O vanished youth, when faith was plain, When hopes were high, and manhood's years Showed dazzling summits to attain; O days, ere eyes grew dim with tears,— "Come again! Come again!"

O friends, whose memory leaves no stain, O dearly loved and early lost! Do you your love for me retain Beyond the silent sea you crossed? "Come again! Come again!"

Alas! sweet bird, all life moves on; The seed becomes the ripened grain, And what is past is gone, is gone! Cease calling, therefore,—'tis in vain—, "Come again! Come again!"



MY LOST FRIENDS

One by one they have slipped from Earth, And vanished into the depths of space, And I, beside my lonely hearth, Find none to take their place.

Never a word of fond farewell Fell from their lips ere they were gone; Never a hint since then to tell If after night came dawn!

Latest of all to thus depart, Still is thy hand-clasp warm in mine; Wilt thou not tell me where thou art? Canst thou impart no sign?

Wild are the winds above thy grave; Cold is the form I loved so well; But what to thee are storms that rave, Or the snow that last night fell?

Out in the awful void of night, Numberless suns and planets roll; Has one of all those isles of light Received thy homeless soul?

Mute is the sky as an empty tomb; Trackless the path, and all unknown; What means this journey through its gloom, Which each must make alone?

Vain is the task; I strive no more To learn the secret of their fate; Till sounds for me the muffled oar, I can but hope and wait.

But well I know they have gone from me Into the silent depths of space, Across a vast, uncharted sea, Whose shores I cannot trace.



TO SLEEP AND TO FORGET

To sleep and to forget,—O blessed guerdon! The day is waning, and the night draws near; My failing heart grows weary of its burden; Why should I therefore hesitate or fear To sleep and to forget?

Though bright my skies with transient gleams of gladness, And sweet the breath of many a summer sea, Yet, under all, a haunting note of sadness Forever lures me in its minor key To sleep and to forget.

Of petty souls whose joy is defamation, Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed Each day supplies its sickening revelation, And makes imperative my spirit's need To sleep and to forget.

Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow, And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal! Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow, I humbly ask one favor for my soul, When this life's sun is set,— To sleep and to forget.



IN SILENCE

She sees our faces bright and gay, Our moving lips, our laughing eyes, But scarce a word of what we say Can pass the zone that round her lies;—

A zone of stillness,—strange, profound, Invisible to mortal eye, Upon whose verge the waves of sound In muffled murmurs break and die.

Across that silent void she strains To catch at least some winged word, And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns The poor pretence of having heard.

That smile! Its pathos wrings the heart Of many a friend, who yet conceals The tears that from his eyelids start, The grief and pity that he feels.

And she, aware of our distress, And sadly conscious of her own, Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess That our real meaning is unknown.

What rapture, when the closing door Shuts out the world and gives release, And on her quivering nerves once more Descends the benison of peace!

No longer forced to dimly read Men's meanings from their lips and looks, Her greatest joy, her only need The sweet companionship of books!

Do we thus ever fully know The boon of leaving far behind The world's dull tales of crime and woe, The gossip of its vacant mind?

What if her loss be really gain, That zone of silence a defence, A compensation for her pain, A quickening of her psychic sense?

Perhaps when fall at last away The chains which bind her spirit here, A voice divine will gently say In tones which reach alone her ear,—

"While others in that world of sin Heard evil things, to thee unknown, Apart from that defiling din Thy spirit grew, in strength, alone.

"They must through other lives return To slowly earn thy strength of soul; Through suffering only couldst thou learn The virtue that hath made thee whole."



AT THE VILLA OF THE EMPEROR FREDERICK III AT SAN REMO

San Remo's palms in beauty stand Beside the storied sea, Where azure band and golden sand Are wedded ceaselessly; For from the deep, which seems to sleep, The slow waves, long and low, Their journeys done, break one by one In rhythmic ebb and flow.

Before me lies a fair retreat, Whose every breath brings balm From plants replete with odors sweet And many a fronded palm; Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait To feast my gladdened eyes On buds that wake and flowers that make A perfumed paradise.

Alas, that love could not avail To guard this sweet repose! That strength should fail, and life prove frail And fleeting as the rose! So fair! and yet, who can forget The heir to Prussia's throne, Who here fought death with labored breath, And faced the great Unknown?

O Spirit of the Fatherland, O love that changeth not, Thy filial hand hath made this strand A consecrated spot; For on the wall, where roses fall, Bronze words recall his fate,— A sceptre won ... when life was done, An empire gained ... too late!

"Halt, wanderer from a German shore!" (Thus runs the sad refrain,) "Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore With fortitude his pain; Hear'st thou the lone, low monotone Of billows tempest-tossed? In that long roll the German soul Still mourns for him she lost."

San Remo's stately palms still rise Beside the storied shore; But he now lies 'neath northern skies, At peace forevermore, In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep, Whose secret none may know, While, one by one,—their courses run,— The long waves ebb and flow.



IN A COLUMBARIUM

The autumn sun still bravely streams Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, And warms the heart of one who dreams Of all its splendor on the day When Scipio triumphed, bringing home The spoils of Africa to Rome.

On this same road the conqueror came, Called "Africanus, the Divine" By thousands who adored his fame, And proudly watched the endless line Of Punic captives in his train, And trophies, won on Zama's plain.

To-day the vast Campagna rolls In stately grandeur to the sea, But where are now the countless souls Whose dwelling-place this used to be, When all its space to Ostia's gate Lay peopled and inviolate?

Ask of the Claudian arches gray Which stride toward Rome in broken lines; Ask of the lizards at their play On relics of the Antonines; Ask of the fever-blighted shore, Where Roman galleys ride no more!

Yet some poor traces still remain Of those who here have lived and died; For underneath this solemn plain The Christian catacombs still hide,— A city of sepulchral gloom, The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb.

Moreover, in this classic soil, Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, A simple peasant at his toil Discovered 'neath the upturned loam The spot to which I now have come,— A Roman Columbarium.

Down through its modern, open door A flood of mellow sunshine falls In golden waves from roof to floor, Revealing in its moss-grown walls The "dove-cotes", where one still discerns The fragments of old funeral urns.

One vacant niche, whose ampler space Betokens special love and care, Contained no doubt a sculptured face Above the hallowed ashes there; While, just beneath, faint letters spell A faithful woman's fond farewell.

How often on love's winged feet She doubtless sought this dear recess, To deck with floral offerings sweet Her sepulchre of happiness, Whose script, despite two thousand years, Preserves the memory of her tears!

Rome's annals hint not of the name Of him whose dust lay treasured here, But could the fleeting breath of fame Have made him to her heart more dear? A word of tenderness outweighs In woman's soul a world of praise.

What though, remote from pomp and state, At Caesar's court he could not shine? Less blest had surely been his fate Upon the lustful Palatine! And mutual love, wherever viewed, Is life's supreme beatitude.

Alas! the urn no longer stands Within the little alcove dim; Gone also are the faithful hands That hung sweet roses on its rim; And vanished even is the bust Which watched above the sacred dust.

Yet still its words of love survive The shocks and tragedies of time, And bid our drooping hearts revive, Inculcating the faith sublime That, while the urn in ruin lies, Love soars immortal to the skies.



DISCOURAGEMENT

"Forward, comrades, ever forward"! Shout the leaders in the fight; "Scale the ramparts! Plant the standard On the citadel of light!

"Break the chains of superstition! Crush corruption! Free the slave! Plant the flowers of love and mercy On the past's ensanguined grave!

"Toward the strongholds of oppression Lead again the hope forlorn! See! the night is disappearing; Lo! the coming of the morn"!

Bravely said; yet men have spoken Just as bravely long ago, When the hair had raven blackness Which is now as white as snow;

And alas! how many thousands Have responded to that call, Whose forgotten corpses moulder By the still beleaguered wall!

Forms have changed and words have altered, But the things remain the same; Still doth man enslave his brother,— Always master, save in name.

Still are God's dumb creatures tortured, Racial hatreds never cease, And man's greatest self-delusion Is the shibboleth of "Peace."

Hence, while youth, with hope and courage, Loudly vents its noble rage; Age, profoundly disillusioned, Sad and silent leaves the stage.

Round the classic Inland Ocean, Where the Roman world held sway, Storied shores are iridescent With the splendor of decay;

Persia, Syria, Egypt, Athens, Proud Byzantium, Carthage, Spain,— In their mournful desolation Hear the old sea's sad refrain:—

"Rising, falling, waxing, waning, Men and nations come and go; Reaching glory, then declining, As the ebb succeeds the flow.

"All florescence is but fleeting: Each in turn enjoys its day, Hath its seed-time, bud and flower, And as surely fades away.

"Growth, maturity, decadence,— Form mankind's unchanging role, And the dead past's sombre ruins Are prophetic of the whole."

"Nay," you cry in bitter protest, "Shall man have no perfect end, No millennial culmination, Toward which all the ages tend?

"Must all races prove decadent? Shall not one produce in time Perfect types of men and women In a world devoid of crime?"

Scan the lurid past, and tell us On what ground you base your hopes! Does an endless line of failures Warrant brighter horoscopes?

Hath not every race and nation Sunk from grandeur to decay? What shall save us, then, from ruin? Are we better men than they?

"Great inventors", say you? Granted; Such material gifts are ours; Every age hath some distinction, Every race its special powers.

But the progress is not lasting, And the special powers decline; Man's advance is never constant In one grand, unbroken line.

Nor is ground, once lost, recovered; Greece and Rome are not replaced! All the sites of pagan learning Still lie desolate and waste.

What know we,—except in physics—, That the ancients did not know? Are we wiser than the sages Of two thousand years ago?

More devout than Hebrew prophets? More upright than Antonine? More accomplished than the Grecians, Or than Buddha more divine?

And if such men could not hinder Fate's resistless rise and fall, How can we expect exemption From the common lot of all?

Let us frankly face the prospect That man's progress here may fail; That the race may never triumph, But again descend the scale,

Till the last surviving savage To his glacial cave retires, And earth's tragic drama closes, As humanity expires!

And why not? All weaker species To the stronger yield their place; May the same law not be needed Through the boundless realms of space?

By whatever beings peopled, Worlds that fail to meet the test May like fruitless blossoms perish; God will winnow out the best.

Would you know our planet's value? View the star-strewn dome of night! In that shoreless sea of splendor What is one faint wave of light?

Worlds by millions are revolving Through that vast, unfathomed main; Should our tiny orb make shipwreck, Worlds by millions would remain;

Where perchance a real advancement May prevail from pole to pole, Without losses, without lapses, Toward a final, perfect goal.

This at least can not be doubted,— That our globe will one day roll Cold and lifeless thro' its orbit, Like a corpse without its soul.

Will mankind have reached perfection Ere that epoch has begun, Or grown bestial, as the heat-waves Issue feebly from the sun?

None may know. Through blood-stained cycles We have thus far made our way: Of the unknown depths beneath us We are nothing but the spray.



MESALLIANCE

With gentle manners, winsome face, And forehead fit to wear a crown, How brilliant might have been her place, Had she not mated with a clown,—

A Caliban of modern date, Ill-dressed, ill-shapen, ill at ease, With halting speech and awkward gait, And manners certain to displease!

What secret motive could have led This charming girl her life to stain By condescending thus to wed A husband whom she must disdain?

Far worthier men had vainly sought To win her for herself alone; What potent spell could Love have wrought To draw her to a tactless drone?

A palace she might well have graced. And led its functions like a queen; Instead, her life has run to waste, The wraith of what it might have been.

For boorishness hath brought its blight; Her rare accomplishments are marred, And every path, with promise bright, By stupid tyranny is barred.

Yet still she bravely moves through life, Ignoring her pathetic fall;— A loveless, broken-hearted wife; Alas, the pity of it all!



IN A MODERN CITY

Dreary fog and drizzling sleet, And a lamp-lit track of slime; Phantoms dim in the misty street, Vanishing, streaked with grime; Overhead in a spurious night, Formed by the vapors dun, Wraith-like globes of haloed light, Mocking the hidden sun;—

Children, shod in sodden shoes, (That is a sight that hurts;) Women, furrowing filthy ooze In thin, bedraggled skirts; Horses, lashed with cruel zest, Ploughing the fumid fog; Hark! ... a car, with no arrest, Killing a howling dog;—

Clanging trams, with haggard men Forcing their way within,— Some compressed in a steaming-pen, Others soaked to the skin; Smoke and soot in the murky sky, Death in the tainted air, Each aware, were he to die, None in the crowd would care;—

Here and there a carriage fine, Cleaving the reeking mass; Scowling faces, ranged in line, Watching the rich man pass; Envy's gleam in many an eye, Hate in many a threat; Why should he be warm and dry, And they be cold and wet?

Pictures these of the "Passing Show," Scenes in a world gone wrong, Wretched weaklings, born to woe, Crushed by the brutal strong! Breaking hearts that crave release, Slaves to a ceaseless strife! ... I will go back to sylvan peace And a sight of the Source of Life.



MY BORES

I take their hands with placid smile And words which social rules enforce, Though sadly conscious all the while Of something very like remorse, Because beneath the mask I wear I really wish they were not there.

Their visits I at heart resent; The half-read volume haunts my thought; The urgent note remains unsent; The verse, unfinished, comes to naught; And all because, on some pretence, They waste their time at my expense.

Yet no grim misanthrope am I, Who fears, distrusts, and hates his race; I merely wish them to pass by, And seek some other lounging-place; For, frankly, I should love them more A little further from my door.

In vain I make no answering calls; They blandly smile and come again! Nay, even bring within my walls More curious strangers in their train, "Who wished so much your home to see!" Why do they never think of me?

The few I want I can invite; Hence why should others thus intrude? How dare they give themselves the right, Unasked, to spoil my solitude? And why presume I care to know More triflers in their world of show?

Their idle life, on pleasure bent, Their mania for some silly game, Their hours in stupid gossip spent,— Would give me self-contempt and shame; Between us is no common ground On which a comradeship to found.

A word or two upon the street Suffice me with the most of men; Beyond a greeting, when we meet. I care not if we speak again; My books and Nature's charming face Such human consorts well replace.

Not all, indeed; for who but yearns To call some kindred heart his own? Some friend to whom he fondly turns, And with whom he is still alone, Since each, while absolutely free, Respects the other's privacy.

To such his pent-up love o'erflows; With such his soul's seclusion ends; For each the other's nature knows, And every motive comprehends; So perfectly do both agree, So close their bond of sympathy!

But those who come to wear away With me the time they deem a bore, And blithely rob me of a day Which God Himself cannot restore— From such, at risk of being rude, I will preserve my solitude.

Their vapid visits I refuse; Their forced attachment I decline; I surely have the right to choose The friends, whose lives shall blend with mine; My bark shall gain the open sea With but the few I love and me.



GRATITUDE

The sun is on the mountain crest, The sky without a cloud, The moon is slipping down the west, The robin's song is loud; White blossoms crown the apple trees, The dew is on the thorn, The scent of roses fills the breeze,— Thank God, another morn!

The sunset embers smoulder low, The moon climbs o'er the hill, The peaks have caught the alpenglow, The robin's song is still; The hush of peace is on the earth, With stars the sky grows bright, The fire is kindled on my hearth,— Thank God, another night!



IN TENEBRIS

All the lights have been extinguished In my closely-curtained room, Nothing now can be distinguished In the all-pervading gloom; And through darkness, so alluring, I would float away to sleep, Like a boat that slips its mooring, And moves gently toward the deep.

How delightful this seclusion From the garish light of day,— All its turmoil and confusion Pushed, a little while, away! Neither men nor things shall try me Till to-morrow brings its light; Let my cares go drifting by me! I'll not think of them to-night.

Social cant and empty phrases, Base returns for kindness shown, Envy's serpent-smile, and praises Which convey, for bread, a stone,— What a joy to have rejected All such griefs, of evil born! What a boon to feel protected From their advent until morn!

Moon and stars, without, are gleaming Over snow-capped peaks sublime, But to-night I'll give to dreaming, Nor esteem it wasted time; Nay, through darkness, so alluring, I will float away to sleep, Like a boat that slips its mooring, And moves gently toward the deep.



TWO MOTHERS

One night two lonely women met Beside a storm-swept bay; With tears their mournful eyes were wet, Their pale lips salt with spray; They passed; then turned, as though each yearned Some friendly word to say.

"Poor soul", cried one, "hast thou no fear To walk this haunted strand? What hopeless sorrow brings thee here, Where dead men drift to land? I too have grief beyond relief; Speak! I can understand."

"I mourn a son", the other said; "That ocean is his grave; My heart will not be comforted, It breaks with every wave; Would I might sleep in yonder deep With him I could not save!

"The wind was raging, as to-night; Straight on these rocks it blew; I watched until the dawning light Disclosed the wreck to view; From where we stand I saw his hand Wave me a last adieu!

"He deemed the boat too frail to bear Another living freight; 'Push off'! he said with tranquil air, 'Go first, and I will wait;' But all the while, despite his smile, He knew 'twould be too late.

"That heartless crew shall nevermore God's absolution find! They watched, like cravens, from the shore The man they left behind Go down before the breakers' roar, The surges and the wind!

"Hence, when such maddened tempests rave, I cannot rest at home, For then the billows deck his grave With flowers of snow-white foam; And here I pray till break of day Beneath night's starless dome."

A silence fell; then, faint and low, The other, weeping, said; "My heavier woe thou needst not know; Within his ocean bed On thy son's name there rests no shame; Would God that mine were dead!"



AT HOCHFINSTERMUeNZ

Once more between its walls of pines I see the long ravine expand To where the ice-world's crystal lines Define the realm of Switzerland.

Once more, a thousand feet below, I watch the river's silver sheen, As, foaming in its fettered flow, It rushes from the Engadine.

Forever young, forever old, This gorge, where stream with forest blends, These glittering peaks, these glaciers cold,— Are all to me familiar friends.

I know, alas, their towering forms Of unresponsive rocks and snow Are heartless as their wintry storms, And heed not if I come or go;

Yet none the less I love to trace Their stainless crests along the sky, And, as I greet each well-known face, Each seems in turn to make reply.

So potent is the subtle spell That clothes such masses with a mind; So strong the instincts which impel Their lover answering love to find!

What if in truth there really be A soul within them to adore; Some half-revealed Divinity, Whose presence haunts us evermore?

Some Power, to read our hearts, and know How this wild beauty moves our tears; Some God that, as our spirits grow, Shall be discerned in after years?

Instinctively did earlier man See fauns and dryads in the trees, And find in universal Pan The soul of Nature's mysteries.

All is divine,—the bird that sings, The flowers that bloom, the waves that roll; One Spirit quickens men and things, And stirs alike the sun and soul.

Great Nature's God! however styled, I love thee, and upon thy breast Would gladly lie,—a grateful child, And, dying, trust thee for the rest.



THE GIFT OF JUNO

Already 'neath the morning star The shrine, by Juno's favor blest, Had flashed its whiteness from afar, Resplendent on a mountain's crest, Along whose base the ocean rolled A flood of sapphire, flecked with gold.

In twilight still the shore remained; But, toiling upward through the night, A wistful mother had just gained The summit of the sacred height, Where Juno's far-famed statue stood,— Palladium of motherhood.

At her approach the bolts were drawn, And inward swung the temple gate, Revealing in the light of dawn The marble form immaculate, The effigy of heaven's queen, Sublime, beneficent, serene.

Slow-moving and with fluttering heart, The youthful matron onward passed To where that masterpiece of art Repaid her arduous toil at last; As, gazing through a mist of tears, She realized here the dream of years.

Beside her, one on either hand, Two little children stood in fear, Unable yet to understand The reason of their coming here; Both beautiful in form and face, True types of the Hellenic race.

No fairer pilgrims ever came Within the temple's stately door; No sweeter picture could it frame Than that upon its marble floor, When, in the hush of dawning day, The lovely trio knelt to pray.

"Immortal goddess, not in vain Do mothers lift their souls to thee; Their love, their hopes, their fears, their pain Thy heart can feel, thine eyes can see; Deign, therefore, my sweet babes to bless, O Juno, fount of tenderness!

"To thy divine, all-seeing eyes The course of every life is clear; I pray thee, note what future lies Before these helpless children here; Then, of the gifts by thee possessed, Give them but one; choose thou the best!"

She paused, and waited for reply, While solemn stillness filled the shrine; Heard something like a gentle sigh, Or passing of a breath divine; Then saw their eyes, like petals, close In death's sweet, statue-like repose.

Repose, unbroken evermore! The world of suffering still unknown! Escaping through that peaceful door From every ill life might have shown. Heart-broken mother, cease to weep! The best was given them,—dreamless sleep.



THE AWAKENING

Let me sleep on! I would not waken yet, Or leave too soon the peaceful realm of dreams! There, lulled by placid Lethe, I forget The tumult raging on Earth's roaring streams; Doubt not that, later, I shall surely meet With steadfast soul Day's ceaseless, sordid strife, But now I crave again that strangely sweet Oblivion of life;—

That tranquil sleep, whose cooling shadow stills The throbbing forehead and the fevered brain, Which soothes to rest all sense of present ills, Of poignant sorrow and persistent pain; O gift divine, O boon beyond compare, God's benediction at the evening's close, The antidote of grief, the cure of care, The kingdom of repose!

Too late ... the spell is broken ... I awake; How swift the rush of memory's turning tide, Whose ruthless waves the will's frail barriers break, And flood the cells where consciousness would hide! Alas, how mad and fierce the world appears! How dark and ominous the future seems! I rise to face them ... yet recall through tears The quiet land of dreams.



THE WINE OF LIFE

Earthen jar of quaint design, Fragile clay and slender mould, I shall soon have drained the wine Which you still contrive to hold,— Wine that sixty years ago Seemed about to overflow.

Few the draughts that now remain, And I husband them with care, For naught ever comes again That is once exhausted there, And the emptied jar is cast To the scrap-heap of the past.

Oh, the wine we rashly waste When held brimming to the lip! What a difference in its taste When we drink it sip by sip, As a miser counts his gold On a hearth that leaves him cold!

But why should we feel distress If the jar be far from filled? Though its contents may be less, Yet its essence is distilled, And the best wine always clears With the passing of the years.

Fermentation is for youth, But serenity for age; For a knowledge of the truth Men have always sought the Sage, And though youth may live with zest, 'Tis in age that one lives best.



LIFE'S TRILOGY

Youth dreams of all the years shall hold,— Of poems writ, of battles won, Of statues made, of love, of gold, And honors, added one by one; How sweet the song of Hope, if sung, When life is young!

Man's dreams are stern and few indeed; His youthful aims he finds despised, For in a world of strife and greed Ideals must be sacrificed; Alas, there is so little time In manhood's prime!

Age dreams of what the years have brought,— The blots upon life's tear-dimmed scroll, The brave attempts that came to naught, The unsolved problems of the soul; How sadly is the tale retold, When life is old!

Youth, Manhood, Age,—the fatal Three! Illusion, Struggle, and Regret! So hath it been, so shall it be, And to what end? We know not yet; Still sweeps the mighty life-flood on, Now here, now gone!

Seed, bud, florescence, and decay In nature, races, nations, men;— Nay, Earth itself shall fail one day To feed its freezing brood! What then? Successive cycles, vast and small,— Can these be all?

Do all these swirls of suns and souls, Of spirit keen and senseless stone, Speed on to no appointed goals, Like sand along the desert blown,— Forever born from out the void, To be destroyed?—

Nay, Reason, shocked at anarchy, Demands an author and an aim, Seeks ever for the master-key To solve the mystery,—Whence came This starlit sea of Evermore, Without a shore?

And whence comes Life,—that occult Force, So rich in its prolific range, So frail and swift to run its course, Yet deathless in protean change? Must we not hope that Death will clear The darkness here?

Such hopes appear of little worth When, peering through our planet's bars, We picture this, our tiny Earth, Amid that wilderness of stars! Yet in those sun-strewn depths of space It hath its place.

Its rhythmic motion, tuned to time, Its awful rush, yet sure return, Make even our dim orb sublime, And we at last the truth discern,— With God is neither small nor great, Nor soon, nor late.

Unconscious actors,—it may be That here we painfully rehearse, In parts, whose plots we do not see, Some drama of the universe,— Advanced, as nobler grow our souls, To loftier roles.



MYSTERIES

Bound to the earth in its headlong flight, Whence and whither we do not know, Cleaving the awful void of night With frost above and fire below, What is the goal toward which we fly? What does it mean to live and die?

Under our feet a trembling shell, Pierced by a hundred lurid rents! Lower still a molten hell, Seen through its lava-belching vents! And men, within its blighting breath, Are charred, like leaves, to a shrivelled death.

Thin is the rind on which we tread; It shakes, and a thousand lives are lost; The sea engulfs unnumbered dead; Each second scores of souls are tossed Into the stream that sweeps them on ... Whither? Who knows where they are gone?

Over the earth-crust millions crawl, Fight for a little gold and grain, Then in a few years leave it all, Nevermore to be seen again! When will the tragic tale be told? And what of Man when the earth grows cold?

Poised on the planet's rim we stand, Peering aghast into boundless space; Infinite depths on every hand, Never again in the self-same place; Dragged by the sun itself away On toward a point in the Milky Way.

Not without companions we; Here and there gleam other fires,— Burning ships on a shoreless sea; Now and again a flame expires, One last, quivering shaft of light, Shot through a billion leagues of night.

There in its last volcanic throes A dying world perhaps dissolves; Further still, where the sun-mist glows, A mighty, new-born sun evolves; Ceaseless change in an endless sky! What does it mean to live and die?



STAR DRIFT

The glaring sun hath ceased to shine; The solemn stars invade the sky; Again the welcome night is mine, Wherein to view the worlds on high; The night! when heaven bares its face, And man with reverent soul can trace The awful mysteries of space.

Too long the shadeless solar blaze Hath forced my vision toward the sod; 'Tis night alone that helps us raise Our thoughts from littleness to God, And by its darkness sets us free To gaze across what seems to be The portal of Eternity.

I watch the stellar hosts ascend Their devious paths in slow array, And note the place where millions blend To form the fabled Milky Way,—- That zone of radiant suns, whose light Hath needed centuries of flight To reach our little earth to-night,

Through lenses scanned, its golden haze Resolves itself to points that glow In one stupendous, brilliant maze Of countless orbs, that come and go On pathways we may never learn, However long their light may burn, However ardently we yearn.

Apparently so densely strewn, But oh! what gulfs those suns divide! As each pursues its course alone Beyond an interval as wide As that which yawns between our own And any of those star-seeds sown In astral gardens, still unknown.

Sometimes from that resplendent sheen A new light gleams across the void, And, awe-struck, we conceive the scene Of two vast solar orbs destroyed; By fearful impact changed again, Unnumbered miles beyond our ken, To leagues of blazing hydrogen.

Before such marvels, what are we To plume ourselves in foolish pride? Within that dim immensity How many suns and earths have died! The tiny mote on which we stand, However fair and finely planned, Is nothing but a grain of sand.

To-day, as through the ages gone, By law impelled, by law restrained, Suns, planets, systems,—all sweep on Toward bourns still dark and unexplained; Some bright with youth, some dull with age, Their varied colors well presage Their distance from the final stage.

For all are doomed at last to die! On heaven's blue sea each isle of fire, Of all that now enchant the eye, Must finally in gloom expire; Though all may still roll on, unseen, As blackened cinders, while between Dark, lifeless planets intervene.

And then? The mind sinks back in dread! Such burnt-out worlds may well appal, If they must still continue dead, And universal night end all; But, one by one, as speed shall fail, Each may some rival mass assail, Till nebulas again prevail.

But not for long! A refluent spurge Shall that destructive course reverse, And cause those sun-mists to converge To mould another universe; Again shall constellations rise, And suns and planets light the skies, And man regain his paradise.

For thus with rhythmic sweep sublime Swings Chaos on to Cosmos; then In ages, measureless by time, Rolls Cosmos back to mist again, In one stupendous ebb and flow, As aeons come and aeons go, With all their freight of weal and woe.

Hard, cruel, hopeless? It may be. We know too little to decide; Yet hope that o'er that starlit sea Some steadfast, God-directed tide Will one day bear us to a shore, Where we shall find our lost once more, And what was here unknown, adore.



TYROLEAN

OBERMAIS

Obermais! Obermais! Charming bit of Paradise, Where the palm and snow are blended, Where life's joys seem never ended, Where the purl of limpid streams Haunts the traveller's deepest dreams; Girt by miles of terraced vines, Birthplace of the purest wines, Sheltered by imposing mountains, Musical from countless fountains, Bathed in sunshine, bright with flowers, Studded with old Roman towers, Castles, convents, shrines and walls, Whose strange history enthralls,— Jewel of fair South Tyrol, Thou hast won my heart and soul!



CONTENTMENT

Urge me no more! The mid-day toil is ended, And shadows lengthen from the radiant west; The glowing sun, with sumptuous clouds attended, Sinks to its rest.

I too would rest; an Indian-Summer beauty Gilds my life's autumn in a charming vale; No further quest of gold or fame seems duty; Their splendors pale

Tempt me no more! In vain are spread before me New plans of battle and rare hopes of gain; The sweeter airs of love and peace blow o'er me; I will remain.

Gone is the glamour of the heartless city; Hateful its traffic and its ceaseless roar; Slaves of its tyranny, you have my pity; Urge me no more!

Girdled by mountains, in a land of story, Nestles the high-walled garden of my home; Here, book in hand, I feast myself on glory, Nor wish to roam.

Each dawn brings rose-hued snow-peaks to my vision; Each eve's enchanting pageant thrills my soul; Day after day I find yet more elysian Fair South Tyrol.

Urge me no more! The riches of Golconda Could not allure me to the old-time task; Here, till the curtain falls, to live and ponder Is all I ask.



TO MERAN'S NORTHERN MOUNTAINS

Breathe on my soul your everlasting calm, Majestic mountains, passionless and cold! Give to my spirit, drooping 'neath the palm, The rugged strength your changeless summits hold!

So thin the azure veil that floats between My tropic flowers and your arctic snows, That one swift glance reveals to me the sheen Of your white bastions and my blossoming rose.

Yet, though so near, my feet have never pressed Your silvered ramparts, etched along the sky: Untrodden crystal crowns each spotless crest; On virgin snows the sunset colors die.

So near, yet unattainable! Ye seem Like awful deities, at whose command Man's evanescent life,—a fretful stream, One instant murmurs and is lost in sand.

Splendid in sunshine, steadfast under storms, Facing the fiercest tempests with disdain, The blackest clouds that shroud your giant forms, Leave on your glittering panoply no stain.

The setting sun will turn your gray to gold, The dawn will find your icy foreheads bare, And all your glacial armor, as of old, Will shine resplendent in the upper air.

So from my life may all dark clouds depart! So may I come unscathed from Fate's worst blows! Yet with your strength, O Mountains, let my heart Retain, as well, the sweetness of the rose.



AT SUNSET

Belov'd Meran, supremely fair! With joy I greet thy peaks anew, And quaff again the crystal air That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue.

Once more through miles of trellised vines The purple bloom of vintage glows; Once more amid my palms and pines I breathe the perfume of the rose.

Once more, as snow-crests far and wide Flush crimson in the Alpine glow, I sit and muse at eventide On Roman days of long ago.

Across the valley, steeped in light, Uplifted toward the western skies, And flanked by many a snow-crowned height, The stately "Roman Terrace" lies;

Whose fair expanse hath been a stage Where actors for two thousand years Have played, by turns, in every age Their varying roles of smiles and tears.

Still through its mighty Vintschgau door The sunset streams in floods of gold; Still winding o'er its emerald floor, The river sparkles as of old.

I watch the distant torrent leap From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound; A ghostly path it seems, whose deep, Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground.

Beside its waves, whose glittering spray Begems the gorge its flood hath worn, Rome's conquering legions made their way A score of years ere Christ was born.

On yonder mound where frowns the wood, And curves the road with steep incline, A temple to Diana stood Before the age of Antonine.

Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame I see the ancient watchtower stand, Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame Flashed signals into Switzerland.

And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls Loom grandly from the darkening moor, Where still a dungeon-keep recalls The last Tyrolean Troubadour.

Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower That Nature gave to South Tyrol Cannot alone explain thy power To captivate both mind and soul;

I love thy sunshine, fruits and flowers, I love thy mountain-peaks sublime, But, best of all, thine aged towers,— The ivied proteges of Time.

Thus favored, while my sun of life Moves calmly toward a cloudless west, I crave no more the New World's strife And ceaseless turmoil of unrest;

Content, within my garden walls, To let the Present's uproar cease, While on my tranquil spirit falls The Past's sweet benison of peace.



POST NUBES LUX

Sink, sullen rear-guard of the storm, Behind the Laugen's snowy crest! Already Rotheck's lordly form Stands spotless in the radiant west; Blow, winter wind, and clarify Our crystal air, our sapphire sky!

Shine, Sun God! Give us life once more! Too long have clouds concealed thy face; Give to Meran the look she wore, When to her beauty, light, and grace I gladly yielded heart and soul, And made my home in fair Tyrol!

Stupendous source of life and light! As in thy warmth my pulses thrill, Before thy glory and thy might I feel myself a Pagan still, And in my spirit's inmost shrine I half adore thee as divine.



THE HOME-COMING FROM ROME

Make haste! There is but one more turning! The horses cannot go too fast, So eagerly our hearts are yearning To see the longed-for home at last!

Here is the shrine, the lamp still burning, Beside the vineyard's massive wall; And see, to welcome our returning, The banners on the flagstaffs tall!

Before the gate, our servants, wearing Their brightest smiles, together stand, In quaint, Tyrolean style preparing To kiss respectfully the hand.

Now, too, the dogs perceive their master, And rush to meet our carriage wheels; The loyal Leo first and faster, The dackels close upon his heels!

How wild the joy, how loud the chorus Our old, familiar tones excite! Dear, faithful creatures that adore us, How genuine their keen delight!

The door is passed, the hall is entered! How true it is, where'er we roam, That here alone our hearts are centered, That no place hath the charm of Home!

Here smile the pictures ranged above us; Here stand our books, the best of friends; Here those we love and those who love us Are happy that our absence ends.

We prize the intellectual treasures On History's famous sites amassed; And precious are the varied pleasures From Art's great glories of the past;

But well we know, when once more seated Within these rooms with volumes lined, That,—now the journey is completed—, The best of Rome is in the mind.



MY GARDEN

Sweet garden, wreathed in fruits and flowers, And domed by blue Tyrolean skies, Within thy rose-encircled bowers, Secluded from all curious eyes, I find a peaceful paradise.

Without, the world's fierce strife and yearning In floods of passion ebb and flow; Within, as in a shrine, is burning,— Reflecting fires of long ago,— A stormy life's calm afterglow.

How sumptuous is the golden splendor Thy yellow roses give my walls! Like yonder glow, so sweet and tender, That o'er the snow at sunset falls, And by its spell the soul enthralls.

How swiftly pass the happy hours Beside thy palms, beneath thy pines, As through the fountain's crystal showers I watch the sunlight gild thy vines Against the snow-peaks' silvered lines!

I lean upon my loggia's railing And view the vineyard's saffron sheen,— Its amber leaves in glory veiling The purpling grapes, that hang between Its long arcades of gold and green.

And at the sight my heart is beating With rapture hitherto unknown, As with delight I keep repeating In love's triumphant undertone,— "All this is mine, my very own"!

Then with a chill, like that which steals Across the vale at set of sun, A solemn thought the truth reveals,— How transient is the prize thus won! How short a time my lease can run!

Before I thought this garden fair And from its beauty rapture drew, How many others breathed its air, And, glorying in its matchless view, Had plucked its roses wet with dew!

Where now my vines and violets grow, And fill the breeze with odors sweet, Two thousand years and more ago Some Roman had his loved retreat, And watched the sun and snow-peak meet.

Rome fell; but, Maia still remaining, Both Goth and Frank the slope desired, Through two millenniums still retaining The longing for what all admired, The love which ownership inspired.

I sometimes fancy that I see Those masters of an earlier age,— A ghostly line preceding me Across this corner of life's stage,— The Pagan, Christian, bard and sage.

Each one in turn called thee his own, And deemed thee his submissive slave; But, when a few short years had flown, Of all thy wealth what could he save? At most thou gavest him a grave!

Ephemeral creatures of a day, We move like insects on thy soil, And wear our little lives away In fleeting pleasures or in toil; But naught our destiny can foil.

A few more Springs thy buds shall quicken, A few more Summers bring thy bloom, A few more Autumn suns shall thicken The clusters ripening in thy gloom,— When I for strangers must make room!

When other eyes shall see the vision Of Rotheck's pyramid of snow, And watch the roseate hues elysian Creep over it at evening's glow, As o'er its crest the sun sinks low.

Another then will pluck the flowers Whose seeds my loving hand hath sown; Another, through the mid-day hours, Will hear the honey bee's dull drone Where other roses shall have blown.

These mountains then will still be lifting Their ice-crowned summits to the sky; The fleecy clouds will still be drifting Above their peaks and pastures high; But they will heed not where I lie.

Even thou wilt never miss thy master! Thy vines and flowers will bloom the same, The season's round will move no faster, No bud will quench its torch of flame, And naught will change here but a name.

Yet all who shall with joy succeed me In their turn must thy charms resign, When, as to all who now precede me, Death shall have made the fatal sign To join the ever-lengthening line.

We "owners," then, are but thy tenants Despite our purchase and our pride; To thee what is our transient presence? Thou carest not if we abide Among thy roses, or have died.

Hence, let me drain in fullest measure Thy cup of pure Tyrolean wine! To-day at least I hold thy treasure; To-day with truth I call thee mine; To-morrow's sun may never shine.



THE MOUNTAINS OF MERAN AT SUNRISE

Like snow-white tents, their tapering forms Indent the western sky: The jewelled gifts of countless storms Upon their summits lie.

The sinking moon, with fading scars, Hath touched their frosty spires; Around them pale the wearied stars, Like waning bivouac fires.

Stray cloudlets, reddening one by one, Like rose leaves half unfurled, Announce the coming of the sun To an awakening world.

The chief peak now hath caught the glow, And, soft, o'er sloping walls And buttresses of dazzling snow, The flood of splendor falls;

While miles of tender pink and gold Incrust the blue of space, And bands of amethyst enfold Each mountain's massive base.

Gone are the tents that pierced the skies; But in their place, more fair, Transfigured flowers of Paradise Bloom in the crystal air.



OSWALD, THE MINNESINGER

A Legend of Schloss Forst, near Meran

PROLOGUE

Oswald von Wolkenstein, the Last of the Minnesingers, loved a beautiful woman, named Sabina, who proved faithless to him, thereby causing the poet great mental suffering. He avenged his wrongs by writing poems on her coquetry and cruelty. Years later, Sabina, who had never forgiven him his satirical verses, became the favorite of the Tyrolese prince, "Frederick, of the Empty Purse", who also hated Oswald for opposing his political plans. Accordingly, Sabina plotted with her lover to induce the poet to come to her under a pretence of renewing their former love. To effect this, she wrote him a letter expressing her undying affection for him, and begging him to meet her near Meran. The plot was successful, and Oswald fell completely into their power. By Frederick's orders he was at once imprisoned in the dungeon of Schloss Forst, and subjected to tortures which crippled him for the rest of his life.

"Oswald von Wolkenstein! Last of a gifted line, Years have gone by since we parted in hate; What have they taught to me? This, that all's naught to me Save what you brought to me,— Love and love's fate. Can you that love forget? Know that I love you yet! If you my passion share, Linger no longer there; Fearless to do and dare, Come, ere too late!

"Near the old Roman Road Up which the legions strode, Where the first vine-covered terraces rise, Stands a grim fortress tall, Which, like a mountain wall, Though scarred by many a ball, Capture defies! 'Forst' is the name it bears; Brilliant the fame it wears; Thither,—our trysting place—, Ride at your swiftest pace; Come to my fond embrace! My love your prize!"

Who could such words suspect? Who could that call reject? Surely not Wolkenstein, ardent of soul! Gone is the pain of years; Vanished his jealous fears; Smiles have replaced his tears; Lost self-control; Slave to his passion's past, Vows to the winds are cast; Faithless, she holds him still; Absent, she sways his will; Traitress, with subtle skill Plays she her role.

Where Etsch and Eisack meet, Mingling their waters fleet, Opens the valley that leads to Meran; As its red cliffs divide, Castles on either side (Each a strong chieftain's pride) Threaten his plan; Yet, where the shadows sleep Under each dungeon keep, Up through the land of wine, Blest with both palm and pine, Oswald von Wolkenstein Rides to Terlan.

Here falls his gallant horse, Killed by his headlong course; Is it a warning to halt and retreat? Yet who, when passion pleads, Ever such warning heeds? What though a dozen steeds Drop at his feet? Hence, while the peasants stare, Buys he their swiftest mare; And, as the pavement rings With the bright gold he flings, He to the saddle springs, Never so fleet!

Now, lover, pause for breath! Folly may here mean death! Yon gleam the lights of the capital's towers; Here let thy pace be slow; Frederick, thy crafty foe, Plots there to lay thee low, Fearing thy powers; He of the "empty purse", Stung by thy biting verse, Using a woman's hate, Offers a tempting bait; Both thy approach await, Counting the hours!

Dark is the starless night; Only one feeble light Burns at the grating surmounting the door; Has his advance been heard? Was that a whispered word? What in that shadow stirred? Shall he explore? Fie! when a prize so fair Doubtless awaits him there, Shall he now hesitate Here, at Forst's very gate, Fearing to test his fate? No, nevermore!

Hark! 'tis a gruff command, Loosing an ambushed band; Seizing, they drag him, disarmed, to the court; Brightly the torches flare, Flinging a ruddy glare On a proud, mocking pair, Watching the sport; God, can this thing be true? She with this hostile crew! "Faithless and shameless one, Thou hast my life undone"! "Poet, thy race is run", Is her retort.

Barred is the iron door! On the damp dungeon floor Oswald the Troubadour, gifted and strong, Lies in a loathsome cave, Dark as a living grave, No one to care or save, Silenced his song; And while they leave him there, Crushed by profound despair, Princelet and paramour, Knowing their prey secure, Feeling their vengeance sure, Laugh loud and long.

Who can in words relate Oswald's unhappy fate, Left to these monsters, whose hate was ablaze? Both on revenge were bent; He for a menace sent, She for the merriment Caused by his lays. "Dungeon and torture-rack, These shall now pay thee back! Minstrel and poet rare, Rave in thy mad despair, And in that fetid lair Finish thy days!"

Vainly he pleads with her; No prayer succeeds with her; Useless the joys of their past to rehearse; For to increase his woe, Frederick, his jealous foe, Shares in this cruel show,— Fit for God's curse; Shameless and treacherous, Heartless and lecherous, Sabine with fiendish glee, Deaf to his every plea, Watches his agony, Quoting his verse!

Broken at last his chain! Ended the poet's pain! Freed by a ransom (his relatives' dole), Humbled by grief and shame, Injured in name and fame, Drags he his crippled frame Back through Tyrol. Then, in a plaintive song Chanting his grievous wrong, Oswald von Wolkenstein, Last of his gifted line, Dies in Schloss Hauenstein; God rest his soul!



AFTER THE VINTAGE

How can my vineyard's charm be told, As it basks in the autumn haze? The Frost King's touch, so light and cold, Like that of the Persian king of old, Hath turned its roof from green to gold, Till the hillside seems ablaze.

Threading its maze of arbors fair Under its saffron bowers, I watch, in the crisp, November air, Through vine-framed openings here and there The ivied walls of castles rare And ruined Roman towers.

Sapphire blue is the cloudless sky, White are the mountain walls, Rainbow-hued are the tints that lie Lavishly spread on the forests high, Where leaves by millions flame and die, As the chill of Autumn falls.

Over the slopes in sun and shade The terraced vines descend, Like stately steps of a broad cascade, Or an amphitheatre's seats, arrayed In folds of sumptuous, gold brocade, Where red and amber blend.

I love to see, from the rising sun Each terrace gain its crown, When the splendid dawn hath just begun, From the crest of the mountain it hath won, To gild the vine-rows one by one, As the mellow glow creeps down.

And when the day's receding light Deserts the vale below, I trace its noiseless, upward flight Through darkening zones of foliage bright, Till all the world is lost in night Save pyramids of snow.



THE PASSING MOON

In my loggia bright I watch to-night The full moon sailing by; From a crystal creek in a glaciered peak It slipped to the open sky, And now rides free in a clear, blue sea, With not an island nigh.

Through pearly haze its light displays Each buttressed mountain side, And softly shines through stately pines Where feudal castles hide, And every height grows dazzling white In the foam of a silver tide.

From the eastern side of the valley wide To its snow-capped western rim It will hold its way, till the dawning day Shall have made its disk grow dim; Then, leaving the blue, will drop from view Behind the mountain's brim.

Whence did it climb on its path sublime, Ere it left that icy height? And where will it go, when yonder snow Is reached in the morning light? Will its face elsewhere be just as fair, When here it is lost to sight?

Why should I ask? 'Tis a fruitless task; Enough that its splendor falls On me to-night in my loggia bright, Till the scene my soul enthralls; 'Tis a long time yet, ere the moon will set Behind those glittering walls.

And even when it sinks again Below that stainless crest, It will seem at last to have safely passed To a haven of peace and rest, Like a happy soul that hath reached its goal In the kingdom of the blest.

I also know not where I go, Nor whence I came, or why, Nor can I guess what happiness Or strange, new world may lie Beyond the vale through which I sail, Beneath another sky;

But as the moon, which all too soon Sinks down the west for me, To other eyes appears to rise And glide on fair and free, So the frail boat in which I float, Though tempest-worn it be, May cross life's brink, and seem to sink, Yet sail another sea.



AUTUMN IN MERAN

The vintage time is gone, but not its glory; The grapes are garnered from their leafy gloom; Yet miles of vineyards, story crowning story, Cover the hillsides with a golden bloom.

The vine-clad terraces descend the mountains Like cascades rippling with resplendent gold; Steeped in the sun, and fed by sweet-voiced fountains, Tyrolean slopes a paradise unfold.

Above the vines the mountain sides are blending The oaks' and maples' multicolored glow, In variegated zones their hues ascending From radiant roses to eternal snow.

Now here, now there, through brilliant foliage peeping, A ruined castle seeks its walls to hide,— High on some lonely crag in silence sleeping, Left centuries since by history's ebbing tide.

In sparkling foam the beryl-colored river Laughs in the sunshine between tinted walls; While on the cliffs the scarlet creepers shiver, Chilled by the breeze, as sunset's shadow falls.

Still in the valley Summer reigns victorious, Though Winter's silvery sheen creeps slowly down; Land of the vine and snow, at all times glorious, In Autumn wearest thou thy fairest crown.



THE STATUE OF THE EMPRESS ELIZABETH. MERAN

She is seated by the river In a robe of spotless white, With her lovely face illumined By the evening's tender light; But her eyes are full of sadness, As if weary of the day, And her gaze is toward the ocean, While the river glides away.

At her feet are beds of flowers, Overhead are stately trees Whose protecting branches murmur With the passing of the breeze; Though her hand retains a volume, From its page her glances stray, For her thoughts are with the ocean, As the river flows away.

As I view her chastened features, I can feel the rising tears At the thought of all her anguish Through a martyrdom of years; For her joys were writ in water,— Too impermanent to stay, And were swept toward sorrow's ocean, Ere her youth had passed away.

She was captured in the morning Of her childhood's careless age, And imprisoned in a palace Like a linnet in a cage; And its gilded bars confined her To a Court's prescribed display, Which her simple nature hated, As the slow years crept away.

Thus her heart grew always sadder, Till her sorrows, one by one, Reached at last their tragic climax In the murder of her son; And this broken-hearted woman, As a madman's victim, lay By Geneva's placid waters, While her life-blood ebbed away!

Hence her marble face seems troubled, As she gazes down the stream, Like an angel who hath wakened From a fearful, earth-born dream; She is waiting for the sunset Of her tempest-darkened day, But her soul is with the ocean, Where all rivers wend their way.



THE OUTCASTS

The smile of God was in the air; Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue, The valley lay, divinely fair, Beneath a cloudless vault of blue; And singing, like a bird set free, The river hurried to the sea.

Through Alpine ether, crystal clear, The genial sun of South Tyrol Diffused its blessed warmth and cheer, Enriching body, mind and soul, While music floated o'er the stream, And made such beauty seem a dream.

Enraptured with the sun's caress And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow, In careless quest of happiness The gay world sauntered to and fro, Or, seated on the well-kept strand, Enjoyed the music of the band.

Upon a bench, remote from those Whose dress betokened rank or wealth, Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose Betrayed a fruitless search for health,— An aged couple, near their end, United, yet without a friend.

But still they bravely tried to smile, —So warm the sun, so fair the scene!— They could be happy yet a while, Ere death's cold shadow crept between; And music's softly rhythmic flow Recalled their youth of long ago.

"Begone!" a watchman's voice exclaimed; "Your rustic garb is much too poor; How comes it, you are not ashamed In such a place to play the boor? From company like this withdraw! Obey the mandate of the law!"

The startled strangers meekly rose And moved away with downcast eyes, Too wonted to such cruel blows To manifest the least surprise; Too humbled to inquire why; Too timid to attempt reply.

Poor outcasts from that joyous stage Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease, With faltering steps, and bowed with age, They vanished slowly 'neath the trees; But neither scanned the other's face, For fear a falling tear to trace.

Farewell, sweet, music-laden air, And sunshine on the sheltered strand! I follow where that outcast pair Are walking sadly, hand in hand; For me your vaunted charm hath fled, While they remain uncomforted.



HEIMWEH

I dwell in a region of valleys fair, Of stately forests and mountains bold, Of churches filled with treasures rare, And storied castles centuries old; But now and then, when the sun sinks low, And the vesper bell is softly rung, I think of the days of long ago, And yearn for the land where I was young.

I live where the sun shines bright and warm On feathery palms and terraced vines, Yet oft I sigh for a boreal storm And the sough of the wind through northern pines; And though my ear hath wonted grown To the accents strange of an alien tongue, No speech hath half so sweet a tone As the language learned when I was young.

I live in a land where men are kind, And friends increase, as the years roll on, Yet of them all not one I find So dear as those of the days now gone; And so I think, as the sun sinks low, And the curfew bell of my life is rung, I shall turn to my home of long ago, And die in the land where I was young.



MY LIBRARY

Shrine of my mind, my Library! Each morn I greet thee with delight, When, soul-refreshed, I bring to thee The benediction of the night; Encompassed by thy sheltering walls, 'Mid books whose interest enthralls, Life's shadow from my spirit falls.

Behold! above the wooded height The sun-god's glittering disk appears, And at a bound its flood of light The intervening valley clears; Enveloped in its noiseless tide, Each castle on the mountain side Stands forth in splendor, glorified.

How welcome are the yellow waves That through the eastern windows pour And, with a warmth my nature craves, Transmute to gold the polished floor! Then mount to gild my desk, my chair, And e'en the spotless paper there, Which soon my written thought must bear.

In serried ranks around me rise Two thousand tried and trusty friends; Instructive, famous, witty, wise, Each gladly his assistance lends To suit, at will, my varying mood; But none that aid will e'er intrude, Or break, unsought, my solitude.

Some speak of problems of the soul,— Profound, insoluble, sublime; Some tell of Law's supreme control; And some retrace through distant time The evolution of mankind, And in its ever-broadening mind A hope for future triumphs find.

A few the noble deeds rehearse Of heroes famed in peace or war; While many in inspiring verse Show heights to which the soul may soar; But all with serious thoughts are filled, And some hold truths, from life distilled, Whose power my heart hath often thrilled.

By such companions cheered and blest, How vapid seems the listless throng Of those who, tortured by unrest, Find life too dull and days too long, And idly frittering time away, As scandal-mongers, rend and slay The friends they dined with yesterday!

My Library! to thee I turn, As turns the needle toward the pole, And feel my heart within me yearn For all thou offerest to the soul; Why should I join in feverish haste The crowd for which I have no taste, The precious boon of life to waste?

Yet not as an austere recluse,— Still less as one who hates mankind—, Do I thy peaceful precincts choose; But as a student, who can find No joys in Vanity's gay Fair That for an instant can compare With those thou askest me to share.

Moreover, welcome as the sun Are friends whose love I prize and hold; Their visits I would never shun; To them my heart grows never cold; And whether they have wealth, or fame, Or bear a plain or titled name, To me will always be the same.

Nor am I ever quite alone When thus ensconced among my books; A kindred mind there meets my own, And with me toward the sunset looks; With blazing logs the hearth is bright, A treasured volume is in sight; Hence to the outer world good night!



TOUT PASSE

Once more I watch the crystal stream I watched in days gone by; Once more its waves reflect the gleam Of Autumn's sunset sky; Again its banks of gold and green Seem bursting into flame,— And yet for me the lovely scene Can never be the same.

The waves that gleamed here long ago Have reached a distant sea; The leaves of that first autumn glow Have fallen from the tree; The birds which charmed me with their song Have long since elsewhere flown, And I amid a careless throng Am standing here alone.

This sparkling flood can never quite Replace the stream of old; These radiant leaves, however bright, Wear not the old-time gold; For evening's light can ne'er retain The splendor of the dawn, And naught, alas, can bring again The faces that are gone.



BESIDE LAKE COMO

THE FAUN

Within my garden's silence and seclusion, In pensive beauty gazing toward the dawn, There stands, mid vines and flowers in profusion, A sculptured Faun.

The boughs of stately trees are bending o'er him, The scent of calycanthus fills the air, And on the ivied parapet before him Bloom roses fair.

Beside him laughs the lightly-flowing fountain, Beneath him spreads the lake's enchanting hue, And, opposite, a sun-illumined mountain Meets heaven's blue.

Across Lake Como's silvered undulation The flush of dawn creeps shyly to his face, And crowns his look of dreamful contemplation With tender grace.

And he, like Memnon, thrilled to exultation, As if unable longer to be mute, Has lifted to his lips in adoration His simple flute.

Ah! would that I might hear the music stealing From yonder artless reed upon the air,— The subtle revelation of his feeling, While standing there!

Perhaps 'tis for the Past that he is sighing, When Como's shore held many a hallowed shrine, Where such as he were worshipped,—none denying Their rights divine.

That Past is gone; its sylvan shrines have crumbled; From lake and grove the gentle fauns have fled; Its myths are scorned, Olympus has been humbled, And Pan is dead.

Yet still he plays,—the coming day adoring, With brow serene, and gladness in his gaze, All past and future happiness ignoring Just for to-day's!

Sweet Faun, whence comes thy power of retaining Through storm and sunshine thine unchanging smile? Forsaken thus, what comfort, still remaining, Makes life worth while?

Impart to me the secret of discerning The gold of life, with none of its alloy, That I may also satisfy my yearning For perfect joy!

I too would shun those questions, born of sorrow,— Life's Wherefore, Whence and Whither; I would fill My cup with present bliss, and let to-morrow Bring what it will.

O Spirit of the vanished world elysian, Cast over me the spell of thy control, And give me, for to-day's supernal vision, Thy Pagan soul!



ISOLA COMACINA

(The only Island on Lake Como, the Lake Larius of the Romans)

There sleeps beneath Italian skies A lovely island rich in fame, In days of old a longed-for prize, And bearing still an honored name,— A spot renowned from age to age, An ancient Roman heritage;

A valued stronghold, for whose sake Unnumbered men have fought and died,— The Malta of the Larian lake, Forever armed and fortified, To Como's shores the master-key, The guardian of its liberty.

Half hidden in a sheltered bay, Where tiny skiffs at anchor ride, How different is the scene to-day Reflected in its waveless tide, From that which this historic foss Showed mailed soldiers of the Cross!

Yet still, across the narrow strait, Some remnants of the hospice stand, Whose ever hospitable gate Met pilgrims from the Holy Land, Its finely carved, millennial tower Enduring to the present hour.

One gem alone doth Como wear, None other need adorn her breast; 'Tis this, her emerald solitaire, Her unique island of the blest,— The star beside her crescent shore, A thing of beauty evermore.

On Comacina's peaceful strand The coldest heart is moved to pray, As softly steals o'er lake and land The splendor of departing day, And scores of snowy peaks aspire To sparkle with supernal fire.

Then Lario paints for liquid miles The white-robed monarchs' glittering crowns, Transmutes at once to dimpled smiles The sternest of their glacial frowns, And often holds, with subtlest art, Some Titan's likeness to her heart.

Fair Comacina, through whose trees Earth's feathered songsters flit unharmed, Where soft-eyed cattle graze at ease, And every whispering breeze seems charmed, Can it be true that human blood Hath ever stained thy limpid flood?

Alas! too often, drenched with gore, Thy cliffs have witnessed deadly strife, When hostile feet profaned thy shore, And each advancing step cost life, As prince and peasant, side by side, Beat back the Goths' invading tide.

But why disturb the silent past? Why rouse the island's sleeping ghosts? Or see in forms by ruins cast The phantoms of those warlike hosts? For centuries the gentle waves Have rolled oblivion o'er their graves.

And what will now thy future be, Thou pristine refuge of the brave, Which Rome's last heroes fought to free, And vainly gave their lives to save? Forget not, thou wast once a gem That graced a Caesar's diadem!

Wilt thou fulfil my fondest hopes? I sometimes long to check the stream Of tourists hurrying by thy slopes, And tell them of my cherished dream,— To see upon thy storied height A palace worthy of the site;

Not meaningless, not merely vast, Nor crudely modern in design, But something suited to thy past,— For highest art a hallowed shrine, A classic home of long ago, The Tusculum of Cicero.

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume, Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall, And, scattered through the leafy gloom Of olive-groves and laurels tall, Shall many a marble nymph and faun Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn.

So let me dream! I may not see That stately palace crown thy brow, Those roses may not bloom for me, But, as thou art, I love thee now, Content thy future to resign To abler portraiture than mine.

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well! Across the water's placid breast The music of the vesper-bell Invites me to my port of rest; Fair jewel of this inland sea, May all the gods be good to thee!



THE OLD CARRIER

("Old Lucia", who for many years walked back and forth, every day and in all weathers, between Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles, bearing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, fell to the ground exhausted, as she was nearing her poor home on Christmas Eve, 1907. She died next morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred pounds!)

Patient toiler on the road, Bending 'neath your heavy load, Worn and furrowed is your face, Slow and tremulous your pace, Yet you still pursue your way, Bearing burdens day by day, With the same pathetic smile, Over many a weary mile, As you bravely come and go To and from Menaggio.

Snowy white, your scanty hair Crowns a forehead seamed with care, And a look of suffering lies In your clear-blue, wistful eyes; While your thin and ashen cheek Tells the tale you will not speak, Of a lodging dark and old, And a hearth so bare and cold That you often hungry go To and from Menaggio.

Never know you days of rest; Ceaseless is your humble quest Of the pittance that you ask For your arduous daily task. Every morning sees your form Pass through sunshine or through storm; Every evening hears your feet Trudging up the darkened street; For your gait is always slow, Coming from Menaggio.

Once your dull eyes gleamed with light; Once those arms were round and white; And the feet, now roughly shod, Lightly danced upon the sod, As to womanhood you grew And a lover's rapture knew; For you once were fair, 'tis said, Early wooed and early wed, And your husband long ago Died in old Menaggio.

Children? Aye, but not one cares How the poor old mother fares! You must struggle on alone; They have children of their own, And for them, devoid of shame, All your scanty earnings claim! Can you walk? Then go you must, Plodding on through rain and dust, Summer heat and winter's snow To and from Menaggio!

Christmas Eve! Through glistening green Gleams a merry, festive scene; Trees, with candles burning bright, Wake in children's hearts delight. Where such peace and comfort reign, None observes the window-pane, Where your wan face sadly peers Through a mist of falling tears At a joy you never know, Carrier from Menaggio!

Much that makes those children gay You have brought them day by day, Thankful that you thus could earn Wood to make your hearthstone burn. Not for you such food and light, Clothing warm and candles bright! You are grateful, if you gain Bread to stifle hunger's pain. Ah! it was not always so In old-time Menaggio!

* * * * *

She has turned to climb the hill. Stay! why lies she there so still? Have her old limbs failed at last In the chilling wintry blast? Since for threescore years and ten She has done the work of men, 'Tis not strange that she should fall Weak and helpless by the wall, Nevermore to come and go To and from Menaggio.

Gently lift her old gray head! Bear her homeward! She is dead. Fallen, like a faithful horse At the limit of its course; Fallen on the stony road, Uncomplaining, 'neath her load; And the heart within her breast For the first time finds its rest,— Rest that it could never know Coming from Menaggio!

Sound again, O Christmas bells! "Peace on Earth" your song foretells. It has come, in truth, to one Whose long pilgrimage is done. Merciful her quick release, Blessed her eternal peace! Yet I know that, day by day, As she no more comes my way, I shall miss her, as I go To and from Menaggio.



EVENING ON LAKE COMO

Beside my garden's ivied wall, Enwreathed in vines of gold and green, I stand, as evening shadows fall, And marvel at the matchless scene, While wavelets make, with rhythmic beat, Perpetual music at my feet.

The year grows old,—yet on the breeze Still floats the perfume of the rose; Still gleams the gold of orange trees, Regardless of the Alpine snows; For while, above, Frost reigns as king, Below prevails the warmth of Spring.

In Tremezzina's sheltered bay The wintry storms forget to rave; Without,—the white caps and the spray, Within,—a shore with scarce a wave,— A favored spot where tempests cease, And Heaven whispers, "Here is Peace."

Across the water's purple bloom Bellagio, bathed in sunset light, Surmounts the twilight's gathering gloom With glistening walls of pink and white,— The wraith of some celestial strand, The fringe of an enchanted land.

My sweet-voiced fountain softly sings Its good-night lyric to the lake; A skiff glides by on slender wings With scarce a ripple in its wake; And pleasure-boats, their canvas furled, Float idly in an ideal world.

The swan-like steamers come and go; The ruffled water finds its rest; The snow-peaks catch a ruddy glow From crimsoned cloudlets in the west; And, trembling on the tranquil air, Steals forth the vesper-call to prayer.

Oh, peerless strand! I yearn no more To mingle with the maddened throng; Enough for me this wave-kissed shore, The vesper-bell, the fountain's song, The sunlit sail, the Alpine glow, And storied towers of long ago.

Between me and the world's unrest The lake's broad leagues of water lie; Above my wave-protected nest Serenely bends a cloudless sky; And homeward from life's stormy sea The dreams of youth come back to me.



DELIO PATRI

(Inscription on an altar-fragment, found on the Island of Lake Como, 1910, and belonging formerly to a temple of Delian Apollo,—the "Delian Father,"—which no doubt existed there.)

Once more Lake Como's storied isle Reveals the Roman past! Again a stone of classic style The spade hath upward cast; How can such relics thus endure Two thousand years of sepulture?

More eagerly than those who toil For nuggets of mere gold, We seize and rescue from the soil This monument of old,— An altar-fragment, much defaced, Yet on whose surface words are traced.

With reverent hands we cleanse from grime The legend chiselled there, Which now, triumphant over time, Still proves the sculptor's care, Engraved when on this wave-girt hill The Pagan gods were potent still.

'As on their own peculiar page The fingers of the blind Decipher truths of every age, As mind communes with mind, So, one by one, these letters spell A name the ancient world knew well.

For "Delio Patri" heads the lines Inscribed upon this stone, And instantly the mind divines What, else, had been unknown, Since that familiar name makes clear Apollo once was worshipped here;

Perhaps because the spot suggests That other tiny isle, Upon whose shore forever rests The Sun-God's tender smile,— Fair Delos, where, one fabled morn, Both he and Artemis were born.

Beneath, the donor's name is placed, And lower still we read In characters, now half effaced, The motive for his deed;— "Onesimus this altar reared To One he gratefully revered."

Faith, grateful reverence,—these are traits Worth more than rank or fame, And what this brief inscription states Does honor to his name, And makes us wish still more to know Of him who built here long ago.

"And is this all?" the cynic sneers, "The remnant of a shrine?" Alas for him who never hears Or heeds the world divine And in this fragment fails to see A stepping-stone to Deity!

The Sun-God's shrines in ruins lie, But not the glorious sun! A thousand transient faiths may die. All prototypes of One, Since under every form and name Their essence still remains the same.



ACQUA FREDDA

By Acqua Fredda's cloister-wall I pause to feel the mountain breeze, And watch the shadows eastward fall From immemorial cypress trees.

Like arms outstretched to bless and pray, Those dusky phantoms downward creep To where, by Lenno's curving bay, The peaceful village seems to sleep;

While mirrored peaks of stainless snow Turn crimson 'neath the farther shore, And here and there the sunset glow Threads diamonds on a dripping oar.

But now a tremor breaks the spell, And stirs to life the languid air,— It is the convent's vesper-bell,— The plaintive call to evening prayer;

That prayer which rises like a sigh From every sorrow-laden breast, When twilight dims the garish sky, And day is dying in the west.

Ave Maria! we who miss A mother's love, a mother's care, Implore thee, bring us to that bliss We fondly hope with thee to share!

How sweet and clear, how soft and low Those vesper orisons are sung, In Rome's grand speech of long ago, Forever old, forever young!

And those who chant,—that exiled band, Expelled from France with scorn and hate, How fare they in this foreign land? Is life for them disconsolate?

Have they escaped the sight of pain, Of social strife, of hopeless tears? Does life's dark problem grow more plain, As pass in prayer the tranquil years?

I know not; dare not ask of them; Their souls are read by God alone; But he who would their lives condemn, Should pause before he cast a stone.

So full is life of hate and greed, So vain the world's poor tinselled show, What wonder that some souls have need To flee from all its sin and woe?

I would not join them; yet, in truth, I feel, in leaving them at prayer, That something precious of my youth, Long lost to me, is treasured there.



THE POSTERN GATE

I chose me a lovely garden, Beneath whose ivied wall A lake's blue wavelets murmur As evening shadows fall,—

A garden, whose leafy windows Frame visions of Alpine snow On peaks that burn to crimson In sunset's afterglow.

And there, in its sweet seclusion, I built me a mansion fair, With many a classic statue And Eastern relic rare,

And volumes, whose precious pages Hold all that the wise have said,— The latest among the living, The greatest among the dead.

And I sat in those fragrant arbors Of laurel and palm and pine, And held in the tranquil twilight My darling's hand in mine;

And said "We will here be happy, And let the mad world go; Its gold no longer tempts us, Still less do its pomp and show;

"No more shall its cares annoy us, And under these stately trees With Nature and Art and Letters Our souls shall take their ease."

But a brood of griefs pursued us, Like evil birds of prey; They lodged in the trees' tall branches, They shadowed the cloudless day;

They flew to the darkened casement, And beat on the wind-swept shade, And oft in the sleepless midnight We listened and were afraid;

And daily came the tidings Of folly and crime and woe, And one by one kept dying The friends of long ago.

For the Past is ever one's master, And Memory mocks at space, And Trouble travels with us, However swift our pace;

And envy is always envy, Though called by a foreign name, And perfidy, greed, and malice Are everywhere the same.

I thought I had left behind me That gloomy realm of care, But really one never leaves it, Its shadow is everywhere.

So I learned at last the lesson That walls, and gates, and keys Can never exclude life's sorrows; They enter as they please.

And if we ever acquire The perfect life we crave, A subtle warning tells us Its background is the grave.

Perhaps I have almost reached it, For when I am walking late, I see a shrouded stranger Beside my postern gate;

And a sudden chill creeps o'er me At sight of that figure grim, For I fancy that he is waiting For me in the twilight dim;

And I know he will one day beckon With gesture of command, And I shall follow him mutely. Away to the Silent Land,

And all that I here have treasured In fountain, and tree, and stone Will pass to the hands of others, Whom I have never known.

Hence over his sombre features There flickers a ghostly smile, As if he would say, "What matter? Your cares are not worth while;

"The trouble which gives you anguish, The woes o'er which you weep, Will all be soon forgotten In my long, dreamless sleep.

"Enjoy the fleeting moment; I cannot always wait, And the glow of the coming sunset Is gilding the postern gate."



UNDINE

Spirit of Como, whose rhythmical call Murmurs caressingly under my wall, Why are thy feet, though the hour be late, Mounting the moon-silvered steps of my gate? What is the cause of this passionate strain, Voiced by thy wavelets again and again?

Near to the lake, and surmounting the lawn, Sculptured Undine sits facing the dawn; White, on the rocks of the fountain below, Glistens her form, like a statue of snow; Smiling, she listens, entranced, to the call, Sung so alluringly under my wall.

Leaf-woven ladders of ivy-wreathed vines Fall from the rampart in undulant lines; Silken and slender, they swing in the breeze, Tempting the lover to clamber with ease Up to the garden, to woo and to take Lovely Undine away to the lake.

Boldly Love's wavelets now leap to the land, Swiftly they scale every tremulous strand, Lightly they sway with the wavering screen, White gleam their feet on its background of green; Yet the old parapet, mossy and gray, Never is reached by their glittering spray.

Hear you that music, half song and half sigh? Sylph-like Undine is making reply:— "Though I so motionless sit here above, I am not deaf to thy pleadings of love; Others regard me as passionless stone, Only to thee shall my nature be known.

"Men who behold me, praise merely my art, Never suspecting I too have a heart; Under the marble the world cannot see All I am keeping there only for thee; Secrets of love are of all the most sweet; Mine I will whisper to thee when we meet.

"Under the wall thou hast bravely assailed, Under the vines, where thy wavelets have failed, Passes this fountain; though cradled in snows, Straight to thy waters it secretly flows; Leaving my cold, marble counterpart here, On that swift current I come to thee, dear!"

Hushed is the lover's importunate call; Silence and mystery brood over all; Still my Undine sits facing the dawn; 'Tis but a mask, for her spirit is gone,— Gone on that crystalline path to the deep, Lured there to ecstasy, lulled there to sleep.



JANUARY IN THE TREMEZZINA

Day by day, As if in May, We sail Azzano's beautiful bay; High and low The mountains show Luminous fields of stainless snow, But the air is soft, and the sun is warm, And the lake is free from wind and storm.

Far and nigh, Deep and high, The Alps invade both lake and sky; Base to base Their forms we trace, These in water, those in space,— Duplicate peaks on single shores, As shadow sinks, and substance soars.

To and fro We idly go, Bidding our oarsmen lightly row; Here and there Halting where The vision seems supremely fair; Happy to let our little boat In a flood of opaline splendor float.

Far away Seems to-day The clamorous world of work and play; Ours indeed A different creed From that of the modern god of Speed, Whose converts suffer such grievous waste In strenuous labor and feverish haste!

East or west, A tranquil nest, When curfew rings, is always best, A landscape fair, A volume rare, And a kindred heart, one's peace to share,— What is there better from life to take In a sweet retreat on the Larian lake?



THE WANDERER

Wandering minstrel at my gate, Shivering in the winter gloaming, How appalling seems your fate,— Destined to be always roaming, Singing for a bit of bread And a shelter for your head!

Your sweet voice is all you own, Save the poor, thin clothes you're wearing, And you are not quite alone, For a dog your crust is sharing; Yet o'er many a weary mile You have brought ... a song and smile!

I, who have abundant land, Home with comforts beyond measure, Gardens, loggias, and a strand Where a boat awaits my pleasure, Wonder what would be your story, Were I tramp, and you signore!

Would you weary of control? Long to slip your gilded tether, And with Leo once more stroll, Heedless of the wind and weather? You could hardly do that all, Once ensconced behind my wall.

Every one must make a choice, Life is based on compensation; You have nothing but your voice, I have more, ... but more vexation! Minstrel, you at least are free; Give your smile to slaves like me!



SECLUSION

Shut out the World, shut in the Home! The sea is deeper than its foam; Retain the gem, reject the paste; Withdraw from Mammon's feverish haste, Its tumult and its senseless waste.