The Poems of Henry Van Dyke

The rough expanse of democratic sea
Which parts the lands that live by liberty
Is no division; for their hearts are one.
To fight together till their cause is won.

For land and water let us make our pact,
And seal the solemn word with valiant act:
No continent is firm, no ocean pure,
Until on both the rights of man are sure.

April, 1917.

Sign of the Love Divine
  That bends to bear the load
Of all who suffer, all who bleed,
  Along life's thorny road:

Sign of the Heart Humane,
  That through the darkest fight
Would bring to wounded friend and foe
  A ministry of light:

O dear and holy sign,
  Lead onward like a star!
The armies of the just are thine,
  And all we have and are.

October 20, 1918.

For the Red Cross Christmas Roll Call.

1918

Under the cloud of world-wide war,
While earth is drenched with sorrow,
I have no heart for idle merrymaking,
Or for the fashioning of glad raiment.
I will retrace the divine footmarks,
On the Road of the first Easter.

Down through the valley of utter darkness
Dripping with blood and tears;
Over the hill of the skull, the little hill of great anguish,
The ambuscade of Death.
Into the no-man's-land of Hades
Bearing despatches of hope to spirits in prison,
Mortally stricken and triumphant
Went the faithful Captain of Salvation.

Then upward, swiftly upward,—
Victory, liberty, glory,
The feet that were wounded walked in the tranquil garden,
Bathed in dew and the light of deathless dawn.

March 31, 1918.

Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue,
America's crusading host of warriors bold and true;
They battled for the rights of man beside our brave Allies,
And now they're coming home to us with glory in their eyes.

  Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me!
  Our hearts are turning home again and there we long to be,
  In our beautiful big country beyond the ocean bars,
  Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Our boys have seen the Old World as none have seen before.
They know the grisly horror of the German gods of war:
The noble faith of Britain and the hero-heart of France,
The soul of Belgium's fortitude and Italy's romance.

They bore our country's great word across the rolling sea,
“America swears brotherhood with all the just and free.”
They wrote that word victorious on fields of mortal strife,
And many a valiant lad was proud to seal it with his life.

  Now it's home again, and home again, our hearts are turning west,
  Of all the lands beneath the sun America is best.
  We're going home to our own folks, beyond the ocean bars,
  Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

November 11, 1918.

Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name,
From the robber-nest of Heligoland the German war-fleet came;
Not victory or death they sought, but a rendezvous of shame.

          Sing out, sing out,
          A joyful shout,
          Ye lovers of the sea!
          The “Kaiser” and the “Kaiserin,”
          The “König” and the “Prinz,”
          The potentates of piracy,
          Are coming to surrender,
          And the ocean shall be free.

They never dared the final fate of battle on the blue;
Their sea-wolves murdered merchantmen and mocked the drowning crew;
They stained the wave with martyr-blood,—but we sent our transports through!

The Union Jack and the Tricolor and the Starry Flag o' the West
Shall guard the fruit of Freedom's war and the victory confest,
The flags of the brave and just and free shall rule on the ocean's breast.

          Sing out, sing out,
          A mighty shout,
          Ye lovers of the sea!
          The “Kaiser” and the “Kaiserin,”
          The “König” and the “Prinz,”
          The robber-lords of death and sin,
          Have come to their surrender,
          And the ocean shall be free!

November 20, 1918.

I

It was my lot of late to travel far
Through all America's domain,
A willing, gray-haired servitor
Bearing the Fiery Cross of righteous war.
And everywhere, on mountain, vale and plain,
In crowded street and lonely cottage door,
I saw the symbol of the bright blue star.
Millions of stars! Rejoice, dear land, rejoice
That God hath made thee great enough to give
Beneath thy starry flag unfurled
A gift to all the world,—
Thy living sons that Liberty might live.

II

III

IV

But many a lad we hold
Dear in our heart of hearts
Is missing from the home-returning host.
Ah, say not they are lost,
For they have found and given their life
In sacrificial strife:
Their service stars have changed from blue to gold!
That sudden rapture took them far away,
Yet are they here with us to-day,
Even as the heavenly stars we cannot see
Through the bright veil of sunlight,
Shed their influence still
On our vexed life, and promise peace
From God to all men of good will.

V

VI

O happy warriors, forgive the tear
  Falling from eyes that miss you:
Forgive the word of grief from mother-lips
  That ne'er on earth shall kiss you;
Hear only what our hearts would have you hear,—
Glory and praise and gratitude and pride
From the dear country in whose cause you died.
Now you have run your race and won your prize,
Old age shall never burden you, the fears
And conflicts that beset our lingering years
Shall never vex your souls in Paradise.
Immortal, young, and crowned with victory,
From life's long battle you have found release.
  And He who died for all on Calvary
Has welcomed you, brave soldiers of the cross,
  Into eternal Peace.

Come, let us gird our loins and lift our load,
Companions who are left on life's rough road,
And bravely take the way that we must tread
To keep true faith with our beloved dead.
To conquer war they dared their lives to give,
To safeguard peace our hearts must learn to live.
Help us, dear God, our forward faith to hold!
We want a better world than that of old.
Lead us on paths of high endeavor,
Toiling upward, climbing ever,
Ready to suffer for the right,
Until at last we gain a loftier height,
More worthy to behold
Our guiding stars, our hero-stars of gold.

Ode for the Memorial Service,
Princeton University, December 15, 1918.

In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go,
Scudding before the gale, or drifting slow
As galleons becalmed in Sundown Bay:
And through the air the birds will wing their way
Soaring to far-off heights, or flapping low,
Or darting like an arrow from the bow;
And when the twilight comes the stars will show,
One after one, their tranquil bright array
                In the blue heaven.

But ye who fearless flew to meet the foe,
Eagles of freedom,—nevermore, we know,
Shall we behold you floating far away.
Yet clouds and birds and every starry ray
Will draw our heart to where your spirits glow
                In the blue Heaven.

For the American Aviators who died in the war.

March, 1919.

FOR THE UNNAMED SOLDIERS WHO DIED IN FRANCE

Universal approval has been accorded the proposal made in the French Chamber that the ashes of an unnamed French soldier, fallen for his country, shall be removed with solemn ceremony to the Pantheon. In this way it is intended to honor by a symbolic ceremony the memory of all who lie in unmarked graves.

Here the great heart of France,
  Victor in noble strife,
Doth consecrate a Poilu's tomb
  To those who saved her life!

Brave son without a name,
  Your country calls you home,
To rest among her heirs of fame,
  Beneath the Pantheon's dome!

Now from the height of Heaven,
  The souls of heroes look;
Their names, ungraven on this stone,
  Are written in God's book.

Women of France, who mourn
  Your dead in unmarked ground,
Come hither! Here the man you loved
  In the heart of France is found!

Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Mother of all the grass that weaves over their graves the glory of the field,
Mother of all the manifold forms of life, deep-bosomed, patient, impassive,
Silent brooder and nurse of lyrical joys and sorrows!
Out of thee, yea, surely out of the fertile depth below thy breast,
Issued in some strange way, thou lying motionless, voiceless,
All these songs of nature, rhythmical, passionate, yearning.
Coming in music from earth, but not unto earth returning.

Long hadst thou lain like a queen transformed by some old enchantment
Into an alien shape, mysterious, beautiful, speechless,
Knowing not who thou wert, till the touch of thy Lord and Lover
Wakened the man-child within thee to tell thy secret.
All of thy flowers and birds and forests and flowing waters
Are but the rhythmical forms to reveal the life of the spirit;
Thou thyself, earth-mother, in mountain and meadow and ocean,
Holdest the poem of God, eternal thought and emotion.

December, 1905.

I

Lover of beauty, walking on the height
  Of pure philosophy and tranquil song;
  Born to behold the visions that belong
To those who dwell in melody and light;
Milton, thou spirit delicate and bright!
  What drew thee down to join the Roundhead throng
  Of iron-sided warriors, rude and strong,
Fighting for freedom in a world half night?

Lover of Liberty at heart wast thou,
  Above all beauty bright, all music clear:
To thee she bared her bosom and her brow,
  Breathing her virgin promise in thine ear,
And bound thee to her with a double vow,—
  Exquisite Puritan, grave Cavalier!

II

The cause, the cause for which thy soul resigned
  Her singing robes to battle on the plain,
  Was won, O poet, and was lost again;
And lost the labour of thy lonely mind
On weary tasks of prose. What wilt thou find
  To comfort thee for all the toil and pain?
  What solace, now thy sacrifice is vain
And thou art left forsaken, poor, and blind?

III

O bend again above thine organ-board,
  Thou blind old poet longing for repose!
  Thy Master claims thy service not with those
Who only stand and wait for His reward;
He pours the heavenly gift of song restored
  Into thy breast, and bids thee nobly close
  A noble life, with poetry that flows
In mighty music of the major chord.

Where hast thou learned this deep, majestic strain,
  Surpassing all thy youthful lyric grace,
To sing of Paradise? Ah, not in vain
  The griefs that won at Dante's side thy place,
And made thee, Milton, by thy years of pain,
  The loftiest poet of the English race!

1908.

Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
  Among the mountains, and thy song is fed
  By living springs far up the watershed;
No whirling flood nor parching drought controls
The crystal current: even on the shoals
  It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
  Deepens below mysterious cliffs of dread,
Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.

But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress
  Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground
    Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy.
Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness
  Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found
    The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.

October, 1906.

The melancholy gift Aurora gained
  From Jove, that her sad lover should not see
  The face of death, no goddess asked for thee,
My Keats! But when the scarlet blood-drop stained
Thy pillow, thou didst read the fate ordained,—
  Brief life, wild love, a flight of poesy!
  And then,—a shadow fell on Italy:
Thy star went down before its brightness waned.

Yet thou hast won the gift Tithonus missed:
  Never to feel the pain of growing old,
    Nor lose the blissful sight of beauty's truth,
But with the ardent lips Urania kissed
  To breathe thy song, and, ere thy heart grew cold,
    Become the Poet of Immortal Youth.

August, 1906.

Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest,
  And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
  For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
To some unearthly music, and possessed
With painful passionate longing to invest
  The golden dream of Love's immortal fire
  With mortal robes of beautiful attire,
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!

What wonder, Shelley, that the restless wave
  Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume
    Thy drifted form on Viareggio's beach?
These were thine elements,—thy fitting grave.
  But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume,
    Thy wild song rings in ocean's yearning speech!

August, 1906.

How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
  In winding graveyard pathways underground,
  For Browning's lineage! What if men have found
Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul?
  Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned
  Through all the world,—the poets laurel-crowned
With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll.

The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these:
  The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire,
    The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage,
    The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage,
  The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire,
The tragic mask of wise Euripides.

November, 1906.

In Lucem Transitus, October, 1892

From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon,
To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than noon,
Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune.

Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art;
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart;
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?

Silence here—for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail;
Silence here—for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels fail;
Silence here—but far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail!

The record of a faith sublime,
  And hope, through clouds, far-off discerned;
  The incense of a love that burned
Through pain and doubt defying Time:

The story of a soul at strife
  That learned at last to kiss the rod,
  And passed through sorrow up to God,
From living to a higher life:

A light that gleams across the wave
  Of darkness, down the rolling years,
  Piercing the heavy mist of tears—
A rainbow shining o'er a grave.

1802-1902

Heart of France for a hundred years,
  Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong,
Quick to throb with her hopes and fears,
  Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong!
  You, who hailed with a morning song
Dream-light gilding a throne of old:
You, who turned when the dream grew cold,
Singing still, to the light that shone
Pure from Liberty's ancient throne,
    Over the human throng!
You, who dared in the dark eclipse,—
  When the pygmy heir of a giant name
  Dimmed the face of the land with shame,—
Speak the truth with indignant lips,
Call him little whom men called great,
    Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him,
Point to the blood on his robe of state,
    Fling back his bribes and defy him!

March, 1902.

In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and confusion,
Where there were many running to and fro, and shouting, and striving together,
In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise, I heard the voice of one singing.

“What are you doing there, O man, singing quietly amid all this tumult?
This is the time for new inventions, mighty shoutings, and blowings of the trumpet.”
But he answered, “I am only shepherding my sheep with music.”

So he went along his chosen way, keeping his little flock around him;
And he paused to listen, now and then, beside the antique fountains,
Where the faces of forgotten gods were refreshed with musically falling waters;

Or he sat for a while at the blacksmith's door, and heard the cling-clang of the anvils;
Or he rested beneath old steeples full of bells, that showered their chimes upon him;
Or he walked along the border of the sea, drinking in the long roar of the billows;

Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, and pierced the heart of his dearest!
Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the mystical temple of sorrow:
Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he came out he was singing.

And I saw the faces of men and women and children silently turning toward him;
The youth setting out on the journey of life, and the old man waiting beside the last mile-stone;
The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy mother rocking her cradle;

The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the gray-minded scholar in his book-room;
The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the hunter in the forest;
And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness of the city;

“Why do you listen, O you people, to this old and world-worn music?
This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age, in the democratic triumph!
Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the brazen trumpets of your poets.”

But the people made no answer, following in their hearts the simpler music:
For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could be better worth the hearing
Than the melodies which brought sweet order into life's confusion.

So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came unto a mountain:
And I know not surely whether the mountain was called Parnassus,
But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the voice of one singing.

January, 1907.

I

BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
  Have brought another Festa round to you,
You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
  From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy,
  Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
  And sunny hours, and sky cerulean!

Your children all, they hurry to your den,
  With wreaths of honour they have won for you,
To merry-make your threescore years and ten.
  You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!

There's many a reader whom your silver songs
  And crystal stories cheer in loneliness.
What though the newer writers come in throngs?
  You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.

And more there is: for while we love your books
  Because their subtle skill is part of you;
We love you better, for our friendship looks
  Behind them to the human heart of you.

II

MEMORIAL SONNET, 1908

This is the house where little Aldrich read
  The early pages of Life's wonder-book
  With boyish pleasure: in this ingle-nook
He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy shed
Bright colour on the pictures blue and red:
  Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
  His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
Among the deeper things more simply said.

Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
  Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
And still he won the laurelled poet's fame
  With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold.
Look, here's the face to which this house is frame,—
  A man too wise to let his heart grow old!

(Read at His Funeral, January 21, 1908)

Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
  Of beauty or of truth,
Rich in the thoughtfulness of age,
  The hopefulness of youth,
The courage of the gentle heart,
  The wisdom of the pure,
The strength of finely tempered souls
  To labour and endure!

The blue of springtime in your eyes
  Was never quenched by pain;
And winter brought your head the crown
  Of snow without a stain.
The poet's mind, the prince's heart,
  You kept until the end,
Nor ever faltered in your work,
  Nor ever failed a friend.

We lay upon your folded hands
  The wreath of asphodel;
We speak above your peaceful face
  The tender word Farewell!
For well you fare, in God's good care,
  Somewhere within the blue,
And know, to-day, your dearest dreams
  Are true,—and true,—and true!

ON HIS “BOOK OF JOYOUS CHILDREN”

Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
  Joyous children delight to play there;
Weary men find rest in its bowers,
  Watching the lingering light of day there.

Old-time tunes and young love-laughter
  Ripple and run among the roses;
Memory's echoes, murmuring after,
  Fill the dusk when the long day closes.

Simple songs with a cadence olden—
  These you learned in the Forest of Arden:
Friendly flowers with hearts all golden—
  These you borrowed from Eden's garden.

This is the reason why all men love you;
  Truth to life is the finest art:
Other poets may soar above you—
  You keep close to the human heart.

December, 1903.

IN MEMORIAM

Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame,
    Heart of a hero in a body frail;
    Thine was the courage clear that did not quail
Before the giant champions of shame
Who wrought dishonour to the city's name;
    And thine the vision of the Holy Grail
    Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil,
Filling thy life with heavenly song and flame.

Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye,
    And strong the faith that held thy simple creed.
    Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need
Thou leavest two great gifts that will not die:
Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry,—
    Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed.

November, 1909.

The grief that is but feigning,
And weeps melodious tears
Of delicate complaining
From self-indulgent years;
The mirth that is but madness,
And has no inward gladness
Beneath its laughter straining,
To capture thoughtless ears;

The love that is but passion
Of amber-scented lust;
The doubt that is but fashion;
The faith that has no trust;
These Thamyris disperses,
In the Valley of Vain Verses
Below the Mount Parnassian,—
And they crumble into dust.

I

PRELUDE

1

  Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night
  When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight,
  She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart,
  Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn
  Into a single cry, and thou wast born!
  Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief;
  Invisible enchantress of the heart;
    Mistress of charms that bring relief
    To sorrow, and to joy impart
  A heavenly tone that keeps it undefined,—
      Thou art the child
    Of Amor, and by right divine
      A throne of love is thine,
Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen,
Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!

2

II

INVOCATION

III

PLAY SONG

  O lead me by the hand,
  And let my heart have rest,
And bring me back to childhood land,
To find again the long-lost band
  Of playmates blithe and blest.

  Some quaint, old-fashioned air,
  That all the children knew,
Shall run before us everywhere,
Like a little maid with flying hair,
  To guide the merry crew.

  Along the garden ways
  We chase the light-foot tune,
And in and out the flowery maze,
With eager haste and fond delays,
  In pleasant paths of June.

  The world is far away:
  The fever and the fret,
And all that makes the heart grow gray,
Is out of sight and far away,
Dear Music, while I hear thee play
That olden, golden roundelay,
  “Remember and forget!”

IV

SLEEP SONG

            Forget, forget!
      The tide of life is turning;
    The waves of light ebb slowly down the west:
  Along the edge of dark some stars are burning
To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest.
      A little rocking on the tranquil deep
        Of song, to soothe thy yearning,
      A little slumber and a little sleep,
          And so, forget, forget!

            Forget, forget,—
      And if thou hast been weeping,
    Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief:
  Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping
The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf;
      Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep
        That one by one come creeping
      Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep,
          And so forget, forget!

            Forget, forget,—
      Thou art a child and knowest
    So little of thy life! But music tells
  The secret of the world through which thou goest
To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells:
      Life is in tune with harmony so deep
        That when the notes are lowest
      Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep,
          For God will not forget.

HUNTING SONG

Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest,
Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest.
      Hark, how the galloping measure
      Quickens the pulses of pleasure;
        Gaily saluting the morn
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
      Echoing up from the valley,
        Over the mountain side,—
      Rally, you hunters, rally,
        Rally, and ride!

Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine,
Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine!
      Leave all your troubles behind you,
      Ride where they never can find you,
        Into the gladness of morn,
With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
      Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow,
        Sweeping along with the wind,—
      Follow, you hunters, follow,
        Follow and find!

VI

DANCE-MUSIC

1

Violins leading, take up the measure,
Turn with the tune again,—clarinets clear
Answer their pleading,—harps full of pleasure
Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere.
      Semiquaver notes,
      Merry little motes,
      Tangled in the haze
      Of the lamp's golden rays,
      Quiver everywhere
        In the air,
        Like a spray,—
Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune,
Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon,
Bears them all away, and away, and away,
    Floating in the trance of the dance.

2

VII

WAR-MUSIC

      Break off! Dance no more!
        Danger is at the door.
        Music is in arms.
      To signal war's alarms.

  Hark, a sudden trumpet calling
    Over the hill!
  Why are you calling, trumpet, calling?
    What is your will?

    Call again, trumpet, call again,
        Call up the men!

  Do you hear the storm of cheers
  Mingled with the women's tears
And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet?
  Do you hear the throbbing drum
  As the hosts of battle come
Keeping time, time, time to its beat?
  O Music give a song
  To make their spirit strong
For the fury of the tempest they must meet.

      'Tis done
      At last!
      The victory won,
    The dissonance of warfare past!

      O Music mourn the dead
      Whose loyal blood was shed,
    And sound the taps for every hero slain;
      Then lead into the song
      That made their spirit strong,
    And tell the world they did not die in vain.

May, 1916.

VIII

THE SYMPHONY