Part 2

But the scarred veteran knows the price of glory, He does not court the conflict or the fray. He has no longing to rehearse that gory And most dramatic act, of war's dark play.

He who to love has always been a stranger All unafraid may linger in your spell. My heart has known the warfare, and its danger. It craves no repetition--so farewell.

THE PAST

I fling my past behind me like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain That I must needs discard it? I can weave Upon the shuttles of the future years A fabric far more durable. Subdued, It may be, in the blending of its hues, Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, While over all a fadeless lustre lies, And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, My new robe shall be richer than the old.

"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

We will be what we could be. Do not say, "It might have been, had not or that, or this." No fate can keep us from the chosen way; He only might, who IS.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve. I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height. What eagle ever missed the peak he sought? He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!" It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.

THE SONNET

Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land, A temple by the muses set apart; A perfect structure of consummate art, By artists builded and by genius planned, Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand, Beyond the ken of the untutored heart, Like a fine carving in a common mart, Only the favoured few will understand. A chef d'œuvre toiled over with great care, Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by, A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire, An ancient bit of pottery, too rare To please or hold aught save the special eye, These only with the sonnet can compare.

NOTHING NEW

FROM the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary, Nothing is new that is done or said, The leaves are telling the same old story-- "Budding, bursting, dying, dead." And ever and always the wild birds' chorus Is "coming, building, flying, fled."

Never the round Earth roams or ranges Out of her circuit, so old, so old, And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes-- Beaming, burning, tender, cold, As spring-time softens or winter estranges The mighty heart of this orb of gold.

From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breaking There were tempest, sunshine, fruit, and frost. And the sea was calm or the sea was shaking His mighty mane like a lion crossed, And ever this cry the heart was making-- Longing, loving, losing, lost.

For ever the wild wind wanders, crying, Southerly, easterly, north and west, And one worn song the fields are sighing, "Sowing, growing, harvest, rest," And the tired thought of the world, replying Like an echo to what is last and best, Murmurs--"Rest."

HELENA

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise Of late all men have sounded. She for whom Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long, She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile I find no fascination in her smile, Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair, And yet to me each shining silken tress Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless-- Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure She will not let her one true lover's hands In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me. Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?" "Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?" I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in passion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it, Armoured by my sweet lady's trust, I sit, And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.

NOTHING REMAINS

Nothing remains of unrecorded ages That lie in the silent cemetery time; Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, Their glory may have been indeed sublime. How weak do seem our strivings after power, How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, If out of all we are, in one short hour Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces, Time and decay uproot the forest trees. Even the mighty mountains leave their places, And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasms And turns the proudest cities into plains. The level sea becomes a yawning chasm-- Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry, Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky. Ideas die and old religions perish, Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains Are swept away with all we hate or cherish-- Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless And all-creative spirit of the Law, Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; So full of love it must create for ever, Destroying that it may create again, Persistent and perfecting in endeavour, It yet must bring forth angels, after men-- This, this remains!

FINIS

An idle rhyme of the summer time, Sweet, and solemn, and tender; Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays, Bright with the sunset's splendor.

Summer and beauty over the lands-- Careless hours of pleasure; A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands-- A change in the floating measure.

A deeper hue in the skies of blue, Winds from the tropics blowing; A softer grace on the fair moon's face, And the summer going, going.

The leaves drift down, the green grows brown, And tears with smiles are blended; A twilight hour and a treasured flower,-- And now the poem is ended.

APPLAUSE

I hold it one of the sad certain laws Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind Than that success which brings sure loss behind-- True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applause Fame blights the object it would bless, because Weighed down with men's expectancy, the mind Can no more soar to those far heights, and find That freedom which its inspiration was. When once we listen to its noisy cheers Or hear the populace' approval, then We catch no more the music of the spheres, Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men. Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears, The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.

LIFE

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee, Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time. There is no path too steep for him to climb. With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free, As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!" In vain we murmur; "Come," Life says, "Fair play!" And seizes on us. God! he goads us so! He does not let us sit down all the day. At each new step we feel the burden grow, Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, Watching for Death to meet us on the way.

THE STORY

They met each other in the glade-- She lifted up her eyes; Alack the day! Alack the maid! She blushed in swift surprise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep-- He reached to her his hand; She felt her warm young pulses leap, But did not understand. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood-- He wooed with words and sighs; Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good, And maidens are not wise. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down, The wind blew from the south; As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown, His kiss fell on her mouth. Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near, The lover roves away, With breaking heart and falling tear, She sits the livelong day. Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.

LET THEM GO

Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams, And shoot the shadows through and through with light? What matters one lost vision of the night? Let the dream go!!

Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky? Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes Before some light is lent it from on high; What folly to think happiness gone by! Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys, Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom? Severe must be the winter that destroys The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb. What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom Let the joy fade!

Let the love die. Are there not other loves As beautiful and full of sweet unrest, Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves? They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast, And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!" Let the love die!

THE ENGINE

INTO the gloom of the deep, dark night, With panting breath and a startled scream; Swift as a bird in sudden flight, Darts this creature of steel and steam.

Awful dangers are lurking nigh, Rocks and chasms are near the track, But straight by the light of its great white eye, It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.

Terrible thoughts and fierce desires Trouble its mad heart many an hour, Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires, Coupled ever with might and power.

It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein, The narrow track by vale and hill: And shrieks with a cry of startled pain; And longs to follow its own wild will.

O, what am I but an engine, shod With muscle and flesh, by the hand of God, Speeding on through the dense, dark night, Guided alone by the soul's white light.

Often and often my mad heart tires, And hates its way with a bitter hate, And longs to follow its own desires, And leave the end in the hands of fate.

O mighty engine of steel and steam; O human engine of blood and bone, Follow the white light's certain beam-- There lies safety, and there alone.

The narrow track of fearless truth, Lit by the soul's great eye of light, O passionate heart of restless youth, Alone will carry you through the night.

IN THE LONG RUN

In the long run fame finds the deserving man. The lucky wight may prosper for a day, But in good time true merit leads the van And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way. There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate, But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait, In the long run.

In the long run all godly sorrow pays, There is no better thing than righteous pain, The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days, Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain. Unmeaning joys enervate in the end, But sorrow yields a glorious dividend In the long run.

In the long run all hidden things are known, The eye of truth will penetrate the night, And good or ill, thy secret shall be known, However well 'tis guarded from the light. All the unspoken motives of the breast Are fathomed by the years and stand confess'd In the long run.

In the long run all love is paid by love, Though undervalued by the hosts of earth; The great eternal Government above Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth. Give thy love freely; do not count the cost; So beautiful a thing was never lost In the long run.

A SONG

IS anyone sad in the world, I wonder? Does anyone weep on a day like this With the sun above, and the green earth under? Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the bird, above me, Birds that sing as they wheel and fly-- With the winds to follow and say they love me-- Who could be lonely? O no, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning, As I opened my window to let in the light, That the darkest day of the world was dawning; But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight.

One who claims that he knows about it Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin; But I and the bees and the birds--we doubt it, And think it a world worth living in.

Some one says that hearts are fickle, That love is sorrow, that life is care, And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle, Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together, Laughed till the woods were all a-ring; And he said to me, as he plumed each feather, "Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

Up he flew, but his song, remaining, Rang like a bell in my heart all day, And silenced the voices of weak complaining, That pipe like insects along the way.

O world of light, and O world of beauty! Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine? Yes, life is love, and love is duty; And what heart sorrows? O no, not mine!

THE TWO GLASSES

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim. One was ruddy, and red as blood, And one was as clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might. And the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight. From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown, From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down; I have blasted many an honored name, I have taken virtue, and given shame; I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste. Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky. I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from its iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me; For they said, 'Behold, how great you be! Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall, And your might and power are over all.'" "Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water glass, "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; But I can tell of hearts that were sad, By my crystal drops made light and glad. Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved. I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain; Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain. I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will; I can tell of manhood, debased by you, That I have uplifted, and crowned anew. I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the chained wine-captive free, And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine, and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On the rich man's table, rim to rim.

WHAT WE NEED

What does our country need? No armies standing With sabres gleaming ready for the fight; Not increased navies, skilful and commanding, To bound the waters with an iron might; Not haughty men with glutted purses trying To purchase souls, and keep the power of place; Not jewelled dolls with one another vying For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.

But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly, With that rare meekness, born of gentleness; Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy, The women whom all little children bless; Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other, With finest scorn for all things low and mean; Women who hold the names of wife and mother Far nobler than the title of a queen.

Oh! these are they who mould the men of story, These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth, Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory Than making some young soul the home of truth; Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin, And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;

Women who do not hold the gift of beauty As some rare treasure to be bought and sold. But guard it as a precious aid to duty-- The outer framing of the inner gold; Women who, low above their cradles bending, Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed, While their pure prayers like incense are ascending THESE are our country's pride, our country's need,

IS IT DONE?

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes, The last line has withered and curled. In a tiny white heap of dead ashes Lie buried the hopes of your world. There were mad foolish vows in each letter, It is well they have shrivelled and burned, And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done? In the embers Where letters and tokens were cast, Have you burned up the heart that remembers, And treasures its beautiful past? Do you think in this swift reckless fashion To ruthlessly burn and destroy The months that were freighted with passion, The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses That flashed from the lips to the soul, Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses In spite of its strength of control? Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, Or the sound of a voice that still lingers And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended? You have put all the lights out, and yet, Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, Can the actors go home and forget? Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping With a strange restless pain in their hearts, And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping, Will dream they are playing their parts.

BURDENED

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden."--Lamartine.

Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life Than to be burdened so that you can not Sit down contented with the common lot Of happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife With all the sea's commotion; to be fraught With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, And weighed down with the wild world's weary strife;

To feel a fever always in your breast; To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame, A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name; To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest, And know, however great your meed of fame, You are but a weak woman at the best.

TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? A GIRL'S REVERIE

Mother says, "Be in no hurry, Marriage oft means care and worry."

Auntie says, with manner grave, "Wife is synonym for slave."

Father asks, in tones commanding, "How does Bradstreet rate his standing?"

Sister crooning to her twins, Sighs, "With marriage care begins."

Grandma, near life's closing days, Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways."

Maud, twice widowed ("sod and grass") Looks at me and moans "Alas!"

They are six, and I am one, Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser: Age should aye be youth's adviser.

They must know--and yet, dear me, When in Harry's eyes I see

All the world of love there burning-- On my six advisers turning,

I make answer, "Oh, but Harry Is not like most men who marry.

"Fate has offered me a prize, Life with love means Paradise.

"Life without it is not worth All the foolish joys of earth."

So, in spite of all they say, I shall name the wedding day.

A MARCH SNOW

Let the old snow be covered with the new: The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden. Let it be hidden wholly from our view By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden. When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet, Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet. Let the old life be covered by the new: The old past life so full of sad mistakes, Let it be wholly hidden from the view By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes. Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring Let the white mantle of repentance fling Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, Even as the new snow covers up the old.

COMRADES

I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and put it away, So we could rejoice together.

Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of this cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine.

We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain.

And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the BEST of all.