# The poems of Richard Watson Gilder/The Great Remembrance

THE GREAT REMEMBRANCE
AND OTHER POEMS
THE GREAT REMEMBRANCE
AND OTHER POEMS
PART I
THE GREAT REMEMBRANCE
Read at the Annual Reunion of the Society of the Army of the Potomac, Faneuil Hall, Boston, June 27, 1893.
Comrades, the circle narrows, heads grow white, As once more by the camp-fire's flaring light We gather and clasp hands, as we have done These many, many years. So long ago A part we were of all that glorious show,— Stood, side by side, 'neath the red battle-sun,— So long ago we breathed war's thunderous breath, Knew the white fury of that life-in-death, So long ago that troubled joy, it seems The valorous pageant might resolve to splendid dreams. But no! Too deep 't is burned into the brain! As well were lightning-scar by summer rain Washed clean away, when stroke on blinding stroke Hath torn the rock, and riven the blackened oak. How oft as down these peaceful streets we pass All vanishes save, lo! the rutted grass, Wreckt caissons, frightened beasts, and, merciful God! The piteous burden of the ensanguined sod! Yet not all terror doth the memory save From war's emblazonry and open grave: In glimpses, flashing like a meteor's light, ​A silent army marches through the night; The guidons flutter in a golden valley Where, at the noonday halt, the horsemen dally; Or, look! a thousand tents gleam through the black; Or, now, where quick-built camp-fires flame and crack, From blaze to shade men stretch o'erwearied limbs, Chant songs, or wake the hills with chorused hymns; Or, ere the dawn makes pale the starry dark, The fiery signals, spark on trailing spark, Write on the silent sky their still command, While the great army moves, drawn by a single hand.
So long ago it seems, so long ago, Behold, our sons, grown men since those great days,— Born since the last clear bugle ceased to blow Its summons down the valley; since the bays Shook with the roar of fort and answering fleet,— Our very children look into our eyes And find strange records, with a mute surprise; As they some curious traveler might greet Who kept far countries in his musing mind, Beyond the weltering seas, the mountain-walls behind. And yet it was this land and not another, Where blazed war's flame and rolled the battle-cloud. In all this land there was no home where brother, Father, or son hurried not forth; where bowed No broken-hearted woman when pale Death Laid his cold finger on the loved one's breath.
Like to a drama did the scene unroll— Some dark, majestic drama of the soul, Wherein all strove as actors, hour by hour, Yet breathless watched the whole swift, tragic play. Faithful did each his little part essay, ​Urged to an end unknown by one all-knowing Power; While if the drama pauses, now and then, On the huge stage, 't is for a moment only— Here at the heart or in some vista lonely, A single hero or a million men, And with the tragic theme the world resounds again. First, in the awful waiting came the shock, The shame unbearable, the sacred flag assailed— Assailed in freedom's name by those who freedom mock! Ah, then the oath, to stand as stands the rock 'Gainst flood and tempest, lest that flag be trailed And torn, or any star therefrom be lost— The oath, murmured alone, or where the crowd, As by a wind of heaven swept and tost, Passioned its soul to God, and strong men wept aloud. Then sweet farewell; O bitter-sweet farewell; O brave farewell! Who were the bravest then, Or they who went, or waited—women or men? They who the cheers heard, or the funeral knell? They who stept proudly to the rattling drum, Inflamed by war's divine delirium, Or they who knew no mad joy of the fight, And yet breathed on through waiting day and weeping night?
Farewell and forward! O, to live it over, The first wild heart-beat of heroic hours! Forward, like mountain-torrents after showers! Forward to death, as to his bride the lover! Forward, till quick recoils the impetuous flood, And ends the first dread scene in terror and in blood! Onward once more, through sun and shivering storm,— A monstrous length with wavering bulk enorm,— Wounded or striking, bringing blood or bleeding, ​Onward, still on, the agony unheeding! Onward with failing heart, or courage high! Onward through heat, and hunger, and dismay, Turning the starry night to murderous day! Onward, with hope appalled, once more to strike, and die!
So marched, so fought, so agonized, the hosts; Battling through forests; rotting where slow crawls The deathly swamp-stream; and like pallid ghosts Haunting the hospitals, and loathèd prison-walls. They knew what freedom was, and right to breathe Clean air who burrowed from the filth and seethe Of foulest pens, only that dogs might track, And to the death-pit drag their living corpses back. O, would to Heaven some sights could fade from out Clear memory's all too melancholy page— Fade and be gone forever! Let the shout Of victory only linger, and the rage And glory of battle over land and sea, And all that noblest is in war's fierce pageantry. Echoes of deeds immortal, O, awake! Tremble to language, into music break, Till lyric memory takes the old emotion, And leaps from heart to heart the ancient thrill! Tell of great deeds that yet the wide earth fill: How first upon the amazèd waves of ocean The black, infernal, deadly armored-ships Together rushed, and all the world stood still, While a new word of war burst from those iron lips; How up the rivers thundered the strong fleets; How the great captains 'gainst each other dashed Gigantic armies. What wild welcome meets Some well-loved chief who, ere those armies clashed, ​Rides like a whirlwind the embattled line, Kindling the stricken ranks to bravery divine! And, hark, at set of sun, the cheer that greets Victorious news from far-off armies, flashed From camp to camp, with roar on answering roar, Like bellowing waves that track the tempest down the shore. But chiefly tell of that one hour of all When threatening war rolled highest its full tide, Even to the perilous northern mountain-side Where Heaven should bid our good cause rise or fall. Tell of that hour, for never in all the world Was braver army 'gainst a braver hurled. To both the victory, all unawares, Beyond all dreams of losing or of winning; For the new land which now is ours and theirs, Had on that topmost day its glorious beginning. They who charged up that drenched and desperate slope Were heroes all—and looked in heroes' eyes! Ah! heroes never heroes did despise! That day had Strife its bloodiest bourn and scope; Above the shaken hills and sulphurous skies Peace lifted up her mournful head and smiled on Hope.
Rushed the great drama on its tragic way Swift to the happy end from that tremendous day. Happy, indeed, could memory lose her power And yield to joy alone the glad, triumphant hour; Happy if every aching heart could shun Remembrance of the unreturning one; If at the Grand Review, when mile on mile And day on day the marching columns past, Darkened not o'er the world the shadow vast Of his foul murder—he the free from guile, ​Sad-hearted, loving, and beloved, and wise, Who ruled with sinewy hands and dreaming eyes. What soul that lived then who remembers not The hour, the landscape, ah! the very spot,— Hateful for aye,—where news that he was slain Struck like a hammer on the dazèd brain!
So long ago it was, so long ago, All, all have past; the terror and the splendor Have turned like yester-evening's stormy glow Into a sunset memory strange and tender. How beautiful it seems, what lordly sights, What deeds sublime, what wondrous days and nights, What love of comrades, ay, what quickened breath, When first we knew that, startled, quailing, still We too, even we, along the blazing hill, We, with the best, could face and conquer death!
Glorious all these, but these all less than naught To the one passion of those days divine, Love of the land our own hearts' blood had bought— Our country, our own country, yours and mine, Then known, then sternly loved, first in our lives. Ah! loved we not our children, sisters, wives? But our own country, this was more than they,— Our wives, our children, this,—our hope, our love For all most dear, but more—the dawning day Of freedom for the world, the hope above All hope for the sad race of man. For where, In what more lovely world, 'neath skies more fair, If freedom here should fail, could it find soil and air? In this one thought, one passion,—whate'er fate Still may befall,—one moment we were great! One moment in life's brief, perplexèd hour ​We climbed the hight of being, and the power That falls alone on those who love their kind A moment made us one with the Eternal Mind.
One moment, ah! not so, dear Country! Thou Art still our passion; still to thee we bow In love supreme! Fairer than e'er before Art thou to-day, from golden shore to shore The home of freemen. Not one stain doth cling Now to thy banner. Argosies of war On thy imperial rivers bravely fling Flags of the nations, but no message bring Save of peace only; while, behold, from far The Old World comes to greet thy natal star That with the circling century returns, And in the Western heavens with fourfold beauty burns.
Land that we love! Thou Future of the World! Thou refuge of the noble heart opprest! O, never be thy shining image hurled From its high place in the adoring breast Of him who worships thee with jealous love! Keep thou thy starry forehead as the dove All white, and to the eternal Dawn inclined! Thou art not for thyself but for mankind, And to despair of thee were to despair Of man, of man's high destiny, of God! Of thee should man despair, the journey trod Upward, through unknown eons, stair on stair, By this our race, with bleeding feet and slow, Were but the pathway to a darker woe Than yet was visioned by the heavy heart Of prophet. To despair of thee! Ah, no! For thou thyself art Hope, Hope of the World thou art!
​Comrades belovèd, see, the fire burns low, And darkness thickens. Soon shall our brief part On earth forever end, and we shall go To join the unseen ranks; nor will we swerve Or fear, when to the silent, great reserve At last we ordered—are as one by one Our Captains have been called, their labors done, To rest and wait in the Celestial Field. Ay, year by year, we to the dead did yield Our bravest. Them we followed to the tomb Sorrowing; for they were worthy of our love— High-souled and generous, loving peace above War and its glories: therefore lives no gloom In this our sorrow; rather pride, and praise, And gratitude, and memory of old days. A little while and these tired hands will cease To lift obedient or in war or peace— Faithful we trust in peace as once in war; And on the scroll of peace some triumphs are Noble as battles won; tho' less resounds The fame, as deep and bitter are the wounds. But now the fire burns low, and we must sleep Erelong, while other eyes than ours the vigil keep. And after we are gone, to other eyes That watch below shall come, in starry skies, A fairer dawn, whereon in fiery light The Eternal Captain shall his signals write; And shaken from rest, and gazing at that sign, On shall the mighty Nation move, led by a hand divine.
PART II
"THE WHITE CITY"
(THE COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION)
I
Greece was; Greece is no more. Temple and town Have crumbled down; Time is the fire that hath consumed them all. Statue and wall In ruin strew the universal floor.
II
Greece lives, but Greece no more! Its ashes breed The undying seed Blown westward till, in Rome's imperial towers, Athens reflowers; Still westward—lo, a veiled and virgin shore!
III
Say not, "Greece is no more." Through the clear morn On light winds borne Her white-winged soul sinks on the New World's breast. Ah! happy West— Greece flowers anew, and all her temples soar!
IV
One bright hour, then no more Shall to the skies These columns rise. ​But tho' art's flower shall fade, again the seed Onward shall speed, Quickening the land from lake to ocean's roar.
V
Art lives, tho' Greece may never From the ancient mold As once of old Exhale to heaven the inimitable bloom; Yet from that tomb Beauty walks forth to light the world forever!
THE VANISHING CITY
I
Enraptured memory, and all ye powers of being, To new life waken! Stamp the vision clear On the soul's inmost substance. O, let seeing Be more than seeing; let the entrancèd ear Take deep these surging sounds, inweaved with light Of unimagined radiance; let the intense Illumined loveliness that thrills the night Strike in the human heart some deeper sense! So shall these domes that meet heaven's curvèd blue, And yon long, white, imperial colonnade, And many-columned peristyle, endue The mind with beauty that shall never fade; Tho' all too soon to dark oblivion wending— Reared in one happy hour to know as swift an ending.
II
Thou shalt of all the cities of the world Famed for their grandeur, evermore endure Imperishably and all alone impearled In the world's living thought, the one most sure ​Of love undying and of endless praise For beauty only—chief of all thy kind; Immortal, even because of thy brief days; Thou cloud-built, fairy city of the mind! Here man doth pluck from the full tree of life The latest, lordliest flower of earthly art; This doth he breathe, while resting from his strife, This presses he against his weary heart; Then, wakening from his dream within a dream, He flings the faded flower on Time's down-rushing stream.
III
O, never as here in the eternal years Hath burst to bloom man's free and soaring spirit, Joyous, untrammeled, all untouched by tears And the dark weight of woe it doth inherit. Never so swift the mind's imaginings Caught sculptured form, and color. Never before,— Save where the soul beats unembodied wings 'Gainst viewless skies,—was such enchanted shore Jeweled with ivory palaces like these: By day a miracle, a dream by night; Yet real as beauty is, and as the seas Whose waves glance back keen lines of glittering light When million lamps, and coronets of fire, And fountains as of flame, to the bright stars aspire.
IV
Glide, magic boat, from out the green lagoon, 'Neath the dark bridge, into this smiting glow And unthought glory. Even the glistening moon Hangs in the nearer splendor. Let not go The scene, my soul, till ever 't is thine own! This is Art's citadel and crown. How still ​The innumerous multitudes from every zone, That watch and listen; while each eye doth fill With joyous tears unwept. Now solemn strains Of brazen music give the waiting soul Voice and a sigh—it other speech disdains, Here where the visual sense faints to its goal! Ah, silent multitudes, ye are a part Of the wise architect's supreme and glorious art!
V
O joy almost too high for saddened mortal! O ecstasy envisioned! Thou shouldst be Lasting as thou art lovely; as immortal As through all time the matchless thought of thee! Yet would we miss, then, the sweet, piercing pain Of thy inconstancy! Could we but banish This haunting pang, ah, then thou wouldst not reign One with the golden sunset that doth vanish Through myriad lingering tints down melting skies; Nor the pale mystery of the New World flower That blooms once only, then forever dies— Pouring a century's wealth on one dear hour. Then vanish, City of Dream, and be no more; Soon shall this fair Earth's self be lost on the unknown shore.
THE TOWER OF FLAME
(THE COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION, JULY 10, 1893)
Here for the world to see men brought their fairest, Whatever of beauty is in all the earth; The priceless flower of art, the loveliest, rarest, Here by our inland ocean came to glorious birth.
​Yet on this day of doom a strange new splendor Shed its celestial light on all men's eyes: Flower of the hero-soul,—consummate, tender,— That from the tower of flame sprang to the eternal skies.
LOWELL
I
From the shade of the elms that murmured above thy birth And the pines that sheltered thy life and shadowed the end, 'Neath the white-blue skies thee to thy rest we bore,— 'Neath the summer skies thou didst love, 'mid the songs of thy birds, By thy childhood's stream, 'neath the grass and the flowers thou knewest, Near the grave of the singer whose name with thine own is enlaureled, By the side of the brave who live in thy deathless song,— Here all that was mortal of thee we left, with our tears, With our love, and our grief that could not be quenched or abated; For even the part that was mortal, sweet friend and companion! That face, and that figure of beauty, and flashing eye Which in youth shone forth like a god's 'mid lesser men, And in gray-haired, strenuous age still glowed and lustered,— These, too, were dear to us,—blame us not, soaring spirit! These, too, were dear, and now we shall never behold them, Nor ever shall feel the quick clasp of thy welcoming hand.
II
But not for ourselves alone are we spent in grieving, For the stricken Land we mourn whose light is darkened, Whose soul in sorrow went forth in the night-time with thine. Lover and laureate thou of the wide New World, Whose pines, and prairies, and people, and teeming soil, Where was shaken of old the seed of the freedom of men, Thou didst love as a strong man loveth the maiden he woos,— Not the woman he toys with, and sings to, and, passing, forgets,— Whom he woos, whom he wins, whom he weds; his passion, his pride; Who no shadow of wrong shall suffer, who shall stand in his sight Pure as the sky of the evil her foeman may threat, Save by word or by thought of her own in her whiteness untouched And wounded alone of the lightning her spirit engenders.
III
Take of thy grief new strength, new life, O Land! Weep no more he is lost, but rejoice and be glad forever That thy lover who died was born, for thy pleasure, thy glory— While his love and his fame light ever thy climbing path.
August 14, 1891.
THE SILENCE OF TENNYSON
When that great shade into the silence vast Through thinking silence past; When he, our century's soul and voice, was husht, ​We who,—appalled, bowed, crusht,— Within the holy moonlight of his death Waited the parting breath; Ah, not in song Might we our grief prolong. Silence alone, O golden spirit fled! Silence alone could mourn that silence dread.
ON THE DEATH OF A GREAT MAN
PHILLIPS BROOKS
When from this mortal scene A great soul passes to the vast unknown, Let not in hopeless grief the spirit groan. Death comes to all, the mighty and the mean. If by that death the whole world suffer loss, This be the proof (and lighter thus our cross), That he for whom the world doth sorely grieve Greatly hath blessed mankind in that he once did live. Then, at the parting breath Let men praise Life, nor idly blame dark Death.
A HERO OF PEACE
IN MEMORY OF ROBERT ROSS: SHOT MARCH 6, 1894
"No bugle on the blast Calls warriors face to face; Grim battle being forever past, Gone is the hero-race."
Ah, no! there is no peace! If liberty shall live, Never may freemen dare to cease Their love, their life to give.
​Unto the patriot's heart The silent summons comes; Not braver he who does his part To the sound of beating drums.
And thou who gavest youth, And life, and all most dear; Sweet soul, impassionate of truth, White on thy murdered bier!—
Thy deed, thy date, thy name Are wreathed with deathless flowers. Thy fate shall be the guiding flame That lights to nobler hours.
WASHINGTON AT TRENTON
THE BATTLE MONUMENT, OCTOBER 19, 1893
Since ancient Time began, Ever on some great soul God laid an infinite burden— The weight of all this world, the hopes of man. Conflict and pain, and fame immortal are his guerdon!
And this the unfaltering token Of him, the Deliverer—what tho' tempests beat, Tho' all else fail, tho' bravest ranks be broken, He stands unscared, alone, nor ever knows defeat.
Such was that man of men; And if are praised all virtues, every fame Most noble, highest, purest—then, ah! then, Upleaps in every heart the name none needs to name.
Ye who defeated, 'whelmed, Betray the sacred cause, let go the trust; ​Sleep, weary, while the vessel drifts unhelmed; Here see in triumph rise the hero from the dust!
All ye who fight forlorn 'Gainst fate and failure; ye who proudly cope With evil high enthroned; all ye who scorn Life from Dishonor's hand, here take new heart of hope.
Here know how Victory borrows For the brave soul a front as of disaster, And from the bannered East what glorious morrows For all the blackness of the night speed surer, faster.
Know by this pillared sign For what brief while the powers of earth and hell Can war against the spirit of truth divine, Or can against the heroic heart of man prevail.
FAME
Fame is an honest thing, It is deceivèd not; It passes by the palace gates Where the crowned usurper waits, Enters the peasant-poet's cot And cries: "Thou art the king!"
A MONUMENT BY SAINT-GAUDENS
This is not Death, nor Sorrow, nor sad Hope; Nor Rest that follows strife. But, O, more dread! 'T is Life, for all its agony serene; Immortal, and unmournful, and content.
A MEMORY OF RUBINSTEIN
He of the ocean is, its thunderous waves Echo his music; while far down the shore Mad laughter hurries—a white, blowing spume. I hear again in memory that wild storm; The winds of heaven go rushing round the world, And broods above the rage one sphinx-like face.
PADEREWSKI
I
If songs were perfume, color, wild desire; If poet's words were fire That burned to blood in purple-pulsing veins; If with a bird-like thrill the moments throbbed to hours; If summer's rains Turned drop by drop to shy, sweet, maiden flowers; If God made flowers with light and music in them, And saddened hearts could win them; If loosened petals touched the ground With a caressing sound; If love's eyes uttered word No listening lover e'er before had heard; If silent thoughts spake with a bugle's voice; If flame passed into song and cried, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" If words could picture life's, hope's, heaven's eclipse When the last kiss has fallen on dying eyes and lips; If all of mortal woe Struck on one heart with breathless blow on blow; If melody were tears, and tears were starry gleams That shone in evening's amethystine dreams; Ah, yes, if notes were stars, each star a different hue, Trembling to earth in dew; ​Or if the boreal pulsings, rose and white, Made a majestic music in the night; If all the orbs lost in the light of day In the deep, silent blue began their harps to play; And when in frightening skies the lightnings flashed And storm-clouds crashed, If every stroke of light and sound were but excess of beauty; If human syllables could e'er refashion That fierce electric passion; If other art could match (as were the poet's duty) The grieving, and the rapture, and the thunder Of that keen hour of wonder,— That light as if of heaven, that blackness as of hell,— How the great master plays then might I dare to tell.
II
How the great master plays! And was it he Or some disbodied spirit which had rushed From silence into singing; and had crushed Into one startled hour a life's felicity, And highest bliss of knowledge—that all pain, grief, wrong, Turn at the last to beauty and to song!
HANDEL'S LARGO
When the great organs, answering each to each, Joined with the violin's celestial speech, Then did it seem that all the heavenly host Gave praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: We saw the archangels through the ether winging; We heard their souls go forth in solemn singing; "Praise, praise to God," they sang, "through endless days, ​Praise to the Eternal One, and naught but praise"; And as they sang the spirits of the dying Were upward borne from lips that ceased their sighing; And dying was not death, but deeper living— Living, and prayer, and praising and thanksgiving!
THE STAIRWAY
By this stairway narrow, steep, Thou shalt climb from song to sleep; From sleep to dream and song once more;— Sleep well, sweet friend, sleep well, dream deep!
THE ACTOR
Glorious that ancient art!— In thine own form to show the fire and fashion Of every age and clime, of every passion That dwells in man's deep heart!
Player, play well, not meanly, Thy part in life, as on the mimic stage! From highest thought is born art's noblest rage: Live, act, end all, serenely!
THE STRICKEN PLAYER
When at life's last the stricken player lies, When throng before his darkened, dreaming eyes His soul's companions, which more real then— The human comrades, the live women and men Of the large world he knew, or the ideal Imagined creatures his own art made real; Wherein he poured his spirit's very being, His soul and body? Are those dim eyes seeing ​Himself as one of Shakespeare's men? Are maids And queens he wooed, the kings he was, or knew Upon the tragic stage, are these the shades That now his visionary hours pursue, Attendant on his passing? Listen near! What breathed murmurs 'scape those pallid lips To which the nations hearkened, ere the eclipse Of all that brightness? Now lean close and hear; Ah, see that look, sweeter than when he smiled Upon the applauding world, while she draws near And hears a dear voice whisper: "Child, my Child!"
AN AUTUMN DIRGE
(E. F. H.)
I
O ease my heart, sad song, O ease my heart! In all this autumn pageantry no part Hath sorrow! Woods, and fields, and meadows glow With jeweled colors. All alone I go Amid the poignant beauty of the year, Too heavy-hearted for one easeful tear. For she who loved this autumn splendor, These flaming marsh-flowers, oak-leaves rich and tender,— And who in loving all, made all to me more dear,— No more is here; No more, no more is here! Sad song, O, bring some thought With music from some happy memory caught! No light for me in all the lovely day Those eyes being shut that first did lead the way 'Neath these great pines whose green vault hides the sky, And down the rock-strewn shore where the white sea-birds cry!
II
All fades but those young, happy hours, And in my soul once more the old joy flowers. It flowers once more only to bring new pain; For all in vain, O song! thou singest in my grieving heart! Thou hast no art To bring again the smile I loved so well, The voice that like a bell Sounded all moods of sorrow and of laughter, And the dear presence that in childhood's earliest thought, And all the bright or darkened days thereafter, Into my life a saddened sweetness brought— Something of mother and of sister love, A friendship far above The ties that bind and loosen as we tread The throngèd pleasures of life's later days. Sweet maiden soul, I cannot praise But mourn thee, mourn thee, to the shadows fled.
II
Shadows, O nevermore! For when past forth thy spirit it did seem As if against the black a golden door Were opened and a gleam From the eternal Light fell on thy face And made a visible glory in the place. Ah, well I know Whatever be the source from whence we flow, Whate'er the power begot these hearts of ours,— As the great earth brings forth the summer flowers,— That power is good, is God, and in her dying room Humaned itself to sense and lightened all the gloom.
ELEONORA DUSE
If ever flashed upon this mortal scene A soul unsheathèd, a pale, trembling flame, That suffered every gust, and yet did cling With fire unquenchable—it is thine own, Thou artist of the real! Unto thee No mirth of life is secret; but, sweet soul, With what sure art thou picturest human woe! How natural tears to those Italian eyes— Shadowing in untold depths whatever grief Familiar is to mortals!
KELP ROCK
(E. C. S.)
Rock's the song-soil, truly (So sang one bard of power); Therefore our poet duly Built on this rock his tower; And therefore in his singing We breathe the salty morning; We hear the storm-bell ringing, The "siren's" piercing warning, The sea-winds roaring, sighing, The long waves rising, falling; We hear the herons calling, The clashing waves replying.
AT NIAGARA
I
There at the chasm's edge behold her lean Trembling as, 'neath the charm, A wild bird lifts no wing to 'scape from harm; ​Her very soul drawn to the glittering, green, Smooth, lustrous, awful, lovely curve of peril; While far below the bending sea of beryl Thunder and tumult—whence a billowy spray Enclouds the day.
II
What dream is hers? No dream hath wrought that spell! The long waves rise and sink; Pity that virgin soul on passion's brink, Confronting Fate,—swift, unescapable,— Fate, which of nature is the intent and core, And dark and strong as the steep river's pour, Cruel as love, and wild as love's first kiss! Ah, God! the abyss!
THE CHILD-GARDEN
In the child-garden buds and blows A blossom lovelier than the rose.
If all the flowers of all the earth In one garden broke to birth,
Not the fairest of the fair Could with this sweet bloom compare;
Nor would all their shining be Peer to its lone bravery.
Fairer than the rose, I say? Fairer than the sun-bright day
In whose rays all glories show, All beauty is, all blossoms blow;
​While beside it deeply shine Blooms that take its light divine:
The perilous sweet flower of Hope Here its hiding eyes doth ope,
And Gentleness doth near uphold Its healing leaves and heart of gold;
Here tender fingers push the seed Of Knowledge; pluck the poisonous weed;
Here blossoms Joy one singing hour, And here of Love the immortal flower.
What this blossom, fragrant, tender, That outbeams the rose's splendor—
Purer is, more tinct with light Than the lily's flame of white?
Of beauty hath this flower the whole, And its name—the Human Soul!
THE CHRIST-CHILD
A PICTURE BY FRANK VINCENT DU MOND
Done is the day of care. Into the shadowy room Flows the pure evening light, To stem the gathering gloom, The lily's flame illume, And the bowed heads make bright The heads bowed low in prayer.
​See how the level rays Through the white garments pour Of the holy child, who stands, With bending brow, to implore Grace on the toilers' store; O, see those sinless hands! Behold, the Christ-child prays!
Wait, wait, ye lingering rays, Stand still, O Earth and Sun, Draw near, thou Soul of God— This is the suffering one! Already the way is begun The piercèd Savior trod; And now the Christ-child prays, The holy Christ-child prays.
A CHILD
Her voice was like the song of birds; Her eyes were like the stars; Her little waving hands were like Bird's wings that beat the bars.
And when those waving hands were still,— Her soul had fled away,— The music faded from the air, The color from the day.
TWO VALLEYS
Yes, 't is a glorious sight, This valley, that mountain hight.
The river plunges and roars Like the loud sea on its shores
​What time in waves enorm Breaks the gigantic storm.
The wooded mount doth climb To a thought intense, sublime.
The glory of all I feel; But my heart, my heart, will steal
Down the journey of years, Through the lands of laughter and tears,
Far back to the least of valleys Where a slow brook curves and dallies,
Where a boy, in the twilight gleam, Walks alone with his dream.
ON THE BAY
This watery vague how vast! This misty globe, Seen from this center where the ferry plies,— It plies, but seems to poise in middle air,— Soft gray below gray heavens, and in the west A rose-gray memory of the sunken sun; And, where gray water touches grayer sky, A band of darker gray prickt out with lights— A diamond-twinkling circlet bounding all; And where the statue looms, a quenchless star; And where the lighthouse, a red, pulsing flame; While the great bridge its starry diadem Lifts through the gray, itself in grayness lost!
WASHINGTON SQUARE
This is the end of the town that I love the best. O, lovely the hour of light from the burning west— ​Of light that lingers and fades in the shadowy square Where the solemn fountain lifts a shaft in the air To catch the skyey colors, and fling them down In a wild-wood torrent that drowns the noise of the town. And lovely the hour of the still and dreamy night When, lifted against the blue, stands the arch of white With one clear planet above; and the sickle moon, In curve reversed from the arch's marble round, Silvers the sapphire sky. Now soon, ah, soon, Shall the city square be turned to holy ground, Through the light of the moon and the stars and the glowing flower,— The Cross of Light,—that looms from the sacred tower.
THE CITY
O, dear is the song of the pine When the wind of the night-time blows, And dear is the murmuring river That afar through my childhood flows; And soft is the raindrop's beat And the fountain's lyric play, But to me no music is half so sweet As the thunder of Broadway!
Stream of the living world Where dash the billows of strife!— One plunge in the mighty torrent Is a year of tamer life! City of glorious days, Of hope, and labor, and mirth, With room, and to spare, on thy splendid bays For the ships of all the earth!
A RHYME OF TYRINGHAM
Down in the meadow and up on the hight The breezes are blowing the willows white. In the elms and maples the robins call, And the great black crow sails over all In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
The river winds through the trees and the brake And the meadow-grass like a shining snake; And low in the summer and loud in the spring The rapids and reaches murmur and sing In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
In the shadowy pools the trout are shy, So creep to the bank and cast the fly! What thrills and tremors the tense cords stir When the trout it strikes with a tug and a whir In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley!
At dark of the day the mist spreads white, Like a magic lake in the glimmering light; Or the winds from the meadow the white mists blow, And the fireflies glitter,—a sky below,— In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
And O, in the windy days of the fall The maples and elms are scarlet all, And the world that was green is gold and red, And with huskings and cider they 're late to bed In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
Now squirrel and partridge and hawk and hare And wildcat and woodchuck and fox beware! ​The three days' hunt is waxing warm For the Count Up Dinner at Riverside Farm In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
The meadow-ice will be freezing soon, And then for a skate by the light of the moon. So pile the wood on the hearth, my boy! Winter is coming! I wish you joy By the light of the hearth and the moon, my boy, In Tyringham, Tyringham Valley.
ELSIE
"Do you love me?" Elsie asked, And her rose-leaf dimples masked 'Neath a pleading look, the while On her pouting lips a smile Hovered, yet was out of sight Like a star that's hid at night By a filmy, flying cloud. "Do you love me?" scarce aloud Lovely Cousin Elsie said. "Why no answer, Cousin Ed? Do you hate me, then, or why From Your Highness no reply?" So the chiding witch ran on: "In a moment I'll be gone; Then too late, Sir No Gallant! Quick! I'll tell my precious aunt That you love me not," she cries, "That you hate me and despise." Flash the great, gray, long-lashed eyes; Half in earnest now the girl; Down the pretty corners curl ​Of the tiny mouth, and lo! From those eyes two tearlets flow;— Just two kisses, and they go! Like a sunburst after showers, Like white light upon the flowers, Now again the dimples show. But she could not understand Why so long the answer waited For the loved and not the hated, While he held that little hand, And like a bird she sang and said,— Half in earnest, half in fun,— "Do you love me, Solemn One? Do you love me, Cousin Ed? Do you love me? Do you love me? Love me, love me, Cousin Ed?"
INDIRECTION
I saw not the leaf But its shadow trembling, trembling down. I faced to northward, to my grief, When from the southern sky a crimson meteor lit the star-dark town. I saw not naked Love Lean from his porphyry throne above And touch her heart to flame, Yet on her brow I saw the swift, sweet, virgin shame.
"AH, BE NOT FALSE"
Ah, be not false, sweet Splendor! Be true, be good; Be wise as thou art tender; Be all that Beauty should.
​Not lightly be thy citadel subdued; Not ignobly, not untimely. Take praise in solemn mood; Take love sublimely.
THE ANSWER
Through starry space two angels dreamed their flight, 'Mid worlds and thoughts of worlds, through day and night.
Then one spake forth whose voice was like the flower That blossoms in the fragrant midnight hour. This white-browed angel of the other asked: "Of all the essences that ever basked In the eternal presence; of all things, All thoughts, all joys, all dreads, all sorrowings Amid the unimaginable vast— Being, or shall be, or forever past— Profound with dark, or hid in endless light— Which of all these most deep and infinite?" Then did the elder speak, the while he turned On him who asked clear eyes that slowly burned The spirit through, like to a living coal: "No depth there is so deep as woman's soul."
HOW DEATH MAY MAKE A MAN
Death is a sorry plight, It bringeth unto man End of all delight. Yet many a woeful wight Only dying can Quit him like a man.
​Dawdling, drawling, silly, Maundering, scarce a man; Driven willy-nilly; When he's dying will he Run as once he ran, Or quit him like a man?
Vile from out the wrack Crawls he less than man; Cowering in his track Beaten, broken, black; Curse him if you can— Death may make him man.
In life the wretch did naught Worthy of a man; Now by Death he's caught, What a change is wrought! Whom the world did ban Quits life like a man.
Braced stiff against the wall, Behold, at last, a man. Lost—life and honor, all! At Death's quick touch and call See, the craven can Quit him like a man.
"CAME TO A MASTER OF SONG"
Came to a master of song And the human heart One who had followed him long And worshiped his art; ​One whom the poet's singing Had lured from death, Joy to the crusht soul bringing And heaven's breath;
Came to him once in an hour Of terror and stress, And cried, "Thou alone hast power To save me and bless; Thou alone, pure heart and free, Canst pluck from disaster, If to a wretch like me Thou wilt stoop, O master!"
Answered the bard with shame, And sorrow and trembling: "Was I false, was my song to blame? Was my art dissembling? I of all mortals the saddest, The quickest to fall, And song of mine highest and gladdest Repentance all!"
BARDS
Some from books resound their rhymes— Set them ringing with a faint, Sorrowful, and sweet, and quaint Memory of the olden times, Like the sound of evening chimes.
Some go wandering on their way Through the forest, past the herds, Laughing maidens, singing birds; On their sylvan lutes they play— Danceth by the lyric Day!
​Bards there be the deep sky under Who in high, authentic verse Mysteries and moods rehearse With a voice like Sinai's thunder, Chanting to a world of wonder.
And those have sung whose melody, Drawn from out the living heart With a quick, unfaltering art, Hath power to make the listener cry: "God in heaven! It is I."
MERIDIAN
Henceforth before these feet Sinks the downward way; A little while to greet The light and life of day, Then night's slow fall Ends all.
Now forward, heart elate, Tho' steep the pathway slope. Time yet for love and hate, Joy, and joy's comrade, hope, Ere night's slow fall Ends all.
Still the warm sky is blue, No fleck the sunlight mars; 'Twixt hills the sea gleams through; With twilight come the stars; And night's slow fall Ends all.
​In the cool-breathing night The starry sky is deep. Still on through glimmering light Till we lie down to sleep; Then let night's fall End all.
EVENING IN TYRINGHAM VALLEY
What domes and pinnacles of mist and fire Are builded in yon spacious realms of light All silently, as did the walls aspire Templing the ark of God by day and night! Noiseless and swift, from darkening ridge to ridge, Through purple air that deepens down the day, Over the valley springs a shadowy bridge. The evening star's keen, solitary ray Makes more intense the silence, and the glad, Unmelancholy, restful, twilight gloom— So full of tenderness, that even the sad Remembrances that haunt the soul take bloom Like that on yonder mountain. Now the bars Of sunset all burn black; the day doth fail, And the skies whiten with the eternal stars. O, let thy spirit stay with me, sweet vale!
PART III
A WEEK'S CALENDAR
I—NEW YEAR
Each New Year is a leaf of our love's rose; It falls, but quick another rose-leaf grows. So is the flower from year to year the same, But richer, for the dead leaves feed its flame.
II—A NEW SOUL
To see the rose of morning slow unfold Each wondrous petal to that heart of gold; To see from out the dark, unknowing night A new soul dawn with such undreamed-of light, And slowly all its loveliness and splendor Pour forth as stately music pours, magnificently tender!
III—"KEEP PURE THY SOUL"
Keep pure thy soul! Then shalt thou take the whole Of delight; Then, without a pang, Thine shall be all of beauty whereof the poet sang— The perfume, and the pageant, the melody, the mirth Of the golden day, and the starry night; Of heaven, and of earth. O, keep pure thy soul!
IV—"THY MIND IS LIKE A CRYSTAL BROOK
Thy mind is like a crystal brook Wherein clean creatures live at ease, In sun-bright waves or shady nook. Birds sing above it, The warm-breathed cattle love it, It doth sweet childhood please.
Accurst be he by whom it were undone, Or thing or thought whose presence The birds and beasts would loathly shun, Would make its crystal waters foully run, And drive sweet childhood from its pleasance.
V—"ONE DEED MAY MAR A LIFE"
One deed may mar a life, And one can make it; Hold firm thy will for strife, Lest a quick blow break it! Even now from far on viewless wing Hither speeds the nameless thing Shall put thy spirit to the test. Haply or e'er yon sinking sun Shall drop behind the purple West All will be lost—or won!
VI—THE UNKNOWN
How strange to look upon the life beyond Our human cognizance with so deep awe And haunting dread; a sense as of remorse, A looking-for of judgment, a great weight Of things unknown to happen! We who live Blindly from hour to hour in very midst Of mysteries; of shapeless, changing glooms; Of nameless terrors; issues vast and black; Of airy whims, slight fantasies, and flights That lead to unimaginable woe: The unweighed word cloying the life of love; One clod of earth outblotting all the stars; Some secret, dark inheritance of will, And the scared soul plunges to conscious doom! Thou who hast wisdom, fear not Death, but Life!
VII—IRREVOCABLE
Would the gods might give Another field for human strife; Man must live one life ​Ere he learns to live. —Ah, friend, in thy deep grave, What now can change, what now can save?
PART IV
SONGS
"BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE"
Because the rose must fade, Shall I not love the rose? Because the summer shade Passes when winter blows, Shall I not rest me there In the cool air?
Because the sunset sky Makes music in my soul, Only to fail and die, Shall I not take the whole Of beauty that it gives While yet it lives?
Because the sweet of youth Doth vanish all too soon, Shall I forget, forsooth, To learn its lingering tune; My joy to memorize In those young eyes?
If, like the summer flower That blooms—a fragrant death, Keen music hath no power To live beyond its breath, ​Then of this flood of song Let me drink long!
Ah, yes, because the rose Fades like the sunset skies; Because rude winter blows All bare, and music dies— Therefore, now is to me Eternity!
"FADES THE ROSE"
Fades the rose; the year grows old; The tale is told; Youth doth depart— Only stays the heart.
Ah, no! if stays the heart, Youth can ne'er depart, Nor the sweet tale be told— Never the rose fade, nor the year grow old.
THE WINTRY HEART
On the sad winter trees The dead, red leaves remain, Tho' to and fro the bleak winds blow, And falls the freezing rain.
So to the wintry heart Clings color of the past, While through dead leaves shudders and grieves The melancholy blast.
HAST THOU HEARD THE NIGHTINGALE?
Yes, I have heard the nightingale. As in dark woods I wandered, And dreamed and pondered, A voice past by all fire And passion and desire; I rather felt than heard The song of that lone bird; Yes, I have heard the nightingale.
Yes, I have heard the nightingale. I heard it, and I followed; The warm night swallowed This soul and body of mine, As burning thirst takes wine, While on and on I prest Close to that singing breast; Yes, I have heard the nightingale.
Yes, I have heard the nightingale. Well doth each throbbing ember The flame remember; And I, how quick that sound Turned drops from a deep wound! How this heart was the thorn Which pierced that breast forlorn! Yes, I have heard the nightingale.
"IN THAT DREAD, DREAMED-OF HOUR"
In that dread, dreamed-of hour When in her heart love's rose flames into flower, 'T is never, never yes, But no, no, no, whate'er the startled eyes confess.
​Her frail denial at last Swept clean away like burnt leaves in the blast, No longer no, no, no! But yes, forever yes, while love's red rose doth blow.
"ROSE-DARK THE SOLEMN SUNSET"
Rose-dark the solemn sunset That holds my thought of thee; With one star in the heavens And one star in the sea.
On high no lamp is lighted, Nor where the long waves flow, Save the one star of evening And the shadow star below.
Light of my Life! the darkness Comes with the twilight dream; Thou art the bright star shining, I but the shadowy gleam.
"WINDS TO THE SILENT MORN"
Winds to the silent morn; Waves to the ocean; Voice to the song unsung; Song to emotion; Light to the golden flower; Bird to the tree; Love to the heart of love, And I to thee!
Dawn to the darkened world; Hope to the morrow; ​Music to passion; and Weeping to sorrow; Love to the heart that longs; Moon to the sea; Heaven to the earthborn soul, And thou to me.
THE UNRETURNING
I
Silent, silent are the unreturning! What tho' word may reach to them, and yearning, Never through the stillness of the night, Never in the daytime or the dark Comes the long-lost voice, or smile of light; Lifts no hand from sea or sunken bark. Silent, silent are the unreturning!
II
Silent, silent are the unreturning! Silent they?—or are we undiscerning? Child, my child! is this thy answering voice Murmuring far down the mountain lone? Evening's smile, that whispers: "Heart, rejoice!" Mother mine! is this thy very own? Nay! nay! Silent are the unreturning; Silent, silent are the unreturning!
TWO YEARS
O, that was the year the last of those before thee; All my world till then but dark before the dawn. If then I had died, O, never had I known thee, Never had beheld thee; I who won, who own thee; Who chose thee, who sing thee, crown thee, and adore thee; O, death it were indeed to die before that dawn!
​This was the year when first I did behold thee, Thou who on my darkness dawned with lyric light. This the golden hour when first thy lover found thee, Followed and beguiled thee, and with his singing bound thee; When all the world with music rang to drown thee and enfold thee— Thou who turned the darkness to song, and love, and light!