Poems by John Hay Part 8

Quand-Meme

I strove, like Israel, with my youth, And said, Till thou bestow Upon my life Love's joy and truth, I will not let thee go.

And sudden on my night there woke The trouble of the dawn; Out of the east the red light broke, To broaden on and on.

And now let death be far or nigh, Let fortune gloom or shine, I cannot all untimely die, For love, for love is mine.

My days are tuned to finer chords, And lit by higher suns;, Through all my thoughts and all my words A purer purpose runs.

The blank page of my heart grows rife With wealth of tender lore; Her image, stamped upon my life, Gives value evermore.

She is so n.o.ble, firm, and true, I drink truth from her eyes, As violets gain the heaven's own blue In gazing at the skies.

No matter if my hands attain The golden crown or cross Only to love is such a gain That losing is not loss.

And thus whatever fate betide Of rapture or of pain, If storm or sun the future hide, My love is not in vain.

So only thanks are on my lips; And through my love I see My earliest dreams, like freighted ships, Come sailing home to me.

Words

When violets were springing And sunshine filled the day, And happy birds were singing The praises of the May, A word came to me, blighting The beauty of the scene, And in my heart was winter, Though all the trees were green.

Now down the blast go sailing The dead leaves, brown and sere; The forests are bewailing The dying of the year; A word comes to me, lighting With rapture all the air, And in my heart is summer, Though all the trees are bare.

The Stirrup Cup

My short and happy day is done, The long and dreary night comes on; And at my door the Pale Horse stands, To carry me to unknown lands.

His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, Sound dreadful as a gathering storm; And I must leave this sheltering roof, And joys of life so soft and warm.

Tender and warm the joys of life,-- Good friends, the faithful and the true; My rosy children and my wife, So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.

So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,-- The night comes down, the lights burn blue; And at my door the Pale Horse stands, To bear me forth to unknown lands.

A Dream of Bric-a-Brac

[C.K. _loquitur_.]

I dreamed I was in fair Niphon.

Amid tea-fields I journeyed on, Reclined in my jinrikishaw; Across the rolling plains I saw The lordly Fusi-yama rise, His blue cone lost in bluer skies.

At last I bade my bearers stop Before what seemed a china-shop.

I roused myself and entered in.

A fearful joy, like some sweet sin, Pierced through my bosom as I gazed, Entranced, transported, and amazed.

For all the house was but one room, And in its clear and grateful gloom, Filled with all odors strange and strong That to the wondrous East belong, I saw above, around, below, A sight to make the warm heart glow, And leave the eager soul no lack, An endless wealth of bric-a-brac.

I saw bronze statues, old and rare, Fashioned by no mere mortal skill, With robes that fluttered in the air, Blown out by Art's eternal will; And delicate ivory netsukes, Richer in tone than Cheddar cheese, Of saints and hermits, cats and dogs, Grim warriors and ecstatic frogs.

And here and there those wondrous masks, More living flesh than sandal-wood, Where the full soul in pleasure basks And dreams of love, the only good.

The walls were all with pictures hung: Gay villas bright in rain-washed air, Trees to whose boughs brown monkeys clung, Outlineless dabs of fuzzy hair.

And all about the opulent shelves Littered with porcelain beyond price: Imari pots arrayed themselves Beside Ming dishes; grain-of-rice Vied with the Royal Satsuma, Proud of its sallow ivory beam; And Kaga's Thousand Hermits lay Tranced in some punch-bowl's golden gleam.

Over bronze censers, black with age, The five-clawed dragons strife engage; A curled and insolent Dog of Foo Sniffs at the smoke aspiring through.

In what old days, in what far lands, What busy brains, what cunning hands, With what quaint speech, what alien thought, Strange fellow-men these marvels wrought!

As thus I mused, I was aware There grew before my eager eyes A little maid too bright and fair, Too strangely lovely for surprise.

It seemed the beauty of the place Had suddenly become concrete, So full was she of Orient grace, From her slant eyes and burnished face Down to her little gold-bronze feet.

She was a girl of old j.a.pan; Her small hand held a gilded fan, Which scattered fragrance through the room; Her cheek was rich with pallid bloom, Her eye was dark with languid fire, Her red lips breathed a vague desire; Her teeth, of pearl inviolate, Sweetly proclaimed her maiden state.

Her garb was stiff with broidered gold Twined with mysterious fold on fold, That gave no hint where, hidden well, Her dainty form might warmly dwell,-- A pearl within too large a sh.e.l.l.

So quaint, so short, so lissome, she, It seemed as if it well might be Some jocose G.o.d, with sportive whirl, Had taken up a long lithe girl And tied a graceful knot in her.

I tried to speak, and found, oh, bliss!

I needed no interpreter; I knew the j.a.panese for kiss,-- I had no other thought but this; And she, with smile and blush divine, Kind to my stammering prayer did seem; My thought was hers, and hers was mine, In the swift logic of my dream.

My arms clung round her slender waist, Through gold and silk the form I traced, And glad as rain that follows drouth, I kissed and kissed her bright red mouth.

What ailed the girl? No loving sigh Heaved the round bosom; in her eye Trembled no tear; from her dear throat Bubbled a sweet and silvery note Of girlish laughter, shrill and clear, That all the statues seemed to hear.

The bronzes tinkled laughter fine; I heard a chuckle argentine Ring from the silver images; Even the ivory netsukes Uttered in every silent pause Dry, bony laughs from tiny jaws; The painted monkeys on the wall Waked up with chatter impudent; Pottery, porcelain, bronze, and all Broke out in ghostly merriment,-- Faint as rain pattering on dry leaves, Or cricket's chirp on summer eves.

And suddenly upon my sight There grew a portent: left and right, On every side, as if the air Had taken substance then and there, In every sort of form and face, A throng of tourists filled the place.

I saw a Frenchman's sneering shrug; A German countess, in one hand A sky-blue string which held a pug, With the other a fiery face she fanned; A Yankee with a soft felt hat; A Coptic priest from Ararat; An English girl with cheeks of rose; A Nihilist with Socratic nose; Paddy from Cork with baggage light And pockets stuffed with dynamite; A haughty Southern Readjuster Wrapped in his pride and linen duster; Two noisy New York stock-brokers And twenty British globe-trotters.

To my disgust and vast surprise They turned on me lack-l.u.s.tre eyes, And each with dropped and wagging jaw Burst out into a wild guffaw: They laughed with huge mouths opened wide; They roared till each one held his side; They screamed and writhed with brutal glee, With fingers rudely stretched to me,-- Till lo! at once the laughter died, The tourists faded into air; None but my fair maid lingered there, Who stood demurely by my side.

"Who were your friends?" I asked the maid, Taking a tea-cup from its shelf.

"This audience is disclosed," she said, "Whenever a man makes a fool of himself."

Liberty

What man is there so bold that he should say "Thus, and thus only, would I have the sea"?

For whether lying calm and beautiful, Clasping the earth in love, and throwing back The smile of heaven from waves of amethyst; Or whether, freshened by the busy winds, It bears the trade and navies of the world To ends of use or stern activity; Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way To elemental fury, howls and roars At all its rocky barriers, in wild l.u.s.t Of ruin drinks the blood of living things, And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate sh.o.r.e,-- Always it is the sea, and men bow down Before its vast and varied majesty.

So all in vain will timorous ones essay To set the metes and bounds of Liberty.

For Freedom is its own eternal law; It makes its own conditions, and in storm Or calm alike fulfills the unerring Will.

Let us not then despise it when it lies Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm Of gnat-like evils hover round its head; Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame Of riot and war we see its awful form Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe Rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings.