How it sinks and how it swells!
O’er the sleeping town it knells,
“_Fare thee well, Old Year_.”
Far across the snowy plain
Rolls the many-tongued refrain,
And the echoes cry again,
“_Fare thee well, Old Year_.”
Thou hast been a kindly year,
Thou hast spared us many a tear,
Thou hast vanquished many a fear,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
Lightly touched by summer showers,
Budding hopes have grown to flowers,
Happy days have flown like hours,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
Many a lesson thou hast taught,
Precious favors thou hast brought,
Pleasant changes thou hast wrought,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
Now thy rule is near an end,
Thy last records have been penned,
We must part at last, true friend.
_Fare thee well, Old Year._
Close and seal the book of fate,
With whate’er it may relate,
Sin and goodness, love and hate,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
One more volume is complete,
Take it to the Mercy Seat,
Lay it at the Master’s feet,
_Fare thee well, Old Year_.
REFRAIN.
_Fare thee well, Old Year,
Fare thee well, Old Year,
Thou hast been a faithful friend,
Fare thee well, Old Year._
PEGASUS.
If you find Pegasus a steed
Scornful of your control,
Who canters well enough, indeed,
But will not caracole,
So much the better, poet mine,
’Tis bottom wins the race.
Let poetasters prance, in fine;
Keep you the steady pace.
Let poetasters hunt for sound,
Chase metres, out of breath;
Great thoughts are not thus run to ground,
Nor fame in at the death.
So, let your Pegasus be free
To hunt some thought sublime,
While you sit still, with clinging knee,
And gallop simple rhyme.
Ah, friend, of all the joys of earth,
There’s nothing like the hunt,
The good horse straining at the girth,
The clear-tongued hounds in front.
And if your Pegasus can bear
You well before the rout,
Don’t curb and make him beat the air;
Loose rein, and let him out.
Oft when a poet’s rhymes I read,
With ornate language wrought,
Its cadences, though sweet indeed,
But hide the lack of thought.
Be yours the poem that can stand
From trappings wholly free,
Each thought a Phryne, to be scanned
In fearless nudity.
IT WOULD BE EASY TO BE GOOD.
Who walks the paths of righteousness
Or follows ways of evil,
Who knows the joys that angels bless
Or sin’s insensate revel,
At last, too well has understood
Sin is not worth a feather.--
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.
Waiving the conscience we offend,
And weighing but the pleasure,
Though we all sinful joys might blend,
They make a sorry treasure.
The loftiest joys must be subdued,
The soul we fain must tether.--
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.
Oh, would that man might give free scope
To every gentle feeling!
The soul would realize its hope
Its noblest side revealing.
Would man might trust man’s brotherhood
In calm and stormy weather.--
It would be easy to be good
If all were good together.
If no one schemed to do a wrong,
No need for wrong were given;
If each his neighbor helped along,
This earth would be a heaven;
If men once met in rectitude,
Farewell, the regions nether.--
It would be easy to be good,
If all were good together.
THE LITTLE TROOPER.
Swift troopers twain ride side by side
Throughout life’s long campaign.
They make a jest of all man’s pride,
And oh, the havoc! As they ride,
They cannot count their slain.
The one is young and debonair,
And laughing swings his blade.
The zephyrs toss his golden hair,
His eyes are blue; he is so fair
He seems a masking maid.
The other is a warrior grim,
Dark as a midnight storm.
There is no man can cope with him.
We shrink and tremble in each limb
Before his awful form.
Yet though men fear the sombre foe
More than the gold-tressed youth,
The boy with every careless blow
More than the trooper grim lays low,
And causes earth more ruth.
Keener his mocking sword doth prove
Than flame or winter’s breath.
Men bear his wounds to the realm above,
For the little trooper’s name is Love,
His comrade’s only Death.
CUPID’S DISGUISES.
Dan Cupid wears disguises.
We never see his form,
Till suddenly he surprises
And takes the heart by storm.
He hides at times in the blushes
That tinge a cheek so fair,
Or oft in the moonlit hushes
In a sweet voice on the air.
Sometimes he’s in the dancing
Of mirth in azure eyes,
Sometimes in the curve entrancing
Of lips that part in sighs.
And sometimes in the glimmer
Of arm, rich lace beneath;
Sometimes in the tresses’ shimmer,
Sometimes in the peep of teeth.
Oh, he’s a little bandit,
And bold as bold can be.
He leads us, single-handed,
Into captivity.
For none is a match for Cupid.
He swifter is than thought.
The keenest mind is but stupid
When he begins to plot.
MUSIC.
Life hath such longings, bitter sweet,
And yet so few it satisfies
That man fain dreams life is complete
Only beyond the skies.
And like the mystic cloud of fire
That guided Israel’s way by night,
Every unsatisfied desire
Leads man towards the right.
Around him, mingling with the dust,
Youth’s pure ideals, shattered, lie;
Hope, virtue, charity and trust
Amid life’s deserts die.
Fade aspirations, fades each dream
Of goodness, honor and renown.
Man floats on a polluted stream,
Which fain would drag him down.
But music, like the nightingale
That sweetly sings in woodland brakes,
When hope and trust and virtue fail,
Man’s nobler nature wakes.
Only in music doth man find
An echo of the dreams of youth,
When he saw gods among mankind,
In woman only truth.
BABY’S STOCKING.
Baby’s dainty little stocking
Hangs beside his wicker cot,
Darling mother’s wishes mocking
And the treasures she has brought.
For it is so small that never
Gift can find a place inside.
Was there doting mother ever
So distressed at Christmas tide?
Baby’s eyes are closed and dreaming
Of the gentle mother face;
Baby’s hands are clasped and seeming
Interlocked in fond embrace.
Baby’s lips are softly smiling,
And the Rubicon of youth
He has passed, for lo! beguiling
Mother’s kisses, peeps a tooth.
Naught for gifts is baby caring.
Santa Claus has many a gem,
But, God’s love and mother’s sharing,
Baby has no need of them.
MY DIVINITY.
I am a god; yes, I,--
(Smile, if you will, at the claim)
Mote though I am in the ambient sky,
Housed, I confess, in putrescible frame,
Still, a divinity.
My sceptre I claim, and, perchance,
My altars as well,--who knows?
You would prick my pride with your wit’s keen lance,
You know my radius. Well, suppose
You pipe, I dance.
Am I the Primary Cause?
That’s my affair, not my creatures’.
Did I create nature’s adamant laws,
Or am I but one of her manifold features?
Fellow gods can pick flaws!
But the little corpuscles of blood
I create by millions each hour,
Do you fancy the witless ephemeral brood,
As each lives its life, can my limits and power
Declare understood?
Alone in the grey of my brain
I sit and my universe rule.
What can they know of their god, though they fain
Question, perhaps, each contemptible fool,
What joy is, why pain?
Do they brag of their universe, boast,
Worsting some hostile bacillus,
Fight over their God, sect term other sect lost,
Read my ways or complain, “Why torment us and kill us?”
What fate has each ghost?
Perfecting some large thought that may
Move the earth that I dwell on,
A million my creatures, remorseless, I slay.
Am I annoyed if they call me a felon!
It is I, or they.
My work, for their sake, shall I cease,
My very nature disjoint?
Is there aught but destruction for all in such peace?
Must I miracle work for a microscope point,--
Corpuscles to please?
We are not one, we are twain,
Yet are we one and not two.
They are the universe, I am the brain,
In and about them, knit through and through,--
Chords in one strain.
In common we have, at least, this,
Creator and creature, that we
Must rise to the height of our powers, or miss
Life’s best for ourselves, and each other decree
Frustrate of bliss.
* * * * *
Is, now, this godhead of mine,
My limits, this difference vast
Between creature and maker, a symbol? In fine
Is mankind but a host of blood corpuscles, massed
Through the Divine?
THE SLEEPING SOUL.
Will ever thy soul awake,
Awake and come smiling to greet my own?
Will ever the love-light break
From thine eyes upon me, like the sun
On the billows that shoreward run,
Into foam by the winds of the ocean blown?
To me seems thy pure soul sleeping.
Thou hast in thy heart a bird,
But its head is under its wing.
I watch it and think with weeping
How sweet a song it might sing;
Yet by love it is never stirred.
Oft in the hush of a drowsy night
I dream that I hear that low bird voice
Lilting so merrily,
Singing so cheerily,
Bidding my heart to its depths rejoice;
But alas, takes flight
My dream before the dawn’s lance of light.
Alas, it is not for me
To kiss thy soul, as the prince in story
Kissed the Sleeping Beauty’s lips,
And to a life-love waken thee.
Round thee there is a maiden glory
Fairer than circles the sun that dips
Into the sea while chill night comes creeping
Slowly, silently through the sky;
But as well might I
Reach out my hand to the sun and try
To make his glory my very own
As think to touch with my finger tips
Thy glorious beauty that shrinks from me.
THE MOTHER.
Down the bright pathway of life, where joy, like the throstle, was
singing,
She passed, like a sungleam at dawn, through mistlands of sorrows
and fears,
Seeking the soul of the babe at her bosom now nursing and clinging,
And stood in the valley of death, gloomed with the shadow of tears.
Ghost glided past after ghost, and shook ghastly arms at the mortal
Who dared to the valley of pain go down for the winning of life.
Hour after hour trembled by, as we crouched in our woe at the portal,
Made strangers to her whom we loved by strangers who looked on her
strife.
Angels spake hope to her there, as she stood in the vale of the shadow,
Demons snarled at her heels, she was haunted by visions abhorred;
But Love was a lamp to her feet as she passed through the woe-blossomed
meadow,
Seeking the soul of her child. She was brave, for her trust was
the Lord.
Death turned his sword as she came, and she passed through the gateways
of heaven,
Treading the pavements of pearl and haloed with shimmering gleams,
On, till the veil hung between immortal and mortal was riven,
And she brought from the garden of God the blue-eyed flower of
her dreams.
PLUCK FLOWERS IN YOUTH.
Pluck flowers in youth, nor heed how old tongues prate;
Pluck flowers in youth, in age it is too late;
Pluck flowers when it is morn with flowers and you.
So soon they wither, do not hesitate,
Lest you should gather roses not, but rue.
Pluck flowers ere life grows cold and desolate,
And love turns hate.
Pluck flowers in youth; age is the time for wheat;
To age not even the rose itself is sweet,
Pluck flowers, pluck flowers in youth, while faith is great,
Ere life and joy grow cankered with deceit.
Pluck flowers in youth; no sadder thought brings Fate
Than memory of scorned joys crushed by our feet
In flight too fleet.
O FOOLISH HEART.
O foolish heart, to flutter so
With hope and fear;
O treacherous blush, to come and go
When he is near;
Why do ye to the world reveal
The passion I would fain conceal?
O ears, that love to hear him speak;
O downcast eyes,
Whose lashes droop upon each cheek,
Nor dare to rise;
Do ye not know she sees and hears
Fond looks and words that cost me tears?
Be brave, mine heart, if he despise,
Give scorn for scorn;
Be deaf, mine ears, be blind, mine eyes,--
Yet soul, why mourn?
Though she may claim him for her own,
My love, my love is mine alone.
MY HEART’S A MERRY ROVER.
My heart’s a merry rover,
Though innocent of wrong;
Forever beauty’s lover,
Yet never constant long.
When coral lips are pouting,
Their smiling to disguise,
He kneels and loves, not doubting
They are his richest prize.
Yet when, amid his dreaming,
He spies a bosom fair,
At once the rogue is scheming
To gain admittance there;
Though should he see the tresses
That frame a pretty head,
His love and his caresses
He spends on them instead.
Then, if bright eyes confuse him
With many a saucy stare,
The lips, the curls, the bosom
Must mourn their worshipper.
And yet this merry rover
Is nothing if not true,
He’s but one maiden’s lover,
And, dearest, she is you.
THE CIGARETTE SMOKER.
Mark her as she stands,
Blue eyes bright, match alight,
Shielding with her hands
The growing flame,
Holding to her lips, where the bee, love, sips,
The fragrant pleasure of man’s leisure,
Cigarette by name.
There! it makes her cough.
If she smoke, must she choke
When blue whirls come off?
Now she denies
The cigarette the bliss of her lips’ sweet kiss,
Holds it burning, to ash turning,
Till at last it dies.
Thus she lit my heart,
By the fell magic spell
Of love’s witching art,
And just as I
Burned with passion’s fire, shrank from my desire,
Let my yearning and heart-burning
Into ashes die.
TAKE ME AS YOU FIND ME.
Take me as you find me,
Take me so,
Else from love unbind me,
Let me go.
Two twin gifts God gave me,
Body and soul;
These shall lose or save me,
As years roll.
I can never alter;
I must wend
Onward, thus, nor falter
To the end.
If you love, then, love me,
Sweetheart, so
You’ll not look above me,
Nor below.
AT THE TRYST.
The evening stars are shining
Amid the gloom of air,
Like gold and jewels twining
Among thy golden hair.
They guard the dawn’s shut portal
And count the moments fleet,--
O maiden, we are mortal,
Why hasten not thy feet?
The moonlight and the shadows
Are wooing by the stream,
And far across the meadows
Thy windows brightly gleam.
My eager heart is beating
Beneath the trysting tree,
The evening hours are fleeting,
Why com’st thou not to me?
SONNETS IN CALIFORNIA.
ON A FLASK OF WATER.
_Taken from the Pacific at Santa Monica, Cal._
From seas Alaskan, where, through sunless days,
The grinding ice floes cast a spectral glare,
I come to shores where, through the golden air,
Palms wave and bees dip in the orange sprays.
From shores Siberian, where the keen knout preys
On women, wan with torture and despair,
I come, a voiceless, palpitating prayer,
Where Freedom dwells, yet succor still delays.
From far Cathay, the oldest land of lands,
A giant sunk in poppied, dreamful rest,
I come where earth’s great last-born nation stands,
Flower of the centuries, the titanic West.
I come where East and West stand face to face,
The childhood and the manhood of the race.
SPRING IN THE SOUTH.
Through the quaint southern winter without snow,
Without an icy blast or chilling air,
When the broad mesas arid lie and bare,
The Ishmael cactus and the sage brush grow.
The golden orange bends the lithe branch low,
The sunflowers throng the by-ways everywhere,
Palms wave, birds sing. The earth lies free of care,
Basking in skies one golden, cloudless glow.
Then come the rains, and in their cortege bring
Streams to the canyons, and to ranch and glen
Wild flowers and orange blossoms, wherein rides
The bee on golden zephyrs. Swiftly then,
Like wind-blown fire, up the Sierra sides
A blaze of poppies runs, and it is Spring.
A WINTER DAY.
_In the Sierras._
O’er the Sierras scarce the moon yestre’en
Was risen to flood each sombre peak with light,
Ere came a cloud host through the gusty night,
Storming the crags. Sheer canyon walls between
They swept, and hid bare ledge and living green.
Hoarse thunder pealed from unseen height to height,
As though the vast hills boasted of their might,
Though Chaos’ self upon them seemed to lean.
Dawn drew aside night’s veil of mist, and came
Across the hills. The clouds retired, and lo!
On every wind-swept crag, as Day looked forth,
Bright in the southern sunshine gleamed the snow,
A vision of the unforgotten North
’Twixt golden skies and poppy fields aflame.
_In the Valley._
Snow on the hills, but in the valley, flowers,
Poppies aflame and orange blooms, whose scent
With the faint odor of the snow is blent.
Snow on the peaks, but in the canyons, showers,
And torrents drinking strength from stormy hours.
The geese wheel seaward through the clouds half spent,
Fleeing the snow and screaming discontent,
But in the vale birds trill in blossomy bowers.
Summer is in the vale, though in the heights
The bandit Winter lurks to seize his prey.
Still springs the grain, vines grow and fruit delights
Sun and soft winds through many a golden day
In many an Eden valley, nestling warm
Below the stern Sierras, wrapped in storm.
THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE.
_Sierra Madre, Cal._
Ere yet the Spanish cavalier
For this new world set sail,
Ere yet the padres came anear
San Gabriel’s sunny vale,
Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men
Across the western hills,
I rippled down this rocky glen,
The happiest of rills.
The shadows of the spreading oak
Oft lay upon my breast;
Oft through the brown madronas broke
The bear upon his quest.
Past starry yuccas, to my brink,
At many a crimson dawn,
The mountain lion came to drink,
And oft a timid fawn.
The golden moments came and went
Of many a sunny year,
And still I rippled on, content
And solitary here.
At times a weary miner came
And quaffed my cooling stream,
At times I saw the camp-fire flame
Of hardy hunters gleam.
Though oft I paused to hear some bird
Trill in the leaves above,
A maid I never saw nor heard,
Nor knew the name of love.
Oh, there was never rivulet
So merry in a glen;
But now I never can forget,
Nor merry be again.
She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,
The dizzy trail along.
Upon my ferny marge she stood
And listened to my song.
I saw her, and I leapt for glee
In many a lucent wave,
And when she stooped to drink from me,
My very heart I gave.
She passed, and now no more I sing
Among the granite hills;
Instead, my ceaseless murmuring
The sombre canyon fills.
Oh! ye to whom that maid divine
Hath also heartless been,
Come join your mournful plaint with mine,
The pool of Sant’ Oline.
WINTER IN THE SOUTH.
At home the blossoms are asleep
Beside the frost-bound rills;
At home the snow is drifting deep
Upon the windy hills;
At home the ice king mocks the sun,
The woods are drear and bare,
And of the birds there is not one
Left singing anywhere.
But here the fields are green with grain,
The mesas bright with flowers.
The birds repeat each dulcet strain
They learned in Eden’s bowers.
’Midst ripening fruit, the orange trees
Have mingled odorous blooms,
And here and there the eager bees
Hum through the golden glooms.
The swart Sierras, crowned with snow,
Stand knee deep in the green,
Like patriarchs smiling as they go
Blithe groups of youth between.
Behind them is the burning sand
Of the Mojave[A] waste;
Before, the warm Pacific strand,
By golden seas embraced.
When in the palm tree’s shade I rest
Through a many a perfect day,
My heart would fain forget life’s quest,
And live in dreams alway;
But when upon the snow-clad hills
Mine eyes again look forth,
I wake. Thy spell my bosom thrills,
Stern homeland in the north!
Give me the seasons of the year,
The bursting of the leaf,
The northern summer brief but dear,
And autumn’s golden sheaf.
Give me the wintry moon’s pale gleam,
With snow and storm at strife.
The south is a bewitching dream,
But in the north is life.
THE KINDERGARTEN.
O blossoming lives that to the fruits
Now ripened for the gathering in,
Speak of old days, ere life’s pursuits
Touched the new soul with taint of sin,
We who now watch you at your game,
We, weary of the toil and strife,
Must envy you your scorn of fame,
Your eager, loving trust in life.
Perchance, the babe that, thoughtless, piles
His blocks unsteadily in air,
May yet a minster build, whose aisles
Shall echo to a nation’s prayer.
Perchance, the child that scarce can tell
The letters on his cubes of wood,
May yet with a poetic spell
Charm and uplift the multitude.
They question not, they only live
To pluck the blossoms of each hour.
Ambition frets them not, they give
No thought to pomp or place or power.
We too have toys, and we pursue
Our trivial aims; we rage and sigh
Because our blocks are built askew,
And our best hopes in ruins lie.
Yet over us, as over these,
A teacher watches, true and kind,
Striving to guide our fantasies,
And patient with the groping mind.
From flower of wisdom unto flower
He leads us, as these babes are led,
Till chimes, at last, the closing hour,
The prizes won, the lessons said.
And happy he who in this school
Of life, that fits the soul for death,
Has learned to serve as well as rule,
And speak for truth with every breath.
THE POET.
The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn
Attains perfection through the sun-swept day,
And poets, to life’s highest mission born,
By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay.
And like the harp, attuned to every breeze,
That in the open casement sighs or sings,
The poet soul is void of melodies
Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings.
Life, the magician, with his subtle powers,
Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown,
Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours
Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone.
And oft his numbers falter, and his song
In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again
The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng,
And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken.
And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh
His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm;
And in the warfare between soul and flesh
His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm.
But should he cease to wage the upward strife,
Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power,
Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life,
Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower.
For the true poet, throwing down his gage
To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist,
And with the broadened vision of the sage
Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed.
He learns that all who would be truly great
Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part,
But take such trials as are given by Fate
And set them to sweet music by their art.
He only is a poet who can find
In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light,
Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind
By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height.
GOLD TRESSES.
My love is now a woman grown.
About her shoulders fall no more
Her locks, in beauty all their own.
Their days of liberty are o’er.
No longer may, with soft caress,
The zephyr’s unseen hand uplift
Each net-like, golden-threaded tress
To catch the sunlight’s moted drift.
I know each tress, and have a name
Whereby my memory holds it dear,
From that which is her forehead’s frame
To that which hides her shelly ear.
And one there is I loved to touch,
On which my heart first suffered wreck,
That sometimes fell aside too much
And showed the ivory of her neck.
And though ’tis bound upon her head
And all its beauty hid from me,
Still other charms I see instead,
And still am in captivity.
I see the grace of neck and ear
Unveiled, that erst beneath the tress
But peeped, as pearly sea shells peer
Through ocean’s weedy wilderness.
Ye captive tresses that disdained
My love, and wantoned in the wind,
I know your grief, for I was chained
Her slave ere ye were thus confined.
She hath but gloried in our love,
And laughs to find us strain our gyves.
Come, let us slaves unite and prove
That power to break her bond survives.
Aid me with love her heart to chain,
And soon, when she and I are wed,
My hands shall set ye free again
To wanton sweetly round her head.
EN ROUTE.
By town and hamlet, field and wood,
Past glimpses of empurpled hills,
O’er many a broad, sun-smitten flood
And many a myriad tinkling rills,
The train swings on and brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
While I to chafe at time am fain,
Which holds me sundered from thy smile.
I see among the emerald trees
Embowered, the village church spires gleam;
I see white homestead front the breeze,
And of our own sweet home I dream;
While still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
And fewer moments yet remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.
The wheat fields shimmer in the sun,
Sleek cattle in the meadows browse,
Nor lift their heads, as past we run,
The lithe-limbed steeds and patient cows.
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Till scarce a moment doth remain
To hold me sundered from thy smile.
Onward we sweep, yet all our speed
Leaves not pursuing night behind;
Stars sparkle in the sky’s broad mead,
And homeward plods the weary hind;
And still the fleet train brings us twain
Each minute nearer by a mile,
Until my heart is home again
And I am basking in thy smile.
AT DAWN.
At dawn of day a shaft of light
Pierces the sable breast of night,
Which, dropping many a sable plume,
Flits far into the nether gloom,
All silently.
At dawn of day the sun’s first beam
Dispels the mist that hides the stream,
And scatters from the hill and wood
The clouds that there did sit and brood,
Formless and grey.