AT NIAGARA

ELEONORA DUSE

If ever flashed upon this mortal scene
A soul unsheathed, a pale, trembling flame,
That suffered every gust, and yet did cling
With fire unquenchable

it is thine own,

Thou artist of the real! Unto thee

No mirth of life is secret; but, sweet soul,

215

With what sure art thou picturest human woe! How natural tears to those Italian eyes

Shadowing in untold depths whatever grief
Familiar is to mortals!

KELP ROCK

(E. c. s.)

Rock's the song-soil, truly
(So sang one bard of power);
Therefore our poet duly
Built on this rock his tower;
And therefore in his singing
We breathe the salty morning;
We hear the storm-bell ringing,
The "siren's" piercing warning,
The sea-winds roaring, sighing,
The long waves rising, falling;
We hear the herons calling,
The clashing waves replying.

AT NIAGARA

I

THERE at the chasm's edge behold her lean
Trembling as, 'neath the charm,

A wild bird lifts no wing to 'scape from harm;

Her very soul drawn to the glittering, green,
Smooth, lustrous, awful, lovely curve of peril;
While far below the bending sea of beryl

Thunder and tumult

whence a billowy spray

Enclouds the day.

II

What dream is hers? No dream hath wrought that

spell!

The long waves rise and sink;

Pity that virgin soul on passion's brink,
Confronting Fate, swift, unescapable, -
Fate, which of nature is the intent and core,
And dark and strong as the steep river's pour,
Cruel as love, and wild as love's first kiss!
Ah, God! the abyss!

THE CHILD-GARDEN

IN the child-garden buds and blows
A blossom lovelier than the rose.

If all the flowers of all the earth

In one garden broke to birth,

Not the fairest of the fair

Could with this sweet bloom compare;

Nor would all their shining be

Peer to its lone bravery.

Fairer than the rose, I say?
Fairer than the sun-bright day

In whose rays all glories show,
All beauty is, all blossoms blow;

THE CHRIST-CHILD

While beside it deeply shine
Blooms that take its light divine:

The perilous sweet flower of Hope
Here its hiding eyes doth ope,

And Gentleness doth near uphold
Its healing leaves and heart of gold;

Here tender fingers push the seed

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Of Knowledge; pluck the poisonous weed;

Here blossoms Joy one singing hour,
And here of Love the immortal flower.

What this blossom, fragrant, tender,
That outbeams the rose's splendor-

Purer is, more tinct with light
Than the lily's flame of white?

Of beauty hath this flower the whole,
And its name the Human Soul!

THE CHRIST-CHILD

A PICTURE BY FRANK VINCENT DU MOND

DONE is the day of care.

Into the shadowy room

Flows the pure evening light,

To stem the gathering gloom,

The lily's flame illume,

And the bowed heads make bright

The heads bowed low in prayer.

See how the level rays

Through the white garments pour
Of the holy child, who stands,
With bending brow, to implore
Grace on the toilers' store;
O, see those sinless hands!
Behold, the Christ-child prays!

Wait, wait, ye lingering rays,
Stand still, O Earth and Sun,
Draw near, thou Soul of God-
This is the suffering one!

Already the way is begun

The pierced Savior trod;
And now the Christ-child prays,
The holy Christ-child prays.

A CHILD

HER voice was like the song of birds;
Her eyes were like the stars;
Her little waving hands were like
Bird's wings that beat the bars.

And when those waving hands were still,

WASHINGTON SQUARE

What time in waves enorm
Breaks the gigantic storm.

The wooded mount doth climb
To a thought intense, sublime.

The glory of all I feel;

But my heart, my heart, will steal

Down the journey of years,

Through the lands of laughter and tears,

Far back to the least of valleys

Where a slow brook curves and dallies,

Where a boy, in the twilight gleam,
Walks alone with his dream.

ON THE BAY

THIS watery vague how vast! This misty globe,
Seen from this center where the ferry plies, -
It plies, but seems to poise in middle air,-
Soft gray
below gray heavens, and in the west
A rose-gray memory of the sunken sun;
And, where gray water touches grayer sky,
A band of darker gray prickt out with lights-
A diamond-twinkling circlet bounding all;
And where the statue looms, a quenchless star;
And where the lighthouse, a red, pulsing flame;
While the great bridge its starry diadem
Lifts through the gray, itself in grayness lost!

WASHINGTON SQUARE

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THIS is the end of the town that I love the best.
O, lovely the hour of light from the burning west-