Poems

Front matter

Copyright, 1908,

by

ELIZABETH HELENE FRESTON

The Unwritten Page

No fear with thee To reach too far or wide,— To spread the wings That heaven doth provide. So do I come to thee in joy, and fain Over thy whiteness would I pour my pain.

The Human Heart

If I can touch one aching chord And hush its moaning,—drive away The vultures from some dying hope, And show to shattered dreams a ray

Of something fairer than the dream,— A courage that shall triumph yet,— For this dear gift of poesy I surely shall have paid my debt.

Let others sing of birds and flowers, Of sunsets fair in rose and gold, But I would sing the human heart, And all the wonders it can hold.

The Golden Wedding

She was ready to laugh at the hearts that were caught In the strands of her chestnut curls, And I smile even yet at the pranks she played, For she was the wildest of girls, She led me a dance that I'll not forget, But at last I'd a chance to "crow," For I outstripped all rivals and won the prize Just fifty years ago.

(To the mother.) And many the gifts that God sent us, wife, For daughters and sons followed fast, And each little hand drew the cords of love Closer 'round each heart to the last. And I often prayed that my boys might choose,— As I watched them to manhood grow,— A wife as true as their father won Just fifty years ago.

Many a worry has jarred our life, And many a cross word said, But 'twas never the fault of the heart, dear wife, 'Twas always the fault of the head; And those things slipped into the little graves And were covered up with the woe,

That shadowed our hearthstone many a time, Since fifty years ago.

But there never was yet a cloud so dark But some sunlight sifted through, For you had ever my faithful love And I ever the thought of you. So hand clasped in hand we bravely met And battled with every woe,— With the strength that is known to united hearts,— Since fifty years ago.

The years rolled on, with their sunshine and shade, And your laugh was not quite so gay, And the sun-kissed tresses began to fade, As your youth was slipping away. The blue of your eyes has dimmed, dear wife, And age gave his crown of snow, But you're fairer and dearer to me to-day Than fifty years ago.

We have wandered many a weary mile And oft were our eyelids wet, But in spite of the sorrows that checked our smile We never once knew regret;

For I know that your heart never wished unsaid The vows that you whispered low, As we bound our lives at the altar's foot Just fifty years ago.

The journey is almost over, wife, We shall soon be nearing the goal, But we've left many mile-stones to mark our way, That will still bear the stamp of each soul; And many a fireside we never may see, Shall hear memories oft spoken low, Of you and of me, who were bride and groom, Just fifty years ago.

(To the guests.) Now fill your glasses and drink a toast To all that I mean to name,— To the girls and the boys that have blessed our home, And the children that to them came. To the alien branches grafted on This good old family tree! And oh! my native land to-day, We'll drink a toast to thee! But the fullest bumper of all, I say, You'll drain before you go, To the bonny bride your father won Just fifty years ago.

Unrepentent

You gave me rapture, and I give Body and heart and soul, and live Vassal alone to thee. Love me as long as love is joy, Nor let one troubled thought annoy, Nor fear reproach from me.

The world will say that I am wrong, And often from the soulless throng Will hiss the word, "Disgrace!" But when I stand before God's throne,— Either with you, or quite alone,— I'll meet Him face to face!

For He must know the soul He made Was dowered too richly for mere trade In dull Convention's mart; Too strong to wear the bonds of creeds, Too brave to whine o'er perished deeds, Too true to sell the heart.

"Those who aspire and they who love!" A poet's pen once strove to prove The rest are lower down; And I, who love and who aspire,— Reach for and snatch Prometheus's fire,— Smile at each pygmy's frown.

Temptation

There Cupid, with arch, laughing face, Beckons me on to follow; There Sympathy holds forth a hand With promise for to-morrow.

There Fame sits in the sunlight fair, Bright laurel leaves entwining, While on a tender bed of bloom, Joy's soft limbs are reclining.

And o'er it and above it all, Thy tender eyes still call me, And oh! I yearn to follow them, Whatever fate befall!

I am too blind to see the blight "Upon the rose-leaves falling;— Too blind to see the trail that's left By serpents o'er their crawling;

Too fond am I of that fair sight, To look beyond its glowing, And mark the crouching, dark Despair, Toward Desolation going.

Oh, could we side by side, Have walked this rugged way together, Then, oh, my love! we had no need To ever question "Whither?"

But ties are bound about thy life, Thy manhood cannot sever, Nor my poor woman's heart forget, Though we are parted ever.

Still oft I turn my longing eyes Back o'er Love's way and beauty, While yet, with slow and weary step, I walk the way of duty.

The Argument

There I ensconsed myself and read my book,— 'Twas on the Social Question—till the sound Of voices broke the hush that brooded o'er The quiet spot. I laid my book aside And listened, without shame, to all they said. My cousin's voice first reached me, the rich tone Holding a something almost petulant.

"What can a woman do?" "Why sympathize," My Helen answered with a tender smile, "Cheer on the lagging spirit up life's road, And light the pathway by ambition trod! Pluck from life's roses all the cruel thorns"— "And have them pierce and make her own hand bleed!"—

The restless voice of proud Elizabeth Broke in upon the other's calmer tone. "E'en so," she answered, "but the wounds will heal While smoothing pillows for an aching head, Or soothing chafed and weary hearts to rest. Her lot in life is to be sentinel,— To weep, to watch, to pray"—

"I grant all that! All that is well and truly woman's work,

For men have greater things than those to do!" My cousin answered with a lofty scorn. "To weep is woman's share, to watch and pray Are also her's! What good is in all that?" "To weep is good, for see how Nature's tears Bring forth the bloom, and make earth beautiful. To watch and conquer in the strife with sin And crush the serpent's head! is it not well? To pray! ah, surely cousin you must own The angels bend from heaven to hear us pray!" "They bend too far!" She answered scornfully, "They see our every flaw and every sin They write down carefully,—let nothing pass, And we are made to suffer for them all, While man goes free,—the froward, favored child!"

"Now, cousin, you're unjust!" my wife replied." 'Thou shalt not sin,' was meant for all of us, But many things are hidden from our sight That's clear to God's, and it may even be Men find it harder to be good than we, For, cousin, God is always truly just."

"Why 'tis but just that he should love the most

That which comes nearest to his image, man! What poet said 'We get no Christ from you?' And she meant women, 'tis the sex no doubt God does not love us as He loves His own."

"No Christ from us! ah, no!" my Helen said,— Her voice was softly thrilling in its tone,— "Because, in all those many, many years, There has been but one Christ and He a God; But from the maidens of Judea fair, He chose His help-mate to redeem the world."

"And faithfully she did obey His will, And patiently she suffered for His sake. It is what mothers oft since then have done, For suffering, as you say, is woman's forte. But, oh, the power! the liberty of man!

To stand among his fellows, lord of them! To carve a name upon the ages' breast As lasting as the ages! That were life! The brain is sexless, also is the soul, Why can not they soar to the highest heaven And bring back treasures for the good of all? But thought and soul in woman's form are weak And puny, made no doubt to match her arms."

"A noble thing indeed is liberty, And yet," my Helen answered, laughing low, "Oft held in check by feeble woman's hands. When Shakespeare leaned against his casement pane And listened to the voices of the stars And heard the strong pulse-beats of Nature's heart, Or grieved with Juliet in her dreary tomb, Has not Miranda's fairy isle or Juliet's woe

Fled from the harsh voice of Anne Hathaway, As she commanded her infatuate spouse To 'close the casement' gainst the chill night air And cut the kindling for to-morrow's fire?' Whenever some great deed of some great man Strikes at the world and makes it pulses thrill, A woman's hand has guided on the blow,— Is it not woman who plants in the boy's Young, fertile heart the seed of noble thought? And from the noble thought spring noble deeds!

Ah, love, you wear your royal robes too light, That glorious womanhood hath clothed you in, If you can fail to see how great you are! What matter though our tasks be little ones? What matter that we miss the world's applause? The fruit is good and by it God will judge,

We brighten poverty and make a home About us, even in the wilderness. We love unswervingly unto the end And suffer silently for those we love"—

"Why that is but to be a willing slave, To fetch, to carry and to kneel in thanks If but our masters nod a curt "Well done!"

"We love our bondage dear Elizabeth And would not change it for your liberty, You, too, will bow that haughty head of yours When your heart thrills beneath a Master's eyes."

"Not I! I There's the dinner bell and I Have still to change my gown! Let's run for it!' A rustle of quick-moving silken skirts, A patter of small feet and once again The peaceful quiet brooded o'er the scene.

Memories

Together we! away from all on earth! On a lone star! And for that flight,—how worth—how wildly worth The broken wing! Despair's unholy birth, And every scar!

Again I hear the tender voice of old, Saying "Why Girl! I would not cause you pain for untold gold! Beyond all treasure, sweetheart, so I hold Your smallest curl!"

Through bold, rebellious strands of ebon hair My fingers stray. I close the flashing eyes with kisses rare, And feel the touch of lips so warm, so fair,— Alas! That day!

Love wakes and moans, then cries aloud for thee, With yearning cry! Pride smites him on the mouth and bids him be Hushed! So the strife goes on, while still with me Love will not die!

In Bohemia

But if I thus poach on Eladio's ground, I fear he will not think me charming, A danger, my friend, I'd not risk for the world,— The thought of it is quite alarming! I wonder what fate will the years bring to us,— The four that are here and one wanted— For some of us now, though unknown, I am sure, Shall the paen of praise yet be chanted.

When you, the great actor, unspoiled by the praise, And the blame that will come in full measure, Shall look back on these old Bohemian days, With a sense of regret yet of pleasure, And wonder if this lifeless wreath of green bays, That rests on the hair now grown grayer, Was worth all the struggle or one of those days, When love was free gift, and life gayer.

And he, the young artist, whose nimble brush now Depicts most of all ballet ladies, With skirts very short and with kicks very tall— The last one I named modest Madies— Will never let Italy's skies of fair blue, Nor his pictures in Paris salon,

Blot out the dear memory of friends leal and true, Nor those merry old days that are gone.

And, Laddie,—as Sénor Eladio, I know I shall see him, a crowned prince of song, Bow low to the thousand who hang on his voice, And smile at the rapturous throng. The feted of many, the worshiped of all, Still his heart will turn back I am sure, To the days of the studio,—dear vanished days, When we all were so rich, although poor.

And she, my girl friend, with the tender brown eyes, What future does Fate hold in store? A wife and a mother, a life wisely planned, What woman could ask any more? I can fancy her saying to girl number four, "I'm surprised at you Maud and ashamed, That a daughter of mine should have smoked cigarettes, And a cock-tail should never be named By a well-bred young lady whose mother aspires To win yet a title for you.

So leave those low tastes to the artists and such, They know nothing better! pray do!"

But way down in her heart a small traitor voice Will remind her of happier hours, That are folded away like some sweet, withered buds, That were plucked in Bohemian bowers. And I, when these rhymes that now trouble my brain, And sadly upset all my duties, Out of chaos take form, and materialize, In the shape of sweet rhythmical beauties, And these dreams that I dream, when my soul takes its flight.

From the every day world all around me, Will shyly come forth, like the stars of the night,— Or my child that was lost and has found me! When critics shall blame me or censure or praise, And publishers' gold fill my coffers, And I rear my head high, proudly decked with its bays, And receive and decline many offers!

When I hold my salon, where the pride of the town,— The genius, the wit, and the learning,— Will each one his gift at Art's altar lay down, And a welcome receive for the earning!

Ah, well! let the future bring what e'er it will, The present is sunny as May, And were you but with us I fain would desire, This hour not to hurry away.

The Old Refrain

Like the firelight, it flashes and fades away, And I tenderly touch the strings again, While my heart beats time to the old refrain.

Forever together, sweetheart, sweetheart! Never to part, never to part! Never to part! ah no! ah no!

My Dream

I laid, with all its burdens, My tired head on your breast. I felt your arms enfold me; All doubts were swept away; Oh, darling, if you love me, Bid that bright dream to stay.

Oh, sweetheart, if you love me, Why don't you tell me so? My heart is listening, listening, To hear the whisper low; All love and hope and longing It holds has turned to you. Oh, tell me that you love me, And make my dream come true! Oh, tell me that you love me, And make my dream come true!

The Magic Kiss

And last on your lips,—oh, my own sweetheart! The wine of life would I give—and take,— But here I should ask no Chaldean's art, But for Love's sweet sake! But for Love's sweet sake.

A Perfect Day

Yes, friend, the richest gift I own, The sweetest I have ever known,— Four little words breathed in mine ear,— Only four words,—"I love you dear," But oh, they glorified the day!

Mistress Charity

Dainty Mistress Charity! Fair and beauteous rarity! Cupid shoots his arrows from each tender dusky tress, From thy glances they fly straight into each heart that's left unguarded, And even from the soft folds of thy dainty satin dress. Thy dancing feet trip lightly And thy blue eyes sparkle brightly, And laughter lurks, half hidden, in the soft curves of thy mouth, Thy brow is white and even, with that look that is God-given, And thy voice holds more of music than the song birds of the South. What wonder that I love thee! Winsome, gracious Charity!

Love's Plea

Darling, come back to me! When others came And whispered love-words in my listening ear, Fair Constancy breathed to my heart thy name, And that dear sound was all that I could hear!

Darling, come back to me! my spirit tires, Sending across the distance love's wild plea, Freighted with all the heart's and soul's desires, To be with thee, my loved one, only thee!

Yearning

Ah, I know not, but I love thee! And thy face to me, my own, Is the dearest, and there's music For me in thy lightest tone.

There are nobler? yes, perhaps so, But my heart bows down to thee, And although thy faults were legion Thou art still the best to me.

Did the others also miss thee? Did they feel thine absence pain? Did they dream that with thy coming Would return the light again?

I know not! but to my own heart The slow hours passed, one by one, Like these flowers I fling by because Their sweetness all is flown.

Why is it that the gift most prized Fate always doth deny? Why is it that the sweetest thought Is followed by a sigh.

O Sovereign power of loving! The hearts most worthy thee, Are those that feel most keenly Thy pitiless decree.

Mizpah

And welcomed in their stead the black-winged brood Of evil birds that bring their gifts of woe,— The jealous thought, the doubt of all things good, The bitter mockery of each cherished dream, The beauty of things gone beyond recall, The loss of faith, when faith should stand supreme, The loss of love, when love was all in all. They cast their shadow twixt the sun and me, The beauty of the world they darkened o'er, The whiteness of the clouds I could not see, The bird's song held no music as of yore. The wave, in dancing, dimpling, ripples played. The flowers gave bloom and perfume all in vain; Nature with lavish hand her sweets displayed And smiled her gratitude for sun and rain. And my dear guardian angel drooped his wing, And waited patiently alone, apart, Until my wish should grant him leave to fling Those birds of evil council from my heart.

"God, watch between us when we parted are!"— Are we not parted, more than if the world, With all its mountains, prairies, stretching far, Its rolling ocean, in whose heart lies furled The secrets of the ages, lies between?

No parting great as that of heart from heart! Though I have clasped your hand and may again, We still are more than all the world apart. I fain would reach across that space to-day, With outstretched hands, and lips that cry in vain For the dear gift of love, Fate stole away, Leaving me desolate a prey to pain!

God watch between us! when the gates of Death Swing back to let this weary soul pass through, I'll ask but for the blessed boon, of Faith, To watch with Hope beside that gate for you. If it be dark, and drear, and desolate, To find your groping hand enfold my own, To face the terrors of the Infinite And seek our way together to God's throne.

A Broken Promise

A little thing? Ah, true indeed! A trifle dropped by Fate! But life's small things are its sweet things, And their power is often great.

They are stars to light the firmament Of Hope, when night is near, They are flowers to brighten pathways That would otherwise be drear.

You Will Remember

And so we part, and so we part. Oh, do not dream that you can purchase joy, Or that your gold will be without alloy; You'll hunger, though the feast be fair and free, And yearn for me, and yearn for me.

Drifting Together

And swiftly the sweet, warm words were said, That won from her lips a tender tale; For Cupid's shaft had so safely sped, That she promised a love that should never fail As we'd drift o'er life's waters together.

But the stars look down on a little mound, Far, far away from my quiet room; For her are the rest, and the tender sound Of the night-bird's song, but for me all gloom. So I turn away from the things that are, And welcome the dreams that will come and go— Of the fairy stream, and the mystic star, And the dear dream-land of the long ago, Where love sat merrily at the helm, And guided our bark in his own sweet way; But my Lady has gone to a happier realm, Though I prayed to the Father to let us, that day, Drift away on Death's river together.

The Rose of the Southlands

The zephyrs low murmured to soothe thee to rest, And the birds sang thy praise from each leaf-shadowed nest. Thou hast left all their bloom for the North and its snows, And the Southlands cry "Come!" to our fair Southern rose. Our bonny white rose! our true-hearted rose! And the Southlands cry "Come!" to our fair Southern rose.

A Song of Home

Thy mad, rushing waters and soft-tinkling rills; The warm glowing sunshine, that pours in its glee, On the land that God loves, the dear land of the free.

Back, back, o'er the billows, my yearning thoughts fly, To thy wide spreading plains and thy mountains so high; To each flower-gemmed valley, and bird-haunted tree, And the true, loving hearts that are waiting for me. So I long to return, oh, my country, to thee, To follow my thoughts o'er the wide, trackless sea; Though far I may wander and long I may roam, My heart yearns for thee, oh, my home! oh, my home!

To the Poet

But these small flowerets I have tended long, And watched them turn from bud to blossom fair, And offer perfumes for my faithful care.

They freely give the world their utmost store, Smiling, and grieve not that it is not more. What matter to them that God's tender love Has decked the rose more richly. From above They, too, have fallen from His lavish hand, To gladden earth and smile at His command. I love these little Pinks! Each sunset tone Some petal's edge has captured for its own. Some opal-tinted cloud has left a trace Upon each upturned, coaxing, tender face, Some lazy zephyr, from the golden South, Has kissed, with spicy breath, each loving mouth. All the best elements of earth and air Combine to make this little flower so fair. And so this offering I can dare to bring The poet, who is greater than a king.

Deserted

Across the board a pair of laughing lips Smile back in answer to his merry glance. They laugh the old year out, the new year in, With clink of glasses, music and the dance.

Does any memory come of that small room, To mar the music for him, as they sing? Where sits, in silent woe, that one for whom All hope is dead, and life a worthless thing.

For her no new love blossoms on life's tree, Her future glooms out starless and forlorn; He laughs with joy the New Year's face to see,— For the deserted, no new year is born.

Uncle Sam's Revery

He says I am an "Anarchist!" And gosh! that makes me want to swear! Why, if some foreign chap said half That TEDDY says I'd pull his hair! And that boy BRYAN, too, has hurt My feelin's in their tendrest spot! He says that as Republican, I surely am a common lot!

I fear ma shadow in the sun,— I'm such a coward,—and I plant Ma hoof upon the poor man's neck, And squirm from under that he can't! Besides I'm "Plutocrat," he says, And every gosh-darn thing that's base! Why, if I was as mean as that, I wouldn't look men in the face!

I'm gettin' mad! I won't be sassed! Even by two of my best boys! I raised them! praised them! helped them up! Joined in their sorrows and their joys! TEDDY was always a good boy! Though fond of gab he had his charm, But though he ran up San Juan Hill He ain't agoin' to run my farm!

Nor BRYAN nuther! I've been good To that air boy, and proud of him! But if he sasses me like that, I'll lay the rod on with vim! And I'll just make him understand That GOLD is none too good for me! SILVER may suit some other land,— For this!—the best its got to be!

They talk as if we're bound to come To sure destruction with a smash! I guess they think I'm not to hum, Nor near enough to hear the crash! And after all is said and done, I kinder think we needn't fear That them Imperial bugs will come And spoil our crops, while I am here.

Good-Bye, Old Year

The grave mistake, poor Folly's song; The laughter that but checked the tear, The gentle word that hid the sneer;— The nettle-sting of so-called friends, The poisoned dart that, well aimed, sends

Back o'er the heart a surge of pain, Though one may smile and smile again. ('Twas not your gift old year,—the cure,— This boundless courage to endure! To meet Fate's shafts with smiling eye, Give blow for blow, or pass them by.) All this the meed of one short year,— To-night I'll rake together here,

And on your back the burden lay, And let you bear it far away, I'll have no memories dim the cheer With which I greet the glad New Year. But hold! There is one gift you gave, Out of them all I fain would save! The memory of a tender heart, That drew from mine pain's keenest dart,—

A few bright hours I still would hold, Deep in my soul, enshrined in gold. A vision of dear eyes of blue, A glint of curls of golden hue,

A sunny smile I'll ne'er forget, And for that gift I thank you yet! But memories that the spirit mar, And every gift a heart can scar, Out of my life to-night I'll fling, And clean-souled greet the new born king!

The Hero's Mother

Has led the way to liberty, Through pathways rough and thorny. She has bound on the trusty sword, While striving sobs to smother,— Let others beg the hero's kiss, I'd rather kiss his mother.

If he had failed and won no crown, If fame had passed him over, If on the scroll of names renowned, The stars and stripes float over, He found no place but gave his life For right like many another, He still had been a hero bright, In the sad heart of his mother.

How brief the time since that wild cry Of War! set pulses thrilling, And yet, how many daring deeds Are history's pages filling! Now all the world stands still to gaze, On this young country's glory; No brutal deed has dimmed its blaze, No traitor marred its story,

And lo! beyond the murky haze, Of suffering, death and sorrow, Sweet Peace uplifts her starry gaze,

And Hope points to the morrow. And when our boys come home again, To greet the ocean rovers, Will gather, full of love and joy, The sweethearts, wives and mothers.

But, oh! the dear unfamous ones, Asleep at Santiago! They'll hear nor heed the shouts of joy That greet their comrades! Ah no! When home again the 71st, And Teddy's boys and others, Come for their due, before we cheer. Think of the mourning mothers.

A Conversation Heard in Hades

Well, some time ago his fireman, Wanting to get more directions About the sifted cinders that He wished to send to Spain, Found him seated in his red room Reading from a mighty volume,— Then a conversation followed That expressed his grief and pain.

"Sire, the cinders wait your orders, And most surely does Spain need them, She has found that ships cannot be sailed By boasts and empty breath. And if something is not shortly done Your most obedient children Will meet those horrid Yankees, And be quickly put to death."

"Yes," sighed Satan, "I must help them, For Americans displease me! They're a stubborn lot of fellows And not subject to my will, And I fear my dear and cherished Spain Is really in great danger, For the Yankee guns are aiming, And they always shoot to kill.

To have that land wiped off the map That knew so well to torture, The land of trickery and pride, That always has been mine, Where helpless babes and women, Were driven to the slaughter; Where they always practiced pleasantries, Directly in my line.

So, you see, I'm reading Spanish, So that when the Dons assemble Round my peaceful little fireside, My tones will be less gruff; I've been reading German lately And their grunts and groans and gutterals Tax the vocal cords so greatly That I fear my voice is rough.

But learn Spanish friend, learn Spanish! 'Tis the language of the future,— Here at least, although some people say 'Twill soon die out above, Ah!" he groaned in mental anguish, "To lose so fair a country, That bred the Inquisition, In the name of God and Love.

So give them all the aid we can, They certainly have earned it, And the warmest place we'll keep for Spain, When Yankees send her here." And he heaved a sulphurous sigh again And turned back to his reading, While the listning sprite flew upward, For a breath of freshed air.