The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bramble Brae, by Robert Bridges.

Books in Prose by
ROBERT BRIDGES
(Droch)

OVERHEARD IN ARCADY

Dialogues about Howells, James, Aldrich, Stockton, Davis, Crawford, Kipling, Meredith, Stevenson, Barrie. Illustrated, Fourth Edition, $1.25.

SUPPRESSED CHAPTERS,
AND OTHER BOOKISHNESS

Contents: Suppressed Chapters—Arcadian Letters—Novels that Everybody Read—The Literary Partition of Scotland—Friends in Arcady—Arcadian Opinions. Third Edition, $1.25.

To my Father

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
	PAGE
The Unillumined Verge	1
From One Long Dead	4
Father to Mother	6
The Child to the Father	8
A Prayer of Old Age	10
The Rhone Glacier—Sunset	14
James McCosh	17
McGiffen	22
At the Farragut Statue	25
News from a Missing Liner	27
For a Classmate Dead at Sea	29
BRAMBLE BRAE
A Toast to our Native Land	33
The Towers of Princeton	34
Roosevelt in Wyoming	36
Uncle Sam to Kipling	38
A New Year’s Wish for Those Who Write	40
To Chloe	42
To the Elf on my Calendar	43
Caprice	44
Retrospect	46
In the Crowd	47
Remembrance	48
Off Fort Hamilton in Summer	49
Over the Ferry	50
Bramble Brae in October	52
WITH FLOWERS
On a Spray of Heather	57
The Hothouse Violet Speaks	59
A Song	61
What the Flowers Said	63
Diana’s Valentine	65
With Some Birthday Roses	67
WRITTEN IN BOOKS
In a Volume of Herrick	71
In “Shakespeare’s Sonnets”	73
In “Sonnets from the Portuguese”	74
In George Meredith’s Poems	75
In “The King’s Lyrics”	76
The Song of Tembinoka, King of Apemama	77
In the Manner of Kipling	79
For a Novel of Hall Caine’s	80
In “Helbeck of Bannisdale”	81
A Christmas Greeting	82
In Nicholson’s “Almanac of Sports”	83
In Nicholson’s “City Types”	84
In “The Golden Treasury”	85
A Valentine	86
In “Hallo, my Fancy!”	87
The Book Speaks	88
In Herford’s Verses	89
In a Book of Gibson’s Drawings	90
In a Volume of Miss Guiney’s Poems	91
In “Barbara Frietchie—A Play”	92
To C. H. M. and H. H. M.	94
To my Mother	96
A Book’s Soliloquy	97
Envoy	99

THE UNILLUMINED VERGE

TO A FRIEND DYING

They tell you that Death’s at the turn of the road,
That under the shade of a cypress you’ll find him,
And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad
Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.

I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill,
And we’ll talk of the way we have come through the valley;
Down below there a bird breaks into a trill,
And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.

You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave—
{2}“Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing!
Yet it’s joyful to live, and it’s hard to be brave
When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going.”

We are almost there—our last walk on this height—
I must bid you good-by at that cross on the mountain.
See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light
Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!

And it shines in your face and illumines your soul;
We are comrades as ever, right here at your going;
You may rest if you will within sight of the goal,
While I must return to my oar and the rowing.

We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend;
I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning
Just over the ridge within reach of the end
Of your arduous toil—the beginning of learning.{3}

You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge,
“Au revoir!” and “good night!” while the twilight is creeping
Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge?
Yes, I hear your faint voice: “This is rest, and like sleeping!”{4}

FROM ONE LONG DEAD

What! You here in the moonlight and thinking of me?
Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest?
But you wept when I told you I longed to be free,
And you mourned for a while when they laid me at rest.

I’ve been dead all these years! and to-night in your heart
There’s a stir of emotion, a vision that slips—
It’s my face in the moonlight that gives you a start,
It’s my name that in joy rushes up to your lips!

Yes, I’m young, oh, so young, and so little I know!
A mere child that is learning to walk and to run;
While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and fro
I am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun.{5}

I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise,
But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife;
I am humbled, and then there’s an impulse to rise,
And a voice whispers, “Onward and win! This is Life!”

And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height,
That inspires me and thrills me,—each day a new birth,—
Is the Force that to Chaos said, “Let there be Light!”
And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on Earth.

It is Love! and you know it and feel it, my Soul!
For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars.
And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal,
And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars!

FATHER TO MOTHER

THE CHILD TO THE FATHER

Father, it’s your love that safely guides me,
Always it’s around me, night and day;
It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me:
Yet, father, there’s a shadow in my way.

All the day, my father, I am playing
Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart—
But often just at night when I am praying
I feel this awful hunger in my heart.

Father, there is something—it has missed me;
I’ve felt it through my little days and years;
And even when you petted me and kissed me
I’ve cried myself to sleep with burning tears.{9}

To-day I saw a child and mother walking;
I caught a gentle shining in her eye,
And music in her voice when she was talking—
Oh, father, is it that that makes me cry?

Oh, never can I put my arms around her,
Or never cuddle closer in the night;
Mother, oh, my mother! I’ve not found her—
I look for her and cry from dark to light!

A PRAYER OF OLD AGE

O Lord, I am so used to all the byways
Throughout Thy devious world,
The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highways
Where saints are safely whirled!
And there are crooked ways, forbidden pleasures,
That lured me with their spell;
But there I lingered not, and found no treasures—
Though in the mire I fell.

And now I’m old and worn, and, scarcely seeing
The beauties of Thy work,
I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeing
Through valleys in the murk;
Yet I can feel my way—my mem’ry guides me;
I bear the yoke and smile.
I’m used to life, and nothing wounds or chides me;
Lord, let me live awhile!{11}

And then, dear Lord, I still can feel the thrilling
Of Nature in the Spring—
The uplift of Thy hills, the song-birds trilling,
The lyric joy they bring.
I’m not too old to see the regal beauty
Of moon and stars and sun;
Nature can still reveal to me my duty
Till my long task is done.

O Lord, to me the pageant is entrancing—
The march of States and Kings!
I keenly watch the human race advancing
And see Man master Things:
From him who read the secret of the thunder
And made the lightning kind,
Down to this marvel—all the growing wonder
Of force controlled by Mind.{12}

And this dear land of ours, the freeman’s Nation!
Lord, let me live and see
Fulfilment of our fathers’ aspiration,
When each man’s really free!
When all the strength and skill that move the mountains,
And pile up riches great,
Shall sweeten patriotism at its fountains
And purify the State!

But there are closer ties than these that bind me
And make me long to stay
And linger in the dusk where Death may find me
On Thine own chosen day;
There’s one who walks beside me in the gloaming
And holds my faltering hand—
Without her guidance I can make no homing
In any distant land.{13}

Some day when we are tired, like children playing,
And wearied drop our toys—
When all the work and burden of our staying
Has mingled with our joys—
With those we love around—our eyelids drooping,
Too spent with toil to weep—
Like some kind nurse o’er drowsy children stooping,
Lord, take us home to sleep!

THE RHONE GLACIER—SUNSET

Like the uncounted years of God it rolls
From out the sky. The light of heaven shines
Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part
Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue
Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths,
This little world is lost. The sparkling sun
Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts
Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one
Who looks to heaven to find her lover’s face.
Silent, serene, implacable it stands—
A mighty symbol of the Force that moved
Across the surface of the youthful earth
And scored the continents with valleys deep,
As children write upon the yielding sand.
Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs—
Countless ages back to that bleak time{15}
When frightful monsters played upon the hills—
Always the same, yet moving slowly onward,
In heaven its head, its feet upon the world.
The Rhone that trickles from the glacier’s edge—
Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruit
And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade—
Is but the lash with which the giant plays
And spins the tops that swarm with struggling men.
“What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?”—
This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want,
This tragic comedy we call our life!

Across the meadows as the evening falls
A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears
Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb;
The children hear the father’s kindly voice
And run to greet and cheer his late return,
While from his humble cottage gleams a light.{16}

The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold—
The door springs open to a welcome cry,
And all at last are safe within the Home.

In cold and awful majesty it stands
Against the darkening sky,—Force without warmth,
Strength without passion.
But at the touch
Of homely human ways its terrors flee
And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love.

JAMES McCOSH

1811-1894

LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE

(Copie d’un sonnet composé par Plantin au XVI^e siècle.)

Avoir une maiſon commode, propre & belle,
Un jardin tapiſſé d’eſpaliers odorans,
Des fruits, d’excellent vin, peu de train, peu d’enfans,
Poſſeder ſeul, ſans bruit, une femme fidéle.
N’avoir dettes, amour, ni procés, ni querelle,
Ni de partage à faire avecque ſes parens,
Se contenter de peu, n’eſpérer rien des Grands,
Régler tous ſes deſſeins sur un juſte modéle.

Vivre avecque franchiſe & ſans ambition,
S’adonner ſans ſcrupule à la dévotion,
Domter ſes paſſions, les rendre obéiſſantes.
Conſerver l’eſprit libre, & le jugement fort,
Dire ſon Chapelet en cultivant ſes entes,
C’eſt attendre chez ſoi bien doucement la mort.

THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD

FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTIN

R. L. S.

“Where hath fleeting Beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.”
All the way you followed her
Tripping through the palms and fir;
All the way around you flew
Splendid spirits from the blue—
Dreams and visions lightly caught
In the meshes of your thought.
What a glorious retinue
Made that arduous chase with you!
Half the world stood still to see
Song and Fancy follow free
At the waving of your wand—
While the echoing hills respond
To your voice.{21}

And now the race
Ends with your averted face;
At full effort you have sped
Through that doorway of the dead—
But the hills and woods remain
Peopled from your teeming brain!
All that stately company
Linger where their eyes may see
Beauty fling the laurel o’er,
At the closing of the door!

McGIFFEN

THE HERO COMING HOME

His body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy,
and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania.

I lent him to my country,
And he wore the Navy blue;
I bade him do his duty,
And he said he would be true.

It’s home they say you’re coming—
And it’s home you came to me
When you wore your first blue jacket
At the old Academy.
And the neighbors said, “How handsome!
What a sailor he will be!”
But I only drew him closer
In my coddling mother’s joy,
And said, “Well, what’s a sailor?
He’s my brave boy!”{23}

And then they told the story
Of his courage in the fight—
How he ruled a heathen war-ship
And fought it with his might.

It’s home he wrote his mother
When the smoke had cleared away:
“I can see—so don’t you worry—
Though I’m riddled by the fray.”
And the neighbors said, “How glorious!
What a Hero is your son!
The world is all a-talking
Of the battle that he won!”
I said, “Well, what’s a Hero?
He’s my brave son!”{24}

And now to me he’s coming,
And he wears a Captain’s bars;
It’s a foreign nation’s uniform,
But wrapped in Stripes and Stars.

It’s home at last you’re coming,
And it’s home at last to me.
You’re a hero and immortal,
And you fought to make men free.
But your heart is cold within you
And your dear eyes cannot see!
They say, “Be strong, O mother;
Proud laurels crown his head!”
Alas, what’s left of glory?
My boy, my boy is dead!

AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE

To live a hero, then to stand
In bronze serene above the city’s throng;
Hero at sea, and now on land
Revered by thousands as they rush along;

If these were all the gifts of fame—
To be a shade amid alert reality,
And win a statue and a name—
How cold and cheerless immortality!

But when the sun shines in the Square,
And multitudes are swarming in the street,
Children are always gathered there,
Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.{26}

And in the crisis of the game—
With boyish grit and ardor it is played—
You’ll hear some youngster call his name:
“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”

And so the hero daily lives,
And boys grow braver as the Man they see!
The inspiration that he gives
Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!

NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER

TO A CONVALESCENT

Crawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted,
Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;
Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,
Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!

Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—
Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;
All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wondered
How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!{28}

Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—
Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;
On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!
“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!

FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA

(W. F. STOUTENBURGH)

BRAMBLE BRAE

A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND

Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,
We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.
One time we pour out millions to be free,
Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!
One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,
And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.
Often we rudely break restraining bars,
And confidently reach out toward the stars.

Yet under all there flows a hidden stream
Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream
Of Washington and Franklin, men of old
Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold.
This is the Land we love, our heritage,
Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage
And full of promise—destined to be great.
Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!

THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON

FROM THE TRAIN

There they are! above the green trees shining—
Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,
Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—
A painted glory on the window gleams.

But, oh, the messages to travellers weary
They signal through the ether in the dark!
The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,
But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!

The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly trooping
From ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.
Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—
Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!{35}

They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—
But something lingers of eternal Youth;
We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;
We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!

ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING

TOLD BY A GUIDE—1899 [1]

Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trail
From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,
And wagons from Cooke City and the mail
Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?

A handy bunch of men are round the stove
At Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,
And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove
Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.

And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,
Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,
He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear
And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”{37}

But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;
He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:
“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,
For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.

“That man won’t slosh around in politics
And waste his time a-killing little game;
He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,
And when he picks a head he hits the same.”

Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,
And free to back his knowledge up with lead;
And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort
To run the State, because he “picks a head.”

UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING

(1899)

Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,
For showing us the way
To buckle down to business
And end our “childish day.”
We know we’re young and frisky
And haven’t too much sense—
At least, not in the measure
We’ll have a few years hence.

Now, this same “White Man’s burden”
You’re asking us to tote
Is not so unfamiliar
As you’re inclined to note.
We freed three million negroes,
Their babies and their wives;
It cost a billion dollars
And near a million lives!{39}

And while we were a-fighting
In all those “thankless years”
We did not get much helping—
Well, not from English “peers.”
And so—with best intentions—
We’re not exactly wild
To free the Filipino,
“Half devil and half child.”

Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;
Though not disposed to groan
About the “White Man’s burden,”
We’ve troubles of our own;
Enough to keep us busy
When English friends inquire,
“Why don’t you use your talons?
There are chestnuts in the fire!”{40}

A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE

In this time of joy and cheer
When we greet the buoyant year,
Now, old friends, we cherish you,
Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view—
Kindly fancy, happy thought,
Visions from the fairies caught,
Rhyme and story, song and play,
Fantasy for holiday—
All the treasures of your mind
Spent to make the world more kind.

While we grope in dark and fog,
Flounder onward through the bog,
You, serene upon the height,
Gambol in the cheery light—
Toss your laughter from the steep,
Bringing hope to those who weep.
What fair visions brightly gleam
Through cloud-rifts! Your dearest dream
Clothed in beauty on the peak,
Waiting for the Muse to speak.{41}

Here’s our wish at New Year’s time,
Faint-expressed in halting rhyme:
For the men who dream and write
Make the future clear and bright;
Thaw the cynic from their heart—
Love and faith are highest Art.
Let them picture with their pen
Not our manners but our men.
Bless them all at New Year’s tide!
May their skill and fame abide!
And all women—charming, bright—
Grant that they may never write!

TO CHLOE

FOR A MENDED GLOVE

TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR

CAPRICE

RETROSPECT

IN THE CROWD

REMEMBRANCE

OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER

OVER THE FERRY

ONOMATOPOETIC

Clang! Ting-a-ling!
Then a scream of the whistle.
Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob!
Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant;
And the swift paddles fling,
Like the down of a thistle,
White foam from their blades, while the waters defiant
Groan under their merciless tread; and the throb
Of the heart grows exultingly faster;
Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her—
Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder—
The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harder
While nearing the wharves of the City of Vanity
To roll from its shoulders the load of humanity.
And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing,
The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailing
And tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie,
Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie.{51}
And what he will say she is anticipating—
Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating;
And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing.
There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing!
While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing.
But the song of the wheels is, “I love him—I love him!”
Then the pilot above
Signals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!”
And the slowing wheels sing,
“Oh, my love—love—love!”
Clang!

BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER

And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae,
And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray;
The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown,
Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the light
And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown.
Along the lane the quail are running in fright
At sound of guns on the upland—the cautious dogs
Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men
Watch for the whir of wings; the hickory logs
Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen
The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough;
In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels cough
And chatter and screech—chasing each other from limb
To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees.
And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him
Glows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze.{53}
Down in the valley the ancient village rests,
Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street;
High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crests
Are carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet,
Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth;
For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad,
And sometimes rich in the wealth of truth
That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad.
For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl
Except for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine,
Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearl
She seeks is love, and only love is the wine
That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes
But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day
That love and his lady are proof against all surprise—
So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.
{54} . . . . . . . . . . . .
Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there;
Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees;
Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care—
The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze.
Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill—
Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled;
Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill,
Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead.
Years has he wandered over the land and sea;
Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved;
Always that vision haunted his fancy free—
The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved.
Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep,
Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom;
Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deep
Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.

WITH FLOWERS

ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER

Far from its native moorland
Or crest of “wine-red” hill,
At sight or scent of heather
The hearts of Scotsmen thrill.
Though crushed its purple blossoms,
Its tender stems turned brown,
It brings romantic Highlands
Into prosaic town.
The clans are on the border,
The chiefs are in the fray;
We’re keen upon their footsteps
With Walter Scott to-day.
Peat smoke from lowland cottage
Floats curling up, and turns
Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones
And melodies of Burns.{58}
And last our fancy lingers
With fond regret and vain
Where sleeps our Tusitala
Beneath the tropic rain—
Far from the purple heather
Or gleaming rowan bough,
Alone on mountain summit,
“Our hearts remember how.”

THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS

TO A FAIR WOMAN

I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life
Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife;
The sky above and all around is blue,
And from this haven now I come to you.

Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright
That other flowers do not live so bright?
That in dark forests and by noisy streams
The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?

While we are merry in this fireside glow
My humble cousin shivers in the snow;
And yet a cricket whispered once to me
That I the captive was—my cousin, free!{60}

Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;
I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view
Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,
With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.

The dream is over—I have lived my day
Nourished in sun with other violets gay;
And now I’m borne afar to Paradise,
To find my haven in your gentle eyes.

If I may touch your lips I’ll die content
Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent
In woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade,
Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!

Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass;
What! You too captive in a house of glass?

A SONG

WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY

What the Rose thought:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
But I am a rose that must bloom for a day;
My life is like color and perfume in May;
To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair,
And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair.
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!

What She sang, exultingly:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
To feel that the glorious days of my youth
Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth—
That all joyful things in my bright future gleam,
And I am to live them and find out my dream.
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!{62}

What He wrote, sadly:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
To dream that the great world is still all my own,
And cherish again the ideals that have flown;
To follow them, hiding with cunning and art,
And find them all sleeping within her warm heart,
Her heart that is one-and-twenty!

WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID

Here are roses, red and white,
Each to speak what I would write;
For, when in your quiet room
You may smell their sweet perfume,
I shall whisper through these flowers
Fancy’s thoughts for evening hours.
Then, when in the crowded street
You and I may chance to meet,
I’ll discover in your eyes
What you’ve half expressed in sighs;
For if in your dusky hair
One red rose you deign to wear
I shall say, “I know that she
Wears it for her love of me.”{64}
But if on your gentle breast
One white rose may dare to rest,
Then in rapture I’ll declare,
“That’s my heart a-resting there.”
But if neither red nor white
May your hair or gown bedight,
Still with confidence I’ll say,
“That is lovely woman’s way—
What of life is largest part
Hides she deepest in her heart!”{65}

DIANA’S VALENTINE

WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

Good Saint Valentine, I pray,
While around this town you stray,
You will keep your eyes alert
For a maid who loves to flirt.

If among the hurrying crowd—
Beauties fair and beauties proud—
You should see one like a queen,
Eyes of blue, with golden sheen
In her hair that’s flecked with brown,
And a grace about her gown,
That’s Diana!

Catch her eye
As she’s gayly tripping by;
Say you know a sorry wight,
Slow of speech and slow to write,{66}
Who would tell her through these flowers
That her eyes are bright as stars
In the blue; that her speech
Haunts his mem’ry (out of reach
Like their perfume faint but fine);
That her laugh is like rare wine.
As you leave her touch her lips;
Say that men are like old ships,
Easy towed, but hard to steer;
Then just whisper in her ear,
“Lovers change, but friends are true
Like these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”

This, Saint Valentine, I pray,
On the morning of that day
When you keep your eyes alert
For all maids who love to flirt.

WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES

WRITTEN IN BOOKS

IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK

Dear old worldling gone astray,
You would rather sing than pray;
While you wore the preacher’s gown
How you longed for London Town!
When your head ached, then, alack!
You, repentant, gave up sack;
Old and worn you ruthlessly
Bade farewell to poesy;
Full, you never cared for food,
Sated, you were always good.
Julia’s beauties you rehearse,
Sing her charms in wanton verse,
But to make poor Julia thine
Not one pleasure you’d resign.
Flattering, you tried to please;
Generous, you loved your ease!{72}
Dear old Herrick, you’re a Man
Built upon the human plan;
To the world your fame belongs
For the beauty of your songs—
Glorious poet—not a saint—
Lyric splendor without taint!

IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS”

IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE”

IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS

IN “THE KING’S LYRICS”

THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.
He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,
Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—
Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.
Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;
But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—
To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.{78}
The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—
Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!
Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!

IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING

FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S

AFTER KIPLING

IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE”

A CHRISTMAS GREETING

IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS”

(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING)

IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES”

IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY”

A VALENTINE

IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!”

(BY CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS AND S. D. S., JR.)

THE BOOK SPEAKS

TO EUGENE FIELD

IN HERFORD’S VERSES

IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS

IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS

IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE—A PLAY”

TO J. M.

We met her first in Arcady,
Where visions fair are apt to be,
Roaming beneath the arching trees—
Her laughter cheering up the breeze;
Sometimes as gay as Colinette,
Then fond and sad as Juliet.
And when we’d had enough of anguish
She’d make us laugh as Lydia Languish.
No mask or mood was twice the same—
Yet one fair face behind each name.
As that bright vixen of the mind,
The fascinating Rosalīnd—
As Imogen or Viola,
Or, best of all, sweet Barbara—
Always the same alluring grace
And wit that sparkles in her face!{93}
The road to Arcady is far
And sometimes lonely for a star—
But all the phantoms of the air
And poets’ dreams that wander there
Would miss the welcome we extend,
Not to her Art—just to a friend!

TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M.

TO MY MOTHER

A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY

My lady’s room is full of books
And easy-chairs and curtained nooks,
And dainty tea-things on a table,
And poetry, and tale, and fable,
And on the hearth a crackling fire
That welcome gives, and when you tire
Of pleasant talk you still may find
A tempting pasture where the mind
May browse awhile, and read the pages
Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages.

And here I come to ask a place
Among these worthies, face to face!
To be allowed on some low shelf
To rest and dream, and pride myself
On being in such company—
To watch fair women drinking tea;{98}
And if, perchance, on some lone day,
The gentle mistress looks my way
And softly says, “Now I shall see
What’s going on in Arcady!”
Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book
At which my lady deigns to look.

ENVOY

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK

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