ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETSPart 1 out of 3ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE, Editor CONTENTS HOME BOUND JOSEPH AUSLANDER AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL KATHERINE LEE BATES YELLOW CLOVER KATHERINE LEE BATES THE RETURNING SYLVESTER BAXTER TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL ERNEST BENSHIMOL A BANQUET ERNEST BENSHIMOL SONG GEORGE CABOT LODGE THE WORLDS MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI THE RIOT GAMALIEL BRADFORD HUNGER GAMALIEL BRADFORD EXIT GOD GAMALIEL BRADFORD ROUSSEAU GAMALIEL BRADFORD JOHN MASEFIELD AMY BRIDGMAN 1620-1920 LE BARON RUSSEL BRIGGS THE CROSS-CURRENT ABBIE FARWELL BROWN CANDLEMAS ALICE BROWN SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN ALICE BROWN BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT FOUR FOUNTAINS. AFTER RESPIGHI JESSICA CARR IN THE TROLLEY CAR RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY IN IRISH RAIN MARTHA HASKELL CLARK CRETONNE TROPICS GRACE HAZARD CONKLING TO HILDA OF HER ROSES GRACE HAZARD CONKLING DANDELION HILDA CONKLING RED ROOSTER HILDA CONKLING VElVETS HILDA CONKLING THE MOODS FANNY STEARNS DAVIS HILL-FANTASY FANNY STEARNS DAVIS THE MIRAGE NATHAN HASKELL DOLE THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. THE LILAC WALTER PRICHARD EATON GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE CHARLES GIBSON TO MUSIC MAUDE GORDON-ROBY THE VOICE IN THE SONG MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE CAROLINE HAZARD REUBEN ROY HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS COUNTRY ROAD MARIE LOUISE HERSEY WREATHS CAROLYN HILLMAN MEMPHIS GORDON MALHERBE HILLMAN SAINT COLUMBKILLE E.J.V. HUIGINN MISS DOANE WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON FALLEN FENCES WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON CROSS-CURRENTS WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON THE FAREWELL WINIFRED VIRGINIA JACKSON SONG OLIVER JENKINS LOVE AUTUMNAL OLIVER JENKINS ECHOES RUTH LAMBERT JONES WAR PICTURES RUTH LAMBERT JONES AN OLD SONG ARTHUR KETCHUM ROADSIDE REST ARTHUR KETCHUM OLD LIZETTE ON SLEEP AGNES LEE MOTHERHOOD AGNES LEE ESSEX GEORGE CABOT LODGE THE SONG OF THE WAVE GEORGE CABOT LODGE FRIMAIRE AMY LOWELL PATTERNS AMY LOWELL A BATHER AMY LOWELL LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS DENNIS A. MCCARTHY L'ENVOI DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN TO IMAGINATION DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN DRAGON JEANETTE MARKS GREEN GOLDEN DOOR JEANETTE MARKS SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD JOHN CLAIR MINOT THE SWORD OF ARTHUR JOHN CLAIR MINOT THE DIVINE FOREST CHARLES R. MURPHY MAGIC EDWARD J. O'BRIEN MICHAEL PAT EDWARD J. O'BRIAN SONG EDWARD J. O'BRIAN IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONNOR EVENSONG NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONNOR THE PROPHET JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY HARVEST-MOON: 1914 JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM LILLA CABOT PERRY THREE QUATRAINS LILLA CABOT PERRY A VALENTINE UNSENT MARGARET PERRY SHIPBUILDERS ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER UNFADING PICTURES LOUELLA C. POOLE WITH WAVES AND WINGS CHARLOTTE PORTER BLUEBERRIES FRANK PRENTICE RAND NOCTURNE WILLIAM ROSCOIE THAYER ENVOI WILLIAM 'ROSCOE THAYER THERE WHERE THE SEA MARIE TUDOR MARRIAGE MARIE TUDOR PITY HAROLD VINAL A ROSE TO THE LIVING NIXON WATERMAN THE STORM G.O. WARREN WHERE THEY SLEEP G.O. WARREN BEAUTY G.O. WARREN COMRADES GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE FLIGHT GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY HOME-BOUND THE moon is a wavering rim where one fish slips, The water makes a quietness of sound; Night is an anchoring of many ships Home-bound. There are strange tunnelers in the dark, and whirs Of wings that die, and hairy spiders spin The silence into nets, and tenanters Move softly in. I step on shadows riding through the grass, And feel the night lean cool against my face; And challenged by the sentinel of space, I pass. JOSEPH AUSLANDE AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL O BEAUTIFUL for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Those stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law! O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife Who more than self their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness, And every gain divine. O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! KATHERINE LEE BATES YELLOW CLOVER MUST I, who walk alone, come on it still, This Puck of plants The wise would do away with, The sunshine slants To play with, Our wee, gold-dusty flower, the yellow clover, Which once in Parting for a time That then seemed long, Ere time for you was over, We sealed our own? Do you remember yet, O Soul beyond the stars, Beyond the uttermost dim bars Of space, Dear Soul, who found earth sweet, Remember by love's grace, In dreamy hushes of the heavenly song, How suddenly we halted in our climb, Lingering, reluctant, up that farthest hill, Stooped for the blossoms closest to our feet, And gave them as a token Each to Each, In lieu of speech, In lieu of words too grievous to be spoken, Those little, gypsy, wondering blossoms wet With a strange dew of tears? So it began, This vagabond, unvalued yellow clover, To be our tenderest language. All the years It lent a new zest to the summer hours, As each of us went scheming to surprise The other with our homely, laureate flowers. Sonnets and odes Fringing our daily roads. Can amaranth and asphodel Bring merrier laughter to your eyes? Oh, if the Blest, in their serene abodes, Keep any wistful consciousness of earth, Not grandeurs, but the childish ways of love, Simplicities of mirth, Must follow them above With touches of vague homesickness that pass Like shadows of swift birds across the grass. Beneath some foreign arch of sky, How many a time the rover You or I, For life oft sundered look from look, And voice from voice, the transient dearth Schooling my soul to brook This distance that no messages may span, Would chance Upon our wilding by a lonely well, Or drowsy watermill, Or swaying to the chime of convent bell, Or where the nightingales of old romance With tragical contraltos fill Dim solitudes of infinite desire; And once I joyed to meet Our peasant gadabout A trespasser on trim, seigniorial seat, Twinkling a saucy eye As potentates paced by. Our golden cord! our soft, pursuing flame From friendship's altar fire! How proudly we would pluck and tame The dimpling clusters, mutinously gay! How swiftly they were sent Far, far away On journeys wide, By sea and continent, Green miles and blue leagues over, From each of us to each, That so our hearts might reach, And touch within the yellow clover, Love's letter to be glad about Like sunshine when it came! My sorrow asks no healing; it is love; Let love then make me brave To bear the keen hurts of This careless summertide, Ay, of our own poor flower, Changed with our fatal hour, For all its sunshine vanished when you died; Only white clover blossoms on your grave. KATHERINE LEE BATES THE RETURNING We long for her, we yearn for her-- Yes, ardently we yearn For her return. Recalling those beloved days (Days intimate with ways Of friends so near to us And life so dear to us), We yearn unspeakably for her return. And come she must. . .Yet while we trust We soon may see the passing of this agony Which makes intrusive years still seem A fearsome dream, We know that when she comes She really comes not back again. She'll come in other guise And under fairer skies-- And yet to bitter pain! That day she went away Our homes with laughing youth were filled. Where then was happiness Is now distress, The laughter stilled; For when she left Youth followed her- We stay bereft. So all our golden joy For what she brings Must carry gray alloy: The sorrow that she can not lay, The mysery that she can not stay- While all the gladsome songs she sings Must bear for undertones Old sighs and echoed moans. As they who go away In flush of youth May come quite worn and gray And bringing naught but ruth- So, when the strife shall cease, And when she comes at last, When all the armies vast Shall at her feet Kneel down to greet Thrice welcome Peace, This world will be so changed (So many dear ones dead, So many friends estranged, So many blessings fled, So many wonted ways forever barred, So many coming days forever marred) That then She truly comes not back again-- She, the Peace we knew. Yet how we long for her! How ardently we yearn For her return! SYLVESTER BAXTER TWO MOODS FROM THE HILL I. YOUTH I LOVE to watch the world from here, for all The numberless living portraits that are drawn Upon the mind. Far over is the sea, Fronting the sand, a few great yellow dunes, A salt marsh stumbling after, rank and green, With brackish gullies wandering in between, All this from the hill. And more: a clump of dwarfed and twisted cedars, Sentinels over the marsh, and bright with the sun A field of daises wandering in the wind As though a hidden serpent glided through, A broken wall, a new-plowed field, and then The dusty road and the abodes of men Surrounding the hill. How small the enclosure is wherein there lives Each phase and passion of life, the distant sail Dips in the limpid bosom of the sea, From that far place to where in state the turf Raises a throne for me upon the hill, Each little love and lust of a living thing Can thus be compassed in a rainbow ring And seen from the hill. II. AGE Why did I build my cottage on a hill Facing the sea? Why did I plan each terraced lawn to slope Down to the deep blue billowy breast of hope, Surging and sweeping, laughing and leaping, Tumbling its garments of foam upon the shore, Rustling the sands that know my step no more, I should have found a valley, deep and still, To shelter me. There flows the river, and it seems asleep So far away, Yet I remember whip of wave and roar Of wind that rose and smote against the oar, Smote and retreated, Proud but defeated, While I rejoiced and rowed into the brine, Drawing on wet and heavy -straining line The great cod quivering from the deep As counterplay. What is the solace of these hills and vales That rise and fall? What is there glorious in the greenwood glen, Or twittering thrush or wing of darting wren? Give me the gusty, Raucous and rusty Call of the sea gull in the echoing sky, The wild shriek of the winds that cannot die, Give me the life that follows the bending sails, Or none at all! ERNEST BENSHIMOL A BANQUET ONE MEMORY FROM SOCRATES AFTER the song the love, and after the love the play, Flute girl and pretty boy blowing Bubbles of sparkling Wine into darkling Beards of a former austerity, stern even now, but Fast growing Foolish, with less of a stately Reserve that held them sedately. Oh Zeus, what a sight! With the wine dripping off it, The grin of an ass on a bald-pated prophet. After the feast the night, and after the night the day, Fool and philosopher stirring With the day dawning, Stretching and yawning, While in each wine-throbbing, desolated brain is the Wheeling and whirring Of thousands of bats, that the slaking Of throats will not hinder from aching, No wine for the brow that is beating to bursting, But water at morning is quench for the thirsting! ERNEST BENSHIMOL SONG OUT of one heart the birds and I together, Earth hushed in twilight, Low through the live-oaks hung heavy with silver, Gemmed with the sky-light, Under the great wet star Shaking with light, we jar Lute-voiced the silence with intervaled music. While under the margined world the slow sun lingers, Flaming earth's portal, Over the lilac dusk spreads his great fingers- Earth is immortal! While the frail beauty dies. Dream in the dreamer's eyes, All the good gladness turns praise for the singers. Hark, 'tis the breath of life! Hush! and I need it; Northern, gigantic,- Questing the silences, herding the sudden foam Down the Atlantic; Leaves from the autumn's store Shrill at my desert door, They and I out of one heart that is grieving. GEORGE CABOT LODGE THE WORLDS I SAW an idler on a summer day Piping with Iris by a dancing brook; And all his world was rife with Pleasures gay, And languid Follies smiled from every nook. I saw an artist in a world of dreams, His rainbow rising from his radiant task, To throw its magic prism beams O'er Fancy's changeful masque and counter- masque. I saw Toil--stooping underneath a world Whereon his foster-brothers lighter tread, His skyward pinions ever closer furled Before the grim necessity of bread! I saw a sinner working hard to be Worthy his death-wage from the mint of time; I saw a sailor, unto whom the sea Was hearth and hope and love and wedding- chime. I saw a mother living in her child-- I saw a saint among his fellow men-- Brave soldiery before my eyes defiled And solemn-hearted scholars--Sudden then I cried: "The stars are no less neighborly In their ethereal remoteness swung, Than these near human orbits wherein we Live out our lives and speak our chosen tongue! "Love seek through all--less there be one Least soul unlit within the night-- And over all, the selfsame sun Give each creation light!" MARTHA GILBERT DICKINSON BIANCHI THE RIOT YOU may think my life is quiet. I find it full of change, An ever-varied diet, As piquant as 'tis strange. Wild thoughts are always flying, Like sparks across my brain, Now flashing out, now dying, To kindle soon again. Fine fancies set me thrilling, And subtle monsters creep Before my sight unwilling: They even haunt my sleep. One broad, perpetual riot Enfolds me night and day. You think my life is quiet? You don't know what you say. GAMALIEL BRADFORD HUNGER I'VE been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint, Their bend of weary knees and their con- tortions long and faint, And the endless pricks of conscience, like a hundred thousand pins, A real perpetual penance for imaginary sins. I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell, Where you tell and tell your beads because you've nothing else to tell, Where the crimson joy of flesh, with all its wild fantastic tricks, Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix. I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is torn With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn. There are moments when I would untread the paths that I have trod. I'm a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God. GAMALIEL BRADFORD EXIT GOD Of old our father's God was real, Something they almost saw, Which kept them to a stern ideal And scourged them into awe. They walked the narrow path of right Most vigilantly well, Because they feared eternal night And boiling depths of Hell. Now Hell has wholly boiled away And God become a shade. There is no place for him to stay In all the world He made. The followers of William James Still let the Lord exist, And call Him by imposing names, A venerable list. But nerve and muscle only count, Gray matter of the brain, And an astonishing amount Of inconvenient pain. I sometimes wish that God were back In this dark world and wide; For though sonic virtues He might lack, He had his pleasant side. GAMALIEL BRADFORD ROUSSEAU THAT odd, fantastic ass, Rousseau, Declared himself unique. How men persist in doing so, Puzzles me more than Greek. The sins that tarnish whore and thief Beset me every day. My most ethereal belief Inhabits common clay. GAMALIEL BRADFORD JOHN MASEFIELD I MASEFIELD (HIMSELF) GOD said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay: "Alone, 'twont do; composite, would I make This man-child rare; 'twere well, methinks, to take A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh A few of Shelley's ashes; Bunyan may Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son's sake, I'll visit Avalon; then, let me slake The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay. A sailor, he! Too godly, though, I fear; Offset it with tobacco! Next, I'll find Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant's mind; His mother's heart now let me breathe upon; When west winds blow, I'll whisper in her ear: "Apocalypse awaits him; call him John!" II HIS PORTRAIT A Man of Sorrows! with such haunted eyes, I trow, the Master looked across the lake,-- Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make Of Him the world's historic sacrifice; Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise; Great souls, great pallid ghosts of pain, who wake And wander yet; all, weary men who brake Their hearts; all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise: Hudson adrift; Defoe; the Wandering Jew; Tannhauser; Faust; Andrea; phantoms, all, In Masefield's eyes you lodge; and to the wall I turn you,--hand a-tremble,--lest you make Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too. Wherein the sad world's sadder for your sake. III HIS "DAUBER" O Masefield's "Dauber!" You, who being dead, Yet speak: heroic, dauntless, flaming soul, Too suddenly snuffed out! Here take fresh toll Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed, Serenely rest, assured that who has read What you would fain have pictured of the Pole Would gladly match your part against the whole Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred. And more than this: if you, indeed, are his, Then, by a dual truth, he, too, is yours; For, marked and credited by what endures, Were it the only thing, which bears his name, (O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this!) "The Dauber" has brought Masefield to his fame. IV HIS "GALLIPOLI" "Small wonder," speaks my pensive self, "that he Whose passion 'tis to sing of men who fail,-- (Belabored, broken by The Unseen Flail) Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli His fervent text, for could there be A costlier failure in Earth's shuddering tale? Think of heroic Sulva's bloody swale; Of Anzac's tortured thirst and agony!" But as I read, protesting voices cry: "Not we, Not we, who fell among the daffodils, Who conquered Death among those blistered hills, And found our glory after mortal pain; Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli; The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain!" V HIS MEAD So, Masefield, have your royal words once more Called forth the praise of men, where praise is due; Your great elegiac, tragically true, Must leave all Britain prouder than before; And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore, And all that anguished consciences must rue, One arrowed gladness surely pierces through From London's centre to Canadian shore: When England, sobbing, mourns Gallipoli, When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke And all the splendid Youth her error took As hostage from the fields of daffodils, Let this a present, living solace be: You are not sleeping in those cruel hills! AMY BRIDGEMAN 1620-1920 BEFORE him rolls the dark, relentless ocean; Behind him stretch the cold and barren sands; Wrapt in the mantle of his deep devotion The Pilgrim kneels, and clasps his lifted hands; "God of our fathers, who hast safely brought us Through seas and sorrows, famine, fire, and sword; Who, in Thy mercies manifold hast taught us To trust in Thee, our leader and our Lord; "God, who hast send Thy truth to shine before us, A fiery pillar, beaconing on the sea; God, who hast spread thy wings of mercy o'er us; God, who hast set our children's children free, "Freedom Thy new-born nation here shall cherish; Grant us Thy covenant, changing, sure: Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; Freedom and Truth, immortal shall endure." Face to the Indian arrows. Face to the Prussian guns, From then till now the Pilgrim's vow Has held the Pilgrim's sons. He braved the red man's ambush, He loosed the black man's chain; His spirit broke King George's yoke And the battleships of Spain. He crossed the seething ocean; He dared the death-strewn track; He charged in the hell of Saint Mihiel And hurled the tyrant back. For the voice of the lonely Pilgram Who knelt upon the strand A people hears three hundred years In the conscience of the land. Daughter of Truth and mother of Courage, Conscience, all hail! Heart of New England, strength of the Pilgrims, Thou shalt prevail. Look how the empires rise and fall! Athens robed in her learning and beauty, Rome in her royal lust for power- Each has flourished for her little hour, Risen and fallen and ceased to be. What of her by the Western Sea, Born and bred as the child of Duty, Sternest of them all? She it is and she alone Who built on faith as her corner stone; Of all the nations none but she Knew that the truth shall make us free. Daughter of Courage, mother of heros, Freedom divine. Light of New England, Star of the Pilgrim, Still shalt thou shine. Yet even as we in our pride rejoice, Hark to the prophet's warning voice: "The Pilgrim's thrift is vanished And the Pilgrim's faith is dead, And the Pilgrim's God is banished, And Mammon reigns in his stead; And work is damned as an evil, And men and women cry, In their restless haste, 'Let us spend and waste, And live; for to-morrow we die.' "And law is trampled under; And the nations stand aghast, As they hear the distant thunder Of the storm that marches fast; And we,--whose ocean borders Shut off the sound and the sight, We will wait for marching orders; The world has seen us fight; We have earned our days of revel; 'On with the dance'! we cry. It is pain to think; we will eat and drink! And live; for to-morrow we die." "We have laughed in the eyes of danger; We have given our bravest and best; We have succored the starving stranger; Others shall heed the rest.' And the revel never ceases; And the nations hold their breath; And our laughter peals, and the mad world reels, To a carnival of death. "Slaves of sloth and the senses, Clippers of Freedom's wings, Come back to the Pilgrim's Army And fight for the King of Kings; Come back to the Pilgrim's conscience; Be born in the nation's birth; And strive again as simple men For the freedom of the earth. Freedom a free-born nation still shall cherish, Be this our covenant, unchanging, sure: Earth shall decay; the firmament shall perish; Freedom and Truth immortal shall endure." Land of our fathers, when the tempest rages, When the wide earth is racked with war and crime, Founded forever on the Rock of Ages, Beaten in vain by surging seas of time, Even as the shallop on the breakers riding, Even as the Pilgrim kneeling on the shore, Firm in thy faith and fortitude abiding, Hold thou thy children free forever more. And when we sail as Pilgrims' sons and daughters The spirit's Mayflower into seas unknown, Driving across the waste of wintry waters The voyage every soul shall make alone, The Pilgrim's faith, the Pilgrim's courage grant us; Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone. We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us. The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on! LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS THE CROSS-CURRENT THROUGH twelve stout generations New England blood I boast; The stubborn pastures bred them, The grim, uncordial coast, Sedate and proud old cities,-- Loved well enough by me, Then how should I be yearning To scour the earth and sea. Each of my Yankee forbears Wed a New England mate: They dwelt and did and died here, Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. My clan endured their kindred; But foreigners they loathed, And wandering folk, and minstrels, And gypsies motley-clothed. Then why do patches please me, Fantastic, wild array? Why have I vagrant fancies For lads from far away. My folk were godly Churchmen,-- Or paced in Elders' weeds; But all were grave and pious And hated heathen creeds. Then why are Thor and Wotan To dread forces still? Why does my heart go questing For Pan beyond the hill? My people clutched at freedom.-- Though others' wills they chained,-- But made the Law and kept it,-- And Beauty, they restrained. Then why am I a rebel To laws of rule and square? Why would I dream and dally, Or, reckless, do and dare? O righteous, solemn Grandsires, O dames, correct and mild, Who bred me of your virtues! Whence comes this changing child?-- The thirteenth generation,-- Unlucky number this!-- My grandma loved a Pirate, And all my faults are his! A gallant, ruffled rover, With beauty-loving eye, He swept Colonial waters Of coarser, bloodier fry. He waved his hat to danger, At Law he shook his fist. Ah, merrily he plundered, He sang and fought and kissed! Though none have found his treasure, And none his part would take,-- I bless that thirteenth lady Who chose him for my sake! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN CANDLEMAS O HEARKEN, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow. O furry living things, adream On winter's drowsy breast, (How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) Arise and follow where a gleam Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, And all the woodland windings seem With sweet expectance blest. My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May's soft minions hereward fly, Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, The tawny, shining coat! ALICE BROWN SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN O SWIFT forerunners, rosy with the race! Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest Behind your blushing banners in the sky, Daring invaders of Night's tenting-ground, How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, Each to be first in heralding of joy! With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, And so they stand, with silence panoplied, Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, Their solemn invocation to the light. O changeless guardians! 0 ye wizard first! What strenuous philter feeds your potency. That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness, Ready to learn of all and utter naught? What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite To odorous hot lendings of the heart? What wind-but all the winds are yet afar, And e'en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet To pluck the robe of patient majesty. Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm. And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn, And all night thrills with memory and desire, Searching in what has been for what shall be: The marvel of the ne'er familiar day, Sacred investiture of life renewed, The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. Low in the valley lies the conquered rout Of man's poor, trivial turmoil, lost and drowned Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, One great good limpid world--so still, so still! For no sound echoes from its crystal curve Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, And has no heart to finish, for the awe And wonder of this pearling globe of dawn. Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! Light, the revealer of dread beauty's face! Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! Mighty libation to the Unknown God! Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst And little leaves drink sweet delirium! Being and breath and potion! living soul And all-informing heart of all that lives! How can we magnify thine awful name Save by its chanting: Light! and Light! and Light! An exhalation from far sky retreats, It grows in silence, as 'twere self-create, Suffusing all the dusky web of night. But one lone corner it invades not yet, Where low above a black and rimy crag Hangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark. But lo! the east,--let none forget the east, Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. Through some sweet magic common in the skies, The rosy banners are with saffron tinct; The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, And led by silence more majestical Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise, And strikes out flame from the adoring hills. ALICE BROWN BURNT ARE THE PETALS OF LIFE BURNT are the petals of life as a rose fallen and crumbled to dust. Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted, more precious than sunbeams that open the budding to-morrow. Once was a passion completed,-too perfect, the Gods have not broken to borrow- Blackened the heart of the past is, ashes that must Forever be sifted. O, loving to-morrow The rose of the past is, Life-Eternity's dust. ELSIE PUMPELLY CABOT FOUR FOUNTAINS AFTER RESPIGHI FRESH mists of Roman dawn; For water search the cattle; Faintly on damp air sounds the shepherd's horn Above fountain Giulia's prattle. Triton, joyous and loud Of Naiads summons troops; A frenziedly leaping and mingling crowd, Dancing, pursuing groups. At high noon the trumpets peal, Neptune's chariot passes by; Trains of sirens, tritons, Trevi's jets heal Then trumpets' echoes sigh. Tolling bell and sunset, Twittering birds and calm; Medici's fountain, shimmering net, Into the night brings balm. JESSICA CARR IN THE TROLLEY CAR THE swart Italian in the trolley car, Hoarded his children in his arms and breast; The mother, all unheeding, sat afar, Her splendid eyes were vague, her lips compressed. One Raphael-boy slipped from his father's knee, Climbed to her side, and gently stroked her cheek, She turned away, and would not hear his plea, She turned away, and would not even speak. With trembling lips the child crept back again To the warm shelter of his father's breast; We looked indignant pity, for till then We thought that mother-love bore every test. We rose to go, the father-mother said, In deep, low tones, "Don't t'inka hard you bet The younges' was too-seeck, and he is dead, She will be alla right, when she forget." When she forgets! "Great-Heart," hold closer yet Thy precious brood and let it feel no lack! Until her soul shall wake, but not forget, When the warm tides of love come surging back. RUTH BALDWIN CHENERY IN IRISH RAIN THE great world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I've song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag o' Monagan's a-singing in the rain. The silver-slanting Irish rain, all warm and sweet that fills The little brackened lowland pools, and drifts across the hills; That turns the hill-grass cool and wet to dusty childish feet, And hangs above the valley-roofs, filmed blue with burning peat. And oh the kindly neighbor-folk that called the young ones in, Down fragrant yellow-tapered paths that thread the prickly whin; The hot, sweet smell of oaten-cake, the kettle purring soft, The dear-remembered Irish speech-- they call to me how oft! They mind me just a slip o' girl in tattered kirtle blue, But oh they loved me for myself, and not for what I do! And never one but had a joy to pass the time of day With little Mag o' Monagan's a-laughing down the way. There's fifty roofs to shelter me where one was set before, But make me free to that again-- I'll not be wanting more, But sure I know not tears nor gold can turn the years again To little Mag o' Monagan's a-singing in the rain. MARTHA HASKELL CLARK CRETONNE TROPICS THE cretonne in your willow chair Shows through a zone of rosy air, A tree of parrots, agate-eyed, With blue-green crests and plumes of pride And beaks most formidably curved. I hear the river, silver-nerved, To their shrill protests make reply, And the palm forest stir and sigh. Curious, the spell that colors cast, Binding the fancy coweb-fast, And you would smile if you could know I like your cretonne parrots so! But I have seen them sail toward night Superbly homeward, the last light Lifting them like a purple sea Scorned and made use of arrogantly; And I have heard them cry aloud From out a tall palm's emerald cloud; And I brought home a brilliant feather, Lost like a flake of sunset weather. Here in the north the sea is white And mother-of-pearl in morning light, Quite lovely, but there is a glare That daunts me. Now the willow chair Suggests a more perplexing sea, Till my heart aches with memory And parrots dye the air around, And I forget the pallid Sound. GRACE HAZARD TO HILDA OF HER ROSES ENOUGH has been said about roses To fill thirty thick volumes; There are as many songs about roses As there are roses in the world That includes Mexico . . . the Azores ... Oregon ... It is a pity your roses Are too late for Omar . . . It is a pity Keats has gone . . . Yet there must be something left to say Of flowers like these! Adventurers, They pushed their way Through dewy tunnels of the June night Now they confer..... A little tremulous..... Dazzled by the yellow sea-beach of morning If Herrick would tiptoe back . . . If Blake were to look this way Ledwidge, even! GRACE HAZARD CONKLING DANDELION LITTLE soldier with the golden helmet, O What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff? There is only the grass to fight! HILDA CONKLING RED ROOSTER RED ROOSTER in your gray coop, O stately creature with tail-feathers red and blue, Yellow and black, You have a comb gay as a parade On your head: You have pearl trinkets On your feet: The short feathers smooth along your back Are the dark color of wet rocks, Or the rippled green of ships When I look at their sides through water. I don't know how you happened to be made So proud, so foolish, Wearing your coat of many colors, Shouting all day long your crooked words, Loud . . . sharp . . . not beautiful! HILDA CONKLING VELVETS (BY A BED OF PANSIES) THIS pansy has a thinking face Like the yellow moon. This one has a face with white blots; I call him the clown. Here goes one down the grass With a pretty look of plumpness; She is a little girl going to school With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore. Her name is Sue. I like this one, in a bonnet, Waiting, Her eyes are so deep! But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather. These are dark and quiet And stay alone. I know you, Velvets, Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine! HILDA CONKLING THE MOODS THE Moods have laid their hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn their fingers through my heart; My hair shall never more lie smooth and bright, But stir like tide-worn sea-weed, and my heart Shall never more be glad of small sweet things,- A wild rose, or a crescent moon,-a book Of little verses, or a dancing child. My heart turns crying from the rose and book, My heart turns crying from the thin bright moon, And weeps with useless sorrow for the child. The Moods have loosed a wind to vex my hair, And made my heart too wise, that was a child. Now I shall blow like smitten candle-flame: I shall desire all things that may not be: The years, the stars, the souls of ancient men, All tears that must, and smiles that may not be,-- Yes, glimmering lights across a windy ford, And vagrant voices on a darkened plain, And holy things, and outcast things, and things, Far too remote, frail-bodied to be plain. My pity and my joy are grown alike. I cannot sweep the strangeness from my heart. The Moods have laid swift hands across my hair: The Moods have drawn swift fingers through my heart. FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS HILL-FANTASY SITTETH by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing Bunches to the sun, A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale. Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering; No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange Thing, Peaked ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue. Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high reeds Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool! Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one heeds, Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool! He had berries 'twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal., Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, How his deft lips puckered round the reed, seemed to chase and steal Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low! I said "Good-day, Thou!" He said, "Good-day, Thou!" Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back, He said, "Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now. While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not Lack." Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn. Broad into my face laughed that horned Thing so Naughtily. Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr's bairn! 'So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look! Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So! Soon `twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost brook. Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!" Brown One! Hoofed One! Beat time to keep me Straight. Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear. Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold Thy breath, for-wait! Joy comes bubbling to me lips. I pipe, oh, hear! Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us? Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow? Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous. Each one has a color like the seven-splendor bow. Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe, Now? Chipmunk chatt'ring in the beech, rabbit in the brake? Furry arm around my neck: "Oh, Thou art a brave one, Thou!" Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache ! Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous, Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade, Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us, Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid! Brown One, Hoofed One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou! Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail! Pleasant are thy smooth horns: if their like were on my brow Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail? Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand- touch, Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek! "Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too much. I could never find thee horns, though day-long I seek. "Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one. Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear. Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun! Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear! "Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half-soul fears thee! Take the pipe and go thy ways,--quick now, for the sun Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea. Take the pipe, and oh-one kiss! then run, run, run! run!" Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn, All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray. O thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr's bairn? I am lost and all alone, and down drops the day. I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering There I got this Pipe o' dreams. Strange, when I blow, Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling. Is it only sky-music, earth-music low? FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS THE MIRAGE ACROSS the Bay are low-lying cliffs, Where stand fishermen's cottages: I can barely distinguish them with the naked eye. But to-day the cliffs are lifted, escarpt, Perpendicular, mysterious, inaccessible, And those sordid dwellings have become The magnificent fortified castles of Sea-kings. NATHAN HASKELL DOLE THE ROAD BEYOND THE TOWN A ROAD goes up a pleasant hill, And a little house looks down: Ah! but I see the roadway still And the day I left the town. The day I left my father's home, It's many a year ago, And a heart and hope were brave to roam the long, long road I know. The long, long road by hill and plain, It's tired the heart might be: But hope stayed bright in sun or rain, And a Voice that called to me. A Voice that called me over the hill And out of the little town: Ah! but I see the roadway still. And the good house looking down. The house that spake me never a No! As I started brave away, But said with a blessing, Go! And followed me every day. It followed me down the road of years, For a father's heart is true, And joy is sweet in a mother's tears For the deeds her child may do. The poor little deeds, all powerless For the Kingdom of God would be, Save in His mercy will He bless The road that goes with me: The road that left a pleasant hill, Where a little house looks down: Ah! but I bless the roadway still, And the land beyond the town. MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. THE LILAC THE scent of lilac in the air Hath made him drag his steps and pause Whence comes this scent within the Square, Where endless dusty traffic roars? A push-cart stands beside the curb, With fragrant blossoms laden high; Speak low, nor stare, lest we disturb His sudden reverie! He sees us not, nor heeds the din Of clanging car and scuffling throng; His eyes see fairer sights within, And memory hears the robin's song As once it trilled against the day, And shook his slumber in a room Where drifted with the breath of May The lilac's sweet perfume. The heart of boyhood in him stirs; The wonder of the morning skies, Of sunset gold behind the firs, Is kindled in his dreaming eyes: How far off is this sordid place, As turning from our sight away He crushes to his hungry face A purple lilac spray. WALTER PRICHARD EATON GOD, THROUGH HIS OFFSPRING NATURE, GAVE ME LOVE GOD, through his offspring Nature, gave me love, Though man in opposition saith me nay, And taketh from my heart its life to-day, As through the valley of the world I rove. Still unaccompanied, within the grove That doth enamored beings hold at play, My spirit must pursue its lonely way, And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above. Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desire To have that which mankind may not possess, And force him to endure on earth hell's fire, And live in one perpetual distress? Some evil power must such love inspire, And with it masquerade in Cupid's dress! CHARLES GIBSON TO MUSIC "Music, the language, the atmosphere of the Soul." FLY back where Melodies like lilies grow, My weary heart is bending low; Fly higher yet to joyful realms above, Where holy Angels dwell in love. Fly higher still and hear the Angel throng And bring to me their Glory-song: Ah Music, thou and I above the World May dwell where heaven with shining song is pearled! While Sun and Moon and all the planets roll I'll love thee, Music, language of my soul! Music-lark from on high, song that doth fly, Spark of the sky! MAUDE GORDON-ROBY THE VOICE IN THE SONG HIGH in the apple bough jauntily swinging, Hid by the branches in bridal array, Straight from his heart, all his life in his singing, Chants a wee bird, lures his mate with his lay. "Sweet, sweet, my sweet, Hear I entreat! Say, love, together, this bright sunny weather, Gold of the west we shall weave in a nest! Have no fear! Trust me, dear! Sunshine of May that will gild every day Pledge I to thee if thou'lt harken to me." Lo! in the light thro' the gay branches streaming, Quivering in answer to all the bird sings, Warm on a breath, leaps a soul with love gleaming, Speeds to its mate on its glittering wings. "Dear, on thy breast Earth yields its best! Loud in the singing I heard thy call ringing, Pleading and strong in the voice of the song, Whisper low,-Yes, just so!- Softly revealing the depth of thy feeling, Words in whose fire glow thy love and desire." MARY GERTRUDE HAMILTON HYMNS AND ANTHEMS SUNG AT WELLESLEY COLLEGE I MOUNT CARMEL WHERE art Thou, O my Lord? Mount Carmel saw the throng Of priests and heard the song; To Baal was their call- From morn till night did fall. Where art Thou, O my Lord? Again Mount Carmel heard Not in the spoken word, Not in the earthquake's shock, Not in the thunder roll, But in the inmost soul. II VESPER HYMN Send peaceful sleep, O Lord, this night, To keep us till the morning light; And let no vision of alarm Come near to do Thy children harm Within Thy circling arms we lie, O God, in Thine infinity; Our souls in quiet shall abide Beset with love on every side. III THIS IS THAT BREAD This is that Bread that came down from Heaven, he that eateth of this Bread shall live forever. Bread on which angels feed, Bread for the spirit's need By faith receiving, New life do Thou impart, New strength to every heart, Pure love of God Thou art To us believing. IV O SLOW OF HEART O slow of heart to believe! Ought Christ not to have suffered these things and to enter into His Glory? Quicken, Lord, my fainting heart, Touch my eyes that they may see, Let me know Thee as Thou art. Life and Immortality. V ALL HAIL TO THEE, CHILD JESUS All hail to Thee, child Jesus! As the brooding darkness flies At the swift approach of day, Sun of righteousness, arise, Chase the gloom of night away. Great Prince of Peace, come to thine own, And build in every heart Thy throne. Come to shed Thy healing balm On all nations of the earth, Child Jesus, come with holy calm, How we hail thy wondrous birth. Great Prince of Peace, come to Thine own, And build in every heart Thy throne. All hail to Thee, Child Jesus! VI THE WINE-PRESS Who is this that comes from Edom In such glorious array, With his festal garments gleaming, Travelling on his royal way With a face majestic, calm and grave? I that speak in righteousness, mighty to save. Why is thy apparel crimson, Why is all thy garments' pride Stained as in the time of vintage And with blood-red-color dyed? Because of helpers I had none- I have trodden the wine-press alone. VII WAKEN, SHEPHERDS! (Angels) Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! (Shepherds) Waken, Shepherds, waken; Whence this glowing light? Ere the dawn of morning, Solemn signs of warning Portent of affright! (Angels) Courage, Shepherds, courage! Banish your dismay, or ye all are saved. In the town of David Christ is born to-day. (Shepherds) Harken, Shepherds, harken, Hear the angels sing! Jehovah sends a token, He himself hath spoken To proclaim our King. (Angels) Hasten, Shepherds, hasten, This shall be your sign; Where the kine are stabled, In a manger cradled Lies the Child Divine. (Shepherds) Angels, Shepherds, People, and Shout the glad refrain! Angels) Joy to every nation Bringing full salvation, Christ has come to reign. Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! CAROLINE HAZARD REUBEN ROY LITTLE fellow, brown with wind- I saw him in the street Peering at numbers on the posts, But most discreet: For when a woman came outdoors, Or slyly peeped instead, He turned away, took off his hat, And scratched his head. I watched him from my garden-wall Perhaps an hour or more, For something in his attitude, The clothes he wore, Awoke the dimmest memories Of when I was a boy And knew the story of a man Named Reuben Roy. It seems that Reuben went to sea The night his wife decried The fence he built before their house And up the side. He wanted it but she did not, Because it hid from view The spot in which her mignonette And tulips grew. Nobody saw his face again, But each year, unawares, He sent a sum for taxes due- And fence repairs. My curiosity aroused, I sauntered forth to see Whether this individual Were really he. "Who are you looking for?" I asked His eyes, like two bright pence, Sparkled at mine; and then he said: "A fence." "Somebody burned it Hallowe'en, When people were in bed; Before the judge could prosecute, The culprit fled." Well, Reuben only touched his hat And mumbled, "Thank you, Sir," And asked me whereabouts to find A carpenter. HAROLD CRAWFORD STEARNS COUNTRY ROAD I CAN'T forget a gaunt grey barn Like a face without an eye That kept recurring by field and tarn Under a Cape Cod sky. I can't forget a woman's hand, Roughened and scarred by toil That beckoned clear-eyed children tanned By sun and wind and soil. Beauty and hardship, bent and bound
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