Thus at high noon? Can we wealthmongers grieve?
Here in the sad surprise greatest America
Shows for a moment her heart on her sleeve.
She who is said to give life-blood for silver,
Proves, without show, she sets higher than gold
Just the straight manhood, clean, gentle, and fearless,
Made in God's likeness once more as of old.
Once more the crude makeshift law overproven,--
Soul pent from sin will seek God in despite.
Once more the gladder way wins revelation,--
Soul bent on God forgets evil outright.
Once more the seraph voice sounding to beauty,
Once more the trumpet tongue bidding, no fear!
Once more the new, purer plan's vindication,--
Man be God's forecast, and Heaven is here.
Bear him to burial, Harvard, thy Hero!
Not on thy shoulders alone is he borne;
They of the burden go forth on the morrow,
Heavy and slow, through a world left forlorn.
No grief for him, for ourselves the lamenting;
What giant arm to stay courage up now?
March we a thousand file up to the City,
Fellow with fellow linked,--he taught us how!
Never dismayed at the dark nor the distance!
Never deployed for the steep nor the storm!
Hear him say, "Hold fast, the night wears to morning!
This God of promise is God to perform."
Up with thee, heart of fear, high as the heaven!
Thou hast known one wore this life without stain.
What if for thee and me,--Street, Yard, or Common,--
Such a white captain appear not again!
Fight on alone! Let the faltering spirit
Within thee recall how he carried a host,
Rearward and van, as Wind shoulders a dust-heap;
One Way till strife be done, strive each at his most.
Take the last vesture of beauty upon thee,
Thou doubting world; and with not an eye dim
Say, when they ask if thou knowest a Saviour,
"Brooks was His brother, and we have known him."
THE WHITE GULL
_For the Centenary of the birth of Shelley_
I
Up by the idling reef-set bell
The tide comes in;
And to the idle heart to-day
The wind has many things to say;
The sea has many a tale to tell
His younger kin.
For we are his, bone of his bone,
Breath of his breath;
The doom tides sway us at their will;
The sky of being rounds us still;
And over us at last is blown
The wind of death.
II
A hundred years ago to-day
There came a soul,
A pilgrim of the perilous light,
Treading the spheral paths of night,
On whom the word and vision lay
With dread control.
Now the pale summer lingers near,
And talks to me
Of all her wayward journeyings,
And the old, sweet, forgotten things
She loved and lost and dreamed of here
By the blue sea.
The great cloud-navies, one by one,
Bend sails and fill
From ports below the round sea-verge;
I watch them gather and emerge,
And steer for havens of the sun
Beyond the hill.
The grey sea-horses troop and roam;
The shadows fly
Along the wind-floor at their heels;
And where the golden daylight wheels,
A white gull searches the blue dome
With keening cry.
And something, Shelley, like thy fame
Dares the wide moon
In that sea-rover's glimmering flight,
As if the Northland and the night
Should hear thy splendid valiant name
Put scorn to scorn.
III
Thou heart of all the hearts of men,
Tameless and free,
And vague as that marsh-wandering fire,
Leading the world's outworn desire
A night march down this ghostly fen
From sea to sea!
Through this divided camp of dream
Thy feet have passed,
As one who should set hand to rouse
His comrades from their heavy drowse;
For only their own deeds redeem
God's sons at last.
But the dim world will dream and sleep
Beneath thy hand,
As poppies in the windy morn,
Or valleys where the standing corn
Whispers when One goes forth to reap
The weary land.
O captain of the rebel host,
Lead forth and far!
Thy toiling troopers of the night
Press on the unavailing fight;
The sombre field is not yet lost,
With thee for star.
Thy lips have set the hail and haste
Of clarions free
To bugle down the wintry verge
Of time forever, where the surge
Thunders and crumbles on a waste
And open sea.
IV
Did the cold Norns who pattern life
With haste and rest
Take thought to cheer their pilgrims on
Through trackless twilights vast and wan,
Across the failure and the strife,
From quest to quest,--
Set their last kiss upon thy face,
And let thee go
To tell the haunted whisperings
Of unimaginable things,
Which plague thy fellows with a trace
They cannot know?
So they might fashion and send forth
Their house of doom,
Through the pale splendor of the night,
In vibrant, hurled, impetuous flight,
A resonant meteor of the North
From gloom to gloom.
V
I think thou must have wandered far
With Spring for guide,
And heard the sky-born forest flowers
Talk to the wind among the showers,
Through sudden doorways left ajar
When the wind sighed;
Thou must have heard the marching sweep
Of blown white rain
Go volleying up the icy kills,--
And watched with Summer when the hills
Muttered of freedom in their sleep
And slept again.
Surely thou wert a lonely one,
Gentle and wild;
And the round sun delayed for thee
In the red moorlands by the sea,
When Tyrian Autumn lured thee on,
A wistful child,
To rove the tranquil, vacant year,
From dale to dale;
And the great Mother took thy face
Between her hands for one long gaze,
And bade thee follow without fear
The endless trail.
And thy clear spirit, half forlorn,
Seeking its own,
Dwelt with the nomad tents of rain,
Marched with the gold-red ranks of grain,
Or ranged the frontiers of the morn,
And was alone.
VI
One brief perturbed and glorious day!
How couldst thou learn
The quiet of the forest sun,
Where the dark, whispering rivers run
The journey that hath no delay
And no return?
And yet within thee flamed and sang
The dauntless heart,
Knowing all passion and the pain
On man's imperious disdain,
Since God's great part in thee gave pang
To earth's frail part.
It held the voices of the hills
Deep in its core;
The wandering shadows of the sea
Called to it,--would not let it be;
The harvest of those barren rills
Was in its store.
Thine was a love that strives and calls
Outcast from home,
Burning to free the soul of man
With some new life. How strange, a ban
Should set thy sleep beneath the walls
Of changeless Rome!
VII
More soft, I deem, from spring to spring,
Thy sleep would be
Where this far western headland lies
With its imperial azure skies,
Under thee hearing beat and swing
The eternal sea.
Where all the livelong brooding day
And all night long,
The far sea-journeying wind should come
Down to the doorway of thy home,
To lure thee ever the old way
With the old song.
But the dim forest would so house
Thy heart so dear,
Even the low surf of the rain,
Where ghostly centuries complain,
Might beat against thy door and rouse
No heartache here.
For here the thrushes, calm, supreme,
Forever reign,
Whose gloriously kingly golden throats
Regather their forgotten notes
In keys where lurk no ruin of dream,
No tinge of pain.
And here the ruthless noisy sea,
With the tide's will,
The strong grey wrestler, should in vain
Put forth his hand on thee again--
Lift up his voice and call to thee,
And thou be still.
For thou hast overcome at last;
And fate and fear
And strife and rumour now no more
Vex thee by any wind-vexed shore,
Down the strewn ways thy feet have passed
Far, far from here.
VIII
Up by the idling, idling bell
The tide comes in;
And to the restless heart to-day
The wind has many things to say;
The sea has many a tale to tell
His younger kin.
The grey sea-horses troop and roam;
The shadows fly
Along the wind-floor at their heels;
And where the golden daylight wheels,
A white gull searches the blue dome
With keening cry.
AMOS HENRY CHANDLER
WHEN DORA DIED
Dreary, dreary,
Fundy's mists are sweeping
Up the stricken vales of Westmoreland:
Weary, weary
Is my heart and weeping,
While the cold waves dash upon the strand.
Fillëd, fillëd
Is the land with sorrow,
In loud wailing roars the angry sea:
Stillëd, stillëd
Will they be to-morrow--
Summer notes, and murmurs on the lea....
Coldly, coldly
Blent with autumn mists lie
Eve's dark shadows 'pon the hills away;
Boldly, boldly,
Like a giant sentry,
_Chapeau Dieu_ keeps vigil o'er the bay....
Lay me, lay me,
While the world is waking,
Down to dream on what has gone before;
Pray ye, pray ye,
Lest my heart be breaking,
God to bring her to my side once more....
EDWARD J. CHAPMAN
A SUMMER NIGHT
I
The purple shadows dreamingly
Upon the dreaming waters lie,
And darken with the darkening sky.
Calmly across the lake we float,
I and thou, my little boat--
The lake with its grey mist-capote.
We lost the moon an hour ago:
We saw it dip, and downward go,
Whilst all the west was still aglow.
But in those blue depths moon-forsaken
A moon-like star its place hath taken;
And one by one the rest awaken.
II
With noiseless paddle dip we glide
Along the bay's dark-fringëd side,
Then out--amidst the waters wide!
With us there floated here last night
Wild threatening waves with foam-caps white,
But these have now spent all their might.
We knew they would not injure us,
Those tossing waves, so boisterous--
And where is now their fret and fuss?
Only a ripple wrinkleth now
The summer lake--and plashes low
Against the boat, in fitful flow.
III
Still callest thou--thou Whip-poor-will!
When dipped the moon behind the hill
I heard thee, and I hear thee still.
But mingled with thy plaintive cry
A wilder sound comes ebbing by,
Out of the pine-woods, solemnly.
It is the blinking owls that sit
Up in the trees, and wait a-bit
Ere yet along the shores they flit.
And hark, again! It comes anew--
Piercing the dark pine-forest through,
With its long too-hoo, too-hoo!
IV
Swifter and swifter, on we go;
For though the breeze but feigns to blow,
Its kisses catch us, soft and low.
But with us now, and side by side,
Striving awhile for place of pride,
A silent, dusky form doth glide.
Though swift and light the birch canoe,
It cannot take the palm from you,
My little boat, so trim and true.
"Indian! where away to-night?"
"Homeward I wend: yon beacon-light
Shines out for me--good-night!"--"Good-night!"
V
Shoreward again we glide--and go
Where the sumach shadows flow
Across the purple calm below.
There, the far-winding creeks among,
The frogs keep up, the summer long,
The murmurs of their soft night-song--
A song most soft and musical,
Like the dulled voice of distant Fall,
Or winds that through the pine-tops call.
And where the dusky swamp lies dreaming,
Shines the fire-flies' fitful gleaming--
Through the cedars--dancing, streaming!
VI
Who is it hideth up in a tree
Where all but the bats asleep should be,
And with his whistling mocketh me?
Such quaint, quick pipings--two-and-two:
Half a whistle, half a coo--
Ah, Mister Tree-Frog! gare-à-vous!
The owls on noiseless wing gloom by,--
Beware, lest one a glimpse espy
Of your grey coat and jewelled eye!
And so, good-night!--We glide anew
Where shows the lake its softest blue
With mirror'd star-points sparkling through.
VII
The lights upon the distant shore,
That shone so redly, shine no more:
The Indian-fisher's toil is o'er.
Already in the eastern skies,
Where up and up new stars arise,
A pearly lustre softly lies.
And time it were for us to take
Our homeward course across the lake,
Ere yet the tell-tale morn awake.
O Night--where old shape-hauntings dwell,
Though now, calm-eyed:--for thy soft spell,
O soothing Night! I thank thee well.
ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE
THE WOMAN'S PART
Gone! brother, lover, son!
Gone forth to certain peril, toil and pain,
And chance of death--for country counted gain.
Our part to let them go; to say, "Not one
Would we hold back," to give
Our hearts' best treasures to our mother-land
Though the gift break them; firm of lip and hand
To bid farewell; to say, "Be strong, and live
Victors, or die deserving." Who shall deem
Our part the easier? or the place we hold--
Patience for courage--for the deed the dream--
Waiting for action,--service slight or cold?
What shall we give them? Words?
To them, obedient to the bounds of faith,
To them, enduring danger, fencing death,
Words were as stones for bread. Were our speech swords,
And were our frail hopes shields,
Then might we give them; but how frame our thought
Nor mar the harvest-gift their truth has brought
With the poor fruit a woman's nature yields
When love sows seed? Hush! let us keep our souls
In silence--Words of comfort, words of cheer,
But mock the senses when the war-cloud rolls
Black 'twixt the eyes and all the heart holds dear.
What can we give them? Prayers?
Shall not the God of battles work His will?
He guards, He smites. Our strength is to be still
And wait His word; to cast aside our cares
And trust His justice. Strife
And peace are in His hand. They who shall see
Victorious days, and in the time to be
Shall share again the toils and joys of life
Are His--but not less His are they who fall,
(Sealing their soul's devotion with their breath)
And not less loved that, true to duty's call,
Their crown of honor comes to them in death.
What shall we give them? Tears?
Tears least of all! Shame not their valor so--
Honor and manhood call them; let them go,
Nor make farewell twice parting by your tears.
O, woman-heart, be strong!
Too full for words--too humble for a prayer--
Too faithful to be fearful--offer here
Your sacrifice of patience. Not for long
The darkness. When the dawn of peace breaks bright
Blessed she who welcomes whom her God shall save,
But honored in her God's and country's sight
She who lifts empty arms to cry, "I gave!"
AFTER THE BATTLE
Ay, lay them to rest on the prairie, on the spot where for honor
they fell,
The shout of the savage their requiem, the hiss of the rifle their
knell.
For what quiet and sheltered God's air would they barter that
stained desert sod
Where at His trumpet summons of duty they gave back their souls to
their God?
"Private, Number One Company, shot through the heart. First to
fall." Words immortal, sublime
In their teaching, their power to move, and their pathos to plead,
for all time.
Shall we blench where they led? Shall we falter where they at such
cost won their crown?
"Greater love hath no man--" we all know it; they obeyed it and
laid their lives down.
"Friends" then, martyrs now, heroes both ways, they bequeath us
their strength for our parts;
Their example their fittest memorial, their epitaphs deep in our
hearts.
From those graves on the far blood-stained prairie, on the field
where their battle was done,
They shall speak to our souls, and new fire through the veins of
our patriots shall run.
Wail orphans--weep sisters--look upward, sad mothers and desolate
wives;
But mourn not as those without comfort the loss of the sanctified
lives.
Can you mourn unconsoled for their taking, though your heads may
in anguish be bowed,
With a nation's tears falling above them, their country's flag
draped for their shroud?
As the blood of the martyr enfruitens his creed, so the hero sows
peace,
And the reaping of war's deadly harvest is the earnest his havoc
shall cease.
If the seed sown in blood you must water with tears, shrink not
back from the cost;
What _they_ gave ungrudging for honor _you_ have lent to your
country, not lost.
And forgive us, who bear not your burden of pain and who share not
your pride,
If we grudge you your glory of giving in the cause where your
heroes have died.
WELCOME HOME
_July, 1885_
War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil,
And battle-scarred they come--victorious.
Exultantly we greet them; cleave the sky
With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds;
We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path
To do them homage--bid them "Welcome Home."
We laid our country's honor in their hands
And sent them forth undoubting; said farewell
With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame
To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow.
To-day they come again, and bring their gift--
Of all earth's gifts most precious--trust redeemed.
We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry,
Words of all words the sweetest--"Welcome Home!"
Oh, brave true hearts! oh, steadfast loyal hearts!
They come, and lay their trophies at our feet:
They show us work accomplished, hardships borne,
Courageous deeds, and patience under pain,
Their country's name upheld and glorified,
And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil.
What guerdon have we for such service done?
Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers;
Our country's smile, and her most just rewards;
The victor's laurel laid upon their brows,
And all the love that speaks in "Welcome Home!"
Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms!
To those who come not, who "though dead yet speak"
A lesson to be guarded in our souls
While the land lives for whose dear sake they died--
Whose lives, thrice sacred, are the price of peace,
Whose memory, thrice belovëd, thrice revered,
Shall be their country's heritage, to hold
Eternal pattern to her living sons--
What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all.
A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves,
Are all the tribute left,--already theirs
A nation's safety, gratitude, and tears,
Imperishable honor, endless rest!
And ye, O stricken-hearted! to whom earth
Is dark though Peace is smiling, whom no pride
Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console,
Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink
To perfect now your sacrifice of love?
GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE
SKATER AND WOLVES
Swifter the flight! Far, far and high
The wild air shrieks its savage cry,
And all the earth is ghostly pale,
While the young skater, strong and hale,
Skims fearlessly the forest by.
Hush! shrieking blast, but wail and sigh!
Well sped, O skater, fly thee, fly!
Mild moon, let not thy glory fail!
Swifter the flight!
O, hush thee, storm! thou canst not vie
With that low summons, hoarse and dry.
He hears, and oh! his spirits quail,--
He laughs and sobs within the gale,
On, anywhere! He must not die,--
Swifter the flight!
TO A BUTTERFLY
Butterfly,
Flutter by,
Under and over,
Haunting the clover,
Each flashing wing
Fashioning
Quivering glories,
Luminous stories!
Life in a miniature!
Swiftly to win a pure
Realm of ideals,
Hoping it heals.
The best, the best
Is the endless quest.
Is hopefulness vain
To feel or to feign?
Know you not, save to say:
"It is glittering, glittering day,--
"The sun to me sings,
Beauty dowers my wings,
All of joy I attain."--
Flutter by,
Butterfly!
RESENTMENT
The ocean bursts in very wrath,
The waters rush and whirl,
As the hardy diver cleaves a path
Down to the treasured pearl.
ECCLESIASTES
God speaks. Life beats within the brain,
And crowding onward comes the cry
Of worlds,--and in the senses, pain!
And in the heart, eternity!
A CHILD'S EVENING HYMN
Shepherd Jesus, in Thy arms
Let Thy little lamb repose,
Safe and free from all alarms
In the love the Shepherd shows;
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!
Often mother dear has told
How the children Thou didst bless,
And I know that in Thy fold
All is joy and happiness:
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!
Shepherd Jesus, make Thy child
Pure and gentle as the dew,
Keep my spirit undefiled
Waking, sleeping, kind and true:
May my slumber quiet be,
Angels watching over me!
HUGH COCHRANE
IDEAL
The song unsung more sweet shall ring,
Than any note that yet has rung;
More sweet than any earthly thing
The song unsung!
A harp there lies, untouched, unstrung
As yet by man, but time shall bring
A player by whose art and tongue
This song shall sound to God the King;
The world shall cling as ne'er it clung
To God and heaven, and all shall sing
The song unsung.
HEREWARD K. COCKIN
THE DEATH OF BURNABY
"Close up in front, and steady, lads!" brave Stewart cries,
"They're here":
And distant Cheops echoes back our soldiers' answering cheer;
One moment's pause--a year it seems--and swift the Arab horde
Pours forth its mingled tide of hate and yells and spear and
sword;
As demons fight, so fight the children of the desert plain,
Their naked breasts defy our steel again and yet again;
But steady as the granite cliff that stems a raging sea,
Above the van of battle looms our "Bayard"--Burnaby.
Broken! The square is pierced! But only for a moment, though,
And shoulder-strap to shoulder-strap our brave lads meet the foe;
And on this day the Bedouin learns, in the Mahdi's shattered
might,
With what a god-like majesty the island legions fight.
But, oh! the cost, the bitter cost! for ere the set of sun
The bravest heart of Alba's isle its earthly course has run;
And Britain weeps sad, bitter tears whilst flushed with victory,
For on Metemneh's blood-red sand lies noble Burnaby.
Avenged? Behold what hecatombs around the dead man lay
(The royal paw is heaviest when the lion's brought to bay);
And as the shades of even fall upon this day of strife
That heap of slain exceedeth far the foes he slew in life.
And when a sneering alien tongue shall speak of him with scorn,
Or hint at our decaying might, the child as yet unborn
Shall beard the dastard to his teeth, and tell exultingly
How like the Israelite in death was "Samson" Burnaby.
Intriguing Russia's prestige waned in far-off Persia's State
When England's lonely horseman stood at Khiva's guarded gate,
Ay! Bruin of the northern steppes, roll forth thy fœtid breath:
Exult since now that lion heart is stilled for aye in death;
And scream thine hate, proud bird of France, beyond thy northern
shore,
Perfidious Albion drapes her halls for one who is no more.
Farewell, the last and brightest star of England's chivalry,
'Neath orient skies thou sleepest well, O gallant Burnaby!
SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES
THE POET
O very, very far from our dull earth,
The land where poets spring to glorious birth.
Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,
Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;
Where truth is not too beautiful to see,
Action is music, life a harmony.
There dwells the poet, till some luckless day
Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay,
And in our dull and dusty commonplace
He loses memory of his name and race,--
Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,
The language of the land where he was born;
Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,
Waken his soul to wonder; or he sees
In some first fairness when the day is new,
In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,
A loveliness that steals about his heart,
And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.
Then he uprises joyously and binds
His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds
This drear existence a most glorious thing
And sings because he cannot choose but sing.
ISABELLA VALANCY CRAWFORD
THE MASTER-BUILDER
O Love builds on the azure sea,
And Love builds on the golden sand;
And Love builds on the rose-winged cloud,
And sometimes Love builds on the land.
O, if Love build on sparkling sea,
And if Love build on golden strand,
And if Love build on rosy cloud,
To Love these are the solid land.
O, Love will build his lily walls,
And Love his pearly roof will rear,
On cloud, or land, or mist, or sea,--
Love's solid land is everywhere!
THE AXE OF THE PIONEER
Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,
What doth thy bold voice promise me?
"I promise thee all joyous things,
That furnish forth the lives of Kings
For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow!"
Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree,
Tell wider prophecies to me.
"When rust hath gnawed me deep and red,
A nation strong shall lift its head!
His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Æons shall build him in his might!"
Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree;
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!
_From_ "THE HELOT"
Helot, drink--nor spare the wine;
Drain the deep, the maddening bowl;
Flesh and sinews, slave, are mine,
Now I claim thy Helot soul.
Gods! ye love our Sparta; ye
Gave with vine that leaps and runs
O'er her slopes, these slaves to be
Mocks and warnings to her sons!
Thou, my Hermos, turn thy eyes
(God-touched still their frank, bold blue)
On the Helot--mark the rise
Of the Bacchic riot through
Knotted vein and surging breast:
Mark the wild, insensate mirth:
God-ward boast--the drivelling jest,
Till he grovel to the earth.
"Drink, dull slave!" the Spartan cried:
Meek the Helot touched the brim;
Scented all the purple tide;
Drew the Bacchic soul to him.
Cold the thin-lipped Spartan smiled:
Couched beneath the weighted vine,
Large-eyed gazed the Spartan child
On the Helot and the wine.
Rose pale Doric shafts behind,
Stern and strong, and thro' and thro',
Weaving with the grape-breathed wind,
Restless swallows called and flew.