 |
O listen, burghers of Malines! Soldier and workman, pale beguine, And mother with a trembling flock Of children clinging to thy frock,— Look up and listen, listen all! What tunes are these that gently fall Around you like a benison? "The Flemish Lion," "Brabanconne," "O brave Liege," and all the airs That Belgium in her bosom bears.
Ring up, ye silvery octaves high, Whose notes like circling swallows fly; And ring, each old sonorous bell,— "Jesu," "Maria," "Michael!" Weave in and out, and high and low, The magic music that you know, And let it float and flutter down To cheer the heart of the troubled town. Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all,— "Roland" in Ghent may hear thee call!
O brave bell-music of Malines, In this dark hour how much you mean! The dreadful night of blood and tears Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears Deep in her heart the melody Of songs she learned when she was free. She will not falter, faint, nor fail, But fight until her rights prevail And all her ancient belfries ring "The Flemish Lion," "God Save the King!"
JEANNE D'ARC RETURNS [2]
1914-1916
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife, What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife, To prove the pride of thine inheritance In this fair land of freedom and romance? I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,— Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,— Make answer in a noble utterance: "I give France all I have, and all she asks. Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,— My feet to run her errands through the dark,— My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,— And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"
April 16, 1916.
[2] This sonnet belongs with the poem on page 309, "Come Back Again, Jeanne D'Arc."
THE NAME OF FRANCE
Give us a name to fill the mind With the shining thoughts that lead mankind, The glory of learning, the joy of art,— A name that tells of a splendid part In the long, long toil and the strenuous fight Of the human race to win its way From the feudal darkness into the day Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right,— A name like a star, a name of light. I give you France!
Give us a name to stir the blood With a warmer glow and a swifter flood, At the touch of a courage that conquers fear,— A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear, And silver-sweet, and iron-strong, That calls three million men to their feet, Ready to march, and steady to meet The foes who threaten that name with wrong,— A name that rings like a battle-song. I give you France!
Give us a name to move the heart With the strength that noble griefs impart, A name that speaks of the blood outpoured To save mankind from the sway of the sword,— A name that calls on the world to share In the burden of sacrificial strife When the cause at stake is the world's free life And the rule of the people everywhere,— A name like a vow, a name like a prayer. I give you France!
The Hague, September, 1916.
AMERICA'S PROSPERITY
They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold In glittering flood has poured into thy chest; Thy flocks and herds increase, thy barns are pressed With harvest, and thy stores can hardly hold Their merchandise; unending trains are rolled Along thy network rails of East and West; Thy factories and forges never rest; Thou art enriched in all things bought and sold!
But dost thou prosper? Better news I crave. O dearest country, is it well with thee Indeed, and is thy soul in health? A nobler people, hearts more wisely brave, And thoughts that lift men up and make them free,— These are prosperity and vital wealth!
The Hague, October 1, 1916.
THE GLORY OF SHIPS
The glory of ships is an old, old song, since the days when the sea-rovers ran, In their open boats through the roaring surf, and the spread of the world began; The glory of ships is a light on the sea, and a star in the story of man.
When Homer sang of the galleys of Greece that conquered the Trojan shore, And Solomon lauded the barks of Tyre that brought great wealth to his door, 'Twas little they knew, those ancient men, what would come of the sail and the oar.
The Greek ships rescued the West from the East, when they harried the Persians home; And the Roman ships were the wings of strength that bore up the empire, Rome; And the ships of Spain found a wide new world, far over the fields of foam.
Then the tribes of courage at last saw clear that the ocean was not a bound, But a broad highway, and a challenge to seek for treasure as yet unfound; So the fearless ships fared forth to the search, in joy that the globe was round.
Their hulls were heightened, their sails spread out, they grew with the growth of their quest; They opened the secret doors of the East, and the golden gates of the West; And many a city of high renown was proud of a ship on its crest.
The fleets of England and Holland and France were at strife with each other and Spain; And battle and storm sent a myriad ships to sleep in the depths of the main; But the seafaring spirit could never be drowned, and it filled up the fleets again.
They greatened and grew, with the aid of steam, to a wonderful, vast array, That carries the thoughts and the traffic of men into every harbor and bay; And now in the world-wide work of the ships 'tis England that leads the way.
O well for the leading that follows the law of a common right on the sea! But ill for the leader who tries to hold what belongs to mankind in fee! The way of the ships is an open way, and the ocean must ever be free!
Remember, O first of the maritime folk, how the rise of your greatness began. It will live if you safeguard the round-the-world road from the shame of a selfish ban; For the glory of ships is a light on the sea, and a star in the story of man!
September 12, 1916.
MARE LIBERUM
I
You dare to say with perjured lips, "We fight to make the ocean free"? You, whose black trail of butchered ships Bestrews the bed of every sea Where German submarines have wrought Their horrors! Have you never thought,— What you call freedom, men call piracy!
II
Unnumbered ghosts that haunt the wave, Where you have murdered, cry you down; And seamen whom you would not save, Weave now in weed-grown depths a crown Of shame for your imperious head, A dark memorial of the dead Women and children whom you sent to drown.
III
Nay, not till thieves are set to guard The gold, and corsairs called to keep O'er peaceful commerce watch and ward, And wolves to herd the helpless sheep, Shall men and women look to thee, Thou ruthless Old Man of the Sea, To safeguard law and freedom on the deep!
IV
In nobler breeds we put our trust: The nations in whose sacred lore The "Ought" stands out above the "Must," And honor rules in peace and war. With these we hold in soul and heart, With these we choose our lot and part, Till Liberty is safe on sea and shore.
London Times, February 12, 1917.
"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD"
Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land.
No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea: The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all.
O cruel is the conquer-lust in Hohenzollern brains: The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains; No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked Might; They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty, and smite!
Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born, Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes the morn! Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise, With steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave Allies.
O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire, Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire: For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the warlords cease, And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace.
London Times, April 12, 1917.
THE OXFORD THRUSHES
February, 1917
I never thought again to hear The Oxford thrushes singing clear, Amid the February rain, Their sweet, indomitable strain.
A wintry vapor lightly spreads Among the trees, and round the beds Where daffodil and jonquil sleep; Only the snowdrop wakes to weep.
It is not springtime yet. Alas, What dark, tempestuous days must pass, Till England's trial by battle cease, And summer comes again with peace.
The lofty halls, the tranquil towers, Where Learning in untroubled hours Held her high court, serene in fame, Are lovely still, yet not the same.
The novices in fluttering gown No longer fill the ancient town; But fighting men in khaki drest, And in the Schools the wounded rest.
Ah, far away, 'neath stranger skies Full many a son of Oxford lies, And whispers from his warrior grave, "I died to keep the faith you gave."
The mother mourns, but does not fail, Her courage and her love prevail O'er sorrow, and her spirit hears The promise of triumphant years.
Then sing, ye thrushes, in the rain Your sweet indomitable strain. Ye bring a word from God on high And voices in our hearts reply.
HOMEWARD BOUND
Home, for my heart still calls me; Home, through the danger zone; Home, whatever befalls me, I will sail again to my own!
Wolves of the sea are hiding Closely along the way, Under the water biding Their moment to rend and slay.
Black is the eagle that brands them, Black are their hearts as the nights Black is the hate that sends them To murder but not to fight.
Flower of the German Culture, Boast of the Kaiser's Marine, Choose for your emblem the vulture, Cowardly, cruel, obscene!
Forth from her sheltered haven Our peaceful ship glides slow, Noiseless in flight as a raven, Gray as a hoodie crow.
She doubles and turns in her bearing, Like a twisting plover she goes; The way of her westward faring Only the captain knows.
In a lonely bay concealing She lingers for days, and slips At dusk from her covert, stealing Thro' channels feared by the ships.
Brave are the men, and steady, Who guide her over the deep,— British mariners, ready To face the sea-wolf's leap.
Lord of the winds and waters, Bring our ship to her mark, Safe from this game of hide-and-seek With murderers in the dark!
On the S.S. Baltic, May, 1917.
THE WINDS OF WAR-NEWS
The winds of war-news change and veer: Now westerly and full of cheer, Now easterly, depressing, sour With tidings of the Teutons' power.
But thou, America, whose heart With brave Allies has taken part, Be not a weathercock to change With these wild winds that shift and range.
Be thou a compass ever true, Through sullen clouds or skies of blue, To that great star which rules the night,— The star of Liberty and Right.
Lover of peace, oh set thy soul, Thy strength, thy wealth, thy conscience whole, To win the peace thine eyes foresee,— The triumph of Democracy.
December 19, 1917.
RIGHTEOUS WRATH
There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire; And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire; And some are mean and craven, revengeful, sullen, slow, They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe.
And yet there is an anger that purifies the heart: The anger of the better against the baser part, Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant's sword, Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord.
O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath, Give me a soul to feel thee and follow in thy path! Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight, And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!
January, 1918.
THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR
I have no joy in strife, Peace is my great desire; Yet God forbid I lose my life Through fear to face the fire.
A peaceful man must fight For that which peace demands,— Freedom and faith, honor and right, Defend with heart and hands.
Farewell, my friendly books; Farewell, ye woods and streams; The fate that calls me forward looks To a duty beyond dreams.
Oh, better to be dead With a face turned to the sky, Than live beneath a slavish dread And serve a giant lie.
Stand up, my heart, and strive For the things most dear to thee! Why should we care to be alive Unless the world is free?
May, 1918.
FROM GLORY UNTO GLORY
AMERICAN FLAG SONG
1776
O dark the night and dim the day When first our flag arose; It fluttered bravely in the fray To meet o'erwhelming foes. Our fathers saw the splendor shine, They dared and suffered all; They won our freedom by the sign— The holy sign, the radiant sign— Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, Young Glory! Among the flags of earth We'll ne'er forget the story Of thy heroic birth.
1861
O wild the later storm that shook The pillars of the State, When brother against brother took The final arms of fate. But union lived and peace divine Enfolded brothers all; The flag floats o'er them with the sign— The loyal sign, the equal sign— Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, Old Glory! Of thee our heart's desire Foretells a golden story, For thou hast come through fire.
1917
O fiercer than all wars before That raged on land or sea, The Giant Robber's world-wide war For the things that shall not be! Thy sister banners hold the line; To thee, dear flag, they call; And thou hast joined them with the sign— The heavenly sign, the victor sign— Of the stars that never fall.
Chorus
All hail to thee, New Glory! We follow thee unfurled To write the larger story Of Freedom for the World.
September 4, 1918.
BRITAIN, FRANCE, AMERICA
The rough expanse of democratic sea Which parts the lands that live by liberty Is no division; for their hearts are one. To fight together till their cause is won.
For land and water let us make our pact, And seal the solemn word with valiant act: No continent is firm, no ocean pure, Until on both the rights of man are sure.
April, 1917.
THE RED CROSS
Sign of the Love Divine That bends to bear the load Of all who suffer, all who bleed, Along life's thorny road:
Sign of the Heart Humane, That through the darkest fight Would bring to wounded friend and foe A ministry of light:
O dear and holy sign, Lead onward like a star! The armies of the just are thine, And all we have and are.
October 20, 1918.
For the Red Cross Christmas Roll Call.
EASTER ROAD
1918
Under the cloud of world-wide war, While earth is drenched with sorrow, I have no heart for idle merrymaking, Or for the fashioning of glad raiment. I will retrace the divine footmarks, On the Road of the first Easter.
Down through the valley of utter darkness Dripping with blood and tears; Over the hill of the skull, the little hill of great anguish, The ambuscade of Death. Into the no-man's-land of Hades Bearing despatches of hope to spirits in prison, Mortally stricken and triumphant Went the faithful Captain of Salvation.
Then upward, swiftly upward,— Victory, liberty, glory, The feet that were wounded walked in the tranquil garden, Bathed in dew and the light of deathless dawn.
O my soul, my comrades, soldiers of freedom, Follow the pathway of Easter, for there is no other, Follow it through to peace, yea, follow it fighting. This Armageddon is not darker than Calvary. The day will break when the Dragon is vanquished; He that exalteth himself as God shall be cast down, And the Lords of war shall fall, And the long, long terror be ended, Victory, justice, peace enduring! They that die in this cause shall live forever, And they that live shall never die, They shall rejoice together in the Easter of a new world.
March 31, 1918.
AMERICA'S WELCOME HOME
Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, America's crusading host of warriors bold and true; They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies, And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes.
Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be, In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before. They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war: The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France, The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance.
They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea, "America swears brotherhood with all the just and free." They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife, And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life.
Oh, welcome home in Heaven's peace, dear spirits of the dead! And welcome home ye living sons America hath bred! The lords of war are beaten down, your glorious task is done; You fought to make the whole world free, and the victory is won.
Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west, Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best. We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
November 11, 1918.
A sequel to "America For Me," written in 1909. Page 314.
THE SURRENDER OF THE GERMAN FLEET
Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name, From the robber-nest of Heligoland the German war-fleet came; Not victory or death they sought, but a rendezvous of shame.
Sing out, sing out, A joyful shout, Ye lovers of the sea! The "Kaiser" and the "Kaiserin," The "Koenig" and the "Prinz," The potentates of piracy, Are coming to surrender, And the ocean shall be free.
They never dared the final fate of battle on the blue; Their sea-wolves murdered merchantmen and mocked the drowning crew; They stained the wave with martyr-blood,—but we sent our transports through!
What flags are these that dumbly droop from the gaff o' the mainmast tall? The black of the Kaiser's iron cross, the red of the Empire's fall! Come down, come down, ye pirate flags. Yea, strike your colors all.
The Union Jack and the Tricolor and the Starry Flag o' the West Shall guard the fruit of Freedom's war and the victory confest, The flags of the brave and just and free shall rule on the ocean's breast.
Sing out, sing out, A mighty shout, Ye lovers of the sea! The "Kaiser" and the "Kaiserin," The "Koenig" and the "Prinz," The robber-lords of death and sin, Have come to their surrender, And the ocean shall be free!
November 20, 1918.
GOLDEN STARS
I
It was my lot of late to travel far Through all America's domain, A willing, gray-haired servitor Bearing the Fiery Cross of righteous war. And everywhere, on mountain, vale and plain, In crowded street and lonely cottage door, I saw the symbol of the bright blue star. Millions of stars! Rejoice, dear land, rejoice That God hath made thee great enough to give Beneath thy starry flag unfurled A gift to all the world,— Thy living sons that Liberty might live.
II
It seems but yesterday they sallied forth Boys of the east, the west, the south, the north, High-hearted, keen, with laughter and with song, Fearless of lurking danger on the sea, Eager to fight in Flanders or in France Against the monstrous German wrong, And sure of victory! Brothers in soul with British and with French They held their ground in many a bloody trench; And when the swift word came— Advance! Over the top they went through waves of flame,— Confident, reckless, irresistible, Real Americans,— Their rush was never stayed Until the foe fell back, defeated and dismayed. O land that bore them, write upon thy roll Of battles won To liberate the human soul, Chateau Thierry and Saint Mihiel And the fierce agony of the Argonne; Yea, count among thy little rivers, dear Because of friends whose feet have trodden there, The Marne, the Meuse, and the Moselle.
III
Now the vile sword In Potsdam forged and bathed in hell, Is beaten down, the victory given To the sword forged in faith and bathed in heaven. Now home again our heroes come: Oh, welcome them with bugle and with drum, Ring bells, blow whistles, make a joyful noise Unto the Lord, And welcome home our blue-star boys, Whose manhood has made known To all the world America, Unselfish, brave and free, the Great Republic, Who lives not to herself alone.
IV
But many a lad we hold Dear in our heart of hearts Is missing from the home-returning host. Ah, say not they are lost, For they have found and given their life In sacrificial strife: Their service stars have changed from blue to gold! That sudden rapture took them far away, Yet are they here with us to-day, Even as the heavenly stars we cannot see Through the bright veil of sunlight, Shed their influence still On our vexed life, and promise peace From God to all men of good will.
V
What wreaths shall we entwine For our dear boys to deck their holy shrine? Mountain-laurel, morning-glory, Goldenrod and asters blue, Purple loosestrife, prince's-pine, Wild-azalea, meadow-rue, Nodding-lilies, columbine,— All the native blooms that grew In these fresh woods and pastures new, Wherein they loved to ramble and to play. Bring no exotic flowers: America was in their hearts, And they are ours For ever and a day.
VI
O happy warriors, forgive the tear Falling from eyes that miss you: Forgive the word of grief from mother-lips That ne'er on earth shall kiss you; Hear only what our hearts would have you hear,— Glory and praise and gratitude and pride From the dear country in whose cause you died. Now you have run your race and won your prize, Old age shall never burden you, the fears And conflicts that beset our lingering years Shall never vex your souls in Paradise. Immortal, young, and crowned with victory, From life's long battle you have found release. And He who died for all on Calvary Has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the cross, Into eternal Peace.
VII
Come, let us gird our loins and lift our load, Companions who are left on life's rough road, And bravely take the way that we must tread To keep true faith with our beloved dead. To conquer war they dared their lives to give, To safeguard peace our hearts must learn to live. Help us, dear God, our forward faith to hold! We want a better world than that of old. Lead us on paths of high endeavor, Toiling upward, climbing ever, Ready to suffer for the right, Until at last we gain a loftier height, More worthy to behold Our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold.
Ode for the Memorial Service, Princeton University, December 15, 1918.
IN THE BLUE HEAVEN
In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, Scudding before the gale, or drifting slow As galleons becalmed in Sundown Bay: And through the air the birds will wing their way Soaring to far-off heights, or flapping low, Or darting like an arrow from the bow; And when the twilight comes the stars will show, One after one, their tranquil bright array In the blue heaven.
But ye who fearless flew to meet the foe, Eagles of freedom,—nevermore, we know, Shall we behold you floating far away. Yet clouds and birds and every starry ray Will draw our heart to where your spirits glow In the blue Heaven.
For the American Aviators who died in the war.
March, 1919.
A SHRINE IN THE PANTHEON
FOR THE UNNAMED SOLDIERS WHO DIED IN FRANCE
Universal approval has been accorded the proposal made in the French Chamber that the ashes of an unnamed French soldier, fallen for his country, shall be removed with solemn ceremony to the Pantheon. In this way it is intended to honor by a symbolic ceremony the memory of all who lie in unmarked graves.
Here the great heart of France, Victor in noble strife, Doth consecrate a Poilu's tomb To those who saved her life!
Brave son without a name, Your country calls you home, To rest among her heirs of fame, Beneath the Pantheon's dome!
Now from the height of Heaven, The souls of heroes look; Their names, ungraven on this stone, Are written in God's book.
Women of France, who mourn Your dead in unmarked ground, Come hither! Here the man you loved In the heart of France is found!
IN PRAISE OF POETS
MOTHER EARTH
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed, Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field, Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive, Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows! Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast, Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless, All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning. Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.
Dust are the blood-red hearts that beat in time to these measures, Thou hast taken them back to thyself, secretly, irresistibly Drawing the crimson currents of life down, down, down Deep into thy bosom again, as a river is lost in the sand. But the souls of the singers have entered into the songs that revealed them,— Passionate songs, immortal songs of joy and grief and love and longing, Floating from heart to heart of thy children, they echo above thee: Do they not utter thy heart, the voices of those that love thee?
Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless, Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover Wakened the man-child within thee to tell thy secret. All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters Are but the rhythmical forms to reveal the life of the spirit; Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean, Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion.
December, 1905.
MILTON
I
Lover of beauty, walking on the height Of pure philosophy and tranquil song; Born to behold the visions that belong To those who dwell in melody and light; Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright! What drew thee down to join the Roundhead throng Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong, Fighting for freedom in a world half night?
Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou, Above all beauty bright, all music clear: To thee she bared her bosom and her brow, Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear, And bound thee to her with a double vow,— Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!
II
The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned Her singing robes to battle on the plain, Was won, O poet, and was lost again; And lost the labour of thy lonely mind On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find To comfort thee for all the toil and pain? What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?
Like organ-music comes the deep reply: "The cause of truth looks lost, but shall be won. For God hath given to mine inward eye Vision of England soaring to the sun. And granted me great peace before I die, In thoughts of lowly duty bravely done."
III
O bend again above thine organ-board, Thou blind old poet longing for repose! Thy Master claims thy service not with those Who only stand and wait for His reward; He pours the heavenly gift of song restored Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close A noble life, with poetry that flows In mighty music of the major chord.
Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain, Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace, To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place, And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain, The loftiest poet of the English race!
1908.
WORDSWORTH
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls Among the mountains, and thy song is fed By living springs far up the watershed; No whirling flood nor parching drought controls The crystal current: even on the shoals It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed Deepens below mysterious cliffs of dread, Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.
But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy. Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.
October, 1906.
KEATS
The melancholy gift Aurora gained From Jove, that her sad lover should not see The face of death, no goddess asked for thee, My Keats! But when the scarlet blood-drop stained Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,— Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy! And then,—a shadow fell on Italy: Thy star went down before its brightness waned.
Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed: Never to feel the pain of growing old, Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth, But with the ardent lips Urania kissed To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold, Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.
August, 1906.
SHELLEY
Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest, And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire; For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre To some unearthly music, and possessed With painful passionate longing to invest The golden dream of Love's immortal fire With mortal robes of beautiful attire, And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!
What wonder, Shelley, that the restless wave Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach? These were thine elements,—thy fitting grave. But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume, Thy wild song rings in ocean's yearning speech!
August, 1906.
ROBERT BROWNING
How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, In winding graveyard pathways underground, For Browning's lineage! What if men have found Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned Through all the world,—the poets laurel-crowned With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, The tragic mask of wise Euripides.
November, 1906.
TENNYSON
In Lucem Transitus, October, 1892
From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon, To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than noon, Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune.
Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art; Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart; Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?
Silence here—for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail; Silence here—for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels fail; Silence here—but far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail!
"IN MEMORIAM"
The record of a faith sublime, And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned; The incense of a love that burned Through pain and doubt defying Time:
The story of a soul at strife That learned at last to kiss the rod, And passed through sorrow up to God, From living to a higher life:
A light that gleams across the wave Of darkness, down the rolling years, Piercing the heavy mist of tears— A rainbow shining o'er a grave.
VICTOR HUGO
1802-1902
Heart of France for a hundred years, Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong, Quick to throb with her hopes and fears, Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong! You, who hailed with a morning song Dream-light gilding a throne of old: You, who turned when the dream grew cold, Singing still, to the light that shone Pure from Liberty's ancient throne, Over the human throng! You, who dared in the dark eclipse,— When the pygmy heir of a giant name Dimmed the face of the land with shame,— Speak the truth with indignant lips, Call him little whom men called great, Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him, Point to the blood on his robe of state, Fling back his bribes and defy him!
You, who fronted the waves of fate As you faced the sea from your island home, Exiled, yet with a soul elate, Sending songs o'er the rolling foam, Bidding the heart of man to wait For the day when all should see Floods of wrath from the frowning skies Fall on an Empire founded in lies, And France again be free! You, who came in the Terrible Year Swiftly back to your broken land, Now to your heart a thousand times more dear,— Prayed for her, sung to her, fought for her, Patiently, fervently wrought for her, Till once again, After the storm of fear and pain, High in the heavens the star of France stood clear!
You, who knew that a man must take Good and ill with a steadfast soul, Holding fast, while the billows roll Over his head, to the things that make Life worth living for great and small, Honour and pity and truth, The heart and the hope of youth, And the good God over all! You, to whom work was rest, Dauntless Toiler of the Sea, Following ever the joyful quest Of beauty on the shores of old Romance, Bard of the poor of France, And warrior-priest of world-wide charity! You who loved little children best Of all the poets that ever sung, Great heart, golden heart, Old, and yet ever young, Minstrel of liberty, Lover of all free, winged things, Now at last you are free,— Your soul has its wings! Heart of France for a hundred years, Floating far in the light that never fails you, Over the turmoil of mortal hopes and fears Victor, forever victor, the whole world hails you!
March, 1902.
LONGFELLOW
In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and confusion, Where there were many running to and fro, and shouting, and striving together, In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, I heard the voice of one singing.
"What are you doing there, O man, singing quietly amid all this tumult? This is the time for new inventions, mighty shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet." But he answered, "I am only shepherding my sheep with music."
So he went along his chosen way, keeping his little flock around him; And he paused to listen, now and then, beside the antique fountains, Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed with musically falling waters;
Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, and heard the cling-clang of the anvils; Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, that showered their chimes upon him; Or he walked along the border of the sea, drinking in the long roar of the billows;
Or he sunned himself in the pine-scented shipyard, amid the tattoo of the mallets; Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting his thoughts flow with the whispering river; He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made them young again with his singing.
Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, and pierced the heart of his dearest! Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the mystical temple of sorrow: Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he came out he was singing.
And I saw the faces of men and women and children silently turning toward him; The youth setting out on the journey of life, and the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone; The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy mother rocking her cradle;
The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the gray-minded scholar in his book-room; The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the hunter in the forest; And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness of the city;
Many human faces, full of care and longing, were drawn irresistibly toward him, By the charm of something known to every heart, yet very strange and lovely, And at the sound of his singing wonderfully all their faces were lightened.
"Why do you listen, O you people, to this old and world-worn music? This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age, in the democratic triumph! Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the brazen trumpets of your poets."
But the people made no answer, following in their hearts the simpler music: For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could be better worth the hearing Than the melodies which brought sweet order into life's confusion.
So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came unto a mountain: And I know not surely whether the mountain was called Parnassus, But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the voice of one singing.
January, 1907.
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
I
BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906
Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days Have brought another Festa round to you, You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.
Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy, Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian, And many more, to wish you birthday joy, And sunny hours, and sky cerulean!
Your children all, they hurry to your den, With wreaths of honour they have won for you, To merry-make your threescore years and ten. You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!
There's many a reader whom your silver songs And crystal stories cheer in loneliness. What though the newer writers come in throngs? You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.
You do your work with careful, loving touch,— An artist to the very core of you,— You know the magic spell of "not-too-much": We read,—and wish that there was more of you.
And more there is: for while we love your books Because their subtle skill is part of you; We love you better, for our friendship looks Behind them to the human heart of you.
II
MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908
This is the house where little Aldrich read The early pages of Life's wonder-book With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed Bright colour on the pictures blue and red: Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took His happy way, with searching, dreamful look Among the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame Of Fancy played through all the tales he told, And still he won the laurelled poet's fame With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold. Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,— A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908)
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch Of beauty or of truth, Rich in the thoughtfulness of age, The hopefulness of youth, The courage of the gentle heart, The wisdom of the pure, The strength of finely tempered souls To labour and endure!
The blue of springtime in your eyes Was never quenched by pain; And winter brought your head the crown Of snow without a stain. The poet's mind, the prince's heart, You kept until the end, Nor ever faltered in your work, Nor ever failed a friend.
You followed, through the quest of life, The light that shines above The tumult and the toil of men, And shows us what to love. Right loyal to the best you knew, Reality or dream, You ran the race, you fought the fight, A follower of the Gleam.
We lay upon your folded hands The wreath of asphodel; We speak above your peaceful face The tender word Farewell! For well you fare, in God's good care, Somewhere within the blue, And know, to-day, your dearest dreams Are true,—and true,—and true!
TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ON HIS "BOOK OF JOYOUS CHILDREN"
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers; Joyous children delight to play there; Weary men find rest in its bowers, Watching the lingering light of day there.
Old-time tunes and young love-laughter Ripple and run among the roses; Memory's echoes, murmuring after, Fill the dusk when the long day closes.
Simple songs with a cadence olden— These you learned in the Forest of Arden: Friendly flowers with hearts all golden— These you borrowed from Eden's garden.
This is the reason why all men love you; Truth to life is the finest art: Other poets may soar above you— You keep close to the human heart.
December, 1903.
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
IN MEMORIAM
Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, Heart of a hero in a body frail; Thine was the courage clear that did not quail Before the giant champions of shame Who wrought dishonour to the city's name; And thine the vision of the Holy Grail Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil, Filling thy life with heavenly song and flame.
Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye, And strong the faith that held thy simple creed. Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need Thou leavest two great gifts that will not die: Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry,— Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed.
November, 1909.
THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES
The grief that is but feigning, And weeps melodious tears Of delicate complaining From self-indulgent years; The mirth that is but madness, And has no inward gladness Beneath its laughter straining, To capture thoughtless ears;
The love that is but passion Of amber-scented lust; The doubt that is but fashion; The faith that has no trust; These Thamyris disperses, In the Valley of Vain Verses Below the Mount Parnassian,— And they crumble into dust.
MUSIC
MUSIC
I
PRELUDE
1
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight, She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart, Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn Into a single cry, and thou wast born! Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief; Invisible enchantress of the heart; Mistress of charms that bring relief To sorrow, and to joy impart A heavenly tone that keeps it undefined,— Thou art the child Of Amor, and by right divine A throne of love is thine, Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen, Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!
2
Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps, While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps, Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll In healing murmurs round the weary soul. Ah, when wilt thou draw near, Thou messenger of mercy robed in song? My lonely heart has listened for thee long; And now I seem to hear Across the crowded market-place of life, Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear Above unmeaning noises and unruly strife. In quiet cadence, sweet and slow, Serenely pacing to and fro, Thy far-off steps are magical and dear,— Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me! From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free, And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee.
II
INVOCATION
Where wilt thou lead me first? In what still region Of thy domain, Whose provinces are legion, Wilt thou restore me to myself again, And quench my heart's long thirst? I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down, And put away thy starry crown: For one dear restful hour Assume a state more mild. Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown That breathes familiar scent of many a flower, Take the low path that leads through pastures green; And though thou art a Queen, Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower, By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled, Sing to my soul, as mother to her child.
III
PLAY SONG
O lead me by the hand, And let my heart have rest, And bring me back to childhood land, To find again the long-lost band Of playmates blithe and blest.
Some quaint, old-fashioned air, That all the children knew, Shall run before us everywhere, Like a little maid with flying hair, To guide the merry crew.
Along the garden ways We chase the light-foot tune, And in and out the flowery maze, With eager haste and fond delays, In pleasant paths of June.
For us the fields are new, For us the woods are rife With fairy secrets, deep and true, And heaven is but a tent of blue Above the game of life.
The world is far away: The fever and the fret, And all that makes the heart grow gray, Is out of sight and far away, Dear Music, while I hear thee play That olden, golden roundelay, "Remember and forget!"
IV
SLEEP SONG
Forget, forget! The tide of life is turning; The waves of light ebb slowly down the west: Along the edge of dark some stars are burning To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest. A little rocking on the tranquil deep Of song, to soothe thy yearning, A little slumber and a little sleep, And so, forget, forget!
Forget, forget,— The day was long in pleasure; Its echoes die away across the hill; Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure, That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still. Then, like a weary child that loves to keep Locked in its arms some treasure, Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep, And so forget, forget.
Forget, forget,— And if thou hast been weeping, Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief: Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf; Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep That one by one come creeping Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep, And so forget, forget!
Forget, forget,— Thou art a child and knowest So little of thy life! But music tells The secret of the world through which thou goest To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells: Life is in tune with harmony so deep That when the notes are lowest Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep, For God will not forget.
V
HUNTING SONG
Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest, Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest. Hark, how the galloping measure Quickens the pulses of pleasure; Gaily saluting the morn With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Echoing up from the valley, Over the mountain side,— Rally, you hunters, rally, Rally, and ride!
Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine, Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine! Leave all your troubles behind you, Ride where they never can find you, Into the gladness of morn, With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow, Sweeping along with the wind,— Follow, you hunters, follow, Follow and find!
What will you reach with your riding? What is the charm of the chase? Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. Danger is sweet when you front her,— In at the death, every hunter! Now on the breeze the mort is borne In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn, Winding merrily, over and over,— Come, come, come! Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover! Turn again, home!
VI
DANCE-MUSIC
1
Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune, Weaving the mystical spell of the dance; Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune, Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. Half of it sighing, half of it smiling, Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat; Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling, Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. Every drop of blood Rises with the flood, Rocking on the waves of the strain; Youth and beauty glide Turning with the tide— Music making one out of twain, Bearing them away, and away, and away, Like a tone and its terce— Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay, And reverse.
Violins leading, take up the measure, Turn with the tune again,—clarinets clear Answer their pleading,—harps full of pleasure Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. Semiquaver notes, Merry little motes, Tangled in the haze Of the lamp's golden rays, Quiver everywhere In the air, Like a spray,— Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune, Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon, Bears them all away, and away, and away, Floating in the trance of the dance.
2
Then begins a measure stately, Languid, slow, serene; All the dancers move sedately, Stepping leisurely and straitly, With a courtly mien; Crossing hands and changing places, Bowing low between, While the minuet inlaces Waving arms and woven paces,— Glittering damaskeen. Where is she whose form is folden In its royal sheen? From our longing eyes withholden By her mystic girdle golden, Beauty sought but never seen, Music walks the maze, a queen.
VII
WAR-MUSIC
Break off! Dance no more! Danger is at the door. Music is in arms. To signal war's alarms.
Hark, a sudden trumpet calling Over the hill! Why are you calling, trumpet, calling? What is your will?
Men, men, men! Men who are ready to fight For their country's life, and the right Of a liberty-loving land to be Free, free, free! Free from a tyrant's chain, Free from dishonor's stain, Free to guard and maintain All that her fathers fought for, All that her sons have wrought for, Resolute, brave, and free!
Call again, trumpet, call again, Call up the men!
Do you hear the storm of cheers Mingled with the women's tears And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet? Do you hear the throbbing drum As the hosts of battle come Keeping time, time, time to its beat? O Music give a song To make their spirit strong For the fury of the tempest they must meet.
The hoarse roar Of the monster guns; And the sharp bark Of the lesser guns; The whine of the shells, The rifles' clatter Where the bullets patter, The rattle, rattle, rattle Of the mitrailleuse in battle, And the yells Of the men who charge through hells Where the poison gas descends, And the bursting shrapnel rends Limb from limb In the dim Chaos and clamor of the strife Where no man thinks of his life But only of fighting through, Blindly fighting through, through!
'Tis done At last! The victory won, The dissonance of warfare past!
O Music mourn the dead Whose loyal blood was shed, And sound the taps for every hero slain; Then lead into the song That made their spirit strong, And tell the world they did not die in vain.
Thank God we can see, in the glory of morn, The invincible flag that our fathers defended; And our hearts can repeat what the heroes have sworn, That war shall not end till the war-lust is ended. Then the bloodthirsty sword shall no longer be lord Of the nations oppressed by the conqueror's horde, But the banners of Liberty proudly shall wave O'er the world of the free and the lands of the brave.
May, 1916.
VIII
THE SYMPHONY
Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art Is only to enchant the sense. For every timid motion of the heart, And every passion too intense To bear the chain of the imperfect word, And every tremulous longing, stirred By spirit winds that come we know not whence And go we know not where, And every inarticulate prayer Beating about the depths of pain or bliss, Like some bewildered bird That seeks its nest but knows not where it is, And every dream that haunts, with dim delight, The drowsy hour between the day and night, The wakeful hour between the night and day,— Imprisoned, waits for thee, Impatient, yearns for thee, The queen who comes to set the captive free! Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away, And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height; And every dumb desire that storms within the breast Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.
All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. For love is joy and grief, And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief, And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed, In pain most human, and in rapture brief Almost divine. Love would possess, yet deepens when denied; And love would give, yet hungers to receive; Love like a prince his triumph would achieve; And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. Love is most bold, He leads his dreams like armed men in line; Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak, Calling the fortress to resign Its treasure, valiant love grows weak, And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes He claims the longed-for prize: Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. But thou shalt speak for love. Yea, thou shalt teach The mystery of measured tone, The Pentecostal speech That every listener heareth as his own. For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,— Diminished chords that quiver with desire, And major chords that glow with perfect peace,— Have fallen from above; And thou canst give release In music to the burdened heart of love.
Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain The yearning theme, and let the flute reply In placid melody, while violins complain, And sob, and sigh, With muted string; Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain, While 'cellos plead and plead again, With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. So runs the andante, making plain The hopes and fears of love without a word. Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream, While horns and mild bassoons are heard In tender tune, that seems to float Like an enchanted boat Upon the downward-gliding stream, Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea Of dancing, glittering, blending tone, Where every instrument is sounding free, And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown Around the barque of love That rides, with smiling skies above, A royal galley, many-oared, Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord.
IX
IRIS
Light to the eye and Music to the ear,— These are the builders of the bridge that springs From earth's dim shore of half-remembered things To reach the heavenly sphere Where nothing silent is and nothing dark. So when I see the rainbow's arc Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear Music, and every colour sings: And while the symphony builds up its round Full sweep of architectural harmony Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see A bow of colour in the bow of sound. Red as the dawn the trumpet rings; Blue as the sky, the choir of strings Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue, Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue, With threads of quivering light shot through and through; Green as the mantle that the summer flings Around the world, the pastoral reeds in tune Embroider melodies of May and June. Purer than gold, Yea, thrice-refined gold, And richer than the treasures of the mine, Floods of the human voice divine Along the arch in choral song are rolled. So bends the bow complete: And radiant rapture flows Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet, That the uplifted spirit hardly knows Whether the Music-Light that glows Within the arch of tones and colours seven, Is sunset-peace of earth or sunrise-joy of Heaven.
X
SEA AND SHORE
Music, I yield to thee As swimmer to the sea, I give my spirit to the flood of song! Bear me upon thy breast In rapture and at rest, Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong; From strife and struggle bring release, And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace.
Remembered songs most dear In living songs I hear, While blending voices gently swing and sway, In melodies of love, Whose mighty currents move With singing near and singing far away; Sweet in the glow of morning light, And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night.
Music, in thee we float, And lose the lonely note Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain, Until at last we find The life to love resigned In harmony of joy restored again; And songs that cheered our mortal days Break on the shore of light in endless hymns of praise.
December, 1901—May, 1903—May, 1916.
MASTER OF MUSIC
(In memory of Theodore Thomas, 1905)
Glory architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, Living forever in temple and picture and statue and song,— Look how the world with the lights that they lit is illumined and starred; Brief was the flame of their life, but the lamps of their art burn long!
Where is the Master of Music, and how has he vanished away? Where is the work that he wrought with his wonderful art in the air? Gone,—it is gone like the glow on the cloud at the close of the day! The Master has finished his work and the glory of music is—where?
Once, at the wave of his wand, all the billows of musical sound Followed his will, as the sea was ruled by the prophet of old: Now that his hand is relaxed, and his rod has dropped to the ground, Silent and dark are the shores where the marvellous harmonies rolled!
Nay, but not silent the hearts that were filled by that life-giving sea; Deeper and purer forever the tides of their being will roll, Grateful and joyful, O Master, because they have listened to thee; The glory of music endures in the depths of the human soul.
THE PIPES O' PAN
Great Nature had a million words, In tongues of trees and songs of birds, But none to breathe the heart of man, Till Music filled the pipes o' Pan.
1909.
TO A YOUNG GIRL SINGING
Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, And how have you made it your own? You have caught the turn of the melody clear, And you give it again with a golden tone, Till the wonder-word and the wedded note Are flowing out of your beautiful throat With a liquid charm for every ear: And they talk of your art,—but for you alone The song is a thing, unheard, unknown; You only have learned it by rote.
But when you have lived for awhile, my dear, I think you will learn it anew! For a joy will come, or a grief, or a fear, That will alter the look of the world for you; And the lyric you learned as a bit of art, Will wake to life as a wonderful part Of the love you feel so deep and true; And the thrill of a laugh or the throb of a tear, Will come with your song to all who hear; For then you will know it by heart.
April, 1911.
THE OLD FLUTE
The time will come when I no more can play This polished flute: the stops will not obey My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves In modulations, like a vine with leaves Climbing around the tower of song, will die In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry. My shortened breath no more will freely fill This magic reed with melody at will; My stiffened lips will try and try in vain To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint, Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.
Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, And sit beneath the green protecting boughs To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs Above me, play its wild, aerial lute, And draw a ghost of music from my flute!
So will I thank the gods; and most of all The Delian Apollo, whom men call The mighty master of immortal sound,— Lord of the billows in their chanting round, Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies, Lord of the little people of the air That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, Lord of the sea of melody that laves The universe with never silent waves,— Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine Has caught one cadence of the song divine; And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall In time with that great tune which throbs thro' all; And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy To songless men whom weary tasks employ! My life has had its music, and my heart In harmony has borne a little part, And now I come with quiet, grateful breast To Death's dim hall of silence and of rest.
Freely rendered from the French of Auguste Angellier, 1911.
THE FIRST BIRD O' SPRING
TO OLIVE WHEELER
Winter on Mount Shasta, April down below; Golden hours of glowing sun, Sudden showers of snow! Under leafless thickets Early wild-flowers cling; But, oh, my dear, I'm fain to hear The first bird o' Spring!
Alders are in tassel, Maples are in bud; Waters of the blue McCloud Shout in joyful flood; Through the giant pine-trees Flutters many a wing; But, oh, my dear, I long to hear The first bird o' Spring!
Candle-light and fire-light Mingle at "the Bend;" 'Neath the roof of Bo-hai-pan Light and shadow blend. Sweeter than a wood-thrush A maid begins to sing; And, oh, my dear, I'm glad to hear The first bird o' Spring!
The Bend, California, April 29, 1913.
THE HOUSE OF RIMMON
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
BENHADAD: King of Damascus. REZON: High Priest of the House of Rimmon. SABALLIDIN: A Noble. HAZAEL } IZDUBHAR } Courtiers. RAKHAZ } SHUMAKIM: The King's Fool. ELISHA: Prophet of Israel. NAAMAN: Captain of the Armies of Damascus. RUAHMAH: A Captive Maid of Israel. TSARPI: Wife to Naaman. KHAMMA } NUBTA } Attendants of Tsarpi.
Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc.
SCENE: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria.
TIME: 850 B. C.
ACT I
SCENE I
Night, in the garden of NAAMAN at Damascus. At the left the palace, with softly gleaming lights and music coming from the open latticed windows. The garden is full of oleanders, roses, pomegranates, abundance of crimson flowers; the air is heavy with their fragrance: a fountain at the right is plashing gently: behind it is an arbour covered with vines. Near the centre of the garden stands a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. Beyond the arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of Rimmon, which casts a shadow from the moon across the garden. The background is a wide, hilly landscape, with the snow-clad summit of Mount Herman in the distance. Enter by the palace door, the lady TSARPI, robed in red and gold, and followed by her maids, KHAMMA and NUBTA. She remains on the terrace: they go down into the garden, looking about, and returning to her.
KHAMMA: There's no one here; the garden is asleep.
NUBTA: The flowers are nodding, all the birds abed,— Nothing awake except the watchful stars!
KHAMMA: The stars are sentinels discreet and mute: How many things they know and never tell!
TSARPI: [Impatiently.] Unlike the stars, how many things you tell And do not know! When comes your master home?
NUBTA: Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word,— At moonset, not before.
TSARPI: He haunts the camp And leaves me much alone; yet I can pass The time of absence not unhappily, If I but know the time of his return. An hour of moonlight yet! Khamma, my mirror! These curls are ill arranged, this veil too low,— So,—that is better, careless maids! Withdraw,— But bring me word if Naaman appears!
KHAMMA: Mistress, have no concern; for when we hear The clatter of his horse along the street, We'll run this way and lead your dancers down With song and laughter,—you shall know in time.
[Exeunt KHAMMA and NUBTA laughing, TSARPI descends the steps.]
TSARPI: My guest is late; but he will surely come! The man who burns to drain the cup of love, The priest whose greed of glory never fails, Both, both have need of me, and he will come. And I,—what do I need? Why everything That helps my beauty to a higher throne; All that a priest can promise, all a man Can give, and all a god bestow, I need: This may a woman win, and this will I.
[Enter REZON quietly from the shadow of the trees. He stands behind TSARPI and listens, smiling, to her last words. Then he drops his mantle of leopard-skin, and lifts his high priest's rod of bronze, shaped at one end like a star.]
REZON: Tsarpi!
TSARPI: [Bowing low before him.] The mistress of the house of Naaman Salutes the master of the House of Rimmon.
REZON: Rimmon receives you with his star of peace, For you were once a handmaid of his altar.
[He lowers the star-point of the rod, which glows for a moment with rosy light above her head.]
And now the keeper of his temple asks The welcome of the woman for the man.
TSARPI: [Giving him her hand, but holding off his embrace.] No more,—till I have heard what brings you here By night, within the garden of the one Who scorns you most and fears you least in all Damascus.
REZON: Trust me, I repay his scorn With double hatred,—Naaman, the man Who stands against the nobles and the priests, This powerful fool, this impious devotee Of liberty, who loves the people more Than he reveres the city's ancient god: This frigid husband who sets you below His dream of duty to a horde of slaves: This man I hate, and I will humble him.
TSARPI: I think I hate him too. He stands apart From me, ev'n while he holds me in his arms, By something that I cannot understand. He swears he loves his wife next to his honour! Next? That's too low! I will be first or nothing.
REZON: With me you are the first, the absolute! When you and I have triumphed you shall reign; And you and I will bring this hero down.
TSARPI: But how? For he is strong.
REZON: By this, the hand Of Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon.
TSARPI: Your plan?
REZON: You know the host of Nineveh Is marching now against us. Envoys come To bid us yield before a hopeless war. Our king is weak: the nobles, being rich, Would purchase peace to make them richer still: Only the people and the soldiers, led By Naaman, would fight for liberty. Blind fools! To-day the envoys came to me, And talked with me in secret. Promises, Great promises! For every noble house That urges peace, a noble recompense: The King, submissive, kept in royal state And splendour: most of all, honour and wealth Shall crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest,— Yea, and his priestess! For we two will rise Upon the city's fall. The common folk Shall suffer; Naaman shall sink with them In wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall rise Above me! You shall climb, through incense-smoke, And days of pomp, and nights of revelry, Unto the topmost room in Rimmon's tower, The secret, lofty room, the couch of bliss, And the divine embraces of the god.
TSARPI: [Throwing out her arms in exultation.] All, all I wish! What must I do for this?
REZON: Turn Naaman away from thoughts of war.
TSARPI: But if I fail? His will is proof against The lure of kisses and the wile of tears.
REZON: Where woman fails, woman and priest succeed. Before the King decides, he must consult The oracle of Rimmon. This my hands Prepare,—and you shall read the signs prepared In words of fear to melt the brazen heart Of Naaman.
TSARPI: But if it flame instead?
REZON: I know a way to quench that flame. The cup, The parting cup your hand shall give to him! What if the curse of Rimmon should infect That sacred wine with poison, secretly To work within his veins, week after week Corrupting all the currents of his blood, Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh? What then? Would he prevail in war? Would he come back To glory, or to shame? What think you?
TSARPI: I?— I do not think; I only do my part. But can the gods bless this?
REZON: The gods can bless Whatever they decree; their will makes right; And this is for the glory of the House Of Rimmon,—and for thee, my queen. Come, come! The night grows dark: we'll perfect our alliance.
[REZON draws her with him, embracing her, through the shadows of the garden. RUAHMAH, who has been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened during the dialogue, and has been dimly visible in her white dress, behind the vines. She parts them and comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair from her temples.]
RUAHMAH: What have I heard? O God, what shame is this Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars! Was it for this that I was brought away A captive from the hills of Israel To serve the heathen in a land of lies? Ah, treacherous, shameful priest! Ah, shameless wife Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt! The very greatness of his generous heart Betrays him to their hands. What can I do! Nothing,—a slave,—hated and mocked by all My fellow-slaves! O bitter prison-life! I smother in this black, betraying air Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath The shadow of this House of Rimmon. God Have mercy! Lead me out to Israel. To Israel!
[Music and laughter heard within the palace. The doors fly open and a flood of men and women, dancers, players, flushed with wine, dishevelled, pour down the steps, KHAMMA and NUBTA with them. They crown the image with roses and dance around it. RUAHMAH is discovered crouching beside the arbour. They drag her out beside the image.]
NUBTA: Look! Here's the Hebrew maid,— She's homesick; let us comfort her!
KHAMMA: [They put their arms around her.] Yes, dancing is the cure for homesickness. We'll make her dance.
RUAHMAH: [She slips away.] I pray you, let me go! I cannot dance, I do not know your measures.
KHAMMA: Then sing for us,—a song of Israel!
RUAHMAH: How can I sing the songs of Israel In this strange country? O my heart would break!
A SERVANT: A stubborn and unfriendly maid! We'll whip her.
[They circle around her, striking her with rose-branches; she sinks to her knees, covering her face with her bare arms, which bleed.]
NUBTA: Look, look! She kneels to Rimmon, she is tamed.
RUAHMAH: [Springing up and lifting her arms.] Nay, not to this dumb idol, but to Him Who made Orion and the seven stars!
ALL: She raves,—she mocks at Rimmon! Punish her! The fountain! Wash her blasphemy away!
[They push her toward the fountain, laughing and shouting. In the open door of the palace NAAMAN appears, dressed in blue and silver, bareheaded and unarmed. He comes to the top of the steps and stands for a moment, astonished and angry.]
NAAMAN: Silence! What drunken rout is this? Begone, Ye barking dogs and mewing cats! Out, all! Poor child, what have they done to thee?
[Exeunt all except RUAHMAH, who stands with her face covered by her hands. NAAMAN comes to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.]
RUAHMAH: [Looking up in his face.] Nothing, My lord and master! They have harmed me not.
NAAMAN: [Touching her arm.] Dost call this nothing?
RUAHMAH: Since my lord is come!
NAAMAN: I do not know thy face,—who art thou, child?
RUAHMAH: The handmaid of thy wife.
NAAMAN: Whence comest thou? Thy voice is like thy mistress, but thy looks Have something foreign. Tell thy name, thy land.
RUAHMAH: Ruahmah is my name, a captive maid, The daughter of a prince in Israel, Where once, in olden days, I saw my lord Ride through our highlands, when Samaria Was allied with Damascus to defeat Our common foe.
NAAMAN: And thou rememberest this?
RUAHMAH: As clear as yesterday! Master, I saw Thee riding on a snow-white horse beside Our king; and all we joyful little maids Strewed boughs of palm along the victors' way, For you had driven out the enemy, Broken; and both our lands were friends and free.
NAAMAN: [Sadly.] Well, they are past, those noble days! The days When nations would imperil all to keep Their liberties, are only memories now. The common cause is lost,—and thou art brought, The captive of some mercenary raid, Some skirmish of a gold-begotten war, To serve within my house. Dost thou fare well?
RUAHMAH: Master, thou seest.
NAAMAN: Yes, I see! My child, Why do they hate thee so?
RUAHMAH: I do not know, Unless because I will not bow to Rimmon.
NAAMAN: Thou needest not. I fear he is a god Who pities not his people, will not save. My heart is sick with doubt of him. But thou Shalt hold thy faith,—I care not what it is,— Worship thy god; but keep thy spirit free.
[He takes the amulet from his neck and gives it to her.]
Here, take this chain and wear it with my seal, None shall molest the maid who carries this. Thou hast found favour in thy master's eyes; Hast thou no other gift to ask of me?
RUAHMAH: [Earnestly.] My lord, I do entreat thee not to go To-morrow to the council. Seek the King And speak with him in secret; but avoid The audience-hall.
NAAMAN: Why, what is this? Thy wits Are wandering. My honour is engaged To speak for war, to lead in war against The Assyrian Bull and save Damascus.
RUAHMAH: [With confused earnestness.] Then, lord, if thou must go, I pray thee speak,— I know not how,—but so that all must hear. With magic of unanswerable words Persuade thy foes. Yet watch,—beware,—
NAAMAN: Of what?
RUAHMAH: [Turning aside.] I am entangled in my speech,—no light,— How shall I tell him? He will not believe. O my dear lord, thine enemies are they Of thine own house. I pray thee to beware,— Beware,—of Rimmon!
NAAMAN: Child, thy words are wild: Thy troubles have bewildered all thy brain. Go, now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dream Of Israel! For thou shalt see thy home Among the hills again.
RUAHMAH: Master, good-night. And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep As if thou camped at snowy Hermon's foot, Amid the music of his waterfalls. There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above The weary head, pillowed on earth's kind breast, And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun Looks forth serene, undimmed by city's mirk Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold The waking wonder of the wide-spread world. There life renews itself with every morn In purest joy of living. May the Lord Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out along The open path, beneath the open sky!
[Exit RUAHMAH: NAAMAN stands looking after her.]
SCENE II
TIME: The following morning
The audience-hall in BENHADAD'S palace. The sides of the hall are lined with lofty columns: the back opens toward the city, with descending steps: the House of Rimmon with its high tower is seen in the background. The throne is at the right in front: opposite is the royal door of entrance, guarded by four tall sentinels. Enter at the rear between the columns, RAKHAZ, SABALLIDIN, HAZAEL, IZDUBHAR.
IZDUBHAR: [An excited old man.] The city is all in a turmoil. It boils like a pot of lentils. The people are foaming and bubbling round and round like beans in the pottage.
HAZAEL: [A lean, crafty man.] Fear is a hot fire.
RAKHAZ: [A fat, pompous man.] Well may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three days distant. They are blazing along like a waterspout to chop Damascus down like a pitcher of spilt milk.
SABALLIDIN: [Young and frank.] Cannot Naaman drive them back?
RAKHAZ: [Puffing and blowing.] Ho! Naaman? Where have you been living? Naaman is a broken reed whose claws have been cut. Build no hopes on that foundation, for it will run away and leave you all adrift in the conflagration.
SABALLIDIN: He clatters like a windmill. What would he say, Hazael?
HAZAEL: Naaman can do nothing without the command of the King; and the King fears to order the army to march without the approval of the gods. The High Priest is against it. The House of Rimmon is for peace with Asshur.
RAKHAZ: Yes, and all the nobles are for peace. We are the men whose wisdom lights the rudder that upholds the chariot of state. Would we be rich if we were not wise? Do we not know better than the rabble what medicine will silence this fire that threatens to drown us?
IZDUBHAR: But if the Assyrians come, we shall all perish; they will despoil us all.
HAZAEL: Not us, my lord, only the common people. The envoys have offered favourable terms to the priests, and the nobles, and the King. No palace, no temple, shall be plundered. Only the shops, and the markets, and the houses of the multitude shall be given up to the Bull. He will eat his supper from the pot of lentils, not from our golden plate.
RAKHAZ: Yes, and all who speak for peace in the council shall be enriched; our heads shall be crowned with seats of honour in the procession of the Assyrian king. He needs wise counsellors to help him guide the ship of empire onto the solid rock of prosperity. You must be with us, my lords Izdubhar and Saballidin, and let the stars of your wisdom roar loudly for peace.
IZDUBHAR: He talks like a tablet read upside down,—a wild ass braying in the wilderness. Yet there is policy in his words.
SABALLIDIN: I know not. Can a kingdom live without a people or an army? If we let the Bull in to sup on the lentils, will he not make his breakfast in our vineyards?
[Enter other courtiers following SHUMAKIM, a hump-backed jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath of poppies around his neck and a flagon in his hand. He walks unsteadily, and stutters in his speech.]
HAZAEL: Here is Shumakim, the King's fool, with his legs full of last night's wine.
SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself in front of them and chuckling.] Wrong, my lords, very wrong! This is not last night's wine, but a draught the King's physician gave me this morning for a cure. It sobers me amazingly! I know you all, my lords: any fool would know you. You, master, are a statesman; and you are a politician; and you are a patriot.
RAKHAZ: Am I a statesman? I felt something of the kind about me. But what is a statesman?
SHUMAKIM: A politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat man in a mask; one that plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full o' wind.
HAZAEL: And what is a politician?
SHUMAKIM: A statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked his sackbut. Men trust him for what he is, and he never deceives them, because he always lies.
IZDUBHAR: Why do you call me a patriot?
SHUMAKIM: Because you know what is good for you; you love your country as you love your pelf. You feel for the common people,—as the wolf feels for the sheep.
SABALLIDIN: And what am I?
SHUMAKIM: A fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of thee for that reason. Embrace me, brother, and taste this; but not too much,—it will intoxicate thee with sobriety.
[The hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and soldiers; a crowd of people begin to come up the steps at the rear, where they are halted by a chain guarded by servants of the palace. A bell tolls; the royal door is thrown open; the aged King totters across the hall and takes his seat on the throne with the four tall sentinels standing behind him. All bow down shading their eyes with their hands.]
BENHADAD: The hour of royal audience is come. I'll hear the envoys. Are my counsellors At hand? Where are the priests of Rimmon's house?
[Gongs sound. REZON comes in from the side, followed by a procession of priests in black and yellow. The courtiers bow; the King rises; REZON takes his stand on the steps of the throne at the left of the King.]
BENHADAD: Where is my faithful servant Naaman, The captain of my host?
[Trumpets sound from the city. The crowd on the steps divide; the chain is lowered; NAAMAN enters, followed by six soldiers. He is dressed in chain-mail with a silver helmet and a cloak of blue. He uncovers, and kneels on the steps of the throne at the King's right.]
NAAMAN: My lord the King, The bearer of thy sword is here.
BENHADAD: [Giving NAAMAN his hand, and sitting down.] Welcome, My strong right arm that never me failed yet! I am in doubt,—but stay thou close to me While I decide this cause. Where are the envoys? Let them appear and give their message.
[Enter the Assyrian envoys; one in white and the other in red; both with the golden Bull's head embroidered on their robes. They come from the right, rear, bow slightly before the throne, and take the centre of the hall.]
WHITE ENVOY: [Stepping forward.] Greeting from Shalmaneser, Asshur's son, Who rules the world from Nineveh, Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus! The conquering Bull has led his army forth; The south has fallen before him, and the west His feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste; He pauses at your gate, invincible,— To offer peace. The princes of your court, The priests of Rimmon's house, and you, the King, If you pay homage to your Overlord, Shall rest secure, and flourish as our friends. Assyria sends to you this gilded yoke; Receive it as the sign of proffered peace.
[He lays a yoke on the steps of the throne.]
BENHADAD: What of the city? Said your king no word Of our Damascus, and the many folk That do inhabit her and make her great? What of the soldiers who have fought for us?
WHITE ENVOY: Of these my royal master did not speak.
BENHADAD: Strange silence! Must we give them up to him? Is this the price at which he offers us The yoke of peace? What if we do refuse?
RED ENVOY: [Stepping forward.] Then ruthless war! War to the uttermost. No quarter, no compassion, no escape! The Bull will gore and trample in his fury Nobles and priests and king,—none shall be spared! Before the throne we lay our second gift; This bloody horn, the symbol of red war.
[He lays a long bull's horn, stained with blood, on the steps of the throne.]
WHITE ENVOY: Our message is delivered. We return Unto our master. He will wait three days To know your royal choice between his gifts. Keep which you will and send the other back. The red bull's horn your youngest page may bring; But with the yoke, best send your mightiest army!
[The ENVOYS retire, amid confused murmurs of the people, the King silent, his head, sunken on his breast.]
BENHADAD: Proud words, a bitter message, hard to endure! We are not now that force which feared no foe: Our old allies have left us. Can we face the Bull Alone, and beat him back? Give me your counsel.
[Many speak at once, confusedly.]
What babblement is this? Were ye born at Babel? Give me clear words and reasonable speech.
RAKHAZ: [Pompously.] O King, I am a reasonable man! And there be some who call me very wise And prudent; but of this I will not speak, For I am also modest. Let me plead, Persuade, and reason you to choose for peace. This golden yoke may be a bitter draught, But better far to fold it in our arms, Than risk our cargoes in the savage horn Of war. Shall we imperil all our wealth, Our valuable lives? Nobles are few, Rich men are rare, and wise men rarer still; The precious jewels on the tree of life, Wherein the common people are but bricks And clay and rubble. Let the city go, But save the corner-stones that float the ship! Have I not spoken well?
BENHADAD: [Shaking his head.] Excellent well! Most eloquent! But misty in the meaning.
HAZAEL: [With cold decision.] Then let me speak, O King, in plainer words! The days of independent states are past: The tide of empire sweeps across the earth; Assyria rides it with resistless power And thunders on to subjugate the world. Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny; Submit to her demands, and we shall ride With her to victory. Therefore accept The golden yoke, Assyria's gift of peace.
NAAMAN: [Starting forward eagerly.] There is no peace beneath a conqueror's yoke! For every state that barters liberty To win imperial favour, shall be drained Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars To make the empire greater. Here's the choice, My King, we fight to keep our country free, Or else we fight forevermore to help Assyria bind the world as we are bound. I am a soldier, and I know the hell Of war! But I will gladly ride through hell To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride! Ten thousand chariots wait for your command; And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash Of patience till you let them go; a throng Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset! O master, let me launch your mighty host Against the Bull,—we'll bring him to his knees!
[Cries of "war!" from the soldiers and the people; "peace!" from the courtiers and the priests. The King rises, turning toward NAAMAN, and seems about to speak. REZON lifts his rod.]
REZON: Shall not the gods decide when mortals doubt? Rimmon is master of the city's fate; We read his will, by our most ancient-faith, In omens and in signs of mystery. Must we not hearken to his high commands?
BENHADAD: [Sinking back on the throne, submissively.] I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House. Consult the oracle. But who shall read?
REZON: Tsarpi, the wife of Naaman, who served Within the temple in her maiden years, Shall be the mouth-piece of the mighty god, To-day's high-priestess. Bring the sacrifice!
[Gongs and cymbals sound: enter priests carrying an altar on which a lamb is bound. The altar is placed in the centre of the hall. TSARPI follows the priests, covered with a long transparent veil of black, sown with gold stars; RUAHMAH, in white, bears her train. TSARPI stands before the altar, facing it, and lifts her right hand holding a knife. RUAHMAH steps back, near the throne, her hands crossed on her breast, her head bowed. The priests close in around TSARPI and the altar. The knife is seen to strike downward. Gongs and cymbals sound: cries of "Rimmon, hear us!" The circle of priests opens, and TSARPI turns slowly to face the King.] |
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