The Poet.[C]

LISTEN! the mother Croons o’er her darling; Birds to the summer Call from the trees; Sailors in chorus Chant of the ocean: The poet’s heart singeth Songs sweeter than these.

Thy lute, gentle lover, To her thou adorest; Ye troubadours! pæans For princes of Guelph: But Heaven’s own harpers Breathe not in their music The song that his happy heart Sings to itself; The changeless, soft song that it Sings to itself!

FOOTNOTE:

[C] For this trifle, obligations are due to Maestro Mozart. A sunny little opening Andante of his, from the Second Sonata in A major, suggested immediately and quite irresistibly the words here appended, which follow its rhythm throughout.

A CRIMINAL. 1865.

“CLOSE as a mask he wore this fiery sin Of hate; and daring peril foremost, died Ere yet the wrath of law was justified, Hopeless, with memory such as miscreants win. One sacred head he smote, encircled in A people’s arms; and shook, with storms allied, The pillars of the world from side to side.”... E’en so the Angel’s record must begin. Show me not anguish since that traitor-stroke Rang o’er the brunt of war; yet child, O child! When later days bring bitter thoughts, recall, No maledictions on his name I spoke, Catching lost cues; but asked, well-reconciled, God, our Interpreter, to right us all.

ORIENT-BORN.

BEAUTIFUL olive-brown brows, chin where the fairy-print lies; Vagrant dark tresses above splendid mysterious eyes;

Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of her face, Girl of all girls in the world for mould and for color and grace.

Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the groves to and fro, Dancers Arabian; such, languorous ages ago,

Ptolemy’s daughter; and so, breathing faint cassia and musk, Veilèd young Moors on divans, singing and sighing at dusk.

Never in opiate dreams have I o’ertaken you, sweet; Never with henna-tipped hands; never with silken-shod feet;

Still the love-charm of the East must over and over be told: By-and-by havoc with hearts!... Ah, slowly, my seven-year-old!

CHARONDAS.

HE lifted his forehead, and stood at his height, And gathered the cloak round his noble age, This man, the law-giver, Charondas the Greek; And loud the Eubœans called to him: “Speak, We listen and learn, O sage!”

“In peace shall ye come where the people be,” Spake the lofty figure with flashing eyes: “But whoso comes armed to the public hall Shall suffer his death before us all.” And the hearers believed him wise.

The years sped quick and the years dragged slow; In council oft was the throng arrayed, But never the statued chamber saw The gleam of a weapon; for loving the law, The Greeks from their hearts obeyed.

War’s challenge knocked at the city gates; Students flocked to the front, grown bold; The strong men, girded, faced up to the north; The women wept to the gods; and forth Went the brave of the days of old.

Peace winged her flight to the city gates; Young men and strong, they followed fast Back to the breast of their fair, free land: Charondas, afar on the foreign strand, Remained at his post the last.

Their leader he, in war as in word, The fire of youth for his life-long lease, The strength of Mars in the arm that stood Seven hot decades upheld for good In the turbulent courts of Greece.

The fight is finished, the council meets. Who is the tardy comer without In cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword, Who strides up the aisles without a word, Rousing that awe-struck shout?

The tardy comer home from the field— Great gods! the first to forget and belie The law he honored, the law he formed: “Charondas—stand! you enter armed,” With a shudder the hundreds cry.

The men who loved him on every side, The men he led to the victor’s gain, He paused a moment, the fearless Greek; A sudden glow on his ashen cheek, A sudden thought in his brain.

“I seal the law with my soul and might: I do not break it,” Charondas said. He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt. Ah! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt, He lay on the marble, dead.

CRAZY MARGARET.

THAT is she across the way, Dressed as for a holiday, Wandering aimlessly along In oblivion of the throng, With her lay of old regret; That is crazy Margaret.

And her tale floats up and down This enchanted Norman town, Told among the wharves and ships, On the children’s babbling lips, Over gossips’ window-sills, In the rectory, thro’ the mills.

Very sad and very brief, Graven on a cypress leaf, Is the record of her days. When the aloes were ablaze Long ago, in summertide, He maid Margaret cherished, died.

Hush! there is the holier part: He knew nothing of her heart. Tears thrilled in her lustrous eye But to see him passing by, And she turned from many a claim Dreaming on that dearest name.

Solely on his thoughts intent The rapt student came and went, All the gladness in his looks Sprung from visions and from books, Grave with all, and kind to her, His meek peasant worshipper.

So she loved him to the last, Keeping her soul’s secret fast, Suffering much and speaking naught Of the woe her loving wrought; Till the second summertide, The young stranger drooped and died.

At the grave, before them all, In the market, in the hall, Down the forest-paths alone, Ever since, in undertone She goes singing soft and slow: “When I meet him, he shall know.”

Therefore is she eager yet, Poor, unhappy Margaret, Holding still, in faith and truth, The lost idyl of her youth, Seeking fondly and thro’ tears, One who sleeps these forty years.

Should he haunt our Norman coast, Should he come, the gentle ghost; Should she tell him of her pain, Of her passion hushed and vain,— Would he grieve? or would he care? What a tragic chance is there!

TO THE WINDING CHARLES.

THOU wanderer, what longing hath Thee peace on earth denied, Ah, tell me: constant in no path, Thy pensive currents glide.

From dim pursuit and mocking zest, Would I could set thee free! My soul hath its divine unrest, Dear river, like to thee.