* * * * *

The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; I watched the battle from afar as one who understood The shouting and confusion, the bloody, blundering fight— How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right!

The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with fear, The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and veer, The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that flee— The good cause needs a nobler knight to win the victory.

A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright and keen, Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him.

No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his arm; No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; Ah, give me but a year of life—I'll make that glory mine!

* * * * *

Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and creeds, And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted deeds. They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt. I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out.

You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent. Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all.

Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin,— With one short month of such a life a new world would begin!

* * * * *

And love!—I often dream of that—the treasure of the earth; How little they who use the coin have realised its worth! 'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure. But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure.

My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend. Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief.

I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, I'll pay the gratitude I owe for human love and care. Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes—I'll ask to be forgiven, And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven.

For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away Around my altar-fire of love—ah, give me but one day!

* * * * *

What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again? A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain? Thou fool—this night—it's very dark—the last—this choking breath— One prayer—have mercy on a dreamer's soul—God, this is death!



A LEGEND OF SERVICE

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ. For some were grieved because they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. At last, before the whiteness of the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good. With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?" Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: "In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed. But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read the record, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three Who serve me there, and take this word from me: Tell each of them his Master bids him go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; There he shall find a certain task for me: But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. Give thou the message, make my word the test, And crown for me the one who loves me best." Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

* * * * *

First to the Temple door he made his way; And there, because it was a holy-day, He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. One moment at the pulpit step he knelt In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt The angel's hand:—"The Master bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face Went white as death, and for about the space Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?" But answer to his question came there none; The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.

* * * * *

Within the humble house where Malvin spent His studious years, on holy things intent, Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, Weaving with patient toil and willing care A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, And needing but one thread to be complete. Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, The solitary journey, and the length Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, Appalled him. With a doubtful brow He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered "How?" But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, With cold, disheartened voice, "I do not know."

* * * * *

Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek The third and last to whom God bade him speak, Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, With ready heart that faced his work like play, And joyed to find it greater every day! The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, And gave without delay his Lord's command: "He whom thou servest here would have thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?"

The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; He took the golden circlet from his brow And gave the crown to Fermor, answering, "Now! For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, And I have found the man who loves Him best. Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?' He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust."

February, 1902.



THE WHITE BEES

I

LEGEND

Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, Saying, "I will make you keeper of my bees." Golden were the hives and golden was the honey; golden, too, the music Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.

Happy Aristaeus loitered in the garden, wandered in the orchard, Careless and contented, indolent and free; Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated moment When across his pathway came Eurydice.

Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him wild with longing For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and mountain, On through field and forest, in a breathless race.

But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she vanished; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead! Lonely Aristaeus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled.

Mournfully bewailing,—"Ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?" Far and wide he sought them over sea and shore; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,— Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aerial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,— So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

II

THE SWARMING OF THE BEES

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.

Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,— Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,— Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.

Thus the swarming is begun. Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done. Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and gray, Multitudes are on the way. Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.

Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall. Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair. Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! Where is their queen? Who is their master? The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,— What is the honey they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? Forgetfulness and a dream!

But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet clusters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his blustering path. In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk. They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down Weary of fight; The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Passes the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise! The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies. New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,— The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, Forgetfulness and a dream!

III

LEGEND

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristaeus' legend, happy is the ending— Listen while I tell you how he found release.

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.

Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the changing seasons, In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, stars that shone to guide him,— Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!

Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, listened while he taught them Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; how to guard the sheepfolds; How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.

Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer were the harvests, Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour of parting, Memories of kindness and a god-like name.

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking, Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, far from human dwelling, Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around him, Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey, Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last we sleep!

1905.



NEW YEAR'S EVE

I

The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting, complete In every line, a crystal sphere, And full of intimate and secret cheer. Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

II

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved,— She of the blue-gray eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,— From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death. I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance passionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good for ever gone. I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To her sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away. The bell rang shrill and lonely,—then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him,—but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came! There in the dear old dusky room she stood Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood. "You did not ask for me," she said, "And so I will not let you take my hand; But I must hear what secret talk you planned With father. Come, my friend, be good, And tell me your affairs of state: Why you have stayed away and made me wait So long. Sit down beside me here,— And, do you know, it seems a year Since we have talked together,—why so late?" Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood. She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends. (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). "Now come," she said, "To-night we will collaborate Again; I'll put you to the test. Here's one I never found the way to do,— The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,— I give this song to you." And then she read: Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder, Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.

* * * * *

But all the while, a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: "Is it herself, and is she truly here, And was I dreaming when I heard That she was dead last year? Or was it true, and is she but a shade Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade When her sweet ghostly part is played And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?"

But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. "Will you not give me now your hand, Dear Marguerite," I asked, "to touch and hold, That by this token I may understand You are the same true friend you were of old?" She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw the morn arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine. Dear God, it was not cold But warm with vital heat! "You live!" I cried, "you live, dear Marguerite!" When I awoke; but strangely comforted, Although I knew again that she was dead.

III

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had. But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house,—and oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!

1905.



THE VAIN KING

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, A giant ruby glittered in his crown: Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town, In him the glories of an ancient line Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, Were centred; and to him with loyal awe The people looked for leadership and law. Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, Were like a single sword within his hand; A hundred courts, with power of life and death, Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; And all the sacred growths that men had known Of order and of rule upheld his throne.

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart As fits a man to play a royal part. Not his the pride that honours as a trust The right to rule, the duty to be just: Not his the dignity that bends to bear The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, And labours like the peasant at his gate, To serve the people and protect the State. Another pride was his, and other joys: To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, With which he played at glory's idle game, To please himself and win the wreaths of fame. The throne his fathers held from age to age, To his ambition seemed a fitting stage Built for King Martin to display at will, His mighty strength and universal skill. No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries At every step to win admiring eyes, No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws From gaping crowds the thunder of applause, Was vainer than the King: his only thirst Was to be hailed, in every race, the first. When tournament was held, in knightly guise The King would ride the lists and win the prize; When music charmed the court, with golden lyre The King would take the stage and lead the choir; In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; In painting, he would wield the master's brush; In high debate,—"the King is speaking! Hush!" Thus, with a restless heart, in every field He sought renown, and made his subjects yield. But while he played the petty games of life His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; Corruption through the court unheeded crept, And on the seat of honour justice slept. The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, And weakness wore the nation's heart away.

Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes— Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; And when a patient people are oppressed, The land that bore them feels it in her breast. Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; The trees complain together in the night, Voices of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and free the land.

But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please. Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. There in the stream a patient angler stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood. His silver spoil lay near him on the green: "Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen! Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft— This man must be the master of his craft!" "An easy art!" the jealous King replied: "Myself could learn it better, if I tried, And catch a hundred larger fish a week— Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!" The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: "'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; Yet if the King commands it, I obey. But one condition of the strife I pray: The fisherman who brings the least to land Shall do whate'er the other may command." Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou! For I shall win, and rule thee then as now."

Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate And slow, King Martin left the helm of State, While to the novel game with eager zest He all his time and all his powers addressed. Sure such a sight was never seen before! In robe and crown the monarch trod the shore; His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, His jewelled reel ran out a silken line. With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain. On Friday, when the week was almost spent, He scanned his empty creel with discontent, Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, And drew—a thousand minnows from the tide! Then came the angler to conclude the match, And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch— A hundred salmon, greater than before. "I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score." Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: "Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!" "Nay, thou hast lost them both," the angler said; And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, And in his place the River-god was seen. "Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, Eager to win in every trivial strife,— Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!" Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed: His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, His crown a ruby crest,—away he flew!

So every summer day along the stream The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, And scolds the angler with a mocking scream.

April, 1904.



THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE

A tale that the poet Rueckert told To German children, in days of old; Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme Like a merry mummer of ancient time, And sent, in its English dress, to please The little folk of the Christmas trees.

A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should. His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.

But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all. Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, "It was not very kind To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! If the fays of the forest would only ask me, I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,— In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad. When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold. I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, "Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine? And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" "Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress." So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.

"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves Would be sure to rob me in passing by. If the fairies would give me another try, I'd wish for something that cost much less, And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more. When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright. "Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!" And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.

Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! Perhaps I have made another mistake In choosing a dress so easy to break. If the fairies only would hear me again I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,— In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet. "I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find The sort of a suit that would be to my mind. There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, And none as attractive as I am, I guess." But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk. So he came up close for a nearer view;— "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! You're the most attractive kind of a tree, And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea." So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.

Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak— He was so ashamed that he could not speak. He knew at last he had been a fool, To think of breaking the forest rule, And choosing a dress himself to please, Because he envied the other trees. But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, And he woke to find it was all a dream. For there in his evergreen dress he stood, A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, His needles were green when the white snow fell. And always contented and happy was he,— The very best kind of a Christmas tree.



"GRAN' BOULE"

A SEAMAN'S TALE OF THE SEA

We men hat go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,— We love it a different way from you poets that 'bide on the land. We are fond of it, sure! But, you take it as comin' from me, There's a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman can't understand.

Oh, who could help likin' the salty smell, and the blue Of the waves that are lazily breathin' as if they dreamed in the sun? She's a Sleepin' Beauty, the sea,—but you can't tell what she'll do; And the seamen never trust her,—they know too well what she's done!

She's a wench like one that I saw in a singin'-play,— Carmen they called her,—Lord, what a life her lovers did lead! She'd cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away; And then,—she'd curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a weed.

You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please; But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife; And a seaman's thought of growin' old at his ease Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.

So that was old Poisson's dream,—did you know the Cap'? A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick as a fish,— Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map,— And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his darlin' wish.

"I 'ave sail," says he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk, "Mos' forty-two year; I 'ave go on all part of de worl' dat ees wet. I'm seeck of de boat and de water. I rader walk Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an' eef we get tire', we set!

"You see dat bateau, Sainte Brigitte? I bring 'er dh'are From de Breton coas', by gar, jus' feefteen year bifore. She ole w'en she come on Kebec, but Holloway Freres Dey buy 'er, an' hire me run 'er along dat dam' Nort' Shore.

"Dose engine one leetl' bit cranky,—too ole, you see,— She roll and peetch in de wave'. But I lak' 'er pretty well; An' dat sheep she lak' 'er captaine, sure, dat's me! Wit' forty ton coal in de bunker, I tek' dat sheep t'rou' hell.

"But I don' wan' risk it no more; I had bonne chance: I save already ten t'ousan' dollar', dat's plenty I s'pose! Nex' winter I buy dat house wid de garden on France An' I tell adieu to de sea, and I leev' on de lan' in ripose."

All summer he talked of his house,—you could see the flowers Abloom, and the pear-trees trained on the garden-wall so trim, And the Captain awalkin' and smokin' away the hours,— He thought he had done with the sea, but the sea hadn't done with him!

It was late in the fall when he made the last regular run, Clear down to the Esquimault Point and back with his rickety ship; She hammered and pounded a lot, for the storms had begun; But he drove her,—and went for his season's pay at the end of the trip.

Now the Holloway Brothers are greedy and thin little men, With their eyes set close together, and money's their only God; So they told the Cap' he must run the "Bridget" again, To fetch a cargo from Moisie, two thousand quintals of cod.

He said the season was over. They said: "Not yet. You finish the whole of your job, old man, or you don't draw a cent!" (They had the "Bridget" insured for all they could get.) And the Captain objected, and cursed, and cried. But he went.

They took on the cargo at Moisie, and folks beside,— Three traders, a priest, and a couple of nuns, and a girl For a school at Quebec,—when the Captain saw her he sighed, And said: "Ma littl' Fifi got hair lak' dat, all curl!"

The snow had fallen a foot, and the wind was high, When the "Bridget" butted her way thro' the billows on Moisie bar. The darkness grew with the gale, not a star in the sky, And the Captain swore: "We mus' make Sept Isles to-night, by gar!"

He couldn't go back, for he didn't dare to turn; The sea would have thrown the ship like a mustang noosed with a rope; For the monstrous waves were leapin' high astern, And the shelter of Seven Island Bay was the only hope.

There's a bunch of broken hills half sunk in the mouth Of the bay, with their jagged peaks afoam; and the Captain thought He could pass to the north; but the sea kept shovin' him south, With her harlot hands, in the snow-blind murk, till she had him caught.

She had waited forty years for a night like this,— Did he think he could leave her now, and live in a cottage, the fool? She headed him straight for the island he couldn't miss; And heaved his boat in the dark,—and smashed it against Gran' Boule.

How the Captain and half of the people clambered ashore, Through the surf and the snow in the gloom of that horrible night, There's no one ever will know. For two days more The death-white shroud of the tempest covered the island from sight.

How they suffered, and struggled, and died, will never be told; We discovered them all at last when we reached Gran' Boule with a boat; The drowned and the frozen were lyin' stiff and cold, And the poor little girl with the curls was wrapped in the Captain's coat.

Go write your song of the sea as the landsmen do, And call her your "great sweet mother," your "bride," and all the rest; She was made to be loved,—but remember, she won't love you,— The men who trust her the least are the sailors who know her the best.



HEROES OF THE "TITANIC"

Honour the brave who sleep Where the lost "Titanic" lies, The men who knew what a man must do When he looks Death in the eyes.

"Women and children first,"— Ah, strong and tender cry! The sons whom women had borne and nursed, Remembered,—and dared to die.

The boats crept off in the dark: The great ship groaned: and then,— O stars of the night, who saw that sight, Bear witness, These were men!

November 9, 1912.



THE STANDARD-BEARER

I

"How can I tell," Sir Edmund said, "Who has the right or the wrong o' this thing? Cromwell stands for the people's cause, Charles is crowned by the ancient laws; English meadows are sopping red, Englishmen striking each other dead,— Times are black as a raven's wing. Out of the ruck and the murk I see Only one thing! The King has trusted his banner to me, And I must fight for the King."

II

Into the thick of the Edgehill fight Sir Edmund rode with a shout; and the ring Of grim-faced, hard-hitting Parliament men Swallowed him up,—it was one against ten! He fought for the standard with all his might, Never again did he come to sight— Victor, hid by the raven's wing! After the battle had passed we found Only one thing,— The hand of Sir Edmund gripped around The banner-staff of his King.

1914.



THE PROUD LADY

When Staevoren town was in its prime And queened the Zuyder Zee, Her ships went out to every clime With costly merchantry.

A lady dwelt in that rich town, The fairest in all the land; She walked abroad in a velvet gown, With many rings on her hand.

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold, Her lips as coral red, Her roving eyes were blue and bold, And her heart with pride was fed.

For she was proud of her father's ships, As she watched them gaily pass; And pride looked out of her eyes and lips When she saw herself in the glass.

"Now come," she said to the captains ten, Who were ready to put to sea, "Ye are all my men and my father's men, And what will ye do for me?"

"Go north and south, go east and west, And get me gifts," she said. "And he who bringeth me home the best, With that man will I wed."

So they all fared forth, and sought with care In many a famous mart, For satins and silks and jewels rare, To win that lady's heart.

She looked at them all with never a thought, And careless put them by; "I am not fain of the things ye brought, Enough of these have I."

The last that came was the head of the fleet, His name was Jan Borel; He bent his knee at the lady's feet,— In truth he loved her well.

"I've brought thee home the best i' the world, A shipful of Danzig corn!" She stared at him long; her red lips curled, Her blue eyes filled with scorn.

"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, A loon thou art," she said. "Am I a starving beggar girl? Shall I ever lack for bread?"

"Go empty all thy sacks of grain Into the nearest sea, And never show thy face again To make a mock of me."

Young Jan Borel, he answered naught, But in the harbour cast The sacks of golden corn he brought, And groaned when fell the last.

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail, And out to sea he bore; He passed the Helder in a gale And came again no more.

But the grains of corn went drifting down Like devil-scattered seed, To sow the harbour of the town With a wicked growth of weed.

The roots were thick and the silt and sand Were gathered day by day, Till not a furlong out from land A shoal had barred the way.

Then Staevoren town saw evil years, No ships could out or in, The boats lay rotting at the piers, And the mouldy grain in the bin.

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn, The town in ruin stood, The lady's velvet gown was torn, Her rings were sold for food.

Her father had perished long ago, But the lady held her pride, She walked with a scornful step and slow, Till at last in her rags she died.

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town, When the midnight moon shines free, A woman walks in a velvet gown And scatters corn in the sea.

1917.



LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE



A MILE WITH ME

O who will walk a mile with me Along life's merry way? A comrade blithe and full of glee, Who dares to laugh out loud and free, And let his frolic fancy play, Like a happy child, through the flowers gay That fill the field and fringe the way Where he walks a mile with me.

And who will walk a mile with me Along life's weary way? A friend whose heart has eyes to see The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea, And the quiet rest at the end o' the day,— A friend who knows, and dares to say, The brave, sweet words that cheer the way Where he walks a mile with me.

With such a comrade, such a friend, I fain would walk till journeys end, Through summer sunshine, winter rain, And then?—Farewell, we shall meet again!



THE THREE BEST THINGS

I

WORK

Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way."

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.

II

LOVE

Let me but love my love without disguise, Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new, Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue, Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes, Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; But what I am, to that let me be true, And let me worship where my love is due, And so through love and worship let me rise.

For love is but the heart's immortal thirst To be completely known and all forgiven, Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven: So take me, dear, and understand my worst, And freely pardon it, because confessed, And let me find in loving thee, my best.

III

LIFE

Let me but live my life from year to year, With forward face and unreluctant soul; Not hurrying to, nor turning from, the goal; Not mourning for the things that disappear In the dim past, nor holding back in fear From what the future veils; but with a whole And happy heart, that pays its toll To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down, O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, My heart will keep the courage of the quest, And hope the road's last turn will be the best.



RELIANCE

Not to the swift, the race: Not to the strong, the fight: Not to the righteous, perfect grace Not to the wise, the light.

But often faltering feet Come surest to the goal; And they who walk in darkness meet The sunrise of the soul.

A thousand times by night The Syrian hosts have died; A thousand times the vanquished right Hath risen, glorified.

The truth the wise men sought Was spoken by a child; The alabaster box was brought In trembling hands defiled.

Not from my torch, the gleam, But from the stars above: Not from my heart, life's crystal stream, But from the depths of Love.



DOORS OF DARING

The mountains that inclose the vale With walls of granite, steep and high, Invite the fearless foot to scale Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea That flows and foams from shore to shore, Calls to its sunburned chivalry, "Push out, set sail, explore!"

The bars of life at which we fret, That seem to prison and control, Are but the doors of daring, set Ajar before the soul.

Say not, "Too poor," but freely give; Sigh not, "Too weak," but boldly try; You never can begin to live Until you dare to die.



THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN

When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; He held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be."



LOVE'S REASON

For that thy face is fair I love thee not; Nor yet because thy brown benignant eyes Have sudden gleams of gladness and surprise, Like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit spot: Nor for thy body, born without a blot, And loveliest when it shines with no disguise Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise,— For all these outward things I love thee not:

But for a something in thy form and face, Thy looks and ways, of primal harmony; A certain soothing charm, a vital grace That breathes of the eternal womanly, And makes me feel the warmth of Nature's breast, When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest.



THE ECHO IN THE HEART

It's little I can tell About the birds in books; And yet I know them well, By their music and their looks: When May comes down the lane, Her airy lovers throng To welcome her with song, And follow in her train: Each minstrel weaves his part In that wild-flowery strain, And I know them all again By their echo in my heart.

It's little that I care About my darling's place In books of beauty rare, Or heraldries of race: For when she steps in view, It matters not to me What her sweet type may be, Of woman, old or new. I can't explain the art, But I know her for my own, Because her lightest tone Wakes an echo in my heart.



"UNDINE"

'Twas far away and long ago, When I was but a dreaming boy, This fairy tale of love and woe Entranced my heart with tearful joy; And while with white Undine I wept Your spirit,—ah, how strange it seems,— Was cradled in some star, and slept, Unconscious of her coming dreams.



"RENCONTRE"

Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, That I am going out the door while you come in the gate? For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en fete; You are the coming guest, my dear,—for me the horses wait.

I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; If you had only come before I might have been your guide, And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide; But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to ride.

Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the reddest rose Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden glows,— A single rose,—I ask no more of what your love bestows; It is enough to give, my dear,—a flower to him who goes.

The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many a day, But I must ride the lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draught, I pray, And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way.



LOVE IN A LOOK

Let me but feel thy look's embrace, Transparent, pure, and warm, And I'll not ask to touch thy face, Or fold thee in mine arm. For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, Arrayed in candid bliss, And draws me to her with a charm More close than any kiss.

A loving-cup of golden wine, Songs of a silver brook, And fragrant breaths of eglantine, Are mingled in thy look. More fair they are than any star, Thy topaz eyes divine— And deep within their trysting-nook Thy spirit blends with mine.



MY APRIL LADY

When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And my heart breaks in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.



A LOVER'S ENVY

I envy every flower that blows Along the meadow where she goes, And every bird that sings to her, And every breeze that brings to her The fragrance of the rose.

I envy every poet's rhyme That moves her heart at eventime, And every tree that wears for her Its brightest bloom, and bears for her The fruitage of its prime.

I envy every Southern night That paves her path with moonbeams white, And silvers all the leaves for her, And in their shadow weaves for her A dream of dear delight.

I envy none whose love requires Of her a gift, a task that tires: I only long to live to her, I only ask to give to her, All that her heart desires.



FIRE-FLY CITY

Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight: Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting, I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night.

Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing, Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream; Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam.

Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions; Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green; Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions,— Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean?

Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me? Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, kisses and wine: Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine!

Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting,— Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair, Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting, The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air!



THE GENTLE TRAVELLER

"Through many a land your journey ran, And showed the best the world can boast: Now tell me, traveller, if you can, The place that pleased you most."

She laid her hands upon my breast, And murmured gently in my ear, "The place I loved and liked the best Was in your arms, my dear!"



NEPENTHE

Yes, it was like you to forget, And cancel in the welcome of your smile My deep arrears of debt, And with the putting forth of both your hands To sweep away the bars my folly set Between us—bitter thoughts, and harsh demands, And reckless deeds that seemed untrue To love, when all the while My heart was aching through and through For you, sweet heart, and only you.

Yet, as I turned to come to you again, I thought there must be many a mile Of sorrowful reproach to cross, And many an hour of mutual pain To bear, until I could make plain That all my pride was but the fear of loss, And all my doubt the shadow of despair To win a heart so innocent and fair; And even that which looked most ill Was but the fever-fret and effort vain To dull the thirst which you alone could still.

But as I turned, the desert miles were crossed, And when I came, the weary hours were sped! For there you stood beside the open door, Glad, gracious, smiling as before, And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread Restored me to the Eden I had lost. Never a word of cold reproof, No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse The culprit whom they hold aloof,— Ah, 'tis not thus that other women use The empire they have won! For there is none like you, beloved,—none Secure enough to do what you have done. Where did you learn this heavenly art,— You sweetest and most wise of all that live,— With silent welcome to impart Assurance of the royal heart That never questions where it would forgive?

None but a queen could pardon me like this! My sovereign lady, let me lay Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss Of penitence, then close the fingers up, Thus—thus! Now give the cup Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth, And come—the garden blooms with bliss, The wind is in the south, The rose of love with dew is wet— Dear, it was like you to forget!



DAY AND NIGHT

How long is the night, brother, And how long is the day? Oh, the day's too short for a happy task, And the day's too short for play; And the night's too short for the bliss of love, For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray, While the stars die out in the blue above, And the wan moon fades away.

How short is the day, brother, And how short is the night? Oh, the day's too long for a heavy task, And long, long, long is the night, When the wakeful hours are filled with pain, And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears, And sighs for the dawn to come again,— The night is a thousand years!

How long is a life, dear God, And how fast does it flow? The measure of life is a flame in the soul: It is neither swift nor slow. But the vision of time is the shadow cast By the fleeting world on the body's wall; When it fades there is neither future nor past, But love is all in all.



HESPER

Her eyes are like the evening air, Her voice is like a rose, Her lips are like a lovely song, That ripples as it flows, And she herself is sweeter than The sweetest thing she knows.

A slender, haunting, twilight form Of wonder and surprise, She seemed a fairy or a child, Till, deep within her eyes, I saw the homeward-leading star Of womanhood arise.



ARRIVAL

Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, Along a path I had not traced and could not understand, I travelled fast and far for this,—to take thee by the hand.

A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee, A mariner without a dream of what his port would be, So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place, O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race, The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face!

Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam! The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.



DEPARTURE

Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, And why is the garden so gay? Do you know that my days of delight are done, Do you know I am going away? If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream You were sorry for me in my pain, And the heavily drooping flowers would seem To be weeping with me in the rain.

But why is your head so low, sweet heart, And why are your eyes overcast? Are you crying because you know we must part, Do you think this embrace is our last? Then kiss me again, and again, and again, Look up as you bid me good-bye! For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear, And your smile is the sun in my sky.



THE BLACK BIRDS

I

Once, only once, I saw it clear,— That Eden every human heart has dreamed A hundred times, but always far away! Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, Through the still atmosphere Of that enchanted day, To lie wide open to my weary feet: A little land of love and joy and rest, With meadows of soft green, Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet With delicate breath of violets unseen,— And, tranquil 'mid the bloom As if it waited for a coming guest, A little house of peace and joy and love Was nested like a snow-white dove.

II

From the rough mountain where I stood, Homesick for happiness, Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood To cross, and then the long distress Of solitude would be forever past,— I should be home at last. But not too soon! oh, let me linger here And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow, On all this loveliness, so near, And mine to-morrow!

III

Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, A dark bird flew, Silent, with sable wings. Close in his wake another came,— Fragments of midnight floating through The sunset flame,— Another and another, weaving rings Of blackness on the primrose sky,— Another, and another, look, a score, A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, They boiled into the lucid air Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair! And more, and more, and ever more, The numberless, ill-omened brood Flapping their ragged plumes, Possessed the landscape and the evening light With menaces and glooms. Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place Where once I saw the little house so white Amid the flowers, covering every trace Of beauty from my troubled sight,— And suddenly it was night!

IV

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; And while the morning made A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, I saw the sable birds on every limb, Clinging together closely in the shade, And croaking placidly their surly hymn. But, oh, the little land of peace and love That those night-loving wings had poised above,— Where was it gone? Lost, lost, forevermore! Only a cottage, dull and gray, In the cold light of dawn, With iron bars across the door: Only a garden where the drooping head Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay, Hung o'er a barren bed: Only a desolate field that lay Untilled beneath the desolate day,— Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these! So, wondering, I passed along my way, With anger in my heart, too deep for words, Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees, And the black magic of the croaking birds.



WITHOUT DISGUISE

If I have erred in showing all my heart, And lost your favour by a lack of pride; If standing like a beggar at your side With naked feet, I have forgot the art Of those who bargain well in passion's mart, And win the thing they want by what they hide; Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.

The sin, if sin it was, I do repent, And take the penance on myself alone; Yet after I have borne the punishment, I shall not fear to stand before the throne Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: "At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!"



AN HOUR

You only promised me a single hour: But in that hour I journeyed through a year Of life: the joy of finding you,—the fear Of losing you again,—the sense of power To make you all my own,—the sudden shower Of tears that came because you were more dear Than words could ever tell you,—then,—the clear Soft rapture when I plucked love's crimson flower.

An hour,—a year,—I felt your bosom rise And fall with mystic tides, and saw the gleam Of undiscovered stars within your eyes,— A year,—an hour? I knew not, for the stream Of love had carried me to Paradise, Where all the forms of Time are like a dream.



"RAPPELLE-TOI"

Remember, when the timid light Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming; Remember, when the pensive night Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming; When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats high, When tender joys through evening shades draw nigh, Hark, from the woodland deeps A gentle whisper creeps, Remember!

Remember, when the hand of fate My life from thine forevermore has parted; When sorrow, exile, and the weight Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted; Think of my loyal love, my last adieu; Absence and time are naught, if we are true; Long as my heart shall beat, To thine it will repeat, Remember!

Remember, when the cool, dark tomb Receives my heart into its quiet keeping, And some sweet flower begins to bloom Above the grassy mound where I am sleeping; Ah then, my face thou nevermore shalt see, But still my soul will linger close to thee, And in the holy place of night, The litany of love recite,— Remember!

Freely rendered from the French of Alfred de Musset.



LOVE'S NEARNESS

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer Across the sea; And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer I think of thee.

I see thy form when down the distant highway The dust-clouds rise; In darkest night, above the mountain by-way I see thine eyes.

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning Aloud rejoice; And on the lonely moor in silence yearning I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed, Yet thou art near. The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved If thou wert here!

From the German of Goethe, 1898.



TWO SONGS OF HEINE

I

"EIN FICHTENBAUM"

A fir-tree standeth lonely On a barren northern height, Asleep, while winter covers His rest with robes of white.

In dreams, he sees a palm-tree In the golden morning-land; She droops alone and silent In burning wastes of sand.

II

"DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME"

Fair art thou as a flower And innocent and shy: I look on thee and sorrow; I grieve, I know not why.

I long to lay, in blessing, My hand upon thy brow, And pray that God may keep thee As fair and pure as now.

1872.



EIGHT ECHOES FROM THE POEMS OF AUGUSTE ANGELLIER

I

THE IVORY CRADLE

The cradle I have made for thee Is carved of orient ivory, And curtained round with wavy silk More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk.

A twig of box, a lilac spray, Will drive the goblin-horde away; And charm thy childlike heart to keep Her happy dream and virgin sleep.

Within that pure and fragrant nest, I'll rock thy gentle soul to rest, With tender songs we need not fear To have a passing angel hear.

Ah, long and long I fain would hold The snowy curtain's guardian fold Around thy crystal visions, born In clearness of the early morn.

But look, the sun is glowing red With triumph in his golden bed; Aurora's virgin whiteness dies In crimson glory of the skies.

The rapid flame will burn its way Through these white curtains, too, one day; The ivory cradle will be left Undone, and broken, and bereft.

II

DREAMS

Often I dream your big blue eyes, Though loth their meaning to confess, Regard me with a clear surprise Of dawning tenderness.

Often I dream you gladly hear The words I hardly dare to breathe,— The words that falter in their fear To tell what throbs beneath.

Often I dream your hand in mine Falls like a flower at eventide, And down the path we leave a line Of footsteps side by side.

But ah, in all my dreams of bliss, In passion's hunger, fever's drouth, I never dare to dream of this: My lips upon your mouth.

And so I dream your big blue eyes, That look on me with tenderness, Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise, And dim with dear distress.

III

THE GARLAND OF SLEEP

A wreath of poppy flowers, With leaves of lotus blended, Is carved on Life's facade of hours, From night to night suspended.

Along the columned wall, From birth's low portal starting, It flows, with even rise and fall, To death's dark door of parting.

How short each measured arc, How brief the columns' number! The wreath begins and ends in dark, And leads from sleep to slumber.

The marble garland seems, With braided leaf and bloom, To deck the palace of our dreams As if it were a tomb.

IV

TRANQUIL HABIT

Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands, Doth heal our deepest wounds from day to day With cooling, soothing oil, and firmly lay Around the broken heart her gentle bands.

Her nursing is as calm as Nature's care; She doth not weep with us; yet none the less Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness,— We fall asleep in peace when she is there.

Upon the mirror of the mind her breath Is like a cloud, to hide the fading trace Of that dear smile, of that remembered face, Whose presence were the joy and pang of death.

And he who clings to sorrow overmuch, Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless, More than all cries of pity and distress,— Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch!

V

THE OLD BRIDGE

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones All covered with lichens red and gray, Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: And we were they!

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear The love that he vowed would never die, He called her his darling, his dove most dear: And he was I!

She covered her face from the pale moonlight With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through, And listened and listened with long delight: And she was you!

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust, Two lovers are learning the same old lore; He tells his love, and she looks her trust: But we,—no more!

VI

EYES AND LIPS

1

Our silent eyes alone interpreted The new-born feeling in the heart of each: In yours I read your sorrow without speech, Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed. Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil, I saw the moving lights of trouble shine; And then my eyes were brightened as with wine, My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale!

Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed Another language than the eyes, doth learn To speak it perfectly: above the crowd Our looks exchange avowals and desires,— Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn, And talk to one another by their fires.

2

When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine Of climbing roses, my first kiss shall fall On you, sweet eyes, that mutely told me all,— Through you my soul will rise to make her mine. Upon your drooping lids, blue-veined and fair, The touch of tenderness I first will lay, You springs of joy, lights of my gloomy day, Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare!

And when you open, eyes of my fond dove, Your look will shine with new delight, made sure By this forerunner of a faithful love. Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure, That you should bear the sealing kisses true Of love unhoped that came to me through you.

3

This was my thought; but when beneath the rose That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest, In friendly dusk I held her on my breast For one brief moment,—while I saw you close, Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear The proffered homage of my wistful prayer,— In that high moment, by your grace obtained,

Forgetting your avowals, your alarms, Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes, Forgetting that you gave her to my arms, I broke my promise; and my first caress, Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise,— Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness!

VII

AN EVOCATION

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss, A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray That promptly runs to crown the hills with bliss Of purple dawn before the golden day, And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap. My brow was not unworthy your caress; For some foreboding joy had bade me keep From all affront the place your lips would bless.

Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill, But I remained confused, ashamed, and still. Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain, I felt,—like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day,— A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain!

VIII

RESIGNATION

1

Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend! The holy love that wounded you so deep Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep The fragrant dew of healing will descend. Your children,—ah, how quickly they will grow Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun, Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun, To hide the shaded path where I must go.

You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall, Your mother-soul will fill with happiness When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call, Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf That We has wrought to veil your vanished grief.

2

Then I alone shall suffer! I shall bear The double burden of our grief alone, While I enlarge my soul to take your share Of pain and hold it close beside my own. Our love is torn asunder; but the crown Of thorns that love has woven I will make My relic sacrosanct, and press it down Upon my bleeding heart that will not break.

Ah, that will be the depth of solitude! For my regret, that evermore endures, Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours; And when the evening comes, no gentle brood Of wondering children, gathered at my side, Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide.

Freely rendered from the French, 1911.



RAPPEL D'AMOUR

Come home, my love, come home! The twilight is falling, The whippoorwill calling, The night is very near, And the darkness full of fear, Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, my love, come home! In folly we parted, And now, lonely hearted, I know you look in vain For a love like mine again; Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, dear love, come home! I've much to forgive you, And more yet to give you. I'll put a little light In the window every night,— Come home to my arms, come home.



THE RIVER OF DREAMS

The river of dreams runs quietly down From its hidden home in the forest of sleep, With a measureless motion calm and deep; And my boat slips out on the current brown, In a tranquil bay where the trees incline Far over the waves, and creepers twine Far over the boughs, as if to steep Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes By a secret way that no man knows, Under the branches bending, Under the shadows blending, And the body rests, and the passive soul Is drifted along to an unseen goal, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs gently down, With a leisurely flow that bears my bark Out of the visionless woods of dark, Into a glory that seems to crown Valley and hill with light from far, Clearer than sun or moon or star, Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark How the radiance pulses everywhere, In the shadowless vault of lucid air! Over the mountains shimmering, Up from the fountains glimmering,— Tis the mystical glow of the inner light, That shines in the very noon of night, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs murmuring down, Through the fairest garden that ever grew; And now, as my boat goes drifting through, A hundred voices arise to drown The river's whisper, and charm my ear With a sound I have often longed to hear,— A magical music, strange and new, The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song, The virginal chant of the lilies' throng, Blue-bells silverly ringing, Pansies merrily singing,— For all the flowers have found their voice; And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs broadening down, Away from the peaceful garden-shore, With a current that deepens more and more, By the league-long walls of a mighty town; And I see the hurrying crowds of men Gather like clouds and dissolve again; But never a face I have seen before. They come and go, they shift and change, Their ways and looks are wild and strange,— This is a city haunted, A multitude enchanted! At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear, And never a sound from their lips I hear, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs darkly down Into the heart of a desolate land, With ruined temples half-buried in sand, And riven hills, whose black brows frown Over the shuddering, lonely wave. The air grows dim with the dust of the grave; No sign of life on the dreary strand; No ray of light on the mountain's crest; And a weary wind that cannot rest Comes down the valley creeping, Lamenting, wailing, weeping,— I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath Is choked with the clinging fog of death, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs trembling down, Out of the valley of nameless fear, Into a country calm and clear, With a mystical name of high renown,— A name that I know, but may not tell,— And there the friends that I loved so well, Old companions forever dear, Come beckoning down to the river shore, And hail my boat with the voice of yore. Fair and sweet are the places Where I see their unchanged faces! And I feel in my heart with a secret thrill, That the loved and lost are living still, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs dimly down By a secret way that no man knows; But the soul lives on while the river flows Through the gardens bright and the forests brown; And I often think that our whole life seems To be more than half made up of dreams. The changing sights and the passing shows, The morning hopes and the midnight fears, Are left behind with the vanished years; Onward, with ceaseless motion, The life-stream flows to the ocean, While we follow the tide, awake or asleep, Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep, And the shadows melt, and the soul is free,— The river of dreams has reached the sea.

1900.



SONGS OF HEARTH AND ALTAR



A HOME SONG

I read within a poet's book A word that starred the page: "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage!"

Yes, that is true, and something more: You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.



"LITTLE BOATIE"

A SLUMBER-SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

Furl your sail, my little boatie; Here's the haven still and deep, Where the dreaming tides in-streaming Up the channel creep. Now the sunset breeze is dying; Hear the plover, landward flying, Softly down the twilight crying; Come to anchor, little boatie, In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie, Roaring waves are white with foam; Ships are striving, onward driving, Day and night they roam. Father's at the deep-sea trawling, In the darkness, rowing, hauling, While the hungry winds are calling,— God protect him, little boatie, Bring him safely home!

Not for you, my little boatie, Is the wide and weary sea; You're too slender, and too tender, You must bide with me. All day long you have been straying Up and down the shore and playing; Come to harbour, no delaying! Day is over, little boatie, Night falls suddenly.

Furl your sail, my little boatie, Fold your wings, my weary dove. Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling Drowsily above. Cease from sailing, cease from rowing; Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing Safely o'er your rest are glowing, All the night, my little boatie, Harbour-lights of love.

1897.



A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known A mother's love and tender care: And Thou wilt hear, While for my own Mother most dear I make this birthday prayer.

Protect her life, I pray, Who gave the gift of life to me; And may she know, From day to day, The deepening glow Of joy that comes from Thee.

As once upon her breast Fearless and well content I lay, So let her heart, On Thee at rest, Feel fear depart And trouble fade away.

Ah, hold her by the hand, As once her hand held mine; And though she may Not understand Life's winding way, Lead her in peace divine.

I cannot pay my debt For all the love that she has given; But Thou, love's Lord, Wilt not forget Her due reward,— Bless her in earth and heaven.



TRANSFORMATION

Only a little shrivelled seed, It might be flower, or grass, or weed; Only a box of earth on the edge Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge; Only a few scant summer showers; Only a few clear shining hours; That was all. Yet God could make Out of these, for a sick child's sake, A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet As ever broke at an angel's feet.

Only a life of barren pain, Wet with sorrowful tears for rain, Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream; A life as common and brown and bare As the box of earth in the window there; Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom Of a perfect soul in that narrow room; Pure as the snowy leaves that fold Over the flower's heart of gold.



RENDEZVOUS

I count that friendship little worth Which has not many things untold, Great longings that no words can hold, And passion-secrets waiting birth.

Along the slender wires of speech Some message from the heart is sent; But who can tell the whole that's meant? Our dearest thoughts are out of reach.

I have not seen thee, though mine eyes Hold now the image of thy face; In vain, through form, I strive to trace The soul I love: that deeper lies.

A thousand accidents control Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand, And swear to meet me in that land Where friends hold converse soul to soul.



GRATITUDE

"Do you give thanks for this?—or that?" No, God be thanked I am not grateful In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked As one, two, three, and four,—that would be hateful.

I only know that every day brings good above My poor deserving; I only feel that in the road of Life true Love Is leading me along and never swerving.

Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall, I would not measure As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small; But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless The Hand that feeds us; And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness, Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.



PEACE

With eager heart and will on fire, I strove to win my great desire. "Peace shall be mine," I said; but life Grew bitter in the barren strife.

My soul was weary, and my pride Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried, "God grant me peace or I must die;" The dumb stars glittered no reply.

Broken at last, I bowed my head, Forgetting all myself, and said, "Whatever comes, His will be done;" And in that moment peace was won.



SANTA CHRISTINA

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls That His own hand hath planted, Not in some far-off heavenly place, Or solitude enchanted, But here and there and everywhere,— In lonely field, or crowded town, God sees a flower when He looks down.

Some wear the lily's stainless white, And some the rose of passion, And some the violet's heavenly blue, But each in its own fashion, With silent bloom and soft perfume, Is praising Him who from above Beholds each lifted face of love.

One such I knew,—and had the grace To thank my God for knowing: The beauty of her quiet life Was like a rose in blowing, So fair and sweet, so all-complete And all unconscious, as a flower, That light and fragrance were her dower.

No convent-garden held this rose, Concealed like secret treasure; No royal terrace guarded her For some sole monarch's pleasure. She made her shrine, this saint of mine, In a bright home where children played; And there she wrought and there she prayed.

In sunshine, when the days were glad, She had the art of keeping The clearest rays, to give again In days of rain and weeping; Her blessed heart could still impart Some portion of its secret grace, And charity shone in her face.

In joy she grew from year to year; And sorrow made her sweeter; And every comfort, still more kind; And every loss, completer. Her children came to love her name,— "Christina,"—'twas a lip's caress; And when they called, they seemed to bless.

No more they call, for she is gone Too far away to hear them; And yet they often breathe her name As if she lingered near them; They cannot reach her with love's speech, But when they say "Christina" now 'Tis like a prayer or like a vow:

A vow to keep her life alive In deeds of pure affection, So that her love shall find in them A daily resurrection; A constant prayer that they may wear Some touch of that supernal light With which she blossoms in God's sight.



THE BARGAIN

What shall I give for thee, Thou Pearl of greatest price? For all the treasures I possess Would not suffice.

I give my store of gold; It is but earthly dross: But thou wilt make me rich, beyond All fear of loss.

Mine honours I resign; They are but small at best: Thou like a royal star wilt shine Upon my breast.

My worldly joys I give, The flowers with which I played; Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair, Shall never fade.

Dear Lord, is that enough? Nay, not a thousandth part. Well, then, I have but one thing more: Take Thou my heart.



TO THE CHILD JESUS

I

THE NATIVITY

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, A happy human child, among the homes of men, The age of doubt would pass,—the vision of Thy face Would silently restore the childhood of the race.

II

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger, Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth, Exiled again from thy rest in the manger, A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth,— Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary, Wandering far from the land that they love; Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary, Safe to its home in thy presence above.



BITTER-SWEET

Just to give up, and trust All to a Fate unknown, Plodding along life's road in the dust, Bounded by walls of stone; Never to have a heart at peace; Never to see when care will cease; Just to be still when sorrows fall— This is the bitterest lesson of all.

Just to give up, and rest All on a Love secure, Out of a world that's hard at the best, Looking to heaven as sure; Ever to hope, through cloud and fear, In darkest night, that the dawn is near; Just to wait at the Master's feet— Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.



HYMN OF JOY

TO THE MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN'S NINTH SYMPHONY

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love; Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, Praising Thee their sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; Drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee, Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, Centre of unbroken praise: Field and forest, vale and mountain, Blooming meadow, flashing sea, Chanting bird and flowing fountain, Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving, Ever blessing, ever blest, Well-spring of the joy of living, Ocean-depth of happy rest! Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,— All who live in love are Thine: Teach us how to love each other, Lift us to the Joy Divine.

Mortals join the mighty chorus, Which the morning stars began; Father-love is reigning o'er us, Brother-love binds man to man. Ever singing march we onward, Victors in the midst of strife; Joyful music lifts us sunward In the triumph song of life.

1908.



SONG OF A PILGRIM-SOUL

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! March swiftly on. Yet err not from the way Where all the nobly wise of old have trod,— The path of faith, made by the sons of God.

Follow the marks that they have set beside The narrow, cloud-swept track, to be thy guide: Follow, and honour what the past has gained, And forward still, that more may be attained.

Something to learn, and something to forget: Hold fast the good, and seek the better yet: Press on, and prove the pilgrim-hope of youth: The Creeds are milestones on the road to Truth.



ODE TO PEACE

I

IN EXCELSIS

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine. One is the mountain-height, Uplifted in the loneliness of light Beyond the realm of shadows,—fine, And far, and clear,—where advent of the night Means only glorious nearness of the stars, And dawn unhindered breaks above the bars That long the lower world in twilight keep. Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep, For all thy cares and fears have dropped away; The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day, Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars, In vain expense of passion, pass Before thy sight like visions in a glass,— Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep Across the sea and leave no trace Of trouble on that immemorial face,— So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight The wounds men give, the things for which they fight! Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,— A lichen clinging to the rock. There sails a fleet upon the deep,— A wandering flock Of snow-winged gulls. And yonder, in the plain, A marble palace shines,—a grain Of mica glittering in the rain. Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled By voiceless winds: and far between The rolling clouds, new shores and peaks are seen, In shimmering robes of green and gold, And faint aerial hue That silent fades into the silent blue. Thou, from thy mountain-hold, All day in tranquil wisdom looking down On distant scenes of human toil and strife, All night, with eyes aware of loftier life Uplifted to the sky where stars are sown, Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white Unto the harvest of the sons of light, And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime The few strong souls that dare to climb The slippery crags, and find thee on the height.

II

DE PROFUNDIS

But in the depth thou hast another home, For hearts less daring, or more frail. Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale; And pilgrim-souls that roam With weary feet o'er hill and dale, Bearing the burden and the heat Of toilful days, Turn from the dusty ways To find thee in thy green and still retreat. Here is no vision wide outspread Before the lonely and exalted seat Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead, A little cottage, and a garden-nook, With outlooks brief and sweet Across the meadows, and along the brook,— A little stream that nothing knows Of the great sea to which it gladly flows,— A little field that bears a little wheat To make a portion of earth's daily bread. The vast cloud-armies overhead Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell Whence comes the wind nor where it goes; Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well. Thy daily task is done, And now the wages of repose are won. Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart, Sure of itself and sure of all the rest, Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part In open converse, bringing forth its best: And here is music, melting every chain Of lassitude and pain: And here, at last, is sleep with silent gifts,— Kind sleep, the tender nurse who lifts The soul grown weary of the waking world, And lays it, with its thoughts all furled, Its fears forgotten, and its passions still, On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.



THREE PRAYERS FOR SLEEP AND WAKING

I

BEDTIME

Ere thou sleepest gently lay Every troubled thought away: Put off worry and distress As thou puttest off thy dress: Drop thy burden and thy care In the quiet arms of prayer.

Lord, Thou knowest how I live, All I've done amiss forgive: All of good I've tried to do, Strengthen, bless, and carry through, All I love in safety keep, While in Thee I fall asleep.

II

NIGHT WATCH

If slumber should forsake Thy pillow in the dark, Fret not thyself to mark How long thou liest awake. There is a better way; Let go the strife and strain, Thine eyes will close again, If thou wilt only pray.

Lord, Thy peaceful gift restore, Give my body sleep once more: While I wait my soul will rest Like a child upon Thy breast.

III

NEW DAY

Ere thou risest from thy bed, Speak to God Whose wings were spread O'er thee in the helpless night: Lo, He wakes thee now with light! Lift thy burden and thy care In the mighty arms of prayer.

Lord, the newness of this day Calls me to an untried way: Let me gladly take the road, Give me strength to bear my load, Thou my guide and helper be— I will travel through with Thee.

The Mission Inn, California, Easter, 1913.



PORTRAIT AND REALITY

If on the closed curtain of my sight My fancy paints thy portrait far away, I see thee still the same, by night or day; Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright 'Mid festal throngs, or reading by the light Of shaded lamp some friendly poet's lay, Or shepherding the children at their play,— The same sweet self, and my unchanged delight.

But when I see thee near, I recognize In every dear familiar way some strange Perfection, and behold in April guise The magic of thy beauty that doth range Through many moods with infinite surprise,— Never the same, and sweeter with each change.



THE WIND OF SORROW

The fire of love was burning, yet so low That in the peaceful dark it made no rays, And in the light of perfect-placid days The ashes hid the smouldering embers' glow. Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways We missed the radiant heat of long ago.

Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears That drove us trembling to each other's arms, Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, And fanned the fire of love to clearest name.



HIDE AND SEEK

I

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill; Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June, Hark, a little hunter's voice, running with a tune. "Hide and seek! When I speak, You must answer me: Call again, Merry men, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"

Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? Just a low, soft whistle,—quick the hunter turns, Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. "Hold him fast, Caught at last! Now you're it, you see. Hide your eye, Till I cry, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"