HERE’S the path our feet shall press
To the land of happiness;
There are guide-posts by the way
That we may not go astray;
Spots there are where we may rest,
Of King Happiness the guest;
Basking in the sunshine’s glow,
While the joyous pilgrims go
Ever onward to the gates
Where the Queen of Joy awaits
Those recruits her king shall gain
On the way to his domain.
Such a joyous army this!
Banners leaping for a kiss
From the winds that sweep along
Beating songs that well belong
To a road whose glory lies
Always under sunny skies.
By this road no toll gate stands
With its ever-barring hands,
Yet of every passing soul
There is asked a certain toll.
It is this—that we shall share,
As we tread the thoroughfare,
All we have with those who lose
What they gain, or who refuse
To accept what is bestowed
By the master of the road.
What a simple engineer
Marked this path! It is so clear
That to miss it is to turn
And its cooling shadows spurn.
Any road our feet may press
Is a road to happiness,
And that land is anywhere
That we turn away from care
To the army of a king
Who is ever journeying
To the city, by whose gates,
His fair queen of Joy awaits.
GRIM watchmen are the jealous trees
Above their moon-born shadows—Thus
May foolish men guard mysteries
Which they have made mysterious.
O glorious marble statue,
What gain I looking at you?
Your beauty is so old,
You are a form so cold
I can not understand you
Nor feel for him who planned you.
I easier lessons seek
Than those in chiseled Greek.
I turn to you my fragrant;
Bedewed and straggling vagrant,
You are a simple flower,
And scarce live out the hour
Here in the garden by-way
(That still is Nature’s highway!)
Yet utter from the grass
Lessons from Phidias!
I WOULD not have thee otherwise,
O cloudy skies;
I would not change the night to day
Nor drive away
The shadows that are hanging o’er
My hearth and door.
There is some good that lurketh where
The lightnings flare;
There is a peace that bideth in
The fiercest din;
A vernal light doth look upon
Fields winter-won.
If God were not the Overheart,
Nor had a part
In all the wounds that hurt us so!
But He doth know
And doth in patience see and bless
In gentleness.
How sturdy and how great, O earth!
Within thy girth
Thou wieldst what passion and what pain
O’er man’s domain;
And yet within thy shadows blest
Is perfect rest.
Turn not unto the light too long
Friend, with thy song!
Thou hast not need to look afar
For hill or star;
Here in the shadow rest is found
Deep and profound.
“LEAD, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring,
And thought how God existeth everywhere.
’Twas in a city strange that, sweetest thing!
“Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring,
And Summer stole into the early spring,
For where the kind light leadeth all is fair.
“Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring,
And thought how God existeth everywhere.
I.
THE songs you sing, the songs you sing,
They are such songs as need not words,
They are the songs that soar and ring
Like utterance of wildwood birds.
The ear is puzzled at the sound—
They are so far from common art
That what is best in them is found
By simply listening with the heart!
II.
The words you speak, the words you speak,
Have little of philosophy;
They voice not things that wise men seek,
They have no hint of poetry,
And yet each syllable that slips
Up from your soul and bubbles o’er
The yielding gateway of your lips
A gracious meaning holds in store.
The songs you sing are simple songs,
Your words are words that children use
To tell of love, complain of wrongs;
You may the guiding notes confuse,
(If any notes e’er met your eyes!)
They rise, and live, and lingering,
Each song and word alternate dies
In words you speak, in songs you sing.
LIKE some tired reader who has put aside
His book a little while, sick of the tale,
Careless a moment how the plot may run,
Indifferent to the part he has perused,
Then with new interest going back to find
How fared it with the story’s people, so
Here at the gate of this new year I stand.
Weary we grew long since, my Comrade soul!
So tired we are of all our eyes have found,
So strong our yearning for new sights and sounds!
Yet on this morn the world is fair again,—
Ah, very fair, and full of light and joy;
And holding forth new hope that comes of faith,
And adding to our faith that lies in God.
Now, like some traveler in a desert lost,
Straining his eyes across the wastes of sand,
Then, sudden, finding tracks but freshly made
That give new courage to the wanderer,—
So now, my Comrade soul, we turn away
From dreary wastes, we see the tracks that show
Where others have gone on and found the way
As we can find it. Come, old Comrade,—friend!
Give me your hand, we must march on again!
[Paul Hamilton Hayne, Sidney Lanier and Robert Burns Wilson]
THREE noble friends the South has given me,
Two biding now beyond the farthest gate,
One living still, great-hearted, soul elate,
From trammeling passions free.
The twain now unbeholden to our eyes,
Were soldiers for a cause they thought was right—
They were such men as set the torch alight
That marks our destinies;
Yet, with a song that rings above the din
Of battle, and with brows where there might rest
The victor’s crown, or singer’s wreath, more blest,
Through hymns of peace to win.
I read one morning, in a day long gone,
The songs of Hayne, all odorous of the pines;
The heart of Nature throbbed along the lines—
Her joy was in his dawn.
The hills and streams to him were never dumb,
They gave their secrets to his own heart’s keeping;
Grand music in the oaks and pines was sleeping
Waiting for him to come!
And you, Lanier, cut down like some tall tree
By an insidious foe—upright and strong
Until the last, and with your parting song
From Deathland floating free!
Sweet dawns were yours, bright noons and starry nights;
Your heart lay on the bosoms of the hills—
Clear was your soul as dew that God distills
Upon His sacred heights!
And you are gone, and only one remains
Of the three Southern singers loved so well;
To-night the wind in sympathy would quell
The grief of woods and plains—
Saying: “They were our friends, they understood
The messages we spoke into their ears;
Now they have passed beyond our hopes and fears
Unto a higher Good.”
But he who still is here, he well has caught
The spirit that is Nature’s, and is hers
Only for her most loved interpreters—
Ah, nobly he has wrought!
And Southern winds that to the northward roam,
And misty stars that shine above us dim,
Each evening bring me utterance of him
To my far Northern home!
PRITHE tell me, don’t you think
Little girls are dearest
With their cheeks of tempting pink,
And their eyes the clearest?
Don’t you know that they are best
And of all the loveliest?
Of all girls with roguish ways
They are surely truest;
Sunshine gleams through all their days,
They see skies the bluest,
And they wear a diadem
Summer has bestowed on them.
Lydia doesn’t care a cent
For the newest dances;
She is not on flirting bent,
Has no killing glances,
But without the slightest art
She has captured many a heart.
Older sisters cut you dead,
Little sisters never;
They don’t giggle when they’ve said
Something very clever,—
They just get behind a chair,
Frowning, smiling at you there.
Florence, Lydia, Margaret
Or a gentle Mary,
They form friendships that, once set,
Never more can vary,—
Stanch young friends they are and true
Always clinging close to you.
Buds must into blossoms blow,
(Morn so early leaves us!)
Maids must into women grow,
(There’s the thing that grieves us!)
Psyche knots of flying curls,
That’s good-bye to little girls!
COME, boy, and sit upon my knee,
And turn to me your eyes,
That I, down in their depths may see
A hint of those blue skies
Beneath which once my father fought
(Your grandsire! and I am not old!)
What time our banner’s stars were caught
In treason’s eager hold.
A boy, as you are now a boy,
I did not understand
That traitors could their flag destroy
And cut in twain their land;
I heard the tramp of marching men,
So long ago that seems!
You can not know what times were then
Though you may guess, in dreams.
And then my father went away;
How would it be if I
Should leave you, boy of mine, to-day—
Should leave you and should die?
Your eyes are wet; O closer come!
There is no more of war;
Peace long has shown that there are some
Kind things to struggle for.
You “wonder whether grandpa got
In all the fights?” Well, lad,
It was Bull Run where he was shot,
The first big fight they had!
But let us, you and I, insist
That this of him be said:
The only battles that he missed
Were fought when he was dead.
“He would have fought, had he been there?”
You ask of me, my child;
He never would have ceased to dare
Those who our flag defiled.
And always, in the spring, keep tryst
With Memory by the head
Of one who not a battle missed
Except when he was dead.
ONE cheerless night when winter winds were sowing
Over the world their cold, white seeds of snow,
While from my window pane the fire was throwing
Taunts to the elements with its bright glow,
A poor, storm-driven bird, its lost way winging,
Paused when it saw the flame’s reflected light;
Unto the window for a moment clinging,
Then downward fell, forever lost to sight.
And so it is, I thought, that poor hearts yearning
For more of life, charmed by its outward sheen,
Must backward fall, the truth too quickly learning,
That death, cold and unyielding, stands between.
BABY, you stand by a gate that leads
Into a land of dreams;
There’s a drowsy watchman here who heeds
Never the straggling gleams
Of light that stray from the far-off sun—
Always for him it’s twilight begun—
And we stand by the gate,
And watch and wait,
And watch—and wait!
Little one, hear what the stream sings of,
Here in this quiet land;
It sings of the joy of mother love—
Sings to birds in the sand—
To the strange, tall birds with dreamy eyes,
That look at you, dear, in mute surprise,
While we stand by the gate,
And watch and wait,
And watch—and wait!
If you open the gate, no one will know;
The guard will never guess.
You must open it gently, slowly—so!
No one has heard, unless
Those dreamful birds, or the dreamland sheep,
Heard you stealing through their land of sleep
While I stood by the gate,
To watch and wait,
And watch—and wait!
Oh, strange are the birds and the sheep that dwell
Here in the land of dreams!
But you must not see, and you must not tell,
However strange it seems,
Or they’ll never let you in again,
And it would not please you, baby, then,
Just to stand by the gate,
And watch, and wait,
And watch—and wait!
THE winds go riding down the wold,
And back the forest legions throw;
A winter day the hours has told
On rosaries of drops of snow.
Through close-drawn blinds the lamplight falls,
And on a drifted whiteness lies,
Here within these cottage walls
The flames make stars of baby’s eyes.
Rude fingers tap upon the pane
And entrance at the door demand;
The storm king and his lusty train
Go rushing o’er the land;
But homes where love a vigil keeps
Know not that summer ever dies,
Know not that summer even sleeps,
When flames make stars of baby’s eyes.
The father to the mother reads,
The mother busy at his side;
He reads a tale of noble deeds,
Of men who for a nation died,
But oft they turn and fondly look
Upon the hero whom they prize
Beyond the people of the book,
Where flames make stars of baby’s eyes.
Fierce winds may ride across the night,
And storms prevail o’er flood and field,
But where one lamp throws out its light,
A happy picture is revealed
Of two, who by the fireside sit,
And watch the glowing flames, while rise
Quick shadows that around them flit
And mock the stars in baby’s eyes.
THE year is getting older, day by day;
Last night I heard a fierce wind riding by,
Rattling my western window, and no ray
Of moon or star illumined the black sky.
Older the year has grown; the wind that came
Across the changing world last night to ride,
Passed here a year ago; it is the same
That rose before and summer’s strength defied.
Ah, it is you, my old, familiar friend
October, come to pitch your tents awhile,
Madly descending from the earth’s far end
Over the farthest seas for many a mile.
Yet your fierce advent and your winds severe
Are but the bluster of a friend we love;
Though you are winter’s neighbor you bring here
Rich gifts, and hang your bluest skies above.
To-morrow you will tame your restless steeds
And drive the water-freighted clouds away;
Then you will scatter far the wild-flower’s seeds
At intervals throughout a peaceful day.
Still, though your skies may be the summer’s own,
Of all your moods I like the wildest best;
I love the wind and its mad, warring tone,
Its anger, and its yearning and unrest;
For in man’s soul there is an answering mood,
A passionate storm with wind and driving rain
All through a night—love by dull pain pursued,
Then days when skies are kind and blue again,—
Blue, but they shed their bitter, biting frost,
And the sun burns with but a mocking heat,
While ghost-like zephyrs seek for something lost,
Like followers in the summer’s slow retreat.
IN winter I was born,
So all my years I’ve loved the frost and snow
And the strong tireless winds that, passing, blow
A battle note forlorn.
I love the year’s long night.
The tumult of great storms, the biting air
Make my heart’s summer time, when days are fair
And yield me true delight.
In winter I was born,
And as I came so let me pass away,
Out from the world on a December day
When the delaying morn
In the far East shall creep
Last time for me; then let the winds I love
Come from their far-off homes and play above
The place where I shall sleep.
GOOD-NIGHT and pleasant dreams!
Forgotten all that play-day world of yours,
Kind angels lead you now by distant shores;
Dear childish hands clasped lightly o’er your breast,
Dear eyes with lids that keep the dark away,
What sweet content is now by you possessed!
I feel your breath against my cheek and say
Good-night, good-night!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
The children’s lives so different are from ours,
Is there not made for them a land of flowers,—
A childhood’s land of sleep where they are taken,—
Where dreams are only dreams of childish toys
And only sounds of childish voices waken
The quiet ways, and say to girls and boys
Good-night, good-night!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
Go to your quiet land of sleep and dreaming,
Beyond the darkness, passed the stars a-gleaming.
The plains of your sleep-land are green and fair;
Out of the night they make a land of morning
From which is banished even childish care;
Stay on, sleep on, dear child, the night world scorning,—
Good-night, good-night!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
Good-bye, and gentle angels guard your sleep,
Good-night, and angels watch above you keep.
Ah, if we could our childish days prolong—
If sleep would always come as sweet as this,
Shielding us from the world of dark and wrong,
Just by the magic of a mother’s kiss,
And her good-night!
Good-night and pleasant dreams!
ONCE in a dream I saw a blackened world
Hung high in space, by bitter winds o’erblown;
And there no forests were, no flowers grew,
No river flowed, but all was sad and drear.
And on that smoke-encircled sphere there were
No cities full of life; no children spent
Glad hours in play; there, laughter ne’er was heard,
And day was endless day, and night ne’er came
With tired husband seeking home and wife,
And “home” was but a mocking echo there.
And walking o’er that world I met a man,
Or ghost of what was man, wan, staring-eyed,
And bowed as though with age, albeit his locks
Were fair, and seeming youthful was his face;
And unto him I said in question: “Why
This waste and desolation, and where are
The people that once dwelt upon this world?”
And slow he made reply: “But yesterday
Did Love remove his court from this drear globe,
Which was as fair a world as ever came
From the Creator’s hand, and now, so soon,
That Love is flown has come this awful change—
The cheerlessness, the people dead and gone.”
He turned from me, it seemed, and I awoke—
Back in a world that is controlled by Love.
LONE here in vague cathedral gloom I sit,
Far from the busy city’s noise and jar.
Such calm! It seems God might just now have writ
A new, sweet song of peace and whispered it
From star to star.
I almost hear a sacred anthem pealing,
As o’er the quiet aisles I turn my eyes;
It seems I hear soft prayers to heaven stealing
Up rays that lead unto the Light-revealing
In Paradise.
I think: “How oft have feet of mourners led
Down these long aisles where perfect silence reigns!
How oft have heart-uniting words been said
There at the altar, whither flowers were spread
From Love’s fair plains!”
Yes, Death and Love have hither come and gone,
With slow, sad songs, with anthems glad and free;
And still, without, the world treads on and on
In aisles that lead to darkness—or the Dawn,
O God, and Thee!
THE slowly crumbling wall, the broken gate,
O’er which soft silvery threads of Time are spun;
Through turrets tall, once grim and stern as Fate,
Now unresisted steals the changeless sun.
The eager vines close clasp the pillars round,
As though to hide the signs of their decay;
The cheerless chambers echo with each sound
That enters in where Silence holds her sway.
Upon the ground, with torn and riven crust,
There rests the cuirass of some daring knight,
Enfolding but the cold, unspeaking dust
Of him who nevermore shall lead the fight.
And here the chariot-furrowed roadway lies,
Once trod by armies rich in valorous deeds,
Now haunted by the lonely wind which sighs
And creeps among the dead and tangled weeds.
Ruin and ruins everywhere, but yet,
In fancy, see the myriad castles tall
Whereon the banners fair of Hope are set,
Then watch the wreck and ruin of it all!
Forsaken cities far beyond the sea
Hold not such claim to pity as do those
Grand dwellings youth rears in such majesty
To crumble and form sepulchres for woes.
O memory! keep and guard your treasures well;
Contented rest, and, what the past endears,
Unto the ever hopeful future tell,
And voice your glories through the coming years.
I think it were better that lips should forever be mute
Than flattering the voice should sound, or the speech irresolute.
And better that arrows fly far past the mark, over-shot,
Than but timidly sent they should droop and transfix it not.
The race should be vigorously pushed, though uneven the start,
And always, wherever assigned, let us act well the part,
Let firm be the footstep to tally with firm beat of heart.
But more willing am I forever to steadily plod,
Inspired by a thought that my soul is not linked to a clod,
Than failing in flight, to fall, stricken again to the sod,
And stumble along in the pathway that leads me to God.
I like a man who all mean things despises,
A man who has a purpose firm and true;
Who faces every doubt as it arises,
And murmurs not at what he finds to do.
I like a man who shows the noble spirit
Displayed by knights of Arthur’s table round;
Who, face to face with life, proves his real merit,
Who has a soul that dwells above the ground;
And yet, one who can understand the worry
Of some chance brother fallen in the road,
And speak to him a kind word ’mid the hurry,
Or lay an easing hand upon his load.
Large hearted, brave-souled men to-day are needed,
Men ready when occasion’s doors swing wide;
Grand men to speak the counsel that is heeded,
And men in whom a nation may confide.
The world is wide, and broad its starry arches,
But lagging malcontents it cannot hold;
The way of life to him who upright marches,
Has ending in a far-off street of gold.
“A cold, hard man I said,” as day by day
I saw him pass the door, or, brooding, sit
Before his cottage, watching children play
The summer’s lingering twilight hours away—
Ever uncouth and grim, with brows close knit.
Until, one day, a wondrous change took place;
Upon the door the sign of mourning, and
His child lay dead! But, by what heavenly grace
Did all the hardened lines fade from his face,
Leaving of former self no slightest trace,
As with sweet Grief he journeyed, hand in hand?