Thy drooping symbol to the flag-staff clings, Thy rudder soothes the tide to lazy rings, Thy thunders now but birthdays greet, Thy planks forget the martyrs' feet, Thy masts what challenges the sea-wind brings.

Thou a mere hospital, where human wrecks, Like winter-flies, crawl, those renowned decks, Ne'er trodden save by captive foes, And wonted sternly to impose G.o.d's will and thine on bowed imperial necks!

Shall nevermore, engendered of thy fame, A new sea-eagle heir thy conqueror name.

And with commissioned talons wrench From thy supplanter's grimy clench His sheath of steel, his wings of smoke and flame?

This shall the pleased eyes of our children see; For this the stars of G.o.d long even as we; Earth listens for his wings; the Fates Expectant lean; Faith cross-propt waits, And the tired waves of Thought's insurgent sea.

ST. MICHAEL THE WEIGHER

Stood the tall Archangel weighing All man's dreaming, doing, saying, All the failure and the pain, All the triumph and the gain, In the unimagined years, Full of hopes, more full of tears, Since old Adam's hopeless eyes Backward searched for Paradise, And, instead, the flame-blade saw Of inexorable Law.

Waking, I beheld him there, With his fire-gold, flickering hair, In his blinding armor stand, And the scales were in his hand: Mighty were they, and full well They could poise both heaven and h.e.l.l.

'Angel,' asked I humbly then, 'Weighest thou the souls of men?

That thine office is, I know.'

'Nay,' he answered me, 'not so; But I weigh the hope of Man Since the power of choice began, In the world, of good or ill.'

Then I waited and was still.

In one scale I saw him place All the glories of our race, Cups that lit Belsbazzar's feast, Gems, the lightning of the East, Kublai's sceptre, Caesar's sword, Many a poet's golden word, Many a skill of science, vain To make men as G.o.ds again.

In the other scale he threw Things regardless, outcast, few, Martyr-ash, arena sand, Of St Francis' cord a strand, Beechen cups of men whose need Fasted that the poor might feed, Disillusions and despairs Of young saints with, grief-grayed hairs, Broken hearts that brake for Man.

Marvel through my pulses ran Seeing then the beam divine Swiftly on this hand decline, While Earth's splendor and renown Mounted light as thistle-down.

A VALENTINE

Let others wonder what fair face Upon their path shall shine, And, fancying half, half hoping, trace Some maiden shape of tenderest grace To be their Valentine.

Let other hearts with tremor sweet One secret wish enshrine That Fate may lead their happy feet Fair Julia in the lane to meet To be their Valentine.

But I, far happier, am secure; I know the eyes benign, The face more beautiful and pure Than fancy's fairest portraiture That mark my Valentine.

More than when first I singled, thee, This only prayer is mine,-- That, in the years I yet shall see.

As, darling, in the past, thou'll be My happy Valentine.

AN APRIL BIRTHDAY--AT SEA

On this wild waste, where never blossom came, Save the white wind-flower to the billow's cap, Or those pale disks of momentary flame, Loose petals dropped from Dian's careless lap, What far fetched influence all my fancy fills, With singing birds and dancing daffodils?

Why, 'tis her day whom jocund April brought, And who brings April with her in her eyes; It is her vision lights my lonely thought, Even as a rose that opes its hushed surprise In sick men's chambers, with its glowing breath Plants Summer at the glacier edge of Death.

Gray sky, sea gray as mossy stones on graves;-- Anon comes April in her jollity; And dancing down the bleak vales 'tween the waves, Makes them green glades for all her flowers and me.

The gulls turn thrushes, charmed are sea and sky By magic of my thought, and know not why.

Ah, but I know, for never April's shine, Nor pa.s.sion gust of rain, nor all her flowers Scattered in haste, were seen so sudden fine As she in various mood, on whom the powers Of happiest stars in fair conjunction smiled To bless the birth, of April's darling child.

LOVE AND THOUGHT

What hath Love with Thought to do?

Still at variance are the two.

Love is sudden, Love is rash, Love is like the levin flash, Comes as swift, as swiftly goes, And his mark as surely knows.

Thought is lumpish, Thought is slow, Weighing long 'tween yes and no; When dear Love is dead and gone, Thought comes creeping in anon, And, in his deserted nest, Sits to hold the crowner's quest.

Since we love, what need to think?

Happiness stands on a brink Whence too easy 'tis to fall Whither's no return at all; Have a care, half-hearted lover, Thought would only push her over!

THE n.o.bLER LOVER

If he be a n.o.bler lover, take him!

You in you I seek, and not myself; Love with men's what women choose to make him, Seraph strong to soar, or fawn-eyed elf: All I am or can, your beauty gave it, Lifting me a moment nigh to you, And my bit of heaven, I fain would save it-- Mine I thought it was, I never knew.

What you take of me is yours to serve you, All I give, you gave to me before; Let him win you! If I but deserve you, I keep all you grant to him and more: You shall make me dare what others dare not, You shall keep my nature pure as snow, And a light from you that others share not Shall transfigure me where'er I go.

Let me be your thrall! However lowly Be the bondsman's service I can do, Loyalty shall make it high and holy; Naught can be unworthy, done for you.

Men shall say, 'A lover of this fashion Such an icy mistress well beseems.'

Women say, 'Could we deserve such pa.s.sion, We might be the marvel that he dreams.'

ON HEARING A SONATA OF BEETHOVEN'S PLAYED IN THE NEXT ROOM

Unseen Musician, thou art sure to please, For those same notes in happier days I heard Poured by dear hands that long have never stirred Yet now again for me delight the keys: Ah me, to strong illusions such as these What are Life's solid things? The walls that gird Our senses, lo, a casual scent or word Levels, and it is the soul that hears and sees!

Play on, dear girl, and many be the years Ere some grayhaired survivor sit like me And, for thy largess pay a meed of tears Unto another who, beyond the sea Of Time and Change, perhaps not sadly hears A music in this verse undreamed by thee!

VERSES

INTENDED TO GO WITH A POSSET DISH TO MY DEAR LITTLE G.o.dDAUGHTER, 1882

In good old times, which means, you know, The time men wasted long ago, And we must blame our brains or mood If that we squander seems less good, In those blest days when wish was act And fancy dreamed itself to fact, G.o.dfathers used to fill with guineas The cups they gave their pickaninnies, Performing functions at the chrism Not mentioned in the Catechism.

No millioner, poor I fill up With wishes my more modest cup, Though had I Amalthea's horn It should be hers the newly born.

Nay, shudder not! I should bestow it So br.i.m.m.i.n.g full she couldn't blow it.

Wishes aren't horses: true, but still There are worse roadsters than goodwill.

And so I wish my darling health, And just to round my couplet, wealth, With faith enough to bridge the chasm 'Twixt Genesis and Protoplasm, And bear her o'er life's current vext From this world to a better next, Where the full glow of G.o.d puts out Poor reason's farthing candle, Doubt.

I've wished her healthy, wealthy, wise, What more can G.o.dfather devise?

But since there's room for countless wishes In these old-fashioned posset dishes, I'll wish her from my plenteous store Of those commodities two more, Her father's wit, veined through and through With tenderness that Watts (but whew!

Celia's aflame, I mean no stricture On his Sir Josh-surpa.s.sing picture)-- I wish her next, and 'tis the soul Of all I've dropt into the bowl, Her mother's beauty--nay, but two So fair at once would never do.