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POEMS
BY
JOHN L. STODDARD
1913
CONJUGI CARISSIMAE
PROEM
They called him mad,—the poor, old man,
Whose white hair, worn and thin,
Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played
His cherished violin,
Forever drawing to and fro
O'er silent strings a loosened bow.
At times on his pathetic face
A look of perfect rapture shone,
Intent on some celestial chords,
Discerned by him alone;
And sometimes he would smile and pause,
As if receiving loud applause.
So, many a humble poet dreams
His songs will touch the human heart,
And full of hope his offering lays
Before the shrine of Art;
Poor dreamer, may he never know
That he too draws a silent bow!
CONTENTS
PROEM MY PROMENADE SOLITAIRE REINCARNATION TO THE "RING NEBULA" THE WAIF THE SILVER HERONS TO THE SPHINX YOUTH AND AGE SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN UNDER THE STARS CORSICA TO THE VENUS OF MELOS MORS LEONIS A STORY OF THE SEA OLD HYMN TUNES BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA THE PILLARS OF HERCULES FRIENDSHIP TO MY DEAD DOG TO-DAY TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS THE BUTTERFLY AFTER THE STORM FALLEN "AEQUANIMITAS" DREAMLAND ROME REVISITED ON THE PALATINE THE FAREWELL AT FONTAINEBLEAU JAPAN—OLD AND NEW THE UNFORGOTTEN HEROES A WINTER'S DAY ON THE PROMENADE SOLITUDE OUT OF THE RANKS AUTONOMY ORIENT TO OCCIDENT THE CAPTIVE WEARINESS A MAY MONODY MY LOST FRIENDS TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET IN SILENCE AT THE VILLA OF FREDERICK III IN A COLUMBARIUM DISCOURAGEMENT MÉSALLIANCE IN A MODERN CITY MY BORES GRATITUDE IN TENEBRIS TWO MOTHERS AT HOCHFINSTERMÜNZ THE GIFT OF JUNO THE AWAKENING THE WINE OF LIFE LIFE'S TRILOGY MYSTERIES STAR DRIFT
TYROLEAN
OBERMAIS CONTENTMENT TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS AT SUNSET POST NUBES LUX THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME MY GARDEN THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER AFTER THE VINTAGE THE PASSING MOON AUTUMN IN MERAN THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH THE OUTCASTS HEIMWEIL MY LIBRARY TOUT PASSE
BESIDE LAKE COMO
THE FAUN ISOLA COMACINA THE OLD CARRIER EVENING ON LAKE COMO DELIO PATRI ACQUA FREDDA THE POSTERN GATE UNDINE JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA THE WANDERER SECLUSION ONE MORE UNDER THE PLANE TREE "CONJUGI CARISSIMAE" THE PAGAN PAST RETIREMENT IN NOVEMBER THE CALL OF THE BLOOD THE CASCADE BIRD SLAUGHTER THE IRON CROWN CONTRASTS IN MY PERGOLA EVANESCENCE LAKE COMO IN AUTUMN TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON DAY AND NIGHT PASSING AND PERMANENT TRIPOLI INFLUENCE LEO FAREWELL TO THE FAUN WAKEFULNESS VILLA PLINIANA POINT BALBIANELLO AT LENNO
PERSONALLY ADDRESSED
LINES WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING
TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND
TO C.
TO MR. AND MRS. A.H.S.
To M.C. OF ATHENS
TO J.B.
TO M.P.
TO MISS MARY C. LOW
IN MEMORIAM. G.M.M.
TO HON. CHARLES M. DICKINSON
TO J.C.Y.
TO HON. JESSE HOLDOM
TRANSLATIONS
THE KISS TO THE FLAG EMILY'S GRAVE SERENADE TO NINON THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE ANDREAS HOFER STREAM AND SEA
* * * * *
RACHEL
MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE"
Up and down in my garden fair,
Under the trellis where grapes will bloom,
With the breath of violets in the air,
As pallid Winter for Spring makes room,
I walk and ponder, free from care,
In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire.
Back and forth in the checkered shade
Traced by the lattice that holds the vine,
With the glory of snow-capped crests displayed
On the sapphire sky in a billowy line,
I stroll, and ask what can compare
With the charm of my Promenade Solitaire.
To and fro 'neath the nascent green
Which clambers over its slender frame,
With white peaks lighting up the scene,
As snowfields glow with the sunset flame,
I saunter, halting here and there
For the view from my Promenade Solitaire.
In and out through the silence sweet,
Plash of fountain and song of bird
Are the only sounds in my lov'd retreat
By which the air is ever stirred;
It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer,
So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire.
Onward rushes the world without,
But the breeze which over my garden steals
Brings from it merely a distant shout
Or the echo light of passing wheels;
In its din and drive I have now no share,
As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire.
Am I dead to the world, that I thus disdain
Its moil and toil in the prime of life,
When perhaps a score of years remain
To win more gold in its selfish strife?
Am I foolish to choose the purer air
Of my glorious Promenade Solitaire?
Ah no! From my mountain-girdled height
I watch the game of the world go on,
And note the course of the bitter fight,
And what is lost and what is won;
And I judge of it better here than there,
As I gaze from my Promenade Solitaire.
It is ever the same old tale of greed,
Of robbing and killing the weaker race,
Of the word proved false by the cruel deed,
Of the slanderous tongue with the friendly face;
'Tis enough to make one's heart despair
Even here in my Promenade Solitaire.
They cheer, and struggle, and beat the air
With many a stroke and thrust intense,
And urge each other to do and dare,
To gain some good they deem immense;
But they look like ants contending there
From the height of my Promenade Solitaire.
Backward and forward they run and crawl,
Houses and treasures they heap up high,
Hither and thither their booty haul, …
Then suddenly drop in their tracks and die!
For few are wise enough to repair
In time to a Promenade Solitaire.
Meantime the Earth speeds on through space,
As the sun for a million years hath steered,
And, an eon hence, the entire race
Will have played its part and disappeared;
But what will the lifeless planet care,
As it follows its Promenade Solitaire?
REINCARNATION
I know not how, I know not where,
But from my own heart's mystic lore
I feel that I have breathed this air,
And walked this earth before;
And that in this, its latest form
My old-time spirit once more strives,
As it has fought through many a storm
In past, forgotten lives.
Not inexperienced did my soul
This incarnation's threshold tread;
Not recordless has proved the scroll
It brought back from the dead.
To certain, special lines of thought
My mind intuitively tends,
And old affinities have brought
Not new, but ancient friends.
What thrilled me in a previous state
Rekindles here its ancient flame;
What I by instinct love and hate
I knew before I came;
And lands, of which in youth I dreamed
And read, heart-moved, and longed to see,
When really visited, have seemed
Not strange but known to me.
When Mozart, still a child, untaught,
Ran joyous to the silent keys,
And with inspired fingers wrought
Majestic harmonies,
There fell upon his psychic ear
Faint echoes of a music known
Before his natal advent here,
In former lives outgrown.
In many a dumb brute's wistful eyes
A dawning human soul aspires,
For thus from lower forms we rise,—
Ourselves our spirits' sires.
Full many a thought that thrills my breast
Is fruit resulting from a seed
Sown elsewhere,—on my soul impressed
By many an arduous deed;
Full many a fetter which hath lamed
My struggling spirit's upward flight
Was once by that same spirit framed,
When further from the Light;
With justice, therefore, comes the pain
That o'er the tortured world extends;
And hopeful is the lessening stain,
As each life-cycle ends.
No changeless, endless states await
The good and evil souls set free;
Each grave is a successive gate
In immortality.
Too long this mighty truth hath slept
Among the darkened souls of men,—
"Ye cannot see God's face, except
Ye shall be born again."
The God-like Christs and Buddhas yearn,
However high their spirits' stage,
For man's salvation to return,
As Saviour or as Sage.
On our benighted, groping minds
Their noble precepts, star-like, shine;
Each soul, that wisely seeks them, finds
The truths that are divine.
Misunderstood and vilified,
Their aims and motives scarcely known,
How many of these Saints have died,
Rejected by their own!
Yet, though their followers miss the way,
In spite of precept and of prayer,
And lead unnumbered souls astray,
Committed to their care,
Upon the lofty spirit-plane,
Where all lies open to their sight,
The Masters know that not in vain
They left the Hills of Light.
TO THE "RING NEBULA"
O pallid spectre of the midnight skies,
Whose phantom features in the dome of Night
Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes,
Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight;
On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire,
From thee, whose glories it would fain admire,
Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!
What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame?
Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolve
In myriad suns that constellations frame,
Around which life-blest satellites revolve,
Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep
In dim procession o'er the azure steep,
As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?
Or art thou still an incandescent mass,
Acquiring form as hostile forces urge,
Through whose vast length continuous lightnings pass,
As to and fro its fiery billows surge?
Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife,
Where now chaotic anarchy is rife,
Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?
We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays
Which hither on Light's winged coursers come
From fires which ages since first lit their blaze,
One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb;
How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearn
Of life on yonder glittering orbs to learn,
We read no message, and could none return!
Yet this we know:—yon ring of spectral light,
Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe,
Can ne'er escape in its majestic might
The firm control of omnipresent law;
This mote descending to its bounden place,
Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace,
Alike obey the Power pervading space.
THE WAIF
I sit in my luxurious chair;
Soft rugs caress my slippered feet;
Within, a balmy, summer air;
Without, a wintry storm of sleet.
A favorite book is in my hands,
A thousand others line the walls;
Some souvenir of distant lands
In every nook the Past recalls.
Upon a Turkish tabouret
In Dresden cups of peerless blue
Gleams on a pretty Cashmere tray
The fragrant Mocha's ebon hue.
Two dainty hands prepare the draught,
While loving glances meet my own;
Two lips repeat (the coffee quaffed),
"To-night 'tis sweet to be alone."
Hark! in the court my faithful hound
Breaks rudely on our tête-à-tête;
Too well I understand that sound!
A mendicant is at my gate.
Admit him? Yes; for none shall say
That he who seeks in want my door
Is ever harshly turned away;
His plea is heard, if nothing more.
I leave my comforts with a sigh,
And, passing to the outer hall,
Behold a wanderer doomed to die,—
So ill, I look to see him fall.
I know his story ere he speaks;
And listening to his labored breath,
I trace, with tears upon my cheeks,
His long and hopeless fight with death.
A poor, storm-beaten, lonely waif,
Lured southward from a colder clime
By hope and that unfailing faith
That health will come again in time!
Alas! too late; the dread disease
Hath fixed its roots too firmly there;
And now sick, friendless, at my knees,
He pours forth his heart-breaking prayer.
What are his needs? Before all, food!
Hot soup, bread, wine, until at last
A sense of human brotherhood
Obliterates his cruel past;
Yet not for long; for though well-fed,
With warmer garments than before,
He hath no place to lay his head,
On turning from my friendly door.
I slip some silver in his hand,
('Twill purchase shelter for the night,)
Then, silent and remorseful, stand
To watch his bent form out of sight.
On, on he goes through snow and sleet,
With nothing more of warmth and cheer!
From such a home to such a street!
Ah, should I not have kept him here?
My room is no less bright and warm,
But all its charm and joy have fled;
That lonely figure in the storm
Leaves both our hearts uncomforted.
For this is but one tiny wave
In life's vast, shoreless sea of woe,—
One note in man's hoarse cry to save,
Resounding o'er its ebb and flow;
I ask myself in blank dismay,—
Ought I my little wealth to own?
Yet, should I give it all away,
'Twere but a drop to ocean thrown!
Great God! if what I dimly see,
In this small section of mankind,
Of pain and want and misery,
Can thus bring anguish to my mind,
How canst Thou view the awful whole,
As our ensanguined planet rolls
From unknown source to unknown goal
Its freight of suffering human souls?
Permitted pain!—the first and last
Of riddles that we strive to solve,
More poignant ever, and more vast,
As man's mentalities evolve,
I hear thy victims' ceaseless wails,
I view the path my race hath trod,
And at the sight my spirit quails,
And cries in agony to God!
THE SILVER HERONS
Within a home for captive beasts
Whose world had dwindled to a cage,
I noted in their mournful eyes
Such resignation, fear, and rage,
I longed at once to set them free,
And send them over land and sea
To live again in liberty.
For them no more the mountain range,
The desert vast, the jungle's lair!
Their meaner fate through grated bars
To feel the public's hateful stare;
Poor prisoners! doomed henceforth to pace
With stinted strides a narrow space,
And, daily, gaping crowds to face.
At length I stood before a cage,
Where, guarded by a loftier screen,
Were artificial rocks, and pools,
And strips of vegetation green;
There, perched upon some rocky mound,
Or crouching on the miry ground,
A flock of waterfowl I found.
Storks, poised upon a single leg,
Stood dreaming of the eternal Nile,—
The Mecca of their winter flight,
When lured by Egypt's sunny smile;
While ducks and geese, in gabbling mood,
Explored the muddy pond for food,
Attended by their noisy brood.
Their keeper brought their evening meal;
And instantly on broad-webbed feet,
And stilt-like legs, and flapping wings,
The feathered bipeds rushed to greet,
With snaps and cluckings of delight,
The joyful, ever-welcome sight
Of supper at the approach of night.
Yet all came not! Two stood apart,
With plumage like fresh-fallen snow,—
Two "Silver Herons," of a race
As pure and fine as earth can show;
Amid the tumult that was rife,
These loathed the others' greedy strife,
And looked disgusted with their life.
With closed eyes, shrinking from the mass,
They seemed, in thought, removed as far
From all their coarse environment
As sun is separate from star!
The very picture of disdain,
From all such gorging, it was plain,
They had determined to refrain.
The keeper murmured with reproach,—
"Those Silver Herons are too proud!
Why should they not partake of food
Together with the common crowd?
They eat a little from my hand,
But would prefer to starve, than stand
Besmeared by that uncleanly band.
"A month hence, neither will be here;
For both will grieve themselves to death;
And when one falls, its mate expires
With scarcely an additional breath;
And, should there come another pair,
In their turn they the fate will share
Of those two herons standing there."
Poor hapless birds! I see them yet,
Alone and starving in their pride,—
Their glittering plumage still intact,
While standing bravely side by side;
And, although put to hunger's test,
Continuing mutely to protest
Against defilement with the rest.
O Silver Herons, teach mankind
To cherish thus a stainless name!
To shun the vile, ignoble crowd,
Preferring death to smirch and shame!
A foul, unfriendly mob to brave,
And go, unspotted, to the grave,
Is not to lose one's life, but save.
TO THE SPHINX
O sleepless Sphinx!
Thy sadly patient eyes,
Forever gazing o'er the shifting sands,
Have watched Earth's countless dynasties arise,
Stalk forth like spectres waving gory hands,
Then fade away with scarce a lasting trace
To mark the secret of their dwelling place:
O sleepless Sphinx!
O changeless Sphinx!
The very dawn of Time
Beheld thee sculptured from the living rock!
Still wears thy face its primal look sublime,
Surviving all the hoary ages' shock:
Still royal art thou in thy proud repose,
As when the sun on tuneful Memnon rose,
O changeless Sphinx!
O voiceless Sphinx!
Thy solemn lips are dumb;
Time's awful secrets lie within thy breast;
Age follows age; revering pilgrims come
From every clime to urge the same request,—
That thou wilt speak! Poor creatures of a day,
In calm disdain thou seest them die away:
O voiceless Sphinx!
Majestic Sphinx!
Thou crouchest by a sea
Whose fawn-hued wavelets clasp thy buried feet:
Whose desert-surface, petrified like thee,
Gleams white with sails of many an Arab fleet:
Whose tawny billows, surging with the storm,
Break on thy flanks, and overleap thy form;
Majestic Sphinx!
Eternal Sphinx!
The Pyramids are thine;
Their giant summits guard thee night and day,
On thee they look when stars in splendor shine,
Or while around their crests the sunbeams play:
Thine own coevals, who with thee remain
Colossal Genii of the boundless plain!
Eternal Sphinx!
YOUTH AND AGE
"I will gain a fortune," the young man cried;
"For Gold by the world is deified;
Hence, whether the means be foul or fair,
I will make myself a millionaire,
My single talent shall grow to ten!"
But an old man smiled, and asked "And then?"
"A peerless beauty," the young man said,
"Shall be the woman I choose to wed.
And men shall envy me my prize,
And women scan her with jealous eyes;"
And he looked annoyed, when once again
The old man smiled, and asked "And then?"
"I will build," he answered, "a home so fine,
That kings in their castles shall covet mine;
The rarest pictures shall clothe its walls,
And statues stand in its stately halls;
It shall lack no luxury known to men;"
But still the old man asked "And then?"
"I will play a role in Church or State
That all mankind shall acknowledge great;
I will win at last such brilliant fame,
That distant lands shall know my name,
For I can wield both sword and pen;"
But again the old man asked "And then?"
"Is your heart a stone," the young man cried,
"Hath all ambition within you died,
That nothing seems to you worth while?
What mean you by that sphinx-like smile?
Of what are you secretly thinking, when
You utter those mournful words,—'And then?'"
Gently the old man said "O youth,
The words I have spoken veil a truth
Learned only through the lapse of years,
And first discerned through a mist of tears;
For youth is full of illusions fair
Which manhood sees dissolve in air.
"Your millions will not make you blest,
They will rob you, instead, of peace and rest:
Your beautiful wife may be the prey
Of a treacherous friend or a skilled roué;
And the splendid palace that you crave
Will make you Society's gilded slave.
"'Tis a weary road to political fame;
Its price you must often pay in shame;
And the world-known name for which you yearn
On a bulletin board or a funeral urn,
Is scarcely worth the toil and strife
Which poison the peaceful joys of life.
"For be you ever so wise and good,
By some you will be misunderstood,
And fame will bring you envious foes
To spoil for you many a night's repose;
And alas! as your pathway upward tends,
You will find self-interest in your friends!
"The loudest shout of the mob's applause
Will die out after a moment's pause;
And what is the greatest public praise
To one whose form in the earth decays?
The cruel world will always laugh
At the fulsome lie of an epitaph.
"But Spring recks not of Winter's snow,
And you will not believe, I know,
That all those boons that tempt your powers,
If gained, will be like fragile flowers,
Whose freshness wilts in the fevered hand,
Like roses dropped on the desert sand.
"And much of the work you deem sublime
Is like the grain of pink-hued lime
Which once was a coral insect's shell,
But now is a microscopic cell,
Entombed with countless billions more
In a lonely reef on an unknown shore!"
"Alas!" said the youth,—and his eyes were wet,—
"Is old age merely a vain regret,
The retrospect of wasted years,
Of false ideals and lost careers?
Advise me! What must I reject,
And what for my permanent good select?"
"Belovd youth," the old man said,
"All is not vain, be comforted!
Seek not thine own, but others' joy;
Ring true, like gold without alloy;
Waste not thy time in asking Why,
Or Whence, or Whither when we die;
"The actual world, the present hours
Will give enough to tax thy powers;
At no clear duty hesitate;
Serve well thy neighbor and the State;
So shalt thou add thy tiny form
To bind the reef that breasts the storm!"
SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN
The sun is low;
Yon peak of snow
Is reddening 'neath the sunset glow;
The rosy light
Makes richly bright
The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.
From vales that sleep
Night's shadows creep
To take possession of the steep;
While, as they rise,
The western skies
Seem loath to leave so fair a prize.
The light of day
Still loves to stay
And round that pearly summit play;
How fair a sight
That realm of light,
Contended for by Day and Night!
Now fainter shines,
As Day declines,
The lustrous height which he resigns;
The shadows gain
Th' illumined plane;
The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.
When daylight dies,
The azure skies
Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes,
Which watch with grace
From depths of space
The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.
And when the Light
Hath put to flight
Night's shadows from each Alpine height,
Along the skies
It quickly flies,
To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.
The timid flush
And rosy blush
Which then from brow to bosom rush,
Are pure and fair
Beyond compare,
Resplendent in the crystal air.
And thus alway
By night and day
Her varying suitors homage pay;
And tinged with rose,
Or white with snows,
The same fair, radiant form she shows.
UNDER THE STARS
The breath of summer stirs the trees,
A thousand roses round me bloom,
Whose saffron petals give the breeze
A wealth of exquisite perfume,
As, climbing high, with tendrils bold,
They clothe the walls with cups of gold.
No sound disturbs the silence sweet,
The weary birds have sunk to rest;
For where the snow and sunset meet
The light is fading in the west,
And now the carking cares of day
Slip lightly from my heart away.
The emptiness of social strife,
The pettiness of human souls,
The cheap frivolities of life,
The keen pursuit of paltry goals,—
How small they seem beneath the dome
That shelters my Tyrolean home!
A shining mote, our tiny earth
No furrow leaves in shoreless space!
What is one brief existence worth,
Which disappears, and leaves no trace?
That silent, star-strewn vault survives
The dawns and dusks of countless lives.
Why grieve, dear heart? Oblivion deep
Will soon enshroud both friend and foe,
And those who laugh and those who weep
Must join the hosts of long ago,
Whose transient hours of smiles and tears
Make up earth's wilderness of years.
The sunset's glowing embers die,
The snow-peaks lose their crimson hue,
Through deepening shades the ruddy sky
Burns slowly down to darkest blue,
Wherein a million worlds of light
Announce the coming of the night.
I gaze, and slowly my despair
At human wretchedness and crime
Gives place to hopes and visions fair,—
So much may be evolved by time!
So much may yet men's souls surprise
Beneath the splendor of God's skies!
Some day, somewhere, in realms afar
His light may make all problems plain,
And justice on some happier star
May recompense this planet's pain,
And earth's bleak Golgothas of woe
Grow lovely in life's afterglow.
CORSICA
In Bordighera's groves of palm
I linger at the close of day,
And watch, beyond the ocean's calm,
A range of mountains far away.
Their snowy summits, white and cold,
Flush crimson like a tinted shell,
As sinks the sun in clouds of gold
Behind the peaks of Esterel.
No unsubstantial shapes are they,—
The offspring of the mist and sea;
No splendid vision of Cathay,
Recalled in dreamful revery;
Their solid bastions,—towering high
Though rooted in earth's primal plan,—
Proclaim to every passer by
The cradle of the Corsican.
What martial soul there found rebirth,
When on those cliffs, then scarcely known,
There once more visited the earth
The spirit called Napoleon?
Three islands, like the sister Fates,
His life-thread wove upon their loom
From fair Ajaccio's silvered gates
To Saint Helena's mournful tomb;—
The first, his birthplace; whence appeared
His baleful star with lurid glow;
Next, Elba, where the world still feared
The fugitive from Fontainebleau;
Last, England's lonely prison-block,
Grim fragment 'neath a tropic sky,
Where, like Prometheus on his rock,
The captive Caesar came to die,
O Corsica, sublimely wild
And riven by the winds and waves,
Thy fame is deathless from thy child,
Whose glory filled a million graves.
TO THE VENUS OF MELOS
O goddess of that Grecian isle
Whose shores the blue Aegean laves,
Whose cliffs repeat with answering smile
Their features in its sun-kissed waves!
An exile from thy native place,
We view thee in a northern clime;
Yet mark on thy majestic face
A glory still undimmed by Time.
Through those calm lips, proud goddess, speak!
Portray to us thy gorgeous fane,
Where Melian lovers thronged to seek
Thine aid, Love's paradise to gain;
And where, as in the saffron east,
Day's jewelled gates were open flung,
With stately pomp the attendant priest
Drew back the veil before thee hung;
And when the daring kiss of morn,
Empurpling, made thy charms more fair,
Sweet strains from unseen minstrels borne
Awoke from dreams the perfumed air.
Vouchsafe at last our minds to free
From doubts pertaining to thy charms,—
The meaning of thy bended knee,
The secret of thy vanished arms.
Wast thou in truth conjoined with Mars?
Did thy fair hands his shield embrace,
The surface of whose golden bars
Grew lovely from thy mirrored face?
Or was it some bright scroll of fame
Thus poised on thine extended knee,
Upon which thou didst trace the name
Of that fierce god so dear to thee?
Whate'er thou hadst, no mere delight
Was thine the glittering prize to hold;
Not thine the form that met thy sight,
Replying from the burnished gold;
Unmindful what thy hands retained,
Thy gaze is fixed beyond, above;
Some dearer object held enchained
The goddess of immortal love.
We mark the motion of thine eyes,
And smile; for, heldst thou shield or scroll,
A tender love-glance we surprise,
That tells the secret of thy soul.
MORS LEONIS
When o'er the agèd lion steals
The instinct of approaching death,
Whose numbing grasp he vaguely feels
In trembling limbs and labored breath,
He shuns the garish light of day,
And leaving mate and whelps at play,
In mournful silence creeps away.
From bush to bush, by devious trails,
He drags himself from hill to hill,
And, as his old strength slowly fails,
Drinks long at many a mountain rill,
Until he gains, with stifled moan,
A height, to hated man unknown,
Where he may die, at least alone.
Relaxing now his mighty claws,
He lies, half shrouded by his mane,
His grand head resting on his paws,
And heeding little save his pain,
As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep,
The film of death begins to creep,—
The prelude to eternal sleep.
As Caesar, reeling 'neath the stroke
And dagger-thrust of many a friend,
Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak,
To meet, unseen, his tragic end,
So hath this desert-monarch tried
With noble dignity to hide
From others how and where he died.
And now his spirit is serene;
For here no stranger can intrude
To view this last, pathetic scene,
Or mar its sombre solitude;
Prone on the lonely mountain crest,
Confronting the resplendent west,
The dying lion sinks to rest.
Proud king of beasts! thy death should teach
Mankind the cheapness of display;
More eloquent than human speech,
Thy grand example shows the way
To pass from life, unheard, unseen,
And with composed, majestic mien
Death's awful sacredness to screen.
Nay, more! thou didst select a place
Where, unobserved, thy form could rest,
Till Mother Earth with fond embrace
Should hide it in her ample breast;
Like Moses in lone Nebo's land,
Thou hast been sepulchred in sand,
Unseen by eye, untouched by hand.
No pompous tomb shall ever rise
Above thy lonely, sun-bleached frame;
No epitaph of well-turned lies
Shall be inscribed beneath thy name;
No bells for thee a dirge shall ring,
No choir beside thy grave shall sing,
Yet hast thou perished like a king!
A STORY OF THE SEA
Were you ever told the legend old
Of the birth of storms at sea?
You should hear the tale in a Channel gale,
As happened once to me,
On a fearful night off Fastnet Light,
With Ireland on our lee.
In the good old days, which poets praise
As the best that man hath seen,
The storm-king's hand might smite the land,
But the sea remained serene;
Blow east, blow west, its sun-kissed breast
Kept ever its tranquil sheen.
Not a single trace came o'er its face
Of the storms that raged elsewhere;
No misty screen e'er crept between
The sun and its image there;
And its depths at night were gemmed with light
By stars in the crystal air.
The fisherman laughed in his little craft,
If a landsman felt alarm,
For never did gale a ship assail,
Or a sailor suffer harm;
There was nothing to fear, for the skies were clear,
And the ocean always calm.
But on the shore, where more and more
The human race increased,
There were cold and heat, and snow and sleet,
And troubles never ceased;
For wind and rain beat down the grain,
And the plague slew man and beast.
And even worse was the moral curse,
That came like a deadly blight
Through men who seized whate'er they pleased,
On the plea that might makes right,
Till the fatal seed of selfish greed
Made life a bitter fight.
Hence many sighed, as they watched the tide
Glide out to the sunset sea,
And longed to go with its gentle flow
To where they hoped might be
A realm of peace, where sorrows cease,
And souls from pain are free.
At last they said,—"We were better dead,
Than endure this anguish more;
Let us seek relief from care and grief
Far out from the storm-swept shore;
The sea can bring no sadder thing
Than the life we lived before."
So a ship was framed, which they fondly named
"The Peace of the Human Mind,"
And the weary band soon left the land
And its ceaseless strife behind;
But unattained the goal remained
They had so longed to find.
For the souls that came were quite the same
As they were before they sailed;
And, as pride and hate did not abate,
The hope of the voyagers failed;
And, facing alone the great Unknown,
The bravest spirits quailed.
Meanwhile the ship began to dip,
And labored to and fro,
For the sea, though fair, could no more bear
This load of human woe;
And at last the boat, with all afloat,
Sank helplessly below.
Down, down it swirled to the nether world;
While up from the riven main
Came the gurgling sound of those who drowned,
As the vortex closed again;
The sea surged back to its wonted track;
Once more 'twas a sun-lit plain!
But soon men saw, with deepening awe,
That sea grow white with spray;
Its brilliant hue was changed from blue
To a deathlike, leaden gray;
And a sullen roar approached the shore
Whence the ship had sailed away.
Huge waves rolled in with frightful din,
And spat out hissing foam,
And smote the sand along the strand,
And swept off many a home;
And lightnings flashed and thunder crashed
From heaven's ink-black dome.
"Alas!" they cried, "that our brothers died
In the depths of the sea of peace;
They have brought unrest to its quiet breast,
Which nevermore shall cease;
For the peace it lost we must pay the cost;
And behold! our woes increase!"
In truth, since then how many men
Have learned that the mighty deep
Can heave and swell to a seething hell,
When storms its surface sweep!
For its calm hath fled, and countless dead
Are the spoils it loves to heap.
But at its best, when it lies at rest
On a cloudless summer day,
And, tiger-like, forbears to strike,
But, sated, basks at play,
One seems to hear, with the psychic ear,
Its murmuring wavelets say,—
"No real relief from care and grief
Is found o'er distant waves;
The men who sail to find it, fail,
And sink to lonely graves;
In the firm control of man's own soul
Is alone the peace he craves."
OLD HYMN-TUNES
Dear, old-time tunes of prayer and praise,
Heard first beside my mother's knee,
Your music on my spirit lays
A spell from which I should be free,
If lapse of time gave liberty.
I listen, and the crowded years
Fade, dream-like, from my life, and lo!
I find my eyelids wet with tears,—
So much I loved, so well I know
Those plaintive airs of long ago!
They tell me of my vanished youth,
Of faith in what so flawless seemed,
Before the painful quest of truth
Had proved how much I then esteemed
Was other than I fondly dreamed!
They make my childhood live again;
And life's fair dawn grows once more bright,
While listening to the sweet refrain,
Sung in the Sabbath's waning light,—
"Glory to Thee, my God, this night!"
My mother's voice, so pure and strong,
My father's flute of silvery tone,
The little household's strength of song,
The childish treble of my own,—
I hear them once more, but … alone!
Sweet obligato to some hymn
Whose words those vanished tones recall,
Float o'er me, when earth's scenes grow dim,
And life's last, lingering echoes fall,
Till silence settles over all!
BEFORE A STATUE OF BUDDHA
O Buddha, of the mystic smile
And downcast, dreamful eyes,
To whom unnumbered sacred shrines
And gilded statues rise,
Whose fanes are filled with worshippers,
Whose hallowed name is sung
By myriads of the human race
In every Eastern tongue,
What means thy sweet serenity?
Our planet, as it rolls,
Sweeps through the starry universe
A mass of burdened souls,
Still agonized and pitiful,
Despite the countless years
That man has spent in wandering
Through paths of blood and tears!
O Lord of love and sympathy
For all created life,
How canst thou view thus placidly
The world's incessant strife,
The misery and massacre
Of war's destructive train,
The martyrdom of animals,
The tragedy of pain,
The infamous brutalities
To helpless children shown,
The pathos of whose joyless lives
Might melt a heart of stone?
Preeminently merciful,
Does not thy spirit long
To guard from inhumanity
The weak against the strong?
Thou biddest us deal tenderly
With every breathing-thing,—
The horse that drags the heavy load,
The bird upon the wing,
The flocks along the riverside,
The cattle on the lea,
And every living denizen
Of earth and air and sea;
Yet daily in the shambles
A sea of blood is spilled,
And man is nourished chiefly
From beasts that he has killed!
And hunters still find happiness
In seeing, red with wounds,
A sobbing deer, with liquid eyes,
Dragged down by yelping hounds!
What is the real significance
Of thine unchanging smile?
Hast thou the secret consciousness
That grief is not worth while?
That sorrow is the consequence
Of former lives of sin,—
The spur that goads us on and up
A nobler life to win?
That pain is as impermanent
As shadows on the hills,
And that Nirvana's blessedness
Will cure all mortal ills?
But agony is agony,
And small is the relief
If, measured with eternity,
Life's anguish be but brief.
To hearts that break with misery,
To every tortured frame
The present pain is paramount,
Nirvana but a name.
Moreover, why should former lives
Bequeath their weight of woe,
If with it comes no memory
To guide us, as we go?
If o'er the dark, prenatal void
No mental bridge be cast,
No thread, however frail, to link
The present to the past?
Still silent and dispassionate!
Ah, would that I might find
The key to the serenity
That fills thy lofty mind!
Thou hast a joy we do not feel,
A light we cannot see;
Injustice, sin, and wretchedness
No longer sadden thee;
No doubt to thy sublimer gaze
Life's mystery grows plain,
As finally full recompense
Atones for earthly pain.
THE PILLARS OF HERCULES
Here ends at last the Inland Sea!
Still seems its outlet, as of yore,
The anteroom of Mystery,
As, through its westward-facing door,
I see the vast Atlantic lie
In splendor 'neath a sunset sky.
Above its distant, glittering rim
Streams o'er the waves a flood of gold,
To gild the mountains, bare and grim,
Which guard this exit, as of old,—
The sombre sentries of two seas,
The Pillars reared by Hercules;—
Gibraltar,—on the northern shore,
By conquering Moors once proudly trod,—
And, to the south a league or more,
Huge Abyla, the "Mount of God",
Whence burdened Atlas watched with ease
The Gardens of Hesperides.
How many slow-paced centuries passed,
Before brave sailors dared to creep
Beyond the gloom these monsters cast,
And venture on the unknown deep,
At last resolving to defy
The "God-established" termini!
Yet no fierce gods opposed their path;
No lurid bolt or arrow sped
To crush them with celestial wrath,
And number them among the dead;
The dreadful Pillars proved as tame
As other rocks of lesser fame.
Hence, when before them stretched the sea,
Majestic, limitless and clear,
A rapturous sense of being free
Dispelled all vestiges of fear
The longed-for ocean to explore
From pole to pole, from shore to shore.
Thus all men learn the God they dread
Is kinder than they had supposed,
And that, not God, but Man hath said,—
"The door to freedom must be closed!"
Once past that door, with broadened view,
They find Him better than they knew.
Meanwhile, along the sunlit strait
My ship glides toward the saffron west,
Beyond the old Phenician gate
To ocean's gently heaving breast,
Whence, on the ever-freshening breeze,
There greet my spirit words like these;—
Sail bravely on! the morning light
Shall find thee far beyond the land;
Gibraltar's battlemented height
And Afric's tawny hills of sand
Shall soon completely sink from view
Beneath the ocean's belt of blue.
Sail on! nor heed the shadows vast
Of fabled Powers, whose fear enslaves!
Their spectral shapes shall sink at last
Below the night's abandoned waves;
Rest not confined by shoals and bars;
Steer oceanward by God's fixed stars!
FRIENDSHIP
'Tis not in the bitterest woes of life
That the love of friends, as a rule, grows cold;
Still less does it melt in the heat of strife,
Or die from the canker of borrowed gold;
For pity comes when they see us grieved,
Or forced to lie on a couch of pain,
And a hasty word is soon retrieved,
And the loan of money may leave no stain.
'Tis oftenest lost through the deadly blight
Of Society's pestilential air,
Which blackens the robe of purest white,
And fouls what once was sweet and fair.
An envious woman's whispered word,
A slander born of a cruel smile,
The repetition of something heard,
The imputation of something vile,
Or possibly even a fancied slight
For a feast declined, or a call delayed,
Or jealousy caused by petty spite,
Or the wish for a higher social grade,—
'Tis one, or all of these combined,
That saps the love of our dearest friends,
And slowly poisons heart and mind,
Till the joy of generous friendship ends.
Last night they were in a cordial mood,
To-day they suddenly seem estranged!
Shall we, then, grieve and sadly brood
O'er the unknown cause that has made them changed?
Ask once, that they make the matter clear,
But ask no more, if the lesson fail;
Let changelings go, however dear,
And shed no tears for a love so frail.
Be not the slave of a friend's migraine,
Nor let him play, now hot, now cold;
The master of thyself remain,
And the key of thine inmost heart withhold!
For they who weep and sue and plead,
Are used and dropped, like a worn-out glove,
And the friends with "moods" are the friends who need
To learn that they are not worth our love.
TO MY DEAD DOG
All is noiseless;
Cold and voiceless
Lies the form I've oft caressed;
Heedless now of blame or praises,
'Neath the sunshine and the daisies
Dear, old Leo lies at rest.
Eager greeting,
Joy at meeting,
Watching for my step to come,
Grief at briefest separation,
Sorrow without affectation,—
These are over,—he is dumb!
Loyal ever,
Treacherous never,
Lifelong love he well expressed;
Ah! may we deserve like praises
When beneath the sun-kissed daisies
We, like Leo, lie at rest!
TO-DAY
"The sun will set at day's decline";
Qu'importe?
Quaff off meanwhile life's sparkling wine!
Of what avail are mournful fears,
Foreboding sighs and idle tears,
They hinder not the hurrying years;
Buvons!
"This fleeting hour will soon be past";
Qu'importe?
Enrich its moments while they last!
To-day is ours; be ours its joy!
Let not to-morrow's cares annoy!
Enough the present to employ;
Vivons!
"These pleasures will not come again";
Qu'importe?
Enjoy their keenest transport then!
If but of these we are secure,
Be of their sweetness doubly sure,
That long their memory may endure!
Rions!
"With time love's ardor always cools";
Qu'importe?
Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!
Must doubt destroy our present bliss?
Shall we through fear love's rapture miss,
Or lose the honey of its kiss?
Aimons!
"The sun will set at day's decline";
Qu'importe?
Will not the eternal stars still shine?
So even in life's darkest night
A thousand quenchless suns are bright,—
Blest souvenirs of past delight;
Allons!
TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"
Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands,
Describes strange climes and visions passing fair,
Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands
A private casket filled with treasures rare,
So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say
Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid;
Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray
Above the depths of ocean's briny bed.
For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace
Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue,
Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face,
And kisses sweeter far than he had sung;
The gleam of passion in his glorious eyes,
The hours of inspiration when he wrote,
Recalled to Earth in sudden, sweet surprise
At feeling thy white arms about his throat;
To have been loved by Byron! Not in youth
When ardent senses tempt to reckless choice,
But in maturer years, when keen-eyed Truth
Reveals the folly of the siren's voice.
Last love is best, and this thou didst enjoy;
Thy happy fate to see no rival claim
A share in what was thine without alloy;
How must the remnant of thy life seem tame!
Yet this thy recompense,—that thou dost keep
Thy friend and lover safe from every change;
For, loyal to thy love, he fell asleep,
And life it is, not death, that can estrange.
THE DEATH OF ANTONINUS PIUS
Through the marble gates of Ostia,
Where the Tiber meets the sea,
And a hundred Roman galleys
Strain their leashes to be free,
Streams a flood of sunset glory
From the classic sea of old,
Till Rome's seven hills stand gleaming,
And the Tiber turns to gold.
Why, indifferent to this splendor,
Do the people throng the streets?
What is everyone demanding
Of the stranger whom he meets?
They have heard alas! the rumor
That, ere dawn regilds the sky,
All the world may be in mourning,
For the Emperor must die.
Search, O Romans, through the annals
Of the rulers of your race,
From the zenith of their glory
To their ultimate disgrace,—
And as earth's most perfect master,
And the noblest of your line,
You will yield your greatest homage
To this dying Antonine.
For he holds a Caesar's sceptre
In a loving father's hand,
And his heart and soul are given
To the welfare of his land;
Through his justice every nation
Hath beheld its warfare cease,
And he leaves to his successor
Rome's gigantic world at peace.
Hence these nations now are waiting
In an anguish of suspense,
For their future is as doubtful,
As their love for him intense;
By the Nile and on the Danube,
From the Tagus to the Rhine,
There is mourning among millions
For the man they deem divine.
Now the sunset glow is fading,
And the evening shadows creep
O'er the ashen face of Caesar,
As he lies in seeming sleep;
But he slumbers not; for, faithful
To his duties, small and great,
He is not alone the sovereign,
But the servant of the State.
Unrebuked, then, his Centurion,
As the sun-god sinks from sight,
Makes his wonted way to Caesar
For the password of the night;
And great Antonine, though conscious
That ere dawn his soul must pass,
As his last, imperial watchword,
Utters "Aequanimitas!"
O thou noblest of the Caesars,
Whose transcendent virtues shine,
Like a glorious constellation,
O'er the blood-stained Palatine,
When the latest sands are running
From my life's exhausted glass,
May I have thy calm and courage,
And thine Aequanimitas!
THE BUTTERFLY
I watched to-day a butterfly,
With gorgeous wings of golden sheen,
Flit lightly 'neath a sapphire sky
Amid the springtime's tender green;—
A creature so divinely fair,
So frail, so wraithlike to the sight,
I feared to see it melt in air,
As clouds dissolve in morning light.
With sudden swoop, a brutal boy
Caught in his cap its fans of gold,
And forced them down with savage joy
Upon the path's defiling mould;
Then cautiously, the ground well scanned,
He clutched his darkened, helpless prey,
And, pinched within his grimy hand,
Withdrew it to the light of day.
Alas! its fragile bloom was gone,
Its gracile frame was sorely hurt,
Its silken pinions drooped forlorn,
Disfigured by the dust and dirt;
Its life, a moment since so gay,
So joyous in its dainty flight,
Was slowly ebbing now away,—
Its too-brief day eclipsed by night.
Meantime, the vandal, face aflame,
Surveyed it dying in his grasp,
Yet knew no grief nor sense of shame
In watching for its final gasp.
At last its sails of gold and brown,
Of texture fine and colors rare,
Came, death-struck, slowly fluttering down,
No more to cleave the sunlit air;
One happy, harmless being less,
To bid us dream the world is sweet!
Gone like a gleam of happiness,
A glimpse of rapture … incomplete!
Yet who shall say this creature fair
In God's sight had a smaller worth
Than that dull lout who watched it there,
And in its death found cause for mirth?
For what, in truth, are we who claim
An endless life beyond the grave,
But insects of a larger frame,
Whose souls may be too small to save?
Since far-off times, when Cave Men fought
Like famished brutes for bloody food,
And through unnumbered centuries sought
To rear their naked, whelp-like brood,
How many million men have died,
From pole to pole through every clime,—
An awful, never-ending tide
Swept deathward on the shores of Time!
Like insects swarming in the sun,
They flutter, struggle, mate, and die,
And, with their life-work scarce begun,
Are struck down like the butterfly;
A million more, a million less,
What matters it? The Earth rolls on,
Unmindful of mankind's distress,
Or if the race be here, or gone.
Thus rolled our globe ere man appeared,
And thus will roll, with wrinkled crust,
Deserted, lifeless, old, and seared,
When man shall have returned to dust.
And IT at last shall also die!
Hence, measured by the eternal scale,
It ranks but as the butterfly,—
A world, ephemeral, fair and frail.
Man, insect, earth, or distant star,—
They differ only in degree;
Their transient lives, or near or far,
Are moments in eternity!
Yet somehow to my spirit clings
The faith that man survives the sod,
For this poor insect's broken wings
Have raised my thoughts from earth to God.
AFTER THE STORM
The duel of the warring clouds
Hath ended with the day;
Their scintillant, electric blades
Have ceased their fearful play;
The pent up fury of their hate
Hath found at last release,
And o'er the tempest-stricken earth
Broods now the hush of peace.
The passing of the hurricane
Hath swept the sultry skies;
The clearness of the atmosphere
Brings jubilant surprise;
The mountain peaks are glorified
With freshly-fallen snow,
And, stealing o'er their coronets,
Appears the sunset glow.
An hour since, a torrid heat
Oppressed the languid frame;
The wind was as the khamseen's breath,
The solar touch seemed flame;
But now the air rejuvenates,
The breeze refreshment brings,
The lustrous leaves drop diamonds,
The lark with rapture sings.
Fear not, dear heart! life's darkest storms
Shall likewise end in light;
Behind the blackest thundercloud
The sun shines clear and bright;
Once more celestial heights shall wear
Their sheen of spotless snow,
And on the bravely steadfast soul
The smile of God shall glow.
FALLEN
My country! by our fathers reared
As champion of the world's opprest;
Whose moral force the tyrant feared;
Whose flag all struggling freemen cheered;
In clutching at an empire's crest
Thou too art fallen like the rest.
Not in thy numbers, wealth or might,
Proud mistress of a continent!
For rival nations, at the sight
Of thy resources, view with fright
Thy progress without precedent;
Not there is seen thy swift descent.
Reread the story of thy birth!
Recall the years in conflict spent
To prove to a despairing earth
That every Government of worth
Is really based on free consent;
Then view with shame thy present bent!
Thou hadst a place unique, sublime;
In many a land beyond the sea
The victims of despotic crime
In thee, the latest born of Time,
Beheld a land from tyrants free,
The sacred Ark of Liberty.
But now the Old World's lust for lands
Infects thee too; the dread disease
Hath left its plague-spots on thy hands;
Thy monster area still expands;
For, blind to history's Nemesis,
Thou too wouldst alien races seize.
Condemning with profound disdain
All other nations' heartless greed,
How couldst thou buy from humbled Spain
A people struggling to attain
A freedom suited to their need?
Why stultify thy boasted creed?
Thine aid to them thou mightst have given,
As France her aid once gave to thee;
With them thy sons might well have striven,
And their blood-rusted fetters riven;
But why, in Heaven's name, should we
Shoot men aspiring to be free?
I tread the fields where thousands sleep,—
The blood-soaked fields that freed the slave;
What precious memories still they keep
For hearts that mourn and eyes that weep!
Yet for the lives those heroes gave
What have we that they died to save?
A Union? Yes; outstretched in might
From snow to palm, from sea to sea;
But pledged to use its strength aright,
And evermore to keep alight
The torch of human liberty:
Is this the Union that we see?
Where history's Martyr dared to break
The power that held a race in chains,
I see the ghastly lynching-stake,
Where brutal mobs their vengeance take,
And, since no law their course restrains,
Gloat o'er their writhing victim's pains.
Race hatred,—born of groundless fears
And narrow prejudice of caste—,
Now greets the cultured black with sneers
And, barring him from high careers,
Breaks, like a mad iconoclast,
The nation's idols of the past.
No more can we with steadfast eyes
Protest, when tortured races moan
With hands uplifted toward the skies;
Their tyrants answer with surprise
And new-born insolence of tone,—
"These are our lynchings; cure your own!"
Yet hope remains! A path retraced
Is nobler than persistent wrong;
A fault confessed is half effaced;
That land alone can be disgraced
Which is not just, however strong,
Toward those to whom its "spoils" belong.
My country! Would to God that praise
Might leave my lips, instead of blame!
So near the parting of the ways,
Subjected to the eager gaze
Of millions, jealous of thy fame,
Retrace the path that ends in shame!
"AEQUANIMITAS"
Watchword sublime of Rome's imperial sage,
Tersest of synonyms for self-control,
Paramount precept of the Stoic's age,
Noblest of mottoes for the lofty soul,—
Would thou wert writ in characters of light,
At every turn to greet my reverent gaze,
And bid me face life's evils, calm, upright,
Unspoiled alike by calumny or praise!
With all our science we are slaves of Fate;
What is to come we know not, cannot know;
Grief, suffering, death,—all touch us soon or late,
The master question, how to meet the blow.
Grant me, ye Gods, through life a steadfast eye,
And then, with equanimity, to die!