Songs, Merry and Sad Part 4

Oh, I can jest with Margaret And laugh a gay good-night, But when I take my Helen's hand I dare not clasp it tight.

I dare not hold her dear white hand More than a quivering s.p.a.ce, And I should bless a breeze that blew Her hair into my face.

'T is Margaret I call sweet names: Helen is too, too dear For me to stammer little words Of love into her ear.

So now, good-night, fair Margaret, And kiss me e'er we part!

But one dumb touch of Helen's hand, And, oh, my heart, my heart!

Alcestis

Not long the living weep above their dead, And you will grieve, Admetus, but not long.

The winter's silence in these desolate halls Will break with April's laughter on your lips; The bees among the flowers, the birds that mate, The widowed year, grown gaunt with memory And yearning toward the summer's fruits, will come With lotus comfort, feeding all your veins.

The vining brier will crawl across my grave, And you will woo another in my stead.

Those tender, foolish names you called me by, Your pa.s.sionate kiss that clung unsatisfied, The pressure of your hand, when dark night hushed Life's busy stir, and left us two alone, Will you remember? or, when dawn creeps in, And you bend o'er another's pillowed head, Seeing sleep's loosened hair about her face, Until her low love-laughter welcomes you, Will you, down-gazing at her waking eyes, Forget?

So have I loved you, my Admetus, I thank the cruel fates who clip my life To lengthen yours, they tarry not for age To dim my eye and blanch my cheek, but now Take me, while my lips are sweet to you And youth hides yet amid this hair of mine, Brown in the shadow, golden in the light.

Bend down and kiss me, dying for your sake, Not gratefully, but sadly, love's farewell; And if the flowering year's oblivion Lend a new pa.s.sion to thy life, far down In the dim Stygian shadows wandering, I will not know, but still will cherish there, Where no change comes, thy love upon my lips.

Reminiscence

We sang old love-songs on the way In sad and merry s.n.a.t.c.hes, Your fingers o'er the strings astray Strumming the random catches.

And ever, as the skiff plied on Among the trailing willows, Trekking the darker deeps to shun The gleaming sandy shallows,

It seemed that we had, ages gone, In some far summer weather, When this same faery moonlight shone, Sung these same songs together.

And every gra.s.sy cape we pa.s.sed, And every reedy island, Even the bank'd cloud in the west That loomed a sombre highland;

And you, with dewmist on your hair, Crowned with a wreath of lilies, Laughing like Lalage the fair And tender-eyed like Phyllis:

I know not if 't were here at home, By some old wizard's orders, Or long ago in Crete or Rome Or fair Provencal borders,

But now, as when a faint flame breaks From out its smouldering embers, My heart stirs in its sleep, and wakes, And yet but half-remembers

That you and I some other time Moved through this dream of glory, Like lovers in an ancient rhyme, A long-forgotten story.

Sonnet

I would that love were subject unto law!

Upon his person I should lay distraint And force him thus to answer my complaint, Which I, in well-considered counts, should draw.

Not free to fly, he needs must seek some flaw To mar my pleading, though his heart were faint; Declare his counsel to me, and acquaint Himself with maxim, precedent, and saw.

Ah, I could win him with authorities, If suing thus in such a sober court; Could read him many an ancient rhym'd report Of such sad cases, tears would fill his eyes And he confess a judgment, or resort To some well-pleasing terms of compromise!

Lines

To you, dear mother heart, whose hair is gray Above this page to-day, Whose face, though lined with many a smile and care, Grows year by year more fair,

Be tenderest tribute set in perfect rhyme, That haply pa.s.sing time May cull and keep it for strange lips to pay When we have gone our way;

And, to strange men, weary of field and street, Should this, my song, seem sweet, Yours be the joy, for all that made it so You know, dear heart, you know.

An Easter Hymn

The Sun has come again and fed The lily's lamp with light, And raised from dust a rose, rich red, And a little star-flower, white; He also guards the Pleiades And holds his planets true: But we--we know not which of these The easier task to do.

But, since from heaven he stoops to breathe A flower to balmy air, Surely our lives are not beneath The kindness of his care; And, as he guides the blade that gropes Up from the barren sod, So, from the ashes of our hopes, Will beauty grow toward G.o.d.

Whate'er thy name, O Soul of Life,-- We know but that thou art,-- Thou seest, through all our waste of strife, One groping human heart, Weary of words and broken sight, But moved with deep accord To worship where thy lilies light The altar of its Lord.

A Christmas Hymn

Near where the shepherds watched by night And heard the angels o'er them, The wise men saw the starry light Stand still at last before them.

No armored castle there to ward His precious life from danger, But, wrapped in common cloth, our Lord Lay in a lowly manger.

No booming bells proclaimed his birth, No armies marshalled by, No iron thunders shook the earth, No rockets clomb the sky; The temples builded in his name Were shapeless granite then, And all the choirs that sang his fame Were later breeds of men.

But, while the world about him slept, Nor cared that he was born, One gentle face above him kept Its mother watch till morn; And, if his baby eyes could tell What grace and glory were, No roar of gun, no boom of bell Were worth the look of her.

Now praise to G.o.d that ere his grace Was scorned and he reviled He looked into his mother's face, A little helpless child; And praise to G.o.d that ere men strove About his tomb in war One loved him with a mother's love, Nor knew a creed therefor.