Ballads : patriotic & romantic / by Clinton Scollard [electronic text]

THE LYRIC QUEST

THE FLUTES OF APRIL

DON'T you hear the flutes of April calling clear and calling cool From the crests that front the morning, from the shaded valley pool, Runes of rapture half forgotten, tunes wherein old passions rule?

Passions for the sweet earth beauty hidden long and hidden deep Underneath the seal of silence in the vasts of winter sleep, Now unleashed and now unloosened once again to pulse and leap!

Don't you hear the flutes of April, like the ancient pipes of Pan, Summoning each slumbering kindred, summoning each drowsing clan, Sounding a far-borne reveille to the laggard heart of man!

Bidding every seed to quicken, bidding every root to climb, Thrilling every thew and fibre as with some ecstatic rhyme,

Setting floods of sap to dancing upward in triumphant time!

Don't you hear the flutes of April blowing under sun and star, Virginal as is the dawning, tender as dim twilights are, With the vital breath of being prisoned in each rhythmic bar?

With their lyric divination, prescience of all things fair, With their magic transmutation, guerdon for each soul to share, Don't you hear the flutes of April wafted down the April air?

THE WONDER WORKER

WHO is the worker, the worker of wonder, Abroad in the blue and the gold of the morn? The heart o' me whispers that over and under Each moment are rapture and ecstasy born.

There's a glint in the rain that goes sweeping and striding The levels and crests, and it lilts as it goes; There's a hint in the blossoms half peering, half hiding, Of the tint that shall flush on the leaf of the rose.

But yesterday all earth seemed barren and sterile; And, save for the wind, Nature's voices were mute, Now every wide slope waves in undulant beryl, And forest and rill have the lips of a flute!

Who is the worker, the worker of wonder, The touch of whose hand has enkindled the sod, Brought life out of death, cleft the silence asunder? —The spirit of Spring, yea, the spirit of God!

WINTER IN THE MARSH

I STRODE through the depth of the marsh in the stark winter-tide of the year; The pools were as glass, and the grass was umber and shriveled and sere; And the trees waved their skeleton arms in the whirl and the swirl of the flaw, While around there was never a sound save the crow with its ominous "caw"; The land seemed the land of the lost, of despair, desolation and dole, And its gloom, like an evil at night, crept into the room of my soul.

Then a word, like a bird in the dusk, when the shadows have mantled the hill, Made a song, — just a word, — but I felt the dead heart in me tremble and thrill, Thrill to life, and my fibres and thews were as those of one ready to leap, For I knew, on a sudden, the dolor was but as the blessing of sleep, The slumber of sod and of rush and of fern and of leaf on the tree, And they waited but only the word to burst from their bonds and be free.

And the word, it shall come on a day when the wind shall blow up from the south, With the winnow of shimmering wings, and a slim pipe of gold at its mouth; It may be at droop of the dusk, or it may be at lift of the sun, But all of earth's tendrils shall quicken, and all of earth's waters shall run. God moulded the word, and He spake it to be a transfiguring thing, A joy in man's ears, and a symbol eternal, the magical "Spring!"

THE CROCUS FLAME

THE Easter sunrise flung a bar of gold O'er the awakening wold. What was thine answer, O thou brooding earth, What token of re-birth, Of tender vernal mirth, Thou the long-prisoned in the bonds of cold?

Under the kindling panoply which God Spreads over tree and clod, I looked far abroad. Umber the sodden reaches seemed and sere As when the dying year, With rime-white sandals shod, Faltered and fell upon its frozen bier. Of some rathe quickening, some divine Renascence not a sign!

And yet, and yet, With touch of viol-chord, with mellow fret, The lyric South amid the bough-tops stirred, And one lone bird An unexpected jet Of song projected through the morning blue, As though some wondrous hidden thing it knew.

And so I gathered heart, and cried again: "O earth, make plain, At this matutinal hour, The triumph and the power Of life eternal over death and pain, Although it be but by some simple flower!"

And then, with sudden light, Was dowered my veil—d sight, And I beheld in a sequestered place A slender crocus show its sun-bright face. O miracle of Grace, Earth's Easter answer came, The revelation of transfiguring Might, In that small crocus flame!

APRIL MUSIC

THE lyric sound of laughter Fills all the April hills, The joy-song of the crocus, The mirth of daffodils.

They ring their golden changes Through all the azure vales; The sunny cowslips answer Athwart the reedy swales.

Far down the woodland aisleways The trillium's voice is heard; The little wavering wind-flowers Join in with jocund word.

The white cry of the dogwood Mounts up against the sky; The breath of violet music Upon the breeze goes by.

Give me to hear, O April, These choristers of thine Calling across the distance Serene and hyaline,

To clear my clouded vision Bedimmed and dulled so long, And heal my aching spirit With fragrance that is song!

THE VOICE

OVER the woodland's western walls In the dawn there's a voice that calls, —

Calls some sweet inscrutable thing, And sets my feet to wandering!

Why I fare I do not know, Nor by what devious paths I go,

But I must up and out and away, Vagrant, vagabond, estray,

Thrall to the voice that calls and calls Over the woodland's western walls!

Time is but as sand in the glass Where I loiter and where I pass;

Time is but as the thistle-drift, Tossed on the winds that sing and shift.

More to me is the wayside flower Than all of grandeur and all of power.

Haply I have been summoned to see Where life's dearest treasures be!

Haply I must learn again, Through stress and sacrifice and pain,

To know that the things of largest worth Lie close to the throbbing heart of earth!

VINTAGE

FROM out the bondage of the town I will go up, I will go down, Along untrod, untrammelled ways, And give God praise;

Praise for the rue, praise for the sweet, He spreads before my faring feet, For, whatsoe'er the vintage be, It is for me!

Vintage of vine and fern and flower, Vintage of sun and striding shower, Vernal, vespernal, blue or white, Or chrysolite,

It matters not, for it is mine, — Essence eternal and divine From the all-bounteous wine-press trod,— The wine of God!

THE VAGRANT

Upon my lips the breath of song, Within my heart a rhyme, Howe'er time trips or lags along, I keep abreast with time!

With flush of crimson on its wings, The morning mounts the sky; A swallow soars, a blue-bird sings, A buoyant wind goes by.

I take the open path; I shake All shadows from my mind; In rippling mead, in waving brake, A virile joy I find.

The noon is like a brimming bowl; While on my way I win, I throw wide ope my thirsting soul And drink the warm light in.

When comes the eve, in purple dressed, Across the hills afar, I press unto my yearning breast The rapture of a star.

And with the night, the soothing night, I drift down drowsy streams, And reach at last, to my delight, The golden bourn of dreams.

Oh, on my lips the breath of song, And in my heart a rhyme, Howe'er time trips or lags along, I keep abreast with time!

MY CATHEDRAL

I KNOW a pathway through the pines Where, when the sun declines, The shadows take on dreamy hues, Deep violets and blues.

And there is incense that beguiles Borne down the pillared aisles From unseen censers, fragrant rites Of hidden acolytes.

And there is music full and fair Upon the dusking air, As though there were an organ grand Played by a master hand.

This my cathedral is. I crave No other architrave Than this majestic vaulted span Shaped by no skill of man.

Here are my holy altars; here, Prayerful I may revere, Feeling about me flutterings As of angelic wings.

For well I know God walks the wood Clad in beatitude; In light and shade and sound I sense His loving imminence.

And when I go I take with me Peace, hope, humility; And when I pass I leave behind Doubt, and the darkened mind.

MAY MAGIC

IN the under-wood and the over-wood There is murmur and trill this day, For every bird is in lyric mood, And the wind will have its way. It is wren and thrush and the robin-gush, And the flute of the vireo, And when there's a pause, and when there's a hush, The wind, now loud, now low!

On the under-leaf and the over-leaf There is shimmer of dye this day, For oh, the hues beyond belief On shoot and bough and spray! There are all the tints that the rainbow glints, — King-cup loved of the bee, Violet, trillium, beryl mints, And the pink anemone!

In the under-air and the over-air There is wonder abroad this day; The whole wide face of the world is fair With the magic of the May; For the breath of God has kindled the sod, And swept the skies along, Till every branch is an Aaron's rod, And every sound a song!

THE ETERNAL PRESENCE

I HAVE watched the glow on the morning skyline When the kindling spring from out of the palm-isles Came, with lilt of lutes and with touch of timbrels, Winged as the swallow.

Summer I have seen o'er the fertile loam-lands Spread its gleaming gold and its burnished amber, — Barley, wheat and rye in the soft winds waving, Ripe for the reapers.

I have walked with autumn down through the orchards, Where lay heaped the fruit with its veins of crimson, Globes that vied with all of the hues of sunset, Harvests ambrosial.

Winter I have known, with its shroud of silence, Vestal, virginal, clad in its arctic ermine, When the midnight brightened the frosty sky with Torches auroral.

Just the shifting sands in the Year's great hour-glass, Turned by Time who works at the Master's bidding, Where we mark, if we look with eyes unclouded, The Eternal Presence!

THE LUTE-PLAYER

THERE came at eve an ardent lute-player Who stood before an open casement long, And breathed impassioned strains so sweet and strong That the enamored breezes ceased to stir. The vesper-thrushes, choiring in the fir, Grew silent one by one, a raptured throng; Intent upon the burden of the song, It was as though the night turned worshiper.

Then over me a sudden thought there swept Of the young shepherd who, without a fear, Played on his harp to soothe the mind of Saul; And, as the moonlight through the lattice crept, I seemed to see before me, ghostly clear, A jeweled javelin quivering in the wall!

DIVINITY

HOW can there be Dearth of divinity Whiles that we have resurgence of the sod, — The quickened clod, The flowering dogwood-rod, —That yields the gold of such rich treasury To the adventurous bee!

In shower and shine, In muted pine tops or in boughs that breathe Raptures of choric tone, In ferns that wreathe The stricken bole or moss-incrusted stone, In the swift pulses of the stream, In star-gleam or moon-gleam, In cloud and storm, In nature multifold and multiform, Lo, if ye heed, ye may behold the sign Of the Divine!

TRUANT FEET

WHAT would you do, I bid you say, With feet that will not keep the way, But ever go a-wandering, Like any vagrant, wilding thing, Or be it dawn or dusk of day?

They needs must leap each upland stile, Let every glade or copse beguile, And, leisurely as noon, explore The curvings of each rillet's shore Thick-set with cress and camomile.

A crest is like a rainbow lure Unto a child; a wood is sure To lead them into windings far From beam of sun or gleam of star To secresies the trees immure.

Ah, youth is fair, and youth is fleet, And all God's fields and woods are sweet! Why set a bond, why set a snare, Howe'er or wheresoe'er they fare, About the tracks of truant feet?

AT THE GRAVE OF POE

SPRING'S glow and glamour over Baltimore Above the green God's acre where he lies, The sunlight, amber as some fabled ore, And the ethereal blue of vernal skies, He who so long since solved the great surmise, And haply now tunes an immortal lyre (He who could tune a mortal lyre so well) With the rapt Israfel, And the celestial choir.

As white as snow the marble of his tomb Against the climbing ivy on the wall; No cypress bough, with its unhallowed gloom, Here flings its sombre shade funereal; Even the church-tower, turreted and tall, Speaks not of dolor, and the slender spines Of arbor-vitae tell of life, not death, The life that quickeneth His immemorial lines.

Yet he was phantom-haunted; eldritch things Peopled the silent chambers of his brain; Forevermore the winnow of dark wings Beat round about him, as when autumn rain Is hurtled by wild gusts against the pane.

Weird wraiths companioned him, but none the less, Amid the forms of ghoul and ghost and gnome, Figures were wont to roam Of light and loveliness.

His was the master's magic; every chord He touched gave forth a throb of melody; No music welled whereof he was not lord, Whether he sang some city by the sea, Or some strange palace built in Faëry; He wove the spell of immaterial chimes Into his fabric; e'en the midnight bird An unforgotten word Breathed through his charmèd rhymes.

He walked with shadows, and yet who shall say We are not all as shadows, we who fare Toward one dim bourn along life's fateful way, Sharing the griefs and joys once his to share Who passed erewhile to that fair Otherwhere Beyond the poignancy of bliss or woe! There hangs the immitigable pathos of dead years, High hopes bedewed with tears, About the grave of Poe.

WORKERS

OUT of the formless clay the potter moulds his urn; Out of the block, rough hewn, the sculptor shapes his dream; Through the blend of the painter's hues the dyes of sunset burn, And the tints of morning gleam!

Out of the mobile word the poet weaves his rhyme, As the toiler at the loom watching the shuttle fly, And lo, there comes a song to lilt in the ear of Time As the years go winging by!

If ye but bring the zest, the passion-fire at heart, If ye but feel the glow, if ye but know the thrill, All of the wonder-world awaits but the worker's art, Waits but the worker's will!

WANDER SONG

CALLING, calling, and ever calling, That's the way with the wander-will, Be dawn at break, or be twilight falling, Behind the crest of the lonely hill!

The wind's a lure, and the moon has voices, And 'come!' says the song of the water's flow, And whatsoever at heart my choice is, I needs must rise, and I needs must go.

Out and away, then, again a rover As far as the sound of the outland seas, And whenever the round of my life be over Little to lay on the great God's knees.

And yet, and yet, when the quest is ended, Under the span of the vast blue sky, It has all been virile and vital and splendid, And what may a mortal do but die!

Calling, calling, and ever calling, That's the way with the wander-will, Be dawn at break, or be twilight falling, Behind the crest of the lonely hill!

HARMONIES

THE Berecynthian flute, The lovely Lydian lute, The clear Arcadian pipe That, when the vernal noons were lush and ripe, Bore melody's golden fruit, Lo, these are mute! But still the nightingale Lifts its enamored voice in Tempe's vale, And still in ilex boughs the south wind sigheth Along those storied shores Where swart Ionian boatmen ply the oars, For music never dieth! And in our new Atlantis of the West, Anigh its hidden nest, The furtive forest thrush Pierces the twilight hush With haunting gush, To which, from out its overburdened breast, Some eremite in ecstasy replyeth.

From eve to eve, from dawn to vermeil dawn, The harmonies of earth roll ever on and on!

SPENDTHRIFTS

LITHE of foot, blithe of foot, thus we go a-wandering, Luting it, fluting it, many a path upon; All the hoard of night and day open for our squandering, Spendthrifts of the silver stars, spendthrifts of the sun.

Light of heart, bright of heart, no care for our tethering, Ambling on, rambling on, with no dream of gain; Frolicking, rollicking, whatsoe'er the weathering Spendthrifts of the treasure winds, spendthrifts of the rain.

Gay of guise, gray of guise, little heed we all of it, Laughing on, chaffng on, rule of rose or rime; Children of old Grandam Earth, raptured by the thrall of it, Spendthrifts of the golden hours, prodigals of time!

SONG IN MARCH

I SING the first green leaf upon the bough, The tiny kindling flame of emerald fire, The stir amid the roots of reeds, and how The sap will flush the briar.

I sing the sweeping beryl on the slopes, Ephemerae that come before the bees, The ferns renascent, and the virgin hopes Of pale anemones.

I sing the dream's unfolding, and I sing The chrysalis broken by the ice-freed shore, The clear air winnowed by the bluebird's wing, And April at the door!

THE CUP

LIFE, the revealer, mixed a draught, And brimmed a cup for me; I raised it to my lips and quaffed The whole unquestioningly.

For be the brew or peace or strife, The wine or joy or pain, The inescapable cup of life We each and all must drain.

PUSSY-WILLOWS

TO-DAY I saw a child go down the street Smiling, with pussy-willow buds in hand; The downy catkins opened for my feet The gates of fairy-land.

And through them I strayed backward, wandering Along the rillside paths that once I knew, Finding in those first heralds of the spring A childish rapture, too;

Gone all too quickly! And yet how it cheers The faltering spirit thus to be beguiled, To feel beneath the heavy weight of years The glad heart of a child!

TWELFTH NIGHT SONG

HEAPED be the fagots high, And the half-burnèd bough From last year's revelry Be litten now! Brimmed be the posset bowl For every lusty soul; And while the maskers rule, Cry 'Noel!' cry' Noel!' down all the halls of Yule!

O eager viols, thrill! Pipe, hautboys, clear and sweet! Work your impetuous will, Ye restless feet! For every lip— a glass! For every lad— a lass! And, ere the ardors cool, Cry 'Noel!' cry 'Noel!' down all the halls of Yule!

SOUL TO BODY

AND thus my Soul unto my Body said, With strenuous hardihead; — "Hear thou this word! The guests that thou wert wonted to inviteFor eye, or ear, or for sweet lip-delight, Shall not within this house be harborèd! I have been midnight-mute, and not demurred, Alas, too long!Henceforward shall I sternly ward the door, To any knocking there, attaint with wrong, Ready to cry, 'No more!' Albeit fond familiars, fair of face, Come smilingly, they shall not step within, —Beauty, nor Blithesomeness, nor vernal Grace, — If these are but the glozing cloak of Sin! Clean-swept are all the rooms, and garnished greenly, And set about with Purity's white flower; There sitteth Peace serenely From the clear stroke of this renewèd hour; Hereafter shall be incense lifted only To that pure Love which knoweth no alloy; And thou, O Body, thou shalt not be lonely With thy new comrade — Joy!"

SUNFLOWERS

MY tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through!

THE HEIGHTS

HAIL to the heights that bid me climb, Or capped with green, or white with rime! Ever they hold out lures of hope To lead me on from slope to slope; And though when I the crests have won There be no meed to seize upon, Effort my sure reward shall be, The striving and the mastery. So, as I journey on with time, I hail the heights that bid me climb!

MAY BY AVON-SIDE

Now should you stray by Avon-side This Maytime of the year, In Charlecote Park will sing the lark, And roam the fallow deer; And the white plume of hawthorn bloom, The fair web of earth's wonder-loom, Make lovely Warwickshire!

And should you stray through Strafford streets When home the good folk throng, And shadows flit, and lights are lit The winding ways along, From out the casements open thrown, A-down the twilight breezes blown, Will soar the sound of song!

And should you stray through Trinity close To bow in praise or prayer, Where elm trees braid their shine and shade In the soft Avon air, Whether it be by stream or street, Or where the minster arches meet, His spirit will be there!

Shakespeare, of the immortal phrase, Of deathless rhythm and rhyme, Above the transitory days Still radiant and sublime, The glory of whose fame and name Is limned as by a torch of flame Upon the walls of Time!

BEAUTY

A SHRED of sunset cloud, a prismy shell, The lily's urn, the rose's crucible, Herein lies beauty, with its magic spell.

An autumn leaf afloat upon the wind, The delicate flush upon the peach's rind, Herein lies beauty, if ye be not blind.

Glint of a bird's wing, sunlight on the spray, Deep in love's eyes the tender, answering ray, Herein lies beauty — cherish it for aye!

A VOYAGER

A CLOUD across the sunset Floats like a crimson sail, And I am fain to follow Along the shining trail,

A voyager of the spirit, Impatient of delay, Seeking the end of sorrow Beyond the end of day.

From some far port celestial I yearn to hear, "Ahoy!" And rest therein forever Communicant with joy!

A YOUNG POET

I SEE him in the morning flush, No outlook dark, no prospect dim, And wonder what the twilight hush Will bring to him.

Ideals burn along his way As burned the Alexandrian flame When wanderers of an elder day To Egypt came.

Hopes are like vernal violets now, Yea, like the golden daffodil! He dreams not of the barren bough, The silent rill.

The path is vague, the path is long, And at the end the severed chord! Yet the true devotee finds song Its own reward!

TWILIGHT SONG

THE wind's in the bracken, The wind's in the fir; The leaves of the oak boughs Make tremulous stir; The hills in the twilight They purple, they blur.

The moth's at the rosesIts longing to slake; A last plaintive thrush-note Drifts up from the brake; A pale path of silver Lies long on the lake.

The gray shadows lengthen, The gray shadows creep; What secrets the night has To cherish and keep! How softly she holds them And folds them in sleep!

THE QUIET WOOD

I HAVE in memory a quiet wood Where silence has its altars, and the air Seems hallowed, hushed as though it were for prayer, Sacred to restfulness and solitude. And when upon my mind grave cares intrude, Into these blessed depths I fain would fare For meditation, haply plucking there The herb of solace for each bitter mood.

Then I emerge refreshed. I bear away Somewhat of the serene content of trees, The unexplainable largesse of flowers; I walk exalted through a larger day, And know at night the guerdon of the hours Is deeper faith and wider sympathies.

OMENS

THE poplar and the aspen tree Silver expectantly; The spinning whirligigs of dust Dance as though driven by a goad Along the sinuous length of road. The wagon couplings groan and creak, And from afar the raucous peacocks shriek. The ancient vane, an arrow streaked with rust, Trembles and veers As though it shook with fears; Gray streamers, twisted and entwined Like elf-locks, blur the spacious blue. Strange whispers, stealthy as the feet of night, Creep in upon the wind, And drift away as fades some phantom crew Into the moonless murk of lonely seas. Birds dartle low, with quavering, startled cries; Hushed is the hum of bees. The cattle huddle; mottled butterflies Clutch at the mullein and the milkweed stalk; The hovering hawk Wings arrowy to woodward, and swart Drouth, Triumphant in its tyranny so long, Takes flight before the rain-bestowing South Whose touch to earth is soothing as a song.

AN AUTUMN PILGRIM

HE takes the open path at dawn, With golden lures to lead him on, — The truant wind's low murmurings, The surge of southward-sweeping wings. He sees the gentian by the brook Cast back at him an azure look, And marks above the soft green sod A pirouetting butterfly, Like a blown shred of goldenrod, Go drifting by.

He tastes the brew that Robin Hood Once quaffed within the ancient wood, — The aromatic essences Of beechen and of balsam trees; And feels an ardor run along His veins, and stir his lips to song, — A simple strain of reedy mirth, Echoes of airs Arcadian, Full of the ecstasy of earth, The joy of Pan.

He thrills to hear the crickets croon Beneath the arches of the noon,

When the red harvest-promise smiles From all the fruited orchard aisles; And gleans more glory from the hues That on the hill slopes flame and fuse,— Senses in them a stronger spell Than in the radiant dyes that glow On canvases by Raphael And Angelo.

And if the dusk and dewfall find Him still unhoused, he knows them kind, Like the light touch of tender hands; And through the quiet autumn lands, Accompanied by dreams, he goes, His spirit filled with sweet repose; Then on the bosom of the west A fair beam beckons from afar, A guerdon, and a guide to rest, —One pilgrim star!

REWARD

IF so be the dawn withhold Something of its flooding gold, If so be the noon refuse Something from its brimming cruse, If so be the eve repress Something of its tenderness, Shall I, clothed in doubt and pride, Cry my meed has been denied? Nay, but let me rather rise Toward that hour of certainties When my merit cup shall be Filled with what is due to me!

THE MYSTERY

A LITTLE stirring of the mold, A little green, a little gold, And lo, from out the umber earth, Life's mystery of birth!

A little stirring of the mold To cover something spent and old, And lo, with fleeting of a breath, Life's mystery of death!

ALTARS

MANKIND of old reared altars on the hills, And made burnt offerings, and chanted prayers Unto the Unseen Spirit, for the heights, The winds, the vasts of the untrammeled sky, Seemed nearest to Divinity, but we, — We know that God is in the riven depths Of canyons, in the wood's green fastnesses, Yea, on the broad breast of the whelming sea, And rear our holiest altars in the heart!

WHO KNOWS THE MASTER MAKER'S MIND

WHO knows the Master Maker's mind, Who knows the Master Maker's art, That shaped the wings that are the wind, And moulded red the rose's heart?

We mark new marvels every day; New wonders every day we find; Yet who, in all our clan of clay, Who knows the Master Maker's mind?

HONEYCOMBS

WITHIN the clover's crimson cells The brown bee finds delectables, And, gathering, he bears them home To store within the honeycomb Against the chill of barren days, When white drifts gird the clover-ways.

Observant of the toiler bee, May we not learn philosophy? Nor let the sweetnesses that lie Wide spread beneath God's open sky Neglected and ungarnered go, At dawn-break and at even-glow, But store them in a place apart, That honeycomb which is the heart!

THE PLAYHOUSE OF DREAMS

WHILE the blue dawn-wind by us streams, And clouds of evening move or mass, We dwell in our Playhouse of Dreams, Where visions gleam as in a glass.

The puppets pass, the puppets pair, Acting in varied guise their parts, With comic or with tragic air, And all the old unchanging arts.

And though like wraiths they fade and flee, Yet very real each actor seems, For 'tis the play of Life we see Dwelling in our Playhouse of Dreams!

SHIPS

WHITHER, O barques that plough the plunging brine On wide adventure, whither do you fare? Down dim horizons through the sparkling air I mark your slowly lessening hulls decline. Seek you far ports below the distant line, Rio or Argentine, or do you dare The perils of the Horn, and hope to share Pacific seas, where palm fronds shift and shine?

You know not what awaits you, glow or gloom, The peaceful homing, or the deep sea doom; The haven, or the reef in its white lair; So do I question on the sea of life, That ocean of commingled calm and strife, Whither, O mortals, whither do you fare?

ORACLES

BEFORE the birth-song of the Galilean Thrilled through the spheres afar, Long ere the echo of that sweet peace pæan Was borne from star to star,

Men sought from prophets, priests, and statues graven, To gain some gleam of light That should illume the future's pathway, paven With shadows dark as night.

Deep in the heart of Libyan deserts arid Was Ammon's altar reared, And long and patiently the pilgrims tarried To list the voice they feared.

The laureled Pythian priestess of Apollo, From hills that Delphi crown, Inspired by breathings from her cave's black hollow, Sent her weird visions down.

Dodonian oaks, through which low tongues seemed crying To every wandering breeze,

Drew, by their power of wondrous prophesying, Strange folk far over seas.

Happy were they who dreamed of no deceiving, Whate'er the worshiped shrine, Who lived undoubting lives out, still believing In tokens sibylline!

Shall we, who bow before the one eternal And gracious Godhead, hold In scorn what they deemed sacred in those vernal Sweet Grecian days of old?

Nay, nay, for while its lustrous light outflinging Clear gleams the morning star, The vocal trees, the free birds' rapturous singing, Will be oracular!

I HAVE SEEN BEAUTY

I HAVE seen beauty where the hills of spring Lifted against the morning's flooding gold, Enrobed as with divine appareling, Haloed and aureoled.

I have seen beauty where the summer slopes In rose and flaming poppy dipped away To valleys hung with sunset, like rich hopes, At the decline of day.

I have seen beauty where the autumn woods Spread their resplendent arras to the breeze, Wherefrom the sense gained new beatitudes, And undreamed harmonies.

I have seen beauty where the winter skies Pulsed with the pale auroras from the pole, Above wide fields that to the wondering eyes Were like a stainless scroll.

I have seen beauty in the gloom and glow, Upon the earth, in the engirdling air, Till deep within my heart of hearts I know Beauty dwells everywhere.

THE APIARY

HERE the wingèd honey seeker Pours from out his brimming beaker Clover essences, and fine Nectar from the columbine. Here is found the rare fulfilment Of ambrosial distilment. Ne'er was more delicious hoard From Olympian chalice poured, — Burden from the lily cell; Guerdon from the pimpernel; Filchment from the larkspur tall, And the rose imperial! Who, at such divine delight, Would not turn a Sybarite! Linger o'er the attared cup Till the latest star be up! Join in rouse and revelry At the Tavern of the Bee!

THE CALL OF THE HILLS

I LIST its sound in the night, The surge song of the sea; I mark it, a welter of white Or gray with the driven rain; I watch it broad and bright, A sapphire harmony, — But the hills call and the rills call, so it's ho, for the hills again!

The ships go wavering by,And fade on the faint sea rim; Graceful the white gulls fly, Their cry like a far refrain; The low wind comes like a sigh From the outer islands dim, — But the hills call and the rills call, so it's ho, for the hills again!

I turn my back on the foam, On the long curved line of shore, On the dunes and the reedy loam And the murmur of the main; Oh, the hill man seeks his home As the sailor the ocean's roar! Hark! the hills call and the rills call, so it's ho, for the hills again!

LIFE

SENTIENT from out the illimitable void, With darkness palpitant, into a space Concave, with vasts of scintillating blue, And peopled by innumerable forms, Was I cast groping. Overhead an eye Of dazzling fire depended, and there rose Murmurs of voices multitudinous, And sound of wind and waters. Then the light Failed, and above upon the gloom were pricked Irradiant sparks, and slowly there upclomb A luminous spectral disc. Again the fire; Again and yet again the ghostly orb; And aye the sound of voice and wind and wave! Now was I stung with cold, now scorched with heat; Now racked with pain, now swept with ecstasy. Then suddenly, and ere I was aware What meant the ceaseless shuttle, — the great void! And, as I passed, a whisper —"That was Life!"

THE FISHERMAN

A MANY men there be that go, Free footed, wandering to and fro Athwart God's open, sun-kissed ways, Their hearts o'erbrimmmg with the praise Of all the wilding things that are Beneath the steadfast sun and star; And foremost of this roving clan I love the ardent fisherman!

He carries still within his breast An incommunicable zest, A fervor that may never tire, A flame unwavering, a desire Unquenchable as is the dawn, That leads him on and ever on; And though he's fain of spoil, at root His primal passion is pursuit!

His pulses throb and thrill to feel The vibrant whirring of his reel; Elation fills him when he spies Upon his line the gleaming prize; Yet when the sunset embers burn Low in the twilight's purple urn,

And he has no reward to show, Is he dark-browed and doleful? No!

Another day, another hour, Fortune may yield her shining shower! Still in his bosom bides the lure As fixed as is the cynosure. It is the striving, not the gain, That lifts us to the loftiest plane; The quest, although we miss the goal, That stays the fibre of the soul!

And so, whate'er his class or clan, I love the ardent fisherman!

AN AUTUMN SONG

SLOW reddening dawns, and early purpling eves Lit by the glamour of the vesper star; Under the noon a wind that faintly grieves Behind the hills afar.

A surge of hastening wings toward distant seas Beneath the azure of the tropic day; O'er all the land resplendent tapestries That fade like dreams away.

Beauty about us in alluring guise, Her radiant path by golden gossamer crossed, And yet at heart, perceived in subtle wise, A sense of something lost.

DUST

TINY atoms of dust Wavering down the wind! And they might have been the heart of the rose, Or the fragrant drift of apple-snows, Or the quince's cloven rind.

Beauty flees as a dream When the morning twilight wanes, Fades like the harvest aureole, But ever the fragile, breathing soul Of loveliness remains!

AT THE FALLING OF THE LEAF

WHEN I behold the red leaf fade and fall And the lush grasses to dull umber turn, When the green fronds have withered on the fern, And bare vines lie along the orchard wall, I am like one who from a festival, Where bright lights toss and fragrant spices burn, And rich wines sparkle in the brimming urn, Retreats into the night and hears the call

Of something imminent on earth, in air, Some portent, omen, sign or prophecy Of things calamitous that are to be; One who goes forward shaken and aware, While darkness spreads its vast veil everywhere, In nature's death of our mortality.

DUSK

HER feet along the dewy hills Are lighter than blown thistledown; She bears the glamour of one star Upon her violet crown.

With her soft touch of mothering, How soothing to the sense she seems! She holds within her gentle hand The quiet gift of dreams.

AUTUMN IN THE BEECH WOOD

WE to the beechen wood will go, While the hale winds of morning blow, To taste of idleness awhile, And let life's troubled currents flow Afar from our enchanted isle.

There shall be naught to mar our mood Within the calm and cloistral wood; An immaterial wizard's wand Will fill us with beatitude From crimson leaf and yellowing frond.

There shall be speech enough for us In the faint thrush note tremulous, In the low twittering of the wren; Earth's loveliness, made conscious thus, Will flood the sense and soul again.

The imminence we shall descry Of spirit wings that wander by Upon serene celestial ways, And be uplifted, you and I, Above our transitory days!

SANCTUARY

LET us put by some hour of every day For holy things! —whether it be when dawn Peers through the window pane, or when the noon Flames, like a burnished topaz, in the vault, Or when the thrush pours in the ear of eve Its plaintive monody; some little hour Wherein to hold rapt converse with the soul, From sordidness and self a sanctuary, Swept by the winnowing of unseen wings, And touched by the White Light Ineffable!

NOW NO BIRD SINGS

Now no bird sings On the beechen spray, And no leaf clings To the ashen briar; But upon a day Not far away There'll be winnow of wings And a crimson fire, God's hand at play On the loom of May, God's hand at play on the lyre!

THE GREAT CARBUNCLE

FLAMELIKE upon the mountain's cragged face Glowed the Great Carbuncle; beneath the noon A rival to the sun's eye, and when night Unfolded all the spangle of its stars, A crimson lure that leaped from ledge to ledge, Glinted like dancing marsh-fires through the trees, Climbed the sheer heights, and hung above the crest A beckoning splendor.

To the vale below At shut of summer twilight came the Man, And raised amazèd eyes, for while the shades Empurpled all the valley, far o'erhead Flamelike upon the mountain's cragged face Glowed the Great Carbuncle, and burned and shed A double sunset. Through his midnight dreams Pulsed the irradiant vision, as a forge Pulses what time the metal's molten mass Gushes from out its maw. And when the dawn Flowered, and he saw his dream was not a dream, Haste hung upon his footsteps while he fared Up still and up, like many another led By the false gleam of avarice. In his brain Lights leaped and throbbed, — rich imageries of power Like those that swept the thought of Tamerlane

And Alexander, — the broad world his fee Could he but grasp the jewel. So he came, As none had come in all those elder days, Though nameless ones had striven madly, where Flamelike upon the mountain's cragged face Glowed the Great Carbuncle.

His trembling arms Outyearned to clasp the cincture of the stone, When, like a breathing thing, it loosed and leaped From the bedrock, cleft, as the lightning cleaves, A deep-girthed pine bole, then the awaiting lake Embosomed it forever, while the Man Stared, fraught with frenzy, then too poised and leaped.

Now in the wan late watches of the moon Mysterious ripples as of ruby run Across the hill-hid waters, nor are lost Until they mingle with the rose of morn.

SOLI DEO GLORIA

IN middle heaven a form behold; Fair-aureoled Her shapely brow with noon-bright gold; Soli Deo Gloria!

Upon a little cloud she stands, Within her hands A tympanum with scarlet bands; Soli Deo Gloria!

Thereon she playeth without fault, While up the vault Her voice makes silvery assault, —Soli Deo Gloria!

Till, blended with her soaring notes, Adown there floats An echo from a myriad throats, —Soli Deo Gloria!

An angel she of God's own choir, Whose one desire Is higher yet to chant, and higher, —Soli Deo Gloria!

And every year, upon the morn When Christ was born Within the manger-bed forlorn, —Soli Deo Gloria!

'Tis hers to bid song's raptures run From sun to sun, And list to earth's low antiphon, —Soli Deo Gloria!

Would that our praise might swell and rise Along the skies, And scale the gates of Paradise, — Soli Deo Gloria!

Bearing, with more complete accord, Unto the Lord, — Forevermore our watch and ward, — Soli Deo Gloria!

TIlE WIND BEGUILETH ALL

THE wind beguileth all; Elusive lisper, Hear him whisper, — whisper, — whisper, —Mellow in rise and eloquent in fall! He plays the lover, With bird-like poise and dart and hover, Lipping forevermore a madrigal. White Janivere, or sapphire June, Autumnal days, or hour Aprilian, A golden tune He breathes, as from the ancient pipes of Pan.

O wandering troubadour, Ever evasive, Still penetrant, persistent and persuasive, I love to lie and listen to your lure! For now I know the lotused marges Of the mysterious Nile, Where, in the time long dead, the deep-oared barges Moored 'neath the shadow of some kingly pile; And now I am aware of some fair garden (Ah, radiant span!) That hath for warden The rose of Ispahan;

And now I am transported By fluctuant melodies To where the drowsing coral isles are courted By the warm arms of Austral-Asian seas.

Dawn-flush, noon-languor, eve's purpureal Pallor behind the hill-crests, if it fall Upon attunèd ears, — the earth-old call, —The wind, the minstrel wind, beguileth all!

DAFFODIL TIME

IT is daffodil time, so the robins all cry, For the sun's a big daffodil up in the sky, And when down the midnight the owl calls "to-whoo!" Why, then the round moon is a daffodil too; How sheer to the bough-tops the sap starts to climb, So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time!

It is time for the song; it is time for the sonnet; It is time for Belinda to have a new bonnet, All fashioned and furbished with things that are fair, To rest like a crown on her daffodil hair; Love beats in the heart like the pulse of a rhyme, So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time!

It is time when the vales and the hills cry "Away! Come, join in the joy of the daffodil day!" For somewhere one waits, with a glow on her face, With her daffodil smile, and her daffodil grace. There's a lilt in the air, there's a cheer, there's a chime, So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time!

WOOING SONG

'TWAS at the marge of summertide, ere mowers made the hay, When the sweet breath of eglantine blew up the meadow-way; The south-wind to its tender lute made many a mellow vow; "It's time to be a-wooing!" sang the red-bird on the bough; "Sooth, if you wish to woo her, why, you'd better woo her now!"

Ripe red the wilding strawberries were growing in the grass; "Oh, bending daisy blooms," said I, "and did you see her pass?" They nodded and they nodded, and they nodded once again, And there she was a-coming at the turning of the lane; My heart was fleeter than my feet, although my feet were fain.

Her smile was like the break o' dawn— (I'll give you just a clue!)

Her eyes, her hair, her cheeks, — but there, no simile will do! I clasped her willing hands in mine — (what little hands she had!) The red-bird kept a-chorusing; the very trees were, glad; Aye, all the world was gay that day around one lass and lad!

STRAWBERRIES

AGAIN the year is at the prime, With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon; Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time Foots to a gamesome tune. So, ho, my lads, an' if you will But follow underneath the hill, It's strawberries! strawberries! You shall feast, and have your fill.

The elder clusters promise wineWheredips the path along the lane; The early lowing of the kine Floats like a far refrain. You will forget to dream indeed Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed In strawberries! strawberries! That wait for us in Martin's mead.

Then haste, before the sun be high, And, haply, catch the morning star, For, ere the cups of dew be dry, The berries sweetest are. And if, perchance, a rustic lass In merriment a-milking pass, It's strawberries! strawberries! On her lips as in the grass.

AT DARLEY DALE

(EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SONG)

AT Darley Dale the hedges Are vocal all with birds That sound their loving pledges In little silvery words; At Darley Dale the herds Are sleek and fat and fine; I stand and gaze and watch them graze; Oh, would these herds were mine!

At Darley Dale the flowers, They look such happy things; Above their heads the showers Pass by on rainbow wings; At Darley Dale there clings Rich verdure to the vine; Rose, violet and mignonette, — Oh, would these blooms were mine!

At Darley Dale there hovers About no cloud of cares, And lasses and their lovers Go up and down in pairs; At Darley Dale the airs Of each maid seem divine; And there is one I dote upon, —Oh, would this maid were mine!

Come, Courage, come, and take me by the hand! I have a long and weary way to go, And what may be the end I do not know, — I do not understand.

Come, Courage, come, and take me by the hand! Be thou my mentor! Be my guide and stay! The path is one I may not fare by day; It leads through night's dim land.

Come, Courage, come, and take me by the hand! Gird me with faith, the radiant faith to see Beyond the darkness immortality; Thus may the gulf be spanned. Come, Courage, come, and take me by the hand!