Poems

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POEMS

BY

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

And Hera's altar, Buddha's fane

And Hera's altar, Buddha's fane, Fair temples to the Sun, Cathedral aisle and soaring strain, The fountained mosque, the pilgrim train, But seek the Eternal One! Earth yearns, through strife and wrong and woe, The perfect Lord to find and know.

Cleobis and Biton

Crocus and hyacinth blossomed; the nightingale sang on the thorn; And with music like Hebe's laughter the hill-brooks leapt to the main.

Argos its gates had opened, and matrons and maids and men Hastened to Hera's temple on the slope of the terraced hill; But the strong white oxen were ploughing far over the reedy fen, And I, her priestess and lover, tarried impatient still,— For only the strong white oxen, by meadow and stream and glen Could draw my chariot thither, secure from the lightest ill.

Chaplet and bough were fading; eager the maids for the race; But the toiling oxen came not, and the sun went up the sky. What should I answer the Goddess? How could I sue for grace If her rites should fail, or the garlands and gifts unoffered lie? And my heart was heavy within me,—when, straight to the chariot's place, Cleobis tall, and Biton, strode with a joyful cry!

Cleobis tall, and Biton, my sons, my pride, my life; Beauty and strength and valor from heroes of old had they; Both in the Games were victors—ay, both, in godlike strife, Had borne the crown of olive from a thousand youths away! While heralds proclaimed their triumph, and many a maid and wife Sighed to Hera for husband and son like them, that day.

Swift in the car they placed me, and on their own necks laid The yoke of the tardy oxen, lest the Goddess should suffer wrong!— Then cheers went up around us; the flutes melodious played; And the glad procession faneward moved to the swelling choral song; While the flower of the Argive women, in stain less white arrayed, Circled the car with mazy steps and led the wondering throng.

Full five and forty furlongs did they draw me to the door, And the whole assembly shouted till the firm earth seemed to reel;—

The women extolled the mother these hero-sons who bore, And the men the youths immortal who could such strength reveal; And lo! as I descended I saw an eagle soar, And knew great Zeus in heaven had marked their holy zeal.

O'erwhelmed by the loving service, uplifted to the sky, I entered the temple, and standing before the image, prayed: "O glorious Argive Hera! what deed with this can vie? What other sons such homage to their mother and thee have paid?— Grant them the rarest blessing that all the Gods on high Can give to mortals; and never on earth let their memory fade!"

The sacrifice smoked on the altar; incense clouded the air; And with hymns, and full libations poured from the golden bowls, They took of the holy banquet, and knew—the princely pair— Their names in light were written on the temple's proudest scrolls;

Then, weary with toil and worship, they sank to slumber there, While the wind blew soft and the Sun-god turned to his western goals.

In the altar's shadow sitting I watched their tranquil sleep, And thought of the fame and gladness the long years held in store; When the fairest maids of Argos their bridal feasts should keep, Maids they should bring all jewelled and blushing to their door; While the Dorian land—nay, Hellas—should praise and honor heap On the youths who put the Goddess their festal ease before.

But day was fast declining to sunset's golden gleam, And, still with joy transported, I stooped, their rest to rouse; … Oh! direful, direful slumber! … Oh! bliss beyond my dream! … The breath had left their parted lips, and pallid were their brows! This was the rarest blessing; this was the gift supreme,— The summons from the mighty Gods that doth the soul unhouse!

Dead in their strength and beauty; dead on the temple-floor; … Nay! living with the Deathless Ones by the meads of asphodel! And agonized,—yet raptured to see the smile they wore,— I cried, as close I clasped them, "O Hera! It is well! … Nor wail nor dirge shall sound for them—the blest forevermore,— But paeans sweet, triumphant, to all the Gods shall swell!" …

Their tombs rise high on the hillside by Hera's guarding fane, Strewn ever with brightest blossoms, bedewed with richest wine; And their forms, at the door, in marble, fronting their native plain, I set where the car was stayed that morn,—set for a sacred sign; While the Argives, that their glory on earth might never wane, In Delphi placed their statues, before Apollo's shrine. And shall I mourn their parting? let my tears fall as rain? Nay! pæans for the heroes borne to the life divine!

The Last Inca

Of nobles and guards that environ his form; Their robes white and azure, their hair decked with gold, Triumphant, unnumbered, their prince they en fold; They sweep by the fortress; their lines curve apart; Dios! 't is the Inca! … What glowing rays dart From his throne, as a sun, on their shoulders borne high, Plumed and gemmed with the Virgin's own altar to vie! And there he reclines with the air of a god, As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod; On his brow the imperial borla is bound, Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around, And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies Which only, they say, for his diadem flies; His mantle, how gorgeous; and lo, while you listen, I see at his throat his great emeralds glisten; … He enters the gateway; his hordes follow fast; Dios! we have trapped this proud pagan at last!"

The palanquin halts in the heart of the square; And still every Spaniard hides deep in his lair.

"Now where are the strangers?" the grave Inca calls, As he sees but his train 'twixt the compassing walls; "I have come, at their craving, to sup with them here In my own Caxamalca, and what should they fear?"

Then forth strode Valverde, Pizarro's own priest, Saint Dominic's friar, to bid to the feast; A Bible, a crucifix, solemn he bears, And straight through the throng to the Inca he fares. With slightest obeisance, in sounding Castilian,— While the monarch gazed calm from his golden pavilion, And Philip, interpreter, stood at his side,— "My commander has sent me to tell you," he cried, "Of the Faith which is true and the King who is strong; We have sailed the wide ocean to show you your wrong";— And, deeming his creed would convince and appall, Creation, the Trinity, Eden, the Fall, The Saviour incarnate, his life, crucifixion, Saint Peter, King Charles, and the Pope's malediction

On all who proved recreant, passed in review; While Indian-Philip his words coined anew, And added explainingly, "Christians adore These three Gods and one God, and that will make four." Thus ended Valverde: "The Pope, and our King, Earth's mightiest ruler, have sent us to bring This light in your darkness. Renounce your false ways And learn the true God of the Spaniards to praise! Become their good vassal;—so vengeance shall spare, And you and your land have their fostering care."

"Atúc!" groaned the Inca, on fire when he heard; His proud form dilated as word after word Fell hot on his ear; and in answer he flames, "What warrant has Pope or has King for his claims?"— While the people's deep murmur crept out to the valley— Where legion on legion would rise at his rally; "This book," said Valverde; and sternly he placed The Bible before him. The Inca in haste Scans its pages; then dashed it disdainfully down:

"Tell your comrades the insults they offer my crown— Their crimes in my realm they shall amply atone! Know that I am most mighty--the strongest my throne; Your King may be powerful—a brother I'll be— But vassal to none on the land or the sea! And my Faith—by the heavens! I never will alter!— As soon shall the dawn in the glowing east falter! Your own God, you tell me, was cruelly slain By the men he created; hung, dead, in his pain; But mine lives forever! my father, the Sun, The deathless, the glorious, unchangeable One;— Behold where he shines in celestial array! Then back to your darkness! I bide with the day!"

"Base hound!" said the friar, as stooping he caught The book to his breast, and with quickened steps sought Pizarro, who waited his coming within,— "If you wish," he burst out, "the vast wager to win, Talk no more with this dog full of malice and pride! His clans fill the fields. Once our force is defied,

Nor wisdom nor courage their swarms can evade;— Set on! I absolve you! and God be your aid!

"'T is the hour!" cried Pizarro; and, boldest to dare, The white scarf, his signal, waves ghostly in air! Like thunder on Andes the fortress gun roars, And horsemen and footmen spring fierce from the doors; "Saint Jago and at them!" they shout as they come, And nobles and people bewildered and dumb, Unarmed and defenseless, are slaughtered like sheep In the pit of the shambles! The dread horses leap On their quivering forms as they cower from the stroke Of the sabres that flash through the eddying smoke, As they writhe with the balls from the muskets outpoured,— And all in the name of the merciful Lord! Yet still through the horror, the anguish, the stress, Round their heaven-born Inca devoted they press; At his feet lie his princes, the dying, the dead, But others crowd eager to stand in their stead,

And, trampled and mangled, no weapons to wield, Seek yet from the fiends their loved monarch to shield! As a bark on the billows his litter is swayed By the rush and the blast of the mad cavalcade;— Ho! the bearers have fallen! The Inca is down! Estete has snatched his imperial crown! And, dragged and despoiled by the ravaging host, His bright vesture sullied, his jewels the boast Of his captors, they seize him and bear him away, Strong-guarded, as fades the last glory of day!... Then a shadow stole over the face of the Sun In the shrines; and a wail from the sweet winds that run Through the dusk, thrilled the air; but no star could deliver;— The light of the Incas had vanished forever! … And his people, bereft of their Child of the Sky, Break wild through the wall in their terror, and fly To the vales, to the mountains, cut down as they go By the sword and the shot and the hoof of the foe! …

Now night o'er the scene spreads her pitying pall;— "Bid the trumpets," Pizarro cries, "sound a recall, And Te Deums be sung, for Jehovah has given This might to our arms, else in vain we had striven!" And the chants, and the groans of the dying, as one, Went up to the Lord when the carnage was done.

Helena's Beacons

It beams in jewels from my crown; My standard takes its form, And the noblest knights about it press Nor fear the battle's storm; In every banner's fold it waves, On every shield it shines, And the helmets lift it proud and high Along their gleaming lines. O saintly mother, hasten hence With an imperial train! And towers shall rise for watching eyes On cliff and crag against the skies By stream and mount and main, That fire may flash the bliss to me If you should find the wondrous Tree!"

So, when the favoring west-wind blew And the stars of summer rose, Went Helena, in vesture gray,— With a princely band to guard her way To the place of the Lord's repose; Nor pride, nor pomp, nor purple state, Meek she knocked at the sacred gate And prayed the bars unclose. And entering in with reverent feet And murmured vow and prayer, She called the faithful ones to tell The secret guarded long and well Of the Holy Places there. Alas, alas! on Calvary Was a shameless pagan shrine;

And there where dropped the bitter myrrh Flowed fast the festal wine, And wanton songs disturbed the air That throbbed with sighs divine! "God pardon us!" cried Helena; And at her word they go With eager hands and raptured hearts To lay the temple low. Column and altar, porch and roof, And the statues false and fair, To the hateful waste of Hinnom's vale With swift accord they bear; And the earth the lustrous marbles hid, The heaped and heavy mould, Abroad they fling; till, far beneath, The Tomb their eyes behold— The Sepulchre, and the rifted Rock, And the Stone the angel rolled! "God is our help!" quoth Helena, "The Cross we yet shall see;"— And searching all the eastern ledge, Deep in a pit below its edge, Just as the young moon's tender beam Touched Zion's height and Kedron's stream, They found the blessed Tree! And O the shouts that rent the air, And O the joy divine, As they flew to light the beacon-fire And flash the bliss of his soul's desire To saintly Constantine! …

A flame, a flame on David's tower! A flame on Ramah's height! Samaria's hill has caught the gleam; Lone Tabor's oaks are bright! On Hermon, crown of Lebanon, Blaze the sweet cedar boughs; Berytus reddens grove and bay The northern strand to rouse; And the cliffs of queenly Antioch Send rosier light to heaven Than lit her stately colonnades Or blushed in Daphne's myrtle shades When feast and song and dance of maids To her loved god were given! And now it leaps the Issus gulf; Cilicia's plain it thrills; Cold Cydnus glows, and Tarsus throws The splendor to the hills; And the peaks of cloudy Taurus lean Through purple-tinted air, And catch the fire on wall and spire And snow-fields dazzling fair, Till far northwest, by gorge and steep, The joyful beacons flare. For the winds are out, and the cressets stream To the stars and the young moon's tender beam From heights where the eagle springs,— Past many a city gray and old, Past fount and fane and the sculptured hold Where sleep the Phrygian kings!

They beam above Maander's tide; Wake Sardis with its shrines; And lo! again leap shore and main Where Lesbos fronts the Mysian plain And lights her answering pines! From isle to isle, from wave to lea, The torches never falter, Till high they burn, like the flush of dawn, On Ilion's mountain altar! So clear and high on Ida's crest And the crags that climb where the north winds rest, That great Olympus sees— Asian Olympus crowned with snows, A peak of heaven at daylight's close Dark-set in towering trees. And higher still his beacon soars, A hundred flames in one, And glows adown the dusky vales And gilds the far Propontis-sails, Red as the rising sun. It flashes to the palace walls! The waiting Emperor greets! And the shouts that shook Jerusalem Ring through the royal streets! And torches blaze and banners gleam, While loud the heralds call: "To the church of the Holy Apostles, That the Lord be praised for all!" And wild the people throng the way To the stately courts more bright than day,

At their head exultant Constantine With a waxen taper tall! And the roof resounds with chant and psalm And many a holy hymn— "Glory to God!" the angels sung, And the song of the cherubim— Till the sorrowing Christ from the altar-screen With a smile of love looks down, And the shadowy cross beside him borne Glows like a victor's crown; Till sweet, in the pauses of the praise, Float echoes from the sky, And they know the joy of the faithful here Is the joy of the blest on high!

In Old Siam

What is Kandy's Tooth, or Footprint, To a living, present lord?— Tell the rulers! rouse the soldiers! Bid your fairest scribe record I have seen him on the sward, The White Elephant, a Buddha!"

How we bore him to the palace Down Meinam's rejoicing tide!— I a noble now and honored, Standing proud my King beside. Trumpets blew and cannon thundered; Chimed the sweet pagoda bells; On his forehead holy water Princes poured from jewelled shells; Every temple heaped its altars; Every town was wild with glee; So with song and shout and splendor To the palace home came he, To his shrine that fronts the sea,— The White Elephant, a Buddha!

El Mahdi to the Tribes of the Soudan

The roar of hosts was in my ears, Their fury in my brain, And I vowed to the God of the Faithful His Prophet alone should reign!

Now who is on the side of God To fight this fight with me,— To break the ranks of the Infidels And hurl them back to the sea, And all this tortured, trampled land From greed and spoil to free? This land where the bitter cry goes up From even the lips of the dumb: "Mata yathar El Mahdi— When will the Mahdi come? "' Who yearns for bliss in Paradise? Who fears eternal flame? Let him follow me to the Holy War For the glory of Allah's name! Leave your flocks on the grassy hills Of cool Atbara's stream; Under the palms by the lonely wells No more at noontide dream; From Nile's fair groves and uplands, From meadow and marsh and mere, Throng to the Crescent banner With lance and shield and spear! Come on your flying stallions From lordly Darfur's side; Bold from Sahara's burning depths On your swift camels ride;

The sun by day shall bid you speed, By night each guiding star, Through the thorny wastes of Kordofan, The wide plains of Sennaar! And from Fez and far Morocco, From Yemen and Hejaz,— For round the world to the Faithful, This fire of God shall blaze— And from the realms of the Indian sea, And isles of spice and balm, Shall a thousand thousand hither haste For the glory of Islam!

And as in the valley of Bedr, When the Moslems charged the foe, The angels stooped to the stormy pass And laid the faithless low, So shall they watch my standard, And all along our line Will hover their shining legions And the battle be divine! For Azrael, the Death-angel, With a banner made of light, And eyes that burn like the star of morn, Will lead us in the fight. And should you fall in the conflict,— O glorious, glad surprise! White-winged camels will bear you thence To the bowers of Paradise! Up to the crystal fountains And the feast of the Tuba tree,

The songs of Israfil to hear, The face of God to see!

Allah! I long for the onset! Moslems! welcome the day When forth in the rosy dawn we sweep As victors to the fray! For fierce as the lion leaping At night from his woody lair; Dread as the hot simoom whose breath No living thing may dare; Strong as the sun when he mounts the sky To bathe in the western sea— So fierce, to the godless of the earth, So dread, so strong are we! And by the soul of Mohammed— Nay, by the Throne of God— The Infidel and the Spoiler Shall into the dust be trod, And away by the winds of heaven As worthless chaff be blown, And the Prophet and true Believers Shall rule in the earth alone!

"The Prayer in the Desert"

He plants his lance; his steed he frees; Light, from the north, the rising breeze Lifts the hot cloud, and moans away Down to some Petra's still decay, Sad, as if wailing fall and rise Were won from dying pilgrims' sighs,— Their couch by billowy sands o'erblown Where Azrael keeps watch alone. And now, his sandals' thongs unbound, The desert space is holy ground; No more he sees the weary train, The sombre hills, the burning plain, But greenest fields of Paradise Shine fair before his ravished eyes. He hears the flow of crystal streams; He sees the wondrous light that gleams From Allah's throne, ablaze with gems, And, far below, the slender stems Of plumy palms, whose ripe dates fall When winds blow cool across the wall; While sweeter than the bulbul's note Within the dusk pomegranate-bowers, When its full soul it fain would float Forth to their yearning, flaming flowers, The voice of angel Israfil Comes winding, warbling through the air,— O that 't were resurrection's peal, And he, the dead, might waken there— Waken and follow Eden-ward, Lost in the splendor of the Lord!

Soon will his comrades round him throng, While tents are pitched with jest and song; But not the night-dews, chill and fleet, Nor noon-tide's burning, blasting heat, Nor red simoom, nor mocking well Can break his vision's sacred spell, Or lure his joy that forward flies To build and sing in fairer skies.

O Arab! we are one with thee! All day we rove some desert sea; The winds are dead, the wells are dry, Above us flames the torrid sky; And only in some twilight calm, When fires are spent and air is balm, Beyond our griefs and fears we ride; Our sandal-cares we cast aside; The clouds of doubt are backward blown, And lo! we meet the Lord alone!

1863.

The Virgin of St. Mark's

Say from Sophia's altar-screen They dragged it in the mire! Say that beneath their horses' hoofs In scorn 't was trodden down When fierce Mohammed sacked the church And seized Byzantium's crown! They did not know that Dandolo, Two hundred years before, Safe to St. Mark's of Venice The priceless Image bore; And all the while Our Lady kept Beneath these domes her rest,— The peace of God within her heart, The Babe upon her breast, And only songs of praise to stir The violet of her vest.

But the spring that guards the treasure Nor priest nor Pope can find; And here, while the ages pass, it lies In the gorgeous pile enshrined,— The Virgin with eyes as olives dark, And brow as fair as wheat, And veil and robe like angels' wings Folded down to her feet; Pure as the whitest lily Blown in the heavenly garden, Where the saints in perfect bliss do walk, And the Lord himself is warden!

Yet the chants and the blessed incense Steal to her secret door; She hears the prayers at the altar Her gracious help implore; And knows the lion of St. Mark Keeps watch forevermore!

Matins at St. Mary's

The blast of the dread sirocco— And away the good ship flew!

Into the blinding darkness, Into the howling storm, While the salt spray wreathed before her A beckoning, demon form. "Mary, have mercy!" the sailors Shrieked as the masts went down; "Bitter is death," sighed the nobles, "So near to our glory's crown!'

Leaning over the bulwarks, Richard, risen from rest, With his white brow bared to the tempest, And his blue eyes turned to the West, Cried, in a voice of anguish That rung o'er the foaming sea, "Would God it were time for matins, And the gray monks prayed for me!"

Meanwhile, on the fields of England The dew distilled its balm, And the lone Cistercian Abbey Slept in the midnight calm— Till the moon had passed the zenith, And the watch of morning fell, When, over meadow and moorland, Rung clear the matin-bell.

Then, through the silent cloisters, And under the arches dim, Abbot, and monk, and prior, Chanting a holy hymn,— While the flame of the stone-hewn cressets Flared with its rise and fall, And the Virgin smiled serenely From her niche in the lofty wall,—

Entered the aisle to the altar, And knelt with the fervent prayer That still, for their Sovereign, Richard, The winds might be soft and fair. "Bless him, O Lord," quoth the Abbot, "And bring him in peace again With the sign of our faith triumphant!" And the monks said low, "Amen!"

That moment, over the tempest, A lull stole out of the West, And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird Asleep on the ocean's breast. "Lord of my life," cried Richard, "Thine shall the glory be! I know 't is the hour for matins, And the gray monks pray for me!"

The Russian's Dream of Constantinople

When the Patriarch welcomes our Lord, the Czar, To the Cæsars' ancient throne!

In the sky of the south, at midnight, We have seen God's flaming sign, And we know He will drive the Moslem horde, In wrath, from his sacred shrine! Silent will be the muezzin As the sun on Asia sets; Folded the crescent banner; Crumbled the minarets. Then, under that dome of glory, Victorious chants we 'll raise, While the saints look down with loving eyes, And the gems of the altar blaze! Hail to the day when the Eagles And the Cross shall gain their own, As the Patriarch welcomes our Lord, the Czar, To the Cæsars' ancient throne!

Holy Russia

We cherish their sacred Icons, Token of care divine; And with beaten gold in fret and fold, And gems the Czar might wear, And costliest pearls of the Indian seas, We make their vesture fair. We set them along our altars In many a gorgeous row, The blessed Saviour in their midst, And the Virgin, pure as snow; And lamps we hang before them, Soft as the star that shines In the, rosy west, when the purple clouds Drift dark above the pines. The deep chants ring; the censers swing In wreaths of fragrance by; And there we bend, while our prayers ascend To their waiting hearts on high; And our Lord, and Mary-Mother, With faces sweet and grave, Remembering all their tears and woes, Grant every boon they crave.

Have you heard that each true-born Russian, Child of the Lord in baptism, Receives some name of the shining ones With the touch of the precious chrism?— And the saint, thenceforth, is his angel; Ready, through gloom or sun, To share his sorrows and cheer his way Till his earthly years are done.

When friends have fled, and love is lost, And darkest ills betide, There's a gleam of wings athwart the sky, And the peace of the glorified Falls on his soul as the gentle dew Descends on the parching plain,— And he knows that his angel heard his sighs And stooped to heal his pain. Nor cares he when, or where, or how The hour of his death may come, For the Lord of the saints will welcome him, And his angel bear him home. And, to mark his faith's devotion, As a jewel of love and pride He bears on his breast forever The cross of the Crucified;— Bright with rubies and diamonds, Fashioned of silver and gold, Or only carved from the cedar That grows on the windy wold; Cut from a stone of the Ourals, Or the amber that strews the shore;— Close to his heart he wears it Till his pulses beat no more.

O happy, Holy Russia! Thrice favored of the Lord! Around whose towers, when danger lowers, The saints keep watch and ward! She need not fear the marshalled hosts Of her haughtiest Christian foe;

Nor Islam's hate, though at Moscow's gate The stormy bugles blow! Fair will her eagle-banners float Above Sophia's dome, When heaven shall bring her righteous Czar In triumph to his Rome; And Constantine and Helena Will "Alleluia!" cry, To see the cross victorious In their imperial sky. Ah! what a day when all the way To Marmora's sunny sea— From Finland's snows to fields of rose— Shall Holy Russia be!

The Lost War-Sloop

Come for love of home and country, Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,— Every man among them brave and true and tried. "Hearts of oak" are British seamen? Hearts of fire were these, their kindred, Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!

From the mountains, from the prairies, Blew the west winds glad to waft her;— Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down! Ships with wealth of London laden, Ships with treasures of the Indies, Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town; Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon, To her valor struck their colors, Making coast and ocean ring with her renown; While her captain cried, exultant, "Britain, to the bold Republic, Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"

Oh, the woful, woful ending Of the pride of Portsmouth water! Never more to harbor nor to shore came she! Springs returned but brought no tidings; Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted, Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee. Did the bolts of heaven blast her?

Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm her With her starry banner and her tall masts three? Was a pirate-fleet her captor? Did she drift to polar oceans? Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!

Who shall tell? yet many a sailor In his watch at dawn or midnight, When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan, Sees a stanch three-master looming; Hears the hurried call to quarters, The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;— Then the cannon's direful thunder Echoes far along the billows; Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;— And the watcher knows the phantom Is the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop, Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!

The Brooklyn Bridge

By Nile stand proud the pyramids, But they were for the dead; The awful gloom that joy forbids, The mourners' silent tread, The crypt, the coffin's stony lids,— Sad as a soul the maze that thrids Of dark Amenti, ere it rids Its way of judgment dread.

This glorious arch, these climbing towers, Are all for life and cheer! Part of the new world's nobler dowers; Hint of millennial year That comes apace, though evil lowers,— When loftier aims and larger powers Shall mould and deck this earth of ours, And heaven at length bring near!