SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE. (continued 2)
Reading edition
But to examine specifically and logically, and thus to discover somewhat of the mission, the utility of poetry.
In order to do this, we must naturally refer to the human mind, since thence poetry is brought forth and there it is perceived.
There are three great divisions of the mind; namely, Intellect, Sensibilities, or Feelings, and Will.
The intellect is that power of the mind by which we think and know. The sensibilities, or feelings, constitute that power of the mind by which we feel. The will is that power of the mind by which we resolve to do or not to do. These explanations are sufficient for our present purpose.
Therefore, whatever furnishes food for the intellect, the knowing-power of the mind, must be of the nature of knowledge, didactic. Whatever ministers to the feelings must waken emotion. Whatever gives action to the will must rouse resolution.
All literature is for the mind. But since there are three departments of the mind, and since literature is produced by and for the mind, there must naturally be three divisions of literature that each mental power may receive sustenance. That is, there should be that literature for the intellect in which knowledge predominates. For the sensibilities, there should be that literature in which feeling, emotion, is the primary and essential element. For the will, there should be that literature that has for its chief end the rousing of resolution.
On examination of the literary products of the world, we find that this philosophy is sustained. For the intellect, we have treatises (as on the sciences, mathematics, etc.), histories, biographies, novels, romances, essays, etc., etc. The primary object of these is to furnish knowledge; to satisfy the intellect. They are in the highest sense didactic, although, of course, just as the literature for each faculty does, they incidentally furnish some food for the other powers.
This intellective literature is the kind that is most largely cultivated at the present. In fact, it is cultivated almost to the exclusion of the other two.
For the will, we have sermons, lectures, orations, speeches, addresses, harangues, etc.; a class of literature that is small when compared with the preceding. These two departments of the mind monopolize the whole domain of prose.
That other department of literature, in which feeling is the dominating and pervading principle, must, by its very nature, act upon that same power of the mind that produced it; namely, the sensibilities.
Poetry is the literature of feeling, and consequently finds its province here. It is the mission of poetry, therefore, as suggested by the latter part of the definition, to minister to the feelings, to interpret the Divine in the human heart. It is this that all writers on the subject and that all poets mean when they say it is the mission of poetry to give pleasure.
But what shall be the limit of that word “pleasure”? Herein lies the chief cause of great differences of opinion, especially with those who hold that there is such a thing as didactic poetry. Or rather, what is the true meaning of “pleasure” as thus used? The very essence of pleasure, as opposed to pain, is that it gratify some emotion and set it at perfect rest.
What emotions when gratified are at perfect rest? The answer at once forces itself upon us, only the better emotions. That poetry does minister to and satisfy the higher and nobler feelings, and that what does not do this is not poetry, even the meanest heart that it touches fully knows.
The attempted gratification of hate, or of any desire whatsoever to give pain to any one, as illustrated in Pope’s Dunciad, Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, Butler’s Hudibras, Byron’s English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and all such, never sets the mind of the writer at rest, nor gives enjoyment to the reader. Indeed, who now ever reads these, the world’s greatest illustrations of witty bitterness and venom, couched in verse and unjustifiably designated as poetry?
These are accounted “great works.” But who, let me ask, ever reads any of these “great works,” or ever heard of them, except in some text on Literature? Or, having read them, who loves them, or their authors for having written them? None. No, not one.
On the other hand, who has not read some of the noblest works of Shakespeare, Burns, Milton, Tennyson, Longfellow, Bryant, Lowell, Whittier, Holmes? And who does not feel nobler for having read, and who does not hold these authors shrined in his heart of hearts for having written? Is not this proof enough that it is the mission of poetry to minister only to the higher emotions?
After all, hate is merely the negative of love; simply the absence of the better emotion, a void, an ache, a pain. All attempts to gratify it only make it stronger—or rather drive the better emotion farther away—as illustrated by the cases of Pope, Dryden, Byron, and their fellows in revenge and bitterness wherever we find them. No one ever felt better or nobler or happier for gratifying a hate, for doing a bad deed, or for giving pain to a fellow-mortal’s feelings. The ever-accusing conscience, if he but listen, will never permit him to say in his heart that such gratification has given him pleasure.
If, then, it is the mission of poetry to give pleasure, no matter whether its interpretation of the Divine in the human heart be by tears or by laughter, its ministration necessarily must be to the immortal part of man.
In the light of all this, therefore, without further argument, it is clear and conclusive that all verse that is sarcastic, satiric, etc., such as that of Swift, Butler, Pope, Gay, Prior, and their hosts, is not poetry.
But what of the didactic? Whatever has the primary object of teaching delivers its treasures to the keeping of the intellect. If, therefore, verse aims primarily to teach, but ministers to the sensibilities only incidentally, it is not true poetry. Poetry does not teach nor preach nor argue nor discuss. Those are the provinces of prose. Poems and roses must not teach; they must bloom. Their breath delights us, their suggestions, their reflections of a Divinity that is above them, lifts us—God knows why! The cry of pain, the romping laugh of children at play, the pathos of death, the touch of the hand or the lips of the one we love needs no argument to fill the heart with uncontrollable emotion. These are the sweetest of the poet’s themes, and he has but to reveal them without argument as they are experienced in the heart. Argument kills them. Just in proportion to the didactic character of verse the path of poetry is departed from, and the realm of prose invaded. You cannot find a solitary purely didactic piece of verse the meaning of which could not be better expressed in prose. Not so with true poetry. That cannot be expressed in any other way.
The most illustrious types of the didactic are to be found in the “Artificial School,” at the head of which stands Pope. When we cut out the satiric and the sarcastic and all ill-feeling verse, as we see we must, and then the didactic, as we are forced by reason and logic to do, how much real poetry do we have left in this “School” so well named “Artificial”? How much is there left that makes the heart feel larger, nobler, better, and gives it new fountains of life? Only a rare gem now and then in the form of a single felicitous line or happily wedded couplet. Then, when we cut this same kind of verse out of the whole literature of the world, and also that other kind, already spoken of at length, in which there is merely spiritless poetic form as its chief element, how much real poetry and how many real poets does the world possess? Comparatively, only a few poets, the world’s great, and a few of their works—those that have already stood the test of time and that still stand the only true test of good literature, that it inspires the heart with noble feelings and lofty purposes—can be placed in the list.
But enough on the kinds of verse.
Another question concerning pleasure arising from poetry presents itself. “Violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die.” The poetic, by its very nature, is violent. Consequently, the mind cannot long imbibe its intoxicating draughts. A little at a time is exhilarating and invigorating; but an over-dose deadens the sensibilities, and often creates a serious dislike for the poetic and a consequent unconscious restlessness of longing for the satisfaction of the higher emotions that prose can never furnish.
The mind cannot long endure extreme exertion, just as the body cannot. Poetry requires extreme exertion of the sensibilities, consequently its duration should be short that its full delight and pleasure may be enjoyed. Since this is so, every poem, by the very nature of the mind, must be brief. Who would live in a conservatory of roses where their sweet scent, most delightful at first breath, soon becomes sickening? Or who would hold even one of those odorous blooms to the nose for long? Who, on the other hand, does not delight in an occasional sip of the scent of a bursting rose-bud? And who does not find new delight at each successive draught, and regret that the petals that breathe this odor for us, alas! must fade and fall?
I believe most profoundly with Poe that, from the standpoint of the mind that produces and the mind that perceives and enjoys it, there is no such thing as a long poem. I shall go farther, and say, not only that a poem must be short, but that it must be lyrical. This gets us back to nature. Historically the first literature of every nation is poetry, and that poetry is invariably lyrical; indeed, even inevitably so. In every nation, we find it is many centuries before these lyrics of the nation are gathered up and finally strung on the thread of narrative, thus making the Epic. From the lyric, all imaginable forms have been brought forth by ingenious poets of later day. The bard of simple days lived, not close to nature’s intellect, but close to nature’s heart. Burns was the best poet of modern days, because he did the same; consequently, he is always lyrical when he is natural.
Shall we then say that the Æneid, the Odyssey, the Iliad, the Canterbury Tales, the Faery Queen, or Paradise Lost is each one poem? Viewed as I have just remarked, and that (in its relation to the mind) is the only true way to view a poem, none of these is a single poem. Each is made up of a number of poems—gems strung on the thread of a common subject;—roses in a common conservatory.
Indeed, the whole of Homer is simply a collection of a great number of short poems—lyrics, indeed, they were—sung by many authors for centuries, and finally gathered up and pieced together to form books and volumes. Each one of the Canterbury Tales contains many poems, strung together to form one necklace of jewels.
I ask any one to sit down and read any of these great and wonderful works continuously one day, as he might prose, and comprehend what he is reading. Not even one book of Paradise Lost can be read (in the true sense of that word) at a single sitting. There are too many poems in it, and the consequent demands upon the mind are too great for that. Possibly this very fact had somewhat to do with calling forth the unjust remark from Waller concerning that great epic, “If its length be not considered as a merit it hath no other.”
Since a poem must be brief, naturally, and for the same cause, it should be read judiciously and at intervals, if it is to be appreciated and enjoyed, just as the rose must be smelled only occasionally. We cannot read poetry as we can prose; it won’t let us. By their very natures they demand a different manner of reading. One can read prose continuously, hour after hour, without seriously wearying the mind, for the simple reason that, in prose, thought is not condensed, but is spread through a long series of sentences. Moreover, the thought is not, as a rule, simply suggested, but is fully expressed, leaving the mind in a comparative state of passive receptivity, with but little active labor to perform in order to comprehend the meaning. On the other hand, poetry always expresses thought in condensed form and suggests many fold more than it expresses. Consequently, a single stanza or even a single line may sometimes require as much attention for the full comprehension of its meaning and suggestion, as a whole page of ordinary prose.
We must plant the poem in the heart and give it time to grow, as we plant the flower-seeds in the soil. Finally, as the growing flower bursts into bloom, so must the poem blossom from the heart into its full perfection and beauty.
Fully to appreciate that flower’s beauty, it must not be dissected and analyzed by glass and scalpel. Did Burns go botanizing the daisy? Need we then go botanizing these flowers and blossoms of the soul of man? He who does it tries to force the intellect to do what the emotive nature, the beauty-loving part of man, alone can do. There is an intellectual delight in botanizing and in picking to pieces and analyzing the gathered specimens, but it is not that sweet, soul-inspiring pleasure born of the love of the beautiful that the heart alone can feel. He who botanizes the beautiful can never know in his head the supreme pleasure that he who loves the simple daisy too well to turn it under the sod feels in his heart.
Poetry is indeed immortal and divine. It is the breath of heaven in the nostrils of man, the divinity of the human soul, the heart in full flower and bloom. To an honest, earnest, sincere soul, it is the wonder of the age, as it has ever been the wonder of all ages, that “men endowed with highest gifts, the vision and the faculty divine,” being divinely appointed as poet-priest of the Almighty, should pander to the prurient taste of a so-called practical public;—that they should sell the divinity within them for a strip of royal purple; for a salve to an itching palm;—that they should barter immortality for a glitter-jingle.
But how shall this consummate artist not fall into the corruptions that beset him and his art divine? Here are the driveling jinglers, verse-makers, poetasters all about him, with their rattling, rollicking, banging tin-panery, loudly applauded by a rough-and-ready guffawing public; a “practical” public that loudly clamors for sense, fact,—and then drops another penny into the chapeaux of these venders of cheap jewelry for more of their applauded cheap sentiment and glittering platitudes, and jingling chains and necklaces, and rings, and things, whose brightness wears off in their mental pockets before the wife or sweetheart is gladdened by a glimpse of its “practical” glitter!
The great, true poet, he who alone is interpreter of the immortal in the mortal, the invisible in the visible by means of words, never asks how to avoid these corruptions. He does it. He despises, hates, abhors them. He does it, too, by obeying that Divinity within him. Obedient to that call, he walks majestically through this motley crowd;—aye, through this sometimes maudlin, jeering crowd that throw stones at him and mentally would crucify him!—and sets some stream of Beauty and Glory flowing through the hearts of men, forever to wash away these corruptions and stagnations of the human soul. Aye, truly! he asks not how, but teaches us how. Was it not so with those old Divine Writers, our highest type of poets, whose inspirations make the one Immortal Book? So shall it ever be. ’Tis the Divine Law.
Such a poet, interpreting nature and mirroring Divinity, and thus idealizing life that the seeing, aspiring soul may attain nearer its illimitable possibilities, we call an original poet, a genius. He is never a “popular” poet, as that term is used, but he is quite generally unpopular. Popular in the sense of time-enduring he is by that same Divine Law that brings him into existence. His soul will inevitably have some greatness in common with other great souls. These will rescue him and commend him to an increasing posterity; and so on and on, touching more and more souls, and thus seeming to grow ever better and better, though in reality he remains ever unchanged, while the souls he touches are the ones that ever strive to his greater height, and draw up numbers with them.
Thus does he whom an unappreciating, small-souled mob would have crucified, become immortal through the reciprocal divinity that is in himself and in the heart of humanity. Thus does, thus must, this poet-genius create—call into activity—the taste that must make him time-enduring. This is the penalty of genius and greatness—to suffer, and then triumphantly to endure forever in the hearts of men. Who would he were not a genius? Who would he were? In proof of all this, witness Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, not to speak of all the greatest Great.
I love that unswerving poetic genius who, in the face of taunts and revilings and sneers, still is obedient to that sublime divinity within him; who, conscious of his own soul’s illimitable vastness, must inevitably write for that soul’s satisfaction, and thus write, not for the present generation, but for posterity; and who, when he “wraps the drapery of his couch about him,” having obeyed the divine voice within him even to his latest breath, finally triumphs over all sneers and taunts and jeers, triumphs even over death, and, though dead, triumphantly lives in immortal words that still speak to us more and more divinely through the trumpet-soul of the more and more divine ages.
Such a poet, I say, must create the taste that will make him time-enduring. In other words, this true poet, this genius (else he were no genius at all), must see some relation of soul to soul not ordinarily seen, and never at all seen in exactly the same way, and so express that relation in words that humanity can but recognize it from the very fact of its commonness, its universality. Such a poet never follows public opinion, in the narrow sense of the opinion of a transitory present; but through great trials and suffering and much enduring generally, he leads it, or creates it rather, and develops it into that broader, truer public opinion,—humanity’s opinion; the only opinion, I should say, that is equal to that of a great soul.
The great never follow, but ever lead. They never pander to a perverted public taste, but follow their own convictions; and thus following the guiding power within them, they lead others in the same path. Thus drawn onwards and upwards by that link which binds man unto God, and thus leading humanity aright, they instinctively obey the teachings of Him, the Master, who “came not to be ministered unto, but to minister”; for they follow in His footsteps by upward leading and by thus greatly and divinely serving mankind.
In a general way, I may say of poets that there are two classes:—the introspective, or those whose souls, ever standing in the presence of the Divinity within them, hear the calls of other souls and the mighty voice of God; and hearing, obey;—the extrospective, or those whose souls, not less divine, but less conscious, perhaps, of that Divinity, unconsciously perceive the manifold relations in external nature, and through the universal spirit of nature none the less distinctly hear that same Almighty Voice. We shall hardly find a poet in whom one of these characteristics exists to the exclusion of the other; but we shall find that in many cases one characteristic or the other is dominant. For example, Browning is one of our best representatives of the introspective, and Wordsworth of the extrospective; while Shakespeare is the highest type of the perfect union of the two. Both classes obey the same voice, and though ministering through different sources, have the same mission to perform, the uplifting and purifying of the human soul.
Indeed, whatever does not have this mission is not true poetry. It is often said that that literature is best which has stood the test of time. Not so, if by that is meant simply that the literature shall have lived long; for both good and bad live. The true test is that it betters man’s estate, and ennobles his heart. If a poem inspires the heart with nobler feelings and greater love, then it is a good poem. This is the crucial, the only true test.
There is no act of the human mind that is not controlled by the feelings. When this is comprehended and when, at the same time, it is perceived to what an extent poetry ministers to the feelings, the utility of poetry will be better appreciated. Poetry thus ministering to the controlling forces of life, is a guide and corrective of life; a guide in that it is “a representation of life” (as Alfred Austin has it), the experiences of the hearts of men; a corrective in that it is “a criticism of life” (as Matthew Arnold says), an idealization that, by uplifting, corrects the heart that else would droop. Austin thinks his idea opposes Arnold’s. It does not. Each simply looks at one side; each takes a different angle. Both are correct so far as they go. For poetry is the heart’s history. It is also the ever present attempt, in the light of that guiding lamp, to the making of a better history.
This, indeed, makes it philosophy. For what else does philosophy do? The poet is ever a philosopher. Is not poetry philosophy teaching by experience? It does not teach by precept, it is not didactic; that is the province of prose; but it mirrors the human heart and reveals its experiences. Nine hundred ninety-nine people shape their lives by experience where one shapes his by rule and thumb. One rose of experience with its warning thorns has more of humanity and guidance in it than all the tangle-woods of teaching. The hand must follow the heart. If the heart be right the hand can never go wrong.
He who would be an immortal poet must have a great and sympathizing heart; a heart that laughs and weeps, and most of all, a heart that loves. Were I asked the one essential of the poet, that essential which includes all minor requisites, I should answer, Love. “A Poet without Love,” says Carlyle, “were a physical and a metaphysical impossibility.” It is the dominating element of all great poets. What poet is greater, or what one has loved more deeply than Burns?
Love often reveals itself in sorrow and in humor. Though the poet need not be a humorist, must not be at all times, as the term is used, it is nevertheless essential that he have a lively appreciation of the ludicrous, lest he fall into grave errors of thought and expression. But the humor must not be the all-pervading element of his poetry; it should be simply a check, a guide, or sometimes a spur. A keen sense of humor should be to him the lash that whips thought out of its self-constituted morbid glooms, in which it appears ridiculous, into a lively harmony with things as they really are to the hearts of men. It were, indeed, a nice question to determine how far the grave or the humorous should enter poetic composition to the exclusion of the other. Certainly the most felicitous poetry is not all rain nor all shine, but the iris of Ulloa struck out of the depths of tears by the happy, hopeful shine of laughter.
But if the poet laugh, he must also love; for he laughs because he loves. This is the divine law. The man who hates never laughs; he may mock. Well may we ponder that. Indeed, tears and laughter, sometimes blended, are but forms of love. If laughter is music, certainly love, that divine gift in the human heart, love of the good, the beautiful, and the true, love of home, of country, of mankind, of God, or of a beautiful image of God, the one who is the heart’s ideal, divine immortal love, is perfect harmony. If the poet’s theme is of the good, the beautiful, and the true, so must his love be. If these dwell not in his heart, he shall search the world and the ages through and not find them; and if love dwell not there with them, his themes shall never touch our hearts.
But the poet, to be appreciated, is not the only one that must possess these qualities. It is the beauty and the love in the soul of him who is touched by the statue, the painting, the melody, the poem, that makes it beautiful to him. It is thus that we help the poet make the poem. Love makes poets of us all.
With our hearts thus tuned to the touch of the Maker’s hand, we may often hold sweet communion with our poet-friends whose love still reaches out to us through the mists of ages and beckons us to the Valhalla of the happy. We may stand alone in the stern, inquisitorial presence of self under the eye of Almighty God, and think thoughts our tongues can never tell.
Strolling arm in arm with good Dan Chaucer as
“... fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright That all the orient laugheth of the light,”
we may meet and join company with immortal Shakespeare, where
“... the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yond high eastern hill”;
and then with them both we may pass down the slope to the sea-shore where we clasp hands with Laureate Tennyson and, as we listen to the break, break, break upon the sands, say in our hearts with him,
“And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.”
With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and rise to the greatest heights, and stand with him at last in a Paradise regained. With Dryden we may shout from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song to the battling brave below,
“If the world be worth thy winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying”;
and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled valleys of the soul of Gray,
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest good of which we are capable, we may often question,
“What, my soul, was thy errand here?”
Listening to the Preacher Kingsley, we may learn to
“Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; And so, make life and death and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.”
In our sadder moods we may, with Cowper, look across the dark, Cimmerian tide and recall the face and the kiss and the touch of a mother gone. In our gayer hours, with Burns we may gather sweet field flowers and garland them in love; and, whether in field or shop or kirk, learn somewhat
“To see oursels as others see us.”
With Wordsworth, receiving those faint intimations of immortality from recollections of early childhood, we may realize
“That there has passed away a glory from the earth.”
With Lowell we may feel that
“Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.”
If in the pursuit of life we shall have been drawn onwards by that divine link called conscience; if we shall have heeded the advice to the Divinity within us,
“... To thine own self be true; And it must follow as the night the day Thou canst not then be false to any man”;
if within us daily we shall have said with dear old Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
“Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea”;
if we shall have done all this, I say, and followed God: then, when at last with white-haired Bryant each of us
“lies down to pleasant dreams,”
the Sun shall go down with a golden halo of glory; Beauty, eternal Beauty, wedded to immortal Love, shall reign forever in the heart;
“And the night shall be filled with music; And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.”
USELESS?
Flowers are poetry; poetry, flowers: Each is a clod of earth in bloom. Useful? Aye, to the heart!—to illume The rain-drop drip from the wing of the hours. Both are the love of the great dear God Set in the sod of the new child-earth, Set in the heart at the earth-child’s birth, Soul of the clay, and bloom of the clod. Flowers and poetry—blossoms of Love Sweetest and purest the heart can know, Breathing their perfumes up from below, Lifting us back to the God above.
A MORTAL.
Do the goddesses, I wonder, Ever come to mortal earth, Ever throw a wild enchantment Round the heart of mortal birth? Does the goddess Venus wander Ever from her realms above, Liveried in the rarest raiment Stolen from the courts of Love? Are her eyes of witching azure, Curtained o’er with rosy light; And a golden sunset halo Round a smiling brow of white? Oh I wonder if the roses Ever blush upon her cheeks When the scented kiss of morning For the rarest flower seeks. Ah, ye purest gems of ocean, Set in ruby rays serene, Does your light fall down in worship When those pearl-dight lips are seen? Aye, I wonder if the heavens And the flowers of the earth, As they smile upon each other, Have the hundredth of her worth? Do the ripples of the zephyr, Or the waves to music wed Have the poetry of motion That attends her airy tread? Do the Orphic orbs of æther, With a lyric hand divine, Draw the wandering planets round them As her words this heart of mine? Surely, surely not a goddess, ’Tis a mortal I have seen; Never goddess wore such features, Never goddess such of mien. She’s the rarest of the fairest, She’s the light of every eye; She’s the smile of earth and ocean And the glory of the sky. Hers the lid with golden lashes Raised above the Morning’s eye; Hers the smile of wave and flower Caught from out the blushing sky. Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset, And her eyes the stars of night; Opening dawn, her lips half parted, Laced with gleams of iv’ry light. Lydian music in her being An enchanted spirit dwells, Caught from out the hands of angels, Hands that swing the hallowed bells. Love—the purest love of heaven— Had its birth upon her lips;— E’en the flowers toss her kisses From their tiny finger-tips. Oh the winds enfold the mountains And the seas draw down the stars; Still they sigh and murmur ever, “Never love so pure as hers.” And the notes forever rising To the planetary seas Echo back in spheric music, “Never mortals loved as these.” Heart to heart I clasped my Darling, Drew her down from angel hands, With my head in God’s own presence, And my feet upon the sands.— Drew her to me from the angels, As the silent summer night Sweetest scent of all the roses To its loving bosom might. Day by day her sister angels Sing to me her rarest worth; For she’s drawing me toward heaven As I drew her down to earth.
TO MORPHEUS.
Like the star That afar Throws its silver-wrought beams As it peacefully dreams On the cradle-swung crest Of the billows of blue, Oh on thy breast So let me rest, Oh rest, Rest, Till the kiss of the morning dew.
A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS.
Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see,— The vocal air, the blooming clod; But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me, So farther earth, so nearer God.
TO THEE ABOVE.
Up from the gray of earth, Over the hills of blue, Out in the purpling west, I come, my love, to you. Oh not in the busy marts Nor yet in the crowded throng; No, not ’neath the parlor lights Does my heart forget its song. But bound by the fetters there, I cannot choose but stay; Like a restive steed bound fast, I fret the hours away. ’Tis only when alone I find my soul at rest; ’Tis then I rise to thee Amid the purpling west. And sitting thus this eve Atop my house’s tower, I send my soul in love To dwell with thee this hour. Oh ever thus I stand, A crag ’mid noisy crowds,— My feet upon the sands, My head amid the clouds. My heart to all is cold Save but to thee, Sweet Heart! For Death my requiem tolled When thou and I didst part. I know nor rest nor peace, I find nor life nor love Save but the silent hour I fly to thee above.
CHORUS.
(By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads.) Tripping away, Blithesome and gay, Light as the ether above, Breathing our words Sweet as the birds, Sing we the power of love. Love in its power Bindeth the flower Unto the common clod, Lifting the low Out of its woe Up to the bosom of God. Love in its might Bindeth the light Unto the shadow of day, Flushing the clouds Whitened like shrouds Red with the last dying ray. Love in its dream Bindeth the stream Unto the channels of earth, Lifting the trees Kissed by the breeze Into a purer birth. Heart unto heart Never to part Joining the gentle and strong, Love’s dreaming lyre Lifts ever higher Finding responsive a song. Every one, Happy or lone, Deep in the hills of the soul Sometime shall find Horn that shall wind Echoes that endless shall roll.
THE LURLEI.
Only a moment! The Lurlei staid Only a moment with me: “Only a moment! I’ll sell,” I said, “Only a moment to thee.” Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay Only a moment of time, Selling the flowers of the valley gray, Buying the mountain-top’s rime. Only a moment! The Lurlei smiled; “Sell me thy birth-right,” she saith. Oh, and I sold it, innocent child, Buying the pottage of death! “’Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear.” She layeth her hand on my head. I cannot choose but heed as I hear; She giveth me lust in its stead. “Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time, I shall reward thee right well.” She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb, She hath me under her spell. “Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health, Fair is thy long brown hair; Here I give premature age for thy wealth, Here the pure snows thou must wear.” “Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth.” She holdeth my will at command; She bendeth my form in age without ruth, Placeth a staff in my hand. “Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years; I kiss thee a withering curse: Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of tears, Tears of eternal remorse.” “Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone, Something to quiet my soul.” Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone, Clouds of remorse from me roll. “Purity hath not a place in the heart Reft of all conscience,” Lurlei: Legions of Pleasures around me upstart, Licentiousness pointing the way. “Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:” She placeth a curse in mine eye; “Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end:” She speareth my soul with the lie. “The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:” Night, sable-robed, doth upstart; “Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:” Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart. Only a moment I bartered with her, Only a moment of time, Selling the good, the true, and the pure, Buying the glitter of crime! I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure, That moment has lengthened to years: I sold her my soul for bliss without measure, I bought all Eternity’s tears! L’Envoy. The Lurlei sits on the mountain’s top, Combing her golden hair; Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop Who pass down the river there.
TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS.
We are having atrocious tough wether, (To hear the sheep-tenders tell it) But they are responsible for it If that is the way they spell it.
TO MISS ——.
Upon that radiant brow of thine May love and truth forever shine, Like stars that light the welkin dome And tint the billowy ocean’s foam. Upon life’s desert, wild and broad, Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road Which leads us on to heaven above Where all is joy and peace and love. Around thy soul so pure and white May Heaven shed celestial light, Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er, And waft thee to its golden shore.
[Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of the willows.]
SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP. A KYRIELLE.
Dear, your heart is tired to-night, And the waning watches creep; All too soon the morn will come,— Shut your eyes and go to sleep. While the stars in heaven dream And the angels vigils keep, Lay your head upon my arm, Shut your eyes and go to sleep. Yes, I know that fevered care Trembles on your troubled lip; Dreams of love will heal the heart,— Shut your eyes and go to sleep. Let your heart forget to pain, And your eyes forget to weep; Dream of home, and hope, and love, Shut your eyes and go to sleep. Heavy drags the wounded hour Over Sorrow’s restless deep, Heaving up the tide of tears,— Shut your eyes and go to sleep. Oh the heaving, stifling sigh Through the night its pain will keep For the pillow waking prest,— Shut your eyes and go to sleep. With a touch like woman’s own, Touch of Love’s own finger-tip, I will smooth your throbbing brow,— Shut your eyes and go to sleep. Gently I will soothe your heart And still your restless pulse’s leap; Lay your head upon my arm, Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
BROWNING. (BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)
Browning may be a right smart of a poet, Some thinks him so; But if he is he’s not anxious to show it, ’R else I don’t know. Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em With lots of soul; Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em Jist fill you full. I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles His honey in straw, An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles In styles all raw. Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”: The sum an’ gross; Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,—Stop frownin’! Take ’nother dose! My advice, you say?—Let Browning go pipin’ In an ivy leaf; Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’, This life’s too brief.
MADRIGAL.
Darling, here within this lyric, Free from other mortal sight, Free from aught but dearest day-dreams, Hidden in the song I write, Sits a happy, happy lover In a heaven of the bliss Born, in Love’s deep-breathing silence, Of the rapturous sweet kiss. Silently he clasps his radiant Blooming bride with loving arms, Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums (Rung by Cupid and the angels) Of sweet Passion’s inward storms As her arms, so soft, climb upwards And entwine themselves enwrapt, Round about his neck in rarest Angel-love e’er being kept. —Darling, if you know the dear girl That I think thus ever on, I can hope you’ll find this poem Ever shrines you as my own.
WORDS AND THOUGHTS.
Words are vases Shaped to thought Culled in places Blossom-fraught; Thoughts are laces Finely wrought From the graces Bloom has caught:— In sherds Our words We break as we do vases; In shreds The threads Of thought we tear as laces.
REX FUGIT.
“Rex fugit,—The king flees.”—Thus read A dignified, tall Latin student. “Try ‘has,’” the usually prudent Professor said. He rose with confidence and ease; But the whole class roared with laughter When he read a moment after, “The king has fleas.”
THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.
The last sad rites of death performed, The sickle lies upon the grave; The sickle made of blooming flowers That the ruthless reaper clave. Withered lie the flowers gathered, Rusts the sickle on the ground; Dead the blossoms now decaying,— And the form within the mound! Oh the flowers of the sickle And the blooms upon its blade Are decaying daily, daily— Sweetest flowers soonest fade! Oh the sickle is death’s emblem And the flowers on it, rust!— Emblem of the end of mortals, Earth to earth, and dust to dust!
[Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a sickle of flowers.]
THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND.
Happiness is the realization of longings,— Of hope and fond desire,— That enter the heart like angel-throngings Bearing celestial fire. Like the peace that follows a benediction Is the painless rest it gives, Lething forever the heart’s affliction In the endless joy it leaves. ’Tis the acme of life and the end of living, This touch of an angel’s hand, And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving Of the Priest of the Better Land.
LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY. AN ALLEGORY.
How builds this budding flower, my child? “It lies all wrapped in icy snows Until the Suns of Spring have smiled And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.” How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree? “Year by year it adds a round And reaches up by slow degree, Keeping firm foot on the ground.” The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine? “By the tree’s support it lifts its head And round the tree its arms doth twine; Thus the two in love are wed.” The two, aged sire and dame, how they? “The tree protects the tender vine, The vine in turn binds firm the tree: The two are one in shade and shine.” What of the plant, O man, the plant? “Adream in life’s fair sleep it lies Until the Autumn Suns aslant Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies!”
JUST AS USUAL.
The sun rose bright at morn, The sun sank sad at night; The moon’s faint golden horn Waxed fair with mellow light. All night around the fold The polar bears kept prowl; Their shining eyes gleamed cold And danced to the wind’s mad howl. Clear blew the shepherd’s horn, Fair flushed the eastern main; The bears slunk back: ’twas morn, The sun arose again! Sweet Love rose bright at Morn, Sad Love went down at Night; Fair Hope’s faint golden horn Waxed sweet with mellow light. All night around my mind My jealous fears kept prowl; Cold blew the willing wind That chilled my very soul. Clear wound Dan Cupid’s horn, As sweet as rapture’s pain; My fears slunk back: ’twas morn, And Love arose again!
A DEPLORATION.
We do often think ourselves not worth.—Anonymous. Cold is the night, and my heart is cold, Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old; Chill like the hill At the mountain’s foot, Still as the rill That lies frozen and mute. White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow, Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below: So seems the snow That my heart doth enfold, Tho’ down below Lie the rocks and the mould. Deep in the hill neath the binding cold Never yet found may be veins of gold. And of the sand And the quartz in my heart Hand has not panned, Maybe gold is a part. Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream; So neath the floe Of my heart’s frozen stream Slowly I know Drifts the gold of love’s dream.
I LOVE YOU, KATE.
Dreaming rapturously, Dearest Kate, Full elate I seek your side to-night. Long, weary hours I wait Each day, Each day, To see the glorious light Of your face,— To me, earth’s rarest boon, That makes my night A summer’s day, The summer’s day A bright and vernal noon, The noon eternity. Oh, sitting beauteously Upon Love’s throne aboon With sceptered sway O’er all my way, Still of my night Make one eternal sun To shine thro’ space With life and love and light For aye And aye; Nor longer bid me wait, But say me “yes” to-night; Because, by fate I love you, Kate!— Oh will you marry me!
[In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from last, and so on.]
THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE. (That is, practically dead.)
Day after day have I secretly prayed From the morn thro’ noon till night That my life might discover some port in the west Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light. Eve after eve as the sun has gone down, With my eyes still turned to the west I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound For even its restful unrest. Night after night in my bed full awake I have dreamed myself weeping alone In a silence as deep as the stars of the night O’er a corse that I knew was my own. Morn after morn have I risen from bed With the fear and the hope of its truth, Only to find that the death of the Dead Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.
PITY THE POOR.
I pity the poor for I myself am poor, Though I wear starched cuffs and collars; But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more, For they’ve neither sense nor dollars. I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch With a wealth of only money; The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech Smacks only of bumble-bee honey. I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart As they joust thro’ the world with each other; But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart With no love for a human brother.
LIFE’S LOST SKIFF. WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.
Prelude. Green as emerald is Michigan; And the waves, Like ghosts from hungry graves, Are tossing up my infant boat amain, And kissing wild The orphan ocean-child, The rarest that has ever been, The fairest that was ever seen. Morning. Up drives the great red sun aslant, The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly; A score of sails the sun’s rays paint Upon the burning western sky. Noon. How silently and slow they steer! Are the waves as wild out there the day, And do the ships careen and veer As she that drives so fast away? Night. Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep, The sun creeps up the glooming tower; The sea-birds scream in winged sleep, The ghostly billows wail the hour! Finale. Green as emerald is Michigan; And the waves, Like ghosts in yawning graves, Are tossing o’er my infant boat again, Embracing wild The orphan ocean-child, The rarest that has ever been, The fairest that was ever seen!
A CLOSE ATTACHMENT. STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.
I have swept the airy heavens, I have skimmed the rivers o’er; I have slept upon the cloud-wing, I have entered heaven’s door. But in my peregrinations Thro’ this world of ups and downs, None have loved and none have sought me, None have offered aught but frowns. I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop On its heaven-mission sent; I have danced upon the rainbow Where its colors fairest blent. I have laughed and skipped and frolicked, I have hummed my sweetest songs; But I’ve never found the attachment That I think to me belongs. Ah, the world’s appreciation Of my endless wealth and worth Is a desiccated desert, Is a sterile, arid dearth! I’m the fairest of my fellows, And the most affectionate; Hence the world’s indifference to me On my mighty soul doth grate. I have kissed the blushing maiden, I have lullabied to babies; I have feasted on the features Of a million lords and ladies. ’Tis the lover’s same old story— Disappointment everywhere! None have loved—except to hate me, None have hated—save to spare! Now at length my weary pinions, Out of reach of mortal kind, Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets, And their first attachment find, And I cannot choose but stay here Where I’ll always stay to hum, For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,— I am stuck on chewing gum! I am sleepy now, and happy, Let profane hands not disturb; Let none mar my wildest dreamings, Nor ecstatic tumblings curb. Since ’twas not in life permitted That his blood I s-i-p, May mankind write:
AMOS QUITO! LET HIM EVER R.-I.-P.
THE DEMONIAC.
Great God! and must I, must I live, And can I never die, I whom the press of sorrow’s hand Hurled headlong from the sky? How long, O Lord, must I thus wait, How long in blasting blight, Each idle day imploring death, And dreaming death each night? Each hour I fill some heart with woe, And blast some heart with mine! To me ’tis living death to know My heart stills poisoned wine! Ten million, million deaths I live Each wasting, poisoned hour; For, whom I love my presence damns— I blight each blooming flower. Oh that the grinning skeleton This faithless flesh doth hold Might lay its lying mantle off To dream on downs of mould! The leaf must fade, the sun must set, The sweetest day must die; But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,— And so, and so must I! Oh days to me are lengthened years, The years like ages creep; I’ve tossed ten million centuries On life’s unfathomed deep! I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot In slime upon that sea, And slimy things find birth therein To live in death, like me. I find no peace, I know no rest, My very self I fly;— Unfit to love, unfit to live, And far less fit to die!
THE WEATHER FIEND.
Of the weather Ask us whether We enjoy it thus and thus; If it suits us, What it boots us, If it matters much to us. When it’s raining, Come complaining That “it’s muddy out today.” It will please us And will ease us Of the thing we’d like to say. When a blizzard Like a lizard Wriggles up and down your spine, Don’t be fool-like, Just keep cool, like All green “pickles” on the vine. If it’s cold out, Don’t be sold out When you tell somebody so If he says he ’S melting as he Gently mops his frigid brow. If it’s snowing, With a knowing Wink within your “weather eye” It is sound to Say, “We’re bound to Have some sleighing by and by.” If we shiver When your clever Tongue remarks “it’s hot as ’ile,” It’s because of Those old saws of Weather that you always file. We can stand it— Yes, demand it, That you be a weather bore, For we never Heard such clever Originality before.
WHO KNOWS!
Ah me!— O’er the wide Deep I glide Where flows For me Either waters ’mid the plashes Of the lacing star-light lashes, Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes With their booming cannon-crashes— Who knows! Ah me! In the wide River’s tide Still flows For me Either waters bearing bubbles From the waves that pelt the pebbles, Or a muddy sea of troubles With its melancholy trebles— Who knows! Ah me, Ah me!
THE DEATH-HOWL.
I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl, That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul. And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm, Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!— Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat. But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong, For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song. —Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die to-night— And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light! Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity Where the light and song are leading—come! oh come and go with me! Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight! Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white! The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,—and I’m dying now to-night!— Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet good-night!
ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.
Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring, Awake, with others sleeping, How have I wrecked thy new-born life And set thy parent weeping! See! sad her weeping eyes upturning, Adrip with love for thee, And arms outstretched implore thy slayer That thou’lt returnéd be. Alas! in vain her tears must flow, Her palms implore the youth Who pluckéd thee from out her heart And set in his such ruth. I cannot give thee back—I would I might! I’d send thee thither; It grieveth me to see her weep, To know that thou shalt wither. My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked, For thou not yet hadst won it, How much I took, how little gave— I would I had not done it. Lift up thy drooping head again— I would the word would do it!— Make me not weep for plucking thee; Thou know’st how much I rue it. Thy pure and purple-tinted petals, Thy open lily-lips, Thy olden-golden anthered stamens Thy saffron pistil-tips!— Would I could here embalm them all And wrap in verses meet So that thou’dst be, when years should roll, To others just as sweet! Envoy. ’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet, The world shall greet thy song— Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul To die amidst the throng. And thus, O plucker of the crocus, Shall Death come unto thee— Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart, Shall thy embalmer be. So may’st thou live and do and be That Death, with riches rife, Shall be thy welcome harbinger,— The crocus of thy life.
GRAVITY—LIFE! (After Browning—several miles after.)
Gravity—what? Attraction we call it, Yet mind cannot thrall it— Where is it not? Life of world-stuff—truly it is! —Life then of man?—His, and not his! ’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man; ’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span. Matter, man! Gravity, life! —Each fits to each; with the other at strife. Life? It is—what? Who can explain it? Mind cannot chain it— God! how ’tis wrought!
DEATH—LIFE.
Sadly o’er the moor I fare, Lonely, lonely all the day; Life nor leaf nor song is there; Barren, barren all the way. Sun and spring and hope are bright, Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there; Life will wake with love and light, Joyous, joyous everywhere.
HOT?—WELL, RATHER!
The sun come peekin’ crost the hills With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face That broadened to a grin from ear To ear,—a most perdigeous space! Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night. ’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore ’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found “Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot” Before the minute-hand’s tenth round. At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two; All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”— “The hottest day I ever knew!” Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed Full two foot—ears pupo’tional; An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe Like when you shuck it in the fall. The steeples on the churches all Was drawed to more’n three times their height, An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire That melted off like wax ’fore night. The weather-boardin’ all warped off An’ shingles rolled in little tubes; Big saw-logs doubled up in bows, An’ water crystallized in cubes. The hoops of barrels tumbled off An’ wagon-tires follered suit; The forests growed so awful fast They all was pulled up by the root. Men melted in the harvest-field An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff, A-sizzlin’ in a way that made Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh! In one big city, folks all died But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones (But it killed him;—caught cold, and died of a cough). I can’t begin to tell how hot It was—it can’t be even guessed. It’s still so all-infernal hot I can’t begin to try to rest.
A YEAR AGO.
A year ago I held the fondest hopes That ever touched the fondest heart, Nor dreamed that I should ever part From all that fancy opes, A year ago. A year ago!— Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!— A flower bloomed beneath my sill And by its soft, enchanting smell I lost all count of time A year ago. A year ago I slept a bed of peace Beneath the stars of summer skies While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes That this should never cease— A year ago! A year ago My morning-glory vine, Soft whispering with the wings of bees, Foretold that whisperings like these Should endlessly be mine— A year ago! A year ago The sun light-kissed the moon, Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung, And mingled Life and Love and Song Rode near their highest noon— A year ago. A year ago!— Then, then each sister vine Upon a brother sweetly leaned: Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned When Love had made you mine A year ago. A year ago ’Twas Love from sun to sun: To-day I fold you to my heart And know that nought but death can part The love and life begun A year ago.
THE SWEETEST OF ALL.
There are tears of pity and tears of woe, And tears half of rapture and pain will fall; And tears for excess of joy must flow, But the tears of love are the sweetest of all. There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife, And the sorrow that knows no recall; The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life, But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all. Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain, But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all. There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild, The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall; The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child, But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all. There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer And smiles that gladden wherever they fall; There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear, But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all. There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips, The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall; There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips, But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all. There are songs that sing in a minor key, And songs that the listening heart appall; There are songs that sing like the constant sea, But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.
Sorrows live and pleasures dee, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! And I’ll wear the willow-tree, Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low. For I loved a bonnie lass, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas! Willow-willow, whither did she go? Here upon this willow-tree, Willy-willy-waly weep my woe! I will hang my harp, and dee, Willow-willow, will she ever know? On my heart I’ll place my hand Willy-willy-waly wailing so! On my head a green garland, Willow-willow weeping sleeping so! Then farewell, my bride and breath, Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh! Still I love you, tho’ my death, Willow-willow wailing—will she know!
[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken love—which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter desperation—hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be revenged on his false sweetheart by making her sorry!—; also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to die, somewhat à la Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers, is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad style of his day.]
BUZZ.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!” In my ear the sound is drumming, On my heart-chords ever strumming, “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion? “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Comes the sound from days of childhood Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Youth has planted in profusion. Thro’ the tangles wildly growing “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Crieth Hope, my lost companion, Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon, “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” With the sap of manhood flowing. “Buzz, buzz, buzz!” Aged now I listen gladly To the echoes that so sadly “Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
WASHINGTON. 22 Feb.
Great Washington! Dear father of the land Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe In war; admired of every nation and Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’ The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue, Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!— For thee this day is made the nation’s day; For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn, And spangled blue of night are all unfurled, Are all the emblems of our love for thee, To liberty and home God’s greatest boon, O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG. CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.
We think the thoughts our fathers thought, And sing the same old songs; We fight the battles they have fought, And right the same old wrongs. CHORUS. Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave, Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free, O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave, O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty. We breath, the air our fathers breathed, Inspiring freedom still; Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed, And strike with dauntless will. —Chorus. Behold the same old sun above, The same old spangled dome Forever shining out in love On Freedom’s happy home. —Chorus. We’ll guard the home our fathers won And fight the latest foe; We’ll stand by every loyal gun Where Freedom’s streamers flow. —Chorus. Beneath the stripes of red and white And starry spangled blue, Protected by the God of Right We’ll fight the battle through. —Chorus. We’ll bid defiance to the world And make the welkin ring, With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled And God above, our King. —Chorus.
’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.
My grief lies all within.—Shakspere, Rich. II. Tell me not that tears are sorrow, Tell me not that grief must flow Like sad drops of rain descending, Or like streams in valleys low. Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber, In the heart that’s dumb with grief There is eloquence, and mournful, That doth shame all tear-relief. From the heart of silent sorrow, Clouds of woe can never rise, And dissolve themselves with raining To congeal in weeping eyes. Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning, And the soul may burst with grief; Nought of weeping nor of moaning, Nought of tears can give relief. Deep among the soul’s great mountains, Silent as the night doth come, Clouds of grief may soft be raining, Shrouding every hill in gloom. Oh, along the channeled valleys, Sad as Charon’s river’s roll, Streams of grief may deep be flowing ’Mong the mountains of the soul.
HAL A-HUNTIN’.
Onct we went a-huntin’, Pa ’n’ me, we did, ’N’ I went ’long an’ tookt ol’ Rover.—’N’ we did Have ist the mostest fun!— ’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun. Rove ist skeert the rabbits Outen the grass, ’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em When they runned pas’. My landy! how they run! Wushed I’d a had a gun! Pa ist shooted at ’em, Hard, but couldn’t Kill ’em, ’cause when he’d shoot, The gun—w’y—wouldn’t. ’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun A-huntin’ wif sich a gun. My! but didn’t them rabbits Go a scootin’!— ’N’ Rover after’m, ist a- Skallyhootin’! ’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done” (When he comed home) “wif his gun!” ’N’en the hired man ist Laft an’ shook’n’ When he’d skun ’em all, he Said, a-lookin’ Solemn-like (in fun), “What a dog-gone gun.” ’N’en when Ma she fried ’em ’N’ we was a-eatin’ Of ’em up, Ma said ’at It was beatin’ How that dog could run!— Guess he’s the goodest gun! ’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’ He scowled at me Awful, ’n’ said, “You little Young rascal, see Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft To tell for?” ’N’en they laft! Wusht Pa’d take me wif him Huntin’ again; But he says ’at I’m too Awful green— Rabbits might eat me! I Guess not! Wonder why?
WRITE FROM THE HEART.
Write from the heart straight outwards When divinely the feelings glow, Write for the soul’s satisfaction, And you’ll fashion the best outward show. Write as the June rose blossoms, Always straight from the inside out Slowly unfolding its petals From the ports of its Power’s redoubt. Then from the sweet breathing petals, That I swear seem almost human to me, Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals In the drunkenest ecstasy. So let your heart in your poem Breathe its song like a living rose, Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes As from soul unto soul it goes. Write from the heart straight outwards, Caring not for the glitter and show;— Write as the showers from heaven, Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
WHITHER?
Whither this Highway, Child? “To the Field of Flowers,—to the Flowers wild.” Whither this Highway, Youth? “Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.” Whither this Highway, Man? “Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.” Whither this Highway, Sire? “To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!” Whither, oh whither, Tomb?— But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
OUR ALMA MATER.
Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west! Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest In strength’ning us would never let thee rest, E’en in thy trials as in prosperity! ’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test. And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old, Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye In broader fields to live and grow, from west To east the lengthened shout is roll’d, “’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee, To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
FATHER TIME.
I am the father of the river, Of the sea, and of the mountain; Of the sunlight that doth quiver In the rainbow of the fountain. I have raised up men and nations, I have builded homes and cities; I have given all their stations, Him who scorns and him who pities. I have forged the tears and sorrows Of a Russia, broken-hearted, Into chains of sad to-morrows That but death of kings has parted. I have woven joy and laughter, Fairest of life’s flowers, Into garlands that hereafter Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers. Oh the sorrows and the pleasures Of the world in faultless rhyme Blend the music of their measures With the step of Father Time.
THUS LIFE’S TALE.
I. Away out yonder on the great horizon Sail, sail away; Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen, Sail, sail, nor stay. II. Away in the westward where the sun is dipping Gold, gold from the sea, Gold of a glorious El Dorado— Sail, sail to-day. III. See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed: Sail swift that way. Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened, Sail, sail nor stay. IV. The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis: See, see my sail! See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!— Thus, thus life’s tale! Finale. The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping: Sailed, sailed away; Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen, Mourned, mourned the clay.
PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT. ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.
Sitting Bull and the other Sioux Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux, And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!— Till one day they shot him thrioux And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,— Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux! —Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux.
ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”
Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain; Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain Of moral song. Oh listen to the music of the river Along the channeled valleys of his soul As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever Their Farewell roll:— “Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long, And so make life, and death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.”
THE TRANSFORMATION. A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.
I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.
I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night, with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds, as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned, that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.
For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness, I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and the weird sound was not so easily solved.
I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like? However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring. Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I knew I could not possibly be asleep.
Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from somewhere—everywhere, it seemed.
Suddenly—most wonderful to tell!—I saw the very faintest streak of light creep up the farther wall of my room.
All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.
The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen, moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention. What could it be!—A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it be!
I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, too, had I said many a time,—I would investigate whatever was strange, doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I did,—lie there fascinated.
Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some supernatural power. It was something more than a light,—it was a film, a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and partly by this influence upon me.
I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried “murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to martial music of the dead.
I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by which I was led.
When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to it, but never at any time another just like it.
As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!—a supernatural spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever before or since seen.
As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first look awkward.
Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present, but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move; as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.
What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed, it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and—wonderful to relate!—as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, Happy Days of Yore!
Could it be possible?—was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God alone knows!
Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by the hand of my old chum, were the words, Memories of the Past. Here was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.
Happy Days of Yore,—Memories of the Past. How was I to solve the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why this mysterious writing?
As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I fell into this meditation.
It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing, or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that—mystery of mysteries!—the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.—
Oh those happy days of yore Will come back to me no more! Ah no more, no more for aye!— They have fled with time away, And my heart is sad and lone As I dream forevermore, With a heaving sigh and groan, Of those happy days of yore.
Most wonderful!—wonderful not in the words so much, for they were simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.
As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.—
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood, Oh how dear those happy hours When I rambled through the forests ’Mong the birds and trees and flowers! Life lay smiling all before me, No regrets, no cares behind; All the earth seemed bright with beauty, Life was freedom unconfined. I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight Scattered wide its golden beams, Thinking not that I should ever Miss its light or prize its gleams.
Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one really was present; the other existing in another place, and only psychologically present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I have ever met—except one!—nor have I ever yet found sage or savant able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh, and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.
My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.—
Oh those days of sweetest thought! Oh those days with rapture fraught! Had I known when but a child What great blessings round me smiled, With a wild, exulting leap I’d have struck on wisdom’s door; Piled up knowledge heap on heap In those happy days of yore.
Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters, that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to listen to the other richer and deeper melody.—
Ah, those days are gone forever; Time has wafted them away; Happiness now seems a phantom Of a joyous yesterday. If I could but live them over, All those careless, happy hours, Start again in life’s fair morning O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers, Not a moment would be wasted Chasing bubbles in the air— I would seek the pearls of knowledge, And the gems of wisdom wear.
Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties, and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for both wrote (I can’t help saying they wrote) as rapidly as slow music goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider had already begun the third stanza.—
Could I live again those days That I spent in idle plays And could know of learning’s worth, I’d not waste my time in mirth;— I would climb the hill of fame And on wisdom’s wings would soar Till I caught the beacon flame In those happy days of yore.
I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as they were completed. And now from the second I heard.—
Had I known of wisdom’s power In those days with pleasure fraught, From the mines of truth and beauty Golden trophies I’d have brought. All the lore of bygone ages From my books I would have learned; O’er the bards I would have pondered Tho’ my lamp till morning burned; All the broad empire of Nature With its wealth of laws divine Should have shown to me the beauty Of Omnipotent design.
While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words.—
Oh, my heart grows weak and faint, And it sighs in sad complaint As it dreams its dreams of woe Of the silent long ago. And a pain is at my heart, Not alone for wisdom’s lore, For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart In those happy days of yore.
What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit in these similar words.—
I’d have read that revelation Traced by our Creator’s hand Over all our glorious planet, In the sky and sea and land. High and bright the lamp of knowledge Shone for all who’d seek its light; Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it In the glare of pleasures bright! Oft upon the dreary mountain Have my weary footsteps strayed:— But ’tis not for wisdom only That my vain regrets are made.
So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words. Ah yes! to the first, listen!—
She was like a radiant rose That with sweetness overflows. Her bright eyes were darkest blue And her hair a golden hue. She was lovely as the day, And within her breast she bore Heart as light and bright and gay As those happy days of yore.
Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.—
In those days of idle dreaming, Ere life’s toils I’d entered in, Fancy framed for me an image Of the one I’d woo and win. It was in an idle romance My ideal played a part; But that image, framed in fancy, Soon was graven on my heart, And I said, “That maiden only Of my ideal’s charms complete Shall have power to lead me captive And to bring me to her feet.”
Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart, the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of harmony?
Once more!—To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.—
We were playmates, she and I, In that happy time gone by: Oft we’d walk the meadows over Hunting for the four-leaved clover As we’d seen the lovers do; We the woods would oft explore Where the fragrant flowers grew In those happy days of yore.
And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still sad notes.—
Time passed on and boyish fancies Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced; Gay companions were around me,— Every pleasure we embraced. And among those friends and schoolmates, There was one surpassing fair: Light her heart and light her footstep, Blue her eyes and gold her hair. Then her pure and gentle spirit Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.— Ah, such divine gifts of beauty Seldom are to mortals given.
The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully—thus psychologically though not supernaturally—revealed to me in beauty by ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him, as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is.
Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the other.—
Oft when twilight slowly crept Over hill and vale that slept, We would wander side by side In the golden eventide By the school-house on the hill Where so oft we’d been before, Or beside the water-mill In those happy days of yore. Oh those days,—sweet, happy days! Ever round my mind there plays Fitful Fancy’s dear delight, Bringing back the time so bright When we wandered hand in hand To the little country store, And the mystic future planned In those happy days of yore. New years came as old ones went; Childhood’s years at last were spent; We from friends to lovers grew And nor pain nor sorrow knew. Oh how fondly did I dream Folding close my fond Lenore As we sailed adown life’s stream In those happy days of yore!
Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this master-melody:—
When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam Shedding gladness o’er the lea; When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing Of enchanting melody. Oft when daily tasks were over, She and I together strolled From the hamlet to the seaside Where the restless billows rolled. Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering Treasures from the shifting sand As each ebbing tide receding Left its wonders on the strand. Long we’d watch the stately vessels Riding proudly o’er the foam, Some for distant countries steering, Some returning—bound for home. Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor Where our little sail-boat lay, And while skimming o’er the waters Laugh and sing the hours away. Then at twilight, when all nature Save the sea was hushed and still, We would turn our footsteps homeward To the hamlet on the hill.
So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page; for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken.
And that image framed in boyhood Of the one I’d woo and win, Ah, my ideal!—I had found her In my darling Evylyn. But the dim, uncertain future!— Oh that we could raise the veil And by gazing down the valley Know what fortune would prevail; Whether joy or blinding sorrow, Gladness or unending woe, Should forever be our portion While we linger here below. Two short summers I had known her, Years that seemed like one bright day; But at last the spell was broken, And my gladness fled away: Duty called me from that hamlet Where youth’s happy days were spent Out into the great, free, wide world, And with brightest hopes I went. Ah, that parting by the seaside One bright evening in the spring By the dear old friendly ocean— There I gave the engagement ring.
Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music, and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.—
In the bright and merry spring, Then I gave the engagement ring; And in sweet and holy bliss Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss. Heart and hope and thought were one As we walked as heretofore Where the brooklet used to run In those happy days of yore. But the future none can tell And, or weal or woe, ’tis well; For, if it were otherwise, When the mystic veil should rise And reveal what is to come, Happiness would be no more;— Hearts would call to hearts but dumb In those happy days of yore. Could we gaze on life’s emprise, Frozen tears would dim our eyes; Rippling laughs on lips would freeze As the future’s death-cold breeze Chilled the life of loving hearts; Happy days would come no more, And we’d sigh with fitful starts For those happy days of yore.
Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.—