"I rode we ride upon the same high quest, Whereon who enters may not be released;

"To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,-- A n.o.bler form than e'er was shapen yet, Though million million cups without a flaw, Afire with gems, on princes' boards are set;

"To seek the Wine whereof none ever had One draught, though many a generous wine flows free,-- The spiritual blood that shall make glad The hearts of mighty men that are to be."

"But shall one find it, brother? Where I ride, Men mock and stare, who never had the dream, Yet hope within my breast has never died."

"Nor ever died in mine that trembling gleam."

"Eastward, I deem: the sun and all good things Are born to bless us of the Orient old."

"Westward, I deem: an untried ocean sings Against that coast, 'New sh.o.r.es await the bold.'"

"G.o.d speed or thee or me, so coming men But have the Cup!" "G.o.d speed!"--Not once before Their eyes had met, nor ever met again, Yet were they loving comrades evermore.

THE HOUSE OF HATE

Mine enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills in sight; But betwixt his house and the hills I builded a house for spite: And the name thereof I set in the stone-work over the gate, With a carving of bats and apes; and I called it the House of Hate.

And the front was alive with masks of malice and of despair; Horned demons that leered in stone, and women with serpent hair; That whenever his glance would rest on the soft hills far and blue, It must fall on mine evil work, and my hatred should pierce him through.

And I said, "I will dwell herein, for beholding my heart's desire On my foe;" and I knelt, and fain had brightened the hearth with fire; But the brands they would hiss and die, as with curses a strangled man, And the hearth was cold from the day that the House of Hate began.

And I called at the open door, "Make ye merry, all friends of mine, In the hall of my House of Hate, where is plentiful store and wine.

We will drink unhealth together unto him I have foiled and fooled!"

And they stared and they pa.s.sed me by; but I scorned to be thereby schooled.

And I ordered my board for feast; and I drank, in the topmost seat, Choice grape from a curious cup; and the first it was wonder-sweet; But the second was bitter indeed, and the third was bitter and black, And the gloom of the grave came on me, and I cast the cup to wrack.

Alone, I was stark alone, and the shadows were each a fear; And thinly I laughed, but once, for the echoes were strange to hear; And the wind in the hallways howled as a green-eyed wolf might cry, And I heard my heart: I must look on the face of a man, or die!

So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown (By the light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone; And with horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled, And a fire-snake writhed where it fell; and at midnight the sky was red.

And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, I fell at mine enemy's feet, and besought him to slay my shame; But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were calm and great: "You rave, or have dreamed," he said; "I saw not your House of Hate."

THE ARROWMAKER

Day in, day out, or sun or rain, Or sallow leaf, or summer grain, Beneath a wintry morning moon Or through red smouldering afternoon, With simple joy, with careful pride, He plies the craft he long has plied: To shape the stave, to set the sting, To fit the shaft with irised wing; And farers by may hear him sing, For still his door is wide: "Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- The world swings round; I know not, I, If north or south mine arrows fly!"

And sometimes, while he works, he dreams, And on his soul a vision gleams: Some storied field fought long ago, Where arrows fell as thick as snow.

His breath comes fast, his eyes grow bright, To think upon that ancient fight.

Oh, leaping from the strained string Against an armored Wrong to ring, Brave the songs that arrows sing!

He weighs the finished flight: "Live and die; by and by The sun kills dark; I know not, I, In what good fight mine arrows fly!"

Or at the gray hour, weary grown, When curfew o'er the wold is blown, He sees, as in a magic gla.s.s, Some lost and lonely mountain-pa.s.s; And lo! a sign of deathful rout The mocking vine has wound about,-- An earth-fixed arrow by a spring, All greenly mossed, a mouldered thing; That stifled shaft no more shall sing!

He shakes his head in doubt.

"Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- The hand is blind: I know not, I, In what lost pa.s.s mine arrows lie!

One to east, one to west, Another for the eagle's breast,-- The archer and the wind know best!"

The stars are in the sky; He lays his arrows by.

A NEST IN A LYRE

As sign before a playhouse serves A giant Lyre, ornately gilded, On whose convenient coignes and curves The pert brown sparrows late have builded.

They flit, and flirt, and prune their wings, Not awed at all by golden glitter, And make among the silent strings Their satisfied ephemeral twitter.

Ah, somewhat so we perch and flit, And spy some crumb and dash to win it, And with a witty chirping twit Our sheltering Time--there's nothing in it!

In Life's large frame, a glorious Lyre's, We nest, content, our season flighty, Nor guess we brush the powerful wires Might witch the stars with music mighty.

THISBE

The garden within was shaded, And guarded about from sight; The fragrance flowed to the south wind, The fountain leaped to the light.

And the street without was narrow, And dusty, and hot, and mean; But the bush that bore white roses, She leaned to the fence between:

And softly she sought a crevice In that barrier blank and tall, And shyly she thrust out through it Her loveliest bud of all.

And tender to touch, and gracious, And pure as the moon's pure shine, The full rose paled and was perfect,-- For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine!

THE SPRING BEAUTIES

The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch.

"Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them.

"Vanity, oh, vanity!

Young maids, beware of vanity!"

Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, Half parson-like, half soldierly.

The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pa.s.s, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the gra.s.s, All because the buff-coat Bee Lectured them so solemnly:-- "Vanity, oh, vanity!

Young maids, beware of vanity!"