Minions of the moon / by Madison Cawein [electronic text]

SONG AND STORY

THE VIKINGS

A Saga of Yule.

FAR to the South a star, Bright-shining over all; And a sound of voices singing, 'Round a Babe in an ox's-stall.

Three Kings a-riding, riding, With gifts of myrrh and gold, Far, far from the wild North Ocean, Of which this tale is told: —

By the sea, in the Hall of Beele, Were Yule and joy and feast, Outside was the noise of the ocean And storm, like a howling beast.

The King sate at the banquet With his Jarls and Berserks hale, Quaffing to Thor and Odin Huge horns of mead and ale.

Unheeded howled the winter 'Round the oak walls of the King, For a mighty skald with a runic harp Made the hall re-echoing ring.

Loud laughed the blonde Norse maidens As they brimmed the barmy cup, Where the torches flickered the war-blades And the bucklers hanging up.

But out by the thundering North Sea Ten shattered dragons lie, Vessels, like great sea-monsters, To the billows heaving high.

And pale and hacked with gashes, 'Mid his battered arms lies low The red-haired Viking, Hareck, Half-buried in the snow.

And wan, where the waves beat sullen, Lies his brother, one-eyed Hulf, Above whose mailéd visage Snarls the winter-famished wolf.

And where is seen the glimmer Of arms on dune and shore, Their warriors, fierce and long-haired, Lie frozen in their gore.

For Hulf and red-haired Hareck To Sogn did harrying sail, But Beele and his Berserkers Did give them welcome hale.

On the shore of the wild North Ocean, In the wild mist and the spray, In the spindrift and the tempest The battle clanged all day.

On the shore of the wild North Ocean, When fell the wilder night, The Vikings, Hulf and Hareck, As the snow lay cold and white.

Not for long in their shattered armor, By the billow-booming deep, Were left the terrible warriors In their eternal sleep.

For Odin from Valhala Saw the Vikings fight and fall, And bade the Valkyrs summon The heroes to his Hall.

They came. The ghosts of the Vikings Stood dark-browed on the field, Moody within the tempest, Each leaning on his shield.

In his great-horned helm loomed Hareck, His face like some wild moon That looks upon the havoc Of a field with battle strewn.

Like a dark star, dim and misty, Faint-seen through scud-blown air, Hulf's-face on the Maids of Odin Shone in its wind-tossed hair.

And with them, lo! another, Whose face was mild and sad— Unarmed, no Viking warrior, A Man in whiteness clad.

Through snow and the foam of the ocean Glittered the Valkyries, And the sound of their trumpet voices Was like to the stormy sea's.

"Behold," they cried, "Valhala Awaits! And Odin sent! — The polished skulls are brimmed with mead And ready the tournament!

"And Thor and Brage and Balder, And many an Aza fair, On the pleasant plain of Ida, Await your coming there!"

And they stretched their glittering gauntlets To the Vikings standing pale, And joy lit up their lowering brows Like moonlight in a gale.

And then the other murmured, — And His voice was soft and low,— And a scent as of myrrh and lilies Swept through the storm and snow:—

"Come to Me, ye who labor, And ye who are distressed! All, all whose hearts are burdened, And I will give you rest.

"I bring a different message From that just brought of these, A message of love and forgiveness From My Father the King of Peace.

"Now ends the reign of Odin, And My Father's rule begins! Peace and good-will, good-will and peace, And forgiveness of all sins!"

And He stretched His arms toward them, And hushed were the howling gales: And they saw that His brow was crowned with thorns, And His hands were pierced with nails.

And there in the Hall of Beele The sound of Yule died low, And all was hushed as the Word of Christ Pealed far through the wind and snow.

TREASURE TROVE

WE were a crew of what you please, Men with the lust of gold gone mad; Dutch and Yankee and Portuguese, With a nigger or two from Trinidad, The scum of the Caribbees: Outbound, outbound for a treasure ground, A pirate isle no man had found, A long-lost isle in the Southern Seas, An isle of the Southern Seas.

We sailed our ship by a chart we bore, The parchment script of a buccaneer, Whose skeleton, found on a Carib shore, Had kept its secret for many a year, Locked in a buckle of belt it wore. And the dim chart told of buried gold, A hidden harbor and pirate hold, On an isle that seamen touched no more, That sailors knew no more.

We were a crew of Devil-may-care, Who staked our lives on a bit of a scrawl; Who diced each other for lot and share Or ever we hoisted sail at all, Or the brine blew through our hair. At last with a hail for calm or gale, The wind of adventure in our sail, We piped up anchor and did our dare, Steered for the Island there.

From Porto Bello to Isle of France, And thence South East our chart read plain: We followed the route of old Romance, The plate-ship route of the Spanish Main, The old wild route of Chance. Black Beard sailed it and Jean Lafitte; And Drake and Morgan, and many a fleet Of pillage once that led the dance, Spain's golden-galleon dance.

Moidores, guineas, and pieces-of-eight; Doubloons round as the gibbous moon; All the wealth that they sacked as freight In the good old days' of the piccaroon, We dreamed of soon and late: And gems of the East, of which the least Would grace a Khan's or a Caliph's feast, And chest on chest of Spanish plate, Great chests of Spanish plate.

The wind blew fair from Panama; For a month the wind blew fair and free; We steered our ship by the gold we saw In the far-off script of a century, Wherein men knew no law. We held our course, for better or worse, Now with a song and now with a curse, According to the lots we'd draw, Rum or the lots we'd draw.

We had not reckoned on destiny, And him all seamen dread, they say, That captain, old in infamy, Who holds to Hell till the Judgment Day, And takes of Earth his fee. — Oh, black and black is the South Sea track Of the skeleton Captain, Yellow Jack, Who sweeps with his boneyard crew the sea, The hurricane-haunted sea.

. . . . . . . . .

Six weeks we lay in the doldrums; dead; Six weeks that rotted us with delay, Till a gale sprang up and drove us ahead, Out of our course, for a week and a day, Till we deemed we were Dutchman-led. — When the gale was done, why, one by one, The scurvy took us, every son, And mutiny down in the hold was bred, Mutiny then was bred.

At last on our bow we sighted shore, A wild crag circled of cloud and sea; Our pirate isle, where ceaselessly The rock-fanged surf kept up its roar Round a towering bluff and tree, Where the chart was marked that the gold should be: Cliffs that the seafowl clamored o'er, With the dragging seaweed hoar.

A smudge of mist and a gleam that died, And a muttering down below — And night was on us at a stride, And, God! how it came to blow! And a man went over the side: Then fore and aft of our crazy craft Corposants glimmered and Madness laughed, And a voice from the Island wild replied, A dæmon voice replied.

Three nights and days of the hurncane's rage. — What curse now held us off! — We never would win to an anchorage, We thought, when, ho! with a scoff The Island thundered, "Come take your wage!" — And, lo, that night by the thin moonlight We found our ship in a bay or bight, That seemed a part of another age, A far-off pirate age.

Our ship a-leak and her pumps all jammed We won to the Harbor of Yellow Jack; And so it was that he took command And hoisted his skeleton flag of black, And our decks with dead men crammed. — But we —we found the treasure ground— Where some went mad and some were drowned — For the gold, you see, was damned, was damned, The gold you see was damned.

SERVICE

I PASSED a cottage 'twixt the town and wood, And marked its garden, blossoming bright and bold, And breathing many a scent. Awhile I stood Near pink and marigold. It seemed a place of prayer; of love and peace; Where gray Content with children at his knees, — Like blessings manifold, Rested among the trees.

An old man came into the garden-plot; And 'mid the tansy and the scarlet sage Found for himseft a dim and quiet spot Wherein to turn a page: For in his hand he bore a well-thumbed book, Upon whose pages now and then he'd look; And then, as if with age, His hoary head he shook.

I said to him: "You have a lovely place. How rich your garden blooms! How sweet its shade! How good to sit here in the eve and face Those hills of woods while fade The sunset's splendors —like a bannered host Before the glory of the Holy Ghost, — While Dusk, in light arrayed, Takes up his starry post."

The old man smiled, and turned around to stare Not at me but above my head, as if He saw a form, a flying phantom there, A flaming hippogriff: Then said, "You find here what I keep in mind — Thoughts— thoughts of beauty with which God is kind To an old man grown stiff And half-way deaf and blind.

"This garden, now, in every herb and flower, Expresses what the Bible says in part.Unto my soul: To serve God every hour, In thought, or through some art, With loveliness: as men did long ago, Work at some beauty that shall gleam and glow With worship of the heart, Whose dream shall burn below.

"For men may serve God in their humblest works: In gardens, say, like mine; wherein the Word Walks with me, and in every rosebush lurks "God's blessing like a bird." And so he ceased. And, like the Seraphim, The sunset clouds spread golden over him; And in the trees I heard, The wind, like some far hymn.

AT THE FALL OF DEW

ONE bright star in the firmament, One wild rose in the dew, And a girl, like the sparkling two, Following the cows that went Through roses wet with dew, Roses, two by two.

Shy she was as the twilight skies When they hesitate with stars, As she stood to wait at the pasture bars, Gazing with far-off eyes At the slowly coming stars Over the pasture bars.

She hummed a tune while the cattle passed, And the bells in the dusk clanged clear; Then a whistle caught her ear, And she knew 'twas love at last, While the bells in the dusk clanged clear, And his whistle caught her ear.

The smell of the hay came warm and sweet From the field there where he stood, The field by the old beech wood, Where a bird sang, "Sweet! oh, sweet!" In the tree there, where he stood By the old beech wood.

Then a voice at the farmyard gate Called to her down the road, Where the fireflies' lights were sowed; But she answered the one await By the tree at the end of the road Where the fireflies' lights were sowed.

Right young was he and brown and strong As a farmer's lad should be; And she? —with her soul of witchery And a heart, like a bird's, of song, All a country girl should be, With a soul of' witchery.

Oh! I can see them yet In the dusk of the long-ago — Two lovers walking slow; And my eyes with tears are wet For the love of the long-ago, Love of the long-ago.

UNMASKED

WAS it a dream, Or a whim of the night? Or did they gleam Upon my sight An instant there in the wan moonlight? —

I saw them all, I think,Under the bowers, The faery folk, in a moonbeam wink, Disguised as flowers.

First came the Bleeding-Hearts, that hang like bells Or delicate shells; Who, gowned in white and red, Hooped skirts and furbelows, A long procession led Of Faery Ladies and their beaux, Such as the Violet and Early Rose, Into the ball-room of the flower-bed, Where they began a Pixy minuet.— Then suddenly, from whence nobody knows, The Johnny-Jump-Ups glimmered in that set, Tipping about on tiny flower-toes, All dressed in twinkling velvet, black and blue, Faint-jeweled with the dew: Stout sons of Faërie, Yeomen of the Night, Glittering, each one, a rapier-ray of light: —

Then, bowing two by two, — While all the Bleeding-Hearts stood by and fanned, They, silken hand in hand, Began a faery saraband, That wound and interwound, and went and came again. — And then, In ruffed and ribboned lines, The gold-and-ruby gleaming Columbines, Fair Maids-of-Honor to the Faery Queen, — Who still remained unseen, — Trailed twinkling into view.

And then a trumpet blew A beetle-blast —and there!

Adown a glowworm-lanthorned avenue, Tall two by two, With sapphire-helméd hair, Proud Knights and minions of the moon, The Larkspurs, to a cricket tune, Marched with a haughty air. And golden-cuirassed, blowing a wild fanfare Of fragrant notes From honey-crystaled throats, Snapdragons, Trumpeters of the Faery King, With pomp and glittering Of many an elfin prince and peer, Drew near.

And when I felt secure, And sure The King and Queen of Faerie would appear, My dear, A cockerel crew, a thwarting cockerel crew, And, presto! whew! The whole scene went in air, Leaving it there, —The garden, —glimmering with the moon and dew, Looking demure With all its flowers. But I knew, Nay, I was sure, It was not quite as innocent as it seemed. It could not fool me with its looks demure. I knew I had not dreamed.

THE HEART'S OWN DAY

THIS is the heart's own day: With dreaming eyes Life seems to look away Beyond the skies Into some long-gone May.

A May that can not die; Across whose hills Youth's heart goes singing by, 'Mid daffodils, With Love the young and shy.

Love of the slender form And elvish face; Who with uplifted arm Points to one place — A place of oldtime charm.

Where once the lilies grew For Love to twine, With violets, white and blue, And columbine, Of gold and crimson hue.

Gone is the long-ago; Gone like the wind; And Love we used to know Sits dumb and blind, With locks of winter snow.

And by him Memory Sits sketching back Into the used-to-be, In white and black, One flower on his knee.

One rose, whose crimson gleams Like Youth's glad heart, And fills the day with dreams, And is a part Of the old love it seems.

That touches with the tints Of Faeryland This day; and makes a prince — Of Samarcand, — Of him, whose hand Hers held in dreams long since.

THE RIBBON

THOSE were the days of doubt. How clear It all comes back! —This ribbon, see? Brings that far past so very near I lose my own identity, And seem two beings: one that's here, And one back in that century Of cowardice and fear, Wherein I met with love and her, When I was but a wanderer.

Those were the days of doubt, I said: I doubted all things; even God. Within my heart there was no dread Of Hell or Heaven. Never a rod Was there to smite; no mercy led: And man's reward was death: a clodHe was, alive or dead. Those were the days of doubt; and so I scoffed at all things, high and low.

And then I met her. Fair and frail, A girl whose soul was as a flame That burns within the Holy Grael; And through her eyes shone clear the same Fanatic fire, pure and pale, — That once put Sisera to shame In the dark eyes of Jael, When, leading him into her tent, She used the nail as argument.

There was no argument of grace She did not use; no dogma, wrought Of sophistry, she did not place Before me, leading up my thought To Heaven from the fearful maze Of Hell, wherein God's angels fought With fiends, on darkling ways. I listened— but in her young look Was more for me than in God's Book.

She seemed a priestess. Heaven to be Was in her face. —A ribbon bound Her hair like a phylactery. This is the band.— I took it; wound And laid it on my heart. —Ah me! No other argument I found As good as that. Convincingly It held me sane and sound. And I have kept it here alway Since first she gave it me that day.

"Where is she now"? — I do not know. She is the wife of one whose hand, Stretched forth to aid me long-ago, Took from me more than all this land In her own self,— and gave me woe To take her place. —As here I stand I stood and took the blow, While in my heart I looked and saw The love that fiiled my soul with awe.

And did she love me? Am I sure?— Ah, while I heard angelic hosts Of Heaven singing love, there were Black wings about me: all the ghosts Of all my doubts. I heard them stir, And so drew back from those bright coasts Of happiness with her. Despite the love within my heart Doubt entered, and began its part.

Make no mistake. I loved her; ay! And she loved me as women love The thing they save.— I spoke my lie, That by my lie I so might prove Her love, and with the proof defy The doubt, whose shadow hung above, Watching with jealous eye. So I denied love. —Played a part— And, playing it, broke my own heart.

The better part of me then died; I killed her love, not mine.— You see I keep this ribbon here, she tied My heart to hers with. —Silkenly It says, "She is another's bride. Through me now keep in memory Your doubt was justified. She did not love you. She could change."— I keep the ribbon. —Is it strange?

THE PLOUGHBOY

A LILAC mist maizes warm the hills, And silvery through it threads a.stream: The redbird's cadence throbs and thrills, The jaybirds scream. The bluets' stars begin to gleam, And 'mid them, whispering with the rills, The morning-hours dream.

The ploughboy Spring drives out his plough, A robin's whistle on his lips; And as he goes with lifted brow,And snaps and whips His lash of wind, a sunbeam tips, The wildflowers laugh, and on the bough The blossom skips.

The scent of winter-mellowed loam And greenwood buds is blown from him, As blithe he takes his young way home, Large, strong of limb, Along the hilltop's sunset brim, Whistling; the first star, white as foam, In his hat's blue rim.

THE DITTANY

THE scent of dittany was hot. Its smell intensified the heat: Into his brain it seemed to beat With memories of a day forgot, When she walked with him through the wheat, And noon was heavy with the heat.

Again her eyes gazed into his With all their maiden tenderness; Again the fragrance of her dress Swooned on his senses; and, with bliss, Again he felt her heart's caress Full of a timid tenderness.

What of that spray she plucked and gave? The spray of this wild dittany, Whose scent brought back to memory A something lost, beyond the grave. — He knew now what it meant, ah me! That spray of withered dittany.

How many things he had forgot! — Far, lovely things Life flings away! — And where was she now? —Who could say? — The dittany, whose scent was hot, Spoke to his heart; and, old and gray, Through the lone land he went his way.

"THE OLD REMAIN"

THE old remain, the young are gone. The farm dreams lonely on the hill: From early eve to early dawn A cry goes with the whippoorwill — "The old remain, the young are gone."

Where run the roads they wander on? The young, whose hearts romped shouting here: Whose feet thrilled rapture through this lawn, Where sadness walks now all the year.— The old remain, the young are gone.

To what far glory are they drawn? And do they weary of the quest? And serve they now a king or pawn There in the cities of unrest? — The old remain, the young are gone.

They found the life here gray and wan, Too kind, too poor, too full of peace: The great mad world of brain and brawn Called to their young hearts without cease.—The old remain, the young are gone.

They left us to our Avalon, The ancient fields, the house and trees, Where we at sunset and at dawn May sit with dreams and memories. — The old remain, the young are gone.

Dear Heart, draw near and lean upon My heart, and gaze no more through tears: We have our love; our work well done, To help us face the wistful years.— The old remain, the young are gone.

THE OLD HOME

THEY'VE torn the old house down, that stood, Like some kind mother, in this place, Hugged by its orchard and its wood, Two sturdy children, strong of race.

This formal place makes no appeal. I miss the old time happiness And peace, which often here did heal The cares of life, the heart's distress.

The shrubs, —which snowed their blossoms on The walks, wide-stretching from the doors Like friendly arms, —are dead and gone, And over all a grand house soars.

Within its front no welcome lies, But pride's aloofness; wealth, that stares From windows, cold as haughty eyes, The arrogance of new-made heirs.

Its very flowers breathe of cast; And even the Springtide seems estranged, In that stiff garden, caught, held fast, All her wild beauty clipped and changed.

'T is not the Spring, that once I knew, Who made a glory of her face, And robed in shimmering light and dew Moved to wild music in this place.

How fair she walked here with her Hours, Pouring forth colors and perfumes, And with her bosom heaped with flowers Climbed by the rose-vines to its rooms.

Or round the old porch, 'mid the trees, Fluttered a flute of bluebird-song; Or murmuring with a myriad bees Drowsed in the garden all day long.

How Summer, with her apron full Of manna, shook the red peach down; Or, stretched among the shadows cool, Wove for her hair a daisy crown.

Or with her crickets, night and day, Gossiped of many a faery thing, Her sweet breath warm with scents of hay And honey, purple-blossoming.

How Autumn, trailing tattered gold And scarlet, in the orchard mused, And of the old trees taking hold Upon the sward their ripeness bruised.

Or, past its sunset window-panes, Like thoughts that drift before old eyes, Whirled red leaves and the ragged rains, And crows, black-blown, about the skies.

How Winter, huddled in her hood Of snow and sleet, crouched by its flues; Or, rushing from the stormy wood, Rapped at its doors with windy news.

Or in the firelight, through the pane, Watched Comfort crown with cheer the hearth, Or Love lead in his Yuletide train Of hospitality and mirth. . . .

It lived. The house was part of us. It was not merely wood and stone, But had a soul, a heart, that thus Grappled and made us all its own.

The lives that with its life were knit, In some strange way, beyond the sense, Had gradually given to it A look of old experience.

A look, which I shall not forget, No matter where my ways may roam.— I close my eyes: I see it yet — The old house that was once my home.

A SUMMER DAY

WHITE clouds, like thistledown at fault, That drift through heaven's azure vault. The sun beams down; the weedy ground Vibrates with many an insect sound. Blackberry-lilies in the noon Lean to the creek with eyes a-swoon, Where, in a shallow, silver gleams Of minnows and a heron dreams — An old road, clouding pale the heat Behind a slow hoof's muffled beat: And there, hill-gazing at the skies, A pond, within whose languor lies A twinkle, —like an eye that smiles In thought; that with a dream beguiles The day: a. dream of clouds that drift, And arms the willow trees uplift, Protectingly, as if to hide The wildbird on its nest that cried.

Now mists that mass thesunset-dyes Build an Arabia in the skies, Through which the sun in pomp retires, Torched to his room with saffron fires; And 'thwart his palace door is laidA crescent sign, a moony blade, Then glittering in a cloud is sheathed; And, dripping crimson, fire-wreathed, A magic scimetar of flame Is slowly drawn before the same.

The door of Day is closed; its bar Put up, one bright and golden star; While, crowding all the corridorsOf Dusk, the shadows, blackamoorsOf darkness, glide; and zephyrs sweepMist-gowns of musk through halls of Sleep —Dim odalisques of Night, who waitUpon their lord who lies in state.

THE OLD GARDEN

SPURGE and sea-pink, hyssop blue, Dragonhead of purple hue; Catnip, frosted green and gray, With blue butterflies a-sway, These may point you out the way.

These and Summer's acolytes, Crickets, singing days and nights, Tell you the old road again; And adown the tangled lane Lead you to her window-pane.

Goldenrod and goldenglow Crowd the gate in which you go; To your arm they cling and catch, Kiss the hand that lifts the latch, Guide you to her garden-patch.

O'er the fence the hollyhock Leans to greet you; and the stock Looks as if it thought, "I knew You were coming. Gave the cue To the place to welcome you."

And the crumpled marigold And the dahlia, big and bold, With Sweet Williams, white and red, Nod at you a drowsy head From the sleepy flowerbed.

Where all day the brown bees croon, Honey-drunk; and stars and moon All night long lean down to hear,In the silence far and near, Whippoorwills a-calling clear.

While adown the dewy dark Flits a flame, a firefly spark, Leading to a place of myrrh, Where, in lace and lavender, Waits the Loveliness of her.

THE YELLOW PUCCOON
(A Wildflower.)

WHO could describe you, child of mystery And silence, born among these solitudes? Within whose look there is a secrecy, — Old as these wanderingwoods, — And knowledge, cousin to the morning-star, Beyond the things that mar, And earth itself that on the soul intrudes.

How many eons —what antiquity Went to your making? When the world was young You yet were old. What mighty company Of cosmic forces swung About you! —On what wonders have you gazed Since first your head was raised To greet the Power that here your seed-spore flung!

The butterfly that woos you, and the bee That quits the mandrakes' cups to whisper you, Are in your confidence and sympathy, As sunlight is and dew, And the soft music of this woodland stream, Telling the trees its dream, That lean attentive its dim face unto.

With bluet, larkspur, and anemoneYour gold conspires to arrest the eye, Making it prisoner unto Fantasy And Vision,—none'll deny!—That lead the mind (as children lead the blind Homeward by ways that wind) To certainties of love that round it lie.

The tanager, in scarlet livery, Out-flaunts you not in bravery,—amber-bright As is the little moon of Faërie, That glows with golden light From out a firmament of green, as you— From out the moss and dew— Glimmer your starry disc upon my sight.

If I might know you, have you, as the bee And butterfly, in some more intimate sense— Or, like the brook there talking to the tree, Win to your confidence— Then might I grasp it, solve it, in some wise, This riddle in disguise Named Life, through you and your experience.

THE OLD CREEK

THE frogs still cry, "Knee-deep! knee-deep!" Among its starlit pools, When dark the woodland lies asleep, And dusk its water cools: The fireflies round its bank of ferns Hang will-o'-wisps for lamps, Where in a place no eye discerns Enchantment's host encamps.

The bats above it go and come In reeling rigadoons, While Elfland beats a beetle-drum, Or cricket-fiddle tunes; And in and out, and all about, The pixy people dance To katydid song and green-frog gong That hold the woods in trance.

The moon looks, listening, through its trees As if to hear its calls, Or with long arms of light to seize Its twinkling waterfalls With Witchcraft who, a foam-white hand, Its glimmering banks between, Beckons from sand to riffled sand, To something far, unseen.

A ghost, that leans beside it still;The phantom of a boy, Who followed once its wildwood willWith barefoot troops of joy: The soul of him who yearns afar To see, in dusk and dew,If still it dances with the star That once his boyhood knew.

"While Elfland beats a beetle-drum,Or Cricket-fiddle tunes."

THE CLOSE OF SUMMER

THE wild-plum tree, whose leaves grow thin, Has strewn the way with half its fruit: The grasshopper's and cricket's din Grows hushed and mute; The veery seems a far-off flute Where Summer listens, hand on chin, And taps an idle foot.

A silvery haze veils half the hills, That crown themselves with clouds like cream; The crow its clamor almost stills, The hawk its scream; The aster stars begin to gleam; And 'mid them, by the sleepy rills, The Summer dreams her dream.

The butterfly upon its weed Droops as if weary of its wings; The bee, 'mid blooms that turn to seed, Half-hearted clings, Sick of the only song it sings, While Summer tunes a drowsy reed And dreams of far-off things.

Passion, of which unrest is part, That filled with ardor all her hours,

Burns low within her quiet heartAs now in ours:The time fulfilled of fruits and flowers, From out Life's dying fires now startLove's less uneasy powers.

All is at peace; the perfect days Move onward to a perfect close; A little while the Year delays, And takes repose, Ere to her end she sighing goes, And, clothed in tattered golds and grays, Weeps all her shadowy woes. . . .

So is it with the heart awhile, The heart and soul that dreams engage, While on fruition Toil doth smileAnd take his wage Of Love, who cons Life's middle page; Regardless of the distant stile Where Death awaits and Age.

THE HUNTER'S MOON

DARKLY October; W\where the wild fowl fly, Utters a harsh and melancholy cry; And slowly closing, far a sunset door, Day wildly glares upon.the world once more, Where Twilight, with one star to lamp her by, Walks with the Wind that haunts the hills and shore.

The Spirit of Autumn, with averted gaze, Comes slowly down the ragged garden ways; And where she walks she lays a finger cold On rose and aster, lily and marigold, And at her touch they turn, in mute amaze, And bow their heads, assenting to the cold.

And all around rise phantoms of the flowers, Scents, ghost-like, gliding from the dripping bowers; And evermore vague, spectral voices ring Of Something gone, or Something perishing:Joy's requiem; hope's tolling of the Hours;Love's dirge of dreams for Beauty sorrowing.

And now the moon above the garden side Lifts a pale face and looks down misty-eyed, As if she saw the ghost of yesteryear That once with Happiness went wandering here And the young Loveliness of days that died Sitting with Memory 'mid the sad and sere.

THE GRASSHOPPER

THE grasshopper, that sang its sleepy song All summer long, The orchard lands and harvest fields among, Taking no heed of aught save its own joy, Without alloy, Cheering the ear with its "Ahoy! ahoy!" — A merry note of summer's self a part,— Like my old heart, Is silent now and cold; its singing done. The grasshopper's a-cold and summer's gone, And I'm alone.

THE COWARD

HE found the road so long and lone That he was fain to turn again. The bird's faint note, the bee's low drone Seemed to his heart to monotone The unavailing and the vain, And dirge the dreams that life had slain.

And for a while he sat him there Beside the way, and bared his head: He felt the hot sun on his hair; And weed-warm odors everywhere Waked memories, forgot or dead, Of days when love this way had led

To that old house beside the road With white board-fence and picket gate, And garden plot that gleamed and glowed With color, and that overflowed With fragrance; where, both soon and late, She 'mid the flowers used to wait.

Was it the same? or had it changed, As he and she, with months and years? How long now had they been estranged? How far away their lives had ranged, Since that last meeting, filled with tears, And boyish hopes and maiden fears!

He closed his eyes, and seemed to see That parting now: The moon above The old house and its locust tree; The moths that glimmered drowsily From flower to flower, the scent whereof Seemed portion of that oldtime love.

Her face was lifted, pale and wet; Her body tense as if with pain: He stooped, —yes, he could see it yet — A moment and their young lips met, And then. . . There in the lonely lane He seemed to live it o'er again.

Why had.he gone?—'Twas for her sake.— But what had come of all his toil? The City, like some monster snake, Had dragged him down— down, half awake, Crushing him in its grimy coil, Whence none escapes without a soil.

He was not clean yet. She would read Failure, vice-written, in his face. But, haply, now she had no need Of him, whose life, like some wild weed Full grown, with evil would replace The love in her heart's garden-space.

He could not bear to look and see The question in those virgin eyes. What answer for that look had he?

He thought it out. It could not be. He could not live a life of lies.—Better to break all oldtime ties.

And then he rose. The house was near— There where the road turned from the wood.— Whose voice was that he seemed to hear?— Then heart and soul were seized with fear, And, turning, as if death-pursued, He fled into the solitude.

SHADOWS ON THE SHORE

THE doubtful dawn came dim and wan, And dimmer grew the day: The kildee whistled among the weeds, The blue crane clanged in the river reeds, And a mist fell wild and gray.

At dawn she stood, her heavy hood Flung back, in the ferry boat, To watch the rebel raiders ride, Her rebel-love, with his men beside, His kiss on her mouth and throat.

Like some dark spell the tempest fell, Like some wild curse night came: For hours she heard the warring dead, Whose batteries opened overhead With thunder and with flame.

And now again, in wind and rain, She toiled at the creaking oar:— Oh what had she heard in the night and storm? Whose voice was that? and whose the form That galloped to the shore?

Across the stream, in the tempest's gleam, Who sent that wild halloo? In the lightning's glare, who was it there, The wind and the rain in his tossing hair, And his gray cloak torn in two?

Through rain and blast pull fast, pull fast! Oar down the rushing tide!— Look where he rides in the lightning's glow!— And hearken now to his far hallo!— But only his horse, with head hung low, A blur of blood on the saddlebow, Comes whinnying to her side.

WASTELAND

BRIAR and fennel and chinquapin, And rue and ragweed everywhere; The field seemed sick as a soul with sin, Or dead of an old despair, Born of an ancient care.

The cricket's cry and the locust's whirr, And the note of a bird's distress, With the rasping sound of a grasshoppér, Clung to the loneliness Like burrs to a ragged dress.

So sad the field, so waste the ground, So curst with an old despair, A woodchuck's burrow, a blind mole's mound, And a chipmunk's stony lair, Seemed more than it could bear.

So solemn too, so more than sad,So droning-lone with bees—I wondered what more could Nature add To the sum of its miseriesAnd then I saw the trees.

Skeletons gaunt, that gnarled the place, Twisted and torn they rose, The tortured bones of a perished race Of monsters no mortal knows. They startled the mind's repose.

And a man stood there, as still as moss, A lichen form that stared; And an old blind hound, that seemed at loss, Forever around him fared With a snarling fang half-bared.

I looked at the man. I saw him plain. Like a dead weed, gray and wan, Or a breath of dust. —I looked again— And man and dog were gone— Like wisps o' the graying dawn. . . .

Were they a part of the grim death'there?— Ragweed, fennel, and rue?— Or forms of the mind, an old despair, That there into semblance grew Out of the grief I knew?

THE OLD HOUSE IN THE WOOD

WEEDS and dead leaves, and leaves the Autumn stains With hues of rust and rose whence moisture weeps; Gnarl'd thorns, from which the knotted haw-fruit rains On paths the gray moss heaps.

One golden flower, like a dreamy thought In the sad mind of Age, makes bright the wood; And near it, like a fancy Childhood-fraught, The toadstool's jaunty hood.

Webs, in whose snares the nimble spiders crouch, Waiting the prey that comes, moon-winged, with night:Slugs and the snail which trails the mushroom's pouch, That marks the wood with white.

An old gaunt house, round which the trees decay, Its porches fallen and its windows gone, Starts out at you as if to bar the way, Or bid you hurry on.

A picket fence, grim as a skeleton arm, Is flung around a weed-wild garden place; The gate, o'er which the rose once hung its charm, Gapes in an empty space.

Here nothing that was beauty's now remains: Old death and sorrow have made all their own, And life and love, who wrought here, for their pains Have nothingness alone.

I stand before the shattered fence and gaze:— All, all is silent now where once was noise Of household duties, gossip of kind days, And little children's joys.

Then suddenly I see a shadow slip From out the house: A ghost of bygone years; One finger lifted to its pallid lip, It passes me with tears.

It passes me 'mid whirling leaves and rain.—Between the trees I see it gleam and glide. I know it for the dream which once in vain My heart had made its guide.

Was it for this that I had come the blind Old ways of life back to Love's house again? The house of Memory, there again to find The dream that proved in vain?

A will-o'-wisp; a faery fire; a spark, That led me where I knew not; and at last Would leave me, lost within the woodland dark, 'Mid shadows of the past.

Again I followed; and again it failed. And night came on. And then once more it seemed That all was lost; that nothing more availed—Wen, lo!—a window gleamed,

And I was home. . . . Thank God for love! and light, Set inthe window of the days that were! And for the dream, though vain, that through the night Leads back to home and her!

ONE WHO DIED YOUNG

WITH her 't is well now. She died young, With all her hope and faith unmarred, Nor lived to see the pearls, Love strung, Without regard, Cast, lost among The disillusions that make life so hard.

Time on her body now can lay No soiling hand and spoil what's fair: He shall not turn the gold hair gray, Nor bring crabbed Care, Day after day, To line the white brow with the heart's despair.

Far better thus. Yea, even so, To die before faith turns to dust, Before the heart has learned to know, As learn it must, Of love the woe, And of all human life the deep disgust.

FAILURE

NO ray, no will-o'-wisp, no firefly gleam; Nothing but night aroundThe only sound the sobbing of a stream Within the hush profound.

Then suddenly the chanting of a bird, Plaintive, appealing, far— And in my heart the murmur of a word, And high in heaven a star.

A star, that shone out suddenly and seemed A herald of the light,—The dawn, that cried within me, "Lo! you dreamed That 'twould be always night!

"If night be here, dawn is not far away, However dark the sky. And in the heart whatever doubts betray,Faith still stands smiling by.

"Put trust in God, and hold to your one aim. And though it is to be Failure at last, then let it seem the same As victory."

THE NEW GOD

I LOOK about me, and behold How all is changed: The sound and sane, The kind, the true, the hale and old, That once made strong the features plain Of life, are cast in other mold, That bears the stamp of greed and gold— A god unclean, who drags a chain Of jewelled lust, which men call Gain, Binding their hearts to all that's vain, That God at last for punishment Shall curse with woe and discontent.

DIES ILLA

HOW shall it.be with them that day When God demands of Earth His pay? With them who make a god of clay And gold and put all truth away.

Shall not they see the lightning-ray Of wrath? and hear the trumpet-bray Of black destruction? while dismay O'erwhelms them and God's hosts delay?

Shall not they, clothed in rich array, Pray God for mercy? and, a-sway, Heap on their hearts the ashes gray Of old repentance? —Nay! oh, nay!

They shall not know till He shall lay An earthquake hand upon their way; And Doomsday, clad in Death's decay, Sweep down, and they've no time to pray.

EPILOGUE

THERE is a world Life dreams of, long since lost: Invisible save only to the heart: That spreads its cloudy islands, without chart, Above the Earth,'mid oceans none has crossed: Far Faerylands, that have become a part Of mortal longings; that, through difficult art, Man strives to realize to the uttermost.

Could we attain that Land of Faërie Here in the flesh, what starry certitudes Of loveliness were ours! what mastery Of beauty and the dream that still eludes! What clearer vision! —Ours were then the key To Mystery, that Nature jealously Locks in her heart of hearts among the woods.