*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63973 *** SHORT FLIGHTS BY _MEREDITH NICHOLSON_ _With a weak, uncertain wing And a short flight, faltering Like a heart afraid to sing._ INDIANAPOLIS THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO. 1891 Copyright 1890 BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON TO MY UNCLE WILLIAM MORTON MEREDITH CONTENTS INVOCATION--TO THE SEASONS xi SAT EST VIXISSE 1 SONG 3 ’TIS NEVER NIGHT IN LOVE’S DOMAIN 5 ESTRANGED 7 WHEN FRIENDS ARE PARTED 8 WHEREAWAY 9 A SECRET 11 DISAPPOINTMENT 13 STRIVING 14 AN IDOLATER 16 LOVE’S MIDAS TOUCH 17 IN ETHER SPACES 18 MY PADDLE GLEAMED 20 FAITHLESS 21 GRAPE BLOOM 22 ILL-STARRED 23 THE SOLDIER HEART 25 AN UNWRITTEN LETTER 27 MY LADY OF THE GOLDEN HEART 28 DREAMS 30 CARDINAL NEWMAN 31 ON THE MEDITERRANEAN 32 WATCHING THE WORLD GO BY 34 RIGHTEOUS WRATH 36 SUNSET 37 RONDEAU OF EVENTIDE 38 A PRINCE’S TREASURE 39 DIEU VOUS GARDE 41 SWEETHEART TIME 42 THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS 44 GUARDING SHADOWS 46 ART’S LESSON 47 IN THE SHADOW 48 “LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT” 50 SONGS AND WORDS 51 FOR A NEW YEAR’S MORN 53 THREE FRIENDS 54 A RHYME OF LITTLE GIRLS 57 THE BATTLES GRANDSIRE MISSED 59 BARRED 61 A SLUMBER SONG 62 BEFORE THE FIRE 64 OCTOBER 66 IN WINTER I WAS BORN 68 GOOD NIGHT AND PLEASANT DREAMS 69 WHERE LOVE WAS NOT 71 DOWN THE AISLES 73 RUIN 74 HALF FLIGHTS 76 A KIND OF MAN 77 TRANSFIGURED 78 LOVE’S POWER 79 FIRE-HUNTING 80 HEARTACHE 81 FRIENDSHIP’S SACRAMENT 83 OMAR KHAYYAM 84 A DISCOVERY 86 _SONNETS_ A MODERN PURITAN 89 THE LAW OF LIFE 90 TO EUGENE FIELD IN ENGLAND 91 DEPENDENCE 92 BY SHERIDAN’S GRAVE 93 VIKING 94 VIOLIN 95 WHAT THE BABIES SAY 96 SECRETS 97 BLIND 98 A FANCY 99 THOREAU 100 _SHORT FLIGHTS_ TO THE SEASONS. _Seasons that pass me by in varied mood, As on the impressionable land you leave a trace, Molding sometime a delicate flower’s sweet face, Touching again with green the somber wood, Or drawing all beneath a snowy hood,-- Am I not worthy as they to have a place In your remembrance? Am I made too base To know what weed and thorn have understood?_ _Fair vernal time, I need your quickening Even as the sleeping Earth! O summer heat Make flower and fruit in me that I may bring Full hands to Autumn when above me beat The serious winds; and Winter, make me strong Like the glad music of your battle song!_ SAT EST VIXISSE. I. To have lived! To have felt a quickened beat Of the heart in spring; To have known that something sweet Moved the birds to sing; To have seen dim waves of heat O’er a field of green retreat! II. To have found the hiding-place Of the wild wood rose; To have held, a little space, Any flower that grows; To have known a moment’s grace Looking in a loved one’s face To have lived, to have lived! III. Still, doth it suffice alone That the world is fair? O’er what fields have these hands sown? Are they gold or bare? And though all the flowers are flown, If to God my heart is known, Then shall I in truth be shown How to live, why to live! SONG. Glad and sad make rhyme, my dear, Glad and sad make rhyme. Though the sun may not appear, Though there be a time When the hours are very long, And there is no joy for you, Weave this thought into a song: Glad and sad make jingle true-- Happy jingle true! They are joined together, dear, Joined together they, Like the dark sky and the clear Of an April day. Like the grief that dies in gladness Turmoil into peace will grow, Soon there is an end of sadness-- Glad and sad make rhyme, you know, Perfect rhyme, you know. They make perfect rhyme, my dear. Perfect as can be; Falling sweet upon the ear, Telling you and me That the thorn and rose are wed, That night holds in store the dawn, And till hope and trust are dead Glad and sad will jingle on, Jingle, jingle on! ’TIS NEVER NIGHT IN LOVE’S DOMAIN. ’Twas morning when one found his way Within the garden lands of love. He lingered till he thought the day Should surely unto night yield sway. But morning’s sun still shone above In skies unmarred by evening’s gray, While on the air rang this refrain-- ’Tis never night in love’s domain. Love’s palace beauteous is, and tall, And broad, and grand is his estate. Gay courtiers throng each spacious hall Where laughing echoes ceaseless fall And mock the silent outcast, hate, Who ever cowers by post and wall. And scowls as rings the glad refrain-- ’Tis never night in love’s domain. And thence through groves with myrtle grown He followed Venus’ dove-drawn car By paths he ne’er before had known, And yet, the morning had not flown, And yet, fresh winds blew from afar As came, in ne’er decreasing tone, The song through which ran this refrain-- ’Tis never night in love’s domain. Ah, love of mine, how well we know The glories of those garden lands Through which Lethean waters flow! Oft we have wandered to and fro Down those bright halls, and seen the hands Of tiny elves that beckoned so They kept the time to this refrain-- ’Tis never night in love’s domain. ESTRANGED. It was but yesterday that thou Wert with love-whispers eloquent, Yet come and look upon her now That life is spent. How strangely white the face hath grown, No longer prest by kisses fond; Why turn’st, now that her soul hath flown And rests beyond? Why enter’st not the darkened room To touch again those cold, white lips-- So cold and white, seen in the gloom Of Death’s eclipse? Thou wert so loving once, but now Take that cold hand as lovers may, Implant a kiss on that calm brow, Nor turn away. It was but yesterday that thou Wert with love-whispers eloquent-- Thou wilt not look upon her now That life is spent. WHEN FRIENDS ARE PARTED. Time keeps no measure when true friends are parted,-- No record day by day; The sands move not for those who, loyal-hearted, Friendship’s firm laws obey. It is not well to note with dull precision The flight of days or years; Memory depends not on a proof by vision, And has no foolish fears. The migrant birds when they are Southward flying Have no regrets; they go Full of the knowledge born of faith undying, That they again shall know The homes and nests which they have left behind them Unmarred by change the while; The Southern lands they seek will but remind them Of the North’s summer smile. And so I know that you will come to meet me In the old, well-loved way; That, though a year go by, you still will greet me As kindly as to-day. WHEREAWAY. Where are you going my bright blue eyes, My boy so happy-hearted? You are very young and very wise, And early you have started. Where is the city you’re bound for, lad? Come tell me of it truly; Is it one that is fair, and one that is glad And was it builded newly? Oh, tell me whereaway my lad-- Whereaway? The day is fair and the skies are blue, Come rest awhile and listen: By far too great is the world for you, The spires in dreams that glisten Are far away from this quiet place With many a mile between, So rest, blue eyes, for a little space Here where the slopes are green-- Oh, tell me whereaway my lad-- Whereaway? Oh, dim and vague is the early haze That holds your world of seeming; This day is fairer than other days Only in boyish dreaming,-- So do not hasten but pause to tell Why you make such a hurry-- Do you want to go, have you pondered well About the cost and worry? Oh, tell me whereaway my lad-- Whereaway? Oh, dear blue eyes and brave young heart Why must you turn to leave me? Am I so old that we now must part, Why will you go to grieve me? But he turns away with a smile and nod And will not tell me truly About the place to which he will plod, If old or builded newly; He does not answer “Where, my lad?” Whereaway? A SECRET. He said, “No one shall ever learn This secret that my heart must keep; No matter how the wolds may burn, No matter how my heart may leap, No one shall know I love her so, No one shall know, no one shall know!” But though his lips were tightly sealed, The very birds his secret guessed, For in his eyes it was revealed, And in his face it was confessed-- “I love her so, I love her so, But none shall know, but none shall know?” The wind soon found it and ran on To tell it to the wondering flowers, And bear it to the gates of dawn, Where loiter all the coming hours, That they might know he loved her so, That they might know, that they might know! Some time all secrets must unfold, And soon did he a listener seek, To whom his story might be told Before the laughing world should speak And tell her (if she did not know!) He loved her so, he loved her so! DISAPPOINTMENT. The broad-armed wave that reaches for the land Sees not the towering rock that bars the way Unto the longed-for play-ground of the strand, Until, thrown back, it sees through tears of spray. STRIVING. It is not much that I can do. My hands are weak. The lines they draw seem never true; The works I speak Are not the ones I long to say,-- I speak not prayers I long to pray. It is no coward spirit, no-- I try to learn How others bravely strive and go Rewards to earn, And yet success is never mine-- I labor on a false design. They are not much, these little things That form my task, Yet constant seeking never brings What I would ask, And of what use is life to one Who never knew a victory won? But this one thing I know, that He Who guides the stars Will look in charity on me And see the scars Which show that I have tried to trace A path that weeds could not efface. AN IDOLATER. I read of pagan priests in idols hiding, That with their own lips they might make reply To prayers of worshippers in them confiding-- To vouchsafe or deny. And all idolatry has not departed; For yet I faith in one fair idol hold. Unlike those of the heathen, hollow-hearted. Voiceless, inert and cold; But one who dwells, a queen, among the living. Whose eyes light lip, my waiting eyes to greet And speak, before the lips, sweet answer giving From her soul’s judgment seat. LOVE’S MIDAS TOUCH. Your love has made life dear to me; Until you came I did not know How beautiful the world could be-- How full of joy its days could grow. Once peace was not in anything, But love has made life dear to me; The winter has given way to spring, And skies are fair and clear to me. My heart is listening when you speak; To hold your hand or touch your cheek,-- Since love has made life dear to me! Sends flying love and fear through me. Glad is the grass your feet have pressed, Your eyes throw joy on all they see, Around you there is gracious rest, Your love has made life dear to me. IN ETHER SPACES. Somewhere in space there is a realm where lingers Each word that ever fell from lips of man, All music stirred to life by touch of fingers, All sounds since time began. Rumble of quaking earth and plains upturning Creation morn; the sullen beat of rain, The coo of dove with olive-leaf returning, The stir of life again. A Child’s soft treble in the temple, heeded By doctors who about him listening drew; “Father, forgive them,” on dark Calvary pleaded, “They know not what they do.” The songs are there which echoed through dim ages, And chants of kneeling priests at pagan shrines, The speech of prophets writ on history’s pages In God-directed lines. There dormant dwells the roar of battle royal, The clash of arms amid war’s furnace flame, Victorious cries of warriors brave and loyal, A people’s loud acclaim; With words that gladdened hearts of earliest lovers, And curses since night’s robes trailed Eden’s sky, While vague as half-remembered dreams there hovers Each mother’s lullaby. O sounds afar in ether spaces dwelling, In mighty minstrelsy awake! Unite In chords the story of the æons telling Since stars first gemmed the night. MY PADDLE GLEAMED. My paddle gleamed, the light canoe The river’s waters glided through With scarce a sound to fret the air; The sun shone bright, the morn was fair And from the South soft breezes blew. O’erhead the swallows darting flew, Then dropt to earth to brush the dew From off the tangled grasses there My paddle gleamed! In form as perfect, fresh and new As when they first in Eden grew God’s gifts, before, lay everywhere; Behind, the city’s toil and care; Content, I joy’s full measure knew-- My paddle gleamed! FAITHLESS. Ah, yes! Thy love was like the stars, but not Like faithful stars which gleam with steadfast light, But as a darting ærolite, swift shot Across the blackness of a sombre night, Fading as quickly, and as soon forgot. GRAPE BLOOM. I walk ’mid vines which rest upon An arbor o’er a garden way Where southern breezes come to play And never-ending races run. The dew drips from the clustering vines, A swallow like a shuttle cleaves The air above and vainly weaves His fancies into unseen lines. But stealing forth and dwelling there Within the shadows of the walk, A perfume comes as when gods talk And their glad breathings fill the air. Scarce seen among the vines the shapes That hold and throw the rare perfume-- The tiny bits of early bloom Presageful of the coming grapes. And when they ripened grace the vine, That sweetness shall return again, Like hopes fulfilled to trustful men, And have new life in autumn’s wine. ILL-STARRED. Oh, prayers and sympathetic tears For each and every ill-starred knight For whom ring no victorious cheers; For those who, early in the fight, Saw daylight turning into night And yielded up to Fate their spears. The dented shield, the pierced cuirass, Sad story is it that they tell Of brave young knights whose hopes, alas! Bore meagre fruit; who fighting fell Before the foe they could not quell; Who found no wine within the glass. For some there are but ill-equipped To face the world; some weak of will And some faint-hearted, feeble-lipped, Fit but the lowest posts to fill, Some shivering with the coward’s chill And of the armor “courage” stripped. Oh, you ’gainst whom the fates are set, E’en though you’ve failed on every field To gain fair honor’s banneret, Let high above be held each shield, Each one with purpose strong annealed, And all shall win a victory yet. THE SOLDIER HEART. One day in careless wise I said: “They were no heroes, they who bled To save the Nation and to free the slave; There is no honor now in being brave;” And thought not how my father hearing me-- (He who had fought with Sherman to the sea, True as a knight of storied chivalry), Would feel the sting my words conveyed, as though I deemed the venture of his life should go A thing unworthy of remembrance. Then His look of pain (soft are the hearts of men!) Made me think deeply of the soldier’s part, (As when on Memory’s day the quick tears start To see the line each spring becoming less, The slowing step, heads’ winter snowiness!) And vowed I then that while my blood should run I should not be a son To speak a word not kindly of a soldier true; To utter naught but praise of all who dared to do, Whether in mail of gray or clad in honest blue! He who cares not That his sire fought; He who shall think not proudly of the days His father felt the blaze Of war’s red furnace flame against his cheek, Has but a coward’s heart, too poor and weak To throw the blood through faltering limb-- Earth has no place for him! While there is hearth and home to save, ’Tis something to be brave-- ’Tis something to have ventured near to Death, And felt his chilling breath! AN UNWRITTEN LETTER. She wrote a letter with her eyes, Well-filled with words of bliss; Then, like a prudent maid and wise, She sealed it with a kiss. MY LADY OF THE GOLDEN HEART. My lady of the golden heart, she comes each day Down by the lodge-gate that I keep; she comes demurely, And her two hounds sedate do follow and obey Her slightest wish, and they do love my lady surely. She comes each day, my lady of the golden heart, Sometimes a-riding or sometimes she comes a-walking; The birds along the hedge they do not even start When she comes by, sometimes to her big hounds a-talking. “Good morrow” says my lady, (she whose heart is gold), And gold out of her heart makes bright the gateway; The sunshine of her face in winter time does hold Green meadows and sweet flowers and makes a summer straightway. My lady, she whose heart is gold, my lady goes Each day into the village, bread and good wine bearing To those that sick be, and my gentle lady knows All of the village folk and for them she be caring. Now as she comes each day, (gold is my lady’s heart), Or goes away upon some errand Heaven has sent her, The gates of my poor heart, they do fly far apart. But there my lady fair and sweet, she will not enter. DREAMS. Like shadow-freighted ships which softly creep Across some far-off ghostly main, They haunt the chambers of the brain, And kiss their fingers to the watchman, Sleep! CARDINAL NEWMAN. “_To the last I never recognized the hold I had over young men._”--_Apologia pro Vita Sua._ No more the sun may know the strength it hath To stir the bark in spring with quickening blood: No more a storm controlleth its great wrath, Or doleth out the measure of its flood! There is a quality of lasting youth That knoweth not the force that gave it birth; Some souls God pointeth subtler ways of truth, As highest tribute to their lasting worth. He hath in souls like thine deposited A quenchless flame as calm and strong as dawn; Across the world thy potent fire is shed, Born of the “kindly light” that leadeth on! ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. THE GREEK GIRL’S SONG. To-day my lover lends his flocks; He roams with them through fragrant meads, And guides across the barren rocks; With his own hands the lambs he feeds, And soothes them when the winds are cold Or terror comes among the fold. They soon forget the night’s alarms When folded in his shielding arms. _So good and true to them is he I know he will be kind to me._ My lover walks in paths of peace, He would avoid the conflict’s noise And bid the warring legions cease, He is content with simple joys; He fain would always journey through Tall grasses shining in the dew And tend his sheep and dream his dreams Beside the quiet mountain streams; _So faithful is his love of home His heart I know can never roam._ THE SHEPHERD’S SONG. As fair as the flocks that graze There ’gainst the hill’s restful side; As sweet as the breath of night When across dim flowery ways Pours a mellifluous tide, Winging an odorous flight: Thus is the maiden who sends Songs to the shepherd who tends Sheep by the streams, and who dies In the delight of her eyes. Down by the shore in the night Rush the great breakers, nor cease Oft till the dawn lights the crest; And so is love in its might, Stirring my soul from its peace, Leaving the shepherd no rest. Oh, if the sheep could but learn For me the answer I yearn! Come, my fair flock, we shall see What is the answer for me! WATCHING THE WORLD GO BY. Swift as a meteor and as quickly gone A train of cars darts swiftly through the night; Scorning the wood and field it hurries on, A thing of wrathful might. There, from a farmer’s home a woman’s eyes, Roused by the sudden jar and passing flare, Follow the speeding phantom till it dies,-- An echo on the air. Narrow the life that always has been hers The evening brings a longing to her breast; Deep in her heart some aspiration stirs And mocks her soul’s unrest. Her tasks are mean and endless as the days, And sometimes love cannot repay all things; An instrument that rudely touched obeys Becomes discordant strings. The train that followed in the headlight’s glare, Bound for the city and a larger world, Made emphasis of her poor life of care As from her sight it whirled. _Thus from all lonely hearts the great earth rolls, Indifferent though one woman grieve and die, Along its iron track are many souls That watch the world go by._ RIGHTEOUS WRATH. How splendid is the righteous wrath Born in a good man’s soul! Ignoble things fly from his path, Loud thunders round him roll,-- Yet tenderness and love he hath. Like some gigantic forest fire, His mighty anger sweeps; An eager flame of awful ire, At every wrong it leaps,-- Still, lasting peace he doth desire. Then, swift as flies the meteor’s spark, His anger disappears; Born for the hour it met its mark,-- He sootheth now love’s fears, While wrong sits trembling in the dark! SUNSET. Two giants meet upon the hills And one is day, the other night; The trees draw near, the sky leans down To watch their test of might. I cannot see them struggling there, But soon I know that one is dead, For lo! the trees and hills and sky Are suddenly splashed with red! RONDEAU OF EVENTIDE. At eventide when we are prest By shadows and seek any rest That twilight brings at waning day, Ah, well with us if we can say For aye we sought and found the best. God’s hand all nature has caressed Till beauty is his love confessed, Till bud and bloom his love display Through eventide. Why should we not pursue our quest For such good things as bear the test The things worth loving bear alway? “Full life, full life,” we sometimes pray, _Full life to higher life addressed_, Till eventide! A PRINCE’S TREASURE. [To His Royal Highness, Russell Fortune.] Our little prince can’t understand That this is one of many springs; He thinks these days for him are planned, And that for him the robin sings. All wonder-eyed he walks afield And makes an invoice of the joys God strews around for little boys, And thinks for him they’re first revealed. It is a solemn thing to him! He wonders if it’s alright to pull The little wild flowers beautiful That in the sea of grasses swim. More gentle than the violet, He studies o’er those eyes of blue-- Blue as his eyes are brown, and wet As _his_, sometimes, are wet with dew! Appreciative eyes are his! Into his apron takes he all The flowers that to his hand may fall-- The poorest weed so precious is! His feet leave but the vaguest hints Of steps along the shadows where The knightly trees bend down and swear Allegiance to their little prince. O gentle, princely lad of ours, May nature ever hold your heart, And knowledge of her ways impart Through lessons of the spring-time flowers; May spring itself pass ever on And never lead to summer’s dust, But make your life an endless dawn, With endless love, and faith, and trust! DIEU VOUS GARDE. May Allah in thy heart unfold Perpetual-blooming roses; May His sweet peace to thee increase Until the evening closes. And may tall palms before thee rise, Hot sand to gardens turning; May dates and wine be always thine, Amid the desert’s burning. Let enemies be put to flight, Before thy spear uplifted, And may thy way be as a day From starry vistas drifted. Oh, Allah watches through the night, His trustful children viewing; His love is deep, but he will keep Renewing and renewing. SWEETHEART TIME. I. It is a time before the rose Has blossomed to its form complete; Before the hidden fragrance knows How rare it is, and sweet. A time it is when hearts are light, And shadows are a thing as far Away as darkness from the sight Of evening’s brightest star. There is an undertone of song Vague, like the mists of early day; An undertone that steals along, Forever far away. II. The walls that guard King Love’s fair home Are tall and strong; yet cannot hold From those who by the gateway roam Some share of hoarded gold. So youth and maiden wandering near In straying beams of light are caught. Their eyes serene know not the tear Through fuller loving wrought. It lasts for just a little while; It is love’s playtime, one brief hour With tender sighing to beguile-- A bud before the flower; It is a time before the rose Attains its fairest form complete; Before the subtle fragrance knows How rare it is, and sweet. THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS. Here’s the path our feet shall press To the land of happiness; There are guide-posts by the way That we may not go astray; Spots there are where we may rest, Of King Happiness the guest; Basking in the sunshine’s glow, While the joyous pilgrims go Ever onward to the gates Where the Queen of Joy awaits Those recruits her king shall gain On the way to his domain. Such a joyous army this! Banners leaping for a kiss From the winds that sweep along Beating songs that well belong To a road whose glory lies Always under sunny skies. By this road no toll gate stands With its ever-barring hands, Yet of every passing soul There is asked a certain toll. It is this--that we shall share, As we tread the thoroughfare, All we have with those who lose What they gain, or who refuse To accept what is bestowed By the master of the road. What a simple engineer Marked this path! It is so clear That to miss it is to turn And its cooling shadows spurn. Any road our feet may press Is a road to happiness, And that land is anywhere That we turn away from care To the army of a king Who is ever journeying To the city, by whose gates, His fair queen of Joy awaits. GUARDING SHADOWS. Grim watchmen are the jealous trees Above their moon-born shadows--Thus May foolish men guard mysteries Which they have made mysterious. ART’S LESSON. O glorious marble statue, What gain I looking at you? Your beauty is so old, You are a form so cold I can not understand you Nor feel for him who planned you. I easier lessons seek Than those in chiseled Greek. I turn to you my fragrant; Bedewed and straggling vagrant, You are a simple flower, And scarce live out the hour Here in the garden by-way (That still is Nature’s highway!) Yet utter from the grass Lessons from Phidias! IN THE SHADOW. I would not have thee otherwise, O cloudy skies; I would not change the night to day Nor drive away The shadows that are hanging o’er My hearth and door. There is some good that lurketh where The lightnings flare; There is a peace that bideth in The fiercest din; A vernal light doth look upon Fields winter-won. If God were not the Overheart, Nor had a part In all the wounds that hurt us so! But He doth know And doth in patience see and bless In gentleness. How sturdy and how great, O earth! Within thy girth Thou wieldst what passion and what pain O’er man’s domain; And yet within thy shadows blest Is perfect rest. Turn not unto the light too long Friend, with thy song! Thou hast not need to look afar For hill or star; Here in the shadow rest is found Deep and profound. “LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.” “Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere. ’Twas in a city strange that, sweetest thing! “Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And Summer stole into the early spring, For where the kind light leadeth all is fair. “Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere. SONG AND WORDS. I. The songs you sing, the songs you sing, They are such songs as need not words, They are the songs that soar and ring Like utterance of wildwood birds. The ear is puzzled at the sound-- They are so far from common art That what is best in them is found By simply listening with the heart! II. The words you speak, the words you speak, Have little of philosophy; They voice not things that wise men seek, They have no hint of poetry, And yet each syllable that slips Up from your soul and bubbles o’er The yielding gateway of your lips A gracious meaning holds in store. III. The songs you sing are simple songs, Your words are words that children use To tell of love, complain of wrongs; You may the guiding notes confuse, (If any notes e’er met your eyes!) They rise, and live, and lingering, Each song and word alternate dies In words you speak, in songs you sing. FOR A NEW YEAR’S MORN. Like some tired reader who has put aside His book a little while, sick of the tale, Careless a moment how the plot may run, Indifferent to the part he has perused, Then with new interest going back to find How fared it with the story’s people, so Here at the gate of this new year I stand. Weary we grew long since, my Comrade soul! So tired we are of all our eyes have found, So strong our yearning for new sights and sounds! Yet on this morn the world is fair again,-- Ah, very fair, and full of light and joy; And holding forth new hope that comes of faith, And adding to our faith that lies in God. Now, like some traveler in a desert lost, Straining his eyes across the wastes of sand, Then, sudden, finding tracks but freshly made That give new courage to the wanderer,-- So now, my Comrade soul, we turn away From dreary wastes, we see the tracks that show Where others have gone on and found the way As we can find it. Come, old Comrade,--friend! Give me your hand, we must march on again! THREE FRIENDS. [Paul Hamilton Hayne, Sidney Lanier and Robert Burns Wilson] Three noble friends the South has given me, Two biding now beyond the farthest gate, One living still, great-hearted, soul elate, From trammeling passions free. The twain now unbeholden to our eyes, Were soldiers for a cause they thought was right-- They were such men as set the torch alight That marks our destinies; Yet, with a song that rings above the din Of battle, and with brows where there might rest The victor’s crown, or singer’s wreath, more blest, Through hymns of peace to win. I read one morning, in a day long gone, The songs of Hayne, all odorous of the pines; The heart of Nature throbbed along the lines-- Her joy was in his dawn. The hills and streams to him were never dumb, They gave their secrets to his own heart’s keeping; Grand music in the oaks and pines was sleeping Waiting for him to come! And you, Lanier, cut down like some tall tree By an insidious foe--upright and strong Until the last, and with your parting song From Deathland floating free! Sweet dawns were yours, bright noons and starry nights; Your heart lay on the bosoms of the hills-- Clear was your soul as dew that God distills Upon His sacred heights! And you are gone, and only one remains Of the three Southern singers loved so well; To-night the wind in sympathy would quell The grief of woods and plains-- Saying: “They were our friends, they understood The messages we spoke into their ears; Now they have passed beyond our hopes and fears Unto a higher Good.” But he who still is here, he well has caught The spirit that is Nature’s, and is hers Only for her most loved interpreters-- Ah, nobly he has wrought! And Southern winds that to the northward roam, And misty stars that shine above us dim, Each evening bring me utterance of him To my far Northern home! A RHYME OF LITTLE GIRLS. Prithe tell me, don’t you think Little girls are dearest With their cheeks of tempting pink, And their eyes the clearest? Don’t you know that they are best And of all the loveliest? Of all girls with roguish ways They are surely truest; Sunshine gleams through all their days, They see skies the bluest, And they wear a diadem Summer has bestowed on them. Lydia doesn’t care a cent For the newest dances; She is not on flirting bent, Has no killing glances, But without the slightest art She has captured many a heart. Older sisters cut you dead, Little sisters never; They don’t giggle when they’ve said Something very clever,-- They just get behind a chair, Frowning, smiling at you there. Florence, Lydia, Margaret Or a gentle Mary, They form friendships that, once set, Never more can vary,-- Stanch young friends they are and true Always clinging close to you. Buds must into blossoms blow, (Morn so early leaves us!) Maids must into women grow, (There’s the thing that grieves us!) Psyche knots of flying curls, That’s good-bye to little girls! THE BATTLES GRANDSIRE MISSED. Come, boy, and sit upon my knee, And turn to me your eyes, That I, down in their depths may see A hint of those blue skies Beneath which once my father fought (Your grandsire! and I am not old!) What time our banner’s stars were caught In treason’s eager hold. A boy, as you are now a boy, I did not understand That traitors could their flag destroy And cut in twain their land; I heard the tramp of marching men, So long ago that seems! You can not know what times were then Though you may guess, in dreams. And then my father went away; How would it be if I Should leave you, boy of mine, to-day-- Should leave you and should die? Your eyes are wet; O closer come! There is no more of war; Peace long has shown that there are some Kind things to struggle for. You “wonder whether grandpa got In all the fights?” Well, lad, It was Bull Run where he was shot, The first big fight they had! But let us, you and I, insist That this of him be said: The only battles that he missed Were fought when he was dead. “He would have fought, had he been there?” You ask of me, my child; He never would have ceased to dare Those who our flag defiled. And always, in the spring, keep tryst With Memory by the head Of one who not a battle missed Except when he was dead. BARRED. One cheerless night when winter winds were sowing Over the world their cold, white seeds of snow, While from my window pane the fire was throwing Taunts to the elements with its bright glow, A poor, storm-driven bird, its lost way winging, Paused when it saw the flame’s reflected light; Unto the window for a moment clinging, Then downward fell, forever lost to sight. And so it is, I thought, that poor hearts yearning For more of life, charmed by its outward sheen, Must backward fall, the truth too quickly learning, That death, cold and unyielding, stands between. A SLUMBER SONG. Baby, you stand by a gate that leads Into a land of dreams; There’s a drowsy watchman here who heeds Never the straggling gleams Of light that stray from the far-off sun-- Always for him it’s twilight begun-- And we stand by the gate, And watch and wait, And watch--and wait! Little one, hear what the stream sings of, Here in this quiet land; It sings of the joy of mother love-- Sings to birds in the sand-- To the strange, tall birds with dreamy eyes, That look at you, dear, in mute surprise, While we stand by the gate, And watch and wait, And watch--and wait! If you open the gate, no one will know; The guard will never guess. You must open it gently, slowly--so! No one has heard, unless Those dreamful birds, or the dreamland sheep, Heard you stealing through their land of sleep While I stood by the gate, To watch and wait, And watch--and wait! Oh, strange are the birds and the sheep that dwell Here in the land of dreams! But you must not see, and you must not tell, However strange it seems, Or they’ll never let you in again, And it would not please you, baby, then, Just to stand by the gate, And watch, and wait, And watch--and wait! BEFORE THE FIRE. The winds go riding down the wold, And back the forest legions throw; A winter day the hours has told On rosaries of drops of snow. Through close-drawn blinds the lamplight falls, And on a drifted whiteness lies, Here within these cottage walls The flames make stars of baby’s eyes. Rude fingers tap upon the pane And entrance at the door demand; The storm king and his lusty train Go rushing o’er the land; But homes where love a vigil keeps Know not that summer ever dies, Know not that summer even sleeps, When flames make stars of baby’s eyes. The father to the mother reads, The mother busy at his side; He reads a tale of noble deeds, Of men who for a nation died, But oft they turn and fondly look Upon the hero whom they prize Beyond the people of the book, Where flames make stars of baby’s eyes. Fierce winds may ride across the night, And storms prevail o’er flood and field, But where one lamp throws out its light, A happy picture is revealed Of two, who by the fireside sit, And watch the glowing flames, while rise Quick shadows that around them flit And mock the stars in baby’s eyes. OCTOBER. The year is getting older, day by day; Last night I heard a fierce wind riding by, Rattling my western window, and no ray Of moon or star illumined the black sky. Older the year has grown; the wind that came Across the changing world last night to ride, Passed here a year ago; it is the same That rose before and summer’s strength defied. Ah, it is you, my old, familiar friend October, come to pitch your tents awhile, Madly descending from the earth’s far end Over the farthest seas for many a mile. Yet your fierce advent and your winds severe Are but the bluster of a friend we love; Though you are winter’s neighbor you bring here Rich gifts, and hang your bluest skies above. To-morrow you will tame your restless steeds And drive the water-freighted clouds away; Then you will scatter far the wild-flower’s seeds At intervals throughout a peaceful day. Still, though your skies may be the summer’s own, Of all your moods I like the wildest best; I love the wind and its mad, warring tone, Its anger, and its yearning and unrest; For in man’s soul there is an answering mood, A passionate storm with wind and driving rain All through a night--love by dull pain pursued, Then days when skies are kind and blue again,-- Blue, but they shed their bitter, biting frost, And the sun burns with but a mocking heat, While ghost-like zephyrs seek for something lost, Like followers in the summer’s slow retreat. “IN WINTER I WAS BORN.” In winter I was born, So all my years I’ve loved the frost and snow And the strong tireless winds that, passing, blow A battle note forlorn. I love the year’s long night. The tumult of great storms, the biting air Make my heart’s summer time, when days are fair And yield me true delight. In winter I was born, And as I came so let me pass away, Out from the world on a December day When the delaying morn In the far East shall creep Last time for me; then let the winds I love Come from their far-off homes and play above The place where I shall sleep. GOOD NIGHT AND PLEASANT DREAMS. Good-night and pleasant dreams! Forgotten all that play-day world of yours, Kind angels lead you now by distant shores; Dear childish hands clasped lightly o’er your breast, Dear eyes with lids that keep the dark away, What sweet content is now by you possessed! I feel your breath against my cheek and say Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams! Good-night and pleasant dreams! The children’s lives so different are from ours, Is there not made for them a land of flowers,-- A childhood’s land of sleep where they are taken,-- Where dreams are only dreams of childish toys And only sounds of childish voices waken The quiet ways, and say to girls and boys Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams! Good-night and pleasant dreams! Go to your quiet land of sleep and dreaming, Beyond the darkness, passed the stars a-gleaming. The plains of your sleep-land are green and fair; Out of the night they make a land of morning From which is banished even childish care; Stay on, sleep on, dear child, the night world scorning,-- Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams! Good-night and pleasant dreams! Good-bye, and gentle angels guard your sleep, Good-night, and angels watch above you keep. Ah, if we could our childish days prolong-- If sleep would always come as sweet as this, Shielding us from the world of dark and wrong, Just by the magic of a mother’s kiss, And her good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams! WHERE LOVE WAS NOT. Once in a dream I saw a blackened world Hung high in space, by bitter winds o’erblown; And there no forests were, no flowers grew, No river flowed, but all was sad and drear. And on that smoke-encircled sphere there were No cities full of life; no children spent Glad hours in play; there, laughter ne’er was heard, And day was endless day, and night ne’er came With tired husband seeking home and wife, And “home” was but a mocking echo there. And walking o’er that world I met a man, Or ghost of what was man, wan, staring-eyed, And bowed as though with age, albeit his locks Were fair, and seeming youthful was his face; And unto him I said in question: “Why This waste and desolation, and where are The people that once dwelt upon this world?” And slow he made reply: “But yesterday Did Love remove his court from this drear globe, Which was as fair a world as ever came From the Creator’s hand, and now, so soon, That Love is flown has come this awful change-- The cheerlessness, the people dead and gone.” He turned from me, it seemed, and I awoke-- Back in a world that is controlled by Love. DOWN THE AISLES. Lone here in vague cathedral gloom I sit, Far from the busy city’s noise and jar. Such calm! It seems God might just now have writ A new, sweet song of peace and whispered it From star to star. I almost hear a sacred anthem pealing, As o’er the quiet aisles I turn my eyes; It seems I hear soft prayers to heaven stealing Up rays that lead unto the Light-revealing In Paradise. I think: “How oft have feet of mourners led Down these long aisles where perfect silence reigns! How oft have heart-uniting words been said There at the altar, whither flowers were spread From Love’s fair plains!” Yes, Death and Love have hither come and gone, With slow, sad songs, with anthems glad and free; And still, without, the world treads on and on In aisles that lead to darkness--or the Dawn, O God, and Thee! RUIN. The slowly crumbling wall, the broken gate, O’er which soft silvery threads of Time are spun; Through turrets tall, once grim and stern as Fate, Now unresisted steals the changeless sun. The eager vines close clasp the pillars round, As though to hide the signs of their decay; The cheerless chambers echo with each sound That enters in where Silence holds her sway. Upon the ground, with torn and riven crust, There rests the cuirass of some daring knight, Enfolding but the cold, unspeaking dust Of him who nevermore shall lead the fight. And here the chariot-furrowed roadway lies, Once trod by armies rich in valorous deeds, Now haunted by the lonely wind which sighs And creeps among the dead and tangled weeds. Ruin and ruins everywhere, but yet, In fancy, see the myriad castles tall Whereon the banners fair of Hope are set, Then watch the wreck and ruin of it all! Forsaken cities far beyond the sea Hold not such claim to pity as do those Grand dwellings youth rears in such majesty To crumble and form sepulchres for woes. O memory! keep and guard your treasures well; Contented rest, and, what the past endears, Unto the ever hopeful future tell, And voice your glories through the coming years. HALF FLIGHTS. I think it were better that lips should forever be mute Than flattering the voice should sound, or the speech irresolute. And better that arrows fly far past the mark, over-shot, Than but timidly sent they should droop and transfix it not. The race should be vigorously pushed, though uneven the start, And always, wherever assigned, let us act well the part, Let firm be the footstep to tally with firm beat of heart. But more willing am I forever to steadily plod, Inspired by a thought that my soul is not linked to a clod, Than failing in flight, to fall, stricken again to the sod, And stumble along in the pathway that leads me to God. A KIND OF MAN. I like a man who all mean things despises, A man who has a purpose firm and true; Who faces every doubt as it arises, And murmurs not at what he finds to do. I like a man who shows the noble spirit Displayed by knights of Arthur’s table round; Who, face to face with life, proves his real merit, Who has a soul that dwells above the ground; And yet, one who can understand the worry Of some chance brother fallen in the road, And speak to him a kind word ’mid the hurry, Or lay an easing hand upon his load. Large hearted, brave-souled men to-day are needed, Men ready when occasion’s doors swing wide; Grand men to speak the counsel that is heeded, And men in whom a nation may confide. The world is wide, and broad its starry arches, But lagging malcontents it cannot hold; The way of life to him who upright marches, Has ending in a far-off street of gold. TRANSFIGURED. “A cold, hard man I said,” as day by day I saw him pass the door, or, brooding, sit Before his cottage, watching children play The summer’s lingering twilight hours away-- Ever uncouth and grim, with brows close knit. Until, one day, a wondrous change took place; Upon the door the sign of mourning, and His child lay dead! But, by what heavenly grace Did all the hardened lines fade from his face, Leaving of former self no slightest trace, As with sweet Grief he journeyed, hand in hand? LOVE’S POWER. Within the palace of a brain A Thought of Love dwelt all alone, And there was not another Thought That ever dared approach his throne; Until there came a Thought of Hate, Half-crouching to the sacred seat, But, Thought of Love stretched forth a hand, And Thought of Hate died at his feet. FIRE-HUNTING. With dip and glide a light canoe Crept through the waters of the lake; So softly, lightly creeping through That it did not the silence break. A lantern’s penetrating glow Burned in the dark a path of light, And far-off, on its margin, lo! A pair of eyes gleamed strangely bright! The paddling ceased; there fell a hush. Then came a ringing rifle-shot-- A plunge into the underbrush-- Upon the beach a dark blood-clot! With dip and glide a light canoe Crept through the waters of the lake, So softly, lightly creeping through That it did not a ripple make. “HEARTACHE.” [Lines naming a landscape painted by Mr. Theodore C. Steele, owned by Mr. Louis C. Gibson.] Although the fields of summer time are dear And fair the days of sunshine-flooded hours We would not always have the summer here,-- We tire of flowers. Let come a short October afternoon, Or yet a dreary day November sends;-- A mist hangs o’er the tired earth, and soon The night descends. Like some cowled monk grown weary of the world, The evening creeps along in somber guise, Her face in misty shadows thickly furled To hide her eyes. O heartache of the earth, so near to us These barren fields have on a sudden grown! Cool hand of twilight touch us--tremulous, Sick and alone. O skies of gray, come often in our need! Come fall, O mists, efface the marks of tears,-- The lessons of our heartache with us read, And soothe our fears! Dear barren field, we lay our hearts on thine, And leafless shrub, we make thy grief our own; Come, Spring, and touch our hearts with life divine, All heartache flown! FRIENDSHIP’S SACRAMENT. When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine, And paused awhile beneath your friendly roof, Good thoughts and honest purposes are mine, Awhile from trivial things I stand aloof. It is a sacrament of friendship there, When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine; I feel in touch with all things sweet and fair; My pilgrimage is to a true home’s shrine. Like the lost Arab, when his host will bring The bit of cake, the salt in friendly sign, When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine Across my desert rose and lotus spring, And in my heart there is a genial glow. To-night above me starry heavens shine, Yet out of clouds the brightest stars will grow When I’ve partaken of your bread and wine. OMAR KHAYYAM. King of the wise who, long ago, Your tents built in the Persian sand, Let me your sweet contentment know, Here in my vigorous Western land. Some day, when I shall stand beside The grave where you have lain so long-- At Nishapur your body died, But your soul lives in tender song-- I’ll pour upon your tomb the wine Some Western grape has given me; I’ll speak some verse, some flowing line Born here, beyond the Western sea. And may the time be early night When torches in the desert glow, And in dim tents appears a light, While sounds the camel’s moaning, low. Then I would be at Nishapur, To stand in reverent pause and be One happy hour a worshiper, Your grave a Mecca made for me. Oh, my beloved, I shall taste The grape’s blood, as your songs have said, And pour it on the desert’s waste, A tribute to the ghostly dead Whose spirits hover there, and plan Strange journeys that can never end, But, in a ghostly caravan, For ages through the past extend. O, Muezzin, from the Tower of Night, Look you toward the tomb of him Who yearned in song for greater light And found it at the goblet’s brim! Forget him not, because he keeps Such silence; guard in light and gloom Until I reach the place he sleeps, With wine to pour upon his tomb. A DISCOVERY. [According to a child.] I have just discovered what makes bread white, And why the leaves are so porous and light. We plant the seed in fall-time in the ground, And all the winter long they grow and grow, And when the fields and woods are winter-bound, The tiny blades are green beneath the snow. And then in summer-time, when winter’s dead, The ripened wheat is ground to flour, and so When that light flour is made up into bread, We see within the loaves the winter’s snow. And that is the reason why bread is white, And why the loaves are so porous and light! _SONNETS_ A MODERN PURITAN. As though Priscilla had smoothed out the frown She had for all things that were worldly-wise-- As though she stood again ’neath softer skies Than on the bleak New England rocks looked down, And all the sorrows of that time could drown,-- Thus comes one, unaustere, with kindly eyes, Stepping from out the past’s dim tapestries, A Puritan with purity her crown. Yet, not the shy reserve that marks her ways Nor lines of strength denoted in her face O’er which the sweetest light ’neath heaven plays, Compel our love, but traces of the race That passes down its grandeur to our days, Seeking the good and spurning all things base! THE LAW OF LIFE. [To Mr. Charles H. Ham, author of “Manual Training”.] “Labor the law of life,” that is your creed; Once it was true that art meant only grace, “A pretty flower this is,” “a glorious face,” Men said, and so interpreting, did heed No higher call than came from shepherd’s reed: The brawny arm was for the warrior’s mace, The supple limb was for the champion’s race, But higher, better things were lost indeed! Now, in this newer day, what change is wrought! We know the law of life is labor; so The hand and mind in unison are taught, With each the other’s ready servant. Lo! What a grand world will swing beneath the sun When Heart and Hand and Mind are all in one! TO EUGENE FIELD IN ENGLAND. Good poet of the city by the lake, Critic and satirist I wave a hand And send this greeting over sea and land-- That kindest spirits round you tend, and make Your ready feet to walk in Chaucer’s wake, And in the paths of Keats and Shelley stand; Or where the master of all singers planned His songs, may your heart inspiration take. Where Dobson’s flowers find root in “paven ground,” And Andrew Lang and Walter Pater bide, I know that there for you a joy is found. Cease not your western Pegasus to ride, And when old book plates and rare volumes bore, Quit London’s fog and dwell with us once more. DEPENDENCE. When a kind parent first his children guides Into a bit of world they have not seen, Though often told about its meadows green, Or of some evil thing that there abides, Their father’s careful care each one derides; His guarded pace to them seems slow and mean, Till sudden, they go hurrying back to lean Against his surer, stronger heart. The sides Of mountains where men’s daring feet would go Alluring are, because no man has trod; The restless slopes are tempting from below, Yet seekers will not in the safe paths plod; Like the weak children are taught to know That man must always follow after God. BY SHERIDAN’S GRAVE. I stood upon the heights at Arlington, And saw Potomac’s waters seaward flowing, While all about me, past our human knowing The soldiers lay--men who that soil had won From enemies as brave, who would not shun The wrath that followed on their whirlwind sowing, And there among their graves the flowers were growing, And on Virginia shone the springtime sun. Here lies the idol of my boyish dreaming, Beside the storied river that had known The camp-fires of a mighty army, gleaming Where peace to-day her snowy scarf has thrown. Sleep, Sheridan, beyond this world of seeming, Your spirit guard this valley as its own! VIKING. [Written In Du Chaillu’s Viking Age.] What has been stolen from time’s jealous hand,-- A newer Greece washed by the Baltic’s tide Where fire of Northern genius burned and died; Where long-dethronèd gods ruled o’er the land And warriors fought with sword and threatening brand? Was it these rugged shores that once defied The world as it was known to them and tried Adventurous keels on many an unknown strand? Parents of mighty nations, kings of the sea! Fair-haired, strong-limbed path-blazers of the deep! How full a life was theirs, how broad and free,-- Passing one day Gibraltar’s tropic steep, Seeking a while some Northern coast and drear, Or sailing far to find the Western hemisphere! VIOLIN. Gently, beneath her perfect rounded chin, The instrument is clasped, as mothers hold Across their hearts a much-loved child, to fold It from the world of misery and sin. She draws the bow across the strings to win To life the tones now soft, now strong and bold, (But ever breathing some grand truth untold) That dormant lie within the violin. O, mystery of music, wondrous art! The sympathetic violin but steals The loves and hates that dwell within her heart-- The very hopes, the vague desires she feels-- And at the bow’s quick touch they rise and start In melody that inmost soul reveals. WHAT THE BABIES SAY. What things the babies say are listened to As if the little heads were brimming o’er With pretty fancies, such as ne’er before Took form in human mind--as if they knew The glories of the world, or false or true. And with their careless-clutching fingers tore From Miss Pandora’s box the bitter store (If pleased) and handed out the sweets to you. O baby lips, whose lispings we repeat, O baby tongue, so eager in attaining The power through which your wishes may be heard; May you remain forever pure and sweet, And ne’er in anger move, but uncomplaining, And ever by the noblest promptings stirred. SECRETS. How well her many secrets nature keeps And never tells to us by word or sign,-- The hidden source whence comes life-giving wine Which through the trees in springtime tingling creeps; The dwelling-place from which the wind low sweeps, His stalwart forest legions to align With leadership of giant oak or pine-- She tells us not but, brooding silent, sleeps. So, safely locked within the human heart, Are joys and sorrows of the long ago, As hidden springs from which the sad tears start When we scarce know the power that movers their flow; And we from all the world are set apart By precious secrets none may ever know. BLIND. As one who in a cavern underground Can hear the jars and murmurings which tell That far away a busy people dwell, Not hearing, only knowing by the sound, So dwells he in a world by darkness bound; He hears and feels, but no dawn can dispell The night for him on whom no light e’er fell With power to drive away the night profound. But not for aye he walks the realm of night, For one day there will break upon his eyes A flood of rarer, dark o’ercoming light Than ever flushed the arch of earthly skies, And for him dawn a morning wondrous bright Within the garden lands of Paradise. A FANCY. ’Neath sullen skies the marshalled clouds parade; The Autumn wind sighs a weird monotone In which I hear, in fancy, softly blown, The stirring bugle notes that once were played To mocking echoes in a Southern glade; I hear the sentinel’s quick challenge tone-- The noise and stir of war, all backward thrown Across the gulf that peaceful years have made. But long ago the clouds of war had spent Their fury; sounds of strife no longer fill The field whereon sweet peace has spread her tent-- But those same bugle tones are sounding still, And ringing through the starry firmament, Whilst Memory’s camp-fires blaze upon the hill. THOREAU. A prince he was, yet scorning princely ways, A priest of nature, simple and sincere, To whom the wild free things were far more dear Than trammeling honors gathered of the days That only served to show him some new phase In life of flower and tree; whose greatest cheer Came when the seasons changed and he would hear The blue bird’s note or see the woods ablaze. Though joining not in endless race with men, And caring not to lift life’s heavy load;-- Of quiet life, of solitude though fond, I love to read the thoughts traced by his pen, And fancy that I walk Marlborough road Or rest with him by peaceful Walden pond. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 63973 ***