'That herb of clay-disdaining root, From stars secreting what it feeds on, Is burnt-out pa.s.sion's slag and soot Fit soil to strew its dainty seeds on?

'Pray, why, if in Arcadia once, Need one so soon forget the way there?

Or why, once there, be such a dunce As not contentedly to stay there?' 60

Dear child, 'twas but a sorry jest, And from my heart I hate the cynic Who makes the Book of Life a nest For comments staler than rabbinic.

If Love his simple spell but keep, Life with ideal eyes to flatter, The Grail itself were crockery cheap To Every-day's communion-platter.

One Darby is to me well known, Who, as the hearth between them blazes, 70 Sees the old moonlight shine on Joan, And float her youthward in its hazes.

He rubs his spectacles, he stares,-- 'Tis the same face that witched him early!

He gropes for his remaining hairs,-- Is this a fleece that feels so curly?

'Good heavens! but now 'twas winter gray, And I of years had more than plenty; The almanac's a fool! 'Tis May!

Hang family Bibles! I am twenty! 80

'Come, Joan, your arm; we'll walk the room-- The lane, I mean--do you remember?

How confident the roses bloom, As if it ne'er could be December!

'Nor more it shall, while in your eyes My heart its summer heat recovers, And you, howe'er your mirror lies, Find your old beauty in your lover's.'

THE NEST

MAY

When oaken woods with buds are pink, And new-come birds each morning sing, When fickle May on Summer's brink Pauses, and knows not which to fling, Whether fresh bud and bloom again, Or h.o.a.r-frost silvering hill and plain,

Then from the honeysuckle gray The oriole with experienced quest Twitches the fibrous bark away, The cordage of his hammock-nest.

Cheering his labor with a note Rich as the orange of his throat.

High o'er the loud and dusty road The soft gray cup in safety swings, To brim ere August with its load Of downy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and throbbing wings, O'er which the friendly elm-tree heaves An emerald roof with sculptured eaves.

Below, the noisy World drags by In the old way, because it must, The bride with heartbreak in her eye, The mourner following hated dust: Thy duty, winged flame of Spring, Is but to love, and fly, and sing.

Oh, happy life, to soar and sway Above the life by mortals led, Singing the merry months away, Master, not slave of daily bread, And, when the Autumn comes, to flee Wherever sunshine beckons thee!

PALINODE--DECEMBER

Like some lorn abbey now, the wood Stands roofless in the bitter air; In ruins on its floor is strewed The carven foliage quaint and rare, And homeless winds complain along The columned choir once thrilled with song.

And thou, dear nest, whence joy and praise The thankful oriole used to pour, Swing'st empty while the north winds chase Their snowy swarms from Labrador: But, loyal to the happy past, I love thee still for what thou wast.

Ah, when the Summer graces flee From other nests more dear than thou, And, where June crowded once, I see Only bare trunk and disleaved bough; When springs of life that gleamed and gushed Run chilled, and slower, and are hushed;

When our own branches, naked long, The vacant nests of Spring betray, Nurseries of pa.s.sion, love, and song That vanished as our year grew gray; When Life drones o'er a tale twice told O'er embers pleading with the cold,--

I'll trust, that, like the birds of Spring, Our good goes not without repair, But only flies to soar and sing Far off in some diviner air, Where we shall find it in the calms Of that fair garden 'neath the palms.

A YOUTHFUL EXPERIMENT IN ENGLISH HEXAMETERS

IMPRESSIONS OF HOMER

Sometimes come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back, Over his deep mind muses, as when o'er awe-stricken ocean Poises a heapt cloud luridly, ripening the gale and the thunder; Slow rolls onward the verse with a long swell heaving and swinging, Seeming to wait till, gradually wid'ning from far-off horizons, Piling the deeps up, heaping the glad-hearted surges before it, Gathers the thought as a strong wind darkening and cresting the tumult.

Then every pause, every heave, each trough in the waves, has its meaning; Full-sailed, forth like a tall ship steadies the theme, and around it, Leaping beside it in glad strength, running in wild glee beyond it, Harmonies billow exulting and floating the soul where it lists them, Swaying the listener's fantasy hither and thither like drift-weed.

BIRTHDAY VERSES

WRITTEN IN A CHILD'S ALb.u.m

'Twas sung of old in hut and hall How once a king in evil hour Hung musing o'er his castle wall, And, lost in idle dreams, let fall Into the sea his ring of power.

Then, let him sorrow as he might, And pledge his daughter and his throne To who restored the jewel bright, The broken spell would ne'er unite; The grim old ocean held its own.

Those awful powers on man that wait, On man, the beggar or the king, To hovel bare or hall of state A magic ring that masters fate With each succeeding birthday bring.

Therein are set four jewels rare: Pearl winter, summer's ruby blaze, Spring's emerald, and, than all more fair, Fall's pensive opal, doomed to bear A heart of fire bedreamed with haze.

To him the simple spell who knows The spirits of the ring to sway, Fresh power with every sunrise flows, And royal pursuivants are those That fly his mandates to obey.

But he that with a slackened will Dreams of things past or things to be, From him the charm is slipping still, And drops, ere he suspect the ill, Into the inexorable sea.

ESTRANGEMENT

The path from me to you that led, Untrodden long, with gra.s.s is grown, Mute carpet that his lieges spread Before the Prince Oblivion When he goes visiting the dead.

And who are they but who forget?

You, who my coming could surmise Ere any hint of me as yet Warned other ears and other eyes, See the path blurred without regret.

But when I trace its windings sweet With saddened steps, at every spot That feels the memory in my feet, Each gra.s.s-blade turns forget-me-not, Where murmuring bees your name repeat.

PHOEBE

Ere pales in Heaven the morning star, A bird, the loneliest of its kind, Hears Dawn's faint footfall from afar While all its mates are dumb and blind.

It is a wee sad-colored thing, As shy and secret as a maid, That, ere in choir the robins sing, Pipes its own name like one afraid.