# The poems of Richard Watson Gilder/In Palestine and Other Poems

IN PALESTINE
AND OTHER POEMS
IN PALESTINE
AND OTHER POEMS
PART I
IN PALESTINE
Ah, no! that sacred land Where fell the wearied feet of the lone Christ Robs not the soul of faith. I shall set down The thought was in my heart. If that hath lost Aught of its child-belief, 't was long ago, Not there in Palestine; and if 't were lost, He were a coward who should fear to lose A blind, hereditary, thoughtless faith— Comfort of fearful minds, a straw to catch at On the deep-gulfed and tempest-driven sea.
Full well I know how shallow spirits lack The essence, flinging from them but the form. I have seen souls lead barren lives and curst,— Bereft of light, and all the grace of life,— Because for them the inner truth was lost In the frail symbol—hated, shattered, spurned.
But faith that lives forever is not bound To any outward semblance, any scheme Fine-wrought of human wonder, or self-love, Or the base fear of never-ending pain. True faith doth face the blackness of despair, ​Blank faithlessness itself; bravely it holds To duty unrewarded and unshared; It loves where all is loveless; it endures In the long passion of the soul for God.
'T was thus I thought:— At last the very land whose breath he breathed, The very hills his bruisèd feet did climb! This is his Olivet; on this Mount he stood, As I do now, and with this same surprise Straight down into the startling blue he gazed Of the fair, turquoise mid-sea of the plain. That long, straight, misty, dream-like, violet wall Of Moab—lo, how close it looms! The same Quick human wonder struck his holy vision. About these feet the flowers he knew so well. Back where the city's shadow slowly climbs There is a wood of olives gaunt and gray, And centuries old; it holds the name it bore That night of agony and bloody sweat.
I tell you when I looked upon these fields And stony valleys,—through the purple veil Of twilight, or what time the Orient sun Made shining jewels of the barren rocks,— Something within me trembled; for I said: This picture once was mirrored in his eyes; This sky, that lake, those hills, this loveliness, To him familiar were; this is the way To Bethany; the red anemones Along yon wandering path mark the steep road To green-embowered Jordan. All is his: These leprous outcasts pleading piteously; This troubled country,—troubled then as now, ​And wild and bloody,—this is his own land. On such a day, girdled by these same hills, Prest by this dark-browed, sullen, Orient crowd, On yonder mount, spotted with crimson blooms, He closed his eyes, in that dark tragedy Which mortal spirit never dared to sound. O God! I saw those eyes in every throng.
Was he divine, and maker of all worlds,— The Godhead veiled in suffering, for our sins,— An unimagined splendor poured on earth In sacrifice supreme,—this was a scene Fit for the tears of angels and all men. If he was man—a passionate human heart, Like unto ours, but with intenser fire, And whiter from the deep and central glow; Who loved all men as never man before, Who felt as never mortal all the weight Of this world's sorrow, and whose sinless hands Upstretched in prayer did seem, indeed, to clutch The hand divine; if he was man, yet dreamed That the Ineffable through him had power,— Even through his touch,—to scatter human pain (Setting the eternal seal on his high hope And promised kingdom); was he only man, Thus, thus to aspire, and thus at last to fall! Such anguish! such betrayal! Who could paint That tragedy! one human, piteous cry— "Forsaken!"—and black death! If he was God, 'T was for an instant only, his despair; Or was he man, and there is life beyond, And, soon or late, the good rewarded are, Then, too, is recompense.
​But was he man, And death ends all; then was that tortured death On Calvary a thing to make the pulse Of memory quail and stop.
The blackest thought The human brain may harbor comes that way. Face that,—face all,—yet lose not hope nor heart! One perfect moment in the life of love, One deed wherein the soul unselfed gleams forth, These can outmatch all ill, all doubt, all fear, And through the encompassing burden of the world Burn swift the spirit's pathway to its God.
THE ANGER OF CHRIST
On the day that Christ ascended To Jerusalem, Singing multitudes attended, And the very heavens were rended With the shout of them.
Chanted they a sacred ditty, Every heart elate; But he wept in brooding pity, Then went in the holy city By the Golden Gate.
In the temple, lo! what lightning Makes unseemly rout! He in anger, sudden, frightening, Drives with scorn and scourge the whitening Money-changers out.
​By the way that Christ descended From Mount Olivet, I, a lonely pilgrim, wended, On the day his entry splendid Is remembered yet.
And I thought: If he, returning On this high festival, Here should haste with love and yearning, Where would now his fearful, burning Anger flash and fall?
In the very house they builded To his saving name, 'Mid their altars, gemmed and gilded, Would his scourge and scorn be wielded, His fierce lightning flame.
Once again, O Man of Wonder, Let thy voice be heard! Speak as with a sound of thunder; Drive the false thy roof from under; Teach thy priests thy word.
THE BIRDS OF BETHLEHEM
I heard the bells of Bethlehem ring Their voice was sweeter than the priests'; I heard the birds of Bethlehem sing Unbidden in the churchly feasts.
They clung and sung on the swinging chain High in the dim and incensed air; The priests, with repetitions vain, Chanted a never-ending prayer.
​So bell and bird and priest I heard, But voice of bird was most to me; It had no ritual, no word, And yet it sounded true and free.
I thought Child Jesus, were he there, Would like the singing birds the best, And clutch his little hands in air And smile upon his mother's breast.
NOËL
Star-dust and vaporous light,— The mist of worlds unborn,— A shuddering in the awful night Of winds that bring the morn.
Now comes the dawn: the circling earth; Creatures that fly and crawl; And Man, that last, imperial birth; And Christ, the flower of all.
"THE SUPPER AT EMMAUS"
Wise Rembrandt! thou couldst paint, and thou alone, Eyes that had seen what never human eyes Before had looked on; him that late had past Onward and back through gates of Death and Life.
O human face where the celestial gleam Lingers! O, still to thee the eyes of men Turn with deep, questioning worship; seeing there, As in a mirror, the Eternal Light Caught from the shining of the central Soul Whence came all worlds, and whither shall return.
THE DOUBTER
Thou Christ, my soul is hurt and bruised! With words the scholars wear me out; My brain o'erwearied and confused, Thee, and myself, and all I doubt.
And must I back to darkness go Because I cannot say their creed? I know not what I think; I know Only that thou art what I need.
THE PARTHENON BY MOONLIGHT
I
This is an island of the golden Past Uplifted in the tranquil sea of night. In the white splendor how the heart beats fast, When climbs the pilgrim to this gleaming hight; As might a soul, new-born, its wondering way Take through the gates of pearl and up the stair Into the precincts of celestial day, So to this shrine my worshiping feet did fare.
II
But look! what tragic waste! Is Time so lavish Of dear perfection thus to see it spilled? 'T was worth an empire;—now behold the ravish That laid it low. The soaring plain is filled With the wide-scattered letters of one word Of loveliness that nevermore was spoken; Nor ever shall its like again be heard: Not dead is art—but that high charm is broken.
III
Now moonlight builds with swift and mystic art And makes the ruin whole—and yet not whole; But exquisite, tho' crusht and torn apart. Back to the temple steals its living soul In the star-silent night; it comes all pale— A spirit breathing beauty and delight, And yet how stricken! Hark! I hear it wail Self-sorrowful, while every wound bleeds white.
IV
And tho' more sad than is the nightingale That mourns in Lykabettos' fragrant pine, That soul to mine brings solace; nor shall fail To heal the heart of man while still doth shine Yon planet, doubly bright in this deep blue; Yon moon that brims with fire these violet hills: For beauty is of God; and God is true, And with His strength the soul of mortal fills.
THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
Let fall the ruin propt by Europe's hands! Its tottering walls are but a nest of crime; Slayers and ravishers in licensed bands Swarm darkly forth to shame the face of Time.
False, imbecile, and cruel; kept in place Not by its natural force, but by the fears Of foes, scared each of each; even by the grace Of rivals—not blood-guiltless all these years!
Ay, let the ruin fall, and from its stones Rebuild a civic temple pure and fair; Where freedom is not alien; where the groans Of dying and ravished burden not the air!
1896.
KARNAK
I
Of all earth's shrines this is the mightiest, And none is elder. Pylon, obelisk, Column enormous—seek or east or west, No temple like to Karnak 'neath the disk Of the far-searching sun. Since the first stone Here lifted to the heavens its dumb appeal, Empires and races to the dread unknown Have past—gods great and small 'neath Time's slow wheel Have fallen and been crusht;—the earth hath shaken Ruin on ruin—desolate, dead, forsaken.
II
Since first these stones were laid, the solid world, Ay, this whole, visible, infinite universe, Hath shifted on its base; suns have been hurled From heaven; the ever-circling spheres rehearse A music new to men. Yet still doth run This river, throbbing life through all its lands; Those desert mountains lifted to the sun Live as of old; and these devouring sands; And, under the changing heavens, amazed, apart— Still, still the same the insatiate human heart.
III
And Thou, Eternal, Thou art still the same; Thou unto whom the first, sad, questioning face Yearned, for a refuge from the insentient frame Of matter that doth grind us; seeking grace From powers imagined 'gainst the powers we know;— Some charm to avert the whirlwind, bring the tide ​And harvest; turn the blind and awful flow Of nature! Thou Eternal dost abide Silent forever, like the unanswering skies That send but empty echoes to men's cries!
IV
But not in temples now man's only hope, Nor secret ministries of king and priest Chanting beyond dark gates that never ope Unto the people; now no hornèd beast Looms 'twixt the worshiper and the adored, Nor any creature's likeness; He remains Unknown as erst; yet Him whom we call Lord Is worshiped in the fields as in the fanes. We have but faith; we know not; yet He seems More near, more human, in our passionate dreams.
V
We know not, yet the centuries in their course Have built an image in the mind of man; We have but faith, yet that mysterious Force Less darkly threatens, looms a friendlier plan. Far off the singing of the morning stars, Yet age by age such words of light are spoken (Like whispered messages through prison bars), Sometimes men deem the dreadful silence broken, And hearts that late were famished and afeared Leap to the Voice and onward fare well cheered.
VI
Cheered for a little season, but the morrow Brings the old heartbreak; gone is all the gain; Tho' the bowed soul be schooled to its own sorrow, Ah, heaven! to feel earth's heritage of pain,— ​The unescapable anguish of mankind, That blots out natural joy!—O human soul, Learn Courage, tho' the lightning strike thee blind; Let Duty be thy worship; Love, thy goal: Love, Duty, Courage—these make thou thy own, Till from the unknown we pass into the unknown.
"ANGELO, THOU ART THE MASTER"
I
Angelo, thou art the master; for thou in thy art Compassed the body, the soul; the form and the heart. Knew where the roots of the spirit are buried and twined, The springs and the rocks that shall suckle—and torture and bind. Large was thy soul like the soul of a god that creates— Converse it held with the stars and the imminent Fates. Knewest thou—Art is but Beauty perceived and exprest, And the pang of that Beauty had entered and melted thy breast. Here by thy Slave, again, after long years do I bow— Angelo, thou art the master, yea, thou, and but thou.
Here is the crown of all beauty that lives in the world; Spirit and flesh breathing forth from these lips that are curled With sweetness and sorrow as never, O, never before, And from eyes that are heavy with light, and shall weep nevermore; And lo, at the base of the statue, that monster of shape— Thorn of the blossom of life, mocking face of the ape. So cometh morn from the shadow and murk of the night; From pain springeth joy, and from flame the keen beauty of light.
II
Beauty!—O, well for the hearts that bow down and adore her: Heart of mine, hold thou in all the world nothing before her. All the fair universe now to her feet that is clinging Out of the womb of her leapt with the dawn, and the singing Of stars. O thou Beautiful!—thee do I worship and praise In the dark where thy lamps are; again in thy glory of days, Whose end and beginning thou blessest with piercing delight Of splendors outspread on the edge of the robe of the night.
Ah, that sweetness is sent not to him whose dull spirit would rest In the bliss of it; no, not the goal, but the passion and quest; Not the vale, but the desert. O, never soft airs shall awake Thy Soul to the soul of all Beauty, all heaven, and all wonder; The summons that comes to thee, mortal, thy spirit to shake, Shall be the loud clarion's call and the voices of thunder.
A WINTER TWILIGHT IN PROVENCE
A stranger in a far and ancient land, At evening-light I wander. Shade on shade The mountain valleys darken, and the plain ​Grows dim beneath a chill and iron sky. The trees of peace take the last gray of day— Day that shone soft on olives, misty-green, And aisles of wind-forbidding cypresses, And long, white roads, whitely with plane-trees lined, And farms content, and happy villages— A land that lies close in the very heart Of history, and brave, and free, and gay; In all its song lingering one tone of pain. But now the wintry twilight silent falls, And ghosts of other days stalk the lone fields; While through yon sunk and immemorial road, Rock-furrowed, rough, and like a torrent's bed, Far-stretching into night 'twixt twilight farms, I see in dream the unhistoried armies pass, With barbarous banners trailing 'gainst the gloom; Then, in a thought's flash (centuries consumed), In this deep path a fierce and refluent wave Brims the confined and onward-pressing march With standards slantwise borne; so, to the mind, The all-conquering eagle northward takes its flight, And one stern empire widens o'er the world. There looms the arch of war where once, long gone, In these still fields, against those thymy slopes, An alien city reared imperial towers: See sculptured conqueror, and slave in chains Mournful a myriad years; and near the arch The heaven-climbing, templed monument Embossed with horse and furious warrior! Millenniums have sped since those grim wars Here grimly carved, the wonder of the churl,— The very language dead those warriors cried. Deepens the dusk, and on the neighboring hight A rock-hewn palace cuts the edge of day ​In giant ruin stark against the sky: Ah, misery! I know its piteous tale Of armed injustice; monstrous, treacherous force. Deepens the dusk, and the enormous towers, Still lording o'er a living city near, Are lost to sight; but not to thought are lost A hundred stories of the old-time curse— War and its ravagings. Deepens the dusk On westward mountains black with olden crime And steeped in blood spilled in the blessèd name Of him the Roman soldiers crucified— The Prince of Peace. Deepens the dusk, and all The nearer landscape glimmers into dark, And naught shows clear save yonder wayside cross Against the lurid west whose dying gleam Of ghastly sunlight frights the brooding soul.
Dear country mine! far in that viewless west, And ocean-warded, strife thou too hast known; But may thy sun hereafter bloodless shine, And may thy way be onward without wrath, And upward on no carcass of the slain; And if thou smitest, let it be for peace And justice—not in hate, or pride, or lust Of empire. May'st thou ever be, O land! Noble and pure as thou art free and strong: So shalt thou lift a light for all the world And for all time, and bring the Age of Peace.
St.-Remy de Provence, January, 1896.
PART II
"THE POET'S DAY"
The poet's day is different from another, Tho' he doth count each man his own heart's brother. So crystal-clear the air that he looks through, It gives each color an intenser hue; Each bush doth burn, and every flower flame; The stars are sighing; silence breathes a name. The world wherein he wanders, dreams, and sings Thrills with the beating of invisible wings; And all day long he hears from hidden birds The low, melodious pour of musicked words.
"HOW TO THE SINGER COMES THE SONG?"
I
How to the singer comes the song? At times a joy, alone; A wordless tone Caught from the crystal gleam of ice-bound trees; Or from the violet-perfumed breeze; Or the sharp smell of seas In sunlight glittering many an emerald mile; Or the keen memory of a love-lit smile.
II
Thus to the singer comes the song: Gazing at crimson skies Where burns and dies On day's wide hearth the calm celestial fire, The poet with a wild desire ​Strikes the impassioned lyre, Takes into tunèd sound the flaming sight And ushers with new song the ancient night.
III
How to the singer comes the song? Bowed down by ill and sorrow On every morrow— The unworded pain breaks forth in heavenly singing; Not all too late dear solace bringing To broken spirits winging Through mortal anguish to the unknown rest— A lyric balm for every wounded breast.
IV
How to the singer comes the song? How to the summer fields Come flowers? How yields Darkness to happy dawn? How doth the night Bring stars? O, how do love and light Leap at the sound and sight Of her who makes this dark world seem less wrong— Life of his life, and soul of all his song!
"LIKE THE BRIGHT PICTURE"
Like the bright picture ere the lamp is lit, Or silent page whereon keen notes are writ; So was my love, all vacant, all unsaid, Ere she the lamp did light, ere she the music read.
REMEMBRANCE OF BEAUTY
Love's look finds loveliness in all the world: Ah, who shall say—This, this is loveliest! ​Forgetting that pure beauty is impearled A thousand perfect ways, and none is best. Sometimes I deem that dawn upon the ocean Thrills deeper than all else; but, sudden, there, With serpent gleam and hue, and fixèd motion, Niagara curves its scimitar in air. So when I dream of sunset, oft I gaze Again from Bellosguardo's misty hight, Or memory ends once more one day of days— Carrara's mountains purpling into night. There is no loveliest, dear Love, but thee— Through whom all loveliness I breathe and see.
MUSIC IN SOLITUDE
I
In this valley far and lonely Birds sang only, And the brook, And the rain upon the leaves; And all night long beneath the eaves (While with soft breathings slept the housèd cattle) The hivèd bees Made music like the murmuring seas; From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook, The chipmunk sounded shrill his tiny rattle; Through the warm day boomed low the droning flies, And the huge mountain shook With the organ of the skies.
II
Dear these songs unto my heart; But the spirit longs for art, Longs for music that is born ​Of the human soul forlorn, Or the beating heart of pleasure. Thou, sweet girl, didst bring this boon Without stint or measure! Many a tune From the masters of all time In my waiting heart made rhyme.
III
As the rain on parchèd meadows, As cool shadows Falling from the sultry sky, As loved memories die, But live again when a well-tunèd voice Makes with old joy the grievèd heart rejoice, So came once more with thy clear touch The melodies I love— Ah, not too much, But all earth's natural songs far, far above! For they are nature felt, and living, And human, and impassioned; And they full well are fashioned To bring to sound and sense the eternal striving, The inner soul of the inexpressive world, The meaning furled Deep at the heart of all— The thought that mortals name divine, Whereof all beauty is the sign, That comes,—ah! surely comes,—at music's solemn call.
"A POWER THERE IS"
A power there is that trembles through the earth; It lives in nature's mirth, ​Making that fearful as the touch of pain; It strikes the sunlit plain, And harvests flash, or bend with rushing rain; It is not far when tempests make their moan, And lightnings leap, and bursts the thunder-stone. It comes in morning's beam of living light, And the imperial night Knows it, and all its company of stars, And the auroral bars. Through nature all, the subtile current thrills; It built in flood and fire the crystal hills; It molds the flowers, And all the branchèd forests that abide Forever on the teeming mountain-side. It lives where music times the soft, processional hours; And where on that lone hill of art Proud Phidias carved in stone his lyric heart; And where wild battle is, and where Glad lovers breathe in starry night the quivering air.
THE SONG'S ANSWER
Me mystic? Have your way! But sing me, if ye may;— Then shall ye know the power Of the seed's thought of the flower, Of the dawn's thought of the day.
THE 'CELLO
When late I heard the trembling 'cello play, In every face I read sad memories That from dark, secret chambers where they lay Rose, and looked forth from melancholy eyes. ​So every mournful thought found there a tone To match despondence; sorrow knew its mate; Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan; And one deep chord gave answer, "Late,—too late." Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned Into its depths the secret of each heart; Each face took on its mask, where lately burned A spirit charmed to sight by music's art; But unto one who caught that inner flame No face of all can ever seem the same.
THE VALLEY ROAD
By this road have past Hope and Joy adance; And one at dark fled fast, Quick breath, and look askance; And in this dust have dropt Tears that never stopt.
Childhood, caught by flowers, Cannot choose but dally; Slowly through the hours Age creeps down the valley; Only Youth goes swift— Eager, and head alift.
Summer, and the night, Calm and cloudless moon, And lo! a path of light! Heaven would come too soon To lovers wandering slowly Through the starlight holy.
​And by this road was borne,— Betwixt sweet banks of fern, And willow rows, and corn,— He, who will return Not, tho' others may, The old, familiar way.
Two streams within these walls For ever and ever flow; Back and forth the current falls, The long processions go; A hundred years have flown, The human tides pour on—
And shall, when you and I Pass no more again. Beneath the bending sky Shall be no lack of men; Never the road run bare, Tho' other feet may fare.
HAWTHORNE IN BERKSHIRE
Mountains and valleys! dear ye are to me: Your streams wild-wandering, ever-tranquil lakes, And forests that make murmur like the sea; And this keen air that from the hurt soul takes Its pain and languor.—Doubly dear ye are For many a lofty memory that throws A splendor on these hights.—'Neath yon low star, That like a dewdrop melts in heaven's rose, Dwelt once a starry spirit; there he smote Life from the living hills; a little while He rested from the raging of the world. ​This Brook of Shadows, whose dark waters purled Solace to his deep mind, it felt his smile— Haunted, and melancholy, and remote.
LATE SUMMER
Tho' summer days are all too fleet, Not yet the year is touched with cold; Through the long billows of the wheat The green is lingering in the gold.
The birds that thrilled the April copse, Ah! some have flown on silent wings; Yet one sweet music never stops: The constant vireo sings and sings.
AN HOUR IN A STUDIO
Each picture was a painted memory Of the far plains he loved, and of their life,— Weird, mystical, dark, inarticulate,— And cities hidden high against the blue, Whose sky-hung steps one Indian could guard. The enchanted Mesa there its fated wall Lifted, and all its story lived again— How, in the happy planting time, the strong Went down to push the seeds into the sand, Leaving the old and sick. Then reeled the world And toppled to the plain the perilous path. Death climbed another way to them who stayed. He showed us pictured thirst, a dreadful sight; And many tales he told that might have come, Brought by some planet-wanderer—fresh from Mars, Or from the silver deserts of the moon.
​But I remember better than all else One night he told of in that land of fright— The love-songs swarthy men sang to their herds On the high plains to keep the beasts in heart; Piercing the silence one keen tenor voice Singing "Ai nostri monti" clear and high: Instead of stakes and fences round about They circled them with music in the night.
ILLUSION
What strange, fond trick is this mine eyes are playing! I know 'tis but the visioning mind perplexes,— The inward sight the outer sense betraying,— Yet the sweet lie the spirit wounds and vexes: As at still midnight pondering here, and reading, Right on the book's white page, and 'twixt the lines, And wreathing through the words, and quick receding, Only to come again (as 'mid the vines The dryads flash and hide), white arms are gleaming, A light hand hovers, curvèd lips are red, Locks in a warm and soundless wind are streaming Across the image of one glorious head; No more,—no more,—shut now the volume lies On that swift, piercing look, those haunting eyes.
A SONG OF THE ROAD
Speed, speed, speed Through the day, through the night! Cities are beads on the thread of our flight; Peaks melt in peaks and are lost in the air. Speed, speed, speed— But, O, the dearth of it, Thou not there!
​Every journey is good if love be the goal of it. What's all the world if love's not the soul of it; What were the worth of it— Thou not there!
"NOT HERE"
I
Not here, but somewhere, so men say, More bright the day, And the blue sky More nigh; Somewhere, afar, the bird of dawn sings sweeter; Somewhere completer The round of hopes and heart-beats that make life More than a bootless strife.
II
But, ah! there be that know Where joy alone doth grow. Led by one true star, The journey is not far. 'T is in a garden in no distant land, High-walled on every hand; And the key thereof Is love.
"NO, NO, SHE SAID"
"No, no," she said; "I may not wed; If say I must—nay must I say; I cannot stay; Nay, nay, I needs must flout thee!"
​He turned about; His life went out; "If go I must, so must I go!" Cried she—"No, no; Ah, what were life without thee!"
A SOUL LOST, AND FOUND
I
Lo! here another Soul has gone down. Hope led each morrow; Honor was all; Faith had no fall; Fortune no frown. Brother by brother Bowed to each sorrow. None had lost heart; Life was love, life was art.
II
We could but follow! Quenchless his fire; The mightier the burden The stronger his soul, The higher the goal. Now see the mire Soil him and swallow! Heaven! what guerdon Worth such a cost! Love, art, life—lost, all lost.
III
Down to the pallid Figure of death ​Love's face is pressing; Listens and waits, Beseeching the Fates For heart-beat and breath— Sign clear and valid, Life still confessing. Dead! He is dead! All is lost!—He has fled.
IV
Behold now, a moving, A flutter of life! Forth from the starkness, Horror, and slime, See, he doth climb. With himself is the strife; Back to the loving From mire and the darkness, Back to the sun! He has fought—he has won.
"THIS HOUR MY HEART WENT FORTH, AS IN OLD DAYS"
This hour my heart went forth, as in old days, To one I loved, forgetting she was dead— So fluttered back the message, like the dove That found no rest in all the weltering world. Is it then so—all blankness and black void, No welcome, no response, no voice, no sign? Ah, Heaven! let us be foolish—give us faith In what is not; cheat us a little longer; Comfort us mortals with envisioned forms; Let us, tho' but in dreams, see spirits near, ​And touch the draperies of imagined shapes That hold the souls we love—that have gone forth Into the land of shadows, but still live In memory, O, most dear! Beguile our lives With dim, half-fashioned phantoms of dead hours, Lest the long way grow hateful; give us faith Unreasoned, vague, unsubstanced, but still faith; For faith is hope, and hope alone is life.
"EVEN WHEN JOY IS NEAR"
Even when joy is near These ghosts of banished thoughts do haunt the mind: The awful void of space wherein our earth, An atom in the unending whirl of stars, Circles, all helpless, to a nameless doom; The swift, indifferent marshaling of fate Whereby the world moves on, rewarding vice And punishing angelic innocence As 't were the crime of crimes; the brute, dull, slow Persistence in the stifled mind of man Of forces that drive all his being back Into the slime; the silent cruelty Of nature, that doth crush the unseen soul Hidden within its sensitive shell of flesh; The anguish and the sorrow of all time,— These are forever with me,—but grow dim When I remember my sweet mother's face. Somewhere, at heart of all, the right must reign If in the garden of the infinite Such loveliness be brought to perfect bloom.
RESURRECTION
Back to my body came I in the gray of the dawning, Back to my bed in the mold, 'neath the sod and the blossoms; Not strange seemed my natural couch, not new, not afflicting; But strange now, and new, and afflicting my natural body, Alien long while my soul took the wings of the morning. I lifted my hands to the light—then swiftly I followed, With fingers that carefully prest, the curve of the muscles; All was familiar; this was the frame I had nurtured, I had loved as a man loves the body so long his companion; Again was I 'ware of the brow where the dew of sweet kisses Fell, ere forth went the stripling to life and the shudder Of battle;—again from the mirror of waters the features Not unloved of dear comrades looked forth. I beheld in amazement The bodily presence so long laid aside and forgotten; Overwhelmed was my soul with its shackles; I grieved, I lamented As a prisoner dragged back to his cell, as an eagle recaptured.
"AS SOARS THE EAGLE"
As soars the eagle, intimate of light, Fear not the face of the sun; Nor all the blasts of earth. Child of Him, the untrembling One, O, prove thee worthy of thy birth!
​Let no ill betray thee! Let no death dismay thee!
The eagle seeks the sky, Nor fears the infinite light; Thus, soul of mine, escape the night And 'gainst the morning fly!
PART III
ROBERT GOULD SHAW
(THE MONUMENT BY AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS)
I
Fixt in one desire, Thrilled by one fierce fire, Marching men and horse, And he the youthful rider—one soul, one aim, one force.
II
Onward he doth press; Moving, tho' motionless; Resolute, intent, As on some mighty errand the willing youth were bent.
III
Onward, tho' he hears Father's, sisters' tears; Onward, tho' before him —Grief more near, more dear—the breaking heart that bore him.
IV
Onward, tho' he leaves One who lonely grieves; ​O, keep him, Fate! from harm. For on his dewy lips the bridal kiss is warm.
V
What doth he behold Making the boy so bold? Speak with whispering breath! O Fate, O Fame, O radiant soul in love with glorious Death!
VI
Eyes that forward peer— Why have they no fear? Because, through blood and blight, They see the golden morning burst and bring the living light;
VII
See War the fetters strike From white and black alike; See, past the pain and scorn, A nation saved, a race redeemed, and freedom newly born;
VIII
See, in days to come,— When silent War's loud drum, Ere civic wrong shall cease,— Heroes as pure and brave arise on battlefields of peace.
"THE NORTH STAR DRAWS THE HERO"
(TO H. N. G.)
The North Star draws the hero; he abides Stedfast tho' death defends the unending quest. But, ah, more faithful still the love that hides In woman's empty arms and aching breast!
GLAVE
This day I read in the sad scholar's page That the old earth is withered and undone; That faith and great emprize beneath the sun Are vain and empty in our doting age; 'T were best to calm the spirit's noble rage, To live in dreams, and all high passion shun, While round and round the aimless seasons run— Pleasured alone with dead art's heritage. Then, as I read, outshone thy face of youth, Hero and martyr of humanity, Dead yesterday on Afric's shore of doom! Ah, no; Faith, Courage fail not, while lives Truth, While Pity lives, while man for man can die, And deeds of glory light the dark world's gloom.
OF HENRY GEORGE
WHO DIED FIGHTING AGAINST POLITICAL TYRANNY AND CORRUPTION
Now is the city great! That deep-voiced bell Tolls for a martyred hero. Such is he Who loved her, strove for her, and nobly fell. His fire be ours—the passion to be free.
New York, 1897.
SCORN
Who are the men that good men most despise? Not they who, ill begot and spawned in shame, Riot and rob, or rot before men's eyes,— Who basely live, and dying leave no name. These are the piteous refuse of mankind, Fatal the ascendant star when they were born, ​Distort in body, starved in soul and mind; Ah, not for them the good man's bitter scorn! He, only, is the despicable one Who lightly sells his honor as a shield For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun; Too nice for crime, yet, coward, he doth yield For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!
THE HEROIC AGE
He speaks not well who doth his time deplore, Naming it new and little and obscure, Ignoble and unfit for lofty deeds. All times were modern in the time of them, And this no more than others. Do thy part Here in the living day, as did the great Who made old days immortal! So shall men, Gazing long back to this far-looming hour, Say: "Then the time when men were truly men: Tho' wars grew less, their spirits met the test Of new conditions; conquering civic wrong; Saving the state anew by virtuous lives; Guarding the country's honor as their own, And their own as their country's and their sons': Proclaiming service the one test of worth; Defying leaguèd fraud with single truth; Knights of the spirit; warriors in the cause Of justice absolute 'twixt man and man; Not fearing loss; and daring to be pure. When error through the land raged like a pest They calmed the madness caught from mind to mind By wisdom drawn from eld, and counsel sane; And as the martyrs of the ancient world ​Gave Death for man, so nobly gave they Life: Those the great days, and that the heroic age."
Athens, 1896.
THE SWORD OF THE SPIRIT
(IN MEMORY OF JOE EVANS)
Too much of praise for the quick, pitiless blow! Justice doth lean on strength, full well we know; But the sharp, glittering sword that strikes for right Takes fame too easily. Thank Heaven for might, Which is Heaven's servant, oft! Yet he's not man Who, when the heart's afire, no brave deed can. Praise thou the clencht fist that, when blood is hot, On itself tightens, but descendeth not. Ay, praise the sword undrawn, the bolt unsped, The rage supprest till the true word is said. Might of the spirit, this shalt thou extol, And holy weakness of the conquering soul.
And on this day, when one well loved has past From suffering to the unknown peace, at last, Would I might praise, as nobly as I ought, The hero-soldier who no battle fought— Or, rather, one who, facing fate's worst frown, The spirit's sword but with his life laid down. The soul that from that body, bent and frail, Peered out, did at no earthly terror quail. To face an army he was brave enough; Martyrs and conquerors are of that stuff. And in the civic conflict that was waged Year after year, his knightly spirit raged; He could not bear his country should have blame, So this slight warrior did the mighty shame. ​Yet Beauty was his passion, and the art To paint it—that it might not all depart. He loved the gentlest things; there was a grace In his sad look surpassing many a face More beautiful. Ah, back, ye bitter tears! He, lover of light and gladness, all these years Fighting twin demons of keen pain and doom; He, of such humor that the very tomb Might snatch a brightness from his presence there! But no; not bright the tomb. We, in despair, Seek through the world again a charm like this— That which our friend has taken we shall forever miss.
April, 1898.
"THROUGH ALL THE CUNNING AGES"
Through all the cunning ages Mankind hath made for man From out his loves and rages A god to bless and ban.
When he his foe despises This god he calls to curse; And would he win earth's prizes His praise doth man rehearse.
So, when he craves the guerdon Of others' land and pelf, He flings the blame and burden On this shadow of himself.
If, spite of all their ranting, There reigns a God indeed, How well He hates the canting That framed their sordid creed!
​"Lay not to me your hollow And broken words of faith— To sin that good may follow No law of mine," He saith.
"If, 'twixt your tribes and nations, There lives no law but might, Not myriad incantations Can make your evil right.
"Ye call me 'God of battle'; I weary while ye slay. Are ye my hornèd cattle To find no better way?"
ONE COUNTRY—ONE SACRIFICE
(ENSIGN WORTH BAGLEY, MAY 11, 1898)
In one rich drop of blood, ah, what a sea Of healing! Thou, sweet boy, wert first to fall In our new war; and thou wert Southron all! There is no North, no South, remembering thee.
"WHEN WITH THEIR COUNTRY'S ANGER"
When with their country's anger They flame into the fight,— On sea, in treacherous forest, To strike with main and might,—
He shows the gentlest mercy Who rains the deadliest blows; Then quick war's hell is ended, And home the hero goes.
​What stays the noblest memory For all his years to keep? Not of the foemen slaughtered, But rescued from the deep!
Rescued with peerless daring! O, none shall forget that sight, When the unaimed cannon thundered In the ghastly after-fight.
And, now, in the breast of the hero There blooms a strange, new flower, A blood-red, fragrant blossom Sown in the battle-hour.
'T is not the Love of Comrades,— That flower forever blows,— But the brave man's Love of Courage, The Love of Comrade-Foes.
For since the beginning of battles On the land and on the wave, Heroes have answered to heroes, The brave have honored the brave.
1898.
A VISION
All round the glimmering circuit of the isle Audibly pulsed the ocean. In the dark Of the thick wood a voice not of its own Might come to sharpened ears; a sound supprest, The rustling of an armèd multitude Who toss in sleep, or, wakening, watch for death. Beneath the tropic stars that in strange skies Drew close and glittered large, I saw in dream A Soul pass hoveringly. ​Then came I near And questioned of that Ghost, who answer made Like a deep, murmuring wind that slowly draws Through dim memorial aisles of ancient time:—
"I am the mother of men, and from my womb Came all the dead and living. I am curst With memory, with knowledge of what is, And what shall be; yet, verily, am I blest With these three knowledges,—my children I Have seen these myriad years grow, age by age, More wise, more just, more joyous, yet have I Seen mutual slaughter sow the earth with tears. In this New World here had I hoped my children Would learn to unlearn the path mankind had climbed Over its slain to happiness and power; For soon or late I know that boon shall come, And in the wars of peace the race shall wax Manlier, purer, gentler, and more wise. "But now again the sacred truce is broken, And bleeds this breast at every wound and sigh, And aches my mother-heart with the new pain Of mortal mothers comfortless forever."
Then past the Spirit from my dream at dawn; I woke into another day of war With news of splendid deeds, and victory— Yet still I heard that brooding shade lament.
1898.
THE WORD OF THE WHITE CZAR
This day, a strange and beautiful word was spoken,— Not with the voice of a child, nor the voice of a woman, Nor yet with the voice of a poet, the melody sounded,— ​Forth from the lips of a warrior, girt for the battle, Breathed this word of words o'er a world astonished.
Prisoners returning from war, and conquering armies, Navies flusht with new and amazing victory, Heard the message, so strange, so high, so entrancing, And soldiers dying of wounds or the wasting of fever. In tropic islands it sounded, through wrecks of cities; O'er burning plains where warlike death was in waiting; Armies and navies confronting, in watchful silence, Heard it and wondered; statesmen stopt their debates, And turning their eyes toward the voice, with its meaning unlooked for, Listened and smiled with the smile and the sneer of the cynic. But the mothers of youths who had died of their wounds and of fever, And the poor crusht down by the price of the glory of battle And the weight of the wars that have been, and that yet are preparing, They from their burdens looked up and uttered their blessing: For Peace,—the Peace of God,—was the warrior's prayer!
And I, who heard, I saw in a waking vision An image familiar long to the hearts of mortals, A face of trouble, a brow celestial, yet human— In a dream of the day, I saw that suffering spirit, Him accustomed to labor, to anguish not alien, Still mourning for men alone in the valley of shadows;— I dreamed that he lifted that face of infinite sorrow, ​And harkened—when lo! a light in those eyes of sadness Came sudden as day that breaks from the mountains of Moab.
PART IV
A SONG FOR DOROTHEA, ACROSS THE SEA
A song for you, my darling, For your own, dear, only sake. You bid me sing—so does the spring Bid the birds awake, And quick with molten music the dewy branches quake.
A song for you, my darling, To follow you all the day; And in sweet sleep the song shall keep Singing along the way, Through dreamland's silver meadows with golden lilies gay.
A song for you, my darling, For those deep and darkling eyes, That stedfast shine as the stars divine Bright in the midnight skies, When the winds blow the clouds from heaven, and we gaze with a glad surprise.
A song for you, my darling, A song for that faithful heart That as true abides as the throbbing tides, Tho' half a world apart— So far away is the girl I sing, with only a lover's art.
A BLIND POET
Call him not blind Whose keen, anointed sight, Pierced every secret of the heart, the mind, The day, the night.
ON A WOMAN SEEN UPON THE STAGE
("TESS," AS PLAYED BY MRS. FISKE)
Alas, poor, fated, passionate, shivering thing! So through brief life some dagger-haunted king Wears a bright sorrow. Thus her life rehearse: She was a woman; this her crown, her curse.
OF ONE WHO NEITHER SEES NOR HEARS
(HELEN KELLER)
She lives in light, not shadow; Not silence, but the sound Which thrills the stars of heaven And trembles from the ground.
She breathes a finer ether, Beholds a keener sun; In her supernal being Music and light are one.
Unknown the subtile senses That lead her through the day; Love, light, and song and color Come by another way.
​Sight brings she to the seeing, New song to those that hear; Her braver spirit sounding Where mortals fail and fear.
She at the heart of being Serene and glad doth dwell; Spirit with scarce a veil of flesh; A soul made visible.
Or is it only a lovely girl With flowers at her maiden breast? —Helen, here is a book of song From the poet who loves you best.
FOR THE ESPOUSALS OF JEANNE ROUMANILLE, OF AVIGNON
While joy-bells are ringing And the high Fates meet thee, Child of the South, and of singing, Singing I greet thee.
In thy chaplet one flower From a far world! Wilt wear it? Rich tho' thy land, and this hour, Thou may'st not forbear it;
Thou wilt welcome and win it; It will breathe on, caress thee; For the fame of thy father is in it; His lover doth bless thee!
His lover—the lover of thee, O Provence; Thy blue skies, thy gray mountains; The heart-beat of Freedom and France Shakes thy rivers and fountains,
​And makes thee a dream and a passion In the souls of all poets forever, While from thy fire thou dost fashion Beauty and music and art that shall perish, O, never!
TO MARIE JOSEPHINE GIRARD, QUEEN OF THE FÉLIBRES
ON HER WEDDING-DAY
Queens have there been of many a fair domain Of arts, of hearts, of lands. Thy sovereignty a threefold realm commands Who o'er Provence, and Poetry, and Love dost reign.
INSCRIPTION FOR A TOWER IN FLORENCE
(WRITTEN FOR THE CHATELAINE)
I
Four-walled is my tower: The first wall is for the dawn that comes from Vallombrosa, The second wall is for the day that fills with soft fire the green vase of Tuscany, The third is for the evening twilight that darkens from the Valley of the Arno, The fourth is for the night and the stars of night.
II
Four-walled is my tower: One wall is for the South and the sun, One is for the West and for memory, ​One is for the North and the star that never sets, And one is for the East and a faith that fares beyond the stars.
III
Four-walled is my tower: One wall is for the Spring and for Hope, One is for Summer and for Love, One is for Autumn and the Harvest, One is for Winter and for Waiting.
IV
Four-walled is my tower: One is for Childhood and the Innocence of Life, The second is for Youth and the Joy of Life, The third is for Manhood and the Fullness of Life, The fourth is for Old Age and the Wisdom of Life.
V
Four-walled is my tower: A Rock for Strength, A Hight for Seeing, A Beacon for the Stranger, And a Hearth for Friendship. Four-walled is my tower On the Hill of Bellosguardo.
WITH A VOLUME OF DANTE
O thou whom Virgil and thy Beatrice Through life and death, Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, Led upward into unimagined light— Lead thou this soul the way thou, too, didst go Unto the Light that lights the eternal stars!