Part 3

All the while, his wife--tho' half despised By the frontier folks that civilized An' converted her--served by his side, Helping faithfully, until she died. Left alone, he lay awake o' nights, Thinkin' what they'd both done for the whites. Then he thought of her, and Indian people; Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple, Just how Christian our great nation's been Toward those native tribes so full of sin. When he counted all the wrongs we've done To the wild men of the setting sun, Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair. When its notes came due, it wa'n't right there. U. S. gov'ment promised Indians lots, But at last it closed accounts with shots. Mouth was black, perhaps;--but _he_ was white. Calling gov'ment black don't seem polite: Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show 'Longside Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow.

Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side: Honestly for years an' years he tried Getting justice for the Indians. He, Risking life an' limb for you an' me;-- He, the man who proved his good intent By his deeds, an' plainly showed he meant He would die for us,--turned round an' said: "White men have been saved. Now, save the red!" But it didn't pan out. No one would hark. "Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth bark," Said our folks. And--no, he wa'n't resigned, But concluded he had missed his find.

"_Where_ is Blackmouth?" That I can't decide. Red an' white men, both, he tried to serve; But I guess, at last, he lost his nerve. Kind o' tired out. See? He had his pride: Gave his life for others, far 's he could, Hoping it would do 'em some small good. Didn't seem to be much use. An' so-- Well; you see that man, dropped in the snow, Where the crowd is? Suicide, they say. Looks as though he had quit work, to stay. Bullet in the breast.--His _body_ 's there; But poor Blackmouth's gone--I don't know where!

THE CHILD YEAR

I

"Dying of hunger and sorrow: I die for my youth I fear!" Murmured the midnight-haunting Voice of the stricken Year.

There like a child it perished In the stormy thoroughfare: The snow with cruel whiteness Had aged its flowing hair.

Ah, little Year so fruitful, Ah, child that brought us bliss, Must we so early lose you-- Our dear hopes end in this?

II

"Too young am I, too tender, To bear earth's avalanche Of wrong, that grinds down life-hope, And makes my heart's-blood blanch.

"Tell him who soon shall follow Where my tired feet have bled, He must be older, shrewder, Hard, cold, and selfish-bred--

"Or else like me be trampled Under the harsh world's heel. 'Tis weakness to be youthful; 'Tis death to love and feel."

III

Then saw I how the New Year Came like a scheming man, With icy eyes, his forehead Wrinkled by care and plan

For trade and rule and profit. To him the fading child Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!" But died even while it smiled.

Down bent the harsh new-comer To lift with loving arm The wanderer mute and fallen; And lo! his eyes were warm;

All changed he grew; the wrinkles Vanished: he, too, looked young-- As if that lost child's spirit Into his breast had sprung.

So are those lives not wasted, Too frail to bear the fray. So Years may die, yet leave us Young hearts in a world grown gray.

CHRISTENING

To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,-- Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,-- Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried;

White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, Offered to God as her most precious hansel.

Then ceased the music, and the little one Was silent, with the multitude assembled Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled.

But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, As helpless as the cry of frightened birds Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing.

How much the same, I thought, with older folk! The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, Even at the moment of our consecration.

Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form Of dream or doctrine,--or of unbelieving,-- A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving;

A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning.

Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends This weakling cry of children in our churches With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends To Him who hearts of men and children searches;

Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested.

THANKSGIVING TURKEY

Valleys lay in sunny vapor, And a radiance mild was shed From each tree that like a taper At a feast stood. Then we said, "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, Of good Thanksgiving turkey."

And already still November Drapes her snowy table here. Fetch a log, then; coax the ember; Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; Heaven be thanked for one more year, And our Thanksgiving turkey!

Welcome, brothers--all our party Gathered in the homestead old! Shake the snow off and with hearty Hand-shakes drive away the cold; Else your plate you'll hardly hold Of good Thanksgiving turkey.

When the skies are sad and murky, 'Tis a cheerful thing to meet Round this homely roast of turkey-- Pilgrims, pausing just to greet, Then, with earnest grace, to eat A new Thanksgiving turkey.

And the merry feast is freighted With its meanings true and deep. Those we've loved and those we've hated, All, to-day, the rite will keep, All, to-day, their dishes heap With plump Thanksgiving turkey.

But how many hearts must tingle Now with mournful memories! In the festal wine shall mingle Unseen tears, perhaps from eyes That look beyond the board where lies Our plain Thanksgiving turkey.

See around us, drawing nearer, Those faint yearning shapes of air-- Friends than whom earth holds none dearer! No--alas! they are not there: Have they, then, forgot to share Our good Thanksgiving turkey?

Some have gone away and tarried Strangely long by some strange wave; Some have turned to foes; we carried Some unto the pine-girt grave: They 'll come no more so joyous-brave To take Thanksgiving turkey.

Nay, repine not. Let our laughter Leap like firelight up again. Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, Snow-field yet untrod of men: Shall we meet once more--and when?-- To eat Thanksgiving turkey.

BEFORE THE SNOW

Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bare Shatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves, Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air. Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.

Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill, Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed, My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still, By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.

Autumn is gone: alas, how long ago The grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain! How soon death settles on us, and the snow Wraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!

Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my mood Of that which makes moods dear,--some shoot of spring Still sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder wood We walked in,--memory's rare environing.

And, though they die, the seasons only take A ruined substance. All that's best remains In the essential vision that can make One light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains.

III

YOUTH TO THE POET

(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)

Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth, Affinity between two forms of truth!-- As if the dawn and sunset watched each other, Like and unlike as children of one mother And wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyes Of young men see the prophecy arise Of what their lives shall be when all is told; And, in the far-off glow of years called old, Those other eyes look back to catch a trace Of what was once their own unshadowed grace. But here in our dear poet both are blended-- Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;-- Even as his song the willowy scent of spring Doth blend with autumn's tender mellowing, And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun, In strains that ever delicately run; So musical and wise, page after page, The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage. The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers, And day-break glory haunts his evening hours. Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral: That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel, Which--smiling not, but trembling at the touch-- Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much.

EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879.

THE SWORD DHAM

"How shall we honor the man who creates?" Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar;-- "Who unto the truth flings open our gates, Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a star; Or forges with craft of his finger and brain Some marvelous weapon we copy in vain; Or chants to the winds a wild song that shall wander forever undying?

"See! His reward is in envies and hates; In lips that deny, or in stabs that may kill." "Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waits Humbly to serve you with unmeasured skill, Sure that no utmost devotion can fail, Offered to _you_, nor unfriended assail The heart of the hero and poet Antar, whose fame is undying!"

"Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar, It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soul Of the poet within you, no envy can bar The stream of your gratitude,--once let it roll. Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew, _I_ caught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;-- Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, or depart from undying."

Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Gratitude's glittering drops,--as he threw One shining arm round the smith, like a chain. Closer the man to his bosom he drew; Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt." "Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet: "I knew the sword Dham would unite me with you in an honor undying."

"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will Silently over the sword's edge played. --"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still: Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?" Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke. "_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave him remembrance undying.

"Seek now who may, no search will avail: No man the mate of this weapon shall own!" Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail: "Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone Able to honor the man who creates. I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates, Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall make them undying!"

"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"

Before the golden gate she stands, With drooping head, with idle hands Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight Of unseen woe. Too late, too late! Those carved and fretted, Starred, resetted Panels shall not open ever To her who seeks the perfect mate.

Only the tearless enter there: Only the soul that, like a prayer, No bolt can stay, no wall may bar, Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar. No door of cedar, Alas, shall lead her Unto the stream that shows forever Love's face like some reflected star!

They say that golden barrier hides A realm where deathless spring abides; Where flowers shall fade not, and there floats Thro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes-- 'Mid dewy alleys That gird the palace, And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver-- A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes.

The sultan lord knew not her name; But to the door that fair shape came: The hour had struck, the way was right, Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light. But ah, whose error Has brought this terror? Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor? The gate swings to: her hope takes flight.

The harp, the song, the nightingales She hears, beyond. The night-wind wails Without, to sound of feast within, While here she stands, shut out by sin. And be that revel Of angel or devil, She longs to sit beside the giver, That she at last her prize may win.

Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet; Frozen she stands, she lingers yet; But through the garden's gladness steals A whisper that each heart congeals-- A moan of grieving Beyond relieving, Which makes the proudest of them shiver. And suddenly the sultan kneels!

The lamp was quenched; he found her dead, When dawn had turned the threshold red. Her face was calm and sad as fate: His sin, not hers, made her too late. Some think, unbidden She brought him, hidden, A truer bliss that came back never To him, unblest, who closed the gate.

CHARITY

I

Unarmed she goeth; yet her hands Strike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands. No fatal hurt of foe she fears,-- Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.

II

'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door: Like air she enters, where none dared before. Even to the rich she can forgive Their regal selfishness,--and let them live!

HELEN AT THE LOOM

Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom; Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over, deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full Of men that struggle close, complex; Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks Arching high; spear, shield, and all The panoply that doth recall Mighty war; such war as e'en For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. Purple is the groundwork: good! All the field is stained with blood-- Blood poured out for Helen's sake; (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) But the shapes of men that pass Are as ghosts within a glass, Woven with whiteness of the swan, Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan From the garment's purple fold Where Troy's tale is twined and told. Well may Helen, as with tender Touch of rosy fingers slender She doth knit the story in Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, Feel sharp filaments of pain Reeled off with the well-spun skein, And faint blood-stains on her hands From the shifting, sanguine strands.

Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: What has been must be to-morrow; Meekly to her fate she bows. Heavenly beauties still will rouse Strife and savagery in men: Shall the lucid heavens, then, Lose their high serenity, Sorrowing over what must be? If she taketh to her shame, Lo, they give her not the blame,-- Priam's wisest counselors, Aged men, not loving wars. When she goes forth, clad in white, Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, With her fair hair, amber-hued As vapor by the moon imbued With burning brown, that round her clings, See, she sudden silence brings On the gloomy whisperers Who would make the wrong all hers. So, Helen, in thy silent room, Labor at the storied loom; (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!) Let thy aching sorrow make Something strangely beautiful Of this fabric; since the wool Comes so tinted from the Fates, Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. Thou shalt work with subtle force All thy deep shade of remorse In the texture of the weft, That no stain on thee be left;-- Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, Grief and wrong, to soft relief. Speed the garment! It may chance, Long hereafter, meet the glance, Of Oenone; when her lord, Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd Ida, at his last sad end, Seeking her, his early friend, Who alone can cure his ill, Of all who love him, if she will. It were fitting she should see In that hour thine artistry, And her husband's speechless corse In the garment of remorse!

But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk. Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shall rule, Still shalt twirl the colored spool. Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet the least, quick-trembling tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy.

There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth. Look on Helen not with hate, Therefore, but compassionate. If she suffer not too much, Seldom does she feel the touch Of that fresh, auroral joy Lighter spirits may decoy To their pure and sunny lives. Heavy honey 'tis she hives. To her sweet but burdened soul All that here she may control-- What of bitter memories, What of coming fate's surmise, Paris' passion, distant din Of the war now drifting in To her quiet--idle seems; Idle as the lazy gleams Of some stilly water's reach, Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach A heavy arch; and, looking through, Far away the doubtful blue Glimmers, on a drowsy day, Crowded with the sun's rich gray;-- As she stands within her room, Weaving, weaving at the loom.

THE CASKET OF OPALS

I

Deep, smoldering colors of the land and sea Burn in these stones, that, by some mystery, Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed. Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spent In thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lent Light to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows, And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed; All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there. I think a tide of feeling through them flows With blush and pallor, as if some being of air,-- Some soul once human,--wandering, in the snare Of passion had been caught, and henceforth doomed In misty crystal here to lie entombed.

And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleep The ardors and the moods and all the pain That once within a man's heart throbbed. He gave These opals to the woman whom he loved; And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain, The rays of thought that through his spirit moved Leap out from these mysterious forms again.

The colors of the jewels laugh and weep As with his very voice. In them the wave Of sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep, Bore him to misery or else made him blest Still surges in melodious, wild unrest. So when each gem in place I touch and take, It murmurs what he thought or what he spake.

FIRST OPAL

My heart is like an opal Made to lie upon your breast In dreams of ardor, clouded o'er By endless joy's unrest.

And forever it shall haunt you With its mystic, changing ray: Its light shall live when we lie dead, With hearts at the heart of day!

SECOND OPAL

If, from a careless hold, One gem of these should fall, No power of art or gold Its wholeness could recall: The lustrous wonder dies In gleams of irised rain, As light fades out from the eyes When a soul is crushed by pain. Take heed that from your hold My love you do not cast: Dim, shattered, vapor-cold-- That day would be its last.

II

THIRD OPAL

_He won her love; and so this opal sings With all its tints in maze, that seem to quake And leap in light, as if its heart would break:_

Gleam of the sea, Translucent air, Where every leaf alive with glee Glows in the sun without shadow of grief-- You speak of spring, When earth takes wing And sunlight, sunlight is everywhere! Radiant life, Face so fair-- Crowned with the gracious glory of wife-- Your glance lights all this happy day, Your tender glow And murmurs low Make miracle, miracle, everywhere.

Earth takes wing With birds--do I care Whether of sorrow or joy they sing? No; for they make not my life nor destroy! My soul awakes At a smile that breaks In sun; and sunlight is everywhere!

III

_Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness; As if he doubted whether he could bless Her wayward spirit, through each fickle hour, With love's serenity of flawless power, Or she remain a vision, as when first She came to soothe his fancy all athirst._

FOURTH OPAL

We were alone: the perfumed night, Moonlighted, like a flower Grew round us and exhaled delight To bless that one sweet hour.

You stood where, 'mid the white and gold, The rose-fire through the gloom Touched hair and cheek and garment's fold With soft, ethereal bloom.

And when the vision seemed to swerve, 'T was but the flickering shine That gave new grace, a lovelier curve, To every dream-like line.

O perfect vision! Form and face Of womanhood complete! O rare ideal to embrace And hold, from head to feet!

Could I so hold you ever--could Your eye still catch the glow Of mine--it were an endless good: Together we should grow

One perfect picture of our love!... Alas, the embers old Fell, and the moonlight fell, above-- Dim, shattered, vapor-cold.

IV

_What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say? What tragedy of petty care and sorrow? Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay, Then those will know who live and love tomorrow. But here at least is what this opal said, The fifth in number: and the next two bore My fancy toward that dim world of the dead, Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er_:

FIFTH OPAL

I dreamed my kisses on your hair Turned into roses. Circling bloom Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there. "O Love," I cried, "forever Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted By my heart's deep honey-breath!" But even as I bending looked, I saw The roses were not; and, instead, there lay Pale, feathered flakes and scentless Ashes upon your hair!

SIXTH OPAL

The love I gave, the love I gave, Wherewith I sought to win you-- Ah, long and close to you it clave With life and soul and sinew! My gentleness with scorn you cursed: You knew not what I gave. The strongest man may die of thirst: My love is in its grave!

SEVENTH OPAL

You say these jewels were accurst-- With evil omen fraught. You should have known it from the first! This was the truth they taught:

No treasured thing in heaven or earth Holds potency more weird Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth With wavering flames insphered.

And when from me the gems you took, On that strange April day, My nature, too, I gave, that shook With passion's fateful play.

The mingled fate my love should give In these mute emblems shone, That more intensely burn and live-- While I am turned to stone.

V

_Listen now to what is said By the eighth opal, flashing red And pale, by turns, with every breath-- The voice of the lover after death._

EIGHTH OPAL

I did not know before That we dead could rise and walk; That our voices, as of yore, Would blend in gentle talk.

I did not know her eyes Would so haunt mine after death, Or that she could hear my sighs, Low as the harp-string's breath.

But, ah, last night we met! From our stilly trance we rose, Thrilled with all the old regret-- The grieving that God knows.