Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Transcriber's Notes:

Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
Where double quotes have been repeated at the beginnings of
consecutive stanzas, they have been omitted for clarity.

POEMS BY JULIA C. R. DORR

POEMS

BY JULIA C. R. DORR

COMPLETE EDITION

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
MDCCCXCII

COPYRIGHT, 1879, 1885, 1892, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

TROW DIRECTORY
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
NEW YORK

_TO S. M. D._

_Let us go forth and gather golden-rod!
O love, my love, see how upon the hills,
Where still the warm air palpitates and thrills,
And earth lies breathless in the smile of God,
Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod!
All the green vales its golden glory fills;
By lonely waysides and by mountain rills
Its yellow banners flaunt above the sod.
Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair;
Perhaps, dear heart, the roses were more sweet,
June’s dewy roses, with their buds half blown;
Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare
This golden sunshine falleth at our feet
And song lives on, though summer birds have flown?
August, 1884._

_Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!
Although no more for thee in earthly bowers
Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers;
Although to-day ’tis springtime where thou art,
While I, with Autumn, wander far apart,
Yet, in the name of that long love of ours,
Tested by years and tried by sun and showers,
Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!_

CONTENTS

PAGE
DEDICATION. TO S. M. D. v

EARLIER POEMS.
THE THREE SHIPS, 3
MAUD AND MADGE, 6
A MOTHER’S QUESTION, 8
OVER THE WALL, 9
OUTGROWN, 11
A SONG FOR TWO, 14
A PICTURE, 15
HYMN TO LIFE, 16
THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW, 18
HEIRSHIP, 20
HILDA, SPINNING, 22
HEREAFTER, 25
WITHOUT AND WITHIN, 27
VASHTI’S SCROLL, 29
WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME, 37
HYMN. For the Dedication of a Cemetery, 38
YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY, 39
LYRIC. For the Dedication of a Music-Hall, 41
WHAT I LOST, 43
ONCE! 45
CATHARINE, 47
THE NAME, 48
UNDER THE PALM-TREES, 49
NIGHT AND MORNING, 51
AGNES, 53
“INTO THY HANDS,” 55
IDLE WORDS, 56
THE SPARROW TO THE SKYLARK, 58
THE BELL OF ST. PAUL’S, 60
DECEMBER 26, 1910.
A Ballad of Major Anderson, 62
FROM BATON ROUGE, 66
IN THE WILDERNESS, 68
CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL, 70
SUPPLICAMUS, 73
THE LAST OF SIX, 75
THE DRUMMER BOY’S BURIAL, 79
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE, 82
OUR FLAGS AT THE CAPITOL, 84
MY MOCKING-BIRD, 86
COMING HOME, 88
WAKENING EARLY, 90
BLEST, 92
HELEN, 94

“PRO PATRIA.”
THE DEAD CENTURY, 97
THE RIVER OTTER, 106
PAST AND PRESENT, 109
VERMONT, 114
GETTYSBURG. 1863-1889. 126
“NO MORE THE THUNDER OF CANNON,” 133
GRANT, 135

FRIAR ANSELMO, AND OTHER POEMS.
FRIAR ANSELMO, 141
THE KING’S ROSEBUD, 146
SOMEWHERE, 147
PERADVENTURE, 148
RENA. A Legend of Brussels, 150
A SECRET, 159
THIS DAY, 161
“CHRISTUS!” 163
THE KISS, 167
WHAT SHE THOUGHT, 168
WHAT NEED? 170
TWO, 172
UNANSWERED, 175
THE CLAY TO THE ROSE, 178
AT THE LAST, 180
TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB,” 181
EVENTIDE, 182
MY LOVERS, 184
THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER, 186
BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE, 190
KING IVAN’S OATH, 192
AT DAWN, 199
IN MEMORIAM, 201
WEAVING THE WEB, 203
THE “CHRISTUS” OF OBERAMMERGAU, 205
RABBI BENAIAH, 206
A CHILD’S THOUGHT, 209
“GOD KNOWS,” 211
THE MOUNTAIN ROAD, 213
ENTERING IN, 215
A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD, 217
THOU KNOWEST, 219
WINTER, 220
FIVE, 221
UNSOLVED, 223
QUIETNESS, 226
THE DIFFERENCE, 227
MY BIRTHDAY, 229
A RED ROSE, 231
TWENTY-ONE, 233
SINGING IN THE DARK, 235
THOMAS MOORE, 236
A LAST WORD, 238

SONNETS.
THE SONNET. I. To a Critic. 241
" " II. To a Poet. 241
AT REST, 243
TOO WIDE! 244
MERCÉDÈS, 245
GRASS-GROWN, 246
TO ZÜLMA, I., II., 247
SLEEP, 249
IN KING’S CHAPEL, 250
TO-DAY, 251
F. A. F., 252
DAY AND NIGHT, I., II., 253
THY NAME, 255
RESURGAMUS, 256
AT THE TOMB, 257
THREE DAYS, I., II., III., 258
DARKNESS, 260
SILENCE, 261
SANCTIFIED, 262
A MESSAGE, 263
WHEN LESSER LOVES, 264
GEORGE ELIOT, 265
KNOWING, 266
A THOUGHT, 267
TO-MORROW, I., II., 268
“O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?” 270
ALEXANDER, 271
THE PLACE, I., II., III., 272
TO A GODDESS, 274
O. W. H., 275
GIFTS FOR THE KING, 276
RECOGNITION, I., II., 277
SHAKESPEARE, 279
TO E. C. S., 280
A CHRISTMAS SONNET, 281
POVERTY, 282
SURPRISES, I., II., 283
C. H. R., 285
A NEW BEATITUDE, 286
COMPENSATION, I., II., 287
QUESTIONINGS, 289
REMEMBRANCE, 290
IN THE HIGH TOWER, 291

AFTERNOON SONGS.
FOUR O’CLOCKS, 295
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG, 296
QUESTIONING A ROSE, 304
THE FALLOW FIELD, 306
OUT AND IN, 309
HER FLOWERS, 310
THREE LADDIES, 312
SUMMER, 314
THORNLESS ROSES, 315
TREASURE-SHIPS, 316
CHOOSING, 318
NOT MINE, 320
THE CHAMBER OF SILENCE, 322
THREE ROSES, 325
FOUR LETTERS, 326
VALDEMAR, 328
JUBILATE! 338
EASTER LILIES, 339
“O, WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST,” 340
A SUMMER SONG, 342
THE URN, 344
THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER, 345
MARCH FOURTH, 1881-1882, 348
ROY, 350
THE PAINTER’S PRAYER, 351
FROM EXILE, 354
A MOTHER-SONG, 358
EASTER MORNING, 359
SEALED ORDERS, 363
AN ANNIVERSARY, 365
MARTHA, 367
THE HOUR, 368
THE CLOSED GATE, 369
CONTENT, 371
MY WONDERLAND, 373
THE GUEST, 375
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN, 377
DISCONTENT, 380
THE DOVES AT MENDON, 383
A LATE ROSE, 386
PERIWINKLE, 387
AFTERNOON, 389
THE LADY OF THE PROW, 392
THOU AND I, 395

LATER POEMS.
THE LEGEND OF THE BABOUSHKA.
A Christmas Ballad, 399
DAYBREAK. An Easter Poem, 405
THE APPLE-TREE, 411
THE COMFORTER, 413
SANTA-CLAUS, 415
THE ARMORER’S ERRAND, 417
FORESHADOWINGS, 423
WON, 425
BAPTISM OF FIRE, 427
AT THE FEAST, 429
OVER AND OVER, 430
A LISTENING BIRD, 432
THE FIRST FIRE, 433
MIDNIGHT CHIMES, 436
MY LADY SLEEP, 438
THE KING’S TOUCH, 440
“BY DIVERS PATHS,” 442
THE BLIND BIRD’S NEST, 444
TWO PATHS, 446
ST. JOHN’S EVE, 447
A LITTLE SONG, 449
THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER, 450
WONDERLAND, 453
IN A GALLERY, 455
IN MARBLE PRAYER, 457
NOCTURNE, 459
COME WHAT MAY, 460
NUREMBERG, 462
A MATER DOLOROSA, 464
AFTER LONG WAITING, 470

EARLIER POEMS

THE THREE SHIPS

Over the waters clear and dark
Flew, like a startled bird, our bark.

All the day long with steady sweep
Seagulls followed us over the deep.

Weird and strange were the silent shores,
Rich with their wealth of buried ores;

Mighty the forests, old and gray,
With the secrets locked in their hearts away.

Semblance of castle and arch and shrine
Towered aloft in the clear sunshine;

And we watched for the warder, stern and grim,
And the priest with his chanted prayer and hymn.

Over that wonderful northern sea,
As one who sails in a dream, sailed we,

Till, when the young moon soared on high,
Nothing was round us but wave and sky.

Up in the tremulous space it swung,—
A crescent dim in the azure hung;

While the sun lay low in the glowing west,
With bars of purple across his breast.

The skies were aflame with the sunset glow,
The billows were all aflame below;

The far horizon seemed the gate
To some mystic world’s enchanted state;

And all the air was a luminous mist,
Crimson and amber and amethyst.

Then silently into that fiery sea—
Into the heart of the mystery—

Three ships went sailing, one by one,
The fairest visions under the sun.

Like the flame in the heart of a ruby set
Were the sails that flew from each mast of jet;

While darkly against the burning sky
Streamer and pennant floated high.

Steadily, silently, on they pressed
Into the glowing, reddening west;

Until, on the far horizon’s fold,
They slowly passed through its gate of gold.

You think, perhaps, they were nothing more
Than schooners laden with common ore?

Where Care clasped hands with grimy Toil,
And the decks were stained with earthly moil?

Oh, beautiful ships, that sailed that night
Into the west from our yearning sight,

Full well I know that the freight ye bore
Was laden not for an earthly shore!

To some far realm ye were sailing on,
Where all we have lost shall yet be won;

Ye were bearing thither a world of dreams,
Bright as that sunset’s golden gleams;

And hopes whose tremulous, rosy flush,
Grew fairer still in the twilight hush.

Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphere
Thoughts no mortal may utter here,—

Songs that on earth may not be sung,—
Words too holy for human tongue,—

The golden deeds that we would have done,—
The fadeless wreaths that we would have won!

And hence it was that our souls with you
Traversed the measureless waste of blue,

Till you passed under the sunset gate,
And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!”

MAUD AND MADGE

Maud in a crimson velvet chair
Strings her pearls on a silken thread,
While, lovingly lifting her golden hair,
Soft airs wander about her head.
She has silken robes of the softest flow,
She has jewels rare and a chain of gold,
And her two white hands flit to and fro,
Fair as the dainty toys they hold.

She has tropical birds and rare perfumes;
Pictures that speak to the heart and eye;
For her each flower of the Orient blooms,—
For her the song and the lute swell high;
But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls
She dreams to-day in her velvet chair,
While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls,
Lightly stirred by the odorous air.

Down on the beach, when the tide goes out,
Madge is gathering shining shells;
The sea-breeze blows her locks about;
O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells.
Coarsest serge is her gown of gray,
Faded and torn her apron blue,
And there in the beautiful, dying day
The girl still thinks of the work to do.

Stains of labor are on her hands,
Lost is the young form’s airy grace;
And standing there on the shining sands
You read her fate in her weary face.
Up with the dawn to toil all day
For meagre fare and a place to sleep;
Seldom a moment to dream or play,
Little leisure to laugh or weep.

Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe,
Lying back in your velvet chair,
There is naught in common with her and thee,—
You scarce could breathe in the self-same air.
But the warm blood in her girlish heart
Leaps quick as yours at her nature’s call,
And ye, though moving so far apart,
Must share one destiny after all.

Love shall come to you both one day,
For still must be what aye hath been;
And under satin or russet gray
Hearts will open to let him in.
Motherhood with its joy and woe
Each must compass through burning pain,—
You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow,
Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.

Each shall sorrow and each shall weep,
Though one is in hovel, one in hall;
Over your gold the frost shall creep,
As over her jet the snows will fall.
Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes
At Madge out yonder under the sun;
Yet know ye both by the countless ties
Of a common womanhood ye are one!

A MOTHER’S QUESTION

What mother-angel tended thee last night,
Sweet baby mine?
Cradled upon what breast all soft and white
Didst thou recline?

Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art,
Within her arms?
And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart,
From all alarms?

Surely that God who lured thee from the breast
That hoped to be
The softest pillow and the sweetest rest
Thenceforth to thee,

Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown
Without a guide,
To grope in darkness, treading all alone
The path untried.

Compassionate is He who called thee, child;
And well I know
He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild
With thee to go

Through the dark valley, where the shadows dim
Forever brood,
That the low music of an angel’s hymn
Might cheer the solitude!

OVER THE WALL

I know a spot where the wild vines creep,
And the coral moss-cups grow,
And where, at the foot of the rocky steep,
The sweet blue violets blow.
There all day long, in the summer-time,
You may hear the river’s dreamy rhyme;
There all day long does the honey-bee
Murmur and hum in the hollow tree.

And there the feathery hemlock makes
A shadow cool and sweet,
While from its emerald wing it shakes
Rare incense at your feet.
There do the silvery lichens cling,
There does the tremulous harebell swing;
And many a scarlet berry shines
Deep in the green of the tangled vines.

Over the wall at dawn of day,
Over the wall at noon,
Over the wall when the shadows say
That night is coming soon,
A little maiden with laughing eyes
Climbs in her eager haste, and hies
Down to the spot where the wild vines creep,
And violets bloom by the rocky steep.

All wild things love her. The murmuring bee
Scarce stirs when she draws near,
And sings the bird in the hemlock-tree
Its sweetest for her ear.
The harebells nod as she passes by,
The violet lifts its tender eye,
The low ferns bend her steps to greet,
And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.

Up in her pathway seems to spring
All that is sweet or rare,—
Chrysalis quaint, or the moth’s bright wing,
Or flower-buds strangely fair.
She watches the tiniest bird’s-nest hid
The thickly clustering leaves amid;
And the small brown tree-toad on her arm
Quietly hops, and fears no harm.

Ah, child of the laughing eyes, and heart
Attuned to Nature’s voice!
Thou hast found a bliss that will ne’er depart
While earth can say, “Rejoice!”
The years must come, and the years must go;
But the flowers will bloom, and the breezes blow,
And bird and butterfly, moth and bee,
Bring on their swift wings joy to thee!

OUTGROWN

Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she’s not fickle; her love she has
simply outgrown;
One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light
of one’s own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my
heart would say,
And you know we were children together, have quarreled and “made up”
in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the
truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier
youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the self-same
plane,
Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be
parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life’s
early May,
And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you
to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either. They ever go up or go
down;
And hers has been steadily soaring,—but how has it been with your
own?

She has struggled, and yearned, and aspired,—grown stronger and
wiser each year;
The stars are not farther above you, in yon luminous atmosphere!

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five
summers ago,
Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is
to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer
as well;
Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but it rings like a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have
talked;
The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom
she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and
prayed?
Have you looked upon evil unsullied? have you conquered it
undismayed?

Have you, too, grown stronger and wiser, as the months and the years
have rolled on?
Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of victory
won?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. When to-day in her presence
you stood,
Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her
womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that
have fled;
Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her
girlhood is dead!

She cannot look down to her lover; her love, like her soul, aspires;
He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy
fires.

Now, farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to
tell you the truth,
As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier
youth.

A SONG FOR TWO

Not for its sunsets burning clear and low,
Its purple splendors on the eastern hills,
Bless I the Year that now makes haste to go
While sad Earth listens for its dying thrills.

Not that its days were sweet with sun and showers;
Its summer nights all luminous with stars:
Not that its vales were studded thick with flowers;
Not that its mountains pierced the azure bars;

Not that from our dear land, by slow degrees,
Some mists of error it hath blown away;
Not for its noble deeds—ah! not for these—
Fain would I twine this wreath of song to-day.

But for one gift that it has brought to me
My grateful heart would crown the dying Year:
Because, O best-beloved, it gave me thee,
I drop this garland on the passing bier!

A PICTURE

A lovely bit of dappled green
Shut in the circling hills between,
While farther off blue mountains stand
Like giant guards on either hand.

The quiet road in still repose
Follows where’er the river flows;
And in and out it glides along,
Enchanted by the rippling song.

Afar, I see the steepled town
From yonder hillside looking down;
And sometimes, when the south wind swells,
Hear the faint chiming of its bells.

But under these embowering trees,
Lulled by the hum of droning bees,
The old brown farmhouse seems to sleep,
So calm its rest is and so deep.

Yonder, beside the rustic bridge,
From which the path climbs yonder ridge,
The lazy cattle seek the shade
By the umbrageous willows made.

The sky is like a hollow pearl,
Save where warm sunset clouds unfurl
Their flaming colors. Lo! a star,
Even as I gaze, gleams forth afar!

HYMN TO LIFE

Ah, Life, dear Life, how beautiful art thou!
All day sweet, chiming voices in my heart
Have hymned thy praises joyfully as now,
Telling how fair thou art!

This morn, while yet the dew was on the flowers,
They sang like skylarks, soaring while they sing;
This noon, like birds within their leafy bowers,
Warbled with folded wing.

Slow fades the twilight from the glowing west,
And one pale star hangs o’er yon mountain’s brow;
With deeper joy, that may not be repressed,
O Life, they hail thee now!

And not alone from this poor heart of mine
Do these glad notes of grateful love ascend;
Voices from mount and vale and woodland shrine
In the full chorus blend.

The young leaves feel thy presence and rejoice
The while they frolic with the happy breeze;
And pæans sweeter than a seraph’s voice
Rise from the swaying trees.

Each flower that hides within the forest dim,
Where mortal eye may ne’er its beauty see,
Waves its light censer, while it breathes a hymn
In humble praise of thee.

Through quivering pines the gentle south winds stray,
Singing low songs that bid the tear-drops start;
And thoughts of thee are in each trembling lay,
Thrilling the listener’s heart.

Old Ocean lifts his solemn voice on high,
Thy name, O Life, repeating evermore,
While sweeping gales and rushing storms reply
From many a far-off shore.

The stars are gathering in the darkening skies,
But our dull ears their music may not hear,
Though, while we list, their swelling anthems rise
Exultingly and clear!

O Earth is beautiful! She weareth still
The golden radiance of life’s early day;
Still Love and Hope for me their chalice fill,—
Life, turn not thou away!

THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW

One night as I sat by my table,
Tired of books and pen,
With wandering thoughts far straying
Out into the world of men;—
That world where the busy workers
Such magical deeds are doing,
Each one with a steady purpose
His own pet plans pursuing;

When the house was wrapt in silence,
And the children were all asleep,
And even the mouse in the wainscot
Had ceased to run and leap,
All at once from the open chimney
Came a hum and a rustle and whirring,
That startled me out of my dreaming,
And set my pulses stirring.

What was it? I paused and listened;
The roses were all in bloom,
And in from the garden floated
The violet’s rich perfume.
So it could not be Kriss Kringle,
For he only comes, you know,
When the Christmas bells are chiming,
And the hills are white with snow.

Hark! a sound as of rushing waters,
Or the rustle of falling leaves,
Or the patter of eager raindrops
Yonder among the eaves!
Then out from the dark, old chimney,
Blackened with soot and smoke,
With a whir of fluttering pinions
A startled birdling broke.

Dashing against the window;
Lighting a moment where
My sculptured angel folded
Its soft white wings in prayer;
Swinging upon the curtains;
Perched on the ivy-vine;
At last it rested trembling
In tender hands of mine.

No stain upon its plumage;
No dust upon its wings;
No hint of its companionship
With darkly soiling things!
O, happy bird, thou spirit!
Stretch thy glad plumes and soar
Where breath of soil or sorrow
Shall reach thee nevermore!

HEIRSHIP

Little store of wealth have I;
Not a rood of land I own;
Nor a mansion fair and high
Built with towers of fretted stone.
Stocks, nor bonds, nor title-deeds,
Flocks nor herds have I to show;
When I ride, no Arab steeds
Toss for me their manes of snow.

I have neither pearls nor gold,
Massive plate, nor jewels rare;
Broidered silks of worth untold,
Nor rich robes a queen might wear.
In my garden’s narrow bound
Flaunt no costly tropic blooms,
Ladening all the air around
With a weight of rare perfumes.

Yet to an immense estate
Am I heir, by grace of God,—
Richer, grander than doth wait
Any earthly monarch’s nod.
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Heir of all that they have wrought,
All their store of emprise high,
All their wealth of precious thought.

Every golden deed of theirs
Sheds its lustre on my way;
All their labors, all their prayers,
Sanctify this present day!
Heir of all that they have earned
By their passion and their tears,—
Heir of all that they have learned
Through the weary, toiling years!

Heir of all the faith sublime
On whose wings they soared to heaven;
Heir of every hope that Time
To Earth’s fainting sons hath given!
Aspirations pure and high—
Strength to dare and to endure—
Heir of all the Ages, I—
Lo! I am no longer poor!

HILDA, SPINNING

Spinning, spinning, by the sea,
All the night!
On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore,
Where the north winds downward pour,
And the tempests fiercely sweep
From the mountains to the deep,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
All the night!

Spinning, at her lonely window,
By the sea!
With her candle burning clear,
Every night of all the year,
And her sweet voice crooning low,
Quaint old songs of love and woe,
Spins she at her lonely window,
By the sea.

On a bitter night in March,
Long ago,
Hilda, very young and fair,
With a crown of golden hair,
Watched the tempest raging wild,
Watched the roaring sea—and smiled
Through that woeful night in March,
Long ago!

What though all the winds were out
In their might?
Richard’s boat was tried and true;
Stanch and brave his hardy crew;
Strongest he to do or dare.
Said she, breathing forth a prayer,
“He is safe, though winds are out
In their might!”

But at length the morning dawned,
Still and clear!
Calm, in azure splendor, lay
All the waters of the bay;
And the ocean’s angry moans
Sank to solemn undertones,
As at last the morning dawned,
Still and clear!

With her waves of golden hair
Floating free,
Hilda ran along the shore,
Gazing off the waters o’er;
And the fishermen replied,
“He will come in with the tide,”
As they saw her golden hair
Floating free!

Ah! he came in with the tide—
Came alone!
Tossed upon the shining sands—
Ghastly face and clutching hands—
Seaweed tangled in his hair—
Bruised and torn his forehead fair—
Thus he came in with the tide,
All alone!

Hilda watched beside her dead,
Day and night.
Of those hours of mortal woe
Human ken may never know;
She was silent, and his ear
Kept the secret, close and dear,
Of her watch beside her dead,
Day and night!

What she promised in the darkness,
Who can tell?
But upon that rock-ribbed shore
Burns a beacon evermore!
And beside it, all the night,
Hilda guards the lonely light,
Though what vowed she in the darkness,
None may tell!

Spinning, spinning by the sea,
All the night!
While her candle, gleaming wide
O’er the restless, rolling tide,
Guides with steady, changeless ray
The lone fisher up the bay,
Hilda spins beside the sea,
Through the night!

Fifty years of patient spinning
By the sea!
Old and worn, she sleeps to-day,
While the sunshine gilds the bay;
But her candle, shining clear,
Every night of all the year,
Still is telling of her spinning
By the sea!

HEREAFTER

O land beyond the setting sun!
O realm more fair than poet’s dream!
How clear thy silver rivers run,
How bright thy golden glories gleam!

Earth holds no counterpart of thine;
The dark-browed Orient, jewel-crowned,
Pales as she bows before thy shrine,
Shrouded in mystery profound.

The dazzling North, the stately West,
Whose waters flow from mount to sea;
The South, flower-wreathed in languid rest—
What are they all, compared with thee?

All lands, all realms beneath yon dome,
Where God’s own hand hath hung the stars,
To thee with humblest homage come,
O world beyond the crystal bars!

Thou blest Hereafter! Mortal tongue
Hath striven in vain thy speech to learn,
And Fancy wanders, lost among
The flowery paths for which we yearn.

But well we know that fair and bright,
Far beyond human ken or dream,
Too glorious for our feeble sight,
Thy skies of cloudless azure beam.

We know thy happy valleys lie
In green repose, supremely blest;
We know against thy sapphire sky
Thy mountain-peaks sublimely rest.

For sometimes even now we catch
Faint gleamings from thy far-off shore,
While still with eager eyes we watch
For one sweet sign or token more.

The loved, the deeply loved, are there!
The brave, the fair, the good, the wise,
Who pined for thy serener air,
Nor shunned thy solemn mysteries.

There are the hopes that, one by one,
Died even as we gave them birth;
The dreams that passed ere well begun,
Too dear, too beautiful for earth.

The aspirations, strong of wing,
Aiming at heights we could not reach;
The songs we tried in vain to sing;
The thoughts too vast for human speech;

Thou hast them all, Hereafter! Thou
Shalt keep them safely till that hour
When, with God’s seal on heart and brow,
We claim them in immortal power!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

Softly the gold has faded from the sky,
Slowly the stars have gathered one by one,
Calmly the crescent moon mounts up on high,
And the long day is done.

With quiet heart my garden-walks I tread,
Feeling the beauty that I cannot see;
Beauty and fragrance all around me shed
By flower, and shrub, and tree.

Often I linger where the roses pour
Exquisite odors from each glowing cup;
Or where the violet, brimmed with sweetness o’er,
Lifts its small chalice up.

With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now,
And softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette,
While heliotropes, with meekly lifted brow,
Say to me, “Go not yet.”

So for awhile I linger, but not long.
High in the heavens rideth fiery Mars,
Careering proudly ’mid the glorious throng,
Brightest of all the stars.

But softly gleaming through the curtain’s fold,
The home-star beams with more alluring ray,
And, as a star led sage and seer of old,
So it directs my way;

And leads me in where my young children lie,
Rosy and beautiful in tranquil rest;
The seal of sleep is on each fast-shut eye,
Heaven’s peace within each breast.

I bring them gifts. Not frankincense nor myrrh—
Gifts the adoring Magi humbly brought
The young child, cradled in the arms of her
Blest beyond mortal thought;

But love—the love that fills my mother-heart
With a sweet rapture oft akin to pain;
Such yearning love as bids the tear-drops start
And fall like summer rain.

And faith—that dares, for their dear sakes, to climb
Boldly, where once it would have feared to go,
And calmly standing upon heights sublime,
Fears not the storm below.

And prayer! O God! unto thy throne I come,
Bringing my darlings—but I cannot speak.
With love and awe oppressed, my lips are dumb:
Grant what my heart would seek!

VASHTI’S SCROLL

Dethroned and crownless, I so late a queen!
Forsaken, poor and lonely, I who wore
The crown of Persia with such stately grace!
But yesterday a royal wife; but now
From my estate cast down, and fallen so low
That beggars scoff at me! Men toss my name
Backward and forward on their mocking tongues.
In all the king’s broad realm there is not one
To do poor Vashti homage. Even the dog
My hand had fondled, in the palace walls
Fawns on my rival. When I left the court,
Weeping and sore distressed, he followed me,
Licking my fingers, leaping in my face,
And frisking round me till I reached the gates.
Then with long pauses, as of one perplexed,
And frequent lookings backward, and low whines
Of puzzled wonder—that had made me smile
If I had been less lorn—with drooping ears,
Dropt eyes, and downcast forehead he went back,
Leaving me desolate. So went they all
Who, when Ahasuerus on my brow
Set his own royal crown and called me queen,
Made the air ring with plaudits! Loud they cried,
“Long live Queen Vashti, Persia’s fairest Rose,
Mother of Princes, and the nation’s Hope!”
The rose is withered now; the queen’s no more.
To these lorn breasts no princely boy shall cling
Or now, or ever. Yet on this poor scroll
I will rehearse the story of my woes,
And bid them lay it in the grave with me
When I depart to join the unnumbered dead.

* * * * *

Oh, thou unknown, unborn, who through the gloom
And mists of ages in my vaulted tomb
Shalt find this parchment, and with reverent care
Shalt bear it outward to the sun and air:
Oh, thou whose patient fingers shall unroll
With slow, persuasive touch this little scroll:
Oh, loving, tender eyes that, like twin stars,
I seem to see through yonder cloudy bars:
Read Vashti’s story, and I pray ye tell
The whole wide world if she did ill or well!

Ahasuerus reigned. On Persia’s throne,
Lord of a mighty realm, he sat alone,
And stretched his sceptre from the farthest slope
Of India’s hills, to where the Ethiop
Dwelt in barbaric splendor. Kinglier king
Never did poet praise or minstrel sing!
He had no peers. Among his lords he shone
As shines a planet, single and alone;
And I, alas! I loved him, and we two
Such bliss as peasant lovers joy in, knew!
No lowly home in all our wide domain
Held more of peace than ours, or less of pain.
But one dark day—O, woeful day of days,
Whose hours I number now in sad amaze,
Thou hadst no prophet of the ills to be,
Nor sign nor omen came to succor me!—
That day Ahasuerus smiled and said,
“Since first I wore this crown upon my head
Thrice have the emerald clusters of the vine
Changed to translucent globes of ruby wine;
And thrice the peaches on the loaded walls
Have slowly rounded into wondrous balls
Of gold and crimson. I will make a feast.
Princes and lords, the greatest and the least,
All Persia and all Media, shall see
The pomp and splendor that encompass me.
The riches of my kingdom shall be shown,
And all my glorious majesty made known
Where’er the shadow of my sceptred hand
Sways a great people with its mute command!”
Then came from far and near a hurrying throng
Of skilled and cunning workmen. All day long
And far into the startled night, they wrought
Most quaint and beautiful devices—still
Responsive to their master’s eager will,
And giving form to his creative thought—
Till Shushan grew a marvel!
Never yet
Yon rolling sun on fairer scene has set:
The palace windows were ablaze with light;
And Persia’s lords were there, most richly dight
In broidered silks, or costliest cloth of gold,
That kept the sunshine in each lustrous fold,
Or softly flowing tissues, pure and white
As fleecy clouds at noonday. Clear and bright
Shone the pure gold of Ophir, and the gleam
Of burning gems, that mocked the pallid beam
Of the dim, wondering stars, made radiance there,
Splendor undreamed of, and beyond compare!
Up from the gardens floated the perfume
Of rose and myrtle, in their perfect bloom;
The red pomegranate cleft its heart in twain,
Pouring its life blood in a crimson rain;
The slight acacia waved its yellow plumes,
And afar off amid the starlit glooms
Were sweet recesses, where the orange bowers
Dropt their pure blossoms down in snowy showers,
And night reigned undisturbed.
From cups of gold
Diverse one from another, meet to hold
The king’s most costly wines, or to be raised
To princely lips, the gay guests drank, and praised
Their rich abundance. Rapturous music swept
Through the vast arches and the secret kept
Of its own joy; while in slow, rhythmic time
To clash of cymbal and the lute’s clear chime,
The dancing-girls stole through the fragrant night
With wreathéd arms, flushed cheeks and eyes alight,
And softly rounded forms that rose and fell
To the voluptuous music’s dreamy swell,
As if the air were pulsing waves that bore
Them up and onward to some longed-for shore!

Wild waxed the revel. On an ivory throne
Inlaid with ebony and gems that shone
With a surpassing lustre, sat my lord,
The King Ahasuerus. His great sword,
Blazing with diamonds on hilt and blade,—
The mighty sword that made his foes afraid,—
And the proud sceptre he was wont to grasp,
With all the monarch in his kingly clasp,
Against the crouching lions (guard that kept
On either side the throne and never slept),
Leaned carelessly. And flowing downward o’er
The ivory steps even to the marble floor,
Swept the rich royal robes in many a fold
Of Tyrian purple flecked with yellow gold.
The jewelled crown his young head scorned to wear,
More fitly crowned by its own clustering hair,
Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his side,
Mute symbol of great Persia’s power and pride;
While on his brow some courtier’s hand had placed
The fairest chaplet monarch ever graced,
A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet,
Just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.

Louder and louder grew the sounds of mirth;
Faster and faster flowed the red wine forth;
In high, exulting strains the minstrels sang
The monarch’s glory, till the great roof rang;
And flushed at length with pride and song and wine,
The king rose up and said, “O nobles mine!
Princes of Persia, Media’s hope and pride,
Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught beside?
Speak! and I swear your sovereign’s will shall be
On this fair night to please and honor ye!”
Then rose a shout from out the glittering throng
Drowning the voice of merriment and song,
Humming and murmuring like a hive of bees—
What would they more each charmèd sense to please?

Out spoke at last a tongue that should have been
Palsied in foul dishonor there and then.
“O great Ahasuerus! ne’er before
Reigned such a king so blest a people o’er!
What shall we ask? What great and wondrous boon
To crown the hours that fly away too soon?
There is but one. ’Tis said that mortal eyes
Never yet gazed, in rapturous surprise,
Upon a face like that of her who wears
Thy signet-ring, and all thy glory shares,—
Thy fair Queen Vashti, she who yet shall be
Mother of him who reigneth after thee!
Show us that face, O king! For nought beside
Can make our cup of joy o’erflow with pride.”

A murmur ran throughout the startled crowd,
Swelling at last to plaudits long and loud.
Maddened with wine, they knew not what they said.
Ahasuerus bent his haughty head,
And for an instant o’er his face there swept
A look his courtiers in their memory kept
For many a day—a look of doubt and pain,
They scarcely caught ere it had passed again.
“My word is pledged,” he said. Then to the seven
Lord chamberlains to whom the keys were given:
“Haste ye, and to this noble presence bring
Vashti, the Queen, with royal crown and ring;
That all my lords may see the matchless charms
Kind Heaven has sent to bless my kingly arms.”

They did their errand, those old, gray-haired men,
Who should have braved the lion in his den,
Or ere they bore such message to their queen,
Or took such words their aged lips between.
What! I, the daughter of a royal race,
Step down, unblushing, from my lofty place,
And, like a common dancing-girl, who wears
Her beauty unconcealed, and, shameless, bares
Her brow to every gazer, boldly go
To those wild revellers my face to show?
I—who had kept my beauty pure and bright
Only because ’twas precious in his sight,
Guarding it ever as a holy thing,
Sacred to him, my lover, lord, and king,—
Could I unveil it to the curious eyes
Of the mad rabble that with drunken cries
Were shouting “Vashti! Vashti?”—Sooner far,
Beyond the rays of sun, or moon, or star,
I would have buried it in endless night!
Pale and dismayed, in wonder and affright,
My maidens hung around me as I told
Those seven lord chamberlains, so gray and old,
To bear this answer back: “It may not be.
My lord, my king, I cannot come to thee.
It is not meet that Persia’s queen, like one
Who treads the market-place from sun to sun,
Should bare her beauty to the hungry crowd,
Who name her name in accents hoarse and loud.”
With stern, cold looks they left me. Ah! I knew
If my dear lord to his best self were true,
That he would hold me guiltless, and would say,
“I thank thee, love, that thou didst not obey!”
But the red wine was ruling o’er his brain;
The cruel wine that recked not of my pain.
Up from the angry throng a clamor rose;
The flattering sycophants were now my foes;
And evil counsellors about the throne,
Hiding the jealous joy they dared not own,
With slow, wise words, and many a virtuous frown,
Said, “Be the queen from her estate cast down!
Let her not see the king’s face evermore,
Nor come within his presence as of yore;
So disobedient wives through all the land
Shall read the lesson, heed and understand.”
Up spoke another, eager to be heard,
In royal councils fain to have a word,—
“Let this commandment of the king be writ,
In the law of the Medes and Persians, as is fit,—
The perfect law that man may alter not
Nor of its bitter end abate one jot.”
Alas! the king was wroth. Before his face
I could not go to plead my piteous case;
But, pitiless, with scarce dissembled sneers,
And poisoned words that rankled in his ears,
My wily foes, afraid to let him pause,
Brought the great book that held the Persian laws,
And ere the rising of the morrow’s sun,
My bitter doom was sealed, the deed was done!

Scarce had two moons passed when one dreary night
I sat within my bower in woeful plight,
When suddenly upon my presence stole
A muffled form, whose shadow stirred my soul
I knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue could speak,
Or with a breath the brooding silence break,
A low voice murmured “Vashti!”
Pale and still,
Hushing my heart’s cry with an iron will,
“What would the king?” I asked. No answer came,
But to his sad eyes leaped a sudden flame;
With clasping arms he raised me to his breast
And on my brow and lips such kisses pressed
As one might give the dead. I may not tell
All the wild words that I remember well.
Oh! was it joy or was it pain to know
That not alone I wept my weary woe?
Alas! I know not. But I know to-day—
If this be sin, forgive me, Heaven, I pray!—
That though his eyes have never looked on mine
Since that dark night when stars refused to shine,
And fair Queen Esther sits, a beauteous bride,
In stately Shushan at the monarch’s side,
The king remembers Vashti, even yet
Breathing her name sometimes with vain regret,
Or murmuring, haply, in a whisper low,—
“O pure, proud heart that loved me long ago!”

WHAT MY FRIEND SAID TO ME

Trouble? dear friend, I know her not. God sent
His angel Sorrow on my heart to lay
Her hand in benediction, and to say,
“Restore, O child, that which thy Father lent,
For He doth now recall it,” long ago.
His blessed angel Sorrow! She has walked
For years beside me, and we two have talked
As chosen friends together. Thus I know
Trouble and Sorrow are not near of kin.
Trouble distrusteth God, and ever wears
Upon her brow the seal of many cares;
But Sorrow oft hast deepest peace within.
She sits with Patience in perpetual calm,
Waiting till Heaven shall send the healing balm.

HYMN
FOR THE DEDICATION OF A CEMETERY

Ye Pines, with solemn grandeur crowned,
Put on your priestly robes to-day;
Henceforth ye stand on holy ground,
Where Love and Death hold equal sway.

Lift up to Heaven each crested head,
And raise your giant arms on high,
And swear that o’er our slumbering dead
Ye will keep watch and ward for aye.

For month by month, and year by year,
While shine the stars, and rolls the sea,
Our silent ones shall gather here,
To rest beneath the greenwood tree.

Here no rude sight nor sound shall break
The calmness of their last, long sleep,
And Earth and Heaven, for Love’s sweet sake,
Shall o’er them ceaseless vigils keep.

Our silent ones! Their very dust
Is precious in our longing eyes;
O, guard ye well the sacred trust,
Till God’s own voice shall bid them rise!

YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY

But yesterday among us here,
One with ourselves in hope and fear:
Joying like us in little things,
The sheen of gorgeous insect wings,
The song of bird, the hum of bee,
The white foam of the heaving sea.

But yesterday your simplest speech,
Your lightest breath, our hearts could reach;
Your very thoughts were ours. Our eyes
Found in your own no mysteries.
Your griefs, your joys, your prayers, we knew,
The hopes that with your girlhood grew.

But yesterday we dared to say,
“’Twere better you should walk this way
Or that, dear child! Do thus or so;
Older and wiser we, you know.”
We gave you flowers and curled your hair,
And brought new robes for you to wear.

To-day how far away thou art!
In all thy life we have no part.
Hast thou a want? We know it not;
Utterly parted from our lot,
The veriest stranger is to thee
All those who loved thee best can be.

Deaf to our calls, our prayers, our cries,
Thou dost not lift thy heavy eyes;
Nor heed the tender words that flow
From lips whose kisses thrilled thee so
But yesterday! To-day in vain
We wait for kisses back again.

To-day no awful mystery hid
The dark and mazy past amid
Is half so great as this that lies
Beneath the lids of thy shut eyes,
And in those frozen lips of stone,
Impassive lips, that smile nor moan.

But yesterday with loving care
We petted, praised thee, called thee fair;
To-day, oppressed with awe, we stand
Before that ring-unfettered hand,
And scarcely dare to lift one tress
In mute and reverent caress.

But yesterday with us. To-day
Where thou art dwelling, who can say?
In heaven? But where? Oh for some spell
To make thy tongue this secret tell!
To break the silence strange and deep,
That thy sealed lips so closely keep!

LYRIC
FOR THE DEDICATION OF A MUSIC-HALL

No grand Cathedral’s vaulted space
Where, through the “dim, religious light,”
Gleam pictured saint and cross and crown,
We consecrate with song to-night;

No stately temple lifting high
Its dome against the starlit skies,
Where lofty arch and glittering spire
Like miracles of beauty rise.

Yet here beneath this humbler roof
With reverent hearts and lips we come;
Hail, music! Song and Beauty, hail!
Henceforth be these poor walls your home.

Here speak to hearts that long have yearned
Your presence and your spells to know;
Here touch the lips athirst to drink
Where your perennial fountains flow.

Here, where our glorious mountain-peaks
Sublimely pierce the ether blue,
Lift ye our souls, and bid them rise
In aspirations grand and true!

O Music, Art, and Science, hail!
We greet you now with glad acclaims;
Ye bay-crowned ones! the listening air
Waits to re-echo with your names;

Waits for your voices ringing clear
Above this weary, work-day world;
Waits till ye bid fair Truth arise,
While Error from her throne is hurled!

WHAT I LOST

Wandering in the dewy twilight
Of a golden summer day,
When the mists upon the mountains
Flushed with purple splendor lay:
When the sunlight kissed the hilltops
And the vales were hushed and dim,
And from out the forest arches
Rose a holy vesper hymn—
I lost something. Have you seen it,
Children, ye who passed that way?
Did you chance to find the treasure
That I lost that summer day?

It was neither gold nor silver,
Orient pearl nor jewel rare;
Neither amethyst nor ruby,
Nor an opal gleaming fair;
’Twas no curious, quaint mosaic
Wrought by cunning master-hands,
Nor a cameo where Hebe,
Crowned with deathless beauty, stands.
Yet have I lost something precious;
Children, ye who passed that way—
Tell me, have you found the treasure
That I lost one summer day?

Then, you say, it was a casket
Filled with India’s perfumes rare,
Or a tiny flask of crystal
Meet the rose’s breath to bear;
Or a bird of wondrous plumage,
With a voice of sweetest tone,
That, escaping from my bosom,
To the greenwood deep has flown.
Ah! not these, I answer vainly;
Children, ye who passed that way,
Ye can never find the treasure
That I lost that summer day!

You may call it bird or blossom;
Name my treasure what you will;
Here no more its song or fragrance
Shall my soul with rapture fill.
But, thank God! our earthly losses
In no darksome void are cast;
Safely garnered, some to-morrow
Shall restore them all at last.
Somewhere in the great hereafter,
Children, ye who pass this way,
I shall find again the treasure
That I lost one summer day!

ONCE!

Once in your sight,
As May buds swell in the sun’s warm light,
So grew her soul,
Yielding itself to your sweet control.

Once if you spoke,
Echoing strains in her heart awoke,
Sending a thrill
All through its chambers sweet and still.

Once if you said,
“Sweet, with Love’s garland I crown your head,”
Ah! how the rose
Flooded her forehead’s pale repose!

Once if your lip
Dared the pure sweetness of hers to sip,
Softly and meek
Dark lashes drooped on a white rose cheek!

Once if your name
Some one but whispered, a sudden flame
Burned on her cheek,
Telling a story she would not speak!

You do but wait
At a sepulchre’s sealed gate!
Her love is dead,
Bound hand and foot in its narrow bed.

Why did it die?
Ask of your soul the reason why!
Question it well,
And surely the secret it will tell.

But if your heart
Ever again plays the lover’s part,
Let this truth be
Blent with the solemn mystery:

Pure flame aspires;
Downward flow not the altar fires;
And skylarks soar
Up where the earth-mists vex no more.

Now loose your hold
From her white garment’s spotless fold,
And let her pass—
While both hearts murmur, “Alas! alas!”

CATHARINE

O wondrous mystery of death!
I yield me to thine awful sway,
And with hushed heart and bated breath
Bow down before thy shrine to-day!

But yesterday these pallid lips
Breathed reverently my humble name;
These eyes now closed in drear eclipse
Brightened with gratitude’s soft flame.

These poor, pale hands were swift to do
The lowliest service I might ask;
These palsied feet the long day through
Moved gladly to each wonted task.

O faithful, patient, loving one,
Who from earth’s great ones shrank afar,
Canst bear the presence of The Son,
And dwell where holy angels are?

Dost thou not meekly bow thine head,
And stand apart with humblest mien,
Nor dare with softest step to tread
The ranks of shining Ones between?

Dost thou not kneel with downcast eyes
The hem of some white robe to touch,
While on thine own meek forehead lies
The crown of her who “lovèd much?”

O vain imaginings! To-day
Earth’s loftiest prince is not thy peer.
Come, Sage and Seer! mute homage pay
To this Pale Wonder lying here!

THE NAME

I know not by what name to call thee, thou
Who reignest supreme, sole sovereign of my heart!
Thou who the lode-star of my being art,
Thou before whom my soul delights to bow!
What shall I call thee? Teach me some dear name
Better than all the rest, that I may pour
All that the years have taught me of love’s lore
In one fond word. “Lover?” But that’s too tame,
And “Friend”’s too cold, though thou art both to me.
Art thou my King? Kings sit enthroned afar,
And crowns less meet for love than reverence are,
While both my heart gives joyfully to thee.
Art thou—but, ah! I’ll cease the idle quest:
I cannot tell what name befits thee best!

UNDER THE PALM-TREES

We were children together, you and I;
We trod the same paths in days of old;
Together we watched the sunset sky,
And counted its bars of massive gold.
And when from the dark horizon’s brim
The moon stole up with its silver rim,
And slowly sailed through the fields of air,
We thought there was nothing on earth so fair.

You walk to-night where the jasmines grow,
And the Cross looks down from the tropic skies;
Where the spicy breezes softly blow,
And the slender shafts of the palm-trees rise.
You breathe the breath of the orange-flowers,
And the perfumed air of the myrtle-bowers;
You pluck the acacia’s golden balls,
And mark where the red pomegranate falls.

I stand to-night on the breezy hill,
Where the pine-trees sing as they sang of yore;
The north star burneth clear and still,
And the moonbeams silver your father’s door.
I can see the hound as he lies asleep,
In the shadow close by the old well-sweep,
And hear the river’s murmuring flow
As we two heard it long ago.

Do you think of the firs on the mountain-side
As you walk to-night where the palm-trees grow?
Of the brook where the trout in the darkness hide?
Of the yellow willows waving slow?
Do you long to drink of the crystal spring,
In the dell where the purple harebells swing?
Would your pulses leap could you hear once more
The sound of the flail on the threshing-floor?

Ah! the years are long, and the world is wide,
And the salt sea rolls our hearts between;
And never again at eventide
Shall we two gaze on the same fair scene.
But under the palm-trees wandering slow,
You think of the spreading elms I know;
And you deem our daisies fairer far
Than the gorgeous blooms of the tropics are!

NIGHT AND MORNING

I.