Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 29

But he's gone across the sea!

Who so good and kind to me?

He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!

To the churchyard, near the bay, Went the mother in her grief, For her soul was moved to pray For relief; And deep sobs convulsed her breast, As she knelt upon the sod, Where her husband lay at rest, Safe in G.o.d.

For the boy was o'er the sea, Whom she rocked upon her knee; He had gone to Tripoli, Tripoli!

She was buried yesterday With her husband, side by side; Ere two months had pa.s.sed away She had died!

For one morning she had read Of her son among the slain, And they saw her old gray head Sink in pain.

Nevermore across the sea Will he come to Italy!

He was killed in Tripoli, Tripoli!

There was nothing more to tell Of a lad so little known; He was reckoned "one who fell,"

That alone.

Was he wounded? Did he lie Long ill-treated by the foe?

And not know!

Yes, he lies beyond the sea!

(Can it be that _that_ is he?) In the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!

She had asked for nothing more, But in silence slowly failed, Dreaming ever of the sh.o.r.e, Whence he sailed.

Till her face, so wan and white, Flushed at last with sweet surprise, And a strangely tender light Filled her eyes.

Then for her was "no more sea"!

She had found the soul set free From the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!

INFLUENCE

We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds,-- Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The pa.s.sing of our fleeting lives.

A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower.

We write, we print, then--nevermore To be recalled--our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the sh.o.r.e, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny.

Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own.

Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me.

LEO

I made a journey o'er the sea, I bade my faithful dog good-bye, I knew that he would grieve for me, But did not dream that he would die!

And how could I explain That I would come again?

At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn A life-long master they adore, Till in his mind the fear was born That he should never see me more.

Ah! then, on every boat intent, He watched the crowd upon the pier, While every look and motion meant "Will _he_ not come? Is _he_ not here?"

At last he merely raised his head, To see the steamers pa.s.sing by, Then sank again upon his bed, And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh; For how could one explain That I would come again?

I hastened back by sea and land, Forced homeward by remorse and fear; But no glad barking swept the strand, Nor did he meet me on the pier!

I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, And then beheld him near the wall, Though tottering, still upon his feet, And creeping toward me down the hall.

No wish had he to sulk or blame, Nor did he need to understand, But simply loved me just the same,-- In silence licking face and hand.

In silence? What could this portend?

Such muteness he had never shown; Was he so very near the end?

Ah, Leo, had I only known!

For his grand eyes, so large and bright, Though turned, through sound, my form to find, Were totally devoid of sight; He faced me in the darkness ... blind!

What could such gloom have been to him, As weeks and months had crept away, While all the outer world grew dim, Till endless night eclipsed the day!

What had it meant to him to wake And mid familiar things to grope?

To hear old sounds on sh.o.r.e and lake, Yet wander darkly without hope!

But now, his head upon my knee, He tried in various ways to show That, though my face he could not see, He knew the voice of long ago.

Yes, now it was quite plain That I had come again.

Within my arms he breathed his last, In my embrace his n.o.ble head Drooped back, and left to me ... the Past, With tender memories of the dead.

He lies beneath the stately trees, Whose ample shade he loved the best, Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest.

Yet somehow still I watch and wait For him, as he once watched for me; At every footstep near my gate I look, his bounding form to see.

Good-night? ... Good-bye! for I must leave thee, My boat is waiting on the sh.o.r.e; May I not hope that it will grieve thee, When thou shalt see me here no more?

Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted; "Have statues souls?" the cynic sneers; But I am happier to have doubted, And loved thee thus these many years.

Behind the form is the ideal, Forever high, forever true; Behind the false exists the real, Known only to the favored few.

Not all can hear the music stealing From out that lightly-lifted flute; To those devoid of kindred feeling Its melody is always mute.

But thou to me hast been a token Of cla.s.sic legend, wrought in stone; In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, Made all the storied past mine own.

And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, The old-time Genius of the Place, Aware of those who still adore thee, Unchanged by time, or creed, or race.

Through thee came also inspiration For many a rare, poetic thought; And oh, how much of resignation Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught!

Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, Thou still canst smile at every morrow, For Nature lives, though Pan is dead.

Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing When altars crumbled far and near, When G.o.ds were scoffed, and faith was failing, And worship lessened year by year.