To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

I

THE LAUREL

AN ODE TO MARY DAY LANIER

("The Laurel," written long ago and only printed by the author for his friends, was delayed from publication awaiting a projected volume which was to be dedicated to his mother and called "Odes and Hymns." This volume was never prepared, so that "The Laurel" is now first published for for general public. H.H.)

[str. (strophe) α.

O LADY loved of our sweet sunrise singer Whose name Song speaks with lingering of the lips, Our laureate of the marshes, our light-bringer Out of the darkness of fair Love's eclipse! Out of the jar of ways that Trade has turned Into a mart where Love may have no place Save it be bought and sold, A rare fair soul like a clear lamp burned And shot through the mirk its sudden rays And over the smoke-pit a glimmer of gold Flashed and a voice, like the brook-note of a flute That in its passioning still is pure and cool, Or the clear sharp dropping of water into a pool When all the woods are mute, Spake and the sound thereof Brake through the barrier, Keen as the silver sword of the moon; "Woe to the warrior

Liegeman of Love Found, when the fighting Grows fierce for the victor's boon, Far from the foeman! See where the dark hosts stay for our smiting!" O gracious, queenly, softly-smiling woman! Thee with his light and sweetness this man dowered, To whom the laurel leaf of right belongs. Ah me! and how should I Take from thy hands the branch that greened and flowered More beautifully, tangled in his hair, Amid the city's flowerless throngs, Than when beside the braes of Delaware It swayed beneath the languid sky, Ere it was honored, honoring his songs.

[ant. (antistrophe) α.

Not unto me, not unto me, fair Lady — I dare not let the sacred leaves be bound About my brow. My song is all unready So soon to seek so greatly to be crowned. I would go find some sager singer — sure, There are wise poets somewhere in the world — And yield the wreath to him. My song-flight yet is but insecure, The blooms of my rose-tree scarce uncurled, The blush of the blossoming faint and dim.

Ah, but I may not resign so the high crown Nor to another deliver its dear weight. Thou hast bound my brow with it, mine — crowned me in state — Set me above Time's frown. Not I may undo the deed Wrought by thee royally, Queen in thy right and the love of thy lord! Let me then loyally Kneel in my need And pray that Apollo Breathe wisdom into the word That my lips shall deliver. So shall my song fly swift as the swallow To greet thee with its perfected endeavor, Saying; "My lord that wrought me, sends me theeward, The late fulfilment of the labor thou Didst bind upon his youth." As sea-gulls turn their singing flight to seaward, I turn me to the mighty sea of song, Guiding the glad swerve of the prow Of my light boat of melody down long Sea-ways of beauty, freedom, truth, Eastward where Day shall bare his rosy brow.

[ep. (epode) α.

I take the lyre with steady hand But reverent, knowing well how long And bitter are the ways of song, How few that reach its Promised Land. I know my weakness and my strength; I know that the toil will task me sore; And, though glad and proud, I am made at length More humble of heart than I was before. For I felt, when my song was so o'er-requited, As a maid when she first finds love and is still, And my soul knelt down as a thrall new-knighted, Abashed and wondering, weak to fulfil. For he should be strong who shall wear this crown, Wise and great-hearted, just to king and clown, Sweet and serene and full of grace And pure as Daphne ere the fatal race — Daphne, the daughter of the river god, Whose beauty was a pearl whose worth surpassed The cruel wealth the Cretan's touch amassed. But she loved more the woodland paths she trod Untrammeled, than the rule of Hymen's rod, And pleading many times for leave to cast Her lot with virgin Artemis, at last Won from her father the consenting nod. And she and her maidens withdrew from the fret and the pother Back to the home in the heart of the sweet rough mother,

Mother of all things, the earth, and drank of the crystalline chalice She fills for her children that love her, a cup of refreshing and peace, Chased the roe on the rocks and hunted the hart through the valleys, Raced in sport through the groves with gowns kilted up to the knees, Saw through the mists of the morning the gleam of the cold dawn shining, Ranged through many a woodland and bathed in many a stream, Wonderful, virginal, holy, aloof from desire and repining; And Artemis smiled on the maidens and the days went fleet as a dream.

[str. (strophe) β.

But Love, who saves and slays in a strange fashion, Smote twain for this maid-queen of glens and glades. Love pierced the great Apollo with keen passion, And sent Leucippus masking with the maids. It is an ill thing to contend with gods. Leucippus did not long behold the light In the leaves like sifted gold. Lo, they have stripped him and beaten with rods, Mocked him and cursed him and slain him quite. But Daphne far from the strife sat cold,

Lone and unmoved, and the god came to her there, Abashed, and lay at her feet and begged his bliss With the lips Song sprang from, and sighed his soul for a kiss — He, to whom kings made prayer. So great Apollo sued; But she, with her maiden heart Fluttered and frayed as a bird in a snare, Fled with fear-laden heart Into the wood. And Apollo up-leaping And rent with desire and despair, Sped after her, crying: "Ah, leave me not, love, to lie widowed and weeping! Oh, Daphne! Daphne!" and the sound went sighing, "Oh, Daphne!" softlier through the echoing arches, But the maid flees the swiftlier that the air Shakes with that longing sound. Swift, swift the sweet shape speeds between the larches! Swift, swift the god pursues, and now is near With arms outstretched to clasp! Despair Spurs her — but love has faster feet than fear. She hears his sandals smite the ground And feels his breathing on her neck and hair.

[ant. (antistrophe) β.

And now the glad god feels the grapes of joyance Bursting upon the palate of his soul. A storm-like exultation, a mad buoyance Sweeps all the cords of life from his control. But ere his lips touch hers, she gives one shrill Cry, and is heard; and the captor whose swift arms close About her like the dark, Feels the throbs subside and the limbs grow still And the smooth breasts stiffen that fell and rose, And the ripe mouth roughen to bitter bark Under the pressure of lips fierce for a kiss. "Ai, ai, me wretched!" the god mourns in his woe, "Ah, the sweet eyes closed and the fleet limbs fettered! And oh, The fair life gone amiss! Ah, the beauty! the grace! Ah, the delight of it! The fleet light flash of her flying feet! Never shall sight of it Now flush my face In near land or far land. Yet not wholly I lose thee, my sweet! On my brow, a dear burden, Thy leaves shall be laid, my grief and my garland. For loss of love I am given a barren guerdon —

An austere crown for raptures hymeneal. And ever henceforth he whom my lovers laud, Shall wear this sacred leaf — The Daphne of his unattained Ideal Imperishably laurelled in his hair. And now I go. My feet have trod A weary way. I see Fate does not spare Even to the Immortals failure and grief. I also have my duties, though a god."

[ep. (epode) β.

Spirit of beauty, not without A hidden sorrow at thy heart We fable thee, — though what thou art In truth, we cannot choose but doubt, — For all the beauty that we know Is pierced with a secret sense of pain, And not till the time-floods cease to flow Can the sad and sweet be cleft in twain. O grand Greek god! — for I hold it true, That strange myth blown from the Doric sea — O bay-bound brow that so well I knew, When faith was an easy thing to me! Bright god of song! Strong lord of light! Earth and the sea take beauty at thy sight; The Python shrivels, pierced with thy lance; And the dead rise at thy life-giving glance.

Spirit of beauty, born of the divine breath With its first issuance into Time and Space! Shaping the whole creation into grace Through intimate interflux of life and death! Lifting the transient, as it anguisheth, To the serene wherein change hath no place! High Son of God, that lookest on God's face! Supremest angel that God uttereth! Make me a flute for thy lips, a lute for thy fingers! Take me, O lord of the lyre, — the least of thy singers, Least of the voices that follow thee, lured from thy feet by none other, Least of thy servants, Apollo, whose wages are sunlight and tears — Take me to rest in thy deeps, as a child at the breast of its mother, Give me the peace of thy kiss and strength for the strife of the years! Bitter and sweet are thy gifts. Thou hast borne me aloft as a feather That the wind blows hither and thither till it falls in the foam of the sea; Thou hast given me haven and home; thou hast given me wind and rough weather; And I lift thee my heart for a lyre, for the gifts thou hast given to me.

[str. (strophe) γ.

Behold, of him unto whom much is given,Much is required. It is a fearful thingTo be a poet. How shall he be shriven,If greed or fear restrain his uttering?Oh, ill for him, whoever he may be,Who looks upon the glory of the nightAnd is not glad of heart!Behold, he hath eyes and he doth not see!How shall his soul see the very light?Shall he ever emerge from the mirk of the mart?Ay, but if he whom the high gods have ordained Their priest, speak not the truth that his eye shall see,There shall be no spirit in hell so scourged as he —No soul so self-disdained.Woe to the chosen one,Lured from his lonely way,Bullied or bribed to abandon the shrine!There is one only way —None other — none.Lady, whose bay-flowersI wear for a fear and a sign,If the world should beguile meWith music and masking and glitter of gay flowers,Then I could not reply, should'st thou revile me,

Wordless and more in high contempt than ire.Ay, even if, feeling at sight of the sweet goalMine own unworthiness,I should delay to seize the seven-tongued lyre,Lest I should do its sacred strings some wrong,Thou might'st well leave me with small doleAnd he who is the Virgil to my song,Scorning my timorous distress,Might well reproach the vileness of my soul.

[ant. (antistrophe) γ.

There is so much that I would fain be singing, I know not if my voice may fail, my friend, Nor if the years may ever see me bringing My lyric labors to a tranquil end. The new world, rising from its fiery death, Spreads its strong, phoenix-wings for sunward flight, Impatient of the past. The Trade-snake belches his foul black breath From a thousand throats and the throng takes fright. And cowers and the sky is overcast. Hark, but the hurry of hoof-beats in the air! The new Bellerophon of the unborn years! And his cry rings out like a victor's shout in our ears,

Piercing the monster's lair. Song is the steed he rides, Wisdom the bridle-rein. Who shall withstand him? Who shall delay? Not with an idle rein Grimly he guides. Death for the dragon! For men, where a fen was, a way For the footing of freemen! Then shall the poets pour us a flagon, Sweet as rain to the throats of ship-wrecked seamen, And the spent world shall draw a freer breath, — Though still may men see Faith as one astray, And Hope with weary eyes, And wan Love beating at the gates of Death. Wise eyes shall pierce the darkness with sweet scorn And wise lips clarion our way Through ever loftier portals of the morn, With lark-songs greatening as they rise In the large glories of the coming day.

[ep. (epode) γ.

For surely from the childing night That labors in a God's birth-throes, Shall come at last dawn's baby-rose, The potency of perfect light.

I see the seraph of the years, Asleep in the womb of the Lord's intent, And the ripple of laughter in his ears Is seen on his face as a great content. And the wise lips smile and the grand brow flushes For joy at the joy that his own arm brings, Like a smile of May when the wild rose blushes. And deep in the thicket the wood-thrush sings. I see him at rest on the rim of Time, Stretched on the cloud-rack, couchant and sublime, And the swift white sword at his side, half-drawn, Flashes a distant glimmer of the dawn. I see, though darkly, what my spirit sought; I see what is, beneath what comes and goes; I see the sweet unfolding of the rose, By changeless influence to full beauty brought; I hear the symphony intricately wrought; Dim meanings swell through deep adagios And underneath the myriad chords disclose The perfect act of God that changeth not. Behold, He is other than earth and transcendeth its seeming; Behold, He is one with the earth and the earth is His dreaming. Soul of the world, say the sages; yea, sooth, but not bound in a prison, For the soul dwelleth not in the body, but the body doth dwell in the soul.

O Holy of Holies! Inscrutable! Ageless! through Thee have we risen; Thou art, but our being is yearning, — we are not save as parts of Thy whole. Only by cleaving to Thee have Thy creatures the life that rejoices, Knowing itself to be, verily; the rest is but seeming to be; And the whole world, groaning in travail, cries out with its manifold voices,"O Lord, in Thee have we trusted; there is no life but in Thee!"

SEAWARD

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS

"Il tremolar della marina."

— DANTE.

THE tide is in the marshes. Far away In Nova Scotia's woods they follow me, Marshes of distant Massachusetts Bay, Dear marshes, where the dead once loved to be! I see them lying yellow in the sun, And hear the mighty tremor of the sea Beyond the dunes where blue cloud shadows run,

I know that there the tide is coming in, Secret and slow, for in my heart I feel The silent swelling of a stress akin; And in my vision, lo! blue glimpses steal Across the yellow marsh-grass, where the flood, Filling the empty channels, lifts the keel Of one lone catboat bedded in the mud.

The tide is in the marshes. Kingscroft fades; It is not Minas there across the lea; But I am standing under pilgrim shades Far off where Scituate lapses to the sea. And he, my elder brother in the muse, The poet of the Charles and Italy, Stands by my side, Song's gentle, shy recluse.

The hermit thrush of singers, few might draw So near his ambush in the solitude As to be witness of the holy awe And passionate sweetness of his singing mood Not oft he sang, and then in ways apart, Where foppish ignorance might not intrude To mar the joy of his sufficing art.

Only for love of song he sang, unbid And unexpectant of responsive praise; But they that loved and sought him where he hid Forbearing to profane his templed ways,

Went marveling if that clear voice they heard Pass thrilling through the hushed religious maze Were of a spirit singing or a bird.

Alas, he is not here, he will not sing; The air is empty of him evermore. Alone I watch the slow kelp-gatherers bring Their dories full of sea-moss to the shore. No gentle eyes look out to sea with mine, No gentle lips are uttering quaint lore, No hand is on my shoulder for a sign.

Far, far, so far, the crying of the surf! Still, still, so still, the water in the grass! Here on the knoll the crickets in the turf, And one bold squirrel barking, seek, alas, To bring the swarming summer back to me. In vain — my heart is on the salt morass Below, that stretches to the sunlit sea.

Interminable, not to be divined, The ocean's solemn distances recede; A gospel of glad color to the mind, But for the soul a voice of sterner creed. The sadness of unfathomable things Calls from the waste and makes the heart give heed With answering dirges, as a seashell sings.

Mother of infinite loss! Mother bereft! Thou of the shaken hair! Far-questing Sea! Sea of the lapsing wail of waves! O left Of many lovers! Lone, lamenting Sea! Desolate, proud, disheveled, lost sublime! Unquelled and reckless! Mad, despairing Sea! Wail, for I wait — wail, ancient dirge of Time!

No more, no more that brow to greet, no more! Mourn, bitter heart! mourn, fool of Fate! Again Thy lover leaves thee; from thy pleading shore Swept far beyond the caverns of the rain, No phantom of him lingers on the air. Thy foamy fingers reach for his — in vain! In vain thy salt breath searches for his hair!

Mourn gently, tranquil marshes, mourn with me! Mourn, if acceptance so serene can mourn! Grieve, marshes, tho' your noonday melody Of color thrill through sorrow like a horn Blown far in Elfland! Mourn, free-wandering dunes. For he has left you of his voice forlorn, Who sang your slopes full of an hundred Junes.

O viking Death, what hast thou done with him? Sea-wolf of Fate, marauder of the shore! Storm reveler, to what carousal grim Hast thou compelled him? Hark, through the Sea's roar

Heroic laughter mocking us afar! There will no answer come for evermore, Though for his sake Song beacon to a star.

Mourn, Muse beyond the sea! Ausonian Muse! Mourn, where thy vinelands watch the day depart! Mourn for him, where thy sunsets interfuse, Who loved thy beauty with no alien heart And sang it in his not all alien line! Muse of the passionate thought and austere art!O Dante's Muse! lament his son and thine.

And thou, divine one of this western beach! A double loss has left thee desolate; Two rooms are vacant in thy House of Speech, Two ghosts have vanished through the open gate. The Attic spirit, epicure of light, The Doric heart, strong, simple, passionate, Thy priest of Beauty and thy priest of Right.

Last of the elder choir save one whose smile Is gentler, for its memories, they rest. Mourn, goddess, come apart and mourn awhile! Come with thy sons, lithe Song-Queen of the West, — The poet Friend of Poets, the great throng Of seekers on the long elusive quest, And the lone voice of Arizonian song.

Nor absent they, thy latest-born, O Muse,My young companions in Art's wildwood ways; She whose swift verse speaks words that smite and bruise With scarlet suddenness of flaming phrase, Virginia's hawk of Song; and he who sings Alike his people's homely rustic lays, And his fine spirit's high imaginings,

Far-stretching Indiana's melodist; Quaint, humorous, full of quirks and wanton whims, Full throated with imagination kissed; With these two pilgrims from auroral streams. The Greek revealer of Canadian skies, And thy close darling, voyager of dreams, Carman, the sweetest, strangest voice that cries.

And thou, friend of my heart, in fireside bonds Near to the dead, not with the poet's bay Brow-bound but eminent with kindred fronds, Paint us some picture of the summer day For his memorial — the distant dune, The marshes stretching palpitant away And blue sea fervid with the stress of noon.

For we were of the few who knew his face, Nor only heard the rumor of his fame; This house beside the sea the sacred place Where first with thee to clasp his hand I came —

Art's knight of courtesy, eager to commend, Who to my youth accorded the dear name Of poet, and the dearer name of friend.

Ah, that last bottle of old Gascon wine We drank together! I remember too How carefully he placed it where the shine Of the warm sun might pierce it through and through, — Wise in all gentle, hospitable arts — And there was sunshine in it when we drew The cork and drank, and sunshine in our hearts.

O mourners by the sea, who loved him most! I watch you where you move, I see you all; Unmarked I glide among you like a ghost, And on the portico, in room and hall, Lay visionary fingers on your hair. You do not feel their unsubstantial fall Nor hear my silent tread, but I am there.

I would my thought had but the weakest throat, To set the air a-vibrate with a word. Alas! dumb, ineffectual, remote, I murmur, but my solace is not heard; Nor, could I reach you, would your grief abate. What sorrow ever was with speech deterred? What power has Song against the hand of Fate? …

Not all in vain! For with the will to serve, Myself am served, at least. A secure calm Soars in my soul with wings that will not swerve, And on my brow I feel a ministering palm. Even in the effort for another's peace I have achieved mine own. I hear a psalm Of angels, and the grim forebodings cease.

I see things as they are, nor longer yield To truce and parley with the doubts of sense. My certainty of vision goes a-field, Wide-ranging, fearless, into the immense; And finds no terror there, no ghost nor ghoul, Not to be dazzled back to impotence, Confronted with the indomitable soul.

What goblin frights us? Are we children, then, To start at shadows? Things fantastic slay The imperishable spirit in whose ken Their only birth is? Blaze one solar ray Across the grisly darkness that appals, And where the gloom was murkiest, the bright Day Laughs with a light of blosmy coronals.

Stretch wide, O marshes, in your golden joy! Stretch ample, marshes, in serene delight! Proclaiming faith past tempest to destroy, With silent confidence of conscious might!

Glad of the blue sky, knowing nor wind nor rain Can do your large indifference despite, Nor lightning mar your tolerant disdain!

The fanfare of the trumpets of the sea Assaults the air with jubilant foray; The intolerable exigence of glee Shouts to the sun and leaps in radiant spray; The laughter of the breakers on the shore Shakes like the mirth of Titans heard at play, With thunders of tumultuous uproar.

Playmate of terrors! Intimate of Doom! Fellow of Fate and Death! Exultant Sea! Thou strong companion of the Sun, make room! Let me make one with you, rough comrade Sea! Sea of the boisterous sport of wind and spray! Sea of the lion mirth! Sonorous Sea! I hear thy shout, I know what thou wouldst say.

Dauntless, triumphant, reckless of alarms, O Queen that laughest Time and Fear to scorn! Death, like a bridegroom, tosses in thine arms. The rapture of your fellowship is borne Like music on the wind. I hear the blare, The calling of the undesisting horn, And tremors as of trumpets on the air.

Sea-Captain of whose keels the Sea is fain, Death, Master of a thousand ships, each prow That sets against the thunders of the main Is lyric with thy mirth. I know thee now, O Death, I shout back to thy hearty hail, Thou of the great heart and cavernous brow, Strong Seaman at whose look the north winds quail.

Poet, thou hast adventured in the roar Of mighty seas with one that never failed To make the havens of the further shore. Beyond that vaster Ocean thou hast sailed What old immortal world of beauty lies! What land where Light for matter has prevailed! What strange Atlantid dream of Paradise!

Down what dim bank of violets did he come, The mild historian of the Sudbury Inn, Welcoming thee to that long-wished-for home? What talk of comrades old didst thou begin? What dear inquiry lingered on his tongue Of the Sicilian, ere he led thee in To the eternal company of Song?

There thy co-laborers and high compeers Hailed thee as courtly hosts some noble guest, —Poe, disengloomed with the celestial years, Calm Bryant, Emerson of the antique zest

And modern vision, Lowell all a-bloom At last, unwintered of his mind's unrest, And Whitman, with the old superb aplomb.

Not far from these Lanier, deplored so oft From Georgian live-oaks to Acadian firs, Walks with his friend as once at Cedarcroft. And many more I see of speech diverse; From whom a band aloof and separate, Landor and Meleager in converse And lonely Collins for thy greeting wait.

But who is this that from the mightier shades Emerges, seeing whose sacred laureate hair Thou startest forward trembling through the glades, Advancing upturned palms of filial prayer? Long hast thou served him; now, of lineament Not stern but strenuous still, thy pious care He comes to guerdon. Art thou not content?

Forbear, O Muse, to sing his deeper bliss,What tenderer meetings, what more secret joys! Lift not the veil of heavenly privacies! Suffice it that nought unfulfilled alloys The pure gold of the rapture of his rest, Save that some linger where the jarring noise Of earth afflicts, whom living he caressed.

His feet are in thy courts, O Lord; his waysAre in the City of the Living God. Beside the eternal sources of the days He dwells, his thoughts with timeless lightings shod; His hours are exaltations and desires, The soul itself its only period And life unmeasured save as it aspires.

Time, like a wind, blows through the lyric leaves Above his head, and from the shaken boughs Æonian music falls; but he receives Its endless changes in alert repose, Nor drifts unconscious as a dead leaf blown On with the wind and senseless that it blows, But hears the chords like armies marching on.

About his path the tall swift angels are, Whose motion is like music but more sweet; The centuries for him their gates unbar; He hears the stars their Glorias repeat; And in high moments when the fervid soul Burns white with love, lo! on his gaze replete The Vision of the Godhead shall unroll —

Trine within trine, inextricably One, Distinct, innumerable, inseparate, And never ending what was ne'er begun,

Within Himself his Freedom and his Fate, All dreams, all harmonies, all Forms of light In his Infinity intrinsecate, — Until the soul no more can bear the sight.

Oh, secret, taciturn, disdainful Death! Knowing all this, why hast thou held thy peace? Master of Silence, thou wilt waste no breath On weaklings, nor to stiffen nerveless knees Deny strong men the conquest of one qualm; — And they, thy dauntless comrades, are at ease And need no speech and greet thee calm for calm.

Cast them adrift in wastes of ageless Night, Or bid them follow into Hell, they dare; So are they worthy of their thrones of light, O that great, tranquil rapture they shall share! That life compact of adamantine fire! My soul goes out across the eastern air To that far country with a wild desire! …

But still the marshes haunt me; still my thought Returns upon their silence, there to brood Till the significance of earth is brought Back to my heart, and in a sturdier moodI turn my eyes toward the distance dim, And in the purple far infinitude Watch the white ships sink under the sea-rim;

Some bound for Flemish ports or Genovese, Some for Bermuda bound, or Baltimore; Others, perchance, for further Orient seas, Sumatra and the straits of Singapore, Or antique cities of remote Cathay, Or past Gibraltar and the Libyan shore Through Bab-el mandeb eastward to Bombay;

And one shall signal flaming Teneriffe, And the Great Captive's ocean-prison speak, Then on beyond the demon-haunted cliff, By Madagascar's palms and Mozambique. Till in some sudden tropic dawn afar The Sultan sees the colors at her peak Salute the minarets of Zanzibar.

KINGSCROFT, Windsor, Nova Scotia, September, 1892.

A VISION OF PARNASSUS

TO MIRIAM

"A Vision of Parnassus" was originally published as the Dedication to Launcelot and Guenevere, but on second thought I have felt that it was a not entirely congruous part of a series of dramatic poems. I have therefore transferred it to this volume. RICHARD HOVEY.
(The proposed volume was abandoned for other plans. So many have questioned whether this poem was purely metaphorical or partly personal that it seems best to state here that it was addressed to a beautiful personality of his early acquaintance. )

GOD, in whose being only we become And in whose wisdom only we grow wise, Eternal Love! first unto Thee I come, First unto Thee I lift adoring eyes. Before Thy face the prophet's speech is air, In songs of praise the only music lies, The only wisdom in the lips of prayer.

To Thee, Allfather, come I, as a son Who goes upon his father's business In distant lands, might ask a benison Upon his errand. Be Thou nigh to bless And let Thy sweetness in my heart abound, Else all my labor is a weariness And all my singing but an empty sound.

And thou, divine Apollo, hear my cry, Thou brightness of the glory of the Lord! Thou art the wings with which my song must fly, The breathing of its lips must be thy word, Its vision be the clearness of thy seeing, If in that heaven for which its thought has soared, It would at last serenely have its being.

Master of poets, hear me as I call! Circumfluent air wherethrough I take my flight, Withdraw thou not from me nor let me fall, Failing thy buoyance, into the void night! Upbear me on thy bosom as a bird! Apollo! lord of beauty and of light! Thee I invoke! Oh, let my cry be heard!

For I at least still worship at thy shrine, Though the blind world forgets thee; I at least Have given thee thought for meat and love for wine, Although thy temples stand without a priest And no one seeks the sweet Pierian springs, While still Astarte hold her horrid feast And Mammon's altars smoke with offerings.

But I have stood upon thy holy hill, And seen thy sacred laurel-blossoms blow, — I found me in a glen beside a rill Of stainless waters whose pellucid flow

Sang not as other fountains, but with clear Articulate murmurs spake, distinct and low, A secret teaching to my wondering ear.

Hard by the twin peaks of the mountain soared Like aspirations rising from the wood To where the blue Greek heaven lay all outpoured, A living lake of liquid plenitude, And clouds were wrapped about the crest of one, But clear against the sky the other stood, Sharply defined and violet with the sun.

And longer had I listened to the lore Of that strange stream, but that there reached my ear A woeful moan that made my heart ache sore, And, looking up, I saw a lady near Who fled aghast as one in mortal dread, With drawn face rigid with a nameless fear, And still her garments tripped her as she fled.

And hard upon her heels a horrid hound, With bloody jowl and mire upon his coat, Came baying till he made the wood resound. There was a brazen collar on his throat, With intricate antique deviced chased, And on that white-limbed lady did he gloat With hungry eyes, in his malignant haste.

And I, all sudden starting to my feet, Weaponless as I was, would have pursued That savage beast to save that lady sweet— But in my path a gentle stranger stood With tranquil eyes that forced my feet to stay, And, as I marvelled, deep within the wood The noise of that fell hunting died away.

"Not with the arm of flesh," the shade began, For not among the living was that stranger, "Mayst thou attack the beast. No courage can Avail against his cruel strength. The danger By other weapons must be combated. Till they are forged, he must remain a ranger, To make this sacred wood a place of dread.

"Come with me up the hill a little space And I will speak more of these mysteries." With that toward the peak he turned his face And we together passed among the trees, And as I went, still wondering, at his side, I said to him, becoming more at ease, "Who art thou, gentle spirit?" And he replied,

"I sang of that sad-prince whose mother's guile Made the whole world a prison for his heart, And of the meek magician of the isle; And many other matters craved my art,

When Raleigh quested for the golden shore." At this, all suddenly I gave a start And broke out "Master" — and could say no more.

By this we came into an open place That made a little hollow in the hill; And here I saw, as I upraised my face, That which my spirit with such awe did fill As the young priest might feel before the shrine, First time he speaks the words at whose low thrill God smites himself into the bread and wine.

For there was Dante, all his passionate face Made glorious with that peace he long did seek. Beside him Æschylus kept his Jove-like pace. A little further off the wrinkled cheek Of ancient Homer brushed almost the curled Gold locks of David — Israelite and Greek, Twin fountains of the music of the world!

And yet one more there was who toward my guide Came smiling like the younger of two brothers — The singer of that scholar who allied The Devil to him and beheld the Mothers. And to me, too, he turned him courteously. In welcome, and he went on to the others, Who gave me greeting with sweet gravity.

Then he who first encountered me, defeating My rash speed, spoke with brief straightforwardness And told them of the manner of our meeting, And of the lady who was in such stress. And then he laid his hand upon my hair — And oh, the gentleness of that caress! —Saying to me, "And thou didst find her fair!

"This is that lady whom I throned so high! Alas, that she should be brought down so low! Each morning from that horror she must fly, Each morning be devoured by that fell foe; Yet ever when the new day quickeneth, Again she must renew her ancient woe — Perpetual struggle and perpetual death!

"If thou wilt be her knight, set forth with care, For thou shalt find a foe in every tree, To cast a venomed arrow unaware. But if thou lovest and art brave, then be Regardless of the shafts against thee hurled — Set free the lady and thou shalt set free Thyself as well and with thyself the world.

"Not as a warrior undertake this vow, But in the sacred vestments of a priest.

Song is more perilous than steel. Seek thou Until the Song-God's temple-doors thou seest And from the altar take his sword. Then follow Thy quest and do thy battle with the beast, Panoplied in the armor of Apollo."

Then, as one who has climbed a mountain peak, Sees at first glance the outspread world upstart, Valley and lake and hill, but does not seek As yet so isolate each several part, A-gaze in contemplation of the whole, So all my song came rushing on my heart And as a flame joy flashed up in my soul.

And as a flame that flashes and goes out, So all that rapture quickly sank and died, For that great theme benumbed me with misdoubt If I, in truth, were strong enough to guide The chariot of so intricate a rhyme. "Alas, this quest is not for me," I sighed. "Master, why point me where I cannot climb?

"The tragic laurel is not for my head — A simple singer, artless and unwise." Thereat the Tuscan turned to me and said Gravely, all Beatrice in his eyes, "And art thou worthy, then, of Miriam?"' And I was dumb a moment for surprise And my heart said, "Unworthy, indeed, I am."

But shame, as for a creaven thought, gave place To high resolve with awesome wonderment, And "I will sing," I said, and, full of grace, Those spirits smiled on me as well content. Therewith they took leave of that greenery, And with them through the glades I also went — I was the seventh of that company.

O thou in whom all womanhood is mine! O thou in whom I praise all womanhood! Miriam, the honor of my song is thine. It was the sweet sound of thy name subdued My lips to breathe their too adventurous theme. O fair enwomaning of the Sweet and Good! A sweetest thought to me in God's long dream!

I cannot praise thee rightly as I ought, Nor tell by what high miracle it is That thou, who art so marvellously wrought, Shouldst be the spirit that should meet and kiss My spirit in this bond of soul and sense From which begin all other unities Of wider scope but impact less intense.

I praise in thee all force, in thee all form, For these in thee may best be understood; I praise all life, because thy cheek is warm; I praise all will, because thy will is good;

I praise in thee my country and my kin; In thee the otherness of womanhood; In thee all hearts that Love is welcome in.

The things that lie without us, are but curled And unsubstantial smoke-wreaths to the sight; Thou art the point at which I touch the world, The point thou touchest, I — thus benedight! This is the mystery of the law by which The ordered spirit-multitudes unite In diapasons manifold and rich.

So lies the world in little in thy heart, And so I praise and love all things in thee. Yet chiefly for thine own sweet self, my art Strives to build up its tower of harmony. Chiefly for thy sweet self I pour my life As myrrh and spikenard on thy head, to be A chrism to do thee honor, Queen and Wife.

For all the songs that all the poets sing Were not too great an honor for thy worth, Seeing thou art the source from which songs spring. And all the crowns and kingdoms of the earth, Glory of Bourbon and renown of Guelph, Would only serve thy royalty for mirth, Seeing thou art crowned more highly, being thyself.

O sweet as only vigor can be sweet! O strong as only loveliness is strong! I come before thee with unsandaled feet, As one escaping from the chaffering throng Draws nigh an altar, and with bended knee Devote myself, the singer to the song, And song and singer each alike to thee.