LATER POEMS

“There’s a star in the East!” he cried, Jasper, the gray, the wise, To Melchior and to Balthazar Up-gazing to the skies. “Last night from my high tower I watched it as it burned, While all my trembling soul In awe and wonder yearned. For I know the midnight heavens; I can call the stars by name— Orion and royal Ashtaroth And Cimah’s misty flame. I know where Hesper glows, And where, with fiery eye, Proud Mars in burning splendor leads The armies of the sky. But never have I seen A star that shone like this— The star so long foretold By sage and seer it is! When first I, sleepless, saw it Slow breaking through the dark— Nay, hear me, Balthazar, And thou, O Melchior, hark!— When first I saw the star It bore the form of a child, It held in its hand a sceptre, Or the cross of the undefiled. Lo! somewhere on the earth It shines above His rest— The Royal One, the Babe, On mortal mother’s breast. Now haste we forth to find Him— To worship at His feet, To Him of whom the prophets sang Bearing oblations meet!” Then the Three Holy Kings Went forth in eager haste, With servants and with camels, Toward the desert waste. Ah! knew they what they bore? Gold for the earthly king— Frankincense for the God— Myrrh for man’s suffering. With breath of costly spices And precious gums of Isis, The desert air was sweet, As on they fared by day and night Judea’s King to greet. The strange star went before them, They followed where it led; “’Twill guide us to His presence,” Jasper, the holy, said. They crossed deep-flowing rivers, They climbed the mountains high, They slept in dreary places Under the lonely sky. One day, where stretched the desert Before them far and wide, They saw a smoke-wreath curling A spreading palm beside; And from a lowly dwelling, On household cares intent, A woman gazed upon them, In mute bewilderment. “O come with us!” cried Melchior, And ardent Balthazar, “We go to find the Christ-child, Led by yon blazing star! Thou knowest how the prophets His coming long foretold; We go to kneel before Him With gifts of myrrh and gold.” But she, delaying, answered, “My lords, your words are good, And I your pious mission Have gladly understood, Yet I, ere I can join you, Have many things to do: I must set my house in order, Must spin and bake and brew. Go ye to find Messiah! And when my work is done I will your footsteps follow, Mayhap ere set of sun.” Across the shining desert The slow train passed from sight; She set her house in order, She bleached her linen white. With busy hands she labored Till all at last was done— But thrice the moon had risen, And thrice the lordly sun! Then bound she on her sandals, Her pilgrim staff she took; With bread of wheat and barley, And water from the brook; And forth she went to find Him— The babe Emmanuel, Who should be born in Bethlehem By David’s sacred well. All that long day she journeyed; She scanned the desert wide, In all its lonely reaches There was no soul beside— No track to guide her onward, No footprints in the sand, Only the vast, still spaces Wide-stretched on either hand! Night came—but where the Wise Men Had seen His burning star, No glorious sign beheld she Clear beaming from afar, Though Orion and Arcturus Shone bright above her head, And up the heavenly arches Proud Mars his legions led! She did not find the Christ-child. ’Tis said she seeks Him still, Over the wide earth roaming With swift, remorseful will. Her thin white locks the dew-fall Of every clime has wet— In palace and in hovel She seeks Messiah yet! In every child she fancies The Hidden One may be, On each bright head she gazes The mystic crown to see. She twines the Christmas garlands, She lights the Christmas fires, She leads the joyful carols Of all the Christmas choirs; She feeds the poor and hungry, And on her tender breast She soothes all suffering children To softest, sweetest rest. Attend her, holy Angels! Guard her, ye Cherubim! For whatsoe’er she does for these She does it as to Him!

Mary Magdalenè, At the break of day, Wan with tears and watching Hasted on her way; Bearing costly spices, Myrrh, and sweet perfume, Through the shadowy garden To the Master’s tomb. Slowly broke the gray dawn: On her head the breeze Shook a rain of dew-drops From the cypress-trees. Rose and lily parted As to let her pass, And the violets blessed her From the tender grass. Little heed she paid them; Christ, the Lord, was dead; All at last was over, All at last was said. What of hope remainèd? Black against the sky, Calvary’s awful crosses Stretched their arms on high! Mary Magdalenè Made her bitter moan: “From the sealèd sepulchre Who shall roll the stone?” Swift she ran, her spirit Filled with awe and fear; Wide the door stood open As her feet drew near! All the place was flooded With a radiance bright; Forth into the darkness Streamed a holy light. Down she stooped, and peering The dread tomb within, Saw a great white angel Where the Lord had been! Sore she cried in anguish: “Who hath him betrayed? They have taken away my Lord! Where is he laid?” “Nay,” the shining angel, Calmly smiling, said— “Why seek ye the living Down among the dead? He is not here, but risen!” All her soul stood still; Through her trembling pulses Ran a conscious thrill. “Mary!” said a low voice; “Rabboni!” answered she. Then life was brought to light And immortality! Mary Magdalenè, First of woman born To see the clear light streaming O’er the hills of morn; First to hail the Lord Christ, Conqueror of Death, First to bow before Him With abated breath; First to hear the Master Say—“From Death’s dark prison, From its bonds and fetters, Lo! I have arisen! Now to God, my Father— Mine and yours—I go; And because I live Ye shall live also!” Didst thou grasp the meaning? Know that Death was dead? That the seed of woman Had bruised the serpent’s head? Didst thou know Messiah The gates of hell had broken, And life unto its captives Once for all had spoken? O! through all the ages, Every son of man, Be he slave or monarch, Born to bliss or ban— Lord, or prince, or peasant, Jester, sage, or seer, Wife, or child, or mother, Priest, or worshipper— Through the grave’s lone portals Soon or late had passed, But no sign or token Back to earth had cast! In Ramah was a voice heard Sounding through the years— Rachel for her children Pouring sighs and tears; Rizpah for her slain sons Woful vigils keeping; David for young Absalom In the chamber weeping! All earth’s myriad millions To their dead had cried, Empty arms outreaching In the silence wide, Yet from out the darkness Came nor word, nor sound, As the long ranks vanished In the black profound— Came no word till Mary Heard the Angel say— “Christ the Lord is risen; The Lord Christ lives to-day!” From the empty sepulchre Streamed the Light Divine; Grave where is thy victory? Where, O Death, is thine? Mary Magdalenè, Hope is born again; Clear the Day-star rises To the eyes of men. Lo! the mists are fleeing! Shine, O Olivet, For the crown of promise On thy brow is set! Lift your heads, ye mountains! Clap your hands, ye hills! Into rapturous singing Break, ye murmuring rills! Shout aloud, O forests! Swell the song, O seas! Wake, resistless ocean, All your symphonies! Wave your palms, O tropics! Lonely isles, rejoice! O ye silent deserts, Find a choral voice! Winds, on mighty trumpets, Blow the strains abroad, While each star in heaven Hails its risen Lord! “Alleluia! Alleluia!”— How the voices ring! “Alleluia! Alleluia!” Earth and heaven sing! Alleluia! Christ is risen! Chant his praise alway! From the sealèd sepulchre Christ is risen to-day!

Graceful and lithe and tall, It stands by the garden wall, In the flush of its pink-white bloom Elate with its own perfume. Tossing its young bright head In the first glad joy of May, While its singing leaves sing back To the bird on the dancing spray. “I’m alive! I’m abloom!” it cries To the winds and the laughing skies. Ho! for the gay young apple-tree That stands by the garden wall! Sturdy and broad and tall, Over the garden wall It spreads its branches wide— A bower on either side. For the bending boughs hang low; And with shouts and gay turmoil The children gather like bees To garner the golden spoil; While the smiling mother sings, “Rejoice for the gift it brings! Ho! for the laden apple-tree That stands by our garden wall!” The strong swift years fly past, Each swifter than the last; And the tree by the garden wall Sees joy and grief befall. Still from the spreading boughs Some golden apples swing; But the children come no more For the autumn harvesting. The tangled grass lies deep Where the long path used to creep; Yet ho! for the brave old apple-tree That leans o’er the crumbling wall! Now generations pass, Like shadows on the grass. What is there that remains For all their toil and pains? A little hollow place Where once a hearthstone lay; An empty, silent space Whence life hath gone away; Tall brambles where the lilacs grew, Some fennel, and a clump of rue, And this one gnarled old apple-tree Where once was the garden wall!

How dost thou come, O Comforter? In heavenly glory dressed, Down floating from the far-off skies, With lilies on thy breast? With silver lilies on thy breast, And in thy falling hair, Bringing the bloom and balm of heaven To this dim, earthly air? How dost thou come, O Comforter? With strange, unearthly light, And mystic splendor aureoled, In trances of the night? In lone, mysterious silences, In visions rapt and high, And holy dreams, like pathways set Betwixt the earth and sky? Not thus alone, O Comforter! Not thus, thou Guest Divine, Whose presence turns our stones to bread, Our water into wine! Not always thus—for thou dost stoop To our poor, common clay, Too faint for saintly ecstasy, Too impotent to pray. How does God send the Comforter? Ofttimes through byways dim; Not always by the beaten path Of sacrament and hymn; Not always through the gates of prayer, Or penitential psalm, Or sacred rite, or holy day, Or incense, breathing balm. How does God send the Comforter? Perchance through faith intense; Perchance through humblest avenues Of sight, or sound, or sense. Haply in childhood’s laughing voice Shall breathe the voice divine, And tender hands of earthly love Pour for thee heavenly wine! How will God send the Comforter? Thou knowest not, nor I! His ways are countless as the stars His hand hath hung on high. His roses bring their fragrant balm, His twilight hush its peace, Morning its splendor, night its calm, To give thy pain surcease!

A voice from out of the northern sky: “On the wings of the limitless winds I fly, Swifter than thought over mountain and vale, City and moorland, desert and dale! From the north to the south, from the east to the west, I hasten regardless of slumber or rest; Oh, nothing you dream of can fly as fast As I on the wings of the wintry blast! The wondering stars look out to see Who he that flieth so fast may be, And their bright eyes follow my earthward track By the gleam of the jewels I bear in my pack. For I have treasures for high and for low: Rubies that burn like the sunset glow; Diamond rays for the crownèd queen; For the princess, pearls with their silver sheen. I enter the castle with noiseless feet— The air is silent and soft and sweet; And I lavish my beautiful tokens there— Fairings to make the fair more fair! I enter the cottage of want and woe— The candle is out, and the fire burns low; But the sleepers smile in a happy dream As I scatter my gifts by the moon’s pale beam. There’s never a home so low, no doubt, But I in my flight can find it out; Nor a hut so hidden but I can see The shadow cast by the lone roof-tree! There’s never a home so proud and high That I am constrained to pass it by, Nor a heart so happy it may not be Happier still when blessed by me! What is my name? Ah, who can tell, Though in every land ’tis a magic spell! Men call me that, and they call me this; Yet the different names are the same, I wis! Gift-bearer to all the world am I, Joy-giver, Light-bringer, where’er I fly; But the name I bear in the courts above, My truest and holiest name, is—LOVE!”

Where the far skies soared clear and bright From mountain height to mountain height, In the heart of a forest old and gray, Castleton slept one Sabbath day— Slept and dreamed, on the seventh of May, Seventeen hundred and seventy-five. But hark! a humming, like bees in a hive; Hark to the shouts—“They come! they come!” Hark to the sound of the fife and drum! For up from the south two hundred men— Two hundred and fifty—from mount and glen, While the deep woods rang with their rallying cry Of “Ticonderoga! Fort Ti! Fort Ti!” Swept into the town with a martial tread, Ethan Allen marching ahead! Next day the village was all astir With unwonted tumult and hurry. There were Gatherings here and gatherings there, A feverish heat in the very air, The ominous sound of tramping feet, And eager groups in the dusty street. To Eben’s forge strode Gershom Beach (Idle it stood, and its master away); Blacksmith and armorer stout was he, First in the fight and first in the breach, And first in work where a man should be. “I’ll borrow your tools, my friend,” he said, “And temper these blades if I lose my head!” So he wrought away till the sun went down, And silence fell on the turbulent town; And the flame of the forge through the darkness glowed, A square of light on the sandy road. Then over the threshold a shadow fell, And he heard a voice that he knew right well. It was Ethan Allen’s. He cried: “I knew Where the forge-fire blazed I must look for you! But listen! more arduous work than this, Lying in wait for someone is; And tempering blades is only play To the task I set for him this day— Or this night, rather.” A grim smile played O’er the armorer’s face as his hand he stayed. “Say on. I never have shirked,” said he; “What may this wonderful task-work be?” “To go by the light of the evening star On an urgent errand, swift and far— From town to town and from farm to farm To carry the warning and sound the alarm! Wake Rutland and Pittsford! Rouse Neshobè, too, And all the fair valley the Otter runs through— For we need more men! Make no delay, But hasten, hasten, upon your way!” He doffed his apron, he tightened his belt, To fasten the straps of his leggings he knelt. “Ere the clock strikes nine,” said Gershom Beach, “Friend Allen, I will be out of reach; And I pledge you my word, ere dawn of day Guns and men shall be under way. But where shall I send these minute-men?” “Do you know Hand’s Cove?” said Allen then, “On the shore of Champlain? Let them meet me there By to-morrow night, be it foul or fair!” “Good-by, I’m off!” Then down the road As if on seven-league boots he strode, While Allen watched from the forge’s door Till the stalwart form he could see no more. Into the woods passed Gershom Beach; By nine of the clock he was out of reach. But still, as his will his steps outran, He said to himself, with a laugh, “Old man, Never a minute have you to lose, Never a minute to pick or choose; For sixty miles in twenty-four hours Is surely enough to try your powers. So square your shoulders and speed away With never a halt by night or day.” ’Twas a moonless night; but over his head The stars a tremulous lustre shed, And the breath of the woods grew strangely sweet, As he crushed the wild ferns under his feet, And trampled the shy arbutus blooms, With their hoarded wealth of rare perfumes. He sniffed as he went. “It seems to me There are May-flowers here, but I cannot see. I’ve read of the ‘hush of the silent night’; Now hark! there’s a wolf on yonder height; There’s a snarling catamount prowling round; Every inch of the ‘silence’ is full of sound; The night-birds cry; the whip-poor-wills Call to each other from all the hills; A scream comes down from the eagle’s nest; The bark of a fox from the cliff’s tall crest; The owls hoot; and the very trees Have something to say to every breeze!” The paths were few and the ways were rude In the depths of that virgin solitude. The Indian’s trail and the hunter’s tracks, The trees scarred deep by the settler’s axe, Or a cow-path leading to the creek,— These were the signs he had to seek; Save where, it may be, he chanced to hit The Crown Point road and could follow it— The road by the British troops hewn out Under General Amherst in fifty-nine, When he drove the French from the old redoubt, Nor waited to give the countersign! The streams were many and swift and clear; But there was no bridge, or far or near. It was midnight when he paused to hear At Rutland, the roar of the waterfall, And found a canoe by the river’s edge, In a tangled thicket of reeds and sedge. With a shout and a cheer, on the rushing tide He launched it and flew to the other side; Then giving his message, on he sped, By the light of the pale stars overhead, Past the log church below Pine Hill, And the graveyard opposite. All was still, And the one lone sleeper lying there Stirred not either for cry or prayer. Only pausing to give the alarm At rude log cabin and lonely farm. From hamlet to hamlet he hurries along, Borne on by a purpose deep and strong. Look! there’s a deer in the forest glade, Stealing along like a silent shade! Hark to the loon that cries and moans With a living grief in its human tones! At Pittsford the light begins to grow In the wakening east; and drifting slow, From valley and river and wild-wood, rise, Like the smoke of a morning sacrifice, Clouds of translucent, silver mist, Flushing to rose and amethyst; While thrush and robin and bluebird sing Till the woods with jubilant music ring! It was day at last! He looked around, With a firmer tread on the springing ground; “Now the men will be all afield,” said he, “And that will save many a step for me. Each man will be ready to go; but still, I must confess, if I’d had my will, I’d have waited till after planting-time, For now the season is in its prime. The young green leaves of the oak-tree here Are just the size of a squirrel’s ear; And I’ve known no rule, since I was born, Safer than that for planting corn!” He threaded the valleys, he climbed the hills, He forded the rivers, he leaped the rills, While still to his call, like minute-men Booted and spurred, from mount and glen, The settlers rallied. But on he went Like an arrow shot from a bow, unspent, Down the long vale of the Otter to where The might of the waterfall thundered in air; Then across to the lake, six leagues and more, Where Hand’s Cove lay in the bending shore. The goal was reached. He dropped to the ground In a deep ravine, without word or sound; And Sleep, the restorer, bade him rest Like a weary child, on the earth’s brown breast. At midnight he woke with a quick heart-beat, And sprang with a will to his throbbing feet;— For armed men swarmed in the dim ravine, And Ethan Allen, as proud of mien As a king on his throne, smiled down on him, While he stretched and straightened each stiffened limb. “Nay, nay,” said the Colonel, “take your rest, As a knight who has done his chief’s behest!” “Not yet!” cried the armorer. “Where’s my gun? A knight fights on till the field is won!” And into Fort Ti, ere dawn of day, He stormed with his comrades to share the fray!

Wind of the winter night, Under the starry skies Somewhere my lady bright, Slumbering lies. Wrapped in calm maiden dreams, Where the pale moonlight streams, Softly she sleeps. I do not know her face, Pure as the lonely star That in yon darkling space Shineth afar; Never with soft command Touched I her willing hand, Kissed I her lips. I have not heard her voice, I do not know her name; Yet doth my heart rejoice, Owning her claim; Yet am I true to her; All that is due to her Sacred I keep. Never a thought of me Troubles her soft repose; Courant of mine may be Lily nor rose. They may not bear to her This heart’s fond prayer to her, Yet—she is mine. Wind of the winter night, Over the fields of snow, Over the hill so white, Tenderly blow! Somewhere red roses bloom; Into her warm, hushed room, Bear thou their breath. Whisper—Nay, nay, thou sprite, Breathe thou no tender word; Wind of the winter night, Die thou unheard. True love shall yet prevail, Telling its own sweet tale: Till then I wait.

Bird, by her garden gate Singing thy happy song, Round thee the listening leaves Joyously throng. Tell them that yesternight Under the stars so bright, I wooed and won her! Red rose, rejoice with me! Swing all thy censers low, Bid each fair bud of thine Hasten to blow. Lift every glowing cup Brimming with sweetness up, For—I have won her! Wind, bear the tidings far, Far over hill and dale; Let every breeze that blows Swell the glad tale. River, go tell the sea, Boundless and glad and free, That I have won her! Stars, ye who saw the blush Steal o’er her lovely face, When first her tender lips Granted me grace, Who can with her compare, Queen of the maidens rare? Yet—I have won her! Sun, up yon azure height Treading thy lofty way, Ruler of sea and land, King of the Day— Where’er thy banners fly, Who is so blest as I? I—who have won her! Oh, heart and soul of mine, Make ye the temple clean, Make all the cloisters pure Seen and unseen! Bring fragrant balm and myrrh, Make the shrine meet for her, Now ye have won her!

Happy birds caroling love-songs, winds in the tree-tops at play, Earth, like an Eden, rejoicing in the beautiful gladness of May! Over the mountains a splendor of crimson and amethyst swept: Gray mists stole up from the valley, the dense shadows after them crept. Down the green aisles of the orchard, pink-white with the promise of bloom, Stood the apple-trees, wooing already the brown bees with wealth of perfume. Then sounded the blast of a trumpet, like the cry of a soul in pain, Crashing of thunder-bolts warring with the hosts of the scourging rain. Till when the raging battalions swept on with resistless sway, Prone in the path of the tempest the pride of the orchard lay! “O beautiful buds close folded, that never will bloom!” I cried, “Alas for the unfulfilment, alas for the bliss denied!” But filling my arms with the branches, I carried them in, where the fire Blazed on the glowing hearth-stone like a sacrificial pyre. And into the flames I tossed them, when before my startled eyes, As in a miraculous vision, shone a marvel, a surprise. In the heart of the fiery splendor the pale buds, one by one, Opened to heat of the burning as to kiss of the summer sun!

When the hour has come and the servants wait The tramp of steeds at the castle gate, When the lamps aglow in the banquet-hall Like a thousand stars burn over all, When the board is spread and the feast is set, And the dew on the roses lingers yet, Whom shall the Master summon To sit at his right hand? Let the music soar to the vaulted roof, Let the flute-notes swell, alow, aloof, While chief and retainer alike await The Lord of the Castle who cometh late; The guests are bidden, the red wine flows, But not the wisest among them knows Whom the Master shall summon To sit at his right hand! For the Lord of the Castle, who cometh late, When he comes, at length, in pomp and state, And with glitter of mail, and clang of sword, Strides to his place at the head of the board, Ofttimes reverses the order set, Nor beckons to crown or coronet! Whom he will the Master summons To sit at his right hand!

“Just the same thing over and over!” But that is the way of the world, my dear; Over and over, over and over, Old things repeated from year to year! Hear what the sun saith: “Patient still, The vaulted heavens I climb and climb, Over and over with tireless will, Day after day till the end of time! Never a pause and never a rest; Yet every morning the earth is new, And ever the clouds in the golden west Have a fresh glory shining through.” Hear what the grass saith: “Up the hills And through the orchard I creep and creep, Over the meadows, and where the rills Laugh in the shadows cool and deep. Every spring it is just the same! And because it is, I am sure to see The oriole’s flash of vivid flame In the pink-white bloom of the apple-tree.” Hear what dear Love saith: “Ah, I hear The same old story over and over; Mother and maiden year by year Whisper it still to child and lover! But sweeter it grows from age to age, The song begotten so long ago, When first man came to his heritage, And walked with God in the even-glow.”

A little bird sat on an apple-tree, And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be; He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat, But from it there floated no silvery note. “Not a song can I sing,” sighed he, sighed he— “Not a song can I sing,” sighed he. In tremulous showers the apple-tree shed Its pink and white blossoms on his head; The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words, He heard the gay song of a thousand birds. “All the others can sing,” he dolefully said— “All the others can sing,” he said. So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wide The music was borne on the air’s warm tide, A sudden thought came to the sad little bird, And he lifted his head as within him it stirred. “If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried; “Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.

O Virgin hearth, as chaste and cold As one who waits for burial mould, Whom shall we summon here to keep Watch while thou wakest from thy sleep? Not from the far sky spaces, blue As those that Zeus and Hera knew, May Hestia wing her airy flight, Bringer of holy warmth and light. Pan may not come. By stream and shore Fair Naiads dry their locks no more; No Oread dwells in mount and glen; No Dryad flees from gods or men. Yet still do forest voices clear Greet him whose soul hath ears to hear; The murmur of the rustling pine Is sweet as Hermes’s harp divine. The winds that rend the mighty oak Clash loud as Ares’s battle stroke; The maples toss each leafy crown Though Dian’s votive wreaths are brown. Here, as to sacrificial pyre Kindled with pure celestial fire, Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bring The deep wood’s fragrant offering, As incense to this household shrine. O hearth, no richer spoil were thine If all Dodona’s oaks had shed Their life-blood and for thee lay dead! Thou waiting one, doth no strange thrill Thy quickening veins with wonder fill? Have the far-seeing, prescient years No presage for thy listening ears? Life hath its phases manifold, Yet still the new repeats the old; There is no truer truth than this: What was, is still the thing that is. Therefore we know that thou wilt hear Childhood’s light laughter ringing clear; The flow of song, the breath of prayer, Whisper of love, and sigh of care. Thou wilt see youth go forth to gauge His being’s lofty heritage, And manhood in the autumn eves Come homeward laden with his sheaves. O life and death, O joy and woe, In mingling streams your tides shall flow, While sun and storm alike fulfil The mandates of the Eternal Will! Now bring the torch and light the fire, Let the swift flames leap high and higher, Let the red radiance stream afar, Dearer than glow of moon or star! Burn, burn, O fire, burn still and clear, And fill the house with warmth and cheer! Soar, soar, O fire, so brave, so bright, And souls shall soar to share thy flight!

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel! Down yon lonely height Hear the joyous summons pealing Through the starry night. Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel! Ring the Christmas bells; From the church-tower on the hill Clear the music swells. Far and near the listening mountains Bend to catch the strain, Dome, and peak, and shadowy fastness Join the glad refrain,— Noel! Noel! All the pine-trees Feel a subtile thrill, And the hemlock groves, responsive, Whisper and are still. Noel! Noel! Through the valley Where the river goes In and out between the meadows, Soft the music flows, And the river, dumbly sleeping, Feels its cold heart beat Answering to the pulsing rhythm Of the anthem sweet. Noel! Noel! Hark! a rustling On the frosty air, Where the aspens, all a-quiver, Bend their branches bare; Airy birches, stately maples, Black against the sky, Wave their leafless boughs like banners When a king goes by. Noel! Noel! Sweet-breathed oxen, In the farm-yard close, Lift their horned heads to listen, Startled from repose; Then they sleep as slept the white flocks On Judea’s hills, While again the olden glory Earth with rapture fills. Noel! Noel! Little children In their soft nests smile, Dreaming of fair choiring angels Floating near the while; Voiceless snow-birds, half awakened, Stir their drowsy wings With, mayhap, a vague, unconscious Sense of heavenly things. Noel! Noel! In the church-yard, Where the low graves lie, Light winds bear the strains melodious, Soft as spirit’s sigh; Do ye hear it, O ye sleepers, As it dies and swells? Hear your ears the mystic music Of earth’s Christmas bells?

In cool gray cloisters walks my Lady Sleep, Telling her smooth beads slowly, one by one; Along the wall the stealthy shadows creep; Night holds the world in thrall, and day is done. Sometimes, while winds sigh soft above her head, Down the long garden path my Lady strays, And kneeling by the pansies’ purple bed, Counts the small faces in the moonlit haze. Sometimes she lies upon the silver sands, Following the sea-birds, as they wheel and dip; Or idly clasps, in still persistent hands, The shining grains that through her fingers slip. Or paces long, with flowing locks all wet, Where the low thunder booms forevermore, And the great waves no man hath numbered yet, Roll, one by one, to break upon the shore. Sometimes she counts the brightening twilight stars, The daisies smiling in the meadow grass, The slow kine trailing through the pasture bars, The white sheep loitering in the mountain pass. But evermore her hands are cool and calm— Her quiet voice is ever hushed and low; And evermore her tranquil lips breathe balm, And silent as a dream her garments flow. She comes, she goes—whence, whither—who can tell? Angels of God, do ye her secret keep? Know ye the talisman, the sign, the spell, The mystic password of my Lady Sleep?

“The King’s touch—there is magic in it! When the early dawn in the east is red, And I hear the song of the lark and linnet, I will rise like a wraith from my sleepless bed. Then wrapped in a cloak of hodden gray I will steal like a shadow over the hills, And down where the pendulous willows sway, And the rich, ripe grape its scent distils— Till I reach the edge of the forest wide; And there will I bide, where the still shades are, Till the King and his huntsmen forth do ride, And the sweet wild horn rings out afar. I will wait and listen until I see The nodding plumes of the merry men And the glancing pennants floating free, A gleam of light in the lonely glen. Then low in the dust at his royal feet I will kneel for the touch of his healing hand; Perchance he will give ere I entreat, Before I cry he may understand! The King’s proud Leech will be there I trow— A wise old man with a reverent air— And the laughing courtiers, row on row; Yet not unto them will I make my prayer. ’Tis the King, the King, who will know it all. His eye will discover the wound concealed; He will bend to hear me before I call. Whom the King touches shall be healed!” Was the maiden cured? Ah, none can tell! She was dust and ashes long ago, With the proud young king and his leech as well, And the smiling courtiers, row on row. But whether the dawn in the east be red, Or whether the stars bloom out afield, This truth remaineth, tho’ myths lie dead: “Whom the King touches shall be healed!”

Unknown to me thy name or state, Save that a mantle saintly Of rare and sweet unworldliness Enfolded thee most quaintly. We came and went by divers paths; We planned nor time, nor meeting; We spake not, save by nod, or smile, Or glance of casual greeting. Yet, led by some strange chance or fate To-day by ruined altars, Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves, The pitying sunshine falters; To-morrow where your blue lakes shine, And bloom your English daisies; Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crest The sunset splendor blazes; Or where deep organ-thunders roll Through grand cathedral arches, And stately Durham’s triple towers Look toward the Scottish marches; Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew Each other’s name nor mission, The while a subtile kinship grew To silent recognition. At length where stretched a princely street In long, receding splendor, Down which the golden sunshine threw A radiance warm and tender; While far above us, frowning, hung A castle old and hoary, Stern on its battlemented heights Renowned in song and story; And near us, throned in marble state, O’er time and death victorious, He sat, the magic of whose pen Made king and castle glorious— There, face to face, once more we met, Like leaves in autumn weather, That blown afar by varying winds, Yet drift again together. A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?” A little low, sweet laughter, Just one close clasp of meeting hands, And then, a moment after, Between us swept the surging crowd And we were borne asunder. O, friend unknown, in what far land Will we next meet, I wonder?

Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest, Am I not blind? Each bird that flyeth east or west The track can find. Each bird that flies from north to south Knows the far way; From mountain’s crest to river’s mouth It does not stray. Not one in all the lengthening land, In all the sky, Or by the ocean’s silver strand, Is blind as I! And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest? Build Thou for me Some shelter where my soul may rest Secure in Thee. Close clinging to the bending bough, Bind it so fast It shall not loose if high or low Blows the loud blast. If fierce storms break, and the wild rain Comes pelting in, Cover the shrinking nest, restrain The furious din. At sultry noontide, when the air Trembles with heat, Draw close the leafy covert where Cool shadows meet. And when night falleth, dark and chill, Let one fair star, Love’s star all luminous and still, Shine from afar. Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest Build Thou for me; So shall my being find its rest Forevermore in Thee.

A Path across a meadow fair and sweet, Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet, A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet. A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star Gleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar, And her soft eyes, more luminous by far! A path across the meadow fair and sweet, Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet— A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet. A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!

The veil is thin between The seen and the unseen— Thinner to-night than the transparent air; All heaven and earth are still, Save when from some far hill Floateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer; Up from the mountain bars Climb the slow, patient stars, Only to faint in moonlight white and rare! Ere earth had grown too wise To commerce with the skies, On this midsummer night the men of old Believed the dead drew near, Believed that they could hear Voices long silent speaking from the mould, Believed whoever slept Unearthly vigil kept Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled. In solemn midnight marches Beneath dark forest arches They fancied that their hungry souls found God; His angels clad in light Stole softly through the night, Leaving no impress on the yielding sod, And bore to mortal ears Tidings from other spheres, The undiscovered way no man hath trod. Ah! what if it were true? Then would I call ye who Have one by one beyond my vision flown; I would set wide the door Ye enter now no more Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown! Come as ye came of old Laden with love untold”— Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?

Little song I fain would sing, Why dost thou elude me so? Like a bird upon the wing, Sailing high, sailing low, Yet forever out of reach, Thou dost vex me beyond measure, Unallured by prayer or speech, Waiting thine own time and pleasure! Well I know thee, tricksy sprite— I could call thee by thy name; I have wooed thee day and night, Yet thou wilt not own my claim. Hark! thou’rt hovering even now In the soft still air above me— Fantasy or dream art thou, That my heart’s cry cannot move thee? Little song I never sang, Thou art sweeter than the strain That through starry mazes rang, First-born child of joy and pain. I shall sing thee not; but surely From some all-compelling voice Swelling high, serenely, purely, I shall hear thee and rejoice!

I stood upon Tower Hill, Bright were the skies and gay, Yet a cloud and a sudden chill Passed over the summer day— A thrill, and a nameless dread, As of one who waits alone Where gather the silent dead Under the charnel stone. For before my shrinking eyes They glided, one by one, The great, the good, the wise, Who here to death were done; Sinners and saints they came With blood-stained garments on, Reckless of praise or blame, Or battles lost or won. Then over the moat I passed And paused at the Traitors’ Gate; Did I hear a trumpet’s blast, Forerunner of deadly fate? Lo! up the stairs from the river, Where the sombre shadows crept, With none to help or deliver, Kings, queens, and princes swept! O, some of those royal dames Drooped, with dishevelled hair, And mien of one who claims Close kindred with despair! And some were proud and cold, With eyes that blazed like stars, As under that archway old They passed to their prison-bars. To prison-bars or death! Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn; That haughty maid, Elizabeth; Northumberland’s pale queen; Margaret Plantagenet, Her gray locks floating wild— How the line lengthens yet, Knight, prelate, statesman, child! Fiercely the black portcullis Frowned as I onward went; The Bloody Tower is this— Strong tower of dread portent! “Show me the Princes’ Chamber,” To the Yeoman Guard I said; O, the stairs were steep to clamber, And the rough vault dark o’erhead! No sigh in the sunny room, No moan from the groined roof, No wail of expectant doom Echoed alow, aloof! But instead a mother sang To a child upon her knee, Whose peals of laughter rang Like sweet bells mad with glee. Sunshine for murky air, Smiles for the sob of pain, Joy for dark despair, Hope where sweet hope was slain! “Art thou happy here,” I cried, “Where once was lonely woe, And the royal children died,— Murdered so long ago?” She smiled. “O, lady, yes! Earth hath forgotten them; See how my roses press, Blooming on each fair stem! The princes, they sleep sound, But love nor joy are dead; I fear no haunted ground, I have my child,” she said.

Wonderland is here and there; Wonderland is everywhere; Fly not then to east or west On some far, uncertain quest. Seek not India nor Japan, Nor the city Ispahan, Where to-day the shadows brood Over lonely Zendarood. Somewhere smileth far Cathay Through the long resplendent day; Somewhere, moored in purple seas, Sleep the fair Hesperides. Somewhere, in vague realms remote Over which strange banners float, Lies, all bathed in silver gleams, The dear Wonderland of dreams. Yet no need to sail in ships Where the blue sea dips and dips, Nor on wings of cloud to fly Where the haunts of faery lie. For by miracle of morn Each successive day is born; And wherever shines the sun, There enchanted rivers run! Would you go to Wonderland? Lo! it lieth close at hand; Wonderland is wheresoe’er Eyes can see and ears can hear!

The Virgin floating on the silver moon; Madonna Mary with her holy child; Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high; Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue; Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine, And martyrs all unmindful of their pain; Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved; Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields, Where patient women toiled; with here and there The glint of summer skies and summer seas, And the red glow of humble, household fires! Breathless I stood and silent, even as one Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face Down the long gallery drew me as a star; A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes That kept their own dear secret, smiling still With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade, Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair, And a long, slender hand whose fingers held Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all. Yet from those high, imperial presences, Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth With all its loves and longings, back I turned Again and yet again, lured by the smile That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!” “Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue, And “Painted by himself.” Three hundred years Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write And they who read, we know another world From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile, Even as here thou smilest, if to-day Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one, Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived So much earth held more precious, let thy lips Open and answer me! Whence was it born, The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face? What manner of man wert thou? For the books Of the long generations do not tell! Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more? What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down To coming ages in the martyr’s rôle; Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woes To wailing music, that the world may count Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song. Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!

So still, so still they lie As centuries pass by, Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; They never lift their eyes In sudden, sweet surprise; The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair Forth from their close-sealed lips Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air! Yet evermore they pray! We creatures of a day Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; Nations arise and fall; Oblivion’s heavy pall Hides kings and princes from all human ken, While these in marble state, From age to age await The rolling thunder of the last amen! Not in dim crypts alone, Or aisles of fretted stone, Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; And the red light streams down On mitre and on crown, Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; But where the tall grass waves O’er long-forgotten graves, Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar! Dost Thou not hear and heed? O, in Earth’s utmost need Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? Not for themselves they pray Whose woes have passed for aye; For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! Thou Sovereign Lord of All, On whom they mutely call, Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!

O bird beneath the midnight sky! As on my lonely couch I lie, I hear thee singing in the dark— Why sing not I? No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye; No fond mate answers to thy cry; No other voice, through all the dark, Makes sweet reply. Yet never skylark soaring high Where sunlit clouds rejoicing lie, Sang as thou singest in the dark, Not mute as I! O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why So far thy ringing love-notes fly, While other birds, hushed by the dark, Are mute as I? No prophecy of morn is nigh; Yet as the sombre hours glide by, Bravely thou singest in the dark— Why sing not I?

Come what may— Though what remaineth I may not know, Nor how many times the rose may blow For my delight, or whether the years Shall be set to the chime of falling tears, Or go on their way rejoicing— Yet, come what may, I have had my day! Come what may— The lurid storm or the sunset peace, The lingering pain or the swift release, Lonely vigils and watchings long, Passionate prayer or soaring song, Or silence deep and golden— Still, come what may, I have had my day! Come what may, I have known the fiery heart of youth, Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth; I have felt the thrill of the eager doer, The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer, The flush of glad possession— And, come what may, I have had my day! Come what may, I have learned that out of the night is born The mystic flower of the early morn; I have learned that after the frost of pain The lily of peace will bloom again, And the rose of consolation. Then, come what may, I have had my day!

Over the wide, tumultuous sea In trancèd hours I dream of thee, Ancient city of song and myth, Whose name is a name to conjure with, And make the heart throb, Nuremberg! I see thee fair in the white moonlight; The stars are asleep at noon of night, Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spires Kindles aloft its silver fires— A flaming cresset, Nuremberg! Leaning over thy river’s brim Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim, While under its bridges glide and gleam The rippling waves of a silent stream, Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg! Oh, the charm of each haunted street, Ways where Beauty and Duty meet; Sculptured miracles soaring free In temple and mart for all to see, Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg! Even thy beggars lift their eyes, Finding ever some new surprise; Even thy children pause from play, To hear what thy graven marbles say, Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg! Other cities for crown and king Wide their glorious banners fling, Lifting high on the azure field Blazoned trophies of sword and shield, That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg! But thou, O city of old renown, Thou dost painter and sculptor crown; Thou dost give to the poet bays, Immortelles for the deathless lays Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg! They are thy Lords of High Degree, Marvels of art who wrought for thee, Toiling on with tireless will Till the wondrous hands in death were still. Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg! They were dust and ashes long ago; Over their graves the sweet winds blow; Yet they are alive whom men call dead— This is thy spell, when all is said; This is thy glory, Nuremberg!

Then down the street came Giacomo, flushed With wine and laughter. I can see him now, With Giulio, Florian, and young Angelo, Arms interlaced, hands clasped, a roisterous crew Of merry, harmless idlers. Ah, so long, So long ago it was! Yet I can see Just how the campanile shone that night Like molten silver, while its carven saints Prayed in the moonlight. Then a shadow crept Over the moon’s face; and it grew so dark That the red star in Giacomo’s cap Paled and went out, and Giulio’s shoulder-clasp Lost all the lustre of its burnished gold, And faded out of sight. Strange, how we lose So much we would remember, and yet keep Trifles like this until the day of doom! They had swept past me where I stood in shade When Giacomo turned. Just then the moon Shone out again, illumining the place, And he paused laughing, catching sight of me There by the fountain.—Nay, sweet Signor, nay! I was young then, and some said I was fair; But I loved not Giacomo, nor he me.— Back he came crying, “Little one, take heed! Know you Fra Alessandro? He would have A model for his picture. Go you then To-morrow to his studio and say Giacomo sent you. At the convent there, Near Santa Croce.” So I thither went Early next morning, trembling as I stole Into the master’s presence. A grave man Of most unworldly aspect, with bowed head And pale chin resting on his long, thin hand, He sat before an easel, lost in thought. “Giacomo sent me,” said I, creeping in, And then stood breathless. Swift as light he turned, But smiled not, spoke not, while his searching eye For minutes that seemed hours scanned my face, Reading it line by line. Signor, it seemed As if the judgment-day had come, and God Sat on the great white throne! At length he spoke, Nodding as one content—“To-morrow morn I pray thee come thou hither. Canst thou bring A little child with thee—some fair, sweet child Whose eyes are like the morning?” Then I said, Bethinking me of Beppo’s little boy Whose mother died last week—“Yes, I will come Surely, my father, and will bring with me The fairest child in Florence.” “It is well,” Softly he answered, and a sudden light Made his pale face all glorious. At the door I paused, and looking backward saw him bow Before the easel as before a shrine. I know not if he prayed, but never saint Had aspect more divine. Next day I went With little Nello to the studio. Impatiently the Frate greeted us, Palette in hand. “So!—Thou art come at last?” But as I drew the cap from Nello’s head And the moist tendrils of his golden hair Fell softly on his forehead, he cried out: “The boy is like an angel! And thy face, Thy face, my daughter, I have seen in dreams, But in dreams only. So, then, stand thou there, And let the boy sit throned upon thine arm, As thus, or thus.” The child was half afraid; And round my neck he clasped his clinging arms, Lifting his face to mine, a questioning face, Filled with soft, startled wonder. While I held Him close and soothed him, Alessandro cried, “O, hold him thus forever! Do not stir! I paint a virgin for an altar-piece. And thou and this fair child——” Even while he spoke He turned back to the easel; but I sprang From the low pedestal, and, with the boy Still in my arms, I fell down at his feet. “Not that, not that, my father!” swift I cried, While my hot forehead touched his garment’s hem; “Not that, for God’s sake! Paint me otherwise. Paint me as martyr, or as Magdalen, As saint, or sibyl—whatsoe’er you will, Only not that, not that!” Smiling he stooped And raised me from the ground, and took the child In unaccustomed arms all tenderly, Placing his brown beads in the dimpled hand. “But why ‘not that,’ my daughter? Nothing else Ever paint I! Not saint, nor Magdalen, Only the Virgin and her Holy Child.” Then suddenly I saw it all—the light Dim in cathedral aisles, the kneeling crowds, The swinging censers, candles burning clear, With flash of jewels, splendor and perfume, The high white altar, and above a face, My face, pale shining through the scented gloom Like a lone star! Then in the hush a voice Chanted “Hail, Mary”—and my heart stood still. I who had been a sinner, could I dare Thus to mock God and man? Low at his feet Again I fell, and there I told him all As he had been my soul’s confessor, poured My very heart out. Signor, life is hard And cruel to child-women, when the street Is their sole nursing mother. I had had No friend, no home, save when old Barbara In some rare mood of pity let me creep Under her wing for shelter. Then she died, And even that poor semblance of a home Was mine no longer. Yet, as the years went on, Out of the dust and moil I grew as tall And fair as lily in a garden plot, Shut in by ivied cloisters—Let it pass!— God knows how girls are tempted when false love Comes with beguiling words and tender lips, Promising all things, and their barren lives Break into sudden bloom as when a bud Unfolds its shining petals in the sun And joys to be a rose! No word he spake, Fra Alessandro, sitting mute and pale. But Nello, wondering at my sighs and tears, Dropped the brown rosary and thrust his hands Into the shining masses of my hair, Pulling the bodkin out, and lifted up My wet, wan face to kiss it. God is good; And even in that dark hour a thrill of joy Ran through my soul as the pure lips met mine. Still I knelt, waiting judgment, with the child Clasped to my bosom, daring not to raise My eyes to the face above me. Well I knew It was the priest’s face, not the painter’s, now! Was it his voice that through the silence stole, “A little child shall lead them,” murmuring low? Just for one instant on my head a hand Fell as in benediction. Then he said “Arise, my daughter, and come thou with me Where bide the holy sisters of St. Clare, Ruled by their abbess, saintliest of all The saintly sisterhood. By work and prayer, Fasting and penance, thou shalt purge thy soul Of all iniquity, and make it clean.” Startled I answered him—“But who will care For Nello then? His mother died last week, And Beppo’s heart is buried in her grave— He cares not for the child, nor gives him love.” But with a wide sweep of his beckoning arm Down the long cloisters strode he, and across The heated pavement of the market-place, Nor looked to see if we were following him Until he paused before the convent gate; Then rang the bell, and in the pause I heard The sisters chanting, and grew faint with shame. “Fear not, my child,” Fra Alessandro said. “Here comes Jacinta. Go you in with her, And straightway tell the abbess all the tale Told unto me this day. Farewell! ”The gate Swung to with iron clang, and Nello’s arms Half strangled me as round my neck he clung, Awed by the holy stillness. Since that hour I with the humble sisters of St. Clare Have given myself to deeds of mercy, works Meet for repentance, ministering still Unto all souls that suffer, even as now I minister to you. But what, you ask, Of the boy Nello? Beppo died that year— God rest his soul!—and the child ’bode with us. But when the lad drew nigh to man’s estate— Too old for women’s guidance—he was found Oftener than elsewhere at the studio Of old Fra Alessandro. He became A painter, Signor, and men call him great. I know not if he is—but you can see His pictures yonder in San Spirito. You’ve seen them? seen my face there? now you know Whence comes the semblance that has puzzled you Through all these weeks of languor? It may be. I am too old to care now, have outlived Youth and its petty consciousness. My face Is mine no longer. It is God’s alone. A Mater Dolorosa?—It is well!

After long waiting when my soul puts off This mortal vesture and is free to go Through all God’s universe in search of thee, How shall it find thee, O, beloved and lost? Through the wide, shadowy spaces, through the deep Profound abysses where the dim spheres roll; Through starry mazes and through violet seas, And purple reaches stretched from world to world; Beyond the bounds of all it hath conceived, Where knowledge falters and where reason fails, And only faith’s strong pinion dares to soar, How shall it make its lonely way to thee? In that far realm what myriads abide! When I have reached it, wilt thou find me, dear? One grain of sand beside the unresting sea— One blade of grass where endless prairies roll! I shall have changed, O love, I shall have changed! The face you knew I shall no longer wear; For few or many though the years may be, My youth fled with thee to the shore unknown. I have grown older here, whilst thou beneath The tree of life hast found thy youth again; I have grown faint, while strong, exultant, free, Thy swift, glad feet scale the blue heights of God. O friend and lover, go thou not too far! Delay, delay, thine upward soaring flight, Lest when I come, all tremulous with joy, I fail to find thee on the heavenly hills!