Pike County Ballads and Other Poems

  What man is there so bold that he should say,
  "Thus, and thus only, would I have the sea"?
  For whether lying calm and beautiful,
  Clasping the earth in love, and throwing back
  The smile of heaven from waves of amethyst;
  Or whether, freshened by the busy winds,
  It bears the trade and navies of the world
  To ends of use or stern activity;
  Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way
  To elemental fury, howls and roars
  At all its rocky barriers, in wild lust
  Of ruin drinks the blood of living things,
  And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore,—
  Always it is the sea, and men bow down
  Before its vast and varied majesty.

  So all in vain will timorous ones essay
  To set the metes and bounds of Liberty.
  For Freedom is its own eternal law;
  It makes its own conditions, and in storm
  Or calm alike fulfils the unerring Will.
  Let us not then despise it when it lies
  Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm
  Of gnat-like evils hover round its head;
  Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times
  It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry
  Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame
  Of riot and war we see its awful form
  Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe
  Rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings.
  For ever in thine eyes, O Liberty,
  Shines that high light whereby the world is saved,
  And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee!

  I sent my love two roses,—one
    As white as driven snow,
  And one a blushing royal red,
    A flaming Jacqueminot.

  I meant to touch and test my fate;
    That night I should divine,
  The moment I should see my love,
    If her true heart were mine.

  For if she holds me dear, I said,
    She'll wear my blushing rose;
  If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque
    As white as winter's snows.

  My heart sank when I met her:  sure
    I had been over bold,
  For on her breast my pale rose lay
    In virgin whiteness cold.

  Yet with low words she greeted me,
    With smiles divinely tender;
  Upon her cheek the red rose dawned.—
    The white rose meant surrender.

  The song of Kilvani:  fairest she
  In all the land of Savatthi.
  She had one child, as sweet and gay
  And dear to her as the light of day.
  She was so young, and he so fair,
  The same bright eyes and the same dark hair;
  To see them by the blossomy way,
  They seemed two children at their play.

  There came a death-dart from the sky,
  Kilvani saw her darling die.
  The glimmering shade his eyes invades,
  Out of his cheek the red bloom fades;
  His warm heart feels the icy chill,
  The round limbs shudder, and are still.
  And yet Kilvani held him fast
  Long after life's last pulse was past,
  As if her kisses could restore
  The smile gone out for evermore.

  But when she saw her child was dead,
  She scattered ashes on her head,
  And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
  And rushing wildly through the street,
  She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet.

  "Master, all-helpful, help me now!
  Here at thy feet I humbly bow;
  Have mercy, Buddha, help me now!"
  She grovelled on the marble floor,
  And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er.
  And suddenly upon the air
  There fell the answer to her prayer:
  "Bring me to-night a lotus tied
  With thread from a house where none has died."

  She rose, and laughed with thankful joy,
  Sure that the god would save the boy.
  She found a lotus by the stream;
  She plucked it from its noonday dream,
  And then from door to door she fared,
  To ask what house by Death was spared.
  Her heart grew cold to see the eyes
  Of all dilate with slow surprise:
  "Kilvani, thou hast lost thy head;
  Nothing can help a child that's dead.
  There stands not by the Ganges' side
  A house where none hath ever died."
  Thus, through the long and weary day,
  From every door she bore away
  Within her heart, and on her arm,
  A heavier load, a deeper harm.
  By gates of gold and ivory,
  By wattled huts of poverty,
  The same refrain heard poor Kilvani,
  THE LIVING ARE FEW, THE DEAD ARE MANY.

  The evening came—so still and fleet—
  And overtook her hurrying feet.
  And, heartsick, by the sacred fane
  She fell, and prayed the god again.
  She sobbed and beat her bursting breast:
  "Ah, thou hast mocked me, Mightiest!
  Lo! I have wandered far and wide;
  There stands no house where none hath died."
  And Buddha answered, in a tone
  Soft as a flute at twilight blown,
  But grand as heaven and strong as death
  To him who hears with ears of faith:
  "Child, thou art answered.  Murmur not!
  Bow, and accept the common lot."

  Kilvani heard with reverence meet,
  And laid her child at Buddha's feet.

  On Tabor's height a glory came,
  And, shrined in clouds of lambent flame,
  The awestruck, hushed disciples saw
  Christ and the prophets of the law.
  Moses, whose grand and awful face
  Of Sinai's thunder bore the trace,
  And wise Elias,—in his eyes
  The shade of Israel's prophecies,—
  Stood in that wide, mysterious light,
  Than Syrian noons more purely bright,
  One on each hand, and high between
  Shone forth the godlike Nazarene.
  They bowed their heads in holy fright,—
  No mortal eyes could bear the sight,—
  And when they looked again, behold!
  The fiery clouds had backward rolled,
  And borne aloft in grandeur lonely,
  Nothing was left "save Jesus only."

  Resplendent type of things to be!
  We read its mystery to-day
  With clearer eyes than even they,
  The fisher-saints of Galilee.
  We see the Christ stand out between
  The ancient law and faith serene,
  Spirit and letter; but above
  Spirit and letter both was Love.
  Led by the hand of Jacob's God,
  Through wastes of eld a path was trod
  By which the savage world could move
  Upward through law and faith to love.
  And there in Tabor's harmless flame
  The crowning revelation came.
  The old world knelt in homage due,
  The prophets near in reverence drew,
  Law ceased its mission to fulfil,
  And Love was lord on Tabor's hill.

  So now, while creeds perplex the mind
  And wranglings load the weary wind,
  When all the air is filled with words
  And texts that wring like clashing swords,
  Still, as for refuge, we may turn
  Where Tabor's shining glories burn,—
  The soul of antique Israel gone,
  And nothing left but Christ alone.

    He stood before the Sanhedrim;
  The scowling rabbis gazed at him.
  He recked not of their praise or blame;
  There was no fear, there was no shame,
  For one upon whose dazzled eyes
  The whole world poured its vast surprise.
  The open heaven was far too near,
  His first day's light too sweet and clear,
  To let him waste his new-gained ken
  On the hate-clouded face of men.

    But still they questioned, "Who art thou?
  What hast thou been? What art thou now?
  Thou art not he who yesterday
  Sat here and begged beside the way;
  For he was blind."

                       —"And I am he;
  For I was blind, but now I see."

    He told the story o'er and o'er;
  It was his full heart's only lore:
  A prophet on the Sabbath-day
  Had touched his sightless eyes with clay,
  And made him see who had been blind.
  Their words passed by him like the wind,
  Which raves and howls, but cannot shock
  The hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

    Their threats and fury all went wide;
  They could not touch his Hebrew pride.
  Their sneers at Jesus and His band,
  Nameless and homeless in the land,
  Their boasts of Moses and his Lord,
  All could not change him by one word.

    "I know not what this man may be,
  Sinner or saint; but as for me,
  One thing I know,—that I am he
  Who once was blind, and now I see."

    They were all doctors of renown,
  The great men of a famous town,
  With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise,
  Beneath their wide phylacteries;
  The wisdom of the East was theirs,
  And honour crowned their silver hairs.
  The man they jeered and laughed to scorn
  Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born;
  But he knew better far than they
  What came to him that Sabbath-day;
  And what the Christ had done for him
  He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

  There are two mountains hallowed
    By majesty sublime,
  Which rear their crests unconquered
    Above the floods of Time.
  Uncounted generations
    Have gazed on them with awe,—
  The mountain of the Gospel,
    The mountain of the Law.

  From Sinai's cloud of darkness
    The vivid lightnings play;
  They serve the God of vengeance,
    The Lord who shall repay.
  Each fault must bring its penance,
    Each sin the avenging blade,
  For God upholds in justice
    The laws that He hath made.

  But Calvary stands to ransom
    The earth from utter loss,
  In shade than light more glorious,
    The shadow of the Cross.
  To heal a sick world's trouble,
    To soothe its woe and pain,
  On Calvary's sacred summit
    The Paschal Lamb was slain.

  The boundless might of Heaven
    Its law in mercy furled,
  As once the bow of promise
    O'erarched a drowning world.
  The Law said, "As you keep me,
    It shall be done to you;"
  But Calvary prays, "Forgive them;
    They know not what they do."

  Almighty God! direct us
    To keep Thy perfect Law!
  O blessed Saviour, help us
    Nearer to Thee to draw!
  Let Sinai's thunders aid us
    To guard our feet from sin;
  And Calvary's light inspire us
    The love of God to win.

  To Peter by night the faithfullest came
    And said, "We appeal to thee!
  The life of the Church is in thy life;
    We pray thee to rise and flee.

  "For the tyrant's hand is red with blood,
    And his arm is heavy with power;
  Thy head, the head of the Church, will fall
    If thou tarry in Rome an hour."

  Through the sleeping town St. Peter passed
    To the wide Campagna plain;
  In the starry light of the Alban night
    He drew free breath again:

  When across his path an awful form
    In luminous glory stood;
  His thorn-crowned brow, His hands and feet,
    Were wet with immortal blood.

  The godlike sorrow which filled His eyes
    Seemed changed to a godlike wrath
  As they turned on Peter, who cried aloud,
    And sank to his knees in the path.

  "Lord of my life, my love, my soul!
    Say, what wilt Thou with me?"
  A voice replied, "I go to Rome
    To be crucified for thee."

  The Apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,—
    The vision had passed away;
  The light still lay on the dewy plain,
    But the sky in the east was gray.

  To the city walls St. Peter turned,
    And his heart in his breast grew fire;
  In every vein the hot blood burned
    With the strength of one high desire.

  And sturdily back he marched to his death
    Of terrible pain and shame;
  And never a shade of fear again
    To the stout Apostle came.

  When by Jabbok the patriarch waited
    To learn on the morrow his doom,
  And his dubious spirit debated
    In darkness and silence and gloom,
    There descended a Being with whom
  He wrestled in agony sore,
    With striving of heart and of brawn,
  And not for an instant forbore
    Till the east gave a threat of the dawn;
  And then, as the Awful One blessed him,
    To his lips and his spirit there came,
  Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him,
  The cry that through questioning ages
  Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages,
    "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

  Most fatal, most futile, of questions!
    Wherever the heart of man beats,
    In the spirit's most sacred retreats,
  It comes with its sombre suggestions,
    Unanswered for ever and aye.
    The blessing may come and may stay,
  For the wrestlers heroic endeavour;
  But the question, unheeded for ever,
    Dies out in the broadening day.

  In the ages before our traditions,
  By the altars of dark superstitions,
    The imperious question has come;
  When the death-stricken victim lay sobbing
    At the feet of his slayer and priest,
  And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing
    To the sound of the cymbal and drum
  On the steps of the high Teocallis;
    When the delicate Greek at his feast
  Poured forth the red wine from his chalice
    With mocking and cynical prayer;
  When by Nile Egypt worshipping lay,
    And afar, through the rosy, flushed air
  The Memnon called out to the day;
  Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire;
    In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades,
  Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire
  Through arts highest miracles higher,
    This question of questions invades
    Each heart bowed in worship or shame;
  In the air where the censers are swinging,
  A voice, going up with the singing,
    Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

  No answer came back, not a word,
  To the patriarch there by the ford;
  No answer has come through the ages
  To the poets, the seers, and the sages
  Who have sought in the secrets of science
  The name and the nature of God,
  Whether cursing in desperate defiance
  Or kissing His absolute rod;
  But the answer which was and shall be,
  "My name!  Nay, what is it to thee?"
  The search and the question are vain.
  By use of the strength that is in you,
  By wrestling of soul and of sinew
  The blessing of God you may gain.

  There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven
    That never will shine on our eyes;
  To mortals it may not be given
    To range those inviolate skies.
  The mind, whether praying or scorning,
    That tempts those dread secrets shall fail;
  But strive through the night till the morning,
    And mightily shalt thou prevail.

  Slow flapping to the setting sun
    By twos and threes, in wavering rows,
    As twilight shadows dimly close,
  The crows fly over Washington.

  Under the crimson sunset sky
  Virginian woodlands leafless lie,
    In wintry torpor bleak and dun.
  Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines
    Like a warmed opal in the sun,
  With wide advance in broken lines
    The crows fly over Washington.

  Over the Capitol's white dome,
    Across the obelisk soaring bare
  To prick the clouds, they travel home,
  Content and weary, winnowing
    With dusky vans the golden air,
  Which hints the coming of the spring,
    Though winter whitens Washington.

  The dim, deep air, the level ray
  Of dying sunlight on their plumes,
    Give them a beauty not their own;
  Their hoarse notes fail and faint away;
    A rustling murmur floating down
  Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms;
  They touch with grace the fading day,
    Slow flying over Washington.

  I stand and watch with clouded eyes
    These dim battalions move along;
  Out of the distance memory cries
    Of days when life and hope were strong,
  When love was prompt and wit was gay;
  Even then, at evening, as to-day,
    I watched, while twilight hovered dim
    Over Potomac's curving rim,
  This selfsame flight of homing crows
  Blotting the sunset's fading rose,
    Above the roofs of Washington.

  Sad is the thought of sunniest days
    Of love and rapture perished,
  And shine through memory's tearful haze
    The eyes once fondliest cherished.
  Reproachful is the ghost of toys
    That charmed while life was wasted.
  But saddest is the thought of joys
    That never yet were tasted.

  Sad is the vague and tender dream
    Of dead love's lingering kisses,
  To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam
    Of unreturning blisses;
  Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride
    For the pitiless death that won them,—
  But the saddest wail is for lips that died
    With the virgin dew upon them.

  The knightly legend of thy shield betrays
    The moral of thy life; a forecast wise,
    And that large honour that deceit defies,
  Inspired thy fathers in the elder days,
  Who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase,
    TO BE RATHER THAN SEEM.  As eve's red skies
    Surpass the morning's rosy prophecies,
  Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays.
  Scorning thy faith and purpose to defend
    The ever-mutable multitude at last
    Will hail the power they did not comprehend,—
  Thy fame will broaden through the centuries;
    As, storm and billowy tumult overpast,
    The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.

  There's a happy time coming,
    When the boys come home.
  There's a glorious day coming,
    When the boys come home.
  We will end the dreadful story
  Of this treason dark and gory
  In a sunburst of glory,
    When the boys come home.

  The day will seem brighter
    When the boys come home,
  For our hearts will be lighter
    When the boys come home.
  Wives and sweethearts will press them
  In their arms and caress them,
  And pray God to bless them,
    When the boys come home.

  The thinned ranks will be proudest
    When the boys come home,
  And their cheer will ring the loudest
    When the boys come home.
  The full ranks will be shattered,
  And the bright arms will be battered,
  And the battle-standards tattered,
    When the boys come home.

  Their bayonets may be rusty,
    When the boys come home,
  And their uniforms dusty,
    When the boys come home.
  But all shall see the traces
  Of battle's royal graces,
  In the brown and bearded faces,
    When the boys come home.

  Our love shall go to meet them,
    When the boys come home,
  To bless them and to greet them,
    When the boys come home;
  And the fame of their endeavour
  Time and change shall not dissever
  From the nation's heart for ever,
    When the boys come home.

    How well my heart remembers
    Beside these camp-fire embers
  The eyes that smiled so far away,—
    The joy that was November's.

    Her voice to laughter moving,
    So merrily reproving,—
  We wandered through the autumn woods,
    And neither thought of loving.

    The hills with light were glowing,
    The waves in joy were flowing,—
  It was not to the clouded sun
    The day's delight was owing.

    Though through the brown leaves straying,
    Our lives seemed gone a-Maying;
  We knew not Love was with us there,
    No look nor tone betraying.

    How unbelief still misses
    The best of being's blisses!
  Our parting saw the first and last
    Of love's imagined kisses.

    Now 'mid these scenes the drearest
    I dream of her, the dearest,—
  Whose eyes outshine the Southern stars,
    So far, and yet the nearest.

    And Love, so gaily taunted,
    Who died, no welcome granted,
  Comes to me now, a pallid ghost,
    By whom my life is haunted.

    With bonds I may not sever,
    He binds my heart for ever,
  And leads me where we murdered him,—
    The Hill beside the River.

  CAMP SHAW, FLORIDA,
     February 1864.

  Under the high unclouded sun
  That makes the ship and shadow one,
    I sail away as from the fort
  Booms sullenly the noonday gun.

  The odorous airs blow thin and fine,
  The sparkling waves like emeralds shine,
    The lustre of the coral reefs
  Gleams whitely through the tepid brine.

  And glitters o'er the liquid miles
  The jewelled ring of verdant isles,
    Where generous Nature holds her court
  Of ripened bloom and sunny smiles.

  Encinctured by the faithful seas
  Inviolate gardens load the breeze,
    Where flaunt like giant-warders' plumes
  The pennants of the cocoa-trees.

  Enthroned in light and bathed in balm,
  In lonely majesty the Palm
    Blesses the isles with waving hands,—
  High-Priest of the eternal Calm.

  Yet Northward with an equal mind
  I steer my course, and leave behind
    The rapture of the Southern skies,—
  The wooing of the Southern wind.

  For here o'er Nature's wanton bloom
  Falls far and near the shade of gloom,
    Cast from the hovering vulture-wings
  Of one dark thought of woe and doom.

  I know that in the snow-white pines
  The brave Norse fire of freedom shines,
    And fain for this I leave the land
  Where endless summer pranks the vines.

  O strong, free North, so wise and brave!
  O South, too lovely for a slave!
    Why read ye not the changeless truth,—
  The free can conquer but to save?

  May God upon these shining sands
  Send Love and Victory clasping hands,
    And Freedom's banners wave in peace
  For ever o'er the rescued lands!

  And here, in that triumphant hour,
  Shall yielding beauty wed with power;
    And blushing earth and smiling sea
  In dalliance deck the bridal bower.

  KEY WEST, 1864.

  My dear wife sits beside the fire
    With folded hands and dreaming eyes,
  Watching the restless flames aspire,
    And rapt in thralling memories.
  I mark the fitful firelight fling
    Its warm caresses on her brow,
    And kiss her hands' unmelting snow,
  And glisten on her wedding-ring.

  The proud free head that crowns so well
    The neck superb, whose outlines glide
  Into the bosom's perfect swell
    Soft-billowed by its peaceful tide,
  The cheek's faint flush, the lip's red glow,
    The gracious charm her beauty wears,
    Fill my fond eyes with tender tears
  As in the days of long ago.

  Days long ago, when in her eyes
    The only heaven I cared for lay,
  When from our thoughtless Paradise
    All care and toil dwelt far away;
  When Hope in wayward fancies throve,
    And rioted in secret sweets,
    Beguiled by Passion's dear deceits,—
  The mysteries of maiden love.

  One year had passed since first my sight
    Was gladdened by her girlish charms,
  When on a rapturous summer night
    I clasped her in possessing arms.
  And now ten years have rolled away,
    And left such blessings as their dower;
    I owe her tenfold at this hour
  The love that lit our wedding-day.

  For now, vague-hovering o'er her form,
    My fancy sees, by love refined,
  A warmer and a dearer charm
    By wedlock's mystic hands entwined,—
  A golden coil of wifely cares
    That years have forged, the loving joy
    That guards the curly-headed boy
  Asleep an hour ago upstairs.

  A fair young mother, pure as fair,
    A matron heart and virgin soul!
  The flickering light that crowns her hair
    Seems like a saintly aureole.
  A tender sense upon me falls
    That joy unmerited is mine,
    And in this pleasant twilight shine
  My perfect bliss myself appals.

  Come back! my darling, strayed so far
    Into the realm of fantasy,—
  Let thy dear face shine like a star
    In love-light beaming over me.
  My melting soul is jealous, sweet,
    Of thy long silence' drear eclipse;
    O kiss me back with living lips,
  To life, love, lying at thy feet!

  In the dewy depths of the graveyard
    I lie in the tangled grass,
  And watch, in the sea of azure,
    The white cloud-islands pass.

  The birds in the rustling branches
    Sing gaily overhead;
  Grey stones like sentinel spectres
    Are guarding the silent dead.

  The early flowers sleep shaded
    In the cool green noonday glooms;
  The broken light falls shuddering
    On the cold white face of the tombs.

  Without, the world is smiling
    In the infinite love of God,
  But the sunlight fails and falters
    When it falls on the churchyard sod.

  On me the joyous rapture
    Of a heart's first love is shed,
  But it falls on my heart as coldly
    As sunlight on the dead.

  The skies are blue above my head,
    The prairie green below,
  And flickering o'er the tufted grass
    The shifting shadows go,
  Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds
    Fleck white the tranquil skies,
  Black javelins darting where aloft
    The whirring pheasant flies.

  A glimmering plain in drowsy trance
    The dim horizon bounds,
  Where all the air is resonant
    With sleepy summer sounds,—
  The life that sings among the flowers,
    The lisping of the breeze,
  The hot cicala's sultry cry,
    The murmurous dream of bees.

  The butterfly—a flying flower—
    Wheels swift in flashing rings,
  And flutters round his quiet kin,
    With brave flame-mottled wings.
  The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire
    The Phlox' bright clusters shine,
  And Prairie-Cups are swinging free
    To spill their airy wine.

  And lavishly beneath the sun,
    In liberal splendour rolled,
  The Fennel fills the dipping plain
    With floods of flowery gold;
  And widely weaves the Iron-Weed
    A woof of purple dyes
  Where Autumn's royal feet may tread
    When bankrupt Summer flies.

  In verdurous tumult far away
    The prairie-billows gleam,
  Upon their crests in blessing rests
    The noontide's gracious beam.
  Low quivering vapours steaming dim
    The level splendours break
  Where languid Lilies deck the rim
    Of some land-circled lake.

  Far in the east like low-hung clouds
    The waving woodlands lie;
  Far in the west the glowing plain
    Melts warmly in the sky.
  No accent wounds the reverent air,
    No footprint dints the sod,
  Lone in the light the prairie lies
    Rapt in a dream of God.

  ILLINOIS, 1858.

  A hundred times the bells of Brown
    Have rung to sleep the idle summers,
  And still to-day clangs clamouring down
    A greeting to the welcome comers.

  And far, like waves of morning, pours
    Her call, in airy ripples breaking,
  And wanders to the farthest shores,
    Her children's drowsy hearts awaking.

  The wild vibration floats along,
    O'er heart-strings tense its magic plying,
  And wakes in every breast its song
    Of love and gratitude undying.

  My heart to meet the summons leaps
    At limit of its straining tether,
  Where the fresh western sunlight steeps
    In golden flame the prairie heather.

  And others, happier, rise and fare
    To pass within the hallowed portal,
  And see the glory shining there
    Shrined in her steadfast eyes immortal.

  What though their eyes be dim and dull,
    Their heads be white in reverend blossom;
  Our mothers smile is beautiful
    As when she bore them on her bosom!

  Her heavenly forehead bears no line
    Of Time's iconolastic fingers,
  But o'er her form the grace divine
    Of deathless youth and wisdom lingers.

  We fade and pass, grow faint and old,
    Till youth and joy and hope are banished,
  And still her beauty seems to fold
    The sum of all the glory vanished.

  As while Tithonus faltered on
    The threshold of the Olympian dawnings,
  Aurora's front eternal shone
    With lustre of the myriad mornings.

  So joys that slip like dead leaves down,
    And hopes burnt out that die in ashes,
  Rise restless from their graves to crown
    Our mother's brow with fadeless flashes.

  And lives wrapped in traditions mist
    These honoured halls to-day are haunting,
  And lips by lips long withered kissed
    The sagas of the past are chanting.

  Scornful of absence' envious bar
    BROWN smiles upon the mystic meeting
  Of those her sons, who, sundered far,
    In brotherhood of heart are greeting;

  Her wayward children wandering on
    Where setting stars are lowly burning,
  But still in worship toward the dawn
    That gilds their souls' dear Mecca turning;

  Or those who, armed for God's own fight,
    Stand by His Word through fire and slaughter,
  Or bear our banner's starry light
    Far-flashing through the Gulf's blue water.

  For where one strikes for light and truth,
    The right to aid, the wrong redressing,
  The mother of his spirit's youth
    Sheds o'er his soul her silent blessing.

  She gained her crown a gem of flame
    When KNEASS fell dead in victory gory;
  New splendour blazed upon her name
    When IVES' young life went out in glory!

  Thus bright for ever may she keep
    Her fires of tolerant Freedom burning,
  Till War's red eyes are charmed to sleep
    And bells ring home the boys returning.

  And may she shed her radiant truth
    In largess on ingenuous comers,
  And hold the bloom of gracious youth
    Through many a hundred tranquil summers!

  The winter wind is raving fierce and shrill,
    And chides with angry moan the frosty skies;
    The white stars gaze with sleepless Gorgon eyes
  That freeze the earth in terror fixed and still.
  We reck not of the wild night's gloom and chill,
    Housed from its rage, dear friend; and fancy flies,
    Lured by the hand of beckoning memories,
  Back to those summer evenings on the hill
  Where we together watched the sun go down
    Beyond the gold-washed uplands, while his fires
    Touched into glittering life the vanes and spires
  Piercing the purpling mists that veiled the town.
    The wintry night thy voice and eyes beguile,
    Till wake the sleeping summers in thy smile.

  When Youth's warm heart beats high, my friend,
    And Youth's blue sky is bright,
  And shines in Youth's clear eye, my friend,
    Love's early dawning light,
  Let the free soul spurn care's control,
    And while the glad days shine,
  We'll use their beams for Youth's gay dreams
    Of Love and Song and Wine.

  Let not the bigot's frown, my friend,
    O'ercast thy brow with gloom,
  For Autumn's sober brown, my friend,
    Shall follow Summer's bloom.
  Let smiles and sighs and loving eyes
    In changeful beauty shine,
  And shed their beams on Youth's gay dreams
    Of Love and Song and Wine.

  For in the weary years, my friend,
    That stretched before us lie,
  There'll be enough of tears, my friend,
    To dim the brightest eye.
  So let them wait, and laugh at fate,
    While Youth's sweet moments shine,—
  Till memory gleams with golden dreams
    Of Love and Song and Wine.

  I pray you, pardon me, Elsie,
    And smile that frown away
  That dims the light of your lovely face
    As a thunder-cloud the day.
  I really could not help it,—
    Before I thought, 'twas done,—
  And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,
    Like an icicle in the sun.

  I was thinking of the summers
    When we were boys and girls,
  And wandered in the blossoming woods,
    And the gay winds romped with your curls.
  And you seemed to me the same little girl
    I kissed in the alder-path,
  I kissed the little girl's lips, and, alas!
    I have roused a woman's wrath.

  There is not so much to pardon,—
    For why were your lips so red?
  The blond hair fell in a shower of gold
    From the proud, provoking head.
  And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes,
    And played round the tender mouth,
  Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind
    That blows from the fragrant south.

  And where, after all, is the harm done?
    I believe we were made to be gay,
  And all of youth not given to love
    Is vainly squandered away.
  And strewn through life's low labours,
    Like gold in the desert sands,
  Are love's swift kisses and sighs and vows
    And the clasp of clinging hands.

  And when you are old and lonely,
    In Memory's magic shine
  You will see on your thin and wasting hands,
    Like gems, these kisses of mine.
  And when you muse at evening
    At the sound of some vanished name,
  The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips
    And kindle your heart to flame.

  Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;
    I will repay," saith the Lord;
  Ours be the anger divine,
    Lit by the flash of His word.

  How shall His vengeance be done?
    How, when His purpose is clear?
  Must He come down from His throne?
    Hath He no instruments here?

  Sleep not in imbecile trust,
    Waiting for God to begin,
  While, growing strong in the dust,
    Rests the bruised serpent of sin.

  Right and Wrong,—both cannot live
    Death-grappled.  Which shall we see?
  Strike! only Justice can give
    Safety to all that shall be.

  Shame! to stand paltering thus,
    Tricked by the balancing odds;
  Strike! God is waiting for us!
    Strike! for the vengeance is God's.

  Had we but met in other days,
  Had we but loved in other ways,
  Another light and hope had shone
    On your life and my own.

  In sweet but hopeless reveries
  I fancy how your wistful eyes
  Had saved me, had I known their power
    In fate's imperious hour;

  How loving you, beloved of God,
  And following you, the path I trod
  Had led me, through your love and prayers,
    To God's love unawares:

  And how our beings joined as one
  Had passed through checkered shade and sun,
  Until the earth our lives had given,
    With little change, to heaven.

  God knows why this was not to be.
  You bloomed from childhood far from me.
  The sunshine of the favoured place
    That knew your youth and grace.

  And when your eyes, so fair and free,
  In fearless beauty beamed on me,
  I knew the fatal die was thrown,
    My choice in life was gone.

  And still with wild and tender art
  Your child-love touched my torpid heart,
  Gilding the blackness where it fell,
    Like sunlight over hell.

  In vain, in vain! my choice was gone!
  Better to struggle on alone
  Than blot your pure life's blameless shine
    With cloudy stains of mine.

  A vague regret, a troubled prayer,
  And then the future vast and fair
  Will tempt your young and eager eyes
    With all its glad surprise.

  And I shall watch you, safe and far,
  As some late traveller eyes a star
  Wheeling beyond his desert sands
    To gladden happier lands.

  'Tis love that blinds my heart and eyes,—
    I sometimes say in doubting dreams,—
    The face that near me perfect seems
  Cold Memory paints in fainter dyes.

  'Twas but love's dazzled eyes—I say—
    That made her seem so strangely bright;
    The face I worshipped yesternight,
  I dread to meet it changed to-day.

  As, when dies out some song's refrain,
    And leaves your eyes in happy tears,
    Awake the same fond idle fears,—
  It cannot sound so sweet again.

  You wait and say with vague annoy,
    "It will not sound so sweet again,"
    Until comes back the wild refrain
  That floods your soul with treble joy.

  So when I see my love again
    Fades the unquiet doubt away,
    While shines her beauty like the day
  Over my happy heart and brain.

  And in that face I see no more
    The fancied faults I idly dreamed,
    But all the charms that fairest seemed,
  I find them, fairer than before.

       God send me tears!
  Loose the fierce band that binds my tired brain,
  Give me the melting heart of other years,
       And let me weep again!

       Before me pass
  The shapes of things inexorably true.
  Gone is the sparkle of transforming dew
       From every blade of grass.

       In life's high noon
  Aimless I stand, my promised task undone,
  And raise my hot eyes to the angry sun
       That will go down too soon.

       Turned into gall
  Are the sweet joys of childhood's sunny reign;
  And memory is a torture, love a chain
       That binds my life in thrall.

       And childhood's pain
  Could to me now the purest rapture yield;
  I pray for tears as in his parching field
       The husbandman for rain.

       We pray in vain!
  The sullen sky flings down its blaze of brass;
  The joys of life all scorched and withering pass;
       I shall not weep again.

  O grandly flowing River!
  O silver-gliding River!
  Thy springing willows shiver
    In the sunset as of old;
  They shiver in the silence
  Of the willow-whitened islands,
  While the sun-bars and the sand-bars
    Fill air and wave with gold.

  O gay, oblivious River!
  O sunset-kindled River!
  Do you remember ever
    The eyes and skies so blue
  On a summer day that shone here,
  When we were all alone here,
  And the blue eyes were too wise
    To speak the love they knew?

  O stern, impassive River!
  O still, unanswering River!
  The shivering willows quiver
    As the night-winds moan and rave.
  From the past a voice is calling,
  From heaven a star is falling,
  And dew swells in the bluebells
    Above her hillside grave.