolate field that lay
    Untilled beneath the desolate day,—
    Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
    So, wondering, I passed along my way,
    With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
    Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
    And the black magic of the croaking birds.

    WITHOUT DISGUISE



    If I have erred in showing all my heart,
        And lost your favour by a lack of pride;
        If standing like a beggar at your side
    With naked feet, I have forgot the art
    Of those who bargain well in passion's mart,
      And win the thing they want by what they
        hide;
      Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied,
    Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.

    The sin, if sin it was, I do repent,
      And take the penance on myself alone;
    Yet after I have borne the punishment,
      I shall not fear to stand before the throne
    Of Love with open heart, and make this plea:
    "At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!"

    GRATITUDE



    Do you give thanks for this?—or that?"
          No, God be thanked
                 I am not grateful
    In that cold, calculating way, with blessing
        ranked
      As one, two, three, and four,—that would be
        hateful.

    I only know that every day brings good above
                 My poor deserving;
    I only feel that, in the road of Life, true Love
      Is leading me along and never swerving.

    Whatever gifts and mercies in my lot may fall,
                 I would not measure
    As worth a certain price in praise, or great or
        small;
      But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

    For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless
                 The Hand that feeds us;
    And when we tread the road of Life in cheer-
        fulness,
      Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads
        us.

    MASTER OF MUSIC



    (In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)

    Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculp-
         tor, and bard,
      Living forever in temple and picture and statue
        and song,—
    Look how the world with the lights that they lit
        is illumined and starred,
      Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps
        of their art burn long!

    Where is the Master of Music, and how has he
        vanished away?
      Where is the work that he wrought with his
        wonderful art in the air?
    Gone,—it is gone like the glow on the cloud
        at the close of the day!
    The Master has finished his work, and the glory
        of music is—where?

    Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of
        musical sound
      Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the
        prophet of old:
    Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has
        dropped to the ground,
      Silent and dark are the shores where the mar-
        vellous harmonies rolled!

    Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by
        that life-giving sea;
      Deeper and purer forever the tides of their
        being will roll,
    Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have
        listened to thee,—
      The glory of music endures in the depths of
        the human soul.

    STARS AND THE SOUL



    (To Charles A. Young, Astronomer)

    "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me
           with awe:
    The starry heavens and the moral law."
    Nay, add another wonder to thy roll,—
    The living marvel of the human soul!

    Born in the dust and cradled in the dark,
    It feels the fire of an immortal spark,
    And learns to read, with patient, searching eyes,
    The splendid secret of the unconscious skies.

    For God thought Light before He spoke the word;
    The darkness understood not, though it heard:
    But man looks up to where the planets swim,
    And thinks God's thoughts of glory after Him.

    What knows the star that guides the sailor's way,
    Or lights the lover's bower with liquid ray,
    Of toil and passion, danger and distress,
    Brave hope, true love, and utter faithfulness?

    But human hearts that suffer good and ill,
    And hold to virtue with a loyal will,
    Adorn the law that rules our mortal strife
    With star-surpassing victories of life.

    So take our thanks, dear reader of the skies,
    Devout astronomer, most humbly wise,
    For lessons brighter than the stars can give,
    And inward light that helps us all to live.

    The world has brought the laurel-leaves to crown
    The star-discoverer's name with high, renown;
    Accept the flower of love we lay with these
    For influence sweeter than the Pleiades!

    TO JULIA MARLOWE



    (Reading Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn)

    Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede
        Of marble maidens round this urn divine:
    But when your golden voice began to read,
      The empty urn was filled with Chian wine.

    PAN LEARNS MUSIC



    Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the
         rock,
    Where is sweet Echo, and where is your flock?
    What are you making here? "Listen," said
        Pan,—
    "Out of a river-reed music for man!"

    "UNDINE"



    'Twas far away and long ago,
         When I was but a dreaming boy,
    This fairy tale of love and woe
      Entranced my heart with tearful joy;
    And while with white Undine I wept,
      Your spirit,—ah, how strange it seems,
    Was cradled in some star, and slept,
      Unconscious of her coming dreams.

    LOVE IN A LOOK



    Let me but feel thy look's embrace,
      Transparent, pure, and warm,
    And I'll not ask to touch thy face,
      Or fold thee with mine arm.
    For in thine eyes a girl doth rise,
      Arrayed in candid bliss,
    And draws me to her with a charm
      More close than any kiss.

    A loving-cup of golden wine,
      Songs of a silver brook,
    And fragrant breaths of eglantine,
      Are mingled in thy look.
    More fair they are than any star,
      Thy topaz eyes divine—
    And deep within their trysting-nook
      Thy spirit blends with mine.

    MY APRIL LADY



    When down the stair at morning
      The sunbeams round her float,
    Sweet rivulets of laughter
      Are bubbling in her throat;
    The gladness of her greeting
      Is gold without alloy;
    And in the morning sunlight
      I think her name is Joy.

    When in the evening twilight
      The quiet book-room lies,
    We read the sad old ballads,
      While from her hidden eyes
    The tears are falling, falling,
      That give her heart relief;
    And in the evening twilight,
      I think her name is Grief.

    My little April lady,
      Of sunshine and of showers,
    She weaves the old spring magic,
      And breaks my heart in flowers!
    But when her moods are ended,
      She nestles like a dove;
    Then, by the pain and rapture,
      I know her name is Love.

    A LOVER'S ENVY



    I envy every flower that blows
       Along the meadow where she goes,
      And every bird that sings to her,
      And every breeze that brings to her
       The fragrance of the rose.

    I envy every poet's rhyme
    That moves her heart at eventime,
      And every tree that wears for her
      Its brightest bloom, and bears for her
        The fruitage of its prime.

    I envy every Southern night
    That paves her path with moonbeams white,
      And silvers all the leaves for her,
      And in their shadow weaves for her
        A dream of dear delight.

    I envy none whose love requires
    Of her a gift, a task that tires:
      I only long to live to her,
      I only ask to give to her
        All that her heart desires.

    THE HERMIT THRUSH



    O wonderful! How liquid clear
    The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
    Floating and falling through the wood alone,
    A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!
    O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,
    Long light, low light, glory of eventide!
    Love far away, far up,—up,—love divine!
    Little love, too, for ever, ever near,
    Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,
    In the leafy dark where you hide,
    You are mine,—mine,—mine!

    Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me
    The hidden virtue of that melody,
    The rapture and the purity of love,
    The heavenly joy that can not find the word?
    Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,
    Come very near to me, and do not move,—
    Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew
    The cool, green cup of air with harmony,
    And we will drink the wine of love with you.

    FIRE-FLY CITY



    Like a long arrow through the dark the train
        is darting,
      Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of
        love's delight:
    Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of
        parting,
      I lift the narrow window-shade and look out
        on the night.

    Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flow-
        ing,
      Forest and field and hill are gliding backward
        still athwart my dream;
    Till in that country strange, and ever stranger
        growing,
      A magic city full of lights begins to glow and
        gleam.

    Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit
        in millions;
      Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold
        across the green;
    Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pa-
        vilions,—
      Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what
        these wonders mean?

    Why do they beckon me, and what have they to
        show me?
      Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the
        feasters meet, kisses and wine:
    Many to laugh with me, but never one to know
        me:
      A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat
        with mine!

    Look how the glittering lines are wavering and
        lifting,—
      Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision
        bright: and, passing fair,
    Over the meadow-grass and through the forest
        drifting,
      The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty
        air!

    Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is
        turning:
      Sleep in your quiet room, while through the
        midnight gloom my train is whirled.
    Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is
        burning,—
      The only never failing light in all the phantom
        world.

    THE GENTLE TRAVELLER



    "Through many a land your journey ran,
         And showed the best the world can boast
     Now tell me, traveller, if you can,
         The place that pleased you most."

    She laid her hands upon my breast,
      And murmured gently in my ear,
    "The place I loved and liked the best
      Was in your arms, my dear!"

    SICILY, DECEMBER, 1908



    O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,—
          Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,
          Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm
            rays
    That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-
        tree,—
    What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee?
      Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days,
      She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays
      Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony!

    Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
      And man the plaything of unconscious fate?
        Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above
        And man is greatest in his darkest hours:
        Walking amid the cities desolate,
        The Son of God appears in human love.

    Tertius and Henry van Dyke, January, 1909.

    THE WINDOW



    All night long, by a distant bell,
         The passing hours were notched
    On the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,
      And the spark of life I watched
    In her face was glowing or fading,—who could
          tell?—
      And the open window of the room,
        With a flare of yellow light,
      Was peering out into the gloom,
        Like an eye that searched the night.

    Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, and
        why do you fear?
    "I see that the garden is crowded wtth creeping forms
        of fear:
    Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in the
        night-wind's breath,
    And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow of
        death."

    Sweet, clear notes of a waking bird
      Told of the passing away
    Of the dark,—and my darling may have heard;
      For she smiled in her sleep, while the ray
    Of the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,
        Till the splendor born in the east outburned
      The yellow lamplight, pale and thin,
        And the open window slowly turned
      To the eye of the morning, looking in.

    Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, that
        makes you so bright?
    "I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft and
        white.
    With the rose of life on her lips, and the breath of life
        in her breast,
    And the arms of God around her as she quietly takes
        her rest."

    Neuilly, June, 1909.

    TWILIGHT IN THE ALPS



    I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair
        And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells
        To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells
    Go chiming after her across the fair
    And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
        Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
        And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells
    Of peace are woven through the purple air.

    Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems
        To walk before the dark by falling rills,
    And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
        She opens all the doors of night, and fills
    With moving bells the music of my dreams,
        That wander far among the sleeping hills.

    Gstaad, August, 1909.

    JEANNE D'ARC



    The land was broken in despair,
         The princes quarrelled in the dark,
    When clear and tranquil, through the troubled air
    Of selfish minds and wills that did not dare,
              Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc.

    O virgin breast with lilies white,
      O sun-burned hand that bore the lance,
    You taught the prayer that helps men to unite,
    You brought the courage equal to the fight,
              You gave a heart to France!

    Your king was crowned, your country free,
      At Rheims you had your soul's desire:
    And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy,
    The black-robed judges gave your victory
              The martyr's crown of fire.

    And now again the times are ill,
      And doubtful leaders miss the mark;
    The people lack the single faith and will
    To make them one,—your country needs you
        still,—
              Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc!

    O woman-star, arise once more
      And shine to bid your land advance:
    The old heroic trust in God restore,
    Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore,
              And give a heart to France!

    Paris, July, 1909.

    HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE



    June 22,1611

    THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY

    One sail in sight upon the lonely sea
    And only one, God knows! For never ship
    But mine broke through the icy gates that guard
    These waters, greater grown than any since
    We left the shores of England. We were first,
    My men, to battle in between the bergs
    And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine;
    I name it! and that flying sail is mine!
    And there, hull-down below that flying sail,
    The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine!
    My ship Discoverie!
                     The sullen dogs
    Of mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatched
    Their food and bit the hand that nourished them,
    Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene,
    I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch,
    And paid your debts, and kept you in my house,
    And brought you here to make a man of you!
    You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man,
    Toothless and tremulous, how many times
    Have I employed you as a master's mate
    To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett,
    You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan,
    You knew the plot and silently agreed,
    Salving your conscience with a pious lie!
    Yes, all of you—hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring
        back
    My ship!
            Too late,—I rave,—they cannot hear
    My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh
    Would be their answer; for their minds have
        caught
    The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve,
    That looks like courage but is only fear.
    They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, and
        drown,—
    Or blunder home to England and be hanged.
    Their skeletons will rattle in the chains
    Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs,
    While passing mariners look up and say:
    "Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men
    "Who left their captain in the frozen North!"

    O God of justice, why hast Thou ordained
    Plans of the wise and actions of the brave
    Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards?
    Look,—there she goes,—her topsails in the sun
    Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop
    Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go
    Clean out of mind! We'll think of braver things!
    Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King,
    You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west.
    You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose
    Freely to share our little shallop's fate,
    Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship,—
    Too good an English seaman to desert
    These crippled comrades,—try to make them rest
    More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son,
    My little shipmate, come and lean your head
    Against your father's knee. Do you recall
    That April morn in Ethelburga's church,
    Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled
    To take the sacrament with all our men,
    Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docks
    On our first voyage? It was then I vowed
    My sailor-soul and years to search the sea
    Until we found the water-path that leads
    From Europe into Asia.
                        I believe
    That God has poured the ocean round His world,
    Not to divide, but to unite the lands.
    And all the English captains that have dared
    In little ships to plough uncharted waves,—
    Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher,
    Raleigh and Gilbert,—all the other names,—
    Are written in the chivalry of God
    As men who served His purpose. I would claim
    A place among that knighthood of the sea;
    And I have earned it, though my quest should
        fail!
    For, mark me well, the honour of our life
    Derives from this: to have a certain aim
    Before us always, which our will must seek
    Amid the peril of uncertain ways.
    Then, though we miss the goal, our search is
        crowned
    With courage, and we find along our path
    A rich reward of unexpected things.
    Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares!

    I know not why, but something in my heart
    Has always whispered, "Westward seek your
        goal!"
    Three times they sent me east, but still I turned
    The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes
    Of ruttling ice along the Groneland coast,
    And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland,
    And past the rocky capes and wooded bays
    Where Gosnold sailed,—like one who feels his
        way
    With outstretched hand across a darkened
        room,—
    I groped among the inlets and the isles,
    To find the passage to the Land of Spice.
    I have not found it yet,—but I have found
    Things worth the finding!

                          Son, have you forgot
    Those mellow autumn days, two years ago,
    When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon,—
    The flag of Holland floating at her peak,—
    Across a sandy bar, and sounded in
    Among the channels, to a goodly bay
    Where all the navies of the world could ride?
    A fertile island that the redmen called
    Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land
    Around was bountiful and friendly fair.
    But never land was fair enough to hold
    The seaman from the calling of the sea.
    And so we bore to westward of the isle,
    Along a mighty inlet, where the tide
    Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood
    That seemed to come from far away,—perhaps
    From some mysterious gulf of Tartary?
    Inland we held our course; by palisades
    Of naked rock where giants might have built
    Their fortress; and by rolling hills adorned
    With forests rich in timber for great ships;
    Through narrows where the mountains shut us in
    With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the
        stream;
    And then through open reaches where the banks
    Sloped to the water gently, with their fields
    Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun.
    Ten days we voyaged through that placid land,
    Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat
    Upstream to find,—what I already knew,—
    We travelled on a river, not a strait.

    But what a river! God has never poured
    A stream more royal through a land more rich.
    Even now I see it flowing in my dream,
    While coming ages people it with men
    Of manhood equal to the river's pride.
    I see the wigwams of the redmen changed
    To ample houses, and the tiny plots
    Of maize and green tobacco broadened out
    To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and
        dale
    The many-coloured mantle of their crops;
    I see the terraced vineyard on the slope
    Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine;
    And cattle feeding where the red deer roam;
    And wild-bees gathered into busy hives,
    To store the silver comb with golden sweet;
    And all the promised land begins to flow
    With milk and honey. Stately manors rise
    Along the banks, and castles top the hills,
    And little villages grow populous with trade,
    Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine,—
    The thread that links a hundred towns and
        towers!
    And looking deeper in my dream, I see
    A mighty city covering the isle
    They call Manhattan, equal in her state
    To all the older capitals of earth,—
    The gateway city of a golden world,—
    A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires,
    And swarming with a host of busy men,
    While to her open door across the bay
    The ships of all the nations flock like doves.
    My name will be remembered there, for men
    Will say, "This river and this isle were found
    By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek
    The Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde."
    Yes! yes! I sought it then, I seek it still,—
    My great adventure and my guiding star!
    For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done;
    We hold by hope as long as life endures!
    Somewhere among these floating fields of ice,
    Somewhere along this westward widening bay,
    Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night,
    The channel opens to the Orient,—
    I know it,—and some day a little ship
    Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through!
    And why not ours,—to-morrow,—who can tell?
    The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart!
    These are the longest days of all the year;
    The world is round and God is everywhere,
    And while our shallop floats we still can steer.
    So point her up, John King, nor'west by north.
    We'll keep the honour of a certain aim
    Amid the peril of uncertain ways,
    And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God.

    Oberhofen, July, 1909.

    THE END