AN AUTUMN DIRGE

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Himself as one of Shakespeare's men? Are maids
And queens he wooed, the kings he was, or knew
Upon the tragic stage, are these the shades
That now his visionary hours pursue,
Attendant on his passing? Listen near!
What breathed murmurs 'scape those pallid lips
To which the nations hearkened, ere the eclipse
Of all that brightness? Now lean close and hear;
Ah, see that look, sweeter than when he smiled
Upon the applauding world, while she draws near
And hears a dear voice whisper: "Child, my Child!"

AN AUTUMN DIRGE

(E. F. H.)

I

O EASE my heart, sad song, O ease my heart!

In all this autumn pageantry no part

Hath sorrow! Woods, and fields, and meadows glow
With jeweled colors. All alone I go

Amid the poignant beauty of the year,
Too heavy-hearted for one easeful tear.

For she who loved this autumn splendor,

These flaming marsh-flowers, oak-leaves rich and ten

And who in loving all, made all to me more dear, –

No more is here;

No more, no more is here!

Sad song, O, bring some thought

With music from some happy memory caught!

No light for me in all the lovely day

Those eyes being shut that first did lead the way

'Neath these great pines whose green vault hides the sky, And down the rock-strewn shore where the white sea

birds cry!

II

All fades but those young, happy hours,
And in my soul once more the old joy flowers.
It flowers once more only to bring new pain;
For all in vain,

O song! thou singest in my grieving heart!
Thou hast no art

To bring again the smile I loved so well,

The voice that like a bell

Sounded all moods of sorrow and of laughter,

And the dear presence that in childhood's earliest

thought,

And all the bright or darkened days thereafter,
Into my life a saddened sweetness brought –
Something of mother and of sister love,

A friendship far above

The ties that bind and loosen as we tread

The thronged pleasures of life's later days.
Sweet maiden soul, I cannot praise

But mourn thee, mourn thee, to the shadows fled.

Shadows, O nevermore!

III

For when past forth thy spirit it did seem

As if against the black a golden door

Were opened and a gleam

From the eternal Light fell on thy face

And made a visible glory in the place.

Ah, well I know

Whatever be the source from whence we flow,
Whate'er the power begot these hearts of ours, —
As the great earth brings forth the summer flowers,
That power is good, is God, and in her dying room
Humaned itself to sense and lightened all the gloom.

AT NIAGARA

ELEONORA DUSE

If ever flashed upon this mortal scene
A soul unsheathèd, 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

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

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Here tender fingers push the seed
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-

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.