Poems.

by John L. Stoddard.

CONJUGI CARISSIMAE

PROEM

They called him mad,--the poor, old man, Whose white hair, worn and thin, Fell o'er his shoulders, as he played His cherished violin, Forever drawing to and fro O'er silent strings a loosened bow.

At times on his pathetic face A look of perfect rapture shone, Intent on some celestial chords, Discerned by him alone; And sometimes he would smile and pause, As if receiving loud applause.

So, many a humble poet dreams His songs will touch the human heart, And full of hope his offering lays Before the shrine of Art; Poor dreamer, may he never know That he too draws a silent bow!

MY "PROMENADE SOLITAIRE"

Up and down in my garden fair, Under the trellis where grapes will bloom, With the breath of violets in the air, As pallid Winter for Spring makes room, I walk and ponder, free from care, In my beautiful Promenade Solitaire.

Back and forth in the checkered shade Traced by the lattice that holds the vine, With the glory of snow-capped crests displayed On the sapphire sky in a billowy line, I stroll, and ask what can compare With the charm of my Promenade Solitaire.

To and fro 'neath the nascent green Which clambers over its slender frame, With white peaks lighting up the scene, As snowfields glow with the sunset flame, I saunter, halting here and there For the view from my Promenade Solitaire.

In and out through the silence sweet, Plash of fountain and song of bird Are the only sounds in my lov'd retreat By which the air is ever stirred; It is like a long-drawn aisle of prayer, So hushed is my Promenade Solitaire.

Onward rushes the world without, But the breeze which over my garden steals Brings from it merely a distant shout Or the echo light of pa.s.sing wheels; In its din and drive I have now no share, As I muse in my Promenade Solitaire.

Am I dead to the world, that I thus disdain Its moil and toil in the prime of life, When perhaps a score of years remain To win more gold in its selfish strife?

Am I foolish to choose the purer air Of my glorious Promenade Solitaire?

Ah no! From my mountain-girdled height I watch the game of the world go on, And note the course of the bitter fight, And what is lost and what is won; And I judge of it better here than there, As I gaze from my Promenade Solitaire.

It is ever the same old tale of greed, Of robbing and killing the weaker race, Of the word proved false by the cruel deed, Of the slanderous tongue with the friendly face; 'Tis enough to make one's heart despair Even here in my Promenade Solitaire.

They cheer, and struggle, and beat the air With many a stroke and thrust intense, And urge each other to do and dare, To gain some good they deem immense; But they look like ants contending there From the height of my Promenade Solitaire.

Backward and forward they run and crawl, Houses and treasures they heap up high, Hither and thither their booty haul, ...

Then suddenly drop in their tracks and die!

For few are wise enough to repair In time to a Promenade Solitaire.

Meantime the Earth speeds on through s.p.a.ce, As the sun for a million years hath steered, And, an eon hence, the entire race Will have played its part and disappeared; But what will the lifeless planet care, As it follows its Promenade Solitaire?

REINCARNATION

I know not how, I know not where, But from my own heart's mystic lore I feel that I have breathed this air, And walked this earth before;

And that in this, its latest form My old-time spirit once more strives, As it has fought through many a storm In past, forgotten lives.

Not inexperienced did my soul This incarnation's threshold tread; Not recordless has proved the scroll It brought back from the dead.

To certain, special lines of thought My mind intuitively tends, And old affinities have brought Not new, but ancient friends.

What thrilled me in a previous state Rekindles here its ancient flame; What I by instinct love and hate I knew before I came;

And lands, of which in youth I dreamed And read, heart-moved, and longed to see, When really visited, have seemed Not strange but known to me.

When Mozart, still a child, untaught, Ran joyous to the silent keys, And with inspired fingers wrought Majestic harmonies,

There fell upon his psychic ear Faint echoes of a music known Before his natal advent here, In former lives outgrown.

In many a dumb brute's wistful eyes A dawning human soul aspires, For thus from lower forms we rise,-- Ourselves our spirits' sires.

Full many a thought that thrills my breast Is fruit resulting from a seed Sown elsewhere,--on my soul impressed By many an arduous deed;

Full many a fetter which hath lamed My struggling spirit's upward flight Was once by that same spirit framed, When further from the Light;

With justice, therefore, comes the pain That o'er the tortured world extends; And hopeful is the lessening stain, As each life-cycle ends.

No changeless, endless states await The good and evil souls set free; Each grave is a successive gate In immortality.

Too long this mighty truth hath slept Among the darkened souls of men,-- "Ye cannot see G.o.d's face, except Ye shall be born again."

The G.o.d-like Christs and Buddhas yearn, However high their spirits' stage, For man's salvation to return, As Saviour or as Sage.

On our benighted, groping minds Their n.o.ble precepts, star-like, shine; Each soul, that wisely seeks them, finds The truths that are divine.

Misunderstood and vilified, Their aims and motives scarcely known, How many of these Saints have died, Rejected by their own!

Yet, though their followers miss the way, In spite of precept and of prayer, And lead unnumbered souls astray, Committed to their care,

Upon the lofty spirit-plane, Where all lies open to their sight, The Masters know that not in vain They left the Hills of Light.

TO THE "RING NEBULA"

O pallid spectre of the midnight skies, Whose phantom features in the dome of Night Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes, Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight; On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire, From thee, whose glories it would fain admire, Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!

What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame?

Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolve In myriad suns that constellations frame, Around which life-blest satellites revolve, Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep In dim procession o'er the azure steep, As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?

Or art thou still an incandescent ma.s.s, Acquiring form as hostile forces urge, Through whose vast length continuous lightnings pa.s.s, As to and fro its fiery billows surge?