Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound
Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,
The Master-minstrel all your being found;
Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,
And charmed with music the high paths to truth.
Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,
And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;
Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;
Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;
All, all in vain--no Star of Song doth rise
Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.
The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace
A front less high than this majestic brow,
The stamp imperial graved upon the face,
Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;
And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart
Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.
That hand which _might_ have grasped yon silent lyre,
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,
Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;
Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran
Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.
But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,
Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,
Whom will ye find to wear _his_ wingëd helm
Or ride _his_ charger down the lists of time?
The new Pendragon--where can such be found?
Alas, not one of all your Table Round!
Let none the storied chords of that clear harp
Restrike in service dissonant and vain;
Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;
Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;
Hang up the shining wires above his head
And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.
CHAUCER
The heart of Merrie England sang in thee,
Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!
How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,
Come floating down thy measures pure and free,
Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,
And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn
The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn--
Though England perish, these will live in thee!
Thine is the jocund springtime--winsome May,
Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;
The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,
And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;
O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,
Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!
POPE
Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools,
The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme,
Forging his couplets of heroic chime,
And beating all his masters at their rules;
With what an arsenal of shining tools
He wrought to shape his fanciful sublime,
Flouting each proud Mæcenas of the time,
And shoving all the dunces from their stools.
And you'd deny him greatness? Would to-day
Your acrobatic bards could fill his place!
He lacked variety? But who can sway
More forceful measures in a narrow place?
Yield him, O Fame, brightest three-leaved bay.
Mind, manners, men, the Horace of his race!
BLANCHE BISHOP
THE BRIDE O' THE SUN
In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through,
She comes, when the tremulous morning is new,
The bride o' the sun;
Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads,
Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds,
The bride o' the sun.
There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side,
But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride,
The bride o' the sun.
There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least,
When open the light-shedding doors of the East
To the bride o' the sun.
Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold,
And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold,
On the bride o' the sun;--
Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame,
Unfolding to flower o'er all her fair frame,
Sweet bride o' the sun.
O glorious bridal of fire and earth!
O ancient of miracles! new as at birth
Of the bride o' the sun.
All creation doth wear a more rapturous face,
For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space,
Ever bride o' the sun.
WINTER FLOWERS
When tree and bush are comfortless,
And fields are piteous bare,
A garden blooms upon my hearth,
And it is summer there.
From the gray log's quiescent length
Burst the bright flowers of flame,--
Like the far flashings of the stars,
Too rare for earthly name.
Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt,
Their petals softly blow;
Now clear as water in the sun,
When the blue sky lies below.
And daintily they toss and sway
To the breath of soundless airs,--
The memories of wooing winds
That made the forest theirs.
O for the secret that the sun
Shares with the burning tree!
Elusive sweet as the witching flow
Of water to the sea.
In thought I grasp the mystic word,
And lo! it hath no form.
I only know 'tis dark without,
And here 'tis light and warm.
CHRISTMAS MORN
Come, happy morn, serene and fair,
With outstretched hand, thy breath a prayer
Come with thy faintly smiling eyes,
And brow whereon majestic rise
Suns of eternal morn.
Come, happy morn, for see and hark!
A world lies waiting in the dark,
With throbbing heart and straining gaze,
To catch thy first up-springing rays,
O, happy, happy morn!
The whispering stars will see it first,
From star to star the tidings burst--
Their paling faces earthward bowed,
While men and angels worship loud
The Christ who is the Morn.
EDWARD BLACKADDER
ANNAPOLIS ROYAL
I loiter here within this ancient town--
Long time agone the rising hope of France,
The seed of future empire--as in trance,
'Mid storied scenes, I wander up and down.
Here are the grass-grown walls which bore the frown
Of death-disgorging cannon long ago,
And wide the gleaming basin spreads below,
Where thunder-bearing ships no more are known.
Yea, death hath reaped his harvest in this place;
Along these shores have hundreds bled and died
To save this jewel for the Gallic crown.
Stern fate ordained it for another race:
The sturdy Saxon tills yon meadows wide;
Peace rules o'er all; war's trumpet sleeps unblown.
JEAN BLEWETT
THE TWO MARYS
They journey sadly, slowly on,
The day has scarce begun,
Above the hills the rose of dawn
Is heralding the sun,
While down in still Gethsemane
The shadows have not moved,
They go, by loss oppressed, to see
The grave of One they loved.
The eyes of Mary Magdalene
With heavy grief are filled;
The tender eyes that oft have seen
The strife of passion stilled.
And never more that tender voice
Will whisper "God forgives";
How can the earth at dawn rejoice
Since He no longer lives?
O, hours that were so full and sweet!
So free from doubts and fears!
When kneeling lowly at His feet
She washed them with her tears!
With head low bowed upon her breast
The other Mary goes,
"He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest
Untroubled by our woes."
And spices rare their hands do hold
For Him the loved and lost,
And Magdalene, by love made bold,
Doth maybe bring the most.
It is not needed,--see! the stone
No longer keeps its place,
And on it sits a radiant one
A light upon his face.
"He is not here, come near and look
With thine own doubting eyes,
Where once He lay--the earth is shook,
And Jesus did arise."
And now they turn to go away,
Slow stepping, hand in hand,
'Twas something wondrous He did say,
If they could understand.
The sun is flooding vale and hill,
Blue shines the sky above,
"All hail!"--O voice that wakes a thrill,
Familiar, full of love!
From darkest night to brightest day,
From deep despair to bliss,
They to the Master run straightway,
And kneel His feet to kiss.
O Love! that made Him come to save,
To hang on Calvary,
O mighty Love! that from the grave
Did lift and set Him free!
Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth--
With voice so sweet and strong,
Sing, till it thrills through all the earth--
The Resurrection Song!
SHE JUST KEEPS HOUSE FOR ME
She is so winsome and so wise
She sways us at her will,
And oft the question will arise
What mission does she fill?
And so I say, with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me.
A full content dwells in her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned "Wife."
What though I toil from morn till night,
What though I weary grow,
A spring of love and dear delight
Doth ever softly flow.
Our children climb upon her knee
And lie upon her breast,
And ah! her mission seems to me
The highest and the best.--
And so I say, with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me.
AT QUEBEC
Quebec, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness--her stirring past--
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.
JOHN BREAKENRIDGE
THE TROUBADOUR
TO THE CAPTIVE RICHARD CŒUR DE LION
O Richard, my King, lion-hearted, behold
From thy prison, near which the dark waters are rolled;
'Tis Blondell the faithful, whose troubadour lay
Would win the sad thoughts of his monarch away;
As David of old, when he played before Saul,
Could banish the demon of woe at his call.
O King of the lion-heart, oft hath thy sword
Gleamed bright in the fight, for the cause of the Lord:
How the Saracens trembled, and Saladin fled!
How thy pathway was cumbered with dying and dead!
The plume on thy helmet flew on like a bird,
Where, as by the simoon, the Moslems were stirred.
Or when, in the tourney, thy long lance in rest,
Thy spurs, all of gold, to thy charger's flank pressed;
With a bound, through the lists, to the tilt rushing on,
Down hurling some Templar, or Knight of Saint John;
When the heralds were crying--Brave Knights, have a care,
Upon ye are beaming the eyes of the fair!
O then, with what grace from your steed vaulting off,
Your helmet, all plumed, to the ladies you'd doff;
How you smiled, bent the knee, to the Queen Berengère,[A]
While thousands of handkerchiefs waved in the air!
How the charger of Saladin proud you bestrode,
And, fearless, to conquer the gallant Turk rode!
O, England, arise! for thine honour advance,
And punish the traitor-king, Philip of France;
Spread out thy broad standard--"Saint George!" be the cry;
To rescue our Richard, brave cavaliers, fly!
Alas, in the dungeons of savage Tyrol,
No hope ever comes to the poor captive's soul!
Alas, in her bower the Queen ever weeps,
And treason o'er all thy broad realm, England, sweeps!
Thy brother hath risen, and seized on the crown,
And still the usurper no hand hurleth down.
Doth England forget Cœur de Lion? O, no!
For him the bright tears of her people still flow.
On my soul there comes rushing a foresight of woe,
And before me long years of the dark future flow.
The Palace of Austria, proud Schoenbrunn,
The Gaul hath invaded, the conqueror won.
Long years have gone by, but the Heavens are just,
And Austria's hopes trodden down in the dust.
But ere the avenger shall rise in his might,
Long ages will pass, wherein wrong conquers right;
Months and years, it may be, shall flow over thy head;
Thy people will mourn thee, believing thee dead;
But now, and forever, there beats in one heart
Devotion, that living, shall thence never part.
Cœur de Lion, farewell! But again, when at eve
The world sunk in slumber, thy gaolers believe,
O then, 'neath these battlements sternly that frown,
I'll weep for thy wrongs, and I'll sing thy renown.
King of England, farewell! for the night falleth fast,
And I hear the dull tramp of the sentry at last.
[A] Berengaria.
JOHN HENRY BROWN
THE PARLIAMENT OF MAN
What shall withstand her? who shall gainsay her?
The mighty nation!
Nation of freemen with hearts linked together--
None to betray her.
When from the strong soul leaps forth indignation,
How shall the wrong live? how should the false thrive?
How prosper liars?
Down with dissemblers, far hence be each dastard,
Hence all deniers!
Chaunt the great nation with hands locked together.
North, South, East, West, one bond binds the true-hearted.
Each one for the nation and the nation for each one.
Where the millions are one fears no one of the millions.
See the monster, Behemoth, stride from ocean to ocean,
From the pole to equator, from the pole to the pole.
Did he slumber--you dreamed?--lo! a single man's wronged there,
And the turbulent crowds raise a cry smites the welkin:
As one pulse beat the millions swift help to the wronged one,
And the wronger slinks back. Justice now hath a pleader.
Stem the steep waves of ocean when Boreas hath stirred them--
Quell the riotous billows when tempest doth lash them--
O the free waves of ocean, how resistless their forces!
O each man of the millions a light-crested fighter!
O the millions oceanic with souls linked together!
O the surging, triumphant, troth-plighting, united--
The many in one, the sure tie forged by freedom.
How sing fit praise? how raise the pæan?
Say ye who love her.
How of true hearts breathe the single devotion--
A song empyrean?
Mingle a voice from strong souls the land over,
Voices of maidens, wives, husbands and lovers,
A voice from the sea--
Chaunting deep faith in the nation of freemen!
Forever to be!
A SUNSET
A perfect artist hath been here; the scene
Is grandly imaged; with what breadth of hand,
What noble grace of freedom, all is planned!
The woods, the water and the lakelet's sheen;
The magic hues--gold-pink, rose-pearl, sea-green,
And now the western gateway, see, is spanned!
A nameless glory gilds the favored land,
And still the spirit-artist works unseen.
Belike upon the chamber of a king
My erring steps have stumbled; yet, meseems,
These, like myself, are common men, who spring
From rock to rock where the mid-splendor gleams.
Perchance the king's sons we, and I, who sing,
Co-heir to wealth beyond yon realm of dreams.
EDWARD BURROUGH BROWNLOW
THE WHIP-POOR-WILL
When early shades of evening's close
The air with solemn darkness fill,
Before the moonlight softly throws
Its fairy mantle o'er the hill,
A sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
The Nightingale unto the rose
Its tale of love may fondly trill;
No love-tale this--'tis grief that flows
With pain that never can be still.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
Repeated oft, it never grows
Familiar, but is sadder still,
As though a spirit sought repose
From some pursuing, endless ill.
The sad sound goes
In plaintive thrill;
Who hears it knows
The Whip-poor-will.
THE SONNET
The sonnet is a diamond flashing round
From every facet true rose-colored lights;
A gem of thought carved in poetic nights
To grace the brow of art by fancy crowned;
A miniature of soul wherein are found
Marvels of beauty and resplendent sights;
A drop of blood with which a lover writes
His heart's sad epitaph in its own bound;
A pearl gained from dark waters when the deep
Rocked in its frenzied passion; the last note
Heard from a heaven-saluting skylark's throat;
A cascade small flung in a canyon steep,
With crystal music. At this shrine of song
High priests of poesy have worshipped long.
GEORGE FREDERICK CAMERON
THE GOLDEN TEXT
You ask for fame or power?
Then up and take for text:
This is my hour,
And not the next, nor next!
Oh, wander not in ways
Of ease or indolence!
Swift come the days,
And swift the days go hence.
Strike! while the hand is strong:
Strike! while you can and may
Strength goes ere long,--
Even yours will pass away.
Sweet seem the fields, and green,
In which you fain would lie:
Sweet seems the scene
That glads the idle eye:
Soft seems the path you tread,
And balmy soft the air,--
Heaven overhead
And all the earth seem fair:
But, would your heart aspire
To noble things,--to claim
Bard's, statesman's fire--
Some measure of their fame;
Or, would you seek and find
Their secret of success
With mortal kind?
Then, up from idleness!
Up--up! all fame, all power
Lies in this golden text:--
_This is my hour--
And not the next, nor next!_
IS THERE A GOD?
Is there a God, then, above us?
I ask it again and again:
Is there a good God to love us--
A God who is mindful of men?
Is there a God who remembers
That we have our nights as our noons?
Our dark and our dismal Decembers
As well as our garden-gay Junes?
ON TIPTOE
Standing on tiptoe ever since my youth,
Striving to grasp the future just above,
I hold at length the only future--Truth,
And Truth is Love.
I feel as one who, being awhile confined,
Sees drop to dust about him all his bars:--
The clay grows less, and, leaving it, the mind
Dwells with the stars.
WHAT MATTERS IT?
What reck we of the creeds of men?--
We see them--we shall see again.
What reck we of the tempest's shock?
What reck we where our anchor lock?
On golden marl or mould--
In salt-sea flower or riven rock--
What matter--so it hold?
What matters it the spot we fill
On Earth's green sod when all is said?--
When feet and hands and heart are still
And all our pulses quieted?
When hate or love can kill nor thrill,--
When we are done with life, and dead?
So we be haunted night nor day
By any sin that we have sinned,
What matter where we dream away
The ages?--In the isles of Ind,
In Tybee, Cuba, or Cathay,
Or in some world of winter wind?
It may be I would wish to sleep
Beneath the wan, white stars of June,
And hear the southern breezes creep
Between me and the mellow moon;
But so I do not wake to weep
At any night or any noon,
And so the generous gods allow
Repose and peace from evil dreams,
It matters little where or how
My couch be spread:--by moving streams,
Or on some ancient mountain's brow
Kist by the morn's or sunset's beams.
For we shall rest; the brain that planned,
That thought or wrought or well or ill,
At gaze like Joshua's moon shall stand,
Not working any work or will,
While eye and lip and heart and hand
Shall all be still--shall all be still!
BLISS CARMAN
LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRÉ
The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such unelusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide.
And yet I know that not for us,
By any ecstasy of dream,
He lingers to keep luminous
A little while the grievous stream,
Which frets, uncomforted of dream--
A grievous stream, that to and fro
Athrough the fields of Acadie
Goes wandering, as if to know
Why one beloved face should be
So long from home and Acadie.
Was it a year, or lives ago,
We took the grasses in our hands,
And caught the summer flying low
Over the waving meadow lands,
And held it there between our hands?
The while the river at our feet--
A drowsy inland meadow stream--
At set of sun the after-heat
Made running gold, and in the gleam
We freed our birch upon the stream.
There down along the elms at dusk
We lifted dripping blade to drift,
Through twilight scented fine like musk,
Where night and gloom awhile uplift,
Nor sunder soul and soul adrift.
And that we took into our hands
Spirit of life or subtler thing--
Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands
Of death, and taught us, whispering,
The secret of some wonder-thing.
Then all your face grew light, and seemed
To hold the shadow of the sun;
The evening faltered, and I deemed
That time was ripe, and years had done
Their wheeling underneath the sun.
So all desire and all regret,
And fear and memory, were naught;
One to remember or forget
The keen delight our hands had caught;
Morrow and yesterday were naught.
The night has fallen, and the tide ...
Now and again comes drifting home,
Across these aching barrens wide,
A sigh like driven wind or foam:
In grief the flood is bursting home.
THE GRAVEDIGGER
Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,
And well his work is done.
With an equal grave for lord and knave,
He buries them every one.
Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;
But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,--
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.
Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre
Went out, and where are they?
In the port they made, they are delayed
With the ships of yesterday.
He followed the ships of England far,
As the ships of long ago;
And the ships of France they led him a dance,
But he laid them all arow.
Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him
Is the sexton of the town;
For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,
He shovels the dead men down.
But though he delves so fierce and grim,
His honest graves are wide,
As well they know who sleep below
The dredge of the deepest tide.
Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,
And loud is the chorus skirled;
With the burly note of his rumbling throat
He batters it down the world.
He learned it once in his father's house,
Where the ballads of eld were sung;
And merry enough is the burden rough,
But no man knows the tongue.
Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,
And wilful she must have been,
That she could bide at his gruesome side
When the first red dawn came in.
And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those
She greets to his border home;
And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep
That beckons, and they come.
Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough
To handle the tallest mast;
From the royal barque to the slaver dark,
He buries them all at last.
Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;
But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,--
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.
THE CRIMSON HOUSE
Love built a crimson house--
I know it well--
That he might have a home
Wherein to dwell.
Poor Love that roved so far
And fared so ill,
Between the morning star
And the Hollow Hill,
Before he found the vale
Where he could bide,
With memory and oblivion
Side by side.
He took the silver dew
And the dun red clay,
And behold when he was through
How fair were they!
The braces of the sky
Were in its girth
That it should feel no jar
Of the swinging earth;
That sun and wind might bleach
But not destroy
The house that he had builded
For his joy.
"Here will I stay," he said,
"And roam no more,
And dust when I am dead
Shall keep the door."
There trooping dreams by night
Go by, go by.
The walls are rosy white
In the sun's eye.
The windows are more clear
Than sky or sea;
He made them after God's
Transparency.
It is a dearer place
Than Kirk or inn;
Such joy on joy as there
Has never been.
HACK AND HEW
Hack and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now;
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.
And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart;
And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.
They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride;
They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea,
The wind and the purple tide.
Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,--
The furious fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.
Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown;
And God Himself blew hard in his eyes:
"Let them burn till they smoulder down!"
And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew,
"We'll rest, for our toil is done."
But "Nay," the Master Workman said,
"For your toil is just begun.
"And ye who served me of old as God
Shall serve me anew as man,
Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,
And perfect the vaster plan."
And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mountain day comes on,
Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,--
The faltering restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.
PHILLIPS BROOKS
This is the white winter day of his burial.
Time has set here of his toiling the span
Earthward, naught else. Cheer him out through the portal,
Heart-beat of Boston, our utmost in man!
Out in the broad open sun be his funeral,
Under the blue for the city to see.
Over the grieving crowd mourn for him, bugle!
Churches are narrow to hold such as he.
Here on the steps of the temple he builded,
Rest him a space, while the great city square
Throngs with his people, his thousands, his mourners;
Tears for his peace and a multitude's prayer.