[Illustration]




                         SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE


                            A COLLECTION OF
                      LYRICS FOR LEISURE MOMENTS
                          SPUN AT IDLE HOURS


                                  BY
                        CHARLES WILLIAM WALLACE
                 PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND LITERATURE
                        WESTERN NORMAL COLLEGE


    “The spider’s touch--how exquisitely fine!”
                                          --_Pope._


                            LINCOLN, NEB.:
                   STATE JOURNAL COMPANY, PRINTERS.
                                 1892.




                            COPYRIGHT 1892
                                  BY
                             C. W. WALLACE




                                  TO

                          JUDGE T. D. WALLACE

                                  AND

                          MRS. OLIVE WALLACE.


MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER:

No word, no act, no consecrated gift of mine, how great or slight
soever it may be, can ever repay the beneficence and love of you to
whom I owe life and whatever of prosperity has been granted me.

As my eyes glance in retrospect along the fading perspective of years
and lose themselves in the dim days of the cradle, and thence to the
present look forwards to the distant peaks of hope that rise above
unknown mists and shadows and horizons, I hear the counseling words
of a father, and feel the ever-present touch of a mother’s hand, as
both guide me with love into the dim unknown of life. Though I pass
onwards with a father’s “God-speed,” and a mother’s lingering embrace
and loving kiss, and leave you both fondly looking after me, still your
presence in my memory is ever a guiding reality that even now directs
this good right hand of mine to inscribe these dedicatory words of
filial affection.

If in the days agone I ever seemed unheeding of that counsel of
a father, and unmindful of that dearest love of a cherished and
cherishing mother, I can but say that both that counsel and that love
reach through those moulding and shaping years of my life and take hold
on my heart with a firmness and a gentleness that nothing else of all
the years can boast.

It is but right and just, therefore, that in these your later days
I should likewise be your guide and your stay in so far as my hand
may let;--that I should reach out my strong young arm and steady the
tottering years that throng around you.

Withal, if I can afford you even one slight pleasure, it is my heart’s
desire so to do. It is, therefore, with somewhat more than filial love
that I dedicate this little volume to you, my Father and my Mother,
both together my counselor and guide, still mercifully spared to your
children; and in doing so, I can but express the hope that your years
may yet be many and happy; that the iris struck by a New Sun from the
crystals of the whitened and whitening wintry years may be as full of
beauty and joy as were the early spring blossoms of love and hope that
you pressed to your bosoms in youth.

                                                        Your Son,
                                                             CHARLES.




                              BY THE WAY.


As the presentation of these collected verses in their present printed
form has been induced largely by the request of many of my former
college students and by the importunities of my most intimate friends,
and as this volume has consequently been prepared chiefly for their
pleasure, it is hoped that those into whose hands the book may fall
are already so well acquainted with the author that the selections
themselves need no formal introduction to make them agreeable company
and engaging companions.

In justice, I should here say that this collection contains only a
few out of the vast number of good, bad, and indifferent pieces of
verse that I have been making at odd hours of a busy life, ever since
my boyhood, for my own pastime, pleasure, and literary and linguistic
improvement, with no thought nor distant dream of ever permitting them
thus to invade the domains of the sovereign public.

That the little book that thus modestly goes forth will attain either
a large circulation or great popularity I neither expect, nor attempt
to bring about; but that men and women with hearts that love and souls
that look above may find much quiet pleasure and satisfaction in the
following pages I do sincerely hope.

It is neither my desire nor befitting to my work to lay claim to
any degree of excellence in the verses herein presented. Quite to
the contrary, I see and regret many defects which I can now neither
remove nor repair. But, however defective they may be in form or in
spirit, I have ever thought that little else than the interpretation
of the relations of the human soul to life, here and hereafter, and
the presentation of the good, the beautiful, and the true of the human
heart is worthy of serious effort.

As a consequence, most of these pieces are dual in meaning--one, in
plain view, the reality; the other, less distinct, the finer ideality,
the reflection, or mirrored image of the first.

It is this second, this finer and often, at first, obscure meaning
that, in my judgment, is the essential--the preserving salt--of any
poem. Certainly if not this meaning but the apparent one, the one on
the surface, is the basis of judgment on these poems, they will fall
far below the estimate accorded that poetry which is deemed worthy of
existence.

I wish here to return my thanks for the hearty reception accorded the
few selections of the prospectus, and to express the hope that the
completed volume will equal whatever expectations the recipients of the
prospectus may have.

Also, I cannot pass without noting the fact that a large share of the
first edition of this volume was engaged nearly six months before it
went to press, even before I had determined what productions I should
use, and that, too, upon the mere announcement that the publication was
contemplated for the present summer.

I wish, therefore, thus publicly to thank those who have given this
substantial earnest of their appreciation.

Any opinion or criticism, favorable or unfavorable, or any suggestion
or correction on thought, arrangement, typography, or other point, that
the reader may see fit to express, is not only invited and encouraged,
but will be most gratefully received and carefully considered.

One word more. If a selection will not bear a second reading, or a
third, a fourth, or a fiftieth reading; if it does not grow better and
better at each reading; if it does not lift the soul to a higher plane,
a nobler aim, a purer life, and a grander view; if at each successive
reading something does not come out of it and enter the heart, and
then pass back into the poem again, and thus again and again, each
beautifying and ennobling the other, like a sunset halo among the
clouds and the liquid, translucent image thereof in the mirroring lake,
then it is no true poem, and should be cast aside.

The only proof of the excellence of a poem is that it makes the heart
larger and the soul nobler for having read it, and that at each
successive reading both the poem and the reader grow better and better.

Believing, as I do, that poetry is nothing less than the interpretation
of the Divine in the human heart (whether in the mood of tears or of
laughter), I can but hope, in entrusting these “children of the brain”
to the care of others, that in the heart of each little waif some good
may be found, some song may be heard, some beauty be revealed, some
experience be verified.

                                                              C. W. W.

LINCOLN, 22 June, 1892.




                               CONTENTS.


                                                    PAGE

    Barefoot After the Cows,                           6

    Beautiful May,                                    62

    Borrowing Brains,                                 52

    Boy Bards,                                       178

    Browning,                                        116

    Buzz,                                            141


    Choral of Sunset, A,                               1

    Chorus,                                          110

    Close Attachment, A,                             126

    Come to the Shadows,                              12

    Common Lot, The,                                  17


    Dead Man’s Life, The,                            124

    Death--Life,                                     135

    Death-Howl, The,                                 131

    Deep unto Deep (Double Threnody),                 65

    Demoniac, The,                                   128

    Deploration, A,                                  122

    Down to the Candy-man’s Shop,                     10

    Dreamy April Evening in the Woods, A,            109


    Echo Song,                                        18


    “False Womankind,”                                32

    Family of the Ephemera,                           36

    Father Time,                                     148

    Freedom’s Battle Song,                           142


    Gift and Giver,                                    8

    Good-Night, My Love,                              71

    Good-Night (Song),                                68

    Gravity--Life,                                   134

    Greatest Thing on Earth, The,--

         I. From Sun to Sun,                         178

        II. What the Striving?                       179

       III. The World is Too Much Ours,              180

        IV. Hand and Heart,                          181

         V. Courting the Crowd,                      182

        VI. Immortal and God-given,                  183

       VII. Asking Hearts,                           184

      VIII. The Crowning Glory,                      186


    Hal a-Huntin’,                                   144

    Halloween,                                        51

    Happy Days of Yore,                              156

    Haunted House, The,                               20

    Hot?--Well, Rather!                              135

    Human Heart, The,                                 28

    Humpty Dumpty Idiotic Chap, A,                    66


    If So, Peace Till Next New Year,                  46

    I Love You, Kate,                                123

    In the Angels’ Keep,                              58

    I’se Seen a Light in de Sky,                      34

    I Wonder,                                         44


    Just as Usual,                                   121


    Life,                                             52

    Life’s Lost Skiff,                               125

    Life’s Philosophy,                               120

    Life to Love (A Triolet),                         11

    Lonely!                                           33

    Lone Wayside Wild-Rose, The,                      59

    Lover’s Complaint, The,                          140

    Lurlei, The,                                     111


    Madrigal,                                        117

    Memories of the Past,                            156

    Mince Pie,                                        14

    Mist-Wing,                                        15

    Modern Tragedy Averted, A,                        25

    ’Mong the Mountains of the Soul,                 143

    Mortal, A,                                       105

    My Defeat,                                        46


    Nightmare, The,                                   30


    Old Benoni Tree, The,                              2

    On Kingsley’s “Farewell,”                        150

    On Plucking a Crocus,                            133

    Our Alma Mater,                                  147


    Part of the New England Lament, etc.,            150

    Pity the Poor,                                   124

    Poet’s Prayer, The,                                2

    Press of Penury, The,                             50


    Rex Fugit,                                       118


    Shut In,                                          40

    Shut Your Eyes and Go to Sleep,                  115

    Sickle of Flowers, The,                          118

    Sleep (Sonnet),                                   55

    Slumber Rhapsody, A,                               5

    Song of the Stars,                                42

    Song on the Sea,                                  56

    Sonnets of Life,                                  23

    Sorto’ Played-Out Ol’ Bouquet, A,                  9

    Soul of My Soul,                                  13

    Sweetest of All, The,                            138


    Tears and Laughter,                               14

    There’s a Laugh,                                  47

    This Touch of an Angel’s Hand,                   119

    Thought,                                          58

    Through Reverent Eyes,                            71

    Thus Life’s Tale,                                149

    To a Wild-Rose Bouquet,                           55

    To Fancy,                                         69

    To Miss ----,                                    114

    To Morpheus,                                     108

    To Sleep,                                         49

    To Thee Above,                                   109

    Tough Mutton, Perhaps,                           114

    Transformation, The,--A Psychological Mystery,   151

    Twenty,                                           61


    Ups and Downs,                                     2

    Useless?                                         105


    Washington,                                      142

    Weather Fiend, The,                              129

    What is Poetry?                                   76

    Wheel and Shuttle,                                49

    White-Enthroned Above Me,                         59

    Whither?                                         147

    Who Knows?                                       131

    Woodland Lay,                                     57

    Words and Thoughts,                              117

    Write from the Heart,                            146


    Year Ago, A,                                     137




                         SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE.




                          A CHORAL OF SUNSET.


    I’ve a notion the clouds at sunset
      Sing chorals in the sky
    As they let down their billowy tresses
                        And kiss
                  The sun
          “Good-bye!”

    And the music comes in at the portals
      That Heaven has left in the heart,
    As the shine gets into the flower
                        Where the leaves
                  Have slipped
          Apart.




                          THE POET’S PRAYER.


          Sweet Zephyr from celestial isles
          That all the earth with joy beguiles,
    I would that thou wouldst blow to me,
      And blow to me thy purest breathing song;
    I would that thou wouldst come to me
      And tell to me whate’er is right and wrong;
    I would that thou wouldst lay thy hand
      And rest thy hand upon my throbbing brow,
    And that the words thou giv’st to me
      And tak’st from me would be received as thou.




                            UPS AND DOWNS.


    The world is like a coach and four,
      And men as there you find ’em:
    For some must ride and some must drive
      And some hang on behind ’em.

    Or like the farmer’s ’tater cart,--
      The best on top to brag on:
    For some must rise and some must fall
      Like ’taters in the wagon.




                         THE OLD BENONI TREE.


    Brother Grant, do you remember
      Days and years we spent together
    Thro’ the summer’s shiny weather
      Till apples dropped in late September?
    Nurtured where the warm suns shine in,
      We were dreamers then, my brother,
      As we lisped to one another,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Guess you haven’t forgotten that yet,
      Have you? I can shut my eyes and
    See the old tree where we sat yet,--
      Hear the rhythm of that thing rise and
    Fall like echoes of the distant brine in
      Some fair shell; and like it clinging
      To the past, my heart keeps singing,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    I’ll be plagued if I can tell yet
      What that hitching nonsense jingle
    Meant, can you? I can smell yet,
      Tho’, the blossoms;--hear the lingle
    Of the bells of lolling kine in
      Slaughter’s grove;--see the pink of
      Fruit above us when I think of
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    I can taste those old Benoni
      Apples yet--(fall apples--mellow
    As the winds that kissed the bony
      Branches into blossom; yellow--
    Butter-yellow--and as fine in
      Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were)--
      For our burdensomest cares were,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Ah, my boy, you haven’t forgotten
      How with wooden men we pounded
    Them when green till almost rotten
      Just to get the juice out? Sounded
    Mighty tempting with that wine in
      There just squushing for the skin to
      Burst and let us both fall into
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming
      Rascals we were then, my laddie!--
    Knock off apples just half-dreaming
      Ripeness, stain the stems that had a
    Fresh look with some dirt--divine in
      Innocence!--then run to mother,
      Each one chuckling to the other,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Tell her then we’d found them lying
      On the ground (we had, too!) asking
    If we might not have them, trying
      Every childish art, nor masking
    Mouths just watering to dine in
      Glory on them. When we’d got our
      “Yes!” all earth I’m certain, caught our
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Oh the days and days together
      In the lazy days of childhood
    Through the shade and shiny weather
      Of the Long Agone’s deep wildwood
    When we clad our men of pine in
      Every phase of human action,
      Sang to them the old “attraction,”
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een”!

    Through my hazing, half-closed lashes
      As I watch the steady blazing
    Of my fangled oil-stove, plashes
      Of that olden rhythm come lazing
    From the lethy mists, and shine in
      Irised splendors where the tilting
      Timid Robin still is lilting,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

    Oh the golden old Benonis
      With a heart as rich and yellow
    As the moon, no apple known is
      Half so high or half so mellow,
    For they’ve drunk the sun’s whole shine in
      And preserved our boyhood’s story
      With it’s olden, golden glory,
    “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”




                          A SLUMBER RHAPSODY.


    Sleep, sleep, sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
                The wind is in the west
                And night is on the deep,--
          Sleep and rest, rest and sleep,
                    Sleep, sleep.

    Dream, dream, dream and sleep, dream and sleep,
              The stars their vigils keep
              And skies with glories gleam.
          Dream and sleep, sleep and dream,
                    Dream, dream.

    Sleep, rest, dream and rest, sleep and dream,
                The morning sun will beam
                And cares thy day infest,--
          Rest and sleep, sleep and rest,
                    Rest, rest.




                       BAREFOOT AFTER THE COWS.


      I am plodding down the little lane again
        With my trousers rolled above my sunburnt knees;
      And I whistle with the mocking-bird and wren
        As they chatter in the hedging willow-trees.
    And my foot as light and nimble as the airy wings they wear
      Trips along the little lane again to-day;
    And my bare feet catch the tinkle thro’ the silent summer air
      Of the jingle-langle-ingle far away.--
              Klangle-ling ke-langle,
                Klingle-lang ke-lingle
                  Dingle-lingle-langle down the dell;
              Jingle-langle lingle,
                Langle-lingle r-r-angle,
                  Ringle-langle-lingle of the bell.

      From the lane across the prairie o’er the hill
        Down a winding little path the cows have made,
      In my thought to-night I’m going, going still,--
        For the sinking Sun is lengthening its Shade!
    And I find them in the hollows--the hollows of the dell
      And I find the drowsy cattle in the dell,
    By the ringle-rangle-jingle,--the jangle of the bell,
      By the ringle and the jangle of the bell.--
            Klang-ke-link ge-lingle,
              Jangle-ling ke-langle,
                Klink ke-langle-lingle down the dell;
            Klangle-link ke-langle,
              K-link ke-lank ke-lingle,
                Lingle-link ke-langle of the bell.

      As the cows across the prairie homeward wind
        O’er the hill and toward the broadened sinking sun,
      Steals a silence o’er the wooded vale behind
        Where their shadows, lengthened, darken into one.
    And I whistle back the echoes,--the echoes left behind,
      That are wand’ring in the tangles of the dell;
    And in answer to the message--the message that I wind,
      Call the echoes of the klangle of the bell:--
            Langle-langle lingle,
              Lingle-langle lingle,
                Lingle-lingle-langle down the dell;
            D-r-r-ingle-langle-langle,
              R-r-angle-ringle-langle,
                Langle-lingle-r-r-angle of the bell.

      At the lighting of the Candles of the Night
        When my tangled locks have found the pillow’s rest,
      I can hear the langle-lingle, soft and light,
        Like the cradle-rocking lulling of the blest.
    And upon the ear of Fancy--of Fancy born of Sleep,
      Comes the klangle from a distant dreamy Dell;
    For the angels lull me dreaming--dreaming in their keep,
      To the klingle-langle-lingle of the bell.--
            Kling-ge-lang-ge-lingle,
              Klangle-lingle-langle,
                Langle-lingle-lingle from the dell;
            Kling-ge-ling-ge-langle,
              Ling-ge-lang-ge-lingle,
                Lingle-lingle-langle of the bell.




                            GIFT AND GIVER.


Not what we give, but what we share.--_Lowell._

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.--_Shakespeare._

    Not the binding of this book
      Nor its leaves with marble edge;
    But the poet’s heart and soul
      In each thought upon the page
        Makes the book of worth,
        Lifts us from the earth,
          From the common sod
          Nearer unto God.

    Not the gold that’s in the gift
      Nor the sense of doing duty;
    But the giver in the gold
      With a heart that’s full of beauty
        Makes the gift of worth,
        Lifts us from the earth,
          From the common sod
          Nearer unto God.




                   A SORTO’ PLAYED-OUT OL’ BOUQUET.


    They’re withered--sorto’ withered now,
      They’ve got a musty smell;
    So I must shet the book up tight
      An’ set an’ wait a spell.

    They’re withered--sorto’ withered now,
      They’ve lost their red an’ green,
    An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up
      With crinkled buds atween.

    They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell
      That almost makes me sick,
    For they ’mind me o’ the days in June
      We got ’m ’long the crick.

    They wan’t no style about them tho’,
      Like city flowers is--
    They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose
      That God set out fer His.

    I stuck ’em in this Good Ol’ Book
      Long ’fore they drooped an’ died,
    An’ here each day they’ve smiled at me
      When I have only cried.

    I touch ’em--an’ I touch her hand
      That put ’em here in mine!
    I see ’em--an’ I see her lips
      More temptin’er ’an wine.

    ’T’s a sorto’ played-out ol’ bouquet,
      Ol’-fashion’ roses too;
    But then it’s beautif’ler to me
      Than fresher ones to you.

    Jist let me look agin--’y jing!
      I see her smile there yet!
    Somehow it sorto’ all comes back,
      An’ I see her smile there yet.

    They’re withered--sorto’ withered now,
      They’ve got a musty smell;
    So I must shet the book up tight
      An’ set an’ wait a spell.




                     DOWN TO THE CANDY-MAN’S SHOP.


    Here we go hippety-hop,
      All for a stick of candy
    Down to the candy-man’s shop--
      Tell you what he’s a dandy.

    All for a stick of candy
      Hippety-hop we go.
    Tell you what he’s a dandy
      Givin’ us candy you know.

    Hippety-hop we go,
      Head-over-heels in our hurry.
    Givin’ us candy you know
      Sets us all in a flurry.

    Head-over-heels in our hurry
      Into the candy-man’s shop;
    Sets us all in a flurry
      Goin’ it hippety-hop.

    Into the candy-man’s shop
      Everybody just tumbles,
    Goin’ it hippety-hop,
      ’Cause, you see, _he_ never grumbles.

    Everybody just tumbles
      Makin’ the candy-man grin,
    ’Cause, you see, _he_ never grumbles,
      No matter how we come in.

    Makin’ the candy-man grin,
      Here we are crowdin’ and pushin’;
    No matter how we come in
      He knows the wush we’re a-wushin’.

       *       *       *       *       *

                               _Return._

    L-l-lp! but that’s better’n ma’s jelly,
      Down to the candy-man’s shop!
    Hang to my hand now, Nellie,--
      Here we go hippety-hop.




                             LIFE TO LOVE.

                             _A Triolet._


    It is life just to love
      With a heart’s true devotion:
    ’Tis the great law Above.
    It is life just to love,--
    For the soul just to move
      With a sweet, wild emotion.
    It is life just to love
      With a heart’s true devotion.




                         COME TO THE SHADOWS.

                             _A Pantoum._


    Come to the shadows of eve
      Falling like mantles around us;
    Come where the winds ever weave
      Songs in the tree-webs around us.

    Falling like mantles around us
      Sweet chime the vespers of love;
    Songs in the tree-webs around us
      Waft from some Idean grove.

    Sweet chime the vespers of love
      Borne by the zephyrs of even;
    Waft from some Idean grove
      Lydian measures of heaven.

    Borne by the zephyrs of even
      Love in his quiver bears
    Lydian measures of heaven,
      Softest of musical airs.

    Love in his quiver bears
      Aye when the star-flowers blossom
    Softest of musical airs,
      Night folding Day to his bosom.

    Aye when the star-flowers blossom
      Love sings the sweetest of themes;
    Night folding day to his bosom
      Lies down to rapturous dreams.

    Love sings the sweetest of themes
      Bidding my heart that yet never
    Lies down to rapturous dreams
      Fold thine own close to mine ever.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Out ’mid the dew-loved flowers
      Come where the winds ever weave
    Love in the web of the hours,
      Come to the shadows of eve.




                           SOUL OF MY SOUL.


    Out on the river that rolleth forever,
      Floweth forever and moaneth for aye,
    Floateth a sorrow that never shall borrow
      Peace to release it from me to the sea.

    Sorrow that ever my sad heart’s quiver,
      Sheathing alone this one arrow of woe,
    Binds as the billow that never shall pillow
      Crest on the breast of the moaning flow.

    O Stygian water, of heart-breakings fraughter,
      Far more aburdened of mournful commotion
    Than night is of stillness or Hell is of fellness,
      Knoll thou and toll my ocean devotion!

    Dash thy dread roll ’gainst my turbulent soul,
      Strike till its tones shall thy moanings control,
    Bearing emotion as deep as the ocean
      Unto the one who is soul of my soul!--

    Unto the maiden whom angels of Aidenn,
      Wandering over the strand of the blest,
    Enviously stole from the heart of my soul,
      Bore to thy shore and prest to thy breast.

    Let not thy plashing and turbulent dashing
      Grate on the ear of my radiant Love;
    Kiss her bright tresses with fondest caresses
      Controlling thy rolling with love from above.

    Her fair form enfold on thy bosom cold,
      Rowing her soft with thy Lethean oar;
    Whisper, oh whisper, as winds of the wold
      Unto the one whom they bore to thy shore.

    Farewell, fair Minevr! soft over the river
      Unto thy rest shall the waves gently roll,
    Where never forever death-rivers dissever
      Heart from fond heart, or thy soul from my soul.




                              MINCE PIE.


    Tell me not in great big _numbers_
      Facts can never _lie_;
    For no fact in muddled slumbers
      _Lies_ so heavy as mince pie.




                          TEARS AND LAUGHTER.


    Tears are often liveries stolen
      From the equipage of grief;
    Nor in Anger’s red eyes swollen
      Do they e’er disguise the thief.

    Tears are often pettish, Darling,
      Like the foamy fretting run;
    Like the foam they sparkle, Darling,
      At the kisses of the sun.

    Tears, true tears, are sad and lonely
      Like the ocean’s music bars;
    Like the music, vanish only
      With the cycles of the stars.

    Tears are often pent-up gladness,
      Like the clouds that hold the bow;
    Like the clouds they use their sadness
      That their joys may better show.

    Tears may often be imploring
      Like the waves that kiss the skies;
    Like the waves, for’er adoring,
      They reflect their loved one’s eyes.

    Tears? They are but kin to laughter,
      Wedded as the night and day;
    Like the day and night, each after
      Each prepares the other’s way.




                              MIST-WING.


    Oh my heart was light and airy
    Like the mist-wing of the fairy
          That I loved;
    And I sang with song enchanting,
    For the angel I was wanting
          Dwelt above.

    And I fain had clasped the maiden
    In her mist-winged robes of Aidenn
          With my love;
    But my eyes were blind with gleamings,
    And my hands, bound fast by dreamings,
          Would not move.

    Then my heart, with horror filling,
    Mid-leap froze with awful chilling
          Like to death;
    For upon her mist-wings thrilling
    Did a demon blow his chilling,
          Blasting breath.

    Where my Mist-Wing fair was ferried
    There my hope and heart lie buried,
          Turned to stone;
    There the dreams of bygones cheery
    Drone a dreary, ceaseless, weary
          Monotone.

    Where my fairy floats forever
    O’er the ripples of the river,
          Bound in sleep,
    There my fondest fancies follow
    And with haunting features hollow
          Vigils keep.

    From a star a light is streaming
    In her golden tresses gleaming
          Fair as Hope;
    Fade the phantoms faster, faster,
    From the Morning-star, life’s vaster
          Horoscope.

    She is waking, waking, waking,
    And my soul and body breaking
          Swift apart.
    Joy! my spirit soon shall hold her
    And forever more enfold her,
          Heart to heart.




                            THE COMMON LOT.

                             _Choriambic._


    Sweet bird, sitting so sad singing your song there on the limb
          alone,
    Why make all the sad world sympathize with every mournful tone?

    Ah yes! weep then, my dear, over the loss of the dear one you love:
    All hearts weep with you, dear, weep for some heart lured to the
          land above.

    Yet not even the deep river of tears rolls from the heart the
          stone;
    No, naught save the white-robed Angel of Hope born of the soul
          alone.

    O dove! mourning alone, croon to the moon over the one you love;
    O soul! Hope is thine own, throned in the white dome of thy home
          above!




                              ECHO SONG.


    Echo, be not heartless, I implore you,
              Listen to my woe;
    And I’ll evermore, as now, adore you
    (Tho’ that augurs that I sometimes bore you)
              For I fain would know
                    What’s to be done.
                          --“Be done!”

    Oh but, sir, I must beseech, entreat you
              That you hear me through.--
    If a rare and radiant maid should meet you
    And with smiles and wiles and pranks should greet you,
              Pray, what’s one to do
                    When one sees her?
                          “Seize her!”

    But I’m not quite well enough acquainted
              With her, don’t you see?
    Echo, when her lily face is painted
    (On my soul), and at my heart she’s _feinted_,
              And I’m blind as she,
                    How can I seize her?
                          “See, sir.”

    But alas! the laws of Love prohibit
              That his subjects see;
    And besides, explicitly inhibit
    Other sight than blindness to exhibit.
              What then? I can ne
                    “See,” nor “seize her.”
                          “Cease, sir.”

    But, friend Echo (for you are most truly
              Friend and counselor),
    Love’s commands must all be followed duly
    (Tho’ himself most blind and most unruly);
              Hence I can’t “see,” sir,
                    “Cease,” nor “seize her.”
                          “Cæsar!”

    Yes, that’s what I’ve been ejaculating,
              But it’s idle breath.
    Now, if this consuming passionating
    Doesn’t stop its wild peregrinating
              It’ll be my death.
                    Must I let it?
                          “Let it!”

    Friend should answer friend more seriously
              Nor play upon _grave_ words.
    She’s affected quite as amorously
    As who wakens you thus clamorously
              With love’s scattered sherds,
                    Seeking surcease--
                          “Sir, cease!”

    Nay, I _will not_ cease till satisfaction
              Is obtained from you.
    Tell me what to do in this distraction
    And I’ll vary from it not a fraction.--
              Truth is, there are two--
                    Ann and Mary.
                          “Marry!”

    Tell me, Echo, O sweet Echo, tell me,
              Oh and truly tell
    What sweet thralling charm should most impel me
    That no other wight may quite excel me
              When I choose my belle
                    For matrimony--
                          “Money.”

    Tell me then without equivocation
              If you value health,
    Swear it by the hills, your habitation,
    Whence you issue like an exhalation,--
              Which one has the wealth?
                    Truly answer--
                          “Ann, sir.”

    Thanks to thee, sweet Echo, Love’s pathfinder!
              We shall never part.
    Forthwith I will hie me forth and find her
    And the wealthiest jingling love-songs wind her
              Till I win her heart
                    _And_ earn her _mine_.--
                          “_Ann!_--dern her _mine_!”

   [This last he hears in after years.]




                          THE HAUNTED HOUSE.


    Hope and Love have gone away
      Closing every window-blind,
      Locking every door behind,
    Bearing off the key.

    Tenantless the musty house
      Throws on passers-by its gloom;
      Nor in any haunted room
    Dares a living mouse.

    Old and mouldy there it stands
      All mysterious and lone
      With its mosses overgrown--
    Ruin’s myriad hands.

    Useless grow the choking weeds
      While the winding eglantine
      And the morning-glory vine
    Scatter wild their seeds.

    Times there are when winds, hard pressed,
      Gibber at the ghosts within,
      Hollow-voiced with staring grin,
    Uninvited guests.

    Rumor, waking night and day,
      Sees strange sights through window-panes,
      Hears weird sounds of clanking chains
    Sounding far away.

    Rumor tells that Hope and Love
      Walk the ghosts of murdered selves
      When the midnight hour twelves:
    Empty rooms they rove.

    But malicious town-folk say
      Hope and Love are not away
      But art hiding day by day:
    Murderers are they!

    But alas! I would ’twere so!--
      Would that Hope and Love each might,
      Might return e’en tho’ at night,
    Tho’ at morn they go!

    For Despair and Hate hide there,
      Quiet thro’ the daytime quite,
      Ghosting sights and sounds by night,
    Demons of the air.

    Counterfeiters both are they,
      Coining only after night,
      Minting metal ghostly white,
    Holding revelry.

    Aye, ’tis haunted! Hate is wed,
      Wedded to his mate Despair,
      And they hold high revels there:
    Hope and Love are dead!

    Good my friends, remove the pile,
      Ere it fall to foul decay;
      Hope and Love have gone away,
    Ruin feeds the while.

    Hope and Love have gone away,
      Closing door and closing blind,
      Leaving Ruin lone behind,
    Bearing off the key.




                           SONNETS OF LIFE.


                                  I.

    A brilliant battle Darkness fought with Light,
      A brilliant battle all the living day;
      The Sun, awearied in the deadly fray,
    Sank vanquished ’neath his armored foeman’s might,
    But flung his arms far up the black’ning height,
      From the quiver of the planets joyously
      Drew forth his arrows, star-tipped, feathery,
    And pierced the iron-plated breast of Night
    With ten thousand starry-spangled blades of fire.
      Night, wounded by the arrows of the Sun,
        Poured out ten thousand streams of living blood
    That dripped from every fire-tipped arrow dire
      Down in the sorrowing sea; and the wounds each one
        And the arrows all lay skyed in the doming flood.


                                  II.

    Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height
      Along the ground of heaven; all bleeding lay
      Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day,
    Exulting with a demon’s own delight.
    Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might,
      Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray,
      From the shining quiver of Divinity
    Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God’s own light,
    And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red,
      With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold.
        Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread
    Sank vanquished Night with all the damned dead!
      And ever over Darkness, ages old,
        Triumphant ruleth Light,--the great Godhead!


                      SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE.

On submitting this poem to critics, I find that various ideas are
gleaned. Some take it as a literal description of night and day, or
light and darkness! Others think that it celebrates the victory of
truth over error, right over wrong, virtue over vice, or possibly the
triumph of learning over ignorance, or civilization over barbarism.
This is not so surprising; for I confess it does, indeed, admit
various interpretations. Some say that in its obscurity, though in
nothing else, it somewhat resembles the work of some great poet.
The only consolation that I can squeeze out of all these various
opinions is that obscurity and occultness synchronously attend upon
and are concomitant with both iconographic delineations and symbolical
phraseology. ’Tis _said_ ’tis so,--and so ’tis sad!

“Sing a song o’ six-pence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty
black-birds baked in a pie,” etc., is comparatively meaningless, tho’
pleasing, unless we know what is symbolized. The “pie” is the _day_,
the “four and twenty black-birds” are the twenty-four _hours_ of the
_day_, etc., etc. The symbols thus completed give a new beauty to that
old jingle. In fact, it was that identical jingle with its symbols that
suggested _Sonnets of Life_.

As the title and staring Carlylean capitals throughout suggest, I
intended this poem to be a sort of _Analogue of Life_. In consequence
of all the foregoing, and for the delectation of those who care to read
the piece a second time, I have subjoined these


                         _Symbols and Notes._

                                  I.

    _Darkness_,--death.
    _Light_,--life (on earth).
    _day_,--one’s duration of life.
    _Sun_,--one’s life.
    _black’ning height_,--hour of death.
    _quiver of the planets_,--thoughts, desires, longings, hopes.
    _arrows_,--faith in the future.
    _iron-plated breast of Night_,--gloom of one’s death.
    _streams of living blood_,--hope others receive from the
                                Christian’s death.
    _dire_,--i. e., _dire_ only to Darkness.
    _sorrowing sea_,--sorrowing friends.
    _skyed in the doming flood_,--acts, deeds, words, hopes, etc.,
                                       of the dead, reflected in
                                       humanity and especially in the
                                       hearts of friends.


                                  II.

    _Reviving Sun_,--soul, on morning of resurrection.
    _eastern gray_,--dawning of the morning of the resurrection
                          day.
    _mail of Night_,--sleep of death.
    _Last sonnet_ closes all life on earth, triumphs over death,
                       and brings the resurrection day.
    _Last two lines_ begin and indefinitely extend the Life
                          Eternal.

This may aid somewhat. Too close an interpretation cannot be permitted
in any poem: ’twould make some of the most exquisite poetic thought of
literature ridiculous and nonsensical. The true poetic nature never
needs more in the interpretation of any poem than the title and the
naked poem itself to _suggest_ thoughts and images infinitely more
beautiful than explanation can possibly make them.




                       A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED.


                        HE (_in despondency_).

    Heartless! heartless! Oh,
        I know!
    Tho’ your heart forget me
      And my own be turned to stone;
    Tho’ no day may let me
      Claim my loved one as my own,
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true!


                          SHE (_faithfully_).

    Heartless?--heartless!--So?
        Ah no!
    Tho’ long years divide us
      With the burdened stream of care;
    Tho’ the waves deride us
      With a still unanswered prayer,
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.


                           HE (_joyously_).

    Then not heartless?! No!
        No, no!
    If I’ve wronged you, Dearest,
      ’Tis because I’m mad for love;
    ’Tis that you are nearest
      When my thoughts in madness move.
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.


                          SHE (_flippantly_).

    Then not heartless? No!
        Not so!
    Tho’ you gave the treasure
      Of your very life to me,
    I thus at my pleasure
      Give it back to you, you see!--
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.


                      HE (_bitterly and sadly_).

    Heartless! heartless! Oh
        ’Tis so!
    All the world is dreary:
      Stars and love have ceased to shine;
    Oh the weary, weary
      Night that endlessly is mine!--
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.


                          SHE (_tauntingly_).

    Ha! I’m heartless, tho’?
        No, no!
    I was only funning
      And I didn’t mean it once;--
    Never thought of running
      Into love, you great big dunce.--
          ’Course, my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true!


                          HE (_in despair_).

    Heartless! heartless! Flow,
        My woe!
    Oh this life is bitter!--
      Poison, river, rope, or gun--
    Any death is fitter
      Than two hearts thus dead in one.--
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.


                    _She_ (_in fear, imploringly_).

    No! not heartless! No!
        No, no!
    I am true as ever;--
      Oh _don’t_ take your precious life
    And I’ll be forever
      Your own darling little wife.--
          Still my heart is true
                To you,
          Still is true,
                Still is true.




                           THE HUMAN HEART.


                               _Birth._

    Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter:
      The heart has forgotten its tears;
    For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter--
      God is revolving the years.


                      _Joy on Account of Birth._

    With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and burning,
      Sipping the heart’s night dew;
    Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are returning--
      God is letting them through.


                     _Sorrow on Account of Death._

    With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging
      Deep in the heart’s confines:
    A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging--
      God is working the mines!


                         _Soul Passes Beyond._

    In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are clinking
      A wealth of music untold:
    For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sinking--
      God has coined His gold!


                              _L’Envoy._

    Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow,--
      The heart holds the songs of the spheres;
    For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow--
      God is speeding the years.




                            THE NIGHTMARE.


    In the depths of my ink bottle,
    With a fiery gleaming throttle
      Stood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day;
    And the murky ink was lighted
    With a fiendish fire that blighted
      Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay.

    And my pen, from Love’s own quiver,
    Wrought of gold, began to shiver
      With a fearful quaking terror born of death
    As I touched the hellish-lighted
    Surface of the Ink that frighted
      Pluto’s self and stole Persephone’s sweet breath.

    Hour after fearful hour
    Stood that blasting, fiendish power
      In whose grasp my golden pen was ground to dust.
    Oh, the wasting, endless season
    Chilling heart and killing reason
      As the gloating demon glutted full his lust!

    “Golden Pen that Love had given,
    Wrought of gold from my heart riven,
      Thus my palsied, broken heart must bury thee
    In the fiendish ink, made blacker
    By the demon’s fiery lacquer
      On the surface of its dark uncertainty.”

    Then a shadow came before me
    And a loathing sickness o’er me
      As the demon sank below and out of sight;
    For I saw a stream of gold
    That the demon could not hold
      To the bottom of the darkness drip its light.

    Then I knew that never, never
    Would Love’s gold-illumined quiver
      Bind again the shaft the demon could not hold;
    For I saw a radiance shining
    ’Round the place, and angels twining
      Strange and all-eternal Beauty of the gold!

    Darkness reigned then, deep, unlighted,
    Silence sitting near, half-frighted
      By the demon’s disappointed distant wail
    And far-off mingled angel voices
    Tuned to music that rejoices
      In the glory of a love that cannot fail.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Morning?--Thank God that all our seeing
    And our seeming is not being!
      Dear wife, let your warm cheek still against mine lie
    While your loving arms and kisses
    Doubly tell what loving bliss is.--
      Warning:--Before you go to bed, don’t eat mince pie!




                          “FALSE WOMANKIND!”

 ON READING A SLUR THAT WAS MADE ON HER BY THE LACK-LOVE GAY, OF QUEEN
                              ANNE’S DAY.


    “False womankind, false womankind!”
    Thus wails and rails a many a blind
    And foolish heart, too long confined
    Where light and love have never shined.
    E’en sweetest Shakespeare’s pen, embrined
    With biting bitterness of mind,
    “As false as woman’s love,” has whined.
    --Unkind the cut, the heart unkind.

    “False womankind, false womankind!”--
    I hurl the lie back from my mind
    To those who thus a wreath have twined
    Of roseless thorns to crown and bind
    A sister’s crown, or mother’s kind
    And sainted brow;--or twine and wind
    It, thorns and all, round heart and mind
    Of sweetheart-wife in love enshrined.

    False, false the charge and false the mind
    That ever says “False womankind!”
    For the pæan ages wind
    Unto me this truth they find
    In the heart of humankind,
    In the human heart enshrined:--
    “None so false and none so blind
    As whose loveless pens have lined

    “What the heart has undermined,
    ‘False womankind, false womankind!’
    None so true as _her_ we find:
    None so pure of heart and mind,
    None so sweet and so refined,
    None so great and good and kind,
    None so in the heart enshrined
    As womankind, as womankind!”




                                LONELY!

                        TO ---- (LONG AGO DEAD.)


    I am lonelier, lonelier, Dear, to-day
      Than ever I’ve been before:
    And the restless old ocean, foam-fretted alway,
      Moans only of days of yore.

    But somehow my heart is so sad in life’s whirl,
      And my life is so shut in its shell,
    Tho’ it heal every wound o’er with purest of pearl
      Of naught but the sea will it tell.

    Oh, lonely and lorn as the bittern’s boom,
      I haunt every solitude known,
    Only to find from the wide world’s room
      A nameless something has flown.

    I know not the reason, and fear nor I care;
      I only know I am lonelier, Dear,
    As over the well-wonted moorland I fare,
      Than ever the death-wept tear.

    How lonely, Dear! how long the time!--
      But I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it for thee,
    That at last I may join in the glad-voiced chime
      Far out on the crystal sea.




                     I’SE SEEN A LIGHT IN DE SKY.

                        (A PLANTATION MELODY.)


    Oh I’se gittin’ ol’ an’ grizzled,
      An’ I haint got long to stay;
    My head hab got to noddin’
      An’ I haint right well noway.
          Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you,
            An’ doan’ you chillun cry;
          Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you
            Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!


                               _Chorus._

    Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high,
    Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky!
      Oh I,--
        Oh I’se seen--
          I’se seen a light,--
                    I’se seen a light in de sky!
          Oh I’se gwine away to leab you,
            An’ doan’ you chillun cry!
          Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you
            Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

    Oh dat light am a-gittin’ brightah,
      An’ de cloud am a-comin’ nigh,--
    Oh I know hits de angels comin’
      Fer to carry me home on high.
          Oh dese eyes dey’ll nebber see you,--
            Hoh my chillun doan’ you cry!--
          Twell dey wake in de happy mawnin,
            Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!


                               _Chorus._

    Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high,
    Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky!
      Oh I,--
        Oh I’se seen--
          I’se seen a light,--
                    I’se seen a light in de sky!
          Oh I’se gwine away to leab you,
            An’ doan’ you chillun cry!
          Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you
            Caze I’se seen a light in de sky!

    Oh good-bye to de ol’ plantation,
      De mawnin’ am growin’ gray!--
    Oh good-bye, an’ stop yo’ weepin’,--
      De mawnin’ am breakin’ Day!
          Oh yes! in de heaben dat’s comin’
            I’ll meet you by-an’-by!--
          Hoh yes! in de happy mawnin’,
            Caze you’ll see de Light in de sky!


                               _Chorus._

    Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high!
    Oh yes! caze you’ll see de Light in de sky!
      Oh I,--
        Oh I’se seen--
          I’se seen a light,--
                    I’se seen a light in de sky!
          Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you,
            But I’ll meet you by-an’-by!
          Oh I know I’se gwine to meet you,
            Caze I’se seen a light in de sky.




                        FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA.

    (To be read in connection with the following poem, “Shut In.”)


Somewhere, sometime, I know not when or where, I have heard a strangely
beautiful and beautifully strange and altogether wonderful story--a
story of a pygmy people.

In the long, long ago that has slipped into the lethal tide of the flow
of Time where even the years have forgotten the rolling chime that
they used to sing to the shore of a heavenly clime (and where poets
don’t ever, nor ever, nor ever rhyme), whence even Tradition, asleep,
forgets to climb, so long ago that I don’t know but that the time still
antedates all dates, there lived the Family of the Ephemera.

As the sun came up in the morning, the race came into existence.
During the night, a toad-stool of wonderful dimensions had sprung up,
and beneath this over-shadowing phenomenon, built by the genii of
darkness, the first glint of the new day’s sun kissed the first born of
a new race--the Adam and Eve of the Family called Ephemera.

As the sun arose, and ere, e’en years ere it showed its lower disk,
the family increased most startingly. The whole of their known world
was peopled. They developed the resources of their vast little land.
They cultivated the soil. They delved in the mines for gold. They
carried on commerce with their widely scattered selves. They built
homes and cities. Their cities were magnificent, their houses built of
exquisitely carved and polished stone quarried from a grain of sand.
Each window was made of the filmy iridescence of a single sunbeam, and
curtained with richly embroidered tapestries woven from threads of the
delicate shadow cast by a single ray of spectral purple. Their tables
were filled with all the rich and dainty micros of the land. Withal,
they were a happy, though barbarous people.

The sun arose. Men of the present generation had already grown
gray-headed, while myriads of their posterity were just starting on
their paths. Generation after generation had already come and gone,
each leaving the wealth of its history, its experience, its scientific
researches, its learning to the inheritants of the next.

Centuries to them came and went, governments grew old, decayed, and
passed into tradition, while others sprang up in their places;--for to
this strange and fast-living people, our moments were days, our seconds
were months, our minutes were years, our hours were centuries, and our
days were ages untold that lap the two ends of time into one unbroken
eternity.

The sun was mid-forenoon. The Family of the Ephemera had grown old
and wise. They pointed with vaunting pride to their intelligence and
prosperity, to their grand achievements reaching down the long,
fretted colonnades of history and vanishing in the dim perspective of
tradition’s mystery. They looked upon all around, beneath, and above
them, and rejoiced that all was for them. Their wise philosophers
pointed to the sun and said, “All for us!” They told and taught how
that great sun had always remained in its present place; for even in
the memory of the oldest inhabitants no one had ever known the sun to
be in other place than now. Nay, even history knew it not. They said,
however, that there was a tradition, but not authenticated by history
nor by later scientific investigation, that the sun long, long æons ago
had occupied a position nearer the horizon. They showed how and why
all things were made for them; how the great toad-stool, towering an
immeasurable distance above them, had been placed on earth for them,
and them alone, and philosophized how it was impossible for another
to exist in the universe. They rejoiced that their little world was
created, and endowed with all its richest blessings, for none other
than them. They were a happy people, and prosperous. Their want of
wisdom made them more happy and more prosperous.

Centuries came and went. The sun stood in the zenith. So stood the
race of Ephemera. Wiser philosophers than those of the mid-forenoon
of their existence still pointed toward the great red sun, and said,
“It was always _there_; it was made for _us_!” Crowns crumbled. New
nations arose as from chaos, flourished, and died. Others took their
places. Schools had always been tolerated. They were now fostered. They
pointed their telescopes toward the mighty fret-work of the toad-stool
above them, and computed the number of huge radial beams that supported
its broad outer rim. The students of the universities and colleges
delved deep into the lore of their ancestral nations. They studied
history; they read their poets; they reasoned and computed with their
mathematicians; they looked down into the earth and up into the heavens
with their philosophers, and, withdrawing to their own narrow cells,
they said, “All for us, all for us!”

The sun passed the zenith, declining to the west. The race declined!
Still, philosophers said, pointing to the sun, “’Twas alway thus; ’twas
made for us!”

They said Time was for them, and them alone. They could not conceive
another similar or a different people. With prophecy, they looked into
the future. They claimed that, also: for a hope and a faith, placed
in their hearts at their creation, had grown and strengthened, that
they should all meet again in another world, a brighter and a better
world, all for them, all for them. The gods, with whom they peopled all
things, watched over and guarded them, and them alone.

The sun sank low. The lower limb touched the horizon. With the going
down of the sun, the race decayed in its old age. As the last ray of
sun passed over the land of the Ephemera, only two of this strange
Family, wandering hand in hand, old and lone, turned their eyes to the
waning light of the west, and sank to rest as the ray shot up and out
into the unfathomed sky beyond, and glinted its gold on the clinking
stars, the beautiful golden gates of the sable and iron-bound night!

Thus passed away the Family of the Ephemera. Strange, strange story!
A race wrapped up in themselves, never dreaming that there might be
innumerable other realms like their little own; that there might be
peoples on peoples beyond their ken in worlds unknown as superior to
them as the gods of Olympus were superior to the Romans.

A strange, strange story!--for we are looking through an inverted
microscope, the large end at the eye, and the small end turned upon
Time, Events, and the Human race!




                               SHUT IN.


                                  I.

    Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in,
      Where the convex surface of every eye,
    Even unto the night of the day we shall die in,
      Still perfectly fits in the concave sky!


                                  II.

    I wonder sometimes if the star-illusions
      We see at first glance in the infinite sky,
    Are not the suggestions, the far-intrusions,
      Of systems on systems beyond the eye.

    I wonder if ever the thought may confound them
      Who inhabit a silvery orb of mist,
    Seeing myriads of silvery others around them,
      That myriads on myriads more may exist.

    Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal
      That burns with the pent-up fire of suns
    Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal
      Is burning in myriads of similar ones?

    Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam,
      As each in its course like a planet whirls,
    Ever know they are bathed in the light of but _one_ beam
      From the sun of but _one_ mighty system of worlds?


                                 III.

    Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in,
      And the infinite bounds of his hopes and desires!
    Even unto the night of the day he shall die in
      Aspiring and falling he still aspires.

    But I know in my heart that in worlds elysian
      The convex surface of every eye,
    With a perfected soul and an infinite vision,
      Will range o’er a perfected, infinite sky.


                                  IV.

    For I dreamed a dream, in the midnight quiet,
      Of a golden day in a happy time;
    And my thoughts leaped up at the dream-god’s fiat
      And sang in my heart this golden chime:--

    O rise thou my soul, look beyond thy dark prison,
      The warder is shifting the mortal bars;
    An infinite sun in the east has arisen,
      There’s an infinite system beyond the stars.




                          SONG OF THE STARS.


    I dreamed one night when the golden stars,
      Like an eastern maid o’er her soft kanoon,
    Leaned out of their skyey bowers above
      And sang in sweet measures an olden tune.

    I dreamed the sweetest of dreams that night;--
      And the portals of heaven seemed opening wide
    As the music grew sweeter and nearer each note
      And rose and fell like the swell of the tide.

    Ah the beautiful, beautiful stars of that night,
      And the beautiful music they left in my heart
    Shall brighten and brighten forever and aye
      And never forever my soul shall depart.

    At the soft dream-touch of the finger-tips
      On the harps of air by the heavenly throng,
    The deep silence merged into soft music-waves,
      And I heard in my heart this beautiful song:--

                  Dream, dream,
                    Youth and maiden,
                  Beam, beam,
                    Stars love-laden.--
      We are the beautiful portals of love,
      Beautiful, beautiful portals above
        Whence all the glories of heaven shine:
      Turn your eyes, turn, turn, turn your eyes,
      Turn them to the happy skies
        And drink with them sweet love divine.

                  Dream, dream,
                    Youth and maiden,
                  Beam, beam,
                    Stars love-laden.--
      Youth, in the depths of thy soul do thou pray,
      Pray for thy guidance in Love’s lighted way,
        Kneeling at radiant Love’s holy shrine:
      Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes,
      Turn them to the happy skies
        And drink with them sweet love divine.

                  Dream, dream,
                    Youth and maiden,
                  Beam, beam,
                    Stars love-laden.--
      Maiden, still not the sweet throbs of thy heart,--
      Throbs _his_ caresses and words sweetly start,--
        When he is hoping and longing for thine:
      Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes,
      Turn them to the happy skies
        And drink with them sweet love divine.

                  Dream, dream,
                    Youth and maiden,
                  Beam, beam,
                    Stars love-laden.--
      Youth, seek the heart of the one at thy side
      And into thy sky shall a bright vision glide,--
        A star that shall ever for thee alone shine:
      Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes,
      Turn them to the happy skies
        And drink with them sweet love divine.

    I woke from the dream at the tide of the morn,
      And beheld the sweet vision that filled my dreams.--
    That vision, My Star, thro’ a long, happy life
      Is guiding my steps with its golden beams.

    No longer, no longer a vision or dream,
      I clasp My Sweet Love to my heart all my own;--
    But still I can hear the sweet music that fell
      From the stars that night on our hearts alone.




                               I WONDER.


    I wonder sometimes if ever
      The music God has sent
    Will get into my heart and stay there
      As I think he surely meant.

    Can the voice of Laughter enter
      The form where Death has been?--
    Whence the spirit of Love has departed,
      Can Music’s charms come in?

    There’s an ache in my heart that daily
      Goes out in earnest quest
    Of the spirit of Love that has left me
      In the sadness of unrest.

    Oh, I wonder sometimes if ever
      That spirit of Love will return,
    And rekindle my heart’s dead ashes,--
      Inspirit the dust of the urn.

    I fear that the spirit would enter
      The ashes in ghostly quest,
    And set but the bones into motion,
      The ghost of Love at the best.

    Are the rivers, I wonder, ever
      Brought back by the clouds from the sea
    To flow in the same old channels
      Over the dregs and debris?

    The love of my heart has departed--
      The river has run to the sea;--
    And I wonder sometimes if its waters
      Will ever come back to me.

    Lo, there in my heart’s dead channels
      Lie the stagnant pools of Time;
    And I see the debris at the bottom,
      The dregs and the rotting slime.

    I wonder if ever the rivers,
      The rivers that run to the sea,
    Flow just as sweet on returning
      Over the dregs and debris?

    Somehow, a thought in my spirit
      Comes up from the stagnant fen
    That the music of Heaven shall never
      Be heard in its waters again!

    Yet I wonder each day as I wander
      Along where the stream used to be
    If the waters won’t sometime come back there
      And dredge out the dregs and debris.

    It may be! ’Tis a long time coming,--
      Too long, I fear,--too long!--
    For Love’s River must sing its music
      In hearts that have never gone wrong.

    Oh, will the Waters returning,
      Borne by the Clouds from the Sea,
    Run just as sweetly as ever
      Over the Dregs and Debris?




                   IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR.

                              (A DIRGE.)


    The New Year!--hark! the bell!--oh it
        Is at last here!
      A solemn hush! The world sits still
    With breath abated as the poet
        Of the New Year
      Takes an anti-bilious pill!




                              MY DEFEAT.

          _Sweeter than any sung
          My songs that found no tongue._
                              WHITTIER: _My Triumph_.


    In the universe swept by the eyes of my soul,
      Swim a myriad luminous stars and suns;
    And swift through my brains burning æther they roll
      Like the infinite trains of the heavenly ones.

    In my dreams I outstretch my vain arms with delight
      For the forms of the angels that sing round my bed;
    But alas! for the chorus of seraphs take flight
      And beckon me whither but angels may tread.

    And I muse with my heart when my mind sits a-dream
      While vibrations of light from the heavenly cars
    Fleet swift thro’ the arms of my soul in bright gleam,
      And leave me upreaching for aye tow’rd the stars.




                           THERE’S A LAUGH.


    There’s the laugh of the fiend that shrivels the heart,
      That burns out the eyes from their sockets of fire,
    That crackles the skin and parches the breath
      And bellows and shrieks with demoniac ire.

    There’s the laugh of the hobgoblin, demon of night,
      That frightens the children to silence their sobs,
    That rings in their ears to the end of life,
      And at night in their hearts like the death-watch throbs.

    There’s the wild, screeching laugh from the madman’s lips
      When his eyes wildly start from his reechy brain,
    That haunts us, tho’ try to forget as we will,
      And pierces the heart with a dagger of pain.

    There’s the unearthly laugh and the sickening leer
      Of the idiot--wretched Unfortunate! dead
    Before born, the live sepulchre of unknown crimes,
      The tomb of the lives generations have led!

    There’s the blasting, blistering, withering laugh
      That blights e’en the heart wherein it is born,
    That bubbles and sputters and hisses and spits
      As it falls from the scorching lips of scorn.

    There’s a strange, weird laugh, even tho’ from a child,
      That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper’s thick breath,
    That startles the shivering silence with awe
      And dies in the throat like the rattle of death.

    There’s a laugh, like the wind’s cracked whistle, that creaks
      And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age;
    And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad,
      For we know what the ominous sounds presage.

    There’s the free, wild laugh that bounds as the deer--
      As free as the leap of the hart and as wild--
    ’Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul,
      The sweet, wild laugh of an innocent child.

    There’s the laugh that I love, the balm of tired hearts,
      That quiets the fluttering temples of care;
    ’Tis the soft, soothing laugh from the sweet lips of Love,
      And it falls like a blessing that answers prayer.

    There’s the sweetest of laughs full of music divine
      That gladdens the heart and the throbbing brain;
    I would give--oh what would I not, were it mine,
      But to hear the sweet laugh of my mother again.




                               TO SLEEP.


                  Soft on thy breast
    Where the soul in oblivious quiet may dream
    While it sweeps up to heaven on a star-born beam,
                  There would I rest,
                  So peacefully rest,
                    Oh rest,
                      Rest!--
                  Asleep on thy breast,
                  Asweep to the blest
                    In a dream
                    On the gleam
                      Of a star
    In the cradle-rocked billows of azure afar.




                          WHEEL AND SHUTTLE.

              _Spin: God will send thee flax._--PROVERB.

   [Although differing slightly from his literal experience,
   nevertheless to the boy, long ago grown to manhood, who used
   to cling to his mother’s dress, and fretfully toddle back and
   forth as she patiently sent the big wheel whirring and then
   ran backwards with her lengthening thread, then forwards, and
   so on, hour after hour, spinning threads for the home-loom,
   this poem, with its application to life, has in it the
   pleasing scent of the roses of recollection, intoxicating even
   to sadness.]


          “Spin, spin!”
          The warp is in
        And the shuttle never slacks:
    Let thy fingers never rest,
    Heed the weaver’s stern behest,
          “Spin, spin!”
          While the woof is weaving in,
        God will send thee flax.

          “Spin, spin!”
          The wheels begin,
        And the distaff never lacks:
    Let thy spindle’s endless thrum
    Fill the shuttles as they hum
          “Spin, spin!”
          While the woof is weaving in,
        God will send thee flax.

          “Spin, spin!”--
          Thy fingers thin
        Let the carded threads relax!
    Lo! the wheel is standing dumb,
    For the loom has ceased its grum
          “Spin, spin!”--
          Aye, the woof is woven in,
        God has sent thee flax!




                         THE PRESS OF PENURY.


    Out of the Press of Penury
        The choicest wines have flowed
        To rouse a nation’s blood
    To statesmanship or poesy.

    (Nor less to hearts the poet’s cause
        Than statesman’s counseling:--
        If but a people sing,
    I care not who shall make the laws.)

    With every cycling sun that slips
        Through all its winding turns,
        Some Lincoln or some Burns
    Still lifts his spirit to our lips.




                              HALLOWEEN.

                AN INVITATION SENT TO A LADY, OCT. 31.


    I wad na gang alane to-night
      An’ leave alane a lassie
    Where pixies, elves, an’ goblins fight
      An’ drink their bogie tassie.

    Sae come wi’ me an’ gang awa’
      Where oufe nor spook nor bogle
    Hae ought o’ ill or guid to do
      But flichter, blink, an’ ogle.

    Oh we’ll be merry like the lave
      Tho’ Halloween be eerie,
    An’ crack an’ jauk an’ giddy ’have
      Wi’ Mrs. C---- till weary.




                                 LIFE.

        _What is life?--’Tis a delicate shell
          Thrown up by Eternity’s flow
        On Time’s bank of quicksand to dwel.
          And a moment its loveliness show.
        Gone back to the elements grand
          Is the billow that cast it ashore:
        See! another is washing the strand,
          And the beautiful shell is no more!_
                                        --_D. A._


    What is life?--’Tis the billow of bells
      That the sea of eternity bears;
    And in rapturous music it swells
      As it kisses the sands of the years.
    But the ripples are breaking in foam,--
      And the billow has ceased to be!
    List! the billow, gone back to its home,
      Is tolling down deep in the sea!




                           BORROWING BRAINS.


      “Lend me your brains, lend me your brains,”
    Screeched a highwayman goblin ’way down in his throat
    As deep as he ever could dig up a note.
      And his whole gang creaked and hoarsely screaked
      Like a hinge that was rusty, and constantly shrieked
        “Lend us your brains, lend us your brains,”
        As they seized my mare’s head at the bit by the reins

      And a long-haired loon with a razory spoon
    Clipped open my scalp just over my crown,
    And the skull the same place, running crosswise and down;
      And they hinged the two pieces with screechy brass bands
      Where they singed off my hair by the touch of their hands:
        And oh the pains, the pains, the pains,
        When they flapped down the cover just back o’ my brains.

      My mother came by with a heart-rending cry,
    And a wretch popped his eyes from the crown of his hat
    As he squealed, “You’ll never again do that!”
      And he sharpened his spoon on the sole of his shoon,
      Did the long-beard lout by the liquidy moon;
        And he severed her brain and her heart in twain
        While the rest held me there in my helpless pain.

      And the long-beard loons with their long-eared spoons
    Stood up on the top of my topless crown
    And then leaped to the depths of the hollow turned down.
      Oh they teetered and twinged on the part that was hinged,
      And they shrieked with delight till the very air cringed
        As they sang in their glee how smart they would be
        When they got all my brains in their noddles, you see.

      And they reached their long spoons, the reechy old loons,
    ’Way into the cavity made in my head,
    And scraped, and scraped till they thought I was dead.
      Oh the pains, the pains, the terrible pains
      When they spooned from my skull every speck of my brains,
        Then with spoons for their pries dragged both of my eyes
        Through that hole in my head of such terrible size.

      Oh they thought they would be such poets, you see,
    And such wonderful, marvelous scholars, you know,
    When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow!
      But my--oh--oh! what fools they were though!
      For poets, you know, are like underdone dough--
        And oh--my--oh! what fools they were though
        When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow!

      But they crammed every grain, their ill-gotten gain,
    Clear down in the pokes of their pocket-like ears,
    And turned over my eyes to their sages and seers.
      But they soon rued they had the brains I had had
      For they drove every one of them stark staring mad;
        For the goblins, you see, went crazy, like me,
        As mad as a March hare ever could be.

      To my greatest surprise they brought back my eyes
    And put them both back as they always had been.
    Since _Thought_ made them crazy, as each one had seen,
      They restored me my brains with the greatest of _pains_,
      And handed me back my mare’s bridle-reins;
        Then away and up through the atmosphere flew
        And left me as sound and as solid as new!

      And there _was_ no loon with a goblin spoon,
    And there never has been and never will be.
    Whether or not this happened to me,
      It needn’t at all happen this way to all:
      But whatever you do, or whatever befall,
        _Un-less the gob-lins get your night-mare’s reins,
        Don’t ev-er nor ev-er go lend-ing your brains!_




                                SLEEP.


    Dear Nurse that foldeth weary Nature to
      Thy heart, and from tired eyes shutteth out the light,
      E’en as a mother at the fall of night
    Doth take her child upon her lap to undo
    The snarls and tangles of the day, and woo
      Away the sun-bred ills, and balm the sight
      With visions of another world all bright,
    Dear soothing healing Sleep! ’tis thee I sue.
    Come, fold your arms about my Sweetheart-Wife;
      Balm up her eyes that stare at staring Night;
        Seal down her lids with sweet, refreshing gleams,
    Or visions, rather, of the happy life
      We’ve planned together; and leave her not till the light
        Of morn, with me, shall kiss her from her dreams.




                        TO A WILD-ROSE BOUQUET.


    Wild roses down the lane
        Sweet Laeda gave in June,
            To glad me
            And to sad me,
    Like shine and mingled rain
        Atween the clouds aboon.




                           SONG ON THE SEA.


        Merrily, merrily over the wave
    We’ll laugh and we’ll sing as we’re bounding along,
        Merrily, merrily, joyous and brave
    We’ll echo the music of waves in our song:--
            Roll, roll, break, break,
        Over the merrily musical waves,
            Roll, roll, wake, wake
        All the glad echoes that hide in their caves.

        Rocking and rolling the sea is our home
    And joyous we shout from our billow-rocked boat;
        Cleaving the breakers white-feathered with foam
    We’ll set the sweet echoes of ocean afloat:--
            Roll, roll, break, break,
        Over the merrily musical waves,
            Roll, roll, wake,
        All the glad echoes that hide in their caves.

        Merrily, merrily out of their caves
    We’ll call the glad echoes sweet laughing along;
        Merrily, merrily out on the waves
    We’ll mingle the musical sea with our song:--
            Roll, roll, break, break,
        Over the merrily musical waves,
            Roll, roll, wake, wake
        All the glad echoes that hide in their caves.




                             WOODLAND LAY.


    Oh come to the woodland where joys reign supreme,
      Where the zephyr’s soft kiss lightly touches the brow,
    And the sun gently drops thro’ the leaves in a dream
      And sleeps in the shade of the wide-spreading bough.

    Let the world plod along with its stern, solemn face,
      With its brow deeply wrinkled with thought and with care;
    Let the pleasures of life to-day’s business replace
      While we list to the charm of its wild, joyous air.

    The murm’ring of brooks, the singing of birds,
      The whisper of winds and the leaves soft reply,
    The bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds,
      The breathing of nature from earth to the sky--

    All combine to make music with cadence as sweet
      To the ear of the mortal, as the music of spheres,
    Gentle wooed from the harp at Infinity’s feet
      And as softly let fall on angelical ears.

    Like the soft flakes of snow as they fall on the deep,
      The rhythmical notes adown tremblingly go
    On the listening air, and as silently sleep
      In the ocean of joys, where they melt as the snow.




                         IN THE ANGELS’ KEEP.


    Let me not look on the dear, dead face,
      I would not remember her so;
    For her eyes are closed, and her hands are still,
      And her lips can’t speak, you know!

    Let me remember her just as she lived,
      And just as I’ll meet her above--
    With eyes that could talk and a touch that could soothe,
      And a heart that was full of love.

    Let me remember her not as one dead,
      But as one that has fallen asleep;
    She will wake in the morning, I know, at my call,
      Awake in the angels’ keep!




                               THOUGHT.

                  _Thought alone is eternal._--YOUNG.


    ’Tis the whisp’ring of angels, the brush of their wings;
      ’Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay
    To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings
      And flings out its notes on life’s billowed bay.

    ’Tis the touch of Christ’s hand that upraiseth the dead;
      ’Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of man;--
    The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed
      And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran.

    Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave;
      But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope,
    It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave
      And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope.




                       WHITE-ENTHRONED ABOVE ME.

     (ON A SMALL WHITE-ROSE BOUQUET PRESENTED BY A LADY AND PLACED
        IN PALGRAVE’S “GOLDEN TREASURY,” OPPOSITE “THE SLEEPING
                               BEAUTY.”)


    White roses, sweet white roses
      Fair Leda smiles atween,
    No soul your lily-light encloses
      So pure as hers, I ween.

    Here lie and dream, sweet, pure white roses
      That blessed the heart of June,
    And ope the budding love that closes
      Around her soul aboon.




                      THE LONE WAYSIDE WILD ROSE.


    I passed along a wilding lane
      Where weeds and straying flowers grew,
      Where clover-blooming meadows threw
    Sweet love upon the winds in vain.

    Lonely by the wayside wild
      Where the earth all trodden lay,
      There peeped a wild rose, one bright day,
    And stretched its palms like a pleading child.

    Day after day, day after day
      It drank of love from heaven and earth
      And lifted itself from a timid birth
    To a beautiful soul in sweet array.

    It breathed from out of its opening soul
      The breath that heaven has given the rose,
      The sweetest by far that mortal knows,
    And drank sweet love from the night’s dew-bowl.

    The tint of the fleecy clouds of morn
      Came out of the flushing tide of its heart,
      And lay on its cheek with artless art--
    The fairest blush that ever was born.

    ’Twas when the rose was full in bloom
      I passed along that wilding lane
      When love upon the winds was vain,
    The desert air its deathless tomb.

    I loved the flower and said, “Alas!
      ’Tis sad to know such love must die,
      Such sweetness with the mould must lie,
    Such beauty into death must pass!”

    I plucked the flower from off its stem
      And said, “Sweet Flower! Life were Death
      Without thy beauty and thy breath--
    The heart must wither else for them.”

    I plucked the flower--blest wild rose!--
      I set it blooming in my heart,
      And said, “Should my sweet rose depart
    To-day--the night its dear life close,

    “The love it leaves shall ever live,
      Shall ever grow, and bloom and bloom,
      Shall go with me thro’ Death’s dark gloom,
    And hope of glad reunion give.”

    The flower, blooming, lived and grew;--
      That sweet wild rose is blooming still;
      Its beauties every corner fill
    That life and love and heart e’er knew.

    And should my fond heart ever break,
      That sweet wild rose would never die;--
      ’Twould spring from the mould where it might lie
    And the fairest bloom immortal take!




                                TWENTY.


    May the twenties yet triple,
      And then add their half,
    Still preserving the ripple
      And ring of your laugh.

    And may every bright twinkle
      That falls from your eye
    Serve to smooth out each wrinkle,
      The track of a sigh.

    When the twenties shall twinkle
      And ten more shall run,
    I hope every cute wink’ll
      Still shine out with fun.

    Oh the triple of twenty
      Plus none less than ten!
    May you be the same dainty
      Sweet girly-girl then!




                            BEAUTIFUL MAY.


          Oh ’tis May,
          Beautiful May,
          Month of beautiful May,
          Beautiful month of May.

          Wild flowers blooming,
              Grasses growing,
              Wild brooks flowing,
          Pheasants booming--
          Oh ’tis May,
          Beautiful May
    Lovelier far than month of June,
          Beautiful May!
          And every day
    Is putting the strings of life in tune.

    May-buds peep
        At robins chattering
            To their mates
    And those asleep,
        Always flattering
            With nodding pates
                And promises free
                            The farmer asnooze
          That they will keep
                            From others the news
                        That cherries are in the tree.

            The playful dawn
            Is after the moon,
        And the moon is running away.
    Oh the stars like sheep are all running away
            After the moon,
            Away from the dawn,
        Away from the dawn of the month of May,
                Away, away, away.

            With skip and play
            They dance away
        After the dizzy moon
    That pales with the pallor of fright so soon
            At the brightening sight,
            Affright of the light
    Of the morn of a lovelier month than June,
                So soon, soon, soon.

            Oh sweet May,
            Beautiful May
        Thus brightens her face each day,
    And lets the light of her tresses stray
            Into each part
            Of the earth’s dark heart
    Where flashes like lashes from diamonds play
                --Astray each day at play.

            The light from her eyes
            In the spring’s emprise
        Sinks deep in the soul of the sands;
    And with glittering, flying hands
            Every one
            Of the sands doth run
    And lift into life the clod from its bonds
                  That climbs to a soul like man’s.

            She breathes on the air,
            And the sweet winds wear
        Her blooms in their billowy hair,
    And pour out their perfumes and nectars rare
            Distilled in the cup
            That the goddesses sup
    For the beautiful dutiful May so fair,
                  So rare and fairy fair.

            She drinks of the stream,
            And the glad waters gleam
        With delight as they leap to her lips.
    She creeps up the mountains and merrily sips
            Of the fountains that spring
            From the snows as they string
    Up their bows for a shot at the lower rock-crypts
                  Where the sun like the dew-drop drips.

            She skims to the plain
            And frightens the train
        That the winter has left on guard.
    She whistles her bird-notes soft and hard
            And calls from retreat
            The bickering feet
    Of the green that the winter in prison has barred,
                  --Sweet, te-weet, wheat.




                            DEEP UNTO DEEP.

                          A DOUBLE THRENODY.


    Oh the bounding of the billows of the sea
        Rolls the rhythm of their music unto me;
            And a footstep that has fallen on the lea
    Seems to echo from the boundless, soundless deep.
        But the breaking of the billows--the billows as they leap,
            Makes the silence of my sorrow with them weep;
    While the echoes of the grottoes--the grottoes wildly start,
    Ever throbbing to the music of my heart;--
        Throbbing to the threnode,
            Rocking to the rhythm,
                Moaning to the music of my heart,--
        Threnode throbbing ever,
            Rhythm rocking ever,
                Music moaning ever in my heart.

    Oh my Love is on the billows of the sea,
        Sending messages along the waves to me;
            And the ever-singing shells along the lea
    With my longing heart a constant chorus keep.
        But the breaking of the message--the message from the deep,
            Makes the silence of my sorrow inly weep;
    While the moaning shells intoning, intoning griefs impart
    Ever sobbing to the silence of my heart;--
        Sobbing to the silence,
            Intoning to the moaning,
                Breaking to the breaking of my heart,--
        Silent sobbing ever,
            Grief intoning ever,
                Breaking, breaking ever in my heart.




                     A HUMPTY-DUMPTY IDIOTIC CHAP.


    There was once a little humpty-dumpty idiotic chap,
      Who had both a mug an’ muzzle most remarkable to see.
    An’ he couldn’t do a solitary thing but grin an’ gap,
      But he done that simply awful an’ he done it constantly.
    His tater head was sorto’ meller like a punkin over-ripe
    An’ his yaller face was puckered like a lemon with the gripe;
    An’ his front teeth like stalites--or what you call ’em--always gave
    To the cavity behind them the appearance of a cave,--
      Jist forever an’ forever from life’s earliest beginnin’
      Simply nachelly a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin an’ a-grinnin’.

    Well, you see, _he_ couldn’t help it, couldn’t help it not a bit,
      ’Cause for some peculiar reason he was born jist that-a-way.
    An’ if Nater marks a feller he had better jist submit,
      ’Cause she wants that mark for somepm, an’ she’s goin to have it
            stay.
    Caint no doctor make a rose-bud of a busted-thistle mouth,
    Nor he caint turn north a foot that’s got to growin’ sorto’ south.
    Spect this chap inside him knowed it wa’n’t no earthly kind o’ use
    To be squeezin’ on a lemon that didn’t have a bit o’ juice;
      --Maybe ’lowed his ugly mug ’ould be a doin’ less of sinnin’
      If he’d leave it jist a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’.

    ’Course he didn’t reason on it, cause he didn’t have no sense;
      But I kindo’ sorto’ reckon that he done like others do--
    Jist set down up where he’d clum on top o’ Nater’s ol worm-fence
      An’ let the sun bile down onto him an’ soak him clean plum thro’
            an’ thro’
    While with busy boom an’ buzz the plunder’n’ bug an’ bumble-bee
    Went a-nosin’ thro’ the clover where the rosy-posies be.
    An’ with one eye squinted up an’ t’other squinted down plum shet,
    Up on top the fence, I spect, twixt brute an’ human there he set,
      An’ jist let the whirly-gigy world whirl off its spindle spinnin’
      While he joyed hisself a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’.

    _Hope_ he _did_ enjoy hisself, ’cause he didn’t have enough
      Sense to know what trouble was,--he was a idiotic chap.
    An’ he couldn’t tell to save him if a voice was soft or gruff
      For he couldn’t _talk_, nor _hear_, nor--_nothin’_ only grin
            an’ gap.
    An’ his eyes that kept a winkin an’ a squintin up an’ down
    Never let the glorious sunlight paint no picter in his crown.
    Plum stone deef an’ dumb an’ blind--a hunch-backed idiot at that!
    Oh ’t’ould ’most-a broke your heart, as mine, to see him sittin’
      flat
      On the floor in sich an awful fix as he was dyin’ in an’
      Rockin back an’ forth, a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’.




                              GOOD-NIGHT.

                     A SONG OF THE CLOSE OF LIFE.


                               _Infant._

    Good-night, good-night!--the brightest day must fall,
      The sweetest joys, alas! must fade the sight;
    Sad Night shall weep her silent tears o’er all--
      Good-night, good-night, sweet babe, good-night.


                               _Child._

    The day has kissed thy happy heart to sleep
      And left thy lips apart in sweet delight;
    But oh the Night, I know, must slowly creep--
      Good-night, good-night, my child, good-night.


                               _Youth._

    Good-night, good-night!--thy care and day is done.
      The stars thy camp, the Deity thy light,
    Thy soldier hand and heart at rest sleep on,--
      Good-night, good-night, my boy, good-night!


                                _Man._

    Or griefs or joys thy lot, the past be past!--
      The star of hope is on the mountain height,
    For sun and life must sleep and rise at last,--
      Good-night, good-night, worn heart, good-night.


                                _All._

    Good-night, Sad Heart, to Light and Darkness born!
      The sun is sunk--but Stars and Hope are bright;--
    And all that sleep at night will wake at Morn!--
      Good-night, good-night, Dear Heart, good-night!




                               TO FANCY.


        Light and gay
        Flight away
    Over the rolling sea,
        Night and day
        Bright my fay
    Bringing sweet music to me.

        Deep in the sea
        Leap with glee
    Braiding the mermaiden’s hair;
        Leap the sea,
        Sweep to me,
    Bearing her kisses rare.

        O my fay,
        Row away
    Out in a nautilus shell,
        Glowingly,
        Flowingly,
    Its rhythmical story to tell.

        Greet the morn
        Fleetly borne
    Over the foam of the sea,
        Meet the morn,
        Sweet return
    Bringing its beauties to me.

        Lie and dream
        By the beam
    Thrown from the rolling moon,
        Lie and dream
        Night its gleam
    Asleep in some deep lagoon.

        Far enskyed
        Star-like ride
    Down in the doming deep,
        Where the wide
        Bar and tide
    Croon to the moon asleep.




                         GOOD-NIGHT, MY LOVE.


    Good-night, good-night!
    Thy dreams to-night,
      Thy dreams, thy silent dreams,
    Be sweet as love, as chaste as light,
    Thy dreams be sweet and deep.

    Oh dream, my Love,
    And sleep, my Love,
      While star-laced moon-light beams
    Above so bright with love and light,
    Good-night, good-night, my Love.




                        THROUGH REVERENT EYES.


    To-night I saw her. Strange indeed
      My faint heart should thus fail me;--strange
    That after such transporting love
      In me three days should work such change.

    Not more than three?--Nay, barely three;
      And yet, within that raptured time
    I’ve lived, it seems, a century
      Of hope in Love’s own blissful clime.

    ’Tis strange, this love of mine, so strange;
      So strange I fear sometimes I do
    Not love, but only dream I love,
      And sleep the mid-life watches through.

    How many, many is the time
      I’ve looked upon some face, some form,
    And felt the sudden thrill of some
      Fair hand awake the passion-storm!

    But only momentary; and then
      That old, old longing for the real
    And soul-enlighted face of her
      Whose image is my heart’s ideal.

    Ah yes! to-night as I sit and write
      Sweet visions come before my eyes.
    Sweet visions only! and like lights
      Along the shore they fall and rise.

    Who are they? Friends of my happy days,
      The friends of my childhood, boyhood, youth,
    And later age. Yet none there are,
      I fear, I ever loved in truth.

    I’ve often wondered what love is.
      I’ve heard men speak of it,--ah yes!
    I’ve heard fair women, too! but what
      It is, I wonder did they guess?

    I’ve read of love; I’ve thought of love;
      I’ve read and thought that in that hour
    When love should truly come to one,
      ’Twould come an all-possessing power;

    ’Twould smite upon the chord of self,
      And break the faulty string in twain;
    ’Twould touch a more melodious chord
      And wake a glad, harmonious strain.

    And so I wonder what love is;
      And if I ever knew before
    A few short, happy days ago
      How love can rise, and sing, and soar.

    Too sacred for my heart to hold,
      To me a woman is divine--
    As far above me as the stars
      That I adore because they shine.

    I can but stand and gaze above,
      I can but worship and adore,
    Nor dream that I could reach her height--
      I could but drag her down; no more.

    Yet other men have loved. Must I,
      Must I alone throughout the night
    Stand gazing at a star that shines
      For me alone upon the mountain height?

    Ah yes! I fear me that all night
      I’ll watch the silent waning star
    Adoring and revering till
      It sinks behind some rugged scar.

    I fear I do not love; I hold
      The fairer sex too high, I fear;
    And bowed with awe and humbleness,
      Instead of loving I revere.

    Among the noisy human crowd,
      I stand as stands the silent stone;
    And like it, too, I dumbly pray
      To whom I love, and inly moan.

    And thus it is my reverence brings
      Me woe. As silent as the tomb,
    My heart bowed down with sacred awe
      Still wanders thro’ Love’s trackless dome.

    Men call me cold. Alas! could they
      But feel the half, the tenth I feel,
    Could they but look thro’ reverent eyes,
      They might my sealed heart unseal.

    Too deep the mighty river flows;
      Too deep the silent waters are;
    I catch the image, not the form,
      Embrace the vision, not the star.

    Can heart of man pluck down a star
      And wear it on his breast? or dip
    Its gleam from out the soundless sea
      And press it to his loving lip?

    No more, no more indeed can I,
      No more can I pluck down the love
    That like an angel day and night
      Still wanders through the dome above.

    Oh could I ask a woman’s love?
      I could not, would not drag her down!
    I could not gratify a thought
      So selfish--wed her to a clown!

    No! no! my only hope must be
      To rise above this selfish self;
    To grow more pure in heart and hope,
      To lose myself in her sweet self.

    To-night, I say, I saw her; her
      Who wakes in me such thoughts as these;
    I felt her hand as I sometimes feel
      An angel’s hand in the dreamy breeze.

    She seemed far off--so far away!
      And yet, I knew and saw her near:
    I touched her hand; I heard her voice,
      And oh the music thrilled my ear.

    When here alone within my room,
      I feel most brave; but when before
    The one I love, my heart grows faint,
      I can but silently adore.

    I talk to her? Ah yes, sweet hours!
      Tho’ every act and word I know
    Must say my heart is full of love,
      I dare not, can not tell her so.

    Some day, perhaps,--some bright, sweet day!--
      My tongue may tell her as my song
    The struggle of my striving soul
      To rise to her above the throng.

    Great God, lift up my failing soul,
      And purify this heart of mine.
    Oh lead me through the realms of love
      With that unfailing hand of Thine.

    I ask nor wealth, nor fame, nor power;
      I ask a pure and loving heart
    That I may join that heart to hers
      Forever nevermore to part.

    And oh then peace, peace, the peace of love
      For that old, old longing; and the real
    And soul-enlighted face of her,
      The image of my heart’s ideal.




                            WHAT IS POETRY?


Proper conception and appreciation of the poetic, whether in objects
of nature or in the mirror of words reflecting the human heart,
presupposes a delicate and divinely wrought nature tuned to the touch
of the Maker’s hand. Only such a beauty-loving soul finds responsive
a chord to the soul of beauty that dwells in the bodying words of
poetry. The finer the soul, the finer the music. To possess this
light-receiving and radiant Divinity is to possess at once both the
highest attainment of human culture and aspiration and the greatest
gift of God. It is thus at the same time both a growing seed and the
seed’s growth. That is, the poetic soul is both a gift divine and
a cultivation of it consecrated to the Divine Giver. Or, in other
words, the poet is both born and made. _Poeta nascitur non fit_--the
poet is born, not made--is true in this sense and in no other; for
the feelings, the gifts of the poet, are the gifts of every human
soul in greater or less degree. Else the proverb is not true, and we
must say, _Poeta nascitur et fit_; which would, no doubt, be equally
misunderstood. But _Poeta nascitur non fit_ is true; and if, instead of
being translated literally, it is rendered in an explanatory way, it
means simply:--“The poet possesses the same faculties that others do;
but the poetic faculty in him at birth is more highly developed than
it is in others, and is consequently susceptible of a higher degree of
cultivation. If the poetic faculty is naturally slight or insignificant
at birth, no amount of cultivating and polishing can create, or make,
a poet of its possessor.” This is the ancient meaning, and the only
sensible meaning, the meaning accepted by all who understand the
subject.

To see it from a different angle. The true poet has both genius
and talent--or rather, genius has the poet and compels the poet to
have talent. Genius is the divine gift; talent is the cultivation.
Genius--poetic genius--, the highest harmonious union of the feelings,
is the part of the poet that is born; talent, the ability to reveal
that genius, is the part that is cultivated, or made. Genius is power;
talent is skill. The man of poetic genius cannot help writing; the man
of poetic talent can help it, but won’t. That’s the main difference.

If you can’t help writing, nine chances out of nine you are a poet,
and are unconscious of your great power from the simple fact that it
is natural to you. If you can help writing, don’t write; for you are
evidently no poet, though you may have talent, and may believe (very
likely will) from the unnaturalness of it that you are great.

The genius which forces the poet to write is the same genius that is
ever reaching out of the poem and beckoning us upwards. Thus much for
the present as to what constitutes the poet.

Now as to poetry. Though we cannot hope to arrive at the seat of its
mysterious fountain of inspiration and bind its hidden springs of
immortality, we shall nevertheless, in earnest search, by upward,
honest, toilsome flight, at least behold the beauty-embodying mountain
heights whence its rivers of eternal glory flow, and whither the soul
must ever soar to drink of its purest living waters;--waters that
purify mortality and reflect Divinity, and make the soul bathed in
them and drunken of them better know its own vastness, grandeur, and
divinity.

Until the soul by this upward flight shall have beheld itself thus
divinely reflected in the immortal streams of poetry, it can never feel
and know its own vastness, its infinitude. Likewise, until it shall
have bathed in and drunk of these mighty purifying waters of goodness,
truth, and beauty, the soul can never know the divinity and immortality
of poetry. Thus, if the soul know not the one, it cannot know the
other; the two knowledges are reciprocal.

It may be said æsthetically and as nearly scientifically as it can well
be said, that poetry is naturally rhythmical and metrical imaginative
language interpreting the Divine in the human heart. This defines at
once, as nearly as can well be defined in a single sentence, the Form
(or mechanism), the Spirit, and the Mission of poetry.

Form we can define and anatomize, just as we can define and anatomize
the human body. The spirit of poetry we cannot define and anatomize,
just as we cannot define and anatomize the human soul. Form alone
cannot constitute a poem, just as body alone cannot constitute a man.
Spirit alone may constitute poetry (in the abstract) though not a
concrete poem, just as the soul alone may constitute life though not a
living man. Just as both body and soul are necessary to constitute a
man, so also both form and spirit are necessary to constitute any of
his visible art-creations, as a poem.


                                 FORM.

The requisites of form are rhythm and metre. The accidents of form are
rhyme (consonance), assonance, stanza, alliteration, onomatopœia, etc.,
etc.

Rhythm has to do with the kind of feet in a line, while metre has to do
with the number of feet in a line. Rhythm corresponds with the regular
rise and fall of the waves of the sea, each wave-length being counted
a poetic foot. Metre corresponds with the swell of the sea, composed
of several successive waves. Thus metre is, after all, a kind of
rhythm,--the larger ebb and flow of rhythm.

The accidents of form, such as rhyme, stanza, alliteration, etc.,
we find worthily and advantageously used in much true poetry,
as well as worthlessly used in the tawdry puppet-shows of mere
mechanicians;--those persons who, having nothing to say, yet attempting
to say something, mistake rhyme for sense, a tickling jingle for
meaning, their desire to create for the creative power. They do not
rightly read nor well heed the trite epigrammatic precept, “When you
have nothing to say, say it.”

But these accidents of form, I say, are sometimes material aids to the
thought; indeed, always are when used not for their own sakes but for
the meaning’s sake. Notwithstanding this fact, many of our greatest
poems, such as Paradise Lost and others on the epic order, as well as
many not epic, lack these accidents either wholly or in part.

On the other hand, rhythm and metre are found in all poetic forms, and
are the only two elements of the form of poetry that are thus found.
Hence, rhythm and metre are not only essentials but they are the only
essentials of form, and constitute the complete body in which the
spirit of poetry naturally and inevitably clothes itself. They are,
therefore, just as necessary to poetry in its concrete or visible forms
as the spirit is.

But since rhythm and metre are thus essential to a poem, it is the
common custom to call anything poetry that has this external appearance
of the poetic.

This is a misapplication of terms. There is so much trash masquerading
in the poetic garb that this misapplication inevitably throws ridicule
upon true poetry.

Rhythm, when carried to excess and when used not for the meaning’s
sake, the feeling’s sake, but for the rhythm’s sake alone, becomes
simply jingle; quite invariably a rhyming jingle at that.

Metre, in company with rhythm and rhyme, is often diverted from its
true purpose and used solely to jiggle some fact or some epigram into
the memory, as illustrated by “Thirty days,” etc., and by all other
didactic metrical arrangements, as mentioned farther on.

But rhymes and jingles and metrical arrangements are not poetry. They
are simply members of the form, the dancing legs and arms of the
body, sometimes possessed of life with an indwelling guiding spirit,
and sometimes whittled out of wood and set in motion by an inspiring
string. These senseless puppets, or jumping-jacks, sometimes, indeed
often, tickle the mob by their lively antics; but the great final
judgment of humanity relegates them to the rubbish-heap and forgets
their ephemeral and unlovely existence.

It is, I say, a misnomer to dignify such by the name of poetry. The
proper name is verse. Whatever is rhythmical and metrical, whether it
has any of the accidents of form or not, is verse. Hence, all poetry is
verse, but not all verse is poetry. Indeed, not one ten-thousandth part
of verse is poetry; for the requisite of verse is simply form,--the
body into which the spirit must enter ere it becomes poetry. To
illustrate,--

    “Thirty days hath September,
    April, June, and November,” etc.,

has the form of poetry without the slightest touch of the poetic
spirit; thus constituting verse, simple and pure. It requires no
penetration to perceive that it is not poetry, though I doubt not that
nine hundred ninety-nine out of every thousand have called that stanza
in the usual loose way “a verse of poetry.”

But it is not only not poetry, but it is also not a verse, though it is
_verse_; for a verse is but one line of the poetic form, while _verse_
is the form itself. It is not poetry because it has merely form without
spirit. As well call the dead body a man (which indeed we sometimes do
in the same loose way) as call such by the name of poetry.

But the body of a man without the soul is a dead man; that is, not a
man at all. So also the body of one of his visible art-creations, as of
poetry, without the spirit, is dead art, a dead poem;--no poem at all.

Is it not so? Only look at our thousands of dailies, weeklies,
monthlies, quarterlies, and whatnotlies, where millions of these
poetry-bodies lie buried, smelling too much of mortality; then turn to
the time-glorified tomes of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Homer,
Virgil, and their eternal co-endurers for a breath of heaven. Let this
be the final answer.

Rhythm, it may be said (taking it beyond the realms of concrete
poetry), is the music of Nature. It is Nature’s natural expression, if
I may so speak. All her motions are rhythmical, have ripples and waves;
even at rest her forms lie in the rhythmic order.

Wherever billows beat the crags, or ripples kiss the sands; wherever
winds go soughing through the pines, or zephyrs toss a curl; wherever
snows may drive to drifts, or wheat-fields billow green and gold;
wherever drifting clouds, or dreaming skies, or bordering trees are
hung dependent on the smooth lake’s waters; wherever birds may sing,
or flowers bloom, or rivers run; wherever thunders wake, or hills and
valleys sleep;--there is rhythm, there is music, there is Nature’s
perfect harmony.

Nor is it different in man, Nature’s crown triumphant. In throes of
pain or woe’s distress; in joys that iris happy tears; in sorrow’s
mournful cadences; in laughter’s lilting melody; in peace and
bounteous plenty, or in war and woeful famine; in love or hate, or
life or death;--through all of man’s existence, there again is rhythm,
Passion’s only melody, the music of the soul.

True, in the calms of life, although ’tis there, we little feel this
rhythm,--this adjusting process by which man inevitably seeks to put
the heart in tune while here for higher harmonies hereafter. But when
the soul’s deep feeling is aroused, then listen to its rhythmic ebb and
flow like gently wimpling waters or like the surging beat, beat, beat
upon the sands.

Hear the lonesome cadences of sorrow crying up to heaven; listen to
the joyousness that tinkles through the melody of laughter; hark the
sharp, quick, fierce beat in the surge of righteous anger; hear the
tender, mellow music from the soothing lips of Love,--divine, immortal
Love--and dream of other worlds and better things as you listen thus
transported.

When these passions of the soul would express themselves in words,
the words, too, fashioned by the spirit that enters them, must
inevitably move in rhythm, and, in the greater wave-lengths, fit
themselves to metre. This feeling, or passion, that enters rhythmic
words--that unswervingly seeks rhythm as the only form in which it
can express itself--is the spirit of poetry. Thus it is that poetry
comes about; thus it is that poetry is spontaneous and not the result
of long meditation; thus it is that poetry is the natural outlet of
highly-wrought or great feeling.


                                SPIRIT.

As in man, so in all art of man, the soul within fashions the body
without. True beauty is soul-beauty; that beauty that is in the heart
and is felt by the heart, without which there can be no physical beauty.

Whatever in the world is beautiful, is beautiful just in proportion
to the beauty of the soul that sees it. Thus if we would find beauty,
we must first have it. The white-flecked blue of the skies of June;
the wren or peewee pouring fourth its perfume-drunken melodies from
among the apple-blossoms; the stretch of plain or towering height
of mountain; the scenes of hill or valley, wood or meadow, lake or
river; the Apollo Belvedere; the great Transfiguration; Paradise
Lost;--nature’s various forms and reproductions--have no beauty to
the heart whose cavities are empty. But to the full soul, the soul of
beauty, they are perpetual springs of life, where Divinity is ever
mirrored forth; for the soul gives what it gets, and gets what it
gives, and the getting is proportioned to the giving. Give, and we get;
keep, and we lose.

But what is it in an Apollo, a Transfiguration, a Paradise Lost that
feeds this soul-hunger; that possesses this beauty?--The marble of the
Apollo? Hard by lies the rough, unchiseled Parian marble; but it has
no beauty.--The painted canvas of the Transfiguration? Sitting before
it, there are yearly hundreds of canvases and brushes and paints and
paintings; but they lack the beauty.--The words, the rhythm, the metre,
the music of Paradise Lost? Millions of productions, from musty tomes
in the British Museum to the upper left-hand corner of the “patent
inside” of a newspaper, have all these; but no beauty.

What then? That same indefinable something which in man we call
the soul, and in art, the spirit; that which the admiring soul
instinctively feels and recognizes.

Had the sculptor never touched his chisel to the marble, nor the
painter his brush to the canvas, nor the poet his pen to the paper,
that same spirit, yet not bodied, would have existed within his own
soul, but never would have been beheld by others. To be seen by other
eyes, it must needs take on a visible body, a concrete form, in which
it shall dwell.

Thus all forms of Nature and all forms of Art, whatsoever, are the
mere bodying expressions of the spirit that inhabits them. Form is
necessary, but only as a medium through which the spirit may reveal
itself visibly.

The intuitive and unconscious recognition of this principle, that the
soul within fashions the body it inhabits,--the grandest principle of
all God’s great laws, the foundation of them all, illimitable as the
immortal Giver--is the door-way through which he who thus recognizes
must inevitably enter Nature and Art to enjoy the full communion of the
soul within, and to interpret the beauties of that soul’s divinity to
us.

He who thus enters is possessed of genius. In other words, he has a
great soul and lives close to Nature’s heart. We of lesser genius,
or of less loving souls (for a great soul is one that loves greatly)
commune with the indwelling spirit less freely. If we approach Nature
or Art consciously and try to unlock some side-door by the key of the
intellect, we shall probably find only cast-off garments; nay, many of
us may find that the door will not open and we must content ourselves
with a peep through the key-hole. Indeed, do not the multitude behold
the elegant structures of Nature and Art wonderingly for but a moment,
without even so much as attempting the key-hole, and then plod on,
unconscious that there is an indwelling soul that has thus fashioned
its earthly home?

This same great foundation-principle of Nature is likewise the
fundamental law of poetry and of all other art. For art, at best, is
nature wrought by man. What else can it be? It is fashioned by simply
a lesser Divinity, the soul of man, consequently less perfectly, and
follows the same law. Or better yet, art is nature wrought through the
instrumentality of man by the great Divinity that works in him. Art
is simply a name used to designate a specific manifestation or kind
of nature;--that kind that comes through man, and has, not life, but
spirit; not life, but the picture, the show, the mirrored image of
life: a sort of record of the soul, and a lamp for its future guidance.

He who, by means of rhythmic words inspirited, can paint this picture,
represent this show, mirror this image of life, historicize this
record of the soul, light this lamp and hold it above the heads of the
trampling ages for the guidance of humanity, is the great poet.

Just in proportion to the greatness of such a soul will be the spirit
that imbues his creations. It cannot create a new form unless it first
implants some germ from its own spiritual self. Not only must there
be the spirit as the prime essential of poetry, the soul within that
fashions the rhythmical and metrical form it inhabits, but that spirit
must partake of that divinity that is in every human heart;--that
divine flower, deep-rooted in the soil of God, sometimes blossoming to
an angel-image, sometimes painting the glories of heaven on its petals,
sometimes breathing its deepest-drawn perfumes up from its muse-beloved
blooms to the throne above.

Would the soul create a statue, it must see “an angel in that marble”
ere it give the angel form; would it paint a picture, it must behold
within itself the transfiguration ere it live transfigured on the
canvas; would it write a poem, it must be a paradise of eternal love
and beauty ere it breathe immortal glory into words.

It is this soul within that comes out of the maker of the statue,
the maker of the picture, the maker of the melody, the maker of the
poem, and enters his creations, that distinguishes true art from mere
mechanism of art.

It is this same soul within that renders the artist, not a chiseler of
stone, a painter of canvas, a placer of notes, a rhymer of words, but a
maker, a creator, in his own lesser realm of nature.

It is this same intangible soul, just within yet just beyond the touch
of our finger-tips as we reach out farther and farther into the dim
unknown, this same indefinable spirit of beauty, shining through the
form that it inhabits, permeating it inscrutably, that somehow passes
out of the poem into the heart of the admirer, then slips out of his
heart into the poem again, and so on and on, again and again, ever
lifting the admiring soul as the poem itself is lifted higher still and
ever higher.


                               MISSION.

This practical age, “this nineteenth century with its knife and glass,”
ever botanizing and anatomizing, analyzing and scrutinizing in every
possible way, is constantly asking, “What is it good for?”; “Of what
use is it?” And whatever the knife and glass cannot explain to the
fact-loving intellect; whatever the age cannot thus analyze and convert
into ready cash or daily bread, it is wont to relegate to the Lethean
Limbo of Uselessness.--As if the mind of man were constituted of
intellect, pocket, and stomach, and whatever did not go to the filling
of these were useless.

It is well and just and right, indeed, that any age should thus
inquire, especially as to material things, so long as it does not dwarf
other faculties by giving all sustenance to one. To ask concerning
poetry, “What is it good for?”, “Of what use is it?”, is simply to ask
in a different form, “What is the soul good for?”; “Of what use is a
God!” There is nothing in God’s universe that does not have utility.

But to examine specifically and logically, and thus to discover
somewhat of the mission, the utility of poetry.

In order to do this, we must naturally refer to the human mind, since
thence poetry is brought forth and there it is perceived.

There are three great divisions of the mind; namely, Intellect,
Sensibilities, or Feelings, and Will.

The intellect is that power of the mind by which we think and know. The
sensibilities, or feelings, constitute that power of the mind by which
we feel. The will is that power of the mind by which we resolve to do
or not to do. These explanations are sufficient for our present purpose.

Therefore, whatever furnishes food for the intellect, the knowing-power
of the mind, must be of the nature of knowledge, didactic. Whatever
ministers to the feelings must waken emotion. Whatever gives action to
the will must rouse resolution.

All literature is for the mind. But since there are three departments
of the mind, and since literature is produced by and for the mind,
there must naturally be three divisions of literature that each
mental power may receive sustenance. That is, there should be that
literature for the intellect in which knowledge predominates. For
the sensibilities, there should be that literature in which feeling,
emotion, is the primary and essential element. For the will, there
should be that literature that has for its chief end the rousing of
resolution.

On examination of the literary products of the world, we find that
this philosophy is sustained. For the intellect, we have treatises (as
on the sciences, mathematics, etc.), histories, biographies, novels,
romances, essays, etc., etc. The primary object of these is to furnish
knowledge; to satisfy the intellect. They are in the highest sense
didactic, although, of course, just as the literature for each faculty
does, they incidentally furnish some food for the other powers.

This intellective literature is the kind that is most largely
cultivated at the present. In fact, it is cultivated almost to the
exclusion of the other two.

For the will, we have sermons, lectures, orations, speeches, addresses,
harangues, etc.; a class of literature that is small when compared with
the preceding. These two departments of the mind monopolize the whole
domain of prose.

That other department of literature, in which feeling is the dominating
and pervading principle, must, by its very nature, act upon that same
power of the mind that produced it; namely, the sensibilities.

Poetry is the literature of feeling, and consequently finds its
province here. It is the mission of poetry, therefore, as suggested
by the latter part of the definition, to minister to the feelings, to
interpret the Divine in the human heart. It is this that all writers on
the subject and that all poets mean when they say it is the mission of
poetry to give pleasure.

But what shall be the limit of that word “pleasure”? Herein lies the
chief cause of great differences of opinion, especially with those who
hold that there is such a thing as didactic poetry. Or rather, what
is the true meaning of “pleasure” as thus used? The very essence of
pleasure, as opposed to pain, is that it gratify some emotion and set
it at perfect rest.

What emotions when gratified are at perfect rest? The answer at once
forces itself upon us, only the better emotions. That poetry does
minister to and satisfy the higher and nobler feelings, and that what
does not do this is not poetry, even the meanest heart that it touches
fully knows.

The attempted gratification of hate, or of any desire whatsoever to
give pain to any one, as illustrated in Pope’s _Dunciad_, Dryden’s
_Absalom and Achitophel_, Butler’s _Hudibras_, Byron’s _English Bards
and Scotch Reviewers_, and all such, never sets the mind of the writer
at rest, nor gives enjoyment to the reader. Indeed, who now ever reads
these, the world’s greatest illustrations of witty bitterness and
venom, couched in verse and unjustifiably designated as poetry?

These are accounted “great works.” But who, let me ask, ever reads any
of these “great works,” or ever heard of them, except in some text on
Literature? Or, having read them, who loves them, or their authors for
having written them? None. No, not one.

On the other hand, who has not read some of the noblest works of
Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Tennyson, Longfellow, Bryant, Lowell,
Whittier, Holmes? And who does not feel nobler for having read, and who
does not hold these authors shrined in his heart of hearts for having
written? Is not this proof enough that it is the mission of poetry to
minister only to the higher emotions?

After all, hate is merely the negative of love; simply the absence of
the better emotion, a void, an ache, a pain. All attempts to gratify
it only make it stronger--or rather drive the better emotion farther
away--as illustrated by the cases of Pope, Dryden, Byron, and their
fellows in revenge and bitterness wherever we find them. No one ever
felt better or nobler or happier for gratifying a hate, for doing
a bad deed, or for giving pain to a fellow-mortal’s feelings. The
ever-accusing conscience, if he but listen, will never permit him to
say in his heart that such gratification has given him pleasure.

If, then, it is the mission of poetry to give pleasure, no matter
whether its interpretation of the Divine in the human heart be by tears
or by laughter, its ministration necessarily must be to the immortal
part of man.

In the light of all this, therefore, without further argument, it is
clear and conclusive that all verse that is sarcastic, satiric, etc.,
such as that of Swift, Butler, Pope, Gay, Prior, and their hosts, is
not poetry.

But what of the didactic? Whatever has the primary object of teaching
delivers its treasures to the keeping of the intellect. If, therefore,
verse aims primarily to teach, but ministers to the sensibilities only
incidentally, it is not true poetry. Poetry does not teach nor preach
nor argue nor discuss. Those are the provinces of prose. Poems and
roses must not teach; they must bloom. Their breath delights us, their
suggestions, their reflections of a Divinity that is above them, lifts
us--God knows why! The cry of pain, the romping laugh of children at
play, the pathos of death, the touch of the hand or the lips of the
one we love needs no argument to fill the heart with uncontrollable
emotion. These are the sweetest of the poet’s themes, and he has but
to reveal them without argument as they are experienced in the heart.
Argument kills them. Just in proportion to the didactic character of
verse the path of poetry is departed from, and the realm of prose
invaded. You cannot find a solitary purely didactic piece of verse the
meaning of which could not be better expressed in prose. Not so with
true poetry. That cannot be expressed in any other way.

The most illustrious types of the didactic are to be found in the
“Artificial School,” at the head of which stands Pope. When we cut out
the satiric and the sarcastic and all ill-feeling verse, as we see we
must, and then the didactic, as we are forced by reason and logic to
do, how much real poetry do we have left in this “School” so well named
“Artificial”? How much is there left that makes the heart feel larger,
nobler, better, and gives it new fountains of life? Only a rare gem
now and then in the form of a single felicitous line or happily wedded
couplet. Then, when we cut this same kind of verse out of the whole
literature of the world, and also that other kind, already spoken of at
length, in which there is merely spiritless poetic form as its chief
element, how much real poetry and how many real poets does the world
possess? Comparatively, only a few poets, the world’s great, and a few
of their works--those that have already stood the test of time and that
still stand the only true test of good literature, that it inspires the
heart with noble feelings and lofty purposes--can be placed in the list.

But enough on the kinds of verse.

Another question concerning pleasure arising from poetry presents
itself. “Violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph
die.” The poetic, by its very nature, is violent. Consequently, the
mind cannot long imbibe its intoxicating draughts. A little at a
time is exhilarating and invigorating; but an over-dose deadens the
sensibilities, and often creates a serious dislike for the poetic and a
consequent unconscious restlessness of longing for the satisfaction of
the higher emotions that prose can never furnish.

The mind cannot long endure extreme exertion, just as the body cannot.
Poetry requires extreme exertion of the sensibilities, consequently
its duration should be short that its full delight and pleasure may be
enjoyed. Since this is so, every poem, by the very nature of the mind,
must be brief. Who would live in a conservatory of roses where their
sweet scent, most delightful at first breath, soon becomes sickening?
Or who would hold even one of those odorous blooms to the nose for
long? Who, on the other hand, does not delight in an occasional sip of
the scent of a bursting rose-bud? And who does not find new delight at
each successive draught, and regret that the petals that breathe this
odor for us, alas! must fade and fall?

I believe most profoundly with Poe that, from the standpoint of the
mind that produces and the mind that perceives and enjoys it, there is
no such thing as a long poem. I shall go farther, and say, not only
that a poem must be short, but that it must be lyrical. This gets us
back to nature. Historically the first literature of every nation is
poetry, and that poetry is invariably lyrical; indeed, even inevitably
so. In every nation, we find it is many centuries before these lyrics
of the nation are gathered up and finally strung on the thread of
narrative, thus making the Epic. From the lyric, all imaginable forms
have been brought forth by ingenious poets of later day. The bard
of simple days lived, not close to nature’s intellect, but close to
nature’s heart. Burns was the best poet of modern days, because he did
the same; consequently, he is always lyrical when he is natural.

Shall we then say that the Æneid, the Odyssey, the Iliad, the
Canterbury Tales, the Faery Queen, or Paradise Lost is each one poem?
Viewed as I have just remarked, and that (in its relation to the mind)
is the only true way to view a poem, none of these is a single poem.
Each is made up of a number of poems--gems strung on the thread of a
common subject;--roses in a common conservatory.

Indeed, the whole of Homer is simply a collection of a great number
of short poems--lyrics, indeed, they were--sung by many authors for
centuries, and finally gathered up and pieced together to form books
and volumes. Each one of the Canterbury Tales contains many poems,
strung together to form one necklace of jewels.

I ask any one to sit down and read any of these great and wonderful
works continuously one day, as he might prose, and comprehend what he
is reading. Not even one book of Paradise Lost can be _read_ (in the
true sense of that word) at a single sitting. There are too many poems
in it, and the consequent demands upon the mind are too great for that.
Possibly this very fact had somewhat to do with calling forth the
unjust remark from Waller concerning that great epic, “If its length be
not considered as a merit it hath no other.”

Since a poem must be brief, naturally, and for the same cause, it
should be read judiciously and at intervals, if it is to be appreciated
and enjoyed, just as the rose must be smelled only occasionally. We
cannot read poetry as we can prose; it won’t let us. By their very
natures they demand a different manner of reading. One can read prose
continuously, hour after hour, without seriously wearying the mind,
for the simple reason that, in prose, thought is not condensed, but
is spread through a long series of sentences. Moreover, the thought
is not, as a rule, simply suggested, but is fully expressed, leaving
the mind in a comparative state of passive receptivity, with but
little active labor to perform in order to comprehend the meaning.
On the other hand, poetry always expresses thought in condensed form
and suggests many fold more than it expresses. Consequently, a single
stanza or even a single line may sometimes require as much attention
for the full comprehension of its meaning and suggestion, as a whole
page of ordinary prose.

We must plant the poem in the heart and give it time to grow, as we
plant the flower-seeds in the soil. Finally, as the growing flower
bursts into bloom, so must the poem blossom from the heart into its
full perfection and beauty.

Fully to appreciate that flower’s beauty, it must not be dissected and
analyzed by glass and scalpel. Did Burns go botanizing the daisy? Need
we then go botanizing these flowers and blossoms of the soul of man? He
who does it tries to force the intellect to do what the emotive nature,
the beauty-loving part of man, alone can do. There is an intellectual
delight in botanizing and in picking to pieces and analyzing the
gathered specimens, but it is not that sweet, soul-inspiring pleasure
born of the love of the beautiful that the heart alone can feel. He who
botanizes the beautiful can never know in his head the supreme pleasure
that he who loves the simple daisy too well to turn it under the sod
feels in his heart.

Poetry is indeed immortal and divine. It is the breath of heaven in
the nostrils of man, the divinity of the human soul, the heart in full
flower and bloom. To an honest, earnest, sincere soul, it is the wonder
of the age, as it has ever been the wonder of all ages, that “men
endowed with highest gifts, the vision and the faculty divine,” being
divinely appointed as poet-priest of the Almighty, should pander to the
prurient taste of a so-called practical public;--that they should sell
the divinity within them for a strip of royal purple; for a salve to an
itching palm;--that they should barter immortality for a glitter-jingle.

But how shall this consummate artist not fall into the corruptions
that beset him and his art divine? Here are the driveling jinglers,
verse-makers, poetasters all about him, with their rattling,
rollicking, banging tin-panery, loudly applauded by a rough-and-ready
guffawing public; a “practical” public that loudly clamors for _sense_,
_fact_,--and then drops another penny into the chapeaux of these
venders of cheap jewelry for more of their applauded cheap sentiment
and glittering platitudes, and jingling chains and necklaces, and
rings, and things, whose brightness wears off in their mental pockets
before the wife or sweetheart is gladdened by a glimpse of its
“practical” glitter!

The great, true poet, he who alone is interpreter of the immortal in
the mortal, the invisible in the visible by means of words, never asks
how to avoid these corruptions. He does it. He despises, hates, abhors
them. He does it, too, by obeying that Divinity within him. Obedient
to that call, he walks majestically through this motley crowd;--aye,
through this sometimes maudlin, jeering crowd that throw stones at him
and mentally would crucify him!--and sets some stream of Beauty and
Glory flowing through the hearts of men, forever to wash away these
corruptions and stagnations of the human soul. Aye, truly! he asks not
how, but teaches us how. Was it not so with those old Divine Writers,
our highest type of poets, whose inspirations make the one Immortal
Book? So shall it ever be. ’Tis the Divine Law.

Such a poet, interpreting nature and mirroring Divinity, and thus
idealizing life that the seeing, aspiring soul may attain nearer its
illimitable possibilities, we call an original poet, a genius. He is
never a “popular” poet, as that term is used, but he is quite generally
unpopular. Popular in the sense of time-enduring he is by that same
Divine Law that brings him into existence. His soul will inevitably
have some greatness in common with other great souls. These will rescue
him and commend him to an increasing posterity; and so on and on,
touching more and more souls, and thus seeming to grow ever better and
better, though in reality he remains ever unchanged, while the souls he
touches are the ones that ever strive to his greater height, and draw
up numbers with them.

Thus does he whom an unappreciating, small-souled mob would have
crucified, become immortal through the reciprocal divinity that is
in himself and in the heart of humanity. Thus does, thus must, this
poet-genius create--call into activity--the taste that must make him
time-enduring. This is the penalty of genius and greatness--to suffer,
and then triumphantly to endure forever in the hearts of men. Who would
he were not a genius? Who would he were? In proof of all this, witness
Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, not to speak of all the greatest Great.

I love that unswerving poetic genius who, in the face of taunts and
revilings and sneers, still is obedient to that sublime divinity within
him; who, conscious of his own soul’s illimitable vastness, must
inevitably write for that soul’s satisfaction, and thus write, not for
the present generation, but for posterity; and who, when he “wraps
the drapery of his couch about him,” having obeyed the divine voice
within him even to his latest breath, finally triumphs over all sneers
and taunts and jeers, triumphs even over death, and, though dead,
triumphantly lives in immortal words that still speak to us more and
more divinely through the trumpet-soul of the more and more divine ages.

Such a poet, I say, must create the taste that will make him
time-enduring. In other words, this true poet, this genius (else he
were no genius at all), must see some relation of soul to soul not
ordinarily seen, and never at all seen in exactly the same way, and
so express that relation in words that humanity can but recognize it
from the very fact of its commonness, its universality. Such a poet
never follows public opinion, in the narrow sense of the opinion of a
transitory present; but through great trials and suffering and much
enduring generally, he leads it, or creates it rather, and develops it
into that broader, truer public opinion,--humanity’s opinion; the only
opinion, I should say, that is equal to that of a great soul.

The great never follow, but ever lead. They never pander to a perverted
public taste, but follow their own convictions; and thus following the
guiding power within them, they lead others in the same path. Thus
drawn onwards and upwards by that link which binds man unto God, and
thus leading humanity aright, they instinctively obey the teachings of
Him, the Master, who “came not to be ministered unto, but to minister”;
for they follow in His footsteps by upward leading and by thus greatly
and divinely serving mankind.

In a general way, I may say of poets that there are two classes:--the
introspective, or those whose souls, ever standing in the presence of
the Divinity within them, hear the calls of other souls and the mighty
voice of God; and hearing, obey;--the extrospective, or those whose
souls, not less divine, but less conscious, perhaps, of that Divinity,
unconsciously perceive the manifold relations in external nature, and
through the universal spirit of nature none the less distinctly hear
that same Almighty Voice. We shall hardly find a poet in whom one
of these characteristics exists to the exclusion of the other; but
we shall find that in many cases one characteristic or the other is
dominant. For example, Browning is one of our best representatives
of the introspective, and Wordsworth of the extrospective; while
Shakespeare is the highest type of the perfect union of the two. Both
classes obey the same voice, and though ministering through different
sources, have the same mission to perform, the uplifting and purifying
of the human soul.

Indeed, whatever does not have this mission is not true poetry. It is
often said that that literature is best which has stood the test of
time. Not so, if by that is meant simply that the literature shall
have lived long; for both good and bad live. The true test is that it
betters man’s estate, and ennobles his heart. If a poem inspires the
heart with nobler feelings and greater love, then it is a good poem.
This is the crucial, the only true test.

There is no act of the human mind that is not controlled by the
feelings. When this is comprehended and when, at the same time, it
is perceived to what an extent poetry ministers to the feelings, the
utility of poetry will be better appreciated. Poetry thus ministering
to the controlling forces of life, is a guide and corrective of life;
a guide in that it is “a representation of life” (as Alfred Austin has
it), the experiences of the hearts of men; a corrective in that it is
“a criticism of life” (as Matthew Arnold says), an idealization that,
by uplifting, corrects the heart that else would droop. Austin thinks
his idea opposes Arnold’s. It does not. Each simply looks at one side;
each takes a different angle. Both are correct so far as they go. For
poetry is the heart’s history. It is also the ever present attempt, in
the light of that guiding lamp, to the making of a better history.

This, indeed, makes it philosophy. For what else does philosophy do?
The poet is ever a philosopher. Is not poetry philosophy teaching by
experience? It does not teach by precept, it is not didactic; that
is the province of prose; but it mirrors the human heart and reveals
its experiences. Nine hundred ninety-nine people shape their lives
by experience where one shapes his by rule and thumb. One rose of
experience with its warning thorns has more of humanity and guidance
in it than all the tangle-woods of teaching. The hand must follow the
heart. If the heart be right the hand can never go wrong.

He who would be an immortal poet must have a great and sympathizing
heart; a heart that laughs and weeps, and most of all, a heart that
loves. Were I asked the one essential of the poet, that essential
which includes all minor requisites, I should answer, Love. “A Poet
without Love,” says Carlyle, “were a physical and a metaphysical
impossibility.” It is the dominating element of all great poets. What
poet is greater, or what one has loved more deeply than Burns?

Love often reveals itself in sorrow and in humor. Though the poet need
not be a humorist, must not be at all times, as the term is used, it
is nevertheless essential that he have a lively appreciation of the
ludicrous, lest he fall into grave errors of thought and expression.
But the humor must not be the all-pervading element of his poetry; it
should be simply a check, a guide, or sometimes a spur. A keen sense
of humor should be to him the lash that whips thought out of its
self-constituted morbid glooms, in which it appears ridiculous, into
a lively harmony with things as they really are to the hearts of men.
It were, indeed, a nice question to determine how far the grave or
the humorous should enter poetic composition to the exclusion of the
other. Certainly the most felicitous poetry is not all rain nor all
shine, but the iris of Ulloa struck out of the depths of tears by the
happy, hopeful shine of laughter.

But if the poet laugh, he must also love; for he laughs because he
loves. This is the divine law. The man who hates never laughs; he may
mock. Well may we ponder that. Indeed, tears and laughter, sometimes
blended, are but forms of love. If laughter is music, certainly love,
that divine gift in the human heart, love of the good, the beautiful,
and the true, love of home, of country, of mankind, of God, or of
a beautiful image of God, the one who is the heart’s ideal, divine
immortal love, is perfect harmony. If the poet’s theme is of the good,
the beautiful, and the true, so must his love be. If these dwell not in
his heart, he shall search the world and the ages through and not find
them; and if love dwell not there with them, his themes shall never
touch our hearts.

But the poet, to be appreciated, is not the only one that must possess
these qualities. It is the beauty and the love in the soul of him who
is touched by the statue, the painting, the melody, the poem, that
makes it beautiful to him. It is thus that we help the poet make the
poem. Love makes poets of us all.

With our hearts thus tuned to the touch of the Maker’s hand, we may
often hold sweet communion with our poet-friends whose love still
reaches out to us through the mists of ages and beckons us to the
Valhalla of the happy. We may stand alone in the stern, inquisitorial
presence of self under the eye of Almighty God, and think thoughts our
tongues can never tell.

Strolling arm in arm with good Dan Chaucer as

    “... fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright
    That all the orient laugheth of the light,”

we may meet and join company with immortal Shakespeare, where

    “... the morn, in russet mantle clad,
    Walks o’er the dew of yond high eastern hill”;

and then with them both we may pass down the slope to the sea-shore
where we clasp hands with Laureate Tennyson and, as we listen to the
_break, break, break_ upon the sands, say in our hearts with him,

    “And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.”

With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and rise to the greatest
heights, and stand with him at last in a Paradise regained. With Dryden
we may shout from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song to
the battling brave below,

    “If the world be worth thy winning,
    Think, oh think it worth enjoying”;

and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled valleys of the soul
of Gray,

    “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest good of which we
are capable, we may often question,

    “What, my soul, was thy errand here?”

Listening to the Preacher Kingsley, we may learn to

      “Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
    And so, make life and death and that vast forever
      One grand, sweet song.”

In our sadder moods we may, with Cowper, look across the dark,
Cimmerian tide and recall the face and the kiss and the touch of a
mother gone. In our gayer hours, with Burns we may gather sweet field
flowers and garland them in love; and, whether in field or shop or
kirk, learn somewhat

    “To see oursels as others see us.”

With Wordsworth, receiving those faint intimations of immortality from
recollections of early childhood, we may realize

    “That there has passed away a glory from the earth.”

With Lowell we may feel that

    “Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
    We Sinais climb and know it not.”

If in the pursuit of life we shall have been drawn onwards by that
divine link called conscience; if we shall have heeded the advice to
the Divinity within us,

    “... To thine own self be true;
    And it must follow as the night the day
    Thou canst not then be false to any man”;

if within us daily we shall have said with dear old Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes,

    “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
        As the swift seasons roll!
        Leave thy low-vaulted past!
    Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
    Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
        Till thou at length art free,
    Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea”;

if we shall have done all this, I say, and followed God: then, when at
last with white-haired Bryant each of us

    “lies down to pleasant dreams,”

the Sun shall go down with a golden halo of glory; Beauty, eternal
Beauty, wedded to immortal Love, shall reign forever in the heart;

    “And the night shall be filled with music;
      And the cares that infest the day
    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
      And as silently steal away.”




                               USELESS?


    Flowers are poetry; poetry, flowers:
      Each is a clod of earth in bloom.
      Useful? Aye, to the heart!--to illume
    The rain-drop drip from the wing of the hours.

    Both are the love of the great dear God
      Set in the sod of the new child-earth,
      Set in the heart at the earth-child’s birth,
    Soul of the clay, and bloom of the clod.

    Flowers and poetry--blossoms of Love
      Sweetest and purest the heart can know,
      Breathing their perfumes up from below,
    Lifting us back to the God above.




                               A MORTAL.


    Do the goddesses, I wonder,
      Ever come to mortal earth,
    Ever throw a wild enchantment
      Round the heart of mortal birth?

    Does the goddess Venus wander
      Ever from her realms above,
    Liveried in the rarest raiment
      Stolen from the courts of Love?

    Are _her_ eyes of witching azure,
      Curtained o’er with rosy light;
    And a golden sunset halo
      Round a smiling brow of white?

    Oh I wonder if the roses
      Ever blush upon _her_ cheeks
    When the scented kiss of morning
      For the rarest flower seeks.

    Ah, ye purest gems of ocean,
      Set in ruby rays serene,
    Does your light fall down in worship
      When those pearl-dight lips are seen?

    Aye, I wonder if the heavens
      And the flowers of the earth,
    As they smile upon each other,
      Have the hundredth of her worth?

    Do the ripples of the zephyr,
      Or the waves to music wed
    Have the poetry of motion
      That attends her airy tread?

    Do the Orphic orbs of æther,
      With a lyric hand divine,
    Draw the wandering planets round them
      As her words this heart of mine?

    Surely, surely not a goddess,
      ’Tis a mortal I have seen;
    Never goddess wore such features,
      Never goddess such of mien.

    She’s the rarest of the fairest,
      She’s the light of every eye;
    She’s the smile of earth and ocean
      And the glory of the sky.

    Hers the lid with golden lashes
      Raised above the Morning’s eye;
    Hers the smile of wave and flower
      Caught from out the blushing sky.

    Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset,
      And her eyes the stars of night;
    Opening dawn, her lips half parted,
      Laced with gleams of iv’ry light.

    Lydian music in her being
      An enchanted spirit dwells,
    Caught from out the hands of angels,
      Hands that swing the hallowed bells.

    Love--the purest love of heaven--
      Had its birth upon her lips;--
    E’en the flowers toss her kisses
      From their tiny finger-tips.

    Oh the winds enfold the mountains
      And the seas draw down the stars;
    Still they sigh and murmur ever,
      “Never love so pure as hers.”

    And the notes forever rising
      To the planetary seas
    Echo back in spheric music,
      “Never mortals loved as these.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    Heart to heart I clasped my Darling,
      Drew her down from angel hands,
    With my head in God’s own presence,
      And my feet upon the sands.--

    Drew her to me from the angels,
      As the silent summer night
    Sweetest scent of all the roses
      To its loving bosom might.

    Day by day her sister angels
      Sing to me her rarest worth;
    For she’s drawing me toward heaven
      As I drew her down to earth.




                             TO MORPHEUS.


              Like the star
              That afar
      Throws its silver-wrought beams
      As it peacefully dreams
      On the cradle-swung crest
    Of the billows of blue,
            Oh on thy breast
            So let me rest,
              Oh rest,
                Rest,
    Till the kiss of the morning dew.




                 A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS.


    Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see,--
      The vocal air, the blooming clod;
    But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me,
      So farther earth, so nearer God.




                            TO THEE ABOVE.


    Up from the gray of earth,
      Over the hills of blue,
    Out in the purpling west,
      I come, my love, to you.

    Oh not in the busy marts
      Nor yet in the crowded throng;
    No, not ’neath the parlor lights
      Does my heart forget its song.

    But bound by the fetters there,
      I cannot choose but stay;
    Like a restive steed bound fast,
      I fret the hours away.

    ’Tis only when alone
      I find my soul at rest;
    ’Tis then I rise to thee
      Amid the purpling west.

    And sitting thus this eve
      Atop my house’s tower,
    I send my soul in love
      To dwell with thee this hour.

    Oh ever thus I stand,
      A crag ’mid noisy crowds,--
    My feet upon the sands,
      My head amid the clouds.

    My heart to all is cold
      Save but to thee, Sweet Heart!
    For Death my requiem tolled
      When thou and I didst part.

    I know nor rest nor peace,
      I find nor life nor love
    Save but the silent hour
      I fly to thee above.




                                CHORUS.

              (By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads.)


    Tripping away,
    Blithesome and gay,
      Light as the ether above,
    Breathing our words
    Sweet as the birds,
      Sing we the power of love.

    Love in its power
    Bindeth the flower
      Unto the common clod,
    Lifting the low
    Out of its woe
      Up to the bosom of God.

    Love in its might
    Bindeth the light
      Unto the shadow of day,
    Flushing the clouds
    Whitened like shrouds
      Red with the last dying ray.

    Love in its dream
    Bindeth the stream
      Unto the channels of earth,
    Lifting the trees
    Kissed by the breeze
      Into a purer birth.

    Heart unto heart
    Never to part
      Joining the gentle and strong,
    Love’s dreaming lyre
    Lifts ever higher
      Finding responsive a song.

    Every one,
    Happy or lone,
      Deep in the hills of the soul
    Sometime shall find
    Horn that shall wind
      Echoes that endless shall roll.




                              THE LURLEI.


    Only a moment! The Lurlei staid
      Only a moment with me:
    “Only a moment! I’ll sell,” I said,
      “Only a moment to thee.”

    Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay
      Only a moment of time,
    Selling the flowers of the valley gray,
      Buying the mountain-top’s rime.

    Only a moment! The Lurlei smiled;
      “Sell me thy birth-right,” she saith.
    Oh, and I sold it, innocent child,
      Buying the pottage of death!

    “’Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear.”
      She layeth her hand on my head.
    I cannot choose but heed as I hear;
      She giveth me lust in its stead.

    “Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time,
      I shall reward thee right well.”
    She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb,
      She hath me under her spell.

    “Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health,
      Fair is thy long brown hair;
    Here I give premature age for thy wealth,
      Here the pure snows thou must wear.”

    “Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth.”
      She holdeth my will at command;
    She bendeth my form in age without ruth,
      Placeth a staff in my hand.

    “Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years;
      I kiss thee a withering curse:
    Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of tears,
      Tears of eternal remorse.”

    “Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone,
      Something to quiet my soul.”
    Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone,
      Clouds of remorse from me roll.

    “Purity hath not a place in the heart
      Reft of all conscience,” Lurlei:
    Legions of Pleasures around me upstart,
      Licentiousness pointing the way.

    “Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:”
      She placeth a curse in mine eye;
    “Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end:”
      She speareth my soul with the lie.

    “The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:”
      Night, sable-robed, _doth_ upstart;
    “Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:”
      Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart.

    Only a moment I bartered with her,
      Only a moment of time,
    Selling the good, the true, and the pure,
      Buying the glitter of crime!

    I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure,
      That moment _has_ lengthened to years:
    I sold her my soul for bliss without measure,
      I bought all Eternity’s tears!


                              _L’Envoy._

    The Lurlei sits on the mountain’s top,
      Combing her golden hair;
    Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop
      Who pass down the river there.




                        TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS.


    We are having atrocious _tough wether_,
      (To hear the _sheep-tenders_ tell it)
    But they are responsible for it
      If that is the way they spell it.




                             TO MISS ----.


    Upon that radiant brow of thine
    May love and truth forever shine,
    Like stars that light the welkin dome
    And tint the billowy ocean’s foam.

    Upon life’s desert, wild and broad,
    Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road
    Which leads us on to heaven above
    Where all is joy and peace and love.

    Around thy soul so pure and white
    May Heaven shed celestial light,
    Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er,
    And waft thee to its golden shore.

   [Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper
   that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my
   table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of
   the willows.]




                    SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP.

                              A KYRIELLE.


    Dear, your heart is tired to-night,
      And the waning watches creep;
    All too soon the morn will come,--
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    While the stars in heaven dream
      And the angels vigils keep,
    Lay your head upon my arm,
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    Yes, I know that fevered care
      Trembles on your troubled lip;
    Dreams of love will heal the heart,--
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    Let your heart forget to pain,
      And your eyes forget to weep;
    Dream of home, and hope, and love,
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    Heavy drags the wounded hour
      Over Sorrow’s restless deep,
    Heaving up the tide of tears,--
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    Oh the heaving, stifling sigh
      Through the night its pain will keep
    For the pillow waking prest,--
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    With a touch like woman’s own,
      Touch of Love’s own finger-tip,
    I will smooth your throbbing brow,--
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

    Gently I will soothe your heart
      And still your restless pulse’s leap;
    Lay your head upon my arm,
      Shut your eyes and go to sleep.




                               BROWNING.

                       (BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)


    Browning may be a right smart of a poet,
          Some thinks him so;
    But if he is he’s not anxious to show it,
          ’R else _I_ don’t _know_.

    Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em
          With lots of soul;
    Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em
          Jist fill you full.

    I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles
          His honey in straw,
    An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles
          In styles all raw.

    Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”:
          The sum an’ gross;
    Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,--Stop frownin’!
          Take ’nother dose!

    My advice, you say?--Let Browning go pipin’
          In an ivy leaf;
    Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’,
          This life’s too brief.




                               MADRIGAL.


    Darling, here within this lyric,
      Free from other mortal sight,
    Free from aught but dearest day-dreams,
      Hidden in the song I write,
    Sits a happy, happy lover
      In a heaven of the bliss
    Born, in Love’s deep-breathing silence,
      Of the rapturous sweet kiss.
    Silently he clasps his radiant
      Blooming bride with loving arms,
        Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums
    (Rung by Cupid and the angels)
      Of sweet Passion’s inward storms
    As her arms, so soft, climb upwards
      And entwine themselves enwrapt,
    Round about his neck in rarest
      Angel-love e’er being kept.
    --Darling, if you know the dear girl
      That I think thus ever on,
    I can hope you’ll find this poem
      Ever shrines you as my own.




                          WORDS AND THOUGHTS.


        Words are vases
          Shaped to thought
        Culled in places
          Blossom-fraught;

        Thoughts are laces
          Finely wrought
        From the graces
          Bloom has caught:--

          In sherds
          Our words
    We break as we do vases;
          In shreds
          The threads
    Of thought we tear as laces.




                              REX FUGIT.


    “_Rex fugit_,--The king flees.”--Thus read
      A dignified, tall Latin student.
      “Try ‘has,’” the usually prudent
            Professor said.

    He rose with confidence and ease;
      But the whole class roared with laughter
      When he read a moment after,
            “_The king has fleas_.”




                        THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.


    The last sad rites of death performed,
      The sickle lies upon the grave;
    The sickle made of blooming flowers
      That the ruthless reaper clave.

    Withered lie the flowers gathered,
      Rusts the sickle on the ground;
    Dead the blossoms now decaying,--
      And the form within the mound!

    Oh the flowers of the sickle
      And the blooms upon its blade
    Are decaying daily, daily--
      Sweetest flowers soonest fade!

    Oh the sickle is death’s emblem
      And the flowers on it, rust!--
    Emblem of the end of mortals,
      Earth to earth, and dust to dust!

   [Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old
   envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a
   sickle of flowers.]




                    THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND.


    Happiness is the realization of longings,--
      Of hope and fond desire,--
    That enter the heart like angel-throngings
      Bearing celestial fire.

    Like the peace that follows a benediction
      Is the painless rest it gives,
    Lething forever the heart’s affliction
      In the endless joy it leaves.

    ’Tis the acme of life and the end of living,
      This touch of an angel’s hand,
    And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving
      Of the Priest of the Better Land.




                          LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY.

                             AN ALLEGORY.


    How builds this budding flower, my child?
      “It lies all wrapped in icy snows
    Until the Suns of Spring have smiled
      And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.”

           *       *       *       *       *

        How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree?
          “Year by year it adds a round
        And reaches up by slow degree,
          Keeping firm foot on the ground.”

        The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine?
          “By the tree’s support it lifts its head
        And round the tree its arms doth twine;
          Thus the two in love are wed.”

        The two, aged sire and dame, how they?
          “The tree protects the tender vine,
        The vine in turn binds firm the tree:
          The two are one in shade and shine.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    What of the plant, O man, the plant?
      “Adream in life’s fair sleep it lies
    Until the Autumn Suns aslant
      Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies!”




                            JUST AS USUAL.


    The sun rose bright at morn,
      The sun sank sad at night;
    The moon’s faint golden horn
      Waxed fair with mellow light.

    All night around the fold
      The polar bears kept prowl;
    Their shining eyes gleamed cold
      And danced to the wind’s mad howl.

    Clear blew the shepherd’s horn,
      Fair flushed the eastern main;
    The bears slunk back: ’twas morn,
      The sun arose again!

    Sweet Love rose bright at Morn,
      Sad Love went down at Night;
    Fair Hope’s faint golden horn
      Waxed sweet with mellow light.

    All night around my mind
      My jealous fears kept prowl;
    Cold blew the willing wind
      That chilled my very soul.

    Clear wound Dan Cupid’s horn,
      As sweet as rapture’s pain;
    My fears slunk back: ’twas morn,
      And Love arose again!




                            A DEPLORATION.

         We do often think ourselves not worth.--_Anonymous._


    Cold is the night, and my heart is cold,
    Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old;
          Chill like the hill
            At the mountain’s foot,
          Still as the rill
            That lies frozen and mute.

    White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow,
    Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below:
          So seems the snow
            That my heart doth enfold,
          Tho’ down below
            Lie the rocks and the mould.

    Deep in the hill neath the binding cold
    Never yet found may be veins of gold.
          And of the sand
            And the quartz in my heart
          Hand has not panned,
            Maybe gold is a part.

    Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream
    Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream;
          So neath the floe
            Of my heart’s frozen stream
          Slowly I know
            Drifts the gold of love’s dream.




                           I LOVE YOU, KATE.


    Dreaming rapturously,
        Dearest Kate,
        Full elate
    I seek your side to-night.
    Long, weary hours I wait
        Each day,
        Each day,
    To see the glorious light
        Of your face,--
    To me, earth’s rarest boon,
        That makes my night
        A summer’s day,
        The summer’s day
    A bright and vernal noon,
    The noon eternity.
    Oh, sitting beauteously
    Upon Love’s throne aboon
        With sceptered sway
        O’er all my way,
        Still of my night
    Make one eternal sun
        To shine thro’ space
    With life and love and light
        For aye
        And aye;
    Nor longer bid me wait,
    But say me “yes” to-night;
        Because, by fate
        I love you, Kate!--
    Oh will you marry me!

   [In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from
   last, and so on.]




                         THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE.

                    (_That is, practically dead._)


    Day after day have I secretly prayed
      From the morn thro’ noon till night
    That my life might discover some port in the west
      Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light.

    Eve after eve as the sun has gone down,
      With my eyes still turned to the west
    I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound
      For even its restful unrest.

    Night after night in my bed full awake
      I have dreamed myself weeping alone
    In a silence as deep as the stars of the night
      O’er a corse that I knew was my own.

    Morn after morn have I risen from bed
      With the fear and the hope of its truth,
    Only to find that the death of the Dead
      Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.




                            PITY THE POOR.


    I pity the poor for I myself am poor,
      Though I wear starched cuffs and collars;
    But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more,
      For they’ve neither _sense_ nor dollars.

    I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch
      With a wealth of only money;
    The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech
      Smacks only of bumble-bee honey.

    I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart
      As they joust thro’ the world with each other;
    But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart
      With no love for a human brother.




                          LIFE’S LOST SKIFF.

                       WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.


                              _Prelude._

        Green as emerald is Michigan;
                And the waves,
        Like ghosts from hungry graves,
    Are tossing up my infant boat amain,
                And kissing wild
        The orphan ocean-child,
                The rarest that has ever been,
                The fairest that was ever seen.


                              _Morning._

    Up drives the great red sun aslant,
      The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly;
    A score of sails the sun’s rays paint
      Upon the burning western sky.


                                _Noon._

    How silently and slow they steer!
      Are the waves as wild out there the day,
    And do the ships careen and veer
      As she that drives so fast away?


                               _Night._

    Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep,
      The sun creeps up the glooming tower;
    The sea-birds scream in winged sleep,
      The ghostly billows wail the hour!


                               _Finale._

        Green as emerald is Michigan;
                And the waves,
        Like ghosts in yawning graves,
    Are tossing o’er my infant boat again,
                Embracing wild
        The orphan ocean-child,
                The rarest that has ever been,
                The fairest that was ever seen!




                          A CLOSE ATTACHMENT.

                     STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.


    I have swept the airy heavens,
      I have skimmed the rivers o’er;
    I have slept upon the cloud-wing,
      I have entered heaven’s door.
    But in my peregrinations
      Thro’ this world of ups and downs,
    None have loved and none have sought me,
      None have offered aught but frowns.

    I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop
      On its heaven-mission sent;
    I have danced upon the rainbow
      Where its colors fairest blent.
    I have laughed and skipped and frolicked,
      I have hummed my sweetest songs;
    But I’ve never found the attachment
      That I think to me belongs.

    Ah, the world’s appreciation
      Of my endless wealth and worth
    Is a desiccated desert,
      Is a sterile, arid dearth!
    I’m the fairest of my fellows,
      And the most affectionate;
    Hence the world’s indifference to me
      On my mighty soul doth grate.

    I have kissed the blushing maiden,
      I have lullabied to babies;
    I have feasted on the features
      Of a million lords and ladies.
    ’Tis the lover’s same old story--
      Disappointment everywhere!
    None have loved--except to hate me,
      None have hated--save to spare!

    Now at length my weary pinions,
      Out of reach of mortal kind,
    Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets,
      And their first attachment find,
    And I cannot choose but stay here
      Where I’ll always stay to hum,
    For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,--
      I am stuck on chewing gum!

    I am sleepy now, and happy,
      Let profane hands not disturb;
    Let none mar my wildest dreamings,
      Nor ecstatic tumblings curb.
    Since ’twas not in life permitted
      That his blood I s-i-p,
    May mankind write:

    +--------------+
    | AMOS QUITO!  |
    | LET HIM EVER |
    |   R.-I.-P.   |
    +--------------+




                             THE DEMONIAC.


    Great God! and must I, must I live,
      And can I never die,
    I whom the press of sorrow’s hand
      Hurled headlong from the sky?

    How long, O Lord, must I thus wait,
      How long in blasting blight,
    Each idle day imploring death,
      And dreaming death each night?

    Each hour I fill some heart with woe,
      And blast some heart with mine!
    To me ’tis living death to know
      My heart stills poisoned wine!

    Ten million, million deaths I live
      Each wasting, poisoned hour;
    For, whom I love my presence damns--
      I blight each blooming flower.

    Oh that the grinning skeleton
      This faithless flesh doth hold
    Might lay its lying mantle off
      To dream on downs of mould!

    The leaf must fade, the sun must set,
      The sweetest day must die;
    But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,--
      And so, and so must I!

    Oh days to me are lengthened years,
      The years like ages creep;
    I’ve tossed ten million centuries
      On life’s unfathomed deep!

    I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot
      In slime upon that sea,
    And slimy things find birth therein
      To live in death, like me.

    I find no peace, I know no rest,
      My very self I fly;--
    Unfit to love, unfit to live,
      And far less fit to die!




                          THE WEATHER FIEND.


          Of the weather
          Ask us whether
    We enjoy it thus and thus;
          If it suits us,
          What it boots us,
    If it matters much to us.

          When it’s raining,
          Come complaining
    That “it’s muddy out today.”
          It will please us
          And will ease us
    Of the thing we’d like to say.

          When a blizzard
          Like a lizard
    Wriggles up and down your spine,
          Don’t be fool-like,
          Just keep cool, like
    All green “pickles” on the vine.

          If it’s cold out,
          Don’t be sold out
    When you tell somebody so
          If he says he
          ’S melting as he
    Gently mops his frigid brow.

          If it’s snowing,
          With a knowing
    Wink within your “weather eye”
          It is sound to
          Say, “We’re bound to
    Have some sleighing by and by.”

          If we _shiver_
          When your clever
    Tongue remarks “_it’s hot as ’ile_,”
          It’s because of
          Those old _saws_ of
    Weather that you always _file_.

          We can stand it--
          Yes, demand it,
    That you be a weather bore,
          For we never
          Heard such clever
    _Originality_ before.




                              WHO KNOWS!


                Ah me!--
          O’er the wide
          Deep I glide
              Where flows
                  For me
    Either waters ’mid the plashes
      Of the lacing star-light lashes,
    Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes
      With their booming cannon-crashes--
              Who knows!
                  Ah me!

          In the wide
          River’s tide
              Still flows
                  For me
    Either waters bearing bubbles
      From the waves that pelt the pebbles,
    Or a muddy sea of troubles
      With its melancholy trebles--
              Who knows!
                  Ah me,
                      Ah me!




                            THE DEATH-HOWL.


    I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl,
    That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul.

    And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm,
    Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!--

    Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that
    Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat.

    But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong,
    For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song.

    --Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die
          to-night--
    And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light!

    Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity
    Where the light and song are leading--come! oh come and go with me!

    Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight!
    Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white!

    The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,--and I’m dying now
           to-night!--
    Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet
          good-night!




                         ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.


    Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,
      Awake, with others sleeping,
    How have I wrecked thy new-born life
      And set thy parent weeping!

    See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,
      Adrip with love for thee,
    And arms outstretched implore thy slayer
      That thou’lt returnéd be.

    Alas! in vain her tears must flow,
      Her palms implore the youth
    Who pluckéd thee from out her heart
      And set in his such ruth.

    I cannot give thee back--I would
      I might! I’d send thee thither;
    It grieveth me to see her weep,
      To know that thou shalt wither.

    My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,
      For thou not yet hadst won it,
    How much I took, how little gave--
      I would I had not done it.

    Lift up thy drooping head again--
      I would the word would do it!--
    Make me not weep for plucking thee;
      Thou know’st how much I rue it.

    Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,
      Thy open lily-lips,
    Thy olden-golden anthered stamens
      Thy saffron pistil-tips!--

    Would I could here embalm them all
      And wrap in verses meet
    So that thou’dst be, when years should roll,
      To others just as sweet!


                               _Envoy._

    ’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,
      The world shall greet thy song--
    Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul
      To die amidst the throng.

    And thus, O plucker of the crocus,
      Shall Death come unto thee--
    Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,
      Shall thy embalmer be.

    So may’st thou live and do and be
      That Death, with riches rife,
    Shall be thy welcome harbinger,--
      The crocus of thy life.




                            GRAVITY--LIFE!

                (After Browning--several miles after.)


            Gravity--what?
              Attraction we call it,
              Yet mind cannot thrall it--
            Where is it not?
    Life of world-stuff--truly it is!
    --Life then of man?--His, and not his!
    ’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;
    ’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.
    Matter, man! Gravity, life!
    --Each fits to each; with the other at strife.
          Life? It is--what?
            Who can explain it?
            Mind cannot chain it--
          God! how ’tis wrought!




                             DEATH--LIFE.


    Sadly o’er the moor I fare,
      Lonely, lonely all the day;
    Life nor leaf nor song is there;
      Barren, barren all the way.

    Sun and spring and hope are bright,
      Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;
    Life will wake with love and light,
      Joyous, joyous everywhere.




                          HOT?--WELL, RATHER!


    The sun come peekin’ crost the hills
      With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face
    That broadened to a grin from ear
      To ear,--a most perdigeous space!

    Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides
      An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might
    To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be
      Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.

    ’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore
      ’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found
    “Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”
      Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.

    At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet
      No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;
    All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”--
      “The hottest day I ever knew!”

    Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed
      Full two foot--ears pupo’tional;
    An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe
      Like when you shuck it in the fall.

    The steeples on the churches all
      Was drawed to more’n three times their height,
    An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire
      That melted off like wax ’fore night.

    The weather-boardin’ all warped off
      An’ shingles rolled in little tubes;
    Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,
      An’ water crystallized in cubes.

    The hoops of barrels tumbled off
      An’ wagon-tires follered suit;
    The forests growed so awful fast
      They all was pulled up by the root.

    Men melted in the harvest-field
      An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,
    A-sizzlin’ in a way that made
      Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!

    In one big city, folks all died
      But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off
    His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones
      (But it killed him;--caught cold, and died of a cough).

    I can’t begin to tell how hot
      It was--it can’t be even guessed.
    It’s still so all-infernal hot
      I can’t begin to try to rest.




                              A YEAR AGO.


                  A year ago
    I held the fondest hopes
      That ever touched the fondest heart,
      Nor dreamed that I should ever part
    From all that fancy opes,
                  A year ago.

                  A year ago!--
    Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!--
      A flower bloomed beneath my sill
      And by its soft, enchanting smell
    I lost all count of time
                  A year ago.

                  A year ago
    I slept a bed of peace
      Beneath the stars of summer skies
      While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes
    That this should never cease--
                  A year ago!

                  A year ago
    My morning-glory vine,
      Soft whispering with the wings of bees,
      Foretold that whisperings like these
    Should endlessly be mine--
                  A year ago!

                  A year ago
    The sun light-kissed the moon,
      Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,
      And mingled Life and Love and Song
    Rode near their highest noon--
                  A year ago.

                  A year ago!--
    Then, then each sister vine
      Upon a brother sweetly leaned:
      Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned
    When Love had made you mine
                  A year ago.

                  A year ago
    ’Twas Love from sun to sun:
      To-day I fold you to my heart
      And know that nought but death can part
    The love and life begun
                  A year ago.




                         THE SWEETEST OF ALL.


    There are tears of pity and tears of woe,
      And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;
    And tears for excess of joy must flow,
      But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.

    There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,
      And the sorrow that knows no recall;
    The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,
      But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.

    Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain
      And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall
    May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,
      But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.

    There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,
      The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;
    The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,
      But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.

    There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer
      And smiles that gladden wherever they fall;
    There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,
      But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.

    There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,
      The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;
    There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,
      But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.

    There are songs that sing in a minor key,
      And songs that the listening heart appall;
    There are songs that sing like the constant sea,
      But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.




                        THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.


    Sorrows live and pleasures dee,
      Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
    And I’ll wear the willow-tree,
      Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.

    For I loved a bonnie lass,
      Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
    Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!
      Willow-willow, whither did she go?

    Here upon this willow-tree,
      Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
    I will hang my harp, and dee,
      Willow-willow, will she ever know?

    On my heart I’ll place my hand
      Willy-willy-waly wailing so!
    On my head a green garland,
      Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!

    Then farewell, my bride and breath,
      Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!
    Still I love you, tho’ my death,
      Willow-willow wailing--will she know!

   [The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken
   love--which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same
   thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his
   harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter
   desperation--hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be
   revenged on his false sweetheart by making her _sorry_!--;
   also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the
   hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to
   die, somewhat _à la_ Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to
   do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s
   getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing
   many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers,
   is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of
   these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad
   style of his day.]




                                 BUZZ.


              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
      In my ear the sound is drumming,
      On my heart-chords ever strumming,
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

    Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
      Comes the sound from days of childhood
      Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
    Youth has planted in profusion.

    Thro’ the tangles wildly growing
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
      Crieth Hope, my lost companion,
      Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
    With the sap of manhood flowing.

              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
      Aged now I listen gladly
      To the echoes that so sadly
              “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”




                              WASHINGTON.

                               _22 Feb._


    Great Washington! Dear father of the land
      Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who
      Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe
    In war; admired of every nation and
    Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand
      Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’
      The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,
    Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!--
    For thee this day is made the nation’s day;
      For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,
        And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,
    Are all the emblems of our love for thee,
      To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,
        O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!




                        FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG.

                      CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.


    We think the thoughts our fathers thought,
      And sing the same old songs;
    We fight the battles they have fought,
      And right the same old wrongs.


                                CHORUS.

    Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,
      Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,
    O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,
      O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.

    We breath, the air our fathers breathed,
      Inspiring freedom still;
    Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,
      And strike with dauntless will.

                                       --_Chorus._

    Behold the same old sun above,
      The same old spangled dome
    Forever shining out in love
      On Freedom’s happy home.

                                       --_Chorus._

    We’ll guard the home our fathers won
      And fight the latest foe;
    We’ll stand by every loyal gun
      Where Freedom’s streamers flow.

                                       --_Chorus._

    Beneath the stripes of red and white
      And starry spangled blue,
    Protected by the God of Right
      We’ll fight the battle through.

                                       --_Chorus._

    We’ll bid defiance to the world
      And make the welkin ring,
    With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled
      And God above, our King.

                                       --_Chorus._




                   ’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.

           My grief lies all within.--_Shakspere, Rich. II._


    Tell me not that tears are sorrow,
      Tell me not that grief must flow
    Like sad drops of rain descending,
      Or like streams in valleys low.

    Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
      In the heart that’s dumb with grief
    There is eloquence, and mournful,
      That doth shame all tear-relief.

    From the heart of silent sorrow,
      Clouds of woe can never rise,
    And dissolve themselves with raining
      To congeal in weeping eyes.

    Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
      And the soul may burst with grief;
    Nought of weeping nor of moaning,
      Nought of tears can give relief.

    Deep among the soul’s great mountains,
      Silent as the night doth come,
    Clouds of grief may soft be raining,
      Shrouding every hill in gloom.

    Oh, along the channeled valleys,
      Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,
    Streams of grief may deep be flowing
      ’Mong the mountains of the soul.




                            HAL A-HUNTIN’.


    Onct we went a-huntin’,
      Pa ’n’ me, we did,
    ’N’ _I_ went ’long an’ tookt ol’
      Rover.--’N’ we did
    Have ist the mostest fun!--
    ’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.

    Rove ist _skeert_ the rabbits
      Outen the grass,
    ’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em
      When they runned pas’.
    My landy! how they run!
    Wushed _I’d_ a had a gun!

    Pa ist shooted at ’em,
      _Hard_, but couldn’t
    Kill ’em, ’cause when _he’d_ shoot,
      The _gun_--_w’y_--_wouldn’t_.
    ’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun
    A-huntin’ wif _sich_ a gun.

    My! but didn’t them rabbits
      Go a scootin’!--
    ’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-
      Skallyhootin’!
    ’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done”
    (When he comed home) “_wif his gun!_”

    ’N’en the hired man ist
      Laft an’ shook’n’
    When he’d skun ’em all, he
      Said, a-lookin’
    Solemn-like (in fun),
    “What a _dog-gone_ gun.”

    ’N’en when Ma she fried ’em
      ’N’ we was a-eatin’
    Of ’em up, Ma said ’at
      It was beatin’
    How that dog could run!--
    Guess he’s the goodest gun!

    ’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’
      He scowled at me
    _Awful_, ’n’ said, “You little
      Young rascal, see
    Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft
    To tell for?” ’N’en they laft!

    Wusht Pa’d take me wif him
      Huntin’ again;
    But he says ’at I’m too
      Awful green--
    Rabbits might eat me! I
    Guess not! Wonder why?




                         WRITE FROM THE HEART.


    Write from the heart straight outwards
      When divinely the feelings glow,
    Write for the soul’s satisfaction,
      And you’ll fashion the best outward show.

    Write as the June rose blossoms,
      Always straight from the inside out
    Slowly unfolding its petals
      From the ports of its Power’s redoubt.

    Then from the sweet breathing petals,
      That I swear seem almost human to me,
    Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals
      In the drunkenest ecstasy.

    So let your heart in your poem
      Breathe its song like a living rose,
    Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes
      As from soul unto soul it goes.

    Write from the heart straight outwards,
      Caring not for the glitter and show;--
    Write as the showers from heaven,
      Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.




                               WHITHER?


    Whither this Highway, Child?
    “To the Field of Flowers,--to the Flowers wild.”

    Whither this Highway, Youth?
    “Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”

    Whither this Highway, Man?
    “Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”

    Whither this Highway, Sire?
    “To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”

    Whither, oh whither, Tomb?--
    But voiceless it points to the azure dome.




                            OUR ALMA MATER.


    Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!
      Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way
      Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay
    And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest
    In strength’ning us would never let thee rest,
      E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!
      ’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity

    To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.
    And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,
      Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye
        In broader fields to live and grow, from west
    To east the lengthened shout is roll’d,
      “’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,
        To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”




                             FATHER TIME.


    I am the father of the river,
      Of the sea, and of the mountain;
    Of the sunlight that doth quiver
      In the rainbow of the fountain.

    I have raised up men and nations,
      I have builded homes and cities;
    I have given all their stations,
      Him who scorns and him who pities.

    I have forged the tears and sorrows
      Of a Russia, broken-hearted,
    Into chains of sad to-morrows
      That but death of kings has parted.

    I have woven joy and laughter,
      Fairest of life’s flowers,
    Into garlands that hereafter
      Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers.

    Oh the sorrows and the pleasures
      Of the world in faultless rhyme
    Blend the music of their measures
      With the step of Father Time.




                           THUS LIFE’S TALE.


                                  I.

    Away out yonder on the great horizon
              Sail, sail away;
    Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,
              Sail, sail, nor stay.


                                  II.

    Away in the westward where the sun is dipping
              Gold, gold from the sea,
    Gold of a glorious El Dorado--
              Sail, sail to-day.


                                 III.

    See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:
              Sail swift that way.
    Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,
              Sail, sail nor stay.


                                  IV.

    The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:
              See, see my sail!
    See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!--
              Thus, thus life’s tale!


                               _Finale._

    The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:
              Sailed, sailed away;
    Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,
              Mourned, mourned the clay.




                    PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT.

                 ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.


    Sitting Bull and the other Sioux
    Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux,
      And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!--
    Till one day they shot him thrioux
    And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,--
      Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!
                      --_Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux._




                       ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”


    Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;
      Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng
    Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain
                        Of moral song.

    Oh listen to the music of the river
      Along the channeled valleys of his soul
    As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever
                        Their FAREWELL roll:--

    “Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
      Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,
    And so make life, and death, and that vast forever
                        One grand, sweet song.”




                          THE TRANSFORMATION.

                       A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.


I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which
we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us
all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.

I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night,
with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting
through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a
lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds,
as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in
my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of
pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously
mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to
permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between
my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable
sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and
fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling
that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say,
surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned,
that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that
this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from
experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.

For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was
going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness,
I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and
the weird sound was not so easily solved.

I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been
dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the
dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like?
However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or
whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the
feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had
securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring.
Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the
second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was
this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked
out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed
with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among
the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses,
the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I
knew I could not possibly be asleep.

Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and
stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself
of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from
somewhere--everywhere, it seemed.

Suddenly--most wonderful to tell!--I saw the very faintest streak of
light creep up the farther wall of my room.

All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full
minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.

The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen,
moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention.
What could it be!--A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that
was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It
reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost
imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it
got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it
be!

I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you
should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would
do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So,
too, had I said many a time,--I would investigate whatever was strange,
doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your
feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a
thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I
did,--lie there fascinated.

Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and
instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was
that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that
mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time
clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when
I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand
seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some
supernatural power. It was something more than a light,--it was a film,
a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and
rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop
from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and
started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it
seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of
whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious
of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on
my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and
partly by this influence upon me.

I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried
“murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was
under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to
martial music of the dead.

I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest
inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by
which I was led.

When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then
for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power
over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to
it, but never at any time another just like it.

As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly
that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of
blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was
horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What
I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was
nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!--a supernatural
spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever
before or since seen.

As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and
forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions
imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so
very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first
look awkward.

Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat
smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread
of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its
appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of
spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were
only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present,
but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but
present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was
really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there
moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as
proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move;
as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless
controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each
other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their
shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every
motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each
spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his
thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.

What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed,
it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and
clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in
perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The
room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under
the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I
glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and--wonderful to
relate!--as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the
page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my
own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, _Happy
Days of Yore!_

Could it be possible?--was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read
and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style
of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been
in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could
there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were
to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a
galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could
make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God
alone knows!

Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the
other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by
the hand of my old chum, were the words, _Memories of the Past_. Here
was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly
have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that
of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.

_Happy Days of Yore_,--_Memories of the Past_. How was I to solve
the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended
meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why
this mysterious writing?

As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird
sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so
preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I
fell into this meditation.

It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing,
or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled
myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that--mystery
of mysteries!--the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music
came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his
golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in
illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.--

    Oh those happy days of yore
    Will come back to me no more!
    Ah no more, no more for aye!--
    They have fled with time away,
      And my heart is sad and lone
    As I dream forevermore,
      With a heaving sigh and groan,
    Of those happy days of yore.

Most wonderful!--wonderful not in the words so much, for they were
simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming
to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored
poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven
by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.

As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second
and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and
I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with
these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.--

    Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,
      Oh how dear those happy hours
    When I rambled through the forests
      ’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!
    Life lay smiling all before me,
      No regrets, no cares behind;
    All the earth seemed bright with beauty,
      Life was freedom unconfined.
    I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight
      Scattered wide its golden beams,
    Thinking not that I should ever
      Miss its light or prize its gleams.

Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the
similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more
remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s
action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one
really was present; the other existing in another place, and only
_psychologically_ present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that
follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I
have ever met--except one!--nor have I ever yet found sage or savant
able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as
they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and
finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh,
and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.

My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I
turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.--

    Oh those days of sweetest thought!
    Oh those days with rapture fraught!
    Had I known when but a child
    What great blessings round me smiled,
      With a wild, exulting leap
    I’d have struck on wisdom’s door;
      Piled up knowledge heap on heap
    In those happy days of yore.

Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral
inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters,
that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving
should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to
listen to the other richer and deeper melody.--

    Ah, those days are gone forever;
      Time has wafted them away;
    Happiness now seems a phantom
      Of a joyous yesterday.
    If I could but live them over,
      All those careless, happy hours,
    Start again in life’s fair morning
      O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,
    Not a moment would be wasted
      Chasing bubbles in the air--
    I would seek the pearls of knowledge,
      And the gems of wisdom wear.

Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties,
and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the
same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for
both wrote (I can’t help saying they _wrote_) as rapidly as slow music
goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider
had already begun the third stanza.--

    Could I live again those days
    That I spent in idle plays
    And could know of learning’s worth,
    I’d not waste my time in mirth;--
      I would climb the hill of fame
    And on wisdom’s wings would soar
      Till I caught the beacon flame
    In those happy days of yore.

I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had
completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet
of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed
that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was
accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even
to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as
they were completed. And now from the second I heard.--

    Had I known of wisdom’s power
      In those days with pleasure fraught,
    From the mines of truth and beauty
      Golden trophies I’d have brought.
    All the lore of bygone ages
      From my books I would have learned;
    O’er the bards I would have pondered
      Tho’ my lamp till morning burned;
    All the broad empire of Nature
      With its wealth of laws divine
    Should have shown to me the beauty
      Of Omnipotent design.

While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of
my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that
direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the
heart-felt words.--

    Oh, my heart grows weak and faint,
    And it sighs in sad complaint
    As it dreams its dreams of woe
    Of the silent long ago.
      And a pain is at my heart,
    Not alone for wisdom’s lore,
      For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart
    In those happy days of yore.

What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the
second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit
in these similar words.--

    I’d have read that revelation
      Traced by our Creator’s hand
    Over all our glorious planet,
      In the sky and sea and land.
    High and bright the lamp of knowledge
      Shone for all who’d seek its light;
    Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it
      In the glare of pleasures bright!
    Oft upon the dreary mountain
      Have my weary footsteps strayed:--
    But ’tis not for wisdom only
      That my vain regrets are made.

So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called
up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into
expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words.
Ah yes! to the first, listen!--

    _She_ was like a radiant rose
    That with sweetness overflows.
    Her bright eyes were darkest blue
    And her hair a golden hue.
      She was lovely as the day,
    And within her breast she bore
      Heart as light and bright and gay
    As those happy days of yore.

Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.--

    In those days of idle dreaming,
      Ere life’s toils I’d entered in,
    Fancy framed for me an image
      Of the one I’d woo and win.
    It was in an idle romance
      My ideal played a part;
    But that image, framed in fancy,
      Soon was graven on my heart,
    And I said, “That maiden only
      Of my ideal’s charms complete
    Shall have power to lead me captive
      And to bring me to her feet.”

Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart,
the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they
should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of
harmony?

Once more!--To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.--

    We were playmates, she and I,
    In that happy time gone by:
    Oft we’d walk the meadows over
    Hunting for the four-leaved clover
      As we’d seen the lovers do;
    We the woods would oft explore
      Where the fragrant flowers grew
    In those happy days of yore.

And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above
the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the
peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still
sad notes.--

    Time passed on and boyish fancies
      Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced;
    Gay companions were around me,--
      Every pleasure we embraced.
    And among those friends and schoolmates,
      There was one surpassing fair:
    Light her heart and light her footstep,
      Blue her eyes and gold her hair.
    Then her pure and gentle spirit
      Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.--
    Ah, such divine gifts of beauty
      Seldom are to mortals given.

The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How
much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too
much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of
anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully--thus
psychologically though not supernaturally--revealed to me in beauty by
ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the
other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and
music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into
characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the
illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no
one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should
present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him,
as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is.

Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first
had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the
other.--

    Oft when twilight slowly crept
    Over hill and vale that slept,
    We would wander side by side
    In the golden eventide
      By the school-house on the hill
    Where so oft we’d been before,
      Or beside the water-mill
    In those happy days of yore.

    Oh those days,--sweet, happy days!
    Ever round my mind there plays
    Fitful Fancy’s dear delight,
    Bringing back the time so bright
      When we wandered hand in hand
    To the little country store,
      And the mystic future planned
    In those happy days of yore.

    New years came as old ones went;
    Childhood’s years at last were spent;
    We from friends to lovers grew
    And nor pain nor sorrow knew.
      Oh how fondly did I dream
    Folding close my fond Lenore
      As we sailed adown life’s stream
    In those happy days of yore!

Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the
top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read
and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this
master-melody:--

    When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam
      Shedding gladness o’er the lea;
    When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing
      Of enchanting melody.
    Oft when daily tasks were over,
      She and I together strolled
    From the hamlet to the seaside
      Where the restless billows rolled.
    Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering
      Treasures from the shifting sand
    As each ebbing tide receding
      Left its wonders on the strand.

    Long we’d watch the stately vessels
      Riding proudly o’er the foam,
    Some for distant countries steering,
      Some returning--bound for home.
    Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor
      Where our little sail-boat lay,
    And while skimming o’er the waters
      Laugh and sing the hours away.
    Then at twilight, when all nature
      Save the sea was hushed and still,
    We would turn our footsteps homeward
      To the hamlet on the hill.

So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but
listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page;
for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken.

    And that image framed in boyhood
      Of the one I’d woo and win,
    Ah, my ideal!--I had found her
      In my darling Evylyn.
    But the dim, uncertain future!--
      Oh that we could raise the veil
    And by gazing down the valley
      Know what fortune would prevail;
    Whether joy or blinding sorrow,
      Gladness or unending woe,
    Should forever be our portion
      While we linger here below.

    Two short summers I had known her,
      Years that seemed like one bright day;
    But at last the spell was broken,
      And my gladness fled away:
    Duty called me from that hamlet
      Where youth’s happy days were spent
    Out into the great, free, wide world,
      And with brightest hopes I went.
    Ah, that parting by the seaside
      One bright evening in the spring
    By the dear old friendly ocean--
      There I gave the engagement ring.

Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music,
and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first
harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the
billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of
the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.--

    In the bright and merry spring,
    Then I gave the engagement ring;
    And in sweet and holy bliss
    Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss.
      Heart and hope and thought were one
    As we walked as heretofore
      Where the brooklet used to run
    In those happy days of yore.

    But the future none can tell
    And, or weal or woe, ’tis well;
    For, if it were otherwise,
    When the mystic veil should rise
      And reveal what is to come,
    Happiness would be no more;--
      Hearts would call to hearts but dumb
    In those happy days of yore.

    Could we gaze on life’s emprise,
    Frozen tears would dim our eyes;
    Rippling laughs on lips would freeze
    As the future’s death-cold breeze
      Chilled the life of loving hearts;
    Happy days would come no more,
      And we’d sigh with fitful starts
    For those happy days of yore.

Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout
the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and
beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But
only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony
to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more
delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.--

    In a distant western city
      Far away from that loved spot,
    I began the strife in earnest,
      Not complaining of my lot;
    For in two years from our parting
      I’d return and claim my own.
    So I worked and dreamed and waited,
      Cheered by that one thought alone.
    Fortune smiled on my endeavors,
      And each week a message brought
    From that one beside the seashore
      Who was ever in my thought.

    But at last the darkness gathered,--
      Clouds as dark as Ethiop’s land.
    One dark day there came a letter
      Written by a stranger’s hand.
    Evylyn, it said, was drooping,
      Drooping, fading very fast;
    Though she would admit no danger,
      Her short life would soon be past.
    Many months, the message stated,
      She had faded day by day;
    Yet to me each cherished letter
      Had been cheerful, bright, and gay.

I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders--or poets and
musicians, rather, in spider form--that I pitied them deeply,
and--shall I say?--loved them. The first melodist continued more
mournfully, and to slower, sad, and muffled music.--

    All the spring and summer long
    Did I list the seraph-song.
    But when autumn came around
    With a sighing, mournful sound,
      My sweet blossom faded fast;
    And my radiant, fond Lenore
      Yielded to the chilling blast
    In those autumn days of yore!

    As the flowers fade and die
    ’Neath the cold and cloudless sky,
    So my Darling drooped and died!
    And my dear intended bride
      With a long and last farewell
    Crossed the silent waters o’er
      While we tolled her funeral knell
    In those parting days of yore!

    In the deepest dearth of night
    When the starry dome was bright,
    Came the angels round her bed;
    And they numbered with the dead
      My angelic, radiant Love
    Whom the seraphs named Lenore,
      Wafting here away above,--
    Saddest, saddest days of yore!

I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness
of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget
the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed
my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the
afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the
threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue
dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.--

    With an aching heart I started
      For her home beside the sea,
    Once again to see my Darling
      Ere Death snatched his prize from me.
    But a cruel fate hung o’er me;
      Ere I reached that eastern home,
    Her angelic soul was wafted
      Far beyond the starlit dome.
    Through the distant shining portals,
      Breathing of eternal love,
    Passed my Evylyn, my treasure,
      To the brighter world above.

Surely, surely, I thought, these breathers of harmony cannot be ugly
spiders. They are too human--or shall I say too divine?--for that. I
had been so absorbed in the two songs that, strange perhaps to say,
though I think not, I had scarcely noticed the spiders themselves nor
their illuminated web-woven words. I felt now that the songs were
nearly ended; and through tear-dimmed eyes, I looked once more at the
page on my desk. How strangely brighter the light seemed to be, yet so
softer!

Could it be possible! Wasn’t this, after all, some dream?--I dashed the
tears from my eyes with my left hand.--No, I was wide awake. No doubt
about that. There, too, that light from the words was even brighter
than when it was seen through my tears.

Surely, surely, these were not spiders; but spirits, rather, in this
disguise. As this thought flew through my brain, I removed the fifth
finished page of manuscript, when lo! I almost screamed for mercy that
no more revelations be made to me. For the spider glided to the top of
the new page, and as he did so, I saw and marveled how much smaller
he had grown, as if he had spun his whole body away in his glowing
web. But still stranger transformation: All about him, like a spirit
embodying the body, was a dim halo of light, such as a star often forms
of the mists, that doubtless had been forming from the first although
I had not noticed it, having been too absorbed in the songs themselves.

As I looked steadily, transfixed by this new revelation, I saw that
haloing light, as true as I live, shape itself in a half human form;
and like a light-enhaloed star moving across the scroll of the Almighty
in spheric music set to angel words, this transformed being of light
trembled across the page before me and trailed these gold-enlighted
words through the solemn rhythm of the olden melody.--

    By the babbling little brook,
    In a quiet, shaded nook,
    Sleeps my loved and lost one now.
    Over pallid lip and brow
      Grow the scented flowers wild
    Bright as when I wandered o’er
      This same spot when but a child
    In those happy days of yore.

    Many years have come and gone
    Since that face I’ve looked upon;
    Many weary paths I’ve trod
    Since we laid her ’neath the sod.
      Still I wander, sad and lone;
    Still my heart is grieved and sore,
      For she sleeps beneath the stone
    Since those happy days of yore.

Thoughts of the dead always affect me beyond expression. The thought
of the death of this darling girl, glorious in her own true heart, I
can but feel, and glorified even more by the unfailing constancy and
eternal love of him who, grown old and gray, still keeps her ever in
his heart, so affected me that my own heart seemed almost broken.
I could endure no more, and turned away. But as I did so,--O sweet
angels of mercy! was there no escape?--there the other heaven-gifted
musician, spirit-embodied, halo-enshrouded like the first, met my eyes,
and I was forced against my will to listen to the most plaintive, most
pathetic melody that had yet grieved my heart.--

    In a grave down by the seashore,
      She was laid by loving hands
    Where old ocean sings a requiem
      Evermore upon the sands.
    There the summer tide is flowing
      As I stand upon the shore,
    And it calls up sacred mem’ries
      Of the happy times of yore.
    Fragments of a wreck are drifting
      On the surface of a wave--
    Emblem of my hopes and prospects,
      Wrecked, and lying in her grave.

    Many weary years have vanished,
      Years of wand’ring, sad and lone,
    Since that pure angelic spirit
      Joined the seraphs round the throne.
    O’er her grave beside the ocean,
      Lovingly the stars still shine,
    While the tide’s wild song of gladness
      Seems to bear her voice divine.
    Oft in dreams I see my lost one,
      Hear her voice as soft and low
    As a strain of far-off music;--
      But the dawn brings back my woe.

Bowed with unutterable grief,--grief that was so severe that it choked
back every tear into my heart,--I buried my head in my arms to shut
out both sight and sound, and wept as tearless grief alone can weep.
The angel-images of the two that had gone Home, forever to await
the happier marriage in eternal union there, I saw looking down
compassionately, while the two mourners left behind were constantly
reaching upwards toward those loved ones beyond their ken in the dim
unknown, and sometimes almost touching the finger-tips of the hands
unseen! Yes; and the music! I heard it over, and over, and over again,
sometimes near, sometimes far, always sweet and tremulous, sometimes
sounding in my ear, sometimes dying away and echoing back from the
dome of that Home above.

When again my fevered eyes looked upon the page, I wondered if it could
be that these embodiments of both verse and music could be changing
so rapidly, or if the change had been going on constantly without my
notice. Both transformed--I know not now what to call them--had now
become so small that I could scarcely distinguish their bodies through
the spirit-like halo. And that halo every moment grew more and more
human--no, not human; but, though an embodying spirit, it grew more and
more like a disembodied human soul. Less and less visible became the
body of each, more and more like a human soul became the halo of each
as the first wove itself away into the final web.--

    Oh, my heart is sad and lone
    And it sighs with heaving groan
    As it dreams its dreams of woe
    Of the silent long ago.
      But I’ve reached the river’s brink;
    Soon I’ll dip the golden oar,
      And beneath the waves will sink
    All those happy days of yore.

    Soon I’ll greet my bright Lenore
    Where we’ll meet to part no more;
    Soon I’ll reach the golden sands
    Where I’ll clasp her angel hands;
      Soon I’ll kiss her seraph brow
    On that bright angelic shore,
      Where I’ll dream no more, as now,
    Of those happy days of yore.

The two spirits, thus transforming, were passing away, slipping,
slipping away from me back into the mysteriousness whence they came, I
felt, as both moved across the page to dirge-like yet a kind of happy
and hope-inspiring music. The music of each was so blended with that of
the other that I could scarcely distinguish the words of the two as the
second soul-dreamer mused through the melody.--

    Lost! ah lost!--But not forever:
      I have reached the golden strand;
    Soon beyond the crystal ocean
      We will wander hand in hand;
    Soon across the deep, dark waters
      I will go to claim my own
    From among the shining angels,
      Where she waits for me alone.
    We will part no more forever
      Underneath that heavenly dome;
    Love and joy shall reign together
      In that bright eternal home.

But look--look!--there, there just before you. See! see it struggling
to rise away. Oh, what wonderful transformation can this be!

As both neared the close, their bodies grew imperceptible, the
web-woven words more and more brightly illuminated, and the haloing
spirit larger, and larger, more and more distinct, yet more and more
attenuated, until--no, no! it--but yes! I must believe it, must believe
my eyes!--each took on the form of an angel! As the last word of each
was woven, simultaneously, and as the low, faint, plaintive echoes of
the music went trembling through the blue distance that still trembles
in unison with the hearts of millions, the two _meistersingers_,
perfect in angel form with a rarer beauty than I ever saw before, the
rarest beauty I ever expect to see, shone radiantly in the night for a
moment, like a glory struck out of darkness by a beam from heaven, and
vanished like that glory passing out of darkness into heaven again.
With my eyes following these disembodied embodiments of Beauty, and my
palms out-reaching toward them, thus I sat until, when their passing
glory at the same time closed the portals through which they vanished
and gave the keys to memory, my nerves relaxed, the intense mingled
pain and rapture, which had never ceased, seemed to snap my very
heart-chords, and consciousness slid like lead into the lethean flow of
the river of oblivion.

How long I sat there, drowned in unrefreshing forgetfulness allied
to sleep, I have no recollection, and no possible means of knowing.
When again I opened my eyes, the morning was far spent. There was a
dull pain in my head, but the circumstances I have just related were
all so vivid that the whole scene instantly flashed across my mind. I
thought surely it must be a dream. Could it be? I was sitting in my
night-dress. I got up from my chair and went to my bed-room. There was
my bed, just as I had left it when I rose to follow the strange spirit
that controlled me. I went to the wall where I had seen the spider.
True enough, there was the thread, but no longer illuminated, just
where I had seen it. I put my hand to my forehead as one often does in
wondering. When I removed it, there, clinging to my forefinger, was
the web that had clung to my forehead. No, I had not been asleep and
dreamed all this; that was plain enough. I returned to my chair. There
on my desk, as I involuntarily glanced at the well-remembered spot, I
saw a still more remarkable confirmation of my having been awake; for
there lay the whole poem that I had seen woven by the first spirit, as
perfect in every way as if it had been written by human hand. But the
characters were no longer illuminated. They had burnt into the paper,
and were as black as my own ink. They were all made out, too, in my
own style of handwriting, though I declare and affirm to all the world
that never before this occurrence had I written one line of poetry.
Perhaps it would have been better for me and for you if I had stopped
with this--palmed it off as my own on account of the similarity of
handwriting; and if I had never trifled with the tricks of the muses
thereafter.

I looked on my desk for the other poem, but alas! it could not be
found; for, as I have said before, it was only _psychologically_
present to me, while it was _really_ present to some one else. In a
few days I had the most remarkable confirmation of this--even more
remarkable than what I have related in the preceding.

By the very next mail (I was teaching in the country and got my mail
but once a week, on Saturday) I received a letter from my old chum,
dated May 8, 1885. As I opened it, behold! that identical poem that I
had in my mind seen wrought by the second spirit of beauty fell on my
table. In a letter of sixteen quarto pages, he told one substantially
the same experience of himself with two spirit-singers--one of them
present, the other psychologically present, each unconscious of the
other, yet each influencing the other in some indefinable way--as I
have here related.

In speaking of the vanishing of the two spirit-forms, he wrote:--

“I firmly believe those two spirits were none other than the
angel-forms of the two maidens the poems celebrate; that they have
woven their spirits of beauty into these two embodiments of verse that
we mortals may be the better for it; and that, when they vanished, they
entered these two poems, where they still abide.”

Strange, but this is the same thought that I had had, and still do
have. I most sincerely believe it is the only correct conclusion,
though I cannot solve the mysteries that are connected with it. Indeed,
it would be sacrilege to attempt it.

I still have these original manuscripts that were thus mysteriously
wrought. They are lying here on the desk before me as I write; and as
I glance across this page at them, the whole scene of that memorable
night, more vivid, far, far more vivid than my pen has delineated it
for you, comes flashing across my brain. In this quick, bright light
of memory, reason marshals the long line of causes that produced this
psychological phenomenon; I follow the approaching lines with my
mind’s eye, until I am lost in the dim distance of their vanishing
perspective, then return, follow again, only to lose myself in the same
unfathomable mystery, and so again and again. Though I know some of
the causes that produced it, I cannot reach the hidden ones. I could
almost fancy still that I had dreamed all this did not these original
manuscripts before me constantly remind me of the reality of what I
have here set down. They are free for the inspection of all who wish
to verify the facts I have related.

I challenge the world to produce two such similar poems, good, bad, or
indifferent, written under such remarkable circumstances.

The events I have here recorded are the events of my boyhood, or early
manhood, rather, faithfully told. I have long hesitated to publish them
for fear that there might be a few in these days of fiction who would
doubt their reality. But what makes them a hundredfold more wonderful
to me is the truth of all their seemingly impossible facts.

My friend, you think this a strange, strange story, I know. Indeed,
I think so too; far more strange to me than to you, for I have felt
the truth of it and you have only read it. As true as these two poems
exist, the circumstances under which they were written are far, far
more strange to me than I can possibly make the story; far, far more
strange to me than the weirdest, most wonderful story pen can write.

I have therefore published this account of an incident of my life
that it may please some with the strange facts that they will take
for mere fancy; that it may waken some to the knowledge that in our
most rational moments we are by no means independent, our minds are
by no means our own, but are influenced by circumstances, by the
psychological action of the minds of our most intimate friends, and
by the spiritual power within us and at the same time above us; that
it may teach others that out of the most despised creatures of God’s
making and care, the Soul of Beauty may come and wed itself to Use by
weaving its life into an angel-image of Love that shall dwell in the
human heart forever.




                              BOY BARDS.

                              TO E. L. H.


          Together we thought,
          Together we wrought;
          And ever and ever
    The golden days were fraught
    With the light and life of Time
          That dripped like dews
          From the heart of our Muse
    Between the buds of rhyme.

          Oh never, no never
    Such rainbow colors were caught
    From the dripping clouds in pain--
          So sweet distraught
          With the iris wrought
    Of the mingled shine and rain.

          Oh never, no never
    Such scent in the summer was caught
    From the morning-glory’s bloom
          Where the humming-bird
          Has gently stirred
    The leaves by the open room.




                     THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH.


                                  I.

                           FROM SUN TO SUN.

    From sun to sun
    Till life is done
      We still aspire,
        Still have some wish not gratified;

    With every breath--
    E’en unto death--
      We still reach higher,
        Our hearts are still unsatisfied.


                                  II.

                          WHAT THE STRIVING?

    What means this striving,
      This toil, this endless labor,
      This bargaining with our neighbor,
    This too fast living,
      This wishing, this longing,
      This constant thronging
      Of thoughts of--what?
      Gods! I know not!--
      What means it all,
        Philosopher,
      This rise and fall,
        This hope and fear,
    This constant changing station
    Of every man and nation,
          Or rich
          Or poor,
        With koh-i-noor
        Or bacon flitch,
    Still envying some other,
    Still striving ’gainst some brother
            And justling
            And hustling
            And rushing
            And pushing

    As by a mighty cyclone hurled
    Headlong midway the narrow world,
      And as it were
        Made all too small
          For half to gyrate in,
          Or even half begin--
        What means it all,
      Philosopher?
        The rich, the poor,
          The high, the low,
            The good, the bad,
            (And who can tell?)
              Keep bickering
              And dickering
              And chaffering
              On everything
            They buy and sell
        For more and more
          Of earth, as though
            Gone staring mad.

              Whether the cause
              Be unequal laws
    Of God, or man, or neither one, or both,
    Activity o’ermatching tardy sloth,
      Some must rise and some must fall
      In the strife of all for all.


                                 III.

                      THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH OURS.

    That there should be unjust division
      Of wealth and life and station
    Needs, calm, deliberate decision
      Of every man and nation.

    The world is too much ours,
      And we too much of it.
        The times are out of joint;
          The heart is out of tune,
            And needs the Master’s hand.
            Like churlish curs we stand
          And guard our little own,
        And watch Death’s finger point
      To Woes, while Pleasures sit
    And glass the glossing hours.

    Like demons, too, we rave
    Because our neighbors have
      One jot or tittle more than we;
    And curse ourselves as slaves
    Dumb driven to our graves
      Fast bound from light of liberty.

    The remedy lies not in force,
      Nor in the frenzy of the hour
        Engendered by the unreasoning mob.
    ’Tis in a nobler, gentler course
      Of a higher, nobler power
        New-born at every true heart-throb.


                                  IV.

                            HAND AND HEART.

      No vain philosophy,
    That flows from ailing springs of earth
    Can cure the cankered ills of mortal clay.
    No, naught save that eternal fountain’s spray
      That gives the heart immortal birth
        Can heal humanity.

    In every heart at birth
      That fountain bubbles up
    To purify this earth
      With life and love and hope.

    But in the hearts of all,
      Ere life is scarce begun,
    Some clay of earth must fall
      To dim the mirrored sun.

    True, all (’tis law) must labor;
      But with the hand alone?
    And that against a neighbor,
      His heart our stepping stone?

    Nay, with the hand and heart, the rather;
      For each who climbs above
    Must reach the door of Him our Father
      On stepping-stones of love.


                                  V.

                          COURTING THE CROWD.

      Our wrongs we make that make us wrong:
    We court the crowd; we tickle the public ear;
    The crowd laughs, and we laugh with it always; we’re
      Mere puppets dandled by the throng.

            We jingle our laughter,--
            The world follows after
              As if it were money;
            We bow in our sorrow,--
            The world bids “good-morrow,”
              Hey-nonny hey-nonny.

            We praise and we flatter,--
            The world with a clatter
              Comes after the honey;
            We ask when we’re needy,--
            The world is too greedy,
              Hey-nonny hey-nonny.

            We’re loved while we’re living
            If always we’re giving
              The world something funny;
            But dead, there’s erected,
            A stone,--then neglected,
              Hey-nonny hey-nonny.

      So, so! the world is all a cheat
      And yet we worship at its feet.
    Deceived by dross of gold and gloss of art,
    We too much court the hand and not the heart.


                                  VI.

                        IMMORTAL AND GOD-GIVEN.

    Sowing and reaping,
    Glutting our greed,
    Getting and keeping,
      What do we need?

    World ever spinning,
      World never slack,
                World ever winning,
                What does it lack?

              --What?
              What not?--
    --The greatest thing on earth,
      The greatest, too, in heaven above,
    The greatest good of greatest worth,
      Immortal and God-given,--
                             Love!

    Love that bids no stricken soul depart
      With honeyed, sweet “good-morrow”;
    Love that binds and balms the wounded heart
      And sorrows, too, with sorrow.

    Love that loves in field or shop or kirk,
      Unselfish and ungreedy;
    Love that teaches toilless hands to work,
      And leaves no mortal needy.

    Love that ne’er forgets a heart that sleeps,
      Nor leaves its tomb neglected;
    Love that laughs and weeps and ever keeps
      The throne of Love erected.


                                 VII.

                            ASKING HEARTS.

    This pushing,
      This driving,
    This rushing,
      This too fast living
      Is an endless striving
    Resulting from unsatisfied desire:
                  No peace, no rest,
                  An endless quest,
    Forever reaching up for something higher,--
        For the world is good by nature,
      And though debased, still looks above.
    (The heathen even hopes beyond this earth.)
        Stamped in every line and feature,
      There is the image still of Love,
    Sweet Love, fast-graven in the heart at birth.

    Our lives-long our asking hearts keep fretting:
      We beat the tangles of the world’s wide wild-wood,
    Remorsefully and endlessly regretting
      The loss of that sweet innocence of childhood.

    The world is like us.--We are it!
      Time-long the noisy nations of the earth
    Have searched, and only found regret
      At the loss of Love the child-world had at birth.

    And so, we strive, and strive,--we know not why.
      And not attaining what the heart would have,
      We set the hand to work; we sweat and slave;
      Allured by lights around earth’s narrow zone
      That, followed, fly, we follow on and on;
      For fame and wealth and power we barter away
      Our lives; we would be gods: but mortal clay
      Still clings about our feet, still drags us down,
      And fetters us to earth without a crown.
      And so, still unattaining all through life,
      We follow still the bootless, mortal strife,
    And laugh, and weep, and flatter, and fret, and--die!--
                  Die still unsatisfied,
                  Some wish not gratified!


                                 VIII.

                          THE CROWNING GLORY.

        Labor night and day
        Howsoe’er we may
          And toil
          And moil
        With ceaseless sweating,
        Forever fretting,
          Still coping
            In endless strife
          And hoping
            An easier life,
        Yet with it all
        Result must fall
          Far short of aspiration.

      ’Tis the great Law of laws,
      Nor far to seek the cause;
      For in our heart of hearts we know
      The Law of Life must needs be so
        That man may climb
        Through changing time
      Above this clod
        Of mouldy mortal earth
      Back unto God,
        His home of love at birth,
    And find in endless life
            Above
    The crown of all our strife
            Is Love,
    --The crown of all creation.




Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Obvious spelling, punctuation and printers’ errors haven been
silently corrected.

2. Where appropriate, original spelling has been retained.

3. Hyphenated and non-hyphenated words have been kept as in the
original.