With loved ones who’re watching my barque on life’s sea—
Who’ll stretch out their welcoming hands from the shore,
When I reach the glad haven, all buffetings o’er.
Hands.
There are hands we fondly cherish
Not alone for form and grace,
But the loving deeds that mold them,
Place them next a sainted face.
They can soothe as if with magic,
When the fever-furies rage;
Their caresses, unobstrusive,
E’en a heartache can assuage.
Hands can emphasize a welcome,
Far beyond the gifts of speech,
And their language, plain and truthful,
Doubt did never yet impeach.
Aye! there’s feeling warm and tender,
Ever pulsing in the palm,
In whose kindly, silent pressure
Sorrow finds a healing balm.
Love’s sweet mysteries course their fingers,
For their lightest touch of tips
Has the secret gift of thrilling,
Like affection’s clinging lips.
They can knit with mystic flosses
Such a net about the heart—
Earth has naught so near a heaven
As this thraldom doth impart.
Hands have heart-beats throbbing through them
And the lightning flash of thought;
’Tis by such that grand impulsions
Into living deeds are wrought.
Hands may be a sculptor’s pattern,
Tipped with smooth, shell-tinted nails,
Yet convey a touch, repulsive
As of scaly serpent trails.
If the soul is gross and selfish,
There’s no art the trait conceals,
But the hand in mold or clasping,
To the sentient heart reveals.
Idle hands are limp and nerveless,
Lack expression, fervor, grasp—
They receive nor give sensation,
Simply lie within your clasp.
Hands may flash a wealth of jewels,
Yet display a pauper soul—
God inscribes these outspread tablets
From the spirit’s hidden scroll.
Endymion.
When the noble son of Zeus
Asked the gift of youth immortal,
Little wot he of the ages
Stretching onward from life’s portal;
Tho’ he walked with gods, he wearied,
Wished for rest, intense and deep,—
Asked another gift of Zeus;
That of everlasting sleep.
And his thoughtless wish was granted;
Glad he hushed his soul’s repining
In the winged god’s misty vapors
And, on Latmos’ height reclining,
Laid down all earth’s cares and trials—
All its wearying heat and strife,
Yet within his dormant being,
Held the essences of life.
Fair Selene, robed in beauty,
Wandering forth in loneliness,
Bent above the youth admiring—
Touched him with a light caress;
And her gazing woke his spirit
To a dream’s ecstatic bliss,
As her lips, with tender fondness,
Snatched from his that holy kiss.
And her heart’s new, quickened pulsing
Thrilled along love’s unseen wires,—
Stirred in him responsive passion,—
Lit his soul’s electric fires.
Then the roused, enrapt Endymion,
Shaking off the slumbrous air,
Cried,—“Ye gods, take back your giving,
All life’s perils I will dare;
Wake my soul to keenest feeling,
Let its sense of pleasure reign,
Tho’ my path were paved with spear-points
I would count the waking gain.”
Glad he left the heights so longed for,
Sought the lowland’s balmy air,
Leading her, the loved Selene,
Thro’ the flowery valleys fair,
Where the paths all flash with diamonds
From the jewelled crown of Night,—
Where the lake upon his bosom
Rocks the sleeping lillies white,
And his lullaby in whispers
Floating thro’ the leafy dell,
Mingling with perfume and zephyr
Wove a sweet entrancing spell.
And ’twas there at Sylva’s altar,
With the gazing stars above,
Soul to soul, by mute impulsion,
That they pledged eternal love;
Ay, ’twas then the spheric paean,
Through the great expanses spread,
When in Beauty’s listening stillness,
Peace and Purity were wed.
And tonight I see them roaming
Thro’ the flowery paths of eld—
Thro’ the valley, by the lakelet,
Where their nuptial feast was held;
Where the moon-beams dance with shadows,
In the hushed, half-hidden glen,
Shunning Mammon’s crowded cities
And the busy walks of men.
But linger not too long, Selene,—
Hasten from thy lover’s side,
Or, in fleecy cloud-wrought vesture
From the gaze of Eos hide;
Else like darkly mantled Pleiad,
Wailing robes of forfeit glory,
Thou wilt find thy charms are stolen
By the jealous, fair Aurora.
Hasten, hasten, for she cometh,—
Venus bright doth herald now,
All Jove’s pageantry attends her,
Erse’s gems bedeck her brow,
And her royal robes are ’broidered
Rich with rose and amethyst;—
Hasten, but with thine Endymion
Keep the holy evening tryst.
Calypso—The Lover’s Pocket.
Erastes saw with vain regret
A hedge of guards was thickly set
Around the fair one he would woo;
For Flora’s aid he quick applied—
“Be art of yours with Love’s allied
And Cupid’s throng shall kneel to you.”
Then Flora wrought that mystic flower
And graced with it Love’s Sylvan bower,
And there a wildling still it grows;
The hue she gave was pearly white,
But Love would add one more delight
And mingled in a blush of rose.
T’was given such an artless guise
That e’en suspicion’s prying eyes
Doth no intriguing plan suppose:
And there within, securely hid,
Beneath the blossom’s fringy lid
The lover’s missive finds repose.
* * * * *
“Wilt thou, dear maid, thy wealth resign
And drink with me love’s ruby wine—
In weal or woe my fortune’s share?”
She wrote and hid—“I will be thine—
With love’s devotion ever mine
There’s naught but I could dare.”
A closely folded plan for flight
(That marked the nearest moonless night,)
The Orchid in its heart concealed.
While vigilance unconscious slept,
Two dusky steeds thro’ darkness swept
Across an unfrequented field
And brought the lovers quickly where
A waiting priest, with pledge and prayer,
The sacred bonds of wedlock sealed.
Paternal pride aroused, irate,
With bluster came, a moment late,—
The holy rite had joined their hands,
The vows were made, the pledges given
That bound the twain as one in heaven,
Despite his wrath and stern commands.
“How could you thus,” he cried in rage,
“Defy my will, disgrace my age!
I’ll disinherit and disown—And
you shall have eternal scorn
For wedding with that lowly born—
Aye, you shall reap as you have sown.”
* * * * *
“O, woman! thou art gall and wine—
Deceit’s worst name, to me, is thine!
I thought her will succumbed to mine,
So cheerful, happy, she had seemed.
I felt within a conscious pride
In power to hold, subdue and guide—
That she was conquered, fondly dreamed.”
“Along the wood she walked with me,
Among the wild flowers, gay and free,
(I guarded her with watchful eye,)
With eager hand she plucked and smiled
As guileless as a happy child—
No love-lorn look—no sob or sigh.”
“Aye, woman’s ways and woman’s wiles
Are knitted in with looks and smiles
By which man’s wisdom oft is foiled.
She’ll seem so gently yielding _will_
While scheming for her own way, still—
With sweet deceits will blind us, till
Our dearest hopes have been despoiled.”
“But, ’tis senseless nursing helpless wrath,—
Shall I strew thorns along her path
Whose only dower’s a father’s curse?—
Drive them out with want to roam?
I think I’ll take the couple home—
In truth, her parents did much worse.”
* * * * *
Calypso, still with winning grace,
Adorns the ferny, sedgey place
By purling brook or shaded dell,
And only Cupid knows its art
Of hiding in its fragrant heart
The secret, sweet, that Love would tell.
What Is Love?
Not the fierce-destroying power
Of the hot sirocco’s breath,
Withering every tender flower,
Strewing all its path with death
Or helpless, silent sorrow.
’Tis a strength that holds each feeling
But a slave to do its will—
Every wish, abjectly kneeling,
Waits its mandate to fulfill
Or creeps, by stealth, in shadow.
’Tis Life’s sacred, golden chalice,
From as rich a vintage filled
For the cottage, as the palace—
Sweetest draughts have been distilled
With want upon the lever.
’Tis a tender, true devotion,
Never soiled by thoughts of pelf,
But with gladsome, sweet emotion
To its altar bringing _self_,
A sacrificial offering.—
Joy’s bell whose silver ringing
Down the ages has been borne
Ever since in Eden, singing,
Wedded love hailed rosy morn—
Still the tones fall sweet as ever.
’Tis the Horeb of the spirit,
Where no coarse-shod thought may tread,
The part divine, which souls inherit
From love’s holy Fountain-Head,
Influent with our being.
Sleighing.
Hear the bells, distant bells!
How the merry music swells,
As the steed, with noble speed,
Nearer, nearer, nearer comes,
Strength doth wing his flying feet;
Onward, onward, onward going,
With a strong and rythmic beat;
Youth, with health and beauty glowing,
Blends a rippling, laughter peal
With the ringing hoofs of steel—
How the mingling music hums!
Hear the bells, joyous bells!
Love’s sweet tale their music tells,
As they go o’er glistening snow;
Wildly, wildly, rushing by,
Fainter grow the hoof-beats now,
Fainter, fainter, fainter growing;
Venus shines on evening’s brow,
Moonlight floods o’er earth are flowing;
O, the reckless wild delights
Of a sparkling, winter night’s
Sleighing, ’neath a moonlit sky!
Ho, the bells, merry bells!
Rapture in their music dwells;
Raptures sweet, in bliss repeat,
Gliding, gliding, o’er the snow.
Every pulse with pleasure thrills;
To the heart new joys revealing.
As when springtime, bird-note trills
Stir the sweetest fount of feeling,
Welling with all tender thought,
From the dulcet music caught,
Blending all in joyous flow!
* * * * *
Hark, the bells—homeward bells!
Something now their music quells,
For they go, tinkling—so—
Tinkle—tinkle—seem to wait;
Why that steed such lagging feet,
When returning, homeward going?
(’Mong the furs their faces meet)—
Ah! that nag is very knowing,
Stepping lightly o’er the snow—
Have their whispers, soft and low,
Changed his mood and changed his gait?
First Love.
Tender and true as the starlight of heaven,
Sweet as the heart of a bud when it opes,
Swift as the flash of the cloud-leaping levin,
Rich as the springtime in promise and hopes,
Pure as the gleam of the dew on the flowers
Is love’s first awakening in youth’s dreamy hours.
It sings in the heart like a forest-hid rill—
Runs over its rim like a rock-basined spring;
Strong, it o’erpowers cold reason with will,
Impulsively binding two lives with a ring.
It goes where it listeth, unreined as the wind,
So reckless, ’tis said, that the love god is blind.
Joyful, yet trembling like a zephyr-kissed rose,
Flushing and paling like skies of the dawn,
Silent, lest speech shall the secret disclose,
Wayward and shy as a mountain-bred fawn,
Flying the bosom where yearning to rest,
Hushing the tenderness, thrilling the heart,
Palpitant tempests disturbing the breast;
Enjoying—enduring the sweet and the smart
That comes of the wounding with Cupid’s first dart.
Man.
O, grand and worshipful that being MAN,
As fashioned by a maiden’s dream-lit mind!
To her, his soul has nobleness enshrined—
’Tis pure—Love’s altar-place, where God began,
’Neath Eden’s flow’ry groves, the household plan.
In rose-mist wreathed, by sweet enchantment blind,
How oft she’s worshiped, wedded, but to find
The real, no more her dream, than piping Pan.
Some “noble deeds” bear cold ambition’s stain,
And chaff is found among Love’s golden grain.
’Tis well the rose-mist lifts and clearer beams
Show man’s real self, e’en tho’ it give her pain,
Else, so idolatrous, she might, it seems,
Forget her God, if he were all she dreams.
Trust of Childhood.
An angel comes down from the realms of light,
To guard me in slumber, thro’ hours of the night;
Her presence is gentle, I feel she is there,
As soon as I’ve uttered my evening prayer;
So tenderly watching she stays in my room
Till darkness has folded his mantle of gloom.
I’ve felt on my forehead her soft finger tips
And the touch of her kiss, lightly pressed on my lips,
To waken me gently, ere leaving my bed,
When morning’s bright beauties o’er earth had been spread.
Forbearing to open my earth-gazing eyes
To look on the guardian sent from the skies,
I’ve listened and heard, e’en the rustle of wings;
And then at the casement, where mocking bird swings,
A sweeping of roses and jasmines I’ve heard,
And knew that their beauty and perfume were stirred
By her gossamer robes, as she hastened away,
To the rose-tinted gateway that opens to day;
(For Heaven, I know, is but little beyond,
Where glories of morn, in its borders have dawned);
And then by the holiness left in the room,
Afloat, like the fragrance from violet bloom,
I knew that a presence had surely been there,
Had left with me blessing, and wafted my prayer
To the throne of the Father for guidance and care.
* * * * *
O, trust of my childhood! bright halo of youth!
Come, veil for tonight the stern visage of truth;
With faith that’s elysian, I’d drift down the stream
To imagery islands, with beauty agleam,
And hear, as I heard in the far away years,
(Ere fancy’s young dream had been melted in tears),
A strain from a harp, floating over to me,
From a cloud-bannered sky, bending down to the sea,
Where golden-crowned angels could plainly be seen
With robings of white, in the glimmering sheen.
Then Heaven was near, and the curtain of blue
So thin, that at sunset the glory shone through;
Those silken illusions, inflated with joy,
Phylosophy’s hand has been swift to destroy;
And reason’s keen steel, that’s so cruelly cold,
Has cut thro’ the shimmer of heavenly gold,
And left but the hard-featured science of light
That will not be veiled for a dream of tonight.
Alone.
“Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep and you weep alone.”
In her soul’s secret temple she’s standing alone:
Her being’s real self, in the silence will bow;
O’er that altar, once glowing, cold ashes are strown—
Where sunshine once flooded, the shadows fall now.
Away from the world, and alone with her God,
She kneels in this consecrate place and may weep;
This temple, by coarse sandaled grossness, untrod,
Is never unbarred till the world is asleep.
She leaves there her grief, with its shadowy stole,
Concealing her anguish, with trembling and fear;—Must
laugh, tho’ it lines a black scath on her soul,
For the world will not _pay_ for the sigh and the tear.
Aye, leaves there her sackcloth and shuts to the door;
She puts on the mask for the frivolous world
Her frail barque is launched ’mid its tumult and roar—
Unhelmed, thro’ its mammon-cut channels ’tis hurled.
The laugh, the world echoes, grows empty and hard
When the jingle of gold is the mirth-stirring power;
The soul is, by Avarice, shrivelled and scarred
When it barters for pottage, a heavenly dower.
God fits us, thro’ suffering, for Sympathy’s needs;
’Tis warring with wrong that will win for the Right;
Oft Sorrow’s lone path, to His ripe vineyard, leads—
Christ gave us, through Gethsame, heavenly light.
Go work in His vineyard wherever ’tis needed
And earnestly work for the sake of the need;
Be Fame’s fickle promise forever unheeded,
Unknown, in thy labor, the miser’s low greed.
Night.
Thro’ azure paths fair Venus comes with golden bars
To close the gates of Day. The twilight’s dusky stole
Is lightly spangled o’er with heaven’s brightest stars;
Soon Night will bring her countless ones whose ceaseless roll
Thro’ boundless depths of space, repeat creation’s song.
Thus canopied by God’s omnipotence, outspread,
The earth doth lull and soothe her surging, restless throng
With brooding calm. Sleep’s poppied sweets for toil are shed.
When strife is hushed to rest, by Nature’s drowsy hum
And barter’s dins are stilled—its flaunting ensigns furled,
When, drugged with Somnus’ wines, earth’s noisy crowds are dumb
And stillness spreads her slumber-robe, so softly o’er the world,
’Tis joy to watch Night’s queenly orb, climb up the eastern stair,
And pour her flood of silver light o’er hills and bowers,
That in the sacred silence gleam, so radiant and fair,
In glistening robes of green and dewy, fragrant flowers.
All hail, blest hour of cool repose, when Labor’s chains
That bind the mind, thro’ all the day, to weary tasks
Are loosed! Ay, now, the soul, in freedom from their pains,
May drink from founts of pure supernal joy. It basks
In glories which the night o’er earth and sky hath strown.
Compassion sweet, the dewy coolness doth impart
And dreamy perfumes, by the balmy breezes blown,
Are evening’s sweet acopic, when she folds us to her heart.
Disappointment.
We plant sometimes a tender flower—
Watch and wait through sun and shower;
Mark its tiny leaflets, green,
Then, the upward shoot between,—
Springing, springing, tendrils clinging,
Hopes like cherubs round it winging
Whispering of the blooming time.
Watch the buds burst thro’ their sheathing,
Beauty’s promise, round them wreathing,
Dream of fragrance they enfold,
Lovely blooms, almost, behold,
Reach an eager hand for grasping—
Find the tendrils all unclasping—
Withered, ere the blooming time.
Love’s Ideal.
Was there ever a love like the love of my dream?
Love, holy, unselfish, devoted and pure,
Unfailing and sweet as the flow of a stream
Whose source is a spring, that God made to endure.
A love that is LOVE, with no blending of dross;
Where soul, unto soul, giveth strength of its own—
A love that knows never of languor or loss,
Or silently grieves that its _spirit_ has flown.
A love with its possibles nobly fulfilled,
Where heart unto heart is e’er loyal and true,
Where blessing for each, is thro’ kindness distilled—
A rodomel never embittered with rue.
A love that the angels, rejoicing to see,
Would guard in life’s paths from the harpies that roam;
Peace, Happiness, Charity,—loveliest three—
Would make, for such lovers, a Heaven of Home.
A Legend of the Lily.
Abroad, June moon was brightly beaming
In the depths of heaven’s blue,
While the asphodels were bending
With the clinging beads of dew,
When the silver rays in silence,
Glinting thro’ the swaying trees,
Saw a modest flower turning
To a roving, balmy breeze.—
Heard the zephyr softly whisper:
“Ah! my Lily, charming, sweet—
Sure the god of love has led us
In this bowery place to meet;
Richest odors I will bring you
From the islands of the sea;
Aye, your beauty has enchained me—
Will you give your heart to me?”
With a touch exquisite, subtile,
Then he turned to his, her face;
In her blush of deeper crimson,
That she faltered, he could trace.
“I have sought you—will you trust me?
Faithful as the stars I’ll be—
With your fragrant breathings, answer,
Will you give your love to me?”
Frail the flower, tranced enraptured
By the lover’s soft caress,
To his tender wooing answered,
With impulsive rashness,—“yes.”
Then, exultant, zephyr gloried
In the treasure he had won—
Deftly stole her sparkling jewels,
Sharing with the rising sun.
Brushed the spangles from her tresses
With his playful finger tips,
Bolder grew with his caresses—
Gathering sweetness from her lips;
Robbed her beauty of the freshness
That was hers in early morn—
Left her ’neath the sun of noonday,
Burning like the gaze of scorn.
Drooping as in heat of censure
Evening found her in the dust,
Lifted her with tearful pity
From the blight of trampled trust;
But the tender flush of loving
From her face was blanched and gone,
Yet a beauty, born of trial,
Met the radiant glow of dawn.
Now for her the moon is shining
With a calm and holy light;
Dew-like gems of rarest beauty
Sparkles on her brow at night;
With her white face turned toward heaven
In her vestal robe she stands,
As a priestess, at an altar,
Lifting consecrated hands.
Chastest forms of beauty round her—
Stars that gem the vaulted blue
Join with her in silent warning,—
“Let thy love be pure and true—
Trusting e’en the black-browed storm-cloud,
With its leaping lightning-blaze,
Rather than the rover’s whisper,
Neath the moon’s enchanting gaze.”
To James Newton Mathews.[2]
Must write a sonnet!—ere the Poet’s rank,
With its devouring hopes, I dare to claim—
Ere I with them may seek a place or name—
Ere I may taste Castalia’s fount, where drank
The bards of eld, or find the flowery bank
Of clear Penneus, flashing back the flame
Of sunset fires. Thro’ moorlands, low and dank,
Alone, must grope, unlit by torch of fame.
Tho’ Poesy should stir my soul to song
That flowed like liquid tenderness along,
Or, wild and glad as leaping forest rills—
Tho’ Nature’s music thro’ my being thrills
And Imagery, with all her fairy throng,
My dreamy world of thought and vision fills,—
Alas! I’m doomed—this stanza is a line too long.
[2] “You must write a Sonnet to gain a Poet’s diploma.”—J. N. M.
The Great Hereafter.
Will the wrongs of life be righted,
Fruited there the hopes here blighted,
In the great hereafter?
Will the darkened lives be lighted
And dissevered souls united
In the great hereafter?
Will this wearing, wild commotion
Sink to rest and sweet emotion
Calm all strife hereafter?
Will love’s slighted, fond devotion
Reach beyond life’s tossing ocean
To the great hereafter?
Will the vows here lightly broken
With repentant tears be spoken
In the great hereafter?
The wounded one accept the token
Of the heart’s remorse unspoken
In the great hereafter?
Gladly from its idols turning
Will the soul forget its yearning
In the great hereafter?
Thro’ a quickened sense discerning
That the labors we’ve been spurning
Keep love’s holy incense burning
In the great hereafter?
Shall we find that hopes deceiving
Helped us on to grand achieving
In the great hereafter?
And be blest with glad receiving
What is now but faith, believing
In the great hereafter?
Will the soul that’s drunk the vial
Of a bitter self-denial
Feel the loss hereafter?
Or, thro’ sacrifice and trial,
Will it triumph o’er Belial,
In the great hereafter?
Will the bands by dogmas riven
Scathed and scarred by anger levin,
Make a peaceful, joyous Heaven
In the great hereafter?
For the good for which they’ve striven
Will their errors be forgiven
In the great hereafter?
There, with pomp, his work resuming
Will the bigot, still presuming,
God’s prerogative assuming
In the great hereafter,
Sit as judge, his brother dooming,
And with creed-lit torch reluming
Fires of torture “unconsuming,”
Through the great hereafter?
Will the Wrong, the Right assailing,
Wring from suffering helpless wailing
In the great hereafter?—
Conquered Good, with banners trailing,
Seeking streams for Hope’s regaling,
Be mirage-lured, till faint and failing,
Faith becomes a phantom, sailing
Through the great hereafter?
Or, shall our spirit eyes beholding
God’s mysterious plans unfolding
In the great hereafter,
See His strength the Right upholding
And his love the weak enfolding
In the great hereafter?
Struggling here with opposition,
Gives, perchance, the strong volition
Some may need for angel mission,
In the great hereafter;
And the ills of life’s condition,
To the tried may bring fruition
Of a joyous, sweet elysian
In the great hereafter.
What has seemed Fate’s unfair dealing,
May unveil, a joy revealing
In the great hereafter:
Though denying our appealing,
Made in agony of feeling,
God may still, with love’s own healing,
_Higher destiny, be sealing_
For the Great Hereafter.
Late October.
The night was black—the dismal rain
First dripped from sullen, inky clouds,
And then was dashed against the pane,
By winds that shrieked like demon crowds;
When, on the midnight’s ebon breast,
The storm, a moment, lulled to rest,
I heard this low, half stifled moan
With sorrow braided in the tone—
“Who cares for me? Who, who?”
The lurid lightning’s fitful glare
Lit all the far, horizon’s rim—
It showed the walnut, stripped and bare,
And clutching one great, leafless limb
Sat something weird, of dusky form;
Defenceless, in the pelting storm,
She faced alone that angry sky—
October’s voice seemed in the cry,
“Who cares for me? Who, Who?”
With rush and wrench an angered fiend
The loosened shutters clanged and swung,
His single stroke the grove had preened
And wide its deadened branches flung,
And from the wide, o’er-hanging eaves
He tore the crimson ivy leaves
And wildly whirled them on the blast—
The phantom murmured, as they passed,
“Who cares for me? Who, Who?”
The maples writhed as, tempest torn,
Their branches beat the gables high,
And, in the storm’s dark bosom borne,
Mad thunders bellowed thro’ the sky.
She spurned the spruce, with stately form,
Whose robes of green might shield and warm,
And yet, like sobbing on the gale,
Was monotoned that dismal wail,
“Who cares for me? Who, Who?”