Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

BY

CLARA AUGUSTA.

Apart

POEMS.

Never a word from the lost, lost one! Not even in midnight dreams, Not even in midnight dreams. Oh, could it only be! Send me a token! waken a thrill Of the old-time ecstasy!

Vain it is! wild it is! I will be still. Dead feet never come back! Why should they stray to the world again, Out of the heavenly track? Out of the heavenly track? Ah, sinks my heart like a stone! Thou art resting in paradise,— I am wandering alone!

The Asphodel

The moisture chilled her tender limbs, She trembled on her bed, The hoarse sea-moanings tired her heart, And hurt her throbbing head.

She said, "I'll call my minions down To build a palace hall, Where I can dwell whene'er I choose To make this earth a call." She struck her lute, a blade of grass,— A hundred fairies came, With little wands of yellow light And crowns of amber flame.

Soon as she told her royal wish They bowed to the behest, And flew away, each with her hand Of fealty on her breast. A palace rose: its towers were gold, Its walls of crimson silk, Its windows of the clearest pearl, Its floors as white as milk.

Triumphant went the fairy queen Her new-made home to see; A gallant orchestra there was To greet her majesty. Robins, and bees, and grasshoppers, Sang each a rare refrain,— And over all the moonlight poured Its glittering silver rain.

A miracle of art and taste The fairy palace stood; The royal perfume of its sweets Floating for many a rood. And to this day maids love the flower Where the queen came to dwell, And bind within their wealth of curls The peerless Asphodel.

Courage

Then like the tender flower Be ye, oh, weary man! In countless ways God blesseth you,— Deny it if you can. You've love to cheer your heart, You've strength, and gracious health; For these full many a lordly peer Would gladly yield his wealth.

Never despair! it kills the life, And digs an early grave; The man who rails so much at Fate But makes himself her slave. Up! rouse ye to the work! Resolve to victory gain; And hopes shall rise, and bear rich fruit, Which long in dust have lain.

The Pilgrim

But where, oh where, the pride and pomp Swayed once within thy walls? Oh, where the gorgeous panoply Of Herod's palace halls? Oh, where the shrine, and sacred cups, The temple, font, and throne, Ere Saracen and ruthless Turk Profaned the altar-stone?

The sword, the devastating sword, Has made thee desolate; And never more, oh, Palestine! Shalt thou be called the great. The Cross and Crescent o'er thy hills Have held alternate sway; And Israel's persecuted tribes Have vainly looked for day.

And where the date, and feathery palm, And ancient cedars grew, The Gentile plows have torn the soil, Disturbed the hallowed dew; And feet unsanctified have pressed The turf of Zion's hill; And foreign hordes laved in the flood Of Cedron's holy rill.

The Mount of Olives! awful gloom Hovers abroad o'er thee! He wept and prayed upon thy brow In deepest agony!

And from thy summit, pure and wise His words like balm distilled; And Jew, and scribe, and Pharisee With awe of Him were filled.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! I've wandered o'er the sea, And passed by many a classic shrine, Dreaming the while of thee. And resting 'neath this fig-tree's shade, I gaze on all thy dearth; But still, Jerusalem, thou art The holiest spot on earth!

A Dead Rose

We anchored just below the reach of sand That glittered golden in the misty light; And up the rocks we clambered hand in hand, Forgetting that around us crept the night; There is no night for those who live and love: All time is merged in one intense delight.

How near it seems to me!—that dreamy hush Of silent sky, and subtle, sensuous air; How 'neath his eyes my face burned with a flush No other glance can ever summon there! His head bent down; I felt his gentle hand Cover my fingers, and his breath my hair.

He gathered from a bush, heavy with dew, A single rose, and touched it with his lips; And henceforth roses, to my fancy, grew Sweet as the nectar that the brown bee sips. He laid it on my cheek and, smiling, said, The roses there put his rose in eclipse.

Ah, well! 'tis over. Two long years ago I hid this rose with my most sacred things; Its grace and glory gone, its light and glow, All—save the perfume that around it clings. I lay it by,—the faint, sweet summer smell A sense of loss forever to me brings.

The Pines

The night descends, the red flush fades, The pines are black with gloom,— I shut the window, and give thought And olden memories room; And, like a breath of rare perfume, Stealing through sweet lush vines, Come thoughts of days, bright summer days, Amid the dark old pines.

Lost

The avalanche burst from the mountain's side And crushed the mighty trees, Ran down the crags in seas, a deathly tide; And men grew pale, and on the gale Rang curse and prayer allied.

From night the morning came. The red sun flush Lay on the highlands bleak; And in the dreamy air there was a hush, And on the dismal scene there was a blush Like shame on anger's cheek; But never home came lamb or maiden more, Down, down the mountain's steep. But, fright'ning the old wives, when tempests roar, Her voice calls clear on night's dead ear The lamb's name as before.

The Sleigh-Ride

Oh, Fate, grant us wings! we are panting for flight Through the sharp biting cold of this bright winter night!

Steed, jingle the bells! toss your rich flowing mane! And lift your proud head in your haughty disdain! On over the piled drifts like lightning-winged light,— Up, up the steep hills like deer in a fright,— Right merrily onward and onward we go! Ye gods! there is naught will compare with the snow!

In Spring

The buds swell into greenest wealth of leaves Upon the great elm just without the door; The robin chirps within the forest-trees, The blue-bird whistles from the barren moor.

The frog pipes shrilly in the lonesome swamp, The sweet notes of the thrush break softly in; And, like the blood-red banners of a camp, The scarlet maples show their blossoming.

The wild arbutus blushes in the dell,— The damp, cool dell, beneath the old pine-trees,— A breath of subtlest fragrance in each cell, Of summer's sweetness uttering prophecies.

The day declines, dissolves into the night, All lush and moist with smell of growing leaves, And over all the young moon sheds its light Before it sinks behind the western trees.

The Death-Bed

Paler grew her forehead With each panting breath, Ghastly o'er her features Lay the seal of death. Clasped her slender fingers On her bosom meek; Fell the golden tresses O'er her pallid cheek.

Passed her breath so calmly That we never knew When she walked in shadow Death's dark valley through; Never knew the moment When she paused to rest, At the gate which foldeth Ever in the Blest.

Passed she like the fragrance Of some fading flower, Or like summer sunbeams When the tempests lower; Left us but her memory, Sweet for evermore,— Earth has lost her for us, Heaven will restore.

Faith

Come forth those days when all the atmosphere Is redolent and ripe with tender glow,— Those perfect days when heaven stoops down so near The angels fan us with their wings of snow; So cometh perfect peace and faith in God To human hearts when wrung with bitterest woe.

All trials that befall are for our good; We would not lose a single chastening touch If thoroughly God's plan we understood, And knew affliction profiteth so much! Oh, let me wear my Faith, an amulet, That shall ward off all doubt! Make me thine own; And early though my sun of life shall set, Give me the grace to say,—"Thy will be done!" And, holding not the things of earth too close, Turn unto God, and cling to Him alone.

A Little History

She left us when the autumn woods Were gilt with tawny gold, And frost-flowers white as Eastern pearls Starred heath, and moor, and wold.

The maples broke their blood-red hearts Upon their native hills; And amber sunshine, soft and calm, Fell through the mellow stills.

But when she went the sunshine paled,— She took the light away; The blue sky lost its tender blue, The day was not the day.

The moonshine, falling down the void In silent silver rain, Filled all my heart with vague unrest And thrills of tender pain.

She came back in the early spring, When earth was all aglow, And from the blooming orchard-trees Drifted the fragrant snow;

Came back in jewels and in silks, And velvets rich and rare,— With laces worth their weight in gold Looped in her shining hair.

She touched my fingers when we met; I was a bashful clown, Who tilled her father's wide-spread lands With sinewy hands and brown.

There was a bridal brave and gay, Wine, music of guitars, Laughter, and dancing on the turf Beneath the midnight stars.

She gave her dainty hand away; And he was grave and tall, White-haired,—a proud aristocrat,— A Croesus,—that was all.

That night we met beside the spring Where oft we'd played of old; The young moon gemmed her brow with pearl, And kissed her hair's dun gold.

My eyes spoke to her! all my life Of stern despair, and pain, Rushed up to clamor at my lips,— I crushed it back again.

But for one moment heart read heart! Her cheeks' glow waned and fled; She stood before me cold and white As marble o'er the dead.

Oh, God! 'twere sin to kiss her mouth, Or touch with mine her hand! I was a low-born farmer boy,— She lady of the land!

Now, what to me are trees and flowers, And songs of summer birds? What music comes to me in winds, Or low of distant herds?

I only wonder if she thinks, In her manorial halls, Of seasons when the grapes are red Above Cochecho Falls.

I wonder if she'd like to smell Once more the mint and balm; Or if she'd care to hear again The pine woods chant their psalm.

I wonder if her jeweled breast Is stirred by one chance thought Of what life might have been to her,— Of what love might have brought.

Cohecho River

Down in the gorge below the rugged hill, Half hid in shadow stands the brown old mill, And just above the willows bend so low, Beneath the wild clematis' blooms of snow,— So very low they dip within the tide, And with perpetual dew are glorified.

In autumn-time the loaded grapevine's scent With thyme, and mint, and sedge is sweetly blent; And where the forest stretches cool and green, With belts of sunshine and of shade between, The heavy air is full of smells of pine Blending a subtle fragrance with the vine.

Oh, fair Cochecho! sweeping on thy way, Past old farm-houses, mossy eaved and gray, Make music for the factory's patient slave, Flash hope and beauty from thy sparkling wave; Gladden the lowlands,—linger 'mid the flowers,— And mind me sometimes of lost summer hours.

Found Drowned

We hurried with faces pale and set. Oh, the steel-blue sky! oh, the cold and wet! The moon was hidden, the grass was damp With ghostly fogs, and the wild, fierce tramp Of the wind swept through the shuddering trees. Oh, dreary forest! oh, cold, bleak seas!

The waters gurgled; the tide rushed in,— In o'er the moaning bar, The fatal harbor bar,— And we heard the thunderous roar and din Of the ocean depths afar. The gloom grew denser, the night fell down Over the sea, the harbor, the town; The wild gull screamed from the craggy rocks, The fishing-schooners creaked in the docks; And through the masts of the wreck on the lee The mad winds shrieked in their fiendish glee.

Oh, I remember it all so well! It is graven on stone, My heart's cold marble stone,— So cold it is I shrink to look Into its chambers lone. All feeling I had was killed so dead, I never writhed when the spirit fled. Oh, the world is a desert! and life is bleak! If the soul be willing the flesh is weak! But I'm looking vaguely, sometime, for light,— In the Hereafter will all be right?

Oh, they lifted him tenderly up From the river's cold bed,— The cruel, merciless bed!— And a ray of moonlight pierced the clouds And touched his drowned head. They lifted him up with the glittering gold Of his soft hair dripping with wet and cold, And his blue eyes open, and fixed, and wide, And his cheek dead white in the chill salt tide; And the sweet mouth pale as a thread of mist,— Oh, God! the mouth I so oft had kissed!

Drowned! they said; and they tended me Like as they would a child,— A pitiful little child. They smoothed my hair, and spoke kind words, And I looked up and smiled: Smiled, because my heart was broke,— Smiled, in thinking no other stroke Could ever cause me a single pain; But life is weary, and death is gain. Under the poplar gray, by the sea, They buried him—they will bury me.

Ah, it is gloomy, sometimes, and sad, Tiresome for me to wait,— In the darkness here to wait, Before I shall enter in at the courts That are shut by a golden gate. I shall see the glory glow of his hair,— I shall hear his tender voice on the air;

And through the flush of the purple even, I shall look in the eyes that have looked on heaven! Patience a little! from over the sea, Darling, darling, I'm coming to thee!

Growing Old

They see the sun sink slowly down To gladden other lands,— They feel night coming, and they sit Serene, with close-clasped hands.

The Farmer

Honest and fearless, free and glad, A very prince is he! At peace with God, in love with truth, With man in harmony.

His lot is cast in nature's fanes, Beneath a lucky star,— What is't to him that railroad stocks Are quoted under par? The banks may break, canals burst up, And mining sections fail; He's left to him his wide-spread fields, His threshing-floors, and flail.

His children throng about his knee When gloaming-time creeps on, And hang around his sturdy neck, To kiss him one by one. The ruddiest cheeks and sweetest lips, The brightest eyes, are theirs,— The rarest smile in all the town The farmer's daughter wears.

God bless the farmer! bless him well! A royal life he owns! He reads his lore from mountain heights, His sermons from the stones; His college halls are nature's wilds, And gorgeous summer sky,— The vast cathedral where he prays Is heaven's arched canopy.

Let the rich scorn his sunburnt hands, And cheek so rough and brown; But when the proud man at his feast In courtly glee sits down, The luscious grape, the downy peach, The wine in silver can, The snowy bread—he owes them all Unto the husbandman.

Unsought

The summer rain falls down to bless The thirsty world it murmurs o'er; And so in wordless happiness I give, and ask no more.

I note full well thy heedless air, From thy cold eyes I turn away; I know I have no portion there; But I can wait, and pray.

Perhaps,—I make no idling sure,— Perhaps in years long hence, That other world, so bright and pure, May make me recompense.

In Silence

The moon, so calm in holy quietude. Sails in the pathless ocean of the blue; As if to cheer her queenly solitude, A single star from the pale gloom peeps through.

The shadows thicken. On the southern ridge The weird pine forest rises grim and black,— The white road leading to the alder bridge Gleams through the maples like a ghostly track.

The lush green meadows send up clouds of mist, White as the snow that falls from wintry skies; Day's forehead pales where Night has stooped and kissed To gloom and silence all her brilliant dyes.

Work!

Do battle bravely, ever, In stern defense of right, And carve in faith a shining way Up to the hills of light.

The whole world calls for labor! There is a thirsty dearth Of earnest, working Christian souls, Throughout this wide-spread earth; A lack of strong-armed pioneers To break the ranks of sin, And woo to Virtue's safe retreat The footsore wanderer in.

Up from this dull supineness! Up with a righteous trust! Why in this aimless, idle life Let noble talents rust? Work while the day endureth, Work ere the night shall come; At evening, when the shadows fall, God calls his servants home.

My Faith

When not a stormy trouble tears The calm sea of my rest, God, I fear that I ignore Thy goodness and thy grace, And turn to other shrines, away From thy resplendent face!

When all around me is serene, No threatening peril nigh, And loving ones are by my side To bid all trials fly, I greatly fear me that I put Aside my sacred trust, And place my faith in other gods Formed out of clay and dust; Though well I know all power but thine Is impotent to save, And that thy love, and thine alone, Can find me in the grave.

But when grim danger glowers at me, And chills my blood to stone; When fickle friends flee from my side And leave me all alone; When heart and spirit faint and fail, And flesh grows sorely weak:— What can I do but come to Thee, All broken, contrite, meek? For when the storms arise, and beat My life-bark out to sea, Whom have I, Lord, on earth beside, And whom in heaven, but Thee?

Beneath the Shadow

Ah, well! it is over. The fair skies are leaden, The soft summer breezes are chill as the tomb; I shiver with dread as they sweep through the tree-tops, They strike to my heart like the voices of doom. Oh, is there no balsam, no healing in Gilead? No help for the anguish, no cure for the pain? Can I never escape from the weight of this burden? Shall I never come forth from the shadow again?

At Rest

Lay her within the conquered grave away, And cast out all your troubles, doubts, and fears. Why weep for one who, in the courts of heaven, Shall dwell through all eternity's bright years?

Call her not dead, but say an angel's kiss Has pressed her lips with tenderness and love,— Won her pure spirit to the home of bliss, Where with the saved her happy feet shall rove! What better fate than to be with her God, And with his angels in the realms above?

Ay, turn away! She is no more of earth; But her example, deathless as the stars, Has fallen on you at her glad new birth, Fallen adown through the sky's purple bars. Accept the trust, and be not sad for her Whose palm-crowned forehead not a shadow mars.

One Night

The brook ran softly o'er the grass, Impearling pebbles gray,— The waterfall in fleecy clouds Of mist dissolved away.

The air so calm, and cool, and clear, I seemed to pierce the screen, And look far up the ether voids To heavenly pastures green.

The crimson maples cast their leaves Low at my lingering feet, And all the languorous atmosphere With dying flowers was sweet.

Lone! but, oh, grand! these autumn woods! Sad, cold and desolate! The cast-off leaves and wan moonlight, The brown earth tesselate.

Solemn and still,—my soul is awed! Silence my spirit gives For all this beauty! Here, O God, Thy fullest presence lives!

The Child's Wishes

So high above the tree-tops, Dear mother, I could fly, You'd almost think me sailing up To visit yonder sky.

Oh, if I were the south-wind, That sings so soft and deep, And scampers down the hillside Among the flocks of sheep, I'd fan the little lambkins Through every sultry day, And make the sweet white clover Bloom for them all the way.

Oh, if I were the streamlet Down in the mossy dell, I'd sing the whole time gently To the listening lily-bell,— I'd water thirsty meadows, And verdant make the grass, And all the little sleepy flowers Would laugh to see me pass.

Oh, if I were a daisy In some shady wayside nook, Where the pretty village maidens Would pause on me to look, I'd charm them with my fragrance Of half their gentle love, With my eyes so bright and starry Lifted unto heaven above.

But if I were a robin, Or the south-wind, soft and low, Or the little gliding streamlet, Or a modest daisy blow, Mother, I could not slumber Upon your snowy breast; Your kisses would not soothe me In the night-time into rest.

So I'd rather be your darling Than anything on earth,— I'm happy as the happiest thing That ever had a birth! I'd not be bird or streamlet, South-wind or daisy pearl; But let me stay here, mother dear, And be your little girl.

Past and Present

What pain, sometimes, a flower, or sweet scent, brings From ashes that we thought had lost all glow! A touch, a tone, a breath,—ah, human heart! How strangely fashioned, governed, moved, thou art!

The maple's flame that lights the autumn hills, The wasted gold of these wild woodland ways,— The damp, sweet, bosky vapor that distills On purple ridges, all recall lost days; And cloudless sunsets do for evermore Restore me something of the Gone Before.

There are grand gleams of an immortal life Lying beyond this brief elapse of Time, And our hegira from this troublous strife, Though weakly dreaded, is a thing sublime! To blend all Time, Space, Past, and all To Come, Into one Present in that perfect home!

Beneath the Moon

The meadows lie quietly wearing the green,— The elms to the linden-trees lovingly lean; The pastures are silent, the flocks are asleep, The sturdy red oxen beside the white sheep; No tinkle of cow-bells, no shepherd boy's cry, The cricket's dull songs on the sweet silence die; The amber-winged beetles cling fast to the trees, The golden-green butterflies hide in the leaves; The bee has flown home with his burden of sweets, And rests in the twilight from summer noon's heats.

The drowsy old farm-houses hidden away Under hills, and in valleys, mossy and gray, Are silent as churchyards,—the spirit of rest Has stolen upon them and maketh them blest; And over the shade and the green of "Love's Lane" The silence intensifies, e'en unto pain. The west sky wears faintest suggestions of pink, Like a brook when a red rose stoops over to drink; The forest spring murmurs a mystical tune, And its sweet waters sparkle under the moon.

Oh, will the moon shine thus in all coming time, And earth breathe her vague voices subtly sublime? The flowers burn with crimson, and purple, and blue, The red rose be red, and the true heart be true? Ah! some time in the mystical Future, we know, We shall all pass away from the light and the glow; The dew-drops will glitter, like pearls in their beds, In the damp grass that covers our low-lying heads; And the robins will sing through the beautiful June, And the earth lie in love 'neath the beautiful moon.

Arnullin's Bride

Oh, the gloom of vaulted ceilings! oh, the gloom of musty halls! Did he dare to let the taper stream up the oaken walls? Did he dare, to pause and listen to his stealthy foot step's falls?

A tale of blood and horror that bridal room might tell! What dismal burden was laid down in yonder tangled dell? What crime was ever half so black this side the gates of hell?

Night waned. They called her to the feast in bowers of jessamine; They rapped upon her bolted door, crying, vainly, "Geraldine! The board is spread, the master waits, and crimson is the wine!"

They burst the bars,—an empty room! a bed as softly white As the great drifts the snow-king piles up on some yule-tide night! A silent dearth! a nuptial room shorn of its ripe delight!

They sought her far, and heralds went throughout the country wide, Asking of all if they had seen Arnullin's missing bride: But, ah! the gates of death were strong as the Earl's regnant pride!

The King and I

And amid his palace royalties Rules like a demigod! Which will lie highest and softest, He, or I, under the sod?

Give me my lowly cottage, My wife and my brown-eyed girl! One is my royal diamond, The other my priceless pearl! Go, King! ride, drink, and conquer, Joy in your birth and your pride; I wouldn't lift up a finger To sit on the throne by your side! For God and a true love have blessed me; What can I ask for beside?

The Voice

When the purple shades of night-time steal down the gold of day, And the evening flames of amber make the west a shining way, That lone and mystic melody my spirit hears alway.

'Tis a lute no mortal fingers the golden strings have swept, The rich voice of an oriole whose tones have always slept,— A moaning, sighing human voice which has forever wept.

Across the clover meadows where they rake the new-mown hay, And from the azure bosom of the pulseless crystal bay, In the dead nights of December, in the passion noons of May.

Full of tender, soft complaining, floating through the amethyst, Like a ray of summer sunshine on the evening's sombre mist,— Like an unplayed strain of music waiting in the wind-harp's cyst.

Lowly, gently,—never joyous; one subdued and hallowed strain, Like the dripping on the scented leaves of fragrant August rain,— 'Tis of her heavenly harp-strings the mystical refrain.

Oh, my soul it leaps and struggles like the ever-trembling stars! Beats against its clay-walled prison like the sea-waves 'gainst the bars, Chafes like a gallant soldier prisoned in the sight of wars!

All the world is spirit-haunted, only that we've ears of stone; Calling! calling! ever calling! I have ears for that alone! Oh, a phantom voice is calling me from shadeland's vast unknown!

Another World

And the purple shades of the dying Day Are teeming everywhere, While the drowsy beetles chant their lay In the wild field-lily's cells, And the solemn voice of the homeless wind Along the highland swells, I know, by the cry of my soul within, There's a place where they shut the gates on sin, And the God of glory dwells!

May Allonby

The fisherman's girl lights the beacon, Her sweet faith the storm cannot weaken, Nor the crash of the incoming sea.

There are wrecks on the ocean this dread night, Far over the wave shines the blue light, The minute-guns boom on the din. There are brave hearts in agony toiling; But, alas! all their wild efforts foiling,— The mad breakers hurry them in.

Out over the sands in the morning Men go at the first crimson dawning, Oh, fisherman's daughter, bewail! Thy lover, thy true, loyal lover, The pride of the fair town of Dover, Was lost in yesternight's gale!

She reads on the wreck's cast up timbers The name of the bark she remembers,— The letters spell—May Allonby! For he named his taut craft in her honor. Oh, how the grief-chills creep upon her As she thinks of him dead in the sea!

The years have gone by like a vision, But still in a fancy Elysian She wanders the cold Hampton sands,— Looking out o'er the lone waste of billows, As they toss up their foamy white pillows And woo her with phantom white hands!

A Broken Dream

No love-words spoke we, for between our souls An icy shadow stood, ghost-like and dim, More deadly dreadful than the sea that rolls Up the black headlands when the tide is in! Keeping our lives eternally apart,— Oh, fateful Presence! tireless, stern, and grim!

Bound to another! Vows must not be broke! If hearts break, let them! Well, the world is wide; There lieth safety in mad words unspoke; Let silence seal the tomb where Hope has died! The world would call it sin to kiss thy lips, So here in quietude let me abide,—

Here, where the sea broadens out blue and cold For weary leagues, to meet the southern shore, Where in the summer sunshine's fadeless gold Life is to thee a calm, for evermore! And not a pale regret e'er stirs thy heart For the brief Indian summer gone before.

Here let me stay, hoping the wind will bear, As a sweet augury of peace, to me, Some breath of air that has across thee blown In that fair land beyond the purple sea,— And that the low, melodious song of waves May bring my soul suggestions full of thee!

Croften Tower

Death and decay are everywhere! The mansion once so gay Stands lone and silent, all its pride And glory fled away: Its high-arched doors, and windows tall, Are closed and locked fore'er,— For not the poorest child of want Would seek a dwelling there.

The schoolboy chokes his merry song, Quickens his lagging pace, And glances back with fearsome eye At this deserted place; The weary laborer shuns the path That passes by its door, And takes the long and toilsome track Across the distant moor.

I mind me of a vanished time, When this old house was bright With life and joy, and festive mirth Rang out upon the night; When graceful forms and faces fair Brightened the stately halls, And lamps of gold and ormolu Lit up the polished walls.

A dark and haughty man was he, The master of the tower,— The people owned for miles around The magic of his power!