III.

True greatness is the greatest in defeat. A laurel wreath entwined about that head Had but obscured the glory that it shed. Unshaken in his high prophetic seat, Beyond all crowns of vict’ry grand and great In happier days, as when, illusions fled, His fierce foes found him lying ’mid his dead, Alike his spirit soared secure from Fate. So, when the charging battle standards meet, Gold fringe and silken fold are plucked away As by the myriad beaks of birds of prey, Still on the staff, high in his ancient seat, The brazen eagle sits, serene, the same, Pride of the legions o’er the battle’s flame.

OUR LOST ONES.

“Hélas! dans le cercueil ils tombent en poussière Moins vite qu’en nos cœurs.”—HUGO.

Brethren and sisters all, what do we here, With song and laughter, while around us stand, With dumb reproachful gaze, a shadowy band, The mournful shades of all our lost ones dear? O conquering power of the eternal years! How swiftly fade away on every hand Their memories throughout the joyous land, For whom we thought to shed eternal tears.

Smiling above them wave the flowers and grass, Where cold and still those cherished forms are strown, Thickly as grain in the deep furrows sown, Or sheaves in fields where merry reapers pass. To dust they wither in our hearts, alas! More swiftly than beneath the cruel stone.

THE OCEAN OF THE PAST.

My wistful eyes still sweep thy sullen breast, Dead sea, whose waves, once, following stroke on stroke, Have swallowed mast and sail and hull of oak. Now all thy cruel billows are at rest; Hushed is thy roar, and stilled each raging crest; No phantom from thy mists may I evoke, No more my prow or sail the waves provoke, Where sleeps my happy island of the blest.

Lo, while I gaze, like the responsive swell Of some great yearning heart, the billows rise, Till, in wild tumult leaping to the skies, They toss the beauteous wrecks I loved so well, Resistless through the rending barriers roll And sob through all the caverns of my soul.

EVIL DAYS.

O Youth, O Hope, O Love, all phantoms vain! Ye lured me long with promise false as sweet, But now your flight outstrips my faltering feet. Dear traitors, will ye ne’er return again? Love lingered last, but all have been too fleet. Now sinks the light of day in tears and pain, The glories of the night unheeded wane: Summer is winter, truth is but deceit.

Shall I not find upon some vernal day, Fruition for the buds that blighted here? The golden hours of youth I cast away, How I would hold those wasted treasures dear! Still through the lonely chambers of my brain No more, no more, echoes the sad refrain.

ENVY AND SLANDER.

TO N. A. M.

Envy is deathless, though the envious die, And shafts of slander, hissing through the dark, Have ever loved, like death, a shining mark. Then do not think those shafts could pass thee by.

Thy conscious worth, and purpose pure and high Cannot defend from little curs that bark; No wall, high as the flight of morning lark, Can top the poisoned arrows as they fly.

Rise o’er the herd in feeling, thought, or deed, And feel the bitter sting of Envy’s tongue; Rise higher yet, and thus confound the throng,— Only a respite brief thy soul may read. Success, e’en more than merit, is a crime To tongues as tireless as the feet of Time.

TRUE FREEDOM.

TO J. F. F.

He is not truly free who fears to speak The burning words that flame from heart to tongue, When in the presence of a hoary wrong, E’en though upheld by gown and surplice sleek, And hears unheeded the oppressed and weak. Nor friendship from the great, the rich, the strong, Nor grateful plaudits from the servile throng, The free-born spirit must expect or seek.

Think not that power and place will come to thee— Sooner some sordid soul the race will win; E’en in the days of Cid and Paladin, And glorious days of Arthur’s chivalry, The golden spurs by cravens oft were won, While hearts as brave as Arthur’s died unknown.

“SOCIETY.”

Dear, simple friend, and did you think to find Aught but hypocrisy and fair smooth lies In this charmed circle, that would ostracize All for a pair of gloves the most refined, The noblest type of man or womankind? A set whose aspirations never rise Above the triumphs wealth and fashion buys; Who ape the opinions with devotion blind, The coats and gowns, of royal debauchees And their bold paramours from over seas. How hope a noble womanhood to gain Nourished upon such stifling airs as these. Fashion forbids to rise above a plane That dudes and lah-de-dahs can just attain.

THE STAGNANT POOL.

Stooping beside a stagnant pool to drink I saw a woman, weary and forlorn, With hair unkempt, and garments stained and torn; All grace of womanhood was fled, no link Remained of happier days; along the brink Swept by a stately dame with words of scorn; “Though I had thirsted since the early morn, Before my feet in that foul wave should sink My willing lips should press the cup of death.” O scornful dame! before the night was black, Lo! I beheld thy swift feet speeding back, With robes dishevelled and with gasping breath, In this same wave thy parching lips to cool, As eagerly as ’twere a mountain pool.

THE MAN WITH THE MUCK-RAKE.

An old and well-known allegory reading, I found a quaint and curious picture there, Of one who gathered straws and dirt with care, The golden crown above his head unheeding. Science to-day, than avarice more misleading, Hath slain our father’s faith and hope and prayer; We rake the seas, and sweep the earth and air To find new theories for our own impeding.

And some for tinsel toys of social glory, And Church and State, toil through the grovelling years. How can we hear the music of the spheres, Clutching the muck-rakes of the allegory? Our blunted senses only can discern The paltry baubles over which we yearn.

IMMORTALITY.

My vision floats far down the milky-way, A shining track across a shoreless sea As deep and boundless as eternity. Suns sail in myriads there, and comets stray, Youthful, while hoary ages roll away. O fleeting life, the stars that shine on me Smiled just the same when star-lit Galilee Beneath the Saviour’s feet in slumber lay.

What countless swarms of man’s ephemeral race Live, love, and die, while ye sail coldly on! Yet they shall rise, the teeming millions gone, And gaze unmoved, while from their ancient place The morning stars like baleful meteors fleet, And while the heavens melt with fervent heat.

TO A YOUNG ARTIST.

The matchless artists of the olden time Knew naught of critic’s jargon; to their toil Bending as one that digs a stony soil, Sparing nor bloom of youth nor manhood’s prime, They caught and fixed their floating dreams sublime. So must we shun all vain polemic broil, Nor vex our souls with theories’ turmoil If to ideal heights we fain would climb.

Our vintage time is speeding fast away, The morning faileth; then with double will, In spite of noonday glare or evening chill, Gather the glowing clusters while we may. So may our failing eyes see some faint beams Shed o’er our work from our supernal dreams.

THE END.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Note:

In poem “Shadows”, final stanza, “vail” changed to “veil”.

In poem “Twenty Years Ago”, penultimate stanza, “plantive” changed to “plaintive”.

End of Project Gutenberg's Winona, A Dakota Legend, by Eli L. Huggins