Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

The secret is yours and mine, love!
Only we two may know
What words shine clear in the darkness,
Of your grave so green and low.
But if when we meet hereafter,
In the dawn of some fairer day,
You whisper those mystical words, love,
It is all I would have you say!

THIS DAY

I wonder what is this day to you,
Looking down from the upper skies!
Is there a pang at your gentle heart?
Is there a shade in your tender eyes?
Do you think up there of the whispered words
That thrilled your soul long years ago?
Does ever a haunting undertone
Blend with the chantings sweet and low?

When this day dawned (if where you are
Skies grow red when the morn is near)
Did you know that before its close
The love once yours would be on its bier?
Did you know that another’s lip
Would redden with kisses once your own,
And the golden cup of a younger life
O’erflow with the wine once yours alone?

Do you remember? Ah, my saint,
Bend your ear from the ether blue!
Have you risen to heights so far
That earth and its loves are nought to you?
Do you care that your place is filled?
Does it matter that now at last
The turf above you has grown so deep
That its shadow overlies your past?

O, belovèd, I may not know!
Heaven is afar, and the grave is dumb,
And out of the silence so profound
Neither token nor voice may come!
We try to think that we understand;
But whether you wake, or whether you sleep,
Or whether our deeds are aught to you,
Is still a mystery strange and deep!

“CHRISTUS!”

Over the desolate sea-side town
With a terrible tumult the night came down,
And the fierce wind swept through the empty street,
With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet.
Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bed
Lay and listened in awe and dread,
But sprang to her feet in sudden fear
When over the tempest, loud and clear,
A voice cried, “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more.
Was it a cry at the cottage-door?
She left her chamber with flying feet;
She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet;
She lifted the latch, but only the din
Of the furious storm and the snow swept in.
She looked without: not a soul was there,
But still rang out on the startled air
The strange cry, “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” She slept at last,
Though the old house rocked in the wintry blast;
And when she awoke the world was still,
A wide, white silence from sea to hill.
No creature stirred in the morning glow;
There was not a footprint in the snow;
Yet again through the hush, as faint and far
As if it came from another star,
A voice sighed “Christus!”

“Christus! Christus!” Who can it be,
O Christ our Lord, that is calling Thee
In a foreign tongue, with a woe as wild
As that of some lost, forsaken child?
She turned from the window with a startled gaze:
She clasped her hands in a pale amaze,
Hearkening still, till again she heard,
As in a waking dream, the word—
That strange word, “Christus!”

Then over the hill with weary feet
She toiled through the drifts to the village-street.
The villagers gathered in eager haste,
And all day long in the snowy waste
They sought in vain for the one who cried
To Him who of old was crucified:
Then, turning away with a laugh, they said,
“’Twas only the wild wind overhead,
Your cry of ‘Christus!’”

She watched their going with earnest eyes:
Hark! what voice to the taunt replies?
The trees were still as if struck with death;
The wind was soft as a baby’s breath;
The sobbing sea was asleep at last,
Scourged no more by the furious blast;
Yet, surely as ever from human tongue
A cry of grief or despair was wrung,
Some voice sighed, “Christus!”

Burned on her cheek a sudden flame
As her heart’s strong throbbings went and came,
And she stood alone on the lonely shore,
Gazing the wide black waters o’er.
“Whether it comes from heaven or hell,
This voice I have learned to know too well—
Whether from lips alive or dead,
Or from the hovering air,” she said—
“Whether it comes from sea or land,
I will not sleep till I understand
This cry of ‘Christus!’”

“Christus! Christus!” Faint and slow
Rose the wail from the drifted snow
Under a low-browed, beetling rock,
Strong to withstand the whirlwind’s shock.
There, in the heart of the snowy mound,
The buried form of a man she found—
A Spanish sailor, with beard of brown
Over his red scarf flowing down,
And jewelled ears that were strange to see.
She was bending over it, when—ah me!
The shrill cry, “Christus!”

Rang out as if from the stony lips
Whence life had parted in drear eclipse,
As if the soul of the dead man cried
Again unto Christ the Crucified.
The rose had fled from her cheeks so red,
But still she knelt by his side and said,
Under her breath, “I must understand
Whether from heaven or sea or land
Comes that cry, ‘Christus!’”

She laid her hand on the pulseless breast!
What fluttered beneath the crimson vest?
A bird with plumage of green and gold,
Nestling away from the piercing cold,
Was folded close to the silent heart
From which it had felt the life depart;
And when she held it against her cheek,
As plainly as ever a bird could speak
It sobbed out, ‘Christus!’”

And evermore when the winds blew loud,
And the trees in the grasp of the storm were bowed,
And the lowering wings of the tempest beat
The drifting snow in the village-street,
Just as its master in death had cried
To Christ, the Holy, the Crucified,
Pouring his soul in one wild word—
Pray God that the cry in heaven was heard!—
The bird cried, “Christus!”

THE KISS

When you lay before me dead,
In your pallid rest,
On those passive lips of thine
Not one kiss I pressed!

Did you wonder—looking down
From some higher sphere—
Knowing how we two had loved
Many and many a year?

Did you think me strange and cold
When I did not touch,
Even with reverent finger-tips,
What I had loved so much?

Ah! when last you kissed me, dear,
Know you what you said?
“Take this last kiss, my beloved,
Soon shall I be dead!

Keep it for a solemn sign,
Through our love’s long night,
Till you give it back again
On some morning bright.”

So I gave you no caress;
But, remembering this,
Warm upon my lips I keep
Your last living kiss!

WHAT SHE THOUGHT

Marion showed me her wedding-gown
And her veil of gossamer lace to-night,
And the orange-blooms that to-morrow morn
Shall fade in her soft hair’s golden light.
But Philip came to the open door:
Like the heart of a wild-rose glowed her cheek,
And they wandered off through the garden-paths
So blest that they did not care to speak.

I wonder how it seems to be loved;
To know you are fair in someone’s eyes;
That upon someone your beauty dawns
Every day as a new surprise;
To know that, whether you weep or smile,
Whether your mood be grave or gay,
Somebody thinks you, all the while,
Sweeter than any flower of May.

I wonder what it would be to love:
That, I think, would be sweeter far,—
To know that one out of all the world
Was lord of your life, your king, your star!
They talk of love’s sweet tumult and pain:
I am not sure that I understand,
Though—a thrill ran down to my finger-tips
Once when—somebody—touched my hand!

I wonder what it would be to dream
Of a child that might one day be your own;
Of the hidden springs of your life a part,
Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone.
Marion stooped one day to kiss
A beggar’s babe with a tender grace;
While some sweet thought, like a prophecy,
Looked from her pure Madonna face.

I wonder what it must be to think
To-morrow will be your wedding-day,
And you, in the radiant sunset glow
Down fragrant flowery paths will stray,
As Marion does this blessed night,
With Philip, lost in a blissful dream.
Can she feel his heart through the silence beat?
Does he see her eyes in the starlight gleam?

Questioning thus, my days go on;
But never an answer comes to me:
All love’s mysteries, sweet as strange,
Sealed away from my life must be.
Yet still I dream, O heart of mine!
Of a beautiful city that lies afar;
And there, some time, I shall drop the mask,
And be shapely and fair as others are.

WHAT NEED?

_“What need has the singer to sing?
And why should your poet to-day
His pale little garland of poesy bring,
On the altar to lay?
High-priests of song the harp-strings swept
Ages before he smiled or wept!”_

What need have the roses to bloom?
And why do the tall lilies grow?
And why do the violets shed their perfume
When night-winds breathe low?
They are no whit more bright and fair
Than flowers that breathed in Eden’s air!

What need have the stars to shine on?
Or the clouds to grow red in the west,
When the sun, like a king, from the fields he has won,
Goes grandly to rest?
No brighter they than stars and skies
That greeted Eve’s sweet, wondering eyes!

What need has the eagle to soar
So proudly straight up to the sun?
Or the robin such jubilant music to pour
When day is begun?
The eagles soared, the robins sung,
As high, as sweet, when earth was young!

What need, do you ask me? Each day
Hath a song and a prayer of its own,
As each June hath its crown of fresh roses, each May
Its bright emerald throne!
Its own high thought each age shall stir,
Each needs its own interpreter!

And thou, O, my poet, sing on!
Sing on until love shall grow old;
Till patience and faith their last triumphs have won,
And truth is a tale that is told!
Doubt not, thy song shall still be new
While life endures and God is true!

TWO

We two will stand in the shadow here,
To see the bride as she passes by;
Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear,
Ye chiming bells that swing on high!
Look! look! she comes! The air grows sweet
With the fragrant breath of the orange blooms,
And the flowers she treads beneath her feet
Die in a flood of rare perfumes!

She comes! she comes! The happy bells
With joyous clamor fill the air,
While the great organ dies and swells,
Soaring to trembling heights of prayer!
Oh! rare are her robes of silken sheen,
And the pearls that gleam on her bosom’s snow;
But rarer the grace of her royal mien,
Her hair’s fine gold, and her cheek’s young glow.

Dainty and fair as a folded rose,
Fresh as a violet dewy sweet,
Chaste as a lily, she hardly knows
That there are rough paths for other feet.
For Love hath shielded her; Honor kept
Watch beside her by night and day;
And Evil out from her sight hath crept,
Trailing its slow length far away.

Now in her perfect womanhood,
In all the wealth of her matchless charms,
Lovely and beautiful, pure and good,
She yields herself to her lover’s arms.
Hark! how the jubilant voices ring!
Lo! as we stand in the shadow here,
While far above us the gay bells swing,
I catch the gleam of a happy tear!

The pageant is over. Come with me
To the other side of the town, I pray,
Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea,
And night falls around us, chill and gray.
In the dim church porch an hour ago,
We waited the bride’s fair face to see;
Now Life has a sadder sight to show,
A darker picture for you and me.

No need to seek for the shadow here;
There are shadows lurking everywhere;
These streets in the brightest day are drear,
And black as the blackness of despair.
But this is the house. Take heed, my friend,
The stairs are rotten, the way is dim;
And up the flights, as we still ascend,
Creep stealthy phantoms dark and grim.

Enter this chamber. Day by day,
Alone in this chill and ghostly room,
A child—a woman—which is it, pray?—
Despairingly waits for the hour of doom!
Ah! as she wrings her hands so pale,
No gleam of a wedding ring you see;
There is nothing to tell. You know the tale—
God help her now in her misery!

I dare not judge her. I only know
That love was to her a sin and a snare,
While to the bride of an hour ago
It brought all blessings its hands could bear!
I only know that to one it came
Laden with honor, and joy, and peace;
Its gifts to the other were woe and shame,
And a burning pain that shall never cease!

I only know that the soul of one
Has been a pearl in a golden case;
That of the other a pebble thrown
Idly down in a way-side place,
Where all day long strange footsteps trod,
And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew!
Yet both were women. O righteous God,
Thou only canst judge between the two!

UNANSWERED

Where mountain-peaks rose far and high
Into the blue, unclouded sky,
And waves of green, like billowy seas,
Tossed proudly in the freshening breeze,

I rode one morning, late in June.
The glad winds sang a pleasant tune;
The air, like draughts of rarest wine,
Made every breath a joy divine.

With roses all the way was bright;
Yet there upon that upland height
The darlings of the early spring—
Blue violets—were blossoming.

And all the meadows, wide unrolled,
Were green and silver, green and gold,
Where buttercups and daisies spun
Their shining tissues in the sun.

Over its shallow, pebbly bed,
A sparkling river gayly sped,
Nor cared that deeper waters bore
A grander freight from shore to shore.

It sung, it danced, it laughed, it played,
In sunshine now, and now in shade;
While every gnarled tree joyed to make
A greener garland for its sake.

Deep peace was in the summer air,
A peace all nature seemed to share;
Yet even there I could not flee
The shadow of life’s mystery!

A farmhouse stood beside the way,
Low-roofed and rambling, quaint and gray;
And where the friendly door swung wide
Red roses climbed on either side.

And thither, down the winding road
Near which the sparkling river flowed,
In groups, in pairs, the neighbors pressed,
Each in his Sunday raiment dressed.

A sober calm was on each face;
Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place;
Yet something of a festal air
The youths and maidens seemed to wear.

But, as I passed, an idle breeze
Swept through the quivering maple-trees;
Chased by the winds in merry rout,
A fair, light curtain floated out.

And this I saw: a quiet room
Adorned with flowers of richest bloom—
A lily here, a garland there—
Fragrance and silence everywhere.

Then on I rode. But if a bride
Should there her happy blushes hide,
Or if beyond my vision lay
Some pale face shrouded from the day,

I could not tell. O joy and Pain,
Your voices join in one refrain!
So like ye are, we may not know
If this be gladness, this be woe!

THE CLAY TO THE ROSE

O beautiful, royal Rose,
O Rose, so fair and sweet!
Queen of the garden art thou,
And I—the Clay at thy feet!

The butterfly hovers about thee;
The brown bee kisses thy lips;
And the humming-bird, reckless rover,
Their marvellous sweetness sips.

The sunshine hastes to caress thee
Flying on pinions fleet;
The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom,
But I—I lie at thy feet!

The radiant morning crowns thee;
And the noon’s hot heart is thine;
And the starry night enfolds thee
In the might of its love divine;

I hear the warm rain whisper
Its message soft and sweet;
And the south-wind’s passionate murmur,
While I lie low at thy feet!

It is not mine to approach thee;
I never may kiss thy lips,
Or touch the hem of thy garment
With tremulous finger-tips.

Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!
Queen rose, so fair and sweet,
What were lover or crown to thee
Without the Clay at thy feet?

AT THE LAST

Will the day ever come, I wonder,
When I shall be glad to know
That my hands will be folded under
The next white fall of the snow?
To know that when next the clover
Wooeth the wandering bee,
Its crimson tide will drift over
All that is left of me?

Will I ever be tired of living,
And be glad to go to my rest,
With a cool and fragrant lily
Asleep on my silent breast?
Will my eyes grow weary of seeing,
As the hours pass, one by one,
Till I long for the hush and the darkness
As I never longed for the sun?

God knoweth! Sometime, it may be,
I shall smile to hear you say:
“Dear heart! she will not waken
At the dawn of another day!”
And sometime, love, it may be,
I shall whisper under my breath:
“The happiest hour of my life, dear,
Is this—the hour of my death!”

TO THE “BOUQUET CLUB”

O Rosebud garland of girls!
Who ask for a song from me,
To what sweet air shall I set my lay?
What shall its key-note be?
The flowers have gone from wood and hill;
The rippling river lies white and still;
And the birds that sang on the maple bough,
Afar in the South are singing now!

O Rosebud garland of girls!
If the whole glad year were May;
If winds sang low in the clustering leaves,
And roses bloomed alway;
If youth were all that there is of life;
If the years brought nothing of care or strife,
Nor ever a cloud to the ether blue,
It were easy to sing a song for you!

Yet, O my garland of girls!
Is there nothing better than May?
The golden glow of the harvest time!
The rest of the Autumn day!
This thought I give to you all to keep:
Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;
The year grows rich as it groweth old,
And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold!

EVENTIDE

Whenever, with reverent footsteps,
I pass through the open door
Of Memory’s stately palace,
Where dwell the days of yore,
One scene, like a lovely vision,
Comes to me o’er and o’er.

’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;
There are pictures on the wall;
And around them dance the shadows
Grotesque and weird and tall,
As the flames on the storied hearth-stone
Wavering rise and fall.

An ancient cabinet stands there,
That came from beyond the seas,
With a breath of spicy odors
Caught from the Indian breeze;
And its fluted doors and moldings
Are dark with mysteries.

There’s an old arm-chair in the corner,
Straight-backed and tall and quaint;
Ah! many a generation—
Sinner and sage and saint—
It hath held in its ample bosom
With murmur nor complaint!

In the glow of the fire-light playing,
A tiny, blithesome pair,
With the music of their laughter
Fill all the tranquil air—
A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,
A boy serenely fair.

A woman sits in the shadow
Watching the children twain,
With a joy so deep and tender
It is near akin to pain,
And a smile and tear blend softly—
Sunshine and April rain!

Her heart keeps time to the rhythm
Of love’s unuttered prayer,
As, with still hands lightly folded,
She listens, unaware,
Through all the children’s laughter,
For a footfall on the stair.

I know the woman who sits there;
Time hath been kind to her,
And the years have brought her treasures
Of frankincense and myrrh
Richer, perhaps, and rarer,
Than Life’s young roses were.

But I doubt if ever her spirit
Hath known, or yet shall know,
The bliss of a happier hour,
As the swift years come and go,
Than this in the shadowy chamber
Lit by the hearth-fire’s glow!

MY LOVERS

I have four noble lovers,
Young and gallant, blithe and gay,
And in all the land no maiden
Hath a goodlier troupe than they!
And never princess, guarded
By knights of high degree,
Knew sweeter, purer homage
Than my lovers pay to me!

One of my noble lovers
Is a self-poised, thoughtful man,
Gravely gay, serenely earnest,
Strong to do, and bold to plan.
And one is sweet and sunny,
Pure as crystal, true as steel,
With a soul responding ever
When the truth makes high appeal.

And another of my lovers,
Bright and _debonair_ is he,
Brave and ardent, strong and tender,
And the flower of courtesie.
Last of all, an eager student,
Upon lofty aims intent:
Manly force and gentle sweetness
In his nature rarely blent.

But when of noble lovers
All alike are dear and true,
And her heart to choose refuses,
Pray, what can a woman do?
Ah, my sons! For this I bless ye,
Even as I myself am blest,
That I know not which is dearest,
That I care not which is best!

THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER

Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought;

Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice so grand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the master’s magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or bride
Who in God’s sight were well pleasing in the church stood side by
side,

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o’er all the land his fame
Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing flame.

All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled,
By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was set:
Happy day—the brightest jewel in the glad year’s coronet!

But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride—
Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with
pride.

“Ah!” thought he, “how great a master am I! When the organ plays,
How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!”

Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,
With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or
prayer,
For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there.

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest’s low monotone,
And the bride’s robe trailing softly o’er the floor of fretted
stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him
Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?

Whose the fault, then? Hers—the maiden standing meekly at his side!
Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him—his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;
On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.

* * * * *

Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his name.
For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and
shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day
Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray—

Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;
Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all complete,
And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.

* * * * *

Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,
Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;
There he met a long procession—mourners following the dead.

“Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?
Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along the way?

Has some saint gone up to Heaven?” “Yes,” they answered, weeping
sore:
“For the Organ-Builder’s saintly wife our eyes shall see no more;

And because her days were given to the service of God’s poor,
From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door.”

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;
No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like
rain.

“’Tis someone whom she has comforted who mourns with us,” they said,
As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin’s head.

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing aisle,
Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the
while:

When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play
Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and clear;
All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near;

And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffin’s head,
With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it—dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by his bride;
Down the aisle and o’er the threshold they were carried side by
side;

While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,
And then softly sank to silence—silence kept for evermore.

BUTTERFLY AND BABY BLUE

Butterfly and Baby Blue,
Did you come together
Floating down the summer skies,
In the summer weather?
Seems to me you’re much alike,
Airy, fairy creatures,
Though I small resemblance find
In your tiny features!

Butterfly has gauzy wings,
Bright with jewelled splendor;
Baby Blue has pink-white arms,
Rosy, warm, and tender.
Butterfly has golden rings,
Charming each beholder;
Baby wears a knot of blue
On each dimpled shoulder.

Butterfly is never still,
Always in a flutter;
And of dainty Baby Blue
The same truth I utter!
Butterfly on happy wing
In the sunshine dances;
Baby Blue for sunshine has
Mother’s smiles and glances!

Butterfly seeks honey-dew
In a lily palace;
Baby Blue finds nectar sweet
In a snow-white chalice.
Butterfly will furl its wings
When the air grows colder;
While dear Baby Blue will be
Just a trifle older!

Ah! the days are growing short,
Soon the birds will leave us,
And of all the garden flowers
Cruel frost bereave us.
Butterfly and Baby Blue,
Do not go together,
Sailing through the autumn skies
In the autumn weather!

KING IVAN’S OATH

King Ivan ruled a mighty land
Girt by the sea on either hand;
A goodly land as e’er the sun
In its long journey looked upon!
His knights were loyal, brave, and true,
Eager their lord’s behests to do;
His counsellors were wise and just,
Nor ever failed his kingly trust;
The nations praised him, and the state
Grew powerful, and rich, and great;
While still with long and loud acclaim,
His people hailed their monarch’s name!

Fronting the east, a stately pile,
The palace caught the sun’s first smile;
Lightly its domes and arches sprung,
As earth’s glad hills when earth was young;
And miracles of airy grace,
Each tower and turret soared in space.
Within——But here no rhythmic flow
Of words with light and warmth aglow
Can tell the story. Not more fair
Are your own castles hung in air!
Painter and sculptor there had wrought
The utmost beauty of their thought;
There the rich fruit of Persian looms
Glowed darkly bright as tropic blooms;
There fell the light like golden mist,
Filtered through clouds of amethyst;
There bright-winged birds and odorous flowers
With song and fragrance filled the hours;
There Pleasure flung the portals wide,
And soul and sense were satisfied!

The queen? No fairer face than hers
E’er smiled upon its worshippers;
And she was good as fair, ’twas said,
And loved the king ere they were wed.
And he? No doubt he loved her, too,
After a kingly fashion—knew
She had a right his throne to share,
And would be mother of his heir.
But yet, to do him justice, he
Sometimes forgot his royalty—
Forgot his kingly crown, and then
Loved, and made love, like other men!

There seemed no shadow near the throne;
Yet oft the great king walked alone,
Hands clasped behind him, head bowed down,
And on his royal face a frown.
Sat Mordecai within his gate?
What scoffing spectre mocked his state?
What demon held him in a spell?
Alas! the sweet queen knew too well!
Apples of Sodom ate he, since
She had not borne to him a prince,
Though thrice his hope had budded fair,
And he had counted on an heir.
Three little daughters, dainty girls
With sunshine tangled in their curls,
Bloomed in the palace; but no son—
The long-expected, waited one,
Flower of the state, and pride of all—
Grew at the king’s side, straight and tall!

The king was angered. It may be
No worse than other men was he;
But—a high tower upon a hill—
His light shone far for good or ill!
In from the chase one day he rode;
To the queen’s chamber fierce he strode;
Where bending o’er her ’broidery frame,
Her pale cheeks burned with sudden flame
At his quick coming. Up she rose,
Stirred from her wonted calm repose,
A lily flushing when the sun
Its stately beauty looked upon!
Alas! alas! so blind was he—
Or else he did not care to see—
He had no pity, though she stood
In perfect flower of womanhood!
“You bear to me no son,” he said;
Then flinging back his haughty head:
“Each base-born peasant has an heir,
His name to keep, his crust to share,
While I—the king of this broad land—
Have no son near my throne to stand!
Who, then, shall reign when I am dead?
Who wield the sceptre in my stead?
Inherit all my pride and power,
And wear my glory as his dower?
Give me a man-child, who shall be
Lord of the realm, himself, and me!”

Then pallid lips made slow reply—
“God ordereth. Not you nor I!”
His brow flushed hot; a sudden clang
As of arms throughout the chamber rang,
And turning on his heel, he threw
Back wrathful answer: “That may do
For puling women—not for me!
Now, by my good sword, we shall see!
So help me Heaven, I will not brook
On a girl’s face again to look!
And when you next shall bear a child,
Though fair a babe as ever smiled,
If it be not a princely heir,
By all the immortal gods, I swear
I ne’er will speak to it, nor break
My soul’s stern silence for Love’s sake!”

Then forth he fared and rode away,
Nor saw the queen again that day—
The hapless queen, who to the floor
Sank prone and breathless, as the door
Swung to behind him, and his tread
Down the long arches echoèd.
In truth she was in sorry plight
When her maids found her late that night,
The king learned that which spoiled his rest,
But kept the secret in his breast!

* * * * *

At length, when months had duly sped,
High streamed the banners overhead,
And all the bells rang out at morn
In jubilant peals—a Prince was born!
Now let the joyous music ring!
Now let the merry minstrels sing!
Now pour the wine and crown the feast
With fruits and flowers of all the East!
Now let the votive candles shine
And garlands bloom on every shrine!
Now let the young, with flying feet
Time to bewildering music beat,
And let the old their joys rehearse
In stirring tale, or flowing verse!
Now fill with shouts the waiting air,
And scatter largess everywhere!

Ah! who so happy as the king?
Swift flew the hours on eager wing;
And the boy grew apace, until
The second summer, sweet and still,
Dropped roses round him as he played
Where arched the leafy colonnade.
How fair he was tongue cannot say,
But he was fairer than the day;
And never princely coronet
On brow of nobler mould was set;
Nor ever did its jewels gleam
Above an eye of brighter beam;
And never yet where sunshine falls,
Flooding with light the cottage walls,
’Mid hum of bee, or song of birds,
Or tenderest breath of loving words,
Blossomed a sweeter child than he!
How the king joyed his strength to see,
Counting the weeks that flew so fast—
Each fuller, happier than the last!
Six months had passed since he could walk;
Was it not time the prince should talk?
Ah! baby words with tripping feet!
Ah! baby laughter, silver sweet!

At length within the palace rose
Rumor so strange that friends and foes
Forgot their love, forgot their hate,
Pausing to croon and speculate.
Vague whispers floated in the air;
A hint of mystery here and there;
A sudden hush, a startled glance,
Quick silences and looks askance.
Thus day by day the wonder grew,
Till o’er the kingdom wide it flew.
The prince—his father—what was this
Strange tale so surely told amiss?
The young prince dumb? Who dared to say
That nature such a prank could play?
_Dumb to the king?_ In silence bound,
With voiceless lips that gave no sound
When the king questioned?—Yet, no lute,
Nor chiming bell, nor silver flute,
Nor lark’s song, high in ether hung,
Rang clearer than the prince’s tongue!

The court physicians came and went;
Learned men from all the continent
Gave wise opinions, talked of laws,
Stroked their gray beards, nor found the cause.
Then bribes were tried, and threats. The child,
As one bewildered, sighed and smiled,
In a wild storm of weeping broke,
Moved its red lips, but never spoke.

The changeful years rolled on apace;
The young prince wore a bearded face;
The good queen died; the king grew gray;
A generation passed away.
Courtiers forgot to tell the tale;
Gossip itself grew old and stale.
But never once, in all the years
That bore such freight of joys and tears,
Was the spell broken: not one word
From son to sire was ever heard.
Mutely his father’s face he scanned—
Mutely he clasped his agèd hand—
Mutely he kissed him when at last
To death’s long slumber forth he passed!
Come weal or woe, he could not break
The mystic silence for Love’s sake!

AT DAWN

At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke,
And its glory flooded the mountain side,
I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day,
Eleven years since my darling died!”

And then I turned to my household ways,
To my daily tasks, without, within,
As happily busy all the day
As if my darling had never been!—

As if she had never lived, or died!
Yet when they buried her out of my sight
I thought the sun had gone down at noon,
And the day could never again be bright.

Ah, well! As the swift years come and go,
It will not be long ere I shall lie
Somewhere under a bit of turf,
With my pale hands folded quietly.

And then someone who has loved me well—
Perhaps the one who has loved me best—
Will say of me as I said of her,
“She has been just so many years at rest”—

Then turn to the living loves again,
To the busy life, without, within,
And the day will go on from dawn to dusk,
Even as if I had never been!

Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so!
The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine,
And the soft green grass creep still and slow,
Sometime over a grave of mine—

And over the grave in your hearts as well!
Ye cannot hinder it if ye would;
And I—ah! I shall be wiser then—
I would not hinder it if I could!

IN MEMORIAM

[Cyrus M. and Mary Ripley Fisher, lost on steamship Atlantic, April 1, 1873.]

Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sung
Of one who, when the earliest flowers were seen,
So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young,
Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green.

Soft was the turf we raised to give her room;
Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell;
Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloom
Brightening the couch of her who loved it well.

Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day,
When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid!
O, ye beloved whom I sing _this_ day,
Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid!

Could we but lay you down by her dear side,
Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest,
Where the still hours in slow succession glide,
And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast—

Where all day long the shadows come and go,
And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing—
Where all night long the starlight’s tender glow
Falls where the flowers you loved are blossoming—

Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm;
Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more;
And the clear swelling of our thankful psalm
Should drown the beat of surges on the shore.

But the deep sea will not give up its dead.
O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep,
Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed,
And bless your God for graves whereon to weep!

WEAVING THE WEB

“This morn I will weave my web,” she said,
As she stood by her loom in the rosy light,
And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear,
Followed afar the swallow’s flight.
“As soon as the day’s first tasks are done,
While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she,
“I will hasten to weave the beautiful web
Whose pattern is known to none but me!

I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair,
And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said;
“So fadeless and strong will I weave my web
That perhaps it will live after I am dead.”
But the morning hours sped on apace;
The air grew sweet with the breath of June;
And young Love hid by the waiting loom,
Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune.

“Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried,
“And morn is short though the days are long!
This noon I will weave my beautiful web,
I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.”
But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky;
The burden and heat of the day she bore
And hither and thither she came and went,
While the loom stood still as it stood before.

“Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said;
“My web must wait till the eventide,
Till the common work of the day is done,
And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.”
So, one by one, the hours passed on
Till the creeping shadows had longer grown;
Till the house was still, and the breezes slept,
And her singing birds to their nests had flown.

“And now I will weave my web,” she said,
As she turned to her loom ere set of sun,
And laid her hand on the shining threads
To set them in order one by one.
But hand was tired, and heart was weak:
“I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she,
“And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rare
Are not so bright, or so fair to see!

I must wait, I think, till another morn;
I must go to my rest with my work undone;
It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried,
As lower and lower sank the sun.
She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still;
The weaver slept in the twilight gray.
Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful web
In the golden light of a longer day?

THE “CHRISTUS” OF THE PASSION PLAY OF OBERAMMERGAU

How does life seem to thee? I long to look
Into thine inmost soul, and see if thou
Art even as other men! Oh, set apart
And consecrate so long to purpose high,
Canst thou take up again our common lot,
And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell,
Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries,
Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep,
Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do?
Unto what name less sacred answerest thou
Who hast been called the Christ of Nazareth?
Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns,
Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree,
Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty?

RABBI BENAIAH

Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day,
When the low sun athwart the level sands
Shot his long arrows, from far Eastern lands
Homeward across the desert bent his way.

Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan—
The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace;
Before him, lifted in the clear, far space,
From east to west the towers of his city ran!

Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky;
Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he,
“Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me!
As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!”

Soon like a bird across the waste he flew,
Nor drew his rein till at the massive gate
That guards the citadel’s supremest state
He paused a moment, slowly entering through.

Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped;
The city slept; but like a burning star,
Where his own turret-chamber rose afar,
A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed!

Into his court he rode with sudden clang.
The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word;
By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred,
No shouts of welcome on the night air rang!

But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs,
With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name,
And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came—
The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers.

Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear,
“Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keep
My welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep,
And let their glad tongues break the silence here!”

“Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said.
“Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me.
I have a trouble to make known to thee
Ere I before thee can lift up my head.”

Into an inner chamber led she him,
And with her own hands brought him meat and wine,
A purple robe, and linen pure and fine.
He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim!

“Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud.
“Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray?
What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert way
Bring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!”

Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she.
“My lord, long years ago a friend of mine
Left with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine,
Bidding me guard them carefully till he

Again should call for them. The other day
He sent his messenger. But I have learned
To prize them as my own! Have I not earned
A right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!”

“Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!”
The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack!
Where are the jewels? I will send them back
Ere yet the sun upon his course may start!

Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as white
As any ghost, and mutely led the way
Into the turret-chamber whence the ray
Seen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight.

Then with slow, trembling hands she drew aside
The silken curtain from before the bed
Whereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead.
“There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried.

A CHILD’S THOUGHT

Softly fell the twilight;
In the glowing west
Purple splendors faded;
Birds had gone to rest;
All the winds were sleeping;
One lone whip-poor-will
Made the silence deeper,
Calling from the hill.

Silently, serenely,
From his mother’s knee,
In the gathering darkness,
Still as still could be,
A young child watched the shadows;
Saw the stars come out;
Saw the weird bats flitting
Stealthily about;

Saw across the river
How the furnace glow,
Like a fiery pennant,
Wavered to and fro;
Saw the tall trees standing
Black against the sky,
And the moon’s pale crescent
Swinging far and high.

Deeper grew the darkness;
Darker grew his eyes
As he gazed around him,
In a still surprise.
Then intently listening,
“What is this I hear
All the time, dear mother,
Sounding in my ear?”

“I hear nothing,” said she,
“Earth is hushed and still.”
But he hearkened, hearkened,
With an eager will,
Till at length a quick smile
O’er the child-face broke,
And a kindling lustre
In his dark eyes woke.

“Listen, listen, mother!
For I hear the sound
Of the wheels, the great wheels
That move the world around!”
Oh, ears earth has dulled not!
In your purer sphere,
Strains from ours withholden
Are you wise to hear?

“GOD KNOWS”

Wild and dark was the winter night
When the emigrant ship went down,
But just outside of the harbor bar,
In the sight of the startled town.
The winds howled, and the sea roared,
And never a soul could sleep,
Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts,
Too young to watch and weep.

No boat could live in the angry surf,
No rope could reach the land:
There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore,
There was many a ready hand—
Women who prayed, and men who strove
When prayers and work were vain;
For the sun rose over the awful void
And the silence of the main.

All day the watchers paced the sands,
All day they scanned the deep,
All night the booming minute-guns
Echoed from steep to steep.
“Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!”
They cried athwart the space;
But only an infant’s fragile form
Escaped from its stern embrace.

Only one little child of all
Who with the ship went down
That night when the happy babies slept
So warm in the sheltered town.
Wrapped in the glow of the morning light,
It lay on the shifting sand,
As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream,
With a shell in its dimpled hand.

There were none to tell of its race or kin.
“God knoweth,” the pastor said,
When the wondering children asked of him
The name of the baby dead.
And so, when they laid it away at last
In the church-yard’s hushed repose,
They raised a stone at the baby’s head,
With the carven words, “God knows.”

THE MOUNTAIN ROAD

Only a glimpse of mountain road
That followed where a river flowed;
Only a glimpse—then on we passed
Skirting the forest dim and vast.

I closed my eyes. On rushed the train
Into the dark, then out again,
Startling the song-birds as it flew
The wild ravines and gorges through.

But, heeding not the dangerous way
O’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray,
I only saw, as in a dream,
The road beside the mountain stream.

No smoke curled upward in the air,
No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair;
But towering peaks rose far and high,
Piercing the clear, untroubled sky.

Yet down the yellow, winding road
That followed where the river flowed,
I saw a long procession pass
As shadows over bending grass.

The young, the old, the sad, the gay,
Whose feet had worn that narrow way,
Since first within the dusky glade
Some Indian lover wooed his maid;

Or silent crept from tree to tree—
Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he!
Or breathless crouched while through the brake
The wild deer stole his thirst to slake.

The barefoot school-boys rushing out,
An eager, crowding, roisterous rout;
The sturdy lads; the lassies gay
As bobolinks in merry May;

The farmer whistling to his team
When first the dawn begins to gleam;
The loaded wains that one by one
Drag slowly home at set of sun;

Young lovers straying hand in hand
Within a fair, enchanted land;
And many a bride with lingering feet;
And many a matron calm and sweet;

And many an old man bent with pain;
And many a solemn funeral train;
And sometimes, red against the sky,
An army’s banners waving high!

All mysteries of life and death
To which the spirit answereth,
Are thine, O lonely mountain road,
That followed where the river flowed!

ENTERING IN

The church was dim and silent
With the hush before the prayer,
Only the solemn trembling
Of the organ stirred the air;
Without, the sweet, still sunshine;
Within, the holy calm
Where priest and people waited
For the swelling of the psalm.

Slowly the door swung open,
And a trembling baby girl,
Brown-eyed, with brown hair falling
In many a wavy curl,
With soft cheeks flushing hotly,
Shy glances downward thrown,
And small hands clasped before her,
Stood in the aisle alone.

Stood half abashed, half frightened,
Unknowing where to go,
While like a wind-rocked flower,
Her form swayed to and fro,
And the changing color fluttered
In the little troubled face,
As from side to side she wavered
With a mute, imploring grace.

It was but for a moment;
What wonder that we smiled,
By such a strange, sweet picture
From holy thoughts beguiled?
Then up rose someone softly:
And many an eye grew dim,
As through the tender silence
He bore the child with him.

And I—I wondered (losing
The sermon and the prayer)
If when sometime I enter
The “many mansions” fair,
And stand, abashed and drooping,
In the portal’s golden glow,
Our God will send an angel
To show me where to go!

A FLOWER FOR THE DEAD

You placed this flower in her hand, you say?
This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay?
Could she but lift her sealèd eyes,
They would meet your own with a grieved surprise!

She has been your wife for many a year,
When clouds hung low and when skies were clear;
At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring,
And her summer’s glorious blossoming.

Her whole heart went with the hand you won;
If its warm love waned as the years went on,
If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell,
What was the reason? I pray you tell!

You cannot? I can; and beside her bier
My soul must speak and your soul must hear.
If she was not all that she might have been,
Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin.

Whose was the fault if she did not grow
Like a rose in the summer? Do you know?
Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled?
Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed?

For a little while, when you first were wed,
Your love was like sunshine round her shed;
Then a something crept between you two,
You led where she could not follow you.

With a man’s firm tread you went and came;
You lived for wealth, for power, for fame;
Shut in to her woman’s work and ways,
She heard the nation chant your praise.

But ah! you had dropped her hand the while;
What time had you for a kiss, a smile?
You two, with the same roof overhead,
Were as far apart as the sundered dead!

You, in your manhood’s strength and prime;
She, worn and faded before her time.
’Tis a common story. This rose, you say,
You laid in her pallid hand to-day?

When did you give her a flower before?
Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er?
Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again.
I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men.

But I pray you think when some fairer face
Shines like a star from her wonted place,
That love will starve if it is not fed;
That true hearts pray for their daily bread.

THOU KNOWEST

Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should I
Weary high heaven with restless prayers and tears?
Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cry
Hath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears.

Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need,
O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er,
And with persistent iteration plead
As one who crieth at some closèd door?

“Tease not!” we mothers to our children say—
“Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.”
Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway,
Begging for this and that in wild unrest?

I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate,
Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within;
O, Love Divine! I can but stand and wait
Till Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in!

WINTER

O my roses, lying underneath the snow!
Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow?
Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burned
When the Day-god on you ardent glances turned?

Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven,
Do you think how softly, on some warm June even,
All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low,
As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro?