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A castle old and hoary,
Stern on its battlemented heights
Renowned in song and story;
And near us, throned in marble state,
O’er time and death victorious,
He sat, the magic of whose pen
Made king and castle glorious—
There, face to face, once more we met,
Like leaves in autumn weather,
That blown afar by varying winds,
Yet drift again together.
A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?”
A little low, sweet laughter,
Just one close clasp of meeting hands,
And then, a moment after,
Between us swept the surging crowd
And we were borne asunder.
O, friend unknown, in what far land
Will we next meet, I wonder?
THE BLIND BIRD’S NEST
“The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—Turkish Proverb.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest,
Am I not blind?
Each bird that flyeth east or west
The track can find.
Each bird that flies from north to south
Knows the far way;
From mountain’s crest to river’s mouth
It does not stray.
Not one in all the lengthening land,
In all the sky,
Or by the ocean’s silver strand,
Is blind as I!
And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest?
Build Thou for me
Some shelter where my soul may rest
Secure in Thee.
Close clinging to the bending bough,
Bind it so fast
It shall not loose if high or low
Blows the loud blast.
If fierce storms break, and the wild rain
Comes pelting in,
Cover the shrinking nest, restrain
The furious din.
At sultry noontide, when the air
Trembles with heat,
Draw close the leafy covert where
Cool shadows meet.
And when night falleth, dark and chill,
L t f i t
Let one fair star,
Love’s star all luminous and still,
Shine from afar.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest
Build Thou for me;
So shall my being find its rest
Forevermore in Thee.
TWO PATHS
A Path across a meadow fair and sweet,
Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet,
A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.
A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star
Gleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar,
And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
A path across the meadow fair and sweet,
Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet—
A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.
A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate
Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait
To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
ST. JOHN’S EVE
The veil is thin between
The seen and the unseen—
Thinner to-night than the transparent air;
All heaven and earth are still,
Save when from some far hill
Floateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer;
Up from the mountain bars
Climb the slow, patient stars,
Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!
Ere earth had grown too wise
To commerce with the skies,
On this midsummer night the men of old
Believed the dead drew near,
Believed that they could hear
Voices long silent speaking from the mould,
Believed whoever slept
Unearthly vigil kept
Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled.
In solemn midnight marches
Beneath dark forest arches
They fancied that their hungry souls found God;
His angels clad in light
Stole softly through the night,
Leaving no impress on the yielding sod,
And bore to mortal ears
Tidings from other spheres,
The undiscovered way no man hath trod.
Ah! what if it were true?
Then would I call ye who
Have one by one beyond my vision flown;
I would set wide the door
Ye enter now no more
Crying “Come in from out the void unknown!
Crying, Come in from out the void unknown!
Come as ye came of old
Laden with love untold”—
Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?
A LITTLE SONG
Little song I fain would sing,
Why dost thou elude me so?
Like a bird upon the wing,
Sailing high, sailing low,
Yet forever out of reach,
Thou dost vex me beyond measure,
Unallured by prayer or speech,
Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—
I could call thee by thy name;
I have wooed thee day and night,
Yet thou wilt not own my claim.
Hark! thou’rt hovering even now
In the soft still air above me—
Fantasy or dream art thou,
That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?
Little song I never sang,
Thou art sweeter than the strain
That through starry mazes rang,
First-born child of joy and pain.
I shall sing thee not; but surely
From some all-compelling voice
Swelling high, serenely, purely,
I shall hear thee and rejoice!
THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER
I stood upon Tower Hill,
Bright were the skies and gay,
Yet a cloud and a sudden chill
Passed over the summer day—
A thrill, and a nameless dread,
As of one who waits alone
Where gather the silent dead
Under the charnel stone.
For before my shrinking eyes
They glided, one by one,
The great, the good, the wise,
Who here to death were done;
Sinners and saints they came
With blood-stained garments on,
Reckless of praise or blame,
Or battles lost or won.
Then over the moat I passed
And paused at the Traitors’ Gate;
Did I hear a trumpet’s blast,
Forerunner of deadly fate?
Lo! up the stairs from the river,
Where the sombre shadows crept,
With none to help or deliver,
Kings, queens, and princes swept!
O, some of those royal dames
Drooped, with dishevelled hair,
And mien of one who claims
Close kindred with despair!
And some were proud and cold,
With eyes that blazed like stars,
As under that archway old
They passed to their prison-bars.
To prison-bars or death!
Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn;
That haughty maid, Elizabeth;
Northumberland’s pale queen;
Margaret Plantagenet,
Her gray locks floating wild—
How the line lengthens yet,
Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fiercely the black portcullis
Frowned as I onward went;
The Bloody Tower is this—
Strong tower of dread portent!
“Show me the Princes’ Chamber,”
To the Yeoman Guard I said;
O, the stairs were steep to clamber,
And the rough vault dark o’erhead!
No sigh in the sunny room,
No moan from the groined roof,
No wail of expectant doom
Echoed alow, aloof!
But instead a mother sang
To a child upon her knee,
Whose peals of laughter rang
Like sweet bells mad with glee.
Sunshine for murky air,
Smiles for the sob of pain,
Joy for dark despair,
Hope where sweet hope was slain!
“Art thou happy here,” I cried,
“Where once was lonely woe,
And the royal children died,—
Murdered so long ago?”
She smiled “O lady yes!
She smiled. O, lady, yes!
Earth hath forgotten them;
See how my roses press,
Blooming on each fair stem!
The princes, they sleep sound,
But love nor joy are dead;
I fear no haunted ground,
I have my child,” she said.
WONDERLAND
Wonderland is here and there;
Wonderland is everywhere;
Fly not then to east or west
On some far, uncertain quest.
Seek not India nor Japan,
Nor the city Ispahan,
Where to-day the shadows brood
Over lonely Zendarood.
Somewhere smileth far Cathay
Through the long resplendent day;
Somewhere, moored in purple seas,
Sleep the fair Hesperides.
Somewhere, in vague realms remote
Over which strange banners float,
Lies, all bathed in silver gleams,
The dear Wonderland of dreams.
Yet no need to sail in ships
Where the blue sea dips and dips,
Nor on wings of cloud to fly
Where the haunts of faery lie.
For by miracle of morn
Each successive day is born;
And wherever shines the sun,
There enchanted rivers run!
Would you go to Wonderland?
Lo! it lieth close at hand;
Wonderland is wheresoe’er
Eyes can see and ears can hear!
IN A GALLERY
(ANTWERP, 1891)
The Virgin floating on the silver moon;
Madonna Mary with her holy child;
Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;
Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;
Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,
And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;
Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;
Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,
Where patient women toiled; with here and there
The glint of summer skies and summer seas,
And the red glow of humble, household fires!
Breathless I stood and silent, even as one
Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face
Down the long gallery drew me as a star;
A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips
Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes
That kept their own dear secret, smiling still
With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,
Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,
And a long, slender hand whose fingers held
Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.
Yet from those high, imperial presences,
Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth
With all its loves and longings, back I turned
Again and yet again, lured by the smile
That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”
“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue,
And “Painted by himself.”
Three hundred years
Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write
And they who read, we know another world
From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile,
Even as here thou smilest, if to-day
Thou wert still of us? O thou joyous one
Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,
Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived
So much earth held more precious, let thy lips
Open and answer me! Whence was it born,
The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?
What manner of man wert thou? For the books
Of the long generations do not tell!
Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?
What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men
Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down
To coming ages in the martyr’s rôle;
Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woes
To wailing music, that the world may count
Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song.
Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
IN MARBLE PRAYER
(CANTERBURY, 1891)
So still, so still they lie
As centuries pass by,
Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer;
They never lift their eyes
In sudden, sweet surprise;
The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair
Forth from their close-sealed lips
Nor moan, nor laughter, slips,
Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!
Yet evermore they pray!
We creatures of a day
Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men;
Nations arise and fall;
Oblivion’s heavy pall
Hides kings and princes from all human ken,
While these in marble state,
From age to age await
The rolling thunder of the last amen!
Not in dim crypts alone,
Or aisles of fretted stone,
Where high cathedral altars gleam afar;
And the red light streams down
On mitre and on crown,
Till each proud jewel blazes like a star;
But where the tall grass waves
O’er long-forgotten graves,
Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!
Dost Thou not hear and heed?
O, in Earth’s utmost need
Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create?
Not for themselves they pray
Whose woes have passed for aye;
For us for us before Thy throne they wait!
For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait!
Thou Sovereign Lord of All,
On whom they mutely call,
Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
NOCTURNE
O bird beneath the midnight sky!
As on my lonely couch I lie,
I hear thee singing in the dark—
Why sing not I?
No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye;
No fond mate answers to thy cry;
No other voice, through all the dark,
Makes sweet reply.
Yet never skylark soaring high
Where sunlit clouds rejoicing lie,
Sang as thou singest in the dark,
Not mute as I!
O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why
So far thy ringing love-notes fly,
While other birds, hushed by the dark,
Are mute as I?
No prophecy of morn is nigh;
Yet as the sombre hours glide by,
Bravely thou singest in the dark—
Why sing not I?
COME WHAT MAY
Come what may—
Though what remaineth I may not know,
Nor how many times the rose may blow
For my delight, or whether the years
Shall be set to the chime of falling tears,
Or go on their way rejoicing—
Yet, come what may,
I have had my day!
Come what may—
The lurid storm or the sunset peace,
The lingering pain or the swift release,
Lonely vigils and watchings long,
Passionate prayer or soaring song,
Or silence deep and golden—
Still, come what may,
I have had my day!
Come what may,
I have known the fiery heart of youth,
Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth;
I have felt the thrill of the eager doer,
The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer,
The flush of glad possession—
And, come what may,
I have had my day!
Come what may,
I have learned that out of the night is born
The mystic flower of the early morn;
I have learned that after the frost of pain
The lily of peace will bloom again,
And the rose of consolation.
Then, come what may,
I have had my day!
NUREMBERG
Over the wide, tumultuous sea
In trancèd hours I dream of thee,
Ancient city of song and myth,
Whose name is a name to conjure with,
And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
I see thee fair in the white moonlight;
The stars are asleep at noon of night,
Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spires
Kindles aloft its silver fires—
A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
Leaning over thy river’s brim
Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim,
While under its bridges glide and gleam
The rippling waves of a silent stream,
Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Oh, the charm of each haunted street,
Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;
Sculptured miracles soaring free
In temple and mart for all to see,
Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Even thy beggars lift their eyes,
Finding ever some new surprise;
Even thy children pause from play,
To hear what thy graven marbles say,
Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
Other cities for crown and king
Wide their glorious banners fling,
Lifting high on the azure field
Blazoned trophies of sword and shield,
That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
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