PART III. OTHER VERSES.

MY SAPPHIRE.

I have a sapphire rich and fair And soft as a velvet sky, When only the stars are shining low And the heavens hold a mystic glow And a hushed world stands agaze to know The wonderful Whence and Why.

I have a sapphire that I turn In the dark of somber days: And the darting tongues of nickering blue Flash deep and rare in wondrous hue, Sharp as the lightning, pure as the dew, And true as m’lady’s gaze.

I have a sapphire that I hold Beneath the chandelier: And the phosphor of its azure gleam Sweeps clear as the depths of the mountain stream Where the Sun-god hurls his molten beam In the morn of the golden year.

I have a sapphire I adore— Of varying whims and moods— Blue-black it lies with never a mark Across the dim unfathomed dark, Till there lifts the glow of a tiny spark— And again it sullen broods.

I have a sapphire that I bend ’Neath the light of burning rays: And the flames spread forth a fairy fire, Seething and writhing and leaping higher Till they come to the land of my heart’s desire, In a glittering, blinding blaze.

I have a sapphire that I hold. When the goal seems far away: When the lee shore churns in saffron spume. And the fluctuant ocean’s plume on plume Bears down to a rock-ribbed hidden doom, And the sky is ashen gray.

I have a sapphire that I turn; And the clouds break, and the wine Of a glorious sun spreads east and west To where the Islands of the Blest Raise verdant shores at my behest, And a golden world is mine.

Oh Sapphire from a distant vale Where the white Himalayas tower: Where the Kashmir lakes are royal blue, And passions strong and hearts are true, All these are met and blent in you, A princely heir and dower.

THE TWINS.

Out of the wonderful nowhere, Into the lowly here; Laughing and loving and lithesome, And radiating cheer.

Twin rose-buds o’ Killarney hue— Fragrant and fresh and fair— And eyes of blue, wide-gazed and true, And tawny yellow hair.

And smiles as sweet as any meet In pleasant paths above: And golden laughter that echoes after, To finger the chords of love.

Two wee buds o’ Killarney hue That beckon and beguile— And ’neath your spell we’re learning well There is something still worth while.

Though drab days break and drab thoughts wake O’er fields of sleet and snow, There’s sunshine rare just everywhere— For you have taught us so.

ON SENDING MY BOOK TO AN ENGLISH FRIEND.

“It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”— And the seas are wide indeed, But there are no barriers dividing The Anglo-Saxon creed. Fair fighting when the skies are lowering— Fair peace when skies are clear— And the faith of fair intentions, unfaltering, And the heart that holds no fear.

“It’s a long lane that knows no turnings”— And Browning never said a thing more true, So I know you’ll know the spirit that impels me To send this little messenger to you.

IMMORTAL KEATS.

Matchless bard of all the ages— Lyric sounder of the lyre— Wake among your golden echoes— Rise amid your latent fire— Tell us, Master of the Muses— Sweetest singer ever sung— By what law of Earth or Heaven Ye were called away so young?

By what law of God or Mammon— By what creed of land or sea— Was a weary World forsaken Of the mind that harbored thee? Ere that wondrous mind’s fruition Scarce had grown to the tree.

If the half-fledged sapling gave us Melodies past human praise— If such virgin buddings crowded Those few sad and glorious days; If such flowers, barely opened, Swept us in a wild amaze—

What, Oh Lord and Prince of Poesy, Would your soul have given to men— What the marvelous meed and measure Of your pulsing, choral pen— Had your numbered days been lengthened To a three score years and ten?

As through mystic lands ye led us O’er the paths your feet had gone: Pipes of Pan—and fain we followed— Glad and willing slave and pawn, Till we reached the fields Elysian— Till we faced the gorgeous dawn:

Till the lanes seemed filled with roses— Roses lipped with opal dew: Till the vales seemed filled with incense— Incense slowly drifting through: Till the seas seemed filled with grottoes— Grottoes amber, gold and blue:

Till the songs of birds rang clearer And the sunshine shone more rare, And the moon above the meadows Gathered love, and left it there; And the swaying stars rose whiter— And the World was very fair:

As your thoughts’ eternal fountains, Shot with iridescent gleams, Floating down through glades enchanted, On the breast of faery streams, To a pearl-strewn bay of beryl— Reached the haven of our dreams.

TO A LITTLE GIRL.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, Said Heaven was a hundred, million, billion miles away. So I couldn’t contradict them—it wouldn’t do at all— But they had never heard your laughter innocent and gay.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said the Milky Way was fair beyond all human ken: But they had never seen your face, upturned, aquestioning— A dainty bit of rapture in a leaden world o’ men.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They told of gorgeous comets and their manes so bright and rare: But comet glow could never show the living threads of light That dance and gleam in th’ rippling stream and fragrance of your hair.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said the azure ether stretched in miles of lapis hue; But they had never known eyes that gaze into your soul In longing little wonder wells of limpid gray and blue.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one, They said no melody could match the singing of the spheres: But they had never heard your voice ring joyously at play— The music of a weary world of roil and toil and tears.

Flammarion and Kelvin and Herschel every one. They’ve told the tale of the double stars, and their faith the eons through— But constant though they be, their hearts could never know the love, The yearning burning tender love, dear child, we bear for you.

GOD.

I

They would give hands to Thee, head to Thee, feet to Thee— They who are blind: They would give form to Thee, fashion Thee manikin, After their kind.

They would give hate to Thee, spite to Thee, jealousy— Thou the adored: Only have fear in Thee, only repel Thee, Master and Lord.

They would bring shame to Thee, even in worship— Each empty rite: Bigotry, canting and sere superstition, Knowing no light.

Faiths esoteric, pedantic and recondite— Mystical creeds: False and insipid and brutal and selfish— And wrought to their needs.

They whom Ye nurtured from primal conceiving, And ne’er a flaw— They know Thee not, or in knowing, reject Thee, Thee and Thy law.

Saying, "We see Thee not, come to us, speak to us— Tangible stand. Come in the purple, crowned, robed and resplendent— Sceptre in hand.

"Even as kings have done, through all the ages, Brave to behold— Fanfare of trumpets, be jeweled and refulgent And girdled with gold:

"Or in a chariot welded of star-dust— Glittering white— Pause at the cloud-line ’mid crashing of thunder And blazing of light.

"Rolling Thy voice till the Pleiades tremble— The spheres are amoan; The Earth for a footstool—the outermost planets Grouped for a throne.

“Thus would we see Thee, acclaim Thee; and worship Thee, Thou in Thy might— Concrete, conglomerate, human and splendid— Aflame in our sight.”

II

They who have drunk of the River of Knowledge Only a quaff, Pity them, Father that know not Thy meaning, Children who laugh.

Atoms that reck not the wherefore of atoms— Dust of the dust: Groping in darkness, recusant and doubting— And bearing no trust.

They would make mock of Thee, saying the life-spark, Came not of Thee: Function by function in wonderful unison— Each mystery.

Sunshine and rain-fall and food to their needing, Air, sea and land: Seed-time and fruit-time and harvest and gleaning— Made to their hand.

They would gainsay Thee by calling it Nature, Calling it Chance: And by their impotent wonder, Thy glory, Only enhance.

But when in mercy the last word is spoken— When the gates yawn; Father of Nations—take Thou Thy children Into the dawn.

Crowning Thy marvelous works with a crowning— Ultimate—vast— Showing compassion and loving they knew not, E’en to the last.

THE GOLDEN DAY.

Have ye a day that bears the glare Of the flaming morning sun? Have ye a day the mind may search, Weighing what ye have done?

Have ye a day ye are satisfied Will stand the acid test— From the first gray strand of the eastern skies To the last red glow in the west?

Have ye a day ye grappled with And hurled in mortal throes, When, ’bove the white horizon, The Great Occasion rose?

Mayhap the World bore witness To the things of your Golden Day: Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men, And ye’ve thrown the key away.