A cluster of roses, and other poems

Front matter

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Preface

IT has been said that a preface is permissible only when it acts as a key, opening to the reader the secret treasure-chamber of a book, or revealing to him the hidden spiritual and mental life of its author. If this be true, a preface to the poems of Bertha May Ivory is doubly justified. The noblest beauties of her Muse are veiled, and cloistered in her heart the pure ideals before whose shrines her life, like altar-lamp, burned itself out in holy, hidden service ! To lift the veil, to scale her heart's sealed gates, is the sad privilege of the writer.

A study of song, be it just and generous, implies like study of the singer. The bird-song, heard from afar, delights the ear, but not until the bird flies into sight with beat of wing, and play of head, and throb of lustrous breast, does the perfect chord, the complete measure, the rhythmical full harmony, attune hearts to response. Of Bertha May Ivory, alas ! there lives to-day her song alone. Death's white wings fold the singer. Her violet eyes are closed in their last sleep; her clear-cut face, her lissome form, are hidden from our sight; her gentle voice is silent; yet Memory lives, and charms we see no more, still hold our hearts in bondage. Beautiful in flesh and spirit, brilliant alike in mind and manner, Bertha May Ivory, unlike the mis-called vast majority, was happily, even prophetically, named: "Bertha, beautiful and bright." Thus we knew her, thus we remember her; thus again we shall meet her in that better life which knows not death, — where "loved ones part no more."

Bertha May Ivory was born — all too few years ago — at the beautiful City of St. Louis, Missouri ; an ideal cradle for a poet, since here the Past and Present meet and mingle, blending Reminiscence with Ambition, and haloing the cruder charms of progressive youth with grand and honored memories. Of illustrious ancestry, inheriting through her father, the late Hon. John C. Ivory, Anglo-Scotch blood of royal Stuart origin, and the tact, and grace of la belle France; from the maternal side both Irish wit and Spanish charm and beauty, — Bertha May Ivory, nevertheless, was a true viii PRE FA CE.

American ; her patriotism a heritage from two great-grand-fathers and one great-great-grand-father, — distinguished officers in Washington's valiant army of the Revolution.

The childhood of this apparently favored daughter of fortune was cradled in a beautiful and picturesque home, to which her reminiscent verse, " A Cluster of Roses," is our Sesame. In this paradise of poet-youth,

The sun wore an added glory,

And the stars shone as angel's eyes,

And the moon was a symbol of Mary, Whose light led to Paradise."

Knowing the gloom that overcast her after-years, one is tempted to linger with the poet-child in her heart's glad springtime, when

Life was a beautiful meadow

Starred with the flowers of youth." ******

"And peace and hope and gladness

Shut out all shadows of care."

The records of her childhood, perhaps because of its happiness, are few. Over the gray old rock of Life, smiles come and go like sunbeams. Tears alone, like storm-floods, make impress as they fall. Hence, we are constrained to pass from the sunlit youth we knew not, to the shadowed girlhood we knew. Upon her cloudless pathway Death darkly swooped, snatching away both father and brother, and the dual blow was followed by sudden loss of all most intimately associated with the beloved dead. The delicate, sensitive young dreamer of dreams and seer of poet-visions, outcast from her Paradise of roses like Eve from Eden, found her tender youth set face to face with an unknown world of practical needs and human struggle : a bleak material world whose roses are few and far between, whose thorns are sharp and many.

Bertha May Ivory won the rose-crown, but not till the thorns had wounded her. Yield her not only the laurels of the poet, but the bays of the victor. Hail to the heroine who bravely hid her wounds! Pride was hers in royal measure; but still more unquestionably the nobler traits — passionate in their intensity, of Love and Loyalty. Self-sacrifice was as nothing to her: self-immolation little. Against her natural yearnings for the leisure and luxury which were her birthright, the social sphere which was her heritage, and for whose triumphs she was irresistibly equipped ; against distaste of the Real, as slayer of the Ideal loved of poets, — against weariness of responsibilities overburdening her frail young shoulders; against difficulties and discouragements

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under which weaker souls must have fainted, she bravely battled, — enduring, resisting, conquering, not for her own sake, but for the sakes of those far dearer than herself. Her "Queen," the " brown-eyed, silver-haired " mother she idolized, and in whose honor some of her tenderest songs are sung ; the fair young sisters with whom more than one verse acquaints us, these were the beloved ones for whom she strove and triumphed.

" Would, my own, that I could smother

With my love, the pain you bear ! "

Such was the ceaseless cry of her unselfish heart, the sateless desire, the single aim of her youthful life, whose loving and lavish filial, fraternal, friendly service was faithful unto death !

The true, the selfless, the heroic, these the gods love. Alas for us who

mourn her,

" Whom the gods love, die young." ******

The life-work of Bertha May Ivory — inasmuch as it is ended, even in its fair beginning — is difficult to review. The notes of a lark on the wing, the hues and tints of butterfly-wings in flight, — how, justly, may we judge these, hearing not the song to its end, — catching but a glance at beauties blended as they pass us? Bertha May Ivory's pen was like herself, impulsive, versatile, vivid, brilliant ! As a journalist, her career, even in its brevity, was phenomenal for youth and womanhood. Her ability was remarkable ; her promise such as years must have fulfilled. She was ready, reliable, ambitious and courageous. Much of her best work in this sphere was necessarily anonymous, and hence unrecognized by the public ; but the respect and support of a conservative press prove its true value, and over the signature of " Antonia" she wrote herself into the hearts of the people, her relinquished pen being missed and mourned by many an unknown friend. As a writer of sketch and short-story, she was successful in her comparatively few ventures in these directions, as only the young author "born not made," can be; as the appearance of her prose in the columns of leading magazines and prominent literary and social journals attests. Yet it is as a verse-writer, pure and simple, that we must study her most sympathetically, if we would put ourselves in touch with the heart of her life-work.

It cannot be denied that the pathetic melancholy of the greater number of her poems is what first impresses us: — the desperate melancholy of Youth which knows no hope — of Innocence which holds Pain deathless, Regret eternal. But recalling her early lessons in bitter bereavement and misfortune, and the sacrificial life thereby entailed who can wonder if Youth's blithe waters swerved at their turnpoint from banks sunlit and flowered, into gloomier channels shadowed by cypress and rue? Riper life would have brought her consolax PREFACE.

tion ; recompense, if not oblivion. As it was, Death found in her chastened heart at least resignation, born of the Divine Faith whose spark burned in her pure young soul, till it flamed at last into the beacon-star which lit her way to heaven. The steps by which she mounted towards the light, are evident in her verses. Here is her midnight requiem :

" Out, out, where cold winds sweep my colder soul,

And knife-edged blasts cut keenly in my heart, Where shines no star above the sullen clouds, There shall I watch alone, our love depart.''' 1

And here her psalm at dawning :

' ' / am fearless of the future :

With God's promise in my breast; <As He giveth storms and battles, Shall He surely give me rest!'''

Hence the minor chord, after all, was but briefly dominant. The rare chastity of her heart-songs over-rings it like angelic voices. Truthfully she sang :

''My love too pure for passion's reign, ' 7 is love, and love alone ! ' '

Her pure ideals and noble standards undertone it, like strong, sweet, golden bells :

' ' / would not choose for wealth of kings, The pathway you have trod; — <Jlnd stand, as you must stand, some dav, 'Before the throne of God!'"

Note the holy hope of her many devotional poems ; the graceful sentiment of her happier love-songs, of which "A Mon Bien-Aim6" is a notable example. Mark the glowing enthusiasm of her eloquent tributes alike to noble living and honored dead ! Some of these, especially those inspired by religious fervor, are almost martial in their character. In the stirring lines, for instance, entitled "Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam," who can be deaf to the hint of rhythmic drum-beats, and the measured tread of feet?

And just here must be remarked the loyalty of soul as well as of heart which inspired much of Bertha May Ivory's most earnest work. Her splendid journalistic tribute to the Christ-like work of the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, lives and bears fruit to-day. Her life of Archbishop Kenrick, entitled " Fifty Years a Bishop," won her alike the palms of Church and laity. Her poetic tribute to the dead poet-priest Rev. A. J. Ryan ; sings alike in his honor and in her's. She had the "courage of her convictions;" and more, the enthusiasm

PREFACE. xi

of them. Let us, with human voice, echo the words God hath surely spoken to her: —

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant!"

Lights out! The church bell tolls the hour of darkness. Bertha May Ivory's life and work and death, — even to this poor summary of them, — are consummated. What is their issue?

Over the dark and silence hearken the watchword,

" {Midnight, and all is well!"

" Midnight " with us, whose lives Death's wings have shadowed ? " Well " with the dead we love and mourn, — God grant it!

NEW YORK, July, 1894.

Index To Poems

A Broken Fan, 46

A Butterfly's Afternoon, " . 32

Accused, 59

A Chord in the Music, 131

A Crown 151

A Devotee, 87

Adieu, 115

Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, 130

A Farewell, 43

A Friend, 124

A Gift, . 62

A Golden Spray, 149

A Heart Song, 54

A Life Complete, 93

Alone at Last, 17

A Love Leaf, 31

A Love Letter, 34

Alpha — Omega, 101

A Memory, 1

A Modern Galatea, 125

A Mon Bien-Aime, 143

An Answer, 128

An Awakening, 79

An Easter Song, 141

An Invitation, 61

A Perfect Day, hi

A Picture, 64

A Rainy Day, 107

A Respite, 36

A Sorrow's Crown, 118 xiv INDEX TO POEMS.

A Surrender, 26

A Thought, 96

A Tribute to Colonel P. S. Gilmore, 157

A Tribute to the memory of the late Hon. Samuel T. Glover, .... 145

At the Opera, 8

Bridal Chimes, 144

Changed, 19

Conquered, 5

Consolation, 51

Crowned, 134

Dark Moments, • ". 30

Dulcie, 152

For the First Love's Always Best, 6

For the Last Time, 4

Found Wanting, 25

Fragrant Still, 13

From the Stars, 53

Fruitless, 102

Heart Relics, 69

Her Secret, 156

Hesitation, 21

How Come the Stars? 109

Louise, 75

Love at Play, 65

Love's Dream, 133

Love's Magic Gift, 12

Love's Rose, 105

Memory's Enchantment, 41

Mirage, 22

Missouri, 159

Moonlight, 147

Murillo's Immaculate Conception, 70

My Faith, 9

My Lady's Mood, 98

My Prayer, 63

My Queen, 29

INDEX TO POEMS. kv

Once, 41

On the Heights, 44

Philosophy, 14 2

Retribution, 73

Romola, . . • 91

Separation, 165

Teariess, 38

The Death of Love, 95

The Difference, 77

The Faded Valentine, . 89

The Gates Unclasped, 28

The Last Farewell, 71

The Old — and the New, 100

The Parting, 81

The Penalty, 55

The Silent Song-Bird, 114

The Song of the Cynic, 15

The Southland Poet, 122

Thine Eyes, 103

Thus Ever, 48

Thy First Communion Day, 154

Tired, 11

Trust, ■. 27

Which Shall It Be? 23

Who May Know, 148

Index To Illustrations

Portrait of the Author, with autograph signature, Frontispiece.

Like some stately ship, With bright rose-color resting on the mast, The ship hath sailed and glided from my life, With all its. freight of joy and love for me.

A Memory. Illustration by Harry Chase. Page i.

In her proud arms she raised the Love, His golden curls caressed.

Love's Magic Gift. Illustration by Carl Gutherz. Page 16.

She entered trembling, with her white robe drawn Across her shoulders, for the winds of fear Swept o'er the pallor of the maiden dawn.

The Gates Unclasped. Illustration by George C. Eichbaum. Page 32. '

Out of the shadow of thoughtland,

Down through the realm of dreams,

Comes my soul, by a subtle perfume, Like a breath from heaven, it seems.

A Cluster of Roses. Illustration by George W. Chambers. Page 48.

All nature, sun and breezes,

Rare roses, fragrance sweet, Birds, day and night-time splendor,

Flung incense at thy feet.

A Gift. Illustration by Edward M. Campbell. Page 64.

xviii INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS.

Singing soft this wooing song:

LOVE'S SONG.

"Come fair maid, be mine! be mine!

" I will deck a couch for thee,

Lined with scarlet poppies red And their drowsy breaths shall woo Slumber to thy tired head. 1 '

Love at Play. Illustration by Carl Gutiierz. Page So.

Old, and faded and dim with years —

Oh, there's reason enough for a storm of tears.

And so in the firelight's flash and glow We can guess why my lady was musing so.

A Faded Valentine. Illustration by Paul E. Harvey. Page 96.

With her pretty face all dyed By the gentle roseate blushes

Which the lilies could not hide — Idly pulls she there the petals

Of a full-blown crimson rose.

Love's Rose. Illustration by J. Wilton Cunningham. Page 112.

Tears are falling moist and gentle From the great heart of the sky.

Nature, like a woman sobbing,

Weeps out all her care and pain.

A Rainy Day. Illustration by Paul Cornoyer. Page 12S.