These hues so orient
That with a sultan’s tent
Each tree invites the sun;
Our Earth such homage pays,
So decks her dusty ways,
And keeps such holidays,
For one, and only one.
My brain shapes form and face,
Throbs with the rhythmic grace
And cadence of her pace
To all fine instincts true;
Her footsteps, as they pass,
Than moonbeams over grass
Fall lighter,--and, alas,
More insubstantial too!
LOVE’S CLOCK.
A PASTORAL.
DAPHNIS _waiting_.
“O Dryad feet,
Be doubly fleet,
Timed to my heart’s expectant beat
While I await her!
'At four,' vowed she;
’Tis scarcely three,
Yet by _my_ time it seems to be
A good hour later!”
CHLOE.
“Bid me not stay!
Hear reason, pray!
’Tis striking six! Sure never day
Was short as this is!”
DAPHNIS.
“Reason nor rhyme
Is in the chime!
It can’t be five; I’ve scarce had time
To beg two kisses!”
BOTH.
“Early or late,
When lovers wait,
And Love’s watch gains, if Time a gait
So snail-like chooses,
Why should his feet
Become more fleet
Than cowards' are, when lovers meet
And Love’s watch loses?”
ELEANOR MAKES MACAROONS.
Light of triumph in her eyes,
Eleanor her apron ties;
As she pushes back her sleeves,
High resolve her bosom heaves.
Hasten, cook! impel the fire
To the pace of her desire;
As you hope to save your soul,
Bring a virgin casserole,
Brightest bring of silver spoons,--
Eleanor makes macaroons!
Almond-blossoms, now adance
In the smile of Southern France,
Leave your sport with sun and breeze,
Think of duty, not of ease;
Fashion, ’neath their jerkins brown,
Kernels white as thistle-down,
Tiny cheeses made with cream
From the Galaxy’s mid-stream,
Blanched in light of honeymoons,--
Eleanor makes macaroons!
Now for sugar,--nay, our plan
Tolerates no work of man.
Hurry, then, ye golden bees;
Fetch your clearest honey, please,
Garnered on a Yorkshire moor,
While the last larks sing and soar,
From the heather-blossoms sweet
Where sea-breeze and sunshine meet,
And the Augusts mask as Junes,--
Eleanor makes macaroons!
Next the pestle and mortar find,
Pure rock-crystal,--these to grind
Into paste more smooth than silk,
Whiter than the milkweed’s milk:
Spread it on a rose-leaf, thus,
Cate to please Theocritus;
Then the fire with spices swell,
While, for her completer spell,
Mystic canticles she croons,--
Eleanor makes macaroons!
Perfect! and all this to waste
On a graybeard’s palsied taste!
Poets so their verses write,
Heap them full of life and light,
And then fling them to the rude
Mumbling of the multitude.
Not so dire her fate as theirs,
Since her friend this gift declares
Choicest of his birthday boons,--
Eleanor’s dear macaroons!
_February 22, 1884._
TELEPATHY.
“And how could you dream of meeting?”
Nay, how can you ask me, sweet?
All day my pulse had been beating
The tune of your coming feet.
And as nearer and ever nearer
I felt the throb of your tread,
To be in the world grew dearer,
And my blood ran rosier red.
Love called, and I could not linger,
But sought the forbidden tryst,
As music follows the finger
Of the dreaming lutanist.
And though you had said it and said it,
“We must not be happy to-day,”
Was I not wiser to credit
The fire in my feet than your Nay?
SCHERZO.
When the down is on the chin
And the gold-gleam in the hair,
When the birds their sweethearts win
And champagne is in the air,
Love is here, and Love is there,
Love is welcome everywhere.
Summer’s cheek too soon turns thin,
Days grow briefer, sunshine rare;
Autumn from his cannekin
Blows the froth to chase Despair:
Love is met with frosty stare,
Cannot house ’neath branches bare.
When new red is in the rose
And new life is in the leaf,
Though Love’s Maytime be as brief
As a dragon-fly’s repose,
Never moments come like those,
Be they Heaven or Hell: who knows?
All too soon comes Winter’s grief,
Spendthrift Love’s false friends turn foes;
Softly comes Old Age, the thief,
Steals the rapture, leaves the throes:
Love his mantle round him throws,--
“Time to say Good-bye; it snows.”
“FRANCISCUS DE VERULAMIO SIC
COGITAVIT.”
That’s a rather bold speech, my Lord Bacon,
For, indeed, is’t so easy to know
Just how much we from others have taken,
And how much our own natural flow?
Since your mind bubbled up at its fountain,
How many streams made it elate,
While it calmed to the plain from the mountain,
As every mind must that grows great?
While you thought ’twas You thinking as newly
As Adam still wet with God’s dew,
You forgot in your self-pride that truly
The whole Past was thinking through you.
Greece, Rome, nay, your namesake, old Roger,
With Truth’s nameless delvers who wrought
In the dark mines of Truth, helped to prod your
Fine brain with the goad of their thought.
As mummy was prized for a rich hue
The painter no elsewhere could find,
So ’twas buried men’s thinking with which you
Gave the ripe mellow tone to your mind.
I heard the proud strawberry saying,
“Only look what a ruby I’ve made!”
It forgot how the bees in their maying
Had brought it the stuff for its trade.
And yet there’s the half of a truth in it,
And my Lord might his copyright sue;
For a thought’s his who kindles new youth in it,
Or so puts it as makes it more true.
The birds but repeat without ending
The same old traditional notes,
Which some, by more happily blending,
Seem to make over new in their throats;
And we men through our old bit of song run,
Until one just improves on the rest,
And we call a thing his, in the long run,
Who utters it clearest and best.
AUSPEX.
My heart, I cannot still it,
Nest that had song-birds in it;
And when the last shall go,
The dreary days, to fill it,
Instead of lark or linnet,
Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.
Had they been swallows only,
Without the passion stronger
That skyward longs and sings,--
Woe’s me, I shall be lonely
When I can feel no longer
The impatience of their wings!
A moment, sweet delusion,
Like birds the brown leaves hover;
But it will not be long
Before their wild confusion
Fall wavering down to cover
The poet and his song.
THE PREGNANT COMMENT.
Opening one day a book of mine,
I absent, Hester found a line
Praised with a pencil-mark, and this
She left transfigured with a kiss.
“When next upon the page I chance,
Like Poussin’s nymphs my pulses dance,
And whirl my fancy where it sees
Pan piping ’neath Arcadian trees,
Whose leaves no winter-scenes rehearse,
Still young and glad as Homer’s verse.
“What mean,” I ask, “these sudden joys?
This feeling fresher than a boy’s?
What makes this line, familiar long,
New as the first bird’s April song?
I could, with sense illumined thus,
Clear doubtful texts in Æschylus!”
Laughing, one day she gave the key,
My riddle’s open-sesame;
Then added, with a smile demure,
Whose downcast lids veiled triumph sure,
“If what I left there give you pain,
You--you--can take it off again;
’Twas for _my_ poet, not for him,
Your Doctor Donne there!”
Earth grew dim
And wavered in a golden mist,
As rose, not paper, leaves I kissed.
Donne, you forgive? I let you keep
Her precious comment, poet deep.
THE LESSON.
I sat and watched the walls of night
With cracks of sudden lightning glow,
And listened while with clumsy might
The thunder wallowed to and fro.
The rain fell softly now; the squall,
That to a torrent drove the trees,
Had whirled beyond us to let fall
Its tumult on the whitening seas.
But still the lightning crinkled keen,
Or fluttered fitful from behind
The leaden drifts, then only seen,
That rumbled eastward on the wind.
Still as gloom followed after glare,
While bated breath the pine-trees drew,
Tiny Salmoneus of the air,
His mimic bolts the firefly threw.
He thought, no doubt, “Those flashes grand,
That light for leagues the shuddering sky,
Are made, a fool could understand,
By some superior kind of fly.
“He’s of our race’s elder branch
His family-arms the same as ours,
Both born the twy-forked flame to launch,
Of kindred, if unequal, powers.”
And is man wiser? Man who takes
His consciousness the law to be
Of all beyond his ken, and makes
God but a bigger kind of Me?
SCIENCE AND POETRY.
He who first stretched his nerves of subtile wire
Over the land and through the sea-depths still,
Thought only of the flame-winged messenger
As a dull drudge that should encircle earth
With sordid messages of Trade, and tame
Blithe Ariel to a bagman. But the Muse
Not long will be defrauded. From her foe
Her misused wand she snatches; at a touch,
The Age of Wonder is renewed again,
And to our disenchanted day restores
The Shoes of Swiftness that give odds to Thought,
The Cloak that makes invisible; and with these
I glide, an airy fire, from shore to shore,
Or from my Cambridge whisper to Cathay.
A NEW YEAR’S GREETING.
The century numbers fourscore years;
You, fortressed in your teens,
To Time’s alarums close your ears,
And, while he devastates your peers,
Conceive not what he means.
If e’er life’s winter fleck with snow
Your hair’s deep shadowed bowers,
That winsome head an art would know
To make it charm, and wear it so
As ’twere a wreath of flowers.
If to such fairies years must come,
May yours fall soft and slow
As, shaken by a bee’s low hum,
The rose-leaves waver, sweetly dumb,
Down to their mates below!
THE DISCOVERY.
I watched a moorland torrent run
Down through the drift itself had made,
Golden as honey in the sun,
Of darkest amber in the shade.
In this wild glen at last, methought,
The magic’s secret I surprise;
Here Celia’s guardian fairy caught
The changeful splendors of her eyes.
All else grows tame, the sky’s one blue,
The one long languish of the rose,
But these, beyond prevision new,
Shall charm and startle to the close.
WITH A SEASHELL.
Shell, whose lips, than mine more cold,
Might with Dian’s ear make bold,
Seek my Lady’s; if thou win
To that portal, shut from sin,
Where commissioned angels' swords
Startle back unholy words,
Thou a miracle shalt see
Wrought by it and wrought in thee;
Thou, the dumb one, shalt recover
Speech of poet, speech of lover.
If she deign to lift you there,
Murmur what I may not dare;
In that archway, pearly-pink
As the Dawn’s untrodden brink,
Murmur, “Excellent and good,
Beauty’s best in every mood,
Never common, never tame,
Changeful fair as windward flame”--
Nay, I maunder; this she hears
Every day with mocking ears,
With a brow not sudden-stained
With the flush of bliss restrained,
With no tremor of the pulse
More than feels the dreaming dulse
In the midmost ocean’s caves,
When a tempest heaps the waves.
Thou must woo her in a phrase
Mystic as the opal’s blaze,
Which pure maids alone can see
When their lovers constant be.
I with thee a secret share,
Half a hope, and half a prayer,
Though no reach of mortal skill
Ever told it all, or will;
Say, “He bids me--nothing more--
Tell you what you guessed before!”
THE SECRET.
I have a fancy: how shall I bring it
Home to all mortals wherever they be?
Say it or sing it? Shoe it or wing it,
So it may outrun or outfly ME,
Merest cocoon-web whence it broke free?
Only one secret can save from disaster,
Only one magic is that of the Master:
Set it to music; give it a tune,--
Tune the brook sings you, tune the breeze brings you,
Tune the wild columbines nod to in June!
This is the secret: so simple, you see!
Easy as loving, easy as kissing,
Easy as--well, let me ponder--as missing,
Known, since the world was, by scarce two or three.
IV.
HUMOR AND SATIRE.
FITZ ADAM’S STORY.
[The greater part of this poem was written many years
ago as part of a larger one, to be called “The Nooning,”
made up of tales in verse, some of them grave, some
comic. It gives me a sad pleasure to remember that I
was encouraged in this project by my friend the late
Arthur Hugh Clough.]
The next whose fortune ’twas a tale to tell
Was one whom men, before they thought, loved well,
And after thinking wondered why they did,
For half he seemed to let them, half forbid,
And wrapped him so in humors, sheath on sheath,
’T was hard to guess the mellow soul beneath;
But, once divined, you took him to your heart,
While he appeared to bear with you as part
Of life’s impertinence, and once a year
Betrayed his true self by a smile or tear,
Or rather something sweetly-shy and loath,
Withdrawn ere fully shown, and mixed of both.
A cynic? Not precisely: one who thrust
Against a heart too prone to love and trust,
Who so despised false sentiment he knew
Scarce in himself to part the false and true,
And strove to hide, by roughening-o’er the skin,
Those cobweb nerves he could not dull within.
Gentle by birth, but of a stem decayed,
He shunned life’s rivalries and hated trade;
On a small patrimony and larger pride,
He lived uneaseful on the Other Side
(So he called Europe), only coming West
To give his Old-World appetite new zest;
Yet still the New World spooked it in his veins,
A ghost he could not lay with all his pains;
For never Pilgrims' offshoot scapes control
Of those old instincts that have shaped his soul.
A radical in thought, he puffed away
With shrewd contempt the dust of usage gray,
Yet loathed democracy as one who saw,
In what he longed to love, some vulgar flaw,
And, shocked through all his delicate reserves,
Remained a Tory by his taste and nerves.
His fancy’s thrall, he drew all ergoes thence,
And thought himself the type of common sense;
Misliking women, not from cross or whim,
But that his mother shared too much in him,
And he half felt that what in them was grace
Made the unlucky weakness of his race.
What powers he had he hardly cared to know,
But sauntered through the world as through a show;
A critic fine in his haphazard way,
A sort of mild La Bruyère on half-pay.
For comic weaknesses he had an eye
Keen as an acid for an alkali,
Yet you could feel, through his sardonic tone,
He loved them all, unless they were his own.
You might have called him, with his humorous twist,
A kind of human entomologist:
As these bring home, from every walk they take,
Their hat-crowns stuck with bugs of curious make,
So he filled all the lining of his head
With characters impaled and ticketed,
And had a cabinet behind his eyes
For all they caught of mortal oddities.
He might have been a poet--many worse--
But that he had, or feigned, contempt of verse;
Called it tattooing language, and held rhymes
The young world’s lullaby of ruder times.
Bitter in words, too indolent for gall,
He satirized himself the first of all,
In men and their affairs could find no law,
And was the ill logic that he thought he saw.
Scratching a match to light his pipe anew,
With eyes half shut some musing whiffs he drew,
And thus began: “I give you all my word,
I think this mock-Decameron absurd;
Boccaccio’s garden! how bring that to pass
In our bleak clime save under double glass?
The moral east-wind of New England life
Would snip its gay luxuriance like a knife;
Mile-deep the glaciers brooded here, they say,
Through æons numb; we feel their chill to-day.
These foreign plants are but half-hardy still,
Die on a south, and on a north wall chill.
Had we stayed Puritans! _They_ had some heat,
(Though whence derived I have my own conceit,)
But you have long ago raked up their fires;
Where they had faith, you’ve ten sham-Gothic spires.
Why more exotics? Try your native vines,
And in some thousand years you _may_ have wines;
Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins,
And want traditions of ancestral bins
That saved for evenings round the polished board
Old lava-fires, the sun-steeped hillside’s hoard.
Without a Past, you lack that southern wall
O’er which the vines of Poesy should crawl;
Still they’re your only hope; no midnight oil
Makes up for virtue wanting in the soil;
Manure them well and prune them; ’t won’t be France,
Nor Spain, nor Italy, but there’s your chance.
You have one story-teller worth a score
Of dead Boccaccios,--nay, add twenty more,--
A hawthorn asking spring’s most dainty breath,
And him you’re freezing pretty well to death.
However, since you say so, I will tease
My memory to a story by degrees,
Though you will cry, 'Enough!' I’m wellnigh sure,
Ere I have dreamed through half my overture.
Stories were good for men who had no books,
(Fortunate race!) and built their nests like rooks
In lonely towers, to which the Jongleur brought
His pedler’s-box of cheap and tawdry thought,
With here and there a fancy fit to see
Wrought to quaint grace in golden filigree,--
Some ring that with the Muse’s finger yet
Is warm, like Aucassin and Nicolete;
The morning newspaper has spoilt his trade,
(For better or for worse, I leave unsaid,)
And stories now, to suit a public nice,
Must be half epigram, half pleasant vice.
“All tourists know Shebagog County: there
The summer idlers take their yearly stare,
Dress to see Nature in a well-bred way,
As ’twere Italian opera, or play,
Encore the sunrise (if they’re out of bed),
And pat the Mighty Mother on the head:
These have I seen,--all things are good to see,--
And wondered much at their complacency.
This world’s great show, that took in getting-up
Millions of years, they finish ere they sup;
Sights that God gleams through with soul-tingling force
They glance approvingly as things of course,
Say, 'That’s a grand rock,' 'This a pretty fall,'
Not thinking, 'Are we worthy?' What if all
The scornful landscape should turn round and say,
'This is a fool, and that a popinjay'?
I often wonder what the Mountain thinks
Of French boots creaking o’er his breathless brinks,
Or how the Sun would scare the chattering crowd,
If some fine day he chanced to think aloud.
I, who love Nature much as sinners can,
Love her where she most grandeur shows,--in man:
Here find I mountain, forest, cloud, and sun,
River and sea, and glows when day is done;
Nay, where she makes grotesques, and moulds in jest
The clown’s cheap clay, I find unfading zest.
The natural instincts year by year retire,
As deer shrink northward from the settler’s fire,
And he who loves the wild game-flavor more
Than city-feasts, where every man’s a bore
To every other man, must seek it where
The steamer’s throb and railway’s iron blare
Have not yet startled with their punctual stir
The shy, wood-wandering brood of Character.
“There is a village, once the county town,
Through which the weekly mail rolled dustily down,
Where the courts sat, it may be, twice a year,
And the one tavern reeked with rustic cheer;
Cheeshogquesumscot erst, now Jethro hight,
Red-man and pale-face bore it equal spite.
The railway ruined it, the natives say,
That passed unwisely fifteen miles away,
And made a drain to which, with steady ooze,
Filtered away law, stage-coach, trade, and news.
The railway saved it; so at least think those
Who love old ways, old houses, old repose.
Of course the Tavern stayed: its genial host
Thought not of flitting more than did the post
On which high-hung the fading signboard creaks,
Inscribed, 'The Eagle Inn, by Ezra Weeks.'
“If in life’s journey you should ever find
An inn medicinal for body and mind,
’Tis sure to be some drowsy-looking house
Whose easy landlord has a bustling spouse:
He, if he like you, will not long forego
Some bottle deep in cobwebbed dust laid low,
That, since the War we used to call the 'Last,'
Has dozed and held its lang-syne memories fast;
From him exhales that Indian-summer air
Of hazy, lazy welcome everywhere,
While with her toil the napery is white,
The china dustless, the keen knife-blades bright,
Salt dry as sand, and bread that seems as though
’Twere rather sea-foam baked than vulgar dough.
“In our swift country, houses trim and white
Are pitched like tents, the lodging of a night;
Each on its bank of baked turf mounted high
Perches impatient o’er the roadside dry,
While the wronged landscape coldly stands aloof,
Refusing friendship with the upstart roof.
Not so the Eagle; on a grass-green swell
That toward the south with sweet concessions fell
It dwelt retired, and half had grown to be
As aboriginal as rock or tree.
It nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood
O’er homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood,
As by the peat that rather fades than burns
The smouldering grandam nods and knits by turns,
Happy, although her newest news were old
Ere the first hostile drum at Concord rolled.
If paint it e’er had known, it knew no more
Than yellow lichens spattered thickly o’er
That soft lead-gray, less dark beneath the eaves
Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves.
The ample roof sloped backward to the ground,
And vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round,
Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need,
Like chance growths sprouting from the old roof’s seed,
Just as about a yellow-pine-tree spring
Its rough-barked darlings in a filial ring.
But the great chimney was the central thought
Whose gravitation through the cluster wrought;
For ’tis not styles far-fetched from Greece or Rome,
But just the Fireside, that can make a home;
None of your spindling things of modern style,
Like pins stuck through to stay the card-built pile,
It rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair,
Its warm breath whitening in the October air,
While on its front a heart in outline showed
The place it filled in that serene abode.
“When first I chanced the Eagle to explore,
Ezra sat listless by the open door;
One chair careened him at an angle meet,
Another nursed his hugely-slippered feet;
Upon a third reposed a shirt-sleeved arm,
And the whole man diffused tobacco’s charm.
'Are you the landlord?' 'Wahl, I guess I be,'
Watching the smoke, he answered leisurely.
He was a stoutish man, and through the breast
Of his loose shirt there showed a brambly chest;
Streaked redly as a wind-foreboding morn,
His tanned cheeks curved to temples closely shorn;
Clean-shaved he was, save where a hedge of gray
Upon his brawny throat leaned every way
About an Adam’s-apple, that beneath
Bulged like a boulder from a brambly heath.
The Western World’s true child and nursling he,
Equipt with aptitudes enough for three:
No eye like his to value horse or cow,
Or gauge the contents of a stack or mow;
He could foretell the weather at a word,
He knew the haunt of every beast and bird,
Or where a two-pound trout was sure to lie,
Waiting the flutter of his home-made fly;
Nay, once in autumns five, he had the luck
To drop at fair-play range a ten-tined buck;
Of sportsmen true he favored every whim,
But never cockney found a guide in him;
A natural man, with all his instincts fresh,
Not buzzing helpless in Reflection’s mesh,
Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind,
As bluffly honest as a northwest wind;
Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you’d scarce meet
A kindlier mixture of the shrewd and sweet;
Generous by birth, and ill at saying 'No,'
Yet in a bargain he was all men’s foe,
Would yield no inch of vantage in a trade,
And give away ere nightfall all he made.
“'Can I have lodging here?' once more I said.
He blew a whiff, and, leaning back his head,
'You come a piece through Bailey’s woods, I s’pose,
Acrost a bridge where a big swamp-oak grows?
It don’t grow, neither; it’s ben dead ten year,
Nor th' ain’t a livin' creetur, fur nor near,
Can tell wut killed it; but I some misdoubt
’Twas borers, there’s sech heaps on ’em about.
You did n' chance to run ag’inst my son,
A long, slab-sided youngster with a gun?
He’d oughto ben back more ’n an hour ago,
An' brought some birds to dress for supper--sho!
There he comes now. 'Say, Obed, wut ye got?
(He’ll hev some upland plover like as not.)
Wal, them’s real nice uns, an’ll eat A 1,
Ef I can stop their bein' over-done;
Nothin' riles _me_ (I pledge my fastin' word)
Like cookin' out the natur' of a bird;
(Obed, you pick ’em out o' sight an' sound,
Your ma’am don’t love no feathers cluttrin' round;)
Jes' scare ’em with the coals,--thet’s _my_ idee.'
Then, turning suddenly about on me,
'Wal, Square, I guess so. Callilate to stay?
I’ll ask Mis' Weeks; ’bout _thet_ it’s hern to say.'
“Well, there I lingered all October through,
In that sweet atmosphere of hazy blue,
So leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving,
That sometimes makes New England fit for living.
I watched the landscape, erst so granite glum,
Bloom like the south side of a ripening plum,
And each rock-maple on the hillside make
His ten days' sunset doubled in the lake;
The very stone walls draggling up the hills
Seemed touched, and wavered in their roundhead wills.
Ah! there’s a deal of sugar in the sun!
Tap me in Indian summer, I should run
A juice to make rock-candy of,--but then
We get such weather scarce one year in ten.