Spider-webs in Verse: A Collection of Lyrics for Leisure Moments, Spun at Idle Hours
Date: 2021-06-08T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American poetry -- 19th century

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Title: Spider-webs in Verse: A Collection of Lyrics for Leisure Moments, Spun at Idle Hours

Author: Charles William Wallace

Release date: June 8, 2021 [eBook #65564]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE: A COLLECTION OF LYRICS FOR LEISURE MOMENTS, SPUN AT IDLE HOURS ***

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.

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Table of Contents

SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE

CONTENTS.

SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE.

A CHORAL OF SUNSET.

THE POET’S PRAYER.

UPS AND DOWNS.

THE OLD BENONI TREE.

A SLUMBER RHAPSODY.

BAREFOOT AFTER THE COWS.

GIFT AND GIVER.

A SORTO’ PLAYED-OUT OL’ BOUQUET.

DOWN TO THE CANDY-MAN’S SHOP.

- Return.

LIFE TO LOVE. A Triolet.

COME TO THE SHADOWS. A Pantoum.

SOUL OF MY SOUL.

MINCE PIE.

TEARS AND LAUGHTER.

MIST-WING.

THE COMMON LOT. Choriambic.

ECHO SONG.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

SONNETS OF LIFE.

II.

- SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE.

A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED. He (in despondency).

- She (faithfully).

- He (joyously).

- She (flippantly).

- He (bitterly and sadly).

- She (tauntingly).

- He (in despair).

- She (in fear, imploringly).

THE HUMAN HEART. Birth.

- Joy on Account of Birth.

- Sorrow on Account of Death.

- Soul Passes Beyond.

- L’Envoy.

THE NIGHTMARE.

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

LONELY! TO —— (LONG AGO DEAD.)

I’SE SEEN A LIGHT IN DE SKY. (A PLANTATION MELODY.)

- Chorus.

- Chorus.

- Chorus.

FAMILY OF THE EPHEMERA.

SHUT IN. I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

SONG OF THE STARS.

I WONDER.

IF SO, PEACE TILL NEXT NEW-YEAR. (A DIRGE.)

MY DEFEAT.

THERE’S A LAUGH.

TO SLEEP.

WHEEL AND SHUTTLE.

THE PRESS OF PENURY.

HALLOWEEN. AN INVITATION SENT TO A LADY, OCT. 31.

LIFE.

BORROWING BRAINS.

SLEEP.

TO A WILD-ROSE BOUQUET.

SONG ON THE SEA.

WOODLAND LAY.

IN THE ANGELS’ KEEP.

THOUGHT.

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.”)

THE LONE WAYSIDE WILD ROSE.

TWENTY.

BEAUTIFUL MAY.

DEEP UNTO DEEP. A DOUBLE THRENODY.

A HUMPTY-DUMPTY IDIOTIC CHAP.

GOOD-NIGHT. A SONG OF THE CLOSE OF LIFE.

- Infant.

- Child.

- Youth.

- Man.

- All.

TO FANCY.

GOOD-NIGHT, MY LOVE.

THROUGH REVERENT EYES.

WHAT IS POETRY?

- FORM.

- SPIRIT.

- MISSION.

USELESS?

A MORTAL.

TO MORPHEUS.

A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS.

TO THEE ABOVE.

CHORUS.

THE LURLEI.

- L’Envoy.

TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS.

TO MISS ——.

SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP. A KYRIELLE.

BROWNING. (BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)

MADRIGAL.

WORDS AND THOUGHTS.

REX FUGIT.

THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.

THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND.

LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY. AN ALLEGORY.

JUST AS USUAL.

A DEPLORATION.

I LOVE YOU, KATE.

THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE. (That is, practically dead.)

PITY THE POOR.

LIFE’S LOST SKIFF. WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.

- Prelude.

- Morning.

- Noon.

- Night.

- Finale.

A CLOSE ATTACHMENT. STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.

THE DEMONIAC.

THE WEATHER FIEND.

WHO KNOWS!

THE DEATH-HOWL.

ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.

- Envoy.

GRAVITY—LIFE! (After Browning—several miles after.)

DEATH—LIFE.

HOT?—WELL, RATHER!

A YEAR AGO.

THE SWEETEST OF ALL.

THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.

BUZZ.

WASHINGTON. 22 Feb.

FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG. CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.

- CHORUS.

’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.

HAL A-HUNTIN’.

WRITE FROM THE HEART.

WHITHER?

OUR ALMA MATER.

FATHER TIME.

THUS LIFE’S TALE.

- I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

- Finale.

PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT. ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.

ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”

THE TRANSFORMATION. A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.

BOY BARDS. TO E. L. H.

THE GREATEST THING ON EARTH.

- I. FROM SUN TO SUN.

- II. WHAT THE STRIVING?

- III. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH OURS.

- IV. HAND AND HEART.

- V. COURTING THE CROWD.

- VI. IMMORTAL AND GOD-GIVEN.

- VII. ASKING HEARTS.

- VIII. THE CROWNING GLORY.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE