Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

University Press: Welch, Bigelow & Co., Cambridge.

CONTENTS.

Violet-Planting

Come, children, come! From the sweet ferny meads Wherein he used to walk in days of yore,— From the green path that leads, When the long dusty road seems wearisome, Up to his father's door,— Gather the tender shoots Of budding promise, fragrance, and delight, Fresh-sprouting violet-roots,— That, when the first June night Shall draw about his bed its fragrant gloom, This grove-mound may be bathed in balmy bloom, With loving memories eloquently dumb;— Come, children, come!

No more, alas, alas! O fairest blossoms which the wild bee sips, Along your pleasant places shall he pass, Ere from your freshened leaves the night-dew drips,— Culling your bloom in handfuls from the grass, Pressing your tender faces to his lips,— Ah, never any more! Yet I recall, a little while before

He passed behind this mystery of death, How, bringing home great clusters won away from the dark wood-haunts where he loved to stray, Until his dewy garments were replete With wafts of odorous breath,— With sods all mossy-sweet, And, all awake and purple with new bloom, He filled and crowded every window-scat, Until the pleasant room Was fragrant with your mystical perfume: Now vainly do I watch beside the door— Ah, never any more!

Alas, how could I know That I so soon should strow Your blossoms warm with tears, above his head That your wet roots would cling About the hand that wears his bridal ring, When he who placed it there lay cold and dead?

O violets, live and grow, That, ere the bright days go, This turf may be with rarest beauty crowned! Nay, shrink not from my touch,

For these be careful and most loving bauds, Fearing and hoping much, Which thus disturb your fair and wondering bands But to transfer them to more holy ground.

Dear violets, bloom and live! To this beloved tomb Your beauty and your bloom Are the most precious tribute we can give; And O, if your sweet soul of odor goes, Blended with the dear trills of singing birds, Farther than my poor speech Or wailing cry can reach Iuto that realm of shadowy repose, Toward which I blindly yearn, Praying in silence, "O my love, return!" Yet dare not try to touch with groping words, So far it seems, and sweet,— The realm wherein I may not hope to be Until my way-worn feet Put off the shoes of this mortality,— O, let your incense-breath, Laden with all this weight of love and woe For him who went away so long ago, Bridge for me Time and Death!

Blow, violets, blow! And tell him in your blossoming o'er and o'er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore; Tell him how often in the dear old ways, Where bloomed our yesterdays,— The radiant days which I shall find no more,— My lingering footsteps shake The dew-drops from your leaves, for his dear sake: Wake, blue eyes, wake!

The earliest breath of June Blows the white tassels from the cherry boughs, And in the deepest shadow of the noon The mild-eyed oxen browse. How tranquilly he sleeps, He whom so bitterly we mourn as dead! Although the new month sweeps The over-blossomed spring-flower from his bed, Giving fresh buds therefor, Although beside him still Love waits and weeps, And yonder goes the war.

Wake, violets, wake! Open your blue eyes wide!

Watch faithfully his lonely pillow here; Let no rude footfall break Your slender stems, or crush your leaves aside; See that no harm comes near The dust to me so dear, O violets, hear! The clouds hang low and heavy with warm rain,— And, when I come again, Lo, with your blossoms this loved grave shall be Blue as the marvellous sea, Laving the borders of his Italy!

Snow

And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trauee of snow.

Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes heat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!

Clouds may thicken, aud storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,— Land of my longing!—and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!

Among the Laurels

Soft mosses, damp and sweet, Allured our waiting feet, Aud brambles veiled their thorns with treacherous bloom; While tiny flecks of flowers, Which owned no name of ours, Added their mite of beauty and perfume.

And hark! a hidden bird, To sudden utterance stirred As by a wondrous love too great to bear With voiceless silence long, Burst into passionate song, Filling with his sweet trouble all the air.

Then one, whose eager soul Could brook no small control, Said, "Let us thread this pleasant path, dear friend: If thus the way can be So beautiful to see, How much more beautiful must be the end!

Follow! this solitude May shrine the haunted wood,

Storied so sweetly in romance and rhyme,— Secure from human ill, And rarely peopled still By Fauns and Dryads of the olden time.

"A spot of hallowed ground By mortal yet unfound, Sacred to nymph and sylvan deity,— Where foiled Apollo glides, And bashful Daphne hides Safe in the shelter of her laurel-tree!"

"Forbear!" the other cried,— "O, leave the way untried! Those joys are sweetest which we only guess And the impatient soul, That seeks to grasp the whole, Defeats itself by its own eagerness.

Let us not rudely shake The dew-drop from the brake Fringing the borders of this haunted dell; All the delights which are— The present and the far— Lose half their charm by being known too well!

And he mistakes who tries To search all mysteries,— Who leaves no cup undrained, no path untracked Who seeks to know too much Brushes with ruthless touch The bloom of Fancy from the brier of Fact.

"Keep one fair myth aloof From hard and actual proof,— Preserve some dear delusions as they seem; Since the reality, How bright soe'er it be, Shows dull and tame beside our marvellous dream.

"Leave this white page unscored, This rare realm unexplored, And let dear Fancy roam there as she will: Whatever page we turn, However much we learn,. Let them be something left to dream of still!"

Wherefore, for aught we know, The golden apples grow

In the green vale to which that pathway leads; The spirits of the wood Still haunt its solitude, And Pan sits piping there among the reeds!

In Illness

So much a thing to be desired; But I have toiled the wide world through, My whole heart aches, and I am tired; The aims to which my soul aspired Seem poor and small: Only Love saves us, after all!

And mine has been so full of gloom, Dear heart,— So twinned with sorrow or with fear, It never came to perfect bloom; And now the harvest time is here, My fields lie bare. But you are dear, And I could die Upon your breast without a sigh.

Now hush, O hush! I kiss your tears, Dear heart. This grief is more than I can claim: Whether I live to threescore years, Or perish with this candle-flame, I love and thank you all the same: Then, love, be still, And let it be as God may will.

My Soldier

I trifled,—sung or laughed, perchance, With roses in my hair, All unaware.

In dreams I see him fall again, Where cannons roar and guidons wave,— Then wake to hear the lonesome rain, Weeping the fallen brave, Drip on his grave.

Since treason sought our country's heart, Ah, fairer body never yet from nobler soul was torn apart; No braver blood has wet Her coronet.

No spirit more intense and fine Strives where her starry banners wave; No gentler face, beloved, than thine, Sleeps in a soldier's grave,— No heart more brave.

And, though his mound I may not trace, Or weep above his buried head,

The grateful spring shall find the place, And with her blossoms spread His quiet bed.

The soul I loved is still alive, The name I loved is Freedom's boast; I clasp these helpful truths, and strive To feel, though great the cost, Nothing is lost;

Since all of him that erst was dear Is safe; his life was nobly spent, And it is well. Oh, draw Thou near, Light my bewilderment, Make me content !

Broken Faith

While deep in the shady solitudes The last sweet bud of the arbutus hides, Ah me! And the treacherous honey-bee stays his wing To wrong its sweetness;—but yet, O Spring, Thou hast broken thy faith with me!

Never a bud is seen Within my garden walls,— Never a touch of sprouting green; And the fitful sunlight faintly falls, Ah me! On broken trellis and leafless vine, Where last year's tendrils bleach and pine, With blackened stems between.

June will be here anon, Flushing the smiling skies, Putting her bravest garments on, Flaunting her roses in homesick eyes, Ah me! Which will not smile at the thoughts they bring, Or weep when they wither;—for thou, O Spring, Hast broken thy faith with me!

In Washington

She waits there patiently, but no one stops to buy, And her small memrchandise remains unsold.

Her eyes are fixed upon the stinted grass, Browned by the sunshine, in the dusty square, While youth and beauty pass, but give no thought, alas! To her who once was also young and fair.

In her now faded hair were golden gleams, And youth shone on her forehead like a crown;— Ah, how remote it seems, that time of joyous dreams, Far from the hot streets of this tedious town!

Sometimes, I fancy, in her dull despair, Across her thought this pleasant memory slips; Once, as I passed her there, a sweet, old-fashioned air Quavered in broken treble from her lips.

No matter whose rich skirts against her blow, She never speaks, or turns her head, or stirs; Oh, flutterers to and fro, what can your gay hearts know Of such an empty, hopeless life as hers?

She sees you, blessed with all that fortune brings, Shake from your dainty robes the perfumed airs; She sees white hands, and rings, and gems, and precious things, And smiling eyes. I wonder if she cares?

Silent she sits, her chin upon her knees, While proud and happy crowds go sweeping by; I wonder, when she sees such differences as these, If her sad soul rebels and queries, "Why?"

What thoughts may pain her heart, so lone and drear, Who knows?—But though I never heard her speak, Once, as I came more near; I thought I saw a tear Lost in the mazy wrinkles of her cheek.

But if there be a law of recompense, Which rights all wrongs, and gives us back our own, In some sweet realm far hence, where toil and turbulence Dwell not, and age and sorrow are unknown,

There she, with all her earthly troubles told, And freed from all this weight of want and care, No longer wan and old, and poor and unconsoled, Shall be a radiant angel, young and fair.

And if, enfranchised from this dreary maze, I, too, shall come into that rest serene, And meet her, as she strays along the pleasant ways Amid the waters still and pastures green,

Dowered with the deathless youth of Paradise, I wonder if my memory will be true,— If, looking in her eyes, my own will recognize The Old Match-vender of the Avenue?

Time

Have faith, my friend. And when these stormy glooms Have chastened us for June, come here again, And yon shall see my tree made glad with blooms, Its branches all a-toss with purple plumes Sweeping across this selfsame window-pause!

Babyhood

The sparrow is your fearless friend, And even these pine-tassels bend More fondly to your cheek than mine.

When in the summer woods we walk, All shy, sweet things commune with you: You understand the robin's talk; And when a flower bends its stalk, You answer it with nod and coo.

Sometimes, with playful prank and wile, As seeing what I cannot see, You look into the air, and smile, And murmur softly all the while To one who speaks no word to me.

Is it because your sacred youth Is free from touch of time or toil? I cannot tell;—perhaps, in sooth, Clean hands may grasp the fair white truth Withheld from mine through fear of soil.

I guard you with a needless care, O child, so sinlessly secure!

I see that even now you wear A dawning glory in your hair,— And fittingly, for you are pure:

Pure to the heart's unsullied core, As, conscious of its spotless trust, The lily's temple is, before The bee profanes its marble floor, Leaving a track of golden dust.

O, shield me with your light caress, Dear heart, so stainless and so new! Unconscious of your loveliness, Your beauty, fresh and shadowless, As is a violet of its blue.

Perhaps through death our souls may gain Your perfect peace, your holy rest. Life has not vexed us all in vain, If, after all this woe and pain, We may be blessed babes again, Cradled on Love's immortal breast!

Going to sleep

Nor life nor death is wholly drear, O tender heart, since you are here,— So dear, so dear! Sweet love! my soul's sufficient crown! Now, darling, kiss my eyelids down!

Left Behind

I watched the distance as it grew, And loved you better than you knew.

You did not see the bitter trace Of anguish sweep across my face; You did not hear my proud heart beat Heavy and slow beneath your feet: You thought of triumphs still unwon, Of glorious deeds as yet undone; And I, the while you talked to me, I watched the gulls float lonesomely Till lost amid the hungry blue, And loved you better than you knew.

You walk the sunny side of Fate; The wise world smiles, and calls you great; The golden fruitage of success Drops at your feet in plenteousness; And you have blessings manifold,— Renown and power, and friends and gold. They build a wall between us twain Which may not be thrown down again. Alas! for I, the long years through, Have loved you better than you knew.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth, Have kept the promise of your youth; And while you won the crown which now Breaks into bloom upon your brow, My soul cried strongly out to you Across the ocean's yearning blue, While, unremembered and afar, I watched you, as I watch a star Through darkness struggling into view, And loved you better than you knew.

I used to dream, in all these years Of patient faith and silent tears, That Love's strong hand would put aside The barriers of place and pride,— Would reach the pathless darkness through And draw me softly up to you. Perchance the violets o'er my dust Will half betray their buried trust, And say, their blue eyes fall of dew, "She loved you better than you knew."

The Dream

Which, into marble wrought, Asserts sublime and beautiful control,- Charming the raptured sight, Hushing the world in wondering delight, Touching the fainting soul, Fettered and cramped by sin and grief and strife, To newer, holier life.

Palsing along the air, A strange and sacred presence seems to fill The studio dark and still; Dark,— saving only where Through the broad window, with a woudrous glow Of golden light, unhindered in its flow, Looks in the mellow moon, The bright Italian moon;— Still, save the tremor light Which the thick vines yield to the wooing night, And the soul-soothing tune Breathing among the distant olive-trees, Where bland airs sing their dreamful symphonies, Their chants of love and June.

Behold! a vision there, where the slant moonlight floods the fragrant air,— A dreaming marble face Exquisite in its grace, Gentle and young and fair, Amid its luminous waves of flowing hair; A brow with earnest meaning softly fraught, Bowed in a trance of tlought, As though, enraptured by some vision rare, Some picture in the air, The musing eyes see what is else unseen; And while it lingers there, The beautiful lips serene Seem parting unaware To utter softly, "Stay! thou art so fair!"

This is the Artist's Dream, This sweet and noble face. Does it not seem A word might break the charm,— Might startle the dropped lids with quick alarm, Might wake warm color in the snowy cheek And make the Dreamer speak?

Nay, breathe more softly,—hush! Did not the rare lips move?

Pygmalion trembled when the rosy flush Of conscious being thrilled his marble love; I dare not stay to prove If I am stronger. So, farewell to thee, Most dainty Dream! The Artist will not see That thou hast lost by giving unto me A beautiful memory, A joy forevermore!

Now close the studio door, And leave the haunted room To all pure spirits dear; Leave not a footprint on the sacred floor, Wake not the echoes in the classic gloom; The Artist's soul is here, Where in the eloquent silence, strange and dim, His beautiful creations wait for him!

Endurance

But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still; Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, But that it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life; We hold it closer, dearer than our own: Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and alone; But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,— This also can be borne.

Behold, we live through all things,—famine, thirst, Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst On soul and body,—but we cannot die. Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,— Lo, all things can be borne!

The Sparrow at Sea

Forgetting all its dread of human foes, Desiring only rest, It folded its weak wings, and nestled close And gladly to my breast.

Wherefore, I said, this little flickering life, Which now all panting lies, Shall yet forget its peril and its strife, And soar in sunny skies.

To-morrow, gaining England's shore again, Its wings shall find their rest; And soon, among the leaves of some green lane, Brood o'er a summer nest.

And when, amid my future wanderings, My far and devious quest, I hear a warbling bird, whose carol rings More sweetly than the rest,—

Then I shall say, with heart awake and warm, And sudden sympathy, "It is the bird I sheltered in the storm, The life I saved at sea!"

But when the morning fell across the ship, And storm and cloud were fled, The golden beak no longer sought my lip,— The wearied bird was dead.

The bitter cold, the driving wind and rain, Were borne too many hours; My pity came too late: and all in vain Sunshine on frozen flowers.

Thus many a heart which dwells in grief and tears, Braving and suffering much, Bears patiently the wrong and pain of years, But breaks at Love's first touch!

White Head

Catch first a glimmer of old White Head, And are sure they are almost home; And many a homesick tear is shed By wanderers miles away, As memory whispers of old White Head, And the islands of Casco Bay,

Ah, rarest mosses that ever were seen Grow brightly on old White Head; Orange, and russet, and emerald green Wide over the rocks are spread; And when the sweet June sunlight shines, The gossiping zephyr tells Where ruby and golden columbines Are swinging their myriad bells. Ah, thus, as I lie on my tiresome bed, I cheat the dreary day By summer pictures of old White Head, And the billows of Casco Bay.

Did I forget? It is winter now On the islands and old White Head. The snow lies deep on the cliff's high brow, And the lichens and blooms are dead;

Under the ice, with sob and sigh, The prisoned billows heave, And the clouds hang dark, and the sea-birds cry, And the winds complain and grieve,— Yet, lying here on my tiresome bed, It cheers me to think alway That the summer is shining on old White Head, And the islands of Casco Bay!

Loved too late

The heart that was broken for me,— Poor heart! Cruelly broken for me!

I told her an artist should wed his art,— That only his love should be; No other should lure me from mine apart, I said; and my cold words chilled her heart, The heart that was breaking for me,— Poor heart! Hopelessly breaking for me!

I spoke of the beautiful years to come, In the lands beyond the sea,— Those years which must he so wearisome To her; but her patient lips were dumb: In silence it broke for me,— Poor heart! Broke, yet complained not for me!

I pressed her hand, and rebuked her tears Lightly and carelessly; I said my triumphs should reach her ears, And left her alone with the dismal years

And the heart that was breaking for me,— Poor heart! Silently breaking for me!

My days were a dream of summer-time, My life was a victory; Fame wove bright garlands to crown my prime, And I half forgot, in that radiant clime, The heart that was breaking for me,— Poor heart! Patiently breaking for me!

But my whole life seemed, as the swift years rolled, More hollow and vain to be: Fame's bosom, at best, is hard and cold— Oh, I would have given all praise and gold For the heart that was broken for me,— Poor heart! Thanklessly broken for me!

Sick with longing, and hope, and dread, I hurried across the sea; She had wasted as though with grief, they said,— Poor child, poor child!—and was long since dead;—

Ah! dead for the love of me, Poor heart! Broken, and vainly, for me!

Weighed down by a woe too heavy to hold, She died unmurmuringly; And I, remorseful and unconsolcd, I dream of the wasted days of old, And the heart that was broken for me,- Poor heart! Broken so vainly for me!

And my soul cries out in its bitter pain For the bliss that cannot be,— For the love that never can come again, For the sweet young life that was lived in vain, And the heart that was broken for me,— Poor heart! Broken and buried for me!

Singing in the Rain

Dimmer fall the shadows, mistier grows the air— Still the thick clouds gather, darkening here and there. From their heavy fringes pour the drops amain; Still the bird is swinging, singing in the rain.

O thou hopeful singer, whom my faith perceives To a dove transfigured bringing olive-leaves,— Olive-leaves of promise, types of joy to be;— How, in doubt and trial, learns my heart of thee!

Cheerful summer prophet! listening to thy song, How my fainting spirit groweth glad and strong. Let the black clouds gather, let the sunshine wane, If I may but join thee singing in the rain!

Then

Which came and went among them for a space, And then was gone,—and no one wondered where.

But thou, who wanderest distant lands across, How will thy heart, O tender and most dear, Ache with a sudden sense of bitter loss When thou returnest and I am not here!

An Autumn Violet

To be born at the wrong time of year Is surely most lonesome and dreary!

Ah, the morn may be solemn and sober, And sombre and cheerless the eve, But, for those who have souls to perceive, The violets bloom in October!

Lift up thine unfearing blue eye, O brave but mistaken new-comer, And tell, while the snow-flakes blow by, What wandering sprite of the summer, Betrayed by some bright autumn day Whose treachery all should remember, Has left thee, in fear and dismay, On the door-step of cruel November?

O, the days may be sullen and sober, The nights may be windy and cold, But, for him who has eyes to behold, The violets bloom in October!

The Mountains

Then the Knees, which will never bow, Never bend or obey again; And then the motionless Feet, which now Are done with walking in sun and rain.

These are the mountains; and over all Sinks and settles the winding-sheet, Following sharply each rise and fall From the pallid face to the quiet feet.

These are the mountains which through the gloom Rising whitely and cold I see, Sloping into the shadowy tomb,— The mournful hills of mortality.

And of all the dear ones whose souls have crossed These terrible summits in fear and pain, We only know they are gone and lost, And never return to our arms again.

So we wander and grope in our earthly clime, Fettered and cramped by this mortal bond, Watching the mountains from time to-time, And questioning vainly the dim beyond.

A Spring Love-Song

Or the brook to tinkle at the call of spring, But you, dear heart, are ever true. Let the silver mingle with your curls of gold, Let the years grow dreary and the world wax old, But the love I bear for you will ne'er grow cold,— I love you, darling, only you!

The Amber Rosary

O, liquidly the sunlight filters through These shining spheres of warm translucent gold, Changing to drops of rich and wondrous hue, Like precious wine of vintage rare and old.

Ah me! this rosary, in other lands, Has learned more prayers than I shall ever know,— Its slow beads slipped and smoothed by pious hands, Whose pulses stopped a hundred years ago.

It keeps an odor mystical and dim, As of old churches, where the censer swings,— Where, listening to the echo-chanted hymn, The sculptured angels fold their marble wings.

Where through the windows melts the unwilling light, And in its passage learns their gorgeous stain, Then bars the gloom with rays all rainbow-bright, As human souls grow beautiful through pain.

One birthday,—it might be a year ago, Or fifty, or a thousand,—one who smiled

Counted these beads, and praised their marvellous glow, Saying, "I bring a gift to you, dear child,—

"An amulet, not made of gems or gold, But drops of light, imprisoned from above. Gold were too heavy; gems, too hard and cold; And only amber suits the soul of love.

"What fitter birthday token could I give? See how the clear orbs answer to the sun! I clasp them at your throat, and you shall live A perfect golden year for every one!"

"Then why the cross?" I asked. He sighed and said, "For possible sorrows." Ah, these useless tears! The hand which placed it here, now cold and dead, Forgets to twine for me the golden years.

Forgets to bless her waiting head, who wears For his dear sake these amber beads to-day,— Forgets to make the cruel cross she bears Grow lighter as the birthdays wear away.

Yet still the amber gleams, and unawares Turns all to gold beneath its mellow ray; O pure hearts, glowing with remembered prayers, Plead for her peace who has no heart to pray!

Our Soldiers

O we lonesome ones, who linger over No dear name of brother, son, or lover,— Still our hearts ache, and our tear-drops fall Others pray for one—we pray for all!

Good By

When stern December chills the sea, And, by the mighty winds led forth, The storms come hurrying from the north, I know how you will think of me. Good by! How lost and distant I shall be!

Seen from my dear old window there, How the white gusts will drive and whirl And, crusting all the walls with pearl, The sleet come slanting through the air. Good by! Then I shall be far otherwhere!

But, though I linger long away, I know the few who prize my name Will trust and love me all the same, And hold me as they do to-day. Good by! Say it not mournfully, I pray!

And if, in wrath and treachery, The ocean from its trust departs,

Bury me softly in your hearts Forever.—But I shall not die. Good by! Love me, and pray for me. Good by!

Foreshadowing

And yet, I think, When time, or change, or both, have snapped the link Which holds us now so lightly' heart to heart; When you have found out new and pleasant ways, From these apart; Have loved fair women, and have known great men,— Perhaps grown great yourself, and tasted praise,— Despite the rosy ties which bind you then, You will look back to these tame, quiet days, With dim, strange pain; And haply in your dreaming, think of me, Half mournfully, Saying,—while all surrounding witcheries Seem dull and vain, And Beauty's smile and Flattery's ministries Lose, for the time, their hold on heart and brain,— "Ah me! how little she was like to these! Would I could look upon her face again!"

'T is all I crave, This one regretful thought. I ask no more,— And you will yield it ere you shall be old,—

Though not before The opulent dandelion's rounds of gold Shall brightly pave The sunny footway leading to my grave.

The Clay-Child

So I took it to my head With a mother's yearning, Loving it with heart and eyes, Asking no returning,— Loving it with many tears, Yet no answer earning.

Born of Peace, for which my soul Pineth, all ungifted, Never are thy drooping lids O my Clay-child, lifted,— Never is the mystic veil Which divides us rifted.

Wherefore, though my prayerful knee Never may be bended, Thou shalt be my silent prayer, Prayer with patience blended. Through thy lips I ask thy peace, Perfect, heaven-descended!

Lost Light

O, how often at day's decline, I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, To see from your lattice the lamplight shine,— Type of a message that, half divine, Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all; The roses sleep by the garden wall, The night-bird warbles his madrigal, And I hear again through the sweet air fall The evening bugle-call.