Spicy carnations red and white,
That pulse their perfume in the light,
With tall pale lilies firmly set!
III
Now while the sweet wild autumn rain
Is falling on the world outside,
How safely does my heart abide
In the dear shelter of my wall!
IN JUNE
Some glad thing comes to me
Always in June,
Some new joy gladly set
To a sweet tune.
Is it that earth so thrills
With bud and bloom,
That the sad heart of life
Lets go its gloom?
Some dear long absent face
Answers some prayers,
Or may be just a token
That some one cares.
Some glad thing hidden long
In some old room,
Says, "Let us go to her,
For it is June.
"Why cheat her any more,
For we are hers,
Unlock the dusty door,
My being stirs
"With longing to behold
A human face,
And with a touch of joy
Add some new grace."
Far back in earth's grey dawn,
Before God's words
Had crystalized in suns,
Or stars had heard
That clear creative call,
"Let there be light
On all My works below,
For day and night"--
When first earth's wrinkled face
Saw the white moon
Gleam on unfinished work,
There was no June,--
But as the thoughts of God
Shewed perfect spheres,
We think He called up June
To gem the years!
When we are inward drawn
To God's dear heart,
And the white silence falls
As we depart,
And the new air seems filled
With some rare tune,
How sweet our last earth-look
If it were June!
SONG OF THE PAGAN PRINCESS
The rivers that sweep to the sea
Bear to it the heart of the land--
The eyes of the gods in the stars
The thoughts of my heart understand.
And the joy in the heart of the rose,
The song in the heart of the rain,
The glory of gladness that flows
O'er the billows of tall ripened grain,
The strength in the heart of the hills,
The unmeasured lament of the sea,
The low happy laugh of the rills,--
All answer to something in me,
To something in me!
SONG
Where the soft shadows fall,
Where the wind's voices call,
Softly and low,--
Mother earth, cover me!
Daisies, grow over me!
Bury me low.
Far from the sound of strife,
From the rude voice of life,
Bury me deep!
Where the soft summer rain
Soothes all my weary pain,
There let me sleep.
Wild are earth's hopes and vain,
Even love touches pain--
Bury me low!
Mother earth, cover me!
Daisies, grow over me!
Bury me low!
CHARLES PELHAM MULVANEY
POPPŒA
(_At the Theatre_)
Dark tresses made rich with all treasures,
Earth's gold-dust, and pearls of the sea--
She is splendid as Rome that was Cæsar's,
And cruel as Rome that was free!
Could I paint her but once as I found her!
From her porphyry couch let her lean,
With the reek of the circus around her--
Who is centre and soul of the scene:
Grey eyes that glance keen as the eagle
When he swoops to his prey from on high;
Bold arms by the red gold made regal--
White breast never vexed with a sigh:
And haughty her mien as of any
Her sires whom the foemen knew well,
As they rode through the grey mist at Cannæ,
Ere consul with consular fell.
Unabashed in her beauty of figure--
Heavy limbs, and thick tresses uncurled
To our gaze, give the grace and the rigor
Of the race that has conquered the world.
And fierce with the blood of the heroes--
In their sins and their virtues sublime--
Sits the Queen of the world that is Nero's,
And as keen for a kiss as a crime!
But the game that amuses her leisure
Loses zest as the weaker gives way;
And the victor looks up for her pleasure--
Shall he spare with sword-point or slay?
Half-grieving she gathers her tresses,
Now the hour for the games has gone by,
And those soft arms, so sweet for caresses,
Point prone, as she signs, "Let him die!"
GEORGE MURRAY
THE THISTLE
A LEGENDARY BALLAD
'Twas midnight! Darkness, like the gloom of some funereal pall,
Hung o'er the battlements of Slaines,--a fortress grim and tall.
The moon and stars were veiled in clouds, and from the Castle's
height
No gleam of torch or taper pierced the shadows of the night;
Only the rippling of the Dee blent faintly with the sound
Of weary sentry-feet that paced their slow, unvarying round.
The Earl was sleeping like a child that hath no cause for fear;
The Warder hummed a careless song his lonely watch to cheer;
Knight, squire, and page, on rush-strewn floors, were stretched in
sound repose,
While spear and falchions, dim with dust, hung round in idle rows;
And none of all those vassals bold, who calmly dreaming lay,
Dreamed that a foe was lurking near, impatient for the fray.
But in that hour,--when Nature's self serenely seemed to sleep,--
In the dim valley of the Dee, a bow-shot from the keep,
A ghost-like multitude defiled in silence from the wood
That with its stately pines concealed the Fort for many a rood,--
The banner of that spectral host is soiled with murderous stains--
They are the "Tigers of the Sea," the cruel-hearted Danes!
Far o'er the billows they have swept to Caledonia's strand;
They carve the record of their deeds with battle-axe and brand;
Their march each day is tracked with flame, their path with
carnage strewn,
For Pity is an angel-guest their hearts have never known.
And now the caitiffs steal by night to storm the Fort of Slaines--
They reck not of the fiery blood that leaps in Scottish veins!
Onward they creep with noiseless tread--their treacherous feet are
bare,
Lest the harsh clang of iron heels their slumbering prey should
scare.
"Yon moat," they vow, "shall soon be crossed, yon rampart soon be
scaled,
And all who hunger for the spoil with spoil shall be regaled.
Press on, press on, and high in air the Raven Standard wave;
Those drowsy Scots this night shall end their sleep within the
grave!"
Silent as shadows, on they glide; the gloomy fosse is nigh--
"Glory to Odin, Victory's Lord! its shelving depths are dry.
Speed, warriors, speed!"--but, hark! a shriek of agonizing pain
Bursts from a hundred Danish throats--again it rings, again!
Rank weeds had overgrown the moat, now drained by summer's heat,
And bristling crops of thistles pierced the raiders' naked feet!
That cry, like wail of pibroch, stirred the sentry's kindling
soul,
And, shouting "Arms! to arms!" he sped the Castle bell to toll.
But ere its echoes died away upon the ear of night,
Each clansman started from his couch and armed him for the fight;
The drawbridge falls,--and, side by side, the banded heroes fly
To grapple with the pirate-horde and conquer them or die!
As eagles, on avenging wings, from proud Ben Lomond's crest
Swoop fiercely down and dash to earth the spoilers of their nest;
As lions bound upon their prey, or as the burning tide
Sweeps onward with resistless might from some volcano's side--
So rushed that gallant band of Scots, the garrison of Slaines,
Upon the Tigers of the Sea, the carnage-loving Danes.
The lurid glare of torches served to light them to their foes:
They hewed those felons, hip and thigh, with stern, relentless
blows;
Claymore and battle-axe and spear were steeped in slaughter's
flood,
While every thistle in the moat was splashed with crimson blood;
And when the light of morning broke, the legions of the Danes
Lay stiff and stark, in ghastly heaps, around the Fort of Slaines!
Nine hundred years have been engulfed within the grave of Time
Since those grim Vikings of the North by death atoned their crime.
In memory of that awful night, the thistle's hardy grace
Was chosen as the emblem meet of Albin's dauntless race;
And never since, in battle's storm, on land or on the sea,
Hath Scotland's honor tarnished been--God grant it ne'er may be!
M. H. NICKERSON
A RECOLLECTION
O'er the white waste of drifted sands unstable
We climbed the sedgy dune,
Where, like a sleeping giant, old Cape Sable
Basked at the feet of June.
Beneath the summer noon the shore birds twittered
Around in glancing flocks,
And, like a fair display of jewels, glittered
The foam-bells on the rocks.
Deep peace was in the air and on the billows,
That in smooth slumber lay,
Or gently tossed upon their sandy pillows
As infants wake to play.
The breeze moved landward, scarcely felt in blowing,
But such the fisher hails
With joy when, after weary hours of rowing,
It swells his spritted sails.
The brave flotilla then, like snowy sprinkles,
Far outward we could trace;
The sight was fair and seemed to have smoothed the wrinkles
From out old Ocean's face.
No envious shadow on the flood descended;
Unflecked, the sky's broad sweep
In silent grandeur with the horizon blended,
Deep calling unto deep.
And every shadow, from my life retreating,
Left free the placid mind;
The finite with the infinite was meeting
Undimmed and unconfined.
How many times my eager gaze had rested
Upon that sea and shore;
But never, never had they been invested
With such a charm before.
They wear it still in calm ideal perfection,
Though years since then have flown;
That summer day's unclouded recollection
Shall ever be my own.
CORNELIUS O'BRIEN
ST CECILIA
A shell lies silent on a lonely shore;
High rocks and barren stand with frowning brow;
Hither no freighted ships e'er turn their prow
Their treasures on the fated sand to pour;
Afar the white-robed sea-gull loves to soar;
But, pure as victim for a nation's vow,
A lovely maiden strikes the shell, and now
Its music charms, and sadness reigns no more.
Thus, Christian poesy, thus on pagan coasts
For ages mute had lain thy sacred lyre,
Untouched since from the prophet's hand it fell,
Till fair Cecilia, taught by angel hosts,
Attuned its music to the heavenly choir,
And gave a Christian voice to Clio's shell.
THOMAS O'HAGAN
RIPENED FRUIT
I know not what my heart has lost,
I cannot strike the chords of old;
The breath that charmed my morning life
Hath chilled each leaf within the wold.
The swallows twitter in the sky,
But bare the nest beneath the eaves;
The fledglings of my care are gone,
And left me but the rustling leaves.
And yet, I know my life hath strength,
And firmer hope and sweeter prayer,
For leaves that murmur on the ground
Have now for me a double care.
I see in them the hope of spring,
That erst did plan the autumn day;
I see in them each gift of man
Grow strong in years, then turn to clay.
Not all is lost--the fruit remains
That ripened through the summer's ray;
The nurslings of the nest are gone,
Yet hear we still their warbling lay.
The glory of the summer sky
May change to tints of autumn hue;
But faith that sheds its amber light
Will lend our heaven a tender blue.
O altar of eternal youth!
O faith that beckons from afar!
Give to our lives a blossomed fruit--
Give to our morns an evening star!
THE SONG MY MOTHER SINGS
O sweet unto my heart is the song my mother sings
As eventide is brooding on its dark and noiseless wings!
Every note is charged with memory--every memory bright with rays
Of the golden hours of promise in the lap of childhood's days.
The orchard blooms anew, and each blossom scents the way,
And I feel again the breath of eve among the new-mown hay;
While through the halls of memory in happy notes there rings
All the life-joy of the past in the song my mother sings.
I have listened to the dreamy notes of Chopin and of Liszt,
As they dripped and drooped about my heart and filled my eyes with
mist;
I have wept strong tears of pathos 'neath the spell of Verdi's
power,
As I heard the tenor voice of grief from out the donjon tower;
And Gounod's oratorios are full of notes sublime
That stir the heart with rapture thro' the sacred pulse of time;
But all the music of the past, and the wealth that memory brings,
Seem as nothing when I listen to the song my mother sings.
It's a song of love and triumph, it's a song of toil and care,
It is filled with chords of pathos, and it's set in notes of
prayer;
It is bright with dreams and visions of the days that are to be,
And as strong in faith's devotion as the heart-beat of the sea;
It is linked in mystic measure to sweet voices from above,
And is starred with ripest blessing thro' a mother's sacred love.
O sweet and strong and tender are the memories that it brings,
As I list in joy and rapture to the song my mother sings!
GILBERT PARKER
I LOVED MY ART
I loved my Art. I loved it when the tide
Was sweeping back my hopes upon the sand;
When I had missed the hollow of God's hand
Held over me, and there was none to guide.
I set my face towards it, raising high
My arm in token that I would be true
To all great motives, though I sorely knew
That there was one star wanting in my sky.
Touching the chords of many harmonies,
I needed one to make them all complete.
I heard it sound like thunder-gathered seas,
What time my soul knelt at my lady's feet.
And there transfigured in her light I grew
In stature to the work that poets do.
IT IS ENOUGH
It is enough that in this burdened time
The soul sees all its purposes aright.
The rest--what does it matter? Soon the night
Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime.
What does it matter, if but in the way
One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true;
One understands the work we try to do,
And strives through Love to teach us what to say?
Between me and the chilly outer air
Which blows in from the world, there standeth one
Who draws Love's curtains closely everywhere,
As God folds down the banners of the sun.
Warm is my place about me, and above,
Where was the raven, I behold the dove.
THEIR WAVING HANDS
Since I rose out of child-oblivion
I have walked in a world of many dreams,
And noble souls beside the shining streams
Of fancy have with beckonings led me on.
Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see,
Only their waving hands and noble forms.
Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms,
But always they came back again to me.
Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair
Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view
The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair
Immortal, and for whom God's manna grew:
Dante, Anacreon, Euripides,
And all who set rich wine upon the lees.
AMY PARKINSON
THE MESSENGER HOURS
I
I thought as I watched in the dawning dim
The hours of the coming day,
That each shadow form was surely robed
In the selfsame hue of gray;
And that sad was each half-averted face,
Unlit by a cheering ray.
But as one by one they drew near to me,
And I saw them true and clear,
I found that the hours were all messengers,
Sent forth by a Friend most dear,
To bring me whatever I needed most--
Of chastening or of cheer.
And though some of them, truly, were grave and sad,
And moved with reluctant feet,
There were others came gladly, with smiling eyes,
And footsteps by joy made fleet;
But whatever with gladness or sorrow fraught,
The message each bore was sweet.
For even the saddest, and weighted most
With trial and pain for me,
Yet breathed in my ear, ere it passed from sight,
"This cross I have brought to thee
Comes straight from the Friend Who, of all thy friends,
Doth love thee most tenderly;
"He would rather have sent thee a joyous hour,
And fraught with some happy thing,
But He saw that naught else could so meet thy need
As this strange, sad gift I bring;
And He loved thee too well to withhold the gift,
Though it causes thee suffering."
II
So, now, as I watch in the dawning dim
The hours of each coming day,
I remember that golden threads of love
Run all through their garments gray;
And I know that each face as it turns to me
Will be lit with a friendly ray.
And whether they most be sombre or glad,
No hour of all the band
But will bring me a greeting from Him I love,
And reach out a helping hand
To hasten my steps, as I traverse the road
That leads to the better land.
For the Lord of that land is the Friend I love,
And I know He keeps for me
A home of delight in His kingdom fair,
That I greatly long to see;
And the hours that shall speed me on my way
I must welcome gratefully.
III
And soon I shall trace through the dawning dim,
'Mid the hours of some coming day,
A figure unlike to its sister forms,
With garments more gold than gray;
And the face of that one, when it meets my gaze,
Will send forth a wondrous ray.
So I watch for that latest and brightest hour
Which my Lord will send to me;
I know that its voice will be low and sweet,
And this shall its message be:
"Come quickly, and enter thy Home of joy,
For the King is calling thee."
I shall go to Him soon! I have waited long
To behold His beauty rare;
But I surely shall see Him and hear His voice,
And a part in His glory share,
When I answer the summons, solemn yet glad,
Which the last sweet hour shall bear.
FRANK L. POLLOCK
AD BELLONAM
Mother of Swords! while the river runs,
Or the steamer seeks the sea;
While the North wind blows from the chill of snows,
And the South from the scented Key,
So long, so long will live the song
That thy lilting bugles sing,
As the warship rides down the deep sea tides,
Where the green foams white on her armored sides,
And the wind'ard gun-shields ring.
There be they who sing that the song will cease,
The song that thy sons began;
That the good old World will loll in peace,
In the bond of the Peace of Man.
They sing,--and clear 'twixt the notes we hear
The clink of the warrior's trade,
And the thund'rous call where the hammers fall,
And the steam-power shrieks o'er the factory wall,
Where the rifled guns are made.
The Breath of the Lord may rule the sea,
And the Lies of Men the land;
And the craft of the tongue may hold in fee
The strength of the heavy hand;
But though tongues may quicken and strength may sicken,
And hands grow soft and small,
Year upon year the day draws near
Of the unsheathed sword and the shaken spear,
That shall make amends for all.
When the Armageddon sunrise breaks
On the iron-clads' smoking line,
When the last dawn lights on that last of fights
Where the strength of man shall shine,
One great grim day of the world at play,
With bugle and tuck of drum,
While the red drops beat on the shattered fleet,
Till the red sun sinks on the last defeat,
Then--let the Millennium come!
THE TRAIL OF GOLD
Under the ward of the Polar Star,
Where the great auroras snap and blaze,
There are crashing blows on the icy bar
That is set at the end of the open ways.
There are axes ringing across the crest,
The sluices shackle the streams that rolled,
As the gamesters gather from East and West,--
The men that follow the Trail of Gold.
A black line crawls o'er the glacier's face,
Where the worn pack-horses scrape and slide;
The muskeg swallows and leaves no trace,
The boats go down in the snow-swelled tide.
Blood and bones on the snow and sod,
From the cañons black to the barrens gray,
Blaze the trail that the vanguard trod,
That those who follow may find the way.
There are strange ships west of the lonely isles
Where the red volcanoes burn and freeze;
There's a fading wake o'er the misty miles,
There are smokes that trouble the Smoky Seas.
There are corpses swept from the sinking hull,
As the steamer dips to the swelling gale,
For the rising shark and the wheeling gull
That hunt the sea on the Golden Trail.
The storm sweeps out from its Polar den,
Till the air grows dense with the cutting snow;
The North makes mock of the sons of men,
As the diggers lie in the drifts below.
The workers lie where the last work ceased,
The strong men scatter the lifeless wold;
And the tall wolves howl at the gathered feast--
The hounds that hunt on the Scent of Gold.
ANDREW RAMSAY
JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER
After her bath, yet early in the day,
She donned a ketonet or tunica;
With gems enclasped it, close as a caress,
And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness
In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made
Of Persian satin, opaline and white,
Like moving mists around the moon arrayed,
Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light
Almost immortal: on a low divan
A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian,
Alone reclining, on each pliant knee
Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be.
The sandal buckles were with gems aflame,
And those fine bands that bound each knee the same.
On restless anklets tinkled bells of gold,
A symbol which of princely lineage told.
Their music summoning a tiring maid
Who all her glorious midnight hair arrayed:
A purple black it was, alive and long,
And seemed, if such could be, like a carved song,
Some Hebrew pæan of triumphant power
Arrested, and remaining her rare dower.
'Twas girt in frequent fillets of fine gold,
Bestarred with sardon flashing manifold.
And o'er her shoulders, exquisitely graced,
A sedijin, encircled at the waist.
This sedijin was sleeveless, but both arms
Had aspen bands that blazed in jasper charms.
Her zone was also wonderful with these,
As round her neck a circlet, carved to please
In imitated foliage of lush hues
Such as Ezekiel sanctified for use.
And over these, with garnet bangles hung
And opaline, a splendid shimla clung,
Marvel of strangely interfusing sheen,
And beautiful as all that might have been.
A little scarf of white and henna dyes
Crowned her dark head for dreadful sacrifice.
Pensive her oriental eyes, and large,
Looking their last on Judah's hills, the charge
Of Israel's honor in them, and the praise
Of many a maid desponding since those days
When Jephtha's daughter wended forth to mourn
Her immature virginity forlorn.
I WILL NOT TELL
I will not tell thee why the land
With so much glory glows;
There is but one in all the world
My sacred secret knows.
O, she is fairer than the flowers
Of rosy June or May,
When every bird is singing near
And every blossom gay!
I asked her eyes to let their beams
Make life supremely grand:
Their answer like a flood of light
Flushed all the flowery land.
The sunbeams gleamed among the grass,
Warm-waving in the breeze,
A new life gladdened every bloom,
More vivid grew the trees.
I shall not tell thee why the land
With so much glory glows;
There is but one in all the world
My sacred secret knows.
ATKINSON'S MILL
This river of azure with many a weed in
Comes far from the past as those famous of old;
Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,
And still it remembers their crimson and gold.
As vivid this valley with forests around it,
And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,
But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it--
The alders have faded by Atkinson's mill.
This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,
Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;
Departed are those who once made it a pleasure
To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.
This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer
By feet that went daily to school 'gainst their will;
The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger
And sweeter than summer by Atkinson's mill.
No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,
No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,
Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water
To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.
The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,
The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,
Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish
Like hope that was happy by Atkinson's mill.
THEODORE HARDING RAND
THE DRAGONFLY
I
Winged wonder of motion
In splendor of sheen,
Cruising the shining blue
Waters all day,
Smit with hunger of heart
And seized of a quest
Which nor beauty of flower
Nor promise of rest
Has charm to appease
Or slacken or stay,--
What is it you seek,
Unopen, unseen?
II
Are you blind to the sight
Of the heavens of blue,
Or the wind-fretted clouds
On their white, airy wings,
Or the emerald grass
That velvets the lawn,
Or glory of meadows
Aflame like the dawn?
Are you deaf to the note
In the woodland that rings
With the song of the whitethroat,
As crystal as dew?
III
Winged wonder of motion
In splendor of sheen,
Stay, stay a brief moment
Thy hither and thither
Quick-beating wings,
Thy flashes of flight;
And tell me thy heart,
Is it sad, is it light,
Is it pulsing with fears
Which scorch it and wither,
Or joys that up-well
In a girdle of green?
IV
"O breather of words
And poet of life,
I tremble with joy,
I flutter with fear!
Ages it seemeth,
Yet only to-day
Into this world of
Gold sunbeams at play,
I came from the deeps.
O crystalline sphere!
O beauteous light!
O glory of life!
V
"On the watery floor
Of this sibilant lake,
I lived in the twilight dim.
'There's a world of Day,'
Some pled, 'a world
Of ether and wings athrob
Close over our head.'
'It's a dream, it's a whim,
A whisper of reeds,' they said,--
And anon the waters would sob.
And ever the going
Went on to the dead
Without the glint of a ray,
And the watchers watched
In their vanishing wake.
VI