Music, and Other Poems

             These are the gifts I ask
             Of thee, Spirit serene:
             Strength for the daily task,
             Courage to face the road,
     Good cheer to help me bear the traveller's load,
     And, for the hours of rest that come between,
     An inward joy in all things heard and seen.
             These are the sins I fain
             Would have thee take away:
             Malice, and cold disdain,
             Hot anger, sullen hate,
     Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great,
     And discontent that casts a shadow gray
     On all the brightness of the common day.

             These are the things I prize
             And hold of dearest worth:
             Light of the sapphire skies,
             Peace of the silent hills,
       Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass,
       Music of birds, murmur of little rills,
       Shadow of clouds that swiftly pass,
             And, after showers,
             The smell of flowers
         And of the good brown earth,—
     And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth.

                So let me keep
         These treasures of the humble heart
       In true possession, owning them by love;
       And when at last I can no longer move
         Among them freely, but must part
       From the green fields and from the waters clear,
                Let me not creep
       Into some darkened room and hide
       From all that makes the world so bright and dear;
                But throw the windows wide
                To welcome in the light;
       And while I clasp a well-beloved hand,
                Let me once more have sight
       Of the deep sky and the far-smiling land,—
                Then gently fall on sleep,
     And breathe my body back to Nature's care,
     My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.

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

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

     April, 1902.

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

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

     May, 1902.

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

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

     May, 1902.

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

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

     January, 1903.

     For that thy face is fair I love thee not;
         Nor yet because the light of thy brown eyes
         Hath gleams of wonder and of glad surprise,
     Like woodland streams that cross a sunlit spot:
     Nor for thy beauty, born without a blot,
       Most perfect when it shines through no disguise
       Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise,—
     For all these outward things I love thee not:

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

     February, 1904.

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

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

     May, 1904.

     The fire of love was burning, yet so low
         That in the dark we scarce could see its rays,
         And in the light of perfect-placid days
     Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow.
     Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw
       New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze:
       In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways
     We missed the radiant heat of long ago.

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

     March, 1903.

     I would not even ask my heart to say
         If I could love some other land as well
         As thee, my country, had I felt the spell
     Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey
     The charm of France, or England's mighty sway.
       I would not be so much an infidel
       As once to dream, or fashion words to tell,
     What land could hold my love from thee away.

     For like a law of nature in my blood
       I feel thy sweet and secret sovereignty,
         And woven through my soul thy vital sign.
     My life is but a wave, and thou the flood;
       I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree;
         Nor should I be at all, were I not thine.

     June, 1904.

     It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!)
     To hear, one day, report from those who came
     With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy,
     To tell of earthly tasks in His employ:
     For some were sorry when they saw how slow
     The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow;
     And some were glad because their eyes had seen,
     Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.
     So, at a certain hour, before the throne
     The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone;
     Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought,
     And thus his tidings to the Master brought:
     "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found
     "Three servants of thy holy name, renowned
     "Above their fellows.  One is very wise,
     "With thoughts that ever range above the skies;
     "And one is gifted with the golden speech
     "That makes men glad to hear when he will teach;
     "And one, with no rare gift or grace endued,
     "Has won the people's love by doing good.
     "With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest;
     "But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?"

     Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look
     The hearts of all are like an open book:
     "In every soul the secret thought I read,
     "And well I know who loves me best indeed.
     "But every life has pages vacant still,
     "Whereon a man may write the thing he will;
     "Therefore I read in silence, day by day,
     "And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.
     "But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three
     "Who serve me there, and take this word from me:
     "Tell each of them his Master bids him go
     "Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow;
     "There he shall find a certain task for me:
     "But what, I do not tell to them nor thee.
     "Give thou the message, make my word the test,
     "And crown for me the one who answers best."
     Silent the angel stood, with folded hands,
     To take the imprint of his Lord's commands;
     Then drew one breath, obedient and elate,
     And passed, the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

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

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

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

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

     February, 1902.

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

     Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart
     As fits a man to play a royal part.
     Not his the pride that honours as a trust
     The right to rule, the duty to be just:
     Not his the dignity that bends to bear
     The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care,
     And labours like the peasant at his gate,
     To serve the people and protect the State.
     Another pride was his, and other joys:
     To him the crown and sceptre were but toys,
     With which he played at glory's idle game,
     To please himself and win the wreaths of fame.
     The throne his fathers held from age to age,
     To his ambition, seemed a fitting stage
     Built for King Martin to display at will,
     His mighty strength and universal skill.

     No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries
     At every step to win admiring eyes,—
     No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws
     From gaping crowds loud thunder of applause,
     Was vainer than the King: his only thirst
     Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.
     When tournament was held, in knightly guise
     The King would ride the lists and win the prize;
     When music charmed the court, with golden lyre
     The King would take the stage and lead the choir;
     In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar;
     In hawking, see his falcon highest soar;
     In painting, he would wield the master's brush;
     In high debate,—"the King is speaking! Hush!"
     Thus, with a restless heart, in every field
     He sought renown, and found his subjects yield
     As if he were a demi-god revealed.

     But while he played the petty games of life
     His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife;
     Corruption through the court unheeded crept,
     And on the seat of honour justice slept.
     The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor
     Groaned under burdens grievous to endure.
     The nation's wealth was spent in vain display,
     And weakness wore the nation's heart away.

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

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

     So to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate
     And slow, King Martin left the helm of state,
     While to the novel game with eager zest
     He all his time and all his powers addrest.
     Sure such a sight was never seen before!
     For robed and crowned the monarch trod the shore;
     His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine,
     His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.
     With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream,
     Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam;
     Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain
     The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.
     On Friday, when the week was almost spent,
     He scanned his empty creel with discontent,
     Called for a net, and cast it far and wide,
     And drew—a thousand minnows from the tide!
     Then came the fisher to conclude the match,
     And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch—
     A hundred salmon, greater than before—
     "I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score."
     Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down:
     "Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!"

     Nay, thou hast lost them both," the fisher said;
     And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed
     Around his form; he dropped his garments mean,
     And in his place the River-god was seen.
     "Thy vanity hast brought thee in my power,
     "And thou shalt pay the forfeit at this hour:
     "For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool,
     "Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule.
     "Eager to win in every trivial strife,—
     "Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!"
     Wrathful, the King the scornful sentence heard;
     He strove to answer, but he only CHIRR-R-ED:
     His Tyrian robe was changed to wings of blue,
     His crown became a crest,—away he flew!

     And still, along the reaches of the stream,
     The vain King-fisher flits, an azure gleam,—
     You see his ruby crest, you hear his jealous scream.

     April, 1904.

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

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

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

     December, 1902.

     Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
       Tho' to the bough the rusty leafage clings;
     Now on the elm the misty buds are swelling,
       See how the pine-wood grows alive with wings;
     Blue-jays fluttering, yodeling and crying,
       Meadow-larks sailing low above the faded grass,
     Red-birds whistling clear, silent robins flying,—
       Who has waked the birds up?  What has come to pass?

     Last year's cotton-plants, desolately bowing,
       Tremble in the March-wind, ragged and forlorn;
     Red are the hill-sides of the early ploughing,
       Gray are the lowlands, waiting for the corn.
     Earth seems asleep still, but she's only feigning;
       Deep in her bosom thrills a sweet unrest.
     Look where the jasmine lavishly is raining
       Jove's golden shower into Danae's breast!

     Now on the plum the snowy bloom is sifted,
       Now on the peach the glory of the rose,
     Over the hills a tender haze is drifted,
       Full to the brim the yellow river flows.
     Dark cypress boughs with vivid jewels glisten,
       Greener than emeralds shining in the sun.
     Who has wrought the magic?  Listen, sweetheart, listen!
     The mocking-bird is singing Spring has begun.

     Hark, in his song no tremor of misgiving!
       All of his heart he pours into his lay,—
     "Love, love, love, and pure delight of living:
       Winter is forgotten: here's a happy day!"
     Fair in your face I read the flowery presage,
       Snowy on your brow and rosy on your mouth:
     Sweet in your voice I hear the season's message,—
       Love, love, love, and Spring in the South!

     March, 1904.

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

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

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

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

     From Goethe: "Nahe des Geliebten."

     I put my heart to school
     In the world, where men grow wise,
     "Go out," I said, "and learn the rule;
     "Come back when you win a prize."

     My heart came back again:
     "Now where is the prize?" I cried.—
     "The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
     "And the teacher's name was Pride."

     I put my heart to school
     In the woods, where veeries sing,
     And brooks run cool and clear;
     In the fields, where wild flowers spring,
     And the blue of heaven bends near.
     "Go out," I said: "you are half a fool,
     "But perhaps they can teach you here."

     "And why do you stay so long,
     "My heart, and where do you roam?"
     The answer came with a laugh and a song,—
     "I find this school is home."

     April, 1901.

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

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

     As once upon her breast
       Fearless and well content I lay,
     So let her heart, on Thee at rest,
       Feel fears depart and troubles fade away.

     Her every wish fulfill;
       And even if Thou must refuse
     In anything, let Thy wise will
       A comfort bring such as kind mothers use.

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

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

     July, 1903.

     A soft veil dims the tender skies,
     And half conceals from pensive eyes
       The bronzing tokens of the fall;
     A calmness broods upon the hills,
     And summer's parting dream distills
       A charm of silence over all.

     The stacks of corn, in brown array,
     Stand waiting through the placid day,
       Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
     The tribes that find a shelter there
     Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
       And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

     At evening when the crimson crest
     Of sunset passes down the West,
       I hear the whispering host returning;
     On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
     I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—
       The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.

                         Tertius and Henry Van Dyke.

     November, 1903.

         "The worlds in which we live are two
          The world 'I am' and the world 'I do.'"

     The worlds in which we live at heart are one,
     The world "I am," the fruit of "I have done";
     And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit,
     The world "I love,"—the only living root.

                        I

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

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

                        II

     Long ago he left me, long and long ago:
     Now I wander through the world and seek him high and low;
     Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,—
     Ah, if I could hear his voice, I soon should find his face.
                  Far away,
                  Many a day,
                  Where can Barney be?
                  Answer, dear,
                  Don't you hear?
              Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!

     Birds that in the spring-time thrilled his heart with joy,
     Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy.
     Surely he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
     Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die.
                  Heart, be glad,
                  The little lad
                  Will call some day to thee:
                  "Father dear,
                  "Heaven is here,
             "Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"

     January, 1900.

     Long, long ago I heard a little song,
       (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
     So lowly, slowly wound the tune along,
       That far into my heart it found the way:
     A melody consoling and endearing;
       And still, in silent hours, I'm often hearing
     The small, sweet song that does not die away.

     Long, long ago I saw a little flower,—
       (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
     So fair of face and fragrant for an hour,
       That something dear to me it seemed to say:
     A thought of joy that blossomed into being
       Without a word; and now I'm often seeing
     The friendly flower that does not fade away.

     Long, long ago we had a little child,—
       (Ah, was it long ago, or yesterday?)
     Into his mother's eyes and mine he smiled
       Unconscious love; warm in our arms he lay.
     An angel called! Dear heart, we could not hold him;
       Yet secretly your arms and mine infold him—
     Our little child who does not go away.

     Long, long ago?  Ah, memory, make it clear—
       (It was not long ago, but yesterday,)
     So little and so helpless and so dear
       Let not the song be lost, the flower decay!
     His voice, his waking eyes, his gentle sleeping:
       The smallest things are safest in thy keeping.
     Sweet memory, keep our child with us alway.

     April, 1903.

     When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
                 Makes its mark
     On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
                 Over fallen leaves;
     Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
                 Through the toil
     Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
                 Whispers in its sleep.

     'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
                 Where the box
     Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
                 There's a voice that talks
     Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
                 Year by year,—
     Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,
                 Fading as the flowers.

     Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;
                 But relief
     For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow
                 From the Long-Ago,
     When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,
                 To resign,
     And remember that the sadness of the fall
                 Comes alike to all.

     What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!
                 And what prayers
     For the silent strength that nerves us to endure
                 Things we cannot cure!
     Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,
                 I have traced
     All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find
                 Comfort in my mind.

     Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:
                 Yet how near
     Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,
                 Of the human race!
     Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,
                 Not apart!
     They who know the sorrows other lives have known
                 Never walk alone.

     October, 1903.

     Waking from tender sleep,
     My neighbour's little child
     Put out his baby hand to me,
     Looked in my face, and smiled.

     It seemed as if he came
     Home from a happy land,
     To tell me something that my heart
     Would surely understand.

     Somewhere, among bright dreams,
     A child that once was mine
     Had whispered wordless love to him,
     And given him a sign.

     Comfort of kindly speech,
     And counsel of the wise,
     Have helped me less than what I read
     In those deep-smiling eyes.

     Sleep sweetly, little friend,
     And dream again of heaven:
     With double love I kiss your hand,—
     Your message has been given.

     November, 1903.

     Long, long, long the trail
       Through the brooding forest-gloom,
     Down the shadowy, lonely vale
       Into silence, like a room
         Where the light of life has fled,
       And the jealous curtains close
       Round the passionless repose
         Of the silent dead.

     Plod, plod, plod away,
       Step by step in mouldering moss;
     Thick branches bar the day
       Over languid streams that cross
         Softly, slowly, with a sound
       In their aimless creeping
       Like a smothered weeping,
         Through the enchanted ground.

     "Yield, yield, yield thy quest,"
       Whispers through the woodland deep;
     "Come to me and be at rest;
       "I am slumber, I am sleep."
         Then the weary feet would fail,
       But the never-daunted will
       Urges "Forward, forward still!
         "Press along the trail!"

     Breast, breast, breast the slope!
       See, the path is growing steep.
     Hark! a little song of hope
       When the stream begins to leap.
         Though the forest, far and wide,
       Still shuts out the bending blue,
       We shall finally win through,
         Cross the long divide.

     On, on, onward tramp!
       Will the journey never end?
     Over yonder lies the camp;
       Welcome waits us there, my friend.
         Can we reach it ere the night?
       Upward, upward, never fear!
       Look, the summit must be near;
         See the line of light!

     Red, red, red the shine
       Of the splendour in the west,
     Glowing through the ranks of pine,
       Clear along the mountain-crest!
         Long, long, long the trail
       Out of sorrow's lonely vale;
       But at last the traveller sees
         Light between the trees!

     March, 1904.

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

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

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

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

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

     October, 1903.