O Leader fallen by the wayside p.r.o.ne,-- O strong great soul gone forth For thee the wide inhospitable north, And east and west, from sea to sea make moan: And thy loved land, whose stalwart limbs and brain, Beneath thy fostering care have thriven and grown To stately stature, and erect proud head, Freedom and Right and Justice to maintain Here in her place inviolate. Without stain The name and fame which stood for thee in stead Of t.i.tles and dominions: all men's praise, And some men's hate thou had'st, yet all shall weep thee dead; O Leader, fallen mid-march in the ways, Who shall fill up the measure of thy days!

TIDE-WATER.

Through many-winding valleys far inland, A maze among the convoluted hills, Of rocks up-piled, and pines on either hand, And meadows ribbanded with silver rills, Faint, mingled-up, composite sweetnesses Of scented gra.s.s and clover, and the blue Wild-violet hid in m.u.f.fling moss and fern, Keen and diverse another breath cleaves through, Familiar as the taste of tears to me, As on my lips, insistent, I discern The salt and bitter kisses of the sea.

The tide sets up the river; mimic fleetnesses Of little wavelets, fretted by the sh.e.l.ls And shingle of the beach, circle and eddy round, And smooth themselves perpetually: there dwells A spirit of peace in their low murmuring noise Subsiding into quiet, as if life were such A struggle with inexorable bound, Brief, bright, despairing, never over-lept, Dying in such wise, with a sighing voice Breathed out, and after silence absolute.

Faith, eager hope, toil, tears, despair,--so much The common lot,--together over-swept Into the pitiless unreturning sea, The vast immitigable sea.

I walk beside the river, and am mute Under the burden o fits mystery.

The cricket pipes among the meadow gra.s.s His shrill small trumpet, of long summer nights Sole minstrel: and the lonely heron makes Voyaging slow toward her reedy nest A moving shadow among sunset lights Upon the river's darkening wave, which breaks.

Into a thousand circling shapes that pa.s.s Into the one black shadow of the sh.o.r.e.

O tranquil spirit of the pervading test Brooding along the valleys with shut wings That fold all sentient and inanimate things In their entrenched calm for evermore, Save only the unquiet human soul; Hear'st thou the far-off sound of waves that roll In sighing cadence, like a soul in pain, Hopeless of heaven or peace, beating in vain The sh.o.r.es implacable for some replies To the dumb anguish of eternal doubt, (As I, for the sad thoughts that rise in me): Feel'st thou upon thy heavy-lidded eyes The salt and bitter kisses of the sea; And dost thou draw, like me, a shuddering breath Among dusk shadows brooding silently?

Ah me, thou hear'st me not: I walk alone.

The doubt within me, and the dark without, In my sad ears, the waves' recurrent moan, Sounds like the surges of the sea of death, Beating for evermore the sh.o.r.es of time With muttered prophecies, which sorrow saith Over and over, like a set slow chime Of funeral bells, tolling remote, forlorn, Dirge-like the burden--"Man was made to mourn."

FORGOTTEN SONGS.

There is a splendid tropic flower which flings Its fiery disc wide open to the core-- One pulse of subtlest fragrance--once a life That rounds a century of blossoming things And dies, a flower's apotheosis: nevermore To send up in the sunshine, in sweet strife With all the winds, a fountain of live flame, A winged censer in the starlight swung Once only, flinging all its wealth abroad To the wide deserts without sh.o.r.e or name And dying, like a lovely song, once sung By some dead poet, music's wandering ghost, Aeons ago blown oat of life and lost, Remembered only in the heart of G.o.d.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF THE AUTHOR OF "VIOLET KEITH."

I never looked upon thy face; I never saw thy dwelling-place; My home is by Lake Erie's sh.o.r.e, Beyond Niagara's distant roar; And thine where ships at anchor ride, By fair St. Lawrence's rolling tide, With half a continent between Its seas of blue, and isles of green, And many a mountain's nodding crest, And many a valley's jewelled breast.

Thou in the east, I in the west; Yet in this book thou hast to me An individuality; Something more tangible and fair Than any dream or shape of air, With more than an ideal grace, And sweeter than a pictured face: For in this book my thought recalls The garden quaint, the convent walls.

And thou beneath their shadow set, A blue-eyed fragrant violet.

So for the maiden of the tale, Whose brave true heart might break, not fail, Thyself, my Violet I make, And love thee for thy mother's sake.

A PRELUDE, AND A BIRD'S SONG.

The poet's song, and the bird's, And the waters' that chant as they run And the waves' that kiss the beach, And the wind's--they are but one.

He who may read their words, And the secret hid in each, May know the solemn monochords That breathe in vast still places; And the voices of myriad races, Shy, and far-off from man, That hide in shadow and sun, And are seen but of him who can To him the awful face is shown Swathed in a cloud wind-blown Of Him, who from His secret throne, In some void, shadowy, and unknown land Comes forth to lay His mighty hand On the sounding organ keys, That play deep thunder-marches, Like the rush and the roar of seas, And fill the cavernous arches Of antique wildernesses h.o.a.ry, With a long-resounding roll, As they fill man's listening soul With a shuddering sense of might and glory.

These he shall hear, and more than these In bird's song, and in poet's scroll; Something underneath the whole, A music yet unbreathed.--unsung-- Unwritten--incommunicable; Whispered from no mortal tongue: What seer nor prophet may rehea.r.s.e In oracle, or Delphic fable, Since the old dead G.o.ds were young, And made with man their dwelling-place; But he shall hear, of all his race, The dread wherefore of life and death; He shall behold the ultimates Of fears and doubts, and scores and hates, And the sure final crown of faith.

And in his ear the rhythmic verse Shall sound the steps of that beyond, Serene, that hastens not, nor waits, But holds within its depths profound The mystery of all lives--all fates-- The secret of the universe.

AN APRIL DAWN.

All night a slow soft rain, A shadowy stranger from a cloudy land, Sighing and sobbing, with unsteady hand Beat at the lattice, ceased, and beat again, And fled like some wild startled thing pursued By demons of the night and solitude, Returning ever--wistful--timid--fain-- The intermittent rain.

And still the sad hours crept Within uncounted, the while hopes and fears Swayed our full hearts, and overflowed in tears That fell in silence, as she waked or slept, Still drawing nearer to that unknown sh.o.r.e Whence foot of mortal cometh nevermore, And still the rain was as a pulse that kept Time as the slow hours crept.

The plummet of the night Sank through the hollow dark that closed us round, A lamp lit globe of s.p.a.ce; outside, the sound Of rain-drops falling from abysmal height To vast mysterious depths rose faint and far, Like a dull m.u.f.fled echo from some star Swung, like our own, an orb of tears and light In the unheeding night.

But when the April dawn Touched the closed lattice softly, and a bird, Too early wakened from its sleep, was stirred, And trilled a sudden note broke off, withdrawn, She heard and woke. All silently she laid Her gentle hands in ours, with such a look as made A rainbow of tears it fell upon, Caught from another and a heavenlier dawn, Fixed--trembled--and was gone.

Swung, like our own, an orb of tears and light In the unheeding night.

But when the April dawn Touched the closed lattice softly, and a bird, Too early wakened from its sleep, was stirred, And trilled a sudden note broke off, withdrawn, She heard and woke. All silently she laid Her gentle hands in ours, with such a look as made A rainbow of tears it fell upon, Caught from another and a heavenlier dawn, Fixed--trembled--and was gone.