Songs, Legends, and Ballads

Front matter

SONGS,

LEGENDS AND BALLADS.

BY

The Rainbow's Treasure

SONGS, LEGENDS, AND BALLADS.

THE RAINBOW'S TREASURE.

HERE the foot of the rainbow meets the field, And the grass resplendent glows, The earth will a precious treasure yield, So the olden story goes. In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled For him who can swiftly chase Over torrent and desert and precipice wild, To the rainbow's wandering base.

There were two in the field at work, one day, Two brothers, who blithely sung, When across their valley's deep-winding way The glorious arch was flung!

And one saw naught but a sign of rain, And feared for his sheaves unbound; And one is away, over mountain and plain, Till the mystical treasure is found!

Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream. The rainbow lured him on; With a siren's guile it loitered awhile, Then leagues away was gone. Over brake and brier he followed fleet; The people scoffed as he passed; But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet, He nears the prize at last.

It is closer and closer—he wins the race— One strain for the goal in sight: Its radiance falls on his yearning face— The blended colors unite! He laves his brow in the iris beam— He reaches2Ah woe! the sound From the misty gulf where he ends his dream, And the crystal cup is found!

'Tis the old, old story: one man will read His lesson of toil in the sky; While another is blind to the present need, But sees with the spirit's eye. You may grind their souls in the self-same mill, You may bind them, heart and brow; But the poet will follow the rainbow still, And his brother will follow the plough.

At Best

AT BEST.

HE faithful helm commands the keel. From port to port fair breezes blow; But the ship must sail the convex sea, Nor may she straighter go.

So, man to man; in fair accord, On thought and will, the winds may wait; But the world will bend the passing word, Though its shortest course be straight.

From soul to soul the shortest line At best will bended be: The ship that holds the straightest course Still sails the convex sea.

Macarius the Monk

MACARIUS THE MONK.

N the old days, while yet the Church was young, And men believed that praise of God was sung In curbing self as well as singing psalms, There lived a monk, Macarius by name, A holy man, to whom the faithful came With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word. In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms, He dwelt within the desert: from the marsh He drank the brackish water, and his food Was dates and roots,—and all his rule was harsh, For pampered flesh in those days warred with good.

From those who came in scores a few there were Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, And these remained and took the hermit's vow. A dozen saints there grew to be; and now Macarius, happy, lived in larger care. He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, And as they learned, his pious rigors grew. His whole intent was on the spirit's goal: He taught them silence—words disturb the soul: He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow. And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow To know that human life alone was given To prove the souls of those who merit heaven; He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, And die to self, to live and work for others. "For so," he said, "we save our love and labors. And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's."

Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the Word.

One day, beside the marsh they labored long,— For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,— And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand Tormenting stung, a passing traveller stood And watched the workers by the reeking flood. Macarius, nigh, with heat and toil was faint; The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw. Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, A generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine. Macarius longed to taste. "The fruit is mine," He said, and sighed; "but I, who daily teach, Feel now the bond to practise as I preach." He gave the cluster to the nearest one. And with his heavy toil went patient on.

As one athirst will greet a flowing brim. The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade.

And he who took, unknown to any other, The sweet refreshment handed to a brother. And so, from each to each, till round was made The circuit wholly—when the grapes at last, Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed.

"Now God be thanked!" he cried, and ceased his toil; "The seed was good, but better was the soil. My brothers, join with me to bless the day." But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away.

The Trial of the Gods

THE TRIAL OF THE GODS.

"On a regular division of the [Roman] Senate, Jupiter was condemned and degraded by the sense of a very large majority."—Gibbon's Decline and Fall.

NEVER nobler was the Senate, Never grander the debate: Rome's old gods are on their trial By the judges of the state!

Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers Urge to-day the question home— "Whether Jupiter or Jesus Shall be God henceforth in Rome?"

Lo, the scene! In Jove's own temple, As of old, the Fathers meet; Through the porch, to hear the speeches, Press the people from the street. Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture, Pass from senate chair to chair; Learned augurs, still as statues— Voiceless statues, too—are there; Vestal virgins, white with terror, Mutely asking—what has come? What new light shall turn to darkness Vesta's holy fire in Rome?

Answer, Quindecemvirs! Surely, Of this wondrous Nazarene Ye must know, who keep the secrets Of the prophet Sibylline?

Nay, no word! Here stand the Flamens: Have ye read the omens, priests? Slain the victims, white and sable, Scanned the entrails of the beasts?

Priest of Pallas, see! the people Ask for oracles to-day: Silent! Priests of Mars and Venus? Lo, they turn, dumb-lipped, away! Priest of Jove? Flamen dialis! Here in Jove's own temple meet In debate the Roman Senate, And Jove's priest with timid feet Stands beyond the altar railing! Gods, I feel ye frown above! In the shadow of Jove's altar Men defy the might of Jove!

Treason riots in the temple At the sacrilege profound: Virgins mocked, and augurs banished, And divinities discrowned!

Hush! Old Rome herself appeareth, Pleading for the ancient faith: Urging all her by-gone glory— That to change the old were death. Rudely answer the patricians, Scoffing at the time-worn snare: Twice a thousand years of sacrifice Have melted into air; Twice a thousand years of worship Have bitterly sufficed To prove there is no Jupiter! The Senate votes for Christ!

Not aimless is the story, The moral not remote: For still the gods are questioned, And still the Senates vote. Men sacrifice to Venus; To Mars are victims led; And Mercury is honored still; And Bacchus is not dead;—

But these are minor deities That cling to human sight: Our twilight they—but Right and Wrong Are clear as day and night. We know the Truth: but falsehood With our lives is so inwove— Our Senates vote down Jesus As old Rome degraded Jove!

The Shadow

THE SHADOW.

HERE is a shadow on the sunny wall, Dark and forbidding, like a bode of ill; Go, drive it thence. Alas, such shadows fall From real things, nor may be moved at will.

There is a shadow on my heart to-day, A cloudy grief condensing to a tear: Alas, I cannot drive its gloom away— Some sin or sorrow casts the shapeless fear.

The Value of Gold

THE VALUE OF GOLD.

HERE may be standard weight for precious metal, But deeper meaning it must ever hold; Thank God, there are some things no law can settle, And one of these—the real worth of gold.

The stamp of king or crown has common power To hold the traffic-value in control; Our coarser senses note this worth—the lower; The higher comes from senses of the soul.

This truth we find not in mere warehouse learning— The value varies with the hands that hold; The worth depends upon the mode of earning; And this man's copper equals that man's gold.

With empty heart, and forehead lined with scheming. Men's sin and sorrow have been that man's gain;

But this man's heart, with rich emotions teeming, Makes fine the gold for which he coins his brain.

But richer still than gold from upright labor— The only gold that should have standard price— Is the poor earning of our humble neighbor, Whose every coin is red with sacrifice.

Mere store of money is not wealth, but rather The proof of poverty and need of bread. Like men themselves is the bright gold they gather It may be living, or it may be dead.

It may be filled with love and life and vigor, To guide the wearer, and to cheer the way; It may be corpse-like in its weight and rigor, Bending the bearer to his native clay.

There is no comfort but in outward showing In all the servile homage paid to dross; Better to heart and soul the silent knowing Our little store has not been gained by loss.

Peace and Pain

PEACE AND PAIN.

HE day and night are symbols of creation, And each has part in all that God has made; There is no ill without its compensation, And life and death are only light and shade. There never beat a heart so base and sordid But felt at times a sympathetic glow; There never lived a virtue unrewarded, Nor died a vice without its meed of woe.

In this brief life despair should never reach us; The sea looks wide because the shores are dim; The star that led the Magi still can teach us The way to go if we but look to Him. And as we wade, the darkness closing o'er us, The hungry waters surging to the chin, Our deeds will rise like stepping-stones before us— The good and bad—for we may use the sin.

A sin of youth, atoned for and forgiven, Takes on a virtue, if we choose to find: When clouds across our onward path are driven, We still may steer by its pale light behind. A sin forgotten is in part to pay for, A sin remembered is a constant gain: Sorrow, next joy, is what we ought to pray for, As next to peace we profit most from pain.

A Seed

A SEED.

KINDLY act is a kernel sown, That will grow to a goodly tree, Shedding its fruit when time has flown Down the gulf of eternity.

Chunder Ali's Wife

CHUNDER ALI'S WIFE.

FROM THE HINDOSTANEE.

"

AM poor," said Chunder Ali, while the Mandarin above him

Frowned in supercilious anger at the dog who dared to speak; "I am friendless and a Hindoo: such a one meets few to love him Here in China, where the Hindoo finds the truth alone is weak. I have naught to buy your justice; were I wise, I had not striven. Speak your judgment;" and he crossed his arms and bent his quivering face.

Heard he then the unjust sentence: all his goods and gold were given To another, and he stood alone, a beggar in the place.

And the man who bought the judgment looked in triumph and derision At the cheated Hindoo merchant, as he rubbed his hands and smiled At the whispered gratulation of his friends, and at the vision Of the more than queenly dower for Ahmeer, his only child. Fair Ahmeer, who of God's creatures was the only one who loved him. She, the diamond of his treasures, the one lamb within his fold, She, whose voice, like her dead mother's, was the only power that moved him,— She would praise the skill that gained her all this Hindoo's silk and gold. And the old man thanked Confucius, and the judge, and him who pleaded.

But why falls this sudden silence? why does each one hold his breath? Every eye turns on the Hindoo, who before was all unheeded, And in wond'ring expectation all the court grows still as death.

Not alone stood Chunder Ali: by his side Ahmeer was standing, And his brown hand rested lightly on her shoulder as he smiled At the sweet young face turned toward him. Then the father's voice commanding Fiercely bade his daughter to him from the dog whose touch defiled. But she moved not, and she looked not at her father or the others As she answered, with her eyes upon the Hindoo's noble face: "Nay, my father, he defiles not: this kind arm above all others Is my choosing, and forever by his side shall be my place.

When you knew not, his clear hand had given many a sweet love-token, He had gathered all my heartstrings and had bound them round his life; Yet you tell me he defiles me; nay, my father, you have spoken In your anger, and not knowing I was Chunder All's wife."

A Kiss

A KISS.

OVE is a plant with double root, And of strange, elastic power: Men's minds are divided in naming the fruit, But a kiss is only the flower.

Bone and Sinew and Brain

BONE AND SINEW AND BRAIN.

E white-maned waves of the Western Sea. That ride and roll to the strand, Ye strong-winged birds, never forced a-lee By the gales that sweep toward land, Ye are symbols of death, and of hope that saves, As ye swoop in your strength and grace. As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves Of a past and puerile race.

Cry, "Presto, change!" and the lout is lord, With his vulgar blood turned blue; Go dub your knight with a slap of a sword, As the kings in Europe do; Go grade the lines of your social mode As you grade the palace wall,— The people forever to bear the load, And the gilded vanes o'er all.

But the human blocks will not lie as still As the dull foundation-stones, But will rise, like a sea, with an awful will, And ingulf the golden thrones; For the days are gone when a special race Took the place of the gilded vane; And the merit that mounts to the highest place Must have bone and sinew and brain.

Let the cant of "the march of mind" be heard, Of the time to come, when man Shall lose the mark of his brawn and beard In the future's levelling plan: 'Tis the dream of a mind effeminate, The whine for an easy crown; There is no meed for the good and great In the weakling's levelling down.

A nation's boast is a nation's bone, As well as its might of mind; And the culture of either of these alone Is the doom of a nation signed.

But the cant of the ultra-suasion school Unsinews the hand and thigh, And preaches the creed of the weak to rule, And the strong to struggle and die. Our schools are spurred to the fatal race, As if health were the nation's sin. Till the head grows large, and the vampire face Is gorged on the limbs so thin. Our women have entered the abstract fields. And avaunt with the child and home: While the rind of science a pleasure yields Shall they care for the lives to come? And they ape the manners of manly times In their sterile and worthless life. Till the man of the future augments his crimes With a raid for a Sabine wife.

Ho, white-maned waves of the Western Sea, That ride and roll to the strand! Hr, strong-winged birds, never blown a-lee By the gales that sweep toward land!

Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves, As ye swoop in your strength and grace. As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves Of a suicidal race. Ye have hoarded your strength in equal parts; For the men of the future reign Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts, And bone and sinew and brain.

To-Day

TO-DAY.

NLY from day to day The life of a wise man runs; What matter if seasons far away Have gloom or have double suns?

To climb the unreal path, We stray from the roadway here; We swim the rivers of wrath, And tunnel the hills of fear.

Our feet on the torrent's brink. Our eyes on the cloud afar, We fear the things we think, Instead of the things that are.

Like a tide our work should rise- Each later wave the best; To-day is a king in disguise, To-day is the special test.

Like a sawyer's work is life: The present makes the flaw. And the only field for strife Is the inch before the saw.

My Native Land

MY NATIVE LAND.

T chanced to me upon a time to sail Across the Southern Ocean to and fro; And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, And left us yearning still for lands unknown.

And when we found one,—for 'tis soon to find In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,— For one short noon its treasures filled the mind. And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. And so it was, from isle to isle we passed. Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips;

And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.

I learned from this there is no Southern land Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change; but when in health they stand 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. And thus with me it was: the yearning turned From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned With love for Ireland, looldng on Cathay!

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! My land, that has no peer in all the sea For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,— If first to no man else, thou 'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet,—the mother's breath and smiles: Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.

There is Blood on the Earth

THERE IS BLOOD ON THE EARTH.

THERE is blood on the face of the earth— It reeks through the years, and is red: Where Truth was slaughtered at birth, And the veins of Liberty bled.

Lo! vain is the hand that tries To cover the crimson stain: It spreads like a plague, and cries Like a soul in writhing pain.

It wasteth the planet's flesh; It calleth on breasts of stone: God holdeth His wrath in a leash Till the hearts of men atone.

Blind, like the creatures of time; Cursed, like all the race,

They answer: "The blood and crime Belong to a sect and place!"

What are these things to Heaven— Races or places of men? The world through one Chhrist was forgiven Nor question of races then.

The wrong of to-day shall be rued In a thousand coming years; The debt must be paid in blood, The interest, in tears.

Shall none stand up for right Whom the evil passes by? But God has the globe in sight, And hearkens the weak ones' cry.

Wherever a principle dies— Nay, principles never die! But wherever a ruler lies. And a people share the lie;

Where right is crushed by force, And manhood is stricken dead — There dwelleth the ancient curse, And the blood on the earth is red!

The Ride of Collins Graves

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN MASSACHUSETTS, ON MAY 16, 1874.

O song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight from Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nations' throe at a nation's birth; But the song of a brave man, free from fear As Sheridan's self or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked, free from strife, And its promise of glorious pay—his life!

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred. And the answering echoes of life are heard:

The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley, where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.

What was it, that passed like an ominous breath— Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. It was not a sound—or a thing of sense— But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

The air of the valley has felt the chill: The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love. And thinks of the sleeping ones above.

Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse— Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say— That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way!

God! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet; And this the cry he flings to the wind: "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

He cries and is gone; but they know the worst— The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon—It comes! it comes!

A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt Of the homes they shatter—white-maned and hoarse. The merciless Terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, With Death on the first of its hissing waves. Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed.

But onward still. In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God! the brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed.

For miles it thundered and crashed behind. But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "They must be warned!" was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider: send him down On the stream of time with the Curtius old; His deed as the Roman's was brave and bold, And the tale can as noble a thrill awake. For he offered his life for the people's sake.

Star-Gazing

STAR-GAZING.

ET be what is: why should we strive and wrestle With awkward skill against a subtle doubt? Or pin a mystery 'neath our puny pestle, And vainly try to bray its secret out?

What boots it me to gaze at other planets, And speculate on sensate beings there? It comforts not that, since the moon began its Well-ordered course, it knew no breath of air.

There may be men and women up in Venus, Where science finds both summer-green and snow; But are we happier asking, "Have they seen us? And, like us earth-men, do they yearn to know?"

On greater globes than ours men may be greater. For all things here in fair proportion run; But will it make our poor cup any sweeter To think a nobler Shakespeare thrills the sun?

Or, that our sun is but itself a minor, Like this dark earth—a tenth-rate satellite. That swings submissive round an orb diviner, Whose day is lightning, with our day for night?

Or, past all suns, to find the awful centre Round which they meanly wind a servile road; Ah, will it raise us or degrade, to enter Where that world's Shakespeare towers almost to God?

No, no; far better, "lords of all creation" To strut our ant-hill, and to take our ease; To look aloft and say, "That constellation Was lighted there our regal sight to please!"

We owe no thanks to so-called men of science, Who demonstrate that earth, not sun, goes round; 'Twere better think the sun a mere appliance To light man's villages and heat his ground.

There seems no good in asking or in humbling; The mind incurious has the most of rest; If we can live and laugh and pray, not grumbling, 'Tis all we can do here—and 'tis the best.

The throbbing brain will burst its tender raiment With futile force, to see by finite light How man's brief earning and eternal payment Are weighed as equal in th' Infinite sight.

'Tis all in vain to struggle with abstraction— The milky-way that tempts our mental glass; The study for mankind is earth-born action; The highest wisdom, let the wondering pass.

The Lord knows best: He gave us thirst for learning; And deepest knowledge of His work betrays No thirst left waterless. Shall our soul-yearning, Apart from all things, be a quenchless blaze?

Dolores

DOLORES.

S he well blest who has no eyes to scan The woful things that shadow all our life: The latent brute behind the eyes of man, The place and power gained and stained by strife, The weakly victims driven to the wall, The subtile cruelties that meet us all Like eyes from darksome places? Blest is he Who such sad things is never doomed to see!

The crust of common life is worn by time, And shines deception, as a thin veneer The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere Holds drowned men embedded in its slime; The ninety eat their bread of death and crime, And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive.

O, moaning sea of life! the few who dive Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath,

Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise,— They meet the light with introverted eyes. And hands that clutch a few dim mysteries!

Our life a harp is, with unnumbered strings, And tones and symphonies; but our poor skill Some shallow notes from its great music brings. We know it there; but vainly wdsh and will.

O, things symbolic! Things that mock our sense— Our five-fold, pitiable sense—and say A thousand senses could not show one day As sight infinite sees it; fruitful clay, And budding bough, and nature great with child And chill with doom and death—is all so dense That our dull thought can never read thy words, Or sweep with knowing hand thy hidden chords?

Have men not fallen from fair heights, once trod By nobler minds, who saw the works of God,

The flowers and living things, still undefiled, And spoke one language with them? And can we, In countless generations, each more pure Than that preceding, come at last to see Thy symbols full of meaning, and be sure That what we read is all they have to tell?

Love, and Be Wise

LOVE, AND BE WISE.

OT on the word alone Let love depend; Neither by actions done Choose ye the friend.

Let the slow years fly— These are the test; Never to peering eye Opened the breast.

Psyche won hopeless woe, Reaching to take; Wait till your lilies grow Up from the lake.

Gather words patiently; Harvest the deed; Let the winged years fly. Sifting the seed.

Judging by harmony, Learning by strife; Seeking in unity Precept and life.

Seize the supernal— Prometheus dies; Take the external On trust—and be wise.

Resurgite!—June, 1877

RESURGITE!—JUNE, 1877.

OW, for the faith that is in ye, Polander, Sclav, and Kelt! Prove to the world what the lips have hurled The hearts have grandly felt.

Rouse, ye races in shackles! See in the East, the glare Is red in the sky, and the warning cry Is sounding—"Awake! Prepare!"

A voice from the spheres—a hand downreached To hands that would be free. To rend the gyves from the fettered lives That strain toward Liberty!

Circassia! the cup is flowing That holdeth perennial youth:

"Who strikes succeeds, for when manhood bleeds Each drop is a Cadmus' tooth.

Sclavonia! first from the sheathing Thy knife to the cord that binds; Thy one-tongued host shall renew the boast: "The Scythians are the Winds!"

Greece! to the grasp of heroes, Flashed with thine ancient pride, Thy swords advance: in the passing chance The great of heart are tried.

Poland! thy lance-heads brighten: The Tartar has swept thy name From the schoolman's chart, but the patriot's heart Preserves its lines in flame.

Ireland! mother of dolors, The trial on thee descends: Who quaileth in fear when the test is near, His bondage never ends.

Oppression, that kills the craven, Defied, is the freeman's good: No cause can be lost forever whose cost Is coined from Freedom's blood!