Chapter III

O Cloudland, gray
And level, lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead,
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

A GLIMPSE OF PAN.

I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here,
And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat
And walked in a wood, while the noon was near,
Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere
Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer
O'er the grasses, green and sweet.

And I peered through a vista of leaning trees,
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept
To the face of a river, that answered these
With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze,
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept
And kissed them, with quavering ecstacies,
And gurgled and laughed and wept.

And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear
I saw Pan lying,--his limbs in the dew
And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare
Of the glad sunshine; while everywhere,
Over, across, and around him blew
Filmy dragonflies hither and there,
And little white butterflies, two and two,
In eddies of odorous air.

OUT OF NAZARETH.

"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes."
Thus heard one who shared the tent,
In the far-off Orient,
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz--
Nobler never loved the stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise, unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel, amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases.

"Who can rob thee an thou hast
More than this that thou hast cast
At my feet--this dust of gold?
Simply this and that, all told!
Hast thou not a treasure of
Such a thing as men call love?

"Can the dusky band I lead
Rob thee of thy daily need
Of a whiter soul, or steal
What thy lordly prayers reveal?
Who could be enriched of thee
By such hoard of poverty
As thy niggard hand pretends
To dole me--thy worst of friends?
Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless
One indeed who blesses thee;
Robbing thee, I dispossess
But myself.--Pray thou for me!"

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes.

THE WANDERING JEW.

The stars are failing, and the sky
Is like a field of faded flowers;
The winds on weary wings go by;
The moon hides, and the temptest lowers;
And still through every clime and age
I wander on a pilgrimage
That all men know an idle quest,
For that the goal I seek is--REST!

I hear the voice of summer streams,
And, following, I find the brink
Of cooling springs, with childish dreams
Returning as I bend to drink--
But suddenly, with startled eyes,
My face looks on its grim disguise
Of long gray beard; and so, distressed,
I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group
Of children in the dusky wood,
Who answer back the owlet's whoop,
That laughs as it had understood;
And I would pause a little space,
But that each happy blossom-face
Is like to one His hands have blessed
Who sent me forth in search of rest.

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet
In shady lanes, where huddled kine
Couch in the grasses cool and sweet,
And lift their patient eyes to mine;
But I, for thoughts that ever then
Go back to Bethlehem again,
Must needs fare on my weary quest,
And weep for very need of rest.

Is there no end? I plead in vain:
Lost worlds nor living answer me.
Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign
Have I not passed eternity?
Have I not drank the fetid breath
Of every fevered phase of death,
And come unscathed through every pest
And scourge and plague that promised rest?

Have I not seen the stars go out
That shed their light o'er Galilee,
And mighty kingdoms tossed about
And crumbled clod-like in the sea?
Dead ashes of dead ages blow
And cover me like drifting snow,
And time laughs on as 'twere a jest
That I have any need of rest.

LONGFELLOW.

The winds have talked with him confidingly;
The trees have whispered to him; and the night
Hath held him gently as a mother might,
And taught him all sad tones of melody:
The mountains have bowed to him; and the sea,
In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite,
Hath told him all her sorrow and delight--
Her legends fair--her darkest mystery.
His verse blooms like a flower, night and day;
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings
Of lark and swallow, in an endless May,
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings.--
Nor shall he cease to sing--in every lay
Of Nature's voice he sings--and will alway.

JOHN MCKEEN.

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat; His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!-- To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone Out on election days!

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,-- Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose!--

But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

THEIR SWEET SORROW.

They meet to say farewell: Their way
Of saying this is hard to say.--
He holds her hand an instant, wholly
Distressed--and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks--"Quick! Act! Speak up!"
A tension circles both her slender
Wrists--and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own.--
Then, blindingly, round either thrown,
They feel a stress of arms that ever
Strain tremblingly--and "Never! Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh,--
While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,
Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.

SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB'S.

Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, And cooked 'em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may.

_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_! And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!

Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an' She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'!

I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, I ruther go to the Sund'y School, 'Cause there I learn the goldun rule.

Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule 'At's allus at the Sund'y School?

MR. WHAT'S-HIS-NAME.

They called him Mr. What's-his-name: From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew.

He lived, it seemed, shut up alone In a low hovel of his own; There cooked his meals and made his bed, Careless of all his neighbors said.

His neighbors, too, said many things Expressive of grave wonderings, Since none of them had ever been Within his doors, or peered therein.

In fact, grown watchful, they became Assured that Mr. What's-his-name Was up to something wrong--indeed, Small doubt of it, we all agreed.

At night were heard strange noises there, When honest people everywhere Had long retired; and his light Was often seen to burn all night.

He left his house but seldom--then Would always hurry back again, As though he feared some stranger's knock, Finding him gone, might burst the lock.

Beside, he carried, every day, At the one hour he went away, A basket, with the contents hid Beneath its woven willow lid.

And so we grew to greatly blame This wary Mr. What's-his-name, And look on him with such distrust His actions seemed to sanction just.

But when he died--he died one day-- Dropped in the street while on his way To that old wretched hut of his-- You'll think it strange--perhaps it is--

But when we lifted him, and past The threshold of his home at last, No man of all the crowd but stepped With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_!

What was it? Just a shriek of pain I pray to never hear again-- A withered woman, old and bowed, That fell and crawled and cried aloud--

And kissed the dead man's matted hair-- Lifted his face and kissed him there-- Called to him, as she clutched his hand, In words no one could understand.

Insane? Yes.--Well, we, searching, found An unsigned letter, in a round Free hand, within the dead man's breast: "Look to my mother--_I'm_ at rest.

You'll find my money safely hid Under the lining of the lid Of my work-basket. It is hers, And God will bless her ministers!"

And some day--though he died unknown-- If through the City by the Throne I walk, all cleansed of earthly shame, I'll ask for Mr. What's-his-name.

WHEN AGE COMES ON.

When Age comes on!-- "The deepening dusk is where the dawn Once glittered splendid, and the dew In honey-drips, from red rose-lips Was kissed away by me and you.-- And now across the frosty lawn Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! And biting wild-winds whistle through Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on!

When Age comes on!-- O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, Flow back in summer-floods, and fling Here at our feet our childhood sweet, And all the songs we used to sing! . . . Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone-- Our old faith lost--and Age comes on-- And Age comes on! Poor hearts! have we not anything But longings left when Age comes on?

ENVOY.

Just as of old! The world rolls on and on; The day dies into night--night into dawn-- Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- Just as of old.

Time loiters not. The river ever flows, Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows; Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold: Just as of old.

Lo! where is the beginning, where the end Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!-- God answers with a silence of pure gold-- Just as of old.