Part 6

Brushed the spangles from her tresses With his playful finger tips, Bolder grew with his caresses— Gathering sweetness from her lips; Robbed her beauty of the freshness That was hers in early morn— Left her ’neath the sun of noonday, Burning like the gaze of scorn.

Drooping as in heat of censure Evening found her in the dust, Lifted her with tearful pity From the blight of trampled trust; But the tender flush of loving From her face was blanched and gone, Yet a beauty, born of trial, Met the radiant glow of dawn.

Now for her the moon is shining With a calm and holy light; Dew-like gems of rarest beauty Sparkles on her brow at night; With her white face turned toward heaven In her vestal robe she stands, As a priestess, at an altar, Lifting consecrated hands.

Chastest forms of beauty round her— Stars that gem the vaulted blue Join with her in silent warning,— “Let thy love be pure and true— Trusting e’en the black-browed storm-cloud, With its leaping lightning-blaze, Rather than the rover’s whisper, Neath the moon’s enchanting gaze.”

To James Newton Mathews.[2]

Must write a sonnet!—ere the Poet’s rank, With its devouring hopes, I dare to claim— Ere I with them may seek a place or name— Ere I may taste Castalia’s fount, where drank The bards of eld, or find the flowery bank Of clear Penneus, flashing back the flame Of sunset fires. Thro’ moorlands, low and dank, Alone, must grope, unlit by torch of fame.

Tho’ Poesy should stir my soul to song That flowed like liquid tenderness along, Or, wild and glad as leaping forest rills— Tho’ Nature’s music thro’ my being thrills And Imagery, with all her fairy throng, My dreamy world of thought and vision fills,— Alas! I’m doomed—this stanza is a line too long.

[2] “You must write a Sonnet to gain a Poet’s diploma.”—J. N. M.

The Great Hereafter.

Will the wrongs of life be righted, Fruited there the hopes here blighted, In the great hereafter? Will the darkened lives be lighted And dissevered souls united In the great hereafter?

Will this wearing, wild commotion Sink to rest and sweet emotion Calm all strife hereafter? Will love’s slighted, fond devotion Reach beyond life’s tossing ocean To the great hereafter?

Will the vows here lightly broken With repentant tears be spoken In the great hereafter? The wounded one accept the token Of the heart’s remorse unspoken In the great hereafter?

Gladly from its idols turning Will the soul forget its yearning In the great hereafter? Thro’ a quickened sense discerning That the labors we’ve been spurning Keep love’s holy incense burning In the great hereafter?

Shall we find that hopes deceiving Helped us on to grand achieving In the great hereafter? And be blest with glad receiving What is now but faith, believing In the great hereafter? Will the soul that’s drunk the vial Of a bitter self-denial Feel the loss hereafter? Or, thro’ sacrifice and trial, Will it triumph o’er Belial, In the great hereafter?

Will the bands by dogmas riven Scathed and scarred by anger levin, Make a peaceful, joyous Heaven In the great hereafter? For the good for which they’ve striven Will their errors be forgiven In the great hereafter?

There, with pomp, his work resuming Will the bigot, still presuming, God’s prerogative assuming In the great hereafter, Sit as judge, his brother dooming, And with creed-lit torch reluming Fires of torture “unconsuming,” Through the great hereafter?

Will the Wrong, the Right assailing, Wring from suffering helpless wailing In the great hereafter?— Conquered Good, with banners trailing, Seeking streams for Hope’s regaling, Be mirage-lured, till faint and failing, Faith becomes a phantom, sailing Through the great hereafter?

Or, shall our spirit eyes beholding God’s mysterious plans unfolding In the great hereafter, See His strength the Right upholding And his love the weak enfolding In the great hereafter?

Struggling here with opposition, Gives, perchance, the strong volition Some may need for angel mission, In the great hereafter; And the ills of life’s condition, To the tried may bring fruition Of a joyous, sweet elysian In the great hereafter.

What has seemed Fate’s unfair dealing, May unveil, a joy revealing In the great hereafter: Though denying our appealing, Made in agony of feeling, God may still, with love’s own healing, _Higher destiny, be sealing_ For the Great Hereafter.

Late October.

The night was black—the dismal rain First dripped from sullen, inky clouds, And then was dashed against the pane, By winds that shrieked like demon crowds; When, on the midnight’s ebon breast, The storm, a moment, lulled to rest, I heard this low, half stifled moan With sorrow braided in the tone— “Who cares for me? Who, who?”

The lurid lightning’s fitful glare Lit all the far, horizon’s rim— It showed the walnut, stripped and bare, And clutching one great, leafless limb Sat something weird, of dusky form; Defenceless, in the pelting storm, She faced alone that angry sky— October’s voice seemed in the cry, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?”

With rush and wrench an angered fiend The loosened shutters clanged and swung, His single stroke the grove had preened And wide its deadened branches flung, And from the wide, o’er-hanging eaves He tore the crimson ivy leaves And wildly whirled them on the blast— The phantom murmured, as they passed, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?”

The maples writhed as, tempest torn, Their branches beat the gables high, And, in the storm’s dark bosom borne, Mad thunders bellowed thro’ the sky. She spurned the spruce, with stately form, Whose robes of green might shield and warm, And yet, like sobbing on the gale, Was monotoned that dismal wail, “Who cares for me? Who, Who?”

Again the leaping lightnings glared, The wind swept down the clinging vines, In twisting gusts the trees were bared, It rocked and tossed the rasping pines; Unmoved, amid the tempest there, And as the wraith of grim despair, Still clutched the limb, that dusky form, Repeating to the driving storm, “Who cares for me? Who, who?”

The arbor gleamed with tangled vines, Where, erstwhile, hung, ’mid emerald sheen, The clustering wealth of unpressed wines; And charms of scarlet, gold and green, With opulence of fruit and grain, Poured riches for October’s reign; Now, conquered, robbed, usurped her throne, Her sorrow welling in the moan, “Who cares for me? Who, who?”

* * * * *

The morning sun is mocking cold— The vanquished queen stands, pale, forlorn, Her gauzy veil of dream and gold, And royal robes, all rent and torn, With bannered glories, trampled down, To bring her victor’s sparkling crown. She feebly smiles and passes on To join the old October’s, gone— November wails—“Who cares.”

On the Beach.

O, tell me, rolling, tossing billow, Where thy place of rest may be!— Who shall find, and who peruse them, Were these lines consigned to thee! Will the wild winds catch and carry, ’Mid the waves tumultuous roar, Leaving them where golden glory Flames along the sunset shore?

Pillowed on thy throbbing bosom _Where_ will this wee, waifling drift? Will an eager hand stretch for it, Thinking some strange tale to lift— A record brief of direst peril In a storm-wrecked sinking ship— The moment when all hope had left them— The tale ne’er told by human lip?

Or, will thy rolling, rocking cradle Hold the casket unrevealed, Till thy wrenching, prying fingers Hath its secrets all unsealed?— Dropping then the worthless trifle Where wealth’s storm-wrecked treasures lie, In thy mystic, wave-worn caverns, Hidden aye, from mortal eye.

Hidden.

Oft the heart is full of weeping When no tears escape the lids; Bravely will stands guard o’er feeling And the tell-tale flow forbids, And for love of those who love us Every sign of sorrow hides, Counterfeiting joy and gladness Where in secret, grief abides.

Though we try to gild with sunshine Thorny paths we needs must tread, Hiding, ’neath a show of courage, That we go with shrinking dread— Tho’ we hush the sob of mourning For the strong true love we knew, Yet affection’s sacred altar With forget-me-nots we strew.

Every sentient heart holds hidden, From the gaze of prying eyes, All its sorrows. E’en its raptures From such sharing it denies. Love of some and dread of others Shut the heart with bolts and bars; We shrink to wound our loving dear ones— We dread the sympathy that jars.

But, when night is darkly brooding Over earth with raven wings, Feeling may, with unseen fingers, Sweep the spirit’s trembling strings. Then, within its secret chamber, May the heart’s own words be said— There alone, with Love’s one taper, All its bitter tears may shed.

My Robins Are Gone.

My robins are gone— The last one has flown; With a pang in my breast I look into the nest And know I’m forever alone.

The night will come in thro’ the crimsoning west, Repeating that lesson of pain— “The robin that once has flown out of the nest Seeks never its shelter again.” My robins are gone, etc.

O, glad was my heart with its fullness of love When fondly I cared for them all, But now I’m alone, in the shadowy grove, And they are too far for recall. My robins are gone, etc.

The world was so wide, and the skies were so blue, They tempted my darlings away; In the bright, dewy morning so buoyant they flew, Nor dreamed of the noon-heat of day. My robins are gone, etc.

I’ll stay by the lonely, embowered, old nest— Some stars will beam down thro’ the night; I’ll hush my heart’s cry with a “God knoweth best,” And wait for the dawn of the light. Tho’ my robins are gone, Tho’ the last one has flown, They’ll think of the tree That is sheltering me,— They’ll be to me ever my own.

Winterbloom.

Oh! beautiful winterbloom, why did you tarry? O, why in Spring’s glory of budding and bloom, Were hidden your jewels, wee, golden and starry, To open them now, in November’s chill gloom?

The crocuses first heard the warm breezes calling, The dandelions glowed in their emerald sea And lilies, sun-kissed, in the lakelets were lolling— All Flora’s enchantments were beckoning thee.

When June, in soft airs, swung her rose-freighted censer, And dew gems were set with the buttercup’s gold—The annual bloom, growing brighter and denser— Why still, from the summer, your beauty withhold?

“When Spring in her gladness poured beauty around you, And joy bells rang with most musical tone, When opulent Summer with riches had crowned you, My coming had then been unheeded, unknown.

Now flowers of springtime and summer have left you, The winter’s foreclosure has shadowed the home— Of the last clinging leaves the cold winds have bereft you— As a friend in Adversity, now I am come.”

The Old Home.

The empty hammock, in the grove, The playful breeze is swinging— Wild birds, of varied note and plume, In Babel jargon singing, Come boldly near my silent door, And e’en the woodland thrushes Pour forth for me, their floods of song, In sweet, melodious gushes.

And nearer still, the squirrels come, Among the walnuts leaping, And gather in their winter stores Without the toil of reaping.— The tennis plot is overgrown With long, untrodden grasses— Above it hangs, from unpruned boughs, Their foliage wealth in masses.

The lichens lengthen on the trees— They blotch, with gray, the fences And prove decadence is of years, Whatever our pretenses; The storm-worn roof and gables all Suggest inceptive mosses— The ample house, with silent rooms, Hope’s argosy and losses.

The shrubs that once bore stately bloom Are now a bushy tangle, Where tribes of beetles, thro’ the spring, O’er blighted beauty wrangle; And goldenrod, with kindly grace, Hides, with her shining tassels, Neglected spots, where once was built, Young Fancy’s airy castles.

The bell, that called the dinner hour With deep, revibrant clanging, Is woven round with maple boughs, Its stranded rope, down-hanging, Has won a morning-glory bloom To twine its frayed out fringes, And trumpet vine creeps o’er the gate To hide its broken hinges.

Now silence reigns where once was heard The ring of childish laughter;— They’ll come no more—“our little boys”— In all the years hereafter; Yet winds oft join with listless mood To cheat me with the seeming— A dimpled hand tugs at the latch— But ah! ’twas only dreaming.

They’re out upon the field of Life Where blades of strength are clashing, Where true and false contend for aye With thought’s bright spear-points flashing, And we must hush love’s hunger-cry And still the selfish yearning— Must hide the heart’s fond worship, tho’ Its altar fires are burning.

But mother-love can make her strong To check her own heart’s throbbing, And bid them go with steady voice While _self’s_ in secret, sobbing; Then she will whisper broken words Alone with God in prayer, And find that heavenly blessing falls For every cross we bear.

Thought.

Backward, backward Thought has traveled, Back into the dim unknown, When the spheres in cosmic star-dust Circled His eternal throne— Back where cosmogonic darkness, Wrought upon by Spirit light, Yielded elemental centers And protoplastic satellite.

Back, where first creative forces, By impulsion from “The Cause,” Start the universe in motion, Guided by unerring laws— Hurl the spheric fiery masses Thro’ abysmal depths of space— Meting out to each an orbit With defined, unchanging place.

Thought, from thence, fares down the aeons Thro’ the long chaotic night, While His omnipresent agents (Each a vast deific might) Fashion to His will and purpose Thro’ infinitude of spheres; In our own group change evolving Till Earth’s infant life appears—

Till creation felt Time’s fullness, Surging thro’ unmeasured night, That should rend the swathe of vapors With command—“Let there be Light—” Felt the rolling, tossing tumult Of the fierce, internal sweep When the thunder-toned volcanos Lifted lands from shoreless deep.

Then, from formless void emerging, Earth spread wide her fields and hills, Woke the untrod glooms with music Of her new-born leaping rills;— Then the firmament, in grandeur, Lit its unveiled depths of blue With the moon in full-orbed beauty And the young stars beaming through.

And the sunshine thrilled earth’s bosom, Quickened germ-imprisoned life— Soon the hillsides and the valleys Were with floral beauty rife;—Forests robed the mountain ranges, Bound their sun-crooned brows with green, While the mighty, sea-fed rivers Rolled in majesty between.

* * * * *

Farther on in Life’s gradations He who tuned the spheric roll, Back in Nature’s barred Arcana, Gave and clothed the human soul. Hush, oh thought, nor dare to question _How_ creative laws adjust! Canst thou comprehend Jehovah Or the elemental “dust?”

Here, oh spirit, rest with child-faith; Covet not forbidden things. LIFE, the vainly sought for secret, Proof, to us, of Godhood brings— Of the Infinite, beyond us— Far beyond the grasp of mind;— Kneeling, trusting, here we worship God—Jehovah, Undefined.

Columbus.

O’er the stormy, pathless seas, Nobly proud, the Genoese To a shadowed realm sailed; With a will to brave and bear, Sought he chance to do and dare, ’Mid the perils he must share That Earth’s grandeur be unveiled.

Pilgrims sailed to lighted shores, Hope and Home with open doors, But thro’ dusky deeps, unknown, Boldly this explorer plowed, Facing danger’s darkling crowd And Fate’s looming, gestant cloud, From the waste of waters blown.

Heaven gave to him a soul Finely fashioned to control With a wondrous spirit might— That should sweep of doubt and fear, Broad and bright, a pathway clear— By it lift a hemisphere Into Freedom’s joyous light.

Purpose, daring were sublime— His the crowning deeds of Time; Life, for others’ gain, was spent Opening Earth’s great treasure-doors— Half a world with Bounty’s stores— Mountains, rich in precious ores— Caves with sparkling gems besprent.

Justice gave unquestioned claim To the highest niche of Fame, But what recompense was Spain’s? She, thro’ craven sons of lust, Honor stabbed, with feigned distrust— Trampled his great soul in dust, Scorned and loaded him with chains.

Now she comes to steal his bones: Earth revile! In thunder tones Tell the tale of wrong and shame; Write this edict out in flame— In the hemisphere he gave, (Which he begged might be his grave) She, of Greed, the wasted slave, Shall have nevermore a name.

Transcriber’s note

Poem titles were originally printed in a stylized, “Gothic”-variety typeface (think New York Times masthead). Fonts which are a reasonable approximation of this, and which this ebook will display if you have them installed, include Old English Text MT, Chomsky, Cloister Black, Old London.

The following probable printer errors were corrected.

Page 47, “i ngering” changed to “lingering” (I’m lingering now) Page 89, “Indnite” changed to “Infinite” (lighted with Infinite love) Page 98, “temptest” changed to “tempest” (by sorrow’s tempest shaken) Page 104, “Chrstians” changed to “Christians” (When Christians are one) Page 149, “Queiscent” changed to “Quiescent” (Quiescent in that blest repose) Page 178, “prsence” changed to “presence” (I knew that a presence had surely been there) Page 191, “herafter” changed to “hereafter” (beyond life’s tossing ocean / To the great hereafter) Page 197, “Wtih bannerd” changed to “With bannered” (With bannered glories) Page 198, “rollng” changed to “rolling” (thy rolling, rocking cradle) Page 200, “shrniking” changed to “shrinking” (That we go with shrinking dread) Page 209, “satelite” changed to “satellite” (And protoplastic satellite) Page 209, “unchangnig” changed to “unchanging” (With defined, unchanging place.) Page 210, “Lfited” changed to “Lifted” (Lifted lands from shoreless deep.) Page 211, “migthy” changed to “mighty” (mighty, sea-fed rivers)

Punctuation, hyphenation, and word spacing errors were amended without further note.